Chapter 1: Awakening in a New World (88 AC)
The suffocating grip of darkness receded not into the familiar peace of a well-earned rest, but into a disorienting swirl of unfamiliar scents and the disconcerting press of soft linen against skin that felt… small. Marco De Luca, a name that commanded hushed reverence and fear in the concrete canyons of New York, opened his eyes to a world utterly alien. Gone were the muted grays of his meticulously furnished penthouse, the faint hum of city life, the comforting weight of his bespoke silk pajamas. In their place, a canopy of intricately carved dark wood loomed overhead, sunlight, diffused through what looked like a narrow, leaded-glass window, casting long, dusty shafts across a stone-walled chamber.
Panic, a raw, visceral sensation Marco rarely allowed himself, threatened to claw its way up his throat. He had faced down rival families, orchestrated intricate betrayals, and stared death in the eye more times than he cared to count, but this… this was beyond his comprehension. He tried to sit up, a groan escaping his lips as muscles, surprisingly weak and uncoordinated, protested the movement. His hands, small and uncalloused, clutched at the roughspun blanket. They were not his hands. His gaze flickered down to his body, slender and childlike beneath the covers. Silver hair, a startling shock of it, lay splayed across the pillow, framing a face that was undeniably young, with eyes that, even in the dim light, he knew were not his own deep hazel but a vibrant, unsettling shade of violet.
Then, a flicker of memory, a fragmented image of a book, a dragon, a sharp pain in his chest. A Storm of Swords. The Dance of the Dragons. Viserys I Targaryen. The pieces, initially disparate and nonsensical, began to click into place with the terrifying precision of tumblers in a lock. He was no longer Marco De Luca. He was an eleven-year-old boy, a prince, in a world that existed only within the pages of George R.R. Martin's fantastical epic.
A cold dread, far more chilling than any fear he'd ever known in his previous life, washed over him. This wasn't a game. This was real. And in a world teeming with dragons, White Walkers, and political machinations far more treacherous than any mafia turf war, an eleven-year-old boy, even a Targaryen prince, was utterly vulnerable.
His eyes darted to his small, clenched fist. There, nestled against his palm, were two vials of glowing blue serum. The light emanating from them was soft, ethereal, and utterly out of place in this medieval setting. Super soldier serum. Captain America's serum. The last coherent thought before darkness had claimed him had been a fleeting, half-joking wish for just such an advantage in the brutal world of Westeros. It seemed the universe, in its twisted humor, had granted his dying wish, or perhaps, cursed him with it.
He carefully tucked the vials beneath the thin mattress, the cold glass a small comfort against the surging chaos in his mind. He needed to think. Marco De Luca had survived and thrived through meticulous planning, ruthless execution, and an uncanny ability to adapt. He would do the same here. The first order of business: assess the situation.
He pushed himself up, his muscles trembling slightly with the effort. His legs, disproportionately long and thin, dangled over the side of the bed. He swung them over, his bare feet meeting cold stone. The room was sparsely furnished: a wooden wardrobe, a small writing desk cluttered with scrolls and quills, and a washbasin. A heavy tapestry depicting a three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen, hung on one wall.
He walked to the window, the cold stone against his soles a stark reminder of his new reality. Below, the sprawling complex of the Red Keep unfurled, a labyrinth of towers, courtyards, and battlements. In the distance, he could glimpse the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay. This was King's Landing. This was his prison, and potentially, his new kingdom.
He spent the next few hours in a quiet, intense observation, forcing his racing thoughts into a semblance of order. He examined the clothes laid out for him—fine tunics and breeches, a far cry from his tailored suits. He tested the weight of a practice sword leaning against the wall, its balance awkward in his small hands. He read the titles of the scrolls on the desk, noting the maesters' precise script on histories of Westeros and Valyria. His book knowledge was extensive, but now, it was no longer a hobby; it was his survival guide. He needed to verify every detail, every name, every date.
A soft rap on the door startled him. Before he could respond, it creaked open, revealing a plump, elderly woman in a plain grey dress. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him. "Prince Viserys? Are you quite alright, Your Grace? You slept rather late."
Viserys. Marco forced a small, polite smile, a skill honed over decades of charming marks and intimidating rivals. "I am quite well, goodwoman. Just… a restless night." He needed to learn the names, the routines, the subtle hierarchies of this household.
"Of course, Your Grace," she said, her voice laced with a gentle concern. "Your breakfast awaits you in the solar. Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa inquired after you."
His parents. Marco felt a strange pang. He remembered them from the books, fleeting mentions of their short lives. Prince Baelon, the Spring Prince, and Princess Alyssa, who died in childbirth. He had knowledge that could save them, could rewrite the entire tragic saga of the Targaryens. The thought ignited a cold, calculating fire in his gut. This wasn't just about his survival; it was about shaping this world to his will.
He followed the woman, who introduced herself as Elara, a septa assigned to his household, through winding corridors and down grand staircases. The Red Keep was a maze, but Marco, with his innate spatial awareness, began to map its layout in his mind, noting strategic points, potential escape routes, and surveillance opportunities. He observed the guards, their simple leather and steel armor, their seemingly relaxed stances. In his world, a security detail like this would be a joke. But this wasn't his world. He had to learn their rules before he could break them.
He entered a bright, airy chamber, sunlight streaming through tall arched windows. His "parents" were already seated at a large wooden table laden with an impressive array of food: roasted meats, fresh bread, fruit, and steaming flagons of what looked like ale.
Prince Baelon, a man with a strong, noble face and kind eyes, looked up, a smile gracing his lips. "Ah, Viserys! There you are, son. We were beginning to think you'd decided to sleep through the whole day."
Princess Alyssa, a striking woman with the classic Targaryen silver hair and violet eyes, offered a warm smile. "Are you feeling quite well, sweetling? You were rather quiet last night."
Marco, channeling every ounce of his old persona, offered a charming, slightly shy smile. "I am well, Mother. Just… much on my mind." He sat down, carefully observing their reactions. They seemed genuinely fond of him. This was an advantage. Affection could be manipulated.
The conversation at breakfast was light, focused on mundane court gossip and the upcoming nameday celebrations of some minor lord. Marco listened intently, absorbing every detail, every name, every subtle nuance of their interactions. He learned that his grandfather, King Jaehaerys I, was still very much in control, ruling with a wisdom that had earned him the title "the Conciliator." He learned about his cousins, Aemma and Rhaenys, the latter of whom was present at the breakfast, a girl of fourteen with a proud bearing and a fierce intelligence in her eyes. Marco felt a jolt of recognition. Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was. His primary target.
He needed to establish his "new" personality, something that would set him apart without raising suspicion. Precocious, intelligent, perhaps a touch philosophical for his age. This would allow him to ask probing questions, to gather information without seeming overly curious.
Later that day, Marco sought out the maesters' library, a vast chamber filled with scrolls and tomes. He needed to confirm the exact timeline, to cross-reference his book knowledge with the reality of this world. He spent hours devouring texts on Targaryen history, the lineages, the key events, the political landscape. Every detail was crucial. He confirmed his suspicion: 88 AC. Jaehaerys was King. His parents were alive. Balerion, the Black Dread, was still alive, albeit old and nearing the end of his days. This was good. This was opportunity.
During a family dinner that evening, the conversation turned to the succession, a frequent topic among the Targaryens given the King's advanced age and the number of living princes. Baelon, his father, was the current heir.
Marco decided it was time to make his first calculated move. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the table.
"Grandfather," Viserys began, his voice steady despite his youth, the words carefully chosen, a blend of innocent curiosity and sharp intellect, "I've been reading about the old Valyrian Freehold. Their empire was vast, unchallenged. And yet, here, we have the great houses of Westeros, each with their own armies, their own laws, their own loyalties." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "Why do we let the lords hoard their strength when the crown could wield it all?"
King Jaehaerys, seated at the head of the long table, a venerable figure with a long white beard and wise eyes, chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. He reached over and ruffled Viserys's silver hair, a gesture of affection that Marco found surprisingly disarming. "You've a keen mind, lad. Most boys your age are dreaming of tourneys and maidens, not the intricacies of governance." He took a sip of his wine. "But peace thrives on balance, Viserys. A king who tries to seize too much power too quickly invites rebellion. The great houses have their ancient rights, their sworn allegiances to the Crown, yes, but also to their own lands and customs. We rule with their cooperation, not by crushing them."
Marco, as Viserys, offered an innocent, thoughtful nod, as if considering the wisdom of his grandfather's words. Internally, a different thought formed, hard and unyielding. "Balance," Viserys echoed, a slight, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, "is just another word for weakness, Grandfather. A true balance is when only one scale holds all the weight."
A beat of silence followed, the implication clear. Alyssa gasped softly, while Baelon shifted uneasily in his seat. Even the seasoned courtiers present, accustomed to the Prince's precociousness, seemed taken aback by the bluntness of the statement.
Jaehaerys, however, merely studied his grandson, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – amusement, perhaps, or a flash of recognition. "A bold thought, young dragon," he finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "But a realm divided against itself will surely fall, no matter how much strength one holds."
"Unless," Viserys countered, his gaze unwavering, "that strength is so absolute, so overwhelming, that division becomes unthinkable." He didn't press the point, but the seed was planted. He had shown them a glimpse of the sharp, ruthless mind beneath the youthful facade. He was not just a prince; he was a potential king, and one with a vision far grander, and far more dangerous, than they could possibly imagine.
That night, alone in his chambers, Marco reviewed the day. He had adapted, observed, and made his first subtle move. He had confirmed the timeline and the presence of the serum. He had made an impression on his family, an impression of unusual maturity and intellect. This was good. The Red Keep, for all its grandeur, was a viper's nest. He had to be smarter, faster, and more ruthless than any viper within its walls.
He drew the vials from beneath the mattress, the blue light pulsing faintly in the darkness. One for him, one for a dragon. Balerion. The Black Dread. He imagined the ancient beast, a creature of legend, revitalized and bound to his will. The very thought sent a thrill, cold and invigorating, through him.
He uncapped one vial, the faint, metallic scent of the serum filling the air. He hesitated for a fleeting moment, a lifetime of caution warring with an unprecedented opportunity. This wasn't just physical enhancement; it was a gamble, a plunge into the unknown. But Marco De Luca had never shied away from a gamble when the stakes were high enough. He brought the vial to his lips and, without further hesitation, swallowed the glowing liquid.
The effect was instantaneous and overwhelming. A searing heat erupted in his stomach, spreading outwards like wildfire through his veins. His muscles spasped, his bones ached with a dull, insistent throbbing. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, so loud he thought it might burst. He stumbled, collapsing onto his bed, his vision blurring, a cold sweat plastering his silver hair to his forehead. He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists, riding out the storm. It felt like every cell in his body was being torn apart and reassembled, excruciatingly slowly.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain receded, leaving behind a profound sense of calm, an almost unnatural clarity. He took a deep, shuddering breath. His body felt lighter, stronger. His mind, always sharp, now felt like a finely tuned instrument, every thought crisp, every memory vivid. He pushed himself up, his movements fluid, effortless. He walked to the mirror, his reflection startling him. The young face was still there, but the eyes, those violet eyes, held an intensity, a cold, unwavering resolve that spoke of a wisdom far beyond his years. He was still Viserys, but now, he was Viserys, enhanced. Marco De Luca's cunning, now married to a superhuman intellect and a body capable of executing his grand designs.
He knew what he had to do next. Balerion. The Black Dread. The key to absolute power. He had to prepare, to learn everything he could about dragons, about bonding, about the ancient magic of Valyria. He would not simply survive in this world; he would master it. He would forge a dynasty that would never fall.
The night was long, but for Marco, now truly Viserys, it was just the beginning of a game he intended to win. He sat at the desk, pulling out fresh scrolls and quills, his mind already spinning with plans, strategies, and the ruthless calculations that had always defined him. He was a prince now, but he was still a boss. And this realm, whether it knew it or not, was about to meet its new capo.