In an alternate world where Prince Baelon, son of Viserys Targaryen lives, vultures gather around to devour pieces of House Targaryen. Prince Baelon is a sickly prince, since birth he has been... but what if... illness was not the only aspect of him, what if the mysteries and magic in his blood awakened? Follow the prince as he stakes his claim on the Iron Throne, warring all those prying upon it with ice, fire, and blood.
Chapter 1 Prince Baelon Targaryen
Since birth, I remember being pale and sickly. Pale is a generic feature for the Targaryens since we are from Old Valyria but my pale was a ghostly white.
Many maesters had checked out my body and conditions for my body being this weak. The only conclusion that they could come to was that something went wrong during my birth.
It did seem plausible since my mother died when I was born.
"My prince, it is time for your medicine."
I raised my head and saw a maid. She offered a golden tray that contained a cup. For some reason, her hand flinched a little as I took the cup.
"Thank you, Dyana." A soft smile appeared on my visage seeing the sweet girl.
However, I frowned. The girl was not speaking, she usually does not hesitate to talk, usually about novels.
We recommend stories to each other, it is after all one of the only things I can do for entertainment due to my weak body.
I looked at the girl, her body trembling a little unable to even hold her plate properly. My palm gripped her serving hand tightly, I peered into her eyes as I spoke.
"Is something wrong Dyana?"
She didn't reply but I could see her biting her lips. Before long, tears ran down her face as the young girl began to sob.
I hugged her tightly, letting her head rest on my shoulder. I caressed her hair lightly, it confused me why such a cheerful girl was crying but for now, I did not want wish to see her woe any longer.
"Everything will be alright Dyana, don't worry. I am here." I patted her back continuously however the girl just could not stop sobbing.
My entire robe was covered in snot by then. Finally, the young girl raised her head, a little embarrassed, she lowered her head and stammered.
"P-please forgive me f-for this disgrace, prince."
I shook my head. A little snot did not matter much, this was nothing compared to when I vomited all the time.
I wiped her tears from my thumb and removed her hair that was stuck on her forehead due to sweat and plucked it behind her ears.
"Tell me. Why were you crying?"
The girl's face turned pukish and her body trembled. I put a finger on my chin, whatever happened seemed traumatic.
Hmmm? A frown ensnared my visage. Aegon... did that little shit do something? Since it was something related to my family, my curiosity increased.
"Dyana, what about Aegon?"
She trembled and clutched the hem of her dress tight, almost kneeling below my feet, her head completely low as she muttered.
"I asked him t-to stop my prince..."
Her breath turned quick almost as if she was hyperventilating.
My blood turned cold. Oh, he didn't. Stupid little brother. Was this a feat specifically to anger me? I did not know... but Aegon had successfully incurred my wrath.
I held the young maid by her head and picked her up in my embrace, hugging her tightly.
"I believe you, Dyana, I do."
I stood up albeit a little hard. Did Aegon think, everything he does will be ignored? Does Stepmother think, I will always let their ploys against me go without consequences?
"M-MY PRINCE! You should not get up!!" Dyana held me tightly. I looked at the girl, my eyes cold as ice.
"Leave your prince." Dyana's arms slowly loosened. I could tell she was shaken up because of me. I simply lowered myself to pat her head.
"Do not worry. No harm will come upon me... or you." She nodded reluctantly and rested aback.
Now that I was out of her clutches, my face contorted. Outside of my room, immediately a huge weakness flowed in.
I pinched myself making my blood flow faster, activating my fight-and-flight survival instinct forcing my body to walk.
I hate myself. I hate this feeling of helplessness. I AM THE HEIR TO THE IRON THRONE! THE BLOOD OF THE DRAGON! A REAL TARGARYEN! Yet... here I am, unable to even take a step further.
Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and the Never Healthy Prince.
That is who I am. A sickly prince whose authority is laughed upon... why? Because most of the time I am in bed, unable to even interact.
Reaching Aegon's room, the guards nearby frowned and shielded entry. I looked at them, fury in my eyes.
The guards did not move and spoke.
"The prince has forbidden entry."
A chuckle released from my mouth. I spoke coldly.
"Is a mere prince's authority higher than the heir's?"
Their eyes widened and they knelt instantly. The guard on the left spoke.
"Please forgive my insolence, my prince, we failed to recognize his royal highness."
I pinched myself harder. Obviously, they did not recognize me. My body was dressed in white from head to toe without the famous Targaryen black or red, covered in snot... along with my hair that was filled with sweat and seemed haggard... one would look at me and say, I am a beggar.
I simply gave them a stink eye and entered. I could feel my body on the verge of collapsing. Sweat ran down my nape, even faster. It was getting extremely hard.
Fuck... I forgot to take the medicine.
My breaths became quick and my eyes bloodshot.... if I was to die, I would at least take Aegon with me.
Entering inside, I saw Aegon sleeping soundly on his bed. I clutched the dagger hidden around my waist, I rushed towards the boy, aiming it toward his ass.
But the darkness came faster and I found myself panting on the ground, my palm around the knife loosened and my breathing slowed down.
I glared at the bed beside, the surroundings slowly getting blurry. What a miserable life. I wanted to ride a dragon, sing and dance, explore the world, burn cities to the ground as the Conquerer did, fuck beautiful women and lastly, rule over Westeros.
I wanted to live, not live as in be bedridden forever... I WANT TO LIVE.... but all to naught. The voice in my head became background noise and my vision turned pitch black.
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