The monitor flickered once… then died.
Arjun Sharma sat frozen in his gaming chair, the black screen reflecting his own hollow eyes. Three straight days—seventy-two hours—without sleep, running purely on instant noodles and cheap caffeine. All that, just to finish Game of Thrones again.
He muttered hoarsely, "Three dragons and she still loses? Absolute trash."
Empty cans covered the desk like spent bullet casings. Pizza boxes guarded the corner like cardboard soldiers. His roommate had given up trying to intervene and vanished for the weekend.
Smart man.
Arjun reached for another energy drink. His fingers brushed nothing but cold aluminum and crushed metal.
Then—pain. A heavy, crushing weight in his chest.
"What the—" His voice cracked. The ache spread, sharp, suffocating. He tried to stand, but his legs turned to rubber. "No… not now—"
The floor rushed up at him. Vision tunneled. His last thought was absurdly clear: Dying from a Game of Thrones binge? Mom's gonna kill me.
Then darkness.
---
Sound. Voices. Cold air biting his skin.
Hay, not hospital disinfectant. Hooves, not heart monitors.
He forced his eyes open.
Stone ceiling. Wooden beams. A silk canopy.
A castle window.
"What the actual—"
He sat up too fast. The world spun, and his hands—small, smooth, pale—caught the sheet. Small?
He stared. Child-sized fingers, not his. No scar, no callus. Wrong body.
His gaze hit a mirror.
A boy, maybe twelve, with golden hair and violet-grey eyes stared back—aristocratic features that would've made any fantasy artist proud.
"Oh… f*** me sideways."
Then came the memories. Not gentle—brutal, flooding in all at once.
A mother dead of fever.
A father—King Aldric Draymore of Stormhearth—drowning himself in wine.
Three brothers—Marcus, Torren, Aldus—each "dead by accident."
A new queen—Selyse—beautiful, cunning, and deadly.
Her son, Dorian—spoiled, gluttonous, eight years old.
And him—Rider Draymore, fourth prince, last surviving heir.
Two lives jammed into one skull. Arjun, software engineer, age twenty-eight. Rider, prince of Stormhearth, age twelve. The fusion burned behind his eyes.
She killed them. The realization slammed into him. Every "accident" lined up perfectly after Selyse arrived. One by one, the princes fell. She was clearing the board for her brat.
And he was next.
---
The door opened.
An old man in grey robes stepped in—silver beard, clear eyes, a tray in his hands.
"Your Grace," said Maester Colwyn, voice warm but probing. "You're awake. The servants say you've had nightmares again."
Nightmares. Right. Try murder premonitions.
"I'm fine," Rider said, forcing boyish innocence into his tone.
"Understandable." Colwyn set the tray down—bread, cheese, watered wine. "Grief does strange things to the young."
There was weight behind his words. Testing. Measuring.
He knows something. But can I trust him?
"Where's Father?" Rider asked.
"With Queen Selyse," the Maester said after a pause. "She's been… attentive since Prince Aldus passed."
Translation: poisoning him slowly while pretending to wipe his tears.
"I should see him," Rider pressed.
"Later, perhaps. Rest first." Colwyn lingered at the door. "Be careful, my prince. The court is… dangerous. Especially—" He hesitated. "—for the last one."
Their eyes met. Understanding, silent and mutual.
---
When he left, Rider stared at the untouched food.
Bread, cheese, wine.
Any of it could kill him.
His engineer's brain kicked in: cyanide smells like almonds; hemlock paralyzes; arsenic's tasteless.
He pushed the tray away.
First rule: don't die stupid.
He dressed quickly—dark tunic, leather vest, boots marked with his family sigil: a three-headed dragon.
Then he slipped into the corridor.
A guard stood twenty feet away—Ser Gareth. Loyal to "the crown," which meant loyal to whoever had power. Right now, that was the queen. Not an ally.
Fine. Walk like you belong. Corporate trick still works in medieval castles.
He moved through twisting halls guided by inherited memory—past portraits, down servant stairs, toward the Great Hall.
Voices echoed ahead.
"…boy's getting worse," Selyse's sweet tone drifted out. "Nightmares, paranoia. Yesterday he refused breakfast, claiming it might be poisoned."
Because it probably was, you snake.
"Grief does strange things," his father slurred. Already drunk. "He's just a child."
"Of course," Selyse said softly. "But grief needs direction. Purpose. Perhaps a change of scenery. The Grey Waste needs governance—Fort Despair. A test of character."
Rider's stomach sank. There it is. Exile wrapped in silk.
"The Grey Waste is a death sentence," Aldric muttered.
"Rustic, not deadly," she cooed. "A place to grow into a man."
Silence stretched.
Don't say it. Don't—
"I'll… consider it," his father said at last.
"Whatever you think best, my love."
Footsteps approached. Rider slipped into the shadows as Selyse swept by—green silk whispering, perfume of victory trailing behind. Her eyes were cold, satisfied.
He clenched his fists. You're fast, witch. Days, not weeks.
---
Options raced through his head.
Tell Father? He won't believe.
Run? Dead within a week.
Prove it? Too slow.
Accept exile? Death—unless…
A memory flickered. The Grey Waste sat atop Valyrian ruins. Dragon ruins.
His pulse quickened. In this world, dragons meant power. If the legends were true…
Maybe exile isn't death. Maybe it's rebirth.
---
That night, he found Maester Colwyn in the tower, surrounded by scrolls.
"Your Grace," the old man said, "you've been asking questions. Dangerous ones."
Rider closed the door. "I want truth. My brothers—were they murdered?"
Silence. Then: "Yes."
Rider's jaw tightened.
"Marcus—arrow from ground, not accident. Torren—'drunk,' but bruises showed he was held down. Aldus—poisoned after inspection."
Colwyn's voice broke. "Your father won't see it. He clings to his queen and his wine."
"And now she wants me in the Grey Waste."
"I heard." The Maester sighed. "I've failed too many princes already."
"Not yet," Rider said. "Tell me about the ruins."
Colwyn blinked. "Ruins?"
"Under Fort Despair. Valyrian. You've read something. I saw it in your eyes earlier."
"You've changed," Colwyn murmured. "Yesterday you were a frightened boy. Today you speak like a man preparing war."
"Maybe I am," Rider said quietly. "So tell me."
After a long pause, Colwyn unlocked a cabinet and unrolled a brittle map.
"The Grey Waste was once called Dragon's Rest," he said. "Valyrian dragonlords bred their beasts there. The breeding vaults ran deep—stone that defied time. When the Doom came, everything sealed. Most say it's cursed."
"Any chance something survived?"
"Old tales say travelers hear roars beneath the ash. Probably lies. Yet dragon eggs… they can sleep for centuries."
Rider's heartbeat thundered.
Dragon eggs. Under my exile.
"She's sending me to die," he whispered. "But maybe she's sending me to my destiny."
Colwyn stared. "That's madness."
"Maybe. But I'd rather chase madness than wait for poison."
He reached for the map. "Help me prepare."
The old man studied him, then finally nodded and began sketching routes. "If you must die," he muttered, "at least die like a prince."
---
Two days later, the throne room brimmed with courtiers.
Selyse glowed beside the weary king. Guards lined the hall. Whispers slithered through the air.
"Rider Draymore," the King said, voice echoing. "My son. You have suffered greatly. It's time you found purpose. I appoint you Governor of the Grey Waste. You leave at dawn."
Gasps. Everyone waited for tears, for pleading.
Instead, Rider bowed. "I accept, Father. I won't fail you."
Shock rippled through the hall. Even Selyse's perfect smile flickered.
"May the gods watch over you," the King said.
"And over all of us," Rider replied.
He turned, walked out with his head high.
Inside, his thoughts burned like wildfire:
You're sending me to die, Selyse. But you just sent me to where dragons sleep.
When I return, I'll bring fire and blood.
The great game had begun.
And this time, Rider Draymore wasn't the pawn.