Chapter 1: An Unexpected Inheritance
The first sensation was a blinding, searing pain that ripped through his skull, a blacksmith's hammer blow against an unyielding anvil. It was followed by a suffocating darkness, a void so complete it felt as if existence itself had been snuffed out. Dr. Alistair Finch, esteemed (and occasionally feared) Professor Emeritus of Military History and Applied Economics at Harvard, a man whose lectures on the Punic Wars were as legendary as his ruthless dismantling of overconfident MBA students in his "Art of the Deal" seminar, knew the sterile, predictable rhythm of his retired life. This… this was not it.
His last memory was of a particularly sharp Stilton, a glass of surprisingly good Chilean Cabernet, and the familiar opening credits of Game of Thrones – his guilty pleasure, a fascinating, if often frustratingly illogical, tapestry of power, betrayal, and medieval brutality. He'd been midway through a mental critique of Robb Stark's strategic blunders when a sudden, inexplicable fatigue had washed over him, a leaden weight dragging him down. Then, nothing.
Now, there was… something.
A cacophony of sounds, muffled at first, then sharpening into a disorienting blend of high-pitched wailing, guttural shouts in an unfamiliar, yet strangely resonant, tongue, and the metallic clang of what sounded suspiciously like swords. The air was thick, cloying, smelling of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and something else… something acrid, like fear.
Alistair tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt glued shut. His limbs were heavy, unresponsive. Panic, an emotion he'd prided himself on mastering through decades of intellectual sparring and navigating treacherous academic politics, began to prickle at the edges of his consciousness. He fought it down with the ingrained discipline of a lifetime. Observe. Analyze. Adapt. His personal mantra, one that had served him well in lecture halls and boardrooms alike.
He focused on the sounds. The language… it had a lyrical, almost sibilant quality. He'd dabbled in constructed languages, a peculiar hobby that had amused his long-suffering wife, Eleanor. This felt… Valyrian. High Valyrian, if his memory of the show's lore and his own desultory online research served him correctly. But that was impossible. Utterly, demonstrably impossible.
Then came the pain again, not in his head this time, but a sharp, stinging sensation across his cheek. Instinct, primal and unwelcome, made him flinch. He managed, with a monumental effort, to crack open an eyelid.
Blur. Light, too bright, assaulting his senses. Shapes, indistinct and menacing. He blinked, a slow, agonizing process. The world swam into a horrifying, unbelievable focus.
He was small. Terribly, frighteningly small. His hands, when he managed to twitch them into his field of vision, were tiny, pale, and covered in grime. This wasn't his body. The realization hit him with the force of a trebuchet volley.
Another shout, closer this time. A rough hand gripped his arm, yanking him upwards. He was looking up, way up, at a face contorted in a snarl. A man, heavily bearded, clad in rough leather and mail, his breath smelling of stale wine and something fouler. The man was yelling, the Valyrian words tumbling out in a torrent of anger and… was that fear?
Alistair, or whatever consciousness now inhabited this small, terrified frame, didn't understand the specific words, but the intent was terrifyingly clear. He was a burden, a nuisance.
He was dragged, his small bare feet scraping against cold, uneven stone. The sounds of chaos intensified – the clash of steel, screams, the roar of… fire? A wave of heat washed over him, prickling his skin. He risked a wider glance.
They were on a ship. A wooden ship, sails tattered, men fighting desperately on deck. Flames licked at the rigging. And in the distance, silhouetted against a burning city, he saw them. Dragons. Three of them, their roars tearing through the air like the trumpets of some terrible apocalypse.
Dragons.
Alistair's mind, the mind of a pragmatic historian and a shrewd businessman, reeled. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination brought on by dodgy cheese. This was… real. Impossibly, terrifyingly real.
And the small, trembling body he inhabited… a surge of alien memories, fragmented and confusing, flooded his consciousness. Fear, yes, a constant, gnawing companion. Hunger. Cold. The sting of a hundred casual cruelties. And a name, whispered in the dark by a woman with silver-gold hair and violet eyes filled with a desperate sorrow. Viserys.
Viserys Targaryen.
The Beggar King. The last male heir of a fallen dynasty, doomed to a pathetic, ignominious end, crowned with molten gold.
Alistair Finch, a man who had navigated the cutthroat world of academia and high finance with calculating precision, a man who had mentally re-fought and won countless historical battles from the comfort of his leather armchair, was now trapped in the body of one of fantasy's most notorious failures. The irony was so bitter it almost choked him.
He was roughly shoved towards the ship's railing. Below, the churning, dark water looked terrifyingly inviting. Was this it? Was his second chance at life, however bizarre, to be snuffed out before it even truly began?
Another memory, sharper this time, pierced through the childish terror that threatened to overwhelm Viserys's small body. A woman's face, beautiful, regal, her silver hair fanned out on a pillow. Queen Rhaella. His mother. Her last, desperate words, not to him, but to the grim-faced knight standing beside her. "Ser Willem… protect them… Daenerys… Viserys… the last… dragons…"
Then the storm. The ship breaking apart. Screams. Cold. So much cold.
This wasn't the Fall of King's Landing. This was later. This was the flight from Dragonstone. He was, what, seven? Eight? A child, utterly dependent on the kindness, or lack thereof, of strangers.
The man holding him grunted, his attention diverted by a sudden surge in the fighting nearby. A loyalist, perhaps, one of the few who had accompanied the Targaryen children into exile. But loyalty was a fragile currency, especially when defeat was so absolute.
This was his chance. Not to escape, not yet. But to think.
Alistair's mind, honed by years of strategic analysis, began to work, a well-oiled machine kicking into gear despite the surrounding chaos and the lingering disorientation of his… reincarnation. He had knowledge. Knowledge of this world, its players, its pitfalls, its potential. Knowledge Viserys never possessed. Viserys was a product of trauma, arrogance, and desperation, a volatile cocktail that led to his undoing. Alistair Finch was none of those things. He was patient. He was calculating. And, when necessary, he could be utterly ruthless.
The first, most pressing need was survival. The original Viserys survived this, Alistair knew. He and Daenerys eventually made their way to the Free Cities, to a life of gilded poverty and fading hopes. But Alistair wasn't interested in merely surviving. He was interested in thriving. And more than that, he was interested in winning. The game had changed. The pieces were the same, but one of them now had a new player at the helm.
Suddenly, a searing pain, entirely different from the earlier headache, shot through his right hand. It was an intense, almost unbearable burning, as if his bones were on fire. He cried out, a thin, reedy sound lost in the din of battle. The man holding him cursed, shaking him roughly.
Through tear-filled eyes, Alistair looked at his hand. Nothing seemed amiss. But the pain… it was real. And then, another jolt, this one in his left hand. He flexed his small fingers, a wave of nausea washing over him.
What was happening? Was this some bizarre side effect of the reincarnation? Some new, fresh hell to contend with?
A stray arrow thudded into the mast near his head, showering him with splinters. The man holding him stumbled, cursing, and for a moment, his grip loosened. Alistair, or rather, Viserys, driven by a surge of adrenaline and the dawning, terrifying understanding of his new body's potential, reacted.
He didn't think. He did.
He twisted, small and wiry, and bit down hard on the fleshy part of the man's thumb. The man roared in pain and surprise, his grip faltering completely. Viserys dropped to the deck, landing with a jarring thud that knocked the breath from his lungs.
Scrambling on all fours, ignoring the splinters digging into his palms and knees, he scuttled away, seeking refuge behind a stack of water barrels. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He'd acted on instinct, the instinct of a cornered animal. But something else had been there too, a flicker of… something more.
He risked a peek. The battle raged on, but the tide seemed to be turning against the Targaryen loyalists. More enemy ships were closing in, their decks swarming with armed men. The air stank of blood and burning wood.
He needed to find Daenerys. His sister. The key to so much. In the original timeline, Viserys had been her tormentor, her abuser, a petty tyrant who saw her only as a commodity. Alistair would not make that mistake. Daenerys was an asset, a powerful one, if nurtured correctly. More than that, she was family, the only family he had in this brutal, unforgiving world.
A wave crashed over the bow, drenching him in cold, salty water. He shivered violently, his small body ill-equipped to handle the exposure. He pressed himself tighter against the barrels, trying to conserve warmth.
The pain in his hands had subsided to a dull throb, but it was accompanied by a strange, almost imperceptible tingling, a sense of… fullness. He looked at his hands again, flexing his fingers. They looked like ordinary childish hands, albeit dirty and scraped.
Then, another surge of alien sensation, this time not pain, but a peculiar awareness. It was as if his senses had suddenly sharpened, magnified. He could hear individual conversations amidst the roar of the battle, distinct words and phrases in the harsh, guttural tongue of the attackers. He could smell the tang of rust on a discarded dagger ten feet away, the fear-sweat of a man cowering behind a broken mast. His vision seemed clearer, sharper, colours more vibrant, details more defined even in the dim, smoky light.
Super Soldier Serum, a part of his mind whispered, a fragment of the knowledge from his reincarnation 'benefits' package. It was impossible, ludicrous, but the evidence was undeniable. Enhanced senses, strength, agility… He felt a nascent power thrumming through his small frame, a coiled spring waiting to be released.
And then, the claws.
It happened without conscious thought. A wave of fear washed over him as one of the attackers, a brutal-looking man with a scarred face and a cruel grin, spotted him cowering behind the barrels. The man raised his axe, his eyes glinting with bloodlust.
Viserys squeezed his eyes shut, a whimper escaping his lips. He thrust his hands out defensively, a child's futile gesture against a deathblow.
SNIKT!
The sound was unmistakable, a sharp, metallic slicing, followed almost instantaneously by a sickening, wet crunch.
Viserys opened his eyes.
The attacker stood frozen, his axe clattering to the deck. A look of utter disbelief was etched on his face. Three parallel gashes, deep and bloody, ran across his chest, from his left shoulder to his right hip. He swayed for a moment, then collapsed in a heap.
Viserys stared at his own hands. Protruding from between his knuckles, on both hands, were three long, bone-like claws. They were a pale ivory colour, tapering to wickedly sharp points, gleaming wetly with the attacker's blood.
Wolverine X-gene.
The realization slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Claws. A healing factor, presumably. The enhanced senses were likely part of this too, or perhaps a synergistic effect with the serum.
He was a child. A Targaryen prince in exile. And now, a mutant. In Westeros.
The sheer, mind-boggling absurdity of it all almost made him laugh, a hysterical, bubbling sound that died in his throat. He retracted the claws – an instinctive, surprisingly easy process – and stared at his knuckles. There were no visible openings, no sign that moments before, lethal weapons had emerged from his very bones.
He was a weapon. A child weapon.
The implications were staggering. Robert Baratheon wanted all Targaryens dead. If anyone discovered what he was, what he could do… they wouldn't just want him dead. They'd want him dissected. Or worse, controlled.
Caution. Cunning. Shrewdness. Ruthlessness. Alistair Finch's core tenets. They were no longer academic principles. They were survival imperatives.
He took a shaky breath, the acrid smell of blood and smoke filling his small lungs. The fighting was dying down. He could hear shouts of victory from the attackers, brutal laughter. The Targaryen loyalists had been overwhelmed.
He needed to hide. Not just himself, but his abilities. Especially his abilities.
And then, another sensation, this one perhaps the strangest, the most unsettling of all. A whisper in the back of his mind, a faint, shadowy stirring. It wasn't a voice, not exactly. It was more like a pull, a subtle resonance with the darkness around him. He looked at the shadows pooling beneath the barrels, at the deep, inky blackness of the sea glimpsed through a gap in the railing. They seemed… deeper. More inviting. Almost… alive.
Mastery of the Shadow Realm (Shadowkhan) from Jackie Chan Adventures.
Alistair, the rational academic, almost balked. This was beyond comic books, beyond fantasy. This was… cartoon magic. Yet, the claws in his hands had been real enough. The enhanced senses were undeniable.
He focused on that shadowy sensation, tentatively reaching out with his mind, as one might test a loose tooth. There was a response. A faint tremor, a flicker at the edge of his vision, as if the shadows themselves had acknowledged his attention. A nascent power, yes, but a power nonetheless. What could he do with it? Summon shadowy ninja warriors? That seemed… unlikely, at least for now. But perhaps there were other applications. Stealth. Misdirection. Information gathering.
A new wave of shouts, closer this time. They were clearing the ship, no doubt looking for survivors to kill or enslave. He had to move.
He remembered Ser Willem Darry. The loyal knight entrusted with their safety. He had to be somewhere. And Daenerys.
Driven by a desperate urgency, Viserys – no, Alistair in Viserys's body, a fusion of terrified child and calculating adult – began to move. He kept low, darting from one shadowed spot to another, his newly enhanced senses helping him anticipate the movements of the enemy soldiers. He was small, agile, and now, preternaturally aware.
He found Daenerys huddled in a small, dark cabin below deck, Ser Willem Darry standing guard over her, his sword drawn, his face grim and bloodied. The old knight was clearly injured, leaning heavily against the bulkhead. There were two dead attackers at his feet.
Daenerys, a tiny thing with wide, frightened violet eyes and a smudge of soot on her cheek, rushed to him, her small hands clutching his arm. "Viserys! I was so scared!"
Alistair felt a pang of something unexpected. Not pity, not exactly. Responsibility, perhaps. This small child was his only link to this world's past, and potentially, its future. He squeezed her hand, trying to project a calm he didn't entirely feel.
"They are still fighting, Ser Willem?" Alistair asked, his voice a childish treble, but with an undertone of forced composure that made the old knight look at him sharply.
Darry nodded, wincing as he shifted his weight. "We are lost, Prince Viserys. The ship is overrun. Our only hope is to find a way off, to disappear into the night." He coughed, a wracking sound, and a fleck of blood appeared at the corner of his lips.
Alistair's mind raced. Disappear. Yes. That was the immediate goal. But not just disappear. They needed resources. They needed a plan. The original Viserys had relied on the diminishing charity of others, his arrogance growing in inverse proportion to his prospects. Alistair would not make that mistake.
He looked at the shadows in the corners of the small cabin. They seemed to deepen, to swirl almost imperceptibly as he focused on them. He felt that strange pull again, stronger this time.
Shadow Realm…
Could he use it? Not to fight, not yet. But perhaps… to conceal?
"Ser Willem," Alistair said, his voice still childish but firm. "There may be a way. But you must trust me. Implicitly."
The old knight looked at the young prince, truly looked at him, and saw something in the boy's violet eyes that hadn't been there before. A flicker of… steel. A depth that belied his tender years. Darry was a man of duty, a man who had sworn an oath. He was dying, he knew that. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was a spark of hope left for the Targaryen line.
"What must we do, my Prince?" Ser Willem asked, his voice raspy.
Alistair looked at the deepest shadow in the cabin, the one beneath a rickety bunk. He focused his will, pouring all his nascent concentration into it. He imagined the shadow extending, deepening, becoming a refuge.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the shadow seemed to stretch, to become less a mere absence of light and more… a presence. It wasn't dramatic, no sudden vortex of darkness. It was subtle, like ink bleeding into water. But it was there.
"We hide," Alistair whispered, pointing to the bunk. "There. And we wait."
He knew this was just the beginning. A desperate gamble. But it was also his first deliberate act as the new Viserys Targaryen. Not the Beggar King. Not a pawn in someone else's game. But a player. A cautious, cunning, shrewd, and, when necessary, ruthless player.
He would not just survive. He would build. He would scheme. He would amass power, not through armies and titles, at least not at first, but through wealth. A merchant empire, built from the shadows, its tendrils reaching into every corner of this world. An empire that would, one day, allow him to reclaim what was lost, not with fire and blood alone, but with the cold, hard currency of influence and control.
The screams and shouts from above deck were getting closer. Alistair took Daenerys's hand, his small fingers surprisingly strong. He looked at Ser Willem, whose eyes were wide with a mixture of disbelief and dawning hope.
"The night is dark and full of terrors," Alistair murmured, a phrase from his old life, oddly appropriate now. "But the shadows… the shadows can be our friends."
He guided Daenerys towards the bunk, towards the strangely inviting darkness that seemed to beckon them. This was not just an escape. This was the first step. The first move in a game he was determined to win. The game of thrones had a new, unexpected player. And he had claws.