Chapter Text
The Great Hall of Dragonstone was filled with tension as the Black Council convened. The flickering light of the torches cast long shadows across the faces of Rhaenyra's allies, the firelight dancing in their eyes as they discussed the betrayal of the Greens. Her voice, commanding yet laden with the weight of recent treachery, rose above the hushed murmurs.
“They’ve gathered their forces already,” she began, her tone cold. “Aemond rides Vhagar—he is our greatest threat. Aegon is no less a concern, and Heleana, though she shies from battle, still holds sway. And then, there is Daeron…”
The hall fell silent, the mention of Daeron’s name sparking curiosity among those gathered. He was a puzzle to many, a prodigy in both the sword and the quill, yet with a mind that drifted south, far away from the conflict that threatened to tear the realm asunder.
Daeron, her half-brother, was often dismissed by those who did not understand the depth of his obsessions. The Lords of Westeros spoke of his talents, his brilliance in strategy, and his unparalleled skill in combat. But they also whispered of his singular focus—a focus that had little to do with the civil war and everything to do with the conquest of Dorne.
Even as a child, his obsession was clear. When the other boys dreamed of tournaments or sought to win their fathers' approval, Daeron’s thoughts turned southward, toward the sun-scorched deserts and the unconquered Dornishmen. He spoke often of their lands, of their independence, and of how they had evaded the Targaryen yoke for too long.
His tutors and his family had thought it a phase, a passing fancy. They could not have been more wrong.
“The Dornish are a threat,” Daeron had declared at one of the rare meetings he attended with the Greens before the schism became irreparable. “They bide their time, waiting for us to weaken ourselves in this civil war. They’ve eluded us before, but they will not escape again.”
His passion was evident, his words laced with an intensity that unnerved even the seasoned warriors at the table. His father, King Viserys, had been the only one who could temper his desires. “No, son,” he had said firmly, time and time again. “You will not lead a campaign against Dorne. Not now, not ever. This is not the time.”
Daeron had bristled at the command, but he had obeyed—reluctantly. The fire in him, however, had not dimmed. It smoldered, waiting for the day when he could fulfill the dream that had burned within him since childhood.
Now, with Viserys dead and the Iron Throne in dispute, no one had the authority—or the power—to hold him back.
As Rhaenyra’s council continued to debate the movements of Aemond and the strength of the Green forces, Daeron was already plotting his next move. He sat in his chambers, maps of Dorne spread across the table before him. His eyes, so often cold and calculating, burned with a zeal that no one in the realm understood. It was more than ambition, more than a desire for conquest—it was destiny.
For Daeron knew, in the deepest recesses of his soul, that he was not just another Targaryen prince. He was the reincarnation of Daeron I, the Young Dragon, who had nearly conquered Dorne before his untimely death. The memories of his past life came to him in dreams—dreams of blood and fire, of sun-baked sands and the sharp sting of betrayal.
In his dreams, he saw the moment of his death, the dagger that had ended his first life in the dunes of Dorne. But he had returned, reborn in the body of another Daeron, with the same drive, the same unyielding will to finish what he had started.
He could feel the pull of his past life, guiding him, urging him forward. The throne was a distraction—a petty squabble between siblings. The true prize was south, waiting for him to claim it. And now, without his father’s restraint, nothing would stop him.
As the council adjourned, Rhaenyra caught sight of Daeron standing alone by a window, his eyes fixed on the southern horizon. She knew he was not present in the moment; his mind was already far away, lost in the endless desert sands of Dorne.
She approached him cautiously, her voice soft. “Daeron, we need you here. The Greens—”
“The Greens are not my concern,” he interrupted, his tone distant. “Aemond can have his wars, Aegon can have his throne. I have a different war to fight.”
Rhaenyra’s expression hardened. “And if they come for you? For us? Will you turn your back on your family?”
“I will do what I must,” Daeron replied, his gaze never wavering from the southern sky. “I have unfinished business in Dorne. I will not be swayed.”
With that, he turned and left the room, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dragon. Rhaenyra watched him go, a sense of unease settling over her. She had thought she knew her brother, but now she realized there were depths to Daeron she had never imagined.
As the Black Council prepared for war against the Greens, Daeron Targaryen prepared for a different battle—a battle that would determine the fate of Dorne and fulfill the destiny of a dragon reborn.
The winds of war were blowing, and in their wake, the fires of the past were being rekindled. Daeron knew he would either succeed where his predecessor had failed, or perish trying. But one thing was certain: he would stop at nothing to see Dorne bend the knee.
For the Young Dragon had returned, and this time, he would not be denied.