It was deep beneath the Dragonpit, in the warm dark womb of stone and fire, that Balerion waited. The air smelled of ash and blood, old bones and molten stone. Shadows curled across the black walls like living things, cast by the low red glow of dragonfire burning in the far corners of the cavern. Here, where no mortal man dared linger long, the Black Dread rested.

He was old—older than this land, older than this kingdom the Targaryens had claimed. His dreams were heavy with firestorms and screaming cities, the skies of Valyria, and the fall of towers under his wings. No other creature, not even the other dragons, remembered those skies as he did. He had flown over the smoking mountains before they cracked and bled fire. He had watched the Freehold die.

And now he had been brought here, to wait. But not alone.

You had come.

He smelled you before he saw you. Not a rival—no. You carried the same deep fire in your blood, the same cadence in your breath. A male, younger than he by centuries, but no hatchling. There was strength in your frame, sleekness in your wings, and something sharp in your gaze that spoke of your own kind of fury. You did not come with a challenge. You came with heat in your chest and silence in your steps. Balerion raised his great horned head, smoke drifting from his nostrils as his molten eyes met yours.

There was no violence, no posturing. He did not roar. He watched. You watched back.

Above you both, the world whispered of war and politics. Aegon the Conqueror, king and Balerion’s rider, had taken both of his sister-wives to bed, and now they carried his children. The court was ablaze with celebration, the future of the Targaryen dynasty assured. And with that future, came the old ways. An egg beside every cradle. A dragon for every heir. But that meant more eggs. More life. More fire.

That was why you were here, in his cave. Not as a mate yet—but as a flame drawn to flame. The keepers had ushered you in with reverent fear, their voices hushed in the presence of so much power. They had closed the great gates behind you, sealing you in together under stone and flame. And Balerion, vast and black as death, had not stopped them.

You approached slowly at first, wings partially tucked, breath steady. He could feel your heat. You were not frightened. Curious, perhaps. Respectful. But not afraid.

When you finally curled near him, not too close, not too far, he let out a low growl—not a threat, but an acknowledgment. In your presence, his body stirred. His wings flexed, massive and leathery, dragging sparks as they brushed the stone. He had not flown in days, yet his blood now simmered with new purpose. It had been long since another dragon had been so near, not in battle, but in this way. You did not demand his dominance. You brought something different.

Aegon’s command echoed in the actions of the keepers, but Balerion felt no leash in this. He was no dog to be bred—he was fire incarnate. If there would be eggs, if your bodies would rise and fall together in heat and flame, it would be because the fire chose it.

The hours passed in watchful silence. You learned each other’s rhythms. Sometimes you roared at the moonlight filtering down through the cracks above. Sometimes he rumbled so deeply the stone itself trembled. There was no rush. Dragons did not move as men did. Fire took time to grow, to flare, to consume.

And in that darkness, in the depths of the ancient pit, the future pulsed quietly. Maybe one egg. Maybe a dozen. No one could say. But if they came, they would be born of Balerion’s legacy and your blood—a new fire for a new dynasty.

The keepers said little, but they watched the cave closely, always listening for the echoes. For the roar that would signal the beginning. Or the end.

And still Balerion watched you. He had seen kingdoms fall. He had seen gods burn. But he had never seen a flame like yours, breathing in the dark beside him, a certainly formidable male...perhaps, you are worthy of having his eggs.