HOTD : Reborn as Spring Prince

The room was filled with the sharp scent of antiseptic, the constant beep of machines, and the distant hum of activity just beyond the door. James Matthews, a young and ambitious U.S. Government minister, had never imagined his life would end here, in a sterile hospital room, surrounded by faces he barely recognized. He had been at the peak of his career, on the verge of making real change in a system that desperately needed it and more importantly a real breakthrough in his political career. And then, a single bullet had shattered everything. Yeah, not the breakthrough he was hoping for.

It was a routine speech, or at least it should have been. James had spoken before the Senate many times, and this was no different. Yet, as he stepped away from the podium, the sound of a single shot echoed through the chamber. There had been no time to react, no time to see where it had come from. The impact hit him hard, like a truck slamming into his chest, and then there was nothing but darkness.

Now, as his vision blurred and his breathing grew more labored, he could feel his life slipping away. Unfulfilled dreams, unachieved ambitions, all of it faded into the background. He had wanted to make a name for himself in the world, to leave behind a legacy that would be remembered for generations. But as the darkness closed in, all he could feel was a deep, bitter regret.

His final thought, just before the darkness claimed him, was a desperate wish for another chance.

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When Baelon opened his eyes, gasping, his body dampened with sweat. He blinked, his vision blurry and disoriented, his heart pounding. He knew what had happened. He had another one of those strange dreams he'd been having since childhood. They were always flashes and conversations, unlike anything he'd ever known in his life. A world of technology and grand inventions. At first, he thought they might be dragon dreams, like those of his ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer. However, he quickly realized they were something different—visions of another world as if he had lived through it himself.

Until now, the dreams had been fragmented. Gaps in his memories left him uncertain. He'd immediately forget the details upon waking—only vague images of scenery and towering buildings remained. But now…

Baelon lightly shook his throbbing head, a sharp pain radiating from the back of his skull. He felt the cold stone beneath him, the rough texture pressing against his palms as small rocks dug into his skin. Slowly, he pushed himself up, scrambling to his feet.

The area around him, though familiar, seemed vast, made of dark stone. His memories flickered as he focused, his thoughts aligning with the scene before him. Standing there, he saw it—towering, fearsome, its scales as black as night.

Balerion, The Black Dread.

Baelon remembered how he'd ended up here, in this strange state. He'd struck Balerion on the snout with the wooden stick he always carried around, pretending it was a sword, imitating his older brother Aemon. The dragon had responded with nothing more than a puff of air—a simple, dismissive gesture that had sent him flying into the wall and left him unconscious.

What followed was another dream, but this time, it was different. He remembered everything. He understood it all. These weren't dreams born of childish imagination, nor was he going mad.

He had memories of a life lived as a man named James Matthews—a young, ambitious politician from a country called the USA. Memories of his childhood, his family, his knowledge, and even his death.

But that was all they were—memories. It felt like reading a story from a book. There was no anger at his death, no sorrow for the loved ones he'd lost, no joy, no happiness.

He was still Baelon, son of King Jaehaerys Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. He was still an eight-name-day-old boy. But now, he knew more.

For as long as he could remember, Baelon had experienced these strange dreams. He sometimes knew things he had no way of knowing. His tutors often remarked on how bright he was, calling him the most promising student they had ever taught.

Through dreams, nostalgic feelings, and strange flashes of knowledge, he saw a different life and world. A world without magic but filled with fantastical innovations in science and technology. A world with a rich history shaped by great men and women—their failures, triumphs, and tested methods for success. He remembered it all now.

It was another world where a certain collection of books had been written by a man about the very world Baelon lived in now—books called A Song of Ice and Fire. From what Baelon could tell, the world he inhabited closely followed what had been written in those books, at least for the most part.

This realization made Baelon wonder: had that man truly created this world? Or had he simply been blessed with a vision of it? The real thing was vaster and grander than anything the books described. A strange sense of indignation stirred in Baelon at the idea of being a fictional character meant to entertain others.

He looked at the black monstrosity before him. He recalled how James had laughed reading about this very incident. Baelon didn't know what had possessed him to provoke Balerion like this. What was the word James would have used? Ah, yes—programmed. It was a miracle he hadn't been killed. Perhaps it was the story protecting him.

But Baelon didn't like this story—this canon, this show, or whatever it was.

His assimilation into this world had been seamless, likely because of how he had been reborn. By the time he fully assimilated the memories and knowledge of his past life, his identity as Baelon had already been cemented. While he retained the memories and knowledge of James Matthews, they were just useful information to him now—detached and devoid of emotion.

He was Baelon Targaryen, and he had a purpose to fulfill.

Just thinking about the alternate version of himself and the fate of his family made his blood boil hotter than Balerion's flames. His death before his father, at just forty-four years old when his house needed him most. The fall of House Targaryen, the demise of his beloved mother, Aemon, and his future siblings.

The mighty House of the Dragon is reduced to two children exiled in Essos, begging for scraps. And the Prince That Was Promised, raised as a bastard by a Stark.

The area around him began to spin as he grappled with the full implications of these memories. He forced himself to take deep, steadying breaths, trying to quell the rising tide of panic. He knew he had to calm down and process it all. His past life experience had taught him how to adapt to unexpected situations. This was no different. He would take control and devise a plan.

Just then, a man ran toward him—tall and imposing, with the unmistakable bearing of a warrior. It was Ser Samgood of the Kingsguard.

The knight's expression was stern, though tinged with frustration, as it often was when dealing with royal children. "Prince Baelon!" Ser Samgood called, his voice loud and filled with worry. "Are you well? You weren't hurt, were you? It was my fault—I shouldn't have allowed you so close to an untamed dragon."

Baelon swallowed hard, forcing himself to set aside his inner turmoil. He nodded, though his head still ached. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice steady as he glanced at the wooden stick still clutched in his hand. "Just… just a bit shaken. That black dragon is bad. Balerion."

"Thank the Seven," Ser Samgood said with a sigh of relief, inspecting the young prince for any signs of injury. Baelon could see the worry in the knight's eyes, imagining the disaster that would have unfolded had the second prince of the realm died under his watch.

Baelon, still grappling with the weight of his memories, knew he had a rare opportunity. A chance to rewrite the canon. He had a cheat sheet—answers to questions his family would face over the next 250 years.

But he had to be careful, to tread lightly.

He wasn't sure if he believed in gods or higher beings, but something—or someone—had placed him here. They had given him, Baelon Targaryen, the memories and hindsight of his failures in another life. The knowledge of an entire other world.

And it was clear why.

His alternate self had failed his family, leaving his heirs unprepared and allowing their dynasty to crumble. That Baelon had sown the seeds of civil war, leading to the extinction of their dragons. Even if there had been a conspiracy to kill the dragons, as the "readers" had theorized, the fact that his descendants had been so vulnerable was disgraceful.

A dynasty built on sand, crumbling as swiftly as it was built.

Baelon would not allow history to repeat itself. Too much was at stake for failure to be an option.

"My Prince, let's go back to the Keep. I will ask Maester to take a look at you, in case of any injury." Ser Samgood said, his voice ever steady and formal as he helped the little prince by supporting him by holding his shoulder and dusting his clothes.

Baelon didn't care about the injury on his head, for his heart was burning with anger, self-doubt, and pity. As they walked back to the Red Keep which is silent, greatly in contrast with the Prince's mind.

Little did anyone know, this little incident may have changed the whole future of this world. This incident was remembered later by the famous words of Ser Sangood.

He's either brave or mad, that one.

—Samgood of Sour Hill in the Dragonpit