Valarr looked down at the tiny, swaddled form of his newborn cousin, processing the tragic trajectory of the child's future.
Daeron won't turn to the bottle because he craves wine, Valarr thought grimly. He will drink to drown the madness of his own mind, desperate for a single night of dreamless sleep.
The Targaryen bloodline was haunted by such cursed foresight. Centuries of history bore witness to dragon dreamers crushed under the weight of their own visions. Helaena Targaryen had succumbed to deep madness and grief during the Dance of the Dragons, tormented by prophecies she could neither control nor escape. Decades into the future, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen would become so consumed by the Prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised that his fanatical choices would burn House Targaryen to the ground.
They all saw prophecy as an unchangeable fate, Valarr realized. They were wrong. Dreams are not a fixed destiny; they are warnings—divergent paths that show what will transpire if no one acts. Daenys the Dreamer understood that. She foresaw the Doom of Valyria, used the vision as a warning, and saved House Targaryen from extinction.
Valarr knew that his very presence in this era meant history was bound to shift. Relying solely on his own static knowledge of the timeline was a risk. I need Daeron's sight, he resolved quietly. If I can guide him, filter his visions, and shield him from the horror, his dragon dreams will become my most powerful instrument.
"Valarr, see your cousin," Princess Jena murmured gently, snapping him out of his reverie.
Instantly, Valarr softened his features, letting the calculating edge melt away into the wide-eyed, innocent wonder expected of a six-year-old child. He stepped closer, peering at the infant with a rehearsed smile.
For three years, he had played the role of a harmless, sweet prince to perfection. Early on, he had lived in constant dread of Bloodraven, fearing the man possessed complete prescience. But Valarr had since unraveled the truth: Brynden Rivers was no all-seeing prophet—he was a skinchanger, a greensight-touched greenseer who relied on a network of ravens and human spymasters. Bloodraven was loyal to the crown, but his ruthlessness and cold-blooded tyranny made him a grave danger to anyone who disrupted his grand plan. Until Valarr built a formidable faction of his own, he had to remain utterly unremarkable to Bloodraven's thousand eyes.
"Father, what of the feast?" Prince Maekar asked, turning to King Daeron and breaking the quiet of the nursery. "The castle guards are already struggling to handle the influx of highborn guests."
"I have formally announced the feast for tomorrow evening," King Daeron replied, his tone warm yet measured. "Lords from across the realm have ridden south, but our primary focus must remain on the houses of the Reach and the Stormlands. Ties between our blood and these Marches must be reinforced."
Maekar frowned slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing. "And what of Daemon? Will our half-uncle grace us with his presence?"
"No," Prince Baelor answered smoothly on behalf of their father, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "There are no tourney grounds set up, no grand jousts, and no melee prizes to be won. Daemon never attends a gathering unless there is a chance to display his knightly prowess before an adoring crowd."
Standing beside his mother, Valarr suppressed a smirk. Daemon Blackfyre's arrogance was as predictable as it was useful.
Good, Valarr thought, his mind racing as he feigned interest in the baby's tiny hands. Let the Blackfyre claimant stay home and preen. A grand gathering of powerful lords, away from the scrutiny of Daemon's martial spectacle, is precisely the chessboard I need.
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A/N: I know many of you are disappointed by short chapters. But I don't get enough time to write long chapters.