The Red Keep
Gaemon was sitting in the living room, or at least that is what he had named it, since it was the chamber his uncle told him was reserved exclusively for the family, and they usually came here to talk with one another and relax away from court.
Anyway, the people present with him numbered three: his uncle Viserys and his wife Aemma, and Gaemon’s father.
While all of them were savoring wine, Gaemon had been given orange juice to gulp down and supposedly boost his immune system, not that it was not already overpowered.
He had never been ill, not once since he had transmigrated into this body.
Illness seemed to avoid him entirely.
And Gaemon did not doubt for even a moment that magic was at work, though it remained a mystery whether it came from Stark blood or Targaryen blood.
“So, nephew, before we talk about your eyes, let me ask: is living here in King’s Landing to your liking, or do you prefer the cold of Winterfell?”
Gaemon looked at his uncle, who was smiling jovially at him as he asked the question.
If Gaemon had not been capable of seeing even the smallest muscle twitch on everyone’s faces, he would not have been able to tell that the whole thing was merely an attempt to ease his nervousness and make him open up more.
It seemed his uncle did indeed possess a slight cunning streak and was not entirely a fool as people think of him or will.
“King’s Landing is great, Your Grace.
Vastly different from Winterfell and possessed of its own charms.
But I think I have become too accustomed to the cold and raw nature of the North.
So even though Winterfell is not King’s Landing, I still prefer the keep of my cousin,” Gaemon replied honestly.
He truly did enjoy living in Winterfell more than King’s Landing.
“Ah, that will not do.
It seems we shall have to try our hardest to change that preference of yours.
Or perhaps not.
Maybe, like your father, you would prefer Dragonstone more.” His uncle mused aloud.
“I do not think he would.
Gaemon and Prince Daemon are completely different from one another.
I have not had the pleasure of meeting Princess Arya, but I am certain Gaemon inherited more from her.
One only has to look at his face to know that,” Queen Aemma commented, looking at Gaemon with a motherly expression.
“Bullshit.
That woman from the North was as impulsive and unpredictable as they come.
I have yet to meet another woman quite like her,” Daemon added.
“It is his cousins who influenced the brat into this cold demeanor.
Though do not worry, brother, no son of mine can stray far from the Targaryen fire of passion, as you call it.
Right now those flames might be buried beneath the snows of the North, where he spent his childhood, but I shall fan them and turn them into an inferno worthy of rivaling mine own.”
There was entirely too much pride on his face as he uttered those words.
They talked about many things after that.
Mostly, it was the three adults speaking, telling him of the wonders of the capital and Dragonstone and how magnificent both places were.
Gaemon’s task was to listen, and he did as they retold stories both amusing and embarrassing.
Somewhere amidst trying to make him more comfortable, the three of them had begun reminiscing about happier days long gone.
“So, Gaemon, I do not know about the North, but among the Targaryens, we do not frown upon magic.
Looking at your new eyes and how they appeared, we could not help but think they had to be magical in nature.”
His father spoke while studying Gaemon’s eyes with open curiosity.
Gaemon, who had spent the last hour deciding what he would tell them, replied in a deliberately despondent tone.
“I thought the same, so I tried many things to see whether they possessed any abilities beyond making my vision clearer and more perceptive.
But there was nothing.
They are nothing special and do not seem related to magic in any way.”
All three of them exchanged looks of hesitation and confusion.
“Perhaps the powers will come slowly.
It has not even been a day since he received them.
Or they may truly be nothing more than unusual eyes, aside from the clear vision and overwhelming amount of information they provide,” his uncle guessed.
Gaemon saw his father studying him intently, but he did not raise his head to meet Daemon’s stare.
“Are you sure, Gaemon?
That there is nothing else your eyes can do beyond what Viserys just said?” his father asked, his hardened gaze fixed upon him.
“Yes.
As far as I am aware, I have yet to discover anything beyond what I have already told you about them,” Gaemon replied, lowering his eyes to his lap.
He heard the sound of a sigh.
Looking up, he saw Viserys’s hand resting upon his father’s shoulder.
“You may leave, Gaemon.
We now have to discuss how to reveal to the court and the Seven Kingdoms that you can see despite the cloth wrapped around your eyes.
Since no magic is involved, I do not think there is any reason to hide the fact that you are perfectly capable of seeing.
It would spare you the pitiful glances and the title of Blind Prince.” His uncle said with a strained smile on his face.
Gaemon nodded.
He certainly did not want either the pitiful glances or that title.
So he bid them farewell and excused himself.
Maybe he would ask Ser Darklyn to take him around the whole keep.
His father had only pointed out where things were, and Gaemon had not been at his best when Daemon had taken him around to see a few places that day.
Once Gaemon was out of the chamber, the three of them gazed at the door through which the boy had left, each wearing a different expression.
“He is hiding something.”
It was Viserys who decided to break the silence.
“It is not surprising.
He has not known us for more than a day.” Aemma defended Gaemon.
She could somewhat understand the boy’s position.
Young and having never left her home, the Eyrie, she had suddenly found herself thrown into court as the betrothed of the Prince.
Gaemon was being a little guarded, and she saw nothing wrong with that.
“Well, it should be.
He is of the blood.
Sure, he has not spent much time with us, but he should at least remember that he is a Targaryen and understand that we are his family.
Seven Hells, I am his father.
I swear to the gods of Valyria, I have never seen a five-year-old this guarded in my life.
It is all his cousins’ fault, I tell you, brother.
They have turned my son into one of them.”
Having vented his frustration, Daemon did not wait for a reply and stormed out, perhaps in search of something he could vent his anger upon physically, or perhaps toward the Street of Silk.
“Your brother has not mentioned his son’s name even once in the last few years, and now he expects Gaemon to behave like an obedient son simply because it is Daemon’s blood that runs through his veins.
I do not know whether I should be surprised by his behavior or not, considering we are talking about Daemon.” Aemma muttered, sounding both disappointed and disgusted.
The Night
Gaemon had had an eventful day, so as soon as he finished supper with the Targaryens, he returned to his room and jumped into bed.
Looking out the window, Gaemon saw that the night had already engulfed the world in darkness, while the moon shone clear and beautiful overhead.
The ambient mana, low in both quantity and potency, drifted lazily through the atmosphere as Gaemon gazed at it.
His thoughts turned toward how the world at large remained unaware of the energy permeating the air around them.
Though it was meager in quantity, it still did not excuse the complete ignorance of the people living in this world.
Oh, there were sorcerers out there in Essos, certainly, but they too could do little more than a few parlour tricks rather than true magic Gaemon had read about what wizards and sorcerers could accomplish in the fictional books of his old world.
He wanted to change that, but his own ancestry was holding him back.
His own body is against him.
Whenever he tried to pull on his magic and bring it out, the pain that shot through his body was so intense that his focus shifted entirely from controlling the energy to enduring the agony spreading through him.
Though he had encountered failure after failure today, that did not mean he would give up.
No amount of pain would make Gaemon abandon his dream of becoming a true sorcerer.
He would succeed one way or another.
Gaemon was thinking along those lines when he felt the connection he shared with Buri become more vibrant and alive.
The direwolf was awake and moving now.
Gaemon focused his Six Eyes inward upon himself and allowed instinct to take over as he attempted to warg into Buri.
And with the Six Eyes, he saw his magic move.
He watched as it tethered a tiny fragment of his soul to the bond he shared with Buri.
Instantly, Gaemon’s perception of the world shifted, and he began to see through the senses of a predator.
Smell, sight, and sound all assaulted him at once, as fiercely as the Ironborn descended upon the greenlanders of the Reach.