Year 127 AC.
Early spring, at dawn.
The towering Red Keep was bustling with people, filled with noise and movement.
"Brother, hurry up!"
In the outer courtyard, a small silver-haired, violet-eyed boy hid behind a wooden post, waving toward the stables.
"Shh, be quiet."
Another boy peeked out from behind the water trough near the stables, warning him sternly.
As he spoke, the boy carefully observed the dense crowd around him before dashing over to his younger brother.
The moment he got close, a tiny clenched fist shot out, landing directly on his little brother's stomach.
"Owww~!"
The younger boy let out a cry, his eyes instantly welling with tears.
The older boy, his face stern like a little adult, scolded him, "Aemond, we're going to the Dragonpit to get a dragon egg for our little brother. No fooling around."
"I wasn't! And you hit me again!"
Aemond wiped his tears away, pouting in frustration.
That said, despite being struck, he neither cried nor made a fuss—stronger than most children his age.
Baelon ignored him, weaving through the crowded adults to find a suitable path.
He knew exactly what kind of troublemaker his little brother was.
Just like his dragon—a little liar.
Seeing that his older brother was ignoring him, Aemond puffed up his cheeks and marched straight through the crowd.
"Aemond, don't get caught!"
Baelon hurried after him.
Aemond shook off his hand, huffing, "If we can get out of the Red Keep, then Father must have allowed it."
It was just another one of the adults' little games.
Hearing this, Baelon's cute face fell, and he silently followed his troublemaking brother.
Aemond had a point.
The two silver-haired boys walked hand in hand through the outer courtyard, slipping between the flowing robes of passing nobles.
What was truly striking was how identical the two looked.
The same height, the same build, the same fair-skinned face.
The only real difference lay in their expressions.
Baelon's eyes were clear, his every movement measured and precise.
Aemond's eyes darted about mischievously, brimming with energy and curiosity.
"Haah!"
"Careful, Your Highness!"
Near the training yard, the ringing clash of metal against metal filled the air.
Baelon halted, turning his head to see a group of nobles gathered around, watching a duel.
"Come on, let's take a look!"
Seeing the interest in his brother's eyes, Aemond didn't wait for permission—he simply dragged him into the crowd.
As soon as the nobles noticed the two little princes, they respectfully made way.
In the center of the training yard, two figures were locked in combat.
One was Ser Criston Cole, clad in white padded armor, wielding a deadly morningstar.
Criston fought with a confident smile, swinging his weapon with practiced precision.
His opponent was a young man with silver hair, wearing a black eyepatch over one eye.
The two engaged fiercely.
Criston swung his morningstar, shattering his opponent's shield with a familiar, well-worn technique, gradually restricting the younger man's movements.
But—
With lightning speed, the young man endured two heavy strikes from the morningstar, then suddenly tossed aside his broken shield, pivoting on one foot as his sword sliced through the air.
In the blink of an eye, Criston had no time to dodge.
The young man's sharp gaze locked onto him, his blade pressing against Criston's throat with ruthless precision.
A single wrong move, and blood would spill.
"Oh! Uncle won!"
Aemond clapped his hands, cheering excitedly.
Baelon tugged his brother's arm, suppressing a smile. "Alright, let's go to the Dragonpit."
In a flash, the two little figures slipped out of the crowd.
At the center of the training yard, Criston let out a helpless sigh, lowering his morningstar. Catching his breath, he admitted, "Well played, my prince. At this rate, you'll win the tournament with ease."
Aemond's older brother, Aemond Targaryen, sheathed his sword without a second glance. "I don't care about some tournament."
Tilting his head slightly, he caught sight of two small figures disappearing into the distance and smirked. "My dear nephews are sneaking off again."
Criston sighed again—there was nothing he could say to that.
Six years had passed in a flash, and the young prince had grown at an astonishing rate.
In both combat and intellect, Criston could no longer keep up with him.
Clang—
Aemond Targaryen casually tossed his sword aside and turned toward Maegor's Holdfast. "I'm off to find my brother. I heard Rhaenyra has given birth again."
—
Elsewhere.
The two little troublemakers had successfully snuck out of the Red Keep, boarding a royal carriage driven by a member of the Kingsguard.
Ser Steffon, clad in a black cloak, warned them patiently, "The ride will be fast. Hold on tight, Your Highnesses."
"Don't worry, Ser."
Baelon reassured him.
"Full speed ahead! My whip thirsts for action!"
That was Aemond.
Ser Steffon sighed in resignation, knowing there was no arguing with these two. With no other choice, he flicked the reins and set the horses into motion.
Inside the carriage, the two boys sat facing each other.
Baelon's eyes widened as he watched his younger brother rummaging around in his pants. Unable to hold back, he finally blurted, "How did you manage to steal that?!"
Aemond lifted his chin proudly, waiting for praise.
In his chubby little hands was a long, black whip.
The handle was forged from Valyrian steel, inscribed with eerie, ancient runes—the legendary dragon-taming whip.
Baelon's hand shot out, snatching the whip from him. "You actually stole Father's dragon whip?!"
"This is an extremely rare treasure! How did you manage to get it?"
Aemond stood with his hands on his hips, looking smug. "Mother was in labor, and Father was too busy to notice us, so I stole it."
"Amazing!"
Baelon was beyond excited as he stuffed the dragon-whip into his arms.
He claimed it immediately.
---
The Princess's Bedchamber
The familiar layout, the old murals of coupling.
A few experienced maids surrounded a birthing chair.
Rhaenyra lay in the arms of a plump maid, drenched in sweat, biting her lip as she mustered her strength.
In front of her, the maids held water basins and wrung out towels.
---
The Hallway Outside the Bedchamber
Rhaegar stood with his head down, leaning against the wall like a guilty child.
Six years had passed, and the boy had grown into a young man.
His features had become even more striking, his tall and well-proportioned figure exuding a noble and commanding presence.
His silver hair cascaded naturally over his shoulders, and his violet eyes held a faint trace of melancholy.
Any passing servants—male or female—couldn't help but steal glances at their king.
"Ahem."
A soft cough nearby pulled him from his thoughts.
Rhaegar turned his head, looking confused. "Father, what is it?"
Closer to the door, Viserys sat in a wheelchair, a blanket draped over his legs.
Having abdicated the throne, he had gradually learned to relax.
Time had been kind to the former king.
Viserys had grown a bit plump, his once-thick hair now thinning. He spoke reassuringly, "Don't worry. Rhaenyra will be fine—this isn't her first childbirth."
As he spoke, he leaned forward slightly, looking past his eldest son at a small figure.
Rhaegar forced a smile and followed his father's gaze.
A young boy, dressed in a simple tunic, sat on the ground, staring blankly at the cracks in the stone floor.
The boy looked about two or three years old.
He had short, platinum-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and chubby, fair cheeks.
At that moment, the little one was sitting with his legs splayed out, cradling a dark red dragon egg in his arms.
Rhaegar sighed and shook his head, crouching down to gently stroke his youngest son's soft hair. In a gentle voice, he asked, "Maekar, why aren't you playing with your brothers?"
Maekar had just turned three, born in the summer of 124 AC.
He was Rhaegar and Rhaenyra's third child—their third son.
Unlike his parents and elder brothers, Maekar had slightly different features, with variations in his hair and eye color.
With his head lowered, the small boy looked like a tiny ball. His delicate face bore a trace of sadness as he rested his chin on the dragon egg.
Hearing his father's question, Maekar turned his head and honestly replied, "They think I'm dumb, so they won't play with me."
Rhaegar was speechless. He silently comforted his youngest and offered an explanation. "They have tasks to do. You're still too young."
"Oh."
Maekar turned back and continued staring at the cracks in the stone.
Rhaegar stood up with a sigh, exchanging a helpless look with his father.
The boy was wonderful in every way—except for his shy nature.
He clearly wanted to join his brothers, yet he always hesitated on the sidelines.
Viserys chuckled. "There will be another little one soon. Then Maekar will have a companion."
Just as he spoke, a piercing scream came from inside the room.
"AHHH!!"
The three of them stiffened, their ears perking up as they shuddered in unison.
Rhaegar lowered his head again, silently praying for a safe delivery.
Maekar closed his eyes, hugging the dragon egg tightly, and mumbled, "A little sister… a little sister…"
Rhaegar playfully nudged his son's tiny backside with his foot, shooting him a warning look.
The ungrateful little rascal was already making wishes outside the birthing chamber.
"AHHH!!"
Suddenly, another scream rang out—this one even more agonizing than the last.
And then, moments later, the cries of a newborn echoed through the air.
"Waaah! Waaah!"
Inside the room, the maids bustled about in a frenzy. Then, the voice of the plump maid rang out through the door, filled with joy.
"Wonderful news! It's a healthy baby girl!"
Outside, the three generations of Targaryen men let out a heavy sigh of relief, the weight on their hearts finally lifted.
Sweat formed on Rhaegar's forehead, but a smile once again appeared on his face.
Meika: "It's the little sister, it's the little sister."
Bang—
He took another harsh kick.
…
Council Hall
Creak—
The large doors were pushed open from the outside, revealing the scene within.
A spacious room with a wide, open view through floor-to-ceiling windows.
A desk sat in front of the window, sunlight casting a glow over the documents spread on its surface.
"Snore~~"
Behind the desk sat two young people.
One was a beautiful girl with silver-gold curls tied up, dressed in a beige gown.
Her delicate features were relaxed, her eyes slightly closed, her cheeks flushed red from the sun, and her head tilted against the back of her chair.
She nodded off, her head bobbing up and down, on the verge of falling asleep.
Beside her was a young man with messy silver hair, sprawled across the desk, arms stretched out, sleeping soundly.
In front of both siblings was a stack of documents, their pages rustling in the light breeze from the window.
Creak! Creak!
Aemond stood at the doorway, clenching his teeth as he took in the sight before him, his fists tightening with an audible crack.
He muttered several times to himself, "Stay calm." Then, with heavy steps, he strode toward the two.
There were three chairs behind the desk.
The siblings occupied two, leaving the main seat in the center vacant.
Aemond didn't hesitate—he plopped down into the chair.
Without a word, he pulled the documents from in front of his sister, Helaena, and began reviewing them with a serious expression.
Ever since Rhaegar ascended the throne and reclaimed most of the power from the Small Council…
The advantage was that things were handled more efficiently.
The downside? Endless administrative work.
And so, holding onto the philosophy of "If I have to suffer, everyone suffers," Rhaegar, after a year on the throne, dragged his three younger siblings into the Council Hall to help him with the paperwork.
The kingdom belonged to all Targaryens—why should he be the only one to suffer?
Everyone should get a taste of what it's like to be king.
"Mmm~"
Hearing the sound of scribbling quills, Helaena groggily opened her eyes, blinking in confusion as she looked around.
At this moment, the Master of Coin, Lyman, having finished organizing materials, walked past the three siblings without a word.
Aemond didn't pause in his writing. Without lifting his head, he asked, "Lord Lyman, any news lately?"
Lyman looked slightly puzzled and replied slowly, "Prince, shouldn't you ask Tormund for intelligence?"
After all, he wasn't the Master of Whispers.
Aemond's quill paused for a moment, his sharp, single eye glinting like a blade. "Tormund reports directly to the king. I won't overstep."
After a brief pause, he returned to his question. "Any news from Driftmark? How is Daeron doing there?"
"Of course. Prince Daeron serves as the Sea Snake's cupbearer and accompanies him on every voyage."
Lyman seemed satisfied with his own answer and continued, "As for Driftmark, I've heard there's some trouble—seems to be a dispute over succession."
"Oh? I suspect it's more than just that."
Aemond's expression remained cold as he pulled a document from the stack and deliberately slapped it down next to Aegon's ear.
Bang—
Aegon jolted awake in a panic, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth. "What? Is Rhaegar here?!"
The poor boy was terrified.
Aemond shot him a look of disdain, then slid the document toward Lyman, revealing its contents.
Lyman leaned down to read, his narrowed eyes suddenly becoming serious.
The document was from the Velaryon family of Driftmark.
However, the sender was not Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, but one of his nephews.
Moreover, there were five different handprints at the bottom, each representing a Velaryon.
The content read:
"The Velaryon family has a direct male heir. A female successor goes against tradition. We request that Rhaegar I of House Targaryen make a ruling."
At the end of the letter, they explicitly stated that Rhaegar's claim as heir took precedence over the previous successor, Rhaenyra.
They hoped His Majesty would uphold tradition.
Such wording was undeniably bold.
And utterly insolent.
Helaena blinked in confusion and murmured, "The Sea Snake is in trouble?"