Chapter XI: the Wake up call is coming

Sleeping was, without a doubt, my favorite occupation. In dreams, everything became lighter, simpler—fading away in an instant, taking the weight of consciousness with it. I could let go of the tangled strings that bound my mind to the world around me, the thick strands of greed, ambition, and violence that tangled this world together. Dreams were a reprieve, a place where all the plots, intrigues, and petty scraps for power could melt into nothing. In that liminal space, I didn’t have to think about this world that had once only been ink on a page to me, a world as far away as a forgotten childhood, but now—a reality, breathing and snarling around me. Sleeping, as small and uninspired as it may sound, let me escape, even if only for a moment, from the theater of fools that was Westeros.

Out there, beyond my dreams, men fought for a throne of melted blades, for titles they couldn’t carry into the grave, with ambitions as fleeting as winter sunlight. It was almost laughable, really, how they clung to these illusions of control. Greed and ruthlessness pulsed through this place like blood through veins, driving everyone to plot, to scramble, to kill. I wanted no part in it. Here, in my own dreams, I could imagine a different world—one without their machinations, without the ceaseless hunger for dominance. Here, I could be free of the chains they clamped on themselves willingly, all in pursuit of that glittering, empty prize. Here I could simply be, simply relax, simply laze around, simply breathe.

Yet, sometimes, a creeping thought would slither into my mind, whispering that perhaps I too was just another character in a story, words on a page written for someone’s amusement. The notion was absurd, of course, but in the quiet moments, it itched at the edge of my awareness. Perhaps this, all of this, was only a tale told by someone else. I would sometimes think about and stop because what would be the point of caring if it was or was not, if that were true, what difference would it make? This Life, real or not, was tiresome all the same.

Tonight, as in many of my dreams, I opened my eyes to the same place I often found myself—a place that felt like home, in ways Driftmark never had and never could. Not even my first life had held this kind of belonging, the feeling of being exactly where I should be. This was the Royal Moongazing Ground, a place where stillness seemed to breathe. The air felt heavy, not with tension or fear, but with an ancient calmness, as if the very stones and trees were holding their breath, waiting. As I stepped onto the terrace, a cold breeze brushed past me, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the faint, mossy perfume of ancient stones.

The terrace opened up wide to the night, and there, against the dark sky, hung a massive, glowing moon, casting everything in a soft, silver light that felt almost sacred. Shadows melted into pools of darkness, hugging the stones and clinging to the roots of small plants that had fought their way through the cracks. Tiny blue flowers dotted the ground like stars fallen from the sky, their petals gleaming faintly, a gift from the moon itself.

I leaned against the carved balustrade, feeling the cool stone ground me as I looked up. The moon was framed by jagged spires and arches, a lone guardian in the indigo sky, casting its light over everything—the stones, the flowers, even my shadow. Standing there alone, I felt like a part of this place, connected to something far older and wiser than any mortal whim.

But tonight, something was different. The sky seemed heavy, thick with a strange, purplish hue that reminded me of the same shade my powers took on. It felt as if a storm was brewing, a storm that wasn’t born of clouds or wind but of something darker, angrier. The air hummed with an energy I hadn’t felt before, and I could almost hear whispers rising from the ground itself, faint voices crying, lamenting, filled with a raw, relentless fury.

"Unfortunate," I muttered, almost bored, watching the horizon darken as if it were an unfolding play. I had liked the calm here; it had been a perfect sanctuary. But I guessed I would have to change the scenery now, seeing as the quiet peace of this place was slipping away. I stayed there, unbothered, unconcerned by the wailing voices around me, undisturbed by their suffering or fury. It was only a dream, after all.

A voice, low and dripping with something I could only call disgust, broke through the murmurs. "Woah, you’re really an asshole."

It was a neat trick. The second the voice sounded, the chorus of whispers fell silent, the cacophony of anguish melting into silence as if obeying a command. "Neat," I thought, appreciating the newfound quiet. I considered turning around, maybe offering a nod of thanks, or just to see who this intruder was, but the effort seemed unnecessary. I was too comfortable here, too wrapped in my own indifference to bother.

And anyway, this was my dream. Why waste energy on something inconsequential?

"Woah," the voice sounded again, both impressed and irritated. "You’re truly a lazy asshole."

I didn’t need to look to know that whoever it was had stepped up beside me. I kept my gaze fixed on the moon, noting with mild interest that it was full tonight. That was… neat.

The voice spoke again, sharper now, almost vibrating with anger. I sighed, feeling a twinge of disappointment. Somehow, I knew I wouldn’t be left alone tonight to enjoy the moonlight. Today really wasn’t my day wasn’t it? It seemed like I couldn’t even find peace in my own dreams. What a drag.

Resigned, I finally turned, and my gaze landed on something unexpected—a living mirror, someone who looked exactly like me. Everything was the same, down to the smallest detail, except for one thing: his hair, which was a dark, unsettling shade of scarlet, like a sea of blood under a setting sun. Not quite orange, not quite red, but a deep, scarlet shade that shimmered faintly under the moonlight.

"Cool," I thought, a small, lazy smile tugging at my lips. Maybe if Westeros ever became too insufferable, I’d leave and dye my hair that color kinda like A fuck you against the Velaryons, the Targaryens, and their obsession with Valyrian blood and purity and a way to not be found. But it’d be a hassle, and I’d likely have servants do it if I ever went through with the idea.

“What’s up,” I said, raising a hand in a lazy greeting.

The scarlet-haired version of me muttered under his breath, “Honestly, why did I expect anything else?”

He studied me with eyes that were almost hostile. "Do you regret it?" he asked, voice cold, edged with anger.

"Regret what?" I replied, shrugging. "You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done a lot of things lately."

His gaze hardened, and there was a quiet rage simmering beneath his calm. "Do you regret not saving your uncle Vaemond when you could? Do you regret letting your cousins and brothers, save Rhogar, lose their tongues?" His voice grew sharper. "Do you regret not changing the fates of Laenor and Laena when you knew what would happen? Or destroying a kingdom for a boy who isn’t even of your blood?"

He paused, his voice dropping to a barely contained snarl. "Do you regret condemning hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, to suffering because of that meteor?"

I shrugged, the weight of his accusations rolling off me. "I guess I would’ve preferred if I didn’t have to do things that’ll probably my keep me busier than I would like, that would probably stop me from lazing around like I did before today in the future. But what's done is done. No point crying over spilt milk." Regrets, I thought, had a way of sinking into your bones, weighing you down. And burdened was the last thing I wanted to be.

More than that, why should I care? This wasn’t my world, not really. The Velaryons weren’t truly my family. They were just people I happened to share space with. Obligations? Expectations? They meant nothing to me.

The scarlet-haired version of me stared with a disgust that was almost tangible. "You deserve the worst. You were given power—enough to change the world—and all you did was sit back and do nothing."

Purple eyes blazing, he continued, "If you’d been evil, at least there would be a reason for your apathy. But you did nothing. Nothing for your family, nothing for anyone. You wasted everything."

"Hey," I muttered, almost, almost being mildly offended. "Lucerys reminded me of—"

But he kept going, ignoring me completely, voice ringing with fury. "You have the power of a demigod, the strength of someone once called the Starscourge, and you’re nothing but a disappointment. Why do you have that power? You don’t deserve it."

"Your words could hurt me, you know," I drawled, the sarcasm coating my tone, though it didn’t touch me. His accusations were no more bothersome than the buzz of a distant fly.

He glared, his red hair catching the moonlight, making him look almost otherworldly. "Yeah, maybe I'm not worthy. Someone else would have done more. Freed slaves in Essos, conquered a kingdom, raised their house’s name to new heights. But worthiness is a construct, a hollow thing. I have the power, and that's all there is to it."

The other me shook his head, almost in disbelief, as though my words were too much to bear. He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and pity, as if he couldn’t fathom how someone so similar to himself could be so completely… disinterested.

"You’re truly a boring, lazy excuse for a person," he spat, voice dripping with contempt.

The air around us began to distort, the once-clear image of the terrace rippling like a reflection disturbed by a stone tossed into a pond. The ancient stones, the soft light of the moon, the delicate flowers—all of it began to fade, blurring together as if washed away by some unseen tide.

I blinked, realizing that the world was slipping away. ‘Looks like I’m waking up,’ I thought to myself. ‘Nice, I guess.’

The other me leaned closer, his expression twisting into something unnatural, something that didn't quite belong in this world—or any world, really. His scarlet eyes gleamed with a predatory gleam, his lips stretching into a grin too wide, too sharp, almost like a Cheshire smile.

"Lazing around, huh?" he whispered, his voice low and mocking. "I know your future, but I won’t tell you. I can see it, and trust me—" his grin widened, baring teeth that looked sharper than they had any right to be—"I can’t wait to watch. I can't wait to see it unfold, a future where you’ll suffer, where you’ll be broken, where every desire of yours will turn to ash."

I scoffed, unimpressed. The notion was laughable. I could bend the stars themselves to my will if I cared enough to try. I could stop the Earth rotation if I ever wished to do so. I could probably do so much more. What could possibly make me suffer? His words felt as hollow as the threats of all the kings and lords of Westeros who thought they held real power.

‘Right,’ I thought, brushing off his warning as little more than the ramblings of some residual guilt I hadn’t even realized was festering within me. ‘Or maybe someone’s trying to mess with me, Bloodraven style.’

"Yeah, whatever," I muttered aloud, rolling my eyes at him. "Hopefully I’ll never see you again." I turned back to the moon, hoping to catch one last glimpse of its serene beauty before the dream ended.

But the last thing I saw wasn’t the moon. It was his gaze, filled with a hatred so deep, so consuming, that it seemed to reach out to me, clawing at my soul. And then, just like that, the world went dark.

*scene*

I blinked, still half-lost in that fading dream, my eyes closed as the real world trickled back into my awareness. The remnants of that strange encounter with my scarlet-haired doppelgänger clung to me like smoke, hazy and insubstantial. ‘Weird,’ I thought, but shrugged it off. Just a dream, just my subconscious twisting itself into some ridiculous caricature. There was no reason to worry. After all, what could possibly happen that would change anything? What were the chances of anything wrong happening?

Still lying on my back, I decided to let the memory of the dream drift away, to melt back into oblivion. There was no need to dwell on it. But when I finally opened my eyes, I was greeted by something I hadn’t expected.

Above me, looming in the dim morning light, was a woman—a maid or maybe a lady-in-waiting, I couldn’t be sure. Her face was shadowed, but her eyes… her eyes were a mixture of raw hatred and pure, unbridled fear. In her hand, she clutched a knife, its blade trembling ever so slightly as she held it poised over my head.

For a moment, our gazes met. Hers was wild, desperate, as if she’d convinced herself this was her only chance at… something. Retribution? Liberation? Or maybe it was simply the reckless act of a person pushed too far. I didn’t really care.

‘Really?’ I thought, almost sighing internally. The effort of rolling out of bed, of dealing with yet another annoyance, felt like too much. Was it really too much to ask to be allowed to laze around in peace?

Her grip tightened, and in that fleeting instant, she made her choice. The knife glinted in the dawn’s first light as she plunged it downward.

I watched, unmoved, as the blade descended. ‘Is it too much to ask,’ I thought, resigned, ‘to be left alone?’