January, 100 AC
Last month was absolutely mad. Princess Gael's suicide shook the Red Keep to its foundations. Queen Alysanne was inconsolable—crying, wailing, locking herself in her chambers. The old King looked hollow too, like he'd aged ten years in a week. Even Princess Rhaenys and her famously proud husband Corlys Velaryon came to pay respects, putting aside their usual disdain for the court. After the funeral, the Queen moved permanently to Dragonstone. The death of another child had broken her.
I sighed. Amidst all this grief, I started getting closer to Prince Viserys. As Baelon's squire, I had access. One day, I asked Baelon if I could become Viserys's sworn sword after I was knighted. He laughed—14-year-old me making grand declarations—but he approved. So I began shadowing Viserys. I knew what others didn't: in one year he'd be crown prince, in three, king. The court didn't take much notice. They assumed King Jaehaerys had five more years in him, and Baelon a couple decades. Viserys was treated as just another Targaryen prince. But I wasn't planning to waste the advantage.
I started sparring with Daemon every now and then too. That boy had bite, I'll give him that.
I couldn't remember exactly when, but Daemon had a dragon during the Great Council. That meant he must've claimed it sometime this year. Thinking about it made me envious. The moment a Targaryen bonds with a dragon, they become more powerful than a battalion—and more annoying than one too. The sheer freedom, the status, the smugness. No wonder Daemon grew arrogant. A dragonrider brother ruling over a dragonless king? That would chafe.
Viserys was no ordinary Targaryen, though. He had claimed Balerion—the Black Dread himself. The oldest, mightiest dragon in the world. True, Balerion was already ancient and crumbling by the time Viserys got to him. He died in 94 AC at the age of 208. Still, what a feat. I sometimes wondered what the System would've rewarded me with had I claimed Balerion. Maybe it could've even extended his life. But without Valyrian blood, no dragon for me. No Balerion. Just bread and sweat.
After my training, I spent more time with Viserys. He had another close friend at court—Otto Hightower. That man was already making a name for himself as the cleverest mind in the Red Keep. He'd known Viserys longer than I had, but he spent more time around Baelon, carefully positioning himself in the center of influence. I pretended to be friendly with him too. Being Baelon's squire opened doors most lowborns like me could only dream of.
Eventually, I returned home for a brief visit. I helped my father boost the family bakery's fame using my royal connections. We pooled our savings, and I finally convinced the shop next door to sell. After a bit of renovation, our bakery became a two-storefront marvel. On that street, we were second only to inns and noble houses in size. Business boomed. I managed hired workers, organized deliveries—because, like it or not, the gold needed for my knighthood depended on this bakery.
Three months later, the Red Keep was abuzz with a new headline: Prince Daemon had claimed Caraxes and was seen flying him.
The King wasn't thrilled—Daemon hadn't asked his leave. But he understood. Targaryens didn't ask permission to claim dragons. They simply walked into the pit, spoke a word, and flew.
Daemon did just that—and now he spent every waking moment in the sky.