Chapter 8: The Beginning

264 AC

In the royal compartments of the central keep, in that tallest and most fortified part of the Red Keep, the soft light of dawn filtered through the narrow window of Rhaemon's chamber, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The room was simple yet dignified, befitting his status as a Targaryen Prince. However, the grandeur of his lineage was far from his mind as he stood in the center of the room, his small form poised in a Northern Shaolin kung fu stance.

Rhaemon's breaths were measured and deep, a testament to the discipline he had cultivated over the past few years. His body, though still that of a child, moved with a precision and intent far beyond his years. Each stance, each flow, was executed with an almost obsessive attention to detail, drawn from the vivid memories that were now an intrinsic part of him.

His frustration mounted with every failed attempt to produce fire. He could feel the energy within him, a latent power that seemed just out of reach. The fire was there, he was certain of it, yet it refused to manifest. Every time he extended his palm, expecting the familiar warmth and flicker of flames, there was nothing but the cool morning air.

With a grunt of exertion, Rhaemon shifted into another stance, his movements fluid and graceful. He had spent hours upon hours practicing, refining his techniques, and mastering his breathing control. His dedication was unwavering, driven by a desire to harness the powers he believed were his by right. Yet, as the moments ticked by without success, doubt began to creep in.

"Why won't it work?" he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with frustration. "I've done everything right. The breathing, the stances... Why can't I produce the flames?"

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his own rapid breathing, opposite to the calm, controlled breaths he had been practicing. He forced himself to slow down, closing his eyes and focusing inward. He visualized the flame, small and flickering, nestled deep within his core. He tried to coax it out, willing it to travel up through his body and out into his palm.

But again, there was nothing.

With an exasperated sigh, Rhaemon sagged to the floor, the cold stone a stark reminder of his failure. He drew his knees to his chest, feeling the weight of his own expectations pressing down on him. He had been training for years—years that felt like an eternity to someone so young—and yet he had nothing to show for it.

"Why can't I do it?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. He ran a hand through his sweaty platinum blonde hair, "fuck… what am I doing wrong?"

As he sat there, the memories of his past life and the knowledge he had gained from his reincarnation swirled within him. They were a part of him now, influencing his thoughts and actions, merging with his own personality. It was a strange, disorienting experience, and he often felt like he was caught between four worlds.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, Rhaemon gave up for the day and laid down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His mind wandered back to the early years of his infancy, when he had focused solely on meditation and mastering his breathing control. For the first two years of his new life, he had done nothing but meditate, honing his inner strength and control. Then, for the past three years, he had dedicated himself to training the basic movements and stances of the Firebending martial arts.

Turning his head to the side, his gaze fell upon the fireplace where two of his dragon stone eggs lay resting. The eggs were a constant reminder of his unique and incredible power he held. He thought about how he had hatched Poseidon, Noctis, and Stormfyre. He remembered the void, the coloured flames, the intense fire that had erupted from him, flames that were entirely his own that hatched the three eggs but two. 

"Why did only three of them hatch?" he wondered aloud. "What was different about those moments compared to now?"

He pondered this question, trying to recall every detail of that fateful day. During the time when he was still in coma, the void, the darkness, and then the flames—the overwhelming pain that brought his dragons to life—and his consciousness coming back into the living. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered emotion and instinct.

He needed to produce his own flames again, he thought resolutely, determination rekindling within him. "I need to feel that same intensity, that same drive. If I can do that, maybe I can hatch the other two eggs."

Rhaemon knew he had the ability to produce the flames. If he had done it before, he could do it again. He just needed to find the right trigger, the right spark to ignite the fire within him.

Rhaemon was brought out of his musings when a knock echoed from his door. A clear, loud voice greeted him through the thick wood, "Good morning, Prince Rhaemon. It's time to get up and ready yourself to break your fast with the royal family."

Rhaemon sighed softly, pushing himself up from the cold floor. "I'm already awake, Ser Oswald," he called back, his voice carrying a hint of cheerfulness despite his earlier frustrations.

The door creaked open, and Ser Oswald Frey entered, a tall looking young man with lean muscles, decked in armor. He was followed closely by an older looking man, a head shorter but with a larger stature than him, and several servants carrying towels, a bucket of water, and fresh clothes. The servants immediately began their routine, fussing over Rhaemon to help him prepare for the day.

"Good morning, everyone!" Rhaemon greeted them cheerfully, his bright smile lighting up the room. The servants, already accustomed to their Prince's charms and childlike cuteness, smiled back warmly and replied with their own greetings. They were honored to serve a Prince who treated them with such kindness.

Dagmer, yawning loudly, stretched his arms as he entered the room. Ser Oswald shot him a disapproving look, his posture stiffening as he scolded, "Mind your manners, Dagmer. We're in the presence of the Prince."

Dagmer rolled his eyes and shrugged, his expression brash and unapologetic. "It's too early for me to be dealing with your issues on manners and whatnot, Oswald."

Rhaemon laughed, a sound that filled the room with warmth. "It's alright, Ser Oswald. Don't mind it. I don't."

The Knight's stern expression softened at Rhaemon's words, though he still cast a wary glance at Dagmer, who smirked in response. Rhaemon found the duo amusing—Ser Oswald, the disciplined and loyal knight, and Dagmer, the brash yet skilled Braavosi sellsword. They were an odd pair, but their dynamic intrigued him.

Ser Oswald was only eighteen, knighted at sixteen and one of many elder sons of Walder Frey. His dedication and loyalty were unwavering, and he had a calm yet determined demeanor. Dagmer, on the other hand, was twenty-eight, a seasoned warrior who had honed his skills in the cutthroat underworld of Braavos. His carefree attitude and blunt mannerisms often clashed with Oswald's disciplined nature, but Rhaemon liked them both.

As the servants continued to help Rhaemon get dressed, he observed his sworn swords with a fond smile. They were a funny duo in his eyes, opposites in many ways but both skilled in the art of the sword. His grandfather had chosen them well, and they had trained with the Kingsguard for two years before swearing their oaths to him.

Once he was dressed and ready, Rhaemon looked at his guards and the servants, his eyes sparkling with gratitude. "Thank you, everyone."

Oswald nodded respectfully, and Dagmer gave a casual salute, his smirk still in place. The servants bowed and began to tidy up the room.

"Let's go and break our fast," Rhaemon said, leading the way.

As Rhaemon made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, multiple servants greeted him warmly, bowing as he passed. Rhaemon greeted each of them back with a bright smile, his cheerful demeanor lighting up the early morning. The guards stationed at each corner acknowledged him with respectful nods, and he returned the gesture with a wave, his small frame exuding a noble yet approachable air.

Oswald and Dagmer followed closely behind, their contrasting personalities evident in their mannerisms. Oswald walked with a disciplined stride, ever alert, while Dagmer sauntered leisurely, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a practiced nonchalance.

As Rhaemon neared the dining area, excitement bubbled within him. He broke into a run, his youthful energy propelling him forward. He burst through the doors with a wide grin, his voice ringing out, "Good morning!"

The dining hall was already filled with the presence of his family. His father, King Aerys II, sat at the head of the table with a commanding presence, his mother, Rhaella, cradled baby Shaera in her arms, and his twin brother, Rhaegar, sat quietly, acknowledging Rhaemon's entrance with a sleepy nod.

"Good morning, my little dragon," Rhaella greeted warmly, her eyes filled with maternal affection. "How did you sleep?"

Rhaemon beamed at his mother. "I slept well, Mother. Thank you."

Aerys grinned widely, his eyes twinkling with pride as he regarded his eldest son. "Look at you, Rhaemon, full of high spirits even in the morning. Come, sit and eat."

Rhaemon eagerly took his place beside Rhaegar, his stomach growling in anticipation. Training had been exhausting, and he was ravenous. He started piling food onto his plate with gusto, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the times he had passed out from overexertion as a baby. He remembered how he had fallen asleep right after hatching the dragon eggs, the effort too much for his small body to handle at the time.

As he focused on his meal, he heard a soft cooing sound. Lifting his head, he saw baby Shaera looking at him from Rhaella's arms, her tiny face lighting up with a giggle as he made a funny face at her. Her laughter was infectious, and Rhaemon's heart swelled with affection for his new sister.

Shaera was a miracle, the first and last sister he and Rhaegar would have. Rhaella had endured a difficult labor to bring her into the world, and Grand Maester Pycelle had warned them that Shaera might not have survived without their mother risking her own life. Rhaella's determination and strength had prevailed, but it had come at a cost—she could no longer bear children.

Rhaemon's thoughts briefly turned to the future he remembered from his past life. Without Viserys and Daenerys, the future was even more uncertain. But as he looked around the table at his family, he realized that he didn't care all that much. He had grown to love his new family deeply, and he adored his little sister. He would protect them himself, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

"Rhaemon, your training must be going well," Aerys commented, watching his son devour his breakfast. "You have quite the appetite."

Rhaemon grinned between bites. "Yes, Father. Training is hard, but it makes me hungry."

He found it increasingly burdensome to conceal the fact that he had already undertaken the arduous task of training his physique and enacting peculiar movements, akin to the ancient arts of combat. When he was merely four namedays, he felt compelled to spin a tale of dragon dreams and nonsensical claims of an ancient dragon instructing him in the ways of fire and its wielding. 

Once his family were swayed by these fanciful accounts, Rhaemon freely commenced his physical training, no longer confined to the secrecy of his own chambers. Often he would practice his stances in the courtyards or other open spaces, drawing the curious gaze of onlookers. Yet, these observers remained perplexed, for the martial disciplines he employed—the Northern Shaolin practices and the Kendo swordplay—were foreign to the realm of Planetos.

Only the occasional knights, interested by these strange movements, would pause to watch him. But they quickly departed once Rhaemon informed them that he had learned these techniques through his dragon-inspired visions.

Aerys laughed heartily, the sound echoing through the hall. "Good! A strong appetite means a strong body. Keep up the hard work, my son."

As the family meal wound down, Rhaella gently dabbed at Shaera's mouth with a cloth and looked up at her husband and sons. "I received a raven earlier this morning from Lady Joanna," she announced. "She wrote to say that she is expecting to give birth in the coming weeks."

Aerys nodded thoughtfully. "Tywin should arrive back at Casterly Rock in due time, then. Good thing I dismissed him a month ago for a long vacation to support his lady wife during her labor. He won't be returning for a few months."

Rhaemon listened intently, assuming quietly that Lady Joanna was most likely going to give birth to the twins. Jaime and Cersei Lannister. 

Aerys turned his attention to Rhaemon, his expression serious but affectionate. "Rhaemon, I want you to come with me to attend the small council meeting later. It is time for you to start learning and observing how to rule."

Rhaemon's eyes lit up with excitement. Finally, he thought, a chance to start suggesting ideas to help improve the Seven Kingdoms. Even though he knew they probably wouldn't take a five-year-old's words seriously, he hoped to start ingraining his ideas and proving his brilliance to them. "Yes, Father!" he replied enthusiastically, before turning his attention back to his dessert.

As he took a bite of his sweet treat, Rhaemon glanced over at Rhaegar, who was engrossed in his own apple pie. They were fraternal twins, each with their own strengths and interests. Rhaegar was more studious and equally smart, even for a child, often found with his nose buried in a book.

An idea struck Rhaemon, and he opened his mouth again. "Father, may Rhaegar come as well?" he asked. "If I am to be King, then I want my brother to be my future Hand."

A moment of stunned silence fell over the table. Rhaegar's eyes widened slightly, and even Rhaella paused, her expression showing surprise and pride. Aerys looked at his eldest son with renewed respect.

"That is a great idea, Rhaemon," Aerys said, nodding in approval. "Yes, Rhaegar should attend as well. It's important for both of you to learn the ways of ruling."

Rhaella smiled warmly, saying nothing but clearly pleased with Rhaemon's foresight and consideration. Rhaegar, however, looked somewhat betrayed. He muttered under his breath about stupid brothers and plans being ruined to read books all day.

Rhaemon couldn't help but laugh at Rhaegar's reaction. "You'll thank me one day, brother," he teased, nudging his brother playfully.

Rhaegar glared, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Fine, but you owe me," he conceded, shaking his head.