The first thing I knew was heat.
It wasn't the dry, central-heated warmth of a modern apartment. It was a suffocating, humid blanket that smelled of rotting apricots, expensive oil, and old stone. It pressed against my eyelids, demanding I open them.
When I did, the world swam in a haze of gold and terracotta. I tried to sit up, expecting the groan of my cheap mattress and the stiffness in my lower back from too many hours in a desk chair. Instead, I moved with a fluid, frictionless ease that felt utterly alien.
My hands. I looked at my hands.
They were pale, almost translucent, with long, tapering fingers that didn't belong to me. They were elegant, aristocratic hands, but they were trembling. Not from weakness—though they looked frail—but from a vibration running through the very marrow of the bones.
"Doreah!"
The voice ripped out of my throat before I could stop it. It wasn't my voice. It was high, thin, and laced with a petulant, nasal whine that set my teeth on edge. It was the sound of a spoiled child, a broken man.
Viserys.
The name didn't come as a thought; it came as a sledgehammer.
I grabbed my head, my fingers digging into the scalp. Long strands of silver-gold hair fell across my vision.
No. No, no, no.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the darkness behind my eyelids wasn't empty. It was a screaming gallery. Memories that weren't mine assaulted me, violent and visceral. I tasted blood and salt spray. I felt the phantom heat of wildfire. I saw a woman with sad eyes—Rhaella—weeping as she bundled me onto a ship. I felt the crushing shame of selling a mother's crown for a week of lodging. The hunger. The begging. The laughter of magistrates and merchants as they closed their doors.
And beneath it all, a festering, black rot of entitlement and rage. The dragon does not beg. The dragon takes.
I gagged, lurching off the bed. I scrambled toward a silver basin on a side table, splashing water onto my face. The shock of cold helped, grounding me. I stared into the polished bronze mirror above the basin.
The face staring back was haunting. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw, violet eyes that seemed to burn with a feverish light. It was a beautiful face, in a cruel, angular way. It was the face of the Last Dragon.
It was Viserys Targaryen. And I was trapped inside him.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. This was Game of Thrones. This was the meat grinder. And I was the character destined to die screaming with molten gold running down his face in less than six months.
I gripped the edges of the table. The metal bent.
I froze. I looked down. My fingers had indented the thick bronze rim of the basin as if it were soft clay. I hadn't even strained.
I pulled my hands away, staring at them with renewed horror. I took a breath, trying to calm the racing thoughts, and that was when the second change hit me.
My mind... stopped buzzing.
Usually, my thoughts were a chaotic mess of anxieties, song lyrics, and half-naked girls. Now? Silence. Absolute, crystalline silence.
Then, I willed a thought. Where am I?
Instantly, the answer didn't just appear; it unfolded. Illyrio's Manse. Pentos. The exact layout of the room, the guard rotation I'd overheard three days ago, the precise value of the tapestry on the wall (three hundred dragons), the current political climate of the Free Cities, the lineage of House Targaryen going back three hundred years.
It wasn't just Viserys's memories. It was my knowledge, too. Every book I'd read, every episode I'd watched, every wiki page I'd doomed-scrolled at 3 AM. It was all there, indexed, cross-referenced, and available with a terrifying speed.
And the strength... I looked at the bronze basin again. My body looked like it was sculpted by leonardo da vinci. I could feel innate strength in my muscles like I could do things I would never had considered before.
But instead of empowering me, it terrified me. I felt like I was piloting a fighter jet without a flight manual. I was an impostor in a world of liars. My mind went in an awful place, "Did I kill him and took his body is that it, am I a murderer" thoughts like this come in my mind constantly. I thought of illirio, of varys,
Varys. My mind instantly pulled up the file. The Spider. He knows everything. Illyrio is his co-conspirator. They are grooming Aegon. I am the distraction. I am the sacrificial lamb.
Paranoia coiled around my heart like a cold snake. Everyone in this manse was a spy. The guards. The servants. Even the walls probably had ears. I was alone.
A knock at the door made me jump, my reflexes so fast I was halfway across the room before the sound finished echoing.
"My Prince?" A muffled voice. "The Magister asks for your presence. And your sister."
Dany.
The guilt hit me harder than the panic. Viserys had tormented her. He had turned her into a currency. And now, I—whoever I was—had to look her in the eye.
"I'm coming," I said. I forced my voice lower, smoothing out the whine, trying to find a timber that commanded respect without sounding like a cartoon villain. It worked. The voice that came out was smooth, resonant, and strangely magnetic.
I dressed quickly, my fingers moving with a dexterity I'd never possessed. I chose the tunic that looked least like a costume, though everything Viserys owned was a tragic attempt to mimic royalty.
I walked out into the corridor. The sensory input was overwhelming. I could smell the sweat of a stable boy three floors down. I could hear the scratch of a quill on parchment from Illyrio's study. I had to focus to filter it out, to stop the world from drowning me.
I found her in the atrium, staring at a lemon tree.
Daenerys Targaryen.
I stopped dead. The descriptions in the books, the actresses on screen—none of it prepared me for the reality of her.
She was... devastating.
It wasn't just that she was beautiful, though she was arguably the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. It was the sheer unreality of her. Her hair was a fluid sheet of molten silver, shimmering in the sunlight. Her skin was flawless, pale cream against the vibrant silks. But it was her eyes that broke me. They weren't just purple; they were a deep, twilight violet, rimmed with amethyst. They held a depth of history, of tragedy, that felt ancient.
I stood there, hidden by a pillar, just staring. Fawning, like an idiot. It was a pathetic reaction, I knew. I was a twenty-first-century man gawking at a teenager, but the aesthetic impact was physical. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been glued back together too many times.
She turned, sensing my presence. The moment she saw me, the illusion of the goddess shattered. She flinched. Her shoulders hunched, her eyes cast down. She made herself small.
"Brother," she whispered. "I... I did not hear you."
The fear in her voice made my stomach turn. She expected me to shout. To pinch her. To blame her for the weather or the price of bread.
I walked toward her. Every step felt heavy with the ghost of the man I was inhabiting. Don't be him, I told myself. But don't be someone else entirely. If she suspects you're mad, or possessed, you're dead.
"Stand up straight, Daenerys," I said. The words were harsh, but I tried to keep the venom out of them. Old habits of the body, perhaps.
She straightened immediately, her chin trembling. "Forgive me. I was dreaming."
"Dreams are for children," I said, the words tasting like ash. I wanted to tell her everything.
But I couldn't. The paranoia choked me. What if she ran to Illyrio? What if she thought I was testing her loyalty? Viserys tested her constantly. Any deviation from the script could be fatal.
"The Magister is waiting," I said, my voice stiff. "Come."
I turned to lead the way, but hesitation seized me. I looked back at her. She looked so lonely. So terrified.
"Dany," I said, softening my tone.
She looked up, startled by the nickname.
"You look..." I struggled for the words. "You look like a Targaryen today."
It was a weak compliment, filtered through Viserys's obsession with blood purity, but it was the best I could do. A flicker of confusion crossed her face, followed by a wary nod.
"Thank you, brother."
She didn't trust me. Why would she? I was the monster under her bed.
We walked to Illyrio's solar in silence. My mind was racing, analyzing every shadow. Was that servant watching us too closely? Why was that guard's hand resting on his pommel? My new eyes picked up micro-expressions—disgust, pity, amusement—on the faces of the household staff. They all thought we were jokes. The Beggar King and his whore sister.
Rage flared in my chest. Not my rage—Viserys's rage. It was a hot, chemical burn. They are laughing at the dragon.
I clamped it down. No. Use the brain. Use the IQ.
Illyrio was waiting for us, seated behind a massive desk of carved oily wood. He was eating, grease running down his chin into his forked yellow beard. He looked like a toad grown fat on flies.
"Viserys! Daenerys! Come in, come in," he boomed, gesturing with a sausage-like finger. "Good news. The Khal has sent word. He is pleased with the reports. The wedding can proceed in a fortnight."
I stood before the desk, Dany a step behind me. My heart should have been hammering. I was rewriting the timeline of a world that killed people for sport. But my pulse was slow, steady. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"The wedding," I said, tasting the word.
"Yes! A glorious union," Illyrio beamed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "And then, the army. Forty thousand riders to sweep the Usurper from his throne."
Lies. My memory supplied the truth instantly. Illyrio had no intention of giving me the army. He expected Drogo to drag me endlessly across the Dothraki Sea until I died of exposure or stupidity. He wanted me out of the way so Aegon could land in Westeros as the savior.
I looked at Illyrio. I saw the calculation in his piggish eyes. He thought I was a fool.
"There is a problem, Magister," I said.
Illyrio paused, a fig halfway to his mouth. "Problem? What problem?"
"The terms," I said. "They are insufficient."
Illyrio sighed, a theatrical sound of patience being tested. "My Prince, we have discussed this. The Khal provides the army. I provide the ships. You provide the bride. It is a fair trade."
"For you," I said. "You trade a guest you are tired of feeding for a warlord's favor. But for me?"
I stepped closer. I could smell the stale wine on his breath. I felt a surge of adrenaline, my muscles twitching with the need to move, to strike.
"I require insurance," I said.
"Insurance?" Illyrio chuckled, though his eyes remained cold. "You have the word of a Magister of Pentos."
"Words are wind," I said, quoting a phrase I shouldn't know yet. "I want the ships now. Three of them. Deep-hulled, fast, and fully provisioned. Transferred to my name before the wedding feast."
Illyrio's smile vanished. "That is irregular. Ships are expensive, Viserys. And what need have you of ships if you are riding with the Dothraki?"
"I enjoy the sea," I lied smoothly. "And I do not trust the horselords to carry me across the poison water. When the time comes to invade, I will sail as a King, not a passenger."
"No," Illyrio said, his voice hardening. "The resources are allocated elsewhere. You ask too much."
My paranoia spiked. He's refusing. He knows. He's going to call the guards.
I needed to assert dominance. I needed to be the Dragon, not the Beggar.
I looked at the desk. There was a heavy silver goblet sitting near his hand, thick and studded with gemstones.
"I ask," I whispered, "for what is mine by right."
I reached out and picked up the goblet. It was heavy, solid metal.
Illyrio watched me, annoyance flickering on his face. "Put that down, boy. You are distraught."
"Distraught?" I echoed.
I focused. I didn't just squeeze; I pushed with the entirety of the unnatural power coiling in my arm. The tendons in my wrist stood out like steel cables.
Crunch.
The sound was sickeningly loud in the quiet room. The thick silver wall of the goblet buckled. Gemstones popped out of their settings, skittering across the wooden desk. I kept squeezing, feeling the metal yield like wet cardboard, folding it in on itself until the cup was nothing but a mangled lump of silver bullion.
I dropped it.
Thud.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Daenerys let out a tiny, sharp gasp behind me.
Illyrio stared at the ruined metal, then up at me. His face had lost all color. He looked at my hand, expecting to see blood, to see broken bones. There was nothing. Just pale, unblemished skin.
"I am not a boy, Magister," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "And I am done begging. You have grown rich on the prestige of hosting the last Targaryens. You have used my sister's beauty to broker your deals. Do not think to cheat me."
I leaned over the desk. I saw genuine fear in his eyes now. He wasn't looking at a mad prince anymore. He was looking at a physical anomaly. A monster.
"The ships," I said. "And the dragon eggs you promised. Tonight."
"I..." Illyrio swallowed, his throat clicking. "I will... make arrangements."
"Good."
I turned on my heel, my cape swirling with a dramatic flair that felt innate. "Come, sister."
I walked out, keeping my back straight, expecting a knife between the shoulder blades with every step. I didn't breathe until we were halfway down the corridor.
Dany was hurrying to keep up with me, her eyes wide, darting from my face to my hand.
"Brother," she whispered, her voice trembling. "How... how did you do that?"
I stopped. I looked at my hand. It didn't even ache.
"The blood of the dragon," I muttered, repeating the lie until I almost believed it myself. "It is waking up, Dany."
I looked at her, seeing the confusion and the terror warring in her eyes. She didn't know who I was anymore. Neither did I.
"Go to your room," I said, feeling the exhaustion of the performance crashing down on me despite my physical stamina. "Lock the door. Trust no one. Not even the maids."
"Viserys, you are frightening me," she said.
"Good," I said, turning away so she couldn't see the doubt in my eyes. "Fear keeps you alive."
I left her there and retreated to my own chambers. I bolted the door. I checked the window. I checked under the bed.
Finally, I collapsed into a chair, staring at the mangled image of myself in the bronze mirror.
I had survived the first hour. I had terrified my patron and alienated my sister. But there was still a chance that this chance could be used for my good ...