King's Landing, 289 AC, Robert Baratheon's POV
The small council chamber was a cage of whispers, the air thick with the scent of ink and wax. Robert Baratheon slouched on his throne-like chair, his mood as foul as the storm brewing outside the Red Keep. The Iron Throne loomed in the great hall beyond, a jagged reminder of the war he'd fought to claim it. He glowered at the gathered lords—Varys, Pycelle, Littlefinger, and Renly—each a thorn in his side, though none so grating as the Spider's soft, simpering voice.
"Speak plainly, Varys," Robert growled, his hand tightening around his wine goblet. "I've no patience for your riddles today."
Varys inclined his powdered head, his silks rustling like a snake's scales. "Your Grace, my little birds bring… troubling tidings from the North." His voice was smooth, but there was a glint in his eyes, a spark of something dangerous. "A dragon has landed outside Winterfell. A great beast, black as night, with eyes of green fire. The smallfolk speak of it as the Cannibal, a creature of legend from Dragonstone."
Robert's goblet froze halfway to his lips. "A dragon?" he barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Dragons are dead, Spider. Extinct. You're spinning tales to waste my time."
Varys's lips curved into a faint smile, infuriatingly calm. "I assure you, Your Grace, this is no tale. The beast was seen by hundreds—smallfolk, guards, even Lord Stark's own household. And there is more."
He paused, his eyes flicking to the other councilors, who leaned forward, sensing the weight of his words. "The dragon appeared for a boy. Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard… or so he was called."
Robert's blood ran cold, his knuckles whitening around the goblet. "What do you mean, 'so he was called'?"
Varys's voice dropped to a whisper, each word a dagger. "The boy has changed, Your Grace. His hair is silver, his eyes red as rubies. The smallfolk claim he is no bastard, but a Targaryen, bound to the dragon by blood. They call him… Jaehaerys."
The name struck Robert like a warhammer. Jaehaerys. A Targaryen name, steeped in the legacy of dragonlords. His vision blurred with rage, memories of Rhaegar Targaryen flooding back—the silver-haired prince who'd stolen Lyanna, who'd sparked a rebellion, who'd died screaming her name on the Trident. "Ned," he snarled, slamming the goblet down, wine splashing across the table.
"Ned knew. He hid a Targaryen under my nose, in my own bloody kingdom!"
Grand Maester Pycelle coughed, his chain clinking. "Your Grace, surely Lord Stark would not—"
"Shut your mouth, old man!" Robert roared, rising from his chair. His massive frame loomed over the table, his face flushed with fury. "Ned's betrayed me. His bastard's a dragonspawn, and now there's a gods-damned dragon in Winterfell! He's plotting to take my throne!"
Renly, lounging at the table's end, raised an eyebrow. "Robert, calm yourself. Ned's no traitor. Perhaps there's an explanation—"
"There's no explanation but treachery!" Robert bellowed, his fist crashing against the table, making Littlefinger flinch. "I killed Rhaegar. I hunted down his kin. And now one's risen in the North, with a dragon to burn us all!" He turned to Varys, his eyes blazing. "Send word to every lord in the realm. Call the banners. I want the North surrounded, that dragon's head on a spike, and Ned Stark's bastard in chains before me!"
Varys bowed, his expression unreadable. "As you command, Your Grace. But may I suggest… caution? The North is loyal to Lord Stark, and a dragon is no small foe."
"I'll crush them all," Robert spat, his voice thick with venom. "Targaryens, dragons, Starks—none will stand in my way. I'll have their heads, or I'll burn the North to ash."
As the councilors scrambled to obey, Robert's gaze drifted to the window, where lightning split the sky. A dragon in Winterfell. A Targaryen in Ned's care. The rebellion wasn't over. It had only begun.
Winterfell, 289 AC, Jon Snow's POV
Jon sat at the small desk in his chamber, the quill trembling in his hand. The Cannibal's presence outside Winterfell was a weight on his soul, its black scales and green eyes a constant reminder of the fire in his blood. The dragon had not moved since Jon touched it, its massive form coiled in the snow like a dark omen. The smallfolk whispered of him as Jaehaerys Targaryen, their awe and fear mingling in equal measure. Ned's command to call the banners had set Winterfell abuzz, ravens flying to every corner of the North. War was coming, and Jon—Jaehaerys—stood at its heart.
He dipped the quill in ink, his ruby eyes glinting in the candlelight. The bond with the Cannibal thrummed, a steady pulse that urged him to act, to reach beyond Winterfell. Maester Aemon was his first thought, but the Wall was too far, and time was slipping away. The dragon's arrival had changed everything. If he was to understand his destiny, he needed allies—those who knew the blood of Old Valyria, who could guide him as Jaehaerys Targaryen. House Velaryon and House Celtigar, ancient allies of the Targaryens, were his best hope. And there was another matter—his aunt and uncle, Daenerys and Viserys, exiled across the sea. If he was to claim his name, his family must be whole.
Jon began to write, his hand steadying as the words took shape.
The Old, the True, the Brave
To Lord Monford Velaryon and Lord Ardrian Celtigar,
I write to you as Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, raised as Jon Snow in Winterfell. The blood of Old Valyria runs in my veins, and with it, a dragon has come to me—the Cannibal, a beast of legend, now bound to my will. I know not why the gods have marked me, nor what path lies ahead, but I call upon your houses, loyal to the dragonlords of old, to stand with me.
I seek my kin, Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen, who wander in exile. Bring them to me, to Winterfell, that we may unite as the last of our house. The North rallies to my side, but the realm will soon turn against us. I ask for your wisdom, your strength, and your allegiance to the blood we share.
By fire and blood,
Jaehaerys Targaryen
***
Jon sealed the letter with wax, pressing a crude sigil—a wolf and dragon entwined—into the soft surface. He handed it to Maester Luwin, who stood waiting, his face pale but resolute.
"Send it to Driftmark and Claw Isle," Jon said. "And pray they answer."
Luwin nodded, his chain clinking softly. "This is a dangerous path, my lord," he said, his voice low. "The realm will not take kindly to a Targaryen rising."
"I know," Jon replied, his ruby eyes meeting the maester's. "But I have no choice. The Cannibal chose me. The gods chose me."
As Luwin left to dispatch the raven, Jon stepped to the window, gazing at the dragon beyond the walls. The Cannibal's eyes met his, a silent vow passing between them. The bond flared, warm and fierce, and Jon felt a surge of resolve. He was Jaehaerys Targaryen, and he would face whatever came—fire, blood, or war.
Driftmark, 289 AC, Monford Velaryon's POV
Lord Monford Velaryon stood in the high hall of Driftmark, the sea wind howling through the open windows. The letter from Winterfell lay open on the table before him, its words burning in his mind. Jaehaerys Targaryen. The name was a ghost, a relic of a dynasty he'd thought dead. The wax seal—a wolf and dragon entwined—lay broken beside it, a symbol that stirred both fear and wonder.
His steward, Ser Aurane, stood nearby, his face taut with unease. "A Targaryen in Winterfell?" he said, his voice low. "And the Cannibal, of all dragons? My lord, this cannot be true. The dragons are gone, and Rhaegar's heirs with them."
Monford's fingers traced the letter's opening words: The Old, the True, the Brave. His house's motto, invoked by a boy claiming to be Rhaegar's son. He pictured the Cannibal, a beast of nightmare, said to devour its own kind. If it had truly appeared, if it had chosen this Jaehaerys, then the blood of Old Valyria was waking once more.
"Lyanna Stark," Monford murmured, his mind racing. The tales of Rhaegar's love, the rebellion, the Tower of Joy—they were more than songs. If this boy was their son, hidden by Eddard Stark, then the world was about to change. And the call for Daenerys and Viserys… that was a bolder move still. The exiled Targaryens were in Essos, under the protection of Magister Illyrio in Pentos. To bring them to Westeros was to invite war.
"My lord," Aurane pressed, "what will you do? If this is true, Robert will burn the realm to stop it. And if it's a lie…"
"It's no lie," Monford said, his voice firm. He tapped the letter, his eyes narrowing. "No man would dare claim such a name without proof.
A dragon does not bow to pretenders. And House Velaryon has always been true to the dragonlords." He paused, the weight of history settling on his shoulders. His ancestors had sailed with Aegon the Conqueror, their ships carrying the fire of Valyria. Could he turn from that legacy now?
"Send word to Lord Celtigar," Monford ordered. "We'll need his counsel. And dispatch a ship to Pentos—find Viserys and Daenerys. Tell them a dragon has risen in the North, and their nephew calls them home."
Aurane hesitated, his hand on his sword. "My lord, this is treason. Robert will have our heads."
Monford's gaze hardened, the sea in his blood stirring. "Let him try. The Old, the True, the Brave—we do not bend to stag or storm. We sail for dragons as we always have."
As the steward hurried to obey, Monford looked out at the roiling sea, the horizon dark with the promise of war. A dragon in Winterfell. A Targaryen reborn. The tides were turning, and House Velaryon would follow the dragons once more.