Chapter Text
The library of the Citadel had the power to humble any man. Towering wooden shelves lined the cold stone walls, stretching up to the vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and fresh ink, mingling with something less tangible—knowledge itself. It was dimly lit; by day, the only natural light filtered in through a vast ceiling window, illuminating the great oaken table at the center, where acolytes labored from morning until dusk. The Citadel thrived on research, and during daylight hours, students could be found here, copying manuscripts, translating ancient texts, and chasing wisdom in brittle pages.
But by night, when the library was aglow with the flickering light of lanterns and candles, only the most devoted scholars remained—those who sought mastery above all else, those who had forsaken sleep for the pursuit of knowledge.
At one of the smaller tables, surrounded by a fortress of books and manuscripts, sat a young man. He was difficult to overlook. Despite wearing the same modest robes as any other acolyte, there was something in his bearing, in the very air about him, that made him stand apart.
A single glance was enough to mark him as a prince. His hair, pale as the finest silver, shimmered with hints of gold beneath the candlelight. But it was his eyes that held men captive—large, the color of pale lilacs, so light they seemed almost translucent from a distance. They were the kind of eyes that could pin a man where he stood, though few could bear their weight for long. Most, upon meeting his gaze, would quickly avert their own and return to their studies.
He was accustomed to it. The stares that trailed him as he walked the Citadel’s stone corridors, the whispers that stirred in his wake—none of it was unfamiliar. He knew he was an oddity, for how often did a true prince come to train as a maester? But the truth was simple: Vaegon Targaryen was the third son of a king, with no love for courtly life, no patience for politics, and no desire for marriage. His path had been evident from the beginning. Books had been his only companions since childhood, and he had buried himself in them.
At times, at his father’s command, he had sparred with his brothers in the training yard. He had never enjoyed it. Their taunts had done nothing to endear him to the sword, nor had they made him more eager to return. He had his books, and when his father had decreed that he would study at the Citadel and one day take the chains of an Archmaester, Vaegon had only smiled. He had been granted something rare among princes—the chance to do what he truly desired. To learn. And to be alone.
And alone he was. Seven years had passed. A thousands kilometers lay between him and his home, yet he felt no longing for it. He did not miss his parents, and least of all did he miss his siblings.
As he had done every night, he sat in the library, his only companion the notes he meticulously kept. Tonight, he was working on a translation of an ancient manuscript that, according to his mentor, had been carried out of Valyria during the great Doom. Vaegon doubted the claim, but he had questioned his instructors enough times to know better than to do so again. He was near the final passage when a shadow fell across his parchment.
He looked up. Before him stood Seneschal Edran, his bony fingers clenched around a thin scroll sealed with red wax. Even in the dim glow of the library, Vaegon recognized the royal sigil at once.
"My prince" Edran said, his voice taut with unease. He dipped his head in a show of respect.
Vaegon straightened, setting his quill aside. A chill curled down his spine.
Since he began his studies at the Citadel, no one had addressed him by his title—he was simply acolyte Vaegon. Unease prickled at his skin. The air in the library suddenly felt heavier, harder to breathe.
"Forgive the intrusion," Edran continued, "but a letter has arrived. From the King."
He extended the parchment, his knuckles pale where they gripped it. There was something in his expression—pity, almost. Vaegon understood at once that Edran already knew its contents. Which meant there must have been another letter—one sent only to the Archmaesters.
Vaegon forced himself to remain still, though his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. With a swift motion, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. His eyes traced the words once. Then again. A third time, as if by reading them enough, they might change.
He was to pack his things and return to King's Landing. To wed Viserra, his younger sister.