Pain. A dull throb at first, pulsing behind my eyes and blooming outward like ripples on a still pond.
My eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, I saw nothing but flickers of candlelight dancing on cracked walls. The room smelled of dust, stale air, and faint incense—the unmistakable aroma of abandonment. My head ached as if something heavy had slammed into it. Which, apparently, it had.
A whimper. Small and broken.
I turned slightly, and my eyes fell upon her.
Daenerys.
She was curled beside me, her tiny body trembling in her sleep. Tear streaks stained her cheeks, her lips quivered even in dreams, and her small hand clutched my tattered sleeve like it was the only anchor keeping her from drifting into a storm.
She couldn't have been more than five.
I slowly sat up, ignoring the sharp jolt in my skull. The pain was intense, but I forced myself to breathe through it, grounding my awareness.
This wasn't a dream.
I was no longer a 30-year-old corporate drone trying to juggle deadlines and debt. That man had died—or been forcibly evicted from his body courtesy of an overzealous truck.
Now, I was Viserys Targaryen.
Thirteen years old. Exiled. Wounded. And very much alive.
I scanned the room carefully, my gaze adjusting to the dim light. The interior was modest—a long room with faded rugs, moth-eaten drapes, and chipped wooden furniture. A single window let in the moonlight, casting long shadows on the cracked floor.
I recognized this place.
The Red Door.
It had been described in the books. A house in Braavos—or was it Lys?—with a red door, the last home the Targaryen siblings had shared before fate pried them away from whatever scraps of stability they had left.
Except now it was silent. Hollow.
The moment I tried to stand, another bolt of pain lanced through my head—and along with it, memories not my own.
Flashes. Images. Emotions.
Willam Darry—an aging knight and one of the last men loyal to House Targaryen—had died recently. With his death, the small household he had managed collapsed. Servants who once pledged loyalty stole what little gold remained and vanished into the night.
One of them, a tall man with sun-browned skin, had attempted to loot Willam's ring chest. Viserys—foolish, proud Viserys—had tried to stop him. A heavy blow to the head was all it took to end the resistance. That moment, the boy collapsed.
And I... arrived.
Right at the threshold of death.
I touched my forehead and felt the dried blood. My fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the immensity of what this all meant.
I had been reborn. As Viserys.
And the world wasn't going to offer me kindness. Not now. Not ever.
But I wasn't the same Viserys. No.
The god—quirky, playful, and maybe a little too fond of anime references—had given me five gifts. Gifts that, if used wisely, could tip the scales of power in this brutal world.
I looked down at Daenerys again. Her breath was shallow, exhausted.
She had no one else.
Just me.
I stood up slowly, the pain in my skull already dulling, and walked toward the dusty mirror across the room. My reflection stared back—young, pale, delicate features that leaned feminine, yet possessed a haunting beauty. Violet eyes glowed faintly in the low light. My hair—platinum-white and disheveled—hung in soft waves.
A Targaryen prince.
And something much more.
I clenched my fist and focused inward.
Time to test what had been granted to me.
Gift One: The Super Soldier Serum
I held my breath and tensed the muscles in my legs. My balance, coordination, and body awareness shifted subtly. I could feel the precise distribution of weight in every step. My senses sharpened. Heartbeat steady. Reflexes crisp.
When I extended my hand toward the cracked wall, I could punch—and feel the tension distribute perfectly. No pain. No overexertion. My strength had grown exponentially, but more than that, it was honed, perfect. Like a blade drawn tight across a whetstone.
A faint shimmer raced across the skin on my forearm. A cut I'd had earlier from the splintered bedframe began to close visibly, skin knitting together in seconds.
Gift Two: Yoriichi's Swordsmanship and the Transparent World
I closed my eyes.
And breathed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, with a pulse—everything changed.
The room slowed down. I could see the flickering light of the candle moving in deliberate frames. I could hear Daenerys' heartbeat. The structure of the room became visible—its grain, its density. I could sense potential movement and paths of action before even thinking about them.
Transparent World.
I grabbed the wooden stick lying near the bed—a makeshift sword—and swung. The arc was perfect. I could see the air part around it. Speed, precision, flow—every strike felt divine.
This wasn't swordplay. This was artistry.
Gift Three: The Goru Goru no Mi—Gold-Gold Fruit
I walked over to a broken pot in the corner and placed my hand on it.
With a conscious effort, I activated the ability. A subtle tingling pulsed through my fingers.
In the next instant, the clay began to shift, reforming under my touch. The object glowed faintly and transformed—solid, gleaming gold. Not just a surface effect. The entire object had become gold, matching its prior weight.
My heart skipped.
This... this could change everything.
Money. Influence. Bribery. Armies.
Gift Four: Mori Mori no Mi—Forest Fruit
This was the trickiest in a house of stone and dust.
I opened the shutters to the small balcony. The moonlight poured in, illuminating the balcony's cracked floor.
I stepped outside and placed my hand on the stone.
A whisper of energy pulsed from my palm.
From the cracks of the stone, vines began to emerge. Slowly, cautiously. A small stalk of wheat pushed upward. A wild apple sapling followed. Moss began to creep across the dead stone like life reclaiming death.
I felt the ground yield to me. It recognized me.
I could grow anything.
Gift Five: Blood Magic of Valyria
This would be the most dangerous. The most ancient. And the most powerful.
I pulled a shard of glass and nicked my palm slightly. Blood welled up, crimson and glistening.
Holding it over a candle's flame, I whispered a word that had echoed in my mind since I woke.
"Āeksion."
Fire sparked.
The blood hissed as it danced above the flame, resisting gravity. The air around it shimmered.
Power. Real, ancient, and raw. It resonated with my very soul.
I stood in silence for a long time, watching the horizon. The sun was beginning to rise, casting golden hues across the distant rooftops. A new day.
Behind me, Daenerys stirred, murmuring something in her sleep. The innocence in her voice made my chest ache.
I turned and walked back inside.
Everything was gone—our household, our protector, our legacy.
But we weren't powerless.
Not anymore.
I was Viserys. But not the mad, desperate boy history would have mocked.
I was reborn.
And fire, gold, and forests would answer to my will.