The marble floor of the Curia of Pompey was cold against his cheek, but colder still was the realization of betrayal. Twenty-three times the daggers had found his flesh, each thrust a punctuation mark in the sentence of his death. Julius Caesar, Dictator of Rome, lay dying in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by the very senators he had pardoned, promoted, and befriended.
Pain radiated through his body with each ragged breath, but it was nothing compared to the agony of his final sight—Brutus, his adopted son, standing among the conspirators with bloodied dagger in hand. "Et tu, Brute?" he had whispered, the words tearing from his throat as his life's work crumbled around him.
The faces swam before him—Cassius, Casca, Decimus—all men whose careers he had advanced, whose fortunes he had secured. And now they had ensured that his dream of a unified Rome, of an empire that would bring order to chaos, would die with him in this senatorial chamber. He had crossed the Rubicon for this? He had conquered Gaul for this? He had reformed the calendar, restructured the government, and brought stability to a republic drowning in corruption—all for nothing?
Darkness began to creep at the edges of his vision, the voices of his assassins fading to distant murmurs. Caesar had always believed in the gods, or at least in their political utility, but as death approached, he found himself wondering what, if anything, came next. Elysium for the heroic? Tartarus for the damned? Or simply nothingness, the final reward for a life spent accumulating power and influence?
His consciousness flickered like a dying candle, memories flashing behind his closed eyes—crossing the Rubicon with his legion, the waters parting before him as he defied the Senate; conquering Gaul, his legions marching through forests and mountains, bringing civilization to barbarian tribes; Cleopatra's seductive smile as she unrolled herself from that carpet in Alexandria, the beginning of an alliance that would shake the Mediterranean; the crown of laurels placed upon his brow, a symbol of his power but also a target for those who envied him.
Each memory was both triumph and tragedy, for what was power without time to wield it? What was an empire without an emperor to guide it? He had planned so much—reforms to the Senate, public works projects, campaigns against Parthia to secure Rome's eastern borders. All of it now dust, scattered like his blood on the marble floor.
The pain began to recede, replaced by a strange numbness that spread through his limbs. His breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat slower. The last thing Julius Caesar heard was the sound of his own blood dripping onto the marble floor, each drop a reminder of the empire that might have been.
Then darkness claimed him completely, and the Dictator of Rome was no more.
Viserys Targaryen awoke with a gasp, his hands flying to his chest where the daggers had struck. No wounds marred his pale skin, only the faint scars of a boy who had never known the rigors of battle. The sensation was jarring—the phantom pain of twenty-three fatal wounds in a body that had clearly never been harmed.
Memories flooded his mind—two sets of them, overlapping and conflicting like competing armies on a battlefield. One belonged to Julius Caesar, conqueror of Gaul, dictator of Rome, lover of queens and killer of kings. The other belonged to Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, exiled prince of a fallen dynasty, known across the Free Cities as the "Beggar King."
"Brother? Are you well?" A soft voice broke through his confusion.
Caesar—no, Viserys—looked up to see a girl with silver hair and violet eyes hovering in the doorway. Daenerys. The memories of Viserys told him she was his sister, his property, his key to reclaiming a throne he'd never seen. perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, vulnerable and in need of protection.
"I'm fine," he managed, his voice rougher than he expected. "Just a bad dream."
As Daenerys approached, Caesar took stock of his surroundings. They were in a modest chamber in Pentos, the air thick with the scent of sea salt and spices. Through the window, he could see the towers of the Free City stretching toward the sky, their architecture unlike anything he had seen in Rome or its provinces.
The room itself was sparsely furnished—a simple bed, a wooden table, two chairs, and a chest for clothing. The quality of the furnishings suggested they were guests of someone wealthy, but the meagerness of their accommodations indicated their status was precarious at best.
"The Beggar King," he murmured, testing the title on his tongue. The Viserys in his memories bristled at the insult, but Caesar saw only truth. They had nothing but their names and each other.
"You called out in your sleep," Daenerys said, her violet eyes filled with concern. "Something about daggers and betrayal."
Caesar's mind raced. How much did she know? How much did the original Viserys share with his sister? "Just memories of our father's death," he lied smoothly, accessing Viserys's recollections. "Sometimes they come to me in dreams."
Daenerys nodded sympathetically, though there was something in her expression that suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. She had known her brother her entire life, and this version—calm, thoughtful, almost gentle—was someone new.
"Magister Mopatis requests our presence at dinner," she said, changing the subject. "He says he has news that might interest us."
Caesar nodded, though he had no memory of this Magister Mopatis. The Viserys in his head supplied the details—a wealthy merchant prince of Pentos who had taken them in after they fled King's Landing following Robert's Rebellion. A benefactor, or perhaps a puppet master pulling the strings of the exiled Targaryens.
"We will join him," Caesar replied, already analyzing the situation. "But first, tell me everything you know about our current situation. Everything."
Daenerys looked at him strangely but began to speak, and as she did, Caesar listened, his mind already working, already planning. The Beggar King was dead. Long live the Imperator.
Caesar allowed himself a thin smile.
"Men willingly believe what they wish."