The words about fire and fate had scarcely died in the chamber when Prince Daemon Targaryen's violet eyes sparked—not with dread or grief, but with the sort of mischief that belonged to a man who had never met a dangerous idea he didn't want to embrace with both arms and a war cry.
His pale, sharp-boned face bent into a grin equal parts paternal pride and barely restrained wickedness, as though he had just remembered some delicious secret that was far too good to keep locked away in the dusty corners of his mind where responsible thoughts went to die.
"Speaking of gifts and preparation for whatever fresh chaos tomorrow promises to unleash," he drawled, unfolding himself from his chair with the lazy, predatory grace of a cat that had spotted something infinitely more entertaining than the current conversation. His long legs carried him toward a carved oaken chest that sat beneath the tall windows like a treasure hoard waiting to be plundered by someone with questionable judgment and excellent timing.
"I've something for you, my prophetic heir. Something that required months of planning, no small expense, and calling in favors from men who would sooner cut their own tongues out with rusty knives than admit they owed Daemon Targaryen so much as a kind word."
Young Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen—eight years old, and possessed of green eyes that held depths no child should carry—tilted his head with the wary curiosity of a hawk sizing up potential prey. Or potential poison. His mouth curved into that dry half-smile that belonged to someone who had seen too much of the world's foolishness and found it wanting.
"Ah," he said, his voice carrying the sort of certainty that would have been impressive coming from a seasoned knight, let alone a boy who still needed help reaching the higher shelves in the library. "That expression. The one that means you've either done something genuinely brilliant, or something that will see us all roasted, skewered, or otherwise creatively murdered before the sun sets tomorrow."
His green eyes narrowed with the sort of analytical precision that made grown men uncomfortable. "Given your track record, Father, I'd say the odds favor a combination of both outcomes, probably occurring simultaneously for maximum dramatic effect and minimum survival prospects."
Daemon paused in his rummaging through the chest, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin that could have powered a lighthouse. "Why not both? Life's far too short for half-measures, and considerably more entertaining when you're never quite certain whether you're about to witness a triumph or a catastrophe."
"Because," Jaehaerys replied with the flat, no-nonsense delivery that suggested he had inherited his mother's talent for cutting through nonsense like a sword through silk, "I prefer brilliance that doesn't end with me explaining to Mother why Father thought it wise to poke a hornet's nest with a lit torch while standing in a puddle of wildfire."
From her seat near the window, Lady Rhea Royce—dark hair gleaming in the lamplight, brown eyes sharp enough to count the scales on a dragon from three leagues away—let out a sound that might have been laughter if it hadn't been quite so pointed.
"Prophetic abilities or not, you've definitely inherited my tongue," she observed with the sort of dry amusement that came from years of marriage to a man whose idea of subtle diplomacy involved dragons and creative threats. "Along with what appears to be a distressingly practical approach to assessing your father's various schemes for achieving maximum chaos with minimum planning."
"Planning?" Daemon turned the ornate key in the chest's lock with an almost courtly flourish that was only slightly undermined by the way his eyes glittered with barely restrained mischief. "Who needs planning when you have natural Targaryen instincts, an excellent dragon, and the sort of reputation that makes sensible people cross streets to avoid you?"
"People who want to live past their next nameday, that's who," Gunthor Royce rumbled from his position leaning against the stone wall with the casual ease of a man utterly confident in his ability to break the furniture if circumstances required it—or if anyone looked at his family wrong.
The massive knight—easily six and a half feet of solid muscle wrapped in bronze-studded leather and an expression of perpetual good humor mixed with barely restrained violence—had been methodically demolishing a trencher of bread and cheese with the sort of focused dedication usually reserved for siege warfare. His voice carried the particular bass rumble that suggested he could probably be heard clearly from three keeps away if he put his mind to it.
"Though I'll grant you," Gunthor continued, setting down his meal with the careful precision of someone who had learned that his size required constant attention to avoid accidentally crushing things he meant to preserve, "your various schemes do tend to produce memorable results. Not always good results, mind you, but definitely memorable ones."
"Memorable is better than forgettable," Daemon declared with the confidence of a man who had never once in his life been accused of being boring. "Forgettable gets you ignored by history. Memorable gets you songs, stories, and the sort of reputation that outlasts kingdoms."
"And early graves," Rhea pointed out with the sort of practical concern that came from loving someone whose survival instincts had been replaced with a pathological need to make everything as dramatically complicated as possible. "Don't forget the early graves. Those are quite memorable too, in their own way."
"Details," Daemon waved away her concerns with the sort of airy dismissal that had been driving her to distraction for years. "Besides, what's life without a little excitement? A little danger? A few opportunities to prove that Targaryen blood runs hotter than common sense?"
"Longer," Jaehaerys said with devastating simplicity. "Life without unnecessary danger is notably longer and significantly more pleasant for everyone involved, including the people who have to clean up after your various dramatic gestures."
"You're all absolutely determined to ruin my fun, aren't you?" Daemon complained, though his grin suggested he was enjoying the verbal sparring as much as anyone. "Here I am, trying to present a meaningful gift to my beloved heir, and you're all focused on my alleged tendency to create unnecessarily complex situations for purely entertainment purposes."
"Alleged?" Rhea's eyebrow arched with the sort of precision that suggested she had been practicing the gesture specifically for moments like this. "Daemon, last month you started a three-way duel because someone suggested your wine selection showed 'pedestrian tastes.' The month before that, you challenged a Braavosi merchant to single combat because he claimed Westerosi seamanship was inferior to Essosi traditions. And let's not even discuss the incident with the Myrish ambassador and his opinions about dragon breeding practices."
"The Myrish ambassador was asking for it," Daemon protested with wounded dignity that fooled absolutely no one present. "And my wine selection is excellent. Varied, sophisticated, and chosen with exquisite care for both flavor and the sort of impressive alcohol content that separates proper vintage from flavored water."
"Your wine selection," Jaehaerys observed with the sort of clinical detachment usually reserved for academic discussions, "consists entirely of whatever happens to be strongest, regardless of taste, vintage, or basic human decency. You once drank a bottle of Summer Island rum that the pirates had been using to strip barnacles off their ship hulls."
"It worked, didn't it?" Daemon's grin widened until it threatened to split his face entirely. "No barnacles anywhere on my person, and I discovered that I could, in fact, drink a Lysene sellsword under the table without breaking a sweat. Educational experience all around."
Gunthor let out a bark of laughter that sounded like boulders tumbling down a mountainside. "Educational for who? You, or the poor bastard who had to carry you back to the Red Keep slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain?"
"Both, I'm sure. Character building all around."
Rhea shook her head with the sort of fond exasperation that came from years of learning to love someone despite their complete lack of anything resembling common sense. "Perhaps we could focus on this mysterious gift before you get distracted by another opportunity to defend your reputation for creative poor judgment?"
"Right, the gift." Daemon turned back to the chest with renewed purpose, throwing open the lid to reveal contents that made even the lamplight seem to dim in comparison. "As I was saying before you all decided to catalogue my various adventures in diplomatic excellence..."
Inside the chest lay a smaller box, swaddled in black silk as tenderly as a newborn babe. Even closed and wrapped, it seemed to thrum with contained energy that made the air itself feel heavier, more charged with potential.
"A friend of mine in Pentos," Daemon continued, his voice taking on the careful neutrality he used when discussing activities that might not strictly align with royal protocol or, indeed, any form of law currently recognized by civilized nations, "happened to stumble upon several small pieces of Valyrian steel. Fragments, really. Ornamental scraps that most people would discard as worthless because they lack the size for proper weapons."
He lifted the silk-wrapped box with the sort of reverent care usually reserved for handling explosive materials or very expensive wine. "It took considerable persuasion, an obscene amount of gold, and promises I sincerely hope I never have to keep, but I convinced him to take them to Qohor."
The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees at the mention of that particular city.
"Qohor?" Rhea's voice carried the sort of sharp attention that suggested she was rapidly calculating costs, risks, and potential consequences with the efficiency of someone who had learned to manage both a great house and a husband whose definition of 'reasonable expense' included things like 'buying a dragon egg for a nephew's nameday' and 'commissioning a solid gold chamber pot shaped like the Iron Throne.'
"The only smiths left in the known world who can rework Valyrian steel," she continued, her brown eyes narrowing with the sort of focus that had once helped her negotiate a three-way trade agreement between House Royce, House Arryn, and a particularly stubborn group of mountain clans who considered 'negotiation' to be a polite word for 'ritualized combat with bladed weapons.'
"Tell me, husband dear, do we still own our lands at Runestone, or did you sell them off to fund this particular indulgence? Because if I discover you've mortgaged our ancestral seat to commission jewelry, I'm going to feed you to Caraxes personally, and I'll make sure to do it slowly enough that you have time to appreciate the irony."
"Indulgence?" Daemon's grin flared like dragonfire, bright and dangerous and utterly unrepentant. "My dear wife, this was an investment. A carefully considered, strategically planned investment in our son's future ability to stay breathing when circumstances grow... complicated."
"Everything grows complicated where you're concerned," Gunthor observed with the sort of philosophical acceptance that came from years of watching Daemon Targaryen turn simple situations into elaborate productions requiring multiple forms of cleanup and, occasionally, emergency medical attention. "The question is whether this particular complication will be the useful kind or the kind that requires us to flee the kingdom under cover of darkness."
"Why not both?" Daemon asked cheerfully. "The best investments provide multiple forms of return."
"Because," Jaehaerys said with the sort of patience that suggested he had inherited his mother's ability to deal with impossible men through sheer force of will, "some of us prefer our investments to include categories like 'survival' and 'not being hunted by every mercenary company between here and the Dothraki Sea.'"
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Daemon demanded, turning back to the box with theatrical flair that would have impressed the mummers at court. "Your father goes to considerable trouble and expense to acquire something unique and valuable, and all you can do is worry about theoretical consequences and imaginary pursuit by hypothetical enemies."
"The enemies aren't hypothetical if you stole the Valyrian steel from them," Rhea pointed out with the sort of practical concern that had kept House Royce financially solvent and militarily relevant for four thousand years. "And the consequences aren't theoretical if they involve armed men with legal claims and very sharp swords."
"Who said anything about stealing?" Daemon asked with wounded innocence that fooled absolutely no one. "I prefer the term 'strategic acquisition through unconventional channels.' Much more dignified, and significantly less likely to result in formal charges or international incidents."
"Oh, much better," Jaehaerys said with a perfectly straight face. "I'm sure that distinction will be very comforting when we're explaining to Uncle Viserys why three different Free Cities are demanding our heads on spikes."
"Your uncle needs more excitement in his life anyway," Daemon declared, finally opening the silk wrapping with the sort of reverence usually reserved for religious ceremonies. "All that sitting on the Iron Throne and making sensible decisions is dulling his edge. A little international intrigue would be good for his complexion."
The inner box was revealed to be carved from some dark wood that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, inlaid with silver wire in patterns that suggested runes from the old days of Valyria. When Daemon opened it, the lamplight seemed to bow before what lay within, as if recognizing something worthy of respect.
"Four pieces," Daemon announced with obvious pride in the commission, his voice taking on the sort of formal tone he usually reserved for official proclamations or particularly impressive threats. "A helmet for myself—because even rogues occasionally require their heads to remain attached to their necks, especially when those heads contain such valuable contents as mine."
He lifted out the first item—a war helm wrought of steel so dark it seemed to drink in the surrounding light, shaped like a dragon's head with ruby eyes that caught and held the gaze. Even Gunthor, who had seen more than his share of fine metalwork, let out a low whistle of appreciation.
"A locket for Rhaenyra," Daemon continued, producing a delicate piece that seemed to glow with inner fire, "something she can wear close to her heart as a reminder of family bonds and the sort of protection that runs deeper than mere affection."
The locket was a masterwork of the smith's art—dragons intertwined in an endless dance, their scales so finely detailed they seemed to move in the shifting light. When Daemon opened it, the interior held a small mirror on one side and space for a miniature portrait on the other.
"A bracelet for Laena," came the third revelation, a band of Valyrian steel woven into patterns that suggested both waves and dragon scales, "elegant enough for court but practical enough for... other purposes that might arise during the normal course of events."
The bracelet was clearly designed to be worn constantly—no sharp edges, no awkward protrusions, nothing that would interfere with daily activities or, more importantly, with the sort of emergency activities that tended to arise when one's family included multiple dragonriders with varying degrees of impulse control.
"And for my son," Daemon said, his voice softening despite himself as he reached for the final item, "who sees too much, knows too little about keeping himself safe while doing it, and requires the sort of protection that can be worn without advertising its presence to every ambitious lord and scheming courtier in the Seven Kingdoms..."
With theatrical flourish that would have made the mummers weep with envy, he opened the final compartment to reveal a ring that made everything else in the chamber seem dull and lifeless by comparison.
The ring was wrought of Valyrian steel so perfectly crafted it seemed alive—a dragon coiled around the band, its form so detailed and precise it could have been Vermithor himself shrunk down to jewelry size. Every scale was individually rendered, each wing membrane showed the delicate tracery that marked living dragons, and the eyes—tiny emeralds that seemed to hold depths of their own—caught and reflected light with hypnotic intensity.
"Your own dragon to guard you when swords are unwelcome and armor out of place," Daemon concluded, his paternal pride evident in every word. "The smith in Qohor swore it would grow with you—the wings adjust as your hands increase in size. Unless you have some objection to wearing jewelry that could probably buy a small kingdom and definitely represents more craftsmanship than most men see in a lifetime?"
Jaehaerys reached out slowly, his movements carrying the sort of reverence usually reserved for handling objects of religious significance. The moment his fingers touched the Valyrian steel, the metal warmed as though recognizing something familiar, and the tiny dragon's wings seemed to shift minutely to achieve perfect fit around his finger.
"It's magnificent," he breathed, holding his hand up to catch the lamplight. The ring seemed to glow with its own inner radiance, as if the spirit of some ancient dragon had been captured in metal and made to serve. "The craftsmanship alone must represent months of work. The cost..." He shook his head in wonder. "Father, this represents a fortune. Several fortunes."
"Worth every copper," Daemon declared with absolute conviction. "Though I confess curiosity about your reaction. Most boys your age would be more interested in the helmet or demanding a proper sword. Instead, you seem drawn to the ring specifically. Any particular reason?"
Rhea's keen gaze moved between her husband and son, recognizing the undercurrents of a conversation that went deeper than simple gift-giving. Years of marriage to Daemon had taught her to read the subtle signs of when he was being genuinely thoughtful versus when he was simply looking for opportunities to create expensive chaos for entertainment purposes.
"Daemon," she said with the sort of pointed attention that suggested she suspected there was more to this story than mere paternal generosity. "A ring is oddly specific, even for someone with your talent for dramatic gestures and your complete inability to do anything in half-measures. What prompted such a particular choice? Why not a dagger suited to his size, or a boy's first proper sword, or even just a pendant that could be worn under his clothes?"
Jaehaerys studied the ring on his finger with the sort of intense focus that made the adults around him slightly uncomfortable. When he looked up, his green eyes held depths that seemed far too ancient for someone who had seen only eight summers.
"Because I need a focus," he said simply, his voice carrying the matter-of-fact certainty that marked his most unsettling pronouncements. "For my magic."
The words dropped into the chamber's warmth like stones cast into a still pond, sending ripples of implication spreading outward in all directions.
Gunthor, who had been reaching for another piece of bread, froze with his massive hand halfway to the trencher. His eyes widened slightly—not with fear, but with the sort of alert attention that had kept him alive through dozens of battles and countless political machinations.
"A focus?" he rumbled, his voice carrying the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he was trying to process information that didn't quite fit into his understanding of how the world worked. "Like... like a sword in a knight's hand? Something to channel skill through?"
"Exactly like that," Jaehaerys confirmed, flexing his fingers to watch the tiny dragon's wings catch and scatter the lamplight. "In my... previous circumstances, there were wands. Channels for magic that allowed precise control and direction of power. Tools specifically crafted for the purpose."
His parents exchanged a glance heavy with shared knowledge—the impossible truth of their son's origins, the memories of Harry Potter that lived alongside Jaehaerys in the same young body. They alone knew the full weight of what he carried, the burden of experience that no child should bear.
"But this world doesn't have wands," Jaehaerys continued, his tone remaining conversational despite the magnitude of what he was discussing. "No tradition of magical focus construction, no understanding of how to craft tools that can safely channel and direct supernatural forces. I discovered, through the energy I feel whenever I'm around Dark Sister, or Blackfyre, or Lamentation, that Valyrian steel can serve a similar purpose."
He held up his hand, letting the ring catch and reflect the light from multiple sources. "The metal remembers dragonfire, carries some essence of the magic that forged it. It resonates with power in ways that ordinary steel cannot. But I can't wait until I'm old enough to wield Lamentation properly—that's still years away, and even then, there are places where carrying a sword would be... diplomatically inadvisable."
"Such as Small Council meetings," Rhea observed with dry humor that didn't quite hide her growing concern about the implications of what her son was revealing. "Court ceremonies, diplomatic dinners, visits to the Sept..."
"Precisely." Jaehaerys nodded with the sort of practical acknowledgment that suggested he had given considerable thought to the logistics of concealed magical implements. "I need access to my abilities now, not when I reach my majority or inherit family weapons. And I need that access to be subtle, unobtrusive, the sort of thing that can be worn openly without raising questions about why an eight-year-old prince requires unusual accessories."
Daemon leaned forward with the sort of predatory interest that had made him both famous and infamous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. "Your abilities," he repeated, his voice carrying a mixture of parental pride and tactical curiosity. "Care to elaborate on what exactly we're discussing here? Because while I'm all for dramatic revelations and mysterious pronouncements, I'd prefer to understand what sort of power we're dealing with before circumstances require me to explain it to your uncle or, gods forbid, the Faith Militant."
"The sort that could reshape kingdoms if used properly," Jaehaerys replied with devastating simplicity. "Or destroy them if used poorly. Magic isn't like swordplay, Father—you can't practice it halfway or experiment with it casually. You either control it completely, or it controls you. And the consequences of losing control..."
He trailed off, his expression growing distant in that way that always made the adults around him remember that he carried knowledge and experience that went far beyond his apparent age.
"Show us," Rhea said suddenly, her voice carrying the sort of quiet authority that brooked no argument. "If you're going to claim abilities that could reshape kingdoms, if you're asking us to accept that our eight-year-old son requires magical implements for purposes we can't fully understand, then show us what we're dealing with."
"Mother," Jaehaerys began, his tone carrying notes of concern, "magic isn't a performance. It's not entertainment or demonstration. Using it casually, just to prove a point. It isn't..."
"Casual," she interrupted firmly. "But this is your family, Jaehaerys. People who love you, who need to understand what you can do so we can help you, protect you, support you when circumstances require it. We're not asking for entertainment—we're asking for trust."
Gunthor nodded his massive head with the sort of grave attention that suggested he understood the weight of what was being discussed. "Cousin Rhea speaks truth, young lord. If you carry power that could affect kingdoms, then your family needs to know what we're dealing with. Not for curiosity, but for preparation."
Jaehaerys looked around the chamber—at his father's predatory interest, his mother's steady resolve, Gunthor's patient attention. After a long moment, he seemed to reach some internal decision.
"Very well," he said, rising from his chair with fluid grace that seemed far too controlled for someone his age. "But understand—what I'm about to show you represents only a fraction of what's possible. A basic demonstration, chosen specifically because it's harmless and won't leave any permanent changes that might be difficult to explain."
The magic began to build slowly at first, like the gathering of storm clouds on a distant horizon. The air in the chamber grew heavier, charged with potential energy that made everyone's hair stand slightly on end. The flames in the lamps seemed to dim slightly, as if recognizing the presence of something that commanded their attention.
Jaehaerys stood very still in the center of the chamber, his broad shoulders squared, his green eyes beginning to shine with reflected power. The ring on his finger grew warm against his skin, then hot, then blazing with heat that should have been painful but somehow felt perfect, natural, right.
Silver light began to leak between his fingers, liquid starlight that seemed to have weight and substance. The glow intensified gradually, building in power and brilliance until it seemed like he was holding a piece of the sun itself in his small hand.
When he spoke, his voice carried not the piping tones of a boy but a resonance that seemed to ripple through stone and bone alike, harmonics that suggested ancient words given new meaning and terrible purpose.
"Expecto Patronum."
The command rang clear in the Common Tongue, yet it carried undercurrents of something older than language—power given voice and direction through will and focus and the sort of absolute certainty that could reshape reality itself.
Light burst forth in a sudden explosion of silver fire, blazing bright as noon, radiance pouring through the chamber like liquid starlight made manifest. The brightness was almost overwhelming, yet somehow pleasant, warm rather than harsh, carrying with it the suggestion of safety and protection rather than destruction.
From that blazing light, a shape began to form—magnificent and terrible and beautiful beyond description. A dragon wrought of pure silver flame materialized above them, each scale limned with starlight, its wings spanning the entire width of the chamber. The creature was clearly recognizable as kin to Vermithor—the same proud bearing, the same sense of ancient power barely contained within physical form.
But where the Bronze Fury was flesh and scale and earthly power, this was something else entirely. Magic given shape and purpose, protection made visible, love and loyalty transformed into a guardian that could stand against the darkest forces imaginable.
The spectral dragon circled the chamber with movements that were fluid as water and graceful as dance, its wings beating without sound, its passage stirring the air without disturbing so much as a single candle flame. When it opened its great jaws, no fire emerged—instead, a sound like silver bells mixed with distant thunder filled the chamber, hauntingly beautiful and utterly alien.
Even Daemon, who had stood amidst dragonfire without flinching and faced down armies without blinking, found himself momentarily speechless. His violet eyes tracked the phantom's movement with the sort of intense focus usually reserved for evaluating potential threats or exceptional opportunities.
Gunthor Royce, however, did not remain speechless. The massive knight reacted like the soldier he was born to be, his warrior instincts engaging automatically even as his mind struggled to process what he was witnessing. He surged to his feet with surprising speed for someone his size, bread and cheese forgotten, his huge hand flying to his sword hilt before the sheer wonder of it all stayed his movement.
His jaw dropped slightly, his voice rumbling forth with the sort of reverent awe usually reserved for witnessing the gods themselves walking among mortals. "Seven hells and all their attending demons," he breathed, each word carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "That ain't natural, lad. That's... that's something else entirely. Something that belongs in the songs they sing about the Age of Heroes and the Long Night."
His massive frame remained tense, ready for action, but his expression had shifted from alarm to wonder to something approaching religious experience. "I've seen dragons, boy. Stood close enough to Caraxes to count his teeth and feel his breath hot enough to melt steel. But this... this is different. This is magic made flesh, power given form and purpose."
Rhea had risen as well, though her movement was more controlled, her posture speaking of someone who was prepared for anything but determined not to show fear or uncertainty in front of her son. Her dark eyes gleamed as she studied the spectral dragon with the sort of analytical attention she usually reserved for evaluating trade agreements or military formations.
"Not natural, no," she agreed, her voice carrying the crisp authority that had made her one of the most respected rulers in the Vale despite her relatively young age. "But neither are dragons, when you think about it properly. Great winged beasts that breathe fire and bond with human riders? Flying mountains of scales and flame that can be controlled by bloodline and will? Tell me, husband—how often does the unnatural become commonplace in your bloodline before we cease calling it unnatural and start calling it destiny?"
Her gaze never left the circling phantom as she continued, her tone growing more thoughtful. "You are the blood of Old Valyria, the inheritors of dragonlords who commanded forces beyond mortal understanding. Perhaps what we're witnessing isn't aberration but inheritance. Not madness but birthright."
Daemon's expression had shifted through several phases—surprise, wonder, calculation, and finally settling into the sort of predatory satisfaction that suggested he was already considering how this new information could be used to maximum advantage. His mouth curved into that dangerous smile that had charmed and terrified people in equal measure throughout his adult life.
"Magic," he said with obvious relish, his voice carrying the sort of delight usually reserved for discovering unexpected treasure or learning that one's enemies had made fatal mistakes. "Real magic. Not hedge witchery or maester's tricks with powders and clever timing, but actual power made manifest. The kind of ability that conquers kingdoms and reshapes the world according to will and vision."
His violet gaze fixed on his son with new appreciation and, if he was honest, a certain amount of tactical assessment. "Gods and demons alike, boy, you do know how to make a father proud. This is what you meant about defending yourself when steel isn't welcome, about being ready for whatever complications arise. You're not just a prince with a dragon—you're a prince with a dragon and magic both."
The spectral Vermithor—for that's what it clearly was, despite its ethereal nature—completed one final circuit of the chamber before beginning to dissolve back into silver mist. The process was gradual, beautiful in its way, as if the creature was reluctant to return to whatever realm it had emerged from. The phantom's great head turned toward Jaehaerys in what might have been a nod of acknowledgment before the last of its light faded away.
The chamber returned to its ordinary dimness, though the scent of ozone lingered in the air like the aftermath of lightning strikes. The ring on Jaehaerys' finger continued to pulse with soft radiance for several heartbeats before gradually returning to the appearance of simple, if extraordinarily crafted, jewelry.
Jaehaerys settled back into his chair as though he had merely demonstrated a sword form or recited a particularly complex passage from a history book. His expression remained calm, almost matter-of-fact, carrying the sort of casual composure that suggested conjuring spectral dragons was no more remarkable than any other daily activity.
"That was a Patronus," he explained in the sort of conversational tone one might use to discuss the weather or comment on the quality of the evening wine. "A protection charm designed specifically for defense against creatures that feed on despair, fear, and hopelessness. It requires focusing on your happiest, most powerful memories and channeling that emotional energy through your magical focus."
He held up his hand, letting the ring catch the lamplight. "With Valyrian steel to channel and direct the power, I can access most of the magic I once knew. Not all—some spells require more raw energy than I can safely channel at my current age, and others were tailored for enemies and circumstances that don't exist in this world. But protective magic, healing arts, enhancement of natural abilities—those translate well enough."
Gunthor was still standing, still looking like he was processing information that challenged every assumption he'd ever held about how the world worked. His massive hands opened and closed unconsciously, and his voice carried the sort of careful reverence that suggested he was still half-convinced he'd witnessed divine intervention.
"Most of the magic you once knew," he repeated slowly, each word carrying weight. "Lad, you speak like someone discussing skills learned over decades, not abilities discovered by a boy of eight summers. How much power are we talking about here? What else can you do?"
Jaehaerys was quiet for a moment, considering how much truth to reveal. His green eyes grew distant as he seemed to be cataloguing capabilities and limitations with the thoroughness of a military commander assessing available resources.
"Healing," he said finally, his tone remaining conversational despite the magnitude of what he was discussing. "I can accelerate natural recovery, close wounds that might otherwise prove fatal, counteract most poisons and diseases. Not resurrection—there are limits to what magic can accomplish—but significant enhancement of the body's natural ability to repair itself."
He flexed his fingers, and tiny sparks of silver light danced across his knuckles like controlled lightning. "Enhancement of physical capabilities—strength, speed, endurance, reflexes. Not permanent transformation, but temporary improvement that could mean the difference between life and death in dangerous circumstances."
The sparks intensified slightly, forming patterns that suggested barely contained power. "Detection of deception—I can tell when someone is lying, at least about matters of significant importance. Concealment of my own presence when necessary. Communication across distances, though that requires either another magical focus on the receiving end or a very strong existing connection between participants."
His expression grew more serious, the casual tone giving way to something that carried the weight of genuine warning. "And if circumstances require it, if the realm faces threats that cannot be defeated through conventional means... destruction. Precise, targeted, absolutely devastating destruction."
The chamber fell silent except for the crackling of flames and the distant sounds of the Red Keep settling around them. The implications of what they had just learned hung heavy in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
It was Rhea who broke the thoughtful quiet, her voice carrying the sort of practical concern that had kept House Royce prosperous and politically relevant for four thousand years.
"Tomorrow," she said carefully, "when Aemma faces her trial, you'll be able to help in ways that go beyond simply advocating for her life or providing emotional support. If the maesters fail, if complications arise that threaten both mother and child..."
"I'll be able to intervene," Jaehaerys confirmed with quiet certainty. "Not openly—magic makes people nervous, and accusations of sorcery have a way of complicating political situations in unfortunate ways. But yes. If necessary, I can ensure that Aunt Aemma and her child both survive, regardless of what the maesters determine is medically possible."
Daemon leaned forward with renewed interest, his tactical mind clearly working through possibilities and implications. "And when the Small Council meets to discuss the Stepstones? When lords start making speeches about honor and duty while harboring entirely different motivations?"
"I'll know who speaks truth and who serves their own interests above the realm's welfare," Jaehaerys replied without hesitation. "I'll be able to identify which lords can be trusted, which ones are plotting behind closed doors, and what their real objectives are. Information that might prove... strategically valuable."
He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Though I should note that magic isn't a replacement for good judgment or careful planning. It's a tool, like a sword or a dragon. Powerful, yes, but only as effective as the person wielding it. Use it wisely, and it can accomplish miracles. Use it poorly, and it can destroy everything you're trying to protect."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!