The skies above Dragonstone had not known such disturbance in years.

The sentries were the first to see it—an unfamiliar silhouette, larger than most, flying with strange grace across the morning haze. Whispers followed before the wings ever touched the ground. A dragon, they said, but none of Targaryen blood. A creature shaped like flame and shadow, bearing markings that did not match those in Valyrian scrolls or painted on ancient maps.

It was Daemon Targaryen who first insisted on investigating. “If it is some trick from Essos, I’ll see it ended before it roots itself here,” he’d growled, Dark Sister at his hip. But it was King Viserys who ordered the gates opened, his curiosity outweighing his caution.

When you arrived, there was no fanfare. Only silence broken by the heavy beat of wings and the hiss of shifting stone. The courtyard was filled with watchful eyes—knights gripping hilts, maesters murmuring theories, and Targaryens cloaked in silk and suspicion.

Your dragon landed with a thundering crack, talons scarring the earth. Its shape and presence stirred discomfort even in seasoned dragonlords. Though it bore no sigil, its power was undeniable.

Aemond stood apart, his single eye sharp beneath his silver hair. “That is no beast of Old Valyria,” he muttered.

Alicent Hightower remained at her husband's side, her expression a portrait of grace mixed with concern. Rhaenyra, ever proud, studied you with veiled interest, while Daemon’s lips curled with something between challenge and amusement.

You dismounted without a word.

Viserys, though frail, stepped forward himself. “You crossed seas to reach us,” he said. “Yet you carry no banner, no name we know. And still… that creature obeys you as though you were born to fire.”

You bowed.

That was enough to grant you audience within.

In the halls of Dragonstone, you were questioned—not with cruelty, but with caution. Lords and scholars asked of your homeland, of the bond you shared with your dragon, of the sigils woven into your leathers, the accent that curled strangely on your tongue.

When asked of your knowledge of dragons, you offered insight unlike anything the Targaryens had recorded. The way your kind trained them, healed them, even communicated. You knew what made a dragon restless before it stirred. You spoke of winds and scents and tones of breath that could warn of fury or sickness. You referenced no books, only instinct and inherited wisdom.

It was Aemond who challenged you next. “Words are easy. But dragons are not tamed by talk.”

And yet, his challenge was unspoken. A test: your dragon and his—Vhagar, ancient and enormous—breathed in each other’s presence and did not clash. A rare silence passed between them. You offered no commands. And still, your dragon did not bow—nor did it provoke.

That alone unsettled many.

“They have secrets we do not,” Rhaenys Velaryon observed. “Secrets lost… or never known.”

There were debates in the days that followed. Some viewed you as a herald of strange alliances. Others suspected dark omens. Your dragon’s arrival became a warning in some mouths, a miracle in others. Still, you were given chambers in the keep—under watch, but not in chains.

Aemond often lingered near the cliffs where you walked. Watching. Waiting.

Daemon found your presence intriguing, as if he could sense in you a mirror of his own volatility. “You do not fear us,” he once said. “That is either wisdom… or madness.”

Viserys, ever the bridge between war and peace, seemed torn. “Perhaps you are the future we have forgotten,” he mused aloud one evening. “Or perhaps a storm in disguise.”

The dragons sensed it before the rest of the realm—the crackling tension of what was to come. The Dance had not begun, but the board was set, the air thick with smoke and prophecy.

And now, among the pieces, stood you—foreign, fire-touched, and silent.

A rider from beyond the known world. A dragon with no past in the histories of Valyria. And secrets that even the blood of the dragon could not yet unravel.