Later that evening, the family gathered in the King's private solar. It was a more intimate setting than the Great Hall. King Daeron sat by the fire, a map of the Stepstones spread across his lap. My grandmother, Queen Myriah, was embroidery-stitching a sun-and-dragon pattern.
Maekar was there, standing by the window, looking out at the city. He was unusually quiet.
"Maekar," the King said, not looking up from his map. "Baelor tells me your footwork is improving. He says you nearly had him in the third bout today."
Maekar stiffened. "He was being kind, Father. He still outclasses me in speed."
"Speed is for the young," Daeron said, finally looking up. "Power is for the man who stands his ground. I have been thinking. The Marches are restless. The Lords of the Reach are still complaining about the Dornish peace. I need a presence there. Someone who represents the strength of the Crown."
I sat on the floor with my wooden blocks, carefully building a tower. I held my breath.
"When you come of age, Maekar," the King continued, "I am considering granting you Summerhall. It is currently a mere hunting lodge, but I want it turned into a palace. A fortress on the edge of the Reach and the Marches. I want you to be the Prince of Summerhall."
The silence in the room was absolute. Baelor smiled, a genuine expression of joy for his brother. Aerys nodded in approval. Even Rhaegel stopped humming for a moment.
Maekar's face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, suspicion, and finally, a fierce, burning pride. "I... I would be honored, Father. I will make it a fortress that no one will dare challenge."
I placed the final block on my tower. The "Prince of Summerhall" title would give Maekar the identity he craved. It would move him away from the constant shadow of Baelor in King's Landing and give him a purpose.
As the family began to discuss the logistics of Summerhall, I slipped away from my blocks and climbed into my father's lap. Baelor wrapped an arm around me, his skin still smelling faintly of the yard.
"You're a clever one, Valarr," Baelor whispered into my ear, his voice so low that only I could hear.
I looked up at him, my heart hammering. Had I been too obvious?
"You have a way of making people see what's right in front of them," Baelor said, ruffling my hair. "Maekar has been brooding for months. One comment from you about 'strong knights' and 'protecting us,' and even the King takes notice. You have the gift of the tongue, my son. Use it well, but use it carefully."
I gave him a sleepy nod, burying my face in his chest. My father was no fool. He saw the "luck" of my timing, but he didn't yet see the intent.
As I drifted toward sleep, I thought about the next steps. Summerhall was a victory for the family's internal stability, but it wouldn't stop the Blackfyre Rebellion. Daemon was growing older, and his legend was growing with him. He was the "King who bore the sword," and to the disenfranchised lords of Westeros, that meant more than any decree from the "Good" King Daeron.
I needed to find a way to discredit the sword itself. Or, failing that, I needed to find a way to ensure that when the war came, it was so short and so decisive that the realm wouldn't bleed for a generation.
And then there was the sickness. 209 AC was still twenty-two years away.
I looked at my grandfather, the King, who was laughing at a joke Baelor had made. He looked happy. He looked safe.
I will save you, I promised silently. I will build the sewers, I will stock the grain, and I will break the Black Dragon before he can burn your peace.
I closed my eyes, the warmth of the fire and my father's heartbeat finally lulling me into a dreamless sleep. I was four years old, the Prince of the Spring, and I had just won my first battle without ever drawing a sword.
-----------------------------------------------
The year 187 AC was turning into a year of celebration, though to my eyes, it felt more like the sharpening of a blade. The city was humming with the news of the upcoming wedding between my grand-aunt, Princess Daenerys, and Prince Maron Martell. It was the final stone in the bridge my grandfather had built to unite the Seven Kingdoms, but for the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands, it was an insult wrapped in silk.
I stood in the library of the Red Keep, the air heavy with the scent of beeswax and old vellum. My uncle Aerys had retreated back to his scrolls, but I wasn't looking for him. I was looking for the man he had mentioned: Brynden Rivers.
"You have been following the shadow of the shelves for quite some time, little prince," a voice smooth as a whetstone whispered from the darkness of the stacks.
I froze. Emerging from the gloom was a man who looked like he had been carved from bone. His skin was milk-white, his hair a shock of silver-white that fell over his face. But it was his eye—the one that wasn't covered by his hair—that held me. It was red, the color of a fresh wound. On his cheek was a birthmark that some said looked like a raven drawn in blood.
Lord Bloodraven.
"I was looking for a book on dragons," I said, my voice steady despite the instinctual urge to run. "The ones who lived in the pits."
Brynden Rivers tilted his head. He was only a young man himself, barely twenty, but he possessed an ancient, unsettling stillness. "The dragons of the pits were stunted things, Valarr. They grew small because they were trapped by stone. Do you feel trapped by the stone of this castle?"
"The castle is safe," I replied, carefully choosing my words. "But stone can crack if the fire inside is too hot."
Bloodraven smiled, a thin, dangerous expression. "A very Targaryen sentiment. You have your father's dark hair, but I think you have the dragon's heat. Tell me, do you know why your father is practicing so hard in the yard?"
"For the wedding tourney," I said. "For Aunt Daenerys."
"For the realm," Brynden corrected, stepping closer. He looked at me with an intensity that made me wonder if he could see the adult soul hiding behind my violet eyes. "The wedding will bring the Dornish to court in numbers. It will also bring Daemon. He will come with the sword, and he will come with his pride. Your father knows that on the tilted field, he must do more than just ride well. He must prove that the 'Red' dragons are notmerely scholars of the sands."