100 AC
Just eight months after Queen Alysanne moved to Dragonstone, she died. The black raven flew, bells rang in the capital, and the mood in the Red Keep turned to mourning.
As Baelon's squire, I accompanied him and the royal family to Dragonstone for the funeral. It was a somber affair, but even in death, the Targaryens knew how to make a statement. I remember standing near the pyre, watching the golden Vermithor loom in the background. Trust the Targaryens to bring dragons to funerals—death by fire, witnessed by fire.
When the King gave the command—"Dracarys"—the dragon roared and unleashed a jet of flame. I could feel the heat from where I stood. A part of me, perhaps foolishly, wished the system would throw me an achievement. Something like "Valyrian Bloodline Unlocked" so I could try claiming a dragon myself.
Back at the Red Keep, life returned to its rhythm. I spent more time around Viserys and young Rhaenyra, who had just turned three. I wanted Viserys's trust. If Baelon died due to plot then I needed to ensure I wouldn't be cast out by some self-important lord trying to clean up after the royal mess.
Years of training had paid off. I wasn't a master, but I could hold my own. My swordplay was now on par with the average knight, though I still lacked the raw strength. I had grown comfortable on horseback and had started practicing archery—occasionally. Let's just say I wouldn't be winning any archer's tourney soon, but I could at least hit the target.
Small steps. The path to knighthood (and perhaps dragon-riding, one day) wasn't a sprint.
But I was getting there.
During that time, I also befriended or at least got to know Otto Hightower better. He was sharp, skilled—what you'd expect from a Hightower knight. I tried to spar with him whenever he had the time. I wanted to leave an impression: that I was a loyal sword to the royal family. Better to be remembered as dependable now than whispered about poorly later. After all, I knew he'd be the one whispering about Daemon in the future.