187 AC
By the year 187 AC, the Red Keep had settled into the rhythm of King Daeron II's reign, though the air remained thick with the unspoken tension of the "Great Bastards" who loomed like shadows over every feast and council meeting. I was four years old—an age where most highborn boys are still being pampered by septas and playing with wooden knights.
For me, however, four was the age of utility. My body had finally caught up enough with my mind that I could move without the waddle of a toddler, and my speech was "developed" enough that I could engage my family without raising too much suspicion of being a changeling.
The day was crisp, the autumn air biting at the hills of King's Landing. I stood on the gallery overlooking the yard, wrapped in a cloak of heavy crimson wool. Below, the rhythmic thwack of blunted steel against wood echoed off the stone walls.
My father, Baelor, now seventeen and the Prince of Dragonstone, was a man in his full prime. He moved with a terrifying grace, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Opposite him stood my uncle Maekar.
At thirteen, Maekar was already a formidable presence. He was broader than Baelor, possessing a stocky, powerful frame that seemed better suited for the crushing weight of a mace than the finesse of a sword. His face, already beginning to set into the permanent scowl that would define his later years, was flushed deep red.
"Keep your shield up, Maekar!" Baelor commanded, stepping forward with a series of quick, testing thrusts. "You're guarding your chest but leaving your head for the crows!"
Maekar let out a frustrated grunt, swinging his practice sword in a wide, punishing arc that Baelor easily parried. "I'd rather take a blow to the head than let you get inside my guard again," Maekar growled.
"Then you'll be a dead man with a very pretty chest," Baelor countered, stepping into Maekar's reach and rapping him sharply across the helm.
Maekar stumbled back, his eyes burning with a mixture of respect and simmering resentment. He hated losing, but more than that, he hated being the "younger" brother. In a house where everyone was a prince, Maekar felt like the one relegated to the background.
I watched them closely. I knew the history. One day, on a field at Ashford, these two brothers would meet in a Trial of Seven. Maekar's blow would be the one to end Baelor's life—an accident that would shatter the realm's future. Every time I saw them spar, I felt a cold knot of dread in my stomach.
A Conversation of Shadows
"He has too much anger," a voice said beside me.
I didn't turn. I knew the scent of old parchment and cold mint. Aerys, my second uncle, was seventeen now. He was tall, thin, and looked more like a ghost than a prince. He rarely entered the yard, preferring the silence of the library, yet here he was, watching the brothers with a clinical detachment.
"He wants to be like father" I said, my voice high and soft, maintaining the mask of a child.
Aerys looked down at me, his pale violet eyes searching my face. "No, Valarr. He wants to be better than Baelor. That is the tragedy of Maekar. He measures his height by how much taller the person next to him is. It is a recipe for a bitter soul."
Aerys reached out, his long, spindly fingers tracing the stonework of the railing. "And what of you, little nephew? You don't play with the other children. You stand here and watch the steel. Do you wish to be a warrior?"
"I want to know where the steel breaks," I replied.
Aerys paused, a faint, thin smile touching his lips. "An interesting answer. Most boys want to know how the steel shines. You have a touch of Uncle Brynden in you. He looks for the break in things as well."
The mention of Brynden Rivers, known as Bloodraven, sent a shiver through me. He was one of the Great Bastards, a man of sorcery and secrets who remained loyal to my grandfather. He was a terrifying ally and a worse enemy.
As we spoke, a strange sound drifted up from the far end of the gallery—a rhythmic tapping and a low, melodic humming.
Rhaegel, the third brother, was fifteen. He was wandering along the battlements, his steps light and erratic, almost like a dance. He wasn't looking at the training yard; he was looking at the birds circling the Red Keep.
"The feathers are falling," Rhaegel sang softly, his eyes wide and vacant. "One for the black, one for the red, one for the boy who is already dead."
He stopped when he reached us, tilting his head at me. "Little Valarr. You're growing. But the dragons didn't grow, did they? They stayed in their eggs until they turned to stone. Do you feel like stone, little prince?"
"I feel like me, Uncle Rhaegel," I said, keeping my tone gentle. Dealing with Rhaegel required a delicate touch. He was the most vulnerable of the brothers, his mind a fragile thing that could snap under the slightest pressure.
Rhaegel reached out and touched my dark hair. "Soft. Not like the scales. The scales were hard. When the fire comes, the soft things melt. You must find a shell, Valarr. Find a shell before the spring."
He giggled and skipped away, his humming fading into the wind.
Aerys sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "The gods tossed the coin for Rhaegel and it landed on its edge. I fear for him, Valarr. The court laughs at him behind their hands, but the King... the King just looks at him and sees the ghost of his father's sins."
I looked back down at the yard. Baelor and Maekar had stopped. Maekar was sitting on a bench, pouring water over his head, while Baelor talked to the Master-at-Arms.
This was my chance. I needed to begin bridging the gap between Maekar and the rest of the family. If Maekar felt like a vital, appreciated part of the "Red" branch of the family, Being unappreciated would find no purchase in his heart.
"Uncle Aerys?" I asked.
"Yes, Valarr?"
"Why doesn't Uncle Maekar have a castle?"
Aerys blinked. "He is a prince of the blood. He lives here, in the Red Keep. When he is older, perhaps he will have a seat of his own, though the Targaryens have fewer lands to give than we once did."
"But he is a great knight," I said, loud enough for the wind to carry my voice down toward the yard. I saw Maekar's ear twitch. "Father says he is the strongest of all. If he had a castle, he could protect us from the bad people."
Aerys looked puzzled. "What bad people?"
"The ones who want the sword," I said simply.
Down in the yard, Maekar stood up. He looked up at the gallery, his eyes locking onto mine. There was no scowl this time—only a look of profound surprise. To be called the "strongest" by the heir's heir, in front of the scholar Aerys, was a potent draught of validation for a boy who felt invisible.