| Author's Note: Remember, this is an Au, so expect some slight changes. Not very noticeable, or important,— an example would be Rhaenys Targaryen being around 5 namedays years old during the events of the Harrenhal Tourney.
Enjoy!
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/ Game Of Thrones: 'The God-Emperor Of Yi Ti' \
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Birdsong filled the skies above Harrenhal, light and careless, as though the world itself had forgotten any previous sorrow.
The wind of spring carried their music, rushing through broken halls and blackened corridors like a child at play,— swift, untamed, filled with laughter and mirth.
But Harrenhal was not a place for laughter.
The wind here did not run free,— it screamed, mourned, and it whispered to no-one, and to everyone.
For what stood upon the waters of the Gods Eye was no jewel of stone, no marvel of mortal hands, but a carcass of pride.
Once the glory of House Hoare, now a ruin blackened by dragonfire, Harrenhal remained a wound upon the land. Jagged towers like broken teeth biting at the sky, its shadow a reminder that dragons had once ruled not only the air, but the fate of men.
It was the year of the False Spring, 281 AC.
All Westeros gathered for what would be remembered as the greatest tourney of an age,— perhaps of all ages. A tourney of splendor, of banners and laughter, of knights in shining steel vying for glory.
A tourney where a boy with golden hair, Jaime Lannister, dazzled crowds with youthful promise, though whispers said the Mountain was the truer "favorite" to win the melee, while Arthur Dayne the jousting.
A tourney of champions, of wagers, of feasts,— yet also the tourney where smiles would fade, where destinies would break, and where the game of thrones would tip into blood.
But that is another tale.
For history, true history, does not bend itself to jousts and melees, nor to the whims of singers.
History moves by the weight of men,— by the tread of those who shape its course. And among the lords and knights who came to Harrenhal, there walked a figure who did not belong.
A prince from Yi Ti.
A stranger from the farthest edge of the known world. A youth whose presence at Harrenhal was curious, improbable,— yet destined to be remembered. For in the days to come, the songs would not speak only of Rhaegar and Lyanna, nor of Robert's hammer, nor of the fall of kings.
They would whisper also of him.
Of the man who secretly bore two souls in one body, who came to Planetos from beyond time itself. A tale to be told and retold to the younger generations, until the day he returned crowned not as a prince, but as a God-Emperor.
Ans so begins his story, of the first Emperor of China, the man who conquered death, who once more walks among mortals.
A youth reborn from a world of mediocrity, a soul ascended, who slew demons and defied the underworld, who crossed blades with Hades himself… and triumphed above humanity and the gods themselves.
Here, in Harrenhal's shadow, "begins" the second life of the man who was, is, and shall be Emperor.
All hail…
Qin Shi Huang.
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| 281 AC, Westeros, Inside Harrenhal - With Qin Shi Huang:
A slight breeze swept through the cracked ruins of one of the many eastern corridors of Harrenhal. Servants passed by him, pretending to be absorbed in their duties, though in truth, all they wanted was to steal furtive glances at the so-called Yi Ti'ish second-born prince.
He chuckled softly to himself, careful not to let the perfectly poised mask of royalty slip before so many eyes,— not even in a moment of lighthearted humor.
As usual, he is dressed in a intricately designed robe that leaves his shoulders exposed,— a garment that mirrors the ceremonial attire historically worn by Chinese empresses, lending an air of both power and elegance to his appearance.
He bears two striking centipede tattoos: one on his right cheek and another on his back, while also adorning five ornate nail or finger guards: two on the middle and index fingers of his right hand, and three on the ring, middle, and index fingers of his left hand.
These are of course, decorative accessories with historical connotations of nobility and refined status, though if one knows how to use them, they could easily become a weapon when needed.
His current outfit features rich hues,— deep reds, blacks, golds, and possibly blues,— which evoke traditional imperial colors from his home empire. And though he is not wearing anything else at the moment, he usually has shoulder armor known as the "Almighty Spaulders" and a powerful sword called "Shi Huang Goujian" on his waist,— both part of his usual gear during any type of combat.
All of this clothing easily draws more than a few stares, all the while, behind him trails his personal guard, a scribe who diligently recorded and still records much of his life, and several attendants burdened with baskets of wine and fruit.
Qin had been in Harrenhal for several days already, invited personally by Prince Rhaegar. The invitation had reached him when he anchored at Lannisport to resupply during his last voyage, delivered by one of the prince's own men when the prince learned of his presence in Westeros.
Having little left to explore west of Yi Ti besides Sothoryos and Westeros, he decided to indulge Rhaegar's request.
Of course, it had nothing at all to do with his burning curiosity to witness the legendary tourney,— later remembered as the tourney where all the smiles died.
Of course not.
How could Qin Shi Huang even know such a thing? Well... honestly, that's because he possessed what he and everyone else called a memory. And as a reincarnated soul from the 21st century,— now living his second, or was it, third life? Well, it was bound to happen.
He paused by a window, letting the glow of the setting sun fall across his impassive face. His eyes squinted as they traced the vast forests stretching for leagues across the Crownlands' plains and low hills. A sight he always relished: nature in its purest stillness, unmarred by polluted skies or the clamor of modern cities from one of his former lives.
His hand rested upon the cool stone of the parapet. Behind him, the shuffle of clothes marked the stilling of his guards and servants, careful to stop at a respectful distance so as not to disturb his peace.
It was in moments like this that Qin lingered in thought, appreciating all that surrounded him,— the birdsong high above, the distant shouts of sparring men, laughter echoing from the training yards, even the occasional sharp quarrel.
Truly, it felt like the most peaceful moment he could claim.
Free of his usual ambitions... no thoughts of usurping the throne of Yi Ti from his frail elder brother, nor of the father who still held it. Nor even of the people he had left behind in his other lives, his first, as Qin, the first true Emperor of China, and his second, as Arthur,— the McDonald's part-time worker who accomplished nothing before meeting his end beneath a speeding truck.
Strangely, each life had been sealed off from the other. And yet, when he awoke in the body of a four-year-old Qin Shi Huang in the capital of Yi Ti,— reborn into the world of Planetos,— it felt as though both lives had fused into one.
Whether he had truly been both men, or whether they were two separate souls now bound together, he could not say. But he knew this much... he was both, and neither.
He was simply Qin,— the second son of the Emperor of Yi Ti.
A man who bore the hunger for conquest of the first Qin Shi Huang, and the desire for leisure and indulgence of the McDonald's worker. A now prince who wished to seize his father's throne, yet also longed for a life of comfort among the characters he had once only read about.
At this moment, he indulged the latter,— and silently berated himself for it. Deep down, he knew he could be plotting something useful, weakening his brother's chances of becoming the next God-Emperor of Yi Ti.
And yet… how could he pass the chance to witness the Tourney of Harrenhal? To cross blades with Jaime Lannister, Arthur Dayne, or Robert Baratheon?
Or perhaps to share a dance with Ashara Dayne? Maybe even Lyanna Stark,— or Cersei Lannister, whichever caught his eye most.
His ordinary self would never forgive letting such chances slip by, nor would his Emperor self deny them. For both lives,— whether one soul or two,— now coexisted in harmony, within him, above all else.
Suddenly, a sudden force jolted him from his thoughts. He looked down, confused, to his left, where a small brown-haired girl lay sprawled on her back. She must have rounded the corner too quickly, colliding with him before she had even noticed his presence by the window.
He knelt, extending a hand toward the girl,— Rhaenys Targaryen, he wagered.
"Are you alright, little girl?" he asked softly, unbothered by the collision. Still, he noticed how the servants in the corridor froze, holding their breath, waiting for his reaction.
Those who did not know him braced for anger, expecting him to lash out. His own attendants, however, remained calm and silent, well aware that something so trivial,— so innocently childish,— would never stir their prince's wrath.
Rhaenys, for her part, shook off the dizziness with surprising quickness for a child her age. More surprising still, she had not let go of the black cat clutched in her arms, though the creature squirmed, spooked but not yet freed.
Balerion... was it?
That sight made him pause, a quiet smile tugging at his thoughts.
His first meeting with Rhaenys Targaryen.
He had encountered many others already: Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock, when he lingered there a few days before coming to Harrenhal; Prince Rhaegar himself, and even the Mad King Aerys.
Each meeting he had enjoyed in his own strange way, to meet characters once confined to a television screen or the pages of a book,— now made real.
Or perhaps it was he who had become one of them?
He did not know, nor did he care. He was living this life, and that alone mattered.
Outwardly, he remained composed, poised as years of royal training in Yi Ti demanded.
Inwardly, however, he could not help but feel giddy. The soft, sweet voice of Rhaenys broke his reverie, her violet eyes met his with curiosity, apprehension, and just a flicker of fear.
"I'm… okay." she said, her voice was small, childlike, yet it carried. Some of his servants melted at the sound, though his guards remained tall, stoic, unmoved.
From further down the corridor came hurried steps, rushing in their direction. He guessed he was about to meet still more familiar figures,— and the thought made him smile.
To those watching, however, it looked as though he was merely offering a warm, reassuring smile to the dazed little princess.
"Well, it's a good thing you're not hurt." he told her gently, helping her to her feet and brushing the dust from her arms and hair in a comforting gesture.
Rhaenys flushed crimson, as embarrassed as a young child could be. Yet children in this world grew quickly, and as a princess she carried a keener awareness than one might expect of her age.
"Sorry." she said, the word not quite perfectly shaped, but full of meaning, and he smiled at her. "Don't worry about it. It would take, at most, two of you to cause me any real pain by bumping into me. But tell me,— what's your name?" His voice softened as he crouched to her height, his 21st century counterpart not passing the oportunity to make a small joke, to let her relax a bit when before him.
The answer however, did not come from the child, but from her mother, whose voice rang sharp with worry as she rounded the corner.
"Rhaenys!" It was Elia Martell who said it, and Qin recognized her instantly, though she was more striking than memory or imagination had ever made her.
Behind her came Prince Oberyn Martell and Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. Their smiles betrayed amusement at the girl's antics, yet their eyes carried concern,— deepening further as they took in the scene before them.
Rhaenys quickly scrambled to her mother's side, clutching her skirts tightly, the black cat pressed between them. Elia's gaze lingered on her daughter, but soon her dark eyes fixed upon him,— enough to make him straighten his posture, though not in fear.
"You are—…" Elia began, as Oswell's hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, while Oberyn's sharp eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She could not finish her words, for Qin inclined his head in a subtle gesture of respect, his eyes glinting with interest.
"Qin Shi Huang." he introduced himself, offering her a half-mocking, half-playful bow.
His guards stood stiffly behind him. "That would be my name. Though I imagine you know it already,— surely your husband, Prince Rhaegar, has spoken of me. Indeed, I'd wager by now everyone in this castle has."
Her words caught in her throat, and his smile widened. Brown hair, a beautiful face, a quiet strength about her, even in all her fragility,—and the faint, enticing perfume she carried with her.
Truly, what a woman.
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/ Game Of Thrones: 'The God-Emperor Of Yi Ti' \
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