V

DRIFTMARK — 79 years after the Doom of Valyria

The biting cold wind carried the scent of the sea as we rode down to the fishing village that would one day rise to become the town of Hull. There was no idle chatter or commotion so early in the morning, only the faint clanging from the local forge and the haggling between fishermen and fishmonger as they argued over the day's catch.

A company of ships all laid thronged together in the small port; trading galleys and cogs, even a smattering of cogs and carracks here and there. The sound of hooves dampened under the thick blanket of mud that had formed from the previous day's deluge.

"We are here, my lord," announced Haeron, the oldest of my guardsmen. He was a well-built man despite his advancing age, with wiry arms thick with muscle and a lithe body. His hair, silver mingling with strands of gold, was cropped short and his face was clean shaven as was the wont of those who sought to replicate the Archons of Dragonstone. His family had served mine own for well over a century, father had told me once. The dragonlords had had generations upon generations of servants from the same bloodline since the rise of the Freehold itself. Even slaves had been bred for that very reason, for the potency of magic in their blood ran thicker in the veins of some. Those had died out half a century ago however, I remembered absentmindedly

Swinging one leg over the saddle, I dismounted from my pony, Balerion. She was a lazy thing to speak frankly, hardly resembling the majestic black dragon of legend that my father rode, but I had developed a fondness for her, even if she needed to be coaxed into action with far more effort than the other mounts in Lord Velaryon's stables.

My guardsmen swiftly followed, all dressed in the castle-forged steel from Dragonstone. Lazor, the youngest, a man of Myrish blood, eased off his helm and cast a look around, one gauntlet-clad hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of his sword.

A small boy clad in roughspun looked at us wide-eyed from the foot of a trestle table, a dragonseed based on the unnatural silver of his hair though he had brown eyes which denoted his mongrel blood. The sight made me frown slightly. All the chatter died down as my guardsmen girdled me, shooting anyone with the balls to even think of filching anything off my richly-garbed body a hard stare. I looked at the boy once more, and tossed him a coin glinting of gold from my purse. He grabbed onto it hungrily, spoke my praises and scampered off. I only tossed continued searching for my quarry.

I took a cautious step forward, trying my best not to ignore the malodorous stench of the town as I made my way to one of the local fishermen who had the day's catch piled up high in crates near the precipice of the docks. My fine leather boots splattered mud onto my finely made trousers, turning the golden flame motifs a garish brown-grey. I could scarce keep the look of disgust off my face. Flies crowded around the seafood, moving aimlessly as the man I was looking for swatted a hand to disperse them though they oft as not found themselves in the same place.

The man's eyes widened as we approached. His long calloused fingers held the hem of his salt stained cloak tightly as he bowed lowly, knees landing upon the slick ground while his feet kicked the crates away from us hastily.

"My most esteemed lord and master," the fisherman greeted in a terse tone, his voice trembling in fear, "It is an honour to have you here."

"It is an honour to be here," I managed, cringing away from a lobster that had managed to claw its way out to freedom. An apprentice boy tossed it back into a crate before whisking himself away in a hurry. "Have you a name, my good man?"

"Aron, o' Princes of Princes," he responded instantly, eyes still drawn to the ground. I plastered on my best smile.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Aron. I have actually come here to hire a fisherman."

"Hire?" His bushy eyebrows arched before straightening. His lips extended into a no doubt forced bright smile. "My catch is the best money can buy, my Archon's heir. I promise you. In fact, there is no fresher produce than m—"

"I am not here for fish, fisherman," I interjected. The Fourteen know I'll see enough fish to last me a lifetime once I need to deal with the Cthulhu fanatics themselves.

"Clams then, oh great-"

"No."

"Lobster, my-"

"No," I interrupted once more in irritation. "I am here for seaweed."

"Seaweed?"

The colour of the Aron's tone held a smidge too much disbelief for my liking, something not helped by the lack of high praise. Not that I could fault him. Not many six year olds, noble ones at that, venture to the fishing village that had cropped up under their lord uncle's castle, damp and cramped as it may be. Aethan certainly hadn't. Scratch that, not many six year olds could boast of riding a literal dragon.

Although I was beginning to think that he was more confused about the seaweed than anything else.

"Seaweed?", he repeated, voice thick with confusion. I did not let the befuddlement ruin my alacrity. Instead, I reinforced it.

"Yes, my good man," I chirped, "All the seaweed you can find. Lord Velaryon will pay you handsomely for it."

It had gotten me two whole weeks to get him to agree to this after all, what with his puritanical mannerisms taking ahold of him. Not that I had made mention of my real money maker yet. That alone would have my demon child notoriety skyrocket to heights unforeseen. And I wasn't ready to go there just yet.

Nevertheless, my ardour gave Aron just the right amount of time to recover from the perplexity in favour of forcing on a small smile on leather-like tanned skin, showing off teeth stained yellow from age, or maybe a lack of good dental hygiene. Probably both.

"Of course, my Archon's son. I will have all four of me ships out in the sea to bring you as much seaweed as you need. As for the price-"

"Haeron."

My steel-clad shadow threw a sack of coins with pinpoint precision, leaving the man to hastily make a grab at it. His hands deftly undid the knotted drawstring ties and seized a shining silver coin for himself, as if he could not believe he hadn't just been pranked.

Which I could readily understand given this was looking way too much like one of those early 2000's laugh reel compilations that somehow are possessed of more cat videos than Youtube. The utter ridiculousness of my second life was not lost on me.

"The servants will be waiting at the castle," I reminded him sternly, "And remember, as many varieties as you can."

The man nodded fiercely, either too lost in his euphoria or genuinely believing he was doing the Fourteeen's work. I was inclined to believe in the former.

Haeron gave the man another look over, one hand giving the hilt of his sword a tentative squeeze to show what would happen if we got swindled out of our money before he led us back to our horses.

The journey back was not particularly exciting though we did come across a herd of goats making their way around town, perhaps the highlight of my year so far (Driftmark truly was the centre of entertainment... ZZZ not). The scent of the sea waned yet still lingered, accompanied by a warm breeze. The whole vibe was serene, think going to a beach to tan serene.

Of course, one has to account to the inevitable "oh shit" moment that comes. Think just settling down onto your silk soft towel, expecting those crepuscular rays to stream through gaps in clouds to give you that perfect godly bronze complexion just before the wandering stray dog thinks it's found the perfect place to piss.

That came in the form of Coleman.

Now, let me clarify, I don't hate maesters. In fact, I think they're fine diddly fine as far as things go. What I do hate though are the sheer amount of conspiracies that revolve around the order, especially those hyper focused on ripping a new one over the dragon people.

Which was fine... as long as you weren't one of them.

Which I was.

Joy.

Was I convinced they had assassinated the dragons? Well... mostly. I had no irrefutable proof other than Marwyn's sayings which themselves were questionable given the man's nature and the fact his appearance in the books was basically a cameo. But, I cannot refute that it's compelling enough, what with the Dance fucking everyone over and really being the catalyst to set off a chain reaction that saw our dragons dead.

Which was on top of them dismissing or outright hating magic in general.

And Coleman did not exactly help with that. Our relationship was doomed to fail. It was bad enough he was incompetent, especially when it came to healing (the man had only assisted a measly two births). But his loathing for magic only strained our already shoddy relationship. He thought my fancy of the more arcane arts as childhood whimsy, thought midwives were too lowly to do more than just assist in birth and had the gall to barely credit my ingenuity when it came to sending his report on double entry bookkeeping. I had finally gotten to reading the treatise and it barely mentioned my name, let alone my efforts in singlehandedly revolutionising accounts as we know it.

Given I had ninety nine problems in life and the Citadel and its influence over the nobility of Westeros was one of them, I had tried to keep things civil. I even went so far as to not shirk my lessons in favour of actually contributing to society unlike that grey rat.

It was worsened by the fact that he was none other than Coleman Flowers, a bastard of Lord Hightower. That meant if the Grand Maester Conspiracy was truly a thing, he was one hundred and ten percent in on it. The Hightowers were the bane of House Targaryen's existence, from Ceryse's infertility to Alicent's plotting. They were the wealthiest family in the Reach, the centre of two of the most important institutions in Westeros and thus public enemy number one.

Even the fat toad was not as bad as enemy as they were.

I suppose I could adopt a different stratagem. If things went well, I could somehow manage to get Daenora and Aegon together and hope they have a child mine can marry if I was unlucky enough to have a slew of only daughters or sons. But that would only be postponing the inevitable: Oldtown delenda est.

The Faith would inevitably rise up against us, what with me being prospectively involved with all kinds of Valyrian juju and fucking my sister.

Putting it off by a few decades until my heir inherits would just be stupid. I'd need to deal with it within my reign or at least reach a compromise that doesn't have us going Fire and Blood on the entirety of the continent.

Antagonising them would not be my main priority. I'd try to make due with what I got and hope to clear everything out early. But, if I even smelled a whiff of treason, I was going full Maegor on them. Scratch that, full Scipio.

And with my rotten luck, it'd absolutely reek of it.

Lord Daemon Velaryon had grown up neither believing or disbelieving in gods. He had received the lordling's education; a maester on hand to teach him his histories while a septon had deconstructed the Seven Pointed Star to him. Lord Laenor Velaryon, their sire, had shirked the gods of Valyria in favour of the Seven of the Sunset, more out of practicality than anything else. The Fourteen were not strangers, but they were more akin to legends of myth than divine entities. The Seven had been no different in his eyes. Valaena had been the most pious of them both; everything that related to the Seven, she wholeheartedly believed in. If the Seven told her to take a plunge in even the coldest and deepest waters, she would do so with nary a thought. It was natural to her to hold this deep seated belief that there was something out there, something that would always elude them.

Then Viserys Targaryen came.

From the day he had been born, Viserys had always been different. Daemon could still remember the first time he had beheld the boy, two moonturns after his birth. He had not been the lustiest of babes nor the most robust yet he had perhaps the most inquisitive eyes that drank in everything they saw with nigh a hint of succour.

As the years flew by, those eyes never truly changed. Instead, new emotions sprang up upon them; to add and not to replace. Ambition and lust for power with so much hidden anger he thought he deftly concealed. It had taken some time to get a good gauge on him. After all, the heir to Dragonstone could easily feign childlike foibles when he truly tried.

A twitch of the lips upwards, eyes closed as he tried to conceal all that hubris and all that zeal from the world. Valaena saw the boy as her babe, Aerion thought him a willful child in need of some curbing.

Daemon saw him for what he truly was.

Westeros. The thought alone had been mad. One man to unite seven squabbling kingdoms under one rule? Daemon had almost laughed when he'd heard the boy's deepest desire. Yet, the boy's belief had never wavered. He had only stayed silent, head tilted as he awaited Daemon's answer.

A boy with the secrets of Valyria.

The Targaryens were as close as they would ever get to even scratching the surface of all that was lost in the Doom yet this boy knew everything. Not faint imitations or vaguely successful attempts, but those secrets in their purest form. It was confounding, almost laughably so.

Yet, he did not doubt the boy. The boy knew too much. He was far too worldly wise no matter how hard he tried to feign ignorance. The pattern of his speech was different, his whole attitude was different.

Everything he did spoke of planning and know how, of some secrets that only he was privy to. The way he mistrusted Coleman and the Hightowers, the way he held an abhorrence for Dorne even though they had done him no ill...

The revelation had come late at night when he was in his cups, pondering once more about his nephew's projects. The Arbor Gold had been well and truly drained by the time he had come to one definite conclusion: the boy knew the future.

It was the only thing that made sense. How else did he know so much about contraptions not even the smartest of Maester could think of? The Fourteen he was so devoted to had done something to him. Perhaps he consorted with the dark arts; it would not surprise Daemon.

His dragon had experience an unnatural growth since coming to Driftmark and the two shared an almost psychic bond.

There was no person more dangerous in this world than Viserys Targaryen. He would either lead Westeros to its golden age or watch everything he had fought tooth and nail for burn.

Which side of the coin will he fall on?

Greatness or a legacy wrought in fire and blood? Could a man have both?

"You are lost in thought, husband."

His wife's musings jolted him out of his reflections. She wore a dress of cloth of silver with a red bodice of Myrish lace that spoke of the house she had been born into: Celtigar, and had her arms crossed over her chest. A pair of emerald earrings hung from her ears, matching a necklace of tooled silver adorned with moonstones.

Daemon did not move an inch from the bed. Instead, he watched her pour golden wine from a pitcher into a cup and accepted it gratefully. The wine was sweet - Arbor Gold. It relieved some of the tension in his aching muscles. Not even an hour before, he had taken to the yard for some practice.

"This is about our dear nephew I am guessing."

Daemon could not help the smile that stretched onto his lips. "It is always about Viserys."

Somehow, Viserys managed to wiggle himself into every conversation of theirs. Of his latest findings or his new stories that enthralled their children so much.

"That boy..." Daemon sighed, "I do not understand him."

Lady Laena Celtigar only laughed. "He means well," she smiled, her pale blue eyes crinkling with joy, "And he enjoys living here despite his complaints."

The thought made him chuckle despite himself. "Does he now?"

His nephew did not go a day without complaining about how little he had to do on Driftmark. More than once, he'd compared it to the wicked city of Gogossos. How? Daemon frankly did not know.

"He has grown fond of us despite his remonstrances. I know he much prefers it to Dragonstone."

Daemon snorted. "He prefers the freedom, not us. He misses home more than he dares show."

Their recent sojourn on the isle had left him happier than he'd ever been. Even his children had enjoyed it. Dragonstone was quieter than Driftmark yet Viserys knew every nook and cranny of the castle. They climbed the hulking statues wrought of fused black stone, rode down to the beaches where they swam, even fished one afternoon. And every night, all the children would huddle together in the common room to hear Viserys' tales of knightly splendour and daring escapes.

His return to Driftmark had left him irate as of late, although whether that was from missing his siblings or Coleman, Daemon did not know.

Nothing he did could smooth out the tension between the both of them and that ever prominent scowl on his face scarcely left his face whenever the Maester was in the room. Daemon had dismissed it as a child's irrational emotions at the beginning but now he too was beginning to doubt his maester.

The boy did not hate without reason and surely there must have been a reason for that inkling of fear that never left him.

Yet the boy spoke little and less of his dragon dreams as if they were more of a curse than a blessing.

"I will never understand him," Daemon said, shaking his head.

Laena laughed, her right hand wrapping around his hand and placing it over the small swell of her belly. Pride crept up Daemon's chest.

"Let us not speak of our nephew, my love," she said, "We have other tidings to look forward to."

Laena bent down to kiss him and for a moment, all things were well. Even then, he could not shake off his nephew's fears out of his head.

They met later in his solar after dinner to have their daily consultation. They had developed somewhat of a routine over the course of the past year: some mulled wine (watered down for his nephew) heavily spiced as they spoke freely of ideas and plans moving forward. More than oft, he came in shrouded in a dark mood, over some failed contraption or a clash of minds with Coleman. Today was no different. His lips were thinned, disappearing into a hard line of distaste while his indigo eyes gave Daemon a severe stare.

"Our first batch of glass was a failure," he lamented, taking a deep swallow of wine before slumping into his seat, "The seaweed we've been testing wasn't the right one."

Daemon only let the rim touch his lips and took a small sip. "You should have gotten a Myrish glass blower."

Viserys sneered at the mention. "The whole point of this is to make glass a cheap commodity, nuncle. The soda ash we've gotten from the different batches of seaweed have been giving us differing results though it is still progress I suppose. The glass will be perfected in its own time. At the very least, we've managed to find a method of sourcing iodine."

Daemon's eyebrow arched. "Iodine?"

"An antiseptic," Viserys said, taking another swallow of wine. "It prevents the growth of bacteria, meaning it would also be quite a help in treating wastewater from the sewers. Still, not all is lost! I have perfected the anti-aging techniques of our ancestors. Why my skin has never been so soft and-"

"Bacteria?" Daemon blinked blankly, the word still sounding foreign in his mouth.

The boy let out another exhausted sigh, clearly aggrieved by his interruption. "That is what I am trying to use the glass for, nuncle. It will take some time before I get a microscope going but as long but we will get there soon enough. As for the four-field crop rotation, the farmers have seen a ten percent increase in yield."

"Ten percent?!"

Viserys nodded tiredly. "Until the glass in acceptable, I will not be partaking in any more ventures. But still, progress is progress. While I will not get us to the Industrial Revolution, I am sure we will land somewhere in the Renaissance. Or at least that is what I am aiming for."

"Nephew," Daemon interrupted, "You are making absolutely no sense to me whatsoever."

The boy only yawned. "I am very tired, 'nuncle. I don't suppose there is anything else you wish to tell me before I retire."

His eyes were fluttering ever so slightly and he looked genuinely fatigued.

"Your animosity towards Coleman," Daemon confessed, "Why do you hate him so?"

The boy yawned again. "And you are asking why?"

Daemon's brow furrowed. "Your aunt is with child."

In the matter of a second, Viserys' dark eyes bulged open and his mouth opened, then closed before opening again.

"With child?!"

Daemon nodded slowly. "She is three moons with child. We wanted to wait until the next day to inform you all but your distrust of the man has been irking me for days. So tell me simply, why do you hate him so?"

The boy's small hands landed on his face in disbelief while he sent Daemon a hard look.

"Are you a moron?! You can't trust Coleman! He has reached levels of ineptitude I didn't even know existed. Puerperal fever? Blood loss? Those two ring a bell? They kill women in childbirth. And that goes without taking into consideration the ridiculously high mortality rate associated with it in Martin's world." What?! What was he even talking about? Who was Martin?

"You are not making sense, nephew," Daemon interrupted, irritated. Viserys' scowl only deepened. He opened his mouth to retort before shaking his head.

"I will need midwives," he said through gritted teeth, "Experienced ones. I had thought I'd be given some leeway until I eventually get Rhaenys with child but it seems I must needs make myself a freaking gynaecologist now."

With a final sour look and a dramatic swoosh of his blue cloak, he finished his wine before marching out of the room, slamming the door shut.

Daemon was totally speechless. Had that truly happened? Or was he just imagining things?

"Gynaecologist? Midwives? Industrial Revolution?"

He decided he would never understand his nephew.