Aryan was used to hunger, but this felt different. His belly rumbled, and his head ached, not with the dull pang of skipping a meal, nor the fatigue of a late-night binge, but with a profound emptiness—alien, sharp. It almost felt as though his very soul was starved.
He blinked against the glare. Instead of the blue glow of his bedroom's charging screen, sunlight poured through ornate windows set in carved marble. The musty warmth, thick with hints of spice, replaced his familiar air-conditioned chill.
For a dizzy, infinite second, Aryan wondered if he was still dreaming. His hands moved, sluggish, but their sight startled him into greater confusion: slender fingers, ivory skin almost luminous, nails perfectly tended. He stared, uncomprehending, until realization hit him with the force of a warhammer.
He had not gone to bed in King's Landing. Heck, he had never even left Mumbai—had never seen the sea, let alone the Blackwater. And yet, the curls falling into his eyes were pure silver, rippling in the sunlight.
Slowly, wincing, Aryan rose, hearing—or was it remembering?—the name Viserys Targaryen echo in his head.
But not that Viserys, the one whose petulance and entitlement had made him a joke in the books, a footnote in Daenerys's legend. He was Aryan, sixteen, a guy who spent more time on forums than at family dinners, who knew every twist and turn of Westeros.
Except now, he knew the story from inside.
He strode to the polished mirror propped against the wall. The reflection was uncanny: sharp cheekbones, haunted violet eyes. He almost laughed in disbelief, but the weight of reality pressed upon him: trapped in Viserys Targaryen's body, exiled heir of a fallen dynasty, playing for stakes brutal and final.
Aryan—no, Viserys—forced himself to slow down. Okay. Step by step. How did the old Viserys screw up? Hunger, pride, a refusal to learn—but he, Aryan, had watched alliances rise and fall. He had seen how a single bad decision meant death.
He opened the wardrobe: only a few silken tunics, old boots, a moth-eaten fur. The room was spare, hints of old grandeur clinging to cracked plaster and faded banners. Barely anything left, even though, technically, this was a "prince's" room.
A knock. He tensed, heart stuttering.
Ser Willem entered, bowing. A loyalist, aged and worn, the last of the men who had sheltered the royal children after Robert's Rebellion. Aryan remembered: the man would die soon, leaving Viserys and Daenerys to the mercy (or lack thereof) of Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos.
"My prince—are you well?"
Aryan schooled his features, voice forced smooth. "As well as I can be, Ser Willem. Has...breakfast been prepared?"
A brief smile, pleased by such courtesy—old Viserys would have snapped or sulked. "It waits for you, my prince. And the princess—she is not feeling well. The maester thinks it is chills."
Daenerys. Aryan's (now Viserys's) younger sister, just a child, carrying the future of their house in her veins. Aryan's heart pinched. In the books, Viserys had treated her cruelly, more a possession than family. But Aryan had watched her story grow great, seen how kindness blossomed into strength.
"I'll visit her after breakfast," he said. "Thank you, Ser Willem."
Down the spiral stairs, Aryan plotted in silence. Needed: allies. Knowledge as his weapon. He'd read how Littlefinger and Varys played the game—how Robert, despite winning the throne, let it slip piece by piece.
At the table, the food was sparse—stale bread, last night's stew, a bruised apple. Aryan ate without complaint. He watched the servants, Illyrio's spies no doubt, scuttling to and fro.
If he was to rule—not just survive—he'd need to play the part of a prince: not petty and angry, but clever, charming, dangerous when crossed.
Instead of the cold dismissal old Viserys would have given, Aryan listened carefully as Illyrio entered, silk-robed and smug. The merchant was a master player. In canon, he'd manipulated the Targaryens, set them up as pawns. Aryan couldn't trust Illyrio any more than he'd trust a pit viper.
"My young lord, you look splendid this morning," Illyrio purred. "Shall I bring you news of the Free Cities? Perhaps some entertainment?"
Aryan smiled, careful. "News. And perhaps, later, a word in private. There are matters of...loyalty I wish to discuss."
He saw Illyrio's eyebrows arch, just a flicker—good. Keep him guessing. Let him think his "prince" had finally begun to grow sharp.
Minutes later, Aryan ducked into Daenerys's chamber. She was so small—blond hair plastered to her brow, eyes red-rimmed by fever. Aryan felt a fierce protectiveness. He wouldn't repeat his predecessor's cruelty; Daenerys could be a friend, ally, even a shield against the darkness of exile.
"How are you feeling, little sister?" he asked gently.
She flinched, expecting harshness. Aryan's heart hurt again.
"I—I'm better," she whispered.
He sat beside her. "You must rest. You're important, Dani. One day, you'll be stronger than anyone expects. I'll make sure of it."
She blinked, uncomprehending. "Yes, brother."
Alone again, Aryan began his true work.
He drew from his memory every plot, every hint missed in the books: the Golden Company's exile, possible Targaryen loyalists in hiding, the secrets of wildfire, the importance of winning the hearts of the smallfolk. He'd use history as his guide—and his cheat.
First, he'd ingratiate himself with Illyrio, collecting secrets as currency. Next, he'd send out word—even if in cryptic letters—to lure hidden Blackfyre, old-guard, and even Essosi mercenaries into his orbit. He would treat Daenerys well, binding her loyalty.
As for the Dothraki—he'd know the tongue (a blessing from the "cheat" of reincarnation). Perhaps a show of respect, rather than arrogance, could turn them from mere weapons into true allies.
He was already thinking: discipline for sellswords borrowed from modern armies, tactics gleaned from Earth's history, the power of charisma and narrative. He'd write his own legend, not just inherit a broken one.
As dusk fell, Aryan—Viserys—gazed out over the city. The sky hung heavy and purple, the scent of spice and secrets on the air.
He would not be the fool prince, the puppet of Illyrio, or the madman in exile. He would be the dragon reborn—a conqueror armed with memory, cunning, and fire.
The Game of Thrones had begun again.
And this time, Aryan intended to win.
End of Chapter 1.