Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

In the year 366 of the Restoration calendar, an immense imperial fleet traversed the Narrow Sea toward the Summer Palace.

The fleet stretched endlessly, a vast procession of ships clad in brass. Even the escort warships bore the same resplendent armor, gleaming faintly despite the ominous atmosphere. The fleet cut through the sea like a dark sword, leaving a frothy trail that resembled milky white blood.

At the head of the formation was the imperial flagship, The Restorer, its bow adorned with seven golden dragon heads, their craftsmanship flawless and imposing. The ship's splendor was mirrored in the updated royal banner: a red field featuring seven dragons intertwined, their black tails forming a circular bloom like a flower in full bloom. The dragon flag fluttered high above the fleet, its motion mimicking the movements of dragons in flight.

Yet, despite the grandeur, the fleet exuded an air of sorrow and foreboding. A heavy, brooding black cloud loomed above, oppressive and unyielding, as though the heavens themselves were in judgment. The once-majestic Targaryen royal family, which had moved its capital to Valyria seventy years earlier, now seemed weighed down by the gravity of its own fate.

After four days at sea, the fleet reached a newly converted port at the location of the former Storm's End. As the ships docked, the most striking cargo was revealed—a massive black casket, carried by eight towering giants.

The casket was a marvel, ten meters in length and over three meters wide, its surface carved with the figure of a crouching dragon. The scales of the dragon were inlaid with gleaming blue gems, and the coffin radiated an icy chill. Draped over it was a man in regal attire, though his emaciated frame and disheveled demeanor betrayed his declining state.

This was Emperor Roy Targaryen, the ruler of Valyria. His hands moved ceaselessly over the coffin, as if entranced, while he muttered incomprehensible phrases, his voice dreamlike and hollow.

After the casket was lowered onto the dock, Roy himself descended, barefoot, and led the procession toward the Summer Palace.

"Will The Restorer forgive Grandfather?"

A young girl with silver hair and violet eyes, unmistakably a member of the Targaryen family, asked the question softly. Her voice was directed toward a burly warrior who walked beside her.

The warrior hesitated, a bitter expression crossing his face. "I don't know," he replied. His gaze shifted toward Roy, now a shell of his former self, and it was clear he harbored no hope. The emperor's actions had left him broken and bereft of the will to live.

The atmosphere of the procession was somber, heavy with whispered schemes and hidden agendas. The emperor had committed an unthinkable crime: he had slain his heir with his own hands.

The sacred symbol of succession lay vacant, the empire left without a clear heir. Panic gripped the realm. The only living member of the emperor's direct line was a single granddaughter. The imperial succession faced a crisis of unprecedented proportions.

In the absence of a direct successor, the focus turned to the emperor's three younger brothers, each a potential contender for the throne.

Jaehaerys, the second brother, controlled Slaver's Bay, Valyria's closest and most strategically positioned territory. As the empire's largest grain supplier besides Westeros, Slaver's Bay was invaluable. Jaehaerys also dominated trade with Iti, and his influence extended to the Jade Sea. His wealth and power were unmatched.

Caesar, the third brother, commanded the Great Grass Sea and several burgeoning cities in the north. With the Targaryen family boasting over a thousand dragons, of which 200 lacked Dragon Knights, Caesar's domain in the "Dragon Pasture" made him a central figure for dragon riders. His influence over Dragon Knights bolstered his claim immensely.

Willem, the youngest brother, was the least powerful of the three. Reckless and adventurous, he frequently embarked on perilous ventures, returning from Essos with his life hanging by a thread more often than not.

The group had now split into three distinct factions: the emperor's personal guards and close aides, the men loyal to Roy, and those aligned with Jaehaerys. The fourth and youngest brother, Willem, was almost entirely isolated, his only companion being his wife—a figure of little significance in the power dynamics.

As rain began to fall, its steady rhythm amplified the sorrow permeating the procession. The melancholy felt among the thousands of marchers seemed to ferment under the gray, wet sky. Caesar's advisers quickly pulled out umbrellas for their lord. He seemed poised to lose his temper at the inconvenience but paused, as if recalling something, and ordered a subordinate to fetch Jaehaerys's umbrella instead.

To Caesar's surprise, Jaehaerys took the umbrella himself and walked not to Caesar, but to Willem, the youngest brother. This subtle act of solidarity underscored the unspoken tensions brewing within the family.

Under the veil of this quiet confrontation, the vast procession of thousands arrived at the gates of the Summer Palace.

Although Emperor and Empress The Restorer had departed this world over 250 years earlier, their presence loomed eternal over the empire. The Summer Palace was not merely a relic of their reign but a sacred site of pilgrimage for Targaryen rulers. Every emperor, without exception, visited this place before ascending to the throne and was interred here upon death. The palace served as the royal family's tomb, symbolizing a bridge between Westeros and the Essos continent.

For Emperor Roy, his return to Westeros and the Summer Palace carried a weight of purpose: an attempt to atone for his unforgivable sin.

When the group reached the circular stone gate marking the palace's entrance, most of the guards remained outside. Only the emperor's closest advisers and family members accompanied him through the gate. The smaller party moved along Summer Avenue, flanked by two rows of statues depicting dragons in various postures—some poised to strike, others rearing majestically.

Jaehaerys turned to his entourage and instructed them to stay behind, leaving the emperor's family to continue alone.

Of the nearly 2,000 who had initially set out on this journey, only Roy's brothers and the emperor's lone granddaughter followed him into the grand hall. The group now numbered no more than twenty.

Inside the hall, they stopped before towering portraits of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. The eight giants carrying the emperor's black casket set it down with a heavy, resonant thud. The sound reverberated through the chamber, creating a suffocating tension. It was as though an unseen force gripped the hearts of everyone present, rendering them incapable of further thought.

Roy knelt to offer his prayer, and as he did, something extraordinary occurred. The painted eyes of Daenerys flickered open, her gaze sharp and imperious, cutting through the room. From where the group stood, the immense portrait seemed less like a painting and more like a massive window cut into the wall, through which Viserys and Daenerys appeared as towering giants observing their descendants.

"Emperor, what is it?" Daenerys's voice was steady, carrying the weight of centuries. Though she still appeared in her early thirties, her aura radiated authority accumulated over a thousand years.

By now, the Targaryen dynasty had seen sixteen or seventeen emperors, their names and legacies blurring into insignificance for the long-dead rulers. To Daenerys, all were simply "emperors."

"Your Grace, I... I killed... I killed my own son."

Emperor Roy, nearly fifty but reduced to the frailty of a child caught in a grievous act, collapsed beside the black casket. His sobs echoed in the vast hall as he clung to the cold surface of the coffin. Tears streamed down his face as he choked on his words, unable to offer a coherent explanation.

Daenerys fixed him with a cold, piercing gaze, her expression unwavering as she demanded the full story.

Taking advantage of Roy's inability to speak, Caesar stepped forward. With measured composure, he recounted the tragic events.

The emperor had distanced himself from his son, the crown prince, due to his perceived cowardice. Unscrupulous advisers exploited the rift, planting seeds of mistrust between father and son. The crown prince, desperate to reconcile, sought an audience with the emperor. In a moment of tension and confusion, the emperor, in a fit of panic, had struck his son with his walking stick.

Under normal circumstances, such an injury would have been trivial—easily healed with the magical and medical advancements of Valyria. However, the emperor's walking stick was no ordinary object; it bore powerful, destructive enchantments. The crown prince died instantly.

Consumed by grief and rage, Roy lashed out, even executing several royal healers in a futile attempt to reverse the tragedy.

As Caesar spoke, he used magic to recreate the fateful scene for Daenerys. The illusion depicted the emperor cradling his son's lifeless body. The prince's bulging eyes and gasping mouth, reminiscent of a fish stranded on a shore, struck everyone in the hall with unbearable clarity.

This alchemical recreation, akin to a "surveillance recording," had become a standard practice among the Targaryens. Caesar's retelling was unembellished, the scene hauntingly vivid.

Daenerys's expression turned colder, her silence cutting deeper than any reprimand. Caesar dared to glance at her face but quickly averted his gaze, sensing her mounting disapproval.

When he finished, the hall fell into an oppressive silence.

Everyone felt immense pressure in the situation. After a while, Dany broke the silence:

"Caesar, you handle those flattering advisers."

"Yes...yes, Your Grace!" Caesar replied with some trepidation, though a hint of self-satisfaction flickered across his face.

Just then, Dany turned her gaze toward Jaehaerys. The second son seemed to sense her attention and looked up to meet her eyes.

"My name is Jaehaerys, Your Grace," he said.

"Jaehaerys, I appoint you Regent. You will assist Roy's daughter and choose the next successor."

"Yes, Your Grace!" Jaehaerys responded promptly, his tone decisive and unwavering.

Although Dany did not explicitly announce Roy's punishment, the decision had already been made.

First and foremost, there was no need to debate removing him from the throne. As for Roy's fate—whether he would live or die—such matters were better left to him. After all, he was still an emperor. For rulers of their stature, losing control over their own lives and deaths would surely breed resentment. Such a loss of agency could have far-reaching consequences, undermining their authority and the respect owed to the throne.

Allowing Roy to make his own decision was a carefully calculated move.

Thus, Roy's daughter was named "Catherine" by Dany.

She would go on to become the first female Targaryen empress in history, ascending the throne as "the Great." Her reign would last seventy years, marking her as the longest-serving Targaryen ruler.

After concluding the matter, the royal family members left the hall. Dany watched their retreating figures, her eyes betraying complex emotions. These people were her blood. Yet, as the years passed, she had grown increasingly detached from them. The Targaryen name had multiplied, its bearers now too numerous to count.

Her thoughts drifted back to an incident nearly a century earlier. Dany had once dealt with a Targaryen of Dothraki descent. A silver-haired Dothraki had stolen a dragon from the Targaryen dragon farm and attempted to unite the surrounding tribes. It was suspected that this Dothraki was descended from the royal line.

However, upon investigation, it was discovered that his lineage traced back to a woman named Asha. The tribe's revered "sacred object" was a square iron coin pendant from Braavos. According to legend, any Dothraki warrior who wore the pendant would remain undefeated in battle.

When Dany pieced the story together, she felt no resentment toward Viserys. Back then, the Targaryens had endured extreme hardships. Their family had been reduced to just the two of them—herself and Viserys. If she hadn't sought marriage alliances, then Viserys would have been forced to make such compromises.

Now, in her returned 3D state, Dany found herself in another world.

"What's up, brother? Are you done yet?"

In a blank white space, Viserys crouched near a door—or more accurately, a simple doorframe standing alone in the void. He was meticulously tracing intricate runes onto the frame with his wand.

"Almost. Just wait a bit longer," he replied, his tone focused.

Over the past 300 years, Viserys had told Dany everything about himself, including the fact that he was a Transmigrator. This revelation had been difficult for Dany to grasp. The idea that someone could transmigrate into a book was absurd to her.

"For example," Viserys had once explained, "if I had read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and then somehow entered those books—knowing the plots in advance—wouldn't that mean I could predict future events? Stop Voldemort before he even rose to power?"

Dany had listened but remained skeptical. She dismissed much of it as one of Viserys's more eccentric ideas. After all, if someone told you the world you lived in was fictional—a fabrication of someone else's imagination—how could you possibly believe it?

But in the end, it didn't really matter. Their physical bodies had died over five centuries ago, yet their spirits and souls had found a place to linger. Over time, Viserys's mastery of magic had advanced beyond recognition—not just in spellcraft but also in alchemy.

Now, he was on the verge of completing something extraordinary: a "portal." According to his deep study of magical rituals, the portal, once finished, would allow him to take Dany to another world.

Through years of contemplation, Viserys had come to understand a fundamental truth:

Stories were not mere fabrications—they were reflections of reality.

In essence, every story was a projection of a world's will. Though authors created and wrote them, the source material came from the fabric of reality itself. Thus, the world of A Song of Ice and Fire and the world of Harry Potter were both as real as their own existence.

Armed with this belief, Viserys sought to construct the Gate of the Heavens—a portal capable of transporting him and Dany to any world he had "seen" through stories.

With a hum, the frame began to glow. A shimmering purple light rippled within the portal.

"It worked?" Dany asked, her excitement barely contained.

Viserys studied the glowing Celestial Gate. To ensure its safety, he threw a coin with a string tied to it into the portal. Pulling the coin back and confirming no anomalies, he extended his hand cautiously.

As his hand passed through the portal, it seemed to dissolve into the air. It didn't reappear on the other side.

Dany remained tense but prepared, her hands aglow with a protective orange light. If anything happened to Viserys, she would intervene immediately.

When Viserys withdrew his hand and confirmed he was unharmed, he stepped through the Gate of the Heavens. Dany followed closely, and together they emerged in a dense jungle.

Viserys tapped the portal's frame, causing it to shrink and transform into a pendant, which he hung around his neck.

Their brief moment of curiosity was interrupted by a ferocious roar.

"Hurry! Catch that little bitch!"

They turned toward the commotion. A silver-haired girl, her face marred by a knife scar, was sprinting toward them. Blood soaked her clothing, and her steps faltered with each stride.

She managed only a weak "Help..." before collapsing at their feet.

Dany rushed to her side, immediately assessing her injuries. Before she could react further, a group of thuggish pursuers burst into view.

"Damn it, there are two more Witchers here!" one of them growled, brandishing weapons.