Chapter 1: The Stranger's Gift
The last thing Marcus remembered from his old life was the screech of tires on wet asphalt and the blinding glare of headlights. Seattle rain had slicked the street outside the dive bar where he'd spent the night drinking away another failed deal—another betrayal of a so-called friend for a few extra credits in his account. Selfish prick, the voice in his head had sneered as the truck hit him. Then nothing. No light, no pain, just the cold void.
Until fire.
It wasn't the crash. It was inside him—scorching through blood and bone, reshaping memories like a smith hammering Valyrian steel. Voices that weren't his whispered of dragons and crowns, of a fat king and a weeping queen. Pain peaked, then ebbed into warmth. Silk against skin. The scent of myrrh and rose petals.
His eyes snapped open.
The chamber was vast, far grander than any penthouse he'd ever conned his way into. Heavy black-and-red drapes hung from a carved canopy above the bed, embroidered with three-headed dragons breathing stylized flame. Stone walls rose high, draped in tapestries showing Aegon the Conqueror atop Balerion, roasting Harrenhal to ash. Fresh rushes crunched underfoot, scented with lavender and mint to mask the ever-present tang of King's Landing below—sewage, smoke, the Blackwater's brine. A brazier glowed in the corner, casting flickering light on a silver mirror and an oak chest banded in iron.
Marcus—no, not Marcus—tried to sit. His body betrayed him: too small, limbs slender and soft, chest narrow. He lifted a hand. Pale fingers, unscarred. No keyboard calluses. No cheap tattoos from a drunken night in college.
"What in the seven hells…" The words came out in a child's piping voice, high and clear.
The knowledge crashed over him like a wave. A Song of Ice and Fire. The books he'd binged between schemes, the wiki dives at 3 a.m., the show he'd pirated while cursing the writers. Westeros. Targaryens. And he was in it.
He was Prince Aegon Targaryen. Second trueborn son of King Aegon IV—the Unworthy—and Queen Naerys. Born in 175 After the Conquest, in the shadow of his father's ascension two years earlier. Brother to Prince Daeron, the future Good King. Brother to Princess Daenerys. Half-brother to a dozen bastards his father scattered like seed across the realm: Daemon Blackfyre, Aegor Rivers, Brynden Rivers, and more.
The fever. The maid's voice from the half-remembered haze of the last three days. Summer chill, they'd called it. But it had been the Stranger's mercy—or cruelty—delivering him here. Adult mind in a boy's body. All the knowledge of what was to come: the Blackfyre Rebellions, the Red Grass Field, Bloodraven's rise and fall, the War of the Ninepenny Kings, even Robert's hammer centuries later. He knew the players, the betrayals, the deaths.
A slow, dark smile curved his small mouth. Selfish? Oh, yes. In his old life he'd stepped on necks for scraps. Here? The Iron Throne itself waited. Gold. Women. Power that made CEOs look like beggars. No more scraping by. No more pretending at decency.
"I am not dying in some alley," he whispered to the empty room. "I am going to take."
A soft knock echoed. The heavy door creaked open.
"My prince?" A young maid—no older than sixteen, freckled, in simple grey wool—entered with a tray of watered wine and broth. Her eyes widened. "Praise the Seven! The fever has broken. You've slept like the dead these three days. Prince Daeron sat with you half the night, and the king himself sent his own maester."
Aegon (he must think of himself as Aegon now; Marcus was ash) pushed himself higher on the pillows, testing the voice. "What… year is it?" He kept it childlike, hesitant, but his violet eyes—Targaryen eyes, sharp as dragonglass—watched her closely.
She set the tray down, fussing with the linens. "Why, 183 After the Conquest, my prince. The fifth moon is nearly done. The king holds court in the throne room even now, though they say he's… merry with Lady Falena's daughter again." She flushed. "Forgive me. Not for young ears."
183 AC. Father still lived—fat, lecherous, generous to his whores and bastards, but one year from the grave. Daeron would take the throne in 184. The Great Bastards would be legitimized on the deathbed. Blackfyre would rise in 196.
Plenty of time.
"My mother?" he asked, though the implanted memories already supplied the ache of loss.
The maid's face softened. "Queen Naerys rests with the gods these four years past, my sweet prince. She gave her life bringing forth a little one who followed her to the Stranger. You were but a babe of four. The septas say she prayed for you every day."
He nodded, feigning a tremble in his lip. Inside, cold calculation: Pious fool. Weak. No use to me now. But the memory of her soft hands braiding his silver-gold hair lingered—useful for the mask he would wear.
"Bring me proper food," he commanded, voice firmer than a boy's should be. "Bread, honey, meat. And my finest tunic—the black one with the red dragon. I would see my brother."
The maid hesitated, then curtsied. "As you wish, Prince Aegon. The maester warned of weakness—"
"I am a dragon," he snapped, the words tasting sweet on his tongue. "Dragons do not stay abed."
She fled.
Alone again, Aegon swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet met cool stone. He padded to the mirror and stared. Silver-gold hair tumbled to his shoulders, violet eyes gleamed with new hunger, features fine and sharp—every inch the Targaryen prince. Small now, but he would grow tall, strong. He would make them all kneel.
In his old world he'd been ordinary. Greedy, yes, but small. Here the blood of Old Valyria ran in his veins. And he remembered everything.
A guard in black-and-red livery opened the door as the maid returned with a platter. Aegon ate slowly, savoring the taste of real bread and roasted pigeon—nothing like the processed slop of Earth. Strength returned to his limbs.
"Escort me to Prince Daeron," he ordered the guard.
The man bowed. "The Red Keep is yours to command, my prince."
They walked the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast—the inner fortress of red stone, its thick walls and iron portcullises a cage of safety and secrets. Aegon noted every turn, every shadowed alcove. The books had spoken of hidden passages Maegor the Cruel had built; he would find them soon. For now, he kept his face a mask of boyish curiosity.
In the solar overlooking the outer ward, Daeron waited. Twenty-nine years old, already wed to Myriah Martell, father to young Baelor Breakspear. Tall, solemn, with the same silver hair but kinder eyes. He wore a simple grey tunic, a book open on his lap.
"Aegon!" Daeron rose, relief flooding his face. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled his brother into a careful embrace. "The maester feared the worst. You burned like dragonflame."
Aegon let himself be held, inhaling the scent of parchment and soap. Honorable fool, he thought. You'll make a good king—for a time. Aloud, in a small voice: "I dreamed strange things, brother. Of fire and blood. Of a black dragon rising."
Daeron pulled back, frowning. "Dreams are but shadows, little brother. Come, sit. The septa will want to thank the Mother for your recovery."
They spoke for a time—Daeron gentle, asking of toys and lessons, promising a new pony from the Dornish stables. Aegon answered carefully, playing the recovering child, but his mind raced. Black dragon. Daemon. The rebellion begins in thirteen years. He could warn them. Or he could let it burn and rise from the ashes.
As the sun dipped toward Blackwater Bay, painting the Red Keep crimson, Aegon smiled to himself.
This world was his now. And he would be unworthy of nothing.
End of Chapter 1