# The Dragonpit - An Hour Past Midnight
The great dome of the Dragonpit rose against the night like some slumbering titan crouched upon Rhaenys's Hill, its weathered stones catching moonlight in pale silver streaks. Built by Maegor the Cruel, its massive vault of blackened brick and iron had survived nearly a century of dragon-fire and royal caprice. Within, forty-seven cavernous levels tunneled downward into the hill, each chamber broad enough to stable beasts whose wings could shadow whole cities. Tonight, its ancient bones awaited a spectacle not seen since Balerion the Black Dread last beat his wings against its bars.
The royal carriages moved through King's Landing in solemn procession, their wheels whispering over cobbles smoothed by centuries of noble progress. Torches flared in the hands of gold cloaks, while outriders in steel kept a wary eye on the darkened alleys of Flea Bottom. The city never slept, not even under curfew, but it held its breath tonight. The folk who peered from shuttered windows saw more than carriages—they saw destiny passing by.
Within the foremost carriage sat King Jaehaerys, the Conciliator, straight-backed despite his years, his long white hair flowing like spun silver down his shoulders. His pale eyes, wise and weary from decades of rule, strayed often to the shuttered windows. Through them, flashes of moonlight glimmered on white wings, vast and silent as falling snow. Even muffled by glass and velvet, the wingbeats could be heard—a deep, steady whoosh, like the beating of some monstrous heart.
"She follows still," said Queen Alysanne, her voice low and musical, though wonder bled through the regal composure she maintained like armor. She leaned toward the window, her elegant profile half-lit by torchlight, one slender hand pressed to the glass. "Not circling in hunt patterns, not claiming territory—following. As deliberate as any courtier seeking audience. She knows our destination, Jaehaerys. She knows what we're about."
The king's weathered hands, long-fingered and marked with age spots, rested on the polished ivory head of his cane. His voice, when it came, carried the slow weight of seven decades. "A dragon is not a hound to heel at its master's step," he said, eyes distant with thought, "yet I have lived long enough to witness mysteries in them that no maester's quill has captured. The bond between dragon and rider... it transcends our understanding. Still—" His gaze lifted skyward. "If she has chosen to follow us to the Pit, then she has made her choice. And dragons, my dear, do not choose lightly."
Across from them, Lady Gael pressed both palms and her cheek to the cool glass, violet eyes wide as summer violets, reflecting the torchlight like captured starfire. At sixteen, she possessed all the ethereal beauty of House Targaryen—the silver-gold hair, the aristocratic features, the otherworldly grace. But there was something more in her bearing, an intensity that seemed to burn from within, as though two souls shared the space behind those eyes—one ancient and learned, the other fierce with youthful passion.
"She's not following," Gael murmured, her breath fogging the window as she spoke. "She's *accompanying*. There's a difference. When Hedwig used to escort me through the castle grounds, she'd fly exactly like this—measured wingbeats, staying precisely parallel to my path. Never rushing ahead, never falling behind. Always..." Her voice caught slightly. "Always making sure I knew she was there. That I wasn't alone."
Alysanne's expression softened, maternal instinct warring with queenly caution. "Tell me more about this Hedwig, my sweet. You speak of her as though—"
"As though she were more than a mere owl?" Gael's smile held depths of memory and loss. "Because she was. Infinitely more. When I was... before, when I was studying late in the library, she'd perch on the high shelves and hoot softly whenever someone approached—my own personal sentinel. She knew which books I favored, which subjects made me frown in concentration. Sometimes I swear she understood every word I read aloud."
Jaehaerys leaned forward, his scholarly curiosity engaged. "And you believe this dragon shares some essence with your childhood companion?"
"I don't believe it, Your Grace." Gael turned from the window, her young face grave with certainty. "I *know* it. The way she tilts her head when she listens, the precise pattern of her flight, even the sound of her breathing—it's all achingly familiar. Souls don't simply vanish when the body fails. They transform, adapt, find new forms. Magic has rules, even when we don't understand them."
Outside, Prince Daemon kept pace upon his coal-black destrier, the beast as restless and spirited as its rider. Daemon wore his reputation like a cloak—the Rogue Prince, unpredictable and dangerous, his platinum hair flying loose in the night wind. His dark eyes, sharp with predatory intelligence, flashed repeatedly skyward, tracking the winged shadow overhead. When he leaned toward the carriage window, his grin was all wolfish anticipation.
"Caraxes stirs in his chains," he called, his voice carrying the rough edge of excitement barely held in check. "I can feel his blood singing, calling to her. It's not fear that moves him—it's recognition. As if he knows her from some ancient dream, some memory older than our house."
Gael leaned out the window with fluid grace, her response quick as a rapier thrust. "Dragons are older than men, older than kingdoms. Their memories stretch back to Old Valyria, perhaps beyond. Maybe Caraxes does know her—not from dreams, but from the time before the Doom, when dragons darkened the skies like clouds."
Daemon's laugh rang sharp and delighted, causing his destrier to toss its head. "Gods, but you talk like some grey-bearded maester, little aunt. Next you'll be lecturing me on the mating habits of sea serpents or the proper way to pickle pickled pigs' feet."
"Only if you promise to listen," Gael shot back, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. "Though I doubt your attention span extends much beyond sword work and tavern wenches."
That drew a bark of genuine laughter from Daemon, who pressed a hand to his heart in mock injury. "You wound me, sweet Gael. I'll have you know I can focus intently on any subject—provided it involves bloodshed or bedplay."
"How wonderfully limited," she replied dryly. "And yet here you are, riding escort to a carriage instead of claiming your dragon and racing ahead to meet her yourself. Tell me, nephew—are you perhaps worried she might prefer Caraxes to his rider?"
Daemon's grin turned dangerous, all sharp edges and promise of retribution. "Careful, little dreamer. Keep poking the dragon and you might get burned."
"I'm about to ride one," Gael countered smoothly. "I think I can handle you."
From within the carriage came Queen Alysanne's musical laughter, though she tried to smother it behind her silk glove. Even King Jaehaerys's eyes crinkled with amusement, though his voice maintained its grave authority when he spoke.
"Enough wordplay, children. What stirs tonight transcends jest and banter. If this white dragon has chosen to accompany us to the Pit—if she seeks congress with her own kind and the blood of the dragon—then all the Seven Kingdoms may tremble at what it portends. We go to witness something unprecedented, not to trade witticisms like players in a mummer's farce."
Daemon offered a mockingly elaborate bow from horseback. "Forgiveness, Your Grace. Though I maintain that destiny often appreciates a jest or two. Makes the whole affair less dreary."
"Some destinies," Gael said quietly, her gaze returning to the pale shape above, "are too precious for jokes."
The torchlight flickered as they approached the towering gates of the Dragonpit, its massive iron doors standing open like the maw of some waiting beast. Above them, the white dragon's flight pattern shifted subtly—her broad circles tightening, her descent beginning. Moonlight caught her scales, transforming them into liquid silver that seemed to flow like water across her hide.
Gael's breath caught. "Three circles," she whispered, wonder threading through her voice. "Just like Hedwig used to do before landing with important messages. Always three—as if once or twice weren't sufficient to gather proper courage."
"Or to ensure she wouldn't crush anyone below," Daemon observed, though his tone had lost its mocking edge. "Look at the way she controls her descent. No rushing, no dramatic flourishes. That's... unusual."
---
Ser Harrold Westerling rode at the rear of the procession, his massive frame filling the saddle of his equally impressive destrier. His armor, though polished to a mirror shine, bore the subtle scars of a lifetime spent in service to the crown—a nick here, a dent there, each mark a story of duty fulfilled. His weathered face, framed by steel-grey hair and a meticulously maintained beard, showed the lines of a man who'd spent decades keeping royal children from tumbling headlong into danger—or from running toward it with reckless abandon.
Tonight, every instinct honed through years of protection screamed warnings. His pale blue eyes, sharp despite their crow's-feet, swept continuously between the dragon above and the young princess in the carriage ahead. One gauntleted hand rested near his sword hilt—not to draw, but for comfort, the way other men might touch a prayer book.
"Your Grace," he called to Daemon, his voice carrying the gruff authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "How close do you mean to approach before we dismount? That beast—dragon, rather—is larger than any we've housed, larger than the histories describe. We've no notion of her temperament, her tolerance for strangers. Size doesn't gentle nature, in man or dragon."
The words had barely left his lips when the night split with sound—but not the bone-rattling roar they'd expected. Instead, a long, crystalline note echoed across the city, almost musical in its cadence. It held power enough to rattle windows and set dogs to whimpering, yet carried an unmistakable gentleness, like a mother's lullaby sung by a voice vast enough to fill cathedrals.
Daemon reined in hard, his destrier prancing sideways, nostrils flaring at the alien sound. His sharp features tilted skyward, platinum hair whipping about his face like a banner in the wind. For once, his perpetual smirk faltered, replaced by genuine uncertainty—though it lasted only a heartbeat before transforming into delighted incredulity.
"Seven hells and all their demons," he swore, then laughed—a sound caught between amazement and disbelief. "Did she just—?" He paused, shook his head, then continued with growing wonder. "It sounded as if she were answering the good knight's question directly. But dragons don't—they can't—" He twisted in his saddle to stare at Harrold, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Unless you've learned to speak dragon in your dotage, Ser Harrold? Hidden talents of the Kingsguard?"
Harrold's mouth twitched beneath his beard—the ghost of a smile on a face more accustomed to stern duty. "I've learned enough tongues in my years to know when something's speaking *to* me rather than *at* me, my prince. And when I'm being mocked by something larger than a castle."
From the carriage window, Gael's voice rang clear with excitement barely contained. "She did respond—not with words, which are clumsy things at best, but with meaning. You asked how close we might safely come, and she gave answer: closer still. Much closer." Her eyes blazed with the intensity of revelation. "Hedwig was always like this. People assumed she was just a clever bird, but she understood everything. Letters weren't merely messages to her—they were conversations. She'd hoot once for 'yes,' twice for 'no,' and if she disagreed with something, she'd give this particular trill that sounded remarkably like 'nonsense.'"
Daemon barked another laugh, shaking his head in amazement. "Gods preserve us, she's serious. An owl turned dragon—what's next? Shall we expect your pet cat to return as a shadowcat? Your horse as a unicorn?"
Gael fixed him with a look that could have frozen dragonfire. "Do you always resort to mockery when faced with something beyond your understanding, nephew? Or is derision simply your shield against anything that can't be conquered with a sword?"
That earned a richer laugh from Daemon, though he offered her a surprisingly graceful bow from horseback. "Mockery? Never, dear aunt. Amazement, perhaps. Wonder at the impossible made manifest. If you claim this beast shares essence with your childhood owl, then I stand corrected and humbled."
"Careful, Daemon," Alysanne's voice drifted from within the carriage, smooth as silk but carrying steel beneath. "Humility doesn't suit you. You might strain something."
Even Jaehaerys chuckled at that, though he quickly stifled it with a cough into his silver beard.
---
As their procession reached the entrance to the Dragonpit, Keeper Hobb emerged from the shadows like a figure carved from the very stone of the ancient structure. Small and wiry, with the permanent stoop of a man who'd spent decades bending to tend creatures thrice his height, he moved with the careful economy of someone who'd learned that wasted motion around dragons could prove fatal.
His clothes bore the telltale marks of his profession—singed edges on his leather jerkin, the acrid scent of sulfur clinging to his hair, hands stained permanent grey from years of handling chain and dragonfire. But his eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, held the keen intelligence of a man who'd made it his life's work to understand the incomprehensible.
Behind him stood his two most trusted assistants—Qyle, a gangly youth with nervous hands and quick reflexes, and Mollander, older and steadier, whose left arm bore the puckered scars of a memorable encounter with a young Dreamfyre years past.
"Your Graces," Hobb called, offering a bow calculated to show proper respect without taking his eyes off the circling dragon above. His voice carried the rough authority of experience. "The main chamber is prepared as you commanded—braziers lit, chains cleared, the dome mechanism freed and ready. She'll have room to descend properly." He paused, squinting upward with professional assessment. "Though I'll say it plain—in forty years of keeping dragons, I've never seen behavior like hers."
Daemon swung down from his destrier in one fluid motion, tossing the reins to Qyle without sparing the nervous youth a glance. His boots rang on stone as he strode forward, every line of his body radiating barely contained energy.
"Never, old man?" His voice carried its familiar edge of challenge. "You've tended Balerion the Black Dread, mighty Vermithor, gentle Silverwing, my own blood-red Caraxes—and still you claim surprise? Perhaps it's not your eyes that fail, but your imagination."
Hobb's expression remained unmoved, weathered face carved from years of dealing with both dragons and dragonriders. "Imagine what you will, Prince Daemon. These eyes still see what they see, and what I see defies every pattern I've learned. No territorial display, no dominance posturing, no claims upon the sky above. She's flying... polite."
"Polite?" Ser Harrold's gruff voice carried clear skepticism as he dismounted, his heavy frame landing with the solid thunk of experienced horsemanship. "That's a word I've never heard applied to dragons. Nor to certain princes, for that matter."
Daemon's grin flashed bright and dangerous. "You wound me, Ser Harrold. I'm the very soul of courtesy—when the situation merits it."
"Aye," Harrold rumbled, "and therein lies the problem. Your notion of 'meriting' courtesy rarely aligns with anyone else's."
Keeper Hobb raised one weathered hand, pointing toward the circling dragon with the precision of a man accustomed to tracking flight patterns. "Watch her wings as she descends—see the angle, the careful spacing of her wingbeats. Any other beast her size would come down like a falling mountain, raising dust storms, creating downdrafts that would scatter men like leaves and disturb every dragon we've penned below. She's modulating her descent, lessening her impact so as not to cause distress. That's not instinct, Your Grace—that's consideration."
Daemon stared upward, his expression cycling through disbelief, wonder, and finally delighted acceptance. "Consideration? From a dragon? Gods, what's next—shall we expect her to mind her table manners? Perhaps she'll curtsy before breathing fire?"
"Perhaps she will," Alysanne murmured from the carriage doorway, her musical voice threaded with quiet awe. "And perhaps she'll do it with more grace than you've ever managed, dear grandson."
That earned chuckles from both Jaehaerys and Harrold, though Daemon's grin only widened at the gentle rebuke.
Then Gael stepped from the carriage, and the quality of the night seemed to shift around her. Sixteen years old and possessed of the ethereal beauty common to her bloodline, she moved with an unconscious grace that spoke of breeding and education. But there was something more—an intensity in her violet eyes that seemed older than her years, a purpose that burned like dragonfire barely contained beneath silk and courtesy.
Her dark hair, unusual among Targaryens, caught the torchlight like spun shadow, while her face showed the delicate bone structure that marked her as royal-born. Yet when she looked skyward, tracking the dragon's graceful spiral, her expression held none of the fear or caution that marked the others. Only recognition, deep and absolute.
"Her eyes," Gael whispered, and her voice carried such naked emotion that even Daemon's smirk faded. "Look at her eyes."
The dragon completed another circuit, her massive head turning toward them with deliberate precision. In the torchlight, her gaze blazed silver-white, bright as molten moonlight, ancient as winter stars.
"Silver," Gael breathed, tears gathering unshed in her own violet gaze. "Not amber like most dragons, not gold like the sun—silver like starlight. Like—" Her voice broke slightly. "Like Hedwig's eyes when she'd perch on my windowsill, watching me study by candlelight. The same soul, only greater. More than she was, but unchanged at heart."
Daemon tilted his head, studying her with sudden intensity. "You speak as if you're greeting an old friend rather than meeting a dragon. As if this is reunion, not first encounter."
"Because it is," Gael said simply. "Names carry power, nephew. They bind memory to meaning, soul to purpose. You'd understand that if you'd ever loved something more than your own reflection."
The barb struck home—Daemon's eyes flashed with heat, though his grin remained fixed. "Careful, sweet aunt. Keep talking like that and you might shame me into actual kindness."
"The day Daemon Targaryen shows kindness," Alysanne observed with dry amusement, "dragons will fall from the sky like rain."
"Speaking of which," Ryam Redwyne's gravelly voice cut through their banter like a sword through silk, "that particular dragon seems intent on falling—in a controlled manner, mind you—directly toward us."
---
Ser Ryam Redwyne stood apart from the others, his weathered form seeming carved from the same stone as the Dragonpit itself. Years of service as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had left their mark—his face was a map of old battles, eyes pale as winter sky, hands scarred from countless sword grips. He bore himself with the easy confidence of a man who'd faced death so often they'd become casual acquaintances.
His cloak, white as fresh snow despite its age, stirred in the night wind as he squinted upward with professional assessment. When he spoke, it was with the dry certainty of experience.
"That's not a beast circling overhead," he declared, voice rough as crushed stone. "That's a queen taking measure of her court before making entrance. Look at the deliberation in every wingbeat, the way she positions herself to be seen without threatening. She's thinking about how to approach without causing panic. That's not dragon nature—that's intelligence choosing diplomacy over dominance."
Daemon's eyebrows rose in theatrical surprise. "Diplomacy? From a dragon? Ser Ryam, I fear your years have addled your wits. Next you'll tell me she's composing poetry up there."
Ryam's pale eyes fixed on the prince with the flat stare of a man unimpressed by royal blood or royal bluster. "I've seen enough battles to know the difference between aggression and consideration, boy. That dragon could have landed anywhere—on the castle walls, in the Red Keep's courtyard, atop the Sept of Baelor if she chose. Instead, she waits. She circles. She asks permission in the only way a dragon can."
"Permission?" Harrold's gruff voice carried interest despite his skepticism. "From whom?"
Ryam nodded toward Gael, who stood transfixed, her gaze locked with the dragon's silver stare. "From her. The one she came to find."
---
King Jaehaerys stepped forward with the measured pace of a man who'd learned that rushing led to poor decisions. His walking stick—carved from ancient weirwood and topped with silver—clicked against stone with each step. Despite his advanced years, his presence commanded attention simply by existing, the weight of a lifetime's rule settling around him like an invisible crown.
"Mark this night well," he said, his voice carrying despite its quietness. "We stand witness to something no maester's tome has recorded, no dragon lord's memoir has described. This is not conquest—not taming or mastery or any of the brutal simplicities we've come to expect from dragon bonding. This is..." He paused, searching for words adequate to the moment. "Recognition. Reunion between souls that knew each other when the world was young."
His pale eyes, still sharp despite their age, studied the scene with the intensity of a scholar presented with a living legend. "I have read every account of dragon bonding since Aegon's Conquest. Fire and blood, they all proclaim. Struggle between wills, dominance asserted, submission demanded. Yet here—" He gestured toward Gael, who had begun walking toward the landing platform with the steady purpose of one answering an inevitable call. "Here we see something else entirely. Communion rather than conquest. Love rather than lordship."
Daemon shook his head, though his expression had lost much of its mockery. "Love? Between dragon and rider? Grandsire, you speak like the singers who claim Aegon wept when Balerion died."
"Perhaps he did," Jaehaerys replied mildly. "Perhaps the songs capture truths our histories have forgotten. Look at your aunt, Daemon. Does she move as one seeking to master a beast? Or as one greeting her oldest friend?"
All eyes turned to Gael, who had indeed begun approaching the landing platform with steps that seemed to echo with inevitability. Her violet eyes never wavered from the dragon's silver gaze, her young face showing no trace of fear—only longing, recognition, and a joy so pure it seemed to illuminate her from within.
"She moves like a woman finding her other half," Alysanne observed softly, maternal pride and concern warring in her musical voice. "As if some essential part of her has been missing, and only now can she be whole again."
Above them, the white dragon settled onto the landing platform with a grace that seemed to mock her enormous size. Her wings folded with deliberate care, her great head lowering until her silver eyes were level with Gael's violet ones. From her throat came not a roar but a sound like distant thunder mixed with music—deep, resonant, and unmistakably welcoming.
"By all the gods old and new," Hobb whispered, his professional composure finally cracking. "She's purring. A dragon the size of a galley is purring like a tavern cat."
"Not just purring," Gael said, her voice carrying clearly despite being barely above a whisper. "She's saying hello. In her own way, with her own voice, but hello nonetheless." She reached out with one trembling hand. "Hello, beautiful girl. I knew you'd find me somehow. Even across worlds and lifetimes, I knew you'd find me."
Her fingers touched warm scales, and the bond flared between them—not the violent clash of wills described in every dragon-binding account, but a gentle settling into place, like a key finding its lock or a river returning to its proper course.
Dragon and rider regarded each other with identical expressions of profound contentment, two halves of a sundered whole made complete at last.
"Well," Daemon said into the awed silence, his voice unusually subdued, "I suppose that settles the question of whether dragons remember things their riders cannot."
"It settles more than that," Jaehaerys replied, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "It changes everything we thought we knew about the bond itself. This is not mastery—this is partnership. This is love made manifest in scale and flame."
And as if to confirm his words, both dragon and princess turned toward him with identical tilts of their heads, silver eyes and violet ones reflecting the same ancient wisdom, the same fierce joy, the same unshakeable certainty that they had found, at last, exactly where they belonged.
"She's ready," Gael said, her voice carrying a new music, undertones echoing Hedwig's low thrumming purr. "We're ready. Hedwig knows exactly where Harry is. She can take me to him faster than any ship, faster than raven wings, faster than hope itself when it dares to fly. This is why she found me. Why the memories returned. Why fate—and whatever gods meddle in such things—gave us this chance."
Daemon leaned forward, lips twisting into a grin that was equal parts admiration and provocation. "You speak of fate as though it's a handmaid taking orders. Careful, dear aunt. Fate's more like a whore—you think she's yours, and the next moment she's warming someone else's bed."
Gael's gaze cut to him, sharp as a dagger's kiss. "If that's the best analogy you have, nephew, I pity your poets. Fate didn't stumble drunken into my path. She led Hedwig to me across worlds. That's no whore's whim. That's destiny with teeth."
Daemon barked a laugh, delighted. "There's fire in you. Good. You'll need it if you mean to fly off chasing lost lovers."
At that, Ser Harrold shifted uneasily, the white of his cloak catching the light. "Princess, forgive my bluntness, but riding an untested dragon into unknown skies without preparation is folly bordering on madness. You've bonded, aye. No man could deny what we've witnessed. But bond or no bond, dragons are perilous creatures, and the world beyond these walls is more perilous still. Best to plan. Best to wait."
"Wait?" Gael's lips curled in a humorless smile. "Every hour I wait is another hour Harry is alone. Another chance despair may convince him he was abandoned again. Tell me, Ser Harrold—what knightly code justifies letting the person you love rot in loneliness while you sharpen your blade?"
The knight grimaced, chastened yet stubborn. "There is wisdom in caution."
"There is fear in caution," Gael snapped, then softened, her hand stroking the dragon's muzzle. "And I've wasted enough of my life letting fear dictate my choices."
Alysanne Targaryen, serene and tall as a statue of the Mother, stepped forward, her voice even but her eyes glistening with maternal worry. "Tomorrow, perhaps. At dawn. The world is seldom kind to those who rush headlong without preparation, daughter. The skies will be clearer then, the winds more favorable."
"Tomorrow?" Gael turned, silver eyes flashing. "Tomorrow is a coward's word, Mother. Tomorrow is what men say when they wish to hide behind hesitation. Harry waits now. His hope hangs by threads, and I will not leave him dangling another heartbeat."
The dragon answered her rider with a sound like chimes struck by a stormwind, filling the cavernous pit with a resonance that made stone tremble.
"Seven bloody hells," muttered Ser Ryam, his voice gravel and iron. He spat on the floor, eyes never leaving Gael. "The girl's right. I've seen that look in men's eyes when time runs thin. If she says this Harry waits, then waiting's the same as killing. You don't tell an archer to draw slow, and you don't tell a dragonrider to bide her time when her blood's already flying."
Jaehaerys had been silent, watching with the patience of a man who had seen kingdoms rise and crumble to dust. Now he stirred, his hands clasped behind his back, his voice soft but carrying like the toll of a bell. "We stand at the edge of a story no maester has written. Mark it well—this is not conquest nor taming. This is reunion. Recognition older than blood, older than crowns. She will go whether we bid her or bind her, for what binds her is older still. What we call madness is oft the hand of destiny moving faster than our books can record."
Daemon gave a theatrical bow, mocking but respectful in its way. "Well said, grandsire. If nothing else, the sight of her soaring into the night will put to shame half the songs sung of House Targaryen."
"Songs don't matter," Gael said, mounting the stone steps toward Hedwig's side. Her voice was steel and fire now. "What matters is Harry. What matters is us."
She pressed her brow to the dragon's warm scales. "Ready?" she whispered.
The answer came without words, filling her blood and marrow with certainty.
*Always.*
The dragon's cry shook the Dragonpit, not as a roar of war but as a hymn of love, a promise flung against the dark.
And as Gael climbed onto Hedwig's back, her hair wild in the heat of her dragon's breath, she looked every inch the princess of destiny Daemon had mocked and Jaehaerys had foreseen—reborn witch, Targaryen princess, and rider of a dragon who had crossed worlds for her.
Dawn was still hours off. But for Gael, the sun was already rising.
---
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