A Song of Ash and Mirror Flame
Chapter One: The Sixth Son
In another world, he had no dragon.
No silver hair. No destiny. No songs written for him.
He was the sixth of nine children in a crowded house that always smelled of fabric dye and boiled rice. No one was cruel to him — they just did not see him.
In a large family, attention was currency. And he was poor.
His father favored the eldest. His mother worried about the youngest. The middle children learned to disappear.
He became a tailor.
Thread was honest. Cloth listened. Needles did not interrupt.
He stitched wedding robes. He stitched burial shrouds. He stitched suits for men who would never remember his name.
At night, he escaped into stories.
And then he discovered A Song of Ice and Fire.
The dragons. The politics. The tragedy of the Targaryens. The fall of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
He read everything. Watched everything. Especially House of the Dragon.
He admired the dragons most.
Powerful. Ancient. Unapologetic.
One night, restless and tired of being invisible, he opened ChatGPT.
"If I were reborn into this world," he muttered, "I wouldn't be weak."
And he began to create.
Name: Benedarion Vaelerys Zalytharion di Dracarys Targaryen
Son of Prince Baelor the Brave — second son of the Old King.
A forgotten branch.
A hidden flame.
Dragon: Yggdrasil — mirror-colored scales, reflecting sky, flame, and shadow.
Sword: Nyx — dark as midnight, forged in Valyrian steel.
Companion: Bastet — a silver shadowcat, silent as death.
He wrote until dawn.
He laughed once.
"This is ridiculous."
And went to sleep.
He never woke in that world again.
Chapter Two: Mirror Flame
He awoke to the scent of earth.
Cold wind brushed his face.
Birdsong.
Leaves.
Not his room.
He sat up instantly.
White hair fell over his eyes.
White.
He froze.
Before him, something shifted.
A creature the size of a horse, coiled beneath an ancient oak.
Its scales shimmered like liquid glass, reflecting the green canopy above. When it breathed, its chest glowed faintly — like embers beneath crystal.
Violet eyes opened.
They locked onto him.
Yggdrasil.
His heart nearly stopped.
"…No."
The dragon tilted its head.
Not hostile. Not confused.
Waiting.
He looked down at himself.
Black and crimson traveling clothes. Leather boots. A silver ring shaped like three intertwined dragons.
Beside him, a blade rested in the grass.
He reached for it instinctively.
The sword felt right in his hand.
Nyx.
The metal was dark — not black, but devouring light. Valyrian steel.
Something brushed against his leg.
He flinched.
A silver shadowcat the size of a large wolf circled him once, then sat.
Eyes like molten gold.
Bastet.
"This is insane…" he whispered.
Memory flooded him.
Not his old life — but this one.
Training in swordplay. Lessons in High Valyrian. His father's stern face — Prince Baelor the Brave. A secret child, hidden from court intrigue.
He stood slowly.
They were in a forest near the Mander River, not far from Highgarden — seat of House Tyrell in the Reach.
In his pocket, he found a heavy pouch.
Sixty gold dragons.
And two sealed letters.
His name was written in elegant script:
Benedarion Vaelerys Zalytharion di Dracarys Targaryen
His breath hitched.
He broke the first seal.
You are the blood of the dragon. Son of Prince Baelor, second son of the Old King. Hidden for your safety. The court is not safe. The Citadel watches. Trust no maester blindly.
His pulse quickened.
The second letter:
Lay low. Grow strong. When the dragons dance, choose wisely — or be devoured.
The dragons dance.
The Dance of the Dragons.
Which meant…
He was in the era of King Viserys I.
Of Daemon. Of Alicent. Of Rhaenyra — before everything burned.
He looked at Yggdrasil again.
The dragon rose gracefully, wings unfolding like stained glass made of mirrors. Sunlight fractured across its body.
Young — but powerful.
Not yet large enough to conquer armies.
But growing.
If he revealed himself now? He would be claimed, used, or killed.
A hidden Targaryen prince with a unique dragon?
Every faction would want him.
Greens. Blacks. The Citadel. Oldtown.
He remembered the tragedies.
Remembered how dragons died.
His jaw tightened.
"Not this time."
Bastet brushed against him as if in agreement.
He looked toward the distant fields beyond the forest.
A small village smoke plume curled into the sky.
Highgarden lay beyond.
Politics. Intrigue. War.
He sheathed Nyx.
"We stay hidden," he decided.
Yggdrasil huffed softly.
Not disappointment.
Approval.
The forest would be their sanctuary.
For now.
Chapter Three: The Hidden Flame
The first rule of survival was simple:
Do not be seen.
Benedarion led Yggdrasil deeper into the forest, choosing a ravine hidden by thick trees. The dragon could camouflage almost unnaturally — its mirrored scales reflecting bark, sky, even shadow.
A perfect hunter.
A perfect secret.
He set up a crude camp near a stream.
As a tailor in his past life, his hands were skilled. He stitched together better cloaks from spare fabric. He altered his own clothes to look less royal, more wandering merchant.
He would not enter the political game yet.
He would observe.
Learn.
Prepare.
From traveling villagers he overheard news:
King Viserys still ruled. Princess Rhaenyra had not yet fully fallen from grace. Daemon Targaryen remained unpredictable as ever.
The board was still being arranged.
Good.
Time.
Time was power.
At night, he trained.
Sword forms with Nyx. High Valyrian commands with Yggdrasil.
"Dohaerās."
The dragon responded instantly.
Obedient. Intelligent. Bonded deeply.
Stronger than he had imagined when typing a simple prompt on a glowing screen in another world.
One evening, Bastet growled low.
Benedarion stilled.
Smoke.
Not village smoke.
Campfire smoke.
Too close.
He climbed a tree silently.
Through the branches, he saw riders bearing green and gold banners — sigil of House Tyrell.
Scouts.
If they saw the dragon—
He descended quickly.
Yggdrasil sensed his tension.
"Stay," he whispered.
The dragon flattened into the ravine, scales shifting to reflect soil and stone.
Invisible.
Almost.
Benedarion watched the riders pass.
They did not see.
When the forest fell silent again, he exhaled slowly.
This world was beautiful.
Deadly.
And unforgiving.
He looked up at the stars — the same stars from his old world.
Only now he stood beneath them as something extraordinary.
Not the forgotten sixth son.
But a hidden dragon.
And when the Dance began…
The realm would learn his name.
Benedarion Vaelerys Zalytharion di Dracarys Targaryen.
And the mirror flame would burn.