Chapter 2: The Serpent in the Cradle
The transition from helpless infant to mobile toddler was, for Lord Voldemort, an exercise in supreme, agonizing patience, punctuated by moments of infuriating clumsiness. He, who had once commanded armies of Dark creatures with a mere flick of his wand, now struggled with the basic mechanics of bipedal locomotion. Each stumble, each misjudged step that sent him sprawling onto plush Myrish carpets, was a fresh indignity, a stinging reminder of his current, detestable vulnerability.
Yet, with every fall came a renewed surge of icy determination. He would master this frail form, just as he had mastered the intricacies of the Darkest Arts. His will was the forge, his ambition the hammer, and this small, silver-haired prince would be shaped into a vessel worthy of his intellect and power.
By his second nameday, Baelon Targaryen was walking with a surprising, almost unsettling, surety for his age. His movements, while still those of a child, possessed a subtle precision that unnerved some of the more observant members of the household staff. Maester Mellos attributed it to the famed Targaryen vitality, while the serving wenches whispered that the little prince was unnaturally quick, his pale blue eyes – Aemma's eyes, they said, though they lacked her softness – missing nothing.
Voldemort missed nothing indeed. His days were no longer a blur of feeding and sleeping. He had learned to feign tiredness when it suited him, to demand solitude, which was often granted to the 'precious heir' with indulgent smiles. In these stolen moments, he practiced. Not just walking, but the far more crucial art of reclaiming his magic.
It was a slow, painstaking process. The magical channels of this young body were still developing, unaccustomed to the vast, dark reservoir of power he sought to draw upon. He started small, focusing his intent with the intensity of a striking viper. A wooden block would slide an inch across the floor. A loosely fastened shutter would creak open or slam shut, seemingly in a draft that wasn't there. He learned to subtly influence the flames in the nursery hearth, making them dance to an unseen rhythm, or flare suddenly, causing his attending nursemaid to gasp and cross herself with the seven-pointed star.
These were trifles, of course, pathetic echoes of the destructive grandeur he had once commanded. There were no Horcruxes here, no Elder Wand. His soul, he sensed, was whole again, forcibly reintegrated by whatever cosmic force had thrust him into this new existence. This was both a vulnerability and, strangely, a source of clarity. The fragmentation had perhaps made him erratic in his later years. Now, his focus was singular, his ambition purer, if such a thing could be said of a desire so utterly malevolent.
His relationship with his 'parents' continued to be a carefully managed performance. With Aemma, he feigned a childlike affection, allowing her to smother him with gentle kisses and soft lullabies. He recognized the genuine, almost desperate love in her eyes, and while he found it cloying, he also understood its utility. A mother's devotion could be a powerful shield, a tool for manipulation. Her health, however, remained a persistent worry for the court, and for Voldemort, a point of detached observation. She was often tired, her complexion pale, and whispers of another pregnancy, another hope for a 'spare' after so many tragic losses before his own birth, were constant. Voldemort knew, with a cold certainty that had nothing to do with prophecy, that her flame was a fragile one. He filed this away. A living mother was a current asset; a dead one could be a catalyst for… change.
Viserys was a different study. The King was, in Voldemort's estimation, a fundamentally decent man, which, in the game of thrones, was tantamount to being a fool. He was sentimental, prone to bouts of melancholy, and possessed a desire for peace that seemed almost pathological in a world built on conquest and sharp steel. Viserys doted on him, Baelon, the son who had seemingly secured the succession and eased the constant pressure from the ambitious lords of the realm.
"You see, Baelon," Viserys would say, holding him up to look at the intricate Valyrian steel model of Old Valyria that dominated a table in his solar, its miniature towers gleaming in the candlelight. "This is where we came from. Power. Magic. Dragons. It is in your blood, my boy. A legacy of fire."
Voldemort would make an appropriately awed sound, his tiny hand reaching out to touch the cool metal, while his mind raced. Legacy. Yes, but not Viserys's vision of it. Not a legacy of gentle stewardship, but one of absolute dominion. He would listen intently as Viserys spoke of Targaryen history, of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, of Maegor the Cruel and Jaehaerys the Conciliator. He absorbed the names, the alliances, the betrayals, filing them away in the vast library of his mind. This was a history written in blood and ambition, a far more relatable narrative than the often-sanitized tales of wizarding heroism.
It was during one of these sessions, when Baelon was perhaps a little over two years of age, that he had his first significant breakthrough with his magic in a way that directly influenced another. Viserys was showing him a newly illuminated manuscript detailing the lineage of their House. A page depicted Balerion the Black Dread, vast and terrible.
"The greatest of them all," Viserys murmured, a wistful look in his eyes. "Syrax is magnificent, of course, but Balerion… he was death itself on wings. The last living creature to have seen Valyria before the Doom."
Voldemort stared at the image, not with a child's wonder, but with a cold, possessive longing. He reached out, his finger tracing the inked outline of the dragon's barbed tail. As he did so, he focused his will, not on the inanimate page, but on his 'father'. He projected a simple, silent command: Tell me of the dreams.
He had heard Viserys mention the Targaryen prophetic dreams before, that haunting aside in the nursery. He needed to know more. It was a subtle push, a nudge rather than an overt compulsion, drawing on the techniques of Legilimency he had mastered long ago, though without the direct violation of a full mental intrusion, which he sensed his current power levels couldn't yet sustain against an adult mind, however weak.
Viserys blinked, his train of thought momentarily broken. He looked down at Baelon, then back at the depiction of Balerion. A shadow crossed his face. "It is said," he began slowly, his voice taking on a more somber tone, "that Aegon himself foresaw the end of the world of men. A great winter, darkness sweeping across the land. He conquered Westeros not just for ambition, Baelon, but to unite the realm against this coming cold." He gestured vaguely towards the North. "He called his dream 'A Song of Ice and Fire'."
Voldemort's mind seized upon the phrase. A Song of Ice and Fire. It had the ring of significance, the dramatic flair that prophecies often possessed. This was no mere courtly gossip; this was a foundational element of the Targaryen claim, a secret passed from king to heir. And Viserys was sharing it with him, a toddler. A testament to his desperation for a successor, perhaps, or a sign of the subtle magical influence Voldemort was beginning to exert.
"This dream, this prophecy," Viserys continued, his gaze distant, "it is the burden of our House. The reason a Targaryen must be on the Iron Throne. To guide the living against the night."
Interesting, Voldemort thought. A grand, overarching purpose. Whether it was true or merely a useful myth, it could be exploited. A rallying cry, a justification for absolute rule. He, of course, had no interest in saving humanity from some nebulous darkness. But if belief in such a threat could consolidate power in his hands, then he would become its most fervent, albeit secret, proponent.
He also noted the implication: if this dream was passed from king to heir, and Viserys was telling him, it further solidified his position. But it also highlighted a potential weakness in the King – a preoccupation with prophecy could cloud judgment, lead to irrational decisions. Voldemort had seen it happen with Dumbledore, with himself even.
His interactions with Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, were far less sentimental. Hightower was a man of cool calculation, his ambition a palpable aura that Voldemort recognized and, in a detached way, respected. The Hand often observed him, his gaze sharp and assessing, lingering a moment too long. Voldemort would meet that gaze with the wide, innocent stare of a child, all the while cataloging the man's expressions, his subtle reactions to courtly news, the way he deferred to Viserys while subtly guiding his decisions. Hightower was a threat, a rival for influence over the King, but also a predictable one. His primary goal seemed to be the advancement of his own house, his own blood. He had a daughter, Alicent, a contemporary of Voldemort's aunt-by-marriage-to-be, Rhaenyra, though Rhaenyra was older. Alicent was often at court, a quiet, demure girl who was close to the King. Voldemort filed her away as a potential piece on the board.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, his half-aunt if Aemma were to pass and Viserys remarry, or simply his cousin through a more complex lineage he was still untangling, was a more vibrant, and to Voldemort, more interesting figure. She was older than him by several years, a spirited girl, the King's acknowledged 'Realm's Delight'. She had her own dragon, Syrax, the same as Viserys's current mount, a young yellow she-dragon. Voldemort had seen her only a few times, as she spent much of her time with her mother, or in the Dragonpit. There was a wildness to her, a Targaryen fire that even Viserys seemed to acknowledge with a mixture of pride and trepidation. She was, for now, the only other child in the direct royal line, and a female. Westerosi law, or rather tradition, heavily favored male heirs. His own birth had supposedly settled the succession, pushing aside Daemon, Viserys's volatile brother, and even Rhaenyra's own potential claim, however distant.
Daemon. Prince Daemon Targaryen was a name that echoed through the Red Keep like a brooding storm. Currently warring in the Stepstones with Lord Corlys Velaryon against the Triarchy, his exploits were the subject of much discussion. Viserys spoke of his brother with a frustrating blend of love and exasperation. Others, like Hightower, spoke of him with undisguised contempt and fear. Voldemort, piecing together the fragments, saw in Daemon a potential kindred spirit – a man of action, ruthless, ambitious, and unbound by conventional morality. A dangerous rival, certainly, but also, perhaps, someone who understood the true nature of power. He looked forward to the day their paths would inevitably cross. He needed to assess Daemon's strength, his weaknesses, his potential utility or threat level.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, was another powerful figure. His wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, the 'Queen Who Never Was', possessed her own dragon, Meleys, the Red Queen. The Velaryons were rich, powerful, and proud, their Valyrian heritage almost as pure as the Targaryens'. They were allies of Daemon in his current war. Voldemort understood that their ambition, and Rhaenys's bypassed claim to the throne, made them a permanent fixture of unease for Viserys and a potential source of instability – or opportunity.
As his physical coordination improved, so did his exploration of the Red Keep, always under the watchful eye of a nursemaid or a Kingsguard knight, but his keen senses absorbed everything. The sheer scale of the castle, the labyrinthine corridors, the hidden passages whispered of by servants – it was a far cry from the drafty halls of Hogwarts or the gloomy confines of Malfoy Manor, but it had its own grim majesty. He paid particular attention to any route that might lead him to the Dragonpit.
The dragons. They were the ultimate symbol of Targaryen power, the living weapons that had forged an empire. Voldemort's interest in them was more than academic. He, who had once sought to control Basilisks and Inferi, saw in dragons the ultimate magical beasts, creatures whose raw elemental fury could dwarf any wizarding curse. If the Targaryen blood truly offered a connection, he intended to exploit it to its fullest. His own magic, he theorized, might resonate with theirs, perhaps even allowing him a level of control beyond what these Westerosi riders, for all their lineage, could achieve.
He yearned for the day he would be deemed old enough to visit the Dragonpit. He listened intently to the distant roars that sometimes carried on the wind, a symphony of primal power that sent shivers of anticipation, not fear, down his spine. He imagined himself astride a colossal black beast, not unlike the depiction of Balerion, raining fire and destruction upon his enemies. It was a far more satisfying image of power than any memory of torturing cowering Ministry officials.
One afternoon, while in the care of a particularly inattentive nursemaid more interested in gossiping with a passing servant, Baelon found himself near a little-used section of the Maegor's Holdfast. He was nearly three now, small for his age but preternaturally quiet and observant. He felt a subtle vibration in the stone floor, a faint, almost inaudible hum. Curiosity, a trait he usually suppressed in favor of cold calculation, tugged at him. He slipped away from his distracted guardian, his small size allowing him to melt into the shadows of a tapestry depicting some forgotten battle.
The hum grew stronger as he moved down a narrow, dusty corridor, one he hadn't seen on his more supervised explorations. It led to a heavy, iron-banded door. The air here was warmer, and carried a faint, metallic, reptilian scent he was beginning to associate with dragon-lore. He reached out, his small hand pressing against the rough wood. The vibrations were undeniable now, a deep, rhythmic thrumming, like a giant heart beating within the very stones of the castle.
And with it, he felt a pull. A resonance within his own burgeoning magic. It wasn't the dragons themselves, not directly. The Dragonpit was a separate structure on Rhaenys's Hill. This was something else. Something within the Keep.
He pushed at the door. It was immensely heavy, far beyond the strength of a child. He focused, his pale blue eyes narrowing. He reached out with his mind, with that spark of wizarding power he was so diligently nurturing. He imagined the heavy iron latch lifting, the ancient hinges groaning. For a long moment, nothing happened. Frustration, sharp and bitter, welled within him. His control was still too weak, too unreliable for such a feat of telekinesis.
Then, with a sudden, sharp crack that echoed in the small corridor, the wood around the latch splintered. The door didn't open, but it shuddered. He had affected it, however crudely. A small, cold smile touched Baelon's lips, an expression utterly alien on the face of a child. Progress.
Before he could try again, he heard the panicked cries of his nursemaid. "Prince Baelon! Prince Baelon, where are you?"
Reluctantly, he drew back from the mysterious door, melting back into the shadows just as the nursemaid, her face pale with terror, rushed past the entrance to the corridor, her calls growing more distant. He waited a moment, then calmly toddled out, feigning a slight distress, allowing himself to be 'found' near a window overlooking the Blackwater Rush.
The subsequent scolding was tedious, but he endured it with practiced innocence. His thoughts, however, remained on that door, on the warmth, the vibrations, and the scent. There were secrets within the Red Keep, secrets beyond the political machinations of the court. Secrets that might pertain to the source of Targaryen power, perhaps even remnants of Valyrian magic. He would find them.
His third nameday approached, and with it, the whispers of Queen Aemma's deteriorating health grew louder, more insistent. She was pregnant again, her fifth pregnancy after four devastating losses before Baelon's arrival. The King was consumed with anxiety, torn between hope for another child and fear for his beloved wife. Otto Hightower watched, his face an unreadable mask.
Voldemort watched too. He knew the fragility of human life better than anyone. He had taken so many, prolonged his own unnaturally. Aemma's fate was a variable in his calculations. If she survived and produced another son, his own position as heir remained secure, but the pressure on the King might lessen. If she died… Viserys would be devastated, vulnerable. The court would be thrown into disarray. Opportunities would arise.
He found himself in the Queen's chambers more often, brought by Viserys or by Aemma's own summons. She would hold his hand, her grip surprisingly frail, and look at him with an intensity that was almost desperate.
"You must be strong, Baelon," she whispered one afternoon, her breath shallow. "For your father. For the realm. So much rests on you."
Voldemort allowed a flicker of what might be perceived as childish concern to cross his features. Inside, he was cold, analytical. Her words were not a comfort, but a confirmation. The weight of expectation was a tool, a lever he could use.
"Will you… will you tell me of dragons, Mama?" he asked, his voice carefully pitched to sound like a curious child, though the pronunciation was, as always, unnervingly precise. He knew this pleased her, this display of Targaryen inclination.
Aemma smiled weakly. "Yes, my little dragon. They are our strength, our glory. But also… a fire that can consume. You must learn to control it. Wisdom, Baelon, is as important as strength for a king."
Control. Yes, he understood control. He would control the dragons. He would control the court. He would control this entire primitive, fascinating, and ultimately conquerable kingdom.
He was beginning to understand the intricate dance of power in Westeros. It was less about overt magical duels and more about bloodlines, alliances, strategic marriages, and the ever-present threat of sharpened steel and dragon fire. His wizarding knowledge, his understanding of manipulation, deceit, and the subtle application of fear, would serve him well here. His Horcruxes were gone, but the knowledge of their creation, the depths of Dark Magic he had plumbed, remained. Perhaps some of those principles, adapted to this new world, could yet grant him the immortality he craved. This Valyrian blood, this connection to dragons – it was a new avenue to explore.
The chapter of Lord Voldemort was over. The chapter of Baelon Targaryen, the Serpent in the cradle of the Dragon Kings, was just beginning. And as Queen Aemma's cough grew more persistent, and the shadows under King Viserys's eyes deepened, Voldemort felt a cold, thrilling sense of anticipation. The board was being set. The pieces were moving. And he, the hidden player, was growing stronger every day. The coming storms of the Dance of the Dragons would find him ready. More than ready. He would be the storm.
If you wish to support me UPI : christudassukesh@oksbi