Chapter Text
The glow of his phone painted Riddhi's face blue. It was well past midnight, but he barely noticed. The House of the Dragon trailer had sent him down an internet rabbit hole.
Dragons wheeled across the sky. Armies burned beneath them. The trailer promised exactly what he had wanted from Game of Thrones—less endless political maneuvering and more Targaryens at the height of their power.
He had given up on the main series halfway through, the political machinations too dense, the characters often too frustrating, but this… this was different.
This was the raw, untamed power of the Targaryens, the one kind he liked.
One search led to another. A Reddit thread insisted the source material was even better than the show. Ten minutes later he was staring at the Kindle purchase screen: *Fire and Blood*. He had bought the ebook on a whim, the cover a stark image of a three-headed dragon, and now, the words on the page pulled him deeper than any screen ever could.
He had only meant to read a few pages before bed.
The digital clock on his nightstand glowed 01:17. He turned another page, the history of Aegon's Conquest unfolding before his eyes. The First Men, the Andals, the Rhoynar
The prose described Aegon the Conqueror, Balerion the Black Dread, and the two sister-queens, Rhaenys and Visenya, who had helped forge a kingdom from seven warring realms. The descriptions were rich, full of the clang of bronze and iron, the scent of woodsmoke and dragonfire.
One page became ten.
Then fifty.
He finished the first chapter, with satisfaction
He only looked up when his eyes began to sting.
05:30
"...You've got to be kidding me."
His class started at eight.
He hurriedly set an alarm for 7:30, threw the phone onto the mattress, and collapsed face-first onto the pillow to get whatever two hours of sleep he can get.
The shrill, insistent bleating of his alarm tore through and woke him up.
His hand fumbled for the phone, silencing the persistent electronic squawk. He blinked, the room still shrouded in the pre-dawn gloom, and his eyes found the time. *07:50*. A sudden, sharp anxiety seized him.
He overslept.
His 8 AM class.
*Bloody hell.*
He threw the thin sheet off, his bare feet hitting the cool floor with a thud. There was no time for a proper breakfast, no time for anything.
He snatched a clean shirt from the pile on his chair, tugged on trousers. He stuffed books, notebooks, and pens into his backpack, nearly dropping his keys as he locked the apartment door behind him.
The street outside was a roaring torrent of horns and engines
Riddhi wove through the throng, his eyes scanning for any gap to cross the road and get a taxi to his college as fast as he could
A scooter veered sharply, its horn blaring, and he sidestepped, A cycle rickshaw, piled high with goods, forced him to hug the edge of the pavement..
Traffic finally thinned. A single car was coming, still some distance away, he quickly ran across the street.
One step.
Two.
A horn screamed.
Someone shouted.
He turned.
Headlights.
and then a searing, impossible pain. The world dissolved into a single, blinding white light, followed by an explosion of agony that tore through every fiber of his being.
He was no longer on the ground, but flying like a helpless rag doll flung through the air.
He landed hard, the impact jolting every bone, every muscle, every nerve. He lay there, a broken thing, the world a distorted canvas of noise and agony. He tried to move, to lift a hand, to scream, but nothing responded.
His legs were numb, his arms heavy, useless weights. A hot, metallic taste filled his mouth. He could feel the wet warmth spreading beneath him, soaking into his clothes. The sounds of the street slowly fading
The pain, though still immense, dulled, becoming a dull, throbbing ache. The edges of his vision blurred, darkness creeping in from all around.
His consciousness slowly fading away. He tried to fight it, but the exhaustion was too great.
.
.
He woke with a jolt, a sudden, violent gasp that felt alien in his own throat. The world was a swirling chaos of fuzzy shapes and indistinct sounds, everything so loud and noisy.
A strange urge to resist coursed through him, but his limbs felt impossibly small, weak, and uncoordinated. He felt like being held, cradled in large, soft hands, but the man leaning over him was that of an old man with large white beard examining him with practised calm.
Riddhi had no idea who the old man was or why he was hovering over him. He tried to push away, but his tiny fists flailed uselessly, striking only air. *What in the gods' name happened?*
His mind, still sluggish from the trauma, grappled with the sensation of being so utterly diminished. He could move his arms and legs, yes, but they felt like sticks, utterly unlike his own. Had they been removed? No, he could feel them, but they were so… miniature.
He tried to speak, to ask what was going on.
but the sound that emerged from his throat was a wet, gurgling *"Blurg blurg blurg."* Panic seized him.
No.
He tried again, forcing air, willing words to form, but only a desperate, high-pitched wail erupted. He was crying. He, Riddhi, was crying like a helpless baby.
He stopped struggling, his small body trembling, and forced himself to observe. This was no hospital. There were no fluorescent lights, no beeping machines, no sterile white walls. Instead, he saw the flickering glow of what must be candles and dark wooden beams decorated all around.
The air smelled of herbs and thick iron like the metallic scent of blood.
Confusion warred with terror.
The old man examined him carefully.
"Healthy lungs."
"A strong prince."
Prince?
His heartbeat stopped.
Then, the large, blurry figure shifted, and he was lifted, gently but firmly, into another set of arms. A deep voice rumbled close to his ear
"Here, your grace."
This time, as his head was propped against a broad chest, his vision cleared.
The face slowly sharpened.
Silver-gold hair.
A neatly trimmed beard.
Gentle eyes burdened by quiet exhaustion.
but still the royal bearing.
No.
No way.
That's Viserys.
The very man from the trailer, the one he saw just yesterday night.
A cold, undeniable dread, far worse than any pain, settled over him. *No. This cannot be.
This is not real.* His mind churned, a silent, frantic cacophony. *What the hell is this? Where am I? Did i die? Did i get reincarnated? is he my father?*. He tried shouting, but what came out was sound of crying baby.....
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I am testing this as a concept and first chapter, i will see if the response for the first 5 chapters are great and the audience like my writing style.
Then i will continue with the story or will close the book after 5 chapters as i genuinely want to write through and experience this biggest what if? of House of dragon
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A/N: Thanks for reading the first chapter of Baelon : Heir to Iron Throne!
⚔️ Want to read ahead? Check out all my work and early chapters at
cosmic-phantom-site.vercel.app