Being a baby means eat, sleep, cry to be cleaned, do potty and piss. As an intelligent baby in Westeros—literally cursed with knowledge—life was no fun. Everyone else just gurgled and drooled, while I was having an internal existential crisis and losing chess matches to my own fat fingers.
Seriously, there's this unspoken competition going on: which baby can speak first or write something before the age of three? Joke's on them—you can't. Not because you're dumb, but because your vocal cords are like soggy noodles and your fingers are basically miniature breadsticks.
So yeah, I had nothing fun to do. No phones, no books, no House of the Dragon reruns. So I started gathering intel the only way I could: lying there like a lump and eavesdropping on my parents.
Eventually, I put together enough gossip and random mutterings to figure some stuff out.
I was born in June, 86 AC.
That means the king is old man Jaehaerys I Targaryen himself, riding Vermithor and commanding a trio of adult dragons. Vhagar's ancient, Vermithor and Silverwing are massive and battle-tested, and Caraxes—while younger—is still a flying murder noodle with wings.
Basically, we're in the golden age of dragonfire and royal politics.
That makes me 9 years younger than Viserys—the Future king—and 5 years younger than Daemon Targaryen, the so-called Rogue Prince with a temper problem and a cool dragon.
Now, if I had been born into House Targaryen, I might have actually cared emotionally. Tried to save Aemon I (Rhaenys ' dad), Baelon Targaryen, or one of the king's many dragon-riding kids. But nope—I'm a commoner. No dragons, no castle, just warm goat milk and hay in my diaper.
That means my plan needs to be different. As Littlefinger once said: "Chaos is a ladder." And I've got something even better than chaos—a system that rewards achievements.
After having evil laugh which doesn't sound Evil, I finally stating do the deep meditation(Its actually going back to sleeping).