"Dragon? What dragon?"
Rhaegon groggily climbed out of his nearby bed, rubbing his bleary eyes as he followed Rhaegor's gaze. In the distance, a faint, yellowish shape—like a pale stone—drifted slowly toward Harrenhal.
Rhaegon jolted awake, his expression tightening with worry as he looked at Rhaegor. He knew that every dragonrider would recognize Rhaegor, even in disguise.
"It's Viserys," Rhaegor said, identifying both the pale-yellow dragon and its rider.
Aegarax.
Even from afar, the beast had grown significantly since they left Dragon's Nest. Its wings, already broader than most dragons', now stretched even wider, making Aegarax's once-stout frame appear less bulky in comparison.
Yet, it was still noticeably chunkier than other dragons of its age.
During his time in King's Landing, Rhaegor had observed many things—like how Stormcloud and Aegarax, who had thrived in Dragon's Nest, had slowed in growth after returning to the capital. Aegarax, already larger than most, didn't show it as clearly, but Stormcloud had visibly weakened, losing much of its former vigor.
After Draezell left King's Landing with his family, Vaelarys's Black Keep became Samantha's private residence. But since she couldn't possibly occupy such a vast palace alone, it soon became a retreat for Aegon and his wife, who sought refuge from the capital's stifling politics.
As a result, Stormcloud often flew to the Black Keep's dragon pit, preferring its atmosphere over the Dragonpit in the city. The people of King's Landing grew accustomed to seeing the dragon soar from the pit toward the Black Keep, where the odd, ugly gray dragon would rise to greet it. Only when Aegon's stay ended would Stormcloud return with the royal procession.
This pattern wasn't particularly noticeable, so neither Aegon nor Viserys paid it much mind—especially Viserys, who was far more preoccupied with why the dragons in Dragon's Nest grew so much faster.
Aegarax was ecstatic.
As a dragon, it was rare for him to feel this level of excitement—so much so that he flapped his wings harder than usual mid-flight. His deep, rumbling roars barely carried over distance, but Viserys could feel his joy.
"Aegarax, calm down!" Viserys clung tightly to the saddle, praying his overenthusiastic mount wouldn't shake him off in its glee.
For Aegarax, this was freedom.
Finally, he could escape Parexys, the clingy young dragon who had refused to leave him alone. The little pest hadn't even built its own nest—instead, it had waited until Aegarax chose his spot, then claimed the nearest cave.
And thus began Aegarax' torment.
He couldn't defy Caraxes, nor could he drag Parexys along when visiting Dreamfyre. All he could do was endure the smaller dragon's relentless courtship.
Sure, he had once pursued Zarafax—but never like this. Parexys acted as though it wanted to merge with him.
It would be fine if ti could ley egg, but Parexys showed no such signs. Meanwhile, Zarafax's fertility had surpassed even Silverwing, rivaling Candlelight in both quantity and quality—each egg said to steam with vitality.
The moment Viserys led Aegarax out of the Dragonpit, the great beast nearly wept with relief. Parexys had tried to follow, but Caraxes roared a warning, making it clear this was a rider's mission.
Only then did Parexys relent.
Now, unburdened by another dragon's weight, Aegarax flew with unbridled joy, soaring over the Crownlands and the Riverlands until he circled above Harrenhal's five great towers.
Beneath the heart tree, Benjicot paused his evening prayers at the sound of Aegarax's thunderous call. Soldiers stationed in the towers spotted the dragon's descent and scrambled back to their posts.
Aegarax circled the Burned Towers once before letting out a deep, rumbling roar—a sound that unmistakably carried his joy.
The guards atop the towers, along with the highborn knights privileged enough to lodge within the castle walls, gaped at the descending dragon.
"Is... is that a dragon?" A young Riverlands knight stammered, his voice trembling. "It's so..." His limited vocabulary failed him as he struggled to describe the magnificent beast before him.
To those familiar with Aegarax, the dragon was undeniably stout—his neck so thick it barely seemed to exist, his heavy throat sac prominent, and his small head more birdlike than draconic. Only the massive, crystalline horn gleaming under the moonlight lent him any majesty. His wings, though broad, were supported by thick, muscular bones that only emphasized his bulk.
But to these green boys, Aegarax might as well have been one of the legendary monsters from ancient tales. In their eyes, his crystal horn shone like a crescent moon, his thick frame radiated power, and his twin forked tails swayed with the same "wickedness" described in old myths. Of course, none of these knights dared to emulate the legendary "Mirror Shield" and charge the beast. As for Shrykos, slain by rioters—thanks to Joffrey and Baela's swift actions, the Targaryens had ensured those responsible would never speak again, their remains forever sealed inside the bellies of the dragons who returned to the Dragonpit.
The realm only knew a dragon had died—not that it had been slain by mortal hands.
For years to come, Shrykos death would be recorded as weakness, not murder.
The older men, the veterans who had seen war, were far less awed by Aegarax.
Is this the future of House Targaryen's revival? Lord Forrest Frey mused silently.
This dragon may be large, but it's still unblooded. A green boy of a beast.
Lord Frey judged Aegarax harshly. He had witnessed Vermithor and Vhagar's dance above the Red Fork—two colossal "mountains" clashing in the skies, their battle so vast it stole the breath from those below. He had seen Vermithor's true might, a leviathan whose very presence at thousands of feet was enough to choke the air from men's lungs. The heat and wind from their duel could send a man flying or shatter his courage, leaving him staring in terror at what seemed like divine wrath.
Two mountains waltzing in destruction.
Vhagar's dying scream. Vermithor's earth-shaking roar. The sound of claws rending scale.
A symphony of violence, forever etched into the memories of those who had been there.
Compared to those titans, Aegarax was but a babe.
The dragon landed slowly in Harrenhal's courtyard, letting out another low growl as the crowd gathered.
"Your Grace, you came yourself?" Lord Kermit stepped forward, surprised. Unlike the Riverlands knights, the Crownlanders showed no awe—they had seen dragons far more often than in just songs and stories.
"It's my tournament. Of course I'd oversee it personally." Viserys grinned, patting Aegarax' steaming snout before dismounting.
"Lord Kermit. Lord Benjicot. Lord Forrest. Lord Petyr." Viserys couldn't ignore these four war heroes—the core of the Silver Dragon faction—and greeted each in turn. "Thank you for supporting our event."
"Our duty, my prince," Lord Kermit replied dutifully. A vassal's obligation was to answer his liege's call.
"The King will remember your service," Viserys said warmly, clasping the lord's shoulder. "I'll preside over the tournament's opening tomorrow."
Benjicot kept his thoughts to himself. What intrigued him more was how Viserys intended to use Harrenhal to shift the Riverlands' balance.
The castle was the region's heart—strategically vital. With it, the Crown could easily meddle in the eastern and western Riverlands' affairs.
As the dragon settled in Harrenhal, Rhaegon turned to Rhaegor in alarm.
"My prince, should we still compete? Prince Viserys knows me. Knows Elarion." Even if Elarion was forgettable, he wasn't. He couldn't change his eyes or hair overnight.
"And he knows me well," Rhaegor admitted. "But it's fine. Once we're armored, he won't recognize us."
"As long as we don't get greedy and aim for the championship, Viserys won't notice us."
Rhaegon remained uneasy, but their helmets would conceal their faces, and they only planned to participate symbolically.
So...
"My prince, what if we face Ser Lucas?"
"Let him win."
Rhaegor sighed. He knew exactly why Lucas Lothston had entered this tournament—for Harrenhal. Or rather, why Viserys had backed his participation.
Lucas would be crowned champion.
They had no choice but to throw the match.
"I'll inform Elarion."
Rhaegon nodded and went to wake their groggy companion.
---
Meanwhile, old Ser Jaime stared blankly as Aegarax circled and landed in the distance. Trembling, he hugged himself.
"D-dragon..."
"No, no... don't kill me... don't burn me..."
He curled into his bedding, shaking violently. The war had scarred him too—but not with visions of clashing titans or draconic fury.
Only fire.
Endless fire.
And the moment Vhagar fell from the sky, her death scream like the heavens collapsing.
He felt flames licking at his skin.
"No. No."
In a daze, Jaime scrambled up, grabbing his sword. After a hesitant pause, he patted the sleeping Albin once before slipping out of camp.
He didn't notice Cain watching silently from the shadows.
---
Harrenhal
Viserys had been given a decent chamber, but instead of resting, he returned to the courtyard to tend to Aegarax.
"My prince." Lucas Lothston emerged, pretending to relieve himself.
"Ready, ser?"
"Aye, but..." Lucas rubbed his hands nervously.
"Relax." Viserys stroked Aegarax' scales. "You'll win. The Crownlands knights answer to you, and the Riverlanders..."
"Lords Kermit and Benjicot still bend the knee to House Targaryen."
He prayed they remembered that.
Otherwise, he'd have to make an example.
---
Next Morning – The Tournament's Opening
"...The victor shall receive three thousand gold dragons... the title of Lord of Harrenhal... and —"
Viserys paused dramatically.
The crowd erupted.
Three thousand gold was expected—but Harrenhal? Every knight's dream.
Land. A castle.
Even after the Great Partition had stripped much of its territory, what remained was wealth beyond most men's hopes.
Then Viserys uttered the final prize.
Rhaegor and every Riverlord present froze.
"By King Aegon's authority, the champion shall also be named..."
His gaze swept the roaring crowd.
"Marshal of the God's Eye."