ACT II: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 1: The Court and Its Loves (59 AC – 87 AC)
Chapter 7: The Hot-Blooded Heir (70 AC)
High above, where the air grew thin and the wind howled like a thousand blades cutting through the sky, two specks tore through the clouds over Blackwater Bay.
The first was a blood-red blur, slender and swift; the second, a flying mountain of pure shadows and obsidian scales.
Aemon, mounted on his young Caraxes, was attempting in vain to execute an evasive maneuver as The Cannibal pursued him closely.
I wasn’t trying to bring them down, of course—it was merely a rigorous drill of reflexes and agility.
The boy possessed a natural talent, but he needed to understand that, in the air, a second of hesitation meant death.
Thanks to the lessons and arcane teachings I had begun bestowing upon the young Targaryens regarding true mental attunement and Ancient Valyrian blood sorcery, Aemon had managed to claim Caraxes much earlier than in the original timeline.
The “Blood Wyrm” and the young prince already exhibited an impressive bond, far superior to what they would have had without my guidance.
When I judged the boy and his beast had shed enough sweat, I commanded The Cannibal to flare his colossal wings, creating an airbrake that made us hover majestically over Rhaenys’s Hill.
We descended toward the dome of the Dragonpit, landing on the broad outer courtyard.
I unbuckled the safety clasps of the saddle.
From the back of my beast, I released the two extra passengers I had brought along for the ride: young Baelon, aged thirteen, and little Alyssa, aged ten.
The two slid down the side ropes with the typical agility of dragon hatchlings, while I dismounted with my habitual grace down the membranous structure of The Cannibal’s wing.
With one final affectionate touch on the scales of the beast’s snout, I sent him off.
The Cannibal let out a satisfied rumble and took flight toward the Kingswood.
I flatly refused to let my dragon wither inside the Pit.
Although Jaehaerys had appointed me Master of Arcana and allowed me to make profound structural improvements to the capital’s arena—where I engraved pyromancy and blood sorcery glyphs, in addition to creating arcane conduits to channel geothermal heat to the stone pits—the king had refused to let me channel the earth to bring underground rivers of lava to the city, fearing the smoke and heat would suffocate King’s Landing.
Even so, my modifications to the Dragonpit produced a monstrous impact for the royal family: stimulated by the arcane energy of the glyphs and the constant heat, the Targaryen dragons housed there began to grow at a perceptibly faster rate than in the original history.
Still, the Pit wasn’t enough for my monster.
So, I solved The Cannibal’s problem in my own way: I used my sorcery and his digging strength to raise a dedicated sanctuary deep within the Kingswood.
There, I carved a colossal cave bathed in blood sorcery and rivers of magma, acclimating the environment so he could live with the heat the heart of the world demands.
A sharp roar cut through the air and Caraxes landed right after, folding his wings.
Aemon, fifteen years old and his face flushed from the high winds, dismounted and handed the beast’s reins to the dragonkeepers.
Baelon took three quick steps forward, pointing at his older brother with a provocative laugh:
“— This time I thought he was going to swallow you whole, brother!
Hahahahaha!”
Aemon wasted no time.
Taking advantage of his height and reach, he lunged at Baelon, caught his younger brother’s neck in a firm headlock, and began nuzzling his fist into his head:
“— When it’s your turn to be hunted by The Cannibal up high, you’ll know what true despair feels like, you idiot!
Now, Alyssa, come help me teach this brat a lesson!”
Alyssa crossed her small arms, huffing with a pose of superiority:
“— Boys are complete idiots…”
Despite her complaint, the little girl didn’t hesitate and pounced onto Baelon’s back, helping Aemon tackle him onto the grass in a mess of laughter, dust, and playful punches.
I watched the scene for a few seconds with a smirk before stepping in:
“— Enough fooling around, kids.
Time to compose yourselves.
After all, tomorrow is our crown prince’s big day, isn’t it?”
Aemon released his brother instantly.
The boy stood up, hastily dusting off his tunic, and the flush on his face shifted tone—now a pure crimson of nervousness and embarrassment.
“— Y-yes…
tomorrow I get married,” Aemon stammered, scratching his neck and looking at me with a mix of admiration and apprehension.
“— Do you…
do you have any advice for me, Lord Vaelarys?”
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head:
Don’t ask me for that, boy.
In my **exact one hundred years of life**, I’ve never committed the madness of getting married.
But…
if you put into practice precisely what I taught you about how to handle yourself between the sheets and how to please a woman in bed, I guarantee your Baratheon bride will be more than satisfied.”
Aemon’s face burned a shade of red that rivaled Caraxes’s very scales.
Baelon and Alyssa burst into hysterical laughter at their older brother’s expense, pointing at his embarrassment.
The sound of wooden wheels and horses’ hooves against stone saved the young prince from further mockery.
A luxurious royal carriage pulled up to the far side of the Pit’s broad courtyard.
The door opened, and Princess Daenerys stepped down.
At seventeen, she wore an elegant sky-blue dress and maintained an impeccable posture.
She walked across the entire courtyard toward us, though her purple eyes burned with her usual irritation upon seeing us.
“— Come, brothers,” she said upon reaching us, her voice firm and sharp.
“— Enough child’s play for today.
It’s time to return to the castle and prepare for tomorrow’s feast.”
Aemon practically ran toward the carriage to escape my jokes, with Baelon and Alyssa on his heels.
Daenerys turned to walk back to the carriage.
As she took her first step with her back to me, I didn’t miss the opportunity: I landed a loud, firm slap with my open palm directly on the princess’s backside, squeezing the soft flesh of her hip with force.
“— *Arthos!*” she yelled, turning around in a flash of pure fury.
Daenerys threw a quick punch at my face.
I dodged the blow by tilting my head millimeters to the side, completely effortless.
She tried a second and a third punch, but I kept dodging every attempt with a mocking smile on my lips.
Realizing it was useless trying to hit me, the princess let out an indignant huff, turned around again, and began marching on foot across the full length of the courtyard to the carriage.
Yet, watching her walk that entire distance from behind, I couldn’t help but notice that the sway of her hips was far too exaggerated and emphasized for someone who intended to look furious.
Deciding to organize my thoughts, I walked back to the Red Keep on foot, strolling leisurely through the city streets.
And my mind inevitably drifted back to that silver-haired girl.
Daenerys was Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s firstborn.
In this world’s original timeline, she was supposed to have died as a child, a victim of The Shivers.
But because of my intervention and the blood sorcery that purified her body, the girl survived—and her survival triggered the first major rift in the royal family.
To the arcane arts and the philosophy of my House Vaelarys, the firstborn is the legitimate heir, regardless of gender.
In Valyria and among the ancient sorcerer families, power and leadership depended exclusively on magical affinity and individual talent.
An older daughter would only lose her position if she lacked magic or was ridiculously outmatched by a younger brother.
However, Jaehaerys insisted on applying Andal customs and named Aemon as his official heir, passing over his eldest daughter.
That sparked a monumental row between the king and Queen Alysanne—screams and accusations that could be heard almost on the other side of the castle.
When Jaehaerys came to my chambers seeking my opinion on the succession, I was direct and razor-sharp:
“— *A monarch puts the crown on his head, Jae…
not on his cock.*”
Despite my warning, the king stood by his decision.
Next, Jaehaerys tried to wed Daenerys to a string of lesser Southern nobles—old lords, insignificant heirs, and men who seemed handpicked purely to punish his daughter’s stubbornness.
Naturally, none of those betrothals went through.
And the main reason for that occurred on a night no one at court could explain, but which I witnessed in detail through my *Greensight*: Alysanne had awakened her husband in the dead of night by holding a sharp dagger to his throat, swearing in High Valyrian that she would slit the king’s neck if he continued trying to sell off their firstborn to unworthy men.
Meddling with a mother dragon protecting her brood is never a good idea—and Jaehaerys, knowing the wife he had, wisely stopped trying to force foolish marriages on Daenerys.
Now, the king was divided between two options for his daughter’s future: handing her over to Alaric Stark’s heir up in the North, or marrying her to me. New chapters come out on novelping(.)com first.
Fucking the princess at night?
I didn’t care in the slightest.
But marrying her was something I flatly refused to do.
The reason was simple and direct: through my *Greensight*, I had clearly seen that if I married her, Daenerys would die in childbirth.
Thus, refusing the marriage was my way of keeping her alive.
Furthermore, I knew that if she were sent North to wed the Stark heir, a terrible winter storm along the way would claim her life.
Alysanne, in a moment of despair and frustration when I rejected the betrothal, had even pleaded with me: “If you won’t marry her, take her to your tower in the North as a servant to care for your home, but do not let her die out there!”
I was seriously considering that option: taking Daenerys to my Black Stone Tower before the marriage to the Stark could happen, saving her from the storm’s cruel fate and keeping her within my domain.
The following day arrived, bringing the brilliance of festivities for the grand wedding between Crown Prince Aemon and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon.
I watched the ceremony from the front row of the Great Sept of King’s Landing, standing right before the altar.
On the other side, the new High Septon conducted the holy rites.
The fellow wasn’t a mountain of lard like his predecessor, but he possessed a soul a thousand times more rotten: through my magic, I had uncovered that the priest’s tastes were twisted to the most sickening level imaginable, involving very young boys.
I told no one the truth.
After all, exposing it would require lengthy trials, evidence, and futile formalities that would give me an unnecessary headache—and a swift slit across the throat was far too merciful a relief for what he deserved.
Thus, I merely locked eyes with the High Septon and flashed a slow, macabre smile throughout the entire ceremony.
The holy man, sensing the aura of death and the terrifying fate I reserved for him in the future, trembled from head to toe as he blessed the bride and groom with shaking hands.
After the vows, the court adjourned to the Throne Room, where the feast stretched on for hours amidst music, wine, and toasts.
Until the moment of uproar arrived: the Bedding Ceremony.
A Southern lord, already thoroughly drunk and slobbering with wine, rose from his table and let out a vulgar roar, calling upon the men to strip the bride.
The crowd of drunken nobles surged forward toward Jocelyn Baratheon, grabbing at her garments and tearing the fabric of her dress violently.
When the first lord greedily extended his hand and touched the skin of the bride’s shoulders, a crimson flash cut through the air.
A piercing shriek of pain silenced the music of the hall.
The noble’s right hand was severed at the wrist by a thin blade of pure fire sorcery.
The piece of flesh and bone fell noisily onto the table while blood splattered across silver goblets.
The silence that fell over the Throne Room was sepulchral.
Even the musicians stopped playing.
The only sound echoing off the stone walls was the mutilated wretch’s howls of horror and the quiet ring of my footsteps against the floor.
I walked unhurriedly up to the fellow.
I knelt with elegance, picked up the severed hand from the floor, pressed it back against the lord’s bloody wrist, and channeled a spark of blood sorcery.
The flesh, nerves, and bones wove together and regenerated in a matter of two seconds before the terrified eyes of the entire court.
I gave the traumatized man a light slap across the face:
“— Just this once, you idiot.”
I turned slowly to the crowd of starched nobles and lords, keeping my hands relaxed at my waist and glaring at them with the disdain of a god looking down on worms:
“— An exceedingly barbarous tradition for knights and lords who claim to be so ‘civilized,’ wouldn’t you say?”
Not a single man in the hall dared to breathe loudly or take a single step forward.
I turned my gaze to Jocelyn Baratheon.
The bride stood still, pale, breathing with difficulty and her dress slightly torn, bearing a few drops of blood on the skin of her chest.
With a simple pulling gesture of my right hand, I used my magic to draw the blood from her skin and clothes, gathering it into a red sphere in the air that I then dissolved into sparks of fire.
I looked at the girl with courtesy:
“— Now you may walk with dignity to your bedchambers, my lady.”
Jocelyn blinked, catching her breath, and walked hastily toward the exit, escorted by Aemon.
I passed beside the young crown prince, giving his shoulder a firm pat:
“— You’re welcome, boy.”
And with a calm smile on my face, I walked back to my seat to finish my glass of wine.