The sky above the Narrow Sea was a patchwork of bruised purples and pale gold, the kind of morning that seemed to hold its breath as if aware of some portent. The wind carried a hint of salt and seaweed, tugging at the hems of the boy's modern clothes, now awkwardly fused with a roughspun tunic that he hadn't chosen. He blinked, disoriented, as the rolling waves lapped against the hull of the small vessel that had brought him here—or, perhaps, himself. One moment he had been in his own room, staring at a glowing laptop screen late at night; the next, he had been swallowed by a bright, humming light and deposited in a world that felt both impossibly ancient and astonishingly real.
He pressed a hand to the wooden railing, feeling the weathered grooves beneath his fingers. Every grain, every imperfection, was perfectly clear to him. And with that clarity came the first wave of understanding: this world obeyed rules, patterns, and structures he could comprehend, adapt to, and master.
He had read about medieval history in passing, but Westeros—the continent of fire and ice, dragons and dynasties—was nothing like the dry words of textbooks. The sea smelled alive, the gulls cried with a harshness he could almost translate, and the distant cliffs of Dragonstone rose like jagged teeth against the morning haze. This was not a museum. This was real.
A small boat pulled alongside the ship, carrying men in the livery of House Targaryen. Their eyes widened slightly when they saw him, a child who appeared far too alert, far too self-possessed for his age. But the boy did not flinch. He studied them quickly: the weight of their swords, the glint of steel in the sun, the way their boots scuffed against the wooden deck. Every detail lodged in his mind, every nuance analyzed, stored for later use.
"You there," one of the men called, voice rough like gravel. "What is a child doing aboard a ship bound for Dragonstone?"
"I… am here to serve," the boy said, testing the words, letting them fall with the exact confidence he had observed in courtiers on screens he had watched years ago. He did not lie, but he did not tell the truth either. This was a careful dance, and he knew every step before he moved.
The man narrowed his eyes. "Serve, you say? Aye… we shall see."
The ship's captain finally descended from the main deck, a tall man with a cloak the color of smoke. "Bring him to the lord," he ordered, and the boy felt the subtle thrill of recognition: he had just been handed an audience. Not because he was special—though, in truth, he was—but because his presence was immediately useful. That realization made him grin just slightly beneath his breath.
When he set foot on Dragonstone, the basalt island seemed alive with history. The fortress loomed like a crown of black stone, its towers clawing at the sky. Dragons were carved into every archway, every battlement, every frieze. They were reminders, the boy thought, that in this world, power had shape, weight, and teeth.
His first days were a whirlwind. He learned to navigate the castle corridors, to read the subtleties of courtly speech, and to hide his true abilities. Westeros had magic, yes, but few believed in it—or at least, few believed it could be wielded by someone so young. So he experimented in secret, small at first. He touched a birdcage, and in a blink, he understood its rhythms, its desires. He closed his eyes, willed himself into the shape of a small sparrow, and felt the thrill of flight, the wind slicing past feathers that were not his.
When he returned to his own body, he smiled. This was only the beginning. Soon, he thought, he would understand every creature he saw, every lock, every mechanism, every secret hidden behind stone walls.
He turned his attention to rats next. Small, sneaky, unremarkable—they were perfect for observing without being noticed. Within hours, he had built a network of spies: birds flying over the courtyards, rats slipping along hidden tunnels, all reporting to him in the silent language of observation. By the end of the week, he knew which guards were loyal, which servants whispered rumors, and which rooms held secrets worth knowing.
Magic, however, was not the only tool at his disposal. He began testing his modern knowledge against Westerosi materials. Stones could be sharpened, metals forged, cement mixed in ways that would hold longer than what was customary. He took sticks, stones, and iron, and within days had created a rudimentary compass, noting the north with uncanny precision. Each experiment bolstered his confidence and curiosity.
The people around him began to notice his talents, though they could not explain them. A blacksmith marveled at the boy's skill with the forge, a minor knight was impressed by how quickly he learned swordcraft, and servants whispered that the boy was "different… not quite of this world." He did not correct them. Let them think what they wished. Mystery was a kind of armor.
Yet even as he learned and explored, he remained aware of danger. Westeros did not forgive weakness, and even a child could be a target of envy, fear, or ambition. He studied the soldiers' drills, the knights' maneuvers, and even the dragons' behavior from afar. Everything was a lesson, and he absorbed it all.
On the seventh night, under a sky thick with stars, he climbed to a turret overlooking the sea. The moon reflected off the waves like shards of silver. He spread his arms, imagining the wind as a teacher. The world was vast, full of power and history, and yet—he was already a step ahead. He had come from another time, another place, carrying knowledge that could change the course of lives.
And in that quiet, bracing night air, he made a promise to himself: he would not just survive. He would master. Every spell, every sword, every secret of Westeros would belong to him. And when the world took notice, as it inevitably would, he would be ready.
Even in Dragonstone, surrounded by dragons carved in stone and the ghosts of kings long dead, he felt a thrill that bordered on exhilaration. For the first time in a life that had ended too soon, he was exactly where he belonged.