An Emperor's Song
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that is seen as property by the Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire & Percy Jackson & the Olympians franchises.
Warning: This story showcases violent themes, inappropriate sexual acts, foul language, etc. that is not suitable for most audiences, especially young adults and children. Please read at your own discretion or not at all.
Chapter 22. The Mad Dragon
299 AC
Arc 1: Clash of Kings
oOo
With Viserys…
The tension in the air was so thick one could almost see it. In the bowels of the Lion's Mouth, a savage battle of life and death was being fought between two forms of predators—a pack of jackals that nipped and outmaneuvered their way to securing their prey versus a dragon that devoured and overpowered prey and anything foolish enough to think itself a predator.
Both sides were currently at a standstill, neither giving a single inch to the other. But it was starting to become clear that while individually a jackal couldn't ever hope to match a dragon, there was truth in the connotation that numbers provided strength.
A snarl escaped the frustrated Viserys as he was once again forced to retreat from his attack on one of the Jackal's who had come close to blindsiding him.
The battle was in a push and pull stage; he would be targeted by one or two of the jackals at a time and once he began pushing them back the others would come from his back and sides to pull him away from the initial attackers. It was essentially a game of cat and mouse but on a much larger scale.
"Give up, dragon! You can't hope to win against us." The infuriating voice of Ser Lyon rang out.
Viserys's response was to deliver a slash toward one of the Jackal's who hurriedly raised his shield to stop himself from being beheaded.
He then went on the defensive again to avoid being attacked from his flank by the other Jackals. His frustration grew with every attack he had to block or redirect. At the rate he was going, the battle would not end in his favor. There were simply too many enemies for him to handle.
Viserys's mind raced as he tried desperately to find a solution for his problem. His thoughts drifted to a particular training session with Perseus.
(Flashback)
"I've got a feeling this is going to be happening a lot in the future."
"What?" A panting Viserys turned to his nephew, sweat pouring from his body as he struggled to keep the sword in his grip upright. His hands were raw and red from the amount of training he was put through that day.
Perseus stood nearby, he was also visibly exhausted but by a far lesser degree than Viserys.
"Just thinking out loud. Don't worry about it." Perseus waved off his question as he turned his focus to him.
"As for your earlier question. Do you now see why you're not going to be able to go up against a group with a calm mind?" His nephew asks.
"Because I anger too quickly." Viserys bit out irritably.
Perseus's face lit up and he clapped his hands. "Bullseye!" He exclaimed, completely uncaring of the growing annoyance of his uncle.
"So what do I do if I ever get into a situation like that? Just give up?" Viserys growled.
"Of course not. I'm training you to be a fighter, not a quitter," Perseus remarks drily.
He grunted in agreement. "So?" He repeated.
"If fighting with a calm mind isn't an option for you. Then you need to use your anger to your advantage. Overwhelm your opponents. Destroy whatever plans they try to make with pure strength and absolute savagery."
Viserys frowned. "And this will let me defeat a group of soldiers?" He had come to realize early on not to doubt his nephew when it came to matters of combat. But there was still some hesitation.
"Yes and no. You'll be able to overwhelm a group of cannon fodder by yourself but not a group of actually skilled fighters. You'd have to be blessed to say the least in order to do something like that." Perseus snorted as if he were aware of something that he wasn't.
"So against a group of warriors worth their weight in gold, I'll lose. Thank you so much for your teachings, nephew." Viserys says lamely.
Perseus shrugged. "You could always pray for strength. You'd be surprised how many times I was given the strength to overcome something that was considered impossible."
"And who, pray tell, should I ask for strength? The dragon gods of Old Valyria perhaps?" To his surprise, Viserys's sarcasm was actually responded to with a nod of agreement.
"Sure. Not sure if they'll actually—." Perseus paused as if someone began whispering in his ear and after a moment he hummed. "I guess there really is some truth to us being related to dragons. That's pretty badass."
"What?" Viserys cocked his brow in confusion.
Perseus quickly waved him off. "Go for it. Praying I mean. You might be surprised at the result." He says.
Viserys stared blankly at his nephew for a long moment before he simply shook his head dismissively. "Whatever. Let's just finish this." Without another word, they went back to their training.
(Flashback End)
For whatever reason, that conversation with Perseus came to mind at the moment.
He had never been a religious man. If the gods were real and favored him then he and his family would've never had to flee to Essos. So he discarded the belief in higher powers.
But for whatever reason, perhaps due to the desperation quickly growing within him, the prince of House Targaryen found himself thinking about the dragon gods of Old Valyria, in particular, the dragon goddess of war, Vhagar.
Seeing as how militaristic Old Valyria had been, it was no surprise that the goddess was said to be one of the most revered among the dragon gods. She was also said to bring about calamity wherever she went but that was neither here nor there.
But perhaps, in his greatest moment of need, Viserys's prayers would be answered with something to get him out of his current situation.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, he felt something brush against him. Not physically or mentally, but more so spiritually. It was as if a presence had somehow wormed its way into his soul.
'Call for me.'
Viserys nearly died from the lapse of concentration he sustained from the shock of the voice in his head. He fought off the Jackal who had been close to stabbing him in the back, but his mind was still reeling.
Had someone just spoken in his mind? And if so, who?
'You know my name. Say it. Call for my strength.'
It sounded like a woman. Her voice was commanding and cold yet it also held hints of a seductively smooth and alluring tone.
Viserys batted away another attempt to kill him as he weighed his options. Though the moment he thought about it, there really was only one way for him to get out of his predicament.
"…give me your strength." Viserys grunted, though he could barely hear his own thoughts over the sound of the ongoing battle, let alone his hesitant words.
When he was met with cold silence, his frustration grew. Was there some other requirement that he needed to fulfill?
His mind went back to his conversation with Perseus. His strength was apparently his greatest weapon, but it was also his greatest weakness. And in order to break free of those chains, his nephew had emphasized that sacrifices were necessary for that kind of power. He wasn't totally sure but that seemed most likely to be the current problem.
But what exactly was he required to sacrifice? He refused to commit bodily harm upon himself for more power. He loved himself too much to do that. So what would be an appropriate alternative? Frighteningly enough, the answer came quickly to him.
"Fine," Viserys snarled as he bashed one Jackal away before kicking another square in their chest plate, causing them to stumble backwards. With the moment of reprieve he had gained, he raised his sword and roared to the heavens.
"Vhagar, lend me your strength!"
…the Jackals all looked at him with varying levels of confusion and shock.
"Ha! He's actually gone mad." Ser Lyon barked followed by the other Jackal's bellows of laughter.
Viserys's chest heaved as he panted, his eyes up to the heavens, waiting for an answer.
Was he mad to put his faith in a higher power? Had his mind just made something up to cope with his stressful situation? That would be the case. But no, he heard her voice, the seductive promise of unimaginable strength capable of overcoming any obstacle. All he had to do in return was sacrifice something of value.
And if that price so happened to be his sanity— then so be it. Let them call him mad, let all of his enemies call him mad. He would laugh over their corpses all the same.
"I accept your price. Give me strength!"
…
'Very well, son of Aerys. Be reborn as a true dragon and show them the might of Valyria.'
Viserys's mind snapped.
With a primal roar that reverberated off the bloodstained stone walls, he launched himself at the nearest jackal, his blade a blur of steel and fury. The first jackal barely raised his shield before Viserys cleaved through it, along with the arm behind it. The man's scream echoed for a brief moment before the dragon's sword pierced through his throat, cutting it off in a sickening gurgle.
The other jackals hesitated, faltering as their packmate fell in a growing pool of blood. It was all the opening Viserys needed.
Like a whirlwind, he spun on his heel, driving his blade into the belly of another who had tried to come at him from the rear. Guts spilled out as the man's face turned from predatory hunger to a mask of disbelief and agony. He tried to scream, but only blood came out.
Viserys snarled, his face twisted with a savage intensity. He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't give one either. There wasn't a single forgiving thought in his bestial eyes. Only a promise of death and destruction.
His sword arced through the air again, catching another jackal mid-leap, splitting his chest open. Bone and muscle snapped as the jackal's lifeless body crashed to the ground, limp like a ragdoll.
The stench of death and gore thickened in the chamber, and the surviving jackals scrambled back, but it was too late. Viserys was no longer a man fighting for survival—he was a dragon mutilating his prey, and no one would leave this place alive.
He charged at Ser Lyon, the impromptu leader, who had been barking orders from the back. The knight barely had time to draw his sword before Viserys slammed into him with bone-crunching force. Lyon's sword shattered on impact, his body crumpling like paper as Viserys's blade pierced through his chest. The sickening sound of ribs breaking and flesh tearing filled the chamber.
Lyon gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as he stared at Viserys, his once smug expression now twisted in shock and terror. "You…how…" he choked out.
But Viserys wasn't listening. With a feral snarl, he ripped his sword free, and Lyon collapsed to the floor, his blood joining the sea of red around them.
The last few jackals tried to flee, but Viserys was faster. He pounced on the nearest one, slamming his head into the ground with such force that the skull cracked open, brains spilling onto the stone floor.
The final jackal whimpered, cornered, begging for mercy. But Viserys had none to give. With a swift, brutal motion, he brought his sword down, severing the man's head clean from his shoulders.
Silence fell over the Lion's Mouth, save for the steady drip of blood and the heavy breaths of the one who would soon be known as the Mad Dragon.
oOo
At King's Landing, with Sansa…
"My king, you cannot order the enemy to give up their sword, you must take it!" A good distance away, Sansa watched as the commanding knight of the Kingsgaurd, Ser Barristan Selmy, scolded the boy-king for once again ordering one of his sparring partners to drop their training sword.
To Ser Barristan's credit, he managed to somehow maintain a neutral expression as Joffrey exploded into his usual bout of childish rage.
"He keeps hitting me! I should flog him for daring to do something so insolent!" Joffrey angrily shouts while his sparring partner, who was just barely over ten name days old, visibly shook in fear.
Ser Barristan remained calm, though his eyes flickered with a subtle weariness. "Your Grace," he began, his voice patient but firm, "this is a sparring match. Your partner is here to train you, to help you become a better swordsman. If he did not strike at you, how would you learn to defend yourself?"
Joffrey's face turned a deeper shade of red, his eyes blazing with indignation. "I'm the king! He should know better than to strike his king!"
Sansa, watching from the side, felt a pang of pity for the young boy facing Joffrey's wrath. She knew all too well how cruel her betrothed could be, and though she wished she could intervene, she knew it was not her place. Instead, she clenched her hands, silently praying that Ser Barristan could diffuse the situation without further harm coming to the boy.
Ser Barristan took a step closer to Joffrey, his voice lowering just enough to command attention. "Your Grace, a king must be strong, not only in command but in skill. Your enemies will not simply drop their swords when you command them. They will fight, and you must be prepared to meet that fight with strength and honor."
Joffrey's eyes darted to the young boy, who stood trembling with his wooden practice sword still clutched in his hands. "This is a waste of time," he spat. "I don't need to fight when I have men like you to do it for me."
Ser Barristan's face remained impassive, but there was a flash of disappointment in his eyes. "It is not enough to have others fight for you, Your Grace. A true king leads by example. He fights with his men, not behind them."
Joffrey glared at him, his lip curling in disdain. "You're an old man, Barristan. Don't lecture me about being a king."
Ser Barristan didn't flinch, but his tone grew sharper. "I have served kings, Your Grace, both strong and weak. And I can tell you this: a king who fears the fight will lose his crown—and his kingdom."
Joffrey's jaw clenched as his gaze flicked between Ser Barristan and the trembling boy. For a moment, it seemed as if he might listen, as if some sense of reason might break through his temper. But then, with a sneer, he turned his back on both the knight and the boy.
"This is boring," he declared. "I'll do as I please."
He stormed away, leaving Ser Barristan standing tall, his expression resigned but not defeated. The knight glanced at the young boy, who was still frozen in place, and gave him a small nod. "Well fought, lad," he said quietly, with a rare warmth. "You've shown more courage today than most."
The boy blinked, wide-eyed, but gave a shaky bow in return before scurrying off.
Sansa felt her heart sink. Joffrey had learned nothing today, but Ser Barristan had tried, and that, at least, gave her some hope. She watched as the old knight turned and walked away, his head held high despite the king's outburst.
She couldn't understand why a man of Ser Barristan's honor would waste years of his life serving a boy as horrible and wicked as Joffrey—his skills could be better used elsewhere.
With a shake of her head, the young lady's mind drifted from the matter entirely.
The other night she had a vivid dream where she was at the top of the Red Keep. From her vantage point she witnessed a man whose hair seemed to be made of flames and wore a weird looking robe linked together by a few pieces of intricate gold armor. In his raised hand was a blade that shined so brightly that it may as well have been a star.
And not only that, but he was riding on the back of a dragon so massive that it blotted out the sun.
To anyone more open to blasphemy, the man would be like a god. But to Sansa, he seemed more like one of the heroes of old arriving at the wicked capital of a corrupt regime to bestow upon them the wrath of Old Gods of the Forest.
Sansa involuntarily shivered as she remembered his presence, his power—it lingered with her even now, a sense of awe and dread mingled together. She had woken in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, the vision of the dragon's shadow etched into her thoughts.
Was it a sign, or merely her mind grasping for something, anything, to offer hope in this cursed place? She wasn't sure. But the thought of a hero—someone like the ones from her stories, who could sweep in and cleanse the rot from King's Landing—was too alluring to dismiss so easily.
Joffrey's cruelty had only grown more unhinged since ascending to the throne, and the court was becoming a pit of vipers more dangerous by the day. Sansa longed for an escape, but she knew there was none. Not yet. She was a Lannister hostage in all but name, and her every move was watched. The only thing she could do was play the part, keep her head down, and survive.
But that dream… the man with the shining sword. Could there be someone out there like him? Could there be a force gathering, one that would one day sweep away all the cruelty, the lies, and the bloodshed? Someone to end Joffrey's reign of terror?
Sansa sighed softly, shaking her head again. It was just a dream. There were no heroes, no men with swords of light, and no dragons coming to save her. She had to face reality, grim and cold as it was.
Yet, even as she tried to push the thought away, she couldn't quite rid herself of it. The dream had felt like more than just a fantasy. There had been something about it, something… otherworldly. As if the gods themselves had placed it in her mind.
A handmaid approached her, bowing deeply. "My lady, Queen Cersei requests your presence in the solar."
Sansa nodded, rising gracefully despite the tension gnawing at her insides. Another audience with Cersei. Another round of venomous smiles and veiled threats. She had grown used to them, but they still drained her, still reminded her of the precariousness of her position.
As she followed the handmaid through the corridors of the Red Keep, her mind drifted back to the dream one last time. A man riding a dragon, with a sword of light and a presence that commanded the heavens. He had come to King's Landing, but for what? To destroy it? To save it? To save her?
Sansa didn't know. But something deep within her stirred with a faint glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, that dream was a whisper of things to come.
Because if there was anything she had learned in this city of lies and cruelty, it was that nothing stayed the same forever.
Not even kings.
oOo
Across the Narrow Sea in Essos…
The dim light of flickering torches cast long, eerie shadows across the stone walls of the House of Black and White. At the center of a vast chamber, the elder council of the Faceless Men sat, their true faces hidden beneath more than their shadowed hoods.
The air was thick with quiet tension. Tonight, they would decide whether or not to accept the request that Tywin Lannister had sent them—a request that could alter the fate of Westeros itself.
"The Lannister wishes for us to kill this… Perseus Targaryen," murmured one elder, his voice dry as parchment. "He offers a mountain of gold."
The elder across from him spoke, her voice smooth but cold. "Gold means nothing if we are led into ruin. Perseus Targaryen is not an ordinary target. He is a born king. And he has already gathered considerable power, some say he is the most likely candidate to claim the Iron Throne."
A murmur rippled through the council. This was not the typical assassination. Perseus was not just a man with enemies—he was a force. To kill him could mean courting disaster for even the Faceless Men for not even they could face the wrath of entire kingdoms.
The eldest among them leaned forward, his gaze cutting through the darkness. "Our order has never shied away from death. But Perseus… there are whispers of abilities not of this world, powers that could rival even the greatest assassins we have ever created."
Before another voice could be raised, the great doors at the edge of the chamber creaked open.
A figure stepped into the hall, his movements, from his footsteps to the shifting of his robes, eerily making no sound as if he were but a ghost. He wore the attire of a commoner, but the council knew immediately that this man was anything but. Though his true face was unknown to all of the elders except the eldest, his worn face was one that they were all familiar with—a face they had not seen in many years.
"My apprentice," the eldest breathed, as the figure approached. "You return?"
Lysono, a former member of the Faceless Men and the apprentice of the eldest, bowed his head slightly, though the gesture seemed more mockery than respectful. "I return as one."
The council shifted uncomfortably, their silent composure faltering as they knew the phrase was meant to convey that the man was not coming back to join their ranks as there was no such thing as a singular identity in the House of Black and White.
It was unfortunate, as this was not just any assassin. Lysono had been the greatest killer in the past five hundred years, a legend among the Faceless Men—until one day he gained his freedom by accomplishing an insurmountable task after which he vanished without a single trace.
"Why have you come, Lysono?" asked the eldest, his voice harder now. "Do you come just to remind us of your freedom?"
"No," Lysono replied, his voice a low, dangerous hum. "I come with a message from Perseus Targaryen."
The mention of the name stiffened the room. Lysono's smile was thin, cold. "Perseus is not a man you can simply kill. Well, he can barely be considered a man at all. You do not understand his power." He looked around, meeting the gaze of each elder. "He is not just the heir to a throne. He is something… far greater. His strength is not just in battle, though he is unmatched. There are forces at work around him that would make even the Faceless Men tremble."
"Are you threatening us, Lysono?" An elder asked, her smooth voice cutting through the tension.
Lysono chuckled. "You all know that I do not threaten. I promise. If you take Tywin's coin, if you move against Perseus, you will find yourselves at war with a power you cannot comprehend. And not just him—there are those who stand with him, those who are quite familiar with how the Faceless Men operate."
The silence in the chamber was deafening. It was obvious that Lysono was implicating himself as one of the people who stood with Perseus and that in itself would be a great task for their guild to overcome. The elders exchanged glances, weighing their options.
"And if we choose to leave him alone?" the eldest asked.
Lysono's smile widened, though it still held a hint of steely seriousness. "Then you live to see a brighter future. And Perseus will remember that you chose wisely."
For a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of torches. Then, the eldest leaned back in his chair, the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders.
"The Faceless Men usually do not take sides in the games of thrones. But this… this is not a game. We will abstain from acting against either side of the conflict in the Seven Kingdoms."
One by one, the council members nodded in agreement. The decision was made.
Lysono bowed once more with a smile as sharp as a dagger. "Then I leave in peace. But remember—Perseus' reach is long. And his mercy, rare."
With that, Lysono turned and left the chamber, and for once his presence lingered like an omen that none of them could shake.
The game of thrones between the Seven Kingdoms was seemingly reaching its end. But the elders couldn't help but notice the signs that the game was not completely over but simply entering a new stage, a stage where not just the fate of Westeros would be affected but the world itself. And at the height of it all stood a boy not yet a full grown man named Perseus Targaryen.
oOo
At Storm's End, with Perseus…
"-ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!" Sweat poured down Perseus's brow as he and Daenerys finished their training session with a hundred sit-ups.
It only took a few days for his newly betrothed (yes he was still getting used to that title) to get back into the flow of training. And she did so with a fire that signified her reinforced drive to become a better version of herself.
"Finally!" Looking completely spent, Daenerys huffed heavily as she laid flat on the cobblestone floor, seemingly basking in the feeling of cool stone on the bare skin of her torso.
Like him, she had long since discarded the idea of wearing a shirt during intense workouts and now chose to tightly wrap her upper torso with cloth that secured her chest as well as a pair of loose fitted trousers. The new attire greatly complimented her budding curves and toned body.
"You went through the whole workout. Good job." Seeing Daenerys's cheeks go bright red whenever he complimented her never ceased to amuse him.
Like usual, she chose not to verbally respond to his praise and instead sat upright. "Can we do some grappling today?" While her excited smile held a large amount of expectation, he rolled his eyes in amusement.
Ever since Obara introduced her to the Rhoynish martial art called Gudo, Daenerys developed a strong interest in grappling.
Her preference for that particular style of unarmed combat over others was based on the fact that while a grappler could play both a passive and or dominant role, they remained equally as dangerous throughout either setting.
It was also quite easy to perform submissions on someone who had no experience defending against them. Something that he had experienced firsthand because of the countless times he had been on the receiving end of Annabeth's wrath.
"Sure, but only for a few minutes." Perseus stood to his feet before helping Daenerys up.
"All I need is a few minutes to make you tap." Daenerys boldly proclaimed.
He genuinely lost count of how many times he heard her say that before she ended up being the one to eventually forfeit the match.
"We'll see." He chose to reply instead of reminding her of the rather embarrassing losing streak that she was on.
The match started off as usual with both of them squaring off on their feet.
But just as usual it was quickly transitioned to the floor when Perseus used his Greco-Roman wrestling to perform a simple double leg lock that gave him enough control to perform a takedown.
From there, he began expertly performing a wrestler's usual routine of maintaining top control by getting into full mount and distributing his weight around to avoid being bucked off.
"Shrimp inward instead of out. You'll avoid getting your head bashed in while you're trying to transition to a better position." Having long since become used to his terminology, his betrothed silently made the necessary adjustments and successfully put herself in a half guard position.
The match progressed from there with Perseus trying to regain or maintain top control with full mount while Daenerys worked on staying in half guard where she could threaten him with more submissions.
By the time their match hit the five minute mark, sweat drenched their bodies.
Grappling was undoubtedly the foremost aspect of unarmed fighting that required the most physical conditioning.
Anyone with a remotely decent physique could throw over a hundred punches in three minutes. But three minutes of grappling would make those same people feel like the weight of the sky was on their shoulders. And he would know.
"Good." Perseus grunted when he suddenly found himself in Daenerys's full guard after threatening her with an arm triangle choke.
He focused his efforts on getting out of her guard by participating in a struggle that would end with him gaining full top control. And after a lengthy battle, he ended up being the victor in that momentary bout.
Gripping down on her wrists, Perseus applied pressure with his lower body to effectively secure his position on top before he used his iron-clad wrist control to secure an americana.
It only took a single rev to quickly get Daenerys to tap, cementing her loss.
After taking in some much needed air, she breathed out. "Damn it!" Her face scrunched up in frustration.
"You did good." Perseus said sincerely.
It was honestly impressive to witness Daenerys approach intermediate level grappling in such a short time frame. Her overwhelming talent for academics seemed to have branched off into fighting.
"But I couldn't make you tap." She grumbled.
"Don't feel too bad. You'll probably never be able to do that." He grinned in response to the glare he received.
Daenerys's eyes briefly flickered downward before her glare turned into a smug smile.
"It seems making you tap isn't the only thing that's hard." Her hinting tone made him blink for a moment before he suddenly became aware of the situation that had built up in his trousers.
Tilting his head, he looked at the bulge that was pressing firmly against the treasured spot in between Daenerys's legs.
Apparently now that his blood didn't need to be circulated elsewhere Little Perseus decided that he needed more juice.
She probably made him aware of his plight in order to get one up on him during their banter, but if he did have a bone of shame in his body it definitely wasn't the one currently trying to escape its confines.
A low moan slipped from Daenerys's lips when he slowly grinded his hips into hers, a wolf-like grin on his face.
"Careful. You don't want to challenge me to that kind of game." Since he had been watching her expression closely, he noticed the exact moment her eyes lit up with a familiar spark of rebellion.
"Or do you want to end up like last time?" He questioned with a challenging eyebrow raise.
Her rebellious eyes instantly vanished and she avoided his gaze, Daenerys's cheeks flushed deeply at the reminder of how he had left her mewling in a puddle of her own fluids that one morning.
"Flamebrain." She murmured back, the fire that had been starting was effectively extinguished by her own embarrassment.
Chuckling, Perseus lifted himself up and helped Daenerys to her feet, wrapping his arms around her waist to bring her closer to him.
His lips briefly brushed against hers as he leaned in. "Don't worry, we'll have plenty of time to explore on our wedding night." Perseus's promise was delivered with a husky undertone.
The jaded look in Daenerys's eyes greatly expressed that she didn't want to wait for their consummation and honestly neither did he, but fortunately before they could both make a mistake the door to the training room opened.
With a crisp stride, Grey Worm entered the secluded yard by his lonesome as he was one of the few people allowed in their private training grounds.
After acknowledging both of them with bows, Grey Worm announced. "Commander Tristan Waters, is requesting an audience with you, my king." He tells him.
"Tell him I'm busy." Perseus says dismissively.
"I did, my king. But the commander…insisted that I tell you." A clear amount of displeasure was in the Unsullied commander's tone, as if he could barely stomach the idea of someone insisting on meeting with him.
A tiresome sigh escaped his lips. Perseus genuinely didn't want to deal with the Golden Company commander anymore. He had hoped that his last conversation with the young sellsword had gotten that point across but that seemed to have failed.
He glanced at Daenerys who had been silent throughout the exchange.
There wasn't any genuine insecurity in him, that would imply some level of comparison between him and Tristan which was laughable, but he would be lying if he said that he wouldn't be a bit annoyed with the bastard being anywhere near his aunt.
"I can tell Commander Waters that you're too busy if you would like me to, my liege." Grey Worm offered, the firm grip on his spear tightening silently signified a blatant willingness to do much more than simply tell the sellsword to come back another time.
Before he could respond, Daenerys spoke. "It's fine, Grey Worm. We were just finishing up anyway. Send the bastard in." She told the commander.
Though he was confused, Perseus allowed Grey Worm to depart with a nod of confirmation.
Soon after, the young commander walked inside of the training room with Grey Worm right at his heels.
A confident grin was on the sellsword's face but Perseus could tell that it was just a facade. The young man was nervous though whether that was because of him or Daenerys was up for debate.
Before Tristan could even address them or vice versa, Daenerys stepped to Perseus and claimed his lips with a heated kiss.
Perseus's surprise at her brazen act was hidden behind the flames of arousal that erupted within him and his hands instinctively rested on the trim waist he had been admiring not long ago, drawing her closer to his chest.
His desire was stoked even further when he felt Daenerys slip her tongue into his mouth. For a moment they did a bit more wrestling, though it was very different this time around, before she slowly drew back with glistening lips.
"Should I have Missandei draw a bath for two?" Daenerys questioned softly as they both catched the breath they lost from their passionate kiss.
He replied with an affirmative nod. "Don't keep me waiting for long." A teasing smirk on her face. "I want to show you the other tricks I learned from the Sand Snakes."
The downright tantalizing look she gave him made it quite clear exactly what tricks she was referring to.
With that drool inducing statement, Daenerys deftly left the training room without another word or glance at anyone else. His eyes inevitably were drawn low when he noticed a distinct sway in her hips.
After watching his betrothed leave, he had no choice but to turn his gaze from the perky backside he had been admiring to the quite unsavory sight of Tristan Waters.
A highly amused snort blew from his nose when he noticed the hollow look in the commander's eyes that he tried, and failed, to hide behind his strained grin.
After staring expectantly at the commander for a moment, the young man bowed before addressing him. "I'm glad that I haven't fallen too far out of your favor to request an audience with you, my king." His appreciative words seemed as hollow as his gaze.
"If you hadn't managed to get my uncle's to muster their army, I wouldn't have listened to your request." Perseus says blunty while using a towel to wipe off his accumulated sweat.
"I heard about the Mountain's plan for the princess, how he intended to kidnap her and use her for ransom." Tristan says next.
"As you saw, Daenerys is in great health and even greater spirits." He couldn't help but grin when he added that last comment.
"And I'm glad for it." The bastard's tone surely didn't sound very glad. "But this will most likely not be the last time your enemies try to target the princess."
"Thank you for stating the obvious, commander. It's good to know that you believe me simple minded enough to not think about that." Perseus says.
"That wasn't what I-!" "What do you want?" He cut the sellsword off, wanting to get straight to the point for the young man's presence.
Tristan visibly fought off a frown. "It's come to my attention that Ser Jon Connington died in battle protecting Princess Daenerys. He was a good knight and an even better man." The bastard added though he continued when all he received was a stony expression.
"His life may have ended, but his duties in protecting not just Princess Daenerys but also you and the prince are still very much a concern. So, I came to personally give my case as to why I believe I'm a capable replacement for Ser Jon. Though honestly, there isn't much to say since you've already seen my skill with a sword on multiple occasions." Tristan tells him.
"You could be ten times better at sword fighting than Ser Jon was and still you could never replace him." Perseus's words were as cold as his gaze.
He truly didn't understand what gave the company commander such confidence to not only insist on meeting with him but to also suggest that he take Ser Jon's spot as the knight protector of House Targaryen.
"…" Whatever scenario Tristan had imagined in his delusional mind was evidently not occurring, because the sellsword seemed unable to even comprehend what he had just heard.
"And there's no need to worry about who will take on the duties that Ser Jon left behind, as I've recently got someone far more qualified than you to do the job." He says, knowingly adding salt to the wound.
"Since that's done, was there any other topic you wanted to discuss, commander?" Perseus asks, though as he expected he didn't gain a response as the commander still seemed too shocked to respond.
"I do have something for you to do though. Go to Casterly Rock, report to Viserys and wait for further orders." Those words seemed to finally jumpstart the sellsword's brain.
"But the siege of King's Landing is approaching-!" "And is of no importance to you, commander. As you'll be aiding us in securing the Westerlands during that time." Again, he swiftly cut off the young man's rebuttal as he began leisurely making his leave.
"At least allow me to-!" This time, it wasn't Perseus that made the commander pause, but the spear of Grey Worm who quickly took action when the sellsword reached out as he passed him.
Perseus apathetically glanced back at Tristan who stood frozen in place with eyes aimed below at the very sharp spearhead that was mere inches away from his throat.
"I'll ignore that in honor of our… history together, commander." Perseus gave the sellsword a very clear warning. "But if anymore moves like that happen again, then be prepared to deal with the consequences."
As if to further emphasize his point, a glowering Grey Worm brought his spear dangerously close to Tristan's throat.
Seeing that his warning was well received, Perseus continued his exit without another word and began making his way to his quarters.
It seemed that the discussion he had with the commander that saw him putting an end to the bastard's seducing of Daenerys was not enough to fully curb the sellsword's inflated sense of importance.
And though he would love nothing more than to relinquish the sellsword from his services entirely, he knew that it would be smarter to do so after he became the only king in Westeros so that any potential turncoats in the Golden Company would have no one to swear fealty to.
So for now, Perseus would have to exercise patience, something he admittedly had trouble doing.
Closing his mind from the annoying topic of Tristan Waters, he greeted the two Unsullied that guarded the door to his quarters before entering.
The first person he noticed inside of the room was Missandei who was sitting in front of a desk, reading a book.
"My king." The former slave girl immediately stood and bowed deeply.
Perseus ruffled the small girl's curly hair with a smile, to which she pouted. "Hello, Missandei. Daenerys?" He asks.
"Milady is already in the bathing room." She motioned to the connecting chamber, gaining a nod from him.
"What's that you're reading?" He gestures curiously at the book she held in her hands.
It was very faded but he could just barely make out the insignia of a winged cherub on the front cover.
For whatever reason, Missandei's cheeks went deep red. "I-It's nothing, your grace! Just a silly little book I've been reading to pass time." She said quickly.
Perseus gave her an odd look but he didn't have it in him to ask any further questions so after telling her goodbye he left the small girl to her own devices.
Once inside of the spacious room that was mostly taken up by the large, rectangular bathing pool in the middle of it, he was blessed with a heavenly view.
Her back to him, Daenerys stood in the center of a waist deep pool, her long silver hair cascading down to dangle just above the small of her back like a waterfall of mercury.
She hummed pleasantly while continuing to wash herself free of the grime from their intense training.
Deciding to remain unannounced, Perseus first stripped off his clothes before stepping into the pool.
She failed to notice his presence over the sound of running water, but eventually she realized that something was about because with each stride he took the water became so warm that anyone without the blood of dragons would've surely been sweltering from the heat.
While Daenerys was busy looking around in confusion as steam quickly enveloped the room, Perseus snuck up from behind and smoothly slid his arms around her.
"Flamebrain, I thought you were an assassin!" Briefly startled, she quickly relaxed after seeing his mischievous grin.
One of his hands glided up to palm her breasts, his fingers sinking into the incredibly soft and yielding flesh.
"Perhaps I've come to steal you away." He grinned.
"Is that why you're so fixated on my chest?" She gave a heavy eye roll though her amusement was palpable.
Ragged breaths escaped Daenerys when he began idly toying with her pretty pink nipples and by the way her butt was backing up against him, it was obvious that his hands were having a great effect on her.
"Wait!" Daenerys suddenly turned, finally allowing him to see her red and flustered face. "What did you and the bastard talk about?"
Her question completely stamped out the flames of desire that had been building up in him faster than a herd of horses. "Seriously?" He gave her his driest look.
Daenerys took a hold of his hands and gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I'm just curious. You never speak with him unless you have to, so it must've been something important." Though her reasoning was sound, it still vaguely bothered him to even talk about the sellsword.
Sighing, Perseus decided to tell her. "He wanted to replace Jon as one of our house's sworn knights, the reason being that one day our enemies would try to kidnap you again." That reveal gained a look of fury and affront from his aunt.
"Before you saying anything, I already told him to fuck off." While his words did manage to douse a bit of her initial fiery rage it didn't stop her from gaining a deep scowl.
"Why does he even want to swear his sword to us? He told me himself that he wanted nothing to do with me." She hissed angrily.
Perseus gave a shrug. "I'm not totally sure. But I'm getting tired of his delusions of grandeur. Now that I have both the Reach and Dorne on my side I don't really have to worry about the Golden Company turning on me, but just to be safe I'll make sure he's sent far away from us after the final battle." She squeezed his hands and nodded appreciatively at the reassurance.
"While we're on the topic though, what was the point of your little display back there?" He asked in curiosity.
"I wanted to show him that I no longer hold any feelings for him. And by the look on his face I think I did just that." At the reminder of the show she put on, a smirk grew on Perseus's lips. "In the future he'll end up as a drunkard telling everyone about the time he had a princess."
Perseus let out a laugh at that imagery. "I can definitely see him doing that." His energy shifted seamlessly and he crept his arms around her and gripped her soft curves. "But you're wrong about one thing. He can't claim to have had you because you've always been mine."
He observed as those words made Daenerys sway as if she physically felt the weight behind his spoken truth.
"What are you doing saying stuff like that?" She murmured as she looked away in a vain effort to hide her blush.
He dipped his hands below the water, filling his palms with her lovely backside before leaning down to whisper hotly into her ear. "You're mine, Daenerys Stormborn." His words drew a visible shiver of arousal.
Possessive wasn't a word Perseus would've used to describe himself in the past. But as he began savoring the taste of Daenerys's neck with sensual kisses and sucks, it could surely be argued that he had become quite possessive of the girl.
oOo
Elsewhere with Petyr Baelish…
Petyr's plan had failed, horribly so.
It only took him a few short days to realize that his plan had been leaked by a source he had yet to single out, though he knew it had to be from the brothel he had spoken to Ser Gregor at.
His first thought of the potential leak was the Lyseni whore the ogre had been using at the time of their meeting, but she had died days after due to the internal injuries she suffered from the brute fucking the Mountain gave her.
So without a way to isolate the leaked information, Petyr had no choice but to flee for his life.
The Lannister's were not known for their mercy after all, especially since Cersei was now effectively the one in power.
So within a single day, Petyr triggered his emergency escape plan by using the Gold Cloaks to sneak out of the city with everything he owned that wasn't nailed to the floor or in his secret stashes.
Petyr's heart pounded in his chest as he sat in the back of the carriage, the rolling wheels beneath him the only sound cutting through the quiet night. His mind raced faster than the horses pulling him away from King's Landing. How had his perfectly laid plan gone so wrong?
The Lyseni whore, the brothel… none of it made sense. He had calculated every detail, covered every loose end. Or so he thought.
His lips curled in a frustrated snarl as he pulled his cloak tighter around him. The streets of King's Landing had grown too dangerous, too unpredictable with Cersei now holding the strings. Her paranoia was lethal, and if she suspected him—no, when she discovered what he had been planning—there would be no trial, no bargaining. Only death.
Petyr cursed under his breath. His mind wandered back to the whore, the one who had suffered at Gregor's hands. Had she told someone before she died? But how could she? And more importantly, who? And why hadn't Ser Gregor made sure the bitch was dead? He was a brute, but he wasn't reckless. His temper was a tool just as Petyr's schemes were—calculated, deliberate, and brutally effective.
Then there was the matter of Varys. The Spider had always loomed in the background, watching, waiting. But could he have been the one behind this? Petyr had always respected Varys, but he had never trusted him. They were too similar, after all—men who dealt in secrets, who thrived in shadows. So he had made sure to keep a close eye on his actions. But the eunuch's network of little birds hadn't been moved at all, leaving Petyr to wonder if he was truly the source.
No matter, Petyr thought bitterly. The leak, whoever it was, had forced his hand. He wasn't the type to flee, not usually. But true cunning meant knowing when to retreat, when to bide his time and strike when the opportunity was ripe once more. And this was not the time to gamble with his life. Not while Cersei held the city in her iron grip.
The Gold Cloaks had done their job well enough, discreetly allowing him to slip out of the city under the cover of darkness. His wealth, his possessions—what little he could carry—were stashed away in hidden safehouses scattered across Westeros. There was more than enough to rebuild, to start again. He wasn't finished. Not yet.
As the carriage rolled along the uneven road, Petyr stared out at the distant hills, his eyes narrowing. He had no allies left in King's Landing, but Westeros was vast. He had always thrived as an outsider, maneuvering in the shadows where others faltered in the light. It had been unsurprising to find out about the many petty lords across the Seven Kingdoms that wanted to make a name for themselves through dealing with him.
There were still plays to be made. If Cersei was queen, then who better to bring her down than the man who had helped her rise? Petyr smiled to himself, dark and calculating. He still had his network, his mind, and his endless ambition. And somewhere in this kingdom, there were those who would welcome the chance to see a regime fall, no matter who sat on the throne.
The carriage jolted as it hit a pothole, but Petyr barely noticed. His thoughts had already moved ahead, to the next step. He would need to find a way to get to Sansa again, or perhaps even Arya as the North were the only other contenders to the Iron Throne besides the Targaryen's who he definitely now had zero chance of allying with. His options were limited, but there was always a way.
"One mistake," he whispered to himself, "and they think I've lost."
But Littlefinger was not so easily defeated. He would return. And when he did, all of Westeros would know that the game wasn't over—it was only just beginning.
oOo
At King's Landing, with Tyrion…
The small council chamber of the Red Keep was quieter than usual, the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. Tyrion Lannister took his seat at the end of the table, surveying the empty chairs where Lord Varys and Petyr Baelish should have been. Their absence was conspicuous, and Tyrion could already feel the unease settling in amongst the remaining members of the council.
To his right, Grand Maester Pycelle droned on, scratching his quill against parchment. Cersei, seated at the head of the table in Joffrey's place, stared at nothing in particular, her face a mask of cold indifference. But Tyrion could see the flicker of frustration in her eyes. She hated it when things slipped beyond her control.
"Lord Varys has… vanished," Pycelle said, finally breaking the silence. "There has been no trace of him for days."
"Good riddance," Cersei muttered, not bothering to hide her disdain. "He was always lurking in the shadows, whispering his poison into the ears of fools."
Tyrion snorted softly, sipping from his cup of wine. "Whispering his poison, yes. But useful poison, nonetheless." He glanced at his sister. "You'll miss him soon enough, when your eyes and ears in the city start to fail."
Cersei shot him a venomous glare, but before she could respond, Ser Mandon Moore entered the chamber, a sealed letter in hand. Tyrion's attention shifted instantly. He didn't like the look on Ser Mandon's face—grim, almost pale.
"A letter, my lady," Ser Mandon said, handing it to Cersei. "From Perseus."
At the mention of Perseus, the room seemed to chill. The name alone had become a specter that haunted King's Landing for months now. Rumors of the young man who was rising as a powerful contender for the throne, gathering formidable forces and winning every battle with ease, had reached even the most insulated members of the court. And Perseus had made it very clear—he was coming for them next.
Cersei broke the seal and scanned the letter, her eyes narrowing as she read. Tyrion watched her face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. But even before she spoke, he could sense what was coming.
"Perseus has accepted," Cersei said, her voice tight with anger. "He challenges Joffrey to an honor duel. He says that if Joffrey refuses to fight personally, he will lay siege to King's Landing and take the throne by force."
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. An honor duel was what he had been hoping for, but not between Joffrey and Perseus. Even if the rumors about Perseus's fighting prowess were over inflated, he still had to be leagues above his wimp of a nephew.
He had wanted something more winnable—a match between Perseus and a champion of their choosing, the Hound perhaps since Ser Gregor was already killed or captured. But this… Perseus was clearly a man who wanted to make a statement. A direct duel between two opposing kings hadn't happened since the Age of Heroes.
Pycelle let out a wheezing cough, his eyes wide with disbelief. "An honor duel? Between the king and this… Perseus? It's absurd! His Grace cannot—"
"Of course Joffrey cannot fight him," Cersei snapped, cutting him off. "The very idea is ludicrous."
Tyrion glanced at her, eyebrow raised. "Ludicrous, yes. But not without precedent." He swirled his wine thoughtfully. "Perseus is making a point. He doesn't just want the throne. He wants to humiliate Joffrey, to show the realm that our king is unfit to rule." He paused. "And if Joffrey refuses, well, not only will the people of the realm think him a coward, but Perseus's siege will begin."
Cersei's knuckles were white as she gripped the edge of the table. "We'll refuse. We have the city, the Red Keep, and the Gold Cloaks. Let him try to take it by force."
Tyrion sighed, the weight of the situation settling heavily on him. "If Perseus brings all of his forces here, it won't a siege but a slaughter. He's been winning battles across the realm with only the Golden Company to protect him. He's clever, resourceful—and from the rumors, he is blessed by the gods."
The council fell silent, the unspoken fear lingering in the room. Tyrion had heard the whispers—Perseus was no ordinary man. There were claims of supernatural abilities, of powers that went beyond mere swordsmanship. Whether they were true or not, it didn't matter. Fear had already taken root, and fear was a powerful weapon.
"Joffrey will not fight him," Cersei said again, her voice cold and final.
"And if we refuse?" Tyrion asked, locking eyes with her. "The city will be starved, sacked at best. Thousands will die."
Cersei's lip curled. "Then we fight. We have no choice."
Tyrion leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "There's always a choice, Cersei. You just have to be willing to choose it."
She glared at him, but Tyrion could see the doubt creeping in behind her eyes. He knew that deep down, Cersei understood the gravity of the situation. Perseus wasn't like the other enemies they had faced. He wouldn't simply go away, and he wouldn't be placated with gold or promises.
"Joffrey doesn't have the best odds of surviving a duel," Tyrion said softly, stating the obvious. "But a siege would be disastrous. At least through the duel we'll have some hope to prevail."
Cersei's eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing. Tyrion didn't push further. Not yet.
The room fell into uneasy silence once more, the weight of Perseus' letter pressing down on all of them.
And Tyrion couldn't help but think that, for the first time in a long while, his family was playing a game they wouldn't win.
A/N: The correlation between the blessing Viserys received from Vhagar is similar to the blessings received from the Olympian gods and goddesses from the PJO verse. I'll delve deeper into it in the next chapter. Before anyone speculates, no this doesn't mean that Viserys is now on par with Perseus or even an average demigod, just that he's significantly stronger than the average mortal. And there will be a few characters who will be blessed by various gods and goddesses of the ASOIAF verse, two have already been verbatim stated to be some of those select few (Arya & Edric). This is to expand upon the divinity of the Known World and to also provide more of a challenge for Perseus who would otherwise just breeze through everyone in his way. Review for quicker chapters, they're motivating. Until next time.