Chapter 9: The Obsidian Lair and the Dance of Suitors
At sixteen namedays, Baelon Targaryen possessed an aura that transcended mere princely authority. It was an unnerving stillness, a gravitas that made seasoned lords feel like callow youths in his presence. His silver-gold hair, now longer, was often tied back with a simple leather cord, revealing the sharp, aristocratic bones of a face that promised to be handsome but was currently more arresting for its intelligent, almost predatory intensity. Voldemort, inhabiting this maturing form, felt a growing synergy between his ancient mind and the potent Valyrian blood that pulsed through his veins, a bloodline now supercharged by his proximity to Umbraxys and the secrets of the Heart of Valyria.
Umbraxys had become magnificent, a creature of breathtaking terror and beauty. Larger now than any destrier, its scales like multifaceted obsidian, its shadow-wingspan capable of filling the expanded confines of its sub-dimensional lair, it was a testament to the potent magic Voldemort had painstakingly reawakened. The spatial distortion ritual had been a monumental undertaking, a feat of Valyrian sorcery that had pushed his abilities to their very limits.
He had spent weeks in meticulous preparation, deciphering the final, most complex glyphs, which detailed the dangerous art of folding space, of creating an 'Elsewhere' tethered to a 'Now-here'. The ritual required an immense surge of power, a precise alignment of will, blood, and the unique resonance of the Heart of Valyria, amplified by Umbraxys itself. On the night of the winter solstice, when the veil between worlds was said to be thinnest, he had begun.
Chanting in the guttural, resonant cadences of High Valyrian, words of power that had not been uttered for millennia, he had drawn a complex series of runes upon the chamber floor with his own blood, mixed with powdered dragonglass and fire-salts. Umbraxys had coiled around the periphery, its molten gold eyes fixed on him, their minds linked in a silent, powerful communion. As the ritual reached its crescendo, Voldemort had plunged a ceremonial Valyrian steel dagger – one he had 'liberated' from the royal armory and painstakingly enchanted – into the central rune, channeling his own life force, his wizarding magic, and the raw, elemental power of Umbraxys into the ancient matrix.
The chamber had dissolved into a blinding vortex of swirling shadow and violet light. For a terrifying moment, Voldemort had felt his consciousness stretched to the breaking point, the sheer scale of the energies threatening to tear him apart. But his will, forged in the fires of countless dark rituals and an indomitable desire for power, had held firm. He had bent the chaotic energies, shaping them, commanding them, until, with a final, earth-shattering tremor, the vortex had stabilized, the light had receded, and the chamber had… changed.
It was still the same circular room, the glyph-covered walls still pulsed with their ancient light, but now, when one focused on the spaces between the glyphs, one could perceive a vastness beyond, a landscape of shifting shadows, craggy obsidian peaks, and a starless, violet sky. It was a pocket dimension, a perfect, secure lair for Umbraxys, a place where it could grow to its full, terrifying potential, unseen and undisturbed. The success was exhilarating, a confirmation of his burgeoning mastery over the most profound Valyrian magics. The drain had been immense, leaving him physically weakened for days, a fact he'd masked with a feigned illness that even Grand Maester Mellos's worried pronouncements couldn't penetrate, but the prize was worth it. Umbraxys was secure. His ultimate weapon remained his ultimate secret.
While Baelon delved into arcane secrets, the more mundane, yet no less vicious, games of court continued. Otto Hightower, his ambition a relentless engine, was increasingly brazen in his promotion of Aegon. The Hand's green faction now dominated many aspects of court life, Queen Alicent, her piety hardening into a rigid self-righteousness, acting as its figurehead. Aegon, now a lanky, arrogant boy of ten, was rarely seen without his golden dragon, Sunfyre, and a coterie of equally arrogant young lords who aped his every move. He took to calling Baelon "the Ghost Prince," a jibe at his often solitary nature and pale intensity.
Aemond, Alicent's second son, was a different breed. At eight, he was small for his age, but possessed a simmering resentment that was far more potent than Aegon's boisterous bullying. He was the only one among his siblings, and indeed among all the young Targaryen princes and princesses of his generation (including Rhaenyra's own sons, when they would eventually be born), yet to claim a dragon. The Dragonpit held no young hatchlings deemed suitable, and the older dragons were too formidable. This lack consumed him, festering into a bitter cruelty that he often directed at castle servants or small animals. Baelon observed Aemond's growing darkness with a detached, clinical interest. Here was a soul susceptible to ambition, to frustration, a potential tool or a predictable future enemy.
Helaena, now twelve, remained an enigma. Her strange, whispered pronouncements grew more frequent, often delivered at inopportune moments, causing discomfort and earning her mother's exasperated sighs. During one particularly tense family dinner, as Aegon boasted of a near-accident while flying Sunfyre too close to the Dragonmont, Helaena had murmured, "The golden flyer courts the fire within the stone. But the shadow sleeps on wings of night, and dreams of burning thrones."
Alicent had quickly shushed her, but Voldemort had seen the flicker of unease in Viserys's eyes, and the sharp, speculative glance Otto Hightower had thrown towards Baelon. The "shadow" in Helaena's rhymes was becoming an increasingly obvious, if still deniable, reference.
The most pressing political issue consuming the court was the question of Princess Rhaenyra's marriage. Now a woman of twenty, her beauty and spirit undiminished, she was nevertheless in a precarious position. Her father, King Viserys, his health showing visible signs of decline – his face often drawn and pale, his movements slower, his reliance on milk of the poppy for his various aches and pains increasing – was desperate to see her wed and producing heirs, perhaps hoping to settle the increasingly fractious succession debate once and for all, though how that would work with Baelon as the clear male heir was a point of confused contention.
Suitors abounded, from the sons of powerful Westerosi lords to envoys from the Free Cities. The two most prominent contenders, however, were Laenor Velaryon, son of Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, and a proposal, heavily backed by Otto Hightower, for Rhaenyra to wed her own half-brother, Prince Aegon.
The latter suggestion was met with open disgust by Rhaenyra and a grim silence by Viserys, though Alicent championed it as a way to 'unite the two branches of the family' and 'heal all divisions.' Voldemort saw it for what it was: a blatant attempt by Otto to place his own grandson not just near the throne, but directly beside its most prominent female claimant, effectively neutralizing Rhaenyra and further sidelining Baelon by creating a 'unified' Hightower-Targaryen front.
The Velaryon proposal was more complex. Marrying Laenor would ally House Targaryen with the immense wealth and naval power of Driftmark, and Laenor, like Rhaenyra, was a dragonrider, his mount the swift Seasmoke. It would also be a nod to Princess Rhaenys's own bypassed claim. However, whispers concerning Laenor's… particular inclinations and lack of interest in women were rife throughout the court, a fact that Otto Hightower subtly amplified.
Voldemort analyzed the situation with cold pragmatism. An alliance with the Velaryons could be beneficial, strengthening the Targaryen dynasty against external threats and providing a counterweight to Hightower influence. However, Laenor's rumored preferences meant the marriage might not produce heirs easily, potentially leaving Rhaenyra vulnerable or leading to… complications. Aegon as a husband for Rhaenyra was unthinkable; it would consolidate too much power in Hightower hands.
He sought out Rhaenyra, finding her in the godswood, a place she often retreated to when the pressures of court became unbearable. She was hurling pebbles into the black pool with a frustrated energy.
"They wish to sell me like a broodmare, Baelon," she said without preamble, her voice tight with anger. "First to my own infantile half-brother, a suggestion so vile it makes my skin crawl. Now they press for Laenor Velaryon. Do you know what they say of him?"
"I hear the whispers, cousin," Baelon replied, his tone neutral. "As does everyone. But whispers are not always truth. And even if they are… marriages of state are rarely about personal passions."
"Easy for you to say!" she retorted, whirling to face him. "You are the male heir. You will marry some simpering southron girl who will give you a dozen sons, and no one will question your desires. I am expected to secure alliances, to mend rifts, to smile and nod while my own future is bartered away."
"Every royal marriage is a transaction, Rhaenyra," Voldemort said, his gaze steady. "The question is, what do you wish to purchase? Alliance? Security? Or perhaps… a degree of freedom?" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Lord Corlys is ambitious. Princess Rhaenys has never forgotten she was once heir to the throne before the Great Council chose my grandfather. An alliance with them through Laenor could give you powerful allies, allies who might share your… frustrations… with the current climate at court."
He was subtly guiding her, not towards Laenor specifically, but towards seeing the marriage as a strategic move, a way to build her own power base. A Rhaenyra allied with a resentful Velaryon faction would be a far more potent thorn in Otto Hightower's side.
"And what of the whispers?" Rhaenyra pressed, her anger giving way to a more calculating look. "What if Laenor cannot… or will not… give me children?"
"There are ways around such… inconveniences," Voldemort murmured, his voice barely audible, his eyes like chips of ice. "Arrangements can be made. What matters is the strength of the alliance, the dragons you would command together. Two dragonriders, wed and allied, with the might of the Velaryon fleet at their back… that is a power even Otto Hightower would be forced to respect." He was planting seeds of pragmatism, of ruthlessness, appealing to the core of Targaryen ambition he knew lay within her.
Prince Daemon, meanwhile, had once again departed King's Landing. His latest tenure at court had ended abruptly after a particularly violent falling out with Otto Hightower over the administration of the City Watch, culminating in Daemon nearly gutting the Hand in the Small Council chamber. Viserys, in a rare display of kingly anger, had banished his brother to the Stepstones once more, though Daemon had departed with a smirk, taking with him a considerable portion of the City Watch's treasury and his fiercely loyal commander, Luthor Largent.
Before leaving, however, Daemon had sought out Baelon. He found him in the Dragonpit, where Baelon was overseeing the care of Silverwing, her scales gleaming under the torchlight.
"So, nephew," Daemon began, his voice laced with its usual sardonic amusement, "I am to be exiled again. This city grows tedious without a proper war to fight or a Hightower to skewer." He looked at Baelon, his gaze sharper than usual. "You've grown, boy. There's more of the dragon in you now, and less of the… polite prince. Good. This place will eat you alive if you show weakness."
"I do not intend to show weakness, Uncle," Baelon replied, his voice even.
"No, I don't suppose you do," Daemon said, a strange light in his eyes. "Rhaenyra is beset by fools and schemers. Watch over her, in your own cold way. She may be… useful to you one day. Or you to her." He clapped Baelon on the shoulder, a rough gesture. "And when you finally decide to unleash whatever darkness you keep so carefully leashed within you… try to make it spectacular. It would be a dull world otherwise." With that, he was gone, leaving Voldemort with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Daemon, for all his recklessness, understood power in its rawest forms.
Viserys's decline was becoming more apparent. His gait was often unsteady, his hands plagued by tremors he tried to hide. He spent more time abed, and the governance of the realm fell increasingly to the Small Council, where Otto Hightower's voice was the loudest. Voldemort saw the vultures circling, his father's fading strength a beacon for their ambitions. His own path to the Iron Throne seemed to be clearing, but he knew that a king's death often unleashed chaos, not orderly succession. He needed to be prepared.
His network continued to serve him well. Ser Arryk Cargyll fed him information about the shifting loyalties within the Kingsguard, noting that several younger knights were now openly deferential to Queen Alicent and Prince Aegon. Pate the scribe, now a trusted clerk with access to more sensitive documents, alerted Baelon to a discreet effort by the Hightowers to review and 'clarify' the laws of inheritance concerning the Prince of Dragonstone's own holdings, a clear attempt to find leverage. Voldemort, through Pate, subtly introduced counter-arguments and historical precedents that reinforced his own unassailable rights, frustrating Otto's legal machinations from the shadows.
He also began to cultivate a new asset: Larys Strong, the club-footed, enigmatic younger son of Lord Lyonel Strong, the current Master of Laws. Larys, often overlooked and underestimated, possessed a keen intellect and a network of whispers that rivaled Varys in his prime, or so Voldemort surmised. He approached Larys with caution, offering not overtures of alliance, but shared observations, intellectual puzzles, and subtle acknowledgments of his unique skills. Larys, in turn, seemed intrigued by the Prince of Dragonstone's unnerving perception. A delicate dance of mutual assessment had begun.
As the chapter of Rhaenyra's marriage negotiations reached a fever pitch, with Lord Corlys Velaryon arriving in King's Landing with his wife Rhaenys and their son Laenor to formally press their suit, Voldemort felt the tides of power shifting. He had successfully expanded Umbraxys's lair, securing his greatest secret. He had subtly influenced Rhaenyra's perspective on her marital options. He was aware of the Hightowers' increasingly desperate ploys and his father's fading grip.
The game was indeed accelerating. He stood on the precipice of young adulthood, armed with ancient magic, a hidden dragon of immense power, and a mind forged in darkness and ambition. The Iron Throne was not a distant dream; it was an approaching inevitability. And he, Baelon Targaryen, Lord Voldemort reborn, would not merely inherit it. He would seize it, and with it, the world.