II

DRIFTMARK – 78 years after the Doom of Valyria

The she-dragon was a beauty, with a blue-green crest and long horns clawing up into the air towards the heavens while her shining bronze scales shone. Her great wings were folded and her bright green orbs peered curiously at them all, almost as if she were intelligent. Aethan had seen her before, the mighty beast Vhagar that his grand-uncle Daemion had ridden. He had fuzzy memories of seeing her at age four, three years ago when they had attended the man's funeral.

His cousin, however? Well, Aethan hardly remembered him.

He could remember an inquisitive, worldly-wise boy of two namedays with an articulate and refined way of speaking. He could also vaguely recall the boy bringing him down to Dragonstone's mausoleum to view the skulls of dragons long passed, forever to rest amongst the gilded, gem uncrusted urns of their dead riders. They had been older ones, some even from the days before the Doom. Viserys' dark purple eyes had been alit with something Aethan could not quite put his finger on as he recounted all their names and histories with expert precision.

That light did not touch him today. Instead, his gaze was disinterested, almost bored as he dismounted from the saddle. His hair had been kept shoulder length, blowing out wildly from the gusts of wind that blew through it. He wore black riding leathers with a long red silk mantle over it, a black riding whip coiled in his gloved hands as he approached them.

The much larger Balerion lowered his neck the same way, his uncle following his son's suit in dismounting, clad in black riding clothes that showed off his musculature. His long purple cloak was edged with golden dragon designs at the edges billowed in the wind, held together with a golden dragon's head clasp.

Lord Aerion smiled as he approached them while Viserys eyed them suspiciously. His uncle's true title was Archon yet Aethan found a deal harder to say than Lord. His uncle never seemed to mind thankfully although his father always gave him grief for it.

"Driftmark welcomes you, my Archon," Lord Daemon Velaryon said with a smile as he greeted with a low bow. Lord Aerion only grinned, marched towards him, and embraced the man tightly.

"Daemon, it is good to see you again," Lord Aerion grinned, one arm extending towards his son, "My and Valaena's eldest child: Viserys."

Said boy looked up at Aethan's father with unimpressed eyes before doing the most elaborate and unchildlike bow out of mockery.

"'Nuncle Daemon," he greeted, rising, "It is good to see you in such fine health." His indigo eyes turned to face Aethan. "Cousins Aethan, Corlys, and Daenora, it is good to see you once more. You have all grown." His lips curled into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes as he walked towards Aethan's mother. "And aunt Laena, you remain most beautiful. You have not aged a day since I last saw you. I would even say you've blossomed even more. Why the sight of you has warmed my weary soul!"

The stunned silence that filled the air was uncomfortable and tense as everyone cast each other uneasy looks.

"That is most… kind, dear nephew," mother managed as Viserys pressed a kiss to her hand while Daenora shot Viserys the most confused look. Father arched an eyebrow upwards in surprise while three-nameday-old Corlys merely laughed.

"Let us go in, shall we?" Aethan's father suggested.

"I am pleased to see my new home, nuncle," Viserys proposed, one gloved hand dusting off his mantle while he swaggered forward, "Lead the way!"

As they walked through the halls of Driftmark, Daemon could not help but think his nephew was not fond of him. While he was courteous to all, easily jesting with all who spent the time to listen, there was a coldness in his eyes he simply could not shake off. It was constantly there, like a shadow that always lingered close behind. The austere aura that clung to him made him seem much older than he actually was.

He did not speak like a boy of five namedays.

No, that was not it. He did not act like a boy of five namedays either. His words were carefully chosen, never outright mocking but with every word he said, there was a certain haughtiness that accompanied it as if he were privy to a joke nobody else knew. When left alone, he did not talk unless talked to, did little but scowl, and looked at everyone in a severe manner.

Then there was his distrust. The way the boy had eyed their maester, Daemon would have thought the man had slapped his mother in front of him. His eyes had narrowed, lips downturned as he questioned the man over his multiple metal links and experience as if the man were some illiterate halfwit who'd never touched a book. Coleman had been courteous enough to answer every question despite the clear antagonism the boy held towards him though that did little to change his nephew's mind, especially when he questioned the man over his experience with delivering children (the boy had a truly strong fascination about the birthing bed or rather the high mortality rate attached to it).

His cousin had dismissed it as a child's fancy, perhaps his own way of showing concern for his mother or future sister-wife, an acclaim that had made his wife give him an affectionate pat on the head and his daughter send him a thoughtful look. While Daemon did not doubt that the boy was precocious, his eccentricities were puzzling to say the least.

Aerion spoke proudly of the boy's talent at arms; supposedly, the boy had been just three when he had lifted his first sword. He had begun his lessons at two and had learned the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities out of nothing but a fancy, on top of the Common Tongue, tongue of Old Rhoyne and the High Valyrian of their ancestors.

And he was exceedingly learned in the histories of Valyria and Essos in general. From the early beginnings of the Freehold to the Ghiscari Wars and the numbered skirmishes between the Valyrians and the Rhoynar, he knew them all by heart. The names of the twoscore houses that had ruled the Freehold were like old friends to him, as were his recollections of various Archons and triarchs who had risen to the fore. He had a strong dislike for Nymeria, calling her an "uncivilised moron who at least had the brains to know the Valyrians were her betters" and thought of the Sarnori empire as being wise for never arousing Valyria's anger like "those other fools", though lamented they were fools all the same given their untimely demise.

His histories of the Seven Kingdoms were just as frighteningly accurate. He could discern between all the Garths of the Gardener line, every Brandon of House Stark, every king with a Ty as a prefix from the Lannister line. He had a particular distaste of Dorne or rather Houses Martell, Wyl and Uller in particular (for what reason, Daemon did not know) and thought of the Hightowers as overreaching sycophants (Daemon was sure the boy had never even met a Hightower).

What's more, the boy was downright fanatic in his devotion to the Fourteen, the most venerated of gods of all of Valyria. Daemon's family had given up the gods of their forebears a generation before in preference of the Seven of Westeros out of mostly practicality, though they still learned of the religion of their ancestors. Yet, House Targaryen still stayed true to their roots and none more than Viserys. He prayed regularly, held frequent sacrifices for them, and seemed to truly believe in their existence.

He was also meticulous when it came to his routine. He required he bathe twice a day; once in the daytime, once in the night-time. The fact came as a shocking waste of water and time though that the boy seemed unperturbed by the mention needed to be said. His she-dragon had need of one ox every day, locally sourced and to be done under his strict supervision (he had given Maester Coleman a suspicious glance as he said that). He would also need unused pillars of stones to train his dragon in melting stone, another thing that had left them befuddled. When probed, he had only given them a sly smile.

"And I mostly drink water," he pointed out sternly as they dined within the confines of one of their private dining rooms, "Lemon water with a few sprigs of mint is good as well. Watered-down wine is fine if no clean water source is available. Else I drink juice. Lemon juice is my own personal favorite though I am impartial to others. Chilled, of course."

The boy did not eat with his fingers like most children tended to do, Daemon noted. His silken red tunic, trimmed with gold, had not encountered even the smallest stain of food. He did not speak when he chewed, did not eat like a glutton nor like a nibbler; everything he did was polite and precise.

He is a man in a child's skin.

"I will ensure the servants are notified," Daemon replied, his half-eaten lamb leg forgotten.

Aerion sent him an apologetic glance. "Forgive Viserys for his idiosyncrasies. It will grow endearing in time."

"Indeed," the lad toasted as if it were not an insult.

"Can we fly with him on his dragon, papa?" Daenora asked, eyes brimming with excitement at the prospect.

"Of course-"

"-not."

The silence that filled the room as the Lord of Driftmark and the heir to Dragonstone looked at each other with completely stumped expressions was followed by perhaps the most awkward pregnant pause.

"What I mean, Daenora," Daemon began, breaking the silence, "Is that you must be supervised. Your cousin is only five, after all."

The boy smiled thinly but did not argue. "Of course, 'nuncle." With a shrug, he continued, "I am keen to see the sights of Driftmark. Mother speaks fondly of it. She says the Velaryons are seafarers above all."

"And knights," Corlys added excitedly.

"And knights," Viserys repeated, amused. "I myself am fond of seafaring. I had heard one of the villages here is a font for ships. While I would not call myself an expert seafarer, I have some ideas that I would like to test. With my 'nuncle's permission, of course."

"Do elaborate," Daemon allowed.

In the span of a second, the boy's eyes lit up. "Well, copper sheathing the hull of ships with an alloy of copper and zinc in the ratio of sixty percent copper to forty percent zinc with a trace of iron. It was a practice in Valyria, I think. Though it never took off. A shame given it would mitigate the problems of shipworms, barnacles, and marine weeds." The boy paused to take a sip of his water. "And I have drafted some new ship designs with new rigging and sail arrangement. If all works well, these ships will be able to sail upwind."

"Upwind?" The thought alone made Daemon almost spit out his Arbor Gold. "Impossible."

His cousin only laughed and leaned over to mousse up his son's hair. "Do not underestimate my son, cousin. The boy is truly the wonder of his age."

"It relies on a process called tacking, a sailing stratagem by which a sailing vessel, whose desired trajectory is into the wind, turns its bow toward and through the wind so that the direction from which the wind blows changes from one side of the watercraft to the other, allowing headway in the desired direction," Viserys said matter-of-factly, "And by making masts with dovetailed planks banded with iron rather than the trunks of trees, these prospective ships will be able to carry much more sail. I daresay even the swan ships of the Summer Islands will not be able to compare. I call them dragon ships. A bit on the nose but I never presumed to call myself creative." He took another sip of water. "But again, it would be ruinously expensive to build such ships and experiment with them without being sure we would get the results desired. That is why I propose we begin with smaller models and move from there. What do you say, 'nuncle?"

Daemon only looked at the boy with a slack jaw, completely speechless. Not even Aerion seemed able to respond. Aethan's hand had frozen in the air, soup forgotten as he stared down at his cousin. Not even young Corlys made a move to reply.

Viserys did not seem to notice. Rather, he continued to chew at his food politely before requesting for more water from a passing serving girl.

"I will send you to the fishing village on the morrow," Daemon finally managed after a beat, "I will definitely take your ideas into consideration."

Seven, has this child be blessed by the gods?

Viserys only smiled. "My thanks, 'nuncle."

As the weeks blurred by and the boy grew more comfortable with his surroundings, many changes began to take place. For one, in the span of one lesson with Coleman, Viserys Targaryen was deemed to be as learned as a trained acolyte.

No longer did he find himself sat shoulder to shoulder with Daemon's two eldest children. Instead, his lessons were held in the afternoon, after beginning the day with training at arms with Ser Addar and some time with his bronze-scaled she-dragon Vhagar. The boy was as perspicacious as Daemon had thought, running through the various theorems with a certain sense of boredom yet skill.

Maester Coleman went even so far so as to say the boy had the makings of an archmaester with such a quick mind.

Then came his experiments. His free time was spent having Vhagar blast fire onto stone pillars until there were runnels of liquid dripping onto the ground. Every day, he dedicated an hour or two to filling Driftmark's courtyard with smoke, leaving the already damp and cramped castle reeking of the fumes.

His interest in the castle's armorer was just as queer. He made it a must to visit Darron after his lessons and would oft as not be accompanied by ten of the Targaryen sent guardsmen, all of them more or less giving the boy free rein of the castle.

His tasks as a cupbearer were adequate though he rarely did fulfill any of his duties. It was more familiar to find him hunched over a pile of parchment, writing in a language Daemon could not for the life of him decipher. It was frankly worrying yet somewhat awe-inducing.

Mayhaps that was why he had summoned the boy to his solar.

He came obediently, dressed in a green and bronze silk tunic with black trousers and fine cloth shoes, all decorated with dragon shapes in bronze-gold thread. There was a scowl on his face and his arms were crossed over his chest while he looked. His eyes were unreadable as he walked towards the chair laying parallel to Daemon's and took a seat.

"'Nuncle," he greeted, "Have I upset you?"

Daemon's hands clasped together as he leaned forward. "Not at all, nephew," he answered, "You have impressed me thus far, what will your models proving to be as revolutionary as you claim them to be."

"And?" The boy arched up a silver eyebrow, lips thinning.

"And I have come to the conclusion that you are lying."

To his credit, the boy did not even flinch. Instead, he leaned forward for the pitcher of wine, poured some Arbor Gold into his cup before taking a deep swallow and settling into his chair comfortably. The sight made Daemon freeze in place. There was no smile on his face. His eyes looked at Daemon with annoyance.

"And why so?" he asked, lips twitching downwards so slightly.

"These Valyrian techniques you spoke of," Daemon replied, fighting the temptation to knock the cup out of the boy's hand. Only the resounding roar from outside stilled him. "They do not exist. None of the shipwrights I've spoken to have ever heard of it and the books I have consulted have given me likewise results."

"A shame," he responded, "Mayhaps you should dig deeper uncle. Further east? Yi-Ti mayhaps?"

"You hide your distaste awfully," Daemon noted, finally reaching for the pitcher and pouring himself a cup of wine. The wine was sweet.

"Hide? I never mean to hide it, nuncle."

The bold statement made Daemon smile. "Aren't you brash? Your mother, my dear sister, sent you here in hopes of reining you in. Instead, I find you've become wilder. I am half-inclined to send you back."

To his surprise, the boy smiled. "Yet, you do not."

Daemon's fingernails drummed against the desk. "You are far more valuable than what your father sees," Daemon confessed, "We, Velaryons, have always had a close relationship with the Targaryens. Since the days of the Freehold."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "Speak freely Lord Velaryon or do not speak at all. I mislike lickspittles. My rear end gets kissed enough by your household."

"How did you know all of this?", Daemon asked honestly, "A boy of five namedays should not speak so eloquently. A boy of five namedays should not be able to draft such ships. My shipwrights estimate your ships may go as fast as over four times as quickly as a standard galley."

Viserys only took another swallow of wine. "I have dragon dreams," he shrugged, "I see such things in my dreams and I simply seek to replicate it."

"Dragon dreams?"

The mention put him off. The boy was gifted with dragon dreams? Daemon had always been wary of magic and the like but with his nephew's new revelation, it all made sense.

"Since when?"

"Birth," the boy confessed, coughing, "This wine is strong, I must admit. My apologies. But yes, I see things in my dreams that most people do not."

"What else?" Daemon questioned.

The boy's smile widened. "Why everything, nuncle. All the secrets lost to us, all the histories we lost to the fires of the Doom. I've seen it all."

"Everything?"

The thought alone was mind-boggling. If this was true, then Viserys was without price.

"Everything," he stated in a bored tone, "Let us get down to the business, Lord Velaryon. I am more valuable to you than anything else. Under my rule, your house will rise to precedents never seen before. Emphasis on my rule. Not my father's. Mine."

"Your father is the Archon of Dragonstone," Daemon pointed out.

"One day I will be the Archon of Dragonstone," he shrugged, "And when that day happens, will you die in obscurity or will you have served me for years and be rewarded for it?"

The question made Daemon's hands clench into fists. "Is that a threat?"

"It is an offer," Viserys said sternly, "I will not let House Targaryen rot in insignificance anymore the way my ancestors have. My children and their children after them will rule over great swathes of land and they will be kings and queens, not mere lords. My ambition is plain but does yours match it?"

Daemon could only look at the boy, completely bewildered. It was as if a man had slipped into a boy's skin. Viserys was not a boy, that much was clear to him now.

"What is it you want?" he finally asked.

The boy's lips extended into a smile once more. "Much and more, 'nuncle," he said, voice dripping with arrogance, "But to put it simply: Westeros."