the tired dragon

132 AC – The Dragonpit, King's Landing

The Funeral of Aenar Targaryen and the Fallen Dragons

The skies over King's Landing hung heavy, gray as iron, the clouds unmoving, as if the heavens themselves mourned. Ash lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of the fires that had raged over Blackwater Rush. The city below was silent, its streets emptied, its people holding their breath. The war was over, its victor crowned in blood and sorrow. But the cost was carved into the heart of House Targaryen.

The dragons were gone.

Within the shattered ruin of the Dragonpit, once a monument to Valyrian glory, now a crumbling sepulcher for its last titans, the mourners gathered. The vast arena, its dome half-collapsed, echoed with the weight of centuries—conquests, betrayals, and the fire that had forged a dynasty. Today, it was a tomb, its stones blackened by the memory of flame.

At the head of the procession stood Rhaenyra Targaryen, clad in black velvet trimmed with silver, the colors of her house. Her crown rested not on her brow but on a velvet cushion held by a maester nearby. Today, she was not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Today, she was a sister, a cousin, a mourner of blood and fire. Her violet eyes, usually sharp with resolve, were softened by grief, fixed on the center of the pit.

Beside her stood Daemon Targaryen, his face a mask of stone, his dark eyes burning with something unreadable—rage, sorrow, or perhaps both. His hand rested on Dark Sister's hilt, the blade still sheathed, as if he could not bear to draw it in this place of endings.

At the heart of the Dragonpit, on a bier of blackened stone, lay Aenar Targaryen's body, wrapped in a shroud of scorched Targaryen red, the three-headed dragon embroidered in faded gold. His face, weathered by exile and battle, was serene in death, as if he had found the peace denied him in life. Old. Burned. Broken. But unbent.

Behind him, vast and silent, lay the remains of the fallen dragons. Vermithor, his bronze scales dulled by death, sprawled like a toppled mountain. Sunfyre, once radiant as gold, now a broken husk, his wings torn and lifeless. And at the far end, dominating the pit like a monument to a lost age, lay Balerion—the Black Dread. His massive form, charred and scarred, seemed to absorb the light, his scales still shimmering faintly, as if the fire of Old Valyria lingered even now. The last breath of a world long gone.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her boots crunching on the ash-strewn stone. The crowd—Rhaena and Baela, their faces etched with quiet sorrow; young Joffrey, clutching his mother's hand; maesters in gray robes; knights of the Kingsguard; and common folk who had crept into the pit to bear witness—watched in reverent silence. Even a few surrendered Greens stood among them, their heads bowed, their defiance broken by the weight of loss. Helaena Targaryen, pale and fragile, stood apart, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes red from weeping. Beside her, Dreamfyre rested outside the pit, her pale blue scales catching the dim light, a living reminder of what had been spared.

Rhaenyra's voice, when it came, was steady but raw, carrying the weight of a dynasty's end. "He was called the Unwanted," she began, her words echoing through the cavernous ruin. "The Forgotten. The Shadow of Maegor."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the gathered mourners, lingering on Helaena, whose shoulders trembled, and on Daemon, whose jaw tightened. "But when our house stood on the edge of ruin, when dragons fell and the skies burned with treason, he returned. Aenar Targaryen, cast out, reviled, came back to us."

Her throat caught, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her regal composure. She pressed on, her voice rising, fierce and unbroken. "He did not fight for power. He did not fight for glory. He fought for us for the blood of the dragon, for the legacy of our house. He carried the fire of Valyria in his heart, and he bore it alone, when all others turned away."

She turned to the bier, her eyes tracing the outline of Aenar's shrouded form. "He died not as the son of Maegor, but as the last true dragon. And though his flame has gone out, the shadow of his wings will linger in these skies forever."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a collective breath held and released.

Daemon stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving Aenar's bier. With a single, fluid motion, he drew Dark Sister and drove the blade into the ash-covered ground before the bier. He knelt, his head bowed, his voice low but resonant, carrying the weight of a warrior's oath.

"Thank you old man ," he said, the words rough with emotion. "You carried the fire when we faltered. May you find peace in the halls of our ancestors." He raised his head, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "Dracarys."

The command echoed, and high above, perched on the jagged remnants of the Dragonpit's dome, Caraxes stirred. The Blood Wyrm's scales glinted like rubies in the gray light, and with a mournful cry, he unleashed his flame. The fire surged downward, a river of red and gold, igniting Aenar's shroud in an instant. The blaze caught the bier, spreading to the remains of Vermithor, Sunfyre, and Balerion, the heat rolling through the pit like a tidal wave.

The flames roared, bright enough to banish the gray sky for a fleeting moment, their light dancing in the eyes of the mourners. The air grew thick with the scent of burning scales and ancient magic, a final hymn to the dragons who had shaped the world.

Rhaenyra stood unmoving, her face bathed in the fire's glow, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek.

"He carried the fire," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the flames. She turned to the crowd, her eyes fierce with resolve. "And now we carry his legacy. Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name, King in deed if not in title. He died as a true Targaryen—born in fire, bound by blood, unyielding to the end."

"Rest in peace the last Rider of the last Rider of the black dread my you both fly in the heaven's forever"

The End