VI

DRAGONSTONE – 86 years after the Doom of Valyria

The large field we used most often for games of 'Eight Sticks' had been spruced up in preparation for the game. The scent of freshly cut grass wafted through the air as we took our places. The weather was ideal, with cool breezes and a cloudless, clear blue sky dominated by a sun that relished rays of warm light onto our skin. Two great goalposts painted white had been erected, standing sentry on either side of the field while the sentries themselves all watched eagerly in anticipation, helms discarded as sweat poured down their brows. Servants stopped in their steps as they walked and one stable boy knocked himself into a passing barrel. I had no doubt they were baking under the heat of the sun, especially the soldiers clad in their scale mail; even I felt it.

Though the woollen uniforms I had commissioned were slim fitting and sweat absorbent, they were still a pain to wear what with the heat, though I had no doubt it was more pleasant than being stuck in armour. We had the disadvantage of wearing black, long-sleeved jerseys with red shorts, the red three-headed dragon sewn at the breast of the jersey. The seahorse of the Velaryons was embroidered on the breast as well, on a sea of sea-green with grey shorts that acted as silver.

Reception to the design had been mixed. My clothing choices had been considered gauche and excessively revealing by Rhaenys who at nine had already begun showing the signs of a woman endeared with the more feminine side of things given her eye for fashion, and by father who wondered why it was necessary even in the first place given it seemed so barbaric. Say what you want about him but the man was Valyrian to the bone. While I could have explained to him the grand scheme of things when it came to the three-headed dragon, damnable prophecies and all, I had instead made shrugged it off as a show of us having three dragons rather than Rhaenys and Aegon being the other two heads. He only barely approved of the red and black given it had been the combination of colours our family had favoured since the days of the Freehold, and because my mother had no doubt told him to do so after some chiding. To top things off, Rhaenys had given me the stinky eye given no one was allowed to touch a dragon until they were at least ten thanks to my escapade years prior. Nevertheless, once I had explained to them the amount of hard work I was expecting from them and Rhaenys had attempted to do the training drills I had insisted upon in her fancy garb and left on the brink of dehydration, the designs were accepted although somewhat begrudgingly.

We had decided on a four a side game. The ball was made of an inflated pig bladder covered in leather, hard but ideal in a world without vulcanised rubber. I could only hope I would not accidentally find myself brain-dead and wake up Maegor-ed. Becoming a tyrant because of one bad injury to the head was not something in my plans.

Daemon led the Velaryons, consisting of a team comprised of Aethan who acted as the goalkeeper, Daenora who was the brains behind the Velaryons both in football and in real life, and young Corlys who would act as what I supposed was an amalgamation of midfielder and centre-back.

I led our team by virtue of me being the so-called inventor of the game, with father as our goalie and Aegon acting as a left winger. Rhaenys would play centre-back, a position she was not truly suited for given she was the youngest out of all of us at nine and hesitant when it came to tackling. But just like monopoly and our numbered nights spent narrating stories, we just couldn't let her not be in the team. And what she lacked in strength, she more than made up in diligence and enthusiasm. Aegon at eleven wasn't exactly going to be beating Aethan in a clash of strength or height given Aethan was by all accounts already nearly a man grown at fifteen but he had a sweet left foot and had a talent for making crosses. His speed was also an edge we had on them.

Orys would act as the referee, custom made silver whistle wrapped around his neck on a thin leather cord while he wore the shortest and tightest shorts ever known to man and a striped black and white jersey (giving my mother another reason to scrunch her nose at the sight of him it seemed). Laenor, at six, would be acting as our ball boy. And mother and aunt Laena would act as supporters.

"You all know the strategy, right?"

We were huddled near the goalpost, shoulder to shoulder as I tried my best to instill in them some confidence. On paper, the logistics were against us; the Velaryons had an older team, a more physically imposing team. Bar Corlys, they were all near or above six feet, favouring my maternal grandmother's famously great height. And Daenora was no slacker when it came to strategy. I could tell from the way she was yelling out instructions with a large unfurled paper in hand that she had gone so far to even map out her tactics and plans A, B, and C. I, meanwhile, had drilled that into the heads of my team for over a week now, something that I was very smug about. I looked at Aegon expectantly.

"Run fast," Aegon began, his fists balled up.

"Play the offside trap," Rhaenys dutifully reported, tucking behind an errant strand of silver hair.

"Breathe frequently to conserve stamina and do not let the ball into the net," my father added with an exasperated sigh, clearly wishing he could be out of this gimmicky outfit. I grinned.

"That is the spirit. We are dragonlords, scions of Old Valyria. Dragons trump seahorses, as they do everything else. And do not forget, what do you do whenever you get the ball?"

"Pass it to you," they parroted in unison. I clapped my hands.

"Let us go then," I gave them all a pat on the back before making my way to the centre spot. Aegon stayed thirty feet away, all while Rhaenys took her position near the penalty arc. With father being fervently against the idea of painting the grass, a strip of fabric pinned to the ground would have to do. The Velaryons adopted a similar position though Daenora held a higher line than Rhaenys. Ball at my feet, I did a final thumbs up before the referee blew the whistle and the game began.

Aegon was already making a sprint down the left, one arm raised as he hailed for the ball. Daemon closed in on me, legs spread as he tried to steal the ball off me. His hand pulled at my sleeve but I nutmegged him and pushed past him, leaving him in the dust. He was on my heels the next moment, his long legs carrying him a foot away from where I was. I lifted the ball high up, floating it towards Aegon who quelled it with his left foot. Corlys sped towards him, while Daenora took up a position betwixt Aegon and I.

She man-marked me as I made my way towards the eighteen-yard box, about the same height that I was at 5'10, the same height as my father. Corlys stayed close to Aegon who had slowed to a halt, ball at his feet. From the corner of my eye, I could see Daemon tracking back while Aethan yelled orders to his brother who was keeping Aegon occupied. Aegon did a fake shot, making Corlys stumble before he crossed the ball with pinpoint precision, putting just enough weight and height behind it for it to come to me. Daenora and I both rose but I managed to beat her to the ball. The thing hurt like a motherfucker, especially at a speed that had to be at least going ninety miles per hour but it lopped over Aethan's outstretched gloved hand and hit the back of the net. Aegon and Rhaenys were cheering and I could hear mother applauding. Daenora only let out a mild curse (something that she hardly did given she, like everyone in my family, deemed it improper and thus something I must needs sort out per my mother) before tossing me a rueful smile across her bright features. Her hands methodically retied the blue silk ribbon that held her silver hair in a ponytail.

"Do not think we are going down without a fight, Viserys," she said lightly, punching me in the shoulder playfully. Her pale blue eyes shone like the sky, brimming with mirth. I let out a puff of air before laughing.

"I never counted on it, cousin."

The match finished three goals to two in favour of House Targaryen. I bagged myself a hat-trick while Daemon and Daenora got one apiece. Two yellow cards were drawn, one for Daemon for a slide tackle that hurt like a bitch, and one for Rhaenys who had completely forgotten that hands were not supposed to touch the ball and conceded a penalty ("These rules are foolish and should be changed, Vissie!" were her sulky words to me).

To conclude the first football match of mine in a very, very long time and the first ever in my second life, medals were distributed, gold for the winners and silver for our defeated foes. A gold trophy with our names etched onto the metal was given, the first of many victories I hoped. Naturally, the match ball was mine as man of the match. The day ended well, even if I did feel slightly concussed. But hey, at least I didn't pull off a Loris Karius and cost us the game so bonus points!

(And yes, I'm still bitter even a lifetime later.)

A/N: Short chapter and a timeskip, but the content we're all waiting for slowly approaches.