The Fireborne Prince (GOT)

The floor felt like molten lava against Ryan's back, each breath a struggle against the thick, acrid smoke that had invaded his lungs. He coughed, half-gasping, half-choking, and the pain ricocheted through his body like a pinball machine from hell. Mechanical parts pinned his legs, their weight a cruel reminder of his own humane fragility. The fire had exploded too close, too fast. He was trapped.

Sweat trickled down Ryan's forehead, mingling with soot and—he's not afraid to admit it—tears. 

His workspace, his sanctuary for the past year, was now his inferno. Hell. The screams of his coworkers had long faded into an eerie silence, leaving only the crackling of flames. 

Ryan let out a weak laugh, a bitter chuckle at the irony of it all. Scared of fire his whole life, once traumatized by being burned by a candle as a child's stupid curiosity, and now here he was, on the verge of becoming its next victim. Again. But worse. He was totally fucked. 

His lungs burned, fighting a losing battle against the smoke that filled every inch of the room. Each shallow breath was like inhaling shards of glass. He had lost hope minutes ago when the last escape route was swallowed by the flames. He was going to die here, and it was going to be slow and excruciating. 

Ryan closed his eyes, retreating into the only sanctuary left—his mind. 

What if he knew the Fire breathing techniques like Rengoku from Demon Slayer? He pictured himself standing tall amidst the flames, slicing through them with the fiery grace of a seasoned warrior. 

What if he could Firebend like Zuko from Avatar? He imagined bending the flames to his will, creating a path to safety with a mere flick of his wrist. 

Or what if, like Daenerys from Game of Thrones, he was immune to fire? He'd walk through the inferno unscathed, emerging like a phoenix from the ashes. He imagined hatching dragon eggs, just like Dany, and having three majestic creatures as his faithful companions. 

Ryan's mind clung to these delusions, these impossible fantasies. It was better than facing the reality of his impending doom. He thought of his friends, his small circle of fellow geeks and dreamers. They've spent countless hours discussing these very scenarios, laughing at the absurdity of it all and how awesome it would be. And now, here he was, living out one of those what-ifs in the worst possible way. 

As the pain intensified and his vision blurred, Ryan's fantasies began to fade. Fucking hell… it hurts so much. Tears came out again as he stared dazedly into the flames. He was so fucking scared. Ryan didn't want to die. Not by fire. Not like this. 

Amidst his breakdown, a sudden ringing pierced Ryan's thoughts, a bell that seemed to be coming from the flames in the chaos. Ryan barely heard it—it was a commanding, melodic voice echoing in his ears, stating that they had heard his wishes and wished him well on his second journey. 

What the hell? Wishes? What wishes? And what second journey? 'Second journey' my ass! He was fucking dying! 

Was he hallucinating? Was this the end?

Darkness started to creep in from the edges of his vision. Ryan was slipping away, consciousness fading like the last embers of a dying fire. The cruel irony. 

Just as he was about to close his eyes, the voice spoke again, clearer this time, declaring that he was deemed worthy of becoming 'the prince who was promised.'

Ryan managed a final, weak laugh. Maybe, just maybe, there was something beyond this inferno. 

And then, everything went black.

~~~

Ryan was in darkness. 

Pure darkness with only his conscious mind still intact. He couldn't feel, touch, hear, taste, or see. Just his mind and thoughts. 

Was he stuck like this forever? 

Wasn't he supposed to be dead by now? Confusion swirled in Ryan's mind, but clarity was a distant dream. Time lost its meaning, and he couldn't tell if he had been here for seconds or days.

In the midst of the silent darkness and his thoughts, an unbearable pressure suddenly enveloped Ryan, squeezing every inch of his being as if he was being forced through a narrow tunnel. The crushing pain was relentless, an unending torment that made him want to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. He was trapped in a void, a place where none of his senses worked, where only pain—suddenly existed.

The fire should have consumed him. Why did he feel anything at all?

Then, like a distant echo, a sound broke through the void. At first, it was overwhelming, a cacophony that made Ryan's ears ring. The roar of fire was familiar, a haunting reminder of his last moments. But there were other sounds too—screams, voices—fragments of a world beyond the darkness. Who did they belong to? 

As his senses slowly aligned, exhaustion washed over him. Ryan felt an overwhelming urge to sleep, to escape the pain and confusion. So, he let the darkness take him once more, and surrendered to the void.

When he could finally open his eyes, the world was a blur of colors and sounds. The pain had subsided, replaced by a strange, new sensation. The air felt different, heavy with smoke and another scent he couldn't identify.

Loud cries pierced the air, harsh and desperate. Ryan realized they were screams of agony. A woman's cries, filled with pain and effort, and another voice, urgent and commanding. His mind struggled to piece together the fragments of his surroundings.

"Push, Your Grace! Just a little more!"

The voice was authoritative, filled with command and concern. The woman's cries grew louder, more intense, and a wave of pain hit Ryan anew, but this time it wasn't just his. It was as if he could feel her suffering, her struggle. Then, all of the sudden, Ryan felt free, the constrictions gone. 

"It's a boy, Your Grace!"

In full force, his senses returned. The world around him started to take shape. He saw the dark sky flashing with orange hues of light. Fire. Flames. A massive architectural structure was burning. Blurred figures appeared and became clearer. Ryan saw a woman in labor, her face contorted with pain. A man in robes hovered nearby, giving instructions and offering comfort. 

Ryan tried to make sense of it all. Where was he? What was happening? The last thing he remembered was the fire at his workplace, his 'supposed' final moments...

The woman's screams resonated with him, and suddenly, Ryan felt a sharp, piercing cry escape his own lips. The sound startled him, and he realized it wasn't a cry of a grown man but of a newborn. A baby.

Confusion gripped him as the pieces fell into place. 

No way.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. 

No fucking way.

He wasn't just reborn; he was being born!

The fire wasn't from his workplace; it was another tragedy, another inferno. And his new mother? Giving birth in this situation? Respect, man. Jesus Christ. 

Where was he reincarnated? Which world? Please don't let this world be Attack on Titan. He'll probably commit suicide as it is. 

As the world around him swirled in chaos and confusion, a new voice cut through the cacophony. The woman's command rang clear in the air of authority and longing. She wanted Ryan, and the helper complied, gently passing him into her waiting arms.

Ryan found himself cradled in her embrace, feeling the strength and tenderness in her touch. Her silver blonde hair was matted with sweat from labor, framing a face of both beauty and exhaustion. Her lavender eyes, filled with love and pain, met Ryan's, and for a fleeting moment, a connection sparked between them.

A smile graced her lips, a bittersweet expression that spoke of both joy and sorrow. She spoke a name, a name that electrocuted Ryan to his core.

"My baby, my Rhaemon. Rhaemon Targaryen."

As the name Targaryen reverberated through his ears, a chill ran down Ryan's spine, a shiver of recognition and dread that gripped him to his core. Targaryen. The name carried a weight, a legacy of power and peril that echoed through the annals of fictional history.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Panic surged within him, a wild fluttering in his chest that threatened to suffocate him. Reincarnated as a Targaryen? In the world of Game of Thrones? The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and fear clawed its way into his mind. He was a fucking Targaryen, a name synonymous with dragons, ambition, madness, and death.

He tried to push back the rising tide of panic, but the knowledge that he was thrust into a world where treachery reigned and alliances crumbled sent a wave of unease crashing over him. Ryan hadn't read the books, barely watched the show—his knowledge of this brutal and unforgiving world was limited to fragments, snippets, and spoilers.

Win or be killed. The words echoed in his mind, a grim reminder of the ruthless game that played out in the lands of Westeros. He was ill-equipped, unprepared for the machinations and bloodshed that awaited him as a Targaryen. He didn't even know what year it was in this world. 

Doomed. 

The thought hung heavy in the air, a shadow that loomed over him like a specter. He was a stranger in a strange land, a pawn in a game of thrones that he barely understood.

Ryan's thoughts shattered like glass as another wave of pain gripped his new mother, causing her to cry out in anguish. The suddenness of her scream startled him, and he felt a pang of fear and helplessness. The helper's voice cut through the chaos, informing her that there was another baby coming, that she was having twins.

Ryan was gently passed back into the helper's care, his mother's cries echoing in the night as she continued to labor, bringing another life into the world. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, a heavy blanket that threatened to pull him under.

As he drifted into unconsciousness, the sounds of his mother's screams became a distant lullaby, a haunting backdrop to his entrance into this new and tumultuous world. The knowledge of his twin, being born alongside him lingered in the air. 

And so, in the midst of fire and birth, Rhaemon Targaryen, found himself at the threshold of a destiny entwined with prophecy and power, a legacy that awaited its reckoning in the turbulent lands of Westeros.