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Game of Thrones: Azeroth? This Is Westeros!
Game of Thrones: Starborn Conqueror
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Game of Thrones: Joffrey the Ruthless Emperor
Under the midday sun, Daeron led Shaena and the rest of the kids down to the Dragonpit.
Inside the huge domed chamber, shafts of light cut through the shadows and painted everything in shifting patches of gold and gray.
"Dragons are dangerous as hell," Daeron said, running his hand along Caraxes's jaw while he lectured his little brothers. "But they're also smart. They pick who they like and who they don't."
The dragons had been gone for a hundred and fifty years. The only thing the Targaryens had left was whatever the maesters wrote in books—and most of that was pure guesswork.
You think you can just scribble down dragon lore if you've never been a dragonlord yourself? Come on.
"Watch them today," Daeron told the boys. "When you get your own eggs or hatchlings later, you'll bond way stronger if you actually understand them."
He walked them through every habit he'd learned the hard way—how dragons chose riders, how they tested loyalty, how they remembered slights for decades.
Jaehaerys and Viserys stared up at the massive beasts with their mouths hanging open like they'd never seen the world before.
Daeron was teaching them on purpose. He'd realized the Targaryen way of raising kids had a massive flaw.
After Aegon the Conqueror took the Seven Kingdoms, he'd bent over backward to fit in with the local lords. He copied Andal customs left and right. Hell, he even built a sept inside the Aegonfort just to keep the Faith happy.
Andal tradition meant strict primogeniture—eldest son gets everything.
On paper it sounded stable. Keep the family lands together, right?
But every system has a dark side.
Look at Hoster Tully: oldest son, inherits Riverrun and the title of Lord Paramount of the Trident. He gets it all.
His far more talented brother, the Blackfish, gets jack shit. Brynden spent his whole life as a landed knight, propping up Hoster and smiling while he did it.
That's the ugly truth of "eldest son takes all." The younger sons either orbit the heir forever or they starve.
For most noble houses in Westeros, it worked fine. The second son had no leverage anyway, so he served the elder and the family stayed united.
But Targaryens weren't most houses.
Targaryens were dragonlords. Every single one of them had the blood to ride dragons. One good mount turned even a spare into a walking apocalypse who could gather armies overnight.
Daeron was living proof. People ignored primogeniture completely because he had Caraxes. They backed him over Rhaegar anyway.
Some people said Rhaegar screwed up and ruined his own name by running off with Lyanna. That wasn't the real problem. Rhaegar's reputation was still decent—the only stain was a moral one. The rebellion started because the great lords had already been plotting, and the hot-headed Starks handed Aerys the perfect excuse to execute them.
From the nobles' point of view, the king forced the rebellion.
So yeah, the eldest wasn't useless and the second son wasn't useless either. That's exactly why House Targaryen was tearing itself apart right now—more lords wanted Daeron than Rhaegar.
The old Andal system simply didn't work for dragonlords.
Note: it's the education method that's broken, not the inheritance law itself.
Giving the eldest the throne is fine. Crushing every other son and treating them like disposable property is what causes the explosions.
The Blackfish would never murder his brother, but he still walked away. Targaryens? They had zero problem burning the family tree down. Maegor's usurpation, the Dance of the Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions—every single time it proved the same thing: never try to out-crazy a Targaryen.
Especially one with a dragon. That's like giving a lunatic the keys to a bomber.
In Daeron's opinion, the Dance started because of exactly this screwed-up upbringing. It created total distrust inside the family.
Aegon II was a spoiled brat who never planned to steal the throne from his sister Rhaenyra—until the Hightowers and "a son for a son" pushed him over the edge. The real rot was the trust that had already collapsed years earlier.
When Rhaenyra became heir, it felt like she was inheriting her half-siblings as property. And Rhaenyra… well, she wasn't exactly the warm, trustworthy type.
After years of the Greens and Blacks tearing each other apart in the press, how the hell were the royal sons supposed to trust her not to treat them like spare parts?
But what if Viserys the Peaceful had done it right from the start?
Name Rhaenyra heir publicly. Give her real power and let her sit in on council meetings. Make the lords of the Seven Kingdoms see her as the future queen.
Then tell the three boys—Aegon II, Aemond "One-Eye," and Daeron the Daring—that each of them would get their own castle and lands.
Assign loyal royal officials to advise (and watch) them. Turn the family into a proper branching tree instead of a single choking trunk.
Aegon II and his brothers would have had their own keeps, their own incomes, their own lives. They wouldn't have to beg Rhaenyra for scraps. They'd feel secure. The Hightowers' whispers would fall on deaf ears.
Even a war-crazed psycho like Aemond would have trouble raising an army if his lands were modest and he was under constant supervision.
One dragon—Vermithor or whatever—can't start a civil war by itself.
Look at Maegor the Cruel before he took the throne. He flew Balerion all over Essos and never rebelled. Only after his weak brother Aenys died and the realm was already falling apart did Maegor finally seize power.
"You two study hard," Daeron told his brothers calmly. "Later I'll have Maester Harwyn teach you math and economics. One day you'll help Father run the realm."
He was dead serious about fixing this now. Better to raise them right than fix broken adults later.
If they grew up like Rhaegar—obsessed with prophecy and zero loyalty to their own blood—then the family would never stay united.
Jaehaerys's clear eyes widened. "We're still supposed to help Father?"
"What are you even thinking?" Daeron asked, smiling gently to shut down the suicidal loyalty nonsense.
Jaehaerys clapped both hands over his mouth and shook his head fast. Message received.
On the other side of the pit, Shaena walked up to Tessarion. Her white dress swayed around her graceful figure as she pushed a bleating sheep forward.
Feeding dragons was one of the classic Targaryen ways to bond.
"Hiss-graa!"
Tessarion breathed a lance of brilliant blue fire. The sheep let out one terrified "baaa!" before it became perfectly roasted mutton.
The blue dragon dug in happily.
After two years of growth, Caraxes was the biggest—already twenty meters long, basically a young adult. Tessarion and Toothless were a little behind: the blue at eight meters, the black at seven and a half. Still big enough to remind everyone of Aemond's old dragon Arrax in the stories.
"Eat up," Shaena murmured, eyes shining with pure wonder as she watched the towering blue.
"Help—aaaah!"
Jaehaerys and Viserys sprinted in circles while Toothless chased them, green slit-pupils sparkling with pure mischief. The black dragon hadn't even bared his teeth; he was just playing.
Daeron covered his face with one hand. Gods, they're going to give themselves heart attacks.
A Dragon Guard stepped inside and bowed. "Prince, someone's here to see you."
Daeron walked out and found Brynden Tully—Blackfish—already packed and ready to ride.
"Prince, I've come to say goodbye."
Brynden looked ashamed, head slightly bowed.
Daeron had expected this. "You're sure you want to go back to Riverrun?"
"Yes. Hoster's wounded. I think he's finally come to his senses."
Blackfish's voice was thick with complicated emotion. "I'll convince him to surrender and beg mercy. At least we can save a scrap of House Tully's name."
The Baratheons were the example right in front of them. Daeron had spared Stannis and Renly, but House Baratheon had lost Storm's End and the Stormlands forever. They were finished as a great house.
Brynden loved his family. He refused to let the Tullys end up the same way.
"If Hoster still refuses," he said quietly, "I'll take my own life rather than fight for the rebels."
"No need for that," Daeron answered easily. "Whether Lord Hoster bends the knee or not doesn't matter. Don't throw your life away for him."
He met the older knight's eyes. "Even if you have to swear to the rebels and end up leading men against me one day, I won't hold it against you."
The words hit Brynden like a warhammer to the chest.
"Go," Daeron said softly. "Do what you need to do. Don't wait until you regret it."
Blackfish took a deep breath and swore, "As long as I draw breath, Riverrun will fly the dragon banner again. I was born there. I'll die there."
He turned, walked down Rhaenys's Hill, mounted up, and galloped toward the Riverlands.
"Safe travels," Daeron murmured, watching him go.
He wasn't going to break his word. Blackfish who didn't care about family wouldn't be Blackfish.
Daeron had known this day would come the moment Brynden first swore to him.
He didn't expect the man to actually flip Riverrun. He just needed him back home to sow doubt and split the rebel ranks.
This wasn't the original timeline where Robert was unstoppable and the loyalists kept losing ground. The rebels only had maybe forty thousand men total—half the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale combined.
The Iron Throne had the Crownlands, half the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Reach, and Dorne. Numbers were already crushing.
Any clear-eyed lord could see the rebellion was doomed.
The only reason it was still going was because the three Targaryen men—father and two sons—couldn't get on the same damn page.
"The battlefield can't end yet," Daeron thought with a quiet smile. "The second the war's over, I'll have to start paying debts."
He had his reasons for dragging this out.
As long as the fighting continued, his title as Warden of the Realm stayed ironclad.
The moment peace came, Tywin would want half the Riverlands and Olenna would demand chunks of the Stormlands.
Give them what they wanted and watch his own power base shrink? No thanks.
Keep the war going just a little longer. That gave him time to lock down the Stormlands, bleed the Riverlands lords dry, and quietly weaken the Crownlands and Westerlands nobles too.
Only then could the Iron Throne swallow the Riverlands and the Stormlands whole.
Victory on the battlefield was nice, but empty words wouldn't expand the royal domain. The nobles would never agree.
War was the only way to grind their strength down until they had no choice but to accept a stronger king.
And by then, they wouldn't dare say no.