Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I feel like my head is about to explode, a terrible pain accompanied by the burning sensation throughout my body. I can barely move. The last thing I remember is being on a bus heading home, returning from a trip to visit my aunt and uncle in a town a few hours away. God, every time I breathe and my chest expands, thanks to the air I so desperately need, I feel like it's going to tear apart.

I'm lying in a bed, I think. Am I in a hospital or an ambulance? How much time has passed since the accident? I don't have the strength to think about it, but I've always been stubborn, so I make a small effort to open my eyes. When I finally manage to do so, the sight that greets me is not what I expected.

I'm in a dark room — I think it's night. It's a rustic place, well-furnished but sparsely decorated, lit by a few candles on a piece of furniture in front of me. The place seems vaguely familiar, but I can't remember why. I manage to turn my head slightly, and I see him.

Maekar Targaryen, almost exactly as he appears in the show I just finished watching with my friends last week. I don't know the actor's name, but this version, while similar, also vaguely reminds me of an older Henry Cavill. When I see him, he appears to be asleep, but curiously, as I stare at him, a wave of memories floods my mind.

Maekar and a beautiful woman — stunning, with black hair and purple eyes — smiling as they watch me play with a wooden dragon. Maekar teaching me to fish in a stream, surrounded by a forest in midsummer. Maekar hugging me after giving me my very own charcoal-colored horse. A thousand and one memories that only worsen my headache.

Is this a dream? It doesn't feel like a dream; it feels so real. The pain, physical and mental. The memories — not all of them are happy. I see the black-haired woman lying on a bed, two painted stones resting over her eyes. I remember the confusion and the agony. I remember... God, I remember making life hell for my brothers, for servants, for squires. In that moment, I realize that I am Aerion Targaryen. Though I can't tell if it's a dream or not, the pain is too real.

I stare at Maekar for what I think are minutes, maybe hours — I really don't know. I'm crying — from the pain, from the memories, from the accident. I'm so confused. Honestly, in my entire life, I've never found myself in a situation like this, so abruptly. What am I supposed to do?

Even though my body — Aerion's body — screams at me not to move, I manage to sit up as best I can in the bed. I look at Maekar again and think about what I should say. I'm still not sure if I'm in a nightmare or some cruel joke by an Eastern god — I think that reincarnating as one of the most loathsome characters in George R. R. Martin's is a terribly dark joke. Finally, I decide to play it safe and get into character somewhat, even if just a little.

"Father?" I say in a hoarse voice, barely a whisper. The imposing silver-haired warrior wakes instantly, opening his eyes and locking them onto mine. His violet eyes show concern, and a second later, a grimace of disappointment. My father has particularly expressive eyes too — I recognize that hint of disappointment in his gaze. I learned what that meant long ago. Too many disappointments in my life, and from what I've seen in this body's memories, Aerion has also learned to interpret the meaning of that look, not long ago.

"Son? You shouldn't be awake. Sleep. You must rest — the maester conveyed his concern about your recovery." His tone is bitter, resigned, weary. Pain and guilt behind every word, and a great deal of fury that he lacks the strength to unleash freely.

Swallowing some saliva, I prepare to continue speaking. Maybe I'm in a nightmare, maybe not. Maybe I'm in a coma in a hospital, or maybe I've been given a chance in another world. Strangely, for some reason, I feel the second option is the most likely.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry for everything that—"

"Enough," Maekar cuts me off abruptly, like a sword blade slicing through flesh — blunt and unapologetic.

"Do you really think that after everything you've caused, all the deaths your actions have brought about, you have any right to feel remorse? No. I know you, boy. The only thing you feel is regret that you didn't manage to kill that damn hedge knight."

I close my eyes briefly, hurt by his words. I'm not responsible for what happened at the tourney and the trial, but with the memories crashing into my mind like waves eroding the shores of my consciousness, I can't help but feel guilt.

"Father, truly, I didn't want to—" I'm cut off again, unable to finish my words.

"Enough of this fucking shit," Maekar says, suddenly rising from the chair where he was sitting. He stumbles briefly — I assume due to his injuries and bruises. He stares at me, holding back all his anger and pain as best he can.

"Baelor. The crown prince. The Hand of the King. My... brother. He is dead because of me, because I defended you at trial as any father must defend his children. Ser Humfrey Beesbury and Ser Humfrey Hardyng are also dead — two knights of the realm. Men of honor and integrity whom you could never hope to remotely resemble, boy. Good and brave men have died because of your cruelty and stupidity. I should have realized the monster you were becoming. I should have fucking listened to Daeron and Aegon... Your mother would be horrified by your actions — horrified to see what you've turned into."

I close my eyes again, feeling tears well up and spill down my cheeks, swollen with bruises. When I open them again, I lower my gaze, unable to look that man in the face — a man so disappointed by Aerion's actions, my actions now. The memories of how I broke that mummer's fingers flood back to me. Every small act of cruelty toward my brothers, as vividly as if I had been the one responsible.

Maekar lets out a weary sigh and practically collapses back into the chair beside the bed. "I have sent a raven to the king. You will be exiled from the Seven Kingdoms until His Grace decides the punishment is sufficient. If you attempt to return without royal permission, you will be disinherited and sent to the Wall." His voice is so harsh and raspy — determined and pained in equal measure. A man broken on the inside.

For a moment, I remain silent. I will be sent to a port with maesters until I recover, then immediately put on the first ship bound for Lys. At least that's the city mentioned where Aerion is exiled in the story. There's truly nothing I can say to change that fate. Honestly, it's even a mild punishment for what happened during the tourney at Ashford Meadow.

"I will board the first ship to the Free Cities, Father." I resign myself to say, barely a whisper.

Maekar rises again. This time, he manages not to stumble and adopts an upright, formal posture worthy of a prince. "Good. Now rest. We leave at the morrow." Without another word, he walks toward the door.

In the doorway, despite the darkness, I can see him slightly turn his head to cast one last look at me. Then he crosses the threshold, closing the door behind him. I remain silent, staring at the ceiling, wondering what sins I could have committed to deserve this punishment.

Chapter Text

I find myself lying on a small makeshift bed inside a carriage. The carriage itself isn't luxurious — rather austere — but I can tell it's well-built because the many bumps aren't too much of a nuisance. That's another thing I've quickly discovered about this world: traveling is truly tedious. Although of all the things I've been forced to learn and discover here, traveling is the least of my worries.

As the heavily escorted carriage continues to guide me toward Summerhall, where I'm supposed to gather Aerion's belongings before my forced exile, I begin to examine my situation more closely.

Hours ago, I accepted that I'm not living a nightmare. God, I wish this were all a nightmare. But no — clearly the world around me is as real as the one I supposedly belong to. I'm screwed. And to make matters worse, after the conversation with Maekar — now my father — I couldn't fall asleep. I cried like a little child, I must admit. And the damned sobs and spasms that accompanied them only caused me more pain thanks to my injuries and bruises, which made me cry even more. Honestly, one of my worst nights ever.

Near dawn, I managed to pull myself together, a little. Only to be interrupted by a maester who made me drink some kind of tea that basically drugged me, though I admit it alleviated the pain. I suppose it was milk of the poppy. The first hours of the morning passed much faster than the night. A clearly nervous servant girl left me a small tray with breakfast — some fairly large fried eggs and some bacon. After devouring breakfast, the tea's effects intensified, leaving me half-asleep. Two guards serving Maekar — well, my new father — who accompanied us from Summerhall helped me up and escorted me inside the carriage where I now lie. The tea made my vision quite blurry, so I couldn't clearly see how the servants and guards looked at me, but from the sound of their whispers as I passed by them, they were probably looks of contempt and outrage.

I haven't moved since then, and no one has spoken to me — surely on Maekar's direct orders, I mean my father's. Shit. I doubt I can assimilate into my subconscious that 'the Anvil' is now my father. Not that I'm complaining — I have a lot to process and think about, so the silence is appreciated.

I have to start with the most obvious thing: I find myself in the world created by George R.R. Martin, which, at baseline, makes me want to fall into a goddamn depression. But it is what it is, so I need to remember everything I know about this world. I've watched the series Game of Thrones, the first season of House of the Dragon, and more recently A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. As for books... you could say I might be the unluckiest man in the world. During the trip to visit my aunt and uncle, I decided to buy Fire and Blood and the published books of the main saga — I didn't buy the ones recounting the adventures of Dunk and Egg, and on the trip I only managed to read Fire and Blood. In short, I have very little knowledge of the historical period in which I'm going to spend the rest of my days — if I even manage to live more than a month in this damned world. Great. Absolutely fantastic.

Obviously, I know that in canon, Aegon would eventually become king, Dunk a member of the Kingsguard, and that Aerion — me — after marrying his cousin, had a son named Maegor (yes, of all the damned Targaryen names, Aerion chose Maegor), and immediately afterward had the brilliant idea of drinking Wildfire because he was utterly deranged. Fantastic. The only positive piece of information is that I won't have to witness the Long Night. Small victories. The few other things I know are that I will indeed have to participate in the various Blackfyre rebellions, which I don't like in the slightest.

Alright, as for knowledge of the history of the world around me, I know the basics — which will most likely change significantly thanks to my actions. How wonderful.

Something bittersweet is my memories — well, Aerion's memories, which I have to share with those from my other life. The good thing is that I remember in considerable detail all the lessons in history, administration, and combat that the Targaryens — my new family — forced Aerion to learn. Technically, I know how to fight and ride quite well. Aerion, surprisingly, was also a good student regarding his lessons in history and politics, although it seems he skipped his lessons with the maester on how to manage lands and dispense justice to go to the training yard. That last part doesn't surprise me much. I'll have to wait until I recover from my injuries to see if I've also inherited Aerion's muscle memory. If I've received both the theory and the practice of how to survive in this world, I'll be much more at ease.

The negative part of assimilating Aerion's memories is... well, they're Aerion's memories. Every insult, every threat, every act of irrational violence, of tormenting my brothers and the servants. God, I remember murdering Aegon's little cat — it was just a small kitten named Vhagar. All the wickedness and torment caused by my new body have been bombarding my mind without rest. The only good memories of Aerion are from before the death of his mother — my mother — Dyanna.

Apart from Aerion's memories before my arrival, the only things I've inherited are the pathetic physical state I'm in thanks to the trial of seven, an infamous reputation with my family and the court that I probably won't belong to for years due to my exile, and his belongings at Summerhall. Well, there's also his armor (which I must reluctantly admit is incredible and of high quality, from what I can remember), his numerous swords and knives, and his charcoal-colored horse named Morghul — 'death' in High Valyrian. Oh, how original, Aerion. Though I suppose I'll have to leave Morghul and most of his belongings behind after I leave for Lys.

Suddenly, I notice the guards outside starting to shout orders, and the carriage slowly comes to a halt. After a while — two or three minutes, perhaps — a soldier slides open the thick cloth curtain that serves as a window for my carriage and speaks to me in a hoarse voice, tired from the long ride on horseback, no doubt.

"My prince, your brother, Prince Daeron, wishes to see you."

Chapter Text

I try to make myself as comfortable as possible in my new position inside the carriage. It's been quite annoying to have to stop lying on the slightly comfortable bed of the carriage and instead sit up so that Daeron, my older brother in this world, can sit beside me.

The truth is, his request to speak with me has surprised me quite a bit; I didn't expect to be visited by anyone during the entire journey before reaching Summerhall. I must admit that, despite feeling curious about the dreamer, it has turned out to be a nuisance when it comes to continuing to organize my concerns — the ones I'd been analyzing and resolving for hours.

Now that I have a moment before Daeron approaches the carriage and enters the small austere space, I must admit that I haven't thought too much about my relationship with my family. At least with the closest ones. Thanks to Aerion's memories, I know that Daeron has spent practically years trying to avoid having the slightest relationship with me, which is reasonable given the torment I used to put him through in the training yard, in addition to fostering his alcoholism.

On the other hand, Aegon absolutely hates me; years of constant threats and harassment have made the little prince see me as a monster, which until now was a fairly accurate assumption.

Surprisingly, my relationship with Aemon — whom I still find it strange to remember as a studious and responsible child rather than the ancient and wise maester of the Wall — is relatively cordial. Aerion saw Aemon as his only brother worthy of being considered such, thanks to his strong sense of duty toward his family and his responsibility. It also helps that, at a very early age, he left court to join the Citadel, so he hasn't had to witness how Aerion habitually treated those around him.

My relationship with my little sisters, Daella and Rhae, is considerably better than with my brothers, especially because they are still quite young. Daella, despite being betrothed to Aegon, shows little interest in him, fostering the small obsession that Rhae has with her older brother Egg.

Daella is... well, according to Aerion's memories, my new little sister shows a great aptitude for manipulating and blackmailing servants to always get what she wants, encouraged of course by the former occupant of this body. You could say that Daella follows in the footsteps of Aerion's malice with her own feminine and childish touch, in addition to showing a small obsession with me similar to Rhae's with Egg.

If I'm honest, it's quite... disturbing. I feel that having been born in the 21st century on Earth, I don't hold incest in high regard, although, if we're being honest, right now I am the fruit of God knows how many incestuous generations between siblings, so I shouldn't be surprised that my sister shows some interest in me, even though she's still basically a child. Although if we're being honest, this body is only 15 name-days, as the westerosi would say.

Lastly, I can't say too much about Rhae other than that she's a spoiled princess who always manages to get into trouble with the guards or maidservants, and she lacks Daella's ability to get her way. Aerion has almost completely ignored his youngest sister for most of his life; in part, I think he saw in her the reason for the death of his mother Dyanna, after she died during childbirth. I'm not entirely sure that he really blamed her for that tragedy, because if that were the case, I'd imagine he would try to torment her even more than his brothers, but he simply ignored her, which leaves me completely baffled.

God, I don't know how Maekar has been able to put up with so much shit from his offspring for so long. And speaking of the devil. My relationship with my new father until recently was relatively positive. Aerion was quite good at hiding his cruel acts from his father, and he clearly considered him his favorite son thanks to his focus on martial matters and because he reminded him more of himself when he was young.

Although all that has changed since the death of Baelor, my new uncle, now deceased because of Aerion's actions. I think Maekar still unconditionally loves his son — me — but now that vision is clouded by disappointment and contained anger thanks to the trial of seven.

Before I can reflect on my extended family, a young man bursts into my carriage, entering without saying a word to me and sits down in front of me, though he doesn't lift his gaze from the bed that covers the entire floor of the carriage. He seems unable to meet my eyes. The boy, sallow-skinned and thin, crowned with short light brown hair, is without a doubt Daeron, my new brother. He wears an elegant red and black doublet that only further highlights the pale tone of his skin.

I study him for a moment with inquisitive eyes that I often used when I occupied another body, not this one. Clearly Daeron does not wish to be in my company — reasonable given our relationship — which leads me to assume that Maekar has ordered him to check on my condition during the journey.

"Brother," I say, trying not to sound too harsh, and thanks to the maesters' teas, my voice sounds less hoarse.

"Aerion," he finally lifts his head slightly, and I can see his violet eyes, slightly nervous, immediately accompanied by a half-smile. "Father wants to know if you still look like a sack of shaken neeps rather than a prince."

I observe him closely for a moment. Immediately after making his little comment about my lamentable physical state, the half-smile vanishes from his lips and he lowers his gaze again. He is surely expecting Aerion's usual fury at the small joke; however, all he receives is a loud laugh from me, followed by a painful cough from laughing so much, given that I very likely have bruises even in my lungs after the trial of seven.

Daeron lifts his head again suddenly and looks at me completely bewildered, his expression clearly showing that he hadn't expected that reaction. Then he notices my horrendous cough.

"Easy, easy. Drink from my wineskin, you look like you're going to die, brother," he says in a tone that still retains his surprise at my cheerful reaction.

After taking the wineskin and bringing it to my lips, I begin to drink a sweet wine, probably better than anything I ever tasted in my previous life. After taking a good swig of the sweet drink, I return the wineskin to him.

"Does Father know that you still carry wine with you?" I say with a characteristic half-smile and a raised eyebrow.

Although I tried to make it seem like the question was a joke, Daeron immediately lowers his gaze again and babbles a dozen reasons why he still has wine readily available to him, despite Maekar's wishes.

"Daeron, calm down, I'm not going to tell Father anything. He already has enough with one disappointment for a son and another running off with a hedge knight." Besides, I want to mend my relationship with my new family and try to restore my image at court somewhat.

And not only to be able to climb the hierarchy of the royal family after my exile, but also because I remember every evil act of Aerion, and I feel that I should try, in part, to make up for all his crimes.

Daeron meets my gaze again, more intently, and begins to observe me as if he were psychoanalyzing me.

"How do you know that Egg has left with Ser Duncan?"

For a moment I stand completely still, knowing that I've spoken out of turn about what I know regarding what Aerion should know. Quickly I try to correct myself with my most casual and convincing tone.

"I asked one of the guards where Egg was, because I hadn't seen him in the caravan leaving Ashford with us."

Daeron, after a second, relaxes again, slightly, but he doesn't stop looking at me with bewilderment, and with every passing moment, his violet eyes shine with more curiosity.

"Aerion..." he begins with some unease but certainty in what he is about to say. "You seem different. And I don't mean your injuries, of course. It's just that it's been a long time since you've been so..."

"Pleasant? Less of an asshole?" I cut him off, though not harshly, with a mocking tone. Even though I find myself in a deplorable situation, I can't help but act as I usually would in my previous life: using sarcasm to hide the pain and suffering. A classic.

Daeron lets out a short, dry laugh.

"Your words, not mine. I didn't think you were going to mature so quickly, despite all the trial business... Sorry, too soon," he gives me an apologetic look.

"Well, you could say that the old Aerion died in the trial of seven along with the Humfreys and... Baelor," I say with genuine guilt; although it wasn't my actions that caused the trial, now they are my memories, my responsibility, unfortunately.

Daeron seems to stand still for a moment and avoid my eyes, while he seems to whisper to himself.

"Two dragons will lie dead..."

"Two dead dragons?" I reply quickly, confused.

"Just another of my stupid dreams, brother, you shouldn't pay it any mind," he tells me nervously again.

"Could you tell me your dream? If you wish, of course," I try to express calmly but with clear curiosity and caution in my voice.

"Why are you interested in my dreams now? You've always called me a drunk and a freak every time I mention them," Daeron says with some irritation, already expecting Aerion's usual torment.

"Well, you're the one who said I seem different. Like a different person. Maybe for Aerion the asshole your dreams were nonsense, but for Aerion the Broken, those dreams interest me," I recite with a smile on my face.

Daeron stands almost slack-jawed, bewildered again by my way of acting. Finally he decides to sigh and refocus his gaze on me.

"I... Well, yesterday I dreamed of two red dragons falling from the sky and dying. The first, majestic and huge. The second, smaller but furious. However, at the moment of death, the small red dragon's belly begins to open, as if a blade were cutting it from within. And from the wound, another dragon emerged, bearing scales the colors of fire, being as majestic as the first dragon but retaining the fury of the second. After being born, the fire-colored dragon immediately takes flight and fixes its gaze on a dragon pale as bone that is devouring the corpses of dragons black as coal. At that moment, the pale dragon also launches into the sky to meet the newborn, only to attack it. Unfortunately, I don't know how the dream ends: a guard woke me right during the fight, so I couldn't see which dragon prevailed. It's not like I know or want to know what it means. My dreams are never good omens."

I become completely still again, looking at and carefully studying Daeron and what he just told me.

"Your dreams tend to be prophetic, and this seems to be something concerning our family," I say cautiously.

Daeron sighs and lets out a brief dry laugh.

"What good is it to know what the future holds if I can't understand it until it has already happened?"

"I could help you decipher your dreams, working together, perhaps also write to Aemon."

Daeron studies me carefully again before fixing his violet eyes on mine — also violet — and honoring me with the first genuine smile I've seen him wear throughout the conversation.

"I'm going to inform Father that you're recovering properly," he says as he moves to open the carriage door and leave the small space.

Before Daeron closes the carriage again and he goes off to wherever our father is, he looks at me intently again with a small smile.

"A pleasure to meet you, Aerion the Broken."

Chapter Text

Traveling in Westeros is extremely tedious. We've been traveling on a muddy road for six days since we left Ashford, and we still have at least four or five days to go before reaching Summerhall. I'm realizing that George R.R. Martin didn't exaggerate the scale of this world in his books; Westeros truly is a huge continent, and with the medieval technology that exists, journeys are long and tedious. At least it has allowed me to recover almost completely from my injuries.

At dawn, the maester in charge of my recovery gave me the green light to resume normal life, which allowed me to travel all morning on horseback, on my black steed Morghul. To my satisfaction, I've inherited the riding ability of the previous host of my new body. In the few hours I've ridden, I've grown quite fond of it. In my previous life, I was never interested in horseback riding, seeing it as an activity for rich kids, and having been born into a working-class family, I never had the chance to consider it as a hobby. Now I can't wait to resume the journey and keep riding.

We stopped at noon to rest after almost two days of arduous travel, in addition to the usual lunch stop. Both on the road and in the makeshift camp, most of the escort have avoided me, unwilling to share my company. Aerion, I don't know how you could live with basically no friends at all. After finishing a piece of beef with bread for lunch, I decided to visit the knights who are part of my father's guard. I have a theory that I've inherited Aerion's technique and muscle memory, specifically in combat. Having seen that I remember perfectly how to ride a horse, I think I'm right, but better to check by training with the guards than by putting it to the test in real combat.

My father decided to set up camp by a stream near the road, with the guards choosing to train in a clearing with a few trees that provide shade and shelter for those resting after fighting. There are about six knights and twenty men-at-arms in the area, with a sparring match currently taking place between two knights I recognize thanks to Aerion's memory: Ser Willem Wendwater and Ser Borros Selmy.

Ser Willem is the second son of Lord Wendwater, brown-haired with dark blue eyes and a nose slightly crooked from some blow. I assume he's around twenty-five name days old. His opponent, Ser Borros, has black hair and honey-colored eyes, a kind face but full of small scars, and he seems at least ten years older than Ser Willem. Ser Borros is the third son of Lord Selmy and clearly the most experienced man present, having fought in the Blackfyre Rebellion alongside my father. Moreover, I can observe that he is clearly dominating the sparring match against Ser Willem.

Willem, in any case, seems a competent knight. His footwork is fairly decent, although his posture isn't the most appropriate, favoring putting more weight on his dominant right foot. It seems Ser Borros has also quickly noticed the same mistake and has launched a low blow to his opponent's left leg to try to destabilize him. Willem manages to block the direct blow, but Borros has successfully destabilized him, allowing him, with a high blow to one shoulder and then a thrust, to knock his opponent to the ground.

Do I remember all of Aerion's weapons lessons? Well, in any case, it's to my benefit, so I won't complain. While Ser Borros helps his opponent up and recites which weak points he used to his advantage so the younger knight can learn to correct them, I finish approaching the circle of soldiers watching the training. When I finish properly adjusting my left gauntlet, everyone present notices my presence.

"My Prince," I hear all those present say in unison, with small bows of their heads. Anyone would believe it's a sign of respect, but the tone of most of the men and the nervous glances they exchange clearly tell me that no one wants me here. I sigh internally; I'm going to have to work very hard to rebuild my reputation. I step forward, slightly timid since the idea of taking hits and fighting after being bedridden for days isn't very encouraging, although I admit it gives me a certain adrenaline rush.

"Good sers, if it's no problem for anyone, I'd like to train a bit. It's been a week since I've stretched my legs," I say calmly with a small smile. I hope it seems genuine.

At first, no one answers me directly. Most of the soldiers exchange glances again, and some even whisper God knows what. Fuck, Aerion's reputation is truly terrible. Finally, the veteran Borros breaks the silence with a small nervous smile, similar to mine.

"It would be a pleasure to train with the Prince if he so wishes. Blunted swords, my Prince?" The last question comes out of his mouth with a slightly higher, doubtful voice. The knight of House Selmy clearly nervous about the answer he's going to get.

I meet Borros's gaze, this time giving a more genuine smile. "Of course, Ser Borros. It will be a pleasure to train with a veteran like you," I say with complete sincerity. In a world as cruel as this, being able to practice your martial skill with a war veteran must be quite a privilege.

Ser Borros and all the men that make up the circle are clearly confused and surprised. Ser Borros, however, recovers quickly and proceeds to give me the blunted sword he previously used against Ser Willem. "I'm glad my Prince remembers a nobody like me," he says again with another nervous smile, though with a small notch of recognition.

While Borros moves again to get another sword leaning against one of the trees, I try to search for him more thoroughly in my new memories. Ser Borros apparently was one of my instructors at Summerhall, and apparently Aerion made it a point never to call him by name, pretending he never remembered who he was despite knowing perfectly well. God, Aerion was an absolute asshole.

I decide to remove the belt holding my sharp sword to shed unnecessary weight that could be used against me and leave it next to some guards under the nearest tree, and finally put on my helmet before returning to the circle. After putting on my helmet, I again feel a dozen stares boring into me — or rather, into my armor.

The first time I saw it, or rather, the first time I remember seeing it, was through Aerion's eyes in some blurry memory. But now I feel the weight of its forged steel upon me.

It's a suit of scale armor. It's not like the plate armor that most knights in Westeros usually wear. No, Aerion's is more... eastern. Almost Valyrian in its execution. Memories come to me of how it's constructed: four hundred individual plates, each one cut and fitted by hand in a pattern that mimics the scales of a dragon. The smiths who forged it must have worked for months on end. The color is jet black, so dark it seems to swallow the light, but when you get closer you can see red and gold veins running through each scale as if the metal itself were burning from within.

The breastplate, if it can be called that, isn't smooth like those of other knights. Instead, the scales are assembled to form reliefs that simulate flames dancing from the center of the chest toward the shoulders. It's ostentatious, certainly. But it's also... imposing. When Aerion puts on this armor, no one in a tournament can look away.

Then there's the helm. That's the part that brings back the most memories. Aerion had an unhealthy fascination with it. The helm is forged in the shape of a human face, but not just any face. It's the face of a dragon with humanoid features: high cheekbones, a pronounced jaw, and a crest of red enamel that crowns the forehead simulating raised flames. The eyes of the helm are two narrow slits, barely visible, forcing whoever wears it to look at the world through a perpetual glare of contempt.

The smiths who designed the armor for Aerion were commissioned by him to make it "cold, intimidating, and dragon-like." Apparently, in the end, they discovered that the most terrifying creature wasn't the dragon, but the human face. And they were certainly right.

Finally, the cloak, black as coal, embroidered in scarlet with flames that climb from the shoulders and fall almost dragging on the ground.

When I watched the series in my previous life, I remember thinking that armor looked like it was taken from The Lord of the Rings for a young Sauron. But now, with Aerion's memories filtering into my mind like smoke under a door, I understand what it really represents. It's not just a piece of combat gear. It's a declaration of intent. It's the materialization of Aerion's madness, of his obsession with becoming a dragon, of his belief that the blood of Valyria made him superior to all mortals.

It's armor that weighs as much for the metal as for what it symbolizes.

When Ser Borros returns with his blunted sword in hand, the circle of soldiers has widened slightly. More men have gathered to witness the training, though they keep a respectful distance. I can feel their stares fixed on me, expectant, perhaps even hoping to see Aerion's usual display of cruelty. I sigh inwardly and grip the sword, testing its weight. Muscle memory invades me instantly: the balance, the weight of the steel, the way the hilt fits in my hand. Everything feels... natural.

We position ourselves facing each other in the clearing, about ten paces apart. Ser Borros assumes a classic defensive stance, sword raised, left leg slightly forward. His guard is solid, with no apparent weak points. The veteran observes me with honey-colored eyes, evaluating my every move.

"When you're ready, my Prince," he says in a firm voice, though I can still perceive a hint of uncertainty.

I nod and focus. My legs instinctively spread shoulder-width apart, the sword rising into a neutral guard. I don't know what I'm doing, but my body does. It's a strange sensation, as if someone else were maneuvering my limbs while I watch from within.

I take the first step.

A quick advance, a high feint to his left. Borros responds like the veteran he is, deflecting the blow smoothly and counterattacking with a lateral slash. My sword is already there to block it. The clash of metals echoes in the clearing, and I feel the vibration run through my arm. Fuck, he's strong.

I step back two paces to reorganize my position. Borros gives me no respite; he advances with a firm step and launches a direct thrust at my chest. I cross my sword diagonally, deflecting the point to my right as I twist my torso. The steel passes within inches of my ribcage.

"Good defense," Borros murmurs, and this time his smile seems less forced.

We exchange a series of quick blows. He attacks, I block or dodge. I attack, he repels me. His experience shows in every move: he never exposes his flank, never drops his guard, never lets impatience get the better of him. I, on the other hand, notice my breathing quickening. My muscles, although recovered from the trial injuries, are not yet at one hundred percent. But the technique... the technique is there.

I launch a powerful descending blow, trying to break his defense. Borros receives it with the center of his sword, but this time I notice him step back half a pace. I've made him exert himself. I take the opportunity to change the angle of my attack: instead of withdrawing my sword, I twist my wrist and push downward, trying to trap his guard. Borros is forced to take another step back.

I see something new in his eyes. Surprise. He no longer looks at me like the cruel prince who used to terrorize squires. He looks at me like an opponent.

"Good, my Prince. Very good," he says, and this time there's no nervousness in his voice.

We resume the exchange. Now I'm the one taking the initiative. My attacks are bolder, more fluid. I remember combinations of strikes I didn't even know I knew. A false low attack followed by a high slash. A thrust that turns into a sweep. Borros defends everything, but his breathing has also quickened.

Then I see it.

In one of his counterattacks, Borros puts slightly more weight on his front foot. Just an instant, a fraction of a second. His rear leg is left unprotected. It's the same weakness he exploited against Ser Willem.

I don't think. I act.

I launch a powerful blow against his sword, not to harm him, but to unbalance him. Borros blocks, as I expected, but the impact forces him to shift his weight backward. In that movement, his front foot lifts just a few inches off the ground. Not much, but enough.

I twist my sword and, instead of retreating, I step inside his guard. My blade strikes his at an oblique angle, forcing it to his left. With my left hand, I strike the flat of his sword from below. It's a risky move, almost reckless. If I fail, it will leave me exposed.

But I don't fail.

Borros's sword flies from his hands and lands on the ground three meters away, raising a small cloud of dust.

The clearing falls completely silent.

Borros stares at his empty hand, then at me, then back at his hand. His honey-colored eyes are wide open. Around me, the soldiers hold their breath. Some have dropped their jaws.

I'm surprised too. My chest heaves strongly, and I feel a slight tremor in my legs. It cost me. A lot. Borros is a formidable opponent, and if we had continued for another five minutes, he probably would have defeated me.

I bow slightly in a respectful reverence. "It was an honor, Ser Borros."

The veteran blinks a couple of times before flashing a smile. This time, there's no nervousness in it.

"The honor is mine, my Prince. I have never... never seen you fight like that." He pauses, as if searching for the right words. "With... passion. But without cruelty."

I don't know what to answer to that. I just nod as a soldier picks up Borros's sword and returns it to him. The circle of men begins to murmur, and this time the whispers don't sound like contempt. They sound like... curiosity.

Ser Willem approaches with an incredulous smile on his slightly disfigured face.

"Gods, my Prince. Where did you learn that move? I've never seen anything like it."

I open my mouth to answer, but I realize I don't have an honest answer that doesn't involve saying that I've inherited the body of an extremely skilled psychopath with a weapon, and that in my previous life I was a university student whom both parents taught to be an extremely respectful person toward others.

"A lot of practice," I finally reply, with a half-smile.

I move to the tree where I'd left my other sword and hand the blunted one to another knight named Ser Jaron. He moves into the circle to challenge another knight while I finish removing my helmet and lean against the trunk to rest in the shade.

Without my noticing, Ser Borros has come closer again, this time with a canteen. "Water, my Prince?"

I look at him surprised for a moment before nodding affirmatively with a small smile. "Thank you, Ser Borros."

After sizing me up for a moment, he returns the smile, though I again notice a wince of nervousness. "If it pleases the Prince, might I ask for a rematch? It's not good for this bunch of novices to think they can defeat their captain so easily."

After finishing drinking from the canteen, I look at him again, maintaining a smile. "It will be a pleasure, Ser Borros."

Chapter Text

If at any point in the last few days I had believed myself recovered from my injuries, Ser Borros has been kind enough to decorate my body with new bruises. Yet I do not think of this with contempt, but with gratitude. Since that afternoon when we decided to cross steel, I have trained every morning alongside the veteran knight. I must acknowledge the skill of the third son of House Selmy, for he has proven to be a fierce and cunning opponent. Even with the weapon skill inherited from the old Aerion, I have only managed to defeat him on six occasions in the past three days.

And while I am grateful for the training because of what it means to be a prince in this hostile world, it is the treatment Ser Borros has shown me that has made me respect him immensely. Whatever he might have thought of me previously, he has been the only one who perhaps has realized that the second son of Maekar is not the same one who participated in the trial of seven.

The rest of my father's company still keep their distance from me, although little by little I notice that my presence no longer causes as much fear or silent contempt as before. But Borros has been the only constant presence, training without fear, correcting me when he must, briefly recounting anecdotes from the rebellion, and realizing that instead of being received with disdain, they are listened to with attention.

One cannot develop a friendship in three days, obviously, but I have developed a certain affection for the veteran from Harvest Hall. After all, despite everything that has happened, he has decided not to judge me, but rather to give me a sword and help me forget about my future exile.

An exile that draws ever nearer. It is ironic to be atop a hill astride Morghul watching Summerhall rise in the distance — the only home Aerion has ever known — and to know that passing through its gate will bring me one step closer to the Free Cities. The only comfort is that I will get to meet my new little sisters before saying goodbye.

In my other life I was not an only child; I had a sister who meant the world to me. Those memories, mixed with the memory of Aerion's twisted fondness for Daella, make saying goodbye to them a bitter affair. At least I am certain that one day I will see them again, along with the rest of my new family. To mend my relationship with all of them, I decide to promise myself subconsciously.

Before I can drown further in the sea of thoughts I suffer, I hear a steed approaching my solitary hill. Before I can even turn my head, Daeron stops his brown horse beside me, not taking his eyes off Summerhall.

"We have arrived," he announces finally after a brief moment of silence.

"It is a sweet gift to the eyes." Summerhall does not rise with the brutality of a fortress, but with the grace of a poem written in stone. Its walls of reddish sandstone climb in stepped terraces embraced by the mountains, as if the palace were a natural extension of the land.

Water is its soul: fountains of white marble, some in the shape of winged dragons, pour their whispers into oblong ponds where the horseshoe arches are reflected. Canals of glazed ceramic in blue and gold tones run through the courtyards, bringing coolness to the porticoed galleries.

Every column is carved with winged beasts and Valyrian script, not with the solemnity of a crypt, but with the delicacy of lace. The gardens — a labyrinth of myrtles, dwarf orange trees, and night-blooming roses — perfume the air until it grows thick with sweetness.

Curtains of black and red silk sway in the arches, revealing rooms carpeted with rushes and silk divans, where light filters through wooden lattices. Everything in Summerhall invites rest and contemplation. It was a dream of stone and water, a place made for time to stand still, a home I would not see again for years.

There are no words to describe seeing paradise and knowing it is forbidden to you.

"It always has been," Daeron replies, this time with a slightly quieter and more solemn voice.

"It may be the last time I can appreciate it," I answer. I know that the Aerion of the books eventually returns to Westeros, but with my presence, who knows what changes might occur in history. I also remember that Summerhall is consumed by flames — a fate that, if I can, I intend to alter.

Silence settles between us, not entirely uncomfortable but not pleasant either.

"What is your plan?" my brother finally asks after several minutes of silence. "Once you reach the Free Cities, I doubt you'll survive more than a year or two before the gold Father gives you runs out."

With his words I ponder my options. He is not wrong: sooner or later, once in Lys, I will need to find a way to stay alive, and that means money.

"I suppose I'll join a mercenary company. There's always need for more swords in Essos." It is not an answer that fills me with enthusiasm, but given my situation and my skills, it is the most realistic one I can give.

"Hmm, you could make a name for yourself in one of the great companies," he replies thoughtfully. "The Second Sons are a good option."

"Perhaps," I answer simply, still debating what to do with my future.

With a small smile forming on Daeron's lips and slightly tilting his head toward me, he decides to add, "You could always join the Golden Company."

I snort and reply, "I don't know who would finish me off first, Bittersteel or Father."

"Definitely Father. He would turn into a dragon just to cross the Narrow Sea and hunt you down."

We both end up laughing. Afterward, the silence is warmer, less heavy.

Finally Daeron turns to look at me. "Sooner or later you will return from exile. The court will keep whispering with contempt about the boy you were." He returns his gaze to the horizon, a small sad smile on his face. "Make them be silent by seeing the man you can become."

After speaking the last word, the dreamer makes his horse descend the hill again. A few minutes later, after one last look at the palace on the horizon, I make Morghul descend the hill as well.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun caressed the terraces of Summerhall when the herald announced their arrival. Eight days had passed since we received Father's raven, that hurried scroll informing us that they were returning from Ashford. It also said that Uncle Baelor had died.

I didn't quite understand what that meant, only that Mother had been dead for years and that Uncle Baelor was the crown prince. He was Father's elder brother, who had always been more affectionate and closer. Rhae, who is only eight name days old and is useless at such things, merely asked if Egg would bring any gifts.

Egg. My betrothed. My brother, who is barely a year younger than me. For as long as I can remember, I've known I will marry him, although sometimes he seems like a silly boy who only thinks about hedge knights and fighting with shields. I prefer Aerion a thousand times over.

Aerion is... grand. When he smiles — though he almost never does — the world seems brighter. When he looks at me, he doesn't see me as a little girl to be ignored, but as someone who will one day become an important woman. At least that's how it was before he left for the tournament at Ashford. The servants tell horrible things about him, but I know they aren't true. Aerion is just... strong. And the weak fear him.

"Are you nervous, sister?" Rhae asked beside me, twisting the hem of her pale blue dress. Her light brown hair was braided into two plaits that I had done for her that morning, though one was already coming undone because she keeps pulling on it. I hate when she does that. I try so hard to make her look like a princess, and she ruins everything.

"No," I lied, though my heart was beating so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest.

We had been waiting for over an hour in the main courtyard of Summerhall, surrounded by servants, men-at-arms, and a few knights from the garrison. The sun was beating down, and I had insisted on wearing my best dress — red, with black dragon embroideries on the sleeves — though I was starting to regret it because the heat was making me sweat. Rhae, on the other hand, looked as fresh as if it were winter. I hate her a little for that, too.

"The heralds said they've already crossed the last hill," murmured old maid Elys, speaking with Maester Melaquin. Elys had been with us since we rose. She's always nearby, making sure we don't dirty our dresses or say swear words in front of guests. She doesn't know that I know many more than she does. Aerion once taught me a word in Valyrian that makes even knights blush.

"I see them!" Rhae shouted, pointing her index finger toward the dirt path that snaked between the gardens.

And then I saw them.

First came the banners: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, waving lazily in the afternoon breeze. Behind them, a column of riders stretching out of sight beyond the orange trees. At the front, I recognized Father's imposing figure, mounted on his great dapple gray horse. To his right rode Daeron, with his light brown hair. And to his left...

Aerion.

My older brother rode atop Morghul, his steed black as coal. He wore half his armor — the scale breastplate of black and red, but not the helm — and his battle cloak streamed behind him like a dark flame. Though he was far away, I could see that his face was thinner than I remembered, and that he moved with less vigor than he used to. The servants had whispered that Aerion had been wounded in the trial of seven, that he had nearly died. My heart lurched at the thought of him lying in a bed, pale and weak. But he was here. He was alive.

"Aerion!" I screamed, unable to contain myself, letting go of Rhae's hand and running toward the procession.

I heard Elys shout my name and Maester Melaquin sigh, but I didn't care. The skirts of my dress caught on a loose flagstone and I nearly fell flat on my face, but I regained my balance and kept running. The knights of the vanguard moved aside as I passed, some smiling discreetly. Father shot me a look I knew well — the "Daella, behave yourself" look — but I was already beside Morghul, looking up at Aerion.

He looked down at me from above, and for a moment his violet eyes fixed on mine. Then something changed in his face. An expression I didn't recognize. His features softened, as if the ice that always filled his gaze was melting. He dismounted with a slightly clumsy movement — the wounds, I assumed — and knelt in front of me.

"Daella," he said, and his voice sounded rougher than I remembered, but also... warmer.

He hugged me. Aerion Brightflame, the prince everyone fled from, the man who according to the servants had broken a puppeteer's fingers because he disliked her show, hugged me as if he hadn't seen me in years.

He pressed me against his steel chest and buried his face in my hair. He smelled of sweat and horse, but I didn't care. I hugged him back with all my might, ignoring how the metal of his armor pressed against my ribs.

"I thought you had died," I whispered against his shoulder, and then I realized I was crying. Hot tears ran down my cheeks and stained the leather of his shoulder guard.

"I'm not going to die," he replied, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes. "I'm too stubborn for that."

He smiled. Aerion smiled genuinely, not that cruel grimace he used to wear when he saw someone suffer. It was a sad, tired smile, but genuine. I felt the world suddenly fall into place.

"Aerion! Aerion!" Rhae finally arrived, panting, with one of her braids nearly undone. She stopped in front of him with her arms open, expecting her own hug. I felt a pang of jealousy. Why did Rhae always have to be in the middle?

But Aerion did not ignore her. He lifted her off the ground — Rhae shrieked with joy — and spun her in the air before setting her back down. His face lit up for an instant, but then darkened again, as if a cloud had passed before the sun.

"You grow faster every day," he said, observing us both attentively with a new smile. "You look like two true princesses."

"We are," Rhae replied with a pout. Silly.

I shot her a withering look, but Aerion let out a short laugh. A dry cough followed, accompanied by a wince of pain that he barely managed to hide.

"You should call the maester," said Daeron, who had approached without a sound, still mounted on his horse. He looked at Rhae and me with his dim violet eyes. "Aerion needs to rest."

"Don't treat me like an invalid," Aerion growled, though there was no contempt in his voice.

Father finally dismounted and approached us. He said nothing, only placed one hand on Rhae's shoulder and another on mine. His face was a mask of stone, as always, but in his eyes shone something that almost looked like pain. Or perhaps it was just exhaustion.

"Inside. We'll talk later," he ordered, and everyone obeyed.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of servants, hot baths, and whispers behind my back. I changed my dress three times before settling on one of black velvet with long sleeves — mourning for Uncle Baelor, I remembered — and looked at myself in the mirror, noting that the dress complemented my silver-gold hair and lilac eyes. I went down to the great hall when the sun had already set behind the mountains.

Dinner was strange. Father barely spoke; Daeron spoke a little more, but always in that funereal voice of his. Egg was not there. I had noticed it since the procession arrived: his horse was not there, his face did not appear among the riders. I asked where he was, and Aerion shot me a look that froze my blood.

"I'll explain later," he said. And in his tone there was no promise, only warning.

When the servants cleared the plates and Father retired to his chambers looking grim, Aerion asked Rhae and me to sit by the fireplace. The flames danced merrily, ignoring the gravity that hung in the air. Daeron stood by the door like a sentinel, not taking his eyes off his brother.

"I must tell you something," Aerion began. His face was cleaner now, without the sweat and dust of the road, and he had rested. He looked younger like this, but more fragile.

"Egg has left, hasn't he?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. A princess must learn to read between the glances of adults.

Aerion nodded slowly.

"Egg has run off with a hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall. He won't return to Summerhall for... a while."

Rhae's eyes went wide, and then her lips began to tremble.

"He left? Without saying goodbye?" Her voice broke, and two huge tears rolled down her cheeks. I wanted to cry too, but I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself. Princesses do not cry in front of others.

"He left," Aerion confirmed, and this time he took our hands. His palm was rough, full of calluses. "But I am also leaving."

The silence that followed was so thick that even the fire seemed to dim.

"What... what do you mean?" I managed to ask.

"The King and Father have exiled me," Aerion said bluntly. "Because of what happened at the tournament, because of the deaths. I will leave for the Free Cities. I will not see you for... years."

I felt the ground open beneath my feet. No. It couldn't be. First Egg, now Aerion. Who would stay at Summerhall? Father, who is never there? Daeron, who is always drunk? Aemon, who left for the Citadel and barely writes?

"No!" I screamed, and this time I did cry. Ugly, messy tears that soaked my entire dress. "You can't leave! You're my brother!"

Aerion pulled me toward him and hugged me tightly, though I noticed the gesture caused him pain.

"I have to, Daella. It's the law."

"To hell with the law!" I exclaimed, and beside me Rhae nodded fiercely, already joining in my weeping.

Aerion gave a half-smile, the one he used to wear when I said something bold. But this time there was no amusement in it, only melancholy.

"I will write to you," he promised. "Whenever I can. And I will send you gifts from the Free Cities. Silks from Lys, Myrish eyes from Myr, perhaps a diamond from Pentos for each of you."

"I don't want gifts," I sobbed. "I want you to stay."

"I want a diamond," Rhae said between hiccups, and Aerion let out a short, pained laugh.

"I'll send you two. But I also want you to promise me something."

We pulled back a little to look at him. His violet eyes, so like my own, shone in the firelight.

"Take care of each other," he said, looking at us both. "And take care of Father. He is... broken. More than he shows."

Rhae wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded vigorously. I nodded too, though inside I felt something breaking. Something I didn't know the name of.

That night, when the maids took me to bed, I could not sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the owls hooting in the gardens. I thought of Egg, lost somewhere on a Westerosi road with a giant knight. I thought of Aerion, crossing the Narrow Sea to lands I had only seen on the maps in the library. I thought of Father, with his stony face and calloused hands, and of Mother, whom I barely remembered.

And then, in the darkness of my room, I made a promise.

I would be strong. I would be cunning. I would learn everything I could about the Free Cities, about mercenaries and free companies, about the ships that sailed the Narrow Sea. Because one day, when I was grown and no one could tell me what to do, I too would cross the sea.

To bring my brother back home.

Or to join him in exile.

Daella Targaryen, ten name days old, lying in her bed of red silk, cried herself to sleep. And she dreamed of red and black dragons flying over the east.

Chapter Text

The first ray of light slipped through the stained glass window when I opened my eyes. For an instant, I didn't know where I was. The vaulted ceiling, the dark oak beams, the tapestries with dragons dancing among flames... Summerhall. My room. Aerion's room.

The bed was enormous, with canopies of black silk embroidered with scarlet threads. I had spent the night tossing and turning between the sheets, unable to sleep for more than a few hours.

Besides missing the comfortable feeling of being able to sleep in my other life's bed, perhaps there was a greater reason for my lack of sleep. The weight of the next morning — this morning — crushed my chest as if a giant had sat on me.

Today the journey into exile begins.

I slowly begin to sit up, feeling every bruise that Ser Borros had left on my ribs as a physical reminder of my attempts to improve. My chest hurt, but not as much as the idea of leaving this place. Summerhall. The only home Aerion had ever known. And now, the home I would have to leave behind.

The servants must have been waiting outside, because as soon as they heard me moving, a young brown-haired maid entered with a tray. Honeyed porridge, fresh bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a pitcher of lemon water. I stare at the food without appetite, but force my body to eat breakfast. In this world, strength is survival.

"My prince," the girl murmured without looking up, placing the tray on the bedside table. "The maester said I must remind you that the caravan will depart at noon."

"I know," I replied, and my voice sounded rougher than I expected.

The maid bowed and withdrew with quick steps, as if afraid that at any moment I might pounce on her. I sighed. Aerion's reputation preceded me even in his own chambers.

After struggling through breakfast, I get up and walk barefoot across the thick wool rug to the large carved oak wardrobe that occupied the west wall. I open it and find dozens of garments: silk tunics, leather doublets, velvet cloaks, riding clothes... All in black, red, and occasionally gold. Targaryen even in my underwear, I suppose.

But I wasn't looking for clothes.

I kneel on the floor and try to remove the bottom panel inside the wardrobe. My fingers trace the edges of the wooden board until I find a corner with a slight gap that makes it easier to pull out. With effort, I manage to pry it loose and remove the plank.

There it was.

Hidden in a corner that Aerion had discovered years ago, wrapped in a black velvet cloth, rested the object that had sparked my curiosity ever since I discovered it among the memories of the previous occupant of this body.

The dragon egg.

It was beautiful. Terrifying. Fascinating. About the size of my head, it had the elongated oval shape of the eggs I had seen and read about in the stories of this universe. But the stone was not black as coal; rather, it changed color depending on the light that fell upon it. At first glance it appeared dark gray, but if I tilted it slightly, red and orange veins ignited inside like dormant embers. As if, instead of stone, it was a fragment of solidified fire. My lips form a slight smile, realizing where the affection for the fiery colors of his personal banner came from.

According to Aerion's memories, this egg had been treasured in the vaults of Dragonstone by House Targaryen for generations. King Daeron II, my grandfather, had given it to Maekar along with similar eggs to pass on to his grandchildren. I imagine it was a gesture of appreciation as well as an attempt to restore an old family tradition. The old Aerion had worshiped it with sick devotion, convinced that one day it would hatch and give him the dragon he believed he deserved. Over the years, seeing that it remained a cold, inert rock, Aerion had hidden it in this hollow, ashamed of his obsession.

But I felt no shame. I felt... hope.

In the books and the show, petrified eggs could hatch under the right circumstances. Daenerys had proven that with her three dragons. I didn't know exactly how she had achieved it — magic, blood, fire, perhaps something else — but the possibility existed. A remote possibility, yes, but it existed.

And if there was one thing I had learned since waking up in this body, it was that possibilities were my only currency.

I carefully wrap the egg in the velvet cloth and place it inside a leather satchel I had prepared the night before. The satchel was large enough to carry over my shoulder without raising suspicion, and discreet enough that no one would ask what was inside. I tie it with a cord, test it on my shoulder, and nod.

The egg will travel with me to Lys.

The rest of my belongings are easier to organize. The scale armor, carefully packed in a wooden chest lined with straw, will occupy one of the carts. The sword forged in Dragonstone will go in a case alongside my belt. Clothes, boots, gloves, a warm cloak for the sea... Everything an exiled prince might need.

There was also a bag of gold dragons and silver stags. Father was not going to leave me destitute; he had granted me enough to live modestly for a couple of years. But moderation was not something Aerion had ever practiced, and I was not sure I could stretch that money as far as I needed.

A mercenary company, Daeron had said. Perhaps. Or perhaps something else.

As I tie the satchel and adjust the straps of my sword, a sharp knock at the door startles me.

"Come in," I said, expecting a servant or perhaps Daeron.

The door opened and Maekar Targaryen entered the room.

My father.

The Anvil, they call him. Not because of his size, though he is a corpulent man, but because of his strength on the battlefield. He wears a simple black tunic, unadorned, and his silver hair is tied back in a low ponytail. The dark circles under his purple eyes were so deep they looked like tattoos. He hadn't slept. Perhaps neither of us had slept.

"Aerion," he said, and his voice had that tired tone I had begun to know well. "Are you ready?"

"Almost," I reply, pointing to the armor chest and the already tied bags. "I just need to finish dressing for the journey."

Maekar nodded and walked to the window, observing the gardens of Summerhall in the early morning. The sun was beginning to rise behind the mountains, painting the sky in golden and pink hues. It was a beautiful scene, almost unreal in its perfection. As if the world were determined to show me what I was leaving behind.

"I have been watching you," Maekar said without turning around, making it a mystery what expression he wore. "since you woke up in Ashford. Something has changed in you, boy."

My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my face impassive.

"Death has a way of changing men."

"No, it's not just that." Maekar turned slowly and fixed his eyes on me. That purple gaze, intense, searching, seemed to pierce flesh to read the soul. "I have seen you enraged at the world, I have seen you cruel to those around you, I have seen you obsessed with our family's history, and I have seen you repentant on very rare occasions. But I have never seen you... at peace."

The word floated in the air like a feather.

"I don't know if peace is the right word," I replied, shrugging. "Perhaps resignation."

"Resignation," Maekar repeated, as if tasting the word. "You have never resigned yourself to anything. If you didn't like something, you broke it. If someone got in your way, you destroyed them. You didn't know the term 'accept.' And yet, here you are. Packing your belongings. Obeying the exile without a single complaint. Without a tantrum. Without threatening to burn down the palace."

At that moment I smiled bitterly.

"Perhaps the trial of seven taught me that breaking things has consequences."

"Consequences." Maekar stepped toward me, and his presence filled the room, speaking in a less guarded and deeper tone. "Humfrey Beesbury, Humfrey Hardyng, and..." he inhaled a second to compose himself, "...Baelor. They are dead because of those consequences. All because you were nothing more than a prince unworthy of that title in every aspect and responsibility. And now you pretend to tell me you've learned your lesson?"

His voice had risen slightly, but it was not anger I saw on his face. It was pain. Pain and confusion.

"The Aerion who took part in that tournament..." I begin to say in a low voice, almost a whisper, "no longer exists. He died in that dark room when the maester stitched my wounds. Something stayed behind on that bed, Father. And I don't want to get it back."

Maekar was silent for a long time. I could not tell how much time passed until Maekar spoke again, but for me it was an agonizing wait.

"Borros has spoken to me about you," he said at last. "He told me you train with him every day. That you listen to what he has to say without interrupting. That you respect the blows he gives you and that you don't seek revenge when he knocks you down."

"Ser Borros is a good man. A good knight. He deserves respect."

"The son I know would never have said that. He would have tried to break his hand for daring to touch him."

I held his gaze and sighed.

"I am aware of my past, Father; of my actions. I know I deserve the punishment that has been imposed on me, and I simply accept it. All I have been all these years is a disgrace to you and our family, causing pain to forget my own."

Maekar's brow furrowed slightly.

I close my eyes briefly and take one last deep breath. "All I want is to try to make amends for everything I have done. Even though I know that day may never come."

Maekar watches me in silence for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he sits down in the chair by the window and sighs. His gaze is full of melancholy.

"Your mother would have been proud to hear you say that," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Dyanna always knew there was goodness in you. No matter how hard you tried to hide it."

I stood there, not knowing what to answer. Dyanna. Aerion's mother, who had died giving birth to Rhae. A woman of whom I had few memories of my own, but whose echoes in Aerion's memory were affectionate and warm. She had been the only one who could calm her son's storms.

"I miss her," I say without realizing it, the words coming out of my lips on their own, unthinking.

Maekar nods slowly, closing his eyes as well.

"Every day I wake up, I believe she will be on the other side of our bed..." he says, almost lost in memory.

The silence that followed was different from the previous ones. It was not tense or uncomfortable. It was a shared silence, almost intimate. Father and son remembering the same woman. Father and son saying goodbye, perhaps forever.

"When you reach Lys," Maekar said after a while, returning to his voice full of authority, "don't make the same mistakes you made here. The Free Cities are dangerous for a lone traveler, even more so for an exiled prince with more enemies than friends on the other side of the Narrow Sea."

"I know."

"The magisters of Lys are corrupt to the bone, but they are also practical. If you offer them respect and something they want, they will open their doors to you and leave you alone. If not, they will stab you in the back while smiling at you."

"Like in the court of King's Landing, I suppose."

Maekar let out a short, dry, bitter laugh.

"Worse. In Westeros we at least have honor and respect for the gods. In Lys, the only god is gold."

I nod. I had read it in the books. Lys is the city of pleasures, poisons, and conspiracies. A dangerous place for someone with the Targaryen name.

"There are also mercenary companies," I added to my father's recommendations. "Daeron suggested the Second Sons." I smiled briefly. "Or the Golden Company."

Maekar raises an eyebrow with an irritated look.

"Do you want Bittersteel to personally stick a sword in your back?"

"It was Daeron's joke," I hastened to say.

"Bittersteel doesn't understand jokes, boy. He only understands loyalty to black dragons, and you will be a red dragon surrounded by vipers. Watch your back carefully." Proclaims the war veteran, leaving no room for complaint.

"I know. I will be aware of my surroundings at all times," I say with complete sincerity.

Maekar looks at me with an expression I cannot decipher. Then, unexpectedly, he stands and walks toward me. His right hand rises and rests on my shoulder. The weight of his palm, warm and firm, anchors me to the ground.

"Whatever you do in Essos," he said, in a grave, measured voice, "remember that you are my son. Blood of my blood. Flames of the same fire. The king may have exiled you, but I have not disinherited you. Not entirely."

I feel a lump in my throat.

"Father..."

"Don't thank me," Maekar cut me off, though his tone was not harsh. "Don't give me anything. I only ask one thing of you."

"Anything."

"Survive."

The word was simple, but full of meaning. To survive in this cruel world, in unknown lands and cities, alone, without family or protection. To survive despite enemies, despite Aerion's reputation, despite myself.

"I will," I promised, and I say it with conviction. "And when the right day comes, I will return."

Maekar nods and withdraws his hand. Then he heads to the door, but stops on the threshold.

"One last thing," he said without turning around. "I heard you spent last night writing a letter. To whom?"

"To Aemon. At the Citadel," I reply calmly.

"To Aemon?" he says, turning his face slightly back to the room.

"He is my brother. And he knows things I don't. Things that might help me." Though I don't specify what; too soon for that.

Maekar is silent for a moment.

"Take care, Aerion," he said at last, and then crossed the door.

I am left alone in the room, with the satchel on my shoulder, the sword at my belt, and my heart heavy as lead. The sun had already risen high enough to flood the room with golden light. Through the window, I can see the gardens, the white marble fountains, and the terraced slopes.

Summerhall. My home. My prison. My past.

I take one last look at the room. At the bed where I had slept, at the table where I had eaten, at the stained glass window where the light entered. Then I take a deep breath, adjust the satchel so the dragon egg makes no noise, and cross the door.

Down in the courtyard, the carriage awaits me. I descend a spiral staircase to the ground floor and exit through the main gate.

And there they were. Beneath the stone arch that gives access to the main courtyard, three figures waited for me beside my carriage.

Daella, in her best black mourning dress, her silver-gold hair tied in an elaborate braid that reached her waist. Her lilac eyes glistened with a moisture she refused to shed. Beside her, Rhae, smaller, disheveled despite the maids' efforts, her fists clenched and her lower lip trembling.

And Daeron, a few steps behind, arms crossed and face impassive. But his violet eyes — those that always seemed to be looking elsewhere — this time were fixed on me.

The escort had already begun loading the last chests. The knights started mounting their horses in silence, the soldiers checked the cart's straps. The morning sun fell relentlessly on the stone flags.

I approached them.

"Don't go," Rhae whispered before I could open my mouth. Her voice was so small it could barely be heard.

I knelt in front of the two to be at their height. The gesture made my ribs creak, still sensitive, but it was worth it to see their faces soften.

"I have to," I say in the sweetest voice I can find. "But I promise you: I will write. Whenever I can."

"Liar!" exclaims Daella, and this time the tears do spill. "Ships take sennights or entire moons, ravens get lost, and you will forget about us as soon as you are in Lys…"

"Never," I reply, taking their hands in mine. They are so small, so fragile. "Listen to me, both of you. There is no city in Essos, no mercenary company, no battle nor pleasure that could make me forget my sisters. You are the only thing that..." I swallow, pushing away the memories of my other life, of my other sister. "You are my family."

Rhae throws herself against my chest and hugs me with all her might. Daella takes a second longer, but finally gives in and wraps her arms around my neck. I smile with a grimace of sadness, kneeling in the dust with two princesses clinging to me like barnacles, while the men-at-arms look away out of respect or secondhand embarrassment.

"Take care of Father," I murmured against their hair. "And take care of each other. Do you promise me?"

"I promise," said Daella in a broken voice.

"Me too," whispered Rhae.

We separate. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand — when I had started crying, I don't know — and stand up.

Then Daeron steps forward.

He says nothing for a moment. He examined me from head to toe, as if searching for something in my face that he couldn't quite find. Then, without a word, he extends his hand to me.

It was not a greeting. It was a dagger.

A short knife, with a curved blade and an oak dragon hilt. I recognized the weapon instantly: it was the one Daeron always wore at his waist, the one Dyanna had given him shortly before she died.

"Take it," he said in a grave voice. "In the Free Cities, tongues cut deeper than swords. But this one can cut through lies."

"I don't..." I replied incredulously, raising my eyes to his. "It's the only thing you have left of her."

"I still have the memories," he replied, and for a moment his mask of indifference cracked. "Besides, I don't want you dying in some whore's alley for lack of a reliable weapon. Take it."

He grabs my hand and forces me to accept it. The weight is perfect, the balance exact. I tie it to my belt, next to the longsword.

"Thank you, brother," I say, somewhat doubtful of myself because of the value of what he has so easily given me.

"Don't thank me," says Daeron, though this time he offers a small, sad smile. "Just come back. And when you do, bring me a barrel of Volantene wine. They say it's better than Dornish red."

"I'll bring you three," I promised, laughing lightly.

Daeron steps back and crosses his arms again. His duty was done.

The captain of the escort cleared his throat in the distance.

"My prince," he said, "it is time."

I nod. I look one last time at my sisters. Daella was biting her lip to keep from crying again. Rhae had already lost the battle against tears.

"Be strong," I told them. "Be cunning. And don't fight too much."

I turn around and climb into the carriage. The leather curtains fall behind me, and the world shrinks to a space of wood and shadows.

Outside, I hear Daeron order: "Move out!"

The carriage shakes. The horses' hooves clatter on the flagstones. And Summerhall, with its gardens and fountains and memories, begins to fade away.

I do not look back.

But I feel the weight of the dagger on my belt, and the petrified egg in the satchel, and the weight of the promises I had just made.

It would take years, perhaps decades. I do not know. But I would return.

The carriage moved east, toward the dawn, toward exile.

And beyond, toward the future.

Chapter Text

Four more days of muddy road, four nights sleeping under the stars or in the stables of some farmhouse whose owners did not dare refuse lodging to a prince, even a disgraced one. The landscape had gradually changed: the green hills of the Stormlands gave way to brackish marshes, and the marshes to forests of pines twisted by the sea wind. The air grew damper, saltier. It smelled of freedom. It smelled of exile.

Stonehelm rose before us at dusk on the fourth day.

The Swann stronghold was modest but robust, as befitted one of the oldest houses sworn to the lords of Storm's End. Its round towers of black slate seemed to grow directly from the cliffs, and seagulls nested on the battlements as if they were part of the architecture. The harbor teemed with activity: merchant ships from Planky Town, Myr, and Pentos docked alongside local crabbers, and a war galley of the Swann fleet rested anchored in the bay, its oars folded like folded wings.

But Lord Gawen Swann did not come out to receive me.

He sent a maester with a stony face and a sergeant with a monotonous voice to convey, with all the courtesy that etiquette required, that the lord of Stonehelm could not accommodate me in his chambers. Reasons: illness in the household, renovation of the castle's defenses, a plague of rats that had devastated the kitchens. The excuses were as believable as a Lysene merchant swearing to his virginity.

"Lord Swann sends his sincerest apologies to Prince Aerion," recited the sergeant, as if he had rehearsed the speech ten times. "An inn has been arranged at the harbor, the finest in town, all expenses paid by House Swann. The Prince's men will be lodged in nearby barracks, and will be provided with food and ale during their stay."

"Of course," I murmured, swallowing a bitter smile. "Tell your lord that I thank him for his hospitality, limited as it may be."

The sergeant and the maester exchanged a quick glance, bowed, and withdrew before I could change my mind.

Beside me, Ser Borros snorted with disdain.

"The Swanns have always been lapdogs of the Baratheons. And the Baratheons have never loved the Targaryens more than strictly necessary, despite sharing blood, however distant."

"I don't blame them," I replied, shrugging. "If I were Lord of Stonehelm, I wouldn't want Maekar's second son under my roof either. Aerion's reputation... mine, is a poison that stains everything I touch."

Ser Borros did not answer, but his silence was eloquent.

The harbor inn was indeed the best in town. Three stories of sandstone, a slate gabled roof, and a carved sign depicting a seagull on a wave. The rooms were small but clean, and the owner, a portly man named Mors, bowed and scraped as soon as he learned whom he was hosting. I suppose Lord Swann's purse helped lubricate his enthusiasm.

I left my belongings in the room — the satchel with the egg locked away, the armor in a corner, the sword at the head of the bed — and went out to explore the harbor before nightfall.

I needed to find a ship.

The dockside taverns were exactly as I had imagined them: dark, noisy, smelling of fish, sweat, and lies. In the first, the Cracked Jug, the locals eyed me warily until the innkeeper identified my hair color and lilac eyes. The whispers began then, and the glances became evasive. No one wanted to drink next to Aerion Brightflame.

In the second tavern, the Broken Anchor, the situation was similar. I ordered a jug of dark ale, paid with a silver stag that quickly disappeared into the innkeeper's pocket, and sat in a corner to observe.

The merchants spoke of prices, cargoes, favorable winds, and delinquent captains. The captains, in turn, cursed the merchants, the ports, the tax collectors, and the pirates lurking in the Summer Sea. None seemed willing to take a troublesome passenger.

In the third tavern, the Flying Fish, luck changed.

It was a smaller, dirtier establishment, frequented by merchant sailors and, I assumed, the occasional smuggler. The innkeeper, a woman with thick arms and a scar on her cheek, served me a jug of ale without asking who I was. I appreciated that.

"Looking for something in particular, handsome?" she asked while wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days.

"A ship bound for Lys," I replied, taking a sip of my ale. It had a certain sweet taste, so I assumed it was actually mead.

"Lys," she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Many want to go to Lys. Few return."

"I don't plan to return any time soon," I said honestly.

The woman laughed, a deep, hoarse sound that startled a seagull that had slipped through the door.

"Well then, talk to Harwyn. Captain of the Blue Gull, docked at the east pier. He's from Gulltown, but he trades with Lys every two moons. If you convince him with the deal, he'll take you."

"And how do I find this Harwyn?"

"He's right there," said the innkeeper, jerking her chin toward a table in the opposite corner. "The one drinking alone. Better not bother him until he finishes his jug. He has a bad temper."

I turned slowly. At the table, leaning against the wall, a middle-aged man wore a patched leather jacket and tall sailor's boots. His hair was dark brown, streaked with gray, and his beard grew untidily. His eyes, however, were a sharp steel gray, and they looked at the world with the distrust of one who has seen too many storms.

I waited for him to empty his jug. I bought another round for him and one for myself. Then, with a steady step, I approached his table.

"Captain Harwyn?"

The man looked up. His eyes ran over my face, my hair, my clothes. He wasn't stupid; he knew who I was. But he showed not a trace of the reverence or fear that others had shown.

"Depends who's asking," he growled.

"Aerion Targaryen," I said, sitting down across from him without waiting for an invitation. "I need to get to Lys. I have more than enough coin to pay for passage on your ship."

"I figured someone with that hair wasn't coming to beg for alms," Harwyn replied in a rasping voice. "And why would I want to take on an exiled prince? Targaryens attract trouble like honey attracts flies."

"Because Targaryens also attract gold," I replied, pulling a pouch from my pocket and setting it on the table. The clink of coins was a language the captain understood perfectly. "This is an advance. The rest upon reaching Lys."

Harwyn weighed the pouch in his hands, calculated its heft, then set it aside.

"How many belongings?"

"A chest of armor, another of clothes, a personal satchel, a sword, and my horse."

"The horse will have to go below, with the cargo. If you don't mind smelling of manure for the two-week voyage, that's your problem."

"I don't mind."

Harwyn stared at me for a long while. The noise of the tavern seemed to fade away, as if the whole world held its breath.

"The Blue Gull sails with the high tide tomorrow," he said at last. "If you're at the east pier before dawn, with all your things and no delay, I'll take you. But one condition."

"I'm all ears."

"No telling anyone you're a prince on board. To my crew, you're a merchant from the Free Cities fleeing his debts in Westeros. Your name is..." he thought for a moment, "Drako. Can you handle that?"

I smiled.

"I can. Drako, ruined merchant from... where?"

"Wherever you like. No one cares. Just drink your rum, don't get seasick, and stay out of my sailors' way. Deal?"

He extended his hand, calloused and firm. I shook it.

"Deal, Captain. Though I didn't know you could get rum in the Stormlands."

Harwyn let out a short, dry laugh. "No, I didn't get it here. Some sugar merchants in the Free Cities sell it after trading with the Summer Isles."

The conversation continued surprisingly pleasantly until each of us left for our respective places to rest.

The next morning, the sun had not yet risen behind the cliffs when my escort's men brought my belongings to the dock and the ship's boys began loading them onto the vessel. Captain Harwyn, grumpy as expected at that hour, shouted orders at his sailors in a voice that seemed capable of tearing sails.

"Careful with that chest, you idiot! If you break it, I'll deduct the damage from your pay!"

My escort — twenty men-at-arms commanded by Ser Jonothor, a minor knight who had barely exchanged a word with me during the entire journey — merely nodded when I thanked them. They would return to Summerhall, to their barracks, to their lives. I would sail east, into the unknown.

Ser Borros was not among them. He had left two days earlier, sent by Maekar to recruit new men. His absence weighed on me more than I expected. The veteran had become something like a friend, and in this hostile world, friends were a luxury few could afford.

"Take care, my prince," Ser Jonothor whispered, with a dry, protocol bow.

"May the gods protect you on your journeys," I replied.

And they left. The column of riders moved away along the dirt road that bordered the cliffs, and within minutes disappeared behind a hill. I stood alone facing the sea.

The loading continued for another hour. The armor chest was the last to go up, just before Morghul was led up a makeshift ramp into the hold. My steed neighed, uncomfortable with the smell of salt and hay, but offered no resistance. I couldn't complain after managing to convince my father to let me take Morghul into exile.

Finally, with the sun already high on the horizon, Captain Harwyn gave the order to set sail.

"Cast off, you bastards! Don't let the falling tide catch us!"

The sailors hoisted the sails — a square mainsail with the image of a blue gull on a white background — and the ship began to glide toward the open sea. The Stonehelm dock grew small. Then tiny. Then just a speck on the coast.

I leaned on the bow railing, the salty wind whipping my face, and looked west. Toward Westeros. Toward Summerhall. Toward everything I was leaving behind.

The petrified egg rested in the satchel strapped to my back. Daeron's dagger hung from my belt. The promise to return burned in my chest like an ember.

"Drako," a voice said behind me.

I turned. Captain Harwyn approached with two jugs of rum. He offered me one.

"To warm your soul. The crossing is long, and the night will be cold."

"Thank you," I said, accepting the jug.

We drank in silence, watching the horizon.

"I've never carried a prince before," Harwyn murmured after a while. "I don't know if it's good luck or bad."

"Neither do I," I admitted. "I suppose we'll find out when we reach Lys."

The captain let out a dry laugh.

"I like you, Drako the merchant. You talk less than my other passengers and drink without complaining. If the gods give me more customers like you, I'll retire rich."

The ship swayed with the waves, and the wind swelled the sail. In the distance, a flock of seagulls followed us, perhaps hoping we would throw out some food.

Or perhaps saying goodbye.

I didn't know. I didn't know anything about what awaited me on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

But for the first time since I woke up in this body, I felt no fear. I felt... anticipation.

Lys awaited me.

"East!" Harwyn shouted to his men. "Let the wind carry us east!"

And the Blue Gull sailed into the sea, carrying with it a prince, a man who had died and now sailed toward his second life.

Chapter Text

The rocking of the ship had become an extension of my own body. Or so I told myself as I spent the third consecutive night awake, staring at the wooden ceiling of my cramped cabin. The Blue Gull groaned with every wave, a sound that at first had kept me on edge but now felt almost... cozy. Almost.

I cursed under my breath, in Valyrian, in English, and in my native language — the one no one speaks in this world anymore. I cursed myself, George R.R. Martin for creating such a fucking cruel universe, the gods for having such a bad sense of humor, and Aerion Brightflame for being the asshole he had been.

"Shit," I whispered into the void.

Three weeks ago I was in my student apartment, heating up frozen pizza and procrastinating. Three weeks ago my biggest concern was passing my Contemporary History exam. Now I was on a merchant ship, exiled, with a petrified dragon egg under my bed and a reputation worse than that of a sheep-fucker in the North.

I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me.

My other life. The real one. The before.

My name was... well, it was something else. A common name, one that doesn't draw attention. I was born in a medium-sized city, to working-class parents. I never lacked anything, but I never had anything to spare either. I was studying History at university, because I had always been fascinated by past worlds, forgotten battles, dead kings. Ironic, thinking about it now. I had devoured books on Imperial Rome, the Reconquista, the Hundred Years' War, Imperial China. And then, of course, I had discovered Martin.

My sister was the reason I had watched the show. She made me watch the first episode one rainy night, and I fell for it like an idiot. Then came the books, the forum debates, the ridiculous theories about R+L=J that turned out to be true. My sister laughed at me, said I was more obsessed than Star Wars fans. Ironic, considering I'm also a fan of George Lucas's work. After everything that's happened to me, the creator of Star Wars is definitely my favorite George.

And now my sister was on the other side of a dimensional abyss, probably worried because I wasn't answering her messages. Now my parents would be calling my friends, asking if they knew where I was. Now my previous life had faded like a dream upon waking.

I clenched my fists against the rough blanket of the ship.

"I can't afford this," I murmured. "I can't afford to wallow."

I sat up with effort. The cabin was tiny, barely a gap between wooden crates and water barrels. The oil lamp flickered on a ledge, casting dancing shadows on the walls. In one corner rested the satchel with the dragon egg. I couldn't sleep without having it nearby. It was ridiculous, but it was true.

I took a deep breath and began to think.

It wasn't the first time life had dealt me a bad hand. In my other life I had had problems, failures, disappointments. The difference was that back then I couldn't do anything to change the world. Now... now I was a Targaryen prince. Disgraced, yes. Exiled, yes. With the reputation of a psychopath, yes. But I was still a Targaryen.

And the Targaryens do not give up.

"Alright," I said out loud, as if talking to myself helped me organize my thoughts. "I'm fucked. But being fucked isn't the same as being dead."

I began to make plans.

First: contacts. My father, Maekar, had given me enough gold to live modestly for a couple of years. But I didn't want to live modestly. I wanted to build something. And to build something, I needed people.

In Lys, the city of pleasures, rich merchants, corrupt politicians, and mercenary companies abounded. There were also artists, engineers, healers, alchemists, and whores. Lys was a melting pot of cultures, a meeting point between East and West. If I managed to establish relationships with the right people, I could begin to weave a network.

I needed loyal men, experienced soldiers who weren't afraid to get their hands dirty. Not for a war, at least not yet, but for protection. An exiled prince without an army was an easy target.

I also needed a steady income. Maekar's gold would run out sooner or later. If I wanted to maintain my network, I would have to finance it myself somehow. Working as a mercenary or finding some other kind of work.

Westeros was a cultural wasteland compared to the Free Cities. I could bring painters, musicians, architects, scholars... people who could modernize the court, who could influence minds.

I could bring painters to King's Landing, musicians to Summerhall, sculptors to Dragonstone. The Targaryen court had always been a center of culture; I could restore that tradition.

And scholars... I needed people who thought, who researched, who wrote. The maesters of the Citadel were the intellectual elite of Westeros, but they were trapped in old traditions. In Essos, however, there were sages who studied nature without superstition. I could bring them to Westeros, create a new academy, a new way of understanding the world.

I vaguely remembered things from my previous life: basic concepts of printing, gunpowder, sanitation, agriculture. I wasn't a genius, but with the help of competent engineers I could plant the seeds of a technological revolution. Imagine Maekar with cannons. Imagine the Targaryens with a fleet of galleons. Imagine Westeros with sewers and hospitals.

"I'm not going to change the world in a year," I murmured. "But maybe in fifteen or twenty."

I smiled in the darkness. It was a bitter smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Second: political influence. Lys was governed by magisters, rich men who took turns in power as if ruling were a board game. They were corrupt, yes, but they were also ambitious. And ambition could be exploited.

I could offer them something they wanted. What did a magister of Lys want? Status, wealth, power. Perhaps a marriage alliance with a noble house of Westeros. Perhaps access to exclusive markets. Perhaps the promise of Targaryen support in future conflicts.

I had none of that now, but I could get it. With time, with contacts, with intelligence.

"I need a team," I decided. "People to help me develop these concepts, to adapt them to the possibilities of this world."

It wouldn't be easy. Most people in Essos and Westeros were illiterate, superstitious, afraid of change. But not all. There were always visionaries, inventors, dreamers. I just had to find them.

I smiled again, this time with more warmth.

And then I thought of Lys.

Lys. The city where pleasures were gods and gods were pleasures. The city of silver hair and violet eyes, of intoxicating perfumes and eternal nights. I had read about Lys in the books, especially about its pillow houses. But now I was going to set foot there for real.

"One moon," I promised myself. "At least one moon."

One moon to enjoy. To forget the exile, to forget the guilt, to forget Aerion. One moon to let myself be carried away by the pleasures this new life offered me. Why not. I wasn't a monk; in my previous life I had gone out partying, drunk too much, slept with people whose names I barely remembered. This would be similar, but with better weather and a higher chance of being poisoned.

I laughed alone in the darkness.

"One moon," I repeated. "And then to work."

The ship lurched suddenly, and I heard the sailors cursing above, on deck. The wind had picked up. I got up, put on the leather jacket I had bought in Stonehelm, and went up to breathe fresh air.

The night was clear, starry. The moon, huge and pale, reflected in the black waters like a sleeping dragon. The sailors moved among the sails, adjusting ropes, cursing the wind and the mothers who bore them. Captain Harwyn was at the helm, in his patched jacket and his unlit pipe between his teeth.

"Can't sleep, Drako?" he asked in that voice of his that sounded like sand and gravel.

"I can't," I replied, leaning on the railing. "Too much going on in my head."

"The sea does that," said Harwyn, spitting over the side. "Either it puts you to sleep like a baby, or it drives you mad by the third night. There's no middle ground."

I smiled. During the two days we had been sailing, I had begun to get to know the crew. They weren't bad men, just rough and distrustful. The first days they avoided me, like everyone else. But something had changed that afternoon.

It happened by chance. I had started humming a song while helping coil some ropes — not because I had to, but because I was bored to death — and one of the youngest sailors, a red-haired boy named Tom, asked me what that tune was.

"A sea shanty," I replied. "Where I come from, sailors sing it when they miss the land."

"I've never heard it," said Tom, his eyes bright with curiosity.

I began to sing softly, remembering the hours I had spent playing Assassin's Creed Black Flag. Too many hours. The song came to mind with surprising clarity, as if I had sung it a thousand times.

The melody was simple, catchy. The sailors stopped what they were doing to listen. When I finished, there was a brief silence, and then Tom applauded.

"Sing it again!" he asked.

And I sang it. And then another. And another.

In the following hours, I taught them "Drunken Sailor," "The Wellerman," and "Roll the Old Chariot." The sailors learned quickly, and soon the deck of the Blue Gull echoed with hoarse, cheerful voices that drowned out the sound of the wind.

"Where does he get those songs?" the boatswain, a huge guy named Krom, asked me as he chewed tobacco.

"From a place far away," I replied with an enigmatic smile. "From a world where ships were made of steel and moved with fire machines."

Krom raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask further. In Essos, people were used to strange things.

Now, in the darkness of the night, Harwyn looked at me with his steel eyes.

"Those songs you taught them... they're not from any place I know."

"No," I admitted. "They're from my homeland. A land that no longer exists."

The captain was silent, chewing on the comment.

"My men respect you for that," he said at last. "A passenger who sings and helps with the ropes, no one harms him. Keep it up, Drako. And maybe you'll arrive alive in Lys."

"That's the idea," I replied.

I stayed on deck until the moon began to descend. The fresh wind cleared my mind, and the plans I had laid out in my cabin began to take shape, to intertwine, to grow.

I needed contacts in Lys. Captain Harwyn could be the first. He wasn't a magister or a warlord, but he was a man with a ship, and men with ships are always useful.

I needed information. Once on land, I would have to explore the taverns, the docks, the brothels (for work, I told myself, though a part of me laughed at my own hypocrisy). In Lys, secrets were sold dearer than spices.

I needed allies. The mercenaries of the free companies were a good start, but not enough. I also needed merchants, artisans, scholars. People who wanted something I could offer.

And finally, I needed time. Time could not be bought or stolen; it could only be waited out. But while I waited, I could prepare, learn, grow.

I'm not going to change the world in a day, I mused to myself, but I can begin to prepare the change.

The ship swayed on the waves, and the stars shone above like distant promises. Lys would be about four days away, perhaps less if the wind held. Until then, I had time to think, to plan, to dream.

And I also had time to sing.

I smiled. I leaned on the railing and began to hum one last song, the saddest of all, the one about leaving behind what you love.

"Leave her, Johnny, leave her... For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave her..."

The sailors, who were changing the watch, listened in silence. When I finished, Tom the redhead nodded.

"Good song," he said. "Sad, but good."

"All sea shanties are sad," I replied. "Because the sea takes everything you love."

"Then," interrupted Perkin, another of the sailors, "why do we keep sailing?"

I was silent for a moment, staring at the black horizon.

"Because what lies on the other side is worth it," I said at last.

And at that moment, in the middle of the Narrow Sea, with the salty wind in my face and an uncertain future before me, I truly believed it.

Lys was worth it.

My exile was worth it.

The world I could build was worth it.

I stayed on deck until the first rays of sun turned the sky orange and pink. Then I went down to my cabin, hugged the satchel with the dragon egg, and closed my eyes.

For the first time in many days, I slept without nightmares.