I brushed my teeth aggressively with my wooden bristle-brush, scrubbing with enough furious enthusiasm to make sure not a single tooth was left untouched.
Wait, hold on a second.
A toothbrush in a brutal, medieval shithole like Westeros?
Plot hole!
Call the lore police!
Nah, not really.
The humble toothbrush was easily one of my very first tactical inventions upon waking up in this world.
Do you have any idea how much sheer, unholy agony a human feels when they have a rotten root festering in their jaw, but the local medical technology consists entirely of rusty iron pliers, boiling wine, and a maester offering to bleed you with leeches?
Well, I don’t know the exact feeling either, and I thoroughly intend to keep it that way.
Ergo: toothbrush.
For my daily toothpaste, I was using a finely crushed mixture of charred wood and sea salt.
The charcoal provided a coarse mechanical abrasive to polish off plaque and absorb odor-causing muck, while the salt offered a mild antibacterial boost to stimulate the gums.
It was cheap, simple, and readily available everywhere from Dragonstone to the slums of Flea Bottom.
Two parts charcoal to one part salt for the ultimate dentifrice ratio.
The charcoal, of course, had to be ground down into a fine powder as smooth as wheat flour and then meticulously sifted through fine silk, lest any sharp, unground bits scratch my royal enamel.
Setting aside the jar of paste, I scooped up a pewter cup brimming with sour red wine.
Bottoms up.
The tart liquid swished around my mouth as I gargled loudly.
The sour wine served as an improvised antiseptic to kill off lingering mouth bacteria, though the acidic taste was enough to make a lesser toddler gag.
At this point, however, my modern palate had grown fully accustomed to the medieval burn.
Spitting the dark purple slurry out into the ceramic basin, I picked up a second cup filled with clean well water, rinsing my mouth thoroughly to wash away any remaining specks of black grit.
Setting the cup down, I leaned over the washstand and caught my reflection in the polished bronze mirror hanging on the wall.
My hair was kept short on the sides, though longer and windswept on top, falling in soft silver-gold locks.
My eyes burned as bright as polished amethysts under the morning sunlight filtering through the high narrow window.
Looking at my ridiculously symmetrical, genetically blessed Valyrian face gave me my mandatory daily ego boost before stepping out into the world.
As I glanced down into the basin at the dark water, I let out a heavy sigh.
Reaching into my leather breeches, I pulled out a few flat copper pennies and laid them neatly on the wooden side table.
It was no easy task for the fort’s lower servants to scrub out filthy washbasins every morning, so consider this a small hazard pay tip from Prince Maegor.
Plumbing…
oh, sweet indoor plumbing, how I miss your glorious ceramic embrace.
Why did none of the self-insert protagonists in those web novels ever talk about the horrific reality of medieval sanitation?
It was always dragons, war, and political scheming, completely skipping over the fact that kings were dropping their royal waste into wooden buckets.
But, as always, we do not speak of the plumbing.
Running a broad hand through my silver hair, I dusted off my tunic, smoothed down the heavy wool, and turned toward the chamber door.
On my way past the bedside table, I paused, opened the small wooden drawer, pulled out a heavy steel throwing dart, and slipped it into my pocket.
My recent late-night strolls had made me acutely aware of the constant need to carry a weapon at all times.
I couldn’t wait until I hit a proper growth spurt so I could strap an actual steel broadsword to my waist like a normal, functional warlord.
Stepping out into the hall, I began the long trek toward the royal solar where I knew my mother was waiting for us to break our fast.
With King Aegon out on his royal progress across the Riverlands, Visenya was left holding the realm together, making her far busier than usual.
We barely had any quiet moments to sit together anymore.
The Kingsguard knight posted outside my door this morning was not Ser Humfrey, unfortunately.
It was a lower guardsman in a leather jack.
That was fine for now, but building strong personal bonds with as many Kingsguard knights as possible was high on my long-term priority list.
When the time came for political maneuvers, I needed the White Swords to either back my play or at least remain strictly neutral, which was going to be a monumental task.
Most of those iron-willed bastards wouldn’t budge an inch from their sacred oaths, regardless of who was holding the torch, a rigid devotion to duty that I could strangely respect.
Still, I offered the guard a crisp nod as I passed, stepping out into the winding stone corridors of the Aegonfort.
It was bitterly cold this morning.
The fort’s walls were constructed from thick, dark river stone without proper insulation or modern tapestries to trap the heat, turning the hallways into drafty wind tunnels.
The damp sea air blew straight off the bay, cutting right through heavy wool and making the stone feel like ice underfoot.
Walking through the drafty halls reminded me of the long list of modern amenities I desperately needed to introduce to this world.
Phase one was simple: make mountains of cold, hard cash.
Simply relying on the royal treasury was a rookie mistake; a prince needed his own private wealth.
There were a handful of simple modern inventions, distilled spirits, refined soap, glass mirrors, and advanced metallurgy, that could make me ultra-rich the moment I set up production.
Being a dragon-prince made it hilariously easy to advertise high-end wares to every wealthy lord in the Seven Kingdoms.
Phase two would be taking those absurd profits and pumping them directly into Dragonstone, my primary base of operations.
The island fortress was sitting on a mountain of untapped economic and military potential, and once I turned that volcanic rock into an industrial powerhouse, kingdom building would be smooth sailing.
What actually worried my brain was the distinct possibility that some scheming lord or Citadel advisor would try to sabotage my plans before they took root.
To prevent that, I needed to maintain a pristine relationship with both Aenys and my father.
For the most part, Visenya could easily handle Aegon through strategic guilt trips and Valyrian charm, and Aenys was far too soft to ever say no to me.
That left only the snobbish royal councilors and highborn lords, men I would need to keep a very close eye on when the time came.
Soon enough, I arrived at the grand oak doors of the Queen’s private solar.
Knocking twice and waiting for her sharp call of permission, I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside without any royal fanfare.
My mother was sitting at the far end of a long carved table, draped in a rich crimson gown trimmed with dark fox fur.
Her long silver-gold hair hung loosely around her bare shoulders, devoid of its usual tight battle-braids.
Her piercing violet gaze turned toward me the moment my boots clicked against the floorboards.
Sliding out a heavy oak chair across from her, I sat down and surveyed the morning spread.
There were fresh oatcakes, salt butter, dark plums, roasted sausages, and a pitcher of watered wine.
Without waiting for a servant to prompt me, I immediately began shoveling food into my mouth.
Breakfast with Visenya was always a quiet, stoic affair, but there was a comfortable, silent warmth to it.
“You look,” I paused mid-sentence, swallowing a massive chunk of crusty bread, “Much better with your hair down, Mother.” Visenya raised a single, delicate silver eyebrow at my sudden compliment, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching her lips.
“Oh?
Is that so, Maegor?” I gave her a firm nod, shoving a smoked sausage down my throat.
“Then perhaps I shall wear it loose more often,” she mused softly, her eyes lingering on me with quiet affection.
Shaking my head up and down in solid approval, I continued my relentless assault on the breakfast tray before taking a deep swig of water.
Silence settled over the table once more, natural and easy, as we were both inherently quiet, observant people.
Only when every scrap of sausage and oatcake had vanished into my stomach did I sit back, gulping down the last drop of water before breaking the silence.
“Mother,” I began, my voice dropping an octave as I brought up a question that had been occupying my thoughts for weeks, “What do you actually know about blood magic?” From my deep knowledge of ASOIAF lore, Visenya Targaryen was one of the few living souls in the world who might actually possess real, ancient Valyrian esoteric knowledge.
Citadel historians would later spread dark rumors claiming I was a demonic monster birthed through my mother’s dark sorcery, a claim I heavily doubted, but I wasn’t about to have an existential crisis over medieval fake news.
The question caught her completely off guard.
Visenya leaned back in her high-backed chair, the delicate column of her pale neck flexing as her violet eyes narrowed into sharp slits.
A heavy, dangerous stillness fell over the room as she stared directly into my soul.
“What made you ask such a thing, Maegor?” she asked, her tone razor-sharp with sudden suspicion.
“Nothing in particular,” I answered with a casual shrug, leaning my elbows on the wooden table to show I had nothing to hide.
“I have simply been pondering the old legends of our house recently.
If anyone in this entire realm understands the truth of our bloodline’s secrets, it is you.” Visenya pursed her lips, her gaze flickering down to the polished oak table as she weighed my words.
A long, tense moment stretched between us before she reached across the table.
Her pale, ringed hands slid up to cradle my face delicately between her warm palms.
Pulling me forward until I could feel the radiant heat rising off her skin, she stared into my eyes with an intensity that burned right through me.
“I do not know who planted such dangerous thoughts in your head,” she whispered, her low, commanding voice barely above a breath, “but sorcery is not a game for children, Maegor.
It is a poison.
Promise me, here and now, that you will never try to uncover those dark secrets on your own.” The sheer, raw gravity in her voice was enough to make my modern soul sit up and take notice.
“…I shall heed your advice, Mother.
You have my word,” I said, offering her a slow, deliberate nod.
Another tense second passed before the tight strain in her shoulders melted away.
She leaned in close, pressing her soft lips firmly against my forehead, letting the kiss linger for a long moment before releasing my face and pulling back.
“There..
is a lot that I could teach you,” she admitted softly, resting her chin on her hand as her loose silver hair fell across her shoulder.
“But, truthfully, even after years of searching through ancient scrolls saved from the Freehold, I have never been able to reach the same heights as our ancestors.
Almost all important knowledge of Valyrian sorcery was wiped out completely when the Fourteen Flames erupted.
Only bits and pieces remain.” She leaned forward, her face turning deadly serious once more.
“Just remember this, Maegor: the Doom of Valyria happened for a reason.
There are some ancient powers better left buried in the ash.” Seeing me nod in understanding, her stern expression softened back into a small smile.
“When you are older and wiser, I will teach you the secrets I have managed to piece together.” “Then I shall wait until whatever time you deem perfect, Mother,” I replied, leaning back into my oak chair and letting out a relaxed breath as I stared past her toward the narrow window.
Visenya reached across the table, lacing her long fingers through mine and lifting my hand to her lips to press a gentle kiss against my knuckles.
“Skorīrot sȳrosty trēsy īle.” [You have always been the perfect son], she murmured in the low, liquid tones of High Valyrian.
I couldn’t help stop the amused smirk from spreading across my face due to the dramatics as I pushed my chair back and stood up from the breakfast table.
“Se ao, sȳrosty muña,” [And you, the perfect mother] I replied smoothly in the same tongue, offering her a dramatic bow.
With my belly full and my morning complete, I turned and began walking toward the heavy doors of the solar, bidding her a peaceful afternoon.
“Oh, before you go, Maegor,” Visenya’s voice called out from behind me, carrying a unmistakable thread of dry humor.
“I forgot to mention: your elder brother, following your brilliant example yesterday, walked out on his own septon lecture this morning.” I paused at the threshold, shaking my head in disbelief.
Aenys, you poor, impressionable idiot.
King Aegon was going to be absolutely furious when he got back from his procession.