POV Aerys Targaryen
I had lost my left eye.
It was gone, plain and simple. I could not see out of it anymore, and no amount of crying would bring it back. The maesters packed the wound with herbs and wrapped my head in linen that smelled of smoke and vinegar. It hurt like hell. Some nights I woke biting my own hand to keep from screaming.
When the Reach lords learned my age, they stared as if I were some creature from a tale. A boy of nine who had killed such a warrior. I saw the fear in some of them, the awe in others. It was that same day I was knighted.
The man who did it was Samwell Tarly, though many called him Savage Sam.
I understood why. I had seen him in the marsh, how he moved through men like a storm through tall grass. There was no wasted motion in him. When he placed his house's Valyrian steel sword upon my shoulder, his face was solemn.
"Rise," he told me. "Ser Aerys Targaryen."
The blade was Heartsbane, older than half the castles in the realm. To feel it touch me was an honor I would carry to my grave. The men cheered, and the sound rolled across the marsh like thunder. I was the youngest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
I did not feel young.
Word soon reached the king that the rebellions were ended. Harren the Red was dead. The self-named son of the drowned god was dead. The Vale had been handled by my father, and the Vulture King had fed my dragon.
They began calling me the Young Dragon.
It was a fitting name, I supposed.
I returned to King's Landing two weeks later. The city roared when Caraxes circled overhead. I wore a patch over my left eye. When my mother saw it, her hands flew to her mouth and tears welled despite her efforts to hide them. She held me so tightly I thought my ribs might crack.
My father did not cry.
He gripped my shoulder and nodded once. Pride burned in his eyes hotter than any flame. He had been named Hand of the King, and my uncle, King Aenys, placed Blackfyre in his hands. My father knelt to receive it, the ancient blade gleaming dark and terrible. Aenys knew what my father was—a warrior born—and that the sword would serve the realm better at his side.
That same day, my father summoned me to his chambers.
Dark Sister lay across the table.
I stopped breathing.
The sword was slender and elegant, forged for speed, its edge catching the candlelight. My grandmother had carried it. So had my father. Now it waited for me.
"You bled for our house," my father said. "You fought as a dragon should. This is yours."
My hands trembled as I took it.
It was lighter than I expected. Perfect.
"Do not shame it," he added quietly.
"I won't," I swore.
I meant it with all that I was.
That night I stood alone on the balcony, Dark Sister at my side, the city sprawling beneath me. The wind tugged at my hair and cooled the ache behind my ruined eye. Somewhere in the dark, Caraxes screamed, a long, hungry sound that echoed across the water.
I touched the patch and felt no tears come.
Only heat.
Only hunger.
I had paid for my name in blood. And the realm would learn, in time, exactly what kind of dragon I was becoming.