Chapter 1: An Unwelcome Rebirth
The first sensation was not sight, nor sound, but a suffocating, primal wrongness. One moment, there was the exquisite, agonizing oblivion of non-existence, the sweet release from the pathetic, broken form that had once been Lord Voldemort. The next, a jolt, a searing pain that wasn't physical but existential, as consciousness, his consciousness, was dragged kicking and screaming back into the mortal coil.
He fought it, naturally. His will, honed over decades of relentless pursuit of power and immortality, was a fortress. He clawed at the edges of this encroaching awareness, seeking the familiar emptiness, the void he had unwillingly inhabited. But this new prison was insidious, soft, and overwhelmingly… fleshy.
Sounds began to filter through, distorted and muffled, like listening to the world from underwater. A rhythmic, thumping beat, a constant companion. Warmth enveloped him, a cloying, damp heat that was utterly alien to the chill of his preferred lairs or the spectral cold of his disembodied state. He tried to speak, to command, to unleash a torrent of curses that would make the air itself bleed, but only a gurgle escaped, a pathetic, infantile sound that sent a fresh wave of fury, mixed with a dawning, horrifying understanding, through his nascent awareness.
Slowly, agonizingly, other sensations intruded. The feel of soft fabric against skin that was not his own – skin that felt… new. Untested. Weak. The faint, cloying scent of milk and something vaguely metallic, like blood, but diluted.
Then came the pressure, a gentle but insistent squeeze. He was being held. Held! Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark Wizard of all time, was being cradled like a… a babe.
The indignity was a physical blow, far more potent than any curse. He tried to recoil, to push away the offending touch, but his limbs were laughably unresponsive, flailing uselessly, tiny appendages with no strength, no coordination. Panic, an emotion he'd thought himself long immune to, began to bubble beneath the rage. Where were his hands, the elegant, long-fingered hands that had wielded the Elder Wand, that had choked the life from countless insignificant fools? These were pudgy, dimpled things, utterly useless.
His eyes, when he finally managed to force them open, were met with a blurry, overwhelming world. Shapes swam, indistinct and menacing. Light, raw and unfiltered, stabbed at his unaccustomed senses. He blinked, a slow, laborious process, trying to focus, to make sense of the chaotic input.
A face swam into view, huge and pale. Female. Features softened by exhaustion, but with an underlying bone structure that hinted at a certain aristocratic lineage. Blonde hair, almost silver, was plastered to a sweat-slicked forehead. Her eyes, a pale, watery blue, stared down at him with an expression he couldn't immediately decipher. Was it… adoration? Relief? It was sickeningly sentimental.
"My son," a voice croaked, raw and tired. The woman. Her breath, smelling faintly of herbs and exertion, washed over him. "My brave little prince."
Prince? The word snagged in his mind, a tiny, sharp hook in the swirling chaos of his emotions. Prince of what? Where in the blighted, magic-forsaken hell was he?
Another face appeared, looming beside the first. Male. Older, with the same silver-gold hair, though his was streaked with more pronounced silver at the temples. His face was rounder, etched with worry lines that now seemed to be smoothing out into a weary smile. He wore a circlet of some dark metal, simple yet regal.
"Aemma, my love, he is perfect," the man rumbled, his voice deeper, carrying an undertone of authority that Voldemort, even in his current pathetic state, instinctively recognized. "A strong boy. The gods are good."
Gods? Plural? The man's attire, the woman's, the very air of the place – it was all wrong. This wasn't Britain. This wasn't any wizarding enclave he knew. The lingering scent of woodsmoke and something else, something acrid and vaguely reptilian, was utterly foreign.
He tried to access his magic, the core of his being, the power that had defined him. He reached for it, a desperate, silent scream in the confines of his infantile mind. For a terrifying moment, there was nothing. Just the thumping of this tiny, alien heart and the suffocating helplessness. Then, a flicker. A minuscule, faint spark, like a dying ember. It was there. His magic. Diminished, yes, trapped within this ludicrously small vessel, but undeniably his.
Relief, cold and sharp, pierced through the rage and panic. He wasn't entirely defenseless. He wasn't truly powerless. He was… contained. For now.
The man reached out a large hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed against Voldemort's cheek. The Dark Lord fought the instinct to bite, a ludicrous impulse given his current lack of teeth and jaw strength. Instead, he focused, channeling all his prodigious willpower into observing, analyzing.
These people, his… parents, as unbelievable and repulsive as the notion was, were clearly of high status. The richness of the man's simple tunic, the quality of the furs on the bed where the woman lay, the hushed deference of other figures who occasionally moved in the periphery of his vision – it all pointed to nobility, perhaps even royalty. The silver hair was distinctive. Targaryens, perhaps, if the old, near-mythical tales whispered by pureblood supremacists held any truth about ancient lines with Valyrian blood. Dragons. Fire and Blood.
The thought sent a strange, almost forgotten thrill through him. Dragons. Creatures of immense power, of fire and destruction. Beings that even wizards, for all their vaunted abilities, had struggled to control, eventually driving them to near extinction in most of the known world. If this place, wherever it was, still had dragons…
The man was speaking again, his voice filled with a paternal pride that Voldemort found nauseating. "We shall name him… Baelon. After my father. A strong name, for a future king."
Baelon? The name was guttural, foreign. It was not his name. He was Lord Voldemort. He would not answer to this… barbarian appellation. But for now, he was trapped. He had to play the part, at least until he understood the rules of this new, unwelcome game.
The woman, Aemma, smiled weakly, her eyes still fixed on him. "Baelon Targaryen. May he bring peace and prosperity to the realm."
Targaryen. So his initial suspicion was correct. He was a Targaryen. A descendant of Old Valyria, a lineage that supposedly held the blood of dragons. This changed things. Or, at least, it offered potential. If this bloodline carried any inherent magical affinity beyond the… unusual hair colour, it might accelerate his recovery, his reclamation of power.
Days blurred into a nightmarish cycle of feeding, sleeping, and being subjected to the cooing indignities of his new parents and a rotating cast of servants and Maesters. He learned to control his outrage, to channel it into a cold, calculating core. He observed. He listened. His infant ears, surprisingly sharp, picked up snippets of conversation, discussions of courtly matters, of lords and ladies, of sigils and houses he didn't recognize. Lannister. Stark. Baratheon. Velaryon. Names that meant nothing to his past life, but were clearly important here.
The language they spoke was a slightly archaic, more formal version of English, understandable enough. He absorbed it rapidly, his powerful mind, even in its current constrained state, acting like a sponge. He learned that the man, his 'father', was Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms. The woman, Aemma Arryn, was his Queen. And he, Baelon, was their firstborn son, the heir apparent to the Iron Throne.
The Iron Throne. A seat of power forged from the swords of conquered enemies, by Aegon the Conqueror, the first Targaryen king in this land of Westeros. A land apparently devoid of the kind of organized wizarding society he knew. There were mentions of 'maesters' who dabbled in knowledge and healing, of ancient whispers of magic in the far North beyond a colossal Wall, and of the 'Faith of the Seven', a dominant religion that seemed to hold sway over the populace. No Ministry of Magic. No Hogwarts. No Ollivanders.
It was a primitive world, in many ways. But it was a world with dragons. That fact, more than any other, kept a sliver of interest alive amidst his burning resentment. He had heard the king, Viserys, speak of Syrax, his own mount, and of Caraxes, a fierce beast ridden by his ambitious brother, Daemon.
Daemon. The name came up often, usually spoken with a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration by Viserys, and with outright disdain by others. A renowned warrior, a skilled rider of dragons, but also a volatile and unpredictable presence. A potential rival, Voldemort cataloged mentally. Or, perhaps, a potential tool.
His own burgeoning magic was a source of constant frustration and focus. It was weak, like a trickle from a vast reservoir, constrained by the undeveloped channels of his infant body. He practiced in secret, in the dead of night when he was supposedly asleep. Tiny, almost imperceptible acts. Making a loose thread on his swaddling cloth twitch. Causing a nearby candle flame to flicker erratically, much to the consternation of a nervous serving girl. He was careful. Reckless displays of power would achieve nothing but unwanted attention, possibly even fear and rejection from these new 'parents' who currently seemed to view him as a precious, harmless gift.
He needed to grow. To learn. To understand the power dynamics of this new world. His ultimate goal remained unchanged: immortality, absolute power. The methods might have to adapt, but the ambition was eternal.
One evening, several weeks into his new existence, he was lying in his lavish crib, the silks and velvets a constant, irritating reminder of his dependency. King Viserys was in the nursery, a surprisingly frequent occurrence. The King seemed genuinely besotted with his heir, often spending hours simply watching him, a soft, almost foolish smile on his face.
Voldemort, feigning sleep, listened as Viserys spoke to him, his voice a low murmur.
"You will be a great king, Baelon," Viserys said, his tone earnest. "Greater than I. You will unite the realm, bring an age of peace and prosperity that will be sung of for a thousand years. You carry the hopes of our House, the legacy of Aegon himself."
Legacy. The word resonated. Voldemort had always been obsessed with his own legacy, with ensuring his name would live forever, whispered in fear and awe. This Targaryen legacy, it seemed, was one of conquest, of fire and blood. It had a certain appeal, a raw, untamed quality that the more subtle machinations of the wizarding world sometimes lacked.
Viserys continued, his voice tinged with a familiar melancholy that Voldemort had already come to recognize in him. "It is a heavy burden, my son. The crown. It weighs more than any man can truly bear alone. But you will not be alone. You will have the love of your people, the loyalty of your lords." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And perhaps, one day, you will even understand the prophecies, the dreams that haunt our line."
Prophecies? Dreams? This was new. Voldemort's attention sharpened. He remembered another prophecy, one that had shaped his downfall, delivered by that meddling, sherry-soaked fraud, Trelawney. He had dismissed it, then been consumed by it. Prophecies were dangerous, double-edged swords. But knowledge of them was power.
He made a mental note. The Targaryens had prophetic dreams. This was a significant piece of information. Could it be a manifestation of some inherent magical ability within the bloodline? Something beyond merely tolerating the presence of dragons?
As if sensing his sudden alertness, even through his feigned slumber, Viserys leaned closer, his shadow falling over the crib. Voldemort felt the King's gaze, intense and searching. For a moment, he wondered if the man suspected anything, if his carefully constructed facade of infancy was somehow failing.
But then Viserys merely sighed, a gust of air that smelled faintly of wine. "Sleep, little prince. Grow strong. The future of our House rests on your tiny shoulders." He gently adjusted the blanket, his touch surprisingly tender.
Voldemort waited until the King had departed, until the heavy oak door of the nursery had closed with a soft thud, before allowing himself a sliver of true emotion to surface. It wasn't gratitude, nor affection. It was a cold, calculating amusement.
The future of your House. Indeed. But it would be a future shaped by his will, not by the sentimental aspirations of a well-meaning but ultimately weak king. This Westeros, this Iron Throne, these dragons… they were all just new pieces on a vastly different chessboard. But the game remained the same. The pursuit of ultimate power.
He, Lord Voldemort, had been reborn. Not as some random, insignificant speck, but as a prince, an heir to a throne, in a land brimming with untapped potential and brutal realities. The fall of the Dark Lord in one world had, through some inexplicable cosmic cruelty or perhaps, opportunity, led to the rise of something new, something potentially far more terrible, in another.
He closed his eyes, not in sleep, but in deep contemplation. The path ahead was long and fraught with challenges. He needed to master this new body, to understand its limitations and its potential. He needed to reclaim his magical strength, to adapt his knowledge to this new reality. He needed to learn the intricacies of this court, its players, its alliances, and its enmities.
And he needed to find the dragons. He needed to feel their power, to understand their connection to the Targaryen blood that now flowed, however unpleasantly, through his veins.
The name Baelon Targaryen was a mask. A temporary inconvenience. Beneath it, the soul of Voldemort stirred, ancient, evil, and infinitely patient. He had eternity, or something very much like it, once more. And this time, he would not fail. This world, this Westeros, would learn to fear him, just as the wizarding world had. The Dance of the Dragons, a conflict he was only just beginning to hear whispers of, would be nothing compared to the inferno he planned to unleash.
He focused on the faint spark of magic within him, nurturing it, willing it to grow. It was a slow, arduous process, like coaxing a dragon's egg to hatch. But he had time. And he had a will of iron, forged in the fires of ambition and countless dark rituals.
Aemma Arryn, his new 'mother', was frail. He sensed it. Her life force, though currently buoyed by the successful birth of an heir, felt… fragile. Viserys, for all his royal pronouncements, seemed more a gentle scholar than a ruthless monarch. Easily manipulated, perhaps. Or easily broken.
The court was filled with whispers. The Queen's difficulty in carrying children to term was common knowledge. His birth was seen as a miracle, a long-awaited blessing. They doted on him, this precious prince. They had no idea what they had welcomed into their midst. They saw a babe, an innocent. They did not see the serpent coiled within, watching, waiting, learning.
His first few months were an exercise in excruciating patience. He endured the endless cycle of being fed, cleaned, and paraded before fawning courtiers. He learned to make the appropriate infant noises, to mimic the expressions of contentment or distress that were expected of him. It was demeaning, a constant assault on his pride, but it was necessary. He was gathering information, assessing threats and opportunities.
He learned of the Small Council: Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, a man whose ambition seemed to Voldemort to be a pale imitation of his own, yet sharp and dangerous nonetheless. Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, quiet and observant. Grand Maester Mellos, whose pronouncements on medicine and history Voldemort found quaintly primitive. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, Master of Ships, a man of great wealth and maritime power, married to the King's cousin, Rhaenys Targaryen, "The Queen Who Never Was." A woman with her own dragon, Meleys, and her own simmering resentments.
These were the players. These were the pawns.
His own physical development was a source of constant monitoring. He willed his tiny limbs to strengthen, his senses to sharpen. He practiced focusing his eyes, distinguishing faces, memorizing sigils embroidered on tunics. He longed for the ability to speak, to articulate his will, but he knew that too would come in time.
His magic, though still frustratingly weak, was slowly, steadily growing. He could now, with intense concentration, make small objects tremble, or extinguish a distant candle with a thought. These were minor feats, parlor tricks compared to the destructive power he had once wielded, but they were progress. They were a promise of what was to come.
He paid particular attention to any mention of Valyrian magic, of dragonlore. He learned that Targaryens were said to have a unique bond with dragons, that they could withstand greater heat than ordinary men. He wondered if his wizarding magic, his soul so deeply steeped in the Dark Arts, would interact with this innate Valyrian heritage. Would it be amplified? Or would it clash, creating some unforeseen consequence?
One day, Queen Aemma was holding him, humming a soft, melancholic lullaby. Her scent, a mixture of milk and lavender, was less offensive to him now, merely a part of the irritating tapestry of his new existence. He was looking past her shoulder, his gaze fixed on a tapestry depicting a magnificent, red dragon breathing fire. Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon's mount. A legend.
Aemma, noticing his gaze, smiled. "You like the dragons, my little one? Of course, you do. It is in your blood." She shifted him slightly. "One day, you too shall ride. A magnificent beast, worthy of a king."
Voldemort felt a cold flicker of something akin to anticipation. Riding a dragon. Commanding such a creature. It was a far cry from a broomstick or a Thestral. It had a certain… grandeur.
"Your father… he worries so much," Aemma murmured, her voice barely a whisper, as if speaking her thoughts aloud. "He dreams of a son, to secure the succession, to prevent… strife." Her grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "There are shadows in this court, Baelon. Ambitious men. Be strong, my son. Be wise. But also, be kind."
Kind? The notion was so alien, so absurd, that Voldemort almost let out a genuine laugh, which probably would have emerged as a disturbing gurgle. Kindness was weakness. Sentimentality was a flaw to be exploited. This Queen, for all her gentle nature, was naive.
But her words about shadows and ambitious men resonated. He already sensed the subtle currents of intrigue, the unspoken rivalries. Otto Hightower's careful maneuvering. Daemon Targaryen's brooding resentment from afar (he was currently making a nuisance of himself in the Stepstones, according to court gossip). The quiet ambition of the Velaryons.
This was a world ripe for his brand of influence. A world that understood power in its most brutal, tangible forms. A world that might, with the right guidance, the right master, be forged into something truly magnificent, truly his.
He would need allies, of course. Or, more accurately, servants. Those who could be bent to his will, either through fear, persuasion, or the promise of power. He would need to identify those with useful talents, those whose loyalties were pliable.
The first year of his new life passed in this manner. A slow, agonizing crawl towards autonomy. He learned to sit up, to crawl, his infant body a constant source of infuriating limitation. But with each passing moon, his mind sharpened, his plans solidified, and the spark of his magic grew a little brighter, a little hotter.
He was Baelon Targaryen, the Dragon Prince. But he was also Lord Voldemort. And the world would soon learn that the two were one and the same, a nightmare reborn in fire and blood. The Dance of the Dragons would indeed have a new, unexpected participant. And its tune would be one of terror and domination. He would ensure it.
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