95 AC, Dragonstone — Westeros
Vicerys POV
My wife was giving birth to our first child. I knew I had placed a great burden on her at such a young age, but the need for an heir was non-negotiable. With my father as the crown prince, an heir would solidify both his and my claim to the throne.
Soon, the cry of a newborn echoed from the chamber. I rushed inside to see her holding a babe wrapped in cloth, Aemma smiling as she looked down at him. The maester stepped forward and announced with a relieved smile,
"A healthy heir, my prince."
A heavy weight lifted from my shoulders, replaced by an overwhelming wave of joy. I approached Aemma as she gently raised the child toward me.
"Give him a name, my love," she whispered.
"Aemon... Aemon Targaryen, after my uncle," I said.
Soon, other members of House Targaryen entered the room—my father, my brother, and my grandmother—each eager to greet the newest dragon of our blood.
Baelon Targaryen POV
Baelon had been sunk in grief since the deaths of his wife, his brother, and his son. But with the birth of his grandson, a spark of life returned to his eyes.
"What did you name him, Viserys?" I asked, as my son beamed, overwhelmed by the joy of new fatherhood.
"Aemon Targaryen, after your brother, Father."
At once, memories of Aemon flooded my mind—our childhood together, the long days in the training yard, the campaigns against the Free Cities, and finally, the cold stillness of his corpse. When Viserys handed me the child, I saw a beautiful babe with a tuft of silver hair.
Something stirred in me. A premonition, perhaps—a quiet certainty that this child was destined for greatness. I felt a budding pride, though I swallowed it down. Too many young men die before reaching their potential.
Then I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder. I turned and passed the babe to her.
Queen Alysanne Targaryen POV
Queen Alyssane had seen many births and held even more children—but so few had lived to adulthood. She prayed to the Seven that this child would be spared that fate. Looking down at him, she couldn't help but smile.
"You did well, Aemma," she said softly. "You've given birth to a new dragon."
The news soon reached King's Landing, King Jaehaerys had a great-grandson. He called for a feast and announced a grand tourney to be held in the child's honor.
A new Targaryen had arrived. A new story was beginning. A new dragonlord was born.
96 AC, King's Landing — Red Keep
I opened my eyes, and the dizziness hit me like a hammer. It felt like I'd been asleep for a long time. My mind was foggy, like I was waking from a dream I couldn't quite remember.
Days blurred together. Slowly, memory returned—fragmented, out of order. But there was no doubt: I had been reincarnated.
From what little I could see through my newborn eyes—let's be honest, I couldn't see shit—I thought I'd been reborn into some kind of medieval European noble house. That was until I noticed something strange.
The people here had silver hair and lilac eyes.
That's not something you find in any normal European lineage. I didn't recognize the language either. That sealed it—I wasn't just in the past. I was in another world entirely.
Naturally, a thousand questions filled my head.
Does this world have magic? Can people use chi? Are there swordsmen who can cut mountains in half?
So I tried to meditate, like those protagonists from other reincarnation stories. Maybe I could sense a mana core, or energy flowing in me. But I quickly discovered that meditation, for a baby, just turns into napping.
Every. Single. Time.
Days passed like that—attempts at deep, world-shaking meditation that always ended with me knocked out drooling. Eventually, I gave up on the mana core idea. I didn't see any magic around me, and nobody seemed to be flinging fireballs.
But I did start recognizing faces. One woman stood out—my mother, I think. Silver-haired. Blue eyes. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
She radiated grace, nobility, and warmth like no one I had known in my old life. But she was also clearly young—maybe fifteen or sixteen. That was a little disturbing to me, coming from a modern mindset. Still, this was a medieval world. I'd have to adapt.
I just hoped this world didn't have war. I hated war more than anything. I'd seen enough of it.
Now that I've been given another chance at life, all I want is peace—a quiet, meaningful life. To marry a beautiful woman, raise a few bright children, teach them what I know, develop my lands with modern knowledge, and grow old surrounded by my family.
Is that too much to ask?
I slowly began to recognize more people around me. My father, who had the same striking features as my mother—only with darker lilac eyes. The maids and servants who attended to us. But nothing compared to the shock that shattered my mind into pieces the day I realized what my parents' names were.
Viserys. Aemma.
The moment hit like a lightning bolt.
No. No way.
Viserys and Aemma?
I immediately remembered House of the Dragon Season 1. It all came rushing back. The realization that I had been reincarnated into Westeros, in the era leading up to the Dance of the Dragons, nearly made me pass out.
I went through the five stages of grief in record time.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
Acceptance came two days later.
I wasn't just in a medieval world. I was in the worst one. The deadliest, blood-soaked continent imaginable. And not only that—I was born 33 years before the most destructive civil war in Targaryen history.
The gods must have one hell of a sense of humor.
All I ever wanted was peace. And instead, I was born at the exact moment when my new family would soon be tearing itself apart with dragons and wildfire.
So now I'm planning. Strategizing. Trying to figure out how to survive the storm to come—because House Targaryen, strong as it is right now, is utterly unprepared for its future.
Step one: Get a big-ass dragon.
Young dragons are easier to bond with, sure. But when the Dance begins, that won't be enough. I need an apex predator. If I can bond with Vhagar, that's best-case scenario. Vermithor would also do just fine. But I won't settle for a hatchling.
A few days later, a man entered the nursery carrying a dragon egg. He placed it beside my cradle.
I think that man was Daemon Targaryen.
The Rogue Prince. The deadliest man on the continent. He stared down at me with an unreadable expression. I met his gaze and didn't look away.
He smirked, turned, and left the room.
It was a silent moment of acknowledgment. And maybe... a warning.
The game of thrones had already begun. And here, you either win—or you die.
Three moons later
I think my mother is pregnant again. My memories have fully returned, and my vision has cleared. I'm beginning to understand words, and I've even learned to walk.
Things are... progressing.
Three moons later
My mother gave birth to a stillborn child.
She hasn't smiled since. She barely leaves my side. The grief in her eyes is endless, and I try—awkwardly—to cheer her up. Making silly baby noises and waddling around like a clown isn't my style, but I'll do it if it makes her forget, even for a second.
And the bad news?
My egg hatched.
Yes, congratulations. I'm screwed.
It's a black dragon with blue accents on its wings and piercing blue eyes. It sleeps curled up in my chamber and already seems attached to me.
It loves me.
A little.
And yet... I can't help but love it back.