Reborn as Rhaenyra's Twin - (House of the Dragon)

Study the past if you would define the future, or so Confucius once said.

Sadly enough, he never specified the extent as to how much we should study this elusive past.

As such, the following will be brief on the Targaryen family tree to the extent deemed necessary for narrative purposes.

Aegon "The Conqueror" Targaryen was the first king to rule from the Iron Throne, and he achieved it by conquering six of the Seven Kingdoms in Westeros with the help of his two sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys. All three were Dragon riders.

The tradition of ancient Valyria saw their people marry cousin to cousin and sister to brother to keep their bloodline pure and thus retain their Dragon riding abilities.

Aegon, however, decided to marry not one but both of his sisters.

Visenya, the eldest of the three siblings, was known for her stern demeanour, unforgiving nature, and her combat skills.

Rhaenys, the youngest sister, was known for her passion and love for beautiful things.

The contrast between Visenya and Rhaenys was obvious.

Visenya: chaste, physically strong, cold, curt.

Rhaenys: lustful, petite, warm, loving.

It was without shock that Rhaenys were the first to bore Aegon's child.

Aenys I Targaryen.

Aenys was a weak child who only took his mother's breast milk. His frailty led to rumors that he might not be King Aegon's biological son, but these rumors were never proven.

King Aenys grew to be an adequate warrior in his own right, and he gained a reputation as a clever man.

However, Aenys's reign was marked by his struggle to suppress four rebellious factions.

The stress of the conflict took a toll on the indecisive king, who aged rapidly as he grappled with the false perception of smallfolk loving him versus the reality of rebellion.

Aenys died after five years as King.

Despite primogeniture suggesting that Aenys's first-born son should inherit the throne, Queen Visenya took advantage of the situation and made a play to place Maegor on it instead.

Maegor I Targaryen.

Known as 'Maegor the Cruel', he became the third ruler to ascend the Iron Throne. He was a man of fearsome reputation, whose terror extended beyond his towering frame, a shadow of malice.

Maegor was brutal and violent, with excellent combat skills like his mother, Queen Visenya.

This text will not delve into the details of Maegor's notorious atrocities.

Individuals with a bias against the Targaryen's often wrote the historical accounts of his brutal deeds. Chances are, if you're reading this, you have access to the many writings on Maegor's life. Water is wet.

Nevertheless, whether or not his actions were as extreme as depicted, it is evident that Maegor was decisive, unlike his indecisive brother Aenys.

Under Maegor's reign, there were significant advancements in the construction of the Red Keep, the seat of the Targaryen dynasty.

King Maegor personally oversaw the castle's completion in King's Landing, which symbolised the royal family's strength and grandeur beyond our death-spewing Dragons.

He proposed the construction of a second castle within the walls, which became known as Maegor's Holdfast and has since housed the royal apartments.

The castle includes many features such as ballrooms and rumored secret passageways and tunnels, all of which were influenced by Maegor's suggestions.

Maegor endeavoured to accommodate his enemies. He built the dungeon to have four four levels.

The first level: cells for common criminals.

The second level: smaller cells for highborn captives.

The third level: small cells with no windows called the 'black cells'.

The fourth level: deep beneath the earth, in a realm of unspeakable horror.

It is said that creams of agony echo endlessly in the pitch-black darkness, and twisted instruments of torture lurk in every corner, eagerly awaiting their next victim.

In summary, the Iron Throne was initially inherited by King Aegon's sons, but later passed down to his grandsons and others. The order of succession looks something like this:

Aegon -> Aenys -> Maegor -> Jaehaerys -> Viserys (Currently) -> ????

And it's all thanks to Maegor the Cruel that the Targaryens have the most feared dungeon in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Now, let us transport ourselves back to a moonlit night in the year 105 AC.

The silvery light of the crescent moon draped through the narrow iron bars of a window in the first floor of the Red Keep's dungeon.

Beyond the window, one could catch a glimpse of the sprawling city under the vast expanse of the sky.

Rats scurried around the damp, musty corners of the cell, and the sound of dripping water echoed ominously from some unknown source.

And yet, amidst the gloom and despair, a voice broke the silence with a cheerful tone.

"Me father was a smuggler, and me father's father's mother. That was back when we were from such-and-such. The name escapes me now."

Dillan, slumped against the rough stone wall of the dungeon cell, winced with each movement.

His body was a canvas of purple and blue bruises, a testament to his harsh treatment from the guards.

A life of smuggling through the salt-laden waters of the Blackwater Rush had turned his ash-blonde hair almost grey, the strands slick with perspiration that dripped down his face.

Dillan stared out of the narrow window, his eyes fixated on the world beyond.

He spoke with a voice rougher than that of an average 28-year-old sailor. His windpipes yearned for a swig of rum,

"None o' that matters now. If they don't cut me hands or chop me head, they'll send me to the bloody Wall. Death's death, all the same."

On the opposite corner of the dungeon, a man in a green doublet stood with an air of refined fashion.

"The wall…"

Arland was his name, a man with long brown hair that cascaded down his back in braids.

His thin moustache and goatee gave him a certain air of refinement, and his sharp features and piercing gaze hinted at a mind always in motion.

He carried himself with a sense of purpose as if he were a man with great ideas and the drive to bring them to fruition.

Though the garment seemed too small, Arland carried himself with a certain poise that belied his circumstances.

Thin wisps of smoke encircled Arland's eyes, hinting at a certain dandyish quality to his appearance.

One might mistake him for a mummer or a theatre performer, but something in the way he held himself suggested a different profession altogether.

Arland sighed, "There's no woman at the wall…"

The third member of their cell was a rough-looking man with a thick Fleabottom accent and several missing teeth. He interrupted their conversation with a snarky remark,

"Boohoo. A dandy and a failed smuggler, complaining about their problems."

Dillan, no stranger to dealing with difficult people from his time at sea, retorted without missing a beat,

"Do you not fear death?"

"Not from the likes of you," the crooked man replied defiantly.

Dillan chuckled, "Bold words. And what landed you in this cell?"

The crooked man turned away, muttering, "Thieving. Pickpocketing, burglary. Grave robbing..."

Dillan couldn't help but laugh, "You must not have been a very good thief to end up in here."

"The same could be said about your smuggling."

Arland, a lover, negotiator, diplomatic ladies man at heart, naturally tried to defuse the situation, "My lords, if you'd please…"

That's when a figure emerged from the shadows, causing the other inmates to fall silent. He was tall and menacing, with a face that was half-hidden in the darkness.

His eyes glinted with a dangerous light, and something about him made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up.

The man stepped forward, his boots thudding heavily on the stone floor. He spoke in a low growl, "Shut your mouths, or I'll do it for you."

Dillan and Arland exchanged a nervous glance, sensing that this man was not to be trifled with.

The fourth occupant of their cell was a mystery, but his presence alone was enough to send shivers down their spines.

As the tension in the cell began to rise, the heavy footsteps of boots echoed outside the door.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, revealing a figure with silver hair and lilac eyes. It was none other than me, Prince Rhaenar, slow clapping as I took in the scene before me.

"Well, well, well," I drawled in a voice laced with amusement. "What do we have here?"

Arland shifted at the sight of me, realizing who I was.

The murderer in the corner uneasily, his eyes darting between his fellow inmates and me.

I continued to clap, a smirk playing on my lips. "I see you've all made quite the cozy little family here. How charming."

Arland stuttered, "P-Prince Rhaenar, what brings you here?"

The crooked man raised a brow, "Prince? What's a royal doing in a place like this?"

Dillan and the dangerous man remained quiet, sizing up the newcomer.

I strolled back and forth, observing them through the prison bars. "I heard there were some interesting inmates in this dungeon, and I had to see for myself."

With a smirk, I pointed at the crooked man. "The thief. And what's your name?"

The crooked man hesitated for a moment before replying, "My friends call me Weaver."

"Weaver…" I repeated, "And why do they call you that?"

"Because no one weaves through alleys like me."

The answer amused me greatly, "Hahaha! Very good!"

I then turned to Dillan and said, "Ah, the smuggler. They call you Rush Rider, don't they?"

Dillan looked at me with surprise, "How did you know that?"

"I make it my business to know about the most notorious smugglers," I replied with a chuckle. "No one rides the rush like you."

Next, I pointed to Arland, "The adulterer. They call you Silver Tongue, am I right?"

Arland nodded, "Correct, though I shudder to hear how you know why…"

I laughed, "You've fucked practically all the minor nobles in King's Landing. But I must ask, even the grannies?"

Arland gave me a cheeky glance, "Especially the grannies."

Delighted with the ensemble thus far, I pointed to the final occupant of the dungeon cell.

"And last but not least, we have the killer."

All three of them looked to the mysterious man with a judgemental eye.

"Killer?" said Arland.

I nodded, "Indeed. Though it's only my theory, I believe the man amongst you is none other than the Mad Butcher."

The hearts of Dillan and Arland stopped, "The Mad Butcher?!"

Weaver, always the thief, boasted about his connections on the streets of King's Landing, "Impossible. No one has ever seen that maniac."

"None but his victims," I corrected, motioning towards the mysterious man. "But this one is a literal butcher working on River Row."

The enigmatic man stepped forward from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with malice in the moonlight. He stood face to face with me through the bars of the cell.

"That doesn't prove anything."

"Doesn't it?" I retorted.

"The boys at the City Watch said they had to apprehend you after you threatened a customer in your shop, waving your cleaver and making violent promises. You're quite literally a mad butcher."

The butcher remained silent in response.

Undeterred, I flashed a devilish grin and settled onto a stool across from him in the dungeon. "We'll find out soon enough," I said.

The butcher shifted uneasily, a flicker of fear crossing his face. "What do you mean?" he asked.

I had him now.

"I've taken a keen interest in the Mad Butcher," I said. "The serial killer who plagues the streets of King's Landing. He preys on freelance whores, those who have no protection and are easy targets."

The butcher couldn't meet my gaze.

"I propose a bet," I said. "After studying the Mad Butcher's modus operandi, we know the following:"

"One: he operates exclusively at night, when these women are out on the streets."

"Two: he has a particular skill in quickly and efficiently dismembering bodies, hence the nickname 'Mad Butcher'."

"Three: he arranges the body parts in a grotesque display, as a form of twisted humiliation."

"From these facts, we can deduce that the killer is a predator who chooses his victims carefully, has a macabre skill set, and harbors a strong hatred for women, particularly those who sell themselves."

I leaned in closer to the butcher. "So, would you like to know the bet?"

The butcher winced at my proposal. "Sure..." he reluctantly agreed.

"I propose this, Cleaver. Can I call you that?" I asked, to which he nodded.

"The public doesn't know this, but the Mad Butcher has killed at least 20 women over the span of three months. That's an average of one woman per week."

"So, Cleaver, here's my proposition. We'll keep you here in the dungeon for three weeks. If we find any further victims during that time, we'll know for sure that you can't possibly be the Mad Butcher."

"If you win, I'll reward you handsomely," I added.

Cleaver gulped nervously, "And if I lose?"

"When you lose," I corrected him with a smirk, "a fate worse than death awaits you if we find out that you've been lying to me."

As we waited for his response, Arland, Dillan, and Weaver huddled together for comfort. They sought solace in each other's company, knowing that a potential serial killer was lurking among them.

Cleaver didn't answer me, and we all remained in tense silence. After a few moments, I grew bored with the situation.

"Hahaha! Lighten up, Cleaver. You don't have to take the bet. I already know that you're the killer," I declared with a laugh as I stood up and brushed off my clothes.

"Not that I care," I continued, "so long as the four of you swear to serve me from this day forth."

Their faces contorted with disbelief and confusion. The thief, the smuggler, the adulterer, and the killer were all in disbelief at my proposal.

"Eh?!?!" they exclaimed in unison.

"Well met, friends. The name's Rhaenar," I introduced myself. "My father doesn't like me wandering the city, you see. He says that some of the realm's worst roam those streets."

"So I thought, why not recruit the realm's worst?" I explained to them.

Cleaver, Dillan, and Weaver remained silent. They understood that they were being called the worst of society.

However, Arland was not willing to be lumped with them.

"That is absurd!" he protested. "You can't possibly associate me with these brutes of society."

I pitied Arland. He didn't understand that it didn't matter whether he was guilty or innocent, right or wrong. Being in the cell automatically delegated him as sub-human.

Guilty until otherwise~

Compared to me, there wasn't much contrast with these criminals.

"Worry not, Silver Tongue," I assured him before leaving the dungeon.

"My mother calls me the Realms Devil. Who am I to judge?"