111 AC
A grand tourney was held in King's Landing to celebrate the fifth wedding anniversary of King Viserys and Queen Alicent.
Among the champions rode Ser Criston Cole, bearing Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen's favor tied proudly to his lance. His opponent, Ser Gwayne Hightower, gleamed in green and silver beneath the sun.
Their lances clashed again and again, splintering wood and shaking the stands with each thunderous impact. On the fifth pass, Ser Gwayne fell hard to the ground, unhorsed before the watching crowd.
From the royal dais, Prince Aegon Targaryen glanced up from the book resting on his knees, The History of the Targaryen Dynasty.
"Uncle is still formidable," he said lightly, turning a page. "He only fell after five rounds."
Beside him, Queen Alicent Hightower's smile faltered.
Her face remained composed beneath the eyes of the court, but a shadow crossed her gaze. As the King's second wife, she had long since learned to keep her discontent veiled.
Aegon said no more. The noise of the crowd and the clash of arms meant little to him. He was far more absorbed in the book before him, and in the thoughts that were not his own.
Within the body of the young prince lived the mind of a twenty-four-year-old man from another world, from a place he once knew as Earth.
He had read Fire & Blood in his former life, that grim chronicle of the Targaryen civil war that would one day be called the Dance of the Dragons, a war between King Viserys's chosen heir, Princess Rhaenyra, and the King's firstborn son by his second queen, Aegon himself.
When he realized who he had become, any thought of idleness vanished.
He was the eldest son of the King.
Many across the realm already whispered that he should succeed his father. But the throne had another claimant. Rhaenyra, his elder half-sister, beloved by Viserys and her faction of powerful lords.
From the moment he drew breath and the midwife cried, "It's a boy!", the game of thrones had begun. And it would not end until one side was utterly destroyed.
The day's contests neared their end. Ser Criston Cole was declared champion to roaring cheers. Yet before the king could bestow his laurel, a sudden dragon's cry split the air.
A shrill, piercing scream echoed across the tourney grounds.
From the clouds above descended a vast, blood-red shape, wings like tattered banners, scales gleaming crimson in the sun.
"Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm," Aegon murmured, eyes following the beast's descent. "A monstrous veteran of a hundred battles."
The dragon landed before the royal stands with a gust of wind and dust.
Queen Alicent stiffened, her fingers beginning to pick at one another, an old, nervous habit. For she knew whose dragon this was.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, her husband's brother, strode across the lists in black armor, a slender crown upon his head. Worse still, Daemon was his own creature, proud, unpredictable, and openly hostile toward Lord Otto Hightower, Alicent's father. Once Hand of the King, Otto had been dismissed two years past, accused of overreach in matters of succession. With his fall, the Hightowers' influence in King's Landing had crumbled.
Only Alicent's fertility and grace had preserved her standing. In five years she had given Viserys two sons and a daughter, soothing his long-held yearning for male heirs. Through them, her power endured.
Sensing her unease, Aegon reached for her hand and held it gently. "Mother," he whispered, "you pick at your fingers when you're nervous."
Alicent blinked in surprise. She knew the habit well... she simply hadn't realized he'd noticed. The boy's mind was far sharper than his years suggested.
Before she could respond, Aegon lowered his voice further, his tone steady and knowing.
"If I can see it, others can too. Grandfather is gone now. You mustn't give anyone cause to think we're weak, or easy to push aside."
The words startled her into stillness. After a long pause, she exhaled softly, her expression easing into gratitude. She squeezed his small hand and straightened her posture, her courtly smile returning like a polished mask.
By then, Daemon had approached the royal dais, the faint glint of his crown catching the light. Two members of the Kingsguard drew steel, blocking his path.
King Viserys rose slowly. Though age had thickened his frame, his eyes still carried a monarch's authority. "You wear a crown, brother," he said evenly. "Do you mean to declare yourself king?"
Daemon halted, then dropped to one knee. The sound of metal striking the ground rang across the tourney field. "After conquering the Stepstones, they named me King of the Narrow Sea," he said. "But I know there is only one true king, and he stands before me. I bring you both the crown and the Stepstones. They are yours, brother."
Viserys's expression softened. A warm smile spread across his face. For the first time in years, his troublesome brother seemed humbled. He descended from the dais, took Daemon's hands, and raised him to his feet. Then, before the court, he kissed him on both cheeks.
The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, nobles and smallfolk alike cheering the reconciliation of the sons of Baelon Targaryen, the Prince of Spring. None cheered louder than Princess Rhaenyra, her eyes alight with joy at her uncle's return.
From his seat, Aegon clapped politely beside his mother, a faint smile on his lips. Yet behind his calm gaze, a sharper glint flickered.
Brotherly love, deep as the sea, he thought wryly. And yet, within half a year, they'll be at odds once more... Daemon cast out again to the Stepstones.
"Remember, Aegon," Alicent murmured beside him, her tone low, "he is your enemy too."
Aegon said nothing. He simply kept clapping until the cheers began to fade, then let his hands fall. There were truths he could not yet speak and appearances he had to maintain.
If everyone else applauded and he did not, it would make him seem small-minded.
He sighed inwardly. Still too young, he thought. Too young to move the board, and too young to show my hand. In this court, even wisdom can look like folly if revealed too soon.