Chapter 1 – Reborn Targaryen Prince
Thunder crushed the sky above King's Landing, rolling like the roar of an angry god, shaking the ancient stones of the Red Keep until dust trembled from the ceilings and torches flickered in their iron claws. Rain lashed the windows like thrown gravel, and lightning carved white scars across the clouds, illuminating the city in violent flashes.
Within the Tower of the Hand, Queen Alicent Hightower screamed.
Her cry tore through the corridors, sharp and raw, carrying fear, agony, and prayer in equal measure. Servants rushed like pale ghosts through candlelit halls, their faces drawn tight with dread. Maesters barked orders. Midwives whispered blessings to the Seven. Somewhere in the castle, bells rang softly, as though mourning had already begun.
King Viserys I Targaryen stood in the chamber doorway, trembling.
He had seen battlefields soaked in blood. He had buried a queen. He had ruled a kingdom balanced on knives.
Yet nothing broke him like the sound of his wife suffering.
Inside the chamber, Alicent writhed upon black silk sheets, her fingers clenched around the bedposts as if she meant to tear them from the floor. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering strands of pale gold against her face.
"Your Grace… breathe," a midwife whispered desperately.
Another contraction seized her.
She screamed.
And then, after hours of torment that felt like years—
A cry rose into the air.
Thin. New. Alive.
"It is a boy!" the maester announced.
Alicent sobbed with relief, collapsing back into the pillows as the infant was placed in her arms. He was small, warm, wrinkled like a newborn dragon fresh from its egg. His hair was pale silver-gold. His eyes barely opened.
"Aegon," Viserys whispered, stepping forward, tears blurring his vision.
Prince Aegon Targaryen had been born.
But the gods were not finished with her.
Alicent gasped again.
Pain twisted her features, sharper than before.
"No… no, please—" she whispered.
The midwives froze.
"There is another."
Fear struck like ice.
Another child.
Another trial.
Another gamble with death.
Alicent screamed again—longer, louder, broken as if her soul were being torn from her flesh.
Viserys reached out but could not touch her.
The storm outside thundered in answer.
Then—
A second cry echoed through the chamber.
Not weak.
Not fragile.
But strong.
Clear.
Defiant.
Silence followed.
The maester stared down in disbelief.
"Twins…" he breathed. "Another son."
Two babies lay upon the sheets now.
One sleeping peacefully.
The other wide awake.
The second child did not cry.
Did not squirm.
Did not tremble.
He stared.
His eyes were not soft lavender like most Targaryens, nor the gentle violet of newborn princes.
They were bright.
Sharp.
Almost luminous.
As though pale fire burned behind them.
Alicent turned her head weakly. "Another…?"
Viserys approached slowly, fear and wonder tangled in his chest.
He lifted the second child into his arms.
The infant studied him.
Not like a babe.
Like a judge.
Like something ancient wearing the skin of something new.
"What shall we name him?" Alicent whispered.
Viserys swallowed.
"Regan," he said softly.
Prince Regan Targaryen.
Second son of the king.
Twin to the heir.
Born beneath thunder.
Born with dragon blood screaming in his veins.
Outside the Red Keep, far below the city, in the deep black stone of the Dragonpit, a great creature stirred.
A massive shadow shifted in its sleep.
A low growl rolled through the tunnels.
The dragons had felt him.