AERYS
The king's chambers were silent save for the crackling of flames in the hearth and the labored breathing of Aerys Targaryen. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill that had descended upon King's Landing, a chill that seemed to seep through the very stones of the Red Keep.
In his sleep, Aerys twitched and mumbled, his fingers clutching at silken sheets as if they were lifelines. Behind closed eyelids, vivid images flashed with terrifying clarity.
A vast ocean stretched beneath him. Islands dotted the waters, rugged and snow-capped, unlike any in the known world. Above one such island, a monstrous creature soared—a dragon more massive than any the Targaryens had ever tamed, its hide a volcanic red that seemed to absorb the light around it.
Facing this behemoth was a much smaller black dragon, sleek and swift as a shadow. Upon its back rode a slender boy, his face obscured yet somehow familiar.
The red monster opened its maw, and flame erupted like a storm. The black dragon twisted, narrowly avoiding destruction, and then dove straight into the larger beast's gaping jaws, a final desperate attack.
An explosion of fire and flesh followed, so bright it burned even in the dream. The red dragon collapsed from the sky, its massive body plummeting toward the ocean below. And falling alongside it—the boy and his black dragon, spinning lifelessly through the air as flames consumed them.
"NO!" Aerys tried to scream, but no sound emerged.
The scene shifted. Now he watched as the boy's burning body sank beneath dark waters, flesh and bone blackening. But as the form descended deeper, something peculiar happened. The charred figure began to glow, not with the orange of flames but with a silvery light that reminded Aerys of Targaryen hair in moonlight.
The light grew brighter until it was nearly blinding. When it finally dimmed, the burned corpse was gone. In its place, a child floated in the water—a boy with Targaryen features but startling emerald eyes unlike any seen in their bloodline.
Behind this transformed child, a shadow formed—the silhouette of a dragon, but unlike any Aerys had seen before. It seemed to be a part of the boy, connected to him by threads of fate and magic.
The boy's mouth opened, and though underwater, he spoke clearly: "We return. The dragon and the rider. Death could not separate us."
The dream shifted again. Aerys found himself standing in a birthing chamber. On a bed lay Queen Rhaella, exhausted but triumphant, holding a newborn babe. But instead of the typical Targaryen violet, the infant's eyes shone a bright, unnatural green. And curled in the cradle beside the bed was not a blanket, but a dragon hatchling, black as midnight with eyes that matched the child's.
"The prince who was promised," whispered voices around him. "The one who will bring the dragons back."
Aerys Targaryen woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in his bed. For a moment, he was disoriented, the boundary between dream and reality blurred. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his nightclothes clung to his sweat-soaked body.
"Your Grace?" A sleepy voice came from beside him. Queen Rhaella stirred, her silver-gold hair spilling across the pillows. Her hand rested on the swell of her belly, where their second child grew. "Is something amiss?"
Aerys stared at her for a long moment, his violet eyes wide and fevered. "I saw him," he whispered. "Our son. The one growing in your womb."
Rhaella's expression softened with concern. She had grown accustomed to her husband's dreams and visions, though they had increased in frequency and intensity of late. "You should rest, my king. The child will come when he is ready."
But Aerys was already throwing back the covers, his movements frantic. "Bring me Wisdom Rossart," he commanded, reaching for a robe. "And send word to Dragonstone. Every inch of that island must be searched."
"Searched?" Rhaella echoed, confusion evident in her voice. "What could you possibly be looking for at this hour?"
Aerys turned to her, and in the dim light, his eyes held a gleam that made her blood run cold—the first hints of the madness that would one day consume him.
"Dragon eggs," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "There are still dragon eggs hidden on Dragonstone. And one of them—one special egg—belongs with our son."
"Aerys, the dragons are gone," Rhaella said gently. "No egg has hatched in over a century."
"You're wrong," Aerys snapped, his momentary tenderness vanishing. "I saw it. Our son will bring back the dragons. He is the prince that was promised—not Rhaegar, but this one." He gestured wildly toward her swollen belly.
Rhaella said nothing more, knowing argument would only fuel his frenzy. Instead, she watched as her husband paced the chamber, muttering to himself about prophecies and dragons reborn.
By morning, ships were already sailing for Dragonstone with orders to search every cave and crevice of the volcanic island. The Small Council was assembled before dawn, bleary-eyed and bewildered as their king commanded the most thorough search in the island's history.
"Your Grace," Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, ventured cautiously. "Dragon eggs, if any remain, would be priceless heirlooms. Surely a more... methodical approach—"
"You question your king?" Aerys cut him off, eyes narrowing. "Perhaps you think yourself more knowledgeable about Targaryen matters than a Targaryen?"
The slight tensing of Tywin's jaw was the only indication of his displeasure. "Of course not, Your Grace. I merely suggest that—"
"You suggest nothing," Aerys hissed. "I have seen what must come to pass. My son will need his dragon, and I will ensure he has it."
Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, chains clinking softly. "Your Grace, we rejoice at the news of another royal child. But perhaps these dreams are merely the natural concerns of a father for his coming—"
"These are not mere dreams," Aerys insisted, slamming his palm on the table. "They are visions. Prophecies. The blood of Old Valyria runs true in me, and I have seen what will be." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "A mighty dragon will be reborn—not just any dragon, but one returned from death itself. And my son—this son—will be its rider."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances. All knew the tales of Targaryens who had been consumed by dreams of dragons returning. Such obsessions rarely ended well.
"I want every tome on dragons brought to my chambers," Aerys continued, oblivious to their discomfort. "Every legend, every account of the last dragons and their eggs. And double the guard on the queen. This child must be protected at all costs."
As the council dispersed, Tywin Lannister lingered, his green-gold eyes assessing his king with growing concern.
"Something to add, Hand?" Aerys asked, his tone carrying a dangerous edge.
"Only that I shall see your commands are carried out with the utmost efficiency, Your Grace," Tywin replied smoothly, though his thoughts were far less accommodating.
Left alone in the council chamber, Aerys moved to the window overlooking King's Landing. The morning sun bathed the city in golden light, but the king's thoughts were dark with obsession.
"They'll see," he murmured to himself. "When my green-eyed son rides his black dragon over King's Landing, they will all kneel in awe. The Targaryens will rule for a thousand years, and it will begin with him—the prince who was promised."
In the following weeks, Aerys grew more erratic. He spent hours poring over ancient scrolls, demanded detailed reports of every search party on Dragonstone, and visited the dragon skulls in the throne room daily, as if communing with the long-dead beasts.
And when word finally came—when a trembling messenger reported the discovery of several fossilized dragon eggs deep within a volcanic cave on Dragonstone—Aerys Targaryen laughed until tears streamed down his face.
Among the clutch of stone eggs brought before him, one stood out—black as night with whorls of deep emerald running through its petrified surface. The king cradled it as tenderly as a newborn, tears glistening in his eyes.
"This one," he whispered, running his fingers over the stone surface. "This one will hatch for my son."
Queen Rhaella watched from her chambers as her husband became increasingly consumed by his obsession. She placed a protective hand over her belly, feeling the child within her kick strongly.
"What destiny awaits you, little one?" she murmured. "What madness has your father seen?"
The court whispered behind gloved hands. The king was building a special cradle, they said, one lined with Dragonstone's volcanic stone. The black dragon egg would rest beside the newborn prince from his first breath.
And as Queen Rhaella's time grew near, King Aerys Targaryen could speak of nothing but dragons and prophecy, fire and blood, and the special destiny that awaited his unborn son—Thalor Targaryen, the name he had chosen from his dreams, the name of the boy who had fallen through flame and water to be reborn.