111 AC
The boy sat straight-backed at his writing desk, platinum hair cropped short, his pale face softened by the gentleness of youth. Before him stood an aged dragonkeeper, his voice gravelly with years yet patient as he shaped each Valyrian syllable with deliberate care.
"High Valyrian keeps eight cases, nominative, accusative, all the rest, and four genders of grammar: sun, moon, water, and stone," the old keeper intoned. "A tongue of ancient craft and formidable depth."
He tapped his staff lightly against the floor. "Its truest purpose lies in communion with dragons, in the giving of commands. Sōvēs. Fly. Dracarys. Flame. Rēbis. Evade. Now, I speak, and you repeat."
…
The elder watched his pupil with evident pride. In more than forty years of service, through the reigns of three kings, he had never known a child so willing, so quick of wit, so hungry to learn.
Prince Baelon Targaryen was beloved throughout the Red Keep, far more so than his father, Prince Daemon.
Yet the dragonkeeper did not know that the prince's mind had drifted far from declensions and grammar.
If memory serves, Baelon mused, this old keeper dies in the Storming of the Dragonpit, torn apart when the mob descends. A pity. A loyal servant of the dragons… of our line.
Baelon Targaryen, six years of age, and thirty, counting the life he had lived before.
In that earlier world, he had watched House of the Dragon. Not closely, but closely enough to recognize faces, fates, and the long shadow cast by the coming Dance.
Reborn now as a son of the dragonlords, he would see that Dance never come to pass.
"Prince Baelon," the keeper said, bowing, "your lessons are complete. You are free until noon. Princess Rhaenyra bade me remind you, the king invites you both to dine."
He withdrew with a respectful incline of his head.
Baelon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, appearing simply to rest.
Within, he fell into darkness.
A small chamber, walls black as pitch, and three trophies arrayed upon a spectral floor.
The first was a great chalice, shimmering with shifting colors,
[A Being Who Should Not Exist (Legendary)]You are a life that should never have taken shape in this world, an affront to gods and destiny. Roar, child of man.Reward: Companion Dragon-Tyraxes, a dragon of rare bloodline, blessed with uncanny intellect and ferocious potential.
Beside it gleamed a trophy of bright, hammered gold:
[Born King (Gold)]You are royal by nature, thunder heralds you, dragons exalt you, and even the Seven incline their faces toward you.Reward: Extraordinary Charisma
This strange "achievement hall" had stirred to life the moment Baelon was born, his secret gift, the quiet power that had shaped his days.
Over six years he had learned its nature, it answered only to true disruptions of fate.
The third trophy, small and blackened like scorched iron, was his pride:
[Butterfly Wings (Iron)]By your hand, Rhaenyra at fifteen remains untouched, and Ser Criston Cole stands every inch the dutiful Kingsguard, harboring no forbidden longing. Their paths bend away from tragedy.Reward: Dragon Gene Enhancement Serum- Type I
Only two achievements in six years.... yet each invaluable.
The charisma made him cherished.The serum had hastened Tyraxes' growth.
From hatchling to more than twelve meters in merely six years, twice the speed of most dragons.
Whether it was the serum or the nature of Tyraxes' bloodline, something rare, perhaps even the echo of a long-forgotten Valyrian strain, Baelon could not say.
When Rhaenyra first rode Syrax to Dragonstone at ten years of age, the golden dragon had measured scarcely ten meters. Sea Smoke of House Velaryon, hatched at a similar time, had outpaced her by far. Dragons grew at wildly different rates.
At Tyraxes' pace, even without further achievements, he would surpass forty meters by the time the Dance should have begun.
Not Vhagar.Not Meleys.Not the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.
But among the dragons of his generation, unrivaled.
And rare-blood dragons only grew mightier with time.
Baelon opened his eyes and crossed to the window, gazing toward the distant Kingswood.
A familiar roar tore across the sky-
"Skr-RROOOAR!"
Only then did he rise from his study, satisfied.
Since infancy, Tyraxes had shared a bond with him, mind to mind, soul to soul. Now, after years of growth, that silent communion spanned leagues. Distance no longer mattered.
He still remembered the dragon's first words, sent the day King Viserys suggested confining him to the Dragonpit. Tyraxes had been hunting along the coast, furious at the very thought.
As dragon-as freeborn fire-I deny the chains of the pit. I will not be caged beneath stone.
Baelon had been barely more than a toddler. But Viserys adored him, and with Baelon's uncanny persuasive charm, the decision had been simple.
Tyraxes remained free.
Baelon stepped to the door. It opened at once.
A white cloak waited outside, posture straight as a spear.
Only one order wore such cloaks without fear in the capital,
The Kingsguard.
Ser Cantell Rosby, appointed by King Viserys himself to guard the young prince, turned at Baelon's approach. A loyal knight of the Crownlands, honest and stout of heart.
Baelon's first sworn sword.
"Ser Cantell, we're leaving."
The knight lifted a gauntleted hand in apology. "My prince, I didn't hear the door at all."
"That's quite all right," Baelon replied with an easy smile. "We're going to the queen's chambers. I wish to see Aegon."
Four years ago, Alicent Hightower had wed his uncle, King Viserys. Three years past, Prince Aegon had been born.
Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron remained only shadows in the future.
"Yes, my prince!"
They walked the broad corridors of the Red Keep, servants and guards bowing on every side.
"Prince Baelon.""Blessings upon you, my prince."
Baelon answered each with Viserys's gentle smile, warm, gracious, disarming.
A ruler must wield both sword and shield. Dragons and armies were the sword. Kindness and reputation, the shield.
And with his unnatural beauty and charisma, Baelon had become the jewel of the Red Keep.
Obedient. Brilliant. Kind and Approachable.
Exactly the prince the realm wished to love.
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