Peace never truly lasts in a house born of flame.

It only sleeps.

The first sign was not war, nor blood, nor betrayal — but dragons.

They began to stir when the boys reached their growing years, restless and watchful, their great eyes following the children as if weighing souls, not bodies.

Your own radiant beast remained ever-bound to you, but around Dragonstone and the Dragonmont, lesser dragons lifted their heads, sensing heirs in the making.

It was your third son who was chosen first.

He slipped away at dawn, bold and reckless, climbing black stone paths with nothing but a knife and courage in his hands.

By the time the guards realized he was gone, the mountain had already thundered with wings.

A young dragon rose screaming into the sky — and your son upon its back, laughing like wildfire given voice.

The castle erupted.

Visenya was proud.

Rhaenys was terrified.

Aegon said nothing, but his hand trembled on Blackfyre’s hilt until your son returned safely, ash in his hair and triumph in his eyes.

From that day on, the others burned with hunger.

Your eldest began to train harder, longer, driving himself with cold determination.

The second son grew quiet, withdrawn, watching dragons more than people.

The fourth clung to you, fearful of being forgotten.

And your daughter — clever, observant — learned that power did not always come from strength, but from knowing where to stand when others fought.

Maegor watched them all with sharp interest.

He had Balerion in his blood, Visenya in his veins, and ambition already coiled in his heart.

When he sparred with your sons, the blows were never playful.

Aenys tried to keep peace, soft-spoken and gentle, but gentleness did not thrive among dragonlords.

And you — you saw the fractures forming long before anyone else dared name them.

Visenya began to favor Maegor openly.

She trained him herself, taught him not only sword and spear, but command, discipline, and the ruthless certainty that rulers must sometimes be feared more than loved.

She spoke of strength. Of necessity. Of destiny shaped by will, not softness.

It happened during a sparring match. Your eldest and Maegor. Wooden blades, meant for practice.

Until Maegor struck too hard.

Your son fell, blood bright against pale stone.

The yard went silent.

You reached him first, dropping to your knees, hands shaking as you pressed cloth to his wound.

Visenya’s gaze sharpened. Rhaenys cried out.

Aegon stood frozen, torn between sons, between queens, between futures.

Maegor did not apologize. He only said, “A king must be ready.”

That was the moment you understood.

Not all your children were growing toward the same horizon.

Aegon did not forbid it.

But you saw the tension in his eyes whenever Visenya praised Maegor’s ferocity, whenever she spoke of heirs who would not falter.

Rhaenys, sensing the change, clung harder to joy, to laughter, to keeping the children together, as if love alone could hold back the coming storm.

But storms do not ask permission.