The birthing chamber still smelled of blood and smoke.
Steam drifted from the basins the midwife had abandoned, and the fire roared high where the shattered dragon egg lay in pieces. The newborn hatchling, crimson-scaled, horn-nubs forming the faint outline of a crown, slept curled around the infant on the table, its tiny chest rising and falling in soft puffs of warmth.
Daemon lingered near them, one hand braced on the table's edge. Sweat and soot streaked his cheek, though his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between triumph and calculation.
He watched the boy breathe.He watched the dragon nestled beside him.Two lives bound in the same instant.
Rhaenyra stood a few paces away, arms wrapped around herself.
"Uncle," she asked quietly, "what will you do now?"
Daemon's eyes flicked toward the door where Otto's men waited like vultures. He exhaled slowly.
Viserys will not accept this unless he sees the child himself.
His fingers drummed once against the table.
After a long, tense silence, Daemon straightened. His decision settled into his posture like a drawn blade.
"Rhaenyra," he said, "you will take the boy to King's Landing. Fly him there yourself."
She blinked, startled. "Me? Alone?"
"You're the only one I trust," Daemon replied. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "My presence will only provoke my brother's anger. But you… he listens to you."
Rhaenyra considered this and realized it was true. Though only ten, she had become Viserys's anchor since Queen Aemma's death.
Daemon added, "I'll deal with the Hand and the gold cloaks. I'll come to the capital once the dust settles."
Rhaenyra did not argue further. She only nodded and turned briskly to the servants. "Fetch thick blankets, lined ones, and warmed. The winds over Blackwater Bay bite hard."
She began preparing Syrax for the flight, whispering instructions to the dragon, checking straps with hands that trembled only slightly.
Daemon watched her go.
Once she exited, he lifted his son carefully, cradling him against his chest. The hatchling chirped in protest, claws scraping lightly against Daemon's armor as it clung to the newborn. He smirked faintly.
"Even newly hatched and already possessive. Good."
He handed both child and dragon to Rhaenyra with quiet solemnity, a rare moment of shared trust passing between them before she departed.
Daemon believed the matter settled.
He was wrong.
*
"My child! Where is my child?!"
Mysaria lurched awake with a cry, nearly tearing the stitches at her side. Her breaths came thin and sharp. The chamber spun around her.
Through the open archway she glimpsed a streak of gold, Syrax ascending into the sky with powerful sweeps of her wings, heading toward the horizon.
Her face drained of color.
"No… no…"
Daemon entered before she could rise. He walked with purpose, one hand smoothing the front of his tunic as though preparing himself for confrontation.
"Do not fear, Mysaria," he said softly, almost soothingly. "Our son is safe. He flies to King's Landing to be recognized by the king. Viserys will acknowledge him as he should, and the child will bear the name Targaryen."
"No!"Her voice cracked, raw from screaming through labor.
She tried to reach toward the empty cradle beside her bed, but her arm trembled violently and fell limply to her side. Sweat clung to her temples; she was pale as moonlight.
"He is mine, Daemon," she sobbed. "You cannot take him from me. He needs me—I birthed him—I—"
She choked on the rest.
Daemon's expression hardened. "The child is mine as well. And he will not grow up a bastard. Not with blood strong enough to hatch a dragon."
His tone was set like stone; the decision immovable.
Mysaria saw it in him,the same cold resolve that made men follow him into fire, the same wild ambition that frightened them once they arrived.
Her breath came in shaking gasps. She turned her face away, tears sliding freely.
Daemon exhaled. Not in regret, but in impatience.
"Rest," he said, voice clipped. "I've instructed the maester to prepare medicine."
Without waiting for a reply, he swept his cloak over his shoulders and left the chamber. He still needed to dismiss the gold cloaks, a gesture meant to placate his brother and soothe the threat of war.
The door shut behind him.
Mysaria curled inward, hands trembling against the sheets.The pain in her body was nothing compared to the hollow ache in her chest.
*
Syrax landed in the courtyard in a burst of dust and heat, claws scraping stone. Palace guards backed away instinctively as Rhaenyra dismounted, cradling the bundled child with the little dragon curled protectively over him.
King Viserys summoned her before she even reached the steps.
The throne room was hushed when she entered. Storm clouds boiled beyond the great windows, shadows flickering across the Iron Throne like restless spirits.
"Father," she said.
Viserys leaned forward, studying the bundle in her arms. "This is Daemon's son? And… that creature beside him?"
"The dragon hatched the moment he was born," Rhaenyra explained. "Uncle named him Baelon."
At that name, Viserys's breath hitched. A ghost crossed his face, his own firstborn son, lost within a day, and Daemon's cruel jest afterward.
Yet he felt no anger at this child. Only something warm and painful.
"Let me hold him," he whispered.
Rhaenyra stepped carefully up the throne, and Viserys took the boy and dragon with gentle, trembling hands.
The pair did not stir. Their warmth pooled in his palms.
He laughed softly, a sound almost childlike.
But then his foot slipped on his robe. He fell hard beside the throne.
"Your Grace!"
"Father!"
Steel rang as the Kingsguard rushed forward.
Viserys waved them away with a wince. "I'm fine. Just clumsy."
He set the pair atop the Iron Throne before standing. The newborn sprawled peacefully against cold Valyrian steel, guarded by the crimson hatchling.
Then the sky cracked open.
Thunder roared. Rain pounded the Keep in furious sheets.
The hatchling jolted awake, golden eyes blazing. It hissed, then gave a sharp, furious roar, tiny wings flaring wide.
"Protect the King!"
Swords scraped free. Shields lifted. The hall erupted into chaos.
But Viserys barely heard any of it.
He was staring at the sight before him.
"So familiar…" he whispered. "Far too familiar."
He had dreamt this, again and again.
A babe upon the Iron Throne. Dragons crying over King's Landing. The bells of the Great Sept tolling in frenzy. A circlet of the Conqueror resting upon the child's brow.
A king foretold.
A bell boomed loudly from the western quarter.
Viserys froze.
"The bells… the Seven's bells…"
A shout rang from a balcony guard: "Caraxes! Caraxes struck the archbishop's bell!"
Outside, a blood-red dragon spiraled through the storm. His roar rolled through the clouds.
Syrax raised her head and answered. Caraxes replied. Even Dreamfyre's ancient voice boomed from the Dragonpit.
A chorus of dragons over the city.
Viserys felt the breath leave him.
Rhaenyra touched his sleeve. "Father…?"
He blinked, returning to the present. "Yes, child. I'm well."
He looked once more at the infant sleeping upon the Iron Throne, wrapped in the protective embrace of his dragon.
A sight both innocent and terrifying.
Viserys hesitated only a heartbeat.
Then his voice rang through the hall, steady as tempered steel:
"I decree that Daemon's son, Baelon, shall be restored to the honor of our house. From this day forward, he is a true son of House Targaryen."
The proclamation echoed like thunder.
Unchallenged. Unassailable. A king's will, and perhaps prophecy's beginning.
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