Game of Thrones: Path of the Hungry Bear

Chapter 3: Midnight Fire

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"Next, ladies! Keep 'em coming!" I shouted as the last of another trio of knights yielded to me in the gravelly training yard. 

At three and ten Aegon's teen bod had yet to reach the same supreme strength and speed as my previous legendary grade combat platform, but even after an hour of constant three v ones against a rotating roster of Westeros's finest swordsmen not to don a white cloak I'd yet to even start breathing hard, and my current strength to weight outstripped my former noticeably, another check in the 'Targaryens are just better' column. 

Another trio of ready warriors entered my space, all these men hosted by my father who never lost his delight in watching his son dominating well trained and armed men like they are merely boys wielding toy swords. Many times he waxed poetically about the security of the future realm with a warrior like me to defend my sister's throne. I admire his optimism and capacity to project his desired outcome despite regularly rising evidence to the contrary. It takes a strong will to look around and see all the cracks in the glass and say, 'Nah, it'll be okay.' 

The man looked down on the yard today with the bearlike Hand of the King, Lionel Strong, and took in another dose of fatherly pride as I swiftly set upon the trio rather than they set upon me with their numbers. The sound of my training sword mimicked heavy rain falling on a metal roof as it maneuvered like a steely blur to the human eye, always in the exactly correct action or reaction to the current situation, my mind in an almost meditative state as I delivered a through thrashing to men with decades of training under their belt. 

Something happened after my knighting several moons prior, a modern miracle found in the anointing of seven oils and swearing of my oaths. I'd knelt a genuine genius of the martial arts, not a fake genius bolstered by my prior decades of experience, psychic spying on the lives of the greatest warriors of Westeros' past, and millennia of martial imprints from all the warriors who ever held the magic greatsword Dawn all the way back to the Last Hero, but an actual legitimate prodigious talent, and I arose a swordsman savant, an unbeatable expression of the art. My might grew as if the Seven saw me paying them lip service and sent the Warrior to buy me off before my irritation with their processes and rituals turned into a grudge, and by the Seven they'd done me kinder service than the Old Gods, without a doubt. 10 out of 10 will plan a crusade in thanks. 

Upon defeating yet another trio of knights with the blade, I put down my training sword and began stripping out of the heavy practice armor, freeing my body for new activity. 

"A hundred dragons to any man that can manage to win a wrassle against me." I announced to the assembly, a familiar activity, yet a new form of contest. 

Grappling training is common place amongst fighters that actually know of battle, and while long peace atrophied the warrior knowledge of Westeros, the war for the Stepstones in my youth reminded everyone that the wrassle is where wars are won. Calvary charges, dragon's fire, and climactic sword duels hold the imagination, but the matter of who dies for their country and who kills for theirs is found rolling around in the mud and blood. When two men are equally skilled at arms, the better wrestler wins, and as such there are many great grapplers to compete against. 

Without sword in hand, I can feel the totality of my victory slip away, but I will never lose regardless, not with money on the line, and despite these guys knowing of the importance of grappling, they know not the true mind-bending depths of bending bodies into pretzels. One by one men came against me, and one by one I cast them to the ground, my vigor and skill undenied. Beyond the glory of ancient Olympia, thou shall find mine, an unblemished golden statue of masculine wrestling dominance. That one time didn't count no matter what Jon Umber says. 

As I cast down a man from Saltpans, shining brightly of victory, someone dared steal of my shine. 

"I can see it in your eyes." Ser Criston Cole stated to Ser Harwin Strong with all the smugness of a full blooded Dornishman despite his mongrel birth, "Afraid to step onto the battlefield, I've seen it in many a man's eyes." 

"You know not of what you speak!" Ser Harwin growled in frustration. 

I understand man, Criston got into some scuffles with some cattle rustlers and bandits down in the marches and has maximized that experience into a prestigious lifelong career. I killed more guys as a teenager than he has in his entirety and didn't have that cocksure attitude until I became a godlike psyker defeating my foes using the trajectory of destiny like fate itself feared my pimp hand. 

"I understand." Criston kept the sneer off his face, but not out of his tone, "You've a great devotion to these young Strong boys, and wouldn't want them to see you pinned down by their uncle. You've a fatherly pride in them -" 

Harwin interrupted the half-Dornishman's monologue with a big meaty fist that sent him down to the ground followed up by some ground and pound, opening cuts on the Kingsguard's face with each strike, only stopping when a quartet more of Criston's white cloaked brothers dragged the larger stronger knight off him. Despite the blood and bruises, Criston smiled as he looked up at the sky off his back. 

"Thought as much." He spat out blood, yet kept his grin. 

Man got the smoke over just smoke, and is lucky Harwin punches like a girl. 

After such a pathetic display I took my leave of the yard and presented my gambeson to the washerwomen, and then took in hand the most fetching of them to join me in the bath, the woman washing me with a gritty soap made with honey from the North and spices from Essos, giving my skin and hair a warm and masculine scent while I delivered warm masculinity to her womb. Another for the Hightower Shuffle in the next three moons or so, but at least no one got their skulls crushed, unlike the time my mother sent men to wash me. Sometimes the poor thing's sense of prudish propriety overwhelms her general good sense and wisdom. Sending away pregnant servants does a lot less damage to the reputation than disposing of bloody murders, but I find lessons learnt in the blood stick around all the longer. 

Dressing me post bath got me styling shamelessly, getting my garish Henry the VIII on in stark contrast to my families' frankly pedestrian mode of garb. Sometimes I look at my kin and and think them the victims of some anemic costuming department. I'd thrown the retard that purchased my father's favorite beaten gold necklace of empty squares and circles off the walls of the Red Keep, and once again felt the distinct disappointment of seeing him wearing it as he and my mother returned to his chamber after another day of ruling. His utter lack of ice cold drip offended my eyes more than his leprously consumed flesh and scrotal like silver hairs running down his head.

Mine own shoulders sported a thick gold rope set with spiraling pearls also sporting circles and squares, only mine are leaf and vine work settings for round garnets and square jet, set in the opposite shaped housing, the garnets matching in color and clarity with smaller square on square settings running in parallel trails down my silver samite doublet, sporting scrollwork and porting from which the absurdly rich and fluffy white silk shirt underneath emerged in meticulous pattern across both chest and sleeves. That golden cordage sat atop a black sable and red velvet coat that terminated at the elbows trimmed in gold.

I cringed seeing my father's condition. I've seen Starks with better aesthetics, but I can't save the man, not this late in the game. His legacy will be one of shabbiness. 

"My son!" My fathers smile is one of the few things unravaged by his ailment, and he sported it as I rose to embrace him.

Together we turned to our model of Old Valyria, a project he started long before my birth, the man nostalgic for a time he never lived in yet at the same time standing in firm rejection of the cultural practices of the people he so studied and in many regards admired. I'd proven more than just a dab hand at designing outfits, and had talent in both sculpting and painting. The latter talent shown on the table, my father's formerly all white stone model over half painted with fine detail and highlighting using descriptions pulled from the ancient scrolls and building specifications used to layout this tabletop city. 

Before I could pull the velvet curtain off the next of our painted models to be added back to the project, an announcement of the incoming Lord Hand interrupted us. My father's eyes flashed with disappointment as weariness weighed down his shoulders. He dealt with much disappointment for a man so easy to please. 

I sat in a comfortable arm chair as Lord Lyonel Strong attempted and failed to resign as Hand of the King, the aging man obviously dying of stress with the whole 'My son is fucking your daughter and that's treason' thing his family had going on right now, as well as Harwin's righteous smack down of that smug half-dornish prick after a very unsubtle bastardy jab. I chuckled when I heard my mother demand Lord Lyonel speak plainly about this 'Shadow' hanging over his House. 

Ultimately, my father stubbornly disallowed his most trusted advisor from retiring despite the man implying that they'd reached the point where he could no longer provide the leal and honorable council that earned him his position, and instead the pair settled on the man taking a brief leave to resettle his son back home in Harrenhal after the day's horseplay set the rumor mill spinning with a freshly flowed drama. Such silliness, Ser Criston is already walking out and about. If I'd punched him his brain case would have shattered and his grey matter splattered. Stop being so disappointing 'Strongest Knight', there are people watching. 

"Do it." My father assented to the man's leave, "But let us not part with this tenseness darkening our hearts. Aegon, a song." 

I heard and obeyed my father's command, and from a shelf in this chamber I retrieved a guitar. I'd arrived in this third life not long after the invention of the instrument, and my princely patronage caused a bit of interest in it, and a bit more spread, no longer to linger in niche obscurity, and perhaps the start of a cultural victory in this game of civilization we play. It also happened to be one of the only things on this green earth that Aegon doesn't have obscene natural talent for. Neither my hands nor voice seemed any more inclined to music than in my past lives, but at least the latter possessed some of my nigh supernatural attractiveness to carry the performance. I also enjoyed having something to work on, some skill to grind, to remind me that I'm a man. 

It only took a brief time of contemplation before I settled upon the perfect song for the evening. The perfect commencement anthem for House Strong, my fingers setting a high tempo country twang rhythm. 

"~ Midnight fire loves sweet desire

Burning holes in the heart of the night

Once the flames are burning bright

There's no running from the light

Of the midnight fire ~"

- Viserys II Targaryen -

The beleaguered King once again took great comfort in his son. In a world of burden and sorrows, with a body failing him, having such a reliable and supportive son made this life of suffering worthwhile beyond his commitment to the family destiny. Beyond the lads filial support, he also felt like friend, like a man with unique perspective and a steady heart, so unlike his boyish nature though not boyish body. Aegon looked the man his spirit resembled, a strong warrior prince to guard the dynasty. No amount of gay clothing and time at the painter's easel could change the steely masculinity of his son. 

"~ Impatience got a hold of us now

We're fighting but we're losing ground somehow

Wearing someone else's rings

And our hearts are filled with doubt

But the fire's getting hotter and we just can't put it out ~"

- Alicent Hightower - 

The Queen of Westeros watched her husband intently as the meaning of her son's verse became clear to her. She felt incredible pride in the outlandishly cultured brute. Her first born may be a willful, savage, demonlike boy who cares nothing for his fellow man, but he was also suave and quick witted and talented beyond all belief, far more than his Warrior granted strength and skill. Alicent watched as the obvious jab at adultery lighting the realm aflame washed right over her husband who simply tapped his foot and maintained his goofy grin as he bobbed and swayed to the rhythm, unswayed by the lyrics and simply enjoying the second chorus as if the verse never happened. 

"~ In the daylight we never touched like this

There's a magic in the night we can't resist

There's a danger in the darkness knowing only shadows see

That this blazing fire we're building is controlling you and me

Just won't set us free ~"

- Lyonel Strong -

The Hand of the King grit his teeth and tried to stop his trembling as sweat ran down his brow and the prince, the chief architect of his anxiety, the dragon riding man slaying menace sang a song about the Crown Princess's obvious infidelity with his romantic and foolish firstborn. A dragon rider singing about them burning because of the deeds done in darkness and night. He almost missed the King stomping his feet in applause after the final chorus, the song ending with the promise that they could not run from the light of the midnight fire. He felt gorge rising in his throat as he nervously joined the King's handicapped applause and the Queen's smug smirking claps. Each smack of his meaty aged hands felt like the percussion of brass filling him with dread. 

- Aegon -

I smiled as Lord Lyonel left after my small audience finished showing me their appreciation. The man had always been a fan of my music. It's a shame what's going to happen to him. 

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Real life has been incredibly busy, but I greatly appreciate the donations that have come in, and the incredible reception of this pre-sequel. As a quick note, the additional PoV's are not narrated by Aegon this time around, which is why the return to his PoV is labeled - Aegon - instead of - Me -. PoV shifts are not Jorah's unique empathic green sight. They are most likely provided by god-Jorah, and definitely not by mortal-Aegon, who has neither green sight nor dragon dreams. 

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