Game of thrones: A storm is coming

Daeron sat across from King Viserys in the Red Keep's solar, the morning sun casting a golden hue over the room. Viserys leaned back in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, his expression warm and contemplative.

"You've done much since arriving in Westeros, Daeron," Viserys began, his tone carrying the gentle authority of a king. "You've brought strength and vigor to the Targaryen name. I'd like to give you the means to establish yourself here—a land to call your own."

Daeron tilted his head, curious but wary. "I'm flattered, Your Grace, but what exactly do you have in mind?"

Viserys gestured to the map of Westeros spread across the table. "The lands between Harrenhal and the Crownlands. Fertile plains, rivers to support trade, and a prime location to build a keep. It would be yours, a legacy for future generations."

Daeron smiled, though he shook his head lightly. "That's a generous offer, Your Grace, but I must decline. My place isn't on the ground managing estates—it's in the skies on Acnologia's back, exploring the world."

Viserys chuckled, raising his goblet in a mock toast. "Ah, the spirit of adventure. I can respect that. But know this: you'll always have a home here. You're family, Daeron. Never forget that."

Daeron inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Your Grace. That means more than you know."

Their conversation shifted as Viserys leaned forward, his gaze wistful. "Do you ever think about Valyria, Daeron? What it must have been like before the Doom?"

Daeron considered the question, his own thoughts flickering to the ancient tales he'd heard. "A civilization unmatched, they say. Great dragons, towering spires of fused stone. But... some things aren't meant to last."

Viserys brought out an old, worn out journal, " I have always found these words here quite amazing and quite an apt description of our family legacy . It goes like this :

This world wasn't always so small and petty. Thousands of years ago. while the rest of men prayed to gods, the Valyrians tried to become them. Through magic or sheer will. they mastered the greatest creatures in history, Dragons .

A horse grants man dominion over the land, a ship over the sea, but dragons gave us the sky, and everything and everyone beneath it.

At its height my ancestors ruled the known world. whatever parts we didn't weren't worth knowning. our capital of Valyria shamed the Magnificent cities of the East, for hammers and chisels were no match for dragon fire and sorcery. It was a city and an empire built to last until the end of time. But it didn't.

400 years ago the doom fell on Valyria. mountains cracked open like eggs, lake and rivers boiled fountains of fire ash; and smoke spewed from the ground so high and so hot, that even dragons burned in flight.

The land splintered and the angry sea rushed in. Within hours, the greatest city in history, became just history.

But my ancestors didn't burn nor drown with the rest of their race . 12 years before the doom, despite the sneers of his rivals, Ainar Targaryen abandoned the capital with his family.

Legends claim that his daughter foresaw the destruction of the city in a dream. It was more likely Ainar met with some mishap at court and chose exile over execution. he and House Targaryen slicked away to a dreary, remote godforsaken Island; well, it was forsaken no longer.

With arts now lost to the world, we transformed a tiny outpost into Dragonstone, a fortress fit for the last of the dragon lords. then ainars descendants settled into it like a tomb, for their lost homeland, until Aegon.

When he looked east he saw the past old tired dead but when he lived West he saw the future gold in the world gold in the fields and no dragons in the sky but is he and his sisters Rhaenys and Visenya flew over the great continent ostensibly visitors to a trange land.

But when Aegon returned , he ordered construction of a massive table carved in the shape of Westeros with all the notable rivers and mountains that they had seen a personal map of the Seven Kingdoms then ruled by seven squabbling families.

House Durandon held the Stormlands from their seat; its storms end due south of Dragonstone.

House Hoare of the Iron Islands had also conquered and enslaved the Riverlands and ruled them from Harrenhal, a monstrous castle rising on the shore of the gods.

House stark held the frozen wasteland of the North, the oldest, largest, and emptiest of the kingdom.

Lannisters held the Westerlands the wealthiest kingdom thanks to their gold mines . House Gardner held the reach of the second wealthiest Kingdom thanks to their crops

House Arryn held the Vale,or rather the vale held them. The mountains were impossible to get through, except through the bloody gate which had never been taken.

House Martell held the deserts of dorne from the plate, because no one else wanted them.

Together , the seven kingdoms made Westeros a realm that wasn't yet around, ruled by great families who didn't know what greatness was. Aegon would teach them, as he would conquer them all, and become the one true King of Westeros.

" This was From the Diary of King Maegor. For all his cruelty, he did have a penchant for words didn't he?" Viserys chuckled softly.

Daeron shrugged and replied, " He was proud of his blood and the legacy of Valyria. But in the end, the Valyrian freehold is gone, even Aegon and his dragon is gone, all that remains is us and our actions. As i said, nothing lasts forever."

Viserys nodded, a shadow passing over his face. "Perhaps. Or perhaps their end was written long before the Doom. There are whispers... prophecies that speak of such things."

Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Prophecies, you say? That reminds me—the fire priests of Volantis are rather fond of those. They've got their own about a 'prince that was promised.'"

Viserys froze mid-sip, his hand trembling as his goblet slipped from his grasp, spilling wine across the table.

Daeron blinked, startled. "Your Grace? Are you all right?"

Viserys's eyes bored into him, wide and filled with something between astonishment and vigilance . "What do you know of this prophecy?"

Daeron leaned back, confused but intrigued. "Not much, honestly. The fire priests in Volantis have this whole belief that a savior, the 'prince that was promised,' will be born to lead the fight against darkness."

He tried to play it off. ' I don't want to speak about ice zombies and inevitable fight with the night king to Royalty without any proof ; he might think I'm mad.' Daeron thought internally

Viserys's hand gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "Tell me everything. Every word you heard."

Daeron hesitated, sensing an intensity in the King he hadn't expected. Still, he recounted the priests' fiery sermons, their talk of a great hero wielding light against the coming darkness , and their peculiar fascination with him as a potential candidate.

When he finished, Viserys stared at him, his face pale and drawn. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, shaking his head. Finally, he said, "Leave me, Daeron. I... I need time to think."

Daeron stood, bowing slightly, his confusion only growing. "As you wish, Your Grace."

'What's wrong with him? He got quite rattled with the mention of the prophecy. Does he know something? How much he knows, and what is he hiding?' Daeron thought to himself as walked away .

As the door closed behind Daeron, Viserys sat motionless in his chair, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. The young man's words replayed in his head like a haunting melody: The prince that was promised. The Savior who would lead the world against the darkness.

Viserys had long held the secret of the prophecy, passed down through generations of Targaryen rulers. It was a truth meant only for those who bore the burden of the Iron Throne.

He had always believed that the promised prince would come from the royal line—a descendant of Aegon the Conqueror, perhaps through his own heirs. It was the reason he clung so desperately to his vision of uniting the realm under Targaryen rule.

But now... Daeron.

Daeron, with his mysterious past and his massive dragon. A man outside the orthodox royal lineage but bearing a connection to Valyria's might and its legacy of fire. And Daeron had spoken of the prophecy with casual dismissal, unaware of the gravity his words carried.

How could he have known?

Viserys thought, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The prophecy has been a closely guarded secret. If Daeron heard it in Volantis, then how deeply does their Red Temple understand it? And why would they name him the savior?

He stood and began pacing the solar, his mind churning with possibilities. The prince that was promised was supposed to be born of the royal descendants —was it not? Well, He was the son of the crown prince, be it bastard.

Could the prophecy have been misinterpreted? Or worse, had they misunderstood their role in the great battle to come?

Viserys paused by the window, staring out at the setting sun casting its golden glow over King's Landing.

If Daeron was truly the one foretold, what did it mean for the future of his own bloodline? For Rhaenyra? For the son he hoped to sire with Aemma?

And yet, there was another question that gnawed at him: Should Daeron know the truth?

If he's truly the prince that was promised, doesn't he have the right to know? Would keeping this knowledge from him jeopardize the realm? Or is it better to guard this secret until I'm certain?

Viserys rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the dilemma pressing down on him. For all his love of peace and revelry, he was not blind to the threats looming over Westeros. The Song of Ice and Fire was not merely a tale—it was a warning.

He sighed deeply, his thoughts coalescing into a tentative plan. If Daeron had truly learned of the prophecy from the Red Priests of Volantis, then they must know more. Perhaps they could clarify why they believed Daeron to be the savior.

Viserys strode to his writing desk and grabbed a quill, dipping it into ink. His hand trembled slightly as he wrote a message to the Red Temple of Volantis.

He requested the presence of one of their experienced priests to discuss the prophecy and their reasons for naming Daeron the prince that was promised.

Sealing the letter with the royal seal, he summoned a trusted messenger. "Deliver this to Volantis red temple with all haste," he instructed. "Do not delay."

The messenger bowed and departed, leaving Viserys alone with his thoughts.

He sat back down, his goblet of wine forgotten on the table.

The spilled crimson liquid seemed to mirror the turmoil within him—a spreading stain of uncertainty and fear.

If the Red Priests are wrong, then nothing changes, he thought, trying to calm himself. But if they're right...

A knock interrupted his musings, " Your grace, the tourney will begin soon. We should go now." Ser Harrold reminded him.

Viserys sighed and closed his eyes, trying to imagine what the future might hold. For Daeron. For the realm. For the Targaryen dynasty.

And for the first time in years, he felt truly unprepared and lost .