ACT II: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 1: The Court and Its Loves (59 AC – 87 AC)
Chapter 6: The Unchanging Sorcerer (The 60s AC)
The Shivers passed like a storm of death, but life in the capital resumed its course at an almost vulgar speed.
The strict quarantine and the systematic eradication of vectors that I ordered were enough to prevent King’s Landing from turning into a giant mass grave—at least when compared to the carnage of the original timeline.
In the North, my orders were followed to the letter without the slightest question; after all, besides being the Sorcerer of the Black Tower, I carried the blood of House Stark on my mother’s side, which guaranteed the immediate loyalty and respect of every lord and peasant in those lands.
In the South, however, the story was quite different.
The Andal lords, engulfed in their ecclesiastical pretension, took weeks to implement quarantine procedures.
Similarly, across the Narrow Sea, the Free Cities—which, though rich and populous, were equally stubborn—paid a heavy price in lives for ignoring the warnings coming from the “Sorcerer of King’s Landing.” I feel for the smallfolk, of course, but the arrogance of rulers usually exacts its toll in blood.
In my domain in the Valley of Blessings and in the fortresses of the Night’s Watch, not a single soul fell to the plague.
With the summer sun returning timidly, the court’s problems returned to their usual state of futile intrigues and repressed appetites.
I was on all fours on my broad oak bed, my firm hands dug into the hips of the woman beneath me.
Draped in the austere, gray fabrics of a septa of the Faith of the Seven, the beautiful Princess Rhaella Targaryen—recently sworn into her religious vows after being removed from the line of succession—groaned loudly, her face buried in my silk pillows.
The little princess had decided that before closing herself off forever in the asceticism of the Sept, she needed to find out exactly what she was giving up to the gods.
She needed no invitation; she came knocking on my door on her own, driven by a sinful curiosity and the reputation that preceded me.
I held her long silver-Valyrian hair with one hand, pulling her head back as I set a heavy, rhythmic pace against her body.
My free hand slid down the front of her gray tunic, squeezing her warm, full breasts over the thick fabric.
Rhaella let out a muffled scream, fingers dug into the sheets, as pleasure completely overwhelmed her.
With a deep thrust, I sank in to the limit and released my seed deep inside her womb, feeling the spasms of her orgasm tighten around my shaft.
As she panted trying to catch her breath, I channeled a microscopic spark of pyromancy through the tips of my fingers: in a fraction of a second, the gray fabrics of her septa’s tunic turned into fine ash that dissipated into the air without burning a single strand of her hair or a millimeter of her marble skin, leaving her entirely in her birthsuit.
Before she could even process the sudden nudity, I turned her body face-forward, grabbed her by her plump thighs, and lifted her off the mattress without the slightest effort.
I walked with her to the broad arched window of my room, which opened directly over the precipice of the Red Keep’s inner courtyard.
I projected Rhaella’s body entirely outside the window, keeping her suspended in the air.
She was completely outside the castle structure, dozens of meters up; if I let go of her that exact second, she would plummet straight to her death against the cobblestones of the courtyard below.
Overwhelmed by sudden terror and the shock of the height, Rhaella tried desperately to cover her breasts with her hands and hide her face in shame.
Seeing that, I acted immediately: I grabbed her arms and wrists firmly, pulling them upward and preventing her from covering any part of her body.
I kept her hands pinned in the air, leaving her fully exposed to the cold night wind and to the view of anyone below, unable to hide.
“— A-Arthos…
someone will see us!” she gasped, the night wind blowing against her entirely nude, suspended body.
“— Let them see, princess,” I whispered in her ear, keeping her body firmly in the air as I aligned myself and drove back into her with force.
She let out a sharp cry that echoed off the castle walls.
Fortunately for the Faith’s reputation, it was the dead of night and few people roamed the courtyards below; and the few who passed were Kingsguard knights who simply pretended not to hear the groans coming from the heights of my tower.
The next morning, I was in the royal gardens under the shade of a giant willow, listening to the usual lecture from King Jaehaerys I.
“— You cannot simply fuck a royal princess dressed as a septa hanging outside a window, Arthos!” the king shouted, pacing back and forth on the grass, arms crossed and face red.
“— The Kingsguard knight in the lower courtyard reported that she was entirely outside the tower, suspended in the air!
That is an outrage against the laws, the Faith, and the dignity of my house!”
I let out a mocking laugh and shook my head:
“— That is a blatant lie, Jae.
She wasn’t dressed as a septa at all, since her clothes turned to ash within the first few minutes.
She was completely naked.”
Jaehaerys stopped pacing, blinked in surprise at my cheek, and stared at me open-mouthed, unsure whether to punch me or throw his hands to the sky in despair.
“— Jae, my love…
stop wasting your breath.
Our friend Arthos obviously doesn’t give a damn about your rules.”
I looked at the king with a lazy smile, settled on the grass with baby Alyssa in my lap.
The girl, a few months old, giggled and tried to grab the air with her chubby little hands.
“— Don’t worry, Jae, my friend…
I heard your concern,” I replied with a provocative calm.
“— I promise that next time I fuck a princess or a septa, I’ll do it far from public view.”
Jaehaerys let out a deep, defeated sigh and collapsed onto the bench beside his wife.
He rubbed his temples and watched me play with little Alyssa.
With a light flick of my fingers and a subtle channeling of elemental magic and controlled pyromancy, I created small figures of light and cold fire that floated in the air around the baby: a little dragon of blue flames, a frost wolf, a golden stag, and a lion of purple sparks.
The magical constructs flew in gentle circles, emitting a soft light that did not burn.
The other royal children—Daenerys, Aemon and Baelon—ran around the grass, laughing and trying to catch the mini light dragons with their hands.
“— Just avoid creating more headaches for me with Oldtown, Arthos…
please,” Jaehaerys muttered, watching his children play.
“— The clergy already hates us enough.”
“— And why do you care so much about what the Faith of the Seven thinks, Jae?” I asked, without taking my eyes off the magical figures in the air.
“— Because it’s the faith of the vast majority of the subjects of the Seven Kingdoms,” he answered, in the pragmatic tone of a ruler.
“— Curious…” I commented, raising my chin.
“— I don’t see you worrying half as much about the opinion of the followers of the Old Gods in the North or the Drowned Gods in the islands.
You are a Targaryen, Jaehaerys.
Son of Old Valyria.
Don’t give so much weight to the opinion of the ants under your feet.”
Jaehaerys hardened his gaze, staring at me sternly:
“— I will not be a selfish, bloodthirsty tyrant like Maegor, Arthos.”
I smirked, meeting the king’s gaze with the coldness of my gray eyes:
“— Maegor only erred when he killed your brother, Jae…
who was his own nephew.
Other than that, he did absolutely nothing wrong in crushing the arrogance of the Faith of the Seven.
I almost offered to help him back then.
But when he murdered his own blood, I refused to have any connection with him.
Family and blood are the only things that truly matter in this world.
Someone who doesn’t respect their own flesh deserves no respect from man or god.”
The silence that followed in the garden was solemn.
Jaehaerys absorbed my words, remembering his brother Aegon’s death atop Quicksilver, knowing I spoke with the authority of someone who had seen history unfold up close.
“— Just…
don’t do it in public anymore,” the king asked, closing the subject.
Alysanne, who had been listening quietly, leaned forward with a spark of genuine curiosity in her purple eyes:
“— But tell me one thing, Art…
is the promise you make to the young ladies who go to your room true?”
“— What promise, Alysanne?” I asked, dispelling the light figures in the air so the children could go play with their wet nurses.
“— You told one of Lord Redwyne’s daughters that, with your sorcery, you would restore her…
I let out a loud laugh:
“— The hymen, Alysanne!
Yes, it’s absolutely true.
It’s ridiculously simple blood sorcery.
I can regenerate tissues and weave flesh in a matter of seconds.”
Jaehaerys frowned, confused:
“— And why on earth would you do that?”
“— Why, Jae…
to fool the Andal fools of the South, of course!” I answered with a wink.
“— ‘First blood’ on the wedding night is an unhealthy obsession of your Andal lords.
I restore the physical virginity of the maidens before they leave my bed.
They enjoy the pleasures of the flesh with me, and afterward, they can marry any imbecile lord in the realm without the fellow ever suspecting a thing.”
Jaehaerys slowly widened his eyes, the political genius of that move hitting his mind:
“— By the Mother…
now I understand why so many court ladies agree to go to your room without the slightest fear of ruining their marriage prospects!”
“— I am a man of solutions, my king,” I mocked, winking at Alysanne, who burst out laughing.
Days later, the Small Council convened again in the castle chamber.
The summer heat was starting to make itself felt, so I presented myself for the meeting wearing only light leather trousers and my boots, keeping my entire chest and abdomen bare, flaunting the pale, sculpted physique of the First Men to the veiled disgust of the lords present.
New members had been appointed by Jaehaerys to fill the vacant seats: Lord Rodrik Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and head of the most purely Andal house in the realm, had assumed the position of Master of Laws; Martyn Tyrell had been named Master of Coin; and young Ser Ryam Redwyne had recently joined the white cloaks of the Kingsguard.
I adjusted my position in the oak chair, looking across the table filled with Southern lords, and couldn’t contain my sarcasm:
“— It really is fascinating, isn’t it, Jae?”
The king stopped flipping through a parchment and looked up at me:
“— What is fascinating, Arthos?”
“— It’s interesting to note that I, a lord of a House of Old Valyria, am the person with the most First Men blood at this table governing this continent…
while there isn’t a single Northern lord sitting on your council.
But I’m sure the problems of the Northerners will be perfectly understood and solved by you all, right?
After all, you are Jaehaerys, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”1
Lord Rodrik Arryn tensed his shoulders, his face stiffening, while Martyn Tyrell cleared his throat uncomfortably.
Jaehaerys merely sighed, accustomed to my political jabs, and began the meeting with his impeccable diplomacy.
While the lords discussed taxes on Arbor wine and revisions of territorial laws in the Vale—topics that bored me to my very soul—I let my mind wander.
I closed my eyes for a second and channeled my warging ability.
My consciousness slid out of my body and projected into the mind of a small rat inhabiting the wooden ceiling joists of the castle.
I guided the rodent easily through the stone conduits and ceilings of the Red Keep until reaching the window of my own chambers.
Through the rat’s black, crystalline eyes, I looked inside my room.
There was Princess Rhaella Targaryen.
She was wearing her gray septa robes, lying on my bed.
Inserted into her anus was a small object carved from polished obsidian—an anal plug I had crafted for her using blood sorcery and arcane geothermal heating.
Rhaella was using the artifact while touching her clitoris, masturbating with gasps and slow movements, preparing herself and counting the minutes for my return as she “played DJ” on her own sheets.
I returned to my consciousness at the council table, opening my gray eyes and wearing a deeply satisfied smile on my face.
*May this meeting of imbecile lords end soon.*
Yes, that is indeed the correct title, even without the conquest of Dorne; that is how Aegon was crowned.