I had intended for my idea to be this to be more of a "quiet operation," if that's even the right phrase. A handful of leftover Baratheons slipping into the Red Keep under a layer of cloaked invisibility brought by me using my gravitational powers to bend light to retrieve Aunt Rhaenys—it would've been simple, clean, and wouldn't require me to do much besides making a ruckus in the skies.
In my mind, the whole thing was practically a skeleton of a plan. Float a ship over King's Landing, make the entire city stare at the sky, threaten maybe a lil bit and let Borros and the others handle the actual jailbreak. I'd been toying with a sort of Flying Dutchman image aesthetic, like in Pirates of the Caribbean, a great ship hovering in the air just to spook everyone. It seemed fitting enough for a Velaryon. The Baratheons' fear of me should've been enough to keep them moving—plus, I could bend light to make them invisible, so that wasn't a concern.
But there was only one great problem, though, a very significant one. It was night. Night meant time to kick back, unwind, laze around and, preferably, sleep especially after the kind of day I got. Not save a princess from a castle full of dragons.
Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? If Rhaenys happened to keel over in the meantime, well… it was what it was. Might even save me some trouble. If she were out of the picture, Uncle Corlys might be too lost in grief to come up with one of his endless schemes. And with no one around to nudge me into action, I'd have my peace back at least for a while.
Anyway, That's how I found myself heading back to Dragonstone with Borros Baratheon, dangling mid-air like a sack of potatoes thanks to my gravity control. The others I left behind with loose instructions, something along the lines of "do whatever you like"—a phrase that suited me just fine. Honestly, I would probably never see them again, I hope so yeah, they could do whatever they wish I guess. No extra responsibilities on my end.
Speaking of Baratheons, I glanced over at Borros, and yup, he was still screaming. I thought he'd have gotten over it by now, but the moment we took off, he'd started up, and he hadn't shut up since.
"Stop screaming!" I shouted, my voice more annoyed than commanding. "We're in the sky, not in a dragon's mouth!"
But of course, that only made him scream louder. His fear was palpable and kinda raw honestly like an unrefined emotion that hung in the air like the scent of rain before a storm. Still, It was kinda amusing, really, how quickly a lord could turn into a child. It was proof I supposed that most were probably under all the veneers frightened whelp clinging to the illusion of control that came with their title or maybe I was seeing too much where I didn't need to.
I kinda still wanted him to survive. I still wanted to free Rhaenys after all and he would probably make things easier. I could ask Rhaenyra to let him live, convince her he might be useful. But, then again, if she decided to end him because of what occurred with Lucerys, well… that's life, I guess. Nothing in Westeros seemed to last forever anyway.
Also, I couldn't deny that Bringing him to Dragonstone was as much for my convenience as anything else. Let him be the distraction this time. I hoped that the blacks would be so busy with and angry at him that they would leave me alone for a second. It'd be nice if someone else than me had the spotlight.
I glanced around at the world below as we floated high above it, passing through wisps of clouds. There was something amusing about the sight of it all—the vast stretches of land shrinking into small patches of color and form, the way rivers cut through the earth like veins. From this height, the entire world seemed fragile, just a scattering of shapes too small to matter. From so far up, everything seemed so insignificant. Why worry and fight over stupid things like a throne that probably would be the cause of your end directly or indirectly?
Power. That's what people always seemed to lust after, as if it could fill some gaping void inside them. For me who had true power, not power given by men's concept, who had true power, it made me find all their dances around subjects, their politicking seem Pathethic and exhausting.
Power was in my opinion almost more of a hassle than a gift. If anything, I'd rather use it to keep others off my back, just enough to keep my time free. Titles and influence? They were shackles, weighing down people who didn't know any better. I had no interest in playing that game.
I thought of Borros and his people back at Storm's End. How quick they were to turn, to give up whatever pride they had left in exchange for a sliver of mercy. Admirable, maybe, but mostly desperate. Admirers, fearful servants, worshippers—I didn't need any of that. Their admiration or terror? All the same to me. They were after all I had to remind myself no matter how real they seemed just characters in a play I barely cared to watch. I might as well have been a spectator myself, just waiting for the next act to finish.
The wind rushed around us as we continued to soar through the sky, Borros's voice a distant, faint annoyance in my ear. He was still hollering, a constant, panicked noise that, after a while, became part of the background. A little ridiculous, honestly, like he hadn't come to terms with the fact that none of his screaming was going to change anything.
A thought crept up, half-formed in my mind. How would people remember me in the years to come? Would they call me a monster? A villain? Something else entirely? Did it even matter? Names, titles, all the words people stitched together to make sense of things—they held weight only if you cared enough to carry them.
As for me, I'd honestly rather carry a blanket.
I smirked a little at the thought. Titles were something other people fought over, draped over themselves like coats to guard against whatever emptiness they felt. The only label I'd ever cared for was unbothered. Let the world turn as it would; I was just along for the ride, and the less I had to do, the better.
Dragonstone was coming into view now, a dark outline against the night, stark and jagged like the bones of some ancient beast.
It's funny. The whole thing felt like a setup for some epic tale, like one of those grand, sweeping songs the bards would sing in castles. And here I was, not caring one way or another.
As we descended, I felt the familiar pulse of Dragonstone beneath us, the ancient magic woven into its very stones. The island had a pulse of its own, a heartbeat that resonated with the land and the sea. It reminded me that, despite my detached attitude, I was still bound to this place, this legacy.
Borros finally caught his breath, though only for a moment. "What… what are you doing?" he managed between gasps.
"Just enjoying the view," I replied, my tone lazy, almost dismissive. "You should try it sometime. It's much better than screaming like a child."
He shot me a glare, but it was lost in the shadows of the night. "This isn't a game! We're going to die!"
"Dying sounds like too much work," I said, shrugging. "I'd rather stick around, thank you very much."
As we touched down on the rocky outcrop of Dragonstone, I released my grip on the gravity magic, allowing Borros to stumble forward, landing on his knees. The sound of his heavy breathing mingled with the crashing waves below created a cacophony that felt oddly comforting.
I turned to survey the landscape. The castle loomed above us, a silhouette against the moonlit sky. It looked like a foreboding structure, to be honest. I felt a twinge of reluctance as I thought of the endless obligations that awaited me there.
Already, I could hear the sound of people coming closer. It seemed Borros' screams were enough to indicate our presence when I only wanted to do this in the most low-key way possible.
Why was I bothering with all of this again?
"Let's get this over with," I said, gesturing for Borros to follow. He hesitated, glancing back at the dark sea, as if hoping it would swallow him whole and take him away from my madness.
"Are you sure the princes-the queen will even want to see me?" he asked, his voice shaky which kinda was fair to ask. I was sure that Lucerys told Rhaenyra everything in detail
"I'm sure she'll be delighted to have you, Borros Baratheon on her doorstep."
The Baratheon looked for a moment at the sea down the cliff as if contemplating throwing himself not that I would let him. I had brought him here for a reason after all.
"Borros, let's go."
With that, I started up the winding path to the castle. Borros followed, still muttering to himself about the inevitable humiliation and death that awaited him. Soon, we were joined by a gaggle of knights and guards that seemed to look at me as if I was both god and the devil, as if they wanted to be everywhere but close to me. Still, they were following. Either they were more loyal than I thought or maybe they were stupid. I wouldn't tail me if I had been them but hey, do what you think is best.
I took a moment to enjoy the scenery, the jagged rocks jutting out like the teeth of a great beast, the waves crashing against them in a rhythmic pattern that felt almost hypnotic.
As we reached the castle gates, I paused. I knew what would be welcoming me inside would be the weight of expectations pressing down on me when tonight, I honestly craved the quiet, the solitude that came with being unbothered.
I pushed open the heavy door, and we stepped into the grand hall with the gazes of all on us, on me. I ignored them, continued to walk toward where I knew Rhaenyra and her advisors, her black council to say like to reunite themselves. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the stone walls on our path until we reached the room where Rhaenyra was. I pushed the door open and entered.
My gaze fell on the one of the realm's delight. Rhaenyra sat on her throne-like chair. She seemed as if she was trying to look as regal as possible, to be honest, that she was doing so to hide the exhaustion and even the flicker of fear that lined her features for an instant as she saw me. Her eyes were sharp, assessing us as we approached. I watched in a corner of an eye the knights of her Queensguard putting their hands on the handle of their blades as if it would change anything if I could bother to hurt Rhaenyra.
"Monterys," she greeted me. "I was told by your uncle that you had left."
"Yes," I simply answered. If she thought I was trying to explain why, she was sorely mistaken.
I spoke again before she could say anything. The conversation was already boring me out. Let's get over this as quickly as possible
"I brought a gift. Let me present you Borros Baratheon."
At the name, The gaze of everyone else present in the room fell on him.
Borros straightened, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him.
"What brings you here, Lord Borros?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice low and commanding and cold. Good, sorry, not sorry buddy.
Woah, she didn't even ask about the Stormlands. I didn't know if it was because she was pissed because of Lucerys or if she truly didn't care about knowing details from one of the ones who directory experienced my meteor. Anyways. I think it is time to leave now that the focus is on the man.
I began slowly but surely to walk toward the door. With a minor twirl on the finger, I became invisible. I could hear Borros speak behind me.
"Your Grace," Borros began, his voice wavering slightly. "I—uh, I come to discuss a matter of utmost urgency." He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. "It concerns the Stormlands."
His voice began to fade as I left the room. This day had been full of too many things. Sleep, I was coming to you beloved. Screw those guys with their annoying game of throne. A nap and everything would be alright. There was no chance I was letting them drag me into their nonsense.
Rethinking of this moment in the future, I would scoff at such naivety, as if Westeros could ever be so kind.
scene*
Sleeping was, without a doubt, my favorite occupation. In dreams, everything became lighter, simpler—fading away in an instant, taking the weight of consciousness with it. I could let go of the tangled strings that bound my mind to the world around me, the thick strands of greed, ambition, and violence that tangled this world together. Dreams were a reprieve, a place where all the plots, intrigues, and petty scraps for power could melt into nothing. In that liminal space, I didn't have to think about this world that had once only been ink on a page to me, a world as far away as a forgotten childhood, but now—a reality, breathing and snarling around me. Sleeping, as small and uninspired as it may sound, let me escape, even if only for a moment, from the theater of fools that was Westeros.
Out there, beyond my dreams, men fought for a throne of melted blades, for titles they couldn't carry into the grave, with ambitions as fleeting as winter sunlight. It was almost laughable, really, how they clung to these illusions of control. Greed and ruthlessness pulsed through this place like blood through veins, driving everyone to plot, to scramble, to kill. I wanted no part in it. Here, in my own dreams, I could imagine a different world—one without their machinations, without the ceaseless hunger for dominance. Here, I could be free of the chains they clamped on themselves willingly, all in pursuit of that glittering, empty prize. Here I could simply be, simply relax, simply laze around, simply breathe.
Yet, sometimes, a creeping thought would slither into my mind, whispering that perhaps I too was just another character in a story, words on a page written for someone's amusement. The notion was absurd, of course, but in the quiet moments, it itched at the edge of my awareness. Perhaps this, all of this, was only a tale told by someone else. I would sometimes think about and stop because what would be the point of caring if it was or was not, if that were true, what difference would it make? This Life, real or not, was tiresome all the same.
Tonight, as in many of my dreams, I opened my eyes to the same place I often found myself—a place that felt like home, in ways Driftmark never had and never could. Not even my first life had held this kind of belonging, the feeling of being exactly where I should be. This was the Royal Moongazing Ground, a place where stillness seemed to breathe. The air felt heavy, not with tension or fear, but with an ancient calmness, as if the very stones and trees were holding their breath, waiting. As I stepped onto the terrace, a cold breeze brushed past me, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the faint, mossy perfume of ancient stones.
The terrace opened up wide to the night, and there, against the dark sky, hung a massive, glowing moon, casting everything in a soft, silver light that felt almost sacred. Shadows melted into pools of darkness, hugging the stones and clinging to the roots of small plants that had fought their way through the cracks. Tiny blue flowers dotted the ground like stars fallen from the sky, their petals gleaming faintly, a gift from the moon itself.
I leaned against the carved balustrade, feeling the cool stone ground me as I looked up. The moon was framed by jagged spires and arches, a lone guardian in the indigo sky, casting its light over everything—the stones, the flowers, even my shadow. Standing there alone, I felt like a part of this place, connected to something far older and wiser than any mortal whim.
But tonight, something was different. The sky seemed heavy, thick with a strange, purplish hue that reminded me of the same shade my powers took on. It felt as if a storm was brewing, a storm that wasn't born of clouds or wind but of something darker, angrier. The air hummed with an energy I hadn't felt before, and I could almost hear whispers rising from the ground itself, faint voices crying, lamenting, filled with a raw, relentless fury.
"Unfortunate," I muttered, almost bored, watching the horizon darken as if it were an unfolding play. I had liked the calm here; it had been a perfect sanctuary. But I guessed I would have to change the scenery now, seeing as the quiet peace of this place was slipping away. I stayed there, unbothered, unconcerned by the wailing voices around me, undisturbed by their suffering or fury. It was only a dream, after all.
A voice, low and dripping with something I could only call disgust, broke through the murmurs. "Woah, you're really an asshole."
It was a neat trick. The second the voice sounded, the chorus of whispers fell silent, the cacophony of anguish melting into silence as if obeying a command. "Neat," I thought, appreciating the newfound quiet. I considered turning around, maybe offering a nod of thanks, or just to see who this intruder was, but the effort seemed unnecessary. I was too comfortable here, too wrapped in my own indifference to bother.
And anyway, this was my dream. Why waste energy on something inconsequential?
"Woah," the voice sounded again, both impressed and irritated. "You're truly a lazy asshole."
I didn't need to look to know that whoever it was had stepped up beside me. I kept my gaze fixed on the moon, noting with mild interest that it was full tonight. That was… neat.
The voice spoke again, sharper now, almost vibrating with anger. I sighed, feeling a twinge of disappointment. Somehow, I knew I wouldn't be left alone tonight to enjoy the moonlight. Today really wasn't my day wasn't it? It seemed like I couldn't even find peace in my own dreams. What a drag.
Resigned, I finally turned, and my gaze landed on something unexpected—a living mirror, someone who looked exactly like me. Everything was the same, down to the smallest detail, except for one thing: his hair, which was a dark, unsettling shade of scarlet, like a sea of blood under a setting sun. Not quite orange, not quite red, but a deep, scarlet shade that shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
"Cool," I thought, a small, lazy smile tugging at my lips. Maybe if Westeros ever became too insufferable, I'd leave and dye my hair that color kinda like A fuck you against the Velaryons, the Targaryens, and their obsession with Valyrian blood and purity and a way to not be found. But it'd be a hassle, and I'd likely have servants do it if I ever went through with the idea.
"What's up," I said, raising a hand in a lazy greeting.
The scarlet-haired version of me muttered under his breath, "Honestly, why did I expect anything else?"
He studied me with eyes that were almost hostile. "Do you regret it?" he asked, voice cold, edged with anger.
"Regret what?" I replied, shrugging. "You'll have to be more specific. I've done a lot of things lately."
His gaze hardened, and there was a quiet rage simmering beneath his calm. "Do you regret not saving your uncle Vaemond when you could? Do you regret letting your cousins and brothers, save Rhogar, lose their tongues?" His voice grew sharper. "Do you regret not changing the fates of Laenor and Laena when you knew what would happen? Or destroying a kingdom for a boy who isn't even of your blood?"
He paused, his voice dropping to a barely contained snarl. "Do you regret condemning hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, to suffering because of that meteor?"
I shrugged, the weight of his accusations rolling off me. "I guess I would've preferred if I didn't have to do things that'll probably my keep me busier than I would like, that would probably stop me from lazing around like I did before today in the future. But what's done is done. No point crying over spilt milk." Regrets, I thought, had a way of sinking into your bones, weighing you down. And burdened was the last thing I wanted to be.
More than that, why should I care? This wasn't my world, not really. The Velaryons weren't truly my family. They were just people I happened to share space with. Obligations? Expectations? They meant nothing to me.
The scarlet-haired version of me stared with a disgust that was almost tangible. "You deserve the worst. You were given power—enough to change the world—and all you did was sit back and do nothing."
Purple eyes blazing, he continued, "If you'd been evil, at least there would be a reason for your apathy. But you did nothing. Nothing for your family, nothing for anyone. You wasted everything."
"Hey," I muttered, almost, almost being mildly offended. "Lucerys reminded me of—"
But he kept going, ignoring me completely, voice ringing with fury. "You have the power of a demigod, the strength of someone once called the Starscourge, and you're nothing but a disappointment. Why do you have that power? You don't deserve it."
"Your words could hurt me, you know," I drawled, the sarcasm coating my tone, though it didn't touch me. His accusations were no more bothersome than the buzz of a distant fly.
He glared, his red hair catching the moonlight, making him look almost otherworldly. "Yeah, maybe I'm not worthy. Someone else would have done more. Freed slaves in Essos, conquered a kingdom, raised their house's name to new heights. But worthiness is a construct, a hollow thing. I have the power, and that's all there is to it."
The other me shook his head, almost in disbelief, as though my words were too much to bear. He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and pity, as if he couldn't fathom how someone so similar to himself could be so completely… disinterested.
"You're truly a boring, lazy excuse for a person," he spat, voice dripping with contempt.
The air around us began to distort, the once-clear image of the terrace rippling like a reflection disturbed by a stone tossed into a pond. The ancient stones, the soft light of the moon, the delicate flowers—all of it began to fade, blurring together as if washed away by some unseen tide.
I blinked, realizing that the world was slipping away. 'Looks like I'm waking up,' I thought to myself. 'Nice, I guess.'
The other me leaned closer, his expression twisting into something unnatural, something that didn't quite belong in this world—or any world, really. His scarlet eyes gleamed with a predatory gleam, his lips stretching into a grin too wide, too sharp, almost like a Cheshire smile.
"Lazing around, huh?" he whispered, his voice low and mocking. "I know your future, but I won't tell you. I can see it, and trust me—" his grin widened, baring teeth that looked sharper than they had any right to be—"I can't wait to watch. I can't wait to see it unfold, a future where you'll suffer, where you'll be broken, where every desire of yours will turn to ash."
I scoffed, unimpressed. The notion was laughable. I could bend the stars themselves to my will if I cared enough to try. I could stop the Earth rotation if I ever wished to do so. I could probably do so much more. What could possibly make me suffer? His words felt as hollow as the threats of all the kings and lords of Westeros who thought they held real power.
'Right,' I thought, brushing off his warning as little more than the ramblings of some residual guilt I hadn't even realized was festering within me. 'Or maybe someone's trying to mess with me, Bloodraven style.'
"Yeah, whatever," I muttered aloud, rolling my eyes at him. "Hopefully I'll never see you again." I turned back to the moon, hoping to catch one last glimpse of its serene beauty before the dream ended.
But the last thing I saw wasn't the moon. It was his gaze, filled with a hatred so deep, so consuming, that it seemed to reach out to me, clawing at my soul. And then, just like that, the world went dark.
scene*
I blinked, still half-lost in that fading dream, my eyes closed as the real world trickled back into my awareness. The remnants of that strange encounter with my scarlet-haired doppelgänger clung to me like smoke, hazy and insubstantial. 'Weird,' I thought, but shrugged it off. Just a dream, just my subconscious twisting itself into some ridiculous caricature. There was no reason to worry. After all, what could possibly happen that would change anything? What were the chances of anything wrong happening?
Still lying on my back, I decided to let the memory of the dream drift away, to melt back into oblivion. There was no need to dwell on it. But when I finally opened my eyes, I was greeted by something I hadn't expected.
Above me, looming in the dim morning light, was a woman—a maid or maybe a lady-in-waiting, I couldn't be sure. Her face was shadowed, but her eyes… her eyes were a mixture of raw hatred and pure, unbridled fear. In her hand, she clutched a knife, its blade trembling ever so slightly as she held it poised over my head.
For a moment, our gazes met. Hers was wild, desperate, as if she'd convinced herself this was her only chance at… something. Retribution? Liberation? Or maybe it was simply the reckless act of a person pushed too far. I didn't really care.
'Really?' I thought, almost sighing internally. The effort of rolling out of bed, of dealing with yet another annoyance, felt like too much. Was it really too much to ask to be allowed to laze around in peace?
Her grip tightened, and in that fleeting instant, she made her choice. The knife glinted in the dawn's first light as she plunged it downward.
I watched, unmoved, as the blade descended. 'Is it too much to ask,' I thought, resigned, 'to be left alone?'
Guess who's back still alive and kicking me?! Me! Anyways, hope y'all like the chapter. What do y'all think about it? What do y'all think I'm cooking? Also tell me in the comments what you liked or disliked about the chapter. It maybe may not seem like it for y'all but I take them very seriously maybe too much.
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