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Word spread fast throughout the Seven Kingdoms of the prince who returned from death and was blessed by the Seven.
Ravens flew from King's Landing within the hour, their messages sealed with the royal stag and lion.
By nightfall, the first whispers had already slipped from the Red Keep into the city below, carried on the tongues of servants, guards, and midwives who could not hold their awe inside their chests.
By the next dawn, the tale had mounted every ship leaving Blackwater Bay, every rider galloping along the kingsroad, every septon climbing into his pulpit.
In the taverns of Flea Bottom, they spoke of it over sour ale and greasy slop.
"Did you hear? The queen's babe died in her arms, stone dead, not a breath left in him. Then the Seven themselves stepped down from the heavens, seven figures of pure light, faceless as the Stranger, and laid their hands on the little prince. Brought him right back, they did. And those eyes… gods, those eyes."
"Eyes like sapphires kissed by starlight," a one-eyed sailor swore, tracing a circle in the air with a grimy finger. "Blue so deep you could drown in them, with lines running through like constellations. The midwives say when the light touched him, the whole birthing chamber glowed brighter than midday. Even King Robert fell to his knees and wept like a maid."
Some laughed, slapping the table until their tankards jumped.
"Next, you'll tell me the Crone herself sang him a lullaby. It's a babe, you fools. All babes have blue eyes at first. The smallfolk always gild the truth till it shines like Valyrian steel."
But others leaned in closer, voices dropping.
"It came from the king himself. Robert Baratheon stood in the Great Sept the very next day, sober as a septon, and swore on his father's bones that he saw the Seven with his own two eyes. Said the air itself bent around them. Said his son's chest was still as death, then the light filled him, and the boy drew breath again. You think the king would lie about something like that? In front of the High Septon and half the court?"
In the Riverlands, at the crossroads inns and along the Trident, travelers traded the story like copper coins.
A hedge knight riding for Riverrun told it to a group of pious pilgrims: "They say the prince's eyes aren't human. When the light strikes them just so, you can see the entire heavens moving inside. The queen won't let anyone but the wet-nurse and her brother near him yet, but the maester wrote it all down in the citadel records. Divine eyes, he called them. More beautiful than anything in this world."
An old woman selling bread at the market in Maidenpool crossed herself with the seven-pointed star and kissed her knuckles. "The Mother has shown mercy at last. A prince raised from the dead, proof the gods still walk among us. I'm lighting seven candles every night from now till the boy's nameday."
But not everyone was convinced of these tall tales.
In the Vale, Lord Nestor Royce snorted into his wine when the raven reached the Gates of the Moon.
"A mummer's trick or a fever dream," he muttered to his captains. "The Lannisters have always known how to dress up their lies in gold and prayer. Dead babes don't open their eyes again, divine or otherwise. Exaggerated rumors, nothing more. The realm's been hungry for miracles since Rhaegar died; they'll swallow any glittering lie the crown feeds them."
Yet even the skeptics found their doubts chipped away when letters arrived bearing the personal seal of King Robert.
The king did not write flowery proclamations; he wrote blunt, almost angry words: "My son was dead. The Seven came. He lives. His eyes shine with their light. Come see for yourselves if you doubt your king."
In the Reach, the Faith bloomed like spring roses.
Septons who had spent years preaching to half-empty benches suddenly found their doors overflowing.
Mothers carried sick children to the altars, begging for the same mercy shown to the royal prince. Novices who had been on the verge of leaving the order renewed their vows with tears in their eyes.
In Oldtown, the Starry Sept rang its bells from dawn till dusk for seven straight days. The High Septon himself declared a holy week of thanksgiving, proclaiming that the gods had answered the realm's long silence with the clearest sign since the Andals first crossed the Narrow Sea.
"Behold the Prince of Light," he intoned from the crystal throne, his voice trembling with genuine fervor. "Born of lion and stag, slain and reborn, marked by the Seven themselves. His eyes are the windows through which the gods now gaze upon Westeros. Let every man, woman, and child who doubts the power of prayer look upon this miracle and be converted."
Even in the North, where the old gods still held sway beneath their heart trees, the news stirred uneasy wonder.
At Winterfell, young children listened wide-eyed as Maester Luwin read the raven's message aloud for everyone to hear.
Eddard Stark's face remained stone, but his grey eyes narrowed in thought.
"The South has always loved its pageants," he said quietly. "Yet if Robert himself swears it happened… then something beyond mortal ken occurred in that chamber."
Catelyn Tully, a follower of the seven, still nursing her own newborn son, pressed a hand to her heart and whispered, "The Mother is merciful. Perhaps this is a sign of better days ahead."
In Dorne, Prince Doran Martell read the scroll in silence, then passed it to his brother Oberyn with a faint, unreadable smile.
"Divine eyes," Oberyn sneered, though there was a glint of genuine curiosity beneath the mockery. "How convenient for the Lannisters…"
Across the Narrow Sea in Pentos and Braavos, merchants and magisters laughed at first, until the spice ships brought eyewitness accounts from sailors who had spoken directly with men of the City Watch who had stood guard outside the birthing chamber.
Coins changed hands rapidly as betting pools formed on whether the prince would live to see his first nameday or whether the gods would take back their gift.
But in every corner of Westeros, from the frozen shores of the Wall to the sun-baked dunes of Dorne, two truths began to settle like sediment in a river:
The prince lived.
And his eyes, those impossible, luminous, constellation-filled eyes, were said to be more beautiful than anything the world had ever known.
Some called it the greatest hoax since the Dance of the Dragons.
Others fell to their knees in septs and shrines, weeping with renewed faith, certain that the long night of doubt was ending and the gods had finally remembered their children.
And in the Red Keep, behind heavy oak doors and rings of watchful Lannister guards, Cersei Lannister looked down at her son and smiled a small, secret, triumphant smile every time those divine eyes met hers.
Her boy was alive, and the Seven themselves had marked him as theirs.
Cersei did not hear the whispers beyond the walls.
Not the prayers, the doubts, or the trembling awe of a kingdom that had suddenly remembered how to believe.
All of it was distant, meaningless.
There was only him.
She sat beside the cradle, its gilded wood gleaming softly in the candlelight, and looked down at her son as though the world itself had been distilled into that single, perfect form.
The chamber was warm, perfumed with myrrh and milk, quiet save for the slow crackle of the hearth and the gentle rise and fall of his breath.
Alive.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed against his cheek, impossibly soft, impossibly warm.
Alive.
For a moment, just a moment, she saw it again.
The stillness, the cold weight in her arms, the silence where there should have been a cry.
Her nails dug into the cradle's edge, knuckles whitening.
Her gaze hardened, then softened all at once as the child stirred and watched as his eyes opened.
There was no other way to describe it. No courtly words, no maester's careful phrasing. It was as if the very air leaned toward him, drawn in by something vast and unknowable.
Those impossibly blue eyes stared up at her in wonder.
Those eyes were not the pale, cloudy blue of newborn babes.
No, these were deep, endless. A sky without horizon, threaded with faint lines of silver and gold that shimmered like distant constellations shifting just beyond comprehension.
Cersei inhaled sharply.
Beautiful… no, more than just beautiful.
Perfect.
A slow smile spread across her lips, small at first, then blooming into something fierce and radiant.
"They can kneel if they wish," she murmured softly, her voice low and intimate, meant for no ears but his. "They can pray, they can sing and shout and call you blessed."
Her thumb traced beneath his eye, careful, reverent.
"But you are mine."
Her back straightened, golden hair falling like a crown about her shoulders as pride settled into her bones, deep, immovable, absolute.
The Seven had come.
The Seven themselves had reached down from their distant heavens, had bent the world, had defied death…
For him.
And who had given him to them? Who had bled? Who had suffered? Who had carried him within her, protected him, made him?
"I did," she whispered, a quiet, dangerous certainty threading through her voice. "It was me."
Her eyes gleamed with madness and with conviction so absolute it bordered on divinity itself.
"The Mother may have shown mercy, but it was my body that bore you into this world. The Father may judge kings, but it is my son who will sit above them all."
The babe made a small, content sound, his tiny fingers curling instinctively around hers.
Cersei's breath caught.
And in that moment, something fierce and unyielding took root within her heart.
Let the Faith call him holy and let the realm call him a miracle.
They could have their distant gods.
But she would have her son, who was but an arm's reach away.
Her lips brushed against his brow, a kiss both tender and possessive, as though sealing a truth only she could see.
"You are not theirs," she whispered, her voice turning soft as silk, edged with iron. "You are not some gift to be shared with an ungrateful world."
Her smile returned, sharp now, and knowing as she lost herself in those impossible eyes as they stared back at her, reflecting something vast and unknowable.
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The woman who was staring rather intensely at him must be his mother…
Huh, she was rather good looking for a woman born in the medieval ages, not to mention waaayyy too young to be having a child already.
But again, he was in the medieval ages, so there really wasn't much he could do about it, plus he was a god damn baby, so he could do even less than shit.
Man, he was going to miss basic things from modern times, like spaghetti and modern toilets…
FUCK WHOEVER PUT HIM IN THIS SITUATION!
He hopes they step on all the Lego pieces and their pillows are hot on both sides!
He let out a breath to calm himself down before he got worked up again.
Also, why was he seeing everything in ultra 4k HD?
And why was he seeing an aura around people as well? Is this what the six eyes did? He thought it only helped with controlling curse energy.
He didn't notice at first, but now that he paid attention to it, it was like his vision was dialed from a perfect ten to a fucking twenty!
He paused for a moment as he stared at the crown on the woman's head.
…Wait, was he fucking royalty!?
He hates politics!