On the long road toward the Dragonpit, Damian Thorne found himself in a surprisingly foul mood.
If he were honest, it was not the city that bothered him, nor the people, nor the political tension that seemed to saturate every street of King's Landing like invisible fog. It was the design of the place itself.
Whoever had planned King's Landing must have had their mind crushed by a falling gate.
The Red Keep stood proud and towering at the eastern edge of the city, while the Dragonpit had been constructed far to the south, separated by a wide stretch of roads, markets, slums, and tangled alleyways. The distance would not have mattered much to any ordinary man, but for dragonlords—rulers whose greatest strength was flight—it was absurd.
Every time a Targaryen wished to mount a dragon, they would first have to ride a horse.
And not just for a short distance either. By the time a dragonrider reached their beast, a battle could already be finished, a city reduced to ash, or an enemy long gone.
It was incompetence carved into stone.
Damian walked beside Princess Rhaenyra in silence, his presence strangely heavy despite his relaxed posture. He gave no outward sign of annoyance, but inside, his irritation simmered.
This city was not built for dragons.
It was built to control them.
Rhaenyra noticed his silence and stole a few cautious glances at the man riding beside her. He did not look impressed by King's Landing's grandeur, nor did his eyes wander in curiosity like most visitors'. Instead, there was something in his gaze that unsettled her.
A faint hint of disdain.
As though he were not looking at a great capital—but at an outdated relic.
The thought made her uncomfortable, so she urged Syrax's horse forward slightly, creating a small gap between herself and Damian.
Soon, the skyline shifted.
A massive, dome-shaped structure emerged ahead, its blackened stone rising like a scorched mountain from the ground. Time and smoke had stained its surface until it looked more like a wound than a building.
The Dragonpit.
Once, this place had been the Sept of Remembrance, built in honor of Queen Rhaenys, who had perished in Dorne long ago. But Maegor the Cruel, astride Balerion the Black Dread, had burned the structure to rubble.
Upon its ashes, the Dragonpit had been built.
Not a sanctuary.
A cage.
The air thickened as they approached. Damian's enhanced senses picked it up immediately—the sharp bite of sulfur, the lingering shadow of burnt bone, and the musky stench of enormous creatures.
A place that had known fire for centuries.
At the entrance, a group of Dragonkeepers straightened in unison. Their expressions instantly hardened, hands tightening around their spears.
These men bore traces of Valyrian blood in them—silver streaks among darker hair, pale eyes in brown faces. Many were bastards descended from royal bloodlines, men close enough to dragons not to be instantly killed, yet never close enough to ride one.
They knelt as Rhaenyra approached.
"Princess."
But the moment their attention shifted to Damian Thorne, a tension swept through them like wildfire.
He did not look Valyrian. No silver hair. No violet eyes.
Yet instinctively, the Dragonkeepers felt something ancient and wrong swirling around him.
They moved subtly—but unmistakably—forming a guarded half-circle around him.
Rhaenyra lifted her chin.
"Stand down."
Her voice was calm, commanding, and sharp as steel.
"This is His Majesty the Emperor from Essos—a guest of House Targaryen. By my father's command, he is permitted to visit the Dragonpit."
At the mention of King Viserys, the hostility softened.
Spears lowered.
Shoulders relaxed.
All except one.
The elderly Dragonkeeper stepped forward, his lined face rigid with suspicion. He studied Damian openly, his eyes narrowing.
This man's blood… it felt vast.
Oppressive.
As if something inhuman flowed beneath his skin.
Yet he gave no objection.
Two younger Dragonkeepers were selected to accompany them, and the old man himself followed closely behind.
The gates of the Dragonpit were slowly opened.
The moment Damian crossed the threshold, the world felt wrong.
The air became thick, heavy, almost liquid.
Darkness swallowed the light.
The stone walls pressed inward, as though the space itself were attempting to choke whatever lived within it.
Damian frowned.
In his perception, the design was laughable.
No.
Tragic.
"This isn't a dwelling," he thought. "It's a prison disguised as a home."
A peculiar magical field spread throughout the Dragonpit—a chaotic net of suppressive energy that gnawed at the bloodlines of the dragons inside. It restricted growth. Stunted maturation. Smothered potential.
These creatures were not allowed to become what they should have been.
It was no wonder the Targaryen dragons had grown weaker with each generation.
Even gods withered in cages.
Rhaenyra, unaware of the chaos Damian sensed, gestured toward the winding tunnels leading deeper inside.
"There are three dragons currently living here," she said. "The one buried deepest is Dreamfyre—once my aunt Rhaena's. She has no rider."
"And Seasmoke," she continued, pointing toward another cavern, "Laenor's dragon. Swift and clever."
Her voice softened when she turned to the last passage.
"And my Syrax."
A gentle whistle left her lips.
The earth stirred.
A deep rumble echoed through the cavern, followed by slow, monumental footsteps.
Then—
A massive yellow head emerged from the shadows.
Syrax.
Her molten-gold eyes glowed warmly when they landed on Rhaenyra. She released a rumbling growl filled with affection and nudged forward, allowing her rider to touch her neck.
Rhaenyra smiled.
Only then did Syrax look at Damian.
And froze.
Her pupils shrank.
Her heart pounded.
Every instinct screamed at once.
There was something before her that stirred memory older than memory—a presence more ancient than flight, heavier than fire.
A king among monsters.
Her great wings twitched erratically.
She wanted to crawl forward.
She wanted to kneel.
She wanted to flee.
But she could not.
And she already belonged to another.
Confusion rose in her throat as broken growls spilled out.
Far beneath them, in the deepest cavern of the Dragonpit, something else awakened.
Dreamfyre.
Her massive blue eye opened.
The air shifted.
A pulse of something—free, wild, absolute—ripped through the stone and reached into her soul.
Blood called to blood.
Power called to power.
And she remembered longing.
Her roar shook the Dragonpit from its roots.
Dust cascaded from the ceiling.
Rhaenyra turned sharply.
The elderly Dragonkeeper paled.
"Princess… Dreamfyre must have been startled from a dream," he said hurriedly.
But Damian knew better.
In another cavern, yet another dragon stirred.
Seasmoke poked his head out cautiously.
His silver-grey scales glimmered faintly in the gloom.
He looked.
And locked eyes with Damian.
The world became weights.
Seasmoke reeled.
Awe.
Fear.
Instinct.
Then Damian looked at him.
Casually.
As one might glance at a curious animal.
That was enough.
The dragon flinched violently and vanished into the darkness, scrambling deeper into his cave.
Silence followed.
Rhaenyra exhaled shakily and turned toward Damian.
"Would you…" she hesitated, "…like to see the sky?"
She needed confirmation.
He chuckled once.
"Of course."
Outside, she mounted Syrax.
With a powerful beat of her wings, the golden dragon burst from the Dragonpit into open air, spiraling high above the city.
Rhaenyra scanned the entrance.
Nothing.
Then—
The world exploded.
A shockwave of fire tore outward from the Dragonpit.
Dragonkeepers were thrown across the ground like leaves in a storm.
Flames erupted.
From the inferno, something vast rose.
A shadow that swallowed the sun.
A dragon of pure b
lack.
Seventy meters long.
Wings wide as storms.
Scales devoured light.
Eyes burned like molten gold.
The sky itself seemed to bow.
Rhaenyra forgot how to breathe.
Syrax whimpered beneath her, trembling in mid-air.
The dragon roared.
And the world listened.
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