"Some doors close forever, while others open in the most unexpected of places. "
— Varys the Spider, Master of Whisperers.
…
Year 283 AC. King's Landing. The Red Keep.
"So, this is how it stands. Who might be responsible? An unknown player, or merely a figure who has strayed from the path foretold?" Varys wondered to himself, tossing the letter he had just read into the fireplace and settling onto a softly cushioned chair.
A month had passed since Stannis Baratheon returned with the news that the last Targaryens had slipped from his grasp, shielded by the storm that broke upon Dragonstone. Robert Baratheon, newly ascended to the throne, was already in foul spirits; the failure of his younger brother did little to improve them. For his mishap, the middle Baratheon brother, instead of becoming the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, was made the Lord of Dragonstone. The title of Lord of Storm's End fell to the youngest of the antlered brothers, Renly.
The King's best friend, Eddard Stark, had not approved of Robert's callous joy at the deaths of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell's children. He had then departed for Dorne, on a quest, as the little birds reported, to find his sister. Truth be told, that journey had been passing strange, for only Stark and Reed had returned, though clearly more Northmen had set out for Dorne. Moreover, the Warden of the North had returned from his travels with the news that Lyanna, his sister and the new King's beloved, was dead. Along with this news, he brought back a baby, whom he named Jon Snow. Even Varys had been astonished to learn that the most honest lord in Westeros had claimed a bastard son.
Robert Baratheon was grief-stricken by the loss of his love, though this did not prevent him from continuing to wench and drink wine. And the new Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, had given the King's consent for the crowned stag to wed the golden lioness, Cersei Lannister. Thus, the newly returned Warden of the North, seeing his friend's state, who had not sobered since his victory, had departed for home with the rest of the Northmen.
And Varys, watching how Robert began his reign, found himself lamenting that his second plan had come to naught.
His initial intent had been merely to remove Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, from power, to stabilize a situation in the Seven Kingdoms that had been strained to the breaking point. Indeed, what stability could there be when a lunatic and a paranoiac sat upon the Iron Throne?
The Westerlands were growing stronger, and Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West, was deeply offended by his former friend.
The North, the Vale, and the Stormlands had formed a third pole of power and were already prepared to bind themselves to House Tully, the Lords Paramount of the Riverlands.
The Tourney at Harrenhal, and Aerys's subsequent removal, should have stifled the stench of trouble in its nascent stage. After all, Rhaegar Targaryen promised to be a wise, just, and strong king, exactly what was needed after his mad father.
But the King's arrival at the tourney had shaken up the board of all players considerably, forcing them, Varys included, to frantically adapt their plans to the new reality.
But the abduction of Lyanna Stark by the married Prince Rhaegar had been a shock even to an experienced intriguer like the Spider. Such a senseless act of folly marked the beginning of the end for any plan of peacefully settling the mounting problems in the Seven Kingdoms.
The Martells were gravely offended by the slight to the sister of the Prince of Dorne, as were all their vassals. This predictably led to the Targaryens losing the support of one of the kingdom's seven regions.
The execution of the Warden of the North and his heir, who had ridden to King's Landing to demand Lyanna Stark's return and the crown prince's punishment, put a final end to any possibility of a peaceful resolution.
The Baratheons, Starks, Tullies, and Arryns began calling their banners for vengeance and the overthrow of the mad king. The Martells and Lannisters chose to ignore the loyalists' calls to resist the rebels, instead taking a neutral stance.
All that remained to the Targaryens were the Crownlands and the Reach. The Tyrells had remained loyal to the dynasty that had granted them the title Lords Paramount of the Reach.
Baratheon shattered the Targaryen army at the Trident, personally slaying Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. The Lannisters, seeing Baratheon's victory and realizing they could no longer sit idle if they wanted a piece of the pie, took King's Landing by treachery. By the time the rebel army arrived, all was finished in the capital.
Aerys II, the Mad King, was slain by his own Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, who earned the bitter moniker of the Kingslayer. Elia Martell and her young son and daughter were brutally murdered by the Lannister knights, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. The Golden Lion himself, Tywin Lannister, met Robert Baratheon in the throne room and bent the knee, as did all the lords of the Westerlands.
It was then that Varys conceived his second plan: to support Baratheon on the throne. If the dragons had fallen, perhaps under the stag's rule, the kingdom might recover, and the common people might fare better? Not that the commonweal was Varys's primary goal, but it was certainly one of his chief ones.
But seeing that the court's power was already being divided between the lions and the falcons, the Northmen had returned beyond the Neck, and the most honorable Lord in Westeros, after quarreling with his friend, had not remained but ridden back home.
Watching the new king who, for weeks on end, did nothing but drink, shag whores, and ride to the hunt, Varys understood that this plan, too, was unlikely to succeed.
And so, when his loyal little birds brought word that the last Targaryens had slipped Stannis Baratheon's grasp and were bound for Pentos, a new, third plan began to ripen. Hiring a paid smuggler, Varys sent a letter to his old friend. Soon, the reply came. Illyrio was willing to participate in the Targaryen restoration. His friend, of course, had his own mercenary aims, but the Spider cared little for that. Mopatis was no worse than Jon Arryn, who had already entangled the whole of King's Landing in his web of loyalists. A strong, properly raised king, who remembered those who helped him, was far superior to a madman or a drunken debaucher.
It seemed, however, that a streak of bad luck had begun for Varys. The nascent intrigue was already threatened. The ship had failed to arrive in Pentos. The Master of Whisperers had begun to worry that the vessel was captured by pirates or swallowed by a storm. But no, after some time, the Iron Lady returned to Driftmark.
And now, his little birds reported that, for some reason, halfway through the voyage, the galley had changed its port of destination from Pentos to Tyrosh.
Well, then. It meant that someone in the prince's company possessed no small amount of wit or cunning. In any case, that only made things more interesting.
With these thoughts, Varys adjusted his silk robes, smiled softly, and took out a clean sheet of parchment.
It seemed the new game would be far more engaging than the last...
…
Year 283 AC. Essos. A Camp by the Sea.
"Still, I cannot fathom how a noble man can occupy himself with fishing," grumbled Lorik, sitting on a neighboring stone and sharpening his sword.
"Ser Lorik, and how can a lord or a knight occupy himself with hunting?" I asked mockingly, keeping an eye on my makeshift float.
"Well, it is," the knight mused, scratching his chin, "a tradition, and a sufficiently engrossing one at that."
"I fish with a rod. While I wait for the fish, I am perfectly able to ponder my plans. It is like hunting, but instead of an eager chase, there are measured thoughts."
"Hmm, I see. Thank you for the answer, my Prince." The warrior nodded gratefully and continued stropping his blade with the whetstone.
I, meanwhile, pondered the work already done and the tasks that lay ahead. We were currently halfway to Vantaris, a small town situated across from Lys. While Lys sits on an island and was once something of a resort for Valyrian nobility, Vantaris is a supplier of food and other goods located on the mainland. The town also serves as a staging post for merchants traveling the route from Volantis to Pentos, and onward to Westeros or Braavos.
The long days of travel were harder on me than I would have liked, though I suspect that was mostly due to my young age. We were traveling in two purchased longboats, hugging the coast. Fortunately, the wind was mostly favorable. We made our stops in the wilderness, which the soft, warm climate allowed, or, if luck smiled upon us, in coastal fishing villages.
My sister was handling the journey rather well, though she wept quite often. A few days ago, she had suffered from the colic, but thankfully the Maester was with us, and one of his powders helped Daenerys overcome her ailment.
Besides myself, Daenerys, and the Maester, we were also traveling with two wet nurses, Sersi and Lyra, and five knights.
Ser Willem Darry had been the Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep under my father. This hulking man had also taught my older brother how to use a spear and sword, mounted and afoot. According to the warriors accompanying me, and indeed, as per canon, Rhaegar was an excellent fighter, and had he not died, he might one day have matched such giants as Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne. Thus, I was pleased to have such a master in the warrior's arts.
In addition to the knightly sciences and the code, Darry also taught me the tactics and strategies of small and large military formations. This was very valuable, given my plans. Considering that the former Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep had commanded a thousand soldiers during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, I had much to learn from this man.
The remaining four knights were unremarkable. Middle-aged men, neither the best nor the worst at their trade, with fit physiques that were not lost on the only two women in our small company, and in good armor. Due to the hot climate, they had chosen to remove their plate, remaining only in mail. Ser Willem did not object. The worst we might encounter here were small bands of slavers and dishonest merchants resorting to robbery. They would pay little mind to a well-armed, clearly non-merchant company.
Seeing my float, made from an ordinary wine cork, dip, I jumped up from the stone and began to reel in my catch. I pulled in a small fish, looking something like a cross between a carp and a pike, unhooked it from the homemade barb, and tossed it onto the grass next to my previous catch.
As for my progress in studies, it was nothing short of miraculous. The local lore and Valyrian came to me quite easily. This was hardly surprising, as a man from the twenty-first century spent eleven years on schooling alone, and the knowledge taught there was more complex than the Maester's lessons. It was a familiar routine.
My sword practice, however, brought me back to earth somewhat. No, my progress was such that I astonished myself, not in the physical sense, though my childish plumpness had faded, but in learning various feints and in our training duels.
The root of this lay in the highly suspicious changes I had felt in myself since my transmigration. To begin with, my eyes, previously a little dull and tinged with blue, now possessed a brightly pronounced violet color. My hair, which had been somewhat lackluster and reddish, though previously white, now took on the color of platinum. My skin, which once had moles, small scars, and a light tan, was now milky white. And so it was with everything. It was as if before, I had possessed Valyrian blood, but corrupted by three centuries of intermarriage with non-Valyrians. Now, I had the appearance one could title: "The True Valyrian Aristocrat."
The changes were not only external but deeper. My body felt twenty percent stronger. Acquiring battle reflexes and learning various techniques became much easier than in my past life and the beginning of this one. What's more, even my memory worked far better. If before I couldn't even recall who Willem Darry was, now I knew for certain that he was the caretaker of the exiled Targaryen children and died of a fever when Daenerys was about five years old.
And what of this animal-like intuition and sense of danger? In a sparring match, I literally feel when and which move to execute, from which direction a new blow will come—be it a blade, a foot, or a hand. Just a few days ago, I even asked one of the knights to throw small pebbles at me throughout the day. And I could feel it! The spot where the non-painful but irritating blow would land soon literally gave off a cold sensation! Even when a stone was flying at my back and I couldn't possibly see it, I still managed to dodge.
Naturally, my mentor, as a former master-at-arms to the King and a war veteran, noticed my oddities. But Willem asked no questions. He simply analyzed all the advantages of my abilities aloud and threw himself into training me as a warrior and commander with renewed zeal. I suspect this man, not old by any measure, has decided that his current pupil will either become the greatest warrior in the world or die trying.
Incidentally, I was developing both my hands. Recalling the story of Jaime Lannister, one of the best swords in Westeros, and how utterly helpless he became after losing his right hand, I decided to take precautions. My mentor, however, interpreted my efforts in his own way, and now I am training to be a warrior who wields two swords at once.
Ser Darry told me he had often watched and sparred with Arthur Dayne, and the Sword of the Morning himself had explained the essence of fighting with two hands. So, I hope that when I grow up, I can match the mastery of the Seven Kingdoms' foremost blades. If not through raw talent, then certainly through sheer hard work and my premonition of danger.
…
Year 283 AC. Essos. The Free City of Lys. A Leased Estate.
We arrived in Lys a full week late. The delay occurred because one of the maidservants broke her leg—she had slipped on a wet stone while stepping out to bathe in the sea. Thankfully, Maester Aemon acted swiftly and applied a splint. But while we waited for the servant to feel even slightly better, we lost a couple of days, which was not critical in principle. I felt sorry for the girl; when the bone healed, she would most likely have a slight limp.
Also, before presenting ourselves to the public, I made a difficult decision. All the dragon symbolism was burned and buried. We kept only the jewelry, and even that was hidden at the bottom of our chests.
My beautiful silver hair was shorn, leaving only a short bristly cut, and even that was dyed with charcoal dust mixed with oil. The temporary dye didn't last three days, but in that time we managed to buy quality dye in the city and permanently strip my hair of its noble Valyrian color.
All five knights got rid of their cloaks bearing the Targaryen colors. Meanwhile, Maester Aemon, a man of advanced age, was dressed in Darry's formal attire.
Why all this? Concealment.
Now, I was no longer a fugitive Prince of House Targaryen, but the son of a minor lord. Aemon himself became a loyalist of the Targaryens, having fled Westeros, with a retinue of his five knights and a pair of maidservants. By the legend, Daenerys was the daughter of one of the knights—a stroke of luck, as the man was from Dragonstone and possessed a Valyrian appearance, like many inhabitants of that area.
There were many such people who had fled their homelands after the Baratheon victory. They usually banded together into mercenary companies if they lacked coin, or became merchants if they possessed enough capital.
Disgraced nobles and knights of the Seven Kingdoms often fled to Essos. This, incidentally, is how the legendary Golden Company, the Second Sons, and other, lesser-known companies came to be.
An interesting fact: the Golden Company was founded more than a hundred years ago by Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel, one of King Aegon the Unworthy's bastards. And the Second Sons included such personalities as Harwyn Hoare, who would later conquer the Iron Islands and the Riverlands. It was his descendant who built the greatest castle in Westeros, Harrenhal, which Aegon the Conqueror later burned while mounted on Balerion the Black Dread. This four-hundred-year-old mercenary company also included Aerion Targaryen, son of King Maekar; Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf; and in the future, Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper.
Willem Darry rattled off all this information to me, praising my idea of a disguise. I sat there, open-mouthed, listening. For me, as a historian, it was all utterly bizarre. Mercenary companies that had existed for centuries! On Earth, royal dynasties changed more often! This is to say nothing of Houses like Stark, a noble house that has existed for eight thousand years! For comparison, the oldest known civilization on Earth, the Mesopotamian one, existed about five thousand years ago. And despite all this, this world is still in the Middle Ages. It was simply incomprehensible!
Returning to our arrival in Lys, I can say that everything went as well as could be hoped. The harbor guards were not at all surprised to learn we were noble refugees who possessed ringing coin. Upon receiving a few silver coins, they happily shared the information that in the last month alone, about three minor lords and a couple of hundred knights had arrived in the city. They also pointed us to where we could lease a respectable estate with all amenities.
Initially, Willem, my mentor and the head of our small band, was eager to contact our countrymen, but I was categorically against it. We cannot be entirely sure that these people are loyal to the Targaryens and will not send word to their true masters—Varys, the Lannisters, the Arryns, or the Magisters of the Free Cities—it makes no difference. I will not risk the lives of my sister and my subordinates. We have all the necessary resources to live in Lys for several years, grow stronger, and finalize the plan for the restoration of the Targaryen dynasty.
Why am I so desperate to seat my arse upon the iron stool? After pondering it, I came to the conclusion that there are several reasons. Initially, I was concerned only with my own survival, and I considered the only correct option to be the one where I became King and killed all my detractors, or won them over to my side, whichever worked. But I realized I could simply hide and live a perfectly acceptable life as a rich man. The Master of Whisperers and other schemers have eyes everywhere in the Free Cities? Then I could simply move further east, to the Empire of Yi Ti, their local equivalent of China. I do not believe that with plenty of coin and loyal swords, I would fail to find a home for myself and my future children there.
So why do I plan to reclaim the Iron Throne? It seems that when I absorbed all the memories of the former Viserys, he did influence me. More accurately, not so much influence as his idée fixe—to reclaim what belonged to his ancestors—was profoundly strong, and it passed down to me, albeit weakened.
And there are plenty of other reasons. Starting with the fact that the War of the Five Kings will take too many lives, both common and noble, and my desire to make it less bloody. Ending with the malevolent snowmen beyond the Wall who want to turn all Seven Kingdoms into a North Pole with blackjack and zombies.
And as the cherry on top, there's the fact that I ended up here at all. If a historian from Earth who fought in the war for a couple of years found himself in the world of Ice and Fire, it must have been for someone's purpose. I doubt it was R'hllor, since his tactic is to find a few strong individuals, call them the chosen Azor Ahai, and send them to battle against a rival's emissary. I won't even mention the Others and their blue henchman—I woke up in the body of a living person, not a dead one.
Who else could pull off this transmigration trick? The old gods? Then why am I not a Northman? Besides, their emissary, Brynden Rivers, the Targaryen bastard known as the Bloodraven, would have sent me a dream-message if that were the case.
I also recall mentions in the lore of figures like the Black Goat, a demon similar to R'hllor, and the Great Stallion of the Dothraki. But those aren't quite right, either. Even if they exist, I doubt they'd bother with a Targaryen vessel for possession. Who, then, would have a purpose? Perhaps only the gods of Valyria... but I can recall very little about them, even with my new, absolute memory.
That's strange, too. Someone must be responsible for all the improvements that have happened to my body. And that someone specifically amplified the Valyrian blood in me and granted me an animal premonition of danger and a stunning sense for combat...
But what do I actually know about the gods my silver-haired ancestors worshipped? Hmm. Well, Aegon the Conqueror's dragons were named in their honor: Vhagar, Balerion, and Meraxes. I also recall that there were fourteen gods in total, most likely corresponding to the fourteen volcanoes girdling the Valyrian Peninsula, known as the Fourteen Flames. And that's essentially all.
In my past life, I frankly did not care which gods the ancestors of one of the main characters in the show worshipped. In this life, no one told Viserys about the Valyrian gods. After conquering Westeros, the Targaryens began to profess the dominant religion of their new home, the Faith of the Seven, or something like that.
That's not much to go on. But I think in the old resort city of the Valyrian Freehold, now the Free City of Lys, I can find a book about the dragonriders' religion.
"Maester Aemon," I called to the man, entering the ground-floor dining room and finding the scholar at his supper.
"Yes, my Prince?" The Maester immediately stood from the table and bowed respectfully, looking at me with a question in his eyes.
"After supper, we will walk to the bookshop. I need to acquire a detailed map of Westeros and Essos."
"As you wish, my Lord," the obedient graduate of the Citadel replied.
Well, it was time to get to work...