King's Landing – Red Keep
Night had settled over the Red Keep like a velvet cloak, dimly lit by the faint glow of wall lamps scattered along the chamber. Shadows stretched across the king's bedroom, pooling in the corners where darkness clung stubbornly. The room was still—silent except for the occasional creak of the wooden floor under restless movement.
Suddenly, a streak of orange light cut through the gloom. A jet of flame shot from Gaimon's mouth, tracing a glowing line across the room and illuminating the walls with a flickering brilliance. The unexpected blaze startled King Jaehaerys, who bolted upright in bed, eyes wide, unsure whether to speak or remain frozen.
As the fire sputtered and died, leaving only a faint warmth, the silence was broken by Queen Alysanne's calm, measured voice. She slowly pushed herself up against the plush goose-feather pillows, her eyes fixed on her son.
"Gaimon," she said softly, a note of concern threaded through her tone, "when did you learn this from the pyromancers? Fire is not a toy—it is not something to be wielded lightly."
Her words carried more than mild reproach; there was worry, sharp and piercing, beneath her measured calm. Gaimon, however, understood immediately that she had misunderstood his abilities. She assumed he had learned flame control from the pyromancers, those who dabbled in the remnants of lost magic. Most pyromancers, after all, had long lost the true touch of magic, relying instead on volatile powders, chemicals, and dangerous implements to produce fire. Many had perished in their own flames, their deaths a testament to the peril of tampering with fire without innate power.
Gaimon shook his head gently, stepping closer to clarify. "Mother," he began, voice steady despite his youth, "I did not learn this from pyromancers. What I do is real Valyrian fire magic. I learned it in my dreams. I can call forth fire using only the magic in my blood. No tools, no powders, no tricks."
To demonstrate, he raised his right hand. A small flame leapt from the wall candle and hovered in the air, then drifted toward him like a living creature, finally resting upon his palm. The orange-red light shimmered, warm and steady, yet without heat that could harm. It hovered like a jewel of living fire, mesmerizing in its stillness.
King Jaehaerys, curiosity ignited, swung back the covers and rose from the bed. His steps were cautious yet deliberate as he approached his son. Tentatively, he flicked his fingers through the hovering flame. The instant his skin touched it, he recoiled instinctively, a stinging burn reminding him that this was no illusion. It was real fire—controlled, alive, and responding to Gaimon's will.
"You say you learned this in a dream?" the king said, awe creeping into his voice. "It seems the Dragon Dream passed down through our family has more to offer than we imagined. I thought it was only a tool to glimpse the future. But you… you have received knowledge itself. This is unprecedented."
Gaimon nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I am the first in our family to gain knowledge through the Dragon Dream, Father. Others only glimpsed events yet to come. I have learned spells—magics that reach beyond mere foresight."
King Jaehaerys studied his son intently. He remembered the great dragon dreamers of the Targaryen lineage: Daenerys, whose visions had guided the family safely to Dragonstone and preserved their legacy, and Aegon the Conqueror, who united Westeros under one banner, guided by visions of destiny. Now, Gaimon—a mere child—stood before him wielding the same legacy in a manner none had before.
"The dragon kings of Valyria," the king murmured, eyes distant with memory, "were masters not only of dragons but of magic. On dragonback, their power was unmatched. On foot, their sorcery still commanded fear. And yet… all that knowledge is lost to us now."
He glanced around the chamber, his gaze falling on the few remaining relics of the Valyrian past—two Valyrian steel swords, Blackfyre and Dark Sisters. Beyond these, and the dragons themselves, little else survived. The ancient knowledge of spells, smithing, and alchemy had vanished, leaving the Targaryens as shadows of their former grandeur.
Gaimon, sensing the king's silent lament, pressed further. "Father, there is more than what you see. Fire magic is only the beginning. I have also learned blood magic."
Jaehaerys's eyes narrowed. Blood magic was a dark art, cruel and demanding, and its mention always carried weight. Gaimon's voice lowered, deliberate and serious.
"I have been concerned about Mother's birth," he continued, glancing at Queen Alysanne. "Blood magic can save lives, but it is costly. I wish to prepare in advance, to ensure nothing goes wrong this time."
The king felt a familiar chill of worry. He remembered the dangers of Alysanne's previous childbirths, the quiet dread that had gripped the Red Keep. The thought of his son, already understanding the weight of life and death, filled him with both pride and unease.
"I understand," Jaehaerys said finally, his voice measured. "But there are risks. Blood magic… it requires a price. What is asked of those who wish to wield it?"
Gaimon did not hesitate. "The cost must always be paid in blood and fire. To save Mother, we would need to draw upon the life force of others—blood to replace what is lost, fire to restore what has faded."
The king nodded solemnly. Though he had never witnessed such magic, the logic of sacrifice was clear. It was cruel, yes, but understandable within the harsh laws of power that governed magic.
"Very well," Jaehaerys said, a decision firming in his mind. "You may return to your chamber for the night. Remember, what transpired here must remain a secret—known only to the three of us. You are still a child, Gaimon, and the fewer who know of your abilities, the safer you will be."
"Understood, Father," Gaimon replied, bowing slightly. He turned to his mother, giving her a small, reassuring smile before retreating quietly into the shadows, leaving the chamber in near-darkness once more.
King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne watched him go. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, and for a moment, the weight of the Targaryen legacy, the burden of magic, and the fragile promise of life converged in silence.
"Do you think he will be safe?" Alysanne asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"He must be," the king replied, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We will ensure it. No one else must know—not yet. His power is his own, and it must remain so until the time is right."
As the night deepened, the Red Keep seemed to hold its breath. Outside, the city lay quiet under a blanket of stars, but within the king's chambers, the flames of fire and the blood of magic stirred in secret, awaiting the trials to come.
In that quiet moment, King Jaehaerys understood the truth: the legacy of Valyria was not entirely lost. It lived on in his son—small, fragile, yet filled with the promise of power beyond imagination. And with that realization came the unshakable responsibility of protection, for the world was not ready to see a child command fire and blood as he did.
The night passed slowly, the flicker of candlelight casting ephemeral shapes on the walls. Secrets had been revealed, and destinies quietly entwined. In the heart of the Red Keep, the first embers of a new era began to glow, hidden from the eyes of the world.
Gaimon slept peacefully in his room, unaware of how much he had changed the path of history simply by mastering what had once been thought lost: the true magic of Valyria, whispered through blood and flame.
By the time dawn broke, the city would awaken as usual, oblivious to the extraordinary powers hidden within the youngest Targaryen prince. But within the walls of the Red Keep, a quiet fire burned—a secret flame that could shape the future of Westeros forever.
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