Chapter 8: Golden Scales and Shadowed Souls
The weight of fourteen years sat upon Baelon Targaryen with the deceptive lightness of a perfectly balanced Valyrian steel blade. To the court of King's Landing, he was the Prince of Dragonstone, rider of the magnificent Silverwing, a youth of unnerving composure and intellect that far outstripped his age. His silver-gold hair, Aemma's legacy, framed a face that rarely betrayed emotion, and his pale blue eyes, windows to Voldemort's ancient soul, missed nothing. The Red Keep was his chessboard, and the pieces – his family, the courtiers, the very lords and ladies of the realm – were moving, often unwittingly, to the silent rhythm of his will.
His greatest secret, Umbraxys, thrived in the hidden Heart of Valyria beneath Maegor's Holdfast. The shadow dragon was now a formidable creature, easily the size of a small warhorse, its scales like polished obsidian absorbing all light, its wings of pure shadowstuff capable of bearing it in silent, swift flight within the confines of its magically expanded lair. Feeding it had become a challenge Voldemort met with characteristic ruthlessness and ingenuity. Stray animals from the castle kennels, an occasional deer procured by Pate the scribe under the guise of 'princely falconry supplies,' and, on one particularly daring occasion, a captured wild boar from the Kingswood, all vanished into the shadowy maw of Umbraxys. The creature's hunger was immense, but so was its power.
Their bond had deepened into something that transcended mere telepathy. Voldemort could not only see through Umbraxys's molten gold eyes, granting him an invisible, roving perspective within the Red Keep's most secret corridors, but he could also draw upon its unique shadow magic. He learned to weave these umbral energies with his own wizarding power, creating illusions that were almost indistinguishable from reality, cloaking himself in shadows that rendered him virtually invisible, and even projecting an aura of primal fear that could unnerve the staunchest guards. The glyphs in the chamber continued to yield their secrets, revealing fragments of Valyrian sorcery dealing with blood pacts, elemental bindings, and the manipulation of life energies – knowledge that Voldemort absorbed with a chilling avidity, seeing parallels and terrifying enhancements to his own Dark Arts.
Publicly, Baelon played the part of the diligent heir. He flew Silverwing regularly, their bond a display of Targaryen mastery that both awed and unsettled. He would put the great silver dragon through complex aerial maneuvers, their synchronicity almost preternatural, a silent message to any who might doubt his claim or his power. He knew Otto Hightower watched these displays with a mixture of fear and calculation, undoubtedly redoubling his efforts to bolster his own grandson, Aegon.
Aegon, now a boy of eight, was the focus of those efforts. The pressure for him to claim a dragon had become immense, a constant refrain from Queen Alicent and the Hand. It was deemed essential to solidify his standing, to present him as a 'true' Targaryen prince in the mold of his ancestors, a counterpoint to Baelon's somewhat aloof and intimidating presence.
The day chosen for Aegon's visit to the Dragonpit was one of high ceremony. The royal family, minus Daemon who was currently on a prolonged 'inspection' of the City Watch that many suspected was an excuse to carouse in the seedier parts of King's Landing, assembled. Aegon, dressed in rich green and gold, looked both excited and visibly nervous. Otto Hightower hovered protectively, while Queen Alicent offered encouraging smiles.
Voldemort watched from a shaded gallery, his expression unreadable. He had no interest in the proceedings beyond their political implications. He already knew which dragon had been subtly 'guided' towards Aegon by the Dragonkeepers, men increasingly influenced by the Hand's patronage: a young, dazzlingly beautiful creature with scales of pure gold, recently named Sunfyre. A showy beast, certainly, fitting for a prince meant to be the 'brighter' alternative.
The claiming itself was… adequate. Sunfyre, though spirited, was young and had been well-primed. Aegon, after a few moments of understandable trepidation and some fumbling attempts to assert his will, managed to mount the golden dragon. There was none of the immediate, almost telepathic bond Baelon had displayed with Silverwing. It was more a matter of a stubborn boy and a somewhat reluctant, if ultimately compliant, young dragon. Sunfyre took to the air with a slightly uneven beat of its wings, Aegon clinging on with a mixture of terror and exhilaration.
The greens hailed it as a triumph. "Aegon the Golden!" some cried, as Sunfyre's scales glittered in the sun. Viserys, ever eager for family harmony, clapped enthusiastically. "Well done, my boy! Another dragonrider in the family! Your ancestors would be proud!"
Voldemort noted the subtle tightening of Rhaenyra's lips as she watched her half-brother's shaky flight. She, rider of the swift Syrax, knew true mastery, and this was not it. But she offered Aegon a polite smile upon his slightly undignified landing.
The claiming of Sunfyre did little to ease the tension between Baelon and Aegon; if anything, it emboldened the younger prince. Now a dragonrider himself, Aegon became more arrogant, more prone to challenging Baelon's authority, often egged on by his coterie of young, sycophantic lordlings.
A confrontation occurred not long after, during a feast in the Great Hall. Aegon, flushed with wine (which Alicent allowed him in small, 'princely' quantities, another point of contention with the more traditional Rhaenyra), began to boast loudly of Sunfyre's beauty and speed.
"Sunfyre is the most beautiful dragon in the world!" Aegon declared, his voice carrying across the tables. "More splendid than any dull silver beast!" He cast a pointed look at Baelon.
A quiet hush fell. Attacking another's dragon was a grave insult. Baelon slowly placed his goblet down. "Beauty, brother Aegon, is a fleeting thing," he said, his voice calm but carrying a distinct chill. "Power, true power, endures. And true power is not measured in the sheen of scales, but in the will that commands it."
"Are you saying Silverwing is more powerful than Sunfyre?" Aegon challenged, his face reddening. "I would match him against your old mare any day!"
Voldemort allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. "An interesting proposition. Perhaps when Sunfyre has learned to fly in a straight line, we might consider it. Until then, I would advise you to focus on mastering your… very pretty… pet."
The insult was palpable. Aegon surged to his feet, his hand instinctively going to the small, ornamental dagger at his belt. "You dare insult me! I am the King's son!"
"And I," Baelon replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper that nonetheless seemed to silence the entire hall, "am the Prince of Dragonstone. The heir to the Iron Throne. You would do well to remember your place, little brother, before your… exuberance… leads you to say something you will deeply regret." His gaze was like ice, and Aegon, for all his bluster, visibly faltered, sinking back into his seat, his face pale.
Otto Hightower rose, his expression grim. "Prince Baelon, such open hostility towards your brother is… regrettable. The King desires harmony."
"Indeed, Lord Hand," Voldemort replied smoothly. "And harmony is best maintained when all parties understand the established order. I was merely clarifying it for Prince Aegon, lest his youthful enthusiasm lead him astray." He then turned to his father, who looked deeply distressed. "Forgive me, Father, if my words were sharp. My concern for Aegon's proper understanding of his station is, I assure you, sincere."
Viserys, ever eager to avoid conflict, simply waved a weary hand. "Enough. Let there be no more talk of challenging dragons. You are brothers."
But the lines were drawn sharper than ever. Later that night, Helaena, who had been quietly observing the exchange, found Baelon in the castle library. She was now ten, a strange, ethereal girl, her pronouncements often dismissed but, as Voldemort knew, sometimes unsettlingly accurate.
"The golden scales gleam," she murmured, tracing patterns on a dusty tome, "but the shadow heart beats strongest. Two wings for the silver prince, one seen, one hidden deep. The beast of night… it hungers for the sun's bright son."
Voldemort looked at her, his mind racing. Two wings, one seen, one hidden deep. A clear reference to Silverwing and Umbraxys. The beast of night hungers for the sun's bright son. A threat towards Aegon? Or merely a reflection of his own cold calculations regarding his half-brother? Helaena was a conduit, perhaps, to some deeper, unseen current, but whether she understood the implications of her words was unclear.
"Your riddles are intriguing, sister," he said mildly. "Perhaps you should write them down. They might amuse the Maesters."
She simply smiled her vague, unsettling smile and drifted away. Voldemort made a mental note: Helaena's perceptions were becoming a potential liability. He would need to ensure she never spoke too clearly of what she sensed.
Daemon Targaryen, upon his return to court, heard tales of the feast and Baelon's cool dispatch of Aegon's challenge. He sought Baelon out in the training yard, where the elder prince was practicing with live steel against a seasoned master-at-arms, his movements fluid, precise, and utterly lethal.
"Nephew," Daemon said, leaning against a weapons rack, a smirk playing on his lips. "I hear you put young Aegon in his place. Otto must have been apoplectic."
"The Hand's humors are of no concern to me, Uncle," Baelon replied, disarming his opponent with a swift, brutal efficiency before dismissing him with a nod. He turned to Daemon, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow – a rare sign of exertion. "Aegon overstepped. He was reminded of his boundaries."
"Boundaries are so… restrictive, don't you think?" Daemon mused, his violet eyes glinting. "Especially for dragons. Or those with dragon blood." He paused. "Silverwing flies well under your command. Some say too well. As if she shares your very thoughts."
"A strong bond between rider and dragon is to be expected, is it not?" Baelon countered, his gaze unwavering. He sensed Daemon probing, testing, always looking for a weakness or an unexpected strength.
"Indeed," Daemon conceded. "But some bonds are… stronger than others. Darker, perhaps." He stepped closer. "You are not like the others, Baelon. Not like Viserys, certainly. Not even like me. There's a coldness in you, an ancient stillness. What secrets do you hide behind those pale eyes, I wonder?"
Voldemort met his uncle's intense scrutiny without flinching. "I hide nothing, Uncle. I am merely… observant. And I do not suffer fools gladly."
Daemon laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "Well said! In that, at least, we are alike." He clapped Baelon on the shoulder, a gesture that was both familiar and a subtle test of strength. "Keep them on their toes, nephew. This court needs a little fear to keep it honest. Or at least, interesting."
Voldemort knew Daemon was a dangerous ally and an even more dangerous foe. For now, their interests sometimes aligned – primarily in their shared disdain for Otto Hightower and their amusement at the court's hypocrisies. But he would not trust Daemon any further than he could throw Caraxes.
Rhaenyra, meanwhile, found her own position increasingly complicated. With Aegon now a dragonrider, the greens grew bolder in their assertions of his primacy. Viserys, though still publicly affirming Baelon as heir, was clearly swayed by Alicent's gentle persuasions and his own desire for peace at any cost, often indulging Aegon's whims to an extent he never had with Baelon or even Rhaenyra in her youth.
Rhaenyra sought Baelon out more often, their conversations usually taking place in the more secluded parts of the gardens or during flights where they could speak freely, their dragons soaring high above the Red Keep.
"Father weakens, Baelon," she said one evening, as Syrax and Silverwing circled each other in the twilight sky. "He allows Alicent and her father to fill his ears with their poison. They seek to supplant you with Aegon, and to erase me entirely."
"Their desires are irrelevant if they lack the power to enact them," Baelon replied, his voice carried on the wind. "Aegon is a child with a new toy. Otto is a grasping functionary. Alicent is a frightened woman hiding behind her piety."
"Yet they have the King's ear! And Aegon has a dragon now. The lords see another male claimant, one more… pliable, perhaps, than you."
"Pliability is not a virtue in a king, Rhaenyra. Nor in an heir." He looked at her, his pale eyes reflecting the dying light. "You have Syrax. You have Daemon's loyalty, for what it's worth. You have your own claim, however convoluted the Maesters might try to make it now. What will you do with these assets?" He was subtly stoking her ambition, her resentment. A discontented Rhaenyra was a useful tool against the Hightowers.
"I will not be set aside," Rhaenyra declared, her voice fierce. "I am my father's firstborn child. I am of the blood of the dragon."
"Then prove it," Baelon said softly. "Do not let them see your fear, or your frustration. Let them see only fire and blood."
His network, though small, was proving useful. Ser Arryk Cargyll, now firmly in Baelon's confidence, reported on the movements and sentiments within the Kingsguard, particularly those knights more aligned with the Queen. Pate the scribe continued to funnel interesting documents and snippets of overheard conversations from the Maesters' chambers and the city archives, including worrisome reports of Otto Hightower making quiet inquiries into Valyrian succession laws that might, with enough twisting, favor a son born to a reigning King's current Queen over a son from a previous marriage, especially if that previous Queen had a history of… difficult pregnancies. It was a desperate, flimsy argument, but it showed the depths of Otto's intent.
The secret of Umbraxys, however, weighed heavily on Voldemort. The shadow dragon was becoming too large, its aura too potent to remain contained indefinitely within the hidden chamber, even with the Valyrian wards. He had experienced a close call when a section of the floor above the chamber, in a little-used storeroom, had cracked under the strain of Umbraxys practicing a particularly violent burst of shadowflame. Pate had managed to misdirect the servants who discovered it, attributing it to structural settling, but it was a warning.
He intensified his study of the Valyrian glyphs, seeking a solution. He discovered rituals of spatial distortion, ancient techniques to expand pocket dimensions or create shielded habitats. The magic was complex, dangerous, requiring precise alignments of energy and blood – his blood. But the alternative, discovery, was unthinkable. Umbraxys was his ultimate weapon, the key to a power these Westerosi fools could not even comprehend.
As his fifteenth nameday approached, Voldemort felt the pieces on the board shifting into sharper relief. Aegon was a public rival, backed by a determined faction. Rhaenyra was a volatile ally of convenience. Daemon was a unpredictable wildcard. And he, Baelon Targaryen, was the master of two dragons, one of silver light, one of consuming shadow. The court saw a quiet, formidable prince. They did not see Lord Voldemort, patiently weaving a web of magic and intrigue, preparing for a reign that would reshape the world in his own dark image. The whispers of the Dance of the Dragons were growing louder, but it would be a dance to his tune, conducted with fire, blood, and the chilling magic of a forgotten age.