280 AC.
Westeros, The Riverlands, Raventree Hall.
The morning light broke through the clouds, melting the remnants of the winter snow.
Inside the lord's study, a handsome youth of about eleven or twelve sat at a desk. He possessed the signature silver hair and violet eyes of his lineage, dressed in a sleek, thick black tunic. With a piece of charcoal in one hand and a steady grip, he observed, pondered, and then set his hand to the parchment.
With light, rhythmic strokes, a masterful sketch began to take shape.
It was a drawing of three oval-shaped eggs.
"Dragon eggs."
Setting down his tools, Daeron Targaryen looked toward the fresh buds of ivy clinging to the window frame and let out a soft sigh.
In the blink of an eye, eleven years had passed.
He had been born into Westeros with his memories intact. Everything was normal until he was four, when he suddenly awakened to the consciousness of his past life.
His father was the "Mad King" Aerys II Targaryen, the seventeenth and final king of House Targaryen. His mother was Queen Rhaella Targaryen. Together, they had brought four sons and one daughter into the world.
Daeron was the second son, the third child in the line of succession. Above him were an elder brother and sister; below him, two younger brothers.
His eldest brother, Rhaegar Targaryen—anyone who knew of *A Song of Ice and Fire* would recognize that name. The Silver Prince, the Dragon Prince, the last true dragon...
His sister, Shae-anne Targaryen, was thirteen this year.
His two younger brothers were Jaehaerys Targaryen and Viserys Targaryen, aged six and four respectively.
Things were different. Very different.
In his past life, Daeron had been a graduate student at an agricultural university, spending his days planting crops and watering fields with his professor, occasionally watching TV shows to pass the time. He had watched the HBO series *Game of Thrones*. According to the fragmented lore of the show, the Mad King only had two sons and one daughter. The other children had either been miscarried or died in infancy. The only survivors were Rhaegar, Viserys, and Daenerys.
But Daenerys was nowhere to be found, and Daeron already had a house full of siblings.
All these changes stemmed from a red comet that had arrived early.
Back in 267 AC, before his sister Shae-anne was born, his father Aerys and his mother Rhaella had been at Casterly Rock in the Westerlands. By all rights, a queen so far along in her pregnancy should not have left King's Landing. But Aerys, blinded by lust, had become infatuated with Lady Joanna, wife of Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West. After failing to get his way in the capital, he had followed her to the West to harass her.
In the original timeline, Queen Rhaella had miscarried. But this time, a red comet had streaked across the sky. Aerys, taking it as an omen of good fortune, had summoned the maesters to ensure Rhaella's safe delivery. Half a month later, mother and child were both safe.
Two years later, Daeron was born in the Red Keep. Aside from a high fever at age four, he had grown up healthy. It was then that he awakened his past memories and realized that his childhood illness had been suspicious.
It was well known that, beyond their silver hair, violet eyes, and otherworldly beauty, members of House Targaryen possessed certain lesser-known traits:
1. A higher resistance to heat.
2. Targaryens never caught a common cold.
From that moment on, Daeron became hyper-vigilant. He played the part of a child, eating and drinking as expected, while secretly learning to read and write, mastering both the Common Tongue and High Valyrian. As he expanded his knowledge, he made some chilling discoveries.
After his birth, Queen Rhaella had two more pregnancies. One boy, named Aegon, died shortly after birth; another, an unnamed child, was lost to a miscarriage just before term.
*Someone is targeting us.*
The thought had struck Daeron immediately. He had read the histories of his house. In a book titled *Chronicles of the Dance of the Dragons*, he had read about the turning point where House Targaryen began its decline. The fifth king on the Iron Throne, Viserys I, known as the "Young King," had a similar experience to his father Aerys. Both had a first child with their wives, only for all subsequent children to die for various reasons.
The difference was that Viserys I had a daughter, while Aerys had sons. One suffered from a lack of male heirs; the other had no such worries.
There is a saying: *There is nothing new under the sun.*
The desperate need for a male heir had led to the death of Viserys I's queen in childbirth, forcing him to name his daughter as heir, which planted the seeds for the "Dance of the Dragons" civil war. When he later remarried and had sons, the stage was set for a bloody succession crisis that nearly wiped out the dragons.
"Our house is in decline," Daeron sighed to himself.
A hundred years later, maesters and kings alike agreed that Viserys I bore half the blame for the civil war. Had he not been so indecisive, the tragedy might have been averted. Of course, his father Aerys was no better. His children were being murdered, and he couldn't even control his own court.
Once he realized the danger, Daeron could not stand idly by. Around the time his third brother, Jaehaerys, was born, he had used every excuse to stay by Queen Rhaella's side. At night, every time the wet nurse came to feed the infant, Daeron would be there, watching. He didn't stop until his brother had safely passed his first nameday. His resolve seemed to deter the unseen hands; when his mother was pregnant with his youngest brother, Viserys, there was no trouble at all. The family gained another heir.
With four sons and one daughter, Aerys's desire for progeny was satisfied, and he turned his attention to his mistresses, ignoring his wife.
The changes didn't stop there. The early arrival of the red comet had turned the world upside down. The exhausted tides of magic were surging once more. The most obvious sign was the glass candles in the Citadel, which had reignited, casting a dim, flickering light. Sorcerers and pyromancers rejoiced, claiming they could finally feel the flow of magic.
Daeron had seen it with his own eyes: a pyromancer named Rossart, whom his father had recruited, could ignite a flame in his palm. No special oil, no protective gear—just bare skin and fire.
Daeron accepted these things calmly. After all, magic was a known part of this world. In another decade or so, the Targaryens would hatch three dragons. But for some reason, the magical tide brought by this red comet was far more violent.
A strange substance called "Life Force" had appeared across the continent, present in crops, wild plants, and livestock.
"Life Force" was not magic. It wasn't some mystical elixir from a fantasy novel that would grant one godlike cultivation powers upon consumption. Essentially, the crops and plants containing it remained what they were. Eating them wouldn't make you a superhero.
Only those who were already highly skilled, powerful knights could consume these items, sense their own inner Life Force, and activate it. A knight who mastered their own Life Force could perform at the peak of their potential in battle—speed, strength, and stamina all pushed to their absolute limits.
His eldest brother, Rhaegar, had mastered his Life Force, placing him at the very pinnacle of the continent's warriors.
For ordinary people, consuming these items had a milder effect. Maesters speculated that long-term consumption could improve one's constitution and extend one's lifespan. Consequently, these "Life Force" crops and plants had become the most sought-after luxuries in the realm.
*Knock, knock, knock.*
A series of raps at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Your Grace, people from King's Landing have come to urge your return again," a voice called out. It was a young knight in silver armor and a white cloak, his expression stern.
Daeron paused, crumpled his sketch into a ball, and looked up. "Ser Jon, who has come this time?"
The study was a restricted area; the man at the door was a member of the Kingsguard assigned by his father to protect him.
"Lord Owen is here, and the White Bull has come as well," Ser Jon replied in a low voice.
Daeron understood. He pushed the door open and waved a hand. "It is time to return. We cannot make Uncle Tytos uncomfortable."
Owen Merryweather, Lord of Longtable in the Reach.
"The White Bull," Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
One was a sycophant of the King, the other the commander of the King's own guard—both were among the closest of the close. Even with his mental preparation, Daeron was surprised. It seemed his father was truly determined to bring him back.
He was currently at Raventree Hall, the seat of House Blackwood.
Earlier that year, his eldest brother Rhaegar had married the Dornish princess Elia Martell and moved to Dragonstone. His father, Aerys, had flown into a rage, publicly declaring Rhaegar an ungrateful wretch unworthy of being his son, and threatening to strip him of his status as heir. The rift between father and son had become a public scandal.
In contrast, Daeron had presented himself as a precocious, respectful son who cared for his siblings and showed his father the affection and reverence he craved (a necessary bit of ego-stroking to keep Aerys from spiraling further into madness). Aerys had grown fond of his second son, often keeping him close. Thus, Daeron was naturally seen as the most likely candidate to replace Rhaegar as the heir to the Iron Throne.
It was a good position to be in!
However, Rhaegar was already well-established and feared no loss of status. His father, Aerys, was becoming increasingly unhinged. Caught between two madmen, Daeron had chosen to retreat. He had used the excuse of serving as a squire to Lord Tytos Blackwood—a necessary step for any knight—to get away.
He had hoped to hide here for a while, but in less than two months, his father had sent messengers to urge his return several times. The intervals between them were growing shorter.
Clearly, he could delay no longer.
In the Great Hall of Raventree, Daeron walked in to see a man wearing a helm adorned with bull horns, clad in silver armor and a white cloak. It was the "White Bull," Gerold Hightower.
Gerold was over forty, with an ordinary face but a massive, towering frame. His presence, forged in countless battles, was imposing enough to make him feel like a stone wall. Lord Tytos was currently hosting the envoys.
"Your Grace, you have finally appeared."
Standing beside the "White Bull" was Lord Owen. Upon seeing the silver-haired boy at the entrance, his face lit up, and he hurried over. He was just about to speak when—
"My Lord, I know why you have come."
Daeron raised a hand, cutting him off before he could begin.
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