Of course neither husband nor son put any claim to Low Valyrian architecture, what their kind built when they were sheepherders living in shacks, while across the sea her family had lived in the Hightower for thousands of years ruling over free men and women long before the Valyrians mastered dragons and became the preeminent slaver society of the world through uncheckable violence. Looking at this middle Valyrian town, possibly some day a city, all its beauty comes with the implicit understanding that this isn't a revival of what Valyrians built all those years ago, but what their slaves built. Did Valyrian minds even produce these designs, or was it learned men clapped in irons, forced to produce beauty or be the next victim of foul sorcery.
Truly, the Seven can bring good out of all things, even evil, for today such wonders are not the product of slaves and sorcery, but the blessings of the Smith brought about by the hands and minds of free men. The dragons that once made slaves of the world now defend the free world, and defend they shall, her son and his partner Sunfyre, possibly two of the ablest agents of warfare to ever walk the earth and fly the skies.
Just as the dreadful and wonton Rhaenyra and her terrible and cruel husband stood ready to claim the Iron Throne, her son and his dragon rose up, ready to defend the world from them like Ser Galladon of Morne and the Just Maid, though based on the certain nature of his blessings perhaps the Mother loves her son, not the Maiden. It would certainly explain the rather incredible transformation her daughter went through in the last three years, from a skinny and broad faced maiden to strong and filled out woman, so filled out that Alicent often found herself on the cusp of demanding Helaena don more appropriate dresses, but jealous eye of the Crown Princess stayed her lips.
She remembered the cruel whispers Rhaenyra's courtiers filled the Red Keep with while the girl grew up, and only her daughter's unique strength of character allowed the girl to stand strong throughout it all. Now, her girl looked like she could squash those courtiers' heads between her thighs. Who cares about a broad face when the girl can now smack'em with her broadside and send them to the dirt?
Unlike her older half-sister who never lost the weight she gained carrying her children, Helaena took after her mother and remained trim and lean despite the multiple pregnancies, though from the firm rounding of her shoulders and power in her waist it was an undertaking in effort rather than in moderation. She looked like she could wrestle down any three or even four of the women who grew up with such unkind words on their lips about her, and while the strength of her physique didn't match the standard of a proper noble woman, she certainly looked well paired with her brother-husband.
After settling her son from crying during the changing of his soiled smallclothes, Helaena handed the infant off to a Dornish girl, and Alicent winced at the exchange. Her daughter's large - often called too large in her childhood - purple eyes fixed on the shift in her expression, and the girl's wide mouth went up on one end.
"Is there a problem, mother?" she asked in that sinister playful tone she perfected as a child.
'Is there a problem?' she asks, after engaging in obviously problematic behavior. The dusky skinned girl is the closest thing to a slave in Westeros, one and ten years old with a lifetime of degradation ahead of her, and trusted with the safety of her grandchildren.
"Yes." Alicent answered, the dire nature of the situation evident and emphasized in her tone.
"That is so you, mother, worrying over matters long since settled." Helaena chuckled as she led her mother to a sitting room where she instructed a servant to bring refreshments.
Some of the clearest glass Alicent ever saw filled the window, allowing nigh pure daylight into the comfortable space. Her daughter sat easily in the rounded low backed armchairs her husband preferred, and the Queen felt a sudden need to redecorate the Red Keep with them after lowering herself into its pair.
"That is 'so' your brother, paying no mind matters only he considers settled." Alicent countered her daughter's dismissal, "That girl is a thrall, a slave in all but name. How could you stand her presence, let alone allow her near your children?"
"Now mother, let's not get hysterical calling Dori a 'slave in all but name'. Thralldom is a long and historic institution practiced by all nations in Westeros, save the Valyrians, who practiced actual slavery. That it is merely out of fashion with most is not yet cause for concern, not unless you intend to do a Good Queen and get it outlawed like the Right of First Night." Helaena possessed an inexplicable scorn for the Good Queen, much like Aegon scorned the memory of the Old King, and implied something few others would by likening her to the woman.
"You speak of such barbarity as if it is merely some less popular tradition, rather than the evil that it so plainly is. You reap what you sow, daughter, and so you must sow good, before the seeds of evil grow and spread." Alicent argued and her daughter listened her face turned slightly away, but her eye on her mother.
"You speak of a just world, of reaping and sowing. Something straight from the book of the Father, no doubt. Conveniently forgetting the teachings of the Stranger, that there is no cosmic force of justice balancing the scales of good and evil. That the foolish and the wise all die the same, and that lucky and the unlucky both exist and neither is a sign of favor nor disfavor, merely circumstance. That he who sows and he who reaps and he who eats are not always the same man. That one day, all we have and all we built will come into the hands of an idiot who will see it all squandered and ashes." Helaena, also like her brother, oft weaponized the Seven Pointed Star, choosing passages that strip away the comfort of the others. Passages about what is, not what ought to be, not what is right.
Alicent hated it when they did that. It is such a defeatist take from such an edifying book. Something wicked in them caused them to delight in what is rather than what is right. They settle on what is better rather than what is best. They act on what is good for them, rather than on what is good. Lovers of the world, not lovers of God. For a pious woman like Alicent, the state of her children's souls oft plagued her, but she had faith that as time passed and their responsibilities increased, that they would more and more look beyond their own competence to see the day through, and towards the Seven-Who-Are-One.
Dragonsreach isolated them from the greater trials and tribulations of the Kingdoms, and Alicent didn't spite them for it, but instead thanked the gods for the paradise they gave her children, but one day soon her husband would breath his last, and Aegon would shoulder the burden of the Kingdoms, leading millions instead of thousands. He needed more than his force of personality and competence to succeed as a King, for the weight of the crown crushes any man that seeks to bear it alone. Alicent only hoped that her son and daughter gained this wisdom before they came upon the trials, not after.
"Have a care, daughter, for what is right." Alicent advised the queen-in-waiting, "For the future depends on the Lords of Westeros doing what is right, rather than what they've sworn."
Helaena turned her head to face her fully and her expression conveyed her confusion and then pity, "Oh mother, you still do not know."
Her daughter reached out and took her hand.
"What a wonderous surprise you are in store for." Helaena smiled softly and spoke as if to a small child.
Occasionally, Rhaenyra is right to hate a bitch, and oh how Alicent hated herself for thinking that.
Chapter 15: The Great Tourney of Dragonsreach Part 3
125
-Prince Aemond Targaryen-
His lance exploded on contact with his opponents chest, a knight of the Vale heralded in the black ravens and red hearts of House Corbray, sable and gules for the more pretentious, and the Prince doubted the man felt particularly pretentious right now flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him. As the crowd cheered him on he raised his visor and his eyes sought out a small section of the crowd, a private box. He didn't look toward the luxurious box seats of his mother and father and the rest of their kin, instead he rested his pleased gaze upon a box containing a dozen ordinary women who held in their arms a dozen white-golden haired children, his contribution to his brother's dream of one day replacing the vulgar Andals with a renewed Valyrian race. After seeing the evidence of his efforts in around the Blue Keep and Old Town, Aemond knew it to be just another way in which he would ever remain in Aegon's shadow, but with such a wide shadow cast there is more than enough room for him to spread his own wings and achieve his own greatness.
He idly wondered how his brother's cock had any skin left with all the breeding that horde took to create, but then grimaced as his thoughts turned to their sister, and the many many many times he found her in the throes of wonton ecstasy since he came to Dragonsreach fifteen moons prior. He could only imagine the rawness of rod and aching of balls those women put Aegon through over the years as training so that he might survive the appetites of their sister, and though she became beautiful as she aged, Aemond felt incredibly grateful that his brother shielded him from her. He very much liked walking under his own power.
The downing of the Corbray knight solidified the agreed upon outcome of the tourney for him, even if he didn't win another joust, he earned his spurs already, this was just the needed excuse to finally end his days as a squire, first under Ser Criston Cole, and then under his brother's mentorship. Their younger brother, Daeron, would soon follow in his footsteps , travelling from Old Town where he served as a page in the court of their mothers kin. Perhaps the large Valyrian Quarter in Westeros's oldest and greatest city may have prepared him for Dragonsreach, but he knew such thoughts were folly. Nothing could ever prepare his younger brother for the sight of their sister's inventive ways of dousing with seed whatever fire burned in her womb.
As Aemond guided his zorse away from the tilting lane, Aegon came forth to the field atop his legendary stallion, Seethancope. A mouthful of a name, but a fitting one, for against his brother atop his zorse there is no chance of victory, so all must seethe and cope with their inadequacy. He cut the most intimidating knightly figure in the Kingdoms atop that armored zorse. The heinous relief work on his plate mail, and the excessive and exaggerated feature created a visage brutal to look at directly and in silhouette, only becoming more terrifying the closer he approached. Aemond knew the armor for its magic, the occult power radiating a dread making it hard to look upon without a supernatural fear weighing down on your shoulders and belly, foreshadowing the pointlessness of resisting against such a force of nature.
The knight scheduled to tilt with his brother withdrew, and the viewers in the stands booed the decision as craven, but Aemond knew and respected the strategy behind it. The tourney was held in the Dragonsreach style, a new ruleset in which participants form teams of eight and compete against each of the other teams tallying up each individual win to track who advances. So many men came to participate this year that many were turned away to prevent the event from taking a full moon to complete, but it still numbered over five hundred participants, split into sixteen brackets of four teams. Each of those four teams faced each other and the team with the most wins advanced to do it again.
The system allowed for far more strategy than standard tourney rules, as the team captains toss a coin at the start of each set of matches called a game, and whoever loses must put forth the first name on the schedule, to which the winner names his champion next, and this continues until the advantage switches for the last four matches. Savvy teams such as the one they just faced sought advantage in these placements, such as what just occurred. The other team placed one of their weakest offerings against his brother, and the man withdrew to avoid injury. This prevented his brother from taking one of their stronger competitors off the winning column, and preserved their strength for further games.
It didn't matter that they got the advantage in the schedule, not with the team he rode with that contained, two princess, three Kingsguard, and three of the strongest knights sworn to Dragonsreach, a place that achieved an almost mythic reputation since its inception as a gathering ground of heroes, a martial paradise where the best stand amongst the best.
"You should have had him down on the second pass." his brother's voice filled his ears and he grit his teeth, biting back a pointless response, "You hurt his shoulder on the first pass, his aim was shaky. You had the opening. Do better, or I'll call your sister down to show you how it's done."
Hollow threat, his sister may train with arms and has enough talent to make a man jealous, but she simply can't get the reps in to ever make something of it, considering she spends five moons out of every ten too bloated with pregnancy to move properly. He still felt she trained too intensely during those times, but at least she didn't practice full contact. The idea of a pregnant woman getting hit with a sword, blunt or not, made his skin crawl.
The brothers returned to their assembled team and the eight of them exited the stadium to an attached pavilion added by Aegon after the initial construction. Only select teams enjoyed the privilege of similar structures, the shaded and breezy spaces a fine location to relax between games, of which each team competed twice daily to finish the tourney within seven days, with the finals splitting the winning team into an eight man single elimination bracket to determine the final tourney champion.
Everyone expected his brother to win the finals despite the dearth of elite and legendary competitors on the lists, one such legend in the pavilion with them, Ser Criston Cole. Aemond smiled as his mentor relaxed into a stool with a mug of weak wine as the servants brought the men refreshments. It felt good to participate as a peer with the man, even though Aemond had no expectation of beating him should they match in the finals. He wanted to speak to the man, but he noticed Ser Criston only had eyes for his brother.
"My prince, this tourney shall live on in the annals of history like few others. Never have I seen a gathering of such quality men, let alone in a format that allows them to test themselves so thoroughly." Ser Criston complimented the host, and his brother's Ser Rickard Thorne and Ser Willis Fell nodded their heads in agreement.
"It is an honor to ride in such a grand event." Ser Thorne added as he assembled a treat from a tray with cheese, crunchy flatbread, and honey.
Aemond helped himself to some as well, knowing the combination to be a fine one for athletic performance, easy on the stomach, and providing a quick pick-me up to the body. While Ser Criston helped guide his eating in his youth, his time with his brother explained the why behind the choices, the Prince possessing a much more in depth knowledge of the body's inner workings and how to maximize performance.
No form of exercise or wise choice of diet would ever close the gap between him and his brother, Aemond accepted that begrudgingly during the last year and a half, but that gave him no excuse to not explore the heights of strength and beauty his own body is capable of, and he'd come to understand that though Aegon may be blessed by the gods in ways others are not, he himself took some benefit having shared the same womb as him. Though Aemond compared poorly to his brother, he outperformed most others in body composition, power, appearance, and fertility. His dozen bastards and the dozen more on the way proved it, all born healthy and looking just like him. Aemond relished his own small blessings, and believed their brother Daeron to possess similar enhanced features. He thanked the gods that despite not making him his brother's equal, that they did not scorn him for love of his brother.
"Aye, we've accomplished much this time." Aegon accepted the praise with a nostalgic look on his face.
"I've noticed that your uncle's team was placed on the opposite end of the lists from us." Ser Criston brought up.
"It wouldn't do to defeat them early in the tourney." Aegon explained the placement, "They've a strong team led by a kinsman. They'll make it to the end, and we'll show them the difference between us and them distinctly."
"The Rogue has spread rumors for years that your matches are fixed. He willfully sullies the reputation of a kinsman. Should you not have sought to put the insult to the harsh light of truth early, so as not to let it ferment here in your home?" Ser Criston's words put a frown on the faces of the other knights, but Aegon's lips turned up at the corners.
"Words, Ser Criston. Words, soon enough to meet the harsh and hard reality." Aegon's amusement didn't put the knights at ease, all of them offended on behalf of their prince, "Let the controversy fester, all the more satisfying the lancing."
"Have care, my Prince, Daemon is a notorious cheat, unafraid to aim for the horse instead of the rider, using hardwood lances, and all manner of dishonorable practices most are too afraid to face his fury than take him to task for." Ser Criston counseled, the man the victim of Daemon's misdeeds in the past.
"It matters not. Seethancope remains the finest horse in the world, agile, hearty, and disciplined. No matter Daemon's schemes, my mount and I shall overcome." on anyone else that confidence didn't belong, but coming from his brother, a man who would one day be remembered as 'The Great', it fit.
The easy comradery of the pavilion ended when a servant arrived to announce the arrival of King Viserys Targaryen, the crippled man assisted in transit by the remaining members of the Kingsguard. With him came the Queen, their sister, the Crown Princess, and her heirs, the Strong Boys. Aemond felt his stomach twist at the sight of them, his good mood ruined. He'd managed to keep them from his presence for years, so that their arrogance could neither stoke his wrath nor rise his bile in disgust. At only a dozen years old, Jacerys 'Velaryon', walked, talked, and breathed as a mockery of good sense and of their illustrious dynasty.
He turned his head away from the boy, and to his father. The King cut an imposing visage these days despite the continued wasting and rotting away of his flesh. Aegon now supplied the King's wardrobe, and personally trained the servants that prepare their father for his days in public. Their father now faced the Seven Kingdoms behind a gold filigree mask housed within a scarlet silk head wrap draped as if to mimic a fall of red hair coming down around his crown. This wrap also covered his neck blending in with a red and gold stole, the wrap dipping into the collar of his layered black brocade robe carefully constructed to make his diminished form look larger without adding too much weight for him to bear. Black silk gloves covered his hands, tucked into his rings. Every inch of their fathers skin hidden from the world, and never had he looked more kingly.
Their mother came, always the dutiful wife, her form far more fitting of a queen than their fat half-sister who likely only came to run interference as she usually did when Aegon and their father interacted these days. They all only came together at these tourneys held to celebrate the family, and otherwise gladly went their separate ways after. If only their sister could satisfy herself with ruling the dumpy little island their family called their ancestral home, then they could at last be at peace with each other. Her refusal to relinquish the unnatural burden of rule their father mistakenly placed on her during his morose morning period for his first wife condemned the House of the Dragon to strife, her refusal to comply with a married woman's virtue took it from a matter of principle to a matter most personal, the audacity to place herself over their brother compounded by the audacity to put her bastards over her brothers. Intolerable.
The gods themselves made the trueborn Targaryen brothers greater than other men, greater than her Strong Boys, and they made Aegon first among the best. How their half-sister could look upon their brother and not submit to his rightful authority, his authority granted to him by the laws of both gods and men, astounds Aemond. Only the unworthy bolster her false claim, refusing to let the embers of her role in the wider politics in Westeros die out. For her own sake, she should make her retreat from the court to Dragonstone permanent and leave the Seven Kingdoms to her better. Just the look in her eyes when gazing upon Aegon confirmed it, her lust plain to see.
He didn't blame her for it. It is only natural that the primal need of her cunt override the capabilities of her brain. Her soft feminine spirit longed to moor itself properly to the righteous masculine hardness of Aegon's cock, yet her corrupted upbringing caused her to war against herself, her disordered desires ruining the proper harmony of her womanhood.
Helaena met his gaze next, his beautiful sister having seen the same as him, as he'd seen a number of times in the past and reported to her. She nodded, and Aemond gave her a small nod back. To save their family from disaster, the pair conspired to guide their half-sister to her proper place in submission to the next Head of House Targaryen. Though stubborn, willful, vain, and arrogant, neither sibling believed her beyond salvation, both ardent believers in the holy teaching 'Spare the rod, condemn the child' but in this case the child already grew up and thus a new rod is needed. For the stability of their House, for the peace of the realm, and for the sacredness of the bloodline, they needed their brother to fuck the stupid out of their half sister.
Chapter 16: The Great Tourney of Dragonsreach Part 4
125
King Viserys Targaryen
The King smiled under his gold filigree mask as he witnessed two of his children communicating with each other without the use of words, a form of trust and experience that he shared with their grandfather, and more painfully, his dear and departed friend, Lord Lyonel Strong. He chalked it up to another example of the magic of Dragonsreach, and the Blue Keep.
If someone told him it only took him ninety days to complete his grandest achievement, in raising the Keep and its surrounding accompaniments, he'd believe it, so enchanted with the process of building it all that things like costs and schedules meant nothing to him, and according to Lord Beesbury his trusted Master of Coin, meant nothing to the treasury. That same enchantment that so captured him extended to all of Westeros, and he let his son know it as he rested in the small throne his servants carried over to the pavilion.
"Aegon, my son," he addressed the host of the event, "This is the greatest tourney of my life. Little else I've ever seen has ever brought the Lords of Westeros together in such numbers, and never in such good cheer. I hope you've prepared some music to share with us at the feasting, for surely bards will try to memorialize this great event for many generations to come."
His son, whom many consider the greatest warrior alive and the most handsome man of the age nodded in easy acceptance of the compliment, "And I thank you, father, for the Crown's aid in putting this spectacle on."
His eldest daughter's face soured at the reminder of the expenses. Though she largely withdrew from courtly life as she focused on raising her children and ruling their ancestral seat, Dragonstone, Viserys and her kept up a frequent correspondence, and the King felt greatly relieved for the separation as even with the benefit of ponderance in written communication his daughter made her ire quite clear on the large expense, as if the treasury, fat from decades of peace, was already hers, and not his. Viserys appreciated her will to power, but strongly admonished her for the presumption. There is little more wretched than an heir who shirks and shies away from duty, but an arrogant entitled overreaching heir ranked among them.
Gold comes and gold goes, but the King is not long for this world. He'd long since come to terms with his death, and in fact, welcomed it. His body failed him long ago, and only his dignity as King kept him from simply succumbing to despair and allowing his spirit to waste and rot like his flesh. He endured as is his duty, but duty weighs heavily, more heavily on him than perhaps any of his forebears, for at least they had hale bodies to rely on, even in their darkest days. Viserys Targaryen lives only in dark days, and it is up to him to foster and bolster any light against the ever encroaching ever consuming blackness.
His daughter scorned him for creating such an event as to provide him fond memories, fuel, with which to mete out his final days with as much grace and strength as he can muster, for she does not understand, and more than anything else he wishes her to never understand his pain, and his struggle. His fate he only wishes upon his enemies, and thus he wishes upon no one, for he has no enemies. Many men may wish him death, harm, disaster, they may gloat about his sickness, about his many dead babes, about the fate of his sweet Aemma, but they are all beneath him, none are on his level, and none shall ever rise to it. It is all the vileness of lesser men, and their lesser hearts. Viserys needn't rise above them and their petty perversity, for he is above them.
"Aemond, my son," he addressed his second born son who paid him rapt attention, "Well rode, be proud."
He kept his words measured and short to preserve his voice throughout the day. How he longed for the days of his youth, days filled with singing and revelry, and easy joy. Days his younger children never got to enjoy with him. How he wished he could show them his true self, and not this pathetic wretched form.
"Thank you, father." Aemond politely answered the praise.
It felt sinful to end the young man's days in Dragonsreach, the fruits of which obvious to all with eyes to see. Aemond grew strong, tall, and greatly in strength and skill under his brother's tutelage, but his second son deserved a chance to show the world his own greatness outside the shadow cast by Aegon. After the tourney, Kingslanding becomes his home once more, where he will take up a position studying under the Master of Laws, Lord Jasper Wylde. A natural appointment as any given the consistent reports of Aemond's orderliness and conscientiousness. One day he'd serve well on his sister's Small Council.
Though he suspected Aegon would never serve on Rhaenyra's Small Council due to the demands of his own lands and family, in the last two years he'd built himself a fine claim to the title Master of Ships. Though initially thought of as a vanity project and mocked with claims that soon the Manderlys would plate their ships in silver and the Lannisters theirs in gold, the Bronze fleet quickly emerged onto the scene as both a powerful and viable force on both the Summer and Sunset Seas. While Lord Beesbury expected Aegon to soon beg for tax relief due to the expense of building ships and lavishly plating the hulls in bronze, that never occurred, and instead the fleet began generating tax revenue from interkingdom trade upon inception, with some transactions recorded as far north as Bear Island. The Master of Coin explained that the Bronze Fleet filled a niche in seafaring trade, transporting raw materials and resources between the Reach, Westerlands, Riverlands, and the North at fair prices, prioritizing slow and steady trade over the more typically focused on high value options, betting the fleet's future on the sturdiness of the the vessels and the consistent work for the sailors. Considering the way Aegon seemed to be friends with seemingly every important lord on the west coast, the Bronze Fleet must render good service to all save its master, who seemingly operates it for the sake of the fleet itself rather than for base profit.
He felt assured seeing his son living out the lessons to be learned from his own reign. A man can only accomplish so much, but a man and his friends can accomplish anything. He provided decades of peace for the realm at great personal effort. Peace is not germane to life, it is in fact unnatural. Chaos is natural, chaos is easy, the gods know chaos attempted to assert itself over and over all throughout his reign. A man by himself cannot bring order to chaos beyond his own threshold, but a man and his friends can bring order to kingdoms, and few in the world had more friends than King Viserys Targaryen, and none can honestly claim better friends, for it is only in performance that such things are proven, and King Viserys Targaryen and his many friends have more proof than any of their quality. He felt quite aggrieved for every hole time rent in the tapestry of his companions, but better to grieve and to have had, than to never have had at all. The times they shared, the best, and the King's appreciation far outweighed his aggrievement.
He certainly hoped Aegon's friends proved to be of matching quality as his own, for the King did not feel the same about those whom rallied around his daughter. Gossipers at best, two-faced seditionists at worst. His wife trucked in the same, such disgusting people drawn to courtly life in the capital, proclaiming themselves servants while doing all they can to avoid proper service. He'd place his reputation right alongside Maegor the Cruel's if he ever treated these folk as he impulsively wished too.
Viserys had far too little capacity for focus to deal with both their acidic games veiled in insipid speech and judiciously rule over the Kingdoms. Though his heart longed for the company of his daughter while he awaited his death in Kingslanding, just being around the vile mixture of Rhaenyra's followers existing in proximity to Alicent's almost soured his enjoyment of the Blue Keep and the fabulous event planned by himself and his son. If he brought her to court what little happy wine remained in his life would soon turn to vinegar in his mouth.
Rather than dwell on it, he diverted his attention to his youngest daughter.
"Helaena," he began as his limited vision assessed the woman, "I've never seen a woman more blessed by the Mother. Six babes in three years of marriage, all healthy and well. I thank the gods that I have lived to see my bloodline flourishing so."
"Thank you, father." she responded appropriately, "I'm glad to bear the children in the castle you've built for us. There is no better home in the world than the Blue Keep."
The well deserved compliment of his work tugged up the corners of his lips. There was a time when Viserys lived in fear of his children by Alicent. He feared the look in their eyes when they realized that their father, the pillar of their lives, rotted away more and more each day. Bitter anxiety at their reaction to his affliction caused him to real away from them instinctually, but his steadfast relationship with Aegon allowed him to overcome his fear, to be the brave father his younger children deserved.
His eldest son never looked at him with eyes filled with revulsion, disgust, fear, or hate, even as a child he kept his company with nothing worse than pity in his purple gaze. Aegon treated him with a kindness and wisdom seemingly impossible from a boy who'd never been sick a day in his life. His words and actions overbound with the empathy of someone who'd suffered long debilitating disease. That care reached out like a lifeline across a dark chasm of self isolation, and guided him to a proper relationship with his family.
His younger children did not disappoint. Helaena also possessed a deeper wisdom than others her age, and unique perspective. She never needed teaching to know her place in the world, and instead of lamenting the inconveniences of her status like her sister before her, the girl existed in a state of near perpetual gratitude, as if she'd lived a life of far lesser station and understood the great privileges she enjoyed as a princess.
Aemond followed in his brother's footsteps, instead of cursing his father's infirmity, he took it as a badge of honor, believing the King's dignity enhanced by his capacity to endure such great hardship. Rather than shy away from his illness, his second son took it as an example he needed to live up to, and worked tirelessly to uphold his duties without excuse, for if the King can shoulder the burden of rule in such a state, how could he with his able body shirk away from any hardship.
Daeron never feared his father's withering form. He knew no other, and the support and acceptance shown by his elder siblings guided him into a virtuous and brave boy. With Aemond's upcoming knighting, Daeron's stay in Old Town comes to an end and he shall replace his brother as Aegon's squire. Viserys eagerly awaited the day when his youngest earned his spurs and joined hands with his brothers as their equal man.
Though he'd married their mother out of duty - required by the dwindling of his family to only a single female heir and at the time an out of favor and suspected impotent brother - Viserys relished the outcome of their affection. For all the hassle Alicent caused him squabbling with Rhaenyra, she'd blessed him a thousand fold more with their four children. Obedient, disciplined, valorous, virtuous, quick to reconcile when wrong, quick to support those in need. A dark and shameful part of his heart felt some gratitude for Aemma's death in the light of the quality fruit of his second marriage.
The quality of his children allowed him to pay no mind to the nay-sayers and doom-speakers. Those who spoke in fear of Aegon's risen star, yet pay no mind to how he faithfully followed his father's will, always correcting himself with every misstep into the fine man before him. He should cut the tongues from every mouth that speaks against Faithful Aegon, Kind Helaena, Dutiful Aemond, and Caring Daeron. With children like these, he need not fear the future of House Targaryen, for such bright stars shall shine on even through the darkness of his closing hours.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Its funny. I finally have all the details for this story planned out to its conclusion and a rough outline of the sequel, and some important scenes planned for the one after that. I'm locked in ready to execute the plan, then boom.
Oblivion.
The single most important video game of my middle school days gets an unexpected and unwanted remaster. I'd heard about it from a friend, and dismissed it. Bethesda lost my loyalty years ago with Fallout 4.
Then I check out the release announcement and see that Bethesda outsourced it. All of a sudden I'm sold. I go onto Steam and buy the game, and have spent the last week with my oldest son in my lap as we adventure across Cyrodil, Oblivion, and the Shivering Isle. He cries whenever we finish an Oblivion gate as he loves fighting bad guys, and that's where the bad guys live, unable to process that we killed all the bad guys along the way and a quarter mile away there are three more gates just waiting for us to crusade against.
I've spent alot of time just playing games. It's honestly given me anxiety as I'm an adult know and have responsibilities. I often find myself fantasizing about writing an Oblivion Isekai, but curb my enthusiasm in light of my writing goals. I've little time to finish my commitments, let alone begin a new venture.
My apologies to those authors currently writing Thrones fics for the sarcastic detractions left in the comments sections and critical reviews. I normally avoid Thrones fics due to my vast investment in researching the setting and inspiring period, but I needed to dunk my head in the pondscum you people produce to provide myself with the motivation to get back to writing the objectively best Thrones fiction available.
Chapter 17: The Great Tourney of Dragonsreach Part 5
125
-Princess Helaena Targaryen of Dragonsreach-
She remembered feasting with the Hightowers so very long ago, not long before her early death at nine and twenty name days. She remembered the burning fever and the fear not only for herself but for her children as well, followed by an encroaching blackness, and then the hazy days of her second infancy and toddling years ceding into proper streams of consciousness. Oh how wondrous this second life was, feasting with the Hightowers again, but this time not some awestruck backwoods savage at the table of high nobility only by virtue of her husband's strength, but as the host, higher in status and honor than they who appeared so lofty to her before.
Rather than remain silent and offering only vague responces to keep from exposing her ignorance about this dish or that, or this song or that, or this dance or that, or this cut of dress or that, now she had it all, and they fawned over her. Her husband possessed a knowledge of many things in this world from his travels in his last life, and a keen ability in clawing back access to anything he might desire from various far off lands. A feast at the Blue Keep sported more than just Westerosi fare with supporting dishes from the Free Cities, but offerings inspired by the remnant Ghiscari, the luxurious Qarthi, and even the mysterious Yi Tish. The shock on Corlys Velaryon's face when he bit into a nugget of chicken glazed in orange sauce made his presence far more tolerable.
"Familiar, isn't it." Aegon smirked as the old man turned his head slowly to look at him, "That flavor cuts right through the decades and takes you back to when you were last when you tasted it. Funny how that works."
Corlys grimaced as he pondered her brother-husband's words. More than anyone, Aegon allowed himself to be Jorah around the legendary Velaryon sailor. From the tales in relief of gold and silver on his armor she knew as a Mormont he sailed all the same seas, and took far more for himself than Corlys managed. Somehow, Aegon portrayed the affection of an older, more seasoned and experienced brother for his younger up-and-coming kin. Something that always compounded the much older seadog's bad mood when in proximity to her brother-husband.
"That puts me in the mood for a song." Aegon announced loudly and a servant brought him his guitar as the feasting hall quieted, his voice powerful enough to fill the massive space.
He circled the high table, strumming and tuning his instrument. A certain expectation settled over her, and she wondered if the others around felt it, that something was about to be achieved. She felt a similar feeling when Aegon was knighted, when he first became a tourney champion, when he established himself as the preeminent warriors of the age, and when they founded House Targaryen of Dragonsreach. These events rippled out across her dreams, bending destiny in greater and lesser ways, but always centered on Aegon. He always gained from these achievements, not just the prestige and acclaim, but something mystical.
"I've worked on my songs for far longer than anyone realizes." Aegon declared building the anticipation for the coming song with some personal narrative.
Helaena knew exactly how long he'd worked on them, having found a journal of what she assumed at the time poetry not long after their first marriage in another life. She remembered Jorah bringing home his first guitar from Lannisport, and his frustration trying to teach himself music and later put cords to the very poems from that journal. It never worked out even after he gained passable skill with the instrument due to the quality of his voice, like a bear freshly removed from a forest fire. No amount of manipulation could make his low gravelly voice pleasant. He'd the voice of a barbarian warlord, so it at least fit his professional life, if not his hopes for his social life.
"Music, a song, can take you back in time, remind you of what you felt back when you first heard it." he continued languidly, "So much of life slips away, lost in the dark recesses of the mind until passing away into oblivion. The names, the faces, who did what, and when. It all fades away, but a good song reaches into the darkness, and lets you feel once again. It's been so long, I can't even remember what this song first made me feel, but I know what I feel now."
He turned his gaze on her, and she saw something she never saw in her last life, but saw all so often now. A deep affection. Love. She'd seen it before, but still found her mood improving from it now, almost enough to muffle her understanding of the narration. She wondered, was the last life his first? Jorah had a poetry to him, a song in his heart, but his was a song of brutality and absurdity. Did he craft those poems as a boy, or was the boy she married really a man, with a book of songs to remind him how he used to feel.
It mattered little to her as he began strumming familiar cords, his much improved singing voice taking her back to the feeling of where she'd been when she first heard the song, and how she felt now in this life.
"~If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
'Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you~"
-Lady Jeyne Arryn, Warden of the East-
She'd heard all manner of disgraceful tellings of Prince Aegon Targaryen of Dragonsreach, all of which she readily believed for above near any other name, she feared his. She'd heard of his savagery on Driftmark, the falseness of his chivalry in tourney, of the armature fumblings of his music, the barbarity he unleashed in the Red Mountains, and the tyranny of his small folk. In one visit to the Blue Keep, she'd already learned three of those claims as baseless slander, and she feared him all the more for it.
Formerly she comforted herself on the belief that despite the threat he posed to her kinswoman, and by extension her own tenuous grasp on power, he was not more than a brute with low cunning. Now she feared him all the more, for he put those petty comforts to flight, driving the soothing lies from her mind. Aegon wasn't the brute of low cunning those with connection to her kinswoman claimed him as. Instead he matched the rumors rarely spoken in the Eyrie, the finest man of the age.
His voice barely finished the first verse of his song - sung obviously for his lady wife, a woman she was told was plain and simpleminded, but instead shone more splendidly in the candle and hearth light than her kinswoman, the fabled Realm's Delight - and she felt her cunt moisten, desiring him in a way she'd never desired a man before. No wonder Rhaenyra ever waffled between loving him and hating him, for if he can stoke the passion of a woman with no carnal attraction to men, how much worse is it for a woman with such an obvious weakness for the male form. He possessed the voice of an angel and the body of a god. If he sang his song for her, could she resist the craving to bow down and worship him? To beg for his affection?
Aegon Targaryen of Dragonsreach is the enemy of women.
"~If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then
Again, I would spend them with you~"
-Lord Ormund Hightower, Beacon of the South-
The young Lord Hightower felt intense satisfaction as his legendary kinsman and liege lord enchanted the feasting hall first with his monologue, and then with his song. Few understood like he did, just who sang for them, the second coming of King Hugor of the Hill, reborn and far greater. Old Town housed the proof. His father refused to understand, finding them an eyesore, but Ormund understood the obvious sign of the gods. Hugor fathered four and forty sons, each made strong by the Warrior, who conquered ancient Andalos from the northern hills to the southern marches creating a kingdom that would cross the Narrow Sea and conquer Westeros.
Aegon fathered over a thousand sons, all of them growing strong each day.
He quietly brought a hundred of the oldest boys with him from Old Town, all ten name days old to Aegon's nine and ten. It boggles the mind, but the gods work in wondrous ways. How much will these boys conquer, the vanguard of an army unlike any other in the world, not just brothers in arms, but brothers in blood, brothers of a blessed bloodline. Dorne, The Lands Beyond the Wall, the Free Cities and beyond. Their glory and might shall know no end, and as their kinsman he too shall ride with them, to honor and riches unceasing.
Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone shall cast down his enemies.
"~But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with~"
-Lord Borros Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands-
Borros wondered how such a sissy man lived in the skin of the Warrior incarnate. He wouldn't say as such out loud, not after feeling the power of the sissy's lance on his chest today, sending him to the ground in a single pass leaving him sucking in air like a fish out of water. He understood why the other guy didn't face him in the lists. Still made him a craven, but a cunning one at least. The loss didn't put him out of the tourney, but he knew the champion already, having never felt that kind of power behind any man's lance before. He felt the blow to his chest from his scalp to his scrotum, as if his very soul was blown out his back for a moment.
Such power in his arm allowed a man any amount of sissy boy singing, his manhood unquestioned. What Borros would give to match such a man's sons to his daughters, but Aegon's wife only produced twins, boys and girls paired, and he knew what that meant among Targaryens. If the King legitimized some of his son's bastards, then they could do business. Otherwise, he'd consider the man's younger brothers, though they'd need to wait for his girls, especially if the oldest didn't please them. Aemond impressed him today, winning both his matches against strong knights. He'd make a fine husband for one of his girls, should his father not see him saddled with some lesser wife before Borros felt ready to make an offer. Fool's bet considering the boy was now the same age as his brother when he wed. Perhaps he'd get a shot at the youngest. Whatever comes, Borros wanted on the team.
Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone is too powerful an enemy to have.
"~If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you~"
-Lord Jason Lannister, Warden of the West-
The Lord of Casterly Rock felt great joy seeing the fat pig Rhaenyra lusting openly for her half-brother. His place in the feasting hall put him in the perfect position to watch his song melting her heart and heating her loins. He was there when she scorned Aegon's offer of marriage, more callously and more carelessly than she scorned the suit of himself and his twin brother, Tyland. Oh how the tables have turned. Were she free to do so, would she offer her hand to him, only to be scorned for her age and form like she did all those years ago? Would he laugh in her face as she did to him? Jason eagerly awaited to see how the dragon settled his debts. He awaited the day to rise up with his King and cast down the fat pig from her pretender's throne.
He dodged an arrow when she scorned him. His wife, the former Johanna Westerling, remained fit and fierce after five children, much like Queen Alicent after her four, and Princess Helaena and her six. Rhaenyra started packing on the weight after the first, giving the realm all the more to delight in with each birth. Even his mistress kept the weight off after the births of their girls. Truly he lived a blessed life, and praised the gods for sparing him the porcine harlot he so foolishly pursued.
Every time he met the king-in-waiting, he left even more impressed by the young man. More than anything, Jason's personal conversations with Aegon left him surprised and in awe of his masterful use of rhetoric to stoke up animosity, loathing, and even hatred. He presented his arguments and claims with a furious passion, the man garbed in robes of reproach and woe, and by the end of a candle sticks life, those who listen clothed themselves the same, and then they prepared.
Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone will lead House Lannister to full satisfaction against their enemies, and the sanguine repayment of long held outstanding debts.
"~But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with~"
-Princess Helaena Targaryen of Dragonsreach-
The hall erupted into applause as the final notes of his guitar faded away. They didn't even need to fake it as 'Time in a Bottle' used a far more complex and novel melody than his usual fare. Not nearly as complex as songs using the lute or harp, but bridging the gap enough that the emotional and personal lyrics are not considered vulgar. In fact, something changed during the song, and the sympathetic quality rose greatly, her brother no longer inviting the audience to share the feelings with him, but instead guiding them through the experience supernaturally. By the end few women in the hall retained a dry eye, and even many men wept softly.
Helaena wiped her lids before her husband returned to his seat at the table, and after much acclaim from the family and their highest guests, she led him through the Blue Keep to their shared chambers, pulling him into a passionate embrace before they even crossed the threshold. Feeling emboldened by his public declaration of true love, she broached a topic she long held her tongue on.
"Jorah." she greeted her husband, who gazed down on her with a sudden realization that brought a bright smile to his face.
"Elia." he softly spoke and her heart dropped somewhere into her stomach and her wrath rose high and hot.
"Mother fu-
Chapter 18: The Great Tourney of Dragonsreach Part 6
So much for the magic of love. A part of me wanted to say Lythene just to be hurtful, but instead I chose to grab her wrist before she made a mistake in the moment that cost us both dearly. My character growth runneth over.
"Alyssa." I growled out, then began dragging her to the bed.
"No!" She shrieked and pulled out of my loose grip, "You will not try to fuck your way out of this!"
I've rarely seen this woman loose her composure, but right now Helaena's eyes looked wild and her breasts heaved as her female mind bounce around her skull. She looked fit to strangle me with the thick braided fall of hair she carried over her shoulder.
"Try?" I mused on the absurdity of the word, "Woman, please."
She'd been puddy in my hands back when I looked like the missing link between the First Men and the Brindled Men. Now I am the apex of masculine Valyrian beauty. The idea that a woman can hold a grudge and look at me at the same time is patently false. They are not made for fury over desire. Selfish, shortsighted. Useful.
"I can see the misogyny bouncing around that thick skull!" she yelled, still in womanly rage ready to destroy herself to get a lick in.
I respect that in nature, but for most including herself it is a delusion. This third life is neat, but if I die strapped to torture wrack or in bed smothered by great titties it matters not. I've died fulfilled twice already and this third life is just a journey for me, but her here with me... perhaps this changes things. I am not an island unto myself anymore.
I closed the gap and looked down on her, "Do you seek to make this harder for the both of us, woman? Once your body quivers and your mind hazes this will all be easier for me to maneuver us past."
"This is not something to 'maneuver past'!" she declared, foolishly, all problems are to be solved, or moved around, otherwise you are stuck with them, languishing, like losers.
What I would give to get on a boat with the boys and do some total war right now. Nothing like ninety days of slaughtering everything you can find to help give you the patience and perspective to sit in the pocket for these social issues. One might think its easier considering our shared circumstance, everyone knows their place in this relationship, but some how emotions manage to come about like thorns on the vine, and somehow I'm once again left to wonder 'Feelings, why do you feel so feel'.
Damn it.
"Do not make more of this than there is." I ordered her in a calm and reasonable tone, as if talking to a child about to throw itself off a cliff, "You will not like what you seek out of this."
Most of the time I hack people to death and feed them to fish when they piss me off. A wife is not to be hacked to death, but I understand the temptation.
"And what do you think I seek, oh great barbarian prince?" Helaena demanded with hands of hips, a power pose.
"Quarrel." I answered immediately.
"Why did you say her name?" Helaena burned her anger into the tone of her inquiry.
Oh woman, where for art thy wisdom.
"One would think by now that you'd know better than to ask of me what you truly do not wish to know." I glared down at her, then decided to give her exactly what she wants, "Let me remind you, who I am. She was the only woman I ever loved."
Helaena took it like a gut punch, her lips trembling and those large eyes tearing up. I can't remember if I ever saw Alyssa cry. Maybe in pain when her body readied to deliver our children. My magic was weaker then in certain aspects, growing in power as I accumulated more and more throughout my life.
Despite the pain she rallied quickly and stated, "Was."
"I killed her." I dropped in before she inflated herself on smugness, "And unless you want me to detail the horror of her final hour, then you will move on from this."
She didn't seem surprised by my admission, instead, thoughtfully lowered her gaze.
"I don't remember something like that on your armor." she stated with a frown.
"Hmmm…" I responded obliquely.
I'd not known anyone else knew the secret of the gilt steel, my past, my tale, my resume. Sometimes I don't even like looking at it myself. The central image on my breastplate, the end on the Hightower, left a bad taste in my mouth. So much work, even this third life as a prince felt in some ways like getting ripped off. The figure I see in the fire a mockery of what I should be, but am not. I confronted many facets of the multifarious esoteric evil in this world and destroyed them more thoroughly than any other hero possibly could. I labored longer and harder than Heracles and was denied my proper throne.
Never again. If the heavens don't want me, I'll live like a god on earth.
"She is the woman with the sun and spear in hand." I explained to my sister-wife.
"The bear man didn't kill the Martell woman." Helaena shook her head, "He killed the giant dog and the manticore that killed her."
"I knew he was coming." I informed her, "I could have stopped him, easily, not even an inconvenience. I beat him like a man fighting a child when we fought. I took his role away from him and made him feel what it was like to be normal in the face of a monster. I let him kill her, and collected the moral currency afterwards."
"What great love, Aegon." Helaena mocked, happy to have some traction for her attack, "If that's how you end things with a woman you love, I'm glad I caught fever before it became expedient to rid yourself of me."
"It was great love." I nodded in agreement, "I loved her enough to let her make her own choices, and to let her go. She didn't choose me. She didn't choose my protection, and thus became just another tool in my ascension."
"I hope it hurt." she hissed.
"It did." I informed her, "Far more than your death."
Her lips trembled once again after the turnabout.
"Did Njada's death at least mean something to you?" she asked, voice hitching and eyes already lightly leaking.
I took her face and head in my hands and looked deeply into her huge wet purple eyes, "Thank you. I'd forgotten her name."
"Oh you beast!" she cried, fat tears leaking down her face.
She thrust her face into my belly and wept. I held her as I eased down to sit on the bed. She wailed as I stroked her hair until she cried her last and slept. Leaving me to clean up all the snot and tears. Normally I have people for this, but for once I've done something I mind other people knowing about. Best they all think we had a wonderful evening.
I arose the next day retained and ready to assert dominance at the archery contest immediately following the breakfast feasting. My family took Helaena's absence in stride and we travelled together to the shooting range which rightly possessed far less seating than jousting stadium and melee arena. One might think competition shooting wouldn't have any morons loosing out of bounds, but morons abound, so the spectators remained all behind us.
The bow in my hand was carved from Balerion's bone by one of the few master bowyers capable of such in this world. Thankfully the beast left behind a great mountain of bones, for even with all the skill in the craft the man needed a few attempts to get the means and methods correct. The result of all that patience and patronage, the finest bow in the world, far finer than my old weirwood and horn bow, and that thing brought me many a victory.
It almost felt sinful drawing back the curved black arms of the weapon without my former power to align the trajectory with destiny, but my eyes are far keener than in my prior life, and factors such as distance and speed come naturally. I've never missed a shot in this life on a stationary target at any range my bow made capable, and with this dragon bone bow, capable of far outstripping even goldenhearts, the outcome of every archery contest is the same as it ever was, the lack of prescience not stopping me a bit from siphoning gold via my best sport. A man at least has a puncher's chance against me in the lists or the melee, but in archery, none shall ever overtake me.
I admired the skill of the man who took second place, managing a shot out to one hundred and fifty paces. Unfortunately, Lord Samwell Blackwood was not taking offers of patronage for his skill set, and I wouldn't have offered even if he did. Something about the Blackwoods made me think the Brackens have the right of it. They seem to always pick the right side of history, even if they often suffer for it. It reeks of low level greensight to me. It also smacked of incompetency, for despite always being the 'good guys' they never destroyed their hated rivals, making the Brackens even more appealing to me. Even in the face of magic and 'heroes' they soldier on, refusing to cede the field to the wretched tree worshipers. Their manly determination filled me with determination, and when a Bracken knight dared to ride against me later in the day I made sure to pack my full respect into my lance.
The thunderous crack of collision sent the man flying out of his saddle and his horse tumbled to the ground screaming. Fifteen hundred pounds of horse covered in steel and barded and tasseled in red, gold, and brown fell on its ass then tipped back, kicking its legs in erratically. Far from the horse lay the knight, still as death. The crowd silenced their cheers as the man failed to rise, or even move, and his squire rushed into the lane, unlocking his helmet and lifting it away.
"He lives!" he screamed as he confirmed the man still breathed, and a team of well instructed menials carefully moved the injured man onto a stretcher and carried him away to be treated for the damage gained in glorious competition with me.
Normally maesters see to the injured in these high society events, but I've received back the first fruit of a training and education program worked out with Oldtown. The Citadel took on a hundred acolytes under my patronage, and trained them in battlefield medicine. A simple two year program in which the applicants undergo a compressed version of a Maester's training to earn his links in healing, and the maesters are no frauds in the healing arts as an order despite the questionable competence of certain individual members who may or may not have made it all the way to Grand Maester.
Many applied for the opportunity presented, but only so many actually qualified. I put the healers who completed the coursework on retainer similar to my household knights, though not equal to them for knights are expected to maintain a small combat retinue. Without the gold, I'd be hard pressed to maintain my forces, but my lands are rich, and we've only just begun optimizing my income. Having a real healer in every hamlet and worksite in Dragonsreach capable of combating common injury, illness, and infection will pay for itself over time in a far more stable manner than my host of knights and soldiers. During my father's reign the latter are little more than excessively powerful law enforcement, and most lords outside the Dornish Marches and those in proximity to the Wall have let their combat capacity fade. Little need to spend 'wastefully' on warfighters in the peaceful Age of Dragons.
My grandfather spends influence ensuring that the realm knows I'm just a 'wasteful' young man obsessed with knights and chivalry. It blends well with my sister's rumor mill painting me as a tax happy tyrant, the paired propaganda gave me just enough grass to hide my growing serpentine form in. The realm hordes silver and silk while I horde steel, and soon enough I'll have the silver and silk too.
My sporting journey ended after bringing the Bracken knight within an inch of the Stranger. My second match of the day withdrew like a proper craven, sane man. With the wife missing out on the day - to many a ribald jest praising my prowess - I'm left to my own devices, and as oft the case during the down hours of big tourneys I've found myself entertaining my young cousins, sibling, and bastard nephews with tales of the many foreign lands I'd raided, invaded, and plundered in my last life. As usual they come with a score or so of children and a handful of adolescents, and even some adults, though usually the older crowd skips out on story time with Aegon. There is always that one exception whenever Baela and Rhaena are in the crowd. I get the feeling Corlys Velaryon smells me coming whenever he fixes me with his purple gaze in some attempt to intimidate me through intense focus, which most likely worked well on those who find the man intimidating. Despite that, game recognizes game and Corlys and I are awfully familiar for two people who only see each other a few times a year.
"Now Nefer is a big disappointment." I narrated from one of the final voyages of my last life, "The reputation for necromancy and sadism is all a big lie they peddle in an attempt to scare away the roving bands of homeless people that destroyed the rest of the Kingdom of N'ghai. Pathetic beat down people with little to take and less to offer. Their underground city is fun to explore for a day or so, built in ancient caverns carved out by a long gone river. Massive chambers linked by long tunnels. A few locations are open to the sky above, and long slender trees grow tall reaching up for that precious sunlight. Tiny little animals used to live in those gentle forests, but they've all long since been eaten." I paused, indicating an appropriate time for questions.
"How do homeless people destroy a kingdom?" asked one of my young cousins, somehow not particularly worldly despite her access to the man trying to burn a hole through my head with his eyes.
"It happens with startling regularity." I began the lecture, "You likely think of beggars, cripples, and orphans when you think of the homeless, but that is only because we live in a civil society. Just as we differ in Free Westeros from the evils of Slaver Essos in liberty, so too can civility differentiate peoples. There are many cultures in this world that reject the comforts and efforts of modernity, and instead choose to live their lives in primitive barbarism. In Westeros we have the Wildlings Beyond the Wall and the Hill Tribes and Mountain Clans in the Vale, as well as the vile treacherous Dornish whom merely mimic civility, but in their hearts are as rapacious and murderous as any dung covered glazed eyed brutes. All savages who reject and hate our beautiful order, and who spit on the authority of our King."
"If they disrespect our father, why don't we destroy them?" Daeron asked, the young man soon to become my squire so I best get to educating him quickly before his ignorance gets unsuitable for his age.
"It's our father's choice how he deals with those who do not pay him the proper obeisance." I educated the lad, "That said, we shouldn't have to live under the same sky as those filthy low down degenerate savages."
"Praise the King for his long-vision." Corlys snarled having found his opportunity to sink his verbal teeth in me, "For the world would be a far more empty and less interesting place if all thought as you do. Did not your own zorse, whom you love greatly, come to you as a gift from one of the 'bands of roving homeless people' you so deride?"
I turned my head and looked at the man, taking my time as if pondering the response, though I needed no time to ponder it, and after an appropriate time I answered, "Just because they're all worthless barbarians doesn't mean they don't have nice things to take from them, even if it's just the land they live on left fallow after dealt with rightly. Security is its own reward, everything else merely serendipity."
"Tell me, Prince Aegon." Corlys continued his attack, "As a man of such great martial prowess, with a dragon fierce at his side, there is little in the world that you fear, and you can say these people or those people are to be destroyed, and they shall be, but for the rest of us this is not the case, and we must live in the world as it is, not as we will it to be. What is the correct way to conduct ourselves, when we must abide?"
I smiled at the old man, who often threw little mind benders at me like this in our interactions since I threatened to kill him and his whole family in their home five years past. Water under the bridge between men like us.
"Such a fine question." I offered the man light praise then turned to my young audience, "The courageous answer is 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'. A method of conduct to promote a kinder world. Also a great way to die quickly in the world, and be laughed at afterwards for your naivety."
Chuckles rang out from my band of listeners and I continued, "So perhaps not courage, but another virtue should be looked too for the answer. Justice, perhaps?" my brother nodded his head along with a few other boys, many young men love justice, "The just answer is 'Do unto others as they do unto you'. A fair system to promote a fair world. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, even handed, but I say unto you now: Is that wise? An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, and only one in that exchange deserved to lose the eye, so is it truly fair, is it truly just? Perhaps it is, for we are men, not gods, and as Lord Velaryon so ably put it, 'we must live in the world as it is' not as it ought to be."
I leaned forward in my seat, and softened my tone while maintaining my volume as if to bring them all in on a secret, "Justice and Courage are fine virtues, but I love another above all others, can any of you guess it?"
"It's not temperance!" shouted Aemond from nearby, not among my audience, but merely in passing.
"Such betrayal!" I reeled back as if struck and held my breast while children laughed at my skilled mummery "From my own brother no less! What a spoilsport. Fine, I love prudence most of all virtues, and the prudent answer is: 'Do unto others before they do unto you'. That's how I cowed the filthy Dornish and the people of the Marches finally knew peace. I merely gave them a concentrated taste of their long protracted barbarity, and suddenly they discovered that they didn't like the taste of it all. In time they'll forget that taste, but that's fine. I'll handle it, because the real secret is:" I stage whispered this part, "I'm the biggest barbarian of them all."
I suddenly threw my hands up like raised bear claws and roared, "WHUGABUGA! WHUGABUGA! WHUGABUGA!"
And many small children squealed in delight or terror. Hard to differentiate at that age.
"So long, ya salty sea dog." I called my farewell to my story time assistant and made my exit into the larger ongoing feast.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If I did a second draft of Path, I'd have spent more time portraying Elia so that the audience understood better how alike she was to Alyssa, but simply came into his life at a time when he felt more open and safe, and thus entered his heart in a way Alyssa failed to despite being the better woman overall. Basically everything he loved about Elia was present in his first wife, just removed from the baggage, living literally in a land of sunshine and warmth as opposed to the cold darkness of the North. It was something planned but I failed to execute on it, getting down in the dumps midway through the story and just trying to soldier on, missing the beats I meant to hit in return for expediency.
You can support me and my family at
ko-fi.com/jmanm Like Quote ReplyReport Reactions:Zelaznog, Mortanius, Sargeras and 156 others
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can support me and my family at ko-fi.com/jmanm Like Quote ReplyReport Reactions:Zelaznog, Sargeras, gustyeagle and 196 others
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can support me and my family at
ko-fi.com/jmanm Like Quote ReplyReport Reactions:Hadrian810, Zelaznog, Mortanius and 181 others