The Son
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**The Red Keep**
King Viserys mulled over recent events in the quiet of his chamber. *So my brother has a son… and named him Aegon,* he thought, suspiciously. *Is he planning something? Why has he not asked me for a dragon egg, nor shown me his child? Surely he must be proud of him.*
"Your Grace, Prince Daemon has shown a clear lack of respect," said Otto Hightower, the Hand, seizing the moment. "Naming his son after Aegon the Conqueror is an unmistakable—"
"Mind your words, Otto," Viserys interrupted sharply. "Daemon is my blood. He will present his son soon enough. Weren't you the one advising my brother to leave the capital? And now you complain?"
"My apologies, Your Grace," Otto replied calmly, regrouping before continuing. "However, the Maesters at the Citadel have sent word about your brother's son."
Viserys turned to him. "What do they say?"
"According to the Maester attending Prince Daemon, the boy died briefly at birth, only to be revived after Lady Laena's tragic end," Otto explained with an air of cautious intrigue. "The Maesters worry the child may be… unnatural, a demon perhaps, given his unique features."
---
**The Stepstones**
A child lay comfortably amidst three colossal dragons, his voice humming a soft, childlike tune. *Being a one-year-old again is far harder than I imagined,* the boy mused. *At this age, only my voice is useful, even if I can't convey intent properly.*
He chuckled internally, amused by his father's unconventional parenting style. *What kind of father lets a one-year-old sit atop a hundred-fifty-meter dragon's snout? Though, I suppose I didn't leave him much choice. My instincts call me to these dragons, and with my sharp teeth, even grandfather winced when he saw my smile. Yet grandmother, like father, only looked at me with love—an understanding of blood, perhaps. My song reaches them deeply, though ordinary people hear nothing.*
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**Corlys Velaryon's Perspective**
*That boy is no mere child,* Corlys thought, glancing at his wife, Rhaenys, who stood by the window, staring out thoughtfully. "What do you think of the child, my love?" he asked her.
Without turning, Rhaenys replied, "Do you not see it, Corlys? That child—he will secure the Targaryen legacy."
Corlys looked at her, puzzled. "The boy isn't even in line for succession."
Rhaenys finally turned, her eyes resolute. "What gives Targaryens their power?" she asked rhetorically. Without waiting for him to respond, she continued, "Dragons, Corlys. They are our power. Have you ever known Meleys to bow to anyone? Dragons bond with only one rider, yet the boy hums a simple tune, and they lower themselves to him. They want him to ride them—they crave it so much they ignore their own riders when he is near. If the boy wishes it, he could ground every dragon, and no matter how many dragon riders the Hightowers command, they could never launch an attack. And if he commanded it, the dragons would obliterate any enemy for him."
Corlys's face paled as the implication struck him. His eyes widened in a dawning realization that burned with new ambition.
---
**Rhaenys's Perspective**
I saw it, the fire of ambition in Corlys's eyes. My husband has always had an ambitious spirit, especially now that we have lost both Laena and Laenor. We still have our grandchildren, and while my heart aches, I cannot forsake them. I must ensure they are safe. And the look in Corlys's eyes… for once, I do not wish to stop him.
This child, my grandson, is meant for more than mere obedience. He is meant to lead, and should the Greens or Blacks stand against him, they will fall. I have long been content, accepting my grandfather's decision and letting my cousin Viserys rule the Seven Kingdoms under the Hightowers' influence. But for the first time, I see no soul more deserving of the Iron Throne than my daughter's son, Aegon.
Corlys, catching my eye, spoke with a fierce intensity. "If you're right, that boy could change not only the Seven Kingdoms but perhaps the entire world."
---
**Ten Years Later**
I had spent my life in the Stepstones, but now my father has been called to the Red Keep. My uncle is a peaceful king, or so my father and grandfather say, though they mean it differently. Father believes Uncle Viserys needs protection, while my grandfather sneers at him as weak. It's clear even to me that Uncle Viserys has been a king of peace, but one whose rule has left room for opportunists like Otto Hightower to coil around him.
My grandmother, Rhaenys, the "Queen Who Never Was," has remained by my father's side all these years, helping raise me. I am eleven now, and I no longer tear through my clothing. Not that I have much to tear—I rarely wear shoes, and shirts have become a joke. My wings are now so broad that even my tail—a beastly six-foot appendage—is almost dwarfed by them. They span four meters, and, thanks to my control over them, are highly mobile. My body, now over five feet eleven, is a patchwork of scales covering my chest, back, neck, and head. With claws to match, I've outgrown any cobbled-together clothing within hours of wearing it.
I'm a sight to behold, and I know it. But despite my monstrous appearance, I'm human enough for my face to remain youthful—a face many might call handsome. My voice, however, holds the real power. Since learning to sing with words, my melodies have made the castle feel safer than ever. The loyalty of those around me has grown fierce, whether through father's leadership or the charm my voice instills.
The rock vipers that guarded my crib died three years ago, though they left behind a clutch of ten eggs, and their offspring have taken up the mantle of my protection. Today, I stand on the beach, wings folded, waiting for my father and grandmother. We are to set out for Westeros to meet my family—the Targaryens, who rule the Seven Kingdoms but whose destiny I feel stirring within my own heart.