Dawn was mere hours away. Across the castle, a somber atmosphere settled over the people who had witnessed or heard of the tragic events of the night. The Lady's passing, followed by the miraculous revival of the newborn prince, cast a shadow, yet none had yet laid eyes on the child. Those tasked with caring for him had been secluded in the castle's eastern wing, restricted from the rest of the castle. Prince Daemon had moved swiftly, securing his privacy and isolating the boy within the span of a single night.
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Maester Georrad's Perspective
The boy was dead. Maester Georrad's mind spun, grappling with disbelief. He had seen it himself—the infant had stopped breathing, yet now, somehow, the child lived. Stroking his beard, he heard the metallic clinking of his maester's chains, their cold sound grounding him momentarily in this strange reality.
The death of Lady Leana weighed heavily upon him, her last moments vivid in his mind. Such a dreadful loss—the agony of losing a child, even one born… unlike other children. Still, Prince Daemon had refused to let him examine the child, emptying half of the castle and posting guards at his chamber door, sealing himself away with the newborn. Whatever means the child had survived, it was known only to the gods, or perhaps to more sinister forces. Georrad's thoughts churned with intrigue and trepidation.
This child is something strange. Something that must be studied, he mused grimly. Walking to his desk, he took a piece of coarse parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and began writing, hoping the steady scratch of pen against paper might steady his own unquiet mind.
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Aegon's Perspective
A wail pierced the stillness, the infant's cries carrying an edge of terror and confusion. Consciousness flooded him like a torrent, tangled in sensations he could barely comprehend—trapped in a form that had breathed its last hours before, a body stiff and silent. It was as though he had fought his way through suffocating darkness, to warmth, then finally to breath, gasping and crying out. After what seemed like eternity, he felt the warmth of flames, their comforting heat gradually enveloping him, and he opened his eyes for the first time.
In the flickering golden light, he saw a woman's spirit cradling him, her voice resonant and soothing, even as fire raged around them both. With my fire, I give you life once more, she said, her voice somehow clear over the roaring flames. A spark of understanding flickered within him—this was no ordinary fire. The spirit of a woman—another mother he might never know—had returned, her own life-force now woven with his. This body, dead upon birth, was now his. Fate is indeed a cruel mistress.
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Daemon Targaryen's Perspective
Daemon held his son—no, his hatchling—in his arms, his chest swelling with fierce pride. The Rogue Prince, they called him. A true Targaryen, he thought, and now the proof lay before him. He saw it in the boy's eyes, an unmistakable glint reflected in the gaze of Caraxes, his own dragon, and in the gaze of Vhagar. Though Vhagar had lost his rider, the great beast remained, not merely loyal but bound to the kin that carried the blood of old Valyria.
The blood of Old Valyria runs through us, he thought. We do not merely ride dragons; they are a part of our very essence, our power and our pride. But this child was different. His son didn't only bear the smell of a dragon—he was a dragon, fierce and full of flame, not just in spirit, but in flesh.
Daemon chuckled softly, cradling the babe while Dark Sister, his blade, rested in the ground with his hand firmly on the pommel, his gaze watchful. "They will all know," he murmured quietly to himself, "why we hold dragons, and why they will forever seek our favor."
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Outside the castle, Caraxes and Vhagar exchanged peculiar sounds. The Blood Wyrm growled lowly at the older dragon, Vhagar, who responded with a huff of scalding air. To the guards and onlookers, the display was unlike any other. These battle-tested dragons—one seasoned in battles with men, the other a veteran of dragon-on-dragon combat—rarely exhibited such behavior. Vhagar, relic of Old Valyria and possessor of near-human wisdom, remained silent and still, as if contemplating the night's events and the remarkable birth of his kin.
Ancient and tired, Vhagar watched the castle with a somber gaze. The giant dragon had long served the House of Targaryen, spanning ages of riders and lifetimes of battles. Though weary, the dragon's loyalty and pride remained, but the birth of this child brought a flicker of something new—a fire of loyalty to the first Targaryen who seemed born of true dragon kin. A remnant of Valyria had awakened within the child.
As dawn approached, the waves continued to lap against the shore, the only sound against the vast silence. And in that silence, it seemed as though the world itself waited, pausing in awe at the arrival of a new age: the dawn of a true Dragonlord among House Targaryen since the time of Old Valyria.