Chapter 3: Prologue 3

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: SEE END FOR SPOILER

Something to note before reading this chapter:

Luke is an unreliable narrator. This is established on purpose. Luke's opinions and beliefs are not automatically correct. This will become more apparent as I introduce other characters as POVs.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Another day, another book. It had been that way for near a fortnight. I was allowed outside only half the time, the other half seeing me trapped within that wretched tent, reading away the small hours. Jaenara Belaerys's text was currently open across my lap, eyes flicking across the page engrossed, the words soaking themselves into my memory like a towel in water. As I reached the end of one section, I groaned as I closed the book and returned it to the trunk.

Most of the books in that trunk I'd finished within one or two days— practice with long books had definitely paid off; however, one I had read the most was the volume on Valyrian History. It covered the early period of Families, of which I knew a few: House Volantaeris, House Belaerys, and my own House Targaryen. It turned out that the phrase 'families' was a misnomer. Even 'dynasty' was inaccurate. I desperately hoped there were more books on the Forty Families, I sought to learn as much as I could. Dragonstone might have some . . . it was an oddly beautiful hybrid of Rome, Egypt, and other fantastical elements no other culture seemed to possess.

On my fifteenth day being confined to the tent, I began to plan an escape with what little opportunity I had. My first idea had been to slip under the fabric walls of the camp, but they proved far too heavy to lift and thick to pass under quickly. The Royces certainly didn't skimp their dense materials when it came to crafting their defenses. Trying to convince the guards wouldn't go anywhere, assuredly, these men were paid richly by Yorbert to ensure my shelter in place. Although . . . perhaps a bribe to the servants might open pathways for me. I had yet to arrive at a concrete solution.

In the end, it came down to days of observing how the operation of the guardsmen, how rotations worked, the windows and gaps established by their work. I made each notation painfully accurate, and I spent two weeks being as thorough as possible; the second day of the Council's proper deliberations had become the one I'd chosen.

The day prior, I'd come across an interesting piece of information: in this world, Princess Viserra hadn't broken her neck falling from a horse. In fact, she was the current Lady of White Harbor, a fate far different than I'd known. Her family had dropped their claims and supported Laenor Velaryon. According to Yorbert, they'd gotten a tremendous loan in exchange for that support. Open bribery to choose the next King of Westeros . . . well, it's not like Yorbert hadn't planned the same thing for me.

I still didn't know what the fallout of Daemon's rage had been. Another question to ask later. On that day, I slipped between three of the tents when the guard on duty had passed out drunk - a routine I had noticed was his habit - and fifteen minutes before the next one had been due to arrive, I'd gone. It was fairly simple to vanish with a bag when prying eyes were locked shut, hands locked around a cup of ale, all of them none the wiser.

I knew I'd be left in a bad way once I was found, but the short taste of freedom made my heart soar. The markets held profound numbers within the crowd, and through them I could hide myself relatively well, though I was mostly surrounded by baubles now, none possessing a true interest to me. Even still, I mostly snuck around behind the stalls when the opportunity provided, concealing myself as best I could with a makeshift disguise.

Regaining my focus, I strode through the markets, taking care to avoid drawing any attention to myself till I reached the open field I'd often played in with Rhae. I smiled as I thought of the bribes I paid the servants on this day, knowing I was doomed, at least physically, and either way, I would most certainly be fine. Robar wouldn't burn the books, and that much was a gift in itself.

The sun was just past it's zenith when I heard familiar footsteps rushing toward me, and it was then that I was practically assaulted by a familiar child, a girl my own age who'd swarmed over me with her arms wrapping tightly around my back, and her silver-golden curls shining in the light as Rhae collided with me. I laughed happily, caught by surprise, and embraced her in turn.

"Lucerys! You got out!" she said, her voice bright and chirpy. I nodded and sat up, still holding her tight. She pulled back and smiled, eyes practically glittering as she sat in front of me. Behind her, Ser Harrold stood his watch, protecting the Princess his primary goal. The next few minutes were fraught with emotions and stories and it was quite the different rendezvous from what I'd expected.

"Ser Harrold," I called, Rhae's head whipping 'round to the Kingsguard knight. The man looked at me curiously, and I spoke, "as you live in the Red Keep . . . I would ask that you tell me some tales of my father, so long as I can hear them, of course."

Harrold bellowed heartily at that, and walked three paces closer.

"Prince Daemon is . . ." he began, attempting to find the words, "he's angry. He always has been. He tried to stab Princess Rhaenys with a fork when he was three, after she took Princess Alyssa's Dragon, Meleys."

He winced and took a breath, "he hates those who wrong him. He truly, truly does. And yet, beneath that . . . there is a caring side under all that anger. Though, it takes a certain skill to bring it out," and he sighed, "but alas, I do not."

"He's turned that anger into fighting prowess," Ser Harrold said, and he raised his eyebrows briefly in thought, "he was knighted by His Grace for such skill, around five-and-ten if I recall correctly. He was given Dark Sister as a token of his mastery, a growing warrior and a strong, proud son of the House. He's vicious in melee and a wrathful jouster. Prince Baelon always said his sons were two halves of a whole: Prince Viserys to charm allies, Prince Daemon to slaughter enemy throats."

I put my hands together and looked down.

"I wish I could have met grandfather," I said, "he sounds like a good man."

The Kingsguard nodded at me, as did Rhae.

"Aye . . . he was good, kind, just, and strong. His Grace put a lot of hopes upon our Spring Prince," he said, with some amount of admiration in his voice, "to lose him like that . . . His Grace is troubled that he may not have enough time to teach his heir to be a proper King before he passes."

I understood and nodded. Whenever a Targaryen King managed to properly train an heir as Hand of the King, to properly prepare them, they died tragically in short order before their sire, leaving the throne to one unprepared to rule. Princes Baelon and Baelor had both met that end.

On the other hand, Baelor's death, while a tragedy, still left Maekar in charge, and Maekar was a good King, if nothing else. Baelon's death left a vacuum that Jaehaerys had been too indecisive to fill, so the Lords of Westeros fell to the view that they should choose the King, as opposed to the King himself.

And Ser Harrold spoke again of my heritage, his voice now twinged by sorrow, "when your grandparents died . . . those were the only times I'd ever seen Prince Daemon cry. He takes such great care in hiding himself away so usually that not even those close to him can see what he feels, but . . . I suppose at that point, even he couldn't keep that face made of stone," he said, sighing deeply, "if we could convince His Grace, I believe you'd do him well. Caring for his lost child might cool his dragon's blood."

At that, I felt a genuine smile cross my face.

"Aye," I said, "if you could . . . I'd like that." We stood shortly after, as I slipped off my bag and gave it to Rhae, and she passed it to Ser Harrold.

"Take care of my books," I said, and I bowed to her.

She frowned, "you have to leave? Why can't you come with us?"

Sadly, I shook my head, "Uncle Viserys would just send me right back to the Royces. If I can, I'll see you. I'll write whenever I can, and that, to you, I do solemnly swear."

Rhae took my hands in her own and held me tight, looking into my eyes nodding, and then let them go. With a disheartened sigh, I started off back towards the tents, now with nothing on me but the shirt on my back and the cloth I'd used to cover my face. I wondered to myself if they even noticed I'd gone. Would they even realize it when I came back? I found it unlikely they'd care beyond the threat of violence, no real emotion was there to be had beside anger.

Robar found me first, not far from the tent. I'd gotten so close - so god damn close - only for that infernal meathead to catch me at the last moment. I thought he'd strike my face again when his eyes fell on me, but he simply grabbed me by the wrist and marched me back to the pavilion, tossing me inside. I stumbled to the ground, roughened up. Pushing myself back to my feet, I felt a gigantic weight power through my back and send me sprawling again, Robar's boot having felt like a cinder block in motion.

Pain shot up and down my body as his hand rose and fell, hours passing by. Tears flowed from my cheeks to the ground, my sobs ignored, my pleas for him to stop unheeded, my wishes and desires left forgotten in a sea of suffering. Through foggy vision I kept one eye glanced at the tent flap, praying that Rhae would bring someone, anyone, to come find me, but that help never came. Robar screamed things at me, horrid things, unthinkable and at times unintelligible, his wrath unending and without mercy.

That night, sleep did not come easy. Not another night was peaceful the rest of the Council's adjourning, as every time I dared to come upon Robar, or even if it was nothing at all, he struck me. I grew desperate, turning to empty faith, praying and screaming for the gods to have mercy on me. I knew that the Seven had the least magic about them, but I would take anything now.

And again, no help came. The pain persisted, day after day.

The final day of the Great Council, Yorbert returned and gave me the results: Viserys was the new Prince of Dragonstone. Of course, my face was burning not two minutes later when I raised the fact of my father's heir presumptive stature just after Viserys. I stayed quiet till we left, every bump of the wheelhouse delivering the gift of pain to my sore body, an agent focus that kept me painfully aware and brutally invested. Then, we reached Saltpans.

Yorbert stayed the path and caught up with us the next day, having stayed longer for his representation of House Arryn. From Saltpans, we sailed back to Gulltown, and then once more returned to Runestone.

Upon our return home, mother had been the first to greet me. She knew immediately something had gone wrong. I flinched as soon as her arms touched me. I said it was nothing and though skeptical she seemed to understand I was not in a mood to speak of it. The first order of business following greetings was a swift bath to wash the dirt of the road from my skin. It was when the servants finished getting me out of those clothes that mother saw the extent of the bruises across me and she sank into tears. Robar had taken care to avoid my face after the first few days and that hid the beatings' true nature from her first glance.

She ordered the servants to be gentle with me and stormed out of the room. I was scrubbed down softly and placed into clean clothing and I relaxed, feeling far greater comfort now than what I'd been forced to make due with before. Salves were rubbed into my abrasions and what cuts I had were bandaged. The pain had lessened, thankfully.

I was returned to my room, where I climbed onto my bed and sat quietly, chin resting on my knees. Nothing had changed at the Great Counsel as a result of my being there— Viserys was still elected the Prince of Dragonstone, and he would become King. I knew I'd had little chance of changing that, of course, but still.

If luck held out, Lady Aemma could bear an heir for Viserys, lending some stability, but . . . I knew that was unlikely. The poor girl had given birth for the first far too young, the only thing those successive miscarriages had done was weaken her further, deprive her of spirit, and waste away her strength. It was murky water when deciding if Daemon or Rhaenyra were the respective heir. The poor thing was lucky not to suffer the same fate as my grandmother already, dying at 14 with her second daughter cut from her flesh as her life faded away.

But in that darkness, I thought of one light. Rhae. My heart warmed just thinking of her. The fun we'd had in the markets and fields surrounding Harrenhal . . . was the most I'd had in memory. I hoped she was taking care of those books I'd given her, perhaps she'd even enjoyed a few. We didn't have all that much time, after all. If Aemma still perished, Viserys would be likely to marry Alicent Hightower as I'd known he would, and the stage would again be set for the Dance of the Dragons.

My existence itself was an adverse element in the world, a pin drop in a dead-stilled lake. That alone would affect the events that would come to be and I couldn't simply hide in Essos and wait for it all to pass me by. I had been born into the wrong position for that. No matter my wishes, I'd be dragged into this mess of successional conflict kicking and screaming much the way a coward was dragged to war. I was the only Targaryen of the current male line. Another thought occurred to me; could I stop Daemon's ambitions? Was I collateral or a blockade? I honestly couldn't answer that myself. It was something unknowable in a situation that I couldn't yet affect.

At the very least, I could make things in Westeros better in some way. My new memories hadn't been around for very long, I could still remember a great many things of the life I'd lived before, the things I had been taught in school, the various tomes of non-fiction to which I'd applied myself. And as I tried to recount the many words upon words of philosophy I'd learned, Rhea returned to my room, rushing toward me. I hadn't expected her yet, and she hugged me gently, my body flinching reflexively as she'd grown near. She was careful, thankfully, and took care to avoid my bruises, my own arms rising to wrap themselves around her. I heard her, quietly but still present, after only a few moments sobbing into my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Luke," she whispered, her hands softly rubbing my back in small circles. I wasn't sure whether it was her words or the comforting embrace itself, but my resolve broke to pieces. I sobbed loudly, as loud as I could, and Rhea gently pulled me closer into her arms. It felt like hours before the mourning in my tears ceased, and then the tears themselves subsided, Rhea wiping them away lovingly. She kissed my forehead, cuddling me in her embrace for a long while, carrying away my infant sorrow.

"I'll make it right," she said quietly, "I'll make it right."

And she stood from me as she laid me to sleep, walking towards the doors. She paused in her steps, looking back at me, as if waiting for my drowsy eyes to tell her not to go. I let her leave. I sat quietly on the bed, staring at the ground, falling in and out of sleep till I finally hopped off. I left my room. Wandering quietly, I arrived in Runestone's godswood. The stone paths kept clear of the roots, though the trees themselves grew without care of the road. I then came before the contemplative face of the heart tree.

This is stupid, I thought. The Old Gods are no more real than the other deities of this world. It wasn't rational, but I couldn't care less. I had to try something. Some form of magic came from the weirwoods, that much I remembered. I wasn't quite sure of the details, as I'd never finished that book. I stared into the blood red eyes of the tree and knelt before it, almost hypnotized. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, clasping my hands together and speaking.

"I've never really visited a godswood before," I said, "I attended the Sept with my family, and yet they won't answer . . . Every time my uncle hit me, I prayed for them, begged them to help me, but nothing's happened. He's still here, and still, he hurts me. So . . . I'm not sure what you can do, if anything, but please . . . please help me. There's no one else I can turn to."

I drew back a hurt breath, ". . . please."

And I remained still on my knees, hoping for something, anything, a kind of acknowledgement, or a sound even. I opened my eyes past the tears that streamed from them. The eyes of weirwood peered back at me, and I felt something, some pull in the back of my head, though it vanished mere moments later.

Dejected, I returned to the castle, my supplications having no effect. Rhea – no, not Rhea . . . Mother – held my hand as we walked into the main hall, sitting silently for dinner. She never let me move an arm's length apart from her side, and Robar was seated forcibly at the opposite end of the table, as far from his grasp as possible. The day wound down; however, Yorbert stood up from the head of the table.

"My son has done very well representing House Royce at the Great Council!" he announced excitedly, gesturing to Robar, "therefore, as a reward, he will accompany me back to the Eyrie when I depart on the morrow. My granddaughter Rhea shall hold court here in my absence."

My heart skipped a beat, pounding my chest. I looked around, waiting for the punchline. None came. People congratulated Robar for his accomplishment and his presence. Getting the chance to visit Eyrie was no small feat. I could barely focus on my food for the rest of the meal, and as the meal dragged on, I desired to visit the godswood yet again. When it finally had ended, I slipped off from the others and found my way back. This time, I didn't look away. I smiled directly into its eyes and I said two words.

"Thank you."

I stood and fled to my room. Feeling that same tug in the back of my mind again. It was a peculiar sensation, but I knew that the gods had smiled on me, and that they'd found a reason to support me. When I had returned to my room, mother was there waiting for me. She hugged me as I came to her and kissed my brow once more, but I paid no attention to what she said, I was simply too happy to think straight.

"Mother," I said, smiling at her, "at the council, I met cousin Rhae, might I send letters?"

She raised an eyebrow at me, and I swiftly clarified, "uh-um, d-Princess Rhaenyra."

After a moment, she laughed, believing it merely a slip of the tongue, or a childish impropriety. Only this and nothing more, and though it was not an overtly joyful, she clearly respected my indulgences.

Hugging me close, she whispered, "of course."

And then sleep fell on me as she departed and I thought of the real gods, their kindness and aid. I knew someone would listen to me. The next afternoon, after I'd woken and spent the day composing my thoughts, Mother brought my first letter to the Maester just as soon as the terrible two were off up the road with their entourage.

Soon after, I began asking for paper from the Maester, as much as he could give me. I used enough of it for random drawings that Mother's suspicions weren't raised, but in secret, I began writing everything I could remember from the life I had lived previously, all technology, all policies, and other things I could think of. I knew I couldn't create anything complex, but I knew the basics of some things. Much of it, admittedly, came from just one book I remembered reading right before I woke in this land.

Much of what I wrote early on was about what little modern medicine I was familiar with, or at least, what I remembered being familiar with. The one that took up the most space: Iodine. I knew the history of it fairly well, and it was a fantastic antiseptic. It certainly wasn't the best one I could think of, but getting Eucalyptus Oil would be rather hard in this world. I knew what the rough equivalent of Africa was like, I could only imagine the Australia parallel.

I knew the basics of Penicillin, as well as Ether, but nothing concrete . . . and that thought immediately had me writing on concrete and cements, a train of thought ever so grateful, and that continued to the mode of kilns, like a train's furnace, and other hot things . . . and then I became hungry for pizza. Damn this primitive reality and it's lack of pizza! And then thinking on food got me started on crop rotation, which then precipitated recipes of foods I could remember, and then came whatever I remembered about preservation, which begat what spices I wanted to find, and this begat an expansion of food markets, which begat trade and . . . this was a lot of begetting. I was gonna need more paper.

It was soon after I began writing that I noticed it wasn't easy to write, at least not the same way it was back home. I first chalked this dilemma up to my body not being as used to writing as the old one was, but even as I wrote more and more, my hand still shook and it grew increasingly difficult to write. It was only after starting on the kiln that I came to a harsh realization.

I was left-handed.

After about half an hour of panicking, I returned to writing words, this time changing to my left. I turned the paper so as to avoid the smudging the ink with my arm. Preservation was tantamount, especially at this stage. It felt just like it had before, the ease and comfort that I had found in my previous existence. Thinking of writing as a form itself drew my mind to different methods of printing. I knew the basics of the printing press, though nothing exceptionally extreme. I was quite familiar with woodblock printing, which could certainly be done for smaller projects, such as single-page repetition, and it wasn't exactly unfeasible with the tools at hand in the world abroad. The movable type would have to wait till someone could take the ramblings I'd written on the subject and turn it into something that actually functioned properly.

Functioned . . . no. I would not touch arithmetic. No one could make me . . . although . . . I had no choice and grumbled to myself as I started with basic classical physics and algebra. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember much of anything from Calculus, and the only advanced formulae I could recount were Kepler's Laws Of Planetary Motion. Then, it dawned on me the measuring of things and every metric known to . . . not these men, but close enough. I tried as hard as I could to scrape at fading knowledge and to my surprise, I did manage to remember some things I thought I hadn't, and alongside the intuitive things came more than what I expected, even if it was boring. I really hoped that there'd be at least one or two Maester's in existence that could enlighten me on advanced maths, as I wasn't exactly the desired specimen to be chosen to reinvent trigonometry.

In between my sessions of isolated memory notation, I would play dumb and ramble childishly to my mother, who'd write my letters and send them to King's Landing, and then she'd read the equally childish replies I would receive; never did I tire of them, with Rhae telling of people in the court, the arrival of Ser Otto Hightower and his daughter Alicent.

Each day, I'd go to the godswood twice, often timed after breakfast and dinner's regular intervals. I would talk to the weirwood tree, and I would always feel the tug on my mind. It made me happier— for once, something was listening to me. Genuinely, something was listening, and I felt guided by another force that kept me from flailing in the darkness.

Eventually, Mother found out. She confronted me in front of the godswood, though to my surprise, she said nothing negative. Merely, she asked me not to do it so openly, and she stated her desire of me attending the Sept with her. The next day, my Septa was dismissed, and within the week, Mother had summoned two Green Clerics to teach me in additional lessons. I had to admit that, although it killed more time during the day, it was something new, it was someone to teach me the ancient stories.

Each day, I learned a new story from the priest – Father Jon, he called himself – as he taught me the legends of the various 'Gods of the Forest'. His partner, Sister Beth, taught the Old Tongue, both speech and text. The Old Gods felt to me as druidic in nature, the priestly hierarchy furthering the notion. The more they spoke of the olden ones, the more it brought to mind Shintoism, the incarnation that existed before the Meiji Restoration.

In fact, when it came time to learn the closest word to 'god' in the Old Tongue, rhanok, it was clear to be a far more complex term than the simplistic indications of 'god' or 'spirit,' it strengthened those thoughts even further. The numerous beings of the Forest were not nameless entities, in fact, many did have names, but they were exorbitantly long and hard to memorize. The Rhanok of House Royce's weirwood was "He Who Shapes Copper and Tin, He Who Sings to Rock and Slays Ice, He Who Thinks Before He Acts, He Who Sees Stars, He Who Pushes The Waves Away."

And that was a rather short name altogether, at least by Rhanok standards. I suddenly understood why most said they were nameless, trying to teach these names to anyone would be nigh impossible. All of the lessons progressed well, however. I couldn't read the Old Tongue very well, but I had a rough idea of the meanings, and the runes became less and less indecipherable. I couldn't be sure of my exactness, but at least now it wasn't a complete mystery.

Before I knew it, my fifth name day came and went, and the year became 102 AC. Yet life continued, writing away into the pages of a growing book, and learning more and more of the Old Tongue, and I even began lessons in swordplay.

One day, however, things changed. Robar, in his putrid anti-glory, returned to us with a retinue, and with him followed news— a summons to the Gates of the Moon. I learned that night, through one of the servants, that Yorbert had found a suitably unaware Septon to marry Robar to Lady Jeyne Arryn. My stomach sank at the news. Lady Jeyne . . . was only two years older than I. An injustice was not even a good enough word to describe the level of twisted immorality this reached. From what Rhae had said in her letters, he'd already tried once before and been ordered to cease by both King Jaehaerys, Lady Aemma, and the High Septon himself.

I couldn't quite accept that there wasn't anything I could do. Robar would hurt me if I tried, perhaps break something this time, if I alerted Aemma or the High Septon. I couldn't let it happen, I just couldn't. I would not. I put a plan together, one shaky but clever, and as the party left for the Gates of the Moon, I told Sister Beth everything I'd heard.

As we passed near Grey Glen, Sister Beth and Father Jon broke off from the group at large, heading toward the Redfort as the rest of continued on. I prayed silently that word would reach everyone in time, but I hadn't figured a way of confirming anyone heard me. My attempts to at small talk earned a stinging eye of contempt from Robar. Nothing ever annoyed him as much as I did. He must have cared much at all, as he never even inquired about the sudden disappearance of the two.

About a week later, we reached the Giant's Lance, and I gaped at the sight atop the mighty mountain: seven towers of marble all laid out circular upon the rock face of the largest natural formation in the lands, and many more of comparable size surrounding it. Only a narrow and winding road led up to the castle itself. It screamed superiority over the humble ants that roamed and farmed the muddy lands below it, which I could only assume to be its intended purpose.

The party all gathered into the castle, to be cleaned and rested. I knew not when the wedding would occur, but I knew it couldn't happen. If Lord Redfort did not arrive in time . . . no, no he must. It would be at least a few days till the preparations were finished, and Lord Redfort had to arrive by then, and I just couldn't think of what would happen if he did not.

Two days went by, agonizing, and no word came. Late on the second day, a large dinner was held, with the Gates' Keeper Ser Arnold Arryn presiding. During the feast, Lady Jeyne arrived at the hall, Yorbert in close company and the personal guard escorting both, though her face only bore resignation.

The next morning, preparations for the wedding began. I kept looking out the window of my room, but there wasn't a single sign of any banner nor flag over the horizon. I knew Lord Redfort wouldn't be that long, he had to arrive soon . . . I knew he would, he must. I had to buy time, somehow.

I spent much of the morning planning, even as servants arrived to strip and bathe me, and place me into fine clothes, brightly showing House Royce's colors. All of us slowly filed into the Sept, as I silently prayed that my plan would work. It wouldn't buy much time, but it might cause chaos . . . chaos was the main concept. I needed to be as hostile and loud as possible. Failure was no option, it wasn't even a dim possibility I could accept. If all else proved fruitless, a postponement was a second best result, anything that could delay what I truly did not want to be . . . the inevitable.

I was made to sit at the front. I glanced at the altar, where a nervous Septon stood, face flushed with . . . something. Drink, perhaps? Yes, maybe that was the ingredient needed to commit as horrid an act as marrying a child to a brute like Robar. Whatever it was, it was certainly a nice fine layer of feces to this already disgusting series of events. The man himself stood there, the smug Royce dressed in his own fineries, with the wedding cloak of House Royce 'round his shoulders.

At some commotion, I turned around. Lady Jeyne, dressed in a white dress of beautiful make and a bright blue maiden's cloak draped over her, was escorted into the room by Yorbert himself, tears streaming down her face. She looked rapidly across the great hall as she neared, searching for any reprieve or fantastical rescue of an eleventh hour's contrivance. I knew that look well. Desperation.

I gulped audibly, as Jeyne sniffled all the way up the aisle. Once she was upon the altar, singing began, mismatched to her emotion and directed by the Septon, who called upon the Seven to bless the marriage before it could occur. Again he called and the wish of fertility and long-lasting vigor between the couple in matrimony was granted. I made one last prayer to the god of the Andals and my own. Soon, it came time for the exchange of cloaks. That was the moment to strike. I rushed to the aisle right then and there, and I ensured maximum carnage as I went.

In an instant, all the eyes in the chamber came to me, including the glare of the old man. If looks could kill . . . I didn't dawdle, there wasn't any time. I took a deep, quick breath and began to shout.

"You can't make Lady Jeyne marry! King Jaehaerys and the High Septon said that she must not be wed!" I bellowed, "you all betray His Grace! You all would watch her marry against the King's decree!"

Yorbert began a deathly stride, eyes roaring hatred. I backed away fear tugging the back of my mind, but it did not overcome me, and I puffed myself forward.

"I won't let you marry her to Robar! Never!" and at that, he walked ever-faster, and with his bare fist, he came crashing down upon me.

In an instant, pain exploded across my face as my ears began to ring. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I shook my head and heard silence become tumult, voices screaming out, though it all felt muted by the pain in my face and tears streamed down my face. Pain suddenly shot through my body, first my back, and then my stomach. I saw stars and felt motion. I was hauled up by my clothes, suspended in air, and I screamed and sobbed as loud as I could, begging for it to stop, but my words went unnoticed.

My back smashed stone, vibration strung through me, and all went dark.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: VIOLENCE AGAINST CHILDREN

The unreliable narrator portion refers explicitly to Luke's belief in the Old Gods, just so you are aware. Luke, the character, believes they are real and powerful. That doesn't automatically mean that they are, but it also doesn't mean he's 100% wrong. Use your own judgement on that one, readers.

Leave any praise or criticism in the comments.

Also, this is my last pre-written chapter, so you are all subjected to my whims now, mwahahahaha.