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The courtyard of the Aegonfort was packed tight with bodies, a writhing, noisy sea of wool, leather, steel, and unwashed humanity.
Above the press of the crowd, perched high upon the broad stone balcony overlooking the bailey, I stood watching the crown prince prepare for his grand departure.
Aenys sat tall in the high-cantled saddle atop Quicksilver, his slender frame draped in a tunic of shimmering silver cloth that caught the morning light.
The young dragon beneath him shifted uneasily on the packed dirt, its scaled hide rippling like liquid pewter as it hissed a thin plume of grey smoke into the crisp air.
Quicksilver was still remarkably small by the standards of the conquerors’ beasts, slender and lightning-fast, looking less like a continent-shattering engine of doom and more like a sleek, silver-scaled hound blessed with wings.
The beast did not like the roaring throng of commoners, lords, and whispering courtiers any more than I did.
Aenys turned his head upward, catching my eye from the balcony, and offered a bright, nervous smile before raising a gloved hand in farewell.
I waved back lazily, leaning against the cold stone balustrade.
He was heading east toward Duskendale, where King Aegon was currently holding court amidst his royal progress, waiting for his eldest son to join the royal train.
The crowds watched with bated breath, waiting for the great moment.
With a sharp, whispered command in the old, melodic tongue of Valyria, Aenys spurred his mount.
Quicksilver let out a piercing shriek that rattled the teeth in my skull, beat its vast, shimmering wings against the earth, and launched itself heavily into the sky.
The dragon swept upward in a magnificent, soaring arc, banking gracefully before vanishing entirely among the low-hanging grey clouds drifting in from Blackwater Bay.
The courtyard let out a collective sigh of awe, the tension breaking as the spectators slowly began to disperse back to their daily toil.
I let out a long, quiet breath of my own, tracking the empty patch of sky where the silver wings had just disappeared.
I could hardly wait to get my massive, scaly hands on a dragon of my own.
Balerion, my ancient, terrifying friend, please wait for me.
Now, I was certainly not the kind of malicious person to actively wish an untimely demise upon my own father, however…
time and tide wait for no man, and neither do colossal fire-breathing lizards.
“Are you going to come with us, or are you just going to stand there staring at the clouds all day?” I leaned my weight away from the balcony, turning my head to see who was disturbing my villainous musings.
It was none other than Davos Baratheon, his thick black hair sticking up in sweaty tufts, wearing a broad, gap-toothed grin as he beckoned me toward the shadowy mouth of the corridor.
“Where are you all even going?” I asked, stepping off the stonework and following him, pausing for a fraction of a second as a mangy, dirt-caked alley cat darted past our boots.
“Just somewhere out in the deep woods surrounding the city,” Davos answered over his shoulder, his voice dropping to an excited conspiratorial whisper.
“We spotted a massive hornet nest hanging out there yesterday afternoon.
Thought we might go poke it.” What do ten-year-old aristocratic boys actually do in a brutal, medieval fantasy world when left entirely to their own devices?
I suppose we had our definitive answer right here.
They were not fundamentally different from modern kids back on earth, though the children of my old world spent ninety percent of their waking hours staring blankly at glowing glass rectangles, rotting their brains on short-form video algorithms.
How desperately sad.
Those poor modern children would never be able to experience the pure, earthy, unadulterated pleasure of aggressively shoving a fistful of wet soil into their mouths.
Mmm, dirt.
Rich, mineral-heavy, absolute culinary perfection.
“Wait a minute,” I said, quickening my pace to match his stride as we navigated the dim stone hallways.
“Did your personal guards actually let you walk out here without trailing ten yards behind you like overprotective shadow-hounds?” I glanced back over my shoulder.
True to form, my own designated shadow guard was lurking quietly down the corridor, keeping a respectful distance because Queen Visenya treated domestic security with the terrifying paranoia of an empress guarding a hoard of stolen gold.
I wasn’t bothered by the surveillance in the slightest.
In fact, I could already see the invisible narrative gears turning in the background.
This was my very first official outing with my peer group, which meant the universe was contractually obligated to throw an ambush at us.
Since my guard would inevitably be lagging behind or conveniently distracted, the highborn boys would simply have to strap on their figurative testicles and fight for survival without any adult backup.
I see right through your predictable plot tropes, reality.
“Well, there is no one currently in the solar to tell them otherwise, is there?” Davos raised his arms above his head for a dramatic stretch, the mischievous grin spreading even wider across his flushed face.
“It feels magnificent being out here without my mother and father hovering over my shoulder, constantly scolding me and disrupting every single thing I try to accomplish.
They really ought to understand that I am a fully grown man now.” He puffed out his chest with an air of supreme, childish dignity.
I wisely decided to keep my mouth firmly shut regarding the minor biological technicality that he was only eleven years old and still cried when he skinned his knees during sword practice.
Davos stepped closer, tilting his head with a curious frown.
“Maegor, why do you never go on the royal processions with your father and Prince Aenys?
Is it because you do not have a dragon of your own yet to fly alongside them?” If I were an actual, emotionally fragile five-year-old toddler, I would have likely burst into violent tears right then and there, throwing a royal temper tantrum on the flagstones.
Fortunately for everyone involved, my brain was running on modern software.
Instead, I offered a casual, nonchalant shrug of my shoulders.
“I think it is far more important for the common folk and the lords of the realm to look at who is actually going to handle the administrative heavy lifting in the coming years rather than trailing behind a secondary prince,” I replied smoothly.
The young Baratheon frowned deeply, his brows knitting together as he looked like he wanted to argue or perhaps blurt out something disrespectful about Aenys.
Then, spotting a pair of royal stewards walking past down the hall, he intelligently shut his mouth with a sharp click of his teeth.
Clearly, the highborn kids running around the Aegonfort were a lot sharper than I gave them credit for.
The average ten-year-old from my old world would have screamed political treason at the top of their lungs without pausing to think about the consequences.
Honestly, I had to hand it to King Aegon.
Fostering all the eldest sons and primary nephews of the most powerful lords right here in the capital was an absolute masterclass in geopolitical hostage-taking.
It made it ridiculously easy for me to infiltrate their social circles and build a spiderweb of early influence.
Not that I was planning anything nefarious, of course…
After several minutes of winding through the bustling streets of King’s Landing while engaging in casual chatter, which mostly consisted of Davos refusing to shut up about his dramatic tales of daily sword drills and hunting mishaps, we finally reached the edge of the sprawling, untamed forest just beyond the city limits.
Getting out there was remarkably easy because the surrounding area was still heavily wooded, blanketed by a dense sea of ancient oaks and towering pines thanks to the relatively low urban population and the complete absence of massive outer walls dictating who could come and go.
The air changed instantly as we stepped beneath the emerald canopy, smelling rich and heavy with the scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, pine sap, and distant horse manure.
Waiting for us near the trunk of a massive gnarled oak were Steffon Darklyn and Tristan Strong, already deep into a violently passionate argument that looked like it was about to turn into a full-scale wrestling match.
“Obviously, heavy cavalry is the single most important arm of any respectable military force!” argued Steffon Darklyn, throwing his arms wildly into the air to emphasize his point as he jammed an accusatory finger right into Tristan’s chest.
“A dense wedge of heavily armored knights riding atop thundering warhorses can easily shatter and rout any infantry formation ever conceived!
And if you dare say anything against that absolute military truth, then it clearly proves you know less about grand strategy than a blind mule!” “That is complete and utter dragon-shit!” Tristan Strong roared back, his face turning the color of a bruised plum as he clenched his fists.
“Infantry is inherently superior because it is vastly more versatile!
Tell me, oh great tactical genius, can your precious cavalry charge through a deep, waterlogged bog of thick mud and sucking swamps in the treacherous Riverlands?” Tristan gritted his teeth so hard a vein bulged furiously on his temple.
“Yes, they can!” Steffon shouted back defensively, puffing out his chest with smug arrogance.
“You just have to be more motivated!” “That is not how warfare works!” Tristan shrieked, throwing his hands up toward the sky in utter, soul-crushing exasperation before dramatically collapsing backward onto the mossy ground and sitting there in a sulk.
Ah, the timeless, universally applicable internet argument format: ‘My imaginary character or faction is infinitely stronger than yours simply because they are my personal favorite.’ It appeared that no matter which dimension, century, or magical fantasy universe you traveled to, certain fundamental human truths remained entirely unchanged.
“Just admit to everyone here that your tactical reasoning is completely stupid and that you have utterly lost the debate,” Steffon gloated, crossing his arms over his chest with an irritatingly smug smirk.
Tristan let out an animalistic growl of pure frustration, digging his fingers deep into the damp dirt beneath him as the other boys snickered.
Before the verbal sparring could escalate into actual bloodshed, the rustling underbrush parted with a sharp snap, and two more figures emerged from the tree line.
It was Daemon Velaryon and Edwell Celtigar, swaggering over to join our little expedition with matching grins of absolute superiority plastered across their faces.
Daemon’s pale silver-blond hair caught the stray shafts of sunlight filtering through the leaves, while Edwell looked like a sullen, sea-salted fish dragged straight out of Blackwater Bay.
“You are both standing here shouting and groaning like a pair of illiterate swine arguing over scraps,” Daemon announced loudly, striding right into the center of our circle with a dramatic flourish of his woolen cloak.
“The true masters of warfare are the naval fleets!
A mighty war galley can bypass your silly, pathetic mud swamps entirely, sail straight up every navigable river in Westeros, and burn your precious cavalry to absolute ash while you lot are still busy fumbling with your saddle straps!” Edwell Celtigar nodded along sagely, his dark sea-green tunic rustling as he crossed his arms.
“Precisely.
A single well-placed broadside of boiling oil and heavy stone shot from a majestic dromon would turn both your sweating horses and your muddy foot soldiers into floating fish-food in less than an hour.” Steffon Darklyn turned an alarming shade of deep, incandescent purple.
“You live on a glorified volcanic rock in the middle of a salty bay, Daemon!
Your entire grand military strategy consists entirely of getting violently seasick and vomiting your breakfast over the railing of a wooden boat!” “At least our boots do not smell like stable manure!” Daemon snapped right back.
Instantly, the debate fractured into a deafening four-way screaming match, with each highborn brat shouting utter, unadulterated nonsense just to ragebait the others.
The volume reached an ear-splitting pitch before all four of them suddenly stopped, turning their heated gazes toward me as if I were the supreme arbiter of military doctrine sent down by the gods themselves.
“My prince!” Tristan demanded, pointing a finger at me from his spot on the dirt.
“Tell them!
Which branch of the armed forces reigns supreme in true war?” I let out a slow, heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose as I looked around at the circle of eager, flushed faces.
“It entirely depends on the terrain, the strategic logistics, the weather conditions, the enemy commander, and whether or not your opponent decided to bring a flying nuclear weapon to the battlefield, you absolute, drooling donkeys,” I deadpanned, shaking my head at their sheer collective lack of perspective.
The boys blinked, processing my overly complex modern answer for a second before they wisely decided to drop the grand strategy debate in favor of more immediate, highly destructive entertainment.
“Right, well, never mind all that boring book-learning,” Davos said brightly, clapping his hands together and turning around to point up into the heavy, twisting branches of a towering, ancient oak tree hanging over the path.
“Look right up there.
That is the bastard hornet nest we were telling you about.” We all craned our necks backward, squinting up through the dense canopy.
Dangling precariously from a high, thin bough some thirty feet above our heads was a massive, swollen grey sphere constructed of chewed wood-pulp and paper.
It looked like an ugly, oversized tumor clinging to the tree, and even from down below, we could clearly hear the ominous, angry bass hum of thousands of striped, venomous stinging bastards swarming restlessly around the entrance hole.
“We have been standing down here trying to knock that bloody thing down for an entire hour,” Edwell Celtigar grumbled, rubbing a tender, bruised shoulder where a poorly thrown river rock had missed its mark and bounced off his own collarbone instead.
“Every single time one of us hurls a stone, it either flies wide by six feet or bounces harmlessly off a twig like a pebble dropped on a knight’s steel shield.” I stared at them with a look of profound, soul-deep disappointment.
Did these kids actually have nothing better to do than this?
Oh wait, they actually did not.
Without uttering a single word of warning, I stepped past the cluster of bewildered future lords, scanning the forest floor until my eyes landed on a dense, perfectly smooth, egg-sized river stone half-buried in the moss.
I bent down, scooped it up, and weighed it in my palm.
Perfect balance.
Perfect density.
I squared my stance, dropped my center of gravity, adjusted my grip, and tracked the invisible arc in the air leading straight to the stout branch supporting the heavy paper mass.
The other boys watched me in utter silence, sensing a sudden shift in the atmosphere.
With a sharp, fluid snap of my wrist and a violent rotation of my hips, I whipped my arm upward, hurling the stone with blistering, calculated speed.
Thwack!
The stone struck the upper wooden bough right beside the stem with a crisp, deafening crack that echoed sharply through the quiet woods.
The heavy grey hornet nest shuddered violently on impact, its fragile anchor fibers snapping like dry twigs.
Before anyone could even blink, the massive papery sphere detached completely from the branch and began plummeting straight down toward the earth with terrifying, unmitigated acceleration.
The silence lasted for precisely half a second.
Then, the nest smashed violently against a protruding root right at our feet, bursting open like a rotten melon.
A thick, roiling, pitch-black cloud of thousands upon thousands of furiously vibrating, incredibly pissed-off hornets erupted from the ruined paper wreckage like an angry volcanic ash plume.
The high-pitched, collective buzzing sound that filled the clearing instantly shifted from a low hum to a blood-curdling, apocalyptic shriek of pure vengeance.
My brain instantly overrode my royal Valyrian composure, triggering every single primal fight-or-flight survival reflex wired into human DNA.
Oh, sweet mother of mercy, run for your lives.
Without wasting a single millisecond on informing the others, I spun on my heel, tucked my arms, and bolted back toward the city gates faster than a startled hare.
Behind me, the collective shriek of five highborn future lords pierced the afternoon air.
“RUN!
RUN, THEY ARE GOING TO EAT OUR FACES!” The thunderous sound of ten panicked boots scrambling over roots, tripping over moss, and crashing through thick underbrush filled the woods.
I glanced back over my shoulder just once to see a swirling black cloud of angry demons hot on our heels, relentlessly pursuing the fleeing nobility of Westeros.
Davos, Steffon, Tristan, Daemon, and Edwell were all screaming at the absolute top of their lungs, sprinting for their lives with tears of pure terror streaming down their red faces, absolutely abandoning every single lesson on chivalry, bravery, and knightly valor they had ever been taught.
As we burst out of the tree line and came barreling back toward the safety of the city gates, leaving a trail of dropped wooden swords and flying dirt in our wake, I couldn’t even help the laugh bubbling up inside my throat.
Ah this was what life was all about.
Kicking the shit out of kids.