c18: The Prophesied Prince
"I swear I will one day kill these murderers."
"Mother."
A few days ago, on the wind-swept stone terraces of Dragonstone, the silver-haired boy solemnly made this promise to his mother while leaning on a training sword almost too heavy for his thin arms. The narrow sea roared below the black volcanic cliffs as storm clouds gathered overhead.
One day, he swore, he would avenge House Targaryen and make those who destroyed their dynasty pay in blood.
The boy was Viserys Targaryen, the last living son of King Aerys II.
Viserys hoped those words would offer some comfort to his grief-stricken mother, Queen Rhaella, whose health had grown weaker since they fled King's Landing during Robert Baratheon's rebellion. The fall of the Iron Throne, the death of Prince Rhaegar on the Trident, and the slaughter of their loyalists had broken the old world apart.
However, despite his youthful ambition, escaping the Baratheon family's pursuit and simply surviving were the most important things right now.
The Usurper Robert had taken the throne, and his supporters lords of the stormlands, the westerlands, and the reach would never allow a surviving Targaryen prince to live peacefully.
After more than half a month of torment and confusion, Viserys finally fully accepted that he had come to a strange world or perhaps it was not strange at all.
This was the very world of Westeros.
A world of dragons long dead, great houses locked in endless rivalries, and a throne forged from the swords of defeated kings.
Before, he had only known the stories: the Mad King's wildfire, Jaime Lannister's betrayal, Robert Baratheon's hammer crushing Rhaegar's breastplate on the Trident.
Now he stood inside that history.
He had previously only observed events superficially, like a distant tale told by singers, but now the silver-haired boy understood that every threat was real.
Every name carried blood.
His tragic fate, following its original trajectory, was like a tightening rope around Viserys's neck, constantly reminding him that if he did nothing, if he failed to change the path before him then one day that rope would pull tight.
And when fate caught up with him, he would face only death.
His existence alone meant that even if he hid quietly, the Baratheon regime would never truly stop hunting him.
After promising his mother that he would avenge House Targaryen one day, Viserys began training like a madman.
For several days he barely slept.
Those who have just sworn a vow are often filled with reckless determination, and knightly training in Westeros involved far more than simply swinging a sword.
It required horsemanship, the handling of a lance for jousting, archery with both longbow and crossbow, shield defense, and the curved scimitars sometimes used by sellswords across the Narrow Sea.
Sir William, the loyal knight who had once served Dragonstone's garrison, tried to guide the boy through proper drills in the castle yard.
But Viserys pushed far beyond what his young body could endure.
Naturally, the result was predictable.
He overtrained and injured himself.
…
"Ouch, ouch, ouch…"
The silver-haired boy sat stiffly in a wooden chair, his face twisted in pain while clutching his bruised shoulder.
The old scholar tending to him merely smiled kindly.
He had seen children push themselves too hard many times before.
Even Viserys's grandfather, the great King Jaehaerys Targaryen, had once done something similarly foolish in his youth.
Jaehaerys, though determined to strengthen himself as a ruler, had tried to overcome his frailty through relentless training and ended up injuring himself through sheer stubbornness.
History, it seemed, liked to repeat itself.
"I know you desperately want revenge, child," the old scholar said gently.
"There is nothing wrong with that."
He carefully pressed a cloth filled with ice against the boy's swollen arm to ease the pain, then slowly wiped away the melting water with a linen towel.
"But remember this."
"Do not allow hatred to blind you. Hatred can shape a man, but it should never become the whole of him."
The old scholar looked at the silver-haired boy with quiet seriousness.
"You are a Targaryen."
"You carry the blood of Old Valyria."
"One day, if fate allows it, you may become a true dragon once more."
"So your life must hold more than vengeance alone."
"You were born for a greater destiny… and a far more important mission."
Viserys sat on the wooden bench beside the narrow window, looking at the old maester with gray hair and a deeply wrinkled face while listening to his long and patient rambling.
The wind from the Narrow Sea blew faintly through the open stone archway of the tower, carrying with it the cold salt scent of the waves crashing against the black volcanic cliffs of Dragonstone.
Although Viserys understood every word the old maester spoke, when the sentences were placed together he could not help but feel that the old man was implying something deeper.
A more noble, more important mission?
Long silver hair, smooth and bright like molten silver, fell over the boy's slender shoulders. Viserys tilted his head slightly in confusion, and his pale purple eyes quietly reflected the old maester's aged face.
But the other seemed not to notice the boy's curious gaze.
His voice suddenly stopped.
The old maester did not continue explaining what the "more noble and more important mission" truly meant. Instead, he slowly adjusted the chain around his neck and deliberately changed the subject.
"While chivalry is an ancient tradition of the nobility of Westeros," the old maester said calmly, "knowledge is even more important for a worthy noble."
His tone shifted and became far more earnest and instructive.
Over the past several days he had personally witnessed Viserys training in the castle yard of Dragonstone with Sir William, practicing sword swings, shield defense, and the basic stance used by knights across the Seven Kingdoms.
The boy showed astonishing determination.
However, while striving for improvement was admirable, the maester worried that Viserys might neglect learning altogether and grow into a reckless warrior who only knew how to solve problems with steel.
In the history of Westeros, such men rarely ruled long.
Compared to charging personally into battle, destroying enemies with strategy and knowledge was often far more decisive.
A clever mind could shatter armies without lifting a blade.
The old maester did not want Viserys to grow into nothing more than a wandering knight like those who roamed the riverlands during war, otherwise the boy would never become the "prophesied prince" that some still whispered about in secret.
Maester Daniel was among the few people who knew of that ancient prophecy.
Years ago he had personally taught Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in the Red Keep's library, guiding him through histories of Valyria, the wars of the First Men, and the legends of the Long Night. Because of that, the late prince had trusted him deeply.
The prophecy itself claimed that King Aerys II Targaryen and Queen Rhaella would give birth to the "Prince That Was Promised."
The tale had been repeated by court scholars for years.
According to the records preserved in ancient scrolls, the prophecy had first been recorded thousands of years ago in a mysterious Asshai'i manuscript preserved in the libraries of Oldtown.
That ancient text spoke of a legendary hero named Azor Ahai.
Nearly eight thousand years ago, during the age known as the Long Night, Azor Ahai had risen to lead the living against the darkness.
The prophecy declared that one day he would be reborn.
When the world again faced the threat of the White Walkers those ancient ice demons spoken of in northern legends the reborn hero would appear as the Prince That Was Promised.
All of this, the scrolls said, would occur after a long summer when darkness once again began to fall upon the world.
The prince would awaken the flaming sword Lightbringer and lead mankind against the White Walkers.
If he failed, the entire world would fall into endless winter.
Maester Daniel slowly recited the most famous line of the prophecy, his voice echoing faintly in the quiet stone chamber.
"After the long summer, when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness covers the world, a warrior shall draw a burning sword from the flames."
"That sword will be Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes."
"And the man who wields it will be Azor Ahai reborn."
"He will drive back the darkness."
For many years, nearly everyone who knew of the prophecy believed that Prince Rhaegar himself was the chosen one.
Rhaegar had been brilliant, disciplined, and strangely solemn even as a child.
He was a master of the harp, a formidable warrior in armor, and a man fascinated by prophecy and ancient legends.
Almost everyone who met him spoke of him with admiration.
However, everything changed at the Battle of the Trident.
When Robert Baratheon's massive war hammer crashed into Rhaegar's chest and shattered his ruby armor, the prince died in the river, and the rubies scattered across the water like drops of blood.
With his death, the belief that he was the prophesied prince collapsed.
Gradually, certain hopeful gazes turned toward Rhaegar's younger brother.
The silver-haired boy now sitting before them Viserys Targaryen.
After all, he too was the son of Aerys II and Queen Rhaella.
Yet there remained a troubling detail.
According to certain interpretations of the prophecy, the prince should have been born "amidst smoke and salt."
Viserys had been born in the Red Keep in King's Landing during the reign of the Mad King.
There had been neither smoke nor sea salt present at his birth.
"Perhaps…"
Maester Daniel sighed softly, his voice filled with uncertainty.
Some scholars argued that prophecy could be interpreted in many ways, and not all details needed to be literal.
Viserys, however, did not fully understand the meaning behind the old maester's thoughtful gaze.
What remained in his mind were only the words themselves.
Of course, he understood the importance of knowledge.
Even in his previous life he had known that rulers who ignored wisdom rarely survived long.
But right now, what he urgently needed most was the ability to protect himself.
Robert Baratheon now ruled from the Iron Throne in King's Landing.
Across the Seven Kingdoms, loyalists to the new king might still hunt the last surviving Targaryens.
Viserys knew very well that he and his mother might soon be forced to flee across the Narrow Sea and live as wandering exiles in the Free Cities.
" I understand," Viserys finally said, nodding obediently.
Inside the tower chamber of Dragonstone, bright sunlight poured through the narrow windows and illuminated the heavy wooden table between them.
Dust motes drifted slowly through the air.
An old man and a young boy sat facing one another, and the atmosphere was strangely peaceful.
Since arriving in this world, Viserys had lived under immense pressure.
From the fall of King's Landing to the hurried escape to Dragonstone, every day had been filled with fear and uncertainty.
Yet here, sitting quietly beside the old maester in this ancient fortress of House Targaryen, he unexpectedly felt a brief moment of calm.
"Child," Maester Daniel said gently.
"You are beginning to feel anxious about the future, aren't you?"
The old man's back was slightly hunched with age, but his body still looked strong and healthy.
His grey robes rustled softly as he leaned forward, and his bright eyes seemed to see directly into the boy's heart.
The fate of House Targaryen was now obvious to anyone paying attention.
King's Landing had already fallen to the rebels.
The Iron Throne was now occupied by Robert Baratheon.
Across the realm, the remaining royalist armies were collapsing or surrendering.
Many lords who once supported the Targaryens were already negotiating terms with the new king.
Those who continued to fight were not truly trying to restore the dynasty.
Instead, they hoped to gain leverage before the war ended.
Perhaps they could bargain for pardons, lands, or simply avoid punishment.
Viserys remained silent for a long time.
The wind outside howled faintly against the ancient walls of Dragonstone.
Finally, the silver-haired boy slowly lowered his head.
Then he nodded.
....