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6. Old Horrors
🕑 Added 2025-10-24 12:21:29 +0000 UTCThis world was strange.
“Are you sure none of your teeth have fallen from your gums, brother?” It was a fair question, I judged. In all my years here, never had I seen Rhaegar with a smile marred by loss. His teeth were ever whole, though by now time ought to have claimed a few.
I had once thought they must have fallen before my birth, and that the sorcery of our blood had spared him the gaps. A poor reason, yet one I clung to for a while.
“Nuoh!” Rhaegar shook his head, mouth stretched wide as I peered within. Orderly teeth greeted me, white and straight. A marvel in truth, for with the measure of sweets he forced past his lips, one would think his smile should by now be riddled with holes.
I stepped back, humming, yet not wholly convinced that folk of this life knew naught of baby teeth.
My gaze found Arthur, and I raised a brow in silent inquiry.
“I’ve never had my teeth fall out either, my prince,” said he with a grin half given to laughter. An odd one, this Dayne—like looking upon a more extroverted Rhaegar. His pallor was such that, if a man squinted, he near seemed sickly, his skin pale as chalk.
I bade him open his mouth, and he did so. As with my brother, the teeth were perfect. Fewer in number, true, yet white still and unblemished. But I was not swayed. The Daynes I had already marked in my mind as creatures of sorcery, and what was perfection if not a miracle born of blood’s secret cleansing?
I would need to seek an Andal in truth, and ask of their youth, and of their teeth.
I shook my head.
What madness of interest was this?
“Why this curiosity in teeth, Daemon?” my brother asked, working his jaw. “Have you come upon some ill tale?”
“A fable,” I corrected him, pleased to don the mantle of lore-giver. “Of the tooth fairy. They say when a child’s teeth fall, he is to set them beneath his pillow. Then shall come the tooth fairy—a tiny mother, clad in leaves and flowers, with wings like a butterfly. She takes the teeth, and leaves behind riches. In so doing, one grows anew a full mouth of stronger teeth.”
I regaled them thus, for I had, in these short years, won some small fame as a teller of tales. Not the grand, plodding epics that some kindreds delighted in, with elves and dark lords and endless wanderings. No, my treasury was of true fables. Goldilocks, Hansel and Gretel, Red Riding Hood.
“And you believe such a thing?” Rhaegar frowned. “Have you not coin enough to your name already?”
I scoffed. “Not even close, brother. I have yet to unveil a hundred designs, a hundred projects.” I shifted where I stood, feeling anew the suppleness that had wed itself to my frame in the three years since I had first begun to test its limits.
I was five now, and I looked the part. Yet my fascination with teeth was born not of teeth themselves, but of vexation. Since my birth, no illness had ever laid me low, no ache had ever troubled me.
That realisation set me upon a path of inquiry, to uncover the other curiosities of my flesh. The truth was plain: I was not as other men, not even as my Targaryen kin. I did not sicken, I did not scar, I felt neither heat nor cold beyond the comfort of my own body.
Even so, the world’s people were themselves unlike those of the life I had left behind. Here men and women alike were stronger, swifter, more enduring by nature. Each possessed a curious knack for swift healing, though faint. Stranger still, none bore the palmar creases I once knew to mark the hands of men. And last of all, the matter of teeth.
“You must not let yourself be stolen by such fancies, Daemon. Not you.” He shook his head. “Already have you shown a mind untroubled by childish idles.”
“This from a prince convinced of his own heroism?” I laughed, and there was condescension in it. “Fear not, brother. I was only curious if you had tended to your own well-being. With mother so near her birthing, I needs must see to you in her absence.”
Rhaegar had grown enthralled by the lore of prophecy, and in it he had fixed the mantle of saviour upon his shoulders. I might claim I sought to prevent such a fate, yet the truth was otherwise. I remained impartial.
For him, that pursuit lent drive. It gave him purpose, and in it he found a measure of joy.
Were I a simpleton, I might think such conviction would ripen into the rebellion of our cousin. Yet I knew it would not, for fate had already turned its hand against that path. No, it would lead to some other end, though of what shape I could not yet say.
My brother was permitted his foolishness. And in that vein, I was permitted my mockery of his arrogance.
“You know well that is not the same.” He said, and a trace of annoyance clung to his words. “You of all should know.”
“Quite the same, I’m afraid.” I feigned disappointment. “For you have allowed Bloodraven to rape your dreams into such a believe—”
I shifted aside, easy with the movement, a wooden blade swept past me—Rhaegar’s petulant stroke. As I have said, folk of this realm were hardy; such blows bruised at most.
Another swing followed. I turned, stepping lightly to his left. He wheeled after me, a smile tugging at his lips. “Come, Arthur—help me punish this rat.”
The Dayne moved with swiftness, and the rhythm of the bout doubled. Arthur was no mere hand with a blade; he was attuned to my brother’s movements, striking in the lulls between Rhaegar’s exertions.
Alone, either might be managed. Together, they pressed me sorely.
“Shame upon you both,” I mocked, dancing and twisting. “Two near-men grown setting upon a child scarce loosed from his crib.”
“Silence!” Rhaegar snarled.
His thrust struck my shoulder. I yielded to the blow, turning its force into my right arm. My hand slapped his sword aside as I bent low and swept at his leg. His balance faltered.
The rhythm shifted.
Quickly I dashed to the side. Arthur’s sword fell where I had stood, yet he wasted no time bemoaning failure, turning the stroke into a broad slash. I slid back, landed upon my rump, and sprang up in a clumsy back-flip.
No elegance graced the movement. It was ungainly as a drunkard’s reel.
Still the Dayne pressed me. Right slash. Kick. Thrust. I danced aside each, and struck his arm with a slap. He spun with it, and I ducked beneath, his blade whistling wide.
Then breath fled me, and heat seared my back. I was lifted from the ground.
Fucking Rhaegar.
It was a drop kick.
I spun, softening the fall, and when I rose the pain lingered but faint; ‘twas an echo upon the flesh. A grin claimed my lips, and I dared think it a handsome one. I loved not battle, yet I cherished the humours it bestowed upon those who partook of it.
Ah, sweet contradiction.
Grant me leave to explain: combat was to me as a dance. And though I knew not the steps well enough to be sung of in fable, I was attuned to the rhythm well enough to be deemed a nightmare.
“Come, villains.” I took a stance, “let this hero be your undoing.”
I was a fucking treasure upon this world.
… the bout’s end left my body the more sore of the three, yet in spirit I claimed the victory, for I had marked their faces with a host of handprints. I had slapped them into oblivion, and into shame besides.
Still, I needed to think of a way to prepare for the Long Night.
By mine own decree, this year was named the Year of Fertility—or so I willed it. Yet Father heeded me not, deaf to my reasoning, though all realm itself bore witness to its truth.
By the fourth moon, I had already marked four women who quickened with child. Mine own mother was foremost, proclaiming her condition at the turn of the year, though whispered tongues claimed her moon’s blood had fled her three moons prior.
Blind I was not to her swelling belly, though at first I ascribed her girth to the many new foods she had lately favoured…
There was need to inspire awareness in the downsides abundant in these recipes I had welcomed to the castle.
… joy took me, that I might gain a younger sibling. In my life before, I had been the eldest, and dearly did I love my sisters. A love most foolish, perhaps, for I believe it was they who drove me to my death, so oft did they terrify my heart with their reckless whims. Yet the yearning to suffer such worry anew had not abandoned me.
Still, I was not wholly hopeful. Mother was no woman given to safe birthing, and I knew not what more I might do to ease her travail. I had already frightened her from such foods as I deemed ill for the babe, and I had already pressed upon the keep the utmost need for cleanliness. Soap was abundant, that much I assured. I was yet in the midst of spirit-making besides, though the venture proved most difficult.
I needs must try my utmost, so that should tragedy befall, I would not lay the burden of guilt upon mine own shoulders. It was a selfish act and cold of heart, yet I was not a creature given to sorrow. That was a feature even this new life dared not strip from me.
Another whose belly swelled was my dear Vaelery. Ah, that gentle maid of mine. By her confession, a bard had stolen her heart, and into her womb he had spilled his seed. He fled thereafter, as bards are wont to do, leaving my maid yet another cautionary tale.
Now she was spoiled, with a bastard quickening in her womb. And I was left betrayed, and bitter besides. I had contrived an honourable match for her, through the good graces of my most wondrous mother.
A union with a knight of virtue, and with some small measure of prestige to his line.
Such a future was not to be, alas. Still, I had rewarded her, both for her kindness and her long care. A thousand golden coins I set aside, that she might live in comfort, since the gates of the Red Keep were now barred to her.
Third was the Lady of Lannister, carrying her third pregnancy. She had birthed one a year past, but the babe, a girl, if rumour spoke true, had not survived her infancy. Such was common enough, and by that nature, all the more frightful.
This time, I felt the child would come full and hale. Perhaps even the twins, or the dwarf—yet I knew myself delusional. Loren was Tywin’s heir, and with him present, I suspected the Lord Hand’s slaughter of Tarback and Castamere had not been witless at all.
All the same, Joanna was with child, and in that, another Lannister would be born.
The fourth was our cousin’s in Storm’s End. Steffon had planted a third babe in his lady wife, and whispers claimed she bore the hips of a true mother. I doubted it was Renly, for his birth lay yet far from now.
Stannis had been born a woman in this turning of the wheel—or so went my jape at dear Floris. She was a pleasant girl, of an age with me. She took after Princess Rhaelle in truth, her eyes specked violet, her hair paler even than Rhaegar’s.
She was a Targaryen in all but name. That one was a curiosity…
But to the point.
Fertility was abundant this year. Even the Lady of Highgarden was said to have birthed a second son but a moon past. Two-and-forty in age, and still being seeded. Perhaps Olenna had not been wholly pragmatic when first she ensnared Lord Tyrell in their youth.
In truth, such impracticality could only be born of ceaseless repetitions. A folly that needlessly risked both mother and babe.
But all was fair, it seemed, as now the couple boasted four children. Perhaps, in this fortune, Lord Tyrell might not one day ride to his death whilst hawking. In the few times I had seen him, I judged Luthor a most pleasant man. He smiled often, and boasted more so, though ever upon a single theme.
I confess, I had long wondered how a man who had known but one cunt could yet crown himself the most exceptional fucker in all Westeros.
But such was the Lord of Highgarden.
Yet I had strayed from the point of my first thought. The coming swell of population revealed to me one of this realm’s truest frailties: food. The insufficiency of supply.
And though I ever strove to be a creature of reason, not sentiment, I could not help but feel it my charge to mend this deficiency—or at least attempt the matter. In truth, I had no deep craft in agriculture, save what little my sister of the past life chose to press upon me when she required an audience for her learning.
That was to say, I knew some things.
What I possessed was not the tiller’s art, but history: how agriculture had once clawed itself into progress. The system of rotation had been one such step, and in this world of erratic climes it might need be refined anew. For that, the matter of vegetation would be the crux.
Whether I truly held the categories of plants in my memory, I could not tell. That would need drawing forth through meditation.
The second innovation had been the plough. I knew not the exact shape of those ancient tools, nor cared overmuch. The maesters, farmers, and artisans might be left to devise something of the sort—if not better. That much faith I held in them
Third was transportation, and therein lay the heart of the dilemma.
By my brilliance, I discerned that to mend the matter of agriculture, one must first address the matter of metallurgy. More precisely: the mass making of iron and steel.
To that end, the answer in my mind was the Bessemer process—or perhaps, for pride’s sake, the Freehold method. I was still musing upon a name suitably vain. Yet such a refinement was leagues beyond what I might reasonably expect of smiths in this age.
Thus, my path lay not in the end, but in the steps toward it. A succession of processes, each building upon the last, until at length the Bessemer might be born.
I was being optimistic. Perhaps too so.
I cared not. This was a world of scheduled semi-apocalypses and magics that brushed against the eldritch. I was permitted some measure of hope.
And speaking of the eldritch, I had encountered the Lord of the Iron Isles a sennight past. He brought with him his son, the one whose veins ran with sadism. Thin, pale, and possessed of eyes as blue as the sea. Still a child, but not a normal one.
But what child had been?
“This is my son, Euron, my prince,” the Lord Reaper of Pyke had said when first presenting the boy to my brother. A title out of some grim tale, that—Lord Reaper. “He’s the fifth of my children, though the second to survive past infancy.”
Rhaegar had shown him no warmth, and in so being, Euron turned his attentions to me.
“People say you are blessed by the gods, my prince,” he said one day in the yards, where I sketched my logics for the maesters and artisans to labor into truth. It was no private place, so his presence there did not surprise me. “I’m curious of the truth of it.”
He spoke with a smile. Challenging. Teasing.
“A god,” I corrected. “The Seven are but a single divinity with manifold authorities. Hence the name: the Seven Who Are One.” I turned to regard him. Pleasant enough, perhaps, to one willing to invite pepper into their eyes. But no—none could ever be as beautiful as I. “Have you been tutored in how one of your birth ought to address royalty, son of Quellon?”
He seemed surprised, though such was predictable. The youth were ever slaved to a narrow script of behaviour. This boy, clever as he was, had likely been exposed often to such conduct, and so expected it of every child.
But I was an ugly being, and thus I moved in ugly ways.
Ah, had Vaelery been here, I would have commanded she put that gospel to paper. Her absence, I knew, was bound soon to show its weight upon me.
“No,” answered he, at last. There was discomfort plain upon his face. He was yet a child, I supposed, still far from the man he would become. But he was hooked by the nape with eldritch, and so would become as Cthulhu willed.
Just so, I cared not. For now, he was a precious source of lore, and I was starved for knowledge of those queer First Men of the Isles.
“Then I shall enlighten you, lest you find yourself a head shorter.” I bade him sit and pressed upon him my supremacy. “As nobility is to the common folk, so is royalty to the common nobility. Deference is owed, lest I take insult.”
I was sage now, though starved yet for amusement. His eyes narrowed—there was pride there, wounded pride.
“Do not be so insulted,” I dismissed with a flick of my hand. “You, of all people, should know the inequality of men. And as the rumours tell, I am a son of Old Valyria. Of gods, and of fate. Better than all folk scorned by the divine.”
“You are mad!” He laughed.
“There will be punishment upon you later for that insult, Euron.” I flicked my hand, careless as ever. “For now, I am curious of the culture and religion of you First Men of the Isles. Tell me of your Iron Price.”
And so he did, and I was fascinated. Barbaric they were, these Ironmen—unloved by beauty, unwed to grace or sophistication. Yet I loved them all the same: their ways, their traditions, their passion.
Euron bore it in him, that passion for his people, that scorn for all else. He disliked me—I saw it clear—hated me, and hated the rest of the so-called greenlanders. He hated his father too, and in truth, his very blood, for it was that blood which allowed the dragons to rape them once, and to rape them still, even now with no lizards left to wield the lash.
“It is a beautiful culture, yours, Euron,” I admitted, for by then I deemed us friends, and he was comfortable enough to speak plain with me. “But it remains plain beside mine own culture of Old Valyria.”
And so it did. Both peoples cruel, both peoples twisted, both peoples bowed to the eldritch. Yet the Freehold was greater in its works. We ruled the world once, and in so doing, spread suffering, death, sorcery, and ruin. The Ironmen’s proudest boast amounted to Harren the Black—and he was brought low by my least-wise forebear.
“Yet your people are dead,” he mocked. Not, I thought, from calculation. It was boyish spite, and it was plain.
I inclined my head, for truth lay in his words. “Such is the fate of all who worship Corruption, my friend. Such is the fate of all who kneel before the Eldritch.”
I was to bring genocide upon the Ironmen, for they worshipped Cthulhu. I was to slaughter them, for Euron named me mad.
“Now come, let me impress upon you my significance. Harden your heart to the sight of royalty blessed.” I commanded, rising and departing. “We make for the yards.”
