Chapter 5: New Beginnings

250 AC, Red Keep

"Tell me the story about Balerion again," Rey demanded, clutching her wooden dragon as we sat in the small solar down the hall from the birthing chamber. She'd been restless all morning, ever since Mother's labor pains had started.

I smiled, remembering how often we'd acted out this particular tale over the past few months. The months since Mother's announcement had been filled with such moments – Rey alternating between excitement about the babe and anxiety about what it would mean for her. The day Mother had told her about the pregnancy remained vivid in my memory.

"You're going to be a big sister," Mother had said, and Rey's face had gone through a remarkable series of expressions – confusion, surprise, and finally a beaming smile that lit up her entire face.

"Like Aeys is my big brother?" she'd asked, bouncing on her toes.

"Exactly like that, sweetling."

Rey had spent the next week telling everyone she met about her future role as a big sister, including an extremely patient Ser Duncan who must have heard the news at least twenty times.

Now, as Mother's cries echoed faintly down the hall, I tried to keep Rey's mind occupied. "Which part of Balerion's story do you want to hear?"

"The part where he was the biggest dragon ever!" She made her wooden dragon swoop through the air. "Before that stupid Vhagar tried to say she was bigger."

"Vhagar wasn't stupid," I corrected automatically, though I couldn't help smiling at her fierce loyalty to Balerion's legacy. "She was actually quite clever. But you're right – Balerion was the largest dragon ever to fly in Westeros. His wings were so vast they could cover entire towns in shadow..."

I continued the familiar tale, watching Rey act it out with her toy. The past few months had been a blur of such moments – trying to keep Rey engaged while also helping with preparations for the babe. Mother had insisted on supervising much of it herself, despite the maesters' concerns about her doing too much. I'd caught her more than once rearranging the nursery late at night, her hand resting on her growing belly as she moved items to their "proper" places.

A particularly loud cry from down the hall made Rey freeze mid-swoop. "Mother hurts," she said, her lower lip trembling. "Make it stop, Aeys."

"Come here," I said, opening my arms. She crawled into my lap immediately, dragon and all. "Remember what Maester Walys told us? Sometimes bringing new life into the world hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt. Like when your muscles ache after learning a new dance step."

"But Mother's been hurting for ages," Rey protested, burying her face against my shoulder. Her voice came out muffled. "Since before breaking fast."

I stroked her silver-gold curls, so like Mother's. "I know it seems long, but—"

The door opened, and Father entered, his face drawn with worry but trying to smile for Rey's sake. "There you two are. Shall we go see how Mother's doing?"

Rey clutched her dragon tighter. "Is she still hurting?"

Father crossed the room and scooped her up, wheezing slightly from the effort but determined. "She is, sweetling, but she's the strongest person I know. Shall we go be strong for her too?"

Rey nodded solemnly, wrapping her arms around Father's neck. I followed them into the corridor, remembering the day Mother had told Rey about the babe. She'd been so excited she'd run straight to the dragon skull room to tell Balerion's massive skull that he was going to have another little dragon to watch over.

The walk to the birthing chamber felt both eternal and too quick, each step bringing us closer to whatever awaited. The corridor seemed longer than usual, its familiar tapestries of dragons in flight watching our progress. Father carried Rey carefully, his breathing controlled despite his excitement and worry. I walked beside them, trying to appear calmer than I felt.

Another cry echoed from the chamber ahead, making Father's arms tighten protectively around Rey. Just as we approached the bench outside, the heavy wooden door burst open, startling us all.

"Your Grace!" The servant who emerged had spots of color high in her cheeks, her eyes bright with excitement as she addressed Father. "The babes – they've arrived!" She was practically bouncing on her feet, her usual decorum forgotten in the moment. "Twins, if you can believe it! A boy and a girl, both healthy and strong as dragons!"

Father swayed so suddenly I had to reach out to steady him. His face went through a remarkable series of expressions – disbelief, wonder, joy, and something deeper I couldn't quite name. "Twins?" he whispered, his voice catching. "Shaera had twins?" The words came out half-breathless, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

Rey wiggled eagerly in his arms, nearly dropping her wooden dragon in her excitement. "Two babes? Like two dragons?" Her eyes were wide with wonder, all her earlier anxiety forgotten. "Can we see them, Father? Please?"

Before Father could respond, Grandmother appeared in the doorway. Her face showed the exhaustion of the long hours spent supporting Mother, but her smile was radiant with pride. Her dark eyes, so different from our Targaryen violet, sparkled with joy as she looked at us.

"Come see your new siblings," she said warmly, holding out her hand. "Your mother's asking for you all. She can't wait another moment to show you her newest dragons."

Father set Rey down gently, and I took her hand as we followed Grandmother into the chamber. The room was warm and surprisingly peaceful now that the ordeal was over, scented with clean linens and the herbs the maesters had used. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting a gentle glow over the scene.

Mother lay propped up on pillows, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat but her face luminous with joy. In her arms she cradled two tiny bundles wrapped in Targaryen black and red. The sight made my breath catch – this was entirely new territory, something no history book had prepared me for. These twins weren't just unexpected; they were impossible according to everything I remembered. They represented pure possibility, a future unwritten by any maester's hand.

"My loves," Mother's voice was tired but filled with such happiness it seemed to light up the room. "Come meet your new brother and sister."

Father moved to her side first, and the look that passed between them held years of love and shared dreams. He leaned down to kiss her tenderly, then gazed in wonder at the tiny babes in her arms. "My heart," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "They're perfect. You're perfect." His breathing, for once, seemed to come easier, as if joy had cleared his lungs.

Rey approached the bed with unusual caution, still clutching her wooden dragon. She stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look at the bundles Mother held. "They're so small," she whispered in awe. "And red. Like little dragons." Her free hand reached out hesitantly, then pulled back, unsure.

"Brand new dragons," Mother agreed with a tired smile. "Would you like to see them properly?"

I moved closer too, studying the tiny faces with fascination. Both babes had the distinctive Targaryen coloring, though in slightly different shades. The boy's wisps of silver-gold hair were a touch darker than his sister's pure moonlight strands. Their features were still scrunched and red from birth, but I could already see echoes of our family in their tiny faces – Mother's high cheekbones, Father's straight nose.

As I watched, the boy opened his eyes, revealing irises of pure violet, identical to Father's and mine. He seemed to look right at me, though I knew newborn babes couldn't really focus yet. His sister stirred then too, her eyes fluttering open to reveal the same striking color. She let out a tiny sound, somewhere between a coo and a yawn.

"What shall we name them?" Father asked, his voice gentle as he gazed at the twins. His hand hadn't left Mother's shoulder, thumb moving in small, comforting circles. The tenderness in the gesture spoke volumes about their bond – a love match that had once scandalized the realm now blessed it with two more dragons.

"We thought," Mother said softly, looking at me with tired but bright eyes, "that since you've shown such maturity lately, Aerys, you might like to name your brother, he was born first so it's only right his beloved eldest sibling to name him."

The responsibility settled over me like a heavy cloak. In my memories of this world's history, these twins hadn't existed. There were no records to consult, no precedents to follow. Whatever name I chose would help shape not just this boy's future, but potentially the realm's.

"Names have power in our family," Grandmother remarked softly from where she stood arranging Mother's pillows. Her dark eyes watched me with keen interest. She had helped bring these babes into the world, had been the first after the maesters to hold them.

I studied my new brother's tiny face. His eyes were open now, violet meeting violet as he seemed to gaze right back at me. The name came then, as natural as breathing.

"Baelon," I said, the word feeling right on my tongue. "After Baelon the Spring Prince – the greatest second son in our history. He would have served his brother Aemon faithfully as King's Hand if fate hadn't intervened." I paused, gathering my thoughts. "He understood that true strength isn't just in ruling, but in supporting, in helping build something greater than yourself. And I shall hope that one day he will love and support me just as much as his namesake did Aemon"

A profound silence fell over the chamber. Father's eyes filled with tears as he squeezed Mother's shoulder gently. Even Grandmother's usual composure softened as she looked at the babe with new understanding.

"Baelon," Grandmother repeated thoughtfully. "The Spring Prince's legacy lives strong in your mind, young dragon." Her tone was careful, measured, but I caught the slight tremor in it. "He was indeed the model of what a second son could be."

Rey, who had been unusually still during this exchange, leaned closer to peer at her new brother. "Was he a good dragon rider too?" she whispered, making Mother smile despite her exhaustion.

"One of the best, Rider of Vhagar" Father answered, his breathing steady now despite his earlier anxiety. The joy of the moment seemed to have given him new strength. "And for the girl, my love?"

Mother's eyes met Grandmother's briefly before she spoke. "Alyssa," she said softly but firmly. The name hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Alyssa Velaryon had been crucial in several key Targaryen marriages, her bloodline strengthening the dynasty at critical moments.

Grandmother's eyebrows rose slightly. "Alyssa," she repeated, and I saw her gaze flick between Mother and Father. There was a knowing quality to her tone – she understood exactly what Mother was thinking, the potential alliances such a name might suggest.

"She'll be free to choose her own path," Mother added firmly, perhaps seeing Grandmother's expression. "Just as I was." She looked up at Father then, their shared glance speaking volumes about their own choice to marry for love.

"The realm has been strengthened by such choices before," Grandmother noted diplomatically as she moved to adjust the girl's blanket with practiced ease. "And weakened by forced ones."

"Baelon and Alyssa," Rey tested the names carefully. "My little brother and sister." She reached out to touch Alyssa's tiny hand. "Look! She's holding my finger!"

The chamber door opened then, and Grandfather entered with measured steps. His crown caught the afternoon light as he approached the bed, his violet eyes bright with emotion. "I hear I have two new grandchildren to meet," he said warmly, though I noticed how his gaze lingered on Mother with concern.

"Come meet your newest dragons, Father," Mother smiled tiredly. "We've just named them – Baelon and Alyssa."

Grandfather's step faltered slightly. "Baelon?" he repeated, looking between Mother and me with sudden intensity. "After the Spring Prince?"

I nodded, feeling a flutter of uncertainty. "I chose it for my brother. Because Baelon was the greatest second son in our history – loyal, strong, wise." I paused, gathering my thoughts. "He understood what it meant to support a king, to help build something greater than himself."

A slow smile spread across Grandfather's face as he moved closer to study the babes. "The Spring Prince would be honored," he said softly. "Though I wonder if you know the full measure of the man you've named your brother for. Baelon wasn't just the greatest second son – he was perhaps the finest prince House Targaryen ever produced." His violet eyes grew distant with memory. "The histories speak of his loyalty to Aemon, but they often forget his love for Alyssa."

"Alyssa?" Grandmother's eyebrows rose as she glanced at Mother. "So not after the wife of Aenys I then?"

Mother shook her head, cradling Alyssa closer. "No, after Baelon's wife and sister. They were a love match too, though the histories often overlook that in favor of their political achievements." She looked up at Father with a soft smile. "Some of us understand choosing love over duty... or perhaps finding how they can be the same thing."

"The original Baelon and Alyssa were inseparable from childhood," Grandfather added, reaching down to touch each babe's cheek gently. "They built something remarkable together – not just politically, but as family. Their bond strengthened the entire realm."

"Would you like to hold them, Aerys?" Mother asked suddenly. "You haven't had a chance yet, with all the naming excitement."

My heart leapt even as nervousness fluttered in my stomach. "Are you sure? They're so small..."

"Here," Grandmother moved to help, her experienced hands guiding me to sit properly. "Support the head, just like this..."

Mother carefully transferred Baelon into my arms first. He was impossibly light, yet somehow the weight felt momentous. His tiny face scrunched slightly at the movement, then relaxed as he settled against me. Those violet eyes – so like mine, like Father's – blinked up at me sleepily.

"Hello, little brother," I whispered. To my amazement, he yawned, his tiny mouth forming a perfect O before his eyes drifted shut. Something fierce and protective bloomed in my chest as I watched him fall asleep in my arms. This wasn't just some historical figure's namesake – this was my brother, blood of my blood.

"They know family," Father said softly, his breathing steady as he watched us. "Even this young, dragons recognize their own."

"Now Alyssa," Mother suggested, and Grandmother helped me adjust to take my sister without disturbing Baelon's sleep. Where he had been drowsy contentment, Alyssa was wide-eyed curiosity. Her gaze seemed to track my face, though I knew newborn babes couldn't really focus yet.

"She's strong," I observed as her tiny hand gripped my finger. "Like her namesake."

"The original Alyssa helped birth a new age for House Targaryen," Grandfather said thoughtfully. "She and Baelon raised sons who shaped the realm – Viserys who brought peace, Daemon who brought fire..." He trailed off, perhaps remembering how that particular fire had eventually burned.

"These two will write their own story," Mother said firmly, seeing his expression. "With their brother and sister to guide them."

Rey, who had been watching the whole exchange with unusual patience, piped up again. "Can I hold them now? Please? I'll be just as careful as Aeys."

"Come sit here," Mother patted the bed beside her. "And I'll show you how to hold them properly."

As Rey was carefully positioned, Grandfather placed a hand on my shoulder. "You chose well," he said quietly, for my ears alone. "Both names carry great responsibility – and great hope." He smiled then, some of the kingship falling away to reveal just a proud grandfather. "Though I hope this Baelon inherits a bit less of his namesake's tendency to challenge dragons before he was ready."

"At least until he can walk," Grandmother added dryly, making everyone laugh.

The sound seemed to brighten the entire chamber. Rey sat perfectly still as Mother placed first Alyssa, then Baelon in her arms, her face a picture of wonder. Father's breathing remained steady and strong, his joy evident in every line of his face. Mother looked exhausted but radiant, while Grandmother hovered nearby with practiced vigilance.

And Grandfather... I caught him watching us all with an expression I'd never seen before – pride mixed with something deeper.

Later that evening, while the castle celebrated the birth of two new dragons, I slipped away from the festivities. The sounds of music and laughter faded behind me as my feet carried me through familiar corridors, drawn inexorably toward the heart of the Red Keep. The throne room doors stood before me, massive and imposing in the darkness. With effort, I pushed one open just enough to slip inside.

The great hall was dark and empty save for the moonlight streaming through the high windows, casting long shadows across the floor. Dragon skulls watched from their perches along the walls, their empty eye sockets somehow more alive in the darkness. The massive space felt different at night – more ancient, more sacred somehow, as if the weight of three centuries of Targaryen rule pressed down more heavily in the silence.

And there it was, dominating everything – the Iron Throne. A twisted mountain of swords that seemed to shift and change in the shadows, each blade catching moonlight differently as I approached. In my previous life, I'd seen countless artistic interpretations of it. The show had made it too small, too orderly. Most paintings made it too elegant, too stylized. None had captured its true grotesque majesty.

It was, without question, the ugliest chair ever created. Random swords jutted out at odd angles, their blades melted and twisted but still deadly sharp. The steps leading up to it weren't properly stairs at all, but a treacherous path through a forest of steel. And yet... there was something magnificent in that ugliness, something that spoke to the harsh truth of how it was forged. This wasn't meant to be beautiful. It was meant to be unforgettable.

Without really thinking about it, I began to climb. The steps were steep, made for adult legs, and each foothold had to be carefully chosen. Some swords jutted out at odd angles, their edges still sharp enough to draw blood despite the centuries. Moonlight played across the blades, making each step feel like solving a puzzle of steel and shadow.

As I climbed higher, my hand brushed across different hilts and pommels - each telling its own story. A lion's head, half-melted but still proud. A falcon's wing, its details softened by dragonfire but unmistakable. A stag's antlers, barely recognizable beneath the tarnish of ages. My fingers traced a golden rose on what must have been a Gardener blade, perhaps even from the last King of the Reach himself.

The throne felt alive under my touch, each sword carrying echoes of its former wielder. This wasn't just a chair made of melted weapons - it was a graveyard of fallen kingdoms, a monument to all who had stood against the dragons and fallen. Some blades were plain, the weapons of common knights or minor lords. Others bore intricate designs that had survived Balerion's breath, speaking of wealth and status now brought low.

Halfway up, I paused to catch my breath. From this angle, I could see markings on some of the swords that formed the steps - not just maker's marks or house sigils, but deliberate scratches. Looking closer, I realized they were initials. Kings who had come before had left their marks, claiming their place in the throne's history. There, barely visible in the moonlight: "A.T. - 1 AC". Aegon himself had scratched his initials here, marking the year he forged the Seven Kingdoms into one.

Other marks followed - "J.O." must have been Jaehaerys the Old King, "V.I." for Viserys the First. Some were deeper than others, as if their makers had needed to prove something by carving their place into history. The marks weren't visible from below - this was something only those who sat the throne would ever see.

Finally reaching the seat itself, I understood why kings had to maintain such rigid posture. The back was a wall of swords points, requiring perfect positioning to avoid being cut. The seat itself was uneven, formed from blades of different sizes melted together in Balerion's flame. You couldn't relax here - every moment was a conscious act of ruling.

Moving carefully, I traced the armrests with my fingers. More initials here, but also dates, small marks that told stories. A deep gouge that might have been from Maegor's time. Smoother patches where centuries of hands had worn down the steel. This wasn't just a throne - it was a record of every king who had ruled from it, each leaving their own small mark on history.

A groove near my right hand caught my attention - newer than the others, probably from Grandfather's early reign. Even kings needed to fidget sometimes, it seemed. The thought made the throne feel more real somehow, more personal than the symbol of power it appeared from below.

Taking a deep breath, I sat.

The first sensation was cold - the iron stealing warmth through my clothes. But then something else hit me, something I hadn't expected. Power. Not the abstract concept I'd read about, but something visceral and immediate. From here, I could see the entire throne room stretched out below. Anyone approaching would have to climb those steps, neck craned back, while the king looked down from his mountain of conquered swords.

I shifted slightly, finding the perfect position where no blade threatened to cut. The throne seemed to accept me, no blood drawn despite the tales of it rejecting the unworthy, just like it had done Maegor I, Viserys I, Rhaenyra, the Canon Aerys II and Joffrey. The iron beneath me had held the weight of every Targaryen king since the Conquest. Each had found their own way to sit here, to make this unseatable throne their seat of power.

From this height, the throne room felt different. I could understand why men had killed for this view, why queens had burned cities to claim it. It wasn't about comfort - the throne was anything but comfortable. It was about seeing the world from the dragon's perspective, high above the ordinary concerns of men. The whole chamber was designed to make everyone else feel small while elevating the king to something more than human.

Moonlight caught the blades around me, creating patterns of light and shadow that danced across the floor. For a moment, I could almost see the ghosts of past audiences - proud lords bending their knees, smallfolk seeking justice, maesters bringing their wisdom and septons their counsel. Every major decision in the realm's history had been made from this vantage point.

The responsibility settled over me like a physical weight. One day, this would all be mine. Not just the throne itself, but everything it represented. The power to shape lives, to build or break kingdoms, to make choices that would echo through generations. In that moment, feeling the cold iron press against my back, I understood why Aegon had built it this way. The throne wasn't meant to be comfortable - it was meant to be a constant reminder of what it cost to rule, and what it meant to hold that power.

"Testing your inheritance already?"

I jumped at Grandfather's voice, nearly slipping before catching myself on one of the sword hilts. He stood at the base of the throne, and beside him, Father watched with an unreadable expression. In the moonlight, I could see the silver-gold of his hair, so like mine, though his face was drawn with the fatigue that always seemed to plague him.

"I just wanted to see how it felt," I said carefully, my heart racing. The cold iron beneath me suddenly felt less welcoming under their scrutiny.

"Come down from there before you hurt yourself," Father called. His breathing was slightly labored from the walk to the throne room, but there was something gentle in his tone that made me pause. Not anger at finding me where I shouldn't be, but concern – real concern, the kind that still surprised me sometimes with its intensity.

I descended slowly, trying to maintain some dignity despite my trembling legs. Each step felt more precarious than during my ascent, now that I had an audience. When I reached the bottom, Grandfather placed a warm hand on my shoulder.

"The throne is more than just a seat of swords," he said quietly, his violet eyes – so like mine, like Father's – reflecting the moonlight. "It's a reminder."

"Of Aegon's conquest?" I asked, though I knew there was more to it. From this angle, looking up at the massive structure, it was easy to see why Aegon had chosen such a design. The swords loomed above us, casting strange shadows in the moonlight.

"Of duty," Father corrected, moving closer. His breathing had steadied somewhat, and when he reached out to touch my other shoulder, his hand was warm and sure. "Each sword represents a choice, a responsibility. When you sit the Iron Throne, you carry the weight of every decision made by every king before you, and the consequences of every choice you'll make yourself."

There was something in his voice that made me look up sharply. Father rarely spoke of the future so directly – his health made such discussions painful for everyone. But tonight, standing in the shadows of our ancestors' throne, he seemed different. Stronger, somehow.

"Like what happened during the Dance?" I asked, thinking of Rhaenyra and Aegon II. "When the smallfolk and Lords had to choose between two rulers?"

Father's expression sharpened with interest, and I saw him exchange a quick glance with Grandfather. "What do you know about that?"

"I've read about it," I said carefully, conscious of needing to frame my knowledge appropriately for my age. "How Rhaenyra was named heir but Aegon II claimed the throne. How the smallfolk rose up when they felt betrayed by their rulers." I paused, gathering my thoughts. "Aegon II was the rightful heir, wasn't he? Because of the Great Council that gave Viserys I the throne, and because Rhaenyra's three eldest sons were obviously Strong's bastards, and..." I remembered something I'd read once, in another life. "A true ruler would never sell their crown just to return to their own seat. Only a pretender would do that." It was honestly one of the lowest moments of House Targaryen, the crown of the Old King, who had worn it for 55 years as he brought a Golden age to Westeros, sold to a nameless merchant, lost to us forever, all because a woman thought she could do no wrong since her father named her the heir, who in itself would have made Viserys I own claim invalid given that in the case of female succession Rhaenys the Queen Who Never Was would be the rightful ruler. Only the selling of Canon Rhaella's crown by Viserys "III" in exile could compare, and even then Viserys deserved nothing but pity since he was just a child desperate to keep himself and his little sister alive and was left with no choice. Rhaenyra on the other hand? She was a woman who sought power for its own sake, completely missed the point of the iron throne and paid justly for her arrogance: Her strong bastards dead, her dragon dead, her second husband dead, executed on what had been her own seat, her name forever tarnished in history as "Maegor with teats" and all female targaryens from the Dance forward barred to inherit the throne until every single man in our family line was dead.

The words hung in the air between us. Father and Grandfather exchanged a look I couldn't quite interpret, but there was something like pride mixed with concern in both their expressions.

"You've been studying history closely," Grandfather said finally, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Though perhaps we should discuss some of these conclusions in more detail during your lessons."

"The important thing," Father added, his voice taking on that gentle tone that seemed reserved for teaching moments, "is that you understand the consequences of such conflicts. The smallfolk suffer most when dragons dance."

There was real pain in his voice, and I found myself reaching up to cover his hand with mine where it still rested on my shoulder. His fingers tightened slightly at the gesture.

"Is that why you and Mother chose to marry for love?" I asked suddenly. "To prevent another Dance?"

Another loaded silence fell. Father's breathing hitched slightly before he steadied it, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he knelt down to my level, despite how the position must have strained him. His violet eyes met mine directly.

"We chose each other," he said carefully, "because we believed it was right for the realm as well as our hearts. But that choice came with its own duties, its own responsibilities." He glanced up at the Iron Throne. "Everything does, when you're born to rule."

There was something in his expression – a mixture of love, pride, and worry – that made my throat tight. This wasn't just my father by the accident of rebirth anymore. This was a man who had made hard choices, who understood the weight of duty and love, who worried about the burdens his children would inherit.

"Did you ever climb it?" I asked impulsively. "When you were my age?"

A small smile tugged at Father's lips. "Once," he admitted. "Though I wasn't nearly as careful about it as you were. Gave my father quite a fright when he found me."

"He certainly did," Grandfather chuckled. "Found him hanging from one of the lower swords like a monkey, as I recall."

"I was trying to get a better look at Maegor's mark," Father protested, though his eyes twinkled. "There were stories that he'd carved a curse into one of the blades."

"Did he?" I asked, fascinated by this glimpse of my father as a boy.

"No," Father laughed softly. "Though I did find where Aegon the Unlikely – your grandfather here – had scratched his initials during his own childhood adventure."

"Which I still maintain was your mother's idea," Grandfather said with mock severity. "She was always getting me into trouble."

The moment felt precious somehow – three generations of dragons, sharing secrets in the moonlight. Father's hand was warm in mine, his breathing steady despite his kneeling position. This was something I'd never had in my previous life – this sense of legacy, of belonging to something larger than myself.

"I saw the marks," I admitted. "All the initials. Even Aegon the Conqueror's."

"Did you now?" Father's eyes lit with genuine interest. "It took me three attempts to find those. They say he carved them the day the throne was completed."

"The day he truly united the Seven Kingdoms," Grandfather added. "Though the real work of ruling came after."

"Is that why the throne doesn't cut some people?" I asked. "Because they understand that? About the real work of ruling?"

Father and Grandfather exchanged another look, but this one I could read better. Pride, certainly, but also something deeper – recognition, perhaps, of understanding beyond my years.

"The throne cuts those who forget," Father said softly, "that power is a responsibility, not a right. Those who think sitting here makes them great, rather than understanding that greatness comes from how you serve the realm." He squeezed my hand gently. "Something tells me you already understand that better than most."

Looking at him in that moment – this man who had chosen love but never forgotten duty, who bore his illness with quiet dignity while preparing his children for their future – I felt something shift in my heart. The historical figure I'd read about in another life faded, replaced by something far more real and precious: my father.

"I want to be worthy," I whispered. "Of the throne, of our name, of..." I hesitated, then added softly, "of being your son."

Father's eyes glistened in the moonlight as he pulled me into a careful embrace. His heart beat steady and strong against my ear, belying his frail health. "You already are," he murmured. "More than you know."

Grandfather's hand settled on both our shoulders, three generations of dragons connected in the shadow of the throne our ancestors had built and that I would do everything within my power to ensure we never lost.

255 AC, Red Keep

The sound of wooden swords clashing echoed through the training yard, accompanied by Steffon's booming laugh. At ten years old, my cousin was already showing signs of the legendary Baratheon strength, wielding his practice sword more like a war hammer than a blade. Each blow came with crushing force that spoke of the raw power that ran in his bloodline – the same strength that had helped his ancestors hold Storm's End for thousands of years.

"Mind your footwork!" Ser Duncan called from where he watched us spar. "Power means nothing if you can't keep your balance, young storm." The morning sun glinted off his white armor as he studied our movements with the experienced eye of a master swordsman.

I sidestepped another of Steffon's powerful swings, using his momentum against him just as Duncan had taught me. At eleven, I was taller than Steffon but leaner, relying more on speed and technique than raw strength. Five years of daily practice had turned the once-awkward movements into fluid grace. Where Steffon fought like an oncoming storm, I tried to be more like wind – flowing around his attacks rather than meeting them head-on.

"You can't dance forever, Aerys!" Steffon grinned, his black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. There was nothing malicious in his smile – Steffon approached everything with the same boundless enthusiasm, whether it was swordplay or studying or chasing my siblings around the castle. His joy in the simple act of training was infectious.

"I don't need to," I replied, catching his next blow with my blade angled to deflect the force. "Just long enough for you to tire yourself out." The wood of our practice swords groaned under the pressure of his strike, but the deflection held true.

From the viewing gallery, I heard Rey's excited voice: "That's it, Aerys! Show him how dragons fight!" At ten, my sister had become my most vocal supporter in these training sessions, though she cheered just as loudly for Steffon when he sparred with others. Beside her, five-year-old twins Baelon and Alyssa watched with wide eyes, probably taking mental notes for their own future training.

"Careful with that grip, Steffon," Tywin called from where he waited his turn. His Gold-flecked green eyes studied our movements with characteristic intensity. "You're leaving your right side exposed."

Mother sat in her usual spot, somehow managing to look elegant despite the heat. Father's health had improved somewhat over the past five years – the maesters' new treatments seemed to help – but he still tired easily. Today he watched from a shaded alcove, with Uncle Duncan and Aunt Jenny beside him. Their son Aemon, now nine, sat at Jenny's feet, absently playing with a wooden dragon Rey had given him.

Steffon adjusted his grip as Tywin suggested, but the slight pause was all I needed. I ducked under his guard and tapped him lightly on the ribs with my practice sword. "Dead," I declared, though I couldn't help grinning.

"Well struck!" Ser Duncan approved. "Though next time, Steffon, remember what I said about using your opponent's expectations against them. Everyone knows the Baratheons for their strength – make them forget you have speed as well."

"Yes, Ser Duncan," Steffon nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. Despite the defeat, his smile never dimmed. That was one of the things I loved most about my cousin – he approached every loss as a chance to learn rather than a reason for resentment.

"Tywin, you're up next," Duncan called. "Let's see if you've been practicing those counter-moves I showed you."

As Steffon moved to join the others in the gallery, I caught him studying Tywin's approach with interest. The three of us had grown closer over the past five years, each bringing different strengths to our friendship. Steffon was our heart, his natural warmth and enthusiasm balancing Tywin's intensity and my own tendency toward calculated planning. Tywin brought precision and discipline, while I tried to blend both their styles with the knowledge from my previous life.

Tywin settled into his stance with characteristic grace. Where Steffon fought like a force of nature, Tywin approached swordplay like a mathematics problem to be solved. Every movement was measured, every strike carefully calculated for maximum efficiency.

"Begin," Duncan commanded.

Steel met steel in a different rhythm now. Tywin's style was almost the opposite of Steffon's – no wasted movement, no raw power when precision would do. We'd sparred so often over the years that we knew each other's patterns, forcing us both to constantly innovate.

"Good footwork, both of you," Duncan noted as we circled. "Remember, a fight isn't just about the swords – it's about reading your opponent, understanding their—"

A loud crash from the gallery interrupted him. I turned to see Baelon sprawled on the ground, having apparently tried to climb over the railing for a better view. Rey was already helping him up, while Alyssa looked torn between concern for her twin and amusement at his clumsiness.

"I'm fine!" Baelon called out quickly, his face reddening as he noticed everyone watching. "Just... testing the railing's strength."

"Of course you were, sweetling," Mother said dryly. "Just as your sister was 'testing the tapestries' yesterday when we found her scaling them."

The twins had the grace to look sheepish, though I caught them exchanging that special look they shared – the one that usually meant they were already planning their next adventure. At five, they were already showing distinct personalities: Baelon was all curious energy and impulse, while Alyssa tempered her own adventurous streak with more careful planning.

"Perhaps that's enough swordplay for today," Father suggested, his voice carrying easily despite its usual weakness. "The children could use some time in the library – especially since someone hasn't finished their history readings." He gave Steffon a meaningful look.

"But Uncle Jaehaerys," Steffon protested good-naturedly, "how can I learn about battles if I don't practice them first?"

"The best warriors," Duncan commented from his seat beside Father, "know both the sword and the scroll. Isn't that right, Jenny love?"

Aunt Jenny smiled her dreamy smile. "The old gods say wisdom comes from many sources. Even the trees must learn from both sun and soil."

I caught Tywin hiding a slight eye roll at Jenny's mystical pronouncements, but there was no real mockery in it. We'd all grown used to Aunt Jenny's unique way of seeing the world, and even Tywin had learned to find useful meaning in her cryptic statements.

"To the library then," I declared, sheathing my practice sword. "Though perhaps we should stop by the kitchens first? I heard they're making those honeycakes Steffon likes."

"Race you there!" Baelon shouted, already halfway to the yard's exit with Alyssa close behind.

"Walk!" Mother called after them, though her tone suggested she knew it was futile. "Honestly, sometimes I think they have more energy than all the dragons of old combined."

"They come by it honestly," Father said with a fond smile. "I seem to recall a certain princess who used to climb the Iron Throne because she was convinced dragon eggs were hidden in it."

Mother's cheeks colored slightly. "I was four, my love. And I maintain that if there were any dragon eggs left, that would have been a perfectly logical hiding place."

As we made our way inside, I found myself walking between Steffon and Tywin, grateful once again that my scheming had brought us all together. The memory of that day in the Small Council chamber still brought a smile to my face, though the circumstances that led to it had been far from pleasant...

Four months earlier...

I clutched the sealed message Mother had asked me to deliver to Father, using it as an excuse to linger near the Small Council chamber. Through the partially open door, I could hear raised voices discussing the latest letter from Casterly Rock.

"Another letter from Lord Tytos," Lord Butterwell was saying, his tone heavy with disdain. "He wishes to send his heir to serve as your cupbearer, Your Grace. Claims the boy needs... 'correction' in his views about proper respect and family duty."

"After his son dared question the Frey betrothal," Uncle Duncan's voice carried clearly. "Though by all accounts, young Tywin was entirely justified in his concerns."

My fists clenched at the mention. The news of Genna's betrothal to Emmon Frey had reached us months ago, along with reports of Tywin's fury at the match. My friend's letters had grown shorter, darker, filled with barely contained rage at his father's weakness. Each one made me more determined to help him escape Casterly Rock's growing chaos.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open. "Father? Mother asked me to bring you this."

The Small Council members looked up from their papers, some hiding smiles at my interruption. Uncle Duncan paused in his report on the City Watch reforms, while Father beckoned me forward with a warm smile, though his breathing was slightly labored today.

"Thank you, Aerys," he said, taking the message. But before I could retreat, I gathered my courage. This might be my only chance.

"Grandfather," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "I couldn't help but overhear about Lord Tytos's letter..."

Grandfather's violet eyes met mine with sudden understanding. "And I suppose you have thoughts on the matter?"

"Tywin should be here," I said firmly, abandoning my planned careful approach. "But not as a punishment for defending his house's dignity. He was right about the Freys—" I stopped myself, but the barely contained outrage in my voice made several council members shift uncomfortably."The betrothal is a done thing," Lord Butterwell said dismissively. "House Frey-"

"House Frey is barely worthy to be sworn to the Tullys, let alone wed to a daughter of Casterly Rock," I snapped, then immediately regretted my outburst. "I apologize for speaking out of turn, but..."

"But you care for your friend," Grandfather finished gently. "And you think having him serve as my cupbearer would help?"

"Your previous cupbearer has returned home," I pointed out. "And Tywin is worth ten of Lord Tytos's suggested replacements. He's smart and capable, and he understands duty better than..." I caught myself again, but the meaning was clear.

"Better than his father," Uncle Duncan completed bluntly. "We've all seen Lord Tytos's... declined these past years."

"The boy did show remarkable poise at Prince Aerys's last nameday celebration," another councillor noted. "Despite the circumstances."

I remembered that day all too well. Tywin had arrived just days after learning of Genna's betrothal, his rage contained behind a mask of perfect courtesy that only I could see through. We'd spent hours in the godswood, where he finally let that mask crack, swearing he'd never let House Lannister be laughed at again…. A glimpse of the start of his hatred of japs and laughter and the making of the greatest Lannister to ever live.

"I promised to help him," I said quietly, meeting Grandfather's gaze. "To do whatever I could to protect Genna, to restore House Lannister's dignity. This would be a start – showing everyone that the Crown values Tywin's worth, even if his father doesn't see it."

A loaded silence fell over the chamber. Father's breathing was the only sound for several moments before he spoke. "The boy would make an excellent cupbearer," he said carefully. "And having him here, learning from steadier influences..." He glanced meaningfully at Lord Tytos's latest rambling letter.

"Please, Grandfather?" I added, trying not to sound like I was begging (though I absolutely was). "I'll help him adjust to court life. And... maybe being here will help him see there are better ways to restore honor than through anger."

Grandfather leaned back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating violet eyes that seemed to see right through to my true motives. "You've thought about this quite carefully," he observed.

"I have," I admitted. "Since the betrothal announcement. Tywin deserves better than watching his house's pride be sold so cheaply."

"Bold words from one so young," Lord Butterwell muttered, but Uncle Duncan cut him off.

"True words," he corrected. "And wisdom beyond his years in seeing the larger picture. Having the Lannister heir here, learning proper governance..." He let the implications hang in the air.

After what felt like an eternity, Grandfather nodded. "Very well. We'll send a raven to Casterly Rock. Though I expect you to help your friend adjust to life at court – and perhaps help him find less... dramatic ways to address his grievances."

"Thank you!" I exclaimed, then remembered where I was and tried to compose myself. "I mean, thank you, Your Grace. I won't let you down. And neither will Tywin."

"Go on then," Grandfather smiled. "I'm sure you're eager to write to your friend yourself."

As I hurried out, I heard Lord Butterwell mutter something about "the Laughing Lion's get," but Grandfather's sharp "That will do" cut off any further comments.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of anticipation and increasingly desperate letters from Casterly Rock. Lord Tytos's protests grew more incoherent, while Tywin's responses became terser, more controlled. Finally, on a bright morning, the Lannister party arrived. I waited in the courtyard, trying not to fidget as the gates opened.

Tywin rode in looking every inch a young lion, his back straight and his golden-flecked green eyes taking in everything. For all his dignity, though, I caught the slight smile he gave me before smoothly dismounting. Later, in private, he would tell me how grateful he was to escape the Rock's slow decline, though his worry for Genna never quite left his eyes.

Just a week later, Steffon arrived with his guards, his booming laugh echoing through the Red Keep before we even saw him. Uncle Ormund and Aunt Rhaelle had agreed to his fostering, believing time with his mother's family would serve him well. The way he nearly tackled me in a hug, propriety forgotten, proved they'd made the right choice.

Now, months later, walking between them, I could hardly believe my scheme had worked. Five years had changed us all – Steffon broader, Tywin taller, me somewhere in between. But some things remained constant: Steffon's easy laugh, Tywin's sharp observations (though the latter had grown more pointed since Genna's betrothal), and my own careful balance between the two. The three friends: Dragon, Lion and Stag that would shape Westeros for the better with our brotherhood.

"You've improved with the counterstrikes," Tywin noted as we walked. "Though you're still telegraphing your left-side attacks."

"And you're still thinking too much before you move," Steffon countered. "Sometimes you have to just feel the fight, like Uncle Duncan says."

"There's a balance," I said diplomatically. "Like with everything else." The words made me think of all the lessons I'd learned over the past five years – not just in swordplay, but in navigating this world I was helping to reshape.

The library was cooler than the training yard, its familiar scent of old parchment and leather bindings welcoming us. The twins had indeed beaten us there, though they'd been intercepted by Maester Walys, who was already directing them toward their assigned reading on the Dance of Dragons.

"Ah, young princes," the maester greeted us. "I trust the morning's training went well?"

"Well enough," Tywin answered with characteristic precision. "Though some of us could use more practice with our historical dates than our swordplay." He gave Steffon a pointed look.

"Says the one who still hasn't memorized all the Gardener kings," Steffon shot back good-naturedly.

"Because they're all named Garth," Tywin muttered. "It's like they ran out of imagination after the first one."

We settled at our usual table near the window, where the morning light made reading easier. Rey had taken the twins to her favorite window seat, attempting to corral them into focusing on their assigned reading. Aemon joined us, laying out his own books with careful precision that reminded me of his father.

I noticed Tywin's hand drift to his pocket, where I knew he kept his mother's latest letter. His expression remained carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his jaw. After a moment of silence broken only by the rustling of pages and Rey's distant attempts to interest the twins in the Dance, Tywin spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Another letter from my mother." His fingers tightened on the parchment. "Lord Prester came to the Rock last week, asking for a loan. And do you know what my lord father did?" The distinction in how he referred to Tytos wasn't lost on me. "He gave it freely, laughing and calling Lord Prester 'my old friend' – the same man who mocks him openly at feasts."

Steffon's usual cheerful expression sobered. Even Aemon looked up from his reading, his violet eyes serious beyond his years.

"The Presters too?" I asked quietly. "I thought after the Westerlings..."

"Everyone knows now," Tywin's voice was controlled, but I could hear the fury beneath it. "They come smiling, with flattery and false friendship, and my lord father gives them whatever they ask. The Marbrands, the Baneforts, even the Crakehalls – all taking loans they have no intention of repaying."

"Surely he must see—" Steffon began.

"He sees nothing but what he wishes to see," Tywin cut him off. "When I tried to show him the account books, he..." A flash of pain crossed his face before being quickly masked. "He patted my head like I was still a babe, told me I shouldn't worry so much. 'They're all our friends,' he said. 'Friends help each other.'"

The raw hurt in those words made my chest ache. This wasn't just anger at weakness – this was the pain of a son watching his father being taken advantage of, being unable to protect him from his own nature. For all of Tywin's justified grievances towards his father, he still loved the man dearly.

"My father," Tywin continued, his voice softening slightly, "is a kind man. A good man. He loves his children, loves his wife, loves his brother, loves to make people smile, loves to be loved. And they use that against him. Against our house." His hand clenched into a fist. "They laugh at him, and he laughs with them, not understanding they mock him. When I confronted Lord Banefort about his unpaid loans, do you know what he said? 'Run along, little cub. Your lord father understands how these things work.'"

I watched my friend carefully, seeing something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. This wasn't just frustration at his house's decline. This was deeper – the agony of loving a father while despising a lord, of wanting to protect and punish at the same time.

"And now the Freys," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Taking advantage of his weakness to secure a betrothal far above their station. Genna cried when she heard – not in front of him, of course. She waited until she thought no one could hear. My father wiped her tears, promised her beautiful dresses and parties, thinking that would make it better. He loves us, but he doesn't understand how to protect us."

"Not all wounds are made with swords," Aemon said suddenly, his dreamy tone so like his mother's. "Sometimes the deepest cuts—"

"Come from kindness misplaced," Tywin finished sharply. "I know. Since Brightroar was lost to Tommen's folly, our house has at least maintained its pride. But this..." He shook his head. "This slow bleeding of our power, our respect... it is a deeper shame. And he doesn't even see it."

I saw it then, in the cold fury of his eyes – a glimpse of the Tywin Lannister I remembered from another life. The man who would become ruthless in his pursuit of respect, who would swing so far in the opposite direction from his father that he would lose something vital in the process, resulting in his death at the hands of his own son. But he wasn't that man yet. He was still my friend, still caught between love and duty, still young enough to be shown another way.

"Tywin," I said softly, reaching across the table to grip his arm. "Let me help you."

He looked at me sharply, some of the coldness fading from his gaze. "How? You can't make him change. You can't make him see—"

"No," I agreed. "But I can help you find a better path between love and duty. There's a way to restore House Lannister's respect without losing what makes your father's heart worth protecting."

"A slow path," he muttered, but I could see him considering my words.

"Sometimes the best victories are the ones won carefully," I pressed. "Look at my grandfather – he's spent years working to help the realm, to earn true respect rather than fear. And he's done it without losing his compassion."

"And what of those who take advantage of compassion?" Tywin challenged, though there was a note of genuine questioning in his voice.

"There are ways to be firm without being cruel," Steffon offered quietly. "To command respect without inspiring fear."

I watched Tywin absorb this, seeing the wheels turning behind his eyes. This was the crucial moment – where he might begin to see that there were other paths to power than the one he'd taken in another life, ways to protect his house's dignity while preserving his father's better nature.

"Your father's love isn't a weakness," I said carefully. "And his kindness isn't wrong. It's how that kindness is directed that needs to change. You can help him protect it, channel it, without letting others abuse it."

For a long moment, Tywin was silent. Then, very slightly, he nodded. "Perhaps," he conceded. "Though something still needs to be done about the Freys. And our wayward bannermen."

"One step at a time," I counseled, though privately I was already thinking of ways to help both him and Genna. "Right now, focus on learning here. Show everyone that House Lannister's strength comes from wisdom as well as pride."

"Like actually memorizing those Gardener kings?" Steffon suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

A ghost of a smile touched Tywin's lips. "Still more memorable than Walder Frey's endless offspring."

"Speaking of memorable," Aemon piped up, clearly eager to move to safer topics, "I still say Vhagar was the greatest dragon. She lived longer than Balerion and helped unite the realm twice!"

From her window seat, Rey's voice carried over: "That's because Balerion was too busy being magnificent to bother with living forever! Tell him, Aerys!"

"Actually," I said, moving to join Rey and Aemon as their dragon debate threatened to escalate, "let me tell you a different story. One about how great leaders bring people together, not tear them apart."

"Is it about dragons?" Rey asked hopefully, while Baelon and Alyssa abandoned their pretense of reading to listen.

"Better," I smiled, settling into the window seat. "It's about a king from the Age of Heroes, when the First Men still ruled all of Westeros. A descendant of Garth Greenhand himself, though this was long after the Gardener kings began their reign."

Tywin and Steffon drifted closer, their earlier heavy discussion forgotten for the moment. Even Maester Walys paused in his organization of scrolls, though he pretended to be focused on his work.

"His name was Arthos," I began, carefully adapting the familiar tale. "And he lived in a time when the First Men had begun fighting amongst themselves, forgetting the unity that had helped them survive the Long Night. The children of the forest had retreated into their forests, and the giants had gone beyond the wall, but men still warred with men, each petty king claiming his rights over the others."

"But how did he become king?" Rey asked, already enthralled.

"That's where the true story begins," I said, leaning forward. "You see, Arthos was born during a time of great strife. His father was Uthyr, a powerful king of the First Men, who fell in love with Igrayne, the wife of one of his strongest bannermen. With the help of Merlyn, a wise man who some say could speak with the children of the forest and knew their magics, Uthyr won Igrayne's heart. But their love came at a terrible price."

"What happened?" Rey breathed, completely captivated.

"When Arthos was born, Merlyn took the babe away to protect him from those who would harm the child of such a forbidden union. Uthyr, mad with grief and betrayed by his own knights who believed he had dishonored himself, took his mighty sword Lightbringer - a blade of pale steel that shone like starlight - and thrust it deep into a heart tree, declaring 'None shall wield this sword but me, for all who follow are traitors to their oaths!'"

"The heart tree accepted the sword?" Aemon asked, his eyes wide.

"Yes," I nodded. "And more - the children of the forest, it was said, enchanted both sword and tree. Words appeared in the bark above the blade: 'Whoso Pulleth Out This Sword from the Heart Tree is Rightwise King Born of All the First Men.'"

"But what about the Andals?" Steffon asked, frowning. "Weren't they invading?"

"This was long before Hugor of the Hill united the Andals," I explained. "In those days, they came in small bands across the Narrow Sea, each group fighting for themselves. They were one of the many threats Arthos would eventually face. But first, he had to claim his birthright."

"So he pulled out the sword?" Baelon asked excitedly.

"Not at first," I smiled. "You see, Merlyn had arranged for Arthos to be fostered with a wise lord who raised him as his own son. Arthos grew up learning not just the arts of war, but the importance of justice and mercy. He didn't know he was a king's son - he simply tried to be the best man he could be."

"Like you," Rey said proudly, making me flush slightly.

"When Arthos was finally led to the heart tree," I continued, "he didn't try to pull the sword out to become king. He tried because he saw how the realm suffered from division and wanted to help. That's why the sword yielded to him - not because of his blood, but because of his heart."

"Like Dawn?" Aemon asked excitedly. "The Sword of the Morning's blade?"

"Similar," I nodded. "When Arthos claimed the blade, it proved he was meant to unite the realms of men. But the sword alone wasn't enough - he had to prove himself worthy of it through his actions."

"How did he do that?" Tywin asked, his earlier brooding forgotten in his interest.

"He began by gathering the finest warriors and wisest counselors to his side. But instead of conquering through force alone, he showed them a better way. He built a great city called Camelot, where all could come to seek justice. At its heart was a massive round table, where every voice could be heard equally."

"Like the Small Council?" Steffon suggested again.

"Larger," I explained. "Imagine a table where every lord who proved themselves worthy could have a voice. Where wisdom mattered more than birth, and service meant more than gold." I saw Tywin's thoughtful expression at this. "And at Arthos's side was his queen, Gwyneth - as wise in peace as he was in war. Together, they showed that true strength comes from unity, not division."

"Did they have children?" Rey asked dreamily. "Was she beautiful?"

"She was said to be the most beautiful woman in the realm," I smiled at my sister's romantic nature. "But more importantly, she was clever and kind. She helped Arthos see that ruling isn't just about winning battles - it's about building something that lasts."

"Like what you want to do when you're king?" Baelon piped up unexpectedly.

I caught Maester Walys watching me intently now, no longer pretending to be absorbed in his scrolls. Even Tywin seemed to lean forward slightly.

"Yes," I said carefully. "I want to build beyond the city walls, to make King's Landing greater than it's ever been. Not just bigger, but better - with proper streets and sewers, wells and markets, places for people to live and work with dignity." I gestured toward the window, where the sprawl of the city was visible. "But more than that, I want to build a realm that stands united against any threat."

"Like the Blackfyres?" Tywin asked sharply.

The name hung in the air like a drawn sword. Even Rey, who usually had little interest in such matters, grew still.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I wouldn't put it past them to gather an army of sellswords and exiles, to try one last time to take what they think is theirs. But when that day comes, I want the Seven Kingdoms to stand as one against them - not out of fear or hatred, but because we've built something worth protecting. And when we defeat them," I added carefully, watching Tywin's reaction, "we'll remember that not every person bearing the name Blackfyre chose this fight. Some were born into it, children and grandchildren carrying the weight of choices made before they drew breath."

"You would show them mercy?" Tywin's voice was incredulous. "After everything they've done?"

"The Blackfyres aren't a different house," I said carefully, choosing each word with precision. "They're part of House Targaryen - a branch of our family that broke away because two brothers who once loved each other were torn apart by pride, circumstance and the misrule of one of the worst disgraces to ever bear the Targaryen name. The Unworthy"

A profound silence fell over the library. Even the twins seemed to sense the weight of the moment.

"But they're traitors," Steffon protested, though gently. "They've risen against the crown so many times..."

"Because of hate," I explained. "Hate that's been passed down through generations, each new rebellion born from the blood of the last. Bittersteel fed that hate, used it to keep the wounds fresh. But he's gone now, and with him the true architect of all that bitterness." Truly, Bittersteel was one of the reasons bastards were seen so negatively in westeros, a whole wasted with no joy or happiness, just hatred and spite, fueling the flames of division for the sake of soothing his petty pride. His ending was fitting, alone, broken and bitter in an alien land, his sole legacy were likewise bitter sellswords and what remained of the house of the brother he helped lead to ruin and his skull bathed in gold so that westeros would know that this sad, pathetic little man would continue to haunt them even in dead.

"You think they could be brought back?" Maester Walys asked softly. "After so much blood has been spilled?"

"I think hate only breeds more hate," I said firmly. "The first Blackfyre rebellion wasn't just about a sword or a crown - it was about a family torn apart. Everything since has been children and grandchildren fighting over the sins of their forefathers."

"You are perhaps the first Targaryen I've ever heard speak so," Maester Walys observed, his chain links clinking softly as he leaned forward. "Most would call for fire and blood."

"Fire and blood are our words," I acknowledged, "but they don't have to be our only legacy. Look at what Arthos built - not just a kingdom, but a dream of something better. That's what I want to build - a realm where old hatreds can heal, where we're strong enough to offer mercy without appearing weak."

"And if they refuse that mercy?" Tywin asked, but I could hear genuine curiosity beneath his skepticism.

"Then we defend what we've built," I said firmly. "But we defend it because it's worth protecting, not just because it's ours. That's what Arthos understood - that a kingdom built on fear will always face rebellion, but one built on justice and common purpose has deeper roots."

"Like the heart tree that held his sword," Rey said unexpectedly. "Deep roots that kept it standing until the right king came."

"Exactly," I smiled at my sister's insight. "And when I build my round table, I want all of you there - not because of your names or titles, but because each of you has something unique to offer. Together, we can make the realm better than it's ever been."

"Even me?" Rey asked hopefully.

"Especially you," I assured her. "Every king needs someone to remind him of what really matters."

I caught Tywin's thoughtful expression and added, "And someone to help him see hard truths while remembering mercy." His slight nod told me he understood my meaning.

"A beautiful vision," Maester Walys said softly. "Though the road to achieving it will not be easy."

"The best dreams never are," I replied. "But that's why we need each other. One person's vision isn't enough - it takes many hands working together to build something lasting."

As we settled back to our studies, I noticed how each of them seemed lost in thought. Even Tywin's earlier anger about his father seemed tempered by new possibilities. Sometimes the best way to change the future was to give people a different way of seeing the past - to show them that even the oldest wounds could heal if given the chance.

After all, I thought as I opened my book, wasn't that what I was trying to do? To heal the wounds of history I remembered, to guide these people I'd come to love toward a better future than the one I knew awaited them if nothing changed?

"Aerys?" Rey's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Tell us more about Gwyneth and Arthos. Did they live happily ever after?"

I smiled, though with a touch of sadness. Some stories were better left unfinished - at least for now. "They built something wonderful together," I said instead. "Something that lived on long after they were gone. And isn't that what really matters?"

For sometimes the true legacy of a dream isn't in its perfect fulfillment, but in how it inspires others to keep trying, to learn from both its triumphs and its failures. Some stories were better left unfinished - at least for now - until those hearing them were ready to understand that even the greatest heroes were human, that love could both build and destroy, and that sometimes the most enduring victories came from learning how to rise from defeat.

Later that afternoon, I made my way to the Small Council chamber, hoping to show Grandfather some of the city improvement plans I'd been sketching. The sound of raised voices made me pause outside the partially open door.

"...cannot simply ignore centuries of tradition!" Lord Butterwell's voice carried clearly through the gap. "The smallfolk have their place, Your Grace, as do we all. These reforms would upset the very foundations of our society!"

"Their place?" Grandfather's voice was sharp with rarely heard anger. "Their place is starving in winter because the grain stores are insufficient? Their place is dying of fever because we won't build proper sewers? Tell me, Lord Butterwell, when did tradition become more valuable than lives?"

"Father," Uncle Duncan's measured voice cut in, "perhaps if we presented the granary proposal separately from the other reforms—"

"No more half measures," Grandfather snapped. "While we debate and delay, people die. Or have you forgotten what we saw in our travels, Duncan? The children with swollen bellies, the old women dying in ditches?"

"I haven't forgotten," Uncle Duncan replied quietly. "But change must come carefully, or it won't come at all."

"The costs alone would bankrupt half the lords in the realm," protested Lord Merryweather, the Master of Coin. "These granaries you propose, the sewers, the new wells – where is the gold to come from?"

"The cost of doing nothing is higher," Grandfather cut in. "Every winter we lose thousands to hunger and cold. Every summer, fever sweeps the cities. How many dead smallfolk equals one lord's discomfort, my lord? Give me the sum, since you're so good with numbers."

"Your Grace," Father's voice was strained but diplomatic, "we all share your concern for the smallfolk. But Lord Merryweather raises valid points about the treasury—"

"The treasury!" Grandfather's laugh was bitter. "Tell me, how full were our coffers when I took the crown? When tradition nearly bankrupted us with tourneys and feasts while people starved? No, the gold is there – it's the will that's lacking."

"Perhaps," Lord Staunton, the Master of Ships, suggested carefully, "a more gradual approach would be wiser. Small changes, implemented over time..."

"We've tried gradual," Grandfather's frustration was palpable. "For over twenty years I've tried gradual. And what have the lords done? Delayed, objected, found every excuse to maintain their privileges while their people suffer. Even now, they refuse to see—"

"We see a king," Lord Butterwell cut in, "who seems determined to upend every tradition that holds the realm together. First these reforms, then what? Peasants in the Red Keep? Merchants on the Small Council?"

The silence that followed was deadly. I could almost feel Grandfather's fury through the door.

"Watch your tongue," Uncle Duncan warned softly. "You speak to your king."

"I speak as Master of Laws," Lord Butterwell began, but Grandfather cut him off.

"No," his voice was ice. "You speak as a man too blind to see the precipice before us. Duncan holds that position now, or have you forgotten in your rush to defend 'tradition'?"

"Your Grace," Grand Maester Ellendor's unctuous voice tried to soothe, "surely there must be some compromise—"

"The lords are the backbone of the realm," Lord Rosby, the Master of Whisperers, protested. "Without their support—"

"Enough." Grandfather's voice cut through the chamber like Valyrian steel. "You all speak of support, yet I see none for those who truly need it. Ove twenty years I've worked, tried to show you a better way, and still you cling to your privileges like drowning men to driftwood."

"Father," I heard Father try one last time, his breathing labored with tension, "please—"

"Leave me," Grandfather commanded. "All of you. I've heard enough of tradition and compromise and excuses."

"Your Grace—" several voices started at once.

"I SAID LEAVE!"

I pressed myself into an alcove as the council members filed out. Lord Butterwell's face was mottled with rage, while Lord Merryweather looked more worried than angry. Grand Maester Ellendor wrung his hands as he shuffled past, and Lord Rosby's eyes darted everywhere except ahead. Father emerged looking exhausted, his breathing ragged, with Uncle Duncan's hand supporting his elbow.

They paused near my hiding spot, neither noticing me in the shadows.

"He's getting worse," Father said softly. "More frustrated, more desperate. If we can't find some way to help him..."

"I know," Uncle Duncan replied grimly. "But you heard the lords. They'll resist any major changes, and if he tries to force them..."

"The realm cannot afford a civil war with the Blackfyres still out there, breathing down our necks, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness" Father's voice was barely a whisper. "But father's patience grows thinner by the day."

They moved on, their quiet conversation fading. Outside the council chamber, I heard Ser Duncan's deep voice: "Need anything, Egg?"

"No, old friend." Grandfather's reply was so defeated it made my chest ache. "Not now."

I waited until Ser Duncan's heavy footsteps retreated before peering through the door. Grandfather stood at the head of the council table, but not like I usually saw him. His crown sat discarded beside scattered papers, his hands pressed against his face in a gesture of pure exhaustion. He looked older than I'd ever seen him, the weight of his reign visible in every line of his body. In that moment, I didn't see the king from my history books. I saw a man who'd spent his life trying to make the world better, only to be fought at every turn.

I must have made some sound, because he looked up sharply. "Aerys? What are you doing here?"

"I... I wanted to show you some plans," I said quietly, holding up my sketches. "For the city. But I can come back later..."

He studied me for a long moment, then managed a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No, stay. Perhaps your young eyes will see something these old ones have missed."

I entered carefully, closing the door behind me. Grandfather had sunk into his chair, looking more defeated than I'd ever seen him. My heart ached. This was the man who'd given up a simple life to rule justly, who'd tried so hard to make the realm better, who'd loved his people more than his crown. The man whose death I remembered reading about, who would die trying to bring magic back to a world that no longer needed it, all in the name of protecting our people and bring his family much needed power and defense.

"What's wrong, Grandfather?"

He shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Nothing you need worry about, little dragon. Just the burdens of a crown that sometimes feels too heavy."

"I heard," I admitted. "About the lords opposing your reforms. About trying to help the smallfolk."

He sighed heavily, seeming to age years in that single breath. "Did you? Then you heard how over twenty years of trying to help the smallfolk has accomplished almost nothing. Sewers blocked, grain stores rejected, basic rights denied. All because change might cost the lords some coins or challenge their precious traditions." His voice grew bitter. "They speak of duty to their people, but when it comes to actually helping them..."

I moved closer, seeing the papers spread across the table. Proposals for public granaries, plans for improved sewers, edicts about basic rights for smallfolk. All marked with various lords' objections and rejections. Some I recognized from my historical knowledge. The very reforms that would drive him to desperation, to seek power in the worst possible way.

"If only we had dragons," Grandfather said softly, almost to himself, his fingers tracing the smooth edge of his discarded crown, the crown of Aegon III and Viserys II "Real dragons, not just skulls on walls. Then they'd have to listen. Then we could force the changes needed..." His eyes took on a distant look that made my blood run cold. "There are ways, you know. Old books, ancient scrolls that speak of how they might be brought back..."

My heart started racing. This was it. The beginning of the path that would lead to Summerhall, to wildfire, to death and tragedy that would haunt our family for generations. I could almost smell the smoke, hear the screams that existed only in history books I'd read in another life.

"No," I said, more sharply than I intended, my voice shaking with fear I couldn't quite hide.

Grandfather looked up, surprised by my tone. "No?" A ghost of amusement crossed his face. "Your first word, do you know? Your mother was trying to help you walk. You'd fallen, and she reached for you, but you just looked at her and said 'No' clear as day. Surprised us all."

"Grandfather, please," I pressed, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. "Dragons aren't the answer. Force isn't the answer. It would just make things worse."

"You're young," he said gently, reaching to touch my cheek. "You don't understand how hard I've tried other ways. How many compromises, how many small steps that led nowhere. Sometimes power is needed to..."

"I do understand!" My voice rose with frustration and fear. "Dragons would just make the lords hate us more, fear us more. And trying to bring them back..." I couldn't stop my voice from shaking as images of Summerhall flashed through my mind. "It would only end in tragedy. In death and fire and..." I cut myself off, realizing I was saying too much.

Grandfather straightened, his hand dropping from my face as he studied me with sudden intensity. "You speak as if you know something."

My heart pounded. I'd said too much, revealed too much in my desperation to prevent the tragedy I remembered. But looking at him, this grandfather I'd grown to love, this man who deserved so much better than the fate history had given him, I made a decision.

"I..." I hesitated, then let the words burst out in frustration and fear: "I dreamed about it, okay?"

The words hung in the air between us. Grandfather's expression shifted from surprise to something deeper, more considering. The silence stretched, filled with the weight of my accidental revelation.

"You dreamed?" he asked carefully, leaning forward. "What kind of dreams?"

"Terrible ones," I whispered, letting some of my real knowledge of that future bleed into my voice. "Fire and screaming. People trapped. A castle burning with wildfire that can't be quenched. And..." I met his eyes directly, willing him to understand. "Dragons aren't worth that price. No power is worth that price."

Grandfather sat back slowly, his expression transforming as if seeing me for the first time. "Dreams," he repeated softly, and suddenly the words came rushing out: "Of course. Gods, it explains everything. Your first word being 'No,' your knowledge of things you couldn't possibly know, your understanding beyond your years. The way you sometimes look at things as if you've seen them before, the way you speak of the future with such certainty..." His voice filled with wonder. "A dreamer. My grandson is a dreamer."

"Please," I said, moving to grab his hand, my own earlier outburst forgotten in my desperation to save him and my family "Promise me you won't try to bring back the dragons. Promise me you won't let that future happen."

He covered my hand with his other one, his eyes distant with memory. "Did you know," he said quietly, "that many in our house were dragon riders, but very few were dreamers? The gift of dragon dreams... it's rarer than Valyrian steel, more precious than any crown."

"Then listen to me," I pleaded. "The realm doesn't need dragons. It needs patience, wisdom, steady change. Like what you've been trying to do."

"The lords resist every small reform," he said, but I could hear uncertainty replacing his earlier desperation. "How can we help people if—"

"By not giving up," I insisted. "By finding new ways. Look." I spread out my own sketches – plans for expanding the city, for building in stages, for making changes that would benefit lords and smallfolk alike. "We don't need to force changes. We need to show people how change benefits everyone."

Grandfather pulled my drawings closer, studying them with new interest. "These are remarkably detailed for one so young," he observed. "Another gift from your dreams?"

I nodded, seizing the opportunity. "I see possibilities, Grandfather. Better ones than dragon fire and force. The smallfolk's lives can be improved, but it has to be done carefully, thoughtfully."

"Tell me," he said, and for the first time since I'd entered, real hope flickered in his eyes.

So I did. I explained how city expansions could include both noble houses and common districts, how improved sewers would benefit everyone's health, how public granaries could actually increase lords' profits while protecting against famine. I showed him how small changes could lead to bigger ones, how resistance could be overcome through demonstration rather than force.

"And you've seen this?" he asked finally. "In your dreams?"

"I've seen many possible futures," I said carefully. "Some bright, some dark. But the brightest ones don't come from dragons or force – they come from wisdom and patience."

Grandfather was silent for a long time, looking between my drawings and my face. Finally, he reached inside his doublet and withdrew a dagger I'd never seen before. The sheath was simple leather, worn smooth by generations of hands.

"There are different kinds of dreams," he said softly. "Different burdens passed from father to son." His hands trembled slightly as he withdrew a dagger unlike any I'd seen before. Even in its sheath, I could see the exceptional craftsmanship - the dragonbone hilt with its blood-red stone, the golden bands that seemed to flow like water frozen in metal. But it wasn't until he drew the blade that my heart nearly stopped. The distinctive rippled patterns of Valyrian steel caught the candlelight, and suddenly I knew exactly what I was looking at.

"Grandfather?"

He held the blade up to a nearby candle, angling it so the firelight caught the etching. "Read it," he said quietly.

I leaned closer to the candlelight, my heart pounding wildly. The dagger's distinctive design was unmistakable - the rippled Valyrian steel blade, the dragonbone hilt with its red stone, the golden bands that seemed to flow like liquid metal. I'd seen this exact weapon twice before, though not in this life. Once when Viserys showed it to Rhaenyra, passing down the burden of prophecy along with the crown. And again, centuries later, when it plunged into the Night King's chest, shattering him into a thousand shards of ice.

My hands trembled as I read the words etched along the blade, their meaning carrying so much more weight than when I'd debated them in my college dorm. "From my blood comes the Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire." RL=J. Jon Snow, the man who deserved so much better than the insulting ending the show gave him.

"You know these words," Grandfather said softly. It wasn't a question. His eyes studied my face with an intensity that made me wonder how much of my shock showed.

"I've... dreamed them," I whispered, the half-truth bitter on my tongue. How could I explain that I'd watched this very dagger's journey across centuries, from one pivotal moment to another, in a past life on a glowing screen?

"My brother Aemon gave me this dagger," Grandfather said, his voice heavy with memory. "After the Great Council of 233, when our father died at Starpike. Father had trusted the burden to Aemon first - he was always the wisest of us." A shadow crossed his face. "When Aemon refused the crown, he passed more than just the succession to me. He passed this knowledge, this duty."

My fingers itched to touch the blade, to confirm it was real. This wasn't just any Valyrian steel dagger - this was *the* dagger. The one that would eventually save all of humanity, though none of them could know that yet.

"Each generation," Grandfather continued, "we pass it not to our firstborn, but to the heir we believe must know. The one who must understand what our family has prepared for since Aegon's time."

"You showed it to Uncle Duncan?" I asked, though I knew he must have. The burden of prophecy would have passed with the title of Prince of Dragonstone.

"When he was heir," Grandfather nodded, pain flickering across his features. "And later to your father, when he took Duncan's place. The burden of knowing what's coming, of understanding what our family must prepare for..." He studied my face intently. "But you've seen it, haven't you? In your dreams?"

I thought of everything I knew - the army of the dead marching south, the Wall falling, the final battle at Winterfell where this very dagger would end the greatest threat Westeros had ever faced. "Yes," I said softly. "I've seen what's coming."

My hand reached out almost of its own accord, fingers hovering just above the blade. The Valyrian steel seemed to ripple in the candlelight, like dark water under a starless sky. This weapon had been present at so many crucial moments in our family's history, and would be again. A physical link between past and future, prophecy and fulfillment.

"Tell no one of this," Grandfather said urgently, drawing the dagger back and resheathing it with practiced care. "The dreams, the prophecy – let it be our secret, for now."

"I won't," I promised fervently, still reeling from the reality of seeing this legendary weapon. "Please, you must keep my dreams secret too. I... I've never told anyone before. It feels strange, having someone finally know."

"The burden of dreams," Grandfather said with profound understanding. "Whether they're of the future or of prophecy, they're heavy things to carry alone." He squeezed my hand. "But you're not alone anymore."

"It's not just the dreams," I admitted, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "Sometimes I feel so old inside, like I've lived another life entirely. And I see things that could be, things that might be, and I want so desperately to make them better..."

"Come here," Grandfather opened his arms, and I fell into them like the child I physically was, letting out everything I'd been holding inside. He held me as I cried, his hand stroking my hair just as he must have done with his own children.

"We'll find a way," he murmured. "Together. No dragons, no force – just wisdom and patience, as you said. And when the time comes for the prophecy to be fulfilled, our family will be ready. Not through fire and force, but through the strength you've shown me today."

"You promise?" I asked, hating how childish I sounded but needing to hear it. "About the dragons? About keeping my dreams secret?"

"I promise," he said solemnly. "On one condition."

I pulled back to look at him. "What?"

"That you'll come to me when the dreams trouble you. No one should bear such burdens alone. I may not understand them all, but I can listen."

I nodded, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. "Thank you," I whispered. "For believing me. For listening."

He pulled back to look at me, his eyes wet but warm. "No, thank you. For being brave enough to speak up, to share your dreams. Now," he smiled, reaching for my city plans, "tell me more about these expansions you've designed. I'm particularly interested in how you plan to convince the lords that new sewers are in their best interest..."

We spent the next hour going over plans and possibilities, the scattered council papers forgotten. With each suggestion I made, I could see Grandfather's enthusiasm returning, his earlier despair replaced by renewed purpose. This was the king I'd read about – the one who'd given up a simpler life to try making the realm better, who'd never lost his love for the common people despite noble resistance.

"You know," he said finally, "when I was young, I had dreams too. Not like yours – more ordinary ones, about making life better for everyone. Sometimes I forget that dreams don't have to be grand to be worthy."

"The best dreams," I said carefully, "are the ones we can build together, step by step."

He smiled, ruffling my hair affectionately. "When did you get so wise, little dragon?"

"I had a good teacher," I smiled back. "A king who chose to serve his people rather than rule them."

Grandfather's eyes softened. "And I have a good reminder – a grandson who sees true power lies not in force, but in wisdom." He gathered up my drawings carefully. "We'll present these plans to the council tomorrow. Together. Let them try arguing against the dreams of a child – especially one who sees so clearly."

As we left the chamber together, his crown back on his head but sitting lighter somehow, I felt a weight lift from my own shoulders. One future averted, one tragedy prevented. It wasn't everything, but it was a start.

"Grandfather?" I asked as we walked.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for listening."

He squeezed my shoulder gently. "Thank you for dreaming better dreams than dragons, little one. Sometimes the oldest eyes need the youngest to see clearly."

We paused at the intersection where our paths would diverge - him to the royal apartments, me back to where my friends would surely be wondering where I'd disappeared to. For a moment, neither of us moved, both aware that something profound had shifted between us.

"You know," Grandfather said softly, "I showed your father that dagger after Duncan married Jenny. He was already a man grown, but still... he understood immediately what it meant for our family, the weight of the prophecy." A small smile touched his lips. "You're the first to suggest we might prepare by building something worth protecting instead."

"The strongest walls," I replied, thinking of all the history I remembered, "are the ones built with hope, not fear."

He studied me for a long moment, then pulled me into a sudden embrace. It wasn't the formal hug of a king to his heir's son, but the fierce embrace of a grandfather who had just found unexpected understanding in his grandson. "We'll build those walls together," he whispered. "Step by step, as you said."

When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Go on now. Your friends will be missing you. And Aerys?" He waited until I turned back. "Dream well, little dragon. Dream of the world as it could be."

I watched him walk away, his crown catching the afternoon light, his steps lighter than I'd seen them in years. Only when he turned the corner did I realize I was crying - not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of having finally shared even a fraction of the weight I carried.

The walk back through the Red Keep's corridors felt dreamlike. Servants and guards bowed as I passed, but I barely noticed, my mind still processing everything that had happened. The dagger, the dreams, the chance to prevent a tragedy that had haunted our family's future...

"There you are!" Rey's voice snapped me from my thoughts. She stood with the twins in one of the castle's many courtyards, where Baelon appeared to be attempting to climb a statue while Alyssa offered helpful suggestions about foot placement. "We've been looking everywhere!"

"Sorry," I said, quickly wiping my eyes. "I had to speak with Grandfather about something."

"Are you crying?" Alyssa asked, immediately abandoning her spotting duties to study my face with concern. At five, she already had an uncanny ability to read emotions.

"Happy tears," I assured her, pulling her into a hug when she still looked worried. "Sometimes good things can make you cry too."

"Like when Mother cried at our nameday celebration?" Baelon asked, thankfully climbing down from his perch.

"Exactly like that."

"Aerys!" Steffon's booming voice echoed across the courtyard. He and Tywin emerged from one of the archways, both looking relieved to find me. "Where have you been? We've been searching since you disappeared from the library."

"Changing the world," I said casually, though I couldn't quite hide my smile. "Or at least starting to."

Tywin's eyebrows rose sharply. "You look... different," he observed with his usual precision. "What happened?"

I looked at my gathered siblings and friends - these people who were so vital to the future I hoped to build. How could I explain that I'd just helped prevent a tragedy none of them knew was coming? That I'd found an unexpected ally in reshaping a future they couldn't see?

"I had a good talk with Grandfather," I said instead. "About dreams, and how to make them real."

"Was it about the story?" Rey asked eagerly. "About Arthos and his round table?"

"Sort of," I smiled. "It was about building something that lasts. Something worth protecting."

"Like what you said in the library?" Steffon asked. "About mercy and justice?"

"And strength through unity rather than fear?" Tywin added, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes sharp with interest.

"Exactly like that." I looked at each of them in turn - Rey with her romantic heart, the twins with their boundless energy, Steffon with his generous spirit, and Tywin with his keen mind and complicated soul. "We're going to build something amazing together. All of us."

"How?" Baelon asked, bouncing on his toes with characteristic enthusiasm.

"Step by step," I said, echoing my words to Grandfather. "Starting with making King's Landing better for everyone who lives here."

"The city improvement plans you've been working on?" Tywin's eyes widened slightly. "The king actually agreed to look at them?"

"Better than that," I grinned. "We're presenting them to the Small Council tomorrow."

"We?" Steffon caught the word immediately. "You mean..."

"Grandfather thinks they'll have a harder time arguing against a child's dreams of a better world." I couldn't help but laugh at their expressions. "Especially when those dreams make more sense than their traditions."

"You're mad," Tywin said, but there was a hint of admiration in his voice. And I resisted the urge to wince at being called mad, even in this good context considering how Canon aerys had earned that moniker "Brilliantly mad, but still..."

"The best dreams usually sound mad at first," I pointed out. "Until they become real."

Alyssa tugged at my sleeve. "Can we help?" she asked seriously. "With making things better?"

I knelt down to her level, including Baelon in my gaze. "Always. That's what family does - we build together, dream together, make things better together."

"Like Arthos and his knights!" Rey exclaimed.

"Exactly like that," I agreed, standing back up. "Now, who's hungry? I think I smell honeycakes from the kitchen..."

As we made our way through the castle corridors, the twins racing ahead while Steffon tried to keep them from colliding with anyone, I felt Tywin fall into step beside me.

"You really believe we can change things?" he asked quietly. "Make them better?"

I thought of Grandfather's embrace, of averted tragedies and new possibilities. "I don't just believe it," I said. "I know it. One step at a time, one dream at a time."

He nodded slowly, something like hope flickering in his eyes. "Then I suppose we'd better get started."

"We already have," I smiled, watching Rey try to demonstrate a proper curtsy to an increasingly dizzy Baelon. "We already have."

Author's Note:

Hey Everyone,

I hope 2025 is treating you all well so far. First, thank you all for your continued support and patience while I navigate the job search (which remains an adventure in itself).

Quick update - The Lost Jedi of Westeros chapter is taking a bit longer than expected. Between juggling multiple stories and a small case of writer's block, I've had to push it back slightly, but it should be up this weekend at the latest.

Incorporating Arthurian legend into this chapter felt natural for William's journey as Aerys. Having someone from our world trying to reshape Westeros while drawing inspiration from stories that have inspired real-world change for centuries... it just clicked. In a way, William sees himself not as Arthur, but as someone who understands how powerful these old tales can be in giving people something to believe in, to strive for. It's about using the stories we all know to build something new.

Writing the scene between Aegon and Aerys hit close to home. That moment when you finally connect with someone, when they truly understand what you're trying to achieve... it's something I've experienced in my own life, and I wanted to capture that feeling authentically here.

As always, massive thanks to .4545 for his editing insights. His feedback helps me keep these character moments grounded and real, especially when writing scenes that draw from personal experience.

Thank you all for being part of this journey. Your engagement with these stories makes the current job search challenges a bit easier to bear.

Looking forward to sharing more with you soon,

Mtle232.

Face Claims List:

Owen Teage as Young Aerys

Alexander Skarsgård as Adult Aerys

Lily Rose Depp as Young Rhaella

Charlize Theron as Adult Rhaella

Hugh Jackman as Ormund Baratheon

Timothée Chalamet as Young Steffon Baratheon

Henry Cavill as Adult Steffon Baratheon

Tom Cullen as Duncan the Small

Emma Stone as Jenny of Oldstones

Nicholas Hoult as Jaehaerys II

Amanda Seyfried as Shaera

Eddie Redmayne as Daeron

Kristen Bell as Rhaelle Targaryen/Baratheon

Tom Felton as Young Tywin

Charles Dance as Adult Tywin

David Wenham as Aegon V

Claire Foy as Queen Betha Blackwood

These are just how I've been picturing the characters while writing, but I'm totally open to other suggestions. If you have different actors in mind who you think would better fit any of these roles, I'd love to hear your thoughts.