The sea breeze had always smelled different from land—a mix of salt, wind, and something more ancient, like the breath of gods long drowned beneath the waves. As Lys crested the horizon like a mirage of marbled splendor, I felt the phantom weight of Viserys Targaryen's crown lift slightly from my shoulders. Not gone, but pushed aside—for now.
I stood on the deck of the merchant vessel, the polished wood creaking underfoot as it drifted toward the port. My hand rested protectively on Daenerys's shoulder. She was only five, her small face peeking out from under a scarf too large for her head, pale eyes watching the Lyseni skyline with cautious wonder. She said nothing, and I knew her silence wasn't fear—it was grief and confusion bottled up in the fragile shell of a child who had already lost too much.
The Spell of Disguise
The night before our arrival, I prepared the first working of true blood magic.
Within the cramped cabin of our rented berth, I drew the runes of illusion and protection across the floor using a knife and a mixture of my own blood, salt, and ash. The Valyrian incantations rolled off my tongue with an ease that surprised even me. My knowledge of the ancient language was not learned, it was gifted—implanted deep into my soul by whatever god or force had orchestrated my reincarnation. The power in those syllables hummed through the wood and air, like the growl of a dragon slumbering just beneath the surface.
I changed little at first. Blood magic, for all its might, worked best with subtlety.
My silver hair, once a brilliant beacon of House Targaryen's doomed legacy, dulled into a smoky ash-blonde with sun-kissed streaks of brown. My violet eyes remained untouched—I would hide them with glamour as needed, but I refused to strip away everything that made me Valyrian. Pride, if not practicality.
Daenerys was next. I took extra care with her spell—she was too young to understand the changes, but I ensured they caused her no pain. Her iconic silver hair became a warm honey-blonde, braided in the Myrish style. Her eyes turned a soft cerulean blue, like clear Lyseni glass.
To the outside world, we would no longer be the dragonspawn of a fallen empire. We were just orphans, merchant-born, survivors of a raid on the southern ports of Mys.
Arrival in Lys
Lys was a city that reeked of both beauty and vice. Its marble columns rose like the limbs of ancient titans, cradling domed temples of pleasure and wealth. The air smelled of perfumed oils, cinnamon, and sea brine. Pleasure houses glittered in pastel silks, and beggars in painted masks danced in the alleys. Everything here was for sale—flesh, silence, names, and futures.
Perfect.
We disembarked with two satchels—one full of ordinary belongings, and the other hiding the true foundation of our new life. Gold.
Using the Goru Goru no Mi, the Gold-Gold Fruit, I had converted small pebbles, driftwood, even scraps of cloth into gold coins over the course of our voyage. I made sure they weren't too pristine—worn edges, faded stamps, enough to pass any scrutiny.
Within the hour, we were sitting in a quiet backroom near the harbor, across from a discreet Lyseni scribe named Aenaro Tryste. He was balding, with fingers stained in ink and wine, and eyes that had seen too many secrets to be surprised by ours.
"I need documents," I said plainly in High Valyrian. "A new name. A new history."
His eyes narrowed. "Forging identity is not forbidden here, but it is expensive."
I slid twenty gold dragons across the table. "I require two sets. Enough to hold under scrutiny."
That got his attention.
For the next two hours, I laid the groundwork for our new selves:
I was Auron Vaelar, orphaned son of a minor merchant family from Mys, fleeing political unrest and pirates along the disputed coast.
My "sister," Lysa Vaelar, was my only surviving family.
Our parents had been slain when a rival shipping house accused them of smuggling weapons to rebels in Qohor. Their assets had been seized, and we had barely escaped with our lives.
We carried a letter of credit from a modest bank in Pentos (forged), a trade seal from the Mysian Merchant Brotherhood (also forged), and documents of arrival through Pentos two moons ago.
Aenaro worked quickly. His parchments bore faded watermarks, wax seals, and fake Braavosi calligraphy. No one would question them unless they had a reason to look very closely—and I would ensure they didn't.
We left the scribe with false names and real power.
A Home in Marble Shadows
Using a few more pebbles turned to gold, I secured a modest villa tucked away in the northern quarter of Lys, far from the garish glow of the pleasure district. It had two floors, an inner courtyard with a lemon tree, and a sturdy wooden gate. The kind of home owned by quiet merchants who wanted privacy more than prestige.
I hired four staff members—locals who had lost jobs in recent guild disputes. I vetted each of them personally, reading them with both my transparent world sense and blood magic. None were spies. I paid them double the going rate, made them sign loyalty pacts, and let them believe we were generous orphans haunted by tragedy.
To them, I was a bookish but sharp-eyed boy with a small fortune and a head for numbers. Lysa was shy, still mourning. We were just another tale in a city filled with broken things trying to glitter.
The First Week
Once we were settled, I established a routine. I spent mornings studying trade routes, market patterns, and local politics. Lys was beautiful, yes—but also unstable. Its power rested on its brothels and spice trade, and its merchant lords warred as often with poison as with coin.
I had to build something more than a disguise. I needed leverage.
In the afternoons, I trained—my body already honed to perfection by the Super Soldier Serum, but now being shaped by the ancient swordsmanship of Yoriichi Tsugikuni. I moved with silent precision, my senses amplified by the Transparent World, every heartbeat around me like a whisper on wind. My blade, not yet Valyrian but perfectly balanced, became an extension of myself.
And every night, I practiced blood magic—quiet, subtle rituals to reinforce our wards, listen through the blood of the city, and plant invisible threads of influence. Valyrian magic wasn't flashy—it was enduring. Eternal. It needed time, intention, and blood.
I gave it all three.
Daenerys
She was the one variable I couldn't predict.
Some days she smiled, even laughed. She liked to chase butterflies in the courtyard or braid her hair with our housemaid's help. Other days, she sat at the edge of her bed and stared at the walls like she could see ghosts walking through them.
"I miss the red door," she said one evening.
"I do too," I replied, even though I never saw it myself.
"But this house has no ghosts. And no rats."
She nodded and leaned into my arm. "You won't leave me too, will you?"
"Never," I swore. "We're not just Targaryens anymore. We're Vaelars. And we write our own history now."
She didn't understand it all, not yet. But she smiled anyway.
The Future
The first steps were taken. We had new names, new faces, a house, wealth, and security. But I am not content to simply survive. I had five gifts, and each one was a weapon waiting to be sharpened.
The world of Ice and Fire was still moving toward its storm. Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, blissfully unaware of the quiet serpent coiling in the east. Varys whispered in shadows. Littlefinger plotted his climb. The dragons were extinct—for now.
But I will rise and take back what is ours through blood and fire.