AN: This chapter is so freaking long! My chapters will be 3k-5k words, so if I split them I'll have around 190 chapters to update? Hell nah. It's gonna stay this long. SO REJOICE MY READERS! FOR I AM SLEEP DEPRIVED. Where's my sugar daddies at? Support me please. What if I die before I finish this story? T-T
PYCELLE
Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers in the Red Keep had always been a sanctuary of scholarly order. Books and scrolls were meticulously arranged on shelves that reached the ceiling, specimens of rare plants and animals preserved in jars of cloudy liquid, and astronomical instruments of brass and silver caught the morning light streaming through the tall windows.
But today, that careful order had been disrupted.
Parchments lay scattered across his writing desk, open books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. Candles, burned down to stubs, suggested he had worked through the night.
The old maester ran gnarled fingers through his beard, still full and gray despite his advancing years, as he reread the message for perhaps the twentieth time since its arrival.
The words remained the same, yet their implications were so extraordinary that Pycelle found himself doubting his own comprehension.
A dragon has hatched at Dragonstone. The black egg with green markings, placed in Prince Thalor's cradle since birth, cracked during the great storm. The hatchling has bonded with the prince. The queen returns with both sons and the beast as soon as arrangements can be made for safe passage.
Burn this after reading. —Gyldayn
The message had arrived by raven three days ago, carried not by one of the usual black birds that flew between the keeps of great lords, but by Maester Gyldayn's personal white raven, reserved for matters of utmost secrecy and importance.
Pycelle had not burned it, of course. Some documents were too historically significant to destroy, no matter the instruction. Instead, he had locked it in his personal strongbox, along with other secrets of the realm that would never see the light of day in his lifetime.
A dragon. After nearly a century and a half, a living dragon in Westeros once more.
Pycelle had spent his decades of service to House Targaryen studying the histories of their dragons—from mighty Balerion the Black Dread to the last stunted hatchling that had perished during the reign of Aegon III. He had examined their preserved skulls in the depths of the Red Keep, measuring, documenting, theorizing on why they had died out and whether they might ever return.
Most maesters believed dragons were gone forever, a spent force in the world like the children of the forest or the giants beyond the Wall. Some even suggested they had never been magical creatures at all, merely an unusual species of large flying reptile that had been driven to extinction.
But Pycelle had lived too long at the Targaryen court, had seen too many small inexplicable events surrounding the dragon-blooded dynasty, to dismiss magic entirely.
And now, if Gyldayn's message was to be believed, his academic interest had transformed overnight into a matter of urgent political and historical significance.
A soft knock at his door interrupted his musings.
"Enter," he called, hastily covering his notes with a more innocuous tome on the healing properties of herbs.
A young acolyte, chain still pitifully short around his neck, poked his head into the chamber. "Pardon, Grand Maester, but the king has called an urgent Small Council meeting."
Pycelle nodded, unsurprised. "When?"
"Immediately, Grand Maester. The royal party from Dragonstone has been sighted approaching the city."
So it was time. The queen had moved faster than expected. "Very well. Inform the king I shall attend directly."
As the acolyte departed, Pycelle rose with a sigh, his joints protesting the sudden movement after hours of sitting hunched over his desk. He was not looking forward to this council meeting. King Aerys had grown increasingly unpredictable in recent months, his moods shifting like quicksilver. How he would react to this development, even Pycelle could not predict with certainty.
The Grand Maester gathered his chains of office more securely around his neck, a subtle reminder of the dignity and neutrality his position demanded. Whatever his personal thoughts on dragons returning to the realm, his duty was to provide counsel based on historical precedent and careful consideration of consequences.
And to observe. Always to observe.
—
The Small Council chamber was tense when Pycelle arrived, slipping into his seat with a murmured apology for his tardiness. King Aerys II Targaryen sat at the head of the table, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against the polished wood. At thirty, the king still retained the famed Targaryen beauty, but there was a feverish quality to his violet eyes that had grown more pronounced of late.
"Now that our esteemed Grand Maester has deigned to join us," Aerys said with a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes, "perhaps someone would care to explain why I am only now learning that a dragon has hatched on Dragonstone?"
A moment of silence fell over the council. Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, was the first to respond, his face impassive as always.
"Your Grace, it seems this information was kept closely guarded. I myself learned of it only moments before this council was called."
Aerys' eyes narrowed. "And yet my wife saw fit to inform the Citadel before her own husband and king?"
All eyes turned to Pycelle, who stroked his beard thoughtfully before responding. "Not the Citadel, Your Grace. The message came directly to me from Maester Gyldayn, and I received it only three days past. I believe Her Grace wished to ensure the... specimen... was strong enough for travel before making a formal announcement."
"Specimen?" Aerys spat the word. "You speak as if this were some curiosity in one of your jars, Maester. This is a dragon—the symbol of House Targaryen returned to life! And it has bonded with my son, just as I foresaw."
His expression shifted suddenly from anger to triumph. "Did I not tell you, my lords? Did I not say that Thalor was special, that the dragons would return through him?"
Lord Tywin and Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, exchanged brief glances. Pycelle noted the exchange with interest. The king's fixation on his second son's supposed destiny had been a source of private concern among the council for some time.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Pycelle said soothingly. "It appears your... insights... have been vindicated. If I might suggest, this presents both an unprecedented opportunity and a significant responsibility for the crown. No living person has experience raising or training a dragon. We must proceed with caution and wisdom."
"Caution?" Aerys laughed, the sound brittle and too loud in the council chamber. "The greatest power in the known world has returned to House Targaryen, and you counsel caution?"
"I merely suggest, Your Grace, that we consider how best to nurture this gift. A young dragon requires specific care, if the histories are accurate. And there are diplomatic considerations as well. The other great houses will have... opinions... on this development."
Lord Tywin leaned forward slightly. "The Grand Maester raises a valid point, Your Grace. This news will shake the Seven Kingdoms. Some houses will see it as a cause for celebration, others for concern."
"Let them be concerned," Aerys said dismissively. "Let them remember who rules them, and why. Fire and Blood, Lord Tywin. That has always been the way of House Targaryen."
Pycelle suppressed a sigh. This was exactly the reaction he had feared—the king seeing the dragon as a validation of Targaryen exceptionalism rather than as a complex political development.
"Perhaps," he suggested carefully, "we might consider how this miracle might best serve the stability of the realm. A dragon, properly presented, could inspire both loyalty and necessary caution among your subjects."
Before Aerys could respond, the chamber doors opened to admit a page in Targaryen livery. The boy bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, the queen's party has entered the city. They will arrive at the Red Keep within the hour."
Aerys stood abruptly. "Then this council is adjourned. I shall greet my wife and sons—and the newest member of House Targaryen—in the throne room. Lord Tywin, see that the court is assembled. I want every noble in King's Landing to witness this historic moment."
As the council dispersed, Pycelle lingered, gathering his notes with deliberate slowness until only he and Lord Tywin remained in the chamber.
"A dragon," Tywin said quietly, breaking the silence. "After all these years."
"Indeed, my lord. A most unexpected development."
Tywin's green-gold eyes studied Pycelle carefully. "You've had three days to consider this news, Grand Maester. What are your thoughts—your real thoughts, not the diplomatic platitudes you offered His Grace?"
Pycelle straightened, meeting the Hand's gaze directly. Their relationship was complex—an unspoken alliance of pragmatism that sometimes required uncomfortable honesty.
"History tells us that dragons changed the balance of power in Westeros once before. They might well do so again." He paused, choosing his next words with care. "But history also tells us that dragons alone do not make a ruler great. They are tools, powerful tools, but in the hands of an unwise wielder..."
"They can bring destruction as easily as glory," Tywin finished for him. "Yes, I am familiar with the Dance of the Dragons and other such cautionary tales." He straightened his crimson doublet, already moving toward the door. "We shall have to watch young Prince Thalor's development with great interest, it seems."
"Indeed, my lord," Pycelle agreed. "Most great interest."
As Tywin departed, Pycelle allowed himself a moment to collect his thoughts.
The game had changed fundamentally today. The careful political balance of the Seven Kingdoms, the checks on Targaryen power that had developed since the death of the last dragons, all potentially undone by one midnight-black hatchling.
And at the center of it all, a three-year-old boy with unusual green eyes who seemed, if the reports were accurate, to possess an uncanny bond with a creature out of legend.
Pycelle had served three Targaryen kings in his long life. He had watched them rule, seen their strengths and weaknesses, documented their triumphs and follies for posterity. But never had he faced a situation quite like this.
History was unfolding before him, and he intended to record every detail.
—-
The throne room of the Red Keep was filled to capacity, nobles and courtiers hastily summoned to witness what rumor already claimed was a momentous event. They stood in their finery, whispering behind jeweled hands, speculation running rampant.
Pycelle took his place on the council dais to the right of the Iron Throne, where King Aerys now sat, resplendent in black and red, the colors of his house. The king's posture was tense with anticipation, his eyes fixed on the great doors at the far end of the hall.
A hush fell over the assembly as the doors swung open.
Queen Rhaella entered first, elegant in a gown of silver silk, her platinum hair arranged in an intricate style beneath a delicate crown. Ten years of marriage to Aerys had dimmed some of her natural vivacity, but she carried herself with regal composure that commanded respect.
Behind her came Crown Prince Rhaegar, already showing signs of the striking beauty he would possess as a man. At ten, he moved with unusual grace, his solemn expression making him appear older than his years.
And then, causing a collective gasp from the assembled court, came Prince Thalor.
The three-year-old prince walked with careful steps, his silver-gold hair shining in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. But it was not the prince himself that drew all eyes—it was what accompanied him.
Perched on the boy's shoulder, tail wrapped securely around his arm for balance, was a creature out of legend.
Even from his position on the dais, Pycelle could see that this was no ordinary reptile. The dragon was perhaps the size of a large cat, its scales a black so pure they seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Its wingspan, partially folded against its sleek body, hinted at aerodynamic efficiency that distinguished it from the bulkier proportions depicted in historical renderings of Targaryen dragons.
But most striking were its eyes—large, expressive, and a vibrant green that matched Prince Thalor's exactly. They moved with intelligent awareness, scanning the throne room and its occupants with obvious cognition.
The whispers that had briefly erupted at the sight died away, replaced by an awed silence as Queen Rhaella led her sons toward the throne. When they reached the foot of the dais, she curtseyed deeply.
"My king and husband," she said, her clear voice carrying through the hushed chamber. "I bring joyous tidings from Dragonstone. The gods have blessed House Targaryen with a miracle. A dragon has hatched from the egg placed in Prince Thalor's cradle at your command."
Aerys rose from the Iron Throne, his face alight with an almost religious fervor. "I knew," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I saw it in my dreams. The dragon has returned to us."
He descended the steps of the dais, approaching his wife and sons. The court watched, spellbound, as the king knelt before the three-year-old prince—an unprecedented gesture that caused more than one sharp intake of breath among the nobles.
"What have you named him, my son?" Aerys asked, reaching out tentatively toward the dragon.
The creature hissed softly, drawing back against Thalor's neck. The boy placed a small hand on its head, a calming gesture that seemed to soothe the hatchling immediately.
"Nightfury," Thalor answered, his high child's voice nevertheless clear and confident. "His name is Nightfury."
"Nightfury," Aerys repeated, savoring the name. "A fitting name for the first dragon of a new age."
From his position, Pycelle observed the scene with a scholar's eye for detail. The dragon's reaction to the king's approach was notable—wary, defensive. Yet with Thalor, the creature showed complete comfort, moving in perfect harmony with the boy's movements, responding to his touch with evident trust.
More significant still was the prince himself. Most children his age would be overwhelmed by such a setting—the formal throne room, the hundreds of staring nobles, the weight of an unprecedented historical moment. Yet Thalor stood with remarkable composure, his green eyes meeting his father's violet ones directly, without the fear or uncertainty one would expect.
"The prince has shown remarkable skill in handling the dragon, Your Grace," Queen Rhaella said. "Maester Gyldayn believes their bond is unprecedented in its strength and immediacy."
Aerys nodded, rising to his feet. "Of course it is. Thalor is special—touched by destiny." He turned to the assembled court, raising his voice. "Bear witness, my lords and ladies! The dragons have returned to House Targaryen. My son, Prince Thalor, has awakened what was thought lost forever. This is a sign from the gods themselves of the rightness of our rule, of the special blood that flows in Targaryen veins."
The court erupted in applause and exclamations—genuine in some cases, carefully manufactured in others. Pycelle noted Lord Tywin's measured response, the calculating look in his eyes as he studied the prince and his dragon.
"A great celebration is in order," Aerys continued. "Seven days of feasting and tournaments to mark this momentous occasion. Heralds will be sent to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms to spread the news. Let all of Westeros rejoice with us!"
As the king continued outlining increasingly elaborate celebrations, Pycelle's attention remained fixed on young Prince Thalor. While the court focused on the king's pronouncements, the boy was whispering to his dragon, one hand gently stroking its sleek head. The creature listened with an attention that seemed almost human in its intensity.
And then, most curious of all, it nodded. A distinct, deliberate movement that Pycelle would have dismissed as imagined had he not been watching so carefully.
The dragon understood the boy. Not in the way a trained animal understands commands, but with an intelligence that suggested comprehension of complex communication.
This was far more significant than even the miracle of a dragon hatching after generations. This suggested a relationship between rider and mount unlike anything recorded in the histories Pycelle had studied.
He would need to document everything—the dragon's growth, its behaviors, its interactions with the prince and others. If dragons were truly returning to the world, understanding them would be crucial, both academically and politically.
As the court ceremony concluded and the royal family withdrew, Pycelle lingered, watching Prince Thalor's small figure disappear through a side door, the midnight-black dragon still perched on his shoulder.
A new chapter in the history of Westeros had begun. And Pycelle intended to record every word of it.
---
In the days that followed, Pycelle devoted himself to observing and documenting the young prince and his dragon. He established a regular schedule of examinations, ostensibly to monitor the hatchling's health but equally to satisfy his scholarly curiosity.
His study in the Grand Maester's tower had been transformed into a makeshift laboratory. Sketches of Nightfury adorned the walls, tracking the dragon's rapid growth. Detailed notes filled leatherbound journals—observations on diet, behavior, physical changes. One volume was dedicated entirely to the bond between prince and dragon, which grew more fascinating with each passing day.
"And how is our young prince's companion faring today, Grand Maester?" The smooth voice from the doorway startled Pycelle from his contemplation of a particularly detailed sketch of Nightfury's wing structure.
Lord Varys, the recently appointed Master of Whisperers, stood at the threshold, powdered and perfumed as always, his soft hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his lavender silk robe.
"Lord Varys," Pycelle acknowledged, subtly covering his more sensitive notes with blank parchment. "I did not hear you enter."
"Few do," the eunuch replied with a small smile. "It is a professional necessity, you understand. But you did not answer my question about the prince's remarkable pet."
"Nightfury is not a pet," Pycelle corrected automatically. Two weeks of close observation had convinced him of this, if nothing else. "The dragon displays intelligence far beyond any animal I have studied. And his growth rate is extraordinary—nearly doubled in size since their arrival at the Red Keep."
"Fascinating," Varys murmured, drifting closer to examine the sketches on the wall. "And his relationship with Prince Thalor? Is it as... unique... as the court whispers suggest?"
Pycelle hesitated, weighing his response carefully. Varys had proven himself remarkably effective as Master of Whisperers in the short time since his arrival from Essos, but the Grand Maester remained wary of the perfumed eunuch and his network of "little birds."
"The bond between dragon and rider has historical precedent," he said noncommittally. "Targaryens have always shared a special connection with their mounts."
"Come now, Grand Maester," Varys chided gently. "We both know this is different. The boy speaks to the creature in private, and the creature responds with apparent understanding. The dragon refuses to eat unless the prince is present. It sleeps curled around him like a protective parent rather than as a dependent hatchling." He picked up one of the sketches, studying it with evident interest. "Most curious of all, the dragon sometimes makes what witnesses describe as 'drawings' in the sand of the practice yard when alone with the prince. Not random scratches, but deliberate patterns."
Pycelle stiffened. That particular observation was not widely known—he had documented it only yesterday, after convincing Prince Thalor to allow him to observe a private training session.
"Your... little birds... are quite thorough," he acknowledged stiffly.
Varys replaced the sketch with delicate precision. "Information is my currency, Grand Maester, as knowledge is yours. Perhaps we might trade occasionally, to our mutual benefit?"
"And what information could you possibly offer that would warrant my breaking confidences?"
"Perhaps insights into how certain members of the Small Council view this development? Or reports from distant shores about reactions to the news of dragons returning to Westeros?" Varys smiled thinly. "Or maybe you would be interested to know that Prince Thalor has been observed speaking to his dragon in a language unknown to any scholar or linguist in King's Landing—a language he seems to have invented, yet which the dragon comprehends perfectly."
That captured Pycelle's attention despite his reservations. "Impossible. No child of three, however precocious, could invent a complete language."
"And yet my little birds insist it is so." Varys moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Consider my offer, Grand Maester. In these... interesting times... information may prove as valuable as dragon fire."
After the eunuch's departure, Pycelle sat heavily in his chair, troubled by the encounter. Varys was right about one thing—the relationship between Thalor and Nightfury defied conventional explanation. It went beyond the traditional bond of Targaryen and dragon, beyond mere animal training or instinctive connection.
It was as if the dragon and the boy knew each other. As if they had met before.
Pycelle reached for a fresh piece of parchment and began to write, documenting his latest observations and the troubling questions they raised.
The dragon Nightfury continues to display behaviors inconsistent with what historical records suggest of newly hatched dragons. Rather than the wild, predatory instincts documented in accounts of previous hatchlings, this specimen shows remarkable restraint and apparent understanding of human social structures.
Most notably, Prince Thalor requires no visible training methods to control the dragon's behavior. Unlike falconry or conventional animal husbandry, there are no rewards or corrections employed. The dragon simply... complies... with the prince's wishes, often before they are fully articulated.
This suggests either an unprecedented advance in draconic intelligence compared to their historical counterparts, or some form of communication between prince and dragon that eludes conventional observation.
The question that increasingly preoccupies this observer is not merely how a three-year-old child has such control over a legendary beast, but why the dragon seems to recognize and defer to the prince as if renewing an established relationship rather than forming a new one.
Pycelle paused, pen hovering over the parchment as he considered his next words carefully. What he was about to write veered dangerously close to superstition—territory a Maester of the Citadel was trained to avoid.
And yet, the evidence before his eyes demanded consideration of all possibilities, no matter how unorthodox.
One cannot help but recall King Aerys's insistence, long before the hatching, that Prince Thalor possessed some special destiny—that he was "returning" rather than merely being born. At the time, these statements were attributed to the king's growing eccentricity and fascination with prophecy.
In light of recent observations, however, this maester must consider whether the king's apparent delusions might contain some grain of truth. Is it possible that Prince Thalor's connection to Nightfury transcends conventional understanding? Might there be some aspect of Targaryen blood—or magic itself—that science has yet to properly quantify?
He set down his pen and sighed heavily. Such speculation would earn him mockery or worse from his brethren at the Citadel. The order of maesters prided itself on rational inquiry and the systematic abandonment of superstition in favor of provable fact.
Yet here, before his very eyes, walked a dragon—a creature whose very existence challenged the rational order the Citadel had worked for centuries to establish. If dragons could return from apparent extinction, what other "superstitions" might prove to have basis in fact?
Pycelle carefully folded the parchment and sealed it with wax, pressing his personal seal rather than the official seal of the Grand Maester into the cooling surface. This document would not be sent to the Citadel with his regular reports. Some observations were too sensitive, too potentially controversial, to share widely.
Instead, he placed it in a hidden compartment in his desk, alongside the growing collection of private notes on Prince Thalor and Nightfury—observations that might prove invaluable in understanding what was happening, but which required careful consideration before dissemination.
As he did so, Pycelle reflected on the strange position in which he found himself. As Grand Maester, his duty was to counsel the king based on historical precedent and accumulated knowledge. Yet how did one counsel on unprecedented events? What historical framework could possibly apply to a three-year-old prince who controlled a dragon with a glance, who spoke to it in a language no one else understood, who seemed to share some bond with the creature that defied conventional explanation?
And more pressingly, what would such a prince become as he grew? What would it mean for the Seven Kingdoms to have a Targaryen with a dragon at his command—particularly one who, even at three, displayed an uncanny maturity and focus that unsettled all who observed him closely?
These were questions Pycelle could not yet answer. But he would watch, and document, and prepare for whatever might come.
History was being written before his eyes. And as always, Pycelle intended to be on the right side of it—wherever that might ultimately prove to be.