Chapter 28: The Dragon Returns (280 AC)
Nearly a century had passed since the passing of King Aemon I. The Golden Age of House Targaryen, meticulously forged by Viserys I and diligently built upon by his descendants, continued to flourish. Westeros was a realm of unparalleled prosperity and unity, a far cry from the fractured kingdoms of old. The Royal Army was an insurmountable force, the Royal Dragon Bank controlled an empire of wealth, and the Royal College continually pushed the boundaries of knowledge, slowly but surely ushering in an era of quiet scientific advancement. The dragonriders of House Targaryen, numerous and powerful, reigned supreme, their roars a constant reminder of their unassailable dominance.
The lineage of Viserys I had thrived. King Jaehaerys II (son of Aemon I and Lyanna Stark) had ruled wisely and justly, faithfully continuing the preparations for the hidden threat beyond the Wall. His son, King Baelor II, currently sat on the Iron Throne, a pragmatic and capable monarch. The strategic marriages Viserys had orchestrated had ensured a pure, strong bloodline, with numerous princes and princesses, many of whom were accomplished dragonriders, securing the dynasty's future for generations. The secret burden of the Long Night, of the Others and the great winter, had been faithfully passed down from reigning monarch to heir, a hushed truth whispered from one generation to the next, guiding their subtle preparations without inciting widespread fear.
It was into this established, powerful future that Marco De Luca found himself abruptly thrust, for the second time.
The previous life had ended for him as Viserys I, a peaceful passing surrounded by his loving family on Dragonstone. He had believed his journey was complete, his gambit won. Darkness had claimed him, but this time, it was not the suffocating void of oblivion, but a sensation of immense pressure, of being squeezed and propelled, followed by a sudden, piercing cold.
Then came the light, blinding and overwhelming, accompanied by a cacophony of muffled shouts and the jarring, visceral sensation of being held, rocked, and cried over. His lungs burned, forcing a sharp, involuntary gasp, then a raw, primal cry. Marco De Luca, the ruthless capo, the visionary king, opened his eyes to a blurry world of faces hovering above him, their expressions filled with joy and adoration.
He was a babe. Again.
The familiar sensation of the super-soldier serum coursing through his veins, subtle yet undeniable, was the first concrete sign that this was not merely a fantastical dream. The heightened senses, the immediate clarity of thought despite the infant body, confirmed it. He was Marco, reborn.
He was tiny, swaddled in finest silks, lying in a gilded crib that spoke of immense wealth and power. Silver hair, so soft and fine, tickled his forehead. He instinctively tried to move his limbs, frustrated by their infant weakness. His vision began to clear, focusing on the faces above him. A man with sharp, intelligent violet eyes and long silver hair, a gentle smile on his lips. A woman, exquisitely beautiful, with similar silver hair and eyes, tears of joy streaming down her face. Their voices, speaking in High Valyrian, filled the room.
> "Our son," the woman whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Our sweet, strong Prince Viserys."
>
Viserys. His own name from his previous Targaryen life. A sense of cosmic irony, or perhaps destiny, washed over Marco. He was a Crown Prince, born into his own lineage, in the year 280 AC. This meant the Long Night, the true enemy he had spent a lifetime preparing for, was now less than a decade away. The urgency, for a moment, threatened to overwhelm his infant body.
But then, something else stirred. A tremor, deep and resonant, rippled through the very stone of the Red Keep. It wasn't an earthquake, but something far more primal, a sound that vibrated in Marco's very bones, triggering a profound, visceral memory that transcended his infant state.
It was a roar. An impossibly deep, ancient roar that shook the very foundations of King's Landing.
Panic, mixed with a surge of overwhelming recognition, gripped the adults in the room. The maesters gasped, the guards stiffened. That sound could only belong to one being.
Balerion the Black Dread.
The ancient dragon, who had resided on Dragonstone for over a century since Viserys I's abdication and death, rarely flew anymore. He was a revered symbol, a living relic, a quiet guardian of the ancestral home. But now, he was not merely flying; he was coming.
Within moments, a massive shadow fell over the Red Keep, blotting out the midday sun. The wind outside roared, whipped by immense wings. A second, profound roar, closer now, echoed directly over the castle. Balerion.
Chaos erupted below. Knights drew swords, maesters muttered prayers, and citizens of King's Landing rushed into the streets, gazing up in terrified awe. Balerion had not visited the capital in generations. And never like this, with such raw, unbridled urgency.
In the nursery, Marco, in his infant body, felt an inexplicable pull, a deep, ancient bond reawakening within his very soul. He extended a tiny, uncoordinated hand towards the window, a desperate, instinctive yearning for the beast outside.
Balerion landed in the outer courtyard of the Red Keep with a bone-jarring thud, shaking the entire fortress. His colossal form, still magnificent thanks to the enduring serum, dwarfed everything around him. He ignored the terrified guards, ignored the shocked royal family rushing onto balconies. His molten golden eyes, burning with an almost frantic intelligence, scanned the castle, searching.
Then, his gaze locked onto the window of the Crown Prince's nursery.
A low, guttural rumble, a sound of profound recognition and boundless joy, emanated from the ancient dragon. It was a sound that made the very air hum, a sound that seemed to speak directly to Marco's soul.
Marco, as the infant Crown Prince Viserys, responded with a gurgle, a burst of infant joy that startled his new parents. He stretched his tiny arms towards the colossal dragon, an undeniable connection sparking between them.
Balerion had sensed it. The return of his true rider, the unique energy of the super-soldier serum, a familiar presence reborn into a new form. The ancient dragon had stirred from his century-long slumber on Dragonstone, flying across the Narrow Sea with a singular purpose: to be reunited with his King.
The current King Baelor II, the infant's father, rushed into the nursery, his face a mixture of awe and terror, followed by Queen Aelia and the Grand Maester. They looked from their newborn son, gurgling and reaching, to the colossal dragon roaring outside the window, a roar that now seemed less menacing and more… welcoming.
No one understood. No one could fathom the ancient bond that transcended time and death. But Marco De Luca, reborn as Crown Prince Viserys, knew. Balerion was here. His greatest weapon, his truest companion. The game had begun anew, on a larger, more perilous stage than ever before. The Long Night was coming, and the Dragon, now with a new face, had returned.