I lazed around on my feather bed, lazily twirling the plumbata between my fingers.
How terribly sad, considering I had not yet gotten the golden opportunity to poke some unsuspecting bastard with it.
Come on, where were all the juicy clichés when you actually needed them to spice up life?
There were no secret face-changing assassins trying to slip a poisoned blade between my ribs in the dead of night, and nobody was jumping out of the damp stone shadows when I strolled through the twisting corridors of the Red Keep.
Does no one in this entire feudal shithole care about poor old Maegor, the neglected second son of the realm?
Probably not, and to be fair, I had been deliberately trying my best to avoid making dangerous enemies, not that I could easily cultivate a blood feud at the ripe old age of five years old.
Even my royal father, the great conqueror himself, managed to avoid getting himself violently murdered for the most part, though if the bloody war with Dorne had still been dragging on right now, I would have likely been terminated by a stealthy dose of scorpion venom slipped into my morning goat milk.
Dirty, backstabbing Dornishmen.
Never trust those plotters, which was the number one lesson drilled into my head by reading a few too many fantasy doorstoppers.
There were two absolute, non-negotiable rules for surviving in this fictional universe.
Rule number one: never trust the salt-licked, reaving maniacs of the Iron Islands.
Rule number two: never trust the sun-baked, spear-wielding vipers of Dorne.
Naturally, there were a few auxiliary guidelines worth considering as well, such as committing total, unmitigated genocide against both the Ironborn and the Dothraki screamers across the narrow sea.
It is not like anyone with an ounce of common sense would miss those bloodthirsty savages anytime soon, and the entire planet would smell a whole lot better of lavender soap and roasted mutton once they were scrubbed off the map.
Now, all I really had to do was wait around for some wild-eyed Red Priest to stagger out of the shadows, stare into my amethyst eyes, and declare me to be the legendary reincarnation of Azor Ahai reborn.
Wait, actually, it would be infinitely better if it was a sultry Red Priestess instead, just so I could score some free exotic pussy along with my divine destiny.
Hmm, on second thought, perhaps that was a catastrophic error, because while those fire-worshipping hags looked smoking hot on the outside thanks to their glamorous ruby chokers, they were ancient, rotting hags underneath the optical illusions.
I shuddered violently just thinking about the horrifying biological reality of getting intimate with a thousand-year-old corpse-witch.
That bizarre train of thought brought me crashing back to the impending apocalypse presented by the White Walkers.
All in all, I did not particularly give a single flying fuck about the ice zombies marching down from the frozen north.
Sure, they were theoretically a massive, civilization-ending problem, but it would not matter one bit until at least three hundred years into the future.
So, for the remainder of my childhood, I intended to thoroughly enjoy the bountiful summers, gorge myself on roasted meats, and leave those frozen bastards for my great-great-great-grandchildren to deal with instead.
Would my descendants even be around by then, or would House Targaryen manage to implode, burn down, and die out long before the long night ever arrived because of my meddling?
Three hundred years of reigning supreme over a continent of illiterate peasants was not a terrible run by historical standards, but it was absolutely pathetic when you took into cold, hard consideration the fact that we possessed living, breathing, city-roasting tactical nuclear weapons.
That is essentially the cosmic equivalent of handing nuclear launch codes to an inbred medieval king and telling him to have fun ruling the world.
Not only that, but what made the situation infinitely worse was the absolute genetic monopoly preventing anyone outside the royal bloodline from ever riding or bonding with those winged weapons.
The more you pondered the geopolitical mechanics of dragons, the more you felt an overwhelming urge to cuss out every single idiot who contributed to the eventual extinction of the beasts.
While I would love to simply blame Georgie for killing them off because he lacked the tactical imagination to write around them, it did not matter anymore because I was physically trapped inside his brutal literary sandbox, and the death of the dragons was hurtling toward us on a freight train of stupidity.
While the famous myth of Targaryen madness was wildly exaggerated by biased Citadel maesters who probably rubbed one out every time a dragon died of a bellyache, I could not help wondering sometimes if there was some truth to the genetic roulette.
In moments of deep philosophical despair, you really begin to wonder whether it would be infinitely safer to just march down into Flea Bottom, pluck some random, scrappy street urchin out of the mud, and crown him king instead.
Of course, that was a profoundly retarded idea that would instantly collapse the entire feudal social contract, though the Roman and Byzantine empires had managed to utilize adoption as a functional succession model quite successfully.
Even then, that brilliant system immediately broke the moment Marcus Aurelius fathered a real biological son named Commodus, who turned out to be a murderous, arena-obsessed lunatic.
A sharp, persistent knock on my heavy oak bedchamber door violently shattered my deep historical musings.
Pushing myself up from the feather mattress, I padded across the cold stone floor and pulled the wooden barrier open to find a terrified royal servant bowing low, his nose practically touching the flags.
The trembling man stuttered out a formal announcement that my mother was currently waiting for me in her solar to break our fast together.
Staring at the poor bastard for a solemn moment, I gave him a curt nod, dismissed him with a casual flick of a copper penny that he scrambled to catch, and closed the door behind me before stepping out into the drafty corridor.
Adopting heirs was never a viable strategy for most hereditary monarchies anyway, seeing as nine times out of ten they desperately relied on the superstitious fairy tale of divine, god-blessed bloodlines to trick the peasant masses into believing they were born to be ruled.
Someone shattering that fragile illusion was the absolute last thing the nobility wanted, and it was certainly not something I wanted either since I was currently sitting near the top of the food chain.
Either way, what truly mattered in the grand game of thrones was the boring, day-to-day administrative reality of training your royal children from a tender age and simply bothering to be a decent, present father.
At least half the catastrophic civil wars in human history could have been entirely avoided if powerful men had just spent quality time raising their kids instead of hunting boars and siring bastards in every tavern.
That only applied, of course, if you managed to survive your turbulent tenure as an absolute monarch without getting your throat slit by your own bodyguards.
I am definitely not side-eyeing the historical Praetorian Guard, those treacherous bastards could certainly learn a thing or two about professional loyalty from the Varangian Guards.
Ultimately, the absolute best way to gracefully conclude your reign as a lord or king was to simply abdicate, pack your bags, and step aside before someone else forced you off the mortal coil at knifepoint.
Taking up peaceful, low-stress hobbies like farming, or better yet, retiring to the coast to cultivate massive, prize-winning cabbages, was the ultimate power move.
Diocletian would surely nod in solemn agreement from the afterlife while tending to his root vegetables.
Finally reaching the oak doors of the solar, I pushed them open and stepped into the warm, torch-lit chamber.
As was her customary routine, my mother was already seated at the head of the heavy mahogany table, waiting patiently for her favorite little sociopath to arrive so we could break our fast.
How sweet of her, truly.
Not wasting another precious second on pleasantries, I eagerly dug into the mountain of food waiting on the silver platters as I walked over and pulled out my chair to sit right beside her.
The morning spread laid out across the long table was a magnificent, gluttonous monument to feudal privilege and agricultural exploitation.
In the center sat an enormous, golden-brown roast capon, its crispy skin glistening under the amber candlelight, dripping with rich honey and tart lemon juice that pooled in the ceramic dish below.
Right beside the poultry rested a massive honey-glazed ham, studded with whole cloves and oozing with spiced, savory pork juices that smelled strongly of cloves, brown sugar, and wood smoke.
A towering loaf of dark, crusty brown bread sat sliced on a wooden board, practically begging to be slathered with thick layers of sweet yellow butter churned fresh from mountain cream.
There were bowls of sharp, aged goat cheese that smelled like a wet barnyard in the best possible way, alongside roasted root vegetables glistening in rich mutton fat and caramelized to perfection.
A silver jug of spiced morning ale sat next to a pitcher of fresh cow milk, while a platter of warm plum tarts dusted with powdered sugar occupied the far end of the table like a sweet, sugary promise of dental ruin.
I shoveled massive chunks of roasted capon and buttered bread into my mouth with zero regard for royal table manners, chewing noisily because being a five-year-old prince meant you could get away with eating like a feral badger and nobody dared correct you.
Visenya turned her head slightly, her striking violet eyes watching my chaotic dietary assault with a mixture of maternal amusement and mild disapproval.
Resting her pale cheek against her knuckles, she broke the silence while I was halfway through swallowing a massive bite of honeyed ham.
“That secret underworld parchment that you managed to acquire and hand over to me the other day, Maegor,” Visenya began smoothly, her voice carrying that authority that made grown lords piss their silk trousers.
“Tell me truthfully, how on earth did you manage to get your hands on it?” I paused chewing, swallowing hard and hastily taking a generous gulp of the warm cow milk to wash down the feast before flashing her an innocent, gap-toothed smile.
“Oh, it was just a little local extracurricular project that I wanted to test out using some of the sharper street urchins down in the city gutters,” I replied casually, giving a vague wave of my greasy hand to portray the absolute simplicity of running an espionage network.
“Turns out those kids are surprisingly competent at snooping around when you dangle a few copper coins in front of their dirty faces.” With her sharp, unnerving purple gaze boring straight down into my soul, a slow, appreciative smile curved the corners of her lips.
“Most of the petty crimes and tavern gossip listed on that paper, I already knew,” Visenya admitted softly, reaching across the mahogany table to gently brush a stray crumb from my forehead with long, slender fingers.
“But it is still remarkably impressive work, Maegor, especially for a child of your tender years.” She pulled her hand back, resting it against the edge of her plate.
“The specific details regarding the massive corruption ring operating out of the royal harbor, however, that piece of intelligence was entirely new to my desk.
Rest assured, that greedy harbor master and crooked customs officials will be quietly dealt with before the week is out, and all because of your little enterprise.” Offering her a warm, winning smile, I leaned back comfortably into my oversized carved chair, patting my distended stomach with profound satisfaction.
“Happy to be of service to the crown, Mother,” I replied smoothly, before shifting gears.
“What about you, though?
Have things been going smoothly in the royal court, or is it just the usual parade of sniveling lords whining about taxes and border disputes?” Visenya let out a long, deeply resigned sigh, momentarily closing her eyes against the sheer mental exhaustion of medieval governance.
“It is merely the endless, grinding trivialities of the court, nothing truly worthy of your attention,” she murmured, opening her eyes again.
“However, I do happen to have some rather significant news that should brighten your mood.
We will be packing up our belongings and heading back home to Dragonstone in a few months.” She paused to take a sip of her spiced wine.
“Your father has finally decided to bring his lengthy royal progress to a close much earlier than initially planned.” Damn, we were leaving Aegon Fort behind just as I was starting to get properly attached to the chaotic energy of the capital.
Oh well, there was still a lot more that I needed to do in Dragonstone as well.
…
And that wraps up the childhood arc, heard a lot of complaints about dragging it, but they were necessary to set the groundwork for the story.
Anyways, thanks for reading and unfortunately, I won’t be uploading tomorrow.
Celebrating my birthday and all that, so I’ll be pretty busy.