The Prince that Was Promised (Kris/Chanyeol) 2/?
the prince that was promised [dance of the dragons] | krisyeol | pg-13-possible nc-17 later on | chapter 2 | game of thrones au | tightly based on a song of ice and fire series, yifan of house targaryen marries into the dothraki khalasar
tw: mentions of rape, gore, violence, and asoiaf spoilers
nothing here belongs to me. a song of ice and fire belongs to satan in the flesh aka george r r martin and exo belongs to sm. free the slaves dany. I tried to put a spin on the story to avoid spoilers but just in case heavy asoiaf spoilers
chapter one
✿It was as if all the strength floated out of Chanyeol’s body. Was this a jape? The Targaryens were all killed. He remembered the story his father told him; Lord Tywin Lannister wrapping the corpses of Princess Rhaenys and her infant brother, along with her little nephew in the red Lannister cloaks to mask the blood. Would his father lie to him, and the entire realm? What did he say once; he still believes the Targaryens could be trusted?
“You could close your mouth, if it please you.” The blue l- Yifan, told Chanyeol in the most perfect Common Tongue that Chanyeol could ever discern. Chanyeol ungraciously snapped his jaw closed, but started to sputter.
“You just- you just spoke the Common Tongue!” Very unlike him, he pointed at Yifan’s handsome face.
“I’ve always been able to speak it.” The Targaryen answered coolly.
“But you’ve been pretending never to speak it?”
“High Valyrian is my mother tongue. I am more comfortable speaking it,” Yifan huffed, violet eyes shining. “But if you’re forgetting your place, we have a khalasar to attend to.” He glanced back at the Blood Riders. “Forgive me,” Yifan’s Dothraki was never as convincing as Chanyeol’s; guess you can’t be fluent in everything. “My ward has forgotten himself.”
“You’re the King?” One of the Blood Riders looked at Yifan.
“He’s not really a king,” Chanyeol begun to speak.
“He doesn’t have a crown,” the other Blood Rider cut Chanyeol off. “A King with no crown.” He spat again.
“The Iron Throne is mine by rights,” Yifan declared, ignoring the Blood Rider’s slight. “The Baratheon Usurper has stolen my birthright. I am going to retake the Seven Kingdoms.”
Khal Bharqo laughed, a deep bass rumbling from his great chest. “A crownless king, but an ambitious one. Not all kings have glittery things on their head.” He shifted in his saddle, his red stallion motionless in response.
Illyrio nodded vigorously, jowls flapping comically. Chanyeol prayed the earth would swallow him whole. “I have promised the great Khal that his beloved lady sister would wed a king, and Yifan is a king,” he interjected. “My lady Irizhea, you will have noble sons with the most ancient and prestigious bloodline.”
“Only the best for the future Khaleesi,” the other woman on the horse replied in heavily accented Common Tongue. “You will give her many sons, no?” Yifan nodded.
“Can you ride a horse?” Irizhea asked, the question sounding so innocent. Yifan lost all his coolness and flushed; Irizhea’s charms not lost on him either.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied, a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid my skill in riding isn’t as strong as your lord brother-“ The Blood Rider spat again at the earth. He really needs to stop that. Chanyeol frowned at the sight- “but I can ride.”
“Good. A Khal who cannot ride is no true Khal.” Irizhea seemed playful, and Chanyeol was glad that at least the couple-to-be liked each other enough.
Khal Bharqo coughed loudly, the sound of something wet and thick emerging from his throat. Chanyeol’s eyes fluttered close so he wouldn’t have to see. Irizhea put a hand on her brother’s massive thigh, concern shining in her eyes. “We have ridden for three days,” Irizhea’s handmaiden explained. “The Khal must rest.”
“Certanly,” Illyrio agreed. “The wedding will be on the morrow. My servants are preparing a magnificent fete for this grand occasion.”
“I’ll be the judge of the fete, fat lord,” The spitting Blood Rider japed at Illyrio. Illyrio seemed to not have heard the jape.
“Tomorrow, on the Southern Coast by the grass roads,” Illyrio reminded the horse lords. “Enough gifts and food for your entire khalasar.” Irizhea made way back to her horse, climbing on it so gracefully Yifan ungraciously stared at the sight. Khal Bharqo noticed, a rough grin spreading across his face.
“Does she please you?” He asked.
“She most certainly does, my great Khal.” Yifan bowed. Irizhea blushed and a pang of jealousy ripped through Chanyeol’s chest. After a few courtesies, the horsed party galloped off, leaving a trail of dust clouding the air.
“That was truly the most courteous khalasar I have ever courted with,” Illyrio commented.
Chanyeol looked back at Yifan, trying to understand what was going on. Is this what his lord father wanted of him, to treat with a Targaryen that was supposed to be dead, and to help said Targaryen retake the Seven Kingdoms? House Arryn was sworn to His Grace of House Baratheon, and Chanyeol would never go against the King’s fealty. Why would his father want him to betray the Crown?
Yifan noticed Chanyeol’s stare, purple eyes boring into the lord. “It is rude to stare,” he said pointedly, tone light.
Chanyeol blushed again. Far too much just occurred in such a short amount of time; he felt overwhelmed. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“Your Grace,” Yifan corrected. “I will sit on the Iron Throne, and you’re going to help me get there,” he considered his words for a moment. “Or die trying.” He added, turning on his heel to return back to the manse.
Illyrio glided over to Yifan’s side, his massive girth jiggling, Chanyeol closely behind the two. “Does the lady Irizhea truly please you?”
“She is pleasant upon the eyes and strong like her brother. Fearless, I imagine. I feel like I am not her equal, I’m afraid.”
“She’ll be at your beck and call, to do anything you desire. You can command the entire khalasar to wait in the harshest conditions to have your Khaleesi at your pleasure.”
Yifan stopped and looked at Illyrio, violet eyes hard. “That’s not the kind of man I am,” his tone soft, but Chanyeol could feel the menace in his voice. The Targaryen was insulted. “I want to be a great king, and first I must start with becoming a great man. That means not treating my wife only as someone to share my bed.”
If Illyrio knew he was being scolded, he sure didn’t act like it. “Spoken like a true king,” he chirped. “The Khal liked you enough.”
“His Blood Riders found the future king to be a jape.” Chanyeol added in dryly.
Yifan shrugged. “They’ll have to like me,” he said. “Khal Bharqo will name me as his successor on the time of his death, passing control of the Blood Riders and the khalasar to me. They are blood of my blood, so to speak.”
“My- Your Grace,” Chanyeol tried again. “I still don’t understand why my father had me come to you. What debt does my father owe that is so great that he had me sent here to be your ward?”
“Illyrio never told you?”
“Lord Illyrio never told me Your Grace’s true name until today, hence my surprise.”
Yifan raised his pale eyebrows at the fat Magister. “You never told him?”
“Ah, it must have slipped my mind.” Illyrio’s nonchalance aggravated Chanyeol. “But the letter! Of course! If you’ll pardon me, Your Grace.” He hurried off into one of the many corridors of the manse, leaving the two men alone.
Yifan looked a true Targaryen enough. With all the dye washed out of his hair, Yifan looked immortally beautiful, Chanyeol would admit. From what his lord father told him, all Targaryens had pale hair silvery gold hair and their eyes either black or a deep violet. If Illyrio said that Yifan’s father was Aerys II and his mother Rhaella, then Yifan was the by-product of an incestuous marriage, common to Targaryens. But his father also said, “Whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin to see if the child would be a genius, or a lunatic.” Was Yifan the Prince that Was Promised, or would he be like his father?
“You’re staring,” Yifan said softly, violet eyes piercing through Chanyeol.
Chanyeol blushed. “F-forgive me, Your Grace.”
Yifan sighed. “I guess since the Baratheon Usurper is on the Iron Throne, and I’m not yet truly wed to Irizhea, I’m not a king just yet. Commanding you to say Your Grace was too presumptuous of me. Forgive me.”
“It’s nothing to forgive… I suppose I’ll have to get used to calling you that sooner or later, no?”
A slight smile crept on Yifan’s face, and Chanyeol could notice the Targaryen prince’s shoulders relaxing. Illyrio returned in a flourish, sweating from all the hurrying he did. He brandished an aged piece of parchment in his giant fist, handing the letter to Chanyeol.
“This arrived three months before you did. Slipped my mind, it did.” Chanyeol unfolded the letter, immediately recognizing his father’s faded scrawl.
To the Magister Illyrio of Pentos
It has been brought to my attention by a mutual Spider of ours by the name of Lord Sehun that a certain personage has been brought into your care. I have only recently found out that Ser Willem Darry died of sickness long ago. I pray to the Seven to guide his spirit, and to forgive me for the sins I have committed.
I know who this personage is, and for to spare prying eyes from this letter I will not mention the name of your personage. I just hope you will keep him safe, and maybe one day he’ll return to Westeros.
It’s been so long ago, and I am unsure if the personage remembers anything fifteen years ago. He was two when all the chaos and bloodshed happened. Our Spider switched the little prince with a Lyseni toddler, and stole him away while I was with Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon. I watched the two I have considered my sons usurp the capital and kill the Mad King. We agreed we were only to remove Aerys from his throne, to save Westeros from his lunacy. But my Lord Baratheon, hard-headed and foolish but valiant, had slain The Silver Prince into the earth. Ser Amory killed the child princess, just shy of her fourth nameday, with half a hundred thrusts of his sword. None of the family was spared. But it was for the good of the realm, they said. I couldn’t accept this, and neither could Lord Stark. The babes deserved better.
I became Hand of the King under His Grace Baratheon, to advise him and to govern the realm to return the Seven Kingdoms to its former glory. But His Grace has lost sight of his duties as king. He has bedded every whore and tavern wench in every hold. I have watched the strong and ambitious lord I have taught turn into a lecherous, violent, and gluttonous ruler. I feel as if his children are not his trueborn heirs as well; the royal family of Baratheon and Lannister are rife with deceit.
I am an old Hand, and I want to repay for the pain I have caused this young personage. I know not what he has gone through, and I want the boy to have a chance at a life he had a right to.
In the coming months I will send my eldest son, Chanyeol, Ascendant Lord Protector of the Vale as penance. He is a learned, obedient, yet stubborn young man, but the seed is strong in him. I want to make him a sign as House Arryn’s loyalty to this personage. We have never met, and unfortunately we may never meet, should this ever succeed, but our certain interest links us together. Let me send Chanyeol to Pentos to one day watch over the personage, so the boy can return home and earn what is his by rights.
As High as Honor
By the hand of Hyunjin “Jon” Arryn, Hand of the King
-does the boy know why we did it? Does he know it was for the good of the realm?Chanyeol put the letter down, eyes threatening to mist with tears. A grown man mustn’t cry, he thought, but his father’s overwhelming sense of honor overcame him. Why me? Does Yifan know that it was for the good of the realm?
“Your lord father realized the errors of his decisions when the Usurper took the Throne,” Yifan continued when Chanyeol regained himself. “You come from an honorable man, Lord Arryn, and I mean to honor his wish by returning to Westeros with the grandest army the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and take back what is mine by rights. Remember your words: As High as Honor, and you will be able to go back to the Eyrie as Lord Protector of the Vale once more.”
・
The wind blew and ripped at the banners, but the leathers Chanyeol changed into forbade him the luxury of feeling the breeze. I feel like a sweaty tavern wench sandwiched between sellswords, he grimaced, the stench of roasting meat from several cookfires permeated his nostrils.
For all Chanyeol’s worrying, the wedding ceremony wasn’t too awful. Words from the healers bound Yifan and Irizhea’s souls together, praying for Irizhea’s fertility and Yifan’s leadership. Yifan cloaked Irizhea in his coat of arms; a three headed dragon in a field of black. Illyrio had Chanyeol shed his finery and change into boiled leathers, and to stand by Yifan the whole ceremony. Irizhea was given five handmaidens; Irri, who was also Irizhea’s translator, Jhiqui, a Lyseni pleasure slave named Doreah (she looked no older than three-and-ten), Mazzhi, and Jhezane. Khal Bharqo gave Yifan control of his ten Blood Riders. “If you can best us in a fight, you could be one of the silver prince’s Riders,” the Blood Rider Moqorro mocked at Chanyeol. I’m going to have to do a lot of ignoring, he thought, and merely smiled at the Dothraki screamer.
Chanyeol’s gift to the couple were books on the Common Tongue for Irizhea. “So you and your lord husband can converse freely together, in whichever tongue you wish, Khaleesi.” He said to the beautiful bride. All else he could give her was a small necklace that was dear to his lady mother, and the promise of defending her should the need arise. What do you give a prince? Chanyeol stared into the handsome face of the Targaryen prince, who stared back, a bit expectant.
“I give you my word, on the honor of House Arryn, the Great House of the Vale in Westeros, I, Chanyeol, the First of my Name, son of Hyunjin Arryn, current Hand of the King under the Usurper Baratheon, and Lord of the Vale, swear fealty to House Targaryen. I give my fealty to Yifan Targaryen, the true King of Westeros. My sword is yours, my house is yours, and my life is yours. As High as Honor.” He bowed low and unsheathed his sword, as an act of fealty.
Yifan took it. “Rise, Lord Arryn,” he said. “Your fealty is noted. I accept the honor and value your gift as my sworn shield, and I will reward your greatly when we go back home.” The way he said home ached in Chanyeol’s chest. He means it.
Illyrio had a myriad of gifts, most of it servants from his house, trunks of silks and fine treasures for Irizhea. A Valyrian steel blade for Yifan, named Dragonrender. Its sheath was black and jeweled with rubies, and its pommel a dark red gemstone. The blade a flawless slate, dark as night but smooth and supple.
“Another thing, Your Grace.” Illyrio called for Quathi and another nameless servant to carry a small wooden chest. The wood of the chest was aged and creaked when it shook. The servants opened the chest in front of Yifan, and Chanyeol didn’t need anyone to tell what it was; the look on Yifan’s face confirmed its contents. “Dragon eggs, from the shadowlands of Asshai,” Illyrio explained. There were three, each the size of his head. The dust that covered them barely covered their iridescent beauty. One was a red as the pommel on Dragonrender, the other a pale ivory that glinted like Yifan’s hair, and the third one a dark onyx. “They’ve been petrified for over a hundred years, but a beautiful keepsake; three to symbolize the dragons of House Targaryen.”
Yifan picked the onyx egg up, admiration pooling in his eyes. “Thank you, Magister.” A dazzling smile crept up on his face, and Chanyeol could see it was genuine. It truly touched the Targaryen’s heart. Illyrio bowed, and stepped back with his servants.
If Illyrio called this a feast, then he needed to rethink the definition of a proper fete. It was outdoors, as most Dothraki wanted to be anywhere a horse was allowed to walk. A small herd of goats the Dothraki acquired after recently raiding a village west of Norvos were put to slaughter in front of the new bride and groom. Yifan didn’t blink at the bloodshed and Irizhea merely turned her head to glance at her handmaidens. The couple was seated next to the Khal, who sat in the center of the fete, while Chanyeol and Illyrio sat to the left of the Khal, watching as lords from the other Free Cities give gifts of goods or slaves to the couple or swear their fealty to the exiled House Targaryen. Between the mixture of goat slaughtering, horse riding, and public nudity, Chanyeol didn’t know where to look. The Khal took a gulp of wine, one of the many gifts from Illyrio, and barked for the entertainment. Chanyeol stole glances at the newlyweds, noting how neither of them looked at each other. Yifan kept rubbing his palms together and looking down at his boots. Was he nervous? Chanyeol would’ve laughed if this were different circumstances.
The last wedding Chanyeol ever went to was of Ser Creighton Redfort to Lady Joanna of House Swyft. It was his duty to attend as many weddings of his house’s sworn bannermen. Lady Joanna was a trembling girl at fifteen, small breasted and thin. She stumbled at her vows and teared up when Ser Redfort cloaked her in his coat of arms. Chanyeol just assumed she was just so happy she was finally getting married. Even when he was surrounded by his father’s bannermen, the wedding was a dreary bore. The most exciting thing was when Ser Andar Royce aimed his portion of lamprey pie at Ser Corbray but it landed on a serving girl instead. No lamprey pies were being served at this wedding, but a leg of roasted goat sailed through the air and landed on the dusty earth, blood and grease staining the dirt. A child of six ran up to meat and picked it up anyhow, biting deep into the half-cooked flesh. Illyrio laughed at the sight and slapped his great belly.
Two Dothraki screamers circled each other in the clearing. Chanyeol learned that at a Dothraki wedding ceremony, several men would fight to prove their leal service and strength to the khalasar. It would be rude if he didn’t watch the battle. The fighters looked to be Chanyeol’s age, one lean as a deer and the other a hulking warrior with a belly almost as big as Illyrio’s. Both carried the curved arakh blades, crude iron swords that looked like giant fishhooks. The giant warrior let out a guttural cry and charged the lean fighter, arakh blades clashing in a jarring fury.
“The bigger fighter has the most strength,” Illyrio commented. “But the smaller one has the most stamina.” The Magister was right; the bigger warrior was showing signs of slowing down after three minutes of fighting. He kept swinging aimlessly, the lean warrior sidestepping gracefully. The smaller warrior sliced at the bigger man’s chest, and the bigger warrior cried out as blood seeped from the cut. He instinctively put his arm up to stop the blood, but his carelessness gave the smaller fighter an opportunity to strike, his arakh cutting into the thick neck of his opponent. Blood gushing from two gashes, the giant warrior collapsed to his knees and choked for air, but died in shame as the smaller fighter took his braid and hacked it off, proudly displaying the sawed off hair to the cheering onlookers. Chanyeol heard the Khal laugh and demand for another challenger. The young warrior was so into his victory he failed to notice another fighter wielding two arakh blades charging behind him. In an instant the new fighter lopped off the young warrior’s sword hand, and the warrior barely knew what happened to him before two blades pierced his stomach and eviscerated him, his entrails spilling from his abdomen. The most strangled cry erupted from his lips, and Chanyeol could’ve sworn he heard the word “Mother”, before the young warrior died and his braid was taken from his head; his corpse lying on top of the man he killed moments before.
“A wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair.” Illyrio mentioned, eating a handful of grapes. Yifan stared on, stone-faced, and Irizhea focused on the needlework on the Targaryen coat of arms. Irizhea, not familiar with the Common Tongue, struggled to ask Yifan what the coat of arms were.
“They’re dragons.” Yifan answered, smiling slightly at his new wife. Irri, Irizhea’s translator, spoke for her Khaleesi.
“What are dragons?” Gods be good, she’s too pure for this harsh life. Another warrior fell, his braid sliced off by another fighter.
“They’re like birds, but bigger. Way bigger. Bigger than horses.”
Irizhea’s giggle mingled with the cries of Dothraki men dying. “There’s nothing greater than a horse.”
“Quite, my lady, but dragons were so big a man could ride on its back, and could eat a horse whole. Covered in scales, like a snake.”
“Do they have three heads?”
“None did, my lady. The three heads stood for my ancestors who settled in Dragonstone- Aegon I, who rode Balerion the Dread, and his two sisters Rhaenys and Visenya, who rode Meraxes and Vhagar.”
“Do dragons still exist?” The simple question brought a flash of sadness in Yifan’s purple eyes. He looked at his petrified dragon eggs.
“The last one died a hundred fifty years ago.” He said softly. He continued to watch the carnage, as eight Dothraki warriors fell to arakh blades or arrows, a small pile of braids laid in a dusty heap. The air was rank with blood, sweat, and smoke. Some of the warriors who have killed others, took women and mounted them from behind, taking them at their pleasure in front of the khalasar. Chanyeol blinked and didn’t let his true emotions show.
“Let’s see if this little lord can fight with the rest of us!” The Blood Rider Arroyo, Khal Bharqo’s most trusted fighter, crowed at the Lord of the Vale. He sloshed his wine in front of his bare chest, and had his arm wrapped around a pleasure slave, hand cupping her breast. He was obviously drunk. Chanyeol knew Arroyo meant Yifan, but as it was Yifan’s wedding, and Chanyeol was acting as his sworn shield, it meant Chanyeol was to fight in Yifan’s stead.
“If you don’t mind, my ward Lord Chanyeol will fight in my stead.” Yifan said politely. “I am currently engaging with my lady wife.”
“So soft, this silver haired lord.” Arroyo snorted and squeezed the slave’s breast. “Prepping her so you can mount her tonight, no?”
“She is the sister of your Khal, mind your tongue.” Yifan turned to Chanyeol, eyes stony as his expression. “Prepare yourself for battle, Lord Arryn.”
Chanyeol’s leathers felt too tight on him as he stood up. His bow and arrows were behind Illyrio, his sword at his hip. A quick prayer to the Warrior and Chanyeol bounded down the stone altar, sword at the ready. If I have to fight a Blood Rider, I will have shamed House Arryn in my death. He thought. I will have failed this Targaryen prince. And he was just starting to like me.
“If you die I get to rape that pretty little arse of yours, little lord,” Arroyo japed, and the rest of the Blood Riders laughed. Yifan glared, but the others ignored it.
He barely had enough time to pray once more to the Mother for mercy when a young fighter ran forward, arakh swinging. The youth maybe saw his thirteenth nameday, but for all Chanyeol knew the fighter was two years older than his little brother. He was inexperienced with a blade, but his eagerness made up for his sloppy handling with an arakh. Chanyeol was quick on his feet, twirling away, the flash of steel guarding his front. What Chanyeol had hoped is that he would injure the youth, maybe maim him and be done with it, but the sudden chants from the crowd, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and some interjections of “Kill the little lord!” emboldened the young fighter, his arakh spinning faster at Chanyeol’s face. For the last time I am not a little lord. He swung his sword violently, overpowering the youth. Castle-forged steel proved durable than crude iron arakh blades, and Chanyeol’s fury at the Blood Riders put more strength into his sword arm, and before he knew it his sword sliced through the youth’s stomach, entrails spilling. The youth cried out, trying to gather his entrails from the dusty ground, and he shit his breeches as the shock of the wound eventually killed him.
That was the first man Chanyeol ever killed. May the Mother forgive me.
“A mere whelp,” one Blood Rider called out at the cheers. “He hasn’t even grown a braid yet.” Chanyeol looked to Yifan, who nodded back at him. Keep at it.
A second fighter, who looked to be in his thirties, had a strong sword arm and wielded a hammer in his other hand. His braid was down to his back, and he was heavily scarred. He obviously had experience in fighting, and the shout of recognition from Khal Bharqo from his great seat meant this fighter knew the Khal well. The fight began and Chanyeol had to step over the youth’s corpse several times. Chanyeol thrust his sword at the man’s groin but the man blocked it with a hammer and spun away, swinging the hammer at Chanyeol’s unguarded knee. Chanyeol jumped away and spun his sword, watching the man’s every move. The arakh arced in the air and sliced at Chanyeol’s leathers. Chanyeol put more force into his sword, and suddenly cut through the scythe of the arakh. Weaponless, the man thrust his hand out with the hammer, as if to shield himself. Chanyeol’s sword cut through the forearm and embedded itself in the muscle of the man’s torso. Chanyeol ripped the blade from the man’s body, feeling the blood sprayed on his leathers and stained his face. The man gurgled and bled out into the dirt, dying. Mixed cheers for him rang throughout the khalasar, and when Chanyeol reached down and cut the dead man’s braid, shouts of approval came from the whores and children. Even the man’s supposed paramour applauded at Chanyeol’s savagery. Irizhea stood up and clapped at Chanyeol’s skill in the blade. “Well done!” She cried out. My beautiful savage queen, Chanyeol thought, but his gaze was fixed on Yifan, who smiled slightly, more glad that his ward defended the Targaryen’s honor.
Suddenly one of Khal Bharqo’s Blood Riders, Barbo, with a braid grown down to his waist and a reinforced arakh, ran into Chanyeol’s blind spot and charged into the lord. Chanyeol stumbled into the bloody dirt, feet sprawled above the dead man’s corpse. He scrambled up as Barbo pressed on, eyes murderous and his arakh spinning at a dangerous speed. Chanyeol barely got his sword up in time, and when the arakh collided with his sword, the strength shook Chanyeol’s sword arm and weakened him. Mother give me mercy. No matter how much space Chanyeol tried to put between him and Barbo, Barbo always seemed to close in on Chanyeol, arakh spinning and deadly. Chanyeol kicked at the dirt, spraying dust in Barbo’s vision, but it only angered the Blood Rider further. He really doesn’t like me. Chanyeol swung desperately, but Barbo kicked into Chanyeol’s sword arm, and Chanyeol dropped his sword in the dirt.
Desperate, Chanyeol fell to the ground to reach his sword while giving himself space between him and Barbo. “I’m going to rape your corpse, little lord.” Barbo growled over the cheers.
“I’m not a little lord!” Chanyeol yelled, swiftly taking his bow and arrow from his back and notching an arrow. Barely aiming, he loosed an arrow and it lodged itself into Barbo’s shoulder. Barbo stumbled back, slowing from the pain. Chanyeol loosed another arrow, piercing the Blood Rider’s leg. With the Blood Rider stunned, Chanyeol got up and aimed his arrow at the slumped warrior, and loosed it, watching as the arrow lodged itself squarely into Barbo’s forehead. He barely heard the cries and screams from the khalasar as he went to get his sword and cut off Barbo’s braid. I’ve killed men that should’ve killed me. He felt his hands tremble. Father judge me truthfully.
When he turned back, Khal Bharqo was roaring in approval, and Illyrio was beaming, but their approval was naught compared to the look of satisfaction on Yifan’s face. The Targaryen prince smiled, and Chanyeol could feel the corners of his mouth pulling up as he smiled back.
The wedding wasn't a boring one, at least, the Khal noted.
-eeeeeekkkkkkk!!!!!
-Chanyeol, lend me your bow!!!
-who should the Baratheon be- Yixing or Kyungsoo?
-I forwent adding in idols as the other characters because it's too much effort
-if you have time, read Aokigahara if it please you
-okay so I kinda sorta twisted the story of the Sack of King's Landing. in the story Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark and Jon Arryn are in full swing of Robert's Rebellion. There is the important Battle of the Trident, and the Sack of King's Landing, where every Targaryen is killed, save the Prince that was Promised. Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard kills Aerys, Ser Amory Lorch kills Princess Rhaenys, Robert kills Rhaegar, and Gregor Clegane kills Elia Martell and her children. But Varys the Spider switches the infant prince with a common born baby. I made Yifan be switched out with a toddler and be taken by Ser Darry (mixing Aegon's and Daenerys/Viserys' story), so Yifan flees King's Landing for Volantis. it's confusing I know I'm sorry I just ;~;
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tw: mentions of rape, gore, violence, and asoiaf spoilers
nothing here belongs to me. a song of ice and fire belongs to satan in the flesh aka george r r martin and exo belongs to sm. free the slaves dany. I tried to put a spin on the story to avoid spoilers but just in case heavy asoiaf spoilers
chapter one
✿It was as if all the strength floated out of Chanyeol’s body. Was this a jape? The Targaryens were all killed. He remembered the story his father told him; Lord Tywin Lannister wrapping the corpses of Princess Rhaenys and her infant brother, along with her little nephew in the red Lannister cloaks to mask the blood. Would his father lie to him, and the entire realm? What did he say once; he still believes the Targaryens could be trusted?
“You could close your mouth, if it please you.” The blue l- Yifan, told Chanyeol in the most perfect Common Tongue that Chanyeol could ever discern. Chanyeol ungraciously snapped his jaw closed, but started to sputter.
“You just- you just spoke the Common Tongue!” Very unlike him, he pointed at Yifan’s handsome face.
“I’ve always been able to speak it.” The Targaryen answered coolly.
“But you’ve been pretending never to speak it?”
“High Valyrian is my mother tongue. I am more comfortable speaking it,” Yifan huffed, violet eyes shining. “But if you’re forgetting your place, we have a khalasar to attend to.” He glanced back at the Blood Riders. “Forgive me,” Yifan’s Dothraki was never as convincing as Chanyeol’s; guess you can’t be fluent in everything. “My ward has forgotten himself.”
“You’re the King?” One of the Blood Riders looked at Yifan.
“He’s not really a king,” Chanyeol begun to speak.
“He doesn’t have a crown,” the other Blood Rider cut Chanyeol off. “A King with no crown.” He spat again.
“The Iron Throne is mine by rights,” Yifan declared, ignoring the Blood Rider’s slight. “The Baratheon Usurper has stolen my birthright. I am going to retake the Seven Kingdoms.”
Khal Bharqo laughed, a deep bass rumbling from his great chest. “A crownless king, but an ambitious one. Not all kings have glittery things on their head.” He shifted in his saddle, his red stallion motionless in response.
Illyrio nodded vigorously, jowls flapping comically. Chanyeol prayed the earth would swallow him whole. “I have promised the great Khal that his beloved lady sister would wed a king, and Yifan is a king,” he interjected. “My lady Irizhea, you will have noble sons with the most ancient and prestigious bloodline.”
“Only the best for the future Khaleesi,” the other woman on the horse replied in heavily accented Common Tongue. “You will give her many sons, no?” Yifan nodded.
“Can you ride a horse?” Irizhea asked, the question sounding so innocent. Yifan lost all his coolness and flushed; Irizhea’s charms not lost on him either.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied, a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid my skill in riding isn’t as strong as your lord brother-“ The Blood Rider spat again at the earth. He really needs to stop that. Chanyeol frowned at the sight- “but I can ride.”
“Good. A Khal who cannot ride is no true Khal.” Irizhea seemed playful, and Chanyeol was glad that at least the couple-to-be liked each other enough.
Khal Bharqo coughed loudly, the sound of something wet and thick emerging from his throat. Chanyeol’s eyes fluttered close so he wouldn’t have to see. Irizhea put a hand on her brother’s massive thigh, concern shining in her eyes. “We have ridden for three days,” Irizhea’s handmaiden explained. “The Khal must rest.”
“Certanly,” Illyrio agreed. “The wedding will be on the morrow. My servants are preparing a magnificent fete for this grand occasion.”
“I’ll be the judge of the fete, fat lord,” The spitting Blood Rider japed at Illyrio. Illyrio seemed to not have heard the jape.
“Tomorrow, on the Southern Coast by the grass roads,” Illyrio reminded the horse lords. “Enough gifts and food for your entire khalasar.” Irizhea made way back to her horse, climbing on it so gracefully Yifan ungraciously stared at the sight. Khal Bharqo noticed, a rough grin spreading across his face.
“Does she please you?” He asked.
“She most certainly does, my great Khal.” Yifan bowed. Irizhea blushed and a pang of jealousy ripped through Chanyeol’s chest. After a few courtesies, the horsed party galloped off, leaving a trail of dust clouding the air.
“That was truly the most courteous khalasar I have ever courted with,” Illyrio commented.
Chanyeol looked back at Yifan, trying to understand what was going on. Is this what his lord father wanted of him, to treat with a Targaryen that was supposed to be dead, and to help said Targaryen retake the Seven Kingdoms? House Arryn was sworn to His Grace of House Baratheon, and Chanyeol would never go against the King’s fealty. Why would his father want him to betray the Crown?
Yifan noticed Chanyeol’s stare, purple eyes boring into the lord. “It is rude to stare,” he said pointedly, tone light.
Chanyeol blushed again. Far too much just occurred in such a short amount of time; he felt overwhelmed. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“Your Grace,” Yifan corrected. “I will sit on the Iron Throne, and you’re going to help me get there,” he considered his words for a moment. “Or die trying.” He added, turning on his heel to return back to the manse.
Illyrio glided over to Yifan’s side, his massive girth jiggling, Chanyeol closely behind the two. “Does the lady Irizhea truly please you?”
“She is pleasant upon the eyes and strong like her brother. Fearless, I imagine. I feel like I am not her equal, I’m afraid.”
“She’ll be at your beck and call, to do anything you desire. You can command the entire khalasar to wait in the harshest conditions to have your Khaleesi at your pleasure.”
Yifan stopped and looked at Illyrio, violet eyes hard. “That’s not the kind of man I am,” his tone soft, but Chanyeol could feel the menace in his voice. The Targaryen was insulted. “I want to be a great king, and first I must start with becoming a great man. That means not treating my wife only as someone to share my bed.”
If Illyrio knew he was being scolded, he sure didn’t act like it. “Spoken like a true king,” he chirped. “The Khal liked you enough.”
“His Blood Riders found the future king to be a jape.” Chanyeol added in dryly.
Yifan shrugged. “They’ll have to like me,” he said. “Khal Bharqo will name me as his successor on the time of his death, passing control of the Blood Riders and the khalasar to me. They are blood of my blood, so to speak.”
“My- Your Grace,” Chanyeol tried again. “I still don’t understand why my father had me come to you. What debt does my father owe that is so great that he had me sent here to be your ward?”
“Illyrio never told you?”
“Lord Illyrio never told me Your Grace’s true name until today, hence my surprise.”
Yifan raised his pale eyebrows at the fat Magister. “You never told him?”
“Ah, it must have slipped my mind.” Illyrio’s nonchalance aggravated Chanyeol. “But the letter! Of course! If you’ll pardon me, Your Grace.” He hurried off into one of the many corridors of the manse, leaving the two men alone.
Yifan looked a true Targaryen enough. With all the dye washed out of his hair, Yifan looked immortally beautiful, Chanyeol would admit. From what his lord father told him, all Targaryens had pale hair silvery gold hair and their eyes either black or a deep violet. If Illyrio said that Yifan’s father was Aerys II and his mother Rhaella, then Yifan was the by-product of an incestuous marriage, common to Targaryens. But his father also said, “Whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin to see if the child would be a genius, or a lunatic.” Was Yifan the Prince that Was Promised, or would he be like his father?
“You’re staring,” Yifan said softly, violet eyes piercing through Chanyeol.
Chanyeol blushed. “F-forgive me, Your Grace.”
Yifan sighed. “I guess since the Baratheon Usurper is on the Iron Throne, and I’m not yet truly wed to Irizhea, I’m not a king just yet. Commanding you to say Your Grace was too presumptuous of me. Forgive me.”
“It’s nothing to forgive… I suppose I’ll have to get used to calling you that sooner or later, no?”
A slight smile crept on Yifan’s face, and Chanyeol could notice the Targaryen prince’s shoulders relaxing. Illyrio returned in a flourish, sweating from all the hurrying he did. He brandished an aged piece of parchment in his giant fist, handing the letter to Chanyeol.
“This arrived three months before you did. Slipped my mind, it did.” Chanyeol unfolded the letter, immediately recognizing his father’s faded scrawl.
To the Magister Illyrio of Pentos
It has been brought to my attention by a mutual Spider of ours by the name of Lord Sehun that a certain personage has been brought into your care. I have only recently found out that Ser Willem Darry died of sickness long ago. I pray to the Seven to guide his spirit, and to forgive me for the sins I have committed.
I know who this personage is, and for to spare prying eyes from this letter I will not mention the name of your personage. I just hope you will keep him safe, and maybe one day he’ll return to Westeros.
It’s been so long ago, and I am unsure if the personage remembers anything fifteen years ago. He was two when all the chaos and bloodshed happened. Our Spider switched the little prince with a Lyseni toddler, and stole him away while I was with Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon. I watched the two I have considered my sons usurp the capital and kill the Mad King. We agreed we were only to remove Aerys from his throne, to save Westeros from his lunacy. But my Lord Baratheon, hard-headed and foolish but valiant, had slain The Silver Prince into the earth. Ser Amory killed the child princess, just shy of her fourth nameday, with half a hundred thrusts of his sword. None of the family was spared. But it was for the good of the realm, they said. I couldn’t accept this, and neither could Lord Stark. The babes deserved better.
I became Hand of the King under His Grace Baratheon, to advise him and to govern the realm to return the Seven Kingdoms to its former glory. But His Grace has lost sight of his duties as king. He has bedded every whore and tavern wench in every hold. I have watched the strong and ambitious lord I have taught turn into a lecherous, violent, and gluttonous ruler. I feel as if his children are not his trueborn heirs as well; the royal family of Baratheon and Lannister are rife with deceit.
I am an old Hand, and I want to repay for the pain I have caused this young personage. I know not what he has gone through, and I want the boy to have a chance at a life he had a right to.
In the coming months I will send my eldest son, Chanyeol, Ascendant Lord Protector of the Vale as penance. He is a learned, obedient, yet stubborn young man, but the seed is strong in him. I want to make him a sign as House Arryn’s loyalty to this personage. We have never met, and unfortunately we may never meet, should this ever succeed, but our certain interest links us together. Let me send Chanyeol to Pentos to one day watch over the personage, so the boy can return home and earn what is his by rights.
As High as Honor
By the hand of Hyunjin “Jon” Arryn, Hand of the King
-does the boy know why we did it? Does he know it was for the good of the realm?Chanyeol put the letter down, eyes threatening to mist with tears. A grown man mustn’t cry, he thought, but his father’s overwhelming sense of honor overcame him. Why me? Does Yifan know that it was for the good of the realm?
“Your lord father realized the errors of his decisions when the Usurper took the Throne,” Yifan continued when Chanyeol regained himself. “You come from an honorable man, Lord Arryn, and I mean to honor his wish by returning to Westeros with the grandest army the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and take back what is mine by rights. Remember your words: As High as Honor, and you will be able to go back to the Eyrie as Lord Protector of the Vale once more.”
・
The wind blew and ripped at the banners, but the leathers Chanyeol changed into forbade him the luxury of feeling the breeze. I feel like a sweaty tavern wench sandwiched between sellswords, he grimaced, the stench of roasting meat from several cookfires permeated his nostrils.
For all Chanyeol’s worrying, the wedding ceremony wasn’t too awful. Words from the healers bound Yifan and Irizhea’s souls together, praying for Irizhea’s fertility and Yifan’s leadership. Yifan cloaked Irizhea in his coat of arms; a three headed dragon in a field of black. Illyrio had Chanyeol shed his finery and change into boiled leathers, and to stand by Yifan the whole ceremony. Irizhea was given five handmaidens; Irri, who was also Irizhea’s translator, Jhiqui, a Lyseni pleasure slave named Doreah (she looked no older than three-and-ten), Mazzhi, and Jhezane. Khal Bharqo gave Yifan control of his ten Blood Riders. “If you can best us in a fight, you could be one of the silver prince’s Riders,” the Blood Rider Moqorro mocked at Chanyeol. I’m going to have to do a lot of ignoring, he thought, and merely smiled at the Dothraki screamer.
Chanyeol’s gift to the couple were books on the Common Tongue for Irizhea. “So you and your lord husband can converse freely together, in whichever tongue you wish, Khaleesi.” He said to the beautiful bride. All else he could give her was a small necklace that was dear to his lady mother, and the promise of defending her should the need arise. What do you give a prince? Chanyeol stared into the handsome face of the Targaryen prince, who stared back, a bit expectant.
“I give you my word, on the honor of House Arryn, the Great House of the Vale in Westeros, I, Chanyeol, the First of my Name, son of Hyunjin Arryn, current Hand of the King under the Usurper Baratheon, and Lord of the Vale, swear fealty to House Targaryen. I give my fealty to Yifan Targaryen, the true King of Westeros. My sword is yours, my house is yours, and my life is yours. As High as Honor.” He bowed low and unsheathed his sword, as an act of fealty.
Yifan took it. “Rise, Lord Arryn,” he said. “Your fealty is noted. I accept the honor and value your gift as my sworn shield, and I will reward your greatly when we go back home.” The way he said home ached in Chanyeol’s chest. He means it.
Illyrio had a myriad of gifts, most of it servants from his house, trunks of silks and fine treasures for Irizhea. A Valyrian steel blade for Yifan, named Dragonrender. Its sheath was black and jeweled with rubies, and its pommel a dark red gemstone. The blade a flawless slate, dark as night but smooth and supple.
“Another thing, Your Grace.” Illyrio called for Quathi and another nameless servant to carry a small wooden chest. The wood of the chest was aged and creaked when it shook. The servants opened the chest in front of Yifan, and Chanyeol didn’t need anyone to tell what it was; the look on Yifan’s face confirmed its contents. “Dragon eggs, from the shadowlands of Asshai,” Illyrio explained. There were three, each the size of his head. The dust that covered them barely covered their iridescent beauty. One was a red as the pommel on Dragonrender, the other a pale ivory that glinted like Yifan’s hair, and the third one a dark onyx. “They’ve been petrified for over a hundred years, but a beautiful keepsake; three to symbolize the dragons of House Targaryen.”
Yifan picked the onyx egg up, admiration pooling in his eyes. “Thank you, Magister.” A dazzling smile crept up on his face, and Chanyeol could see it was genuine. It truly touched the Targaryen’s heart. Illyrio bowed, and stepped back with his servants.
If Illyrio called this a feast, then he needed to rethink the definition of a proper fete. It was outdoors, as most Dothraki wanted to be anywhere a horse was allowed to walk. A small herd of goats the Dothraki acquired after recently raiding a village west of Norvos were put to slaughter in front of the new bride and groom. Yifan didn’t blink at the bloodshed and Irizhea merely turned her head to glance at her handmaidens. The couple was seated next to the Khal, who sat in the center of the fete, while Chanyeol and Illyrio sat to the left of the Khal, watching as lords from the other Free Cities give gifts of goods or slaves to the couple or swear their fealty to the exiled House Targaryen. Between the mixture of goat slaughtering, horse riding, and public nudity, Chanyeol didn’t know where to look. The Khal took a gulp of wine, one of the many gifts from Illyrio, and barked for the entertainment. Chanyeol stole glances at the newlyweds, noting how neither of them looked at each other. Yifan kept rubbing his palms together and looking down at his boots. Was he nervous? Chanyeol would’ve laughed if this were different circumstances.
The last wedding Chanyeol ever went to was of Ser Creighton Redfort to Lady Joanna of House Swyft. It was his duty to attend as many weddings of his house’s sworn bannermen. Lady Joanna was a trembling girl at fifteen, small breasted and thin. She stumbled at her vows and teared up when Ser Redfort cloaked her in his coat of arms. Chanyeol just assumed she was just so happy she was finally getting married. Even when he was surrounded by his father’s bannermen, the wedding was a dreary bore. The most exciting thing was when Ser Andar Royce aimed his portion of lamprey pie at Ser Corbray but it landed on a serving girl instead. No lamprey pies were being served at this wedding, but a leg of roasted goat sailed through the air and landed on the dusty earth, blood and grease staining the dirt. A child of six ran up to meat and picked it up anyhow, biting deep into the half-cooked flesh. Illyrio laughed at the sight and slapped his great belly.
Two Dothraki screamers circled each other in the clearing. Chanyeol learned that at a Dothraki wedding ceremony, several men would fight to prove their leal service and strength to the khalasar. It would be rude if he didn’t watch the battle. The fighters looked to be Chanyeol’s age, one lean as a deer and the other a hulking warrior with a belly almost as big as Illyrio’s. Both carried the curved arakh blades, crude iron swords that looked like giant fishhooks. The giant warrior let out a guttural cry and charged the lean fighter, arakh blades clashing in a jarring fury.
“The bigger fighter has the most strength,” Illyrio commented. “But the smaller one has the most stamina.” The Magister was right; the bigger warrior was showing signs of slowing down after three minutes of fighting. He kept swinging aimlessly, the lean warrior sidestepping gracefully. The smaller warrior sliced at the bigger man’s chest, and the bigger warrior cried out as blood seeped from the cut. He instinctively put his arm up to stop the blood, but his carelessness gave the smaller fighter an opportunity to strike, his arakh cutting into the thick neck of his opponent. Blood gushing from two gashes, the giant warrior collapsed to his knees and choked for air, but died in shame as the smaller fighter took his braid and hacked it off, proudly displaying the sawed off hair to the cheering onlookers. Chanyeol heard the Khal laugh and demand for another challenger. The young warrior was so into his victory he failed to notice another fighter wielding two arakh blades charging behind him. In an instant the new fighter lopped off the young warrior’s sword hand, and the warrior barely knew what happened to him before two blades pierced his stomach and eviscerated him, his entrails spilling from his abdomen. The most strangled cry erupted from his lips, and Chanyeol could’ve sworn he heard the word “Mother”, before the young warrior died and his braid was taken from his head; his corpse lying on top of the man he killed moments before.
“A wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair.” Illyrio mentioned, eating a handful of grapes. Yifan stared on, stone-faced, and Irizhea focused on the needlework on the Targaryen coat of arms. Irizhea, not familiar with the Common Tongue, struggled to ask Yifan what the coat of arms were.
“They’re dragons.” Yifan answered, smiling slightly at his new wife. Irri, Irizhea’s translator, spoke for her Khaleesi.
“What are dragons?” Gods be good, she’s too pure for this harsh life. Another warrior fell, his braid sliced off by another fighter.
“They’re like birds, but bigger. Way bigger. Bigger than horses.”
Irizhea’s giggle mingled with the cries of Dothraki men dying. “There’s nothing greater than a horse.”
“Quite, my lady, but dragons were so big a man could ride on its back, and could eat a horse whole. Covered in scales, like a snake.”
“Do they have three heads?”
“None did, my lady. The three heads stood for my ancestors who settled in Dragonstone- Aegon I, who rode Balerion the Dread, and his two sisters Rhaenys and Visenya, who rode Meraxes and Vhagar.”
“Do dragons still exist?” The simple question brought a flash of sadness in Yifan’s purple eyes. He looked at his petrified dragon eggs.
“The last one died a hundred fifty years ago.” He said softly. He continued to watch the carnage, as eight Dothraki warriors fell to arakh blades or arrows, a small pile of braids laid in a dusty heap. The air was rank with blood, sweat, and smoke. Some of the warriors who have killed others, took women and mounted them from behind, taking them at their pleasure in front of the khalasar. Chanyeol blinked and didn’t let his true emotions show.
“Let’s see if this little lord can fight with the rest of us!” The Blood Rider Arroyo, Khal Bharqo’s most trusted fighter, crowed at the Lord of the Vale. He sloshed his wine in front of his bare chest, and had his arm wrapped around a pleasure slave, hand cupping her breast. He was obviously drunk. Chanyeol knew Arroyo meant Yifan, but as it was Yifan’s wedding, and Chanyeol was acting as his sworn shield, it meant Chanyeol was to fight in Yifan’s stead.
“If you don’t mind, my ward Lord Chanyeol will fight in my stead.” Yifan said politely. “I am currently engaging with my lady wife.”
“So soft, this silver haired lord.” Arroyo snorted and squeezed the slave’s breast. “Prepping her so you can mount her tonight, no?”
“She is the sister of your Khal, mind your tongue.” Yifan turned to Chanyeol, eyes stony as his expression. “Prepare yourself for battle, Lord Arryn.”
Chanyeol’s leathers felt too tight on him as he stood up. His bow and arrows were behind Illyrio, his sword at his hip. A quick prayer to the Warrior and Chanyeol bounded down the stone altar, sword at the ready. If I have to fight a Blood Rider, I will have shamed House Arryn in my death. He thought. I will have failed this Targaryen prince. And he was just starting to like me.
“If you die I get to rape that pretty little arse of yours, little lord,” Arroyo japed, and the rest of the Blood Riders laughed. Yifan glared, but the others ignored it.
He barely had enough time to pray once more to the Mother for mercy when a young fighter ran forward, arakh swinging. The youth maybe saw his thirteenth nameday, but for all Chanyeol knew the fighter was two years older than his little brother. He was inexperienced with a blade, but his eagerness made up for his sloppy handling with an arakh. Chanyeol was quick on his feet, twirling away, the flash of steel guarding his front. What Chanyeol had hoped is that he would injure the youth, maybe maim him and be done with it, but the sudden chants from the crowd, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and some interjections of “Kill the little lord!” emboldened the young fighter, his arakh spinning faster at Chanyeol’s face. For the last time I am not a little lord. He swung his sword violently, overpowering the youth. Castle-forged steel proved durable than crude iron arakh blades, and Chanyeol’s fury at the Blood Riders put more strength into his sword arm, and before he knew it his sword sliced through the youth’s stomach, entrails spilling. The youth cried out, trying to gather his entrails from the dusty ground, and he shit his breeches as the shock of the wound eventually killed him.
That was the first man Chanyeol ever killed. May the Mother forgive me.
“A mere whelp,” one Blood Rider called out at the cheers. “He hasn’t even grown a braid yet.” Chanyeol looked to Yifan, who nodded back at him. Keep at it.
A second fighter, who looked to be in his thirties, had a strong sword arm and wielded a hammer in his other hand. His braid was down to his back, and he was heavily scarred. He obviously had experience in fighting, and the shout of recognition from Khal Bharqo from his great seat meant this fighter knew the Khal well. The fight began and Chanyeol had to step over the youth’s corpse several times. Chanyeol thrust his sword at the man’s groin but the man blocked it with a hammer and spun away, swinging the hammer at Chanyeol’s unguarded knee. Chanyeol jumped away and spun his sword, watching the man’s every move. The arakh arced in the air and sliced at Chanyeol’s leathers. Chanyeol put more force into his sword, and suddenly cut through the scythe of the arakh. Weaponless, the man thrust his hand out with the hammer, as if to shield himself. Chanyeol’s sword cut through the forearm and embedded itself in the muscle of the man’s torso. Chanyeol ripped the blade from the man’s body, feeling the blood sprayed on his leathers and stained his face. The man gurgled and bled out into the dirt, dying. Mixed cheers for him rang throughout the khalasar, and when Chanyeol reached down and cut the dead man’s braid, shouts of approval came from the whores and children. Even the man’s supposed paramour applauded at Chanyeol’s savagery. Irizhea stood up and clapped at Chanyeol’s skill in the blade. “Well done!” She cried out. My beautiful savage queen, Chanyeol thought, but his gaze was fixed on Yifan, who smiled slightly, more glad that his ward defended the Targaryen’s honor.
Suddenly one of Khal Bharqo’s Blood Riders, Barbo, with a braid grown down to his waist and a reinforced arakh, ran into Chanyeol’s blind spot and charged into the lord. Chanyeol stumbled into the bloody dirt, feet sprawled above the dead man’s corpse. He scrambled up as Barbo pressed on, eyes murderous and his arakh spinning at a dangerous speed. Chanyeol barely got his sword up in time, and when the arakh collided with his sword, the strength shook Chanyeol’s sword arm and weakened him. Mother give me mercy. No matter how much space Chanyeol tried to put between him and Barbo, Barbo always seemed to close in on Chanyeol, arakh spinning and deadly. Chanyeol kicked at the dirt, spraying dust in Barbo’s vision, but it only angered the Blood Rider further. He really doesn’t like me. Chanyeol swung desperately, but Barbo kicked into Chanyeol’s sword arm, and Chanyeol dropped his sword in the dirt.
Desperate, Chanyeol fell to the ground to reach his sword while giving himself space between him and Barbo. “I’m going to rape your corpse, little lord.” Barbo growled over the cheers.
“I’m not a little lord!” Chanyeol yelled, swiftly taking his bow and arrow from his back and notching an arrow. Barely aiming, he loosed an arrow and it lodged itself into Barbo’s shoulder. Barbo stumbled back, slowing from the pain. Chanyeol loosed another arrow, piercing the Blood Rider’s leg. With the Blood Rider stunned, Chanyeol got up and aimed his arrow at the slumped warrior, and loosed it, watching as the arrow lodged itself squarely into Barbo’s forehead. He barely heard the cries and screams from the khalasar as he went to get his sword and cut off Barbo’s braid. I’ve killed men that should’ve killed me. He felt his hands tremble. Father judge me truthfully.
When he turned back, Khal Bharqo was roaring in approval, and Illyrio was beaming, but their approval was naught compared to the look of satisfaction on Yifan’s face. The Targaryen prince smiled, and Chanyeol could feel the corners of his mouth pulling up as he smiled back.
The wedding wasn't a boring one, at least, the Khal noted.
-eeeeeekkkkkkk!!!!!
-Chanyeol, lend me your bow!!!
-who should the Baratheon be- Yixing or Kyungsoo?
-I forwent adding in idols as the other characters because it's too much effort
-if you have time, read Aokigahara if it please you
-okay so I kinda sorta twisted the story of the Sack of King's Landing. in the story Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark and Jon Arryn are in full swing of Robert's Rebellion. There is the important Battle of the Trident, and the Sack of King's Landing, where every Targaryen is killed, save the Prince that was Promised. Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard kills Aerys, Ser Amory Lorch kills Princess Rhaenys, Robert kills Rhaegar, and Gregor Clegane kills Elia Martell and her children. But Varys the Spider switches the infant prince with a common born baby. I made Yifan be switched out with a toddler and be taken by Ser Darry (mixing Aegon's and Daenerys/Viserys' story), so Yifan flees King's Landing for Volantis. it's confusing I know I'm sorry I just ;~;
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