Months passed in a blur of nursing, sleeping, and observation. I realized quickly that being an infant with the mind of a grown man was a special kind of hell. The boredom was excruciating. I spent hours staring at the tapestries in my nursery, memorizing the patterns of the dragons and the histories they depicted.
However, being a "quiet" baby had its advantages. I was often left in a corner of the solar while my grandfather and father discussed the affairs of the realm. They thought I was sleeping or merely staring at dust motes.
By the time I was six months old, I had a firm grasp on the current political landscape.
And now I understand how weak House Targaryen had become after loosing all the dragons. And after my grandfather marriage with Dornish princess the lords of the Reach always think House Targaryen is favouring Dorne.
One evening, my grandfather Daeron came to visit. He often did this when the stress of his father's court became too much. He would sit by my cradle and read aloud from ancient Valyrian scrolls, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos of the castle.
"They call me 'The Good,' Valarr," Daeron whispered one night, closing a book on the history of the Rhoynar. "But goodness is a poor shield against a man who holds a sword like Blackfyre. Your grand-uncle Daemon... he is a sun. People want to follow a sun. They do not want to follow a man who smells of ink and old parchment."
I reached out a tiny hand, grabbing his finger.
Daeron looked startled, then smiled. "You have a strong grip. Perhaps you will be the bridge, little one. You have the Dornish blood that I brought into this house, but you have the fire of your father. If I can just hold this kingdom together long enough for you to grow... if I can just survive my father's spite..."
He trailed off, looking out the window toward the city. King's Landing was a sprawling, chaotic mess below the Aegon's High Hill. I knew that in its current state, it was a breeding ground for disease. The "Good" King Daeron wanted to build a legacy of peace, but he didn't see the invisible enemies.
If I were to save this House, I couldn't just be a warrior like Baelor or a scholar like Daeron. I had to be something else. I had to be a visionary.
As the days turned into weeks, I began to focus on my physical development with a zeal that worried my nurses. I pushed myself to crawl, then to stand, then to walk. By the time I was a year old, I was moving with a coordination that was unnerving to the court.
I began my "raids" on the Red Keep. I wasn't looking for sweets or toys. I was looking at the infrastructure.
I would wander toward the kitchens, watching how the waste was disposed of (usually thrown into the street). I would watch the water carriers, seeing where the wells were and how easily they could be contaminated. I would watch the servants, the invisible eyes and ears of the castle, and I would offer them small smiles and "help" with their tasks.
"The Prince is a strange one," I heard a maid whisper as I helped her pick up dropped laundry. "He doesn't cry. He just... watches. Like he's judging us."
"He's a dragon," another replied. "They're all a bit strange. At least he's not like the King. I heard the King's legs have turned black and he's screaming for more poppy."
Aegon IV was finally reaching the end. The year was 184 AC.
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The night the King died was a night of shadows and whispers. The Red Keep felt as though it were holding its breath.
I was tucked into my bed, but I wasn't sleeping. I heard the frantic footsteps in the hallway, the distant sound of bells beginning to toll, and the low, mournful howl of a hound in the kennels.
My father entered my room, his face grim. He didn't say a word, but he picked me up and carried me to the Great Hall.
There, in the center of the room, stood my grandfather. He was no longer dressed in the simple robes of a prince. He wore a doublet of black silk with a heavy gold chain. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed.
"The King is dead," Daeron announced to the assembled lords. His voice was steady, but I could hear the tremor of relief beneath it. "Long live the King."
The response was muted. Many of the lords present were the "friends" of Aegon IV—men who had grown rich on his corruption and lust. They looked at Daeron with suspicion.
Then, the final blow fell.
A messenger arrived, gasping for breath, clutching a parchment sealed with the King's personal seal. "A final decree, Your Grace! Written in the King's last hour!"
Daeron took the parchment. As he read it, the color drained from his face until he looked like a ghost. He handed it to my father.
Baelor read it and let out a snarl of pure rage. "He didn't. Even at the end, he didn't."
"He did," Daeron said, his voice hollow. "He has legitimized them all. Every bastard, every baseborn child he ever sired. Daemon, Aegor, Brynden... they are all Targaryens now. They all have a claim."
The room erupted into chaos. This was the moment. The "Unworthy" had thrown a torch into a room full of wildfire and closed the door.
I looked at my grandfather, the new King Daeron II. He looked crushed. I looked at my father, who was already looking toward the doors as if expecting an army to burst through.
I realized then that the slow pace of my childhood was over. The war had begun before I could even reach the height of aman's waist.
I looked out over the crowd of faces—some loyal, some treacherous, all dangerous.
I had twenty-five years until the Great Spring Sickness. I had twelve years until the first Blackfyre Rebellion.
I wasn't just a child anymore. I was the heir to a crumbling dream, and I would be the one to turn it into a fortress.
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