The Dragon Reborn
Jake always thought he'd die someday — just not like this.He didn't remember the moment it happened. Only that he was watching House of the Dragon, caught up in the fire and politics of old Valyria's last breath in Westeros. One second he was wrapped in blankets, popcorn in hand — the next, silence. No pain.
When he opened his eyes, everything was different.
He wasn't human.
He was… small. Weak. Cold.
Wrapped in darkness.
He tried to breathe, but the first breath made him cough smoke. Something wet was beneath him — soft like dried moss, sticky with heat. His legs were wrong, his body heavier, and when he tried to move, he stumbled on too many limbs.
Instinct guided him. He crawled forward, out of a rocky crevice lined with obsidian shards. Light peeked through a crack above. He scrambled up — two claws and finally pulled himself to the edge of a cliff.
That's when he saw it.
The smoking peaks of Dragonstone.
Black volcanic rock carved by time and fire. The sea raged far below, beating against the cliffs. Smoke curled from vents in the mountain, where the old heat of the earth still lived. Far off, faint shapes of ships dotted Blackwater Bay.
This wasn't modern Westeros.
This was long before Daenerys. Before Robert's Rebellion. Before even King Viserys.
Jake had watched enough lore videos to know where he was.
The age of dragons.
And somehow, he had been reborn as one.
His body was small — smaller than he imagined a dragon would be. His wings were bony and folded awkwardly at his sides. His scales were black, with a hint of red shimmering underneath, like embers under coal. His eyes were golden.
He looked like Drogon from the show. But younger. Raw. New.
For the next few days — or maybe weeks — Jake hid. The caves beneath Dragonstone were deep and twisted, like veins running through the island. Heat kept him warm. Steam hissed from cracks. Rats and seabirds became his food.
He didn't try to fly. He couldn't. Not yet.
He could barely walk some days.
He knew the dragons of this era were kept in the Dragonpit — the great stony dome in King's Landing, across the bay. But Dragonstone had always been home to the dragons first. He figured there were others around — older ones, bigger ones. Maybe even wild ones.
But he kept away, He didn't roar, He didn't screech. He stayed low, stayed hidden, and watched the world from the shadows.
Sometimes he climbed to the higher cliffs to see the sky.
He would crouch at the edge of a jagged rock and stare as the sun dipped below the sea. Gulls cried out above him. Smoke trailed up into the wind from a far-off vent.
From time to time, he saw shadows in the sky. Big ones. One evening, as the stars were just beginning to appear, he saw a shape drifting through the clouds. Massive wings. Slender, like a serpent. Blood red against the dying light.
Caraxes, Jake thought, his heart thumping.
But he didn't move. He lay still, pressed low to the stone, watching as the great dragon passed high above, heading toward the mainland.
Once, he thought he saw Vermithor — the Bronze Fury — near the mountain's peak, his wings so wide they blocked the moonlight. But the dragon didn't descend. It flew toward the east, likely toward King's Landing, where King Jaehaerys I Targaryen still ruled.
Jake didn't want to be seen by any of them. He was small, Weak, Alone and in this world, that meant dead.
He learned slowly. Not from books or YouTube, but through instinct. How to stalk prey. How to cling to the rocks during a storm. How to breathe — and how to burn.
His first fire breath had startled him. A short cough, really — but a puff of flame had shot out, lighting dry moss and scaring off a pack of cliff rats. He hadn't meant to do it.
After that, it came easier. The fire lived inside him now.
And something else did too, memory ,A feeling.
Jake. That had been his name. He remembered that much. Ten years old. Liked dragons, hated broccoli, loved his mom.
Now he was something else.
Still him… but not.
On the seventh day (he thought it was the seventh), Jake wandered near a ridge and found a ring of scorched stone. Big. Blackened. The rocks around it melted smooth. A dragon had landed here. A big one. Recently.
He sniffed the air. Ash. Old blood. Char.
He backed away slowly, careful not to make noise.
He wasn't ready to meet others yet — not dragons, not riders.
He would grow, He would wait, He would survive.
Far away, in the Red Keep, old King Jaehaerys the Conciliator sat on the Iron Throne, his hair turned white, his body failing. But the peace he had forged still held.
For now.
On Dragonstone, beneath smoke and stone, a new dragon stirred in the dark — with no name, no rider, and a mind not born of this world.
And deep down, something in him whispered:
Fly. Burn. Grow.
———
Hey everyone, this is my first book and I have no idea what I'm doing ahaha, had this idea for a while so here it is.
I'll make the next chapters longer 👍
Enjoy