Runestone, 98 AC
The screams had echoed through the bronze halls of Runestone for the better part of a day, each cry seeming to shake the ancient stones themselves. Lady Rhea Royce gripped the bedsheets with white knuckles, her auburn hair plastered to her sweat-soaked brow as another wave of pain crashed over her.
"Push, my lady," urged the midwife, an elderly woman whose weathered hands had delivered half the children in the Vale. "The babe comes now."
Rhea's teeth ground together as she bore down, her mind a whirlwind of pain and bitter thoughts. *One night. One cursed night with that silver-haired snake, and this is what it brings me.* The labor had been long and difficult, as if the child fought against being born into this world.
Maester Willamen stood ready with his instruments and potions, his gray robes pristine despite the chaos of childbirth. His weathered face bore the calm expression of a man who had seen countless births, though his eyes held a flicker of concern at the prolonged labor.
"I can see the head," the midwife announced. "Silver hair, my lady. Silver as moonlight."
Rhea let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. *Of course. Even from the womb, the child announces its cursed Targaryen blood.*
With one final, tremendous push that seemed to tear something vital from within her, the child came free. The silence that followed was deafening—no cry, no breath, nothing but the sound of Rhea's ragged breathing.
The midwife's face went pale as she lifted the still, silent babe. "My lady, I—"
Then, as if responding to some unheard call, the child drew in a sharp, gasping breath. But instead of the usual newborn's wail, there was a moment of perfect stillness—as if an old soul was taking stock of its new circumstances.
When the eyes opened, the room fell silent.
They were green. Not the purple of Valyrian blood, not the brown of Royce ancestry, but a brilliant, impossible green that seemed to hold depths far beyond those of a newborn.
"By the Seven," whispered the midwife, crossing herself.
Maester Willamen stepped forward, his scholarly mind already working. "The eyes... most unusual, but not without precedent. Princess Alyssa Targaryen, the boy's grandmother, was said to have heterochromia—one eye purple, one green. Perhaps the green has simply... manifested fully in this generation."
Rhea stared at her son—*her son*—as the midwife cleaned him and wrapped him in soft linens. The child was small but perfectly formed, with the fine silver-gold hair of his Targaryen heritage and skin pale as milk. But those eyes... those eyes seemed ancient, knowing, as if they had seen too much of the world already.
"What will you name him, my lady?" asked the maester, preparing his ink and parchment.
Rhea was quiet for a long moment, studying the child in her arms. He had settled into an almost unnatural stillness, those green eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her shiver. There was something in that gaze—pain, weariness, a burden too heavy for one so small.
"Jaehaerys," she said finally, her voice hoarse from screaming. "For the King, and for his great-grandfather. Let him bear a name of honor, even if his father brings only shame."
The maester nodded, scratching the name onto parchment. "Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, born this day in the ninety-eighth year after Aegon's Conquest. Father, Prince Daemon Targaryen. Mother, Lady Rhea of House Royce."
As if responding to his name being spoken, little Jaehaerys turned his head toward the maester. For just a moment, Willamen could have sworn he saw something flicker in those emerald depths—recognition, perhaps, or a flash of something that looked almost like... relief?
But that was impossible. He was but a babe, barely minutes old.
Rhea pulled her son closer to her chest, feeling the steady beat of his small heart against her ribs. "You're mine now," she whispered, though whether it was a promise or a threat, even she wasn't certain. "Whatever Targaryen madness runs in your blood, you're a Royce of Runestone first. You'll learn our ways, our honor. Bronze before gold, always."
The child's eyes drifted closed, and for the first time since his birth, he looked truly like what he was—a newborn, exhausted from his journey into the world. But Rhea couldn't shake the feeling that behind those closed lids, an old mind was already planning, already remembering things no child should know.
Outside, thunder rolled across the Vale, and in King's Landing, Prince Daemon Targaryen was deep in his cups, utterly unaware that he had just become a father.
In the quiet of the birthing chamber, Maester Willamen made one final note in his careful script: *"The child shows no immediate signs of distress, though his coloring and demeanor are... unique. Time will tell what manner of man this Jaehaerys Targaryen will become."*
If only he knew that the soul now inhabiting that small body had already been both boy and man, hero and killer, and had faced death itself only to be given this impossible second chance.
In his dreams that night, baby Jaehaerys would remember green light, falling bodies, and the weight of a world's expectations. But for now, he slept in his mother's arms, gathering strength for whatever destiny awaited him in this new, dangerous world.
—
# King's Landing, 98 AC - The Red Keep
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the small council chamber, casting long shadows across the polished table where the royal family had gathered. The scent of burning candles mixed with the faint aroma of honeyed wine and fresh bread from the morning meal. Septon Barth stood at the side of the great table, his weathered hands breaking the crimson wax seal of House Royce with practiced precision. The bronze runes seemed to gleam in the morning light as he unfolded the parchment.
King Jaehaerys the Conciliator sat at the head of the table like a figure carved from marble and silver, his presence commanding even in repose. His violet eyes, still sharp despite his advancing years, missed nothing as they swept across his assembled family. The silver beard that had become his trademark was meticulously groomed, and his long fingers drummed a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the table's surface.
"Another raven from the Vale," he observed, his voice carrying the weight of decades of rule. "They seem particularly fond of their correspondence these days."
Queen Alysanne smiled indulgently, adjusting little Princess Rhaenyra on her lap with the easy grace of a woman who had raised many children. The infant gurgled happily, tiny fingers grasping at her grandmother's silver-gold hair that caught the morning light like spun moonbeams. "Perhaps they simply wish to keep us informed, my love. The Vale has always prided itself on proper protocol."
"Unlike some members of this family," she added with a meaningful glance toward the far end of the table, where Prince Daemon slouched in his chair like a man nursing the world's worst hangover.
Prince Baelon the Brave filled his seat with the solid presence of a man born to command armies. His weathered hands, scarred from countless battles and dragon-riding, were folded before him as he studied his youngest son with the patient intensity of a seasoned commander. "Daemon looks as though he's been wrestling with barrels of Dornish wine again."
"And losing," Prince Viserys added dryly, not looking up from where he was cutting an apple into neat slices for his wife. His movements were precise, almost fussy, the careful attention to detail that would one day serve him as king. "Brother, you smell like a brothel on fire."
Lady Aemma Arryn placed a gentle hand over her growing belly, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement despite the morning sickness that still plagued her. "Viserys, please. Not everyone needs to know about your brother's... nocturnal activities."
"Oh, but we do," Daemon muttered, finally lifting his head to glare balefully at his assembled family. His silver hair hung in disheveled waves, and his violet eyes were shot through with red veins like cracked amethysts. "Apparently my private business is everyone's favorite topic of conversation at breakfast."
"When your private business involves stumbling through the Red Keep at dawn, reeking of wine and... other things," Baelon said with paternal disapproval, "it becomes rather less private."
Septon Barth cleared his throat with the diplomatic precision of a man who had survived decades in the treacherous waters of court politics. "Your Grace, if I may?" His voice carried the refined cadence of scholarship, each word carefully chosen and delivered with quiet authority. "The letter bears Lady Rhea's seal, and the matter appears to be of some importance."
Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before him. "Proceed, Septon. Though I suspect whatever news Runestone sends will be far more palatable than the sight of my grandson attempting to die of wine poisoning."
Daemon made a rude gesture that earned him a sharp crack across the knuckles from Baelon's riding glove.
"Behave," his father commanded in a voice that had once cowed rebel lords and enemy knights alike. "You're a prince of the realm, not a tavern drunk."
"Debatable," Viserys murmured, offering Aemma a slice of apple.
Septon Barth unfolded the letter with ceremonial care, his scholarly eyes scanning the contents before he began to read aloud. "To His Grace, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm..."
"Gods, does she need to recite the entire bloody title every time?" Daemon interrupted, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples. "My head feels like a dragon's been dancing on it."
"Perhaps if you hadn't been dancing with wine cups all night, your head wouldn't feel like that," Alysanne observed tartly, bouncing Rhaenyra gently when the baby began to fuss. "Continue, Septon Barth. Some of us are actually interested in matters that don't involve the nearest wine merchant."
Barth nodded and continued with unflappable composure. "Your Grace, it is my honor to inform you that on this day, the seventh of the fourth moon, I have delivered a son to Prince Daemon Targaryen."
The words seemed to hang in the air like smoke from a dragon's breath.
Daemon's head snapped up so quickly it was a wonder he didn't strain his neck. "She what?"
"The child is healthy and strong," Barth continued smoothly, "bearing the silver hair of his noble father's house. As is proper, the boy has been named Jaehaerys, in honor of Your Grace."
The silence that followed was so complete that the only sounds were the crackling of candles and baby Rhaenyra's contented gurgling.
Queen Alysanne was the first to break the stunned quiet, her face transforming with pure joy. "A grandson! Oh, Jaehaerys, another prince for the realm!" She looked at her husband with eyes bright as stars. "And named for you—how perfectly wonderful!"
King Jaehaerys stroked his beard slowly, his violet gaze never leaving Daemon's pale face. "Indeed. It seems the realm has gained another dragon." His voice carried a note of dry amusement. "Though I confess some surprise at the timing of this... blessed event."
Prince Baelon's expression was unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of paternal authority. "A son, Daemon. You have an heir."
Daemon looked like a man who had just been told he was about to be fed to Balerion the Black Dread. His usual swagger had completely evaporated, leaving behind something almost vulnerable. "I... she never... there was no word that she was with child."
"Perhaps," Aemma suggested gently, her voice carrying the understanding of a woman who had faced the dangers of childbirth, "Lady Rhea wished to be certain all was well before raising hopes. The first months are... uncertain." Her hand moved protectively over her own belly. "Many things can go wrong."
Viserys set down his knife and regarded his brother with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "Well, Daemon, it appears your days of carousing through Flea Bottom may need to come to an end. A father has responsibilities."
"Responsibilities," Daemon repeated the word like it was in a foreign tongue. "Father... hood." He slumped further in his chair. "Seven hells."
"Language," Alysanne chided sharply. "There are ladies present."
"And a baby," Aemma added with a slight smile. "Though I doubt little Rhaenyra understands uncle's colorful vocabulary yet."
Baelon leaned forward, his commander's instincts taking over. "When was the child born, Septon? The exact date?"
Barth consulted the letter again. "The seventh day of the fourth moon, Your Grace. The birth was attended by Maester Willamen of Runestone, who can attest to the child's legitimacy and good health."
Jaehaerys did quick calculations in his head, his sharp mind working through dates and timing. "That would make the child approximately nine months along when conceived. Daemon, when were you last at Runestone?"
Daemon's face went through several interesting color changes. "I... that is... there was the wedding progress, and then..."
"The Harvest Festival," Viserys supplied helpfully. "You complained bitterly about having to attend. Said the Bronze Bitch—" He caught his father's warning look. "Said Lady Rhea would bore you to tears with talk of sheep and mining yields."
"I never called her—" Daemon began hotly, then caught the skeptical looks from around the table. "Well, not where anyone could hear me."
"Daemon," Alysanne's voice carried the particular tone mothers used when they were profoundly disappointed in their children. "That woman is your wife. She has just borne you a son—a healthy prince—and you speak of her with such disrespect?"
"She's as exciting as watching stone grow," Daemon muttered, but there was less venom in it now, more confusion than anger.
Septon Barth cleared his throat again. "There is more to the letter, Your Grace. Lady Rhea writes: 'I pen this missive not merely as wife to Prince Daemon, but as Lady of Runestone and guardian to a prince of royal blood. The child will be raised with all honors due his station, and I trust His Grace will wish to acknowledge this newest addition to House Targaryen appropriately.'"
"Appropriately," Jaehaerys mused, his fingers resuming their rhythmic drumming. "Yes, I believe we should respond... appropriately."
There was something in the king's tone that made Daemon straighten slightly in his chair, a survival instinct finally piercing through his hangover haze.
Baelon's voice carried the unmistakable ring of command. "You will travel to Runestone within the fortnight, Daemon. It's time you met your son properly and began taking your role as both husband and father seriously."
"Father, I don't think—"
"I wasn't asking what you think," Baelon interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut steel. "You have a son now. That boy will need his father's guidance, training, and protection. And Lady Rhea deserves better than an absent husband who spends more time in King's Landing's brothels than in her bed."
Viserys winced theatrically. "Father, please. Some of us are trying to eat."
Aemma patted her husband's arm consolingly. "Your father speaks truly, though perhaps not as delicately as we might prefer." She turned to Daemon with genuine warmth. "This is wonderful news, Daemon. A child is always a blessing."
"Is it?" Daemon asked, genuine uncertainty in his voice for perhaps the first time anyone could remember. "What do I know about being a father? I can barely manage being a decent son or brother."
"Well, that's certainly true," Viserys agreed cheerfully, earning himself a glare.
Alysanne's expression softened as she looked at the young man she had helped raise. "Oh, my dear boy. Being a parent isn't something you learn from books or maesters. It's something you feel, here." She touched her heart with her free hand. "When you hold that child, when you see his little face... everything changes."
"What if I'm terrible at it?" Daemon's voice was quieter now, almost lost. "What if I'm like... what if I'm not..."
Jaehaerys' expression grew gentler, though his voice remained firm. "Then you learn, grandson. As we all do. I was terrified when Aemon was born—my first son, my heir. I had no idea what I was doing."
"You seemed to manage well enough," Baelon observed dryly.
"Did I? There were plenty of mistakes along the way." The king's eyes grew distant for a moment, remembering sons lost and choices made. "But we try, we learn, and we hope to do better with each day. That's all any father can do."
Septon Barth folded the letter carefully. "Shall I prepare a response, Your Grace? Congratulations to Lady Rhea, acknowledgment of the prince's birth, and perhaps arrangements for Prince Daemon's visit?"
"Yes, and make it properly formal," Jaehaerys decided. "This is a prince of the blood we're acknowledging, not some minor lord's bastard. Full honors, full recognition." He fixed Daemon with a steady stare. "And perhaps a note about our expectations regarding Prince Daemon's future conduct."
Daemon slumped back in his chair, looking like a man contemplating his own execution. "This is a nightmare."
"This is fatherhood," Baelon corrected firmly. "And you will rise to meet it, because that's what Targaryens do. We face our responsibilities, even the ones we didn't ask for."
Queen Alysanne bounced little Rhaenyra gently, the baby gurgling happily in response. "She'll have a cousin to play with," she observed with obvious delight. "How wonderful for her to have family close in age."
Her eyes moved meaningfully to Aemma's growing belly. "Perhaps several members, if the gods continue to bless us."
Aemma smiled, one hand resting on her stomach. "Let's hope this one decides to arrive safely first. I'm not counting chickens before they hatch, as my mother used to say."
"The Arryns have always been practical," Viserys observed fondly, covering his wife's hand with his own. "It's one of their most endearing qualities."
"Unlike Targaryens, who tend to leap first and look later," Alysanne added with pointed significance, her gaze resting on Daemon.
"Did the letter mention the child's eyes?" she asked, turning back to Septon Barth. "Violet, I assume? Or perhaps brown like his mother's?"
Barth consulted the parchment again. "Curiously, Your Grace, Lady Rhea makes no mention of the child's eye color. Only that he bears 'the silver hair of his noble father's house.'"
"Odd," Jaehaerys mused. "The eyes are usually the first thing mentioned in such letters. Purple eyes are... distinctive."
"Perhaps they haven't settled yet," Aemma suggested. "Babies' eyes can change color in their first months."
Viserys nodded thoughtfully. "Rhaenyra's were almost gray when she was first born, weren't they? Now look at them—purple as amethysts."
As if summoned by her name, baby Rhaenyra chose that moment to let out a particularly loud gurgle, waving her tiny fists in the air.
"Yes, darling, we're talking about your new cousin," Alysanne cooed at the infant. "You'll have such fun together when you're older."
Daemon finally raised his head, looking around the table at his family with something approaching panic. "What am I supposed to do with a baby? I don't know anything about babies."
"Learn quickly," Baelon advised without sympathy. "The boy won't wait for you to figure it out."
"Start with the basics," Viserys suggested helpfully. "Don't drop him, don't lose him, try not to teach him any particularly creative curse words until he's at least old enough to use them properly."
"Viserys," Aemma chided, though she was clearly fighting back laughter.
"What? I'm being practical. We all know Daemon's vocabulary."
Septon Barth stepped forward diplomatically. "Your Grace, perhaps Prince Daemon might benefit from some... guidance on the journey to Runestone? Someone experienced in such matters?"
"An excellent suggestion," Jaehaerys agreed. "Septon Barth, you will accompany Prince Daemon to Runestone. Consider it a diplomatic mission—we want to ensure proper relations with one of our most important Vale houses."
"And to make sure I don't flee to Essos," Daemon muttered.
"That too," Baelon agreed cheerfully. "Though I have faith you'll surprise us all, son. You might even discover you enjoy being a father."
"Stranger things have happened," Alysanne added optimistically.
"Name one," Daemon challenged.
"Well, you did show up for this meeting on time," Viserys pointed out. "Drunk, disheveled, and smelling like a tavern floor, but technically on time."
"I wasn't that drunk," Daemon protested weakly.
The entire table burst into laughter—even Daemon cracked a reluctant smile.
"There," Alysanne said with satisfaction. "See? You're improving already. By the time you reach Runestone, you might even be sober."
"Let's not set our expectations too high," Baelon advised with paternal fondness. "One miracle at a time."
As the laughter died down, King Jaehaerys raised his cup in a toast. "To Prince Jaehaerys of Runestone," he declared solemnly. "May he grow strong and wise, and may he have better sense than his father."
"Here, here," the table chorused, raising their cups—even Daemon, who looked like he was toasting his own doom.
None of them could know that far away in Runestone, the child they spoke of so easily was already showing signs of being far more than any of them imagined. In his nursery, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen slept peacefully, his unusual green eyes closed, already gathering strength for a destiny that would shake the foundations of the realm.
The game of thrones had gained a new player, though it would be years before anyone realized just how dangerous—and how extraordinary—this particular prince would prove to be.
---
Later That Day - The Dragonpit
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the ancient stone dome of the Dragonpit, its weathered walls bearing the scars of centuries and the fury of dragons long dead. Prince Daemon Targaryen rode hard through the gates, his destrier's hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones as he dismounted with characteristic recklessness. His earlier hangover had been replaced by a restless energy that felt like lightning under his skin.
The Dragonkeepers bowed as he approached, their bronze masks gleaming in the harsh light. "My prince," the eldest among them intoned in his accented Common Tongue. "Caraxes waits. He grows... impatient."
Daemon could hear it—the low, serpentine rumble that emanated from somewhere deep within the pit. It was a sound that would have terrified most men, but to Daemon it was as comforting as a lullaby. His dragon was restless too, perhaps sensing his rider's turmoil.
"Then we won't keep him waiting," Daemon replied, stripping off his riding gloves with sharp, angry movements. "I need to fly. I need to think."
The Dragonkeeper studied him with eyes that had seen decades of Targaryens come and go. "The Blood Wyrm knows when his rider is... troubled. He has been calling since dawn."
Daemon wasn't surprised. The bond between dragon and rider was deeper than blood, deeper than words. Caraxes could sense his emotional state from across King's Landing when it was strong enough, and today... today everything felt like it was spinning out of control.
*A son. I have a son.*
The thought still felt impossible, like trying to hold smoke in his hands. How could he be someone's father when he barely felt like an adult himself half the time?
The great bronze doors groaned open, revealing the vast interior of the Dragonpit. The ancient structure had once housed dozens of the great beasts, but now only a handful remained. Still, the air thrummed with power, thick with the scent of sulfur and old stone.
And there, coiled in the shadows like a living nightmare made of blood and bronze, was Caraxes.
The Blood Wyrm was magnificent and terrible to behold—longer and more serpentine than most dragons, his scarlet scales seeming to glow with inner fire. His neck stretched impossibly long, crowned by a head that was all teeth and fury and ancient intelligence. When he saw Daemon approach, Caraxes let out a sound that was part roar, part song, all dragon.
"Hello, my beauty," Daemon murmured, his voice taking on the crooning tone he used only with his dragon. "Yes, I know. I know you felt it too."
Caraxes lowered his great head, allowing Daemon to place a hand against the warm scales of his snout. The dragon's eyes—molten gold with slitted pupils—fixed on his rider with the intensity of a predator, but also with something that might have been affection.
"A son, Caraxes," Daemon whispered, his forehead pressed against his dragon's snout. "Can you believe it? Me, a father." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The realm gains another prince, and I... I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that."
The dragon made a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through Daemon's bones. It was a sound of comfort, of understanding. Dragons, after all, were creatures of instinct. They knew about protecting their young, about the fierce bond between parent and child.
"You'd make a better father than me," Daemon muttered, running his hands along Caraxes' neck scales. "At least you know what you are. I'm just... lost."
But even as he spoke the words, something inside him rebelled against the self-pity. He was a Targaryen. He was dragonrider, a prince of the blood. Whatever else he was or wasn't, he was not weak.
"Come," he said, his voice growing stronger. "Let's fly. Let's see the world from where we belong—above it all."
The Dragonkeepers brought his saddle, and Daemon secured it with practiced efficiency. The leather was worn smooth by countless flights, molded to fit both dragon and rider perfectly. As he climbed up Caraxes' neck to the saddle, the dragon's muscles shifted beneath him like steel cables wrapped in silk.
"Sōvēs, Caraxes!" Daemon commanded in High Valyrian. *Fly!*
The Blood Wyrm needed no further encouragement. With a roar that shook dust from the ancient rafters, Caraxes launched himself skyward. His wings—massive, leathery sails that caught the afternoon sun like stained glass—beat with powerful strokes that carried them up through the great opening at the top of the pit.
And then they were free, soaring above King's Landing like a crimson comet.
The city spread out below them in all its chaotic glory—the Red Keep perched on its hill like a crown, the sprawling maze of Flea Bottom, the busy harbor where ships from across the known world brought their goods and stories. From up here, the realm looked manageable, comprehensible. From up here, Daemon felt like himself again.
"East, my beauty," he murmured, guiding Caraxes away from the city. "Let's see what the realm looks like from the Vale's direction."
They flew in companionable silence, dragon and rider both reveling in the freedom of the skies. The wind whipped through Daemon's silver hair, and for the first time since that damned letter had been read, he felt like he could breathe properly.
But as they flew eastward, toward the distant peaks of the Vale, his thoughts inevitably turned to Runestone. Somewhere in that ancient castle was a child—his child—with silver hair and... what color eyes? The letter hadn't said, which was strange. Targaryen children's eyes were always mentioned, purple being so distinctive.
*What does he look like? Does he cry a lot? Is he healthy? Strong?*
Questions he'd never thought he'd ask himself swirled through his mind like leaves in a storm. He'd barely given thought to having children someday—it was an abstract future concern, something for later when he was older, more settled, more... ready.
But ready or not, the child was here. Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, named for the king. His son.
"What would you do, Caraxes?" he asked his dragon. "If you had a hatchling you'd never seen? A child you knew nothing about?"
The dragon's only response was a low rumble, but somehow it felt like understanding. Dragons were simpler creatures in some ways. They protected what was theirs, fiercely and without question. They didn't agonize over whether they were ready or worthy—they simply were.
Maybe that was the answer. Maybe he was overthinking this, as he overthought everything these days. The child was his blood, his son. That had to count for something, didn't it?
Caraxes banked sharply to the left, following some instinct of his own, and suddenly they were flying over the Blackwater Rush, the river gleaming like a ribbon of silver in the afternoon sun. Dragons, Daemon reflected, always knew where they were going, even when their riders didn't.
*Runestone,* he thought. *I have to go to Runestone.*
The idea no longer filled him with quite the same dread it had that morning. Oh, he was still terrified—the prospect of meeting his son, of trying to be some kind of father figure, of dealing with Rhea and her justified anger at his absence... all of that still made his stomach clench with anxiety.
But beneath the fear, something else was stirring. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe something deeper—that Targaryen fire that had driven his ancestors to conquer kingdoms and ride dragons. The need to see what was his, to claim it, to understand it.
*My son.*
The words felt less foreign now, more real. Somewhere in the Vale, a child with his blood was learning to see the world, to breathe, to exist. A prince of the blood, heir to a legacy of fire and dragons and ancient magic.
What would he teach the boy? How to ride a dragon, certainly—assuming the child proved worthy of it. How to fight, how to lead, how to be a Targaryen in a world that both feared and needed them.
And what would Rhea teach him? The strength of bronze, the honor of the First Men, the pragmatic wisdom of the Vale. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad combination—Targaryen fire tempered by Royce steel.
"Turn back," Daemon called to Caraxes. "We should return before they send search parties."
But as they wheeled around toward King's Landing, Daemon was already planning. He would need to pack for the journey to Runestone—properly this time, not the hasty, resentful visits he'd made before. He would need to think about gifts for the child, for Rhea. He would need to prepare himself to be more than just a name on a birth certificate.
He would need to learn how to be a father.
The thought still terrified him, but as Caraxes' powerful wings carried them back toward the capital, Daemon found that terror was mixed with something he hadn't expected: anticipation.
*Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen,* he thought. *My son.*
For the first time since hearing the news, those words didn't fill him with panic. Instead, they filled him with a fierce, protective pride that surprised him with its intensity.
Whatever else happened, whatever kind of father he turned out to be, one thing was certain: no one would ever harm that child while Daemon Targaryen drew breath.
As they descended toward the Dragonpit, Caraxes let out a roar that echoed across the city—a sound of challenge, of power, of dragons claiming what was theirs.
And for the first time that day, Prince Daemon Targaryen smiled.
---
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