Game of Thrones: Rise of The Dragon King

Rain slapped against the window of a crumbling apartment complex, nestled in the gray heart of a city that hadn't felt alive in years. Within, the pale flicker of a television screen cast long shadows across empty pizza boxes, takeout containers, and dusty stacks of fantasy novels. The once-white couch had long given up the ghost, its cushions sunken like the dreams of the man slouched in its embrace.

Matthew Grayson, forty-three, unemployed, balding, twice-divorced, and thoroughly disenchanted with life, took another sip of lukewarm beer and stared dead-eyed at the screen. The final scene of Game of Thrones, Season 1, Episode 6. Viserys Targaryen, screaming in defiance, crowned with molten gold.

"He was no dragon."

"Fire cannot kill a dragon."

The sound of Daenerys' cold declaration echoed in Matthew's skull like a funeral bell.

He exhaled sharply. "Bullshit."

With a groan, he reached for the remote and shut off the TV. Silence blanketed the room. A moment later, the creak of leather and the muffled curse of a man too tired for rage followed as he stood and staggered toward the window. The night was heavy with drizzle. Cars hissed down the wet street. Neon signs blinked with lifeless rhythm.

"Viserys wasn't wrong," he muttered. "He was broken. Angry. But can you blame the guy? Lost everything. Carried the weight of a dead dynasty. All he wanted was to go home… and they gave him gold for a crown."

Matthew scoffed, shaking his head. "If I were him, things would've gone differently. I wouldn't have begged Drogo. I'd have played the game, made the moves. King's Landing wouldn't be ashes if Viserys had survived to the end…"

He didn't know why he was saying it aloud. No one listened to him. No one ever had.

Shoving open the door, he stepped out into the cold. The rain welcomed him like an old lover. Streets shimmered under the pale lamplight. Horns blared in the distance. A dog barked somewhere behind him.

"I hate this life," he mumbled, crossing the street without looking. "If I was in Game of Thrones, I wouldn't die like a bitch…"

A flash of headlights.

A scream of tires.

CRACK.

Everything went white.

⸻

Darkness. Then light. Then… nothing.

A void. Endless. Boundless. A skyless plane of shadow and shimmer. No ground, no air, no up or down. Just… awareness.

Matthew blinked. Or thought he did. His form felt formless, a consciousness without flesh. And before him—impossibly beautiful, unfathomably vast—stood a woman. She didn't glow, but the nothingness around her bent like light to her presence. Long hair like a river of stars. Eyes of burning silver.

She smirked.

"Hello, Matthew."

He recoiled—or would have, if he had a body. "What the hell is this? Where am I?"

"Dead," she said, casually inspecting her fingernails. "You got pancaked by a Nissan Altima. Died instantly. Brain turned to soup."

Matthew gaped. "No… no, that's—wait. What?"

She rolled her eyes. "I swear, every time it's the same. Confusion, denial, the usual panic. Let's skip to the fun part, hmm?"

"Who—what—are you?"

"I suppose you'd call me a goddess." She gestured, and suddenly galaxies spun behind her, her fingers tracing the shape of eternity. "But titles are boring. Let's just say I'm… an observer. A connoisseur of stories. I've grown rather bored lately. So I watch. Sometimes I interfere. And sometimes, when the mood strikes me, I reincarnate people for fun."

He blinked. "You what?"

"Writers, mostly. I reincarnate them into their own novels, see how they cope. Usually boring. They die early, or go native, or just write poetry and cry." Her silver eyes narrowed in amusement. "But you? You're different. You're not special. Not talented. Not virtuous. Just bitter. Broken. Angry. The perfect kind of chaos."

He tried to back away. "I'm not interested."

"You don't have a choice." She grinned. "And I've picked a world you love."

His eyes widened. "No. Wait. Are you saying—?"

"You've got spirit. Rage. Ambition. And you loathe how Viserys Targaryen died. So I'm giving you the chance to be him. To do it differently."

His mind reeled. "But I don't know how to fight, I don't know how to rule—I'll die in a week!"

"Which is why," she said, tapping his forehead with one glowing fingertip, "I'm giving you a system. A little helper. Quests. Stats. Skills. Perks. You'll have the tools. What you do with them is up to you."

He opened his mouth, overwhelmed, confused, trembling. "Wait, can I just ask—?"

Snap.

⸻

Heat. Smoke. Spice. Music. The scent of horse sweat and perfume.

He gasped, eyes flying open. No longer weightless. No longer adrift. He was.

He sat up. Silk sheets beneath him. Gold around his wrists. Long silver-blonde hair brushing his shoulders. A polished bronze mirror in the corner reflected a face both alien and intimately familiar.

Viserys Targaryen. The Beggar King. The last dragon.

Until now.

Through the open tent flap, he heard the drums. The guttural chants. The stomping of feet. The wild celebration.

It was Dothraki wedding day.

Khal Drogo would wed Daenerys today.

Matthew—no, Viserys—felt the weight of destiny settle on his shoulders like a crown of fire.

A soft chime echoed in his ears.

SYSTEM ACTIVATED.

Welcome, Viserys Targaryen.

Main Quest Unlocked: Reclaim the Iron Throne.

Failure = Death.

He smiled.

A real smile.

The game had begun.