There was nothing. It wasn't darkness, nor was it a vacuum. It was the absence of everything, including itself. A non-state where time did not flow and consciousness was a paradox. But slowly, like the first spark of light in the abyss, something emerged. A diffuse perception that there was an "I" where nothing had existed before.
It was a formless spirit, a mind without memories, floating in the space between realities. It did not know its name, did not remember its past life or how it had gotten there. It just was. But in this minimal existence, echoes began to arrive. Fragments of something distant.
First came visions of a strange world. It saw a seat made of sharp blades, a colossal wall of ice, and creatures of ice and darkness marching south. It saw dragons flying over cities in flames and a silver-haired woman surrounded by stone eggs. Echoes of a story that seemed both familiar and impossibly distant.
Then, the memories returned in an overwhelming whirlwind. They weren't its own life memories, but memories of knowledge. It remembered sitting in a room lit by a flat screen, with stacks of books around it. Thick books with titles like A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings... A Song of Ice and Fire. It remembered spending hours absorbing every word, every detail of the complex political tapestry of Westeros. It remembered the television series, the moving images that brought the characters from its readings to life.
And with this knowledge came comprehension. A shock that reverberated through its entire spiritual being.
It knew where it was. Or rather, when it was.
And most importantly: it knew who it was about to become.
Jaehaerys. Alysanne. The names echoed in its consciousness like bells. The Conciliator and the Good Queen. Its… parents. The year was 81 After the Conquest. It was the spirit that would inhabit the body of the son yet to be born. The son that official history would never mention. An anomaly. A ghost in the annals of House Targaryen.
And then, as if the universe itself confirmed its revelation, knowledge of its own future nature materialized before its perception. It wasn't something told to it; it was a truth imprinted on its essence, like a fundamental law of the reality it was about to inhabit.
"A dragon's body in the shape of a man."
The phrase had no sound, but its meaning was absolute. It would not be simply a Targaryen with an affinity for dragons. Its very flesh, its blood, its bones… would be the incarnation of the draconic nature. Its physical strength, its endurance, its very presence – all would match the great beasts its family rode. It would grow to be not a man who commands dragons, but an equal among them. A brute, almost primordial physical power that would reduce the strongest knights in the kingdom to the level of children.
"Connection to magic and the elements… mainly fire."
It felt, even there in the void, a subtle pull. It was like a current of energy linking it to a fundamental principle of creation. Magic would not be a spell to be learned from dusty books; it would be an extension of its will. The element of fire would bend to its presence. Not just the common fire of bonfires, but dragonfire – the breath of creation and destruction that ran in the veins of the winged beasts. It would be a beacon of magic in a world where it was fading, a catalyst for its return.
A sensation of cosmic vertigo took hold of it. It wasn't just a transmigrant, a fan with future knowledge. It was a biological and magical weapon inserted at the crucial point of Targaryen history. It knew everything: Jaehaerys's Great Conciliation, the tragedies that would befall his children, the Dance of the Dragons that was to come… and now, it would be the unpredictable variable.
What would it do with this power? How would it interact with brothers like Aemon and Baelon, whose destinies were already charted? How would it prevent the fall of its house?
The void around it began to stir. It felt a strong pull, an irresistible gravitational attraction towards a point of light that was expanding rapidly. It was the call. The moment of birth was approaching.
The spirit that had once been an anonymous reader now focused, gathering all its will and all the knowledge it possessed. It was no longer a nameless specter. It had a destiny, a family, and a power that defied mortal comprehension.
It was Aenar Targaryen. The Dragonate.
And the world of Westeros was not the least bit prepared for what was to come. With a final thought of iron determination, it launched itself towards the light, ready to open its eyes – its dragon eyes – for the first time.
---
The attraction was gentle, like being carried by a warm current. The darkness between worlds gave way to a new kind of darkness, but this one was… cozy. Protective. A moist, warm space, where a powerful heart beat a constant, reassuring rhythm, a distant drum echoing through the fluid surrounding it. It was rooted. Anchored to a body that was not yet entirely its own, but which emanated a presence as familiar as the memories it now carried. It was the heat of the dragon, but softened by human flesh and blood. It was the warmth of its mother.
Mother.
The thought, clear and conscious, had no words, but rather the essence of the concept. Security. Love. Home.
Outside its aquatic universe, sounds arrived muffled. Voices. His, grave and laden with worry. Hers, melodious and tired. Those of its siblings, quick and sometimes irritated. It recognized them all, not by experience, but by the knowledge wrested from books. And it recognized the gentle pressure of her hands on her belly, a touch that made its entire small existence vibrate with contentment.
In one of those rare moments of quiet, the pressure from the outside world diminished. The footsteps and whispers ceased. It felt the change of environment, the passage from closed chambers to openness, the smell of damp earth and flowers that penetrated even through the barriers of flesh. She was in the gardens. Alone.
Alysanne's voice reached it, not as a sound, but as a soft vibration that ran through its body, a murmur direct to its soul.
"Are you listening, little one?" she whispered, her hand caressing the curve where it rested. "Finally, a bit of peace. Sometimes I feel more like a queen than a mother, these days."
It could not respond, but a wave of tranquility, of understanding, seemed to flow from it to her. The rigidity in her uterine muscles, tense from the weight and fatigue, relaxed slightly.
"You are so different," she continued, speaking more to herself than to it. "Don't get me wrong. All my children have been a blessing. But with you… there isn't the usual fire. There is no restlessness. It's as if you are… guarding your flames. Septon Barth says you are an omen. Your father, in his practical wisdom, worries only about keeping me safe."
It felt a pang of affection for the king it had never known. Jaehaerys, the Conciliator. A man trying to govern a kingdom and, now, a phenomenon that defied all his logic.
"But I," whispered Alysanne, and her voice was full of an unshakable faith, "I think you are just special. In a way that no one yet understands. I think you will bring a different light to the world. A light that does not burn, but that heals."
The word heal echoed in Aenar's consciousness. In its dreamlike, semi-formed state, the concept awakened something innate. The connection to magic that it understood intellectually now manifested itself instinctively, primitively. It did not think, it did not conjure. It simply was.
A gentle warmth, different from body heat, began to emanate from its small fetal body. It wasn't the devastating fire of the dragon, but a soft, golden radiation, a vital energy that flowed through the cord that united them, infusing its mother's tired body. It was the magic of the world, of life, channeled unconsciously by the one who would be its master.
Alysanne stopped talking. Her eyes widened. A wave of well-being, so strong it almost made her lose her balance, washed over her. The chronic fatigue that had accompanied her for months, the dull ache in her back, the slight nausea that never completely left her… everything dissipated like smoke in the wind. It was as if she had slept for a whole week in an instant. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with pure air without the usual restriction, and a tear of pure relief rolled down her cheek.
"By the gods," she gasped, holding her belly with both hands now. "What was that, my sweet? What did you do?"
Inside her, Aenar did not understand the question. It only felt its mother's tension disappear, replaced by a serene vitality. And that filled it with a deep, primordial satisfaction. It had protected its source of warmth, its safe harbor. It was that simple.
It was then that the sweet, drawling voice of a child broke the silence of the garden.
"Mother?"
Alysanne looked up and saw her little Gael, just over a year old, being led by her nurse. The girl stumbled on her small feet, her silver hair a mess under the sun. Her large blue eyes were fixed on her mother, full of a simple and absolute love. The nurse curtsied discreetly and moved away, giving them privacy.
"My sweet daughter," said Alysanne, opening her arms. Her heart filled with a different, but equally deep love. Gael was her innocence, her quiet joy.
Gael walked up to her and, instead of rushing into her lap as was her habit, stopped in front of her large belly. She tilted her head, with a serious and curious expression.
"Brother?"she babbled, pointing a chubby little finger.
Alysanne smiled, touched. "Yes, my dear. Your little brother is here."
To her surprise, Gael placed her little hand on her mother's womb, in a surprisingly gentle gesture of possessiveness. It was then that Alysanne felt something new. Not the healing warmth of Aenar, but an… attention. A quiet curiosity that emanated from the baby. It was as if he had been awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of that little voice.
Gael laughed, a crystalline sound. "Likes," she said, with the strange certainty of children.
And Alysanne understood, with a new shock of clarity, that the connection was not just hers with her son. Gael, in her childish purity, could touch something in Aenar that adults, with their complications and fears, never could. While others would see the omen, the sister would see only the brother.
Inside her, Aenar felt the new presence. It wasn't the vital force of its mother, nor the imposing power of its father. It was a small flame, fragile and incredibly bright. A flame that whispered family and protection in a way that resonated with its own deepest instinct. Without thinking, without using any power, its own spiritual presence enveloped that little flame in a soft, comforting warmth, an older brother's embrace even before its first breath.
Gael sighed, content, and rested her face against her mother's belly, closing her eyes as if listening to distant music.
Alysanne watched the two parts of her heart, the one already born and the one yet to be born, connected by a bond she could barely comprehend but felt was as real as the ground beneath her feet. The future was an unknown full of dangers, but in that garden, under the sunlight, she caught a glimpse of one of its pillars: the bond between the Dragonsire and her Sweet Daughter. And she knew, with a certainty that came from her very soul, that Aenar would move mountains to protect that little flame. And that Gael, in turn, might be the only one capable of calming the beast within him.
The destiny of her family had become infinitely more complex, but at that moment, it also seemed more beautiful.
---
The peace of the womb was replaced by a rhythmic, irresistible pressure. For Aenar, it was not an experience of pain or terror, but an inevitable transition, like a tide turning. It felt its mother's will, a serene determination guiding it out of its aquatic refuge. The channel was narrow, but its body, though small, was incredibly resilient, shaped by an essence that was not entirely human. It did not fight; it allowed itself to be guided, conscious of every sensation.
The darkness gave way to a diffuse, reddish light that it perceived through its closed eyelids. The muffled sound of its mother's heart and blood flow was overshadowed by tense, breathless human voices. It recognized them instantly, cataloging them with the sharp mind of the knowledge it had brought with it: the midwife, experienced and worried; the archmaester, restrained and academic; and Septon Barth, whose mental presence was a calm flame of intense curiosity and rare intelligence.
But it was the other sounds that captured its entire attention.
They were vibrations that went far beyond the audible, resonating in its very essence. They were low, deep, ancestral. Dragons.
Concentrating, it managed to distinguish the individual "voices," feeling them as clear mental impressions. A cosmic symphony of ancestral power echoed in its soul. From the younger ones, like Syrax, came an acute, instinctive fear, like chicks shrinking from a larger predator. From the mature ones, like Vhagar and Meleys, came a solemn respect, roars that sounded like greetings among equals. From Balerion, the Ancient, came a hoarse, final sigh in the fabric of reality, the weight of the centuries passing the torch. And, from afar, impossible to ignore, the wild mind of the Cannibal overflowed with primordial joy — not the joy of a man, but of a force of nature finding a mirror after an eternity of solitude.
It was in this whirlwind of draconic voices that he was born. The world exploded in sensations: cold air, rough cloths, candlelight. He did not cry. Crying was for babies who needed to announce their presence. His presence had already been announced to those who truly mattered.
He opened his eyes.
His vision was an overlay of realities. He saw his mother Alysanne's face, marked by effort, but also by a love so intense he could feel it like physical heat. And he saw, hovering over her like an aura, the ghostly image of a great silver she-dragon, protective. It was her essence, the dragon blood she carried, visible to his unique eyes.
Then, the others approached, and Aenar, with the heightened perception of one who saw beyond flesh, felt the essence of each of his siblings. Aemon, the heir to the Iron Throne. His presence was like a well-forged sword – solid, honorable, straight. Aemon looked at his younger brother with a frank curiosity and an immediate sense of responsibility. In him, Aenar felt no fear, but a serious pondering. It was the look of a future king assessing a new vassal, but with the softness of an older brother. Baelon the Brave, a furnace of vital energy and heat. Unlike Aemon's serenity, Baelon radiated impulsive loyalty and a vibrant strength. His smile was easy, and upon seeing his brother's dragon eyes, he seemed more marveled than alarmed. Alyssa, Baelon's wife and his soulmate in spirit. From her emanated an energy as fiery and vital as her husband's, but tempered by a spark of maternal ferocity. Maegelle, the septa sister. Her presence was a calm, constant oil lamp, different from the fire of the others. Vaegon, the brother who would be an archmaester. His essence was cold and sharp as a steel pen. Saera. Her presence was like a broken mirror – bright, sharp, and potentially dangerous. And finally, Gael, the little flame. When her eyes, so human and innocent, met his dragon eyes, something clicked into place.
It was then that Alysanne's voice, laden with prophetic power, echoed through the room: "His name shall be Aenar. History will remember him as Aenar, the Dragonate."
The name was perfect. It was who he was. While the roars of the dragons outside echoed – the fear of the young, the respect of the mature, Balerion's sigh, and the Cannibal's primal joy – Aenar looked at the circle of faces that would be his world. He saw there protectors, allies, a scholar, a gentle soul, a dangerous piece, and a reason to fight.
The Dragonate had been born. And his first act was, in silence, to map out his new family, knowing that his destiny would be forever intertwined with theirs. The game of thrones had just gained a piece that defied all the rules.
---
The birth of Aenar Targaryen was not an event confined to the royal chambers. It was a tremor that propagated throughout the Red Keep, a whisper that grew into an uproar in King's Landing and, finally, an echo of awe and speculation that spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, carried by the beating of ravens' wings and the quick tongues of travelers.
The news of Aenar's birth spread through the Red Keep like wildfire in a dry field. In the hours that followed, while the queen rested with the newborn, the court buzzed with whispers and speculation.
In the great hall, lords and ladies gathered in discreet circles. Lord Redwyne approached Lord Stokeworth, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard.
"Did you see?" asked Redwyne, his eyes wide. "The eyes... they say they are truly like a dragon's."
Stokeworth nodded gravely. "And the silence... no crying. My lady wife was present at the birth. She swore the baby simply... opened his eyes and looked at everyone as if he were examining them."
In a more remote corner, Princess Saera conversed with a group of young courtiers. Her eyes shone with a dangerous light.
"Finally something interesting happens in this court," she said, twirling a wine glass between her fingers. "A brother born with the eyes of our symbol. This changes everything."
A young knight dared to ask: "Changes how, Your Grace?"
Saera smiled, a gesture that did not reach her eyes. "Think, fool. Aemon is the heir, yes. But what if the gods intend something different? What if this... Dragonate... is a sign of a new age?"
Meanwhile, in the king's private chambers, Jaehaers had gathered with his older children. Aemon stood before the fireplace, his face serious.
"What do we know so far?" asked the king, his voice weary.
It was Barth who answered, from his place by the window. "The birth was... miraculous. No complications, despite the queen's age. And the dragons reacted as if they were greeting an equal."
Baelon, sitting in a sturdy chair, shook his head in wonder. "By the gods, father. I saw his eyes. They were... alive. Like pulsating amethysts."
Aemon turned to face the family. "He is our brother. Omen or not, he is our blood. We must protect him."
"Protect him from what?" questioned Baelon. "It seems he will protect all of us, if the dragons recognize him like that."
Jaehaers raised a hand to silence his sons. "Barth? Your opinion?"
Septon Barth stepped into the circle of light. "Your Grace, this transcends anything my studies can explain. It is as if... as if the very blood of Valyria has awakened anew. But for what purpose, only the gods know."
While the nobles debated, rumors took on even greater proportions in the corridors of the fortress. In the kitchens, a younger maid tugged at the sleeve of an experienced server.
"Is it true that he already spoke?" whispered the young woman, her eyes wide with fear. "They say that as soon as he was born, he spoke a prophecy!"
The older woman scoffed, continuing to knead the dough for bread. "Nonsense from impressionable folk. He was a baby, not a prophet. But the eyes... those were different. My cousin was one of the midwives. She said that when she looked into them, she felt as if she were looking at something... ancient."
In an exterior courtyard, a group of guards exchanged impressions while sharpening their swords.
"Did you hear the roars?" asked a veteran with scars on his face. "It wasn't like the usual ones. It was... different. As if they were talking among themselves."
A younger guard widened his eyes. "Do you think... that he can really control them? Being just a baby?"
The veteran shrugged. "In this world, boy, I've seen stranger things. If the gods wanted to give the Targaryens a dragon son, who are we to question?"
Days later, when the ravens began to carry the news to the Seven Kingdoms, the reactions were as varied as the kingdoms themselves.
In Winterfell, Lord Stark received the message with his characteristic sobriety. Sitting in the hall with his family, he read the parchment aloud before looking at his sons.
"It seems the Targaryens have produced another wonder," he said, his voice as firm as the ice of the North. "A son with dragon eyes."
His heir, a young man with a face as serious as his father's, frowned. "What does this mean for the North, father?"
"It means we must continue to fulfill our oaths," replied Lord Stark. "The South has its wonders and its dragons. We have our duty."
In Casterly Rock, the reaction was quite different. Lord Lannister gathered the family in the Golden Hall, his voice echoing under the high vaults.
"An extraordinary child requires extraordinary gifts," he declared, his eyes gleaming with possibilities. "We shall prepare a gift worthy of the... Dragonate."
His younger brother raised an eyebrow. "Are you thinking of an alliance?"
"I am thinking of the future," corrected Lord Lannister. "The Lannisters know how to recognize value, be it in gold or in... unusual capabilities."
In the Vale, Princess Daella Arryn received the news in her private chambers, away from the bustle of the main court. Her hands trembled slightly as she held the parchment.
"A brother with dragon eyes," she whispered to her lady-in-waiting. "It sounds so... frightening."
The lady, a middle-aged woman with a kind face, tried to calm her. "It is just a baby, my lady. Your little brother."
But Daella shook her head, her eyes filled with a familiar anxiety. "Everything in our family is always so intense. Why can't it be simple? Why can't it be normal?"
Meanwhile, on Dragonstone, the reports of the birth mingled with the strange events already occurring on the island. An old guardsman, who had served House Targaryen for decades, watched the sea crashing against the black rocks.
"The eggs hatched at the same hour," he murmured to a younger companion. "All of them. And the Cannibal... I never heard him make that sound. It was as if he were... happy."
The younger man shivered. "Is that good or bad, sir?"
The veteran shook his head. "With dragons, boy, you never know. But one thing is certain – something has changed in the world. And it started with that baby in King's Landing."
In the Citadel of Oldtown, the Archmaesters gathered in secret, their voices low and worried.
"We need more information," insisted one Archmaester. "A birth so anomalous... this could disturb the balance we have worked so hard to maintain."
A younger archmaester, specializing in arcane studies, leaned forward. "What if it's true? What if magic is truly returning?"
"Then we are facing a new age," another replied gravely. "And we will need to decide whether to fight it or... adapt."
Back in King's Landing, as the sun set over Blackwater Bay, Aemon Targaryen watched from the balcony of his chambers. His thoughts were far away, pondering the future that now presented itself.
"What are you thinking, brother?" asked Baelon, approaching him.
Aemon did not turn immediately. "I am thinking that our father's reign, all the peace he has built... everything could change because of a single baby."
Baelon placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Or perhaps he is the key to making our legacy even stronger."
"Perhaps," Aemon agreed, finally turning around. "But one thing is certain – nothing will be as it was before. The Dragonate has awakened, and with him, the dreams and nightmares of an entire continent."
As night fell over King's Landing, in her chambers Alysanne Targaryen held the newborn son against her chest. The baby's amethyst eyes were open, reflecting the flames of the fireplace.
"What destiny awaits you, my little dragon?" she whispered, stroking the baby's soft cheek.
And for a moment, I swear the baby's eyes seemed to focus on her with a understanding that went far beyond that of any newborn. The Drakon was awake, and Westeros would never be the same again.