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Chapter 98: Shadows Beneath the Ashes
Daeron Targaryen's Perspective
A few days later.
The sun hovered low in the sky as Daeron rode through the streets of King's Landing, its golden light casting long shadows behind the procession. Ghost padded silently beside his horse, his pale fur catching the glow like frost beneath fire. Greywind trotted just ahead, massive and wild, his yellow eyes constantly scanning. Robb rode beside Daeron, quiet for now. Behind them came Ser Arthur Dayne, ever watchful, and a score of gold cloaks that moved like a trailing tide of steel.
Daeron kept his eyes forward, but his mind wandered.
This is the worst part of being king, he thought as he caught the steady sound of armored boots and the jingle of bridles behind him. Everywhere I go, I'm followed by shadows wearing armor.
He glanced over his shoulder at Ser Arthur, ever dutiful. The Sword of the Morning had barely left his side since their meeting. Daeron respected him more than any man except a few—but sometimes, even respect was a chain.
Will I ever be truly alone again?
The thought didn't settle. He turned back toward the road, and the ancient dome of the Dragonpit rising ahead, a crumbling relic of a forgotten age.
When they reached it, the silence that fell was not born of reverence, but weight. The once-mighty structure loomed before them, broken and blackened by time. What remained of its dome was a hollow cage of scorched stone and twisted iron. Wind howled through the holes like the cries of ghosts.
Daeron dismounted and stepped forward, his boots crunching on soil and gravel. Ghost followed without sound. Robb came up beside him, eyes scanning the ruined skeletal remains of the Dragonpit.
"I don't like it," Robb muttered, giving the broken stones a wary glance. "There are caves in the cliffs and hills all around King's Landing. Why would Lyrax choose this place? It's like a grave."
Daeron stared at the ruined dome. His lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know. She just… does. Says it feels like home."
Robb snorted, shaking his head. "Strange creature."
He turned toward Ser Arthur, who had remained respectfully back, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of Dawn.
"And what do you think, Ser Arthur?" Robb asked.
The knight's violet eyes scanned the ruins before settling on Daeron. "How can a man claim to know what stirs in a dragon's mind?" he said, voice calm and measured. "They are older than our houses, older than our wars. Perhaps she remembers more than we will ever know."
Daeron nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on the cracked walls.
A memory stirred. A child in Essos, no older than six, sitting on the edge of of his bed beside Leaf, watching the fire and asking what about dragons. She had smiled, brushing hair from his eyes, and said: "Dragons possess a memory longer than man can comprehend."
The gates creaked open with a long metallic groan. The dragonpit's insides were dark, vast, and smelled of old ash and dust. Something in the air made the hairs on Daeron's neck rise.
He turned to Ser Arthur. "The guards stay here."
Ser Arthur's brow furrowed. "Your Grace—"
"She won't tolerate them," Daeron said, already stepping forward. "This is her nest now."
Ser Arthur hesitated, but then gave a single nod. "As you say."
Daeron, Robb, Ser Arthur, and the direwolves passed beneath the blackened arch, disappearing into the belly of the past.
The light behind them dimmed, swallowed by shadow.
The dragon slept beneath ruin—and her king walked among the bones.
The inside of the Dragonpit was quiet, save for the soft echoes of their footsteps crunching over ancient gravel and bones older than memory. Shafts of pale light filtered through the broken dome, casting angular shadows that shifted like ghosts around them. The air was thick with the scent of dust, char, and something far older—something that clung to dragonfire and memory.
Daeron led the way, his hand brushing Ghost's thick white fur as they descended deeper into the hollowed ruin. Beside him, Robb walked silently, one hand resting lightly on Greywind's scruff. Ser Arthur followed close behind, his sword belt clinking softly with each step, though Dawn remained sheathed on his back.
None of them spoke.
Finally, they turned the last bend of the collapsed corridor—and there she was.
Lyrax.
The dragon lay curled in the heart of the pit, her massive wings folded over her body like a cloak. Her scales shimmered like burnished obsidian veined with molten sapphire, and her breathing rumbled softly through the silence like distant thunder. She looked… peaceful. Dreaming, perhaps.
Then her nostrils flared.
Daeron stopped, and the others paused behind him. Slowly, her golden eyes opened—slitted, ancient, yet warm.
The great beast raised her head and released a deep, low rumble. It wasn't a growl or a roar. It was something softer, deeper—a purring sound, warm and guttural, like a massive cat recognizing its companion.
"She sees you," Robb whispered.
Daeron stepped forward alone, hand extended—not in caution, but in greeting. Ghost and Greywind stayed still behind him.
"Hello, girl," Daeron said softly, his voice echoing beneath the dome. "Settling in well?"
I am, Lyrax's voice responded within his mind, smooth and proud. The waters here are rich. Big fish. They leap like birds. I catch three a day. Sometimes four.
Daeron smiled. "And the pit?"
It remembers, Lyrax replied. The walls. The stone. It knows my kind. It feels like home.
Daeron stepped closer, until her great snout was inches from his chest. She huffed, exhaling warm breath that ruffled his hair. Then her thoughts grew playful.
You never sent the bards. Or the musicians. You promised.
Daeron sighed. "I never promised. I said I'd think about it. And no bard in the Seven Kingdoms is foolish enough to play music in a dragon's nest."
Cowards, Lyrax grumbled, snorting a hot breath through her nostrils. They'd come if you asked. I'll behave.
"You scorched a boar the last time one walked too close to your tail."
It snuck up on me. I apologized.
Daeron chuckled. "You grow more dramatic every day."
I've learned from you.
With a final huff, Lyrax turned her head, curling it beneath one wing. Her tail flicked once—deliberately dismissive. She resumed her nap, the giant mound of muscle and fire settling back into her bed of ash and stone.
Daeron lingered a moment longer, gazing at her sleeping form. A creature of myth, now real—and his.
He turned and walked back toward Robb and Ser Arthur.
"She wanted bards again," Daeron said dryly.
Robb blinked. "She what?"
"She wants them to play for her."
Robb shook his head. "Gods help the poor fool with the harp."
"She says she'll behave."
"Liar," Robb muttered.
As they exited the pit, the light of day spilled across the cracked floor once again. Ghost and Greywind loped ahead, more eager to leave than they had been to enter.
Daeron cast one last glance back. Lyrax did not stir.
The last dragon to sleep in the Dragonpit now slumbered there again—not as prisoner, but as queen.