The morning light, grey and thin, seeped through the tall windows of Viserys’s chambers.
The wedding feast, with its clamor and expectation, had not happened.
An uneasy silence had settled over Dragonstone., the kind of stillness that follows a storm, when the air is heavy with unspoken questions.
The castle, usually bustling, now held its breath, waiting for answers.
Steffon Darklyn stood before the king, dark circles beneath his eyes, soot still staining the cuffs of his white cloak, yet his posture remained rigid.
He spoke plainly, his voice low, recounting the night’s events without embellishment.
Silence stretched between them.
Viserys leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.
Viserys nodded slowly.
“And then?”
“And against the curve of his chest, Your Grace,” Steffon finished, his voice barely a whisper, “the prince.
Asleep.
Both arms wrapped around his dragon egg.”
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment.
“Which dragon?” he asked, the words raspy.
“Vermithor, Your Grace.” The name hung in the air, a heavy, ancient sound.
Viserys opened his eyes, the weariness in them profound.
“Where is the prince now?” Viserys asked, his voice low and controlled.
“We carried him back to his chambers before dawn, Your Grace,” Steffon replied.
“He was still asleep when I left him.
“Send for Maester Gerardys,” Viserys said at once.
“Have him examine the prince when he wakes, then inform me immediately.
Do not let the boy out of that room until I have spoken to him.” “As you command, Your Grace.” Steffon bowed, then turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Baelon woke to the familiar grey light of morning, the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs, and the faint, briny scent of the sea.
For a moment, it was just another day.
Then, the memory hit him.
He reached for the dragon egg on the stand beside his bed, his hand seeking the familiar warmth of its shell.
His fingers met empty air.
He sat upright, his heart lurching.
He scanned the small chamber, his eyes darting to every shadow.
He slid from the bed, his bare feet cool on the stone floor, and peered beneath the frame.
Nothing.
He opened the small chest at the foot of the bed, where he kept his few precious toys.
Empty.
The egg was gone.
He did not cry out.
His mind, even at three, moved with a quiet, methodical urgency.
He had been in the cavern.
Someone had brought him back.
Therefore, someone had the egg.
He pulled open the door.
Steffon stood in the corridor, looking as if he had not slept a wink.
His eyes, heavy-lidded, fixed on Baelon.
He stood between the prince and the rest of the castle, a loyal sentinel guarding a secret.
“Where is my egg?” Baelon asked immediately, his voice small but firm.
“Did it hatch?” Steffon shifted his weight.
“The Dragonkeeper has it, Prince Baelon.
By the King’s instruction.” “Did it hatch?” Baelon pressed, his violet eyes wide and unwavering.
Steffon cleared his throat.
“That is for His Grace to tell you, my prince.” He kept his tone even, but a faint flush crept up his neck.
Viserys filled the doorway of Baelon’s chamber, no longer in the ceremonial finery of the aborted wedding, but in a simpler tunic and breeches.
He looked as though he had aged years in a single night, the lines around his eyes deepened by a night of fear.
For a long moment, he simply looked at his son, small and disheveled, standing in the corridor.
A long silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotions.
“Come inside, Baelon,” Viserys said at last, his voice quiet.
Baelon stepped back into the room, and Viserys followed, closing the door behind him.
“Never do that again,” Viserys said, his voice starting stern, but softening almost immediately.
He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Baelon close.
“Do you understand what you did?
You are the heir to the Iron Throne.
You will be king someday, you will rule the seven kingdoms.
If something had happened to you in those tunnels—” He stopped, a tremor in his voice.
He ran a hand through Baelon’s silver-gold hair.
“You nearly frightened me to death.”
“I am sorry, Father,” Baelon said, looking up at him.
“…but did the egg hatch?” Viserys closed his eyes briefly, a faint, weary smile touching the corner of his mouth.
“What possessed you to go down there?”
“The Dragonkeeper said dragons return to Dragonstone because it is their home.” Baelon explained, his words precise.
“And the old tongue.
Rhaenyra chose my egg.
I thought if I brought it to where the dragons were, maybe it would wake up.” He recounted the encounter, his voice devoid of fear, merely stating facts.
“The breathing came from above.
Its eyes opened.
It was so large, Father.
It spread its wings and “It lowered its head.
Then it folded itself around me.
I could not climb over it.
So…” Baelon shrugged.
“…I went to sleep.”
Viserys listened, his hand resting on Baelon’s head, silent until his son finished.
“Do you know which dragon it was?” he asked, his voice hushed.
Baelon shook his head.
“I do not know its name.
It was old.
Enormous.
The color of bronze.” “Vermithor,” Viserys breathed.
He watched Baelon’s face, seeing the flicker of recognition in his son’s violet eyes.
“Jaehaerys I’s dragon.
He has had no rider since your great-grandfather died.”
A profound silence filled the room.
Baelon processed the information, his gaze distant.
“The dragon allowed you near him,” Viserys continued, carefully.
“What happened beneath the Dragonmont stays between us, the Dragonkeepers, and Ser Steffon.
No one else must know.” He paused, choosing his words with care.
“A rider and a dragon are not bonded until the rider mounts and flies.
You do not go back there until you are older.” He looked into Baelon’s eyes.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.” A beat.
“But it could still happen?” “Grow up well,” Viserys said, a faint, hopeful smile touching his lips.
“Then we will see.” “Where is the egg now?” Baelon asked.
“Did it hatch?” “The Dragonkeeper has it,” Viserys told him.
“They are keeping it safe.
He rose from the bed.
“For now rest.
The maester will see to you shortly.
Rest now.” He crossed to the door.
“Father.” Viserys turned back.
“I am sorry about the wedding.” Viserys looked at his son, a complex mix of emotions playing across his features – relief, affection, and the lingering weariness of a night spent in terror.
“The wedding can wait,” Viserys said softly.
“Rest now.” he said, and closed the door.
Baelon lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Vermithor.
The name resonated in his mind, a deep hum of recognition and awe.
He had not known.
He had only known the dragon was ancient, vast, and might have chosen him.
Perhaps the dragon had accepted him.
He closed his eyes, remembering the warmth, the rumble in its chest, the scent of sulfur and dust and something else, something old and wild.
It had felt like coming home.
A soft knock came at the door and Maester Gerardys entered, carrying his familiar leather satchel.
“Prince Baelon,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Well, Maester,” Baelon replied, sitting up.
Gerardys approached the bed, his brow furrowed with a gentle concern.
He felt Baelon’s forehead, checked his pulse, and peered into his eyes.
“No fever.
A little tired, perhaps, but otherwise quite robust.” He offered a small, knowing smile.
“No ill effects from your nocturnal adventure, it seems.”
Baelon met his gaze, a hint of a smile playing on his own lips.
Maester Gerardys seemed like a kind man.
“His Grace has instructed that you are to remain in your chambers today, for rest,” Gerardys continued, pulling a small vial from his satchel.
“A calming draught, just to ensure a full recovery.
And then, a light breakfast.”
Baelon nodded, accepting the small cup Gerardys offered.
The liquid was sweet, with a faint taste of herbs.
He swallowed it without complaint.
“Good,” Gerardys said, taking the empty cup.
“I will inform the kitchens.
Is there anything else you require, my prince?”
“No, Maester.
Thank you.” Maester Gerardys bowed slightly and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Baelon lay back once more, the calming draught already beginning to work its gentle magic.
He felt a pleasant lassitude spread through his limbs.
He closed his eyes with a faint smile on his face.
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