The light of dawn filtered through the cracks of the high windows of the Red Keep, painting the stones with shades of gold and orange that gradually intensified, dispelling the lingering shadows of the night. In the training yard, the air still carried the damp chill rising from the foundations of the castle, yet it already echoed with the familiar sounds of the start of another day: the metallic impact of swords, the grunts of men under the weight of their armor, the short guttural commands of the master-at-arms, and the characteristic creak of the pulleys lifting wooden targets. For Aenar Targaryen, now ten years old, this was his private sanctuary of observation. Standing in the deep shadow of an arcade, his unique eyes—deep violet with vertical pupils that contracted in the growing light—followed every movement with an analytical intensity that would be unsettling in someone much older.
He was not interested in the fighting techniques themselves. That knowledge already inhabited his mind, vivid remnants of a past life spent among pages narrating the feats of great warriors like Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold. What truly captured his attention were the motivations behind each strike: the subtle fear trembling in the hands of a novice squire, the inflated pride swelling in the chest of a veteran knight as he delivered a perfect blow, the calculated ambition shining in the eyes of youths seeking glory. After an entire night of dark reflection on a future he desperately tried to change, the brutal and immediate simplicity of the yard was a stark relief, a grounding reminder of the physical realities of this world.
His contemplative stillness was broken by the heavy approach of Ser Harrold Darklyn. The master-at-arms was a man whose face seemed carved from the very rock of the fortress, each wrinkle a story of battle, each scar a map of past conflicts. His movements were economical and efficient, speaking of a lifetime dedicated to martial arts.
"Prince Aenar," he greeted, with a respectful nod that could not conceal the curiosity in his eyes. "The men… they talk. They watch you day after day, never participating. They wonder if the Dragonate knows the weight of a real sword or if his legendary strength is limited to melting steel with a touch."
Aenar turned slowly, as if emerging from a deep trance. The morning light seemed absorbed by the unusual depth of his eyes, creating an almost luminescent effect. "I know the weight," he replied, his voice a calm contrast to the bustle of the yard.
"A demonstration, then?" suggested Ser Harrold, gesturing broadly toward the training space. "A simple test. Three of my best squires, all on the verge of earning their spurs. Let them try to strike you. Show us the true fiber of the Dragonate. Men respect what they understand, even if they cannot match it."
To Aenar, it was an exercise in vanity, a waste of precious time compared to the monumental problems occupying his mind—the approaching Dance of Dragons, Aemon's death he still tried to prevent. But he understood the political and psychological necessity beneath it. The unknown breeds fear, and fear, distrust. Perhaps it was time to draw clear boundaries of his power, to show precisely what they feared. He nodded once, decisively.
Ser Harrold's call rang through the yard with the authority of someone who had commanded this space for decades, and a sudden, tense silence fell. A large human circle formed as three robust squires, nearly grown men, their muscles hardened by years of training, were selected. They looked at the prince with a complex mix of skepticism, apprehension, and a spark of excitement at the unique opportunity. He was only a boy, though broad-shouldered for his age, still visibly smaller and younger than any of them. Notably, he carried no sword, no shield, no protection.
Aenar stepped to the center of the circle and simply waited, his feet firm in the beaten earth, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.
The first squire, emboldened by the size difference and the need to prove himself before his peers, charged with a heavy wooden training sword, aiming a crushing blow at Aenar's shoulder. He did not make a conventional dodge or block. Instead, he brought his left forearm up to meet the blade mid-air. The sound produced was not of wood hitting flesh or bone, but of wood colliding with something of impossible density, like solid granite. The training sword shattered with a dry crack that echoed through the silent yard, and the resulting vibration numbed the squire's arm up to the elbow, making him scream in surprise and pain. The young man froze, staring at the ruined hilt in his hand, his confident expression replaced by disbelief.
The second attacker, more cautious after witnessing the first, delivered a precise side strike, seeking an opening. Aenar moved his hand in a blur—not to block traditionally, but to strike the flat side of the blade with his open palm. It was an almost disdainful, careless gesture, yet the force behind it was absolute, sending the sword spinning through the air like a twig before it lodged deep in the earth at a distance, quivering.
Terrified but pressured by the audience, the third squire raised his reinforced oak shield and charged like a bull, attempting to use his superior weight and speed to unbalance or perhaps knock down the prince. Aenar did not move. He merely shifted his weight with the grace of a cat and delivered a single precise kick to the geometric center of the shield. The snap was deafening, a metallic crunch that made some of the older spectators shiver. The oak shield did not simply break; it exploded into shards, as if struck by a war ballista. The squire was thrown backward as if hit by a war engine, landing several meters away, gasping, the training armor dented, a clear imprint of a foot pressed into the metal.
The silence that followed was heavy, palpable, broken only by the ragged breathing of the three youths and the rustle of the spectators' clothes. Aenar remained untouched, impeccable, his breathing as calm and steady as when he had begun. He studied the three stunned youths without triumphalism, only with clinical evaluation. "You were fortunate I was restraining myself significantly," he stated, a simple fact in a clear voice. "A direct, focused strike would have pierced armor like parchment and been instantly fatal."
Later, in the austere privacy of Ser Harrold's chamber, which smelled of weapon oil, leather, and sweat, the old knight served two glasses of strong red wine with a hand that trembled slightly, spilling a few drops on the polished oak table.
"By the Seven, my prince," he said, his voice hoarse with contained emotion. "How? This… this defies all logic, all training, everything I thought I knew about the human body."
Aenar took the glass but did not drink, gazing into the dark liquid as if seeing other things within its depths. He then looked at his own hands, which appeared so normal, so human. "You think in terms of steel and flesh, Ser Harrold. Muscle against muscle, technique against technique. I do not." He paused, searching for words in a distant place in his mind, a repository of memories not belonging to this world. The words he found were from an epic tale, of an arrogant and powerful dragon. "My skin is like stacked shields. My hands are swords, my fists are spears. My punches are thunder, and my kicks, a hurricane."
Ser Harrold was silent for a long moment, absorbing words that sounded ancient, poetic, and deeply dangerous. They did not describe a man, but a force of nature. He was no longer looking at a prince, but at something that defied his understanding of the world. "I understand," he finally murmured, though he did not fully understand. "Or… perhaps I am beginning to understand."
---
King Jaehaerys I, surnamed the Conciliator, felt the weight of his decades of life and reign pressing on his shoulders like a leaden cloak as he watched his youngest son enter the solar. Morning light flooded the room, illuminating the Targaryen banners and the maps of Westeros spread across a large table. Aenar. The Dragonate. A constant puzzle in the shape of a man, a walking contradiction that was his own blood. The love was there, stubborn and persistent, the visceral love of a father for his child. But it was a love intertwined with a chill down the spine, a deep fear that a king, a ruler responsible for millions, could not afford to ignore. He loved his son, but he feared the creature he might become—the power he represented, which could one day challenge the very order Jaehaerys had spent his life building.
"Father," Aenar greeted, with a perfect bow, the almost mechanical precision of his movements always slightly unsettling. His voice was calm, a lake of serenity, and his dragon eyes, those violet windows into an ancient soul, remained inscrutable.
"Aenar," Jaehaerys replied, his own deep voice echoing in the silent room. He gestured toward a high-backed chair before the table. "Sit. Ser Harrold shared accounts of… this morning's spectacle. You continue to surprise, my son. Each day, in a new way."
"Thank you, Your Grace," said Aenar, sitting with the straight-backed posture of a soldier.
Jaehaerys inhaled deeply, fingers steepled over the table. "How is life at court for you? Truly. Is there anything you need? Anything you lack?" The question was genuine, but also probing, an attempt to reach the boy behind the myth.
"I have all I require," said Aenar, his answer precise yet evasive. "But there is one thing I desire. Permission to travel to Dragonstone."
The mention of the ancestral island, the cradle of his house, caught Jaehaerys off guard. His fingers tightened. "Dragonstone? For what purpose? Aemon is there, yes, but…"
"To claim a dragon," Aenar stated, as if it were the most natural and obvious thing in the world, like another boy asking for a new horse. "The Cannibal."
A sharp chill, like an icy blade, ran down Jaehaerys' spine. The Cannibal. The black and savage beast, the winged terror haunting the volcanic island for generations, a living symbol of pure untamed malice, devouring hatchlings and defying any attempt at control. "That creature… Aenar, that creature is death in dragon form. It has never accepted a rider. Never shown desire for any. It is a destructive force of nature, not a mount."
"He will know me," Aenar declared, with a flat and absolute certainty that brooked no argument. It was more than confidence; it was a portent. "He is a fragment of the same power that I am. Of the same primordial essence. He is alone in the world, as I am always surrounded by those who do not understand. We were made for each other. It is a necessary symbiosis."
Jaehaerys studied his son's face, searching for any sign of doubt, of youthful bravado, and finding none. This was not the boasting of a boy trying to prove his worth. It was the calm declaration of a universal principle, a personal prophecy. And in it, the king, the strategist, saw a golden opportunity, brilliant and dangerous. To tame the Cannibal would be a feat that echoed through the centuries, outshining even the accomplishments of Aegon the Conqueror. It would show, incontestably, the unbreakable and supernatural strength of House Targaryen. It would be the ultimate, tangible, and terrifying proof that this strange son was not a threat to his lineage, but its apex, its most powerful incarnation.
"Very well," Jaehaerys agreed, his kingly mind already turning, a complex plan forming. "But we will not go to Dragonstone like thieves in the night, fearful of a monster. We will go as a royal procession. The entire family. All the pomp. We shall let the lords of the Narrow Sea, who have long whispered of the 'Cannibal's curse,' see with their own eyes that the blood of the dragon remains strong, remains sovereign. We will let them see my son, the Dragonate, claim his birthright in a way no Targaryen has ever dared."
Aenar inclined his head in acquiescence, his face impassive. "As you wish, Your Grace."
The audience continued, with Jaehaerys outlining logistical plans with the sharp mind that had unified the Seven Kingdoms. Yet when the conversation turned to the limits of Aenar's authority on the island, a subtle, almost subterranean discussion arose. Jaehaerys insisted on caution, on following the protocols established by Aemon, the Prince of Dragonstone, respecting the chain of command and the political sensitivities of the local lords. Aenar, though verbally agreeing, felt a spark of frustration, a familiar heat beginning to pulse in his veins. It was the slowness, the bureaucracy, the constant fear of his own power that always surrounded him, attempting to contain it.
He did not argue. He did not raise his voice. His responses remained measured and respectful. Yet at the height of his silent disagreement, when Jaehaerys emphasized the need for "moderation," the air around Aenar began to visibly ripple, like heat rising from a brazier on a summer afternoon. The glass of wine Jaehaerys had set on the massive oak table began to smoke slightly, the liquid within gently bubbling. It was a subtle phenomenon, almost imperceptible to an inattentive observer, but the king, with his keen perception, noticed. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, continuing his speech as if nothing had occurred. Aenar, sensing the minor loss of control, a leak of the fire that always simmered beneath his skin, breathed deeply, focusing his will. The heat dissipated immediately, as swiftly as it had appeared. The only evidence was a faint smell of burnt oak lingering in the air and a circle of condensation drying quickly on the table beneath the base of the glass. His fury was internal, deeply contained, manifested only by this precarious, almost instinctive mastery of the dragonfire that ran through his veins like blood.
---
The journey to Dragonstone became the most magnificent display of Targaryen power in a generation. The skies darkened with the wings of a true fleet of dragons, a spectacle that made the fishermen of Blackwater Bay kneel in reverence and fear. The king himself rode Vermithor, the great Bronze Fury, whose roar shook the mountains. A special seat had been affixed to his saddle for Aenar, who shared the flight with his father, a silent and observant figure against the vastness of the sky. Queen Alysanne followed on Silverwing, her loyal and graceful mount, and in her seat, clinging with a mixture of fear and exhilaration, was little Gael, her eyes wide at the world seen from above. Prince Baelon, the Bold, sovereign in the skies as he was on land, flew atop the imposing Vhagar, with his sons Viserys and Daemon holding on tightly behind him, their excited voices lost in the wind. The very air seemed to vibrate with anticipation and the raw power the procession represented.
They were received on the dark, slick backs of Dragonstone by Prince Aemon, heir to the Iron Throne, a man of serious and honorable demeanor. Beside him stood his fair and fierce wife, Jocelyn, his daughter Rhaenys—a young woman of sharp beauty and keen intelligence, whose eyes carried her grandfather's legacy—and her new husband, the proud and ambitious Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Serpent, whose wealth and fleet rivaled that of the Crown. The greetings were deeply formal, the air heavy with the unspoken political tensions that had always hovered over the succession. Rhaenys, whose own claim to the throne through the female line was whispered in many circles as potentially stronger than that of her cousin Viserys, studied Aenar not with fear, but with a calculating, analytical gaze, assessing him as another piece on the complex chessboard that was her family.
It was then, in the midst of the ceremonial greetings, that a shadow older and colder than the sea mist fell upon them, instantly silencing all conversation. A roar unlike any other that had echoed on the island—neither a territorial challenge nor a mere threat, but a deep, visceral sound of primordial hunger, of eternal isolation—shook the very foundations of the black stone castle. From the smoking peak of Dragonmount, a vast, dark form separated itself from the ash-filled clouds. The Cannibal descended. It was larger than even Vhagar, a colossus of scales black as pitch, darker than a moonless night, its eyes burning with a pale, malevolent green fire that seemed to pierce the souls of all present. It landed with a terrifying silence, ignoring the other beasts, who stirred uneasily, and struck the ground before the assembled royalty with an impact that trembled through the volcanic stone, its claws embedding into the rock as if it were clay. Its yellow-green gaze fixed unerringly on Aenar, ignoring everyone else, including the king.
The guards moved instinctively, raising spears and shields, forming a protective barrier before Jaehaerys and Aemon. But Aemon himself, pale yet firm-voiced, raised a hand. "Steady!" he commanded, his voice echoing in the sudden stillness. "No one moves!"
The Cannibal then did something no one had ever reported. It did not attack. It did not growl. It lowered its colossal head, neck arched like a serpent ready to strike, and sniffed the air around Aenar. The prince, in turn, did not flinch an inch. He stepped forward, subtly distancing himself from the group, and met the beast's gaze fully. There was no fear in his dragon eyes, nor aggression—only a deep recognition, a silent dialogue occurring on a level beyond words. A low rumble, more a vibration in the chest than an audible sound, emanated from the dragon. It was not a threat, but a… mutual acknowledgment. Aenar then slowly extended his hand, placing his bare palm on the rough, searing muzzle of the creature. It was a gesture of deep connection, of possession and belonging.
"It is done," Aenar announced, his clear voice carrying through the heavy silence like a veil. It sounded less like a declaration of triumph and more like the statement of a natural fact. "He is mine."
The tension broke like a spell. Murmurs of disbelief and reverent awe spread among the soldiers and lords present. Aemon exhaled the air he had been holding. Corlys Velaryon watched with newfound respect, calculating the implications. Rhaenys bit her lower lip, her thoughts spinning in new and unpredictable directions.
A feast was held in Dragonstone's great black stone hall, illuminated by smoking torches. The mood was openly celebratory, yet an underlying tension remained, like the heat still emanating from the island's depths. The lords of the Narrow Sea, such as the Lord of Storm's End and the Lord of Sharp Point, toasted the new dragonrider; their relief at seeing the fearsome Cannibal finally tamed was palpable and almost tangible.
"An extraordinary feat, Prince Aenar," said Lord Bar Emmon, raising his cup. "The whole realm will sleep safer tonight, knowing that beast is under the control of a Targaryen."
"Indeed," added Lord Celtigar, his covetous eyes glinting. "The seas around the island will be safer for trade. A great service to the realm."
Aenar accepted the compliments with a nod, but his attention was divided. He watched his sister, Gael, who seemed slightly lost amidst the loud adult celebration.
During a lull in the festivities, Aenar stepped away from the main table, gently taking Gael's hand. "Come with me, sister. I have a gift for you."
He led her to one of the island's many coastal caves, where the sound of waves crashed against the black rock. There, using his will and his innate connection to the fiery heart of the magic that sustained all draconic creatures, he sent a silent call, a whisper along the currents of life. It was not a command, but an invitation. After a long moment of waiting, Gael watching him with curiosity, a pale, spectral form emerged from the sea mist. It was the Grey Ghost, a shy, elusive, almost mythical dragon, more legend than reality to most. The creature approached with extreme caution, its large eyes expressing an ancestral timidity. But Aenar's calming presence, his aura of familiar power, soothed it. The prince spoke no audible words. He communicated with feelings, with promises of safety, understanding, and a familial bond the lonely creature had never known. Then he gently placed Gael's small hand on the dragon's soft, cool muzzle. The Grey Ghost nuzzled her hand, a low rumble coming from its throat, accepting her completely. That night, under the stars and to the sound of the sea, a new and unlikely dragonrider was born, her bond forged not by force, but by powerful kindness.
The return to King's Landing, days later, was a triumphant procession. Once new seats were carefully constructed for the unique mounts, King Jaehaerys gathered the family in the main courtyard. "A dragon must have a name worthy of its rider," he proclaimed, his voice echoing against the red walls. "A name that will echo through history. What will you call them?"
Aenar looked at his black beast, whose scales now shone in the Westerosi sun with calm acceptance. "Its name is Zekrom."
Gael, smiling shyly but with eyes shining with pride, said, "And mine is Reshiram."
The strange, guttural, foreign names confused the court. They had no roots in High Valyrian, no meaning in the glorious history of Valyria. They sounded like words from a tongue long dead. Yet Aenar and Gael, exchanging a glance, shared a secret, intimate, conspiratorial smile. It was a piece of a world only the two of them knew, a bond within a bond, a private joke connecting them to a past no one else could ever comprehend. (He did not speak of his other life, only the meaning of the dragons' names for her.)
---
The news arrived by raven, the message raw, blunt, and merciless in its simplicity. Prince Aemon was dead. Killed by a single bolt from a Myrish crossbow in a trivial skirmish on the island of Tarth, a conflict against pirates who were little more than a nuisance along the trade routes. The casualness of his death, contrasted with the greatness of the man, was the true tragedy.
Aenar stood in his chambers, the stone walls seeming to close in around him. The parchment was crumpled in his clenched fist, the words smudged by the force of his grip. He had tried. By the old and new gods, he had tried. He had warned Aemon, with all the urgency that his knowledge of the future allowed, to improve his armor, to reinforce his helm, to never, under any circumstance, remove it in enemy territory, no matter how stifling it felt. Aemon, the diligent heir, honorable to the core, had listened. He had worn the finest armor available, visor firmly closed, acting as a truly prudent knight. And yet, the bolt, as if guided by the ironic hand of a malevolent god or by the stubbornness of fate itself, had found the single vulnerable point—the tiniest slit for the eyes—with impossible, almost mathematical precision, and profoundly fateful accuracy.
A cold fury, colder than the darkest depths of Blackwater Bay, washed over Aenar, momentarily extinguishing the pain. It was not merely the pain of losing a brother he respected. It was the cosmic rage of being defied, of seeing his warnings, his attempt to alter a predestined course, ridiculed by the relentless mechanics of fate. It was the fury of realizing that, despite all his earthly power, all his fire and strength, he was still bound by the threads of destiny. His magic, vast and terrifying as it was to men, was still not strong enough to cut those divine threads. He felt it—not as a thought, but as a visceral intuition, an innate knowledge. He was a dragon, yes, but still a juvenile in the ways of cosmic power, of manipulating the very fabric of reality. He estimated, with a certainty born from his own magical cells, that by the age of fifteen, when he reached legal and biological maturity in this world, his power would fully ripen. He would break free from destiny's chains and become truly free, an agent of chaos or order, at his will.
But for now, in this particular battle, fate had won. And he hated it.
He made his way to the Small Council chamber with grim determination. The atmosphere was heavy, the air tainted with grief and restrained anger. A visibly aged and somber King Jaehaerys was discussing the matter with Baelon, whose face was a mask of raw pain and disbelief.
"The pirates were a band of mercenaries, no doubt," Baelon said, his voice hoarse. "But the equipment, the precision… it was funded by Myr. This was a planned assassination."
Aenar entered and spoke without preamble, his voice flat as a knife blade, yet carrying a weight that made everyone present turn. "Aemon's death was not a tragedy of war. It was an act of war in itself. It demands more than hanging a few miserable ship captains. It demands a proportional response. It demands fire and blood. We must strike at Myr itself. We must burn their fleet in port until the waters boil, and melt their stone walls until nothing remains but pools of glass."
Jaehaerys raised his gaze, his deep-set eyes shadowed, carrying the weight of all the realms. "No, Aenar," he said, his voice tired but firm. "I will not cast this kingdom, which has cost so much to build, into a total war with the Free Cities over this… this atrocity. That is what they want. An excuse for chaos. We will end the pirates. We will hunt down and bring those responsible before the king's justice. But we will not burn a free city or massacre its citizens. That is not justice; that is madness."
Aenar did not argue. He did not raise his voice in a shout. His expression remained a mask of stone composure, his dragon eyes fixed on his father. He could feel the heat of his fury wanting to explode, wanting to reduce the chamber to ashes. But he restrained it. He knelt, a fluid, respectful motion. "As you command, Your Grace," he said, each word leaving a bitter taste.
But when he rose to leave, the contained fury, the anger at impotence in the face of cautious politics, could not be fully suppressed. The air around him thickened, dense and hot, as in the antechamber of a furnace. And with each calm, measured step toward the door, the smooth stone slabs beneath his feet did not crack—they softened. Each footprint he left behind as he exited the chamber was deep, smoking, and glowing, the granite of the Red Keep melted and reshaped by the intense heat radiating from his body like a barely contained forge. It was a silent rage, an ineffable fury marked not by words of defiance but by indelible marks of fire in the very heart of Targaryen power. He had accepted the king's order, but his dissent, his impotent rage, was now literally etched into the history of the castle, a mute testament to the storm raging within the Drakon.
The following day, under a heavy, gray sky matching the general mood, Aenar mounted Zekrom, the great black dragon once known as the Cannibal. The creature now seemed to sense its rider's agitation, its scales quivering with impatience. At his side, his brother Baelon rode the majestic and ancient Vhagar, his face still shadowed by loss but hardened by the determination to fulfill his duty. Below them, in the turbulent gray waters off the Steps, the pirate fleet had gathered—a ragged and pitiful collection of patched sail ships and shallow-hulled Myrish galleys.
Baelon looked to his younger brother, seeing the deadly cold still painted across his face, a coldness he knew concealed a furnace beneath. "Remember, Aenar," Baelon shouted, the wind carrying his words. "It is justice for our brother we seek today. To cleanse this plague from the sea. Not blind vengeance. Aemon was a man of honor. He would understand."
Aenar turned to him. His dragon eyes did not reflect the daylight; instead, they shone with an inner light, a pale green fire reminiscent of the flame that had once burned in the Cannibal's eyes. The coldness in his voice was absolute, metallic, as he answered, quoting a line from a tale of a long-lost world, a line carrying the solemn, terrifying weight of promised annihilation.
"Revenge?" Aenar whispered, his voice a low hiss that, paradoxically, cut through the roar of the wind like a blade. "Revenge?" He repeated, savoring the word, finding it inadequate. "Brother… I will show you what vengeance truly is."
He then leaned forward on Zekrom's back, and his final words did not roar like a war cry, but came as a serene and terrible prophecy that echoed through the wind, directed both at Baelon and the skies that witnessed, a declaration of identity that was a warning to the world.
"I am fire. I am death."
And with no other sound, no command shouted, Zekrom, as if perfectly understanding each syllable, plunged from the clouds in terrifying silence. The hunt—and all it represented—had begun.
---
Hello there, so what did you think of today's chapter? Our boy is starting to show his dragon side and the more he grows, the more he will. For the next chapter, we will see the repercussions of Aemon's death and the years before Baelon's death, where he will be in his relationship with his family and especially with Gael. It will show the differences between it and the canon, so that's it. Until next time.