Chapter 1: An Unexpected Second Syllabus
The irony wasn't lost on Professor Alistair Finch, even as the fluorescent lights of the ICU flickered like a dying star above him. He, a man who had dedicated his life to dissecting the brutal ballet of history, the rise and fall of empires, the bloody choreography of war, was now meeting his own unceremonious end not on a battlefield of ideologies, but tethered to a symphony of beeping machines. Seventy-three years, a mind still sharp enough to recall the minutiae of the Peloponnesian War or the intricate trade routes of the Silk Road, now betrayed by a failing heart.
Alistair had always possessed a peculiar blend of academic rigor and ruthless pragmatism. His lectures on military strategy weren't just recitations of dates and names; they were masterclasses in understanding the human element, the logistical nightmares, the economic underpinnings that truly decided conflicts. His students, a mix of wide-eyed undergraduates and hardened military officers pursuing further education, revered him. He could make the siege of Constantinople sound like a high-stakes corporate takeover, and the economic policies of the Han Dynasty as thrilling as a cavalry charge. This knack for seeing the "business" in everything, from a phalanx formation to a royal marriage, had also served him well in his surprisingly lucrative side hustles: consulting for businesses on strategic planning and, in his younger, more adventurous days, even some discreet "acquisitions" of historical artifacts that now anonymously graced several prestigious museum collections. He wasn't a thief, he'd reasoned, merely a facilitator of historical appreciation, with a finder's fee, of course.
His greatest, guiltiest pleasure, however, was A Song of Ice and Fire, and its televised adaptation, Game of Thrones. He devoured the books, analyzed the show with the same intensity he applied to the Punic Wars, and often found himself mentally rewriting scenarios, applying his own strategic acumen to the blunders and triumphs of Westeros's denizens. He'd scoffed at Robb Stark's political naivety, admired Tywin Lannister's ruthless efficiency (while deploring his familial cruelty), and felt a pang of intellectual kinship with Tyrion's cunning. But the character who fascinated and frustrated him in equal measure was Viserys Targaryen. "The Beggar King." A study in wasted potential, a tragic figure consumed by entitlement and a profound lack of foresight. "All dragon, no flame," Alistair would often mutter, a potent symbol of a dynasty's decline.
The beeping intensified. A nurse bustled in, her expression a practiced mask of calm concern. Alistair, however, knew the score. He'd outmaneuvered corporate raiders and deciphered faded military dispatches, he could certainly read the grim prognosis in the frantic rhythm of the machines. He closed his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips. At least he'd finished his latest monograph on the economic impact of the Mongol invasions. And he'd rewatched the Battle of the Bastards just last week – pure, unadulterated, strategically flawed mayhem.
Then, darkness. Not a gentle fading, but a sudden, jarring severance, like a snapped cable.
The next sensation was… constriction. And warmth. A damp, oppressive heat that clung to him like a second skin. His thoughts were a confused jumble, a chaotic library of sensations and fragmented memories. Where was the sterile scent of the hospital? The rhythmic beeping? This was… organic. And loud. A cacophony of muffled shouts, a rhythmic thumping that resonated through whatever confined space he occupied.
Panic, a primal, unfamiliar sensation, began to claw at him. He tried to move, to speak, but his limbs were unresponsive, his throat raw and useless. He was… small. Terrifyingly, impossibly small. His vast intellect, his lifetime of knowledge, felt trapped, a raging inferno within a thimble.
Then came the pressure, an overwhelming force, squeezing, pushing. It was agony, a primal terror that dwarfed any academic understanding of pain. He was being born. The absurdity of it, the sheer impossibility, was a distant, flickering thought in the face of overwhelming physical reality.
The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of blinding light and searing cold. A piercing wail tore from his new, tiny lungs – a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and indignation. He, Alistair Finch, decorated professor, shrewd businessman, was a goddamn infant.
Hands, large and surprisingly gentle, cleaned him, wrapped him in roughspun cloth. Murmured voices, speaking a language that tickled a familiar chord in the recesses of his mind, a language he knew but couldn't quite place. It was melodic, yet guttural. High Valyrian. The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow, far more staggering than his own birth.
His new eyes, blurry and unfocused, struggled to make sense of the shapes around him. A woman's face, pale and strained, but with an ethereal beauty, framed by silver-gold hair. Her eyes, a striking shade of violet, regarded him with a mixture of exhaustion and a dawning, fragile love. Queen Rhaella Targaryen. His mother.
A man's voice, deeper, laced with an undercurrent of something Alistair couldn't quite decipher – relief? Or something else? – spoke. "A boy. Another prince for the Iron Throne."
Prince. Targaryen. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The silver-gold hair, the violet eyes, the High Valyrian… He wasn't just any infant. He was Viserys Targaryen. The future Beggar King. The pathetic, abusive elder brother of Daenerys Stormborn. The one who sold his sister for an army he couldn't control, who died a humiliating, molten gold-crowned death at the hands of Khal Drogo.
Alistair, now Viserys, wanted to scream, to rage, to demand a refund from whatever cosmic entity had orchestrated this cruel joke. Instead, all that emerged was another infantile wail. He was trapped. Trapped in the body of one of history's (or rather, fantasy's) most spectacular failures.
But then, a flicker. A spark of the old Alistair Finch, the strategist, the survivor. Failure was a data point, not a destination. He had knowledge. He knew the future, the pitfalls, the players. And… there was something else.
As the initial shock began to recede, replaced by a cold, calculating dread, he became aware of a peculiar sensation, a subtle thrumming beneath his skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with the swaddling clothes. It was a faint, almost imperceptible hum, like a distant engine, centered deep within his bones. And a strength, a resilience in his tiny, flailing limbs that felt… unnatural.
He focused, drawing on decades of academic discipline, trying to analyze this new variable. It wasn't just the shock of reincarnation. This was something intrinsic to this new form. Something… extra.
Reincarnation benefits. The thought, absurd and fantastical, echoed in his mind with the weight of undeniable truth. What else could it be? He'd died an old man, and now he was a newborn with… enhancements?
The first few weeks were a disorienting blur of feeding, sleeping, and silent, frantic observation. He absorbed everything. The feel of the rough stone walls of Dragonstone – they were on Dragonstone, he quickly deduced, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. The scent of salt and smoke that permeated the air. The hushed, fearful whispers of servants. The increasingly rare appearances of his 'father,' King Aerys II, the Mad King. Alistair knew the timeline. Robert's Rebellion was either imminent or already underway. The Sack of King's Landing, the murder of Elia Martell and her children, Rhaegar's death at the Trident… it was all coming.
He also observed his own tiny body with an almost detached, scientific curiosity. The thrumming sensation intensified, slowly, subtly. He healed with astonishing speed. A small scratch from his own fingernail, a common occurrence for infants, vanished within hours, not days. When a clumsy wet nurse accidentally pricked his heel too hard during a change, the tiny wound closed almost before her horrified eyes, leaving not even a speck of blood on the cloth. She'd crossed herself and muttered about dragon's blood, but Alistair knew better. This wasn't just Targaryen resilience.
The strength, too, was undeniable. His grip, when he chose to exert it, was surprisingly powerful for a babe. He could already lift his head for sustained periods, his neck muscles far more developed than they should be. He filed these observations away, cataloging them meticulously.
One evening, during a rare moment of quiet, as his mother Rhaella hummed a mournful Valyrian lullaby, a wave of intense pain shot through his tiny knuckles. It was sharp, sudden, and agonizing. He cried out, not just from pain, but from a shocking, visceral understanding. Three tiny, razor-sharp bone claws, no bigger than thorns, had partially, almost shyly, extended from between his knuckles, then retracted just as quickly, leaving behind a dull ache and a profound sense of revelation.
Wolverine's X-gene.
Alistair felt a wave of dizziness. The claws were one thing, but the healing factor… it explained the rapid mending. He was a mutant. A goddamn Targaryen mutant. The sheer, unadulterated insanity of it was almost too much to bear. Yet, the evidence was irrefutable. The implications were staggering.
The other 'benefit' was less overtly dramatic, more a pervasive sense of enhanced vitality. His senses were sharper. He could hear conversations from rooms away, distinguish the individual heartbeats of people nearby if he concentrated. His stamina, even as an infant, felt… different. He tired less easily, recovered from exertion – like a particularly vigorous crying fit – with remarkable speed. His cognitive functions, even filtered through the developing brain of a baby, felt… amplified. He was processing information, making connections, at a rate that was frankly terrifying. This had to be the Super Soldier Serum, or some fantastical equivalent. Enhanced strength, speed, stamina, reflexes, healing, and cognitive processing. Combined with a healing factor that bordered on regenerative and unbreakable bone claws…
Alistair, or Viserys, as he now had to force himself to think, felt a chilling smile form on his infant lips, a smile that would have terrified anyone who saw it. The universe hadn't just given him a raw deal; it had given him an arsenal.
The Beggar King? Not anymore.
Caution. Cunning. Ruthlessness. Scheming. These were the tools Alistair Finch had honed over a lifetime. Now, they were Viserys Targaryen's only hope, and Westeros's impending nightmare. He was no longer bound by the script of a tragic, foolish prince. He would write his own damn saga, with blood, steel, and fire. And this time, the Targaryens would not just endure. They would prevail.
His mind, already racing, began to lay the groundwork. The timeline was critical. He was born in 276 AC. Daenerys would be born in 284 AC, on Dragonstone, during the height of the storm that gave her the moniker 'Stormborn,' just as King's Landing fell. He had roughly eight years before his sister, his only known surviving family member from the original timeline, came into the world. Eight years to grow, to learn, to master these new abilities, and to prepare.
The immediate threat was Robert's Rebellion. He was currently on Dragonstone, which was relatively safe, for now. But Rhaella was pregnant with Daenerys. His father, Aerys, was in King's Landing, descending further into madness. His brother, Rhaegar, was… well, Rhaegar was about to make a series of catastrophic mistakes involving Lyanna Stark.
Alistair/Viserys couldn't directly influence events on the mainland, not as a babe in arms. But he could influence his immediate environment. He needed to ensure his own survival and, crucially, Rhaella's. If Rhaella died in childbirth as per the original timeline, he and the infant Daenerys would be truly alone, at the mercy of men like Ser Willem Darry, however loyal he might be.
His first, most immediate goal: survive Dragonstone. His second: ensure Rhaella survived Daenerys's birth. His third, and far more ambitious: somehow, someway, get Rhaella and himself (and eventually Daenerys) to a position of safety and strength before they became fugitives begging for scraps in the Free Cities.
He thought of Essos. The Free Cities. Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, Braavos. Places of trade, intrigue, and sellswords. Places where a cunning mind with capital could thrive. And he would have capital. The knowledge in his head – of future events, of economic principles, of forgotten lore – was worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock.
The Wolverine X-gene and Super Soldier Serum weren't just combat tools. The enhanced healing meant he could push his body harder, learn faster. The heightened senses would make him a master of observation, a walking lie detector. The strength and reflexes would give him an edge in any physical confrontation, even as he grew. The cognitive enhancement… that was the true game-changer. He could learn languages in weeks, master complex subjects in months. He could see patterns others missed, devise strategies that would leave his opponents reeling.
He remembered the tales of Targaryen madness. He wondered if his own transformation, this fusion of an old soul with a magically augmented infant body, would push him toward that precipice. The ruthlessness he already possessed, the cold pragmatism – would it curdle into cruelty? The serum was supposed to amplify what was already there. If it amplified Alistair Finch, it amplified a man who understood that power, true power, was not about grand pronouncements or dragonfire alone. It was about control. Control of resources, control of information, control of perception, and, when necessary, control through fear.
He looked at his tiny hands. No claws visible now. Just the soft, pink flesh of a baby. But he knew what lay beneath. He knew the fire that was starting to burn within him, a fire far more potent and dangerous than any dragon's breath.
His mother, Rhaella, shifted, her sad violet eyes focusing on him. She smiled, a genuine, loving smile that pierced through his cold calculations for a fleeting moment. "My little prince," she whispered, her voice thick with a grief he now understood was for her fractured family, her mad husband, her potentially doomed lineage. "May you know more joy than your father, more peace than your brother."
Viserys met her gaze. He couldn't offer her empty platitudes, not even in the gurgles of an infant. He could only offer a silent, unbreakable vow. He would not be the Beggar King. He would be the storm. He would be the change. He would be the one to rewrite their tragic history.
The path ahead was fraught with peril. He was surrounded by enemies, seen and unseen. His own family was a Powder keg. The realm was on the brink of tearing itself apart. But Alistair Finch had navigated the treacherous waters of academia, business, and the shadowy world of artifact acquisition with cunning and foresight. Viserys Targaryen, armed with the wisdom of a past life and powers beyond mortal ken, would do far more.
He would have to be cautious, meticulously so. One wrong move, one premature revelation of his abilities or his unnatural intelligence, could spell disaster. He would play the part of the growing prince, perhaps a precocious one, but never overtly superhuman until the time was right. He would learn, observe, and plan.
His new life was a war, a grand, complex campaign against fate itself. And Professor Alistair Finch, now Prince Viserys Targaryen, had just begun to draft his first battle plan. The syllabus for this new existence would be written in the annals of a very different Westeros. The first lecture was over. The real lesson was about to begin.
He closed his eyes, not in sleep, but in deep, cold contemplation. The thrumming in his bones was a constant reminder. The knowledge in his mind, a burning coal. He was Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, and the game of thrones had a new, unexpected player. One who knew all the rules, and was about to break every single one of them.