Chapter I: Drogon – Valyriā
There was peace. Drogon had yearned for the simplicity of it for years – no humans and their cramped little stone huts, just him and the sky. Below him, the vast ocean stretched out until almost the horizon, where the cliffs and rolling hills of Essos rose from the waters. The only things moving this far out were the clouds and his own shadow on the dark blue seas. And yet, his heart felt heavy.
In his claws rested the body of his mother. Drogon had loved to take her flying, would have taken her anywhere – to the far south, which few dragons had seen, or even the Shadow Mountains. Up here, they were free of the constraints placed upon the earth. And yet his mother hadn’t wanted that. Her weak human blood had chained her to the earth and led her to her doom. Drogon had followed her, of course, waiting patiently for a day when she would be free. The day had come, yet not in the way he had hoped. His clutchmates were dead, both dying in the waters of Westeros, and so was she, victim that she was to the weakness of men.
The sun set, and Drogon kept flying. In the darkness, he watched the stars in the sky and the moonlight, glittering in the waves. Peace made manifest. He didn’t need their help to find his way. He had been there before, in the place he wished to call home. The place where he would have stayed had it not been for the love he bore this woman with her blood almost as fiery as a dragon’s.
The sun rose when he arrived, bathing the fourteen craggy peaks in warm light that was distorted by the smoke and hot air that lazily drifted upwards from the ruins of a once-great city. Now only rubble remained of the burned-out husks of palaces and luxurious residences. His kind had once built them, Drogon knew. He could smell the fire of those that came before him still clinging to the stones. A home made by dragons.
And a home for dragons again. Drogon landed on one of the biggest towers, its walls mostly caved in and warped by hot lava and ashes. On a large boulder with a flat surface, he finally put down his burden. His mother seemed to be at rest, at least.
Ēdrūs, muñus, he thought. She had earned it.
And so had he. Later, there would be porpoises to hunt, and maybe the odd kraken. The seas were rich around the island, a contrast to the barren lands. It suited Drogon just fine that way. He could always venture out further if he longed for goat. He had everything he needed, and the sulfurous air tasted like home to a creature that was fire made flesh.
Fin