Disclaimer: I Own Nothing
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I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
It all started with an online discussion about how the Targaryens screwed up. Yes, they screwed up epically—anyone who watched the show or read the books would agree.
But the thing is, I didn't watch the show or read the books.
I only read fanfiction.
And when it came to fanfics, I mostly read two types—either pro-Targaryen or pro-Stark.
It was common sense: you had to respect a family that held land continuously for 8,000 years without getting completely wiped out.
That was a massive feat.
As for the Targaryens? The only ones I respected were Visenya and her son, Maegor. The rest? Overrated.
People wrote about them as if they were great rulers, but I never saw it.
They were terrible at ruling. Look at the first so-called "good" king after Aegon's Conquest—Jaehaerys. He was an usurper, and he knew it.
He could have just married his older sibling as a token of legitimacy and moved on, but no, he had to mess things up.
And when he ruled, that was all he did—rule.
He didn't care about his children beyond what they could do for his family's power.
Worse, he never even suspected what the Citadel was up to.
He let the Faith of the Seven regain power, the same faith that had led to his father and brother getting screwed over in the first place.
Then there was the matter of succession.
His eldest living son had a daughter, his clear heir, and yet Jaehaerys refused to formalize a proper line of inheritance.
He was a dragonlord, his entire family was, but he didn't give a damn.
When his son died, he should have made his granddaughter heir and placed Baelon as Hand of the King, training them both.
But no, he named Baelon his heir instead.
He treated his daughters like prisoners, keeping them locked away in a single castle and ensuring they didn't have dragons of their own.
The only reason Alyssa Targaryen was not so easily cowed was that she became a dragonlord of her own, and hence her relationship with Baelon was encouraged. The remaining princesses were just locked away from dragons.
If he didn't want other families to have dragons, he should have made a succession law where a Targaryen princess's husband became her consort, was granted appropriate dowries and holdings, and was tied to the royal court. But no—he delved so deep into the Faith of the Seven that he sent one of his own daughters to a sept.
He held a Great Council once, choosing an heir who wasn't even qualified to rule over an heir who was. With that, he sent a clear message to the realm: women were not fit to lead.
The more I debated about all this Targaryen nonsense, the more irritated the guy I was arguing with became.
Eventually, he just snapped and cursed me out.
"Oh yeah? If you're so smart, let's see what you'd do if you were in one of their places."
Then everything went black.
My eyes were blurry and I felt very disoriented.
As I regained my wits, my thoughts felt strange—formal, precise, unlike my usual way of thinking.
It was an opulent chamber with silk drapings and various dragon motifs in red and black.
My skin prickled against smooth silk sheets, a fabric far too fine for my normal life. My head throbbed—no, pounded—with a migraine so intense it felt like my skull was splitting in two.
I barely had time to turn before I vomited onto the polished stone floor beside the bed.
The room was dimly lit, but I could still make out its grandeur. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of dragons soaring over burning fields, their woven flames almost flickering in the candlelight.
A massive fireplace sat against the far wall, embers glowing faintly in the hearth, the scent of charred wood lingering in the air.
Heavy, dark wooden beams framed the ceiling, reinforcing the fortress-like structure of the holdfast. Maegor's Holdfast—fortified within the very heart of the Red Keep—felt oppressive, its thick walls designed to withstand siege and betrayal alike.
And then, the memories hit me.
It was not gradual but instant.
The memories were forced into me as I relived this new life.
I could remember my mother—her love, strong and fierce, a mother dragon protecting her younglings. Our father, Baelon the Brave, the Spring Prince—always jovial and reassuring, yet a silent, steady presence when needed.
Uncle Aemon, the Crown Prince—when he passed away, it was a very bad time for me. He loved me like his own, always taking me up on Caraxes after Mother passed away and Rhaenys took Meleys, the Red Queen.
The Red Queen and the rides I had with Mother—the rejection after Mother's death where she expressed grief through distance.
How I tried to spend time with her even after she became Rhaenys' dragon while offering cattle as a peace offering.
My recent ascent to a knight's level of prowess, and Dark Sister—the sword Father had given me.
Queen Alysanne, in a bid to strike at her husband and son, tying me to a Vale house to Rhea Royce out of spite.
I had just returned to this room after a night of debauchery.
My betrothal had been announced, to which I protested very vehemently.
I had ridden Caraxes to clear my head afterward and later went to a brothel to drown my sorrows.
I could feel the fire in my chest—wild, untamed, hungry and fierce. It urged the blood in my veins to burn hotter.
And I could feel him too. Caraxes.
He was irritated, our connection humming with his restless energy.
I took a slow, unsteady breath, staring at the golden dragon sigil embroidered onto the black sheets beneath me.
Now… how the fuck do I get out of this stupid realm?
The Seven Kingdoms, for that matter. Should I just go to Essos? Maybe.
We'll see.
Now… how the fuck do I get out of this stupid realm? the seven kingdoms for that matter should i just go to Essos maybe we will see
I will be the type of Targaryen the world would think thrice before they can to piss me off.