Darkness clung to Aryan, thick as velvet. He floated, untethered, trapped between memory and oblivion. Somewhere, he remembered the rough cotton of his bedsheet beneath his cheek, the weight of the worn "Game of Thrones" paperback pressed against his chest. The fan whirred above, cutting the Mumbai heat in lazy, rhythmic patterns.
He'd read until dawn, greedily devouring chapters like forbidden fruit. Each twist and tragedy, every broken king and doomed noble—Westeros felt realer than the world outside his window. Aryan had always wanted to escape: to leap from the monotony of school and family arguments into battles and intrigue, dragons and destiny.
A voice whispered through the fog of half-sleep. Not in Hindi, nor English, but in some ancient, regal tongue. It sounded like silk and steel.
He tried to wake—he really did. But his limbs were heavy, his eyes glued shut by whatever ruled the void. Is this what dying feels like? the stray thought drifted, oddly calm.
He thought of his mother's voice calling him for breakfast, the sting of yesterday's arguments, his friends' laughter echoing through WhatsApp chats. But those faded. In their place, images burst behind his eyelids: a city ringed by fire, banners blazoned with three-headed dragons, a pale girl's tears, a crown crushed beneath armored boots.
Aryan wanted to scream, but no sound came. Instead, that regal voice—louder now—echoed, pulling him down, down…
He fell through flashes of memory not his own: a grand palace aflame, silken sheets sticky with blood, a father's shout, a mother's trembling hand. Silver hair tangled in sweat and fear. A baby sobbing for milk that would never come.
He saw, briefly, a mirror—eyes like cold amethysts stared back. They were not his.
"Remember," the voice urged. "Rise. Become."
And then, sensation—
A gasp. The rush of new air in unfamiliar lungs. The rattle of wagon wheels on cobbles. The weight of robes too fine for any Mumbai boy. Aryan's vision swam as he blinked against blinding sunlight.
"Prince Viserys?" someone called, hesitant and reverent.
His heart pounded. His head spun with impossible truths. Aryan tried to speak, but a different voice—higher, sharper—escaped his lips.
He was not in Mumbai. No, not even on his own world.
He was Viserys Targaryen, exiled and hunted, the last dragon prince struggling to survive.
Aryan's last drowsy wish had been to escape.
Now, he had woken as a player in the most dangerous game of all.
And nothing would ever be the same.
End of Prologue
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