Allen1996
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Chapter 2: Weigh of the world
🕑 Added 2024-10-05 00:59:11 +0000 UTCLife on Driftmark is exactly what you’d expect for a scion of House Velaryon—endless expectations, quiet power plays, and the constant hum of the sea. On the surface, it's perfect for anyone born into the lap of wealth and prestige. Nobles from all corners of Westeros would kill to be part of a house like this—rich, powerful, tied to the blood of Valyria, and allied with the Targaryens, the bloody dragonlords themselves.
But for me?
It’s just tedious.
I sit in my quarters, a lavish room overlooking the churning waters of the Gullet, the horizon stretching out endlessly beyond the stained-glass windows. The room is almost offensively grand—marble floors, intricate tapestries depicting the voyages of the Sea Snake, and a massive four-poster bed that could fit a small family. They say the wealth of the Velaryons is unmatched save for the Lannisters, and judging by the sheer decadence of my surroundings, I believe it. It’s not that I care about the wealth, but it does make things easier when you can get anything you want with a nod.
I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. It’s midday, and the sunlight pours in through the windows, casting a golden glow over everything. The wind from the sea brings with it the sharp scent of salt and brine, a constant reminder of where we are—adrift, both literally and figuratively.
I suppose it’s not all bad. I’ve managed to make my stay here a little more comfortable, at least. One of the first things I did when I realized I had gravity manipulation—aside from marveling at the sheer insanity of it—was make some… adjustments. For one, the medieval sanitation situation? Yeah, not exactly up to modern standards. I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my new life using chamber pots like some peasant. No, sir. So, I used my abilities to create a rudimentary system—my own personal gravity-powered toilet, hidden away in the corner of my room. It’s subtle enough that no one’s questioned it yet, and if they did, I’d just blame it on Velaryon ingenuity or some shit like that.
Bathing was another issue. People here aren’t exactly obsessed with hygiene the way we were back in the 21st century. It’s all about appearances, and as long as you look noble, no one cares if you smell like the inside of a horse. But not me. I may not care about much, but I’m not about to die from some medieval disease because I didn’t bathe regularly. So I bathe more than anyone here, heating the water with simple gravity manipulation. It’s not that hard to press the air together, make it denser, let friction and pressure do the rest. I might be lazy, but I’m not stupid.
Speaking of appearances, it was the main reason why I believed that magic never had disappeared from this, that it was still a fantasy one masquerading as a mundane one.
People, especially nobles shouldn't be able to look so good naturally. I was living in the equivalent of the medieval time and even the ugliest looking member of my house would have made beauties the like of Adriana Lima look like flea-filled paupers.
When you read the books and they say said character is good-looking, a maiden dream, unearthly, etc, I found that it was actually the case in this world.
How do you just wake up looking as if you were ready for a photoshoot when we both knew that your hygiene was atrocious.
I looked at myself in a mirror. Handsome news and prettiness, Thy name is Monterys. Basic modern hygiene with the genes I had inherited from my ancestors had made sure that I would have been called better looking than Apollo and Aphrodite combined if I was in ancient Greece and looked like that and it wouldn’t even be lie.
Of course, they'll try to curse me because they are jealous of my awesomeness but hey, it would be another point for me like I'm so good looking that when people said I was better looking than you, you felt so threatened, was such a loser that you had to curse me.
It wasn’t even about looks only. I had seen when I was younger one of my brothers fight. How are you eleven, without magic and strong enough to send plated knight falling. Here, the people seemed to see as normal or at least not that extraordinary but I knew it was.
There was a knock at the door who brought me out of my thought and I already knew who it was before he spoke.
“Monterys, are you coming to the training yard today or are you planning to rot in your room all afternoon?”
Rhogar. Always checking in, always trying to get me to care. It’s almost sweet if it wasn’t so exhausting. I sigh, running a hand through my silver hair before I stand up and open the door. He’s standing there in full riding gear, his dark purple eyes narrowed in the way he always did when he’s trying to be patient with me and actively failing.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
“No,” he says flatly. “You know what’s expected of you.”
Ah, yes. The expectations. I’m not the heir, not the spare, but I’m still a Velaryon. A scion of the greatest house of sailors in Westeros. There is maybe also the fact that with Rhogar, we are the only children of Lucerys Velaryon who still got tongues. My brother seems to think that i had inklings of how it would have ended and did my utmost to spare him from this fate because I liked him. Delusion, thy name was Rhogar Velaryon.
Anyways, being a Velaryon even far from being the heir meant swordplay, diplomacy, and occasionally pretending to care about who’s sitting on the Iron Throne. And right now? It means training in the yard, because gods forbid a noble doesn’t know how to swing a sword.
The people of Westeros were the kind of people who preferred dumb brutes over bookish heirs. Is it truly a surprise that it is such a shitshow?
All of this was so annoying. Couldn’t a guy be allowed to profit of the wealth of his family without being spoken about responsibilities?
Why didn't I sink Westeros again? A look at my room, at the luxuries in it, at the bottle of wines, at my gigantic bed showed me.
So annoying.
*scene*
The training yard is alive with the sound of clashing steel and the barked orders of sergeants. Squires scurry about, fetching weapons and cleaning armor, while knights and nobles practice their bladework. It’s all very noble and impressive if you’re into that sort of thing. Me? I’m here because it’s expected, not because I particularly enjoy it.
I stand at the edge of the yard, watching the others spar, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword. The blade was a common a stale forged one. A sharp one, sure, but nothing compared to a Valyrian sword. It didn’t change that in my hands, it became the most powerful thing around.
As I step onto the training field, my sparring partner—a knight, a third or fourth son from some minor house whose name I can’t be bothered to remember—draws his sword and takes a defensive stance. I saw him fight before. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Strong, fast, skilled. But none of that matters.
Because I’m a cheater that cheat.
I don’t cheat in a way that’s obvious. That would ruin the fun and create more problems than needed. No, I do it subtly, in ways no one can really notice. As we circle each other, I tilt the gravity around him just slightly, Just enough to make him feel heavier, slower. I do His movements are still graceful, but there’s a hesitation in them, a fraction of a second delay that I can exploit. I do of course the inverse to myself so that i’ll be faster.
He lunges, and I sidestep easily, bringing my sword up in a quick, practiced arc that knocks his blade aside. I could end the fight right there, but where’s the fun in that? Instead, I let the duel drag on, let him take back his sword again and raise it. I also keep him off balance with minute adjustments to the gravity around him. A little more weight here, a little less there. He doesn’t know it, but he’s literally dancing to my tune.
Eventually, he grows frustrated, his movements becoming sloppier as he tires. With one final adjustment, I increase the gravity on his sword just enough to make it feel like a lead weight in his hand. His grip falters, and I knock the weapon from his grasp, the blade clattering to the ground.
The fight is over.
He steps back, panting and shaking his head in confusion. I'm sure that he doesn’t understand what just happened, why his sword suddenly felt so heavy, why he couldn’t land a single blow. But he won’t question it. He’ll just chalk it up to my skill and I’ll let him believe that.
“Impressive, Monterys,” Rhogar says as he approaches, clapping lightly. There’s a hint of sarcasm in his tone, but he’s smiling. He looked proud. He knows I don’t take this seriously, but he doesn’t care. At least I’m participating, and for him, that’s enough.
“You think?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my brow, even though I barely exerted myself.
He smirks. “Don’t get too cocky.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then you won’t refuse me the honour of sparing with Monterys the undefeated.”
I can’t stop the groan hearing the name. Why do the Westerosi need to give a name to everything, a title to everyone?!
It's not cool, it's cringe. My brother knows I hate that title.
“I accept,” I told him because I want to wipe the smirk out of your face I don’t say out loud. I'm going to bruise his face so much that our dead mother wouldn’t be able to love him.
*scene*
After a satisfying bullying training session, I head down to the harbour. I’ve always liked it there, away from the stuffy halls and prying eyes. The docks are alive with activity, ships coming and going, sailors shouting orders, and the smell of salt and fish heavy in the air. It’s chaotic, but there’s something calming about it. It feels like a calm before the storm.
All know, from the highest noble to the lowest peasant that the moment Viserys the rotten may he burn in hell bites the dust, there’ll be a fight for the throne, one between dragons.
They all rightly fear such thing. After all, three dragons were all that were needed to conquer Westeros. There are much more than three dragons in Westeros. The memories of the field of fire hadn’t disappeared yet from the minds of a lot of people.
The Sea Mist is tied up at the end of the dock, one of Corlys’s smaller ships, but still a marvel of craftsmanship. I’ve always had a fondness for ships. Maybe it’s the Velaryon blood in me, the pull of the sea, or maybe it’s just that boats are fun to mess with when you can control gravity.
I step aboard, nodding to the crew as I make my way to the bow. They know me well enough not to bother me, and I appreciate that. Once I’m at the front, I sit down, dangling my legs over the edge, and look out at the horizon.
It’s quiet here. Peaceful. And more importantly, it’s a place where I can let loose without anyone noticing.
I close my eyes and focus on the ship beneath me. Slowly, gently, I reduce the gravity on the hull, just enough to make it lighter. The Sea Mist starts to rise, barely an inch, but enough that it feels like the ship is floating on air. The ropes strain against the moorings, and the crew looks around in confusion, but no one suspects anything. It’s subtle, a trick of the sea and the wind, they’ll say. Nothing more. I would have done more if it was at night. I'm sure that I had inspired legends of flying in the sailors of Westeros.
I let the ship settle back into the water, the creaking wood easing as gravity returns to normal. It’s such a simple thing, controlling gravity, but there’s something about it that I find endlessly amusing. Maybe it’s the power, or maybe it’s just that it makes everything so much easier. Like when I helped Silent Tide cut through the air just a little faster during a ship race, or when I sped up a trip across Blackwater Bay by making the ship glide over the water like a leaf. It’s all subtle, all easy, and no one ever suspects a thing.
Sometimes I wonder how far I could take it. Could I bend light around me, make myself invisible? Could I crush an entire fleet just by increasing the gravity on their ships until they sank beneath the waves? Could I create a whirlpool, a vortex of gravitational force that would swallow everything in its path?
I haven’t tried yet. Not because I’m afraid, but because it’s too much effort. And besides, what’s the point? Westeros is already a mess without me adding to it and me, I just want to laze around in peace as long as possible.
*scene*
Later, back in my quarters, I lie on the oversized bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s late now, the sounds of the bustling harbor replaced by the soft hum of the sea and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. Driftmark is quieter at night, more peaceful. The kind of peace that makes you think too much.
The bed’s ridiculously soft, by the way—an overstuffed monstrosity of a mattress that feels like it could swallow you whole. I’m not sure if I prefer it to my old one, back before I was Monterys Velaryons, back in my past life, Back when things were simpler, in a way. No dragons, no feuding families, no Targaryen bastards running around pretending they belong on the Iron Throne.
Just homework, video games, shitty parents, a fucked up health and the occasional existential crisis.
I sit up and glance around my room. Even after all this time, I’m not used to it. The walls are lined with rich tapestries, depicting everything from sea battles to dragons. My bed is draped in fine silks, the floor covered in furs from distant lands. And then there’s the furniture—intricately carved, polished to a shine, each piece worth more than most commoners would see in their entire lives.
It’s ridiculous, honestly. The sheer amount of wealth just sitting here, doing nothing. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s weird, you know? Living in what amounts to a medieval castle, surrounded by riches, while knowing how unnecessary it all is. Back in my old life, I never cared that much for luxury. Saying that I didn't would be a lie. Now I have it in spades, and it feels… hollow.
Still, there are perks. For one, I get to live like a king. For another, I get to tinker.
There’s a small basin in the corner of the room, filled with fresh water. I stand and walk over to it, dipping my hands into the cool liquid, splashing it onto my face. It’s a luxury here—clean water. Most of the peasants in Westeros probably don’t bathe regularly, if at all. But me? I bathe almost obsessively.
Because let’s be honest: I don’t want to die of some medieval disease. Can you imagine? I am lucky enough for reincarnation, gain gravity powers, and then die because I caught some random infection from not washing my hands. Embarrassing.
I lean over the basin and look at my reflection in the rippling water. Silver hair, Valyrian features, pale skin, deep violet eyes. I look almost nothing like I did in my old life. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d think I was a Targaryen. The Valyrian blood runs deep in the Velaryon line, almost as much as it does in the dragonlords even if it doesn't show that much with Corlys and some of my cousins and siblings.
One of the first thing that made me known that this world was a mix of the books and the show was literally the appearance of my uncles and my father.
This world followed the rules that people of Valyrian descent got silver hair and purple eyes and pale skin.
It was the case for the Velaryon Family too when my grandfather unlike in the books in one of his travels fell in love with a summer islander princess when he was already betrothed to a Valyrian-looking bride.
Anyway, my uncle Corwin even though she was foreingee decided to marry her against the wishes of most people of the house at that time I was thought.
It was a scandal in and all of itself. My father and his brothers were the result and honestly that was lame.
It was as if someone wanted to mix the books and the show so created lazy and stupid explanations. Probably somebody who was bullied constantly by Fromsoft games and who needed to go outside and touch some grass.
Anyways, daddy dearest married with a Celtigar girl and Tada, we had my older brothers and me with many variations in appearance.
It’s funny, really. All this power, all this wealth, and I’m just another piece on the board. A minor player in the grand game of thrones. And it’s not like I’m expected to inherit anything either. I’m not the heir or the spare, just the nephew of the great Sea Snake. But still, there are expectations.
As a noble of House Velaryon, I’m expected to do certain things. Fight with a sword, represent the house in court, sail the seas like a proper sailor. All of it is important, or so they say. It’s not enough to just exist as a noble. You have to play the game, live up to the family name.
My father, is long dead. Died years The only sibling my uncle Corlys had left was Vaemond, and we all know how that ended. All that talk about family and legacy and duty and Corlys canonically ruined it all because of his ambition.
Vaemond… uncle Vaemond, he of the strategic genius to call the heir to the Iron Throne’s children bastards. I snort at the thought. He was right, sure, but in Westeros, being right doesn’t matter. What matters is who you say it to. And Vaemond had the gall to say it in front of King Viserys and Daemon Targaryen, who, as far as I can tell, gets his kicks from murdering people in creative ways.
It must have hurt Corlys to lose his last sibling like that, even if Vaemond was being an idiot. He didn’t show it, of course. The Sea Snake never shows weakness, not in front of anyone. But I imagine, behind all that cold composure, there was a part of him that regretted how things ended. I was sure that this is why he had been so much at sea those last year's after the death of Laenor and Laena. Family matters in Westeros, after all. Even if it doesn’t always make sense.
But me? I don’t really care. I’ve died once already, and after that, nothing really seems to stick. All of this—family, honor, power—feels like a distant dream, something other people obsess over while I float through it all, detached and indifferent.
That’s the thing, though. People expect me to care. They expect me to train, to fight, to help secure House Velaryon’s future in this coming war. The Dance of the Dragons, they’re calling it. It’s a fancy name for what will probably be a bloodbath. Dragons burning cities, brothers killing brothers, all for a throne that doesn’t really mean anything in the end.
I splash more water on my face, wiping away the stray droplets with the back of my hand. The future’s coming whether I want it to or not. But honestly? I just can’t bring myself to give a damn.
Comments
Antonio Adams
This is actually really good. And I don't usually like game of thrones fanfiction
