260 AC — King's Landing, the Red Keep
Armored guards stood watch.
Servants moved through the halls in clean, modest attire.
From time to time, nobles passed quietly through the corridors.
The birth of a newborn prince did not wash away the grief lingering in the Red Keep.
On the contrary—it sharpened it.
The tragedy of Summerhall hung over everyone like a choking fog.
House Targaryen had suffered especially heavy losses:
The old king.
Prince Duncan.
Many close kin of the dragonlords.
And countless loyal supporters—Ser Duncan the Tall, Septon Barth, Maester Gyldayn, and others besides.
Too many dragons had once led to the Dance of the Dragons.
Too few dragons, however, pushed House Targaryen toward extinction just as surely.
Both extremes were dangerous.
Because of this, everyone doted on the infant prince, Rhaegar.
Beneath the sorrow lay anxiety for the future.
The Ninepenny Kings had already lit the fires of war.
From Tyrosh to Westeros, the Blackfyres still eyed the Iron Throne like hungry wolves.
Cradled in his wet nurse's arms, little Rhaegar stared intently at the training yard.
Sweat sprayed through the air.
Spears whistled as they swung.
Steel clashed. Warriors roared.
Everything felt vivid—real.
Rhaegar possessed bright silver hair and large, expressive indigo eyes.
The beauty of the dragonlords manifested perfectly upon him.
The servants nearby clicked their tongues in amazement.
Prince Rhaegar rarely cried or fussed.
He was the sort of baby everyone wanted to hold.
Yet this tiny prince showed an unusual fascination with combat.
He preferred watching warriors spar far more than feeding in his wet nurse's arms.
The child seemed… mature far too early.
Perhaps the shadow of Summerhall had not yet left him.
No one knew that the prince possessed a tree-shaped interface—
A panel Rhaegar privately called the Tree of Life.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Identity: The Last Dragonlord
Aptitude:
Knightly Talent (A born warrior)
Steel Heart, Song Soul (The union of strength and beauty; you will find balance in knowledge, combat, and art)
Sleeping Dragon (Regrettably, the dragon within you has yet to awaken)
Charisma:
Lovable Dragonlord Infant
Achievements:
Warrior (A fledgling warrior—you have observed combat many times, slightly increasing your warrior aptitude)
Collection:
None
Time was unbearably tight.
Rhaegar would do everything he could to grow stronger—to find a way to hatch dragon eggs.
If that failed, then he would endure.
He would wait until the tide of magic returned and dragons could be born once more.
This simple panel was his greatest trump card.
Rhaegar had already noticed that the higher his attributes grew, the more lush and vibrant his Tree of Life became.
It felt like vitality itself.
"You focus intently on observing combat. Warrior attribute increased."
Wrapped in swaddling clothes, Rhaegar watched others fight with single-minded focus.
Even this raised his stats.
The feeling of growth was… satisfying.
"The wind is strong outside. His Grace wishes to see the prince."
A white-cloaked knight approached and spoke softly to the servants.
The current king was not Aerys.
It was Aerys's father—Rhaegar's grandfather.
King Jaehaerys II.
A man who had aged before his time, worn down by the burdens of the realm.
Rhaegar was carried into the king's council chamber.
It was small and private.
An oak table stood at the center, upon it a map of Westeros.
The Stepstones were covered in red markings.
Aside from the king's seat, there were seven chairs—
Seven, a lucky number.
Yet only the king and his Hand were present.
The chamber felt empty.
Jaehaerys II was not truly old, but he looked frail and sickly.
Pale. Weak. Shoulder-length hair framing violet eyes.
He was no muscle-bound warrior king.
Nothing like Aegon the Conqueror.
He looked more like a patient than a ruler.
The grief of Summerhall had not yet faded, and the war ignited by the Ninepenny Kings already had him drowning in worries.
Damn the Blackfyres.
Damn that line of bastards.
Only when he saw his grandson did he feel a rare sense of comfort.
King Jaehaerys lifted Rhaegar into his arms.
Healthy. Beautiful.
A true dragon of Westeros, in the making.
May you awaken the people's reverence for our House once more, the king prayed silently.
What intrigued Rhaegar more, however, was the man beside the king—
The Hand of the King, Lord Ormund Baratheon, Jaehaerys II's brother-by-law.
With thick black hair and a powerful frame, Ormund stood in stark contrast to the frail king.
Tall. Broad. Strong.
Every inch a warrior—bold, fearless, resolute.
Ormund looked at Rhaegar, feeling an unfamiliar ripple in his heart.
My own grandchildren have yet to be born, he thought.
And I may well die on the battlefield.
May you one day take pride in my name—
A fearless warrior.
A roaring stag.
"I want to take up sword and spear and lead the host myself," Jaehaerys II said hoarsely.
"We must strike before those Blackfyre pretenders return. I cannot place this burden on my son. You know as well as I do—Aerys is no brave warrior."
"You are king," Lord Ormund replied firmly,
"but you are not a warrior by nature. In personal combat, you are no match even for Duncan the Tall—let alone your brother, Prince Duncan. On the battlefield, swords show no mercy. Too many dragonlords have already fallen to war."
"Summerhall's wounds have not healed. The realm cannot bear losing another king. That would plunge Westeros into unprecedented chaos."
He paused, then continued steadily.
"Let me go in your stead. I will lead the army to the Stepstones and wipe out what remains of the Blackfyres."
Rhaegar watched quietly as tears slid down King Jaehaerys's face.
He stretched out his chubby little hand and clumsily wiped the tears away.
"Holding the child… he is the future of the realm," Jaehaerys said softly, passing Rhaegar to Ormund.
Lord Ormund held him carefully—a very small bundle.
Two aging men, speaking words heavy with emotion.
Rhaegar watched them calmly.
By the timeline, he thought,
both of you won't live much longer. And not far apart, either.
To drive the Baratheons—loyal, blood-tied vassals—into rebellion…
Only that version of Aerys and Rhaegar from another world could manage such legendary stupidity.
"Do not weep," Lord Ormund said with a relieved smile.
"For a warrior, the best ending is to die in war—just like my forebears."
He hesitated, then added quietly,
"Only… please take care of my son."
"How could I not?" Jaehaerys II nodded firmly.
"If Steffon one day has a daughter, I will have Rhaegar marry her."
Rhaegar: "…"
Then again…
My destined nemesis—Robert Baratheon—should be born soon too.
But he had been adding points since the womb.
Robert would not be his match.
And besides—
With such loyalty from this old stag, things would never need to reach that point.