Song of the Dragon (ASOIAF/WOT Quest)

"This is yours, now." Mother seems to have aged a decade or more since you entered the room. She holds one small, pale hand out towards you. Upon her palm is a Valyrian Steel ring. Black and red with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen prominent along one side. "Long ago your father said that this signet ring belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, and it was given to Daemon Blackfyre by his own father. Of course, it's not as famous as the Sword of Kings--the Westerosi are fools for their swords!--but it will mark you as the heir of the Black Dragon."

Letting out a deep breath, you accept the aged signet ring in shaking hands. For good or ill, you are walking in a history of your own making now.

Upon closer inspection, you note an inscription in High Valyrian on the inside of the band.

Zaldrīzī perzys asenagon kostos daor

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

When you attempt to put the ring on, it is too loose, too big. Eventually, you will be able to wear it properly and proudly. In the meantime, you quickly run a golden chain through it, and then drape it around your neck to join your other necklaces. You trace its contours with a tentative This signet ring, an object representing your father's legacy, becomes as precious to you as your own life.

Mother stands there shaking, and you lean over to hug her. She's strong, but even the strongest need support from time to time. You have lost a father, a man you didn't truly know, a man you foolishly looked down upon for many years of your life. Your mother has lost her beloved, her companion of these many years. Mother spent countless days seated by her husband's sickbed. She doesn't weep, truly all her tears have been shed, but her small frame is wracked by silent sobs.

"It will be alright, mother." You murmur. "I will make it alright."

"How?" She pulls away from your filial embrace. Her blue eyes flash angrily. "How are you going to make it alright? You cannot bring back your father!" Her sorrow has turned to cold fury. With her duties disposed of, she now speaks freely and fiercely. "By the Ancestors, Ahri, you're only sixteen! How can you even begin to keep your promise? Haegon had the good sense to avoid yet another doomed foray into Westeros. As gifted as you are, I will not stand by idly as you get yourself killed."

You stare at your mother as if she's grown a second head, like old Maelys the Monstrous. Your promise felt right. Such a vow is a sacred oath. Righteous and indignant fury wells up to meet your mother's cold words. Venom prepares to leap from your lips, but the fire is quenched immediately by the echoes of your mother's silent sobbing. Mother has lost far more than you this day. She must be terrified to lose even more. Everything she does and says is for your sake.

"Mother, you are right, I cannot bring back father. No one can." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, and you clear your throat. True resurrection is a myth. Only unclean necromancy stains this world. You'd burn anyone who proposed to do that to your father. "But, I will make his dream into truth. He will live on in our hearts, and we will carry on his legacy. The specifics are unknown to me, as the veil of the future is as implacable as ever." Those who rely upon prophecy are the purest fools. "Throwing down Robert Baratheon, conquering an entire continent as Aegon did, may seem like a child's folly. Indeed, it seems like madness. Yet, I made the Ancestor's Oath all the same, and do not forget one thing: you named me Dragon."

That is not just a word or name, but a title burdened by threads of fate and destiny. You can feel the weight of the declaration, the power of the title, but as with your ambition, the specifics elude you.
Mother remains silent for a long moment as she brushes back stray strands of red-gold hair. Her blue eyes are like chips of ice.

"Your birth was a miracle, and every day since you have demonstrated just how prodigious you are. Indeed, your facility with sorcery is utterly unprecedented, something I cannot begin to fathom." She admits proudly, however mother seems entirely unimpressed. She continues on with cold gravity, "but history is replete with prodigies who burned twice as bright for half as long. Brave fools who found only a length of steel shoved into their guts for all their daring. If you press your claim, the Golden Company may answer your call, but what is their strength against the might of the Seven Kingdoms? The Taish Arra and other Pureborn may be persuaded to back your claim, but they will not jeopardize their own interests in doing so. Further, do not expect a warm welcome in the home of your forefathers. Those with power do not bear any love for the Blackfyres, and when they look upon you, they will see a foreignborn slave-holding sorcerer. To take Westeros, you will need far more than determination and vagaries."

You have no rebuttal, no glib remark. You simply remain stonily silent. Mother's logic is solid, yet it feels vaguely wrong. Unlike your predecessors, you do have unconventional means at your disposal. Your path has been set. You must walk it to the end.

The air in the room grows uncomfortable, and after a few moments, you move to unbar the door. There you meet Ser Laswell Peake and maester Marwyn. After a few moments of confusion, you guide them and your mother to the adjacent study.

Regarding your newly discovered identity
[] Publicly reveal yourself as Aenar Blackfyre. The time for hiding is at an end. As a Blackfyre, a claimant for a foreign throne, your profile will explosively rise. Risk and reward may walk hand in hand. With such a massive undertaking on the horizon, you cannot squander a moment.
[] Remain temporarily as Ahren Taish Arra. Secretly send an envoy to the Golden Company, but otherwise continue as you have been. Might cost you opportunities in Qarth, but it will also allow you to remain relatively low profile until you are better positioned to come out into the open.