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1. Disheartenments of Infancy
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 17:32:11 +0000 UTCIn my life before, I would, in moments swollen with grievous stress, ponder how life might fare as an infant. A life idled in leisure, bereft of worry or demand. A dream most coveted by one shackled beneath the burdens of duty, borne of maturity and independence.
Yet, as I lay upon “this bed”, my gaze fixed upon a ceiling ancient and devoid of the aesthetics fore-promised by Pinterest, I longed for naught but that former life of independence, with all its countless woes and wearying obligations.
Just as it was reality’s wont, experience did sour expectation.
Infancy was no bed of roses, but mundanity distilled to its purest form. Little wonder babes are cursed with dullness, for had they been spared it, all men would grow into monsters by right of the dreadful boredom such days of youth did entail.
Infancy offered naught but tedium—outbursts of passion unmoored from control, the foul disgrace of soiling oneself whether in sleep or in wakefulness, and feeding upon the blandest morsels ever passed as sustenance.
And aye, to suckle at a breast would doubtless be deemed a dream most wondrous by many, and I counted myself amongst that company. Yet how swiftly the dream soured when the breast belonged to one’s mother.
Ah, yes. My most considerate mother deemed herself sole keeper of my nourishment. Not that I scorned her devotion—indeed, I did cherish it—but the shame of it weighed heavy, for it was a price most burdensome, and all of it one-sided.
Yet even such indignity paled before the humiliations heaped upon me by my caretakers. Ever would they contort their faces at me, toss me to and fro, or tickle my helpless form. Such torments, alas, drew forth responses from me against my true will, and these were deemed cute—a cruel mockery to my intellect, for the tongue was yet too feeble to grant me reprieve. And so their sport begot further torment, further shame.
Such cruelty I would not dare visit upon my vilest foe.
Yet let me not paint life as wholly idle.
Five moons had now passed since my rebirth, and with them faded the veil of blur from my eyes. No longer was I hindered in my senses, and thus at last could I behold in full the splendours of this world once thought naught but fable. First and foremost, my mother—she who kept ever in my company.
And upon true sight of her, I understood why many spoke of Valyrians as touched with divinity. Rhaella was beauty incarnate. Uncannily radiant, like unto a doll or a master’s sculpture. Her visage bore no flaw, her form perfectly measured and delicate. Even her melancholy, ever so relentless, adorned her features with tragic grace…
It pained me to think so ill of the poor girl, burdened with mothering a monster such as I. Yet I understood why her torment would stir a cruel delight in men of my and Aerys’s likeness.
…Mesmerised, I reached my feeble hand to her cheek, clawing clumsily at her fair skin—curse my wretched motor control!
“Oh, are you struck dumb by your mother’s beauty, little dragon? Mayhap one day you shall wed a maiden as fair as I.” She laughed then, bright as dawn’s first light. Her cheek pressed against mine, and to my horror a giggle burst unbidden from my throat.
Seven hells—
Yet, truth be told, my existence was not all lament. At times my thoughts wandered to morrows yet to come and yesterdays long past. Chief among such musings was the year of my birth, and who I truly was. Though no ardent admirer of Martin’s works, I recalled enough to suspect I was elder to Viserys, who by my memory was birthed in the year… 276? Somewhere about that.
And how came I to this conclusion?
“Mother, might I at last be granted leave to see him?” A voice, young yet noble, innocent yet earnest, broke the quiet.
“Yes, you may, Rhaegar,” my mother replied. I strained my neck to follow her gaze. The hour had come to meet the very fool whose hand would one day drag our house into ruin.
My elder brother stood before me, no more than five years by my judgment. A comely child, bright-eyed and fair as our mother, with that same uncanniness that clung to our bloodline. His eyes brimmed with interest and fascination, tempered by confusion.
“He is rather small, is he not?” he asked, stretching forth a hand to tickle me. Seven damned curses upon him! “Why is he so tiny?”
“Well, that is because he is yet but an infant, a mere five moons into this world. Fear not, Rhaegar. In time he shall grow.” Our mother humoured the boy’s witless query, her voice warm with pride.
At this, Rhaegar ceased his tickling, his gaze turning thoughtful.
“Then, when he is grown, might I take him with me to the library? There are many books I deem he will cherish. We might read together, he and I.”
The boy’s joy was plain. I wondered what fancy stirred within that young mind of his—thoughts touched with a maturity uncommon for one who by rights ought to find mud the height of delight.
Ah, nobles. A breed most confounding.
Perhaps, by my presence here—gods grant no fever cut short this life so strangely restored after I had squandered the last—I might shape that exceptional mind of my brother’s toward worthier pursuits.
It would ill serve me to suffer this elder sibling of mine to be lost in tomes and delusions most foul, as decreed by the cruel hand of Martin.
And so my days passed. To my mother’s gentle cooing. To Rhaegar’s curious company. My father never came, though I dared not confess hurt at such neglect.
The moons turned, and never once was I granted a change of scenery beyond the confines of my chamber. Yet the cravings of modern indulgence and endless stimulation withered away. I came to cherish even the smallest of blessings. Patience, that most elusive of virtues, grew within me. My thoughts I visited often. I planned. I theorised. I learned. I catalogued. I became.
High Valyrian became the tongue most natural to me, its cadence reflecting my mother’s own. The meekness once forged by insignificance I cast aside. I was royalty now, and at last I could assume my true self—posh, supreme, learned, beautiful.
My chamber transformed, from queer strangeness to prison, then to world entire. I came to love it, though in truth it was no hard task. Elegant it was… nay, god-touched. Though this realm was stagnant in its ways, its refinements in luxury were art itself. A balcony overlooked the sea not far from my crib. There my playthings rested, and the sea breeze, untainted by the stench of city crowds, brought me solace.
My personal caretaker, a girl named Vaelery, ever dutiful, would throw open the casements with each dawn. A most loyal sort, that one. She bore my race—violet eyes and silver hair—and her speech was of the Freehold’s tongue. Young still, near enough in years to my mother, though of lesser station.
I vowed I would remember such diligence when fortune and power came to be mine.
Some days I was visited by the Grand Maester, who came to perform his examinations upon my person. Those days were cruel upon my feeble heart, for death was ever a steadfast companion in these times so medieval, and most especially so for us infants.
The false physician stirred no gratitude in me, for he frightened rather than soothed. Yet fear alone did not anchor my distaste.
“Traitor is thy name, Pycelle, and I shall not in good faith suffer thy presence.”
The old fossil was a creature of lust, his strings pulled by the Heir of Lannister. By sworn oath he was bound to House Targaryen, yet—as the saying goes—words are but wind.
So the days turned, until one of much bustle arrived.
It was Vaelery who heralded it, at least to me. “The time has come for you to be anointed in the sacred oils of the Seven Who Are One, Prince Daemon,” she had said, her countenance bright as a summer sky.
The maid arrayed me in fineries and bore me forth from my confinement for the first time since my birth. A retinue of guards flanked us, and among them stood one clad all in white—the famed Kingsguard. Yet I had no name to attach to his visage.
I had never been a great admirer of that storied order, and thus I spared no thought for their tales.
The walk, though in truth I was carried, proved enlightening. The holdfast revealed itself a monument to vanity and splendour. Walls of polished marble, tapestries ablaze with dragons, fire, and epics that bore no true memory of history. Servants bustled about in throngs, yet stilled to bow as I passed. Undeserved deference, and yet there it was—I had indeed become significant.
Still, the excess of bodies unsettled me. So many hands, so little order. Efficiency must needs be brought to the governance of the Red Keep.
I was reunited with my kin upon venturing outdoors. Rhaegar was present, though petulant and sulking. The boy had little wish to witness my anointing, declaring books of greater worth than the sept. I begrudged him not; in truth, I too held no fondness for holy halls in my former life. They were drear places, filled with men and women who draped themselves in false virtue, hearkening to a priest who feigned enlightenment.
We journeyed thence with Mother in a carriage, fair to the eye yet barren of true comfort. Beyond the gates, greater throngs awaited. They filled the roads, their voices raised, calling my name, exalting me.
This fervour, this unearned devotion, this love so freely given. Aye, it was mine to shape, for none among the highborn saw its worth. It must be nourished. It must be sharpened. It must be… personalised.
All in due time.
The Great Sept of Baelor at last came into view, and by the heavens was the edifice grand. Mother alighted first, and with me in her arms we made our passage within the holy place. Nobles were gathered in their finery, though most, I judged, were but envoys rather than the true heads of their houses. Even mine own sire was present, exchanging pleasantries with certain men, and being drowned, no doubt, in false courtesies.
It seemed to me a pitiable thing, to be Aerys. A king bereft of talent, of wit, of joy, or of the least measure of charisma. All that dwelt within him was an untempered pride, borne upon a heart steeped in inferiority. Collapse, I did not doubt, would have been the end of this dynasty, had not Tywin Lannister’s sure hand upheld the realm, ensuring survival and a measure of success for House Targaryen.
Yet I knew full well the Lion Heir did not do so out of loyalty, nor from generosity of spirit, but rather from the expectation that his own blood should one day sit the Iron Throne. A powerful house, and his seed set to rule over it.
Oh, how arrogant.
And speak of the Hand, he did show himself at last. A man in full, all golden hair, stern countenance, and silence honed as a stabber. His stoicism seemed wrought into art, and his gaze fell upon me, upon Rhaella, and upon Rhaegar. Long did it linger, weighing, measuring, expecting. I could but hope I rightly divined what designs he harbored for mine witless brother, and I could only wish it were the same as my own imagining.
And if it were so, then I knew the man must needs be my foe in years to come—deluded by his paranoia, and chained fast by the old traditions.
Mother roused me gently, for I had strayed too deep into my own cunning thoughts. She set me into the arms of a man of no small station, heavy of frame, adorned in white robes and burdened with jewels that gleamed so bright they near blinded. Thus did my anointing commence. I yielded my mind then, allowing the holy rite to pass me by in haze. Oils were poured, incense burned, and chants droned long. An hour or more was spent so, lost in monotony.
In that dulled hour, I turned again to darker musings. Was this rebirth mine alone? Or did others, unknown to me, share a fate akin to mine? If such souls walked this world, what mask should I wear? Was it wisdom to tread in caution, ever wary for some grand derangement to betray the hand of those who, like me, did not belong?
Perhaps so, had I been born to low station or middling lot. But I was not. Royal blood flowed through me. Few indeed would dare visit harm upon one such as I, save they wished the wrath of the realm come crashing upon them with sword and flame. Still, I could not bring myself to believe that others were marked as I was.
Yet such certainty brought no comfort, for it did not follow that the tale should unfold as I once knew it. My very presence blurred the weave of fate. In truth, Aerys and Rhaella begat no son named Daemon, whether living or stillborn. I was not meant to be. My being might well be but the first of many divergences. This world might not be the Song I once read, but some other telling altogether, unknown and unpenned in my own.
Thus I resolved: I could not, and must not, place faith in the faithless. The words of Martin were no scripture, and fiction is no gospel. To worship it is folly.
The ceremony waned, rising high then falling low, a song most soothing in its rhythm. By its virtue, I was made a child of the Seven, those gods I judged false in earnest.
The High Septon bore me first to my lady mother, then to my sire.
I cooed as babes are wont to do, though mine was but a feigned joy, a reaching of hands that wedded innocence with the faint grotesquery of a grown soul mimicking the play of childhood.
Rhaella was moved by it, wearing the mantle of motherhood with a grace scarce expected of one so near her own girlhood. Aerys, too, was softened. Pride shone in him, a fleeting warmth that stripped him, for but a moment, of the strut that ever marked his step.
I judged him not. He was yet a man unknown to me, and I would not condemn him for sins he had not committed, nor for cruelties yet unborne.
Then came the nobles, pressing close in turn. They bent low, spoke honeyed words, and shaped their mouths into smiles cut of stone. Their practiced felicitations fell to my parents, yet their eyes strayed ever to me. It was then I marked a truth most disquieting: I understood them not. The Andal tongue they named Common was to mine ear but a babble of noise, a gibbering of sounds without sense.
This should not, could not, would not do. I must not be estranged from this tongue, for all discourse and record in Westeros was bound by it. Thus was it needful that I lay the mantle of servitor upon my elder brother, that he might lend his aid in guiding me through its words and meanings.
So resolved, I granted myself to rest, and heeded not the weighing stare of the youthful Lion Heir. A man of little wisdom, that Lannister.
Thus the day waned, and those beyond it still. Rhaegar proved himself of use, the boy keenly discerning my delight in his recitations. Often did he bring books to my chamber, reading aloud whilst pointing words to page and picture alike. My lady mother, alas, shared not in the joy of such pursuits. She fretted for her son’s making, fearing I should grow more swordsman than scholar.
Yet such worry was of little surprise. Whispers among the servants often betrayed my brother’s want of favor amongst the courtiers and the whisperers who thrived in the shadows of court.
It was reminder enough that the nobility of Westeros were but a sorry lot. Yet still I prayed unto the unseen aether, and begged of them that my brother should not prove to be Vaegon reborn.
Thus did a year pass, and I was made a creature of a single year’s age. A momentous occasion, though yet I owed four more before I might dwell secure in the hearts of all. That day Vaelery arrayed me once again, in raiment of finery, in colours and in heritage. The red and black of mine own house, with the three-headed dragon emblazoned upon my breast. Many rejoiced, for it was my first true welcome into the House of Targaryen.
It was also upon that day that a mirror was granted me, and I beheld myself in full for the first time. A babe still, comely and bright of face. Yet one feature did disquiet me sorely. Mine eyes, mismatched by nature’s hand, bore the mark of heterochromia. My left glimmered in the violet hue of Old Valyria, yet my right shone green as an emerald stone.
The sight of mine own visage stirred within me a dead lament long dormant. Often had I wondered why my adventure bore not the singular gift so often bestowed in tales of like nature. Yet now, despite knowing naught of its meaning—if indeed there be any meaning at all—I knew it in my marrow to be a gift. A boon granted by whatever abyssal power had seen fit to fashion my form and grant me place within this world.
Either that, or the mundanity I had suffered finally birthed madness within me.
The Saint: Okay, a lot of dumb things happened to me in the past months and I’ve been (and still am) working through them. I won’t bore you all with the specifics.
This chapter is inspired by Lastquincy2004’s The Golden Prince. The similarities are there if you read his work. I remember reading his story and thinking, “Ha, this chapter’s template is interesting. I should try writing something similar.” This was back in 2022, of course. But I archived the idea.
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