Baelon opened his eyes to a face hovering over him.
He flinched instinctively, tiny arms flailing without purpose.
Silver-gold hair.
Wide violet eyes.
She was staring directly at him.
For one absurd moment, his mind supplied every ridiculous possibility except the obvious.
Then recognition settled.
Rhaenyra.
She was older than when he had first seen her through blurred newborn eyes.
Her face had begun to lose the softness of childhood, but grief had left something behind that no child should have carried.
She hesitated, fingers twisting together as she stood over his cradle.
It wasn’t dislike.
Nor was it resentment.
It was the hesitation of someone who had already lost the person they loved most and wasn’t sure they could bear loving someone new.
The silence stretched between them.
Then, slowly, she reached down.
Baelon felt himself lifted from the cradle, wrapped in surprising warmth as she held him carefully against her chest.
She was awkward, as though afraid she might break him, yet gentle all the same.
He did not resist.
The faint scent of lavender filled his tiny lungs.
Instead, an involuntary giggle escaped him.
Rhaenyra blinked.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Everyone says you’re the prince the realm has been waiting for.” She shifted him slightly in her arms, absentmindedly brushing a thumb across his tiny hand.
“I hope they don’t ask too much from you.”
He had no answer for that, of course.
His mouth was too small, his tongue too clumsy for words.
He could only blink.
Her smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.
When she spoke next, her voice was softer, almost hesitant, as though these were words she had never allowed herself to say aloud.
“I miss Mother.”
She looked toward the window.
“I’m angry with Father.” The confession seemed to surprise even her.
“I know he misses her too.” Her fingers tightened slightly around the blanket wrapped around him.
“I know he’s hurting too.” A tremor ran through her, a subtle tightening of the arms that held him.
She lowered her eyes.
“But every time I see him…” She swallowed.
“…I remember that day.”
Silence.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her voice cracked.
“I don’t know who I’m supposed to talk to.
Everyone is busy with something.”
“The Small Council.”
“The maesters.”
“The servants.”
“Father…”
She shook her head.
“It feels like everyone forgot me.” Her eyes shimmered.
“Nobody asks me if I’m alright anymore.”
Baelon could do nothing except watch.
His tiny hand moved almost on instinct.
His fingers wrapped clumsily around one of hers.
He wasn’t even sure he meant to do it.
Rhaenyra froze.
Then She laughed softly.
“You’re a strange little thing.”
Then, almost under her breath—
“Thank you.”
After that day, she kept returning.
Sometimes she spoke of Syrax.
Sometimes she said nothing at all.
She sat beside his cradle simply observing him.
Days blurred into weeks.
Weeks became months.
Baelon soon discovered one unavoidable truth about infancy.
He had absolutely no control over his own body.
He slept because his body decided to.
He cried because his body decided to.
And, most humiliating of all…
He relieved himself because his body decided to.
Repeatedly.
An adult mind trapped inside a toddler’s body made the experience profoundly embarrassing.
There was no dignity in suddenly realizing he had soiled himself.
Again.
Fortunately four nursemaids attended him at all hours, a constant retinue of soft hands and soothing voices, each attending to his needs with practiced ease.
The head nurse, Mistress Ellyn, a plump woman with a kind, wrinkled face, was especially kind.
She always spoke to him as though he understood every word.
Perhaps she believed he did.
In an odd way…
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
The maesters began their work early.
A man with a chain of office, heavy with links of silver and bronze, would often sit beside his cradle.
Large parchment maps of Westeros were spread across the table.
“This,” Mellos would say, tapping the painted coastline with one long finger, “is the realm your forefathers united.” Another tap.
“Dragonstone, The cradle of House Targaryen.”
Another.
“Old Valyria.” His voice always grew quieter when speaking that name.
“The greatest civilization the world has ever known.” Baelon watched and listened carefully, his infant mind absorbing every word, every name, every shape upon the maps.
He found himself wondering why they expected any of this to mean something to a two-year-old who technically shouldn’t even understand the Common Tongue.
Fortunately for them…
He did.
He simply couldn’t tell them.
His world was still remarkably small.
He spent hours gazing at the ceiling of his nursery, a rough expanse of grey stone that seemed to stretch endlessly above him.
High on one wall, a single window offered a square of sky.
It was a constantly shifting tableau: sometimes a brilliant, cloudless blue; other times a bruised purple, heavy with rain; often, a pale, milky white.
The subtle changes fascinated him, held his attention far more than the maesters’ droning lessons.
The dragon egg never left the cradle.
At first it was simply another object in the cradle.
Before long, he found himself falling asleep with one tiny hand resting against its rough shell.
Of all the patterns in his new life, one never changed.
Viserys.
The king came every single day.
Sometimes before breakfast.
Sometimes after court.
Sometimes long after sunset.
Always exhausted.
Sometimes he remained only a minute, quietly checking that his son was asleep.
Other days he lingered for hours.
Sometimes he smiled.
Sometimes he cried.
Most days he simply watched.
The days settled into a rhythm.
.
.
107 AC
On one such morning, he lingered longer than usual.
Baelon lay awake in his cradle, blinking sleep from his eyes as the king approached.
Viserys crossed the room and stopped beside my cradle.
He rested one hand against its carved rail and simply watched him for a long moment.
A smile, faint but genuine, tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning, my son.”
Baelon answered with a cheerful coo.
The sound seemed to brighten the room.
A faint laugh escaped the king.
“Well…”
He reached into the cradle.
“…someone is in good spirits today.” Baelon stretched both arms upward without thinking.
Viserys chuckled and lifted him with surprising confidence.
The embrace no longer felt uncertain.
It felt warm.
“You are growing quickly,” Viserys murmured, adjusting the little prince against his shoulder.
“Soon enough you’ll be running through these halls.” His gaze lingered on the child’s face.
“I pray the realm proves kinder to you than it has been to me.”
After a thoughtful silence, the king smiled to himself.
“Come.” He turned toward the door.
“You have never attended a council meeting.” Cradling Baelon securely against his shoulder, Viserys stepped out into the corridors of the Red Keep.
It was the first time Baelon had seen the castle beyond the nursery.
I am testing this as a concept and first chapter, i will see if the response for the first 5 chapters are great and the audience like my writing style.
Then i will continue with the story or will close the book after 5 chapters.
of House of dragon