"Dragons are intelligent. More intelligent than men, according to some maesters." -Tyrion Lannister
"Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor." -Daenerys Targaryen
The dream came again, that night.
It was always the same. He dreamed of windswept grasses and sun-baked plains. In the dream, he flew across the land, never thinking to stretch out and take flight. It never occurred to him that the sky was where he was meant to be - as long as he felt the wind in his hair and heard the tinkling bells behind him, he knew that he was already home.
And when he woke, when he looked about him and saw his ancestral home, he could not help but feel a fleeting sense of loss, a pain he could not describe.
Drogon gazed out over the waters and felt unease.
"Our brother is dead."
A sad sigh. "I know, I saw him fall." He looked his brother in the eyes, his expression unreadable. "I heard his last breath even over my own scream of rage."
His brother shifted uncomfortably. It had been two weeks since the battle, and neither of them had really dealt with the loss.
"Mother set sail for the north," his brother continued. It was less a statement and more a way to fill the silence.
"This I know as well. We will follow her before long." At this, he looked out over the bay, watching the waves crash against the stones cliffs of the island.
"I fear what will happen if we return to the north," his brother replied, quietly. "But I feel like I belong there. Like there is something drawing me to the cold."
"We have unfinished business in the North." Now Drogon gave his brother a look. "But we have a few days yet, before we are summoned." As Rhaegal looked on, Drogon stretched out his wings and took flight, leaving Dragonstone behind him.
On the wind, the emerald dragon could hear his brother's hissed words. "Rest well. Soon we go to war."
The dream came again, that night.
There was darkness, as before. But it was not the oppressive darkness of the tomb beneath the pyramid. There was some light, he saw, but he had the impression that there was as little as possible. Just the warm glow from a hearth. And there was no feeling of imprisonment, of being trapped - here he only felt comfort and peace.
It was as if he had escaped from war and rage and fear and found an oasis, far from the cares of the world.
Rhaegal felt as if he were, in that moment, living the happiest moments of his life. There, high above the ground, surrounded by red mountains.
There he felt nothing but joy.
Rhaegal heard Drogon land behind him.
Despite being the same age, Drogon had always been the big brother of the three. Even before he and Viserion had spent close to a year in confinement, Drogon had been first among equals. And while his brothers subsisted beneath the great pyramid, Drogon had roamed free, hunting as he wished. He had never stopped growing.
When their mother became a dragonrider, Drogon was the logical choice. Viserion had briefly expressed dismay had not being chosen himself, but Rhaegal had set him straight. "The dragon has three heads," he had told his impatient brother. "Does it matter which one of us carries her? We fly together. We fight together. Always."
Not always... Rhaegal thought, sadly. Now his little brother was gone, buried beneath the ice. Why do I always think of him as my little brother? he wondered.
"I miss her too," said Drogon. Rhaegal did not turn to reply, but kept his eyes on the sea.
"What do you know of the king who sails with her?" Rhaegal asked.
Drogon considered the question as he approached, taking a perch next to his brother. "I know he is one of us. He is family." When Rhaegal made no reply, Drogon looked to him. "What troubles you?"
Rhaegal's eyes had a faraway look, as if he were searching his memories. "I feel as if I know him already. But that's not possible." Now he returned Drogon's gaze. "I can't explain it. Our mother is the only one of her family we've ever known. And yet..."
"...and yet you have memories that are not your own." Drogon's statement, spoken calmly and quietly, was met with a sharp snort from his brother - the closest their kind could come to a gasp.
"I've had dreams... dreams I can't explain, of places I've never seen." Rhaegal looked back out onto the sea. "And it sounds like you have too."
If Drogon could have shrugged, he would have. "It has never bothered me," he lied. "And my dreams are never about anyone. I remember no faces, no names."
"Nor have I," said Rhaegal. "But I see glimpses of places, vistas I know for fact that I have never seen, and I feel as if I've been there before." Looking back to his brother, he continued. "I feel like I have to go home."
"You are home."
Another snort. "You know what I mean. I feel like I need to go elsewhere." Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. "I can't explain it."
Drogon considered his brother's words. If Mother were in residence, there would be no chance... but while she's gone... Rising up, Drogon stretched his wings.
"Want to go hunting?"
Now Rhaegal rose, excitedly. "Only if we fly south."
Rhaegal saw the tower first, as the brothers flew over the Red Mountains. It sat in a small valley, nestled in the mountains. Again, he had the feeling he had been there before. Turning, he began to descend.
Drogon followed, keeping a watch for any people. Though this land had bent the knee to their mother, its lady had been captured and killed by Lord Tyrion's sister. And given what had happened to their brother weeks ago, Drogon was not going to let his guard down. As they flew, Drogon flexed his shoulder. The wound had healed well - physically. But it had been a long time since anyone had wounded him like that, and Drogon was determined not to allow it again.
There were no hidden ballistas, though. Near as he could tell, there was no hidden anything. Just a valley and some wayward livestock - enough for a good meal, he hoped. And a tower.
As they landed, Drogon could see that the tower was empty, and that it had been for some time. There was no sign of habitation anywhere. Near the tower, the grasses had grown wild and tall, and for the briefest instant Drogon felt homesick.
Rhaegal turned slowly, taking in the view from all directions. He did not speak, but Drogon could see the worry in his eyes. He watched as Rhaegal took off again, rising slowly into a hover, wings fighting only as hard as necessary to hold him in place. Gently now, Rhaegal made as if to light onto the roof of the tower.
Drogon started to speak, but then saw what his brother was doing. Rhaegal's wings continued to beat, keeping his weight off the tower. He knows it would collapse... thought Drogon.
It was midday, but one glance to the north and one might have thought it was sunset. Even from the ground, Drogon understood why the Dornish had named them the Red Mountains. Rhaegal, he saw, could not take his eyes off of them.
"I have been here before." said Rhaegal, simply. Drogon knew that this was not true - they had never hunted this far south. The furthest south any of them had gone was when Drogon had been wounded by the Lannister's hidden scorpion. And that day he had flown alone.
Rhaegal landed near his brother, saying nothing. Drogon let him have his moment. When he wanted to talk about it, he would. Of course, when Rhaegal finally did speak, Drogon did not know what to think.
"Lyanna..." whispered Rhaegal. "Her name was Lyanna."
Viserion had not seen the blow that killed him. He felt the impact on his neck, a grievous blow that spilled both fire and blood. He heard the rage of his brothers, the barely controlled fury. He saw the ice rushing to meet him.
Then, he knew nothing.
It was some time before he began to hear voices. Viserion did not know how long the silence had held him. He knew it was longer than days. He did not think it had been longer than years. All he knew is that it had been too long.
As the voices became clearer, he realized that he recognized them all. He remembered each voice, but could place neither names nor faces. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that he had heard them before.
You'll be safest with mother... said his big brother. He wondered when Rhaegal had said such a thing - of course he was safest with mother.
Dragon's Eggs, Daenerys... from the shadowlands beyond Asshai... the man had talked past him, not to him. As if he had not been there. Viserion felt a flash of anger at that, but did not know why.
...And yet here I stand... Why is he in my way? I have to move forward. I can wait no longer.
He felt a hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes, and saw the Night King. The thing's blue eyes gazed into him, into his soul.
As the voices faded, he heard his brother's voice speaking in his mind. They were the last words he heard.
A crown for a king!