Chapter 4: A New Queen, An Old Game
The passage of time, once a torturous crawl in the confines of an infant's helplessness, now moved with a deceptive swiftness for Baelon Targaryen. By his sixth nameday, he was no longer a toddler whose unsettling stillness merely unnerved nursemaids. He was a young prince, slender and wiry, with his mother's silver-gold hair and pale blue eyes that seemed to absorb the world with an unnerving, predatory focus. Lord Voldemort, encased within this youthful facade, found the increasing physical autonomy… tolerable. It allowed for greater freedom of movement, for more nuanced interactions, and for the subtle, patient weaving of his long-term designs.
His formal education had begun, overseen by a succession of Maesters and tutors selected by the Hand, Otto Hightower, and approved by the still-grieving King. Grand Maester Mellos himself instructed him in the histories of the Seven Kingdoms and the lineage of the Great Houses. Septons droned on about the Seven, their piety a thing Voldemort found utterly contemptible yet mildly amusing in its hold over the populace. A stern, weathered knight attempted to instill the basics of swordplay, a discipline Voldemort approached with a cold, analytical precision rather than any boyish enthusiasm. He learned quickly, his mind a steel trap for information, his mimicry of appropriate childish curiosity honed to a fine art.
He particularly excelled in languages – High Valyrian, the ancient tongue of his ancestors, came to him with an almost unnatural ease, as if dormant memories stirred within his blood. Or perhaps, Voldemort mused, his soul simply resonated with a language so intrinsically linked to power and dragons. His tutors praised his intellect, his quick grasp of complex subjects. They saw precocity. They did not see the ancient, calculating mind peering out from behind innocent eyes, dissecting their lessons, their personalities, their weaknesses.
He used these sessions to his advantage. A strategically 'misunderstood' passage of history could prompt a tutor to elaborate on a particular reign, revealing insights into past power struggles. A feigned difficulty with a Valyrian verb might elicit a deeper explanation of its etymological roots, often tied to dragonlore or sorcery. He was not merely learning; he was excavating, sifting through the accumulated knowledge of this world for anything that could serve his ultimate purpose.
His magical practice, the true core of his secret life, had progressed significantly. The crude, unfocused bursts of his early childhood had given way to a more refined, subtle control. He could now manipulate objects with near-perfect telekinetic accuracy, extinguish every candle in his chamber with a single thought, or make the air around a particularly pompous courtier suddenly chill, causing them to stumble over their words. He explored the rudimentary Legilimency further, not daring a full intrusion into an adult mind yet, but becoming adept at sensing the surface thoughts and emotions of those around him, reading their intentions like an open book. It made navigating the treacherous currents of the court far easier.
The most pressing matter at court, the one that overshadowed all others, was the King's remarriage. Viserys, though still bearing the deep scars of Aemma's loss, was constantly reminded by his Council – primarily by Otto Hightower – of his duty to secure the succession beyond his single male heir. To Baelon-Voldemort, this was a predictable, if tiresome, human drama. The notion that his own existence was not 'secure' enough was laughable. He was Lord Voldemort. His survival was a testament to a will that dwarfed these mortals' petty concerns.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, pushed hard for his daughter, Laena. She was of Valyrian blood, a dragonrider in her own right (her young dragon Vhagar, once ridden by Visenya Targaryen and Baelon the Brave, was growing into a formidable beast), and an alliance with House Velaryon would bring immense wealth and naval power to the throne. It was, politically, the most logical choice.
But Otto Hightower played a more insidious game. His daughter, Alicent, remained a constant, gentle presence at Viserys's side. She offered not political advantage, but comfort, a soothing balm to the King's wounded soul. She read to him from the Seven-Pointed Star, shared quiet meals, and spoke softly of mundane things, a deliberate contrast to the ambitious proposals of Lord Corlys.
Voldemort observed this contest with cold amusement. Laena Velaryon, with her dragon and her proud lineage, would be a queen of substance, perhaps even a rival power within the marriage. Alicent Hightower, on the other hand, seemed… malleable. Devout, demure, her ambition seemingly subservient to her father's. From Voldemort's perspective, a weaker, more easily influenced Queen was preferable. He had no desire for a stepmother who might possess a will of her own.
He even made a subtle, almost untraceable magical effort. During a Small Council meeting where the marriage was being fiercely debated (he gleaned this from the agitated surface thoughts of a passing Lord and the tense aura emanating from the council chambers), he focused his intent. He pictured Viserys finding solace in quietude, associating the image of Alicent with peace, and the image of Laena with the blustering storms of her father's ambition and the fiery, untamable nature of her dragon. It was a whisper of suggestion, a nudge to the King's already grieving and suggestible mind. He would never know if it had any true effect, but it was an exercise in the delicate art of magical influence.
The announcement, when it came, was no surprise to Voldemort. King Viserys, his voice heavy but firm, declared his intention to wed the Lady Alicent Hightower. The court erupted in a flurry of reactions. Otto Hightower wore an expression of solemn triumph. Lord Corlys Velaryon stormed from the chamber, his face a mask of thunderous fury, his wife Rhaenys Targaryen sweeping out behind him with a look of cold disdain that promised future repercussions.
Rhaenyra's reaction was perhaps the most poignant for those who cared for such things. She and Alicent had been close companions. Now, her friend was to become her stepmother, the King's wife, the new Queen. Voldemort saw the flicker of betrayal and hurt in Rhaenyra's eyes before she schooled her features into a mask of Targaryen pride. This rift, he knew, would be significant. A wedge driven between the King's daughter and the King's new wife was a useful fissure he might exploit later.
His own first formal audience with the soon-to-be Queen Alicent was a carefully orchestrated affair. He was presented by his father, a small, serious prince offering his respects. Alicent, garbed in the green of her house, knelt before him, her smile gentle, her eyes seeking connection.
"Prince Baelon," she said, her voice soft. "I hope we shall be friends. I loved your mother dearly, and I promise to honor her memory and be a good wife to your father, and… and a kind presence to you."
Voldemort looked into her eyes, sensing the genuine, if somewhat naive, sincerity there, mixed with a flutter of nervousness and the underlying steel of her father's ambition, a steel she perhaps wasn't even fully aware she possessed. Kind presence. He almost scoffed. Kindness was irrelevant. Obedience, utility, those were the qualities he valued.
"You are welcome, Lady Alicent," he replied, his voice impeccably polite, his gaze steady. "My father's happiness is paramount." A perfect, princely sentiment.
He noted her relief at his formal acceptance. He noted the subtle approval in Otto Hightower's eyes, watching from the periphery. Alicent would be easy to manage, he concluded. Her piety and her desire for propriety would be her weaknesses. And soon, she would likely bear children. His half-siblings. Potential rivals. He would have to ensure they never overshadowed him, never became a genuine threat to his claim, his absolute claim.
The royal wedding was a grand affair, though muted by the lingering shadow of Aemma's recent death. King's Landing celebrated, or was made to celebrate. Voldemort endured the feasts and ceremonies with his usual detached patience, a small, silver-haired figure observing the pageant of power, loyalty, and thinly veiled resentment. The Velaryons made a pointedly brief appearance, their displeasure a palpable chill in the otherwise festive atmosphere.
With a new Queen came a shift in the court's dynamics. House Hightower's influence waxed further. Alicent, though initially timid, began to assert herself, guided by her father. She was deeply religious, and her piety began to permeate the Red Keep, a subtle shift from Viserys's more tolerant, if personally devout, approach. More septas appeared, and the whispers of the Seven grew louder than the whispers of old Valyrian gods or dragonlore, much to the chagrin of some older courtiers and, privately, Voldemort himself. He found the overt religiosity distasteful and a potential tool for controlling the masses, but also a blinder to true power.
Rhaenyra, unsurprisingly, withdrew. Her bond with her father, once so close, became strained by the presence of her former friend, now his wife. She spent more time in the Dragonpit with Syrax, or flying high above King's Landing, a solitary figure against the sky. Voldemort sometimes watched her, a speck of gold and flame in the distance. He felt no camaraderie, but a certain analytical interest. Her dragon was her power base, her escape. He understood that.
It was this growing fascination with dragons, both his own and Rhaenyra's visible displays, that led him to more insistently request a formal visit to the Dragonpit. He was the Prince, the heir. It was his birthright. Viserys, perhaps seeing a spark of traditional Targaryen spirit in his otherwise unnervingly composed son, or perhaps prompted by a desire to bond with Baelon over something uniquely Targaryen amidst his new marital arrangements, finally acquiesced.
The day he was taken to the Dragonpit was a milestone. The colossal, domed structure on Rhaenys's Hill loomed like a sleeping giant. Inside, the air was hot, thick with the smell of sulfur, smoke, and something else, something primal and reptilian that resonated deep within Voldemort's core, stirring a sensation that was almost… exhilarating. It was a different kind of power than the cold, precise magic he wielded. This was raw, elemental fury, barely contained.
Dragonkeepers, men with soot-stained faces and burn scars, led them through cavernous tunnels, their torches casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The roars of the dragons, no longer distant sounds but earth-shattering pronouncements of power, vibrated through his bones. He saw them – Syrax, Rhaenyra's swift yellow; Caraxes, Daemon's fearsome red Blood Wyrm, currently kenneled in his rider's absence, hissing and snapping at the bars of his vast enclosure; Seasmoke, Laenor Velaryon's beautiful silver-grey. And others, younger dragons, older ones, a menagerie of scaled death.
Viserys pointed out Dreamfyre, once the mount of Princess Rhaena Targaryen, sister of Jaehaerys I, a slender blue she-dragon with silver crests, now riderless but still potent. He spoke of Vermithor and Silverwing, the Bronze Fury and Aemma's uncrowned queen, riderless behemoths from a grander age, dwelling deeper within the pit.
Voldemort felt no fear. Only a profound, possessive hunger. These were the ultimate weapons, the ultimate symbols of power. To command such a creature was to command fear itself. He wondered, briefly, if his wizarding magic, his ability to speak Parseltongue, might translate in some way to these reptilian beasts. Could he command them, not just bond with them in the Targaryen fashion? The thought was intoxicating.
He was not yet old enough to claim a dragon, nor were there any unbonded hatchlings currently deemed suitable for a prince his age. But the visit solidified his resolve. He would have one. The largest, the most fearsome. A creature that would reflect his own inner darkness and ambition.
His explorations of the mysterious door in Maegor's Holdfast also yielded a breakthrough, albeit indirectly. The old Maester whose dreams he had subtly influenced, Maester Vynco, approached Grand Maester Mellos one day with a curious discovery. He had been studying ancient Valyrian texts concerning the construction of the Red Keep, particularly Maegor's additions. He had found repeated references to a hidden chamber, a source of geothermal heat, perhaps even a nexus of forgotten Valyrian stonemasonry techniques that imbued parts of the fortress with unusual resilience. The symbol Baelon had implanted in his dreams was, according to Vynco's research, a Valyrian rune associated with 'heart' or 'core' and often used in relation to sources of enduring power or heat.
Mellos, initially dismissive, became intrigued when Vynco described the approximate location of his "scholarly intuition" – a location that corresponded with the corridor Voldemort frequented. Voldemort, through his network of carefully cultivated servant 'eyes and ears' (mostly through subtle intimidation and the occasional, untraceable magical 'favor'), learned of this discussion.
He knew then that the thrumming energy behind the door was indeed significant, likely a relic of Valyrian artifice, perhaps even connected to the very foundations of Targaryen power in this city. He redoubled his efforts to open it, practicing his telekinesis with a new fervor, pushing his nascent abilities to their limits in the dead of night. The wood around the latch was now noticeably splintered, the metal groaning under the repeated, unseen pressure. Soon, he felt, soon it would yield.
News from the Stepstones brought a fresh wave of excitement and consternation to the court. Prince Daemon Targaryen, in a characteristically bold and defiant move, had, with the support of Lord Corlys and the Triarchy's forces routed, crowned himself King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He had sent a raven to Viserys, not asking for recognition, but informing him of the fact.
Viserys was torn between brotherly pride at Daemon's martial prowess and kingly fury at his audacity. Otto Hightower, naturally, portrayed it as an act of treason, a dangerous precedent. Queen Alicent wrung her hands and spoke of the insult to the King's authority.
Voldemort, however, felt a flicker of genuine admiration. This Daemon, this Rogue Prince, understood power. He took it. He did not wait for it to be given. He was a disruptive force, a true agent of chaos. Their eventual meeting, Voldemort knew, would be fascinating. He wondered if Daemon, for all his martial skill and Targaryen fire, possessed the intellect and the ruthlessness to be a true player, or if he was merely a blunt instrument.
As his seventh nameday approached, Voldemort looked upon the Red Keep with a sense of growing mastery. His father was weak, easily swayed by sentiment and the counsel of his new wife and her ambitious father. His new stepmother, Queen Alicent, was pious and predictable, already showing signs of her first pregnancy – the beginning of his half-siblings, his future rivals. Rhaenyra was becoming increasingly isolated, her spirit chafing under the new regime. The court was a viper's nest of intrigue, but he was the greatest serpent of them all, moving unseen, his plans slowly coiling around the heart of the Targaryen dynasty.
He was Baelon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne. But he was also Lord Voldemort, and his game was far grander than merely inheriting a kingdom. It was about reshaping it, dominating it, and perhaps, through the ancient magic that pulsed beneath this castle and soared on leathern wings above it, finding the ultimate prize: true, unending power and immortality in a world ripe for conquest. The pieces were shifting on the cyvasse board of Westeros, and he was ensuring that every move, seen and unseen, ultimately served his victory.