Not Heaven or Hell

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***

'A man who possessed the Notebook of Death would not go to heaven or hell.'

Ryuuk, god of death

Tyrion took a sip of wine and once again tried to concentrate on the book. It was not working out well. The youngest of the Lannisters was puzzled and troubled, and the reason for that was Lancel, his cousin. He seemed to have become a very different man.

Where had the silly, pompous, narcissistic teenager Tyrion had known until recently gone? It had begun when Lancel had politely asked (!) for suggestions for books on history (!!!) a couple of weeks ago, and when Tyrion, who remembered with what disdain his young kinsman had spoken of the 'dull, dusty pages that a dwarf, but not a knight, should be digging through,' had retaliated by naming Maester Yandel's dullest and longest work, had actually borrowed it from the library and read it in its entirety (!!!). And he didn't limit himself to one book. The New Lancel - for now, Tyrion decided to call him that - swallowed the pages as fast as if he had been born in some other world, where reading was a trivial and commonplace activity, not a privilege of the chosen few, which, however, most did not enjoy anyway.

In general, New Lancel could be welcomed, if it were not for one oddity. As if in exchange for his acquired hunger for knowledge, his cousin had lost the very skills that were the essence of a knight: he was much worse at riding and had almost lost the use of a sword. Tyrion had seen Tyrek, three years younger than Lancel, defeat his cousin in a training fight. Concerned by his son's sudden weakness, Uncle Kiwan had the maester examine the lad. But no signs of illness could be detected. However, as Lord Tywin grudgingly remarked, Lancel's failures in training threatened to put an end to his plans to make the young man a royal squire. The old Lancel, reprimanded by his powerful uncle, would have been frightened and made excuses. The new one calmly endured Lord Tywin's glare and replied in a level voice:

- I am sorry my ineptitude has disrupted your plans, uncle. I will endeavour to learn everything I need to know as soon as possible.

- Let us hope so,' replied his father coldly, and that was the end of the matter.

And he did make an effort. Watching his cousin closely, Tyrion could see the progress. Though he was still a long way from Old Lancel, New Lancel was slowly learning a science that any boy in Westeros knew, unless he'd been born a dwarf. In addition to lessons with the sword, Lancel also began to train in archery, and here his progress was much more noticeable. Soon enough, Lancel surpassed his cousins and even Jaime, though his brother would never admit it. Jaime always preferred the sword, though, and considered long-range weapons to be the domain of cowards.

From time to time Tyrion wondered what had happened. What unknown force had changed Lancel's character beyond recognition, leaving his appearance unchanged? And was he, Tyrion, the only one who had noticed? Uncle Kiwan, always busy with his father's errands, was satisfied with the maester's vague explanations of a 'temporary ailment.' Lancel's mother, Lady Dorna Lannister, smiled calmly and wisely in response to Tyrion's question and said only one thing: the boy had grown up. Lancel's brothers, twins Martin and Willem, were still too young, and everyone else didn't seem to care about the lad.

Tyrion loved mysteries. The wonders of distant lands, the ancient secrets contained in yellowed scrolls - all of it had fascinated him since childhood. And now the Seven had given him another one. 'By all means, I will get to the bottom of this,' Tyrion thought as he lent Lancel another book, this time Maester Caeth's Life of the Four Kings.

- Thank you, Tyrion. I knew you'd help me out.

- Glad to help, Lancel,' he replied kindly, eyeing the young man with a silent question: Who are you?

***

Light flicked a blond strand from his forehead, took aim, and lowered the bowstring. There were murmurs of delight all around.

- A fine shot,' praised Ser Benedict, the Master of Arms. Tyrek clapped Light on the shoulder with joy.

An archer, who would have thought it. In a previous life, Light had been a tennis enthusiast, even a junior champion in Japan. His keen eye and quick reactions had served him well here, in another world where no one had heard of tennis. He became a good shot. He'd learnt to ride a horse, too, though he'd only been on a horse a couple of times before coming to Westeros, and that had been on a pony in a children's park. But Light could drive a car, a skill that was completely useless in this world. Like most of his skills from the old world.

The ability to investigate crimes is not needed where feudal lords do the investigating and judging at their whim; the ability to hack into a computer without leaving a trace is not needed where there are no computers, not even electricity. Swordsmanship was most valued in Westeros, but killing enemies in close combat went against all of Light's instincts. Long-range weapons were better, and even better not to kill anyone himself, but only to give orders. One problem: Lancel Lannister, son of Keevan, nephew of Tywin, cousin of Jaime, Cersei, and Tyrion, is not a man whose orders will be listened to. At least not yet.

Light was generally pleased with the body he'd been given. He was younger: Yagami Light was twenty-three at the time of his death, and Lancel was now fifteen. Although by local standards he is considered an adult, he can even get married. Lancel is not badly developed physically and, judging by the looks of the maids, quite attractive. His eyes are typical Lannister green. His hair is sandy rather than golden. The ridiculous fuzz above his upper lip had been ruthlessly shaved off. Lancel had grown a moustache in an attempt to appear more masculine, but it looked silly.

Light hadn't been practising shooting hard to please his father or Lord Tywin. He must get into the capital, into the king's entourage, and the easiest way was to fulfil his uncle's wish and become the king's squire. His next steps were vague, but he knew one thing for certain: he would not be a squire for long.

A month ago it was all over for him. Mikami's stupidity had ruined such a beautiful plan and Kira had lost - lost everything, including his life. A new world, free of evil and criminals, would never come. With that thought in mind, Light prepared to die.

And he died - or rather, his body died. But Light's soul was given a second chance. A chance to start again in another world.

A long time ago, when they first met, Ryuuk had said that whoever used the Death Notebook would never enter heaven or hell. At the time, Light had assumed that he was destined for nothingness after death, but what if Ryuuk's words had some other meaning? If not heaven or hell, then where?

Now Light knew where.

Compared to twenty-first-century Japan, third-century Westeros from Aegon's Conquest looked more like hell than heaven. Light was still lucky, though. Had he been in the body of a peasant or, worse, a slave somewhere in Essos, his new life would have been sad and short-lived. Luckily, he was in the body of a young man (good thing he wasn't a girl: it would have been much harder to get used to his new life in the body of the opposite sex) of a noble family. But not a king, not a lord, not even an heir. Digging into Lancel's memory, Light realised that the boy was a typical fool from a rich family: self-confident, stupid and arrogant, and arrogance did not interfere with cowardice. In addition, Lancel had a weak character and easily fell under the influence of others. If Light hadn't taken possession of his body, the boy would sooner or later have got into some bad trouble. Whoever had put his soul in that body-the death gods of his world or the Seven of this one-had done the right thing. He, Light, would be able to manage Lancel's life far better than Lancel himself. Better not only for himself, but for the world.

He had to admit that when he called his homeworld 'rotten,' Light was being unfair. Westeros was far worse than Earth, and not just because there was no running water or mobile phones. Even the archaic feudal system, for all its flaws, had no alternatives at medieval levels of technology.

The real problem was that the Middle Ages in Westeros had already lasted eight thousand years.

The complete lack of progress was what struck Light strongly and unpleasantly when he familiarised himself with the local history. The strangeness of the local climate was partly to blame. The harsh and unpredictable winters that last for years make one think not of innovation, but of survival. The Starks, the Lords of the North, have even adopted an appropriate motto: winter is coming. Flipping through an old book, Light came across the legend of the Long Night. Allegedly, eight thousand years ago, the sun disappeared for many years, and in the icy darkness the world was attacked by terrible creatures: the Others. A hero, called Azor Ahai in Essos, defeated them with the help of a magical sword, the Lightbringer. Other legends mentioned other magical creatures: the Children of the Forest (something like elves) and giants. The usual fairy tales, Light decided. On Earth, too, there had once been stories of men with dog heads, mermaids, and dragons. Educated people like Tyrion and Light himself realise that it's all just fiction.

Except for the dragons. The dragons in this world were real.

The last of them had died a century and a half ago, but the dragon skulls that had until recently adorned the throne room, the huge Dragon's Lair built on one of the capital's three hills, and finally the molten towers of Harrenhal - all of these were evidence that dragons were not fiction. Dragons, along with the magic that spawned them, were the second and primary cause of local backwardness.

Valyria, the local analogue of the Roman Empire, had risen on dragons and magic. The power of the Valyrians was immense, but it was built on a fragile foundation. For magic impedes technological advancement. As long as there is magic, technology is not needed, and when it suddenly dries up, the decline begins, which there is no one and nothing to stop.

That's what happened. Four hundred years ago, Valyria perished, leaving nothing but smoking ruins. All the achievements of the Valyrians - long-distance communication, the secret of making special steel - were lost, and all the families of the dragonriders perished. Except one.

Light read the story of the rise and fall of the Targaryens especially carefully. After all, it was they who united Westeros, taking the first important step in the right direction. Alas, that first step was also the last. The Targaryens failed to eliminate the feudal freedom and create a centralised state, soon becoming mired in internecine wars and turmoil. Having lost their main weapon - dragons - they gradually degenerated and eventually lost everything. Now the last of them, Viserys and Daenerys, wander the Free Cities of Essos, where Viserys is nicknamed the beggar king.

From what Light has heard from his family, King Robert Baratheon is hardly better. He has no interest in the affairs of state, he neglects his royal duties, preferring feasts, whores, and hunting, and meanwhile the treasury owes the Lannisters three million gold, and there's no telling when or how the Lannisters will get their money back. So said Lord Tywin, and his tone was full of cold contempt for a king unworthy of the title. Kiwan objected, saying that the king's weakness favoured them, as it allowed the Lannisters to increase their influence at court. Tywin turned his head and saw Light standing in the doorway.

- Is this a bad time, Uncle?

- No, it's a good time,' Kivan said to reassure his son. - I hear you're getting good at archery.

- I'm a long way from mastery, Father.

- There is no need for modesty in a Lannister, Lord Tywin said. - You should be proud. I wish you'd learnt the sword like Jaime. The sword is the weapon of a true knight.

- I prefer to slay my enemies from a distance, Uncle.

- And spending time with my youngest son,' Tywin said grudgingly. - Make sure he doesn't teach you any bad habits. There's trouble in the family, even in ours. You'd better stay away from Tyrion.

Ser Kiwan sighed. 'My father seems to treat the dwarf better than his own,' Light thought.

- 'Lancel, before you came, my brother and I were discussing the king's impending visit. Robert Baratheon and his entire court, including Jaime and Cersei, are coming here.

- To drink and be entertained at my expense for Seven knows how long,' Tywin hissed.

- We think it's a good opportunity for you to get a squire's place. If Robert falters, Cersei will remind him how much money he owes us.

I doubt anyone in this world knows about credit ratings, or Westeros' debt would have been down to a junk C long ago. The degradation of the state that began under the Targaryens continued under Robert Baratheon. The contradictions between the Great Houses grew and accumulated, and the central power grew weaker. Sooner or later there must be an explosion. A new dynasty could be born out of the crisis, or Westeros could break up into separate kingdoms, as it was before Aegon the Conqueror. The first option is preferable. Light has already realised how much family ties mean in this world. If Light rises, his family rises, and vice versa. So the Lannisters are lucky. As long as Light is in the body of a member of that dynasty, we'll have to make sure it's the ruling one. I wonder if Lord Tywin wants the same thing. He's a biased man, but he's certainly clever. He could make a valuable ally.

- I'm looking forward to moving to the capital, Father.

'There I can learn more about the local political climate, and devise a more detailed plan. A plan to seize power.'