King's Landing, 112 AC
Ser Harrold Westerling stood at attention in the royal box, his white cloak billowing gently in the warm breeze.
Vibrant banners fluttered above the stands, a riot of colors representing houses great and small from across the Seven Kingdoms. The excited murmur of the crowd swelled as lords placed their bets and ladies gossiped behind ornate fans. Ser Harrold's gaze swept over it all, ever vigilant.
"Seven hells, it's hot in this armor," muttered Ser Ryam Redwyne—the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "I envy those fools down there in their silks and velvets."
Ser Harrold allowed himself a small smile. "We bear the heat so the king may enjoy the spectacle in comfort and safety, brother."
His eyes were drawn to the jousting lists, tensions were high as the tournament's highlight approached—a match between the new crowd favourite, Ser Criston Cole, and the formidable Prince Daemon Targaryen.
Harrold watched the two knights prepare. Ser Criston, steady and composed, offered a stark contrast to Prince Daemon, who exudes an aura of reckless confidence and arrogance.
Yet, amid the spectacle, Harrold's thoughts wandered to the Red Keep, where the Queen was currently in labor. The tension was high, a reminder of the precariousness of the realm's future. He quickly refocused, his duty to the King demanding his full attention.
The crowd roared as lances were leveled and mighty steeds thundered towards each other.
As lances shattered against shields, an unexpected shift occurred and a collective gasp rose from the crowd.
It took him a moment to notice that the reaction was not from the joust, but from the sky.
He saw most of the audience craning their necks looking up at the heavens. Confused and curious, he joined them, snapping his gaze upward. And what he saw was a sight to behold.
The sky, once clear and bright, began to darken ominously, too quickly and unnaturally. A chill wind swept through the grounds, causing banners to flutter.
He had unconsciously held his breath as the heavens cracked and howled something ominous. And all too soon, a section of the sky was abruptly covered in a deep void of absolute darkness.
"By the Seven…." King Viserys breathed, rising to his feet.
Uneasy shuffling and murmurs of confusion rippled through the crowd. Lords and ladies craned their necks, pointing at the black hole that suddenly appeared in the middle of the sky. Even the jousting knight and Prince Daemon had pulled up short, their contest forgotten as they stared at the inexplicable change in atmosphere.
Gods—What is going on?
Is this divine punishment?—The Gods' fury? For Harrold knew that this could not possibly be caused by an ordinary man nor mortal being…
"Your Grace, perhaps we should—"
But before he could finish his thought, loud rumbles echoed across the sky and land, sending a shiver down his spine and everyone else's.
Something was coming. Something that made his years of training and experience feel woefully inadequate.
The rumble crescendoed into an earth-shattering roar as four massive shapes and shadows burst through the dark void, their scales glinting like living jewels in the filtered sunlight and their great, large wings expanding in all directions.
Ser Harrold inhaled a mouthful of air, remembering to breathe.
Dragons.
Four of them, wheeling and diving down at a terrifying speed. And despite himself, the more he observed, the more he realized the distinct differences between these dragons and the Targaryen beasts. His eyes darted between the beasts, searching for any familiar shapes, shades, or even markings. But to his horror, he saw none.
"By the gods," he muttered, "those are not any of the Targaryen dragons…."
King Viserys stumbled back, his face pale. "Impossible," he whispered.
Was it? Was it impossible? The realm only has known recognition of eleven dragons currently in existence.
Vermithor. Caraxes. Meleys. Vhagar. Silverwing. Dreamfyre. Syrax. Cannibal. Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost. Seasmoke.
None of which were alike to these new monstrous beasts. One may count on the possibility of miscalculation, if one or two dragons were out of sight or hidden without the Crown's notice. But four? Surely not.
And it was very strange… the way these dragons have two extra limbs totalling of four instead of the familiar two with wings he was used to. In all his life, Harrold had never seen a dragon like them. But it cannot be denied of what it is.
A dragon is a dragon.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Nobles scrambled from their seats, their silks and velvets forgotten as they pushed and shoved in their haste to flee. Some tripped, some stepped on one another.
Knights drew their swords, the steel ringing out above the panicked screams.
"Guards!" Ser Ryam bellowed, positioning himself in front of the king. "Protect His Grace!"
From the corner of his eye, he saw Prince Daemon abandoning his original position in the jousting arena, riding towards them in the royal box.
King Viserys, who seemed to finally snap out of his shock, raised his arms, his voice strained as he called out, "My people, please! Remain calm! We must—"
But his words were drowned out by another deafening roar.
Ser Harrold watched helplessly as the dragons descended lower, their massive shadows growing bigger as they fell, blanketing the grounds in darkness.
Suddenly, a flash of platinum caught everyone's eye. Harrold squinted, observing through the shapes. Amidst the chaos of wings and scales, a man?—a boy?—was plummeting from the heavens, his hair gleaming like polished silver in the sun. Ser Harrold's breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling at the unbelievable sight.
"Gods be good," he uttered, his neck straining as he kept his eyes towards the sky.
Before the boy could meet his incoming doom, one of the dragons – a sleek, emerald beast – swooped beneath him. With a grace that defied its massive size, and impossibly, the dragon caught the youth on its back, saving him from certain death.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by a cacophony of shouts and exclamations.
"Did you see that?!"
"By the Seven!"
"A dragon rider?"
King Viserys leaned forward, his mouth opening in shock. "Who is that boy?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ser Harrold shook his head, also flabbergasted, unable to tear his gaze from the scene. "I know not, Your Grace."
Though, it was clear that everyone present was also curious and eager to find out.
As the chaos unfolded, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, stood at the edge of the royal box, his sharp eyes scanning the tumultuous scene below. The unexpected arrival of the dragons had turned a festive occasion into a spectacle of panic.
His expression was a blend of concern and strategic contemplation.
"Your Grace," Otto began, addressing King Viserys.
"We must act swiftly. The safety of the royal family is paramount. If these beasts are hostile, we cannot afford to be caught unprepared."
It's too late for that, Harrold thought.
The King nodded slowly, but Harrold could see the conflict in his eyes. The indecision, anxiety, and... was that wonder?
The Hand pressed further, also noticing the same look the king had, his voice low and urgent. "We must send a contingent to confront this… dragon rider—preferably by another dragon rider. If they prove a danger, we cannot risk losing control of the situation."
Otto's gaze flickered toward Prince Daemon, rallying knights with reckless enthusiasm. "And we must leave for safety and keep the Prince in check—"
"Brother, what would you have us do?"
Prince Daemon, who had just arrived below them, turned to the king, his expression showing aggressive wariness.
King Viserys hesitated, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I... I am not certain. These dragons, they are not our own, and yet..." He trailed off, watching as the boy on the dragon's back circled lower.
Who was this mysterious youth? How had he come here, let alone bring four dragons with him? Was he an enemy or a potential ally? A threat? A long-lost Targaryen?
Ser Harrold's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets. Duty warred with curiosity in his mind as he watched the dragons circle overhead.
"Your Grace," he said, voice low and urgent, "The Hand is right, we should retreat to safety. These beasts—"
"No," King Viserys interrupted, his eyes never leaving the sky. "I must see this through. The boy... he could be of Valyrian blood." All looked at the boy's silver-blonde hair, a symbol of Valyrian heritage.
Ser Harrold swallowed his protest, torn between his sworn duty and the king's command. He glanced at his fellow Kingsguard, seeing his own conflict mirrored in their eyes.
The ground suddenly trembled beneath their feet as the dragons finally touched down beyond the arena. Dust billowed in great clouds, obscuring the view. The beasts' roars shook the very air, setting horses to panicking and spectators scrambling back inside the jousting area.
The suspense stretched on, unbearable in its intensity.
The Prince's voice cut through the din: "To me!"
Growing impatient with the delay of an order, Prince Daemon took charge and led the knights and guards to face the unknown entity and the sudden silence outside.
A group of knights and gold cloaks rallied to Daemon, their horses stomping and snorting. Some drew their swords, while others remained frozen, unsure how to react to such a situation.
Throughout the Prince's offensive leave, Ser Harrold's eyes widened as he caught sight of Princess Rhaenyra.
The young princess was practically vibrating with a dangerous curiosity, her violet eyes shining with an almost feverish light as she stepped towards the edge of the royal box.
"Father, let me get Syrax—" she implored, turning to face her father. "Let me go with Uncle Daemon. I must see these dragons up close!"
"No!" King Viserys turned to the princess, frowning—worry and slight scolding written on his face. "No, I will not allow it! It is far too dangerous. We know not what we face."
The princess's face fell, but she obeyed, biting her lips with obvious disappointment.
His gaze swept across the royal box, landing on Princess Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was had gathered her children close, her arms protectively encircling them. Her eyes met those of her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, a silent conversation passing between them.
"If it comes to it," Lord Corlys murmured, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, "we'll need to evacuate quickly."
Princess Rhaenys nodded grimly.
With a final, resigned breath, Ser Harrold steeled himself for whatever might come.
Not even seconds later, a loud roar was heard once more.