March 12, 2025 – Mumbai, India
The rain hadn't stopped since morning.
It poured over the cracked roads of Mumbai, mixing with the city's endless noise — horns, shouting vendors, and the distant rumble of trains. People rushed under umbrellas, pushing through puddles and life itself.
Among them walked a man in a cheap, soaked shirt — head down, bag slung over his shoulder, shoes squelching with each step. His name was Arjun Malhotra, twenty-eight, a corporate slave in one of those endless glass towers that promised dreams but delivered chains.
He had worked twelve hours that day.
Twelve hours for a salary that barely covered rent and food.
---
At the signal near Andheri, he stopped, watching a luxury car pass by — a young couple laughing inside, the man wearing a watch that probably cost more than Arjun's yearly salary.
He smiled bitterly.
Same city, different worlds.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his manager:
> "Arjun, tomorrow you'll stay till 10 PM. Urgent deliverable. Don't argue."
Arjun stared at the screen for a moment, then locked it quietly.
No reply. What was there to say? He'd been an orphan all his life — silence was something he'd long learned to live with.
---
He walked toward the bus stop, drenched and tired, mind drifting to memories he usually tried to bury.
The orphanage in Pune.
The tasteless food.
The fights.
The loneliness.
At twelve, he had learned that no one was coming to save him.
At twenty, he learned that dreams were expensive.
At twenty-eight, he realized life didn't reward effort — only luck, cruelty, and deceit.
He chuckled under his breath. "Born with nothing, die with nothing," he muttered.
The rain softened. For a brief second, the city lights reflected in a puddle near his feet — a hundred tiny flames flickering in the water.
He thought they looked beautiful.
---
The bus came late, packed as always. He didn't get a seat. Standing near the door, he held the metal bar tightly, half-listening to people complain about politics, cricket, and inflation.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe sleep would make it all fade.
When the bus stopped at his neighborhood — a half-broken lane behind a local market — Arjun got down and began the short walk home.
His rented room was small — one fan, one bulb, one mattress. He tossed his bag aside and stared at the cracked ceiling.
Water leaked from the corner. The sound of it falling into a steel bowl echoed through the room. Drip. Drip. Drip.
He laughed softly.
Even silence mocked him now.
---
He sat up, opened the small drawer beside his bed, and took out an old photograph — a group shot from the orphanage. Most faces blurred with age, but one stood clear: a younger version of himself, smiling.
He touched it gently.
"What were you thinking, kid?" he whispered. "That life gets better? That working hard changes anything?"
He sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes.
His chest felt heavy.
Not from illness — from emptiness.
Maybe, somewhere deep inside, he still wished for something…
A second chance.
Not to suffer — but to live without chains.
---
Hours later, the power went out. The city outside was still loud — cars, dogs, rain, and life — but Arjun didn't hear it.
He had stepped out again, late night, heading toward the small tea stall that stayed open till midnight.
The owner nodded at him.
"The usual?"
Arjun smiled faintly. "Yeah."
He stood under the flickering streetlight, sipping the burning tea. The warmth felt good — alive, even.
Then came the screech.
A blinding flash of headlights.
A car out of control, tires screaming against wet asphalt.
He turned — too late.
---
The world went white.
For a moment, he felt nothing.
No pain.
No sound.
Only weightlessness — like falling through air.
Then darkness.
His last thought was strangely calm:
So this is it… huh?
No regrets about what he hadn't achieved — just a deep, aching sorrow that he never truly lived.
He wanted to say something, but his lips couldn't move.
And as everything faded, he saw the reflection of city lights one last time — like fire dancing across water.
Then… silence.
---
Somewhere far away — in another world entirely — a storm raged over black seas.
Lightning flashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone, where dragons once roared and kings were born.
In that storm, in a castle of smoke and fire, a woman screamed in labor.
Her name would be remembered for centuries — Queen Rhaella Targaryen.
And beside her, a child was born.
A boy.
His cry echoed louder than the thunder.
None knew that in that newborn's soul burned the spark of another man — one who had just died far away, in a forgotten corner of a modern world.
The world would one day call him Daemon Targaryen the Second.
But for now…
He was just a crying baby, wrapped in silk, under the shadow of dragons.