The Prologue

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 James opened his eyes again, he was met with an overwhelming brightness, the harsh sunlight streaming in through tall, narrow windows. He blinked, disoriented, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the cold stone beneath him, the rough texture of it digging into his skin. But this was no hospital room, and the sounds around him were foreign—low murmurs of voices, the distant screech of some creature, and the crackling of a nearby fire.

His head throbbed, a sharp pain radiating from the back of his skull, and as he reached up to touch it, he froze. His hand was small, far too small, and covered in grime. The realization hit him like a tidal wave, sending a jolt of panic through his body. This wasn't his hand. This wasn't his body.

He scrambled to his feet, his limbs unsteady and awkward, and looked around wildly. The room was vast, made of dark stone, and filled with strange, ancient tapestries that depicted dragons and battles. It was nothing like anything he had ever seen before, and yet, something about it was eerily familiar. A memory, not his own, flickered in his mind— was present right there, afore him the image of a towering, fearsome creature with scales as black as night.

Balerion, The Black Dread.

James—or whoever he was now—stumbled back, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He was in the Dragonpit, in King's Landing, a place he had only ever read about in the pages of "A Song of Ice and Fire." But how could this be possible? How could he be here? How did he know it was DragonPit?

His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. He remembered a name, Baelon Targaryen, the son of Jaehaerys Targaryen, a prince who had lived in a world that shouldn't exist. But the memory of Baelon was like his own. It was strange and unsettling, like a half-remembered dream. Yet, as he looked down at himself—at the small, eight-year-old body he now inhabited—he knew it to be true.

He was Baelon Targaryen or mix. He doesn't know.

"No, no, no," he whispered, his voice trembling. This couldn't be happening. This had to be some kind of nightmare, a delusion brought on by his injury. But the pain in his head was too real, the cold air biting at his skin too sharp. This was no dream.

Baelon's or rather his memories began to flood his mind, mixing with his own, and he could see the scene that had just unfolded. He had struck Balerion on the snout with a stick, a foolish act of childish bravado. The dragon had responded with a mere puff of air, a simple, dismissive gesture that had sent him flying into the wall. It was that impact that had somehow triggered this… this transfer of consciousness.

James—Baelon—clutched his head, feeling the overwhelming weight of it all. He was in the body of a child, a Targaryen prince, in a world that he had only known as fiction. And worse, he knew how this story ended. Baelon Targaryen would die fairly young, at the age of forty-four, from a burst belly, a fate as ignoble as it was nearly inevitable. He had been given a second chance at life, but it was a life already marked for an early grave.

The area around him began to spin as the full implications of his situation sank in. How was he supposed to navigate this world, to survive as a prince in the court of King Jaehaerys? How could he prevent his death when it was a matter of historical record? And what would happen if he tried to change the future?

More importantly, the black monstrosity in front of him. he cannot imagine someone 'brave' enough to stand opposite to Balerion, which can only be termed as Foolishness. It was genuinely terrifying.

He forced himself to take deep, steadying breaths, trying to calm the rising tide of panic. He had always been good at thinking on his feet, and at adapting to unexpected situations. This was no different. He needed to take control, to figure out a plan. But first, he needed to understand where he was and who he was dealing with.

A man ran towards him, tall and imposing, with the unmistakable bearing of a warrior. It was Ser Samgood of the Kingsguard. The man's expression was stern and worrying, but there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes, that often came when dealing with royal children, as he approached the young prince.

"Your Highness!!" Ser Samgood said, his voice raised. And ending with full of dread and worry, "Are you well? You didn't get hurt right? It was my fault I shouldn't have let you get so close to a dragon."

Baelon swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. "I'm fine," he said, his voice sounding far more childish than he intended, still holding that silly wooden stick. "Just… just a bit shaken. That black dragon is bad. Balerion."

"Thank the Seven." Ser Samgood said in relief, checking the prince for any signs of injury as his mind was racing about all possible fates he might have, had the Second of the prince of the realm been dead on his watch. 

Baelon—or James, as he still thought of himself—knew that he had been given a rare opportunity, a chance to rewrite history. But he also knew that the dangers were immense. This was a world of dragons and politics, where a single misstep could lead to death. He had knowledge that no one else in this world possessed, but that knowledge could be both a blessing and a curse.

He needed to be careful, to tread lightly. He couldn't let anyone suspect that he wasn't truly Baelon Targaryen, that the soul inside this body belonged to a man from a different world entirely. He needed to play the part, to blend in, while he figured out what to do next.

Thus, deciding to play the role of an 8-year-old for now.

"I want to go to my room, Ser. My head hurts, Can we go?" Baelon said in his immature voice massaging the back of his head. 

"Yes, my prince. Later, I will ensure Maester be asked to look at you, in case of any injury." Sir Samgood said, his voice ever steady and formal as he helped the little prince stand on his feet and dusted his clothes. 

They walk 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 little incident may be remembered later by the famous words of Ser Sangood.

He's either brave or mad, that one.

—Samgood of Sour Hill in the Dragonpit