When Malansi opened his eyes, he saw wooden roof beams.
The smells of mildew, dust, and the stench wafting from the livestock pen filled his nose. He lay still, staring at the crooked crossbeam for three seconds, and then a flood of information poured into his mind.
He had transmigrated.
A Song of Ice and Fire. A dilapidated village outside Highgarden. His identity was Malansi, the son of a tenant farmer. The original owner of this body had fainted from hunger on a field ridge yesterday and never woke up again.
He sat up, the straw mat creaking beneath him. The adobe house was less than ten square meters; aside from this bed, there was only a rickety wooden table and half a bag of black bread. The door was drafty, and through the cracks, he could see the bright, glaring sun outside.
The Long Summer. A summer that had lasted seven years on the continent of Westeros; it was deathly hot, but the crops grew well.
Malansi felt his stomach; it was hollow.
"Ding."
A sound rang out in his head.
[Dragon Rider System Activated]
[Host: Malansi]
[Binding... Binding Complete]
[Newbie Gift Pack issued, please check]
He froze.
A translucent light screen floated before his eyes with several lines of text written on it. Malansi blinked, but the screen remained.
His consciousness tapped "Check."
Something appeared in his hand.
It was cold, hard, and had a rough, textured surface. He looked down and saw an egg. It was the size of a palm, entirely pitch-black, with dark red patterns crawling across the shell like blood vessels.
[dragon egg: Balerion]
[Quality: Legendary]
[Description: Balerion, the mount of Aegon The Conqueror, The Black Dread lineage. Loyalty locked at 100% after hatching.]
[Hatching Conditions: Place in a high-temperature environment (Volcano/Dragonfire/Special Fire Source) to accumulate heat absorption.]
Malansi stared at the egg.
The Black Dread. The dragon that burned down Harrenhal with a single breath of dragonfire during the War of Conquest. Later, it grew large enough to swallow a whole mammoth.
Now it was in his hands, feeling chilly to the touch.
Footsteps came from outside, and someone called his name.
Malansi stuffed the dragon egg into his tunic, wrapped it in his ragged clothes, and pushed the door open.
The sunlight was blinding. A dark-skinned man stood in the yard; he was the village Foreman.
"Not dead?" the Foreman sized him up.
"Not dead."
"If you're not dead, get to work." The Foreman pointed to the east. "Lord Tywin's caravan arrives this afternoon. The master wants us to clear the weeds along the road. You'll get two copper pennys and a meal when you're done."
Malansi nodded.
The Foreman turned and left.
He stood in the yard, the sun making his scalp burn. In the distance, he could see the white spires of Highgarden Castle, shimmering slightly in the heat waves. The wheat fields stretched endlessly, golden ears drooping their heads; the Long Summer sun turned everything white with its glare.
The dragon egg in his tunic felt heavy.
Malansi looked down at his own hands—dark, thin, and bony. These hands were digging in the dirt yesterday; today, they held a dragon.
Without overthinking it, he headed toward the village entrance.
On the way, he encountered several villagers carrying sickles and hoes. Their expressions were all similar—starving, but with a glimmer in their eyes. The Long Summer was good; the harvests were bountiful, the lords were in good moods, and the food handed down was more plentiful.
The roadside at the village entrance was overgrown with weeds as high as a Half-man. Malansi took a sickle and crouched down to start cutting.
The sun beat down on his back, and sweat trickled down his neck.
He thought about things as he cut the grass.
He cut grass until the sun began to sink in the west.
Malansi straightened his back; his sweat-soaked undershirt was stuck to his skin, and the blisters on his hands had burst and scabbed over. He looked at the roadside; he had cleared half a mile of weeds, enough to fulfill the task.
The sound of hoofbeats came from the distance.
It wasn't just one horse, but many. The ground vibrated slightly, and the blades of grass trembled with it.
Everyone at the village entrance stopped and looked toward the Kingsroad.
Dust kicked up, and the knights appeared first, in white cloaks and golden armor, their lances bearing bright pennants—a golden rose on a green field. The banners of Highgarden.
"It's the Tyrells," a villager nearby whispered, instinctively backing away from the road.
Malansi didn't move; he stood in the half-cut grass, squinting as he watched.
After the knights came the carriages. There were three, painted dark green with gold trim on the frames and gauze curtains hanging from the windows. The horses pulling them were snow-white, a full head taller than a man.
As the second carriage passed in front of Malansi, a corner of the curtain was lifted by the wind.
He saw the person inside.
It was a girl. She looked about thirteen or fourteen, with curly golden hair and a face that still held a hint of lingering baby fat. She wore a pale green dress with tiny golden flowers embroidered on the collar, her head turned as she spoke to someone beside her.
The moment the wind lifted the curtain, she seemed to sense something and turned her head.
Their eyes met.
It was only for an instant. The curtain fell, and the carriage continued forward, kicking up even more dust.
Malansi stood where he was, his sickle propped against the ground.
A villager leaned in: "Did you see? That was the Little Rose, Lady Margaery Tyrell. I heard she goes to the manor outside the city every month to ride her horse and takes this road back."
Malansi said nothing.
The carriage train faded into the distance, the smell of dust still lingering in the air. He lowered his head and resumed cutting grass.
The sickle swung down, and a clump of weeds fell. The dragon egg in his tunic pressed against his chest, hard and unyielding.
The sun sank a bit further in the west.
The Foreman's voice came from behind: "That's enough, stop cutting. Come and get your pay."
Malansi put away his sickle and walked to the village entrance. About twenty villagers were lined up; the Foreman sat behind a battered table with a cloth bag in front of him.
When it was his turn, the Foreman counted out two copper pennys and placed them in his palm, then pointed to the side: "Get your black bread over there, one piece per person, and half a salted fish."
Malansi took the food and found a spot in the shade of a tree to sit down.
The black bread was hard enough to kill someone; he used a stone to knock off a piece and stuffed it into his mouth to chew slowly. The salted fish was also hard, but it was very salty, enough to help wash down the bread.
As the sun was about to set, the horizon burned a fiery red. The spires of Highgarden Castle in the distance were dyed orange-red, as beautiful as something out of a painting.
Malansi chewed his bread, looking in that direction.
The carriage, the golden hair, and that brief eye contact when the curtain lifted.
He withdrew his gaze and continued gnawing on the bread.
[System Prompt: Special fire source detected near target. View now?]
Malansi's movements paused.
He scanned his surroundings; there was nothing special. The villagers were all crouching and eating, the Foreman was counting the remaining copper pennys, and in the distance, cooking smoke was rising as the village began preparing dinner.
A special fire source?
He swallowed the bread, stuffed the last bit of salted fish into his mouth, and stood up.
Whatever it was, he'd go take a look first.
Malansi followed the system's prompts toward the back of the village.
The sun had already dropped to the edge of the horizon, and the light was fading. He bypassed several adobe houses and crossed a small olive grove, and the view suddenly opened up.
It was a blacksmith shop.
A shed made of broken wooden planks, open to the elements, with a forge standing in the middle. The fire in the hearth hadn't gone out yet, its orange-red light flickering in the twilight.
[Special Fire Source: A long-used blacksmith's forge]
[Heat Rating: Low]
[Hatching Efficiency: Hatching can be completed with 30 days of continuous roasting]
Malansi stood outside the shed, looking at the forge.
Thirty days. Faster than he thought.
The blacksmith was a mute called Old Toma. He was currently sitting outside the shed gnawing on black bread; seeing Malansi approach, he nodded.
Malansi walked over, crouched by the forge, and reached out to test the temperature. The heat hit his face, making the back of his hand feel scorched.
"Uncle Toma," he spoke up, "do you put this forge out at night?"
Old Toma shook his head and made a few gestures. He meant he banked the fire, keeping the coals hot to use again the next morning.
Malansi nodded and asked no more. He looked into the hearth; the coals were burning bright, and a few pieces of raw iron lay nearby.
The dragon egg in his tunic grew hot against his skin.
It wasn't the egg itself that was hot; it was being roasted by the forge fire.
He stood up, waved to Old Toma, and headed back.
When he reached the edge of the olive grove, he looked back once more. The blacksmith's shed was dark, with only the glow of the forge opening visible, like a miniature volcano.
Thirty days.
He felt the egg in his tunic and quickened his pace back.
The next morning, Malansi went to the blacksmith shop again.
He was carrying the sickle from yesterday; the blade was chipped, providing the perfect excuse.
Old Toma had just stoked the forge, and the coals were glowing. Seeing Malansi enter, he pointed to the water barrel by the wall and then to the bellows.
He meant for Malansi to help himself.
Malansi handed over the sickle; Old Toma took it, inspected it, and tossed it into the forge fire.
The two of them crouched by the forge, neither speaking. The tongues of fire licked the blade, which gradually turned red.
Malansi leaned forward, his chest facing the forge opening.
Heat waves surged over him. The dragon egg in his tunic was like a heat-absorbing stone, swallowing all that heat; against his skin, it actually felt cool.
Old Toma glanced at him but said nothing.
When the blade was heated, it was pulled out and struck with a hammer. The clanging sound rang out, and sparks flew in all directions.
Malansi helped by pulling the bellows; with every push and pull, the forge fire brightened and dimmed accordingly.
During the hottest part of midday, someone arrived outside the blacksmith shop.
Malansi looked up, but his hands didn't stop their work.
It was an old man in a coarse cloth robe, his hair white and his back slightly hunched. He stood outside the shed, peering in.