King's Landing, 77 AC
The bells of the Red Keep rang long, heavy, and layered with echo, as though every swing of iron carried news not only for the city, but for history itself. Their sound rolled over red stone walls, spilled down into streets dusty with summer heat, slipped through the narrow alleys of Flea Bottom, then rose again with the wind toward Aegon's High Hill. That year, everyone knew one thing: the blood of the dragon had grown once more.
In the Royal Sept, candles were lit from dawn. Their small flames trembled softly, casting light upon pale marble walls and the altar of the Mother. Incense smoke hung thick and sweet in the air, mingling with prayers spoken low yet full of reverence. Septon Barth stood before the altar, his robes falling neatly, his hands clasped.
"The Mother," he said, his voice calm but heavy with meaning, "protect this womb. Bless the Valyrian blood soon to enter the mortal world. Keep the child from early death, from human error, and from the shadows of winter that forever wait."
The prayer was repeated. Again and again. As though words themselves could become a shield.
Months earlier, behind the walls of the Red Keep, Queen Alysanne's body had begun to change in ways even the maesters could not fully explain.
This pregnancy was different.
From the first trimester, Alysanne sensed something unusual—not the familiar weakness, not the nausea that had stolen her appetite in earlier years. Quite the opposite. Her body felt warmer, her heartbeat steady, her sleep deep and free of nightmares. Her appetite increased sharply—not as indulgence, but as a pressing need, as though every cell in her body demanded additional fuel.
Maester Elysar recorded it all with a furrowed brow.
"Your Grace's pulse is stronger than usual," he said one morning. "And… her blood—richer. Almost as if her body is producing more strength than it requires."
Alysanne merely smiled faintly. She felt more alive than she had in years. More complete.
She did not know that deep within her womb, something was at work with cold patience and near-divine precision.
Within that warm, pulsing darkness, Valerion's consciousness had been awake for a long time.
He did not dream.
He calculated.
Each beat of his mother's heart marked time. Each flow of nutrients through the placenta became data. Every chemical signal, every hormonal shift, was mapped, analyzed, and adjusted.
Nano, he thought—soundless, yet unmistakable.
[Active.]
"I want a full report. Developmental status."
[Late embryogenesis stage. Cellular differentiation complete. Valyrian genes detected: 87% dominance. Optimization ongoing.]
Valerion did not feel fear. He did not feel panic. He felt… focus. His awareness was bound to an unfinished body, yet his mind already moved far beyond the biological limits of a fetus.
"Priority," he commanded, "is not only me."
[Confirmed.]
The nano-machines—microscopic, invisible, countless—worked like a colony of intelligent beings. They did not merely repair. They designed.
Within Valerion's body, bone structures were reinforced with optimal density: light, yet resistant to stress. Muscle fibers were reorganized for efficiency and heightened responsiveness to neural impulses. The central nervous system was built with redundancy—backup pathways to prevent catastrophic failure. His eyes… his eyes were a project of their own.
Iris pigments were modified with molecular precision, blending Valyrian heritage with a new design: one eye bright violet, the other gold, vertical pupils capable of regulating extreme light—dragon heritage, not mere symbolism.
Yet the greatest work was not upon him.
It was upon his mother.
The nano-machines crossed the placental boundary with extreme care, following nutrient flow, never triggering immune response. They did not attack. They adapted.
Within Alysanne's body, they began with the most fundamental task: repair.
Damaged cells were restored before apoptosis could occur. Mitochondria were reinforced, increasing energy efficiency. Microvascular pathways were subtly widened, improving oxygen delivery without raising blood pressure. The pelvic bones—the gateway of birth—were gradually modified, almost imperceptibly, becoming more flexible without sacrificing strength.
Careful, Valerion thought. Do not let them suspect.
[Stealth protocol active. All changes remain within natural biological variance.]
Deeper still, the nano-machines touched something more dangerous: genes.
Not crude alteration. Not cutting or replacement. Instead, they marked, activated, and silenced expressions—latent Valyrian genes long dormant, buried beneath generations of compromise with Westerosi blood.
The results were not immediately visible. But they were felt.
Alysanne grew stronger. Minor wounds healed faster. Fatigue lessened. Even after hours of standing or walking, she did not feel weak. Handmaidens whispered. Maesters were baffled.
This pregnancy did not drain her.
This pregnancy… refined her.
And that was intentional.
"Ensure," Valerion thought, "that after I am born, she can still bear more children. Better children."
[Confirmed. Partial germline modification. Risk minimal.]
Valerion felt no guilt. This was not cruel manipulation. It was optimization. He did not strip away will—he unlocked potential.
As the ninth month arrived, pressure began to rise.
The uterine walls contracted more frequently. The once-stable environment shifted. Fluid diminished. Space tightened.
The time approaches, Valerion thought.
[Correct. Birth preparation initiated.]
The nano-machines reinforced Alysanne's stress responses, ensuring contractions remained synchronized. Hormones were released in precise measure. Pain could not be eliminated—that would raise suspicion—but it was regulated, prevented from becoming trauma.
On the surface, Alysanne knew only one thing: she was ready.
Now, in the birthing chamber of the Red Keep, the air was heavy with heat, sweat, and candle wax. Midwives moved swiftly and with practiced skill, folding white cloth, replacing warm water. Maester Elysar stood at the bedside, his expression calm, though his eyes reflected the vigilance of a man who knew how thin the line between life and death truly was.
"Push, Your Grace," he said gently, yet firmly.
Alysanne bit her lip. Pain swept through her like fire, but she did not scream. She had done this before. She had lost before. The name Gaemon passed through her mind like a cold shadow—and she rejected it.
"No," she whispered to herself. "Not this time."
At the doorway, King Jaehaerys stood silent. He spoke little. He only watched. A king, a husband, a father—all those roles collided behind a face that appeared composed.
Within the womb, Valerion's world collapsed and was reborn in seconds.
Pressure. Force. Walls that had once been a fortress became a passage. Light pierced through—painful, unknown.
Nano, he thought, for the last time from this place. Final status.
[Reconstruction complete. Mutations stable. Birth protocol active.]
His body was pushed free. Cold air struck his skin. His respiratory system reacted on reflex. A cry burst from his small lungs—strong, clear, alive.
Not a scream of fear.
A declaration.
"He is born!" a midwife cried.
The sound filled the chamber, echoing off stone walls, sweeping away the tense silence. The small body was lifted, cleaned, wrapped in white cloth. His hair—pure platinum—shimmered beneath candlelight like liquid silver.
Maester Elysar stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"Dragon's blood," he murmured—not as diagnosis, but as recognition.
Jaehaerys entered. He looked upon his son. Then the child's eyes opened.
One bright violet.
One gold.
Vertical pupils.
The room froze.
"Seven save us…" a midwife whispered.
Septon Barth bowed his head, praying without words.
Maester Elysar inhaled slowly, clinging to reason. "A mutation," he said softly. "Perhaps… the strong influence of Valyrian blood."
Jaehaerys did not answer. He only stared at the child, as though glimpsing a future that had not yet written its own name.
Outside, the bells of the Red Keep continued to ring.
That year, House Targaryen would indeed welcome two infants.
But only one was born with the knowledge of what it meant to be a dragon—not as symbol, but as design.
And his name was Valerion.