77 AC — The Godswood, The Red Keep
"Ugh! All I did was enjoy reading A Song of Ice and Fire. Did I really have to be thrown into this miserable world? How am I supposed to survive this?"
A child's dramatic sigh echoed through the Red Keep's godswood. The sprawling, acre-wide sanctuary was densely shaded by a canopy of elm, cypress, and black cottonwood.
At the center of the grove stood a massive oak tree. Its thick trunk was wrapped in creeping smokeberry vines, and dark-red dragon's breath flowers bloomed fiercely around its roots.
Lying comfortably beneath the great oak was a boy barely three feet tall. He had striking silver-gold hair and pale skin that seemed to faintly catch the light.
Though his features were still soft with childhood innocence, the sharp, aristocratic lines of his future face were already taking shape. Judging by his height and composure, he looked to be about five or six years old.
This was Gaemon Targaryen.
In his past life, he had been a university graduate raised in a modern, secular world. He had only ever believed in hard science. But fate had a twisted sense of humor, and he found himself thrust into the incredibly cliché—yet terrifyingly real—scenario of reincarnation.
It was hard to digest, but since he was already here, he had no choice but to accept reality and adapt to his new life.
Perhaps because he had been playing Baldur's Gate right before his death, Gaemon discovered a supernatural advantage shortly after arriving in this world. Hidden deep within his spiritual sea was a Divine Spark fragment—an artifact straight out of Dungeons & Dragons lore.
Though the fragment's power was incredibly weak, it seamlessly fused with his soul the moment he noticed it. This fusion granted him a power entirely unique to this brutal world: he became a Draconic Bloodline Sorcerer.
While it wasn't his favorite class from the game—the almighty Wizard—it was still a magic caster. However, due to the fundamental differences in how this universe functioned, Gaemon's sorcery underwent significant changes.
In Westeros, the Weave did not exist. The magical energy drifting through the world was wild, chaotic, and completely untamed.
Because of this, casters in this world couldn't simply tap into a network to unleash devastating spells. Instead, the magic here was stuck in a dangerous, primitive era. Casters had to rely on bloody sacrifices and dark rituals to achieve their goals.
It was a magic system defined by shadows and cruelty. To cast spells, sorcerers had to torture victims, using the agonizing spikes in the victim's spiritual energy to manipulate the chaotic magic in the air.
Gaemon's magic, however, was different. After fusing with the Divine Spark, his Draconic Sorcerer abilities adapted to focus entirely on safely absorbing ambient magic to awaken and develop his own bloodline.
When Gaemon was first born, he was just an ordinary, devastatingly weak infant. The complications during his birth had left him on the brink of death, and the Red Keep's maesters had quietly agreed that he wouldn't live long.
Desperate to survive, Gaemon turned to the fantasy novels of his past life for inspiration. He attempted to use meditation to strengthen his mind—and to his surprise, his very first attempt successfully opened his spiritual sea.
That meditation activated his hidden advantage, allowing him to pioneer a completely original "Dragonlord Bloodline Magic System."
By meditating and slowly filtering the chaotic magical elements from the air, he spent four grueling years fortifying his body. Finally, he activated his very first ability: Blood of the First Awakening.
This skill was the cornerstone of his magic system. It meant the latent power in his Targaryen blood had been genuinely ignited. Along with it came two innate passive abilities:
Breath of Dragonfire (Awakening): Once per day, exhale a 15-foot cone of searing flames. Creatures within the area take fire damage, and flammable objects are ignited. Leaves the user feeling parched and temporarily weakened.
Fire Affinity (Awakening): Grants enhanced resistance to fire and heat.
With his bloodline awakened, Gaemon's physical constitution would only continue to grow stronger over time. He was finally free from the frailty and sickness that had plagued him since his first breath.
Knowing that returning to his old life was an impossible dream, Gaemon slowly sat up from the dirt. He stretched his right leg out, bent his left knee, and rested his hand casually upon it. Clenching his right fist, he quietly felt the new surge of power coursing through his small veins.
"The worst is finally over," he told himself. "From now on, I only get stronger."
As if the heavens themselves were celebrating his breakthrough, a sudden, crisp breeze swept through the godswood. It rushed through the branches of the great oak behind him, rustling the blood-red, hand-shaped leaves. They clattered together, sounding almost like a crowd offering thunderous applause.
Smiling at the sound, Gaemon stood up, brushed the dirt and leaves from his fine clothes, and turned back toward the castle.
Leaving the godswood, he walked along the Red Keep's paved stone paths, crossing the covered bridge near the Throne Room before heading toward Maegor's Holdfast at the rear of the castle.
Whenever servants or guards spotted his small figure approaching, they immediately stepped to the sides of the path, bowing their heads respectfully to clear the way.
Gaemon took it in stride. In a world defined by strict hierarchies and brutal class divisions, a prince acting overly humble would only terrify the staff.
He accepted their deference with natural grace, offering slight nods of acknowledgment as he passed. That simple gesture alone was more than most nobles bothered to do, earning him a stellar reputation. From the halls of the Red Keep to the streets of King's Landing, the smallfolk quietly praised the young prince for his polite and elegant demeanor.
As a member of House Targaryen, Gaemon had his own private chambers. The moment he was old enough to leave his wet nurse and move into his own space, he had immediately renovated it. He partitioned the massive, echoing room, creating a secluded space to serve as his private office and training ground.
Because he was only four years old and barely reached a man's waist, the walk back took some time.
Upon entering his room, Gaemon walked straight to the roaring hearth. The fire cast a warm, crimson glow across the stonework. Resting safely amidst the burning logs was a magnificent dragon egg, roughly the size of a human head. Its white and gold scales shimmered beautifully in the firelight.
This was the treasure his mother, Queen Alysanne, had placed in his cradle the week he was born.
Standing before the flames, Gaemon stared at the egg and whispered, "Don't worry. It won't be long now. We'll meet very soon."
Due to the chaotic nature of magic in Westeros, Gaemon's infant body had initially been too weak to handle absorbing it directly, even with his system. The dragon egg had inadvertently acted as a vital filter. Magic passed through the egg first, softening into a gentle energy that Gaemon could safely absorb.
In return, the egg had passively absorbed vast amounts of magical energy during the process. While this vastly strengthened the creature inside, it also delayed its hatching. A dragon that should have been born four years ago was still sealed within its shell.
But now, Gaemon's bloodline was fully awakened. He finally had the power to help his companion break free.
He projected a soothing wave of magic to calm the impatient presence stirring within the egg. Then, he retrieved a breathtaking dagger from his desk. It was roughly fifteen inches long, its hilt set with a massive, flawless sapphire.
He had swiped the priceless blade from the royal treasury when he was just a baby. During a visit in his mother's arms, he had stubbornly grabbed it and refused to let go until Queen Alysanne relented. He had kept it safely hidden ever since.
Drawing the dagger from its leather sheath, Gaemon held it in his left hand and made a shallow cut across his right palm. Bright red blood immediately welled up against his pale skin.
Ignoring the intense heat of the hearth, he thrust his bleeding hand directly over the fire, positioning it right above the egg. He watched in silence as drops of his blood fell, sizzling against the white and gold scales.
As the blood dripped, Gaemon began to chant:
"Blood and fire.
Fire and blood.
Blood for fire.
Fire for blood.
Blood of the Dragonlord, awaken the magic dragon within the stone..."
His low, rhythmic chanting acted like an accelerant. The embers in the hearth violently roared to life, surging upward in a pillar of orange flame that completely swallowed the egg.
For a long moment, the fire raged. Then, as if the white-gold shell was breathing it in, the flames began to shrink. The inferno drained away until even the wooden logs were reduced to dead ash. As the last flicker of fire died, the wound on Gaemon's hand cleanly stopped bleeding.
He pulled his hand back, his violet eyes locked on the ashes.
The egg, which had been perfectly still for four years, began to rock. Gaemon clenched his fists, his heart pounding in his chest.
Crack! Crack!
The sharp sound of fracturing stone echoed through the quiet room. Before the final echo could fade, a tiny, golden-horned head punched through the top of the shell.
The hatchling shook the broken shell from its snout and looked around the room with bright, curious eyes. It let out a weak, high-pitched trill, announcing its arrival to the world.
The moment the young dragon spotted Gaemon, it let out two excited chirps, as if recognizing an old friend. Thrashing violently, it pushed its small, wet wings against the edges of the shell. With a final, forceful heave, the egg completely shattered.
Free at last, the hatchling stumbled over the ashes, its unsteady legs carrying it eagerly toward Gaemon.
Gaemon didn't rush. He stood perfectly still, letting the dragon close the distance before gently reaching down to scoop it up in his hands.
Bringing it up to eye level, he examined his new companion. What had looked like pure gold in the firelight was actually a coat of incredibly fine, platinum-white scales.
Looking at the beautiful creature perched obediently on his palms, Gaemon smiled.
"Since your scales are platinum, it's only fitting. I know of a legendary dragon with the same colors. Though you belong to different universes, I hope you live up to his name."
Gaemon brushed a thumb over the dragon's crest.
"From today onward, you are the Father of Good, the Lord of the North Wind, the Platinum Dragon: Bahamut."
As if understanding the weight of the name, the little dragon stood tall in his hands, pointed its snout toward the ceiling, and let out a long, resonant cry that seemed far too powerful for its small size.
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