Chapter 2: The Hidden Flame
From the moment of his birth, Rhaegar Targaryen carried a secret no soul in Westeros could fathom. For though he was the son of King Viserys and Queen Aemma, a prince of House Targaryen with dragon's blood in his veins, his mind belonged to another world entirely. He remembered roads filled with iron beasts that roared without horses, towers of glass and steel scraping the skies, and halls where men healed the sick with sciences far beyond the maesters' comprehension.
In that world, he had been no prince. He had been an orphan—alone, unwanted, raising himself from shadows into light. Through wit and tireless ambition, he had become both a master of healing and of trade, a man of two worlds: the doctor who could mend a failing heart, and the businessman who built empires from nothing. His mind had been sharp enough to craft tales, and among them, a saga of dragons and kings—a show that painted the rise and ruin of his new family. He had died suddenly, his life ripped away in an accident, only to awaken in the body of a screaming babe, cradled in royal arms.
At first, he wept—not from fear, but from awe. For the stories he once wrote for entertainment were now his blood, his fate. He knew the paths each soul would tread: his sister's glory and her downfall, the treacheries of Hightowers, the fickle loyalties of lords, the Dance of Dragons. He alone bore this cursed gift of foresight.
And so Rhaegar learned, even as an infant, the value of masks. He did not allow the sharpness of his mind to slip through when maids cooed at him, nor when his father lifted him high before the court. He laughed when he was expected to laugh, cried when he was expected to cry, and appeared as nothing more than the innocent babe he seemed to be. But beneath those eyes gleamed the fire of two lives—the fire of a man who had lost everything once and would not lose it again.
As years passed, his sister Rhaenyra grew bold, commanding, quick to temper, and beloved of their father. Rhaegar played the part of the dutiful younger twin—measured, calm, always in her shadow. The lords whispered that he was too quiet, too watchful, but none guessed the truth. At feasts he smiled, at lessons he listened, but in silence he remembered. He remembered the betrayals that would come, the deaths that stalked them all. And he promised himself that this time, he would not stand idle.
His greatest weakness in his former life had been the absence of family. Born an orphan, he had watched the world without ever feeling its embrace. Now he had a father, a mother, a sister—blood bound by dragonfire. Whatever it cost, he would shield them. He would twist fate itself if he must. The game of thrones was a cruel one, but Rhaegar had played harsher games in boardrooms and hospitals, against rivals with knives as sharp as any lord's. He had triumphed once before. He would do so again.
And so, he resolved: until his tenth name day, he would remain the quiet shadow, never letting the realm see his hand. But when that day came, he would act. He would gather allies, guide his sister, outwit their foes, and prepare their dragons for the storm that loomed. He knew the Seven Kingdoms would rise in defiance one day, but he would be ready. The history he remembered was written in ink; the history he would make was to be written in fire.
In the stillness of Dragonstone, as Syrax's roars echoed across the waves, Rhaegar whispered into the dark: "This time, I will not fail. This time, my family will endure."