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The hot summer wind passed through the high windows of The Red Keep, swirling a hint of salty sea breeze into the stone walls. Bellon Targaryen curled up deep on the couch, a dog-eared copy of "Valyrian Dragons and Fire" spread across his knees. Dried petals were tucked between the pages, a gift from the Riverlands envoy last year.
He sipped chilled lemon ale, but his gaze frequently fell upon the warm dragon egg in his arms. Golden patterns flowed slowly across the shell, like solidified sunlight. This was a gift from his father, Viserys, on his eighth birthday. It was said to have been taken from the dragon pits deep within Dragonstone, the most dazzling egg laid by Silverwing. The handmaidens often said that by keeping it close, the dragon's fire would gradually synchronize with its master's heartbeat.
At his feet, a black cat was gently brushing his ankle with the tip of its tail. It was a gift from his sister, Princess Rhaenyra, named Balerion, after The Black Dread that conquered Westeros. But at this moment, it was only interested in Bellon's drooping sleeve, its purring carrying a hint of wild coarseness, mixed with the faint scent of its Shadowcat bloodline.
"Knock, knock."
The sound of knocking was so light it was almost drowned out by the boots of the Gold Cloaks outside the window. Bellon didn't even look up, his fingertips still tracing the golden patterns on the dragon egg: "Enter."
A handmaiden entered with a silver tray, carrying freshly baked honey cakes and lemon biscuits; the aroma instantly masked the scent of ink from the pages. "Your Highness, fresh snacks from the kitchen. The Queen ordered them to be sent to you."
Bellon waved his hand dismissively, his eyes still fixed on the line "Dragonriders and the Blood Pact": "Leave them."
The handmaiden bowed and withdrew. The moment the wooden door closed, Balerion's ears pricked up, and its amber eyes fixed intently on the silver tray.
Bellon turned a page, just as he reached the passage "Dragonflame and Bloodline Resonance," when a short, pained whimper suddenly pierced his ears. He snapped his head up.
The black cat, Balerion, was collapsed on the carpet, its limbs twitching violently as white foam bubbled from its mouth. Its black fur, once glossy and smooth, now took on a layer of ashen gray. A corner of the honey cake on the silver tray had been bitten off, with a few strands of black cat fur stuck to the cream.
"Balerion!"
Bellon lunged forward, pulling the cat tightly into his arms. That body temperature, carrying the wildness of a Shadowcat, was cooling rapidly; the steady purring had turned into a death rattle. He clearly sensed a cold, calculated malice eroding inward through the cat's blood—it wasn't an ordinary poison, but more like the shadows that whispered all day in the depths of The Red Keep.
Rage exploded from his heart like dragonflame, burning so fiercely that his vision went dark. The dragon egg in his arms suddenly became scalding hot, the golden patterns swirling frantically on the shell, resonating violently with his heartbeat. Ancient Valyrian words spilled uncontrollably from between his teeth—not the rigid syllables from books, but a more primal, more violent incantation. It was the sleeping power within the Targaryen bloodline, the instinctive counterattack of a Dragonrider facing harm.
The couch exploded with a boom, stone fragments flying everywhere. The gale from outside poured in, carrying fire and debris, whipping up a violent vortex in the room. Bellon held the gradually stiffening black cat, his fingertips digging hard into the patterns of the dragon egg. The stone walls of The Red Keep before him began to warp and melt, eventually turning into a swirling abyss of ink.
He heard his own roar, the hiss of the dragon egg, and the panicked shouts of the Gold Cloaks in the distance of The Red Keep.
Then, everything was completely swallowed.
His back slammed hard against cold marble, and a rich scent mixed with pepper and old books filled his nose. Bellon coughed and opened his eyes. The cat in his arms and the dragon egg had both disappeared.
Before him was an immense study, with bookshelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling, packed with yellowed tomes and shimmering crystal vials. Behind a heavy oak desk sat an old man with waist-length white hair and a long silver beard. Half-moon spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, and a pair of blue eyes, so sharp they seemed to see through the soul, watched him quietly.
In a goblet on the desk, a golden liquid was still gently swirling.
The old man set down his quill, his voice as calm as a lake in midwinter: "It seems we have another uninvited guest. Tell me, child—who are you? Where do you come from?"
Bellon pushed himself off the floor and slowly stood up, looking around. Strange ceiling, strange furnishings, strange atmosphere. This was definitely not Westeros, let alone The Red Keep.
He was born with a spirit far beyond ordinary people, able to vaguely sense the emotions and intentions of others since childhood. At this moment, this ability spread out uncontrollably. There was no killing intent in the old man before him, no calculation, only a calm, sea-like gentleness, and a very faint, light curiosity and insight.
"Who are you?" Bellon asked in a low voice.
"Albus Dumbledore," the old man smiled slightly. "This is Hogwarts, my office."
Hogwarts. A name that inexplicably appeared from the depths of his memory.
Dumbledore's gaze fell upon his still-trembling hands, and on the residual, scorching aura clinging to him that belonged to no known magical system. That aura carried the violence of dragonflame, the boiling of bloodlines, and a sense of tearing that crossed world boundaries.
"I can feel that the power within you is very special," he said softly. "It is not magic guided by a wand, not a spell, not any system I am familiar with. It originates from your blood, your bones, your... soul."
Bellon's heart jolted. No one had ever been able to see through him to such an extent at a single glance.
"You come from very far away, don't you?" Dumbledore's tone was gentle, yet every word was precise. "So far... that it is not on this land, nor under these stars."
Silence spread through the room. Bellon knew he couldn't hide it at all.
"I come from Westeros, King's Landing, The Red Keep," he admitted in a low voice. "There are dragons there, The Iron Throne, the conflicts of the Seven Kingdoms... it is a completely different world from here."
Dumbledore nodded slightly, as if he had already expected it.
"Another world..." he repeated softly, his eyes showing no shock, only understanding and compassion. "No wonder the light of your soul is so bright, yet carries a sense of isolation that doesn't belong here. Your mental power is exceptionally strong, child—strong enough to tear through space."
Bellon was slightly taken aback. He had never spoken to anyone about his abnormality.
Since the age of four, he could vaguely hear the unspoken emotions of others, sense the malice and goodwill around him, and make objects tremble or pages turn on their own when he was angry. The maesters of The Red Keep only said he was exceptionally gifted, but only he knew that his mental power was naturally far beyond that of ordinary people.
That wasn't magic. It was his innate power—Mental Perception, telekinesis, and Soul Power.
Dumbledore seemed to see through his thoughts and spoke gently: "You don't have to hide it. I can feel that you were born with the ability to touch hearts and influence things. That is not a spell, not sorcery; it is a part of yourself."
He paused, his voice light but firm: "You are a soul that has crossed worlds. And for now, this place will be your safe haven."
Bellon looked at the old man before him, his tense body slowly relaxing for the first time.
In The Red Keep, he was a prince who was coveted, monitored, and secretly poisoned. But here, the first person he met saw through all his secrets at a glance, yet there was no judgment, no exploitation—only calm acceptance.
He asked softly: "Aren't you... afraid of me?"
Dumbledore laughed, a gentle light appearing in his eyes: "Fear is never the beginning of understanding. I am simply curious—"
"Why would a boy from the age of dragons, carrying fire and storms, come to Hogwarts?"
Outside the window, the sun was at its peak.
The trajectories of two worlds quietly intertwined at this moment.