The War begins

Dragonstone, 289 AC, Monford Velaryon's POV

The waves battered Dragonstone's black cliffs, their roar a fitting chorus for the night's work. Lord Monford Velaryon stood at the prow of Tide's Wrath, his seahorse cloak snapping in the wind as his fleet anchored in the shadow of the castle. Lord Ardrian Celtigar stood beside him, his crab-emblazoned shield catching the flicker of torchlight. The castle's dragon-carved towers loomed like sentinels, but its walls were thinly manned—Stannis Baratheon was in King's Landing, summoned by his brother, leaving only a token garrison to hold the ancient Targaryen seat.

"Our spies were right," Monford said, his voice steady over the crashing sea. "Stannis took his best men. The castle's ours for the taking."

Celtigar's weathered face split into a grim smile. "For Jaehaerys Targaryen," he said, gripping his axe. "The dragon banner will fly again by dawn."

Monford nodded, his blood singing with the weight of history. The Velaryons had sailed for the Targaryens since the Conquest, their ships carrying dragonlords to war. Now, a new Targaryen rose in the North—a boy with silver hair, ruby eyes, and the Cannibal at his side. Monford's fleet, twenty ships strong, carried men loyal to the old dynasty, their hearts alight with the promise of a king reborn.

The assault began under a moonless sky. Monford's men moved like shadows, scaling the cliffs with ropes and daggers. Celtigar's axemen led the charge to the gates, their blades flashing as they cut down the sentries before an alarm could sound. The garrison, a mere fifty men, was caught asleep or unprepared. Monford himself led the push into the courtyard, his sword drawn but unbloodied as the defenders threw down their weapons.

"Yield!" cried the garrison's captain, a grizzled knight in Baratheon colors. "We're no match for you, my lord. Not with the dragon's shadow over the North."

Monford's gaze was steel. "Swear fealty to Jaehaerys Targaryen, third of his name, true King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you'll live."

The captain hesitated, then dropped to one knee, his men following. "For Jaehaerys," he muttered, and the words spread like wildfire among the surrendered. Monford's men cheered, their voices echoing off the obsidian walls.

By dawn, the three-headed dragon banner rose over Dragonstone's highest tower, its red scales blazing against the black field. Monford stood in the Chamber of the Painted Table, his hand tracing the carved coastline of Westeros. Celtigar joined him, planting his axe on the table's edge. "The first step," Celtigar said. "Dragonstone is his. Now we send word to Winterfell."

Monford nodded, his eyes fixed on the map's northern edge. "Jaehaerys will need this stronghold. The sea is ours, and with it, the path to the Iron Throne." He turned to his maester. "Send a raven to Lord Stark. Tell him Dragonstone flies the dragon banner for King Jaehaerys III."

As the raven took flight, a distant roar echoed in Monford's mind—not the sea, but the Cannibal's cry, calling across the Narrow Sea. The blood of Old Valyria stirred, and Dragonstone was ready to serve its true king.

The Kingsroad, 289 AC, Jon Snow's POV

The North marched south, a river of steel and fur flowing down the Kingsroad. Jon—Jaehaerys Targaryen, third of his name—rode at the head, his silver hair hidden beneath a hooded cloak, his ruby eyes scanning the frost-dusted hills. The Cannibal soared above, its black wings casting a shadow that stretched for miles, its roars scattering birds and chilling the hearts of the smallfolk who peeked from their hovels. Ghost padded silently at Jon's side, his white fur stark against the grey landscape, his red eyes mirroring Jon's own.

The Northern host was ten thousand strong—Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys, and more, their banners snapping in the wind. Ned rode beside Jon, his face etched with the weight of their choice. Robb and Arya flanked them, Robb's sword at his hip, Arya's fierce gaze daring the world to challenge her brother. Behind them, the Greatjon's laughter boomed, while Lord Bolton's silence was a blade in itself.

"They call you king," Ned said quietly, his grey eyes fixed on the road. "But the South won't bend easily. Robert's gathering his banners. He'll come for you, Jon."

"I know," Jon replied, his voice steady despite the fire in his blood. The bond with the Cannibal pulsed, a wildfire that carried visions of shadowed caves and dragon eggs. He hadn't spoken of his death at the Wall, the betrayal, or the gods' strange gift that sent him back to this time. That secret stayed locked between him and Ned, a truth too heavy for even these loyal lords.

To them, he was Jaehaerys, Rhaegar's son, chosen by a dragon—not a man who'd tasted death and returned.

Arya leaned closer, her pony keeping pace. "You're not alone," she whispered. "Dragon or no, you're still Jon. My brother."

Jon's chest tightened. He squeezed her hand, drawing strength from her fire. "Always now go back to winterfell sister it won't be sade," he said, his ruby eyes meeting hers. Above, the Cannibal roared, its cry a promise of what awaited. The South would see fire and blood, but Jon would face it as both Stark and Targaryen, with the North at his back.

The host moved steadily, Winterfell a memory behind them. Word had come from Dragonstone—Lord Velaryon had taken the castle, raising the dragon banner for Jaehaerys III. The news had sparked cheers among the men, but Jon felt only the weight of destiny. The Iron Throne loomed, a shadow he hadn't sought, yet the bond in his blood urged him forward. He was no longer just a bastard. He was a king, and the South would know his name.

Harrenhal, 289 AC, Robert Baratheon's POV

Harrenhal's cursed walls loomed like blackened bones, their melted stones a testament to dragonfire. Robert Baratheon stood in the courtyard, his warhammer resting on his shoulder as he watched his men swarm the castle. The Whents had yielded without a fight, their loyalty to the crown stronger than their pride in holding the ruined fortress. Tywin Lannister stood beside him, his golden armor gleaming, his green eyes calculating as always.

"Harrenhal's ours," Robert growled, his voice thick with fury. "A good start. But it's that dragon I want—burned to ash, with Ned's bastard beside it."

Tywin's lips thinned. "Jaehaerys Targaryen, they call him. The North rallies to him, and now Dragonstone flies his banner. A dragon changes the game, Your Grace. We need more than swords."

Robert snorted, his blue eyes blazing. "Then we'll build what Aegon's enemies did. Scorpions—big enough to pierce that beast's hide." He gestured to the smiths already at work, hammering iron and twisting ropes for the massive bolt-throwers. "I killed Rhaegar. I'll kill his whelp, dragon or no."

Tywin nodded, his gaze sweeping the courtyard. "The Reach and Stormlands march with us. My son Jaime leads a host with Lord Tyrell toward Riverrun. If the Tullys side with Ned, we'll crush them there. But the dragon…" He paused, his voice low. "We'll need wildfire, too. I've sent word to the Alchemists' Guild."

Robert's jaw clenched. Wildfire. The mad king's weapon. The thought twisted his gut, but he'd use it if it meant ending this Targaryen threat. "Ned betrayed me," he said, his voice raw. "Lyanna's son… all these years, he lied." The pain of her name cut deeper than any blade, fueling his rage. "He's no friend now. He's a traitor, and I'll have his head."

A scorpion's frame took shape in the courtyard, its iron tip glinting like a promise. Robert gripped his hammer, picturing the dragon's fall. He'd won the throne with blood. He'd keep it the same way.

The Riverlands, 289 AC, Jaime Lannister's POV

The host marched through the Riverlands, a sea of gold and green under the lion and rose banners. Jaime Lannister rode at the fore, his golden armor catching the sunlight, his white cloak stained with mud. Beside him, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, his stallion adorned with the green and gold of Highgarden. Ten thousand men followed—knights of the Reach, Lannister spearmen, and sellswords eager for coin and glory.

"Riverrun's ahead," Jaime said, his voice clipped, his green eyes scanning the rolling hills. "If Hoster Tully sides with Stark, we'll have a fight. If not, we take the castle and wait for Robert."

Mace Tyrell chuckled, his jowls quivering. "Hoster's no fool. He'll see reason when he sees our numbers. And my boy Loras—best lance in the Reach—will make short work of any Tully knights."

Jaime's lips twitched, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The raven from Winterfell had shaken him—a boy named Jaehaerys Targaryen, Ned Stark's bastard, now with silver hair and a dragon. Jaime remembered Rhaegar, his silver prince, and the promises he'd failed to keep. Was this boy truly Rhaegar's son? The thought stirred something in him, a flicker of doubt beneath his cynicism.

"Dragons complicate things," Jaime said, his tone dry. "If that beast reaches Riverrun, your son's lance won't help."

Mace waved a hand. "Scorpions and wildfire will handle the dragon. Our task is Riverrun. If the Tullys bend the knee, we secure the Riverlands for Robert. If not, we burn their fish banners and all."

Jaime's hand rested on his sword, the weight of his oath to the Kingsguard heavy. He'd killed one Targaryen king. Would he kill another? The thought lingered as the host marched on, Riverrun's towers rising in the distance, a challenge or a trap waiting to be sprung.