What if? #4, As Requested by the Commissioner

Baelor I Targaryen, the Blessed, paced the length of his chamber, his bare feet whispering across the cold stone floor. His brow furrowed so deeply that it seemed his face might never return to serenity. The Seven's light felt distant, like a flickering candle in a tempest, as his thoughts stormed around him. His hands, still bloodied from striking his personal table, trembled – an act he'd never done before as his wrath had never been tested to this degree, his rage never tested. He clasped them together tightly, the red smearing into his pristine white robes, but he neither noticed nor cared.

"Heresy!" he growled, his voice breaking the silence like a whip. The word tasted bitter on his tongue, sharp and acrid, as though speaking it aloud gave the blasphemy power. He paused mid-stride, his chest heaving. His attendants hovered near the edges of the room, eyes darting nervously between one another. None dared to approach.

Baelor's gaze fell upon the shattered table, its splinters scattered like bones. His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes, muttering prayers under his breath.

"Forgive me, Warrior," he whispered, voice hoarse, forcing himself to calm. "for I have failed to temper my rage. Grant me the strength to strike down this evil without losing my way."

The words sounded hollow, even to himself. Rage boiled just beneath the surface, uncontained and uncontainable. He inhaled sharply through his nose, his nostrils flaring, and resumed pacing. The echoes of his steps filled the chamber like a judge's gavel, each one punctuating his spiraling thoughts. The simple truth was that Baelor hadn't been prepared for anything of this nature, for anything that would've dared to strike at his faith, his Gods.

But that wasn't even half of it.

His sisters. He clenched his fists tighter, the sting of his raw knuckles grounding him for a fleeting moment. Daena and Elaena – precious, willful, disobedient – gone. Nearly a year had passed since their disappearance from the Maidenvault. He had told himself, told the realm, that he forgave them. He had prayed for their safety, surrendered their fates to the wisdom of the Seven.

But now, whispers of their whereabouts ignited a new fury. They were not lost, as he had hoped, in a journey toward redemption. No, they had fled to the North, and worse still, into the embrace of this sorcerer who called himself Jason Lee, this necromancer who dared to defy the will of the Seven, though Baelor had read conflicting reports that his name was apparently either Biggus Dickus or Immortan Joe.

The thought of his sisters, his flesh and blood, consorting with such an abomination made his stomach churn.

Baelor stopped and gripped the edge of a window sill, his fingers digging into the cold stone. He stared out over King's Landing, its bustling streets and sprawling rooftops stretching into the horizon. Somewhere, out there, his people lived in ignorance of this growing darkness. Children played in the streets, merchants haggled over wares, and the devout prayed to the Seven for guidance and protection. They did not know, could not fathom, that a man in the North was desecrating the sacred balance of life and death.

"False god," he spat, his voice a venomous hiss. "Arrogant, vile creature. The Seven will not suffer such blasphemy."

One of the attendants cleared his throat softly, breaking Baelor's reverie. The King turned sharply, his violet eyes burning. The attendant, a thin man with trembling hands, held out a scroll.

"Your Grace," he stammered, "a... a report from the North."

Baelor snatched the parchment from the man's hands without a word. His fingers trembled as he unrolled it, his eyes scanning the hastily scrawled words. Each line seemed to carve a deeper furrow into his brow. Ice dragons. Armies of the dead. Oaths sworn to a self-proclaimed god. A name – Jason Lee – repeated over and over, like a mantra of defiance against all that was holy.

His breath quickened, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. The scroll crumpled in his tightening grip. He could almost hear the mocking laughter of this so-called god, echoing across the snow-covered lands of the North. He could see the pale faces of the undead, their empty eyes staring back at him, and his sisters, kneeling before this heretic, their faith corrupted.

Baelor flung the scroll across the room. It struck a wall and fell to the floor, forgotten.

"The North has fallen," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "They have forsaken the Seven. They have turned their backs on the light and thrown their lot in with Biggus Dickus."

His attendants exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent. Baelor's wrath was a storm none wished to weather. He turned back to the window, gripping the sill with such force that his knuckles turned white.

"We will march," he said, his tone like iron. "We will march North, and we will bring the Seven's justice to this heretic. This... false god."

The attendants hesitated. One of them, braver than the rest, stepped forward.

"Your Grace," he said cautiously, "the North is vast, and this... man commands great power. If the rumors are to be believed, this Boner King is a Dragon Rider. Perhaps... perhaps diplomacy-"

"Diplomacy?" Baelor rounded on him, his expression thunderous. "You would suggest parley with a necromancer? A man who defiles the natural order? Who mocks the Seven and dares to call himself a god? No. There will be no words, only fire and steel."

The attendant shrank back, bowing his head. "Of course, Your Grace."

Baelor exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady his breath. He turned back to the window, his hands loosening their grip on the stone.

"Summon the Small Council," he commanded. "We will prepare for war. The Seven will guide us, and we will cleanse this blight from the realm."

As the attendants hurried from the room, Baelor remained by the window, staring out over his city. The setting sun bathed King's Landing in hues of gold and crimson, casting long shadows across the land. Baelor clasped his hands together, the blood on his knuckles drying and flaking away.

"The Seven will not abandon us," he whispered. "They will not abandon me."

But even as he spoke the words, doubt lingered in the corners of his mind, gnawing at the edges of his faith.

It was a fine day in my ever-expanding domain, the sun shining as if to mock every necromantic trope under the nonexistent Westerosi sun god. The chill winds of the North tickled the edges of my ever-so-slightly gaudy keep, but inside my chambers, it was all warmth, courtesy of a crackling fire and the radiant glow of my two very pregnant wives.

Yes, two wives. Both heavily pregnant. Both Targaryens. Both perpetually annoyed at the state of me.

Daena lounged on the velvet chaise, absently stroking her stomach with one hand while flipping through some absurd tome I'd given her called The Joy of Parenting: Necromancer Edition. Wrote it myself. She muttered something about "idiocy" and "boner this, boner that" before flipping another page with the sort of delicacy that suggested she was imagining throttling me with it.

I wasn't a very good writer.

Elaena, seated by the window, alternated between eating grapes and glaring daggers at me.

"Jason, love," she said, her tone as sweet as wildfire, "if you don't stop that infernal pacing, I swear by all the dragons I don't have right now, I'll use your head as a footrest."

I paused mid-step, one foot hanging in the air, looking between them. Goddamn, these girls were freaking hot, even when heavily pregnant. Yep, I saw it right then and there, all the kids we were gonna end up having, because of my very active second brain. Plus, my healing magic meant they'd never have to suffer through the pains of childbirth or the shit that came after.

"What? This?" I gestured vaguely to the act of moving my legs one after the other.

"Pacing is very godly. Kings do it. Emperors do it. Gods..." I pointed dramatically to myself, "...certainly do it."

Daena arched a brow. "You're just trying to look busy while we suffer the consequences of your magnificence."

"It is magnificent," I said, striking what I thought was a heroic pose, though Elaena's groan suggested otherwise. "And I certainly did not hear a single complaint the first, the second, or the hundreds of other times you took in my magnificence."

Before either could hurl a pillow or a heavy object, a distinct tap-tap-tap echoed from the window. I turned, delighted at the interruption, and strode over to find one of my skeletal couriers flapping at the glass with bony wings. The poor thing looked like a cross between a raven and something that had failed miserably at being a raven.

"Ah, Jeffrey!" I exclaimed, opening the window. The undead raven tilted its skull at me, empty sockets blinking in the way only socketless skulls could. "What news do you bring, my most loyal and spindly friend?"

Jeffrey coughed – or perhaps that was just his neck creaking – and spat a scroll into my hand. The parchment was slightly damp, but I'd dealt with worse. Wiping it on my shirt (Elaena gagged; Daena smirked), I unrolled it with a flourish. My eyes scanned the contents.

I froze. My jaw twitched. I blinked once. Twice.

Daena leaned forward, her interest piqued. "What is it?"

Elaena narrowed her eyes. "You look... constipated."

I held up a finger, silencing them both – temporarily, of course. The silence was a miracle that lasted exactly three seconds before I cleared my throat.

"Ladies," I said, my voice as calm as a tidal wave, "...it appears the Most Blessed Baelor, King of Everything Sanctimonious and Irritating, and is also subsequently your brother, has declared war on us."

Daena's brows rose, and she tilted her head. "War? Us?"

Elaena paused mid-grape, her lips curling into a bemused smile. "How utterly quaint. Does he think to march his army through the Neck, past all your undead minions, and, what, hope it somehow works well for him?"

"No, no," I said, waving the scroll dramatically. "It's far worse. He's accused me of heresy! Me! Moi! The very god of life and death itself!"

I pressed a hand to my chest, mock-offended. "I'll have you know I only dabble in light heresy. Just a pinch. Barely noticeable. And it doesn't count as heresy if I'm a god too."

Or, at least, I was getting there. And, so far, I've not really had any complains of the divine kind. Because I was honestly starting to think that the only gods worth a damn in this world were the Great Other and possibly the Lord of Light, but only because they had actual manifestations, whereas the Seven really didn't do shit.

Daena pinched the bridge of her nose. "And what exactly do you plan to do about it?"

"I'm glad you asked!" I exclaimed, rolling the scroll back up and tucking it under my arm. "I'll handle this the way any self-respecting god-emperor would. With cunning. Diplomacy. And with Blue, my trusty ice-breathing Dragon."

As a Monster Hunter fan, I wasn't complaining about getting a Velkhana for a mount; the ice-breath certainly was a lot more useful than the fire breath. Speaking of which, I glanced out to the window, just in time to see Blue surging through the air. The old boy liked flying around in his free time. The peasants were scared at first, but they quickly got used to his presence. Plus, a Velkhana was a lot more docile, compared to something like a Fatalis or a fucking Deviljho.

Elaena snorted. "Diplomacy? You? The man who named one of his titles 'Boner King'? And, last I recall, you declared that the Immortan Joe offered no mercy."

I grinned at that little title, because it was one of my favorites. "Ah, but you see, that's part of my charm. Nobody expects the Boner King to be diplomatic. It's the perfect strategy. The Immortan Joe is what happens when I've lost all patience. The Biggus Dickus is what happens when I'm alone with either of you for an extended period of time."

Daena rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "So what's your actual plan, oh mighty god-emperor?"

I paused, tapping my chin. "Well... I thought I'd send him a very stern letter. Maybe with some subtle insults. And an engraving of my dragon for dramatic flair."

Elaena threw a grape at me. "Perfect. That'll definitely stop an army."

I caught the grape, popping it into my mouth with a smug grin. "Mark my words, ladies. By the time I'm done with him, Baelor will either kneel before me or regret ever setting foot on this mortal coil."

The truth was that I didn't want to kill Baelor. In fact, I didn't want to have anything to do with him at all. I could waste his entire army by myself if I wanted to. But I didn't. I wanted to play god in peace.

I turned to Jeffrey the skeleton, who I forgot had even been standing there. "Prepare the ink, my skeletal friend. We've got a king to annoy."

Daena suddenly sent me a very sultry look. I shooed Jeffrey away. "On second thought, the message can wait."

AN: Chapter 51 is out on (Pat)reon!