not a bloody Targaryen.

"Daemon!" That was the last thing he heard—his father's shout—just before everything went sideways. Quite literally. He hit the ground hard, and suddenly the world was a chaotic mess of muffled sounds: servants yelling, women screaming, his men barking orders, and even his horse losing its cool, likely because its rider was down for the count.

Lying there, he noticed something that should have bothered him more: blood was seeping from his head, pooling onto the stone floor. His vision dimmed as if someone was slowly turning the lights off. Someone flipped him onto his back and started pressing on the side of his head, but he could barely feel it.

He could, however, see his father, the man's face a mask of fear and worry, hovering above him.

Am I going to die? Is this how I die? Hit by a loose brick? A freaking brick?!

"Please, Gods... not like this," he pleaded silently as his father's tears splashed onto his face. He felt himself being lifted—more like jostled—by whoever decided it was a good idea to pick him up and run. From the blur of sky whizzing past, he figured they were in a rush, probably to find a Maester. Hopefully one with more bedside manner than the guy who looked after him the last time.

As darkness closed in, another voice echoed in his mind—one that wasn't his own—just as the blackness swallowed him, like a cheap horror movie's curtain fall. That was where Daemon's memory ended and where another life, his life, began. That was the last moment he'd remember from that life, and now... now he was someone else.

Wait a second... why am I outside?

His eyelids felt like they'd been glued shut for ages, and when he finally managed to open them, the light was blinding. Was he dead? Was this the afterlife? If so, why did it still hurt so much? He could feel his heart beating, his breath steady, the ache in his body, and... wait, were those silk sheets? A feather pillow?

Where were the sirens? 

Every morning, the sound of wailing sirens used to wake him up in the hospital. That's what he'd gotten used to—ambulances screaming down the street, the beeping of machines, the distant chatter of nurses, maybe the occasional groan from another patient. But here? Nothing. Just dead silence.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, revealing a ceiling that was definitely not the stained tile he'd been staring at in his hospital room. No, this ceiling was much fancier, the kind of fancy that only really rich people could afford, like those over-the-top beds they had in royal palaces or those mansions you saw on TV.

The sheets... they felt like linen against his skin, which, now that he noticed, was stark naked under the covers.

Did the doctors strip me? Is this some new kind of therapy? Where the hell am I?

He tried to move, wincing at the pain, and managed to rub his eyes. When he finally took in the room around him, he nearly fell out of the bed. There was a wooden desk, a bronze-colored bathtub at the far end of a room that was easily five times the size of his entire apartment. Curtains with intricate patterns hung around his bed, and the walls were cream with gold and red trimmings. Opulent didn't even begin to cover it. Bougie was more like it. 

They must've moved me to some sort of private hospital. Probably going to charge me more than my insurance can cover, too. Fantastic.

Ignoring the pain, he forced himself to sit up, taking in more of the room. The overwhelming confusion and surprise overrode his discomfort. Where the hell am I? He glanced down at his shirtless body. Why do I look paler?

Then the door opened, and in walked a woman carrying a large bowl. She wasn't dressed like any nurse he'd ever seen—no scrubs, no aprons—just a medieval-looking servant's outfit like she'd just walked off the set of a Renaissance fair. As soon as their eyes met, she dropped the bowl, water splashing everywhere.

"My prince!" she exclaimed, looking ready to faint.

"Nurse…" he muttered, reaching out to her. But as he leaned forward, nearly toppling out of the bed, she rushed over and gently pushed him back down.

"Prince Daemon, wait here!" she instructed before bolting out the door like she'd seen a ghost. He heard her calling out for someone, "Maester! Maester Allar!" Footsteps echoed in the hallway as more people started running.

He lay back on the pillow, his head spinning. Wait... who the hell is Daemon?

That's when the memories hit him, like a bad movie reel. Memories of a life that wasn't his—of a castle, a mother with blonde hair and mismatched eyes, a father with platinum hair and purple eyes, a grandfather with a golden crown, and an older brother with a loud, infectious laugh. There was also a monstrously large chair made of swords in a grand hall and a flag with a three-headed red dragon on a black background.

No... I'm dreaming, this has to be a dream.

He opened his eyes again, and an old man in brown robes, long chains wrapped around his body, was standing over him, watching him intently.

"Prince Daemon, you're finally awake, thank the Gods," the man said.

He shouldn't have recognized the man, yet somehow he did. "Maester Allar..." he mumbled as the maester placed a warm, wet cloth on his forehead.

Daemon tried to sit up, but the maester stopped him. "You mustn't exert yourself, your body is still recovering from the accident." He rinsed the cloth in the bowl and continued, "Your father and brother will be here soon to see you. They will be overjoyed to hear that you've awakened."

Father... Viserys... The names felt familiar, but not in the way they should have.

"Will be here soon, my Prince. In the meantime, you must rest." Allar assured him, running the cloth down Daemon's arms, across his chest, and neck. Daemon stared up at the ceiling.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

He couldn't reconcile it—the memories of this life and the ones from his own. He remembered a dull, ordinary existence in a city apartment, working a tedious government job, watching documentaries, and reading fantasy novels. One of them was this one: *Fire and Blood*. 

And now? Now he had a whole new set of memories. A life as someone who was supposed to be the brother of a king, father to a king, husband to a queen. The guy who'd start one of the bloodiest civil wars in Westeros' history.

He remembered crashing his car, his head hitting the steering wheel. But he also remembered a brick hitting his head, falling off a horse...

The door creaked open again, and the maester turned to the newcomer. "He's in here, my prince," he said softly. "Please be careful, Prince Daemon is still recovering."

A middle-aged man rushed into the room, knelt by his bedside, and grabbed his hand. "My boy," the man said, his voice choked with emotion as a smile spread across his face. "It gladdens my heart to see you awake."

Daemon stared at him, bewildered. Father? Yes, that's what the memories told him. This man was his father, Baelon.

Baelon's smile grew as he held Daemon's hand. "Yes, my boy, I thought I'd lost you." Tears slid down his cheeks. "I do not think I could bear another loss. Thank the Gods for their mercy."

As his father spoke, Daemon felt something stir within him. A burning sensation in his chest—anger, rage, but not his own. It was as if another presence within him was furious, desperate to get out.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus, to fight off the foreign emotion.

"My boy, are you well?" Baelon's voice was tight with concern, his grip on Daemon's hand tightening.

"Yes." Daemon forced the word out, even though his head felt like it was splitting open. "I am just... fighting a pain in my head."

"Maester, bring milk of the poppy," Baelon ordered, turning to Allar.

"No, please," Daemon insisted. "I'm fine. I just need a moment."

Why am I talking like this? Who says things like 'I am fine' instead of just 'I'm fine'?

More people entered the room, including a servant carrying a tray. The smell hit him hard—roasted duck with leeks and potatoes. His stomach growled despite the ache in his head.

"Roasted duck with leeks and some potatoes, my prince," the servant announced before bowing and leaving the room. Baelon released his hand to help him sit up, and Allar adjusted his hair, inspecting the stitches.

"It seems the stitches have healed well," Allar commented, wringing out the cloth.

Baelon poured wine into a goblet and brought it to Daemon's lips, tilting it gently. Daemon sipped, relieved that it wasn't as strong as he'd feared, and allowed the liquid to soothe his parched throat. Baelon then cut a piece of the duck and fed it to him.

Okay, I could definitely get used to this…

"Viserys will be here shortly," Baelon informed him, "and Aemma will likely bring Rha

enyra once she hears you're awake. Oh, and Rhaenys sent word, she'll visit later."

Daemon swallowed the bite. "Everyone's coming... for me?"

Baelon nodded, his face softening into a smile. "Of course. We were all terribly worried about you."

Daemon stared at the man, trying to reconcile the emotions in his chest. Was this really his father? A part of him wanted to reject this reality, but another part—this other presence inside him—welcomed it.

"Thank you, Father," Daemon managed to say, though the words felt foreign on his tongue.

A smile touched Baelon's eyes as he continued to feed him, the room now a hive of activity with servants bustling about, setting things in order. Daemon slowly ate, trying to make sense of everything.

He was Prince Daemon Targaryen. He knew that now. But he was also someone else. A man from a different world who didn't belong in this one. Yet here he was, lying in a grand bed, in a castle that wasn't his home, with a family that wasn't his own.

Maybe I'm still in a coma. Maybe this is just one elaborate, messed-up dream. 

But if it was a dream, he was starting to hope he wouldn't wake up anytime soon.