The Red Keep had not yet fully settled when Daela and Visera stepped into the queen's resting chamber. The air inside was cooler, thin curtains filtering the midday sunlight so it would not sting Alysanne's eyes after her long labor. The scent of calming draughts mingled with clean linen and beeswax candles, creating an atmosphere that was peaceful—yet fragile, as though a single loud whisper might shatter it.
Daela walked more slowly than her sister. Her hand clutched the hem of her pale blue gown, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the room. Her eyes—usually bright with curiosity—now held doubt, even fear. Visera, by contrast, moved with an effort at composure, though her shoulders were tense and her breathing shorter than usual.
Alysanne lay upon the great bed, her silver hair loosely braided, her face pale yet serene. Beside her, wrapped in white cloth embroidered with gold thread, Valerion slept, his breathing steady.
"Mother," Visera said softly.
Alysanne opened her eyes and smiled—a smile not of a queen, but of a mother still weary, yet whole. "Come closer," she said gently. "You wish to see your brother."
Visera stepped forward without hesitation. Daela stopped half a pace behind her.
As Visera drew back the cloth from the infant's face, Daela leaned in as well—and her body stiffened at once.
Valerion's eyes opened.
Not for long. Not wide. But enough.
Purple and gold shimmered beneath the soft light, with vertical pupils that Daela instinctively recognized as something… not entirely human.
She stepped back.
"Daela?" Alysanne noticed the change immediately.
Daela shook her head quickly, her silver hair shifting wildly. "His eyes…" she whispered. "They're like a dragon's."
It was not an accusation. It was the honest fear of a child.
From behind eyelids that soon closed again, Valerion registered the reaction with calm detachment. Daela's heart rate had spiked. Her breathing was uneven. A pure fear response. He took no offense. The emotion was predictable.
Visera swallowed, but held her ground. "He's only a baby," she said, as if reassuring herself. "No baby is evil."
Alysanne reached out, resting her hand gently on Daela's back. "He will not hurt you," she said. And somehow, the certainty in her voice carried more weight than the words themselves.
Heavy footsteps sounded beyond the chamber.
King Jaehaerys entered without announcement, his black cloak falling neatly across his shoulders. His gaze swept the room, paused briefly on his son, then shifted to the two girls.
"Where is Saera?" he asked evenly.
Visera and Daela exchanged a glance.
"We… don't know, Father," Visera answered honestly.
Daela added hesitantly, "She wasn't in her chambers. The handmaids haven't seen her since morning."
Jaehaerys released a quiet breath. Not anger—fatigue. "Of course," he murmured. "Saera."
Nothing more needed to be said. Everyone in the room knew what Saera was like: wild, stubborn, forever finding ways to vanish when she least should. If ever there was a day when the Red Keep was filled with prayers and caution, it was precisely the day Saera was most likely to defy every rule.
"Leave her be," Alysanne said at last. "For now."
Jaehaerys nodded. Yet his eyes returned to Valerion. The dragon eyes were closed now, but his presence felt heavier than before.
The whispers began before sunset.
In the corridors of the Red Keep, in the maesters' dining halls, behind the pillars of the Royal Sept, a single topic dominated conversations disguised as prayers or scholarly debate.
Dragon eyes.
Some called it an ill omen.
"No human should have eyes like that," whispered an elderly septa. "It is a sign of blood drawn too close to fire."
Others were almost eager.
"Valyria did not fall to a curse," argued a young maester. "It fell to arrogance. Those eyes may herald the return of ancient greatness."
In the archives of the King's Landing branch of the Citadel, old scrolls were pulled from their shelves. Maester Elysar led the search, his face tight with strain. Records of Targaryen births were reopened, one by one, reaching back to the days before Aegon the Conqueror.
"Find every anomaly," he ordered. "Heterochromia. Abnormal pupils. Any mention of 'fire eyes' or 'dragon gaze.'"
Ink scratched against parchment. Dust rose into the air. History was forced to remember.
The results were disappointing.
There were births marked by hair too pale. Others with faint scales along the shoulders. Infants who died warm as embers. But eyes like these—purple and gold, with vertical pupils—were not clearly recorded.
"Either this is the first," Elysar muttered, "or the earlier records were deliberately erased."
The words lingered longer than they should have.
Amid it all, Valerion was awake.
Not as other infants were. His awareness was no longer entirely bound by instinct. He heard sounds, though he did not yet fully comprehend them as language. He felt light, heat, cold. And most importantly—he understood one undeniable truth.
This was not a simulation.
This was not a nameless foreign world.
The fragments of data he had carried—names, social structures, history—now found their anchor.
The Red Keep.
Targaryen.
Jaehaerys.
Alysanne.
Westeros, he thought.
[Environmental confirmation: pre-industrial world. Low technological level. Feudal structure. High biological risk.]
Valerion did not panic. Instead, he felt… suited. This world was harsh, uncertain, and slow to change—an ideal place for something designed with patience and long vision.
He sensed his mother close by. Alysanne's heartbeat was still slightly irregular, but stable. The nano-machines continued their work, now in passive mode—repairing, adjusting, ensuring full recovery.
He did not cry.
He did not move much.
He waited.
For Valerion knew something no one in the Red Keep yet understood: those dragon eyes were neither a curse nor a simple blessing.
They were witnesses.
And Westeros—with all its intrigue, blood, and fire—had just opened its eyes to something that would remember everything.