The darkness didn't lift so much as it fractured, splintering into the dim, sickly grey of a room that smelled of mildew and old sweat.
My head throbbed with a rhythm that matched the pounding in my chest. When I tried to sit up, my limbs felt wrong too short, too light, uncoordinated. The floor beneath me was cold stone, slick with something that might have been spilled wine or worse.
Then came the flood.
It wasn't just memory; it was a violation. Images of a dragon crested throne, the screams of burning men, and the face of a king who looked more like a grieving scholar than a conqueror tore through my mind.
Rhaegar won. The North bled out, betrayed by Lyanna's choice. The realm was a tinderbox held together by prophecy and lies. And I... I wasn't some hero. I was Vaegon. A second son. A mistake. A ghost living in the shadow of a prophecy that didn't want me.
"I'm fucked," I croaked. My voice was high, cracking with the vulnerability of a seven year old. The words felt foreign in my mouth. "I am utterly, completely fucked."
I dragged myself upright, scanning the cramped space. This wasn't a prince's chambers. This was a cell disguised as a servant's room. A wooden cot with rotting straw, a single cracked pitcher, and the distant, muffled sounds of footsteps echoing through stone corridors.
The last thing I remembered the real Vaegon's last memory was the sting of steel and the roar of Aegon's laughter as I struck him down in training. Then the pain, the blows from the Kingsguard, and the cold satisfaction of a King who didn't even bother to look at his own son before ordering him locked away.
A door at the far end of the room creaked. Heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by the jingle of keys.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Still alive in there, little dragon?" a rough voice called out through the wood. "Or has the hunger finally taken what the Prince's training couldn't?"
"Alive," I spat. The word came out sharper than I intended, cutting through the stale air like a blade. My throat burned from dehydration, but the fury burning in my gut was hotter.
Little dragon. The mockery stung worse than the bruises blooming across my ribs. I slumped back onto the filthy straw, my small hands shaking. The anger was a physical thing, a coiled serpent in my chest.
Why was this happening? Rhaegar was obsessed with his songs and his three 'heads of the dragon,' treating the rest of us like background noise in his grand symphony. I could have been Aegon's shield, his counsel, his most loyal blade a prince who knew the world outside the prophecy. Instead, I was a stain on the tapestry that needed to be hidden away.
But anger wouldn't put food in my belly or water in my mouth. And anger certainly wouldn't save me from the inevitable day Aegon decided to finish what his trainers started.
Survive, I told myself, forcing my breathing to slow. First rule: Don't die in a cupboard.
I needed to get out. Not just out of this room, but out of this web of Lannister gold, Dornish spite, and Targaryen madness. If I stayed here, I was either a pawn to be sacrificed or a loose end to be cut.
The Long Night was coming I knew the stories, knew the true threat and I couldn't face it as a forgotten bastard prince rotting in the Red Keep. I needed distance. I needed power. Or at least, I needed to not be dead.
The footsteps stopped outside. The jingle of keys grew louder as the lock turned with a harsh, metallic screech. The door swung open, revealing a grizzled man at arms with a face like scarred leather and eyes that held no sympathy. He carried a wooden tray with a crust of stale bread and a cup of water that looked more like dishwater.
He kicked the door shut behind him with his boot, the noise echoing off the bare walls. "Sharp tongue for a boy who's been eating air for two days," he muttered, setting the tray down on the floor just out of my reach.
"Eat quick. The King's been in a foul mood since the Prince's wound stopped bleeding. Best not to make any more trouble."
He turned to leave, but paused, glancing back at me with something resembling curiosity.
"Unless you're planning on bleeding again? The Lannisters are already whispering that you're bad luck."
"Stay here" I said as I began eating "Explain to me the current situation of the Red Keep."
I ate slowly and drank slowly making sure that my body wasn't overwhelmed by the food.
The man froze mid step, his hand already gripping the iron latch. He turned slowly, squinting at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head.
His scarred features twisted into a confused scowl. "Current situation?" he repeated, the words tasting foreign. "Little prince, you've been locked in this hole for two days, not exiled to Slaver's Bay. What kind of madness has taken you?"
I ignored the jab, focusing on the bread. It was hard enough to break a tooth, tasting mostly of sawdust and old yeast, but I chewed slowly, forcing myself to savor every morsel. The water was foul metallic and warm but I drank it in measured sips, mindful of how my stomach would react to the sudden influx after two days of emptiness. My mind, however, was racing faster than my body could process the nutrients.
"I asked you a question," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my small hands. I looked up at him, meeting those cold, suspicious eyes with as much authority as a seven year old could muster. "The Red Keep is full of vipers. Tell me what they're biting at."
The guard let out a harsh, derisive laugh, but he didn't leave. Something about my tone the lack of childish whimper seemed to have piqued his interest. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.
"Vipers? You're learning fast, I'll give you that," he muttered, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves had ears. "It's the same old dance. The Dornish are circling Prince Aegon like vultures, claiming any slight against his mother is an insult to the Sunspear. They're trying to push the Lannisters out of whatever influence they still have left."
He spat on the floor. "And the Lannisters? They're playing nice with Queen Lyanna and the little princess Visenya, trying to make themselves indispensable. They want to be the ones holding the leash when the King finally stops looking at the stars and starts looking at his court. Between the Martells and the Lannisters, it's like watching two wolves fight over a corpse."
He glanced toward the hallway before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper.
"And with the King's Hand, Connington, so wrapped up in his own loyalty to Rhaegar, nobody's watching the coin. The Master of Coin is a fool, and the coffers are bleeding. People are talking, little prince. Talking about Blackfyres in the East, talking about rebellion in the Stormlands. The Red Keep feels like a tinderbox waiting for a spark."
He straightened up, the amusement fading from his face. "But that's for lords and councilors to worry about. You'd best worry about staying out of the way. Next time you draw blood on a prince, they might not just lock you in a room. They might forget you exist entirely."
"Good," I said, pushing myself up from the straw. My legs felt shaky, but the adrenaline was starting to override the weakness. I didn't need to be a prince right now; I needed to be a ghost.
Dragonstone. It was isolated, grim, and utterly abandoned by the court's attention. It was a fortress of black stone and salt spray the perfect place for someone who wanted to disappear while they sharpened their teeth.
I turned to the guard, meeting his gaze with an intensity that made him flinch. "You brought me food when the King ordered me to starve. That means you have more sense than the sycophants in the Throne Room." I took a step closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "I need to leave. Not just this room, but this castle. Sneak me out, and I'll make it worth your while."
The guard's eyes widened. "You're mad. Dragonstone? That's a godforsaken rock in the middle of the sea. And if I'm caught helping a prince flee his own father "
"My father doesn't know I'm alive, let alone that I'm leaving," I interrupted, my voice cold and flat. "He's too busy chasing prophecies to notice one less mouth to feed. If I vanish, he'll assume I died of hunger or fever in this very room. No one will come looking. No one will care."
I leaned in closer, the smell of the guard's unwashed wool filling my nose. "The Lannisters want me dead, the Martells want me forgotten, and the Starks... well, they already think I'm a mistake. Dragonstone is empty. It's a tomb, and I want to live in it until I'm strong enough to leave."
The man hesitated, his fingers drumming against his sword belt. The greed in his eyes warred with the terror of treason. "How would I even get you past the Gold Cloaks?" he whispered harshly. "And how would you get across the water?"
"I'm small, and I'm fast," I said, thinking of the servant passages I remembered from the books tunnels that ran like veins beneath the Red Keep's skin. "And you know the patrol rotations better than anyone. Find me a ship, or find me a boat, and I'll give you enough gold to retire in Lys."
Of course, I had no gold. But I had something better: the knowledge of what was coming, and the desperation of a boy who had nothing left to lose.
The guard looked at the door, then back at me. "Dragonstone is a long voyage, boy. And it's cold. You'll freeze before you even see the black walls."