# Dragonstone – The Funeral Pyres, 103 AC
The black beaches of Dragonstone hissed and steamed where waves clawed at cooled lava, the sky low and bruised with storm clouds that seemed to mirror the realm's grief. Two pyres, built like monuments to eternity itself, stood tall against that grim backdrop. One for Jaehaerys the Old King, wrapped in cloth-of-gold with Blackfyre resting across his chest—the weight of seven decades of rule made manifest. The other for Good Queen Alysanne, her silver hair unbound and flowing like starlight, her hands folded gently over a book of songs as if she had only paused mid-verse to listen for harmony that would never come.
The air was thick with the scent of resin and rare spices, of sweet woods from the Summer Isles stacked high—funeral fire prepared for the greatest king and queen the realm had ever known.
The mourners gathered in formation as rigid as court protocol demanded, though grief cracked through their composure like fault lines through marble.
---
Viserys stood at the center, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror sitting heavy on his brow, every gem catching the weak light like captured tears. His shoulders sagged under more than just the crown's weight—the burden of kingship, of following in footsteps that seemed impossibly large. His jaw worked silently, fighting back emotion that threatened to break through his carefully maintained facade.
"I should have been here sooner," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I should have... gods, what if I'm not ready for this? What if I can never be what he was?"
Beside him, **Aemma** swayed slightly, one hand pressed to her swollen belly where their third child grew, the other gripping his arm with surprising strength. Even in grief, she radiated a quiet determination, the kind of steel wrapped in silk that made her far more formidable than her gentle appearance suggested.
"You're spiraling again," she said softly, but with the authority of a woman who'd learned to manage a king's anxieties alongside her own. "Stop it. They need their king present, not lost in self-doubt."
"But what if—"
"Viserys." Her voice carried the weight of years spent as his anchor. "You are not him, and you don't need to be. You are you, and that will have to be enough. Now straighten your shoulders and be present for your family."
The babe in her womb chose that moment to deliver a particularly sharp kick, making her wince. "Seven hells, this one's restless today. As if she knows something momentous is happening."
"She?" Viserys glanced down, momentarily distracted from his brooding.
"Call it a mother's intuition." Aemma's smile was wan but genuine. "Or perhaps wishful thinking. Rhaenyra needs a sister to torment. And someone needs to keep her from thinking she's the only important person in the world."
"I heard that, Mama!" Six-year-old **Rhaenyra** piped up from between them, her violet eyes flashing with indignation. Despite her youth, she carried herself with an unconscious regality that drew eyes—chin lifted, spine straight, every inch a princess born to rule. But today, grief made her seem smaller, more vulnerable.
"You were meant to," Aemma replied dryly. "Now hush, darling. This is a solemn occasion."
"But it's boring!" Rhaenyra protested, then immediately looked guilty. "I mean... I'm sad about great-grandfather and great-grandmother, truly I am. But everyone just stands here looking grim. Why can't we tell stories about them? About how great-grandfather used to let me sit on his lap during small council meetings, or how great-grandmother taught me to sing that song about the dragon and the princess?"
"Because that's not how funerals work, little dragon," Viserys said, his voice gentling as it always did when addressing his daughter. "We show respect through solemnity."
"That's stupid," Rhaenyra declared with the absolute certainty only children possess. "If I die, I want everyone to tell funny stories and laugh and remember the good bits. Not stand around looking like someone stole their favorite horse."
Despite himself, Viserys's mouth quirked upward. "I'll... keep that in mind."
"Papa," Rhaenyra continued, tugging at his cloak with increasing insistence, "why does everyone look so scared? Uncle Daemon looks like he's planning something wicked, Cousin Rhaenys keeps glaring at everyone, and that Hightower man keeps whispering things that make people frown. It's just fire. Dragons breathe fire all the time."
"Because this fire means goodbye, little dragon," Viserys said, his voice catching despite his best efforts. "And goodbyes are frightening, even for kings."
"But they're not really gone," Rhaenyra insisted, her voice taking on that eerie certainty she'd been displaying more and more lately—as if she sometimes knew things she shouldn't. "Septa Lysa says people live on in the flames. That's why we use dragon fire—so they can fly to the gods. And anyway, I saw great-grandmother in a dream last night. She was young again, and she was singing to a silver dragon."
Aemma and Viserys exchanged a look over their daughter's head. Rhaenyra's dreams had been... odd... lately.
"Dreams are just dreams, sweetheart," Aemma said carefully.
"Are they?" Rhaenyra asked, and for a moment her eyes seemed far too old. "Then why did I dream about Uncle Daemon's son riding a bronze dragon three moons ago? And why does he keep staring at the sky like he's waiting for something?"
---
Across the gathering, **Daemon** lounged against a pillar of volcanic glass with the studied casualness of a cat pretending not to hunt mice. His silver hair caught the wind like a banner of rebellion, and his eyes held that dangerous glint that had gotten him exiled more times than Viserys cared to count. Even in mourning clothes, he managed to look like trouble wrapped in silk.
"Look at them all," he drawled to **Rhea**, who stood rigid beside him in her bronze cloak, every inch the Vale lady despite years of marriage to chaos incarnate. "Weeping into their sleeves like it's some mummer's farce. Half of them probably celebrated when they heard the news."
"Must you?" Rhea asked, though her tone held more exasperation than real anger. She'd long since given up trying to civilize her husband—now she simply tried to contain the damage. "Show some respect. They were good rulers. Better than most of us deserve."
"Oh, I respect them plenty." Daemon's grin widened, sharp as a blade. "The Old King had more sense in his little finger than the entire small council combined. And Alysanne? Now there was a queen with fire in her belly. I'm just saying I don't respect the vultures circling their corpses. Look there—Otto Hightower's already whispering in some fool's ear about succession precedent. And there's Corlys, probably calculating how this affects the betrothal negotiations. The bodies aren't even burned yet and they're already plotting."
Rhea followed his gaze and sighed. Despite herself, she had to admit he wasn't wrong. "Politics doesn't pause for grief, Daemon. You know that better than most."
"Politics, perhaps. But basic human decency might manage a few hours." His expression darkened. "Mark my words, wife—before the week is out, half these lordlings will be presenting my brother with 'humble suggestions' about how to rule. As if Viserys needs their bloody help."
"He might, actually," Rhea said quietly. "Ruling isn't the same as fighting, darling. It requires different skills. Patience. Diplomacy. The ability to listen to people you'd rather feed to your dragon."
"All skills I notably lack," Daemon agreed cheerfully. "Which is why it's a good thing I'm not king. Though I'd certainly make it more interesting."
"Interesting," Rhea repeated dryly. "Is that what we're calling 'catastrophic' now?"
"You say catastrophic, I say memorable. Besides—" His voice trailed off as his gaze found their son. "Speaking of memorable, what exactly is our boy planning over there? He's got that look again."
Five-year-old **Jaehaerys** stood apart from the other children, his green eyes—Rhea's eyes—fixed on the approaching shapes in the sky with an intensity that made grown men uncomfortable. There was something unsettling about the boy's stillness, the way he watched the world as if he were cataloguing it for future reference. In repose, his young face held an odd gravity, as if ancient thoughts moved behind those keen eyes.
"He's been having the dreams again," Rhea said quietly, her maternal concern bleeding through her carefully composed facade.
Daemon's smirk faltered slightly. "Dragons?"
"Dragons. Always dragons. And fire. And..." She hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear. "And people he's never met, but somehow knows intimately. He woke up crying last week, asking where 'his Alysanne' was. This was two days before we'd even received word she was ill. And yesterday he asked me why Cousin Rhaenyra looked so sad when she didn't know yet that she'd have to choose."
"Choose what?"
"He wouldn't say. Just looked at me with those eyes of his and said 'between love and duty, Mama. She'll have to choose between love and duty, and it will break something in her that never quite heals.'" Rhea's voice dropped to a whisper. "What five-year-old talks like that?"
Daemon studied their son with new interest, his expression shifting from amusement to something more complex—pride mixed with wariness. "Hmm. Well, if he's planning to claim a dragon today, I suppose there are worse times for it. Very dramatic. Very Targaryen. The bards will love it."
"Daemon!" Rhea hissed, grabbing his arm. "Don't encourage—"
"Encourage what? The blood of the dragon recognizing itself?" Daemon shrugged, though his eyes never left their son. "You can't fight nature, my dear bronze beauty. And our boy's nature is becoming rather obvious. Look at him—have you ever seen a child stand so still? So... aware? It's like he's listening to music the rest of us can't hear."
"That's what worries me," Rhea muttered. "Last night I found him in the godswood, standing before the heart tree with his hand pressed against the bark. When I asked what he was doing, he said he was 'remembering forward.' What does that even mean?"
"In our family? Could mean anything from divine revelation to complete madness. Sometimes both." Daemon's tone was light, but his eyes were sharp with calculation. "Tell me, has he said anything else? About what's coming?"
"He asked me if dragons could cry," Rhea said softly. "When I said I didn't know, he nodded like I'd confirmed something he'd suspected. Then he said 'They will. Soon. They'll cry tears of fire and the realm will burn.' Then he went back to playing with his wooden knights as if nothing had happened."
"Well," Daemon said after a moment, "that's... ominous."
"You think?" Rhea's voice was sharp with sarcasm and fear in equal measure.
"On the other hand," Daemon continued blithely, "prophecy has always been a family trait. And if he's going to be prophetic, at least he's being poetic about it. 'Tears of fire'—that's rather good, actually. Very evocative."
"This isn't a jest, Daemon!" Rhea's whisper was fierce. "Our son is having dreams about things that haven't happened, speaking words he shouldn't know, and staring at dragons like he's expecting them to bow. Either he's touched by the gods or—"
"Or he's mad," Daemon finished calmly. "Yes, I'd considered that. But look at him, Rhea. Really look. Does he seem mad to you? Or does he seem... aware of something the rest of us are missing?"
They both turned to study their son. Jaehaerys stood motionless as carved stone, his small hands clasped behind his back, his gaze never wavering from the sky. There was nothing childish in his posture—he stood like a man grown, like someone accustomed to command.
"Sometimes," Rhea said slowly, "I catch him looking in mirrors with this expression of... surprise. As if he's forgotten what he looks like. As if he's expecting to see someone else entirely."
"Someone older, perhaps?" Daemon mused.
"Much older. And yesterday, when the maester was teaching him his letters, Jaehaerys corrected him on the pronunciation of High Valyrian. When asked where he'd learned it, he said 'I've always known it.' But Daemon, we've never taught him more than basic words."
The conversation died as gasps rippled across the assembly. The dragons had arrived.
---
Silverwing came first, her silver scales flashing like coins scattered across gray silk. She moved with a grace that spoke of deep mourning, every wingbeat deliberate and reverent, as if she carried the weight of her own grief upon her wings.
"Oh my," Aemma breathed, her hand tightening on Viserys's arm. "She's beautiful. Sad, but beautiful."
"She knows," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice carrying that unsettling certainty again. "She knows her rider is gone forever, and part of her wants to follow. But she can't, not yet. She has something to do first."
"What sort of something?" Viserys asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
"She has to say goodbye," Rhaenyra said simply. "And she has to... pass something on. Something important."
But it was the second dragon that stole breath from lungs and words from tongues.
Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury descended like a force of nature made manifest, his massive frame blocking out what little light the storm clouds allowed. His wings stretched wide enough to cast the entire funeral party in shadow, and when he landed with earth-shaking force, several courtiers stumbled backward. One lady—Lady Redwyne, if Viserys recalled correctly—fainted outright into her husband's arms.
"Seven bloody hells," someone breathed.
"Sweet Mother of Dragons preserve us," whispered another.
"Now that," Daemon said with obvious appreciation, "is a dragon. Look at the size of him! Magnificent bastard. I'd forgotten how impressive he is up close."
"He's terrifying," Aemma said faintly, pressing both hands to her swollen belly as if to shield the babe from the dragon's presence.
"Terrifying, yes," Daemon agreed. "But magnificent. And look—" His voice sharpened with interest. "He's not here for the ceremony. He's looking for someone specific."
Vermithor's golden eyes swept across the assembly with ancient intelligence, and for a heart-stopping moment every person present felt the weight of being truly *seen*. Judged. Weighed in scales older than kingdoms and found either wanting or worthy by standards no human could comprehend.
His gaze passed over the king, the assembled lords, the knights in their polished armor—and lingered longest on the small figure of Jaehaerys.
Something passed between dragon and boy. Recognition. Memory. Promise.
"By the gods," Viserys breathed, his face gone pale as parchment. "He's... Daemon, he's looking at your son."
"I can see that," Daemon replied, his usual smirk replaced by something more complex. Pride warred with concern on his sharp features. "The question is, what does he see when he looks?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Aemma said, though her voice shook and she couldn't quite look away from the massive dragon. "He was the old king's dragon. Dragons don't just... transfer their loyalty immediately after their riders die. It doesn't work that way."
"Doesn't it?" Rhaenyra asked, her young voice carrying uncomfortable knowledge. "What if they do? What if some dragons know things we don't? What if Vermithor has been waiting?"
"Waiting for what?" Viserys demanded.
"For his next rider to remember who he used to be," Rhaenyra said matter-of-factly, as if this made perfect sense.
The adults exchanged alarmed glances over her head.
"Rhaenyra," Aemma said carefully, "what do you mean by that?"
But before the girl could answer, young Jaehaerys took a step forward.
"No," Aemma gasped, one hand flying to her throat. "Oh gods, no. Viserys, stop him! Someone stop him!"
But Viserys seemed frozen, caught between wonder and terror as his nephew—barely past needing help with his bootlaces—walked with unnerving certainty toward a creature that could incinerate him with a breath.
"Should we..." Ser Harrold started, his hand moving toward his sword hilt before stopping, realizing the futility of steel against dragonfire.
"Touch that boy and lose your hand," Daemon said pleasantly, his own hand drifting to Dark Sister's hilt. "This is dragon business now. And if there's one thing I've learned about dragons, it's that they don't suffer interference gladly."
"Daemon, that's your son walking toward certain death!" Rhea hissed.
"Is it?" Daemon cocked his head, studying the scene with the intensity of a predator evaluating potential prey. "Look at Vermithor's body language. Does he look aggressive to you? Does he look like he's preparing to immolate a child?"
Despite her fear, Rhea found herself analyzing the dragon's posture with the eye of someone raised around war horses. "No," she said slowly. "He looks... expectant. Like he's greeting someone he's been waiting for."
"Exactly. And look at our boy. Does he look afraid?"
All eyes turned to Jaehaerys, who continued his steady approach without the slightest hesitation. His young face was calm, almost serene, and his green eyes held a confidence that belonged on someone decades older.
"Papa?" Rhaenyra tugged insistently at Viserys's cloak. "Papa, look at his eyes."
Viserys looked, and what he saw made his breath catch. Jaehaerys's eyes—Rhea's eyes, the color of summer forests—were bright and calm and ancient. Far too ancient for a child who still needed help cutting his meat at dinner.
"He's not afraid," Rhaenyra continued, her voice filled with awed realization. "And neither is Vermithor. They... they *know* each other. Like old friends meeting again after a long journey. Like they've been apart but never truly separated."
"That's impossible," Viserys protested weakly. "He's five years old. He's never been near a dragon that size. He has no idea what he's doing."
"Doesn't he?" Daemon asked, and there was something almost gentle in his voice as he watched his son approach certain death with the confidence of a seasoned dragonrider. "Look at him, brother. Really look. When did you last see a child walk like that? Like he owns the world? Like every step is exactly where it should be?"
"When I last looked in a mirror at his age," Rhea said quietly, then blinked in surprise at her own words. "I... I don't know why I said that."
"Because it's true," Daemon said simply. "Our son doesn't walk like a child, Rhea. He walks like a king who's forgotten he's supposed to be small."
---
Jaehaerys stopped before Vermithor, and the great dragon lowered his massive head until they were eye to eye. The boy was dwarfed by the creature before him—a tiny figure of flesh and bone standing before a mountain of bronze scales and ancient power. But instead of cowering, he reached out with one small hand and placed it against warm scales, as naturally as if he'd done it a thousand times before.
Vermithor made a sound deep in his chest—part purr, part song, part greeting between old friends reunited after a long separation.
"Hello, my beautiful friend," Jaehaerys said, his voice clear and carrying despite its youth. "You're sad, aren't you? I can feel it—like a hollow place where something warm used to be. You miss him terribly."
Vermithor crooned, the sound vibrating through stone and bone alike, and several of the watching nobles took involuntary steps backward.
"But he isn't really gone, you know," the boy continued, stroking the massive snout as if it were a favored hound. "Not gone-gone. Just... somewhere else for now. Somewhere we can't follow yet, but we will eventually. Everyone does, in the end. The fire takes us all home."
A ripple went through the assembled mourners. Some gasped. Others muttered prayers to the Seven or the Old Gods or whatever powers might be listening to protect them from witnessing something that felt far too large for mortal comprehension.
"You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" Jaehaerys murmured, and his voice carried an odd harmonic—not quite a child's voice anymore, but not quite an adult's either. Something in between, or beyond. "Growing strong. Growing patient. Dreaming of when I'd remember enough to find you again."
"What is he talking about?" Aemma whispered, clutching Viserys's arm so tightly her knuckles were white as bone. "He's speaking like... like he's remembering someone else's life."
"Maybe he is," Rhaenyra said softly, her violet eyes wide with something between fear and fascination. "Maybe that's what this is. Maybe some people don't just live once. Maybe some people are so important that they have to come back and do it again."
"That's not how death works," Viserys protested, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Isn't it?" Daemon asked, his usual smirk replaced by something more thoughtful. "Tell me, brother—have you never had a dream so vivid you were certain it had happened? Never walked into a room and known exactly where everything would be, though you'd never been there before? Never met a stranger and felt like you'd known them all your life?"
"That's... that's different," Viserys said weakly.
"Is it? The blood of Old Valyria runs thick in our veins. We dream of dragons before we're old enough to know what they are. We speak High Valyrian as if we learned it in the womb. Who's to say what's possible when dealing with bloodlines that old, that strange?"
"Because you know, don't you?" Jaehaerys continued, still stroking Vermithor's snout. "You know what's coming. The storm. The dance. The fire and blood that will tear the realm apart and remake it in ways no one can imagine. And you know we'll need to be ready."
The dragon's golden eyes closed in what could only be described as profound relief, as if a burden he'd carried for years was finally being shared.
"We'll face it together," Jaehaerys whispered, pressing his forehead against bronze scales. "Like we always were meant to. Like we did before, when the world was younger and the magic was stronger. Just you and me against the darkness, old friend."
---
"Jaehaerys," Rhea called, and her voice was steady though her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird. "My darling boy, if you climb on his back, everything changes. You won't be just a child anymore. You'll be something else, something larger. Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?"
Jaehaerys turned to look at her, and his smile was heartbreaking in its serenity, in its terrible understanding of consequences. "I stopped being just a child the moment I started remembering, Mama. This is simply... the world catching up to what was always true."
He placed one small foot on Vermithor's wing joint, found handholds among bronze scales that seemed to have been placed exactly where his small fingers could grip them, and climbed with practiced ease into a saddle meant for men three times his size. He settled as if he'd been born there, as if every day of his short life had been building inexorably toward this moment.
The saddle adjusted itself around him—or perhaps he adjusted himself to fit it—and suddenly the sight of a five-year-old boy atop one of the world's largest dragons seemed not absurd but inevitable.
"Seven save us all," Otto Hightower breathed from somewhere in the crowd.
"Seven can piss in the wind," Daemon said cheerfully, his grin returning bright and fierce with paternal pride. "Look at him up there. Like he's been riding dragons since before he could walk. My son, everyone. Isn't he absolutely magnificent?"
"Your son is five years old and sitting on a creature that could eat him in one bite," Aemma said faintly. "This is madness. Beautiful, terrifying, impossible madness."
"The best kind," Daemon agreed, then looked at his wife with unusual seriousness. "Rhea, my love, I do believe we've raised something extraordinary. The question is whether the world is ready for him."
"I don't think it matters if the world is ready," Rhea replied, watching her impossibly small son command an impossibly large dragon with the ease of long practice. "I think he's coming whether we're ready or not."
From his perch atop Vermithor, Jaehaerys looked down at the assembled crowd—at his parents, his uncle the king, his little cousin Rhaenyra who watched him with eyes full of stars and growing understanding. When he spoke, his voice carried despite the wind and the crash of waves against black stone.
"We haven't lit the pyres yet," he called down, and there was gentle reproach in his young voice. "Great-grandfather and great-grandmother are waiting. We shouldn't keep them waiting any longer—they've been patient enough."
Viserys started, realizing with a shock of embarrassment that he'd become so lost in wonder and terror that he'd completely forgotten the actual ceremony they'd come to perform. He cleared his throat, stepped forward, and tried to find his kingly voice.
"Right. Yes. Of course." He paused, gathered himself, then raised his voice to carry across the black beach. "Jaehaerys the Conciliator! Alysanne the Good Queen! They ruled longer and more wisely than any before them. They gave us peace, prosperity, and a realm worth inheriting. They showed us what Targaryen rule could be at its finest."
His voice cracked slightly, then steadied as Aemma's hand found his arm, lending him strength.
"Let us return them to the fire that made us what we are, that burns in our blood and in our dragons' breath. Let them ride the flames to whatever comes after, knowing they leave behind a legacy that will endure as long as dragons fly and Targaryens rule. Dracarys!"
The word rang out across the black beach like a battle cry, and two dragons answered as one.
But when Silverwing and Vermithor breathed together, something happened that none of the watchers had expected. Their flames didn't simply consume the pyres—they danced together, silver and bronze fire twining around each other like lovers, like old friends, like the paired flames of a great romance finally ending but somehow also beginning anew.
The fires burned with colors that defied nature—blue and violet and white-hot silver—as if the flames themselves knew they were consuming greatness and had chosen to honor it with impossible beauty.
The crowd bowed their heads in respect as ash began to rise like snow, but Jaehaerys remained upright atop his dragon, silhouetted against the magnificent flames like a figure stepped out of legend.
Then Silverwing began to sing.
The sound cut through flesh and bone to touch the soul directly, a melody that spoke of endings and beginnings, of love that transcends death, of the eternal dance between grief and hope. It was the most beautiful and terrible sound any of them had ever heard, and it left not a single pair of eyes dry among the assembled mourners.
She circled the pyres three times, each pass releasing new verses of her song, then turned her silver wings toward the gray horizon and vanished into the storm clouds, carrying her grief away from the world of men to some place where dragons go to mourn their dead.
But Vermithor remained.
He settled on the volcanic stone like a bronze mountain taking root, coiling his massive body in a display of permanence, of belonging, of claiming this place and this moment. And then his own song began—deeper than Silverwing's, more complex, speaking not of endings but of beginnings, not of farewell but of greeting, not of the past but of the future that stretched before them all, bright and terrible and full of infinite possibility.
"It's starting," Rhaenyra breathed, her child's voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "Whatever's coming, whatever he's been dreaming about, it's starting now."
"What's starting?" Viserys asked, though part of him already knew he didn't want the answer.
From atop Vermithor, Jaehaerys looked down at them all, and when he smiled, it was with knowledge that went far beyond his years, knowledge that seemed to encompass not just the present moment but all the moments that had led to it and all those that would follow.
"Everything, Uncle," he said simply, his young voice somehow containing multitudes. "Everything that was always going to happen. Everything that needed to happen. Everything that will reshape the world and make it new again."
Then he spoke in High Valyrian, the words rolling from his tongue like ancient poetry, like incantations passed down through generations of dragonlords, like spells that had been waiting centuries for the right voice to speak them:
"Sōvēs, ñuha raqiros. Īlon kessa rȳbagon se tolvie tubā hae mēre. Se drakari kessa lenton, yn māzis kesīr kessa sagon olvie se mirre."
*Fly, my friend. We shall face all our days as one. The dragons shall dance, but what comes after shall be greater than all that came before.*
Vermithor answered with a roar that split the storm clouds themselves, revealing patches of blue sky like promises of better days to come. Then he surged skyward on wings of bronze and gold, carrying his impossibly young rider into the heavens.
They didn't simply fly—they danced, swooping and banking and spiraling with a grace that spoke of perfect harmony between rider and mount. Every movement was poetry written in the air, every turn a verse in an epic that was only just beginning.
Below, the funeral party watched in stunned silence as a five-year-old boy commanded one of the largest dragons in the world with the ease and confidence of a master dragonrider who had been born to the saddle.
"Well," Daemon said finally, breaking the spell that had fallen over them all. "That was unexpected. Even for us, and we're rather used to the unexpected."
"Daemon," Aemma said weakly, still staring upward at the dancing dragon and rider. "What have we just witnessed? What has just happened here?"
"History, I suspect," he replied, then grinned with fierce paternal pride. "The good kind. The kind bards will sing about for a thousand years. The kind that makes the world a larger, stranger, more wonderful place."
But Rhea knew better. She watched her son dance with death and glory and destiny among the storm clouds, and her heart was full of pride and terror and overwhelming love in equal measure. She knew what she was seeing, even if she couldn't yet put it into words.
The Dance of Dragons was still years away, written in prophecy and dreams and the turning of celestial spheres beyond mortal comprehension.
But its first note had just been sung by a five-year-old boy who remembered being a king.
And nothing—not the realm, not the family, not the very foundations of power itself—would ever be the same again.
---
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