A Song of Ash and Empire

8 Moons Later

The training yard smelled of dust, sweat, and smelly underarms.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, watching his younger brother Viserys flail wildly with a wooden sword. Viserys, at seven years old, was a boy of sharp angles and even sharper nerves. His violet eyes were narrowed in concentration as he swung the practice blade at an imaginary foe, his feet tangling with each other like a marionette with half-cut strings.

"Your footwork's terrible," Rhaegar said dryly, leaning against a low stone wall.

Viserys froze mid-swing, glaring at him. "I'm practicing!"

"You're flailing," Rhaegar corrected. He gestured lazily with one hand. "A dragon doesn't swat at its prey like a drunk septon trying to catch flies. You're supposed to look intimidating."

"I am intimidating!" Viserys declared, puffing out his chest.

"The only people intimidated by you are the cooks when you steal bread," Rhaegar replied, his tone deadpan.

Viserys scowled and swung the wooden sword again, this time with more determination. "I'll be better than you one day," he muttered under his breath.

Rhaegar's lips twitched into a faint smile. "I look forward to it. Until then, you might want to stop tripping over your own feet."

Behind him, the sound of small, rapid footsteps approached, and he barely had time to turn before a smaller figure barreled into his side with all the grace of a charging goat.

"Rhaegar!"

He stumbled slightly, catching himself against the wall as his youngest brother, Daemon, latched onto his waist like a limpet. Daemon, at five years old, was already an unholy combination of boundless energy and absolute chaos. His silver hair was an unruly mess, his cheeks smudged with dirt from whatever mischief he'd been up to before running into the yard.

"Daemon," Rhaegar said with exaggerated patience, looking down at the toddler clinging to him. "You're covered in mud. Again."

"I'm a dragon!" Daemon declared, looking up at him with wide, gleaming violet eyes. "Dragons aren't afraid of mud!"

"No, but nursemaids are," Rhaegar said, gently prying Daemon off his waist. "You're going to give those poor maids a heart attack one of these days."

Viserys lowered his wooden sword and smirked at their youngest brother. "He thinks he's a dragon," he said, his tone teasing. "Dragons don't fall into ponds, Daemon."

"I didn't fall," Daemon shot back, his face scrunching up indignantly. "I jumped. Dragons jump into ponds all the time!"

"Do they?" Rhaegar asked, his tone laced with amusement. "I must have missed that part of history. Was it Balerion or Vhagar who became famous for belly-flopping into Blackwater Bay?"

Daemon puffed up like a furious sparrow, his little fists clenching. "You're making fun of me!"

"Of course I am," Rhaegar said, patting him on the head. "That's what older brothers are for."

Viserys laughed at that, but his amusement was short-lived as the wooden sword in his hand slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. He stared at it for a moment, his cheeks flushing red as he quickly bent to retrieve it.

"Careful," Rhaegar said. "You'll scare all those imaginary knights you're fighting."

Viserys glared at him, but there was no real heat in it. "You think you're so clever," he muttered.

"I don't think," Rhaegar replied smoothly. "I know."

Daemon, clearly bored with their conversation, picked up a stick from the ground and began waving it around wildly. "I'm going to fight you!" he declared, pointing the stick at Rhaegar with all the confidence of a three-year-old who had never lost a fight in his life.

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Oh? And what's your plan, mighty dragon? Poke me to death?"

"Yes!" Daemon shouted, charging at him with the stick raised high above his head.

Rhaegar caught the stick easily, holding it steady as Daemon tugged on it with all his might. "Impressive strategy," Rhaegar said dryly. "But it might need some work."

"Let me win!" Daemon demanded, his face scrunched up in determination.

"Winning doesn't mean anything if I let you," Rhaegar said, loosening his grip just enough for Daemon to stumble back with the stick. "Now go practice on someone your own size. Like Viserys."

Viserys groaned. "Why me?"

Before Daemon could launch another "attack," the sound of footsteps echoed across the yard. All three brothers turned to see their father, Baelon Targaryen, approaching with his usual purposeful stride. His silver hair gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the stern set of his jaw softened slightly as he caught sight of them.

"What are you lot up to?" Baelon asked, his gaze sweeping over his sons.

"Training," Viserys said quickly, raising his wooden sword as if to prove the point.

"Playing," Daemon corrected, waving his stick in the air.

"Laughing at both of them," Rhaegar added, his tone perfectly even.

Baelon chuckled, shaking his head. "At least one of you is honest."

Rhaegar stepped forward, brushing a speck of dust off his tunic. "Father, you know I can't help it if my brothers provide endless material for mockery. It's a gift, really."

Viserys scowled. "You're not funny."

"You're right," Rhaegar said nodding solemnly. "I'm hilarious."

Even Baelon smiled at that, though he quickly masked it with a cough. "Enough banter. Viserys, go back to your training. Daemon…" He hesitated, glancing at the stick in the toddler's hands. "Try not to hurt yourself."

"And me?" Rhaegar asked, tilting his head.

"You," Baelon said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "are coming with me. Your request for a meeting with your grandfather has been granted. I will also be present there. A private meeting between just the three of us as you asked."

Baelon continued sighing. "It remains a mystery to me why my father seems to entertain anything as long it's about you."

Rhaegar smirked. "It's obvious Father, I am his favorite grandchild."

Baelon snorted.

As he followed his father out of the yard he looked back at his brothers. Daemon was already swinging his stick at a startled stable boy, and Viserys was glaring at the wooden sword in his hands as if willing it to cooperate.

Despite himself, Rhaegar smiled.

They were chaotic, stubborn, and endlessly irritating. But they were his brothers. And in a world that so often felt cold and precarious, they were one of the few constants he could rely on.

"Don't trip, Viserys!" Rhaegar called over his shoulder.

"And don't fall into a pond, Daemon!"

The protests that followed were loud enough to echo through the yard, and Rhaegar's smirk grew wider.

As soon as they exited the training yard, Rhaegar's expression shifted from amused to serious. He turned to Baelon with purpose.

"Are we meeting Grandfather in his solar?"

Baelon nodded. "Yes."

Without another word, Rhaegar immediately changed directions and took off in a sprint.

"I need to pick something from my room!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Baelon blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then frowned. "Rhaegar your grandfather is—"

The boy was already gone, a streak of silver hair disappearing down the corridor.

Baelon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

His father, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, had granted a rare special private meeting, and his son—the same son who had insisted on this—had just run off in the opposite direction like a child who had forgotten his favorite toy.

"By the gods," Baelon muttered, rubbing his forehead.