Dragonstone, Westeros.
The sea breeze swept across the island, parting the thick veil of fog and rattling the towering black-stone castle that loomed over the rocky shore. From the stone drum tower came a deep, rolling rumble that echoed through the early morning air.
Baelon stirred awake at the sound. A transparent system panel materialized before his eyes.
---
Character: Baelon Targaryen
Health: 100 / 100
Satiety: 20 / 40
Mental Strength: 200 / 200
Magic Power: 100 / 100
Inventory: 15 slots
---
Ten days ago, on the morning of his fourth birthday, the cheat every transmigrator dreams of—the system—had finally arrived.
It wasn't just any system. It was tied to a game from his previous life: Starvation: Modded Edition, a survival adventure sandbox game he had spent countless late nights grinding before his transmigration.
After several days of experimenting, Baelon had confirmed the system came with three key functions:
1. Status and Appraisal – The panel could track his physical condition and reveal the basic attributes of items. It was essentially a streamlined appraisal skill.
2. Inventory Space – Fifteen item slots, each capable of stacking up to ninety-nine identical items. However, he could only store objects through direct physical contact.
3. Loot and Crafting – Hunting living creatures yielded drops, and the system allowed item synthesis using those materials.
Perhaps because he had lived two lifetimes, Baelon's Mental Strength was unusually high—200 points in total. For ten nights straight, he had tested his limits by staying awake, his Mental Strength decreasing by ten points each day.
The first nine nights, he felt nothing—no drowsiness, no headache, just a steady decrease in his stat. But on the tenth night, when his Mental Strength hit the critical threshold of 100 points, it was different. His skull began to pound rhythmically, his vision warped, and the world spun sickeningly.
In the original game, a dangerously low Mental Strength stat triggered the appearance of shadow creatures that would relentlessly attack the player. If one of those monsters materialized here, his four-year-old body—paired with an already weakened mental state—would stand no chance.
And so, not wanting to test fate, Baelon had done the sensible thing: he crawled under his covers and fell into a deep, childlike sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
---
It had been no small blessing to transmigrate into this world of gods, dragons, and destiny—especially as a Targaryen.
The Targaryen family was revered as the bloodline closest to the divine, possessing magic that let them ride dragons and rule entire kingdoms. Power flowed in their veins along with the fire.
As the saying goes, the watershed of life… is amniotic fluid.
In this life, the moment he emerged into the world, Baelon had been greeted by the joyful laughter of his father, Viserys—the man destined to become ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—and the warm embrace of his mother, Emma Arryn, daughter of the Duke of the Vale. Her noble fragrance had been the first thing he smelled.
Opening his newborn eyes, he had seen the crown of his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and the dragon egg placed in his cradle by Queen Alysanne herself.
Power had whispered to him from that moment. The throne beckoned.
Baelon was reborn as someone who had never existed in the original timeline: Rhaenyra's full younger brother, Baelon Targaryen. As Viserys's eldest son, his path to succession was clear. As long as he stayed alive, his claim to the Iron Throne would be secure the moment his father ascended it.
And yet, Baelon wanted nothing to do with the damn throne.
Thanks for the invite, Westeros, but I just transmigrated here. I don't want "absolute power." I want an abundance of love and a long life.
The only person who could possibly rival his claim was his elder sister, Rhaenyra—born just minutes before him. But Westeros had never crowned a queen in its history, and the political resistance to a female ruler was overwhelming. Given her scandal-ridden history in the original story, Baelon wasn't worried.
In canon, Rhaenyra couldn't even win against Aegon—son of the queen consort—and their conflict led to the infamous Dance of the Dragons.
It had been the height of Targaryen power: dozens of adult dragons and dragonriders. For reference, Aegon the Conqueror had taken all of Westeros with just three dragons. Yet, during the Dance, the Targaryens had burned that legacy to ash in a senseless civil war.
Dragons! So many dragons! All wasted!
Every time Baelon thought about it, his heart ached. A dragon was the Targaryens' greatest treasure, yet they had slaughtered their own over a chair.
No. That tragedy would not happen in this life.
And how would he prevent it?
Simple—he'd make sure he became king.
After all, the crown's true power rested in its dragons.
---
Baelon glanced at the brazier near the window. Morning sunlight streamed in, glinting off the carved three-headed dragon emblem. Scarlet coals hissed softly beneath a massive egg, its surface deep black with crimson ripples, its scales glistening like gemstones.
A prompt appeared when he touched it:
Dragon Egg – Incubation Time: 3,670 days, 16 hours, 34 minutes.
Targaryen tradition placed a dragon egg in the cradle of every newborn. If it hatched, the bond between dragon and rider would be stronger than steel.
Baelon picked up the egg. It was blisteringly hot after sitting on the coals all night. While Targaryens could endure heat better than most, they were still mortal; high enough temperatures could burn them.
The only exception in history would come centuries later—Daenerys, the "Unburnt."
Baelon felt the heat seep into his palm. He silently began to count.
Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…
Two minutes later, the burn finally pierced through his resistance. The hiss of roasting flesh reached his ears, followed by a savory, disturbing aroma.
Health -1… -1…
He quickly dropped the egg back into the brazier. Ash puffed up in a grey cloud. Looking at his palm, he saw a swollen blister already forming.
He grinned. So it was true—his body had been "semi-datafied" by the system.
As long as his satiety was full, health regenerated over time, and injuries only became visible when they passed a certain threshold. In theory, he could survive otherwise-lethal strikes—like a slit throat—until his health hit zero.
A temporary "Unburnt" buff. Very handy for faking miracles later.
---
A thump echoed in the room. A wooden box materialized in the center. Baelon opened it to retrieve his stored dry bread. Inventory space had a convenient quirk: if you packed multiple items inside a single container, it only counted as one inventory slot.
The downside? Time still flowed inside the storage, so perishables would spoil.
Dry bread might be hard as stone, but it lasted forever and filled the belly—ten satiety points per piece.
Baelon opened a silver shaker on the table. Instead of salt, it held half a jar of viscous, dark brown liquid.
He dipped a piece of bread into the sauce and took a bite.
Delicious.
The umami richness was enough to make even shoe leather taste good.
Oyster sauce—his latest masterpiece. Three sleepless nights in the making.
---
When his health bar ticked back to full, the blister on his palm shriveled, scabbed, and peeled away in seconds, leaving his skin unblemished.
Baelon marveled. Big golden fingers were the best golden fingers.
Patting the dragon egg, he mused over its ten-year incubation period. Hatchlings took years to mature, and he didn't have that kind of patience.
There were two riderless adult dragons on Dragonstone: Cannibal—ferocious but dangerous to tame—and Sheepstealer—ugly and weak. Neither appealed to him.
No, the dragon he wanted was far more dangerous and glorious… but for now, unattainable.
So he focused on a different goal: finding an "angel investor" for his oyster sauce.
And who better than his father, Viserys?
---
At breakfast, Viserys and Emma entered the hall hand in hand, greeted by their daughter Rhaenyra's excited hug.
"Where's Baelon?" Viserys asked, scanning the table.
"Here!" Baelon strode in, placing the silver shaker before them.
Viserys raised a brow. "This is the surprise you mentioned?"
A few days earlier, Baelon had locked himself away with baskets of oysters, banning anyone from entering. He had only said he was preparing a surprise.
Now, under the curious gaze of his family, he spooned a measure of the sauce into a bowl of soup. "Try it."
Rhaenyra peered skeptically. "Can you still drink it after that?"
"Don't worry. This is prepared using ancient Valyrian craftsmanship," Baelon lied smoothly.
Valyria—like ancient Rome to medieval Europe—was the ultimate brand name. Attach "Valyrian" to anything, and it instantly became priceless.
His parents, humoring him, each took a sip. Their eyes widened simultaneously.
This… flavor!
The soup they had drunk for years had never tasted so rich.
Baelon smiled knowingly. Oyster sauce was a universal conqueror of taste buds—especially in a world with so few seasonings.
Dragonstone was surrounded by seas teeming with oysters. The business potential was enormous.
---
"This is only the semi-finished product," Baelon explained. "The final step requires dragonflame and certain spells. Then it becomes amber in color and can strengthen the body."
That last detail made Viserys's eyes light up. Strengthening the body was no trivial benefit.
"My father will return tomorrow with Vaghar," Viserys said. "We can finish it then."
Baelon nodded. "In the meantime, I can produce the semi-finished product. Hire fishermen to gather oysters, set up a workshop, and refine it here on Dragonstone. You handle transport and sales."
Viserys chuckled proudly. "A fine plan. But remember, Baelon—dragonflame isn't always at our disposal."
---
And with that, the seed of Baelon's first enterprise in Westeros was planted.
If all went well, he'd have the money, the influence, and—eventually—the dragons he needed to shape history his way.