300 AC
Rhaegar
At its core, running off with Lyanna had been a mistake. He was young then—just a man in his early twenties, full of vigor and ambition, yet weighed down by troubling dreams. Before reaching his seventeenth year, Rhaegar had been haunted by vague visions that often left him trembling in his bed, screaming for his mother's comfort. A winter rose perched atop a block of ice. A baby's cry, mingled with salt and smoke, echoed through the air as a bleeding star streaked across the sky. His younger self had dismissed these strange omens, unable to comprehend their meaning.
But the visions never ceased.
Rhaegar buried them deep within his mind, behind walls of denial that were supposed to keep them locked away. But they leaked through. In his sleep, they found cracks, slipping past his mental defenses and haunting him still.
So, he began paying closer attention, his dreams now a beacon calling him to something greater. He pushed aside the politics and courtly affairs that once consumed him, his focus now singular. He abandoned his books and took up the sword, molding himself into the warrior he saw in his visions—one destined to confront the monsters with the icy blue eyes.
But as he matured, the truth became apparent. It was not he who was meant to face the coming storm, but his son—his true heir, the Song of Ice and Fire. Yet, Rhaegar knew that his father, the Mad King, would destroy the realm long before his son could rise. He had to act. The idea of overthrowing his father to prepare for the coming war against the dead seemed simple enough, and the Tourney at Harrenhal was the perfect cover. Lords from every corner of the kingdom gathered in one place, offering the perfect opportunity to strike.
But it had all been a miscalculation. He paid the price with Lyanna's life. After her death, the dreams ceased, and with them, his belief in the prophecy faded into nothing.
Now, once again, he miscalculated.
Rhaegar stood on the high wall overlooking the chaos below, the sounds of war deafening him as bells rang through the city. The Blackwater Bay was alive with the clash of swords and the fiery descent of arrows. The enemy's ships, bright with exotic banners, seemed to blur into the fire-lit sky. The moon above, pale and cold, cast a spectral light on the carnage below, and death stretched its long, dark fingers across the battlefield.
Redwyn had been right. Rhaegar thought with grim clarity. The war had been going so well for Westeros—victory after victory, each one fueling the fires of celebration. But it had been too much, too soon. The Battle of the Stepstones had changed everything. Rhaegar had been as shocked as anyone to learn that the royal fleet had been utterly crushed.
Now, Volantis had joined the fray, and Dorne's assistance was scattered, their lands slowly falling to the men of Essos. The Reach was the last remaining fleet guarding King's Landing, but it was far too little, too late. The Lannisters had sent word of their impending arrival, but it was clear they were dragging their feet.
Rhaegar had sent his family to the Queen's Ballroom, the safest place he could find in the city, in an attempt to shield them from the storm of battle. Aegon had protested, of course, as a dragon would, but Rhaegar had been firm. He would not allow his son to perish in this madness.
Rhaegar, donned in his battle-worn armor, stood ready. The same armor he had worn during the Battle of the Trident—its red rubies long gone, the polished surface marred by the wear of time. He could have replaced it, but he chose to keep it as a reminder. A reminder of Robert Baratheon—who had only wanted to rescue his betrothed, the woman who had willingly run away. Rhaegar had to give credit where it was due: Robert had been loyal, brave, and relentless in his pursuit.
"Nock!" Rhaegar commanded, his voice cutting through the night air. The archers responded instantly, nocking their arrows and lighting them with fire. "Loose!"
The air was thick with the whistle of death as the arrows rained down upon the enemy. Hundreds fell, but it wasn't enough. The men wearing Targaryen colors were pushed back as the enemy line surged forward, hungry for blood.
A soldier ran up to Rhaegar, panting heavily. "Your Grace, they are at the gates."
Rhaegar could hear it too. The gates groaned under the pressure of the battering ram that struck them in a steady rhythm.
"Your orders, Your Grace?" the man asked, his voice filled with grim resolve.
Rhaegar stared at the gates, his mind racing. "Contact Ser Arthur," he replied. "Evacuate my family from the city."
The man nodded and turned to leave, but paused. Rhaegar's gaze had shifted upward, drawn by something in the sky. His face remained impassive, but his mind was in turmoil. His lilac eyes fixed on the small dot growing rapidly larger in the distance.
The air seemed to hold its breath, and then a mighty roar shattered the stillness, sending ripples across the water. The soldiers froze, weapons lowered, their gazes transfixed by the dark shadow descending from the heavens.
Jon
Jon had heard the rumors about the impending attack on King's Landing. Upon his return to Essos, he confirmed them himself. In Braavos, there was no talk of the city's rulers joining the war—they deemed it doomed from the start. Tyrion and Jon were both stunned when they learned that Volantis had thrown its support behind the war effort, including the destruction of the royal fleet.
Jon needed no further persuasion to act. He left Tyrion in a Braavos brothel, swiftly mounted Cannibal, and set off toward King's Landing to thwart the siege.
Bags were strapped to the long black scales of the dragon, filled with relics Jon had salvaged from the harsh islands of Valyria. Ghost, too, was with him, his large frame bound in equipment, the direwolf's silence palpable as the journey continued. Jon shot the wolf a thin, understanding smile. Ghost didn't like flying, but the bond between them was undeniable, and so the wolf had come along.
The silent night was shattered by Cannibal's raw roar, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through Jon's chest. Through their bond, Jon could feel the dragon's eagerness, its hunger for blood—an emotion Jon hadn't fully understood until his time in Valyria.
A year spent there had awakened something in Jon. A power, long dormant, but now undeniable.
Warging.
At first, Jon thought it was merely restless dreams—visions of another body, a connection to his direwolf, Ghost. One night, while prowling the islands through Ghost's eyes, Jon realized the truth: his dreams weren't just dreams. Testing the theory, Jon used Ghost to scout around one of the islands, confirming that his connection to the wolf was real.
What he hadn't expected was to be able to warg into Cannibal, too. It was almost a fluke, something Jon didn't dare count on. But when a dark creature surged from the waters, something Jon couldn't identify, his mind was suddenly thrust into Cannibal's. A strike to his head sent him spiraling into unconsciousness, but when he awoke, he was once again in his own body, with Cannibal's bond now fully formed.
Jon had since practiced with the dragon. It was a slow process—Cannibal was stubborn, resistant to anyone entering his mind. But months passed, and the dragon gradually accepted Jon's presence. Now, Jon could harness its power at will.
"We're here," Jon thought as Cannibal released another bone-shaking roar. Before them, a dozen warships encircled Blackwater Bay, their dark silhouettes a clear threat to the city. Small boats rowed frantically as hundreds of mercenaries stormed the shore, and a battering ram hammered relentlessly at the gates.
Jon's heart sank. The gates wouldn't hold much longer.
His eyes narrowed as the distant sound of panic reached Cannibal's ears. He would make them pay for threatening his family. A family that didn't even know him yet, but one he would protect regardless.
"Dracarys!" Jon commanded, his voice a force of nature, echoing across the water.
The dragon's fiery breath illuminated the night sky, a brilliant green inferno that tore into the nearest ships. The two vessels closest to them were consumed instantly, the fire so intense that the water itself seemed to rise in response, dragging three more ships beneath the waves.
Cannibal banked sharply, ready for another attack. Another ship was reduced to nothing but a charred wreck. Jon felt his lips curl into a grin. Power, superiority, and bloodlust surged within him, a mix of emotions not entirely his own but drawn from the dragon. Still, he couldn't deny the dark thrill that came with destruction.
A warship turned toward them, a scorpion bolt aimed directly at Cannibal. Jon saw it coming from miles away. The dragon twisted in mid-air, avoiding the shot with an effortless roll before unleashing another blast of fire that sent the ship to its fiery grave.
Arrows flew haphazardly into the night sky. The men aboard the ships were in full panic. Cannibal didn't flinch. The arrows either bounced harmlessly off his thick scales or fell short as the dragon dodged with ease.
Ship after ship burned, sinking beneath the waves. As more fled, Jon ordered the dragon to pursue, showing no mercy. These men had chosen to face him, and they would pay the price.
Cannibal soared high, hovering above the water as the shockwave from another roar rippled across the bay. Below, men on the shore were frozen in terror, the battering ram forgotten as they gaped at the beast before them.
It wasn't long before Blackwater Bay was littered with bodies and wreckage, green flames dancing upon the dark waters. Through Cannibal's eyes, he saw the gaping faces of the City Watch and the calculating gaze of King Rhaegar. With a flick of his tongue, Jon guided Cannibal north.
Rhaenys
The air in the room was thick with fear. The boys and girls huddled in silence, their quiet sobs drowned out by the unmistakable roar of a creature from some nightmare. The faces around Rhaenys were ghostly pale, bodies frozen in terror. She could almost taste the fear in the air, thick and pungent, and even detect the distant, sharp scent of piss. Her gaze flicked to one man in particular, his eyes downcast and trembling, the cause of the stench clear in her mind.
The four Kingsguard were posted at the barred door, their hands clenched tight around their swords, exchanging wary glances as their eyes darted back and forth. Ser Loras, his jaw tight with suppressed emotion, paced anxiously by the door. The only absence, glaring and unsettling, was Ser Barristan, who had accompanied Daenerys to the brooding stone halls of Dragonstone.
A roar shattered the silence again, so loud it rattled the walls of the Red Keep. Elia's face turned ashen, and her mother, trembling, reached for her hands—one clasped firmly around Rhaenys's, the other gripping Aegon's. Rhaenys returned the touch with a faint, reassuring smile, but Aegon barely acknowledged their mother, his dark eyes locked on the sealed door, his hands restless at his sides.
The tension in the Queen's Ballroom was unbearable, the air charged with dread as the unmistakable drums of fear approached, pounding from the other side of the door. The Kingsguard tightened their grips on their weapons, watching the door handle with suspicion.
Then came a soft, steady knock. "Open the door."
Relief washed over Rhaenys as she recognized the voice, a sound like a familiar lullaby amidst the chaos. The Kingsguard relaxed their postures, and Arthur unlocked the heavy latches with a click, pushing the door wide open.
Without a second thought, Rhaenys leapt from her seat and flung herself into her father's arms, ignoring the shocked silence of the room. Rhaegar smiled, his arms enveloping her in a warm embrace, his lips pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Hello, my little dragon."
Aegon shot to his feet, his voice urgent and filled with concern. "Father! What happened?" His words were met by nods from the others, all eager for answers.
Rhaegar paused, his gaze distant, as though lost in some memory or far-off vision. "The battle is over," he said quietly, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of gravity. "We have won."
A collective sigh of relief swept through the room, followed by laughter and cheers, but Rhaenys remained still, her mind racing with questions. She couldn't shake the unease gnawing at her. "What was that out there?" she asked, her voice soft, tinged with the unmistakable fear of her Dornish accent.
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to the king. Rhaegar's expression shifted, becoming distant, haunted even, as he spoke in a low, almost reverent tone. "A dragon," he said, his words heavy with the weight of something greater than fear. "A large one."
"A dragon!?" Aegon and Elia exclaimed in unison, the shock and fear in their voices palpable. The shouts of disbelief and horror were quickly silenced by a single, graceful wave of the Queen's hand.
Rhaegar turned to face them, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Yes, a dragon. And someone was riding it."
Westeros
The tale of the dragon and its mysterious rider spread across the world like wildfire, the stories igniting the imaginations of all who heard them. Whispers of the man who commanded the beast circulated far and wide, each one more fantastical than the last. How had he tamed such a wild creature? How had he donned the strange, fearsome armor that struck terror into the hearts of men? Songs were written of his legendary skill with Valyrian steel swords and of how he singlehandedly slew a horde of men, his prowess becoming the stuff of myth.
But there was another tale, one that sent a chill through the hearts of those who listened: the rebirth of the dragons. The Citadel, usually so measured in its conclusions, issued a startling pronouncement about the deadly dragon's identity.
It was no ordinary beast. Massive enough to cast a shadow over the Red Keep, fierce enough to devour a dozen men without pause, with scales black as the midnight sky and eyes like gold, flecked with green. The dragon was no myth—it was the Cannibal, one of the wild dragons that had vanished after the Dance of the Dragons, long thought lost to history.
Theories swirled like smoke. Scholars at the Citadel, baffled by the sudden reappearance of the beast after so many years of silence, were left scrambling for answers. Where had it come from? How had it survived the ages? No one knew.
Ravens flew thick and fast, carrying the king's demand for information about the rider and his dragon. In response, a dozen pretenders came forward, claiming to be the legendary figure, each one promising to bring the beast to heel. But the king saw through the lies. Those who dared to make false claims were sent to the Wall, to freeze and wither away. And with that, the lies fell silent, but still the warrior never appeared, and the shadow of the dark dragon vanished from sight.
Then, a new storm broke. Tyrion Lannister, returning from his voyage to the ruins of Old Valyria, arrived alone, his crew lost to the dangers of the expedition. The dwarf was greeted with eager questions, but he only revealed his haul of ancient weapons and treasure from the city of ash. When pressed for more answers, Tyrion remained tight-lipped, evading the inquiries with practiced ease. Rumors began to swirl that even his father, Tywin Lannister, had sought answers from the imp, but to no avail. People began to make connections, seeing in Tyrion's weapons a possible link to the swords the rider had wielded to dispatch his enemies. The accusations grew louder—that Tyrion was somehow in league with the rider. But the dwarf said nothing, growing unnervingly quiet as the rumors festered.
Soon after, word spread of a new arrival in Westeros: the White Wolf of Essos.
Jon Snow.
At once, there were cries for the bastard's head, for the crimes he was accused of committing, and the innocent blood he had spilled. As expected, Eddard Stark came to his defense, arguing that whatever Snow had done, it had been in Essos, far from Westeros, and that to execute Jon would be a violation of the law. Jon Snow himself, though, stood firm, denying the rumors and insisting that the hatred directed at him was nothing more than jealousy over his combat skills. Lords and ladies alike, however, were skeptical, their mistrust of the bastard deepening with each word. The king said nothing about the matter, and though the issue of Jon's actions was quietly set aside, it was not forgotten. His reputation, though tarnished by rumors, was still a force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile, the repairs to Harrenhal were nearly complete, and with it came the promise of another grand tourney—a chance for the lords of every land to demonstrate their loyalty to the king.
But beneath the surface, unease lingered. No one spoke of it, but the tension was palpable. The tourney, meant to heal old wounds, carried the potential to reopen them, to stir up conflicts long buried. What was intended to bring unity could just as easily fracture the realm once more. Only time would tell what the coming days would bring.