Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, the Game of Throne or the Star Wars books, TV series or games. They belong to their creators, publishers and/or copyright owners. This story is not for sale or rent.
Chapter 3 Part 1
=Sith=
290 AC
Stormchaser
Summer sea
The last Targaryens spent nearly a month at sea with two brief stops for fresh water and food. The crew got a night off at Tyrosh and Lys, while Viserys' Unsullied got to stretch their legs at the docks, earning themselves wary looks from the locals. According to Kaleb, they were a few days out of Volantis, where they would have to stock up on provisions for the next part of the voyage – a large detour around the Smoking Sea and the ruins of Valyria before hitting the Gulf of Grief. Considering the history between Ghis and Valyria, Viserys decided that the last Targaryens stopping at New Ghis to resupply wouldn't be the best idea.
Instead, depending on the weather, they would head either straight for Astapor or choose between Elyria and Tolos before sailing to their final destination.
For Viserys, the voyage so far was very relaxing and productive. Weeks of training, good food, and sleeping in a comfortable bed had him put on weight and build some sorely needed muscle. The change in circumstances suited Dany as well. She filled up a bit, looking less like a skinny, starving waif that could break in a light breeze. Spending weeks in safety did both of them a lot of good. Their training progressed well, though Viserys was still loath to let Dany use the Force, even though she could already sense it without his aid.
Despite the progress, the Sith knew he was, at best, months of training from the point he could reliably expect to fight anyone competent and have a chance of winning without heavily reinforcing his body with the Force. His body lacked conditioning, and the years spent without enough food and under tremendous stress had taken their toll. In this world, without the Force, Viserys was sure he wouldn't have been able to reach his full potential. Now, it was only a matter of living long enough to get there. Well, that and tons of work.
"Visy, look!" Dany interrupted her brother's early afternoon exercise block. Viserys got up from the deck and went to the starboard, where his sister was shaking with excitement and pointing at the sea.
A group of dolphins raced beside the ship, jumping around and chattering at each other. Viserys felt relief and regret whenever he saw and sensed Dany act like a little girl. Somehow, she kept more than a bit of precious innocence, which he would have to rob her of if he was to properly train her.
They had at least a month, perhaps more, until they reached Astapor. Viserys was going to let Dany be a child until then.
The exiled Prince's mind returned to the various plans he was refining about Astrapor. He had a good idea of the city's layout and defenses thanks to the Unsullied. If he could gain control of a sufficient number of slave soldiers, Viserys was reasonably sure he could capture the place from within. The infrastructure of Astapor made the place ideal for his purpose and perhaps the best base of operations he could find. The Unsullied were made, trained, and sold there. That made them vital to taking the place. Astapor represented a priceless opportunity, the likes of which might never come again.
However, no matter how perilous, taking control of the city would be the easy part. What came next would be far more challenging and more complicated. Consolidating control over Astapor would take far more work than taking the place. Refurbishing the city's economy would be a significant challenge. The easy way out would be to maintain slavery. Viserys not only loathed the idea but going that route would mean their prospects of returning to Westeros to claim its throne would be tarnished. As far as he knew, everyone over there loathed slavery. Dabbling in it, in Essos, could mean constant rebellions. Hells, his Unsullied guard could be considered a step too far.
In theory, there was always the option to abandon the idea of returning to Westeros and making a living in Essos for good. However, the prospect of ice zombies and the mythical Others coming back and killing everyone meant it wasn't so simple. Viserys wanted to believe that the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms would be up to the task. He wasn't fool enough to bet his life on that, much less Dany's.
His very existence was likely proof enough that he would eventually have to go home, clean up house, and deal with that problem himself. The odds of him merging with Viserys Targaryen and his niece doing the same with Dany, being mere cosmic luck, were astronomical. There was no luck; there was the Force mucking things up and magic, too.
That sad truth meant Viserys had to prepare for many wars to come. Dany had to be ready, too. He would need a military capable of marching across continents, fleets, and all the support networks necessary to make them work. And for all that, he required Astapor.
Access to air support in the form of flying armored flamethrowers would be nice, too. That thought alone was enough to make Viserys tingle and his heart clench in longing. He shook himself and went back to exercising.
=Sith=
290 AC
East Harbor
Volantis
R'hllor sometimes sent visions that were much easier to interpret than others. Those blessed and experienced enough could glimpse the future and attempt to steer it. Moqorro, the right hand of the High Priest of the Lord of Light, was among that exalted number. For over a month, he stared in nightfires, doing his best to decipher R'hllor's portents. The visions his god blessed him with led Moqorro to the black wall towering above the docks.
The Red Priest knew that the fires showed what might be and what could be. A person can make a different choice, altering their fate. Other times, destiny was far less mutable because the right person, at the right or wrong place, would make the only choice they could given the circumstances.
Tonight, Moqorro was here to watch and see. R'hllor's visions foretold of potential. Of what yet might be. Of Azoi Ahai reborn or a monster with a heart of ice, ready to challenge the Great Other in depravity.
Moqorro saw the storm he foresaw arrive. It was in the form of a simple warship. It docked in the harbor section meant for vessels stopping only to load supplies for the next part of their voyage. Despite the evening's twilight, the Red Priest's eyes could clearly see the crew departing due to flickering torches illuminating that part of the harbor. The Red Priest's gaze shifted to the nearest torch on the wall, and he stared into the flame.
Fire. Blood. Gathering storm. Something screeched. Wings flapped. Angry beast fell upon a golden harpy, devouring it alive. A frozen heart burned bright. Something that was not R'hllor looked back, and the connection broke. Moqorro stumbled back, feeling unnatural chill in the air.
The Red Priest looked at the ship innocently anchored in the harbor and wondered who or what it carried. He briefly contemplated walking down to the pier and asking. Moqorro looked in the torch again, seeking guidance.
Azoi Ahai had to reveal and prove themselves. They had to awaken fire from stone. It was R'hllor's will for his priests to guide and aid his champion, not to control them. Azoi Ahai wasn't something you could make, much less force into existence. They were born. They had to become champions of the light through their own choices. They had to choose to stand against the darkness and death brought by the Great Other. Only then could the truth of the Lightbringer be realized.
The flames of the torch burned higher, merrier. Moqorro understood the message, or so he thought.
=Sith=
Chapter 3 Part 2
=Sith=
290 AC
Stormchaser
Summer sea
During the brief supply run to Volantis, Viserys pondered the merits of visiting the city. This place held the last embers of Valyrian civilization left in the world. He knew it wouldn't be a stretch to consider that their birthright, perhaps more than a distant throne in a land full of traitors. It was undoubtedly Dany's birthright.
Such things did matter for a Sith like him. They all stood on the shoulders of giants. Their mastery over the Force and, through it, everything else came after countless generations discovered and refined that knowledge to pass it down to their descendants. That was one of the key reasons why the Sith of the Empire built dynasties.
However, it was simply too dangerous to go exploring. If something went wrong, the Targaryens would burn too many bridges to get to safety. The only way Viserys would have to get them out was to slaughter his way through anything in their way. Ultimately, he decided it would be for the best that they one day returned with raw military and political power at their back, not just the violence he could personally unleash.
Equally important was that Dany could take care of herself before they ventured to explore their roots in this world. Until then, they would have to bide their time and grow their power.
Two more weeks passed without incident. By now, Dany had a basic competency with daggers. Viserys was no longer concerned that she might lose a finger if left to play with them without supervision. Eating proper meals for weeks now and lacking stress had Dany so full of energy that she bounced all over the deck until Viserys increased her training regiment. In the evenings, he shared what he recalled from the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Kaleb's sea charts served as tools for some basic geography lessons.
Despite Viserys' best efforts, their education about this world was lacking in many ways. Once they had a base of operations, they would need tutors and access to as many books as possible. Nevertheless, refining their ability to kill a copious amount of people as fast as possible took precedence. They needed to be alive for other knowledge to matter.
Stormchaser was sailing southeast, keeping reasonably far away from the ruins of Valyria, when the Targaryens' situation changed, reminding Viserys that this world had plans for them no matter what he wished. Late on a hot night that saw most of the crew slumbering on the deck, Viserys and Daenerys awoke to their blood singing and racing through their veins. They looked north, above the dark water.
Viserys was intimately familiar with the force. This was something else, something different, yet painfully familiar. Was this how magic from this world felt like?!
"Visy, it calling me…" Dany whispered in wonder. She raised a hand and stretched her fingers at the horizon. Viserys could feel waves of painful longing clash into him coming from his sister. They slammed at his own unwelcome emotions.
Dany took a step towards the call, breaking the spell for Viserys. He moved and hugged his sister, holding her far away from the railing.
"I can feel it too, Little Dragon. One day, we might go there and find out what is calling us. This is not that day. We will need to be ready to brave the dangers of Old Valyria," Viserys' words sounded final to his ears. That was more of a vow than a promise, much less empty soothing words.
Warmth spread through his blood, feeling like their mother's caress – something he had forgotten how it felt.
Dany looked up at Viserys. Her purple eyes shone in the night.
"We've lost our wings, Visy… I need to fly but can't…" The desperation in Dany's voice slid like a poisoned blade in Viserys' heart. The magic bubbling in his veins knew the truth of that statement.
There was nothing Viserys could say to that. The magic in his blood sang a dirge of loss and longing. He had to draw on the Force and drown it. Only that way, he could keep those unwelcome emotions go away.
"Rest Little Dragon. I promise we'll find our wings," Viserys crooned to Dany. He shifted her tiny form so she could get comfortable pressed into his side like they slept so many times before. Viserys channeled more Force energy until it covered them like a blanket. It was only in its embrace that they could enjoy a peaceful slumber.
Every night until Stormchaser sailed clear around the Valyrian peninsula, siren songs plagued the Targaryens. Something within their ancestral homeland beckoned, and the fire magic in their blood responded.
=Sith=
290 AC
Winterfell
The North
Around the same time, young Jon Snow fell ill in far-off Winterfell with a burning fever. For a week, the boy burned from inside. The ancient magic of the First Men and the fiery sorcery of Old Valyria both awoke from their slumber, clashing in a dance of ice and fire. All Maester Luwin could do was try to soothe the fever that should have claimed his Lord's natural son.
The ice in Jon's veins soothed the flames of his magic. At the same time, those flames tempered the ancient magics of the North, of the First Men and the Childre of the Forest, from ravaging him as it fully awoke long before his young body could handle it.
On the seventh day of his illness, Jon awoke at dawn, covered in cold sweat. His blankets felt stiffening and suffocating. He pushed the covers away with a trembling hand and rolled off his bed on unsteady legs. Lord Stark found Jon slowly making his way back from the privy.
"Jon? Are you all right?! Why are you out of bed!?" Ned demanded. His gray eyes widened when light from a flickering torch illuminated Jon's face. The lad's eyes were no longer Stark gray. Instead, two clear purple orbs stared warily at Ned.
The Lord of Winterfell sighed while relief and foreboding gripped his heart. He should have thought of this. If magic awoke in Viserys, why not in the man's nephew, who had the blood of Dragons and Winter Kings in his veins? But of course, Ned didn't want to think of Jon as a Targaryen, with all that entailed. He was afraid to. But now, there might be no other choice.
"Let us get you back to bed so Luwin can check you. I am sure you are hungry, aren't you, Jon?" Eddard smiled wanly and gently guided his nephew back to his chamber.
=Sith=
Beyond the Wall, the Blodraven slept and dreamed. Ice and Fire danced. A continent burned so a Promised Prince could be born.
Jon Snow, Brynden could see him clearly now. A weapon carved from ice, forged with fire and nurtured with a river of blood. A weapon that needed to be tempered for the true war to come.
It was almost poetic. An ancient weapon of ice and death would have to face a new weapon of fire and ice. This was fate eight thousand years in the making, and at every turn, small-minded, greedy fools tried to derail it. Long ago, what felt like an eternity ago, Brynden Rivers was one of those fools. Now, he was a cog in the tapestry of fate, struggling to see that there would be a future free of endless ice and death.
=Sith=
290 AC
Pyke
The Iron Islands
There were a few downsides to having a crew of mutes, Euron Greyjoy had to admit. They needed supervision to properly provision the Silence before setting sail, for they couldn't speak, and most couldn't write. There was a price to keeping one's secrets, and it was an easy one to pay.
Fortunately, once Euron was sure his minions had everything in hand, he could return to the ship and have fun with his newest set of salt wives. They were twins from Lannisport, and he got to keep them, even if his brother Balon fucked up the Ironborn's chance of breaking free. The fighting and the reaving were great fun, but anyone with brain would have seen how it would all end. There were too many bastards on the mainland and too few Ironborn, no matter how fierce the warriors of the Iron Islands could be.
Euron knew the truth! They needed powerful magic to make the green boys on the continent bleed and kneel. He had been searching for the necessary tools and would continue doing so until he found them. Then Euron would be King of all he surveyed! Until then, he would have as much fun as possible, as it was right!
"Brother!" An unwelcomed voice interrupted Euron's musings.
"Damphair," Euron turned around and leered at his devoted brother. To think that people called him mad when this was his sorry excuse for a family.
"The Drowned God has spoken! He has a need of you!" Aeron sounded utterly convinced of his own bullshit.
Euron naturally didn't really believe in the Drowned God. He had seen wonders and horrors all over the world in his far-ranging raiding expeditions. The Drowned God hadn't been among them.
"I am blessed then," Euron grinned madly at Dhampair.
His priestly brother gave him a matching grin, and his eyes shone with holy zeal.
"You are, brother! You are about to see and believe!" Aeron proclaimed with utter conviction.
"What am I about to see?"
The sea behind him foamed as if wracked by a deadly storm. Wave after wave struck the harbor, shaking the docks. Foam and seaweed washed ashore, covering everything in sight like a blanket.
Twisted forms rose from the waves, part fish, part men. They held wicked serrated blades in crooked clawed fingers.
"Behold, the army of the Drowned God!" Dhampair wailed while everyone watching, save for Euron, prostrated themselves and prayed.
The Crow's Eye smiled a terrible smile.
"What would the Drowned God have of me?" Euron simply knew he could do terrible, great things with such a host at his call.
"Find the dragons blessed by the Storm God! Consign them to the deep, and you will have divine favor!" Dhampair promised.
"The Sorcerer-Prince and that little sister of his," Euron concluded. The lass might make fun salt wife until he had to sacrifice her. And Viserys Targaryen? Euron laughed. He was going to break the boy, tear every single secret of magic from his shattered mind, drain each drop of power from his blood, and only then consign him to the Drowned God.
"Them!" Dhampair spat. "Fire and lightning, all in one! Drown that heresy, brother, and you will have all you wish for and more!"
=Sith=
AN: Various creatures and people all over Planetos: Let the terror and war crimes Olympics against the last Targaryens begin! Nothing could possibly go wrong!