You’d think life is this long, messy ride full of ups, downs, and random detours, some weird rollercoaster of questionable decisions and even worse luck.
I used to think that too.
Right up until the moment fluid started slowly drowning my lungs from the inside, crushing them like cheap water balloons.
But thinking’s off the table now.
I’m dead, you know.
For the record, I was about two hundred miles from the nearest coastline and twenty or thirty from anything bigger than a muddy pond.
So yeah, the blue skin and the whole ‘just got a blood transfusion from Jake Sully’ look was a bit of a plot twist.
It all started two days ago, when my horny, terminally online friend convinced me, through a masterful combination of peer pressure, energy drinks, and the promise of prime convention thiccness to drag my ass to a cosplay event.
Or was it Comic-Con?
Honestly, I don’t fucking remember.
The lines blurred together like my standards after midnight.
The venue was packed.
The people were hot.
Most of them had partners already, because of course they did.
The universe loves rubbing it in.
I even saw the devil himself in the bathroom hallway, enthusiastically dry-humping a very confused-looking corgi fursuiter.
I gave him a respectful nod as I passed.
Good for him.
Consent is important, even in hell.
I was standing in line for a signed photo with the legendary Neil Patrick Harris—finally about to meet one of my childhood idols, when she appeared.
A six-foot-tall, absolute unit of a gothic Lady Dimitrescu.
Pale skin, blood-red lips, black dress hugging curves that should’ve been illegal in at least seventeen states.
She glided forward like she owned the place and casually cut the line right in front of me.
I should’ve been pissed.
Instead, I was in love.
One thing led to another, because my brain has the self-preservation of a drunk raccoon and somehow I ended up in a dimly lit, overpriced hotel room with her.
Let’s just say those long legs weren’t just for show.
One minute I was living every weeb’s fever dream, the next I was on my knees in the best and worst way possible.
Turns out, when certain things go down the wrong pipe and reach your lungs, they trigger a slow, sticky buildup of mucus.
It’s not fast.
It’s not cinematic.
It’s just you, slowly suffocating while your body panics in slow motion.
Romantic, right?
And that’s how we get to now.
I woke up, not in a hospital bed, not in the shitty convention hotel, but in the back of a fucking carriage.
The wooden kind with actual horses.
The air smelled like leather, dust, and old money.
My body felt… wrong, shorter and leaner, like someone had shrunk me on a rack and forgotten to tell my soul.
An old man in grey robes stared at me with deep concern, his wrinkled face scrunching up like he’d just bitten into a lemon.
He had the look of a lifelong servant who’d seen too much royal bullshit.
“My Prince,” he said carefully, voice thick with doubt, “Are you alright?”
I blinked at him.
Prince, Prince?
My mouth opened before my brain caught up.
“Do I look alright, you dusty old fuck? I just died choking on goth pussy and now I’m in Narnia with better interior design.”
The old man’s eyes widened in pure horror.
I immediately regretted my life choices, both the old ones and this shiny new set.
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a scandalized whisper.
“Your Highness… that is not language befitting a Royal—”
“Yeah, yeah, save the lecture,” I muttered, rubbing my face.
My new hands were short and slim, no more calluses from gaming marathons.
Great.
“Just… give me a second.”
It was trippy as hell hearing the sound of my voice squeaking like a prepubescent choir boy.
High-pitched, cracking at the edges, the kind of voice that hadn’t been anywhere near puberty.
I am a child, aren’t I?
The realization hit like a freight train made of pure existential dread.
My dignity was already in the grave; apparently my balls had followed it.
“Kyuuu~”
My head snapped sideways so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
I recoiled hard against the wooden boards of the carriage, legs kicking up instinctively as I tried to put as much distance as possible between me and the… thing sharing the space.
The old man jerked back in alarm, clutching his chest like I’d just flashed him my nonexistent royal dagger.
“What is it, my prince?!” he asked, voice tight with worry as his eyes darted around the carriage, searching for threats that weren’t there.
“What the hell is that?!” I squeaked, jabbing a trembling finger at the massive blue lizard currently tilting its head at me like a curious cat.
Its wings were tucked neatly against its scaled body, but even folded they looked powerful.
The creature nudged its snout against the floorboards, making a soft, almost affectionate noise again.
Big golden eyes blinked slowly.
It was… kinda cute?
In a ‘could roast me alive sort of way.
The old man stared at me, then at the creature, then back at me like I’d lost my marbles.
“It is… your bond, Your Grace,” he said slowly, as if explaining fire to a toddler.
“Your dragon, Tessarion. My prince, I strongly suggest we stop for the time being. I fear you are unwell.”
Dragon.
My dragon.
I have a fucking dragon?!
That was objectively the coolest shit I’d ever heard.
Ten-out-of-ten reincarnation perk but also, hold the fuck up.
I was currently a squeaky-voiced kid sharing a cramped wooden carriage with a cat-sized reptile that could probably sneeze and turn me into charcoal.
Priorities, man.
Panic first, hype later.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked, voice still cracking like cheap glass.
I slowly lowered my legs to the floor, trying not to look like I was one second away from shitting myself.
The dragon watched me with mild interest, its tail flicking lazily.
The old man’s face crumpled with deeper concern.
“It seems it is worse than I imagined,” he muttered.
He leaned out the window and yanked the heavy curtains shut, revealing a glimpse of armored riders outside before the fabric blocked them.
“Stop the retinue! The prince is ill!”
“Halt!” came a booming shout from outside.
The carriage lurched to a sudden stop, throwing me forward.
The door burst open with a bang.
A large man, broad-shouldered, armored, and radiating serious knight energy, ducked inside.
He was taller than my current body, which wasn’t saying much since I felt like I was playing in the adult section of life.
He crouched down quickly, one gauntleted hand gently gripping my shoulder as he searched my face.
“My prince, are you alright?” His voice was deep, the kind of voice that probably commanded armies and comforted royal brats on a daily basis.
The old man, still hovering like a worried grandmother, added, “Ser Gwayne, I believe the Prince is quite sick. We might need to make camp at the nearest holding sooner.”
I just blinked at both of them in dead silence.
‘Buddy, give me a fucking minute here.’ I wanted to scream.
‘I need to lose my goddamn mind, have a proper ugly cry in the fetal position, and chase it with the biggest cup of hot chocolate the kingdom can provide.
Until then, can you all kindly fuck off?’
Instead, my child-sized body just nodded weakly, betraying me completely.
Traitor.
Ser Gwayne’s brow furrowed deeper.
Tessarion let out another soft ‘kyuuu’ and bumped its head lightly against my leg, almost knocking me over.
The scales were surprisingly warm, like sun-baked leather.
I stared down at the massive head resting near my lap and felt a hysterical little laugh bubble up in my throat.
This was insane.
Ser Gwayne shot a quick glance at the old Maester, the kind of look two people share when they’re both thinking the same thing but don’t want to say it out loud.
“There’s an inn along the road ahead,” he said.
“About an hour’s ride. Would that be enough for you, Maester?”
The elderly man gave a small, tired nod.
“That would suffice well enough, Ser.”
Gwayne turned toward the carriage window, his armored gauntlet resting on the frame.
“Hold steady, my prince,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind.
Then he stepped back, swung himself up onto his horse with the easy grace of someone who’d been born in the saddle, and gave the signal.
The carriage lurched forward without warning.
I grabbed the edge of the bench, knuckles white, as the whole wooden contraption groaned and jolted like it was personally offended by smooth roads.
‘Oh man,’ I thought, teeth already rattling, ‘this is gonna be a rough ride.’
The velvet cushions did exactly nothing to soften the experience.
Every bump in the dirt track sent a fresh jolt up my spine, and I could already feel my ass filing a formal complaint.
Somewhere outside, the horses snorted and the wheels crunched over stones that sounded way too big to be legal.
I leaned back, trying to look dignified while internally screaming.
‘One hour.
Just one hour of this medieval rollercoaster.’ I’d give my left kidney for a decent shock absorber and a pair of AirPods right about now.
The inn was surprisingly large for being planted in the middle of absolute nowhere.
According to the owner, they did decent business thanks to the steady stream of merchants and soldiers traveling through the Reach.
Lucky them.
I just wanted a mattress that didn’t feel like it was stuffed with rocks and regret.
I lay on the hard cot, staring at the wooden beams above me, trying not to scratch my back raw against the rough linen.
Fantastic.
Medieval chiropractic care.
“The fever seems to have lessened now, my prince,” the Maester announced, sounding pleased with himself.
Yeah, about that… I didn’t have a fever.
I was having a full-blown existential crisis, but explaining mental health to a medieval blood-letter was about as useful as teaching calculus to a chicken.
He gently lifted the wet cloth from my forehead.
A cold trickle of water ran down my temple and into my ear.
Great.
Ear infection speedrun.
The door creaked open.
Ser Gwayne had to duck slightly as he stepped inside, his red hair now loose and tousled instead of hidden beneath his helm, which hung from his hand.
He looked tired, but still carried that steady, knightly presence.
“Leave us, Marwyn,” he said.
It wasn’t really an order, more like a quiet request between old acquaintances.
The Maester gathered his things with a respectful bow and shuffled out, closing the door behind him.
Once we were alone, Gwayne unclasped his cloak and draped it over a chair by the small window.
He moved closer, studying me with that familiar, fatherly concern that always hit me right in the chest.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked softly.
I’m feeling… something.
Huh… that’s what she said.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the worst possible moment.
“I’m fine, Ser Gwayne,” I answered instead, turning my gaze toward the window.
Endless green fields and rolling hills stretched into the distance under the fading light.
It was beautiful in a way that almost hurt.
“Daeron,” he said gently, “when we are alone, you may call me uncle.”
I gave a small nod.
The name still felt strange on me, like someone else’s coat I’d been forced to wear.
Between the pale silver-white hair and the literal dragon I’d apparently have, there wasn’t much room for doubt about who I was supposed to be.
I stayed quiet.
Everything still felt way too surreal.
Gwayne let out a long breath and dragged a wooden chair over, its legs scraping against the floorboards.
He sat beside the cot, close enough that I could smell the leather, steel, and faint scent of horse on him.
His eyes were heavy with equal parts pity and concern.
“I was six and ten when I lost my mother to a grave fever,” he said quietly.
“I was distraught. Furious. I didn’t know who to blame.” He reached out and rested a large, calloused hand gently on my hair, the gesture surprisingly tender.
“You are barely eight. To be separated from your mother so young… it is a cruel thing. I understand. But you are a prince of the realm, and many a things will be expected of you. If I can promise you one thing, it is this: your mother’s heart will be torn apart by your absence. Yet this is duty. And duty is yours now.”
Damn.
The man was out here dropping emotional bars like it was open mic night at the Westerosi tavern.
Too bad I didn’t have a scale to rate them.
Honestly?
I couldn’t bring myself to care much about this new ‘mother.’ I already had enough unresolved mommy issues from my last life to last several reincarnations.
That part was almost a relief.
The rest of this situation, though?
I was beyond fucked.
I was the third son of Queen ‘I’m gonna pass the generational trauma’ Alicent Hightower and King ‘Bitch, I’m gonna play house until I die’ Viserys Targaryen.
You’re probably wondering how much I actually know about this world.
Fair question.
Truth is, my knowledge was… partial at best.
Back in my old life, I had this girl, sharp, a little mean in the best way, who used to buy the latest books and then climb into my lap while I read them.
Every time I stuttered or lost my place, she’d slow down.
Deliberate.
Torturous.
I loved every second of it.
One of those books had been Fire & Blood.
I knew the broad strokes of the whole mess.
Game of Thrones I knew inside out.
House of the Dragon hadn’t finished airing before I died, but I’d seen enough episodes and read enough spoilers to understand the shape of the nightmare coming my way.
The Dance of the Dragons.
And yeah… pretty much nobody walked away from that bloodbath with their head still attached.
Least of all the dragon-riding princes caught in the middle.
I lay there on that miserable cot, staring at the ceiling beams while Ser Gwayne’s comforting hand still rested on my hair.
The weight of it should’ve been reassuring.
Instead it just made everything feel heavier.
Because this wasn’t some story anymore.
This was my life now, silver hair, royal title, and a one-way ticket to a civil war where dragons would burn the sky and my entire family would end up dead or worse.
I think the name of my biography should be: Reincarnated as a Targaryen extra with plot armor made of tissue paper.
I swallowed hard, forcing my face to stay neutral.
Gwayne was still talking softly, offering wisdom and comfort to a grieving eight-year-old boy who didn’t technically exist yet.
Meanwhile my adult brain was screaming in the background like a man who just realized his save file was corrupted right before the final boss.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.
That I wasn’t mourning the mother I’d barely met in this life.
That I was busy mourning every future I’d never get to have, because some idiot with my face was going to ride a dragon into a war that would chew up the realm and spit out the bones.
And the worst part?
I couldn’t even warn anyone without sounding like I’d lost my mind.
So I just nodded again, letting Uncle Gwayne think he was helping a scared little prince.