ACT I: The Awakening of the Myth and Arrival at Court (58 AC – 59 AC)
Chapter 3: The Awakening of The Dragon (58 AC)
The crossing from the solemn Black Stone Tower in the Valley of the Blessings to the fortress of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea unfolded with almost unbelievable speed.
Under the silent presence of Arthos Vaelarys, it seemed as though the very nature of the North made way: blizzards subsided as the party approached, and the frozen trails proved firm beneath the horses’ hooves.
At Eastwatch, the royal fleet awaited, and in a few hours of coastal sailing, the ships docked at the wooden piers of White Harbor.
Upon disembarking in the prosperous city of House Manderly, the royal couple was received with pomp, music, and a sumptuous feast of roasted fish, lamprey pies, and Southern wines.
However, King Jaehaerys I could not help but notice, with a touch of restrained irony and a certain discomfort, that the festivity seemed to be far more a devout tribute to the legendary *Pale Wolf* than a reception for his own sovereign.
Lord Manderly and his vassals looked upon Arthos with a mixture of reverence and almost superstitious dread.
They served him first, ensured his cup was always full, and bowed their heads with a respect bordering on veneration.
During that night of celebration, Jaehaerys carefully observed the man walking by his side.
Even while maintaining a calm demeanor, an impeccable posture, and a natural elegance that surpassed that of any Southern noble, Arthos was clearly someone who did not give a damn about the conventions of Andal nobility.
He spoke without beating around the bush, drank with the same ease with which he conversed, and treated highborn lords and kitchen servants with the exact same sovereign indifference.
Determined to understand the mind of that enigmatic figure, Jaehaerys and Alysanne opted not to make the journey from White Harbor to Dragonstone aboard their dragons.
They left Vermithor and Silverwing flying freely above the clouds and boarded the royal warship, willing to share quarters and table with the Mage of Vaelarys.
On the second night at sea, while the biting wind lashed the ship’s sails and the darkness of the Narrow Sea surrounded the vessel, Jaehaerys leaned against the oak railing beside Arthos.
The king, curious, openly asked why the sorcerer displayed such obvious disdain for the hierarchies and protocols of the royal court.
Arthos, adjusting his white cloak whose black edges swayed with the salty breeze, kept his tunic subtly open at his chest.
He looked out at the dark horizon, let out a low, dry laugh, and answered without any hesitation:
“A dragon cares little for the opinion of ants, Jaehaerys.”
Jaehaerys, who had been raised from the cradle in the highest esteem of royal majesty and the divine right of kings, felt his chest sting with the blow.
He did not answer right then, but the bitter sensation of having been silently included among the “ants” remained brooding in his mind for a long time.
Still, life aboard proved extraordinarily pleasant.
The Mage of Vaelarys revealed himself to be a magnetic companion.
His way of speaking—crystal clear, devoid of the futile flattery of Southern courtiers, yet maintaining a sharp civility—quickly won the genuine liking of the monarchs.
A true friendship, founded on mutual respect and boundless intellectual curiosity, began to bloom between the young royal couple and the marble-skinned sorcerer.
However, as the monarchs soon came to realize, Arthos was far from an ascetic or sanctified figure.
During the nights in the royal cabin, Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s sleep was repeatedly interrupted by the unmistakable echo of rhythmic clapping, loud groans, and shameless cries coming from the neighboring cabin.
To the queen’s surprise and restrained amusement, Jonquil Darke—the austere Sworn Shield who had begun the journey glaring at Arthos with disgust and deadly distrust—had been seduced by the Mage in record time.
Alysanne admitted to herself that it made complete sense: Arthos possessed an overwhelming charm, an ancient beauty, and a self-confidence so absolute that few women in the world could raise defenses against him.
Feeling the duty to protect order in his retinue, Jaehaerys questioned the Mage on the deck the next morning, wanting to know if that unrestrained conduct would extend through the court.
Arthos, perceiving the veiled concern in the king’s eyes—as if he could read his innermost thoughts, which he very likely could—merely let out a low laugh and gave a friendly pat on Jaehaerys’s shoulder:
“Rest easy, Jae.
I am an affectionate man and a womanizer, not a lustful savage.
I have no interest in your wife.”
The king accepted the assurance with a dry smile, though he kept an unsettling mental tally: since leaving Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Arthos had already bedded Jonquil Darke, Lord Manderly’s eldest daughter, and a young peasant woman from White Harbor.
Jaehaerys reflected in silence that bringing that man to King’s Landing—a court overflowing with young princesses, ladies-in-waiting, and impressionable noblewomen—would be the equivalent of throwing a lit torch into an iron dust warehouse.
Ah well…, thought the king, every man must watch and guard his own beloved.
The relaxed atmosphere of the sea voyage began to dissipate when the imposing towers of black stone of Dragonstone rose on the horizon, tearing through the salty sea mist.
Jaehaerys walked to the bow beside Arthos.
The Mage contemplated the ancestral fortress of the Targaryens and the colossal silhouette of the Dragonmont, where Vermithor and Silverwing were already flying to nest in the volcanic caves.
“A fine Valyrian castle, Jae,” commented Arthos, observing the walls carved in the shape of gargoyles and twisting dragons.
“Yes,” answered Jaehaerys, his chest swelling with ancestral pride.
“It is my true home.”
Upon disembarking at the island’s pier, the royal mounts were already awaiting them.
As they rode up the steep, winding path toward the castle gates, Queen Alysanne noted Arthos’s posture.
The Mage was not looking at the architecture or the soldiers; his storm-gray eyes were fixed on the smoking slopes of the volcano, as though sniffing the air for something ancient.
“What do you think of our ancestral island, Arthos?” asked the queen.
“A fine island, Alysanne,” replied the sorcerer, his voice calm.
“It is a perfect place to raise dragons.
After all, these beasts need the heat of the heart of the world to grow strong, healthy, and truly imposing.”
Jaehaerys kept that statement in the back of his mind.
The king immediately thought of the Dragonpit, the gigantic structure of masonry and stone domes raised on Rhaenys’s Hill in King’s Landing.
The work, begun during the reign of his uncle Maegor the Cruel, had finally been completed a few years ago, in 55 AC, under Jaehaerys’s own rule, to house the royal family’s dragons safely and impressively in the capital.
For the first time since the inauguration of that monumental arena, Jaehaerys felt a troubling doubt tighten his chest: Could keeping the dragons locked inside a structure of cold stone, far from the geothermal heat of the earth’s heart, end up withering and weakening our bloodline over generations?
Before the king could deepen his reflections, the retinue reached the main gates of the castle.
Suddenly, a gut-wrenching, terrifying roar echoed from the depths of the Dragonmont, making the stones beneath the horses’ hooves shake violently.
Jaehaerys readjusted his mount’s reins and looked sternly at the castellan of Dragonstone, who was receiving them on his knees:
“What roar was that?”
“It must be the wild dragon, my king…” replied the castellan, visibly trembling.
“*The Cannibal*.
The arrival of Vermithor and Silverwing must have awakened him from his deep caves.”
Neither the king nor the queen noticed, but on Arthos Vaelarys’s face, an intense, hungry, and utterly ancient gleam ignited in his gray eyes.
Seconds later, before the guards could open the iron gates of the inner courtyard, a colossal beating of wings cut through the heavens.
From the heavy clouds above the volcano, a shadow of monstrous proportions dove straight down toward the retinue.
The beast landed in the center of the courtyard with a staggering impact that cracked the cobblestones and kicked up a dense cloud of dust and smoke.
The horses whinnied in absolute terror, and the Kingsguard knights drew their swords in desperation.
It was a colossal dragon.
A terrifying beast whose size rivaled Vhagar herself1.
Its scales were of a deep, absolute black like the abyss, without any tone, mark, or reflection of another color.
The structure of its jaw was bizarrely shaped by nature, giving the permanent, macabre impression that the beast bore a malignant, cruel smile.
But the most mesmerizing detail was its eyes: two glowing globes of a vivid, poisonous emerald-green, shining with the same uncontrollable fury as the wild fire of the alchemists.
The dragon’s colossal head turned slowly.
Its green eyes swept the courtyard with killer disdain, ignoring the soldiers and raised swords, until they locked and fixed entirely upon the figure of Arthos Vaelarys.
Without moving from his saddle, feeling cold sweat trickle down his neck, Jaehaerys asked the castellan:
“What dragon is that?!”
The castellan, pale as a corpse and stuttering uncontrollably, answered:
“It…
it…
it’s The Cannibal, my king!”
The confirmation made Jaehaerys’s blood run cold.
The Cannibal was feared even by the Targaryens.
The beast was responsible for the slaughter of dozens of hatchlings and the destruction of eggs in the volcanic caves, flatly refusing to accept any rider.
He devoured without mercy anyone who dared approach, demonstrating a visceral, antagonistic hatred against the royal family.
He was the true uncontrollable monster of Dragonstone.
To the absolute astonishment and horror of everyone present, Arthos took a step forward.
Jaehaerys initially thought the Mage would use some defensive sorcery, as he had in his tower in the North.
But what happened next stilled the breath of every man and woman in that courtyard.
The Cannibal let out a deep roar that made the air vibrate.
Then, the most violent and wild dragon in Westeros lowered his gigantic black head, pressing his flat snout against the stone floor, directly at Arthos’s feet.
Arthos walked with absolute calm, extended his pale hand, and pressed it against the black scales between the beast’s green eyes.
The king and queen watched the scene in complete trance.
Before their eyes, without a saddle, without a whip, without chains, and without uttering a single word of command in High Valyrian, Arthos Vaelarys had just claimed The Cannibal.
Jaehaerys felt his mind spin in confusion.
How could a man who did not belong to House Targaryen tame a beast of that magnitude?
Could it be true that anyone with Valyrian blood could do the same?
The king dismissed the thought immediately—if that were so, the seeds and nobles of Driftmark would have been riding dragons for centuries.
As soon as Arthos withdrew his hand, The Cannibal let out a satisfied hiss, blowing a cloud of green smoke from his nostrils, and took flight with a single beat of his wings, creating a gale in the courtyard as he ascended toward the clouds of the Dragonmont.
Jaehaerys took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart hammering against his ribs.
He looked at Arthos and said, with the firm voice of a king demanding answers:
“In my solar.
Now, Arthos.
You are going to explain this to me properly.”
The Mage merely gave a light shrug, sketching a calm smile:
“Very well.
But there is no mystery at all, Jae…
I merely reunited with my family’s riderless dragon.”
Minutes later, in the solar of Dragonstone Castle, King Jaehaerys I poured himself a full goblet of strong wine and downed it in a single gulp to steady his nerves.
When the king reached out to refill the cup a second time, Alysanne gently stayed his wrist, stopping him.
The queen turned to the sorcerer, who was comfortably settled in the large oak chair near the window:
“Explain it to us, Arthos.
Please.”
Arthos looked at the royal couple, his serene posture contrasting with the monarchs’ agitation:
“Have you two never wondered why this dragon is a cannibal?”
Jaehaerys and Alysanne looked at each other in silence.
The tremor on their faces betrayed that yes, that question had always troubled them.
“When do you think this dragon was hatched, Jaehaerys?” asked Arthos.
“He…
he must have been hatched from one of the old clutches of Dragonstone, along with Vermithor, Silverwing, or Dreamfyre,” answered the king.
Arthos raised an eyebrow, an ironic and almost pitying smile appearing on his lips, making it clear how naive he found that answer.
Alysanne sighed, tired of her husband’s attempts to maintain the illusion of control:
“Enough trying to guess, Jaehaerys…” the queen looked at Arthos.
“The truth is that this dragon is impossibly ancient.
According to the accounts of the oldest fishermen and island natives, The Cannibal was already living in the caves of the Dragonmont since before the arrival of Lord Aenar Targaryen and his family on Dragonstone.”
Arthos nodded, showing approval:
“Exactly, Alysanne.
Makes total sense, doesn’t it?
The Cannibal does not belong and has never belonged to the line of House Targaryen.
That is why he attacked and devoured the newborn dragons and the eggs of your clutches.
To him, your scent and biological signature were those of a rival, strange, and enemy family.
And that is why he killed any of you who attempted to mount him.
Dragons were not created to respond to just anyone.
There is no such thing as a ‘wild dragon’, Jaehaerys…
there is only a dragon that has not yet found the rider of his true blood.”
Arthos paused dramatically.
His storm-gray eyes locked deeply onto those of the royal couple, and he uttered the following words with a grim, mysterious weight that froze the air in the solar:
“…After all, that is precisely how my family made them.”
The declaration fell upon the room like an axe blow.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne froze completely.
Their faces turned pale.
Made?
What did he mean by that?
Was he referring to training the dragons?
Or…
was he implying that House Vaelarys had created the very race of dragons through blood sorcery in Ancient Valyria?
An abyss of doubt, dread, and fascination opened before the monarchs.
Jaehaerys opened his mouth to question, to demand that Arthos explain that terrifying sentence, but the Mage of Vaelarys had already changed the subject with disconcerting ease, cutting off any opportunity to delve deeper before the secret could be revealed.
Alysanne, trying to regain the air in her lungs and disguise the shock that consumed her, broke the silence:
“And now, my love?
What shall we do?
Nothing against you, Arthos…
you are our friend.
But having another house of dragonriders active in Westeros could threaten the peace we are trying to build.”
Jaehaerys walked slowly to the window, observing the gray sky where the black shadow of The Cannibal cut through the clouds.
The king pondered all the political implications and made his decision:
“I have an idea, my friend.”
“Then speak, Jae,” answered Arthos.
“You will join my Small Council,” declared the king, turning to him.
“I will create a new seat of prestige for you: the title of **Master of Arcana**.
You will come to King’s Landing and help me govern this realm.”
Arthos stared at the king for a long time.
The tone of mockery vanished from his face, replaced by a profound solemnity.
“You know, Jaehaerys…
my father had a philosophy of life that he etched into my mind before he died,” said Arthos, his voice echoing with the wisdom of centuries.
“He used to say: *’My son, Valyria is gone.
Our family’s title and glory died in the flames and turned to ashes alongside the empire.
The titles and positions of a man or woman matter little in this world.
Never look at someone’s position…
look at the person.’* And I have lived by that philosophy for nearly a century, Jaehaerys.”
The Mage took a step forward, looking the king in the eye:
“I care little whether you are the King of the Seven Kingdoms, the Emperor of the World, or a beggar covered in rags on the street.
I would treat you the exact same way.
But…
I like you.
I know you are a good man and a good king.
You are just, you are honest, and you desire the good of your people.
As long as you maintain that character, I will not mind granting you my wisdom and my counsel.
I accept the position on your council, Jaehaerys.
But be aware: this title will not change my way of speaking to you in the slightest.
And if one day you cease to be the just man you are today…
I will turn my back on you and walk away.”
Jaehaerys smiled, feeling genuine relief, and extended his hand to the Mage of Vaelarys:
“I hope with all my heart that day never comes, my friend.”
With a firm handshake, the two sealed the beginning of one of the most influential, powerful, and legendary partnerships in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
In the days that followed on Dragonstone, Jaehaerys formally presented Arthos to the island’s court, telling the story of his bloodline and announcing his appointment to the Small Council.
The news spread like wildfire throughout the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms.
On a sunny morning in the castle courtyard, while royal smiths and saddlers measured The Cannibal’s colossal back with thick ropes to craft a custom saddle, Jaehaerys approached Arthos:
“Do you not intend to change his name?”
Arthos looked at the black dragon, who was snoring peacefully beneath the sun:
“For now, no.
I like the imposing weight of this name,” said the Mage, spreading his arms like a bard reciting an ode.
“*”The Cannibal, the Winged Nightmare”*.
It’s an excellent title, don’t you think?”
Jaehaerys laughed at his friend’s theatricality and shook his head:
“Now that you will be a royal councillor, you will need a banner and a motto for your house.”
Arthos looked at the king with an expression of mock offense:
“Do you think I am a rootless savage, Jaehaerys?
My house obviously possesses a banner and a motto!”
The king raised his hands in surrender, laughing:
“Forgive me, my friend!
It’s just that I never saw any flag flying from your tower, so I assumed you didn’t have one…
after all, that is a very strong tradition here in Westeros.”
“Well, we do indeed,” clarified Arthos.
“My Stark mother made sure to force my father to formalize a banner, and the old man ended up liking the idea.”
“And what does it look like?” asked the king, curious.
Arthos reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a piece of black silk, unfolding it before Jaehaerys.
The king observed the embroidery carefully, finding the design exotic and unlike anything he had seen in the realm.
“That symbol is strange…” commented Jaehaerys, frowning.
“It has been used by my family since before Valyria even became an empire,” explained Arthos.
“And what does it represent?”
“It is a **white crescent moon with a bright star inside, surrounded by rays of light, against a background black as night**.”
When the Mage explained, Jaehaerys was able to visualize the elegant beauty of the coat of arms.
“And what is your house motto?” asked the king.
Arthos pronounced the words in an archaic, resonant High Valyrian: *Rhēgo Āeksiī, Perzo Āeksiī.*
Jaehaerys translated out loud, surprised by the weight of the words:
“*”Masters of the flesh, lords of the fire”*.
A motto that clearly alludes to your family’s blood sorcery and pyromancy, I imagine.”
Arthos handed the silk fabric to the king, who immediately passed it to one of the royal maidservants with express orders to craft large banners for Arthos’s departure for King’s Landing.
While both watched the saddlers measuring the black scales of The Cannibal, Jaehaerys scratched his chin, thoughtful:
“It is strange…”
“What is strange, friend?” asked Arthos, his back to the king.
“Nothing much…” replied Jaehaerys, giving a light shrug.
“It’s just that your house’s symbol…
that moon with the star inside…
reminded me quite a bit of the sigil of House Dayne, down in Dorne, you know?
But it must be just a funny coincidence.”
Because he was facing away from the king, Jaehaerys could not see the reaction of the Mage of Vaelarys.
On Arthos Vaelarys’s pale face, his storm-gray eyes narrowed slightly, and a deeply cunning, ancient smile filled with secrets formed on his marble lips.
An expression that made it abundantly clear that, in that world, very few things were ever a “coincidental.”
Her size at that time—in 58 AC—is not the same as her size during the Dance; at that time, she is the size Vermithor is during the Dance.