3. Twisted Realism

Existential dread was no stranger to me. Nay, I had worn it long, worn it often. At birth, this second birth, I felt its claws yet. And I wondered then, if I were fated to wander through countless rebirths, an endless succession of lifetimes. Never resting, never permitted to fade into the aether.

This I named the dread of eternity. In my first world, I had known the dread of mortality. Yet in this life, it was the dread of lore that haunted me.

For as I stood, watching knights clash, their blades singing, their bodies straining in contest, there crept into my mind a contradiction most cruel: why was combat here so unlike the combat of my old world?

In my life before, the stylised battle belonged to fiction alone, designed for the eyes, made to entertain. True combat was brutish, graceless, ugly—instinct loosed in chaos.

Yet here, in this realm of supposed truth, the dance of battle bore a strange refinement. The blows were clean, their rhythm ordered. It was beautiful, still primal and instinctive, yet clothed in an artistry my old world never knew.

And thus was I touched by corruption, or so I feared. A gospel memetic, whispered into me by this new reality. For if combat itself were altered so, did not that speak of deeper law? A law unlike mine own world’s?

And therein lay the question—the question of existence itself. Why was it that, though in appearance these two worlds bore likeness, their very principles of being moved apart as fire and magma?

For as I pondered, no longer of the old world, I could scarce deny that what I once deemed physics now bore the shape of sorcery.

Yes, it was so. Even in the theatre of my mind, where I rehearsed motion and cut away the vanity of false supremacy, still were my imagined strokes marked with grace, my footwork wrought with artistry.

Thus did the men of my former realm seem to me now: creatures mired in brutish folly, their struggles little more than idiocy distilled into violence.

Odder still, though not so to me in truth, was the combat of this realm. It was no mere choreography masquerading as violence. A dance it was, aye, but only so when judged by the logic of my former world.

Yet the reverse proved not so. Were I to fight as once I did, to force my limbs against these reimagined instincts, such movements would be marked not as art but as aberration. Unsightly. Unnatural. Disfigured. Worse still, they would be read in their very awkwardness, exposed to the rhythm that had been absent in my first existence.

This, because these two realities were not merely different from one another. They were, in truth, different unto themselves. Distinct in their essence, in their foundations. And though one might dismiss it all as sorcery—aye, this world holds magic, and most fantastical it is—I judged it not sufficient.

For what arrogance, to deem my old world the singular mold from which all universes must be cast?

“Are you entertained, my prince?” Vaelery asked of me, her voice soft and lilting, drawing me from my stolen thoughts and wayward musings. She sat beside me, the fair maid, her gaze fixed upon the yard where my shield and my brother’s own did demonstrate knightly battle in its more measured form.

She was not enthralled as I, though enthralled she was all the same. Not by the cruelty of contest, but by that baser delight, the appreciation of man’s form.

I judged her not. A young maid may be forgiven such nature. And though I harboured no inclination toward such fondness, I could still confess the two Sers bore handsomeness undeniable.

To her gentle query I turned, and with words measured in my throat I answered, “Quite so. Yet I doubt I might ever afford such skill and grace within this frame of mine.”

I made a jest of it, and an honest smile betrayed the jest for what it was.

Vaelery, quick of wit and not without warmth, caught the turn of my meaning. Yet still, her nature was one of courtesy and care, and so she answered as such.

“I am certain, Prince Daemon, that time shall see you reach—dare I say, surpass—them both.” Her lips curved into a smile untouched by guile. “And when that day comes, you shall be sung of, not only as a mind unmatched, but as a warrior of virtue and of fable.”

Ah, but my mind craved naught save the balm of ego the maid did grant me.

I turned aside, warmth rising to my ears. “Your faith in me is most kindly given, Vaelery. And I shall see to it that your expectations find no cause for disappointment.”

Once more my gaze returned to the yard. The clash had raged near to three minutes, steel ringing steel, strength contesting skill. Yet even as the bout endured, the signs lay plain for any eye that cared to see: Ser Barristan Selmy held the victory in his keeping.

Blades kissed with chimes cradled by gusts. Blows came, and all looked measured to a fine point. So too were the parries, seen by instinct, by discipline.

Skill they lacked not in, these two. But grace, constitution?

Ser Gwayne pressed forward with brute strength. His strokes were heavy, though you would not know by the quiet countenance he maintained.

The knight of Selmy moved with him, matched him in strength, intercepted each attack like it had betrayed its direction to him beforehand. He was ever so precise, so… storied. He yielded ground only to reclaim it, and he did so like a man starved, his blade finding gaps in Gwayne’s guard with a speed near cruel.

The bastard was fashioned for such contest. For slaughter, for hero’s song, for the very sword itself.

A turn, a feint, the barest shift of footing, then Barristan sword sang true. His edge kissed Gwayne’s pauldron, a strike that in earnest battle would have cleaved flesh from bone.

The Stern Knight froze, acknowledging the touch. Barristan lowered his blade in salute, breath calm as though he had but strolled a garden path.

The bout was ended.

I clapped, and it was no measured clap of princely dignity, but the unguarded delight of a child—astonished, enraptured. In that instant I was as my years proclaimed me, a boy in truth, and yet within my breast there dawned an understanding most profound: the revelation of this world’s theatre of arms.

I felt it stirring in my mind, the hidden rhythm that underlay their dance, how the strokes did flow as music, which movements might be made without disturbing the sequence, how the combatant might guide the steps so that the truest blow came not at once, but eight strokes hence.

Ser Barristan bowed toward me then, a faint quirk at his lips.

And there I wondered: was this knight as I felt now? Did he too move not by chance but by the knowledge of rhythm and measure? If so, how hard-wrought was his contest with the monstrous Blackfyre, Maelys the accursed, said by all to wield his blade with an inhuman grace? Was Barristan pressed in truth, or was it but a breeze to him, and the tales did as tales ever do, growing swollen and blemished with retelling?

I shifted upon my seat, testing the revelation against my own frame. I saw the dance replay itself in memory’s hall, yet my body, soft and tender still, could not answer its pace. The movements it demanded lay beyond me, beyond the flesh of boyhood.

And yet I was untroubled, for the knowledge had taken root, and the will was set. This body would be honed. In time, it would be made steel.

Perhaps the maid’s words were not mere flattery. Perhaps in this name of Daemon there lay some hidden talent for the sword.

I calmed myself then, letting the spectacle pass me by. Rhaegar went to Ser Barristan, serving him in the manner of a dutiful squire. His solemn mask had slipped, and he spared me an eager wave. I returned it with eagerness of mine own.

My brother had grown, of seven years to his name now, though he seemed nearer to ten in bearing. Learned he was becoming too, for my ravenous hunger for knowledge had spurred him beyond tales of fancy and the chronicles of kings into tomes more grave.

I breathed slow, mindful of the breath, of the weight it carried within me. And yet I was bored. Bored still of these days that dragged themselves empty.

The learning of martial ways, whatever fragments Ser Gwayne did deem fit for me, was no daily discipline. Often was I left to idleness, with little solace save in books read at Rhaegar’s side. But even there my brother had small leisure to spare me. He was ever bound—lessons in governance, the duties of a squire, the graces of the dance, the company of his peers, and the pursuits of his own choosing.

I was left to myself, in truth, and found I had need of exploits to occupy the hours. Yet I was but a child of two namedays, and all ventures I dreamt must pass muster before my kingly father and queenly mother.

My gaze strayed once more to Ser Gwayne, now seated as a maester of the Red Keep tended his hurts.

Not too bruised, nor overmuch dirtied. He was ever quiet, a man at peace with himself. I yearned for that peace, to be content in mine own nature, to find stillness where ever did turmoil stir.

So I moved, and left the yard, wandering the echoing halls of the holdfast. The noontide sun poured its light through stone lattices, and in that hour I found my mind drawn to gentler musings. I would turn my thoughts to recipes, to conjure images of wondrous fare, to fashion feasts unseen in this life through the hands of the cooks.

Such would be my pastime for a season, the exploits of cuisine.

“I believe I shall be needing a cape to mine attires of fancy henceforth, Vaelery. You must arrange such for me, yet take care it does not trail upon the ground as I stand or walk.”

The mirror I beheld myself in was wrought of bronze, polished near to a still pond. Large it was, and fine enough for self-admiration.

My frame yet remained diminutive, cursed with the softness of childhood. Though my visage kept silent composure, I was not uncanny in appearance. My hair had grown with haste, now falling to my back in silken strands. Still, I was unable to perceive my true identity, not in looks alone.

I turned this way and that, my reflection following in mimicry. The garb I wore clung unlovingly to me—pleasing to the eye, yet void of comfort.

Perhaps I should fashion a new style of raiment for this stagnant realm, I thought.

“A cape, my prince?” Vaelery asked in mild surprise. She was tending the garments I sought to don this hour, a small mountain of silks and velvets at her side.

“Just so,” said I, measured in tone. “Capes of silk, and of dyes most rare.”

As I beheld myself now, I pondered why, in the tales writ in the word of old, those beings reborn into stations of splendour clung still to the guise of humble mien and modest act. Why suffer unease in supremacy, when supremacy had been all they hunted in their former lives of mediocrity?

Perhaps I was far more estranged from the folk of mine old world than ever I had thought. Or perhaps I was but arrogant, misjudging the true weight of mine own significance.

Yet all this served but to say: I found no fault in being served by others, nor did I shrink from the honorifics laid upon me. To be regarded as other, as higher, as set apart above them—it pleased me true.

Thus did I lean into that truth. Thus did I desire a cape to mine attire. For what emblem of supremacy was more plain to the eye than such a mantle borne upon one’s shoulders?

“Then I shall be informing the seamstresses of your desires, Prince Daemon,” she replied, “though I must ask if you would have such additions fashioned in some particular manner?”

“You are asking if I bear a design in mind?” I turned to the maid. Her face wore that fixed expression of fondness and condescension, the look all adults bestow upon children.

It moved me not. I was untouched by it, and so indifferent.

In truth, I bore no design. Those I had were only of umbrellas and shoes. Yet as I beheld my hands, small still, soft still… untried, I wondered if mine old skill in drawing had followed me into this life.

I flexed my hands, and so my musings of capes and attire’s design fled from me. A plan came then upon my mind, and a most lucrative one besides.

In days still fresh in memory, when I had visited the king’s solar, my eyes had strayed upon his piles of reports. Among them were sheets that bore no likeness to parchment—sheets pale near unto white, coarse of surface, and in such abundance as to betray ease of their making. At the time, I cared not for their nature, for I was then enthralled by other desires and designs.

Yet now, as I contemplated matters of art, I wondered if those strange sheets were naught but early ventures toward paper, brought to quiet use and near normalcy. If so, then why had I not espied anything resembling a pencil, or some instrument akin to it?

In mine own recollection, the craft of the pencil replayed itself. Graphite lay at its heart, but therein arose my impediment, for I knew not the manner of acquiring that carbon in this realm. A substitute must be sought. Charcoal was the only path that beckoned, yet what of its binding?

Truly, my thoughts did gather some few solutions by which the charcoal might be given to behave near as graphite, and thus grant me the tool I desired.

“—Daemon?!”

I was startled from my thoughts, and there before me stood Vaelery, her face writ with concern.

“Are you well, my prince?” Her voice bore a tremor of worry, edged with fear, and I saw in her eyes the yearning to lay hands upon me and assure herself of my soundness.

“I am quite well, Vaelery,” I shared, steadying my voice. “Lost in thought, no more than that.”

To the side, my shield loomed close. His brow was furrowed, his mouth pressed into a line, and his grip upon the sword at his hip had tightened as though he scented peril in the air about me.

I flexed my hands once more, and in that small motion resolved myself to action.

“I wish to see my father,” said I at last.

For now was I in need of resources, of a place secured, of learned men to advise, a potter to shape, and a carver skilled in hand and tool.

It was time now to acquaint this here society to innovation and efficiency.