297 AC
The sun was just beginning to rise over the city of Pentos as Ancalagon descended from the sky, casting an enormous shadow over the narrow streets and sprawling estates below. The morning air was thick with the scent of salt from the nearby sea, but beneath it, a growing sense of dread settled over the city's inhabitants. They had heard whispers of a dragonlord rising in Slaver's Bay, but none had expected his shadow to fall over Pentos so soon.
At the heart of the city stood the opulent estate of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, its gilded gates and towering walls glinting in the early light. But no amount of wealth or stone could protect it from the wrath descending from the skies.
Aemon Targaryen—the Dragon Reborn—landed in the courtyard with a thunderous roar, Ancalagon's wings folding behind him like the cloak of death itself. Servants scattered in terror, their screams echoing through the halls as Aemon dismounted, his eyes burning with fury.
The Confrontation
Aemon strode through the grand halls of Illyrio's estate, his boots echoing against the marble floors. The opulence around him—the golden chandeliers, the rich tapestries—meant nothing. All that mattered was finding Viserys and Daenerys.
His voice rang out, sharp and commanding, reverberating through the halls like the roar of a dragon. "Illyrio Mopatis! Bring the Targaryens to me, unharmed, or face death!"
The walls seemed to tremble with the weight of his words. The servants cowered, whispering prayers to gods that would not save them.
Moments later, Illyrio himself appeared at the top of the grand staircase, his silken robes rustling as he descended with calculated calm. But his eyes betrayed him—they flickered with fear, darting to the shadow looming outside, where Ancalagon watched with unblinking, molten eyes.
"Ah, the dragonlord himself," Illyrio sneered, though his voice wavered. "I wondered when you would come."
Aemon's eyes narrowed, his voice a deadly whisper. "Where are they?"
Illyrio's smile twisted into something cruel. "You mean the thief of my dragon eggs? The traitor who threatens the peace of Pentos?" He took a step closer, his confidence a thin veneer over his fear. "You are a danger, Aemon Targaryen. And so were they."
Aemon's heart pounded in his chest, his fists clenching at his sides. "What have you done?"
Illyrio's eyes gleamed with malice. "Viserys was a fool, unworthy of the blood in his veins. He died screaming like a child. As for Daenerys…" He paused, savoring the moment. "I sold her. A gift to Khal Drogo, chieftain of a great Dothraki khalasar. She is his now, a bride for his bloodriders to claim."
For a heartbeat, the world stood still.
Then, Aemon moved.
The Wrath of the Dragon
With a roar that rivaled his dragon's, Aemon surged forward, his fists slamming into Illyrio's smug face with the force of a falling star. The Magister crumpled to the ground, blood spilling from his broken nose, his screams echoing through the grand hall.
But Aemon wasn't finished.
He grabbed Illyrio by the collar, lifting him off the ground with ease. "Where is Drogo?" he snarled, shaking the man like a ragdoll. "Where is Daenerys?"
Illyrio's eyes widened with terror, his composure shattered. "T-they left… days ago… headed east… for their wedding."
Aemon's grip tightened, his fury boiling over. But he forced himself to release Illyrio, letting the man collapse in a heap on the floor, gasping for breath.
Without another word, Aemon turned on his heel and strode back toward the courtyard, his mind ablaze with rage and determination.
But he wasn't done with Illyrio's estate.
As he mounted Ancalagon, he whispered a single command to his dragon.
"Dracarys."
With a deafening roar, Ancalagon unleashed a torrent of flame, the fire consuming Illyrio's grand estate in a matter of moments. The golden halls melted under the heat, the tapestries igniting like dry kindling. The screams of servants and guards echoed through the smoke-filled air, but Aemon felt no remorse.
Illyrio had chosen his fate.
As the flames rose higher, casting an ominous glow over Pentos, Aemon and Ancalagon soared into the sky, their shadows falling over the terrified city below.
The Hunt Begins
The cold wind whipped through Aemon's hair as they flew east, his mind focused on one thing: Daenerys.
He didn't know why he felt such a strong pull toward her—whether it was the blood they shared, the destiny that tied them, or something deeper, something he couldn't yet name. But he knew he wouldn't rest until she was safe.
"Hold on, Daenerys," Aemon whispered into the wind, his voice a promise carried on dragon's wings. "I'm coming."
And with that, they vanished into the horizon, leaving the burning ruins of Pentos behind them.