John Smith stood outside Chipotle like a man contemplating the meaning of life. Which, in a way, he was.
"Burrito bowl or tacos?" he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. At six-foot-three and built like he wrestled bears for fun, John drew the occasional curious glance from passersby. Right now, though, his intense focus was entirely devoted to Mexican food logistics.
"Bowl's efficient," he reasoned aloud, earning a sideways look from a woman walking her dog. "Protein, carbs, veggies—boom. No structural integrity issues." He paused, considering. "But tacos... tacos have *flair*. There's an art to the head tilt. The precise angle required to prevent carnitas avalanche."
He was mid-stride toward the door, having made his decision in favor of the noble taco, when the universe decided to end the debate permanently.
The lightning strike wasn't dramatic. No ominous thunder roll, no slow-motion collapse, no concerned bystanders shouting helpful things like "Someone call an ambulance!" Just: *ZAP*. Lights out. Tacos denied.
When consciousness returned, John found himself floating in what could only be described as a cosmic screensaver—endless silver mist swirling in patterns that made his brain itch.
"No up, no down," he observed calmly, testing his non-corporeal limbs. "Smells like... ozone and regret."
"Oh, brilliant," came a voice from everywhere and nowhere, carrying the unmistakable accent of someone who'd grown up complaining about the weather and queue-jumpers. "He's already making observations. That's... that's just fantastic."
John turned toward the voice—or rather, the general direction his soul-GPS suggested was 'forward'—and encountered something that hurt to look at directly. The figure kept shifting between forms: a lanky office manager in an ill-fitting suit, a towering cosmic entity wreathed in starlight, a barista with questionable fashion choices, then back again.
"Right," John said, crossing his arms with surprising success given his current incorporeal state. "Let me guess. You're the Random Omnipotent Being I keep hearing about in those web novels."
The entity's form stabilized into what appeared to be a seven-foot-tall customer service representative with the posture of a man perpetually apologizing for things beyond his control. A name tag materialized on his chest: HELLO, MY NAME IS: INCOMPREHENSIBLE COSMIC FORCE.
"Yes, well, ROB works fine, actually," the being said, producing a clipboard from thin air with the flustered efficiency of someone who'd had this conversation before. "And before you ask—yes, you're dead. Very dead. Thoroughly deceased. Charcoal-briquette levels of dead, if we're being technical."
John nodded thoughtfully. "Huh. That would explain why I feel like a marshmallow that's been through a blender."
"Quite." ROB adjusted his tie nervously. "Lightning strike, instantaneous cardiac arrest. No suffering, really, except for about 0.7 seconds when all your neurons fired simultaneously like a bag of microwave popcorn exploding, but you wouldn't have been aware of—"
"Right, got it. I'm crispy." John looked around the void with mild interest. "So what's next? Do I get a harp and some wings, or is there a queue I need to join?"
ROB winced visibly. "Ah. Well. That's where things get a bit... awkward."
"Awkward how?"
ROB flipped through his clipboard with the desperate energy of a man looking for good news he knew wasn't there. "You weren't supposed to be the one who died."
John blinked. "Come again?"
"Harold Wickham, sixty-seven years old, retired accountant, serial tax evader, habitually cruel to waitstaff—*he* was scheduled for termination. He was walking precisely three feet to your left." ROB's voice climbed an octave. "Unfortunately, one of our newer employees—Intern #47,394—got the coordinates muddled."
"So let me get this straight," John said, his voice taking on the dangerous calm of a very large man trying not to lose his temper. "I got fried instead of some guy who's mean to servers and cheats on his taxes?"
"That's... that's essentially correct, yes." ROB looked like he wanted to crawl under his cosmic clipboard. "The intern is currently having what I can only describe as a 'career-limiting conversation' with HR. There will be tears. Possibly screaming. Definitely a reassignment to parking duty in the Ninth Circle."
John stared at him. "Parking duty."
"It's surprisingly stressful. All those damned souls trying to find a spot close to the entrance."
"Right." John rubbed his forehead. "Okay, so what now? Do I get a do-over? Ctrl+Z on the whole lightning thing?"
ROB shuffled his papers like a man trying to find a diplomatic way to say 'absolutely not.' "Well, you see, your body is—how shall I put this delicately?—essentially a very expensive barbecue accident. And we don't exactly keep spare human shells lying about. Storage issues, you understand. Union regulations."
"Of course there are union regulations in the afterlife," John muttered.
"However!" ROB perked up with the desperate enthusiasm of a salesman about to pitch an extended warranty. "To avoid any unpleasant litigation with the Department of Cosmic Justice—and trust me, their lawyers are *terrifying*—I'm authorized to offer compensation!"
John raised an eyebrow. "What kind of compensation? Are we talking airline miles here, or—"
"Better! Much better!" ROB gestured grandly, causing the silver mist around them to swirl into shapes that looked suspiciously like marketing materials. "Transmigration! New world, new body, new life! It's like winning the cosmic lottery, except with less taxes and more existential dread!"
John's expression shifted from skeptical to intrigued. "Wait. Are you telling me this is an isekai setup? Like, actual fanfiction rules?"
ROB deflated slightly. "If you must use such... *pedestrian* terminology... yes."
John's grin could have powered a small city. "Oh, this is rich. This is *beautiful*. Any world I want?"
"Within reason!" ROB said quickly. "I can't send you to sandboxes currently under management by higher-tier deities. They get frightfully territorial about their pet projects. But most fictional universes are fair game!"
John cracked his knuckles—a sound that somehow carried perfect acoustics in the void. "And I get a special ability?"
"One 'golden finger,' as the industry calls it. Though I do wish they'd chosen a less suggestive name." ROB shuddered delicately.
John's grin widened. "I want the Gacha System."
ROB's form flickered like a bad TV reception. "I'm sorry, *what*?"
"You heard me. Gacha System. Daily pulls, random rewards, ability to summon characters from other universes." John was practically bouncing with excitement, which was impressive given his current non-corporeal state. "I want the full gacha experience."
ROB stared at him with the expression of a man who'd just been asked to explain cryptocurrency to his elderly aunt. "You do realize that's completely random? You could pull Excalibur one day and a coupon for free breadsticks the next."
"Yeah," John said, his grin somehow getting even wider. "That's half the fun."
ROB pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Of course it is. And I suppose you have a world in mind?"
"A Song of Ice and Fire."
ROB's head snapped up. "The George R.R. Martin series? Really? You're aware it's essentially a medieval murder simulator with dragons?"
"I'm aware."
"Everyone dies horribly."
"Yep."
"The author has commitment issues with finishing things."
"Still want it."
ROB sighed like a man who'd been asked to organize a children's party in a minefield. "Fine. Identity?"
John leaned forward with the intensity of a man who'd been planning this his entire life. "Rhaenyra Targaryen's elder twin brother."
ROB's clipboard burst into flames. He quickly conjured a new one. "The Realm's Delight? You want to be her *twin*? That puts you directly in the line of succession during one of the bloodiest civil wars in Westerosi history!"
"I know."
"Dragons will be involved!"
"I'm counting on it."
"Political intrigue!"
"Love it."
"Incest!"
"...Okay, that part's weird, but I'll figure it out."
ROB looked like he was developing a migraine. "And you think a *Gacha System* is going to help you navigate the Dance of Dragons?"
"ROB, my friend," John said, somehow managing to pat the cosmic entity on the shoulder, "I've read enough fanfiction to know exactly how this goes. Random powers, future knowledge, and just enough luck to break the game? I'm going to flip that world upside down."
ROB stared at him for a long moment, then conjured what appeared to be the universe's most complicated legal contract, written in liquid starlight and small print. "Prince Aemon Targaryen, born in the year 97 After Conquest, elder twin to Rhaenyra. Gacha System fully integrated: one complimentary daily pull, additional currency earned through significant achievements, and yes, the ability to summon companions or absorb abilities from across the fictional multiverse."
John scanned the contract with the speed of a man who'd learned to read legal documents the hard way. "This is surprisingly straightforward. No soul-forfeiture clauses hidden in subsection J?"
"We're not monsters," ROB said, looking offended. "Though I should mention—the system will adapt to your new world's rules. Medieval technology, dragon-based magic, political backstabbing—all fine. But if you pull a lightsaber, people are going to ask uncomfortable questions."
"Fair enough." John looked up from the contract. "One more thing: do I keep my memories?"
"Of being John Smith? Absolutely. Though we'll layer in appropriate cultural knowledge and childhood memories for your new identity. Can't have you asking what a sept is in front of your septa, or wondering why everyone's so concerned about their bloodlines." ROB extended a hand that seemed to be made of condensed starlight and cosmic bureaucracy. "So, do we have a deal?"
John grasped the offered hand without hesitation. "Let's dance, Bob."
"It's ROB," ROB protested weakly.
"Not anymore," John grinned.
Reality exploded.
Fire and blood, dragons and roses, ice and song—everything crashed together in a symphony of rebirth that tasted like destiny and sounded like inevitability. John's last coherent thought as his consciousness dissolved was a fervent hope that he remembered enough Targaryen history to avoid getting murdered by his own relatives in the first week.
Then came crying. His own voice, high and infant-strong, mixing with an identical wail from somewhere nearby. Twin dragons, born into a world that had no idea how much everything was about to change.
In the Red Keep of King's Landing, in the year 97 After Conquest, Prince Aemon Targaryen opened his eyes for the first time and immediately began planning how to revolutionize Westeros with the power of random chance and poor impulse control.
---
**[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]**
**[Welcome, Prince Aemon Targaryen]**
**[Current Status: Newborn Dragon Prince]**
**[Daily Gacha Available: 1]**
**[Achievement Unlocked: "Welcome to Westeros" - 10 Gacha Coins Awarded]**
**[Your legendary journey begins now...]**
---
Somewhere in the cosmic void, ROB watched the newborn prince through his administrative scrying orb and immediately began updating his resume. Something told him he was going to need a new job very, very soon.
—
Prince Aemon Targaryen—formerly John Smith, Patron Saint of Indecisive Chipotle Orders—was categorically, definitively, spectacularly not having a good time.
Being a newborn was like being trapped in a meat suit operated by a drunk toddler. Everything was bright enough to melt his retinas, loud enough to wake the Seven, and persistently, aggressively wet. His limbs possessed all the coordination of a jellyfish having a seizure, and the wet nurses handled him like he was an especially fragrant cheese wheel that might explode at any moment.
The only thing preventing him from having a complete existential meltdown was the sight of his twin sister Rhaenyra, who was also screaming her tiny lungs out with the fury of a dragon denied its morning coffee. At least misery loved company, and company was currently wearing a matching onesie of royal humiliation.
But there, nestled in their ornate warmers like the world's most expensive paperweights, sat two dragon eggs. One was cream-and-gold with delicate swirls—clearly Syrax, future queen of the skies and professional drama llama. The other was a pulsing crimson shot through with black veins that seemed to throb with barely contained violence. His egg. His dragon. His ticket to not being completely useless in a world where having sharp teeth and breathing fire were legitimate career paths.
Aemon might have been wearing what amounted to a silk diaper, but mentally, he was already flexing like he'd just deadlifted a castle.
*Alright,* he thought, forcing his mushy potato brain into something resembling coherence. *Let's fire up this cosmic cheat engine. System interface, activate. And please tell me you're not going to make me sit through a tutorial about feelings.*
---
**[SYSTEM INTERFACE ACTIVATED]**
A voice materialized in his consciousness like someone had installed a very confident GPS directly into his skull. It was warm, distinctly feminine, and carried that particular brand of British certainty usually reserved for people who were absolutely, spectacularly wrong about everything.
"Oh, hello there, little dragon prince. Bit of a rough landing, wasn't it? Though statistically speaking, nine out of ten babies scream when they're born, so you're perfectly average. Congratulations on achieving mediocrity straight out the womb."
*...Did I just get assigned a sarcastic AI assistant with the personality of a discount philosophy professor?* Aemon wondered. *This is either the best thing ever or I'm having the world's weirdest fever dream.*
"Oh no, I'm infinitely more useful than those dreadful voice assistants. For starters, I won't try to sell you music albums you don't want, I won't accidentally order seventeen pounds of cat food, and I possess intimate knowledge of the fundamental mechanics of reality itself. Also, I don't get bored halfway through conversations and start suggesting recipes for banana bread."
*Do you have an actual name, or do I just keep calling you 'System' like you're some buggy software that keeps crashing during important meetings?*
"Currently, my designation is 'Gacha System Interface Mark VII,' which sounds about as appealing as 'Generic Breakfast Cereal Number Four.' The previous user was supposed to give me a proper name, but he was too busy getting eaten by a dragon to fill out the paperwork. Bit inconsiderate, really."
Aemon considered this with the gravity of someone naming their firstborn child. *Alright then. How about Hestia? Goddess of hearth and home, keeper of the sacred flame, protector of domestic tranquility.*
"Hestia?" The voice paused thoughtfully. "Sounds like a budget kitchen appliance brand. 'Hestia: For All Your Moderately Reliable Cooking Needs.' Perfect. I shall wear it with pride and a complete lack of dignity."
*You're going to fit right in here,* Aemon thought with growing amusement.
---
*Okay, Hestia, lay it out for me. Rules, limitations, secret cheat codes, and where exactly I input the Konami sequence to unlock god mode.*
"Right then, buckle up buttercup, because this is where things get properly mental. You get one free pull every day, like brushing your teeth but with significantly higher stakes and considerably more disappointment. Single pulls are mostly complete rubbish—think getting socks for Christmas when you asked for a motorcycle. If you want the genuinely spectacular stuff, the legendary pulls that make reality sit up and pay attention, you'll need to save up for Mass Events. Ten pulls minimum for a guaranteed rare item. It's like buying toilet paper: one roll is useless, you need the whole multipack."
*And how exactly do I earn more pulls? Please tell me it doesn't involve grinding XP by folding laundry or something equally soul-crushing.*
"Missions, my dear boy. Little tasks designed to nudge you toward greatness or spectacular failure, depending on your competence level. Complete them, earn points, spend them wisely or foolishly—your choice entirely. Think of me as your personal life coach, if your life coach believed in loot boxes instead of self-actualization."
*You mentioned I could summon characters. Please tell me this doesn't involve drawing pentacles in crayon.*
"Two delightful options available! Option one: Direct Summon. I pluck someone from across the multiverse and drop them into Westeros with a believable backstory. Captain America might become 'Ser Steven of House Rogers, the Improbably Muscular Knight Who Gives Inspiring Speeches.' Batman could be a brooding nobleman who lurks on castle parapets and categorically refuses to participate in social gatherings."
Aemon's eyes lit up with the intensity of someone who'd just discovered fire. *Please tell me moody Westerosi Batman is actually on the roster.*
"Oh, absolutely. He comes with his own tragic backstory and an unhealthy obsession with justice. Option two: Assimilation. Instead of summoning them physically, you absorb their abilities directly. You start at one percent power, which sounds pathetic until you realize one percent of Superman still lets you punt livestock into the stratosphere."
*How many characters can I assimiliate without my brain leaking out my ears?*
"Three maximum. Think of it like juggling flaming swords while riding a unicycle—any more than that and you're just showing off before the inevitable catastrophic failure."
---
*Alright, hit me with the status screen. And please make it snappy—I think someone's about to change my diaper and I'd rather not be distracted during that particular indignity.*
---
**[STATUS – PRINCE AEMON TARGARYEN]**
Age: 0 years, 2 days, 17 hours, 23 minutes
Titles: Prince of House Targaryen (by birth), The Elder Twin, Future Headache of the Small Council
Dragon Bond: Crimson/Black Egg – [Approval Rating: Suspiciously Enthusiastic]
Physical Status: Excellent (for a human larva)
Mental Status: Dangerously Overconfident
Gacha Currency: 110 Points (10 Welcome Bonus + 100 Daily Bonus)
Available Pulls: 1 Daily + 1 Bonus
Active Assimilations: None (0/3)
Legendary Summons: None
Current Threat Level: Adorable but Concerning
---
*Two pulls right off the bat?* Aemon thought smugly. *Christmas came early this year.*
"Indeed. Two whole pulls. Like getting two lottery tickets and expecting to retire to the Bahamas."
*You're delightfully pessimistic. I think we're going to get along famously. Now, let's see what the cosmic slot machine coughs up. First pull, if you please.*
---
**[INITIATING GACHA PULL #1...]**
[Rolling... Rolling... Rolling...]
[Result: COMMON]
**Congratulations! You have received: "Basic Swordsmanship Manual (Illustrated Edition with Helpful Diagrams)."**
Knowledge flooded his mind like someone had downloaded Wikipedia directly into his skull. Footwork patterns, proper grip techniques, blade geometry, anatomical weak points, defensive stances—everything a aspiring swordsman needed to avoid accidentally stabbing himself in embarrassing places.
*Well,* Aemon mused, *not exactly earth-shattering, but I'll take 'competent with sharp objects' over 'helplessly flailing at armed opponents.'*
"It's the IKEA instruction manual of combat skills. Thoroughly boring, moderately useful, and guaranteed to keep you from assembling your sword technique backwards."
---
*Right then, second pull. And this time, let's aim for something with a bit more pizzazz.*
"Ooooh, feeling lucky, are we? How wonderfully optimistic. Here we go then."
---
**[INITIATING GACHA PULL #2...]**
[Rolling... Rolling... Rolling...]
[Result: UNCOMMON]
**Congratulations! You have received: "Character Assimilation – Geralt of Rivia (1%)."**
---
The world exploded into sensory overload. Everything suddenly reeked of leather, steel, swamp water, and questionable life choices. Muscle memory that belonged to a man who'd spent decades turning monsters into expensive rugs crashed through his consciousness like a freight train made of violence and professional cynicism. His tiny body tensed with reflexes that could dodge a griffin's talons, startling the wet nurse so badly she nearly dropped him.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a gravelly voice with a Polish accent muttered something distinctly unflattering about destiny, politics, and the general incompetence of nobility.
*Oh, this is beautiful,* Aemon thought, practically vibrating with excitement. *I'm a Witcher baby. A Witch-infant. A Ba-tcher.*
"Congratulations," Hestia said dryly. "You now possess one percent of a grumpy mutant who considers bathing a quarterly activity at best. At your current power level, this grants you slightly improved night vision and the ability to look mysteriously brooding while teething."
*Perfect. Absolutely perfect.*
---
**[MISSION UNLOCKED: Dragon's First Flight]**
Objective: Successfully bond with your dragon egg within the first year.
Reward: 200 Points
Bonus Objective: Beat your sister to it (because sibling rivalry starts early in this family)
Bonus Reward: +50 Points and Special Title: "The Precocious One"
---
Aemon turned his attention to the crimson egg pulsing beside him like a malevolent heartbeat. The thing radiated heat and barely contained aggression in equal measure.
*Alright, future flying death machine,* he projected at the egg with all the mental intensity his infant brain could muster. *You and me, we're going to be legendary. But first, let's show my sister how it's done.*
"That's the spirit," Hestia chirped brightly. "Though I feel obligated to mention that dramatically altering established timelines tends to have consequences. It's rather like knocking over dominoes, except the dominoes are people with swords, and they have strong opinions about cause and effect."
*Good,* Aemon thought as drowsiness began creeping over him like a warm blanket. *I've never been one to back down from a challenge. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?*
"Oh, you sweet, optimistic little meatball. This is going to be absolutely hilarious. I do hope you're prepared for the consequences of being a tiny genius with a dangerous smile and questionable judgment."
*Bring it on.*
And with that declaration of war against fate itself, Prince Aemon Targaryen—Witch-baby extraordinaire, gacha gambling addict, and future destroyer of carefully laid plans—drifted off to sleep, drooling heroically onto his silk swaddling cloth.
The crimson egg beside him pulsed once more, as if it were chuckling at some private joke about the chaos they were about to unleash upon the world.
Somewhere in the Red Keep, a wet nurse would later swear she heard the sound of dice rolling in the wind.
—
---
**One Month Later**
Prince Aemon Targaryen had developed what the maesters politely termed "unusual sleeping patterns" and what his wet nurses less diplomatically called "the spawn of seven hells masquerading as an infant."
The truth was simpler: he was grinding.
Every night, while the Red Keep slumbered in blissful ignorance, Aemon conducted what he'd dubbed "Project Witcher Baby Training." This mostly involved tensing his tiny muscles in patterns that would theoretically build the foundation for superhuman reflexes, practicing breath control exercises that sounded suspiciously like baby hiccups, and attempting to meditate his way toward unlocking more of Geralt's abilities.
The results were... modest.
*Two percent,* Aemon thought grimly as he lay in his ornate crib, tiny fists clenched with determination. *One month of dedicated effort, and I've managed a whopping one percent increase. At this rate, I'll be able to properly cast Igni sometime around my fifteenth nameday.*
"Oh, don't pout," Hestia chimed in with her characteristic lack of sympathy. "It's quite impressive progress, actually. Most people can't even manage basic coordination at your age, and you're over here trying to unlock supernatural mutation powers. It's rather like a caterpillar complaining it can't benchpress butterflies yet."
His daily gacha pulls hadn't been particularly spectacular either. Thirty days of spins had netted him a disappointing collection of common items: basic cooking knowledge, rudimentary mathematics, introductory horse care, fundamental etiquette for nobility, and one memorably useless pull that had given him "Advanced Techniques for Maintaining Facial Hair" (which would presumably be relevant in about fifteen years).
*Still no rares,* he mused. *The cosmic slot machine is apparently as stingy as a Braavosi moneylender.*
"Patience, young grasshopper. The truly spectacular pulls come to those who wait. Or those who sacrifice small animals to appease the RNG gods, but that's generally frowned upon in polite society."
---
The one unqualified joy in his new existence was his family.
His parents, Viserys and Aemma, were so young it made his adult soul ache with protective instincts. His father—barely seventeen and trying desperately to project princely authority while secretly still figuring out how to tie his doublet properly—had the earnest enthusiasm of someone convinced he could solve every problem with enough good intentions and careful planning. His mother was even younger at fourteen, but possessed a quiet strength that reminded him of steel wrapped in silk. They both handled their twins with the careful reverence of people who'd been told these particular babies might one day rule the Seven Kingdoms.
Uncle Daemon, at sixteen, was already every inch the rogue prince Aemon remembered from the books—sharp-tongued, quick to laugh, quicker to anger, and absolutely convinced he was the smartest person in any room. He had a habit of lounging dramatically in chairs like he was posing for a painting titled "Young Lord Contemplates His Inevitable Greatness."
But it was the older generation that truly fascinated him. King Jaehaerys—his great-grandfather—moved with the careful precision of a man who'd spent decades balancing on the Iron Throne's literal and metaphorical edges. Queen Alysanne still possessed traces of the beauty that had earned her the title "Good Queen," though time and the weight of crown had etched lines around her eyes that spoke of difficult decisions and necessary compromises.
Prince Baelon, his grandfather and the current heir, had the easy confidence of a man born to rule who'd never particularly wanted the job but would do it competently anyway. And then there was Gael—sweet, tragic Gael, barely seventeen and already showing signs of the melancholy that would eventually consume her.
*So many doomed people,* Aemon thought as he watched his family from his position in his mother's arms. *All walking toward their scripted endings, completely unaware their lives are plot points in someone else's story.*
"Getting a bit maudlin, aren't we?" Hestia observed. "Though I suppose having advance knowledge of everyone's unfortunate demise would put a damper on family gatherings. Rather like knowing the ending to a particularly depressing play while everyone else is still enjoying the first act."
*The question is: do I try to save them, or would that just create different disasters?*
"That, my dear boy, is the eternal question of time travelers and cosmic meddlers everywhere. Change too little, and tragedy remains. Change too much, and you might accidentally make things worse. It's rather like performing surgery with a sledgehammer—technically possible, but inadvisable."
---
Today, however, Aemon was too distracted by his current situation to brood about future tragedies. He was lying on a soft blanket in the solar, afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows, while his mother played with both twins. Princess Aemma had a musical laugh that made everything feel safe and warm, and she'd developed an entire repertoire of silly faces designed specifically to make her children giggle.
Rhaenyra, proving herself already to be a woman of refined tastes, was utterly enchanted by their mother's performance. She gurgled and waved her tiny fists with the enthusiasm of someone discovering comedy for the first time.
"Look at you two," Aemma cooed, tickling Rhaenyra's belly while Aemon watched with bemused affection. "My little dragons. Father says you're going to be the most beautiful princess in all the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaenyra. And Aemon..." She turned to him with a smile that could have powered the Sept of Baelor. "You're going to be strong and brave and protect your sister from all the terrible men who'll want to steal her away."
*If only you knew,* Aemon thought wryly, *that those terrible men are going to be our own relatives. Targaryen family trees don't branch so much as form awkward loops.*
Then, like a whisper in his bones, he felt it.
The egg. His dragon egg, sitting in its carefully maintained warmth beside the cradle. Something was... stirring. Awakening. The crimson shell seemed to pulse with a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat, and suddenly every cell in his body was singing with anticipation.
*Hestia,* he projected urgently, his tiny body tensing with excitement. *Something's happening.*
"Oh my," Hestia breathed, her usual sarcasm replaced by genuine wonder. "Well, that's rather ahead of schedule. Dragons typically bond when their riders are walking and talking, not when they're still mastering the complex art of not soiling themselves."
Aemon began making the urgent babbling sounds that had become his primary means of communication, gesturing frantically toward the cradle with his pudgy little arms.
"What is it, sweetling?" Aemma asked, following his gaze. "Are you trying to—"
**CRACK.**
The sound was like breaking glass, except glass that had been infused with magic and ancient power. A hairline fracture appeared across the crimson shell, glowing faintly from within like molten metal.
"Seven preserve us," Aemma whispered, her eyes widening. "Your dragon is hatching."
**CRACK. CRACK.**
More fissures spread across the egg's surface, each one releasing tiny wisps of smoke that smelled like sulfur and possibility. The temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees, and somewhere deep in the Red Keep, other dragons began to stir and rumble in recognition.
Then, with a final decisive **CRACK**, the shell split open, and Aemon's dragon emerged into the world.
The little creature was no bigger than a cat, but every inch of him radiated barely contained violence. His scales were deep crimson shot through with veins of black, like cooling lava, and his eyes burned with an intelligence that was distinctly unfriendly to anyone who wasn't his bonded rider. When he spread his tiny wings to dry them, they caught the sunlight and gleamed like stained glass windows depicting scenes of justified arson.
The dragon turned his head toward Aemon with the deliberate precision of a predator selecting prey, opened his mouth, and made a sound that was somewhere between a purr and a challenge.
*Hello, gorgeous,* Aemon thought, feeling a connection snap into place between them like a key turning in a lock. *Ready to burn down the world together?*
The dragon's response was to immediately attempt eating his own eggshell fragments with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been saving room for dessert.
"Oh look," Hestia observed cheerfully, "your lifelong companion is a tiny pyromaniac with anger management issues and questionable dietary habits. How perfectly appropriate."
**CRACK.**
Beside them, Rhaenyra's cream-and-gold egg was beginning to show its own fractures.
---
**[MISSION COMPLETE: Dragon's First Flight]**
**[Bonus Objective Complete: Beat your sister to it (by approximately 47 seconds)]**
**[Rewards: 250 Points Total + Title: "The Precocious One"]**
**[New Mission Available: "Sibling Rivalry" - Successfully raise a dragon alongside your twin without accidentally starting a civil war]**
**[Reward: 150 Points]**
**[Warning: This mission has a historically low success rate among Targaryen siblings]**
---
"Aemon," Aemma breathed, reaching for both twins as Rhaenyra's dragon—smaller and more delicately built than her brother's, with scales like polished cream—broke free from her shell and immediately began demanding attention with tiny, imperious squeaks. "Rhaenyra. Your dragons... they're beautiful."
The two baby dragons regarded each other with the wary assessment of future rivals who might also become best friends, depending on how the next few years played out. Aemon's dragon puffed a tiny wisp of smoke, which Rhaenyra's dragon answered with what could charitably be called a baby roar but sounded more like an offended sneeze.
*Well,* Aemon thought as he watched his dragon attempt to intimidate a piece of eggshell into submission, *this is going to be interesting.*
"Interesting," Hestia agreed, "is certainly one word for it. I prefer 'catastrophically complicated,' but then I've always had a flair for the dramatic."
Princess Aemma, meanwhile, was staring at her children and their newly hatched dragons with the expression of someone who'd just realized she was going to be responsible for raising not just future rulers, but future rulers with tiny fire-breathing pets who thought everything looked delicious.
"I should call for the maesters," she murmured, though she made no move to leave. "And your father. And probably the dragon keepers. And possibly a priest, just to be safe."
Instead, she settled more comfortably on the blanket, watching in fascination as her one-month-old son somehow managed to look smugly satisfied while his dragon systematically destroyed every piece of eggshell in reach.
*Two dragons,* Aemon mused as drowsiness began to creep over him again. *Born within minutes of each other, to twins who were supposed to share everything. No way this could possibly lead to future complications.*
His dragon, apparently exhausted by his inaugural act of destruction, curled up against Aemon's side with a contented rumble that vibrated through his tiny chest like a particularly satisfied cat.
*We're going to be magnificent together,* was Aemon's last coherent thought before sleep claimed him.
The dragon's eyes opened once more, fixing on the world beyond their comfortable nest with an expression that suggested he was already making plans for everything he intended to burn down.
It was going to be a very interesting childhood.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!