Chapter 2: A Miserable Life
Let me tell you, those nine months were mostly sleep. Not much different from the black void before reincarnation. The only difference was that sometimes I'd hear a beautiful, soothing voice. Then, everything started to change. Fast. Too fast.
It felt like I was being pushed out. I tried my best to see this new world, but the harder I tried, the tighter everything became. Finally, I saw light. Two hands pulled me out. I started looking around. The good thing? They were speaking my language.
I looked up and saw the hands of an old man. A woman's voice asked, "Why isn't he crying?" Right then, the old man slapped my ass twice. I looked into his eyes and thought, You started it. So, I decided to make myself comfortable and—by pure chance—peed straight into his mouth. Damn it went all the way to his ear. I started laughing. The old man looked at me with eyes that said, If I could, I'd end you right here.
In the midst of this, my mother said, "Give me my baby. Let me see him." That's when I saw her—one of the most beautiful and kindest women in Westeros. As I stared at her, she held me in her arms. A feeling of safety washed over me—one I can't even explain. It was so comforting that I quickly fell asleep.
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The days that followed were a blur of warmth, milk, and sleep. But even in my infant state, my mind was sharp. I was Aemon Targaryen, second son of Prince Viserys Targaryen and his wife, Aemma Arryn. I was the younger brother of Rhaenyra, and we lived in the shadow of the Great Council that had named our father the heir to the Iron Throne, passing over our grandmother, Rhaenys.
The air in the Red Keep was thick with unspoken tension. My grandfather, the Old King Jaehaerys I, still sat the throne, but his long reign was clearly nearing its end. The court held its breath, waiting. My father, Viserys, was now the Prince of Dragonstone, the designated successor. This should have been a time of celebration, but it was overshadowed by a recent and profound grief: the death of my uncle, Prince Baelon, the "Spring Prince," from a burst belly ulcer. His death had shattered the King and left the succession uncertain once more, until the Council at Harrenhal had settled it.
My mother's face was my anchor. Her voice, soft and melodic, often sang lullabies in High Valyrian. Each time she held me, I felt a profound sense of protection. Here, in her arms, I was safe from the intricate web of politics and expectation that ensnared my family.
But the peace of the nursery was deceptive. Even as a babe, I could sense the tensions. Courtiers whispered when they thought no one was listening. My father, Prince Viserys, often visited, his face lined with a grief for his brother and a weight of responsibility that seemed too heavy for any one man. He would look at me and my sister, Rhaenyra, with a desperate love, as if we were the only solid things in a world shifting beneath his feet.
Rhaenyra, my sister, was a constant presence. A vibrant girl with the classic Targaryen silver-gold hair and a spirit too fierce to be contained. She'd peek into my crib with curiosity, her lilac eyes wide with fascination. "He's quiet,"she once remarked to our mother. "He's thoughtful,"our mother replied, brushing a hand over my head.
If only they knew.
I learned quickly. I listened. The name "Rhaenys" was spoken with a mix of respect and pity. The name "Corlys Velaryon" with ambition and a hint of fear. The Lords of the realm had chosen my father, but the decision had created winners and losers, and the losers had long memories.
My past life as a soldier and a reader had sharpened my instincts. Danger was a language I understood fluently. And in the whispered words and exchanged glances around me, I read a brewing storm. The question of succession had been answered for now, but I knew—I knew—it would not stay answered forever.
But I was just a baby. My body was weak, my movements uncoordinated. The frustration was immense. I had the mind of a man trapped in a helpless form. All I could do was observe, learn, and wait.
Yet, in the stillness of the night, as I lay in my crib, I felt it—a strange, deep-seated pull. It was faint, like a distant song, a resonance that echoed in my blood. The bond the White Light had promised. Somewhere out there, in the Dragonpit or the skies above King's Landing, a dragon was waiting. And I, trapped in this infant body, could only yearn for the day I would claim it.
My new life had begun in a time of endings and fragile beginnings. The Old King was fading, a new heir was grieving, and the future was a precarious thing. I had been placed on a chessboard of fire and blood before the dance had even truly begun. And I intended to learn the moves before the other players even knew the game had started.