Chapter Text
Prologue
A Great Spring
The crowd’s cheers echoed in Prince Baelor Targaryen’s ears, a distant thunder rolling across Ashford Meadow. Thousands of voices, thousands of cheers, heralded the end of the Trial of Seven and the triumph of justice. Yet, something felt amiss.
Amidst the trampled grass and broken lances, Baelor stood, breathing heavily. His armor felt unusually heavy, and his head ached—a familiar ache from a day of battle. But this time, the pain lingered.
Around him, knights embraced, men laughed, and some wept. The hedge knight Duncan the Tall stood surrounded by companions and well-wishers. The young prince Aerion had been defeated, sparing the realm one more outrage. It should have been a triumphant day.
Reaching up, Baelor removed his helm, feeling the cool air against his face. For a brief moment, the pain subsided, but then something warm trickled down his brow—blood. His vision blurred, and the world tilted. He staggered, and someone shouted. A hand reached toward him, but the ground rushed upward.
“Father!” the cry sounded distant. Baelor hit the earth hard, pain exploding behind his eyes. The cheers died, and confusion spread through the crowd. The prince blinked, and faces appeared above him—Valarr, Matarys, Maekar—gods.
Maekar looked horrified, not victorious, not angry, but horrified. As if he already understood, as if he already knew. The mace, the blow, the crack beneath the helm.
Baelor felt strangely calm, no anger, no blame, only sadness.
A lifetime dedicated to preparing for the throne, a lifetime spent mastering the art of governing a realm, and now—
Nothing.
A shadow descended upon him—a large, familiar figure.
Duncan.
The hedge knight lowered himself to one knee.
“Your Grace.”
Fear quivered in the giant’s voice, genuine and palpable.
Baelor wanted to laugh, but the realm’s future terrified him more than a wounded prince.
The thought felt absurd yet strangely fitting.
Duncan had always possessed a peculiar talent for caring about the wrong things—or perhaps the right things.
Baelor was no longer certain.
Above him, the sky stretched endlessly, a brilliant, azure expanse, reminiscent of a spring day.
Unbidden, the words came to him, soft and whispering like a gentle breeze.
“A great spring is coming, Dunk.”
The knight’s face crumpled in disbelief.
“No.”
Baelor offered a small, weary smile.
“A great spring…”
His vision began to blur, and voices rose around him—a maester called for assistance, prayers were offered, and tears were shed.
Yet, amidst the cacophony, one voice remained clear and unwavering.
“Baelor!”
Duncan.
Always Dunk.
“Baelor!”
The prince closed his eyes, and the world slipped away.
Duncan the Tall’s voice followed him into the abyss.
“BAELOR!”
Silence enveloped him.
—
There was no pain, no light, no Seven Heavens.
Only darkness—endless, consuming darkness.
Baelor floated within it, time ceasing to exist.
Perhaps this was death—or perhaps it was the ultimate fate of men, an endless sea of nothingness.
He found himself strangely unbothered by the prospect.
Then, something stirred—a distant, unsettling sound, a rumble that resonated through the darkness.
Baelor frowned, his expression turning from confusion to alarm.
The darkness trembled, and the sound returned, louder this time, a deafening roar.
His eyes snapped open, and another roar echoed through the void.
More roars followed, shaking the darkness violently.
Dragonfire erupted across the void, a dazzling display of silver, gold, and black flames.
The darkness burned away, revealing visions of a silver-haired woman standing before the Iron Throne, a one-eyed prince with sapphire eyes, and countless dragons engaged in fierce battles, screaming and dying.
The sky above King’s Landing was ablaze with fire, a red dragon plummeting, a golden dragon burning, and a black dragon tearing at a bronze.
The sea below boiled, and the earth split apart, as the world burned in a fiery inferno.
“No,” the word escaped him, but the visions ignored him.
Children, queens, princes, and dragons perished, their lives snuffed out in a devastating cycle of death.
An entire dynasty was tearing itself apart, not for survival or conquest, but for pride, ambition, and the pursuit of a throne.
The greatest creatures in the world were slaughtered by the very family meant to protect them.
“No,” he cried out again, but a roar answered him, not from the vision, but from behind him.
Baelor turned to see a dragon unlike any he had ever seen.
It was impossibly large, ancient, and black as the heart of night.
Its scales gleamed like polished obsidian, and its eyes burned brighter than stars.
The dragon watched him silently, judging him.
And somehow, Baelor knew its name before it spoke.
Balerion, the Black Dread, the last living creature to remember Valyria.
The dragon opened its jaws, and flames illuminated eternity.
“Look,” the visions intensified, and he saw Dragonstone, the Red Keep, and the Dragonpit collapsing, the death of dragons, and the extinction of wonder.
The beginning of the end.
He saw a silver-haired princess with violet eyes—young, laughing, alive. Princess Rhaenys. Then older, wearing black armor, mounted upon a scarlet dragon, falling from the sky in fire and blood. Baelor recoiled, “No.”
He saw another—a silver-haired king, kind, weak, good-hearted. Viserys. Dead. He saw Daemon, Rhaenyra, Aegon, Helaena. Names he didn’t know yet somehow understood. All doomed, all trapped on the same path.
The dragon’s voice shook the darkness, “THIS IS THE DANCE OF THE DRAGONS.” Baelor stared in horror. A civil war. No. Something worse. The destruction of an entire people, the death of dragons, the death of magic, the death of House Targaryen’s future.
He looked up at Balerion, “Why show me this?” The ancient dragon lowered his head, his eyes seeming impossibly sad. “BECAUSE IT HAS NOT HAPPENED YET.”
The darkness trembled, Baelor’s breath caught. “What?” Balerion stepped forward, the universe shook beneath his claws. “THEY STILL LIVE.” The dragon’s eyes burned brighter, “SAVE THEM.”
The world shattered, Baelor fell, fire engulfed him—dragonfire, hotter than the sun, older than kingdoms, older than gods. And as he fell, he heard one final roar—not a command, not a warning, a promise. Then—
Pain. Cold air. A baby’s cry. His cry.
Baelor Breakspear opened his eyes and began his second life.