"That's how all the great houses started, isn't it? With some vicious bastard who was good at killing people. Kill a few hundred, they make you a Lord. Kill a few thousand, they make you a King. And then your shit-eating grandchildren destroy the family with their sheer shite."
— Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.
…
283rd Year After Aegon's Conquest.
The Narrow Sea. Galley 'Iron Lady.'
Sea. One word, yet how many meanings does it hold? If I'd heard that word only a week ago, my imagination would have quickly conjured up a golden beach, calm surf, the cries of gulls, and a cool can of beer in my hand.
Now, the word "sea" inspires nothing in me but a slight sense of revulsion. Why? It all comes down to the stink and the constant rolling.
For a week now, all I've seen is the deck of a wooden galley, sailors reeking of sweat, and a dozen knights whose smell is even worse, thanks to their iron plate armor baking under the sun. And this unrelenting pitching and rolling? It's simply grim.
"Good morn, Your Highness." Glancing up at the voice, I saw a man of about thirty-five, smiling into his short beard.
"Good morn, Ser Willem," I replied, nodding in greeting to the knight before leaning back against the ship's rail, gazing at the horizon.
"I see you're much improved, since this is the first time in five days you've been out on deck," my bodyguard for the day said affably.
"Aye, since that fateful day, I do feel much better, thanks be to the Seven," I smiled confidently.
It was better if Ser Willem believed his Prince was genuinely recovering.
Looking sideways at the warrior standing beside me, I sighed wearily. The mail shone in the rays of the rising sun. The knight's right hand rested on the pommel of his hand-and-a-half sword, and his dark green cloak swayed rhythmically with the movement of the deck. A model warrior, a loyal knight, and a decent conversationalist.
There was only one problem.
He was a damned medieval knight! On a genuine wooden galley. Where shouts and arguments from sailors, with daggers, axes, and small boarding sabres hanging from their belts, echoed here and there. And we were speaking in impeccable English, which I had known, sure, but not at a conversational level!
And I, whom all the locals knew as none other than Viserys Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and so on down the list! But I'm not him! I'm just a history teacher, Marcus of the House Rodriguez!
"My Prince, I must remind you that our lesson will begin soon, so let's return to the cabin where I'll help you don your protective gear," Willem's voice interrupted my train of thought.
"Yes, of course," I agreed.
Ah, back to getting hit on the arms with a wooden sword, I lamented, walking towards my cabin.
…
Sitting down wearily on the bed, I winced at the ache in my side. Today, my bodyguard and fencing instructor had been harsher than on the first days of lessons. It wasn't surprising, though. Viserys, or rather, me now, was eight years old. It was too early for strenuous physical exercise, but spending all day reading books or watching Daenerys, who was barely a month old and drooling, was simply unbearable.
No, I diligently studied everything taught by the Maester of Dragonstone, who had sailed with his Lord's children. History, etiquette, rhetoric, geography, natural sciences, and both High and Low Valyrian. But even if I was a teacher three times over in my past life, sitting with books all day was beyond my capacity. Besides, it would look suspicious. No one knew that the mind of an adult, thirty-year-old man now resided in the place of an eight-year-old boy.
The sword lessons were going well enough; at least I could now perform a couple of classic stances from the Seven Kingdoms' fencing school. Yes, in my past life, I was involved in historical reenactment for the last couple of years. But most of the time at conventions, I was just drinking good craft beer and debating whether a Roman legion or a Swiss pike block was better. So, my experience in the art of killing one's neighbor with a sharp piece of metal was frankly zero. I was firmly determined to correct this serious oversight.
Yes, I'm a Prince of the Targaryen Dynasty, and it might seem like I shouldn't have to exert myself; after all, my business as a ruler is to sit in a high castle and command fighting men like Ser Willem. But there's a catch. I have about ten such fighting men. There are also a couple of wet nurses tending to my little sister, and a few chests of gold and silver. That's all. Because I am now a Prince in Exile, not the Crown Prince of a kingdom spanning an entire continent.
In truth, for the first couple of days of my arrival here, I was in a daze. I'd gone to sleep in my cozy bachelor apartment and woke up to the rocking and the shouts of sailors on the deck. Fortunately, Viserys's memory was intact. I hadn't acquired the former host's attachments to specific people, which was wonderful. I didn't want to feel sorrow or love for a mad father. But I did gain knowledge of the local language. As well as how my predecessor behaved toward others.
Viserys had been an extremely pampered child who was allowed practically everything. So, his personality during the canonical events, where he acted toward Daenerys like a deeply unbalanced person, wasn't surprising. Though, what can one expect from a copy of Joffrey? Only instead of "I am the King!" my predecessor loved to say, "I am the Dragon!"
Since pretending to be a spoiled, hysterical brat was beyond my power, I decided to use the apathetic state I'd been in for a couple of days to my advantage. Namely, to spin everyone a tale that their Prince, upon hearing the news of his father, nephew, niece, and mother's deaths, had suffered a nervous breakdown, after which he had mentally matured. Not the best plan, but I don't find myself transmigrating into eight-year-old princes every day.
I had a plan for life: Reclaim the Iron Throne. No, I didn't suddenly awaken dormant ambitions, nor did a message pop up before my eyes declaring I was chosen by the System to conquer this world and build a harem of beautiful maidens, nor did I hear suspicious voices commanding me to save a dying great lineage. I am simply a sane and mature enough man to understand a simple truth: Victory or Death.
I'm already on the board called the Game of Thrones. And that can't be changed. And in a game where the stakes are a house's rise or fall, there is no concept of "leaving the game early." Unless you're a corpse, of course.
Yes, upon arriving in Essos, I could try to disappear. It is an entire continent, after all. I have money, weapons, and knights. Why not start over? But there are a few caveats. I am a fugitive representative of the ruling dynasty. I will be very closely watched. Lord Varys's Little Birds, servants of the Free Cities' masters, and who knows how many other specialists might be keeping an eye on a figure like me?
Yes, a figure, not a player. The fact is, all I have is a dozen warriors, a couple of serving women, and a little sister. Oh, and a few chests of coins. But I'm not at all certain of these people's loyalty. After all, by the start of the canon, roughly thirteen years from now, all Viserys and Daenerys had was their clothes, a sword, and a little silver.
Where did the riches now stored in my cabin and those brave knights who followed their lord to another continent disappear to? I have the same question. The money could have been spent; I had no doubt of the ineptitude of the man dubbed the Beggar King. The people could have been killed; in her dialogues with Daenerys, her brother often spoke of assassins pursuing them. But the problem is, I have no precise information. Perhaps these warriors truly fell to an assassin's cowardly dagger, or perhaps those very knights simply divided the gold amongst themselves and kicked the last Targaryens out.
So now, beneath my doublet, I always carry a small pouch of gold and a tiny knife. I don't think I could even scratch an adult warrior at this age, but having some kind of weapon for an unforeseen event is better than having none.
Taking off all my clothes and pulling on a nightshirt, I lay down on the bed.
Well. I think I should once more consider my immediate next steps in this new world, full of intrigue, wars, and betrayals.
In the near future, about two weeks from now, our ship will arrive in Tyrosh, where it will leave us and sail back to Driftmark, the domain of House Velaryon. It was unpleasant news for me that five of the ten knights would be sailing back to Westeros.
Originally, we were supposed to sail to Pentos, and then, hiring a new ship, travel to Braavos. But I managed to convince Ser Willem Darry that this was a bad idea. The experienced knight wasn't entirely convinced that the reason for changing the route was the fear that the Free City of Pentos had the most contact with Westeros and assassins could be sent for us. But he did order the course to be changed.
In truth, I feared the abstract assassins less, after all, Viserys and Daenerys somehow survived until the events of the canon. So, maybe no assassins were sent at all. But I seriously feared a certain cheese-monger, Illyrio Mopatis. The old friend of the King's Landing Master of Whisperers was, if not already a Magister, certainly one of the city's most influential men. By abruptly changing the route, arriving in Tyrosh, and not lingering there long before heading to Lys, it might just help us disappear for a while.
Why this specific route? I chose Tyrosh because it is the closest city to Westeros, besides Pentos. And from there, it won't be hard to transfer to the continent. Then, by following the coast, from one fishing settlement to the next, one can reach Vantaris, a small town located on the mainland directly opposite Lys. Boarding a ship there and reaching the city, founded on an island during the time of Valyria, in a couple of days won't be a problem.
And it is in Lys that I plan to settle for a long time. At least until my sister is five years old. Small children handle travel too poorly, especially in medieval times. And Lys is a good city for the start of my gradual rise. The city has plenty of people with Valyrian features, both among the slaves and the free inhabitants. This will help my sister and me not stand out too much in a crowd. Five fighters will be enough to get safely to the city famed for its poisons, wine, and prostitutes. And there, I can buy a dozen Unsullied to reinforce my bodyguard detail. Yes, unlike the knights, the eunuchs are unlikely to betray me. Isn't there a reason they are called the most loyal and best warriors of Essos?
I'll look for promising, young and not-so-young talent, because as is well known, those who don't have their own team are unlikely to rise high. Cadres decide everything, as one of the rulers of my now former homeland once said.
I'm not sure I want to repeat Daenerys's trick—acquiring an army of Unsullied by seizing Astapor, followed by Meereen and Yunkai. The move itself is good, but completely unviable without dragons and a core group of personally loyal warriors and administrators.
And while I can train the administrators myself—though it will be difficult since I've never participated in events like: "Having five fighters and a couple of chests of money, prepare an army in thirteen years that can conquer a continent"—it's manageable. But where to get dragons and a well-disciplined military force, I have no idea. Why not just hire sellswords? That's certainly an option.
But as a historian, I can confidently state that waging a war of conquest at the head of an army of soldiers of fortune is a doomed venture. They are easily bought off; they are loyal only as long as I pay them more than my enemies. And the worst part is that all sellswords love to plunder, rape, and kill. The same applies to the Dothraki with their nomadic ideology.
After such troops, who know nothing of discipline or good relations with the civilian population, only ashes will remain of the cities and villages. And I will need many resources to conquer Westeros. So, no, I need my own troops with iron discipline.
With dragons and magic, the problem is the same. I could rely on Daenerys's method—anoint dragon eggs with my blood, sacrifice a dozen or so Dothraki, and walk into a large pyre. Fortunately, unlike the canonical Viserys, I am not afraid of fire. Holding my hand in the flame of a torch, I felt nothing but a pleasant warmth, which is encouraging. But again, several "buts" arise.
Where to get dragon eggs? The only event I know from the show where they can be acquired is the wedding of Daenerys and Khal Drogo. They will be gifted by Illyrio Mopatis, a friend of Varys, the eunuch sitting in King's Landing and working as the Seven Kingdoms' chief spy. But I cannot hand over that lovely bundle of joy, and my only relative, to some savage, can I?
Yes, there is also Jon Snow, aka "the boy who knows nothing," who supposedly has an even greater claim to the throne than I do, as he is the true son of my elder brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
But here's the question: Which Targaryen has a better claim to the Iron Throne? The one who possesses dragons, legions, and has captured Slaver's Bay (albeit only in his wet dreams for now). Or a man with Stark features, raised as the bastard of the Warden of the North, whose only evidence is papers from the Citadel that no one knows about and which will be found only by, what a coincidence, his best friend Samwell Tarly?
No, I believe that Jon is indeed Viserys's and Daenerys's nephew, but I'm not particularly afraid of it. The guy has spent his entire life striving only to find family and friends, and he only took up the burden of power out of necessity. I think he'd gladly renounce his claims to the Iron Stool if I, as a dragonlord on a black dragon, descended from the heavens, declared him my long-lost kin, and all that rosy nonsense, finally inviting him to join my team.
Moreover, I genuinely plan to acknowledge him as kin and offer peace, friendship, and a place as one of my riders, because Jon is a good man, an excellent warrior, and a decent leader. And he is one of my favorite Game of Thrones characters, so why not?
With these thoughts, I finally drifted off to sleep.
…
Somewhere outside of time and space.
"Did you r-really decide to go thr-rough with your mad plan after all?" a man's voice echoed in the darkness.
"Yes, brother, and you know why," a commanding and slightly arrogant bass replied, radiating an unearthly cold.
"He is not Valyr-r-rian!" roared the one called brother in response, and a scarlet flame flared and immediately extinguished in the darkness, casting three terrifying shadows upon the stone walls and floor.
"I have amplified the Valyrian blood in him and his sister as much as I could. They will be equal in magical strength to the ancient blood mages and fire-wielders," a melodic girl's voice interjected, interrupting the argument between the two brothers.
"What is the flesh to me if he is merely an Otherworlder who has taken the body of one of the last Targaryens! A r-race that was not the str-rongest even before the pr-rocursed Doom of Valyr-ria!" a furious, growling reply thundered, and a huge pair of scarlet eyes with a vertical pupil ignited in the darkness.
"In any scenario, whether R'hllor triumphs or the Other triumphs, the last dragons will fall, as will their last riders. Our rivals have no reason to surrender a part of their flock to us, who are almost forgotten and stripped of our power, when they can take everything for themselves," the other brother remained calm in contrast to the first's wrath, and violet eyes, no smaller than the scarlet ones, lit up in the darkness.
"And after the Valyrians, we will fall too; it is inevitable," the sister picked up. "Only three of us remain, all the others have already fallen into slumber. And if nothing is done, it won't matter who wins. Men, and along with them that fiery demon with the rotten stumps. Or the Night King, and along with him, the Other. We will be forgotten. Our creations, the dragons, will die out. And all that will remain of the people who created Arrax are traders, slaves, and whores." The female voice ended, nearly breaking into a growl.
Flame—black, scarlet, and green—flared along the outline of the colossal cave, and in it appeared the monstrosities that were once the mighty gods of Planetos.
Black as the abyss of space itself, covered in matte scales, a dragon gazed phlegmatically at its brother and sister. And only in the depths of its eyes was all the sorrow it felt hidden. Balerion.
Red, covered in spikes, and baring its maw, one slightly crouched, as if about to pounce on its brother. Although everyone knew that wasn't true. Vhagar.
And the last, green and graceful, like a titanic statue carved by the world's most skillful sculptor. Tessarion.
"We at least had some chances before; now both you, brother, and you, sister, have lost your last strength! Only scraps remain to last another thirty years, and then that's it! The end!" the somewhat calmed Vhagar grumbled.
"What is this drop of water in the desert to me? If it succeeds, the sands will once again become an ocean of former power. If not, so be it. There is no need to prolong the agony," Balerion replied.
"Moreover, my strength is enough for one Dragon Dream for our chosen one," Tessarion purred mysteriously.
"Ho! So your plan is not just to insert one lost soul into the place of a Targaryen whelp?" the red one asked with interest, tilting his snout.
"Hah-hah, of course, my hot-tempered brother, did you doubt the goddess of prophecy and healing, as well as the god of death and the afterlife?" the emerald reptile laughed melodiously.
"However, we will need your help, brother. You are, after all, the god of war," Balerion conceded, narrowing his violet eyes.
"I am listening closely…" Vhagar leaned forward.
Humans aren't the only ones who know how to play the game of thrones, thought the three ancient deities, discussing the plan for the Return of Former Glory.