The first sensation was not the heat of a dragon's flame, but the biting, clinical chill of a stone chamber.
I awoke to the sound of screaming—a raw, guttural agony that vibrated through my very bones. I tried to reach out, to understand why my limbs felt like lead and why my vision was a blur of flickering amber torchlight, but I found myself swaddled in silk so tight it felt like a cocoon. I was small. I was helpless. And yet, my mind was a storm of memories that did not belong to this body. I remembered a world of steel and glass, of history books that detailed the rise and fall of dynasties, and a specific, tragic chronicle of a family that flew too close to the sun.
"He is here, my prince," a voice whispered, sounding like the rustle of old parchment. "A son. A strong son for the line of Daeron."
I was lifted by hands that were surprisingly gentle despite their size. As my vision cleared, I looked up into a face that would have been handsome if not for the deep lines of exhaustion and the weight of a thousand unspoken worries. This man had dark hair, peppered with the dust of travel and the yard, and eyes the color of a twilight sky.
Baelor Targaryen. My father. The man the world would one day call "Breakspear."
But behind him stood another figure, older and more slender, dressed in robes of fine black velvet with a high collar of red silk. This man did not look like a warrior. He looked like a scholar who had been forced to carry a crown he never asked for.
Daeron Targaryen. My grandfather. At this moment, he was still the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to a throne currently occupied by a monster.
"He has the look of the Martells, Baelor," Daeron said, his voice soft and melodic, yet carrying an undertone of profound relief. He stepped closer, and I could smell the scent of old books and lemonwater that followed him. "The lords of the Reach will grumble. They always do when the silver of the dragon is hidden beneath the salt and sun of Dorne."
My father let out a tired, huffing laugh, his thumb brushing against my cheek. "Let them grumble, Father. If the blood is strong, the hair does not matter. Look at his eyes. Those are not the eyes of a Martell. They are the eyes of the Conqueror."
"Let us hope he has the Conqueror's luck and not his burden," Daeron murmured. He reached out, his long, thin fingers touching my brow. For a moment, our eyes locked. In that second, I didn't see a king-in-waiting; I saw a man who was terrified that his father, the King, would find a way to disinherit him in favor of a bastard.
The doors to the birthing chamber groaned open, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The warmth of the family moment vanished, replaced by a cold, prickling tension.
I heard the rhythmic thud-clack of a heavy cane. Then came the smell—a cloying, nauseating mixture of gangrene, heavy perfumes, and sour wine. It was the smell of a man who was rotting while still alive.
"Move aside, Daeron," a wet, wheezing voice commanded. "I want to see what my 'perfect' grandson has produced. I want to see if there is any fire in this litter."
My grandfather stiffened. He bowed his head, a gesture of respect that looked like a physical pain to perform. "Your Grace. My son Valarr is healthy and strong."
Aegon IV hobbled into view. He was a mountain of diseased flesh, his face so bloated that his eyes were mere slits in a sea of purple-veined skin. He was covered in jewels that looked like they were being swallowed by his folds of fat. He leaned over Baelor's shoulder, his breath hot and smelling of decay as it hit my face.
"Valarr," the King hissed, a mocking lilt to his voice. "A name from the old histories. A name for a king, perhaps? Or a name for a grave?"
"He is a child, Your Grace," Baelor said, his voice like tempered steel. He didn't flinch, even as the King's rotting hand reached out toward me.
Aegon chuckled, a sound that ended in a wet, productive cough. "Everything is a child until it grows teeth, Baelor. And some grow teeth far too early. He doesn't look like us. He looks like those sand-dwellers your father is so fond of. Tell me, Daeron, does the boy smell of spices and failure already?"
"He smells of the future, Father," Daeron replied, his voice calm, though I could see his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hilt of a small ceremonial dagger at his belt.
The King narrowed his eyes at his heir. The hatred between them was a tangible thing, a poison that filled the room. Aegon IV loathed Daeron because Daeron was everything he was not: honorable, disciplined, and loved by the common people.
"The future," Aegon spat. He turned his gaze back to me, and for a fleeting second, I saw a spark of genuine malice in those slit-like eyes. "We shall see. The Great Bastards are growing tall, Daeron. Daemon is already a better knight than you ever were. Bittersteel has more fire in his little finger than you have in your whole scholarly body. Do not get too comfortable in your succession. Crowns have a way of slipping off heads that spend too much time bowing."
With a final, mocking sneer, the King turned and hobbled out, his laughter echoing down the stone corridor like the sound of breaking glass.
The Long Silence
When the doors finally closed, the room seemed to exhale. My mother, Jena Dondarrion, lay exhausted in the Great Bed, her eyes closed as she drifted into a much-needed sleep. My father remained standing, his gaze fixed on the doorway.
"He grows more erratic every day, Father," Baelor said quietly.
Daeron sighed, looking suddenly twenty years older. He sat on the edge of a chair, his shoulders slumping. "He is dying, Baelor. And a dying dragon is more dangerous than a healthy one. He will try to tear the world down with him. He legitimized Mya and Gwenys yesterday. He whispers to Daemon of swords and thrones. He wants us to react. He wants us to give him a reason to strike."
"I will not give him that reason," Baelor said. He looked down at me, and his expression softened. "Valarr will grow up in a different world. I will make sure of it."
I stayed quiet, watching them. I wanted to scream, to tell them that it wasn't just the King they had to worry about. I wanted to tell them about the Blackfyre Rebellions, about the Redgrass Field, and about the Great Spring Sickness that would take them both in their prime.
But I was a babe. I had no voice. I had only my eyes and my memory.
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A/N: Hey guys I may be the first one who is writing a fanfiction on 'A Knight of the seven kingdoms' so please show some support.