The night Benedict died, he hadn't been doing anything heroic. He'd just been tired.
Growing up as the sixth of nine children in a cramped, loud, and chronically indifferent modern household meant Benedict was an expert at being invisible. His parents rarely remembered his specific food preferences, his older siblings talked over him, and his younger siblings inherited his clothes before he was even done wearing them. It made sense that he became a tailor—stitching things together in the quiet background, making sure other people looked good while he faded into the wallpaper.
His only real escape was an advanced character-creation AI tool he'd found online. The night before his heart simply decided to stop, he had poured all his stifled yearning for individuality into a single, absurdly grand persona.
He didn't just want to be noticed; he wanted a name that demanded an entire page of a history book. He typed it out, tasting the syllables: Benedarion Vaelerys Zalytharion di Dracarys Targaryen.
Then, darkness. No bright lights. No tunnel. Just a sudden, violent gasp for air that smelled overwhelmingly of pine needles, crushed mint, and... ozone?
Benedict blinked, his vision clearing to reveal a canopy of massive, ancient trees. The air was warm and humid. He rolled over, expecting the creak of his cheap mattress, but instead felt the damp, rich earth of a forest floor.
"What the..." He stopped. His voice was deeper, smoother, carrying a strange, melodic resonance.
He looked down at his hands. They weren't the calloused, needle-pricked hands of a twentieth-century tailor. They were larger, elegant, and pale, with knuckles that looked capable of breaking a man's jaw. He was dressed in a finely tailored, dark charcoal tunic of a strange, silk-like material he'd never handled before, complete with sturdy leather riding boots.
A low, vibrating rumble shook the ground beneath him.
Benedict whipped his head around and froze. Sitting a mere three feet away was a creature out of a fever dream. It was a dragon, but unlike any description he had ever read. Its scales weren't a single, solid hue; they were completely reflective, like polished silver glass. As it shifted its neck, the scales mirrored the green leaves of the canopy and the blue of the sky perfectly, making it look almost translucent, a living mirage.
Yggdrasil, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He just knew the dragon's name. The beast chuffed, a puff of warm, sulfurless air washing over him, and nudged Benedict's shoulder with its snout.
Before he could process the sheer panic of a living dinosaur cuddling him, a blur of silver-grey fur caught his eye. Crouched on a nearby mossy boulder was a shadowcat, but it was massive—nearly the size of a small pony. Its fur was a striking, ethereal silver-white, and its eyes glowed with an intelligent, amber light.
Bastet.
The shadowcat let out a low, vibrating purr that resonated in Benedict's chest, stepping down from the boulder to sit faithfully at his left flank.
"Alright," Benedict muttered, rubbing his temples. "I'm either in a very specific, highly budget-intensive coma, or I'm..."
He looked down. Lying on the grass between his boots was a breathtaking bastard sword. Its blade was forged from a dark, swirling metal that seemed to absorb the dappled sunlight—Valyrian steel, but darker, like a midnight sky. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, the pommel shaped like a roaring dragon with amethyst eyes. Nyx.
Beside the sword lay a heavy leather pouch and two parchment letters sealed with dark red wax.
Benedict picked up the pouch first. It jingled with a heavy, metallic clink. He opened it to find exactly sixty heavy, gleaming gold coins stamped with the face of a king he didn't recognize. Gold Dragons.
Heart hammering against his ribs, he picked up the first letter, breaking the wax seal. The elegant, looping script read:
To my son, Benedarion.
If you are reading this, the worst has come to pass, and I am no longer in this world to protect you. You must know the truth of your blood, no matter how heavy a burden it may be. You are the true-born son of Prince Baelon Targaryen, the Brave, son of King Jaehaerys.
Your birth was kept a closely guarded secret to protect you from the vipers of the court and the factions that seek to divide our house. But the blood of the dragon flows pure in your veins. Do not trust the Red Keep blindly. Keep your wits sharp, your blade closer, and let the world believe you are nothing until the time is right to fly.
Benedict—no, Benedarion—stared at the parchment. Baelon the Brave. That meant King Viserys and Prince Daemon were his half-brothers. He hadn't just transmigrated into a fantasy world; he had dropped right into the era preceding the Dance of the Dragons. A time of immense wealth, soaring dragons, and a family primed to tear itself apart in fire and blood.
The second letter was shorter, written in a different, hurried hand, detailing his current location: The Whispering Woods along the Mander River, a few miles north of Highgarden.
"Highgarden," Benedarion murmured, looking at his reflection in Yggdrasil's mirror-like scales. He had Targaryen features now—striking violet eyes and long, silver-gold hair that fell perfectly past his shoulders. If he walked into a village looking like this, with a Valyrian steel sword, a giant silver shadowcat, and a mirror-scaled dragon, he'd have an army from the Reach descending on him within twelve hours.
His modern mind, honed by years of surviving a chaotic household by blending into the background, immediately kicked into overdrive.
"We lay low," Benedarion said aloud, looking between Yggdrasil and Bastet. "No Kings Landing. No dragon riding. Not yet."
He looked at his sixty gold dragons. It was a small fortune for a commoner, enough to buy supplies for months if he was careful. As a tailor, he knew how to survive on a budget, how to mend, how to construct shelter, and how to stay quiet. The forest was dense, the Mander provided fresh water, and Bastet could easily hunt for them while Yggdrasil was still small enough to hide beneath the dense canopy.
Benedarion picked up Nyx, sheathing the magnificent blade and strapping it to his belt. He hid the Targaryen letters deep within his tunic, securing the pouch of gold at his waist.
"Come on," he whispered to his companions, gesturing for them to follow him deeper into the thicket, away from the direction of the river and any potential fishermen or traders. "Let's find a cave. We have a lot of planning to do."
For the first time in two lives, nobody knew who he was, and nobody was looking for him. And Benedarion intended to keep it that way until he was ready to shake the Seven Kingdoms to their very core.