129 AC – Dragonstone
Point of View: Rhaenyra Targaryen
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood in her solar, the letter still clenched in her trembling hand.
Her father, King Viserys I, was dead.
And the throne was stolen.
The ink on the raven's message had barely dried, yet her half-brother Aegon had already been crowned in King's Landing. No summons, no council, no mourning. No chance for her to say goodbye to the man who once called her his heir.
She wanted to scream. To burn something. But all she could do was stand there—frozen, furious, and hollowed out by betrayal.
Her grief had no place to breathe.
The doors burst open.
"Mother!"
Jacaerys Velaryon, her eldest, stormed in breathless, his cheeks wind-bitten from flying. "There's a dragon—massive, black as night—coming this way. I saw it while circling above the island. It's… it's almost as large as Balerion."
Rhaenyra turned sharply. "That's not possible. Balerion is long dead."
"I know," Jace replied, voice low and rattled. "But this one looks like him. Moves like him. And someone rides it."
Before she could respond, a deafening roar rolled over Dragonstone like thunder, shaking the walls.
Guards shouted. Servants fled. The skies darkened.
Rhaenyra did not hesitate. She swept from the room with Jace, Lucerys, and her guards close behind. They emerged into the courtyard just as the dragon descended—its wings casting shadows that swallowed the keep in shade.
The beast landed hard, cracking stone beneath its claws. Its body was weathered, scarred by decades, and its scales—once jet-black—were dulled with age. Yet the presence of the creature was undeniable.
Balerion?
No. That was impossible.
But the beast had Balerion's shape. His size. His dread.
And atop its back sat a rider—an old man hunched in heavy black and silver leathers, his long white hair tied behind him. He moved stiffly as he dismounted, boots touching Dragonstone's ground with a reverence that bordered on sorrow.
The guards drew swords. Syrax, Rhaenyra's dragon, growled low from her perch nearby.
The stranger raised no weapon.
Rhaenyra stepped forward. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice cut through the wind.
"Who are you?"
The man bowed his head slightly, though age clearly fought him. His voice was gravel—old, worn, and regal in its own way.
"Aenar Targaryen, son of Rhaena… and Maegor the Cruel."
The name hit like a gust of cold air. Jace stepped closer to his mother, hand on the hilt of his sword.
"You should be long dead," Rhaenyra said. "You were cast out before Jaehaerys died. They called you the Unwanted. The boy who vanished."
"I was never wanted," Aenar said softly. "Not by my mother. Not by the realm. Not even by the gods, I suspect."
His eyes flicked toward the great dragon beside him, then to the sky above. "Only he ever wanted me… and perhaps not even that."
"And now you come here, to my stronghold," Rhaenyra said, stepping closer. "Why? To declare your claim? To take a crown?"
Aenar chuckled—a hollow, tired sound.
"I am too old for thrones, girl. And I have no taste for war. I came to see what remained of the house I was born to… before I return to the dark."
She studied him. His eyes were tired but not deceitful. There was no ambition in him—just sorrow.
"You know nothing of what's happening, do you?" she said.
Aenar raised a brow. "I know Viserys is dead."
"And that your great-nephew Aegon has usurped me."
The old man was silent. Then, simply: "I did not know. I only came… because I'm dying. And so is he."
He turned to glance at the ancient dragon beside him.
"Balerion found me, once. When I was lost. I thought perhaps he would bring me home, too."
Rhaenyra stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she signaled for her guards to lower their weapons.
"Come inside," she said. "There is much to speak of. And perhaps… you my be wanted old man."