Baelon Targaryen (195 A.C. Fourth Moon)
Summerhall, the royal garden
Early morning
Baelon woke to the uncomfortable chill of damp linen against his skin and inwardly cursed. His small body betrayed him still; he had little control over his bladder and bowels. It was a humiliation he endured in silence, trapped within the limits of infancy. Yet he knew the day would come when he would master it. He clung to that thought stubbornly. Perhaps today no more accidents would follow, or at least not until he was properly seated above a chamber pot like a prince of dignity, not swaddled like a helpless babe.
He lay still for a moment in his cradle, listening. Summerhall was never truly silent. Even at dawn, servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, the faint rustle of skirts and the muted clatter of distant trays carrying bread and watered wine. Beyond the open window, he could hear the soft whisper of wind moving through the garden hedges and the distant trill of morning birds. The air smelled faintly of roses and dew.
Today was his second nameday. His and Aerion's.
The thought lingered heavily in his mind.
Two years in this new life. Two years since fire and death had claimed him on another battlefield beneath another sky. Two years since he had commanded Rhaegal to burn him rather than let the dead tear him apart. He remembered the heat, the roar, the kiss he had pressed upon his love's lips before the flames consumed him. He had expected darkness. Instead, he had awakened crying in a cradle.
And now he was Baelon Targaryen, son of Prince Maekar, twin to Aerion.
So far, Aerion had shown no signs of the cruelty that history would one day record. No wildness in the eyes. No unnatural delight in the suffering of others. He was merely a boy: bright, stubborn, quick to laugh, and quicker to grab whatever caught his fancy.
But Baelon watched him.
He watched everything.
If the histories were true, Aerion would one day become a terror, a man who believed himself a dragon made flesh. Baelon would not allow that fate to unfold unchecked. If there were signs, he would see them early. If there were influences to curb, he would counter them. If necessary, he would stand against his own twin.
He would not let his brother burn the world.
A soft knock came at the door before his nurse entered, smiling as though he were nothing more than a babe with no deeper thoughts than milk and sleep. She lifted him gently, cooing at the sight of his discomfort.
"Oh, Little Prince, what have we done now?" she murmured warmly.
If only she knew.
After he was cleaned and dressed in fresh linen, he was carried out into the royal garden. The early morning sun painted the stone paths in pale gold, and the fountains shimmered like molten glass. Summerhall was young still, its white walls unscarred by time, its gardens carefully shaped to reflect both Dornish warmth and Valyrian grace. Marble benches stood among flowering shrubs, and slender dragon statues watched from their perches, wings half spread as if ready to take flight.
Baelon was set upon a blanket beneath a broad oak. He immediately steadied himself upright, refusing to crawl when he could walk. His steps were still uncertain, but pride drove him forward. Nine moons had passed before he had first managed it, and once he had found his feet, he had become a terror to every servant within the castle. Slipping from grasping hands, vanishing into corridors, appearing where he ought not to be.
He preferred Daeron's chambers.
His eldest brother had been kind to him. Daeron would sit cross-legged on the floor and roll carved wooden knights across painted boards, explaining battles Baelon already knew by heart from another life. He brought sweets when the maester was not watching and once draped a crimson cloak about Baelon's shoulders, declaring him a true dragon.
Yet Baelon had noticed something troubling.
Daeron dreamed.
Not the restless murmurs of an ordinary child, but deeper things. He had seen his brother wake pale and shaken, eyes distant, as though staring at something only he could see. Baelon knew of such dreams. In his first life, Maester Aemon had spoken of that all his brothers had fallen to dreams. Dreams had saved the house of the dragon, but also caused many their doom.
Did Daeron dream true?
Did Aerion?
Was that the seed of madness that would one day consume his twin? Visions misunderstood? Power untempered by wisdom?
The thought gnawed at him.
Around him, nobles began to filter into the garden as the sun rose higher. Silks rustled. Laughter drifted like perfume. Lords from across the realm had arrived over the past week for the celebration. Summerhall was alive with banners and whispered alliances. Baelon listened from his place upon the blanket, appearing absorbed in a wooden dragon toy while his ears drank in every careless word.
They spoke freely in the presence of children.
They spoke of rivalries, of marriages considered and dismissed. Of which houses were rising, and which were falling into quiet disgrace. He heard muttered criticisms of certain lords, soft praise for others. He learned which smiles were genuine and which were knives hidden behind courtesy.
They thought him harmless.
They were wrong.
Life had been dull at first, especially in that first year when he could do little more than stare at the jade and bronze egg placed near his cradle. It had felt warm beneath his fingers, pulsing faintly, stirring memories of Ghost at his side and the bond he had once shared with Rhaegal. He had wondered, more than once, whether destiny had followed him into this life as well.
Baelon's small hands tightened around two wooden dragons, one black as coal and one red as blood. He had specifically asked for them to be brought to the garden so he could play with them.
So he could show them.
He saw his father approaching along the gravel path, walking beside his uncle Baelor. Prince Maekar's posture was straight as a drawn spear, his expression stern even in leisure. Baelor, broader and warmer in bearing, walked with an easier grace.
"So how are the newlyweds faring?" Maekar asked.
"Well enough," Baelor replied. "Rhaegel seems taken with his wife. She is kind and gentle with him. Something he needed in a wife."
Baelon waited until they were near, then lifted both wooden dragons high.
"Kep!" he said happily, thrusting them forward.
"Are you playing, lad?" his uncle asked with a faint smile.
Baelon shook his head quickly, curls bouncing.
Maekar chuckled. "Daeron has been telling us of flying on dragons."
"No!" Baelon said loudly, startling even himself. His father and uncle both looked at him with raised brows.
"Dreame," he babbled, forcing the word carefully.
"You dreamed, lad?" Baelor asked gently.
Baelon nodded eagerly. "Blak drage… fig red drage," he said, clacking the wooden figures together. "Fig. Fire. Burn."
The sound of wood striking wood echoed faintly in the quiet between them.
Maekar's amusement faded. "Son? You saw dragons fighting?"
"Ye, Kep," Baelon insisted, nodding as he smashed the toys together again. He lowered his voice slightly, as though confiding a grave secret. "Blak drage… red drage…." The words were broken, childlike, but the intent behind them was not.
"Hmm, good lad." Baelor said, quickly, and then looked toward his brother. "We speak with father." Maekar noted.
"Now lad, go on and play with Aerion, hmm show him the dragons." Maekar added, gave him soft brush of his head. Baelon did as he bid and showed his Aerion the dragons, who laughed as he pretended the dragons flew around in the air. "drage, rrr" Aerion said in a laugh.
Baelon laughed, and felt odd. That this child could become cruel was odd one. Yet the he remembered Joffrey, Ramsey. Those two where children once as well.
Maekar Targaryen (195 A.C. Fourth Moon)
His personal solar.
The door to the solar shut with a muted thud, sealing the chamber from the distant sounds of celebration. Within, the air was thick with candle smoke and the faint scent of parchment. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting long bars of gold across the polished table where maps of the realm lay unrolled.
King Daeron sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled before him. Before him stood his sons, Baelor and Maekar.
"So you both think Baelon dreamed?" he asked at last.
His tone was calm, but Maekar heard the strain beneath it.
To be honest, Maekar had always been skeptical of magic, and dreams. He believed in steel, in discipline, in what a man could see and touch. Prophecies and portents belonged in old Valyrian and septons' tales. Yet his two-year-old son had always been a surprise to him. Baelon was more observant than children his age ought to be, quick on his feet, slipping past servants and nursemaids at will. His eyes watched everything.
And today, the boy had understood.
He had not merely babbled. He had tried to tell them something. As if he knew what he saw was important.
A black dragon fighting a red.
House Blackfyre against House Targaryen.
"We do," Baelor answered first, his voice steady.
Maekar nodded in agreement, then spoke wearily. "The boy was not merely playing. He spoke with intent."
King Daeron leaned back slowly in his chair. "You both know the implications of that, do you not? Saying you believe the words of your boy. A two-year-old, if I might add."
They both nodded, and his father closed his eyes for a moment.
"For almost twelve years," Daeron continued wearily, "I have worked to mend what my father's misrule fractured. To restore faith in the crown. To bind Dorne fully into the realm. And now this knocks upon my door."
His gaze drifted toward the window, though he seemed to see something far beyond Summerhall's gardens.
"Daemon has seldom come to court in recent years," he said quietly. "Since my coronation. Since Daenerys' marriage. Yet he keeps around him men who were loyal to our father. Men who whisper of what might have been. And Bittersteel, calling himself Aegor now." His mouth tightened. "A man who despises Brynden and resents everything this crown stands for. Resentful of being raised with Bracken's instead of at court."
Maekar felt the old tension stir at that name. Aegor Rivers. Bittersteel. A man raised in grievance.
"We do not speak lightly, Father," Baelor said. "But the colors are plain. Black and red."
Daeron's expression darkened. "Daemon never knew his mother. The closest he had was Princess Elaena, until her marriage. After that, it was Mariah. Yet I saw how he was with Daenerys. I saw it clearly."
Maekar remembered.
Their sister Daenerys had been one of the great beauties of the court in her youth, radiant and spirited. There had been whispers that Daemon loved her, that he might crown her Queen of Love and Beauty at her own wedding.
Instead, it had been Baelor who had faced him in the final tilt. Baelor, who had broken lance after lance, twelve in all, before finally unhorsing Daemon before the watching realm. Baelor, who had crowned his own wife instead.
"I married them both for duty," Daeron said quietly. "Daemon to Rhoanne. Daenerys to Dorne. I chose the realm over sentiment."
"Indeed, you did," Baelor replied. "And Dorne stands within the realm because of it. The peace you forged is no small thing."
"That may be," Daeron answered, "but resentment lingers. I saw it in Daemon's eyes the day I told him the marriage would proceed. He bowed as was expected. He smiled. But the fire he held for did not dim."
Silence settled over the chamber.
"I cannot act without proof," His father continued. "If I move against him on suspicion alone, the realm will see nothing more than a brother crushing another out of jealousy. It would undo everything I have built."
Maekar understood that truth well. The realm had bled once for a black dragon.
"When we return to King's Landing," Daeron said, "I will instruct Brynden to watch more closely. Quietly. Letters. Movements. Alliances. If there is rot, we will uncover it."
Maekar inclined his head.
"What do you require of me, Father?" he asked.
Daeron's eyes met his son's.
"Be ready," he said simply. "Summerhall must be more than a palace. If conflict comes again, men will look to you and to Baelor. You are leaders, each in your own way. Stronger in command than I was in my youth. Stronger than my father ever was."
Maekar felt the weight of that settle upon him.
"I shall do as you bid," he replied. "If war comes to our door, it will not find us unprepared."
Baelor gave a single, resolute nod beside him.
Outside, faint laughter drifted through the windows. Music tuning. Servants calling to one another as they prepared for the feast.
Daeron straightened at last.
"Then we will not let shadows steal this day," he said. "Your sons will only have one second nameday."
He moved toward the door, and his sons followed.