'The Heir'

| Author's Note:

Why, hello there, beautiful people!

If you have any lingering doubts about my fanfic, feel free to leave a comment, and I'll do my best to answer. That said, please take a moment to check if your question has already been addressed in responses to other readers,— let's be mindful of each other's time, including mine.

Now, for those of you who are curious:

I've noticed a recurring question popping up lately. As I've explained before, the timeline between 89 AC,— when Aenys was "lost" to the sea,— and 105 AC, when he reemerged from Old Valyria, will be explored in the after stories. These chapters will be bonus content released after the main fanfic concludes, giving us extra tales to enjoy before we bid farewell to this incredible journey.

These after stories will cover significant events such as Rhaenys's reaction to Aenys's banishment, Baelon's clash with Jaehaerys, Alysanne's fallout with Jaehaerys, and even Aenys's funeral. And of course, the trials Aenys endured in Old Valyria alongside the Cannibal, and his time with the Goddess Vhagar that will also take center stage.

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Also, before I forget, we hit an incredible milestone yesterday,— 10th place in the all-time fanfiction rankings (based on weekly powerstone gains),— and we're still holding strong at 16th I think! I couldn't be prouder of all of you for making this happen.

On top of that, we've claimed the #1 spot for fanfics created in the past 30 days! That's an amazing achievement, and it's all thanks to your unwavering support.

Now, dare we dream even bigger? Reaching the very top might seem out of reach,— the #1 fanfic of this week currently has 1.9k powerstones compared to our amazing 550,— but who's to say what we can accomplish together? Every powerstone you gift brings us closer to heights I couldn't have imagined.

So thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart. Let's keep climbing guys!

Now, without further ado, enjoy the chapter!

Your Author.

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"The return of a dead man was a complication I had not foreseen, nor could I have. Had Princess Rhaenyra been named the chosen heir, events would have unfolded with greater ease, aligning more seamlessly with my designs,— just as Prince Daemon's banishment had been a necessary step toward securing their success. Yet, the sudden and unforeseen escalation of these events has thrown my carefully laid plans into disarray. Adaptation is now required, and measures must be swiftly devised and enacted to regain control of the realm's precarious balance."

— From the Journal of Otto Hightower - 105AC.

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| 105 AC - In the late afternoon, Throne Room - Viserys Targaryen 3rd Person Pov:

The throne room of the Red Keep was a cavernous hall of shadows and splendor, its lofty ceilings lost in the flickering glow of the torchlights, consequence of the dimming sunlight.

The banners of House Targaryen hung heavy from the walls, their crimson and black hues stark against the stone, the three-headed dragon seeming to writhe in the shifting light. The Iron Throne, a jagged monstrosity of fused swords, loomed at the heart of it all, its cold steel catching the firelight and casting sharp, fractured reflections across the polished floor.

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King Viserys Targaryen sat upon that grim seat, his fingers brushing lightly against the cruel edges of its arms. His gaze swept across the gathered lords and ladies of Westeros, their faces illuminated in flickers of gold and shadow. Each bore an expression of curiosity, apprehension, or intrigue, the air thick with whispers and the occasional nervous glance,— since Viserys had not yet explicitly told anyone of who his new heir would be.

They suspect it is Rhaenyra that will walk through those doors, he thought grimly, but none of them know the truth,— not truly.

His stomach churned with an uneasy mix of resolve and doubt. This was a moment that would echo through history, a moment that could unite the realm,— or fracture it further.

At his left stood his Grand Maester, draped in the soft gray robes of his order, his chains clinking faintly as he stepped forward. With a slight nod from the king, the maester raised his hands, his voice carrying over the murmurs like the toll of a distant bell.

"Lords of Westeros!" he began, his tone steeped in the gravitas befitting such a gathering. "You have been summoned here by decree of King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm, to bear witness to a proclamation that shall shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms. This is a matter of great importance, one that commands your full attention, silence and respect." The murmurs stilled, the room falling into a tense, expectant silence. Even the faint rustle of fabric as courtiers adjusted their cloaks seemed loud in the hush.

Viserys rose from the Iron Throne, the weight of Blackfyre steady in his hand as he descended the sharp steps of the throne's dais, its jagged edges casting stark shadows over his form. His voice, deep and steady, carried through the hall with an authority that brooked no challenge.

"It has been made clear to me, as of late..." he began, his gaze sweeping the assembled lords, "..., that the line of succession is not something to be taken lightly." He paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. "The crown is not a prize to be claimed, nor a burden to be lightly borne. It is the cornerstone of the realm, and its endurance must be ensured above all." And a murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, heads nodding here and there. Viserys tightened his grip on Blackfyre's pommel, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Daemon Targaryen, my brother, has acted in ways unbecoming of the blood of the dragon. His reckless actions and disregard for the realm's stability have left me no choice but to strip him of his position as heir to the Iron Throne." This time, the murmurs were louder, a mixture of relief and unease threading through the crowd. Lords exchanged furtive glances, their expressions ranging from satisfaction to guarded apprehension.

"But." Viserys continued, raising his voice to quell the stirrings of dissent, "This is not simply a matter of removing an heir. It is about naming one who embodies the strength, wisdom, and unity required to lead House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms into the future." With a deliberate gesture, Viserys turned to the massive doors of the throne room. At the king's nod, the Kingsguard pushed the doors open with a resounding creak, revealing the man who had remained a mystery to the court until now.

The murmurs swelled once more, confusion spreading like wildfire through the assembled lords as the silver-haired figure in black armor of valyrian-steel strode forward, his steps measured and unyielding. His velvet cloak billowed behind him, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with the unmistakable bearing of Valyrian blood.

Aenys Targaryen, my brother...

"This is the man who had been presumed dead for sixteen years, now walking among us, as if risen from the ashes of a forgotten tale." Viserys merely added, as Aenys ascended the stone steps with a regal grace, pausing to bow his head to him before turning to face the gathered lords and ladies for the first time in so many years.

His lilac eyes swept over the crowd, and though his expression remained neutral, there was an air of quiet confidence about him, a sense of power held in restraint.

Viserys then stepped forward, raising Blackfyre and striking it against the stone floor. The sharp sound silencing the whispers at once. "I now hereby declare my elder brother, Aenys Targaryen, as Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne." Viserys proclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall. "He, who is the eldest son of my late father Baelon, he who without a doubt is a true Targaryen, and the only man I trust above all others to carry the weight of this realm, should the gods call me away sooner than expected." The reaction was immediate and varied. Some lords stared in stunned silence, their expressions betraying their disbelief. Others exchanged wary glances, their minds already racing with the implications of this sudden shift. Whispers of "Aenys Targaryen" and "the once thought dead prince returns" rippled through the room like the hiss of wind through leaves.

And at a nod from Viserys, the Grand Maester stepped forward once more, this time carrying a lacquered wooden box inlaid with gold and silver filigree. He opened in front of all, only to reveal a signet ring engraved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Aenys extended his hand without hesitation, and the Grand Maester slid the ring onto his finger, solidifying his brother's new title. The ruby in the ring caught the torchlight, gleaming like a drop of blood.

Viserys then deemed fit to return to the Iron Throne, his expression unreadable, while all eyes focused on Aenys. The weight of expectation hung heavy in the air, and the court seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting for him to speak.

Aenys regarded the crowd for a long moment, his gaze steady. Then, with a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, he inclined his head.

"I thank His Grace, my brother, for his faith in me." he began, his voice smooth and commanding. "And I thank you all for bearing witness to this moment. The blood of the dragon runs strong, and it is through unity that me and His Grace,— my brother,— shall ensure the strength of the realm. The challenges ahead may be many or none, but together, we shall overcome them all." The court erupted in murmurs once more, but this time, there was a note of grudging respect mingled with the confusion. Some nodded, others whispered among themselves, and a few dared to meet Aenys's gaze directly, their expressions unreadable.

The Iron Throne had never felt heavier beneath Viserys. Though the lords had begun to rise from their whispers of shock and murmur their grudging acceptance, he could sense the weight of their doubts pressing against the atmosphere. Yet as Aenys stood before him, ring gleaming on his finger, Viserys allowed himself a faint smile to appear in his tired expression.

It was a start.

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| 105 AC - Throne Room - Aenys Targaryen 3rd Person Pov:

The herald, a man with a voice trained to slice through the cacophony of crowds, stepped forward once more, his booming tone silencing any remaining mutterings.

"Lords of the realm, approach the dais! Swear your fealty to Prince Aenys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne!" Aenys noticed Viserys leaning back into the twisted iron, allowing the full weight of the moment to unfold, as their purple eyes flickered to one another.

Aenys kept himself straight, standing tall, every bit the prince he was expected to be, whom had once been lost to the sea. There was a regal air about him now, he himself knew it to be true, polished and deliberate, yet Aenys was sure that Viserys saw the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression.

Aenys's gaze them turned and swept across the throne room, alighting on the faces of those gathered below the dais. Here stood the lords of Westeros, cloaked in their house colors, their sigils proudly displayed like banners in a storm. Their reactions were as varied as the houses they represented,— some knelt quickly, heads bowed low, their oaths ready to be spilled out with practiced precision.

Others however, seemed to hesitate, their movements stiff with reluctance. His sharp lilac eyes noted every hesitation, every tremor in their hands or the flicker of a gaze.

He could almost taste the unease radiating from certain lords,— eitheir the loyalists of his younger brother who gods know where he is at the moment, no doubt,— and those who simply did not wish to have another strong voice in the council of the 'weak' king.

The first to step forward was Lord Lyonel Strong, a figure whose size belied his measured wisdom. He knelt without hesitation, his voice steady as he placed his hands before Aenys. "I pledge my fealty to you, Prince Aenys, as the heir to King Viserys, and the realm. May your reign, when it comes, be one of wisdom and strength."

Aenys inclined his head, murmuring, "Your loyalty is noted, Lord Strong. House Strong's steadfastness does not go unnoticed."

Behind Lord Strong, Lord Lyman Beesbury approached, his wizened face pinched with uncertainty. His bow was shallow, his words muttered. Aenys raised an eyebrow at the slight, though he said nothing. The weight of his gaze lingered on the old man as Beesbury retreated, the tension in the room ratcheting higher.

Then came the more contentious lords. Lord Celtigar's hesitation was almost imperceptible, but Aenys caught it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers brushed the pommel of his sword as he knelt. "For the crown, my prince." he said, his voice a shade too flat.

Aenys's faint smirk returned, the edges of his lips curving upward as he replied smoothly, "For the crown, indeed. Let us hope it remains as steadfast as those who bear its weight."

Tradition dictated that the named heir remain silent during the ceremony, allowing the lords' oaths to speak for themselves. But Aenys Targaryen had never been one for blind adherence to tradition, and when the last of the lords had risen from their kneel, their oaths sworn, Aenys took a single step forward, his voice carrying with the force of a man who had survived storms no mortal should endure.

"My lords and ladies." he began, his tone smooth yet edged with fire, "I thank you for your loyalty to my brother. It is no small thing to bend the knee, and I do not take it lightly. Together, we shall honor our ancestors' legacy, protect the realm, and ensure that House Targaryen endures,— unbowed and unbroken."

A pause, deliberate, allowing the weight of his words to settle. His gaze swept over the crowd, lingering for a heartbeat on Lord Celtigar, on Otto Hightower, and finally on Corlys Velaryon. His voice dropped a fraction, softer but no less commanding.

"Fire and blood." he said, the ancient words of his house slipping like a blade between the cracks of their composure. "Fire and blood!" the lords murmured in reply, though their tones carried varying shades of conviction.

And as if summoned by his words, a distant, loud roar split the air, reverberating through the hall like a roll of thunder, making the heart of even those more accustomed to dragons, tremble in anxiety. Heads snapped everywhere in worry, gasps rippling through the crowd as the sound deepened into a guttural growl that shook the very stones of the Red Keep themselves.

Aenys allowed himself the barest flicker of a smile.

Cannibal.

He didn't need to see the dragon to imagine the sight that must have greeted those outside,— the great black beast circling the Red Keep, his wings blotting out the sun, his shadow falling over the city like an omen.

The murmurs in the throne room grew louder, a chorus of awe and unease, and Aenys noted his brother, from his seat upon the Iron Throne, looking at him with wide eyes, though he said nothing. The message Aenys wanted to send was clear, he was no longer the dragonless prince the lords had once pitied years back...

He was the Aenys Targaryen that had returned, and he was a force to be reckoned with.

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As the roar faded, the herald called for the ceremony's conclusion. Aenys found himself descending the dais, his steps measured and deliberate, as if he carried the weight of a crown already. Lords parted before him like a tide, their eyes averted, their murmurs barely suppressed.

He continued onward, his path taking him past Corlys Velaryon, who nodded at him in reluctant respect, even though his expression was unreadable, his lips set in a firm line. Aenys in turn, did not incline his head at all, and there was certainly no warmth in his expression as he looked down at the older lord. Gods know what was passing in the duo's minds at that moment.

After a few more steps, Aenys paused at the end of the Throne Room, turning back to look at the Iron Throne, where Viserys sat watching him with a mixture of pride and sadness. For a brief moment, the two brothers locked eyes, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

This is only the beginning, Aenys thought, his smile fading as he turned to face the murmuring crowd once more.

The dragon's roar had indeed been heard, and though the ceremony was over, the echoes of its power lingered in every corner of the Red Keep. He had returned, and with him came the promise of fire and blood.

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| 105 - At the same time, Dragonstone, Painted Table Chamber - Daemon Targaryen 3rd Person Pov:

The Painted Table sprawled before Daemon Targaryen like a map to destiny. Its ancient carvings, etched by fire and steel, captured every ridge, river, and peak of Westeros, illuminated now by the erratic flicker of a brazier's flame.

Shadows danced across the walls, merging with the wild light in Daemon's dark eyes as he stared at the island of Dragonstone carved at the table's head.

Outside, the sea roared against the blackened cliffs, the wind carrying the cries of gulls into the chamber. Yet within, all was quiet but for the crackle of flame and the tension that hung heavy as smoke.

The door creaked open then, the sound echoing faintly in the chamber. A Goldcloak's captain stepped inside, his armor dulled by salt air but his posture proud. He bowed low before his prince, his voice carrying the clipped precision of a soldier.

"My prince, the men are settled. Provisions hold for now, but the castle will need more in the weeks ahead."

Daemon turned his gaze toward the captain, his grin sharpening like a blade. "Then we'll take what we need. Let the fishermen complain, and let the lords mutter. None will move against me,— not yet. The whispers will soon reach my brother, and he'll stew in his cowardice while I gather strength that will make him realize he made a mistake in sending me away."

The captain nodded and retreated with a salute, his boots striking the cold stone with rhythmic finality, and the only other figure present in the room, Mysaria, waited until the door closed before speaking her mind, her voice soft.

"Strength alone will not win you 'dis game, my prince." she said, stepping closer. "You need allies, cunning… whispers of your own." Daemon turned back to the Painted Table, his hand tracing the outline of the Crownlands. "And they will come. Not for the crown, like my brother wears, but for the dragon. Let Viserys cling to his fragile peace. War, Mysaria, is what men understand best,— and when it comes, they'll remember who wields fire and blood."

The chamber fell silent, the brazier's flames casting their restless light across Daemon's face, etching his features in sharp relief. His jaw tightened as he studied the map before him, the carved lands that once seemed within his grasp now wreathed in shadows of doubt.

Mysaria watched him closely, her pale figure framed by the dark stone, her voice braking the quiet once again, laced with both challenge and care. "Yet, you just sent your men to take the scraps of 'dis island common people, while you brood like you've already lost the game you're playing. Is 'dis what the dragon does? Sit and sulk?"

Daemon's grip on the table tightened as he heard her words, his knuckles whitening. He didn't even look at her as he replied, his voice low and dangerous, as was normal.

"You always know how to cut straight to the bone, don't you?" At last, he turned to face her, his expression caught between a smirk and a scowl. Mysaria stepped forward, her movements deliberate, her eyes locked on his with unwavering intensity.

"I speak only the truth, my prince." she said, her accent softening the edges of her words but not their meaning. "You let them see you angry, wounded. Weakness is a game you cannot afford to play,— not with your brother, King Viserys, and certainly not with the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower."

Daemon closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand catching her wrist with a gentleness that belied the raging storm in his eyes. "Weakness?" he repeated, his voice a quiet snarl. "Is that what you think this is? Everything I do, every move I make, is a game they don't even know they're playing."

And Mysaria tilted her head at that, her dark eyes studying him as if searching for the cracks in his armor. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, threading through the tension between them. "You play 'dis game as if it will make them love you, Daemon." she said.

"But love is not what you need." Daemon's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile as he locked eyes with her. "And pray tell, what do I really need, then?" he asked, his tone laced with challenge. "Enlighten me, Mysaria." She stepped closer still, her free hand brushing the edge of his black cape.

Her voice was a murmur, soft as the wind outside yet as sharp as valyrian-steel. "You need fire,— you need fear. Let them see not the man, but the dragon,— show them why they should kneel to you." For a moment, the silence in the chamber deepened, thick with unspoken words and the weight of ambition.

Daemon's hand suddenly slipped from her wrist to her waist, pulling her closer with a possessive ease. "And you?" he asked softly, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

Her lips curved into a faint smile, her fingers tracing the line of his collar. "I see a man who does not yet know what he is capable of..." she replied. "But I can help you see it, if you let me." Their eyes met, the air between them charged with tension. Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Then show me..." he said, tone filled with finality.

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| 105 - A few hours earlier, somewhere in the Crownlands - Random farmer 3rd Person Pov:

The sun hung low in the sky, a molten disk that bled hues of amber and red across the western horizon. The evening breeze carried the scent of hay and freshly turned earth, a reminder of the day's labor on the small farmstead nestled amidst the rolling hills of the Crownlands.

Arlan, the farmer, worked in rhythmic motions, his coarse hands guiding the plowshare through the dark soil. His mule, old and stubborn but reliable, strained against the harness, its grunts adding to the chorus of crickets rising from the nearby woods.

Sweat clung to Arlan's brow, the fabric of his tunic damp from a day's toil. It was a hard life, but an honest one, for the small plot of land had been in his family for generations, a modest inheritance of stone fences, a thatched cottage, and the fields he now tilled for winter wheat. He paused to wipe his brow, casting a glance toward the forested horizon where the outline of his house could be seen.

"Another hour..." Arlan muttered to himself, patting the mule's flank. "One more furrow and we'll call it a day, eh, Graynose?" The mule snorted in reply, flicking its ears as if in agreement. The world was quiet save for the rustling of leaves and the soft murmur of the breeze. Even the woods, teeming with the life of birds and beasts, seemed subdued as twilight approached. Arlan found a strange peace in the stillness.

That peace, however, was soon shattered.

It began as a low rumble, faint and distant, barely distinguishable from the mutter of the wind. Arlan paused, his calloused hands gripping the wooden plow as he turned his head toward the sound. The mule froze as well, its ears pricking forward, its body rigid with unease.

The rumble grew louder, reverberating through the air and the ground beneath Arlan's boots. It was a deep, resonant sound, unlike any thunder he had ever heard, it rolled across the hills in waves, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world itself.

"Storm's coming early...?" Arlan muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. There were no clouds above, only the fading light of day giving way to the indigo veil of night.

Then came the wind,— a sudden, unnatural gust that tore through the fields, bending stalks of wheat and scattering loose straw into the air. It was warm and dry, and it carried with it a scent that was foreign and strange, an acrid tang that stung Arlan's nostrils. The mule brayed loudly, stamping its hooves in a frenzy of fear.

Arlan turned his gaze skyward, and what he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

It came from the east, its massive wings outstretched, blotting out the dying light of the sun. Though he knew not the dragon's name, it was clear as day that it wasn'ta common one. Its silhouette was a leviathan against the twilight sky, a beast of legend made flesh. The sound of its wings was not like thunder after all, it was the sound of mountains shifting, of islands being born and broken. Each beat sent shockwaves through the air, a pulse of power that seemed to still the very earth beneath its shadow.

Arlan's mouth went dry. He had heard tales of dragons, of course, as every boy in Westeros had, and he had even seen some smaller ones flying above his farm once in his life. And yet, this one,— was vast and terrifying, a living testament to the might of House Targaryen.

"Seven save us!" he breathed, his voice barely audible over the roar of its passage.

Then, it descended, its form growing clearer as it drew closer. Its scales glinted like a burnished green jewel in the waning light, each one the size of a man's shield. Its massive head turned slightly, eyes glowing,— pits of molten gold,— sweeping over the land below. Its giant maw, filled with teeth like jagged swords, opened slightly as if tasting the air.

It was certainly an ancient dragon, a creature older than any men or woman alive. With a wingspan so vast that it seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, and its body, coiled with muscle and power, was as great as a castle wall. The dimming light caught the ridges of its back, tail cutting through the sky like a whip.

Arlan dropped to his knees, his heart pounding against his ribs. The plow fell from his hands, forgotten. The mule, now completely untethered, bolted for the woods, its terrified braying fading into the distance.

But Arlan could not move, could not even think. He could only stare, his mortal mind struggling to comprehend the enormity of what he was witnessing.

For a brief, terrible moment, the dragon seemed to fix its gaze on him, a massive head turning slightly, glowing eyes narrowing as if the dragon had somehow managed to see him. And Arlan's breath caught in his throat, feeling as though his soul was laid bare before the great flying beast, every thought and fear stripped away beneath that unrelenting gaze. He wanted to run, to flee into the safety of the woods, but his legs refused to obey.

Then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed, the dragon tilted its head back, releasing a low, guttural growl that shook the very air, and then flapped its wings once, twice, and rose higher into the sky, its massive form becoming a shadow once more against the canvas of the wanning sunlight.

And so, as the thunder of wings faded into the distance, the world seemed to exhale.

The stillness that followed was deafening, a void where sound had once been, while Arlan remained on his knees, his body trembling as he tried to process what he had seen. The fields were a mess, the wheat flattened in wide, circular patterns where the dragon's wind had swept through. The brazier he had left burning by the cottage door was extinguished, its embers scattered across the stone threshold. The mule was gone, and Arlan could only pray that it had found safety in the forest.

He rose shakily to his feet, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. His hands were filthy, his palms scraped from where he had gripped the rocky soil in terror.

He turned his gaze once more to the horizon, where the shadow of the dragon had disappeared into the night.

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The tales had not done her justice. No song or story could capture the sheer, overwhelming presence of a dragon, let alone one as ancient and mighty as Vhagar.

She was more than a creature, she was a force of nature, a living embodiment of fire and blood.

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| Fire & Blood |

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