The Birth of Aelor

Dragonstone, 101 AC

The Great Council of 101 AC convened at Harrenhal, far from the storm-lashed shores of Dragonstone. As lords and ladies gathered to determine the line of succession, another significant event unfolded quietly in the ancient seat of House Targaryen.

It was the birth of a boy named Aelor, a name soon to be steeped in prophecy and power.

Lady Aelarys, the bastard daughter of Prince Aemon Targaryen, screamed through her labor pains, the stone walls echoing her cries. The midwife whispered reassurances, but Aelarys knew the significance of this birth. Her lover, a common-born sailor named Jory Hill, paced nervously outside the chamber, the sounds of childbirth alien to his seafaring ears.

In a different world, Aelor might have been born in a sterile hospital room, with machines beeping and sterile gloves pulling him into life. But here, he emerged amidst blood and cries, the tang of salt and the heat of dragonfire ingrained in the very air he breathed.

As he slipped from the womb, a powerful sensation of déjà vu overwhelmed him. He opened his eyes, seeing not the world of the modern era but the shadowed chamber of Dragonstone, flickering candlelight casting ominous shadows.

Aelarys clutched her newborn to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He is beautiful, Jory. Look at him."

Jory entered, eyes wide with awe and fear. "A son," he whispered, kneeling beside Aelarys. "Our son, born on the same day the Great Council convenes."

Aelor, newborn and yet not, gazed at the faces of his parents with an eerie understanding. The knowledge of the past and the future, of dragons and death, of fire and blood, flickered in his infant mind.

Harrenhal

The Great Castle of Harrenhal, a fortress of brooding stone and shadowed grandeur, was a sight to behold during the Great Council of 101 AC. The hour of the wolf had descended upon the castle, and the rain fell in steady, relentless sheets, cascading from the high towers and splashing against the cobblestone courtyard below. The rhythmic drumming of the rain upon the vast roof of the hall created a backdrop of solemnity and foreboding.

As the rain lashed against the heavy, leaded windows of the hall, the interior was lit by flickering torches and braziers, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. The grand chamber, with its vaulted ceiling and massive stone columns, echoed with the murmur of assembled lords and their retinues. The cold stone was dimly illuminated by the golden glow of the firelight, adding a harsh contrast to the somber mood of the council.

On the golden throne, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen awaited the decision of the Great Council. His beloved Queen Alysanne had passed the previous year, and the weight of succession lay heavy on his old shoulders. The candidates were many, but the choice would determine the future of the realm.

Princess Rhaenys, Daughter to Prince Aemon, stood with her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon. "Do you think they will choose Viserys?" Rhaenys asked, her voice soft but strong.

Corlys, the Sea Snake, shook his head in defeat. "The lords of Westeros are not ready for a queen. They would sooner put a bastard son on throne over a Women"

"It's not fair," Corlys said. "We have fought so hard for this, and still, the world is not ready to accept us."

"You did everything you could," Rhaenys said.

Corlys and Rhaenys watched as the Great Council proceeded. It seemed as though the decision was taking a fortnight. The whispers were deafening, and the tension was palpable.

Rhaenys leaned in close and spoke softly. "I cannot believe we have come so far, only to be rejected. It's not fair, Corlys. We have done everything in our power to bring peace and prosperity to the realm. And yet, they would rather crown a glutton than a woman."

"I know, my love," Corlys replied. "It's a cruel world, and we have fraught to overcome it. We could only hope the realm see's reason."

Corlys the Sea Snake was a legendary figure in the history of Westeros. He was known for his bravery and cunning, and his skill in navigating the seas.

He was said to have explored the far reaches of the world, charting new routes and discovering unknown lands.

Through his journeys, Corlys brought prosperity to the realm. He established trade routes with Essos, bringing exotic goods and spices to the shores of Westeros. He safeguarded the Narrow Sea against would be enemies of the realm earning the prestigious title Lord of the Tides.

Aemma Arryn, Viserys's wife, stood nervously beside him. She was a young girl, only One and Nine namedays, and had no idea what to expect. She was a frail thing, with pale skin and large, purple eyes. Her hair was a dull silver, and she wore it in a simple braid down her back.

She glanced at Viserys, who looked nervous. "Do you think they will pick you?" she asked.

Viserys sighed. "I don't know, my love. One can never be to sure on the matter."

He turned to his wife. "Whatever happens, you must remember that I will always love you, no matter who sits on the Iron Throne."

Aemma blushed, and a small smile crossed her face. "I will remember that, Viserys. I will always be there for you."

"That's good to hear," Viserys said, smiling.

The Great Hall, with its cold, unyielding stone and the ceaseless patter of rain, seemed almost alive with the tension of the assembly. The sound of the rain and the murmur of voices blended into a harmonious backdrop of anticipation and debate. The storm outside mirrored the storm within, as the lords and ladies of the realm awaited the council's resolution on who would succeed King Jaehaerys to the Iron Throne.

In the midst of this stormy night, Harrenhal stood as a silent witness to the critical crossroads of Targaryen history, its ancient stones echoing with the deliberations that would shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms.

At that moment, a loud roar echoed through the hall, startling everyone.

After days of heated debate and deliberation, the decision was reached. Prince Viserys Targaryen was chosen as the new King, his claim solidified by the prevailing preference for male heirs. The council's choice was driven by a combination of traditional Targaryen values and strategic calculations. Viserys's ascent to the throne was seen as a means to ensure stability and continuity within the realm, despite the strong claims and sentiments of Rhaenys's supporters.

Princess Rhaenys, though disappointed, accepted the outcome with dignity. Her supporters, including her husband Lord Corlys Velaryon, were forced to reconcile with the council's decision. The weight of the choice was felt keenly in the chamber, as the rain continued to beat down on the ancient castle, a silent witness to the resolution of a pivotal moment in Targaryen history.

The Great Council of 101 AC thus concluded with the coronation of Prince Viserys as Heir, setting the stage for the future of the Targaryen dynasty and the unfolding events that would shape the realm. The echoes of the council's decisions resonated through the corridors of Harrenhal, marking the beginning of a new chapter in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

Dragonstone

The storm outside mirrored the tempest within the chamber. Lady Aelarys, her face etched with the pain of childbirth and the weight of her secret lineage, cradled her newborn son. Her silver-white hair, so much like her father's, clung to her damp forehead. The striking purple of her eyes, the unmistakable Targaryen trait, softened with maternal love as she gazed at Aelor.

Jory Hill, a rugged man with the build of a seasoned sailor, knelt beside her. His hair, a mix of brown and gold, was tousled and streaked with salt. His eyes, a piercing green, reflected a mix of pride and apprehension as he looked at his son. Jory had always been a mystery to those who knew him, his origins obscured by the life he led on the seas.

Aelor lay quietly in his mother's arms, his eyes wide open. Even as a newborn, the child was striking—a blend of Targaryen and some other unknown lineage. His hair was mostly silver-white, with strands of gold glinting in the candlelight. His right eye, a vivid green, seemed to pierce through the shadows, while his left eye, an amethyst hue, held an almost otherworldly glow.

As Aelarys and Jory marveled at their son, Aelor's mind buzzed with fragmented memories and the overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He was not just a newborn; he was someone else, someone from a different world. The knowledge of another place, of another life, flooded his infant consciousness.

This place... these people... where am I? Aelor thought, recognizing bits and pieces that felt familiar yet so distant. The flickering shadows, the smell of salt and something else—something ancient and powerful—ingrained in the very air he breathed. He had read about places like this, seen them in stories and myths. But now, he was here, and he was a part of this world.

How is this possible? he wondered, his newborn mind grappling with the impossibility of his situation. He had been someone else, somewhere else—a modern world with technology and science. Yet, here he was, in a place that felt like a forgotten legend come to life.

Aelarys watched her son with concern as his tiny face contorted with concentration. "He is a strong one, Jory," she whispered, more to reassure herself than her lover. "He will grow to be great, I can feel it."

Jory nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He had no noble aspirations for himself, content with the life of a sailor, but his son—a boy born of Targaryen blood—might have a different fate. "He has your strength," Jory said softly, kissing Aelarys's forehead. "And your fire."

Aelor's infant eyes closed as exhaustion overcame him, but his mind continued to race. I know things, he realized. I know things about this place, but... The details were slipping away, like sand through his fingers. Faces, events, battles—they were all fading into a haze. He had knowledge, but it was incomplete, fragmented. The realization was both a gift and a curse.

I need to remember, he thought, even as sleep claimed him. I need to remember who I am and what I know.

Aelarys and Jory settled into the quiet of the chamber, the storm outside a distant roar. As they looked at their sleeping son, they felt a mixture of hope and fear. They did not know the full extent of what Aelor would become, but they felt the weight of his destiny.

In his sleep, Aelor's mind drifted through the fog of memories, clutching at the fragments of his past life. He was no longer just a modern soul; he was Aelor, born in the shadow of something significant. And though his knowledge was fading, one thing remained clear: his life in this world would be one of fire and blood.