A century ago, Aegon Targaryen and his Queens brought fire and blood to a divided continent, wielding the power and legacy of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, Dragons!

Fate would take an unexpected turn in the wake of a royal birth, many claiming it to be the second coming of the Conqueror reborn, others. the 'second Maegor' while very few, ones who were attuned to the very flames and dreams that comprised such a child...the one who was promised! He would be the second birth a dynasty capable of bending the very elements to their will. 

Things would never be the same...

Red Keep

King's Landing

Crown Lands

Westeros

12/2/97 AC (D/M/Y)

The torrential downpour over King's Landing showed no signs of abating, casting the Red Keep in a grim silhouette against the stormy sky. The sheets of rain drumming against the stone walls created a symphony of nature's fury, as if the gods themselves bore witness to the monumental events unfolding within. Thunder rolled like the roar of dragons, lightning flashing intermittently to illuminate the sprawling fortress that loomed over the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

Inside the fortress, the grand halls of Maegor's Holdfast were alive with a frenetic energy, servants rushing through shadowy corridors lit by guttering torches. The air was thick with anticipation and unease as the screams of Princess Aemma Arryn echoed through the royal apartments. She labored in agony, her cries a haunting refrain in the storm-ravaged night.

Prince Viserys paced near the hearth, his face pale and drawn, betraying the turmoil within. At his side stood his father, Prince Baelon, a stoic figure of calm amidst the chaos. The older man placed a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder, his voice steady despite the screams that threatened to unnerve even the hardiest of men.

"She is strong, my boy," Baelon said, his tone carrying the weight of conviction. "Aemma will endure. Trust in her strength as I trusted in your mother's."

Viserys turned to him, his voice breaking with the weight of his fears. "Three times before, Father. Three times, and each ended in sorrow. I don't know if I can bear it again."

Baelon's expression softened, the faintest flicker of shared grief passing across his stern visage. "The gods are cruel, that much is certain," he murmured. "But despair is a battle lost before it is fought. Stand firm. Aemma needs you now more than ever."

The younger prince nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes. He returned to Aemma's side, gripping her hand tightly as the midwives bustled around her. The flames of the hearth cast flickering shadows across the room, and for a moment, Viserys allowed himself to hope.

Then, a piercing cry shattered the tension. The room stilled as one of the midwives held up a squirming infant, her face alight with relief and joy. "A girl, my prince! Strong and healthy as a foal!"

Viserys approached, his hands trembling as he took the swaddled child from the midwife. The baby's cries were fierce, her tiny fists flailing as if already protesting her place in the world. Baelon's hearty laugh filled the room.

"She has her mother's lungs!" he boomed. "And her father's fire, no doubt. A fine knight, or perhaps the terror of the embroidery circle."

The room warmed with a fleeting moment of joy as the midwives gathered to tend to the weary princess. Viserys knelt beside Aemma, his voice thick with emotion as he placed their daughter in her arms. "A girl, Aemma. The gods have given us a girl."

Aemma smiled weakly, her tears mingling with the sheen of sweat on her face. "She's perfect," she whispered before her body convulsed once more, sending a ripple of alarm through the room.

The midwives exchanged glances of realization, another child was coming.

Chaos resumed as Aemma's labor began anew. Baelon, with uncharacteristic gentleness, took his granddaughter into his arms to give the midwives space. "Stay with her, son," he said firmly to Viserys, his gaze steady. "She needs you more than ever now."

The second birth came swiftly, though not without its own peculiar trials. When the child was finally delivered, the room fell into an unnatural stillness. The newborn did not cry. Instead, his eyes opened, piercing amethysts that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. The hearthfire flickered and dimmed, the air heavy with an unspoken tension. A tremor shook the floor, sending a vase crashing to the ground.

And then, as abruptly as it began, the strange phenomena ceased. The hearth blazed to life once more, its warmth dispelling the chill that had crept into the room. The infant sighed softly and drifted into a peaceful slumber.

"A boy," Viserys breathed, his voice barely audible over the renewed crackling of the fire. He stepped forward, hesitant yet compelled, and accepted the child from the midwife. The weight of the boy in his arms felt monumental, as though he held the destiny of House Targaryen itself.

The night wore on, and the news of the twins spread through the Red Keep, reaching the ears of the Old King, Jaehaerys, and his queen, Alysanne. They received the newborns in their private chambers, their age-worn faces lighting up with rare joy. Alysanne took the girl, cooing softly as she cradled her great-granddaughter, while Jaehaerys accepted the boy with a gravity that matched the child's inexplicable presence.

"Have you named them?" Jaehaerys asked, his voice low and resonant.

Viserys inclined his head. "The girl is Rhaenyra. The boy..." He hesitated before meeting his grandfather's gaze. "Aegon."

Jaehaerys stilled, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the boy's unnervingly vivid gaze. Slowly, he nodded. "Aegon," he repeated, the name carrying the weight of prophecy.

Later that night, in the depths of the Red Keep, Viserys stood before the skull of Balerion the Black Dread, the shadow of the past looming as heavily as the skull itself. Baelon and Jaehaerys stood either side of him, the Old King holding a Valyrian steel dagger over a brazier. The blade glowed faintly, its surface revealing ancient Valyrian script as it heated. Viserys gently handed the babe to his grandfather before carefully taking the dragonbone hilt of the blade into his grasp. 

"When Aegon looked across the blackwater, he saw a divided and rich land, ripe for the capture. It, however, was not solely conquest that drove him. He bore a dream, one of a all encompassing darkness to the north, one that will bring low the world of man it doesn't stand united.

It is to begin with a terrible winter, one that will last a generation. From it, death itself to stride forth. It was beaten back once before, by Fire, and in order to do it again, a Targaryen must sit the Iron Throne. This was been passed from king to king since Aegon's time, and one must know it to sit the Throne. Aegon called his dream, the Song of Ice and Fire" Jaehaerys recited the prophecy, a driven, almost somber severity painted across his and Baelon's face, unlike anything Viserys had ever seen. 

The young prince looked down at the dagger, studying it's inscription intently. "From my blood, comes the Prince that was promised, and his shall be the Song of Ice and Fire..."