Chapter 5: The Dragon's Hoard and the Rogue's Return
The arrival of Aegon Targaryen, Baelon's new half-brother, was heralded with the requisite pomp and feigned universal joy that always accompanied a royal birth. Bells rang across King's Landing, wine flowed in the streets, and the nobility flocked to the Red Keep to offer congratulations and lavish gifts. Voldemort, now a youth of eight namedays, observed the proceedings with the detached curiosity of a naturalist studying a particularly noisy and predictable insect colony.
Queen Alicent, radiant in her maternal glow, presented her son to the court with a quiet pride that was almost entirely overshadowed by the beaming triumph of her father, Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King looked upon the infant Aegon as if he were the second coming of the Conqueror himself, a sentiment Voldemort found particularly galling given the child's current state of mewling helplessness.
"A healthy prince, Your Grace!" Otto declared to Viserys, his voice ringing with an enthusiasm that barely masked his ambition. "Another strong link in the golden chain of succession! The gods are truly good to House Targaryen."
Viserys, his grief for Aemma now a softer, more melancholic ache rather than a raw wound, was undeniably delighted. He held his new son with a tenderness that Baelon had rarely received, or at least, rarely registered through his own icy emotional detachment. "He is a fine boy, Otto," the King agreed, a genuine smile lighting his features. "A brother for Baelon. A blessing for the realm."
A brother for Baelon. Voldemort turned the words over in his mind. In the common parlance, a brother was a companion, a confidant. In the lexicon of power, especially royal power, a brother was a rival, a potential usurper, a complication. This infant, this Aegon, was the first of undoubtedly many such complications Alicent would produce. He felt no flicker of fraternal affection, only a cold, strategic assessment. The boy was healthy, doted upon by his mother and grandfather. He would be raised as a prince, another Targaryen with a claim, however secondary, to the Iron Throne. An obstacle, then. One to be monitored, managed, and if necessary, eventually removed.
His first formal viewing of the infant was in the royal nursery, a chamber now even more lavishly appointed than his own had been. Alicent was cooing over the babe, her ladies-in-waiting fluttering around her. Viserys ushered Baelon forward.
"Come, Baelon. Meet your brother, Aegon."
Voldemort approached the cradle, his expression carefully neutral. He looked down at the red-faced, sleeping infant. Small, weak, utterly dependent. He felt a familiar surge of contempt for such frailty, a stark contrast to his own unnerving self-possession even at a tender age. He reached out a finger, as expected, and gently touched the baby's cheek. Aegon stirred, his tiny mouth working.
"He looks… small," Baelon observed, his voice devoid of childish wonder.
Alicent's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "All babes are small, Prince Baelon. He will grow strong, with the Mother's blessing." Her eyes, usually soft, held a new glint of maternal protectiveness, a subtle warning. She saw him not just as the King's heir, but as the established son of the previous, beloved Queen, a figure who, by his very existence, cast a shadow over her own child's prospects.
Voldemort merely inclined his head. The battle lines, however faint, were already being drawn.
While the court buzzed with talk of the new prince, Voldemort focused his energies on a far more significant prize: the mysterious, vibrating door in Maegor's Holdfast. The information gleaned from Maester Vynco's research had confirmed his suspicions. It was Valyrian, a source of power, a hidden legacy. His nightly visits had become more intense, his telekinetic assaults on the ancient lock more focused, more powerful. The wood around the mechanism was now deeply scarred, the iron groaning under the strain of his relentless will.
One moonless night, when the castle was deep in slumber and the only sounds were the sighing of the wind and the distant roar of a kenneled dragon, he made his final attempt. He stood before the door, his small frame radiating an almost visible aura of concentration. He closed his eyes, not needing them to see the intricate workings of the latch, the stress points in the ancient wood. He gathered his magic, drawing on that cold, dark reservoir within him, a power alien to this world yet terrifyingly effective. He pushed. Not with his hands, but with the full force of his focused will.
There was a sound like a dying breath, a protracted groan of tortured metal, and then a sharp, decisive CRACK. The heavy iron latch, weakened by his previous efforts and the final, irresistible pressure, snapped. The door, with a shudder that vibrated through the stone floor, swung inward a few inches, releasing a gust of warm, dry air that smelled of ancient dust, ozone, and something else… something akin to the metallic tang of dragon's blood, but refined, concentrated.
Triumph, cold and fierce, surged through him. He had succeeded.
Pushing the heavy door further open, he slipped inside, his heart – the borrowed Targaryen heart – beating a fraction faster, not with fear, but with a hunter's anticipation. The chamber beyond was not large, circular, and hewn from the same black stone as parts of the Dragonpit. There were no windows. The only light came from a faint, pulsating luminescence emanating from a series of intricate Valyrian glyphs carved into the very walls, glyphs that seemed to shift and writhe like living things in the corners of his vision. They were similar to the one Maester Vynco had researched, but infinitely more complex.
In the center of the room, upon a low, black basalt pedestal, rested a single object: a large, obsidian-black egg, easily the size of his own torso. It was scaled like a dragon's egg, but its surface seemed to drink the faint light from the walls, possessing a depth that was almost hypnotic. The rhythmic vibrations he had felt through the door were strongest here, emanating from the egg itself, a slow, powerful thrum, like a dormant volcano.
Voldemort approached it cautiously, his senses, both magical and mundane, on high alert. This was no ordinary dragon egg. It felt… older. Denser. Saturated with a potent, ancient magic that dwarfed even the residual energies of the glyph-covered walls. He reached out a hand, hesitantly, then with growing confidence, and touched its smooth, cool surface.
The moment his skin made contact, a shockwave of pure energy coursed up his arm, not painful, but incredibly potent. Images, sensations, fragments of knowledge flooded his mind – not coherent thoughts, but raw, elemental data. He saw fire, oceans of it, under black skies. He felt the earth tremble, heard the roar of a thousand dragons, felt the searing heat of their breath. He glimpsed towering, impossible cities of twisted crystal and obsidian, felt the crushing weight of unimaginable sorceries being unleashed. Valyria. Not a history lesson from a Maester, but a visceral, terrifying, exhilarating imprint of its cataclysmic power and its equally cataclysmic Doom.
And within the egg, he sensed… a mind. Not sentient in the way he was, but a vast, sleeping consciousness, a potentiality of immense power. It was a dragon, yes, but something more. Something… primordial.
He snatched his hand back, gasping, his mind reeling. This was a treasure beyond imagining. Not just a dragon egg, but a relic, a conduit to the very essence of Valyrian magic, perhaps even a key to understanding the forces that had shaped his new bloodline. The glyphs on the walls, he now understood, were not merely decorative; they were part of a containment spell, or perhaps a nurturing matrix, keeping the egg in stasis, preserving its power.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that he could not allow anyone else to discover this chamber. This was his. A secret source of power, of knowledge, a potential weapon that could make him invincible in this world. He spent what felt like hours in the chamber, committing the glyphs to memory, studying the egg, feeling its ancient, slumbering power call to the dragon blood within him, and to the darker, wizarding magic that was his core. He wondered if this egg could be hatched, if the creature within could be bound to his will, not through the sentimental Targaryen bonding, but through sheer magical dominance.
Before leaving, he carefully re-secured the door, using his magic to subtly mend the broken latch as best he could, arranging the splinters to look undisturbed. He would need to find a more permanent way to conceal his access. This chamber, this Dragon's Hoard, would be his most guarded secret, his private sanctum of power.
The court, meanwhile, was abuzz with another development: the imminent return of Prince Daemon Targaryen. Having successfully, if brutally, concluded his war in the Stepstones and crowned himself King of the Narrow Sea, he was, after a surprisingly short period of defiance, returning to King's Landing. Some said it was at Viserys's earnest plea, a brother's longing for reconciliation. Others whispered that Daemon, having made his point and secured his spoils, was simply bored with ruling a string of barren rocks and sought the more sophisticated pleasures and intrigues of the capital.
Voldemort awaited his uncle's arrival with keen anticipation. He had heard so much about this 'Rogue Prince' – his skill as a warrior, his prowess as a dragonrider, his volatile temper, his disdain for convention. Daemon was a force of nature, a living embodiment of the 'fire and blood' motto. A dangerous man, certainly, but also, potentially, a useful one, or at least an instructive one.
Daemon's arrival was as dramatic as expected. He strode into the throne room not as a penitent younger brother, but as a conquering hero, clad in black armor, the crown of the Stepstones – a jagged circlet of driftwood and salvaged Valyrian steel – upon his silver-gold head. He was lean, handsome in a harsh, predatory way, with the same pale eyes as Viserys and Baelon, but Daemon's held a restless, dangerous fire. Caraxes, his terrifying Blood Wyrm, had landed in the outer courtyard, his roar shaking the very foundations of the Red Keep.
Viserys, torn between brotherly affection and kingly indignation, met him halfway down the steps of the Iron Throne. For a moment, tension crackled in the air. Then Daemon knelt, offering the crown of the Narrow Sea to his brother. "Your Grace," he said, his voice surprisingly soft, though laced with an undercurrent of irony. "I have brought you a crown. The Stepstones are yours."
The gesture, whether sincere or calculated, broke the tension. Viserys, ever sentimental, embraced his brother, tears in his eyes. "Welcome home, Daemon."
Otto Hightower watched this reconciliation with barely concealed disapproval. Queen Alicent looked on with a nervous frown. Rhaenyra, however, beamed, her affection for her roguish uncle evident.
Voldemort, standing beside his father, observed Daemon with an intensity that few would notice in a child. He saw the arrogance, the barely leashed violence, but also a keen intelligence and a charisma that could sway men. Daemon's gaze swept the room, lingering for a moment on Rhaenyra, then on Alicent and the Hand. Finally, his eyes fell upon Baelon.
There was a flicker of something unreadable in Daemon's expression as he looked at his nephew – curiosity, perhaps a hint of assessment. Baelon met his gaze unflinchingly, his own pale eyes calm and steady. It was a silent acknowledgment, a sizing up between two Targaryens who, despite the vast difference in their age and experience, both possessed a core of something cold and dangerous.
"And this," Viserys said, his arm around Baelon's shoulder, "is my son, Baelon. Your nephew. The Prince of Dragonstone."
Daemon's lips curved into a slight smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So this is the miracle babe who finally secured the line. He has your look about him, brother. And Aemma's hair." He inclined his head towards Baelon. "Greetings, Prince. May you live longer than your namesake."
The reference to the first Baelon, Viserys and Aemma's first son who had died in infancy, was a subtle barb, a reminder of past griefs and the fragility of heirs. Viserys winced, but Baelon merely nodded. "Uncle," he replied, his voice cool and clear.
In the weeks that followed, Daemon became a fixture at court, a whirlwind of energy and disruption. He charmed some, offended others, and generally kept the Red Keep on its toes. He spent much time with Rhaenyra, taking her flying on Caraxes, regaling her with tales of his adventures, much to the consternation of Alicent and Otto, who saw him as a corrupting influence.
Voldemort watched Daemon's interactions carefully. He saw the genuine affection between Daemon and Rhaenyra, a bond forged in shared Targaryen spirit and a disdain for the stuffier elements of the court. He also saw Daemon's contempt for Otto Hightower, an open animosity that often led to thinly veiled verbal spars in the Small Council. With Viserys, Daemon was a complex mix of affection, frustration, and manipulation. He could make his brother laugh one moment and despair the next.
Daemon, for his part, seemed intrigued by Baelon. He would occasionally seek the boy out, observing his lessons, or engaging him in brief, probing conversations.
"They say you are a quiet one, nephew," Daemon remarked one day, finding Baelon in the royal library, poring over a tome on Valyrian history that would have been daunting for a boy twice his age. "Not much like your father, or even your grandsire Jaehaerys. More like… Maegor, perhaps, in your silence?"
The comparison to Maegor the Cruel, the ruthless tyrant, was a test. Voldemort looked up, his pale eyes meeting Daemon's. "Maegor built this Keep, Uncle. He understood the importance of strong foundations."
Daemon let out a short laugh. "He did indeed. And of strong methods. Do you learn of such methods in your books, Prince Baelon?"
"I learn what is necessary," Voldemort replied evenly.
He sensed that Daemon didn't quite know what to make of him. He was not a typical child, not even a typical Targaryen prince. His composure, his intellect, his unnerving gaze – they set him apart. Daemon, a man who thrived on understanding and manipulating others, found Baelon an enigma, and therefore, potentially dangerous or intriguing.
Meanwhile, Queen Alicent was pregnant again. Helaena, Voldemort knew from the whispers, was the name chosen if it was a girl. Another potential rival, another piece on the board. Otto Hightower's influence continued to solidify through his daughter and his expanding brood of grandchildren.
Voldemort, however, felt a growing sense of control. His secret chamber, his 'Dragon's Hoard,' was a source of immense potential. He began to spend more time there, carefully studying the pulsating egg, trying to understand the fragments of Valyrian knowledge that seemed to seep into his mind when he was near it. He felt his own magic, both the innate wizarding kind and the nascent Targaryen connection, subtly strengthening in its presence.
He was playing the long game. The birth of new princes, the return of rogue uncles, the shifting alliances of the court – these were all elements to be factored into his grand equation. He was Lord Voldemort, reborn in fire and blood, and the Iron Throne was merely the first step. The power slumbering beneath the Red Keep, the power soaring on leathern wings, the very future of this world – he would claim it all. The dance was just beginning, and he was already its unseen choreographer.