章 194: A Voice in Our Heads (ASoIaF SI...Kinda) by Garm88
Words: 26k+
Link:
-https//forums.spacebattles.com/threads/a-voice-in-our-heads-asoiaf-si-kinda.352783/
Bit one
So after quite a bit of lurking, and much amusement to be had, I decided to throw my hat into the ring with something that's unashamedly for fun and not serious in any way. Some may recognize me from FFN, maybe.
So it's an SI, but unlike other SIs, the author doesn't actually have any control, and can only suggest actions. But since I'm the author, I have total control, don't I? Hmph.
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Brandon "The Builder" Stark sighed as he sat in his temporary log keep pouring over designs, around half a league from where Winterfell was to be constructed. For such a young man, barely seven and twenty, he'd accomplished so much. He had hundreds of thousands of followers, giants, children of the forest and men, all helping his endeavor of building the Wall to keep the Others contained. The wall would undoubtedly be his greatest accomplishment, but Winterfell, Winterfell would be his baby. He would pour all of skill, all of his finesse, all of his talent into making Winterfell a seat of security for his line until the end times, whether they liked it or not.
"You should make it bigger."
Brandon hummed as he idly scratched out some corrections on his blueprints, increasing the size of the walls, both in diameter and width, making the walls even more foreboding, and leaving room for a sizable village to be constructed within their circumference.
"You need bigger kennels and more livestock if you really want to breed those wolves you've got following you.
He made a queer noise of acknowledgement before adding the notation. That was very true, the direwolves were exceptionally large beasts and had appropriately large appetites and a need for more room.
He absentmindedly shuffled his plans around until the schematics for The Wall (better name pending) was on top, and started to go over them one last time.
"Why in the name of tits and wine would anyone build a wall seven hundred feet tall? Three hundred should be plenty high."
Brandon made the change, seeing the sense in it and then paused, his sleep deprived mind finally noticing something. He stood up, palming the handle of his war hammer as he did so.
"Who's there?" He asked quietly.
"Yo!"
He jerked and spun around, looking for the voice.
"What up?"
He spun back around. "Show yourself!"
"Yea, about that, it's going to be a little difficult."
"Where are you, spirit?!"
"I may or may not be in your head. Maybe."
Ice ran down his spine. "I am possessed" he whispered in a terrified voice.
"Doubt it, I can't control your body. And you don't have to talk out loud for me to hear you."
"Who are you, spirit! How did you come to me?!"
"Wish I could tell you, man, but I got no clue, I went to sleep in my bed and woke up in your noggin."
"Your name!"
"Alright alright, geeze, don't get your beard in a knot. You can call me... The Voice, yea, that works."
"The Voice?"
"Look you can't just put me on the spot like that. I'm a voice in your head and I have no practice being mysterious and shit, this is new to me. Think of it as a pseudonym, I'll come up with something better later."
Brandon sat down heavily in his chair, dearly hoping it was just his sleep deprivation, and that he was not, in fact, going crazy. "I do not know that word."
"Alright, it's like this..."
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King Brandon Stark, probably twelfth or thirteenth of his name, he wasn't sure which, looked at his (previously) missing daughter, standing in her room with a babe in arms, as bold as brass.
"Well" The Voice started "No worries about succession then, I take it?"
Brandon wanted to strangle The Voice, and probably would have devoted the rest of his life to figuring out how to do so if not for the fact that A), The Voice gave excellent advice from time to time when he wasn't being a snarky cunt and, B) if he babe survived he was actually correct.
He just sighed, looking at the nervous face of his daughter and accepted her into his arms, glad that she was alive and well. His daughter was alive, and the hundreds of thousands of giants, men and children that looked to House Stark for leadership could rest easy knowing that there would be a next generation to look forward to.
"You might want to think about fathering some bastards of your own, you need some cadet branches in case the main line ever gets so thin again."
Brandon just sighed, knowing that The Voice was sadly, probably correct. He wandered out of the room, headed towards the kennels. Visiting Snowsong always helped calm him.
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"I told you not to fuck with dragons, man!" The Voice actually managed to scream into Torrhen's mind after three days of negotiations.
Torrhen could still feel his spirits falling. He turned to his bastard half-brother, who he would be granting a lordship to within the next few years. "So, still want to try and kill the dragons?"
Brandon looked at the great bulk of Belarion as it glided overhead, casting shadows over the entire Northern host of seventy thousand, all of the soldiers his brother could march south on such short notice, his nephews and cousins looking on in awe and terror alongside him. "I believe that I may be reconsidering my proposition, brother."
"Yea fuck this noise, dude, you got people depending on you. You have two options here, Torr, be known as the king that got a generation of Northerners melted down to scrap metal and goop, or be known as the king who spared the North from the fire and be one of two intact kingdoms."
"Men!" Torrhen's voice echoed across the Northern lines as he doffed his helm and sheathed his sword. "We can either be cooked by that beast, or go home to our warm beds and warmer wives! I know which one I'd rather choose!" The Northern army cheered in an unsurprisingly unified agreement with their liege lord as he started walking sedately towards where Aegon and his sisters were waiting with their generals, his own following in his wake. "The Southrons call us savages and barbarians, but at least these barbarians know not to poke a dragon!" This was greeted with more roars of approval, and an amused grin from the Dragonlord where he stood waiting.
"They'll love you for not getting them cooked."
"I dearly hope they love me for more than not being an imbecile."
"Aegon Targaryen" Torrhen started as he unhooked his crown from where it hung at his belt. "I must say, Your Grace, I admire you for what you've done in such a short amount of time and by the same token resent you for conquering my kingdom in such a way that I cannot effectively combat."
Aegon kept the vaguely amused expression on his face as the burly Northerner knelt and offered up his crown. He gently took the brass and steel headpiece from Torrhen, careful so as not to cut himself on the spires. "You are by far the most pragmatic ruler I've had to deal with, Torrhen Stark. I must say it is delightfully refreshing."
Rhaenys gave a wonderful little giggle at the exchange-
"I bet that one shags like a minx." The voice cut into his thoughts.
"Not now." Torrhen responded, though he not so secretly agreed with it.
-and interjected. "Very much so. For a supposedly brainless barbarian he shows much more sense than either of those Gardner or Lannister fools." She said, while not so subtly eyeing Brandon Snow, who knelt next to his brother and cut a rather ruggedly handsome figure in his boiled leather and chain armor, draped in furs with his axe and shield.
"She's right, you know." Aegon continued as he wrapped an arm around Rhaenys and bid Torrhen and his generals to rise. "I take a dim view of foolishness, which is why Harrenhal is in ruins... mostly, the Lannisters have a new Lord and House Gardner has been... pruned" he grinned as some of the wonderfully "uncultured" Northmen couldn't help but snort, groan or roll their eyes at his terrible pun. "Which is also why I do bequeath unto you the Principality of the North and name you Warden of the North." Aegon handed a stunned Torrhen back his crown. "All lands from The Neck north are yours to protect and rule as my representative from the seat of House Stark." His grin widened into a smile at the expression on Torrhen's face, happy subjects were loyal subjects, and loyal subjects were useful subjects. "In all practicality, the only things changing are your title and the fact that you now have one superior in all of Westeros."
Torrhen looked up from the crown at his new overlord, absently hooking it back to his belt. "You show much honor today, King Aegon, I will hold the North for you."
Aegon merely gave him a knowing look as Rhaenys kept undressing an increasingly uncomfortable looking Brandon Snow with her eyes.
"I like this guy, he's reasonable. Hopefully the Targaryens stay that way, it could be good for the North."
"Yes, hopefully."
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"Welcome to your trial, Prince Stark" King Aerys the Second spat out spitefully. "Are you ready to face my champion?"
"I don't like this Ricky, he's nuttier than squirrel shit. I told Torrhen that nothing good would ever come from the Targaryens!"
"First of all, I know, and second, that's a damn lie and you know it! You've told me that story enough times that I know when you're changing it!"
"Okay, so I may be altering history here a bit, but this isn't going to end well. How many fucking times did I tell you to reign that kid of yours in?!"
"You're not telling me anything I haven't told myself multiple times within the last moon, as you well know!"
"And who is to be your champion, Your Grace?" Rickard asked stoically.
Aerys cackled madly as an alchemist walked in carrying a clay pot with an ominous green glow coming from the open top. "Why fire, of course!"
"Get the fuck out!"
Rickard started to try and flee before he was roughly piled on by four nearby guards, though he still managed to slay two of them with the bastard sword he preferred over Ice before six more joined in beating him to the ground. He was vaguely aware of his son Brandon being brought in with a noose around his neck and both of them being tied to separate posts.
"Fuck this isn't looking good, Rick."
"But it is still happening, my old friend. Do me a favor."
"You know I'd do anything for a Stark. Not that I can do much."
Rickard gave a hollow laugh as the wildfire was poured over his armor and struck with a sword, the friction causing it to light up. He refused to scream and give Aerys the pleasure. "Make Eddard the best Prince Stark there has ever been. Make these Southron savages remember that if you kick a wolf, it will rip out your throat!"
"Gladly, Ricky. You were a good'un."
Rickard laughed like a maniac as his consciousness started to fade and the heat collapsed his lungs. "No I wasn't. I never should have turned my gaze to the South." As he blacked out, he was vaguely aware of his eldest son choking himself to death on the noose, struggling to reach a sword just out of his grasp.
If he'd been more cognizant, he would have seen King Aerys the Mad railing at his guards, wanting to know why the traitorous Stark was laughing as he died, instead of screaming.
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"Well that was fucking dark."
Prince Eddard Stark, Second son of Prince Rickard Stark, sat up in his bed in the Eyrie as a voice that, Gods willing, he never should have heard interrupted his sleep. All he could do was give a whispered and horrified "oh no." Before he fainted dead away at the implications.
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So that's what I've got down so far. It's not meant to be a real in depth re-write of the series. More of a "What would the Lords Stark do if they had a voice of reason that they couldn't ignore no matter how hard they tried" thing. Anyone is welcome to write something along those lines, I'd love to see what you guys and gals come up with. Feel free to go as far back into Westeros history as you'd like, and all the way up to the events of Game of Thrones changing things as you fancy.
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