The runes on my forearm pulsed faintly as I stood atop the jagged ridge, Dragonstone's black peaks tumbling away behind me. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. System Status: Luck Units – 3. Three precious units that tethered my very life to this new world. But to what—and to whom—should I bind my fate?
I tested the Bounding System on the bare rock beneath my boot. A soft glow wrapped around the stone; an instant later, the pulse faded. The tile cracked. My heart lurched. If my bound Luck could fracture stone, what might it do for an ally?
Careful not to squander more than I could afford, I began my descent. Loose scree slid underfoot, and half-buried bones—perhaps of some long-dead beast—crunched as I passed. Every echo reminded me that I was not alone in these caverns, but the distant calls of dragons were strangely absent. Only the hiss of molten vents kept me company.
An hour later, I emerged into the bustle of Dragonstone's market square. Fishermen bartered over salted cod; torchlight danced on timber stalls stacked with woolen cloaks and cured meats. I ducked into a narrow alley, pulled a coarse linen tunic over my damp skin, and tugged at faded trousers—stolen, but surely no one would suspect a ragged child.
Clothed and cautious, I melted among the locals. My slender frame and hollow cheeks drew only pity, not suspicion. By lingering near the bakery ovens, I gleaned crucial scraps of knowledge: this was Westeros; this was Dragonstone; the year was 60 AC. King Jaehaerys I Targaryen wielded power atop his dragon Vermithor, and Queen Alysanne reigned beside her on Silverwing.
I ducked beneath a low arch and pressed my palm to my rune-marked arm. Binding Opportunity Detected: House Targaryen. A surge of warmth filled me. Their fortunes were legendary: they survived rebellions, madness, and the cataclysm of Valyria itself. To bind my Luck to them would secure my life—perhaps even grant me sanctuary.
But how? A pauper's plea meant nothing at court. No servant dared stand before a princess, let alone an orphan with violet eyes. The only path I could imagine was through marriage—a union that would require royal consent. Or perhaps I could earn the favor of a dragonlord directly, enlisting one of the great beasts as my champion.
Night fell and lanterns flickered to life. I tucked my newly acquired cloak around my shoulders and set my jaw. Before dawn, I would map a route to King's Landing. There, I would learn the unwritten rules of court intrigue, seek out those who whispered in the dragon's ear, and—if luck remained—claim my place among them.
For as long as my bound Luck endured, I must endure too. And on this path, fortune favors the bold.
I stayed the night in a half-collapsed storage shed behind a baker's stall. Rats scurried past my feet. The stale scent of flour and ash hung in the air, but it was shelter—and I needed rest. The glow of my Bound runes dimmed as I fell into a restless sleep, haunted by dreams not my own. Fire. Screams. A high tower crumbling into ash. A man in dark armor yelling a name—Vaelarys—just before a dragon's jaws consumed him.
I woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to my skin.
"Are those my memories?" I whispered to myself. Or were they the fragments of the Valyrian soul buried within me?
Whatever I was—whoever I used to be—I wasn't normal. Not in this world. Not even in my last.
The next morning, I scavenged an apple and filled my belly with stolen bread. I kept my head down and ears open. The smallfolk talked endlessly: about a lord's visit from King's Landing, a dragon spotted flying low over Driftmark, a Targaryen princess rumored to be sick. Princess Daella, they said.
That name echoed in my mind like a key turning in a lock.
A sickly royal, unlikely to marry? Perhaps a girl overlooked by the court?
No. I shook the thought off. I was too young. Or at least… this body was.
Still, if there was a path—any path—to gain Targaryen acknowledgment, it was through a bond stronger than servitude. And dragons respected boldness.
I found my way back to the cliffs that overlooked the Dragontower and the landing bays. Smoke curled from the mouths of long stone caverns where dragons slept.
From afar, I could see one—a silver-scaled beast sunning itself on a high perch, wings folded neatly against its side. A servant approached with a bucket of water. The dragon didn't stir.
My pulse quickened. If I could bind to a dragon—even a minor one—I might force my way into Targaryen eyes. No royal would ignore a child who shared a bond with one of their own beasts.
But the risk…
The system didn't just grant Luck. It demanded survival. If I failed to form a connection—if I pushed too soon and the dragon turned on me—it wouldn't just burn me. It would unravel the fragile thread of fate I had barely begun to weave.
I needed a plan. Allies. A disguise. Time.
That night, I etched my first note into the wall of the shed using a flake of broken pottery:
Goal: Bind to House TargaryenPaths:– Earn recognition through a dragon– Serve the royal court (spy, healer, scholar?)– Approach Princess Daella?– Survive long enough to choose
Underneath, in smaller writing:
Reminder: Luck is limited. Don't waste it.
I leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"I may have been born from fire, but I'll rise through smoke."
And I would. One bound soul at a time.