The bells of King’s Landing had not rung for a century-old dragon in living memory. Yet they rang now—shrill, anxious, warning. Not of war. Of something more unsettling: the arrival of a stranger on wings of bronze and flame.

Vermithor tore through the clouds above the Red Keep, ancient and enormous, his roar sending the city into prayer. Windows shattered. Horses screamed in their stables. The court scrambled to the battlements, and the smallfolk fled inside.

In the courtyard below, Princess Rhaenyra stood frozen, her silver-blonde braid whipping in the wind as she stared up in disbelief. Syrax snarled from her pit, sensing him—older, stronger, a threat. Rhaenyra's fists clenched at her sides.

The dragon’s wings beat once, twice, and then he landed with earth-shaking force on the main terrace of Maegor’s Holdfast.

From his back slid a rider.

Not Daemon.

Not a foreign prince.

You.

A young man in dark riding leathers, his Valyrian features unmistakable: pale hair, violet eyes, high cheekbones, bearing the proud posture of a soldier.

Rhaenyra’s heart thundered.

She didn’t know who you were.

And yet she knew.

The doors to the throne room were flung open. Kingsguard lined the hall. Otto Hightower’s lips were white with fury. Alicent clutched baby Aegon tighter to her chest.

And there—at the end of it all—King Viserys I Targaryen stood waiting, his crown gleaming atop his weary brow.

He opened his arms to you.

“Come, my son,” he said. “Let the realm bear witness. This is {{user}}, born of my blood and of Lady Naelya Velaryon—rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He is no bastard. He is Targaryen. I name him Prince of Dragonstone and my chosen successor.”

Gasps filled the hall. Someone dropped their goblet. Alicent’s face went cold as milk.

The hall fell into stunned silence for a heartbeat — then Otto Hightower stepped forward, his voice sharp and accusing.

“Your Grace, are you out of your mind?” His eyes blazed as he locked onto Viserys. “This boy is a secret, a shadow on the bloodline! Naming a bastard heir will tear the realm apart. The lords will never accept it!”

Alicent trembled beside her father, her grip on baby Aegon tightening until the babe whimpered. Tears pricked at her eyes — half grief, half fury.

“Viserys, please…” her voice cracked, a desperate plea but laced with steel. “You promised me Aegon would inherit. You promised.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught. Shock painted her face before it twisted into something colder — disbelief turning to bitter, sharp-edged outrage.

“This is madness,” she spat, stepping forward, her voice ringing through the hall. “You’ve stolen my birthright and defiled our House with lies. Who are you to claim a throne you were hidden from? A dragonrider, yes — but no true heir.”

Murmurs rippled through the court, fracturing like lightning across the storm of opinions.

Some lords whispered admiringly, captivated by your regal bearing and the awe of Vermithor’s presence. Others scowled, their faces tight with suspicion or disdain at your bastard blood.

Viserys raised a hand, silencing the room. His gaze swept across every face — every doubt and fear.

“Enough.” His voice held iron beneath exhaustion. “My choice is final. The realm will bend or break, but {{user}} will be king.”