Turning away from the narrow slit of the window, I leaned my back against the rough, cold stone of the wall, studying my brother.
Aenys was holding a short, strange iron dart in his right hand, examining it with a look of bewildered, intense curiosity.
It was the item he had quietly stolen from one of the small oak drawers beside my bed.
The object consisted of a sharpened steel spike fused to a heavy, teardrop-shaped lump of solid lead, balanced by three clipped goose feathers glued to a wooden tail.
He pressed the fleshy pad of his thumb against the needle-sharp point, instantly letting out a sharp, pathetic hiss as a tiny bead of crimson blood welled on his skin.
He jerked his hand backward as though he had been stung by a wasp.
“Ouch!
What manner of foul toy is this?” Aenys muttered, sucking on his pricked thumb while staring at his stained skin.
I sauntered over to him, snatched the weighted dart out of his delicate fingers, and held it up to the dim sunlight filtering through the window, admiring my handiwork.
“I call it a plumbata,” I replied with a shrug.
The craftsmanship was admittedly crude, forged by a sleepy, confused blacksmith in the lower courtyard of Dragonstone whom I had badgered with specific drawings until he yielded to my demands.
I had zero intention of mass-producing these weapons anytime in the near future, mostly because traditional longbows, heavy crossbows, and iron-tipped lances were vastly superior for true battlefield warfare.
I had only fashioned this particular piece because it was ridiculously easy to construct and I had been bored out of my absolute mind during a rainy fortnight on the island.
“The plum…
the plum-what?” Aenys asked, scratching his silver-haired scalp.
Before I could even begin to explain the mechanics, his short attention span betrayed him.
He turned away and began pacing aimlessly around my bedchamber, turning over leather-bound scrolls and examining the brass inkwells scattered across my table.
Seeing that my fragile brother was thoroughly distracted, I slipped the lead-weighted missile safely into the hidden inner pocket of my wool tunic.
In the ancient history of my previous world, the plumbata had been a devastating, short-range throwing weapon utilized with deadly effect by late Roman infantry legions.
Soldiers carried five of these heavy, lead-weighted darts clipped into the hollow interior curve of their large shields.
When an enemy infantry line or a wall of cavalry charged toward their ranks, the soldiers would unleash a lethal, high-trajectory hail of plumbatae overhand or underhand from forty paces away.
The heavy lead weight fused beneath the iron barb gave the projectile immense kinetic momentum, allowing it to punch cleanly through leather armor, iron ringmail, and wooden shields long before the two armies ever clashed hand-to-hand.
I had invented the weapon in this world purely because it was a simple, fun engineering project to keep my mind occupied inside a five-year-old body.
Unfortunately, I had not yet been given a single opportunity to test the dart out on a live target, which was a deeply depressing state of affairs.
I was quietly praying that some arrogant, foul-mouthed noble squire in the courtyard would provoke me so I could lodge an iron barb into his thigh.
Unfortunately, almost every boy in the castle was terrified of me.
Perhaps my habit of beating up annoying highborn children for fun had not been the most tactical decision on my part, as my reputation made finding living test subjects for my weapons remarkably difficult.
“Oh, right!
I nearly forgot the main reason I came to your room,” Aenys said, turning around after failing to find anything remotely interesting on my bookshelves.
His face twisted into a slight frown.
“Your mother sent me to fetch you.
Queen Visenya demands your presence for the morning meal in her private solar.” “Are you not coming to eat with us?” I asked, stepping toward the heavy oak door as he pulled it open.
A look of visible, deep-seated panic flashed across Aenys’s soft face.
He let out a nervous, dry cough into his fist, refusing to make direct eye contact with me.
“No, I…
I must head down to the lower yards,” Aenys stammered, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“I need to check on my dragon.
I swear I felt Quicksilver calling out to me this morning, and I must be there for her, like a proper dragon rider.” I almost snorted heading that was a blatant, lie, almost, because I did not do it and instead merely shrugged my broad shoulders and let him have his dignity.
Poor kid, someone should teach him to lie.
Visenya was a terrifying, stern dragonlord who carried a Valyrian steel sword on her hip and spoke in sharp, razor-thin commands.
Aenys was a gentle, sensitive boy who looked as though he might burst into tears whenever she looked at him too intensely.
It was entirely understandable that he would make up a ridiculous excuse to avoid sitting across a breakfast table from her.
I stepped out into the stone corridor, watching my brother scurried away down the hall like a frightened field mouse.
As the heavy oak door swung shut behind me, the Kingsguard knight standing post outside immediately fell into step behind my left shoulder, his iron boots clanking heavily against the flagstones.
I threw a quick, side-long glance at the man out of the corner of my eye.
The knight was Ser Humfrey the Mummer, one of the seven sworn brothers of the Kingsguard.
It was another absurd nickname, but I found the man’s history genuinely fascinating.
Back in the tenth year after the Conquest, after a band of bitter Dornish assassins ambushed King Aegon and Queen Visenya in the muddy streets of the fledgling city, Visenya had personally drawn Dark Sister, cut down two assassin captains herself, and declared that the King required a permanent brotherhood of elite, fanatically loyal warriors to guard his life night and day.
She had hand-picked the original Seven based on raw skill rather than noble bloodlines.
Ser Humfrey had been a landless hedge knight’s bastard who had earned his colorful moniker because he had spent his youth working as a tumbling acrobat and sword-juggler in a traveling mummers’ troupe before turning his martial talents to tournament melees.
“Good morrow, Ser Humfrey,” I said, breaking the quiet silence as we navigated the winding stone staircases of the Aegonfort.
“The sky looks remarkably clear this morning.” Having literally nothing better to do with my time, I figured I might as well make casual conversation with the terrifying, white-cloaked killer walking behind me.
He was a solid, reliable warrior, or so I assumed, given that my mother would never allow a incompetent fool to wear the white cloak, let alone permit him to stand guard outside my personal bedchamber.
“It is a bright morning, my prince,” Ser Humfrey replied curtly, his voice echoing flatly from beneath his polished steel helm.
“A fine day for the yard.” “Indeed,” I murmured, having nothing else to say.
Fortunately for both of us, our brief walk came to an end as we reached the stout timber door leading into Queen Visenya’s private chambers.
I raised my heavy hand, knocked twice on the oak planking, and waited until my mother’s stern, commanding voice rang out from within: “Enter.” I pushed the door open, stepped inside the chamber, and closed it firmly behind me, leaving Ser Humphrey to stand post in the hallway outside.
I paused to glance around the room.
Visenya’s private solar was sparsely decorated, borderline monastic in its bare simplicity.
There were no gilded mirrors, no plush Essosi carpets, no vibrant tapestries depicting great historic battles.
There was only a plain, sturdy table carved from dark mountain oak, a few iron candelabras holding unscented tallow candles, and a tall, narrow window that looked out over the muddy bay.
Tsk, tsk.
It was blatantly obvious that my royal father Aegon was not allocating any meaningful portion of the crown’s gold toward interior decorating or domestic comfort.
Setting my petty complaints aside, I turned my attention toward the far end of the room.
Queen Visenya was seated at the head of a long wooden table, surrounded by a lavished spread of breakfast foods.
She wore a simple, high-collared gown of dark, midnight-purple wool, her long silver-gold hair woven into a tight, intricate braid that rested over her left shoulder.
Beside her chair, resting against the oak table leg, was Dark Sister in its dragon-leather scabbard, the dragonglass pommel gleaming in the morning light.
A silent servant woman stood motionless in the shadow of the corner, whom I promptly ignored as I walked across the stone floorboards and took a seat directly to my mother’s right.
Visenya looked up from her plate, her dark violet eyes scanning my face with a cold, sharp, calculating intensity.
She gave me a single, crisp nod of approval.
“Eat your fill, Maegor,” she said, her voice smooth and hard as dragonglass.
“We have important matters to discuss once you are done.” I hummed in response, reaching out to pile my pewter plate high with food, wondering what exactly she could be talking about.
Maybe it was some super secret plot to make me the king?
Or give me a power up that would transform me from a level five brute to a level ten brute?
The theories in my head got wilder the more I thought about it.
I immediately dug in like a starving hound.
While highborn royalty in Westeros lived in luxury compared to the peasantry, the culinary reality of this fantasy world was a deeply depressing affair for a reincarnated modern man.
Spices were practically non-existent in this medieval realm.
Real, fiery, mouth-numbing spices like chili peppers, Szechuan peppercorns, and cumin were virtually impossible to acquire, given that trade routes to the far eastern lands of Yi Ti and Asshai were long, dangerous, and wildly expensive.
Ever since I was reborn into this world, I had not eaten a single dish that possessed actual, genuine heat.
Oh, how I missed the spicy Chinese street noodles and rich Indian curries of my previous life!
I swore to myself that as soon as I grew old enough to command my own flagship, I was going to sail straight to the Jade Sea purely to plunder their spice markets.
Then again, upon deeper reflection, perhaps eating super-spicy food in a medieval fantasy setting was a terrible idea.
The less said about the primitive, horrifying state of Westerosi castle plumbing, the better.
Taking a massive dump in a drafty stone garderobe where cold sea air blew directly up your bare ass was an unpleasant experience under normal circumstances; doing so after eating a bowl of spicy fire-peppers sounded like a specialized form of hellish torture.
At the very least, the food served at the royal table was high quality and plentiful.
I devoured several rashers of thick, salted bacon, two poached capon legs dripping with savory pan juices, a wedge of sharp, hard goat’s cheese, and half a loaf of crusty barley bread slathered in churned yellow butter.
Once I was completely stuffed, I set my golden spoon down upon the wooden board with a loud clatter and picked up my pewter goblet, chugging the cold liquid within.
It was pure, boiled water mixed with a splash of tart lemon juice.
It was entirely thanks to my relentless, vocal insistence over the past five years that the entire royal household had begun boiling their drinking water.
My desire to not die a pathetic, agonizing death by shitting my internal organs out from dysentery was exceptionally strong.
Now that I thought about it, the sheer number of times I spent worrying about dying from bloody flux or diarrhea was absurd.
Hopefully, the cosmic gods of this universe were not listening to my internal rants and plotting to make my fears a reality.
Visenya waited patiently until I finished my drink, setting her own silver goblet down on the oak table.
Her symmetrical, striking face was as calm and unreadable as a marble statue, her purple eyes tracking my every movement.
“You must have noticed that your father was absent from the Great Hall last night,” Visenya spoke softly, her tone carrying a quiet, dangerous weight.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and nodded.
“I noticed.
I assumed he was busy managing the construction of the curtain walls or meeting with the stonemasons.” I had arrived back from Dragonstone yesterday afternoon and had not seen Aegon anywhere in the castle yards.
That was hardly an unusual occurrence for me, given that my father rarely sought out my company anyway, so I had simply assumed he was buried in royal paperwork or overseeing the city guard.
Clearly, that was not the case, and even Aenys had mentioned that he had went out.
Leaning back against the tall, carved wood of her chair, my mother folded her arms across her chest, “He has left me to take care of the affairs of the realm again.” She let out an annoyed sigh, “But that is not what I wanted to inform you, Maegor.” Taking a sip of water from a goblet, Visenya continued, her purple eyes boring into mine, “Various heirs of the realms will be coming here for their fostering, around your age.” After that, she did not say anything more, instead choosing to stare at me simply.
I gave her a slow nod at the implications.
What was the line again?
Let the game of thrones begin?
Once again, Visenya pulled back slightly and removed the sheathed sword from around her waist, laying it flat against the wooden table, “For now, train with Ser Humfrey, and make friends.
But one day, when you’re worthy, this will be yours.” She drew the sword out slightly, letting me catch a glimpse of the beautiful blade within in all its magnificent glory of perfect ripples and smokey metal.
“One day, Dark Sister will be yours.” …