Limpick licked that piece of black bread for the third time when the cripple next door, Old Tommy, started coughing again.
The coughing sounded like a rusty saw scraping back and forth across the thin wooden wall. It killed whatever little flavor was left in the saliva in Limpick's mouth. He sucked the last bit of salt off the bread, stared at the rock-hard chunk in his hand for a second, then reluctantly stuffed it back into his shirt.
He could lick it one more time tomorrow morning.
In his last life, Limpick had read hundreds of stories about people getting transported to another world while sitting on the toilet. He always figured that if it happened to him, he'd at least start as a prince. At worst, he'd be some noble's bastard son—with a horse, a sword, and a fiancée who would later run off with someone else, giving him a revenge plot.
That would've been nice.
Instead?
The gods must have been scrolling on their phones while taking a shit and just yeeted him here without even looking.
Riverrun. The Riverlands. The seventh year of King Robert Baratheon's reign.
It took Limpick three days to figure out where he was, and another three to accept that he was a complete nobody. His "home" wasn't even a real house—just a shack made of rotten planks and ragged felt butted up against the city wall. When it rained, it leaked inside just as much as outside. When it didn't rain, rats used his face as a racetrack.
Eighteen years old.
He touched his sunken cheeks. The original owner of this body probably never had a full meal in his life.
"Long live King Robert," Limpick muttered toward a hole in the roof, not sure who he was actually cursing.
Dawn was just breaking, but the Long Summer sun was already baking everything. The old folks said this was the seventh year of the Long Summer—less rain, harsher sun. The waters of the Trident were two feet lower than usual, making fishing harder. Limpick didn't care about long summers or short summers. All he knew was that it was hot in summer, cold in winter, and he was hungry in both.
Today's job was loading cargo at the docks.
Riverrun belonged to House Tully. Three great rivers met here. Flat-bottomed boats came down from the Twins every day carrying grain, lumber, and furs from the North. A pauper like Limpick was lucky if he could snag work carrying sacks. A full day's labor got him two copper coins and a loaf of black bread—the kind that actually filled your stomach, not the brick he kept tucked in his shirt.
He pushed the bread deeper into his shirt, bent down, and crawled out of the shack.
The alley outside was so narrow only two people could pass at a time. Broken shacks like his lined both sides, with a stinking open sewer running down the middle. You got used to the smell after a while. Limpick stepped on a wobbly plank to cross the ditch. He'd only taken two steps when his foot sank—
He looked down.
He'd stepped on a rat.
Gray fur, red eyes, not very big. He'd crushed it half to death. Its legs kicked weakly as it squealed like it was being butchered.
Limpick lifted his foot. The rat rolled over, trying to scramble away, but its back legs wouldn't work. It could only drag itself toward the base of the wall.
"Sorry about that," Limpick muttered, lifting his foot to keep walking.
Then his mind lit up.
[Detected environmental creature: Rat ×1]
[Evolve into dragon species?]
Limpick froze.
He stood there, sun beating on the back of his head, the stench of the sewer crawling up his nose, distant chants of dockworkers unloading cargo in the background. Everything felt normal.
Except for those two lines floating in his head.
Golden text, looking like it had special effects, hovering right in front of his eyes.
Limpick blinked.
The words stayed.
He blinked again.
Still there.
[Evolve into dragon species?]
"What the hell?" His voice came out hoarse, like it belonged to someone else.
The rat had finally dragged itself into the shadows by the wall. It lay there motionless, red eyes fixed on him. He couldn't tell if it was terrified or just waiting to die.
Limpick crouched down and stared at it. The rat stared back. The golden text followed the rat like it was locked on.
A dragon?
This thing?
He squatted there, eye to eye with the rat. Neither of them moved.
Transmigration, system, cheat ability—he'd seen this setup a thousand times in novels. Standard protagonist package. Usually you start with a dog or something you pick up. But what kind of system makes you start with a goddamn rat?
If this thing could actually turn into a dragon, then tomorrow Limpick could ride out of the sewer and fly straight to King's Landing to demand a position from Robert.
"Fine," he muttered to himself. "Let's see what kind of trick you've got."
[Evolution target confirmed: Rat → Dragon species]
[Evolution initiated]
Limpick stared hard at the rat.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
The rat flicked its tail.
It didn't grow longer.
It didn't grow scales.
It didn't breathe fire.
It just lay there, exactly the same as before. The only change was its tail tip twitching three times, then going still.
Limpick waited a little longer.
Nothing happened.
He was about to curse when the golden text changed again.
[Evolution progress: 0.0001%]
[Current stage: Dragon Blood Awakening]
[Next stage requirement: Raise dragon blood concentration to 0.01%]
[Hint: Evolution energy requirement increases exponentially with each stage]
Limpick stared at that "0.0001%" and the words "exponentially" for a full thirty seconds.
Then he laughed.
Not a happy laugh. It was the kind of laugh you give when you've been starving for two days, finally find a piece of bread, and bite into it only to realize it's a rock.
"Zero point zero zero zero one percent," he repeated. "One in ten thousand."
The rat was still lying there, still small, still gray. The only difference was that when Limpick looked at it now, its eyes seemed just a tiny bit brighter. Or maybe it was just the sun rising higher.
"Are you fucking with me?"
The system didn't answer.
Limpick stayed crouched there, suddenly feeling how ridiculous this all was. Transported as a pauper with no money, no power, no connections, and when a system finally shows up, it's one that turns rats into dragons—at zero point zero zero zero one percent.
One in ten thousand.
How many rats would he have to do this to before he got one actual dragon?
He tried to do the math but gave up. He'd never been good at math, and being transported hadn't improved it.
"Whatever," he said, standing up and brushing the dirt off his ass. "A rat's better than nothing."
He looked down at the rat. The rat looked back at him.
"You're Number One from now on," Limpick said. "If you ever actually turn into a dragon, remember to bite the guy who made this system to death first."
Rat Number One didn't make a sound. It just dragged its injured leg and shrank deeper into the wall.
Limpick turned and headed toward the docks.
After a couple steps he stopped and looked back.
Rat Number One was still there, watching him with those red eyes.
Limpick hesitated, then pulled out the black bread he'd licked three times, broke off a piece the size of a fingernail, and tossed it over.
The crumb landed in front of the rat. It sniffed it, then started eating.
Limpick watched it eat.
"Zero point zero zero zero one percent," he muttered. "Alright then."
Then he really left.
The work at the docks was the same as always—carrying loads, sweating, getting cursed at by the overseer. Limpick worked until sunset and earned two copper coins plus a fresh loaf of black bread. This one was actually edible, soft and almost fragrant. He washed it down with cold water in three big bites.
When it got dark he returned to his shack, lay down on the pile of rags, and listened to Old Tommy coughing next door while staring at the hole in the roof.
The moon rose, sending a small patch of white light through the gap.
Limpick suddenly thought about the rat.
He wondered if it had eaten that breadcrumb. If its leg was any better. If that 0.0001% progress bar had moved at all.
He rolled over, facing the wall.
Scratching sounds came from the other side.
Limpick ignored it. In a shithole like this, it would be weird if there weren't rats running around at night.
But he couldn't help thinking:
What if it really happened one day?
What if that rat—no, what if Number One—actually turned into a dragon?
Even if it was only the size of a leg, even if it could only spit sparks, even if it couldn't do anything but fly—
It would still be a dragon.
How many years had it been since Westeros last saw one?
The more Limpick thought about it, the heavier his eyelids became.
The scratching sound continued, but this time it wasn't from the wall. It was coming from beside his feet.
He didn't open his eyes. Half-asleep, he reached down and felt around.
His hand touched something small, furry, and warm. It curled up slightly in his palm but didn't run away.
Limpick left his hand there, motionless.
The little creature stayed still too.
A long time passed. The moon moved past the hole in the roof, and the shack became pitch black.
Limpick's hand remained where it was. In his palm, he could feel the tiny creature's gentle breathing, rising and falling.
He fell asleep.