The first true day of training had begun.
Seris stood before us, robed in obsidian-trimmed crimson, her lilac eyes scanning the room with serene focus. The twenty initiates boys and girls aged four to seven sat cross-legged on cushioned mats arranged in a circle, charcoal in hand, parchment before them.
The morning lesson started with History and Philosophy, weaving the rise and fall of Valyria, the founding of Old Valyria's dragonlords, and the early conflicts of Essos with foundational concepts from Old Rhoynish texts and Qarthene enlightenment.
For me, it was easy.
With Storia as my previous tutor, I had already learned much of this, and more. I absorbed the knowledge with quiet diligence, watching as other initiates struggled. Even Daenerys furrowed her brow, frustrated as Seris referenced dates and doctrines. I could tell she was bright but untrained.
I made no move to correct her. Not yet.
I observed instead.
There was a diverse array among us—dark-skinned children from Sothoryos, olive-toned boys and girls from Dorne, pale ones from Lys and the North, and a few with silver-white hair and lilac eyes, clearly Drakon bastards or cadet line kin. Scars lined some arms. One boy's knuckles were slightly deformed from bare-knuckle pit fighting. Others had the wiry build of survivors, not nobles.
They came from all walks of life, I thought. We're not just building warriors we're forging a new generation of blended bloodlines.
Next came Mathematics. The tone in the room shifted—nervous murmurs, hesitant scribbles. Algebra. Most flinched.
Seris pointed at me. "Samar. Come forward."
I stood calmly and approached the slate at the front. The problem was basic something a middle-schooler in my past life could solve.
I turned to the others and said, "Let me explain using something we all understand… coin."
I broke down the equation using copper, silver, and gold coinage, relating variables to purchasing weaponry or food. Several initiates' eyes lit up as the connections clicked. I noticed Seris give me the barest nod of approval.
Lesson accepted.
Finally, we transitioned to Science and Biology.
This was a surprise.
Seris taught about the human body in shockingly advanced terms. She named muscles, organs, pressure points, then transitioned into wildlife ecology Essos's fauna and flora, from bloodgrass to basilisk lizards.
But what was stunning was how she taught it.
Each lesson connected to the next. The way the muscle reacts under tension was used to explain how certain poisons work. Wildlife behaviors tied into human instinct. It was seamless. Immersive.
This isn't schooling, I realized. It's indoctrination of excellence.
Then came Commander Conas.
When he entered the courtyard, it was like gravity doubled. The Blades of Drakon our elite guards stood around the perimeter, silent and watchful.
Conas stood tall, armored but fluid, his long silver hair tied back. "You are children," he said. "But you will be trained like warriors. And warriors earn their worth through pain and perseverance."
He began leading us through dynamic warmups lunges, arm swings, shoulder rolls. Then he explained: "We warm up to prevent injury. We stretch to prepare the mind. Your enemies will not wait for you to stretch when they attack."
He walked down the line, handing out arm and ankle weights. When he reached me, he paused.
"For you, my lord a weighted vest." He placed it gently.
"How does it feel?"
"Light," I said. "Make it heavier." He smirked. "As you wish."
The vest shifted, and I estimated it at 15 pounds about 6.8 kilos. The others likely carried 5 pounds. For kids this age, it was a nightmare. But for me… it was nostalgia.
"Now," he barked. "100 laps. Around the hall."
Gasps. Whispers.
Terror.
I watched the fear build in some eyes. Others tried to hide it with bravado. I stepped forward.
"Everyone," I called. "If we stick together, we can finish this."
A boy stepped beside me. Lean. Scarred. Muscular for his age. "What's your plan?"
"Name?" I asked.
"Bertrand Waters," he said. Tanned skin, brown hair, piercing deep-blue eyes.
A bastard. Westerosi. Possibly from a pit. Or… perhaps one of Robert Baratheon's many hidden seeds.
"Will you listen?" I asked. He nodded. "The recruiter said follow the young lord. You'd lead us right."
I smiled. "Your recruiter sounds smart."
"She is," Bertrand replied. "She said she taught you herself."
"Storia…" I whispered. "She endorsed you. That means she's your sponsor. If you prove yourself, she'll provide resources. You succeed, she's rewarded. Understand?"
He nodded.
"Then help me lead this."
I turned back to the group. "Fast kids in front. Slow ones in the middle. Me and another at the back."
A brown-skinned girl with ember-colored eyes stepped up next to me. "I don't have a name, my lord," she said quietly.
I nodded. "Then we'll earn one together." Daenerys was near the front, looking anxious.
"Dany," I said gently. "Control your breathing. Don't worry about the others. Count your steps. Match your pace to your breath."
"Okay," she whispered, "thank you."
Conas bellowed.
"Begin!"
Most kids sprinted.
We jogged a tight formation, following my pace. An hour passed. Kids were falling behind. Crying. Coughing.
I raised my voice.
"Repeat after me!"
I began to sing.
A sailor's chant from my old life about longing for land, for warmth, for the sight of home.
One by one, the kids joined in.
The rhythm helped. During the last ten laps, Daenerys sprinted ahead her second wind found. A few collapsed. Others clung to willpower.
The nameless girl beside me said, "Let's finish, leave them."
"No," I said. "You can go. But I'll help them." I turned to the stragglers.
"This is your test. Think of what came before your pain, your chains. Do you want to return? Or do you want to rise?"
Their eyes burned. They kept moving.
We finished.
Conas stood waiting.
"Good," he said. "Now… stand. And drink."
Water was handed out—sweet, with citrus, honey, salt.
"Do. Not. Swallow," Conas said. "Until I say."
After a pause, he allowed it.
The cool liquid hit like magic. My muscles trembled. Some initiates were on the verge of collapsing.
Then came push-ups. Squats. Stretches.
We meditated to end the day.
I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Within, I used the Force to ease the tension in my limbs. My stamina, once immense as a Marine, returned piece by piece.
Elsewhere… in the upper levels of the Drakon Hold
Melisandre, clad in her sheer crimson robes, stood before Maran and Samir. Her beauty was ageless—sensual, supernatural, terrifying.
"Hello, my lords," she said, bowing deeply. She stepped forward, kissed both cheeks, and received the same.
"I hear your son has called for me," she said. "Yes," Maran replied. "Have you seen anything?"
"I have," Melisandre whispered, eyes glowing faintly. "He burns brighter than the sun. A child of fire and fate. He will lead the world into a new order. But to do so… he must burn the old world down."
Samir's expression darkened. "So… our son is to be a conqueror?"
Melisandre shook her head. "More than that. He is the incarnation of R'hllor made flesh. He will ascend to godhood."
Maran narrowed her eyes. "And you? What role will you play?" Melisandre smiled, softly.
"I will be what he needs. A guide. A teacher. A protector... Even a wife, if he desires it." Samir stepped forward, eyes shifting from lilac to Sith yellow, a heavy pressure exuding from him.
"You want the child now, after bedding the parents?"
"I have waited my whole life for him," Melisandre said, bowing again. "It was I who helped conceive him. That night, that ritual your union it was me who opened the gates."
She placed her hands before her, trembling in reverence. "If he commands me to die, I will. If he commands me to serve, I will serve. I am his."
Samir inhaled. The glow faded. He looked to Maran. "Wait five months," he commanded. "Travel with us to Westeros. You'll meet him then. Not a moment sooner."
"Yes, my lord," Melisandre said.
Maran raised her hand. "You may go." Melisandre bowed low, turned, and exited. Her attendants followed in silence.
When she was gone, the chamber grew still. Samir exhaled. "I can't tell who will use who Melisandre or Samar."
Maran nodded. "I think it will be Samar. But let's hope power and women don't corrupt him."
Samir looked away, silent for a moment. Then he spoke, voice low: "If it comes to it… and we must stop him…"
Maran finished the thought. "Then we will. I will not allow our family to fall like the Targaryens."
Samir nodded. "We've held strong for centuries. But I feel it in my bones… Samar will change everything."
Five months passed.
I had turned six name days old, and my body bore the proof of it—not in age, but in scars, soreness, and strength.
What had once been a group of twenty initiates had now been reduced to thirteen. Not by death—but by elimination. Some were sent away, unfit for the weight of the training. Others… simply broke.
The survivors? Hardened. Sharpened. Unified.
When I wasn't in drills or lessons, I spent my time helping them—tutoring the slower ones in language and arithmetic, sparring with those needing help with their stance or grip, and encouraging Daenerys whenever she doubted herself. She'd grown strong. She still struggled from time to time, but her will was solidifying. We were growing into something formidable.
But no matter how far I came, my mother kept me humble.
Our spars were brutal though done with training weapons, they were no less painful. She didn't hold back. Her violet eyes didn't soften because I was her son. If anything, they sharpened. Her blade taught me humility. Her fists taught me respect. She reminded me that no matter my potential, there was always someone stronger.
My father, by contrast, rarely sparred.
He'd take me into the training hall for observation, into the forge or the shipyard. I expected some wisdom, some guidance on the Force. Instead, he told me bluntly:
> "The Force is not given. It's earned. You either learn on your own, or when Seris says you're ready. You're not special because you understand things quickly. You're ahead because you had better teachers. Lose discipline, and they'll catch up."
I lowered my head. "Yes, sir. I understand." In the silence of night, I read the journal again Naerys's journal. The more I read, the more disturbed and awed I became.
She had dreams like Aegon's sisters. Dreams of fire and snow. Dreams of a world split in two. In one entry she wrote:
> "The children of the stars will shine brighter than any star in the sky. Their light will lead the warriors of the world to face the cold, and burn the world—either to rebuild it… or to conquer it and rule, as its Emperor or its God."
Prophecy? Madness? Both? I didn't know. But I couldn't look away.
She wrote of breeding programs selective pairings between Force-sensitives and warriors, using ancient blood magics to predict offspring potential. The Crimson Women red priestesses and Bene Gesserit-like operatives—would carry out the will of the main bloodline, training and raising children from youth in disciplines of body, mind, and spirit.
Initiates like us.
The Drakon Blades, I realized, weren't just elite. They were the end result of generational indoctrination and genetic planning. Each one worth ten veteran warriors. The Elite Blades? Twenty to one. These were the only people allowed to marry into the main bloodline—unless someone possessed a unique power or rare blood magic gift.
The fear. The awe. The mystery of House Drakon now it made sense.
They were raising living weapons. Still, even as the journal illuminated our purpose, it frustrated me.
The Holocron of Jedi Warlord Revan remained sealed to me. No voice. No projection. Not even a flicker of light. Was I still unworthy?
I let the thought fade. I had time.
Outside of training, Rhaella Targaryen became like a second mother to me. Stern yet gentle, regal yet warm. We often took walks through the gardens and she told me stories of courtly politics and her family's descent into madness. She never once spoke ill of her son Viserys, but her eyes always looked heavy when he was mentioned.
And Daenerys… she grew closer still. Through shared bruises, lessons, and whispered talks in the candlelit library, a bond was forming. It wasn't romantic not yet, but it was real. She trusted me. She leaned on me. And I… wanted to protect her.
Viserys, for his part, had gone silent. No news was good news.
Then came the day. The voyage to King's Landing… and then to Winterfell.
Preparations took a week. Rhaella could not accompany us—her face too well-known. She would stay with Seris and mother, training in secret, safe behind the walls of Drakon Hold.
Before we left, Mother embraced me tightly in private.
She kissed my forehead and whispered, "Be wary of the Lannisters, my son. All of them except Tyrion. He's the only one worth trusting. He sees more than people think."
I nodded. "Yes, Mother." In my mind, I already knew what she meant.
We reached the docks. Our vessel the Dragon waited, its sleek black hull glinting with runes etched in Valyrian steel, its crimson sails lined with golden thread. It was the pride of our navy, built for both speed and weathering treacherous currents.
As I stepped onto the pier, I felt it a tremor in the Force. A presence and a scent of cinnamon and lemon.
I turned. There she stood Melisandre of Asshai. But this was not the Melisandre of the show.
This version had received an upgrade. Her beauty was supernatural, beyond mortal comprehension. Her hair cascaded like dark flame. Her red gown clung to her like living fire. Her eyes, a bloodred glow, focused on me… and she smiled.
I almost lost my composure. Behind the illusion… an ancient creature watched me. She stepped forward, flanked by red priestesses and red swords—silent warrior-guards in crimson armor.
They all bowed.
Melisandre stepped closer and knelt before me. "My lord," she said softly, "it is an honor… to finally meet you."
I blinked. "You as well. You must be Melisandre, yes? Are you the High Priestess?"
She tilted her head. "One of three. The others await in the Great Temple. They too wish to meet you… but it must wait. Your return will be in a year's time, after your journey."
"A year?" I turned to Father.
He nodded. "Yes. Between our political dealings in King's Landing and the construction project in Winterfell, we'll be gone nearly that long."
Melisandre smiled again, her tone silky. "Do not worry, my lord. I will remain by your side. Should you need anything—a teacher, a voice, a sword… or a flame—I will be here."
I smiled back, hiding my thoughts. "Good. I have many questions about R'hllor, and ideas on how to integrate your order into my family's greater vision. Nothing immediate. But ideas all the same."
She bowed her head.
"That sounds… lovely. I would be honored to listen."
I extended my hand. She took it, her touch cool despite the heat she radiated. We turned to board the ship.
Behind us, my father chuckled under his breath. "Just like his mother…"