Night settled thickly over the endless steppe as Aryan—Viserys reborn and now, undeniably, a dragonlord—stood at the edge of the flickering campfires. The vast host of freed Unsullied, loyal Essosi and Westerosi followers, and liberated men and women stretched out before him like a living river. Yet it was the silent, potent presence upon his shoulders—the newly hatched Verdantyr—that marked this night as the beginning of an age.
The air carried the scents of roasted lentils, leather, and, most of all, anticipation. From fire to fire, soldiers told stories: of not one, but three dragons, of the silver-haired prince now trailed by legend, and of a march that would soon shudder the world.
Yet Aryan's thoughts throbbed with caution. Victory could turn on a rumor, and dragons—while powerful—were still young. Their enemies would be many, and clever.
The First Test
Aryan called his council beneath a lantern-lit canopy: Daenerys, a starved resolve in her gaze, Verdantyr curled in his lap; Marei, eyes darting with the quick cleverness of a veteran spy; Ser Willem, flanked by two trusted Unsullied captains, and Missandei, now his quiet adviser for both culture and language.
"Scouts report a host ahead," Marei began, tracing a crude map. "It's not Lannister bannermen—not yet. Pirates, former mercenaries—led by a Myrish captain named Relko. Hired swords, with numbers and siege engines."
Daenerys frowned. "Why do they block our path?"
Aryan gripped Verdantyr's delicate talons gently. "News of our dragons has spread. Some want to profit; some—likely bribed by Lannister agents—want proof we aren't just myth. We cannot turn or run. This is where we make legend reality."
A murmur passed through the council—half fear, half faith.
Aryan turned to the Unsullied. "Will you fight as free men, even if the foe outnumbers you?"
Grey-lipped commander Rojaq pressed a closed fist to his breast. "We follow the dragons. We follow you."
Preparing the Army and Dragons
All that day, Aryan moved among the host, calm and plain in his armored surcoat. Each order was simple but precise:
The Unsullied formed dense spear formations, shields locked, disciplined as ever.
The liberated men and women, eager but less skilled, were paired with veterans—given clear roles: guard the flanks, carry supplies, protect the young and dragons.
Daenerys, marei, and Missandei moved through the non-combatants, steadying nerves, kindling hope.
As dusk deepened, Aryan took time with Daenerys and their two hatchlings—her blue dragon, Skywrath, and his, Verdantyr. The third, the original black-gold, clung faithfully to her shoulders, fierce and watchful. All three were still too young for battle, but Aryan worked—gently—at feeding, training, even letting Verdantyr chase burning sticks and mount his forearm.
That night, he pressed his forehead to Verdantyr's scaly brow. "Not yet, little one, but soon. You must watch, learn, and remember."
Nothing in canon, in forum threads, or in lore had prepared him for this blend of fear and love—for knowing that he was not just using power, but shaping it.
The Battle Begins
Word came at dawn: the enemy vanguard approached, banners fluttering gray and stripped with red. Aryan mounted a small rise, Daenerys at his side, both armored and bearing visible dragons. The effect was immediate—enemy scouts paused, confused, as Aryan raised his sword and ordered the drums sounded.
The Unsullied advanced in honeycomb formation, shields up, spears bristling. Aryan knew that morale won battles as much as weapons. He unleashed every advantage—messengers had seeded panic through the enemy with tales of three dragons, one larger than an ox, already able to incinerate men by the dozen.
When the Myrish captain charged, Aryan's host did not break.
Instead, Aryan gave the order: the dragons—small, but fearsome—took to the air, circling above the front ranks. Their roars were shrill, their fire more scorching torch than storm, but the illusion to the enemy was absolute: men screamed that the skies burned, and all but the bravest faltered.
At the battle's edge, Aryan directed squads to flank, not rout, offering surrender to those who would kneel and swearing protection for anyone who joined.
By noon, the mercenaries' will broke. Spears fell, battered helms cast away faster than oaths. Those who stayed were granted mercy; those who fled found their camps burned from the air—less by dragonflame than by bold sellswords in cloaks, wielding buckets of pitch and torches.
It was not a perfect victory, but it was swift and decisive. Aryan lost a dozen men; the enemy, hundreds. And in the telling, the dragons had won the day, even if only one truly flew above the fire.
Legend and Loyalty
The aftermath was a blur of wounded, celebrations, and ritual. Aryan, bloodied but unbroken, moved among the wounded, Daenerys and Missandei tending broken arms and offering gentle words.
The surrendered mercenaries were brought before Aryan and Daenerys. He offered them a choice—stay and swear loyalty, or take rations and go. Most knelt; a few, feeling the eyes of three dragons, wept openly.
Among Aryan's own ranks, new songs exploded that night:
"Dragons three, sky aflame,
Silver prince with green-eyed claim.
Fair queen's word, sword in hand—
Storm's rebirth across the land!"
Aryan knew well that tales grow in the telling. On the morrow, emissaries would ride north and south to repeat the story: not only was the Targaryen claim real, but the dragons fought for the people, did not massacre the helpless, and turned enemies into kin.
A Night of Reflection
When the camp finally quieted, Aryan retreated to the riverbank, Verdantyr coiled protectively around his shoulders. Daenerys joined him, Skywrath perched on her arm. Both siblings silent, watching the moon reflected on dark water.
"You changed the way the story is told," Daenerys said softly. "Not by fire alone, but by mercy. By trust. By hope."
Aryan closed his eyes, fatigue surging through him, but pride deeper still. "We have years of war ahead, Dany. But tonight—I believe the world is changing."
Verdantyr, already growing fast, let out a small jet of flame into the sky. Aryan grinned. "Let every king and lion fear what rides with us now."
In the hush that followed, Aryan knew this was his chapter. Not as a pawn or exile, nor even as a mythmaker—but as a leader, carrying the future on his shoulder and in his heart.
The Dance had begun, and the world would learn the cost—and promise—of fire reborn.
End of Chapter 20