The first light of dawn painted the grim spires of the Dreadfort in hues of bruised purple and cold grey as Maegor and his new retinue rode out. Six horses in total, with Maegor leading, Kaeto riding beside him, and the five mercenaries—Ryker the swordsman, Gor the axeman, twin spearmen Kael and Torr, and the quiet archer Lyra—following in a loose formation. They rode hard, the biting wind at their backs, until the oppressive aura of the Bolton lands finally began to recede.
By late afternoon, after hours of hard riding, Maegor ordered them to make camp. They were well beyond the immediate reach of the Dreadfort, in a patch of sparse woods near a winding river. As the men set about pitching their simple tents and gathering firewood, Maegor called them to him. The time for secrets was over.
He stood before them, his expression unreadable, the small leather pouch containing Balerion tucked securely inside his jerkin. "Before we speak of our destination, or the purpose of our journey, there is something you must know," Maegor stated, his voice carrying an unusual resonance that silenced the murmurs of the men. Kaeto, ever observant, watched him with a keen, almost expectant look.
With deliberate slowness, Maegor reached up and untied the leather thong that held his dark hair in place. He ran his fingers through the strands, pulling them free. As he did, the black dye, hastily applied and worn thin from travel and the rigors of the Wall, began to flake away. He found a clear patch of river water, scooped it into his hands, and began to vigorously scrub at his scalp.
The mercenaries watched, puzzled, then their eyes widened. Streaks of silver-white began to emerge, stark against the dark. Maegor continued, washing away the last vestiges of his disguise, letting the bright, unmistakable Targaryen hair spill around his shoulders. Then, he looked up, allowing them to see his eyes—deep, mesmerizing pools of purple, the undeniable mark of old Valyria.
A stunned silence fell. Ryker dropped the firewood he'd been holding. Gor's jaw went slack. Kael and Torr stared, unblinking. Lyra's hand went instinctively to the dagger at her belt, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. They had served many lords, but never a Targaryen. The last one they'd seen, the Mad King, had been overthrown by the very king who now sat the Iron Throne.
Before they could even fully process this revelation, a sharp, piercing sound ripped through the air. A high-pitched shriek, a sound that stirred primal fear and wonder. From Maegor's jerkin, a tiny, scaled head poked out, followed by a pair of leathery wings unfurling. Balerion, no bigger than a large cat but radiating an ancient power, emerged fully, letting out another nascent roar. Its scales were the color of midnight, reflecting the setting sun with hints of deep scarlet. It perched on Maegor's shoulder, its obsidian eyes scanning the startled men.
The mercenaries gaped, their faces a tableau of absolute shock. A silver-haired man with purple eyes… and a dragon? The legends were real.
Maegor allowed the moment to sink in, then he spoke, his voice now imbued with the full weight of his resurrected soul and the Dragon Flame System's power. "My name is not merely Maegor. I am Maegor Targaryen, son of Maester Aemon, and by blood and right, a claimant to the Iron Throne of Westeros."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air, allowing his Draconic Persuasion to work its subtle magic, solidifying the awe into a nascent loyalty. Then, his gaze swept over them, landing firmly on Kaeto. "Kaeto," he commanded, his voice ringing with newfound authority, "tell them who you are. Tell them your true name and your lineage."
Kaeto, who had been watching with a flicker of something like triumph in his own unusual eyes, took a deep breath. He seemed to straighten, the casual slouch of a sellsword falling away, replaced by an innate dignity. "My lords," he began, his voice clear and resonant, "my name is Kaeto, though my true lineage is kept hidden. I am the grandson of Duncan Targaryen, known as Duncan the Small, a son of King Aegon V, who gave up his crown for love. My mother was his bastard daughter, and she passed my true heritage to me." His brown hair was common, but in the fading light, the violet tint in his deep grey eyes was now unmistakably visible. He was a dragonseed, a true descendant of the royal line, albeit through a bastard branch.
The shock on the mercenaries' faces deepened, turning into something akin to reverence. Not one Targaryen, but two, both hidden in plain sight, with a real, live dragon. The implications were staggering. This wasn't just a desperate bid for coin; it was destiny.
One by one, they dropped to a knee. Ryker, the cynical swordsman, was the first. "My lord," he mumbled, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and dawning ambition, "we pledge our blades, our lives, and our loyalty to you. We are yours, Maegor Targaryen." Gor, Kael, Torr, and Lyra followed suit, their faces etched with newfound purpose.
Maegor looked down at them, a grim satisfaction settling in his soul. This was the beginning. He turned to Kaeto, who still stood, his eyes fixed on Maegor with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. "Kaeto," Maegor stated, his voice firm, "you are no mere sellsword. Your blood is true. Rise, Kaeto Targaryen."
Kaeto's eyes widened, a raw emotion flashing across his face. To be given back his name, his heritage, after a lifetime of hiding it, was a gift beyond measure. He rose, his spine straight.
Maegor drew his sword, the fine blade Mormont had given him. He laid it flat across Kaeto's shoulder. "By the power vested in me, as the last true dragon of Westeros, I knight you, Kaeto Targaryen. You shall be my first knight, a loyal blade of House Targaryen, a dragon to follow me wherever the path may lead." He shifted the blade to the other shoulder. "Rise, Ser Kaeto Targaryen, Knight of the Dragon."
Kaeto stood, his hand going to his chest, his gaze on Maegor unwavering. "My lord," he said, his voice husky with emotion, "I pledge my life, my honor, and my sword. To fire and blood."
[ System Update: Rank Acquired! ]
[ Host has acquired their first Knight! ]
Reward Granted:
System Rank: Petty Lord (Minor Influence)
[ New Quest: ]
Objective: Acquire a Ship
Travel to White Harbor.Secure a vessel capable of crossing the Narrow Sea.
Reward:
System Feature Unlocked: Game of Chance!1 Game of Chance Card granted!
White Harbor. The largest port in the North, controlled by the Manderlys, loyal to the Starks. Acquiring a ship there, especially one large enough for his growing company, would require more than just coin. It would require cunning. But the thought of the "Game of Chance" and its potential rewards spurred Maegor on. He had his first knight, his first loyal followers, and a hatchling dragon. The game had truly begun.