Chapter Text
“Daemon!” that had been the last thing he had heard, the loud cry of his father as Daemon hit the floor, after that everything became muffled; the yells of the servants around him, the women screaming, his men shouting orders and his horse panicking as its rider lay wounded on the ground.
As he lay there he could see red spilling onto the stone floor from his head as his vision grew darker and darker. He could feel his body being pushed onto his back as a pair of hands pressed the side of his head.
He watched as his father knelt over him, fear and worry etched onto his face.
Am I going to die?
Is this how I die?
A Brick, a loose brick falling from onto his head was going to be the death of him…
Please Gods… don’t let this be my end…
He could see the tears running down his father’s cheek as his body was lifted from the ground, by how fast the sky was moving whoever was carrying him must have been running. Daemon could only hope he could be brought to a Maester in time.
In that moment he begged for someone to save him, he wanted to carry on living.
Please… God, I don’t want to die like this…
That wasn’t his voice echoing in his head; someone else’s voice spoke in his mind as his vision faded into darkness, feeling himself slip into nothingness, as the feeling of a thin bed sheet was being pulled over his face.
That was where Daemon’s memory had ended. And where a new life, his life, took over. That was the last living moment that Daemon had experienced and the start of someone else’s.
Strange… I’m outside…
His eye lids felt heavy, it was as if small weights had been keeping them shut for an age before he was able to open them, though not fully to his dismay. Who knows how long it took for him to open his eyes but when he had it must have taken longer for him to adjust to the light from the window.
He could feel his heart beating, the stillness of his own breath, the ache of his body and the feel of silk sheets over his skin and a feather pillow underneath his head.
Wait…
Where’s the sirens?
Every morning, sirens would pass through his window, ambulances rushing down the road. That’s what he had heard for a solid week while at the hospital even when he passed in an out of consciousness. He should have been recovering from a car accident he had. He should hear the sound of doctors, nurses, the other patients next to him, the beeping of those machines… something! Anything that wasn’t this! Silence.
As his eyes began to focus on the ceiling; where once a grey and brown leak stained tile had existed now was the top of what he recognised to be a large bed, one of those kind of fancy beds that overtly rich people had trying to mimic royalty
These sheets…
These felt like linen against his skin, speaking of which, as he began to regain feeling around his body he noticed he was naked underneath
Did the doctors take my clothes…
Why am I here…
Through the ache and pain he tried to lift his hand from the covers and lift it as he rubbed his eyes, wiping away whatever sleep remained. His eyes scanned the room around; within his vision he could see a wooden desk and bronze colour bathtub at the far end of a large room, curtains around his bed with pretty patterns on it, cream colours walls with gold and red trimmings around the edge of the walls. If his new room could be described as anything it would either be opulence or bougie.
He shuddered to think about the cost this place would bill him afterwards.
Had they moved me to a private hospital?
He tried to force himself to sit up, his body still aching as he tried to looks around his room better; his surprise and confusion now overwhelmed his pain.
Where the hell am I?
He looked down at his shirtless body.
Why do I look paler?
The door to his room opened, a woman carrying a large bowl entered in; she wasn’t a nurse, wasn’t dressed in the blue scrubs or apron but dressed like a servant, like a medieval servant you’d see in those renaissance festivals. As soon as they both locked eyes with each other, she dropped the bowl onto the ground, water spilling out onto the floor
“My prince!” she exclaims.
“Nurse…” Daemon mutters, he tries to reach out to her, as he leans forward he almost falls out of the bed, before he could slip the woman runs to him and pushes him down onto the bed.
“Prince Daemon, wait here!” she tells him before running out of the door “Maester! Maester Allar!” she heard her call out, her yelling echoing in the hallway, he could hear other people running around in the hallway.
As he lay his head on the pillow, his head spinning, he pondered on her words.
Who the hell is… Daemon?
That’s when his memories became to play in his head, memories of a life that wasn’t his; of a large castle, of a mother with blond hair and mismatched eyes, of a father who has platinum hair and purple eyes, of a doting grandmother and his grandfather wearing a crown of gold with gems on it, an elder brother who loved to laugh… a monstrously large chair of swords in a large hall and a banner or flag with a three headed red dragon on a black background.
No… I’m dreaming, this is a dream…
When he had opened his eyes once more he saw an old man draped in brown robes with long chains wrap around his body watching over him.
“Prince Daemon, you’ve finally awake, thank the Gods.” The man said.
He shouldn’t recognise the man in front him and yet “Maester Allar…” he mumbled as the maester placed a warm wet cloth over his forehead.
He tries to move his body but the maester quickly stops him “You mustn’t exert yourself, your body is likely still recovering from the accident.” He took the wet cloth from his head and rinsed in the water into the bowl “Your father and brother will be here soon to see you, no doubt they will be joyous to hear the news of your awakening.”
The memory of his father Baelon and his brother Viserys seeped into his mind “Father… Viserys…”
“Will be here soon, my Prince, in the mean time you must rest.” Allar assured him “I have asked the servants to bring you some food, no doubt you a famished after your long sleep.” He felt the maester run the cloth down his arms, across his upper chest and neck as Daemon stared at the ceiling.
This is not… this can’t be real…
He couldn’t come to terms with it, he had all his memories; another life that wasn’t the one he had awoken in now. A regular and boring life; he lived in a flat in a city, worked a boring government job, would watch documentaries and fantasy or sci-fi films or read boring books.
One of them was this one, one of them was Fire and Blood…
And yet he had a whole set of new memories now, a whole other life that had been lived and he was now in the body of that person, he was in the body of the guy who’d be the brother to a king! Father to a king! Husband to a Queen!
One of the main instigators to a bloody civil war, perhaps the first domino that falls towards causing the Dance of Dragons!
Yet despite all that he still had his old memories, the memories that were… his? His first life, the one that was not Daemon but his. His mind was a blur with the two lives; he remembers an accident, he remembers hitting his head on a steering wheel yet also remembers a brick hit his head and him falling off his horse.
The door to his room opens once more “He’s in here, my prince.” Came the voice of the maester. “please by careful as prince Daemon is still recovering.” A middle aged man rushed into the room and knelt by his side, taking Daemon’s hand in his.
“My boy.” The man said, tears welling in his eyes as a smile adorned his face “It gladdens my heart to see you are finally awake.”
Daemon stared at the man for a second, a moment of confusion as the memories of his life here took over “Father…”
Baelon smile widen “Yes, my boy, I had thought I’d lost you.” A tear rolled down his cheek as Baelon rubbed Daemon’s “I do not think I could bare another loss, thank the Gods for their mercy.”
Daemon felt something inside him, something burning, a fury within his core. It was rage yet it was not from himself, it felt as though it was from something within wanting to get out.
He shut his eyes trying to focus on fighting away the feeling.
“My boy, are you well?” Baelon asked, his hands gripping at Daemon’s tighter.
“Yes.” Daemon mutters out “I am just, fighting through a pain in my head is all.”
“Maester, have the servants bring milk of the poppy.” Baelon commanded.
“No please, I am fine.” Daemon said “I only need but a mere moment before this passes.”
Why am I speaking like this? Why have I adopted this ye-olden time English…
As he opened his eyes, more people entered the room, a servant came in holding a tray before placing it on the nightstand next to the bed. The smell from it was overwhelming to the senses yet still very alluring.
“Roasted duck with leaks and some potatoes, my prince.” The servant said before bowing his head and leaving the room. Baelon let go of his hand and along with Maester Allar helped Daemon up to a sitting position.
Allar lifted Daemon’s hair to the side “It seems the stitches have healed well, that is fortunate.” Baelon poured some wine from a jug into a cup.
Little bit early to drink isn’t it?
Baelon places the cup to your lips and slowly tilts it forward, Daemon sip on the drink; thankfully it is not as strong as he expected it to be and it was nice to have something wash down his parched throat. He then cuts a bit of the duck and feeds him it.
It’s really good, I could certainly get use to this…
“Viserys will be here to see you shortly, no doubt he and Aemma will bring Rhaenyra too to see you.” Baelon said.
He quickly remembered a woman with wavy pale blond hair and purple eyes cradling a baby in her arms standing next to his brother, a tall man with a strange looking mustache that bordered on being a bit hipster looking.
“Allow me, my prince.” One of the servants say as Baelon hands them the fork as she feeds Daemon some leeks.
I’m dreaming… this has to be it, this is all a dream. I’m going to wake up in my hospital bed and eat crappy hospital baked potatoes with cheap melted cheese and a stale pudding cup.
The servant then fed him some duck and boiled potato.
“Brother!” came a loud cry as Viserys walked into the room, arms open approaching Daemon. He laughed as he wrapped them around Daemon tightly, Daemon coughed in surprise and agony as Viserys pulled him in closer to him.
“Prince Viserys, you mustn’t be too rough with your brother, he is still recovering.” Allar advised.
“Right, my sincerest pardons, brother, its just so good to see you awake.” He placed a firm hand on Daemon’s shoulder “Almost a moon’s turn you were asleep for brother, some in court doubted that you would wake, but we knew, we never doubted your return for the briefest moment.”
“You have my thanks, brother.” Daemon replied.
‘You have my thanks’? again who talks like this? Just say ‘thank you’
A woman walked in, dressed in a blue dress while his father and brother were adorned in the colours of House Targaryen. “Prince Daemon.” She called out, a baby in her arms, almost squirming to be free of her mother’s arms, walked towards him “It gladdens me to see you awake, both I and Rhaenyra have been praying for your return to good health.”
“It seems your prayers have worked, it seems that the prayers of our city, our kingdoms for the return of my son to good health have been answered by the Gods!” Baelon proclaimed. “Your grandfather will be pleased to hear this no doubt and so will your grandmother and aunt Gael when word reaches them in Dragonstone.”
“And your lady wife Rhea will be joyous about this news.” Viserys added.
My wife? I’m not married…
The hazy memory of a young woman standing before an alter as a septon had them recite their vows to some statutes as a long ribbon was wrapped around their hands. What stood out from the memory was the feeling of unpleasantness that surrounded it.
Daemon pushed that feeling down and listened intently to this family, still believing himself to be dreaming vividly about somehow being in a the book Blood and Fire of all places.
“What… what year is it again?” Daemon asked timidly.
“That brick must have hit you quite hard, brother.” Viserys japed. “It is 99AC, our sweet Rhaenyra was only born just over a year ago.”
“Right, of course.” Daemon replied before the servant fed him another helping of roasted duck before placing the cup to his lips to wash it down. “Forgive me, it appears I have lost some of my wits.”
“You are alive and well, that is more than enough.” Baelon said.
Aemma walked closer, turning so that the baby Rhaenyra could see her uncle.
Such a cute baby…
He felt a horrible pain in his chest, an ache, a want and anger. His mind shifted to what he had read in the book; Daemon trying to via for the throne through his niece, their sons Aegon the younger and Viserys, both kings in their own time yet. The legacy of Daemon Targaryen.
He placed his hand over his chest and he took in a deep breath.
“Are you well?” Baelon asked as only a concerned father would.
“I am well, father.” Daemon responded “I just need a moment is all, I am still recovering.” That seem to calm him down just a little bit.
“I think it’s best if we allowed the prince to gain more rest.” Maester Allar.
“Yes, that would be best.” Baelon said almost sadden by that omission “We will be back soon, my son.” He placed a tender kiss on Daemon’s forehead before departing.
Viserys gave him a softer embrace “Get some rest brother, you will be up and back to your old self soon.” He placed his arm around Aemma as they both walked out of his room.
Both Maester Allar and the servants helped Daemon back into a laying position, resting his head on the pillow, they all bowed their heads as one servant took the tray of finished food and left him alone in the room once more.
Daemon stared at the roof of his bed.
He began to laugh gently to himself.
I’m gonna wake up in some hospital bed after this, it’s was really something to dream about Westeros, but I need to dream up other stuff than fantasy knights and dragons, maybe The Expanse next time?
For the first time today he allowed himself to think of his life; that civil servant job that awaited him and maybe he’ll finally listen to that colleague who wouldn’t shut up about love island when he has recovered, he couldn’t wait! Afterwards he’ll go back home and read that pile of books on his shelf, maybe watch his favourite shows or films… maybe he’ll go see his family, it must have been a few years since he’s seen them since moving to the city for work, he missed his nephew and niece, his sister and his parents.
They must be so worried about me, they’re probably at the hospital watching over me now…
He smiled at the thought as he allowed himself to dream of that life once more as he fell into a blissful sleep.
When he awoke, he was greeted to the nightness and the light of the moon pouring into his room and washing over him.
And silence.
And the roof of the bed.
“No…” he muttered.
He shut his eyes again for a few seconds before opening them.
He looked around, he was still there. Still in that damn room.
His breathing became more frantic as his eyes searched the room, trying to find something, anything that felt more real than this dream!
He tried to imagine the sound of sirens, the beeping of the machines, the muttered talking of hospital staff, the sterile smell, anything that wasn’t this damn medieval place!
“This isn’t real, this isn’t real.” He shut his eyes again, longer this time before opening them. Still he remained in the room. Panic became to envelop him now as the reality of his situation took over.
“No, no, no, no.” he whimpered loudly “No, no, Please, Please, Please.”
This can’t be real, this can’t be real, this can’t be real.
It was impossible. How could this be possible? He couldn’t have woken up in some damn fantasy novel he read; they weren't real, this place wasn’t real, Daemon wasn’t real, Targaryens aren’t real! Westeros is not real!
Yet his eyes showed him what he couldn’t not accept.
Tears began to well up in his eyes; was it out of frustration, anger, disbelief, sorrow? It had to be a mix of all of them. The life that he lived may be gone for him forever and in its place. He was now stuck in the body of someone else living out a life in a book, in a world that should be fiction.
He leaned over to the side of his bed and saw an large empty bowl, no doubt a chamber pot. He reached for the bowl and began to throw up into it. What he saw only caused him to weep further.
The leeks and bits of potato mixed in with his sick only confirmed to him that yesterday was real, it was all real.
He lay back on his bed, placed his hands over his eyes as he began to cry, the tiniest part of him hoped and prayed that maybe when he removed his hand he’s be back. Yet as he tried to remember his family, the one he had from his old life he knew within his heart and soul he’d never see them again.
In his heart, almost within his soul he felt his sorrow become even more compounded by anguish and pain; as if there within him was another person weeping, angry, heartbroken.
Someone must have heard him as only a few seconds later there was a knock on the door. “Prince Daemon, are you well?”
He didn’t respond, only continued to weep into his hand; hearing a servant’s voice call him Daemon only made him more upset, only further told him how real this all was.
He heard the door open slightly, the squeeze of the hinges and creak of the door giving it away. “My prince, are you in any pain.”
Again he didn’t respond, he didn’t have the heart to and all they were doing was upsetting him further. The servant quickly shut the door. Perhaps a couple minutes later, Maester Allar came back into the room.
“Prince Daemon, are you in pain?” he asked, clearly concerned. “what ails you my prince?”
Again he couldn’t find within himself to answer, only to weep. The Maester removed Daemon’s hand from his face and looked at him as he wept like a baby. Allar checked his bandages once more “The wound is clean…” he looked once more at Daemon “Does something trouble you, my prince?”
Please stop saying that… please don’t call me that.
Daemon nodded his head weakly.
How could I explain it? ‘I’ve lost everything, I’ve lost my whole life and I’m stuck inside this body of a dickhead from Game of Thrones?
Even if he tried to explain it, his sobbing got in the way of his words.
“Fetch Prince Baelon.” Allar commanded to one of the servants.
It might have taken a bit longer than when the Maester had come to attend to him but soon Prince Baelon had entered, dressed in his sleeping wear.
“My boy, what is the matter, has something happened?”
Just the sight of Baelon made it worse.
He tried to think of his real father, the one likely sitting next to his hospital bed, an old man with grey hair, square glasses and has a love of sweaters and crafting trinkets and toys.
Not the Prince of Dragonstone, not the son of a King, not a bloody Targaryen.
Daemon tried to speak yet his words came out slurred, whimpers escaped his lips and grief the only thing he could express.
Baelon gripped Daemon’s hand “Is there nothing wrong with him, Maester Allar?”
“None that I could see, my Prince.” The maester replied.
Baelon nodded his head “All of you shall leave us, I will stay here with my son.” He commanded, those in the room bowed their heads and left the two alone, taking the chamber pot of sick with them. Baelon stood up and walked over to the empty side of the bed before laying down next to Daemon but still holding his hand tightly. “I had not lay next to you since the time you were but a boy of eight name days.” He japed, still tenderly holding his hand. “When you are ready to speak, I shall be here to listen.” He said with a reassuring smile “Or fall asleep, you best hurry, I have a small council meeting in the morning and I’d rather not fall asleep when Ryman Redwyne gives his newest report on grain harvests.” He almost scoffed when he spoke of that.
Daemon must have lay there for Gods knows how long trying to calm himself down as Baelon held his hand. But the time he was able to control his breathing and dried his eyes, Baelon was now fast asleep next to him, snoring loudly.
For some reason he took comfort in it, a feeling of calm coming over him as he shut his eyes again, squeezing Baelon’s hand as he let sleep take him once more.
He prayed that, at the very least, he could dream of his life before this.