The passage leading to the hatcheries was steeper, and the air was warmer but not unbearable. Unlike the winding natural tunnels above, this path had been carved, the smooth black stone showing the precision of Valyrian craftsmanship.
Strange symbols were etched along the walls—some familiar Targaryen sigils, others more ancient, almost forgotten glyphs.
Ancient glyphs lined the walls, curling like dragon tails frozen in stone. Aemon traced them with his fingers, the language older than the Seven Kingdoms, older even than the Doom. Some symbols were familiar—draconic sigils, the names of long-dead beasts—but others were… different. The script coiled like serpents, their shapes unfamiliar, almost alive in the flickering torchlight.
"Valyrians never did anything without purpose," Aemon mused, brushing his fingers over one of the symbols.
Barristan studied them warily. "I don't like it. This place feels… untouched."
The tunnel twisted downward, opening into a vast underground chamber—one unlike anything they had seen before.
As Aemon stepped deeper into the hatchery, the silence pressed in, thick and heavy.
But beneath it—was something else. A whisper. Not of voices, but of something older.
The glyphs on the walls shimmered faintly, just for a second, like embers in the dark. Then—nothing.
Aemon exhaled slowly. Magic did not die. It only slept.
Before them lay the Hatcheries of Dragonstone.
The great iron doors loomed before them, rusted with age yet still formidable, standing as silent sentinels of a long-forgotten past. Carved into the dark metal were dragons, their wings outstretched, their tails twisting into intricate Valyrian glyphs—worn down by time but still humming with a sense of power.
Aemon traced his fingers over the centre of the door, where the lock gleamed darkly, untouched by rust. Unlike the rest of the chamber, it had been forged from Valyrian steel.
"Locked," Barristan murmured, testing the door with a cautious push. It didn't budge. "This place has been sealed for centuries."
"Why was this place locked away?" Aemon murmured, staring at the iron doors, fingers trailing over their surface.
Barristan's gaze was dark. "Perhaps because some things are not meant to be found."
"Or perhaps… they were only waiting for the right person to find them."
Aemon pulled the key from his belt—the one Shaera had entrusted to him. Its handle was wrought with the sigil of House Targaryen, its blade etched with dragon-like ridges.
Taking a deep breath, Aemon slid the Valyrian steel key into the lock.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—a click.
The old mechanisms groaned, shifting as if awakening from a deep slumber. The doors shuddered, the ancient enchantments still clinging to their frame finally breaking. Aemon pushed them open, and with a deafening creak, the Hatchery of Dragonstone revealed itself.
A gust of stale, lifeless air greeted them as they stepped inside.
It was unlike the first hatchery they had explored—where the remnants of life still lingered, where hope had not been entirely lost.
Here, there was only death.
The chamber was vast, its domed ceiling stretching so high that the torchlight barely reached the top. Unlike the tunnels, this place had been sealed away, undisturbed for generations. No heat. No braziers. No fire.
No life.
The air was stale, thick with the weight of centuries. It was as if the very bones of the mountain whispered to him—an aching lament of something that once was but no longer is. The silence was not just absence—it was loss.
Aemon's gaze swept across the massive stone nests that lined the chamber.
The sight made his chest tighten.
Cracked shells. Fossilized remains. Eggs that had turned to cold stone, their fire long extinguished. Some lay shattered, their contents spilt and hardened into blackened remains. Others sat whole, but lifeless—dead things, incapable of ever waking.
Scattered across the floor, beneath the weight of dust and time, lay the brittle remains of an old torch—its wood splintered, its metal rim rusted beyond recognition. Someone had been here once. But long ago. And they had not returned.
A silent graveyard.
Barristan exhaled, his expression unreadable. "The dream died here."
Aemon's boots crunched softly against the stone. Dust lay thick over the remains, like the shroud of an old king, long forgotten. He knelt before the shattered nests, his fingers brushing against the brittle fragments of eggs that would never hatch.
"They waited," he murmured. "But no one came."
The weight of history pressed against his chest. The weight of failure—not his, but his bloodline's.
Aemon swallowed hard. He had expected… he did not know what, exactly. But not this.
Not a place where dragons had once been nurtured, now reduced to nothing but dust and echoes.
Then—something caught his eye. Amidst the shattered remains of a stone incubator, buried beneath the weight of forgotten time, a glimmer of something untouched. At first, he thought it was more stones, hardened by centuries of heat, but as he stepped closer, the surfaces gleamed—not with dust, but with something richer. Something alive.
"Dragon Eggs."
Aemon's breath caught.
They were different from the others—not broken, not cold.
Intact.
Carefully, he stepped forward, lowering himself to his knees.
Three eggs. Three colours. Three fates entwined in fire and time. Aemon's hands hovered over them, and in that moment, he felt something stir—not in the eggs, but within himself.
Barristan studied him, his expression unreadable. "You almost look as if you were meant to find them."
Aemon didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. He placed his palm against the crimson egg.
The second his hand touched the crimson shell, something deep in his chest tightened. A pull. A weightless, electric feeling crawled up his spine, curling in his ribs like unseen fire. For a fleeting second, it was as if he could hear something—no, not hear. Feel. A whisper without words, a call without sound.
A breath.
The warmth of the egg wasn't just heat—it was life.
Aemon froze, his breath catching in his throat. He had read about dragons, studied every scroll and story, and imagined what it must have been like when they soared across the skies. But this—this was different.
This was real.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he traced his palm over the crimson egg, feeling the rough ridges of its shell—like hardened scales, waiting to awaken. Beneath his fingertips, there was something more than just warmth… something like a faint tremor, almost imperceptible, hummed beneath his fingertips—like the distant echo of a heartbeat lost in time.
It was as if the egg was watching him.
Waiting for him.
Ser Barristan crouched beside him, reaching out to touch one. His fingers lingered for a second before he exhaled sharply, pulling back.
"Cold," he muttered. "Like stone."
Aemon frowned. He placed his palm flat against the egg once more. There.
That ember of heat, pulsing gently against his skin. It wasn't dead.
"They still have fire," he whispered, voice laced with awe.
Barristan studied him. "You feel it?"
Aemon nodded, fingers tightening around the egg's surface. "Yes."
The knight hesitated, then shook his head. "Then that means something."
Aemon barely heard him. He was lost in the moment.
They were beautiful.
The first egg was deep crimson, like the molten rivers of a volcano, streaked with veins of black that pulsed like frozen fire. Its shell was smooth but bore a rough, almost scale-like texture, each ridge catching the torchlight. It gleamed like molten steel, streaked with veins of darkness—fire and shadow intertwined.
The second egg was a stormy blue, dark as the midnight sea, shimmering like waves under the moonlight. Specks of silver and white traced across its shell, resembling lightning frozen in time, a promise of something untamed.
The third egg was a shimmering gold, laced with bronze and streaks of smoky grey, its colour shifting as the light hit it from different angles. It looked almost ancient, like something forged in the heart of a dying sun. Its brilliance refuses to fade.
Aemon ran his fingers over them again, feeling their warmth, their quiet presence.
He had never touched a dragon before.
But at this moment, he felt closer to them than ever.
"This," he whispered, staring at them with something close to reverence, "is our last hope."
Ser Barristan's fingers twitched at his side, his instincts honed by decades of war telling him that some things—some legacies—should not be disturbed. But he said nothing, watching as the prince moved like a dreamer stepping through the ruins of a forgotten world.
For the first time since entering this forgotten tomb, Aemon felt that the dream of dragons was not yet dead.
Aemon exhaled slowly, his hands steady as he carefully placed the three dragon eggs into the ancient braziers at the heart of the hatchery. The braziers were blackened with age, their iron frames lined with the ash of fires that had long since died. Once, these very braziers had cradled eggs like these, nurturing them in flames until they hatched, but now…
Now, they were cold.
Aemon stepped back, staring at the eggs—waiting, hoping, willing them to stir, to crack, to breathe.
But they didn't.
The chamber remained silent, heavy with the weight of lost history. The dragon eggs sat there, unmoving, unchanging, their once-vibrant shells dim beneath the dust of centuries.
His fingers curled into fists.
They needed fire.
Not just warmth, but true fire—the kind that once rolled from dragon maws, that roared through Valyria's forges, that had been the heartbeat of House Targaryen for centuries.
"They won't hatch," Ser Barristan said quietly, watching Aemon with a measured gaze. "Not like this."
Aemon barely heard him. He was staring at the eggs, the way they sat so still, untouched by time yet frozen within it.
Fire.
That's what was missing.
Aemon stepped deeper into the hatchery, his gaze sweeping over the cracked stone floors and the soot-covered walls. The air was dry, lifeless, untouched by flame for centuries. This place had once been a cradle of dragons, but now it was only a tomb.
But then—something caught his eye.
A faint red glow at the far end of the chamber.
Frowning, Aemon moved closer, feeling the heat before he even reached it. At the very edge of the room, a jagged crack in the stone revealed something beneath—something ancient, something alive.
A lava vein.
The lava pulsed like a heartbeat, a slow, ancient rhythm that sent waves of heat spiralling up the cavern walls. It was not just fire—it was the memory of fire. Aemon gazed into it, feeling a strange pull, as if the core of the world itself was calling to him. It was as though the mountain was alive, breathing in slumber, waiting… waiting for something.
Aemon barely noticed the heat rising. Where Barristan sweated and shielded his face, he only felt… warmth. Familiar. Safe
Ser Barristan, standing a few steps behind him, warned, wiped the sweat from his brow and let out a gruff sigh. "Seven hells. Aemon, You're standing too close."
Aemon blinked, realizing his boots were mere inches from the molten glow. And yet, he felt no fear. No discomfort. Just… longing.
Then, he turned back to the eggs, his mind racing. They needed fire to wake. Heat to stir. And now…
They had it.
Carefully, he lifted one of the old braziers, feeling the weight of history in his hands, and carried it toward the lava vein. He positioned it just at the edge, ensuring the metal would absorb the heat without falling into the molten flow below. Then he did the same with the second and the third.
As the braziers settled in place, the heat from the lava began to rise, licking at the cold shells of the eggs. The glow of the molten rock bathed them in a soft, flickering light, making their scales shimmer faintly in the dimness.
Aemon stepped back, watching, waiting.
The eggs remained still—but they looked different now. Warmer. Brighter. Less like relics of the past, and more like something waiting to be born.
Ser Barristan, still shifting uncomfortably in the stifling heat, folded his arms. "That's your plan, then?"
Aemon glanced at him, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Unless you'd like to try hatching them yourself?"
Barristan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I think I'll leave that to you, my prince."
Ser Barristan shifted uncomfortably in the sweltering heat, wiping his brow as he eyed the dragon eggs resting in the braziers. The flickering glow from the lava vein cast eerie shadows across the hatchery, making the eggs look almost… alive.
After a moment of silence, Barristan finally exhaled and spoke. "Why not take them back to the castle? Surely they'd be safer in your chambers."
Aemon didn't look away from the eggs, his fingers brushing against the ancient stone of the brazier. He could still feel it—that faint, pulsing warmth from the eggs, as if something inside was listening, waiting.
"They require heat," Aemon murmured. "Constant, endless heat. The castle is warm, but it's not this." He gestured toward the molten rock. "This… is fire from the heart of the volcano. If there's any chance of waking them, they need to stay here."
Barristan folded his arms, glancing down at the eggs with scepticism. "And what if they never hatch?"
Aemon's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then they will remain. As they have for centuries."
There was something quietly resolute in his voice, something that spoke of patience far beyond his years. He didn't claim certainty, nor did he pretend to understand the mysteries of dragon lore. But he knew one thing—dragons were born of fire, and if there was ever a place for them to return, it was here.
Barristan studied him for a long moment before shaking his head, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Then this will be your new sneaking and hiding spot, I suppose?"
Aemon smirked. "Perhaps."
The knight sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just tell me you won't be creeping down here at night."
Aemon grinned, his violet eyes glinting mischievously in the low light. "Would you believe me if I said I wouldn't?"
Barristan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seven hells. I should've known better than to ask."
Aemon laughed softly but then turned serious again as he looked at the eggs, his fingers tracing the rim of the brazier. "One day… maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow… but one day, Ser Barristan, they will wake. And when they do, the world will remember what it forgot."
Barristan's jaw tightened as he looked at the eggs. "Dragons are gone, my prince."
Aemon didn't look away. "Not forever."
Barristan wanted to believe him. He truly did. But he had lived long enough to know that history did not often grant second chances. Dreams, no matter how grand, do not always come true. And yet… he had never met a Targaryen quite like this boy.
The knight finally exhaled, glancing between the eggs and the molten fire beyond. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
"Then I pray the gods let me live to see the day dragons return. For better… or for worse."
"You will," Aemon thought. You must. Because if the dragons never returned… what hope was there for the dream of House Targaryen?
The two stood there in silence, the lava pulsing softly beneath them, the eggs resting in their cradle of heat.
Aemon lingered for a moment longer, his fingers hovering just above the eggs. The heat from the lava vein pulsed through the stone, warming his skin, but the warmth he felt was something deeper. It wasn't just the fire—it was the weight of history, of dreams long buried, of a future still unwritten.
He exhaled softly and straightened, casting one last glance at the eggs resting in their cradle of heat.
"This is your home now," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. "Sleep, my dragons. But know this—when you wake, the world will tremble."
He stepped back, his gaze lingering on the smooth shells, their colours still faintly gleaming in the dim glow of the chamber. For centuries, they had waited. Perhaps they would wait a little longer.
Ser Barristan clapped a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of quiet understanding. "Come, my prince. We've been here long enough."
Aemon nodded, though he didn't move immediately. He hesitated at the threshold of the hatchery, stealing one final look at the eggs, their shadows cast long and deep against the cavern walls.
They would wait, as they had for centuries. But not forever. One day, the fire would return. And when it did, the world would remember why dragons had ruled the sky.
Then, without another word, he stepped into the tunnels, he felt the weight of unseen eyes upon his back. Whether it was the ghosts of Valyria or the slumbering fire waiting to rise again, he did not know. But he did not look back. Not yet.
The heat of the hatchery faded behind him, swallowed by the cold tunnels of Dragonmont. As they made their way back to the castle, the sound of their footsteps echoed through the ancient halls—two figures walking away from the past, but carrying their weight with them.
In the silence, something shifted. Barely more than a whisper, a tremor. A flicker of movement beneath the shell—so faint, so fleeting, it could have been imagined. But it wasn't. The egg pulsed. Once. Just once. And the fire inside it… stirred.....