**The Red Keep - Private Solar - Evening (The Next Day)**
The solar Jaehaerys had chosen for this meeting was small, windowless, and accessed through a passage that even most of the castle staff didn't know existed. It had been built during Maegor's reign—probably for mistresses or murders, the line between the two being historically blurry—and Jaehaerys had repurposed it for conversations that absolutely could not be overheard.
Like, for instance, discussing whether his great-grandchildren were reincarnated souls from another world.
He stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, while Alysanne arranged cushions and lit candles with the methodical efficiency of someone preparing for either a pleasant tea party or an interrogation. With his wife, it was often both.
"They'll be here soon," Alysanne said, positioning the last candle. "I sent word through the servants that you wanted to discuss the twins' education. Perfectly normal request."
"And Perseon?"
"Rhaenys thinks you're considering him for a future position on the Small Council. Also perfectly normal, given his apparent genius with ships and tides."
"His *apparent* genius," Jaehaerys repeated. "Which you believe is actually ancient demigod knowledge repackaged for a medieval audience."
"When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
"It *is* ridiculous, beloved. That's rather the point."
A knock at the door—three sharp raps, then two soft ones. The code Alysanne had specified.
"Enter," Jaehaerys called.
The door opened to reveal not children, but Lady Lysa—one of the queen's most trusted ladies-in-waiting, who'd served House Targaryen since before most of the current generation was born. She ushered in three small figures and immediately departed, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Rhaenyra and Annara entered first, both dressed in matching gowns of deep blue that made their purple eyes startling. They moved with identical precision, heads high, hands folded—the picture of royal deportment.
Perseon followed, wearing formal Velaryon sea-green that probably cost more than a knight's yearly wage. His silver-white hair was perfectly combed, his sea-green eyes alert as they swept the room, cataloging exits and potential threats with the automatic efficiency of someone who'd spent years fighting monsters.
All three of them looked like perfectly normal, if unusually composed, two-year-olds.
Until they opened their mouths.
"Your Grace," they said in unison, bowing with synchronized precision that was frankly unnerving.
"Sit," Jaehaerys said, gesturing to the cushions Alysanne had arranged in a semicircle facing his chair. "Be comfortable. This is... an informal discussion."
"Informal interrogation," Perseon said, settling onto a cushion with surprising grace for someone whose legs barely reached the floor. "But we appreciate the cushions anyway."
Jaehaerys blinked. The boy's voice was clear, articulate, and carried absolutely none of the typical toddler hesitation or mispronunciation. He sounded like a small adult.
"Queen Alysanne told you we spoke," Annara said, also settling with the careful precision of someone who'd learned to move efficiently in combat. "About our... situation."
"She told me you claimed to be reincarnated souls from another world," Jaehaerys said bluntly. "Sent here by a death god to prevent a civil war."
"That's accurate," Rhaenyra confirmed. "Though 'claimed' suggests doubt. We are reincarnated souls. Not metaphorically. Literally."
"Prove it."
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
The three children exchanged glances—not the random eye contact of toddlers, but the coordinated communication of trained operatives confirming a plan.
"How would you like us to prove it?" Annara asked. "We can demonstrate powers, provide specific details about the future, or—"
"Start with the future," Jaehaerys interrupted. "Anyone with prophetic gifts might have powers. But specific, verifiable details about events that haven't happened yet—that's harder to fake."
"Fair enough." Annara's grey eyes went distant, like she was reading from an internal text. "Alysanne told you about Baelon's death—burst belly, two years after she dies. But she probably didn't mention the succession crisis that follows."
"What crisis?"
"You'll call a Great Council," Annara continued, her voice taking on that lecturer quality that suggested Athena's daughter talking about something she'd studied extensively. "To determine the succession. The two main candidates will be Viserys—Baelon's son, your grandson—and Rhaenys's son Laenor, who would be about six years old at the time."
"Rhaenys was passed over once," Jaehaerys said. "Why would—"
"Because the lords who passed over Rhaenys claimed they were choosing Baelon, not rejecting female succession entirely. With Baelon dead, the question reopens: does the throne pass through the eldest child's line, or through the eldest *male* child's line?"
Jaehaerys felt something cold settle in his stomach. "And?"
"The Great Council of 101 AC votes overwhelmingly for Viserys. Twenty votes for Laenor, over three thousand for Viserys." Annara's voice was clinical, detached. "The lords establish a precedent that male claimants are preferred over female ones, regardless of proximity to the crown. Which will matter very much fifteen years later."
"When Viserys has a daughter," Rhaenyra added softly, "and tries to name her heir."
"You," Jaehaerys said, looking at his great-granddaughter. "In this future, Viserys names you his heir."
"Yes. After Aemma and the baby die—after he has no other legitimate children—he names me Princess of Dragonstone. The lords swear oaths. For years, it seems settled." Her small hands clenched. "Then he remarries."
"To Alicent Hightower," Alysanne supplied quietly.
"Otto Hightower's daughter," Perseon said. "Who is currently three years old and living in Oldtown. Otto will become Hand of the King in—" He paused, calculating. "Approximately 102 AC, when Viserys's current Hand, Lord Ryam, dies of natural causes. Otto is ambitious, skilled, and absolutely ruthless in pursuing his family's advancement."
"You know when the Hand dies," Jaehaerys said slowly. "A man who's currently healthy, in his prime—"
"We know when *everyone* dies," Annara said flatly. "It's in the histories. The books we read covered roughly three hundred years of Westerosi history in excruciating detail. Births, deaths, battles, political appointments—all of it recorded."
"That's..." Jaehaerys stopped. "That's an incredible weapon. If what you're saying is true."
"It's also incomplete," Rhaenyra admitted. "The histories focused on major events and noble houses. We know what happens to kings and dragons. We don't know what happened to, say, a specific merchant in Flea Bottom. But for people in power, for events that shaped the realm—we have detailed records."
"Then tell me something specific," Jaehaerys challenged. "Something small, verifiable, that I can check."
The three children conferred silently—that eerie twin-thing that all three of them seemed to share despite only two of them actually being twins.
"Three weeks from now," Perseon said finally, "there will be a fire in the Dragonpit. Minor—no dragons hurt, no human casualties. It starts in the northeast storage section where they keep the feeding equipment. A servant will knock over a brazier while moving chains. The fire is contained quickly, but it causes enough smoke that Vermithor gets agitated and nearly breaks his restraints."
Jaehaerys made a mental note. Specific, time-bound, falsifiable. If this happened, it proved... something. If it didn't, well.
"Continue with the succession," he said. "Viserys remarries. Then what?"
"Alicent gives him four children," Annara said. "Aegon, born in 107 AC. Helaena in 109. Aemond in 110. Daeron in 114. Three sons and a daughter, all with unquestionable Valyrian features and legitimate claims to the throne."
"But Viserys already named Rhaenyra his heir," Alysanne protested. "The lords swore oaths—"
"Lords break oaths when it's convenient," Rhaenyra said with the bitter certainty of someone who'd lived through exactly that. "Especially when breaking them can be justified by tradition and precedent. The Great Council established that male heirs are preferred. Viserys's sons are *right there*, legitimate and male. Why should the realm follow a woman when there are perfectly good princes available?"
"Because their father said so," Jaehaerys said sharply. "Because oaths matter. Because—"
"Because the law should be the law," Annara finished. "We agree. But that's not how it works in practice. Otto Hightower spends years building a faction around Aegon. He argues that Viserys was old when he named Rhaenyra, that he clearly wanted a son, that having sons changes everything. He plants seeds of doubt everywhere."
"And Viserys?" Alysanne asked. "He just... allows this?"
"Viserys is weak," Rhaenyra said bluntly. "Not malicious. Not stupid. But weak. He wants everyone to be happy, wants his family to get along, wants to believe that love and good intentions will solve political problems. So he refuses to acknowledge the brewing crisis, refuses to definitively reaffirm Rhaenyra's claim, refuses to punish Otto or anyone else for undermining his chosen heir."
"He's a good man," Annara added more gently, "but a terrible king. He makes his decision—Rhaenyra as heir—and then fails to enforce it. Which means when he dies, the realm fractures."
"How does he die?" Jaehaerys asked.
"Slowly," Perseon said. "Some kind of wasting disease that the maesters can't identify or treat. Starts as a minor wound that won't heal, spreads over years. By the end, he's barely conscious, pumped full of milk of the poppy, rotting while still breathing. He dies in 129 AC, having ruled for twenty-six years."
The clinical detachment in the boy's voice was somehow worse than emotion would have been. This was a child—a *baby*, barely past toddlerhood—discussing his great-uncle's lingering death like he was reading from a medical text.
"And then the war," Jaehaerys said.
"And then the war," the three agreed.
"Tell me about it," Jaehaerys commanded. "All of it. Hold nothing back."
What followed was perhaps the most comprehensive military briefing Jaehaerys had received since the conquest of Dorne, delivered by three two-year-olds who spoke with the authority of generals and the precision of maesters.
They described the initial split—how Aegon was crowned in King's Landing while Rhaenyra held Dragonstone. How the realm divided along complex political and regional lines, with the Reach, Westerlands, and Stormlands largely supporting Aegon, while the North, Vale, and Riverlands supported Rhaenyra.
They detailed battles—Rook's Rest, where Rhaenys died fighting two dragons at once. The Fishfeed, where four thousand men drowned or burned. Tumbleton, where two dragonriders betrayed their queen. The Butcher's Ball, where armies slaughtered each other in the mud.
They described dragon fights with the detail of people who'd studied them obsessively: Meleys vs Vhagar and Sunfyre. Vermax crashing into the sea. Tessarion and Seasmoke and Vermithor killing each other above a burning city. The systematic destruction of creatures that had survived for centuries, reduced to corpses and memories in barely two years of concentrated warfare.
But worse than the military details were the personal ones.
"Rhaenyra's son Lucerys is killed early," Rhaenyra said, and her voice finally showed emotion—grief layered over ancient anger. "He's fourteen. Sent as a messenger to Storm's End. Aemond—Alicent's second son, my half-brother in the original timeline—kills him. Not in battle. Not in self-defense. He hunts Luke through a storm on Vhagar and tears him apart."
"That starts the true bloodshed," Annara continued. "Before Luke's death, there's still a chance for negotiation, for a peaceful settlement. After—Rhaenyra wants vengeance. Her son Jacaerys sends assassins to kill Aegon's children in their beds. They murder Aegon's six-year-old son Jaehaerys in front of his mother."
"Blood for blood," Perseon said quietly. "Rhaenyra loses three sons: Luke, Joffrey, Jacaerys. Alicent's sons kill them, or cause their deaths. Alicent loses two: Jaehaerys murdered, Maelor torn apart by a mob. Rhaenyra's faction kills them, or creates the circumstances for their deaths. It's an escalating cycle of revenge that nobody can stop."
"And the end?" Jaehaerys asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Rhaenyra takes King's Landing," Rhaenyra said, "but it's a poisoned victory. The smallfolk turn against her. Dragons die. Allies betray her. She flees to Dragonstone, where Aegon—burned, broken, barely alive—has her fed to his dragon Sunfyre while her son Aegon the Younger watches."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"That's your fate," Alysanne whispered, looking at her great-granddaughter. "In this timeline you're trying to prevent, that's how you die."
"How the *other* Rhaenyra dies," the princess corrected. "I'm not her. I have her name, her body, her family—but I have three thousand years of memories telling me how to survive things that should break me. I won't make her mistakes."
"What mistakes?" Jaehaerys asked.
"She trusted the wrong people," Annara said. "She was unprepared for the level of betrayal she'd face. She relied too much on the righteousness of her claim and not enough on the practical realities of power."
"She didn't secure her position before her father died," Perseon added. "Didn't build strong enough alliances, didn't make herself indispensable to the lords who would decide her fate, didn't present a compelling enough reason for people to fight and die for her claim beyond 'it's the law.'"
"And most critically," Rhaenyra finished, "she didn't prevent Alicent's children from existing in the first place. Once there were legitimate male heirs available, her position was always going to be vulnerable. We need to prevent that second marriage. No Alicent, no rival sons, no justification for war."
Jaehaerys felt like he was drowning in information. "You want to prevent my grandson from marrying."
"We want to prevent him from marrying *Alicent Hightower specifically*," Annara clarified. "If Viserys remarries someone else—someone less politically connected, someone whose father isn't Hand of the King building a power base—that's fine. The problem isn't him having more children. The problem is him having children with *that particular woman at that particular time*."
"And how exactly do you propose we prevent this marriage?" Jaehaerys asked. "Otto Hightower is ambitious but not stupid. If we openly oppose his daughter marrying the future king—"
"We don't oppose it openly," Perseon said. "We make it unnecessary. Alicent is pushed at Viserys when he's vulnerable—grieving, isolated, desperate for comfort. Otto provides his daughter as that comfort, and Viserys, who doesn't want to be alone, accepts. But if Viserys isn't alone—if he has family supporting him, if his daughters are old enough to provide emotional stability, if he has other confidants—"
"—then he doesn't need Alicent," Rhaenyra finished. "He remarries eventually, maybe, because the council will push him to. But not to her. Not immediately. And without that specific marriage, without Otto's grandchildren on the throne, the political calculations change completely."
"That's a very delicate manipulation," Alysanne observed.
"We're good at delicate manipulation," Annara said. "Athena's daughter, remember? Strategy is literally in my blood."
Jaehaerys stood and began pacing. It was a nervous habit, but it helped him think. "Let's say I believe you—and I'm not committing to anything yet—but let's say I accept that you're telling the truth about the future. Why tell me? Why tell anyone? If you know what's coming, why not just... fix it yourselves?"
"Because we're two years old," Perseon said bluntly. "We have the memories and skills of our previous lives, but we're trapped in bodies that can't walk long distances without getting tired, can't read easily because our eyes aren't fully developed, can't fight or negotiate or do *anything* that requires adult credibility. We need allies. We need adults who can act on our knowledge while we're still growing."
"We need you," Rhaenyra said simply. "You're the king. You have the power to shape policy, to influence your grandson, to position pieces on the board in ways we can't. With your help, we can prevent the worst outcomes. Without it—we'll try anyway, but our chances decrease significantly."
"And you need Alysanne," Annara added, looking at the queen. "Her especially. You have authority, Your Grace, but Queen Alysanne has *influence*. She has relationships with the ladies of the court, with smallfolk, with the emotional heart of the realm. When you die—and you will die, in a few years—she's our best chance at continuing this work."
"I'm dying in a few months," Alysanne reminded them gently.
"We know," the three said together. Then Perseon continued alone: "Which is why we need to convince you *now*. Your Grace—" He looked directly at Alysanne. "—we can't stop you from dying. We don't have that power. But we can make sure your death *matters*. That the groundwork you lay in your final months shapes the next decade. That you die knowing your family will survive what should have destroyed them."
Alysanne's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You're asking me to spend my last months playing political games."
"We're asking you to spend them protecting your great-grandchildren," Rhaenyra corrected. "All of them. Including the ones who aren't born yet, who might never be born if we succeed. We're asking you to save your family."
Jaehaerys stopped pacing and returned to his chair. "You said you could prove your powers. Demonstrate them. Now."
The children looked at each other again—that silent communication that was starting to seriously unnerve him.
"Here?" Perseon asked. "In this room?"
"Here."
"Some of our abilities are... destructive. I can create earthquakes. That seems unwise indoors."
"Then something less destructive."
Perseon looked around the room, assessing. His eyes landed on the cup of wine Jaehaerys had poured earlier and not touched.
"That'll work," the boy murmured.
He hopped off his cushion—he had to hop, his legs were that short—and walked to where the cup sat on a side table. Jaehaerys watched, fascinated, as Perseon placed his hands on either side of the cup without touching it.
Nothing happened for a moment.
Then the wine began to *move*.
Not sloshing. Not spilling. *Moving*. The liquid rose from the cup in a perfect sphere, hovering in the air between Perseon's outstretched hands. The sphere rotated slowly, catching candlelight, then began to shift shape—elongating into a cylinder, flattening into a disk, reforming into a spiraling helix that twisted through the air like a DNA strand made of wine.
"Seven hells," Jaehaerys breathed.
Perseon wasn't touching the liquid. Wasn't blowing on it. Was just *willing* it to move, and it obeyed. The wine danced through increasingly complex patterns—figure eights, Celtic knots, a miniature dragon that flew in a circle before dissolving back into a sphere.
Finally, with a gesture that looked almost casual, Perseon returned the wine to its cup. Every drop. Nothing spilled.
"I can do the same thing with any water," Perseon said, his voice steady despite the demonstration that should have been impossible. "I can make it boil or freeze. I can create waves or whirlpools. I can breathe underwater indefinitely. I can talk to sea creatures. I can sense water through stone and earth." He looked directly at Jaehaerys. "I am—was—a son of Poseidon. The sea-god. That power didn't go away when I died. It just... adapted to this world."
Jaehaerys realized his mouth was open. He closed it. "That's... that's not possible."
"It's not possible *here*," Annara corrected. "In your world, without gods actively manifesting, demigod powers shouldn't exist. But we brought them with us. Our souls carried the divine spark. It's part of who we are."
"Your turn," Jaehaerys said, looking at her. "Show me."
"My gifts are less dramatic," Annara warned. "Athena blessed her children with wisdom, strategy, crafts—mental abilities mostly."
"Then demonstrate mental abilities."
Annara nodded and moved to stand beside Jaehaerys's chair. "May I see your sword, Your Grace?"
He hesitated, then drew Blackfyre—the Valyrian steel blade that had been Aegon's and would pass to Viserys and beyond. He held it out, hilt first.
Annara took it. The blade was nearly as long as she was tall, but she lifted it with surprising competence, testing the weight, examining the edge, studying the distinctive ripple pattern in the steel.
"This blade was forged in Old Valyria," she said, her voice taking on that lecturer quality again, "before the Doom. The steel is folded thousands of times, creating microscopic structures that make it stronger and sharper than regular steel. But the folding pattern is asymmetric—look here—" She pointed at a section near the hilt. "—this section has seven hundred forty-three folds. This one—" She moved her finger. "—has seven hundred forty-nine. The smith who forged this was compensating for a flaw in the original metal. Right here—" She touched a spot that looked identical to every other spot to Jaehaerys. "—there was an inclusion. A small pocket of different material. The smith folded around it, working it out over thousands of folds until the imperfection was distributed so thinly it didn't matter."
She handed the blade back. "I've never seen this sword before today. I have no way to know its forging history. But Athena's gift lets me *see* these things. Structure, pattern, flaw, and function. It's not prophecy or magic in the way you understand it. It's just... knowing. Understanding. Seeing what's *there*."
Jaehaerys examined Blackfyre with new eyes. He'd carried this sword for decades. Never noticed anything unusual about it. But if Annara was right—if there had been an inclusion that was worked out in forging—
"Is there a way to verify this?" he asked.
"Ask a master smith," Annara said. "Someone who understands Valyrian steel. They might be able to see the folding pattern I described. Or they might not—Valyrian steel keeps its secrets. But the point isn't whether I'm right about the specific flaw. The point is that I could analyze a weapon I'd never seen, in seconds, and provide detailed technical information that a two-year-old shouldn't know."
She was right. Even if the specific details were wrong, the *ability* to analyze like that—to see pattern and structure with such clarity—that was extraordinary.
"And you?" he asked Rhaenyra.
The golden-haired princess hesitated. "My gifts are... different. I don't have one god's blessing like they do. What I have is survival. Endurance. The ability to take power from things that should have destroyed me."
"Show me."
Rhaenyra looked at the candles burning around the room. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached out and placed her palm directly on a candle flame.
"Don't—!" Alysanne started to rise.
But Rhaenyra didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Just held her hand in the flame, purple eyes calm, as five seconds passed. Ten. Fifteen.
When she finally removed her hand, her palm was unmarked. No burn. No reddening. Not even soot.
"Three thousand years on Ogygia taught me to survive impossible things," Rhaenyra said quietly. "Fire can't burn me—not like it burns others. Cold doesn't affect me the way it should. Poison makes me sick but doesn't kill me. It's not invulnerability. I can still be hurt. But I endure things that break other people." She clenched her unmarked hand. "I survived three millennia alone. A civil war doesn't scare me."
Jaehaerys sat very still.
He'd watched a two-year-old control wine like it was an extension of his body. Watched another analyze a Valyrian steel blade with the expertise of a master smith. Watched a third hold her hand in a flame without damage.
This was real. Whatever else was happening, whatever lies or manipulations might be layered on top—the powers were *real*.
"I believe you," he said finally.
The three children sagged slightly, relief visible in their postures.
"Thank the gods," Perseon muttered. "I thought we'd have to do something more dramatic. I was prepared to create a tidal wave in the harbor."
"Please don't," Jaehaerys said. "The dockmasters are already stressed about the harbor expansion."
"We should discuss next steps," Annara said, moving back to her cushion with the brisk efficiency of someone switching from demonstration to planning mode. "We've convinced you we're telling the truth. Now we need to establish how we're going to work together."
"First question," Jaehaerys said. "Who else knows about this?"
"Besides us three and you two? Nobody," Rhaenyra confirmed. "We haven't told our parents. Haven't told anyone. This stays between us."
"Why?"
"Because the more people who know, the more likely someone makes a mistake," Annara said. "Secrets are safest in small circles. We trust you—" She looked at both monarchs. "—because you have the most to lose if we're wrong and the most to gain if we're right. But expanding the circle risks someone dismissing us as mad, or using our knowledge for their own purposes, or accidentally revealing things that shouldn't be revealed yet."
"Our siblings know something's different about us," Perseon admitted. "Laenor and Laena especially—they've noticed I'm not exactly normal. But they don't know the specifics. They just know I'm 'blessed by sea gods' or some equally vague explanation."
"That explanation works," Jaehaerys said. "Blessed children aren't unheard of in Targaryen history. We can build on that narrative—you three are specially touched by Old Valyrian gods, marked for greatness, prophecy made flesh. People will accept that more readily than 'reincarnated souls from another dimension.'"
"Agreed," Annara said. "We can be special without being *that* kind of special."
"Second question," Alysanne said. "What do you need from us? Specifically."
The three children exchanged glances, and Perseon spoke first.
"Short term—in the next few months while Queen Alysanne is still alive—we need her to do three things. First: Establish that Rhaenyra and Annara are remarkable. Not just pretty princesses. Actually brilliant. Future queens material. Make that belief spread through the court."
"Easy enough," Alysanne said. "I'm already doing that by spending time with them, teaching them myself. People notice when the queen takes personal interest."
"Second," Annara continued. "Plant seeds with Viserys about the value of daughters. He loves Rhaenyra—the current Rhaenyra, not me—but he thinks of her as a child, not a potential heir. That needs to change. By the time Baelon dies and succession becomes a real question, Viserys needs to have already internalized that women can rule."
"More difficult," Alysanne admitted, "but possible. Viserys respects me. If I make the argument consistently, over time, he'll at least consider it."
"Third," Rhaenyra said. "The most important one: Investigate Otto Hightower. Not openly. Not officially. Just... look into him. His ambitions, his methods, his network. We need to know how dangerous he really is before he becomes Hand of the King."
"I can do that," Alysanne confirmed. "I have correspondents in Oldtown. Friends. People who owe me favors. Discreet inquiries can be made."
"Long term," Perseon said, taking over, "we need King Jaehaerys's support for several things. First and most critical: When you call the Great Council in 101, you need to frame the succession question carefully."
"How so?"
"The historical Great Council asked: 'Who should rule—Viserys or Laenor?' Which implicitly asked: 'Does succession pass through daughters or not?'" Perseon leaned forward. "That question created the precedent that hurt Rhaenyra later. If you frame it differently—if you make it about *proximity* to the crown rather than gender—you can establish a different precedent."
"I'm not following," Jaehaerys admitted.
"Ask: 'Who is closer to the throne—the son of your heir, or the grandson of your heir through a daughter?'" Annara explained. "Make it about generations, not gender. Viserys is one generation from you through Baelon. Laenor is two generations from you through Rhaenys. That's the distinction that matters. The lords will still choose Viserys because he's closer, but you avoid establishing a 'no female succession' precedent."
"That's... actually clever," Jaehaerys said slowly. "It achieves the same result but changes the reasoning."
"Exactly. And when Viserys later names Rhaenyra his heir, the precedent supports her—she's his daughter, his direct heir, one generation from the crown. No male heir is closer." Annara's grey eyes were intent. "It's not a perfect solution. Lords who want to oppose a woman will find other arguments. But it removes one major justification."
"Second thing we need," Rhaenyra continued, "is protection. Not physical protection—we have dragons for that—but political protection. As we grow up and become more active in court politics, we'll make enemies. People who don't like change, or don't like smart women, or don't like anything that threatens their interests. We need the crown's support when that happens."
"You'll have it," Jaehaerys promised. "You're my great-grandchildren. Anyone who moves against you moves against me."
"Even if we do things that seem strange?" Perseon asked. "Because we will. We have knowledge from another world. Sometimes we'll make suggestions that don't make sense by your cultural standards but will work because we know they work."
"Such as?"
"Public health initiatives," Annara said immediately. "Sanitation, clean water, disease prevention. In our world—our original world—we understood germ theory. We knew that boiling water and proper waste disposal prevented disease. Here, that knowledge doesn't exist yet. When we start pushing for it, people will think we're mad."
"Are you mad?" Jaehaerys asked.
"No. We're right. But we'll need your backing to prove it."
"You'll have it," Jaehaerys said again. "Within reason. If your suggestions seem likely to cause immediate harm, I reserve the right to refuse. But if you can show me evidence that your methods work—I'll support them."
"That's all we're asking," Perseon said.
"Third thing," Rhaenyra said. "This one is more personal. We need you to understand that we're going to make mistakes. We have knowledge of the future, yes. But we're also children with that knowledge. We might misremember. We might misjudge. We might *change* things that cause unintended consequences. When that happens—we need you to trust that we're trying our best."
Alysanne reached out and took Rhaenyra's small hand. "Of course we will. You're children. Even children with ancient souls are allowed to make mistakes."
"Some of our mistakes might be catastrophic," Rhaenyra warned.
"Then we'll face the catastrophes together," Alysanne said firmly. "That's what families do."
There was a long pause, and Jaehaerys saw something complicated pass over all three children's faces—gratitude, relief, and something that might have been grief. These were souls who'd died and been reborn, who'd left families behind, who'd chosen a mission over returning to the people they loved.
Now they had a new family. One that would support them, even knowing what they were.
---
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