ARC 1: Birth of the Daemon and Daenerys
Chapter 1: The Dragon's Fall
Year 283 AC
The roar of the crowd, a hopeful sound just moments ago, had curdled into a collective gasp of horror. From my vantage point near the Kingswood, where I had ridden with a contingent of loyal men to support Prince Rhaegar, the scene unfolding on the blood-soaked banks of the Trident was a nightmare made real. The silver banner of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon emblazoned in crimson, drooped low, mirroring the despair that clawed at my throat.
Just a heartbeat before, hope had surged through our ranks. Prince Rhaegar, the Silver Prince, the last dragon, had met the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, in single combat. The clash of steel had echoed across the muddy waters, a sound that promised a swift end to this rebellion that had torn the realm asunder. Rhaegar, with his renowned skill and the legendary Valyrian steel of Dark Sister in his hand, had seemed the embodiment of Westerosi chivalry, a figure destined for victory.
But the gods, it seemed, favored the brute strength of the rebel. A sickening thud had resonated across the field as Robert's warhammer, a monstrous thing of iron and steel, had connected with Rhaegar's chest. The Prince, my Prince, had staggered, the life draining from his violet eyes as surely as the blood bloomed on his silver armor. He had fallen then, not with a warrior's roar, but with a soft sigh that seemed to carry the very weight of the Targaryen dynasty down with him into the crimson-stained waters.
The sight was a blow to the heart, a physical pain that stole the breath from my lungs. Around me, the cheers of the loyalist forces died in their throats, replaced by a stunned silence that quickly fractured into cries of disbelief and anguish. The rebel banners, the prancing stag of Baratheon and the golden rose of Tyrell, seemed to swell in size, their victory palpable in the very air.
Panic rippled through our ranks. The Dornishmen, their dark eyes wide with grief for their Prince, faltered. The men of the Crownlands, their loyalty unwavering until this devastating blow, began to look around in confusion, their morale shattered. The dream of Rhaegar victorious, of a swift end to this bloody conflict, had dissolved in the mud and the Prince's lifeblood.
Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull of the Kingsguard, a man whose courage was legendary, roared commands, attempting to rally the scattered forces. His voice, usually a booming call to order, was now strained with desperation. "Form ranks! For the King! For the Dragon!"
But his words were like pebbles against a surging tide. The rebel forces, emboldened by their victory, pressed their advantage. The air filled with the clash of steel once more, but now it was the desperate clangor of defense, the panicked cries of men fighting a losing battle.
I spurred my horse forward, trying to reach the Kingsguard, to offer what little strength I and my men possessed. But the battlefield had become a chaotic swirl of clashing steel, panicked horses, and dying men. The rebels, fueled by their triumph, were relentless.
Then came the order, a bitter pill to swallow, a sound that signaled the end of our hopes on the Trident: retreat. The command, relayed by frantic messengers, urged the remaining loyalist forces to fall back towards the Kingswood, to regroup and to carry the grim news to King Aerys in the Red Keep.
Disbelief warred with the instinct for survival. To leave our Prince lying dead on the field, to turn our backs on the fight, felt like the ultimate betrayal. But the wisdom of the command, however painful, was undeniable. Without Rhaegar, the heart of our cause had been ripped out. To remain was to invite utter annihilation.
With heavy hearts and grim faces, the retreat began. It was not an orderly withdrawal, but a desperate scramble to escape the relentless pursuit of the victorious rebels. The once-proud Targaryen banners were now stained with mud and blood, dragged through the dirt as we fled.
As we rode through the darkening Kingswood, the weight of our defeat pressed down on us. The whispers of the Usurper's victory would soon reach King's Landing, and the fear of what that would mean for the royal family gripped my soul.
My thoughts turned to Queen Rhaella, heavy with child, her last hope for the future of House Targaryen growing within her womb. I remembered the King's recent decree, a strategic move born not of wisdom but of his growing paranoia. After the news of the Trident reached his ears, the King, in his increasing madness, had decided to send the Queen, along with young Prince Viserys, Rhaegar's heir, to the relative safety of Dragonstone.
The ancient Targaryen stronghold, isolated and formidable, was deemed a safer haven than the capital, vulnerable as it was to the approaching rebel armies. The loyal fleet stationed there could protect them, and the island itself was a natural fortress. It was a prudent decision, one that offered a glimmer of hope for the continuation of the dragon's line.
However, a cold dread settled in my stomach as I considered Princess Elia Martell and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon. Why, in the name of the gods, had the King not sent them to Dragonstone as well? Elia, the Dornish rose, the widow of our fallen Prince, and her innocent children were now in the Red Keep, directly in the path of the approaching storm.
The whispers in the loyalist circles had been grim. King Aerys's paranoia had reached new heights. He trusted no one, his mind consumed by fear of betrayal. The Martells, despite their long-standing loyalty and the sacrifice of their Prince, were not entirely immune to his suspicion. Dorne had been slower to fully commit its forces to the Targaryen cause, and whispers of Elia's brother, Prince Doran, playing a more cautious game had reached the King's ears, twisted and amplified by his madness.
Aerys, in his twisted logic, believed that holding Princess Elia and her children hostage in King's Landing would ensure the continued loyalty of House Martell. They were his insurance, a terrible price to pay for his fear. The pleas of concerned advisors, urging him to send them to Dragonstone alongside the Queen and Viserys, had fallen on deaf ears, dismissed as the treachery of those who sought to undermine him.
The image of young Rhaenys, with her Dornish beauty and Rhaegar's silver-gold hair, and little Aegon, the image of his father, filled my mind. They were innocent, caught in the maelstrom of their grandfather's madness and the brutal ambition of the rebels. The thought of what might befall them in a captured city sent a shiver of dread down my spine.
As we rode deeper into the Kingswood, the sounds of battle fading behind us, the weight of our defeat was compounded by the fear for those left behind in King's Landing. The Dragon had fallen on the Trident, and the shadow of the stag loomed large over the realm. The future of House Targaryen, now resting on a pregnant Queen on a distant island and a young boy, felt terrifyingly fragile. And the fate of the Dornish Princess and her children in the hands of a mad king and the approaching Lannister host was a dark omen indeed. The dragon's fall had just begun, and the realm would soon drown in its wake.