Aegon Targaryen had always been the troublemaker of the family.

In a house where the name carried more weight than Valyrian gold, and the sons one by one brought pride and power, the last thing anyone wanted was a lazy, bleached-blond mess like Aegon, a guy who never seemed to care, never looked like he even knew where he was half the time.

Viserys, his father, was a war legend. A general with enough victories under his belt to fill half the archives of Westeros. Some called him the last dragonlord of the battlefield, brilliant, ruthless, and rarely on the losing side.

Aegon? He hadn’t woken up on time a single day in his twenty-five years of life. Let alone picked up a sword with any actual purpose. Every time he tried to do something, he either left it half-done or turned it into a scandal no one could forget.

Alicent, couldn’t even hide her disappointment anymore. And then there was Aemond, The one who made everything worse by being exactly what every noble house dreamed of: Smart. Silent. Sharp.

Top of his class at the military academy. Commanded battalions before most lords even knew how to hold a map. His name filled news scrolls across the realm.

Aegon felt like even the castle servants bowed deeper for Aemond. While for him? He was lucky if they brought his tea before it went cold.

Eventually, Viserys gave up waiting for miracles and decided to gamble instead.

There was a rebellion brewing in the western Stormlands, a handful of minor keeps turning against the crown. It wasn’t a huge war, but it was bloody enough to matter. Viserys, without explanation or ceremony, chose Aegon to lead the campaign.

“You’re sending me into an actual war?” Aegon said it while still wearing last night’s party clothes, his hair a mess and smelling like the bottom of a wine barrel.

He didn’t even know how he’d ended up in where he was sitting now. The night at the military outpost in western Stormlands was cold and heavy. A thick fog had swallowed the darkness, creeping between the stone walls and rusted barbed wire. The flickering candles cast long, strange shadows on the dusty stone-paved ground.

Aegon stood silently next to the supply depot. It was the kind of place that kept soldiers alive, and Aegon’s instincts told him something was off.

Then it came, a faint rustling noise from the far end of the warehouse.

He held his breath, stilled his body, and moved carefully toward it, steps slow and steady. He flicked on his old torchlight and swept the beam across the shelves. There, a small shadow, ducking and weaving through crates, stuffing food packets into a cloth bag.

The figure’s face was hidden behind a black scarf. From the quick, light movements, Aegon guessed it was a skinny boy, probably the kind forced to grow up too fast. The way he moved… it wasn’t his first time escaping.

“Stop!” Aegon shouted, voice sharp and commanding. But the little thief didn’t even flinch, just turned and ran. Aegon exhaled hard and took off after him. His boots hit the stone with weight and purpose.

The chase spilled out of the warehouse and into the fog-choked night. The cold air clawed at their lungs, and the only sounds left were two sets of footsteps and Aegon’s heavy breathing. The thief was fast, fast enough to gain some distance, but Aegon was relentless. Patient. Closing in, inch by inch.

Finally, near a withered old tree outside the perimeter wall, Aegon reached out and grabbed the thief’s arm. With firm control, he yanked the black cloth away from their face.

A cascade of long, black hair tumbled onto narrow shoulders. Aegon froze. It wasn’t a boy. It was a girl.

Still holding her arm tight, his face twisted with confusion and quiet fury. He took a sharp breath, voice rough and low. “You’re… a girl?”