The joyous clamour that had filled the ancient streets of Oldtown, celebrating the coronation of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, was abruptly, terrifyingly silenced.
Outside the city walls, where the verdant grasslands stretched towards the horizon, a monstrous form settled, coal black with baleful green eyes: the Cannibal, a creature of dark legend.
The city's triumphant peals had turned to the gasping shrieks of panic. Amidst the escalating pandemonium, all eyes had been drawn to the descending leviathan.
Now, the initial waves of terror gave way to a chilling, forced order. A cordon of soldiers, city guardsmen, and hastily gathered levies, their faces pale and eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe, moved with a grim determination.
Under the urgent, whispered commands of their captains, they formed a wide, ragged circle, maintaining a distance of five hundred yards from the resting dragon. Each man clutched his spear, sword, or crossbow, the air thick with the unspoken question of whether such flimsy steel could stand against a beast of living fire.
"Surrender!" one brave, though trembling, captain bellowed across the vast expanse of grass, his voice cracking.
"Surrender, in the name of King Jaehaerys Targaryen!" The cry was taken up by others, a thin, desperate chorus echoing across the plains.
From their vantage, the guards could discern a lone figure atop the Cannibal's massive, scaly back, a man, upright and still, an impossible silhouette against the bruised morning sky .
They could not make out his features at such a distance, nor did any among the common soldiery recognize him. He was not a face known from the Red Keep or the royal progresses. He was simply a man, upon a dragon no man had ever ridden.Moments later, the air was rent by the majestic roars of other dragons, and three more magnificent beasts, shimmering in the muted morning light, descended from the skies.
King Jaehaerys, barely a man at fourteen years of age, soared on the back of Vermithor, the great bronze-and-tan beast, whose eyes, like pools of molten bronze, swept over the scene. Beside him, Princess Alysanne rode her pale, silvery Silverwing, and Princess Rhaena, elegant even in this moment of high tension, was astride Dreamfyre, her own lithe, pale blue she-dragon.
Lord Rogar Baratheon, the Hand of the King, flew close, his brow furrowed with disbelief. "It cannot be," he had muttered moments ago.
Grand Maester Benifer, though on a swift courser below, strained to comprehend the impossible sight.
As King Jaehaerys brought Vermithor down a respectful distance from the Cannibal, the immense black dragon turned its serpentine head, its baleful green eyes fixed on the newcomers.
Vermithor, though smaller than the ancient Cannibal, responded with a deep, resonant rumble, a low challenge that seemed to vibrate through the very ground.
Vermithor was the mount of a king, a beast of noble lineage, and despite the legendary ferocity and primal antiquity of the Cannibal, his pride would not allow him to shrink from the wild dragon's presence. He unfurled his vast, leathery wings, a silent declaration of his own formidable power, his molten bronze eyes meeting the Cannibal's green ones in a tense, ancient staredown.
No flames were exchanged, no claws unsheathed, but the air thrummed with the raw, untamed power of the two titans, a silent conversation of dominance and defiance.
It was Queen Alyssa, mother to the young King Jaehaerys, who broke the spell. Her face, usually a bastion of composure, was now a canvas of profound shock, a dawning, terrifying recognition etching itself across her features.
As Vermithor landed, the roar of his wings still echoing, she dropped from his back with an almost reckless abandon, heedless of the royal guard who moved to assist her.
Her gaze, wide and unblinking, was locked not on the menacing bulk of the Cannibal, but on the slender figure seated upon its back.
A choked gasp escaped her lips, barely audible above the rustling of the tall grasses. Disbelief warred with a primal certainty in her eyes as she began to walk, slowly, unsteadily, towards the great black dragon and its enigmatic rider.
Each step was a testament to an impossible truth unfolding before her. "Vaegon?"
she whispered, the name a fragile thread cast into the vastness of the plains, a question wrapped in desperate hope and overwhelming shock.
The name, spoken aloud, carried the weight of years, of blood and memory, defying all logic and expectation.