Game of thrones: A storm is coming

In the year 107 AC , two major things happened in Westeros. Daron Penndragon , the last rider of the famed dragon Acnologia, returned to Westeros for a visit from Essos. This event generated a buzz among all the nobles of Westeros, including the royals.

The second thing, however, nobody paid much attention to. In the far north, in Winterfell, a young boy was born to lord Rickard Stark.

He named the boy Cregan Stark, the future heir of Winterfell. Nobody would know at the time how in the future, this little boy would become the famous " Dragon's bloody fang' as he made an impossible march across Westeros to honor his vows.

 - From the records of Grandmaester Gandalf.

The crisp morning air of Pentos buzzed with activity as Daeron prepared for his journey. His entourage of 100 guards lined up in disciplined rows, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Nessa inspected their ranks with her usual mix of pragmatism and sass. Daena came to bid farewell to him, and busied herself with the overseeing of the city.

"Alright, boys," Nessa called, pacing like a drill sergeant. "Remember, we're not just guarding some prince; we're guarding the Daeron Penndragon. If any of you trip over your swords, I'm not dragging you back to Pentos for healing. You'll stay where you fall, preferably looking heroic."

Jax the Silent silently smirked, his expression unreadable behind his hood. He busied himself sharpening a dagger, likely wondering how many Westerosi nobles he'd have to dispatch for Daeron in the weeks to come.

Daeron stood at the forefront, inspecting the final preparations. Acnologia, perched on a nearby hill, let out a low rumble that echoed across the countryside.

"Think he's bored?" Daeron asked, glancing up at the massive dragon.

"Bored or hungry," Nessa quipped. "Let's just hope he doesn't decide to snack on one of the guards. It's hard to replace them."

With a final wave to the gathered people of Pentos, Daeron mounted his horse, and the procession set out. Acnologia took to the skies with a thunderous flap of his wings, casting a shadow over the caravan as it began its journey.

The Red Keep was a place of whispers, plots, and an ungodly amount of wine-soaked paranoia. In the shadowy corners of its ancient halls, rumors were currency, traded faster than you could say "dracarys." Lately, the gossip had become downright spicy.

A bastard became a prince; yes, a bastard, who was apparently riding a dragon bigger than a small castle and causing all kinds of chaos across the Narrow Sea, now coming here! It wasn't your everyday "my cousin's been screwing his pig" or " The lord's wife was found in bed with 5 stablehands and a donkey" kind of scandal. No, this was a full-blown, dragon-sized problem heading their way.

Meanwhile, in the Red Keep's Small Council chamber, the atmosphere was anything but calm. The assembled lords and advisors sat around the carved wooden table, their expressions ranging from panic to interest. The topic of the day: Daeron Penndragon and his dragon.

In the Red Keep, the Small Council had convened an emergency session. The painted table groaned under the weight of maps, reports, and goblets of wine. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, stood in the Small Council chamber, looking as though he'd aged ten years overnight. His head throbbed, and it wasn't just the wine from the previous evening.

"Reports from Essos," Otto began, waving a stack of parchment like a preacher brandishing holy texts, "suggest that this Daeron Stone—yes, the bastard boywith the dragon—has been liberating slave cities, forming alliances, and possibly coming to Westeros with an army."

Lord Beesbury, hunched over the parchment, adjusted his spectacles. "Not an army, exactly. A hundred men, disciplined. And yes, a dragon—a black one of considerable size."

"And he's doing what? Sightseeing?" Ser Harrold Westerling, the commander of the kingsguard scoffed, his armored gauntlets clinking as he leaned forward. "A man with a dragon doesn't take leisurely strolls."

"It doesn't matter!" snapped Otto. "The point is, he's dangerous. The people of Pentos are calling him a hero. A liberator. A... dragon prince, if you will. The tales of the so called 'Daeron the Great is even spread here in Westeros."

King Viserys, slumped in his seat like a man who desperately wanted this meeting to end, raised a hand lazily. "Otto, he's just a boy. A bastard boy who formed his own house, rather than seeking status here. How much damage could he really do?"

Otto inhaled sharply, clutching the bridge of his nose. "He's a boy with a dragon the size of the Red Keep, Your Grace. A dragon that spits fire hot enough to roast your skepticism."

Lord Lyonel Strong, ever the voice of reason, leaned forward. "The Hand has a point. If Daeron returns to Westeros with a dragon and an army, the realm could splinter. The smallfolk love a good underdog. And lords with ambitions might see him as... an opportunity."

Lord Beesbury tapped his fingers on the table. "He freed the slaves of Meereen and then… left. No claims, no demands. Quite peculiar, wouldn't you agree?"

"It's a trap," declared Lord Tyland Lannister, his golden hair catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. "No one frees slaves for the sake of it. He's gathering goodwill in Essos to build an army."

"Or perhaps," said King Viserys , his voice measured, "he's genuinely disinterested in ruling. Not every Valyrian seeks to sit the Iron Throne."

"Let's not be naive, Your Grace," Otto cut in, his gaze stern. "A man with a dragon will inevitably be drawn to power."

The room descended into a cacophony of speculation.

"Perhaps he's planning to claim the support of Driftmark; Corlys is still angry at the royal council ," suggested Beesbury.

"Or Dorne, they would love to use him against the crown," countered Lord Strong.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Tyland. "He's clearly a Targaryen pretender aiming for the Iron Throne."

"Enough," Viserys snapped, his tone silencing the bickering. "What matters is how we respond. We cannot ignore him like before, but that doesn't mean we have to make him an enemy outright."

"Perhaps we send an envoy," Otto mused. "Gauge his intentions. Or... sow discord among his ranks."

"And risk him burning the envoy alive?" Lyonel shot back. "Foolish."

Viserys sighed heavily. "We strengthen the fleet. If he comes for Westeros, we must be ready. But in the meantime, send an envoy to Driftmark. If he goes there, invite him for an audience here as a royal guest."

In a dingy corner of a bustling tavern, Daemon Targaryen sat with his boots propped on the table, a goblet of wine in hand, and a smirk that could start wars. Across from him, a spymaster droned on about Daeron's exploits.

"They're calling him Daeron the Great," the spymaster said. "He's freed slaves, burned slaver ships, and apparently slapped a Pentoshi noble with a fish. He is apparently coming to Westeros in a few moons. The details are unclear."

Daemon burst out laughing. "A fish? Now that's a story. Forget the dragon, tell me more about this fish."

Mysaria, sitting nearby with an expression of permanent exasperation, rolled her eyes. "You'll be laughing less when he crosses the Narrow Sea and comes here."

Daemon waved her off. "If he's bold enough to come here, I'll invite him for wine. If he bores me, I'll burn him alive. Simple as that."

"You're impossible," Mysaria muttered.

"And charming," Daemon added, flashing a grin.

In her chambers, Rhaenyra was positively buzzing with curiosity.

"A dragonrider across the sea," she mused, pacing. "With Targaryen blood. Do you think he's like us?"

Her friend, Alicent Hightower, hesitated. "He's a bastard," she pointed out.

"Yes," Rhaenyra said, waving that off. "But dragons don't care about legitimacy, do they? They choose their riders."

Alicent frowned. "If he comes back, do you think people would support him over your father?"

Rhaenyra stopped pacing. The question hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

"No," she said finally, but her voice lacked conviction.

In the storm-lashed halls of Storm's End, Lord Borros Baratheon roared with laughter as the news reached him.

"A dragon rider with no throne?" he bellowed. "Sounds like a bloody waste of a dragon!"

His daughters exchanged wary glances, unused to their father's jovial mood.

"If he's coming this way, I'd like to see him try to take Storm's End," Borros continued. "Let's see how a dragon fares against stone and storm!"

In the Vale an young girl asked an older charming woman, " Is it true about the the bastard, sister Rhea? He is really coming to Westeros with an army and a giant dragon?"

Rhea Royce smirked and replied, "The dragon part is true, the army, not so much. Why so curious little Jeyne ? Did you form a crush on the so called bastard prince? "

Jeyne blushed and refuted, " I'm just asking as the future lady of the Vale. I don't care about him!"

Rhea nodded and spoke softly, " That's good. Take a lesson from me, Princes are not always as charming as they are hyped to be."

In the grand halls of Driftmark, Lord Corlys Velaryon studied the reports, his weathered face betraying no emotion. Beside him, Princess Rhaenys paced, her crimson gown swishing with each step.

"So, he's finally remembered to come for a visit," Rhaenys said, shaking her head. "And making a grand spectacle of it as well."

Corlys smiled faintly. "He hasn't made a move yet, but he's certainly shaking the realm."

Rhaenys stopped, her piercing gaze fixed on her husband. "How do you think they will react?"

"I don't trust anyone I haven't sailed with," Corlys replied. "But he's clever. Freeing Meereen without ruling it? That's a man who knows how to win hearts without overreaching. He's not coming here without a plan. Let's just hope he doesn't do anything crazy.

Rhaenys replied to her husband with a smile. "He has my father's blood after all. It'll be weird if he doesn't."

As Daeron's ship made its way south, Nessa pulled herself to stand alongside him.

"Do you think they're panicking yet?" she asked, her tone amused.

Daeron smirked. "Oh, I'd wager the Small Council is in shambles by now."

Jax, ever silent, glanced up at Acnologia, who let out a bone-rattling roar that echoed across the plains.

"Let them panic," Daeron continued. "The more they panic, the stronger our position."

Nessa grinned. "You're a devil, Daeron Penndragon."

"A devil?" Daeron chuckled. "No, Nessa. I'm just a man with a dragon—and a plan."

The ship sailed on, Acnologia's shadow stretching across the landscape as Westeros trembled at the name Daeron Penndragon. The game had only just begun.