Title: The First Turning
Title: The First Turning
Year and Month: 81 AC, 5th Moon
The first year of my second life was a study in dichotomy. To the world, I was Prince Aeryn Targaryen, the quiet, solemn babe, remarkable only for my startling violet eyes and the unnatural stillness that so often settled upon me. I was a living doll of royal flesh, paraded, cooed over, and largely underestimated. But in the silent, hidden world of my own consciousness, I was a titan in chains, a king in a cradle. My days were spent in the meticulous, exhausting performance of infancy, while my nights were spent soaring over a sleeping city, my mind linked with a living god of destruction.
My body, honed by the serum, was a marvel of restrained potential. By my first name day, I had achieved a level of fine motor control that was utterly unprecedented. I could wiggle each toe in sequence, clench my fists with measured force, and, most importantly, control my gaze with the precision of a master duelist. It was this ocular control that became my primary tool of communication and manipulation in the waking world. A lingering stare for my father, a brief, warm focus for my mother, a dismissive glance for a courtier I deemed insignificant—these were my words, my edicts from the crib.
The bond with Balerion had deepened into something more than a mere sensory link. It was a symbiotic relationship. My calculating, strategic mind seemed to sharpen his ancient, predatory instincts. He became a more patient hunter, a more cunning observer. In return, his centuries of existence bled into my awareness, granting me a peculiar form of memory. I could taste the ash of Harrenhal on the wind, feel the phantom weight of Aegon the Conqueror on his back, see the shores of a Valyria he had left as a young dragon. These were not dreams, but echoes, fragments of a past that now felt almost as much mine as my life on Earth. This unique perspective gave me an almost innate understanding of my new family's history and magic, a powerful supplement to the knowledge I retained from the books.
My first name day was to be the stage for my most significant performance to date. It was an important milestone, a celebration of my survival and Gael's, a rare moment of pure joy in the often-strained Targaryen court. Guests had arrived from across the Crownlands and beyond. More of my siblings were in attendance. It was an opportunity I intended to exploit to its fullest. My objective was twofold: first, to solidify my burgeoning reputation within the family as something more than a child, and second, to deliver a clear, undeniable message to my father and his Hand.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cacophony of sound and color, a sensory overload that would have terrified any normal one-year-old. For me, with my enhanced senses, it was an ocean of data. I could hear the nervous whisper of a minor lord from Duskendale three tables away, smell the Dornish red on my brother Baelon's breath, and see the faint sheen of sweat on the Lord Commander's brow under the heat of a thousand candles.
I was seated on my mother's lap, my sister Gael on my father's. We were the center of attention. Gael, bless her simple heart, was overwhelmed. She cried, her small face red and blotchy, until she was taken back to the quiet of the nursery. Her predictable reaction served my purposes perfectly, making my own composure all the more striking. I, on the other hand, was a rock of serenity in the swirling sea of the feast.
My siblings were a fascinating case study. I watched them, my business mind automatically categorizing them, assessing their strengths, weaknesses, and potential utility. Baelon, ever the warrior prince, laughed loudly and drank deeply, his arm draped around his wife, my sister-princess Alyssa. They were a vibrant picture of life and fertility, already with two sons of their own, Viserys and Daemon. Baelon was a powerful piece, charismatic and beloved. I had been cultivating his interest with focused, attentive gazes whenever he visited the nursery. He now referred to me with amused affection as 'the little archmaester,' a nickname I found both ironic and useful.
Then there was Vaegon, my elder brother by sixteen years. The scholar. He sat near the end of the high table, looking deeply uncomfortable amidst the boisterous celebration. His nose was buried in a book he'd had the audacity to bring to a feast. He had renounced his claim to the throne, choosing the Citadel over the crown. The family saw him as an oddity, a disappointment. I saw an untapped resource. A future Archmaester, a man of immense knowledge. He was a potential ally, a source of information that even my dragon-spying might not uncover. I made a mental note to begin a long-term campaign to win his intellectual respect.
And there was Saera. My beautiful, willful, rebellious sister. She was thirteen, a budding beauty, and already a storm of trouble. She laughed too loudly, her eyes darting around the hall, seeking attention like a flower seeks the sun. I knew her fate from the books: scandal after scandal, until she fled across the Narrow Sea to become a wealthy power player in Volantis. She was a rogue agent, a chaotic element. Dangerous, but also possessed of a ruthlessness I could respect. I watched her, filing away her behaviors, understanding the base desires that drove her. Everyone was a puzzle, and I was the only one with the key.
The formalities began. Lords came forward to present their name day gifts. There were pony-sized rocking horses, jewel-encrusted rattles, miniature suits of silver armor. I regarded each gift with the same placid disinterest, a look that was beginning to be known as my signature. My gaze was reserved for people, not things.
My father, King Jaehaerys, held me for a time. He felt my weight, his expression a familiar mixture of paternal pride and deep, abiding caution. "He has grown strong, Alysanne," he said to my mother, his voice loud enough for the high table to hear. "A strong son for a strong house."
"He is a quiet boy," my mother replied, stroking my hair. "He takes after you, my love. He thinks before he acts."
This was the opening I had been waiting for. My most crucial audience members were all present: my father the King, my mother the Queen, Septon Barth at the King's right hand, and the watchful eyes of my powerful siblings.
On the table before us, among the clutter of golden goblets and platters of food, was a small, ornate box. It was a gift from my brother Vaegon, a concession to the social demands he so clearly despised. Inside was a collection of perfectly polished stones, each from a different region of Westeros. A piece of granite from the mountains of the Vale, a smooth black stone from the shores of the Iron Islands, a shard of red rock from Dorne. It was a scholar's gift, a lesson in geology for a boy who couldn't yet walk.
With my mother's gentle hands holding me steady, I reached out. Not with a clumsy baby's swipe, but with a slow, deliberate motion. My tiny fingers, guided by a mind with decades of experience, closed around one specific stone. It was a shard of dragonglass, a piece of obsidian from Dragonstone, black and glossy.
I lifted it. The hall, which had been a dull roar of conversation, began to quieten as those nearby noticed my focused action. I didn't put the stone in my mouth, as any normal child would. Instead, I turned it over in my small hand, my thumb rubbing its smooth, cool surface. Then, slowly, deliberately, I held it out.
Not to my mother. Not to my father.
I held it out to Septon Barth.
The Hand of the King froze, a forkful of lamprey pie halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes widened. The silence around the high table became absolute. Everyone was watching.
I continued to hold the stone out, my arm steady, my gaze locked on his. The message was clear, a silent sentence in a language only he and my father would truly understand. You speak of power. You speak of our history. This. This is the foundation. The blood of the dragon. The fire in the stone. Not your Septs. Not your seven gods. This.
Barth, ever the master of composure, slowly put his fork down. He looked at the King, whose face was an unreadable mask of stone. Jaehaerys gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The Septon turned back to me and gently took the piece of obsidian from my hand. His fingers brushed mine. They were trembling slightly.
"Thank you, my prince," he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to echo in the sudden hush. "A... most insightful gift."
I then broke my stare, turned my head, and looked directly at my father. I gave him a slow blink. A sign of acknowledgement. A sign of understanding. You told him to teach me. I am learning. And now, I am teaching him. I then relaxed into my mother's arms, letting out a soft sigh, my performance complete. I had just held a high-level strategic meeting in the middle of a feast, using nothing but a rock and my own focused will.
The tension at the high table broke as my brother Baelon let out a booming laugh. "By the gods, the boy offers a stone to the Hand of the King! He means to make him build a new tower, brick by brick!"
The court joined in his laughter, releasing the strange energy that had filled the air. They saw an amusing, precocious act from a royal babe. But I saw the look that passed between my father and Septon Barth. It was a look of profound shock, of awe, and of dawning, terrible understanding. I was not just a conduit for some unknown magic. I was intelligent. Actively, terrifyingly intelligent. I was not just a phenomenon to be managed; I was a mind to be reckoned with.
Later that night, the feast winding down, I was returned to the nursery. As I lay in my cradle, the sounds of the castle muted and distant, I opened my true eyes.
They celebrate my birth, I sent back, my thought precise and clear. They think me a child. Today, we begin to show them otherwise.
My plan for the night was more ambitious than simple eavesdropping. My father's final words to Barth weeks ago—"Then he will be broken"—had been a wakeup call. I could not afford to be a passive player, merely gathering intelligence. I needed to begin subtly shaping events, demonstrating my value beyond the shadow of a threat. I needed to show my father that I was not a weapon to be pointed, but a partner whose counsel had worth.
I had found my first target a week ago, during one of my nightly flights. It was a minor but significant detail, a loose thread in the grand tapestry of the court. Two knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Lucamore Strong and Ser Gyles Morrigen, were not always at their posts. I had followed them, using Balerion's silent, shadowy form. They were both involved in clandestine affairs. Ser Gyles was a gambler, slipping into the city to frequent high-stakes games in Flea Bottom. Ser Lucamore's secret was far more dangerous: he had secretly married and fathered children, a flagrant violation of his sacred vows.
Jaehaerys valued loyalty and order above all else. The Kingsguard were the embodiment of that ideal. Their betrayal, if revealed, would be a deep wound to his pride and a threat to his family's security. This was my opportunity.
Come, I commanded Balerion. We lifted off into the night sky. But we did not fly towards the city. I directed him towards the White Sword Tower, the home of the Kingsguard within the Red Keep. Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne was a man of impeccable honor, but he was getting old. He was perhaps missing the rot within his own ranks.
I could not write a letter. I could not speak a word. But I could create a sign. A portent.
We circled the tower, a black cloud against the stars. Balerion, under my precise control, landed as silently as a moth on the highest battlement, his claws making not a single sound on the white stone. From this vantage point, I could feel the vibrations of the men within. I focused on the Lord Commander's chambers. He was asleep.
Now, I commanded Balerion. The fire. Not hot. Just light.
This was a new skill we had been practicing. Controlling the temperature and intensity of his flame. From Balerion's maw, a soft, ethereal, cold flame erupted. It was a ghostly, pale green light, casting no heat, but illuminating the top of the tower in an eerie glow. It was a light straight from Valyrian sorcery, a sight no man in Westeros had seen for centuries. It washed over the white stone, turning it the color of moss and secrets.
Then, I focused my will, projecting a single, powerful image into the sleeping mind of Ryam Redwyne below. Not a detailed account, but a symbolic one. The image of a white shield, cracking. The image of a paired set of dice, rolling sevens. The image of three crying babies wrapped not in swaddling clothes, but in a tattered white cloak.
I held the projection for a full minute, the cold green fire bathing the tower in its silent, otherworldly light. Then, as quickly as it came, the light vanished. We pushed off from the tower and melted back into the night.
The next morning, the nursery was abuzz. The servants whispered of a strange light seen over the White Sword Tower, a sign from the gods. Grand Maester Elysar was already calling it a natural phenomenon, some swamp gas from the Blackwater Rush.
But I knew the truth. Later that day, from my mother's arms in the castle's gardens, I saw Lord Commander Redwyne walking with the King. The old knight's face was pale and troubled, and he spoke in low, urgent tones. Jaehaerys listened, his expression grim. He was getting a report. A strange dream, a troubling portent, from his most loyal knight. A dream that would prompt him to look closer at his sworn shields. He would investigate. He would find the rot. And he would have no idea that the information, the prompt to action, had come from the one-year-old babe smiling placidly in his wife's arms.
I had turned the first stone. I was no longer just observing the game. I was a whisper of wings in the night, a shadow on the wall, a mind that could move the pieces without ever leaving the board. And I had just proven my worth not as a future threat, but as a present, invaluable, and utterly secret asset to the crown. The King's Dilemma had a new variable: my indispensability.