The aftermath of a king's death is rarely silent, but the death of Aegon IV brought a cacophony that threatened to tear the Red Keep asunder. The air in the Great Hall was thick, not just with the smoke of hundreds of tallow candles, but with the palpable scent of fear and opportunistic greed. My grandfather, now King Daeron, the second of his name, stood before the Iron Throne. He did not sit—not yet. To sit while the decree of legitimization still fluttered in his hand would be to invite the very seat to swallow him whole.
I felt the tension through my father's tunic. Baelor's heart was drumming a steady, martial rhythm against my cheek. He held me with a grip that was protective, yet I could feel the slight tremble of adrenaline in his arms.
"The King has spoken his final will," Daeron said, his voice regaining a measure of that quiet, scholarly dignity that the lords often mistook for weakness. "And though the decree is a heavy burden, the law of the land and the word of a King are sacrosanct. My brothers—Daemon, Aegor, Brynden, and the others—are recognized as blood of the dragon."
A low murmur, like the sound of a distant sea, rolled through the hall. I saw eyes darting toward the shadows where the Great Bastards usually lingered. They weren't there tonight; they were likely already being swarmed by lords who saw them as a more profitable alternative to the 'Dornish' King.
"However," Daeron continued, his gaze sharpening as he looked out over the assembly, "the line of succession remains as it has always been. Stability is the bedrock of a prosperous realm. Therefore, I hereby name my eldest son, Baelor Targaryen, as the Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne."
My father stepped forward, still holding me. The light of the torches caught the deep purple of his eyes—eyes he had passed to me.
"And," Daeron added, his voice softening slightly but carrying to the back of the hall, "in the interest of the future and the continuity of our House, I recognize my grandson, Valarr, as the next in line after his father. The line of the Dragon is secure."
There it was. At only a year old, I had been officially placed on the board. I wasn't just a toddler anymore; I was a political entity. I felt the weight of hundreds of stares—some curious, some calculating, and some filled with a cold, simmering resentment.
The ceremony of transition was long and grueling. I was eventually spirited away from the Great Hall by my mother, Jena, but the night was far from over. Instead of the nursery, we were ushered into a private solar where the immediate family had gathered to escape the prying eyes of the court.
The room was filled with the scents of wine and anxiety.
I was placed in a cushioned chair, a small, silk-wrapped spectator to the real power dynamic of House Targaryen.
My uncle Aerys was there, clutching a book to his chest as if it were a shield. He was only a few years older than a boy, but he already had the look of a man who preferred the company of ghosts to the living. He stood near the hearth, watching the flames with an intensity that bordered on the obsessive.
"Legitimized," Aerys muttered, his voice a dry rasp. "He has legitimized the discord. The books speak of the Dance, Father. They speak of what happens when too many dragons claim the same sky."
"Enough, Aerys," a voice boomed from the corner.
That was Maekar. Even as a youth, Maekar was built like a siege engine. He was blunt, square-jawed, and wore a permanent scowl that seemed to be his way of greeting the world. He was pacing the length of the room, his boots thudding heavily on the Myrish rugs.
"If they want the sky, we give them the dirt," Maekar growled. "Daemon is a knight, but he is one man. If he tries to take a step toward that throne, I'll be the one to break his legs. Why are we talking as if we've already lost? We have the Crown. We have the City Watch. We have the name."
"We have a name that half the Reach despises because of my wife," Daeron said, walking into the room and collapsing into a chair. He looked utterly spent. He rubbed his temples, his crown—the simple gold band of his own choosing, not the garish one of his father—sitting on the table beside him.
The third brother, Rhaegel, was sitting on the floor near my chair. He was a waif-like boy, his silver hair fine as silk. He was playing with a piece of string, tying it into intricate, nonsensical knots. Every so often, he would look at me and giggle—a high, thin sound that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"The red turning black," Rhaegel whispered, leaning toward my ear. I didn't flinch, though the smell of lavender oil on his skin was overpowering. "Do you see it, little Valarr? The shadows are growing teeth. They want to eat the sun."
I stared at him, my face a mask of infantile innocence. Inside, I was screaming. Rhaegel was already showing the signs of the instability that would plague his life. In the future I knew, he would die choking on a lamprey, but his madness would cause ripples of chaos long before then.
-------------------------
A/N: If you like this chapter drop your review and some power stones 😁.
If you guys have any opinions or advice put it down in the comments.