The skies above King's Landing were choked with shadow.
As Cannibal soared overhead—his wings wide enough to blot out the sun—the people below screamed. Some fled into shops and homes, others knelt in prayer, believing the world's end had come upon dragon wings. No banners heralded this arrival. No horns. Only a great shadow and the roar of a beast thought only to live in whispers from the days of fire and Doom.
Vaeron sat atop Cannibal's neck, his black and grey cloak snapping in the wind. His violet eyes studied the city with a guarded calm, masking the storm within. This was his father's realm—golden spires, red roofs, and the ugly crown of the Red Keep perched upon Aegon's Hill.
He felt nothing.
Not awe.
Not fear.
Only fire rising behind his sternum.
Cannibal began his descent toward the open courtyard outside the city gates—where the King's Guard waited beneath the banners of House Targaryen. White cloaks flapped in the sea wind. Gold cloaks formed tight formations along the city's wall. Behind them, the people stared, murmuring names long thought extinguished.
"Is it Balerion reborn?"
"No... Cannibal, the Black Flame from Skagos…"
"A Targaryen prince rides him—one from the North."
---
The Red Keep
The gates parted like the maw of a dragon.
Vaeron dismounted without help. Cannibal's head turned slightly, as if unwilling to leave him unguarded. But a single look from the boy stilled the beast. The dragon coiled by the courtyard wall, tail lashing like a serpent's.
Ser Oswell Whent, proud and tall in his white plate, approached Vaeron. "Prince Vaeron. His Grace awaits in the throne room."
Prince. He called him prince.
It was the first time he'd heard it from a southern tongue.
---
The throne room was a cage of flame and stone. Great red banners flowed from the vaulted ceilings. Stained glass turned the morning sun into dragonfire, bathing the Iron Throne in the light of war.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat atop it.
He was silver and flame, pale of face, long of hair. His hands rested gently upon his knees, his expression unreadable. Around him stood the court—Queen Elia to his right, calm and composed, her golden eyes fixed on the son of her husband's dead love. Princess Rhaenys, poised and curious, held her mother's hand. Prince Aegon glowered at Vaeron from the dais's edge, lips curled in a smirk.
The lords murmured: "The North boy." "The dragon rider." "The bastard prince."
Vaeron stepped forward and bowed low. "Your Grace."
A pause. Deafening.
"Rise," said Rhaegar.
Vaeron rose.
The King's violet eyes studied him, not as a father would study a son—but as a ruler might study a weapon. "You are the rider of Cannibal?"
"I am."
"Why have you come?"
"To stand before the man whose name I bear," Vaeron replied, voice steady. "To prove that I am no shadow."
The court stirred.
Rhaegar nodded slowly. "We shall see."
---
The Queen's Invitation
Later that day, a messenger delivered a note to Vaeron's chambers.
Come sup with me tonight. I would know the son of Lyanna. — Elia of House Martell
Vaeron arrived dressed in formal black trimmed in red—a quiet acknowledgment of both his bloodlines.
Elia Martell greeted him with a gentle smile. Her solar was warm, filled with Dornish tapestries and the scent of spiced wine.
"You have your mother's defiance," she said as she poured. "And your father's stillness. That's rare."
"I don't know them," Vaeron said honestly. "Not truly."
"I did," Elia said softly. "Lyanna was a storm. Your father… a song waiting to be sung."
"And yet I was born of silence."
Elia studied him. "You were born of war, my prince. But not of sin. I do not hold your birth against you."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
She smiled faintly. "Call me Elia. You are family, even if your father doesn't yet know how to show it."
---
The Training Yard
Word of Vaeron's arrival had spread fast.
In the yard, lords and knights gathered to witness the two sons of Rhaegar Targaryen cross blades.
Aegon wore gilded steel. His crown braid gleamed in the sun. "I'll not go easy, Northern blood."
Vaeron offered only a nod. He wore grey leather. No sigil. No crown. Just purpose.
Their blades met in a clash of ringing steel. Aegon pressed forward with brute strength. Vaeron danced around his cousin's fury with sharp, clean footwork. He fought like a Stark—efficient, unyielding. But the fire in his blood made him faster.
Each pass grew more vicious. More personal.
Gasps followed a near-strike to Aegon's cheek. Lords whispered.
It ended in a deadlock—Vaeron's blade against Aegon's throat, Aegon's shield arm locked around Vaeron's side.
Neither yielded.
Until Rhaenys stepped forward and clapped.
"Well fought, both of you."
The tension broke.
But Aegon's scowl did not.
---
The Dragonpit
That night, Cannibal vanished from his perch.
Vaeron followed the trail of scorched cobble and broken stone to the ruined Dragonpit. It stank of ash and forgotten glory.
There, among the crumbled bones of dragons long dead, Cannibal stood still, unmoving. Before him, a skull—massive, ancient—cracked and blackened by time.
Then Cannibal roared.
Flame burst from his mouth—not gold or red, but green, like wildfire. The ancient skull ignited.
Vaeron saw a vision in the flames.
A man in a shadow-crown bleeding on a throne of blades. The Red Keep in ruins. A dragon beneath the city, its heart chained. And a voice:
"The dragon must have three heads."
Then it was gone.
---
Father and Son
The summons came at dawn.
Vaeron entered Rhaegar's solar. The King stood alone, tuning a harp. He did not look up.
"You ride the most ancient of our kind," Rhaegar said. "Do you know what that means?"
"I know he chose me," Vaeron answered.
"Even Balerion bent to a Targaryen's will. But the Cannibal? No rider ever dared."
"Until me."
Rhaegar finally looked at him. "You were not supposed to be born. The prophecy never spoke your name. And yet... here you stand."
"I did not ask for prophecy."
"You are prophecy, whether you will it or not. You will draw fire from both ice and flame. I see it in you—and that terrifies me."
"Then teach me," Vaeron said, stepping forward. "If I am to be fire and prophecy, let me be forged with purpose."
The King was silent.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
---
The Council of Dragons
At the next Small Council meeting, the chamber buzzed with whispers.
Vaeron entered in silence, flanked by Ser Rodrik and a single northern guard.
Elia sat beside Rhaegar. Lord Varys leaned forward, fingers steepled. Grand Maester Belis studied him as if he were a plague. Lord Hightower rose at once.
"This is madness, Your Grace! A dragon that answers to no one? A son born of—"
"He is my son," Rhaegar said, voice cold.
Whispers rose again.
Varys murmured: "A dragon must have three heads."
Queen Elia spoke next. "We will not cast aside blood because of fear. Let Vaeron Targaryen take his seat."
And so he did.
As the lords argued and the storm brewed, the black dragon above Maegor's Holdfast let loose a roar that shook the stones.
And in the shadows, the game began anew.