The fire in the hearth whispered low, its embers pulsing in the stillness of Maegor's Holdfast. Prince Viserys Targaryen lay restless in his bed, his brow slick with sweat, his fingers twitching against the sheets. Outside, King's Landing slept beneath a moon veiled in thin clouds—unaware that within its walls, the future of a dynasty stirred in shadows and flame.
And the dream came.
Viserys stood in the throne room of the Red Keep—though not as it was. The chamber was cloaked in smoke and ruin. The Iron Throne loomed like a beast of blades, slick with blood, its silhouette twisting under a sky set aflame. Screams echoed, distant and unending.
Above him, dragons filled the sky.
Syrax. Caraxes. Vhagar. He knew them. Loved them. Watched them tear into one another with fury. Wings tore. Fire roared. The city beneath cracked and burned. A war of kin—brother against sister, uncle against niece. The Dance of the Dragons.
The vision twisted.
Ash fell like snow. The flames died, and a new banner unfurled—a black dragon on a red field. A different king now stood beneath it, tall and cold, his crown forged of black steel. Behind him marched ghostly soldiers bearing strange standards—Bittersteel's golden dragon, the white star of Daemon Blackfyre, the fallen sons of rebellion. Another war. Another tearing of House Targaryen.
Viserys turned—but time turned faster still.
From the ashes rose a silver-haired woman, barefoot among the ruins, clothed in light and fire. Her eyes were solemn, and three dragons circled above her. Behind her rose banners—House Stark, House Martell, House Arryn. The North bowed. The South followed. She walked toward a great wall of ice, behind which the dead stirred.
And then—all was silence. Cold and death swallowed the world.
A final glimpse: a lone rider cloaked in black and silver flew above a battlefield of snow. His dragon breathed flame—but the sky was full of darkness.
Viserys gasped and awoke.
His heart pounded in his chest, as if it tried to break free. The fire in the hearth had faded to cold cinders. But within him, something blazed—terror, yes, but purpose too.
He sat still for a long while.
The Dance. The Blackfyres. The silver queen. The Long Night.
Viserys rose and reached for his robe.
He would be crowned king tomorrow—but that dream had changed everything.
He stepped into the corridor and called for a guard.
"Wake the steward," he said, his voice low but steady. "Tell him to send for Prince Daemon. Immediately. No delays."
And then he returned to his chamber, the weight of prophecy already settling on his shoulders like a crown of fire.