Chapter Text
104 AC
By the time most children could form full sentences, Taecelor Velaryon had already learned to lie convincingly.
At three years old, he sat before his copper mirror, a treasured gift from his grandmother, intricately shaped like the hull of a ship. The warm gleam of the metal caught the flickering candlelight, casting ripples of shadow across the polished surface. Yet when Taecelor looked into it, he did not see a child. He saw shadows. He saw power. He saw something far older and darker than his tender years warranted; he saw Tom Riddle.
The face staring back was that of a Valyrian princeling: dusky skin kissed golden by the sun, white-silver curls trimmed neatly above sea-glass eyes that seemed to hold secrets too vast for one so young. It was a cruel irony. In his youthful mind, Taecelor regarded this reflection as the purest form of beauty and strength, far superior to the pale, fragile likenesses of the Malfoys. To him, they were but dim replicas of true Valyrian majesty, as if gods had descended to walk among mere men.
From what little information he could pry from whispered conversations and stolen moments, being under constant surveillance was exhausting, every hour watched, every word weighed. Yet even in that suffocating confinement, he had uncovered scraps of knowledge. Initially, he had sought other houses rumoured to harbour the old magic. Perhaps Harriet would find refuge in one of those.
But then, months after his own birth, news arrived of his cousin’s daughter born on the same day stirred something inside Taecelor. House Celtigar, one of the last Valyrian bloodlines remaining in Westeros after absorbing the remnants of House Qoherys, carried a history dull and safe compared to the grandeur and peril of the Velaryons and Targaryens. Taecelor hoped they treated Harriet well; otherwise, he was not above erasing her parents from existence once more.
The only true blessing of being born a Velaryon was access to dragon eggs.
The fool King Viserys, in a rare gesture of goodwill or folly, had gifted Taecelor a cradle egg. A gesture meant to curry favour, but to Taecelor, it was sheer stupidity. House Velaryon already bore the weight of two dragons: his mother’s Meleys and his brother’s Seasmoke. To give them yet another dragon was to shift the balance of power, weakening the crown. Any competent ruler would understand this. But from what he gleaned from his parents’ hushed conversations, the king truly was a fool.
Taecelor’s egg came from Dreamfyre, a black shell marbled with faint red veins that pulsed with promise. He knew instinctively it would hatch into a fierce and proud beast, one worthy of cementing his name in the annals of history. It was no surprise when, mere days after his birth, the egg cracked open.
It was strange, this bond that tethered his mind to another living being, that was not Harriet. His proficiency in the mental arts, a secret mastery he wielded with cold precision, proved invaluable in commanding the creature.
He named it Ancalagon, after a character from his favourite book, a guilty pleasure from before he understood the true nature of magic. The beast would grow strong under his tutelage and magic, much stronger than the rest of his inbred, idiotic family.
The relationship between Taecelor and his family was a complicated, tangled web, woven with indifference, obligation, and tensions.
Tom was largely indifferent to his eldest sister. Leana, with her sharp tongue and sharper ambitions, annoyed him endlessly. She fancied herself a surrogate mother, hovering over him with a mix of false concern and condescension that grated on his nerves. Leanor, by contrast, was tolerable most of the time, a quiet presence who rarely stirred trouble, satisfied with watching from afar.
His parents were a different matter entirely. Tom had a few choice words for them, though he rarely spoke them aloud. His father, Corlys Velaryon, was a man both present and absent, a paradox in flesh. Tom had long known he was the spare, never meant to be the apple of his father’s eye. Yet when Corlys did find time for him, there was no softness in his tone. Corlys spoke to Tom not as a child, but as a miniature lord, blunt and uncompromising. It was from his father that Tom had first learned of the possible whereabouts of Harriet, now renamed Haela Celtigar, and that morsel of information had sparked a fire within him.
His mother was a far more complicated shadow. Tom Riddle had long harboured a fierce loathing for her. Merpope Graunt was, in his eyes, a weak woman with a frail mind, an obstacle to the power he craved. He had scrubbed her from his life as thoroughly as he could, refusing to acknowledge how someone so unimpressive could have birthed a figure as formidable as himself. After all, how could the mighty Lord Voldemort have come from such a fragile creature?
Then there was Rhaenys, his mother’s opposite in every way. Rhaenys commanded every room she entered; her presence was magnetic, demanding the recognition her birthright deserved. People stopped mid-step to offer bows and curtseys, acknowledging not just her noble blood but the power that radiated from her very being. In Tom’s mind, his new mother should have been queen, should have sat upon the Iron Throne herself. Yet this medieval society, shackled by its backward notions and suffocating traditions, denied her that right. That bitter injustice only hardened Tom’s resolve to seize power for himself and Harriet.
The great hall of High Tide was alive with celebration.
Rich tapestries swayed gently in the sea breeze drifting through open windows, the air heavy with the mingled scents of salt, roasting venison, and freshly baked bread. Above, bright banners hung from the high rafters, the silver trident of House Velaryon and the crimson crab of House Celtigar, fluttering proudly side by side, a heraldry of kinship and alliance. Today was a rare occasion: a joint namesday feast for two noble toddlers, Taecelor Velaryon and Haela Celtigar, both turning three.
The hall brimmed with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter, lords and ladies mingling with knights and servants as music drifted from the corner. Long oak tables groaned under the weight of spiced meats, honeyed fruits, wheels of sharp white cheese, and delicate pastries glazed with sugar and crushed almonds. Silver goblets caught the light, and the sound of clinking cups was near-constant. Yet, for all the bounty on display, the true focus of the gathering was the pair of children at the heart of it all.
Taecelor sat stiffly on a carved wooden chair far too grand for his small frame, his silver curls gleaming like molten moonlight in the shafts of sun spilling through the windows. Dressed in a velvet doublet, the deep blue of the Summer Sea, he clutched a small carved dragon close to his chest, as though daring anyone to pry it from him. His plum eyes were far too shrewd for his age, moved from guest to guest, weighing and measuring.
Across the hall, Haela Celtigar perched in a high-backed chair embroidered with the colours of her house, the deep crimson offsetting the pale shine of her hair. A ribbon, dyed to match her banner, tied her fine locks neatly at the nape of her neck. She kicked her little legs beneath the table happily, her bright violet eyes drinking in the sights and sounds of the feast.
Normally, such a celebration shared between houses would not pass without whispers of a betrothal, alliances being the true currency of noble gatherings, but this day was different. Haemalla Celtigar, née Velaryon, was Corlys Velaryon’s dear niece, almost a daughter to him. He had practically raised her within the Red Keep and counted her among his most trusted kin. For her, he spared no expense in honouring not just her nephew but her daughter as well.
After all, Haemalla had done what many noblewomen failed to achieve within their first five years of marriage; she had borne Clement Celtigar both an heir and a spare, securing the line of Claw Isle for another generation. That alone merited celebration. Even the Queen herself, for all her rank and beauty, had suffered three failed pregnancies after the birth of the princess, still striving to give the realm the male heir it demanded.
And so the feast glittered not only with joy but with the quiet weight of politics, the knowledge that every smiling face in the hall measured worth in heirs and alliances as much as in gold and honour.
When the two children were finally brought together, the great hall seemed to draw in a collective breath. The music still played, a gentle lilting tune from the corner, but conversation dwindled, and all eyes turned toward the meeting.
Taecelor’s gaze locked on Haela the instant he saw her. Without hesitation, he marched forward, small fists curled at his sides, his stride far too purposeful for a child so young. Each step was a declaration in itself; bold, certain, unflinching.
He stopped directly before her high-backed chair and reached out, taking her tiny arm in a grip that was gentle but unyielding. “Mine,” he said, his voice steady and ringing with a confidence that drew a ripple of amusement from the assembled lords and ladies.
Tom did not truly expect to say more. Claiming her openly, in front of the entire gathering, was enough. The word hung in the air, daring anyone to challenge it.
Haela blinked at him, startled but unafraid. Something deep within her stirred, a flicker of recognition she could not yet name. Her magic reacted to his presence, sharp, bright, insistent. Yet there was something strange about him, something in the way his magic pressed against hers. It was heavy, possessive, unlike the faint shimmer of blood-magic that trickled through her family line. The magic of the blood was strong in its own way, but it paled beside the raw, core-born power she now felt radiating from him. He was like her. Harriet was certain of it.
A few of the watching adults chuckled, the sound rippling through the hall like the first whisper of gossip.
Haela’s lips curved into a smile. She giggled, a bright, musical sound, and reached out her tiny hand to grasp his. If he were like her, then perhaps she would not be alone in this strange new life. Perhaps they could be friends, allies even, in a world that belonged to neither of them.
Tom, however, knew better. Harriet had not yet pieced it together. Her manner was too open, too guileless. She did not yet realise the truth, that they were forged from the same tether. That he was the man whose name was whispered in shadows and called upon with fear.
That was fine. She had never felt his true magical signature, the vast, commanding presence that had once been his. The Horcrux remnants had been but shards—broken, twisted echoes of his power.
Here, he would show her what the whole of him truly was, and she would be his.
They stayed together for a while, holding hands, walking around the hall, stealing sweets and pastry.
The air in the great hall had grown thick with heat, wine, and music. Torches hissed softly as oil burned low. Laughter rolled in waves around the long tables, though in the shadowed alcove where the children sat, the noise felt far away.
A nursemaid in modest Velaryon blue leaned down, her voice pitched low so as not to draw the notice of the lords and ladies. "Come now, little ones," she murmured, bending toward them. "It’s past the hour for your rest. The hall will still be here in the morning."
Haela's eyelids were heavy, her small fingers curled loosely in Tom’s. But when the woman reached for her, Tom’s grip tightened, just enough for Harriet to stir faintly and glance at him in question.
"We will be lodging together," Tom said, his voice steady but quiet, the words meant more for himself than for the maid. If Harriet thought Tom would let her out of his sight now that he had found her
The nursemaid smiled, though her eyes flicked curiously to their joined hands. "Aye, mi'lord," she said with the respectful tilt of her head and ushered them toward the side doors where the cool salt air of Driftmark drifted in.
The music softened behind them, replaced by the hush of corridors lit by guttering sconces. Their footsteps whispered over the carpets, and still Tom did not let go.
Even when they reached the small solar prepared for them, with its low fire and soft bedclothes, Tom stood a moment longer, his hand enclosing hers as though the moment he released it, the sea would rise and sweep her away.
Only when Harriet tugged, just enough to pull him toward the bed, did he move, sitting beside her while the nursemaid fussed with pillows. His gaze never left her face, even as her eyes finally fluttered closed.
And still, long after she slept, his hand remained clasped around hers.