Chapter 1 – Reborn as a Dragon
Hunger.
That was Almaz's first sensation upon waking—an aching emptiness that felt as if his stomach had collapsed into itself. He was so famished it seemed he could swallow a whole cow.
When he opened his eyes, he found a row of thin metal bars in front of him.
He blinked, confused. Where… is this?
He turned his head, then looked upward—and froze.
He was inside a cage.
And the cage was tiny.
He lifted his "hand," only to see a pair of scarlet, translucent wings unfolding from slender black wing-bones. A hooked obsidian talon curved from each wingtip. He glanced down—two ebon claws rested where human feet should have been.
This was definitely not a place meant for humans.
He clearly remembered that just moments before, he had been in King of Glory, playing as a dragon and slaughtering enemies with great satisfaction—until the screen suddenly went black. The next thing he knew, he fainted… and woke up as a real baby dragon.
What kind of scam transformation skill is this?!
As he silently raged, a sudden dizziness washed over him, and scattered fragments of foreign memories forced their way into his mind.
He had crossed over.
And he had crossed into the body of a dragon.
Peering through the bars into the distance, he saw nothing but reddish-brown badlands and dry weeds. The cracked earth steamed in the heat; a few dead trees dotted the wasteland. Over the sky, a comet with a blazing red tail drifted slowly across the heavens.
Beneath that comet marched a small caravan—fewer than a hundred people—moving at a weary, dragging pace. Most were the old, the weak, women, and children. Their clothes were tattered, and many could only walk with support. A few warriors were bare-chested, wounds still unhealed.
Almaz's cage was tied to a horse near the front of the procession.
Not far away, a young girl happened to turn her head.
Silver hair. Violet eyes.
Her face was gaunt, her lips cracked from thirst, yet her features remained delicately beautiful.
A tiny, listless gold-and-green hatchling clung weakly to her bronze-tanned shoulder.
The girl held a thumb-sized piece of meat to the dragonet's mouth, but the little creature only sniffed, let out a thin puff of smoke, and drooped its head again.
Seeing the hatchling refuse to eat, the girl's already tired expression dimmed further.
Almaz's mind went blank for a heartbeat.
Daenerys Targaryen. The Mother of Dragons.
The moment he confirmed her face, combined with the faint memories in his new body, Almaz became almost absolutely certain—
He had transmigrated into the world of Game of Thrones.
And worse—
He had become Drogon.
Once the truth sank in, he could only force himself to accept it.
He had been utterly alone on Earth—just another exhausted corporate drone. If he had to start a new life… then being a dragon wasn't the worst option.
From now on, he was Drogon.
In his previous life, he had been a die-hard GoT fan—he'd even watched the uncensored versions. Even after two years, he still remembered certain scenes with perfect clarity. The plot had grown fuzzy, but with what he saw now, he could easily guess where in the story he had landed.
Daenerys had just lost Khal Drogo and her unborn son.
Her three baby dragons had only just hatched.
Eddard Stark—"Wolf Father Ned"—was unjustly executed even after admitting that Joffrey Baratheon was the rightful heir. His eldest daughter, Sansa, was trapped in King's Landing; his younger daughter, Arya, fled into hiding.
His bastard son Jon Snow had already taken the black.
His heir Robb Stark marched against House Lannister.
King Robert's two brothers each declared themselves king.
Every great house scrambled for alliances.
The War of the Five Kings was about to explode.
After finishing Game of Thrones, aside from endless regret, one thought lingered — summarized perfectly by the Faceless Men:
"Valar morghulis — all men must die."
Those who deserved death, those who didn't, those you wished to live, those you wished to perish… one after another fell.
Even Daenerys Targaryen did not escape fate.
Her tragedy was the hardest to bear:
hunted since birth, never knowing a single peaceful day;
finally gaining three dragons, fighting battle after battle;
standing on the brink of ruling the world—only to be betrayed, slain by the man she loved, her dream shattered,
reduced to a stepping stone for House Stark.
Drogon was one of Daenerys's three newborn dragons.
The moment Almaz thought of this, hunger surged again. He opened Drogon's tiny jaws to cry out for his "mother," but his throat was so dry and underdeveloped that only a faint hiss came out.
Using all the strength his small body possessed, he beat his wings and shook the wooden cage desperately.
The effort worked. After just two shakes, he drew the attention of the young maid walking behind him.
"Drogon, what's wrong?"
The speaker was a round-faced girl with dusky skin and black hair, dressed in a revealing leather halter that showed a slender waist — Irri, one of Daenerys's handmaidens.
As she spoke, she opened the cage.
To Drogon's surprise, he could understand her words.
The moment the door opened, he wriggled out, flapping weakly in her hands and lunging toward the wooden basket of meat strapped to the horse.
Irri blinked, startled.
"You want to eat now? You didn't want anything before…"
Whinny—
Before she could finish, a weak, pained cry came from ahead. A white mare had collapsed on the reddish dirt, unable to rise again.
Daenerys, who had been carrying the ailing golden-and-green hatchling on her shoulder, heard the sound. She hurriedly placed Viserion back into his small cage and ran over.
The white mare's eyes drifted shut, its breath fading.
Daenerys's heart clenched.
This horse had been Khal Drogo's first gift to her.
When her brother Viserys had coldly sold her to Drogo, galloping across the grasslands on this gentle mare had been her only sliver of freedom and solace.
And now even this she could no longer protect.
"Is there an end to this wasteland? Why haven't we found a way out?"
She stroked the mare's neck, then raised her weary eyes to the tall, middle-aged man kneeling beside her.
He was in his forties, thinning hair, wearing a sun-bleached linen shirt.
"Of course it has an end," Ser Jorah Mormont replied. "I've never traveled this far East, but I know there are great cities beyond."
"When will we find them, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asked softly, as if seeking courage from him.
"The Red Waste is more merciless than we feared, Khaleesi…
but forward is the only direction we have left."
Jorah's cracked lips tightened, and Daenerys's shoulders sank again.
"To the East live the Lhazareen shepherds — they would be glad to kill the weak and take your dragons.
To the North ride other khalasars — their khals would show you no mercy either. They would kill us and take the dragons."
"No one will take my dragons."
Daenerys's voice was cold steel.
Without her dragons, she truly had nothing.
"My bloodriders," she called, looking toward the Dothraki warriors riding nearby.
Hearing their Khaleesi, the three bloodriders approached.
"Rakharo, ride northeast.
Kovarro, southeast.
Aggo, straight east.
Find us a path out of the Red Waste — or a city."
The three men bowed their heads and galloped away.
Daenerys then approached Rakharo again as he prepared supplies.
"My blood of my blood," she said softly, "may you bring us good news."
"My blood of my blood," Rakharo answered solemnly. "I will not fail you."
[He's about to get his head cut off.]
Drogon muttered silently upon hearing her words.
The scene felt painfully familiar—when he had watched the show, he too had believed Rakharo would return with news of salvation. Instead, what came back was a bloodied sack containing the warrior's severed head. He had pitied Daenerys then; now he found himself reliving that misery from her side.
Just as she finished speaking to Rakharo, Daenerys suddenly turned her head sharply toward Irri.
Irri blinked in confusion under her Khaleesi's scrutiny.
Not Irri, Daenerys thought.
The voice she had heard earlier was too young.
She looked around.
Two women in the distance were helping a staggering young girl, but the voice had not sounded like hers—nor should a child have spoken such ominous words.
Could it really have been her? But why would she say that?
"My blood of my blood, I will depart now," Rakharo said as he pulled on the reins.
"Wait."
Daenerys lifted a hand.
Rakharo was the bloodrider she valued most. She would not send him to his death—not when an unknown, unsettling voice still echoed in her mind.
Until she understood its source, she could not let him ride into danger.
"What troubles you, Khaleesi?" Jorah approached, sensing her shift in mood.
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