Staff is working to deal with the problem of synonymous tags. See here for more information and to suggest tag mergers. NSFW Creative Writing[NSFW] Euronmaxxing for fun and profit. Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Eldritch [Aegon II SI, Inspired Inventor] Thread starterVictor-Figueiredo Start dateJun 17, 2026 Tagsa song of ice and fire aegon/helaena aegon/rhaenyra alicent is just for hugs asoiaf based on the books no show crack treated semi-seriously definitely evil protagonist eldritch horror and stuff eventual incest everyone kinda sucks evil protagonist fire & blood hotd house targaryen house targaryen is a mess incest is wincest...???? insane protag inspired inventor magic mommy incest only in omakes self insert some minor show elements for flavor ultraviolence yandere protagonistCreatedJun 17, 2026StatusIncompleteWatchers2,364Recent readers3,977Threadmarks29Aegon Targaryen became the most powerful and feared king in the Known World. But he wasn't always that way. How did Viserys' second child acquire his terrifying knowledge of the formless shapes behind the World?Threadmarks Index ExtrasStatistics (20 threadmarks, 75k words)ThreadmarksReader mode RSS NewPrologue - Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies? Not Really. Probably.Words 4.5kJun 17, 2026NewChapter 1 - BargainsWords 5.2kJun 18, 2026NewChapter 17 - E̶n̶v̶y̶ BitternessWords 4kTuesday at 1:24 AMNewChapter 18 - GodsWords 6.2kYesterday at 3:06 AMNewChapter 19 - LoveWords 3.9kYesterday at 10:10 PM1…47 NextJump to newIgnoreWatchThread ToolsThreadmarksIndexExtrasReader modeThreadmarks Prologue - Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies? Not Really. Probably. New Threadmarks Victor-FigueiredoNot too sore, are you?Jun 17, 2026NewAdd bookmark#1The first sensation of this strange new life of mine was pain. Not exactly the sharp, immediate agony of a burn, nor the localized pain of a strained muscle, but something deeper and more penetrating, as if I had somehow managed to wound my soul. Considering the circumstances, that is quite likely.
When I awoke, with my new (and admittedly very handsome) face squashed in the dark sands of Dragonstone, I admit I remained motionless for quite some time. The darkness behind my eyelids was strangely comforting. It demanded nothing of me. There was no need for complex thoughts, nor for memories or any true understanding of my situation. Just sweet oblivion. I know it's strange to say such a thing, but that... comfort was precisely what brought me rudely back to my (new) reality. Seriously, I say this as someone who has already died once: never trust sensations like that. Well, to be honest, the tide rising nearby and washing my bruised backside with saltwater and sand also helped a little in my awakening.
I turned my back and opened my eyes. Above me stretched a sky filled with bright, irregular, and intelligent stars, and a pale moonlight, vaster and closer than would be acceptable to a sane mind... A sky that, in a way, seemed attentive in a manner that, if I had enough strength in my arms, would probably make me tear out and eat my own eyes Ignore it, Ignore it, Ignore it, Ignore it now. I closed my eyes again. Okay, lets try again. When I opened my eyes again, the only discomfort was the salt and sand in them, something that really hurts like hell, but in such a mundane way that I don't really feel like screaming anymore. Miss me with that Eldritch bullshit, fuck Lovecraft and his black cat too.
With my mind now focused on more trivial matters, I proceeded to wipe the sand from my eyes (I had to use seawater. Not fun at all) and mentally take stock of my body parts. Two very short arms, two very short legs, no missing fingers. In short, whole. And really small. Because, apparently, reincarnation (transmigration? Who knows how that shit works?) is a real thing. Oh well, okay. Wonderful, even. I mean, death isn't so bad, I guess, but being alive is great. Being alive and healthy is even better, so I really should, you know, start getting up and looking for help. Although I haven't lost any limbs, I feel like I survived some kind of shipwreck... Because I did, in fact.
Memory arrived in fragments.
The ship. Smaller than the Royal one, where my parents were. I was with the servants, my bodyguard and lesser members of the Court (the Court? Wtf?)... As a punishment? Oh, yes, there was that stupid, ugly fight with my mother over some idiotic but common mistake of mine. Guess I breathed too loudly or something. Then? Storm clouds... Lightning illuminating walls of water that rose higher than some castles. The sailors were shouting. The sound of splintering wood. The banner of my father, and my father's father, and so on until the Conquest (the Conquest? Oh, fuck me sideways) violently crackling in the wind. The royal ship, faster and safer, disappears into the Horizon, while my ship is slowly devoured by a darkness so complete it seemed less like a storm and more like the opening of a vast, hungry mouth.
Sinking.
SINKING.
S̷̡̜̗͈͇͕̒́͛̉̓̇̄i̵͓̅͌n̸̡͙̘̖͑̂͊k̴̞̥̭̟͊̓͂̆i̶̡͍̫̱͊́̉̔̓͗̀͠͝n̵͎͇̉͘g̶̛̛̙͈͔̓̊̈́͘ ̶̧͙̳̖͍̙̥̘̈́̏ͅḿ̷̛̬̒̽̌͋̈́͗͋o̴̭̪̲̖̽̉͐r̵̞̥̟͕̳̪̣̖͐ě̶̛̺͉̩̲̲̦̫̪̃̚͘ ̵̘̫̱͔̑̊̇̾̾̄̌͘ä̴̮̝́̀̓̌͐́͌n̵̰͇̣͈͙̦̬̭̮̐̾̉͝d̵̪̞͓̳͇̟̩̮͔̐ ̴̭̬͌̉͒̐m̸̧̜͈̻͎̪̎̒͘ó̵̩̣͎̯ŗ̶̖̩̦̗͇̻̮̏ͅȅ̶͈̭͚̼͕̒͆̓̍̕͠ ̸̢̬̥͈̱̉̀̽̓̿̕ͅa̷̛̩͇̤̬͑͗̊̕͝n̸̡̗̰͕̼͙̉͊͜͝ḓ̵̡̭͔͎̖̹̙͌͌̊̅̓͒̒ͅ ̵̡̣̫͔̼̀̋͘͠m̷̪̹̟̪̌̓͑̒̋͝ȯ̷̡̢̡̨̭͙̱̘́̉̀͐͊͛͌̍ͅr̴̡͙̪̫͕͔̯̞̤̓ě̶̢̻͚͎̯͓̯̬.̶̣̜̥̻͐ͅ ̸̛̺̜̝͇́̇͌S̶̜̥͕̟̯̀͌͂͌t̵̨̡͕̩͖̹̮͈̋r̷̰̖̗̺͈͍͗͜ͅa̵̢̖̼̬̬̿̀͒̀n̶̹̫͑́̓̍̚̕g̷̡̖͖͔̹͊͌́͜͠e̸̲̓́ ̷̢̭͈͚͇̜̥̾̉̀̃̎̃͒͘̚͜ͅg̵̹͔̘̬͔͋̈́̄̌̔̈́ȇ̴̟͕̆͐ò̸͉͊͘m̸͕͉̺͂̍ȩ̸̟̳̥̈́͐̈́͒̀̓̐͋t̴̩̬̤̣͕̬͖͕̺͋̒͌̀͋̕͝r̴̛̞̳͖͍̈́̈́͊̂̈́̀i̶̧̯̹̗̠̻̫̇̾͒̎͊ͅé̷͇̺̤̘̥̘͍̹͋̅̈́̒̄̐͜͠͠s̴̡͙̞̋̌̅̋̀̀̽.̵̤̑̀̀̌́̚̚͜͝ ̷̮̝̓̈́̈́̇̄̓̔͠F̶̧̹̗̬̽̋̕o̸̥̱͌̓r̴̖̤͎̩̐m̵͖͍̬̗̥͍̳̋͋̍̃̓͋͝ͅl̷̫̈́͌̈́e̵̹͗ṡ̷̝̮͖̞ş̵̗̳̼͇̼̘͒̒͌͌ ̶̨̯̩̥͚̫̼͓̒̑͜͝s̷̛̰͗ḫ̵̢̘̥͊̕ͅâ̸̭͉͉͖̝̈́͛́̈̚p̵̨͓͚̱̗̀̋̆͠ĕ̵̼̫̹̪s̶̘̙̥̻̖̏̊̉͆.̵̨̥̠͉͈̠͔̬̈́̌̚͜ ̶͎̾͐͛̾̿N̶̨̨͖͚̭͎̗̤͂͌͛̎͋͆̂͛̈́͜a̴̧̨̢̛̺͓͖̮̗̺̍̈́̂͂m̴͎̹̍̎̇̄̊̀̂͠e̵̥͇͕̜͕̱̜͕̓͘͠ľ̵̡̨͓̯̞͖͚̗̳̍̈́̀e̶̢̡͍̤͔͎̗͔̊̆s̵͖̀͒͗͘͘s̸̢̯̻̳͉̤̦̅ ̴̛̦̘̘̿͊͑̈̔͝͝c̷̡̮̼̋̌̈̆̕o̴̪̳̩̩͊͆l̴̛̝̟̦̭͖̳̻̓́o̸̞̥͈̜̐͐̽̅̇̕͝r̶͉̊ṡ̵͈̲̟̤͎̲̳̩̹͆́̅̔̊͑̀.̸̯̻̝͈̦͊̓͊͜ ̶̧̺̐̏͊͋̃̓T̴̤̦̗̰͑̈́̃̑͝͠ḩ̴̟͍̬̲̬̐e̶̛̮̩̫͍̦͕͑́̀͝ ̴͈̱͉̻̙͂͂̇̀̐̇̾̉͝ͅs̸̳̫̳͕͆̋̌̀̀̈́̓͝͠ͅt̶̛̤̞͙̱̙͉̼̰͒̂̔͆͆̂͌͝ą̷̛̼͍̮̓̈̊̈́̏̀̾̈́ř̶̞͚̜s̶̲̫̦̫̣̮̐̇̀̎̍͛̚ ̸͔̰͕̪̩̤͚̟͉̆͒̔̍͌̈͝ú̴̬̲̖̬̤̉̑̃̿̏̐̓̚n̶̩̪͙̳̼͎̅̎̈̀̚͝͝ḑ̸̧̛͉͎̱̮̻̝̋̾̑̄̓̅ḙ̴̢̡̒̀̿͗͂ͅŕ̸̠͓ ̷͇́͗͑̐ẗ̵͓̩́͂̋͒̈͝ḫ̵̢̺̣̟̥̼̙̃͆̒̽͒̽͝e̴͕͓̯̭̣̖͎͈̼̾͐͝ ̶̻͖̠̝̣̻́̒͊̒̀̂͐s̶̘͆ę̵͚͕͓̯̭͓̬̓̓́͊̾ͅa̶̡̩͇̠̝̘̤̗͝s̷̨̫̰̤̯̘͇͝ ̴̛̛̳̳̣̖̅͆̉̀̚m̶̡͔͎̂̃̋͑̈́͝͝o̴̭͎̓͊̊͋͘ͅv̴̡͉̖̱̱̘̟͕̂̿̉͑̂͘ͅę̴͔̇́̎͑͆͊̚̚ ̷͍̼͙̑͌͛̓́͛͆̾͝ͅȃ̴̠̥̞͖̼̭̏͊͝n̵̘̟̾͊̇̄͘͠d̷̡̼̪̋̓͜ ̴̯̳̠̪͆̍̂͌͗̀̔̑͝ẻ̴͚̬̲̥̫̻̩̳̓̿ͅa̵͔̰͔̦͗̑̀̋̑̿̔͗̓ţ̸̙͉̬̝̯̞̈́̓̿͋͛͂̍͘̚͜.̶̮͓̝̞̘̌̒̈T̵̪̓̒̈́͌h̶̡̧̲̫̖͚̤̦̼͓̘̲̭̞̳͓͍̺͈͎͊̉̾ͅé̸̢̳̙̰̃͑̊̓ ̸̛̛̻̤͚̺͈̱͗͗̿͌̐̈́̔͒͗͐͊̈̒̑̚̚͘͝͝Ậ̶̢̢̼͇̞̞͓̱͉͔̬̫̲̣̏̐͑̍̓̀̀̂̇̐̂̂̓̕̚̚͜͝b̷̢̨̧̻̣͍̫̰̱̗͕͇̈́̈͐̈́̿̔̈́̂͛̈̒́̉͐͒̐̈͆̒̾͘͘͝͝ÿ̷̧̡̗̺̪̜̻̻̟̘̣̘̲́̆̊̑̀̄̽̀̊͗͊̉̿̎̀͐̅̄͘̚̕͝͝ş̶̯̔̇̊̇̃̐͠s̶̡̡̳̥̳̦̪̩̼̮̠̠̪͚̱̣̯̦̙̻͉̍͜
̴̻̺̺̘̮̰́͐̈̀̌̇͒̄̾͋̎͝͝Ş̷̠͔̻̻̰̲̜̣͕͗͆̎͂̓̆̇̌͐̒̓̿͜ͅi̴̠̓͗͛̾̏͛̀͋̂̓̅̀̚̕n̴͍̭͔̜͈̬̝̘̹͙͙͊̔̓̋͑̊͊͗̒̈́̕k̶̘̻̰̞̤̮̾̓̔̈́͂̅́̍͑̋̎̀́̎͜ͅï̵̡̛̙̪̊̓̒̃͆̈́͆͒͆̽ͅͅn̶͈͓̱͈̦̞͖̹͒̏̋̽̀̎̊̐̓̃ģ̸̨̖͉̣͕̱͓̣̘̄͆͋͂͛̑͒̂̿̐̑͛̏̕ ̸̛̟͈͚̭͍̯̖̉́̎͊̾̄̀̇̂͋̈́͒͠Ẹ̷̖̹̤̐̉͛v̷̢̩͙̯̎͆̇̀́͆͌̉̀̈́̂̄̌͠e̴̤̜̦̦̱͇̗̺̩͚̰̒̊́̔̉̈́̏̈́̿̀͆͝͝ṇ̴̝̺͖͈͖̫͋͋͐̍͗̄̊͜ ̶̡͇͇̤̠͇̌͒͐͌͊̀̀̈͗̑̌̓̽̕M̷̦͙̮̮̣̲̓̽̓̀ó̶̡̭͚̫͙̳̺̗͚͔̪͔̦̃̐̈͛̈́̀́̔̉̃̚̚͜͠͠r̴̞̘̼̲̩̺͙̓͆̔̑̓̽͘͜e̷͙͖͈̗̕͜͝͝ͅ.̸̣̞̩͙̤̭̰͔̞̋̏̈́̔͒̌̓̇͐̕
̸̨͚̼͉̖̊̈̋̀̅̓̏̒͜͝Ǫ̴̦͔̭͚̖̻̘̺̬̝̖̲̯̥̥̘̝̯̓̚ͅh̷̭́̍̐͗͌̍͊̈́̇̇̈́͂̀̔͘͠,̷̢͌̈́̐̐̇̀́̈́̀̈̒̋̍̂̃́̎̒͊̐͒̄͗̎͊̊͊͘͘͝ ̸̢̢̨̛̝͎̣̙̮͕̔̍̀̋͑̋͊̿̈́͐̈́̒̈̒̓̄͋̉͆̈́̑̊̕͝͠y̵̧̢̗̺͈̦̮̰̙̝̅́̀͛̍͌̇̆͊͌̇̉̓̑̀̾̋́̎̄͂̽̓̏̾͂̕͘͜͝o̴̭̞̘͉̟͍͌̑̈́̆̾͗̓̇͑̔̀̀̓́͂̓̄̑̊̽̚̕u̶̬̭͛̌̔̈́̀̿̌̍̂̒́̂̎́́̓͘̚͠ ̷̡͚̥̲͉̞͙͙̤͍̀̋́̓̓͆͊̉̌̋̄͗̅̋͛̓̚͜͠â̵̢̢͔͔͕̱̘̝̺͎̱̰̫̜̅̃̄̄̑̈́̌̓̀̈́̂̎́̄̅͜ͅr̵̡̢̘͍̲̗͎̙̗̤̠̎̆̓̇̈̀́̂̈̃̏̒̃͆͊̇̅͆̚͘e̵̢̢̛̛̙̝̯͔̹̜͓̪̺̞̰̼̠͉̯̦̜̙̽̔̾͗̔̆̏͐̓̽̆̏̿͘͘ ̷̧̛͉̳͕̹͇̥̲̖̪̗̣̥͍͈̻̘̦̼̜̖̮̭̘͚͓͇̐̀͑́̓̏̀́͛̍́̒̈́̎̎́̐̈̉͆̀͘͘͠͝ṗ̶̨̙̮̗̜̻̩̥̼̯̘̣̪̟̅̍̿͗̊̀r̵̡̫͇̥̬̳̥͇̳̺̟̳̖̲̹̜̯̠̞̖̞͎̾͐̉̉́͑̉̒ë̴̢̢̨̧̩͔̖̩̱̻̦͇̭͓̣͕͎͇͕̘̼̬͙͓͙̰͉̱̘́̂̑̐̔̀̐̒̀̈́̎̈́͑̈́͌͑͐̚̚͝͠ͅt̴̬̱̭͍̘̠̻̼͍͎̰͍͉̖͂̓͋̐͑̓ͅͅt̴̪̮̫͈̻̽́y̸̢͎̦̪͙̤͖̻͎̪̼͍̑̾̍͊̃̋͐̒̾͛́̐͌̕͝ͅ ̶̨̖̱̳̥̪̅̋̿̋͐͆́̐̈́͂̕ḯ̷̡̨͓̣̫̪̪̖̰̠̼͙̥̮͚̫͓͖̲͙̤̀͑͊́̍̏̑̎̒̒̅̽̽̚ṅ̷̩̊͋̌̈́̚͝ț̶͍̥̲͍̝̘͕̰̯͎̹̟̰͍̹̜̘̃̈́̒̾̓̀͌́͌͐̈́̐̐͒́͆͗͆͘͘̚͝ȩ̶̡̢̛̟͍̩̳͙̩̺̖̼͍̬͇͙̗̩̬̱̈́̈́̔̀̄̌̈́̐̓̀͛̅͋̓̊̐̋̋̋̉̀̚͝͠͝͝ͅr̸̢͔̬̱̘͔̪̬̳̟̯̳̖͔̳̝͌̊́͐̄̐͝ȩ̴̡̨̟̮̻͈̺͉̞̥̺͍̟̠̟̳̝̲̝̩͂̌̓́̒̌͒͐̐̈́̐̓̈͘͘͝͝͠͝͝s̸̨̞͇͓͇̜̣̹̮̲̭̱̲͚̙͇̭͂͂̈́̇̈́̈̿͑̆͛́́̚͠͝ț̴̙̪̻͈̙͓͎̳̭̰͈̎̌̏͋i̶̛͇̤͖̭̝̥̣̬̜̖̟̇̿̔̊̀̂́̾͒̑͋͛̌͜͠n̶̨̲͎̹̔̈́̅̀̃͊̃̔́̀̃̓͐̈́̓̄̑̇̂̆̔̈̊̋͘͝g̵̙͉̠̺̹͐͑̿͗̀̍̿̚̕͝,̵̡̨̣̗̯̦̲̱̟̝̻̼̘̩̯̦̦̅͒͐ ̷̡̛̫̠̩̟̠͇̥̹̗̭͙̳̤̮̗̠̣̺̹͋̈́͗̽̆̏̀͑̋͑̍̾̋̔̈́̔̇̋̌̒̀̂̎̔̚̕̚͠͝ͅl̵̞͙͎̟͍̬̔͑̉̌̓́́̉͊͌̇̀̒̀̈́̄̔͘͜i̵̝͓̦͓̝̻̲̜̠̯͑̅̿̔͒͂̏͂̒̀̅̈́̂͐͂͠ͅt̷̢̙̗̺͑͆͑͋͑́̃̾̾̐̈̆̀͑͑̀̃͊̃̓͑̾̔̍́̕̚͝͝ţ̶̡̛͕̭̠͍̥̰̹͚̱͙̹̫̜̮͑͂̀̀̅̔͑̈͐̓̄̿̒̆̎̔̌̉͒̓̀̚̕͜͜͜͝l̸̨̧̧̰̤͕͇̩̮̘̱̹̺͇͍̬̬̓̿̔͑̽́͐̈́͗̈́͆́͆̏̃̒̕͝͝͝ͅͅè̶̮̌́͗͂̇̈́̍̚ ̴̡̢̢̨̼̦͚͚̖̪̙̩̙̬̯͕͈͇̼̼͙̫̥͚͔̭͇͆̅̑̾̅͆̉̀̍͋͆̊̎̒̾̽̿̓̃̿̅͆̔̎̚̕͝͠͠͠ͅͅf̴̡̢̗͖͍͎͈̫̥̞̹̼͇̞̮̪̫͕̲̱̹̂̓̔͊̀͐͋́͑͒͒̎̚̕ͅl̵̢̛͙̳̲̞̻̙̮̠̫̜̼̖͕̬̮͋̿̇͒̋̑̇̿͋͋̽̐͌͒͊̓͝ͅa̷̯̜̹̖̎̃̋͝m̵̢̞̳͙͍̟͖̭̼̦̝͍͚̘͓̃̈́̾̈́̅̌̍̐͒̀̕e̸̢̧̛̛̬̤͉͈̗͇͙̣̬̩̺̠͕̪͑̌͊̑́̈́̍̅͌̅̌͑̓̃͋̄̋͒̅̓͑̓̚͜͝͝.̶͇͉̤̪̩̂͐̋̀̾̆̓̍̔͂̊͌́̔̕͘ ̵̧͖͚̥̺̦̜̝̦͇̥͔͎͓͉̃͒̄̽̌̈́̈́̓̒̑̉̌̏͘͜R̸̢̗̳̼͍̥̬̮̤͉̣̙̮̥͙̻͉̭̗̯͕͖͋̿́̎̆͗̈́̓̍͛́̀͜͝͝͝ͅe̴͇̖̺͙͍̽̈́͒͗̊̇͂̂́̀͋͘͘͘͘͠m̶͖̲̹̮̟͇͖̫̝̔̀̂̌̔̈́̕ẹ̸̢͇̤̰̪͕͚̠̥̻͇͖͒̓̒̽̂̿̀̊̀̒̊͐̽̅̒̂̍̽̋̾̓̇͂͒̈́̚̚͠͠m̷̩̖̠̞͆̓̐̽̕b̶̨̧̨͎͔̺̭͓̠̤̮̰͎͇̮̜̦͒̓̀̒e̴̻͙͎̭͙͙̻͚̗̼̍̈̇͒̈͊̔͒̄̿̾̈̋̄̂͂̎̐̓͝͝ȑ̴̨̡̢̛̛̮̻̮̟̱̣̱̲̱͉̹̩̼̬̓̈́́́̃͊͊̃̈́͗̈́̋̓̀̔͂́̈͘͘̕͝͠ͅ ̴̢̞̠̘̪̦̥̳̓͜t̵̢̨̢̢̺̙͓̤̗̯͚̥̙̩̜̝̬͕͍̏̊͐̎ḩ̶̛̛̘̪͎̭̼̫͔̙͔͕͍̬̳̪͕͓͇̜̭̾́̄̆̋́́̂̾̚͜͜e̸̢̢̨̧̮͓̹̩̣͕̰͎̳͙͊͗͆̊͐ͅ ̸̨̛̙̫̺͖͍̝̤̗͇̺͎̊͋̎͛͆̔̑͌̽̒̀̃̏̋̀̈́͌̑̈̈́̇̀̒́͆̈̚̕͜͠ͅs̴̨̝̩͔͕͚̠͈̼̦̗̹̣͇̩̠̠̱͔̹̘̯̱̙̝̆̓͛͑̿͌͑́̐̈̆̈́̈̾͗̕̚͝͝͝ͅh̶̘̯̣͙̯̳̗̼̰̓̆̚͠ą̴̡̧̘̲̺̱͕̭̮̺̞̻̲͕̥͈̝̦̣̟͖͓̥̬̾̔̓͑͜͜͠͝p̵̢͈̻̬̑͋̂͝ē̵̢̧̫̗͇͓͉̗̝̜̫̻̘̗̯̰̺̭̱̠̭͇̙̓̏͋̈́̄͋͒̀̉̌͐̐̒͝s̵̨̧͖̖͕̩̪̹͈̺͗̈̂̒͋̅̓͐̊͋̀͆̽͝͝ͅ ̴̧̯̪͔̹̖̤̥͇̗͍̫͉̱̥̭̺͚̭̳̼̻̰̩̱̫̪̤̬͉̎͒̌͐̃́̀̓̋̎̊̊̾̉̔̄͊̅̔̒͑͘͝b̸̨̨̛̠̲̬̮̮̹̤̘͍͓͉̳͈͙̮̩̪̞̠͓͇̐͐͛̿͌̂͛̐̓͂͌͑̎̿̾̾̾͘͘̕ͅĕ̸̡̘͙͍͓̜̣̫̱̱̬̜͙̣̙̮̗̹͉̽̎̋̀̽͛̌̋͗̑͆̉̔̑̾̊͋͘̚̕͘͘͝͠ḟ̶̡͈̣͚̲̘̣̯̳̤͓̇̉́̂͂̋̀͋́́̎̈́̂̂̕͜͝͝ͅo̸̢̡̨̨͔͓̣͕̩̰̠̤̲̘̪͔̠̻̺̞̫̮̱̳͈͍̘̤̭̓́̽̓̐̒͑̒̀̀̓̀͒͆̔͐̆͘͜͝͝ȑ̸̖̯̘͍̙̆͝ȩ̴͉̠̺̱͉̲̲͎̞̳͊͂̈́͊̈́̃̈́̓̿̌͒͒͠͝͝͝ͅ ̸͎̹̰̻̥̖̱͓͐́̈́͂̐̅̈̀̆̓̅͝ͅţ̵̨̛̛̦̝͕̮̺͖͕͔́͋̾́̂͛́ͅh̸̛̻̗͇̤̭͂̊̋̀̇̍̓̉̔̈̂̊̍̆̑͆̏͂̊͊̓̂̕͝ę̴̞̙͓̗͇͖̳͈̦̤̺͙̻̈̂͒̉͜͝͝ ̷̡̧͖͓͚̮͎̪͉͆̏̊͋̒̎͑̅̓̇̍̊̎̽̌̅̾͂͗̀̃̋̆̚͘̚͘͝͝f̴̖̭̯͍̤͔͓̹̙̙͚̜̳̈́͌͊̅̑̾͌̑̀͒̀̒͒́͊̄̊̑͌̔̓͊͛̾̑͜͠͝͝l̷̡̢̧̨̧͎̯͇̼̦̼̟̺̞̠̜̲̯̺̳̑̎̿ȩ̵͖̼̯͈͍̘̻̝̫̙̻́̌̿̒͒̈͐̉̒̑̐̓̈͗̏͋̕͝͝͝s̶̢̨̨̧̢̲̭͎̲͔͉̭͚̞̩͉̥̲̗̤̥͉͓̉͛͌͂͆̈́͛̀̀͌̀̓͌̓̐͜͠͝͝ͅͅḩ̸̢̡̳̥͓̯̫̙̘̲̫̭͇̗̟̭̗̦̙̳͖̳̙͎̽͋͛̈́͗͒̑̉̐̎͊̒͒̿̋͑̄̊̈̓̈́̓͘͘͜͝.̴̛̤̗̯̅̑͂̿͆̾͋̄́͐́ ̶̙̮͒̄T̶͕́̅̊͋̔̈́̎͂̒̋́̋͐̔̎͘ḩ̴̨̢̱͈͕̜̤̦͇̘̺͍̠͍̗̟̣̮̤͖̽̉̌̂͠i̶̢͙̰̠̺͑̓͑̓͆͑̾́̄̿͛͆͑͛̐͗̏́́́͝͠͝͝ş̷̛͉̠̣͙̘̭̭͍͎̮̗͉̿̂͊͐͊͌̎̈́̔͋̑̊̕͝͝ ̵̠̙̠̤̟̣̪̗͉̭̰̻̣̓͒̕͜ͅi̴̢̡̲̜͎̞̲̲̜̩͙͛͒̐́͌͊̆̀͗̾̓͒̐͜͠͠ͅş̷̨̰͓̖̳̗͔̯̝̰̻̗̻͙̰͖̞̳͎̦͔̣̪̑̈́͋̎̒͂̃̀͆̓̎̚͘̕ ̵̡̰̤̥̯̭̠̻͛̎̔͐̾̊̎̀̾̌̏̋̌̉͌͌̇̓͛͝ͅa̸̡̬̳̙̮͕͙̬̝̮͓͙̯̦̼̐̈́͗̓͋͐͋́́́̅͂̈́͆͘͘̚͠ͅ ̵̘̞̄̊͐̑̿͂̍͊̍̀̉g̶͕͇̟̹̙̭̓̓̅̉͜͝i̶̠̩̯͛̋͐͐̇́́̏͗̔̾͆͆͛̆̾̽͑̅͝f̴̞̞̼͙̪͈̼̗͕̪̻̹͍̣̳̺̟͔̈́̃͊͋̇͌̀̀͗̔̇͘͜ͅt̵̢̥̙̰̞̥͖͈̙̳͙̲̣̘̋̓̎͑̒̈́͑̆̓̊.̸̧̛̘̙̫͕̰͎͈̟̹̫̠̮̋̍̌͊̔̋̈́͐̀́͊̿͊̌̈͊̑͑̕͝͝͠͝ ̶̧̠̮̞͔̟̼̍̊Ù̸̟̹̲́̅̑̽̈́̈́̀͆̊̓̆̔̅͋̎͐́̕̚͠͝ṡ̵̡̝̮̩̩͎͇̞̦͂͊͊̂̈́͋͝ë̵̢̢̡̼͓̞̙̻̭͚̜̻̥̭͉̻͍̩̻̻̻̻̤́͋̌̌̿́̑̈́̓̎̍̀̔̈́̇̍̊͋̇̋̎̍̓̕͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͠ ̶͇̺͎̤͙͇̱̝͇̹̩̣̄̎̍̈͛̅̌̍̔̿̓̄͌͊͝͝į̵̢̲̰̯̯̳̙̳͚̬̪̲̮̪̗̽̆͒͒́͐̂̾͐̒̈́͌̿̋͊̔͆̉͋̃̌̕͘͠ẗ̶̨̛̼̙͔͎̬̞͕͔́̿̿̀̏̿̀̒͂́̔̉̔̃̎̔̀͑́͊͘͠ ̵̨̹̪̯̹̺̫̰̭͊͝ą̸̲̟̱̻͔͇̫͖̗͔̓̽̇̃̑͐̄̀̑͊̓̈̏͆̓͒̀̾͛̈́́̆̄̋̀́̍̈̕͜s̴̛͇̲̝̦̠̗̪̭͖̟̭͔̲̩͕̩̦̳̲̀̒̀̇͛͒̎͝ͅ ̶̛̛̖̼͍̱͖̹͓̘̬͛͌͂̎͗̅̊̂͗̄͋̅̆̌͛̾̈̄̒̿͛̂̅͐̉ý̸̩͖̥̫̩̪̳̬̬̗̖͍̳̮̝̠̯͇̲̳̬̗̣̮̞̥̮̘̐͗͂͑̐̑̀͊̓̆́̚͘͜ơ̷̧͙͍̤͈̩̝̼̖̞̖̫̫̟̱͉̙̰͓͖͔̔̐̏̈́̿͐̋͋̐̔̃̚͠͠ͅų̴̨̨̛̛̺̮̩̗̪̩̖̖͙̰̯̗͔̗̪̙͍̼͇̍͐̊͑̏͋͗̄̕͝ ̶̤̗̘̠̦̪̹̝̩̫̬̫̲̻̼̖̫̮̜̞͆̿́̅̀̓̽̾̐̈́̓̚͜͜͜͠ͅw̵̡̛̛̛͙̹̜̫̖̞̭̪̘̝͔͉͍̒́̽͒͗̆̌́̀́̈́͌̓̈́̏͒̾̐̕͜͜͠i̴̡̛̥̞̥͎̙̜͙͔̞̫̺̲̜͍̭͇̖͕̾͐̃̌̾̐̓̃͂̄̌͆͆̆̃̈́̋̉͒̀̽͊͒͠͠s̷̨̧̡̧̢̡̖͎̹̣̗̠̥̹̝̠̦͈̳̥͎̞͈͔͎͕͍͂̀͗̓̋̓̇̽̃͆̒͛̂̉̀̕͝ͅh̶̨̢̡͔̭̞̭̙̜̠̤̖̼̦͉̪̙̤̭͍̫̤̞͓̏̇̾̓̽͜͜.̶̧̬͖͙̺͖̰̗̥̗̮̯̹͓̥̞̗̲̖̯͉͉͕͚̀̾̎̂̆̏̂̃̔̑̿͑̈́͛̔̈̋͆̽̾̋̌̿̌̆̕͜͝
I̸̛͍͆ģ̶̠̟̳͍͍̕n̴̮̹̯̩͉̹̘̳̆́̐̉͆̇͒́o̵̺̙͙͕͚̗̟̩̽̍r̷̬͎̖͑͑e̵̢̖̱̝̦̜̞̜͔̔́͊̓̈́̍̈́͛͌͝ ̴͚̩̀̌́̈́ȋ̵̞ŕ̶̗̝̪̲́͒͊́͂͠͠, Ignore it, Ignore it, Ignore it, IGNORE IT, IGNORE IT, IGNORE IT.
Oh, wow, my throat feels pretty raw. Oh yeah, I was screaming or something. I forgot why. Totally.
...
Anyways, Dragonstone.
We were sailing to Dragonstone. My father wanted to visit my older half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, after the birth of her third child, Joffrey Velaryon. That memory settled in easily. Even if it's a memory that shouldn't belong to me (to him?). And there are others too. A city lit by electric light. The glow of my smartphone in the night. Long and productive hours of shitposting and ragebaiting anons on some Mongolian underwater basket weaving forum. A world without dragons. A world where kings are just fancy material for sensationalist tabloids. My world. A world so sensible and boring that it really shouldn't exist. Because, if something so orderly and logical exists, does this new (old?) world where I am now really have any... logic on a cosmic scale? Nothing makes sense. Dragons fly, but now I know they really shouldn't. The climate doesn't make sense. What the fuck do people even eat in the North? After such long winters, shouldn't the ground be completely frozen? How does agriculture even work there? Volcanic activity, perhaps? Could I get one of those teleporters that Littlefinger uses to get around, pretty please? Location: Summer Isles!
How the flying fuck wasn't the whole World suffocated by the ashes of Doom? Magic? Does everything here needs magic to work? Low fantasy my princely ass.
Aegon Targaryen, Prince of the Blood of the Dragon, froze. Oh Yeah. That's me. That's my name. I'm Aegon, the Elder (eventually, i guess. Little Dragonbane, the Based, wasn't even born yet. Might never be born, in fact).
My heart raced. The cold suddenly seemed very distant, just as the beach started vanishing from my consciousness. For a time that seemed an eternity, I remained suspended between two lives, watching fragments of both emerge and collide in my mind's eye like some demented marble game. A failed student. A disappointing son of House Targaryen. I/Aegon remembered the smell of parchment in the libraries of the Red Keep. I remembered wanting to write some shit tier fanfiction about Rhaenyra's mommy milkers on AO3. Long hours reading some dumb discussions about the Dance of the Dragons. I remembered Alicent Hightower pimp slapping the shit of me for bullying Aemond (the twat deserved it, really). I also remembered sitting on my bed, decades and worlds away, reading about Alicent Hightower as some sad historical figure trapped in a tragedy partially of her own making, marching to a Ruination from which she could not escape. Oh, and some pretty awful drawings of her and my new little sister on rule 34. Sparrow, you sick fuck.
Ah, fuck, I'm going to throw up. I did it and then started laughing like crazy. Oh, come on, Don't judge me. Death, Resurrection, Eldritch mind blasting and Transmigration left me a little fucked up. I swear I'm normally much more level-headed. Trust.
I mean, keeping a conversation on my head with some invisible observers from another world is a pretty crazy thing to do, but this whole shit is so out there that I can't help it. I don't really have some kind of fouth wall awareness, fuck, I hated that shit trope, but I really need some familiarity for the moment. Something from my (old) home. The pressure inside my skull is starting to became unbearable.
Some more laughts escaped me. Haha, how fun! I and everyone on my new family are going to die horribly. And there t̷h̸i̴n̶g̸s̴ outside the Physical world muching souls! This is so fun!
I'm still laughing, but to be brutally honest, the sounds i making are halfway to a scream.
My hands rose instinctively toward my temples. My new fingers tangled within pale silver-gold hair. Small and childish fingers. I'm ten fucking years old again. I hated being a child the first time around, and nothing in my new memories show that this time things are gonna be better. Viserys ignores me, Alicent shows her love though either disappointing sighs or slaps... Well, honestly, I kinda deserved it. Most prepubescent kids don't go around pinching the ass of the serving wenchs. Guess the new me got this from my dear old dad. The fat fuck doesn't have slightest respect for my mother. Pretty sure that one of the women in the Kitchens got knocked up by him some two years ago, more or less. Fuck, was that Trystane's mother? Did my father give me and my dear RhaeRhae some other half-siblings? Guess that the younger dragonseeds have to come from somewhere. With Nuncle Daemon being a snob, it lies only on Viserys I Targaryen, fucker of Andals and Rhoynars and First Women, the grim duty of expanding the bloodline among our oh so loyal smallfolk. Well, he and Corlys. Laenor surely isn't meeting the annual quota. Don't worry, everyone. Give me some years. I promise to keep the Traditions of our folk strong.
Heh. Strong. RhaeRhae, You really are doing your best, huh? But can you try to make them silver haired, please? You are kinda embarrassing us all. I laughed a little more on the sands.
Eventually, through sheer fucking will, I forced myself to stop laughing and, and then to stand upright. This little manoeuvre sent some pretty awful pain lancing through my body, yet this pain proved to be weirdly welcome, because in the end, pain is simple and familiar in a way that Isekai decidedly is not.
The beach stretched before me in both directions, deserted and silent beneath the moonlight. Far beyond the shoreline, volcanic cliffs rose from the darkness like the walls of some immense fortress raised by giants before the birth of mankind.
Dragonstone. The ancient seat of House Targaryen. The island that houses the (very creatively named) castle of Dragonstone. Again, a bark of laughter surprised its way out of me. That fucking castle is so fucking dorky. My memories of visiting that waste of stone with the Court when my father officially gave control of the Island to Rhaenyra came back to me.
I remembered some fan art of the castle I'd seen online, and most of it was so exaggerated and ridiculous that I started to think the artists were doing it on purpose to piss off Martin. But no, even the most ridiculous one is actually pretty normal when compared to the complete stupidity and lack of common sense of that retarded monstrosity. The first Valyrian foothold on Westeros soil... The ultimate monument to the tremendous bad taste of the Sorcerer Princes of the Freehold. When the characters people describe the castle's towers and walls as being shaped like dragons, they're not being poetic. My dumbass ancestors really did shape that waste of good stone like some gigantic, deformed cousin of Ghydorah, with thousands of holes for windows and gates and arrow holes and so on. Dragonstone just looked plain wrong.
And the feeling of it... It's not something visible, nor is it something that can be easily explained. Instead, it possessed the... unsettling quality of looking far older than it should be. By Westeros standards, the castle isn't that old. It doesn't even have a millennium of history. The Dragonlords took the Island from some petty lords some two or three centuries before the Doom. Yet, that ugly monstruosity stands like something built in the age of heroes. It feels unwelcome, like the place was waiting in the darkness long before the first Dragonlord crossed the Narrow Sea. Hey, I'm here! Build on me and let's make some War Crimes together! Under the Seas, The Dragons swim sideways! I know, I know, oh, oh, o̷͖̅h̴͓͊!
...
Guess that are some perks of waking ashore on some desert beach in this shithole. I can't really see the Castle from here. I rose to my feet. Then I started walking. There must be some fishing village close or something. Let's just follow the shore. Don't think too hard about stuff. Things will work out. Somehow. I should keep doing that. Don't think too hard about anything and nothing.
Ignore the eyes in the sky. Ignore the eyes under the seas. Ignore the eyes inside my skull. Just keep ignoring things and follow the shore.
Walking is actually pretty great!
Not because I've found something, or because someone found me. Not because I had any real destiny in mind. Not because I truly believed that moving on would solve anything. But because it forced me to realize that my whole "Ignore stuff! Don't think too hard" is dumb nonsense! I really should think super hard about everything! See, super fast character development! I guess. I hope this isn't one of those fanfics with 10+ chapter prologues written in ChatGPT, or you'll move on and leave me alone. Don't leave me alone with my thoughts, please!
Okay, thinking hard about stuff: The Dance. Fuck, the Dance. The worst part is recognizing the signs. Honestly, the writing on the wall is pretty clear. It's like everyone is gathering with the sole purpose of throwing shit at the fan.
I'm also way older than I should be according to the series, and RhaeRhae is much younger, so I guess I'm in some reality closer to the books. Fuck.
In the series, Rhaenyra is kind but retarded (cute!), so the whole problem is that Daemon, Aemond, Otto and I are evil patriarchal Chuds™. Except Daemon gets ghost therapy on Harrehal and becomes a better person or something stupid like that (Come on, I not going to remember everything, that series was so fucking dumb that I stopped watching halfway the second season). But the vibe is more or less like that. Basically, don't be an evil chud, respect Rhaenyra and her goons gooners faction, be loyal and things would probably, hopefully, end well for everyone.
This is reality, though. And this reality doesn't look too much like the series. The Velaryon are just another group of boring valyrians, with their boring silver hair, their boring purple eyes and their boring fair skin, playing with their boring cuck boats. Sorry if I sound bitter, but this whole silver hair and fair skin gets boring fast, I guarantee you, especially with Viserys and Daemon trying new and innovative ways of being racist. Ser Joffrey Lonmouth died horribly at Rhaenyra's wedding... More specifically, at the Wedding's Tourney, where good old Ser Criston was able to murder him with some measure of legal impunity. Speaking of him, Ser Criston is a 6'2 Stormlander with pale green eyes. He doesn't look much like the actor from the series, but then again, nobody here does. He is a little sun-kissed, but if he has some dornish lineage, he is not telling. Considering that he hails from the Dornish Marches, that would not be a happy story for his parents.
I'm 7 years older than Jace, who is currently a very ugly toddler (I told that to RhaeRhae when she presented him to the Court. Mother slapped me for that some time later, but she laughed a little when she thought no one was looking). Daemon's twins are even younger, two identical Quicksilver drops. They weren't ugly babies. All pink cherubic cheeks and fine silver hair. True Targaryens, in the worlds of my Royal Sire, looking directly at me. Well, fuck you too, you miotic shithead, I hope Jace throws up on your clothes again. Anyways, the fat fuck is not rotting away (well, at least not like the series). He's just very fat. Viserys is not morbidly obese right now, but the way he eats, he'll get there. Aemond is a boring twat and Helaena is a very cute girl, not some poor imitation of Bran, the Broken. She is a little weird and shy, but she can be very vocal and charming when she wants. Everyone loves her. Except RhaeRhae and Daemon, but fuck them. She also is not going around saying some cryptic bullshit. If she is a Dreamer, she found a way to be discreet about her gift.
On the matter of sisters, It's with a heavy heart that I have to say that RhaeRhae reaaaly hates my guts. Mommy dearest, fault, surely. Please ignore the fact that I threw a fruit tart on her favorite Myrish dresses (Plural necessary). Oh, I've never tried to lift her skirts when she was distracted with her ladies-in-waiting. That was the work of the spirits of the wind. I also never compared Jace with a drooling brown mutt that the Kennels Master had to put down. I'm an innocent, sad and lonely boy. It's all my mother's fault!
Actually, about that... Yikes, I hope the whole "yuri love" thing never happened here. That would be super hot... I mean, super bad! Rhaenyra is only 10 years older than me. That dumb broad is really mean to me without any reason at all (lol), but some class is required. Seriously, Mom, don't be like Daemon, please and thank you. Oh, speaking of Daemon, he looks to my siblings and I like we are some shit encrusted in his boots. But that's something that he would do in any World, so whatever. Nasty bloke. Unfortunately, he doesn't look like Matt Smith. He's just another absurdly handsome warrior-supermodel. And that's not a compliment. Every single guy with Valyrian looks that I meet in this life who takes minimal care of himself is like that (And that's a pretty harsh condemnation for you, Viserys. Stop eating so much! Or at least share some with me! I like Lamprey pies too, you fat fuck!). When everyone is super handsome, everyone gets super boring. Guess that Jace has that going for him in the future. Future Baela did like him a lot, after all.
Well, at least people don't go around using the most boring and unimaginative clothes around. Every day is party day on the court (the new trend is red and green feathers on dresses and hats. Ridiculous in a cool medieval way). Even the smallfolk wear colorful clothes. The food is surprisingly good, too. Guess living in the Golden age of our Dynasty can be pretty cool! I have some real Fire Emblem-like clothes in my wardrobe on the Red Keep. No Dragon orgy on the walls of my room, sadly. Hey, we are in the middle ages! I will need some stimulation in the future!
Ṷ̵̤͕̪̭̫̮̙̅ͅŝ̵̥͓͇̹̦̣̣̖͎͋̍͗̓e̸̟̳͖̓͐̓̀͒͐ ̷̛͙͕͎̺̀͐͑̈́́͋̊͝m̴̱̰͈͍̞̘̲͖̉̍̌̕ỹ̶̫͖̖͇͑̃̇̾̎͘̚͝ͅ ̵̹̲̻̈́͂g̴̯͔̮̩̃͂͌̏͂̐̐͑̚͝i̷͙̘̮̍̀̓̉̕͝f̵̨͔̗͍̤͈͇̄ţ̶̝̲̙̫͖͚̖̮̤́̈̾̏̄̚͠.
Okay, stop messing around. Think. Think! The Dance. Dragons would fill the skies with fire and the battlefields with ashes. Lots of rape and murder. Child murder, fratricide, genocide, and so on. Totally awesome! Then, most of the dragons would fall from those skies. The problem is: what the fuck can I do? Viserys is already slowly killing himself with food. The fat fuck would need modern surgical help to remove his head from his ass. Alicent is already afraid. Rhaenyra is already gathering grievances. Daemon is already Daemon. Silver linings: Otto is currently on his cuck chair in Oldtown.
The cold, hard truth is that this fucking war had begun years ago, before my very birth. Everyone noticed. But actually doing things to fix that is inconvenient, so people simply wait and sharpen their swords.
Ṷ̵̤͕̪̭̫̮̙̅ͅŝ̵̥͓͇̹̦̣̣̖͎͋̍͗̓e̸̟̳͖̓͐̓̀͒͐ ̷̛͙͕͎̺̀͐͑̈́́͋̊͝m̴̱̰͈͍̞̘̲͖̉̍̌̕ỹ̶̫͖̖͇͑̃̇̾̎͘̚͝ͅ ̵̹̲̻̈́͂g̴̯͔̮̩̃͂͌̏͂̐̐͑̚͝i̷͙̘̮̍̀̓̉̕͝f̵̨͔̗͍̤͈͇̄ţ̶̝̲̙̫͖͚̖̮̤́̈̾̏̄̚͠.
The sea whispered beside me. Ignore it, Ignore it, fuck, I can't really Ignore it, can I? I looked at the water. Then stopped. Because something beneath the waves was looking back. A heart (my?) beating. The ocean opened, but not really. Not physically. The moonlit surface ceased to resemble water and instead became a black veil drawn slowly aside by starry hands, revealing
(a gift?).
My nose is bleeding, I think. Move. Move, Move, move, mOvE. Then Reality hit me like a truck, throwing me back into the natural order of the things. I fell on my ass. Fuck, this can't keep happening... How the fuck I will manage to do anything with my live if I keep sperging around like C'thullu most autistic soldier?
Ṷ̵̤͕̪̭̫̮̙̅ͅŝ̵̥͓͇̹̦̣̣̖͎͋̍͗̓e̸̟̳͖̓͐̓̀͒͐ ̷̛͙͕͎̺̀͐͑̈́́͋̊͝m̴̱̰͈͍̞̘̲͖̉̍̌̕ỹ̶̫͖̖͇͑̃̇̾̎͘̚͝ͅ ̵̹̲̻̈́͂g̴̯͔̮̩̃͂͌̏͂̐̐͑̚͝i̷͙̘̮̍̀̓̉̕͝f̵̨͔̗͍̤͈͇̄ţ̶̝̲̙̫͖͚̖̮̤́̈̾̏̄̚͠
My headache stopped. Not in a natural way, more like a bubble popping. The eyes inside my skull closed. I fell... Something in their place. I couldn't really think much about it, because the S̸̰̀͂ea revealed something dead and bloated on the shore, some hundred of meters ahead of me. I should have seen it much earlier, but I was so absorbed with myself that I just ignored it, like it was just a weird stone or a piece from a broken ship.
A mound of pale debris strewn across the beach. No, not pale, that's just the Moonlight bleaching the colors. The corpse is golden. Ah, come on. Seriously, what the fuck. Give me a rest. Dread crawled through my veins. I don't have a dragon yet. Viserys didn't give me a dragon egg, and my mother never let me get close to the Dragonpit. Honestly, Aegon (The me that was?) didn't really try too much. He (I) was, for the most part, a calm sort of sullen boy, despite his pretty terrible behavior in his (mine) quest for attention. I started walking towards the corpse. I didn't even think about it, it just happened, as if by magnetism.
Juting black bones. Torn wings. Broken scales. A dead dragon. A dead dragon that ought to be mine. The corpse sprawled across the shore with a terribly sad majesty. Even mutilated and partially devoured, it remained almost breathtakingly beautiful. The remaining golden scales shattered moonlight like fragments of the sun. Ah, I really should run away. Something had fed upon it. Something large, very large. But I didn't run away. I just keep approaching slowly, while my pulse thundered in my ears.
Sunfyre. The name arrived with absolute certainty. Sunfyre the Golden, that should be my one and only glory. My better half. The prove that even a complete waste of space can be dear to something. Sunfyre, the most beautiful dragon in the world. My dragon. Not yet, but soon, in some years. Yet, somehow, that bond existed nonetheless. Aegon (I) dreamed about the sky, sometimes. About the salty wind, about his (Sunfyre's) prey. Even by this far back, some thread of fate connected them across time. I knelt beside the corpse. The smell was unbelievably awful. Yet... some strange warmth spread through me. Then came something stranger.
P̸̧̨̛̜̦̪͖̩̜̣̦̙̙̘̟̪͍͇̱̐̏͛̏̏̂̋̈́͛̽̍̄̈́́̿̓̽͊̅͋͌͘̕͜ą̴̢̛̟̪̟͓͍͔̻͈̙̼͎̠̦̯͈̝̝̼̇̎̈́̄̽̉͌̃́̍͐̓̒͗̏̚̚̕̕͜͝͠į̸̨̢̛̛̺̥̱̙̹̘̳̖̱̰͉̤͖̥͎̝͖͚̣͇͙̦͕̣̈̏̒͂͆̈͒̌͐̆̾͐̎͒͋́̒̑̈́͘͘ͅd̷͈̤̜͂̽̂͊͜͝ ̸͕̮̻̗̞̄̎̓̅̌͒̊́̾͗͜į̵̧̨̧̨̡̢͓͎̠̖̬̞͓͎͈̲̥̼͓̝̻̭̥̥̦͚̃̂̊̐̾̔̈́͜n̸̛̼̞̼͕̾͒̎̀͊̑̈́͑͛͆̈͗͆̌̆̓̔͊̍͐̈́͝͝ ̵͎͚̠͓̳̝̟̺̭̹̹̋̌̍͌̀̚͝f̵̜̪͎̺̤̲͎̘̟͕̼͉̣͗̑̉̒̑̂͑͂ͅu̶̡̡̡̨̪̙̱̗͚̘̥̖̲̣̖͖̅̌̍̌̀͑͂͘͝ͅḽ̶͎̞̮̮̬̗͖͇̙̩̯̬͖̪̖̤͖̭͓̞̐̊̐͐̀̈́̅̓̆͛̕l̷̛͙͓̪̪̦̾̈́͑͛̅͛̃́̽͛̉̎͐̌̃̌̅̈́̎͘̕̕͜͝͝ ̶̡̛̤̣̭͎̰̿̐͌̌͋̊̃͐͗̓̏̏̇̇͑̕͝͝ą̴̻̻̪̰̜͎̩̩́̌̍͜n̸̰͓͉̰̞͚̺̻͎͍̣̫̺͂̃͊͑͆̆͗̓͐̃̈́͂͐͜͜d̴̟͇̹̞͔͈̖̾ ̷̡̡̻͖̰̱̪̝̦̩̗̦̬̼̦̝̘̥̫͔̼̜̞̌̃͑̊̐̒͒̈̆͛̌͘͘y̴̢̡̨̡̛̰̜̝̲̞̬͚̠̖͍̱̹̘͂͂̊͛̔̈́̄̋̉͂́̔͆̇́̍͆͗̚̚͜͜͝͝o̵̡͍͇̖̬͍͉̯͎̙̫̮̞̝̬̘̱̫̘͎̿̈́̇́̈ͅṵ̶̧̦̟̼̝̓̑́́̔̃̅͆͐̓̍̊̾̔̉͑́͊̕̕̕̚͠ṙ̶̡͇̰̲̤̫̟̝͇͖̻͖̪̠̺̜̒̑̀̒̉͋͌̎̉̎̉̑̍̈́͂̄̕͠͠͝ş̷̨̢̢̛͈͇͍̱͓̞̻̮̫̘̬̰̳̥̞̬̯̱̘̒̿̄̔̾̂͗̒̑͜͝ ̵̡̨͍̹͉̖̹͓̙̯̮̯̜̺̜̣̻̠̥͎̭̖̟͊̆̋̇͜͝ͅt̶̨̢̨̛͕̫͍̯͕̗͓̻͈͉͙̖͔̻̝̻͎̙͍̫̩̿̊̈́̍̓͊̎̀͒̉̒̇̋̋͛͒̚̚͜͠͠ͅȯ̸̢̪̥͎̽̅̽͝ ̶̥̪̙̘͙̯̱̲͓̝̲̦͈̱̠͇̖̥͈͖́̾̂͌̋̋̔̓̆̋̆̀̃͒́̈́̑̅͆̔̌͑̈͗̂̽̚͘k̶̨̨̨̰̭͎͙͚̻̙͚͙̪͚̺̠̜̘̮̆̂̀͛̈̋̃̄̊̎̄͑́̓̈́̋̊̈́̇̍̿̚̚͘̕͝ͅͅͅȩ̶̨̠͇̖̼̣̯̟̣̼͓̯̯͓̜̤̱̞̞͆̉̽͂̾̈́̀̀́͌̋͊͘͝͝ͅě̴̡̨̢̫̣͔̰̦̬̦̩͎̹͖͊̈́̓̆̍̀̊̀̾͌̅̔͌̎̂̀̈́̔̾p̵̛̖̤̠̓͂́̀̒̋̇͐̔͋̀̓́͐̽͌̄̎̒͘.̴̛̱̠̱̀̄̀͑̑̇͊̿̊̆̎̑͊̍̈̕͝ ̵̧̱̫̞̤͉̖̺̻̣̟̼̼͔̹̣͈̜͎̋S̷̺̙̲̈́̀̈́̌̒̋̑̇͑̒̉͘͝p̸̨̯̟͎̣͕̳̯̰͉̟̖̥̩̬̬̪̳̒̎̎̾ï̸̧̻̭̮̜̤̤͚̼̺̯͇̼̖̮̙̝̱̮̘̲̲̟̭̐́̇̅̊̈̋̿͊͌̉̃͋͆̄̕̕͝͝ͅͅn̵̨̨̙͕̣͚̫̯̣͌͗͐̍̓̊̔ ̸̨̗̮̹̳̥͚̼̰̫̓̌̑̀̐t̴̡̨͍̠̝͔͈̰͈̪̬̜̲̣͎̤̭͈͚̭͕̞͑̇̑̾̾̑̂̃͋̂̍̒͒̒̈́̕͝ͅͅḫ̷̨͈̲̫̝̗̝̰͉͈͓͉͓̥͈̖̩̄̅̓̾͌̑́͌̃̉͌̐̏͊͐̇́̐̎̎͘è̶̛̛̟͇̠̘̪̝̭̟̭̣̠͉̖̯͙̭̰̲̒̍̾̊̌͛̆̒̊̃̓̅̏̇̓̃̂͒̊́̚͘̚͜͠͠ ̴̨̧̺͇̜̞͉̤̻̞̙͔̰͕̗͊̐͊͆̉͠͝ͅw̵̛̛͈͛̓͒̀͐̊̔̂̀͒̉̀̃͒̊́̋͘h̸̨̢̩̝̦̬̘̗̭̣̺̹̰̋͑͜͝͝ȩ̵̡̧̛̩̫̩͈̘̯̝̳̝͔̹͍̓̉͗͋̅̂̈̾̇̈́̿̿͠ͅĕ̸̲̿͛̒͑͊̈̈́̄̅͑̓̇̎̓̾̈́̚͝ľ̸̨̨̖̱͖̗̦̳̱̻̪̥̗͍̜̥̖̘̞͙̦̪̖͚̥̭͋̇̀̎́̌̿͠,̸̠͈̩̗́̎̇̓̃̓̂̓̒̈̒͛͒͗̆͗̈̈́͘̚͘ ̵̨̧͓̰̠̲̺̦̰̹͓̼̮͇͈̯̱͍̳̯̜͈̻̙̥̀̔̄̅̆̌̒̎̕b̶̨̢̛͎̯̙̙͇̘̰̺̪͙͎̖͉̠̤̆̉̓̆̃́̂̀ͅͅǘ̸̢̢̞̳͈̻͔̪͈͚̘̦̤͓̩̠̥͕̥̖̯͇͖̔́̑̊̽̒͑̉̎͛̚͠ͅt̶̢͚͙͔͖͕̬͙̙̼͖̼̲̲̮̟͉͚͛͑̎̊̍͐̽̌̕͝ ̵̧̧̢̼͙̘̘͙̩͚̪͂̋̔̃͆̔̄͋͜͝͝f̸̭̀͆́͆ḁ̷̢͉̰͎̪̣̠̲̘̠̠̯͕̣̟̠͚̟̘͈̀̆̂̎̉̈́͝s̵̢̡̲̼̖̳̹̦͉͇̥͚̖̹͓͉̠̥̠͖͊͐̈̔̂́̅̚t̷̛̛̙̣͈̳̭̼̤̱̫͕̦͐͆͋̐̐̒͗̔̈́̈́̔͗̓̄̚͠,̸̡̨̢͔̼̝͍̪̖͇̞̳̮̓̋̈́̏̃͛̕̕͜ ̸̨̧̧̛̗̗͓̹̠̮̼͇̭̱̞͓͔͇̯̖̯̽̋͐̅͊̑̈́͛̕͝l̴̨̨͉̳̫̤͍͍̣̯̹͎̟̦͔̭̮̰̺͆̈́̒́̿̏͛̆̿̐̿̓̓͘i̷̜̹̰̠͇͋̒͒̆̋̆̍̆̔̊͒̈́̊̒̐̕͠͝t̸̺̞̣̯̞͚̘̺͔̬̬͓̮̅̅̓͗̍͜t̵̢̡̗̙͓͔̼̲͙̮͚̥̭̖͈̙̣̼̻͚͎̎͋̍̈́̂͊ͅͅl̷̙͓͙̹̦̟̅̃̅̐̅̈́͛͒͒̍͗̏͊̂̇̀̕͠ͅę̴̺̪̲͕̱̠͑͜ ̵̡̛̯̞̳̗̦̯̘̦̳͕̫̖͍̥̞̯͈̹̟͎̝̻̻͉̐̂̈́͒̿̔̍̈́͒̑̈́́͛͑͐̽̄͑̊͘͘̕̚͝͝͝ơ̶̰͇̰̱͚͈̪̟̮̟̫̙̘͈̱͓̥̠͍̘͒̽͑͗͌̓̐̈́́͆̅ͅn̷̛͇̙͓̝̘̠͙͐̄͐̆̑́̏͘͝͝ė̴̡̢̻̬̗̫͔͔̝̦̜̖̟̠̅̀̃͛̄͂̂̉̇̀̎̂͊̅̓̽̿͂̓͛̈͝.̴̨̨̨̢̱̺͉͚͇̤̼̟̣͍̰̜̜̥̒̇̓̓̓̄ͅ ̸̧̢̧͈̫͕̣͔̮̠̦͚̗͈̗͚̹͔̺̻̝̣̘̘͛̐͐̆̈́Ṱ̶̢͕̟̖̣̲̯̼͇͍͕̜̳̦̔͆̋̈̑͜h̷̨̺̙̣̺̟̮͈͍̉̅͌̐͑͂͐̽̒̏̔̈̕̕̚͜͠e̵̢̛͎̳̘̟͓͎̰̠͔̬̱͓̫̐́̋̿́̀̓̅͊͗̔͐͊̔̊͒̆̚͠ ̷̧̝͈̆́̔̑͌̏̎̾͝t̸̡̧̨̢̲̦̥̠̟̯͙̳̜͈̫̫̥̜̭̙͖͖̆̂̉̊̾̒͗̈́̾̌̒͛̅̑̄̔̾̀̐̈́͂͒̃́̚̕͝͠i̸̢̢̪̗̦̤̜̰̼̣̙̖͍̪̼̙͆̈́͑̒̀͂m̸̡̭̹̪̫̟̩̏̆͂̂̏̊̾̋̾̍̆̇͋̄͂̑͊̄͂̓͂͘͝͠e̶̛̝̫̳͈̩̙̭͚̫̞̗̔͐͑̑͋̈́̑͆̉̀̏́̓̆̍̐̔̕͝͠ͅͅ ̷̡̨̦͖̩̹͙̬̖̠̫̗̘̘̝̝̯̐̏ą̶̨̣̩̰̱̫̯̙̜͍̰̤͙͈̪̦͙͉̥͍̩͙͇̖̺͔̎͒̾͋̊̾̏̽͜p̷̛̹̳̥̒͂̈́̍̽̔̈̍̆͆̑̔̈́̚̕͠͝p̵̢̧̙̜̞̠̘̺̘̙͖͙̝͉͕̘̘̺̖̫̻̆̀͂͗̔͂͗̈́̾̆̕̚͘͜͝ͅř̸̢̧̛̗͙̤̪̝̝̻͂̆͛̅̈́̎̉͒̇̎͗̄͗̔̔͒͊̕ͅo̶͎̟̠͋̈́̌̍͜â̸̡̻͍̼̲̱̰͔̱͎͑̿̏̔̈́̒͐̌̋̀̓̈̂̉̎̃͆̌̀̎̈́̽͘͜͝ͅč̵̤̩̩̠̼̜̰̓̈́͛͆̀h̵̢̧̡̢̧̨̛͇͔̩̖̟̝͍̻͍̬̞͓̘̝̲̪͉̾͛̊́̈̅̂̃͗͛̃̈́̆͜͜͠ͅe̸̛̹͉̹͚͇̤̱̝̤͙̖͈̙̽͛͘s̵̨̡̬̪͔̦͙͓̼̼̹̬̳̳̝͈͕̮̄̊̔̓͌̀̌̀͋̇͋͊̄́̔̉̓͐͌̓̒͠.̶̡̛̛̟̬͉̻͚̟̜̯̀̔͐̇͗̃͊̋̎͛̀̈͛̄̑̓̊̓͘͝͝ͅ ̶̩̉̀͛̑͗̈͂͒́͠͝F̴͚̠̺͇̩͎̤͒̅̔̂̽ą̸̱̰̭̘̠̟̤̲̣̜͎̮͕͆̐̿̿̊̓͛r̷̨̢̼̼̲̜̗̖̝̪̭̦̟̹͚̞͎̬͓͔͐̉͋̓͂͊̄́͊͋̎̓͒̿̉̿͂̚̚̚͜ͅé̵̛̛̘̜͈̄̄̅̉́̿̒̑̽̍̾̌͗͗͗̀̀̀͘̚͜͜͝͝ͅw̷̼̋͐̍́̽͆̈̃̐̇͛̇̔̀̑̇̀͗̐̇̓͘ͅē̵̡̻̗̯̗̩̹͕̯̝̎̍̋͐̊͂͋́̍̈́̾͂͐̈́̀̅̉̀͘͘͜ľ̵̛̛̬͇̤̖̳͙̯̥̌͑̽̈́̔̇̽̊̆͜͜l̶͙͇͛̎̿̆̓̎̑̈́̈́̚ ̵̧̨̡͍̞̯̬͉̙̱̜͔̪̪̠͚̙̮̐́̾̅̄͐͑̑̾̉̒̋̓̋̍͊̆̚̚͜͝ͅf̷̧̧͖̘̼͙̟̹̹̝͇͈̹̭̤̥̯̎̊̍̕͘͜͜ơ̵̗͊̾͐͊͂̈́͐̄̃́͐̚ȑ̶̡̢͙̹̟̆̅ͅͅ ̶̛̜̗͈͉̱̟̊̓̈͛̀̓̓͐̐̂́͌͛͆̕̚ͅn̷̡̡̝͕̝̩͙͕̹̩̦͇̝̗̩͍̤̻̩͕̣͎̬̲̭͇̱̊̏̂͐̎̾͛̇̊͋͛̒̓̌̆̇͑̑͒̽̈̚͠o̵͖̳̪̻̦̞͚̩̜̾̈̄̾̑̉w̴̨̧̡̡̛͇̺̘̳̅̈́̀̄͌̂͂̋̌͆̂̏͐͌͋̈́͌̉̕̚.̷̨̡̘̲͈͈̪̦͇̲͖͍̙͉̦̬̞͎̮̻̹̻̘̩̭̰̮̄͗͒͗̈͂̌̋͑̿͝
̷̧̧̠̺̯͚̙̰͉̞͖͖̥̗͎̫̘̰̮̟̂̈́̀̅͜͜
̶̡̣̙̖̠̯̟̞͖̣͉̩̦̙͎͈̘̟̩̗̻̳̟̫̻̪̣͚͋͒
An impossibly intricate wheel in my mind, composed of countless interconnected designs. Oh. Inspired Inventor. The name for the power surfaced naturally, as though it had always in my mind.
I stared into the sky. No more eyes. Good. Guess everything has a price, huh. At least I have something to help me.
I have something to help me. I can do something for myself. I can save myself. I don't have to die.
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
I don't have to die! I don't need my family! I'm free!
Thank you, Unspeakable Horrors from the Abyss, guess you guys are pretty fucking cool!
I feel feverish with joy! I can't help it! Even before all this weird Isekai stuff, I felt pretty hopeless, in both my lives. Now I can do something for myself! I can feel it. The mental image of an infinite library while possessing a pass for a simple book... For now. One charge. Just one charge, but I can get others. I understand this instinctively.
Ha. Ahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Materials science. Metallurgy. Medicine. Agriculture. War. Swordsmanship. Greensight. Architecture. Runes. Shipbuilding. Chemistry. Alchemy. Archery. All mine, in time.
I won! I super duper won! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA! Get fucked Daemon, you cunt, I'm now more of a Dragonlord than you could ever even imagine being. Get fucked Viserys! Get fucked Rhaenyra! I Won! I WON!
Any field. Any discipline. I simply can't stop laughing. Why was I so worried before? I can do this. I can do everything, with time. Guess this universe possesses a cruel sense of humor. Power and knowledge capable of crushing this World under foot... given to some half drowned rat of a boy beside the rotting corpse of the dragon that he will never have the chance to properly meet.
But I can't get too sad. Seriously, Prevent the Dance? I can solo it. Ah, finally, finally something is going right! My gaze returned to Sunfyre. Should I try to speak something? He is pretty dead, but Sufyre was probably the closest relationship that the Aegon I could have become ever had. "S-sorry coff". Argh, my throat is too raw from the whole drowning stuff. Let's try again. "I'm sorry, Sunfyre. I don't think we'll fly together in this world. And thank you. I think you were the price for all of this. I will not let it go to waste".
Then the roar came. The sound shattered the night. A declaration from an age when mankind hid in caves and prayed not to be eaten. Only one dragon on this Island eats other dragons. I rose instantly. My eyes searched the sky. A shadow was crossing the moon.
A dragon slowly spiralled down from the clouds. Tattered wings stretched across the beach like the Stranger's cloak. Scars covered its lean, gaunt body. Green eyes burned like Wildfyre. The Cannibal. Dragonstone's most infamous kinslayer... At least, until the Dance. Descending toward me, or at very least, towards what remained of Sunfyre. Guess he wants a repeat, with a side dish of me.
My heart hammered. The Inspired Inventor stirred within my mind. One charge waiting... And one really ugly dragon approached. The Cannibal grew closer.
Okay, let's do this. One charge. Hope this works.
Valyrian Sorcery
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What is magic?
Ahead and above me, the Cannibal opened its maw. A deluge of acid-green flames surged toward me.
I'm pretty sure that everyone who has ever read a fantasy novel or an old fairy tale has dreamed of using magic, casting fireballs and lightning bolts and things like that. But all that, the whole spellcasting thing, is Sorcery or Wizardry. Seriously, what is Magic?
Nͥykͬeͧᶫ ͤdēͭmͪaͤgᶠoᶫnͣ ͫpͤe̾rzys! ~ ͥNyͬkͧᶫeͤ dͭēͪmͤag̾oⷦnͥ ͤj̾ēdar!
The storm of dragonfire imploded on itself. The resulting (and quite spectacular) gust of hot air hit me, but some fast but careful Working of mine both protected me and leeched the power from the seething winds. So, let's gather some of the potential on my left hand, some somatic gestures here and there and…
Gͬīͤmͫiͤgͫoⷡnͤ ͬqiͭlͪōͤnyⷲ!ͪᶤᵖ
A flaming whip struck the Cannibal on its ugly, scaly nose. Point to me, Shitzilla. A horrible roar nearly burst my eardrums. "Oh, screw you, you crybaby! That didn't even hurt you!" Well, that's a lie. There's a smoldering line of broken scales and boiling black blood on the dragon's face, but honestly, thats Cannibal's fault. This dumb dragon should simply stop being so ugly in my presence! (Strong boys, beware!).
Anyways, magic!
Magic as a force always occupied a unique place in the minds of people. The fantastic, the grotesque, the wonder and the horror, in this World and in my past one.
Thing is, I don't have a slightest fucking idea of what is magic. No one here does. When I spent my charge on Valyrian Sorcery, my mind expanded like the pockets of your average Brazilian politician in their first year on the job. But while that granted me a deep and wide understanding of the Ways and Workings (and some free lessons of High Valyrian too. Eat your heart out, Aemond!), it didn't really give me much knowledge about Magic as a… Metaphysical Force. I think that is because the Valyrians didn't really understand it. They learned the do's and dont's of the High Mysteries with some centuries and millennia of trial and error and human sacrifices, but the Force that they used as the backbone of their Civilization simply defied true understanding. Magic is magic, after all. And so… "Hey, wait, come back here, you fuck!"
The Cannibal, deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, turned its back to me and jumped in the air. Its huge wings cracked like thunder, creating what is pretty much a small hurricane. Fucker is running away! Well, flying away. And while that is good for my personal safety, I really need a dragon at the moment. The Cannibal kinda ate my old (future) one.
"Get back here and let me tame you!"
Jͭëͪaͤu'ͪvͤeͣnͮzͤzⷫa̾ i̾oͪsͣᶫrᶫeᶠ!ͣᶫᶫ
The dragon fell on the ground with a gut wrenching impact. I think that I actually felt my ribs shaking, which is pretty bad, because the whole shipwrecking thing broke some of them. Oh, how I did that? Well, you see, the really big dragons shouldn't be capable of flying. Kinda like bees, but with more fire and sulphur. There is some innate magic on their bodies, especially on their bones, that makes their flight a possibility. And that is the magic of the Air (Capitalized "A" necessary). So, if you don't want a Dragon to fly, you must remove the "Winds" from their wings. Not just literally, mind you. You have to mess with the Supernatural Footprint (Wingprint?) of the Dragon. Super easy! Note to self: if the Dance ever happens, just make Caraxes and Meleys fall from the skies. That is a lot easier than having my dragon pick a fight with them.
Oh, the Cannibal is pretty angry now. It is advancing in my direction. I guess that if fire doesn't work, and neither does flying away, crushing and tearing your enemy to blood pieces is your only way forward, huh? Well, tough luck, Shitzilla, but its not going to b… Dodge! Cannibal's tail almost crushed me flat. Ah, man, I really shouldn't be moving like that.
But that's… How losers think! Pain helps! Internal bleeding helps! Valyrian sorcery is all about Fire and Blood, and I'm bleeding here!
I jumped on the rotten corpse of Sunfyre. Sorry, pal.
Bͨeͪlͣmͥoⷫnͤ ͩrȳͥ ⷫmoͩrͤgͣhͭoͪn ~ Āⷡᶫnͦoͦgͩarͥ ̾sᶠyͥtͬ ͤperzys! ~ Āⷡᶫnͦoͦgͩarͬ ͤgͫīͤmͫiⷡgͤoͬn̾!
The body under me rotted away like ten millenia just passed. The rotten flesh, scales and blood just broke down into a dust that smelled like rust and sulphur, with the black bones under it cracking into little chips.
Sunfyre was born in Dragonstone. He flew into these skies, preyed on the animals of the Island, and rested in the caves of the Dragonmount. This place was his whole life... and lives are power.
You see, one thing that Magic, whatever it is, has in common with the laws of the material world is organization. Everything is made with smaller things, Order and Symmetry, and so on. The thing is: for Magic purposes, things are made of memories. And everything remembers some of the Past of another thing. Case in point: Sunfyre, in his short life, saw some pretty big storms. The Narrow Sea can be pretty awful in the Autumn.
J̾eͭlͦmͬāͫz̾maͨ ͣᶫcᶫhau'llva!
14 consecutive lightning bolts struck the Cannibal. Not "normal" lightning bolts, mind you, but great pillars of tempestuous fury painted red and purple. Ouch! I hope I didn't kill It by accident. Well, if the worst happens, I can try again with Vermithor.
Oh, another roar. An utterly frustrated one, this time. The Cannibal is pretty hurt, but fortunately, not in a lethal or crippling way. Mad green eyes looked down at me, and I felt the finality of its submission: its bargain for the chain of smoke and fire forged in my blood by generations of my Ancestors. Cannibal, the mad wild dragon, devourer of the young of its own kind, became mine. "Heh, so you can be pretty smart when you try". I could feel the song of the bond in my veins. Step one done.
Well, you must be asking, oh invisible observer from my past World, something like: if I am some big dick mage, why do I need a dragon? Well, my friend, it's because dragons are Power. My charge in Valyrian Sorcery didn't make me into some mere Sorcerer Prince. More than that, it made me a Tinker, Thinker and Trump focused on Valyrian Magicks. But even the lowest among the Sorcerers of the Freehold had several sources of power at their disposal. Dragons, human sacrifices, places of power (Why do you guys think that my Honored Ancestors lived in the middle of this World most volatile volcanic zone?). Half of the bullshit I just did now was only possible because of the lingering presence of the Eldritch power on the air... and because a Dragon without a rider, like my Cannibal, is pretty much just a free furnace of magical power for any half competent Willworker. In other words, I cheated. Relentlessly.
But… I might not get the chance nor the means to cheat again in the future, so covering my bases is important. After taking some deep breaths (Something that hurt pretty bad with my busted ribs) to recover, I started approaching my new dragon.
"We are going to have lots of fun together". I said, touching the new scar on its nose. It (She? The Cannibal kinda feels female, now. Oh, well, it doesn't really matter. Dragons are fire made flesh, and their gender is an ever-changing mystery) flinched a little. "Lots and lots of fun. Heh. I even have a name for you. Mother is going to hate it".
Alicent Hightower hated Dragonstone. She hated the walls, the grotesque gargoyles everywhere, she hated the Heart Tree at Aegon's garden, the Sea Dragon's Tower, the Kitchens, the Stone Drumm, the Painted Table, everything.
Most of all, she hated what is called a sept on this castle. The place is richly decorated, with its gilded altars and stained glass. Here, the statues of the Seven were carved from the masts of the ships which brought House Targaryen from Valyria to Dragonstone, carefully painted and decorated with jewells. She hated them.
She hated how the sept was warm. She hated that. Everything upon Dragonstone was warm. The walls sweated in the summer with the servants. They sweated in the fall, spring and winter too. The stones retained their cursed heat even in the middle of the night. When she walked, the floors seemed to breathe hot air beneath her slippers. The heat was oppressive in a caustic way that no summer noon on the Reach could even compare. It was pure enmity, like this cursed place wanted her out. Even from a distance the castle had appeared less built than conjured, less a fortress than an act of demoniac defiance against the innate goodness of the natural creations the Seven, a monument erected by the foul race of inbred sorcerers that were, and still are, incapable of not looking down upon the World.
She hated the Dragons that curled around doorways, supported arches, leered down from towers, opened their stone mouths to form gates through which noblemen passed as though entering the maw of some slumbering monster. Even the kitchens possessed dragon nostrils. Absolutely nothing within Dragonstone allowed one to forget what family had made this place. What blood flowed within her children.
Her four children. All alive. Aegon is well, he will appear, he must be well, it's not the end, pleasepleasepleaseMotherinHeavenshemustbewell
A thunder broke through her prayers. Another thing that she hated in this place. How sometimes, in the most inconvenient moments, even the smallest sounds grew and grew AND GREW.... Until a rat ended with a dragon's roar. A thunderclap then... is much, much worse.
At times she fancied she could feel a pulse moving through the mountain beneath the castle, slow and heavy and old, like the heartbeat of some buried beast sleeping with its nightmares beneath layers of rock and ash. She had hated Dragonstone from the moment she first saw it emerging from the mist, so many years ago, before her Aegon even was born. She hated this place even more now. And she now truly understood the mutuality of this hatred. How to explain the Storm, otherwise?
But hatred has no part in prayer. So she keeps praying while trying to stop hating. A ghastly challenge. There is much to hate here. Like the Dragons everywhere. Stone dragons. Flesh dragons. But the human ones were the worst. Alicent could feel the hidden laughter in the Whore's eyes when she gave her condolences. Condolences! Her Aegon is not dead. He can't be. He can't be dead. Please gods, he can't be dead. Please, I swear to be better, to be kinder, just bring him back. Bring him back, bring him back now!
By the time Alicent Hightower, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, realized she had ceased praying and begun bargaining with her Gods, the candles surrounding the Mother's altar had already burned low enough that the streams of wax that ran down the iron holders started to have some likeness to the fingers of some hag from her mother's old stories. She could not say exactly how much time she had spent kneeling upon the stone floor of Dragonstone's sept, for time had become a distinctly treacherous thing since the Storm. 3 days, give or take. Not more than that, surely? It cannot be more than that. No little boy can survive more than that on these seas. No little boy can survive even 3 days on the Sea. He is dead.
3 days. Her little Aegon, her firstborn, disappeared into that awful Storm 3 days past. 3 days measured not by the ringing of bells or the changing colors of the sky but by reports brought by soaked sailors and fisherman, by bloated corpses bought by the tides, by utterly useless whispers and reassurances from servants who could not meet her eyes, by the widening silence surrounding the absence of her eldest son.
3 days. Disappointment. Those were her last words for him. Truth be told, Alicent doesn't really remember the last time that she showed him any amount of true affection. It was necessary. Really. Aegon was is to be king, and kings must be fierce and wise, qualities that her little boy sadly lacked. But... If the Gods were to bring him back, she would change. She will be a loving, caring, kind mother and nothing more. Others be damned, may her husband have the job of properly educating her baby. She just wants him back. Please, please, please, please, I will be good, I will be kind, I will be a better person, I will be good, I will be kind, I will be a better person, I will be good, I will be kind, I will be a better person, I will be good, I will be kind, I will be a better person, I will be good, I will be kind, I will be a better person, I will be good, I will be kind, I will be a better person, please, please, please, please!
"You are hurting yourself, Your Grace". Criston's grave voice took her from her prayers. Ah, she hurt her hands with her necklace. A crystal seven-pointed star. Her mother's last gift, something more worthy than any amount of gold in the world. What was her last gift for Aegon? She can't remember. Did she let the Keep Steward's choose something again? When did she become so cold blooded?
"Leave me to my prayers, Ser Criston". Her voice sounded firm. Good, Queens should never cry. But isn't she a mother too? Shouldn't she cry, at least a little? What kind of degenerate would not cry for a lost son? Maybe some awful monster like Rhaenyra. Someone proud and vain like the Whore would never weep for bastard blood, even if begotten from her own womb.
Alicent made the sign of the seven-pointed star with her bloodied hands. Then she did it again. And again and again and again... 7 times for Seven Gods. One should never pray for the Stranger, but she must, or It might come for her Aegon. Ah. This is bad. She made the sign of the seven-pointed star again. Because doubt was sin. So is resentment. And so is anger. And she possessed all three in abundance. "A hundred candles," she tried again. "My Father Above, my Mother Gentle, let him return and I shall light a hundred candles every year until my dying day."
Silence. Her only answer was the whisper of distant waves and the sounds of the fierce rain. The sounds that took away her Aegon. Somewhere outside, very far away, a dragon roared. The sound traveled through stone. Alicent closed her eyes. She despised dragons.
Once, as a child, she imagined flying on Jaehaery's Bronze Fury. Like all little girls, she greatly desired being a queen. But not any queen, she wanted to be the Good Queen Alicent, loved from the Wall to the Dornish Marches, and married to a loving and powerful man that would give her the World. She did end up meeting Jaehaerys on his last days. It was not a disappointment, despite what some thought. The old King was kind and wise, and even blinded and sick, he was the best conversationalist she ever knew. Alicent became his constant companion. She fetched his meals, helped him wash and dress, and read to him. In the end, when old age took away his wits, King Jaehaerys used to mistake her for one of his daughters, especially Saera. That also was a secret joy, for Alicent liked to be dear to someone that truly favored her. Her own Father, Knight, Scholar and King's Hand, was alien to the ways of kindness and love, and rarely showed her any affection in her early years.
But the Dragons… The Dragons were the deception. Ugly, Monstruous, Ever hungry. Their awful smell of sulphur and butchery was nauseating.
She ended up hating the Beasts. Not openly. Never openly. That would be unwise. Especially with her father's ambitions. One did not marry a Targaryen king while openly despising dragons.
So, she learned instead to smile politely while Viserys and Daemon spoke lovingly of creatures capable of reducing entire cities full of honest and pious men to ash. In the Red Keep, a Lady must learn to pretend fast. Alicent, always the finest of the ladies (for her father would not accept anything less from her), had become very skilled at pretending. She had pretended to love Viserys, after all. Pretended to desire him.
Pretended to enjoy lying beside a fat man old enough to have watched her grow from child into woman, whose hands were frequently slick from honey and fat from his food. She pretended and pretended while he sought affection from a young woman who had never truly been asked whether she wished to give it.
But bitterness was inconvenient, so Alicent also pretended happiness. And gratitude, and contentment. Anything that a Good Queen should have. She had smiled while producing Viserys' children. Smiled while nursing infants. Above all, she smiled while listening to stories about a dead woman whose memory inhabited every chamber of the Red Keep more completely than Alicent herself ever could. Aemma Arryn. Always Aemma. The first wife, oh so perfect, with her silver hair and purple eyes and fair skin. The mother of his heir. The beloved one. The woman Viserys still mourned while Alicent warmed his bed. If he truly mourned her, he could have waited some years.
Alicent hated herself for thinking such thoughts. But hatred is so much easier than grief. Because while grief is exhausting, hatred exalts. And there was so very much to hate.
She hated Viserys for insisting upon this journey. She hated his foolish optimism, his stupid delusions. His sincere belief that families healed naturally if only one smiled enough. They don't. Alicent smiled more than anyone. That never helped. She hated his determination to visit Rhaenyra after the Whore shated yet another ill-bred mongrel of such an obvious bastardy that every man with a set of functioning eyes would realize the sin committed.
Most of all, she hated that she had allowed herself to be persuaded to come here with her children. No. Not really persuaded. Managed. Like some lowly servant. She had spent years being managed, after all. By her father. By her husband. By her duty. By the Kingdom's expectations. Again and again and again.
Viserys had commanded her gently and kindly. As he always did. Who would raise a voice against a lesser, after all? Not the King of the Andals and Rhoynars and First Men. He had suggested that Aegon might enjoy traveling separately. He was is not close to his younger siblings, after all. Aegon would surely delight in accompanying several young squires aboard another vessel. That would make things less crowded, no? More comfortable, for him, yes, and for them. Aegon, after all, is always doing some kind of rascality. It would be good for him to be among some other boys of his age. Aemond is, after all, too bookish for his elder brother's tastes, no?
She remembered seeking Aegon. He did not appreciate the idea. An awful irony, for Alicent is sure that Aegon would have loved the idea if she was not the one to present it. Aegon never liked the tone that she used when she talked to him.
Alicent was too tired after a full day being looked down upon by her husband, and even more tired by the promise of an awful night by his side before the trip. And Aegon was is so convenient, with his silver hair and purple eyes and fair skin. With his awful temper, his sullen moods, his incessant need for validation and attention. It was is always a fight when they talked. Why not? A Mother should discipline her children. And Aegon needs it. Alicent just worries about him, truly. She worries a lot.
Mother's mercy. Why couldn't she be kind to her son? It's so pathetically easy to hate Aegon that Alicent could not help but to love doing it. So, again. Some stupid fight with her first son, her little baby. And if the poison inside her spilled, that was good, for that helped her, it made her feel better about herself and her place in the world, and helped Aegon to grow into the hard man he will need to be one day.
She remembered the storm, the ship with her son moving between the waves like a toy being thrown away by a misbehaving toddler. She did not see the moment that the ship was lost. By that time, Viserys had commanded Ser Criston to take her inside the ship for her own safety. Fool. What use does a mother have for safety when her child is lost on the Seas?
And now there's only absence. Alicent was confident that, if the Mother in Heaven had descended upon the World before that Storm and asked her what she truly felt for Aegon, she would have answered, for her eternal shame, that she truly hated him. Now she knows how awfully wrong she was. She loves her son. She loves her desperately. She would gladly strangle every man and woman and child in this Castle, except for her other children, to see Aegon again. Would that please the Stranger? So many lives for only one, surely that is a great bargain, no?
Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm wicked, just give him back, I'm begging you!
Ah, she is shaking. This castle is useless beyond belief. All this heat and she is still cold.
Aegon is gone. There's no body. The remains of his ship were washed ashore some two days ago. Maybe three? Surely not four. No survivors found, just bloated corpses being served like food for the crabs. There's only guilt now, cloyingly and tart like some Maester's potion. A mother's guilt is the worst kind of all, because it fed endlessly upon possibility. If she had insisted, If she had argued, If she had refused, If she had embraced him longer, If she had boarded his ship instead, If, If, If. The whole word had become a knife, and each and every single "If" twisted it deeper. She tried to start praying again, but the words kept escaping her. How can a mother remember how to pray after one of her children dies? Mother in Heaven will understand, no? She is a mother herself. A better and kinder mother than Alicent Hightower, who used her eldest son merely as a means to lash against her sorrows.
The Dragon roar at the distance started to grow. Unbearable. That she had to pray and grief in this awful castle is already bad enough, but couldn't she have some measure of peace for that?
She lowered her head. Tears struck stone. She had not noticed herself crying. Good. A good mother should cry for her son. She looked again toward the statue of the Mother. The candlelight flickered, and for a moment, she thought the statue's expression had changed into a sorrowful grimace. A mother mourning another mother. Alicent swallowed hard to not laugh. She ended up coughing hard enough to almost fall on her face. Ah, I'm more tired than I thought. When did she sleep for the last time? A little before coming to the Island, on the ship? She was sleeping, as a child rocking on her mothers embrace, while the waves broke down the ship with her son on it? How shameless can she be? The only one that she should hate is herself. But she still hates everyone else too. She whispered words she had spent years refusing to admit.
"I do not know how to not hate them."
Viserys. Her father. Rhaenyra. Herself. The Seven, that made this ridiculous Vale of tears and filled it with their children. But that's a sin, so Alicent should try to pray again. She cannot be wicked, because the prayers of the wicked are attended by the Stranger, and it can take her son away, and she just wants him back.
A Dragon roar shattered any hope of her completing the prayers. Loud, too loud and too close. Behind her, Ser Criston turned to the terrible sound. "I don't know this roar". Alicent felt something deep, very, very deep on herself. Deeper than her lungs, as deep as her heart... As her womb. She knew! That Castle felt very warm, but in a distant way, now. Drained. She rose from her knees so fast that she almost fell, but Ser Criston, ever reliable, secured her arm. She took it from him and ran.
Alicent scarcely remembered the moment that she left the sept. She could hear Ser Criston behind her, all metal grinding on metal, but somehow she ran faster than him, faster than she could ever have run before. She ran for what felt like hours, fell and rose again twice, as she ran and ran and ran, towards the roar, for reasons that she could not really explain. Somehow, somehow, somehow!
Afterward, when she attempted to reconstruct the sequence of events, she could only recall fragments, disconnected impressions suspended within her memory like insects trapped inside amber, the sensation of warm air touching her face like she crossed a gallery open to the sky, the quick and uneven rhythm of her own breathing, the sound of slippers striking warm black stone, servants flattening themselves against walls to permit her passage, candles guttering within sconces shaped as dragon claws, and somewhere above it all the endless groaning of Dragonstone itself, as though the mountain beneath the castle shifted restlessly in its sleep. She ran while some mad hope inexplicably founded itself on her heart.
Hope was merely another name for surrendering oneself to disappointment. Yet mothers were weak where their children were concerned.
What Alicent remembered, what she would never allow herself to forget, was what she found in the Castle yard. Confusion. Fear. Voices overlapped with screams. Guards and Servants and Dragonkeepers, all screaming orders. Some wenches were weeping and praying.
On the yard, a monstrosity borne of her blackest nightmares stood roaring. The sound struck stone and rebounded from tower to tower until Dragonstone seemed momentarily transformed into an enormous bell ringing above the Seven Hells.
Alicent Hightower hated dragons. Not simply because they inspired fear. The daughter of Otto Hightower was no craven. No, she hated dragons because they represented every part of House Targaryen that she had spent years trying unsuccessfully to understand, and that, for her secret shame, she deeply envies. Their undeserved power and their unearned privilege. Their Freedom.
Upon the Dark Beast, there was a Pale Child. Her child.
Her baby boy was sitting upon an immense gaunt monster. Its ragged wings covered the yard. Scars crossed its scales. Jagged horns crowned its head. Green eyes burned like the flames upon the Tower that she still calls home in her heart. Green. Of course it would be green. We are at war after all. Even if no one is brave enough to call it by its true name. The Cannibal. Her baby boy tamed the Cannibal. Alicent knew the stories. Everyone does. The dragon that devoured hatchlings. The beast that never knew a rider.
Her first coherent thought was the absurd practicality of that.
Her father would be delighted by the symbolism. A black dragon for a Conqueror. Her fool of a husband would speak for hours about ancient blood and divine favor and destiny. The storm was a gift, can't you see, Alicent? Even catastrophe could become prophecy if one possessed enough dragonlord blood. She took one step forward. Then another. People in the yard were screaming or whispering. Someone screamed for the King. Most just stared openly. The Dragonkeepers spoke rapidly in Valyrian, looking pale. Alicent cared for none of it. There existed only the rider, with his silver hair, and his purple eyes and fair skin. Aegon.
Dirty, bruised, bloody and battered. His clothes were so torn that he was almost naked. His fine hair was a tangled mess. He had thin scratches crossing his face, arms and chest. He was alive. Entirely alive. Alive and sitting victorious above the most terrifying creature Alicent had ever seen. She should have rejoiced. She should have fallen to her knees thanking the Seven. Instead she became angry. Instantly and violently angry, without reservations. Because she had spent days mourning him, days bargaining with gods, days hating herself. She was angry because he had returned riding a monster. Because he was smiling. The little fool was smiling.
Some of the braver Dragonkeepers were helping Aegon to dismount his dragon. She did not care about that. Alicent crossed the courtyard. People moved aside. No one dared intervene. By the time her son had dismounted his beast, she was close enough to see the sand on his hair. Alicent saw the exact moment Aegon noticed her. Her smile widened, becoming both more genuine and an infuriating mockery. Furious indignation filled her heart. "Good night, Mother! What's the latest news from Dragonstone?"
She struck him, hard and cruelly enough for the sound to echo in the Yard. Her palms were stinging harder. She felt herself starting to cry again. "You, You…"
"Me, me!". Aegon continued to smile. The slap made his nose bleed, but he continued with that awful insolent smile of his. Somehow, seeing her son being so unapologetic... happy to see her twist the knives of guilt more than if he had cried. The anger drained of her so fast that she became lightheaded. Then her son jumped on her, and she fell with her backside on the hard ground. Insolent brat. "Heh, I love you too, Mother". Her whole body was trembling. She hated that. Queens were not supposed to tremble. But… She hugged him back. Hard enough that he started to hiss.
That black beast of him started to get agitated. Her son just barked a command in High Valyrian and it stilled. He's actually listening to his lessons. Alicent knew that Aegon was just pretending to not pay attention to annoy her. He was aways like that.
"Hey, Mother?" Her little monster smiled again. "My dragon's name is Issaros". A finger of ice descended her spine. She must have made some strange expression, because Aegon stopped smiling and looked at her with concern. Issaros. Stranger. I guess that you can bargain with the Gods, after all. Alicent fainted.Last edited: Saturday at 7:39 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:AkiraStorm, VxCxL, Cernunnus and 795 othersVictor-FigueiredoJun 18, 2026Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2 - Dreams New View contentVictor-FigueiredoNot too sore, are you?Jun 20, 2026NewAdd bookmark#35Sleep never really came to me naturally. In both my lives, I was something of a night owl. This night promises to be even worse than usual. To start: my bound ribs. I'm pretty sure that modern medicine in my previous reality didn't recommend it because restricting the chest wall prevents lung expansion or something along those lines. Well, tell that to the Maesters. What do I know about healing, anyways. Bunch of cunts.
The chamber afforded to me upon Dragonstone was pretty damn comfortable by the standards of medieval aristocracy, which was to say that it was large enough to house 3 different families, expensive enough to remind visitors of the innate superiority of the House of the Dragon, remember any guest of their own inferior social status, and of course, utterly ill-suited to accommodate any 21th century Isekai victim accustomed to the wonders of electrical illumination, modern plumbing, and mattresses that did not appear to have been designed as a test of spiritual discipline. Well, at least this place is pretty warm. I've always liked that about Dragonstone.
That said, I can at least say that the nameless colors streaking across the ceiling like an Aurora Borealis are very good at helping someone relax. No, my possibly imaginary friends, I didn't drink. Aegon-that-was hasn't started that little habit yet, Thanks the Seven. Ah, good Maester Gerardys tried to get me to drink some Milk of the Poppy, but I refused. My face is quite handsome as it is, thank you very much, I don't think the pufferfish look would suit me very well. No, my friends, what I am seeing is the flow of power passing through the witchstone wroughted by my ancestors. When people talk about the Valyrian Blackstone, they usually comment on its indestructibility, or maybe its polished appearance. Nobody really has reason to comment on how perfect this material is for draining and focusing power. Every Castle, Fortress, and Topless Tower built by my ancestors is an instrument of war and conquest. Of course, the existence of Dragonstone makes it clear that the Dragonlords of old had some plan for Westeros... But then, why did they wait so long? The White Walkers? Greenseers? Barney the Dinosaur? No. I don't think so. At least, not directly.
Did you know that the Sorcerer Princes of the Freehold had Grand Rituals focused on protecting large areas from supernatural attacks? Because I do now. Inspired Inventor for the win! It's incredible how much use I'm making of a single charge. And no, I'm not talking about basic-bitch wards against spells, but the Big Stuff™. I think one of my ancestors found something that really scared them in the Green Hell of Sothoryos... Or maybe in the Far East of Essos. On that note, did you guys know that the Valyrians spent centuries studying the other magical black stone around? You know, the oily and gross one. Well, you guys know now. Ah, by the time of the Doom, bringing any of that stuff into the Lands of Aways Summer was punishable by life sentence... in Gogossos. How do I know all this? Well, my charge on Valyrian Sorcery kind of spoon-fed me some history (and sociology and philosophy. Shut up Aemond, this shit is still useless, you weren't right. I'm not coping). Kinda like an Engineering Course gives you some background for context.
I'm pretty damn sure that most of the weird stuff in this World is the result of Eldritch fuckery. Westeros have a chunk of Oily Black Stone in the Iron Islands, and there's the whole Merling King weirdness on the Narrow Sea. Note to self: burn the Velaryon's Driftwood Throne. Let's not take any chances. The only one who can mess with eldritch stuff is me! Oh, and the White Walkers too, I guess. Are they the ice fey from the books or the ice golems from the show? Point is: Something in Westeros spooked my ancestors. Which is quite impressive, because these guys were usually the ones who spooked the others.
And speaking of Eldritch fuckery: I got two new charges. Normally, when someone reads a story with the Inspired Inventor powerset , the charges come in a periodic way, like the ticking of a clock. One day, one week, one month, it doesn't matter.
That's not how it is for me. What was Inspired Inventor? Not mechanically, mind you. Ontologically.
Magic?
Nah. Planetosi magic felt organic, messy, symbolic and emotional. Almost aware. And decidedly malicious. It's all about Sacrifice: Dragons required blood, the Others required death, Shadowbinding required vitality, Greensight seemed both hereditary and bound to physical problems. Brynden Rivers had his Albinism and Brandon Stark had his huge nose (and the whole broken spine too, I guess). Basically, everything magical within this world shared one characteristic, not matter how poorly defined were the foundations and spiritual principles. It behaved narratively. Like... drums, please: a Song!
It's about meaning. Kingsblood, Names, Sacrifice, Stories, the Seasons... And so on.
Magic seemed less... interested in physics than symbolism. It functioned because existence itself respected metaphor.
Inspired Inventor did not. And that kinda terrifies me.
Because if Planetosi magic resembled religion..., then Inspired Inventor resembled engineering. And engineering implied engineers. Someone built it. My thoughts drifted back toward the sea. Toward the ̴̡̥̲̗̃̃͠C̸̛̛̛͎̈͒̌i̸̢̢̛̱͇̝̫̫̽̈́͆̓̾ty. Okay, why I am so worked up? I already knew (or suspected) of all that. Well, I guess that if Ignorance is a Blessing, Knowledge is a curse. A contamination of the soul. And my charge on Valyrian Sorcery gave me lots of Knowledge. Maybe the old fucks in Ancient Greece were right about the whole judgement of Socrates. Why did that idiot feel entitled to corrupt the poor Youth of Athens?
That's not a productive line of thought.
...
My version of Inspired Inventor seems to work based on the basic principles of Input and Output. So... What is the Input?
Shortly after I managed to mount Cannibal, I felt two metaphorical meteors strike my soul. Well, if we go by conventional logic, the facts point to my power rewarding me for my feat... But somehow, that explanation seems wrong to me. It's more... as if my reach had increased. But why exactly? Because I corrupted Cannibal, of course. Whatever problem that mad dragon had before, at least she (?) hadn't been touched by the sticky tentacles of things that exist beyond this world. The moment I forced the bond with her, the moment I gave the dragon her new name... I felt the fundamental change in her nature. And, having no small knowledge of the nature of blood magic and soul bonds, I can only state that this corruption originated from me. Apparently, accepting gifts from the Forces of the A̵̫̒byss has consequences? Who could have imagined?
With all this in mind, I think that it's quite clear that this power of mine is rewarding me for how much I can corrupt the world around me. Basically, the more I align the world and the things in it with my new nature, the more charges I gain, and with each new charge, the more I become capable of corrupting everything around me. An eldritch cycle!
Of course, this brings me to a small problem: I don't exactly want to turn this world into Cthulhu's toilet or something. I live here! That is, I have to be selective with the powers I have and careful how I use them. At least, for now. I've already decided to leave one of my new charges for later. The other... It could be my broken ribs talking, but I really need a way to not be so physically fragile anymore. Something that helps me both in the short and long term, and that gives me combat options that don't alter the fundamental reality of the world.
I could choose something like swordsmanship and become the first true sword autist in this world, but I don't think it's wise to use something as precious as my charges on something I can try to learn on my own. Better to use it on something I could never learn in this world. Something I can learn on my own, that won't blow my body up, that doesn't require special equipment that I can't replicate. In that case… Oh, yes! Luthor Strode, my beloved!
Hercules Method
It worked, huh. Good. Let's see if I can use this to shorten the healing time of my ribs... And see if I gain some extra inches in height by the time I become an adult. Just 15 or so. I've always wanted to be a really tall guy. What? Is this a very petty use of my unfathomable cosmic power? Yes, it is! I love it!
Uh, that actually took a lot of effort… Maybe it is because it's a powerset alien to this reality? Well, that kinda helped with the whole "can't sleep" thing. Time to sleep, I guess.
I̵̬̕ ̷̝̽d̶̟͆r̷͖͒i̷̗̋f̷̧̏t̸͍͠e̶̗͒d̴͖͝.̷̱̚
That was probably the most accurate description. It's still quite wrong.
I d̸r̵i̵f̸ted between wakefulness and sleep, between memory and recollection, between the body of a child and the mind of a man who once spent idle nights discussing metaphysics, speculative fiction, and the ontological implications of sufficiently advanced technologies in internet forums that no longer existed and perhaps never had. If each universe is a dream bubble about to burst, do the things that inhabit it truly... exist?
A̷̡̯͙͚̻̙͚̯̬̹̩̭͂̈́̕͜ͅş̷̧̱̟̲͙̗͖̩̙̠̟͉̩͕̩̻̺̪̰̯̍̌͆̀̅̄̊̀̈́̓̕̕̚͝͝ͅ ̴̡̤̝̩͔̓̽͗̀͋̓̉̒͒̈́̀͐̀̈͂͊͆̉̾͋̕͘͘Ǎ̵͍͕̟̹͉̙͔̤̳͖̗̭̳̦̫̞͑̿͆͋̀̂̈́̿̈́̿̎̌̚͠b̵̡̞̲͓̗̝̗͚̺̌̇̎̑̽͌̀̃̋̚ò̶̧̝̲̜̪͔̫͔̙̗͎͕̣̭̜̭̖̯̮̜͓́̈́̾̊̓̽̈́̀̒͐̈̎̀̏͛͌͗̀̊̒̂͠v̴̛̛̞͓͙̤̺̻̭̻̜͕̭̩̭̟̎̓͂̏̋̀̉̔͗̂̽̀̔͂͒̃̕͝ͅȩ̸̢̻͙̬͇̥̹͔̫͎̲͈̭͉͖͙̤͈̟͕̮͌̿͐̄̚͘̚ͅ,̷̱͍̻̤̫͉̭̠̊͒̔͑̔̉̎̿̓̃̈́̔͋͛̇̔̑͒̚͘̚̚͠ͅ ̷̨̦͕̩̹̫̘̹̮̗̅̆͊̈̇̎͐͠S̷̡̧̳͚̪͈͔͔͈̦͕̤̯̰̲̖̗̪̗̿́̉̔̏̄̀͌̑̈́́̊̆̄̉̕ơ̵̞̫͍͈̥̻̼͔͌̐͌̊͒̒̾͛̋͂͑͑̅̾̾̚͘̕͝͠ͅ ̸̡̳̖̦͇̩͚͓̼̙̯̗̮͇̘̘̾ͅB̷̨̧̠̦̮̯̩̞̜̀̾̒̐͑̿̓ͅͅͅè̸̠̖͚̠̣͓̹͇̥̗͈͇̭͕͎̫̳͎̥̖̬̩̺̗̓̔͋̽̉͂̈͋̃̑͐͋̈́̓̂̈́̀̄̽̚l̵̟̮̣͙̳͍͈̯͎͎̮̠͇͔̺̰̱̀̍̾̀͋̊̓͐̌̆͛͆̌̾̍͌̚̚͘͝͝͝͝l̷̳̠̱̞͙̈́̄̈̊̐͒͐́̍̈́̈́̔̾̓̂͘̕͘ǫ̵̢̧̛̬̳̪̙̰̘̖̪̳̙̳͖̥̳͔̺͈͑͗͐̾̿̑̌́̀̄̿̎̋̽̐̿̕͘ͅw̸̨̰̩̻͉̥̲̹̤̬͚̝̰̘̮̮͔̩͙̦̼͓̎̽̑͗̄̀̄͑̇̏̈̓̂̐͒̈́̆̑͘̚ͅ.̶̘͓̤̰͙̘̝̩̝͍̳̠̮͉̦̱̥̤̺̩̱̬̣͌̒͂̄̓̅̔̌̀̐̈̑̔̽̽̓̂͂̍͘͝͝ ̸̟̼̙̞̩̝̈́̂͊͂̾̌̈́̎̆̎̽̕͘͠K̶̯̻̺̫̺̬̦̝͈̖̦̮̺̟̠̯͍̲͋̍͂̒͑͊̈̑̔̉̿̓̋̎͋͑̂̆̀̉̆̕͜͠ͅȩ̷̨̧̲͙̞͔̫̪͇̩͉͉̮̦̪͎͙̦̥́̉̓̈̌̇̾̔͛̓̇͌̅͒̈́̌̍̽͘̕͜͜͜͝ͅe̸̡̧̯̹̗̦̻̗̥̯̓̏̾̋̓̂̔̈́͆́́̏͠p̶̢͈̭̩̝͕͚̋̇̅͋̑͑̊̀̈́͂̌̓͂̈́̐̓͌̂̿̕̕̚͘͝ ̷̤̗̥̤̃͐͗̈͒̕͝͠ͅD̴̨̢̨̺͇̰͕̞͙̓̓̀̈́̅̂̉͂͊̆̕r̴̨̪̝̯̻̺͔͖̣̗̮͓̹͉̯̜̝̦͙̦͓͍̰̎͆̓͗̀̑̍͂́̓͌̀̎̓͘͘͜e̸̛͇̹͙͖̊̅̈́̂̃̓͆͒͂͐̇̔́̇͘͠͠ą̵̧̛̯̰͇̤̳̝̳͉̣̭̜̘͈͉͇̥̼͌͌̑͊͌͒̚͜m̸̨͉̻̯͚̲̳͇̋͊̓̾̾̂͗͒̃̄̋̃̏̂͌́̋̀i̷̛̳̝̫̻̬̤͚͈̼̠̜̼͖͎͈͍̬̫̗̪̙͋̋̂̾̌͛͗͒̈́͗̎͒͑͋͘͘͝n̵̨̬̠͚͍͔̠̺̱̠͇͕̺̈̈́̽̔̏̃̀̍̍͛̀̈́̒g̸̥͎͙̗̘̝͚̻̦͙͍͙̘͕̭̍͌͌̅͛̇̓̀͊̌̕͝.̴̨̢̛̟̤̟̳̯͈̭͉͉̙͈̘̀̀̃̌̑͂́͐̀̾̈́͛̃̈́̄̀̚̕͠͝
̴̺͍̉̽͗̕̕
"You look awful".
"Good morn to you too, Helaena, my beloved little sister! Are you well on this wonderful morning?" I said in the most annoying and condescending tone I could manage. Seriously, doesn't this girl know how to read the room? I look like some rejected extra from The Walking Dead.
Oh, yeah, she is, like, 8 years old. Don't be a bitter cunt, Aegon. Nothing about this is her fault.
She just squinted at me, looking a little hurt. Fuck. If you keep acting so cute, I'm going to eat those chubby cheeks of yours. I looked into her eyes. "Sorry, sweet sister. I had a dreadful night. Thank you for worrying".
"Oh, you are quite welcome", she said, then paused a little, looking awkward. "Brother, what exactly are you doing on this window?"
"Aura farming". I said to her with a wan smile. I'm sitting on one of the many hundreds of windowsills of Dragonstone. I've been here quite a while, ever since I managed to break free from the terrible loop of sleep paralysis and dreams of sunken cities made of spiraling towers. After seeing too much of the Abyss, it's only natural to wish for the skies. I actually felt pretty bad about that, because, as a Prince, I have servants specifically to dress me. Well, I could have done it myself, but I was pretty groggy from the lack of sleep, in a bad mood, my ribs ached something awful, and frankly, I was a little curious about this kind of special treatment. It was pretty normal for Aegon, but not for the Man of the other World, you see? But don't worry, my imaginary friends, this time I didn't molest any of the wenches. I'm gonna wait until puberty for that (lol).
I ended up choosing this windowsill because of the amazing view. Unfortunately, the skies are pretty depressing today, a fairly common failing here on this island. Sir Errik is beside me. He took the place of his twin brother as my Sworn Sword. Considering that Sir Arrik was on the same ship as me… Well, let's forget such depressing thoughts.
"Hey, Helaena, do you want to fly with me? After the Dragonkeepers finish with the saddle."
"Oh?" Cute. This girl is simply too cute. It's unbelievable that Aegon thought that she was annoying most of the time. "I… I would quite like that, Aegon." So proper! Every word is properly pronounced, like the expected from a Princess of the Blood. Helaena, marry me! Ah, my Princess fetish is acting up. Too many Disney movies in my first childhood, you must understand. It's not my fault, blame Snow White, Aurora, Cinderella and Elsa. If they didn't want cute little girls like my sister to be molested, they shouldn't have seduced me!
"Argh, I can not resist! Come here my beloved sister, I must bite your cheeks!"
"I knew that you were being too nice! Sir Errik, help me!"
"Ser Errik, do not help her!"
"Your grace, please. It is far too early to your usual chicanery"
"Hey! What could you possibly mean with that?"
I ended up chasing Helaena in circles around poor Ser Errik. Even with my ribs screaming, I eventually caught her. I just gave her a big and nice kiss on the forehead. Uoohh, Princess forehead. Erotic.
Honestly, I was surprised that Ser Errik didn't intervene at any point. He just watched with a sad smile. Oh, yeah, his twin brother died. Duh.
Helaena was glaring at me. Cute. Careful or I will put a baby on you! "You are awful. I will tell…" She trailed off.
"Mother?" She nodded, looking worried. "She is well, beloved. She just needs to sleep". Alicent more or less collapsed after I flew with Issaros to the Castle's Yard. It was quite shocking how the sight of her affected me. Aegon loved his mother fiercely, even with all their fights, and I ended inheriting this love. Not that I'm going to let her use me as a doormat. Child's body or not, I'm a grown man, and I have absolutely no interest in being anyone's emotional punching bag.
Oh, on an unrelated note, I foresee a rather nasty curse of sexual impotence on Viserys' future. Tragic. No marital rape for you, fatass.
"Come", I extended my hand for her. "Let us seek Aemond. I did not see him in the confusion last night." Helaena looked suspiciously at my hand. How mean! It's not like I was thinking of groping her a little. This cute princess really needs some correction!
She ended up holding my hand. We walked together, hand in hand, with Ser Errik following us. I looked at him and I sighed, slightly annoyed. I firmly believe that condolences are useless, but I don't want to seem like a barbarian. Some manners are the least one expects from a prince.
"Your brother will be in my prayers tonight, Ser." He will not. I will never pray again in my life, not because I don't believe in Gods, but because I know that some Things can end up answering.
"Thank you, My Prince. You were in my prayers. The Warrior guided you back, in the end". Nah, I just flew in the Stranger's back.
Helaena, always the cutest of the pies, couldn't help herself. "Do not lose heart, Ser! Your brother can be well! Aegon is here now, see!"
Ah, Helaena, if only you knew… Let's hope such a thing never happens.
Ser Errik just kept smiling at us. "Arrik is gone. I dreamed of him some nights past. He was worried for you, My Prince".
Something cold dropped in my stomach. I forced myself to smile at him. "Ser Arrik was always dedicated. A true knight to the end."
Sir Errik just made a small murmur of agreement, continuing to smile a little sadly.
Helaena was gripping my hand really hard. "Did you also have strange dreams, sweet sister?"
Her only response was gripping my hand even harder. Lovely.
I fucking hated dreaming.Last edited: Jun 23, 2026 Like ReplyReport Reactions:VxCxL, tikki, Amastris and 726 others