Dragonstone, 281 AC
The storm had begun before dusk.
By nightfall, it battered Dragonstone like a god betrayed—winds shrieking through ancient towers, waves hammering the cliffs, and rain slashing sideways through the gloom. Thunder cracked the skies open, and the sea churned like some great beast had stirred beneath its depths.
Inside the keep, silence reigned—except for the birthing screams.
Queen Rhaella was dying.
Her cries tore through the corridors like knives in flesh. No one spoke. No one breathed easy. Servants huddled in the shadows. Even the guards looked pale. A maester had whispered earlier that the queen had lost too much blood before the child crowned.
Aragorn Targaryen, age seven, sat on a narrow stone bench outside the chamber, his back straight, his eyes dry. His bare feet touched the cold floor, and he clutched a small black stone he'd found days earlier—a perfect sphere, smoothed by the sea.
He hadn't spoken since the raven came with news of Rhaegar's death. Nor when word spread that Jaime Lannister had slain his father, Aerys, upon the Iron Throne. He had not wept for his father, nor for Rhaegar, though others had.
But he felt the break in the world. He felt it deep in his bones.
Inside him, something stretched, hollow and quiet—like a great hall emptied of voices. He watched the wall across from him, seeing not stone, but equations—angles, faults, pressure lines. He didn't know how he knew what those cracks meant. But he knew.
It disturbed him more than it comforted.
Viserys had been carried from the room earlier, sobbing, his golden hair matted with sweat. "I am the dragon," he had cried. "I am the king."
But he wasn't. Not with Rhaegar dead. Not with Aragorn still breathing.
He touched the stone in his hand. Cold. Smooth. Solid. Unlike the people around him.
The door creaked open. A pale midwife with blood on her sleeves stepped into the hall.
"She is asking for you."
He went.
The birthing room stank of blood and smoke. A brazier hissed against the cold. The queen lay amid twisted sheets, her silver-gold hair soaked with sweat, her lips parted as if still screaming.
But her eyes were open.
"Aragorn," she whispered.
He knelt beside her, small fingers curling around the edge of the bed.
"She is… Daenerys."
The infant cried weakly beside her. The child was impossibly small—swaddled in damp linens, her skin already flushed.
"She came as the storm broke," Rhaella said, voice fading. "She was born in fire and thunder… just like the prophecy."
Aragorn stared at the infant.
"She's the last, but you… you're the crown now. Rhaegar is gone. Your father is ash. And Viserys… he is not strong enough."
He didn't speak.
"You have always seen things others did not," she murmured. "You… ask questions a child shouldn't. You listen. That's what kings must do."
Her hand trembled in his. "You must protect them, Aragorn. Both of them. Promise me."
"I swear it."
She gave a faint smile—thin, but real.
Then she coughed blood and stilled.
Daenerys wailed. The fire popped.
Aragorn remained kneeling, unmoving.
In his mind, something shifted.
A tremor.
He staggered out into the corridor, his head spinning. His breath caught in his throat. Pain lanced across his temples, behind his eyes.
He stumbled, dropped the stone.
Then the world broke open.
Light. Memory. Screams.
Monitors. Deadlines. Equations. Reports. Meetings that never ended. Cold coffee. Crushed ambition. A name: James Arden.
The rush of information was unbearable.
The collapse of his lungs. The final deadline. The slamming of metal against metal.
He gasped—and the pain multiplied.
Codex Imperium initializing…
Cognitive host: James Arden / Aragorn Targaryen. Memory convergence 84%... 92%... 100%.
Analyzing local geopolitical schema... cross-referencing infrastructure capability... uploading civil-military logistics…
Primary directive: Survive. Stabilize. Rebuild. Ascend.
He reeled.
He saw diagrams, maps, structural fault trees. Supply chain optimization in medieval systems. Disease vectors. Siege mechanics. Aqueduct design. Grain storage logistics. Sanitation.
He was seven years old.
He remembered thirty years of another life.
He vomited.
The stone floor was cold beneath his knees.
He breathed in silence. James Arden was dead. But Aragorn Targaryen remained.
You've been given a second life, he thought. You won't waste this one.
Behind his closed eyes, lines of logic snapped into place.
Codex, he thought, immediate environmental analysis.
Storm duration: 7-9 hours remaining. Vessel viability: marginal. Priority: Daenerys Targaryen's survival.
He pushed himself up.
Willem. I need Willem.
Ser Willem Darry was waiting near the queen's chamber, sword at his belt, his gray beard damp with sweat.
"She's gone," Aragorn said.
Willem bowed his head.
"And the child?"
"Alive."
"We must go."
"Yes," Aragorn said. "We'll take the east stair. The kitchens are unmanned. The old harbor is less visible from the cliffs."
Willem blinked. "How do you know that?"
"I walked the tunnels. I observed the shifts. I listened."
"You sound like—"
"Like a prince."
Willem nodded slowly. "Like a king."
The castle groaned under wind. In the old storage halls, they gathered what they could—salted fish, skins of wine, a boiled wool wrap. Aragorn strapped a small blade to his belt, the one Rhaella had once hidden under her mattress.
They passed through ruined halls and narrow servant tunnels, one passage collapsed with rubble. Aragorn led them back, rerouting through a drainage shaft.
It took them longer. Every minute, Daenerys cried.
They reached the cliffs. The harbor lay below.
Rhaella was buried under a cairn of black stone and salt-slicked driftwood. Willem dug while Aragorn held the torch.
"I didn't know her," Aragorn said. "Not really. She was always looking west, toward memory. But I'll remember her."
"She protected you," Willem said. "Even in madness, she never let the king touch you."
"I know."
He laid the first stone over her chest.
"I will build her a monument when I reclaim our house."
The fishing vessel lay tethered in the old harbor. Barely seaworthy. But Aragorn walked the hull slowly.
He placed his hand on the wood.
His King's Touch ignited.
Strain. Rot. Weakness. He felt the keel's flex, the tension in the mast, the looseness in the steering lines. The rudder was half-eaten. The sail frayed.
He gave orders.
"Reinforce the port beam. Double-bind the central mast. Shift weight forward—too much aft will capsize us in wind."
The sailors gawked.
"You question me?" Aragorn's voice rang, clear as steel. "I said bind it."
They moved.
Willem watched, stunned.
"You have… command in you."
"I have no choice," Aragorn said.
Viserys tried to bolt. Screaming.
"I will not die like Father! I am the king!"
"You are not," Aragorn said. "You are a child. And unless you get in the boat, you'll drown alone."
He didn't wait for Viserys to obey. He simply picked up Daenerys and boarded.
The others followed.
The storm struck like vengeance.
Waves smashed the bow. The sail tore. Water flooded the deck. One sailor was nearly swept overboard.
Aragorn took the tiller.
"Port side, brace! Lash the rear sail! We move with the wind—not against!"
Daenerys burned against his chest. Her breath was shallow. Fever raged.
"Boil water!" Aragorn shouted. "Find cloth—any cloth. We keep her warm, not hot. Fan her gently."
"I have no willow bark!" a sailor cried.
"Then use cloth soaked in sea water. Cool her forehead. Watch her breathing!"
He felt the boat groan. His King's Touch told him it would not last long.
He adjusted course, steering them toward deeper water. Willem hauled rope beside him.
"You've done this before," Willem gasped.
"In another life," Aragorn said.
"Are you mad?"
"I was. Once."
Waves broke over them. Aragorn shielded Daenerys with his cloak.
Codex, he thought, estimate structural integrity.
Current condition: 63%. Immediate reinforcement needed. Suggest: distribute crew weight midship. Shift ballast forward.
He followed every step.
The sailors obeyed without question.
Willem stared at him as if seeing a ghost.
And Aragorn whispered, "Hold together. Just a little longer."