Aegon Targaryen—or rather, a certain existence that had just occupied this infant’s body—
felt himself enveloped in warm amniotic fluid, then squeezed and pushed by a force, finally bursting into a world filled with light, sound, and cold air.
A sense of suffocation.
Immediately followed by the first expansion of a toddler’s lungs; air rushed through his throat, letting out a cry that was unfamiliar even to himself.
Chaotic information flooded into his underdeveloped brain: blurred shadows, pungent smells, a woman’s exhausted face, and a…
indescribable sense of connection, as if an invisible thread extended from within him toward some vast and ancient existence.
Transmigration.
This word surfaced in the depths of his consciousness, carrying an absurd weight.
One second ago, he was in his own world, watching ‘House of the Dragon’, lamenting the political correctness of the West while sighing over the melodramatic fate of House Targaryen’s Dance of the Dragons;
the next second, he had become this infant being held upside down by a midwife and slapped on the buttocks.
Alicent Hightower, Aegon II, The Greens—several terms rushed directly into his mind for some unknown reason.
Fate had played a cruel joke.
He had become that tragic king who, in the original story, ended up paralyzed, lost all his children, and was eventually poisoned.
The Dance of the Dragons, the dragon civil war, the self-destruction of the Dragonlord family—
these had not yet happened, but they already hung over his head like the Sword of Damocles.
Someone picked him up gently and wiped his body with warm water.
The rough fabric rubbing against his skin triggered an instinctive resistance.
He wanted to speak, but only babbling sounds came out.
His vision gradually cleared, and he saw a middle-aged woman holding him, her face kind with deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“The little Prince is quite strong,” the woman said softly, placing him into a cradle lined with soft silk.
An egg was already placed in the cradle.
A dragon egg, golden all over, shining brightly.
Aegon’s consciousness shuddered.
He probably knew what this was—
the “gift” that Rhaenyra had personally retrieved, a symbol, a declaration.
In the original story, it was this very egg that hatched Sunfyre—his future dragon, the extension of his later life, and the partner-turned-shackle that ultimately led to his paralysis.
Of course, Rhaenyra, who retrieved it, would eventually die in its belly.
He reached out his small hand, his fingertips touching the eggshell.
Warmth.
Not just physical temperature, but a pulsating, living warmth.
The existence beneath the shell seemed to sense him, and that sense of connection suddenly intensified.
Aegon felt his consciousness extend along that invisible thread, touching the sleeping embryo within the egg—
curled wings, unopened eyes, and a slow but powerful heartbeat.
[Host consciousness stability detected…]
A cold voice sounded deep in his mind, neither male nor female, devoid of emotion.
[Bloodline System binding…
Binding progress 1%…
3%…]
A system?
Aegon’s spirits lifted.
The standard equipment for a transmigrator?
But the voice soon faded, as if blocked by a thick curtain.
He focused his attention, trying to “call out” to that voice, but received only silence.
Only the connection with the dragon egg remained clear, beating in his consciousness like a second heart.
“Look, the little Prince seems to like this dragon egg,” the handmaid’s voice carried a hint of a smile.
Aegon withdrew his hand.
Now was not the time to study these things.
He struggled to move his purple eyes to observe the room:
Tapestries hung on the stone walls, seemingly depicting Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion The Black Dread to conquer the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros;
the fire in the fireplace roared, wood still crackling;
outside the window, the sky was gradually brightening, indicating that dawn was approaching.
The door opened, and several people walked in.
The man in the lead looked only about forty years old, yet he had a head of gray hair that seemed aged by constant toil; his face was cold, and his gaze was like a hawk’s.
Otto Hightower.
Aegon immediately recognized this face, which bore some resemblance to the one in the show—
the actual controller of The Greens, the ambitious man who pushed his own daughter and grandson into the furnace of power.
Otto walked to the cradle and looked down.
There was no warmth in those gray eyes, only evaluation and calculation.
He reached out a finger and touched the infant’s cheek, his movements as stiff as if he were inspecting merchandise.
“A healthy boy,” Otto whispered, more to himself, “Silver hair, purple eyes—the Targaryen features are very distinct.
Good.”
Then he turned to the weakened Alicent by the bed:
“You have done well, daughter.
The Seven have granted us a Prince.”
Alicent forced a smile, but complex emotions flashed in her eyes—pride, exhaustion, and a faint, undetectable trace of fear.
Aegon understood that fear:
She also seemed to know what this son meant, knowing what kind of whirlpool he would be drawn into.
“Where is His Majesty the King?” Alicent asked softly.
“Still on his way back,” Otto’s tone was flat, “with Princess Rhaenyra.”
The atmosphere in the room changed subtly.
The handmaids exchanged glances, and the Maester quickened his pace in gathering the instruments with the midwife.
Aegon felt a sense of absurdity—
he had only been born for a few minutes, and he was already a weight on the scales of power.
Footsteps sounded again, more cluttered this time.
When Viserys I entered the birthing room, his face was filled with genuine joy.
The King was only just thirty this year; though his face remained handsome and gentle, his physique had begun to fill out.
He wore magnificent purple robes and a simple gold crown.
Following behind him was a girl—the ten-year-old Rhaenyra Targaryen, her silver-gold hair braided into intricate patterns, her purple eyes bright and sharp.
“My Queen!”
Viserys hurried to the bedside and took Alicent’s hand.
“The Seven be praised, both mother and child are safe!
Let me see our son!”
When the King picked up Aegon, the infant clearly smelled the faint scent of wine and perfume on him.
Viserys’s smile was warm, but there was a shadow deep in his eyes—
he also seemed to be worried, worried that this son would break the balance he had carefully maintained.
However, these worries were dispelled by the joy of having a son.
“He is beautiful, Alicent, as beautiful as you,” the King said, then turned to look at Rhaenyra nearby.
“Come, Rhaenyra, look at your brother.”
Rhaenyra stepped forward.
Her expression was well-controlled—a proper smile, appropriate concern.
But Aegon could feel that scrutiny—
though the world often criticized her, she, who had been sensitive since childhood and had experienced succession disputes multiple times, was evaluating this newborn competitor at the first opportunity, calculating the threat he posed to her right of succession.
“Welcome to the world, brother.”
Rhaenyra’s voice was crisp.
She reached out a finger and gently touched Aegon’s small hand.
“It seems you really like this gift I once retrieved for you.”
She pointed to the dragon egg in the cradle.
Seeing his daughter being so “sensible” today, Viserys’s eyes instantly lit up: “Ah, yes!
Rhaenyra insisted on putting it in, saying every Targaryen should be accompanied by a dragon from the cradle.
What a thoughtful sister!”
Thoughtful?
Aegon was almost amused by this dark humor.
He hoped Rhaenyra would never know that in the original history, she would eventually die by the mouth of this very gift she had personally given.
But he could only blink his purple eyes and make a vague gurgling sound.
“He seems curious about the egg,” Rhaenyra observed.
“Perhaps he will hatch it,”
Viserys said enthusiastically, “just as you hatched Syrax!
Think about it, both of you siblings having your own dragons—what a wonderful sight that will be!”
Otto interjected at the right moment: “Your Majesty, please give the Prince a name.”
Viserys pondered for a moment, his gaze moving between his son and Rhaenyra: “Aegon.
The name of the Conqueror, carrying glory and strength.
May he be as great as our ancestor.”
Aegon Targaryen—the name was fixed, and the path of fate seemed already laid out.
But Aegon didn’t think so.
Deep within this infant body, an adult soul was awakening, was planning.
The Dance of the Dragons?
A family civil war?
No, since he had come, since he carried that yet-to-be-unlocked system, since he had touched the life waiting to hatch within the dragon egg—
everything could be changed.
For the next few hours, Aegon was placed in the nursery of Maegors Holdfast.
Handmaids took turns watching him, speaking in low voices about the latest news from the court.
From these fragments, Aegon pieced together Westeros in the year 107 AC:
Daemon’s ventures in the Stepstones were currently causing a stir; he was using his personal charisma to attract a large number of second sons from noble houses and landless knights to serve him;
Lady Jeyne of the Vale’s insistence on not marrying was causing dissatisfaction among her vassals;
The North was preparing for the upcoming long winter;
There were small-scale skirmishes on the Dornish border; The Citadel was arguing incessantly over the candidate for the new High Septon.
And within King’s Landing, the nobles had already begun to calculate the weight of this newborn Prince.
Was Rhaenyra’s right of succession secure?
Would the King change his mind?
Would House Hightower’s influence resurge because of this?
The Greens and The Blacks—
though these names wouldn’t officially appear until the tourney four years later—
their prototypes were already germinating in the shadows.
Aegon lay in the cradle, digesting this information.
His body was weak, and he spent most of his time sleeping, but his consciousness was exceptionally clear.
The system’s voice never appeared again, but the sense of connection with the dragon egg grew stronger each day.
He could clearly “feel” the changes within the dragon egg beside him:
Life was growing, gathering strength, waiting for the moment to break the shell.