Rhaegar Targaryen hated his name.
Not in the way children hated their names because they sounded strange, or their peers teased them. No, he hated his name because it felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Every time someone called him Rhaegar, he couldn't help but think about the Rhaegar—the crown prince who had started a war, lost everything, and brought a dynasty to its knees.
Whenever someone addressed him with that name, he could almost hear the universe laughing.
"Rhaegar," someone had said when he was barely a year old, cooing over him like he was some divine gift. "Such a strong name for a strong boy."
Is it? He'd thought bitterly, though all he could manage at the time was an angry gurgle. Do you know what happened to the last one?
He'd had a long time to get used to the absurdity of his situation, but even now, at eight years old, it felt surreal.
How did this happen? Why me?
He'd asked himself those questions countless times, in the quiet hours of the night when the world seemed still and the weight of his new life pressed down on him. It wasn't as though he'd been very remarkable in his first life. Just a modern man, young and full of unfulfilled potential. He had enough education to have been called highly qualified but still, he wasn't a great hero or some brilliant thinker. He was just… a person.
And then he'd died. That part was still hazy in his mind. He remembered flashes—bright lights, screaming, the cold bite of fear—and then nothing. He'd woken up as a baby, surrounded by strange faces and a world that felt both alien and unnervingly familiar.
It hadn't taken him very long to realize where he was.
His first clue had been the hair.
Silver. Almost blinding in the sunlight. It was everywhere—on his mother, his father, even on himself when he managed to catch his reflection in the polished surface of a golden plate. His family spoke in a mix of what sounded like a language imitating English, he could pick up on it, but the other language, he had absolutely no idea, it sounded elegant, and flowing, their voices smooth and lilting. The words had triggered a faint spark of curiosity in his brain.
Then there were the dragons.
The first time he saw one, he nearly choked to death. A creature of impossible size and power, its wings casting a shadow over everything as it descended, its roar shaking the very earth beneath him.
At that moment, everything clicked. The hair, the languages, everything.
Oh. Oh no.
Reborn as a Targaryen.
It could be fun, with dragons and other things but all he could think about was the staggering mountain of problems the Targaryens would face. Rebellion, war, betrayal, madness—it was all waiting just a few decades down the road.
And worst of all, he wasn't just any Targaryen. He was the eldest son of Baelon Targaryen, the future Prince of Dragonstone. He was the elder brother of Viserys and Daemon Targaryen.
Not just a bystander, then. I'm in the thick of it. Great.
He hadn't handled it well at first.
As a baby, he could do little but cry in frustration, his tiny fists waving in the air as if demanding answers from the universe. His memories were intact—fully intact—and they overwhelmed him. The smells, the sounds, the sights of this medieval world clashed painfully with the sterile modernity of his first life.
His parents had mistaken his early wailing for hunger or discomfort, rushing to soothe him with warm milk and soft lullabies. But nothing could soothe the screaming storm of questions in his mind.
What am I supposed to do? How can I change anything when I can't even walk yet? What if I screw this up?
For the first few years, his life became a delicate balancing act— trying to pretend as a normal child while silently absorbing everything around him. He learned to walk, to talk, to smile when spoken to, and to play the part of a loveable Targaryen prince. But beneath the surface, his mind raced.
What do I know? What can I use? What can I do?
The hardest part hadn't been the fear or the frustration. It had been the initial isolation.
How could he explain to anyone what he was? Who he was? His parents looked at him with love, and his siblings with affection, but they would never understand the storm raging inside him. A stranger in a familiar world.
Even now, years later, the isolation lingered in a corner.
The only solace he found was in planning.
His mind had always been sharp—he was good at spotting patterns, thinking steps ahead, and solving problems. As a child, he'd devoured every scrap of knowledge he could find, his hunger for understanding insatiable. His tutors had marveled at his intellect, calling him a prodigy, but in truth, he was simply desperate.
Every piece of information he gathered became another brick in the foundation of his plans. He studied history, economics, politics, and even dragonlore, piecing together a strategy to prevent the Targaryens from imploding.
The Faith of the Seven? A dangerous thorn. That would need to be handled carefully. The Stepstones? A potential powder keg. They could become a staging ground for Essosi powers or rebellious lords. The dragons? Their greatest strength, but also a vulnerability.
Bit by bit, he began to shape a blueprint.
Of course, his memories weren't perfect. While he did know a considerable amount of lore about the world he now lived in, he didn't have an encyclopedia of Planetos or Westerosi history tucked away in his brain, just the broad strokes. Key events, major players, and timelines that blurred and shifted at the edges.
And then there was the nagging doubt: What if things don't play out the way I remember?
This wasn't a story anymore—it was real, messy, unpredictable. People weren't characters; they had free will, motivations, and secrets. He had to remind himself constantly that even the smallest action could ripple outward, changing the course of events in ways he couldn't foresee.
But that was fine. If anything, it would mean that things could be changed.
Still, some moments reminded him just how strange his situation was.
Like when his nursemaids cooed over him as a baby, calling him a "sweet little dragon prince." Or when Daemon—barely old enough to string a sentence together—declared dramatically, "I'm going to have a dragon bigger than yours, Rhaegar!"
"Of course you are, Daemon," Rhaegar had replied dryly. "I'll save you a bigger saddle."
Or when Viserys, ever uselessly curious, had asked, "Do you think dragons ever get bored?"
"Why?" Rhaegar had asked. "Are you worried they'll start playing board games?"
His horrific sense of humor helped. It kept him sane.
And now, at eight years old, he stood on the precipice, it would all start to begin now. He could feel it in his bones. His plans were beginning to take shape, slowly but surely.
There were cracks in his plans, yes. But cracks could be sealed. Hopefully.
Rhaegar allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.
The universe gave me a second chance, he thought. Let's see what I can do with it.