King Viserys I Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, was caught in emotions as thick as the mists of Dragonstone—pride, guilt... and a silent rage that gnawed at him from within.
His half-brother, Daron, had been cast into the shadows for years. Treated like just another bastard. As if he didn't carry the burning blood of Valyria coursing through his veins.But Viserys knew the truth.He had seen it. In his gaze. In his composure.Daron was no ordinary bastard.He was a true dragon.
After sleepless nights and a council divided, the king made his decision:He would name him for what he truly was.No more Snow. No more shame.He would claim his fire and his shadow.He would grant him the name Targaryen.He would make him part of the bloodline that forged kings… and legends.
That very morning, in the castle halls and the hidden corners of the city, the air itself seemed to hum with the imminence of change. An old cloth merchant, Juanos, who sold silks near the Gate of Mirrors, paused as whispers crossed the cobbled streets of King's Landing. With tired eyes filled with curiosity, he listened as townsfolk muttered in hushed voices:
"They say the king spoke of Daron today… could he finally be recognized as a Targaryen?""It wouldn't be surprising. We always knew there was something in him… fire, like the dragons."
Juanos remembered old tales of House Targaryen, and as he heard those words, he felt the tide of history turning toward a destiny that could no longer be ignored. This news did not merely stir the court's hierarchy—it heralded, somewhere in the winding thread of fate, a future filled with challenge and unknown possibility.
In the throne room, Viserys summoned the Great Council. The chamber filled with whispers and uneasy glances as the monarch spoke with a voice both firm and clear:
"I have decided that Daron Snow shall be legitimized as Daron Targaryen, son of Baelon the Brave… and my blood brother."
The gathered lords exchanged tense looks. Otto Hightower pressed his lips together, his mind racing with warnings, objections, arguments. But for the first time in years… he held his tongue.There was something in the king's eyes. Something final.
The council shifted uncomfortably, caught between tradition and the fire that had just been unleashed.
The next day, the news spread through King's Landing like a wildfire fanned by wind. In every street, every corner, the name was whispered:
Daron Targaryen.The bastard who was never truly a bastard.The son of Baelon.The hidden dragon… now revealed.
In the taverns, between cups of wine and tales of ancient deeds, people debated the weight of this change. For some, it was a beacon of hope. For others, a warning of stormy times ahead. Even the narrow alley where Juanos stood at his stall seemed charged with omen.
In his chambers, Daron remained silent. His eyes fixed on the crackling hearth fire, his mind adrift in memories and dreams that no longer seemed to belong to the life he now lived.Because Daron was not like the others.He was reborn. An ancient soul brought back by the gods… or something darker still, with a purpose: to change the fate of Westeros.
He knew what was coming.The Dance of the Dragons.That bloody civil war that would tear his house apart and shatter the realm.He had read it in the chronicles of another life.And now, he would live it in the flesh.
But this time… he would not be a pawn.
His mind focused on a single image:The Iron Throne.Cold. Cruel. Forged with vanquished swords and broken ambition.
And with a quiet resolve, as though the gods themselves heard his oath, Daron whispered to himself:
"I will sit on it.Not for glory.Not for vengeance.But because only I can stop this realm from burning to its bones."
And so his true path began.That of the silent dragon.The one no one expected.The one who would change the course of history.
Daron Targaryen. The Reborn.
Meanwhile, in the streets of King's Landing, life went on—but now with a new undercurrent. Juanos, the merchant, closed his stall at dusk, sensing deep within him that something immense and irreversible was coming. In the distance, the whispering wind seemed to carry an old song—the kind that heralded the dawn of an age where blood and fire would entwine in the fate of a kingdom that would never be the same again.
Would this be the birth of a new era, or the twilight of the old world?Only time—and the fire of dragons—would tell.