King's Landing, 77 AC
The end of summer arrived in King's Landing not with scorching heat, but with an even, gentle warmth—as though the sun itself had chosen to show mercy to a realm enjoying a long stretch of peace. Sea winds from Blackwater Bay drifted slowly along the stone walls of the Red Keep, carrying with them the scent of salt, seaweed, and wet timber from the harbor below. The city was alive, yet calm—its pulse steady, like a heart that felt no need to rush.
That year, House Targaryen was preparing to welcome two births. The old queen, Alysanne, who had once sworn never to bear another child after the frail birth of Gaemon, now carried her twelfth child for King Jaehaerys. Elsewhere in the palace, Princess Alyssa rested her hands upon her swelling belly, quietly nervous as she faced her first pregnancy.
The matter was spoken of in hushed tones throughout the corridors of the Red Keep, among septas, maesters, and servants who walked with careful steps, as though unwilling to disturb a fragile yet beautiful balance. Two wombs carried dragon's blood. Two new lives would soon enter a world unaware of how history might shift with a single first breath.
Yet far from whispered conversations and candlelight, far from prayers spoken aloud, another life was taking shape in a much deeper silence.
Within the womb of Queen Alysanne Targaryen.
There, awareness awakened.
Not as a fully formed thought, nor as a distinct voice, but as an existence that slowly recognized itself—without fear, without shock. The first sensation was warmth, constant and encompassing, not like fire, but like an embrace that never loosened. Then came pressure, gentle yet unyielding, holding him in a space that was narrow but safe.
And then there was rhythm.
A strong, steady, regular pulse.
Not his own.
The understanding did not arrive as words, but as an accepted truth: the pulse belonged to his mother's heart—a larger, more mature heart, now working to sustain two lives at once. He sensed blood, nutrients, and oxygen flowing through channels only recently formed, supporting his existence with remarkable biological patience.
He tried to move.
Or at least, he intended to.
But this body—if it could be called a body—was not yet ready. His nerves were still forming connections, his muscles lacked the structure to obey his will. The attempt resulted only in a faint tremor, a reflex so subtle it resembled a chemical reaction more than a conscious action.
He was small.
He was unfinished.
He was a fetus.
His awareness paused upon that realization. Then, slowly, like water receding from a shore, old memories surfaced—not all at once, but in fragmented flashes: artificial light too white to be natural, the constant hum of machines, the bitter taste of cold coffee on his tongue, exhaustion piled up over years without proper rest. And then the moment that severed everything else—searing pain in the chest, spreading rapidly, followed by darkness that left nothing behind.
Death.
Yet this was not a continuation of that death. His consciousness was too whole, too stable to be a mere echo of fading thoughts. He was thinking. He was feeling.
And he was not alone.
Something moved within him—not a sensation, not a voice, but a structure. An unfamiliar order working with absolute precision, surrounding the fluid around him, penetrating growing tissue, reading and interpreting genetic code as though it were a language long mastered.
His awareness recognized it before he could even question it.
"Nano…"
The word was never spoken, yet its meaning was immediately understood.
[Host consciousness confirmed.]
[Final-generation nano units: active.]
[Integration status: complete.]
He did not feel fear. Fear was a biological response, and this body did not yet possess the capacity for it. What remained was vigilance—cold, rational—an echo of his previous life still firmly intact.
Where are we? he thought.
[External environment cannot be visually identified.]
[Condition: human embryo. Developmental stage: early.]
The response carried no emotion, only accuracy. The nano units did not attempt to comfort or alarm him. They simply conveyed data as it was.
While the exchange continued, the system never ceased its work. The nano units had been active even before full awareness emerged, stabilizing this fragile biological environment with mechanical patience. Every cell was monitored. Every minor error—random mutation, imperfect replication—was corrected or adjusted before it could develop into a defect.
Priority, he thought after a brief pause.
[Primary host survival.]
He accepted it, then added something that rose from deeper than pure logic.
And my mother.
There was a brief pause—microseconds that felt long within the womb's comfort.
[Secondary host detected.]
[Biological relationship: mother.]
[Non-invasive optimization possible.]
"Do it," he commanded. "Without harming her."
The nano units moved with extreme caution. They extended their function beyond the placental boundary—not as conquerors, but as stabilizers. There was no crude genetic rewriting, no intervention that would leave obvious traces. Only subtle reinforcement, working in harmony with the queen's natural biological systems.
Alysanne Targaryen began to change.
Not dramatically, not through miracles that septons would preach about, but through countless small improvements accumulating day by day. Her blood flow grew more efficient, delivering nutrients with greater balance. Her immune system strengthened—not by adding anything foreign, but by optimizing responses already present. Hormonal fluctuations that often made pregnancy unstable were gently regulated, allowing her body to accept the new life without exhausting resistance.
She felt healthier.
Her appetite increased—not out of false craving, but because her body truly needed and could fully utilize the nourishment. Food tasted richer. Fatigue came more slowly and faded more quickly. Her sleep deepened. Even the minor aches that often accompanied pregnancy at her age diminished, as though her body had rediscovered a younger rhythm.
Within the womb, Valerion felt it as steadier flow, richer supply, an environment increasingly ideal for growth.
Meanwhile, the nano units descended into the deepest layer of his existence: his blood.
Valyrian genes unfolded like ancient manuscripts—old, complex, and laden with potential not fully understood even by the most learned maesters. This was no ordinary human lineage. There were traces of extreme adaptation, resistance to heat, and a biological resonance that bordered on magic.
The nano units did not reject it.
They studied it.
[Ancient genetic structure detected.]
[High potential. Stability: moderate.]
"Optimize it," Valerion thought. "To the highest safe limit."
[Understood.]
[Gradual optimization initiated.]
[Estimated duration: years.]
The changes brought no pain. They felt like a warm current moving slowly, restructuring the foundations of his being. Bones still made of cartilage were designed with optimal density—strong enough to support rapid future growth, yet flexible enough not to endanger his mother during birth. His heart—still tiny—was shaped for high efficiency, capable of delivering maximum output with minimal effort.
His brain received special attention.
The nano units arranged neural networks at densities far above average, creating pathways suited for long-term memory retention and complex processing. He would not only preserve memories from his former life, but expand his capacity to absorb the new world awaiting him.
Most of these changes were individual.
Some, however… were inheritable.
[Dominant genetic expressions adjusted.]
[Inheritance potential: high.]
Children born from this line—should there be any—would carry similar qualities: healthier bodies, greater adaptability, resilience less prone to disease or decay. They would not be copies of him, but versions of humanity closer to their species' maximum potential.
Yet there was a consequence.
[Warning: visual mutations cannot be fully suppressed.]
Valerion considered this briefly, then accepted it.
Let it be, he thought. A mark is not always a curse.
The mutations developed slowly, under control. Ocular structures were adjusted for improved light sensitivity. Pigmentation shifted, following long-dormant Valyrian resonance now expressed more clearly. There were no deformities. No monstrosities. Only difference—visible, and perhaps feared.
Meanwhile, the nano units did not stop with Valerion alone.
They returned their work to Alysanne.
With the same care, the system subtly adjusted the queen's genetic structure—not to change who she was, but to strengthen her biological foundation. Pelvic tissue elasticity was gradually improved, preparing her body for childbirth with reduced trauma. Healing responses were enhanced, ensuring unavoidable minor injuries would recover more quickly.
Beyond that, adaptive patterns were embedded to endure.
Even after this pregnancy ended, Alysanne's body would retain these improvements—making her more fertile, more resilient, more prepared should she conceive again. Any children she bore in the future would grow within a biological environment already refined.
Valerion felt this as a deepening harmony between himself and his mother. Two lives no longer bound solely by blood, but by a shared design—conscious on one side, instinctive on the other.
Outside, prayers continued.
Alysanne often rested her hand upon her belly, feeling movements grow stronger day by day, smiling without knowing why she felt more alive than she had in years. Septas spoke of the Mother's blessing. Maesters recorded the pregnancy as exceptionally healthy for a queen of her age.
None of them knew that behind walls of flesh and blood, a conscious mind labored endlessly, rewriting fate with tools unknown to this world.
Valerion sank back into the warm silence of the womb, allowing the nano units to continue their work, as two hearts beat in harmony—one old and wise, the other young and brimming with potential.
Outside, King's Landing enjoyed its long summer.
And history, unwittingly, was being prepared anew—not with fire or sword, but with cells, genes, and unyielding patience.