At first, Ethan lived in darkness.
Not the peaceful kind—this was thick, muffled, heavy. A fog inside his skull. Thoughts were slippery things, impossible to hold. Words dissolved the moment they formed. Memories flashed but felt distant, like someone else's life.
For the first few months, he barely understood anything.
Sometimes he felt warm arms hold him. Sometimes he felt hunger. Sometimes he heard soft humming. But even those sensations were broken, fragmented, swallowed by the numbness of a newborn brain trying desperately to catch up to an adult soul.
He couldn't move properly. His limbs twitched at random. His vision stayed blurry, shapes blending together. When he tried to think—really think—his mind pushed back like a door too heavy to open.
It was torture in slow motion.
---
3 Months Later — The Fog
Faces came and went.
A boy with pale hair and round cheeks would grin at him often—his face soft, innocent, maybe six or seven. He would giggle when Ethan tried to lift a hand, babbling in a language Ethan couldn't decipher yet. Everything sounded like musical nonsense.
Another visitor came, smaller—only a toddler, bright-eyed, mischievous, always poking Ethan's blankets. This one tugged his fingers and babbled louder than the first.
Ethan couldn't understand their names. Couldn't understand the words around him.
He was drowning in sensations.
Every time he tried to piece thoughts together—Who are these kids? Where am I?—the fog swallowed the questions whole.
His brain simply wasn't ready.
All he could do was exist. And endure.
---
After 6 Months — Fragments
Around that time, something shifted.
Not clarity—but cracks in the fog.
He could recognize those two boys now, at least by shape and voice. The older one was gentle, always smiling, always trying to hand him toys or point at books. The younger one was a storm—energetic, wild, loud.
Sometimes an adult man visited—tall, broad-shouldered, with silver-blond hair and a warm but tired expression. He would lift Ethan with ease and speak in comforting tones. Another woman came too, with that same pale hair, but her visits were rarer, and her face often carried sadness.
Names eluded Ethan. Logic eluded him. Words still felt like scrambled sounds.
But something inside him whispered recognition.
The hair. The eyes. The language.
The feathery, almost musical consonants.
A memory tugged at him—fantasy books, dragons, a certain fictional dynasty—
But the fog was too thick. The thought slipped away.
He tried screaming once, desperate for clarity, desperate for his adult mind to function. But all that came out was a toddler's incoherent wail.
He hated this body.
Hated feeling trapped.
Hated that he couldn't think.
But slowly… painfully… the fog continued to thin.
---
After One Year — The Breaking Point of Awareness
By the time he turned One, Ethan's mind finally began stitching itself together.
Not perfectly—his thoughts were still slow, fragmented—but now he could form simple conclusions, follow patterns. Words made sense. Their names became clear.
"Viserys," the older boy. Seven or eight now, kind but anxious, always fretting, always gentle.
"Daemon," the younger one—wild, fearless, already showing a streak of chaos even as a four-year-old.
The tall man—Baelon. Their father.
The older woman with wise eyes and soft silver hair—Alysanne. The Queen.
And suddenly the fog inside Ethan's mind thinned enough for the truth to slice through.
Silver hair.
Valyrian features.
Names he knew from books.
The setting, the clothing, the language.
He wasn't just in another world.
He was in Westeros.
In the Targaryen royal family.
During the era before the Dance of the Dragons.
A future bloodbath.
A civil war.
A literal genocide of dragonriders.
And he—reborn Ethan—was a child in the middle of it.
The realization hit him so hard he froze.
Then his chest tightened.
His breath quickened.
His eyes widened with horror.
No. No, no, no… ANYWHERE but here. Any universe but this medieval death trap!
His small body trembled.
He couldn't speak. He couldn't explain. All he could do was—
cry.
Not a normal cry.
A scream—raw, terrified, heartbroken.
Everyone in the room jolted.
---
The Panic
"Daemon! What did you do?" Viserys yelled, eyes wide as Ethan thrashed in his arms.
"I didn't do anything!" Daemon protested, offended. "He just started crying like a mad little dragon!"
Mad little dragon? Ethan thought furiously, even as he bawled uncontrollably.
You're calling ME mad? YOU are the future war criminal, you little demon!
Viserys tried to take him gently, but Ethan screamed louder.
No, don't touch me! You walking disaster! Your decisions will burn kingdom down!
The boys panicked.
"It's your fault!" Viserys snapped.
"No it isn't!" Daemon snapped back.
"You're always rough!"
"You're always whining!"
Ethan screamed louder, cursing every god from every religion he knew for dumping him in this timeline of all places.
The Seven, the Old Gods, R'hllor, Buddha, Jesus—WHOEVER pulled this prank, screw you! Dragons, plagues, assassinations?! Why not reincarnate me into a rich family in the modern world, huh? But no. It HAD to be medieval nuclear-lizard-land!
Daemon tried again, reaching out.
Ethan shrieked like he was being murdered.
DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH ME! YOU PSYCHO! I AM NOT GOING NEAR YOU!
Viserys stepped forward next.
Another wail erupted.
Noooo! Noooo! You're the REASON all of this will go to hell! Your incompetence starts a WAR, you moron!
The boys looked devastated and confused.
"Father should be here," Viserys muttered helplessly.
"He cries like a dragon with a thorn up its tail," Daemon whispered, horrified.
And then—
A gentle voice filled the room.
---
A Calming Presence
Queen Alysanne entered, her steps slow but steady. Her face soft, eyes full of empathy. She didn't scold anyone. Didn't look surprised.
Just opened her arms.
"Come here, little one," she whispered.
The moment she lifted Ethan, warmth enveloped him. Her heartbeat steady, her scent comforting, her aura peaceful.
She hummed a soft melody—old, ancient, full of lullaby magic.
And for the first time since his reincarnation… Ethan felt safe.
The terror ebbed.
His sobs lightened.
His breathing slowed.
His little body, exhausted from panic and emotional overload, sank into her shoulder.
His thoughts, still bitter and terrified, whispered one last complaint:
Fine. Fine. I'll cry later. I'm too tired to curse any more gods today…
And finally—wrapped in the gentle arms of a queen—
he fell asleep.