Chapter Text
Borros Baratheon never learned to read. As the future heir of the noble house of Baratheon, he had the privilege of maesters, patient and learned, that were available to teach him letters and words, but he never liked learning. Instead, he focused on becoming a warrior worthy of his family name. Reading was never a requirement to become the Lord of his House. His father still named him heir, and the minor lords of their house did not make a fuss when he ascended into the role.
All that mattered was their capability on the field, their raw, brutal strength and their tenacity to win against all odds, theirs was the fury and the Lord to lead them must be worthy to carry the words of their house on their backs. They must be hardy and sturdy, enough to withstand the weather of Storm’s end. They did not need to know how to read.
The Baratheons were warriors, and Borros Baratheon’s first death was…not quite worthy of a warrior…
He fought valiantly until the end, took many of their enemies to their graves, and died on the field for his King. But to be bested by a green boy? A boy too young to even grow a beard? To be killed by a young man named Kermit, a more fitting name for a mummer’s puppet?
It was, frankly speaking, a fucking disgrace.
He awoke with a shout, too startled to realize he was not in the fields of the King’s road, but rather in bed, with his wife. It took a moment, maybe far longer than it should have, but Borros was not aware of the conduct of being dead in one instance, and then waking up as if nothing happened.
It was not so different from waking up from a very vivid and heavy dream, although maybe that was all it was? Maybe he had not actually died?
His poor wife was startled awake, and she clutched at her chest and called for their knights. It took a maester and a dose of calming drought to sedate him, and there he laid on his bed, while his lady wife fussed around him.
Hours passed around him, his wife puttered about in and out of the room to check on his condition, his daughters visited to see if he was well, but he laid still and almost catatonic, head lost in thought, a rare occurrence that worried the maesters.
Thought and contemplation were rare in most Baratheon lords, maybe even nonexistent,
It was not his intention to waste the better parts of the day away, it was the memory of his demise, the events that led to it, and what was about to transpire that confused him, stumped him into this state of unmoving-ness.
Did he dream of what was to happen? Did he actually die? Was it a witch’s curse? The work of the gods’ hands? A blessing? Or damnation?
And the bigger question: why ?
Things were going well, dying aside. The war was winning in their favour with the Black faction and the whore Queen losing droves upon droves of men. Floris was engaged to the second prince, and his house has been named an important asset to their king. He may have died, but his legacy was sure to stay strong and true, a lasting story of Baratheon bravery.
So why?
And then, as if the heavens parted to illuminate upon him the answer to his question, it dawned on him.
The gods were giving him a second chance! It was a chance of redemption! Divine intervention! A way to rewrite the history books of how House Baratheon rose to more power and prominence! How stag and dragons formed an everlasting alliance through him, the Lord of Storm’s End, and won the war with counsel from Borros Baratheon himself!
And, most importantly, how he will not die at Kermit Tully’s hands!
A dragon’s roar rumbled through their castle, his wife grasped his arm in fear. Of course, the kind gods decided to send him back to the day when it all started, to the glory of the Baratheons!
“Do not fear,” he said, more composed than his dreams (or his first death, he can’t actually be sure yet, and frankly, he may never need to be), “That dragon will be only bringing us good news, my lady.”
“Prince Aemond is here,” the maester said, gasping for air from having ran the length of the castle, “He would like to treat with you.”
Their meeting played out as it did before: the prince offered his hand in marriage for their loyalty, his daughters were all excited for the opportunity to become a princess, and the prince kissed all of them before he chose his youngest, Floris.
It was all going accordingly and he was going to make sure he will not die at the hands of fucking Kermit Tully.
Like clockwork, the bastard-born prince came with the missive from his mother. Poor little drenched pup, he looked warily at his Uncle, an imposing figure with his eye patch, who only regarded him like how one would regard shit at the bottom of his boot.
Clearly, one was made to lead, to be a person to go down in history, and Lucerys Velaryon was not that person. He was but a wee boy, small, insignificant, his biggest contribution was becoming dragon feed and kick-starting the war that would inevitably lead to his mother’s faction’s demise.
He would think it sad, really, that is if Borros had any empathy for such a weak little prince. Weakness does not have a place in Storm’s End, especially not in the halls of House Baratheon.
“Go home, pup,” he sneered at him, “and tell that bitch mother of yours that the Lord of Storm’s End is not a dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”
The princeling bristled, it was a glimmer of bravery as he stared back at Borros, “I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord.”
Insolent little thing, Borros would probably have gained some respect for him, but his loyalties lay with the King, for no woman is worthy of ever holding the crown and the iron throne. They are too weak-willed and simple-minded, better suited for sewing circles than the high council.
“Wait!” He said, surprising everyone present. He was going to prove himself twice worthy at the eyes of House Targaryen. “My prince, I believe you may have a debt owed to my future good son.”
This shocked both princes, the younger’s face fell into confusion, furrowed brow and plush lips jutted out into a delicate pout (how could the princess even send this pup to be an envoy? He could easily be mistaken for a maiden with his daintiness!), while the one-eyed prince turned to him, thin lips pressed thinner as he regarded and scrutinized him.
Barely a man and he already had the mettle and a confident countenance, Borros was more than pleased to call him his good son, and it was time to prove his own worth as a formidable asset to the House of the Dragon.
“Knights,” he commanded, he was not going to die this time around, he was going to secure his position, “Take Prince Lucerys’ eyes.”
Borros Baratheon’s second death was of fire, as the oldest living dragon alive crashed through his halls, the bastard prince blinded by the sword of his knights, as he bled and wailed in pain, and his future good son cradled him in his arms, an outpouring of vengeful anger as he stared at Borros. He commanded his ancient war-dragon with the Valeyrian word everyone was familiar with: Dracarys.
Borros woke up gasping, throat so thirsty and dry that he scrambled to the basin with the cold water they would use to wash their faces in the morning, splashed it over his face, and drank so much that he was practically drowning.
His wife called for the maester, for the guards, as Borros convulsed on the floor, he could still feel the blistering of his skin as dragon fire engulfed him. Once again, he was back to the day of the two dragon prince’s visit.
What did he do wrong this time?
It was worse than the death by Kermit, but he supposed that maybe his mistake laid in maiming the eyes. He remembered the prince wanted to gift them to his mother, a morbid gift but Targaryens, who knows what goes in their minds, and his knights practically butchered the organs because the young princeling actually tried to put up a fight.
Not much he could do about it though when it was a boy versus five men. Valiant effort, but all in vain.
This time, he will be sure not to ruin his good son’s gift!
Borros thought beheading the boy would have been more favourable, keeping his eyes intact, so the prince could present them to his mother like he so loudly proclaimed.
The prince was not given a chance to enter his throne room, his guards took a swing at his neck as soon as he entered their castle. A clean cut, he made sure only the best knight and the sharpest sword were assigned to do the deed.
But when they presented the prince with the head on a golden platter, it only earned him a sword on his gullet, followed by a powerful strike upwards that halved him in two.
He struggled to breathe when he woke up, his wife once again startled as he screamed himself awake, “What are they feeding their kids in the capital?”
And so, he tried again.
Baratheons were made of stronger mettle than this, damn it!
This time, he let Prince Aemond demand the debt to be paid, this time, he’ll give him the honour.
“Wait, my Lord Strong,” the prince said, catching the attention of his nephew who turned back so reluctantly, “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”
“I will not fight you, I came as a messenger, not a warrior,” the younger prince said, and Borros snickered. The youngling was no match for his Uncle, he was so small and had a travelling sword, barely longer than a dagger, while his would-be opponent was armed with a long sword.
A tiny wee pup versus a dragon.
Only the young prince noticed his amusement and turned sharply at Borros, his eyes narrowed at what he might have thought was menacing. It was not, Borros likened it to a child’s pout, like when one is about to throw a tantrum.
“A fight would be little challenge,” the prince took off his eye patch, and Borros noticed Floris squirm. She should learn how to love her future husband, he was sure to bring glory to their house. “I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”
This was it! Borros was sure to make everything right this time. The poor child looked… now that Borros looks at him, he didn’t look afraid. Instead, there was... reverence? Maybe even awe?
“One will serve,” and the prince drew his dagger and threw it across the room to the little princeling. “I would not blind you, plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”
(That must be where Borros got it wrong! One will do, the prince said, all the while Borros had aimed for both eyes in the previous attempts!)
“No,” the princeling’s voice did not waver, a courageous attempt to appear unafraid. But Borros could see the way his knees shook, his hands fisted at his side, and he wonders what type of training he had to be this lily-livered.
“Then you are craven, as well as a traitor,” the prince scoffed. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” And the prince charged towards him, a dragon after its prey.
“Guards!” Borros commanded, “Hold down Prince Lucerys!”
The young prince barely had time to draw his tiny baby sword as his arms were grabbed and held behind him. His guards kicked the back of his knees and forced him to kneel, all he could do was struggle against their hold. Borros could commend him for not screaming, but he would not for the fear was too evident and vivid in his eyes. Weak little pup.
Prince Aemond was too stunned to speak.
“There you go, my prince,” Borros said. He dismissed his daughters with a wave. He saw Ellyn shield Floris from what was happening, keeping her close and her head tucked in her arms as they exited the hall. “You can collect your boon.”
“Uncle, no!” the princeling looked like he was about to cry, maybe even wet himself. It would not surprise Borros if he did, the one-eyed prince imposed a terrifying figure. He hoped the prince would make it quick, mercy for the cowardly prince. A quick stab and scoop, and the debt would be paid.
But instead of the outcome Lord Borros had hoped for, with Prince Aemond taking the bastard’s eye and leaving him alive, he instead lopped off the hands that held the prince down.
“You dare touch him?” He snarled at them, making quick work of his guards with precise, savage swipes of his longsword. The princeling fell to the ground in a heap, crying like the pup he was.
Borros took his own arms, a sword he placed by his throne for a possibility like the last iteration.
He was hoped not to use it, but glad he had it as the prince stalked towards him long sword still drawn and bloody. His men all lay collapsed in heaps and pieces around the younger prince who could only curl on himself amidst the blood and viscera.
“You may be the fucking Lord of this castle,” he snarled, as they traded blows, “But do not presume that you have the right to take part in matters of our house!”
Before he could grovel for forgiveness, a sword goes through his neck in one swift and precise swipe. His world tilted sideways as he watched the older prince kneel in front of the younger, gathering him in his arms with soft words and whispers he could not hear.
But the princeling pushed him away and sobbed as he ran out of the storm, leaving Prince Aemond who could only stare at the retreating figure with a clenched jaw. More guards came through the doors, he could see their mouths moving, shouting, drawing their weapons.
He tried holding on, as his wife came into his view, stricken face as she cried and held his face. She was saying something, but he could not hear anything. Everything was growing darker and darker each second. He could not even feel the ground he lay on, it all felt cold and numb.
And once again, he jolted awake.
Another day, another dragon’s roar and Borros needed to get it all right this time!
It was after the seventh death when Borros finally realized that maybe he had been interpreting things wrong.
“Maybe the gods did not want the boy maimed,” he mumbled under his breath, missing how his wife looked at him curiously.