Game of thrones: A storm is coming

Kings Landing

The Red Keep buzzed with rumors the way a beehive buzzes with bees—except these bees were nosy courtiers, drunk servants, and opportunistic guards. It wasn't unusual for the castle to be alive with gossip, but this time it wasn't about Lady Such-and-Such wearing a scandalously low bodice or Lord What's-His-Face gambling away the family fortune. No, this was serious. Deadly serious. Or so the whispers claimed.

"A boy," they said. "A bastard."

"Oh, not just any bastard," another voice would chime in, dramatically lowering their voice to a whisper. "He's got a dragon, and has taken a nother name."

"And not just any dragon! They say it's so big it blotted out the sun!"

"And ate three cows for breakfast!"

"Five cows!"

"And a goat!"

"Shut up, you lot," the cook snapped as she stomped through the kitchen. "If I hear one more word about that bloody Dragon Bastard, I'll be serving you roast gossip for supper!"

Of course, this only made the rumors spread faster. By mid-afternoon, the dragon was supposedly bigger than the Red Keep itself, the bastard boy was a secret Targaryen prince, and half the city thought he was coming to claim the Iron Throne with an army of Essosi sellswords and a fleet of ships shaped like dragons.

Otto Hightower, the perpetually stressed Hand of the King, had heard every version of the rumors. He didn't like any of them. In fact, he liked them so little that he was considering banning the words bastard, dragon, and Essos from court entirely.

The Hand of the King, didn't deal in whispers. He dealt in facts, or at least in what passed for facts among the web of spies he maintained. The latest reports were troubling. A silver-haired boy riding a black dragon the size of a mountain had been spotted in Pentos, then flying towards Volantis. He is apparently the friend of the new archon of Pentos and their guard captain. 

"This boy," Otto muttered, pacing in his chambers like a particularly agitated cat, "this Daeron. He's either a pawn of someone, or a major threat, and we can't afford to assume the former."

"Talking to yourself again?" Alicent, his daughter, poked her head in.

"Why do you sound surprised?" Otto shot back.

"You usually wait until dinner to start ranting."

Ignoring her, Otto summoned the king's steward. "Call the council," he barked. "Now!"

In the council chambers, Otto laid out the situation with all the seriousness he could muster, "This bastard with a dragon could become a rallying point," he began, his voice stern. "If he gains enough power in Essos, he could return to Westeros with an army."

King Viserys leaned back in his chair, looking vaguely bored. "He's a boy," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "A child playing at power. Essos is full of such pretenders."

"A child with a dragon," Otto countered, his tone sharp enough to cut through armor. "And not just any dragon. One that rivals Balerion in size."

Viserys frowned. The council murmured among themselves. Some sided with Otto, urging caution. Others agreed with the king, dismissing Daeron as a far-off nuisance. Viserys, as always, preferred to avoid conflict. In the end, he decreed only that the Crown's spies should keep watch.

Viserys sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Keep an eye on him. But honestly, Otto, you're making this out to be some great crisis. He's just a boy, he even changed his last name if I have heard correctly."

"A boy with a dragon," Otto repeated, glaring at the king as if the man had just suggested dragons were nothing more than overgrown lizards.

Otto Hightower left the council chambers dissatisfied. He had seen what ambition unchecked could do to a kingdom.

In the smoky haze of a King's Landing tavern, Daemon Targaryen lounged with a cup of wine in one hand and a smirk on his lips. Across from him, a spymaster rattled off the latest tales from Essos.

"They're calling him Daeron the Dragon lord, of house Penndragon. Riding a beast larger than Vhagar. They say he's building an army with mercenaries and freedmen to conquer everything. But so far, we haven't found any proof behind these rumors."

Daemon chuckled, swirling his wine. "A bastard with a grand ambition. How delightful. Maybe I should pay him a visit. See if he's as impressive as they say."

Mysaria, sitting nearby, rolled her eyes. "You'd burn him alive before you even learned his name."

"Only if he bores me," Daemon said, his grin widening. "But a boy like that... No, he's no bore. I think I'd like him. Maybe he'd be of use to me."

Mysaria, sitting nearby, snorted. "You'd like him right up until he became competition. Then you'd stab him."

Daemon swirled his wine thoughtfully. "Competition makes life interesting, my dear."

Daemon leaned back, his thoughts racing. A dragon-riding bastard building power in Essos? It was the kind of chaos Daemon thrived on. Whether Daeron was a threat or an opportunity, Daemon couldn't say. But one thing was certain—he was going to keep watching.

In the servants' quarters, the gossip spread like wildfire.

"Did you hear about the Dragon Bastard?" one maid whispered, her eyes wide. "They say his dragon's bigger than the Red Keep itself!"

"Aye," said a stable boy, leaning in conspiratorially. "And he's got an army now. Sellswords and spies, all ready to follow him back to Westeros."

"Do you think he'll come for the throne?"

"Of course he will! What else would a Targaryen bastard do with a dragon like that?"

"But he's changed his name to Penndragon I heard?"

The rumors grew wilder with each retelling, but one thing remained constant: the name Daeron Penndragon, whispered with equal parts fear and fascination.

Driftmark

In the grand hall of Driftmark, Corlys Velaryon, a man who could make even saltwater look regal, was listening intently to a report from one of his captains.

"They're calling him a savior and protector in Essos," the captain said, his voice tinged with awe. "A kind dragonlord with a generous heart. But vengeful against his enemies. They say he's clever, bold, and treats common folk well."

Across the table, Rhaenys remarked with a snort. "And how much of that is actual truth, and how much is Essosi flair for storytelling?"

Corlys chuckled. "If even half of it's true, he's doing better than most. But ambition in Essos doesn't translate to power in Westeros."

"Perhaps not," Rhaenys mused, her tone laced with something between pride and concern. "But he's no ordinary boy. He is my brother, Targaryen blood runs through him. And dragons don't bond with just anyone. And I don't think he has the habit of staying in the shadows for too long."

Corlys leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Do you think he'll return?"

Rhaenys's faint smile vanished. "If he's as ambitious as the rumours say, it's not a matter of if. It's when."

At this moment, there was a knock the door. Corlys looked at his wife curiously and spoke, " Come in." 

The maester came in with a letter in his hand. He bowed and spoke,"My lord, my lady. This letter arrived just now from Pentos. One of our merchant vessels carried the messenger, who handed it to me and left. It is addressed to you my lady."

This time Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, and took the letter with curiousity as Corlys dismissed the maester.

" Do you think its him?" Corlys asked amused.

Rhaenys smiled as she opened it," Who else could it be?"

The letter was as follows

Dearest Sister Rhaenys,

I hope this letter reaches you safely and without being read by hundred others. I saved one of Corlys's ships here by chance, and I sent the letter with one of my men. If the tales have already reached you that I'm terrorizing Essos on the back of a dragon the size of a small mountain, let me assure you: they're only slightly exaggerated. Acnologia is large, but he's surprisingly picky about what he eats. I swear he only does it to annoy me.

Now, where to begin? Since crossing the Narrow Sea, I've somehow become both a hero and a headache to half of Essos. First, there was Pentos. Lovely city if you enjoy being flattered by magisters who are as slippery as eels (and smell about the same). They wanted to crown me as their "Protector," which I graciously declined. I've found that "Protector" is usually just a fancier way of saying, "You'll be blamed when this all goes wrong."

Let me tell you about my new "humble abode." Imagine King's Landing, but with fewer rats and more silk-clad schemers sipping spiced wine. This city is ruled by merchant princes, and they're as treacherous as Littlefinger but without the charm. Upon my arrival with Acnologia, I became quite the sensation. They gawked at my dragon like commoners seeing a joust for the first time. It was both flattering and infuriating.

The merchants tried to recruit me into their petty games of trade and sabotage. Naturally, I played along for a time. My "former partner," Darios Velanti, thought he could leash me with coin and promises, and then take me out silently. Let's just say his ambition burned too brightly, and I had to snuff it out. (Don't worry; his death was... educational for the others.)

I've since claimed Pentos, not officially, of course, but the ones in power knows I hold the real power. Acnologia perched atop the council hall ensures compliance. Orlen Zo Rhokar, a sellsword with a knack for strategy, Nessa Velathi, a charming Lyseni with a poison collection to rival the Citadel's archives. And then there's Jax—a silent assassin who speaks volumes with his blade. Together, we've turned Pentos into a thriving little kingdom.

But here's where it gets interesting. Do you remember the story of our Father's death? How he was supposedly felled by a random arrow, and died later? It seems there's more to it than we were told. Nessa's network uncovered whispers of a group called the Shadow Council—a clandestine alliance opposed to anything Valyrian. They may have orchestrated his death, hiding behind the chaos of war. They also sponsored Darios to assasinate me, so safe to say they are on my naughty list. I'll find them eventually, Rhaenys, and when I do, they'll wish they'd stayed in the shadows.

In the meantime, I'm preparing for the long game. Volantis beckons with its politics and unrest, and I plan to use the chaos to my advantage. But don't think for a moment I've forgotten Westeros. You are the only family I have left, remember? I'll come to visit you guys once I have set things up nicely here.

Stay safe, sister. And when the time comes, I hope you 

Your brother 

Daeron Penndragon

p.s - Yeah, I changed my last name since I don't think I'll ever get legitimized here, and the bastard thing was getting boring. So I decided to found my own house, neat right?

The flickering light of the brazier illuminated the room as Rhaenys finished reading, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. She passed the letter to Corlys, who took it with a raised eyebrow and began reading silently. As he progressed, his lips twitched upward, and by the end, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"Well," Corlys said, placing the letter on the table, "your brother certainly has a flair for drama. I'll give him that. 'Terrorizing Essos on the back of a dragon,' indeed."

Rhaenys smirked, her eyes glinting with both pride and worry. "He always did have a way with words. Seems he's current self is his true personality, can't say I don't find it charmong. But behind the theatrics, Corlys, there's something serious here. He's not just making waves; he's positioning himself as a player in the great game."

Corlys nodded thoughtfully. "Pentos under his thumb, a network of allies, and now whispers of Volantis? The boy is ambitious, I'll grant him that. But ambition without caution can be dangerous, especially in a place as treacherous as Essos. And this Shadow Council... If what he says is true, he's stirring a hornet's nest."

Rhaenys leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant. "Do you think it's true? About the Shadow Council and their involvement in my father's death? How can such an organization exist without any news or rumors of it ?"

Corlys stroked his beard, his expression turning serious. "It's possible. Essos has always been a place of conspiracies and rivalries, especially against anything Valyrian. If such a group exists and had a hand in your father's death, then Daeron's quest for vengeance might unearth truths long buried."

"And put him in more danger than he realizes," Rhaenys added, her voice tight with concern. "He's playing a game against forces older and more insidious than he can imagine."

Corlys smiled faintly, his tone reassuring. "True, but he's also proving to be resourceful. A dragon at his back, capable allies, and his wits? He's better equipped than most who've attempted the same."

Rhaenys picked up the letter again, rereading certain lines. Her lips quirked upward. "Daeron Penndragon. He's decided to make his own house. Bold. Almost reckless. But then, that's him, isn't it?"

Corlys chuckled. "It's fitting. If nothing else, he's declaring to the world that he's not some forgotten bastard to be overlooked. He's a man with ambition."

His expression then turned grave. "If he succeeds in Essos, Westeros will notice. Allies and enemies alike. And when he makes his move, the Velaryon fleet may well be his strongest lifeline. The question is, Rhaenys, when that time comes, where will we stand?"

Rhaenys met her husband's gaze, her eyes resolute. "If Daeron calls, I will answer. He's my blood, Corlys. My brother. But until then, we watch. And we wait. The sea has taught us that the tides can change quickly."

Corlys nodded, leaning forward to place a hand over hers. "Then we prepare, my love. For when that tide turns, it will bring a storm with it."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the letter lying between them like a harbinger of what was to come. The fire crackled softly, its light casting shadows that danced like dragons on the stone wall. 

The sun was setting over King's Landing, casting the Red Keep in hues of gold and crimson. In the private chambers of King Viserys I, the king sat with his wife, Aemma, and their daughter, Rhaenyra. The room was warm, lit by the soft glow of a hearth fire. Despite the cozy setting, the mood was tense.

"Otto is overreacting," Viserys began, pouring himself a goblet of wine. He leaned back in his chair, his expression weary. "He sees threats everywhere, even in a boy across the Narrow Sea. "

Aemma, seated beside him, placed her hands neatly in her lap. She had the serene air of someone used to navigating her husband's moods. "A boy, yes," she said, her voice calm but measured, "but a boy with a dragon, and now a mercenary army, my love. Even you can't deny the power in that."

Viserys sighed, swirling the wine in his cup. "Power, yes. But what can he do from Essos? He's making waves there, not here. Essos is a different world. Its politics are nothing like ours. And nobody can say for certain if he's building a great army. Rumors are just that, rumors."

"A dragon changes the rules of politics," Aemma replied softly. "It always has. And if the rumors are true, his dragon is larger than any alive today. That alone makes him a potential threat."

Rhaenyra, who had been sitting quietly, finally spoke up. She was perched on the edge of her chair, her young face alight with curiosity and something else—excitement. "What is he like?" she asked, her voice eager.

Viserys looked at her, his expression softening. "Who?"

"The boy," Rhaenyra said. "Daeron. They say he's a Targaryen bastard, don't they? That he rides a dragon like Balerion. Is he... like us?"

Aemma smiled faintly at her daughter's interest. "If the rumors are true, he may have Targaryen blood. But he's a bastard, Rhaenyra. Not a prince."

Rhaenyra frowned. "He rides a dragon, though. Doesn't that mean he's one of us? Dragons don't bond with just anyone."

Viserys's face tightened at that. It was a point he couldn't easily refute. "The boy is an anomaly," he said after a pause. "If he does have our blood, it's distant. He's no threat. He even has a different last name now."

"Why not?" Rhaenyra asked, leaning forward. "If he came back with his dragon... wouldn't people support him? Wouldn't they try to push him for the throne?"

"Enough, Rhaenyra," Viserys said, his tone sharper than he intended. He saw the hurt flicker across his daughter's face and softened his voice. "He's a child, just like you. And Essos is far away. Whatever he's doing there, it doesn't concern us."

"But it could," Aemma said gently. "Viserys, you've always believed in peace, and that's a good thing. But peace isn't guaranteed. A boy with ambition and a dragon could bring chaos to your reign—or worse, to Rhaenyra's future."

The king looked at his wife, his frustration giving way to doubt. He wanted to believe that the whispers of Daeron were just that, whispers. But the way Aemma spoke, the way Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled with both fear and fascination, made him wonder.

"What would you have me do?" he asked Aemma quietly.

"Prepare," she replied. "Keep watch, yes, but don't dismiss the possibility that this boy might one day set his sights on Westeros."

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, the family sat together in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the Red Keep whispered of dragons and bastards, of power and ambition. And somewhere across the sea, Daeron's legend continued to grow.