webnovel

House Of The Dragon: 'The Exiled Prince'

Libros y Literatura
En Curso · 1M Visitas
  • 1 Caps
    Contenido
  • 4.7
    24 valoraciones
  • N/A
    APOYOS
Resumen

House Of The Dragon Fanfic (AU) . . . . . . | "The Exiled Dragon": Banished for forbidden love, Prince Aenys Targaryen, grandson of Jaehaerys, vanished into the ruins of Valyria amid a storm that overcame the ship that carried him to Essos. Forged by years of exile, he returns not as a broken man but as King Viserys’s chosen heir. With the savage dragon Cannibal at his command and ancient Valyrian relics in his grasp, Aenys is no longer the prince the realm remembers. Being summoned after Daemon Targaryen’s disgracefull proclamation of the 'Heir for a day', Aenys’s arrival shocks the court, sparking whispers of his mysterious power and unyielding ambition. The bonds of family are tested as old wounds reopen and a dangerous game begins. As dragons soar and rivalries intensify, Aenys must choose between loyalty to his brother and the allure of the Iron Throne. Will he unite House Targaryen or destroy it from within? An alternate universe saga where fire and blood reshape the destiny of Westeros. . . . . . . No rights to 'A Song Of Ice And Fire' and 'Fire and Blood' belong to me. I do this only as an hobby, nothing more.

Etiquetas
10 etiquetas
Chapter 1|| The 'Exiled Prince' - Teaser ||

. . .

. .

.

|| House Of The Dragon ||

.

. .

. . .

Year 75 AC:

The sun dipped low over Dragonstone, casting elongated shadows upon the ancient stones and cliffs.

Aenys Targaryen, a boy of four, clutched the hands of his parents, Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, his small fingers tightening as a flutter of anxiety coursed through him.

The tranquility of the quiet moment was shattered as the sky suddenly darkened, and with a deafening roar, Vhagar, the mighty she-dragon, descended before them, her massive form landing with a resounding crash that reverberated through the beach.

Aenys's violet eyes widened in awe, his gaze fixed upon the colossal dragon, while his mother's grip on his hand tightened, a silent reassurance to him.

"Father..." Aenys finally spoke, his voice tinged with innocent wonder, "Will I ever have a dragon like Vhagar one day?"

Baelon knelt beside his son, a reassuring smile playing on his lips. Gently, he guided Aenys's hand toward Vhagar's lowered snout, the dragon's warm breath washing over them.

"One day, my son, I'm sure you will." Baelon replied, his voice filled with pride. "The blood of the dragon runs as strong in you as does in me, after all."

Alyssa watched, her own smile mirroring her husband's, as Aenys nodded, his previous fear melting into awe and excitement.

.

.

Year 84 AC:

Years had passed, and now fire consumed what once lived.

The funeral pyre burned high and bright, its flames licking hungrily at the darkening sky, sending pillars of black smoke twisting toward the heavens. The scent of dragon-fire, burning wood, and flesh mingled in the salt-heavy air, and the crash of distant waves against the cliffs of King's Landing provided a solemn accompaniment to the crackling of the flames.

Among the gathered mourners and the whole of the royal family, Aenys Targaryen stood beside his cousin, Princess Rhaenys, their young faces lit by the shifting glow of the blaze.

He was older now, taller, his silver-white hair tousled by the wind, though still too young to wear the weight of loss so heavily.

Yet loss was a lesson all Targaryens learned young it seemed.

Rhaenys, ever composed, stood silent at his side, her expression unreadable save for the way her fingers brushed lightly against his own. A fleeting touch, there and gone, yet a silent testament to their growing bond, forged in grief.

Behind them however, their fathers watched.

Prince Aemon leaned toward his younger brother, his voice quiet, yet certain. "Perhaps it is time to unite our lines through them."

Baelon did not answer at once, his violet gaze remained on the two children standing before the pyre, the reflection of fire dancing in his eyes. When at last he spoke, it was with measured consideration.

"Aenys and Rhaenys… would make for a strong match, eliminating many problems that might come to rise in the future..." he mused. "A union that would indeed be worthy of our blood, brother."

The flames crackled louder, rising higher, as if the gods themselves had heard.

.

.

Year 89 AC:

The hidden corridors of Maegor's Holdfast had borne witness to many secrets over the years,— schemes whispered in the dark, lovers meeting beyond the eyes of court, betrayals sealed with blood. This night, they became a sanctuary for something far more perilous for the future of the known world.

Aenys and Rhaenys stood close, the torchlight flickering against cold stone, casting their faces in shifting gold and shadow.

He was fourteen, she fifteen, yet in that moment, they were neither boy nor girl, prince nor princess,— only two hearts beating in unison, drawn together by forces older than crowns and kingdoms.

Her breath was warm against his cheek, her scent all fire and summer skies,— his hands trembled as they found hers, fingers entwining, as if to hold onto something neither of them fully understood yet.

A single glance, a shared hesitation, and then her lips met his,— soft, searching, forbidden. It lasted but a moment, and yet it changed everything.

When they parted, silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of what they had done, of what it might mean.

Aenys could hear his own heartbeat, a distant thunder in his ears. "We should not..." Rhaenys whispered, but she did not pull away.

"No, we shouldn't." Aenys agreed, though he made no move to let her go as well.

The castle walls had ears, the gods had eyes, and the blood of the dragon burned hot in their veins,— their love was a dangerous thing, and danger, once kindled, is not so easily extinguished.

Or is it?

.

.

On the same year:

Far to the north of King's Landing, beneath the cold light of the moon, a single green eye snapped open.

Deep within the craggy peaks of Dragonstone, where the cliffs met the surging waves of the Narrow Sea, the Cannibal stirred,— ancient, monstrous, and untamed, the great black wyrm had slumbered for decades, undisturbed by the petty squabbles of men.

But no dragon sleeps forever,— his wings, tattered yet vast, shifted against the stone, sending loose rock tumbling down the mountainside, while the scent of salt and blood lingered in his nostrils, and hunger gnawed at him once more.

In contrast, and yet so similarly, far to the north, beyond the Wall, ice groaned and split like the shattering of old bones.

In the heart of the Lands of Always Winter, a pale blue light flickered in the darkness.

Then, like cold fire burning through the void, the Night King's eyes gleamed,— he had slept too long.

Stirring within the frozen wastes, he rose from his throne of ice, the wind howling at his command, and the dead would march sooner than they should have.

One dragon awoke to hunger, while the "other" to war.

.

.

At the same time:

In the dim, otherworldly halls of the Valyrian gods, shadows moved like living things, shifting and twisting with each flicker of ethereal fire.

The great temple was neither here nor there, existing beyond mortal comprehension, a place where time ebbed and flowed like the tides. The air was thick with the scent of blood and brimstone, the weight of ancient power pressing upon the unseen.

Figures wreathed in flame and darkness convened, their voices a chorus of whispers and echoes, reverberating through the void.

"Their union must be sealed." one intoned, its voice neither man nor woman, but something older, something endless. "It is the only way to bring the chosen one to us, where he may be shaped, tempered in our fire, and made to serve our will."

Another stirred, its form flickering like a dying ember. "Yes... the blood must mix. Their coupling must happen sooner than fate would allow,— but that alone is not enough."

A third voice, colder than the rest, murmured from the abyss. "The king's mind must bend,— he must see sin where there is destiny, disgrace where there is design. Ensure the boy's exile, for in his banishment, we shall find our reach."

The flames guttered, burning blue and green, and the temple fell silent.

The gods had spoken, and fate was once again set into motion.

.

.

Year 90 AC:

The throne room of the Red Keep was silent, save for the distant crackling of torches and the faint rustle of courtiers shifting uneasily in their places.

The air hung heavy, thick with unspoken words and unseen forces.

Upon the Iron Throne, King Jaehaerys sat still as stone, his face carved with the weight of years, his violet eyes distant,— clouded, as if staring beyond the present moment into something only he could see.

The lords and ladies gathered before him exchanged wary glances, sensing that whatever held the king's mind was not entirely his own.

His fingers gripped the arms of the throne, the jagged edges of melted swords pressing into his flesh, but he did not seem to feel them.

Then, with a voice as firm as Valyrian steel, he spoke. "Aenys Targaryen is to be banished to the Targaryen manse in Essos for the duration of five years." The words rang out like a hammer striking an anvil, final and unyielding.

A murmur rippled through the court, a mixture of shock and uncertainty, some faces darkened in satisfaction, others in unease, but none dared to challenge the decree.

The king's expression did not change.

His decree had been made, and somewhere, in the depths of the unseen, forces beyond mortal comprehension whispered in triumph.

.

.

A few days later:

The sea raged, a living thing, furious and unrelenting as waves as tall as castle towers crashed against the doomed vessel, splintering wood and snapping rigging like kindling.

The wind howled like a chorus of wailing spirits, tearing at the sails until nothing remained but tattered remnants flailing in the storm. The ship groaned beneath the onslaught, her hull breaking apart, swallowed by the abyssal depths.

Aenys Targaryen clung to the wreckage, the salt sting of the sea in his throat, his fingers numb from the cold. Thunder roared overhead, a sound almost drowned beneath the fury of the storm,— almost.

For amidst the chaos, another sound rose.

A sound older than the storm, older than the sea itself, and a shadow split the sky.

The Cannibal came as death incarnate, a monstrous shape against the lightning-lit heavens, blacker than night, its wings beat against the stormwinds, each stroke sending gusts that scattered the rain. The dragon's great, scarred head turned downward, green eyes burning through the darkness like twin beacons.

Then it dove.

The sea had claimed its prize, but the Cannibal would take its own.

The young prince felt claws close around him, talons that could have crushed him to pulp yet held firm. And as they ascended, Aenys caught a final glimpse of the ship vanishing beneath the waves, consumed by the endless abyss.

The Cannibal carried him into the storm, its eyes clouded with something more than mere instinct,— it had come not by chance, but by design of the divine.

.

.

A few days later ×2:

Aenys awoke to darkness and ruin. His body ached, weak from hunger and the trials of the storm, his limbs trembling as he pushed himself upright. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and smoke, heavy with something older, something unseen,— power that lingered like a whisper on the wind.

He was in the heart of Old Valyria, though he did not yet know it.

The remnants of a shattered empire loomed around him, broken towers and crumbling temples, blackened by fire, choked by time.

The earth beneath him was scorched and cracked, still warm to the touch, as if the Doom that had swallowed this place had never truly ended.

A great shadow moved in the distance.

The flickering glow of dragonfire danced along the ruined stone, its light casting monstrous shapes that shifted and twisted with the wind. Aenys's breath came ragged, his chest tight with fear, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He turned, searching for something,— someone,— but found only ghosts of the past and the vast, empty silence of a dead city.

The last Targaryens had fled Valyria long ago, yet here he stood, alone in its graveyard.

Or perhaps… not alone.

.

.

Year ??? AC:

The hour was late, and the castle lay shrouded in silence, save for the distant crackling of torches in their sconces.

Rhaenyra entered without hesitation, without care for who might see her.

Shadows clung to her like silk, her nightgowns resplendent in the rich designs of Old Valyria,— woven with dragons, fire, and prophecy. The candlelight cast her in hues of gold and crimson, her presence almost commanding, and her steps deliberate.

Aenys awaited her, it seemed.

He stood near the great bed, the flickering flames of the hearth playing against the hard planes of his face.

Gone was the boy he had once been,— here stood a man forged in exile, tempered by fire and fate. His silver-gold hair caught the light like molten steel, his violet gaze unreadable, watching her with the quiet certainty of a king who no longer questioned his own destiny.

Beside him, upon the polished table of black oak, rested Aegon the Conqueror's crown. It gleamed in the dim light, a silent reminder of the weight he now bore.

Their eyes met.

No words were spoken, yet none were needed. Slowly, deliberately, they moved toward one another, closing the distance between them. A breath, a glance, a lingering touch,— the lines between past and present, duty and desire, blurred into nothingness.

The night was theirs.

The winds howled over the cliffs of King's Landing that night, carrying the scent of salt and blood, the weight of history heavy in the air.

Beneath the cold light of the moon, two titans stood,— Vhagar, the oldest and mightiest of the living dragons, and the Cannibal, the "black dread" of whats called the unclaimed Valyria.

Their scales gleamed like hammered steel, one burnished bronze and green, the other dark as the void. Eyes like molten gold and smoldering jade watched the city below, where men whispered of omens and kings dreamt of conquest.

Then, as if answering some unspoken call, they roared.

Vhagar's cry was that of an age long past, a sound that had once heralded the conquest of Westeros, a reminder that dragons had made and unmade kings. The Cannibal's was older still, raw and unchained, a voice that had been untouched by saddle or rider for long, a wail from the depths of forgotten Valyria. Their voices merged into a symphony of fury and warning to what was coming, their echoes rolling across the land like a nearing storm.

And in the darkness of that night, a promise lingered,— whispered by fate, carried by fire.

Fire was reborn,— blood united,— and destiny… destiny awakened.

. . .

. .

.

|| Fire & Blood ||

.

. .

. . .

También te puede interesar
Tabla de contenidos
Volumen 1 :The 'Exiled Prince' - Teaser