personal6

Chapter 5.

Kind of excited for this one, as it's where I actually start to build the plot.

Chapter TextFaircastle - 43 AC

Being eleven again was a weird experience.

I mean, obviously. My entire new life had been a weird experience, no matter what age I was. But eleven was that turning point in Westeros when one turned from a kid whose lot was to be ignored or educated into a man or woman, someone worthy of respect who made their own decisions.

It was when one became a potential threat.

It hadn't been immediately obvious. I'd always been a "smart" child, what with my invention of glass independent of the Myrish industry, not to mention my vocabulary and quick development. All of the motivation I'd so sorely lacked in my previous existence had been present here, the very disturbing experience of having been reborn into a new body lighting a fire under my ass in that respect. I'd been very young, and very successful.

I should've known that would make enemies.

My brother Franklyn hadn't taken kindly to my various achievements. I'd spent more time in the yard than he, I'd quickly surpassed him in all of our lessons, and my invention of glass had generated more revenue than House Farman had made in a while.

He had fifteen namedays to my eleven, yet far less under his belt. He hadn't inherited any of my clumsiness, but his skill with the blade was the only area in which he could beat me. My adult mind hadn't seen any need to compete with my much younger brother, but just because I hadn't flaunted my skill didn't mean he hadn't noticed.

I'd been training in Faircastle's courtyard when he'd first made me aware of his avarice. It had been early in the morning, far earlier than any other squires were awake. I had been whirling through a group of training dummies, working on my grip and my balance.

I was suddenly knocked off said balance with a push to my back.

I spilled into the dirt, my knees folding awkwardly and my tongue tasting the soil. I whirled onto my back, mace out, only for it to be wrenched out of my oh-so-stubby fingers.

Franklyn sneered down at me, my mace grasped firmly in his hand. He was wearing the colors of House Farman and a small red cap that covered his flaxen hair. He had a training sword sheathed in his belt. "You think I don't see what it is you're doing?"

I blinked. "What are you on about, Franklyn? I'm training."

He spat. "Don't jape with me. I won't have it."

"Fine. What is it I'm doing?" I asked indulgently. I wasn't quite sure what he was mad about, but it had to be something serious. He looked awfully pissed.

"You're trying to usurp me!" He snarled, pointing at me with the end of my mace. His face darkened with rage, contrasting the small caterpillar on his lip that was imitating a mustache.

I laughed. Yeah, I know he's an insecure teenager full of emotions, and this should be handled delicately. Sue me. I thought this was something important.

"Usurp you? Franklyn, you aren't even heir! Uncle Flement is, and he isn't going anywhere. He's healthy and hale, not to mention betrothed to Lord Tarbeck's daughter. You aren't anyone's heir."

He glared at me.

Now, let me be clear. I knew that Franklyn would eventually become heir to Fair Isle, which assumed that my uncle would die before Lord Humphrey, and my father would become lord after him. I didn't like that thought very much, but it was just that. My own thoughts. It was a tragic event to come and not something that Franklyn would be privy to.

"I'm Flement's heir until he has a son. I won't be overshadowed by the brother five years my junior."

I sighed. "Franklyn. Please. This needn't be anything. I'm not trying to take your place or hurt your image. Second sons only can achieve so much, and I'm doing everything I can to compensate for circumstances outside of my control."

The teen had the decency to look briefly guilty. "I know that," he mumbled. Then his gaze hardened. "But that doesn't mean you must upstage me at every endeavor!"

I raised my hands in surrender, resigned. My elbows rested in the dirt. "Where do we go from now, Flement? How do you want me to fix this?"

I saw a glint of cruelty in my brother's eyes. I recognized it from my past life. The eyes of customers with a bone to pick. The eyes of my manager at Harvey's. The eyes of my aunt.

The mace Franklyn had taken hadn't been a training mace. If it had been, no big deal. A bruise, maybe a bit of scraped skin. But I had graduated to castle-forged steel and had taken advantage of my Farman genetic advantages to wield something heavier than the average kid my age.

My own mace crashed into my outstretched hand with the seeming force of a hydraulic press, and my world became pain. All-encompassing, all-consuming pain. I was distantly aware of Franklyn's panicked voice, and the pitter-patter of rushed feet.

Eventually, my world returned to existence, and I felt soft sheets beneath my back and a wooden board strapped to my hand. My hand was covered in bruises and welts and had a visible bone where my thumb met my palm. Welp. I passed out again.

Fuck Westeros, man.

It took me about two or three months to fully heal from Franklyn's attack. Maester Lancel helped me with the whole process, using a variety of tinctures and cure-alls he and the other Westerosi had developed, which seemed to work to at least some capacity. I spent the time reading, chatting with family (not Franklyn), and planning the next stage of my life.

I needed to make sure that there were no repeat incidents of what happened in the yard. Now that Franklyn had played his hand, I was on my guard and wouldn't be letting him close to me like that again. He obviously had hidden his actions and thus hadn't gotten in trouble, but the boy couldn't return to the status quo that easily. I still loved my brother, truly, and I knew he had just been acting his age. I still didn't want to deal with it again.

Aegon the Conqueror, the first Targaryen King, and all-around scary dude, had died in 37 AC, about six years ago. His son and successor, King Aenys, had kicked off his reign with a rebellion after betrothing his kids to each other. Like an idiot would. The Faith Militant, basically a massive collection of continent-spanning crusaders backed by the Faith of the Seven, had cut off Targaryen control from the vast majority of the region, and anarchy had sort of descended for a year or two before Aenys died of stress.

The current king was King Maegor, who would later be known as Maegor the Cruel. He was the second son of Aegon I and was way more martially inclined than Aenys had ever been. He also rode Balerion the Black Dread, whose praises I didn't need to sing any more than they already had been. If my memories were correct (and they were at least 50% of the time), this dude would reign for another seven or eight years, and build up a veritable harem of wives. At least six, I'm pretty sure. Not a single kid, though.

Heh.

By the time Maegor died, I'd be a proper adult, and be able to have some form of influence over the realm. I knew that my canon wife Rhaena Targaryen would be migrating to Fair Isle beforehand, and I'd need to quickly decide whether I should stay and wait for her proposal, or find my way in Westeros. The princess was way above my station, but I knew from history that she wouldn't have many motivations in the realm. If I wanted to, I could found my own sellsword company, or lead a campaign in a far-off territory such as the Stepstones or somewhere in the Smoking Sea.

That said, I could also potentially rise to a high rank in King's Landing if I worked my ass off, and maybe even get given some land or title. Petyr Baelish had been given Harrenhal after all, and the Freys and Boltons had been given Lord Paramount status of the Riverlands and the North respectively. Not great company, to be honest, but it was an option.

My plans were interrupted by a call for dinner when a servant arrived at my quarters and demanded my presence. That was the first sign something was different. Usually, I was allowed to make my way to dinner at my own pace, coming earlier or later depending on when it suited me. I often lost track of time while training or reading, and my family had gotten used to it at this point. So, yeah. Weird.

Like the dutiful son I was, I followed the servant back to Faircastle's great hall. The great hall was a sprawling room, laden with tapestries of different Farman achievements throughout history. Like in most castles, the main table was on a raised floor two or three feet above the rest, with two small sets of stairs leading up to it. Sconces throughout the walls were lit with torches, and a smattering of torches had been tinged in House Farman's colors of blue and yellow. The naturally crimson hues of the rest were also part of our sigil and thus remained unchanged.

The rest of House Farman, including my father, Elissa, Franklyn, Uncle Flement, and Lord Humphrey were all in attendance and seemed to be waiting for me. Oddly, a large assortment of men-at-arms and knights were also here, including a number of my grandfather's landed vassals. Something big was happening, and no one had told me.

I sat down next to my sister, who gave me a worried look. I returned it and whispered under my breath. "What is happening?"

"I don't know, Androw." She replied in a hushed tone. "I saw Maester Lancel bring grandfather a letter, but that's it. I don't think that the contents pleased him."

I nodded, but before I could ask any more questions, I felt a blow to the back of my head. "Quiet down!" ordered Father.

The both of us shut up and turned our attention to the Lord of Fair Isle. He stood up, and the whole hall quieted.

"As many of you may know, the times we live in aren't easy. The death of our great King Aegon hit the realm hard, and the heinous actions of his successor did nothing to improve the situation. King Aenys was weak, and a fool to boot." At that, my grandfather paused, and took a sip of wine. He cleared his throat and continued. "But Aenys Targaryen's wrongdoings are nothing in the shadow of our dear King Maegor.

House Broome. House Falwell. House Lorch. These are just a few of our fellow Westerlanders who were burned by the abomination, and they are not alone. Many faithful across the realm have been done worse, and our High Septon has fallen. Truly, these are dark times.

But I offer you, men of Fair Isle, a chance at change. A chance to better the world we live in, and a chance to see Maegor the Cruel from the Iron Throne. My friends, I present to you, King Aegon, second of his name!"

The doors to our hall boomed, and in strode Aegon the Uncrowned.