Alrighty! Since the response to the 'History' chapter was actually better than I hoped, here's the continuation. The prologue arc will take place in the few months after Robert's Rebellion, before skipping up to around the start of the books. Also, most characters will be aged up a year or two to avoid the 'only children can save the world' trope.

283 AC, Daemonholt

Willem Darry, loyal though he was, had made his disapproval of Viserys' choice to go, not to Braavos as he had suggested, but to head to the capital of the Imperium, known to both of the Targaryen children, even if, at her tender young age of ten months, Daenerys didn't understand why. He neglected to tell them that The Spider had arranged a safe house in the city, along with a dozen loyal servants, so as to try and tempt the Sealord into supporting his claim, avoiding the Blackfyre's, on the off chance they tried to push their own claim to the throne.

In Viserys' mind however, it made perfect sense. The Blackfyre's were kin to the Targaryen's. Unlike the Baratheon's however, they had gone on to create an empire of their own, through conquests of their own. They didn't need Westeros. They'd need to change the name of their Empire if they did, after all!

The young boy looked around the streets of this..strange city. It was hard for him to pick out a common appearance amongst the people that were milling about. Whilst the Empire had unified the peoples of Essos, they still maintained their own vague individualities. The Tyroshi still dyed their hair all manner of fantastic colours, the Norvoshi still maintained frankly magnificent beards that rivalled the oiled beards of the Pentoshi. The Lysene were almost all beautiful. He wasn't entirely sure what he thought of the Qohorik people, though. There were some people that appeared Westerosi, that Viserys assumed were the descendants of those that followed Daemon the Liberator across the Narrow Sea. For a scant few moments, the Targaryen boy allowed himself to forget the terror he felt as he was made to flee the only home he had ever known.

His thoughts turned to the mess of memories he had of their short days on Dragonstone. The storm, and his sister's birth. The few servants that stayed loyal hurrying him and his sister onto a ship that had ferried them across the Narrow Sea to the safe harbor of Myr, now ruled by House Ball of Myr (descended from Quentyn Fireball). What surprised the small group, however, was that a luxurious wheelhouse had been prepared for them by a small number of loyalists, to take them to Daemonholt, with enough supplies to last the journey. Monterys Ball, the High Lord of Myr had granted them a small delegation of guards to protect them on the journey. The overweight man had had a cheerful, booming laugh, and had treated Viserys with a degree of respect he'd had in his homeland.

The journey to the capital had been long, but thankfully uneventful. Viserys had asked the guards near endless questions about the Imperium. The Myrmen had answered them with the good graces of a family friend. Daenerys had been attended by a Myrish wetnurse, a point that Willem Darry had been eternally grateful for. He had always been good with children, not babes.

It was only after two weeks of hard travel that the Imperial capital came into view. The Rhoyne river shone like sapphire, with various fishing and trading vessels making their ways on the calm waters. The city itself appeared to be made with golden sandstone and marble, with colourful blankets providing shade for those in the streets. The Palace of Nymeria, once ruined, was now back in full splendor (although the green and pink marble and been replaced by red and black), with the domes capped by golden statues of the various New Valyrian pantheon and spires that seemed to claw at the sky itself, taller than the towers of the Red Keep by a considerable margin.

It was only as the wheelhouse clattered into the Palace courtyard that a sickening spike of doubt coursed through the young Targaryen. Could he have been wrong? Everything had been planned too well...it had to be a trap!

Remember their words, Viserys. His mother's words calmed him. Remember..

"...No Finer Friend, No Fiercer Foe." He mumbled to himself as he held Daenerys close. They were more akin to a declaration than House words, but they had served his Blackfyre cousins well enough. The Imperium was often referred to as 'the most powerful nation in the world', after all. Their words said everything they needed to. Generous and good to their friends, merciless and unforgiving to foes.

"Did you say something, My Prince?" Darry inquired. Viserys had almost forgotten he was there.

"...N-No...it's nothing Ser Willem." The young Prince said as he held his sister a little tighter as he looked around. There were guards at regular intervals, but despite this, Viserys could honestly say that he felt safe.

Then he saw her.

Visenya Blackfyre, Empress of the Essosi Imperium. Her gown appeared to be made of fire itself, flowing waves of red and orange seamlessly melding into one, with her half cloak, black as night, was held in place by two silver clasps, bearing her family's sigil. Her amethyst eyes never left Viserys' as she strode into the courtyard, her braided, silvery hair gently bouncing with every step. He bodyguard, a giant of a man with faintly tanned skin, chin length, greying brown hair, and violet eyes, no dissimilar to Viserys' own managed to keep himself just a step behind.

Even Viserys had heard of this man, this Baelor Bittersteel. It was said that he had once led the Golden Company against a great Khal of the Dothraki, Khal Bharbo. By the end of the battle, barely a hundred Dothraki were left alive. Bharbo's son, Drogo, wisely lead his people in a retreat, but not before cutting off his braid, and throwing at the feet of the great warrior. The story had thrilled the young Targaryen when he was younger, being one of his enduring memories of his brother Rhaegar, who told him the tale whenever the younger Prince had asked.

"Heh. Looks like they made it." Baelor commented in a rumbling tone, although the Prince could see that he was smiling. Visenya walked over to Viserys, until she was towering over him (despite being shorter than both Darry and Bittersteel, Viserys assumed it had something to do with her authority).

Then this woman, rumoured to be the most powerful person in the world, with legions of loyal soldiers and servants, who ruled over millions of citizens and had the power to crush entire nations, knelt down and cupped his cheek. She smiled, ever so slightly, the seriousness of her expression not quite fading.

"Sweet child." She addressed him kindly, her accent exotic to Viserys' ears. "Breathe easy, you are safe now."