zero. born of smoke and blood

The soft babble of youthful imagination filled the dimly lit air as Baeron crawled along the frigid stone floor of the Pentoshi manse. Shadows flickered erratically in the warmth of the torches, dancing across the walls and lending them an eerie semblance of life. Secrets seemed to whisper from the cold surfaces, while faint echoes of past desires lingered in the corners of the room.

Baeron's eyes, one a deep, muddy brown and the other a striking, almost ethereal amethyst, sparkled in the glow, capturing the flickering light as if they held the very essence of a hidden world within them. Those mismatching eyes were the first thing whispered about, the first sign that the Targaryen boy was different. The second was the dark curls that grew in as he had.

His mother, the Lady Laena Velaryon, sat in the chair behind her son, braiding the silver locks of her daughter and Baeron's sister, Rhaena, while the other, Baela, sat beside her with her eyes focused on their father. Daemon Targaryen told his daughters of the tales of their lineage whilst moving his hands about in the air as a demonstration. They were also meant for Baeron to hear but the youngest of the triplets had gone elsewhere.

Laena kept a careful eye on her son as he toddled toward the center of the room. Raised on a shallow platform in the center of the room, a wide stone brazier glowed with slow-burning coals. Nestled within them were three dragon eggs. Baeron's hands curled over the edge of the brazier, fingers just reaching high enough for him to see inside. The coals stirred within the hearth, ember-light flickering against the smooth curve of each egg.

One was a mix of greens threaded with bits of yellows. The second is a deeper, much darker color than the others. But it was the third that drew the boy. An egg as pale as the fog, marbled with faint bruises of violet. It looked like moonstone soaked in stormwater—cold and ghostly, soft-edged, eerie. And even in stillness, it seemed alive.

The Targaryen boy leaned forward, his eyes widening as he inspected the egg. He raised a hand, not by thought but by some mysterious internal instinct. Laena's fingers stilled in her daughter's hair, the half-braided strands slipped through her hand like silver thread as she stood. "Baeron," she gently called out. "Stay back from the fire. Come here, sweetling."

But he did not move. Not away, not forward. Almost frozen—entranced. His hand remained raised, hovering just inches above the pale egg's surface. The flickering firelight danced across his chestnut skin, illuminating the curve of his cheek, the long lashes shadowing those mismatched eyes.

From his seat, Daemon's storytelling faltered. The prince's eyes, sharp and wary even when softened by fatherhood, tracked the boy's every move. "Laena," he spoke lowly. "Let him be."

His wife turned to him, her brows furrowed. "He has barely seen a year, Daemon," she spoke again. "And he has been drawn to that egg more times than I have ridden Vhagar."

"Then perhaps it is the egg that remembers," Daemon replied, not rising from his seat but still watching. Rhaena and Baela watched their younger brother as well with eyes of fascination and worry.

And then, like the turn of a wheel, the moment shifted. A sharp yelp rang out followed by a hiss of pain. Baeron stumbled back from the brazier, clutching his hand. Small, red, and bleeding where the egg's sharp edge had bitten him. Two drops spilled on the pale egg, dripping down to the burning coals. It sizzled as it hit the embers and the scent of burnt iron wafted into the air. The egg pulsed.

"Seven Hells," Daemon let out, stepping forward. Laena collected their son from the floor, holding him up in the air whilst checking his palm.

The fire roared higher, suddenly and alive, as if called to full wakefulness by the boy's offering. Baeron stared, unblinking. Even as the heat rose around him like a living thing, he did not cry. His mismatched eyes reflected the blaze as if they were born to it.

And then the egg cracked. The sharp sound of splitting bone echoed throughout the chamber. A worried sound left Rhaena as she hid behind her mother. Daemon stepped forward and placed his hands on Baeron's sides, his eyes meeting Laena's as a silent exchange was had between husband and wife.

Her grip on the boy loosened and Daemon carried him closer to the hatching egg. He bounced Baeron on his hip to distract him from the burning pain in his palm. "Shall we see what is waking?" he let out softly as they peered over the table. Baeron met his father's green eyes before nodding his head and looking back to the egg.

The egg jerked as more cracks ran down its iridescent shell. Finally, the egg split open, and from it emerged a creature born of fire and blood. A dragon. Smoke-skinned with faint violet shimmering beneath its damp scales. Small but proud. Its wings were frail but unfurled. Eyes a piercing gold and opened directly on the Targaryen boy whose blood called it forth.

Daemon held him close to the dragon. "Go on," he whispered to his son. The dragon chirped a squeaky song as it watched the boy near. Baeron lifted his injured hand slowly, and the hatchling moved forward, pressing its brow into his palm. A hum escaped the hatchling as it rubbed against his skin.

Laena could not speak. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between awe and fear. Her daughters clung to her dress, their eyes wide and fixed on the hatchling that now nestled into their brother's hand. Fascination filled their gazes.

Daemon watched in silence. The boy did not cry and the dragon did not hiss. They simply breathed. Together. He glanced to Laena then down at his son once more. "He has been claimed," he murmured as a soft smile spread across his lips. "And only at nine months."