Chapter 1
The birthing room of Maegor's Holdfast smelled of sweat, blood, and damp stone. Servants bustled quietly, midwives whispered with urgent precision, and the glow of braziers flickered off walls hung with crimson banners. The Queen's chambers—though modest compared to the royal apartments—had been prepared for this moment. But the air was heavy, and the silence tense.
Lady Ellyn Lannister, once of Casterly Rock, now wife to Baelon Targaryen, clenched the sheets beneath her with white-knuckled fists. Her golden hair clung to her brow with sweat, and her teeth bit down hard as another contraction twisted through her.
Her marriage to Baelon had never been one of love. It was the king's will—a political tether meant to bind West and East, lion to dragon. She had been proud, once, to be chosen. To be part of something greater. But her husband had made no secret of his discontent. Baelon the Brave, second son of the king, rider of Vhagar, had scowled through the ceremony and barely touched her since.
Now, she was giving him a son.
A scream escaped her lips—raw and wild—and the midwife's voice rose in alarm. "My lady, just one more push. The babe is almost—"
A wet cry interrupted her. Then silence.
The midwives shifted. One of them, a slender woman with greying hair and keen eyes, wrapped the newborn in crimson cloth and passed him to Ellyn. For a moment, Ellyn could only stare.
He was small, but not frail. His skin pink and flushed, his hair thick and white as moonlight. And his eyes—
She gasped. "Purple."
Deep purple. Not the pale lilac of many Valyrians, but the dark, regal violet of dragonlords long dead.
"He is... quiet," whispered the older midwife.
Ellyn held him close, pressing her lips to his tiny forehead. "He is watching," she murmured. "Even now. He sees more than he should."
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter," Ellyn called, her voice steadier than she felt.
A court official stepped in, followed by Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "The king has sent word," Ryam said. "He asks the child's name."
Ellyn looked down at the baby again. So small. So silent. She thought of Casterly Rock and golden summers, of dragons above Blackwater Bay, and of her husband's cold, detached glances.
She lifted her chin. "Vaeron."
Ryam bowed his head. "A strong name, my lady."
"Tell His Grace," she added, "that the boy lives. And he carries both lion and dragon in his veins."
---
Baelon arrived later, long after the nurses had cleaned the chamber and Ellyn had drifted into a fitful rest. He didn't knock.
The Prince of Dragonstone entered in silence, his riding cloak still dusted with ash from Dragonstone's volcanic winds. His eyes, cold and unreadable, flicked to the swaddled child sleeping in the carved cradle beside the bed.
He said nothing for a long moment.
Ellyn stirred. "You came."
"I had to," he replied curtly.
She studied his face. There was no joy, no curiosity. Just duty. He didn't approach the cradle.
"You should look at him," she said.
Baelon glanced over. "Does he breathe?"
"Yes."
"Then I've done my duty."
Anger surged in her, but she bit it back. "You're his father."
Baelon's jaw tightened. "He is a decision made by my father. Not by me." He turned and walked to the door. "I will inform the king.
He left without another word.
The Red Keep buzzed like a disturbed hive. Whispers drifted down marbled corridors, across courtyards, and through silk-draped chambers. A new son had been born to Baelon Targaryen—named heir to the Iron Throne just a year past—and the child's mother, Lady Ellyn of House Lannister, had survived the birthing bed. But Baelon the Brave had yet to speak of the child, and that silence was louder than a dragon's roar.
In her chamber, Ellyn lay beneath crimson sheets threaded with gold lions and silver dragons. The wet nurse cooed beside her, rocking the babe in her arms. Servants came and went like shadows, but it was the silence outside her door that unsettled her most. No celebratory horns. No proclamation. No visit from her husband.
The babe stirred. Eyes of impossible depth—violet dark as wine in moonlight—blinked up at the high ceiling. His shock of silver-white hair crowned him like the hatchling of some ancient Valyrian god. Even the maesters had exchanged uneasy glances.
"He stares at you like he knows your sins," one had muttered.
That was three days ago. And still Baelon had not come.
---
Across the Keep, Daemon Targaryen stormed through the outer halls of Maegor's Holdfast, flanked by two crimson-cloaked guards. Wine sloshed from the silver goblet in his hand.
"A lioness?" he barked. "He bred with a lioness?"
Ser Ryam Redwyne had made the mistake of chuckling at the quip hours earlier. Daemon hadn't stopped since.
"My father has lost his bloody mind," Daemon continued. "Or perhaps he's playing at being king before he dies."
Viserys met his brother at the tower stair. He held up a hand. "Daemon—"
"No. No more lectures, brother." Daemon drained his goblet, tossed it into a bush, and gestured wildly. "Do you not see it? This is a bastard by another name. A Lannister cub with a dragon's wings painted on his cradle."
Viserys sighed. "You know he's not a bastard."
"She's not of Valyria. Her family bends knees for coin and glory." His tone turned venomous. "She wears silk and smells of roses and Lannisport, not fire and blood."
"Daemon, control yourself," Viserys said, his voice low. "People are watching. You shame our House."
Daemon shoved past him. "They should watch. Let them see a true Targaryen's fury. Let them see who still remembers the blood of Old Valyria."
---
In a quiet, fire-warmed solar, Ellyn sat upright for the first time since the birth, her strength slowly returning. She stared at the swaddled child sleeping in her arms, her golden hair pulled back into a loose braid. The babe's warmth pulsed against her chest.
The door opened without announcement. Baelon entered. He wore no crown, no armor—just a tunic of deep black, the three-headed dragon stitched in silver across his chest.
Ellyn did not rise. Her expression was unreadable.
He looked at her, then at the child.
She held him tighter.
Baelon stepped closer. He did not smile. Did not reach. "He is… healthy?"
"Yes," Ellyn said. "Too clever for a babe, the maester says. Quiet. Observant."
Baelon nodded once. "That will serve him."
A pause stretched between them like the narrow sea.
"He has your eyes," Ellyn said softly.
"He has your blood," Baelon replied. "That will be… noticed."
Ellyn stood, regal and unyielding, child still in arms. "Then let them notice. I am a lion, yes, but this child is a dragon. A better dragon than some born of both."
Baelon's jaw clenched, then released. He turned to leave.
"Will you name him?" she asked.
Baelon stopped. A breath passed.
"Vaeron."
Ellyn looked down at the baby. "Vaeron," she echoed.
Baelon did not stay to watch her smile.
---
That night, the wind howled through the towers of the Red Keep. In his cradle, Vaeron Targaryen blinked up at the flickering torchlight. His tiny fingers clenched the silk sheets. No one saw when his eyes—deep, unblinking, ancient—turned toward the shadowed corners of the room.
As if he sensed something.
Or someone.
From far below, the faintest echo of a dragon's roar stirred the stone. No creature in the Dragonpit had made such a sound in generations.
But the babe did not cry.
He watched.
And smiled.