280 AC.
The continent of Westeros, the Riverlands, Raventree.
Dawn broke across the snow-covered landscape, ice melting in the morning light.
In the lord's study, a boy of about eleven or twelve sat with charcoal in hand. Silver-haired and purple-eyed, dressed in fitted black wool, he paused to study his subject before sketching with careful, unhurried strokes.
The drawing taking shape on the page showed three oval forms—dragon eggs.
"Dragon eggs..."
Daeron Targaryen set down his tools and gazed out the window at fresh ivy sprouting along the walls. He couldn't help but sigh.
Hard to believe it had been eleven years already.
He'd been born into this world—literally born, not dropped into someone else's body. Everything had been normal until age four, when he'd suddenly remembered his previous life during a particularly nasty fever.
His father was Aerys II, the so-called "Mad King"—the seventeenth and final Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne.
His mother, Rhaella Targaryen, was the current queen.
Together they'd produced four sons and a daughter.
Daeron was the second son, third among his siblings overall.
Above him: an older brother and sister. Below him: two younger brothers.
His eldest brother was Rhaegar Targaryen. Anyone who knew anything about the world of ice and fire had heard his name—the Silver Prince, the Dragon Prince, the Last Dragon.
His sister Shaeyani Targaryen was thirteen.
His younger brothers were Jaehaerys and Viserys Targaryen, ages six and four respectively.
But this wasn't right. It was all wrong.
In his past life, Daeron had been a graduate student in agricultural studies. When he wasn't helping his advisor tend experimental plots, he'd killed time watching TV shows—including Game of Thrones.
According to what little the show mentioned, the Mad King only had three surviving children: the eldest son Rhaegar, the youngest son Viserys, and a daughter.
All the other children were either miscarried or died young.
Daenerys didn't even exist yet in the current timeline.
Yet here Daeron was, surrounded by siblings who shouldn't exist.
The catalyst for all this change? A red comet that had arrived ahead of schedule.
Back in 267 AC—two years before Daeron's older sister Shaeyani was born—their father Aerys had been visiting Casterly Rock in the Westerlands with their heavily pregnant mother Rhaella.
It was madness for the queen to travel so late in her pregnancy, but Aerys had become obsessed with Lady Joanna, wife of Lord Tywin Lannister. When his attempts to pursue her in King's Landing failed, he'd actually followed them west.
In the original timeline, Queen Rhaella had miscarried.
This time, a red comet streaked across the sky. Aerys took it as a good omen and summoned maesters to attend his wife's delivery, determined to wait for the child's birth.
Two weeks later, mother and daughter were both healthy.
Two years after that, Daeron was born in the Red Keep. Apart from that fever at age four, he'd grown up without incident.
Looking back, that illness had been suspicious—right when he'd awakened memories of his past life.
Everyone knew that besides their distinctive silver hair and purple eyes, besides their otherworldly beauty, the Targaryens possessed certain advantages that few discussed openly:
One: Higher resistance to heat and flame.
Two: Targaryens never caught colds.
From that moment on, Daeron had paid very close attention to everyone around him.
He'd played the part of an ordinary child—eating, drinking, and in his spare time reading and learning both the Common Tongue and High Valyrian.
As his knowledge grew, he'd made some deeply unsettling discoveries.
After Daeron's birth, his mother Rhaella had conceived twice more.
One son, named Aegon, had died shortly after birth. Another child, not yet named, had been stillborn just before delivery.
Someone was deliberately targeting them.
That had been Daeron's immediate conclusion, and everything he'd learned since supported it.
He'd studied his family's history extensively. One book in particular—The Dance of the Dragons: A True Chronicle—detailed the turning point when House Targaryen began its decline.
The fifth king, Viserys I—known as "the Young King"—had faced circumstances eerily similar to Aerys II's.
Both had successfully produced a first child with their wives. After that, every subsequent pregnancy ended in tragedy for various reasons.
The key difference: Viserys had a daughter first, while Aerys had a son.
One desperately needed a male heir; the other had no succession worries.
As the saying went: there's nothing new under the sun.
The desperate need for a male heir had eventually killed Queen Aemma on the birthing bed, forcing Viserys to name his daughter as heir—planting the seeds for the civil war known as the Dance of the Dragons.
Later, he'd remarried. His new queen bore him several children, including three sons.
The moment Viserys died, those sons contested his daughter's claim to the Iron Throne, nearly wiping out every dragon the family possessed.
"Our House has fallen so far," Daeron muttered to himself.
Over a century had passed, and historians agreed that Viserys I bore half the blame for the Dance. His indecisiveness—wanting everything both ways—had brewed disaster.
Of course, Daeron's father Aerys wasn't much better.
His own children were being murdered, and he couldn't even control his own court.
After uncovering this conspiracy, Daeron couldn't just stand by.
When his third brother Jaehaerys was born, Daeron had stayed close to his mother Rhaella constantly, using every excuse he could think of. Even after a successful delivery, he'd remained vigilant.
At night, whenever the wet nurses fed the baby, Daeron was there checking on him.
He only relaxed after his brother safely passed his first nameday.
His determination must have given the conspirators pause. When their mother conceived and delivered little Viserys, nothing went wrong. The family gained another member.
With four sons and a daughter, Aerys's reproductive urges were satisfied. He took mistresses and stopped paying attention to his wife.
But the changes went far beyond their family.
The red comet's early arrival had fundamentally altered Westeros—and perhaps the entire world.
The dormant tides of magic began flowing again.
The most obvious sign: the Citadel's glass candles reignited, burning with pale light.
Wizards and pyromancers rejoiced, claiming they could feel magic again.
Daeron had personally witnessed one of his father's pet pyromancers—a man named Rossart—conjure flames in his bare palm.
No special oils, no protective gear. Just fire, burning in his hand.
Daeron could accept all that easily enough. After all, magic existed in the source material. In another decade or so, the Targaryens would hatch three dragons.
But somehow, this comet's magical tide was even more powerful.
Something called "life force" had begun manifesting across the continent—present in crops, wild plants, and livestock.
"Life force" wasn't magic exactly. Nor was it like those miracle herbs from cultivation novels, where eating one would increase your power and transform you into something beyond human.
Fundamentally, crops and plants that contained life force were still just crops and plants. Eating them wouldn't make you stronger.
Only knights who were already exceptionally skilled and powerful could sense and activate their own life force through consuming these foods.
Knights who'd mastered their life force fought at peak performance—their speed, strength, and endurance pushed to the absolute limits of their potential.
His brother Rhaegar had mastered it, placing him at the apex of the continent's warriors.
For ordinary people, the effects were more subtle. The maesters theorized that regular consumption over time could improve health and extend lifespan.
As a result, crops and plants containing life force had become the hottest luxury goods across the realm. Nobles paid premium prices for them.
Knock knock knock!
A sharp rapping at the door interrupted Daeron's thoughts.
"My prince, messengers from King's Landing have arrived again." The voice belonged to a young knight in silver armor and a white cloak, his face stern and honest.
Daeron started, crumpling his sketch and tossing it aside. "Who is it this time, Ser Connington?"
The study was off-limits to most. Ser Jon Connington was one of the Kingsguard assigned by his father to protect him.
"Lord Merryweather is here," Jon said gravely. "And the White Bull came with him."
Daeron's eyes widened. He pushed through the door, waving a hand. "Right then. Time to head back. Can't put Uncle Tytos in a bad position."
Lord Owen Merryweather, the Hand of the King from the Reach.
"The White Bull" Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
One was the king's right hand, the other commanded his sworn protectors. Both were among Aerys's closest confidants.
Despite being mentally prepared, Daeron was still a bit surprised. His father was clearly dead serious about getting him back to King's Landing.
This was Raventree, seat of House Blackwood in the Riverlands.
Earlier this year, his brother Rhaegar had married Princess Elia Martell of Dorne and moved to Dragonstone.
Father had been furious. He'd publicly declared Rhaegar an ungrateful wretch unworthy of being his son, even threatening to strip him of his position as heir.
The falling out between father and son had become an open scandal.
In contrast, Daeron had always been precocious, caring toward his siblings, and—most importantly—affectionate and respectful toward his father. (He'd learned early on that stroking Aerys's ego kept the man's madness in check.)
Aerys adored his second son, keeping young Daeron at his side whenever possible.
Naturally, everyone assumed Daeron would replace Rhaegar as heir to the Iron Throne.
Which should have been great!
Except Rhaegar had grown too powerful to simply cast aside.
And Father was, well... his brain was going.
Caught between two unstable men, Daeron had chosen discretion. He'd made excuses and come to the Riverlands, serving as squire to Lord Tytos Blackwood.
Becoming a squire was the traditional path to knighthood, after all. Daeron had hoped to lay low for a while.
But less than two months in, his father had sent messenger after messenger, each more insistent than the last.
Clearly, he couldn't avoid this any longer.
In Raventree's great hall:
The moment Daeron entered, he spotted a Kingsguard in silver armor and white cloak, wearing a helmet crowned with bull's horns.
The White Bull himself—Ser Gerold Hightower.
Gerold was past forty, plain-faced but massive and broad-shouldered. He radiated the weathered authority of a veteran warrior. Just standing there, he looked like a walking wall.
Lord Tytos Blackwood was currently entertaining the royal envoy.
"My prince! Finally!"
Standing beside the White Bull was Lord Merryweather. His eyes lit up when he saw the silver-haired boy in the doorway, and he practically jogged over.
Lord Merryweather opened his mouth to speak—
"I know why you're here, my lord."
Daeron raised one hand, cutting him off before he could start.