Title: The Obsidian Hatchling

Title: The Obsidian Hatchling

Year and Month: 80 AC, 5th Moon

The first sensation was one of violent, crushing pressure, then a blinding, unwelcome light. Air, cold and sharp, flooded lungs that had never known its sting. It was a brutal, shocking entry, a cacophony of sensation overwhelming a consciousness that had, until moments before, been blissfully silent. I screamed. It was a raw, primal, infantile sound, yet behind the cry, my mind, the mind of a thirty-five-year-old predator from a world of steel and silicon, was reeling.

Reborn. It's actually real.

The thought was sharp, a sliver of ice in the chaotic sea of newborn senses. The memories were there, not faded or dreamlike, but crystal clear. My life as a man who had clawed his way to the apex of corporate power, a man who viewed the world as a chessboard of assets and liabilities, of threats and opportunities. A man who had found his only true escape in the intricate, brutal world of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. I had devoured the books, analyzed the histories, critiqued the players and their pathetic, emotion-driven mistakes. I had fallen asleep one night after rereading Fire & Blood, a glass of expensive scotch on my nightstand, and woken up... here.

My new body was a weak, useless thing. I couldn't control my limbs, couldn't focus my eyes, couldn't form a word. I was a prisoner in this twitching vessel of flesh, my only output this infuriating, helpless wail. But I could feel. And I could think. My mind, honed by decades of ruthless calculation, was already working, processing, analyzing.

Gentle hands, surprisingly strong, cleaned me. The touch was soft, but the grip was firm. Muffled voices washed over me, a language I shouldn't have understood, but did. High Valyrian. The tongue of dragons and kings. The realization sent another jolt through my system, not of fear, but of electrifying opportunity.

Then I felt it. A presence beside me. Another small, squirming body. A shared warmth, a shared moment of creation. A twin. My eyes, milky and unfocused, struggled to make out a shape. Another infant, just as red and wrinkled as I was. A soft, pained groan from nearby drew my attention. A woman's voice, weary but filled with a profound relief.

"Two… the gods are good. Two healthy babes."

The voice was melodious, regal even in its exhaustion. I strained my neck, a monumental effort, and my blurry vision caught a glimpse of silver-gold hair spread across pillows, a face pale but beautiful, etched with the lines of recent agony. Blue eyes, kind and intelligent, were looking down at us.

Alysanne Targaryen.

Good Queen Alysanne. The name echoed in my memory from the books. And if she was my mother… then the man whose deeper voice now spoke, a voice filled with an authority that seemed to vibrate in the very stones of the chamber, could only be one person.

"A girl… and a boy." King Jaehaerys I. The Conciliator. The Wise. The Old King. I felt his presence loom over us, a shadow of immense power and history. My father.

My mind raced, connecting the dots with the speed of a stock market algorithm processing a breaking news story. I was a Targaryen. A prince. Son of the greatest king Westeros had ever known. The date… Jaehaerys and Alysanne's last child was Princess Gael, born in 80 AC. The 'Winter Child'. A sweet, simple girl, doomed to a tragic end. The books said she was their thirteenth and final child. But here I was. Her twin. An extra piece on the board, a variable the histories had never accounted for.

This wasn't just a rebirth; it was an insertion into the nexus of power.

"She is beautiful, my love," Jaehaerys said, his voice softening as he addressed his wife. "We will name her Gael."

So this is Gael, I thought, looking at the small creature beside me. My sister. My twin. A liability. Her story was one of sadness and exploitation, a gentle soul in a world of wolves. She had been seduced by a common singer, bore a stillborn child, and walked into the sea. A tragic, pointless end. My reborn mind, devoid of any genuine fraternal affection, cataloged it as a future problem to be managed. Her weakness could become my weakness.

"And the boy?" Alysanne's soft voice asked. "He is… quiet now. He looks strong."

I had deliberately stopped crying. Wasting energy was inefficient. I was listening, absorbing. My eyes, still struggling to focus, tried to take in the room. Maesters in grey robes, silent servants, the trappings of royalty. The air smelled of herbs, blood, and something else… something ancient and electric. Ozone. The faint, almost imperceptible scent of magic.

Jaehaerys looked down at me. I tried to meet his gaze, to project an awareness that no infant should possess. "We have lost so many sons, Alysanne. Aegon, Gaemon, Valerion… I will not tempt the gods with names of the fallen. He needs a strong name. A new name."

He was silent for a long moment. I could feel the weight of his contemplation. This was the man who had unified the realm, codified its laws, built its roads. His mind was not one to be underestimated.

"Aeryn," he declared. "Prince Aeryn Targaryen. It has the ring of our ancestors."

Aeryn. I tested the name in my thoughts. It was acceptable. It was a blank slate, unburdened by the legacy of a dead prince. It was mine.

As the maesters fussed and the servants cooed, I turned my attention inward, to another anomaly of my reincarnation. It was a feeling, a deep, innate knowledge that had been imprinted onto my soul alongside my old memories. A gift, the cosmic equivalent of a golden parachute from whatever entity had sent me here.

Two doses.

The concept was clear and precise in my mind, a perfect packet of information. Two vials of pure, unadulterated potential, stored not physically, but metaphysically within my very being, ready to be deployed by an act of will. The Super Soldier Serum. A fictional creation from my old world's mythology, now a tangible reality for me. One dose was calibrated for a human. The other, for a dragon.

The implications hit me with the force of a physical blow. Peak human potential. Enhanced strength, speed, intellect, healing. A body that would become a living weapon, a mind that would operate faster, clearer, sharper. It was the ultimate advantage. But the second dose… for a dragon? What would it even do? Enhance its fire? Its strength? Its lifespan? The possibilities were staggering.

My path became blindingly clear. This wasn't just about survival. It was about winning. In my previous life, I had built an empire of wealth and influence from nothing. Here, I was born with the greatest name in the world, with magic in my blood. With this gift, I wouldn't just play the game of thrones. I would own the board, the pieces, and the whole damn stadium.

First step: secure my primary asset. A dragon. Not just any dragon. My mind, ever cautious, ever calculating, dismissed the idea of a cradle egg. An egg was a gamble. It might not hatch. The dragon might be small, weak. I needed a symbol. I needed a weapon of such overwhelming power that my position would be unassailable from the moment I claimed it.

I needed the Black Dread.

Balerion. The beast that had melted Harrenhal. The mount of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel. The largest, most terrifying dragon to ever exist. According to the histories, by 80 AC, he was ancient, slow, and heavy. He had stopped growing and spent his days sleeping in the Dragonpit. He would die of old age in 94 AC. He was a dying legend. But he was still Balerion. His skull alone was enough to inspire awe and fear for centuries.

A dying asset, my business mind whispered, ripe for a hostile takeover and revitalization.

The second dose of the serum was the key. A dragon was a biological creature. The serum was designed to perfect biology. Could it reverse the ravages of age? Could it restore the Black Dread to his former glory? Even a fraction of his former glory, bonded to me, would be enough. The risk was immense. But the potential reward… the reward was absolute power.

The problem was access. I was an infant. I couldn't walk to the Dragonpit and introduce myself. I needed to force the situation. My mind, a cold and calculating instrument, settled on a ruthless, high-risk strategy.

For the next three days, I became a nightmare.

I screamed. I didn't cry from hunger or discomfort. I shrieked with the full force of my infant lungs, a continuous, piercing wail that grated on the nerves and defied every attempt to soothe me. Wet nurses came and went, their milk refused. Maesters poked and prodded, chanting diagnoses of colic and wind, prescribing milk of the poppy, which I subtly avoided swallowing, letting it drool down my chin. Gael, my twin, would often cry in response to my noise, a genuine infant's distress, but mine was a calculated weapon.

I could feel the growing concern and frustration in the royal apartments. I was Prince Aeryn, the new hope, yet I was inexplicably inconsolable. I focused my will, pouring all the frustration of my trapped state, all my ambition, all my cold fury into that single, mind-numbing sound. I was projecting, trying to send a signal beyond the stone walls, a beacon of sheer, unnatural intent.

It was Queen Alysanne who broke first. On the evening of the third day, her patience, and that of the entire Red Keep, was at its end. She entered my nursery, her face a mask of worry. The maesters were whispering about lung fever, about some fatal internal malady.

"Leave us," she commanded, her voice strained. The servants and maesters bowed and scurried out.

She lifted me from my cradle. Her hands were cool, her scent a mix of lavender and something uniquely her own. She held me close, rocking me gently. "Oh, my poor, troubled boy," she whispered, her voice aching with a mother's love I found both alien and useful. "What is it? What do you want?"

I stopped screaming.

The sudden silence was deafening. I looked up at her, focusing all my will into my gaze. I couldn't speak, but I could want. I poured every ounce of my desire into that look. Dragon. Dragonpit. Take me to the dragons.

Alysanne stared down at me, her blue eyes widening slightly. A frown creased her brow. It was a long shot, a desperate psychic plea. But Targaryens were blood of the dragon. Alysanne herself was a dragonrider. Perhaps some sliver of instinct, some echo of the magic in our shared veins, would get through.

"Your eyes," she murmured, tracing the side of my face with a finger. "You look at me as if you understand. Jaehaerys says the same." She held me tighter. "You are not sick. You are… waiting for something."

She was intelligent. The books hadn't done her justice. She was more than just the 'Good Queen'. She was perceptive.

She walked to the window, overlooking the city of King's Landing. In the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun, was the great dome of the Dragonpit. I followed her gaze, my infant heart, which I was slowly learning to control, beating a steady, powerful rhythm.

"Is that it?" she whispered, almost to herself. "Do you hear them? Do you feel them, my little Aeryn?" She paused, a wild, improbable idea dawning on her face. "My Silverwing was restless the day you were born. The keepers said all the dragons were… agitated."

I remained silent, watching her, letting her connect the pieces I had laid out for her. It was a negotiation, and she was coming to my terms.

"It is unheard of," she said, turning from the window. "A babe so young… But you are no ordinary babe." Her resolve hardened. She was a dragonrider. She understood the call. "The maesters will say I am mad. Your father may forbid it. But a mother knows."

She wrapped me in a thick blanket, her movements now filled with purpose. "I will not have another son fade away. If you seek your destiny, I will take you to it."

The journey to the Dragonpit was a blur of motion and furtive whispers. Alysanne, with the authority of a queen, overrode the protests of her guards and the maesters. She did not, however, inform the king, a fact I found intriguing. A sign of the famous 'Second Quarrel' brewing? Or just a wife knowing how to manage her husband? Either way, it served my purpose.

We entered the great structure through a side entrance, the air immediately growing warmer, thick with the smell of sulphur, stone, and massive, living reptiles. The scale of the place was immense, even to my adult mind. The roar of a dragon, even a distant one, vibrated through my bones. It was a sound of primal power that would have sent any normal infant into hysterics. I remained placid. This was a business meeting, and I was here to close the deal.

Dragonkeepers, their faces smudged with soot and awe, met us. They bowed low before the queen, their eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of the infant prince in her arms.

"Your Grace," the head keeper stammered, "This is no place for the prince. The heat… the fumes…"

"The prince is a Targaryen. He is where he belongs," Alysanne stated, her voice echoing in the cavernous space. "I want to show him the mounts. From a distance."

They led us onto a high viewing balcony, overlooking the main cavern. Below, in the vast, sandy expanse, lay the dragons. I saw the bronze form of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, my father's mount. I saw Silverwing, my mother's beautiful and graceful she-dragon. Others, smaller and more vibrant, rested in their own sections of the pit.

But I had eyes for only one.

He was in the farthest, darkest corner of the pit, a space reserved for him alone. At first, he looked like a mountain of cooling lava, a jagged outcrop of black rock. But then he shifted, a movement so slow and ponderous it seemed to take an eternity. Balerion.

Even in his advanced age, he was magnificent. His scales were not the glossy black of a younger dragon, but a dull, pitted obsidian, like ancient volcanic rock. Scars, some as wide as rivers, crisscrossed his body, testaments to a hundred battles. One eye, a pool of molten gold, opened slowly, regarding our presence on the balcony with an apathy born of immense age and power. He was missing teeth, and his horns were blunted and cracked. A thin wisp of smoke, grey and tired, curled from his nostrils. He was a dying god.

"He is old," Alysanne whispered, a note of sadness in her voice. "He barely stirs, even for the king."

Now.

I closed my eyes. I ignored the sounds, the smells, the presence of my mother. I focused my entire being, my reincarnated soul, my ambition, my intelligence, and the latent power of the serum within me. I reached out, not with a cry, but with a silent, focused command, a raw projection of will.

You are mine.

The thought was not a request. It was a statement of fact. A declaration of ownership. I poured everything I was into it. My knowledge of his history, his power, his fate. I showed him not a supplicant child, but a partner, a mind worthy of his own.

They let you rot. They see a relic. I see a king. Wake up.

Down in the pit, the mountain of black scales shuddered. The single golden eye snapped fully open, no longer apathetic, but sharp, focused. It swiveled, bypassing the Queen, bypassing the keepers, and locked directly onto me. A low rumble, like the grinding of continents, echoed from deep within his chest. The keepers took a panicked step back.

"What is happening?" Alysanne breathed, holding me tighter.

He knew. The ancient mind, sleeping for so long, had been touched by something it had never encountered before. A human mind with the knowledge of ages, a will as unyielding as Valyrian steel.

Another, more powerful rumble shook the very foundations of the pit. Balerion began to move, not with the sluggishness of an old beast, but with a gathering sense of purpose. He pushed himself up, his vast, tattered wings unfolding slightly. The sound was like a rockslide. Dust and loose stones rained down from the dome above.

"By the Seven!" a keeper cried out. "He has not stood so quickly in a decade!"

Balerion took a step forward, his claws, each the size of a longsword, carving furrows in the sand. He lifted his massive head, his neck uncoiling like a great serpent, and looked directly at me. And then he roared.

It was not the tired, smoky exhalation of a dying creature. It was a sound of thunder and fire, a declaration of power that shook the world. It was the roar of the Black Dread reborn. Every other dragon in the pit screamed in answer, a chorus of submission and terror.

And in that moment of pure, primal connection, our minds linked, I acted. With a silent, internal command, I deployed the gift.

Now!

I felt a surge of unimaginable energy flood my tiny body. It was not painful. It was a feeling of completion, of perfection. My bones hardened, my muscles coiled with nascent power, my senses exploded with a clarity that was breathtaking. The world snapped into perfect focus. I could see every crack in the stones of the balcony, every terrified face of the dragonkeepers, the swirl of emotions in my mother's wide blue eyes. My mind, already sharp, became a flawless diamond, processing information at an impossible speed. I had just become the most advanced human on the planet. I had administered the first dose.

Simultaneously, through our newfound bond, I pushed the second dose into him.

Live!

If his roar had been thunder, what happened next was the storm itself. Balerion's entire body convulsed. A deep, incandescent light shone from between his obsidian scales, outlining his form in a web of fire. The thin wisp of smoke from his nostrils became a torrent of black and red flame that shot fifty feet into the air, licking the top of the dome.

His scales began to change. The dull, pitted blackness smoothed over, taking on the deep, glossy sheen of polished obsidian. The cracks on his horns seemed to seal themselves. Muscles, atrophied for decades, swelled with new power beneath his hide. He threw his head back and let out another roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated power and vitality that seemed to crack the very sky. This was not the roar of a dying beast. It was the roar of a king reclaiming his throne.

The great doors of the Dragonpit burst open. King Jaehaerys I stood there, flanked by the Kingsguard, his face a thunderous mask of shock and disbelief. He had clearly been alerted by the first roar and had come running. His eyes took in the scene: his queen on the balcony with their infant son, and below, the Black Dread, his own grandsire's mount, a dragon he had seen fade into decrepitude, now blazing with a terrifying, impossible new life.

He looked from the resurrected dragon to the infant in Alysanne's arms. I met his gaze across the distance, my newly enhanced vision seeing the dawning comprehension and fear in his wise old eyes. He saw the impossible truth.

The game had just changed. A new, major player had just announced his arrival. And the board was on fire.