Turns out, most kids don't walk or talk until they're two years old. But me? Hell no. I decided to skip that lame phase because the longer I had to be treated like a drooling toy, with my mom and everyone else making those annoying "coo-coo" noises in my face, the closer I got to wanting to off myself.
Yeah, try killing yourself when you can't even crawl. Good luck with that.
Fuck this new life and whatever stupid horseshit it rode in on.
Besides the failed crawling-and-walking attempts, two things kept me from losing my mind completely.
First, I snagged a bit of intel about where the hell I was—Starfall Castle in Dorne, right at the mouth of the Bystrovodnaya River. Fancy name for a place that felt more like a medieval prison. Though, most of what I got was dumb baby talk, kisses, and nauseating lovey-dovey crap.
Second, I obsessively tried to catch every scrap of gossip about Robert's rebellion.
Assuming my pathetic existence didn't rewrite history, the war was about to kick off. No clue exactly when, but I knew Ned and Robert were in the Vale when shit hit the fan, so it'd take months before they dragged their asses home to raise their banners.
What really twisted the knife was that my grandpa, Lord Beric Dane, had only left a week ago with his entourage.
I'd basically binge-read the books and rewatched the show (though the later seasons were a goddamn drag), but none of that gave me exact dates. So, I had to piece together info from whispers and scraps.
When grandpa took off, he brought along two uncles—Albert, the heir, and Aldrick—to join the Dornish army for the king.
But from the gossip floating around, Doran Martell wasn't exactly rushing to gather the banners.
My family drama was a nightmare. Aunt Roslin was knocked up by Albert. Oldest uncle Erthur—the same one who sent that letter at my birth—had gone quiet with Rhaegar, the guy who basically lit the fuse by running off (if that letter was legit) with Lyanna Stark.
And that's where I personally lost the plot.
Lyanna Stark was my dad Brandon's sister. My dad and grandpa (Lord Rickard Stark) were killed by King Aerys Targaryen. Then Aerys wanted the heads of my uncle Eddard and Robert Baratheon.
Robert was supposed to marry Lyanna, both under Jon Arryn's care, and none of them wanted to die, or kill each other. Hence the war brewing just now.
With nothing better to do, I focused on two goals in my miserable baby existence: learn to walk and talk before turning two.
Walking sucked because every time I crawled more than a few steps, someone swooped in—Mom, Grandma, or my nannies Myra and Willa—to scoop me up.
And Aunt Adria wouldn't shut up about wanting to hold me, driving me nuts.
It pissed me off that I remembered every damn moment from my past life and this one—though these new memories didn't hit me emotionally like the old ones did. They just made me want to scream more.
Sure, these people were family or just doing their damn jobs, but I hated being treated like a helpless baby.
One day, I heard the door creak open and tried to look—hard, since my crib had high sides to keep me from falling out once I could stand.
Smart if you're a normal baby exploring your world, but for me? A goddamn prison cell.
"Good morning, baby. How're we feeling today?" Myra chirped, walking over.
I shot her a fierce look—or tried to—as she lifted me up, pressing me against her ridiculous breasts and running a hand over my nose.
I tried brushing it off, but my baby body was too slow. She just smiled wider, thinking I was playing.
"Cheerful, as always. You're smart," she cooed, rocking me gently.
"Fuck, stop treating me like this!" All that came out were gurgles and baby noises, which only made her smile more.
"Hmm. Hungry, baby?" she asked, unbuttoning her dress while holding me.
I closed my eyes and started chanting my new mantra:
You're doing this to survive. You're doing this to survive.
Fast-forward six moons—local word for months—and I'm still barely talking, but at least I'm inching toward my goal of walking fifty steps alone.
I tried whenever I could, though I hadn't managed more than twenty steps yet.
It took weeks before Mom or the babysitters noticed I was actually trying.
They kept picking me up all the damn time, even when I fought to push them away.
Then Mom finally got the hint and left me be. Still, someone was always watching—today, it was Myra.
On step thirty-three, I lost balance—leg gave out—and bam! My ass hit the floor.
"Oh, are you okay?" Myra chirped, scooping me up off the soft carpet.
I said nothing—sick of my own baby babble—but stared at her instead. Naturally, she just smiled.