The Great Hall of the Citadel was silent, smelling of ancient dust and the sharp tang of ink. Beneath the high, arched ceilings, a group of elderly men sat around a table of dark oak. These were the Archmaesters,the keepers of the world's knowledge.
In the center of the table lay the scrap of vellum salvaged from the Eyrie. It had been brought by a silent messenger, bypassing the royal ravens.
Archmaester Ronnel, his chain heavy with links of every metal known to man, smoothed the parchment. He read the words of Maester Lomys aloud, his voice a dry rasp that sounded like sliding stone.
"The light was colder than the moon... the fever did not break; it was incinerated... the child was a glacier in a sweltering room."
As he finished, the silence in the room became absolute. To these men, this was not a story of a family saved. It was a report of a structural failure in the universe.
"It is a fever dream," whispered Archmaester Theomore, the master of healing. "Lomys was exhausted. The mountain air is thin. He saw a recovery and dressed it in the ghost-stories of the Freehold."
"Is it?" Ronnel countered, his eyes sharp. "Lomys is a man of the Vale. He has seen a thousand deaths. He knows the smell of the Stranger. He did not write of a miracle; he wrote of a distortion."
He tapped the line describing the frost on the Prince's fingers. "We spent around two hundred years pruning the world of magic. We built a world of stars and seasons. If a Targaryen child can now rewrite the laws of death with a touch, our library is nothing but kindling."
As the ink dried, the Archmaesters made a silent vow. The "Divine Miracle" of the Seven would be supported publicly to keep the lords from flocking to the boy, but privately, the Citadel would begin to build a cage of logic around Prince Daemon.
"Fire is a madness," Ronnel muttered, repeating the ancient mantra of their order. "And we are the only ones who remember how to build the walls against it."
***
The air in the lower vaults of the Red Keep was ancient, a stagnant weight that tasted of drying parchment, cedar oil, and the sharp, metallic ghost of dragonbone resting in the pits far above. Down here, the silence was not an absence of sound; it was a physical presence that listened to the intruder's heartbeat.
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair of dark oak, his posture as immovable as the stone foundations of the fortress he had spent a lifetime perfecting. One hand rested upon the carved arm of the chair, the other idly stroking his silver-gold beard. Beside him, a lone tallow candle burned with a guttering, weak flame, its light bending and shivering as if in quiet deference to the damp, oppressive shadows of the vault.
Across from the Old King stood Daemon. The boy looked small against the towering arches, his violet eyes wide with a carefully crafted mask of innocence.
Between them lay the two obsidian cylinders ,one black as a starless night, the other a translucent, sickly green.
Glass candles. My mind sang the name before the King could even open his mouth. The Magic Tower was already vibrating, recognizing the dense, resonant mana stored within the obsidian. I knew their history; I knew they were the internet of the Old World, the eyes that allowed the Dragonlords to rule from afar. But a two-year-old doesn't know the secrets of Aenar the Exile. A two-year-old sees pretty rocks.
"Tell me, Daemon," the King said at last, his voice a calm, measured resonance. "What is it you see upon this table?"
I stepped closer, tilting my head with a curiosity that was only half-feigned. I reached out a small finger, hovering just an inch from the cold black glass.
"They are... smooth, Your Grace," I said, keeping my voice light and youthful. "Like the toys the stonecutters make, but darker. Is it dragonglass from the mountain?"
"A sharp eye," Jaehaerys noted, though his gaze remained heavy. "They are glass candles, child. Relics of a Valyria that existed before the maps were redrawn."
I blinked, widening my eyes. "Candles? But there is no string for the fire, Your Grace. And no wax to melt. How does the light stay inside?"
The King's violet eyes sharpened with a sudden, predatory intelligence. "Because they do not burn with oil, Daemon. They burn with the soul. It is said the sorcerers of the Freehold could see across the Narrow Sea with these, peering into the hearts of stars. They were the eyes of the Dragonlords."
I let a small shiver run through my shoulders not because I was afraid of the glass, but because I was afraid of how much Jaehaerys was watching me. "To see across the world? That sounds... amazing."
"It is power," the King corrected, leaning slightly forward. "The septons call it sin. The lords call it a myth. But Targaryens have always known it is their birthright." He gestured toward the obsidian. "Now, show me what you know,not what you have been told. I have sat this throne for decades, yet I have never seen these stones breathe. Burn them for me."
I stepped forward, my small hand hovering over the black glass.
I could light this in a heartbeat. I knew the frequency; I could feel the Tower aligning its mana to the stone's internal lattice. But to succeed now would be to admit I wasn't just "remembering",it would prove I was a master. And a master is a threat.
Jaehaerys spoke again, his voice an edge of iron. "Do not rush. When a dragon hatches, it does not begin with fire. It begins with breath."
I nodded once. I reached into my core, but instead of the refined, singing mana the candle required, I pushed a blunt, clumsy surge of raw heat. I made it look like I was straining, my small face scrunching in effort.
"Ignite," I whispered.
The obsidian trembled. It rattled against the basalt table with a dull, protesting sound. I pushed harder, forcing a chaotic wave of power that had no direction. The air grew stiflingly warm. The flame of the tallow candle guttered wildly and died.
Darkness swallowed the vault. The glass candle remained cold. Dark. Silent.
Jaehaerys' voice came from the velvet blackness. "Tell me what you did."
I let my breath come in uneven gasps, feigning exhaustion. "I... I tried to give it my fire, Your Grace. But it just swallowed it. It felt like... like a door that has forgotten its key."
"That," Jaehaerys said softly, "is the first true thing you have said tonight."
I blinked into the dark, feeling the King's invisible presence.
"You felt absence," the King continued. "Good. Now ask yourself does absence mean death… or does it mean silence? You are trying to command something you have not yet learned to hear."
I lowered my head, hiding the flash of calculation in my eyes. "I thought being a dragon was enough."
"Power is common, Daemon. Understanding is rare." The King's voice seemed to drift through the dark like smoke. "Magic is not a beast to be ridden. It is… a conversation. You failed tonight because you chose force over patience."
The word was not cruel. It was simply a fact.
"Go," Jaehaerys said at last.
I hesitated, my hand lingering near the cold obsidian. "Your Grace… do you believe they can be lit again?"
For the first time, something shifted in the King's voice a quiet, enduring curiosity.
"I believe," he said slowly, "that the world remembers more than men do. And I intend to learn which of you will remember first."
***
The afternoon sun over the Red Keep was a pale, honeyed gold, casting long shadows across the private gardens of the royal family. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and sea salt from the Blackwater, but to Daemon, the world was composed of something far more intricate.
He sat cross-legged on a bench of white stone, his small chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, measured cadence. To any observer, he was merely a contemplative toddler watching the bees. In reality, he was a vacuum. He could feel the ambient mana of the gardens,the green vitality of the weirwood saplings and the faint, lingering heat of the volcanic stones flowing into him, settling into the shifting foundations of the Magic Tower.
A few yards away, the air was filled with the silver-bells of laughter. Viserys, barely a boy himself, was chasing Rhaenys around a fountain, while young Gael clapped her hands in delight.
"Daemon! Come and run!" Rhaenys called out, her Baratheon-black hair whipping around her face as she skidded to a halt. "The dragons are hunting the stags!"
Daemon turned his head slowly, his violet eyes unblinking. "The dragon is resting, Princess," he replied, his voice far too steady for his stature. "Go on. I am... occupied."
Rhaenys pouted, a flash of fire in her eyes, before turning back to the game. Daemon didn't miss the two shadows standing at the edge of the greenery. Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Clement Crabb stood like statues of steel, their white cloaks unmoving. They weren't just guarding a prince; they were guarding a secret ordered by the King himself.
Suddenly, a violent tremor shook the obsidian walls of his mind.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Optimization Complete: 100%
[SECOND FLOOR UNLOCKED: THE LIBRARY OF ASH]
New Passive Unlocked: [Aura Reading]
Description: The ability to perceive the 'aura.' Can detect vitality levels and hidden intent through color and density.
The world shifted. It was as if a veil had been torn from his eyes. He looked at the Kingsguard their auras were steady, flickering pulses of dull iron and unwavering white. He looked at Viserys a warm, bubbling pool of golden light, soft and easily molded.
Daemon needed to go. He needed to retreat to the silence of his chambers to map this new floor, to see what 'The Library of Ash' held within its smoldering shelves. But as he moved to rise, the world suddenly tilted.
A pair of slender, porcelain-white arms scooped him up from behind, pulling him into a lap that smelled of crushed lilies and expensive Essosi perfume.
"And why is my favorite little gargoyle sitting all alone?" a voice purred near his ear. "Is the sun too bright for your brooding?"
Daemon looked up into a face that was often called the most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms. Viserra Targaryen, his sixth aunt, looked down at him with mischievous, deep violet eyes. Her hair was a shimmering river of silver-gold, intricately braided with pearls, and her skin was so flawless it looked as though it had been carved from Dragonstone marble. She was eleven, radiant, and possessed a wildness that even the Queen struggled to tame.
To the world, she was a beauty. To Daemon's new eyes, she was a storm.
Her aura was a swirling, chaotic vortex of brilliant violet and sharp, jagged streaks of pink vanity mixed with a desperate, burning hunger for attention.
"Aunt Viserra," Daemon said, forced to endure the embrace. "I was resting."
"Resting?" She laughed, the sound like silver coins hitting glass. She pinched his cheek with playful cruelty. "You speak like a Septon and act like an old man, Daemon. It's unnatural. You should be playing with Gael, or better yet, telling your aunt how beautiful her new gown is."
She twirled a lock of his silver hair around her finger, leaning in close. "The King spends so much time with you in those dusty vaults. Tell me, what does he say? Does he speak of me? Does he mention who he intends to wed me to?"
Daemon looked at the "pink" streaks in her aura,they sharpened when she mentioned marriage. She wasn't here for play; she was fishing for the King's secrets through a child she thought couldn't understand them.
"He speaks of history, Aunt," Daemon replied coolly, his eyes tracing the flickering violet of her vanity. "And stones. He does not speak of weddings."
Viserra's smile didn't falter, but her aura spiked with a flash of irritation,a quick burst of smoky grey. "Liar. You have that look in your eyes. The same look the Old King has when he's hiding a decree."
She squeezed him tighter, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "If you tell me what happens in those vaults, I'll steal a lemon cake from the kitchens for you. Or perhaps I'll take you for a ride on a horse that actually moves faster than a turtle."
"I have no need for cakes, Viserra," he said, his gaze drifting toward the high towers of the Keep where the wind whistled through the stones. "And I do not care for horses. They are too close to the ground."
Viserra huffed, tossing her head back so her pearls rattled. "You are a cold little thing, aren't you? Just like the Wall. But I'll break you yet, little nephew. No one stays bored around me for long."
She stood up, still holding him like a prized doll, and began walking toward the fountain. Daemon sighed internally. The Library of Ash would have to wait. He was currently trapped in the grasp of a girl who didn't realize she was playing with a fire much older than herself.
==========
Guys, what should I do to her ?
1.Let her die as she does in canon
2.Save her, because we need more Targaryens for kingdom-building