Year 102 A.C.
POV: Denovan
As soon as Melika left the room, I let myself fall back against the backrest of the chair and began to think.
The being that spoke to her in her dreams... could only be R.O.B. By the arrogant attitude, by the divine and unreachable appearance she described, by everything else... it had to be him. Now, the question hammering in my mind was: why is he doing this? Shouldn't he just continue with his job of granting wishes based on karma and watching things unfold from afar, like a spectator? Can he influence the world to this extent? Give powers, grant magical knowledge in dreams, and leave? Were the ancient sages and heroes of this and my old world also people he decided to talk to and give power to just out of boredom?
"Sigh..."
"Whatever the answer is, I won't be able to do anything about it. Why worry?" I muttered to the empty room, getting up and leaving.
I went toward Sigrid and my men, who were talking loudly on the other side of the tent. Sig was sitting on the fur-lined floor, petting Scarlet's pups, which were being nursed. The direwolf seemed to have developed a surprisingly good relationship with my sister.
The level of intelligence of that direwolf was quite strange, and how she seemed to be so calm in our presence, almost as if she understood our dynamic. Well... it's good news, so I will ignore the bizarreness of it for now.
When I approached, Korr's voice sounded first. I imagined Sig would be the first to rapid-fire questions, not the archer who used to be so shy.
"How did it go, boss?"
"Well... she seems to be trustworthy. And, more importantly, she seems to have real magical knowledge..."
"Boss, boss, the most important thing..." Thormund's voice sounded heavy with mischief. "Did you put a baby in her?"
Laughter erupted through the tent.
I looked at them, shaking my head. After all the mystical revelations, is this what they care about?
"Don't be shy, boss. You took quite a while in there..." insisted one of the warriors.
"Hey, hey, stop talking nonsense! Denovan didn't do that... did he?" Sigrid asked, narrowing her eyes in my direction.
"Even you, Sig? No, not yet," I said, letting out a playful sigh.
Sigrid raised an eyebrow. "Yet?"
"Forget about that. Let's eat. In two hours, we will start building the forge for them. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can rest."
"No need to be so strict, boss..." grumbled Thormund, already getting up to grab the dried meat we had left prepared.
A few days passed. We set up the forge in a few hours and, the next day, I started teaching them how to use the contained heat. We made stone molds and melted the bronze they had stored. It was enough to forge four short swords and two spearheads of excellent quality. The mood between the Marcas and us improved drastically; the terrible first impression was left behind and we started to get along.
I had told Melika we would leave in five days, but on the third day, after the meal, there was nothing left to be done at the forge. So, we started gathering our supplies to leave earlier.
This time, we took only two warriors from the Marcas with us, besides Melika. She insisted on coming, and I didn't stop her; in fact, it was exactly what I wanted. I needed her to teach me about her blood runes.
Thus, in the early afternoon, we left. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and, in the blink of an eye, a year passed.
Year 103 A.C.
POV: Denovan
In this year of continuous travel, few grandiose things happened in the North. We passed through several clans; some submitted quickly, as they had unstable or weak leaders, while others needed a... more painful incentive from the edge of my axe.
But, in the end, we did a good job. Our influence grew like a silent avalanche.
The most important thing of all this year was what Melika taught me. The knowledge of the runes. They were diverse, but limited to providing physical and mental support. There was nothing flashy like shooting fireballs or freezing rivers. Even so, this did not abandon my hopes of, one day, managing to decipher or create a rune that conjured something of that sort.
Melika inscribed three runes in ancient language on my body using a bone needle. We used the blood of my beasts for the ink; according to her, creatures with a strong magical bond possessed blood that was more powerful as a catalyst. She even used a few drops of my own blood in the mixture.
The first rune increased my focus. It was excellent; it helped clear my mind during chaotic combat and accelerated my capacity to study and memorize new magical symbols.
The second was a rune that Melika herself didn't fully understand. According to her visions, it was a rune designed specifically for wargs, to help them skin-change. At first, I was a bit skeptical. But, as soon as the blood ink dried on my skin, the change was brutal. When I tried to switch bodies with Horus, the transfer was almost instantaneous. I didn't have to close my eyes, concentrate, or feel my consciousness slowly sliding into the bird. Before it was fast; now, it depended only on a peripheral thought. Even when I switched bodies with Huginn, who was thousands of kilometers away, in the far South, the connection was an immediate snap in my mind.
The third rune... well, it wasn't Melika who inscribed this one. I did it myself.
After months of training and understanding the logic behind blood magic, I decided to try creating one from scratch. I thought of the Ouroboros symbol from my past life, the serpent eating its own tail. The concept of infinite evolution, of the cycle of continuous improvement, or something close to that. I tattooed the symbol on my shoulder and poured all my will into it, just as Melika had instructed me.
At first, I thought it had gone wrong. I didn't feel any immediate effect. I thought I had marked my skin with a useless drawing. But, as the months passed, my heightened senses began to notice small differences.
But not in me. I couldn't notice anything different in my own body, but the effects exploded in Fenrir and, especially, in Huginn. As much as the rune was carved into my skin, the magic seemed to seep through my threads of spiritual bond, directly affecting my companions.
Fenrir was already an immense young direwolf. He was the largest of all his siblings, surpassing his mother and even the sabre-tooths Orion and Kali in height and mass. Being young, he still had the personality of a playful and extremely clumsy pup. But, days after the creation of the rune, his stumbling vanished. His motor coordination became lethal and precise overnight.
But the greatest proof of the Ouroboros' power was Huginn.
The raven had already arrived in King's Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms. I kept him hidden, flying through the skies of the city, waiting for the right moment for our move. During this time, I used his eyes to observe the Red Keep. I even managed to follow a spoiled young princess on her first dragon flight. Just as in the original story I knew, Rhaenyra became the youngest dragonrider in Westeros mounted on Syrax.
The problem was that, during these long espionage flights, Huginn's wings would get exhausted. Besides the muscle pain, the muggy heat of the South, and the infernal heat that emanated from the Dragonpit, was almost unbearable for a raven accustomed to the extreme cold of the Wall. That was the crucial factor. Two days after I inscribed the rune on my shoulder, Huginn stopped feeling tired. The suffocating heat of King's Landing no longer bothered him. He was completely comfortable, evolving to adapt to the environment in record time.
The Ouroboros rune was working perfectly. Knowing how powerful this adaptive characteristic was, I decided to carve it into the bodies of my most loyal companions. Sigrid, Thormund, Korr, and Melika. They all received the mark of the Ouroboros.
Among our men, it became known as "The Mark of the Beast". The rune made them feel less cold, withstand hunger for longer and, gradually, granted them a subtle but constant increase in strength and endurance. Everyone noticed the improvements. Some even started to push themselves harder to receive the rune.
In the last five days, we used a different tactic, the same one we had been using for a while. We passed through two medium-sized clans and, instead of demanding half a dozen warriors, I recruited only one man from each clan. It no longer made sense to drag armies through the ice; that would demand resources I didn't want to waste just yet. With the "Mark of the Beast", my original followers were becoming the elite of the elite. A respectable vanguard. Things were going perfectly.
And then, the moment I had been waiting for finally arrived in the South.
We were sheltered in our five-tent camp. I was in the main one, accompanied only by Sigrid and Melika, when I received a sharp mental pulse from Huginn. Then I blinked.
POV: Viserys Targaryen
The air in King's Landing this day smelled of ash, smoke, and incense.
My grandfather, the greatest king Westeros had ever seen, Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator, was dead. The funeral pyre had consumed his bones, sending his soul to the gods of Old Valyria, but the intolerable weight of his legacy continued to crush my shoulders.
I was alone on one of the broad balconies of the Red Keep. My grandfather's crown still felt strange, heavy, and cold upon my head. The newly formed small council had finished its first meeting, and the flattering voices of the lords still echoed in my mind. Everyone wanted a piece of the new king. Everyone demanded certainties for the future.
I rested my hands on the stone parapet, my eyes wandering through the streets of the capital until they lost themselves in the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. I thought of Aemma, my beloved wife, and the pain she carries for being unable to give me the male heir the realm so desperately demands. I thought of my sweet Rhaenyra, who already flies through the skies mounted on her honey-colored dragon, Syrax.
But, above all, my mind was pulled to my dreams. The dragon dreams. I dream frequently of the Prince That Was Promised. I dream of the fire and blood that will come from my lineage, born from the womb of my dear Aemma, to save the world from darkness. An almost cruel burden for a king who only desires peace and his family's smile.
My melancholic thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of heavy wings beating against the wind.
A raven landed on the stone parapet, less than a meter from my hand.
I blinked, confused. It was no ordinary raven, much less one of the well-cared-for ravens of the Citadel. It was black. But "black" seemed a weak word to describe the plumage of that bird. The feathers seemed to absorb the sunlight, gleaming with a metallic and somber tone. It was, by far, the largest raven I had ever seen in my entire life.
But what truly unsettled me were the animal's eyes.
They were not black or brown. They were golden. A vivid and intelligent gold, shining like molten gold under the afternoon sun. The bird did not croak, nor did it pull back. It looked directly into my eyes and tilted its head with a posture that sinisterly resembled a human bow.
I felt an icy shiver run up my spine, a chill that definitely did not belong to the mild climate of the South. I opened my mouth to shout for the Kingsguard posted beyond the doors, but before I could utter any sound, the impossible happened.
The raven opened its dark, curved beak, and from its throat came a perfectly articulated voice, deep and terribly human:
"Congratulations on becoming king... Viserys."
I took such a violent fright that I stumbled backward. My hand flew instinctively to the dragonbone dagger at my waist. I drew the blade, adopting a trembling defensive stance, and pointed the weapon at the bird.
"Do not call the white cloaks, Viserys," the voice sounded again, calm and relentless. "If I wanted your blood, you would already be dead."
I was panting, still ready to call for Ser Ryam, but I hesitated. I knew this was foolish — talking to a bird — but my fascination and morbid curiosity for old magic kept me silent. I kept the dagger raised, my eyes wide, and asked:
"What are you? A demon?"
"To my enemies, perhaps I am. But to the current you, I am just a man, Viserys. Someone who masters the magic you are so curious about. Have you ever heard of a warg?"
A flash of astonishment and curiosity passed through my eyes. Magic of the First Men? Skinchangers? I opened my mouth to formulate a question, but the raven cut me off ruthlessly.
"But that is not important, Your Grace... What is important is that you become aware of a few things. I want to give you three pieces of advice."
"Advice?" I repeated, still with my guard up, not understanding.
The deep voice grew angry.
"Yes, because you are a fool, an idiot, a..." the voice grew cold, impossible to recognize from the previous one.
"...Viserys. Do you think dreams are literal? Not everything you dream is going to happen... prophetic dreams are just that, they don't show the absolute path, they are just that, prophecies can change, Viserys... one action, the very knowledge of such prophecy can change everything, so do not be blind, and let me teach you something about your mother tongue: the word for 'Prince' has no gender in High Valyrian. It is a neutral word. The Prince That Was Promised could very well be a Princess. But your ignorance will cost very dearly... If you continue with this blind obsession, you will butcher the woman you love on a birthing bed for an heir who won't live a single day."
"By your order, your wife is going to die screaming in pain, begging you to stop, but you will do nothing but hold her hand and apologize like the weak man you are... a man who chose an unborn son over the wife who has loved him for years..."
My stomach dropped. Aemma... would I do that? The Gods wouldn't allow such cruelty...
"And then?" the bird continued, crushing my hopes. "Grief will blind you. You will remarry and you will sire vipers that will divide your house. House Targaryen will bleed, dragon will kill dragon, until nothing is left but ashes and memories of a dynasty that destroyed itself."
The fear and pain turned into the blind fury of a dragon. My crown felt heavy.
"Who do you think you are to tell me what I..."
"Stop it, King," the raven retorted with absolute contempt. "You don't have the balls to be king and you will lead your entire dynasty into the abyss. So listen to me and do not keep that leech Otto Hightower as Hand of the King. He is just waiting for your wife's corpse to get cold to push his own daughter into your bed and place his blood on the Iron Throne. Trust him, and you will sign your family's death warrant."
I was left mute. Otto? My most loyal counselor and friend?
"You have been dumb and weak so many times, Viserys, don't be anymore," the voice kept striking like a hammer. "You have a brother who loves you, and yet you keep him away. Fine, he might be a bit petty, idiotic, and cruel, but he has a powerful dragon and he is loyal to you... Reward him for his loyalty before it's too late. And you haven't claimed a new dragon for yourself, how can you... I really don't understand what goes on in your head. So do the following..."
At that exact moment, a muffled voice cut through the tension from outside the chamber.
"Is everything alright, Your Grace? I heard a different voice." It was Ser Ryam Redwyne.
The raven remained motionless, staring at me with those molten gold eyes, as if silently evaluating whether or not it was worth it to continue trying to help a king like me. The decision was in my hands.
I squeezed the hilt of the dagger, cold sweat running down my face.
"I am just thinking aloud, Ser Ryam. Everything is fine," I answered, my voice coming out flawed and incredibly conflicted.
"Well... there is still hope for you..." the raven croaked, satisfied.
I let the blade lower. I was exhausted.
"Continuing. Do the following: do not blindly believe the maesters of the Citadel and give your wife a break. Wait some time before trying to have children again, or you will kill her. Do not trust your Hand of the King. And lastly, prepare yourself for the Song of Ice and Fire, Viserys..."
I held my breath. He knows of Aegon's dream.
"I imagined it would take another two hundred years before they appeared, but it seems something made them arrive earlier."
"They?" I asked in a whisper.
The raven turned, opening its immense black wings, preparing to take flight.
"The White Walkers are real. And we will need dragons more than anything... so do not destroy your own House... After all, you are the hope of Westeros."
"Remember, Viserys... your dreams are prophecies, what is written on the dagger is a prophecy... but what I am telling you is not a prophecy, it is a fact, it will happen if you don't listen to me... and you will be bitter until your dying day, the throne will cut you for your incompetence... so heed my warnings... and if you feel confused, listen to your brother, your wife, and even your cousin... a woman who would be a more worthy queen than you."
With every word the raven uttered, I felt worse... the raven... no... the being behind the raven knew more about me than I myself did...
"Whether you heed my advice or not, Your Grace... I will come to collect this debt... and just as the lions pay their debts, I... I collect mine... and I hope you will be as generous as I was."
The bird jumped from the parapet, diving into the void. As it fell to take to the skies above the capital, its voice echoed one last time, deep and somber:
"We will meet again... VISERYS."
-/-/-
Author's Notes:
First of all, I would like to warn you about something: the magic in ASOIAF is barely explored and very rarely spoken of, so I am making my own interpretation of it. So if you think it has nothing to do with the original and things like that, well, the original doesn't say much anyway, so it really doesn't look alike. What I am using in my version are the runes, the language of the First Men. It is said that House Royce had runes that they put on their bronze weapons and made them as strong as steel, so that is what is being done here. The magic in this fanfic will be used based on my interpretation and a little bit of imagination; feel free to comment on it, give advice, and critique.
Another thing is that I messed up the date. I advanced things by a year; the things that were supposed to happen in 104 happened in 103, so I apologize. I will be a bit more careful next time, and rest assured, things will start to change so much from here on out that this mistake will become irrelevant.
Thank you for reading, leave a comment and a review to help me improve my writing and this story as a whole, and if you liked it give me your power stones.
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