Year 284 AC, Braavos
The wind of Braavos was sharp that morning — cold, wet, and cruel. Mist rolled off the canals, shrouding the city in a gray veil. Somewhere beyond those narrow streets, life continued as it always did — traders shouted, ships came and went, and the smell of fish and smoke hung heavy.
But in a small, crumbling house near the docks, the world was quiet. Too quiet.
Daemon Targaryen II sat by the window, watching the fog like a beast studying its cage. A full year had passed since his mother, Queen Rhaella, had died in his arms. A full year since he had awakened to who he truly was — a soul reborn, a dragon trapped in mortal flesh.
The boy who once feared hunger now feared nothing.
His silver hair, longer now, framed a face no longer soft with youth but sharpened by resolve. His violet eyes burned with quiet fury — and something else beneath it. A hunger that no food, no gold, no prayer could ever satisfy.
He had grown into something dangerous. And everyone in that house knew it.
---
Daemon's POV
Viserys was shouting again.
He always shouted. About how unfair life was, how they were meant to be kings, how one day they'd sail back to Westeros and take what was theirs. Empty words from an empty man.
Daemon ignored him, as always.
He moved through the room like a shadow, his bare feet silent on the old wooden floor. His body had changed over the months — stronger, faster, harder. The Panel that appeared after Rhaella's death showed only faint lines of growth, but he could feel it in every breath, every heartbeat. His blood sang with ancient power.
He lifted a small bronze dagger, twisting it between his fingers. "You talk too much, brother," he said quietly.
Viserys turned, scowling. "And you speak too little. A prince should command! You act as if you're some silent—"
Daemon's hand moved faster than thought. The blade pressed against Viserys's throat — not cutting, just a whisper of threat.
"Command?" Daemon murmured. "You couldn't command a flea, Viserys. The last time you opened your mouth in the market, they nearly threw us out."
Viserys's lips trembled. He tried to speak, but the words choked on his pride.
Daemon smirked, withdrawing the dagger. "You want a throne, brother? Then learn to stand without shaking."
He turned away, walking toward the window again. The city stretched before him — crowded, cruel, indifferent. And yet he felt it. The pull. The whisper. The promise that one day, all of it would burn for him.
---
Daenerys's POV
Daenerys watched them both from the corner. She was thirteen now — small, pale, and too thin for her age. Her hair had grown long, silver-gold like her mother's. But her eyes… her eyes had changed.
She had seen death. She had seen Daemon change.
Her brother frightened her now — and yet, she couldn't look away. There was something magnetic about him, something that made her heart race when he entered the room. When he looked at her, she felt both safe and trapped, protected and terrified.
Daemon didn't smile anymore, but when he did, it was never for her — or anyone. His eyes seemed to see through everything, like he was hearing thoughts that weren't spoken.
Sometimes, she thought he could.
She had caught him once, standing in the rain, his eyes closed, whispering words in a strange tongue. The air had shimmered faintly around him, the faint scent of smoke and salt in the air.
"Valyrio…" he had murmured once to her when she asked. "The tongue of kings."
That night, she dreamt of dragons circling a black sun.
Now, as she watched Daemon polish the blade he'd nearly used on Viserys, she thought of her mother's last words — 'Protect them, my son. Protect your sister…'
Daemon had promised.
But sometimes, Daenerys wondered if his idea of protection meant burning the whole world just to keep her warm.
---
Viserys's POV
He hated Daemon.
He hated the way the boy looked at him — like a wolf staring at meat. He hated the way Dany followed him with her eyes.
Daemon had changed since Mother died. He was colder, crueler. He spoke little, but when he did, it was as if every word carried weight. He had the bearing of a king, but the soul of a monster.
And he frightens me, Viserys admitted to himself one night as he sat alone, clutching an old goblet of watered wine.
Still, he needed him. Without Daemon, they'd have starved long ago. It was Daemon who found food, Daemon who made the Braavosi fear them enough not to cheat them.
But what if one day… he decided Viserys wasn't needed?
The thought made Viserys shiver. He poured more wine and whispered to himself, I'm the true king. Not him. Me. Viserys of House Targaryen. The blood of the dragon.
But even as he said it, he knew — Daemon was more dragon than he'd ever be.
---
Braavos POV — Rumors
In the taverns of Braavos, whispers began.
They spoke of a silver-haired boy who broke a man's wrist in a single twist. A boy who walked through fire once and came out unburnt.
Some said he was cursed.
Others said he was blessed.
A merchant swore he saw him in the harbor, staring at the sea with eyes that glowed faintly gold in the moonlight. Another claimed the water itself rippled around him as he passed.
The name "Targaryen" was never spoken aloud, but the whispers carried the weight of old blood.
The Blood of the Dragon, they called him.
---
Westeros POV — King's Landing
Far across the Narrow Sea, in the Red Keep, the court of King Robert Baratheon feasted and rotted in equal measure.
Jon Arryn spoke quietly to Eddard Stark that night. "There are whispers from Braavos," he said. "A boy with silver hair. Strong. Fearless. They say he bears the dragon's eyes."
Eddard frowned. "The Targaryens are gone. The last are two children hiding somewhere in the east."
"Perhaps," Jon said. "Or perhaps not."
In the shadows, Varys listened — silent, smiling.
The game begins again, he thought.
---
Illyrio Mopatis's POV — Pentos
In a marble chamber lit by golden lamps, the merchant prince Illyrio Mopatis leaned back in his chair as a nervous Braavosi sailor spoke before him.
"A boy, my lord," the man said. "Silver-haired. Strong as a bull, they say. Lives in the slums by the docks. Has a sister and a weakling brother."
Illyrio's eyes gleamed beneath his heavy lids. "Silver hair, you say?"
The sailor nodded. "Aye. Some whisper the name 'Targaryen.' But only in secret."
Illyrio dismissed the man with a bag of coins. When the door closed, he laughed softly, stroking his beard.
"So… the dragons still live."
He stood, looking toward the open balcony where the lights of Pentos flickered in the distance. "Perhaps it is time I met them myself."
His eyes narrowed, gleaming with ambition. "And perhaps, my old friend Varys will be very… interested to hear of this."
---
Daemon's POV — Nightfall
The moon was high when Daemon stepped outside. The canals shimmered, reflecting pale silver across his face.
He felt the fire in his veins again — restless, alive.
He closed his eyes.
In his mind, he saw dragons — great wings blotting out the sun, their roars echoing through burning cities. He saw thrones of ash, crowns of blood. And in the center of it all, himself — calm, unburnt, unbroken.
He smiled faintly.
"Soon," he whispered in Valyrian. "The world will remember our name."
From the shadows, Daenerys watched him — her eyes wide, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn't. The night wind carried her brother's voice away, but she felt it, deep in her bones.
The dragon was no longer sleeping.