90 AC
Kingswood, Royal Hunting Camp
The sun filtered through the dense canopy of the Kingswood, casting dappled shadows over the royal hunting camp. Queen Alysanne Targaryen sat gracefully on an ornate wooden bench, surrounded by a circle of noble ladies. The air was filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional laughter as the ladies engaged in their customary gossip.
Aegon Targaryen, possessing the stature and composure of a child several years older, stood nearby. He focused intently on his plate, eating with impeccable manners, a skill honed under the watchful eyes of the court. The boy paid little attention to the women's chatter, his mind occupied with his own thoughts.
One of the ladies, Lady Meredyth, glanced at Aegon and remarked with a playful tone, "He grows taller each day. Soon, he'll be of age for betrothal."
Queen Alysanne's eyes sparkled with interest. "Indeed," she said, turning to Aegon. "When you reach ten, we'll find a suitable lady for you."
The conversation naturally shifted to Prince Viserys, Aegon's elder brother. At thirteen, he was nearing the age where betrothals were customary. Several ladies subtly hinted at their daughters' virtues, hoping to catch the Queen's attention.
Lady Ellyn spoke up, "Your Majesty, my daughter, Lady Rhaella, has just turned twelve. She's well-versed in the arts and has a gentle disposition."
Queen Alysanne nodded politely, acknowledging the suggestion without commitment.
Lady Ysilla, another noblewoman, ventured a more daring topic. "It's curious that Prince Viserys hasn't claimed a dragon yet. At his age, many Targaryens have already bonded with their mounts."
The Queen's expression remained composed. "Each Targaryen finds their dragon in their own time," she replied. "Viserys will choose when he's ready."
Aegon, sensing the shift in conversation and perhaps seeking respite from the scrutiny, approached the Queen. "Grandmother, may I go outside to see the hunting preparations?"
Queen Alysanne smiled warmly. "Of course, dear. Stay close to Ser Robin."
Outside, the camp was abuzz with activity. Lords and knights displayed their finely crafted weapons, boasting of past hunts and sharing tales of valor. Hounds barked eagerly, sensing the impending chase. Aegon wandered among the preparations, observing the intricate designs on the weapons and the meticulous care given to the horses.
He spotted Prince Daemon, now ten, animatedly discussing hunting strategies with a group of squires. Nearby, Prince Viserys stood with Ser Otto Hightower, the two engaged in a quiet conversation. The atmosphere was one of anticipation, the thrill of the hunt palpable in the air.
As the sun began its descent, casting golden hues over the camp, Aegon felt a sense of contentment. The world around him was vibrant and full of life, a stark contrast to the solemn discussions he had just left behind. He took a deep breath, savoring the moment, before returning to the Queen's side, ready to partake in the evening's festivities.
Shadows stretched under the canopy as the sun lowered itself behind the trees. A wide clearing near the center of the camp buzzed with activity, lords and squires preparing for the evening meal, servants hurrying with spits and meat, and a few curious boys testing the weight of their hunting spears. The smell of fresh kills mixed with burning wood and damp leaves.
Daemon Targaryen, ten years old and covered in dirt and small scratches, strutted back into camp with the triumphant air of a conqueror. In one hand, he held three limp rabbits by their ears; in the other, two birds tied together at the feet. His cheeks were flushed, and his grin stretched from ear to ear.
"Three rabbits and two birds! Tell that to Ser Ryam!" he called out to a few watching knights, his voice already beginning to deepen with pride. “All mine!”
A few men chuckled politely. Viserys, standing near Lord Corlys Velaryon and Ser Otto Hightower, glanced over and narrowed his eyes. His arms were folded, and he said nothing, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed his thoughts. He had spent most of the afternoon walking with the older lords, offering nods and pleasantries as expected of a prince, and had returned empty-handed.
Daemon turned to Aegon and tossed his chin in the direction of the unlit bonfire pit. “Aegon, light up the bonfires. Let’s eat.”
Aegon, nodded without a word. His white hair had grown slightly longer this year, tied back behind his ears the way Queen Alysanne liked it. He wore a simple hunting tunic with no sigils, his boots muddied and knees stained with grass. Daemon’s tone had been casual, but Aegon felt the tug of something deeper. Recognition. As if Daemon already saw him as a reliable partner.
He made his way to the largest bonfire pit. The firewood had already been arranged into a tidy pyramid of dry sticks and branches, with pitch drizzled across the bottom. A few servants were still running about the camp, but no one was paying close attention.
Good.
He glanced over his shoulder, confirming no lords or knights were nearby. Even Daemon was distracted, showing off his catch again to a group of younger boys. Aegon stepped closer to the unlit bonfire and extended his right hand, palm out. He exhaled.
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A pulse.
A sharp, heated sensation ran down his veins, centered on his wrist. Blood moved. Just a few drops. No blade needed. He had practiced this enough over the past month to avoid drawing attention.
A crackle hissed out from his palm. A small ball of fire, the size of an orange, shimmered to life, swirling like an ember carried on a breeze. With a light push of will, he flung it forward. It hit the firewood dead center.
FWOOM.
The bonfire roared to life, heat radiating outward immediately. The flames coiled tightly, burning hotter and faster than ordinary flame. A few squires turned at the sound but dismissed it quickly, likely thinking a torch had been used. Aegon stepped back, calmly dusting his hands, his expression unreadable.
He looked down at his palm. The skin was warm, but unburnt. Not even red.
I could stand inside the fire now, and I’d barely feel it.
The level 6 traits from [Heir of Old Valyria] had become real, palpably so.
[ Trait: Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage
(+40% natural resistance to heat and fire)
(+50% in kinship with Dragons)
(+12% chance of receiving prophetic visions during sleep) ]
The increase in dragon kinship was already manifesting. But he was not allowed to visit the dragonpits alone, so it remained untested.
The dreams however, twice now, strange visions had come to him in sleep. One had been of the ruins of Valyria, molten rock, towers half-sunk into the sea, and a woman’s voice whispering words he didn’t understand. The second dream had been of black wings over a burning river, and a boy holding a crown of glass that bled when touched. He couldn’t make sense of either. But they felt too vivid to be imagination.
He looked again at his hand and flexed his fingers.
[ Trait: Blood and Flame Awakening
( +30% Instinctual Flamecraft: Can create a small torrent of fire from blood, your own or another's, by concentrating and sacrificing a few drops. The flame obeys the will of the heir.)
(+8% Obsidian Echo: Slight chance of receiving fragmented visions when near dragonglass) ]
This was his most dangerous gift. The blood sacrifice was small, just a few drops taken directly from his own veins, but it let him release controlled streams of fire. He hadn’t tested it at full strength yet, but he was certain it could scorch armor or cook flesh if needed.
He hadn’t told anyone, not Daemon, not even the Queen. He didn’t know how they’d react. Magic was spoken of in reverent tones, or in silence. And while Targaryens were tied to fire and dragons, there was a difference between legends and truth. Power often drew fear. And fear bred danger.
Mostly, he didn’t want to change anything. Not yet.
He had watched House of the Dragon in his past life. He remembered the events as clearly as a map, who married whom, which alliances formed and broke, who lived, who died. The war that would eventually tear their House apart, the long thread of betrayals and ambitions. Every piece mattered. A small shift could cascade into something greater.
So for now, he kept the fire hidden. Let them think he was just another Targaryen boy. Quiet, well-mannered, studious, respectful to the Queen and the King. Let Daemon take the spotlight with his hunting and swagger. Let Viserys draw attention as the firstborn.
He would wait. Watch. Grow.
And when the time was right, when the pieces were where they needed to be, he would act.
The fire crackled, now burning with stable intensity. Meat was brought over shortly after. Daemon returned, dragging a spit. He grinned when he saw the flames.
“Took your time,” he said, slapping Aegon’s back.
“I didn’t want to burn the whole Kingswood,” Aegon replied.
Daemon laughed, sharp and genuine, then turned away to help string the rabbits for roasting. “You’d be doing them a favor,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Half of them can't hit a deer, might as well cook the forest and call it done.”
Aegon watched him go, still feeling the heat from the fire flickering at his side. His palm tingled faintly, a residual warmth from the earlier flamecraft. He flexed his fingers, then quietly moved back to sit by the edge of the small campfire.
The feast had wound down not long after, boisterous and full of the usual competition. Lords and squires bragging, younger nobles jostling for favor, knights drinking too much wine. Daemon had shown off the birds and rabbits again, earning mock groans from Viserys, who still hadn’t managed to land anything. Otto stayed close to the young prince, offering calm, boring commentary.
Now, it was late.
The air had cooled, and most of the others had gone to their tents or bedrolls. Only the fire crackled softly, casting slow-moving shadows across the dark clearing.
He lay in the grass, his hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the sky. Countless stars twinkled above, distant and uncaring. But they seemed clearer tonight, sharper somehow, like a map etched in silver.
Magic, he murmured under his breath, tasting the word as if for the first time.
The system had confirmed it, not in riddles or cryptic prophecy, but in the most practical way possible: numbers.
[
CON 6.3
STR 5.8
AGI 6.7
DEX 6.6
INT 9.7
Magic 1.1
]
Magic 1.1
A real stat now. Real enough to track. Real enough to grow.
When he had built the class tree engine back on Earth, the logic had always accounted for something like this, derived attributes. A way to represent unconventional or supernatural traits not bound by physicality or traditional metrics. He remembered reading about power systems across hundreds of books, comics, games. Chakra, mana, ki, divine favor, spiritual pressure, it didn’t matter what it was called.
The code he’d written used machine learning and deep interpretive logic. When enough trait density and behavior aligned with a metaphysical framework, it would generate a new attribute to represent it.
Magic, in this case. Interpreted through fire, blood, prophecy.
It meant the change was now deep enough to qualify as part of a unique system of power. It meant his usage, however minimal, was now influencing his body and soul in a way the Class tree could quantify.
The thought sent a chill up his back that had nothing to do with the night breeze.
I have crossed a threshold.
No one else in this world, not even the dragonriders, had that. Not yet.
The [Heir of Old Valyria] class had changed him. With every level, it reshaped something inside, first subtly, then more deeply.
