The window hovered in the air, silent and unblinking.
Viserys stared at it, heart pounding, mouth dry. It shouldn't exist. It was absurd — something out of a dream, or a game, or a particularly cruel hallucination. Yet there it was, glowing softly in the dim morning light, casting no shadow, offering no answers.
He reached out, half-expecting it to vanish at his touch. But his hand passed through it like smoke.
SYSTEM INITIALIZED
His name, his age, his location. All correct. All real.
The word Status: Healthy sat beneath them, as if this floating impossibility were a physician's chart and he a mere patient in the hands of something far larger than himself.
His eyes fell to the first category:
ATTRIBUTES
With some hesitation, he thought of opening it. The window responded at once, sections unfolding like blooming parchment.
STRENGTH: 0.21
AGILITY: 0.34
CONSTITUTION: 0.27
INTELLIGENCE: 0.8
CHARISMA: 2.5
WILL: 5.4
ESOTERISM: 11.6
"...Huh."
The numbers meant little on their own — until context began to trickle in. His brows furrowed.
Strength, Agility, Constitution — all below one. Laughably low.
Then again... he flexed a trembling arm. The muscle was barely there. He looked down at his thin, childish legs. Eight years old. Of course he was physically weak.
So one must be the baseline for an average man, he reasoned. And I'm nowhere close.
But some stats were startlingly high.
Charisma: 2.5.
His lips curled wryly. "Well… at least I'm pretty."
He rose and moved back toward the basin, gazing once more into that too-handsome face. The beauty was still there — the fine bone structure, the silver hair, those unnatural Targaryen eyes.
He remembered how that beauty faded in time. Stress. Starvation. Humiliation. The beggar prince had become a specter, haunted and gaunt.
"I used to look like a prince," he murmured. "No wonder I never stopped believing I was one."
He glanced back at the display. Intelligence: 0.8. That stung a bit.
"I was a marketing analyst," he muttered. "Didn't exactly solve the unified field theory, but still…"
Then came Will and Esoterism.
Will: 5.4
Esoterism: 11.6
He blinked. "What the hell does Esoterism even mean?"
A thought — just a question in his mind — and the system responded. A definition slid forward beneath each term, as if summoned.
Will: The control over your own thoughts and actions. With a strong enough Will, you will be capable of things thought impossible.
Esoterism: The ability to see the unseen and understand the unfathomable. Both a blessing and a curse.
The first was… understandable. The power to master oneself. The force of personality, perhaps. Or resolve.
But the second…
He shivered. "Understand the unfathomable?" That sounded like madness disguised as magic. Or maybe the other way around.
He returned to the numbers. Over eleven. That was beyond mere anomaly. That was impossible.
Magic. It had to be. He felt no power in his fingers, no dragonsong in his blood — but something in him pulsed with the intangible. His dream, his near-breakdown earlier, the way he felt things before they happened…
He closed the Attributes section and opened the Skills tab.
There were only a few.
Language Mastery: You can speak, read, and write in two languages:— High Valyrian (+0.1 Esoterism)— The Common Tongue (+0.1 Intelligence)
Basic Targaryen History: You know the history of your glorious house. The great men of your lineage inspire you. (+0.1 Will)
Nothing practical. Nothing useful in a fight or in politics. But the bonuses were interesting. Language increased Esoterism and Intelligence? Was knowledge itself a kind of magic?
A slow smirk crept across his lips. "Then I'll learn everything."
He slid to the final tab: Traits.
And that's when the strangeness truly began.
The Soul That Lingers: You have died not once but twice, and yet you still walk the earth without relying on undeath.(+10 Will, +5 Esoterism)
He blinked. Twice?
Was it counting his death as Viserys and the one that brought him here? Was he — whatever he was — still himself? A ghost in another man's flesh?
He stared down at his hands. Still trembling. Still too small. But real.
He read on.
Low-Purity Blood of Old Valyria: You have inherited the blood of Old Valyria, but your lineage isn't pure and comes from a minor noble Valyrian house.(+2 Charisma, +1 Esoterism)
"Minor nobility?" he whispered. "But the Targaryens were—"
Then it struck him. The Targaryens were nobodies in Valyria. One of forty noble houses, and not even a powerful one. Only the Doom made them kings.
He felt the weight of that irony.
Not born to greatness. Only lucky enough to escape the fire.
He continued.
Targaryen Madness: Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Your coin fell on madness.(-5 Will, +5 Esoterism)
The world stopped.
The words blurred, and then burned into his mind.
He had heard it spoken. "Every time a Targaryen is born…"
He'd dismissed it once. A poetic saying. A cruel jape at a crueler line. But it was true.
The system confirmed it. He had the trait.
Madness.
He didn't lose his mind because of exile. Or hunger. Or betrayal.
He was born to lose it.
His head fell into his hands. "So that's it. I never had a chance."
All those things he'd blamed — the whispers, the fury, the need to be someone — they weren't accidents. They were design. These damned gods had flipped the coin, and he had landed on the wrong side.
A scream built in his chest.
Unfair.
It was unfair.
He had lived. He had died. And now he was back — and still cursed?
"I want a new flip, you bastards" he said aloud.
The air shifted.
The world… paused.
His breath hitched.
Something was coming.
No — something was already here.
It wasn't in the room. It wasn't even in the world. But he felt it — vast, cold, curious. Amused.
He fell to his knees, shaking, sweat beading on his brow. He couldn't see the being, but his very soul recoiled from its gaze.
It was old. Beyond time. It could unmake him with a flick of thought.
I shouldn't have cursed them, he thought, frantic. I didn't mean it—
But the Being… was amused.
No voice came. But the intent was clear.
"You want another coin toss?"
Viserys swallowed. Nodded.
Then — he felt it. A weight in the world. The coin, invisible, began to spin.
Endless.
Timeless.
He felt as though centuries passed as it turned in the void — an infinite moment stretched across the fabric of reality.
Then — the landing.
Madness. Again.
"No."
The word was a croak. A whimper.
The Being… laughed. Not in sound, but in emotion. It was entertained.
But not cruel.
Its amusement spared him. That, he understood.
He had cursed the gods. And they had heard him. And they had not struck him down.
Because he was funny.
The pressure lifted.
Time resumed.
Viserys collapsed to the floor, soaked in sweat, heart thundering like hooves on stone.
He swore to never curse the Gods again.
He gasped, curling into himself, clutching his chest. The system window blinked once — and closed.
Footsteps.
A creak of the door.
"Prince Viserys?"
A servant. He didn't know her name. She froze in the doorway, her eyes wide as she took in the sight: the boy-prince lying on the stone floor, trembling, wet with sweat.
She rushed to his side.
"Are you all right?"
Viserys looked up slowly, lips pale, breath ragged.
"I…" he rasped.
He didn't know what to say.
She put a hand to his forehead. "You're burning up."
He let her help him sit, but his eyes were distant.
He had asked for another chance.
He had been given it.
And he had lost again.
Yet he was alive.
He looked toward the window, where the sun rose sluggishly over Braavos.
Maybe madness was still his burden.
But this time — he would wield it.