Gaemon
He woke to warmth.
Not the harsh blaze of noon, but the slow, breathing heat that clings to a hearth long tended through the night. The air smelled of milk and crushed lavender, of damp stone drying by firelight. Somewhere close, a candle guttered; wax sighed against the rim of its cup. Beyond that, silence,heavy, patient, alive.
For a time he did not know what body he wore. He was pulse and breath only, a small thing held between linen folds. The weight of his own hand startled him: soft, unscarred, too small for the thought that guided it. A faint sound escaped him, half laugh, half gasp, and at once he knew he was not alone.
The chamber answered with motion. Shadows crossed the rush-strewn floor. A woman's figure leaned over the cradle, pale hair falling loose about her face. The fire took her in pieces,cheek, throat, the glimmer of a smile,and made a saint's image of her. She spoke a word he could not yet remember but felt in his bones all the same. Her voice was low and rich, the kind that gentles beasts and children alike.
He tried to answer. His mouth shaped nothing; only a thin whimper came. The woman's eyes softened. "Easy now," she murmured, and the sound brushed through him like the touch of warm water. Her fingers traced the line of his cheek, and for an instant a hundred images flickered behind his eyes,places he had never seen, voices without faces, the taste of salt wind and iron. They scattered as quickly as they came, leaving him hollow and trembling.
He listened instead. From the corridor came the muted clatter of pails, a servant's whisper, the creak of timbers settling under the weight of dawn. The world was stirring itself awake. So was he.
Something deeper than hearing told him the hour was early. The light creeping through the shutters was thin and colorless, the kind that belongs to moments before sunrise. Dust drifted through it in slow, solemn dance. When he breathed, the air felt sharp, new, as if the Keep itself held its breath with him.
He knew, dimly, that he had been elsewhere before this awakening. There was an ache where memory should have been, a hollow ringing that was not fear but absence. The thought of it made his skin prickle. Where was I? he wondered. The question carried no words, only shape. Yet even as it formed, the warmth about him thickened, and the ache eased,as though the very walls disapproved of the thought.
He looked again at the woman. She had drawn a chair beside the cradle and dozed there, head bowed, one hand resting against the blanket. The fire caught the silver in her hair and turned it to white gold. He did not know her name, but some deep, wordless part of him recognized her with a certainty that hurt. Mother, that part whispered, and the word fit as though it had been waiting for his mouth all his life.
His eyelids grew heavy. The world tilted between waking and dreaming. The song of the hearth softened to a heartbeat's rhythm, and each beat seemed to draw him farther inward. The scent of smoke dimmed; the hush around him deepened until the silence itself had texture, like cloth pressing against his skin.
Then the silence changed.
It thickened, gathered, and became something else,vast and expectant. The air seemed to lean toward him. Light withdrew; sound folded in on itself. He felt neither cradle nor body, only the sense of falling through stillness so complete it was its own kind of sound. Not darkness, not sleep, but a waiting place older than both.
The warmth of the hearth vanished.
There was no breath, yet he did not suffocate. No light, yet he saw the shape of his thoughts suspended around him, bright as motes in deep water. A tremor ran through that stillness, faint as the ripple from a single drop, and somewhere in it he heard,or perhaps remembered,the first note of a voice.
It was not human. It was not unkind.
The dark received him as water takes a stone,soundlessly, yet with consequence.
For a moment he believed himself falling, but there was no down, no up, only movement through stillness. The air,if air it was,pressed close, cool and velvety as smoke. He tried to breathe and found he did not need to. Thought alone sustained him.
He should have been afraid. Instead, wonder filled him, sharp and clean. The quiet was not absence; it was alive. It pulsed faintly, the way a heart might beat once every thousand years. He felt that pulse answer his own, and with the recognition came certainty: this was no dream. It was the space before dreams, the hollow from which they were born.
Something moved in that hollow. No light flared, no shape took form, yet the dark changed texture, acquiring weight. A presence gathered itself, as vast as the sea and as close as breath. When it spoke, the sound was not sound at all but understanding made audible.
"You have crossed the silence, child of fire and ash."
The words shivered through him like the toll of a great bell struck beneath the world. His thoughts scattered and returned, trembling.
He had no mouth, yet he answered.
"Where am I?"
The question bloomed within the void and faded like ink in water.
"Between," the voice said. "Where the last breath ends and the first has not yet begun. Few remember it. Fewer are invited to linger."
The pressure of that awareness surrounded him. It did not threaten; it observed, patient as stone facing the tide. He felt himself measured, weighed, and accepted.
"You have died once," it said, "and asked not for paradise, nor power, but for another turning of the wheel. You wished to live again, to see what you had not seen. Such wishes rarely reach us. Yours did."
Memory flared,brief, merciful. A bed. The reek of iron and medicine. The cold certainty of ending. He had begged,not to undo his death, but to try again without the ache of failure that had marked his first life. The plea had been a whisper swallowed by darkness. That it had been heard felt impossible.
"Then I was answered?"
"You were," the voice said simply. "And the answer was this: you shall live, bound to the laws of men and time. No prophecy will guard you, no doom will claim you. You will walk and err and love and die as all creatures do. That is the mercy you are given."
The words sank deep. For all their gentleness they carried the gravity of judgment. He thought of gods, but knew this was not one. The presence felt older than any faith,older than Valyria, older than the Seven or the First Men's trees. It did not demand worship. It simply was.
He tried again to see it, and the dark thickened until it shimmered, neither bright nor black but a color his newborn eyes could not name. Within that shifting hue the air quivered, and he sensed thought vast beyond comprehension turning its gaze upon him.
"I do not remember my name," he confessed.
"You have no need of the old one. The new will be spoken soon. Names are cages until they are earned."
A faint tremor passed through him,fear or awe, he could not tell.
"Why me?"
The silence that followed stretched until he thought he had offended the void itself. Then, quietly:
"Because you asked not for glory. Because you understood regret. And because the pattern required a thread where yours once was."
The simplicity of it unsettled him. There was no promise of greatness, no divine design. Only continuation. Life as a gift, not destiny.
He felt small before that truth, but the smallness comforted him. It was the same smallness a child feels looking upon the sea,terrible, humbling, endlessly kind.
"Will I remember this?" he asked.
"Only enough."
The answer came like a smile he could not see. "Memory fades by mercy's will. You will carry its echo,knowing that something vast once touched you. It will whisper in your marrow when you stand at the edge of choice. That is remembrance enough."
The space around him began to change. The pulse quickened. Light,not from a source, but born of the air itself,spread in pale currents. The void was unmaking itself, drawing him back toward weight and warmth. He felt the tether of flesh tugging gently at his spirit.
"Wait," he thought, desperate suddenly to hold the moment. "Who are you?"
The voice seemed amused, though it had no laughter.
"I am what remains when the first sound fades. I am the pause between heartbeats, the witness of beginnings. Call me nothing, and it will suffice. I am no one. And I am everyone."
He wanted to thank it, though thanks felt too small a word.
"Live, Gaemon of Fire," it said,the first time it spoke the name. "Live well, and let the living of you be its own prayer."
The world convulsed. The dark folded upon itself, shrinking to a single spark that burst behind his eyes. Sound returned first: the slow crackle of the hearth, the whisper of a draft under the door, the soft breath of the woman sleeping beside the cradle. Then scent,milk, ash, lavender. Then heat.
He gasped though his tiny lungs needed no air. His fingers twitched against linen. The void receded, leaving only the echo of that impossible voice resounding in the deep places of his mind.
The silence of that realm had not been empty, he realized. It had been full of watching, of promise, of something vast enough to be kind. The memory of it would linger like a taste of smoke long after the fire had gone.
He opened his eyes to the world again.
The darkness did not vanish at once. It softened, thinned, as if the void itself were exhaling. Where there had been nothing, there was now the faint suggestion of light,a pearlescent shimmer that moved with the slow dignity of tides. Within that glow, the voice spoke again, closer this time, not above or below but within him.
"You have been measured, Gaemon of Fire."
The sound of his name felt different here. In the cradle of the world it would be a whisper, but in this place it carried weight enough to steady the void.
"Threefold is the gift laid upon you. Not blessing, not burden, but balance. Mental, Martial, and Material. Together they will let you walk the narrow road between power and peace."
The light gathered itself into ripples. Each word became a motion that stirred color into the dark,soft purples, the blue of deep water, the faintest silver-white. He sensed, rather than saw, the shapes of things forming from sound: a flame unfolding, a wave retreating, a single petal drifting through still air.
"The first is the Mind."
The space before him shimmered, and suddenly he knew what thought looked like,threads of light running through darkness, countless and fragile. When he touched one, it sang.
"All things are woven of thought before they are made of flesh," the voice said. "The Mind's gift is the knowing of that weave. You will glimpse the shimmer of another's mood, the hue of their heart when they speak or hide a lie. Yet you shall not tear the cloth. You will read the weather of souls, not their secrets."
He felt the concept settle inside him like a tool he already knew how to hold. Something in him told him, it was Legilimency. A skill from a fictional universe. A warmth spread behind his eyes, brief and bright, then gone. The voice continued.
"To guard that window, you are given a veil. It will rest upon you until fourteen years have passed in this life. Through it, the world will see only what a child should be. They will not feel the weight of your mind. Thus may you grow without fear or rumor. But remember, the veil weakens as the body ripens. What you hide by art now, you must master by will later."
The light dimmed, and he felt the veil itself, invisible but present, settle like a second skin. It was not concealment born of deceit; it felt more like gentleness,the quiet between thoughts. Occlumency, his mind provided a name.
Out of the soft dark stepped a man in black , robes whispering like smoke, eyes sharp as cut obsidian. Severus Snape regarded him in silence for a long moment, as though measuring the weight of his understanding.
"This," Snape said at last, voice low and dry as parchment, "is not true Legilimency. Do not delude yourself. You will not plunder memories, nor read what is sealed." His gaze flicked to the shifting threads that still glimmered faintly in the air. "At its height, it lets you sense the ripple of intent , the tremor before thought becomes words. Mood. Instinct. The mind's scent, nothing more."
He raised a hand, and the threads dimmed into stillness. "Your veil, however, is real. Occlumency, perfected and imposed. It will guard you , shape you , until you have strength to shape yourself. It will soothe what others see, temper what you reveal. But beneath it, your true mind remains untouched." His eyes narrowed, and a faint curl of something like approval ghosted across his mouth. "Use it well. Calm thought tames fire , and dragons are fond of those who burn without losing themselves." And he vanished.
"The second is Martial."
A gust of warmth followed, bringing with it the scent of iron and leather, the ring of steel on stone. He glimpsed, for a heartbeat, shadowed figures crossing a training yard, a glint of sunlight on a polished blade. The image faded, leaving only rhythm, a cadence that echoed within his blood.
"The Hand remembers what the flesh forgets," the voice told him. "You will find grace where others find strain. The line between mind and muscle will blur, and motion will come to you as music comes to the born singer. Yet skill is not mastery. Sweat will still be your prayer."
He thought of battle then, though he had never fought. He saw no faces, only the clash of purpose against purpose, and understood that violence was not glory but necessity. The voice seemed to sense his thoughts.
"This is no charm to make you conquer. It is a memory of balance. You may learn to strike well, but the truer art lies in when not to strike."
Then, just beyond the last echo of that word, strike, the air thickened. Light rippled across the void , silver, cold as winter moonlight , and from it coalesced a sigil. A wolf's head, wrought in metal, jaws bared in eternal snarl. The medallion turned once, slow and weighty, and even through the haze he knew it. The twin-fanged crest, the eyes hollowed by long use , the mark of the School of the Wolf.
"Geralt," he breathed, though the name came unbidden, as if pulled from memory that was not his own.
The omni-being's voice hummed with faint amusement. "You recognize him. The White Wolf , a man shaped by craft, sorcery." The medallion pulsed once, its glow ebbing like a heartbeat before fading into shadow. "Remember this: his magic doesn't come to you, nor his signs. Their power lies in discipline, in knowledge , in the will to endure when others flee. They are not born to greatness. They become it, through pain and learning."
The warmth in the air dimmed to iron coolness, and the echo of steel-on-stone returned , sharper now, endless, like the rhythm of a blade honed against truth itself.
The warmth faded, replaced by the slow roll of another kind of heat,steady, building from within.
"The third is Material," the voice said, and something vast unfurled in the silence.
He felt the weight of mountains, the coursing of rivers, the pressure of wind against stone. He saw,without eyes,the work of men: bridges, roads, hearths, the patient industry that outlasts war. It filled him with a quiet reverence that dwarfed any vision of swords or crowns.
"The materials remember how the world is shaped. It knows that all fire may serve the forge as well as the pyre. You will dream of making,of joining, refining, distilling. You will see beauty in labor and peace in the sound of craft. When others look for thrones, you will build foundations."
As it spoke, heat gathered behind his breastbone, gentle but undeniable. He could almost smell sap and mortar, the faint tang of spirits poured into oak. His mind filled with images: clear water drawn through stone, golden liquid catching light in a glass, roads stretching straight and sure across green hills. None of it felt foreign. Each image struck him with the quiet certainty of memory rediscovered.
The voice fell silent for a time. The glow before him steadied, holding him as a mother might hold a fevered child,without words, only presence. He thought that might be the end of it, but the dark stirred again.
"Each gift bears its counterweight. To know hearts is to risk hardening your own. To master the hand is to invite pride. To build is to lose what you cannot keep. Remember this, and you may yet walk unbroken."
He wanted to ask how he could remember such wisdom when he was bound to a body that could not yet speak, but before the thought fully formed, the answer arrived.
"The mind you carry is not the mind of your cradle. Memory will serve you where words cannot. You will learn as children learn,through touch, and taste, and hurt,but you will remember enough to know yourself."
The void around him began to tremble, faint at first, then more insistently. Light pressed harder against the edges of sight; warmth thickened. He felt his small body somewhere far away, calling him back.
"Wait," he thought again, "what am I meant to do with these gifts?"
The voice grew softer, almost tender.
"Live. That is all any are meant to do. You will fail and learn, and in the learning find meaning. There is no design beyond that."
The statement carried such terrible peace that tears,impossible here, yet real,welled in whatever he was in that place.
The light flared once more, erasing the boundaries of self and sound. The last words reached him like a tide breaking gently upon shore:
"When the veil fades and the man remains, remember what was spoken in the dark. Mind for mercy, Hand for honor and protection, Heart for creation. Live well, Gaemon of Fire. The world awaits."
The voice withdrew, its echo folding into silence. The shimmer dimmed to gray, then to black. Heat and gravity returned. He felt the slow rhythm of breath resume, the ache of a body too small for the soul it held.
A faint cry rose somewhere close,the creak of hinges, the shuffle of a servant beyond the door. Morning had come. The void was gone, but its memory lingered in his chest, heavy as promise.
_________________________________________
He opened his eyes once more, and the first thing he saw was light, pure, new, and terribly bright.
Light crept over the stones of the nursery, slow as water filling a basin. It touched the edge of the hearth first, then climbed the carved legs of the cradle until it pooled across the linen where the prince lay. The fire had gone to embers. The air smelled of milk and beeswax and the faint brine that rose from the bay beyond the walls. Outside, a gull cried once, its echo carried up through the open slits of the keep.
The world greeted him not with sound or sense but with weight. Every color, every breath, pressed against him as though all creation leaned close to listen. The hush was alive,the sort of silence that follows prayer before the first word is spoken again. He turned his head toward the window, and light spilled over his cheek, dazzling and real. He could feel the pulse of his own blood in his fingertips. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever known.
He lay still a long while, learning the world by inches: the soft rasp of linen when he moved, the cool smoothness of the cradle's rim beneath his palm, the scent of lavender steeped into the rushes. Each discovery settled him more firmly in the body that was his. The dreams of the void lingered like the aftertaste of smoke,immense, distant, already fading. What remained was warmth, the certainty of breath.
A woman's shadow passed across the light. The nurse, Hareth, moved quietly about the chamber, stirring the coals to life, humming beneath her breath. Her voice was rough with sleep, yet steady. When she turned toward the cradle, her lined face softened. "Awake, are we?" she whispered. "The Mother bless you, sweet prince." She touched his brow, felt the heat there, and smiled. "Still warm as the hearth. A good sign."
Her accent carried the cadence of the city, King's Landing. The thought rose unbidden, as if the words had been waiting all along behind his teeth. King's Landing. The name shivered through him, half memory, half miracle. He knew that name. He knew the way it should look when written in ink. He had seen maps drawn of it, in another life.
He turned his head, forcing his gaze toward the carved panels of the cradle. The three-headed dragon gleamed there, wings spread, tails entwined,a sigil he had seen a thousand times painted on banners, burned into the covers of books. House Targaryen. His heartbeat quickened. Above the hearth hung another carving: a great beast in flight, claws outstretched, eyes like burning coals. The sight struck him like a blow of recognition so sudden that he forgot to breathe.
Westeros.
The word rose clear and undeniable. He was in Westeros,the Westeros, not the tale nor the dream. The Red Keep. King's Landing. The name of the Queen that had leaned above his cradle came back to him: Alysanne. Alysanne Targaryen, the Good Queen, beloved of the realm. Then the pieces fell in a rush,the king, Jaehaerys; the long reign of peace; the dragons still living. This was centuries before the girl with silver hair and her dying beasts. Centuries before the world he had known began.
He had been born into its dawn, not its dusk.
The realization left him hollow and trembling, not from fear but from the sheer immensity of it. He knew of this time only in passing. He didn't read about the dance of the dragons. He doesn't know the events. It was all supposed to be fiction. The stone walls sweated with salt from the sea. The fires were real fires, the people real flesh. He could smell their world, feel its heat on his skin.
A strange laugh rose in his chest, small and voiceless. The gods,or whatever ruled the void,had not merely granted him another life; they had set him at the heart of legend. He, who had begged only for the chance to live without regret, had been placed among dragons. A prince, of all things. A miracle twice over.
The thought sobered him as quickly as it had lifted him. Privilege was a crown that burned if worn carelessly. He had power now, but it was the power of a babe in arms, dependent on every hand that fed or carried him. His gifts, whatever they were, would mean nothing if he could not survive childhood.
He turned his attention outward again, searching for something to steady him. The chamber offered itself in pieces: a basket of folded linen, a brazier where water steamed faintly, a row of painted wooden toys that had belonged to elder siblings. On the far wall hung a tapestry,three dragons circling above a pale city, their wings stitched in threads of crimson and gold. He traced the pattern with his eyes until his breath slowed.
Somewhere beyond those walls a deeper sound stirred: a low, resonant cry that rolled through stone like thunder through a mountain. It was distant yet near enough to raise the hair on his arms. He knew that sound too. Every part of him recognized it. A dragon.
A shiver passed through him, half terror, half joy. To live in a world where such creatures still existed,alive, breathing, terrible,was to live in a miracle. He could almost feel the echo of that cry inside his chest, as if the air itself had a heartbeat and he shared it.
He closed his eyes and let the sound fade. Thought followed in its wake, slow and deliberate. He remembered fragments of old tales: the Doom of Valyria, the conquest, the blood of the dragon that burned too bright. Those stories ended in ruin. Yet none of that had happened here, not yet. Whatever curse awaited these people, it lay far beyond his horizon. History had not hardened into fate.
For the first time since awakening, he smiled. Then I am free, he thought. Not free of duty or danger, but free of knowing. The path ahead was unwritten. The future was a book with its pages still blank.
The nurse bent over him again, mistaking his smile for contentment. "Happy, are we?" she murmured, tickling his hand with one calloused finger. "Aye, and why shouldn't you be? The Queen'll come soon, and there'll be feasting for your name day. All the city'll hear of you." She straightened the blanket around him, fussing with its folds.
He watched her face, the simple devotion there. It humbled him. He had read once of kings and queens surrounded by flatterers, of courts steeped in intrigue. Yet here was love,plain, homely, unfeigned. The world began not with crowns but with such hands.
He reached toward her without thinking. The movement was clumsy, the act of a true child, yet she laughed softly and pressed her thumb into his palm. His fingers closed around it of their own accord. The warmth of her skin grounded him more than all the wonders of revelation.
Mind for mercy, he remembered, and let the thought rest.
_________________________________________
Outside the window, the bells of the Sept began to toll for Prime. The city answered with its own awakening: the rattle of carts, the bark of hounds, the shouts of fishmongers down by the river. Life, unremarkable and immense, spilled through the Keep. Gaemon listened until the rhythm of it settled in him like a heartbeat. Each sound was proof,he was here, he was alive, he belonged to this world now.
He drew a slow breath and let it out. The fire popped once, scattering sparks across the grate. The nurse turned toward the door as footsteps sounded beyond it,a servant bringing fresh linens, another carrying a jug of warmed milk. Morning had fully arrived.
Gaemon closed his eyes again, not in weariness but in acceptance. The void was gone, the voice with it, yet its promise lingered: live, and let the living of you be prayer. He would. Whatever this age demanded of him, he would meet it with open eyes.
The cradle creaked as he shifted, small and human and utterly present. Outside, the dragons of the pit called once more, their cries rising with the sun.
Morning deepened, bright and gold. The hush that had lingered since dawn gave way to the soft rustle of footsteps and the clink of basin and pitcher as the Red Keep woke. Gaemon lay content in his cradle, watching dust drift through the sunlight, the world moving slow and deliberate as though every motion were made for his eyes alone.
The door opened. The nurse curtsied low. "Your Grace."
Alysanne entered with her women,Lady Brella, grey and kind-eyed, and young Lady Merra, who carried a bundle of linen. The Queen's gown was pale blue today, her hair coiled loosely at her neck. Tiredness showed at the corners of her eyes, but her smile was warm enough to banish it. The scent of lavender followed her like a promise.
"How is my son this morning?" she asked.
Hareth answered quickly. "A perfect angel, Your Grace. Woke with the dawn, not a fuss to him since."
Alysanne crossed to the cradle and leaned over it. For a heartbeat Gaemon saw her only as shape and color,silver hair, pale skin, the glow of light against her throat. Then recognition bloomed, deep and instinctive. He knew her. Not as name or history, but as the warmth he had clung to since the first moment of breath.
Her fingers brushed his cheek, and he turned toward her touch without thinking. The nurse chuckled softly. "See, he knows his mother."
Alysanne bent closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Good morning, my little flame."
The word touched something inside him, a memory of the void's voice saying live, child of fire and flesh. He blinked up at her, caught between wonder and tenderness, and the sound that rose in him came of its own accord.
"Muna."
The syllables were soft, the m barely formed, the final vowel bright and certain. For a moment no one moved. The Queen froze, eyes wide; then color rushed to her cheeks. "Did you hear?" she breathed.
Hareth's hand flew to her mouth. "He spoke, Your Grace."
"Muna," Gaemon said again, stronger this time, reaching up with both hands.
Alysanne laughed through tears. "Oh, my heart." She gathered him into her arms, pressing him close, his small hands clutching at the ribbon on her gown. "My clever boy. My sweet Gaemon."
Her ladies exchanged glances; Lady Merra wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. Hareth whispered, "The first of his words,clear as day." Alysanne nodded, unable to stop smiling. "It must be written. His first word, and on his name day too."
Gaemon rested his head against her shoulder, half-buried in the fall of her hair. The world smelled of lavender, clean linen, the faint sweetness of milk. His heart beat against hers, small and fast, as if trying to match the rhythm of the larger one that cradled it.
He listened to the murmur of the women's voices. The words were music more than meaning, a blend of courtly courtesy and homely chatter. They spoke of the feast preparations,garlands being hung in the hall, silver polished, a dozen chickens turning on the spit. Through their tone he felt affection, weariness, pride. His gift of sensing moods flickered like candlelight; it painted their emotions in soft hues he could feel but not see.
He reached for the Queen's necklace, catching one of the silver pendants between his fingers. "Fy," he murmured, watching how the light played upon it.
Alysanne smiled. "Fire? Yes, my little one."
The nurse chuckled. "He's full of words today. Must be the feast air."
Alysanne lifted him higher, kissing his brow. "And full of joy." She glanced toward the hearth where a low flame burned and sighed contentedly. "He'll bring warmth to this keep one day, I feel it."
Gaemon babbled softly in answer, nonsense syllables tumbling one over the other,"ma-ba-da",the laughter of speech learning itself. The sound pleased everyone; the chamber brightened with it. Even Lady Brella, solemn and proper, smiled openly. "He will talk our ears off before summer, mark me."
Within himself, Gaemon watched the scene as one might watch the heart of a dream made flesh. The veil of childhood wrapped him gently, dulling the sharpness of thought, leaving behind only wonder. He allowed it, welcomed it. The warmth of these people, the easy affection in their eyes,this was the world he had been given to live in. There was no need for more.
Alysanne shifted him against her hip and turned toward the window. The light there had grown stronger, the color of ripe wheat. From beyond the walls came the faint clamor of the city: the call of vendors, the ring of hammers, the distant toll of a sept bell. The sound of a living world. She pointed, smiling. "Look, Gaemon. All of King's Landing prepares to celebrate you."
He followed her gesture with solemn curiosity, though he could see nothing of the city from his height,only the blur of sunlit stone and the gleam of the sea beyond. Yet even that glimpse was enough. It struck him that everything he had once known of this place had been flattened into lines on a page, the work of dead chroniclers. Now it breathed. The world was not history; it was this,morning light, laughter, and the smell of lavender on a queen's skin.
He cooed and reached for her braid, delighted when she let him tug it gently. "No," she chided, laughing. "That's mine." He answered with another bright babble, and the room dissolved into laughter.
Hareth fetched a soft blanket from the chest. "Shall I ready him for the hall, Your Grace? The King will wish to see his son before the feast."
"In a moment," Alysanne said, holding him tighter. "Let him stay like this a little longer."
The women withdrew discreetly, leaving mother and child by the window. Alysanne rocked him gently, humming under her breath an old song that spoke of wind and wings and home. He listened, lulled by the vibration of her voice through her chest, the steady rise and fall that matched his breath. Peace settled around them like a benediction.
She looked down at him again. "Muna," he whispered, the word smaller this time, softer, as if to confirm it belonged to her alone.
Her eyes glistened anew. "Yes, my love. I am your Muna."
He smiled, a tiny curve of contentment, and closed his eyes. The Queen stood for a while longer, swaying with him, the light framing them both. Hareth returned quietly, and Alysanne yielded him at last, brushing her lips across his temple before turning toward the door.
"Mind his blanket," she said softly. "And tell the maester,his first word was Muna."
The nurse nodded, already adjusting the folds around him. When the door closed and the sound of the Queen's steps faded down the corridor, the room felt larger for her absence yet still warm with her presence. Gaemon drifted between wakefulness and dream, the echoes of her voice woven into his thoughts.
He was alive. He was loved. And for now, that was enough.
By the time the sun reached the high windows, the nursery was warm enough that the air smelled of soap and damp linen. A brazier hissed softly beside the tub while steam drifted toward the rafters. Hareth, sleeves rolled, tested the water with her elbow and nodded in satisfaction. "Just right for my lord prince," she said, her voice carrying the singsong patience of one who had raised a dozen children before this one.
Gaemon watched her work with grave curiosity. The world was all motion and color now,the pale swirl of steam, the red gleam of coals, the bright glint of the pitcher's rim. Every sound seemed etched into the air. He felt the heat on his face and marveled that it did not burn. Fy, he whispered, pointing toward the brazier.
The nurse chuckled. "Aye, fy. Warm and well-mannered." She dipped a cloth into the water and lifted him gently from the cradle. His skin prickled at the change of air, but he did not cry. The touch of the cloth,soft, sure,was startlingly real after the weightlessness of the void. He kicked once, experimentally, and the water splashed against the copper rim.
"Quiet now, sweetling," Hareth murmured. "We'll have you handsome for your Muna."
He relaxed, letting the small body float against her arm. The heat was perfect; the rush of sensation pressed at the edges of thought. For an instant he felt the flicker of panic that belonged to his older mind,the need to flee, to breathe, to think,but the gift within him answered before fear could grow. The world slowed; sound receded; a calm spread outward from his chest like water settling after a stone's fall. Occlumency. The word rose and fell inside him without a voice. The chaos softened into pattern, and he simply was.
Hareth hummed as she bathed him, a low tune of the riverfolk. The melody wound through the room, steady as a heartbeat. He found himself cooing in rhythm, a trail of nonsense syllables that made her laugh. "You'll be a singer yet," she told him, rinsing the soap from his hair. "A fine voice for the Sept, or for court, whatever you fancy."
He answered with another babble, half laugh, half sigh, content to let her think it was a chance. The warmth, the rhythm, the scent of lavender oil,everything was so achingly ordinary that it felt holy. When she lifted him from the tub, he shivered once, not from cold but from the sheer intensity of living.
She wrapped him in a soft towel and carried him to the table near the hearth. "There now," she said, rubbing him dry in brisk, practiced strokes. "Such a fair boy. Your mother will be proud." He caught the glint of the fire again and reached toward it, murmuring, "Fy." She laughed, tapping his nose. "No fire for you yet, my prince."
When she had finished, she dressed him in a tiny white tunic trimmed with silver thread. The fabric was cool against his skin. Each movement,arm through sleeve, button fastened,felt like a lesson in patience. He tolerated it until she tried to tie the sash under his chin; then he turned his head stubbornly and said, clear as a bell, "No."
Hareth burst out laughing. "There's spirit in you, to be sure." She eased the ribbon looser. "All right, no tight knots. The King likes his sons bold, not strangled."
He answered with a soft giggle, pleased by her amusement. The veil wrapped him gently, blending adult understanding and childish spontaneity into one seamless presence. She saw only a lively babe; he felt the satisfaction of mastery. He could live like this,half actor, half truth,and no one would ever guess.
When she set him down again, he caught sight of himself in the silver basin. For a long moment he stared. The face that looked back was unfamiliar and wholly his: pale as cream, hair like spun light, eyes the color of dark lilac in spring. The world he had left behind had never known such hues. In them he saw both beauty and warning,the mark of dragons, the burden of blood. Yet he felt no fear, only quiet curiosity. So this is what I am, he thought. A piece of legend breathing.
He smiled at the reflection. The image smiled back, toothless and bright, and for an instant he could not tell which expression was real.
The door opened behind him. "How fares my son?"
Alysanne's voice, soft but carrying, filled the room. The nurse bowed. "Ready as spring, Your Grace."
The Queen crossed to the table, her presence lighting the chamber more surely than the fire. "Look at you," she said, gathering him up. "All clean and shining. My little flame of the morning."
He reached for her braid and laughed when it slipped through his fingers. "Muna," he said, a small, triumphant echo of the word that had changed her morning.
Her smile trembled. "Yes, my love." She kissed his forehead, her breath cool against his damp skin. "The King will be waiting."
Hareth fetched a light cloak of crimson silk. "For the chill of the halls, Your Grace." Alysanne draped it around the child and nodded her thanks. The nurse bobbed another curtsey and stepped back, her face glowing with pride.
For a moment, Alysanne simply stood, holding him near the hearth. The flames painted their faces gold and rose, then settled, as if acknowledging their shared warmth. The Queen brushed a stray lock from his brow. "You'll have all eyes on you today," she murmured. "Even your father's, and that is saying something."
Gaemon answered with a soft hum and a trail of babble that sounded almost like a song. "Ma,ma,muna,fy,fy." Alysanne laughed, the sound weary but joyful. "A poet already."
The tone filled him with a peace that needed no meaning. He leaned against her shoulder, letting the rhythm of her steps lull him as she turned toward the door.
The corridor beyond was bright with the mid-morning sun. The walls of the Keep glowed pale gold, banners stirring gently in the draft. Servants paused to bow as the Queen passed, their eyes softening when they saw the child in her arms. She walked slowly, unhurried, savoring the small weight against her heart.
Gaemon lifted his head once to look at the world that awaited beyond the nursery door. He did not think of destiny or of the centuries to come. He thought only of sound,the murmur of voices, the ring of distant bells, the faint laughter of siblings somewhere down the hall,and of how full the world was, how impossibly alive.
He smiled, a quiet, private smile, and nestled closer to his mother. The scent of her hair,smoke, lavender, and honey,wrapped around him like a promise. For now, that was all the kingdom he needed.
Alysanne shifted him higher on her arm, whispering, "Let's go show them my bright boy." Her voice was proud but gentle, the voice of a queen who had known loss and dared to hope again.
He closed his eyes as they descended the corridor. The rhythm of her stride and the steady beat of her heart beneath his ear merged into a single sound: life, rich and certain. The fire of the world was his now, and it was warm.
Author's Notes:
So, he is awake now and he received his three gifts. A nerfed Legilimency. Fully functional Occlumency. He needs to remaster it after he turns 14 from scratch.
The skills and knowledge of Geralt of Rivia. He is a witcher for all intents and purposes, just without the magical aspect. No runes, no signs, no potions. Even this, he will need to fully master what he knows after he is 14. He is not going to beat men wiith decades of experience when is 10 or 12. No, it takes time. He needs to grow, be strong, practice like crazy and then he will be the greatest swordsman alive.
He will not start constructions or creating devices and stuff immediately. He will observe his world. For years. He will plan in his mind. And once he reaches majority, after he turns 18, he will start small. And then it builds from there.
And he will not be discussing policy or politics and stuff until much later. He needs to learn of the world first. The time is different. He is not going to be a genius. He is going to be a smart child. That's it. He will enjoy his life. To the fullest.
He will meet his siblings and family next and finally, his dragon!
Let me know your feedback in comments.
I know that it is slow, I know that not much has happened, but that's intentional. I want it to read like this. I do not want to rush anything.
I'm taking my time writing this. I hope people reading it like the slower pace and lengthy chapters instead of rushing it.
I will try to stay away from conspiracy theories, and the commonly used tropes and cliches of transmigration stories. Some might still creep in, apologies in advance. This is only the second story I have ever written.
I started with my other story, hurried the first 30 chapters, and uploaded it, received some feedback and criticism about my writing quality, so I took it as a challenge and worked on it. As you can see, I took inspiration from a lot of mr. Martin's work, I am not going to be fully original, I can admit that because I am trying to learn. I am trying things out. I'll learn and slowly the quality might improve, I just ask for your patience and honest feedback. I will read the comments and take it if it is constructive and helpful!
Join the discord below if you want to discuss more and drop some suggestions or feedback.
https://discord. gg/yMPcgVEVxE
Thank you for the support!