The first thing I became aware of was breath. A slow, rhythmic rise and fall, the quiet hum of life that I had never needed before. I could feel my heart beating, steady yet foreign, a reminder that I was alive—but in a way that I had never been before.
I wasn't supposed to be here. I wasn't supposed to exist.
The realization came slowly, creeping into my mind like water seeping through cracks in stone. My thoughts were sluggish, my body unresponsive. I was trapped in something small, weak, and helpless.
Then, memory struck like a blade in my mind. Flashes of another life.
A desert. A battlefield. The scent of blood and burned flesh. Screams. Gunfire. The sterile brightness of an operating room. Hands covered in blood—but not my own.
A soldier. A medic. A man who once had a purpose.
I had been someone. Someone else.
And then—an explosion. Fire. Pain. Silence.
I died.
Yet, I was here.
I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to wake up from this twisted dream, but my body refused to obey. I was too small, too fragile. My hands curled into tiny fists that could barely grasp the fabric that surrounded me.
I was reborn.
And not just anywhere. I was in Westeros, in Song Of Ice and Fire.
The fragmented pieces of my past life warred with the growing certainty of my new reality. I had no family. No lover waiting for me. I had spent nearly three decades in service—as a combat medic in the United States Army, then as a UNICEF volunteer, trying to heal rather than destroy.
I had died in a terrorist bombing, sacrificing myself for those who could not save themselves.
And now? Now, I was someone else.
The pieces of my identity realigned. Aemon Targaryen. Son of Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones.
I knew this name. I knew this story.
Prince Duncan had given up the Iron Throne for love. Jenny of Oldstones—mysterious, tragic, a woman whispered to have the blood of the old gods. And they had a son.
Me.
A deep sense of dread settled over me like a heavy cloak.
Summerhall.
I didn't remember everything, but I remembered enough. The tragedy that was coming. The wildfire that would consume this place, my parents, my grandfather, King Aegon V.
I was born into a house doomed to fall.
House Targaryen, once great, once invincible, was fading. I had read the books. I had watched the show. I knew what was coming.
Madness. Rebellion. The fall of the dragons.
And yet—I was here. Why?
Was this fate? A cruel joke of the gods? Or something more?
The air around me felt heavier. The firelight flickered on the stone walls, casting shadows that stretched and twisted like ghosts of the past. I felt the weight of centuries pressing down on me, whispering of things lost, of dreams burned to ash.
I closed my tiny fists, frustration and helplessness washing over me. I had once been strong. I had once saved lives. Now, I could not even lift my own head.
As my newborn body shivered in the warmth of my mother's arms, I felt the weight of centuries of history pressing down upon me. What was I supposed to do with this knowledge? Could I change anything?
I didn't have answers.
But I had time. And as long as I drew breath, I would not let this house—my house—burn to ash without a fight.
The fire had taken everything from me before.
This time, I would wield it.