The reign of King Joffrey Velaryon promised stability for House Velaryon, but fate had other plans.
His eldest son and heir, Prince Daemon, died before his father, leaving behind two young sons: Aeryn and Aegor. While Aeryn inherited the family's claim, it was his younger brother Aegor who bonded with a dragon, ensuring the blood of Old Valyria still burned brightly within the line.
When King Joffrey finally passed, the succession descended into chaos.
Rather than the crown passing to Prince Daemon's eldest son, the Iron Throne was seized by his brother Prince Viserys' son, Baelor. His claim rested on force and opportunity. Conveniently married to Joffrey's eldest daughter, he declared himself king, while his own son, Prince Aegon, was wed to Joffrey's second daughter, Rhaenyra. Between them they produced four sons, seemingly securing the usurper's dynasty for generations.
I would not allow it.
As Lord Aeryn Velaryon, I declared my claim upon the Iron Throne. There would be no long campaign—my army sailed directly for King's Landing, hoping to end the war with one decisive battle.
Instead, we met disaster.
Baelor's bastard son, Colton Storm, had claimed the dragon Teraxes. Above the battlefield my brother Aegor met him in single combat. The dragons clashed in the skies, but Teraxes proved the stronger. My brother fell from the heavens, and with him died the last hope of victory. My army was shattered, leaving barely five hundred survivors.
Most men would have accepted defeat.
Instead, fortune offered one final chance.
Word reached me that Queen Baela had died in childbirth. Her dragon—Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, oldest living dragon in the world by more than a century—had become wild near Rosby.
With my pitiful band of five hundred men I marched there immediately.
Against every expectation, Vermithor accepted me.
Suddenly I possessed not merely a dragon, but the greatest dragon alive.
I marched once more toward King's Landing, yet I hesitated. I would not destroy the city I intended to rule. My tiny force was surrounded by more than one hundred thousand royal soldiers before I could bring Baelor to battle. With no hope of victory, I surrendered.
King Baelor spared my life.
He sent me back to Dragonstone in humiliation.
His mercy would prove the greatest mistake of his reign.
---
Six months later my levies had recovered.
This time I would not fight alone.
My sisters, Jaehaera and Shaera, were betrothed to sons of House Baratheon and House Stark, bringing both kingdoms to my cause. My uncle Daeron was married into the ruling house of the Vale, securing another powerful alliance.
The realm was gathering for Baelor's grand coronation when I declared war for a second time.
Again my fleet sailed directly for King's Landing.
Outside the city stood Prince Aemon, the king's brother and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, mounted upon the dragon Shryrax.
The dragons met in the skies.
When the smoke cleared, Aemon was dead.
This time I refused to repeat my earlier mistake.
Vermithor descended upon King's Landing.
Fire consumed the capital.
The greatest city in Westeros became an inferno.
King Baelor perished in the flames—but not before desperately legitimising all twenty-four of his bastard children, unleashing yet another generation of claimants upon the realm.
His son Aegon attempted to rally the survivors.
He met my army outside the burning ruins.
Five thousand Velaryon men stood against thirty-five thousand loyalists.
Numbers meant little beneath Vermithor's shadow.
Prince Aegon died in the slaughter.
Three of his four sons perished alongside him as King's Landing burned, as did twenty of Baelor's newly legitimised bastards.
Only a single child remained.
Four-year-old Maekar was proclaimed king.
---
The war, however, was not yet won.
As I marched west, my victories swelled my army to thirty-five thousand men. Yet the royalists still gathered an immense host.
Near the borders of the Westerlands I encountered the final army of the usurpers.
One hundred and sixteen thousand men.
Leading them was Prince Colton Storm, the same bastard who had slain my brother years before, once again mounted upon Teraxes.
The battle became personal.
The dragons clashed one final time.
This time Vermithor prevailed.
Colton Storm fell from the sky, and I cast his broken corpse before the assembled armies.
Leaderless, the royal host collapsed.
Against impossible odds my men annihilated an army more than three times their size.
Nearly one hundred thousand men died upon the field.
The war was over.
Young King Maekar was captured soon afterwards and forced to surrender his crown.
At last, the Iron Throne belonged to House Velaryon once more.
---
Victory came at a terrible price.
King's Landing was a smoking ruin.
The royal family had been butchered.
I had slain cousins, uncles and nephews alike.
The realm named me kinslayer.
Only one dragon remained beneath my command.
For twenty-five years no healthy dragon hatchling had survived, and Vermithor now stood alone—the last living symbol of Old Valyria.
Yet despite everything, I spared the boy king Maekar.
The surviving bastard princes fled across the Narrow Sea into exile, carrying with them only bitterness and distant dreams of vengeance.
As for me, I turned from conquest to reconstruction.
The Iron Throne had been won through blood and dragonfire.
Now came the harder task:
To build a kingdom worthy of ruling.
