AN: Cassius is seven years old at the start of this chapter

Cassius 1: Cloak of Youth

…

He had dreamed many dreams in his life. He dreamt of vast spaces littered with bones - both giant and infant. Other times he dreamt of great rivers filled with strange, dying, fish-like men. Most commonly he dreamed of fire. Countless cities alight with purple destruction, animals perishing in silver, and unfathomable things turned hollow in black flame.

In a dream, a dreamer was god. Because all that was, and all that would be, had been made of their thoughts.

What did that say about their 'real' world? What great terror had dreamt such a place into existence?

His nightmares gave him truth. The gods were dead, and magic with them.

One day they would wake, however. And they would have the world in their reach once more.

Old truths rang clear. 'That is not dead which can eternal lie, and in strange ages to come, even death may die.'

…

He was never left alone for long when he was younger. The Kingsguard had stood warden of his door at night, and the castle guard had watched his waking hours.

It was approaching his tenth name-day, and now he had more freedom than that.

When Tywin Lannister had suggested to Aerys that two Westerland knights be made the sworn shields of Cassius and Viserys, the king (rather typically for him, Cassius had come to understand) had named two of his own knights that very same evening, with a comment that 'his sons were dragons, needing swords and not shields'.

The son of one of the mad Kings licklespitles; Jaremy Rykker had sworn his vows of servitude to him three days later.

A terrible mistake on the King's part, of course…

…

His most common victories in his youth had come from sneaking books to his room. He did not have many options with the spider's gaze and his mad fathers paranoia, but he had sworn to himself to get what he wanted anyway.

And now he had books.

'Where there is life there are feelings, and where there are feelings there is weakness'

Those were the first words of his most prized possession. A tome brought all the way from Assiah to Valyria to Dragonstone, and eventually to the Red Keep. It was one of the few old texts which had survived Belor the Blessed's many book-fires, hidden away in a secret chamber.

The phrase was meant as a warning; that all things that lived were susceptible to manipulation and magic. Written to repel the weak-willed from the black arts of sorcery.

It meant more than that to someone like him.

'Where there is life there are feelings, and where there are feelings there is weakness'

It had taught him how to act, and how to make others do as he wished.

The kingsguard felt strongly for their vows, so honor and glory could tempt them.

Mothers loved their children, and having them placed in danger or safety was sure to spur them to action.

Rheagar had his precious little prophecy. And had already made a number of queer choices because of it.

The words were a reminder that even intelligent beings made strange choices when emotion overtook them.

What else was there to existence than thought? And what else was there to thought then stories and dreams?

'The Black Arts of Stygai' was written on the front of the cover. It was a complex and difficult book to understand. Most queerly, he could not tell what language had been used to write it, for the letters seemed to shift and change when he focused on the words or sentences.

It was partly a discussion on the history of magic-

'There are those who think humans to be the greatest beings, but this could not be further from the truth. We are animals. Beasts in mind and flesh. Spirits, demons, gods -whatever one wishes to call them- are the higher forms of life. Great sorcerers are able to dream while awake. But the Great Dead Ones can retain their consciousness without bodies at all. This is true immortality. This is true power.'

- and part theoretical guide.

'A strong enough collection of will can blur the very lines of reality. This is the central principal at the heart of all magics. There are two primary expressions of this power. Insight and blood. Insight, in this context, refers to the mind's ability to perceive beyond the waking world -into the metaphysical- and impart its will on these higher realities. Blood, on the other hand, carries the wills of its sources. These echoes of the deceased are especially effective in fueling spells and rituals. Some approach sorcery because they have been enlightened, others because of madness. Whichever the case may be: if one lacks power, what they need is more blood or more eyes.'

He was well acquainted with both enlightenment and madness, of course. And he was not so delusional as to think that his own ambitions were not a little of each.

…

Perhaps a fourth of the rooms in the Red Keep had some sort of passageway or secret kept within them, built during Maegor's time to allow for quick escapes and spying.

Maegor's holdfast however did not have any passages within it, as King Maegor had "not wanted any rats in his walls". Which was very thoughtful of him, but still a pain for sneaking out of his quarters alone.

The little bird was a boy, perhaps a year or two older than himself. He had been tracking Varys' spies for years, and knew them quite well by this point. The trick -at first- had been to pretend to be a bird himself, his long hair tied back tightly. Simple gray-brown rags with a hood, some dirt, and a hunched posture was all that was needed.

He had discovered many passages following the birds. His knowledge of the red keep was as great as any of Varys' oldest spies - and far beyond any of the fresh ones.

He had been following this little bird unseen for the better part of the morning, watching as it went from room to room, reading letters and replacing them. The new ones were always predictable. Whoever taught them did not do a good job in the start. The little children would learn over time, of course. And eventually he would struggle to not get caught.

Varys knew that something was wrong by now - that there was a little bird creeping around that wasn't his. Although if the Spider knew it was him, he would probably have done something about it by now, so he wasn't overly concerned. By now Cassius had enough experience evading the old Pig that he wouldn't be getting caught anytime soon.

Varys and him played a constant game, and fought a constant war, whether the eunuch knew it yet or not.

Creak.

His mind returned to the present as movement caught his eye, which was pressed against a spy-hole, gazing into a chamber. A section of the colorful wood paneling slid over, giving way to a square tunnel, barely large enough for the child inside to squeeze his way into the room.

His plans would come true, but this was not the right place.

He was nothing if not patient…

…

With a swift sting he burrowed his dagger into the boy's back, watching the boy struggle and panic, staggering away from him, before crumpling to the ground as a twitching mess. The upside of Varys' birds having their tongues cut out, was that they couldn't truly scream for help.

His blade had been coated with a fast-acting poison that would keep the boy helpless for a quarter-day, at least.

He could have covered a cloth with some sedative and saved himself the mess, but the violence of the moment felt… appropriate.

He had chosen this location carefully, it was a secret passage, located in an infrequently visited section of the castle, mostly used to store old displays and tapestries that had fallen out of favor.

More importantly, however, it was the entrance to the secret room where he had discovered the old mage-tome. A secret room within a secret passage; even Varys didn't know about this one, or surely the book would have been taken long ago.

It was a thin knife he had used, and the blade had been left in, so there thankfully would not be too much blood wasted.

He just had to drag the child to the ritual room.

…

The room itself was quite impressively built, being a circular stone construction, perhaps thirteen steps across. Nine pillars made a perimeter, reaching up to form criss-crossing rafters, before stretching further towards a dark stone dome.

The walls were carved with murals of dragons, and depictions of sex and other debaucheries, although they were faint enough that he had not seen them until he had smuggled candles into the chamber.

He had sat a wood tub in the center of the room, stolen from the storage room outside. A constant drip drip drip feeding what would become a maw of magic - its bottom coated in a skin of blood.

The boy was alive, tied at the feet and hung from the rafters, but the blood-loss promised that he would never wake again.

With a deep breath in, he moved closer, yanking out the blade burrowed in the boy's back, unleashing a torrent of suppressed crimson. The candle-fires making the dragons and the orgies on the walls move in queer ways.

Three sharp cuts slit the boys wrists and throat.

And as the little bird's vitality began to flow like a river into the basin below, Cassius could not help himself but to reach his hands out and drink.

…

His mother had a worried look on her face, although she tried to hide it. It was perfectly natural, he thought. In fact, he probably deserved it.

He could feel nausea creeping into his consciousness. The blood clawing in the back if his mind as he did his best not to empty his stomach. It was not his mind rejecting his earlier drink, but his body. His weak flesh that was still unused to the substance.

"Mother", he said, turning his full attention to her, "I am feeling unwell, may I be excused?"

He could see the indecision in her gaze for a moment, before her gaze softened to something that he could not decipher, "of course, my love.." She paused and looked over him again, worry once more creeping into her gaze. "Your eyes do look quite glass-like, why don't you sleep early tonight".