Chapter 1:
The year was 103 AC, and the storm that ravaged Driftmark was unlike any in living memory. The black waters of the Narrow Sea rose and fell in a frenzy, battering the ancient walls of High Tide with a fury that seemed to shake the stones to their very foundations. Waves crashed like the war drums of some vengeful god, while the wind howled through the battlements, tearing at sea green banners and carrying with it a salt-laden wrath. Above, the skies were as dark as a maester's inkpot, split asunder by jagged forks of lightning that set the heavens alight with bursts of silver fire.
It was the kind of night that would be whispered of for years to come, a night when the gods themselves seemed to descend from their thrones to lay their wrath upon the mortal world. Such storms, the smallfolk said, were omens. Signs of the gods' discontent—or their design.
Within the halls of High Tide, the storm's fury was matched only by the cries that echoed from the birthing chamber. Rhaenys Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, lay upon her bed of blood and pain, her silver hair plastered to her brow, her violet eyes blazing with emotion reflecting the strength of the storm beyond her walls. Outside, her dragon Meleys roared into the tempest, a sound that set even the most seasoned knights on edge.
As the hour crept toward its darkest moment of the night, a new cry pierced the chaos—a thin, wavering wail, the sound of a child's first breath. The maesters and midwives exchanged looks of relief as they placed the babe in his mother's arms. A boy, platinum of hair like his Targaryen mother, but with eyes that glimmered with a unnatural sea green that seemed to gaze with age beyond his years.
"Baelor," Rhaenys whispered, her voice carrying both triumph and exhaustion. Her fingers brushed his tiny cheek, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to still, as if acknowledging the birth of the child within.
Baelor was a child of both fire and water, his blood a union of two lines as old and storied as the Freehold of Valyria itself. His mother, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and his father, Lord Corlys Velaryon, were each legends in their own right, and the child they had brought into the world was destined to stand at the crossroads of their formidable legacies.
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen was a woman who bore her family's legacy with pride and grace, though the realm had never granted her her due. The daughter of Prince Aemon, King Jaehaerys I's eldest son and heir, Rhaenys had been the firstborn child of the line of succession—a fact that should have secured her a crown. Yet, the lords of the realm had denied her birthright, choosing her younger cousin Viserys over her, a man who shared the fortune of being born male in a realm that could not fathom a queen. The slight earned her the moniker "The Queen Who Never Was," a title whispered with both pity and awe. Despite this injustice, Rhaenys had never bent, for her spirit burned as brightly as the dragons her house commanded. A dragonrider in her own right, she claimed Meleys, the Red Queen, a swift and ferocious beast whose fire and fury mirrored her rider's will.
Her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, was no less formidable. Known across the realm as the Sea Snake, Corlys was a man of unmatched ambition and daring. He had commanded ships before he could grow a beard and sailed farther than any Westerosi lord in history. His voyages had taken him across the Jade Sea to distant Yi Ti, Leng, and Asshai, where he had amassed a fortune so vast that it dwarfed the wealth of the Lannisters. With that gold, he had built Driftmark into a seat that rivaled even the splendor of Dragonstone, and his fleets were said to be the greatest in the known world. House Velaryon, whose sigil bore a seahorse of silver atop a sea green field, was ancient and proud, claiming descent from Valyria's dragonlords, though they had always been masters of the sea rather than the skies.
Baelor was born into a world that demanded greatness of those who bore the blood of Old Valyria. The storm that howled outside as he took his first breath seemed a herald of what was to come. Some said the gods were angry that night, their voices carried on the winds, while others claimed the tempest was a blessing—a baptism of salt and storm for a child who carried the strength of two ancient houses in his veins. Lightning illuminated the banners of High Tide, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying alongside the seahorse of House Velaryon, as if the heavens themselves had come to bear witness to his arrival.
As the newborn was swaddled and placed gently in his cradle, a great dragon egg was set beside him, being a tradition of all valarian houses. Its surface shimmered in the flickering firelight, a deep, midnight blue streaked with veins of silver that seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive with some hidden rhythm. The egg had been a gift from Rhaenys's grand father before his recent passing. It was said that within its shell lay the potential for greatness, a promise of the boy's destiny as a scion of both fire and water.
The egg had been laid by Vheagar and fathered by Balerion, establishing its parentage as legendary by all means. As the wet nurse adjusted the blankets around Baelor, the babe's tiny hand slipped free, his fingers brushing the cool surface of the egg.
In that instant, something stirred.
The maester standing nearby gasped as a faint crackle echoed through the chamber, so soft it might have been mistaken for the settling of wood or the distant rumble of thunder. But then the egg shifted, an almost imperceptible tremor that drew all eyes to its glistening surface. A single crack appeared, thin as a spider's thread, running jagged and uncertain through the blue and silver shell.
Rhaenys rose from her bed, her violet eyes fixed upon the egg, her breath caught in her throat. "It cannot be," she murmured, her voice trembling with hope. Lord Corlys moved to her side, his hand resting on her shoulder, his own gaze locked on the miracle unfolding before them.
The babe, oblivious to the chaos his touch had wrought, let out a small, contented coo and curled his fingers back into his blanket. The egg grew still once more, but the crack remained, faint yet undeniable, a fissure through which fire might one day escape.
"Is it hatching?" one of the midwives whispered, her voice hushed
The maester shook his head, his expression a blend of wonder and uncertainty. "No… not yet. But something stirs within. The egg sleeps still, but it dreams."
By the age of two, Baelor Velaryon had already marked himself as a child unlike any other in the salt-worn halls of Driftmark. While other babes toddled aimlessly, their steps faltering and uncertain, Baelor moved with a purpose that seemed unnatural for one so young. His aquamarine eyes, a gift of his Valeryon blood, held a sharpness that unsettled all who met them. They were the eyes of a predator, not a boy—a hawk's gaze, ever-watchful, ever-assessing. Those eyes missed nothing, sweeping across rooms and faces with a quiet intensity that left even seasoned lords and knights shifting uncomfortably beneath his stare.
There was an eerie deliberateness to him, a sense that every movement, every step, was measured and calculated. While most children grasped clumsily at the world, Baelor seemed to study it, dissect it, with an almost preternatural understanding. His mother, Rhaenys, had seen much in her life—a crown denied, wars fought, dragons flown—but even she found herself unsettled by her son. At times, she wondered if the boy was truly hers. There was a coldness to him, an air of detachment that seemed more fitting for a weathered soldier or a maester buried in his books than a child still learning his words.
Yet when Baelor spoke, it was as if the world stilled to listen. His first words had not been the stumbling cries of "mother" or "father," but an unprompted observation about the weather and the harbor below High Tide. He had pointed to the ships, demanding to know their banners with adorable authority, and remarked on the strength of the winds, noting which captains would likely sail and which would remain anchored. The maester, watching from the shadows, had been struck dumb, while Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, could only laugh—a laugh tinged with unease.
"What sort of child watches the winds as a sailor does?" Corlys had murmured later to Rhaenys.
"A strange one," she had replied, though her tone betrayed her pride as much as her unease.
By the age of four, Baelor had outgrown the simple games of the other children. While his siblings and cousins chased each other through Driftmark's halls or played at knights with wooden swords, Baelor spent his hours at the docks, watching the sailors tie knots and load cargo. He asked questions constantly—about the weight of the ships, the length of their voyages, the currents of the Narrow Sea. The sailors answered him at first with bemusement, but their smiles soon faded when they realized the boy was memorizing every word, storing it away like coin in a chest.
His fascination with the sword came soon after. The first time he stepped into the training yard, he was 4, the master-at-arms dismissed him as yet another overzealous child, eager to prove himself against imagined foes. But when Baelor took up the wooden practice sword, there was no flailing, no reckless swings. His grip was sure, his stance firm, and his strikes unnervingly precise for one so young. The master-at-arms paused mid-instruction, his brow furrowing as he watched the boy move, each strike deliberate, each motion eerily calculated. There was no exuberance, no boyish excitement—only focus.
From that moment, the training yard became Baelor's world, his obsession growing like a fire fed by wind. While other children chased each other through the halls of Driftmark or laughed over games in the courtyards, Baelor stood apart, watching, observing, and learning. He had no interest in their jests or their company. When they tried to pull him into their games, he would only shake his head, his disinterest plain. "What's the point?" he had asked one persistent cousin, his voice calm, his Sea Green eyes unblinking. "There's no victory in play."
At five, he no longer played at swords as other boys did; he lived them. Every hour not spent eating or sleeping was dedicated to the yard. He sparred with older boys and trained beside seasoned knights, mimicking their movements with unsettling precision. When the master-at-arms introduced new techniques, Baelor would grasp them after a single demonstration, his body moving as though the sword were an extension of his will. He absorbed lessons on balance, timing, and footwork as easily as other children learned rhymes.
By six, his obsession had consumed him entirely. When not wielding a blade, Baelor devoured knowledge on the arts of war. He begged the maester for treatises on strategy and siegecraft, his small fingers flipping through pages that detailed the rise and fall of empires. He studied armor and weapons, quizzing blacksmiths about the weight of steel and the forging of blades. Driftmark's knights began to speak of him in hushed tones, marveling at the boy's focus but uneasy with his intensity.
Yet for all his skill and dedication, Baelor was alone. He spoke little, his words sharp and clipped when directed at children his age. They, in turn, avoided him, sensing something cold and unreachable in the boy who lived for the sword. Only in the training yard did Baelor express himself fully. There, he came alive, his movements graceful yet ferocious, his strikes carrying a purpose and weight that belied his years.
By the time he turned seven, Baelor's name was already whispered with awe among Driftmark's retainers. Few doubted that he would one day surpass even the finest knights in the realm. But his singular focus had carved a gulf between him and the world around him. While other children dreamed of glory, Baelor seemed to carry the weight of it already, his path laid out before him, and his sea green eyes fixed unerringly on the blade in his hand.
Ser Vaemond Velaryon stood at the edge of the yard, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the wind tugging at his sea-blue cloak as he watched the boy. Baelor Velaryon, just seven years of age, danced across the dirt, his wooden sword moving with a grace that seemed unnatural for one so young. The squire he sparred with—a 17 year old—swung with all his strength, only for the child to sidestep as if the blow had been telegraphed moments before. The boy countered with a strike of his own, quick and decisive, the dull thud of wood against armor echoing through the courtyard.
Vaemond Velaryon leaned against the railing overlooking the training yard, his arms crossed as he watched his nephew spar with one of the older squires. The boy moved with unsettling precision, every strike measured, every step calculated. There was no hesitation in his movements, no emotion either—just cold efficiency.
"He's remarkable," Vaemond said after a long silence, his voice quiet and tinged with unease.
Corlys Velaryon, standing at his brother's side, smiled faintly, his pride unmistakable. "He is," he said simply, his eyes never leaving the boy. "Baelor learns faster than any boy I've ever seen. Faster than most men, for that matter."
Vaemond hesitated, as though weighing his next words. "And yet," he said at last, "there's something… lacking in him."
Corlys turned to him, his brow furrowing. "Lacking?"
Vaemond gestured toward the yard, where Baelor had just disarmed the squire with a swift, almost disdainful flick of his wooden sword. The older boy stumbled back, rubbing his wrist, while Baelor simply stood there, his expression blank. The other children, his younger brother, Leanor among them, stood in a loose circle, watching the display with a mixture of awe and unease. But Baelor did not look at them, did not seek their approval or their companionship. He simply turned back to the training dummies, as if their presence mattered less than the weather.
"He doesn't talk to the others," Vaemond said, his voice low. "His cousins, the squires, the knights, his own brother and sister—he keeps them all at arm's length. When the children laugh, he doesn't laugh with them. When they play, he watches, if he notices at all. It's as if… as if he doesn't know how."
Corlys's expression softened, though the pride in his eyes did not dim. "Baelor is not like other children," he said. "You've seen it yourself. He has no time for the foolish games of boys. He's meant for greater things."
Vaemond frowned. "Greater things or not, Corlys, he is still a boy. And boys need friends, need family. The others look at him as if he's… apart from them. Above them, even. That kind of distance, it doesn't bode well."
Corlys sighed, his gaze shifting back to his son. "Do you think Aegon the Conqueror worried about friends as a boy? Or Nymeria, or the heroes of old? Baelor doesn't need their laughter. He needs strength. He needs focus. And he has both."
"And when he's older?" Vaemond pressed. "When he needs allies, not just soldiers? When his cousins, his kin, are the ones he must rely on? A man who stands alone, Corlys, is vulnerable, no matter how strong he is."
Corlys didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Baelor, who now stood before the training dummy, striking it with the same cold precision he'd shown against the squire.
"He's still young," Corlys said at last, though his voice was quieter now, less certain. "There's time yet for him to grow into himself."
"Is there?" Vaemond asked. "Or is it already too late? The children fear him, Corlys. The knights whisper about him. Even Rhaenys looks at him sometimes as if she doesn't know him."
Corlys's jaw tightened at that, but he said nothing.
Vaemond placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "I know what you see in him, brother. I see it too. But strength alone does not make a man, nor does skill with a sword. If Baelor cannot learn to walk among his own family, how will he ever rule fairly?"
Corlys exhaled slowly, his pride warring with the truth in Vaemond's words. He looked back to the yard, where Baelor struck the dummy one last time before lowering his wooden sword. The boy's face was calm, unreadable. Around him, the other children began to drift away, their chatter and laughter resuming as though Baelor were no more than a shadow among them.
"I will speak with him," Corlys said at last, his voice heavy. "But he is what he is, Vaemond. And what he is… is extraordinary."
Vaemond's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing more. Together, the brothers watched as Baelor walked away from the training yard, alone, his steps deliberate and unhurried. Whatever the boy was, one thing was certain: he was unlike anyone Driftmark had ever seen. And whether that would be a blessing or a curse, only time would tell.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Corlys Velaryon climbed the stone steps to his son's chambers. The door stood ajar, and inside, the faint light of a single candle flickered against the walls. Baelor sat near the window, a book balanced on his knees. It was no children's tale but a heavy tome on naval tactics, one Corlys himself had struggled through at the age of ten. His son, only seven, turned the pages with an unnerving calm, his small hands steady and precise.
"You fought well today," Corlys said as he stepped inside, his deep voice breaking the silence.
Baelor glanced up, his sea-green eyes locking onto his father's. There was a rare flicker of warmth in them, the kind that only Corlys ever seemed to stir in the boy, but it was fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. The coldness returned just as swiftly. "The boy was slow," Baelor said, his voice flat, detached—an observer, not a participant. He spoke of the squire as one might speak of a training dummy, as if the lad had been no more than a puzzle to be solved. "He left his left side open every time he struck. He won't do it again."
Corlys chuckled, folding his arms as he leaned against the stone wall. "And who taught you to see such things?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"No one," Baelor said simply, turning back to his book. "I just see."
Corlys nodded, his pride unmistakable, but he didn't let the moment linger. He stepped closer, his tone softening. "Baelor, you're sharp as Valyrian steel, and your skill with the blade is unmatched for your age. But strength alone isn't enough, my son. You need allies. Friends. Men and women who will stand by you, not because they fear you, but because they respect and trust you. That is how us lords endure, through the admiration of our people."
Baelor's small fingers stilled on the edge of the page, his head tilting slightly as he processed the words. Then, with a uncharacteristic sigh that was as dramatic as expected from a boy of his years, he shut the book and set it aside. "Allies are unnecessary," he said, his voice carrying the same cold certainty as always. "If I am strong enough, I won't need them. No one challenges the strong."
Corlys frowned, crouching so he could look his son in the eye. "Strength can win battles, Baelor, but it doesn't hold kingdoms together. You'll need others to trust you, to follow you willingly. Even the greatest rulers needed the love of their people, the loyalty of their friends. You cannot stand alone."
Baelor's nose wrinkled, his youthful face suddenly betraying a glimpse of the child he still was. "You sound like Uncle Vaemond," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Do I have to be friends with them? They're loud, and they play stupid games, and they don't even know how to hold a sword properly."
Corlys chuckled again, though there was a weight in his laughter now. "You don't have to be their friend in the way they're friends with each other. But you do need to know them, Baelor. To listen to them. They'll follow you if they feel you understand them. That is the difference between a lord and a tyrant."
Baelor's lips pressed into a thin line, his young face twisted in a frown. "It's stupid," he declared after a long moment, his voice rising slightly, petulant in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "Why should I have to pretend? If they can't keep up, why should I care what they think? It's my job to protect my people not play with them."
Corlys straightened, his expression growing serious. "Because a leader must care, Baelor. Whether you think it fair or not, the people who follow you will need more than just your sword. They'll need your heart."
For a moment, Baelor said nothing, his brows drawn together as he stared at the floor. Then he huffed, grabbing his book again and flipping it open with far more force than necessary. "I'll think about it," he muttered, though his tone suggested otherwise.
Corlys sighed, placing a hand gently on his son's shoulder. "That's all I ask for now," he said. "But remember this, Baelor: even the strongest storm must rely on the sea it rages across. Alone, it's just wind."
Baelor didn't look up, but his fingers stopped turning the pages. For a moment, it seemed as though he might respond, but then he simply returned to his reading, his expression a mask once more.
BEALOR I
In the summer of 109 AC, when I was 7, my parents took me to King's Landing for one of those royal gatherings—crowded with lords and ladies and all manner of important people. I wasn't particularly keen on any of it, but I couldn't ignore the fact that my cousin, Rhaenyra Targaryen, was there. She was a year younger than me, but already, she seemed to carry herself like someone who had been raised in the middle of all this. Her confidence was as sharp as her uncle's, Prince Daemon's, and it was clear that she didn't mind showing it.
When we first met, she didn't waste any time. She walked right up to me, her eyes shining with a kind of eagerness that I wasn't used to. "You're a Velaryon," she said, giving me a curious, almost amused glance, as if she was piecing together a puzzle. "You'll fight for me when I'm queen."
I blinked, caught off guard by her directness. Most children weren't so forward, and I wasn't quite sure how to respond. It made my stomach feel a little funny, but I shrugged and tried to match her boldness. "And what will I get out of it, cousin?" I asked, my voice coming out steadier than I felt.
Rhaenyra laughed, but not in a mocking way—more like she had just told me something obvious. "You'll be my knight," she said with a little grin, as if the idea were as natural as breathing. "When I'm queen, you'll have everything you want. Gold, lands… whatever you fancy."
I didn't know what to make of that, but I wasn't sure I wanted all of it. The idea of being a knight—Rhaenyra's knight—sounded strange to me. "When you're queen, I'll fly beside you," I said, though I wasn't sure if she'd understand what I meant.
For a moment, she just looked at me, and I felt my cheeks flush, like I had said something wrong. But then, her grin returned, this time brighter, a little teasing. "I like that answer," she said, her voice light and playful. "You're not like some of the other boys who only care about swords and shields."
The words made me pause, because I wasn't sure if she was being serious or if she was making fun of me, I think the last one is likely true. But when she didn't laugh or say anything more, I decided she must've meant it. She stood a little taller, like she was sizing me up, but there was a spark in her eyes that made her seem both confident and… kind of bratty, in a way. Like she could rule the world, but also wanted someone to notice.
"Maybe you won't be such a bore after all," she added, her smile more teasing now, before turning on her heel to speak to someone else, leaving me standing there, still trying to figure out what had just happened.
My siblings rejoined me, chattering about something else, but I couldn't focus on them. Rhaenyra wasn't just another child like my cousins or siblings. She was someone who was extremely confident in herself and seemed to not care about who I was, and it made me feel strange—not in a way I could explain, but enough that I found myself thinking about her long after she had moved on.
The days in King's Landing stretched on endlessly for Baelor Velaryon, each one more stifling than the last. The city was vast and alien to him, a maze of crowded streets and crumbling stone that reeked of humanity's ceaseless toil. It was alive in a way Driftmark was not—louder, dirtier, and teeming with people whose lives seemed as small and fleeting as the rats that scurried beneath their feet. The air itself felt oppressive, thick with the weight of ambition and deceit. Every hall, every whispered corner of the Red Keep buzzed with the unending murmur of courtiers who thought themselves masters of the world.
Baelor watched them with quiet disdain. The lords and ladies of the court pranced and plotted, whispering alliances and betrayals as if their words alone could shape the realm. He understood their games, even at his young age, but he had no patience for them. To Baelor, the machinations of the court seemed like children's play—empty, fragile things that could be shattered with a single stroke of steel or a dragon's breath. What good were schemes when real power lay not in promises but in the strength to enforce them?
The boy had no love for the courtly graces his mother urged him to learn, nor for the honeyed smiles of those who sought to curry favor with his family. Even his siblings, who found some amusement in the splendor of the capital, could not distract him from the unease that churned beneath his skin. The endless feasts and spectacles, the hollow laughter of nobles who feasted on excess while the city's poor begged in the shadows—it all felt wrong to him, false in a way he could not yet articulate.
Power was not found in these gilded halls, he thought. Power was not in words whispered behind closed doors or in promises sealed with wine-stained lips. Power was something real, something tangible. It was in the steel of a blade, the fire of a dragon, the strength of a man's arm. It was in the sea that could swallow fleets and the skies that could rain destruction. The rest—titles, courtesies, and carefully measured glances—were little more than illusions, fleeting shadows cast by the light of true strength.
Baelor spent as little time as he could among the courtiers, slipping away whenever he could manage it. He preferred the training yards, the stable smells of sweat and dirt more familiar than the perfumed air of the throne room. There, among the clanging of swords and the shouts of men, he found some measure of peace, though even that was fleeting. In the capital, even the yards felt tainted by the scheming of the court, knights whispering rumors as they sparred, squires gossiping as they sharpened blades.
The training yard of the Red Keep was alive with the clash of steel and the grunts of knights honing their craft. Baelor Velaryon stood at the edge of the yard, his wooden practice sword in hand, his sea-green eyes fixed on the knights at their work. Seven years old, with a slight frame and a watchful gaze, he had come to understand the yard as his refuge—a place where the chaos of King's Landing faded into the rhythm of blades and the discipline of battle.
He was so intent on observing the footwork of one knight that he didn't notice the man who approached until a shadow fell across him. Baelor looked up and immediately recognized the man: Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, his uncle through Rhaenys's side.
Daemon cut an imposing figure, his dark leather tunic and silver hair catching the late afternoon sun. Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade of legend, rested at his hip, its mere presence a challenge to all who dared to stand before it. His violet eyes, sharp and playful, swept over the boy with faint amusement.
"So, this is Corlys's boy," Daemon said, his voice smooth, edged with the faintest trace of mockery. "You look like your mother, but you've got the stance of a soldier. Do you know how to use that stick you're holding, or is it just for show?"
Baelor straightened, gripping the practice sword more tightly. The boy had heard stories of Daemon—warrior, dragonrider, prince of the blood, and troublemaker. He could feel the weight of the man's attention, as if Daemon were testing him already.
"I do," Baelor replied, his voice steady.
Daemon's grin widened, showing teeth. "Do you, now? And what do they teach in Driftmark? How to fight the wind and waves?"
The words stung, but Baelor didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped forward, lifting the wooden sword slightly in a silent challenge. "Fight me," he said.
The grin faded from Daemon's face, replaced by something sharper. "Fight you?" he repeated, his tone carrying a hint of incredulity. He glanced around the yard, where knights and squires had paused to watch. "A boy of seven challenges me?"
"I want to learn," Baelor said simply, his voice calm, though his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his practice sword. "And you are the best."
For a moment, Daemon said nothing, his sharp eyes searching the boy's face. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rolling sound that silenced the yard.
"Well, you've got courage, I'll grant you that," Daemon said, his grin returning. He drew Dark Sister from its sheath in one fluid motion, the Valyrian steel catching the light like liquid fire. "But courage won't save you, lad. Show me what Driftmark has given you."
Baelor wasted no time. He lunged, aiming low for Daemon's legs, the strike quick and sharp for a boy of his years. But Daemon sidestepped effortlessly, his blade flicking out to parry the wooden sword.
"You're fast," Daemon noted, his tone casual, almost bored. "But speed without thought is useless."
Baelor didn't reply. He pressed the attack, his strikes relentless, though each was met with the same frustrating ease. Daemon barely moved, letting the boy tire himself out, his expression somewhere between amusement and approval.
"Good form," Daemon said as he blocked another swing. "But you're sloppy with your footing. There—" He twisted his wrist, and Baelor stumbled back, disarmed in a single fluid motion. The wooden sword clattered to the dirt.
Before Baelor could recover, Daemon's boot nudged the practice sword out of reach, and Dark Sister's edge hovered just an inch from the boy's throat. The yard held its breath.
Daemon stepped back, sheathing his blade with a flourish. "Better than I expected," he said, his tone lighter now. "You've got fire, lad. And fire is the first thing a warrior needs."
Baelor retrieved his practice sword, his face flushed with exertion and humiliation. "You were faster," he said, his voice low but calm.
Daemon laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Aye, I was. But you'll grow. And when you do, maybe one day I'll have to be faster."
The knights and squires murmured among themselves, but Daemon turned away, his interest already shifting. "Keep at it, Baelor Velaryon," he called over his shoulder. "The realm needs warriors, not coddled lordlings. And you might just grow into one of the best."
Baelor watched him go, his sea-green eyes narrowing. He'd lost, but the Rogue Prince had given him something he rarely sought: acknowledgment. As the murmurs of the yard returned to their usual cadence, Baelor's grip tightened on his wooden sword. One day, he thought. One day, the Rogue Prince wouldn't find him so easily beaten.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, the air in King's Landing alive with the hum of anticipation. A grand tournament had been called in honor of the visiting lords, a spectacle of chivalry and bloodshed that brought nobles and smallfolk alike to the lists. Baelor Velaryon found himself seated high in the royal box, surrounded by the cream of the realm's nobility. To his left sat Princess Rhaenyra, dressed in black and red, her silver-gold hair glinting like polished steel in the sunlight.
Baelor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His usual composure, so steady in the yard or aboard a ship, abandoned him in the princess's presence. Her effortless confidence only deepened his unease. She leaned forward eagerly, her violet eyes sparkling as she watched the knights below.
"Do you think Uncle Daemon will win?" she asked, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. She didn't look at Baelor as she spoke, her gaze fixed on the field.
Baelor hesitated, his sea-green eyes darting toward her before quickly returning to the lists. "He's the best," he said simply, his tone low.
Rhaenyra turned to him, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "You don't sound very sure," she said. "You've seen him fight, haven't you?"
"Yes," Baelor replied, his voice tighter than he intended. "He'll win."
Rhaenyra laughed softly, a sound that made Baelor's cheeks burn. "Well, I should hope so," she said, settling back in her seat. "Otherwise, I'd have to find another uncle."
Her teasing only made Baelor more rigid, and he fidgeted with the edge of his tunic. From across the royal box, Lady Alicent Hightower glanced at him, her lips twitching as if suppressing a smile. Seated beside her, Queen Aemma did not miss the exchange. The queen leaned closer to Alicent and whispered something unheard, her gaze briefly flicking between Baelor and her daughter, giggling with the younger woman.
The herald's voice boomed, announcing the first tilt, and Baelor seized the chance to focus elsewhere.
The tournament began with the jousts, knights in shining armor charging down the lists, their lances aimed with deadly precision. Baelor's initial discomfort melted away as his eyes sharpened, following every movement with unnerving focus.
"That one will fall," he muttered to himself as a knight of the Reach lined up against a Dornishman.
"What?" Rhaenyra asked, tilting her head toward him.
Baelor nodded toward the Dornish knight. "He's leaning too far forward in the saddle. When the lance strikes, it'll knock him clean off."
Rhaenyra blinked, glancing between him and the field. As the knights charged, the Dornishman's stance faltered, just as Baelor had said. The lance hit his shield and sent him tumbling to the dirt.
"How did you—" Rhaenyra began, but Baelor had already turned his attention to the next tilt.
The pattern repeated throughout the morning. Baelor predicted broken lances, unseated riders, and even which knight would falter during the charge. "That one grips his reins too tightly," he noted of a young knight from the Westerlands. "His horse will shy." Moments later, the horse stumbled, throwing its rider off balance.
Rhaenyra seemed more curious than impressed as he seemingly new the outcome of every tilt. "You've been watching them train, haven't you?" she asked.
Baelor shook his head. "Not all of them." He said simply "But I can notice when they're doing something wrong."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed, but before she could press him further, the herald's voice boomed again, announcing the start of the melee.
The melee was a grueling affair, far longer and bloodier than the jousts. Groups of knights entered the field at once, their steel flashing in the sunlight as they clashed in a chaotic dance of sword and shield. Baelor's earlier detachment gave way to intense focus.
"That one will fall first," he said, pointing toward a knight from the Vale. "His shield arm is weak."
The knight was quickly overwhelmed, his shield ripped away before he was struck down.
Daemon Targaryen entered the field midway through the melee, drawing cheers from the crowd. Clad in dark armor that seemed to drink the light, he wielded Dark Sister with the ease of a man born to war.
"He'll go for the tall one first," Baelor murmured, watching intently. "The man with the greatsword. He's strong, but slow. Daemon will take him down to intimidate the others."
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her excitement plain. "Are you sure?"
Baelor didn't answer. He was too focused on the fight below. Sure enough, Daemon advanced on the tall knight, his strikes fast and precise. The man's greatsword never had a chance to land a blow before Daemon's blade found its mark.
The melee continued for what felt like hours, with Daemon cutting through his opponents like a storm through reeds. Baelor's predictions grew more rapid, more precise, until even Rhaenyra seemed uneasy at how easily he read the battlefield.
"How do you see these things?" she asked, her voice hushed.
Baelor didn't look at her as he shrugged, keeping his eyes locked on Daemon. "I've always been able to notice these things."
When Daemon's final opponent—a knight of the Stormlands—stepped forward, Baelor sat up straighter, his hands gripping the arms of his seat. The clash between them was fierce, their blades ringing out over the roar of the crowd.
"He'll feint left," Baelor whispered, "then strike the helm."
The knight did just that, but Daemon was faster, sidestepping the blow and countering with a strike of his own. The knight fell, his pride shattered along with his helm.
Rhaenyra clapped her hands, cheering loudly. Baelor barely noticed. His heart pounded in time with the clang of steel, his mind replaying every strike and counter.
As the last of the knights were escorted off the field, their armor gleaming with the sweat and blood of the battle, the crowd began to quiet, their voices fading into a reverent hush. Daemon Targaryen, victorious once again, stood at the center of the melee, his breathing steady despite the brutality of the fight. His black armor seemed to shimmer in the light, a contrast to the dust and blood of the field, and his expression was one of satisfied detachment. The crowd erupted in cheers, but Daemon paid them little mind, his gaze scanning the royal box above.
Baelor stood from his seat, still caught in the afterglow of the melee. His heart beat in time with the clash of swords, his mind sharp with each calculated move he had observed. His confidence, so firm on the field, returned to him as he scanned the knights retreating from the arena. He was already formulating in his mind how he would approach his own training, how his own techniques would one day be better than theirs. Everyone was secondary in his thoughts, their presence almost forgettable when compared to the depth of his focus.
And then, Daemon was before them, his steps slow and deliberate as he made his way to the royal box. The crowd parted for him as if he were the storm itself, and Baelor couldn't help but watch with fascination. Daemon's reputation preceded him, and the boy had admired the rogue prince's boldness, his singular pursuit of power and mastery over the sword. But, as the man came closer, Baelor's sharp eyes noted something: Daemon's stance was subtly off. He didn't carry himself with the full weight of someone uninjured, as his earlier fights had made clear.
"Uncle," Rhaenyra called, standing with a smile that seemed to soften the lines of her usual assertiveness. She leaned over the railing to greet him, her violet eyes alight with excitement. "You were magnificent. Truly the finest of all the knights."
Daemon smiled, though there was little warmth in it. "It is good to be appreciated, my princess," he said, before his gaze flicked briefly to Baelor. "And you, young Velaryon," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I see you've been watching closely."
Baelor straightened, no trace of awkwardness in his posture as he locked eyes with Daemon. "You did well, but you didn't exactly keep your guard up after you took down the Stormlander," he said, his tone analytical, the same way he had assessed every move during the melee. "You were open for a counterstrike when you overextended on the left."
Daemon raised an eyebrow, a low chuckle escaping him. "Is that so?" He paused for a moment, considering the boy with an intensity that matched his own. "It seems I've missed a detail or two, then." He met Baelor's gaze evenly, no offense taken, only respect. "Perhaps one day, you'll be the one to exploit my mistakes, eh?"
The boy did not flinch, his expression unchanging. "If I'm quick enough," he replied, almost too coolly for a child of his years.
Daemon let out a genuine laugh this time, the sound rich with amusement. "You remind me of myself when I was younger. Though less charismatic I will admit, and nowhere near as handsome."
Baelor glanced up at Rhaenyra, his throat tightening again as he realized just how close Daemon had come to him. Rhaenyra's keen gaze flicked between them, a flicker of interest in her violet eyes.
With what seemed almost like an afterthought, Daemon unbuckled the sword he used in the melee and held it out toward Baelor, who eyed it warily. It wasn't Dark Sister—as the valaryian steel blade would have been too lethal—but the blade was still forged by the finest Kingslanding smiths.
"Take this," Daemon said, his voice more serious now. "It was my first sword, the one I used before I came into my… full strength. I don't need it anymore, but you might. You have the potential, boy."
Baelor stared at the sword for a long moment, his fingers twitching, a mix of disbelief and awe swirling within him. It wasn't just a token; it was a weapon, a tool to shape his destiny.
"I'll make sure it's put to good use," Baelor said finally, his voice steady as he took the sword. His hands wrapped around the grip, the weight of it familiar, as though he had been born to hold it. "Thank you, Prince Deamon."
Daemon nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching with something close to a smile. "Don't thank me yet. Prove that you deserve it." His eyes turned to Rhaenyra, then back to Baelor. "And remember, Baelor, the sword is only as good as the hand that wields it."
Baelor nodded solemnly, and for a moment, there was no awkwardness. He was again the boy who commanded a battlefield, sharp-eyed and certain.
As Daemon turned to leave, Baelor remained still, the sword now resting at his side like a promise of the future.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra's mouth, but she said nothing. She watched as the rogue prince disappeared back into the throngs of the gathered crowd.
And even as the cheers for Daemon's victory echoed across the grounds of King's Landing, Baelor's thoughts raced, not with the sound of celebration but with the weight of the blade in his hand and the knowledge that his own journey—his own rise—was only just beginning.