Shattered Seven (SYOC)
The Great Grass Sea
The grass swept lightly in the wind, making a distinct rustling sound throughout the lands. Tan skinned, dark haired Dothraki roamed, their arakhs strapped over their back. They were keeping watch, as the King of Westeros had attempted to send assassins multiple times into the Sea in an attempt to kill their khal – the great Khal Rhaego.
Tall, with white hair the color of pearls, his braid was nearly as long as that of his father, Khal Drogo. He was leaner than Drogo, but his muscular definition still outmatched that of any of his bloodriders. His deep violet eyes marked him as a pure mix of Valyrian and Dothraki heritage – unseen ever before. At just six and ten, his eyes were set on a far greater prize than the Great Grass Sea: The Iron Throne.
He didn't speak of it much, but he could remember the day that his mother had left him in Qarth, telling his Dothraki protectors that she couldn't risk him on as dangerous of a voyage as she was going on. He had never seen her again after that day. He had found a different prize in the Sea.
She was an austere sort of beauty, with dark black hair and violet eyes as well. Rhaego had suspected her as an assassin when she first came there. She likely was too. But, over time, the two became inseparable, and that's where our story begins.
"Rhaego," Alarra's voice whispered, her hand sliding up over his broad shoulder, her small body pressed up against his in the tent. "The sun is nearly directly above our heads, it's time we wake." Alarra only knew the common tongue of the Westerosi. Rhaego was fluent in that, Valyrian, and Dothraki, through his training in Qarth, Astapor, and finally in Vaes Dothrak.
His purple eyes opened and faced his lover. A big hand slid down the length of her back, teasing the bare skin there. Alarra shivered and leaned closer to the khal, feeling a stirring in her loins. "Rhaego," Alarra whispered softly. "Save it for tonight."
"Why," His voice was deep and obscure. "When I can have you now?" Rhaego grumbled, playfully pushing her onto her back, climbing up on top of her.
Alarra's laughter rang out pure and true in the warm air, a bright sound that would make even the fiercest of his khalasar smile. "You beast," Alarra teased lightly and smacked his shoulder playfully. "You'll be the end of me, I swear it."
Rhaego just chuckled and stood up completely, strapping on his sandals and lacing them up quickly. He took a few steps outside, followed by Alarra. The massive pyre was being built, the bodies of two of his bloodriders on them. His smile died and he turned grim. Two days ago, a masked man had appeared from the south, and had nearly gotten to Rhaego. Worry had begun to sprout in his mind that more than just the King on the Iron Throne were trying to have him killed. To come from the south…it was unheard of for them to do that. King Baratheon had always gone from the west, from Pentos, Myr, or even Norvos on occasion. Never from Qarth, Astapor, or Yunkai.
Rhaego had been careful not to rile his khalasar. He knew they wished to ride upon cities in Slaver's Bay, like his mother had done years before. To raze Yunkai, Astapor, Meereen to the ground. His eye was to the west, however. Daenerys had been sidetracked by exploits in Slaver's Bay, and Rhaego refused to go south, not wanting to tempt himself with the same fate.
"The Mother of Dragons is long dead," A whispery voice came from behind him. He turned and saw a captive, an assassin they had captured nearly three moons ago. Ser Rosby, his name was. A third son of a second son of a small town near King's Landing. "Do not let it consume you as well."
Rhaego waved his hand to Alarra, sending her away for the moment. "Are you sure?" His voice was deep, careful. "Will it work?"
"It would've worked for her," Rosby answered, his hands bound behind him by tight leather straps. "Had you not survived."
Rhaego's eyes drifted to where Alarra was standing. She was in a faded green dress, her eyes excited and happy as she gazed from Dothraki to Dothraki. His heart ached as he watched her, something in the pit of his stomach beginning to rise. He forced it down. The Throne must be yours. Your mother had failed. Your uncle had failed. It is now your turn. Rhaego must succeed where Viserys, Rhaegar, and Daenerys failed. If you fail, House Targaryen will never rise again.
The egg sat useless under a blanket and had for a time. The Dothraki still remembered when Daenerys had woken her dragons. Word had come from the west that the smallest of her dragons had been shot from the sky, and another had been bound by an ancient danger. The largest, Drogon, he had never heard about again. On his tenth nameday, Rhaego had gone with a hundred of his men to Asshai and used what money he had to purchase a dragon egg. That, and a fair bit of threatening seemed to have done the trick.
He had changed after Asshai. Rhaego had never been in a place as dark, as unsettling as Asshai. He had lost half his men on the way back, just disappearing out of thin air. His bloodriders cursed the maegi of Asshai, cursing the place as a den for demons. Rhaego couldn't disagree.
"It will work," Rosby repeated. "All of your bloodriders know it. Your khalasar knows it. Rhaego, you will find a Westeros divided. It will take no small amount of courage, strength, and power."
He paid the man no heed. As the day passed, he struggled internally. Could he do this? He had to. Was there any other way? No. The day shifted to night, and the pyre was lit. Rhaego stood on the outskirts, standing next to Alarra.
Their eyes met, and something inside Rhaego flipped. He didn't know if he'd imagined it, but a knife was visible in her hand. His hand came down hard on her wrist, bending it. Alarra cried out, and it clanged to the ground.
"Maegi!" A Dothraki cried and they backed up immediately.
"You idiot," Alarra spat at Rhaego, her foot connecting with his knee and sending him tumbling to the ground. "You really thought I was Alarra Dayne? I guess living with these nomadic imbeciles will get you to believe anything."
Rhaego roared and drew his arakh, stabbing directly into her abdomen. Anger flooded his mind when she simply disappeared and turned up a few feet away. "I give you a warning, petty King." Alarra said in a strange voice, which boomed over the lands. "There are Targaryens which survive. Senior line Targaryens, not some horse lord like you." Disdain filled her voice.
Ser Rosby watched from the tent. He's breaking, he realized. He knows what has to be done. Rhaego charged once more, and lifted Alarra with his arms and tossed her onto the pyre. Her screams filled the night's sky, nearly being drowned out by the roars of the Dothraki around them. The egg, he thought.
"Rhaego!" Rosby yelled.
It got his attention. The khal raced back to him and grabbed the ethereal-looking blue egg and placed it in the funeral pyre. He disappeared into the flames for a long moment, and there was silence. Then, a sound arose that sounded like the shattering of the world. The Dohraki horses squealed and rared their legs, jumping and trying to run away in the green pastures. An explosion-like noise sounded once more, and the pyre collapsed. Dothraki cries filled the air, as distress over what to do about the flames rose. The flames were getting closer and closer to the hot grass, ready to burn like kindling.
They looked up and saw a charred Rhaego emerging from the flames, a tiny dragon on his shoulder. The coloring was strange – violet and white, like those of the Targaryen features, only inverted. Ser Rosby only nodded as he saw Rhaego. He knew now, what he had suspected. Alarra had been heavy with child, with Rhaego's child, and he had known it as well. There was no way for him to escape. Not now, not ever. He was bound with Rhaego's cause.
One question kept coming back to him, while he watched the Dothraki gaze and marvel at the tiny dragon on their khal's shoulder: Where is Drogon?
. . .
Braavos, Four Months Later
"You…want us to pay for not just a few ships, but an entire fleet, is that correct?" The teller looked at Rhaego with suspicion. "I…"
"The Iron Bank will get their payment back, and more," Rhaego said, dressed in a more sensible black doublet, in an attempt to look more like a Targaryen and less like a khal. However, his hair was still back in a long braid. "I know that the King has not paid you the full amount that you are due. I would. I just need a fleet to carry my army to Westeros."
The man sighed and looked down at his sheet. "You ask for a fleet of forty ships from the Iron Bank, correct?"
"Yes," Rhaego replied, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He glanced over at his companion. Rosby gave him a curt nod.
"I can offer you twenty-five," The man replied, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. "And you must repay the whole debt owed by the Iron Throne in the event that you take the throne. Including what has been spent by Kings Joffrey, Tommen, their children, as well as Queen Cersei."
Ser Rosby leaned forward in his seat. "That doesn't sound like a fair deal."
"It's all the bank can offer," The Iron Bank representative spread his arms. "You have no collateral, no army besides the Dothraki, which don't go over sea, and there are other claimants to the throne besides yourself."
"What do you mean by that?" Rhaego's voice came out sharp, rising to his feet.
The man quailed under the look of the Targaryen prince. "There are…others. Targaryens, that is."
Ser Rosby frowned. "None that are telling the truth," He said, putting a hand on Rhaego's arm to calm him. Unsteadily, Rhaego sat back in the chair. "It is common knowledge that Viserys died before having children, and Aegon was a fake."
"That is not told," The man's stern voice came back at them. "Viserys sired bastards, not trueborn children, that is true, but any children by Viserys Targaryen outrank those by Daenerys. Aegon VI, who tragically died in the attack on the Red Keep, also sired children in Pentos and Westeros alike."
Rhaego's lip curled into a sneer. "So, we take this deal you have offered, then you go and offer more to these others? Is that it?" He slammed his fist onto the desk as he stood up again. The wood cracked and splintered under the force of his hand.
"I cannot speak on behalf of the Bank when it comes to other claims," The man simply said, pushing his chair back to get farther away from Rhaego.
"Thirty-five ships, and you have a deal," Rosby cut in quickly, not wanting it to advance much more beyond what was going on.
The man chewed his lip and began to write things down on a spare sheet of paper. It looked like he was doing some sort of calculation. "Fine," He said.
"Forty or I go to the Rogare Bank in Lys," Rhaego demanded, his eyes sparkling with challenge.
Seven take me, Ser Rosby thought. If this is the King I am to follow, he isn't very good at knowing when to quit. It will take half a thousand men to keep him from just killing every lord in Westeros.
"The Rogares haven't the money to do such a thing. It would bankrupt them." The man said haughtily. "Fine. Forty. Is that good enough for you, khal?" He said.
"Perfect," Rhaego said as he got up to leave with Rosby. They walked out of the hall, and Rosby hit him on the shoulder, hard. "Ow…" Rhaego complained, rubbing his bicep from where the knight had punched him. "What in the Seven hells was that for?"
The sky was gloomy, and a bit of rain was drizzling down. They had only brought nine bloodriders with them to Braavos, at the behest of Ser Rosby, as he thought the Braavosi would be spooked by much more than that. The dragon Daenyra, named by Rhaego himself, was just beginning to get big enough and brave enough to venture beyond the immediate vicinity. Right now, in fact, she was snapping up fish in the harbor to the north.
"You nearly ruined that," Rosby complained, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know the Rogares couldn't afford it with that kind of cash. They could've supplied us with maybe twelve ships. We would've been farther than ever from our goal."
"Not quite," Rhaego whispered, looking at him. "Our letters are probably just arriving."
One to each of the lords Rhaego had carefully chosen – those that disliked Baratheons, or Lannisters, or had fought against them in the War of the Five Kings. Dornish, Reachmen, Northerners, Iron Islanders, all had received a letter with the same warning:
I am Prince Rhaego Targaryen, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. I am to wash ashore in Westeros within the year, and I will grant clemency to all that tip their banners for me. If you refuse, you too will die in the firestorm that scorches this land. If you have no love for this King, or for his father, or for his grandfather, hear me and join us.
Ser Rosby had disliked the content of the letter. It felt like it could get misinterpreted easily by allies, and easily turned into the hands of enemies. But Rhaego did nothing with any charm, or much caution for that matter. Fire and Blood were his house words. It seemed like a motto now. He also knew that Rhaego wanted nothing out of the houses more than a bride. Rosby was still concerned, as he watched the big man wait for his dragon to return, that he would make a bad king. Perhaps worse than Maegor. When he turned away, his mind began to buzz.
A/N: This story is similar, but not the same, as a story I published in January. With the quarantine and everything going on, I knew that I have the time now to juggle two stories at once. Read the rules and enjoy as we launch into a new war in Westeros!
(All of this will be posted on my profile)
Rules
1. This is a story that is submitted by HOUSE, as well as by character. The form is below, but you must submit a House first, before I allow a specific character (such as a Targaryen). This is to ensure that those that submit Targaryens are truly invested in the story.
2. No Mary Sues or Gary Stus. That should be self-explanatory, but eh.
3. I'm going to be pickier with these, so if I ask for a change, please don't be offended, I am just trying to make sure we have the best story we possibly can.
4. The only change in ruling House is Frey in the Riverlands rather than Tully. However, House Tully is not gone, just displaced. The Stormlands is also…strange, but whoever submits them can work through that. The current King is supposed to be the child of Joffrey and Margaery (so yes, kind of AU :) )
5. If you are interested in a certain Targ (children of Viserys, Aegon, or others of Daenerys), please let me know before so I can try to make sure you can get it. Targaryens must be cleared by me before they are created.
6. Dynamic characters are wonderful! I would love differences, but please, most people should want to ascend the ranks, try to become on the Iron Throne/become Hand/whatever their ambition is. At least someone from each house. That is the problem sometimes is that no one wants the throne, and that usually isn't the case in Westeros.
7. Have fun! If you have fun, it's much more likely that you will make a character that you and I both like! The House form is below, and I will make a separate Targaryen form for those that want to make a Targaryen (or a child of a bastard of Robert). Houses will be posted on my profile once they are taken, so pay attention there.
8. The North is NOT independent but is much less controlled by the throne than before. Whoever submits the Starks will decide if Sansa was the leader after the war, or Rickon.
9. Oh! Also, just remembered, please keep canon characters to a minimum, as it's a less fun thing for me to do. I want new blood!
HOUSE FORM (basing it off a forum I recently joined! If you want to check it out, it's called A Song of Ice and Fire RP, and it's a bunch of fun!)
Name of House:
Region:
Household Members & Ages:
What is the House's ambition (are they different between characters?):
Appearances of the Household members (only about a sentence needed for each, just the big things):
Six Personality TRAITS of each of the members (3 negative and 3 positive - doesn't have to be in sentence form):
History of the House since the War of Five Kings:
Impression of Rhaego:
Impression of House Targaryen:
Relationship with the Throne (if not the Royal House):
Possible Plot Points for the House (4 – must include 1 at least about relationships/war):