The pyre blazed atop Dragonstone’s cliffs, the air thick with smoke and salt. Aegon was gone. Your husband, your king, your greatest love—burning before you as tradition demanded. Meraxes and Vhagar circled above, their cries echoing across the sky, but Balerion stood still. Silent. Watching.

Visenya and Rhaenys stood beside you, grief tightening their features. Though the three of you had shared Aegon, there had never been hatred, only understanding. And now, together, you mourned him.

But there was no time for grief. Aegon’s death left the throne empty. Maegor, Visenya’s son, was only ten. The court whispered—who would rule? Who would take the Conqueror’s place?

One by one, the mourners left. Even your sisters gave you quiet nods before retreating into the shadows. But you remained, watching the last embers of your husband’s body flicker and die.

And Balerion stayed with you.

You turned slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze. The Black Dread’s red eyes bore into yours, and something in them sent a shiver down your spine.

He remembered.

Dragons were not mindless beasts. They knew. They chose. And Balerion had seen everything—how Aegon had loved you most, how you had ruled at his side, how you had stood beside his throne.

A deep, guttural rumble vibrated through the earth as Balerion took a step forward. The ground trembled beneath his weight, his breath hot against your skin. And then—slowly—he lowered his head.

Your heart pounded. Aegon had been the only one to ever command him. No one else had dared.

But now, as you raised a trembling hand and pressed it to the warm, black scales of his snout, a bond locked into place.

Balerion had chosen again. And this time, he chose you.