Chapter 6: Echoes of Valyria, Whispers in the Walls
The Red Keep, in Baelon Targaryen's tenth year, had become a finely tuned instrument of familial tension and political maneuvering, a symphony of whispers, resentments, and burgeoning ambitions. Voldemort, the conductor hidden in the orchestra pit of a child's form, found the melodies increasingly to his liking. Queen Alicent, now the mother of not only Aegon but also the dreamy, often unsettlingly perceptive Helaena, and with young Aemond recently emerged from the royal nursery, was the undisputed matriarch of a growing faction. Her apartments were the heart of this 'green' contingent, named for the color she had worn at her wedding feast, a subtle but clear demarcation from the black and red traditionally favored by House Targaryen.
Otto Hightower, his position as Hand seemingly unassailable, worked with tireless, subtle precision to elevate his grandsons in the eyes of the court and, more importantly, in the eyes of the increasingly weary King. Aegon, a boisterous and physically robust child, was paraded as the image of future Targaryen strength. Helaena, with her strange, murmured pronouncements that sometimes bordered on prophecy, was treated as a curiosity, while infant Aemond was another precious stone in the Hightower crown.
Voldemort, the true Prince of Dragonstone and undisputed heir by every law of gods and men in Westeros, watched these efforts with a cold, intellectual disdain. They were amateurs, their ambitions so transparent, their methods so… pedestrian. He was, by contrast, a grandmaster playing a patient game of cyvasse against children. While they focused on seating arrangements at feasts and the cut of Aegon's new tunic, he was delving into secrets that would make their petty squabbles utterly irrelevant.
His sanctuary, the hidden chamber beneath Maegor's Holdfast, had become the crucible of his true development. The obsidian egg, his 'Dragon's Hoard,' pulsed with a steady, ancient rhythm, its dark surface sometimes seeming to shimmer with internal, fleeting constellations of light. He had learned to draw upon the ambient magical energy of the chamber, the residue of Valyrian artifice that clung to the glyph-covered walls. It was different from his innate wizarding magic; wilder, more elemental, tinged with the scent of fire and ancient stone. It resonated with the Targaryen blood in his veins, amplifying his senses, sharpening his focus.
He spent hours, often stolen from sleep or feigned illness, simply meditating before the egg. The fragmented visions of Valyria's glory and doom had become clearer, more detailed. He saw glimpses of robed figures commanding impossible energies, of dragons so vast they blotted out the sun, of arcane rituals that twisted flesh and fused stone. It was a raw, untamed magic, far removed from the structured spellcasting of his previous life, yet its potential was undeniable. He began to understand that Valyrian 'blood magic' was not just a turn of phrase; it was a literal connection to the primal forces, a power inherited and cultivated. He felt it stirring within himself, a slow awakening alongside the familiar chill of his Dark Arts.
His wizarding abilities were also flourishing in this supercharged environment. Telekinesis that could now manipulate objects of considerable weight with pinpoint accuracy, Legilimency that allowed him to skim deeper currents of thought, even the beginnings of subtle elemental influence – making the air in his chambers unnaturally cold or a candle flame leap to an unnatural height with a mere thought. He practiced the Unforgivable Curses mentally, keeping the incantations and wand movements sharp in his mind, adapting them to the concept of pure, focused will, should he ever need them without a wand. The chamber seemed to drink in these dark thoughts, the obsidian egg pulsing faintly in response, as if in approval.
One morning, Grand Maester Mellos, during a particularly tedious lesson on the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, was interrupted by Baelon. "Grand Maester," the prince inquired, his pale blue eyes fixed on the old man, "the records speak of Valyrian roads that never crumbled, of towers that touched the clouds without mortar. Was this solely dragonfire and slave labor, or did their stonemasons command the earth itself, as some fragmented scrolls hint?"
Mellos blinked, taken aback. "Prince Baelon, such tales are often… exaggerated. Valyrian steel is their most enduring legacy, its secrets lost. As for their architecture, it was indeed remarkable, but attributing it to… earth magic…" He chuckled dismissively. "Those are the fancies of storytellers, Your Grace."
"Yet the foundations of this very Keep, particularly Maegor's additions, are said to be fused in ways our current builders cannot replicate," Baelon pressed, his voice holding no childish fantasy, but a cold, analytical curiosity. "Is it not a Maester's duty to seek truth, even in forgotten fancies?"
Mellos shifted uncomfortably. The prince's questions were often unnervingly perceptive, his intellect far exceeding his years. "The strength of Valyrian stonecraft is well documented, Prince Baelon. Its precise methods, however, remain a mystery. Perhaps it is best some mysteries remain undisturbed."
Voldemort merely nodded, filing away the Maester's discomfort. He knew the truth lay not in scrolls Mellos would ever read, but in the pulsating heart of his hidden chamber. He was beginning to suspect the glyphs themselves were not just containment, but instruction, a silent language of power he was slowly, painstakingly deciphering.
The court, meanwhile, was frequently enlivened, or scandalized, by the antics of Prince Daemon. His return had not brought the stability Viserys had hoped for. Daemon, restless and easily bored, chafed under the constraints of courtly life and the watchful, disapproving eyes of Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent. He had taken command of the City Watch, the gold cloaks, and molded them into a fiercely loyal and brutally efficient force, earning him both respect in the dangerous alleys of King's Landing and fear among the nobility who saw it as Daemon building his own private army.
One evening, a tourney was held to celebrate King Viserys's tenth year on the throne. Daemon, naturally, was a flamboyant participant, unhorsing several prominent knights with a skill and ferocity that thrilled the commons and unnerved the greens. He presented his victor's laurels not to the Queen, as protocol might suggest, but to his niece, Rhaenyra, who accepted them with a radiant smile, further fueling Alicent's simmering resentment.
Later that night, during the celebratory feast, a drunken Lord Bracken made a slighting remark about Daemon's 'pretender crown' from the Stepstones. Quicker than a striking viper, Daemon seized the lord, a Valyrian steel dagger appearing in his hand as if by magic. For a moment, the Great Hall fell silent, the threat of bloodshed hanging heavy in the air. Viserys rose, his face pale. "Daemon! Enough!"
Daemon held Lord Bracken by the throat, his eyes blazing with cold fury. Then, with a contemptuous sneer, he released the sputtering lord, shoving him back into his seat. "A Bracken should learn to hold his tongue, or have it removed," Daemon drawled, before turning to Viserys with a charming, almost boyish smile. "Forgive my temper, brother. The wine is strong, and my patience for fools is thin."
Viserys, caught between anger and a weary affection for his incorrigible brother, merely sighed and waved him away. Otto Hightower's face was a mask of stone, but Voldemort saw the tightening of his jaw, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes at Daemon further alienating himself from the King's favor.
Voldemort, observing from his seat beside his father, analyzed the scene with detached interest. Daemon was a blade, sharp and dangerous, but he wielded it recklessly. His power was overt, reliant on fear and charisma. Effective, in its own way, but lacking subtlety, lacking the patient cunning that Voldemort prized. Still, Daemon's ability to command loyalty from the gold cloaks, his undeniable martial prowess, and his connection to Rhaenyra made him a significant piece on the board.
Rhaenyra herself was blossoming into a spirited young woman. Now in her late teens, she was the Realm's Delight, beautiful and bold, an accomplished dragonrider. Yet, the birth of Aegon and his siblings had undeniably shifted her position. Though Viserys doted on her, the whispers at court, fanned by the Hightowers, increasingly favored Aegon as the 'true' future, the male heir born of the current Queen. Baelon's existence as the actual male heir and Prince of Dragonstone was an inconvenient truth they tried to subtly dance around, emphasizing Aegon's youth and the potential for Baelon to… perhaps share Aemma's ill luck with health, or some other veiled insinuation.
Rhaenyra felt this pressure keenly. Her relationship with Alicent had fractured completely, replaced by a cool, formal animosity. She clung to Daemon as her staunchest ally, their shared Targaryen fire a bulwark against the green tide.
Baelon, in his interactions with Rhaenyra, maintained a careful neutrality. He was her younger half-brother (or cousin, depending on how one traced the complex Targaryen tree), the undisputed heir. He offered her the formal respect due her station. Sometimes, he would find her in the gardens or the library, and they would speak. She seemed to find his quiet intensity less threatening than the overt ambitions of others.
"They whisper in the Queen's apartments, Baelon," she said to him one day, her voice tight with frustration. "They say Aegon is the future. They forget you. They forget father named me his cupbearer, his constant companion."
"Words are wind, cousin," Baelon replied, his gaze steady. "The law is clear. The King's firstborn son is his heir. That is me." He paused, then added, a subtle probe, "Unless Father declares otherwise."
Rhaenyra's eyes flashed. "He would not dare! He loved my mother. He loves me." Yet, a flicker of doubt crossed her face. Viserys was easily swayed, and Alicent and Otto were relentless.
"Love is a fragile shield against ambition, Rhaenyra," Baelon said softly, the words of an ancient philosopher on the lips of a ten-year-old boy. "Power respects only power."
She looked at him then, a long, searching look. "You are… strange, Baelon. Sometimes you speak like a Maester thrice your age."
"I listen," he said simply. "And I learn." He saw her as a potential asset. Her dragon, Syrax, her popularity with certain factions, her own fiery spirit – if channeled correctly, she could be a useful tool, or at least a distraction for his enemies. He began to subtly feed her confidence, to reinforce her own sense of importance, a counterweight to the Hightower efforts.
The question of Baelon claiming his own dragon became a more frequent topic of conversation at court. He was of age. As Prince of Dragonstone, it was expected. He dutifully visited the Dragonpit, observing the various dragons available – young ones, recently hatched, or older, riderless beasts. He showed a polite, princely interest, but inwardly, he was biding his time. None of these creatures compared to the potential slumbering in his obsidian egg. That would be his true mount, his true symbol of power. But he understood the necessity of a public display.
He let it be known he was considering his options carefully. This feigned deliberation allowed him to observe the dragons more closely, to study their temperaments, their connection to their keepers, and the subtle magical aura each possessed. He noted that some dragons seemed more attuned to the ancient Valyrian energies he was now becoming familiar with.
Meanwhile, he began his own subtle manipulations within the court. He identified a young, ambitious but overlooked knight from a minor house, Ser Arryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard, a man of quiet competence and unwavering loyalty to the crown. Baelon, through carefully worded praise to his father, and by ensuring Ser Arryk was often assigned to his personal guard, began to cultivate a sense of obligation in the knight. He also found a young, intelligent scribe in the Maesters' library, a boy named Pate, whose quick mind and access to records could be useful. Small favors, a shared confidence, a hint of future patronage – these were the seeds of loyalty Voldemort began to sow.
Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys remained a distant but potent force. Laena Velaryon, their daughter, had been wed to the son of the Sealord of Braavos, a strategic alliance, but her heart, it was rumored, remained in Westeros, with her magnificent dragon Vhagar. The Velaryons were building their strength at Driftmark, their resentment a simmering ember that could easily be fanned into a flame. Voldemort made sure to keep abreast of their movements through Pate, who had access to shipping manifests and traders' gossip.
Alicent, meanwhile, gave birth to her third child with Viserys, another son, Aemond. The Hightower faction swelled with pride. Aegon was now old enough to be a boisterous, often cruel playmate, Helaena continued to murmur her strange truths, and Aemond was another healthy male. Baelon observed them all with the cold detachment of a scientist. They were variables, pieces on the board, their importance defined only by their potential to affect his own rise.
He pictured them, years hence, as rivals. Aegon, pushed by his grandfather and mother, might be foolish enough to challenge his claim. Aemond, if he grew to be like his namesake, the Rogue Prince's more ruthless counterpart, could be a genuine threat. Helaena… Helaena was an unknown. Her strange perceptions might make her an ally or a uniquely dangerous foe.
But Voldemort was not idle. His power grew daily, fed by the ancient energies of the Valyrian chamber. The obsidian egg pulsed with a stronger, more insistent rhythm, and sometimes, when he pressed his ear to its smooth, cool surface, he thought he could hear the faintest, incredibly deep, slow heartbeat from within. He was learning not just Valyrian history, but the foundational principles of their magic, a magic of blood and fire, of binding and commanding. He felt it changing him, not physically, but in the very essence of his magical core. The cold, dark power of his wizarding soul was finding a terrifying resonance with the fiery, primal magic of Old Valyria.
He was Baelon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne. But within him stirred something far older, far more powerful. He was the serpent in their midst, his coils tightening, his plans maturing. The whispers in the walls of the Red Keep were no longer just those of courtiers; they were the echoes of Valyria, and they spoke his name. The future was a canvas, and he held the brush, dipped in fire and shadow.