Essos, 96 AC – The City of Volantis
The winds of the Free Cities were harsher than Vaeron had expected. His exile had begun with nothing but the clothes on his back and Noctharys at his side. Yet he carried with him a legacy—his Targaryen blood, the fire in his veins, and the shadow of a dragon that haunted him like a promise.
He arrived in Volantis, one of the oldest of the Free Cities, a place where power was sold, bought, and bartered by those willing to shed blood. The city was a labyrinth of stone streets, towering buildings, and vast markets where the scent of exotic spices and the sounds of different tongues filled the air.
The first few months were grueling. Vaeron, with his dragon, was a mystery to the locals. To the common folk, he was a legend—an outlaw dragonrider, an exile of noble blood—but he was no more than a ghost to the city's leaders.
He spent his days moving through the city's lower districts, speaking with traders, mercenaries, and former slaves. Volantis, though wealthy, was a city divided—its power held by the ruling families and the Triarchs, those who made deals in dark chambers and with bloodstained hands.
But Vaeron was not here to beg for power. He was here to take it.
It was in the House of the Black Serpent, a notorious mercenary company, that Vaeron first made his mark. Led by a ruthless man named Lord Tarys, the Black Serpents were known for their skill in battle and their willingness to take on any job, no matter how dangerous.
"I've heard of you, Targaryen bastard," Lord Tarys said, his voice low and laced with distrust. "But what makes you think a dragon will earn you a place at my table?"
Vaeron sat across from him, his face unreadable. Noctharys's shadow loomed behind him, a silent, burning presence. "I've not come to sit at your table," Vaeron replied. "I've come to buy your loyalty. Your strength. I'm building something more than a mercenary band. I'm building a kingdom."
Tarys chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "A kingdom, eh? You've come to the wrong city, boy. In Volantis, kingdoms are made with gold and blood, not dragons and titles."
Vaeron's eyes gleamed, and he leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "Then let us start with blood."
Vaeron's first test came swiftly, just days after his meeting with Lord Tarys. A rival mercenary company, the Red Scorpions, had encroached on Black Serpent territory, and Tarys had called for a raid to send a message.
Vaeron was no stranger to war. He had trained under his uncle, Prince Daemon, learning the ways of battle, strategy, and the art of war. But this was different. This was no Targaryen army—this was a group of men willing to fight for coin, not honor.
In the dead of night, Vaeron rode out with the Black Serpents. Noctharys flew overhead, her massive wings stirring the air, her fiery breath lighting the night sky. It was a sight to behold, and one that struck fear into the hearts of the Red Scorpions as they saw the dragon descend upon them.
The battle was quick and brutal. Vaeron's men, emboldened by the sight of Noctharys, fought with unmatched ferocity. The Red Scorpions, who had once been feared across Volantis, crumbled beneath the weight of their assault.
By dawn, the bloodied corpses of their enemies littered the streets, and Vaeron stood victorious.
Lord Tarys, though a ruthless man, saw something in Vaeron that intrigued him. "You fight like a Targaryen," he said, wiping blood from his blade. "But you lead like a king."
Vaeron didn't answer. He simply looked toward the horizon, where Noctharys flew high above, a black shadow against the rising sun.
In the months that followed, Vaeron solidified his power in Volantis. With the Black Serpents at his side, he began taking on larger contracts, pushing deeper into the city's politics and military. He had become a force to be reckoned with—a man of both dragonfire and coin.
But he was not content to be a mercenary leader. Vaeron's ambitions stretched far beyond the walls of Volantis. He began forging alliances with the other Free Cities, offering protection in exchange for loyalty. He understood the game of power, and he was a master at playing it.
In secret, he also began gathering forces—building a fleet and recruiting more men. He would need them when the time came. When he was ready to claim his birthright.
As Vaeron's influence grew, letters began arriving from Westeros. Some were from the lords of the Free Cities, offering their support. Others were from those who remembered the name Targaryen and still felt the fires of dragonblood running through their veins.
But one letter stood out above the rest. It came from Prince Daemon, delivered by a trusted messenger.
"Your presence has been noted," it read. "But you must remember your place. The game is not so easily won, and those who claim it will find themselves playing a dangerous game."
Vaeron smiled grimly as he read the words. The game had only just begun.