Chapter 1: Forged Anew in Fire and Blood
They say that every life, no matter how seemingly modest or unremarkable, is a tapestry woven from countless threads - the consequences of choices made, chances taken or passed over, and the intricate interplay of fate and circumstance. My own story, I've come to realize, is no exception. A tale that began amidst the gritty streets of New York City and reached towards the stars, only to be cut brutally short by a cruel twist of destiny. And yet, even that shattering moment failed to extinguish the bright, burning essence of who I was. For in the end, we are more than the sum of our successes and failures. We are the indelible impact left upon those who loved us most.
My journey began in the bustling metropolis of New York City, a concrete jungle where the relentless pulse of urban life served as the backdrop to my formative years. Born to Steve and Maria Thompson, a hard-working middle-class couple who had scraped and clawed their way up from humble beginnings, I was imbued from a tender age with values firmly rooted in perseverance, integrity, and an unwavering pursuit of excellence.
"The world won't hand you anything on a silver platter, William," my father would rumble, his thick brow furrowed beneath the brim of his worn baseball cap. As a construction foreman, he knew firsthand the value of an honest day's labor. "If you want to make something of yourself, you've got to be willing to roll up those sleeves and get your hands dirty."
My mother Maria, her hazel eyes shining with a fierce love and unshakable faith in her only child, would give my father's arm an affectionate squeeze. "Now Steve, don't be so hard on the boy. Can't you see he's destined for greatness, just like we always dreamed? An education is going to be the key for our William."
I can still picture them so vividly—my larger-than-life father with his calloused hands and booming voice, my gentle mother with her quiet strength and unwavering belief in me. They molded me into the man I one day hoped to become through their constant outpouring of tough love and compassion.
Even as a young child, I exhibited an insatiable curiosity and a preternatural fascination with the world around me. While other kids were content playing tag or watching cartoons, I would pepper my exasperated yet doting parents with an endless deluge of questions about everything from where babies came from to what made the sunshine so brightly in the sky.
"Why is the sky blue, Dad?" I would ask on our Sunday walks to the park, craning my neck to gaze up at the vast celestial canvas in awe.
My father would let out a long-suffering sigh, but I could see the unmistakable glimmer of pride in his eyes as he struggled to find an explanation that would satisfy my inquisitive young mind. "Well son, from what I understand, it has to do with the way sunlight gets scattered by the gases in the atmosphere..."
As I navigated the tumultuous waters of adolescence, the hallways of my high school became a battlefield of sorts, where the currency was not wealth or status, but intellect and academic prowess. I reveled in the challenge, devouring knowledge with an insatiable hunger that left my closest friend Marcus Jennings shaking his head in bemused disbelief.
"Yo Will, you're gonna turn into one of them wrinkly brain geniuses if you don't take a break from the books sometime, my man," he would lament, punching me lightly on the shoulder.
Marcus, with his wild mop of curls and disarming grin, had been my closest confidante since we were kids racing boxes downhills in the streets. He was the perfect counterweight to my intense studious nature, always pulling me out of my shell and ensuring I didn't take life too seriously.
Then there was Regan, or "Rey" as I affectionately dubbed her - my girlfriend, my partner in crime, the celestial body around which my world seemed to orbit. We had met in freshman biology, her inquisitive mind and sharp wit instantly drawing me in like a moth to a flame. With her wild auburn curls and eyes that sparkled with impish delight, she was a force of nature unto herself, constantly challenging me to step outside my bookish bubble.
"C'mon brainiac, put down the books for once and let's go on an adventure!" she would cajole me, tugging me away from my studies with a roguish grin. I couldn't resist her infectious spirit and zest for life.
Regan understood my intellectual passions in a way few others could. We'd spend countless hours debating the secrets of the cosmos, philosophizing about humanity's place in the grand tapestry of existence, or simply losing ourselves in the quiet joy of each other's company. When I finally confided my dreams of attending MIT to become an engineer and pioneer new technological frontiers, she had kissed me soundly on the lips and declared, "Then you'd better start preparing to change the world, Mr. Genius!"
My dedication and tireless efforts paid off in spades, as I rapidly ascended the ranks of academic excellence, securing a spot at my dream school - the prestigious engineering program at MIT. The day the thick acceptance envelope arrived; I could scarcely contain my euphoria. Sweeping my bemused mother up in a crushing hug, I spun her around the kitchen as my father watched on with undisguised pride glinting in his eyes.
"That's my boy! Knew you had it in you, kid," he called out gruffly, though the mistiness in his eyes belied the casual tone. Regan, upon hearing the news, had leapt into my arms and peppered my face with jubilant kisses between breathless congratulations and plans.
As high school ended, Regan and I faced an uncertain future. She had decided to attend a local university closer to home while I pursued my lofty ambitions in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The looming separation filled me with trepidation, but we vowed our bond was strong enough to weather any distance. Marcus, ever the jester, had mimed zipping his lips when I told him, "This" he said with a wink, "is unbreakable, dude. No words necessary."
That fateful spring day had dawned bright and promising...Passing a bustling cafe, I caught a glimpse of Marcus through the window, nursing a coffee and offering me a thumbs up and that trademark lopsided grin, a silent gesture of camaraderie and well-wishes. Regan looped her arm through mine, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek as we strolled along, my mind abuzz with excitement for the future that awaited us.
Then, in a sickening collision of steel and rubber, everything changed in a blinding instant.
The deafening screech of tires...the sickening crunch of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object...searing pain ripping through me as I shoved Regan's beloved form out of harm's way with every ounce of strength I possessed. Her terrified eyes burned into my fading consciousness; an indelible image scorched into my soul as the darkness pulled me under.
"Will! Oh god, someone call an ambulance!" Regan's anguished cries barely registered as a dull buzz in my ears. Firm hands gripped my shoulders as Marcus' panicked face swam into view, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
"Hang in there buddy, you gotta stay with me!" he pleaded, voice cracking with emotion. "The paramedics are on their way, just keep your eyes open!"
I tried to respond, to reassure him, but the only sound that escaped my bloodied lips was a wet, gurgling rattle. A warm wetness was rapidly spreading across my torso, and it took me a long moment to realize with a sense of detached horror that it was my own blood pumping out in thick pulses.
Regan had pulled off her sweater and was pressing it frantically against the grievous wound, her hands slick with crimson as tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. "Don't you dare leave me, William Thompson!" she choked out in a broken voice. "You have to fight, you hear me? We have so much life to live..."
Her words faded into an indistinct blur as the darkness closed in, blotting out the dazzling spring day in a veil of encroaching oblivion. I felt consciousness slipping away, dragging me down into those unfathomable depths despite Marcus and Regan's desperate pleas for me to hold on.
As I teetered on the precipice of slipping away forever, a strange sense of peace washed over me - a certainty that this was not the end, merely one tapestry of reality unraveling as another was being rewoven elsewhere.
My eyes fluttered open one final time, and through the gathering shadows I saw Regan and Marcus' stricken faces, awash in their mingled tears. A faint smile tugged at my lips as the last slivers of light faded to black.
I would miss them, that was beyond doubt. But our woven threads were not severed, merely realigned into a new and unforeseen pattern, one that would become a tapestry unlike any before it.
My journey had only just begun.
The darkness surrounded me, enveloping my senses in an impenetrable shroud. I felt as if I was suspended in a vast, formless void - no light, no sound, no sensation of physical form. It was a disconcerting experience, like existing in the space between breaths, or the moment before a long sleep takes hold.
Fleeting fragments of memory flickered through the void - the deafening screech of tires, Regan's anguished cries, Marcus' desperate pleas. The images were hazy, distorted, as if viewed through a thick pane of frosted glass. And then, even those faded, swallowed up by the all-consuming blackness.
Time lost all meaning as I drifted, untethered, in this strange limbo. Seconds, minutes, hours - it all blurred together into an indistinct, endless expanse. I had no concept of how long I had been adrift in this void, nor any inkling of where I was or how I had arrived here.
A faint stirring began to tug at the edges of my consciousness, a distant sensation that steadily grew stronger, more insistent. It was a strange, primal pull, like the beckoning of a siren's call. Gradually, I became aware of a rhythmic pulsing, a powerful rhythmic heartbeat that seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of my being.
With a start, I realized that the heartbeat was not my own. It was an alien, foreign sensation - and yet strangely familiar, like a long-forgotten melody suddenly unearthed from the depths of my memory.
The pulsing grew louder, more insistent, until it was all I could hear, drowning out any other sensations. It enveloped me, surrounded me, until I felt myself being drawn inexorably towards its source.
Suddenly, a blinding light pierced the darkness, so brilliant and searing that I instinctively clenched my eyes shut against the onslaught. A cacophony of sound assaulted my ears - voices, muffled and indistinct, moving around me with purpose and urgency.
I felt a strange pressure, a sensation of constriction and movement, as if I was being propelled forward through a narrow, constricting passage. The rhythmic pulsing was now deafening, pounding in my ears like the thunderous hooves of a galloping herd.
And then, with a sudden, shocking clarity, it all clicked into place.
I was being born.
A surge of panic gripped me as the realization dawned. This was no mere dream or phantasm - it was real, visceral, undeniable. Somehow, in the aftermath of that fateful day in New York, I had been reborn into... another world.
The pressure intensified, becoming almost unbearable. I could feel myself being squeezed, pushed, and pulled as my new body navigated the birth canal. The sensation was both terrifying and surreal - experiencing birth with the full awareness of my adult mind was something I never could have prepared for.
Finally, with one last tremendous push, I felt myself emerge into open air. The temperature change was shocking - going from the warm comfort of the womb to the relatively cool air of the room. I felt hands grasping me, supporting my head and body, but I remained silent, too overwhelmed by the sensory overload to make a sound.
"Why isn't the babe crying?" a woman's worried voice cut through the air. "Maester, something must be wrong!"
"Peace, Your Grace," a calm, authoritative voice replied. "The child breathes well, and his color is good. Some babes simply come into this world quietly."
Your Grace? Maester? Those words sent a jolt through my system, but before I could process their implications, I felt myself being cleaned and swaddled by what I assumed were midwives or maids.
I forced my eyes open, fighting against the brightness that assaulted my newly sensitive vision. The room slowly came into focus, and what I saw made my heart skip a beat. Stone walls hung with elaborate tapestries depicting dragons in flight. Ornate wooden furniture carved with intricate designs. Candles flickering in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across the chamber.
But it was the people that truly caught my attention. The women attending to me wore long, medieval-style dresses, their hair covered with linen caps. And there, standing to the side, was an elderly man in gray robes with a heavy chain around his neck - a maester, just as I'd heard them say.
"Let me hold him," came the exhausted but determined voice of the woman on the bed. As I was passed to her, I got my first look at my new mother. She was beautiful, with delicate features and striking violet eyes, but what made my breath catch was her hair - long, flowing locks of silver-gold that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.
Silver-blonde hair. Violet eyes. Maesters. Medieval castle.
Oh god. Oh god no.
This wasn't just any fantasy world. This was Westeros. This was A Song of Ice and Fire. And I had just been born into House Targaryen.
The chamber door creaked open slowly, and a thin man entered, his breathing slightly labored from what I assumed was his rush to the birthing chamber. Despite his frail appearance, there was an undeniable nobility in his bearing. His silver-gold hair hung limply around a gaunt face, but his violet eyes blazed with intensity as they found us.
"Shaera," he wheezed softly, pressing a hand to his chest as he caught his breath. "Is this...?" He took a few careful steps forward, and I could see him trembling slightly, though whether from emotion or exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
My mother's arms tightened around me protectively as tears streamed down her face. Her fingers shook as she traced the contours of my face, memorizing every detail. "Come closer, my love," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Come meet your son."
Jaehaerys approached slowly, lowering himself carefully onto the edge of the bed. Up close, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the slight bluish tint to his lips that spoke of his difficulty breathing. Yet his face transformed with wonder as he gazed down at me, all traces of illness momentarily forgotten.
"He's perfect," Shaera breathed, shifting me slightly so Jaehaerys could see me better. "Our beautiful, quiet little dragon." She pressed her lips to my forehead, and I felt her tears fall onto my skin. "I've dreamed of this moment for so long... dreamed of giving you a son..."
Jaehaerys wrapped an arm around her shoulders, though I noticed she subtly adjusted to support some of his weight. "He has your strength," he said softly, reaching out with a slightly trembling hand to touch my cheek.
"And your eyes," she responded with a watery laugh. "Though hopefully he'll have an easier time breathing than his father."
"Gods willing," Jaehaerys agreed, managing a small smile. His breathing had steadied somewhat, but I could still hear a slight wheeze. "He needs a name worthy of his heritage."
"Perhaps Daeron?" he suggested, "After the Young Dragon?"
My mind immediately flooded with images of Daeron the Young Dragon, bleeding out in Dorne beneath the scorching sun, and Daeron the Good, who died trying to bring peace to the realm. The weight of their tragic histories pressed down on me, and I couldn't help but let out a distressed whimper.
"Oh!" Shaera laughed, bouncing me gently. "I don't think he cares for the Young Dragon's legacy, my love."
"What about Aemon then?" Jaehaerys suggested between careful breaths. "A strong name, with history..."
The image of Maester Aemon came unbidden to my mind – dying alone at the Wall, the last of his line, while his family's dynasty crumbled to ash. Aemon the Dragonknight, cursed to serve under one of the worst kings westeros was ever saddled with, dying in the name of protecting the fat slob that was Aegon the Unworthy. Aemon, the eldest surviving son of
Jaehaerys the Wise, taken too son by an arrow that wasn't even being aimed at him, his lack of a son cursing his family with succession issues that culminated in the Dance. Another whimper escaped me, louder this time.
"He's certainly not shy about his preferences," Jaehaerys chuckled weakly, pausing to catch his breath. "Baelor, perhaps?"
Baelor the Blessed, who starved himself in his pursuit of piety, who locked his sisters away in the Maidenvault. I managed a stronger cry of protest.
"Definitely not Baelor," Shaera said, stroking my cheek soothingly. "Our little dragon seems to have quite the temper when it comes to names he doesn't like."
"Much like his mother," Jaehaerys teased, earning a playful glare from Shaera. "What of Maekar? A strong name for a strong prince?"
The image of Maekar, dying pointlessly at Starpike, flashed through my mind. This time I managed a full-throated wail, my first real cry since being born. The maester, who had been quietly observing from the corner, stepped forward with concern, but Shaera waved him off.
"Peace, Maester Walys," she said, still laughing. "It seems our son simply has strong opinions about his name. Though I must agree with him about Maekar - it's far too harsh for such a sweet babe."
"Sweet now, perhaps," Jaehaerys mused, smoothing a finger over my silver-gold hair. His hand trembled slightly with the effort. "But he'll need a strong name for when he's grown. What about Viserys?"
My mind immediately went to every Viserys I knew of, and honestly, each one made me want to cry harder than the last. God, where do I even start? Viserys I - watching House of the Dragon had really brought him to life for me. Paddy Considine showed us this... this fundamentally decent man who just wanted everyone to get along. I could still see that scene of him trying to climb those stairs, dying and in pain, just desperate to keep his family from falling apart. But man, what a blind spot he had when it came to his younger kids. Like, I get loving Rhaenyra, but he never seemed to realize how much he was hurting Aegon and the others by basically treating them like they didn't matter. Good guy, terrible dad to half his kids,not to mention the fiasco with the three strong boys, seriously, who Rhaenyra thought she was fooling aside from dear old dad? and that... that helped break everything.
Then there was Viserys II - talk about a mixed bag. This dude basically ran the kingdom for years as Hand, keeping everything from completely falling apart through three different kings. Aegon could brood, Daeron could war and Baelor could pray all they wanted because he was there. Pretty impressive resume, really. But then he ends up raising Aegon the Unworthy of all people? The guy who would pretty much screw up the entire realm for generations with the whole Blackfyre mess? Yeah, no thanks. thanks. Although, given that Aegon IV was born when he was 13 I could cut him some slack… but since Naerys and Aemon were decent people he just didn't discipline his eldest son enough
And Jesus, Viserys "III". Even before the show, just reading about this guy made my skin crawl. Selling his own sister, abusing her, all while strutting around calling himself 'the dragon'... and the way he died was horrific, but honestly? Kind of fitting. A fake crown for a fake king. Although considering everything he was forced to endure throughout his life he
also had my pity. The thought of sharing his name made me want to throw up, if my infant body could manage it. My whimper of protest seemed to get the message across, making Shaera shake her head.
"No, not Viserys either. He needs something... regal, but with grace." She studied my face intently before a small smile crossed her features. "What about Aerys? After Father's uncle - he was more scholar than warrior, preferring his books and prophecies to tourneys and hunts. The way our little prince seems to ponder each name before rejecting it, perhaps he'll inherit that same thoughtful nature."
The name hit me harder than the truck that had ended my previous life - and believe me, I remembered exactly how that felt. Aerys. Oh god. The Mad King. My mind flooded with everything I knew about who I was "supposed" to be. Burning people alive in the throne room. Cackling as the Starks died. Those horrific yellowed talons he called nails that he never cut because of his paranoia. And Rhaella... god, what he did to his wife... I couldn't even finish the thought without feeling sick. The idea that this body, that I was meant to become that monster - it was almost too much to handle.
But wait. Something clicked in my panicked mind. I was here. Me. Will Thompson, the guy who spent way too much time on Game of Thrones wikis instead of studying for his MIT entrance exams. Not the damaged, broken Aerys who would have been. WHAT AM I DOING? I mentally screamed at myself. Why am I freaking out about a future that can't happen anymore? The Mad King could never exist because I was here instead. That version of Aerys died the moment I opened my eyes in this body. I was literally panicking over becoming someone who couldn't possibly exist now.
Besides, they weren't even naming me after him - they were naming me after Aerys I, who from what I remembered was basically a bookworm who left the ruling to his Hand while he studied ancient texts and prophecies. God, I was an idiot. Here I was having a mental breakdown over a possible future that was already impossible, when I should have been paying attention to the actual person I was being named after. The realization didn't completely erase my embarrassment at my panic attack, but it gave me something I desperately needed in that moment: perspective. And maybe a good laugh at myself, if I'd been able to manage it in this infant body.
"Aerys," Jaehaerys repeated thoughtfully, testing the name. "Prince Aerys Targaryen." A slow smile spread across his face. "It suits him perfectly. And look - he's not crying out against it."
My silence came partly from emotional exhaustion, partly from feeling like an idiot for my earlier panic, and partly from the weight of realization still settling over me. This was my chance to be whoever I wanted to be as Aerys Targaryen. No predestined path, no unavoidable future - just me, trying my best not to screw up this second chance while probably overthinking everything along the way.
Shaera beamed, pressing another kiss to my forehead. "Then Aerys it shall be. Our little dragon, our precious son." She traced a finger along my cheek, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I promise you, my sweet Aerys, you will be loved beyond measure. You will know nothing but joy and safety in our care."
Looking up at my mother's loving face - and god, that was still weird to think about - I made a silent vow to be worthy of that love. Maybe I'd take after my namesake and be a scholar, though hopefully with a bit more practical sense when it came to actually running things. Although I also intended to train in arms and earn a knighthood, I wouldn't give the martial-obsessed Westeros an excuse not to take me seriously like they did initially with Daeron II.
"The heir to a legacy," Jaehaerys added softly, but Shaera shook her head.
"Not tonight, my love," she said firmly. "Tonight he is simply our son, our beautiful boy. Let talk of legacies and duties wait for another day."
She was right. Tonight I wasn't the heir to a dark future or a cursed legacy - I was just their son, and that gave me hope.
Jaehaerys softened, nodding in agreement. "Of course, you're right. As you so often are." He kissed her cheek, then looked down at me again. "Welcome to our family, Aerys."
Before the maester could suggest that Shaera rest, the chamber door opened once more. My breath caught as two figures entered - and if I'd been capable of it in this infant body, I would have done a double-take. Holy shit. That was David Wenham-Faramir from Lord of the Rings! But no, this was King Aegon V Targaryen, my grandfather. The resemblance was uncanny, though, even if he looked a bit older than Wenham had in the films. The same noble features, and the same bearing, though his silver-gold hair and violet eyes marked him clearly as a Targaryen.
And beside him... I would have gasped if I could. Queen Betha Blackwood could have been Claire Foy's twin sister. The same delicate features I remembered from The Crown, though with a distinctly Westerosi nobility about her. Her dark hair was streaked with silver now, but she carried herself with that same quiet dignity I'd seen in Foy's portrayal of Queen Elizabeth.
"Father, Mother," Shaera greeted them softly, still holding me protectively against her chest. "Come meet your grandson."
"Careful, Father," Jaehaerys started to rise, but a sudden coughing fit overtook him. Aegon rushed forward to steady his son while Betha poured a glass of water from the bedside table.
"Easy, my boy," Aegon said, his voice carrying that same gentle authority I remembered from Wenham's Faramir. "Catch your breath."
I watched as my grandfather supported my father through his coughing fit, feeling a pang of worry. I knew from the books that Jaehaerys had always been sickly, but seeing it in person was different. No wonder Shaera was so protective of him.
"I'm fine," Jaehaerys managed after a few moments, accepting the water from his mother. "Thank you."
Betha stroked her son's hair before turning her attention to me. Her eyes - a deep brown that reminded me so much of Foy's - softened with emotion. "Oh, Shaera. He's beautiful."
"Would you like to hold him, Mother?" Shaera offered, though I noticed she still held me quite securely.
"Perhaps your mother could sit beside you," Aegon suggested diplomatically, clearly noting his daughter's reluctance to let me go. "That way you can both admire him together."
Betha settled carefully on the bed while Aegon pulled up a chair beside Jaehaerys. I found myself studied by four pairs of eyes - three violet, one brown - all filled with love and wonder.
"He has the Targaryen look," Aegon observed, reaching out to touch my silver-gold hair. "Though there's something of your mother in his face, Jaehaerys."
"What name have you chosen for our grandson?" Betha asked softly, her eyes never leaving my face.
"Aerys," Shaera announced proudly. "After Great-Uncle Aerys."
"Your Grace," Maester Walys stepped forward, bowing slightly. "If I may - young Prince Aerys has shown quite remarkable awareness since birth. Most unusual for a newborn. While he's been largely silent, his eyes have been following our movements as we tended to him. And during the naming, he quite vocally rejected several suggestions until this one."
"Did he now?" Aegon leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued. "Like he's studying us all, even now?"
"Precisely, Your Grace. See how his eyes track our movements?" The maester gestured to how I was watching their conversation.
"Just like his namesake then," Betha said with a soft laugh. "Always watching, always learning. I remember your uncle was the same way, Egg. Your father used to say he learned to read before he learned to walk."
"Gods, I hope this one's not quite so bookish," Aegon chuckled, though his eyes never left my face. "Though I must admit, it is rather remarkable how alert he seems. The scholar-king reborn, perhaps? Though I hope he'll be more interested in the realm than in prophecies and ancient texts."
"Let's not burden him with such expectations just yet," Betha interjected gently. "He's not even a day old, my love. Though I must say," she added, reaching out to stroke my cheek, "there is something rather special about this one. A certain... presence about him."
I found myself warming to my grandparents immensely. It was strange - even knowing who they were, my mind kept seeing Faramir and Queen Elizabeth. But there was something comforting about that, like finding something familiar in this utterly foreign world.
"The maester suggests I should rest," Shaera said reluctantly, "but I don't want to put him down just yet."
"No one's asking you to, sweetling," Betha assured her, watching as I continued to study them all with alert eyes. "When you had just been born, I refused to let anyone take you from me for three days. Your father had to have my meals brought to the bed."
"I remember," Aegon chuckled warmly. "The wet nurse was quite put out."
"As if I would let anyone else feed my daughter," Betha sniffed, and I saw where Shaera got her protective instincts. She reached out to stroke my cheek. "Though this little one seems determined to stay awake. Look at those eyes, still watching everything."
Another coughing fit seized Jaehaerys, this one worse than the last. Aegon supported him while Betha quickly poured more water. I tried to keep my eyes focused on my father, worry cutting through my exhaustion. Even as an infant, I could see how each fit seemed to drain more of his strength.
"Perhaps we should let them rest," Aegon suggested once Jaehaerys had caught his breath. "We can return in the morning."
"Stay, just a little longer?" Shaera pleaded, and I saw the young girl she still was beneath the new mother's protective instincts. She looked down at me, still stubbornly fighting sleep. "I could sing to him. Mother, do you remember the lullaby you used to sing to me? About the dragon and the evening star?"
I tried to maintain my focus as Shaera began to sing, her voice soft and sweet in the quiet chamber. The song was unlike anything I'd heard before - a gentle melody about a young dragon following an evening star home to its mother's wings. Despite my best efforts to stay alert, to keep studying these fascinating people who were now my family, I felt my infant body growing heavier with each verse.
"Look," Betha whispered, interrupting Shaera's song. "His eyes are finally starting to close."
"He's fighting it," Jaehaerys observed with a weak laugh, his breathing somewhat steadier now. "Even in this, he's stubborn."
"Like his mother," Aegon said fondly, earning a mock glare from Shaera.
"And his father," Betha countered, making them all chuckle softly.
I wanted to stay awake, to memorize every detail of their faces - Aegon's uncanny resemblance to Faramir, Betha's Queen Elizabeth grace, my father's determined smile despite his illness, my mother's loving gaze. But the lullaby continued, Shaera's voice weaving a spell of comfort and safety around me.
" Little dragon, close your eyes,
Let your wings now softly fall,
Mother's love will guard your dreams,
Until morning's gentle call... "
My eyelids grew heavier with each word. I tried to force them open again, but they seemed to have a will of their own.
"He's still trying to stay awake," Shaera murmured between verses, adjusting me gently in her arms. "Stubborn little dragon."
"Reminds me of someone else at that age," Betha said softly. "You never wanted to sleep either, sweetling. Always afraid you'd miss something important."
"Keep singing, dear one," Aegon encouraged. "It's working."
Through increasingly heavy eyelids, I watched as Jaehaerys moved closer, wrapping an arm around Shaera as she continued the lullaby. Betha reached out to stroke my hair, while Aegon's hand rested protectively on his son's shoulder. The scene was becoming dreamlike, soft around the edges.
" Stars will guard your peaceful rest,
While the evening shadows fall,
Safe beneath your mother's wings,
Until dawn's first gentle call... "
I made one last valiant effort to keep my eyes open, but the combination of the soothing melody, the warmth of Shaera's arms, and my own exhaustion was too powerful to resist. The last thing I heard was Shaera's voice, growing distant as sleep finally claimed me:
" Sleep my precious dragon child,
Let your dreams take gentle flight,
Mother's love will keep you safe,
Through the peaceful, starlit night... "
"Finally," Aegon whispered, his voice seeming to come from far away. "Though I've never seen a babe fight sleep so determinedly."
"He's going to be quite the handful," Betha said softly, her voice filled with pride.
"Look how peaceful he is now," Jaehaerys murmured, and I felt his trembling hand brush my cheek.
"Our perfect little boy," Shaera whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.
As consciousness slipped away entirely, I felt something I hadn't expected in this strange new world - complete and utter safety. Surrounded by the love of these four people who were now my family, I let myself drift off into the first true sleep of my new life.
The last thing I registered was Shaera humming the lullaby's refrain, her arms holding me close as if she never intended to let go. And for the first time since realizing where and who I was, I felt truly at peace.
Author's Note
Hey everyone,
I want to have a heart-to-heart with you all. First, thank you for sticking with me through these months of silence. While I've been focused on "The Lost Jedi of Westeros," I haven't forgotten about "Forged in Fire" or the amazing support you've shown this story.
I know many of you fell in love with this story because of that magical moment when the dragon hatched. Trust me – that scene lives rent-free in my head too. It was electric to write, and your reactions made it even more special. Those moments aren't going anywhere, I promise. If anything, they're going to be even more powerful.
But here's the thing – I realized I was doing a disservice to both the story and you, my readers, by just dropping into Aerys's life with a quick "he got hurt and now he's self-aware" explanation. You deserve better than that. These characters deserve better than that. The more I thought about it, the more I knew we needed to start from the beginning. Not just for the sake of better storytelling, but because there's so much rich material to explore.
Think about it – what goes through someone's mind when they realize they've been reborn as one of the most infamous figures in Westerosi history? How do you handle looking at your parents and knowing what's supposed to happen to your family? These are the moments that will make every triumph, every dragon hatching, every victory and setback so much more meaningful.
I'm not just rebooting this story because I can. I'm doing it because I love these characters, this world, and most importantly, because I want to give you, my readers, the best version of this story possible. The dragons will still soar, the magic will still crackle, and the stakes will be higher than ever – but now we'll truly understand the heart behind it all.
For my loyal readers who've stuck around since my announcement five months ago – thank you, from the bottom of my heart. And for anyone just finding this story – welcome to the family. Either way, I'm excited to share this journey with all of you.
Before I wrap this up, I have to give a massive thank you to my beta reader .4545. This reboot wouldn't have been possible without his invaluable input and support. His feedback and insights have helped shape this new version into something I'm truly proud to share with you all.
Let's start this adventure properly, together.
Warmest regards,
Mtle232.
Beta Reader: .4545.