A Song of Ash and Empire

The Iron Throne stood empty.

Its jagged edges caught the light from the stained-glass windows of the throne room, casting sharp, fractured shadows over the black stone floor. Baelon Targaryen, the second Prince of the Targaryen Dynasty, and his eldest son stood at its base.

The boy—barely eight—stood straight and quiet, his silver hair neatly combed, his face carefully composed in a mask of attentive obedience. Yet his violet eyes flickered with something more. Thoughtfulness. Calculation.

"Do you know what this throne represents?" Baelon asked, his voice steady, with the faint rasp of a man who had spent much of his life in battle. He rested a hand on his son's shoulder, heavy and firm.

"Power," the boy answered without hesitation.

Baelon smiled faintly, though there was a hard edge to it. "Yes. But also duty. Sacrifice. Every jagged edge, every shard of steel, is a reminder of what it takes to rule. Those who sit here must be strong enough to endure its weight. If it ever came to it, do you think you could bear it one day?"

The boy looked up at the throne—looming, monstrous, more a weapon than a seat. Its sharp, uneven edges seemed to glint menacingly, as though warning him of the cost.

Someday, but I hope it never comes. He thought, though he said nothing.

His silence was answer enough. Baelon's smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet approval. "Good. You'll need to think, not just feel should your turn ever come. A king who acts without thought is a danger to himself and everyone he rules."

Baelon turned, pacing in front of the throne, his dark red cloak sweeping the floor behind him. "This family… this dynasty… was built on fire and blood. Dragons, conquest, strength. But strength fades if it's not tempered by wisdom. That's what I expect of you—not just to be strong, but to be clever. To understand what being a prince entails and what it means to command its authority."

The boy tilted his head, watching his father with keen, unblinking eyes. Baelon's words carried weight, but so did the image before him: a warrior who had spent his life fighting for his family, his future, and this throne.

The prince's voice softened slightly. "Do you understand, my son?"

"Yes, Father," the boy said. But in his mind, he added, More than you know.

Later that day, the boy stood alone on the ramparts of the Red Keep, the wind tugging at his silver hair as he stared out over King's Landing. Below, the city sprawled like a restless beast—stone walls and muddy streets, the bustling chaos of thousands of lives going about their daily struggles.

Beyond the city walls lay the river and the fields, golden in the late afternoon sun, stretching toward the horizon.

He had seen this view countless times before, but it always stirred something in him: a strange mixture of pride, frustration, and unease.

This is what they fought for, he thought. A city of stone and sand. A throne of knives. Is it worth it? He pondered the question which he had asked himself a million times already.

In his memories or perhaps it was now his foreknowledge—he knew how fragile it all was. The Targaryens would cling to power for decades yet, but the cracks would soon begin to form. He could feel them, like fault lines under the surface, waiting for the slightest pressure to break.

He gripped the cold stone of the rampart tightly, his knuckles whitening. Part of him hated this knowledge, hated the burden of seeing a future no one else could. Another part of him welcomed it. After all, knowledge was power, wasn't it?

If I know what's coming, I can change it.

And yet, the thought gnawed at him. Could he truly change it? Or was he merely a player trapped in a game where the pieces had already been set?

That was the million dragon question.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned, his composure snapping back into place like armor, to see his cousin Rhaenys Targaryen striding toward him.

She was only a few years older than him, just about twelve, but she carried herself with a confidence that made her seem far beyond her years. Her black hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her violet eyes sparkled with a sharp intelligence that reminded him uncomfortably of his own.

"You're brooding," she said without preamble, stopping a few feet away.

He raised an eyebrow. " You're ever observant my princess."

Rhaenys smirked, leaning casually against the rampart. "It's hard not to notice when someone stares at the city like they're plotting its destruction."

"I wasn't plotting its destruction." His tone was dry. "Just considering how easily it could be destroyed."

Her smirk faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Cheerful thoughts for a day like this."

The boy shrugged. "It's the capital of the realm, our seat of power, and calling it a shithole would be an apt description both literally and metaphorically. That I believe is a disgrace is all."

Rhaenys studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharp and searching. "You worry much and sound like an old man sometimes, you know that?"

He let out a soft laugh. "What you mean to say is I sound wise cousin."

She snorted. "And humble"

She looked at him, at his look of melancholy and subtle signs of worry, she could not find the reason for it. The realm was peaceful, their house at the height of power, she could not for the life of her find any reason that could cause worry to him. Yet she would find him often with the same look on his face.

Finally, she sighed. "You'll figure it out," she said, her tone lighter. "Whatever's brewing in that overcomplicated mind of yours. Just don't burn the city down in the process."

He smiled faintly, but his reply was quiet, almost a whisper. "No promises."

That night, as he lay in his chambers, staring up at the ornate canopy of his bed, the weight of the future pressed down on him like a storm cloud. And the things he would have to do to prevent said future did not make it any easier.

His hand curled into a fist against the blankets and he sighed. "Fuck my life."