Conquest, 77 AC
Queen Alysanne, now over forty, was once again on the verge of giving birth. In Westeros, medical knowledge remained primitive, and childbirth was a perilous ordeal for any woman—even the queen herself. Four years earlier, Alysanne had narrowly survived the birth of her son Gaimon. This time, older and more vulnerable, the entire Targaryen family watched with apprehension, hearts heavy with fear.
Gaimon, though confident that his mother could survive, could not ignore the precarious weight of history that his very presence had altered. Deep down, he understood that even minor deviations in events could have disastrous consequences. Determined to ensure his mother's survival, he prepared himself for a path he had previously avoided: blood magic.
Among the many disciplines Gaimon studied—fire magic foremost—blood magic held a unique, dark power. Yet, it was not a tool he often employed, especially in matters of life. The knowledge was dangerous, tainted by suffering, and exacted a severe toll on the practitioner. But desperate times called for desperate measures. For his mother's sake, he could not afford hesitation.
Blood magic operated under a simple yet brutal law: life required a price. The technique known as Blood Source allowed one to transfer vitality—absorbing it from a willing or unwilling source and redirecting it to heal another. Yet, the process was no mere matter of intent. The user would feel waves of nausea, discomfort, and the lingering echoes of those whose life force they borrowed. Draw too much, and the backlash could be madness—or death.
Typically, Gaimon avoided such extreme measures. Animals, livestock, or lesser creatures could provide vitality, but their essence was inferior. Human vitality was most potent, most compatible, yet he could not take human life lightly. If this path became necessary, it was a matter to be discussed with his father, King Jaehaerys, for guidance and consent.
Late that night, Gaimon approached his father's chambers alone. The Red Keep was quiet, illuminated only by the flickering orange glow of wall-mounted torches. Outside the king's door, a line of fully armed White Knights stood watch. Two of them, draped in snow-white cloaks, their broad shoulders and intimidating armor casting long shadows, exuded an aura that could unsettle the bravest of men.
"Who goes there?" the lead knight demanded, voice cutting through the stillness.
Gaimon, knowing the etiquette, stepped forward, whispering his identity: "It is I, Gaimon. I must speak with my father immediately."
The knights, wary yet recognizing the prince, hesitated. Their hands hovered near the hilts of their swords, as if ready to act at the slightest provocation. Slowly, they allowed him to approach, their vigilance tempered by respect.
"Your Highness, His Majesty has already retired. Anything urgent can wait until morning. It is late, and you should rest," the lead knight advised.
Gaimon pressed on. Secrets of blood magic were delicate; the matter could not be delayed. "Sir Morrigan, I insist. This cannot wait. Please, convey my request to my father so I may see him immediately."
The knight's expression softened slightly. As Captain of the Kingsguard, Gyles Morrigan understood the weight of royal affairs and the importance of discretion. He nodded once and disappeared inside, returning a few moments later with permission.
"Your Highness, His Majesty will see you. Please proceed," Morrigan said, opening the door.
Gaimon stepped past the guards, heart hammering, until he stood within the familiar chamber. Inside, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne lay together in bed. Alysanne's voice, tinged with amusement, greeted him.
"Oh, my little Gaimon, it's so late! Why are you still wandering about? Are you afraid to sleep alone? Would you like your mother to stay with you?"
Gaimon's small, four-year-old body contrasted sharply with the mature consciousness within him. He blushed, feeling slightly embarrassed by her teasing. "No, Mother. I have urgent news—news that can protect you!"
Both parents laughed softly, charmed by his earnestness. How could a child, barely four, claim to possess news capable of saving anyone? But their amusement did not diminish their curiosity.
"Really?" Alysanne asked, her eyes sparkling with maternal fondness. "Then tell us, our glorious Gaimon. What news do you bring?"
Gaimon exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes in silent frustration at the limitations of his child's form. He had knowledge, power, and foresight far beyond what his body suggested. Words alone would not suffice; he needed a demonstration to be taken seriously.
"Father, Mother," he said resolutely, "if you do not believe me, I shall show you. Please do not be alarmed by what you see."
He turned toward the candles still burning faintly along the walls. With a deep breath, he opened his mouth, and a thin, precise line of fire shot forth, streaking across the room. It ignited each candle along the wall in a single, fluid motion.
The sight left both king and queen momentarily speechless. The sudden manifestation of fire magic from a four-year-old child was nothing short of astonishing, a display of raw, controlled power that defied their understanding.
After the initial shock, awe replaced surprise. Jaehaerys and Alysanne exchanged a glance, realizing that their child was no ordinary boy. Gaimon's abilities were formidable, a force that could indeed influence the course of events.
Gaimon, seeing their astonishment, felt a small measure of satisfaction. His demonstration was not for vanity—it was necessary to convey the gravity of what he had learned, the lengths he would go to ensure their survival. Yet, even as the flames danced and flickered, he knew the real challenge lay ahead: mastering the dangerous intricacies of blood magic to safeguard the woman who had given him life.
Time was short. Queen Alysanne's labor could begin at any moment. And if the worst were to occur, Gaimon had to be ready—prepared to draw upon powers that were as perilous as they were potent. The weight of responsibility settled upon his young shoulders, yet he faced it with unwavering resolve.
In the quiet aftermath, the three of them remained still, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the room. Here, in this chamber, the boundaries of childhood and destiny blurred. A boy who was only four years old bore the burden of life and death, of magic and mortality. And as the night deepened, Gaimon knew that the true trial was just beginning—one that would test the strength of family, the limits of magic, and the courage of a child who was no longer truly a child at all.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)