The air above King's Landing reeked of shit, sweat, and fear.
From the high balcony of his chambers within Maegor's Holdfast, Prince Damon Targaryen stood in silence, watching the city.
Below him, the streets of the capital writhed like a wounded beast. Gold cloaks marched in nervous patrols, their spears glinting beneath the torchlight, while merchants shuttered their shops and common folk whispered prayers to gods that had long since abandoned them. Smoke from blacksmith forges mixed with the stench of refuse and the ever-present scent of the Blackwater Bay.
The people of King's Landing were afraid, and they had every reason to be.
The rebellion had grown too large and too violent.
Rumors spread faster than ravens now. Robert Baratheon had smashed the royal vanguard near Summerhall. Lord Jon Connington had failed. The storm lord marched north, his war hammer leaving broken kingdoms in its wake. Soon, he would join forces with Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn for the battle that would decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Trident.
And what came after that was clear.
The fall of the Targaryen dynasty.
Damon slowly swirled the dark red wine in his silver goblet, watching the reflection of his pale face distort in the liquid.
Silver-gold hair, violet eyes, and sharp cheekbones. The unmistakable beauty of old Valyria.
"The curse of my blood." He whispered.
He gave a bitter smile.
To the realm, House Targaryen was beauty wrapped around madness. Fire made flesh. Kings who either built kingdoms… or burned them to ash.
And his family embodied both.
Inside the Red Keep, his father, King Aerys II Targaryen, once called magnificent, now known only as the Mad King, spent his days screaming at shadows and muttering to walls. Every whisper was treason. Every servant a spy. Every lord a future traitor waiting to betray him.
Damon had seen the madness grow with his own eyes.
From a flickering flame to an unstoppable forest fire threatening to burn everything down.
Spittle on his lips and wildfire in his eyes. A king who was already halfway into hell.
Damon had been too young when it started to stop him.
Too disgusted to care.
Now, at eighteen, he cared very much.
Because mad kings did not fall alone.
His gaze drifted toward the painted table in the corner of his chambers, where maps of the Seven Kingdoms lay spread across polished wood.
Beside them were letters.
Names.
Debts.
Promises.
For the last six years, while Rhaegar chased prophecy and Aerys drowned in paranoia, Damon had been building.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Carefully.
He was the second son, the forgotten prince.
No one watched the second son.
That had been his greatest weapon.
At thirteen, he began learning the game of courts, listening more than speaking. The Lords underestimated him, believing him soft because he spoke less.
At fourteen, he started buying loyalty.
A captain of the City Watch whose gambling debts vanished overnight.
A stablemaster who wanted his daughter to be married well.
A dockmaster whose brother was released from prison.
Small men with small powers, but in King's Landing, the combination of these small powers had a surprising effect.
At fifteen, Damon established his first true shadow network.
Spies, disgraced knights, second sons, smugglers, and former sellswords from the Stepstones.
Men with no banners and nothing to lose.
He gathered them quietly beneath various guises; the people who could stop his actions didn't notice, as they didn't take him as a threat.
A prince was allowed armed men.
No one questioned twenty.
Then fifty.
Then, hundreds scattered, never gathered together in one place. All keeping eyes on the players in Kingslanding, by vowing false loyalty when needed and doing dirty jobs.
By eighteen, Damon commanded nearly one thousand loyal men hidden throughout King's Landing, some in the Watch, some among the harbor workers, some disguised as merchants, tavern keepers, and guards in noble households.
They answered to one man only.
Ser Harrold Waters.
A bastard knight from Driftmark with sea salt in his beard and absolute loyalty in his bones. Damon had saved him from execution three years ago after Harrold killed a corrupt gold cloak captain in Flea Bottom.
Since then, Harrold had become his sword in the shadows.
No songs would ever be sung of him.
Damon trusted him more than any lord.
Then there was Varys.
The Spider knew much, but not everything.
Damon had spent years ensuring that.
False trails, half-truths, and misleading whispers.
Enough to keep the eunuch curious, never enough to make him certain.
Damon trusted no one.
Not his father, not the realm, and certainly not even blood.
Especially not blood.
His elder brother, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, was beloved by songs and fools alike.
Beautiful, brilliant, and most of all doomed.
Rhaegar had all the things Damon should have admired: honor, talent, grace, and a mind sharper than Valyrian steel.
And yet Damon hated him.
Because Rhaegar knew.
He knew what taking Lyanna Stark would do. He knew what abandoning Elia Martell would mean. He knew what war would follow.
And still, he did it.
For prophecy.
For a dream.
For the belief that the world could be remade through destiny.
Damon despised destiny.
Men made choices.
And those choices made or destroyed kingdoms.
He took a slow drink of wine.
"I will not die for a madman," he said softly to the empty air.
His voice barely rose above the wind.
"I will not die for a fool's dream."
The city below answered with distant screams.
For a long moment, only silence remained.
Then the sky above King's Landing flickered.
Lightning.
But no thunder followed.
Damon frowned, stepping forward.
Another flash.
Silent.
White.
Wrong.
The air grew heavy.
The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then...
A voice.
Ancient and commanding.
"Damon Targaryen… your blood remembers."
His hand spasmed.
The goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered against the stone floor.
Wine spread like blood.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Every instinct screamed danger, yet he could not move.
The voice continued.
"Your blood has been regressed to the same as your namesake, Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince."
Damon's breath caught.
Daemon. The Rogue Prince. Brother to Viserys I. Rider of Caraxes.
"His mastery of blade and battle is yours. His bond to dragonfire shall live again through you."
Pain exploded through Damon's body.
He staggered backward, gripping the balcony railing so hard his knuckles turned white.
His muscles burned.
His blood felt molten.
Memories that were not his own flooded through him, steel clashing in the Stepstones, dragonfire lighting the sky above Harrenhal, the weight of Dark Sister in his hand, the scream of Caraxes beneath him as they dove toward war.
Battle. Blood. Flame.
He gasped, nearly falling.
When the pain passed, he stood trembling.
Changed. Stronger. Sharper.
Alive in a way he had never been before.
Then the voice returned one final time.
"You are inheriting his ability to bond with dragons. With the benefits of the system, you can bond with three dragons."
Damon's violet eyes widened.
"Three times you may turn back the wheel of time."
The wind stopped.
Even the torches seemed to freeze.
"Speak the year and place, and for one day you shall walk within it. Whatever you claim upon your return shall follow, dragon, egg, or relic of the past etc."
His breath hitched.
Three times.
Three days.
Three chances to seize history by the throat.
Not visions.
Not dreams.
Reality.
He could go back.
To the Dance. To the age of dragons.
He could bring back power long thought dead.
He could survive.
He could win.
The voice faded like smoke on the wind.
And then there was only silence.
Damon stood there for a long while, gripping the stone rail, staring over the city.
He knew how this story was supposed to end.
Targaryens did not survive this chapter.
But now…
Now he held something no king, no rebel, no dragonlord had ever possessed.
A chance to cheat time itself.
For himself.
"With this, my plans will have to change. It seems there is no longer a need to leave and head to Essos, as long as I get a dragon from the past, I can hold this city and even end the rebellion."
Damon turned his gaze eastward, beyond Blackwater Bay, beyond the Narrow Sea, toward the ancient bones of Valyria where dragons had once darkened the skies.
His expression hardened.
"Then let the game begin anew."
He closed his eyes.
There was only one answer.
He whispered the year and place like a prayer.
"101 AC Dragonstone"
The world shattered.
The air rippled like disturbed water. Stone blurred beneath his feet. The scent of shit vanished, replaced by salt, ash, and the sharp volcanic breath of Dragonstone.
The distant cries of gulls replaced the city's screams.
When Damon opened his eyes again, he was no longer standing in the Red Keep.
He stood atop the black volcanic cliffs of Dragonstone.
The ancestral seat of House Targaryen stretched behind him, its dragon-carved towers rising like jagged fangs against the sky.
This was not the Dragonstone of his youth.
This was older. Stronger. Alive.
The wind lashed against his cloak as waves crashed violently below.
And above, a roar split the heavens.
Damon looked up.
A shadow passed over the cliff.
Massive. Terrible but magnificent.
Wings wide as castle walls.
Scales red as fresh blood.
Eyes like molten gold.
Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm.