Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The Tower of Joy
The air was thick with heat and sorrow. Within the crumbling tower, the scent of blood mingled with the acrid smoke of a struggling fire. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of the hearth, where three dragon eggs, black as obsidian, green as summer moss, and white like snow-veined marble, rested in the flames, pulsing faintly with life.
Lyanna Stark lay upon a bed soaked with sweat and blood, her breaths shallow and labored. Her face, once flushed with Northern fire, had gone pale as milk. Each exhale rattled like wind through dead leaves.
Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, knelt at her side, his greatsword Dawn set carefully aside. He grasped her hand, calloused fingers wrapped around her own trembling ones. Her grip, though fading, still held the strength of purpose.
“She’s fading,” whispered Ser Oswell Whent from the shadows, voice cracking beneath the weight of helplessness. “We are losing her.”
The newborn in Lyanna’s arms wailed, sharp and defiant, a cry not of fear, but of life declaring itself.
“His name…” she gasped, blood bubbling at her lips, “his name is… Rhaenar.”
Arthur bowed his head. “Rhaenar… Targaryen?”
A flicker of a smile touched her lips. “A new name… for a new beginning,” she whispered. “Rhaegar thought he would be a girl. He dreamed of Visenya reborn, but this child… this child will be something else entirely.”
She turned her head, sweat-drenched strands of hair falling across her brow. Her grey eyes locked with Arthur’s, fierce despite the haze of death closing in.
“You must protect him, Arthur,” she said, voice stronger for a breath, as if sheer will pushed it forth. “Raise him to be more than a prince. Prepare him for fire and war… for the throne… for the Dawn. Promise me. Promise me, Arthur!”
“I promise, my Queen,” Arthur said, his voice breaking as he bent his forehead to hers. “I will raise him in honor. I will prepare him, and I will die before harm reaches him.”
Lyanna’s smile returned, softer now, tinged with sadness.
“You always did speak like a knight from the songs…” she murmured. “But songs lie. This… this is real. Tell my father… tell Ned I’m sorry. I hope Rhaegar is waiting for me.”
Her last breath slipped between her lips like a whispered wind, and then she was still.
The fire cracked. A snap echoed in the room, sharp and alien. One of the dragon eggs split with a hiss, releasing a gout of steam and a shimmer of red flame. Then the second. Then the third.
Arthur rose slowly, child in arms, eyes wide with wonder as three hatchlings, one as dark as midnight, another pale as moonlight, and the third gleaming green, pushed free of their shells.
Oswell gasped. “Gods… the dragons…”
“No,” Arthur whispered. “The blood has returned.”
And with it, the world would change.
Dragonstone
Winds howled around the jagged towers of Dragonstone, sea spray lashing the black stone like angry ghosts. The Velaryon ships bobbed in the harbor below, offloading crates, wounded soldiers, and those few who remained loyal to House Targaryen.
Ser Arthur Dayne stood upon the battlements, a heavy black cloak wrapped around the infant Rhaenar. Beneath the folds, the three newborn dragons stirred, drawn to his warmth, their scaled hides radiating heat.
Below, in the great chamber, Queen Rhaella screamed.
Ser Oswell Whent burst through the door, his hands slick with blood. “She lives, for now,” he said breathlessly. “And the child, she is born. A girl.”
Arthur strode inside, past the septon and maesters, straight to the queen’s bedside. Rhaella lay pale and shaking, sweat plastering silver hair to her brow, but her eyes blazed with familiar fury.
A nurse took the wailing babe from her arms. “Daenerys,” Rhaella whispered. “Another dragon.”
Arthur knelt beside her, unfurling his cloak. From within, he revealed Rhaenar and the three dragons, chirping and hissing, wings trembling in the firelight.
Rhaella’s breath caught. “By the Seven…”
“No,” Arthur said. “By the gods of old Valyria.”
The queen wept silently, not in grief, but in awe. “Then the prophecy lives. The dragon has three heads.”
Thunder cracked over Blackwater Bay. But in the halls of Dragonstone, a storm of a different kind had already begun.
Outside Blackhaven
Rain fell like tears from the grey sky.
Ser Gerold Hightower rode alone, his horse plodding through churned mud. Draped across his saddle was the body of Lyanna Stark, wrapped in wool, bound in honor. Her face was serene now, untouched by pain or fear.
At the rise ahead, Eddard Stark appeared atop a black steed, his face hard with grief. Six companions waited behind him, silent as the grave.
Gerold dismounted slowly and uncovered Lyanna’s face. “She died in childbirth,” he said, voice low. “The babe… did not survive long.”
Ned dismounted, crossing the space between them in measured steps. He knelt, cradled his sister’s still form, pressed his brow against hers.
“She was all I had left,” he murmured.
“I grieve with you, Lord Stark,” Gerold said.
Ned rose. “And where will you go now, Ser Gerold? King’s Landing? Robert would pardon a knight of your honor.”
“My vows do not bend to kings,” Gerold replied. “My sword was Rhaegar’s. My duty… lies elsewhere.”
“To Dragonstone, then?”
Gerold inclined his head. “To what remains.”
“I will not stop you,” Ned said quietly. “But go swiftly. Robert’s wrath is deep and will follow to the depths of the Seven Hells.”
Gerold mounted again. “So do the gods,” he said, and rode into the mist.
King’s Landing
The stench of ash and rot still clung to the streets of the capital. Ser Gerold wore a merchant’s cloak, his white armor hidden beneath layers of dust and deception. The Red Keep loomed ahead, and beneath it, the training yard rang with steel.
Ser Barristan Selmy watched two squires clash with blunted swords. His posture was still straight, though his eyes bore the weight of loss.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking.
Gerold said only one word. “Rhaenar.”
Barristan turned. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“One lives,” Gerold said. “Born beneath dragon song. And fire. And death.”
A long silence stretched between them.
“You ask me to betray my king,” Barristan said.
“I ask you to remember your oath...to the rightful king.”
Slowly, Barristan reached up and unclasped his white cloak. He folded it with reverence and set it on the bench beside him.
“I remember,” he said.
The Stepstones – Dragon's Lair
The fortress stank of old smoke and older blood. Dragon Lair, once the seat of Daemon Targaryen, now flickered with new fire. Its black walls bore the scars of war and time alike.
Queen Rhaella sat upon a high-backed chair of dark oak, her body frail, but her gaze unyielding. Around her stood the last of the loyal, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Lord Lucerys Velaryon.
“The world believes us dead,” Rhaella said.
Arthur nodded. “Let them believe it. The dragon must rise in silence.”
Barristan stepped to the window, peering toward the dark sea. “When we return, it will be with fire and blood.”
A wetnurse rocked Rhaenar gently in her arms. The babe cooed, oblivious to the weight of a world being shaped around him. At the hearth, the three dragons curled together, smoke rising from their nostrils.
Rhaella looked at them all, knight, lord, guardian, friend. “We are the last flame.”
Gerold raised his head. “Then let us burn bright.”
In the shadows beyond the firelight, the blood of the dragon stirred once more.