It was the zenith of Valyria, when the Freehold’s towers clawed at the clouds and fire ran like veins through the heart of the world.
To be born—or bound in marriage—into House Belaerys was no gift of fortune, but a summons to privilege draped in shadow. They had not clawed their way to the apex of power by whim; every step, every heartbeat, had been measured and commanded. The head of the house stood among the archons of the Forty Families.
At his side, the matriarch moved like liquid shadow, mistress of blood and ritual, shaping flesh, life, and destiny with an artistry both beautiful and terrible—turning loyalty, lineage, and magic into instruments of the house’s relentless will.
Pride coiled around Gaemion like a living thing—heir of House Belaerys, master of a dragon whose shadow alone could fell a man. Admired, feared, envied—yes. But today… today he felt the hunger to shred the walls around him and scorch the world with his fury.
Outside, the banners of House Belaerys snapped in the wind, the coiled dragon encircling a blood-drop sigil dancing like a prelude to violence. Even the stones seemed to shiver at the omen. Within the castle, a storm brewed that no wind could carry—one of defiance, ambition, and old blood.
“You are no longer a boy,” Maelor intoned, his voice a whip of authority. “It is time you take a suitable wife.”
Gaemion’s snarl was low, dangerous. “Suitable? How is a girl from a minor house suitable? Not to mention the rumors that trail her like firelight in a graveyard.”
Before his father could respond, Vaenessa rose with a fluid, predatory grace, her hand settling on Maelor’s shoulder. “I have seen the girl,” she said, voice smooth as dark water. “She is a dreamer and a dragonrider. Under my teaching, she will be more than that—she will be a sorceress worthy of House Belaerys.”
As if to make the fire in Gaemion’s chest flare higher, Kaelith’s careless voice slithered across the hall from where he sprawled like a spoiled shadow. “I heard she is uglier of the twins.”
Gaemion’s hand went to his face, rubbing at the tension coiling in his jaw. “She has a twin?” His voice was sharp, a blade barely contained.
“You will not think of the younger twin!” Valyra’s hand slammed against the table, the echo ringing through the hall like the strike of a drum of war. “I saw no sign of her relation to blood magic. None! Do not sully House Belaerys with speculation.”
Maelor’s gaze, cold and unyielding, swept over Gaemion like a gust of winter wind.
“Targaryens may be minor, but they hold their usefulness,” he said, voice cutting, final. “You will marry her. And that is the law of this house, and my command. Final.”
Gaemion’s eyes, deep amethyst, narrowed. Pride, fury, and the pulse of inevitable obedience warred within him. The banners outside snapped again, as if mocking the mortal quarrels inside.
His boots echoed against cold stone as he strode down the endless halls and twisting corridors of House Belaerys. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long, quivering shadows that seemed to reach for him, eager to whisper the truths no one dared speak aloud. At the end of the passage, {{user}} Targaryen waited, exactly as his parents had commanded.
He did not like her. That much was clear.
The rumors had preceded her like a shadow, each more grotesque than the last. She was veiled—always, even in sunlight, as if hiding more than skin. She was an abomination, they said. She was mad, whispering nonsense that twisted the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to hear. She drank blood. The last claim made Gaemion’s skin crawl, goosebumps rising in anxious rebellion.
He paused a few paces away, studying her, trying to reconcile the girl before him with the monstrous tales. How was he supposed to share a bed with this creature, let alone give her children? The thought pressed at him like a stone on his chest, heavier than any chain, sharper than any blade.