Three years had passed since that conversation with has father in the solar. Since then, he had been holed up in the citadel, reading through countless texts whilst staying with his maiden family.
The alcove Baelon had settled into was one of the quieter corners of the Citadel's sprawling libraries, its high shelves looming above him.
Baelon, nine years old now, sat perched on a cushioned bench with a heavy tome resting across his lap.
His silver-blond hair, cropped a little shorter than usual to keep it out of his eyes during sword lessons, caught the light with a muted sheen. His clothing was plain by princely standards, a soft dark tunic with pale stitching at the seams and a modest silver clasp at his collar.
Baelon flipped through the massive book with care, scanning page after page with practiced care.
"…the Dragonlords of Old Valyria were known for their ability to perform blood magic and pyromancy…" he murmured under his breath.
Blood magic, the text explained, was the manipulation of life-essence. It was fuelled by sacrifice and many complex rituals. It was a dangerous art, and is said to have been what led to the creation of dragons millennia ago.
Pyromancy, in contrast, was the shaping of flame. Calling fire, directing heat, and stirring the violent breath of dragons. Valyrian pyromancers were said to coax flames into forms like serpents, storms, or molten waves.
He continued reading:
"…following the Doom, all relevant records of said magic have disappeared. It is theorised these records may exist deep in the ruins of Valyria, though the perilous dangers there deter those of a sane mind."
THWAP!
Baelon shut the book with a sharp, frustrated snap. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. The Citadel held countless volumes, countless texts. Yet, none of it was about what he wanted.
Magic.
Not theories, not histories, not speculations.
Actual means of using it.
If Dragon Dreams were an effect of his Targaryen bloodline, he had thought by delving into the powers held by the Dragonlords he could better protect himself in the future.
Holding the hefty tome against his chest, Baelon padded across the dim aisle and slid it back into the space it had occupied with a muffled thunk.
'I may not be able to stay here for much longer, is there really nothing I could do…' He pursed his lips. 'Or should I take that gamble?'
As he turned around, his gaze caught on a familiar, stooped figure moving between rows of scroll racks. Baelon's eyes lit up, like that of cat caught in mischief.
It was maester Orwyle, a kindly, greying scholar who had taken an unexpected liking to him over the past several moons. Baelon hurried toward him.
"Maester Orwyle," Baelon whispered. "I wanted to ask something… again."
Orwyle gave him a thin smile. "Prince Baelon. Full of mysteries and full of questions, as always."
"I've looked everywhere," Baelon pressed, frustration creeping into his voice. "Every shelf I'm allowed into, but…" He leaned closer. "There's nothing on magic. Not real magic. Nothing like what the dragonlords of Valyria were rumoured to have used."
Orwyle clasped his hands behind his back, his chain links rattling softly.
"Magic…" He repeated, his expression souring for a moment before returning to normalcy. "The doom shattered Valyria, Prince. The surviving dragonlords hoarded their secrets dearly, and the citadel has yet to find such knowledge. That is, of course, assuming such power exists, for all we know the magics spoken in legend could simply have been exaggerations or even mere tricks."
Baelon frowned. "But there must have been something."
"There may have been," Orwyle allowed gently. "Long ago. But what scraps remain are locked away and are dangerous things. They are better left forgotten."
He bowed his head politely. "Forgive me. I am needed elsewhere. May your studies continue to flourish."
As the maester turned to leave, Baelon's hand drifted down in an almost feline manner. His sword training over the past three years had taught him well how to be dextrous with his hands.
A ring of keys hung at Orwyle's belt, loose on a leather loop. The moment Orwyle pivoted away, Baelon's fingers slipped in and lifted the ring free without a sound.
Maester Orwyle, on the other hand, walked on none the wiser.
Baelon ducked behind a tall shelf, clutching the keys, heart drumming. He scanned the aisle, then darted down a narrow side passage that few bothered with.
At the end stood an ancient oak door banded with iron and wrapped in a dark chain.
He had found it on his second day in the Citadel, locked beyond a child's reach and apparently beyond the reach of most novices as well. Baelon could only hope maester Orwyle was had permission to visit this chamber.
Then, he lifted the keys, trying them one by one. Baelon almost shed tears, as the pressure got to him.
Every failure caused him to frantically glance around his shoulder with the certain fear that someone had already crept up behind him and finding out about his actions.
A prince of the realm scurrying around the library like some ignoble rat. Baelon's toes almost curled in embarrassment at the thought.
Thankfully, on the eighth, the lock around the dark chain clicked. The chains sagged and slid to the floor, almost causing Baelon to scream as he rushed to grab them, before gently settling them down.
With his heart in his throat, Baelon watched the door creak open.
A stale breath of air drifted out, thick with dust. Shelves lined the cramped chamber from floor to ceiling, packed with tomes of every shape and age.
Most were shrouded in grime, their titles faded or penned in scripts hands few could read.
Baelon slipped inside, eyes widening.
He ignored all the titles he could not understand, looking around with a clear goal.
"Not this one, nor this." Baelon murmured. "Can't understand what that one is saying, this one is irrelevant…"
As his finger skimmed across the spines of the books, one caught his attention.
As he eased it free, flakes of dust fell like grey snow.
The title, written in curling High Valyrian script, read:
Henujagon ēdruta naejot Perzotrebagon (An Introduction To Pyromancy)
His breath hitched.
This. This amid other things, was exactly what he had been searching for since the day he asked his father to let him come to Oldtown.
But as joy swelled in his chest, his eyes lifted to the shelf he had taken it from. A single empty slot stared back at him in silent accusation. The missing tome would be impossible not to notice.
He froze.
"Think. Come on, think." He mumbled under his breath.
Then, in a flash, he remembered the hefty volume he had been reading earlier. Same shape. Same thickness. And he had just placed it back on its shelf in the next hall.
His eyes lit up, and then, crouching down, Baelon slipped out of the room, peering out the door. Empty.
'Perfect!' Baelon sprinted back to the shelf where he'd left the other book, snatched it up, and hurried back with quick and quiet steps. He slid it into the empty space, its spine fitting perfectly between the various other tomes.
His heart thudded wildly, exhilaration coursing through him. He clutched the crimson pyromancy tome to his chest, its leather warm beneath his palms.
A bright, fierce joy flickered in his deep violet eyes. Nevertheless, a flicker of doubt remained.
Why had the Maesters hidden this book away in such a room?
Maybe the knowledge in it wasn't useful? Perhaps even dangerous? Or, was it that they could not practice in the first place?
Still, pushing these doubts to the back of his head, he stepped out of the chamber and eased the door shut as he lifted the chains back to how they were, careful not to make any loud noises as he gently locked it with the key.
Still, he found himself staring at the ring of keys in his hand, glinting as they stared back at him.
What was he to do with them?
Baelon pressed his lips into a thin line. Despite his thoughts churning, there was little he could really do.
He hesitated only long enough to remember the direction Maester Orwyle had approached from earlier.
Crouching down, he set the keys down on the cold stone floor, placing them exactly where a weary maester might have dropped them. Whilst it wasn't perfect, it was the best plan he had.
Then, schooling his face into an impassive mask, Baelon strode through the dim corridor.
Pressed tight against his chest was the book. No one questioned him as he passed; novices dipped their heads, and grey robes drifted aside.
He walked as if nothing were amiss, as if the weight at his chest were no more than a tome borrowed with full permission.
After all, this was not the first time he had taken a volume from the Citadel's collections. Restrictions mattered little when one was a prince of the realm.
Certain doors simply opened.
Certain rules simply bent.
And, by the time he left the doors of the citadel and walked into the radiance of the afternoon sun, only a single thought remained in his mind.
'By the Gods, I actually did it!'