POV: Prince Raegon Targaryen – 110 AC
The Red Keep, for all its stone and grandeur, felt like a cage at times. My office as Master of Laws kept me tethered, my mind wrestling with precedents and petitions when it yearned for the open sky and Alduin's thunderous roar. My own dragon, the World Eater, seemed to sense my restlessness, his low hum a constant vibration in the depths of the Dragonpit, a call only I truly heard. Years had passed since the Great Council of 101 AC, but the echoes of Grandfather Jaehaerys's decree still resonated through the halls. "The future of our House lies with the line of Viserys, and through Raegon, his firstborn son... He is to be betrothed to Rhaenyra. This is the will of the gods, for the safeguarding of our lineage." The lords had bowed, though I was barely ten, and even then, whispers had followed me – whispers that if I'd been eleven, old enough to command, Jaehaerys would have named me heir then and there.
Now, at twenty namedays, I was no longer a babe, nor a mere boy. My body, hardened by the Stepstones and gifted with an unnatural resilience, moved with a silent efficiency. My mind, honed by study and the subtle influence of forces unseen, allowed me to comprehend the patterns in the world, to speak to the beasts of the pit and the hounds in the kennels as easily as I spoke to men. And with any weapon, steel or word, I found a natural mastery.
My first concern, always, was family. I found my mother, Queen Aemma, in her solar, the room hushed save for the gentle crackle of the hearth. She was stretched on a chaise, her hand resting over a belly that had grown noticeably fuller these past months. Beside her, little Aegon, now five namedays old, played quietly with a wooden dragon, his small hands imitating the flight of the great beasts. He was a bright, curious boy, a stark contrast to the frail infant he had once been.
My intervention had saved Aemma from the fate that had nearly claimed her five years prior. The maesters had declared it a miracle, but I knew the truth was something else, something deeper, a gift from the very fabric of existence itself. Yet, even with her life spared, each pregnancy now left her utterly drained, a shadow of the vibrant woman she once was. My father, Viserys, hovered over her, his love clear in his anxious eyes, but his helplessness a palpable thing.
"Mother," I greeted softly, kneeling beside her chaise. Her hand, pale and delicate, found mine.
"Raegon, my dear boy," she whispered, a faint smile gracing her lips. Her eyes, however, held a lingering weariness. "You work too hard. Even the Hand speaks of your tireless efforts."
"The realm requires it," I said, gently squeezing her hand. My gaze flickered to her belly. "How fares this little one?"
Aemma sighed, a shallow sound. "It is… strong. Perhaps too strong. The maesters say it is healthy, but the toll it takes on me…" She trailed off, a familiar fear in her eyes.
"It will be well, Mother," I promised, my voice firm, allowing a fraction of my inherent calm to flow through my touch. I glanced at Aegon, who looked up then, his eyes wide and innocent. "And Aegon grows restless for a brother or sister."
Aemma gave a soft, wistful laugh. "Indeed. He asks of it often."
I rose, turning to my father, who watched us, his brow furrowed with worry. "Father, perhaps Queen Aemma would benefit from a stroll in the godswood? The fresh air often works wonders."
Viserys brightened. "An excellent idea, Raegon! Come, my dear. Raegon will accompany us."
As we walked through the godswood, the familiar scents of damp earth and ancient trees filled the air. Aemma leaned heavily on my arm, her movements slow, but her spirits seemed to lift with each breath of cool air. Aegon, skipping ahead, suddenly stopped, pointing to a squirrel chittering in an oak. "Look, Raegon! He talks!"
I knelt, and the squirrel, instead of darting away, remained, its tiny nose twitching. "Indeed, little lord," I said, a faint smile playing on my lips. "He says you're quite a noisy fellow, disturbing his nut hunt." Aegon giggled, delighted, and Aemma watched me with a curious, gentle expression. It was a small thing, this ability to communicate with creatures, but it often brought a lightness to their weary hearts.
Later that evening, the moon high and full, I found Rhaenyra in her own chambers. At fifteen, she was on the cusp of womanhood, her spirit still wild and untamed, yet her eyes held a growing understanding of the burdens that awaited her. We were betrothed, her sixteenth nameday and our wedding barely a year away. The thought often filled me with a quiet anticipation, a sense of completion.
She was not by the window tonight, but sat on a cushioned bench, tracing patterns on a tapestry with a distracted finger. Her brow was furrowed, and a familiar sense of the court's pressures seemed to cling to her like a shroud.
"Another tedious council, Raegon?" she asked, not looking up, but her voice was flat with exasperation.
I sat beside her, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "More tedious than usual. Otto Hightower believes I am his newest pet project for the Master of Laws. He speaks of… proper alliances, of course."
Rhaenyra snorted, a small, unladylike sound. "And does he speak of his fair daughter, Alicent, in the same breath?"
"Always," I confirmed, a dry amusement in my tone. "He paints her as the epitome of grace and piety, the perfect match for… well, for anyone who might draw me away from you, I suppose." My hand found hers, intertwining our fingers. Her skin was warm, familiar.
She turned to me then, her violet eyes, so like my own, flashing with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. "Does he truly think so little of us? Of our bond?"
"He thinks of power, Rhaenyra," I corrected softly, my thumb stroking the back of her hand. "He thinks of the Iron Throne, and he fears what he cannot control. He sees your fire, and he sees my… unique standing. He believes that if he can divide us, he can weaken us."
I lifted her hand, bringing it to my lips, a gentle kiss against her knuckles. The gesture was simple, protective, but it sent a warmth through her that I felt deep within myself. "He will not. Grandfather Jaehaerys chose well, Rhaenyra. He chose us, together, for a reason. He saw what the Iron Throne could become – a trap, a curse that would devour our House. He saw the strength of our blood, of our dragons, and he knew that we are the key to its survival, not some rusted chair."
She leaned her head against my shoulder, a sigh escaping her lips. "I worry, Raegon. About the King, about Mother… and about all of them who would see us fail."
My arm came around her, drawing her closer until she rested fully against me. My hand moved from her arm to the curve of her waist, a comforting weight. "Let them whisper. Let them scheme. They do not know what we are, Rhaenyra. They do not understand the bond between us, or the forces that truly guide our destiny." I pressed a soft kiss to her temple, then let my lips linger in her hair, breathing in the scent of jasmine and dragonfire that clung to her. She shifted, her body molding against mine, a familiar warmth spreading between us. There was no need for words, not in these moments. Our silent understanding, our shared breaths, spoke volumes. My touch was a promise, a reassurance that I was her protector, her confidant, her chosen. Her hand found my chest, her fingers curling into my tunic, holding on as if I were the anchor in a storm. I kissed her again, gently, on the corner of her lips, a feather-light touch that promised a deeper intimacy when the time was right, a silent affirmation of our future together. The world outside the chamber could rage, but within these walls, in each other's arms, we were safe, and whole.