Chapter 1: Born in Fire and Storm
The storm howled across Dragonstone with a fury unseen in a generation.
Lightning slashed the skies, momentarily illuminating the jagged towers of the ancient Targaryen fortress, casting long, dancing shadows over the stone dragons perched on its battlements. Thunder crashed a heartbeat later, shaking walls that had stood since the Doom of Valyria itself.
In the Queen's chambers, Rhaella Targaryen screamed, her voice sharp with agony and despair. Midwives bustled around her, their faces pale in the flickering torchlight. The air stank of sweat, blood, and fear. King Aerys II — the Mad King — paced just beyond the door, a crazed figure muttering to himself, pulling at his brittle silver hair.
"It is a sign," he whispered to no one. "A storm of blood... A dragon reborn... or perhaps... doom."
Inside the chamber, Queen Rhaella's hands gripped the bedclothes tightly, her knuckles white. With one final agonized cry, she brought the first child into the world.
A boy.
The Maester caught the infant, eyes widening. Silver hair clung wetly to the child's scalp. His skin was pale, almost translucent. But most unnerving was the boy's silence — no crying, no screaming. Just a slow, deliberate opening of his violet eyes, bright as twin stars.
The boy simply stared at the Maester.
And the Maester, a learned man who had delivered hundreds of babes, felt a shiver crawl down his spine.
He hastily wrapped the boy in a crimson cloth, glancing nervously toward the door. "Another comes!" cried a midwife, her hands already working between Rhaella's trembling legs.
Moments later, a second infant emerged, wailing with lusty strength.
A girl.
Rhaella sagged back into the blood-soaked sheets, exhausted but alive. The girl was placed in her arms, and the Queen wept — tears of joy, tears of sorrow.
But the boy... the boy was taken aside.
The Maester approached King Aerys in the corridor, the bundled boy in his arms. Lightning split the sky behind him.
"A boy, Your Grace. And a girl. Twins."
Aerys turned, and for a moment, the mad gleam in his violet eyes sharpened into something almost lucid.
He gazed at the silent boy, who stared back unblinking.
"No cries?" Aerys hissed. "No screams?"
The Maester shook his head silently.
"Cursed," Aerys muttered, stepping back as if the babe carried plague. "Born of storm and shadow. He will bring ruin. Hide him. None must know. None!"
The King spun away, muttering feverishly about prophecy, betrayal, and wildfire.
The Maester bowed low and carried the boy away, down into the forgotten corridors beneath Dragonstone.
Thus, Daemon Targaryen was born — a secret child, hidden even from his own blood. A twin to Daenerys, unseen by the world.
---
The first month of Daemon's life passed in silence and secrecy.
He was nursed in a secluded tower, tended only by trusted servants sworn to silence. Rhaella visited him often, holding both twins in her arms, singing them lullabies in soft Valyrian. To her, Daemon was no curse — he was her son, as precious as any.
She named him Daemon, after the fabled prince who had once dreamed of uniting the Seven Kingdoms under one great dragonrider king.
But already, Daemon was not like other children.
He watched the world with unnerving awareness, his violet eyes sharp and intelligent. He followed the midwives' movements with unnatural focus. He grasped at things not simply from instinct, but with purpose, curiosity burning behind his gaze.
At night, he did not cry like Daenerys. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind already stirring with thoughts he could not yet voice.
When he slept, he dreamed — not of simple shapes and colors, but of fire and death. Of ancient castles crumbling into ash. Of dragons screaming across the sky.
Of his own hands, wrapped in flames, tearing down kingdoms.
---
By three months, Daemon was making strange sounds — not the babble of infants, but sharp syllables that echoed ancient Valyrian.
Nurses crossed themselves and whispered prayers when they heard him.
"He speaks the tongue of demons," said one.
"He speaks as the dragons once did," whispered another, awestruck.
Queen Rhaella dismissed them all. Only the gentlest maids remained — those who would not betray Daemon's existence to the outside world.
Still, the servants gossiped. And rumors, like wildfire, were hard to contain.
---
When Daemon was six months old, he began to crawl — faster, more sure-footed than any child they had seen. He would vanish for hours, slipping through cracks and hidden passages of Dragonstone as if the fortress itself whispered its secrets to him.
Once, they found him perched atop an ancient carved dragon in the great hall, his tiny hands stroking the stone wings, his head tilted as if listening to the echoes of the past.
Another time, he pulled himself up onto the windowsill during a howling storm, watching the lightning strike the ocean waves with calm, eerie fascination.
No harm came to him.
Not even the sharp stone floors or frigid drafts seemed to touch him.
The old midwife muttered darkly: "The blood of dragons runs strong in this one."
---
At one year old, Daemon could walk. He wandered the halls, silent as a shadow. He did not speak often, but when he did, his words were clear, deliberate.
He said his sister's name first.
"Daenerys."
He loved her with a fierce, protective devotion even as an infant. Wherever she was, he was close behind, watchful, alert.
When she cried, he would touch her hand, and she would calm.
Viserys, their elder brother, noticed the twin bond. At first curious, then resentful.
He would pull Daenerys away from Daemon, earning sharp looks from the boy — and sometimes, unsettling accidents.
A trip on the stairs. A fall that bloodied Viserys's lip.
No one could prove anything.
But the castle servants began to avoid the secret prince with his silent, searing gaze.
---
By two years old, Daemon could read simple words.
He snuck into the dusty libraries, pulling down old scrolls and books with tiny hands, whispering over them in broken Valyrian.
He found a strange pleasure in learning — unlocking forgotten names, spells, and histories that sang in his blood.
It was here that old memories began to bleed through — memories not his own.
He saw visions of another world, another life:
A handsome boy speaking to serpents.
An old man conjuring firestorms with a flick of his wand.
Spells, curses, ancient magics beyond the understanding of Westeros.
Daemon did not question these memories.
He embraced them.
He was not merely Daemon Targaryen, hidden prince of a dying house.
He was something greater.
Something destined.
---
The world beyond Dragonstone grew darker.
King Aerys, increasingly mad, screamed at his courtiers, burned his enemies alive, and spoke of a rebellion led by Robert Baratheon.
Whispers of war filled the halls.
The storm outside never ceased.
Rhaella clutched her twins close, praying to gods old and new.
Daemon listened.
Watched.
Learned.
He knew that the world would soon fall apart.
And when it did...
He and Daenerys would be ready.
Together.
---
(End of Chapter 1)