I really need to stop doing this to myself. Nonetheless...
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A Legacy Written in Fire and Blood (ASOIAF SI)
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thebrute7
Walker of the Planes
I really need to stop doing this to myself. Nonetheless...
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Index
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One (this post)
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
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One
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279 AC - Entry One
As I write these words, I am but a child. A child in body at least, for though I am by all physical accounts only three years old, I feel so much older.
I remember going to sleep as a grown man, in a world so very different from the one that I see around me. I remember things that the people around me have no conception of. The nature of the Sun that shines in the sky, of mathematics that have yet to be invented, and of weapons that would make a land like this tremble in terror and bow down in fear.
And I remember being born again, for a second time. I do not know how it happened or why, or whether I am mad or in a coma induced dream, but no man can live as though he does not trust his memory and senses for long, so I can only believe that it all is true.
My name is Viserys Targaryen, second son of Aerys II Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, whom they call the Mad King. Quite the mouthful of titles, I know.
I remember how terrified I was, when I was born to the Queen Rhaella, a squalling infant with the mind and memories of a man in his mid-twenties. I have the memories of the things that ordinary people don't, the earliest years of my life. Being able to remember being breast-fed by the wet nurse that my father provided, too paranoid to even let my mother touch me, is exactly the sort of memory that is mildly traumatic to recall.
Truly, I wish I could write that I hate this place, and the people in it. I wish I could write it all off and say that there is nothing good about this crapsack world that I've been reborn into. It is probably all some cosmic entity's idea of a joke.
But I can't. The Red Keep is beautiful, as is King's Landing. And despite myself, I do feel some fondness for my family. My mother and brother at least.
Now that I have finally been given the chance to write, I can put to paper everything I remember of the events that are to come, everything I can remember of physics and math, and the making of things that would not be invented for centuries otherwise, things like black powder.
And I need not worry about anyone reading this. Writing in English might as well be an unbreakable cipher to these people. I am the only person in the world who can speak or read or write it.
I have been given a second chance to live, an opportunity that many would kill for dropped right into my lap. Everything I ever believed about the world, and about God, and life and death was shattered when I was reborn three years ago.
And I intend to live for a long, long time yet.
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There I stood, high atop the the tallest tower of the Red Keep as the wind whipped at my clothes. My silver-blond hair, pulled back into a single ponytail streamed out to my left as though to pull me over.
The sky was dark and stormy as far as the eye could see. Lightning cracked and thunder roared in the distance. But the roar of the thunder was nothing compared to the ear-bursting roar of the dragon.
I fell to my knees, covering my ears with my hands as I stared up into the sky. A mighty dragon, its wingspan measuring at least a twenty meters if not more, roared its challenge to the world. The apex predator soared below the clouds, and as it circled my tower, flame poured forth from its mouth, a fire as deep crimson as fresh-spilled blood, streaked with lines of silver.
The fire was like an extension of its own body, its mostly silver scales accented by crimson, making it seem a blood-soaked predator in flight.
My breath was caught in my throat as it soared three times around the tower before landing, perching on the parapets in front of me, where I was knocked on my back by the wind from its wings. Its head drew close to me, watching me, and I felt like I was being judged.
Its teeth, long and sharp as daggers snapped at me as I reached out to touch its nose, and I drew back my hand in fear. I could feel its breath on my face, hot even to a Targaryen, and it smelled of blood. And though its maw was slightly bloody, there were no chunks of meat between its teeth, cleansed by dragonfire.
It nudged me with its head, its slitted right eye staring deep into my soul and...
I woke up, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. My hand went to my heart, and I waited for my racing pulse to subside.
It was not an uncommon occurrence. I had such dreams with disturbing regularity. Ever since my rebirth six years ago I have been plagued by these vivid dreams once, perhaps twice a month. Sometimes they were meaningless, just a vision of a dragon that would invariably approach me, other times it would be of the view from the back of one of the great beasts, and still others would be of strange people and places and things I could make no sense of. But always there was a dragon.
I slipped out from under my sheets and padded barefoot across my room in the Red Keep. It was just barely dawn, and only a little light streamed in from my window, but enough for me to see by and light the oil-lamp on my desk to see by.
I grabbed a quill, unstopped the ink, pulled my journal of dreams out from under my other texts, and began to write down what I had seen.
Dragon dreams. I wrote them all down, every dream I could remember upon waking, no matter how meaningless they seemed to me. The dragon dreams are said to affect those with the blood of the dragon, Targaryens and Blackfyres, and perhaps some of the blood of Old Valyria.
Daenys Targaryen, the Dreamer, was said to have had a dragon dream that warned the Targaryens of the Doom before it befell Valyria. It was the reason why Targaryen alone of the Dragonlords survived the Fall.
It was almost certain that most of my vivid dreams were just vivid dreams, but I wouldn't take the risk that I might forget a prophetic dream by not writing them all down.
I finished the entry with a stroke of the quill and lay it aside to go and prepare for the day. Just as I was pulling my shirt on over my head, a gaudy thing of silvery thread with the three-headed red dragon sigil of the Targaryens emblazoned on the front, when the door opened and the servant boy entered with his eyes cast to the floor. He bowed deeply when I turned to him.
I waved my hand towards my messed up sheets. "Be about your work."
"Yes, m'lord. Right away, m'lord."
I grabbed a black leather belt and fastened it about my waist, making sure that the black and red dagger sheathe lay on my left hip. I drew the dagger, which in the hands of my six year old body looked almost like a sword. Its metal was marked by the distinctive rippled pattern of Valyrian steel. The fact I had such a blade at all could be put at the feet of my father, Aerys, who was willing to give me near anything I asked for. As I left the room, I slid the beautiful blade into its sheathe.
I didn't see Aerys often, my mother was very protective of me and did her level best to hide my father's madness, but it is hard to hide what someone already knows.
"You are awake early, Little Rhaegar." Ser Jaime Lannister called out to me from his place in front of the room where I was to dine with Mother, and maybe Father too.
Little Rhaegar, he calls me, and others sometimes say the same. Like my elder brother I appear to them to be extremely intelligent, I learned to read and write and speak in record time according to the maester Pycelle, and like Rhaegar I tend towards quiet and enjoy spending my time in books. I take it as rather the compliment.
"Good morning, Ser Jaime," I replied, with a little bow.
I like Ser Jaime. He has a quick wit, and a handsome smile, and is an excellent warrior. He's not necessarily good man, I know, but I don't have it in me to dislike him, even knowing that he will kill my father. Maybe he will break his Kingsguard vows, but he will uphold others, and he has an honor to him all the same. And to tell the truth, I would put a sword in my father's back too. That man is no true king.
He crossed his arm over his breastplate and bowed slightly to me, a small mischievous quirk to his lips. He would never do such a thing in the presence of the king, but here in the hall where it was just me and him, he could present a slightly mocking bow for me to laugh at without fearing the king would take offense.
As I came close, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
"You need to leave the dagger with me."
"Father is there," I said, reaching down to unlatch it from the belt. It was the only reason I would be asked to give it up.
He nodded and pushed open the door to let me in as he took the dagger. I stiffened and held myself straighter as I walked into the room. My mother, and more importantly, my father were sitting at the table.
"Good morning, mother, father."
Father scares me. Though he is only in his late thirties, he looks older, with a gaunt face and bony body. His fingernails are cracked and inches long, and he refuses to allow anyone to cut them or his hair, for fear of having any blades in his presence other than those of the Kingsguard. We don't even get knives for our meals with him.
I don't feel safe in his presence.
"Sit, Viserys," my father said, and I took my seat across from him at the table.
We ate in uncomfortable silence. Rhaella glanced between Aerys and I from time to time, but seemed willing to let it remain silent.
"How go your studies?" Aerys asked in High Valyrian, poking at one of the last remaining pieces of smoked ham on his plate with his golden fork.
"Quite well, father. I do not believe that my instructors have had anything negative to say about my learning." I spoke somewhat haltingly, only my mother and father insisted on speaking to me in High Valyrian, and I was not nearly as eloquent in it as I was the Common Tongue.
"Hm." Father swallowed the last of his food. "You will join me in the Great Hall, today."
"My husband, Viserys is not yet-"
"He will join me," father snapped at his wife, slamming his fork into the table, deforming one of the golden tines.
"As you will."
"Yes, father." I doubted it would be interesting at all, but my father's word was law for better or worse.
"Then you will join me once you have finished eating." With those words he left, taking Jaime with him, who tossed the dagger and belt to me, winking as he followed the king.
With a sigh I ate the last of my ham and excused myself from the table while Mother returned to her chambers.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a majestic sight, and one of my favorites of the castle. At the far end of the cavernous hall was the mountain-sized Iron Throne, the asymmetric monstrosity of a thousand bladed edges. Aerys cut himself upon it frequently. It was an ugly thing, but it had a certain beauty to it as well, a harsh beauty that symbolized everything the Seven Kingdoms are.
But what I enjoyed most were the dragon skulls that lined the walls, whether large or small or huge, they were amazing to look upon. And off to the side of the throne itself was the smallest skull of the last dragon known to have lived, barely the size of a good-sized apple.
As I entered the Great Hall from one of the side doors, I ran my hand along the teeth of one of the largest skulls. They were larger than my own dagger, and still sharp, as I learned over a year ago now.
As I presented myself before my father the king, who sent me to go stand off behind him and to his left to observe his court, my eyes kept drifting to the dragon skulls.
They would return in the not so distant future. I needed no dragon dreams to know that. All too soon the Mad King would spark Robert Baratheon's rebellion, and my sister would be born, and we would be spirited away across the sea to Essos.
I leaned against the wall and stared into the eye sockets of the largest dragon skull and let a grin settle across my face.
I can't wait to see a living, breathing dragon.
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Index
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One (this post)
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
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One
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279 AC - Entry One
As I write these words, I am but a child. A child in body at least, for though I am by all physical accounts only three years old, I feel so much older.
I remember going to sleep as a grown man, in a world so very different from the one that I see around me. I remember things that the people around me have no conception of. The nature of the Sun that shines in the sky, of mathematics that have yet to be invented, and of weapons that would make a land like this tremble in terror and bow down in fear.
And I remember being born again, for a second time. I do not know how it happened or why, or whether I am mad or in a coma induced dream, but no man can live as though he does not trust his memory and senses for long, so I can only believe that it all is true.
My name is Viserys Targaryen, second son of Aerys II Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, whom they call the Mad King. Quite the mouthful of titles, I know.
I remember how terrified I was, when I was born to the Queen Rhaella, a squalling infant with the mind and memories of a man in his mid-twenties. I have the memories of the things that ordinary people don't, the earliest years of my life. Being able to remember being breast-fed by the wet nurse that my father provided, too paranoid to even let my mother touch me, is exactly the sort of memory that is mildly traumatic to recall.
Truly, I wish I could write that I hate this place, and the people in it. I wish I could write it all off and say that there is nothing good about this crapsack world that I've been reborn into. It is probably all some cosmic entity's idea of a joke.
But I can't. The Red Keep is beautiful, as is King's Landing. And despite myself, I do feel some fondness for my family. My mother and brother at least.
Now that I have finally been given the chance to write, I can put to paper everything I remember of the events that are to come, everything I can remember of physics and math, and the making of things that would not be invented for centuries otherwise, things like black powder.
And I need not worry about anyone reading this. Writing in English might as well be an unbreakable cipher to these people. I am the only person in the world who can speak or read or write it.
I have been given a second chance to live, an opportunity that many would kill for dropped right into my lap. Everything I ever believed about the world, and about God, and life and death was shattered when I was reborn three years ago.
And I intend to live for a long, long time yet.
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There I stood, high atop the the tallest tower of the Red Keep as the wind whipped at my clothes. My silver-blond hair, pulled back into a single ponytail streamed out to my left as though to pull me over.
The sky was dark and stormy as far as the eye could see. Lightning cracked and thunder roared in the distance. But the roar of the thunder was nothing compared to the ear-bursting roar of the dragon.
I fell to my knees, covering my ears with my hands as I stared up into the sky. A mighty dragon, its wingspan measuring at least a twenty meters if not more, roared its challenge to the world. The apex predator soared below the clouds, and as it circled my tower, flame poured forth from its mouth, a fire as deep crimson as fresh-spilled blood, streaked with lines of silver.
The fire was like an extension of its own body, its mostly silver scales accented by crimson, making it seem a blood-soaked predator in flight.
My breath was caught in my throat as it soared three times around the tower before landing, perching on the parapets in front of me, where I was knocked on my back by the wind from its wings. Its head drew close to me, watching me, and I felt like I was being judged.
Its teeth, long and sharp as daggers snapped at me as I reached out to touch its nose, and I drew back my hand in fear. I could feel its breath on my face, hot even to a Targaryen, and it smelled of blood. And though its maw was slightly bloody, there were no chunks of meat between its teeth, cleansed by dragonfire.
It nudged me with its head, its slitted right eye staring deep into my soul and...
I woke up, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. My hand went to my heart, and I waited for my racing pulse to subside.
It was not an uncommon occurrence. I had such dreams with disturbing regularity. Ever since my rebirth six years ago I have been plagued by these vivid dreams once, perhaps twice a month. Sometimes they were meaningless, just a vision of a dragon that would invariably approach me, other times it would be of the view from the back of one of the great beasts, and still others would be of strange people and places and things I could make no sense of. But always there was a dragon.
I slipped out from under my sheets and padded barefoot across my room in the Red Keep. It was just barely dawn, and only a little light streamed in from my window, but enough for me to see by and light the oil-lamp on my desk to see by.
I grabbed a quill, unstopped the ink, pulled my journal of dreams out from under my other texts, and began to write down what I had seen.
Dragon dreams. I wrote them all down, every dream I could remember upon waking, no matter how meaningless they seemed to me. The dragon dreams are said to affect those with the blood of the dragon, Targaryens and Blackfyres, and perhaps some of the blood of Old Valyria.
Daenys Targaryen, the Dreamer, was said to have had a dragon dream that warned the Targaryens of the Doom before it befell Valyria. It was the reason why Targaryen alone of the Dragonlords survived the Fall.
It was almost certain that most of my vivid dreams were just vivid dreams, but I wouldn't take the risk that I might forget a prophetic dream by not writing them all down.
I finished the entry with a stroke of the quill and lay it aside to go and prepare for the day. Just as I was pulling my shirt on over my head, a gaudy thing of silvery thread with the three-headed red dragon sigil of the Targaryens emblazoned on the front, when the door opened and the servant boy entered with his eyes cast to the floor. He bowed deeply when I turned to him.
I waved my hand towards my messed up sheets. "Be about your work."
"Yes, m'lord. Right away, m'lord."
I grabbed a black leather belt and fastened it about my waist, making sure that the black and red dagger sheathe lay on my left hip. I drew the dagger, which in the hands of my six year old body looked almost like a sword. Its metal was marked by the distinctive rippled pattern of Valyrian steel. The fact I had such a blade at all could be put at the feet of my father, Aerys, who was willing to give me near anything I asked for. As I left the room, I slid the beautiful blade into its sheathe.
I didn't see Aerys often, my mother was very protective of me and did her level best to hide my father's madness, but it is hard to hide what someone already knows.
"You are awake early, Little Rhaegar." Ser Jaime Lannister called out to me from his place in front of the room where I was to dine with Mother, and maybe Father too.
Little Rhaegar, he calls me, and others sometimes say the same. Like my elder brother I appear to them to be extremely intelligent, I learned to read and write and speak in record time according to the maester Pycelle, and like Rhaegar I tend towards quiet and enjoy spending my time in books. I take it as rather the compliment.
"Good morning, Ser Jaime," I replied, with a little bow.
I like Ser Jaime. He has a quick wit, and a handsome smile, and is an excellent warrior. He's not necessarily good man, I know, but I don't have it in me to dislike him, even knowing that he will kill my father. Maybe he will break his Kingsguard vows, but he will uphold others, and he has an honor to him all the same. And to tell the truth, I would put a sword in my father's back too. That man is no true king.
He crossed his arm over his breastplate and bowed slightly to me, a small mischievous quirk to his lips. He would never do such a thing in the presence of the king, but here in the hall where it was just me and him, he could present a slightly mocking bow for me to laugh at without fearing the king would take offense.
As I came close, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
"You need to leave the dagger with me."
"Father is there," I said, reaching down to unlatch it from the belt. It was the only reason I would be asked to give it up.
He nodded and pushed open the door to let me in as he took the dagger. I stiffened and held myself straighter as I walked into the room. My mother, and more importantly, my father were sitting at the table.
"Good morning, mother, father."
Father scares me. Though he is only in his late thirties, he looks older, with a gaunt face and bony body. His fingernails are cracked and inches long, and he refuses to allow anyone to cut them or his hair, for fear of having any blades in his presence other than those of the Kingsguard. We don't even get knives for our meals with him.
I don't feel safe in his presence.
"Sit, Viserys," my father said, and I took my seat across from him at the table.
We ate in uncomfortable silence. Rhaella glanced between Aerys and I from time to time, but seemed willing to let it remain silent.
"How go your studies?" Aerys asked in High Valyrian, poking at one of the last remaining pieces of smoked ham on his plate with his golden fork.
"Quite well, father. I do not believe that my instructors have had anything negative to say about my learning." I spoke somewhat haltingly, only my mother and father insisted on speaking to me in High Valyrian, and I was not nearly as eloquent in it as I was the Common Tongue.
"Hm." Father swallowed the last of his food. "You will join me in the Great Hall, today."
"My husband, Viserys is not yet-"
"He will join me," father snapped at his wife, slamming his fork into the table, deforming one of the golden tines.
"As you will."
"Yes, father." I doubted it would be interesting at all, but my father's word was law for better or worse.
"Then you will join me once you have finished eating." With those words he left, taking Jaime with him, who tossed the dagger and belt to me, winking as he followed the king.
With a sigh I ate the last of my ham and excused myself from the table while Mother returned to her chambers.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a majestic sight, and one of my favorites of the castle. At the far end of the cavernous hall was the mountain-sized Iron Throne, the asymmetric monstrosity of a thousand bladed edges. Aerys cut himself upon it frequently. It was an ugly thing, but it had a certain beauty to it as well, a harsh beauty that symbolized everything the Seven Kingdoms are.
But what I enjoyed most were the dragon skulls that lined the walls, whether large or small or huge, they were amazing to look upon. And off to the side of the throne itself was the smallest skull of the last dragon known to have lived, barely the size of a good-sized apple.
As I entered the Great Hall from one of the side doors, I ran my hand along the teeth of one of the largest skulls. They were larger than my own dagger, and still sharp, as I learned over a year ago now.
As I presented myself before my father the king, who sent me to go stand off behind him and to his left to observe his court, my eyes kept drifting to the dragon skulls.
They would return in the not so distant future. I needed no dragon dreams to know that. All too soon the Mad King would spark Robert Baratheon's rebellion, and my sister would be born, and we would be spirited away across the sea to Essos.
I leaned against the wall and stared into the eye sockets of the largest dragon skull and let a grin settle across my face.
I can't wait to see a living, breathing dragon.
Last edited:
XelianEmperor
Fragile. Handle with care
All your stories are awesome please continue
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
What the guy above me said.
mojtaba
nothing new going on here.
What if you just kill you're father right before he kills the Starks. Stab him while saying, "The King is dead, long live the King" and then sit on the Iron Throne and discuss terms with the Starks about how you'll make sure Lyanna is safely returned to them while everyone is flabbergasted. Or is the older Rhaegar next in line? You could always declare him mad as well.
We'll I can't wait to see what happens next.
We'll I can't wait to see what happens next.
And become a kinslayer. That'll go over well.
thebrute7
Walker of the Planes
Uh, first, I'm six years old at the time. Killing my father would result in Rhaegar becoming king, since he's first in line for the throne, and on top of that, even if I was next in line, I'm too young, and you don't just get away with killing the king in front of so many witnesses. I'd undoubtedly be thrown in the Black Cells, either to be executed or sent to the Wall when I am old enough, whichever Rhaegar deemed most fitting.
At first, I just stared at this post trying to figure out what the fuck you were talking about. And then I got it and cracked up. Nail-clips.
thebrute7
Walker of the Planes
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Two
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282 AC - Entry Thirty Nine
My father is a fool. An insane fool who has just taken the first step towards plunging the Seven Kingdoms into war.
There is nothing I can do about it. My father has just thrown Brandon Stark and several of his friends in prison for "conspiracy to kill the crown prince", and called their fathers to court to answer for their son's crimes.
I know it is coming, and I wish I could make it stop. Father will burn them alive and make a mockery of the trial by combat that they are due, and the send Jon Arryn to bring him the heads of his own wards, Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon.
Everything is coming to a head, Robert's Rebellion will begin. And I have no intention of dying in it. I must prepare for the day when Mother and I leave King's Landing, and also for the day I leave Westeros.
Mine will be the legacy of House Targaryen, the Blood of Old Valyria, the last of the Dragonlords. I will never become the Beggar Prince.
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It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining down on the Red Keep and its yards, where the Kingsguard was practicing.
I sat on the wall of that particular courtyard, kicking my legs that hung off the side as I watched the Kingsguard, the mightiest knights in all the Realm.
I had skipped my lessons to be here today. This was an unusual day, as my father had dismissed each of his Kingsguard from their duties, making today one of the only days you might ever see all seven members of the Kingsguard practicing all at once.
I was entranced by them. As a boy, both times now, I had like so many boys found knights in plate armor enchanting. And these men were the living embodiment of that dream, armored in white plate armor that gleamed in the light, with flowing white cloaks and polished longswords.
Ser Gerold Hightower the White Bull, was sparring with Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold. It was Ser Barristan I was watching most carefully, though I watched all the knights and the way they fought. One day, perhaps in a couple of years, I too would take up a sword, and watching the Kingsguard was as good an example as I would get.
Ever since I turned five I have worked out once every day for five days, followed by two of rest. Carefully. I knew better than to overwork a young body like mine, but already it was obvious when I compared my body to the other noble boys my age when we went swimming, or even compared to commoners. My muscles were more defined, while remaining slender like a runner or gymnast, and I could doubtless outlast any of them in a footrace on top of outrunning them.
That was my vanity, I didn't want to look as... bulky, as most of the knights like Ser Gerold did. I found the aesthetic unpleasing, though that wasn't ever the point of their bulk.
Their blades were like flashes of lightning, streaking through the air to inevitably strike their targets with a thunderous clash of steel.
Off to the side the other five Kingsguard were watching the spar. There was Prince Lewyn Martell, who was speaking with Ser Oswell Whynt, each watching the spar with one eye as they conversed.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, arguably the deadliest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, with his greatsword Dawn slung across his back was alone, standing tall in the yard and intently watching the dance of steel.
The youngest Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister, was making some jape to Ser Jonothor Darry, who by his scowl did not seem amused at the young knight's remark.
It was a magnificent collection of skill, and I resettled myself on the parapet, leaning back against a raised block of stone and swinging my legs up onto the opposite one, and rested a bowl of fresh fruits on my stomach.
Ser Jaime and Ser Jonothor were the next to take the field, and as the clashed for the first time, a gruff voice spoke from behind me.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
I glanced back and up, to see one of the gold cloaks. I couldn't really see his face, all but his eyes were hidden by the camail hanging from his helmet.
"Watching the Kingsguard, clearly," I responded, turning my attention back to clash taking place below, and reaching for one of the small grapefruits in my bowl.
A leather-clad hand settled on my shoulder.
"This is no place for boys. Go elsewhere."
I licked my lips and turned my head back to the guardsman. "I will do as I please. This is a fine view."
The hand tightened on my shoulder and yanked me over, spilling my fruit onto the ground.
"I said get lost."
How did this idiot not recognize me? Silver hair and purple eyes are very distinctive.
I yanked my shoulder out of his grip. "Unhand me. Are you so taken by the heat that you do not recognize your Prince? What is your name, gold cloak? I assure you that the Captain of the Watch will hear of this."
"Prince..." A smile crept onto my face as the fool realized just who he had accosted. The moment his dark brown eyes widened was when I knew I had him.
"M'lord," he stepped back and bowed deep. "Please forgive me, I thought you were..."
"A common boy? In silk?" I asked, straightening my silk shirt. "With silver hair and purple eyes? We have no need of blind men in the Watch. And I do believe I asked for your name, or have you decided to defy me too?"
"Never, m'lord." I heard him swallow. "Clorren's my name."
"Well then, Clorren of the Watch, perhaps you ought to be about your work."
"Yes, right away." He disappeared from my sight so fast I might have sworn he wasn't there in the first place. Not that I ever had any intention of reporting him to Manly Stokeworth, the current captain. I was just annoyed.
I looked back down to the yard and saw that the spar was done.
Maybe I should report him for making me miss out on the spar. How very inconvenient. At my feet were the fruits, strewn over the walkway. With a sigh I picked up an orange and began to peel it.
It was just too pretty a day to remain angry at some fool guardsman. Perhaps he was a new man.
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"How could you just skip your lessons, Viserys. They are important." Rhaella Tagaryen scolded me. She sat on a cushioned chair in one of the castle's sitting rooms.
"Yes, Mother. But it was such a nice day, and the entire Kingsguard was out in the courtyard sparring."
Mother crossed her arms and shook her head at me. "That is not an acceptable excuse, my little dragon. Your High Valyrian is not so good yet that you can afford to miss your instruction."
I grimaced. High Valyrian is a difficult language. I was never good with languages, and Common took me plenty long enough to learn in the first place.
"Off with you now," she said, shooing me out of her room. "Go to your room and do what you will before our supper. I will send someone for you."
I nodded and left. Mother let me get away with these little things without punishment, probably because I was such a well-behaved boy. The other children about the castle, what few there were, were rowdy and loud, always underfoot and in the way of the adults.
Not me. I spent most of my time in my room reading, or searching for something to read. Either that, or I was leafing through my journal, reading through all of my notes.
In my room were a great many texts, most taken from the Red Keep's library. Most were histories of the Seven Kingdoms and accounts of battles or other things, but there were also many tales. Stories of the Targaryen dragons and their riders.
There was so much missing information. Where had it all gone? The Dance of the Dragons was only one hundred and fifty years ago, so where did all of the dragon lore go? Why do we no longer remember how to hatch dragon eggs, or retain any descriptions of how to train dragons to not destroy everything around them in their wildness. It is all missing, and only hints remain.
There was a theory, I recalled, a theory that the Maesters of the Citadel had been destroying what dragon lore they could find, in an effort to remove magic itself from the world.
That theory was looking surprisingly plausible. I just wished I could get to Dragonstone. Other than possibly Citadel, which would hardly be safe, it was likely the best place in Westeros to find any remaining dragon lore.
And I wanted it. I found myself playing with a piece of charcoal, sketching a dragon in the margin of one of my journal entries.
Some time later there came a knock at my door.
"Come."
"Your mother calls you to the table." I stood from my chair at the voice.
"Ser Jaime!"
The knight looked over my shoulder at my journal. "A fine sketch. It is supposed to be a dragon?"
"Yes," I replied. "I'll see one, one day.
"You have dragons on the brain, don't you?" Jaime laughed. "The dragons are dead and gone."
He followed me as I left the room. "There are still eggs," I said. "I know there are at least a few at Dragonstone."
"Stone eggs," Jaime snarked. "No one has hatched a dragon in well over a century. There is nothing to be gained by chasing after bed time stories. Better that you learn the sword. Swords have outlasted dragons."
Outside the doors to the dining hall, I stopped and turned around to look up at Jaime.
"You will see one day. Dragons aren't as dead as you think." And before he could respond I opened the doors and slipped into the hall.
I'd show everyone. Daenerys miracle might not come to pass, but there are other ways to hatch dragons. There have to be.
I will show them all.
|=====|=====|=====|=====|=====|
282 AC - Entry Forty four
I saw a man die today. He died in horrible agony.
I never intended to be in the Great Hall when it happened, but things don't always work out the way we intend. Mother tried to usher me out, but Aerys made us stay and watch.
Lord Rickard Stark arrived with two hundred men of the North, by the King's summons. And when he demanded a trial by combat to prove his son's innocence, my father spat in the face of over a thousand years of tradition, and made a mockery of the trial. He declared fire as his champion and suspended Rickard in his armor from the rafters of the Great Hall, then lit a blaze beneath him saying "All you have to prove your son's innocence is not burn."
Rickard burned, and his son Brandon strangled to death in a Tyroshi torture device, trying to reach a sword to save his father.
And I watched. I didn't know these men, I didn't much care about their fates either. I watched them die and felt nothing other than contempt for my father.
Imagining Jaime Lannister, who seemed to be off in his own little world, putting his longsword through the Mad King's back was a happy image. He was probably remembering the last time he lay with his sister, or perhaps something else. Anything to distract him from the travesty taking place in front of his eyes.
Ser Jon Arryn leaves tomorrow with his men, ostensibly to bring the King the heads of Robert and Eddard. He won't be returning any time soon, and when he does it will be with an army.
I could have tried to stop this. Maybe if I had really tried, I could have kept Rhaegar from doing what he did, delayed the rebellion, maybe even stopped it entirely. Rhaegar seemed like he would make a good king. But I chose to let these events play out, deliberately making as few waves as possible.
Now all I have to do is prepare for my exile to Essos.
May whatever gods Aerys believes in have mercy on his soul. The people and families he has abused during his reign certainly will not.
Two
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282 AC - Entry Thirty Nine
My father is a fool. An insane fool who has just taken the first step towards plunging the Seven Kingdoms into war.
There is nothing I can do about it. My father has just thrown Brandon Stark and several of his friends in prison for "conspiracy to kill the crown prince", and called their fathers to court to answer for their son's crimes.
I know it is coming, and I wish I could make it stop. Father will burn them alive and make a mockery of the trial by combat that they are due, and the send Jon Arryn to bring him the heads of his own wards, Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon.
Everything is coming to a head, Robert's Rebellion will begin. And I have no intention of dying in it. I must prepare for the day when Mother and I leave King's Landing, and also for the day I leave Westeros.
Mine will be the legacy of House Targaryen, the Blood of Old Valyria, the last of the Dragonlords. I will never become the Beggar Prince.
|=====|=====|=====|=====|=====|
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining down on the Red Keep and its yards, where the Kingsguard was practicing.
I sat on the wall of that particular courtyard, kicking my legs that hung off the side as I watched the Kingsguard, the mightiest knights in all the Realm.
I had skipped my lessons to be here today. This was an unusual day, as my father had dismissed each of his Kingsguard from their duties, making today one of the only days you might ever see all seven members of the Kingsguard practicing all at once.
I was entranced by them. As a boy, both times now, I had like so many boys found knights in plate armor enchanting. And these men were the living embodiment of that dream, armored in white plate armor that gleamed in the light, with flowing white cloaks and polished longswords.
Ser Gerold Hightower the White Bull, was sparring with Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold. It was Ser Barristan I was watching most carefully, though I watched all the knights and the way they fought. One day, perhaps in a couple of years, I too would take up a sword, and watching the Kingsguard was as good an example as I would get.
Ever since I turned five I have worked out once every day for five days, followed by two of rest. Carefully. I knew better than to overwork a young body like mine, but already it was obvious when I compared my body to the other noble boys my age when we went swimming, or even compared to commoners. My muscles were more defined, while remaining slender like a runner or gymnast, and I could doubtless outlast any of them in a footrace on top of outrunning them.
That was my vanity, I didn't want to look as... bulky, as most of the knights like Ser Gerold did. I found the aesthetic unpleasing, though that wasn't ever the point of their bulk.
Their blades were like flashes of lightning, streaking through the air to inevitably strike their targets with a thunderous clash of steel.
Off to the side the other five Kingsguard were watching the spar. There was Prince Lewyn Martell, who was speaking with Ser Oswell Whynt, each watching the spar with one eye as they conversed.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, arguably the deadliest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, with his greatsword Dawn slung across his back was alone, standing tall in the yard and intently watching the dance of steel.
The youngest Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister, was making some jape to Ser Jonothor Darry, who by his scowl did not seem amused at the young knight's remark.
It was a magnificent collection of skill, and I resettled myself on the parapet, leaning back against a raised block of stone and swinging my legs up onto the opposite one, and rested a bowl of fresh fruits on my stomach.
Ser Jaime and Ser Jonothor were the next to take the field, and as the clashed for the first time, a gruff voice spoke from behind me.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
I glanced back and up, to see one of the gold cloaks. I couldn't really see his face, all but his eyes were hidden by the camail hanging from his helmet.
"Watching the Kingsguard, clearly," I responded, turning my attention back to clash taking place below, and reaching for one of the small grapefruits in my bowl.
A leather-clad hand settled on my shoulder.
"This is no place for boys. Go elsewhere."
I licked my lips and turned my head back to the guardsman. "I will do as I please. This is a fine view."
The hand tightened on my shoulder and yanked me over, spilling my fruit onto the ground.
"I said get lost."
How did this idiot not recognize me? Silver hair and purple eyes are very distinctive.
I yanked my shoulder out of his grip. "Unhand me. Are you so taken by the heat that you do not recognize your Prince? What is your name, gold cloak? I assure you that the Captain of the Watch will hear of this."
"Prince..." A smile crept onto my face as the fool realized just who he had accosted. The moment his dark brown eyes widened was when I knew I had him.
"M'lord," he stepped back and bowed deep. "Please forgive me, I thought you were..."
"A common boy? In silk?" I asked, straightening my silk shirt. "With silver hair and purple eyes? We have no need of blind men in the Watch. And I do believe I asked for your name, or have you decided to defy me too?"
"Never, m'lord." I heard him swallow. "Clorren's my name."
"Well then, Clorren of the Watch, perhaps you ought to be about your work."
"Yes, right away." He disappeared from my sight so fast I might have sworn he wasn't there in the first place. Not that I ever had any intention of reporting him to Manly Stokeworth, the current captain. I was just annoyed.
I looked back down to the yard and saw that the spar was done.
Maybe I should report him for making me miss out on the spar. How very inconvenient. At my feet were the fruits, strewn over the walkway. With a sigh I picked up an orange and began to peel it.
It was just too pretty a day to remain angry at some fool guardsman. Perhaps he was a new man.
|=====|=====|=====|=====|=====|
"How could you just skip your lessons, Viserys. They are important." Rhaella Tagaryen scolded me. She sat on a cushioned chair in one of the castle's sitting rooms.
"Yes, Mother. But it was such a nice day, and the entire Kingsguard was out in the courtyard sparring."
Mother crossed her arms and shook her head at me. "That is not an acceptable excuse, my little dragon. Your High Valyrian is not so good yet that you can afford to miss your instruction."
I grimaced. High Valyrian is a difficult language. I was never good with languages, and Common took me plenty long enough to learn in the first place.
"Off with you now," she said, shooing me out of her room. "Go to your room and do what you will before our supper. I will send someone for you."
I nodded and left. Mother let me get away with these little things without punishment, probably because I was such a well-behaved boy. The other children about the castle, what few there were, were rowdy and loud, always underfoot and in the way of the adults.
Not me. I spent most of my time in my room reading, or searching for something to read. Either that, or I was leafing through my journal, reading through all of my notes.
In my room were a great many texts, most taken from the Red Keep's library. Most were histories of the Seven Kingdoms and accounts of battles or other things, but there were also many tales. Stories of the Targaryen dragons and their riders.
There was so much missing information. Where had it all gone? The Dance of the Dragons was only one hundred and fifty years ago, so where did all of the dragon lore go? Why do we no longer remember how to hatch dragon eggs, or retain any descriptions of how to train dragons to not destroy everything around them in their wildness. It is all missing, and only hints remain.
There was a theory, I recalled, a theory that the Maesters of the Citadel had been destroying what dragon lore they could find, in an effort to remove magic itself from the world.
That theory was looking surprisingly plausible. I just wished I could get to Dragonstone. Other than possibly Citadel, which would hardly be safe, it was likely the best place in Westeros to find any remaining dragon lore.
And I wanted it. I found myself playing with a piece of charcoal, sketching a dragon in the margin of one of my journal entries.
Some time later there came a knock at my door.
"Come."
"Your mother calls you to the table." I stood from my chair at the voice.
"Ser Jaime!"
The knight looked over my shoulder at my journal. "A fine sketch. It is supposed to be a dragon?"
"Yes," I replied. "I'll see one, one day.
"You have dragons on the brain, don't you?" Jaime laughed. "The dragons are dead and gone."
He followed me as I left the room. "There are still eggs," I said. "I know there are at least a few at Dragonstone."
"Stone eggs," Jaime snarked. "No one has hatched a dragon in well over a century. There is nothing to be gained by chasing after bed time stories. Better that you learn the sword. Swords have outlasted dragons."
Outside the doors to the dining hall, I stopped and turned around to look up at Jaime.
"You will see one day. Dragons aren't as dead as you think." And before he could respond I opened the doors and slipped into the hall.
I'd show everyone. Daenerys miracle might not come to pass, but there are other ways to hatch dragons. There have to be.
I will show them all.
|=====|=====|=====|=====|=====|
282 AC - Entry Forty four
I saw a man die today. He died in horrible agony.
I never intended to be in the Great Hall when it happened, but things don't always work out the way we intend. Mother tried to usher me out, but Aerys made us stay and watch.
Lord Rickard Stark arrived with two hundred men of the North, by the King's summons. And when he demanded a trial by combat to prove his son's innocence, my father spat in the face of over a thousand years of tradition, and made a mockery of the trial. He declared fire as his champion and suspended Rickard in his armor from the rafters of the Great Hall, then lit a blaze beneath him saying "All you have to prove your son's innocence is not burn."
Rickard burned, and his son Brandon strangled to death in a Tyroshi torture device, trying to reach a sword to save his father.
And I watched. I didn't know these men, I didn't much care about their fates either. I watched them die and felt nothing other than contempt for my father.
Imagining Jaime Lannister, who seemed to be off in his own little world, putting his longsword through the Mad King's back was a happy image. He was probably remembering the last time he lay with his sister, or perhaps something else. Anything to distract him from the travesty taking place in front of his eyes.
Ser Jon Arryn leaves tomorrow with his men, ostensibly to bring the King the heads of Robert and Eddard. He won't be returning any time soon, and when he does it will be with an army.
I could have tried to stop this. Maybe if I had really tried, I could have kept Rhaegar from doing what he did, delayed the rebellion, maybe even stopped it entirely. Rhaegar seemed like he would make a good king. But I chose to let these events play out, deliberately making as few waves as possible.
Now all I have to do is prepare for my exile to Essos.
May whatever gods Aerys believes in have mercy on his soul. The people and families he has abused during his reign certainly will not.
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Quest
The Great One
- Location
- Everywhere
'the Seven Kingdoms'
This mistake was entirely too amusing.
....Sleep, Quest. Also, more!
Lordhighalnder
Student, smarter than some.
- Location
- Long Beach, CA
Excellent!
How will you treat Dany? And perhaps you should test the idea that your line is immune to natural flames? Simple tests.
It may be wise to introduce some modern items into westeros. The printing press, if you plan on education being prominant. Even if you dont, images are a wonder for getting ideas across. A slide projector, easy to do. a white sheet, a lantern facing one direction, and colored glass/pigmented glass. Water colors are also a viable method in that situation, but will need to be thick on the glass, and done layer by layer, though perhaps grease paper might work better.
The roman shield, the ballista, trench warfare, greek fire, coal dust mortars (coal dust as a fuel source, in a clay pot, set at the bottom of a metal cylinder. first drop in a light piece of cloth after it had been soaked in alcohol, then drop in the pot of clay dust with a metal sphere attached by the top, or perhaps even serving as the seal, after thoroughly shaking the pot. Duck. Should work, though id need to test it myself for all the proper quantities of everything.)
How will you treat Dany? And perhaps you should test the idea that your line is immune to natural flames? Simple tests.
It may be wise to introduce some modern items into westeros. The printing press, if you plan on education being prominant. Even if you dont, images are a wonder for getting ideas across. A slide projector, easy to do. a white sheet, a lantern facing one direction, and colored glass/pigmented glass. Water colors are also a viable method in that situation, but will need to be thick on the glass, and done layer by layer, though perhaps grease paper might work better.
The roman shield, the ballista, trench warfare, greek fire, coal dust mortars (coal dust as a fuel source, in a clay pot, set at the bottom of a metal cylinder. first drop in a light piece of cloth after it had been soaked in alcohol, then drop in the pot of clay dust with a metal sphere attached by the top, or perhaps even serving as the seal, after thoroughly shaking the pot. Duck. Should work, though id need to test it myself for all the proper quantities of everything.)
midnightmissiles
Princess of Memes, Shitposts, and Puns
Excellent...
- Location
- the netherlands
Are you sure you want to introduce fire-arms to ASOIAF?
How are you going to do it on a large scale while exiled?
How are you going to do it on a large scale while exiled?
thebrute7
Walker of the Planes
Uh, I'm not. I'm not sure where you got that idea, unless it was from my one-off comment about knowing how to make black powder. And while I do know the basic of how to construct flintlock weapons and even basic cannon, I would have to be pretty dumb to actually do it. If I tried to do it on any scale, it would be guaranteed to eventually spread to my enemies, the last people I would want having missile weapons that could conceivably threaten dragons.
There are other things that can be done with black powder that don't lead to firearms, and would make it much easier to keep the secret of its creation a secret. Things like crude hand grenades, or wall-cracking explosives don't lend themselves well to reverse-engineering like a rifle or pistol would, and on top of that I could possibly pass the black powder formula off as requiring some "rediscovered" Valyrian magic in its creation (similar to Wildfire, which is said to require spells in its creation by the Pyromancers), which would have both friends and enemies looking in the wrong direction for its creation.
Well, Daenerys is going to be my sister, so that would suggest she would be treated like my sister now wouldn't it? Although what precisely that means in context would be spoiling it.
And Targaryens are not immune to fire, they are at best somewhat resistant to heat, liking their days and baths hotter (some might say scalding) than people that are not Blood of teh Dragon. This is also true of some Blackfyres and others who share the blood of Old Valyria, although due to Targaryens marrying within the family for so many generations it is most pronounced in them, as is their affinity for dragons.
As for modern stuff, it will be pretty limited, mostly because I only know bits and pieces in various areas. For instance, I know how to make concrete the way the Romans did, as well as how to make compasses, and the method by which metal similar to damascus steel (which would lie somewhere between Valyrian and ordinary steel in quality) can be produced. But my knowledge tends to be all over the place, since most of it wasn't learned in a formal setting, but in my own studies of whatever caught my interest.
midnightmissiles
Princess of Memes, Shitposts, and Puns
What about making penicillin cultures from bread or orange molds? "The Dragon's Panacea"? Use crude paper prints to make the first card games? "Dragon's Face Cards"? Modern mathematics for bookkeeping which will overwhelm all other methods of business administration causing a set of means and numbers to become global standard and thus cause a new golden age of trade? "Valyric Numerals"? Etc...
Heh, fun.
Heh, fun.
thebrute7
Walker of the Planes
It is actually very difficult to refine penicillin, especially so without modern tools and training. My cousin tried doing it manually once, and he is a trained pediatric doctor, and he couldn't do it. It is well beyond my abilities. Having the knowledge might be important in pointing someone more capable toward it though. Once proper microscopes are invented (by me) anyway.
Playing cards are something I would totally invent in character. I might go crazy without being able to play cards, it is a prominent feature of my family's bonding process. Also chess. Totally going to invent chess.
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XelianEmperor
Fragile. Handle with care
I think they already have a chess analogue its called cyvasse something
I must wonder...does this means that our dear hero has the potential to save Elia Martell and her children from the horrific fate they have in Cannon?
That would likely give him a few brownie points with the Martell family...and make things very interesting in future. With Roberts Dragon hatred, would he likely be more active in hunting them down if it was 6 dragons rather than just 3?
That would likely give him a few brownie points with the Martell family...and make things very interesting in future. With Roberts Dragon hatred, would he likely be more active in hunting them down if it was 6 dragons rather than just 3?
midnightmissiles
Princess of Memes, Shitposts, and Puns
The thing is, once you have playing cards, you can have gambling houses, which can be your in into the espionage game and huge profits. In addition, you'd be able to homebrew some home brew with alcohol breweries if you've any knowledge of that. Then you can also look into tobacco, opium, cocoa beans, sugar and the like once you're over there. Refining each of these takes a special type of trick, but it is the right mixture of each (cola, chocolate, etc.) that will grab a controlling share of each new market. Yet the largest potential is numbers, because that correlates with all markets and all forms of administration. Then you can also put modern civil engineering and political theory into work, a la ways of government that are far more efficient...
Anyway, don't have to listen, I'm just pointing out that there is a lot of potential.
Anyway, don't have to listen, I'm just pointing out that there is a lot of potential.
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
There is already cyvasse so it might not really catch on.
"Once you can print basic cards you can open a chain of successful establishments to create a spy network, because everyone knows having cards means you can run multiple bars well!"
- Location
- the netherlands
That plan looks good to go.
