POV: Prince Raegon Targaryen – 121 AC
Ten years. Ten years had passed since my father, King Viserys, married Alicent Hightower, a decision that had set the stage for the subtle war that followed. The Red Keep had transformed, yet the underlying currents of ambition remained, merely shifting their form. And in that decade, much had been done.
My regiment, the 'Dragon's Teeth,' had grown into the finest fighting force in Westeros, their loyalty to me absolute. My spy network, with Shadow still at its head, was a whisper on every wind, reaching into every household, every council meeting, every shadowed alley. But the true weapon I had wielded against Otto Hightower was far more subtle, and far more insidious.
Otto, for all his cunning, believed in the predictable. He saw men, their ambitions, their weaknesses. He did not see the whispers of the rats in his chambers, the sudden, uncharacteristic aggression of a favored hound, the uncanny stillness of a raven on his window sill that seemed to watch his every move. My power, that uncanny connection to all beasts, was his undoing. It began subtly: a sudden infestation of biting insects in his private solar, wild hawks that descended and stole his daily correspondence from couriers, a rogue badger that tore through his prized garden. Minor annoyances, at first. But they grew. Horses shied uncontrollably in his presence. Falcons refused to perch on his arm. His personal guard dogs turned aggressive, snapping at his heels. His reputation, slowly, steadily, began to fray. He became known as unlucky, then ill-omened. The common folk whispered of a curse. Then came the final, devastating blow. While on a seemingly routine hunt in the Kingswood, a massive stag, unnaturally enraged, turned on him, goring him through the chest. The witnesses swore it was a freak accident, a wild animal acting with uncharacteristic malice. I had merely provided the stag with a single, compelling thought: attack. Otto Hightower died on the King'swood floor, bled out before his guards could save him. The Hand was dead. The viper had been removed.
His death, in 115 AC, had been deemed a tragic accident, a misfortune that spared me the direct confrontation I had vowed, but delivered the outcome I desired. It left a gaping void in the court, a vacuum that others were quick to attempt to fill. The Citadel, in particular, with its vast network of maesters and its quiet influence, had begun to move its pawns, seeking to consolidate its own power in the wake of Otto's demise. They saw an opportunity, believing the Hand's guiding influence had been removed. They did not know the Hand had only shifted.
In these ten years, my life with Rhaenyra had flourished. Our marriage, celebrated swiftly after Alicent's, had been a beacon of Targaryen strength. Rhaenyra, now twenty-four, was not just my wife, but my closest confidante, my fiercest ally. We had built a family, a testament to the future Jaehaerys had envisioned, a direct continuation of the line he had named me to secure. Our children were born within those years: first, our twin sons, Jacaerys and Aelor, born in 113 AC, now eight years old, bright and spirited, with the silver hair of our House and the quick minds of their mother. Two years later, in 115 AC, came another set of twins, our daughters Visenya and Rhaella, now six, their laughter echoing through the private apartments I shared with Rhaenyra, a vibrant symphony of our love and unity.
Life in the Keep was a delicate balance. Alicent, now Queen, had borne Viserys more children. First, Aegor, now ten namedays old, the same son whose birth had solidified Daemon's initial banishment from court, as he saw another male threat to the future of the succession I was meant to guarantee. Then Helaena (born 113 AC), and Aemond (born 115 AC), now eight and six respectively. Alicent, a dutiful mother, had tirelessly worked to instill in her eldest son, Aegor, a sense of his own importance, a subtle poisoning of his mind against his older half-siblings and the established line of succession that flowed through me. She spoke of his purity, his name, the 'true' blood of the dragon, drawing veiled contrasts with Rhaenyra and my children.
I often watched Aegor, a pale, often restless boy, caught between his mother's subtle whispers and the grandeur of the Red Keep. One afternoon, I found him alone in the Dragonpit, staring up at the colossal form of Alduin, who slumbered undisturbed. He held a small, crudely carved wooden dragon, staring at it with an intensity beyond his years.
"A fine dragon, little brother," I said, my voice soft, startling him.
Aegor turned, his eyes, the deep violet of our House, widened. He stammered, "Prince Raegon."
I knelt, meeting his gaze. "Just Raegon, Aegor. We are brothers, are we not?" I motioned to his wooden toy. "Would you like to see a real dragon?"
He nodded, speechless. I led him closer to Alduin, whose scales gleamed under the sun. I placed my hand on a warm scale, and Alduin's eye slowly opened, a golden slit that gazed directly at Aegor. The boy gasped, trembling slightly.
"He won't hurt you," I assured him. "He feels your wonder." I looked at Aegor, seeing the conflict in his young eyes. "Your mother speaks to you of many things, I know. Of duty, of names, of claims." I paused, letting the words hang in the air. "But a dragon's strength, Aegor, comes not from whispered words, but from the bond forged in the sky. And a king's strength, little brother, comes from the unity of his House." I placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "You are my brother. And you are a prince of the realm. A Targaryen. That is all that matters. There are those who will seek to fill your mind with doubts, to turn you against your own blood. Do not let them. For we are family, and we must stand together, above all else."
Aegor looked from me to Alduin, then back, a new understanding dawning in his young face. He nodded slowly, a newfound respect in his eyes. From that day, a quiet bond formed between us. He began seeking me out, his questions about dragons and histories replacing the nervous distance. I taught him of our ancestors, of the weight of the crown, and subtly, of the dangers of manipulative whispers. I had promised my father that I would protect his new children, and I meant it. That protection began with securing their loyalty, their love, and their understanding of true unity.
My own family was not the only one to grow. Daemon, true to his word, had married Laena Velaryon. They had thrived on Dragonstone, and given birth to their own twin daughters in 116 AC: Baela and Rhaena.
Meanwhile, in the Red Keep, I noticed another bond forming, one that was perhaps more surprising. My half-sister, Helaena, now eight years old, Alicent's daughter, was a curious child, with a thoughtful, often distant, gaze. Unlike her brother Aegor, who was slowly learning to navigate his mother's intentions, Helaena seemed to possess a quiet, almost ethereal nature. Yet, she found a peculiar solace in my presence. She would often seek me out, her small, delicate hands tugging gently at my tunic, her head often resting against my side when I sat in the royal gardens or by the hearth.
"Brother Raegon," she would whisper, her small voice soft, "tell me of the dragons."
I would tell her tales of Veraxes, of Alduin, of the ancient dragons of Valyria. She listened intently, her eyes wide with a quiet awe. She saw in me not just an older brother, but a pillar of strength, a safe harbor. She saw me as a father figure, someone who offered unwavering protection and calm understanding, a stark contrast to the political machinations that constantly surrounded her. My own children, Jacaerys and Aelor, Visenya and Rhaella, would often play with Baela and Rhaena when they visited, but Helaena's bond with me was unique, a quiet recognition of something shared, perhaps a connection to the world unseen that only I fully understood.
The pieces were set. Otto was gone, but the game continued. The Citadel observed, and Alicent plotted. My family was strong, my alliances growing. The future was not yet certain, but it was being forged, blade by blade, dragon by dragon, whisper by whisper. And I, Raegon Targaryen, stood at the heart of it, the unseen hand guiding the destiny of our House, the true heir Jaehaerys had foreseen.