Шмойлов Арт235м Александрович. Aoi

Ironically, the dragon was black as midnight instead of the red it ought to be but the pin itself was the most valuable thing that I owned, far more than any treasures that we could sneak away with from Dragonstone, for with it, I held hope.

It was already too late to take anything else before my exile. I had found myself in this body the night my mother died, the night I was forced into exile along with my baby sister.

For all there was, it was too late when I found myself in the body of Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, in a World of Ice and Fire where death was so cheap.

That being said, finding myself living the life of Viserys Targaryen was... what led me to decide to use anything I could use, which included more... esoteric options.

I was not the Viserys the First, whose life could be summed up as him being too stubborn for his good. He had declared that his daughter, Rhaenyra would be his heir to the Throne, leading to the worst bloodbath in the history of Westeros that culminated in the extinction of Dragons.

All that idiot had to do was marry the Velaryon girl, wed his daughter to the Valeryon boy and maybe have Daemon burn Oldtown on the way to a peaceful and united realm.... the idiot.

No, I was not Viserys the First, who inherited the most peaceful kingdom in existence from his grandfather. Comparatively, Viserys the First played the Game on Easy Mode.

I was not Viserys the Second, son of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, either. That would have been an interesting experience at the least.

The Prince who was raised in Lys under the equivalent of House Medici was... without a doubt, the most competent ruler that Westeros had ever seen. Sure, he was a shitty father and his rule lasted for around a year, possibly poisoned by his shitty heir, but he ruled for decades as the Hand of the King, first to his brother than his two diametrically opposite nephews.

What was that saying again, "Aegon brooded, Daeron warred, Baelon prayed and Viserys was the one who ruled." The man had single highhandedly held together the Targaryen Dynasty after the Dance of the Dragons when the fools killed off all the dragons that remained from Old Valyria.

As an administrator, Viserys II was great, though he was succeeded by Aegon the Unworthy, who had in turn undone the whole stability by causing the Blackfyre Rebellions, but, he was not a horrible option. If the First one played it on Easy, Viserys the Second played the mode on Medium Difficulty.

No... I was neither of those rather nice and comfortable options. I was born as Viserys, the son of Aerys and Rhaella.

I was reborn as the soon-to-be Prince-in-Exile, the Beggar King... Viserys the Third... if I lived long enough. A child who lost everything and sold his own sister to what was essentially slavery because he did not have anyone he could trust who could call him out on his foolish decisions.

The man who had been crowned by molten gold in the middle of nowhere, never to return to the place he considered home.

Speak of Hard Mode, huh?

As my fate was meant to be rather unfortunate, I had to use any tool that I had access to.

That included my knowledge of the more obscure side of this world, and my meta-knowledge of thousand other works of fiction... in hopes that George was inspired by some other works in some ways at the least.

The idea I had was a stupid one for all manner of reasons. It was an idea that simply did not even belong to the book series about this world.

It was stupid but that did not mean that I would not try it out as every instinct in my body was screaming for me to do it instead.

Given that Daenerys had hatched dragons based on a similar gut feeling, I decided to follow those instincts.

So here I was, watching the hearth crackle as I held this pin of dragon bone that may have been worth more than the entire treasury of my mad father's, let alone the measly sum we were able to sneak away to Braavos... if it worked.

The pin was made of Dragon Bone, long and narrow, nearly ten inches and shone as though it was a black diamond. The material was what mattered.

The Maesters thought that the bone had a high iron content which gave its black color. It was possible I supposed, though why it would not rust was a question I could always ask.

It was much more likely to be some sort of carbon-based material that was better as a bone than calcium-based ones that belonged to humans, or it could also be that it was magic in the bone that gave it the color and superior properties.

I did not have access to all that knowledge about Magic and the properties of Dragonbone.

I knew that Septon Barth had written a book on dragons, yet I had not read it and it was stuck somewhere in the Red Keep of King's Landing, where Robert Baratheon now ruled, possibly popping a stiff one every time he thought of my sister's and mine corpse.

There were still facts that I knew.

By weight, dragon bone was lighter and stronger than even steel, though it was best suited to be made into bows.

I did not know if anyone thought to make swords out of the material but I knew that Valyrian Steel itself did not contain Dragon Bone, as I recalled George once mentioned in an interview I think.

The bows made of Dragon Bone somehow out-ranged any other bow, even Weirwood bows of Westeros and Goldenheart bows of the Summer Isles... which made no sense in any way or form.

The main problem was the fact that dragon bones ranged at five hundred yards at maximum, while yew longbows of the same shape and draw strength ranged at three hundred based on everything I was able to find out.

For all the mechanics of how bows worked, dragon-bone bow had nearly twice the range of normal bows of this world and even out-ranged the modern compound bows of my old world, which I could not explain through laws of Physics.

The only factor that was not accounted for in such an experiment however was the nature of dragon bone... the fact that it was Magic in some way or form.

Dragons themselves were by design, too heavy to fly, yet they did. No creature could swallow a mammoth whole and be able to fly without having jet engines mounted to their backsides.

Similarly, given that the all physical properties of the two bows were the same, any difference could be attributed to a factor not accounted for by all the laws of physics.

In the end, what mattered was simple.

Dragon bone had Magic and it was from a Magical Creature.

The next material that I sought out was relatively easy to acquire and one that I was certain that the wood had magic as well.

While getting access to Weirwood was... rather hard, it was not as impossible as Dragon Bone, nor as expensive. The problem came from the fact that accessing Weirwood in Essos was nearly impossible, though one could get a few smaller pieces that were already formed into an object, such as a box or trinket.

A sliver of Weirwood however was enough to grow more of the material to those who understood the nature of the material.

A proper soil, enough bonemeal to provide sustenance and blood proved to be the key.

It was pig's blood that I was able to acquire, as the servants were working to make blood sausages.

A few months of regular supply of blood and bone and the Weirwood had grown to an acceptable size, proving to me that Weirwood Sap was blood for all purposes.

What I really cared about the Weirwood was that it was a Magical Wood. Sure, it also somehow created a pathway to Greensight and it was a potential that I would need to explore, but for now, what I truly wanted was the wood itself.

A peiec of magical animal bits and a piece of magical wood.

It was really a stupid plan.

I was oit of options though, so here we were.

Weirwood was a hard wood to work with. It was almost impossible to insert the dragon bone into it.

A bit of trickery and I was able to instead have the Weirwood grow around the dragonbone, the long and thin pin becoming the Core to the Wand of Weirwood.

The mechanics of the process were from the world of Harry Potter, but George had once said that there was no Hogwarts in this world to teach magic.

That did hint at a possible connection in terms of Magic. It did not mean that I could not take inspiration from the world of Harry Potter.

In Harry Potter, stronger wands contained cores of Phoenix Feather, Dragon Heartstring and Unicorn Tail-hair except for the Elder Wand, which used Thestral Hair instead.

I did not know if Phoenixes existed in this world, Dragon Heartstring required fresh dragons and if I had a fresh dragon, I was going to ride it instead while Unicorns in this world were closer to Rhinos than silvery horses so, that was not really an option at the moment.

That being said, there were other alternative sources of Magical Creature parts. Less powerful wands but wands all the same. One of the unique wands that I could recall was Basilisk Horn made the Core of Salazar Slytherin's wand. By all logic, horn as a core would work, so it could in theory mean that bone could be used as a core as well.

So I made the damned thing.

I fed the wood my blood in hopes of binding it to myself.

Valyrian Magic was based on "Fire and Blood" and Blood Magic itself was something that I knew to exist in some way or form in this world.

It had taken a while for me to realize that I could feel something from the Weirwood itself... a connection that was formed as I fed it my blood.

The connection was enough to convince me that this method may work in some way and if it failed, I would still have gained some sort of Greensight from the way I could feel the Weirwood at the back of my mind.

The last step had been to remove it from the pot and shape the roots and branches into a handle, but before I could start carving and chopping, something strange happened.

The wood itself somehow started moving, not unlike a sunflower, slowly, deliberately, as though it understood what I was thinking.

The roots twisting around the trunk, braiding itself into a handle, while the small branches pressing themselves into the dragon bone that was left pointing at the end.

"No Magic left my albino arse." I muttered with a grin.

I watched the wood morph as though it was liquid, becoming an elegant and uniform wand before my very eyes.

So I created a wand, Weirwood, fifteen inches, the handle as wide as a dagger's handle tapering into a fine pointy end.

The white wood clashed with the black tip of dragon bone that was sticking out from the last half inch. It was closer to a dagger than a wand for all intents, but that was fine by me.

Ass from a simple pin, some furniture pieces, blood and hope.

I suppose that was all Magic was.

When I waved the wand, a warm breeze filled the room I was in.

It smelled of Spring... of Victory... of Hope.

I could not contain the grin that started to stretch over my face.

AN: Not sure about it but, I have been toying with the idea of how closely Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire Magic Systems would be connected and if wands could be used in the World of Ice and Fire. I wanted some Self Insert that explored Magic in this world at a rate that was much more comprehensive and I have been playing around with ideas for a while. Feel free to post any suggestions.

Last edited: May 28, 2025

002 Souls and Sorrows

A year had passed since I mad my wand.

I had not gone on, waving it around like a fool from the first moment.

Subtlety was the name of the game.

Until it wasn't.

"I am so sorry," someone whispered in my ear as I felt the punch of something towards my ribs.

I heard it when I was walking next to Ser Willem on the way back from the Sea Lord's Palace, trying to get in contact with someone who might in turn get us in contact with the Iron Bank without owing too many favors to the Sea Lord.

A grunt escaped my lips, as I lurched forward with the force, falling to my knees. I clutched my ribs where I felt the dagger hit, turning around to my back as my free hand reached for my belt.

The next moment, Ser Willem Darry had apparently punched the man who had a knife in his hand. Said assassin was knocked out cold and the knife was on the ground. Given that the knife looked to have an odd sheen on, I could only guess that it was some sort of poison.

"Are you alright, your grace?" asked Ser Willem looking me over, failing to see any blood. Even if the old knight was... well, old, he was still once the Master of Arms who taught Rhaegar and the man could punch.

"Missed me... broke a rib though." I muttered through my teeth, as I reached and took the knife, just to make sure it did not disappear or someone picked it up to finish the job.

The truth was much more complex and I did not want to reveal it, even to my only protector... mostly because he was a Knight, raised in the way of the Seven.

As if reading my mind, Ser Willem snapped, grasping the hand that was trying to hide away the wand.

"Do not take me for a fool, your grace... I swore to keep you safe, no matter what." said the old man, giving me a knowing look. I opened my mouth only to be interrupted.

"Later we shall talk... we should get to safety first" he whispered, his eyes darting around, waiting for the next attack that I knew would not come. He started moving to carry the assassin, when an idea came to me. Given that the cat was out of the bag, it was no use hiding my magic. I sighed, grimacing only half in pain.

"Can you carry me?" I asked as my wand found my hand. It was not really as strong as what I would have wanted, but it was still for most magics. "I can make him walk so long as he is knocked out. Get somewhere we can ask questions."

"As you command, your grace." said the old man, picking me up. Given that I was only ten, it was not much of an effort.

I focused on casting a spell that I knew would work.

"Imperio" I muttered, as a shimmer of air flowed from the tip of the wand, as my mind and soul moved out of my body.

Had I tried one of the Unforgivable Curses after I created my wand?

Yes... yes I had.

There were a lot of uses for such a spell, and I was preparing for life in exile.

While I could handle a few nights without food, I was not going to have my little sister live through that. If it meant compromising my morals and doing something that I would normally consider immoral... for that innocent child, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Incantations were not really set rules with magic. I did not even really need an incantation to cast a spell, though it helped with how I could imagine and focus my will, which in turn helped me not accidentally set something on fire.

Harry Potter spells that I could replicate the effects of, some pig-Latin and even some High Valyrian when my knowledge of Latin had hit a block were pretty useful ways to speed it along.

The truth of the matter was much more... spiritual.

I had taken inspiration from the tale of Azor Ahai when I figured it out. In the story, Azor Ahai sacrificed his wife, Nysa Nysa and her strength, her warmth and her soul were poured into the blade. To most, it was a story of how Magic required Sacrifice.

To the educated, it was a story of how Magic required Willing Sacrifice. To the wisest, it was a story of how Magic required Self Sacrifice.

The truth of the story was based on who had cast the spell to create Lightbringer. Was it Azor Ahai, or was it Nysa Nysa? It was Nysa Nysa's soul that made up the Enchantment, so was it not her who cast the spell?

To me, the answer was clearer.

The Weirwood Wand gave me a strange perception when it came to magic.

I could feel the bond that had formed.

I could feel how my soul moved through the wand when I cast a spell.

It was subtle, but I understood it at that moment.

Magic required souls to interact with the world, with the medium.

Skinchangers poured their souls to other living beings, Red Priests poured their souls to fire... Others poured their souls to ice.

Even my wand, through which I poured my soul, only acted as an interface with the magical core. It allowed me to interact with the Dragon Bone core, and tap into the magic of the dragon that echoed through the bone itself, giving my spells the flavor of a dragon's in more ways than one.

Most spells of physical effects were based on hot air that the wand could produce, while the mental spells that were more subtle only had a light shimmer.

So I have started creating my own spells, based on my new understanding of magic. There were not many, but the year since I completed my wand allowed me to come up with some of the essentials for survival.

One such spell was the Imperius Curse that I used.

Or call it Dominate Person if you are more into Dungeons and Dragons.

It was not really a unique Magic to this world, funny enough. It was a method of controlling someone and based on my experience, it was essentially Skinchanging with the Wand acting as a medium that amplified and focused my mind.

I had practiced it with dogs, birds and a few of the more... unique animals from the Menagerie of the Sea Lord of Braavos, when he would invite the Prince in Exile of House Targaryen.

Best I could tell, the wand acted as a filter to prevent any bleeding between human and animal that I had recalled from the experience of Varamyr Sixskins.

That being said, humans were significantly harder to Dominate and I lacked the experience, as controlling a human was... only reserved for when necessary.

If the man was awake, I was sure that it would have failed. As he was knocked out, I was able to suppress his sleeping mind, using his body like a puppet.

More making them sleepwalk than full control.

Of course, I could not go around puppeteering an entire Kingdom for myself. That was rather hard to do when controlling a single mind, however small of an animal it belonged to essentially stripped me of my actual body. I was practicing, but the results left the spell not really useful in a fight. Carrying around knocked-out bodies like nothing happened... if someone could carry my own body, that... that I could do.

"Dany?" I asked as I came to.

"Upstairs, sleeping." responded the old man, as he watched the body of my would-be-killer sprawled over the chair.

"He is clearly an Assassin." the old man muttered, as I had the body of the man drop into the chair.

"Specifically Sorrowful Men." I corrected, rethinking my knowledge. "They apologize before killing, or so Pycelle had said." I clarified.

The books had pretty much implied that they were a step below Faceless Men when you wanted someone dead... still pretty expensive still. "Someone who could not afford the Faceless Men then."

"Faceless Men would have asked for a fortune." nodded Ser Willem.

"Faceless Men would ask for the man's life." I clarified, causing the knight to gulp. "They would not take a contract for us though." I added with a grin "We have an arrangement."

"May I ask how you got in contact with the most notorious of assassins in the known world your grace?" asked Ser Willem in a tired drawl, simply done with the Targaryen brand of madness.

"The House of Black and White," I said with a grin.

"Oh." was the only response the knight gave.

The truth was that I had visited all the temples, including the Temple of R'hollor and the House of Black and White.

I simply told them that I would take on any contract in Essos in exchange for any attempt on me or my family through the Faceless Men.

It was essentially the same method that they used for their own men and they were rather understanding when I told them I was both Viserys Targaryen and not at the time. Granted, they booted me out of their Temple after that but, it worked so... my win I suppose.

Ser Willem ripped the clothes off the man, leaving him naked while I made sure to bind the man tightly, including his thumbs in a way that would make it impossible to get himself untied.

"Right, the man is nicely bound and secure." I said, "Would you like a cup of tea... or something stronger before we talk?"

"We should not leave him alone." countered Ser Willem, getting a nod from me. "His knife, did it really miss?" asked the knight.

"No," I said, lifting my shirt with my right hand, as my left ribs had taken the impact, where the blade would have reached my heart. "I knew that an attack would come... as I had seen it in the Flames."

"Do you worship the Red God?" asked Ser Willem.

"The Magic is called Pyromancy." I clarified "It is older than R'hollor... originally of Valyria. It is called Fire Divination and it can show threats if one knows how to ask."

"So you knew it was coming... why let it happen?" asked the man, confused.

"What happens, happens." I tried to explain "The trick is to make it happen on your own terms." I added, not really in the mood to give an explanation on High-Level Divination based on the story of Oedipus.

"And the knife, how did it not cut?" asked the Knight, curiously.

"A spell to make fabric stronger," I said, not lying.

There was nothing between my clothes and my flesh to stop the blade. Said spell was tricky and required some blood magic to prepare, lasting only a few hours but such limitations were ones I had to work around with. Combined with the fact that I knew it was coming and was able to compress the air around me to be near solid for a moment, the knife simply bounced.

"You are a Skinchanger," he stated as a matter of fact.

"Among other things." I nodded "humans are nearly impossible though and that only happened because he was not conscious."

"Such things are..." started Ser Willem

"Dangerous? Against the Seven?" I asked, not really in the mood for a lesson on religion.

"Useful." countered the knight making me stumble.

"Useful?" I gaped, not really understanding the man's reaction.

"A knight masters any weapon they can... no matter the form. Stories of Bloodraven are known to many, and he had used his skills to protect the Crown against the Blackfyre Rebellions. I fear your talents are given by the Gods in your hour of need to see you safe, as I am old and I do not know how long I might live. I have nothing else to say, but be careful and remember the lessons of the dead." explained Ser Willem, showing his age for a moment. "When you were young, you were..."

"A spoiled brat." I nodded "You can say that, Ser."

"As you say." said the old man with a smirk. "After that night... after the Queen..."

`Promise me, Viserys.` the voices echoed at the reminded, memories that were long since buried raising to the surface.

"There are times when you remind me of your brother, your grace," said Ser Willem, clearly nostalgic

"He too had this look as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and there are times, I see your Great Grandfather in your eyes... I was a young man when I laid eyes upon him and... King Aegon had kind eyes."

"And he died in Summerhall," I responded, understanding.

"And he died in Summerhall." repeated the Knight. He sounded far more tired than he let on.

"I am not Aegon the Unlikely." I said, looking the man in the eye "Neither am I, Aerys the Mad."

"Good." said the man "Magic is dangerous... but so is a blade. You have shown wisdom and discipline beyond your age in these last two years, so I shall trust in you. I am your sword, as I have sworn."

"I thank you for your wisdom, ser." I said, before turning to the third member of room "Now, shall we?"

"Do you have something to make this easier?" asked my sworn sword, mostly out of curiosity.

"There is something," I said with a smirk.

"By all means," he said, motioning me to go on.

"Legilimens," I muttered, pointing my wand, as my eyes were clouded.

Again, the incantation was mostly to aid in the focus of the magic. The true spell was a variant of Skinchanging for all that I cared about.

It was a more passive form of Skinchanging however, making you the passenger instead of forcing control over the other. It linked the minds, as the caster could slowly push certain thoughts and make the victim focus on ideas.

The Stark Children had Wolf Dreams, which the process was similar to, as they would share the thoughts of their wolves, lacking the control that came from practice that only Bran had mastered by the end of the Dance.

I drifted through the thoughts, creating a need to think about who hired the Sorrowful Men...

"Nothing." I ground out, clutching my head to spare myself the headache. "Religious Zealots are hardest minds to crack but the man was given a name and a face to kill, my own... he does not know who contacted him."

"Could it be the Usurper?" asked Ser Willem.

"So long as he has Jon Arryn to temper him, Robert would not send an Assassin without some significant cause." I explained, "My thoughts are on Tywin."

"He could certainly afford such expenses," muttered Ser Willem. "What of the man?" he asked.

"I ought to do it," I stated, "The Northerners had the right of it, I owe it to him to look him in the eye before killing him."

"Are you certain?" asked Ser Willem, only getting a nod.

I nodded, reaching out and making th assassin stir, his eyes opened just enough.

I looked at the man who made to kill me. "Sectumsempra" I muttered, as a compressed hot air formed along the line I traced with my wand, becoming thinner than any knife could become and passing along the man's neck, cutting the head off in a moment.

I sighed, muttering a quick prayer to Stranger, the prayers that I was made to memorize for the sake of appearances coming easier than any other. I was not sure about whom Sorrowful Men worshiped, but it was likely Death in some roundabout way.

"No different than a sword." muttered the old man, mostly to himself, clearly shocked.

I felt sick.

"Does it get easier?" I asked, my emotions were a mess as I had killed my first man. I was mentally older than a ten-year-old, but that did not change the fact that the emptiness made me worry.

"You get used to it." said the Master At Arms. "Most do anyways."

"I hope I do not," I said, being genuine. If I ever did, there was a part of me that knew that no dragon would be half as terrifying in this world.

AN: There, first spells and how to cast them.

Last edited: May 29, 2025

003 Thoughts and Speculations

"What are you doing?" came the voice of a young girl as I winced once more.

"Getting dressed," I responded, briefly wondering how a three-year-old could sound so bossy. I winced putting on a clean shirt over the bandages that Ser Willem helped bind before going to sleep.

"You are hurt!" she exclaimed making me snort. If it hadn't already, any questions I would have had regarding Magic in this world would have been quashed after a five-minute conversation with my sister. In the books I had read, she was a thirteen-year-old, capable of speaking multiple languages and enacting her interpretation of Alexander the Conqueror in Slaver's Bay after hatching three dragons. Three-year-old Dany may have been bossy given how Ser Willem or the servants treated but she was observant and way too smart for her age.

"A lesson, dear sister, a strong armor does not make the person wearing it indestructible, only harder to kill," I said with a soft smile.

"I will heal, and it will be forgotten. Nothing for you to worry about." I hastily added, to make sure she would not worry, only to be proven how naive such a wish was with her next question.

"What happened?" asked Dany, her head doing a tilt that I knew she picked up from watching me. I made a mental note to not spend too much in the minds of animals, as I knew to be the source of where I got that reaction.

"A Bad Man tried to stab me, but failed," I explained, knowing that she would keep asking unless I told her something. If I had to be honest, lying to her was not something I was comfortable with and she would need to face the fact that people may want us dead. There was nothing wrong with returning the favor to those who tried to see us dead at the least.

"He failed and won't be able to do it again, so you do not have to worry about it, sweet sister," I explained, seeing Dany frown at that.

Finding a deflection the wisest course of action, I spoke "Now, I am starving, so come along and we can break our fast. What should we eat?"

"Pancakes!" exclaimed Dany, once more making me question the decisions of my past. Introducing some food from my old life was just a way to make this life more bearable and it made my sister happy. Normal food from Braavos was rather dull in flavor and given how spices were not as common and the variety in food that George described in the books was for those lords who did not have to budget in their exile, I had to improvise in areas other than Magic as well.

I slowly made it down the stairs of the House we were staying, wincing as I did not have any painkillers and the numbness I had from last night had long since faded, leaving only pain behind.

Growing or fixing bones was beyond me for now, not that I would be willing to experiment on myself. `And the only spell I could think of may or may not have a chance of vanishing my bones instead.` I mused as we entered the Dining Room, where Ser Willem was sitting, nursing what looked to be ale.

"Ser Willem, good morning," I spoke, throwing away any stuffy tradition regarding greetings. This man was closer to a father than my biological one... granted, a rock was a better father than Aerys the Mad, but I digress.

"Prince Viserys, Princess." greeted Ser Willem, frowning as he saw the way I looked, knowing that I consciously broke protocol that he had been trying to teach me for the last three years.

"The First Sword dropped by to ask questions." said Ser Willem still frowning "Something about an altercation in the streets last night."

"Any trouble?" I asked as I took a bite of the bacon.

"None." said Ser Willem "He was however curious how someone from Qarth made it to Braavos and who may have paid for them."

"Did he have any guesses?" I asked, curious as to what someone more knowledgeable about most powers in the world would think.

"He talked of some Spice Guild of Qarth if the target was a merchant, so I asked him of any group of Hedge-Wizards from there, he mentioned Warlocks of Qarth" he stated his eyes looking at my belt, that had still had my wand attached to the sheath I had made for it.

"Guild of Spicers may not be it, but Warlocks... that is an interesting theory." I deflected, mentally beating myself as I had ignored where Sorrowful Men came from. "I suppose it is possible that they are interested. I should see what precautions we can take. They should not be able to do much while we are in Braavos however." I explained. The presence of the Faceless Men would probably discourage the Warlocks from taking action... given that both cities had their own Cults of Assassins.

"Good." said Ser Willem, throwing me a small bag "No work in the yard today, let your rib recover."

"If you say so," I said, opening the pouch and taking a sniff. "What is this?"

"Willow bark." he said "chew on it and the swelling and throbbing should lessen. Don't look too surprised, my prince, I am a knight and I have cracked or broken my fair share of ribs in Tourneys."

"Broke more in other men, I would bet," I said with a smile. I was not sure what sort of a pain-killer I could take that did not lead to my mind weakening but the medieval equivalent of aspirin was not one that I would consider.

"You have no idea..." began the old knight, as he started talking about the Tourneys, which got Dany's attention given how she had stopped stuffing her face with her pancakes.

Once the food was eaten and Dany went out to play, I turned to the knight.

"The Warlocks?" I asked, curious as to what he was considering.

"What do you know of them?" asked Ser Willem, leaning back.

"Rhaegar had books from the time of Unlikely," I explained, trying to make my knowledge more palatable than the actual source of it. "And Pycelle once told me that they supposedly prevented Valyria from taking over Qarth. He also said, their power waned as Magic left the world after Dragons died."

"But we know that magic did not die with dragons." countered Ser Willem looking at me with a knowing look.

"That has been what the Maesters want everyone to believe," I stated. I was still not sure of the real core reasoning for the Maester's obsession with denying magic. As I still did not know the real reason for how the Maester's behaved, I could only theorize. If they worked to uncover knowledge, they were too traditionalist to achieve progress. If they wished to protect people, they were leaving humanity vulnerable to Magical sources, denying the threat of Others and all other actions they took. "Possibly because they do not have the ability to control magic and magic users." I mused, before forcing myself to go through that rabbit hole again. I had no solid proof that Maesters were acting against my family other than speculation, so making plans for their demise was useless for now.

"What do you think we should do?" asked Ser Willem, feeling like a parent who was asking a child what their thoughts were.

"I never met him, but mother talked of Maester Aemon Targaryen who once wrote to her, saying to arm ourselves with knowledge." I stated before continuing "We do not know enough to act. If it is Tywin, we do not have a way to pay him back. If it is the Warlocks, their reasons are unknown to us. Attacking blindly is to open ourselves to a counterattack."

I could not personally attack Tywin, he had too many men and I was not going to blindly charge into Westerlands without an army and possibly a fully-grown dragon. While I could send an Assassin after him, paying for one was not really in my current budget. I thought of sending a Thrall that I skin-changed and getting the job done myself but that would not be feasible either. My skinchanging was strong, enough to possess humans when they were not aware of it and it left me without control of my body. Weakening my flesh in a months-long coma and risking death was not worth the effort, considering that such an action would mean months of journeying overseas to get a shot at one of the most protected people in existence.

"Good... you are learning," said Ser Willem with a proud smile, as he seemed to have liked my cautious nature. "What would you have me do, your grace?"

"I dislike being called king." I countered "I am a Prince of Blood, not even Robert could deny it. I shall be a king when I sit upon a Throne."

"And wear a golden crown?" countered Ser Willem with a smirk.

`Crown for a king.` the heavy accented voice called out, causing me to grit my teeth, as I pushed my mind out of the memories of a possible future.

"Not of gold... but a crown all the same." I countered, still adamant about it. I would not seek a Golden Crown if I could help it. Silver would do, just as well as Bronze and Iron or even better Valyrian Steel, though tracking the Conqueror's Crown would take a while still.

"The question still remains." deflected Ser Willem, probably seeing the pain in my face at the words. The Master at Arms probably considered the talk of a crown too painful for me after my mother's death. Memories of Rhaella that remained from old Viserys were too painful for me to properly process still. The fact that she had crowned me with her own silver crown was a reminder of what I was left with. I could understand how the old knight came to that conclusion.

I took a breath, thinking of what I would need to do. We needed answers but looking for them may prove troublesome. My right hand rested on my ribs, where the knife had struck, a direct path to my heart from the back. An idea started to form within my mind.

"What have you done to the body?" I asked, my eyes focused once more.

The servants dropped a large barrel by the entrance of my Workshop.

It was more like a section of the basement of the House we stayed in. It was not used due to the small number of people who actually lived in the House with the Red Door. Whereas Ser Willem preferred large men to act as servants, to discourage anyone from trying to attack us, I knew the true nature of such people. We would find ourselves in the streets once the Old Man died if those servants had their way.

Knowing the future and what may happen was tricky to manage. For example, I had foreseen the assassination attempt in the flames and I was not certain if trying to prevent it would lead to something worse. All the stories I heard of Prophecies told me that such an act was unwise and would lead to greater disasters.

So I prepared, using my knowledge and study of magic. Making fabric stronger than it ought to be was a tricky project. I knew it was possible, as there were such spells from other works of fiction and this world had at least one story about some Ironborn with possibly magic tattoos with the nickname of Steelskin. The more obvious example from another Magic System that I could recall was Reinforcement from Nasuverse... a way to fill the gaps between atoms with magical energy to increase the strength of materials.

The main challenge had been to make it a sustained Enchantment... which my current spells could not reach the level off. Now, I had an ingredient that may ensure that the enchantment would last longer.

I took out my wand and reached out through the door of the basement, feeling what I was looking for.

I had modified the room to have a bar to block the door. Using my magic to place it, locking the room from the inside in a way that would not allow anyone from snooping in. It was a simple mechanism but it worked and all I needed to do was levitate the wooden bar.

The approach to Levitation was similar in principle to my Cutting Curse and Shield Spells, creating solid air to have some form of physical impact on the world. Sure, I would not try it on myself for now, but the method was just too useful for me to not work out. In theory, it was not even out of context for this world, though it was much more subtle than the displays of Mental Magic.

I had the opportunity to see what an Aeromancer actually did, as the man wearing the attire of monks put on shows near the Isle of Gods. They were rare this side of Essos from what I was able to learn from whispers, and I only knew of Asshai-by-the-Shadow to have Aeromancers. Granted, most assumed that what they were doing was simply moving in a way that was controlled by how the wind flowed, instead of their movements controlling the wind but to those who have felt Magic, they were taking control of the winds as they moved, making it into a show for money. The two monks seemed to be in a state of trance during the process, effectively becoming Airbenders in practice and have abilities to control the weather in a different way than a Stormsinger or dozen other groups of practitioners of magic.

The warm air started blowing from the tip of the wand, moving through the gap through the door to the back, solidifying as it came in contact with the wooden bar blocking the door.

"Wingardium Leviosa." I whispered with a smirk, as the warm air held together by magic lifted the wooden block out of the way. For all I knew, the words did not matter, so long as they provided me with a concept to focus on. I could have thrown an `Alohomora` instead, though that was still a work in progress as using the wand and solidified air to pick a lock was tricky and required too much finesse for me at the moment.

The entire incantation trick had two benefits as far as I could tell. It was both a form of the mental equivalent of a muscle memory and self-hypnosis to speed up my spell-casting as well as being a simple show of smoke and mirrors to prevent someone I did not want from learning magic from what I was doing.

In a pinch, my magic may respond faster if I used the same incantation throughout my life, a few seconds that I could gain from what amounted to muscle memory may prove the difference between life and death.

Granted, the actual reason I used incantations was that I could and it made me feel like I was in an equally dangerous but more civilized work of fiction work instead of this one, but I also had to consider the consequence of what would happen when my powers became more commonly known. If people thought I needed to speak some words of power when I would be taken prisoner for some reason, they would gag me and leave me be if they were stupid and drug me to the gills if they were truly smart. Given the average intelligence of Westerosi nobility, most would go with the first approach and give me the opportunity to mount an escape. Granted, I was much more likely to be killed on the spot but, even Robert would want to make it a public spectacle if he got his hands on me... giving me the time to escape and annoy him as a result.

The sound of a clacking of wood on stone led to a full grin, as I unlocked the door with the key and went inside.

The Workshop was rather barren for all I cared. There was a chest in one corner and a desk in the other. Small cages were on the desk, containing rats for me to experiment with. A few barrens of water in case of a fire and a sandbag that was hanging over the rafters in case of wildfire.

A flick of my wand had the fire from the lamp in my hand jump through the candle wicks in the room, before returning to the lamp itself. A simple trick that involved reaching out to the fire and bringing it under control. While my wand could not make any fire from scratch, it still acted as a bridge for me to control any flames, though the candle trick was one of the few things I could do for now.

Another flick of my wand had the barrel containing the body roll into the room, ending in one of the empty corners as I dropped the tunic I wore the day before onto the desk and headed towards the chest. Opening it and removing the false bottom under the junk within it. There sat a dark leather bound journal that I had to order from a bookbinder, my Grimoire in all but name.

It contained information written in a language foreign to this world, as I did not want to write it in English, which was basically the equivalent of Westerosi Common in this world. The book contained records of every use of Magic or speculated instances of someone using Magic in as much detail as I could recall as well as numerous theories and experiments that I was yet to conduct.

The page I opened had a simple title, "Shadowbinding", before giving a sigh and re-reading it for the thousandth time just to make sure.

AN: A bit plot development and some old/new method of Magic in the form of Aeromancy. George has nothing on Aeromancers and the wiki only says that they control air. Given that Melisandre could control the winds somehow, it made sense to have them do some sort of subtle Airbending from Avatar. The lack of Martial Arts based Magic Sects not developing, especially in the Eastern regions like Yi-Ti that were inspired by a combination of Asian Countries, made no sense if West had the concept of Knighthood and Chivalry, so this is my head-canon about Aeromancers until George says otherwise.

Last edited: Oct 7, 2022

004 Shadow and Blood

Shadowbinding...

It was a pretty name, as anything to do with shadows sounded so mystical... so dangerous... so edgy.

A scoff left me as I considered it... actual shadows were the last thing the entire branch of Magic was related to.

In practice, there were only two unique forms of shadow referenced in the books in conjunction with Magic.

The first instance was the concept of a "Soul-Shadow" which was the impression made by a soul on a vassal. It was taught to Bran in the Cave of the Greenseer located in the Lands Beyond the Wall. Bloodraven had described the impression left in the raven as a "Shadow" as well... though to call it a soul was much more accurate given what else I knew about the process of a Second Life.

Varamyr in the books had shown that Second Lives did in fact exist... so Bloodraven was either wrong about the fact that the shadow left behind by a Skinchanger was just an impression and not the real thing, or more likely, he was simply lying. The implications of such a lie were not lost on me as it made Bloodraven not nearly as benevolent.

The Soul-Shadow being used by a Shadowbinder was pretty hard to track down in the books, but I had a list of instances where it was used.

First was the Resurrection of Khal Drogo. "Strength of the mount go into the rider" did not really have many meanings and the idea of Mirri Maz Duur binding the soul of a horse into Drogo's body, turning him into a horse in a metaphysical sense was amusing. Granted, from an outside perspective, it was a horrifying thought and make me petty but the fate of my would-be murderer still amused me.

Next was probably a failed instance of it, in the case of a ritual done to Samwell Tarly. The process was similar to what happened to Drogo in a sense, as Samwell was made to bathe in Aurochs blood to gain its courage or strength.

Another, was the shadow left behind by Orell on the Eagle. It had faded over time, becoming part of the eagle but the personality and instincts of Orell had left some influence over Varamyr in the end, such as his hate for Jon Snow. Whether that was left behind within the mind of the eagle or the its soul was up for debate, but souls could leave influences over their new mediums for better or for worse.

There were other instances as well, most of them connected to Second-Lives of Skinchangers.

In this context, Shadowbinding or more accurately, Soul-Binding was the act of forcing a soul to take over another vessel than the original body, either temporarily, or permanently. It was a more forced version of Skinchanging, one that was more forceful and probably less natural, though how natural Skinchanging is, was a question I could debate for hours.

What really had my focus for Enchanting was the second type of Shadowbinding, the cases of a mysterious "The Shadow-smoke"... which was some sort of smoke-like substance that had physical effects not dissimilar to how I used my wand to create wind blades to cut things... only much stronger than what I could currently achieve.

I would have normally dismissed the idea of playing around with what was possibly a Dark Magic, but it sounded similar to how I used my wand to control air to do my bidding.

The most obvious example was the Shadow-Assassin that Melisandre had created. The creature had killed Renly, with a knife that was able to cut through plate metal, if I remembered correctly. The creature that Stannis dreamed of being when he had sent it to kill Renly. In all likelihood, Melisandre had somehow used a variation of Skinchanging to have Stannis control the shadow-smoke.

I knew that the cost of such magic was the child that Stannis had impregnated Melisandre with, or at least it was so in the show. In the books, Stannis had used himself to fuel two Shadow-Assassins, one to kill Renly and another to kill the Castellan of Storms End... at the cost of showing great physical degradation for the spell, aging unnaturally.

The concept of a Never-born was one that George had talked of in his works, specifically the early draft he had written about the Game of Thrones book. Given the children that Melisandre gave birth were made of smoke, it was likely that the four-hundred or so-year-old Shadowbinder had burned the child she conceived for this specific purpose within the womb, using the blood relation to Stannis to bind his soul to the shadow-baby and kill people... which was in effect a form of Blood Magic.

Then, there was also the weapon the Shadow-Assassin had wielded.

A blade that could punch through armor was not hard to notice among others. Apart from Valyrian Steel, which was shown to cleave through bronze helmets, and the ice swords of the Others, which could shatter swords and pierce mail, the shadow-baby was the only confirmed case I knew of with the ability to cut through steel armor.

While I did not recall whether it was show-verse or the book-verse where Renly's gorget was pierced, it was still one that left an impression and even if that was not true for this world, my own cutting curse had similar properties, though I had yet to test it against armor.

There was another one as well, more obscure and more ancient than others.

My theory only had a single historical account... which itself was more of a conjecture even if it fit with what I knew to be possible.

From the accounts of the Dance of the Dragons, there was one of the accounts regarding the death of Syrax during the Storming of the Dragonpit nearly two hundred years ago. There was a story of the Shepard, the one-handed Septon who had riled up the crowd, somehow conjuring the Warrior, a twenty-foot tall man with a shadowy-blade that cut the head off Syrax.

I was not sure of the validity of such a story, but having known what Melisandre was able to achieve, in the instance when multiple dragons and thousands of humans were dying and burning in mass, such an event would be enough to fuel a twenty-foot tall Shadow-Assassin for all I knew. The question of whether it was on purpose, or an accidental instance of magic... was the true question one had to know.

I made a note in my notebook, just to make sure that there was no residue from the spell in the Dragonpit if I ever found myself in King's Landing. In all likelihood, the echoes of the dead sharing the sentiment of `Death to Dragons` may have actually made the place non-viable for Dragons after the Dance, which explained the rapid decline of all the dragons that were left and the lack of new dragons hatching.

Which brought me back to the concept of binding the `Shadow-Smoke` onto an object, using it for Enchanting and making the object far more than it was.

Valyrian Steel had too many similarities to the blade used by the Shadow-Assassins for the two spells to not be related in some way. Given that both Valyrian Steel and Shadow-Assassin were both made of Fire and Blood and provided a cutting ability that was supernatural in origin, it stood to reason that they were related in terms of magic.

The conclusion to get from this was that Valyrian Steel was partially made by Shadow-binding... using the shadow-smoke to give it the edge and strength the Magical Metal was known for.... or at least in theory anyways.

In practice, if Valyrian Steel had the final step based on the Legend of the Forging of Lightbringer, a Shadowbinder could figure out how to remove and reapply the `shadow-smoke` onto the metal... which was one of the possible explanations I had for the Smiths of Qohor and their ability to reforge Valyrian Steel. They could have used the insights of Shadowbinders to figure out how to remove the shadow-smoke bound to the blades, change the shape of the weapon, split it into smaller metals and re-apply the shadow-smoke somehow.

That theory was also supported by another, that it was Shadowbinders who taught Valyrians their magic, which in a sense would be within reason... even though access to dragons and thousands of sacrifices in the forms of slaves would mean that Valyrians would have improved upon the basics known to Shadowbinders of Asshai.

While creating the base metal of Valyrian Steel was still a pipe dream... at least for now, knowing how to reforge it and apply the spells to make the blade stronger and sharper through Shadowbinding to permanently bond a soul opened opportunities for me to use.

It made sense in a way and was in line with my own observations of how Magic worked. Souls were needed to sustain spells, to impose control. Sure, I could use my soul to reach out and create blades of air, but once my soul fully returned back to my body, the air was free of that control I imposed. Binding a soul would ensure that there was some spiritual element to sustain the magic.

The question remained as to how Valyrian Dragonlords managed to bind a soul and impose their will into an object... though the answer came along with the question given that they were... well, Valyrians.

`All Valyrian Magic is based on Fire and Blood`, Marwyn the Mage claimed. Specifically, it came from the Fire of a Dragon and Blood of Sacrifice if one looked closer.

From my experience, if I wanted to sustain a spell or magical effect, I needed to sustain it by imposing my soul upon the object. As souls were not something to mess with too much, I would always pull the entirety back, making sure that I did not have any of myself left out of my own body. While it led to my soul gaining the flavor of the medium I was skinchanging into, it did not have any adverse effects on me yet, mostly because I was using my wand as a medium and a buffer at the same time.

If I wanted to have a spell sustained for a more permanent basis, I would need to give it a will of its own, somehow find and bind a soul that was not mine and impose the will I wanted into the soul to hold the enchantment.

Binding the Soul was what Shadowbinders did in truth, even if they called it Shadow. As the two different concepts within Shadowbinding were in truth a single concept that was further supported by the Generalized Magic Theory I have been compiling over time. All of them had the concept of a soul in common among each other.

`Magic is the imposition of soul, will and intent upon the physical world.` I wrote down on the first page of my Grimoire. It was all a person really needed to know if they wanted to use magic... though they would probably not survive the experience without proper precautions.

The memories of watching Full Metal Alchemist leaped at me when I thought of ways to bind souls to objects, of how one of the main characters had his soul bound to a suit of armor using blood as an anchor. That thought alone was me more certain that Valyrians used blood magic to bind souls to objects.

I raised my wand, resting on my palm. I had used a few drops of my blood to feed the Weirwood, hoping to form a connection as well and succeeded. I knew that Weirwood used Blood Magic, so even if the wand had failed, it was likely to awaken some form of Skinchanging ability within me because of the Blood Magic. As it stood, I had bound the wand to myself, creating a metaphysical path for my soul to flow through and into the dragonbone core.

That left the specific Enchantment itself... the purpose and the will that the bound soul would sustain and impose onto reality and that is where dragon fire came in.

There were theories that I knew, theories on how Dragon Riding was either based on Skinchanging or a variation of it in some shape and form. Given that Dragons bonded for life and no dragon rider was able to take more than a single dragon as their mount while they lived suggested a connection similar to Wargs. Wolves mated for life, and wargs bonded to the wolves for life.

As I knew from Silverwing and Vermithor, dragons mated for life as well. By that reasoning, if dragon riding was based on skinchanging, it stood to reason that a person could only take a single dragon as a mount at one time, probably within that person's lifespan, as was the case with Viserys the First.

I wondered if the logic worked for my wand as well. I knew that my control was based on Skinchanging... or rather Greensight to be precise as I was taking the skin of a piece of wood and bone. The best way to test it would be to have someone try to use my wand but I did not want to try the consequences of such an act. At best nothing would happen, at worst... Summerhall was a thing when it came to Magic, as was Doom of Valyria.

As for Enchanting an object by providing intent to a soul... that was pure theory on my end. If a human could take the skin of a dragon for their own, they could in effect impose their will upon the dragon and the fire of the dragon, not unlike how I could impose my will onto the air through the warmth that came from the dragonbone core of my wand.

Of course, there was one way to check my theory and that was to bind a soul to an object and enchant it.

My gaze focused on the fabric that had saved my life.

My thumb passed over the grey fabric, once white before I had tested different methods of binding souls to the material.

The tunic itself was one of those experiments in truth. A rat was sacrificed so that I could create the Enchantment that stopped the blade. It was in truth the thirtieth rat that I had tried to bind to make knife-proof clothing.

I was not sure if that was because there was a combination of rat souls working together for the same purpose or if it was because my focus becoming better with practice.

I did not need to cover the whole fabric in blood at least, not after testing on smaller pieces of fabric and finding no difference between the two methods. A few drops of blood onto the threads was enough to act as and anchor once the original body was destroyed.

I opened the barrel, getting a few drops of blood from the corpse of the Assassin. Even if the man was dead for nearly a day, it had not mattered for the likes of Lady Stoneheart to be resurrected. I could still use the blood to pull back the soul that was in the process of being dispersed into the Nature as was shown by Varamyr's death.

Dipping a quill to the congealed blood, I decided to take a bit of an artistic license and drew the anchor onto the fabric in the form of Valyrian Glyphs that meant `Protection`, `Armor` and `Shield` using the blood.

While I was not sure if the use of Valyrian Glyphs or First Men Runes had any effect, as I had not tested it enough to be certain. Using words that were related concepts made sense in a way... not that the mark would show once the spell was completed.

Dropping the tunic into the barrel, I pointed my wand to the hearth where the flame was crackling and started the spell in truth.

One moment, I was seeing the barrel that held the corpse and the flame that gave the warmth and the next, I was the flame within the hearth, reaching out and consuming the wood for fuel and the flesh within.

An open flame, burning a barrel in an underground cellar that was my Workshop was probably not the safest idea to a normal person. People might have even compared it to the foolishness of the Summerhall.

The truth however was different as there was magic involved that prevented it from causing a disaster. The flames burned, though only that which I willed it to burn. The smoke rose but I was the smoke that was released from the fire and I willed it to sink back into the cloth and empower it. The heat that would be unbearable if left unchecked was only a pleasant warmth against the skin.

Fire was change... Fire was power... and throughout Human History in both this world and my old one... fire was protection. While I could not conjure fire from the tip of my wand for reasons I had yet to understand, fire was what was needed to change the nature of something. Maester Aemon would one day say that Ice preserved and Fire consumed, but it was also true that Ice did not Change, while Fire did.

As the flames burned, I felt... something... familiar yet so unique at once. From my experience with Skinchanging in general, it felt like a mind, or a soul more likely. The soul was part of the fire, just as I was... though where I was focused and knew what I was doing, the soul seemed to lack... agency.

I had not known what would happen in truth. The tests I had with rats all accounted for it as I had taken over the skin of the animal before the burning started. This time, it was different as the soul was somehow pulled from where it was. Though I did not know what would happen, expecting something to happen meant that I was prepared for it. Like a passing shadow, I pushed my own will to the soul, in that shared medium of fire, the two souls shared single willpower and one purpose as a whole.

The flames did not rise beyond the barrel before leaving a pile of cool ash in their wake, having completed their purpose as I willed it to do so.

I felt myself return to my own flesh leaving the other soul behind... hidden beneath the pile of ash that had once been a person... one that wanted me dead, but a person nonetheless. I had a body to return to, so my soul found its way back... the other soul found another path, made in blood to a body that was not his in the first place.

My finger sifted through the pile of ash, finding the un-burnt fabric... the ash falling away as though it could not find any purchase over the tunic so dark one would say it was almost black.

A few hours of testing and prodding the enchanted clothing revealed that I had succeeded in my efforts, though I would still not be confident that my new armor could turn back Valyrian Steel. Any more experimentation would require more bodies to sacrifice and the only other place I could gain answers was in Asshai-by-the-Shadow.

A knock on the door brought me out of my musings.

"Come in" I called out, my voice dry from not using it for the last hours. I reached for a glass I kept at the side.

"Your grace." said the woman who entered. She was in her twenties with brown hair though she was still pretty in that unique way I had only seen in those with Valyrian Heritage. Given that she was from Dragonstone, it was not really surprising.

"Nessa... come in, I was just about done," I said, closing the notebook just to be sure.

Nessa had been the wetnurse for Dany in Dragonstone. The poor girl was essentially dragged into exile by Ser Willem and the five other soldiers who came with us. The five had left, seeking their own fortunes as Sellswords rather than stay around and look after what they saw as two kids. Nessa did not have the option to leave and seek better fortunes as we could not send her back to Dragonstone for fear of letting Robert know where we were.

She had nothing else to go back to, and a subtle Legilimency confirmed that she was left to fend for herself after losing her child, her husband having died during the Rebellion fighting for Rhaegar. It was luck that she still had milk when Ser Willem had someone fetch her from one of the fishing villages.

Nowadays, she was in charge of Dany as her nanny, making sure to keep an eye on her and look after her needs. For all intents and purposes, she was the closest thing to a mother my sister was left with.

I was not sure what would have happened to her in the original timeline, but given that I was more mature and kinder than the Original Viserys by a margin, she seemed content with her life for now.

"Ser Willem stated that your presence was required upstairs, your grace," she said without flinching. It had taken a while to get the girl used to actually talked without fear that came from Aerys' reputation but I was getting there. "An envoy from the Iron Bank is here."

I sighed in relief, as the bankers finally deigned to show interest and this over-complicated game of chicken we have been playing came to an end. Quickly putting on the tunic to ready myself to face bankers, I walked out of my workshop, locking it behind me with a flick of my wand.

It also indicated something that I was dreading... that Robert had finally managed to run the Treasury dry in the last two years and he was starting to borrow money.

AN: To answer the question and to paraphrase, "Shadowbinding is a path to many abilities some may consider unnatural". This chapter was mostly an exploration of Shadowbinding and the tricks Wizerys was able to come up with in a year and some of the limitations he seemed to be running into. Soul binding using blood is inspired by FMA and essentially in line with Blood Magic from canon and there is also some Runecraft Inspiration for those who are looking for it, though their potential is yet to be revealed in full.

Now that most of his current abilities are established, next chapters will be more plot heavy, though still independent of the book events which are a long way ahead. As the focus is to explore magic, someone traveling Essos and uncovering unique Magical Sites is not common in ASOIAF fanfictions though I enjoyed reading a few that had them.

For the case of Nessa, she is technically an OC for all intents and purposes. We have no knowledge of who the servants were, though the wetnurse of Dany is mentioned even if her name or her fate was not given. Kudos to anyone who can name the inspiration for her name.

Last edited: Oct 8, 2022

005 Devil in the Deal

# 004 Devil in the Deal

"What the fuck was that?" I asked as my self-control slipped for a moment from annoyance, once the banker or rather the messenger from the Iron Bank had left. The man had interrupted my research to just let us know that we had an appointment.

"You are invited to the Iron Bank, to meet the Bankers." stated Ser Willem, seemingly wary.

"They could not have just sent a note?" I countered disliking the entire charade.

"They cannot just summon a King to their feet like a commoner." countered the Old Man, "There are protocols for the Iron Throne even Essosi respect. They also wanted to get the measure of you first."

"I am blaming Jaehaerys on this," I grumbled as he was the first king to start the conversations with the Iron Bank of Braavos. "How sure are we that it is not some sort of trap by Robert?" I asked though it fit in more to what Tywin would do if I had to be honest.

"We have been making inquiries for a meeting since we arrived as you have commanded. They seemed hesitant since they see you as a child and they did not wish to meet with me at all." countered Ser Willem, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Essosi are peculiar folk. They prefer to deal with men directly and it is better than what I had achieved."

"Gaining recognition and a place in Sealord's court is not nothing, Ser, you have done well." I countered though I was not sure if it was worth much. The place in court was not even a proper one, as the Sealord seemed much more interested in showing us off as part of his court as a power play than anything else and I disliked the attention as it would eventually leak to Robert. When it came to supporting a Targaryen Restoration, Sealord, like any politician excelled at promising everything and committing to nothing. `No wonder he was chosen.` I thought to myself.

"It is in their interest to keep you out of the Usurper's reach and the Sealord would gain nothing from turning you over to the Usurper or his dogs." countered Ser Willem with not so little bitterness. He had lost a brother and four nephews during the Rebellion. While his loyalty was without question, I was not sure whether it was because he was more against Robert than for me but I could at least understand that his bitterness was well deserved. At least now I knew where the vitriol original Viserys had spewed came from.

"What are the chances that the Sorrowful Men had something to do with it?" I asked, whacking my head for ideas.

"It would give the message that we have an enemy that considers us a threat." nodded Ser Willem before frowning. "I dislike it but the opportunity is a rare one... but what would you have us do?"

"We show up, armed and armored," I stated with an understanding forming that we were going for a potential war.

I looked at the building, which was a marble building that occupied its own island, looking closer to a castle on its own than a building if I had to be honest.

Ser Willem stood to my side, his mail hauberk was on, beneath a non-nondescript coat and cloak. While the heraldry of House Darry would be appreciated as a show of support in Westeros, I could not put the one House who still supported me to risk with the rumors that may find it's way back to Robert. I could have also offered my sworn sword a white cloak but I knew it would remind him of the loss of his brother, Ser Jonothor Darry and it would be easy to tell apart a clean white cloak in a crowd, which would mean people we wished to avoid could easily track us.

While I simply wore the enchanted tunic I made. In a fight, it would prevent me from dying, but it was never meant for use in war as it lacked proper head protection. It still prevented casual stabbing however and it did not look out of place in dinner invite or meeting with bankers, which was why I had initially made it as I would eventually outgrow the clothing.

I considered my plan as we walked through the marble stairs to the Bank.

The main problem with Banks in Middle Ages was that they were not the Banks of the Modern World. You could not jaunt into the Iron Bank and drop of a bag of coins for them to keep in an account for you. They would probably laugh at you for it unless your investment was large enough for them to reinvest it in their own ventures.

There were no Secret Targaryen Accounts either. Jaehaerys nearly declared war on Braavos and threatened them with dragons after the whole debacle with the eggs that Elissa Farman had stolen. It had become so bad that Septon Barth had only managed to have the debts that Iron Throne had to the Iron Bank dismissed at the end of the whole mess.

The only time Iron Throne sent money to Iron Bank when not in debt was during the Dance when the Greens had stashed away a third of the Royal Treasury in the Iron Bank while the remaining two-thirds were shared between Lannisters and Hightowers and were never recovered.

I had tasked Ser Willem to find records of it through the Sealord and found some record that Viserys the Second had managed to get that money back, around the same time that Baelor was building that Sept of his. Whether that was true or false did not matter, however, since I had no record of the originals to force the Iron Bank. Given that I was from a male line and Robert was from a female line through his grandmother, I could have even argued that I was on the side of Greens in a way, but that path was closed.

After Viserys the Second, the Iron Throne was in one way or form always in the Red with the Iron Bank until Tywin paid off the remaining debt from all the Blackfyre Rebellions when he was the Hand to Aerys.

With no hidden stash of wealth, I could access, I turned to the main purpose of the Iron Bank. The Banks in Middle Ages were closer to Investment Banks in purpose and structure than modern retail banks in any sense, acting both as loan sharks and middle-man to handle transactions, acting as guarantors for both sides in a deal.

Now, I just needed to convince them that I was worth investing as insurance against Robert's debts... and get some investment in the form of support to develop myself. While money was good, it was only worth what it could buy and the connections that the Iron Bank had were what I was truly after.

"Prince Viserys, I am Tycho Nestoris." said a tall thin man with a long beard that reached his waist. He spoke the Common Tongue well for a Braavosi, though there was that accent unique to Braavos. He was wearing a purple felt robe and no hat, with scrolls underneath one of his arms. The man looked like what I would imagine Dumbledore to look like in his youth, with glasses and a long nose.

"King." corrected Ser Willem with a tone that suggested he would.

"Is he?" asked Tycho Nestoris with a smirk. "Where is his throne then?"

Original Viserys would have drawn a blade at that... I felt like.

"Crown Prince in Exile, if we are to be picky." I quipped instead in Braavosi, knowing that the man would appreciate some measure of humbleness and precision, though I could not show too much of it. "My kingship may be challenged, but none would refuse that I am a Prince of Blood, as none would argue that my father died a King and declared me his heir as Prince of Dragonstone." that shut off the banker and his power-play that I did not have time for. "Lead the way, Banker Nestoris"

I needed to show that I was not some puppet of some disgraced knight in exile, knowing that their investment was for the person than his supporters. If I let Ser Willem deal with the bank, their support would last until the old man had died and the Braavosi was right, all men would eventually die.

"Indeed." said the banker, his gaze gaining a sharper look. "Though I am simply a Clerk." he corrected his eyes sharp and his ambition clear.

`He is inspecting me closely now... seeing if I am worth investing in` I thought to myself. At the cost of stripping Ser Willem of his control, I was showing myself to be a bigger player. It was similar to how Olenna Tyrell used her sharp tongue to dominate a conversation and where her excuse was being an old woman, mine was that I was a child.

"Please, follow me," said Tycho Nestoris, seemingly satisfied.

"No weapons from this point on, I am afraid, though this would help with your worries." said the Clerk, before producing a bowl with a piece of bread and some salt. Ser Willem relaxed... I did not.

"Afraid of a ten-year old and an old man?" I countered with a smirk, taking a piece of the bread and sprinkling some salt over it, before throwing it into my mouth. I had still not tested if Guest Rights had some magical effects or if that was purely symbolic, but I would not break it and I doubted Iron Bank would break it and risk damaging its reputation in such a way.

"Valar Morghulis." responded the man with a smirk, clearly wary of a Faceless Men and aware of a possible connection I had with them.

"Valar Dohaeris..." I responded, with a knowing smirk, grabbing Ser Willem's sleeve before he could reach for the bowl. The old knight stiffened but followed the order.

"Wait here," I commanded, taking out a piece of parchment and tearing one side of it before handing the piece of vellum to the knight.

"If someone attacks you, rip that parchment in two," I said, letting the knight make the association himself. He would probably assume that it was some sort of magic, even though it was for a more mundane purpose. A torn parchment would allow me to know that my sworn shield was replaced by someone else... probably. It was the bird that was watching us from across the street and through the window that I was using as a spy that would provide the true warning against an attack.

It took off my belts, both the one containing my dagger and the wand which the man had been eyeing. I knew that my wand looked like a bone dagger from the outside, with the pommel shaped like a dragon's head. It had not been so when I made it, but I had been noticing how it slowly shifted and changed in shape over the year I have used it, looking like a white Firewyrm with red veins and a black tip for a tail. It had become something pretty enough that it would be considered a ceremonial dagger of sorts and the triangular pointy end was strong enough to double as a shiv if it came down to a more physical fight.

I handed my belts to Ser Willem, not trusting the Iron Bank with my path to power. Ser Willem knew more and protected me from worse, so I could trust him to guard my wand for now. Leaving him by the door and preventing him from being bound to the Guest-Right in case he needed to come barging in to protect me from an attack. It was a trick I knew Kingsguard actually practiced from what Aerys had shown me so it was not so unnatural. He did not seem to like the idea of leaving me alone, though he nodded with a look to question the piece of parchment I handed, knowing that I was not without any form of defense.

While I disliked skinchanging without a wand, as I knew that my mind was more influenced by the animal without a form of insulation in between, I was still pretty decent at it though not to the extent or precision I could do so with a wand.

My mind reached out to one of the other ravens I kept around as spies, emergency ingredients for Shadowbinding and projectiles in a pinch. No one anticipated a raven diving beak first into their eye sockets because such an event was not in line with their normal behavior. I had not tried the last one, but I knew that it was better than not having an option to protect myself.

I also conveniently forgot the existence of the small dagger in my boot... the same dagger that once belonged to the Sorrowful Men who tried to kill me, the poison still on the blade. I mean, who would expect a ten-year old to be that paranoid... right?

In the end, the Guest Right would do more to protect them from me, than to ensure that they would not do me harm.

"Crown Prince in Exile, Viserys of House Targaryen." introduced Tycho Nestoris, before moving to sit down in one of the chairs on the other side of the large desk... which was not what I expected from a clerk. It had a deeper meaning I was sure of it `but what is underneath the underneath?` I thought to myself, using one of my more favored quotes from fiction.

"And you are?" I asked with a curious look. There were five men, with large bound books in front of them, along with a scribe at the edge of the table.

"Our names do not matter. We represent the Iron Bank." said one of the men, motioning to the chair "Please, have a seat."

I nodded in understanding and sat on the bench, making sure to keep my back straight. Viserys had been trained in courtly behavior from birth, which came in handy after I took over as it was a surprisingly uncomfortable posture.

My eyes wandered over the man whom I was looking at. These were probably some of the Keyholders who were not known to anyone but a select few. That also confirmed that Iron Throne was seeking to borrow money if it was their money that was on the line.

"What can the Iron Bank do for you?" asked one of the men whose name was not given to me.

"It is not what the Iron Bank could do for me, but what I can do for the Iron Bank." I countered, turning their offense back towards them. To an unwary person, it would seem I was the one who requested the meeting and owed them something. I disliked the power plays and framing it as the opposite of what they expected, I would have some more control. I was going to be asking them to invest in me after all, and I needed to show that it was not a bad investment compared to the alternative options.

"What can a Crown Prince in Exile do for us?" asked Tycho Nestoris, clearly amused.

"I know that Robert will start borrowing soon," I explained. "He was never the responsible sort when it came to what he called counting coppers and his Hand, Jon Arryn is not going to be of help, his family always looked down on their own members who were more mercantile, like House Arryn of Gulltown."

"So, you would claim that the Stag King is a wastrel?" asked Tycho Nestoris, leaning back. It would seem like he was the one who arranged for this meeting, seeing an opportunity to advance his own career. Now, I just needed to convince the remaining four men in the room and I would have a sponsor who owed his advancement to me.

"The man is a King of Whores and Wine Barrels even if he was a good fighter." I countered, in a way that was not untrue. I needed to show that Robert was a bad investment as a ruler, even if he was a good battle commander. "I pity my father's Realm now that he is the one who is failing at ruling."

"And why should that be of concern for the Iron Bank?" asked the frowning man in the corner, whose name I was not given and cared not for.

"For three years we have been making inquiries to arrange a meeting." I explained "Before, meeting with me was not in your interest, now it is. We are here so you can decide how safe it is to invest into the Iron Throne and how likely you are to have your due?" I asked with a smirk, knowing that I had them in my palm now, not even needing to use magic for it.

"Safer than investing in a man who has nothing." said one of the men who looked as though he wished he was anywhere but here. He was going to be the tough one to crack probably the one who would play the Bad Cop in this meeting. If I got him, the others would fold as well. "The Stag King is married to the daughter of Tywin Lannister. Him, we have done business with."

"I have nothing but my word, that is true for now. And a Lannister always pays his debts... they keep reminding everyone who asks." I stated, looking the man in the eye "Lannisters owe me a debt of blood, for a father... a nephew... a niece and they would refuse to pay that debt if asked for it... why should they pay for any other that would cost them more than they can afford."

"It was Tywin Lannister who paid the debt of your father some years ago." countered the one on the chair with carvings of peacocks. "We know his word is good for."

"Who is his heir?" I asked instead "Is it the one who swore himself to celibacy and killed the king he was sworn to protect, or the dwarf whom none wish to marry as he is known for being a drunken wastrel who may just as likely to be living in a brothel. Yet their word is not worth what once was, is it? Was it not Tywin who came under a banner of peace and turned his cloak at the gates of King's Landing? He used deception to sack the city he lived in. He betrayed the king who was his friend since they were both children... the king he served as a Hand for longer than I have been alive." I said, my voice raising slightly before I brought it under control. Taking a breath, I centered myself, pulling myself back into my skin for a moment and regaining my focus.

Occlumency was tricky for me to master but I had started making some headway in that branch as well. Like Legilimency, my Occlumency was based around Skinchanging, though unlike Legilimency that was the connection of my mind and soul to another body and willing a thought, Occlumency was mostly skinchanging into my own flesh and willing my thoughts to order.

It was funny that in the end, it boiled down to the instruction Snape gave in the form of "Clear your mind" when one thought about Occlumency. Sure, it was essentially Self Legilimency, but the concept still stood and you got home field advantage. While it was tricky to master and much more efficient to do with a wand in hand like any other magic I could pull off, it was probably also the safest Wandless Magic I had access to as there were no negative effects from personality bleed-through from myself like when I took over the body of another being.

Once my mind was in order and my emotions under control, I continued. "Do you think any promise he makes to people he cares nothing for is worth the parchment it is written on?" I asked.

"The Mines of Casterly Rock are known even to us," said Tycho Nestoris.

I smirked, as the man finally took the bait I was laying down. I could not really do anything with the Bank, but lay my cards on the table. It was worth nothing to me in the long run and it would be a thorn in Robert's side, so I might as well go all in.

"Do you know of House Westerling?" I asked, seemingly changing the conversation.

"A House in Westerlands." one of the others answered.

"They mined their silver mines for eight thousand years." I explained, "Three generations ago, they stopped mining."

"One house out of many." countered the man who answered.

"Reynes of Castamere too borrowed heavily from Tywin's father, as did Tarbecks. Lannisters could not afford to not get the gold back. There is a song about it, I am sure you heard." I added. "Neither mined as heavy as Lannisters nor did they dug as greedily."

"What are you implying, Prince Viserys?" asked the Bad Cop, leaning forward.

"I served as cupbearer to my father, listened in on the meetings of Small Council." I explained "I know we had a full treasury despite the Rebellion, and now it remains empty if Robert seeks to borrow from you. I heard whispers that may or may not be true, though I heard that lately, the mines of Casterly Rock produced the same amount, whether in hundreds, thousands... or millions."

"What you are suggesting... what proof do you have?" asked the Bad Cop.

"Any proof I have would be worth nothing to you" I answered, as I truly did not know if what I was saying was true. I knew that the mines drying up was specifically for the Show-verse and there was no mention of it in the books. I was not sure which of those was the truth.

For all I knew, Casterly Rock still had enough gold stored away to break the economy but it would not matter. What I needed was for the Illusion of Tywin's Wealth to be broken enough for me to get what I wanted. I also made a mental note to sack that piece of rock Tywin called home when I was ready and figure out a way to cast Fiendfyre to melt it down like Harrenhall as a warning to others.

Even if it was not a fact, the shadow of a doubt would linger, and it would give me the time needed to prepare. The purpose was never to get the support of the Iron Bank to be made into a puppet king. It was always the resources and the protection the Iron Bank could provide against Robert until I was powerful enough to protect my own.

"So you give us nothing?" said the Bad Cop, though he seemed interested in my words.

"Send men to look for miners who died mysteriously near Lannisport in the last few years, never to speak of their failure to find new veins of gold or how Tywin left his son in charge of the sewers to look for new veins" I countered, framing Tywin as a non-sustainable option in the long run and throwing in some reasonable doubt to what I knew to be true with how Tyrion was given the duty of taking care of the sewers. "Hear the story of the smallfolk who suffer under Tywin's Iron Fist, as though they were slaves. Any word they say would be worth more than what I would say today. The Peace Robert has is built on the backs of dead children... and it will last until they live and no more."

That seemed to have done it, as any Bank knew that a war was both a risk and an opportunity at once. Now I had them... I just needed to take as much as I could, knowing that any investment they made for me would be added to the debt that Iron Throne would start developing, not that Robert would notice it in the first place. That was the trick of these bankers in the end. They would invest in one side if they thought it a good investment. They would invest in both sides if the investment was not secure and collect both debts from the winner.

It took nearly another hour of negotiating, but I was able to make a deal to act as their insurance against Robert's Reign. If Robert failed to pay back the debt, or when eventually Cersei or Joffrey did the stupid thing and refused to pay the debt they owed to the Iron Bank, I would be there to act as a subtle threat and someone willing to pay it back. In exchange, I would gain the resources to build myself as a significant threat that was useful for the Iron Bank... though what those resources would be, I was not sure of for now.

When I came out of the room, I saw that Ser Willem was on the bench in the corner, sitting with a frown on his face. He handed me the parchment I had given... the precaution I had taken was for naught but the paranoia was well deserved given the world I found myself in. As I had to break the connection to the birds for a moment when I used Occlumency, a secondary confirmation helped. I took the belts holding my wand and dagger, inspecting both before placing them back in their sheathes.

We left the bank with a smirk on my face.

Paying back to the Iron Bank in gold would be easy in the long run once I grew in power enough to casually raid the rich and I needed the resources in the short run to grow in power.

It took nearly two weeks before there was a knock on the Red Door.

The man standing was bald with a long beaked nose. He handed a scroll to the servant who answered the door.

"From the Iron Bank... it is a deed." explained Ser Willem, reading it "To a manse outside the city, with a horse ranch it would seem."

"Good enough to train knights?" I asked, with a whisper.

"If gods are good." responded the Master At Arms, his eyes shining with renewed hope.

The man stood at the door, still waiting. A smirk on his face meant he was here for something else.

"And who are you?" I asked, looking at the man who dressed far too nicely for a simple messenger.

"I am Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos." responded the man in Braavosi.

"And?" I asked as I inspected the man for the warrior he was.

"I am here to train you in the art of Water Dancing, and to see your mettle, boy." said the man.

I considered it for a moment, before stepping to the side, silently ordering Ser Willem to do the same, letting the First Sword enter through the front gate. I was already training in the knightly arts by Ser Willem, but a second style that was more common in Essos would certainly be welcome, even if I knew that Syrio Forel would report everything to the Sealord or Iron Bank in the end, to make sure that their investment was worth the continued investment.

AN: There Wizerys vs Iron Bank to the one commentor who requested it. No one could really expect a ten year old to make more sense than many nobles of Westeros, but a grown man in the body of a child is cheating according to some, especially one with canon knowledge. I was hoping to be able to have Wizerys to channel Lyanna Mormont there.

This chapter is dedicated to the trope shared by most Targaryen SI in Essos I have read, with some hidden cache of money in the Iron Bank that made them instantly rich. A fully grown Wizerys would either have the ability to casually procure the gold he owes the Bank, or he would already be dead because of some explosion doing Magic. Iron Bank and to a lesser extent, Bank of House Rogare that used to exist are based around the Bank of Medici and other medieval banking systems that were different from the retail banking done today as far as I could understand, though I am not an expert so might me wrong. Given that the books only had them give large scale loans to Lords, Kings and the Night's Watch, figured they would have something of a preference for Nobility or people who can borrow on the larger scale than some peasant.

Horses to raise knights would be the most useful thing in the current setting and it would be something Wizerys would not be able to learn in the long run, hence the whole Barefoot King thing with the Dothraki. It would allow Wizerys to allow being trained more effectively by Ser Willem who for all we know was a competent Master at Arms, having trained Rhaegar who was pretty competent as a warrior if he could wound Robert in their fight, it was just that Robert was essentially a demigod during the Rebellion. Raising a few more knights and have a safe house away from the city also helps in the long run.

I threw in some Introduction to Occlumency in there as well, and yes, the entire thing boils down to "Clear your mind" ironically enough. I will probably develop it more and give it more substance in the long run but that is what Wizerys could do for now.

Head canon for me for Harry Potter wands is that the change of wands from the first movie to the later movies is that wands are alive and they slowly change shape to fit the personality of the wielder, so it might be same in this setting as well. It also explains how Voldemort had an obviously evil looking wand with a bone like handle and no one suspected a thing when he was a child if the wand did not start off looking like that and grew to become what we know it to be as Voldemort became the monster he is in the books and movies.

A Wild First Sword appears, because this is Braavos and of course an SI would track down Syrio Forel in some way... and sometimes, find him as a happy little coincidence.

Last edited: Oct 8, 2022

006 Timber and Wind

--- 287AC ---

The Manse that we were given was... not what I had expected.

The stone building was effectively a keep on its own, with lands that were ideal for raising horses.

The location of the Manse was a day's ride from Braavos following upstream the Sweetwater River that shared the name with the aqueduct that brought fresh water to the City of Braavos. The mountains to the side made sure that the location was secure from wind and storms and the river itself had created the perfect environment for the rearing of livestock and production of grain that kept Braavos fed by something other than fish. Since the only entry through the Valley was through the delta occupied by the City of Braavos, it was a perfect place to lay low and gain power.

The stone Manse however was rather... decrepit if one inspected it properly. Granted, the deed was given to us, but both sides who made the deal agreed that the property would return to the Iron Bank, who themselves repossessed it from some merchant or other unable to pay his debts. In a way, we ran the place and kept things from further breaking down and Iron Bank let us use it as a base to build more power.

In the end, the entire thing was a test to see if I could run a small keep, to ensure that their investment would be secure. Since the bank did not provide any other starting capital, there was nothing they were risking by giving away a small keep out of the public eye that would probably become a ruin.

"It is a fixer-upper," I said, with a grin and as if on queue, one of the tiles fell on the floor for dramatic effect. I was pretty sure that I was not responsible for that.

"It is a dump," countered Dany, much less political. "Can we go back to the House with the Red Door?"

I chuckled at Dany's grumpiness.

"The house will not go anywhere and we will split our time between the two places once we can find a proper Castellan and get started, but this will do for our purposes." declared Ser Willem before moving on to talk with the old man who was left in charge.

"Nessa, keep an eye on Dany, would you," I said, as I started exploring the not-exactly ruin.

Horse Breeding was one of those hobbies that were acceptable for a Prince to occupy his time with. Granted, those princes often had fathers or forefathers sitting thrones to bankroll such a hobby but it was still something that Ser Willem had no way of complaining against... especially if it allowed me some novel training.

It would also give us a constant source of income while providing me with the horses that I would need to train as a knight. Horses required space that we did not have if we lived exclusively in the City of Braavos. Braavos was not an ideal place to develop into a warrior acceptable in Westerosi Society and even if I never became a knight, learning to ride a horse was essential in this medieval dump that I had found myself in. Even if I did not have any intention to ride to war on horseback, riding would be useful in this world.

The final purpose of this new venture was less... defined as it was to experiment with Horse Breeding... or rather Fleshcrafting.

Fleshcrafting was an ancient branch of Magic that was lost to time after the Doom of Valyria. It was the sort of thing even Valyrians did not do close to their city, leaving their creations in the Flesh Pits of Gogossos where slave women were said to be bred with animals to create half-human hybrids... and that was a bunch of bullshit of course.

It was much more likely that the process involved some form of Shadowbinding that reminded me of the works of Sauron and Morgoth from the Silmarillion. Specifically, it reminded me of the creation of wargs and werewolves.

In the world created by Tolkien, Werewolves were a breed of wolves of some sort... but the important bit was the way Sauron bound spirits into the bodies of wolves to make them better. This led to the Werewolves becoming smarter and larger than the normal breed of wolves. Some theorized that the wargs in the later periods were descendants of those Werewolves, wolves who inherited the greater minds of the Werewolves.

In all honesty, Wargs and Werewolves in the world of Arda reminded me more of the Direwolves in this world that anything else.

While Warg was a term used to describe skinchangers who took the skin of canines in this world, a word that meant "Wolf" in Ancient Scandinavian languages.

Granted the inspiration was probably the same, as the lesser-known of Werewolf myths from my old world were less about man physically gaining wolf features and more about their spirits possessing or taking the form of a wolf... which was not so dissimilar to how Wargs in this world operated on.

I was already aware that Skinchanging and Shadowbinding had the potential to increase the soul-stuff within a vessel like an animal. The increase in soul-stuff also led to an increase in physical abilities.

I knew from the books that Jon Snow would show unnatural feats of strength when emotional and often associated those acts with his direwolf, Ghost. These instances were possibly when Ghost's soul flowed into Jon's body for a short duration, increasing the strength of Jon's soul and giving him the ability to do things like pull out spears from the frozen ground that would take three men to achieve or lift a grown man off his feet.

My theories were easy to test on myself with the application of Occlumency. I could pull back my entire self and feel that I was stronger and faster than I had been a moment before. It was not by a large margin, as I did not have the soul of a direwolf to boost my own, but the difference was easy to notice.

It was how I have been able to practice nearly six hours a day in the yard now that Syrio had taken to sparring with me, along with my normal daily training with Ser Willem.

While my Magical Training involved a lot of experimentation and self-study, my martial education was rather strict and guided by experts in their fields.

Ser Willem was the Master At Arms of the Red Keep. He had been the man who trained Rhaegar in his youth to a level that Rhaegar could go toe-to-toe with the man who would be the Demon-of-the-Trident. While their fight was relatively close matched, Rhaegar had been stupid enough to use a sword against a fully plated opponent, a fault that had led to his death as Robert was using what amounted to a spiked iron mallet. The results showed themselves, as Robert only needed a single solid hit to win the fight, which was what he had done in the end.

The old Master-at-Arms did not seem pleased with adding another teacher to the one he was charged with. That being said, he was pragmatic enough to understand that I could benefit from learning more than a single sword style, especially as he was aging, having gone half blind, a fact he kept well hidden from strangers and preferred to sit by the side and give instructions rather than sparring with me. He was far from useless, as the cane he used was actually a cane sword that Ser Willem had gotten after a recommendation from Syrio. Carrying a sword in the City of Braavos was an invitation to be challenged to a duel, and the cane-sword was a good idea to not have either of us unarmed.

I knew that my Magic would be the primary source of my power, but appearances had to be preserved. One of the reasons for the Blackfyre Rebellions was because Daemon was more martial than Daeron the Good, and that was the type of small-minded Westerosi way of thinking that most subscribed to.

I would have to be trained as a knight and knighted.

There was also the fact that I needed to make sure that I could survive without magic if it came down to it. Relying on a single skill to survive was dangerous in the end. Footwork and physical training would supplement my magic in the long run, but dead was dead, whether through magic or a sword through the chest.

So I trained as though my life depended on it, which was just the case.

Using Occlumency allowed me to push past my limits in different ways. The most useful tricks I was able to achieve were to be able to keep going even when exhausted and some minor increase to my physical abilities when I pulled back my soul in its entirety into my body. I had no hope to match the Mountain That Rides in strength, but if I could survive long enough, I could use Magic to win such a fight, outlasting him and boosting my strength when needed.

Using Skinchanging as part of Fleshcrafting also had the basis on the Skinchanger Borroq and his unnaturally large boar. The size of the boar had me start thinking if an animal with more soul-stuff could have a larger size. Of course, that entire thought led me back to the obscure details of Dragon Lore, but the idea was tempting for more than one reason.

For now, I would experiment with Horses and dogs, try and figure out if I could breed some improvements. It would help in the future and giving away such lavish gifts as war-horses to loyal knights was the type of thing a ruler had to do in the end.

Then there was the logical end goal of applying these methods on myself, to increase my physical abilities through rituals, which was... tempting.

"Two mares good for breeding and a stallion," said Ser Willem, taking a seat on the chair while I was busy trying to make sense of the ledgers I had found in the old keep. "Rest of them are not as impressive, though they are not in the worst condition either."

"The disrepair is rather troublesome as well." I nodded, as I got a general idea of how much the upkeep would cost from the records that existed. This place would end up being a money sink if we were not careful.

"It appears that we have been tricked, your grace." said the knight with a smirk.

"I prefer to see it as a test, but the horses won't return a profit for a few years," I stated simply. "For now, we have a place to lay low away from the city and a potential source of income in the future. Most of the cost would be fodder for the horses and all the wooden posts and tiles that need replacing."

"Wood is expensive in Braavos." nodded Ser Willem, having been running the household for more than three years now. While there were forests around Braavos, those acted as a natural barrier from the cold chill of the sea and it was illegal to cut down trees without permission. That of course made wood one of the primary demands of the city and gave me an idea.

"Do you think we can find a cheap source?" I asked, thinking of options.

"My nephew ought to have some forests left to his name." suggested Ser Willem, making me suppress a smile "If the Usurper did not strip him off those lands as well, that is," he added bitterly.

House Darry paid a lot for their loyalty to the Targaryens. While they had a keep, their lands were nearly halved after the Rebellion and most of their resources were cut down to leave them weaker.

"They can send the wood through the last bend of the Trident to Saltpans, ship it off through Braavosi ships." I thought out loud. Learning about logistics was one of those things I needed to do and while it took me some time, I nearly memorized the entire Map of Westeros and Western Essos just in case. "We can have the Iron Bank act as the Middle Men as they have access to ships. They will be more discrete than some sailor and much less likely to tip their hand with Varys sniffing around."

"Would Robert not object if he finds out?" he asked, wary of the idea.

"Lords borrow from the Iron Bank all the time." I countered, knowing that Iron Throne could make the entire venture obsolete by asking for a large Trading Tax. "A bit of nice book-keeping and it will look less like trade and more paying off debts from being impoverished. Robert will have a laugh, Darry will get paid, and we will take a cut that will ensure that we are not losing from what we already have."

"Do we have access to enough coin?" asked Ser Willem "We have some of the Treasury from Dragonstone, but not enough to risk on a venture of such scale."

"The Iron Bank agreed to provide the coin to invest in if I could show that the investment is worth it. They are not willing to give us the money directly but they are willing to provide a line of credit to our ventures if they think them safe enough." I stated while cursing my luck that I was essentially acting as an investor for the Iron Bank, I did not even do this in my old life.

"And by that, you mean..." started the old knight.

"I impressed some of the Keyholders, enough that they are willing to take our suggestions and give us a cut of the profits," I explained. "We will use the coin to handle the upkeep of the castle, get some Westerosi Horse while at it and we should make enough to not touch on the savings we stashed away."

"Counting Coppers should not be your duty," stated Ser Willem.

"Viserys the Second was fostered in House Rogare of Lys and served as Hand while Daeron warred and Baelon prayed. Both Kings spent enough money to bring the realm to ruin, not to mention the state Westeros was in after the Dance." I explained, "He was a man who excelled at Counting Coppers and the realm prospered."

"He was a King for a year." countered Ser Willem.

"Yeah, well, he was a shitty father and his son probably killed him." I countered "Not the worst thing Aegon the Unworthy had done... the cunt."

Ser Willem chuckled, probably amused at my hate for my idiotic ancestors. `Potentially not even that, if rumors of Aemon and Nerys were true.` I mentally added.

"It is good to see you take your studies so seriously, your grace." said the aged knight, a tired smile on his face. "I beg your forgiveness for this is most I could provide you," he added, sounding... defeated.

"Loyalty you showed is without equal, Ser." I countered "I would not trade it for all the gold in the world."

"You are too kind, your grace." bowed Ser Willem, with a smile on his face "You might just have what it takes to take back your Throne," he added, complimenting me in a way that made me... thoughtful for a moment.

"And you shall see it, Ser," I responded, fully intending it at that moment, even if I knew it to be unlikely. The Winter Chill was what had taken Ser Willem, but I had three years to prevent it.

"If the gods are good, I will live long enough to see the day you sit upon the Throne of your forefathers, your grace." said Ser Willem "but I am old, and I have made my peace with that long ago."

"Thank you, Ser," I nodded, accepting that it was a possibility, even if I would work to undo such fate.

"Yet your point stands." I stated, "Both me and my sister need proper education fit for Royalty. There are a few learned men in the city that we can hire."

"And Princess needs Courtly Training as well." asked Ser Willem "One fit for Royalty."

"She is barely three. Her histories, letters we will arrange and sewing and embroidery are things that Nessa can already teach her" I countered before releasing a breath "But I will try to figure something out for it as well."

--- 288 AC ---

It took five months before we were able to establish the trade deal with Darry. Secret messages went between the sides under the guise of Tycho Nestoris traveling to Darry to provide a loan from the Iron Bank. It was not technically illegal and my name was not involved in the documentation. Tycho was the one who had made the deal with a reference from Ser Willem Darry and once the lumber arrived, we took possession of it as the Middleman.

Dancing around Varys' spies was not that hard since I knew how he worked. While the children without tongues who knew how to read were hard to find, a bit of Mental Manipulation had them avoid certain ships and warehouses out of irrational fear, a side effect of the Compulsion Charm I had placed on them. All it took was a variation of the Legilimency spell with a bit of Pavlovian Conditioning to bring forth dread when I felt them approach one of the important locations we used.

The trade proved profitable and allowed us to use a small amount of the lumber to start with the repairs of the keep, while the rest was split into two, one part sold to nearly thrice its original cost to return the initial investment and the rest to be stockpiled in the keep for the winter, when we would sell them at a larger profit still, as Braavos hungered for wood to burn in Winter.

While more trade voyages would take place, it had proven to the Iron Bank that I was a safe presence and gave us some much-needed source of income.

During that time, I had grown decent with a Horse. The makeshift tilt yard we had assembled allowed me to practice under the constant watch of Ser Willem and Dany enjoyed the cleaner air away from the city and the open space where we did not need to hide indoors as much.

The keep was known as a location, though none but the Iron Bank actually knew who we were. The staff of the Manse was mostly employed through the Iron Bank, and we had established a cover as a Westerosi knight in exile and his grandchildren. Ser Willem was old enough to pass for our grandfather and for safely, we had concocted a lie that we used to live in Lys where both our grandmother and moth were both from.

I continued my experiments with Magic, the first of which was rather simple.

Jamie Lannister would claim that Jousting was two-thirds horsemanship, which was at least partially correct. While using the lance was also something important, a bad rider did not a good jouster make.

Partially skinchanging into a horse while riding it was a logical conclusion of what I could do with Skinchanging and that was exactly what I was practicing. The combined mind of man and beast allowed for a control that was nearly impossible to match with motions and queues that could be trained into a horse and I sort of understood how Lyanna Stark had managed to unhorse three low-level knights as the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

I was not a combination of man and horse when riding... but rather both at the same time. A bit of Occlumency to keep the connection and control over both while keeping the bodies separate and I had near-perfect lance control. Granted the lance was a third of the weight of an actual lance and half the length for now but being good at hitting things with a stick was what I had signed up for, so I was happy.

Honestly, it was a pity that I was not suicidal enough to ride in a Tourney or something like that.

We were back to the House with the Red Door once more, as Nessa greeted us.

"Any trouble?" I asked while warming myself as I sat near the Hearth.

"None your grace," said Nessa with a proud look. Ser Willem ruled the House with an iron fist, that much everyone knew, but it was Nessa who had taken the responsibility of controlling the servants and being left in charge when we were not within the City. It had left watching over Dany to Ser Willem who seemed to enjoy spoiling her as though she was his granddaughter. Given that Ser Willem was the closest thing we had to a grandfather, I did not fault the man.

The treasures we had brought from Dragonstone were stashed away in a location that was known to only me and Ser Willem and required either magic or pick-axe to get to, so they were rather safe and in an unknown place, but my paranoia was hard to suppress as I took these long absences from the city.

The events in the Original Timeline made me cautious about the servants as they were responsible for Viserys and Daenerys living on the streets. Sure, I had gotten rid of the ones who were disloyal by using them to develop my abilities with Mind Arts and leaving them simpleminded, but I would rather be cautious than homeless.

Heading to my room after washing off the dust from the road, I found an iron coin on top of my pillow, with a hooded man on one side and the face forming a full moon split in the middle on the other.

"Hmm..." I mused, my right hand resting on the pommel of my wand, my mind finding no one but the familiar minds of the servants within the House. "I might as well give them a visit."

AN:

Kudos to anyone who knows where the title comes from.

To those who asked, yes, rituals will be a thing... after testing everything on animals first because Wizerys is not an idiot. There are a few that I have pretty much fleshed out and waiting to be written.

There is some setup for the breeding of Magical Animals, with a focus on what Direwolves may be. While a Direwolf exists as a real-world species, the one in the canon is definitely some sort of a magical creature.

To the person who asked about Dany's Training as a Lady, it is something I have been thinking over as well for a while now and I have a rather unorthodox but pragmatic idea about which direction it will go after there is a time skip so she is slightly older for the instructions to be worth anything, so maybe a year or so after this chapter.

The main problem with the pacing is to show some progression in magical abilities of Wizerys and go into full detail of how Magic works because that is one of the parts I really enjoy writing about. So for now, the progression is slow because I have certain plans and an overall arc like structure up to the canon timeline. First arc is going to take place primarily in Braavos.

Also I got Grammarly to work and reviewed the older chapters. Hopeful there will be fewer errors from now on.

007 Dance with Death

I rolled the iron coin across my knuckles, my mind occupied with what it meant as I played with the coin in my left hand.

One side of the coin had a man's head, hooded and its face hidden in shadows... faceless. The other had the split full moon face I knew from the door of the House of Black and White, leaving no doubt as to who was summoning me.

My right hand lashed out, and a slash of my wand left a similar slash across my target. A piece of wooden log around ten feet away from me gained another scratch. The Cutting Curse had taken months of slashing it against a target to refine. Even now, after more than a year of near-daily practice, the cutting spell still lacked the range I would expect.

I had chosen the Cutting Curse over all other spells to master first as a way to avoid attention. I could not use any other spells that could get attention. Using Fire was intuitive... instinctive in a way that felt the same as breathing. Even if I needed a source of fire to use fire-based spells, I had a particular affinity for it. Unfortunately, it would also leave a line of burned bodies in the same city as the Son of the Mad King. A cut was fast, as useful as any other spell in

Appropriately, I had named my target "the scratching post", a name that reminded me of cats and Lannisters. That in turn reminded me of Tywin and how I wanted to cut him down, a fact I thought might improve my ability to cut thing as I practiced more. It was the closest thing to printing his head and sticking it to the target I could get without paying for a picture of Tywin. The piece of wood was a long line of targets I used to practice my one physical attack spell. The cut was nothing compared to the time I cut off the man's head. Near three months and I was not able to replicate the amount of power I had used in that instance... a feat I was unable to replicate. There was something to the spell that I was missing, a state of mind that I could not replicate since then. The spell I used was close quarters, no different than using a sword or an axe, yet I had only expected to only slash open the Sorrowful Man's throat instead of cutting off his head completely.

"You have to want it," I repeated the words of Bellatrix Lestrange on the Torture Curse. It was not really different in this world from my experience. I could want something to happen and that desire transferred to the medium I used, be it fire, living creatures or the strange magical air my wand produced that gave me the facsimile of telekinesis.

I pointed my wand at the piece of log, imagining the air rotating like a drill instead of a line to cut. I wanted there to be a hole in my target, I needed it. Ser Willem had told me not to `punch the target` but to `punch through the target` when I worked on my physical training and I focused on the same concept. I wanted to punch through what was behind the log, drilling through it with the bullet of air I was forming.

The next moment, there was a crack as the spell had completed and a small hole appeared through the wood where I wanted it to, cracking the dried log into two pieces.

I sighed, rubbing my temples as I got up from the chair I was sitting on, in the workshop where I could be alone to think. My eyes now resting on the coin in the middle of my palm instead of the wand in my other hand.

"There is no choice, it would seem I need to go pray," I mumbled not liking the implications. Someone must have ordered my death, which was a problem since someone actually saw me as a threat and took me seriously.

Queen Rhaella was religious, and Viserys as a child was made to pray in the Sept of Baelor and later in the Sept in Dragonstone. I was not the most religious person in either of my lives. First, one was mostly a dislike for organized religion and how people tended to lose their reasoning ability when brought to a religious fervor of the masses. It was a personal choice in the end, though I enjoyed different interpretations of religion, finding interest in ancient stories.

In this life, I was mostly afraid that if the gods existed, they were not ones I would ever want to meet. From my knowledge of how souls worked, it made sense if multiple souls could combine into a single entity, a metaphysical crystallization of a concept formed by human sacrifice and belief in a single idea... or they existed before humans and had the same amount of care for humans as high lords cared about the lives of their peasants. It was a chicken and egg dilemma that I was more comfortable avoiding.

Granted, the Faith of the Seven was not exactly the best of the Religions for my health. Other Religions had cool instances of magic while the Seven had an aversion to magic as they hunted down practitioners in their equivalent of Witch Hunts. I understood that as the religion was formed in Andalos in response to the Expansion of the Valyrian Freehold, it was not the most ideal of religions to be allowed to exist if one was descended from Valyria and held power. I may have been biased, as I was fascinated by Magic itself, but what Maegor had done in breaking the Faith was required for House Targaryen to exist. To a family of incestuous magic-wielding Dragon Riders, Seven was the enemy. It was utterly baffling to me that no one worked to further weaken the religion of Westeros after Maegor the Cruel broke the Faith and Jaehaerys had disbanded the Faith Militant.

In the end, visiting the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea was one of those chores I was able to avoid thankfully... bringing forth safety reasons to Ser Willem. I was pretty sure Maegor was right in trying to break the Faith with how those idiots consistently sabotaged the actions of House Targaryen at every turn. The regency after the Dance of the Dragons followed by the books burnt by the idiot Baelor and whatever happened at Summerhall, were all proof that the Faith acted to reduce the power of my family.

Given how I had on my own, in a hidden basement managed to reverse engineer half the magic from memories of a book and un-tampered instances of spells that were out of reach to the Maesters or Septons in charge of the libraries in all castles in Westeros, I was cautious and rightfully paranoid.

I did not trust Septons to not report anything to Oldtown, who in turn would leak it to Robert, so I avoided the place. I was not certain if Robert knew that we were in Braavos, but the fact that he did not come knocking with an army meant that either he did not care or he did not know where we were.

That being said, I enjoyed spending some time in the Isle of Gods, under the guise of a Lysene boy. There were more than a dozen temples and some of them actually provided me with more information about Magic than I was able to remember. I had to convince Ser Willem that I was in fact going to the Sept to pray just to be here, but once I was done with praying, I was able to watch various religions and sects perform... some unique interpretations of their magic.

Aeromancers put on shows for coin on the Isle of Gods, just as Red Priests preached the coming of Winter and End of the World as they made the fire flare out and give off random colors through powders and Moonsingers sang sad songs without any words under moonlight that left men melancholic.

Placing a single candle upon the foot of the Stranger with a muttering of "Not Today" that I had picked up from Syrio, I headed towards my actual direction.

As I stood before the two doors, I again wondered if there were magic in them. The Weirwood Door was obviously magical, and the Ebony wood gave off a similar type of feeling to Weirwood. While most people would dismiss the black wood as Ebony, I knew that it was more likely to be the Nightwood, the leaves of which the Warlocks of Qarth used to make Shade of the Evening.

"Wait here," I said handing a torn piece of parchment to Ser Willem. He was probably safe, but I would use the same trick I did with the Iron Bank meeting, a raven perched atop a column high enough to watch my sword shield.

"Yes?" asked an old Kindly Man in simple robes of black and white.

"You called?" I asked, holding the iron coin held between my fingers and presenting them.

The Kindly Man narrowed his eyes before asking "Have you come to take the gift?"

"Death is peaceful, though it is not peace I am looking for yet." I countered instead, waiting for the man to say the first part, as it was they who called and I, who was expected to serve.

"Valar Morghulis" said the Priest, stepping to the side and letting me through.

"Valar Dohaeris" I responded with a smirk, taking a step into the House of Black and White.

The First thing I noticed were the statues of various gods... all a representation of Death in their Pantheons.

Inspecting the Gods of Death in this world, my eyes rested on the dragon statue upon one of the altars as I paused.

The next thing I noticed was that the connection I had to outside the building was cut off. As the part of me, that was looking through the eyes of the raven snapped back into my own flesh, I could only clench my teeth and grit through the backlash and let it pass through me.

"Balerion." explained the Kindly Man, thinking my pause to be because of the statue. The name brought an image of the large dragon skull to my mind. Earlier Targaryens had named their Dragons after Gods of Old Valyria, but to know that Balerion was a God of Death... was oddly fitting. Theories of Faceless-Men causing the Doom and letting House Targaryen survive made more sense given that the only dragon to have been left from Old Valyria was named after the God of Death.

"Follow me." said the Kindly Men noticing that I had stopped moving, leading us away from the people who were praying by the pool in the center of the large room.

Behind a column, through a door and down a set of stairs we moved, as I kept myself from reacting. I was not really certain why I did not feel the incredible feeling of death closing in, as I headed to the bowels of the one place that raised the deadliest people on the planet but, I felt calm... at peace.

"Did someone name a boy?" I asked, in an accented Braavosi. Speaking in the way the Faceless Men spoke was... complicated. The idea I had was the same as speaking with Fae in the stories. Do not lie, but do not reveal the truth as a whole.

"No, a boy's name has not been offered, and those who offered could not pay the price." countered the Kindly Men, as we entered a room with a circular desk.

"Where are we?" I asked, curious as there was only a desk and seven chairs in the entire room.

"This is the room where no one meets." explained the Kindly Man, leaving me more confused than anything else.

"I thought the deal we had was if someone names me, I would pay for myself to be unnamed." I broke the silence, curious as said deal involved the Faceless Man who was probably this one hearing my name simply stating `A Man will let a boy know when he is named.`

"The deal, as you say it, is that a man would die, or a man would serve." countered the Kindly Man, sitting across the room and motioning me to do the same. "A Kindly Man has watched, and seen enough to offer an invitation to a boy."

"If I am not named..." I started, dismissing the fact that they were watching me. Of course, they were watching me not that I expected any less.

"A man owes a debt to the Servants of the Many-Maced God." stated the Priest

"Are we going to play the pronoun game?" I asked, "Tell me the name of this man and whom I am going to kill."

"A boy is impatient, it does not suit him." countered the Assassin. "You shall see the man whose name is known to you."

"Why not have someone else do it?" I asked as I was again led through passages that left me confused as to my direction

"A man has come to us, just recently... seeking the gift."

"Did he now?" I asked playing their game of using partial truths.

"He had quite a debt to certain unsavory establishments... he thought a quick death was favorable"

"Not the Iron Bank then." I mused loudly.

"No... not them," smirked the Kindly Man in what I would assume was amusement, though reading the face of a Faceless-Man was a foolish task on its own. "The man was unable to pay."

"So they gave him to you?" I asked completing the trail of thought, confused. "Pretty sure you lot are against slaves."

"A Kindly Man took a man in after paying off his debt. A Man asked for aid and a Servant of the Many-Faced God answered. A man's life belongs to the House of Black and White until his debt is paid or he chooses to receive the gift." explained the Kindly Men.

"I don't understand why you lot did not just give him the gift if that is what he asked of you?" I asked.

"The man is relevant to you." countered the Kindly Man before stopping in front of a door and opening it.

I inspected the man, the scars, an unkept beard, the stained cloth and the stench covered a face I recognized. It was an older one from my memories but I have been working to use what I knew of Mind Arts to sharpen my memories... which was a finicky task, to begin with. "Richard Lonmouth" I named the man who had once been Rhaegar's Squire.

"Prince Viserys." greeted the knight in question, emotions of bitterness radiating from him in a way I could not ignore.

"One moment," I whispered before turning around to face the Kindly Man.

"So... you bought off his debt to ensure he lived to use him to get to me... how does that work?" I asked, rather confused. Sure, I knew that in principle, this man was probably one of the few who actually would be more loyal to me than to Robert... if he had chosen to pledge to me. From what I knew, Richard Lonmouth had been with Rhaegar when the whole Lyanna `Kidnapping` supposedly happened, so Robert would sooner cave the man's head in than offer him a pardon.

"All man must serve, and a man owes a debt to the House of Black and White. A boy can pay for it in exchange for the man himself."

"That sounds like slavery with extra steps." I countered, crossing my arms "I will not take slaves."

"A boy can pay a man's debt... or a man can pay his own debt... one way or another, a debt is owed and must be paid." insisted the Faceless Men, though I could feel... smug from him, even though I was pretty sure I was keeping my soul to myself and not casting Legilimency by letting it wander around. While such an act would give me a better idea of what those around me were feeling, I did not think it would end well if I got caught.

"Fair enough." I countered, strangely relieved that there was not someone after me directly. "Must be the cheapest kill you lot could make, was it?" I asked.

"A boy is too cynical... but not incorrect." countered the Priest. "A boy has chosen to bring the gift to another man then."

"Why not just bring the gift yourselves?" I asked, in a whisper as I looked up at the Priest.

"A boy is smart and the one who must be delivered the gift... his name is unknown to us... a Servant of the House of Black and White cannot deliver the gift to a man whose name is not known to us." countered the Faceless Men.

"I thought it was the opposite, that you could not kill those you know?" I asked.

"A boy knows things... but not all things," commented the Priest of Death "A Servant of the House of Black and White can deliver the gift to another if his name is known to them but he is not known to them."

`Because Death is impartial.` I thought out. It also meant that they could never come after me for a similar reason, as my true name, the name I had before Viserys Targaryen was gone... unknown to even myself.

"And I am special because...?" I asked, an idea forming around it.

"A boy is a Servant of the Many-Faced God, even if he does not realize it yet." explained the Kindly Man "But a boy is not a Member of the House of Black and White."

The idea of being a Servant of Death was... not something I was ready to digest. As was probably not healthy, I pushed it to the back of my mind for now.

"So, I kill someone for you and you let Richard Lonmouth go... is that all?"

"It is a start, yes."

"And where would be the end?"

"Valar Morgulis," smirked the Faceless Men.

`Translation... the end is in death` my mind supplied as I weighed my options. I could refuse, but I did not know what would happen to the knight who was still laying on the ground before me.

"I will get him now, so he can help pay off his own debts... also I want a minor favor within reason," I added, not wanting to go cheap.

"A man finds that acceptable." smirked the Kindly Man, and I realized that he was doing that more than I would expect from emotionless murder machines who worshiped death itself.

The priest presented a piece of parchment. I took it, still wearing gloves that I planned to burn after this. Poisoned Parchment was a trick these lot would use after all... though not as often as the Maesters.

"The Alchemist?" I read out loud, under which was an address. "Does the man not have a more descriptive name?" I asked.

"None that is known to the House of Black and White and none that would offer more to a boy." countered the Kindly Man.

"Where is he from?" I asked.

"An Alchemist has arrived from the Land of Asshai," responded the Faceless Man.

That made no sense whatsoever. From what I understood, the People of Asshai were Sorcerers all, they used either undead or some sort of life-extension method given how they did not seem to have children. Anyone who lived in Asshai would probably avoid Braavos given that it headquartered a group of assassins with the belief that death was part of life. If I figured out a way to live forever, I would avoid the Death Cult.

"And he showed up here?" I asked, confused. "Did he take a wrong turn from Volantis or something?"

"He has come two moons ago." countered the Kindly Man. "Looking for something."

`Or someone.` I completed. I was not certain but I had a feeling that the man had come for me. My right hand rested on the pommel of my wand, its presence bringing me comfort and dread in equal measure.

Did I feel vindicated as I threw a bucket full of water upon the man on the floor?

A little bit, yeah.

The whole mess with the Three Kingsguard not being there to protect my mother or me after the Trident had left a sour note on my tongue when it came to Rhaegar's sycophants and Richard Lonmouth was, rather obviously, one of those idiots who drank Rhaegar's Kool-aid, so to speak.

"Ser Richard." I greeted the sputtering man who seemed soberer after the bucket of water.

"Prince Viserys" repeated the man, spitting to the side "Set fire to any man recently?"

He seemed to hold a grudge against Aerys. Granted, before I found myself in Viserys' body, the memories provided suggested that the boy was spoiled rotten and hung onto every word out of the Mad King's mouth. Having Rhaegar's children be passed over after his death and being made the Prince of Dragonstone and the de-facto heir to Aerys did not sit well with most of the Court even during the Rebellion. While Richard had gone missing in the Trident, he would have heard the stories and assumed the worst.

`I really hate working with fanatics.` I thought as this was exactly what that was. The former Squire to Rhaegar was not exactly someone who would see me in the best light given how Ser Barristan had done the same. At least I was pretty sure that Robert would cave the Stormlander's face in on sight given his closeness to Rhaegar so I did not need to worry too much about any betrayal, even if I would keep an eye for it just in case.

"Only once," I said with a grin that hid a scowl. I really did not like being compared to Aerys "He tried to stab me with a poisoned dagger and he was missing his head when I did it, so it was mostly giving a man funeral rights."

The tunic I wore felt strangely warm when I said those words. I felt the comfort it provided, even if it was not a full-plate armor or even the best against preventing a broken bone or two, the Shadow-bound Linen had endured for nearly three months of use, unlike the versions I created by sacrificing rats instead of sacrificing a dead man.

"Hmm..." responded the Knight noncommittally. "You are not still not Rhaegar," he bit back, though I got a feeling that he was talking to himself, as I turned to the Kindly Man with a questioning look. The Murder-Priest shrugged in response.

"Thank the gods." I responded instead "The World could barely handle one idiot like my brother, let alone two."

The knight made a noise that sounded like a snort before he started to weep.

I turned to glare at the Kindly Priest, only to find that he had left. I sighed and entered the room, my wand tucked into my sleeve for easy access just in case.

AN:

Faceless Men are up to something and things are going on in the shadows that MC is now barely noticing. There are consequences to certain actions and some of them are catching up to Wizerys. He is making waves and possibly people are noticing.

I needed someone normal to react to Wizerys as well, since Ser Willem is either willfully ignorant or too old to care. In the case of Richard Lonmouth, the man was a supporter of Rhaegar and his former squire. He had gone missing after the Trident and theories exist of him being Lem Lemoncloak or some other named character but not in this fic. Given Arya had managed to escape to Braavos from Saltpans, which is near the Trident, he may have survived and lived in regret not helping Rhaegar given their closeness. I also wanted another knight introduced other than Ser Willem, given his age and I had other ideas for JonCon. This will also allow Wizerys to learn more about Rhaegar and find out some interesting things. Also, it is an homage to a longtime running quest I was able to partially read (because it is too long) called "Sword without a Hilt" that is a D&D crossover with Viserys as the MC, so I wanted my own version of Ser Richard.

The next chapter will take a while to write, though I have an outline and the one after that practically wrote itself. As I will be traveling for the next 2 weeks, I expect for the next upload to be within a month at best and but I might upload 2 chapters at once when I do.

Last edited: Oct 18, 2022

008 Moonlit World

How does a ten... well... eleven-year-old boy and a barely sober knight kill a potentially deadly Alchemist whom even Faceless Men do not want to mess with for some in-explicit reason?

Is the answer fire?

That sounds like a solution, doesn't it? It would be the type of thing Aerys would do, throwing Wildfire at the problem.

That being said, I had a reputation to uphold and randomly setting fire to things or people would have me be compared to my father from this world and I had my own issues with the Mad King Aerys himself. As I had principles and some potentially misplaced pride, I was not going to go with the fast and easy method, mostly to make sure there was something to loot in the house belonging to a man called `The Alchemist`.

Then there were other factors, like a man who was called "The Alchemist" would probably be a deft hand at using Wildfire in a way that was better than my own approach, not that I had access to the `Substance`, as the Pyromaniacs in King's Landing liked to call it.

Also, the fact that the concoctions the man had may just as likely to cause a chain reaction and start an uncontrollable fire, but I cared more about potential information about Magic I could get my hands on than the potential safety of Braavos as a whole... which probably said more about me than I cared to admit. I mentally filed away my utter lack of fear of death, possibly as a side effect of being reincarnated, for future evaluation.

I hummed, lost in my thoughts as I looked at the doors of the House of Black and White that was closed behind us once we got outside. The coin I had found by my bedside was still with me, an IOU of some sort for the Faceless Men, burning a hole in my chest pocket as I inspected the monochromatic doors before me, considering what the door itself could mean.

The first part was something that I noticed when I entered the House of Black and White. The door closing had caused my connection to the outside break. It was... an interesting effect that I did not expect, but hindsight showed that there was some magic involved. That meant I should dig into it. The door of the House of Black and White would be described as Ebony and Weirwood by Arya Stark... an observation I would agree with a cursory glance.

The duality of White and Black Wood also existed in the Workshop of Tobho Mott, who had the knowledge and skill to reforge Valyrian Steel. As two independent groups in the form of Faceless Man and Smiths of Qohor who could use magic in one form or another used the same setup, I realized that it was worth investing in materials.

While I was lost in my thoughts, I noticed the tension around me.

"Ser Richard Lonmouth?" asked Ser Willem, his hand resting on his cane that hid a sword.

"Ser Willem," greeted the knight now sober and silent. The Kindly Man had given the knight some foul-smelling concoction once he had calmed down a bit. Whatever the concoction was, it had him coughing and sweating until he sobered up. At least he could walk straight on his own... so, small steps for now.

"I did not know you could conjure knights, my prince," stated Ser Willem looking at me with a look that promised further questions.

"That is yet to be seen, ser," I hummed noncommittally, as I kept looking at the large door made of black and white wood.

The Black Wood was not in truth Ebony... a fact that Arya and Ned Stark could not recognize in their ignorance. It was a distinction one could make only if one could see beyond the physical...

Opening the Third Eye, as the saying went was... far more complicated than it sounded. Third Eye was a concept from my old life, connected to the Easter Spirituality and trying the tricks I recalled from Meditation had not been exactly useful. The Third Eye was more of an awareness of one's own soul and the connection soul and mind shared that allowed for use in skinchanging and any other form of spell-casting.

As my mind reach out to the birds around the city, I saw through the eyes of animals, a physical form was needed to see. The one in the House with the Red Door kept a close eye on both Dany and everything around the house as I turned my focus to my own flesh, seeing through my own eyes without the wool over it.

The trick was technically a variation of Occlumency, mostly in the fact that it prevented illusions from taking hold through my eyes. It prevented the caster from having their eyes fooled through Magic, giving them the ability to see beyond what others wished me to see, allowing me to see through the instinctive need to dismiss the truth.

The blue veins upon black wood and red veins up white wood told me an interesting story... a story of two trees that brought me memories of another set of two trees... more magical than anything in this world.

Weirwood was known to me, as I gripped the pommel of the wand at my hip to bring me comfort. I knew Weirwood, I understood what it was, bone and wood bound through a living sacrifice, a bridge between a tree and a sentient creature that Greenseers used to store their souls and look into the memories of the past.

The black wood, I recalled was called Nightwood. It had blue leaves that were used by the Warlocks of Qarth to make the drink Shade of the Evening, which was another thing that I needed to study that I had no access to. Nightwood itself seemed to have similar properties to Weirwood in that it allowed people to use magic in some shape or form, making it the second Magical wood that I could leverage.

It was the duality of the two kinds of woods that had my interest though... the fact that it was able to shut off my skinchanging when the doors of the House of Black and White closed gave me... ideas.

"My prince?" asked Ser Willem, as I came out of my thoughts.

"Did you say something, Ser Willem?" I asked, returning to the present from thoughts of magic.

"To the house, your grace?" asked Ser Willem in a stiff tone. The message underneath was clear `Can we trust him?`

"Mayhaps we shall eat in this Tavern I heard Syrio mention... have a chat with our new... acquaintance" I countered, my hand not leaving the pommel of my wand. I had to put away my thoughts of Magic Research and handle what was before me now.

"I could use a drink." responded the Knight of Skulls and Kisses, making me sigh in exasperation. I was really conflicted about just letting him get put down by a Faceless Man and focus on Magic Research... it was extremely tempting me now.

Was I too hard on the man? Probably... I mean, first impressions matter and I was not impressed by the emotional wreck that was Ser Richard Lonmouth.

The problem was that I was aware that I was extremely biased. Richard Lonmouth was one of Rhaegar's supporters but given what I saw, he was still loyal, which made him worth more than his weight in gold if I could get him to my side. I was self-conscious enough to know that it was not specific to this knight. I would not even receive Barristan the Bold himself without any bitterness. Granted, said Knight of the Kingsguard had bent the knee with an excuse that OG Viserys had his father's madness, not to mention what they let Aerys do to my poor mother. The memories of Viserys had long since blended with my own to make us a single entity and my perspective gave me a new appreciation of Queen Rhaella Targaryen. I mean, I was not an expert but I was not sure if the behaviors of a sheltered eight-year-old should be used as the basis to judge a character. I was sure I could at least manipulate someone like Barristan Selmy to keep his loyalty had I found myself in this body at an earlier time, but thinking of what could have been would not help me now.

My hood was up, as I held my wand against my leg hidden beneath my cloak while sitting in the corner, my back against the wooden walls. Ser Willem notices the way I was on guard and kept a hand on his cane's pommel, ready to unsheathe the blade within.

"Ale for me, Water for the lad," said Ser Willem, getting a nod from me.

"Wine," responded Richard Lonmouth, not even hesitating in his choice. My dislike for alcohol was mostly built around my need to keep a clear head to use magic, so I did not approve of his choice, given the state I met him in, Ser Richard needed to keep himself under control... a failing on his part.

"Water it down, I need him sober," I commanded the girl, pushing my command and words with my Mind onto hers to make sure she listened. The Magical Compulsion ensured that she ignored the fact that I was a child, despite my command, a mental desire formed within her mind that made her ignore that specific bit. The spell was less a Command and more a Compulsion in its purpose and the gold coin I flicked in her direction was enough to break any resolve the girl might have had. It was not exactly the Voice from Dune, but it worked to achieve similar results if the target was not completely against the commands and coin had a way of opening the minds, so to speak.

"So, what brought you to Braavos, Ser?" I asked, reaching out and creating a small mental compulsion to make eavesdroppers ignore what was being said. I felt inspired by the subtle compulsion I felt from not wanting to pry into the nature of combining Weirwood and Nightwood and I was trying to replicate the effect, forcing people to feel that we were "not really worth any attention."

"Winds." responded the Knight, though the eye contact was all I needed to slip in, reading the surface thoughts. Pushing into the Minds of others was... uncomfortable if I went too deep. The Compulsion I was using was surface level, a simple thought that was easily picked up and likewise easily resisted. I could pull off full possession if they were unconscious or lacked proper mental blocks that most adults had formed as they grew older, but it was not something I enjoyed or could do without breaking something on a permanent basis when they resisted... and anyone who was conscious resisted. I really did not want to turn another person into Hodor... at least those who did not do anything to deserve it.

What I saw in Richard Lonmouth was... a mess, a reflection of the outside showing within.

Richard Lonmouth was a broken man. A broken man who had nothing to live for... or at least that is what he believed in.

"You were at the Trident" I stated, deciding to bulldoze my way through. I needed him to focus on specific thoughts if I wanted to judge his worth.

"I was," said Ser Richard, his discomfort obvious.

"All I heard were second-hand reports." I stated, "What happened?"

"What does it matter?" asked Ser Richard, his tone uncaring. "Rhaegar is dead... and I should have died with him."

`Shame and despair then,` I thought to myself "Mayhaps gods have another plan for you, yet?" I asked.

"If so, they are cruel." countered the knight in turn. "Mayhaps, one day, I will tell you why I think it is worthless to try, Prince Viserys, but that will not be today." he deflected.

"It is not my life that the Faceless Men are holding onto." I countered, with some anger. Stupidity I could handle, the self-loathing was just annoying at this point. "What use is a knight who will not fight for himself."

"I knew the lad when he was a squire to Rhaegar, your grace, he is dutiful." countered Ser Willem, speaking the words that he knew would hit where it hurt. Ser Willem was a good man, who knew the game I was playing and the way he helped me manipulate a drunk man with nothing to live for was... strangely comforting.

"He is a mess is what he is." I countered though I felt rather conflicted. "We can just as well let the Faceless Man give him a more permanent peace."

A part of me that I had not managed to strangle out of myself wanted to help the man. The more pragmatic part of me wanted to be rid of him. If I was honest with myself, the only reason I was helping him was to see if I could learn something from the Alchemist.

I have been putting off experimenting with Alchemy and Potions for a while now. Whatever advantage I could gain from Potions would require me to place time and resources I did not have along with discovering how materials reacted. While it was potentially a high-risk endeavor with potential rewards, I was better suited to focus on what I had access to with the use of my wand, though my spell-work had slowed down to a crawl in the last month or so.

The Alchemist potentially held knowledge that I needed to kick-start my path to understanding how Alchemy worked in this world. My knowledge was limited to the fact that Alchemists could make Wildfire, which was rather limited. Sure, there were probably many and more uses for the only branch of Magic that seemed to have endured the test of time, but I needed some way of learning what was, so I could come up with what could be. I simply did not have the time to reinvent the wheel, so to speak.

I held the bridge of my nose, rubbing it to stave off the headache I would be suffering for my decision. "Fine... we will help you with your problem," I stated, knowing that I did not really have any other option but to help. It still helped to show that it was not something I would do for the sake of doing it.

It took me a week to figure out how to approach the problem that was this so-called Alchemist.

I was moving with extreme caution, mostly because I did not know how much this Alchemist knew about Magic. For all I knew, he was better at it than me and he would see me coming in, which was where Ser Richard came in.

A sorcerer in this world was powerful but they could still fall to the bite of cold steel. While I would be more comfortable with the aid of Ser Willem as well, the old man was past his prime and I needed him to be unharmed more than I needed someone like Richard Lonmouth... even if the Knight of Skulls and Kisses was younger and potentially a good alternative to Ser Willem should the old man pass on as the books suggested. It was all to provide me with a buffer to get stronger.

First was a way to disguise myself.

If I was going to act as an Assassin for the Faceless Men, I was going to take a page from their own book. Getting some black hair dye would serve as well as anything else to keep my identity somewhat obscured in a world where cameras did not exist.

Next was an idea I was inspired by the House of Black and White once more, an item that may provide me with an edge. Getting access to Nightwood to pair with Weirwood was an experiment for all intents and purposes, but it seemed to have some interaction with Skinchanging from what I had experienced that seemed... strange.

"Welcome" greeted the old man in the shop I had found the pieces of Weirwood nearly two years ago. "What can Laro do for you?" asked the old man who owned the shop.

The black hair and time would hopefully be enough to prevent him from recognizing me as the Westerosi who sought anything made with Weirwood.

"I am looking for a gift... something made from a dark wood," I stated, causing the man to nod and smile at the prospect of earning coin.

"I have some ebony chests." stated the old man. "Best ones you can find in Braavos indeed. Crafted with carvings from the time of Century of Blood."

"I was looking for something rarer," I countered, knowing that I had enough coin to spare for it, even though spending so much money for something that would be considered wasteful was painful after all the effort I put into earning the money. "I hear there is this special black wood from Qarth."

"Ah... the Nightwood... yes, I think we had a decorated chest made from the famed Nightwood of Qarth in the back, with carvings of the failed invasion from Valyria" stated Laro the Shopkeeper, making me sigh as I could tell it would be a costly investment. Given that it was a rare wood import, I would be lucky to get it for the equivalent of hundreds of gold dragons from this single item. The fact that it depicted another depiction of a failure of Valyria probably was the only reason it found its way to Braavos, given what I knew of these people.

With the materials collected, I was able to spend more time scouting the Alchemist and the Manor that he had been living in. The Kindly Man had provided me with an address and it was not hard to identify the man wearing robes and smelling of sulfur as anything but an Alchemist.

An owl perched atop a roof, watching the house with unnatural eyes. Using Skinchanging for scouting was not a novel idea to start with, as Mance Rayder had done something similar by organizing the Skinchangers beyond the wall. It also allowed me to gather the information that would normally require me to watch the house myself, an act that was not as appealing after another week spent watching the house.

"Children... are you certain?" asked Ser Richard, sober now that he understood that it was his life on the line... probably.

"Orphans and street rats mostly." I explained, "They enter the house but do not leave". I had to hold myself back from reacting rashly and attacking directly. I did not know if those children were still alive or dead, but I knew that I had to put a stop to it... and not just because the Faceless Man had subtly threatened me for it.

I knew that it was possible to use souls to cast spells. It was what I was doing in a roundabout way as well, but using children to power spells made me feel sick.

I could understand the general idea of it, even if it was the most amoral thing I have come across. I could think of nearly a dozen justifications on why it was easier to use children than a grown man, chief among which was the fact that it was easier to skin-change less developed minds which in turn would help with any Blood Magic by blurring the lines between willing and unwilling sacrifice. That did not make what was happening should not be stopped.

It was nearly a whole month since I visited the House of Black and White, and the night of the new moon provided the best time to sneak in.

I was armed and armored as much as I could get away with, a gambeson over my Shadow-bound Tunic that could pass off as a jacket, a buckler for my off-hand to use with my wand, two daggers and an axe just in case. I could not go for plate or mail armor mostly to be stealthy and also because that would get people to ask questions.

Ser Richard on the other hand was dressed for war... in a cobbled-together second-hand armor that Ser Willem was able to get through various blacksmiths, since Richard did not have his armor anymore and he refused to elaborate.

All in all, we could pass for a noble's son and his guard real well... or a knight and a squire if Richard was able to play off being drunk.

The eyes of the owl allowed me to navigate the streets without a light source, night-vision and lack of noise when flying made the owl a perfect animal to use for this. Getting used to walking the streets from a third-person view was weird at first, but I was able to get used to it.

"He is asleep?" asked Ser Richard,

"From what I can tell." I nodded, taking out my wand and pointing it at the door as I prepared myself for the spell I was working on specifically for this purpose.

Reaching out with my very essence, I could feel the latch behind the door keeping the door from being opened. The lock was simple enough that I did not need to have too fine control over what I was going to do.

"Alahomora," I whispered, mostly for myself. Just because I was trying to be stealthy did not mean I could not enjoy the small things in life and that small satisfaction alone was enough to get me in the right frame of mind to achieve the spell. The latch rose a moment later, unlocking the door with a click, causing me to smirk. The owl landed on my shoulder with a mental command once I was sure the door was unlocked, providing me with a night vision that my own flesh eyes could not provide.

The hallway was empty, as I knew it would be. The Alchemist did not have servants staying in the house from what I have observed. While killing him was important, I needed to make sure that the children could be recovered before I decided to face the man in case the whole place was rigged by some alchemical concoction to go Summerhall.

I held out my wand, willing it to point me in the direction of the children that the Alchemist had lured into his house. Keeping the image of the street rat that entered the house last, I felt a thug in the direction of the basement. The Divination spell had no incantation and I barely understood the mechanics of how it worked. For all I knew, I was tapping into a future version of myself to get the answers from, not that I had the time to explore the process.

Another Unlocking Charm to open a lock that I could have just as well picked manually and we were in the basement.

A chill ran down my spine, seeing the sight before me.

It was a veritable graveyard... bones littered the room, bones too small to be fully grown men.

AN:

I have been busy for the last few weeks as I said in my previous update so I did not get a chance to update weekly as I had set myself to do. This chapter became longer than I anticipated but it did allow me to create a buffer of some sort for future chapters.

I was not expecting the reaction to Richard Lonmouth to be so harsh, to be honest, but there are reasons for his reactions. That is the main problem of a first-person view, as everything is colored by the MC's biases. For all we know, Rhaegar somehow convinced the most honorable knights of the Kingsguard like Arthur Dayne to follow along with a scheme that made no sense, and someone like Richard Lonmouth who was under Rhaegar's influence from a young age would not have a chance with the way Targaryen's seem to form Cults of Personality just as easily as they breathe unless they are idiots like OG Viserys.

Nightwood and Weirwood combination is a weird one, only seen in the House of Black and White and the Workshop of Tobho Mott. Given that both work on secrecy, I figured there is some sort of a magical effect that Wizerys also noticed firsthand in the previous chapter and now, it has become an itch he just needs to scratch.

There was a discussion of how Unlocking Charm is a good utility spell and Wizerys needed it, so theories he considered were slowly developed into an actual spell he could use when the necessity arose. Is the use of Incantations he does not need a bit immature... yes it is, but would you not play off being Harry Potter if you could pull it off. It probably helps get him in the mental space for the spell effect, so he is using it. It will eventually pay off though, so bear with it.

ASOIAF Magic is based on Sacrifice and while Wizerys is working on a more comprehensive model of Magic but it is still not a complete model yet. The main thing to note is that Wizerys figured out a way to bypass the requirements of sacrifice to a degree by using some advanced form of Skinchanging through the wand that even he barely understands. Not all Magic Users are as moral or care efficiency as the MC and even then, even Wizerys is not a beacon of morality given that he does not shy away from turning the souls of people who attack him into Magic Items if it suits him. For all I can tell, Bloodraven, Melisandre, Mirri Maz Duur and most Valyrian Mages according to what little we know about them are just as monstrous as the Mages from Nasuverse, hence the title of this chapter. Let's just say that the World of Magic in this version of Planetos is not as limited as everyone seems to think and there is a reason it is hidden from the `Muggles`.

009 A Wizard Duel

17453 said:

Sorry for going overboard

I loved it actually, so please, do keep going overboard. All of these are being added to my notes as Wizerys finds himself exploring them either by stumbling through them or because he knew about them.

LokKi said:

Damn cliffhanger! Good job and everything, writing is good, yadda, yadda, when the next update!?!?

Now the next update!.. and new cliffhanger because I am feeling generous/cruel like that.

Now onto the chapter:

Children locked in the basement was one thing. I could deal with that.

Corpses of Children hanging from the walls was another.

Do you ever feel a rage that just leaves you in a calm state of mind? That feeling of ringing in your ears as everything gains a clarity that was not there before?

What I assumed was a corpse in the corner made a wheezing sound, causing me to focus on the child. I ran toward the girl, a push of my will unlocking the manacles that had her chained to the wall. I pushed aside her blonde hair and looked for any obvious injury that needed immediate attention.

The girl slowly opened her eyes, and I had only a single moment to cover her mouth before she screamed.

"Shh..." I calmed her with a push of my will. While I drew the line on skinchanging into children, this was one of those occasions when I really could not let my rules limit me.

The girl looked at me with tearful eyes before nodding.

"You should leave... he will come for you." she gasped out in Braavosi that made me sigh in relief. If she was good enough to talk, that was... good right?

"It will be alright." I stated simply using my Magic to make her believe it, a small comfort that I knew she needed. I turned to Ser Richard to help me with the girl.

I took a few breaths, trying my best to calm my rapidly beating heart. The ringing in my ears had returned.

"Fuck," I whispered, unable to find any other words to describe it before I felt something at the back of my mind. A check on the `scouts` I had ordered around the house showed that light was coming from the room that I knew to be the bedroom. The Alchemist seemed to have woken up and the plan of putting him down while sleeping had gone out the window with it.

"Richie... get the girl outside and come back for me after," I commanded, using the code name that Ser Richard had found childish, while Ser Willem had found it amusing. Knowing that this would have to be a confrontation of some sort and I could not risk an innocent from getting caught in the crossfire... or be used as a hostage against me. I just had to play a different role to play it would seem.

"Are you sure about this?" hissed Ser Richard who seemed just as disgusted by what he had witnessed just as well.

"I will have a wee bit of a chat with the owner while you are out," I stated, taking out my knife and my wand. The Weirwood felt almost warm in my hand, the echo of the dragon almost eager for a fight.

While I would have preferred to use the dagger I `liberated` from the Sorrowful Men, using a poisoned dagger that I had no knowledge of countering myself was not a smart idea if I accidentally nicked myself. Granted, that poison was possibly made by the Warlocks of Qarth if my hunch about the actual people who sent that Assassin after me were true, but that only made the weapon more lethal to those with magic... which included me. I could probably resurrect myself by skinchanging back into my corpse, but using unknown poisons might throw away that chance and I did not want to use my other options as they were... less moral.

I closed my eyes of flesh and opened them again along with my Third Eye, seeing into the world as it truly was. I never gave much thought to my Third Eye, a fact that was probably neglectful in hindsight but it had been essentially blasted open the moment I had first waved my wand.

I could feel the influence that was being woven with each of my steps. Something was guiding me to the study, a compulsion that I could dismiss with ease. I still followed the path it laid for me though, springing the trap and hoping that it would make my opponent drop his guard.

The study was... what I expected from a man who was called `the Alchemist`. There were a lot of vials and devices around the room, a bookcase of decent size in one corner with maybe fifty or so tomes and scrolls.

A mental command had my owl fly up to the rafters, giving me eyes to the door I entered through.

I walked over to the desk that held two thick tomes and a scroll opened across them all, filled with High Valyrian Glyphs. It caught my curiosity as the use of Valyrian Glyphs had gone out of favor after the Doom. The Modern High Valyrian, as I liked to call it, used the Westerosi Common as a writing style instead of the Glyphs that probably contained some form of Magic, possibly another way of suppressing Magic by the Maesters.

"So you are the one that I have been seeking." said the voice behind me.

I turned around only to get a face full of a powder I did not know the nature of.

The Shield Spell I had managed to develop sucked against any solid weapon with enough mass, as it failed to stop a forceful strike of a knife before. It had been too much air and not solid enough in the end. That being said, against something as light as powder, it worked perfectly, stopping the airborne particles the Alchemist threw in my direction.

I smirked before slashing with my wand without a word, a thin line of red appearing along the man's arm as he instinctively shielded his neck from my attack. I did not waste time with words mostly because I needed the added speed and it was not time to play around.

"Impressive... how do you Westerosi say it... for a green boy." said the man in High Valyrian, smirking through it all, seemingly unfazed by the cut along his arm that was bleeding.

I dismissed the fact that he knew I was Westerosi. I did not have time to play 20 questions with the man. If he knew where I was from, I needed him dead just in case he also knew where I lived. I could not put Dany in danger.

Seeing the blood falling from the man's arms, my first instinct was to assume he was not feeling the pain... a side effect that might indicate some form of possession. That thought was dismissed as it came since I knew from first-hand experience that pain was a good way to knock out a possession. A skinchanger could not keep the skin they were using after feeling physical pain, the original soul was simply able to overpower the foreign soul when it felt pain... it was just another peculiarity of Magic that meant the man before me was the real deal and he had a high tolerance for pain.

"What do you want with me?" I asked, curious and stalling for time. I carefully positioned myself so the man was facing away from the open door of the study.

"Nothing you need to worry yourself with." said the Alchemist with a smirk, his eyes noting the knife in my left hand. He was cautious of me, not willing to get close after seeing how I could cut him if he got closer. My cutting spell was way more powerful at close quarters as well, so it was not a game of chicken.

A few seconds later, the Alchemist casually waved his hand toward me. The flames from the hearth leaped towards me with the motion, only to stop as I took over the fire the moment my wand intercepted the fire. The dragon bone somehow connected with the flame and allowed me to take over the flame. A moment of inspiration and I swung my wand, using the flame as a whip that slapped towards the man's torso, pushing the Alchemist back. The next slash of the fire whip, Alchemist simply slapped away, dismissing the flames with ease that made me wary.

I noted that his hand had a red welt as if the flame had hurt him before our eyes connected. For a single moment, our minds connected, a battle of wills that came to an end as soon as it started, when the Alchemist flinched away from my mind when I pushed back against his intrusion.

Metaphysical spikes were countered completely, as I combined his style of Legilimency with what I had developed against animals, pushing against the intrusions as I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting my own blood and bringing my entire soul back to my own body, the connection to my owl breaking for a moment.

"Marvelous... simply marvelous." commented the Alchemist, seemingly impressed.

I took a calming breath, as this whole thing turned from a low magic setting to a full-on wizard duel real fast and I did not have the experience to survive longer... I had to end this quickly.

A stab of my wand launched a simple yet effective spell. A drill-like wind, similar to my Cutting Curse with the winds specifically meant to pierce. A hole through the torso would be hard to shrug off like cuts to the limbs after all.

The Alchemist was not fast enough to dodge the aptly named Piercing Curse... which got him in the torso, though his lack of reaction was making me more worried by the minute.

"No words?" asked the Alchemist, seemingly unfazed by the whole duel "Come now, boy, you have the potential to become the strongest Sorcerer I have met in while, surely..."

Whatever he was going to say next would remain a mystery to me, as I had flicked my wand while he was talking, letting a chair behind him slam onto his head. Talking was definitely a free action and the action economy won the fights from what I learned from Dungeons and Dragons. I would have to be content with filling in the blanks with one of the clich"s like `you can learn great things with my guidance` or `you will make a perfect vessel for me to take over` or something equally amoral.

I barely reacted when a bolt of shadow flew towards me from where the man had fallen to his knees. My wand moved to intercept, knowing that I could take control of the shadow-smoke if my wand could just touch it.

Before the mess of shadows could reach me, my owl fell from the rafters, intercepting it instead, the mess of shadows ripped through the owl and I felt my companion get cut in twain as the spell ended. The blood splash onto my face and clothes as I just stood there, trying to get my bearings from the backlash of feeling the death of my familiar, the knife in my hand clattering to the ground.

I watched as the Alchemist got to his feet, raising his hand and throwing another bolt of shadows.

This time, I was prepared as my left hand reached to my belt, grasping the steel buckler, while my wand intercepted what I now knew to be a cutting curse.

The shadows were brought to my will, just as they intercepted the buckler. The steel shield fell apart into two pieces as the shadows touched it, providing just enough resistance to give me the time to take over and dismiss the spell by forcing my will through the shadows, breaking the will to cut while also changing its direction.

It worked, to a degree, as I was able to slap the shadow to the side as I swung my wand and my entire body to divert it away from my torso while stepping out of the way.

I felt something hot run along my left arm before I clutched the slow flow of blood. I felt it nick my left forearm when I touched it and feeling pain was good. If it felt cold, I would have to be worried but pain meant that it was a shallow cut. The bolt of shadow I had intercepted had cut through steel and barely stopped by my tunic bound with shadows, scoring flesh. This was the same tunic that had managed to stop a steel knife and it was cut like butter when faced against whatever Shadowbinding the Alchemist had used.

I could feel something trying to dig itself through my forearm, the shadow-binding was broken by my will but something remained within... and I needed to address it fast and that meant ending this fight soon.

I pointed my wand to the blood that was now flowing down my sleeve, trying to create shadow-smoke from my own blood. As I needed to end this fight as soon as possible, using a bit of my blood was worth my survival. Shadow-smoke was much more effective than what I normally used, as the man before me had shown. I somehow knew that I could weave it into my Cutting Curse and end this fight right there. Sacrificing a bit of my blood and soul was worth preserving the rest for all I cared, a few decades of my own life force meant nothing when compared to what this man would be able to do.

The problem was that I needed fire to produce shadow-smoke and the only source of fire had gone out when the Alchemist somehow threw the flame from the heart at me, not even needing a wand to do it.

"You know, I thought I would offer you a position by my side." said the man, his face now a rictus grin that was so unnatural it brought me a pause. The man knew he had won, I could feel the smugness radiating from him that brought a shiver down my spine.

"You mean under you? Find yourself another choir boy." I responded too fast for my brain-to-mouth filter to catch, causing the man to chuckle. I was not sure if he actually understood the reference or if the idea of a priest using children was a multiversal constant or not, I did not know. What I knew was that this person needed to die.

"If I wanted you dead, boy, you would be." countered the Alchemist, doing his best impression of a Sith Lord with their tried and true method of `join me or else` shtick. For a moment, it was an enticing proposition.

For a moment, I considered his offer, before the image of the blonde girl was replaced by a girl a bit younger and with lighter hair, the image of Dany filling me with a new rage.

"Well, I am waiting for a response." said the man his smirk not leaving his face. I really wanted to rip his face off.

"How is the dental plan?" I snarked in return, my tone calm as I gave up on trying to stop the blood from flowing and reaching out with my soul to the knife on the floor, sending it flying with a subtle flick of my wand.

"What is a dental plan?" asked the Man confused, as the flying knife punched through the man's heart, I knew it had done so... yet the Alchemist seemed unfazed by twelve inches of triangular war crime sticking through his heart.

"If that is your wish, I am sure I can find other uses for you." countered the man, still unfazed by having his heart stabbed.

`Fucking should have packed dragonglass` I mentally thought to myself as I braced myself for what is to come.

The man reached for his pocket, pulling out a vial, a vial that glinted green. I knew what it was, I remembered what it was, the screams of man and the laughter of my father.

I prepared for what I needed to do, my spell weaving itself around the desk, ready to flip it towards the man and block the vial of Wildfire. If I could just time it right, Wildfire would do what dragonglass could as well... probably.

Before either of us could react, I saw a glint of light behind the Alchemist and watched as a blade stuck through his mouth, causing him to drop the vial of what I knew to be Wildfire.

Behind the man, Ser Richard was standing, a necklace around his neck holding an amulet made from two distinctly colored pieces wood stuck together with blood and horse glue. While I could not use the Weirwood and Nightwood combination for myself, as it seemed to interfere with the way my magic worked, I was able to make a simple amulet from it that hid Ser Richard from my senses. I just had to bet that it would protect him from the sense of other magicals as well.

Ser Richard noticed the green vial from behind the Alchemist and yelped in shock, familiar with the green substance no doubt thanks to Aerys. His next reaction probably saved the day, as he pushed the man that refused to die along with the sword that was still stabbing through his mouth to where the wildfire had splashed but had not ignited.

The body fell on the green liquid and I watched as the blood touch the green liquid before the entire thing burst into green flames that nearly caused me to stumble back. A moment later, the Alchemist's body was consumed by the green flame and I acted on instinct.

With a mental push, the desk I was grabbing with metaphysical limbs flipped over and falling on top of the body of the Alchemist and the Wildfire. If the man still refused to die and tried to get up, the desk would hold him down... probably.

I watched unable to move as Ser Richard ran to my side, though I did not know why he did not simply choose to go back down the only way out... the same path that was now blocked by the spreading green flames.

"Thanks," I muttered, as Ser Richard caught me, as I was suddenly filled with a sense of nausea. Wildfire did not make me feel... good in any way or form.

"We should get... out," said Ser Richard, only to just notice that the green flames had spread enough to consume not just the body of the alchemist, but also the path to the door.

I watched the green flames block the path to the door and path downstairs, my mind trying to figure out a way to escape my own version of Summerhall.

I did not have a way through the Wildfire... as I could feel my very soul flinch away from the green flame on instinct when I tried to... push myself to take over the magical flames. If it were a normal fire, I could take over it, force it to cool down and go out but Wildfire proved its magical nature.

`That fire would burn my soul.` I thought to myself, knowing it to be the truth as I watched the Alchemist's body stay still within the green flames. I had caused enough physical damage to the man from Asshai to kill a normal man, and it had done absolutely nothing. I knew that the sword through the mouth had only made the man break his concentration for a moment, yet Wildfire was something else entirely, it would seem.

We needed another way out and the only way was through the window behind me.

`It is the second floor... we can survive that.` I mentally declared, mostly to convince myself. I just needed to make the opening wide enough to actually be able to pass through.

Aiming my wand to the wall, a wordless roar exploded from my mouth, just as the wall exploded outwards as I pushed out with all my metaphysical might, the warm air forming into a compressed ball before exploding outwards, breaking through the window... and the wall in a display of Magic I did not know I could pull off. It had left us with just enough of an opening to jump through. I noted that the spell had a lot more power than I was expecting but I did not really care about that at that specific moment.

My eyes landed on the items on the floor, broken vials and knickknacks along with the scroll and two books. I noticed that the flames were consuming the rest of the library so I made a grab for what I could get my hands on.

Grabbing the scroll and two books that had fallen to the floor from the desk, I jumped from the second floor down. A push of my will to my wand had the winds pick me up, not strong enough to make me fly but definitely enough to slow down my fall.

"Jump." I declared, looking at the hesitant Ser Richard, who was still inside the house, looking at me. "Trust me."

The knight jumped, as I willed the very wind to slow his fall. While I was still an eleven-year-old in a physical sense, Ser Richard was an adult in armor and he was heavier than I was by a large margin.

Still, the spell held as the man landed on his feet before falling over to his back. The fact that he was able to get up meant nothing was broken so that was good for us.

I rolled up the scroll and placed the three pieces of loot into my satchel. I would have preferred more but I was not going to cry over it. The Alchemist deserved to be put down and that was my primary goal after seeing the bones of the kids he sacrificed.

My mind briefly went over to the bones of the children... the idea of using their souls was nauseating and they were probably already bound to something given the way the Alchemist was able to use Shadow-Binding. I watched the flames grow to cover the entire second floor, a brief prayer leaving my lips hoping that the souls of those sacrificed would be released through the fire to whatever afterlife there was. I knew that R'hollor would take those souls, so to him, I prayed for once.

The green flame turned red just a moment after my prayer, making me wonder if R'hollor was listening. I reached out with my soul and touched the flame, just enough to feel that the Wildfire was burnt out.

I pushed my own will into flame, confining it to eat away at the house only and not spread further than that. Feeling souls linger in the flame, I felt that they were not hostile at all as I would have thought the soul of the Alchemist would be, I pushed my will through them, binding them to follow my command. Enchanting the fire to limit itself, I pulled back. Burning down the entirety of Braavos would not benefit me for now and I did not want the Faceless Men angry at me for going overboard.

"We should get away from here," I noted as I came to my own body, now that I knew the spell would work. "I think I can use a drink," I commented breathing heavily, as I took out bandages and tried my best to stop the bleeding on my arm.

"I don't think it would solve anything, your grace." countered Ser Richard, his body stiff as he seemed indecisive on whether or not he agreed with me.

I paused what I was doing, replaying the words of the knight in my mind before chuckling at the irony of it. I turned to see Ser Richard on his knees.

I was confused as it took me a while to register the words the man was saying.

"I offer my services to King Viserys Targaryen, Third of his Name. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New." said Ser Richard Lonmouth, the Knight of Skulls and Kisses.

That was the first time Ser Richard had referred to me as a king instead of a prince.

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New," I said, as my hand went to the pommel of my wand, something made me add "I swear it by wood and bone, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire. Arise, Ser Richard."

"Don't forget about the girl," I added after Ser Richard got up from where he was kneeling, his eyes sharper than before. "We will find her family if she has one."

"Yes, your grace." responded the knight turning to the direction of where I assumed the girl had been before stopping and turning. "Your Grace... what do you know about the Song of Ice and Fire?" asked the former squire of my brother.

"Oh... fuck." I could only respond to that.

I was going to blame Rhaegar for the headache I was about to get from this, I was sure of it.

AN:

The climax to the Alchemist Arc. Unfortunately, shitty DM nerfs the loot.

BlazeM said:

Avada Kedavra his ass

Wizerys looks at green flames and shrugs "it is the same color... I think."

I really wanted to write a Wizard Duel so here it is. It also shows where Wizerys stacks in the totem pole as the Wand allows him to match up to people with probably greater experience and training than he ever has, but he does not automatically win.

House of the Dragon made this whole thing a lot easier to write since the Prophecy of Ice and Fire seems to be a canon thing now. It is in Fire and Blood and the new show, so it is in this one as well. The fact that Richard knows about it implies that he learned it from Rhaegar and the books imply that Rhaegar knew about "The Song of Ice and Fire" somehow.

It does put Richard's mental state in a better frame. Poor guy was probably thinking that the end of the world was coming and the only person who did something about it went and got his chest caved in by Robert "More-Wine" Baratheon.

Last edited: Nov 7, 2022

010 Licking Wounds

"Oh... fuck." I exclaimed, only to get a snort from the other man.

"Come off it boy, the cut is a clean one and not even that deep." said the Surgeon "Would have hurt less if you took some Milk of the Poppy."

"No drugs." I countered through gritted teeth, my vision gaining black spots. The Surgeon nodded, as I had forced us to enter what was probably his home, late at night by presenting the Iron Coin of the Faceless Men.

Gotta love the superstitious Braavosi, the Surgeon took one look at the coin and decided to help me.

"The blade seems sharp... so it should not scar too much," commented the Surgeon we had found ourselves in. "It will still need stitches though."

"Are you good with stitches?" I asked instead, getting a glare from the man. "Wash your hands first," I commanded with an authority that was beyond my stature as a child.

"Do I look like Dothraki to you boy? Of course, I have washed my hands. That is not what you should worry about." countered the man, still inspecting the blackened veins over my forearm by poking them with a knife. "Not sure what the blackening is from... some sort of poison or..."

"Shadowbinder." I cursed, inspecting the cut with my wand under a new light. The black lines were there, and I could feel the malice like it was fresh. I had already taken over the spell before, so I knew what the effect was. The shadow-binding acted as an enchantment that held the concept of cutting. In the wound, it would remain as it was, unable to perpetuate more as I had somehow managed to balance the negative intent with my own will in the last moment. When I had taken over the Cutting Curse, I had managed to add my will into the soul bound to the shadow, allowing me to stop the cut from perpetuating. The fact that I had managed to do something like that without actually understanding what I was doing made me smirk with satisfaction.

It also explained how the owl had managed to counter the enchantment and 'absorb' the curse in my stead while the steel buckler was simply cut in two pieces. The soul of the owl must have stopped the spell that was aimed at me, eating the enchantment that the shadowbinding was meant to force on my own flesh.

Granted, from what I could understand, the enchantment now placed within my wound also prevented it from healing, so there was that to address. The problem was, I had no idea how to fix it, as I was not sure using another soul would actually work.

"It seems to be a curse meant to prevent the wound from healing," I stated, mostly to prevent the idiots in the room from stopping me. The question of whether it was the knight, the surgeon or the little girl in the room was up for debate.

"I am not a Warlock... I do not know how to fix that." countered the Surgeon, as I could feel his fear should I be displeased.

"I do," I said with a confidence that was mostly for the sake of others. Taking my belt, I bit down it, making sure that I would not break my teeth during what I was about to do.

Speed triumphed over efficiency in this case, so I made up my mind. Grabbing the bottle that was half drained by Ser Richard, I poured it over his hands, the needle and thread and finally my wound, wincing from the stinging.

The flame from the brazier was enough to provide a source of fire, as I took out my wand and pointed it at the fire. The flame leaped and set the alcohol and most of my arm on fire, though it would not burn me even then. I let the fire and blood merge together, creating my own shadow-smoke, potentially sacrificing a bit of my soul in the process.

It did not really matter if I was giving up my life force or bits of my soul. The other option would definitely kill me and I would not have time to figure out how to fix whatever I would be sacrificing. Giving away my soul sounded like a bad idea, to be honest, but I was not sure how long I would have left if I did nothing instead and the only way I knew to interact with shadows was with shadows themselves. The shadow-smoke had a tendency to merge together and give me a way to pull it out of my arm. The smoke rose from my arm, where the blood had dried off, before sinking into my skin, I felt the shadow become more... join in with the small amount left within the wound when the cursed spell the Alchemist threw in my direction.

I watched as the shadow rose from the wound before I casually flicked it at the fire of the brazier that was lighting the place, willing it to burn out.

I turned to look at the others in the room. The surgeon looked... green, while Ser Richard was somehow holding me, though I had not noticed when he had moved from where he was sitting.

The blonde girl was hiding behind the door, peeking out. The Surgeon had already checked her, but she seemed insistent on not taking anything for the pain, a feeling I could understand given what she had probably been through.

Why were my ears ringing again?

Why was my throat sore... as though I had been screaming.

I spat out the belt that was still between my teeth, my teeth mark having left a clear imprint on the leather.

"Water..." I croaked, uncertain of what had happened. "...and Ice," I added, recalling an old story I had read in my old life, about Aerea Targaryen and the worms she was infested in, worms that had died when exposed to an ice bath. Shadow-Smoke was close enough to Fire Magic as possible, so it stood to reason that ice would help with breaking the spell that remained.

The Surgeon looked at the wound with renewed interest, prodding it as though it was a dead animal and he was a three-year-old child.

"You see something new every day... the blackness seems gone." said the man, "That is probably a good thing."

I noted that the man was probably one of the actually smart people in this world... which was rare from what I had seen. "Do you have any silver knives?" I asked, getting a nod from the man. "Good... need to use that."

I did not really know what I was doing... that much, I could admit to myself. I was taking inspiration from Moqorro's surgery on Victarion Greyjoy. Silver probably worked for some reason that was still beyond my understanding.

I took the silver knife and held it to the fire, heating it up slightly. Placing the flat of the blade over the wound, I bit down on the belt once more.

Once the ice bath and silver treatments were both complete, I let the Surgeon tend to the cut.

"A poultice, made of stinging nettles, mustard seeds and bread mold.... in a base of honey." explained the Surgeon, seeing me sniff at the poultice he brought. I nodded. Nettles reduced swelling from what I had learned from the ramblings of Nessa, while mustard seeds were antiseptic when crushed just like honey was.

"Bread Mold?" I asked confused as the man spread the paste over the stitched-up wound. I knew how penicillin was made from said mold, but I was pretty sure the process had a long number of steps between just moldy bread and end results.

"Ah, yes... it is said to reduce chances of infections and puss. Even Maesters of Oldtown agree to its use." explained the man. "I will give you the instructions to make it, so you do not need to see me ever again. I do not need to be blamed for whatever Sorcery you lot were fighting to get such a wound."

Once the wound was bound, I inspected the bandages, unable to find anything wrong.

"I never got your name," I stated, trying to get some more information from the man, mostly because it was a good opportunity to learn but also to distract myself from the pain.

"Nor will you." countered the man, tying up the wrappings of my arm. "Valar Dohaeris, there, I served as best as I can," he said, bowing before me and turning around "Now, get out, I wish to never see you again." said the Surgeon.

"Good," I said with a smirk and a nod, getting the gist of the man's request while ignoring the glare Ser Richard was shooting the man. I got up, gathered my bag and dropped a bag of gold on the counter "I wish to never need you again either."

The door slammed onto our backs after that.

"Are we going to talk about the prophecy, your grace?" asked Ser Richard, probably questioning why I have been ignoring him since he mentioned the prophecy.

"No," I responded, turning around and walking away with the girl who seemed glued to my side. I stopped at a corner, checking to see if there were any patrols on the streets this late at night. "We should get to safety before we are seen... would you be willing to come with us?" I asked the girl, who nodded.

The walk back to the House with the Red Door was rather quiet. A pair of guards who may have noticed us had this weird, almost inexplicit feeling to turn around and walk away, but other than that, it was rather uneventful.

"I never asked you your name, did I?" I asked the blonde girl who shook her head. Now that we were in the safety of thick walls, I was more relaxed.

"Lanna." said the girl, looking away.

"Lanna..." I repeated, something in the back of my mind itched at that name. I knew I should not dismiss it, but this was not really the time for it, unfortunately. I could not be sure until we were in a more well-lit area. "How old are you, Lanna?" I asked, trying to act casual.

"Six" she whispered, causing me to nod. She did look slightly older than Dany but I was never good at telling how old a kid is.

While the name was a bit of a curiosity that triggered the memory of a theory, the age did not really fit with what I knew.

I reached with a hand and lifted her chin, getting a good look at her eyes, now that we were not in a badly lit basement of the operation room of a Surgeon, I could make out the coloring.

Two eyes stared at me, one was black in the low light of the street, while the other was green... flecked with gold that glittered in the light.

For now, she would be coming with us until we figure out where her mother was, given whom I suspected her father to be.

We entered through the red door and into the yard, where Ser Willem was waiting, sitting on a chair and clutching his cane. The Summer was still at its height, so the night was warm enough in Braavos for man to sit and relax.

"Nessa, this is Lanna." I said taking the cup of Willow Bark tea she handed to me, "Get her bathed, fed and find her a bed to rest in. We will figure out where her family is in the morning."

Once the girl left, Ser Willem started looking me over, noticing the bandages.

"How bad was it?" he asked Ser Richard.

"His Grace did well, though he could have done better." said my newest sworn sword.

"Not my fault the fucker refused to die." I countered, before snorting in amusement "People die when they are stabbed through the heart."

"Would it stop you?" asked Ser Willem, giving me a knowing look.

"I might figure out a way to survive it... but not completely." I said "Ser Richard severed his spine and he set himself on fire using Wildfire, so he is probably gone for good," I said, though a part of me still wondered if that assumption was true. If he could survive getting stabbed through the heart, an Alchemist with not so little talent... would he know a way around Wildfire?

"And the other problem..." said Ser Willem, the silence filling the entire room. "The girl looks like a Lannister." the old knight said, speaking out that one pesky detail that everyone was thinking.

Right... that was what was bothering me. The eye color was distinct enough without the hair color as well. There was only one Lannister with two distinct colored eyes but the timeline would not fit what I knew so it made no sense. "How old is the Imp of Casterly Rock?" I asked curiously.

"Eight and Ten... or Nine and Ten, I do not recall," answered Ser Willem.

That made me frown. In the books, Lanna was the daughter of the Sailor's Wife and she was fourteen at best. That would make her only one year old this year... which implied things I had no idea about. I had assumed that this world was the book universe, given the line of succession included Jaeherys the Second, I was certain that this was the book universe, but it seemed to be something different. That implied that what I knew from the potential multiple futures was not exactly what may happen in the future.

"A bastard?" asked Ser Richard, focusing on one of those pesky things that Westerosi would focus on.

"Trueborn, ironically," I said, sipping on my tea. "That does not matter, she is a girl... a child."

"That did not stop Tywin before," muttered Ser Richard, sipping what looked like a goblet of wine. I was not even sure where the man found the wine.

"I... am... not... Tywin!" I ground out through gritted teeth, as the candles seemed to have brightened up in the room, causing both knights to take a step back in caution. Ser Willem knew most of what I could do, or he at least suspected, as he had seen some of the after-effects. Ser Richard on the other hand mostly saw the after-effects of the duel I had with the Alchemist, and the fact that I could easily blow out the side of a wooden building with a wave of my wand... even though I was also surprised by that single feat which I was sure was beyond my capabilities for the moment.

"Your grace..." started Ser Willem, clearly tired.

"I know the story of the girl, Ser Willem, and it is not a pleasant one. She is a guest until I state otherwise, and that is an order from your king," I stated, unwilling to budge.

I was also willing to admit that there was also a part of me that just wanted to stick it to Tywin and thought that taking in his granddaughter as a servant would just do it for me. That and the theory that Tyrion was actually a son of Aerys made me stay my hand. If that was true then the girl was a dragonseed... which meant that she could ride a dragon. Gaining her loyalty and manipulating her using the truth would be a good way to ensure that if I ever needed a third dragon rider, I would have one that was only loyal to me.

"You have a kind heart, boy," said Ser Willem with a sigh. "It will get you killed one day."

`He can keep the babe... I will rip it out of you.` the words echoed from a time and place that would never be. "Better that than being cruel cunt," I countered, straightening up.

"Speaking of cunts, so... the Song of Ice and Fire, huh?" I asked, deflecting the conversation.

"What is the Song of Ice and Fire?" asked Ser Willem confused.

"Some prophecy that Rhaegar read about apparently... his reason to drive the entire Realm to war and us to exile" I stated, unsure about the true details. "If I am not mistaken, the same shit that caused my grandparents to forcefully wed my parents together and cause them years of misery so they can produce the supposed Prince that was Promised."

"You once told me that the Prophecies are best ignored lest you lose your sanity," countered Ser Willem.

"Wiser words I have not heard," cheered Ser Richard "I have known Rhaegar long enough to know that he did see something... a winter unlike any other and it consumed everything that he was. And more fool us. For we followed him to his doom."

"So, let me get this straight," I repeated, after having some time to process the story Ser Richard had told me. "Rhaegar dreamt of a Winter that Never Ends... he foresaw the coming of the Long Night?"

"Yes," said Ser Richard, his focus now on me, he seemed to look at me with pity "Have you seen it as well?"

"I know of it." I deflected, not really answering. I was not sure how much of my canon knowledge would work for this universe "Though I find no wisdom in following visions. If it comes true, it will always come true so no need to worry about it, if it is false, then it will be false and there is no need to worry about it either. The ones who work to avoid prophecy are ensnared by it and ones who seek it find it in the way they least expect it. Prophecy does not excuse Rhaegar's decision to run away with the daughter of a High Lord, the same High Lord whose family has been crying for the coming of Winter since the dawn of time and cause a rebellion that saw our family weakened and in exile." I went on, causing Richard to grimace.

"I did not say I agreed with his decision," countered Ser Richard, stepping back. I could tell that he was displeased, though whether it was mine or Rhaegar's actions was a toss-up. He still wore the amulet I had given him, making it near impossible to glimpse into his mind "Or that it was a good decision."

"And you followed him regardless," I shot back "Without a word of protest."

"As is the duty of any loyal squire," he responded "not that Prince Rhaegar could be convinced... I would not have stood a chance when Ser Arthur failed."

"Fair enough," I nodded. He was not wrong, as it was rather hard to restrain a Crown Prince without losing your head. "Is that why he meant to call a Grand Council at Harrenhall as well?" I asked, following a hunch.

"What Grand Council?" asked Ser Willem, which indicated that not many actually knew Rhaegar's plan.

"You really are smarter than you let on, your grace." smirked Ser Richard, his eyes however showed his sadness "Rhaegar meant to declare Aerys unfit, take over as Regent and Protector of the Realm, so he could prepare the realm for the coming war."

"Meant to? So, he called it off... for what reason?" asked Ser Willem

"Robert," I concluded, "He may have taken the Throne through Right of Conquest, but he held a minor claim through his grandmother."

The STAB Alliance, as it was called, was made up of Starks, Tullys, Arryns and Baratheons after their Lords became friends during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I knew of the theories that it was meant to counter the influence of the decisions of the Throne, or possibly as a way to gain control of the Throne through the claim of House Baratheon. Some said it was a plot by the Maesters, some claimed it to be thought out by Jon Arryn. The fact that the person who gained the most by playing Kingmaker was Jon Arryn, later theory made more sense to me as the man had become the Hand of the King and ruled in the stead of Robert for all purposes.

"From Lady Lyanna, Rhaegar learned a plot to see Robert crowned," explained Ser Richard "All that was needed was someone to call a Grand Council."

"So, Rhaegar stopped and ran off with the lynchpin to the alliance against House Targaryen," I suggested.

"I do not know why Rhaegar did what he did. I was not with him at the time and I did not ride with him until he returned before Trident," said Ser Richard, upending his goblet of wine before continuing "He told me that he was doing all he did to protect the realm from the coming Winter."

"And you believe it to be the truth?" I asked, not sure what to do with this information.

"Rhaegar believed it, believed it enough to die for it," countered Ser Richard, placing his goblet down and leaving the room, possibly to get some rest. "Do with the knowledge what you will, your grace... but you are owed the truth of what happened... especially after what we saw tonight."

"What do you intend to do?" asked Ser Willem.

"What we were doing before," I stated having not changed my mind "just because there is a prophecy does not mean it is a good excuse to do things that are stupid."

I considered the idea... as I have been considering it for a while now. Most people who found themselves in my place would do something to strengthen the defense of Westeros. Granted, I did not have the resources of a Great Lord and I did not care much for people who in turn did not care for me, but would I be willing to let innocents die, just because their lords wanted me dead? I could always say `Others take them all` and that would become the truth in a few decades. The only thing that would end up becoming a problem for me in the future is when the dead from Westeros would rise as one and I would be facing a larger army in the end... if I survived that long.

I watched by the door, trying my best to not make a noise. My arms were bandaged where the healer had stitched the cuts closed. It would scar, but I would retain the full range of motion.

"Vis?" mumbled Dany "You okay?" she asked, mimicking my language in a way that always left other people confused.

"Yeah" I whispered, "Couldn't sleep, that's all."

Nightmares of what the children have been through mixed with the blue eyes of the enemy that I knew was coming.

"Do you want to sleep here?" she asked "You let me sleep with you when I had bad dreams."

"Yeah..." I said after a pause "yeah... I would like that."

As I settled next to her, she snuggled closer, allowing me to hold her.

"Night, little dragon" I whispered, kissing the top of her head.

"Night, big dragon" mumbled Dany in response, still sleepy.

The nightmares did not come after that.

AN:

So, I have to admit, I kinda wrote myself into a corner with the girl MC saved being Lanna who in turn may or may not be Tyrion's daughter. Did I do it for drama and internal conflict for Wizerys? Yes, yes I did, mostly the idea that Tywin's Granddaughter being a party member to Wizerys just tickles the right way, you know, especially how it may parallel Joanna and Aerys in the future. Does it fit the potential of book canon and all the theories in Reddit? Yes, yes it does. That being said, this is still 287AC and book-Lanna would be 1 year old. Before anyone comes up and guts the timeline I built, I am going to do it myself.

Tysha Event happens when Tyrion is thirteen in books and sixteen in the Show because even HBO has some lines. In the books, Tyrion is born in 273AC, but in the Show it is set to 265AC according to the wiki. That would make it ~286AC and ~281AC respectively when it comes to Tyrion's marriage to Tysha.

That being said, I disliked how the show played fast and loose with the ending parts for the sake of convenience. I prefer following the book canon for most events since the Show did all Magical elements dirty, but the idea that this universe is neither Book nor Show Universe will make Wizerys question accuracy of some of his knowledge of events.

Last edited: Nov 13, 2022

011 Frozen Flame

In the morning, Nessa helped me wash the black dye off my hair with some wine before redressing my wound with a clean set of bandages. It gave me an opportunity to check the curse over and make sure that it was not still there.

The effect of the spell was broken, though which of the many methods I used actually succeeded was another question entirely and one that I would need to experiment with to see. There was a thin line with stitched, though the flesh did not seem burned even if I was sure no hair would grow from the area with how I used fire. I made sure to hide the bandages beneath my shirt and walked downstairs, to start my day.

Lanna was there as well, trying her best to blend into the furniture with how still she looked.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, turning to the girl. A single gesture was enough to dismiss Nessa, who probably went on to check on Dany and help her get dressed.

"I feel..." started the girl, freezing as she tried to put to words what was never meant to be spoken. I reached out without putting too much pressure, my mind brushing against what she was thinking and I understood.

Words... from another world so different yet similar to this one. "Like butter on toast?" I said in a soft voice "Spread too thin."

Lanna nodded, making me sigh in exhaustion.

I would lie if I simply said I did not account for something like this, but my thoughts were mostly there to prevent it from happening to me as well. I was still not sure how much life force, soul or whatever it is I used when casting magic or even if I actually used magic the same way as other practitioners in this world. While a Warg or a Skinchanger was sickly, it was not a common factor for all of them. I did not feel different, and I did not feel tired after casting apart from a weariness of the mind that discipline and some rest could fix. I was mentally exhausted after using Magic but I could explain it as too much time focusing, like cramming for a study session or getting eye strain from reading too long. I had a too strict diet and discipline to waste away and forcing myself to eat food even if I did not want it was part of my aim to build up my physical body.

Yet, here was an example of the worst case that would happen to me as well. The girl probably did not understand what was happening and I could not simply chalk it up to blood loss or infections without keeping a close eye on her over a few months.

In the event that something fundamental was taken from Lanna, apart from the mental trauma of what she had been through, I had theories and a few leads I could follow. There were some... rituals that I had come up with help Lanna, most of them were mere thought experiments but some... I had a more solid understanding of. Those could potentially help me in the long run as well, should I really need to sacrifice something I could not get back.

"I... I do not know how I could help you." I stated, honestly "But I have a few ideas on where to start... if that is your wish."

"I... I don't want to go back," said Lanna, slamming herself to my torso in an awkward hug. "He took me and no one did anything... they just let him take me."

I patted her hair, trying to push calming feelings toward her without forcing her to feel those emotions or making her realize that her mind was being invaded. While I wanted to bring comfort to the girl, I did not know what had happened to her to feel comfortable using magic on her that was... intrusive. "The bad man is dead." I said simply "He won't hurt you anymore."

I felt wetness on my shirt, and all I could do was let Lanna cry.

"Who is she?" asked Dany in that bossy tone that would eventually become the bane of every slaver in Essos... eventually. Granted, she had found us sitting by the stairs, with Lanna cuddled to my side.

"This is Lanna... she needs a place to stay," I stated, introducing the two girls to each other. They were close enough in age to

"Are you replacing me?" asked Dany, making someone snort in the background. I turned and shot a stinking look at Nessa who seemed to have an amused smile on her face.

"Lanna, could you give us a moment please, I am sure Nessa would appreciate some help with food," I said, giving something to distract the girl who nodded and left and dismissed the maid.

"No." I said turning to my sister with finality before kneeling next to her "What brought this on?"

"You have not been playing with me for the last few weeks," stated Dany with a pout. I was still unsure how a three-year-old was both that observant and capable of holding what amounted to a grudge.

"And that means I am going to replace you how?" I asked countering with the superpower that came with being an adult once... logic, causing Dany to bite her lip in thought.

"It means..." started Dany "It means you do not want to be around me... so busy with adult stuff."

"You are Princess Daenerys Targaryen, the Blood of the Dragon and above all else, you are my sister, a fact that no one can change," I comforted her, trying to find the right way to explain my reasoning "I have duties... to you, to Ser Willem, to Nessa and even to Ser Richard, who is new to our lives,"

"Duties of a king?" asked Dany looking at me with teary eyes. Ser Willem seemed to have seen fit to teach her that fact it would seem. I disliked the idea of being king, and while I knew that I would eventually come face to face with declaring myself as king eventually, for now, it was a responsibility I wished to avoid... at least until I had an army to ensure I would not die from it.

"A Lord or a King... or a Queen has duties to those they rule... akin to an older brother or a father," I tried to explain "Ser Willem worries and works hard to keep us safe and well fed, Nessa works to see us clothed and clean, and just as they work to help us, it is our duty to help them. That may lead to times when I have to spend time doing something else... a sacrifice I have to make for their sake... do you understand?"

Dany nodded before allowing me to hug her.

"It just means I was busy with something important, something... dangerous to ensure that you are safe." I stated while holding her, before deciding to sound a bit cheesy and adding "Never think that I will give up on you... you are stuck with me as your big brother." I said with a smirk "No take backsies."

"Promise?" asked Dany.

`Crown for a king` the accented voice echoed in my head before I forced my mind to obey my will and dismiss the sound. What would have happened with Original Viserys was no more a future, so why was I still haunted by it?

"Promise" I whispered, looking Dany in her big violet eyes that showed so much without even a need for me to use magic on her.

"And... Lanna... what is she doing here?" asked Dany now that her doubts were... pushed aside.

"She is our guest for now" I explained "and she needs a friend who can be there for her... do you think you can do that for me?"

Dany nodded before the silence was broken by the growling of my stomach, causing both of us to giggle.

After breakfast, Dany and Lanna went to play under the watchful eye of Nessa but we had other guests to entertain. Once she was assured that she was not being replaced, Dany had become a chatterbox and roped Lanna into some game or other... while I had another metaphorical fire to put out.

Ser Willem was sitting in his usual chair, clutching the cane that hid a sword. Next to him, Ser Richard was standing, while I was sitting against our guest.

"There was a fire recently," said Syrio Forrel the First Sword of Braavos, with an amused look, sipping a cup of tea like he owned the place. There were two guards behind him, part of the soldiers who probably patrolled the cities.

"Accusing or notifying?" I asked directly, my hand resting on my wand. While I was mentally exhausted and relatively in pain from my wound, I could still fight if the need came, even as I felt naked without the shadow-bound shirt that was left on the desk of my workshop so I could study how it was destroyed by the Alchemist.

"If I were accusing, boy... I would have brought more people. I am here for information you may possess. There were peculiarities to the fire." said Syrio with amusement. I could feel Ser Willem's hand shift from ready to draw steel to a more neutral form after that.

"The fire did not spread?" I asked, feigning surprise though the way Syrio snorted was immediately seen through. I of course knew the answer. Even if I had not interfered and suppressed the fire, Braavos was wet enough that the fire would not spread and most buildings were made from stone as wood was expensive. It also had this funny effect of suppressing dragon fire, a threat that was consistent back when the city was founded.

"No... it was... buried under sand before it could engulf the manse it started in," said Syrio, his tone implying there was some question there that we needed to answer.

"Sand?" I asked, feigning confusion. It made sense that the Alchemist had taken precautions like that, but the fact that I did not anticipate it was concerning, a failing on my part. I was too cautious in general having used scouts but never actually daring to go into the house with them. I could have probably used rats to map the entire building, had I thought about it before, even though the risk of being discovered was there, given how knowledgeable the Alchemist seemed.

"The owner had bags of sand placed on the rafters... a rather unique decision, one might say they were prepared for a fire," explained Syrio, which was a fact that I had missed. I considered how hot Wildfire burned, realizing that I could have set the entire city on fire... accidentally.

"Alchemists of King's Landing do something similar from what I recall," I stated. "Was the man playing with Wildfire?"

"That would explain why some claims from neighbors to have seen green flames instead of red or yellow," said Syrio with a nod.

"Ah... so you are asking the son of the Mad King this... why?" I countered, my hand never leaving the pommel of my wand. Syrio was fast, and I had sparred with him enough times to know he could beat my scrawny arse six ways to Sunday with a piece of stick. That being said, he never faced me when I used Magic and I was not a green boy anymore. `Push him back, away from his range and rip his throat` I mentally planned, ready to act on a moment

"Let us say, the Sealord is interested in why a house that is supposed to be empty according to all neighbors had a man living in it, along with bones of children in its basement," stated Syrio with a look that said he had a pretty good idea what was going on "If a boy was involved... he could have been hurt," he added, his eyes that he had thought me to keep track of in our lessons in dueling focusing on my arm that hid the bandages beneath. I never understood how perceptive Syrio was, but he was not the First Sword of Braavos for nothing. His job was sort of a mix between Sealord's Champion in any Formal Duel, Secretary of Defense and Head of Intelligence... like a Kingsguard who was also a Master of Whisperers. The fact that he was doing this for more than half a decade was proof of his skills.

"I hold no love for Warlocks... that much even you would know, and if a man was playing with Wildfire... good riddance to him." I countered looking him in the eye, "That thing is stupid and anyone who thinks they can tame it is a fool... including some of my relatives."

I was mostly being honest. There were maybe three examples of Targaryens using Wildfire and none of them were pleasant people. Aegon the Unworthy had wooden dragons made that spewed wildfire, Aerion Brightflame drank Wildfire to become a dragon and burned and then there was Aerys the Mad.

"Just so," smirked Syrio his eye landing on my arm "A new injury?"

"Training accident." I countered, lying as best as I could. "Ser Richard was showing me how to use live steel."

As far as lies go, it was not the worst... of course, I had to keep myself from reacting when I remembered just then that Ser Richard's sword was left behind in the house as it burned down, neatly buried into the throat of a charred corpse if not melted from Wildfire.

"Only a fool trains with live steel, boy... do not repeat that." said the First Sword of Braavos, making me nod with a chuckle at the subtle insult towards Jamie Lannister, who was said to train with live steel.

"Is that all?" I asked, getting a look from the First Sword of Braavos that implied that he knew it was me. "Ser Willem, Ser Richard, give us a moment of privacy," I commanded.

"You two can wait outside, we are done here... I need to make sure the boy is taking his lessons seriously." commanded the First Sword to his man as well.

Once we were alone I flicked the coin in my pocket, which Syrio was able to catch and simply give a glimpse.

"What do the servants of the One True God want with a boy?" asked Syrio, looking at me with a calculated look.

"The man was a Shadowbinder from Asshai," I stated simply "one who used children as sacrifices for his spells."

"Good that he is dead," responded Syrio, flicking the coin back. "The Sealord will be glad to be rid of such a man."

"You do not approve?" I asked, seeing how stiff Syrio was.

"Do you know the story of Braavos?" asked Syrio, sipping his tea.

"Enough to know that you have no love for Sorcerers who would sacrifice the innocent," I responded, having done enough thinking on the subject. I knew that Valyria ran on Blood Magic, using slaves to power the spells they used, slaves that would later run and form Braavos.

"Just so," smirked Syrio before sighing "I know not what a boy had to do with the Servants of the One True God, but I would caution a boy to be careful still... there are dangers the boy would not wish to face when he is not ready."

"Sounds like you do not like them..." I stated, "What does Sealord think of the Faceless Men?"

"A Sealord that dismisses the wishes of the House of Black and White is a Sealord for a short time." countered Syrio with a smirk "Keep your head down for now, and a boy may wish to take a vacation out of the city for a while."

"I will do that," I responded with a nod.

Syrio nodded before getting up "I shall meet you in a fortnight for your lessons, boy, to give you time to recover from your... training accident," he added with a knowing look. With the unspoken threat of not causing any more trouble delivered, Syrio simply left.

Once he left, Ser Willem tapped his cane on the wooden floorboards near the door where he was standing.

"This is why we need more man," said Ser Willem, bringing out the old argument. "Had he come to arrest you two, we would have been overwhelmed. It would have been easier if we had more men to guard the place," stated Ser Willem, looking at me with

"You are a good man and true, ser, yet all the men you find are liars, cheats, spies or craven. This is an old argument, sellswords make for poor sword shields," I countered. Ser Willem had his virtues, as he was loyal and steadfast, but he was apparently a horrible judge of character, which ironically explained why he tolerated the craziness of original Viserys... or mine own peculiarities, "Ser Richard is a good start, and we will find more in time."

`Not to mention the birds and dogs we kept around... they made for better guards and scouts and more loyal besides,` I mentally added. After figuring out skinchanging and getting a bad taste of how horrible the supposed servants were as human beings... I was less willing to take chances with sellswords that would betray us at the first chance.

"What happened to those men?" asked Ser Richard, his tone stiff.

"The ones with no ill intent in their hearts were allowed to leave," I stated simply.

"And the rest?" asked Ser Richard, his tone indicating more curiosity than anything else.

"You have seen me fight people who piss me off... do you really wish to know" I simply responded, causing Ser Richard to gulp before shaking his head.

Violence was the norm for this world, and a knight understood from first-hand experience that my form of violence was... what amounted to the stuff of nightmares to a non-magical. Fortunately, both knew that I was measured in how much I would prefer to use. I had no use of him if he had been self-righteous or arrogant enough to try and control me in some way and me being dangerous was a good way to keep both men in line and not try something stupid. The fact that he was familiar with Rhaegar and his potential obsessions when it came to magic also helped as far as I could tell.

"Sometimes your grace, it feels more like we are protecting the world from you instead the other way around," stated Ser Willem with a tired sigh.

"Well, yes, my bespoke dragon keepers," I mused, causing Ser Willem to chuckle.

Once everything returned to the ordinary and I ensured that Dany was busy with her new friend, I decided to spend some time tinkering in my Workshop to clear my head. I headed to the basement, slumping onto my chair after dumping the bag I had on the desk. It was a chance to reflect on the events of the day before and improve myself in any way I could.

I waved my wand over my arm, feeling none of the remaining magic in the wound, nearly the dozenth time that I have done so since the sun rose up.

I had considered the whole set of events that lead to the duel, the way my judgment seemed... compromised by something. It was not just that I had gotten emotional after seeing the corpses of the children, but there was something more there that I was not sure about. I had felt the compulsions that the Alchemist had placed but were there other compulsions that I had not felt, ones that actually controlled my decisions?

The initial plan had been simple... get in, kill the Alchemist in his sleep, and take off with the books. Of course, I had already accounted for the fact that I was walking into the home of a potential Mage, which meant that I would be playing into their hands.

The entire event was beyond foolish, even if it was necessary. The fact that Lanna had survived whatever the Alchemist may have put her through was the least of my worries.

The only reason I had actually survived the Alchemist was the fact that I could think fast and prepared the amulet that prevented Ser Richard to be detected by the Alchemist... something that I had a strong suspicion was used by the Faceless Men to kill Mages from Valyria.

Deciding to commit the entire series of events into my Grimoire, I took out a quill, mostly to further analyze it and see what I could replicate from the way the Alchemist fought.

I was sure I would be able to develop new tricks from the entire duel once I had a chance to rest and reflect on the events.

I dropped the quill once I was done. "Fuck." I grunted, not sure what had gone wrong.

The revelations about Rheagar were another ball I needed to juggle. I was not sure how much of what Ser Richard said was the truth and how much of it was some lame excuse made up by Rhaegar. The plot for a Great Council made sense, though Robert would not have a valid chance from what I knew of the Westerosi politics as the claimant from a female line. It was more likely to be a way to pressure the Throne for some concessions instead of a direct opposition in the event of a Great Council but I could not discount whatever tricks and plans Maester may have had, as the ones counting the votes. The way that the Queen Who Never Was, Rhaenys Targaryen lost to Viserys the First was known to me, and I knew that it was not possible for any vote to be so skewed as to be twenty-to-one in favor of a single person without there being some cheating going on. Those were the type of statistics used by tyrants to justify their power. I could maybe accept a two-to-one vote in favor of Viserys the First but given that Rhaenys had the support of the North, the Stormlands and a significant chunk of the Crownlands, the difference suggested something fishy that made any Great Council afterward just as suspicious as well.

"Maybe Bloodraven had the right of it, killing Aenys Blackfyre was the only logical move," I muttered to myself.

Having given it some thought, taking Lyanna as a wife in place of Elia who was likely to die in childbirth in the hope of taking over the strongest power block made sense for Rhaegar from a political standpoint, even without the prophecy and whichever way Rhaegar chose to interpret it. Even if Rhaegar was an adult and Lyanna was a teenager at the time, that was the way Westerosi viewed the world, alliances like that would have held the realm together. It was something that I was sure Aerys would never allow, given that he seemed to be aware of Rhaegar's plot to replace him, which he derailed just by showing up.

I was not sure how much of Rhaegar's decision to call off the Great Council was based on the knowledge of the STAB Alliance and how much of it was because Aerys was there to present his case, but I could see the risks involved as Rhaegar probably counted on all Targaryen supporters without Aerys there to present his case and not look like an ambitious son looking to depose his father... which the Westerosi would not like.

The rest of the events were off and I was still not certain what to believe. The only way I could actually confirm is if I could figure out Greensight and see into the past... which was an ability I still struggled with. While I could skinchange into my wand and use it to cast spells, using the trees to look into the past just avoided me.

Taking the three items I took from the Alchemist, I started looking over the loot, cursing the shitty DM for rolling so low. Accidentally setting the entire house on fire was a misfortune, though I did not know if having his spine severed by a sword would actually work to stop the Alchemist. It also reminded me to get a new sword for Ser Richard.

The two books were of interest to me, as they seemed to be books with a focus on alchemy, a detailed list of materials, one book dedicated to minerals and metals and the other dedicated to plants. Both books read like the ramblings of a mad person with notes around the borders but I could see some information, such as the use of stinging nettles for healing and what I had learned from the Surgeon as he was treating me. There stood a reason that the rest of the information was also reliable, though I would still be cautious about it and test each one.

Then there was the last item, the one that I considered worth more than the rest. It was a scroll, written in High Valyrian Glyphs. I was proficient in reading the complex language to understand the gist of what the scroll was saying but I would need more information from a more learned source. Finding a person who already could read and write in High Valyrian Glyphs was going to be a hard task but I managed most of it on my own. Aerys may have been an idiot who plunged the realm into war, but he had actually done right by Viserys when it came to his education... sans the ramblings of dragons and their superiority and all the brainwashing involved.

For the last two years I have been around, I had not been idle either, as I knew that High Valyrian could be used in some way with Magic. While it was hard to find texts in High Valyrian, there were enough around if you knew where to look, and held the right name. The Library of the Sealord's Palace and the Temple of R'hollor were regular destinations for me.

The Scroll was a recipe, detailing a `Substance`. It made sense that the last thing the Alchemist had on top of his desk was the recipe for Wildfire. A wiser man would decide to throw the scroll to the fire and be done with it. Unfortunately, my curiosity got the better of me as I started reading and trying to interpret the secret to Targaryen Stupidity.

I, as a sane person, had a dislike for Wildfire. For the magical equivalent of Napalm, the `Substance` was too unstable for use and obviously influenced those who used it. Aerys the Mad and Aegon the Unworthy were both users of Wildfire, as Aerys did everything but try to drink it, while Aegon the Mommy Issues had wooden dragons made that could spew out Wildfire. From an Engineering perspective, Aegon the STD had invented tanks... from every other perspective, he was a cunt who caused more trouble than any other idiot in my family tree with the exception of Viserys the First... probably... it was a tie between those two.

Speaking of drinking Wildfire, the poster boy of Wildfire himself was not one I would forget... Aerion the Brightflame. I was not sure how much of that was the influence of Bloodraven and how much of it was Aerion being a nutjob but he had proven that it was unwise to drink Wildfire.

The recipe was... the equivalent of Magic Napalm as expected. Well, not really, it was more like Magic Greek Fire and the recipe sort of proved that. There was the usual stuff with fire and blood, some long incantations that read like a poem by an edgy middle-schooler that wanted to sound cool and actual chemistry... which was more shocking than the rest of the recipe.

I knew from interviews with George that the incantations did not matter as much as the intent and purpose behind those words. The first-hand experience proved that I could simply push my will to make a fire burn hotter or not burn without a word. I could decipher the ideas that the incantations would bring out, the intent to dissolve, mix and combine were present as well as a depiction of what Wildfire was supposed to do... which could be summarized with the single word... `consume`.

Stripped from all the bullshit, the incantations and ritualistic mysticism, Wildfire at its core was a mix of resin, ground obsidian, and blood along with a particular mixture of charcoal, sulfur and saltpeter that I knew as black powder.

I recalled reading that Greek Fire was similarly a mix of resin and base materials of black powder so the idea of adding Dragonglass and Blood to the mix for an added bit of magic helped. I was not sure how the mixture dissolved into a single liquid form but I suppose it could be chalked up to Magic with how I had seen some similar things when I was building my wand.

"Fire and Blood." I voiced out loud, my fingers tracing over the words of Obsidian... Dragonglass... or rather as it was called in High Valyrian... `Frozen Fire`.

There were other theories that I could think of about how Obsidian could be used in but the first part I wanted to test is how it was used to amplify the effects of a mixture with magic, as that would unlock the path to Potioncraft for me.

The idea of the addition of blood, obsidian and tree resin added a magical property to the black powder and made it extremely volatile made me wonder what else I could do with it.

While I would be skeptical about whatever magic was involved, the fact that my wand, made from wood and dragon bone had allowed me to use magic implied that there was something to this recipe that I could leverage.

While black powder mixed with resin could in theory burn underwater as was the case with Greek Fire, the volatility of Wildfire was something I had to test for myself. If I trusted the accounts, Wildfire burned if you looked at it funny and I was not sure if that was the case.

I was sure that it had to do with whatever magic obsidian had in this world.

With a sudden stop, I closed my eyes as my head slammed onto the desk with a thunk, as released a groan of exasperation.

"Idiot" I grunted "Dimwitted... MORON!" I yelled out before banging my head on the desk twice more.

Dragonglass was literally magical and I had forgotten about it.

Alright, fair enough, I did not really forget about it, having known that it was used to make White Walkers in the show universe as well as in the killing of White Walkers and possibly wights as well. Rather I had forgotten one specific use of dragonglass that was offhandedly mentioned in a single paragraph in the books. In that specific instance, Dragonglass was used by a street performer from Qarth or Astapor or wherever Dany was after the dragons hatched to produce fire.

Quaithe had told Dany while watching a street performer do actual Magic that drawing fire from dragonglass was the most basic of magic and I had been stupid enough to not try it out with my wand. Was it because I was too wrapped up in what I was able to do... or was there some sort of a mental influence that prevented me from thinking of the idea... I did not know.

Maybe I was being paranoid and maybe it was just me not being diligent enough but I now had a potential solution to one of the main issues I have been coming across recently... my wand did not work properly. Of sure, it allowed me to amplify my control, as a Magical Focus ought to do but I had been stuck for months trying to figure out Magic that did not involve some sort of telekinesis or telepathy-based trick, which was effectively what my wand was limited to for some reason.

The main problem was that my wand could not create spell-fire... or whatever sparkly flame-like thing that Harry Potter wands were expected to create. I could control existing flames to a decent degree, as my proficiency only increased with practice but I still had that limitation of figuring out how to create fire and now I had a potential solution to it. Sure, the worlds were different but the fact that a magical animal part core and a magical wood combination worked to any degree suggested some sort of connection between the two Magic Systems.

I turned around and headed to one of the walls. A flick of my wand and a word in pig Latin revealed the hidden stash where I kept the remains of the Targaryen Jewelry from Dragonstone. Among them was my mother's silver crown along with many rings.

Picking a ring with a golden band and a round ruby, I inspected the other gems attached to the ring. The black stones produced a nice offset for the ruby in the center, creating a red and black theme that was everywhere in my family heirlooms. The golden ring was made for a woman, one of the few that my mother, Queen Rhaella would wear, though its origins were not known. From a modern perspective, I would call the ring gaudy with how much exuberance the single ring held but I was pragmatic enough to focus on the essentials... that it had dragonglass like any jewelry that once belonged to my family. The important part about these black stones many would confuse with black diamonds, though I knew that they were obsidian, or rather dragonglass since the obsidian I knew differed by a large margin from the volcanic rock from my old world.

Tapping the tip of my wand on the single piece of dragonglass, I reached out with my soul, feeling the obsidian as I could feel when the obsidian was as memories of fire came to my forefront, both the memories I held from becoming one with the fire to control it, as well as the flames of earth that had forged the obsidian. A flame blossomed at the tip of my wand, fueled by nothing but memories of fire.

"Oh, I can work with this," I said with a large grin.

AN:

As a comment reminded me, Wizerys was neglecting Dany and now she feels like she is being replaced as the best sister. To be honest, Wizerys is not sure how to interact with Dany, mostly because she is young and Wizerys is conflicted about how to avoid raising her to prevent something like Burning of King's Landing from happening.

Syrio is a competent First Sword of Braavos and while I did not write in detail, the fact that he and Wizerys spend time is evident given that Syrio can tell when Wizerys is hiding something... like the interaction between a parent and their child.

Wizerys reflects on the past and the politics of what he learned and decides that what happened in the past does not matter that much anymore... which, it does not. He like many others from the comments, suspect foul play from some unknown source.

Wildfire being based on Greek Fire is what we know and I had been looking it up and the recipe is something I have as head-canon that sort of makes sense. Since Valyrian Magic depends on Fire and Blood, Wildfire needed Blood in the mix and dragonglass in the mix just makes sense with how there is magical fire within dragonglass. The rest of the recipe is just black powder mixed with resin, which the Wiki says is the theorized recipe of Greek Fire. It also makes it ironic that black powder is already there... just with added magic, because of course Valyrians figured out a way to make a more unstable version of black powder for shits and giggles... which sort of implies that Pyromancers are indeed dealing in shit, given they need Saltpeter, and I think Bronn would find it amusing given that it is made from bird shit instead of pig shit.

Dragonglass is not Obsidian from our world, that is the Word of God from Grrm. There is a magical element to it, and drawing fire from dragonglass is implied to be one of the most basic forms of Magic. Wizerys just skipped that stage and went to the more complex stuff and never thought to look back to that small detail until now. It probably would have been a lot more useful before facing the Alchemist but he grew arrogant in his power. He is learning and slowly covering his weaknesses but his memory is not perfect and he does not have access to a handy Wikipedia site.

Also, the entire arc with Alchemist was to set up Potions and how they could work and there are multiple ways I planned for, Wizerys just found one of them through the rather sparse loot, which had been the intention.

012 A Necessary Upgrade

--- 287 AC

"Oh... shit," I said as I watched the bronze cauldron bubble and hiss angrily. Tapping my wand to my new ring and bringing out a shield made of fire between myself and the cauldron. I was able to prevent the mixture from splashing me using my improved Shield Spell, though the boards did not seem as lucky as me, as the mixture seemed to eat away at the wood.

Potions were weird like that... every property of the materials I used was amplified through the base enchantment, including the acidity of certain plant materials... which made things... complicated.

It had been nearly four months since the night I dueled the Alchemist and I was no closer to understanding potions as I had been when I first started. The main problem was that half the information in the books I got from the Alchemist, was just plain wrong or did not work for me, while the other issue seem to be that Fire Magic liked to explode for fun if I lost my focus. The fact that I was limited in my knowledge of chemistry... and I was not really that good at it in the first place, as I preferred Physics.

I had however improved my spell collection with an actual Shield Charm... sort of. Alright, fine, it only stopped liquids but that was better than being only able to stop powders or gas. Granted, I needed to tap my wand to the most recent edition of my toolset, a ring that had a decently sized dragonglass as a jewel.

The secrets of Magic I unlocked through the recipe of Wildfire sounded impressive... drawing fire from dragonglass, only at first look. I had barely scratched the surface with it and modifying my wand before I was sure would lead to disaster, leading to the current setup I had until I could understand.

For all I knew, dragonglass acted like a battery, hence my exclusive use of a single piece of dragonglass in the ring as the source of fire. I was pretty sure after four months that it was not the case at least.

The fire from the dragonglass provided me was that one missing thing. The fire when I used the dragon bone core wand as a focus produced a magical fire... the Dragon's Fire... or rather, as it stood, Spellfire. It was a unique fire that I could use to enchant with a bit of Shadowbinding, or rather Charming the object, as I was pretty sure the definition I recalled worked. A Charm changed the properties of an object and the enchantments I could layer on objects simply were derivations of that concept. With fire, came a versatility I was lacking... if I could gain control over the flames, which was tricky at best as I was as likely to cast a temporary Charm on an object as I was likely to end up scorching the target with the current setup.

The true treasure was the Base Potion I came up with. A mix of Blood and Ground Obsidian extracted from the recipe of Wildfire was almost intuitive. The mixture somehow caused the dragonglass to dissolve into the liquid when held under a magical flame and I had access to the magical flames now with almost ease.

Using blood as an anchor for a soul also was not unknown to me. I had done the same trick in Shadowbinding and the recipe of Wildfire involved sacrificing animals to `draw upon their life-fire`... whatever that meant. My theory was that the mixture acted as a good medium to bind the soul of the animal whose blood was used to create the material. Dragonglass in this case, sort of acted like a Soul Gem from Skyrim, storing the soul within the liquid that was now a single material instead of two.

The resulting black liquid gained the ability to almost amplify the properties of other liquids it was mixed with... or at least that is what I was able to understand from Wildfire's uncontrollable combustion and my own experiments that involved so... so many cauldrons.

While the base for a potion was expensive, as I did not actually have consistent access to Obsidian and the animal sacrifice required for each batch limited its use, the sheer versatility it could provide was... mind-blowing. Now if only it did work as expected.

As was the smart thing to do, the first thing I crafted was a potion for healing, based on the poultice that the Surgeon had given me. The problem was that while the cuts healed rather fast, the mixture left some rather nasty acid burns on the poor rats that I had sacrificed. Who knew that mustard was acidic... or that the Potion Base I created amplified every property of the mixture to cartoon-ish levels.

Since the mixture's acidity was amplified, I needed to check if that was the case for all forms of acids. The simplest experiment had been to add a bit of lemon juice, which had led the mixture to not only eat away at the first cauldron I had but through the floor as well, reaching the bedrock of the island we were located in before it stopped. The good news was that I now had a neat little storage space in case I needed it, along with an understanding that I really should not experiment with potions where people were living in close proximity.

I tested the same approach with a glass vial to check if the effect would increase over time. While the vial survived, I was sort of expecting that the mixture would get more potent with time, based on what I knew from Wildfire.

"Four months and all I have to account for is Magic Super-Acid and a Healing Potion that leaves more scars than if you let it heal on its own," I muttered to myself, running a hand through my hair.

The main issue was the fact that the mixture was extremely dependent on the simplest of chemical concepts. I needed to ensure that the mixture was not too acidic or basic while accounting for how each ingredient would affect the potion. While I was proficient enough, I was not a professional chemist and I could not produce most of the materials on my own. I knew that it was possible to measure the acidity using easy-to-make products, but for the life of me, I could not remember how. I made a note to track down Qyburn... if anyone on this forsaken planet knew rudimentary Chemistry, it would be that creep.

"No wonder Harry sucked at this... this shit is more complicated than pointing your wand and yelling `expelliarmus`" I muttered mostly in frustration, knowing that I was being unfair to the main character of one of my favorite books. Leaving the latest lab I had for myself, I considered whether or not I could still use the small cabin with a workbench inside it, a fire source and a roof over it and nothing else. The potions research had reached a point were doing it in Braavos was just asking for some disaster, so I was spending most of my time in the Horse Ranch, overseeing the experiments in horse breeding and experimenting with the potions on the side.

The makeshift cabin was shielded from the elements and ensured that I did not need to have the entire house evacuated when I accidentally did the wrong thing. I looked to my left, seeing the four other similar cabins that were either burned, partially melted and for one single instance, still smoldering.

"I should probably look into a way to fix that," I muttered to myself, considering the validity of mixing the potion base with concrete to cover that particular experiment. Who knew that combining snapdragons and dragonpeppers with magic could have such an effect? Just because both materials had `dragon` in their names did not mean the result would be some weird fiery concoction... right? Granted, I was thinking exactly the same thing, trying to figure out a substitute for dragon bone which I had limited access to.

Now, I could buy dragon bone, I was not exactly poor and the wood trade had given us some decent source of income, especially as I had figured out how to enchant the entire depot to be fireproof using the rats that were nesting in the place.

The only obvious good news with my potions was that I pretty much perfected a Bubblehead Charm out of necessity because of all the failures. Fine... it was a rather simple modification of my initial Shield Spell, the one that was able to protect me from powders that the Alchemist had sent me. It ensured that I could survive the experiments I have been conducting at the least and it may come in handy if I can figure out how to apply it while in water... which was firmly stuck in work-in-progress.

The dog resting by the tree opened his eyes, becoming alert as I walked out of the latest failure. Without a word, Huan the Wolfhound, jumped across the distance between us, ending right in front of me. From a biological standpoint, he was still a puppy. From a physical standpoint, he was the size of his parents... because I apparently was really good at magic... or a clueless idiot who was messing with what he did not understand.

While the experiments with the Horses were all well and good, the kennels provided me with a much faster alternative and added size of dogs made for a greater intimidation factor. Was I jealous of Starks for having super-sized puppies... I was... so I made my own version... on accident.

The effect of fleshcrafting... or rather soulcrafting was peculiar, and I was testing it on the parents. Using myself as a channel to experiment with sacrificial properties of Second Lives was something I always wanted to try out. It made sense as a way for Blood Magic to work and using the souls of the sheep we would slaughter, pouring the souls into the bodies of living dogs seemed to work... to a degree. The two dogs had grown more robust, had a slightly larger build than average and definitely showed a greater intelligence overall. I was not sure how it worked but binding additional souls to the parents had a unique side effect with Huan specifically. While the two parents did not show any overt physical improvements with increased `soul-stuff`, it was Huan who proved that I was on the right track.

The results of the experiment were similar to how Drogon had grown faster than his siblings in the books. I was almost certain that it was Khal Drogo's soul that was bound to the black dragon egg and the larger soul had led to a larger body in the end. Along with the possible theory I held regarding the evolution of Direwolves from Wolves acting as the second lives for Wargs and I could almost understand how Huan would become larger.

The problem however was that it was not on purpose and I had a small freakout as a result. The fact that I did not account for Huan while working showed me why this branch of magic was dangerous. The two having puppies showed why experimenting with Fleshcrafting may have led to a disaster in places like Goggossos. A single mistake and I would have a super-disease on my hands.

After he was born, the puppy grew at a rather fast rate, getting to the size of its parents by two months, hence the name Huan, as a reference to the dog in Silmarillion with a similar large size. He was young but made for a good guard dog against wild animals through sheer size and the warg-bond between us was deep enough for me to communicate with him without a word, which made training him so much easier.

On the trek back to the Manor, I pulled my cloak closer to me, the chill in the air starting to get more and more noticeable as Winter approached and I had a feeling that my time in Braavos would end shortly after that, given what I could recall from the Greyjoy Rebellion. Before the Iron Islands decided to rebel, Robert's position was not as secure as it was after the Rebellion was quelled. Baelon's foolishness had only acted as proof that Robert's Reign had support and it would not be easily disrupted. I had a feeling that the relationship I built with the Iron Bank would not be as warm once the entire set of events came to pass... not that I had any permanent plans to stick around in Braavos. I had nearly a dozen places around the world that I wanted to visit, seeking answers to questions that I could not answer on my own.

Lanna was sitting still in a chair, in the middle of a circle made from rope soaked in salt-water with a small amulet attached to it. The amulet was one of the three I had made from the combination of Weirwood and Nightwood, the combination somehow acting as a magical barrier that came in handy with ritualistic experiments that I simply called Amulet of Proof against Detection and Location. Ser Willem and Ser Richard had the other two, just in case. While I knew that I should be cautious with an item that I had no way to work around, the two knights were both vulnerable to magic and their protection would be much more reliable. For now, I would have to trust them with it.

Lanna was looking at a pitch-black candle that was burning red with a rather thick black smoke, though she seemed to be in a trance, just as I had expected.

After the lessons with Huan on the benefits of soul-crafting, I had come up with a Ritual of sorts to help Lanna. It also worked as a way for me to grow in spiritual weight, in a manner of speaking, but it was still very much experimental and work-in-progress. While I would not try to use the ritual on a child in normal circumstances, the way Huan's growth depended on the amount of soul-stuff he held made me rush to ensure no negative effects on the girl whom I had accidentally taken in as a ward.

The mixture of obsidian, blood and beeswax to make a candle was a rather simple idea once I figured out how to make the Potion Base. I had taken some inspiration from the Glass Candles of Valyria, though I had no access to those special items and had to make my own version, which I called a Blood-Candle. I figured combining beeswax with the Potion Base would make do as a Magical Candle... because of course, you could use candles when it came to Magic. Luckily, Nessa knew how to make normal candles, so it did not take long to learn from her.

The best advantage it provided me was a way to offset the sacrifice and the enchantment process, using the candle as a battery to store the soul of the sacrifice, which was one of the properties of dragonglass. Multiple candles allowed me to combine multiple sacrifices, which in turn allowed me to patch up my tunic and build other versions for Dany and Ser Richard as well. Next would be Ser Willem, though we all knew that in a fight, Ser Richard and I would be the ones who would be taking the brunt of any damage, with the older knight being a last line of defense... though convincing the old man had not been easy.

The Blood Candle also led me to develop the Ritual Lanna was using. Using the soul of the blood sacrifice to recover the soul-stuff was a straightforward logic. Fire allowed for skinchanging if you had proficiency... or if you glared at fire long enough. Magical Fire of the Candle was unique enough that the soul bond formed instantly. The problem was that the entire ritual was still dangerous and I was sure that there were ethical concerns when it came to experimenting on other people but I had already checked that the method was not deadly... for animals or for myself.

Did the potential for the subject to develop animalistic behaviors exist? Sure... not unlike a normal skinchanger might gain the habits of their animal companions. Could they develop the physical traits of animals? I would not discount the possibility, given how boar like Borroq was described and how Starks had long wolf-like faces and Targaryens all had obviously magical hair and eye color. Did I specifically use a cat as a sacrifice for the candles Lanna used?... I mean... the sweet irony of the Lannister Cat-Girl was a temptation I was not going to pass up on and I was sure Future-Viserys could probably fix whatever I messed up.

Ser Richard was in the yard, running one of the horses through the tilt-yard in practice while trying his best to replicate the way I used Skinchanging to control the Horse, though it was a work in progress. The trick was useful for me, sure, but it was not something I could keep as a secret. Given the potential for war, I needed people who were loyal to me with some abilities when it came to Magic, especially with Winter coming. It also doubled as a way for me to test some of my theories before I could try my hand at teaching Dany, who was the only person I could think of as a proper Apprentice, given the foreknowledge I held about her magical potential.

Ser Willem was sitting in the corner, occasionally providing feedback the other knight while also teaching Dany her lessons in knowledge about Westeros. While I was teaching her most of the history lessons in a way to develop her critical thinking, the customs and details were ones that I often disliked and getting the old knight to teach those lessons gave me some time to experiment.

I once again considered how to improve my sister's education. Normally, in a Westerosi Castle, she would get a Septa to educate her, maybe a Maester as well if the lord of the castle was open-minded enough. I distrusted any organized religion that would describe me as a demon to my little sister and Maesters all deserved to die in a ditch as far as I could consider. I had an unorthodox idea about how to teach her courtly etiquette but I would need some contacts to get that.

Lost in my thoughts as I was, I had no control when Huan broke ranks, as he still had the temperament of a two-month-old puppy, bounding across the distance and standing next to Dany, who yelped in joy before starting to play with the dog.

Ser Willem gave me a stern look that I responded with a cheeky grin.

"Your grace" greeted Ser Willem with a look.

"Ser Willem, have I interrupted something important?" I asked, looking

"The Princess has been practicing the Houses of the Reach," said Ser Willem with annoyance.

"We were discussing the House Tarly," said Dany scratching Huan's ear.

"Well, go ahead then," I stated, letting Dany revise what she learned.

"House Tarly of Horn Hill, Red Huntsmen on a Green Field, words, First to Battle," she stated. For a four-year-old, her mind was impressive, but I had no baselines to compare and Dany was a curious one who liked to read ever since I thought her to read after she bugged me one too many times about the books I was reading.

"First in Battle... easy mistake but rest is correct, good job," I corrected, patting her on the head "They take pride in being the vanguard of the Reach, as they are Marcher Lords on the border with Dorne. They are also a claimant to the Reach through their familial descent from Gardners."

"Current Lord is Randyll Tarly." said Dany "Is he significant?"

"He was the only person to actually defeat Robert on the field, though fools would credit Mace Tyrell for the deed," I explained, having spent enough time considering how I would approach any significantly powerful lord. While my future knowledge was as reliable as a wet tissue, I was betting on my understanding of the players of the game more than events that I was certain would happen, I had literally read the mind of the major players in my old life.

"I never met the man, but he is strict, single minded and a good battle commander... and that is all the good things I could say about him," I added. Randyll Tarly was a singularly unique character that I considered more than once. His treatment of his own son and his toxic masculinity were a good reflection of his ideas of society. It was imperative for Dany to understand who could be relied upon and Randyll Tarly was a wildcard that had to be handled with caution. A part of me considered somehow intercepting Samwell on the way to Night's Watch and somehow subverting him as an alternative for the title of Lord of Hornhill but the Samwell Tarly who stabbed a White Walker became as such through his experiences North of the Wall. Then again, it would have been so easy to just dangle the fruit of Magic over the head of the boy who wanted to become a Wizard but getting access to anyone in Westeros would be... a risk I could not take now.

As for Randyll, his views and ambitions would make him a good tool for me so long as he was not aware of the more Magical things, but less so for Dany and she needed to understand the differences as my heir. The main problem was, how do you explain a-four-year old that the world was not fair, that this shit-hole was filled with sexists, racists and every type of `ists` in existence because humans were idiots? Sometimes, I felt for Aerys... fire was a good way to keep said idiots in line.

"How did your... experiment progress?" asked Ser Willem with a look that showed disgust at the word `experiment`. While he was not on pars with the Lord of Hornill, he still had his own ideas on how a person should do, even if he was too loyal to keep me from experimenting with Potions and Alchemy. He was a great Master-At-Arms... that much, none could deny, but he was not really supportive of intellectual pursuits. He tolerated what I was doing when I showed that said experiments had the potential to melt rock without fire and I was able to frame everything as a way to help my future invasion... which I was still not certain about, as Essos may yield a better location to settle in the long term.

"I am going to need a new cabin," I sighed, causing the old man to sigh. "I am missing something and it is not going to be handled as I am stuck at the same spot," I tried to explain, using concepts the old man would understand

"Then change to a different position and find a gap in the armor." countered Ser Willem, understanding the gist of my problem. "An hour against Ser Richard before lunch would do you good, lad... get to work."

"Can I watch?" asked Dany with excitement, causing Ser Willem to chuckle and nod.

An hour of getting my arse handed by a man twice my age and size... without relying on Magic because that would be cheating... that was never going to become fun, even if I knew it was necessary. Ser Richard had taken to wearing the amulet I made him once I explained how it blocked Magic, a bit of trust that I regretted especially when he would decide to face me in a spar and I could not leverage my Magic to end the bouts quickly.

The point of my Wand rested on the desk, as I spun it, my finger resting on the back of the wand to keep it upright. I was thinking about its nature... mostly to ignore the newest set of bruises I had gotten from the yard.

Weirwood and Dragon Bone, it was supposed to be a functional wand but it felt... off. Even after nearly a year and a half of working on developing spells it was limited... incomplete.

The spells I could use with the Wand were good at specific branches of magic. Mind Arts and anything based around Skinchanging animals and humans worked almost with ease. This included subtle Enchantment Spells to control others and even a few that provided me avoid detection. It made sense in a way, as that was actually what I could do without a wand after some trial and error and the wand itself had Weirwood which was designed to amplify that specific ability from what I could gather.

The problem was that my wand could not create fire on its own. While I had worked around it with the dragonglass ring, the fact that I needed two objects was mostly an annoyance for me.

I had gone through multiple iterations of my theory. Weirwood amplified Skinchanging but it did not explain the warm air that I could create and control to such a degree that I could make objects defy gravity and make blades sharp enough to cut flesh.

That left only the Core of my Wand as the suspect for the way the magic worked. Of course, hot air was self-explanatory with how Dragons were `Fire-made-Flesh`, but the proclivity of my wand to cut things but fail at acting as a shield was... perplexing.

As I had no other point of reference, I started mulling over the nature of Wand Cores in Harry Potter itself.

Phoenix Tail Feather provided wands that were explosive in power. They, like the Phoenix that the feather came from, were aloof and independent, but it was the fact that their nature was less sustained and more instantaneous, a property that made me associate it with how Phoenix had the ability to burn and be reborn from those flames in bursts of Phoenix Fire.

Unicorn Tail Hair was one of the hardest to explain. Unicorns were obviously Magical Creatures at least in the world where their Tail Hair could be used as Wand Cores. The other use of Unicorn Tail Hairs were in healing and absorbing curses, a passive ability that would also make the Unicorn Tail Hair cores share similar properties. In effect, Unicorns purified the environment and the wands that were made from the Tail Hairs had the properties associated with the Magical Creature.

Even Thestral Tail Hair held properties similar to the animal they originated from. First was the matter of Mastery. The Elder Wand had a single master, and it was a rather binary option, either you were, or you were not. It reminded me of their extreme sense of direction that ensured that they knew their master along with how Thestrals could only be seen by those who had seen and accepted death. This property also affected the way Spells cast by the wand worked as well. Either the spells failed or they succeeded, there was no middle ground... which was the case when Harry had used the Elder Wand to repair his Holly Wand. As Harry was the Master of the Wand at that time, the spell succeeded, even if lesser wands would have failed to cast the same spell. At least that was what I thought made the Elder Wand so effective as a wand.

While other Magical Creatures were used for Wand Cores, they were not as explored or strictly defined. I could extrapolate the concepts, tying the lighting of the Thunderbird to its proclivity to transformation as lightning itself represented the concept of change in a state of nature from one form to the next in an instant.

The Basilisk Horn was less clearly defined in properties, only one Wand existing that was recorded, but Basilisk had a killer sight and it was a product of Dark Arts with a deadly venom, so it stood to reason that its horn held its own magical properties. I also idly wondered if Basilisk Eye Stalk would make a wand particularly good at casting the Killing Curse, before dismissing the idea for later tests... when I had a Valyrian Steel sword and had enough precautions to try my hand in breeding a Basilisk.

And finally, the one closest to my Wand.

Dragon Heart String came from the heart of the dragon. It made for powerful wands that could easily turn to violence but were easy to change loyalty to those who won their allegiance. Dragons themselves represented strength and their fire was the most powerful representation of that strength even beyond their size. By that logic, it was likely that the Wand Core itself produced a form of dragon fire that the Wizard could manipulate through the bond they formed with the wand. The Heart String was so closely tied to the life force of the dragon that it could channel the fire of the mighty beast.

Dragon's Heart was a significantly important Concept of Magic. There was the Volsunga Saga, where Sigurd had consumed a Dragon Heart and he had gained the ability to speak to birds and more abilities.

The conclusion was that wands themselves were alive in a sense, so it made sense that this life held properties of the materials that made up the wand.

The connection to fire was less defined with my use of Dragon Bone. I could admit that a Dragon Horn would probably be a better material to use, as there was an actual example of a Magical Item made from Dragon Horn in the form of the Dragon Binder... but dragon bone was not a horrible material... it just lacked power and versatility that I would expect from an actual Magic Wand.

What I had was a single piece of Dragon Bone, however. One that had the ability to make things fly, and control fire but not create it and cut things. That pretty much matched the properties I knew from dragon bone.

Melisandre would one day say that "bones remember" and if that was the case, the affinities I had that could not be explained by the other aspects of the Wand or myself came from the Dragon Bone Core.

The bone also had a unique relationship with the air itself, a closer relationship than even fire ironically enough. That made sense if you considered that dragons flew. Given their size and weight, dragons must have had some form of Aeromancy to manipulate air itself, an ability that was tied to their bones. Spells I could pull off were strangely... one-dimensional in the way they manipulated air. Floating things was possible because the bone remembered flying, lifting large masses into the air. Making things fly was in the nature of the dragon bone and it excelled at that task.

Controlling Fire was mostly a combination of Skinchanging and the affinity of the dragons to fire. A few months of trial and error ensured that I was immune to fire even if I did not have my wand at hand. While I did not enjoy casting Wandless Magic before getting a greater understanding of how Magic worked, Flame Freezing Charm, as I called it, made for a good emergency skill to have. It boiled down to pouring my soul into the fire and willing it not to burn me. It still involved Skinchanging into the fire, however, so I had a feeling that a better Mage with greater skill or affinity to fire would be able to overpower my spell... a theory that would explain how Daenerys in the books could burn Mirri Maz Duur and came out unburnt from the Funeral Fire. While Mirri had cast the spell to protect herself from the fire, Daenerys had a greater affinity or because she had recently had her son burnt, gaining the allegiance of the fire in some way, I was still not sure.

The Hot Air the wand was generating was also easy to explain. Dragons radiated heat and that heat transferred to the air. It created a path for my soul to take, giving me control over air enough that I could create a thin blade of air to cut with. As the Wand Core had properties not dissimilar to the fangs and claws of a dragon, it made cutting-based spells much easier. My current theory was the fact that Dragons had claws and fangs they could use for attack that made the wand great with piercing and cutting spells. Either the Dragon Bone Pin I had was made from a fang or a claw of a Dragon, which I was not sure about as it was something Viserys had owned as a Prince even in King's Landing, or it was because the pin was made from the same material as the fang and claws of the dragon, in this case, dragon bone, which itself held the viciousness of a dragon that made such spells so potent. That explained why my wand was severely limited in versatility yet achieved the Cutting Curse almost with ease, while it was less successful in the protection spell, even if the dragon bones were extremely tough to protect against other dragons, that was more the purpose of the scales.

With all that, my goal was clear.

What I needed was a wand core that could produce fire.

I knew something that I could use to draw fire from.

Dragonglass...

Obsidian.

It was the third obviously Magical Material that I knew from this world, right next to Dragon Bone and Weirwood. I had despaired that I had not recalled that detail and I had enough experience with the material that I had some ideas on what I wanted to do with it.

I had spent the last four months casting spells by drawing fire from a single piece of dragonglass on my ring on purpose. It was all meant to see if dragonglass actually lost its fire. I had to make sure that the material did not lose its properties and I was... bored with testing it anymore. I was certain that it would have run out by now if its principles were based on a battery. For all I knew, I was drawing the memories of the dragonglass, the impression of fire that always came when I tapped my wand onto the dragonglass imposing itself onto the magical air that the wand created. If I wanted to build up more complex spells, I needed to figure out a way to stop splitting my focus to creating fire and giving it intent and that required combining the dragonglass with the wand.

The problem was how to bind it with the wand, because that was what I needed to do, somehow combine the obsidian into the wand core, and make it part of the whole. I could not attack it to the Weirwood, mostly because I needed it to touch dragon bone to draw out the fire. I lacked enough dragon bone to create another wand, not because I was broke, but rather to avoid the attention of a certain Merchant who dealt with dragon bone and I also did not want to damage the one wand that I had. In the end, the pin was not thick enough to embed solid chunks of dragon glass by an amateur like me and I was not going to hire someone to do it for me with something so vital as my wand.

That left the obvious answer, using the Potion Base and figure out the magic to combine it into the core.

Sacrificing a raven would resonate with the Blackwood side of my bloodline and specifically enchanting the mix of blood and obsidian to bind with dragon bone and retain the properties of dragonglass was almost easy with all the experience I had with shadowbinding and potions.

In an instant, I was beset by a familiar feeling... like a compulsion to do something in a specific way. It was some sort of instinct, something guiding me to do things a specific way... like a good feeling that it would work. I noticed that, ironically, I held all the knowledge needed before that feeling had to shown up and even considered the idea before being beset with the feeling to see it through.

The last time I got the feeling, I had crafted my Wand which in turn had unlocked Magic for me. Deciding to follow the feeling once more, I dragged the tip of my wand over the pad of my finger. Nine drops of my blood were mixed with the raven blood and dragonglass. Adding my blood forged a connection that was far more effective than using my wand, a simple principle of Blood Magic and how blood could be used to connect the soul to the medium. It had taken me a while to realize that Blood Magic was essentially a way to create a link for the Souls to cast magic. Sacrificing blood to flame gave you a link to the fire to control it using your soul, to ice and you could control ice or to Weirwood and you had access to Weirwood again gaining Greensight of some sort. The amount of sacrifice was the tricky part but the amount I gave up just felt... enough to gain a greater connection with the brew.

A flick of my wand had the flames beneath the cauldron reach out to engulf the body of the raven and burned it into ash in a flare, leaving nothing behind but smoke. Without a body, the soul of the sacrifice would bind with the blood, with the potion I was making, further supplementing my will. Reaching out, I was able feel the small bit of soul still connected to the flesh before grasping it with unseen hands.

Once the soul of the bird was bound to the smoke, I could better see what I was doing, as I guided the shadow-smoke into the blood itself, watching it darken to a pure black color from the red it initially was.

The next step was to add a piece of dragonglass. I did my best to grind the volcanic rock into a fine powder between two pieces of leather, pouring my magic and intent into every strike of the hammer. The act was less precise in terms of Magic than using a wand and I was still able to pour my soul through my strikes, an act that amplified the physical act or so I had theorized.

The dragonglass entered the boiling blood, as I waved my wand over the mixture, reaching out and pouring my intent through the wand and into the mixture of blood and volcanic glass. Slowly, the red blood darkened, turning pitch black in color. I held my wand over the cauldron before dipping the tip of my wand, only letting the dragon bone touch the liquid. I watched as the mixture seemed to drain from the bronze cauldron as the red veins on the white wood of my wand took on the color of the potion I had created, darkening to black.

The tip of the wand had also changed. Where the tip once was black from the bone, now it shone in a way unlike anything else I had seen before whenever I pushed my... self through the wand. As I held the artifact, I felt the connection to the wand, the feeling of completeness that was not there before. A closer look made me realize that the mixture of obsidian and blood had not only changed the core to contain the properties of dragonglass, but it also acted as a binding between the core and the wood in a way that was not there before.

A small flame appeared at the tip of my wand, giving off a soft warmth, before the fire slowly took the shape of a small dragon, giving a soundless cry.

AN:

Four months is a long time for MC to come up with new stuff, so this chapter is a bit more exposition heavy than I would like.

Potions will become more and more prevalent, now that there is a base potion that would work. Dragonglass has special magical properties that are going to be more completely explored later. Since I needed to search online to remind myself that cabbage juice is a good Ph indicator, Wizerys does not get that so his plans for future experiments are on hold. Of course, it does not mean he does not have emergency healing potions, even if they leave chemical burns... they will prevent a person from bleeding out. He might just let Qyburn live longer if he knows the tricks to help him though.

In other news, Magic Boy invents Magic Batteries, Will it explode in his face?

Some considerations of politics and Dany's education, some not-so-ethical experimentation on animals and people. Wizerys, being a Tolkien fanboy names his dog after the best boy. That brings to question, does the name of an animal affect their fate, like the case with Stark Direwolves?

To those who were complaining about the wand being too simple, you were always right but I did not want to spoil that the original wand was always incomplete, though I heavily hinted that it was limited. It lacked the source of fire to actually provide the power in a way and some of you correctly guessed the need to integrate obsidian to the wand. This version, containing dragonglass was always what I planned for, but the starting point had to be somewhere... which is the case for most innovation. You keep building on top of your previous work, and that is exactly what Wizerys is doing. It also makes Wandlore a bit different from Harry Potter for all we know, making it closer to Wicca practices and other works that had Magical Foci with magic stones... like Star Wars.

In terms of using Divination while creating/upgrading the wand, I had added hints that there was something mystical happening, which fits with the canon-verse. Dany hatching the dragon eggs seemed to have some form of a force guiding her through it and it made sense for Wizerys to be guided as well. The point is, Wizerys has also noticed his 'instincts' and he will definitely develop it over time... thought that is for the next chapter.

Last edited: Nov 25, 2022

013 Foresight and Preparation

I thumbed the amulet around my neck while listening to Tycho Nestoris drone on and on about how stupid my newest idea was. I decided to cycle through the animals I had connection with, including Huan who had decided that he liked Dany more than me... something about belly scratches that I did not bother to decipher from dog thoughts. It enabled me to keep an eye on her at least and no one really dared to cross a large dog in sugar rush.

While the combination of Nightwood and Weirwood blocked souls from passing, it was still not a perfect method. A few drops of blood, first tested with the blood of a rat that I was skinchanging into and than mine own showed that the `protection` granted by the amulet was less complete and more limited to select few. I was able to pass through the ungraded amulet, as my own blood provided me with a one sided passage through the `spiritual` shield.

"I have predicted that the Winter would come around this time... have I not, Tycho?" I asked the banker who had the inexplicit urge to shut up.

"You have," stated Tycho with a nod.

"And if I say sell all the wood, because this winter will last around a year... what would a sane person do, Tycho?" I asked once more. I enjoyed bullying bankers... they were so easy to lead around when they thought you Magic was without reproach.

"So we sell the wood." nodded Tycho, and I could almost see the glimmer of golden coins in his eyes. "That does not explain why we need to buy more wood"

I paused, before sighing. I sent a glare at Ser Richard.

"The Night's Watch sits next to the largest source of lumber in Westeros" I explained "Lumber that Braavos can use to expand their fleet."

"And we need the fleet because Iron Islands will rebel," repeated Tycho, not sounding like he was believing it.

Granted, the entire plan of supplying Night's Watch with coin in exchange for wood was something I came up with at the insistence of Ser Richard. Apparently, the knight still thought that we should do something and would not stop pestering me until I came up with this harebrained scheme.

On paper, it had come from the fact that Jon Snow had borrowed from the Iron Bank in the books. I was going through some thought experiments on how such a debt could be paid when I recalled that the Haunted Forest was overgrown and Braavos always looked for more lumber.

Honestly, my main purpose was to get in touch with Maester Aemon and give him a forewarning. The trick was to write in High Valyrian and hope that Aemon's Assistants did not know High Valyrian Glyphs... because I was sure that they were either spies or up to no good.

Politically, I did not have much power, but my more useless knowledge, like when winter will come and how long it will last, along with the Ironborn Rebellion made for solid points to leverage the fact that I was a reliable source of information. That was the only way I could get the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to listen to my warning about White Walkers and have them start carrying dragonglass weapons when ranging North of the Wall.

Selling information that no one could acquire without Magic granted me a Soft Power that I could use in the future. Giving up on knowledge that I had no use for in exchange for a few favors was worth it and it also fucked with the naval power balance in the Narrow Sea, which was a good thing because remaining Free Cities were slavers and fuck Westeros.

Tycho did not seem enthused with being forced to go to the Wall to arrange for the deal... but he would do his job and make us both richer.

"I am also going to need an invitation to the Ball for the Uncloaking this year." I said, mentioning the ball that Sealord arranged every year. I had missed the last year, having been working on not dying at the time. It was meant to be a time to approach other people of import and network and I desperately needed to get more people to my side.

"Who are you?" I asked the woman who was sitting in the living room, with Ser Willem on his chair, while Lanna was chatting with said woman.

"I am Yna," said the woman, turning to look at me with her single eye, the other one covered by an eye patch. "I have seen you in my visions, Viserys Targaryen."

"She is a friend of mama," explained Lanna, with a smile on her face, happy at seeing someone familiar.

"You are from the Happy Port?" asked Ser Richard, gaining a glare from me.

"Nessa, take Dany and Lanna to the other room... I believe that we will need some privacy."

"Yes, milord" bowed Nessa, before doing as she was ordered, while I carefully took out my new wand, ready for any fight... only to get confused with what came next.

"I have seen you for months, a wyrm without wings, golden and white and wreathed in shadows, and before the wyrm a hooded man, holding a staff with one eye with the fire of the sun in his one eye," said Yna, pointing at me with her bony fingers.

So the woman could see things... which made sense, the missing eye sort of indicated some connection to magic, as was the case for Bloodraven, Euron Greyjoy and even the likes of Aemond One Eye.

While unexpected, the seer was not that hard to decipher... at least for me.

The gold and white wyrm was no doubt a representation of Viserion, the dragon to whom I was fated to be bound to. I was all but certain that the death that paid for the cream and gold dragon was Viserys', the day he... I would be crowned with molten gold.

The shadows made sense mostly because it was what I was wearing most of the time... but I was also slowly using shadows to get stronger, using the Bloodl-Candles.

The last depiction was... weird but I could interpret the idea behind it. A hooded man probably alluded to my connection to Faceless Men and Death, while the staff was a good representation of the wand I held.

Then there was the last part, the fire of the sun was a funny way of describing me mostly because it made sense in a way if you understood High Valyrian. In High Valyrian, the sun was `Vizenka` while I knew that fire was `Perzys`. If you took into consideration that Dragon Fire was `Dracarys`, then the closes thing to Sun Fire in High Valyrian would be `Vizerys`, or if one applied the Westerosi dialect to soften it, `Viserys`. Which brought my mind to the political boot-licking that the Greens must have been doing by naming Aegon the Usurper's dragon after the king at the time, given Sunfyre may have literally been referred to as Viserys... or it was all a coincidence and I was slowly losing my mind in boredom without any modern entertainment or enough books.

"You vanished from my sight a fortnight ago," said Yna, sounding bewildered. "I thought something bad had happened to the girl and sought her out."

I suppressed a smirk. While I knew that the amulet would work as intended, getting independent confirmation always made me glad.

"Not the mother?" I asked, curious. The situation with Lanna was one that I had no idea how to handle. Sure, the girl stayed with us and I had offered her my protection but I knew where her mother was and worst of all, I knew that Lanna would have eventually wound up working in the same place. That suggested that the owner of the brothel may have some interest in recovering the girl.

"The mother is dead," said Yna, with finality, "The man who took the girl also killed her... shadows ripped her like nothing I have seen before. It... it was why no one else did anything else and the next morning, it was as though all of them forgot Tysha ever lived there."

"You contacted the Faceless Men," I guessed, not reacting to the confirmation that Lanna's mother was Tysha. Yna only nodded at my guess "The one who took her is dead... burned himself with wildfire. I am providing her with protection and I have no intention of letting her be forced into your line of work."

"The gift is strong in me," said Yna with a nervous look "Strong enough that I can tell the fortune of a man with a drop of their blood. After the girl was taken, I drank a bit of blood I kept of those close to me. I saw you for the first time then and felt what the girl felt upon meeting you. I know the girl will be safe, and I only sought her through visions after you became unseen to my sights. If there is anything I can do for you..." she said, leaning forward.

"While I appreciate the offer, Lady, I am two and ten" I deadpanned. While the idea of sex was something I had considered, my body was not really there yet and I did not like the idea of laying with a whore out of fear that I might catch something. "I would however appreciate the trick to telling someone's fortune... if you would be willing to share your experiences with me."

What followed was a three-hour discussion on blood magic and its use in divination along with a promise to keep the woman up to date on Lanna in exchange for news brought from the ships. It would let me keep a closer eye on the events around the world, as I was sure my foreknowledge would start to butterfly away soon.

"Heads" I called out before the wooden coin landed on Heads. I have been practicing divination using a rather complex method based on what I learned. The one-eyed Maegi, Yna was rather open about how her gift worked, especially after I proved to her that I understood what she was going. I recalled that there was another in Westerlands who gave a prophecy to Cersei, so I knew that you did not need to lose an eye to see the future, which was good because I was not giving up an eye unless it was for phenomenal cosmic power... or the equivalent.

An off-handed comment from Ser Willem about how it may come in handy to invest in ships undertaking voyages and here we were, spending the ride back to Braavos from the Ranch with Ser Richard flipping a coin and me predicting the outcome before he flicked. The ship idea was nice, and I was not sure if I could get the second round of investment with the Night's Watch back in time. So, here I was preparing to foretell the future of ships, so I could make more money... not so much that it would allow me to match Tywin or the Iron Throne, but enough to make me a major player.

Me being... well me... I spent a week trying to figure out how that trick would be possible and I had a solid theory that we took to stress testing.

The idea was that blood acted as a bridge for the soul. As the soul spent time in the body, any part of the body naturally acted as a vessel for the soul to bind to. The blood was simply a way for the souls to connect and I already had my wand for that.

Normally, using the trick on wood required a form of Greensight and my Greensight was not something I knew how to properly develop apart from brute force practice. That being said, practice made perfect and I had been doing this daily for the last three months now. It required a drop of blood from me to the wood but I could get a glimpse at the future of a piece of wood.

"That was the hundredth time, your grace, in a row," called Ser Richard, causing me to sigh and rub my forehead. If I got an aneurysm from this, I was going to curse someone, right after I figure out how to actually cast a curse.

It took a while but I was finally getting some consistent results with Divination and Greensight at the cost of some headaches. Now, to see if I could scale it to the wood that make the ships and gamble on it with some real money.

"Bullshit... you cannot tell the future," said someone as our horses came to a stop before a roadblock. The two men who were standing on the road looked like they were living in the wild... which was not far from the truth from what I could gather. The one who spoke had a scar over his nose and a mean look, while the one next to him held a rather bent-ooking metal mace that had seen some use.

"He did say you would be waiting for us" countered Ser Richard with a smirk, putting on his helmet and lowering the spear that he was carrying. The other man took a step back showing fear. Batman was right, criminals were a superstitious lot.

I turned my head around, eyeing the other two that were standing behind us... though they felt more afraid than wanted to harm us. Did we ride here on purpose to get the attention of these brigands... we did. I had gotten enough botched images from the wooden coin, along with other visions through Pyromancy that I knew we would be set upon by brigands, so Ser Richard and I had set off earlier to get the prophecized event over with... to make sure Dany was not in any danger as we got rid of these... pests.

"Is this the part where you rob us?" I asked innocently, my slasher smile breaking the illusion, while my wand was already in my hand, a new enchantment preventing people from noticing the wand as anything important, making them ignore the glow at the tip of it when I pushed my soul through the Magical Focus.

"I am thinking you saw us coming," said the man holding a rapier. "Then you will be fine with giving us your gold and horses?"

"Depends," I said, getting a confused look from the man "How attached are you to your head?"

"I will not ask nicely again," said the man, flourishing the blade. I noticed that he was holding the blade with competence. Before he could lounge, my wand was out and a crescent of flame slashed through the air before the head of the man rolled onto the floor.

By the time I was done with the one who seemed to be in charge, Ser Richard had already gone through the other one in the front. The ones behind us took one look at the result and dropped their weapons and got on their knees... probably figuring out that running would not work.

"Mercy?" asked the man, before I sent two spells that caused the remaining two men get suspended in the air with a muttering of `Levicorpus`. It was one of the newer spells I was working on, and the newest update to my Wand seemed to improve the quality of my spells. I was still not sure how it worked, but I could almost see the shimmer of a rope lifting the two men by their legs "We meant no harm to you... we only wanted to feed our family."

I made eye contact with the two, confirming that they did say the truth. Ser Richard was still standing next to me, on the horse, ready to cut both down.

"What is your name?" asked Ser Richard, getting a nod from me.

"Wat" said the one on the left.

"Wat" said the one on the right.

"Both of you are named Wat?" asked Ser Richard, causing me to snort.

"Don't tell me you two are brothers," I said in amusement.

"We are not brothers... I swear," said one of the men, now panicking.

"It is winter... I needed coin to feed me mum, Wat needed to feed his sister. Met those two at a tavern last night and they roped us into this, honest."

"They are lying." said Ser Richard "They sound Westerosi... maybe spies."

"We are... from Gulltown, both of us," said the Wat on the right.

"If they are lying, they are better at lying than Faceless Men." I countered, "What are you lot doing here of all places?"

"Ran from Gulltown before the siege," said the Wat on the left. "Heard horror stories of what Lord Arryn did there."

I raised an eyebrow. The only event where Jon Arryn would have done something to Gulltown was during Robert's Rebellion. I was not sure what happened but I knew that Gulltown was Targaryen Loyalist and the first major siege was the Siege of Gulltown where Jon Arryn had attacked the port city. I was not sure of the details but it did not sound like the results were good for the smallfolk. That being said, these two sounded like they were either spies or a-cosmic joke upon me. Holding the coin in my hand "Do you two know what this means?"

"Aye... that be those two-faced priests' coin." said the Wat on the Right causing me to sigh.

"Those two-faced priests are known as the Faceless Men," I explained with a sigh "Please tell me you know what that is."

"That means we do not want to fuck with you... milord" said the smarter one.

"Well, at least you are quick," I said, an idea forming in my head. I looked at Ser Richard with a raised eyebrow.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me." groaned Ser Richard, protesting. "This is a horrible idea... they are brigands."

"Starvation makes men do desperate things, same as the need to feed their family" I countered, as I was familiar with the concept, having risked my own soul for magic. Their minds were simple enough that I could check if they lied. "You two are looking for coin to feed your family, is that correct?"

"Aye," the two echoed, the truth.

"Have you hurt anyone before?" I asked, as that may lead to trouble.

"Nay." the two echoed, the truth.

"Beg your pardon, milord, who are you?" asked the Wat on the right.

"You stand before Prince Viserys Targaryen," announced Ser Richard.

"Me mum always said I was born under a lucky star." said the Wat on the Right with a grin on his face.

"Fuck... please don't burn us your grace." begged the Wat on the Left, cursing his luck.

I in turn cursed the memory of Aerys.

"Do you two wish to work for me?" I asked with a smile "In turn, your families get a warm home and food, along with coin throughout Winter."

The two looked at each other with the exact opposite looks. Ser Richard decided to take a swing from his wineskin... probably tired of Targaryen bullshit.

I did need some more Man-At-Arms, but I was not going to complain about them. I dropped the two down to the ground, and they stumbled onto their knees.

"Beg your pardon, your grace, but I swear I thought one of your eyes was white a moment ago," said the Wat on the Right.

"What?" I asked in response, confused.

AN:

This chapter is for those who wanted more plotting for future gains.

I should stop reading Dr Seus. The puns were too much and the reference to Dunk and Egg was unavoidable.

some one said:

Why doesn't Wizerys use divination to predict successful trading voyages/expeditions/ventures then invest in them to make bank ?

after all being stupid stinking rich opens a lot of doors and allows for a great deal more options in the future

First of, thank you for the suggestion about predicting sea voyages as an investment source. He had been considering using Divination to munchkin investments, the problem was that he did not know how to do it.

The problem is, Greensight is a tricky thing and even the process of Bran getting it is sort of questionable with the theories of how Coldhands may have passed off bodies of some of the Deserters from Night's Watch as pork and the infamous Jojenpaste Theory. I am not saying that Bran specifically ate other people to get Greensight but it may be a long and drawn-out ritualistic process, closer to Shamanism than anything else.

Wizerys has been experimenting with enough different approaches and has enough partial knowledge that something sticks and allows him access to the way Tree's perceive time. The problem however is that he does not have Weirwood's with faces to train so the results he gets are iffy. The logic he goes with is that since ships are made of wood, they can therefore be used for divination. He is willing to make a bet for now, though he is still wary of Divination as a sane-ish person.

The idea that most Targaryens have some sort of divination ability is canon, and it is interesting that Viserys in the books claim that there are assassins after them but none seem to have managed to catch up until they are in the middle of the Dothraki Sea and Viserys did not have any control over Dany anymore. Even if Robert essentially admitted that he did not send Assassins after the Targaryen Children due to Jon Arryn's influence, that does not really mean Tywin or others did not send assassins or some opportunist did not try their chance. Viserys may have had an excellent divination based danger sense that kept him one step ahead of those who would kill them. This sort of fits with his rather hysterical state in Vaes Dothrak as he may have felt that his time was running out... like a caged animal... or he may have just been delusional, idk.

One Eyed Odin symbolism was always there, because pouring your soul out means there is no one in the windows... so to speak.

Last edited: Nov 30, 2022

014 Uncloaking

# 014 Uncloaking

--- 288 AC

"Left," said Dany giggling "now it is the right," she added with a clap, amused at the show I was putting for her.

It had been weeks since I recruited Wat and Wat to work for me and all I could pull off was a party trick. As it turned out, I lost the color in one of my eyes whenever I cast a spell, an effect that I was sure was tied to my soul pouring out of my body. The fact that I lost the depth perception should have been pretty obvious, I was often more focused on the spells themselves. The show had Skinchangers gain cloudy eyes, though the books never mentioned that as a physical effect, even if it made sense given that eyes were said to be the window to the soul.

With a bit of practice, I could control which eye got clouded when casting a spell, something that I had Dany help with, mostly as an excuse to spend time with her and teach her to see past Magical Influences, just in case. I was not training her in anything overtly magical until she was old enough... at least around ten, but this was a trick that would help her in the future.

Speaking of my newest recruits... Wat and Wat were... `Gods this is confusing` I thought before deciding to follow the wisdom of my elders. Taking a book from Olenna Tyrell, the Lefty and Right were physically not impressive in any way or form. They looked similar with brown hair and brown eyes. Their features were not really impressive and compared to me or Dany, they could simply blend into the background when not talking. That being said, both had their distinct advantages.

The Wat... the one with common sense, as that was the best way to distinguish between the two, was simply dubbed Lefty. He had a sharp mind and worked hard enough to impress Ser Willem. He was the brains of the two. He was also smart enough to understand that I had some sort of magic and I was dangerous and the best way to not be on my path of destruction was to stand with me.

The Wat... the one without common sense was dubbed Righty. He was also possibly the only person I met who could see through whatever perception field that prevented others from noticing that one of my eyes lost its color when I was casting magic. The only problem was that he did not have any ounce of cunning, even if I would not call him simple-minded in any way. That being said, he may have some magic so my curiosity meant that I would let them work for me.

Constant use of Surface Level Legilimency on them and their families was a necessary evil. The two knew each other from childhood and some of the events that Righty managed to get out of suggested that he must have some form of magic. The fact that he was the reason they decided to visit relatives nearly a week's journey away from Gulltown just before the Siege of Gulltown at the start of Robert's Rebellion suggested either that he could use Divination, or something guided them... options that I never found a way to distinguish.

I knew that there had been some sort of a war, though I had thought Jon Arryn would have prevented certain acts... a belief that seemed to be proven wrong, given that he had stood by after what Lannisters did to Elia and her children. The Wats have returned to learn both their fathers, fortunately not named Wat, had been conscripted into the city defense, dying in the siege. Given that everything they owned was also gone, taken or burned, they had nothing keeping them in Gulltown. It was different, seeing the experiences of common folk when the high lords played their games... even when the ones who supposedly have honor. With only their lives, they had decided to risk coming to Braavos, knowing that they would certainly die in Gulltown come winter and deciding to risk it in a place untouched by the war and did not allow slavery.

The rest of their story was simple, failing to get jobs to feed their families, the coming of winter and the two had ended up being dragged in with the bandits. While they were not innocent by any measure, beggars could not be choosers and all that. The other two men Ser Richard and I had gotten rid of through cremation, their souls bound to two pieces of dragonglass during the burning.

It was not the most direct way of soul binding, but the method that I reverse-engineered from what I knew about White Walkers and inspired by the Soul Gems of Skyrim had me develop the most efficient method of storing souls for later use that I could find out.

Granted, I did not actually explain that I trapped the souls of the dead men into a piece of dragonglass. While they were afraid of my use of fire to cut a man's head off, the end result was close enough to what a normal person with a sword could do and I did not wish to actually scare the shit out of my new man by threatening their immortal souls. They did not have any intention of betraying me, their thoughts were influenced by the blame they held against Jon Arryn and all the lords who rebelled, a desperation to live and a belief that running into me was the will of the gods.

My decision to recruit them was mostly a reaction to my want to avoid more killing, an act that I did not enjoy even if I could do it if it was needed. The comment that Right made was the final nail in the coffin, as I have been trying to figure out what was wrong with my way of thinking that made me overlook dragonglass as a way to explore magic.

Righty's ability to see through illusions was simply fascinating, as he was able to see past anything that was not actually physically real... an ability that took me active control to use.

In hindsight, it made sense that there were people with certain affinities out there, outside the limitations of specific families. Given that Righty were from the Vale, I could only guess that Wat was somehow related to House Royce in some way as that was the closest family with magic to Gulltown... but I was not sure if it was just luck of the draw or genetics or something random that I did not know about. My knowledge about bloodlines and the actual effect they had on those who could wield magic was severely limited and heavily biased by the fact that known records only included noble families and not peasants who had the ability to shoot fireballs out of their arses.

For now, the two provided a bit more security to the girls while Ser Willem and I played the Court Politics, occasionally with Ser Richard acting as my sworn-shield. While they were not really competent in terms of fighting skill, it was fascinating seeing Ser Willem whip the two into shape while also teaching me how to command and train men.

"Enough playing around... get back to the spar." barked Ser Willem, causing me to sigh. This was the punishment I got for forcing the two to work for us, as said training of recruits was mostly done by having the two face me. I put on the padded cap, tying it securely before putting on my helmet.

A moment later, I was in the bailey, a shield strapped to my left arm and a sword in my right.

I blocked the strike with my shield, moving to keep one of them in front of the other to prevent them from rushing me at once, as I slowly took apart their styles with fast jabs, stabs and tight slashes that came from combining Water Dancing and the traditional Westerosi Style. Of the Westerosi styles of fencing, Ser Willem had thought me a relative mix of different approaches, having experienced all types of styles in King's Landing, while Ser Richard has been showing me the distinct Stormlander Style, which I could identify as a close relative of the German Longsword Fencing Methods with the distinctive use of Thumb Grip.

My knowledge of HEMA from my old life was limited to a few concepts and half-remembered videos I watched. It was not much but combined with the instructions of Ser Willem and Syrio, I was competent when faced with untrained masses.

Given that the only two that I often sparred against before the Wats were a trained Knight with battle experience and the man who was charged with representing the Sealord in a duel, my perception of myself was limited. When facing Wat and Wat at the same time, my training seemed to show even if I had to use a bit of magic to match them physically. Even if I knew that I was tall for a twelve-year-old, the two were stronger than me without magic. The small trick I used to make myself stronger and faster seemed to be the only thing keeping the two fully-grown men from beating me in a fight but it also allowed me to get more practice with the method. It allowed me to go toe-to-toe against the two... even if victory was not always a guarantee.

Sure, the two were not even trained properly and I was essentially spending every day for the three years working myself to the bone when not playing around with Magic or hanging out with Dany, but I had an excuse to be proud of myself... until I watched Ser Richard not even break a sweat as he dismantled the two over fifteen minutes. I was competent, but I think I would rather use magic if it came down to it, mostly because I was far more deadly that way. Any duel or sword fight would be delegated to last resort and on occasions that I was sure to win.

Having more minions to act as guards at home helped ease my mind, especially when it came to the largest party of the year in Braavos and I had to mingle with the aristocracy.

I still had Huan watch over Dany and Lanna, but the two new men at arms, bearing Amulets of Protection that I had made and secretly attuned to myself with a drop of blood each, made for decent enough guards while I was not there. Any person with Magic, like the Alchemist would not see them coming and whatever bullshit ability Righty had would allow them to see through the illusions, as I had also linked the amulets to his blood, in case his magic worked similar to what I suspected with Divination. Anything without magic, Huan could handle or at least give an early warning to me and Nessa knew where the emergency potions were hidden that could melt a knight through his armor while I could rip their minds to shreds even from this distance, one of the many tricks I was able to figure out with my wand, the dragonglass acting similar to how I would expect a glass candle to work.

Hence why we had a chance to go out and mingle without too much worry. Sure, every five minutes or so I blinked longer than usual, as a way to hide the fact that I was keeping an eye on my sister but that was still a proper level of paranoia.

The Uncloaking of Uthero... it was the largest festival in Braavos where who is who got into all types of shenanigans, hidden behind their masks. If I were a betting man, I would guess at least one orgy was taking place during the ten day festivities and given what I learned from Yna, most of the brothels were overworked.

The mask on my face was not what I would call a functional mask. It was relatively easy to discern my true identity yet elaborate and looking sufficiently rich enough to give the illusion of power. The fact that the man who sold it had named the mask `Wizard` meant I just had to buy it. Apparently, each mask had an identity that made it easier for people to distinguish each other, often linked to their positions and power.

In the end, like every social event, the Uncloaking was also another chance for the rich to make connections, plot things and stab each other in the back. In other words, the perfect opportunity to get people to support me... on paper anyways. While my intentions for Westeros were to not step foot in that hellhole until I could figure out the Killing Curse and Fiendfyre along with Magically Binding Contracts that would rip off the souls of those who violated the terms, I still had to give the image of trying while allowing me to get some more resources for my research. This entire event was meant for me to get the Sealord to allow me access to some of the rarer books he had access to... and the fucker was avoiding me.

`Next person to insult my family in conjunction with Valyrians, I am going to break their mind and make them worse than Hodor` I mentally scowled, undoing the top button of my collar as I stepped out, letting the cooling air hit my face. Sure, insult Aerys to your heart's content, but insult my mother and I will make sure you live the rest of your life as a newt... or at least thinking you are one. I could probably figure out a way to switch the souls of a human and a newt... pretty sure Mirri pulled it off with Drogo and his horse... which made me consider the Maegi one of my favorite people for that fact alone.

My mind turned back to the feast as it were. The subtle mockery of my exile was permissible, but the hidden racism along with whatever perceived power they thought they had over me and mine... was just grating on my nerves after ten days of it. It was not hard to recognize who I was, the silver-blonde hair was an obvious tell with the eyes, along with the short height suggesting my age. I sighed, once more regretting the fact that I could have done something much more productive during these ten days... there were magic experiments to test, spells to perfect, artifacts to make, and cauldrons to blow up.

Weeks have gone and my mind was still more focused on the fact that one of my eyes `dimmed` whenever I was apparently casting magic. It was not what I had expected though it was definitely not a surprise after I learned of the physical effect of magic. The fact that no one else in the know, which included Sers Willem and Richard, Nessa or even to a degree Lanna or Dany noticed it before Wat was... interesting.

Even I only noticed it after my newest minion had pointed it out and I actually looked into a mirror with my Third Eye open. I was not sure if Wat had magic or not, but it was more interesting than the waxed rhetoric about Braavos being superior to `those Westerosi Savages`. While I agreed with the sentiment, they also included me in that insult so I should be justified in giving them permanent constipation or something equally petty. Unfortunately, I was still a novice in the art of permanently causing someone minor annoyance... cutting off limbs, sure, I could get that done... minor jinxes or hexes... still a definite work in progress.

"You sigh like someone tired of other people," said the sultry voice, causing me to turn around from the view of the city and come face to face with... wow.

The girl had a smooth caramel skin and black eyes, she was slightly taller than me, though I could see that it was the way her shoes were made that achieved such effect. Her age was hard to distinguish other than young... maybe a teenager, given that it was hidden behind an opulent mask made from Mother-of-Pearl.

The next thing I noticed was the smell of vanilla with a hint of lilacs. My eyes roamed to her dress, midnight black with jewels, the cut made to amplify her developing curves and make her breasts look larger, augmenting her petite figure. It was the other effect that I noticed however, the candles around her seemed to have a greater glow, framing her in a halo of light that made her hard to ignore.

I blinked a few times, before pulling my entire soul back into my own body. Immediately, everything sharpened to a focus it did not have a moment before, my mind clear and focused, chasing away whatever effect that was happening. My eyes checked her neck, looking for a choker like the ones Red Priestesses might have used, finding nothing.

Nope, her allure had something magical... to a degree but it did not seem to be based on an item. I could still feel... something off, something that pressed into my mind that this person was worth noticing.

"Nonsense, just prefer the company of those with mediocrum of wit in their insults," I retorted without thinking, ignoring the snicker behind me from Richard, behind his full helm. "You hear one insult about dragons, you hear them all."

The giggle made me feel light headed, before I clamped down on my Occlumency, forcing my mind to clear itself. Going through puberty a second time was already a nightmare before this girl used whatever magic to stoke it.

"My, how honest..." she purred, a bit overacting in my opinion "it is refreshing really, all everyone does is wax poetic about themselves or what they see," said the girl who sounded closer to a teenager. "Here is to hope you will not find my wit as dull as others..."

"Maybe they are incapable of breaking out of whatever spell you place them on," I responded... half-teasing. The questioning look was a surprise, making me smirk at something I noticed before the girl before me. A casual surface scan showed she did not have any intent to harm me or have any idea what I actually meant, though she was still curious. Anything more was too deep for me to dredge out of her mind without force. `Fascinating... not even realizing what you are doing to those pour sops.` I thought to myself before asking "I must however ask, what such a lovely lady is doing, unaccompanied and alone?"

"Hmm... my companion, unfortunately, was dull and he may have passed out somewhere in the room. Having heard rumors, I decided to seek out this prince I heard the rumors of... but you will have to do, I suppose," said the girl with a sultry voice. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as my hand rested on the wand hidden under my sleeve and I could see through the eyes of the bird across the street that Ser Richard had a hand on his sword.

My instincts told me that she herself was not a danger to me, the Legilimency probe supported those instincts and I had used enough Divination to know I was in no danger in the Sealord's Palace for this night, at least nothing planned. Given that this was Planetos, and there was no party without a few deaths... my paranoia was justified with Red Wedding and all the other weddings and feasts where people dropped like butterflies. A hand sign had Ser Richard return to his initial pose of disinterest.

"What sort of rumors?" I asked with a smirk, my right hand howevering over my wand still.

She leaned in, with a conspiratorial whisper "Oh... I heard that there is the Exiled Prince of Westeros would attend and I just had to meet him, you see. He does not go out in public much and I heard so many things about him."

"Is that wise?" I asked, not really expecting people to gossip about me, though it did sort of make sense, given my family. "He may be shunning the public because he is scarred, or possibly malformed... it may be why he hides behind a mask."

"I heard he was a sorcerer who treats with demons and sacrifices children... or so some whisper," she said, playing along. I did not get anything but curiosity from the girl, and she seemed more amused than intent to kill.

"What do you think?" I asked with a smirk. I considered that bit of rumor, filing it away under important for later. I seemed to have more enemies than I thought, given the rumors they are spreading... it sounded like something Septons from the Sept Beyond the Sea might spread... though for whose behest was a question for later.

There was also the chance that the servants gossiped and revealed my hobbies without intending to. Given that most of them only knew bits and pieces, it made sense, though hiding a pot of Weirwood growing in the courtyard of the Mansion that needed regular deposits of pigs blood was hard to justify as anything but magic.

Whatever it was, I would have to handle it later. Suppressing such rumors had a nasty habit of acting as a confirmation for those who would wish to use it, though if it got to the ear of the Spider, I might have to increase the security, as I knew the hate Varys had for Magic... or at least the hate he claimed to have.

"I think men lack the wit to insult properly," she echoed, my mind returning from the thought to the present, a smirk appearing on my face. She presenting her hand before whispering "Until we are unmasked, dear stranger, you may call me... Pearl," her mask catching the glint of the lamps. Amusement danced in her eyes, the color of chocolate.

It also explained why she found the comment about insulting dragons amusing... she was descended from one.

The Black Pearl, possibly the only contact outside of the Iron Bank and Sealord in Braavos that would in some shape or form hold any sympathy for my family, was someone that I had wanted to meet. Not just for familial connections but because the Courtesans of Braavos were an interesting organization that I needed to learn more of. They were as general far beyond the whores in Westeros, being independently wealthy, highly educated and extremely politically connected. There was more to sleeping with men that the Courtesans did, as they held a more celebrity-like status, holding political influence, having playwrights stumble over each other to write plays that were specifically for a specific Courtesan or even have stupid Bravos fighting in the streets with a look alone.

Just the sheer influence and contacts Black Pearl would provide was reason enough to get in contact with her... though my age and lack of resources made it an uphill battle. And now here she was, getting in contact with me out of curiosity... I could use it.

"In that case, you may call me... Wizard, my lovely lady..." I said, bowing with a flourish as was common in Braavos and taking the offered hand and bringing it close to my lips.

I had to say that the girl before me was much more pleasant company than the haughty idiots I had to deal with for the last week and a half... as I found this dance of words almost refreshing... before the girl almost dragged me to the literal dance floor.

"So, are you a wizard with magic powers?" whispered Pearl, pressing herself to me.

"You may say so... how about a trade?" I asked, having observed the girl long enough to notice the effect she had around her.

"What can poor old me trade for such secrets?" pouted Pearl, pulling herself dangerously close to me. I had to clamp down at whatever instincts that seemed to have surfaced in her presence.

It was weird, the effect I was feeling was not normal from my experiences. Other woman did not bring out that much desire and I was sure that it had something magical linked to it... was this the effect Targaryens had that made them attracted to each other? Was this her desire to be the center of attention bringing out emotions in men? The closest thing I could compare it to be would be the Veela Allure from the Harry Potter books.

"You tell me how you think you are making lights stronger around you, and I will tell you how you actually do it," I suggested, guessing that the effect was tied to the effect she had on minds of others.

Arya would describe this woman before me as so lovely that the lamps seemed to burn brighter when she passed. A simple description that did not do justice to the actual effect she had on flames around her, an effect that a part of me had tried to dismiss, though experience allowed me to push through whatever influence was making me not notice effects with obvious magic... the light compulsion to disregard every bit of magic was something that I had noticed significantly after Wat had pointed out the shift in my eye color when casting magic and now, I was able to push through it with ease, having braced myself for it.

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Pearl trying to look innocent. The fact that the lights flickered with her blinking.

My hand brushed the wand attached to my belt, followed by a mental push to those in the room to ignore what I was about to do, a more overt effect to the compulsion to ignore magic that I have recently played around with, I pushed to the flames, causing them to grow dimmer first before making the one closer to her line of sight jump with a thought, matching the beat of the drums... all with a glare to one of the candles that lit the room. I did not even need a wand to do that trick anymore... hah... eat your heart out Dumbledore... you are not the only two-bit hack who can pull such a trick off.

"That is what I mean," I said with a smirk, while Pearl looked genuinely taken aback by what I could do.

Did I overplay my hand... I so rarely got to show off... what with the Wat's having stopped reacting to weird things I got up to with magic. I suppose it was hard to top waving a stick and cutting a man's head off with a blade of fire... or that was how they described my latest cutting curse.

Me revealing or rather confirming my abilities was a risk I had to take. The effect she had on other people was something I needed to learn and the potential alliance was worth revealing something that everyone else would have hard time believing.

A surface scan of her mind showed that she was surprised, curious, slightly afraid and... aroused by the display. Magic had that effect on most Targaryens it would seem... or it was the potential power a person might wield with Magic... I did not know.

A smirk appeared on Pearl's lips, before she leaned in, her body pressing into mine "A true Wizard indeed," she whispered in her sultry voice "whatever shall I do?" she asked, her eyes holding a glint of interest. "Here I thought those poets were being fancy when they said my presence made flames burn brighter," whispered Pearl into my ear, her breath tickling my skin "You are doing it on purpose though... unlike me. Where did you learn it?"

"On my own..." I stated, bragging just a little bit, which was not even incorrect, controlling flames were the next logical step to flame divination and I knew it was possible, which was half the battle "But it is not even the most intriguing part about you my dear Pearl, you are making people notice you by your every breath... not even noticing it."

"No wonder man think you are dangerous..." said Pearl before someone shouted, interrupting her.

"There you are, I was looking all around for you." the man said, his words slurring and his stumbling testament to his intoxication.

I briefly wondered about whichever god was throwing cliches in my direction.

"This is the part where he insults one of us and grabs you," I whispered, loud enough for Pearl to hear. Pearl snorted at my comment, causing the said man to do exactly that.

"Who do you think you are," the man said, pushing me back with a finger, which I simply "she came with me," he said before making a grab for Pearl's arm, which was still over my shoulders.

A mental push to those around us made them ignore the three of us before I snapped the hand that was reaching Pearl. Turning and looking the drunk man straight in the eye. "You want to go back home, sleep off the hangover and rethink how you treat a lady," I stated, pushing my entire mind behind the Compulsion.

The man, or rather the boy really given he could not be anything but a teenager, turned around, stumbling out of the ball room. His mind lacking the inhibitions to resist my commands.

"How did you do that?" asked Pearl, making me smile cryptically.

"I suppose the same way you make people notice you," I said with a hint of amusement at the revealed look Pearl had.

"That was the nephew of the Sealord," she whispered "I was to accompany him during the ball as a favor to him."

"He sounded like a drunkard," I said, having not been impressed.

"And a bore," said Pearl in a bored tone "If I have to hear another boast about the size of his ship..."

I snorted, causing Pearl to giggle as well.

"I suppose I owe you my gratitude for not causing bloodshed. I am sure the Sealord would also appreciate it," said Pearl, linking her arm with mine and guiding us back to the balcony.

"Oh... there would not have been much blood," I said, my words causing her to gulp. If she was aroused by power, I could definitely show her how much power I could truly wield. "Though he would spend some time thinking himself a newt... but no blood."

Pearl seemed to have found it amusing, utterly comfortable with magic. The crowd rippled in excitement. "Oh... I love this part" she said in excitement.

The countdown reminded me of the New Year celebrations in my old life, a nostalgic feeling as the Titan of Braavos roared, announcing the end of the celebration and signaling the uncloaking.

"Bellegere Otherys," she introduced herself with an amused look, having taken off her mask. She was young... younger than I would have thought, though still a few years older than me from what I could tell.

"Viserys Targaryen" I responded with a bow, flourishing my mask like a hat, my exaggeration eliciting a giggle from the girl who was definitely a teenager closer to my age than an actual adult. "It is an honor, to gaze upon the beauty of Legendary Black Pearl," I said, with a smirk, causing Belle to giggle before tilting her head and giggling once more.

"You know the funny thing... my prince?" asked Bellegere, her smirk not leaving her face "I can see in your eyes that you genuinely think of me to be Black Pearl."

"Are you not?" I asked, now genuinely confused.

"That would be my mother... at least for a few more years more." said Bellegere with a self-satisfied smirk "Though I am sure she would find the compliment amusing as well. Please, my friends call me Belle," she added, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You are my friend, are you not, Prince Viserys."

"I suppose it is only fair if you call me Viz," I said with a matching grin.

"Such familiarity, my prince... would that be appropriate?" gasped Belle, pushing a bit with her acting. She was good, the way she moved and acted, no wonder the Courtesans of Braavos had man wrapped around their finger.

"I thought we were friends," I responded, getting a smirk from the girl... before someone screamed.

I closed my eyes with a sigh. It would not be a party if someone did not get shanked it would seem.

A mental command had a bird fly to get a better view of what was going on, as I saw the cause for commotion, I saw the crowd separated by armed guards and I noticed the purple cloak of Syrio, which gave me enough knowledge to know that someone important was attacked. There were two people on the floor, though everyone was focused on a single one.

"Syrio!" I yelled out, moving through the crowd, my wand in my hand enough to provide the field around me that slightly pushed everyone away as I walked. I had not even noticed that Belle had followed, along with Ser Richard, who was ready for a fight.

"Let him through," commanded Syrio Forrel, his voice harsher than any time I heard him before.

"Shit," I said, noticing that the one on the floor bleeding was none other than the Sealord himself.

The blood was a lot... enough for someone with experience like Syrio to know the man was going to die.

"Can you help him?" asked a woman next to the Sealord, putting pressure on the wound. From the color of her skin and the dress that was similar to what Belle was wearing, I could only assume that it was the Black Pearl herself.

I could... probably... maybe.

"Boy?" asked Syrio, his eyes darting around.

`Me and my fucking bleeding heart.` I mentally chided, before getting close. I was not a healer, not a trained one at that. That being said, I did have some first aid training and around a dozen different methods I came up with to use magic for healing... all of them untested on humans.

"Keep the pressure until I say so," I ordered, not bothering with niceties. "I need to cauterize the wound, stop the bleeding," I said, though I was not sure I could do it with just my wand.

I reached behind my belt, to a custom pouch made from hardened leather. Inside was two vials of the Prototype Healing Potion I had, along with the more inert mixtures that would come in handy in a pinch. Just because the damned Healing Potion would leave acid burns did not mean that they could not be of any use. The main problem was that normally, the potion still took hours to close a cut wound... which meant that I had to improvise.

Once ready, I signaled for the woman to take her hands away, pouring the potion into the wound. I could see that the blood was leaking with each heartbeat, suggesting that the wound was either to an artery or something major... a kidney if I had to guess.

`Meh, he has a spare` I mentally shrugged, before sinking into a calm state of mind, letting my instincts guide me as I held what I was planning in the forefront of my mind. Magic was weird and I already knew that there was a Divination based aspect to every spell I cast... especially in the more ritualistic spells that I needed more than my wand.

I pointed my wand and flames engulfed the mixture of potion and blood. Instead of guiding the flames to have a purpose on my own, I pulled it from the potion directly... not dissimilar to how I could pull the concept of fire from dragonglass, a process that I still barely understood. The potion itself held a rather distinct purpose, the way each material helped with healing making up the parts of the whole that were greater in total... a synergy between materials and the soul bound to the potion.

The flames took on that purpose, while I pushed my will into the flames to suppress the less desirable effects, like the way it would burn through flesh... a rather counter-intuitive effect for a Healing Potion.

The flames took a green and yellow hue, different from the fluorescent green of wildfire and much closer to the colors found in leaves. I let the spell be guided by the echo of the potion, accelerating the process using raw spellfire. It was technically a spell, but instead of my knowledge or experience, I was letting the potion handle the heavier load of healing, giving this process a more ritualistic bend.

The wound slowly closed, knitting in a way that the body itself would heal, only much faster... much, much faster. I was not still good at understanding the more transformation-based aspects of magic that I was capable of doing, but this was less changing something and more accelerating the natural healing process. Where before, there was a fresh knife wound, now was a bright red line around which was covered with acid burns, an angry red in color... the cost of the potions and magic leaving a rather distinct scar.

The Sealord was still pale... "He lost a lot of blood," I stated, not having thought of anything to address that on me. I could probably make something in a pinch though... before my mind caught up and without casting a spell, my perception returned. We were still surrounded by onlookers, watching behind the perimeter of guards... far enough to not see exact details, but close enough to notice any overt use of magic.

"He should be good enough to move... I will need to make the watchers forget." I said to Syrio, who understood my need for secrecy. He was observant enough to know that I could do magic, providing some tips and tricks in exchange for learning of ways people could influence minds... so as to not repeat the mess with the Alchemist. He did not know the full extent of my skills but he knew enough to protect himself. Getting up, I reached out to cast another spell, a hand landing over mine that had the wand caused me to snap at the owner, a curse at the tip of my tongue.

"Let them remember," whispered Belle, causing me to calm down. She was looking at me with eyes glinting, "you can use it" she said, probably having overheard my talk with Syrio.

I considered it, knowing that someone trained to take on the title of Black Pearl of Braavos would have more experience with PR than I would. I was more focused on keeping things down but Belle seemed to have some sort of a plot yet a simple Legilimency proved that it was not malicious, politically motivated but not malicious at all. She was cunning enough to know that any rise I might have could come in handy for her as she banked on me feeling grateful for her help. While I could not care for the plots of other people, Belle was the daughter of the Black Pearl, someone I wanted on my side... not discounting that part of me that wanted to bend her over the nearest flat surface that I had been keeping at bay for the last few hours.

From another perspective, I could even see its benefit for me, the Sealord being saved by the last scion of the last Dragonlord of Valyria on the day of Uncloaking would send a certain type of message... so I decided to follow her lead. The more overt aspects of magic would be dismissed, a combination of my wand's Notice-Me-Not Enchantment and that passive field that made everyone not notice magic most of the time.

Any rumor would easily be dismissed by anyone who held power though it would still bring attention to me in some way or form.

So busy in my thoughts, I did not notice when Syrio stepped next to me, before whispering "He lost too much blood". The Sealord was laid on the closest comfortable-looking surface, pale as bone, while what appeared to be a Surgeon had recently come in binding his now-healed wound. "I have seen men who looked less pale not wake up from their sleep. Unless you have something that can refill the blood he lost..."

I nodded, understanding what he meant. "I... I cannot guarantee anything," I warned. "But I may have a way."

While everyone watched over the Sealord, I went to the table to the side, which had some plates with food in them. A silver goblet was my choice, as I lacked the bronze cauldron that I normally used. I was still trying to figure out how certain metals used in cauldrons influenced the potions. Bronze was good for anything I could do, giving a feeling of stability and strength which made the resulting potions stronger and less likely to act up, while Silver specifically had a strengthening effect on healing potions, though each brew caused the silver itself to darken and lose its luster, which was why I did not often use it when experimenting... bronze was simply cheaper to replace and far more likely to last for multiple uses.

I pulled back my sleeves before reaching into the heart, grabbing a couple of burning logs from the center and throwing them around the silver goblet. Someone gasped behind me, not that I cared, as I prepared the materials. The heat from the logs was low but the goblet would still be ruined, either way, so nothing was lost.

I had never created this specific brew but the theory was there and it ought to be safe... probably.

A backup vial of Potion Base from my pouch for starters, followed by a spring of parsley that had decorated one of the plates in the main hall before the raven I had snatched it for me, along with a charred tomato from one of the plates on the table went into the mix.

Each material was one I knew to help with blood production, and so they became part of the improvised Blood Replenishing Potion. I took a cup of half-drunk Dornish Red, pouring it over my own hand that was covered with the Sealord's blood. A few passes with my wand to push my will into the mixture and I had what I wanted.

Taking the goblet that now had a deformed base out of the flame. The metal was cool enough that I could hold it. A mental command had the raven I used as a scout land next to me from the rafters, before taking a sip of the potion I spilled on another cup.

Soul density had some influence on how Magic affected you... which explained why animals did not live in places with high magic concentrations, lacking Magical Resistance to survive places like Asshai. If the potion had any negative effects, the raven would show it faster and its mind was close enough to the intelligence of men that I could tell if there was an unseen effect.

I said, holding out the goblet and checking that the raven was not dead or a molten puddle or something equally likely "This may help him... but I am not certain that it will not cause something worse. It is made to help with the blood loss". I was banking on any incorrect calculation of acidity that would not hurt anything in his stomach while the magic would effectively boost the rate of blood production.

"He will likely die if we do nothing," said Syrio with a shrug "And all man must die." he looked me in the eyes

"Not today though," I said, matching the smirk that came on his face.

"No... not today," said Syrio, taking the goblet from my hands.

Over the next fifteen minutes, I watched, as the Sealord regained some of all the color he had lost, his breathing becoming deeper, his chest moving more clearly. The amount of potion was less than a pint but even that was apparently strong enough to force his body to produce blood cells at a faster rate. He might still die from Blood Cancer or something equally likely because of Magic, but the Sealord would not die today.

"Impressive, young man." said the woman who was tending the Sealord until that moment, having been helping stabilize the Sealord. "Bellonara Otherys."

"Viserys Targaryen... Belle, I did not know you had a sister." I said with a grin, bringing her knuckles over to my lips. The effect of magic was either on my end or it was hereditary as I felt lightheaded, the world around this woman blurring before I could pull my mind back and everything snapped into place.

"Oh my, such a charmer." said the Black Pearl of Braavos looking at her daughter with a knowing look. "And is it Belle already, my daughter is moving fast, isn't she."

"Not really, he thought I was you at first, so he may just not be thinking clearly at all," responded the daughter giving me a knowing look. I turned to respond before noticing something strange. Was she... blushing?

"Flirt with men somewhere else woman" grunted the Surgeon that was now done binding the wound. He turned and looked at us, probably intent on saying more before he stopped and his eyes locked on my face, his face was one that I recognized.

"You..." said the nameless Surgeon who had patched me up.

"It is a small city," I said with a warm smile.

"Ahem..." coughed the Surgeon, clearly shaken "Whatever you did helped him... so good job lad. Not sure what could do it but it seems to have closed off the cut better than any stitch could."

"Your recipe," I responded with a cheeky grin, "I just improved it... Viserys Targaryen."

"Of course you bloody are... Terrio Dimmitis, Court Physician, anything else you did to my charge in the process of saving him?" asked the now-named Terrio.

"Just feed him some ash and water mix if he starts feeling stomach ache," I said with a shrug seeing that the raven who drank the potion first was still alive. "He should be fine in a few days of rest."

"Good, not leave before you attract more trouble." commanded the Court Physician, giving Syrio a glare.

"It is time we shall take our leave as well," said Bellonara, before leaning down and giving a kiss to the Sealord on the lips. The poor man was probably too out of it for it to register... lucky bastard.

"From the way he treats you, you have met Terrio before?" asked the Black Pearl, amused at our interactions.

"Let us say that he patched me up after a spot of trouble," I said with a shrug, the scar on my arm choosing that moment to throb, though it was dull enough that I could ignore it. I watched as the Black Pearl rose to her feet with a grace that made me memorize her every move.

"While I am sure you two would like to spend more time together, I believe that this night has already soured with unpleasantness with drama." said the Black Pearl, ever the picture of grace, despite the blood on her hands that she seemed to ignore. "I shall see you later, Prince Viserys Targaryen... and I am sure dear Belle would love that as well."

I nodded, not really trusting my voice. A hasty exit was the safest option after what happened. I could feel that both of them were shaken from the violence, not strangers to it, certainly but still not used to it.

Belle looked at me for a moment before leaning in and whispering "Until we meet again, my Wizard." before kissing my cheek. "I will have to hear more about how I keep you enchanted by my mere presence," she said with a smirk before turning around and leaving.

"Were you expecting the night to end differently?" asked Ser Richard with a grin, his eyes looking in the same direction as me. "Mayhaps with that lady friend of yours."

"Shut up, Richard," I commanded, getting a snicker in return. I hated that he was right. Given how I already had the intention of getting in contact with the Black Pearl, the mutual attraction would help me. The interest Bellegere had shown me was natural for a teenager who was curious about the unknown. I was unsure how to proceed and would have to play it by the ear for now but an alliance could have many benefits, in the end, I just had to make sure not to be led around by the girl. That being said, the effect she had on me reminded me that I was open to being manipulated, which meant I needed to double my daily Occlumency practice.

"Wouldn't be Planetos without someone getting shanked at a party," I muttered to myself, walking back home.

AN:

In other news, Local Wizard saves the Sealord while struggling with puberty.

Some people have an inborn affinity for certain magics, but the true skill comes in being able to learn the methods which sets Wizerys apart. Wat the Right and possibly Syrio have the ability to see through illusions, while Bellegere has an unconscious control of fire and some sort of an allure. Similarly, there are some characters who are capable of using magic to improve their physical abilities. Robert is inhumanly strong given the hammer he wields, and so is Jon Snow when he is angered. Jamie is said to be fast enough to cut through 10 trained and armored men, most of them nobles who were trained from the day they could walk. This is subtle and there is a subtle perception filter that Wizerys realized that is keeping people from realizing that they are using magic.

In Alchemy, Bronze is "strength and stability", while Silver is linked to "healing and protection". Also Silver reacts with Sulfur, which is what has led to the belief that silver weapons can hurt werewolves and other demonic entities.

Bellegere is the Black Pearl by the time of the books and she is described as young by Arya, so I thought she would be around her mid-twenties by then. For now, she is a teenager a few years older than Viserys. I tried to capture that "Ara Ara" energy with the current Black Pearl... Also, note that Blood of the Dragon seems to have this weird attraction effect on Targaryen's so, there is definitely something weird going on.

Before anyone comments, regarding Lemons... I want to try my hand with them and this would not be an ASOIAF without gratuitous sex. Half the Magical Practices that people come up with utilize sex in some way, so they will be there... not every chapter like some other works on this site but they will be there... eventually.

Last edited: Dec 12, 2022

015 Flavor of Magic

AN:

This chapter took a bit longer to write, mostly because real world kept me busy but also because I have not written lemons before, so I kept rewriting the last part. Feedback is always welcome.

Warning, this chapter will discuss post-Dance with Dragons Westeros Politics, so spoilers for HotD... Does it even count as spoilers at this point?

# 015 Flavor of Magic

Cold Water washed over my face as I took a deep breath.

"Right," I muttered, my blood cooled after the events of the night. Now that I was away from Belle, I could tell that something was definitely wrong with my instincts when I was near her.

The closest I got to that state was when I had seen had for an instant imagined Dany in place of Lanna in that basement of the house the Alchemist had. Where, that vision brought wrath and instincts to burn anyone who was remotely responsible... this time, my mind was clouded with pure lust. It took all my self-control not to lose it right there and pick a fight with the Sealord's nephew.

The only common factor with both events was... the Blood of the Dragon, not just mine, but also the person who brought out those feelings.

My mind held many memories of Aerys rambling on and on about the Blood of the Dragon, `Waking the Dragon` and all that bullshit but this was not what I had imagined it to be. I had mostly considered it nothing but the ramblings of a man who grew up not needing to have any impulse control like any other royalty.

"No wonder Targaryens are impulsive wrecks," I said out loud before my eyes landed on my wand. Was that why my reactions were so... strong?

That was the other answer to the question of why I was so influenced by the Blood of the Dragon. Maybe it was not just genetics affecting me... maybe it was the dragon bone that made part of the core of my wand leave its mark on me.

A dragon instinctively snapped back at anything that dared attack it, they were the apex predators and their fight or flight reflex was heavily biased towards fighting. While outwardly I had not changed, a bit of self-reflection showed that I was less averse to violence lately. The way I took out the bandit compared to my previously more cautious nature clashed not because my wand was better, but because I was more at ease with killing my enemies... because I cared less about them and more about mine.

It also explained my attraction to the two women who would hold the title of Black Pearl. Unlike Dany, who was still a child, the mother-daughter pair were fully grown for all intents and purposes and that... breeding instinct came to the surface when they were close to me. The reaction, combined with the onset of puberty made for a dangerous combination, and tonight was proof of that.

Then there was the way they seem to so easily manipulate me. I saw through their intent but a part of me simply did not care. Sure, accepting Belle's suggestion had advantages for me, but they were not worth the cost of giving up my trump card and revealing that I could do magic. Now, I would have to rely on the willing-obtuseness of people in this world and hope they underestimated me... though I would have to take a few precautions that were long passed time.

"The paranoia will keep me awake, won't it?" I muttered to myself, before deciding to do something... anything about it.

Two pieces of wood, one white as bone, the other black as night sat side by side, each fed with a drop of blood from my finger before I slowly channeled my will through my wand. The spellfire washed over the two pieces of different wood, not burning the wood as the flame was meant to do but changing them still. Slowly forcing them to merge in an effect similar to how my wand was created, the grains moving to form a single piece of wood where there were two.

The wood was alive, even if it was cut and lacked roots. The spellfire and my soul giving it the right properties of aliveness for a moment... a small method of necromancy as I revived the dead plant to serve my will.

Once complete, I left my workshop, running into the one person who could call me out on my stupidity. "Heard you had an interesting night," said Ser Willem, seeing that I was still up.

"Talk while I work," I ordered, not in the mood for pleasantries. While the supposed age gap was there, it was less a representation of social standing and more of the respect the man held for me that made him follow my orders. While I looked physically, I had long since given up trying to act my age and Ser Willem took it in strides. To him, it was nothing but another strangeness from my family.

Grabbing the ladder, I made my way to the red door, a nail and hammer in hand while listening to Ser Willem about his thoughts on the night, thoughts that I had to agree with. "Making a spectacle is not the best way to not draw attention, your grace, given that is what you wanted," stated Ser Willem sounding more tired than angry.

"Things happened beyond my control... wait a moment..." I said, the nail held between my lips as I went up the ladder. The nail went through the amulet of Weirwood and Nightwood I just made and into the threshold of the house. Now, I needed to enchant the entire frame of the house to hold the same effect as the amulet.

The principles of what I was doing were simple and similar to how I was able to mold the wood to my will and shape it... only at a slightly larger scale.

The protection itself was all based on a simple concept. The most simple form of the amulet I had was the two pieces of distinctly colored wood and some yarn to hang the amulet around the neck. The soul that was inside stayed inside and the soul that was outside stayed outside, the yarn acting as a boundary that souls could not pass for a reason that I could explain with a dozen theories though none was proven yet. The only way around the protection was a single drop of blood to the amulet that allowed the source of the blood almost free access through the boundary that was created.

A bit scaled up, the principles still worked. The Ritual Circle I made with the help of Lanna worked on a similar method. A rope and the amulet kept the soul within from being influenced by someone outside, as anything that hit the boundary got shunted through the amulet and spiritually returned to sender. That made it ideal to do delicate rituals that you did not want another person to influence, making the core of a Ritual Circle.

The addition of salt water to the rope made the entire mixture a bit more efficient, based on the very nature of salt as a way to purify. There were some links to other methods I knew, including the whole `Reborn in Salt and Smoke` part of the Azor Ahai Prophecy. That being said, the end result of the Ritual Circle was no different than the amulet, only at a slightly larger scale than a circle a person can sit on. Any larger than that and the protective nature would fail as the circle lacked... something.

My studies pretty much concluded that the soul within the circle was what empowered the protection, but the effect sort of fizzled out if the soul was stretched too thin, reducing the potency of the protection.

Scaling the same concept up to an entire house was going to be tricky, but not impossible as I just needed a dedicated soul to handle the process and a single object for the soul to be bound to, instead of multiple moving parts.

That meant that I needed to ensure I did not need to enchant each piece of wood separately... which was where the trick I used to make the amulet came in. I could use magic to merge wood, my wand releasing blue fire, carrying my will through the entire house. The spellfire was not physically hot enough to burn the wooden flame, but it was enough to bring it to life and under my control, the entire wooden frame slowly shifting just enough to grow together, like those trees that can grow through metal posts.

A vial of blood and obsidian and a bit of spellfire later, the entire wooden frame of the Mansion was a single piece of enchanted wood. The soul in the potion, the bandit whose body was burned away with the bit of obsidian that trapped his soul powered the enchantment, cycling through the wooden frame and into the amulet and back through the frame of the house. The soul gained the magical effect of the amulet and spread it through the mansion, keeping any magical un-attuned to the amulet from watching within.

"Now, how the fuck do I make it work for other threats?" I mumbled to myself as my mind went through what I knew of this type of magic.

Wards, Magical Protections, Enchantments, Bounded Fields call it what you will, was a branch of magic that I had little experience with. The one trick I knew was the one with Weirwood and Nightwood and I had already completed that.

"You are not the first men to be led around by his lusts," voiced Ser Willem finally seeing as I was done with what I was working on. He sounded uncomfortable, as I stepped down the ladder.

"You are horrible at this," I commented with an amused look. I knew what he meant. My outing of myself as a Wizard was the cost of the fact that I saved the life of the Sealord of Braavos. He could not publicly ignore that fact and that was a win in my book. That being said, the most who would get out of this entire set of events would be the Black Pearl, given Belle's public association with me.

"You are a smart lad, your grace, smarter men were led around by woman" stared Ser Willem, seeing me visibly cringe "I am just..."

"You are looking out for me... yes, I know," I said with a nod "Ser Willem, believe me when I say that there is no reward a king could give for the loyalty you have shown me and my family... I understand your... weariness but I am not some love-sick fool to be led around by a pretty face."

"Good... your brother was bad enough," commented Ser Willem making me frown as my anger surfaced at those words.

"Careful," I said, a growl, my wand glowing with my emotions "I tolerate much, Ser, but being compared to him or Aerys is a line too far. And just because I can insult those two does not give you leave to do so."

"Yes, your grace," said Ser Willem with a bow, though there was a smirk on his face.

"You did that on purpose!" I accused, noticing his... pride that emanated off of him. I did not even need to use

"Good, you are learning," was all the comment Ser Willem gave me with a soft smile "There might just be hope for you yet."

`That was like getting the talk all over again... only the Westerosi version` I mentally groaned. It was not needed but the fact that Ser Willem even bothered showed how much he cared. It was not needed, however, as now that I had an idea what caused it, I would be much more prepared...

"Now, will you share what you just did?" asked Ser Willem "I know you are dying to show off to someone."

"I am not that bad, am I?" I asked, getting a look from the old man that said I was indeed that bad. "Fine, I just blocked anyone with magic who might want to directly spy on us. It is not perfect, but it will hold back most. I have a few ideas on how to add other protections like ones that will make it hard for anyone who wishes us harm from ever finding the place but I need to test a few ideas before that."

It was good against others with magic, blocking Divination and keeping them from spying in on the house. Add a soul to hold a more active enchantment running through the entire frame of a house and voila, anti-Divination Ward.

It was a simple protection if you had a wand, but it was probably possible without one as well, through a complex process if you tried it another way... though I could see some Greenseer forcing trees to merge and build into a hut or a keep over a period of decades and dozens of sacrifice, letting the roots of the trees grow through the stone, not unlike a skeleton.

It was a precaution, one that was long passed its due. It would keep out those who might act first out, those who posed actual danger at least. The rash ones who were stupid enough to underestimate me would be easy to handle. Anyone stupid enough to attack us or think burning the mansion would rid them of me would not survive the experience, but those who would watch those fools to gain a measure of my abilities, those would need their own pair of eyes to do so, now that Magical Vision was blocked to them.

"Sounds useful," commented Ser Willem, placing a hand on my shoulder "But think of it on the morrow, it is late and you need some rest. A clear head will do you better to solve those problems I can see going in your mind"

I smiled, enjoying the moment of relative normalcy...

Had the Sealord died this day, knives would come out.

It was time I prepared for every eventuality.

A week of recovery and the Sealord was back to holding court and I was invited as the main attraction... I mean, guest of honor.

The public attempt on the Sealord was not something mentioned in the books, and I was pretty sure Ferrego Antaryon was still the Sealord of Braavos by the time of the canon.

In the end, I could not discount the fact that my presence may have caused this... not that I would admit any responsibility to an event outside my own decisions. Free Will existed and Butterfly Effect was a thing but that did not make me responsible for whatever other people chose to do.

As it stood, combined with the rumors that I have learned about regarding my less-than-normal activities, I now knew that I had enemies, those that I was already aware of and those I was not aware of before. Pyromancy helped me divine for any immediate danger, though it seemed whatever I did had made any would-be-plotters scatter into the wind.

I had spent the entire week studying the Ward I had created around the Mansion, trying to figure out how to make it much more useful against non-Magical dangers as well but that was not going to be an easy project from what I could see. The soul within the house gained a `flavor` from the amulet as the wood was actually alive, small roots starting to grow into the ground where the main posts were buried.

Unlike my tunic, which was silk, wood seem to be less static. Being made from a material that was once alive, the soul seemed to be able to 'revive' the wood, which in turn slowly stripped the soul from any additional influence I could layer as part of the enchantment, leaving only the nature of the medium it currently resided within.

The Amulet, being part of the wooden frame allowed the protection to stay around but any other influence I had over the enchantment was minimal and decayed if I did not sustain them. I could, in theory, spend years sustaining any specific effect for the Enchantment until the nature of the wood reflected the nature of the new effect but that was time-consuming. In the end, what I was left with was a relatively passive defense. If I wanted some sort of a ward with intent-based magic to protect us from those who wished us harm, I would have to figure out how to automate it.

Returning to the Sealord and the trappings of power that was this entire session of the court... it was boring, to say the least. There was a lot of posturing, long-winded speeches of strength and the friendship between House Targaryen and anti-slavery sentiment that was the excuse as to why we were here and not in any other Free City and other bits and pieces in the speech for whatever hidden agenda Sealord wanted to push now that he had some patriotic fervor to go along with the regular enthusiasm of the Braavosi people.

It also suggested that they had no idea who was behind the attack, which made me concerned.

"As a sign of my gratitude and friendship, I would also like to grant you the deed of the new ship that will leave Arsenal." stated the Sealord, getting a round of applause and a nod from me mostly because not showing some gratitude would be below my standing.

Well... good news, I now had a ship. Apparently, that is the equivalent of a pat on the back and a good job for saving the man's life... cheap cunt.

On one hand, I now had a ship which was a good thing to have as a mobile base... on the other hand... ships did not move inland, limiting my future prospects significantly if I were to invest in enchanting it since I would not be able to part with it as easily. I had no intention of handing off a magical ship to someone because I could not move it around.

I would have preferred the dragon eggs stolen by Elissa Farman that ended up in Braavos or any knowledge of where they may be. The only thing stopping me from asking exactly was the fact that asking for it specifically may tip my hand.

People already whispered about how I could use Magic and that my infamy would rise with time. If they thought I was actively seeking dragon eggs, it did not require a genius to come to the conclusion that I may have an idea of how to hatch them. Dragons were something they would definitely not let me have so here I was, stuck to tracking them down on my own time without any public statement about the fact. It was better if people thought that I was ignorant of such things, the theory of the Elissa Farman eggs being the same ones that Illyrio had gotten access to would require too many leaps of logic to justify without any awareness of the narrative setup.

I knew where the eggs would eventually end up if the eggs that were once in Braavos, the ones from Dreamfyre's clutch, were in fact the same the three eggs that Illyrio had.

I did not really have any rush to get them, mostly because my understanding of the ritual OG Dany use was not as well deconstructed as I would like and I was not sure if I could actually hatch them without the Red Comet there to potentially boost the magical energy through whatever Celestial effect it had, and that would not happen for another decade.

While hatching the dragons a decade early was a tempting aspect, mostly so they could grow larger, there was also the fact that young dragons would be hard to protect. Anyone with half a brain and interest to prevent Targaryen's rise to power would find them easy pickings. The uneasy ceasefire between us and Robert would end the day he got the news of such a potential threat not to mention all those players who wanted a dragon of their own. I could probably do with a few thousand Unsullied between the dragons and anyone who wanted them harmed when I got them.

For now, I was content with biding my time, using the new leverage I gained to access the records that the Sea Lord may have about both the location of the eggs and some of the rarer books that not everyone could get access to.

The ceremony went on and on, boring everyone who did not anticipate something. The only good thing was my companion during the entire event, Belle having tracked me down and claimed my arm for herself, guiding me through the ever convoluted mess of the High Society. Polite words had replaced the subtle insults I heard just a week before... some of them even being genuine from the subtle brush against their minds.

By the time it ended, we were invited to dinner. There was no feast of the style of Westerosi, the Braavos being much less exuberant given that the Uncloaking was just done and it was still Winter.

There was also the fact that the Sealord needed his rest, and giving whoever attacked him another shot at finishing the job was not what anyone wanted. That being said, I was not sure which type of rest the Sealord needed, given that the Black Pearl was almost hand-feeding the man in front of us, much to my amusement and everyone's embarrassment. I need to find a suitable punishment for the smug bastard... and while NTR was a trash fetish, I was not going to let that stop me from bedding the Black Pearl and her daughter at the same time if I could pull it off and I was pretty sure Courtesans did not count.

"So, by all accounts, Lysene won the Dance of the Dragons" stated Bellegere, right next to me, distracting me from my nefarious plots that involved her and her mother. She had declared herself to be my date for some reason... not that I had any protests about it. She knew who was who in the court of the Sealord and allowed me to navigate the entire place without seriously insulting anyone of importance or getting me to be challenged to a duel for whatever inane reason. I mean, I could simply set them on fire but there laid the path of the Mad King.

During the dinner, we somehow ended up discussing history, some backhanded insult at my family for losing dragons during the Dance devolved into a serious discussion on who actually won the Dance with Dragons, as Belle skillfully ignored the idiot who wanted to get a cheap shot towards me.

I had read Fire and Blood, the first half, yet the second half held some of the greater mysteries still. Any insight I might gain from the known sources would help until I figured out how to sneak into the Citadel and reclaim that book... something that was among the list of things I would need to do once I was physically ready.

"Certainly a unique interpretation of the post-Dance era," I commented, enjoying the intellectual discussion for once. Ser Willem was decent but he was a second son, raised to hold a sword not to learn history and politics. It made him a good knight and a great Master-At-Arms but politics was not his domain. Ser Richard was slightly better, being the squire to Rhaegar got you some knowledge through sheer osmosis, given the bookworm that was my brother. He had also gotten a royal education as part of his training, though as Westerosi wont to do, he had only focused on the parts that involved pointy bits.

Belle was... informed. It was a trait of her Courtesan training, being in line to be possibly the most famous of the Courtesans, her future job was beyond warming the bed of men. She made for a good conversationalist and her skill in defending any side of an argument was a breath of fresh air.

It made me think if the Lysene profited greatly from the sequence of events beyond the obvious. Was the wealth of the Bank of Rogare a result of the sacking of Spicetown given how they lost prominence a few decades after the Dance?

"I would have said that Prince Daemon Targaryen was the only winner in the entire ordeal though." countered Verago Antaryon, the nephew of the Sealord looking sober for once. He did not seem angry or jealous from what I could tell with a cursory scan of his mind. He sounded happy and glad... festive even.

I nodded at the man... the teenager really. I would rather deal with older people as they had some impulse control... while young Bravos tended to take everything as a challenge to their honor. I had to keep reminding myself that I was not allowed to maim or kill him if he demanded a duel or something because then we would have to leave and it was still Winter which made our options slim.

"I apologize for interrupting, I just wished to thank Prince Viserys for his actions," he added, ignoring the tension.

"The Sealord provided a safe port to call home, it was the least I could do," I repeated the same words I have been doing for the entire day.

"And, I would have to thank you as well, for providing Belle here with your company," Verago added. He was surprisingly... genuine in his gratitude.

"Well, I would have thought you would be more bitter given your words when we last met." I countered, using a bit of Legilimency to navigate this situation... mostly because it was awkward. I was honestly expecting him to challenge me to a duel after that stunt.

"Well... yes... I may have gotten too much to drink." he blushed, looking away. I caught a thread of something... a line of thought... before I understood what the issue was. He was not drunk because he was an idiot... he just did not like the awkwardness between him and Belle as he overcompensated in his acting the night before to hide that he was not really interested in her... or any woman for that matter.

He was apparently more interested in me than Belle, now that I showed that I was not a danger to his family. It made me... strangely flattered yet still uncomfortable, given that I was straight. At least, I had managed to use Legilimency to learn it instead of staying so dense that one would confuse me for a shonen protagonist.

Right... `Mind arts too OP please don't nerf,` I mentally added before changing the tension just to avoid whatever this idiot before me was thinking.

"Ahem... right, you mentioned that it was Prince Daemon who won the Dance, care to elaborate?" I asked, breaking the tension.

Yeah, Daemon was a cunt and the closest thing to a Greek Hero there was and the maniac had ensured his name was remembered in the most badass way possible with how he died.

"The fact that he did something no other Dragon Rider achieved in the history of Valyria or House Targaryen." Verago supplemented, making me snort at his description. "Do you disagree, your grace?" he asked.

"Not in the slightest, his children continued the line of House Targaryen, to the extent that most Maesters argue it is his claim and not Rhaenyra's that allowed Aegon the Third to ascent the Throne, it means that he has won to a degree, though the loss of dragons means he lost as well as any other Targaryen." I countered "Granted, his line also continued House Valeryon... and possibly House Hightower as well so irony at its finest I suppose."

I was not sure about the last one, but it sort of fit with what I knew about House Hightower and their little obsession with magic... or at least the latest generation's obsession. The Mad Maid and the current Lord Hightower seemed strange and I had a feeling that they were watching me through Glass Candles.

Soon, Belle made an excuse and we were dancing, the 'small' meal still warranting a good orchestra.

"What are the chances he just threw Dark Sister in Prince Aemond's general direction?" Belle whispered, snuggling closer as my hand wandered downwards "No one would see it in the air."

I snorted at the image along with the idea of Daemon willingly throwing one thing he probably actually valued.

"Given what is recorded, he would have preferred to throw his own manhood before he would chance to lose his sword. It is why most argue that he leapt from his dragon, as he would be unwilling to part with his sword," I stated, giving her a pinch for implying that a member of my family was not as crazy as history portrayed them.

That being said, Valyrian Steel was magic and it could probably... have properties similar to a Weirwood arrow... possibly... probably not the case for Dark Sister... maybe... I was not sure. That being said, there were some interesting ideas there... ones that warranted more study in the future.

"Hmm, I suppose you are right, your grace. I find myself in need of some fresh air, would you accompany me?" asked Belle, giving us an excuse to leave the room. I nodded, catching the eyes of Ser Richard who gave a nod in understanding. While Ser Richard would have preferred to be close by, I preferred that he was there to protect Dany. This entire event could easily be used by the Sealord to keep her as a hostage to control me... not that he seemed to consider that as an option, possibly knowing that it would not work. I could select whom my fires burned nowadays and the Sealord's Palace was as flammable as any place.

Once outside, the winter air made itself known, causing Belle to shiver before a warm air wrapped around us, my hand resting on my wand and a smirk on my face.

The sheathe that I had made, I further modified to leave an opening in the tip, which made it much easier to cast spells in a pinch without removing the wand. It was less effective than pointing and shooting but simple compulsions that affected every person around me were handy tricks to have without overtly looking dangerous with a strange glowing item at hand.

I could feel that Belle was afraid of my use of magic before that fear changed to excitement as we slowly walked through the gardens, to the one place that still fascinated me.

The Menagerie of the Sealord of Braavos was... always an interesting place for me to spend time with, the few occasions we had reason to be in the Sealord's Palace. It was beautiful... even in Winter and even at night.

Most of the beasts were asleep... but the one that still fascinated me was awake, probably feeling that I was close by.

"That is a Basilisk," said Belle, looking intrigued as she approached the cages. It was not the first time I had seen the beast in question, as he was staring at me with intense hatred, hissing as a warning to keep away from his home.

I watched the giant reptile, considering its peculiar nature for a moment. The cross between a Komodo Dragon and Crocodile, the Basilisk was most definitely closely linked to the dinosaurs. That being said, its possible origin as a species was not the most interesting part of the creature, given that there was also a pair of Velociraptors from Sothyros in the Menagerie, who had not gone through extinction in this world. No, the most striking part of the creature before me was the existence of three pairs of legs it had, one more than naturally possible for every argument that could be made.

Basilisk Image

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"Afraid?" I asked, amused at the fact that Belle took a step back, pressing herself against me as a result. Casually pushing out the mental attack that came from the eye contact with the creature that was glaring at me, I could not contain my amusement at the fact that once, I too felt fear when I first came to see this beast to quench my curiosity.

Basilisks... not to confuse with the more snake-like version of Harry Potter had a unique gaze that acted as a way for the creature to skinchange into their prey, making their hunting much more efficient through magic as far as I could tell. They also had the instinctual aversion to any other being that could skinchange, hence this one's hostile reaction to me. That made them a great way to detect people with magical potential and even as a counter to most low-level practitioners who lacked the required proficiency in Mind Arts.

"Aren't you?" asked Belle, clearly unsettled.

"I can take him," I said with a shrug, the reptile looking away at my words, understanding the meaning behind them through the contact that was still not broken, before it decided to turn around and leave, understanding that I would not attack him first, choosing to hide in his burrow. I had spent enough time with that beast to develop my more advanced Mind Arts, his attack not dissimilar to the stronger Legilimency that I was able to duplicate.

"A drop of Basilisk blood can drive anyone with warm blood insane," I muttered, repeating the words that the Kindly Man would one day speak to Arya. The causality was not incorrect, only missing a key detail. Blood of the Basilisk allowed Basilisk to possess the one who consumed the blood, a key power that I had reverse-engineered to develop my understanding of Blood Magic. If used on me, the result would be greatly reduced, though I would have to find and kill the basilisk and figure out how to cleanse me of its spiritual influence which would fade over time once it did not have a body.

"Do you think..." she started, not finishing the rest of the words "I apologize, it is just that..."

"The Mad King deserved his title... but... he was tortured for nearly a year... any man would break, though I appreciate the sentiment, that he may not be one to blame," I countered. It was a question I asked myself as well, the part of me that was still Viserys unable to let it go. In the end, I pitied Aerys as much as I hated him. "The fault lay in those who chose to follow his orders after, as much as in himself. He deserved the fate he got... it does not matter dwelling on the what ifs and it does not excuse his actions."

"Is it some sort of magic, The blood of the Basilisk I mean?" asked Belle, deciding to change the topic. She was still looking at where the Basilisk had gone, her back against me.

"It is not impossible." I hummed, not answering fully as my hands rested on her hips.

Some knowledge was best not shared... Blood Magic was finicky and what I had figured out probably accounted for all the magic that Valyria had once been able to call upon, possibly apart from the secrets of creating dragons and Valyrian Steel at least. That being said, fewer people knew those secrets, better, as another Valyria was best to be avoided. "Such a thing would be Blood Magic, and those are dangerous."

"Speaking from experience?" asked Belle, pressing her back to me as she rolled her hips

"Possibly," I said, a whisper against her ear, before turning her around. She knew what she was doing, using her body to make me talk. There was amusement and triumph there and something else.

"What about more... intimate magics?" asked Belle, who was now in my personal space, our faces close enough that I could feel her breath. "I heard that there were some fun ones from the Summer Islands."

"Such magics may be dangerous without someone who knows what they are doing." I countered, getting a smirk from Belle. It was not hard to understand what she was after. A combination of ambition and a conversation with her mother about deciphering some works of magic from some old books they had.

Let it not be said that the Black Pearl did not hold ambition. She was apparently interested in keeping me around not just as a symbol of power but also to keep me out of the influence of those who opposed the Sealord.

"And, could that someone, be convinced?" asked Belle, batting her eyelashes while pressing her chest against mine. It was not the worst compromise for me, as I would rather have the Sealord's support along with whatever ritual Black Pearl had access to which got me interested.

"Keep that up and he would be," I said enjoying where this was going as my hands wrapped around her lower back before descending further to rest on her ass as I pulled her closer. The smirk on her face as I groped her ass implied that she was enjoying this as much as I was. I leaned in to capture her lips, enjoying the taste of lemons from the desert.

It was said that whores did not kiss... which was what differentiated Courtesans, I suppose. I did not really care about Belle's nature at that moment, my instincts that I had been suppressing were no longer as easily restrained.

I wanted to have her... over and over. That part of me that I kept behind my Occlumency was unleashed with that kiss and it did not want to wait. It would not be hard, even if she was not willing, a push here and there and her mind would be putty in my hands... but that was not me. The occasional mental checks to help me make sure she did not have any nefarious intention was all I was willing to go to.

I could so easily break her mind, make her nothing but a mindless slave for my lusts, her ambitions meant nothing to me, the politics were less than ash before my flames... before my mind snapped at that description, that innate dragon-ness that I held back.

Slamming my Occlumency back, I knew that I would not do something like that without reason. Such an act would make me no different than Aerys or Tywin or even Rhaegar. It would be something any other powerful Lord or King who abused their powers would not even hesitate to do.

The kiss broke, and I found myself growling into her neck as I pulled her closer, which seemed to amuse Belle.

She grabbed my hand, leading us through the relatively empty hallways to the room provided for me. It was meant to be a status symbol and a way to show off the Sealord's gratitude for the duration of the feast. While we could have gone to the Manse as easily, the nights in Braavos were not the safest.

I made eye contact with Ser Richard getting a nod from the man who was sitting on a chair in front of the doors leading to two other rooms given to us. One for Ser Willem and the other for Dany along with Nessa and Lanna, there to keep her company, Huan was with them, ensuring that anyone who might enter the room would not live long to have second thoughts before their faces were eaten by the dog.

Returning to my companion, I let her lead me through the doors to my room, not questioning how she knew which one was given to me. Her intent was clear to read, and I simply let her guide me. I enjoyed this dance we had, the chase was as fun as the reward at the end... it made everything all the sweeter.

--- Warning: Lemon Start

Once inside the room, Belle closed the doors behind her, only to find herself pushed against the said door, my mouth once again on her as my hands palmed her breasts causing her to moan into the kiss. Her breasts were not overly large, but enough to fill my hands and the stiff peaks were poking through the silk dress she wore.

My hands kneaded her breasts, as I slowly kissed down her neck, enjoying the way she moaned as I sucked on a particular spot. "And what spell... ah... would you weave to do so, sacrificing my purity... oh great Wizard?" moaned Belle causing me to pause through the haze of lust, before rising to look her in the eyes.

I released a hiss mixed with a growl at her words while cursing my big brain and what I was just thinking. She was right... I could not really have her without proper preparation and leveraging her virginity along with the virginity of this body, I suppose, could improve the potency of a ritual if I went through it correctly... which required me to actually prepare a ritual to leverage.

My head slowly slammed into the wooden door, resting next to Belle's own head. I could feel the way she froze from the way my mood seemed to shift from lust to frustration.

"You have not been with a man before?" I asked, my voice no more than a whisper against her ear, and I did not need to hear her answer to know it to be the case.

It made sense... the subtle nervousness I could feel, the way she was grinding herself against me through our clothes, trying to get herself as ready as she could. For someone who grew up around sex like Belle, I did not expect her to not be knowledgeable to a degree. She had been trying to get herself as close to the edge as she could to make what was to come enjoyable for her end.

A part of me that wanted to have her before anyone else roared in triumph, planning to ruin her and make her think of me every time she was with another. The dragon part of me did not care, just wanted to have her there and then and keep her afterward, never letting anyone touch her.

"I am five and ten..." said Belle, before leaning away as I watched her waiting on her to come to a decision, "No, but if it is with someone, I would prefer it to be with someone closer to my age than some old man. My mother disagrees... says that young men lack the experience to make fucking fun, that she could get someone who knows what he is doing."

"She is not wrong," I could agree... that being said... did I even count? Also, what was the mechanics of underage sex... I was biologically twelve, with a body closer to fourteen from the effect of additional soul-stuff I have been absorbing over the two years... my body was definitely ready. There was a small part of me that wondered how the age difference worked but that was promptly squashed by a dragon.

The moment of silence stretched between us, before Belle looked at me with lust in her brown eyes. "But you are not an ordinary man... are you, your grace?" asked Belle with a coy smile.

"No," I said with a feral grin, "and I shall make sure you enjoy every moment of it," I promised before I took a deep breath. "There is a part of me that wishes to have you... right now," I said honestly, looking her in the eyes. My words got her to swallow before she unconsciously ground against my leg in anticipation. "But a ritual like what you think I could do... that requires... preparation... if that is what you wish me to do."

I could admit that I was selfish in my decision as well. This was not just about her virginity after all, and I would rather have the one this body came with to be of some use instead of being wasted.

"I... I would like that," said Belle after a short breath to gather her courage. She seemed to not have expected that, thinking that I would simply push through and have my way with her. She was nervous, afraid of both my power and what I would choose to do with it, mostly when it came to her.

I did not need her to say that it was why her mother encouraged our 'friendship'. This was what she was after, and she thought that I could deliver. To Bellonara Otherys, the Black Pearl, this was just another job, a way to have influence over someone with power. I was not foolish enough to think of this as anything but a way to use me... I simply did not care enough to not be used.

If I had to be honest with myself, I could not think of a reason why virginity was valuable from a mechanical standpoint. It was not related to the bleeding that happened, else there was another alternative every month, even if it would have been a bit more messy and complicated. Such Magic was not the usual form of Blood Magic that I was familiar with in the end.

That being said, I was aware enough that I knew I was biased and not thinking clearly. I could think of a few people with an understanding of such things in Braavos, and I would want to take a look at those books that Belle seemed to have access to. While I did not expect anything solid from any of those, If I could see some pattern through multiple sources, I could combine them with my existing knowledge to create something... potent.

"Those are thoughts for later... for now, I am sure we can think of some other ways to keep ourselves... entertained," I whispered against her ear before I started kissing my way down her neck, to find that place that made her squirm against me once more, while my hands pulled on her dress, leaving her breasts bare for me. Her nipples looked like diamonds against my palms as I enjoyed her body.

It did not take long for us to land on the bed, my mouth attached to one of the nipples while my hand was on the other, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger and making her moan louder as she ground herself against the leg she was sitting on, pressing against her core through her dress.

I felt her hand move, undoing the laces of my breeches before reaching and wrapping one hand around my length. A moment later, my cock was free from my pants and my mouth was on her once more, as she worked to bring me to a climax.

It did not last long before I spilled onto her hand... mostly because this body was still not used to sex. As I leaned back, gasping for breath, Belle did not even break eye contact before she brought her fingers to her lips, licking some of my seed that ended up on her hand clean... giving me a show.

At that moment, I did not think of any of my self-imposed rules, pushing a compulsion into her mind that she enjoyed the taste. While I did not have some magic to change the taste, I could alter her perception just enough to make it pleasant, a workaround for a useful effect. It was a simple spell, barely considered Eromancy... but I wanted her to at least enjoy what she was doing.

I felt myself harden once she was done, moaning all the time. "Already?" she asked after seeing that I was once again ready to go, to which I grinned.

Ever heard the saying `spirit is willing but the flesh is weak`... well, at this point, my flesh was nothing but a servant to my spirit. Combined with the fact that this body was going through puberty and the Valyrian bullshit that was my genetics, recovery was not going to be an issue.

I leaned forward towards Belle, whispering to her ear "It will take more than that, my dear," as I started kissing down her neck once more, her hands moving to remove my clothing before she stood up. As I looked up, I saw Belle tug at a few strings before letting her dress and the rest of her undergarments fall onto the ground, leaving her bare to the world. With her hair slightly frazzled from our make-out, she simply looked... delicious.

Maybe this world wasn't that bad of a place after all.

AN:

Wizerys enjoying the small things in life, casually inventing Eromancy through shear horniness and all that.

This will become the start of the Warding and Ritual Magic path Wiz is getting started on, and said path he shall take will come in handy for many areas of magic. Enchanting things that are once living is complex and it causes said enchantment to evolve over time based on the medium used. This would also explain why the entire place is not overrun with Magical Items as most materials simply do not last that long, with the exception of some metals, jewelry and dragonbone.

Based on the discussions and suggestions, I am going to make it so Virginity Sacrifice thing is not something Wizerys comes up with but rather an already established concept in the world by other magic practitioners because those are pretty much common concepts that pop out early in human development. He will also be able to study a few existing rituals before coming up with his own versions.

Regarding the Basilisk, that image is from the World of Ice and Fire book, so it is canon to this world. It also has three pairs of feet that make it break the internal rules that George established for his work, which annoys me. Because if there is a six-limbed creature, it means Dragons can also have front legs and no one can argue otherwise. Did dragons with front legs exist in Valyria? Were Targaryens just not that prominent to get the shinier version of the weapons of destruction? Whatever. It also opens the path for unique things like Hippogriffs and Thestrals to be feasible in canon, along with actual proper dragons which is all I care about.

Then there are these 3 dragons from some of the earlier artwork. Now, I could simply pass it off as early-adaptation errors or I could use it to imply that proper Valyrians dragons had six limbs in total creating superior dragons and Targaryens did not know how to do that, causing their dragons to slowly devolve over time into more animalistic form. Given that Silverwing is depicted as having front legs, is this related to the size of the dragons? What I am saying is, this is supposed to be from an in-universe book, so what the hell?

How many limbs do Dragons actually have?

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Last edited: Jan 8, 2023

016 Hidden Beneath

AN:

Marcus2388 said:

No Christmas update?

Looks at time... sure, why not. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

# 016 Hidden Beneath

One of the sacrifices I had to make as a Wizard was the lack of peaceful sleep that came with the blessed unconsciousness.

It was not that I could not sleep or I did not sleep... but after a point in training with magic, sleep did not allow me to lose consciousness.

I often sank into a Trance of Occlumency, slowly running through my memories and reinforcing my sense of self. The process allowed me to realize how much influence skinchange had on me... though the influence was limited to when I did it without a wand, the wand acted as a buffer to keep me from losing my mind.

Other times, I would fly around, using animals to keep an eye on the surroundings of where I was staying. So long as I kept most of myself in my body to anchor my soul, I could see through multiple pairs of eyes at once and it was not unlike looking at multiple computer screens in my old life. While effective in keeping guard, that meant I got less rest than I would normally.

The inability to sleep and dream also meant that I could not be surprised or snuck up. Even the Faceless Men, however invisible to my senses they were, could be seen by the owl that was always perched on the rafters at one corner, its night vision being beyond anything humans were capable of.

That also meant that I was perfectly aware when Belle woke up and started moving from her position as the little spoon, ending up between my legs. I felt her lips wrap around my cock and slowly work me to full hardness before trying her way down my shaft, a feat that took her a couple of tries the night before. Deciding to not disturb her efforts, I simply pretended to sleep.

A few minutes later, I was close enough to the edge that I physically started to stir. Pulling back my entire soul into my body from where I spread it out, I decided to finally 'wake up'. Sight from dozen of eyes faded as my own eyes opened, looking at the bulge formed by the sheets, moving up and down. Lowly lifting the covers, I made eye contact with Belle, giving her an amused smile.

"Good morning," I said, my hand resting on her cheeks, stroking her face and causing her to purr in response before going back to sucking my dick with gusto. While we had not gone the full way, she was now more comfortable with oral than when she first started, especially after some mental encouragement.

Lacing my fingers through Belle's hair, I started to slowly guide her motions, encouraging her to take all of my length in. While I did not have some monster-sized cock, the slight boost to my growth from souls I absorbed from Blood Candles had done wonders for my biology and I was left with what I would consider an average-sized cock for an adult. Granted, I was barely a teenager so, there was still room for improvement, even if I did not figure out a way to use magic to control its size.

Before long, I spilled in her mouth, as Belle swallowed around me, making sure to clean everything up before slowly rising and sprawling over me before I flipped us over, kissing my way down the valley of her breasts and beneath the covers to return the favor.

Belle spread her legs, allowing me access as I reached her core before stopping, getting a groan of disappointment in response. I went lower instead, restarting at her knees, kissing up to her thighs instead, a cheeky grin spreading on my face as I felt her fingers lace through my head, intent to pull me to the prize. Sucking at one of the spots between her thighs that made her moan my name the night before, I finally reached the prize, using two fingers to help bring her over the edge.

It took me some time to bring her to release with just my tongue but I enjoyed the act, feeling her squirm around me, her thighs wrapping around my head as Bell came with a scream.

That seemed to have alerted other people because a door was slammed open.

"Are you awake?" came the voice of Dany making me freeze. "What are you doing?"

"Adult stuff," I responded, pulling myself up from beneath the covers. A check showed that she barged in through the door between the two rooms... which was not locked, unlike the door we took the night before... a mistake on my part. While I did not have an issue with Dany barging in, more than the normal adult outrage mixed with embarrassment, the fact that I missed another entrance to the room I slept in was a mistake I could not make again.

Making myself to the side, to make sure I was not laying on Belle, I turned my head and faced my sister, giving him a glare mixed with amusement.

"Is it a game? Can I play?" asked my sister, making me groan as I buried my face into the pillow. This was going to be one long talk, won't it?

"I am sorry, your grace... I could not stop her," said Nessa, her face red as she tried her best to keep Dany from seeing that both Belle and I were naked. I noticed that she had been frozen in place when Dany decided to enter and now, she was trying to cover Dany's eyes with her skirts and trying to wrangle her back to their room.

I turned and looked at the third person by the door, Lanna did not seem all that influenced, standing next to Huan rubbing her eyes before turning and probably going back to bed. `Figures, given where she grew up.` I mentally reasoned before turning to the truly responsible party for this mess.

"You had... one job," I stated, glaring at the dog who whined and covered his face beneath his paws.

"Blaming the dog now... lover?" whispered Belle, draping her body onto my back. I could feel her nipples press against my back, tempting me with more debauchery.

"The mutt knows what he did... that is going to be a disaster of a talk," I grumbled, causing Belle to giggle. Reaching for my wand and flicking it. The door that was left open to shut and lock with a mutter of "Colloportus".

"Impressive," commented Belle, still attached to my back, as she tried to tempt me for more fun by kissing my neck.

"Not as impressive as healing a man, but making a soft breeze to slam a door has its uses," I countered, conveniently not mentioning the locking of the door.

Placing my wand on the table next to the bed, I froze. Doing a double take to see a familiar-looking iron coin right next to where I placed my wand. I released a puff of air in frustration, trying to not overreact.

My delusions of safety shattered, and my body trying to relax from the onset of a panic, I closed my eyes, centering myself with Occlumency.

As it turned out, I was overconfident... because I was sure the coin was not there the night before. The cold chill that ran through my spine made me swallow. Since the main door was locked from the inside, the Faceless Man who came to drop off the coin would have had to come through the door connected to the room my sister slept.

And all of that, without alerting me or the animals I had around to act as early warning. So much for being aware of my surroundings while sleeping it would seem.

I would need to have a chat with the Faceless Men about appropriate methods of communication it would seem... because the alternative was to panic... and I did not do panic.

Mood thoroughly ruined by the reminder of my mortality, I decided to get up.

After a long and awkward conversation about where babies came from with my sister, I took a deep breath, mentally patting myself on the back for being able to avoid the more questionable practices of my family.

"So, what were you doing with Belle?" asked Dany.

"Something adults do when they like each other a lot," I answered, "Mostly husbands and wives... but you do not need to be actually married for it. I can explain it when you are old enough for it to be relevant."

"So... will I get to do that when I grow up?" asked Dany making me uncomfortable.

"Only if you enjoy doing things like that... no one is going to force you or I will kill them." I declared with a serious tone, said death would be slow... and involve a lot of fire... I did not care about being compared to Aerys when it came to things like that. "And only once you are married!" I added.

"But you said you did not need to be married for it." countered Dany, using logic against her overprotective brother... as if it would work. Little Lady, I am a Wizard who breaks three laws of physics before breakfast, I laugh at the face of logic.

"Dany, dear sister, I am... a hypocritical big brother that can set things on fire with a look." I declared, glaring at her "If you did it with anyone without my permission, I would burn that man alive."

Dany gulped, nodding that she did indeed understand.

"Does that mean I can do that with you when I grow up?" she asked, using that unique ability to critically strike my heart. "Targaryens wed brother and sisters, Ser Willem said so."

I looked at my sister, and sighed, mentally noting that I should have a long talk with the knight in question. If anyone else said that I would choose a more violent punishment, but the old knight got some leeway.

In truth, I did not know what to do with Dany. Marrying her off was not an option, because she had the potential to be a dragon rider and maybe more. I could teach her magic once she was old enough, but releasing that knowledge to some other House was not an option. Selling her off to a Dothraki was not going to happen even if the world depended on it. The last thing the world needed was a Daenerys influenced by the Dothraki Culture and wanted to conquer the world... in that way laid disaster.

Then there was that little bit of doubt I had about myself. I had grown to care about the girl who became my little sister, who asked a thousand questions that made me stop and question the rules of the world. Had I been born in any other house, I would have no hesitation about marrying her but my mental frame had incest under `bad` and grooming under `worse`.

Incest, that I could work around. Magic seemed to indicate that biology was overruled by souls and I was proficient in magic to find ways around the negative effects of incest. I would need to study a few more generations of enhanced species beforehand but the theory was there.

The other issue, of how Dany should be raised was an entirely different mess. I could so easily make her grow up expecting to marry her older brother, something that the original Viserys seemed to have done to a degree. That... was not me though.

I did not know what the future would bring and I was not sure how the "dragon blood" would influence things between us, but I had to do my best to stay neutral and be Dany's older brother first. In the end, all I could do was make sure she grew up with all the knowledge she might need in the future and let her make her own decisions when she was old enough.

"Be glad she did not ask more about the family tree," I say to myself out loud once Dany decided that she understood everything.

I decided that I needed some way to clear my mind and I could not do it by meditating now. Deciding to head to the yard to pick up that offer from the Sealord about a chance to spar, I headed to hit something with a wooden stick that was not my wand.

Syrio was already in the yard, with a rapier in hand, facing Ser Richard. The two had developed an odd rivalry, trying to outdo one another with their chosen styles.

"So, now that you have your own ship," said Verago, putting on his own helmet against me. "You will need someone to teach you how to sail."

I looked at him un-amused... not at the fact that he was offering something that I would normally find acceptable, but because this was his way of coming on to me. Verago seemed to have come to the conclusion that just because I did not try to gut him with a sword over perceived insults, I was interested in him. I was pretty sure every servant was gossiping about me and Belle last night and half the Braavos would know about the next Black Pearl having the Sorcerer Prince wrapped around her finger.

As far as I could tell, the entire setup was essentially a honeypot that tried to keep the Sealord on my good side. It also served to put people at ease, since a rogue sorcerer was more dangerous than one that was preoccupied with one of the cultural icons of their city. It also worked to advertise Belle's ability to charm someone... though I was not sure how much of those benefits the Sealord and the Black Pearl actually accounted for... or how many other benefits they got that I was missing.

From my end, the deal was... not as one-sided as I was expecting. Granted, I was more interested in the Sex Rituals from the Summer Isles that Belle promised to provide, but the fact that our relationship would work to prevent a mob carrying pitchforks to form in front of my door was not unappreciated.

I tilt my head to the side, just enough to avoid the stab that would hit my head. A slap of my wooden sword turns into a riposte as Verago steps away, wary, now that he can see in my eyes that I am focused on the fight, using it to keep a clear head.

While I have the ability to set things on fire or cut people down from a distance, over the few years I have come to enjoy the feeling of hitting things with a stick, the act satisfying some primal part of my brain, even if I was no match for a fully grown knight or an experienced Bravo.

That being said, Verago was not much of a threat. Sure, he was older than me and trained probably for a longer time, but at the moment, our physical capabilities were probably a match given how I had made sure to go through the self-enhancement ritual I had figured out.

The ritual I had was a simple one, based on Shadowbinding. It was not a strong buff, as it was spread out across my whole body but it just made me, slightly stronger and more durable as a result. A Blood Candle, a mix of blood, obsidian, and wax that held the soul of a vermin or a bird, burned in a circle that prevented someone from the outside influence on the inside. Adding a bit of salt water into the circle to `purify` the souls I bound to my flesh based on the books that I got from the Alchemist and here I was, about as strong as a sixteen-year-old. Given that I was thirteen, the physical boost was actually significant.

The only shortcoming of the ritual was the cost, and the fact that it lasted about twenty-four hours before my flesh broke down the enchantment. Unlike the Shadowbinding of the Alchemist that had left me the scar, the enchantment I placed did not contain enough malice to fight off my nature, so the soul simply got absorbed into my own.

While the buff to my physical stats did not last long, that did not make the Ritual useless. The soul-stuff that I had used instead got absorbed into my soul from the way I could feel magic get better over time. I was not certain if I was actually consuming the soul and adding it to my own, or using it as a layer across from my soul to protect it, but the result was that... I felt more than I was.

Trading blows, I made sure to draw out the fight as long as I could, my focus was on practicing and learning from a new opponent not winning, just as I mistimed the riposte and had my opponent's blade rest against my throat.

"Good one," I commented, clenching my fist. The fire in my left palm blinked out, the Firebolt that I had pulled from the dragonglass ring slowly spinning down, and the flame vanishing. While Dragonglass was not my wand, drawing fire from it was almost intuitive now, while giving it enough spin to pack a punch made for a simple yet effective spell I could do without needing a wand.

"You have not responded regarding my offer," said Verago, smiling at me.

I sighed, reminding myself why it was a bad idea to set the Sealord's nephew on fire. I was pretty sure both Belle and Verago were encouraged to seek something to bind me to Braavos. It was the smartest thing that I could see the Sealord doing, gaining more influence over a potential power in the future with minimal effort.

"I cannot say I have much experience with ships." I stated, trying my best to double-speak "Though I would say most men prefer horses."

"Ah, yes," said Verago, a smirk on his face, "I hear you have some experience with horses. Have you been on a ship before?" he added, wiggling his eyebrows.

"We took a ship to Braavos, though I was young then," I said, deciding to respond to the question that was on the surface. Anything else and the ones who overheard it may think that this entire thing was about something else and get curious, before adding on "If we are still talking about ships."

"And if we are not?" asked Verago giving me a knowing smirk.

"Here I thought we were talking about the fact that most men prefer a mare between their legs?" I said innocently. It was better to clarify even with analogies.

"Some people do not know what they prefer if they don't try." countered Verago, getting the message.

"Some people are hard to change," I countered, taking on my starting position "I appreciate your offer of friendship Verago, but I prefer horses."

"Then again, some mares are worth it," said Verago with an easy smile, his eyes focusing on something else behind me as his form relaxed.

I turned around and saw Belle walking next to her mother, both seemed... happy. She made eye contact with me and a smile formed on her face.

"Some are," I nodded, watching the mother-daughter pair walk through the exit.

"And if we were actually talking about ships?" asked Verago, seeing the way I was distracted and probably understanding that I was not interested.

"I am sure I can set some time to learn how to run a ship," I stated, accepting the offer of friendship. I had no excuse to refuse and doing so would insult the Sealord. While they wanted me on their side, I too wanted them on my side as it was the most beneficial for me.

"What was that about?" asked Ser Richard, approaching me after the time in the courtyard and sparring, having overheard our conversation.

"Ducks and Goose" I responded with a smirk, wiping my face with the offered piece of cloth. "I prefer duck... he prefers goose."

"Goose?" asked Ser Richard confused at the analogy. It was a good analogy, pity I did not get a chance to watch the entire show with all its seasons in my old life.

"Heard of Joffrey Lonmouth?" I asked, getting a nod from the man before his eyes widened.

"I... see." slowly stated Ser Richard, nodding.

"How was your duel?" I asked, with a grin.

"It was a draw," preened Ser Richard.

"It is nice that you are improving... give another twenty or so wins and you will be even, Ser," I said with an amused smile, getting a glare from the knight in question. Syrio was just better but Ser Richard was learning more it would seem, having replaced his depression with more constructive hobbies... like trying to gut people.

Soon, we were back in the House with the Red Door, a quick wash to clean up and I was standing on top of the ladder, checking the Ward I had placed on the threshold.

The amulet was still there and the soul sustained a decent chunk of the influence the amulet held to keep the house unseen from the eyes. I could feel how the protections I placed had decayed as well, the overnight trip giving the ward time to stabilize into equilibrium between my intent and the nature of the woods without my presence here to influence anything.

I could not have the Ward, as calling it Protective Enchantment was a mouthful, physically keeping people out. Such a spell would require me to actively keep it up. Given that I had not even gotten the Shield Spell to stop solid projectiles or attacks, I had to figure out a way to keep people with ill intent from finding the house in the first place. Such a... mental spell required far less upkeep than a physical barrier.

I tapped the amulet and reached into the soul bound to the house.

The first part was linked to a bit of Greensight... a limited form I could use with my wand at least. I was bombarded by the memories of the `ward`, including a few attempts to physically spy on the house while we were away, all of which were diverted by subtle mental manipulation. The spies would get either an uneasy feeling or an inexplicable need to leave the place alone. One specific example implied that the man in question spied on another house instead of ours.

Having confirmation that the Ward I placed on the House was working, I started to reinforce it with something of my creation. "Repello Inimicum... " I started muttering, repeating the same incantation over and over again.

The incantation was not actually a Harry Potter Spell, though structurally, it worked because I understood the meaning behind the words. It was a combination of two different Protective Enchantments that I knew of, "Repello Muggletum" which repelled all non-magicals, and "Cave Inimicum" which created a barrier that shielded a place from being seen, heard, or smelled by the enemy.

Since I could not simply repel every non-magical who wanted to get to my place of residence, which included some of the residents as well, I had to come up with something new. The result was a compromise that I felt was optimal, using my rather limited knowledge of Latin to deduce that "Inimicum" meant enemy, I created a simple incantation for an Enemy Repelling Charm, with an incantation of "Repello Inimicum". I was not sure of the validity of such an approach but using Occlumency to isolate my own biased intent from the Ward allowed me to feel that the soul within the enchantment gained a 'purpose' to repel enemies of the owner. Since I specifically wanted them to not perceive or be able to find the house, that was what the enchantment wanted to do as well.

The only limitation to such a spell was that it was not stable and it decayed over time, so I needed to spend about ten minutes every day reinforcing it. The experiment I conducted by not reinforcing the protection for the time we were in the Sealord's palace showed that while the protection did not collapse, it did weaken without my presence, even without the once-a-day upkeep.

I noted down my observations and theories in my journal, not the Grimoire that kept all my lore and contextual knowledge about Magic, but one that was meant to be more for my experiments. I also made a note that the Blood Wards that Dumbledore had made for Harry may in fact be as finicky as it was mentioned in canon and the few weeks a year to keep them stable was some amazing achievement compared to what I could manage. It also gave credence to the "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell" rule that Starks took as gospel if it was linked to magical protections placed on Winterfell.

Once I was done repairing and restoring the wards in place, I went to find Wat the Eyes and Wat the Brains, as I had finally decided to call the two Men at Arms. They reported that no one had come while we were gone. That eliminated the possibility that the entire event from being some subtle attempt of Sealord to raid my house... not that he would succeed.

All the important magical things, I kept in my workshop, which was locked from the inside. There was also the fact that the door to my workshop was rigged... without magic. Since the door was locked from the inside, anyone who wanted to get in would have to break through the door, which in turn would break the vials of magical acid I placed in between the two slabs of wood that made up the reinforced door, along with the small vials of... weaker... not-Wildfire that took out the resin from the mix, making it effectively a less powerful, Magically Reinforced Black Powder.

The combination of acid and fire was not nice on the environment, releasing a gas that ate away at anything organic. The small-scale tests I conducted left a patch of barren land in the woods near the ranch... close to other patches of land where my other experiments left their marks.

"Do you have any plans today, your grace?" asked Ser Willem, once we were done with dinner.

"I wish to pray in the Isle of Gods, Ser," I declared. Given what I got up to in the morning, I heard Ser Willem snort. Granted, it was not to actually pray but to get over the meeting at the House of Black and White and ask around a few questions I had regarding the ritual I wanted to perform with Belle... specifically regarding the virginity of the people and how it had any effect, beneficial or otherwise.

Virgin Sacrifice was something known to Red Priests, they preached it often enough that I could learn their general attitude. Given that they preferred to burn said virgins alive... their approach was, less than what I wanted. There still remained a possibility that some of the other religions had more information or even baseless ideas on the value of it, but even broken clocks showed the correct time twice a day.

The door to the House of Black and White opened with a mental command of "Valar Morgulis", once again showing that speaking out an incantation was not necessary as most believed, though it required sufficient control over your mind and soul that most would not achieve it without training.

"A wizard has come," said the Kindly Man, using what I had recently learned to be the Lorathi way of speaking in the third person... as a way to reject individualism or some other philosophy that I did not really bother learning more. Calling me a wizard was a bit of a stretch for them, but I did feel some pride at that, even if he may have meant it to be derogatory.

Also, I was annoyed at the fact that he saw right through the black hair dye I used to get here without being noted. It was mostly to counter the Septons and draw their ire, but a disguise was a disguise.

"A letter would do the same trick," I stated, annoyed at the way the invitation was delivered. I followed the Kindly Man

"Then how will a boy learn?" asked the Kindly Man, a stupid smirk on his face. He sounded far more amused than he had a right to be. "A boy knows why he has come?"

"I am assuming it has something to do with me saving the Sealord's life?" I suggested, knowing that they would not tell me the real reason and let me draw my conclusions. It was an effort to manipulate the conversation and I was taking mental notes that I would jot down in the notebook I had titled, `How to speak like a Cryptic Wizard`.

"A boy... is not wrong," said the Faceless Men, his pause implying that there was something I was missing. "Sealord was not meant to die in the first place," he said, making my mind stop for a second. I clamped down on Occlumency and forced my own body to stay relaxed to show no sign of panic. I was also immediately aware of my own hand that was casually resting on the wand at my belt.

I did not need a second look to know that the Assassin before me was hiding a knife under the sleeves of his robe, ready to throw it.

"But a boy owes the Many-Faced-God a name still." said the Kindly Man, holding an amused smile. I slowly released my breath, giving the man a glare, which did not match the sheepish grin on the man's face.

"How come?" I asked, not sure of the way they reasoned about it.

"Yna the Whore came to us a few days past," explained the Priest of Death. "Told us of a nephew to Sealord of Braavos that was a dead man walking."

"Verago did not seem to be rotting from what I could tell this morning," I quipped.

"No, the nephew however would have died, either to the strike of a Wizard or the knife of a catspaw." explained the Kindly Man. "A man knows not how fate changed, but a boy owes Many-Faced God a name."

I think I got the gist from the rest. Had I not interfered, Verago would have taken the hit aimed at the Sealord, which made sense in a way. It also explained that the hit on the Sealord was not a result of the butterflies I set off.

"So, I get to name anyone?" I asked, not sure.

"A life of equal value and risk," stated the Faceless Man "A nephew of a ruler for another, or niece of one if that is your wish, that is as much as you can ask for."

"So, no asking for Tywin or Robert?" I countered, getting a negative response. "We will see... I will have to think about it."

Who was the niece or nephew of a lord that I seriously wanted to get rid of?

Jon Snow was the first name to come to mind given he was my nephew according to a lot of theories, but I had no solid reason to name him, even if Fate did not change enough for Dany to not get murdered by that idiot. I needed that honorable pawn to keep things from collapsing against White Walkers, someone who would jump at the deadly threat while I watched and cheered on since I had no wish to face an eight-millennia-old lich with time to hone his skills with Magic, at least not without something to nuke him with.

There were many Lannister cousins but all of them were equally worthless in the long run. Shireen was probably not even born yet and even if she did, I was not going to kill an innocent child, like Tywin. Anyone of equal value or less limited me to Lorch and Mountain, but I wanted to personally carve them up for causing me to have more than a few nightmares... even though I could control my nightmares in theory.

Baratheons were similarly out, mostly because I wanted them to fight each other as I laughed at their internal conflict. Whoever remained, I could easily handle with a proper army.

Jon Arryn could do it but he was too high profile and he was a stabilizing influence on Robert, convincing him to not send Assassins after me.

Baelish was an option, I supposed. Beggaring the realm to the scale he did would fall under High Treason not to mention all the money he embezzled but his actions would benefit me and I could make up the money in some way or form with a bit of modern economics, knowledge of capitalism and the absolute power of a future Sorcerer-King... or whatever I decided to name myself.

In the end, the only actual valid option for a target was Young Griff. He was a nephew to a lord... me or Varys according to which set of beliefs you held onto. His presence was a threat to my own life even if he was not exposed to be some Blackfyre Pretender, but his existence had its uses as I could track down the sword Blackfyre by tracking him down when the time came... in theory at least. I also wanted to make sure, my curiosity overrode my need to rid of a threat that was not actively trying to kill me. I had a few ideas about how to prove that Young Griff was who he would claim to be but that was... not ready yet.

Even Euron, I wanted him to recover the Dragonbinder and the Valyrian Steel Armor so I can take it from him, not wanting to risk visiting Valyria, however curious I was about the place.

In the end, any name I wanted to give, either needed to live for now or ones I could handle myself when the time was right, and people like Illyrio and Young Griff, while a present threat, were better kept alive as they were not aware I was onto them and I could use that to draw them into a trap, gaining more than their deaths than corpses.

This was troublesome... I could not find someone I wanted dead enough to send a Faceless Men. Had I not interfered, Verago would have died to the catspaw, so I was allowed to name someone... catspaw... could I?

"And if I had no names to name, would I be able to request the retrieval of an item?" I asked, an idea forming in my mind. I was not stupid enough to ask for the dragon eggs... that, I was sure, was not something that would fly well with the Faceless Men.

A life for a life, the rules of magic went... but that was just Equivalent Exchange in practice, nothing more. My actions in response to a catspaw granting me a catspaw of a different sort, the poetry was one I appreciated.

"It may be arranged within reason," said the Kindly Man, with a nod "Though a service of some form would also need to be requested from a wizard."

I nodded "I need a man to retrieve a specific knife," I said, mostly because I was sure where the knife was within reason but not where the sword Blackfyre was precisely, even if I had some suspicions.

"And where can a man find this specific knife?" asked the Faceless Men, curious.

"In a chest," I responded cheekily, getting a glare from the assassin "in King's Landing, inside the Red Keep among a chest of knives that belong to one Robert Baratheon."

The Catspaw Dagger was the easiest Valyrian Steel weapon I could track. The instigator of the entire book series, as the knife that was meant to kill Bran, I was pretty sure I knew where it was, and retrieving it would be as challenging as sneaking into a castle to kill a lord's nephew... in my opinion at least.

Truth is, I have been trying to figure out how to use divination to track down Valyrian Steel on my own since the first time I looked at the fires and saw a bird shit on my had... and then have a bird shit on my head a few hours later. That being said, something in the metal seemed to be blocking my attempts and I had an idea as to why. That meant I needed a sample to study the metal more closely to work around the effect and Catspaw was low profile enough that I could have someone steal it for me.

If I could figure out how to use divination to find Valyrian Steel, I would have some decent bargaining chips to use with nobility as well as arm the best fighters for the next winter against the undead.

"Any features of worth note for the dagger a man is seeking?" asked

I gave the man a description of what I recalled to be the Catspaw dagger from the show. "It may not look like that but I am certain it has a dragon bone hilt and some obsidian attached to it, I don't remember it well, but I am sure it is a family heirloom," I said with a smile, not even lying. The dagger belonged to Robert, who was technically my cousin or something... so, it belonged to my family... I mean no one got along with all their family, right?

"The dagger shall be retrieved, though a man will owe the Many-Faced God a name." said the Faceless Men, agreeing to retrieve it for me in exchange for another job... which I was not enthused about. A part of me wanted to test my current state against another Magic Practitioner in another duel, to show that I had gained more but the blood-lust gave way to cold reason and I reconsidered, given the potential of death or worse.

"That is not the only reason the Servant of the Many Face God has requested a man's presence," said the Kindly Man "The House of Black and White has a request for a service."

"Valar Dohaeris," I responded "What type of service, not a name I am assuming?"

"Follow," simply stated the priest, making me follow him through the maze-like passages to a bare room apart from what was at the center.

"A boy knows a man?" asked the Kindly Man, standing next to what looked to be an altar and an operation theater combined. The face was peeled off the corpse in question, and he was naked. That would have made identification a bit of a problem but the strategically placed holes, between his ribs, his eye socket, and his neck were hard to miss. I was pretty sure it was the same guy who shanked the Sealord only for Syrio to... go to town on him, as the saying goes.

"What do you lot want with the man who tried to kill the Sealord?" I asked, uncertain

"What the House of Black and White is concerned with is not a concern for a boy. Does a boy know of our... practice of wearing faces?"

"Not enough... though I know that the skin allows you to place a glamour of sorts and you can draw out memories of the faces to better blend in," I admitted, getting no emotional reaction from the man in question apart from a nod.

"A man becomes no one, so they can become someone," whispered the Kindly Man, barely audible enough for me to hear, "If a man cannot become truly no one, the memories begin to... leak through like cheese clothes, changing a man."

`So, like Occlumency then... only the opposite` I mentally compared. Their whole becoming no-one concept was a bit suspicious from the beginning, based on my knowledge at least.

Arya had failed at every moment to lose her own identity and she kept advancing despite her failure to become No-one. It suggested that the entire concept of becoming No-one was meant to train the user to become resilient to the influence of foreign memories and souls... which was the exact opposite of what I did, even if the purpose was not dissimilar to what I had been doing to keep the influence of my familiars from my self.

My meditations were meant to 'restore' my mind to be in line with my brain, to remove the influence of being an animal after the fact. While I leveraged my flesh to keep my identity, the Faceless Men seemed to have developed a method to keep their identity despite the flesh they wore.

It would seem I needed to figure out a way to compartmentalize my memories instead, the new insight proving to be useful for that purpose. I needed a better way, one that would allow me to keep the memories from spending time as `not-me` out of the boxes that were `me`... something I was sure I needed to do consistently to not end up brain-dead like how Bran the Broken was portrayed.

The version of `Occlumency` the Faceless Men used also explained how he was blank to my mental senses, how I could not feel anything from his mind. I was sure there was something the Faceless Men did to themselves by using Weirwood and Nightwood but combined with an active effort, I could not feel them at all.

"What has that got anything to do with me?" I asked instead unsure what the request was. I was best served not to let them know that I caught onto their trick.

"Some memories, we cannot draw out from a face, and we cannot go any deeper... for the dead are sacred," stated the Faceless Man. "A man is asking if you have the skill to do so."

"So, you want me to interrogate a dead man?" I asked, not sure if that was allowed "I thought Necromancy was not allowed in your book."

"A wizard is not allowed to keep the dead in their own body, but a wizard is a Servant of the Many-Faced-God, he will need to figure out how to do so without breaking the rules," explained the Kindly Man, making me grimace at the challenge.

"In their own body, you say?" I say out loud, suggesting that it could be some other soul. I was also happy that I now understood the rules that I could not break without pissing off the Faceless Men.

"I am going to need the skull... rest is of no use to me," I said, recalling a talk with Yna about some witches keeping skulls around and talking to them. I also knew that she could use the blood of the living to see the future, so maybe she could use the blood of the dead to see the past. "What am I looking for?"

"A man must find the reason for a servant to try to kill the Sealord," declared the Kindly Man, walking to the side of the altar. I expected the Kindly Man to nod and send me on my way with a promise of delivery. What I got was him grabbing a cleaver and removing the head in question with a single strike.

Granted, they routinely removed the faces off of the corpses but for a Cult dedicated to worshiping Death, they were rather disrespectful of the dead. I suppose there was some leeway with the would-be murderer, as his head would be removed according to most laws in this world.

I tapped the presented head with my wand with a mutter of "Scurgify", drawing out flames to clean the skull off and burn out all the remaining flesh and sinew, not willing to touch the week-old decaying corpse for fear of decease or worse.

The spell was one of the more common ones I used to create the potion base, burning the bloodless corpse of the sacrifice over the cauldron. That being said, leaving out the bones was not something I often chose to do.

It was also a show of power, a subtle threat that I could rend their flesh off their bone and turn their House of Black and White into cinder if I so chose, or if they chose to attack me, to counter the subtle threat they made by leaving that coin on my bedside. The use of the incantation was not strictly necessary but I chose to do so anyways to muddy the waters a bit, not willing to reveal that bit of trump card.

The Kindly Man did not react to my use of magic, his smile making me more uneasy as if he did not care. I was pretty sure it was Occlumency in action, as I could not tell if it may be because he already knew I could do that.

In the end, I was left with a clean white skull in my satchel, wrapped in cloth, as I took a deep breath of fresh air, the white and black doors of the temple closing behind me.

A part of me wanted to ask them if they knew about sex magic, but they did not seem to be the type to mix the wonders of procreation with the way they worshiped death.

Ser Richard was standing there, unwilling to enter the House of Black and White after his last visit. His clothing looked casual from the outside, though hidden beneath the layers he wore mail as per my command.

"Sept next... I can use a bit of praying?" asked Ser Richard, as I gave him a nod. Though he was not religious like some other knights, Ser Richard still occasionally got the need to pray, giving me time to subtly interrogate the Septons about a particular concept I recalled.

You see, most wedding ceremonies of the Seven ended along the lines of "And now you are one soul." For a normal person, it was romantic... or religious droll. It depended on the person you asked.

For a person who regularly played around with souls, merging two souls into a single one... sounded like some sort of a ritual of some sort, even if the Seven were against Magic on the outside.

Looking old enough to be his squire, Ser Richard mentioned something along the lines of catching me with a whore and wanting the Septon to explain the virtues of chastity and all that droll. While I glared at the knight, his lie was still technically correct, even if Belle was not a whore yet.

So, I listened on and on about the 'virtues' of purity, the need for abstinence, and all that shit. The Septon I chose to ask those questions, I knew from experience talking with before, to be more... susceptible to mental persuasion and he was of the decent kind who believed what he said... unlike a few of the Septons who paid lip service for the benefits they got.

I reached out to the Sept, trying to once again feel the gods. If they were there, they hid well and all I could feel was a subtle pressure of some sort. It was... familiar to the protections I had recently crafted, though I was pretty sure I could just now detect it because I knew what I was looking for.

Having real-world experience creating and studying wards for a week gave me the skills needed to feel the protections around the Sept. It also made me once again question the presence of gods.

The feeling I got was, less refined than the protective enchantments I had created, though they were all... not anchored but, focused on the Seven-Pointed-Star that made the largest icon at the altar. I was unsure if it was the Seven themselves who empowered it, or a side effect of the few of the clergy with more magical capacity accidentally empowering the protection without realizing it.

Whatever the wards were meant to do, the protection did not prevent me from using Legilimency on the Septons, or the compulsions to incentivize them to help me more than they would. I knew that my acts were not outright harmful to the Septons, so it may have been a different story if I were chosen to make it so that a few of the Septons got the sudden urge to run under a moving carriage neck first. I was not willing to test my theory and none of the Septons screamed 'pedophile' for me to justify such an act of vigilantism and test the limits of what Seven could do.

Leaving the Sept-Beyond-The-Sea with my coin purse lighter and a book called "Caution for Little Girls", an awfully redacted version compared to some of the saucier ones I could find, which were... essentially porn. What... I got bored easily and needed something to read and playing around with magic all the time became less novel after a while... you cannot judge me.

I found the irony of a book meant to promote chastity to me as I researched ways to use Sex Magic too amusing that I paid double for the book, with the explicit purpose of gifting the book to Belle for a laugh. Maybe she would be open to trying some of the things in the book... not the one I got from the Sept, but the one that had more detail. I could bet the ship I just got that Bellonara had at least one copy with some fun stuff.

AN: Wizerys making bold statements only to be proven false.

Dany will become an Apprentice, which also means, she is going to end up in the harem, though Wizerys is still trying his best to not be a creep about it and wait until she is older and let her decide. Granted, Dany is a Targaryen and magic is an aphrodisiac to Targs. Since Wizerys is essentially magic on legs, he is really trying his best to not think about it.

More information about Enchanting, this time with Warding. Wiz is also collecting information he did not have before and all of the pieces will fit together so be patient.

I really enjoy writing about the Faceless Men... especially because they scare the shit off Wizerys and are now just trolling him. I recently learned that Jaqen spoke like the way he spoke because he was Lorathi, not because he was from Braavosi. That being said, I like the aspect of the Faceless Men not directly lying and using the method to confuse and work around stating truths, so of course they all talk like that.

The Catspaw Dagger, is the one from the shows, but Wizerys does not know that, because I started this SI before HotD actually showed it... but we all know the one of the first things Wiz would do when he got the dagger will be to shove it into fire.

Also, Caution for Young Girls is the type of fiction that would be great in QQ, given that MC, and I quote, "finds herself as handmaid to a queen, the paramour of a young knight, a camp follower in the Disputed Lands, a serving wench in Myr, a mummer in Tyrosh, the "plaything" of a corsair queen in the Basilisk Isles, a slave in Volantis, the handmaid of a Qartheen warlock, the mistress of a pleasure house in Lys and ultimately a septa in the Starry Sept of Oldtown". And also, some people add more spicy things to the book as they copy it down... because of course they are.

017 Words and Winds

# 017 Words and Winds

I did not know anything about the language of the Summer Islands.

I knew their culture, their gods of tits and wine as Tyrion would call them.

Now, I had an original and a translation of the book that supposedly held the Sex Magic Rituals of the Summer Isles. It was once owned by a Princess from said Summer Isles, who happened to be the mother of one Bellegere Otherys... the original one, not the one who was currently trying her best to suck my soul through my cock. Given what I was reading... she would have decent shot at doing so if I did not have my Third Eye blown open.

In hindsight, pushing the idea that she liked the taste may have been a bit of an error on my part. It may have caused a bit of a Pavlovian Conditioning to happen, not that I was complaining given that Bellonara had her practice with a wooden cock to make sure she was good at it. She shouldn't have taken it as a challenge when I refused to go down the entire night at Sealord's Palace.

It did not take long for us to hash out what needed to be done, Bellonara did not even blink after I requested access to any books she may have in her private collection, further supporting my conclusion that she was in on it and wanted the local Mage by her side for reasons I could not fully draw out of her mind without actively breaking into it.

Hence why, I was at Bellonara's Mansion, reading through the book on Sexual Practices of Summer Islands that was part Kamasutra, part religious text, and part grimoire... if you squinted a bit.

A part of me wondered how the Summer Islanders came up with the rituals that I could identify as actual rituals of some form. The ideas were presented as a religious text, but the result required either thousands of trials and errors, blind luck, divine intervention, or some sort of divination-based effect that guided the person through the first ritual.

The visit, officially was for Dany's sake, specifically to cover for the missing parts of her education. While she was good at what Ser Willem, Nessa, or I could teach, her studies that came to what was expected of a lady in court were lacking, given that Ser Willem was a Master-At-Arms, Nessa was a wetnurse. While I could personally cover most of her theoretical education, from History to Literature, given that my more modern education to Grad School made me the veritable Renaissance Man on this planet stuck in the Dark Ages. That being said, Calculus was not going to come in handy with dealing with people, which was what Bellonara Otherys was best at. Dany needed someone to teach her how to use soft power, be the velvet glove to my mailed fist, in a manner of speaking, and the Courtesan who could shift the very politics of a City State was qualified to teach her those lessons that I could not.

While I cared little for those feminine skills that were valued in a court like sewing and singing and subtly insulting while appearing to be complimenting, such skills could only help her in the future. So, I managed to, quite easily mind you, convince Bellonara to teach Dany how to sing and dance and slowly train her to be able to easily navigate court politics and wrap a man around her fingers. I also threatened to turn her into a Magic Dildo if she tried anything sexual with her... which only made her laugh with that melodic tingle of hers... stupid hot dragon lady.

To a Westerosi, having a princess be trained by a Courtesan was the height of a scandal. But Westerosi were two-faced cunts, so fuck them. They were using the 'expectations of society' as a shield to subtly manipulate my family for generations so they could all wait until White Walkers killed them and resurrected them as puppets for all I cared... if only that would increase the number of undead I would have to fight through in the end.

I was more pragmatic and if something were to happen to me, it would give Dany more options for a future, whether she chose to become a Courtesan or find some Lord to marry who would be wrapped around her finger or become a queen who would have to navigate court politics.

In Canon, Dany was manipulated so well by those from Slavers Bay that in the end, everyone was dancing around her and she could not even tell. Given that the only trustworthy advisor she had with any experience was the straightlaced Barristan Selmy, her actions while well-meaning led to a worse result as I had no hope that whatever she put in place there would have lasted the decade.

If there was anyone qualified to teach Dany how to play the Game of Politics from the perspective of a woman, Bellonara the Black Pearl was the woman for the job... even if I did not trust her completely.

Ser Willem as a Westerosi, obviously, did not like my choice of teacher, but he had to agree to it when I asked him to find a Lady-in-Waiting or a Septa that could be trusted. Given that the only options for ladies to help my sister were from Dorne and thus were all nutjobs liable to poison us or Septas, who were either idiots or they would try to drown me and my sister after a day of living with us for being a witch, and I was not sure which type I would kill faster. Also, Faith of the Seven was to be tolerated and not taken seriously unless you wanted another Baelor the Befuddled, which made me question why there were multiple instances of princesses being thrown away to become a Septa at any point in time. Since the only other alternative was to find a Red Priestess to teach my sister, which neither Ser Willem nor I wanted, the Courtesan option won.

So here I was, using the time to read in the book from the Summer Islands while Dany, Lanna, and Nessa were learning the finer points of being a refined lady of Court from Bellonara Otherys... because there was no way I was going to leave her as the only adult in the room, as Huan had one eye open next to the fireplace, watching over my sister and providing me eyes and ears.

So, how was I reading a language that I did not understand... that was a bit of magic I had come up with based on what I have been playing around with when it came to enchanting.

The faces held memories of a person, the protections of the Sept were anchored to the Seven-Pointed Star in a Circle that looked too much like a Magic Circle of some sort, and I could not only draw out the memories from wood and flesh alike, but I could also feel the intent behind each shape.

Pouring my soul into the vellum, the parchment made from animal skin, with ink markings etched onto the surface, I felt, more than understood the intent that the writer placed on the words.

Given how other people's beliefs influenced the ward upon the Seven-Pointed Star, I theories that something similar would happen to words as well... especially if left out for long enough to be influenced.

Best I could tell, the movement of the quill somehow left an impression on the ink, but the result was that I did not need to know the language to understand it. So long as the intent left behind by the one who transcribed the words onto parchment was clear, I could in turn feel the language. That for now was much easier with parchment, as animal skin was much easier for me to skinchange into and draw memories from, a bastardized form of the method used by the Faceless Men.

It was Structural Analysis at its core, recalling the memory of when the ink was set on the page, but at a small scale. The writing itself seemed to retain a sort of weight unlike anything I could get from the spoken word, but it was good practice for finer detection spells I have been working on so, here I was.

I flipped to the next page, understanding more than the translation could express, as any translation was tinted as it was with the personal biases of the translator. The book provided me with more information than I had initially thought possible for such primitive and accidental methods of magic that this world employed and already discovered.

My knowledge of Sex Magic was limited to breeding super-charged-version of an animal as a cursor to some of the more Fantastic Beasts that I wanted to flesh craft or understand the unique effect of Magic that worked against Pregnancies, an effect that had plagued my family for the last three hundred years or so.

The first one, on humans, would possibly lead to something like Maegor... probably. The records of Maegor's childhood were heavily biased but some of the records specifically implied that he was large and more robust in his youth than it should be normal, an observation that was supported by my experiments, from Huan to the new generation of ravens I was breeding to my own body. While the added soul-stuff did not have any physical effect on the adults of a species, the next generations were essentially the super-soldier version of the species, where everything was reinforced and amplified, including the size and temperament of the being, hence why I had spent so long meditating as well as training Huan to behave, which was easy with a bit of skinchanging to understand the animal. I had also started on a newer project to breed better ravens for my use, since the ones in Essos, Ser Willem had commented to be smaller than the ones in Westeros.

For the second application, I still did not have many chances to test apart from a few mishaps. A few rabbits allowed me to understand why skinchanging and pregnancies did not work well together at all. Without the precision that came from a wand, any skin you took also meant that you took the skin of the fetus that was held within the skin. The soul-stuff of an unborn was too raw and too un-attuned to the flesh that once I pulled my soul back, the soul that would normally form the baby came along, as though it was stuck to my soul.

Huan had only been carried to the full term on accident, as I had neglected to check in on the dogs during the pregnancy, which had unfortunately killed the mother. I had simply left the pair of dogs alone after putting souls into them, thinking that I had failed until they produced the wolfhound. I was now consistently generating a stronger breed of ravens and horses, though the second one was relatively new and therefore slower than any other animal I bred.

The quick and easy solution to preserving a pregnancy was simple, an Amulet of Proof Against Detection and Location and not using magic during pregnancy. That explained why Visenya had taken so long to produce Maegor, the Conquest requiring her to ride her dragon and cause some skinchanging shenanigans, not to mention that I suspected Visenya of using a Glass Candle to keep an eye on things. It also explained why Mirri's ritual had caused Dany to go into labor and lose the child, the magic ritual used on Drogo causing the stillbirth.

The simple solution should I got, in theory, would lock up the soul of the mother and the child in the body, allowing a mother to carry a child to term without worrying about potential interference from Magic, either from the influence of her soul leaving or from an outside source. I was, quite proud of myself for figuring out one of the main causes of Targaryen deaths as well as coming up with a solution... though I probably just reinvented the damned thing after all the knowledge was lost to time. I would have to research more about my family history to see if the pattern only existed when the mother used magic.

The second trick also made for a good Contraceptive Spell at least. I would even amuse myself with a bit of dark humor and call the spell the equivalent of the infamous `Fetus Deletus` I had read on the internet though I was not so uncouth as to voice such an incantation.

Returning to the book from Summer Isles, there were a few concepts that did not translate well to terms that I would use when it came to magic.

The common theme that Summer Islanders were going for was what they referred to as `feathers` which was an allegory for what I would call soul-stuff... probably... some of the effects they mentioned fit my understanding of the soul I cobbled together from my insights, knowledge of the world and the books I got from the Alchemist on the nature of plants and minerals.

The primary method that the book talked about was using a Ritual to attune to the partner... a Wedding Ritual of all things that allowed the partners to become equals. The impression left by the author on the originals was that the ritual had to be done willingly and it was titled `Sharing of Feathers` which I was pretty sure meant less physical feathers and more something unseen... possibly related to the natural affinities souls seem to develop in this world.

The child took on the `feathers` from both parents, and the parents would need to pull out those feathers from themselves and add use them to build a `nest` in the womb for an egg.

That implied some understanding or belief on the formation of the souls, especially if the `feathers` were the same thing that I referred to as soul-stuff.

The ritual was tricky, however, and inconsistent. The book called it the blessing of the gods, but it seemed to be more of an ingredient than actual outside interference. The `blessing of gods` was depicted to cause both sides to reach release at the same time. Flipping the causality, it was more likely that reaching a climax at the same time had a stronger effect than not doing so, increasing the chances of the ritual succeeding.

Then, there were the other `requirements`, as the ritual was more likely to succeed for loving couples, having sex in missionary while holding hands, and merging of beings through eye contact. Given that eye contact made Mind Arts much easier, I was sure that it was Soul Magic being involved though I was not going to dismiss the Power of Love... I was not an idiot like Riddle.

"Do it with the lights out, why don't you," I mumbled in amusement, skimming through the rest of the degeneracy, mostly anecdotes and warnings about being forceful,... but I was pretty sure I got everything right.

The ritual depended on the moment of release when the two souls poured a piece of themselves into the womb, where they mixed, forming the `nest`. Given that it did not mention an egg, it stood to reason that the Summer Islanders believed the conception and whatever happened about magic was independent of the actual conception of a child. If a pregnancy happened, it also stood to reason that the soul-stuff formed the basis of the soul of the child, anchoring the soul-stuff into the baby and binding itself throughout the pregnancy. If there was no pregnancy or if the pregnancy was terminated at any point, the soul-stuff slowly leaked out and returned in time to somewhere... either the original bodies or wherever free souls went.

The ritual I was reading about seems to leverage the mixing of soul-stuff to reach out and share it between the partners before conception could happen, mixing the energy and redistributing it to the practitioners. Since the process was done before the souls naturally unraveled, it allowed for the sharing of the soul, causing the couple to take on some of the magical affinities of their partner. Since the mixture was partially yours, it allowed one or both partners to bind the mixed soul-stuff to your own, resulting in a permanent effect. Honestly, it sounded like a form of soul grafting on the cheap... or Dual Cultivation that I had read about in some of those web novels in my old life.

Unlike the Blood Candles that allowed me to absorb the souls of other creatures, which I was now more sure to have settled over the actual soul, rather than into it, the result of the ritual would achieve a complete binding with the caster's soul. That also meant that I could fold in some more soul-stuff to the ritual, amplify the effects and complete the absorption of the souls that I already held.

It also confirmed one of the conclusions I came to. Souls took on aspects of bodies they connected to before returning to the equilibrium with their original vessels, allowing for sharing of what I could best describe as Magical Affinities... those paths that Magic naturally took within a person.

Speaking of Succubi, the second ritual that I found of note was the exact opposite of the first one. It was also not in the translated version of the book, suggesting that Black Pearl kept it close to her rather ample chest and did not want me to know about it.

A small bit of magical compulsion had Belle think that I was reading the translated version of the book instead of the original. After all, I did not know the language of the Summer Islands, right?

The ritual in question, I would best describe as... that shit that Succubi and Incubi do that ends with one side being a desiccated corpse... if done properly that is. The ritual also acted as proof that anyone who simply assumed that Summer Islands was a paradise with nothing wrong was an idiot.

Titled `the Plucking of Feathers`, the ritual involved the absorption of the soul-stuff being released into the womb by one side as an intermediary to bind the soul of the partner... a more violent form of the first ritual combined with what amounted to the same thing I did when I absorbed the souls trapped in the Blood Candles.

Honestly, they lost me with the feather analogy, but I understood the main idea that the author meant with a bit of Magical Translation and my understanding of Soul Magic.

Working around the Cultivation-like explanation, I understood that the soul of the victim was partially bound to the caster's own body, by absorbing the entire mixture of soul-stuff of the first ritual as a bridge to the partner.

The effect could enthrall the victims, making them more susceptible, more subservient to the will of the caster and I was pretty sure that it also allowed the caster to fully remove the soul of the victim... all abilities that I would place under the category Skinchanging-with-Extra-Steps category, not that I could not describe any spell I had in that same umbrella.

It also explained how Starks managed to bind Direwolves into their bloodline. In theory, I could skinchange into an animal using my blood as the medium, possess the animal while it was having sex, and absorb the soul-stuff that was specifically flavored with the animal's soul. The result would... increase the affinity to that specific animal type, and allow later generations to build the skinchanging links without needing Blood Magic to kickstart it.

It was also why having sex while in the skin of the animal was a taboo for the Skinchangers North of the Wall, and potentially why Varamyr Sixskins was so strong in the first place.

The physical effects on the victim of the ritual sounded familiar. Rapid aging, weight loss, dimming of the color of eyes... all effects that I would classify as loss of soul-stuff. While the soul itself was not something you could break without using another soul, it seemed the ritual stretched out the soul into multiple vessels. I was sure that unlike something like the Horcrux Ritual, the anchoring only lasted until the original body of the victim passed on, after which the soul would be absorbed into the body of the caster.

"So that is what happened to the Mannis," I muttered to myself, getting a confused look from Belle before she shrugged and went back to sucking. The only two examples of such effects I could recall were Stannis and Thoros of Myr. While it stood to reason that Melisandre had fucked something up or simply not let Stannis retrieve his entire soul after the death of Renly, leaving him open to her influence. The other effect, I was sure was accidental, with the effects on Thoros being caused by his lack of training in magic as he skinchanged into the corpse of Beric Dandarion instead of managing to resurrect him.

The process had stages, from an effect similar to Imperio Curse to sucking your partner dry, the effect creating a layer of `feathers` over your own... which was the same thing I managed to do with Blood Candles... though fire must have cleansed any affinity in question with the Ritual I did, unlike the one mentioned in the boo.

The conclusion I drew from the book was that the backup plan I had, called `go to the Summer Islands and wait until everything blows over` was officially a no-go, much to my disappointment. For a rather peaceful people, Summer Islanders could, literally, suck your soul before you knew it.

Speaking of that, I decided to not hold back anymore, coming down Belle's throat with a grunt, deciding to shift my focus to her for some more.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Wiz?" asked Belle, watching me put away the book and give my focus to her. Pulling her up, I laid back as Belle ended up straddling my leg. "You seem to be lost in thought," commented Belle pressing her breasts together, "a girl could get jealous, you know, especially if you preferred books over these."

"Nothing makes men wonder about the secrets of the universe than when they have a pretty girl's lips wrapped around their cock," I countered with a smirk, getting a snort of amusement from Belle.

"Only you would care more of such things as secrets of the universe," said Belle, grinding herself against my leg while moaning, giving me a show.

I reached out, tracing my fingers down her smooth belly, before reaching lower and dipping my fingers into her wet lower lips as my thumb started rubbing circles over her clit.

"I want you in me..." she moaned, rocking her hips as I brought her closer to the edge with my fingers. She knew what she was doing, the cheeky minx.

"Patience is a virtue, my lady," I countered before stopping and taking out my fingers, now glistening with her juices. I was tempted to lick my fingers clean before I stopped myself, coming up with an idea that I thought might be fun to try.

Pulling her so that her lips rested against my once again hardened length, I slowly moved my fingers against Belle's bare belly. Tracing a glyph in High Valyrian, one of `pleasure`, over Belle's smooth skin using her own juices. I was not sure if it would resonate with her, but if it worked for blood, I was sure it would work for other bodily fluids, even if such a spell would last only as long as the anchor stood.

By all applications, enchanting the rune was the exact same thing I did with the Summer Islander language, as well as the way I used potions to guide my spells. I was using the written language as a way to guide the enchantment that I wanted to place, to amplify the pleasure she would feel.

Placing my palm over the glyph, I slowly pushed my soul into the glyph, feeling it `activate` in a way, taking hold of the actual enchantment. I felt something within Belle react as well, something more than her own soul, possibly the energy that I released when I came down her throat. It acted similar to the way the books mentioned, raw, unbound but attuned to my own soul, pushing back against the spiritual pressure I was placing on her body to return to my own body from where it originated.

Slowly pulling back, I feel the raw soul-stuff... or rather more accurately, the Tantric Energy, link up to the enchantment I placed on the glyph, taking over and sustaining the enchantment from me. I had a feeling that the fact that it had no attuned body, the rune would add flavor and guide the Tantric Energy before it got absorbed by Belle into the body, which the book stated was the natural consequence of an incomplete ritual.

While the idea of permanently upping Belle's sensitivity was tempting to see her turn into a cum-starved pet, I decided that it was not something I could sustain at the time, even if the 'dragon' side of me almost roared at my restraint.

I had thought always thought that Runes, like words, were just made up. My recent experiences showed that the nature of something, be it wood or rune, influenced the soul within, a fact that I had failed to see when I first tried out different methods of casting. That meant that Runes could be used to act as a basis for enchanting, with her juices making the spell anchored to her. It was similar to how I used the potion to guide my healing spell, instead of using the meaning behind the glyph to guide the raw intent I had, stabilizing the spell.

Given that the Tantric Energy that was produced during sex could be manipulated with glyphs, forcing them to take on, or possibly even amplify specific aspects was also feasible. That meant that I could use it to act as a guideline for normal enchanting as well as a set of instructions for the ritual I wanted to make.

"How does it feel?" I asked, curiously as Belle was slowly rocking back and forth, humping my leg. Trying to 'feel' the magic I cast through my soul-sense alone. I needed to figure out a way to see magic, another project to work on.

"It... tingles," admitted Belle, grinding herself against my cock, picking up speed. "Ahh... but in a good way... gods... this is... oh... FUCK!" she screamed, her body shaking non-stop.

I lifted her in the last moment, to take over control before she could accidentally slip my cock into her sopping wet folds. While Summer Islanders had proven to not care about the virginity of the practitioners but I wanted to cover my bases.

My theory, based on my experience with potions and what I had heard, had something to do with the 'untainted' nature of the womb potentially improving the quality of the ritual. Since potions I made tended to sometimes influence the materials the potion came in contact with, both the cauldron and the stirring rod I used, I was not going to take a risk and hold to the value of Virginity for both males and females for now.

Flipping us over so that I was the one on top, I placed my cock on her wet core, so tempted to just push in. Alas, saner minds prevailed as my Mind Arts allowed me to beat back the rush of impulsiveness that had been getting worse through puberty.

Taking her legs and pushing them together before holding them over my left shoulder, I sandwiched my length between her tights. Making sure that I was still rubbing against her pussy, I started sawing in and out of her thighs, her juices provided enough lubrication for me to easily move, drawing more and more cries of pleasure from Belle as she was having one long continuous orgasm.

Far sooner than I would have liked, I came with a groan, Belle already shaking from the orgasm that seemed to not end. At that moment, I realized what I had done wrong, as I watched my seed land across Belle's stomach, right on top of the glyph I had drawn. I only had a moment as my eyes widened and I felt my soul slip out of my control before I threw myself back, landing on my arse as my vision went white.

Coming down from the greatest high of both my lives, I realized that I was breathing hard, my legs trembling from having cum so hard, and my cock still spasming every once in a while. It was a state that I shared with Belle, whose legs were shaking every once in a while even if she looked to be passed out.

All that left my mouth was a groan in response, as I was unable to form words.

What the fuck just happened?

After a few hours of nap for my body to recover, while my soul got around to slowly untangling that specific mess of an enchantment work from myself and Belle in that specific order, I decided that a quick bath in a tub would do wonders for our bodies.

Belle was knocked out, barely coherent enough to groan once in a while. Judging that she was not in any condition to stand up and I was forced to use Skinchanging on my own body to force myself to walk, the effect of the small spell I tested out preventing me from properly controlling my legs even now.

The tub was empty, but Braavos was one of the wettest cities in existence, as I opened the window, letting the mist and water vapor into the room before waving my wand. Pouring my will into the air, I forced the water vapor to turn back to the liquid inside the bathtub with a declaration of "Aguamenti", before a mutter of "Incendio" while the tip of my wand was in the water caused it to reach to the boiling point.

Carrying Belle into the tub, I sank in first, letting her rest her back against my chest, my hand rubbing circles over her stomach, slowly undoing the enchantment I placed on her body.

"Was that it... I did not feel you in me," muttered Belle, thoroughly out of it.

"My dear, that was just a precursor to what I wish to do to you," I whispered, causing Belle to squirm in my lap, though I had no ability to get hard again after the last time... mostly because I was not sure if I could actually cause any damage to myself given the dull pain I was feeling.

"Hmm... is that my fate then, becoming a pet to a Wizard, like in that book you brought?" teased Belle, moving my hand so it grasped one of her palms.

"You have a better version of the same book." I teased back, pinching her nipples and drawing out another moan. Said book was at least three times bigger than the one I got from the Sept, with writing half the size as well. "But if it is to be a pet of a Wizard you want, I am sure I can be convinced."

"Hmm... did you learn anything new?" asked Belle, leaning back against my chest as I absentmindedly fondled her.

I took a deep breath, releasing a sigh at what I was about to do. It was dangerous and stupid and so expected. I had to play up my competence a bit, and act as if I was more confident than I really was.

"The Plucking of the Feathers was an interesting read," I said with a smirk, which caused Belle to tense up, finally giving my Legilimency a purchase to trace what the mother and daughter were actually planning in her mind.

She did not move, noticing that my right hand, hanging at the edge of the bathtub, was loosely gripping my wand, while the left one that had been fondling her breast was now flat against her collarbones, ready to hold her down against my body or choke her out if she chose violence.

"Shhh... no need to escalate to violence. Did you know that I could raise the temperature of water to melt away flesh... not that I tried it with water before, but I can keep the heat from harming anyone I want. My familiar is in the room with your mother, capable of ripping her throat out, not to mention half a dozen countermeasures I keep around me in case I have to fight my way out of the city." I admitted, causing dread to pool in Belle's mind. "Then again, you and your mother could so easily get some foolish Bravo to pick a fight with me in turn, he would not succeed, but the trouble would be annoying, so why don't we just use our words and enjoy this warm bath together."

It would seem that I hit jackpot with the trick that the Black Pearl employed, given the way Bellegere relaxed slightly.

"A-are you going to kill me... y-your grace?" asked Belle, as I could feel her fear. She did not know much, but what she knew sang a simple story.

"No, but I need to explain to you what a stupidly foolish thing to do that would have been," I said, not really blaming the mother and daughter for trying something like that. Casual Legilimency was just overpowered and the way Belle's flesh was pressed against my chest, I could so easily reach into her mind through the skinship. "So, was that the plan, turn me into your pet wizard? No need to speak, I am in your mind, my dear... a difference between a mere dabbler of the Arcane and a proper Wizard... hmm... I see, quite brilliant."

Belle's fear turned to confusion at my compliment, making me chuckle.

I mean, if you separated the art from the artist, the trick that the Black Pearls probably used for generations was without a doubt the most efficient method of keeping political influence in the world. It was not something Belle knew when she met me, or even when we were in the same room together. Bellonara had gotten greedy and explained the way they used to keep their influence and power to her daughter after I mentioned how I could come up with a ritual.

The Ritual they used, the Plucking of Feathers, allowed a caster to turn the person they bed into their... simps... yes, simps was the best definition. That also explained why Bellonara had the Sealord wrapped around her finger, even as she acted to be fussing over him. She had the Sealord as her sex thrall through the ritual, though I was sure that her natural ability to charm and manipulate men through mind-blowing sexual prowess also came in handy.

The problem was that I noticed the signs of soul saturation on both mother and daughter... increased soul-stuff in a person. There was so much a body could hold before the soul started to spread out, influencing the world around them through accidental magic... granting the person a semi-divine presence. It was why Belle had the natural ability to cause the flames around her to rise while I required constant effort, though the allure seemed to be linked to her bloodlines, one I knew could be held by some other Targaryens in the past. That being said, the amount of effect they had over others was, fascinating and it would require cultivating the soul over generations, but the Ritual of the Succubus, as I now named it, would ensure that it was so.

Bellonara's intent at supporting Belle and our relationship seemed to be so that I would stabilize the Ritual so it worked all the time, as well as use the basis of Affinity Sharing Ritual to take on my Magical Skills... assuming that it was not hard work but some sort of Blood Magic that I inherited that allowed me to heal the Sealord... which was only partially correct.

"Well, I can respect a well-thought-out plan," I admitted, having thought that it was the Sealord that was responsible for the honeypot. It would seem, Black Pearl wanted someone who may have the skills to improve on the ritual and make it more consistent, to have people in power wrapped around her finger. "The Black Pearl, subtly using a rather simple magic to manipulate Braavos... you are extremely lucky that I was the one who caught on, instead of someone else... if another Mage with some competence got ensnared into that little ritual of yours... well, you and your mother would be his little pets right now and glad for it."

Belle gulped and she was... turned on by the power I held over her, the same power that I chose not to abuse. Finding that she was a natural submissive was a neat finding, but for later.

She was still confused by me admitting it "Are you not... angry? If that was the case, you could have done it already."

"I can hardly fault a mother for wanting the best for her daughter, or a person for improving the lot in their lives... ambition can be quite attractive in moderation, my dear," I whispered into her ear. "But I am not the type of person to keep someone against their will, I find it more enjoyable when they are willing and eager, and you have to admit that you find my company enjoyable as well."

Unsaid was the fact that the other option was to make an enemy out of them, potentially killing them but any other way involved me having to move to another city and start over from scratch.

"Hmm..." moaned Belle, grounding her ass in my lap. "You have ruined other men for me, without even putting it in." she pouted, her mind revealing her effort to try to get back some semblance of control, "What am I going to do when you are gone?"

"Why don't we make a deal then?" I asked, pushing more compulsions to make Belle trust me, keep an open mind and be truthful than a Greater-Good Dumbledore would do facing a pissed of Indy-Harry.

Getting a nod from the girl who stopped squirming, I continued, "The ritual I am planning will amplify your power... that part that makes you able to draw in men and some woman... along with making you more healthy in the long run. I am sure we can also have more fun if both sides had all the cards on the table... so to speak."

I had no intention to share my affinities with Belle, mostly because I was still not sure what my Magical Affinity was or if my experiments influenced it. I had narrowed it down to something to do with Divination, given how quickly I was able to pick up the branch of Magic. I had a suspicion that it was some sort of a danger sense that would have guided Viserys away from danger until he got his golden crown, but there was also a chance that same ability had guided me in my experiments when it came to magic.

What I instead wanted to do was to specifically share her affinities with myself while amplifying her affinity to bring out the lust in people... see if I can turn her into an actual proper Succubus. Added soul-stuff would amplify her physically, making her healthier and potentially far more beautiful than she would originally become, both benefits that came from having more soul stuffed in your body, as the natural way the soul got assimilated made you better physically.

"Hmm... that would not be so bad, and I suppose you get me in exchange to slate your lusts over?" said Belle, leaning back into my chest, relaxing at the fact that I admitted that I was willing to play ball, she seemed to be turned on by the dominant side I showed, though she was too exhausted for anything to happen. "I could even be convinced to be the pet of such a generous wizard... he even gives me warm baths... that alone is worth keeping you around for, my love."

That earned her a pinch on her firm bottom and a yelp, as we drifted into silence, enjoying the warmth of the water.

Yeah... as it turns out, you did not become the best Courtesan in the pseudo-Venice without actually being good at being a manipulative bitch... at least she was fun to be around. Her mother on the other hand... was going to be another challenge entirely.

After enjoying the bath that I kept warm with a bit of magic, Belle and I were both presentable once more, though both of us were too sore to go on after the mood was soured by plotting.

I left her to chat with her mother, knowing that I would have a more competent opponent the next time I came to this place. At least, now I knew what they wanted, which made me much more at ease since I could predict their actions for the most part.

The revelation about the true intent of the Black Pearl and her daughter made me re-evaluate my priorities. Specifically, my ability to guide and control spells, as I would need a few backup methods of ensuring that the Ritual could not be interfered with and used for something other than its purpose.

That thought led me to the way I used the rune to cast a spell, and what else I could do with the same method.

The principles of the method were simple. Similar to how I could draw out the healing properties in a potion to cast a spell that healed, I would have to draw out the meaning within the runes, something that I had barely scratched the surface of.

Inspecting the shadow-bound shirt I had made, I came to the conclusion that my first attempt to use runes to add to the shadow-binding I used was... lackluster... a failure.

It had not worked because the soul-stuff trapped in the rune could not spread through the silk shirt, the non-living material not suitable for the type of enchantment that could draw out the properties of the rune. There was also the possible issue of the magical fire simply vaporizing the glyph of protection, leaving behind an incoherent trace instead of using the rune to anchor the magic.

That meant that I needed to enchant things that were alive in the past, without setting them on fire, which was harder than it sounded... as creating a cold fire was going to be tricky even if the process was familiar to me.

I took out a second shirt, this one was made from linen instead of silk. Linothorax was an ancient linen armor, using the natural fibers of linen to provide protection similar to Kevlar Body armor... in theory at least. The plant fibers would be better at channeling the soul-stuff and spreading out the enchantment powered by the glyphs than silk ever could.

Since the original shirt was already getting a bit too tight as I grew, I was due for an upgrade and I could recycle the old shirt.

The new shirt had specific runes of protection strategically embroidered all over itself in Valyrian Glyphs, a piece of rune-work that Nessa had stitched on using an improved linen thread that was magically bound with the potion base, specifically so that it could absorb dragonglass into itself. Since dragonglass could create fire from within, it stood to reason that it could be used as a medium, binding a rune into it to draw out the meaning of the rune.

A flick of my wand had the first shirt burst into flames, before the fires guttered out, leaving behind a mess of shadows and smoke suspended in mid-air forming a ball. Slowly layering the shadows into the new shirt, a blue fire came out of the tip of my wand, a cold fire that held the concepts of change, binding the mess of shadows into the plant matter, similar to the way I layered a soul into the wooden frame of the house, this time, drawing on the concepts that were anchored to the runes stitched onto the shirt instead of relying on my intent alone. The effect required me to be able to feel the runes, or rather the meanings behind those runes.

Once I completed the enchantments on the new shirt and put it on, I could feel the effects of the enchantments running through the shirt, feeling that the added `comfort` rune along with the dozen different phrases that roughly meant `protection` was not a waste of effort, a significant improvement over the single purpose enchantment I could place with intent alone. While the silk shirt was good, it did tend to itch every once in a while.

The enchantment process led me to another shortcoming... control over my new wand was... lackluster at best. I had an idea on how to improve my control over spellfire... something that I could use Dany's help with... mostly as it would give me an excuse to spend some more time with her, but also to get her used to magic. She had been upset about the extra lessons and she deserved some reward since she seemed fascinated by the magic I have been more openly doing.

The blue ball of fire hung in the air, before a wooden bat slammed into it, making it disappear.

The flame was mine, the same flame that I used to enchant the shirt I now wore. In essence, it was a replication of the Blue Bell Flames that one Hermione Granger was fond of using. On the surface, it was a worthless spell. Nothing but a combination of what one could refer to as Fire Creation and Flame Freezing Charms, a combination that created a fire that gave off no heat.

In theory, it was a control exercise that produce a fire that was not there in the first place, a training aid I came up with, meant to ensure the caster could control the natural properties of spellfire to prevent it from burning things.

Said fire would also allow me to layer-specific enchantments on top of it without burning my target. There were enough scorch marks in my workshop for me to justify the spell's necessity even without the improved control it would provide me during enchanting.

The one aspect of Magic that I seem to run into was that the Laws of Nature did not stop working just because magic was involved. Sure, magic could suspend them but it had to be intentional on the caster's side. For example, you could use fire to enchant something but that did not mean that same fire would not in the meantime, burn the item you were working with. You had to additionally account for the need to make sure the fire did not burn in a physical form.

The result was a game that I came up with. It allowed me to spend time with Dany and practice at the same time. I had to bribe her with playtime so she behaved and actually listened to her lessons with the Black Pearl... while also allowing me to slowly figure out how to teach her magic.

Another blue ball of fire launched itself from the tip of my wand. The actual effect was a combination of fire that burned completely, hence the blue flames and making sure that it did not release any heat in the process. If I lost concentration, the flame would simply go out, making it no different than an illusion or a light show that could still affect the world... which was perfect for precision spells while paving the way for physical illusions to supplement the mental ones I could create.

Another smack on the blue ball of flame by the stick and I recast, willing the ball of fire to move in midair to avoid the wild swings that Dany was now trying to go for. She wanted to see magic and I could not see any reason to deny her given that this spell was perfectly safe.

The blue ball moved around her bat and smacked her in the back before vanishing. It was just hard enough to make her stumble but not fall. Dany turned to glare at me as I gave her a sheepish grin before she was once again distracted by a new blue ball hanging right in front of her, taunting her.

Ser Willem watched like a hawk, despite the lack of danger. He had still insisted on trying it himself, though we ended up using Wat the Eyes as the trial dummy instead.

The reason the flame went out when Dany hit it with a stick was strange, as it was caused by the nature of the flames and the act of hitting it. The moment someone else touched the flames, they would gain control over said flames, but that in turn would cause the blue flames to go out, as they required active focus to keep.

That also meant that she needed to concentrate on making the fire go out while hitting, channeling her will through the piece of normal wood... which would hopefully make it easier for her in the future once I figured out how to make a wand for her.

It was whimsical on her part, a fun bit of magic that her big brother used to play with her. To me, it was the perfect practice, both for myself and Dany, so everyone won.

"That is enough for now... you have your other lessons to attend," I said, causing Dany to pout, before trying to swing once more at the blue fire.

"Expelliarmus," I stated, moving my wand to trace the Valyrian Glyph of `release` at the same time... the tip of my wand left behind a rune of fire suspended in midair before both the runes and the blue flame turned to a red hue, the only reason the color changed was because of my preset belief that the Disarming Charm should be red.

The fire took on the concept of `release` from the rune I traced, similar to how I had it take on the properties of the potion. The spell was held in the air, just as Dany hit it once more with the wooden stick... only for said stick to fly out of her hands and fall onto the floor.

The only part that was relatively hard for such a spell was to be able to take over the `possession` of the weapon, given that Dany was holding the wood and physical contact allowed a person to pour their soul into an object... if the material was conductive enough for a soul, which seemed to correlate with how alive it was.

I looked at my sister with a soft smile, daring her to make a fuss. Instead of gaping with amazement at my casual use of magic, she was simply pouting. Being young, she was not as wary about magic, nor as limited in her viewpoints on what was possible and not possible. She simply accepted that her big brother had magic and fire could become blue and fly around when I waved a stick.

"Be a good girl and attend your lessons and we can play later," I said, giving her a soft smile. Dany nodded, running to her lessons with an "okay,", a word that confused everyone given that I was the only person who used it in this world. She seemed... more enthusiastic now that she had the prospect of seeing more fun in the future. Most of the fun would be me explaining how I did what I did in a way that would ensure she did not know enough to replicate it. I would sometimes see her looking at my wand and I would have to promise her that if she was a big girl, she would get her own when she was older. I honestly blamed the Targaryen-ness in her blood for that... the girl was more interested in magic than anything else I saw her do.

Teaching my sister magic was not something I was going to change my mind about, though I was worried that she was too young for most of the magic that I knew. The latest batch of more conceptual spells I had developed by combining Spellfire with Runes and Glyphs were far more suited to teaching than the darker, more primal side of Magic that even I realized that I barely even understood.

The trick I discovered with conceptual magic came down to the unique idea that I got to `translate` the Book of Sex Rituals I had read.

Words had a unique relationship to stabilize magic... something that I had initially dismissed in my rush to produce as many powerful spells as I could. The spellfire that I was able to access using the dragonglass was the missing piece to the more... familiar Magic System that I was able to now build off of.

In practice, the spellfire made any magic I cast an enchantment, allowing me to give properties to materials that were not there. The effect lasted for a short duration, ending once I reclaimed the amount of soul I poured into the object. The result was... different in principle from the rawer, more physical spells that I had originally created, the same ones that used an enchanted medium to interact with the world instead of using the enchantment to directly affect the world.

Sure, I could still use my old spells as before but they were... less refined than what I could pull off, even if they were more physical in practice. The difference, while subtle was easy to distinguish. I could still control the winds to move things around to my will. The spellfire allowed me to make an object move without using the winds, imposing "change" through the element of fire. The best word to describe the new, more refined form of magic casting I could do was... to call it "Charms", which allowed me to add new properties to a material.

When it came to Charms, my understanding of the rawer magic supplemented my observations.

Based on my experience with magic, incantations did not matter as much as the meaning they held for the caster at that moment. I could use High Valyrian to cast complex spells, but my own expectations made it much easier to cast spells by using the incantations based on Harry Potter Spells. It was a weird effect, the Pig Latin and made-up words from another world were so closely linked to the concept of magic for me that I found them intuitive to use for casting, lacing that intent into my spells.

More powerful spells, however... those were still out of my reach, lacking power and weight that simple words could not convey. For those, I experimented with Wand Movements, tracing Runes and Glyphs that held the meaning in the air, tracing them in the air while leaving a trail of fire. It was... essentially a Flame Writing Charm, allowing me to enchant the flame with the additional concepts I could pull from the words themselves, before collapsing the fire into a ball to throw around.

I recalled Benerro being able to write in the air with flames. The High Priest of R'hllor in Volantis used it in his sermons to trace Valyrian Glyphs in the air.

`Words are wind`... a good saying that shows the weight of the spoken word... the same weight as winds, even if I was proof that winds could cut... even if the spells I used, like the winds, were temporary.

It was how I managed the Disarming Charm I cast, imposing the conceptual meaning of `release` onto the held object instead of the holder, taking that said concept from the matching glyph instead of my own memory and understanding.

The spell was different than the version I created using skinchanging, which involved me possessing the hand holding the object and forcing it to release said object... which was closer to localized-Imperius Curse than the Disarming Charm. The Puppeteering I used was much faster and more effective against body parts than the entire body, making the spell Imperius-Lite.

In the end, Charms allowed me to prove that I could use the written word to hold more complex enchantments, a skill that I knew would come in handy in both the protections I have been trying to build around our house and the rituals that I wanted to conduct.

"Words are wind unless they are carved on stone" I muttered to myself, making my way to my workshop. My study of symbols, runes, and glyphs became more of a priority now that I knew they could help me with casting more complex conceptual spells and also because I was actively trying to understand Rituals for a specific goal.

The main problem I came into was the way Tantric Rituals worked made them almost impossible to properly control or guide consciously. The Rituals were too primal... too chaotic... too wild as the small accident had proven. The act of release was a keystone in each version of the rituals I learned about... but said release also proved to mess with my control over magic.

Normally, the nature of Tantric Rituals, limited the ritual to have specific basic effects, taking over the body of the partner, turning them into your slave, and sharing power... that kind of thing was easy, but I wanted to make sure that the effect was what I wanted it to be, and I refused to turn anyone into a mindless puppet without reason.

Given that I was of the opinion that Rituals should be strictly limited to those who were involved to make sure no one could interfere, a lesson from Summerhall that my family really needed to learn, I needed a method of controlling the magic, a sort of security net.

If I wanted anything more complicated, especially if I planned to amplify the existing soul-stuff in the ritual to make it more potent... I needed something to guide the spell... a Ritual Circle to be specific.

It took a while but nearly a week of working and I had what I wanted, I understood how to work with runes and glyphs. The trick was to gain insight into the magic that a rune would naturally cast by enchanting the rune and meditating over it, drawing out the actual meaning of runes.

I took out a dozen small Blood Candles, ones I had created using mice that were easier to breed. The small candles also allowed me to play around with new enchantments at a small scale, though this time they would allow me to create something much more useful than mere experiments that were later discarded.

I was using my wand to carve the shapes onto the small pieces of Weirwood, binding the small souls into the Weirwood. I knew that most wood, so long as they were enchanted, could remain alive, but Weirwood was better at it than other woods.

In the end, I ended up with a bag of carved rune stones, made from Weirwood, each wooden piece holding a blackened Glyph that I thought would have a clear and useful meaning, written onto the surface with the tip of my wand burning the Glyph with Spellfire. Half the runes had a circle around them, to see if that would influence the effects of the glyphs.

Then there was the other set of wooden plates, large enough to fit the palm of my hand. I carved ritual circles that I thought might provide me with a better understanding of how numbers and geometric shapes could work.

Doing Math to make sure Magic did not blow up in my face was not a strange idea. The concept in Harry Potter was called Arithmancy, to be specific, Numerology, which was, Number Divination.

In my old world, Numerology was a useless art that was independently invented by multiple civilizations, though I was most familiar with the Greek Model made by Pythagoras. It boiled down to assigning numbers to letters and adding them up to predict the future.

In this world, Numerology was a serious science, one that even the likes of Maesters and Scholars considered to be true. It made tracking down meanings much easier and all I needed to do is confirm that the numbers held the correct interpretations, once again using the method I used to create my rune stones.

Rhoynar seemed to have been the ones to truly focus on the power of numbers though a bit of research into history and lore showed an interesting trend in patterns in each civilization to rely on at least one magical number.

Valyrians operated on threes.

Three Heads of the Dragon was the most known concept, a reference to both the ruling body of Three Archons and the Three Parts required to Ride a Dragon.

The Triarchy of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh had actually based their alliance on the tradition of having 3 Archons that governed, hence the name as each city provided one archon for the alliance. The closest analogy I had was the Roman Consuls, and how there were always 2 of them at the same time.

The three heads of the dragon that made the dragon rider were also ones that I knew closely. It was the dragon, the rider, and the soul of the relative of the rider that was bound to the dragon. There was blood magic required in the process, at least for those who did not know the secrets of magic.

There are other rules of Three, the books on Alchemy made mention of the balance between Mind, Body, and Soul, or so my most recent translation of the work implied them.

Even my own wand worked on the rule of Threes if I really thought about it, using three magical materials in the form of weirwood, dragon bone, and dragonglass. There was also Blood but the blood bound the three materials to me, I was sure that it could be considered as a different, separate application of numbers from the connection that created the wand.

The First Men had two different numbers that occurred often, Nine and Thirteen, both known for their magical properties. Nine was rarer, but the Crown of Kings of Winter supposedly had nine swords atop it. Thirteen, was more common, being linked to the Weirwood Groves, which always had thirteen trees, to the Thirteen Heroes who ventured against the White Walkers, and of course, the notorious Thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

Then there was the most vexing one... Seven.

The first idea I got was that of the Seven who are One, making me once more ask how a religion that was so against Magic managed to survive when set forth against the likes of Rhoynar, Valyria, and First Men.

"It does look like what I would expect a very simple Magic Circle to look like," I said, turning to my companion.

The Raven looked at me and twisted his head in confusion. I sighed and pushed the images of other more fantasy-inspired ritual circles, before the raven turned and inspected the sign, croaking out "same... same" making me hum in return.

Ravens had the intelligence of a child it was told, which I could judge better than everyone given how I could feel the way they thought things through.

Evil Overlord List that I had partially remembered had something about keeping one around to bounce ideas off of, a child, not a raven but my options were limited to Dany or Lanna. With Lanna, I did not want her to be aware of some of the deeper secrets... or the experiments that would make her draw parallels between me and the Alchemist, not to mention the issue of her soul being... frayed. Similarly, Dany was not an option for now, as I wanted her to have a bit more time before I took her on as an apprentice, letting her enjoy her childhood and focus on her newest studies as I did not want her to be overwhelmed by Magical Theory before I had time to hash it out property.

For now, a raven was assisting me on my experiments, mostly to bounce ideas off of, the animal instincts being more attuned to how magic might work, lacking some of the more refined inhibitions of humans.

The answer was obvious the more I studied the artifact in the Sept, as it was Accidental Magic, ironically, that ensured that the Faith was so successful. I could not find any presence of the Seven in their Septs, but there was some sort of protection that was anchored to the seven-pointed star. Given the use of the icon on everything related to the ones who followed the seven, and my test of a simple piece of wood with the seven-pointed-star etched onto the surface with my wand was almost eager to take on and retain an enchantment.

I had a feeling that it acted as an anchor for the belief, an enchanted object that provided some sort of a boost to what you prayed upon.

Then, there were the zealots from the time of the Andal Invasions. Because, of course carving a Seven-Pointed-Star on your own body with a specific intent to destroy anyone holding magic would provide you with resistance against magic, allowing your men to invade a continent that made Valyrians stop and as if they should do so.

My knowledge, I knew that seven was the most magical number. I think it had something to do with the fact that it is the largest single-digit prime number, making it the largest indivisible number that could not be broken down into its smaller components.

There were other numbers though, and I needed to figure out how to use them to ensure that the Ritual I was crafting would succeed. I could combine the nature of the numbers with runes to create an anchor that would guide the ritual, or at least provide a bit of security compared to not using a proper Magical Ritual Circle.

I got to work, as I needed to map out all the numbers I could... maybe add in a few pictograms as well.

AN:

Everyone makes Summer Islands look like a paradise, but let's face it, in Planetos, there is no such thing. Given their obsession with sex and rather interesting traditions, my interpretation is that the place has figured out a way to use sex to power magic and they are good at it.

The Game never ends and it is the same everywhere. Casual use of Legilimency and out-of-context problem solving saved Wizerys' arse once more... well, more that it saves his moral fiber. You do not try to enslave the mind of a person who can casually break the minds of others and that would have made this fic a lot darker than I want.

Also, this is mostly to highlight that magic is still going on behind the scenes.

I tried to rock that True Neutral that does not give a shit about anything but learning new things for Wizerys, at least when it came to Black Pearl's plot, let me know how it came off. His respect for Black Pearls also went up a bit, mostly because now he knows their angle.

Wand Movements... draw concepts from the Runes and channel the effect into the spell, as it writes the symbol into the air. Wizerys slowly gets Dany used to the idea of magic while training her in the old and wise method of Wax on Wax Off.

I know the rest of the chapter was a lot of telling and not showing but I wanted to write this part about Runes and Arithmancy and get over it... because they are going to be needed for the future.

Last edited: Jan 1, 2023

018 Confrontations

# 018 Confrontations

Having discovered the ability to tap into complex concepts through written words, I had spent the last week running through the small stockpile of Blood Candles I had made while experimenting with Magic Circles I could build by combining Numerology of Geometric Shapes with High Valyrian Glyphs.

One of those experiments was a Lesser Divination Ritual that was able to deconstruct the Magical Affinity of a person, using Dany, Wat, and me to test a framework consisting of eighty-one total concepts, each represented by a glyph or symbol.

I got the idea from Chakra Nature Papers from Naruto, the ability to tell apart a person's affinity using a magical paper sounded like an interesting concept and I now had access to specific concepts to try it out. Instead of simple elements, however, I made it to be a bit more comprehensive and used eighty-one High Valyrian Glyphs.

Numbers were weird, and nine, in my opinion, was the weirdest of all numbers. Three of Threes, nine retained the stability of the three, adding a layer of complexity to the process to reach what could best be called a super-stability.

Glyphs I added to the nine ends of the star caused the enchantment to reach a stable form almost immediately, a balance that it retained unless some external force changes something. That made the simple Magic Circle a perfect method for me to get information as anything that disturbed the balance caused a reaction that I could physically observe... forming the basis for an analysis spell of sorts.

The result was the Scroll of transformed Weirwood. While Transfiguration was a bit more tricky than I would have liked, changing the shape of wood was one of the easier tricks, stretching out the Weirwood into a papyrus-like form took no effort, allowing me a surface to write the Magic Circle on. Using my wand to etch the glyphs and shapes I wanted onto the Weirwood Papyrus, I ended up with an Analysis Scroll. Eighty-one different glyphs, representing individual concepts that I could come up with, some taken from Game Stats and others from my observations, forming a nine-sided star with another set of nine-sided stars at each end of the main star. In the middle a simple enchantment of "Fire for blood, blood for fire" with a smaller circle in the center. As it stood, the enchantment was at balance, but a single drop of blood at the center circle would cause the glyphs with matching concepts to flare out, giving me a loose description of the Magical Affinity of a person.

The resulting backlash caused the related runes that got stronger from the added blood to flare out in the form of heat and light. That blackened the runes that shared similar concepts to the blood added, allowing me to analyze and deconstruct the affinity of a soul through Blood Magic. The only issue I had with the entire setup was that the Scroll was a bitch to make and was only useful for a single person... not to mention using about an amount of Weirwood that required me to feed an entire pig to the small tree I had managed to cultivate.

Dany, unsurprisingly, had an affinity that converged around `foresight`, `revival`, and `dragon`, among other lesser ones, a perfect combination for someone who would somehow divine a ritual to hatch dragons from petrified stone using only the most basic understanding of Equivalent Exchange. My main issue was the fact that she was a seer... or rather a Dreamer since her foresight was far more potent than the other two concepts. While I was glad that she could see into the future, I knew that such a talent could potentially mess up a person, which meant that she was not wearing an amulet until I could teach her to control her powers or at least her mind enough for her to get a handle of her visions. I did not want her dreams of the future to influence her mind and cause her more harm than good like the magic had with Daeron the Drunken... who drank himself to the grave to avoid the visions he kept having.

I, on the other hand, got something unique that confirmed the deep suspicion I had about myself, specifically my unnatural ability to understand magic and survive any bad result. My Magical Affinity was heavily biased to `magic`, `foresight`, and `survival` in that order, with other lesser affinities that were less applicable. That meant that I had a primary affinity to divination that pertained to magic and survival, the later affinity was probably because of the paranoia I shared with the original Viserys. Magic, I was sure was something unique to myself compared to Original Viserys, while foresight was simply an ability to feel the many threads of fate according to most beliefs, though I preferred to consider it as a subtle effect of retro-active precognition with me being sensitive to the events that would happen to my future selves, echoing back through time.

The insight into affinities pretty much confirmed that my divination best worked in the combination of survival and magic. That made me good at a few things, dueling, with both weapon and magic, since I could tell where a hit would come from but it made me great at specifically experimenting with spells and general magic and surviving the consequences since I could tell when something would go wrong and stop it or dodge it if it came to that... explaining how I managed to survive from exploding myself until now.

Said instincts had also screamed at me that breaking the mind of the Black Pearl was a bad idea... because, at the end of the day, that was all I could do if they tried anything with the ritual... as I would have to free-form the spell and the backlash would break the mind of the girl I have been growing more fond of.

The truth was, I had every reason to break both their minds, the mother and daughter, and keep them to sate my lusts even if I never really had that specific fetish. Their attempt at binding me to their wills had left me with a simmering rage that even now made me clench my teeth in annoyance. Just the fact that they had tried to pull something off like what they wanted was enough justification for me to go through with the process and turn it on them... except for one single detail... my instincts.

Only after meditating and going over the memories of the day could I isolate that instinct, the same one that allowed me to know when to shield myself from an exploding cauldron... the same one that I had only recently confirmed to being guided by divining a fortune were I could survive. In functionality, I was sort of reminded of the Force, how it would guide Jedi and Sith, giving them feelings and I had a bad feeling about this.

Said instincts had stayed my hand, at least long enough for my conscious mind to catch up and ask `What would Tywin do?`. I knew that he would do exactly what I wanted to do if he was in my place and had my abilities. Breaking the minds of a couple of `whores` as he would call them.

I had a few policies in this life... chief among them was `Don't do what Tywin would do!!!`, and it was up there with all the partially remembered items from the Evil Overlord Index. Sure, Tywin had this brutal efficiency to his actions, one that many would find admirable in a Lord. That being said, he was a petty man who did not take insults lightly and had no loyalty to anyone but his ego... so anything he would do was ill-thought-out and questionable in the long run. You did not kill off multiple families for the single reason that your enemies would do the same to yours at the first opportunity.

The pause made me think through the events, trying to find the hidden reason that someone like the Black Pearl would have at wanting control over me, at least beyond the hunger for power that someone who already had control over the Sealord would have. There was something that I was not seeing and it ate away at me.

I had used the truth to guide the Legilimency, using Belle's panic at being discovered to peel away the layers of their plot, but the Black Pearl did not seem like a person who would try something so stupid like that... at least not without having a backup to ensure success.

It made sense... too much sense, an ambitious Courtesan and her daughter, a powerful sorcerer who showed every sign that he would continue to grow richer and more powerful. The only problem was my innate paranoia and my obsessive need to master the Mind Arts, allowing me to catch on to their little plot.

Given how my instincts screamed at me that breaking their minds was a very terrible idea, and since I was sure they did not expect me to catch on to it before the ritual took place... I dislike subtlety.

So, here I was, flipping the board to get answers to the questions that annoyed me directly from the source, since subtlety was taking too long and I did not play by the rules of others. It had been a week since I plucked the plot from Bellegere's mind, but the benefit I got from Glyphs made me much more confident now than I was before.

"Evening," I said, sitting by the couch, a rune of `Privacy` burned onto the surface of the expensive Goldenheart Table by my side, a small Blood Candle burning on top of the rune, releasing smoke to enforce the conceptual Ward I had woven over the entire room.

The first servant who had noticed me sitting there had yelped in panic, running off to call her mistress.

"Your grace, I did not expect to see you here," responded Bellonara Otherys, the Black Pearl. Her hair was wet, from the bath that I knew she would be having at that moment, which is why I chose this specific time to have our chat. She was wearing a sheer robe, droplets of water still sticking to her skin and making the robe more transparent... leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Yes, the two Bravos by the door did give me that impression, promise of a night with the Black Pearl will make any man suicidal, it would seem," I snarked back, enjoying the view and the slight discomfort she was having at how I managed to get in despite her precautions. I could feel her dread at this very conversation, having left to stew in her paranoia. "Don't bother calling out, I have ensured that we can have this private chat," I said, my fingers passing over the Blood Candle that was anchoring the enchantment around the room.

Said two men were currently incapable of discerning up from down, as the Confundus Charm I placed on them was... a bit more than I had initially assumed. Combined with the Privacy Ward, they would not be able to walk straight let alone disturb us. Using Runes with my own already existing spells gave... quite potent results. "I think we should talk... please, have a seat," I said, pointing at the other couch.

Black Pearl sauntered close to me after a moment of silence, choosing to take a seat on my lap instead of the other couch in the room. I had to give her credit for the seduction attempt... my body was reacting even if I kept my mind from being distracted.

Black Pearl was another beast entirely compared to her daughter... and I was wary of her. She was an experienced Courtesan capable of manipulating men to her whims, ambitious and cunning enough to have magically wrapped the Sealord around her finger... and also stupid enough to have tried doing something similar to me. That combination was a dangerous one and I needed a more gentle touch.

"Belle has been singing your praises, young man... one might say she is in love," breathed out Bellonara Otherys, pushing all her charm and sex appeal... along with her rather impressive breasts to my face. Her shamelessness and choice to make intimate physical contact made me tense, making me gulp. I watched her hands, resting on her lap, presenting no threat to me.

At the thought of her daughter, her mind pointed me at a wooden wall that had an intricate design, behind which I saw a familiar pair of eyes. The mind I felt was familiar to me, as it would seem that Bellegere had noticed that I was here and wanted to watch how her mother fared.

"She is young, she will get better," I deflected, my hand resting on her back, increasing the physical contact to better get a read on her. It would ensure that I could also paralyze her at a moment's notice if she tried to stab me with something.

Clamping down on my libido, I focused on her eyes instead. Romantics were not wrong... eyes were truly the windows to the soul and surface-level reading was the most efficient form of Legilimency, simply because it was near impossible to resist when there was eye contact involved.

While the mother was ambitious and pushed her daughter in my direction, Belle was innocent as I was able to glimpse from her mind. It was a point in Bellonara's character that she was more worried about her daughter than any punishment I might decide to mete out today.

For Bellegere, I could spare, as even if she had found the idea of controlling my power enticing, she was reluctant and I had given her a much better alternative as she had enjoyed me taking control more than the other way around. Not to mention that turning me into her slave was something that made her uncomfortable as a Braavosi... idealism of youth was a beautiful thing. Combined with the fact that I could give her earth-shattering orgasms and she was unbalanced in this game her mother was more experienced at. Then again, it might have been the fact that I had shown a glimpse of my power and had shown a willingness to be reasonable and not abuse it, a rare combination for men in this world that unbalanced even Bellonara before me.

Unlike her daughter, however, where I had total control, Bellonara's closeness put me on edge, because she was willing to do it. She had willingly provided me a better leverage to look into her mind... an ability of mine that her daughter had already shared with her. Bellonara knew that I could look into her mind, and wanted me to take a look... either a sign of trust or she was more capable than she let on. Was it a sign of... submission? manipulation? I was not sure what her end game was by being as open as possible other than as a way to make sure I did not lash out.

"Indeed, mayhaps you would prefer someone older... more mature..." purred the beauty before me, trying to distract me with her body... though I was more annoyed at the attempt than anything else.

"You tried to enslave me, why should I trust anything you say?" I asked, causing her to gasp in mock horror.

"The first law of Braavos is not one even the Black Pearl would trifle with, your grace, such accusations... I merely worked to gain your favor... a man of your status and power draws woman in," she said, trying to play it off, getting a growl from me in response to her attempts to be light-hearted. Her act annoyed me because I considered this more serious than she did.

Deciding to show her a glimpse of what she truly wanted, I pressed onto her mind instead, wrapping my presence around hers... pressing just enough for her to freeze in fear.

Everyone had certain instincts when it came to skinchanging, even the lowest of animals. Lack of experience and not being used to the connections formed between souls made it near impossible for someone to slip out unless they had reason to, but said instincts also ensured that your soul tried to keep out other souls from your body by default. The memories I got from the animals I broke... it was like claustrophobia, as though someone was hovering over you while you could not move. That was what she was feeling right now... my anger made manifest.

The Black Pearl of Braavos froze like a deer before the open maws of a dragon. "Feel that... that is my soul, in your body... just as you wanted," I said, growling, feeling her mind, like a panicked bird trying to get out of her cage. "I have broken enough minds to know that such things are not to be messed with. A single loss of control and your mind would be crushed. That is what you wanted for yourself and your daughter... a ritual to build a connection, a door. Doors open both ways... and unlike others, I am intimately familiar with that door," I stated, causing the woman on my lap to gulp in fear, fear that I was amplifying with a bit of compulsion, forcing her to feel it all, causing her to shake, "You, my dear, are dabbling with things that you do not even understand, and my mercy is limited."

This was what Thistle had felt when Varamyr tried to take her skin. It was what made a person bite off their own tongue, and claw out their own eyes to break the connection. A bit more pressure and Bellonara would react the same way... if I lacked the control that I had built over the last three years.

I released the spiritual pressure, relaxing the cage I build enough after that small rant. It took Bellonara a moment to gather herself. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths, as I watched her visibly calm down after a moment, her control was impeccable.

Her mind was a great source of insight into her true feelings. She was... good at that... remaining calm while managing an angry man, the memories of instances where her chosen partner would get violent only for her to use her skills to ensure nothing bad happened... nothing permanent at least. Even then, she had some of them killed for going too far. A part of me felt pity for this woman who had to live through such things... but this world was a cruel one, and her actions needed to have consequences, no matter how much I pitied her.

Her mood changed in a moment, more relaxed once she realized that I was done, and I would not do more. She sighed, giving me a smile that was... happy... no, was that relief?

What was I missing here?

"I thought you were the ambitious type of man, your grace, a second son, deprived of his rights, angry and looking for power... such a man would have lashed out, just now, such a man would take what they wanted without care for others. I am glad I was wrong and I beg your forgiveness and mercy," she said, going to her knees on the floor in front of me, bowing her head in submission.

The confusing part was that she was genuine in her words, showing it in the best way she knew got every man before me raring to go. I had to accept that having such a beautiful woman on her knees before me in so little clothing was getting to me.

"And what type of man am I then?" I asked curiously, looking back up and into her eyes. Occlumency had its uses even if my instincts wanted me to bend this woman over the table I had recently defaced out of pettiness.

"A monster, held behind a cage of morality and nobility... I had thought you were hungry for power and held a desire to reclaim your crown, you certainly act that way from all the rumors," she said, pausing before taking a breath, preparing herself for something. I felt her steel her resolve, "When they came to me, with a task to test the one who would choose to save a little girl and fight another monster, I was curious," whispered the Black Pearl, making me freeze, "the House of Black and White wanted to see if you would be the right kind of monster however, or one that they can work with."

A chill ran down my spine, making me shiver. She was not lying, that much I knew. I did not look up, instead focusing on that specific trail of memories within her mind. She had enough mental discipline to pick up on what I was doing and she was helping me, speeding it up by thinking of the correct memories. It was not Occlumency in the strictest term but it was... impressive nonetheless.

"The Faceless Men... of course, it is them... what did they want?" I asked wanting to hear her words.

"They wanted to see what you would do. Would you notice the truth behind this plot and react with violence? Would you let it happen either way and bind yourself to our will? Or would you lash out and break the mind of my only daughter?... They... they told me that it would be near impossible for you to not notice, that there would be a price to pay... yet you did neither of those, I thank you for your mercy, your grace, I am in your debt," once more bowing to me. Her gratitude was genuine, she could not fake those feelings in such a realistic way.

As for the Faceless Men, the Black Pearl was just another test for me, a bait for me to see if I would be tempted to be cruel... to take over the mind of a person in a moment of distress. Maybe it was a warning, maybe it was a lesson to make me feel the horror of someone losing their will. Given their hate against Valyrian Sorcerers, I had a feeling that falling for the bait would see me dead sooner than I wanted.

I could see them using this as a way to decide whether or not they needed to kill me before I grew too powerful, `before I could figure out how to detect them` my thoughts rose.

"Why risk yourself... or your daughter for something like that?" I asked, wondering how they convinced someone to do such a monumentally stupid thing, "Slavery of that form is a fate worse than death."

"A name was given," said Black Pearl in a cold monotone that imitated the Faceless Men, "the Black Pearl is known to the House of Black and White, but her daughter is not... I was offered a choice."

"And you chose to manipulate your daughter into the maw of the dragon?" I asked, knowing what she was thinking. Someone had named Bellegere, for reasons I did not know. "A bit stupid, given she would die either way."

"I had offered myself in her stead but I was refused, and as you said, she would have died either way," said Bellonara, showing a determination that was... wow. If I had not been hard from the way she sat on my lap, I would have been hard from that admission alone. "I would have to take the only chance that you would be merciful, that the boy I saw heal a man was not going to harm her... even if he could. I... I am willing to make up for it, if that is what you wish, your grace."

"What do they want from me?" I asked, looking at the Courtesan before me. In her mind, there was a relief, gratitude, happiness... and resignation at her fate, acceptance that I would torture or kill her. I realized that this was more than some ambitious courtesan... this was a mother looking to protect her child from harm.

"I do not know what they want... I was only told what to do, to tempt you and see if you would react in violence, see if I could influence you as well, either way, they would have control over you," Bellonara shrugged, causing her robe to slip, revealing more of her skin.

"And your influence over the Sealord... it seems odd, given what you are doing might be considered slavery of another form?" I asked wanting to know more about the hidden secrets she had, gaining more leverage if I could. "They tolerate such a thing?"

"All men must serve. An exchange between the two is not of their concern. It was even one of those favors that keep my name from being given to them... poor Ferrego was more enthused about cooperating with them after we spent a few nights together," responded Bellonara, making me understand that this woman was not only dangerous and resourceful and above all else, willing to work with me. "I am willing to do anything if it means keeping my Bellegere safe... I just ask that any punishment your grace would decide on would be limited to myself."

"I am not the law here," I countered "any punishment I demand would not be binding."

"Yet none could stop you if you truly wished it," countered Bellonara, "you are here after all."

"And if I am willing to be merciful, to you and your daughter?" I asked, my eyes raking over her body. Bellonara bats her eyelashes, giving me a knowing smile before crawling slowly towards me. "What are you willing to give in return?"

Stopping before my open legs, she looked up and said "Anything... you... desire... and I would be very appreciative... your grace". Her hands moved up my leg before grabbing my cock through my pants, she squeezed it with a smirk on her face. "Hmm... that daughter of mine certainly was not exaggerating, especially if you are as... enduring as she told me you were." she purred, slowly opening the lacing and freeing the boner that I got from all the wiggling she had done in my lap.

Her hands were good, and she had been teasing me long enough that I could not do anything but enjoy the handjob. She did not push for more, not when I did not make any motion to go further, enjoying the best handjob I got in both my lives.

A few minutes was all I could last before I heard Bellonara whisper "Now, why don't you be a good boy and cover my face with your seed?" noticing that I was close, just as I groaned as I came, just as she wanted.

"What do you say, your grace?" asked the Black Pearl, her face and breasts covered with my seed... alas, I was not really in the mood to do more.

"Tempting... very tempting." I nodded, agreeing that I wanted this, mostly for myself. "I agree that Belle should not be punished, but you... how can I ever be sure that I can trust you... your attempt should have consequences after all... a punishment equal to the attempted crime."

I had already made up my mind about what I had to do... even if I had asked for advice. Ser Willem had been furious when I told him of their plot, suggesting that we kill them both, though he backed up when I compared it to something Aerys would do. Ser Richard had been less enthused about the violence, though not at the idea that at least the Black Pearl had to be punished in some way. It was Nessa who overheard the argument that suggested that I pay back in kind... at least for Black Pearl, as even she agreed that such an act should not be simply dismissed.

"And how would you punish me, your grace?" asked Bellonara, wiggling her chest in front of me.

"By ensuring your enthusiasm... in our cooperation," I repeated, as I took out my wand. "Immobulus." I muttered, tracing the mirror image of the glyph of `movement` in the air, inverting the concept, and hitting the woman in front of me with a blue spellfire that ensured she would be unable to move.

The conversation revealed interesting details about the House of Black and White... ones that I could pick up on at least. They would only react in violence if I hodored someone important, but they did not care what had been done to the Sealord. Steeling my resolve, I pressed the tip of my wand to my finger, making a shallow cut using the dragonglass tip and extracting a drop of my blood. Said blood started smoking from the magic involved before the smoke started forming a circle around the tip of my wand.

Unlike my more melodramatic understanding in the past, Shadowbinding would be done without loss of soul. The blood only created a link between the shadow-smoke and the caster that they could use, not dissimilar to the bond I shared with my more closer familiars, the ones with whom I had spent time, the ones I could skinchange without a wand.

I trailed my wand down the valley of her breasts, watching the way her skin gained goosebumps. Using the Spellfire to clean her up by burning away my cum on her face and tits, I willed the smoke to mix with the blood-smoke around my wand. The tip stopped just below the navel, resting on the dark skin that was surprisingly taught even though Bellonara already had a child. I filed that little detail away for possible effects of magic.

The smoke sank into her skin, forming a very particular shape I had come up with over the week, fueled by my anger at Black Pearl and to see how I would do the loyalty binding that I read about in the book Summer Islands. It was a more refined version of the original, using a Magical Circle that contained a far more defined enchantment than I could place with my intent and willpower alone.

Two concentric circles formed from shadow-smoke, beneath her skin, where they would remain as a tattoo, bound to me through the single drop of blood I shed. The blood connection also gave me a direct Legilimency line, even from a distance, similar to the bond I shared with my familiars but that was almost... secondary to the true purpose of the spell.

The inner circle held a simple triangle inside, a glyph for each edge of the triangle. While pulling a single concept from a written shape was easy, it had the issue of not being accurate enough for the desired effect. Combining multiple glyphs with meanings that build upon each other would create a resonance, and focus the enchantment by refining it through each added word. Of course, that approach required a pathway for the soul to cycle through, a Magic Circle similar to the way I had used the frame of our house to place the Ward. Combined with a bit of numerology, using the stability granted by the triangle shape and I had the High Valyrian Glyphs for `fidelity`, `loyalty`, and `obedience` written across the three edges, allowing the soul-stuff that is bound to move through the triangle and refined by the meaning of each glyph.

Next was the glyph of `pleasure`, written in the center of the triangle, the same one I used on the pleasure spell I cast upon Bellegere, though a more permanent one. That would be the carrot, allowing her to feel pleasure every time she took an action or even thought of me in a good way. In that form, this was an insidious bit of enchanting, one that may lead to a self-sustaining Pavlovian Conditioning loop that was a bit of payback for thinking she could in any shape or form hold power over me.

I was not a fool, even if turning her into a mind-broken doll was not something I was willing to do. It did not mean that I could not find a proper punishment that fit the crime. Bellonara would retain her free will, and my spell would ensure that she was properly motivated to work on my behalf and if that free will slowly shift her mind to a more agreeable form... I was just doing the exact thing she did.

The last part was a separate enchantment in principle. In between the outer and inner circle, I added seven glyphs related to the concepts of hiding, including `hidden`, `unseen`, and even an inverted `perception`, making it so that the magic circle could not be noticed by anyone... and the effect would not be one that even Bellonara herself could notice.

The outer glyphs were the truly genius part, as they hid the tattoo from the world. It was good enough that even Wat and his stupid ability to no-sell mental illusions could not retain the knowledge of the magic circle once he looked away from it. It would also make Bellonara forget about the tattoo's existence as well as ensure that she would be unable to share its existence with anyone, a truly insidious effect that made me uncomfortable to use on anyone who did not deserve it... even if it would make everything safer for me.

The smoke bound the free Tantric Energy from my release, using the unbound soul-stuff to create a self-sustaining enchantment, waiting for the final component.

The result was... I was trying to find a more refined description than a womb tattoo, but that seemed to be evading me. In the long term, I was curious if it would shape her mind, though I could always remove it if it became a necessity.

I leaned in after inspecting my work of art, the stealth rune scheme not working for me from the blood connection. I returned my wand to its sheathe, now further enchanted with a similar stealth scheme to prevent anyone but me from noticing it.

With an after-thought, I pulled back on the immobilization spell, freeing Bellonara. I leaned down to be level with her face, lacing my hands through her hair and pulling her up to me. She met my lips and moaned into the kiss, the pleasure amplified by the magic.

Reaching out and twisting her nipple, I whispered "Now, be a good girl, and cum for me," echoing her words. A muffled moan was the only answer I got as Bellonara buried her face to my shoulder, falling back on the puddle she formed on the floor, still shaking from pleasure.

I pulled on the energy she released, lacing it with her soul, the familiarity making her reach out to touch the Tantric Energy, allowing me to add it to the already bound energy within the Magic Circle. With her soul bound to the Magic Circle, I pulled back my own soul, slowly removing it from the tangle of soul-stuff that made the enchantment. The binding of the enchantment to her soul completing the last bit of the circuit... so to speak.

"Anything else you wanted to tell me?" I asked once Bellonara had come down from riding her high on the floor in front of me. While I enjoyed the old-fashioned way of bringing a woman to the heights of pleasure, watching an experienced woman writhe before you in pleasure from just kissing and breast-play was... it made my ego soar. The vision before me was one of art, her hair was a mess and she gave me a hooded look as her body was covered with a sheen of sweat.

I got up to leave, giving a wink at the wooden panel, causing Bellegere's mind to go into panic mode. I had not given her much thought during the conversation beyond ensuring that she had no intention to burst in with a crossbow or something. She seemed to be pacified after I showed that I was not going to harm her mother, and I could feel the smug in her as well, having seen me make her mother shake on the ground with pleasure... mostly because she thought she lasted longer with me.

As I left the room, I heard the Black Pearl speak "I did not promise them a night with me, your grace... the guards in front of the door," flinching as the fire in the hearth flared just like the blood candle, that consumed the remaining material when my anger flared.

"I see. Keep an eye outside, I want you to watch what comes next... what happens when my mercy ends," I said, leaving the room. The two men had requested a night with her daughter as the price for killing the Wizard, even though Bellonara had offered herself first. As I now knew to be in her character, she had agreed to make sure her daughter would be relatively safe, considering me a greater threat... a fact that I was going to prove to her.

Faceless Men may believe that turning people into puppets is wrong but they cared not about those whom I got rid of in self-defense after all.

"Nebulus," I muttered as I exited the house to the inner courtyard, reaching out and pulling down the fog that covered Braavos almost every day. A flex of my will made the fog denser... thicker, almost opaque. It was said that Bloodraven could bring the mists with magic... so I had done something similar with my will alone.

While still inside the walls of the Manse, I swung my wand with a muttering of "Sectumsempra," binding the concept of cutting into the fire that looked more like a mirage, unseen by all but the most perceptive but it was there all the same. The Cutting Curse, a combination of the old spell I had worked years to perfect, the improved spellfire, and the added wand movement to impose the concept of `severing` onto the spell cut through the wall itself and the two men guarding the door on the other side... well, their heads. I made sure with one of the birds on the other side of the wall that my aim was correct.

Two thumps were heard, the proper Cutting Curse I had finally mastered killing both men in an instant. While I considered killing the Black Pearl beyond the pale for her crime(s) against me - since she had been in fact coerced -, those two Braavosi idiots had more than deserved it, in my opinion. Not for wanting to kill me, but for daring to take what was mine.

Two flashes of fire, unseen by anyone but me and Bellonara removed the flesh off of the bones of the corpses, a mutter of "Finestra" reduced the bones to dust before a flick of my wand dumped the bone dust to the canal of Braavos. All that was left were the Braavosi blades and the two skulls, which I took with me as I needed materials to experiment with. Wrapping the mists around me as I walked back to the Manor, unseen by anyone, my thoughts were focused on the Faceless Men. I would confront them soon... they have been playing games with me that I did not appreciate and I wanted answers.

AN:

Runecrafting gives Wiz so many options compared to casting with pure willpower.

Remember, it is not ASOIAF if there are plots within plots, fortunately, a cool mind and Mind Reading make them much easier to pick apart.

Next chapter is the long awaited ritual.

Last edited: Jan 9, 2023

019 Bootleg Cultivation

# 019 Bootleg Cultivation

I had pulled back from Braavos after discovering that the Faceless Men were doing their best to annoy me. I disliked being manipulated, and the last test they had come up with had been... I would have words with them, preferably when I was armed to the teeth with Magic Items that would make it impossible to see as I ripped their memories out of their minds.

That said, I could not afford to storm the entire House of Black and White on my own. For one thing, Faceless Men did not really keep to their temple all that often for me to trap them in and burn them alive. Sure, it was their main base of operations and where they trained their acolytes, but the actual fully trained assassins often took missions to other cities. An attack of any type would mean missing at least one trained killer, and I would have to watch my back all the time for the knife that would eventually come.

For now, behind the recently upgraded Wards of the Keep that came with the Horse Ranch, I was stuck plotting or experimenting. I was still keeping an eye on Braavos through my familiars. I had left the ravens in Braavos while keeping the owls around me since they did not like each other, and owls had better night vision to make them better at security. I wanted answers... but I was not stupid enough to do so without arming myself to the best of my abilities.

The Wards were bound to complex Magic Circles based on the Rune Schema I had used to hide Bellonara's binding. A combination of conceptual magic that affected the mind and solid glamours along the border hid the property from being seen physically that even Wat the Eyes could not see through. The glamour itself had been a recent addition, an effect that required me to skinchange into light and bend it around the property, leaving the surrounding area stuck in a subtle fog-like distortion.

While the original method I had based the glamour off of relied on an artifact that retained an impression of the wielder, using it on an area was slightly more complex. Where people like Melisandre used a Dead Man's Boots to pull on their soul, binding it to the light to turn the visage of the wearer into the dead man's, my version did it to the land itself... removing anything built by the hands of man.

Anchoring the entire Ward Scheme into a Weirwood Tablet that held the three-headed dragon half of the dragonbone pin was almost trivial once everything was done. The Ward Achor that was based on a derivative of the wand I now held made for an excellent way to sustain said spell without me there to rely on it. I would still need to check every once in a while to ensure that the spell decay of the original intent to the more literal meaning of the runic anchor was not too severe. That being said, it was a real improvement of the new Wards, as I could spend around a week without resetting them, unlike the daily updates I needed in my first work in the House with the Red Door.

With the security issue resolved and the final stages of my plans for today already set, I was taking a well-deserved break. I watched the river on the makeshift dock I had grown from local flora, lounging on a chair I had raised from the same tree. A fishing rod in my hand while I enjoyed the morning beneath the warming charms I layered into my cloak.

Bellonara and her daughter were standing behind me in maid outfits I had them make for themselves, holding trays filled with food and drink. I had kept the two close to me, inviting them over to stay behind the magical protections to prevent more interference from the Faceless Men. Bellonara accepted an offer, thinking it better to stay on my good side, heavily encouraged by the loyalty charms she was not under as penance for her attempt to use me. I quickly disillusioned her with the idea that they were back in my favor by dismissing their servants and making them work for my every whim to earn back my favor. For a Courtesan who had servants running to her every whim, their current position would hopefully give them an idea of what I could do to them should they piss me off.

In all honesty, it was a mild punishment, making them serve as my cupbearer for all practical purposes. Of course, being the little shit, I was, I made them wear a pair of enchanted underwear based on the best bit of enchantment I had made. It kept stimulating them while preventing them from achieving release. Of course, I had made them both impossible to remove by anyone but me, so neither the mother nor daughter would think that being brought to the edge for hours was anything but punishment, with me being the only one who could spare them from it.

Throwing the fishing rod into the river for a lousy job, I decided to head back, ending the small break I took. I was not even sure if there were fish in this river... but it was worth a try.

I found Lanna waiting for me in the study for the weekly sessions, and we had to figure out a way to help her.

I was not a psychiatrist and could not pretend to be one. Physically, she was fine; mentally, she watched her mother die before being subjected to magical experiments that made no sense to me. All I could offer was a way to ensure it never happened, something that Lanna had latched onto. A bit of passive Legilimency allowed me to ensure her mental health was better than it started off as.

The sessions have been ongoing for a while now. It was a way for Lanna to cope with what had happened to her. It was a way for her to help me figure out a way to undo whatever the Alchemist had done in terms of magic. Granted, the "foul-smelling potion" did not help deconstruct what had been done to her.

"How are you feeling?" I asked her, tapping the pencil I crafted for myself on the clipboard. It was not the highest quality pencil but after all the failures crafting a wand, sticking some charcoal into a piece of wood was child's play, even before I could shape wood as though it was liquid.

"Better... the third candle... it helped more than the others; the feeling of being less was reduced after it," said Lanna, giving me the shadow of a smile. A few seconds of silence made me understand that was all I would be getting.

"And how have your lessons been going?" I asked, shifting the subject to something

"Lady Bellonara is nice but strict... and I like dancing even if Dany prefers singing," said Lanna, getting excited over something she liked to do.

Once the session was over, and Lanna had gone to do her chores, I sighed.

My dreams to increase my soul weight and ascend to godhood through bootleg Cultivation by sitting in a circle of candles had been a failure so far. I had not even managed to get it to make me better at casting magic by increasing my power.

Neither of those worked the way I wanted them to, the added soul-stuff within my body acted as a weight, but it was harder to control than using my soul to cast a spell. It was lethargic, settling into the natural order of my body. It gave my body a greater Magical Resistance, according to my latest tests, but that was about it. Combined with a slight boost to my physical growth, all I got was a body that was magically charged to be a body.

Similarly, Lanna recovered her physical health, but her soul simply could not bind with the new additions. I was not sure how it would affect her body in the long run, but I needed to figure out a ritual to give those added soul-stuff, and given her age... the one ritual I knew was not an option for another decade and something that I needed to test soon.

I had focused on improving my original recipe for a Blood Candle, with Lanna helping me test each new one. The mix of Blood, Dragonglass, and Beeswax was decent, acting as a temporary anchor for the Blood Sacrifice until it could be absorbed, the fire removing any attachments the souls had to their original bodies, but there was room for improvement.

The first addition was some Tree Resin, a recipe based on what I had noticed with Wildfire. When Wildfire burned, there was a boost to the magic that came from releasing the energy independent of the souls - something that increased the power of my spells.

During my duel with the Alchemist, after the Wildfire exploded, I had managed to cast more potent spells than I initially could, such as making the wall explode. After that, I tried demolishing other walls, finding that the effect was less effective than what I managed when I used it the first time.

If, and that was a big if, the magical energy released from the Wildfire somehow amplified the residual magical energy, which my wand allowed me to tap into... the boost to my magic could be explained easily.

That implied that Weirwood was a great way to absorb said Ambient Magical Energy for use, leading to the creation of a version of Blood Candle that I called Greater Blood Candle. Replacing Tree Resin with its magical equivalent of Weirwood Sap.

The Magical material had the expected effect of amplifying the absorption rate of the Candles. There was, however, an interesting side effect to the interaction between dragonglass and Weirwood sap, as the Weirwood Blood Candle was cold to the touch. It was not uncomfortably cold but still apparent to the naked skin. The candle was drinking in the heat, giving off a chill unlike anything else I had seen. That alone made me uncomfortable to keep the new candles around for long periods, even if I may have unlocked the base mechanics of how White Walkers worked. Given that I did not observe the exact mechanism in my wand, I could only conclude that Dragon Bone had a stabilizing effect. Stumbling into the source of White Walkers had not been what I started off with, but it was a welcome surprise.

Noting down my observations, I compared the three types of Blood Candles I had made, distinguishing them by the speed at which they could absorb heat and ambient energy.

The Lesser Blood Candles were the simplest of them, dragonglass, blood, and beeswax, the combination trapping the soul of the sacrificed animal and preserving it along with the energy their life held. They did not lose or gain any magical energy, only containing what the animal held at that moment. I could create amalgamations of multiple animals in a single candle, but I could not combine them into a single soul, keeping them separate even when absorbed.

The Medium Blood Candles were the ones that incorporated Tree Resin, the end result gaining the ability to slowly increase in potency as it absorbed more and more souls... or Nature Energy or whatever it was that it drank.

Greater Blood Candles were the ones I had made with Weirwood Sap that gave a significantly more power boost over time than the version with Tree Resin. A dozen tests had me conclude that the Greater Blood Candle absorbed seven times more energy than Medium Blood Candle managed... approximately. I was using my senses to get a feel of the increase, so I was unsure if that metric was accurate.

Having finally done the double-blind test with Lanna's help, I was sure the Weirwood version of the Blood Candle was much more effective in storing power. It also indirectly proved that magical energy and soul were separate concepts that were only loosely linked.

As it turned out, souls were like cups, holding Magical Energy, Ki, Chi, Life-Fire, whatever you wanted. Whether or not it was physical or spiritual was something that I was not sure about, only that the soul had a way of storing it, and it was what decreased over time when using magic.

My wand allowed me to tap into the Ambient Magic through the Weirwood, which was lucky. While it also allowed me to absorb some of that Magical Energy to recharge, the effect relied on my wand.

Similarly, I had lucked into throwing more Magical energy into my own body along with souls purified by fire... giving me a disposable reserve bound to my flesh that I could tap into before needing to use my own Life-Fire. It had been around the same time I had started getting some results with Wandless Magic, but the method was not efficient, nor was it on purpose. If only I could figure out a way to recharge human souls without relying on Weirwood, which was the real challenge.

There were still seven Greater Blood Candles that I could use, buried around the now-named Dragon Pit. The spilled potion strongly connected to the concept of a Dragon from my analysis scrolls, giving a similar boost to my magic when I was close to it. That suggested that it was some sort of a Well of Raw Magic, making the Weirwood Candles some kind of stop-gap to prevent excessive magic Leakage into the environment that I was already worried about.

While I was not sure if it was possible to manipulate the Magical Energy without a soul to contain or bind the energy, I was going to further experiment in the future. For now, I was going to use the source I had accidentally created as a charging port, keeping a stash of Greater Blood Candles around the area.

Throwing the pencil to the corner as Ser Willem walked in. "Trouble?" he asked.

"Is there a moment in my life that is not trouble?" I groaned, pinching my nose.

"You will figure it out, your grace," said my most loyal knight, adding a silent "you always do."

Looking at the aged man who had been guarding my back against the first day, I briefly wondered if I could somehow leverage the free soul stuff bound to the body to work with potions... to allow people loyal to be stronger.

Since the Potion Base only stood to anchor soul-stuff that made the potions magical in the first place, I could recycle the potions required by keeping them inside the consumer's body. As the drinker would already contain the unbound soul stuff in themselves, it would remove the need for using the Potion Base in the first place. Giving a sigh as I summoned back the pencil and noted the idea for future research, I diverted my attention away from the dreams of my brand of Witchers with special potions.

"Was there anything you wished to say?" I asked, looking at the old man who had been there for me through it all.

The man looked at me for a moment before smiling. "The dinner is ready... you wanted to be called."

I paused; thinking of food gave me a new idea for a last minute update for the ritual that felt like it had potential.

Noting down the idea, I headed down, chatting with Ser Willem.

The night of the full moon was upon us. A bit of skinchanging into the light of the Full moon, and I knew I could use it for the finalized ritual I had been working on. A few days of waiting had been worth it to see if I could pull on concepts bound to the Full Moon and the Analysis Scroll held under the moonlight showed some promising boost to my original spell.

As I retired to my room after dinner with Dany, I found a pleasing sight waiting for me. Bellegere was there, as was Bellonara... the mother and daughter were naked apart from their underwear, which neither could remove without my say.

While I had fooled around with both of them, and even at the same time for the last week, I had not gone the whole way with them for the simple reason that I actually discovered that the concept of virginity was, in fact, something that I could measure with magic.

While the thought of having both mother and daughter at once as I lost my virginity was pleasing... the ritual would be finicky with only one of them. For the first try of the ritual I designed, I needed to use the conceptual purity that came from the virginity of both partners for this to work as safely as possible.

A flash of red knocked out Bellonara, causing Belle to jump. A flick of my wand changed the runic binding on the mother to keep her asleep until the morning, just in case she had some ideas of interfering with the ritual I had planned. While her mind did not hold such thoughts, I would be a fool to not take precautions.

"She is just asleep," I responded, having used the Stunning Charm that I was working on. "Follow me... it is time."

Belle did as I ordered, eager and horny enough to not care where we were going so long as she achieved release. The sheer robe she put on did nothing to hide her modesty... not that it was needed with the way I had taken over the entire top floor of the keep for myself.

We were on the roof, the Winter air was cold, but I had the wooden battlements grown to counter the wind, and the magical barrier around the place trapped the heat comfortably.

"The ritual... how much of it is necessary?" asked Belle, looking at the large setup I had prepared.

"Honestly... none," I responded with a shrug. "The symbols just make it easier to control the process... and make the end result more stable instead of wasting too much energy or putting you in danger," I explained truthfully. Without all the symbols and concepts to pull from, there was a decent chance that the process would effectively power-wash her soul, leaving a husk behind.

I had thrown every limitation I could, including leveraging the connection between the full moon and the conceptual relation to `revealing` that it held. Combined with our virginity, concepts of protection and purity that the moonlight held and I had a base to work with, especially given the moon's relationship to fertility and childbirth in this world and my old one.

"Does it have to be outside? It is cold?" asked Belle; her skin was raised from the chill of the air that the wooden panels could not counter, the sheer robe she wore not doing anything to provide heat. It did make her snuggle closer for warmth, though I was not cruel enough to not give a wave of my wand to heat up the air around us to be more comfortable.

"Summerhall had a roof, and you will be warm soon," I countered, looking down, causing Belle to gulp even as she looked up to me, slowly rubbing herself against my body from the edge I had kept her in the whole day. The truth was, I was again not sure... I was just drawing on my knowledge, knowing that the Dothraki wanted to do anything important under the sky. The ritual that Dany used to hatch the eggs also happened without a roof over her head. Given that I could not predict how the flames from the candles would work, it was better to be prepared than regret it.

"That would not happen, would it... it would not burn the place down?" asked Belle, slightly nervous at the mention of the infamous fire. While a fire that could melt the very stone was possible for me to cast with the raw power I was planning on channeling through myself, I had taken the necessary precautions. Precautions included having Ser Richard and Ser Willem ready to grab Dany and run outside, should Summerhall happen.

"There is a reason I am not allowing any servants but the ones necessary... even your mother is now asleep downstairs for that reason," I stated, reaching out and feeling everything was alright. "Too many cooks spoil the stew, so to speak. Nervous?" I asked, guiding her to the desk.

"A single drop of blood on the center of the circle," I said, pointing at the white scroll made from Weirwood. On the scroll was carved a nine-pointed star with another set of smaller nine-pointed stars on each end, forming a specialized set of eighty-one glyphs tailor-made for Belle. I had used Analysis Scroll on her before, but it was just a double-check and further narrowed down the exact words I needed.

"Should I be worried that it will bind me to some promise?" teased Belle with a grin, thinking of providing blood to something that looked like a scroll. She had a vivid imagination, and the idea of binding herself to a contract to me made her more excited than uncomfortable, having understood my reluctance as a chance to tease me. She knew I was seeing her thoughts, and she seemed to be strangely comfortable with it.

"If I wanted, you would already be my puppet, do not insult me. It is just a simple spell to see what we can work with," I explained, having already used another.

I watched as Belle's blood destabilized the Magic Circle, causing specific glyphs to flare from the residual fire magic that etched the words in the first place. There were dozens since defining a person with three words was impossible. I picked the most potent three concepts, noting the glyphs that had the largest burn mark from the destabilization. The concepts her blood got were `passion,` `increase,` and `fire,` which matched what I had suspected from my observations. Belle could literally stoke the passions of someone, which was a valuable ability to have for me. As Black Pearl, she could make someone ready to go in a moment, and she unconsciously caused fires around her to increase their glow.

I could use that... I could use it really well. Not only would it allow me to get the same benefits as the opposite sex, but I could also use it in war, boosting morale, influencing people... the possibilities were endless. In terms of RPG mechanics, it would increase my charisma which was always handy.

A similar circle in the back of the scroll confirmed that Bellegere was still a virgin. It ensured I did not build the entire spell on a loose foundation. I would have to purify the added souls, and stamping them with the concept of purity from the body itself would be far more potent.

"And what is it that you want it to do?" asked Belle, looking at the design I had drawn on paper. I knew her High Valyrian was good enough for her to understand most of it. "Planning to turn me into your pet, like you did my mother?" she teased.

"You do not sound so angry at it," I responded, that she had noticed it,

"Mother made her choices; even if I told her that trying to bind you would be dangerous, she put herself and me at risk. Now that I know why she did it, I cannot be angry at her and... I am glad you are not without mercy, your grace." Belle pulled herself closer to me, "or would you prefer I call you... master," she whispered into my ear.

"I told you I don't need magic to turn you into my pet, didn't I?" I asked, giving her a smirk. I could feel her growing arousal that had been building up... she was actually enjoying the denial.

Stepping closer without breaking eye contact, I rested my palm on her cheek. Belle gulped, her eyes unable to break from mine own, and I could feel her arousal overpowering any other thought she had at the forefront of her mind.

I nodded with a smirk, knowing that her knowing this was important, mostly so she could give her consent to going through an unknown ritual with someone she barely knew. "As agreed, it will amplify your magical affinity and share it with me. It will also improve your health, make you slightly stronger, and less prone to sickness. It might even make it so you can keep up with me and not pass out," I teased, getting a look from my companion, who promised she would try her hardest too. Handing her a cup, "Now, drink this."

While she did not hold a binding like her mother, I had already done a number on her mind. An impressionable young girl being given attention by a dangerous and mighty prince, compounded by the compulsions to make her trust and rely on me... she did not stand a chance. While I disliked the path it took, the results would ensure that she would not betray me.

"What is it, some sort of potion?" asked Belle, smelling it. She was still nervous, and I could understand why.

"It is wine... for your nerves, I can feel it distracting you," I said, watching Belle gulp down half the goblet before draining the rest. Once the goblet was empty, I threw it to the side, guiding us to the middle of the large ritual circle in the middle of the roof with three concentric circles.

The outer circle was made from a rope infused with small branches of Weirwood and Nightwood and salt water to keep everything within separate from the outside, supported by three different amulets with runes of `repulsion,` `isolation,` and `protection` on them that build up on the natural properties of the rope. It was overkill to keep what was relevant to the ritual inside while keeping out everything that was not needed on the outside, but one could not be too cautious. The idea was meant to ensure that if anyone was watching, they could not see inside the circle, and if the Seven had any power, their influence would be of no use. That was not to include the other protections on the keep itself.

Between the outermost and the middle circles were glyphs and words that I had carved into planks of wood with my wand, each enchanted to keep everything stable and prevent any outside influence.

The middle circle was made up of a line of salt, molten, and merged into a single solid crystal through spellfire. Subtle glyphs were carved into the inside of the crystal that took me a day to make. The purifying nature of salt made skinchanging through a line of it really hard, which explained the limits to my vision when I tried to peak into Westeros. Taking it to its extreme, combining the salt to a single crystal made a similar feat impossible, even when I used my wand to amplify my power, thus preventing anyone from outside from interfering with the magic within once more.

The inner circle was, in fact, the circle that was meant to provide power for the ritual. The primary purpose was to supply the additional soul-stuff and magical energy. While I could go for a more straightforward method that was much safer, I got a strong feeling that using the Tantric Ritual to bind more soul-stuff than usually used was possible... pulling them from the seven specially-made Greater Blood Candles for this purpose.

The circle itself was made from a thin solid plank of Weirwood - that I managed to transform into shape by stretching out a large slab I could buy- before I etched the Magic Circle with spellfire, one that would combine and stabilize the soul-stuff for my use.

Just within the border were seven small circles that held black colored candles. The Weirwood Blood Candles would provide the additional soul-stuff and Magical energy that I would be binding into the generated Tantric Energy and increase the total souls of both participants. The entire Power Circle was meant to ensure cohesion between all seven candles, a buffer to keep a continuous flow that combined all seven candles at once.

The circles that held the candles were connected by a Seven-Pointed Star, etched onto the remaining surface of the Weirwood. Each point of the heptagram ended in the center of the circle that held a Blood Candle. The lines acting not unlike a riverbed- combining all seven souls- before channeling them to the center for me to pull on, the Weirwood purifying the soul-stuff further and giving them the properties of the Weirwood itself.

In the books, Bran was given a paste of Weirwood. I was not sure of the contents, but given that a Weirwood was growing out of Bloodraven's eye socket... it was some sort of a way to make new Heart Trees. Once the greenseer died, they would be buried, and out of their grave would sprout the Heart-tree for future use, binding their soul and power to the tree.

I was not going to consume something that might one day spout a tree through me. I was, however, going to gain that Magical Absorption property of the Weirwood. The Weirwood Ritual Circle and the Weirwood Sap-infused candles were meant for that specific reason.

I chose seven for multiple reasons. First was the effect I felt in the miniature heptagram I had carved on one of the rune plates. While there was no 'meaning' to the seven-pointed star, the soul bound to the piece of wood was far more... calm, I supposed would be the best word. My meta-knowledge had seven as the most magical number, which would explain the stability of the configuration. Given that seven was a prime number and, therefore, indivisible, I reasoned that it would be the perfect number to combine multiple things. Using the added Soul-stuff and Magical Energy held by that soul-stuff, a bastardized inversion of what Voldemort had done to rip his soul apart, instead combining seven souls before flowing them toward my own as a single. The Seven-to-One combination was just too poetic for me to not use... even if it might offend a god... even if they managed to see into what I was doing.

"Is that it then? Not really the most romantic setting, though the full moon is pretty. Does it have anything to do with the ritual?" asked Belle as we both stood at the center. A flash of flames left us naked, burning off every bit of clothing. Lastly, I held my wand in my palm, slowly levitating it to stand outside the circle where I could reach for it if needed.

"Maybe," I responded, "why don't we put your mouth to better use?" I asked, pushing her to her knees.

Taking me in her throat, she started bobbing up and down. I could see her hand moving to her crotch, not that the enchanted underwear was gone, bringing herself to the edge and over it instantly. Timing it correctly, I pushed my hips forward, coming down her throat simultaneously as the seven candles around us ignited with a cursory thought, starting the ritual.

The initial Tantric Energy was something I needed for the actual ritual circle that was not part of the Power Circle on the floor. Making sure to support Bellegere from falling back once she released my cock, I kneeled, pulling her to my lap.

Holding my hand, I watched as the candle smoke converged over my palm. While there were multiple ways of doing this, this was the most effective. I could create the Ritual Circle with a potion, but that would be superficial; I could use my wand, but the gains would be linked to my wand. While I could have carved the Magic Circle onto flesh, that would not have been well received, and I could not fix any incorrect strokes. Not to mention scarring a beauty like Bellenora would be a shame, not to say that Ritual Scarification was done in despair, and I was not that desperate.

Instead, I used Wandless Shadowbinding to form a spell circle that would anchor everything for a short while before I could remove it. I created a Magic Circle over Belle's womb in a similar method as I had used to place the binding on her mother. Unlike the Black Pearl, however, her daughter got a more complex circle that would hold and slowly allow her to absorb the Tantric Magic instead of only binding her to my will.

First came two concentric circles. The outer circle was filled with purification runes, binding it to the concept of virginity that I could detect with the help of a specialized Analysis Scroll. Reaching out to the moonlight, I also felt the conceptual purity within the full moon's light, using it as a reference to layer the enchantment.

For Belle, inside the central circle went a diamond shape, with a horizontal line splitting the circle and the diamond in two, creating two triangles with a shared edge.

A horizontal line split the diamond in half, the top side holding the symbol for male in its center and the bottom containing the character for female, defining the parts each of us will be playing. The resulting two triangles that shared an edge represented the physical union and a symbolic hierarchy between us... one that was meant to make it impossible for her to even try to control me.

In an ideal world, that line would have been vertical... a sharing of equals, but I ran out of all my goodwill. It would still serve the same purpose, but the inherent symbolism would amplify Belle's submissiveness to me. I had to pull on my Mind Arts to center myself, not to be distracted by the potential of filling her womb with souls containing the ability to absorb the life energy from the Weirwood. On its own, it was not much, but making her submissive at the same time... I was making myself a pet succubus for all practical purposes.

In the top triangle, I placed the glyphs for `soul,` `power,` and `strength` on each edge, power being the one closest to the lower triangle. For Belle, I traced the glyphs I got from the analysis spell, `passion,` `increase,` and `fire` at the edges of a triangle, allowing for an exchange between the two sides.

Binding everything to the Tantric Energy formed from mixing both energies was simple and something I experienced.

"This looks more elaborate than the spells other would-be wizards cast. I heard Warlocks who made people bathe in the blood of animals," said Belle, making me snort.

"None of them actually know what they are doing," I explained, wanting to show off a bit. I knew Belle asked it out of genuine curiosity instead of making me feel better, so I decided to show off a bit. "Trying things they read about without thinking through does not allow for magic. A few Sorcerers are lucky, as they instinctively do what is needed... but those who actually understand it... they would not share what they do."

"But you are not like them, are you, your grace?" Belle asked, squirming as I pinched her clit, causing her to moan and writhe on my lap.

As the last step, I added a more unadorned circle over my stomach, using the same process as the outer circle holding purification. In contrast, the inner one held a simple spiral inside the circle ending at my navel. While I could have gone for something more elaborate, I needed a temporary anchor to store my share of the mixed Tantric Energy. Once the ritual was through, I could absorb it on my own terms, like some budget cultivator doing dual cultivation. The Uzumaki Swirl, as I could best describe it, worked as best as any other symbol to store the energy since it had already taken on the properties of what I needed from Belle. I would work to use it to also amplify my own Magical Affinities.

With the most complicated part done, I moved us so Belle straddled me.

"Comfy?" I asked Belle, her face right in front of me. She simply gave the nod before starting to slowly grind against my length, clearly eager for more. "Whenever you are ready, let me know," I said as Belle nodded, picking up some rhythm as her lips found my own.

Lacing my fingers through her hair, I pulled her head back, allowing me access to her neck, and the air filled with her moans. My lips descended to her breasts, causing more and more cries of pleasure from the beauty on my lap as her undercarriage rubbed against my length.

After what felt like an eternity, I felt her resolve strengthen before she moved just a bit higher, breaking the kiss as her hand guided my tip to rest on her lower lips.

"More," she said, looking me in the eyes, begging me. I pushed my soul into the Ritual Circle below me, grabbing and pulling the added souls that saturated the magic circle into my body as I lifted Belle up.

Lining up the tip of my cock to her entrance, I let Belle sink down my cock.

I knew where to look for, as the Ritual Circle's conceptual purity resonated with virginity's metaphysical weight. The latter concept also shifted once I was in Belle, almost peeling away from our bodies simultaneously. For a moment, my mind was flooded with an understanding of purity and purification regarding the human body. Holding onto that idea allowed me to impose the concept upon all the additional soul-stuff I was connected to at that moment, leaving them clean and ready to take on properties from either myself or Belle.

While I was busy metaphysically changing the nature of souls, I let Belle set the pace, slowly moving up and down as she adjusted to the new sensations.

As Belle picked up the pace, I joined in as well, my hips moving up to meet hers and my hands holding her hips and pulling her down. It did not take long for us to reach our limit, as I released into her virgin womb, feeling all the combined soul-stuff leave my body at once.

Little Death was not named so inaccurately, and I got a new appreciation for the term as I felt my soul move out of my body before slowly returning to my flesh after hitting a metaphysical wall formed with the Ritual Circle over Belle's womb. In that instance, I understood what was required to bind my will to hers or her will to mine. I also knew how to overpower such a process, which would cost ripping the soul from Belle's body.

Once I came to, I felt the energy settle, the mixture of Tantric Energy amplified by the Souls and extra Magical Energy from the Candles stored in her womb.

I could feel my connection to the Tantric Energy, too raw for life but holding the potential for a new soul to be formed in time if there was an anchor. It was the energy that would form the souls, pure creation that would bind itself to the fertilized egg to create a new life... or it could be attached to an existing soul and make it grow stronger.

"Is that it, then?" asked Belle, grinding her hips against me, feeling myself get harder with her each move. Placing a hand over her womb, I ensured that the raw Magical Energy did not prove itself harmful before filtering all of it through the circle over Belle's womb, lacing it with the concepts that matched Belle. Once the concepts within the soul-stuff were close enough to Belle's own, I felt her body take over the changes and apply them in a way I could not artificially do.

Reaching out to the link and pulling it, I took on a decent chunk of the generated Tantric Energy into the circle on my stomach, taking what I judged to be much more than half. I stopped once I got a feeling of a warning regarding the inherent `balance` of the exchange. Letting the rest of the energy be bound to Belle instead, I modified her Magic Circle to slowly bind everything to her soul.

"Right... the candles have enough juice for another six rounds or so," I noted with a side glance, causing Belle's eyes to widen before a grin formed. Giving a slap to her rear, I added, "Why don't I take over this time," flipping us over and pumping into her. I did not have to sit on the floor, as my legs provided enough physical contact to access the rest of the magical energy.

Soon moans and grunts filled the air. It was a long night, to say the least.

Last edited: Jan 21, 2023

020 Interlude 1

# 020 Interlude 1

Stannis Baratheon:

"I told you before that I want them dead!" roared Robert Baratheon, slamming his fist on the table.

"What is this, now?" asked Stannis Baratheon, walking into the Chamber of the Small Council; finding his brother already there and not sharing a bed with a whore was a surprise and probably a once-in-a-decade event.

"I was telling his grace about the recent news regarding the Targaryen children that he requested; once again, it is quite distressing, I am afraid," the Eunuch responded, exasperated. "The boy is hard to track, even if we know they were in Braavos until recently... rumors say they may have left somewhere, but no one seems to be certain. Likely, they are not within the city."

"Rumors say that he saved the life of the Sealord with... some Sorcery," spat Jon Arryn grimacing at the last word, his voice laced with hate and vitriol that would not be expected from a man his age.

"Allegedly..." said the Grandmaester, too quick for his usual way of talking. "if the rumors have any grain of truth... he will certainly burn himself and his sister alive... and we will be rid of him, your grace," wheezed Pycelle, snorting at the ideas and tales being told. "I am sure that some parlor tricks and..."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Jon Arryn, tired of the Grandmaester's ramblings about how it was just parlor tricks. Stannis himself doubted magic, even if he got the chance to look at the skulls of the dragons that were stashed in the lowest depths of the Red Keep.

"If the Citadel filled with the greatest mind of Westeros claim that magic is gone from this world... I would rather trust them than the rumors of some traders," said Stannis dismissing the idea and looking at Pycelle. His mind wandered to Davos Seaworth, the smuggler that he knighted was a good source of information when it came to the duties of Master of Ships. It was a duty that Robert had deemed fitting for Stannis, another reason his jaw clenched. Stannis had enough knowledge of sailors to know they were superstitious in the best of times, and they gossiped worse than a bunch of old women.

That did not mean that he cared for such rumors. Stannis Baratheon had not seen any magic during his days, and he cared not for things he could not see. Then again, he was certain that Tywin Lannister would hear of these rumors and pay for men to take care of it, however unpleasant it may be.

Stannis held his tongue, knowing Robert would not appreciate his opinion. While he was not one to be fond of harming children, they had a duty to the realm, and the Targaryens had escaped his grasp once... he just hoped that his brother would not blame him for it once again.

"Sending hired knives against children would be dishonorable..." started Jon Arryn, needing to raise only his hand to keep Robert from exploding, "Yet Seven holds sorcery to be an abomination."

"I will not have that dragonspawn land on the shores of Westeros with an army of sellswords," roared Robert, his hands crushing the arms of the chair he was sitting, leaving marks of his fingers.

"Is that even possible?" asked Stannis. "Targaryens would have fewer allies if the boy is some sorcerer, though I would check the color of the sky if I heard a sailor call the sky blue."

"Better to not take chances, given that they seemed to be backed by the Iron Bank," responded Peter Baelish, a relatively recent addition to the Small Council. "While the Crownlands are grumbling about the latest increase in taxes... some, like House Darry, had already had to borrow heavily from the Iron Bank to survive the Winter... it is possible that with how close we hear the boy is to the bank, they might find themselves without choice."

"The Targaryen Loyalists do not need a reason to support him, even if they are in no shape to rise against the Crown," said Jon Arryn, dismissing it "Foolish people do foolish things, it would be wise to not give them more reason to grumble."

"Do I look like I give a shit, if they rise, I will break their knees with my hammer. This has gone long enough, Jon, I have let them be for far long enough. I will not have those dragonspawn continue to threaten my throne." said Robert, ignoring the politics as he took a deep gulp form his cup before turning to the Spider, "Send word to your spies; I want the heads of the dragonspawn, a lordship to anyone who brings me the head of the boy," declared Robert. The spider seemed to be holding back his own pleasure, probably because of his hate of magic that everyone and their mother knew about.

"It is not the Targaryen boy we have to worry about now," Jon Arryn spoke, his face showing the bitterness to such actions that Stannis held within him. It mattered not however, Robert was king and his word was law. It mattered not if killing children did not sit well with him, even if duty compelled him to obey his king.

"If it is not about those dragonspawn invading... why have you called me here for, Jon? You said we were at war, if not with the dragonspawn, than who are we fighting?" roared Robert, causing half the Small Council to flinch.

"I am afraid not from the coast you would have preferred, your grace" said the Grandmaester, taking out a parchment. "The Iron Islands have rebelled... crowning Baelon Greyjoy with the Driftwood Crown. Euron Greyjoy set the Lannister Fleet to torch while they were at port."

Stannis gritted his teeth, fucking Ironborn.

"Well?" roared Robert, a bloodthirsty grin on his face, getting up from his "What use are you lot... CALL THE BLOODY BANNERS!"

Ser Willem Darry:

The coughs were getting harder to hide... but Ser Willem had somehow managed it. It had taken years to gauge the boy's abilities, which kept on growing by the minute, it felt like. Hiding certain secrets was an exercise in futility, and not thinking of something worked the best while in his presence... if he did not choose to look deeper, that is. It was easy to forget about the coughs.

Wiping the blood from his mouth, Ser Willem of House Darry watched the boy king spar against three grown men, as that was all he was good for now... then again, his aging eyes failed him at even that.

Looking back, there were times when he would say that it was all he was... a failure.

`No... you did not fail where it mattered,` he thought to himself, watching his charge with a blade in hand... facing three men twice his size and holding his own. His student could have waved his hand and taken all three out in moments; he had done so as a show that he could once Willem had asked, yet he was dedicated enough to learn the art of the blade. He had not started early enough, eight was four years too late to be on par with the best swords or warriors, but the boy did not need to be the best, just good enough to hold his own as his other talents would make up for the lack of experience.

Ser Willem lived a life of many regrets... he did not regret saving that boy he called king... or the slip of a girl who was cheering on as she watched her brother.

Viserys was... gods be good... when he was younger, before their exile, he had reminded Ser Willem of too much of his father. Constant ravings of Usurpers and Blood of the Dragon had made him grit his teeth and focus on his duty, the oath he swore to the boy's mother only thing preventing him from leaving... that and the death of his brother and three of his nephews, all for loyalty to the Dragons. A part of Willem did not want all those deaths of his kin to be in vain.

It had changed in a flash after the Queen died. If he was a betting man, Willem would say that the death of the Queen had affected the boy more than the exile itself. What was all the wealth of a kingdom to the love of a mother?

The first few months have been tough... the boy barely ate, barely spoke; he was withdrawn, his mind prone to wandering off. The only thing that would make the one Willem declared as King show emotion was his newborn sister... the only thing that could place a smile on the boy's face and chase away the demons he had.

Then something changed once more... it was a change similar to what he had seen in Prince Rhaegar before, a drive to achieve something that Willem was used to with Targaryens. His father had once said that the dragons were like flame, ever-changing in their desires, but they protected you if you showed them your loyalty... if you did not overreach and burn yourself in your greed.

The screams of Rickard Stark were proof of what happened if you overreached... still haunting Willem's nightmares.

The problem had been the drive that the boy focused on.

With Prince Rhaegar, it had been his desire to become a warrior.

With King Viserys, it was 'magic'.

Magic... the word his king used brought a shiver to his spine, Willem would admit. It made the hair on his neck stand on end, root of his remaining teeth ache. He had lived long enough to recall Summerhall that he witnessed as a young squire. To remember the dangers of such follies... until the boy waved that stick of his and made the world bend to his whims like some sort of god. Hundreds died in pursuit of that foolish dream of magic and a boy of ten had made it look as easy as breathing.

`Targaryens are closer to gods than men,` Willem recalled the old saying. It had become a mockery during the later years of Willem's time as Master at Arms; man seeing King Scab and whispering to their cups. Why would it, with the way the king behaved and the way Queen tried to hide her pain? Watching the boy who had been his charge... Ser Willem thought that Viserys Targaryen may have been far closer to gods than men by all accounts.

Was this the boy's true calling... to be a Wizard, as he called himself?

His king seemed to have understood Willem's uneasiness as he had made an effort to explain what he was doing. He had kept the details away and only talked of them when there was no fire in the room, but Willem knew enough. To hear the way the boy would cast his soul to bend the world over his knee... Septons would decry his acts as an abomination. Fools that they were, Ser Willem disliked Septons and Septas as they had not done anything to protect the innocents from the Wrath of King Aerys. Ser Willem Darry may have been a knight, anointed by the Seven, yet he was not a religious man, nor did he understand much of the soul. It was less what the boy-king did but the confidence he had in his understanding that Ser Willem trusted, seeing magic for what it was... a tool, another weapon to master, like a mace or a spear. Many a noble sought to master the sword only to fall in the face of the war hammer, Rhaegar but another one among many.

In the week that followed the king finding a magic wand, Viserys Targaryen had dismissed almost all but a few servants, deeming them disloyal and plotting.

At first, Ser Willem thought the boy took on his father's madness. It was not something he could bare to see once more, but his duty was to the boy, and the boy had explained his reasoning before Ser Willem could gather his courage to ask. He spoke secrets of a person a boy his age should not know, the knowledge that made Ser Willem's skin crawl.

It only took the boy of nine a moment's look into the eyes of a person to see their deepest secrets... and it was a scary tool to have, though a useful one for a future king. To his shame, Willem had trouble looking the boy in the eyes since then, hiding it behind deference to his king. The king knew, Willem could tell... yet he seemed to trust him more than any, a feeling that brought pride and joy to his old heart. In a rare few times, it felt as though the boy was a son, or a grandson, a joy that he had not held before.

Of the servants the King dismissed, two sellswords that Ser Willem hired were the worst of it, to Willem's great shame.

The king revealed that they sold information to the Spider and, through him, to the Usurper. If that had been their only crime, the boy would have dismissed them... as he had done with others. While Willem would prefer that they received a harsher punishment, the boy cared little for death and was often far too merciful... both a good and bad virtue for a king to have.

No, the reason the two had been `turned into vegetables,` as his grace called them, was the true nature of those monsters. Sellswords were a certain kind of man, Ser Willem would admit. Their loyalty was to coin, he had to remember, but these were... to think they were waiting for his death to steal from children; Willem wished to cut them down himself had his grace not done what he did.

Willem had seen their states, eyes glassy, their minds broken beyond repair... drool leaking from the mouths... living enough to move, yet dead to the world in any other way. His grace may not care for killing, but Willem wondered if their punishment was worse than a clean death.

That is when Willem truly understood the old saying that King Aerys was heard calling more than once. "Waking the dragon," the old king called it, fool that no one truly understood what that truly meant until Ser Willem saw the state of the two.

Dragons were creatures of Magic, his old Maester had once told him. With Magic dead, so were the dragons... yet Magic was not dead, was it? So, to wake a dragon was to face their dragon's fire. Did it matter if the fire burned your flesh or burned your mind... both were magic, and the boy that could only do one had long since grown to be capable of doing both... even if he still chose to learn the way of the sword... smart lad, that one. Ser Willem was proud to teach King Viserys Targaryen.

Willem had been ready to receive the sentence for his failure as well, for inviting those men into their house. He was sure that he would be dismissed as well, and Ser Willem would have to take a ship to the Wall to cover his shame, his home no more in Westeros. When he asked what his punishment would be, the king reacted in confusion, which was not what he had expected.

To hear the boy-king declare him his most loyal knight... Ser Willem Darry had forced himself to get down to his knees and swear himself to his grace once more, lest tears overwhelm him. There had been no other way to show his gratitude for the boy that he was proud to call his king.

That night, it had been Willem who had guided the two broken men outside, neither resisting in any way as their very spirit was broken by whatever the king had done to them. It had been Willem's duty to slip a knife between their ribs and dump their corpses into the canals of Braavos in the middle of the night.

Had that been all, Ser Willem would be content. Waiting for his grace to grow into his power, to protect him and the princess until the boy could grow to be a man and be able to protect himself with ease... guide the boy he was charged with protecting into using his powers with some semblance of honor, that would have meant his duty was served, both as a Sworn Shield, and as a Knight.

The bloody handkerchief in his hand, though, meant his time was not as long as he wished, even if the boy had grown into a young man, a dragon in human skin. Leaving him to face the world alone. A more naive man would pity the boy, Ser Willem Darry pitied the world.

The boy did not realize what he was doing, that much Ser Willem understood. He was collecting people, each time gaining their loyalty through kindness and decisiveness.

First had been Nessa; the wetnurse had been shivering in fear when she stood before them both, commanded by the king to share her story with Ser Willem. It was a story that Ser Willem had heard before from others, for this world was a cruel one. Yet the king knew more about the girl that they had hastily taken from the village than anyone else. Ser Willem had felt no shame in his actions during the time, they had needed a wetnurse for the princess, and Nessa had been the only one in the small village beneath Dragonstone who had recently had a child. The fact that the child was already dead made it easier for him to make the decision he did. The king had offered a passage back to the girl's home if she chose and offered her protection if she decided to stay.

The girl had nothing to her name, and the protection of his grace was nothing to scoff at, even when he had barely managed to make scratches on the post with that spell of his back then.

Then came Ser Richard, his life traded for some Shadowbinder that the young king had fought. A mere child facing the Faceless Men that had lords and kings shiver in fear and walking away with the knight's life spared. Willem had seen the scar on the king's arm, bleeding for what was right... it had taken all his effort not to knight the lad there and then, knowing that the boy-king would refuse it for his lack of skill with a blade. Prince Rhaegar's squire had been taught by Willem much more so than the prince, and Ser Richard would be there to shield the king's back when Willem could not do so at his age.

The small girl that his grace had rescued was a different story. Even at her young age, Lanna was a smart one, if shy and reserved with anyone but the king and to a lesser degree with Ser Richard. Beneath the shy demeanor, however, there was steel in that blonde girl and devotion to the king that made Willem worry to a degree. Whatever the girl had gone through, the king declared her under his protection, and that was it. When he was a child, Willem had heard of princes rescuing maidens from evil sorcerers and dragons... but to see it happen was a welcome surprise.

Even now, Lanna stood next to the Princess, watching like a hawk, having taken onto her duty to guard the princess when the king was not near. She had come to him once, to learn to use a knife, to pay back the kindness of the king by protecting those that he held dear. Willem had agreed, teaching the girl instead of dismissing her as a different knight might have. Tales of Jonquil Darke and how she protected the Good Queen were ones Willem knew, and he cared not if it was a girl who wanted to learn to fight. To this day, Willem did not know if the king actually knew of that arrangement he had with Lanna, if he approved or simply did not care about. Given that he had the princess chasing after cats as he had done learning under the Braavosi, Willem decided that he would not have objections.

Then Wat the Brains and Wat the Eyes, as the king nicknamed them, came in; the offer of a roof and food for the Winter for them and their families had been enough to get their loyalties. Willem had thought that both deserved death, banditry was to be punished, but sometimes the king was too merciful for his own good, even if that mercy had bound the two man's loyalty. There was fear in both their eyes still; his grace had shown them what his wrath would look like, but both Man-At-Arms respected and feared the boy of three and ten as though he was a man grown. His last two students, Ser Willem knew, would die for their king. It was fear that kept them in line, but kindness that truly earned their loyalty.

The... courtesans were an entirely different story. They reminded Ser Willem of the nobles in King's Landing, playing their games, bringing a stench of deceit with their plans and plots. Their acts would have met with a fiery end had it been Aerys who was in the place of the boy-king, yet Viserys Targaryen had done something that made both women afraid and look suitably punished. The king still watched them, and the two seemed eager to return to his good graces, to earn his favor. A part of Willem did not want them around, another part knew that both the king and the princess could learn a lot from them in terms of finer points of navigating court-life... Willem had no-doubt left that they would take back the Throne should the king wish it.

Now, though, beneath all, Ser Willem once again saw the scared little child.

He would catch the boy looking North once in a while, his gaze focusing on something that mere mortals could not see.

Even with all his power, Viserys Targaryen was afraid of something... and that made Ser Willem of House Darry afraid as well.

What did a dragon have to fear?

What chance did a mere man have against something like that?

Tycho Nestoris:

Tycho Nestoris was annoyed.

He had spent the last year on an errand for the boy who knew things that he had no way of knowing. His annoyance was not for the boy-king in exile, as all his ventures had proven to be rather profitable. The boy's ideas had allowed Tycho to increase his standing in the Iron Bank as the representative of such a profitable individual.

His annoyance was having to deal with other Westerosi, like the ones who made up the esteemed establishment of Night's Watch. The boy had warned him of the criminals, cowards, and victims of prickly lords that made up the `volunteers` of the Night's Watch. Tycho had made a note to differentiate those from the actual volunteers, which was not rather hard. If only rest of Westerosi were as easy to deal with as the exiled prince.

Initially, Iron Bank had been curious. A child who lacked the arrogance that came with the Nobility, let alone that of a Targaryen, was... unique. A ten-year-old managing to convince some of the key-holders to bet on him through his wit and sharp tongue was one to be watched.

Oh, Viserys Targaryen was still arrogant... but it was the smug arrogance of a man who knew things that you did not, not the empty bluster of lordlings and princes with neither experience nor skill to back up his bluster. Something was definitely odd with that boy... though Tycho knew not if it was a good kind of odd, or the bad kind.

`To think that he also has some sort of magic,` Tycho thought, his mind going to the less-than-well-kept secret that the boy seemed to have. His interest in the Higher Mysteries was known by those who cared to keep an eye on the Prince-in-Exile. There were those who bet that he would burn himself alive like that ancestor of his... Brightfire or something like that. Tycho had talked with the boy long enough to hope he did it away from Braavos at the least.

Despite his arrogance, there was a part of the boy that was different. The boy seemed to judge you, looking into your very soul. Tycho remembered when he first met the boy, who had looked at him with those glowing violet eyes before calling him by his own name... before they were introduced.

Tycho pulled on his cloak, his shiver having nothing to do with the cold winds above the Wall. He could not say he cared for magic... it was a fickle thing, unlike gold... gold was reliable.

That being said, when the boy who had a family famed for madness, greatness, and ability to foretell the doom of a Civilization wanted the Iron Bank to work with the decrepit institution of Night's Watch that had stories of a Winter that Never Ended... you listened. The Iron Bank representatives were not certain why the boy cared about the Night's Watch, but now that Tycho had time to hear the stories of recent increases in raids, disappearances, and the sorry state of the institution itself, he had an inkling. After hearing the famed house words of Starks, `Winter is Coming`, he knew.

The boy had a good brain between his ears at least, or so Tycho thought, looking from the top of the Wall at the overgrown forest. A fool would demand Iron Bank help for no reason, yet the boy gave them what they desired. If not for the cold and having to travel during the start of Winter, he would even praise the boy for finding Braavos a source of lumber far greater than anything they could directly access.

"You seem to be in deep thought," said the voice of the First Ranger, Benjen Stark. Tycho was wary of the Stark, mostly from knowing the bad blood between them and his client. Given how fast the man had risen to his position, their influence on the Wall was not insignificant, and Starks were the best people to work with to ensure... the current status of the Wall.

"First Ranger," greeted the Tycho, giving the man a nod. His eyes focused on the man's belt, seeing the new addition, a dragonglass dagger. The Maester was fast, it would seem, having read the letter sent by his many-times removed grand-nephew.

"The Maester thought that every ranger should have one of these, especially when going north of the Wall." said Benjen Stark, seeing where Tycho was looking

"Do you not think it strange?" asked the banker, unsure how the changes he caused were received.

"I would, I should," said the Stark, "but there are rangers with far more experience than I who thought it a good idea... given I will be joining them for a ranging beyond the Frostfangs in a fortnight. Whatever news you brought made people uneasy; I have not seen the Old Bear as frustrated, nor the Maester with such fire in him."

"Bankers have a tendency to do that, I am afraid," diverted Tycho, seeing the knowing look. The Targaryen Children's presence in Braavos was hardly a secret, even if the prince and his closeness to the Bank was one that was kept strictly to the key-holders.

"Speaking of... we got a letter from Winterfell... my brother is agreeable to a proposal," said Benjen Stark, who had worked with Tycho to handle the proper deals with his brother, the Lord of Winterfell. "You should talk with Maester Aemon to finish whatever deal you got," said the First Ranger before turning his face to the North... gazing. Had Tycho not seen him speak, he would have thought him carved from the same ice that made the giant monolith they stood on.

Knowing a man of few words when he had seen one, Tycho went to the elevator, glad to be able to get down from the cold winds... and whatever portend they held.

It had taken days, hours of debating and bargaining for the Lord Commander to agree to the deal that the boy had given a faint outline. Braavos would handle the shipping of lumber, while the Night's Watch would have reason to clear out the overgrown bits of the Haunted Forest that now reached the Wall in exchange for food shipments and coin. Of course, the entire enterprise had somehow gotten larger, with the Starks of Winterfell being involved in providing the man-power that would see the decrease in raids by the Wildlings... all Tycho needed to do was keep the identity of the boy who had started the entire chain of deals a secret.

Tycho would think that whatever was Beyond the Wall, should not have the Wildlings to use as fodder but small steps were needed. Viserys Targaryen probably had some foolish looking plot that would turn out to be the perfect one, something like using the fleet Braavos would build to carry the Wildlings South of the Wall or something. It was hard to predict what went through the head of that Wizard.

His journey was as much success as he could have hoped. In the end, Braavos would have a steady source of lumber, Night's Watch would get food and coin for future use, and North would have fewer Wildlings going over the Wall with the trees bordering the giant monolith of ice cut down in numbers. Tycho thought that the project had gone a bit larger than first expected, but it was a worthy endeavor that would make him and his client very rich in the long term as the middleman.

If only Tycho could suppress the urge to sigh once more after dealing with Viserys Targaryen and his... bullshit; even if Iron Bank would profit greatly from the venture, prophets of doom were unnerving. Tycho may have been working in a bank, but he was not made for such cloak-and-dagger dealings.

"The deals have been sealed and signed," said the Maester, just in time for Tycho to step through. The blind man was not as blind as his clouded eyes may have implied, or at least he was seeing in some other way. Dealing with Viserys Targaryen had made Tycho assume either of those to be possible. "Then again, the one who arranged it had been rather through... what do you know of my grandnephew Viserys, Representative Nestoris?"

"We have met a few times... to call it knowing him would not be true, I am afraid," responded Tycho honestly. "I simply represent him to the Iron Bank, though one thing man note is that he is... strange."

"How strange?" asked Maester Aemon Targaryen, his attention on Tycho.

"His words, his thoughts, his acts... he holds knowledge a boy his age should not be able to hold... he speaks like a man grown holding secrets beyond his age," explained Tycho, taking the communication between the two Targaryen and his own judgment to not hold back from a man who had chosen to refuse to play in the Westerosi politics for near a century.

"Does he keep to a faith?" asked the Maester, sitting down on a chair, his eyes not moving from where Tycho stood.

"Not to your seven neither is he one of those fire worshipers, he does not, not as far as we could tell at least... he holds to no faith from all we have seen," admitted Tycho, knowing

"A dreamer than... how foolish of us... of Rhaegar to dismiss the child. My brother... Daeron was strange as well, haunted by visions that drove him to drink and an early death, even if all he said came true in one way or another," muttered the old man, looking as old as Tycho knew him to be. The elder brother of Aegon the Unlikely seemed to have come to a realization. "That means Winter truly is coming... Dragonglass and Dragonsteel... we found the account that he wrote of. Dragonglass is easy to find, I had the Master at Arms dig up a few in the bottom of some rather old chests we had, ones that were not opened after the Watch moved out of the Nightfort. We know where to get more, but, as an educated man yourself, have you heard of such thing as Dragonsteel, Representative Nestoris?" asked the old man.

"I cannot say I have, Maester Aemon," said Tycho Nestoris. "Could it be Valyrian Steel?"

"I did not know either... I am afraid. I thought it to be Valyrian Steel, just as you did, yet the timing would not work according to Prince Viserys' message. He claims that Valyrian Steel may not be as old as the book hidden in the library, that it may be a fallen star... as comets are akin to dragons." explained the Maester.

"Comets? Is there such a weapon," asked Tycho.

"Only one. Dawn... it is a sword made from a fallen star... a dragon, if you will. I had the opportunity to see it once when I went to Starfall to visit my mother's family." said the Maester, passing a letter to Tycho and a bundle. "To think the boy knew when grown men with more education knew nothing of, he must be quite brilliant, I wish I had a chance to meet him in person. He seems to hold some trust in you, so I shall do the same, bring this letter and package to him; it holds knowledge he might find useful; the path that he would need to follow will be hard, but so long as he does not give into despair, I can only hope he will succeed."

"And what makes you think I will deliver such a book to the boy?" asked Tycho.

The old man smiled at him at that before saying, "I have an eye for that, even if I am half-blind. All man must serve."

A chill ran down Tycho's spine at the tone of the old man, making him wish he did not learn of those stories about the Wall and what lay beyond it.

Fucking Targaryens... Fucking Wizards.

AN: I am back. Alright, so this was longer but the other POV will have to be done for later because I wanted to upload what I had instead of waiting.

I had a couple of busy weeks and did not get a chance to write much as I was busy with work and rest of my time was dedicated to playing Hogwarts Legacy, which I am a fan of if the fic did not give you that idea. I am however confused about the relationship between turning someone into a chicken and smiting them like Zeus.

I really liked writing Stannis, before he got in contact with Melisandre... because the irony of it was just perfect.

As always, I am appreciate any feedback or suggestions.

Last edited: May 24, 2023

021 The Arms of Death

I came to as the sun rose, strangely feeling heavy, and not because of the mother and daughter sharing my bed. It was a spiritual weight that I was still trying to get used to, even after nearly a week since the ritual that nearly quadrupled my original soul.

I held out my hand, summoning my belt with my wand in it, feeling the decrease of Magical Energy within myself in a way that I would not have been able to before and feeling it replenish itself in a moment or two.

I could have done the same trick before, using a rather roundabout method of casting the Summoning Charm through the wand on myself. It had limitations, such as the wand needing to be close to me for my soul to reach without touching the wood, but it was possible, the simple principles based on recalling how Harry had managed to cast a wand-lighting charm without touching his wand once. Using the same principles to summon myself to the wand, I let momentum work to get the wand to me instead.

Now, the difference was that I had actual telekinesis; rather than letting the wand do the work for me, I could finally start using actual spells without a wand. It was not much, but being able to summon things without a wand would come in handy in the long term.

The ritual I had done also came with a greater insight into how Magical Energy actually worked. While the soul stored the energy, most plants actually had the ability to absorb said energy, Weirwood being especially suited for the task. Binding the Essence of Weirwood into my own soul allowed me to not only absorb Ambient Magic to replenish my reserves but also made me more attuned to Magic in general. It also made me realize that I had bypassed the main drawback of using Magic in this world as my soul connected with the weirwood of my wand, which in turn allowed me to slowly fill back the energy to my soul when I held it. Now I did not really need the Weirwood wand to do it for me... not that it was not useful for other reasons, and I was still struggling to figure out new methods of casting magic. Maybe I should give a staff a try.

Speaking of replenishing my reserves, the Blood Candles were simultaneously the smartest and most stupid things I had ever created. It had given me a secondary reserve to pull from instead of my own life-fire, binding it to my physical body in the process. The problem was that said reserve did not replenish through my wand, which would lead to my body being bound with more and more souls that were empty of Magical Energy, which I was sure had some side effect.

The effect also explained why I could not help Lanna. I was essentially throwing filled souls into an unfilled container. It countered the physical issues of lacking the life force by enchanting the body, but it did not help with the lethargy she was feeling. The only solution I could think of was to include her in the exclusive group of people I planned to make wands for, which used to only consist of only Dany before.

As for having empty souls bound to my body, I did not think the results would be pleasant once the disparity between my soul size and the soul-amalgamation within my body became larger than it ought to be. It had benefits, like allowing me to use possession more easily through skinchanging as my soul was knocked loose, so to speak. Still, there was the risk of any independent soul forming into something else. I did not need to host a pseudo-god in my body or the potential multiple personality disorders that would imply. I also made Lanna stop her own rituals for similar reasons.

Now was the final step of the Ritual, distributing the soul-stuff over my original soul to act as both an additional layer and a shield. Because the new essence contained a bit of my own through the ritual, I could bind my soul to the new additional soul-stuff. The plan was to fully combine the two by layering the new souls over my original soul. Sure, common sense dictated that I ought not to mess with my own soul, but this world was proving to be far more dangerous, and I was already feeling like the walls were closing in on me. Something or someone was plotting my death; I could feel it beyond paranoia, though the source of the feeling was hard to identify, even with Mind Arts to provide me with increased self-awareness.

I made my way outside to the well that was not a well. The added Weirwood around the hole in the ground that spewed Magical Energy was new, grown from a few saplings in record time to better absorb the released Magical Energy. The Weirwood acted as an anchor to the method I chose to hook the potential access to the local Layline into the protections around the keep. It was not the smartest option, as it still was outside the range of the protections, but it was the only available option I had, passing a rope infused with Weirwood from the well into the perimeter around the building.

I sat on the clearing in front of the well, with a circle carved into the dirt, before removing my latest creation from my robe... the thing I owed all the other upgrades I had made.

The small circular glass disks were dark and attached to a wooden frame that seemed to have grown around the lenses... which it had. It was an unusual design for a pair of glasses. The Lenses were made from a combination of dragonglass and weirwood that I accidentally created after playing around with combining Weirwood Bark and Dragonglass into the Blood Candles at once.

Playing around with dragonglass, I learned a few things. Just heating the glass created glass foam, preventing me from reshaping the volcanic rock without something additional that I was missing. Given how I knew blood could dissolve it, I had a feeling that the famed Valyrian Black Stone was far more bloody than initially believed unless those psychos managed to figure out a magical version of Concrete. I had noticed that the Dragonglass I used in the Blood Candles seemed to pool back into its original form... something about dissolving it in blood using magic must have changed its nature enough that it did not need high pressure to be reformed, burning off the blood allowed the material to return to its glass form. Usually, I would have just reused the dragonglass like I did with the ones from Blood Candles to make more of them, but the variant I had was somehow imbued with Weirwood, which changed its properties.

It did not absorb any Magical Energy like I expected. My basic understanding was that Weirwood absorbed Magic, dragonglass stored it, and dragon bone expelled it. That idea had been incorrect, however. Rather than storing or expelling magic, dragonglass, and dragon bone transformed magic from one form into another. Dragonglass could create light and fire, and dragon bone could create heat and air. My initial theory of White Walkers being created by combining Weirwood Paste and Dragonglass chunks had been incorrect. Cold was just the absence of heat, and a wide area spell to slow down the vibrations of atoms was closer to what the White Walkers would be doing. That did lead me to learn a few ice magic tricks, at least. Glacius is always a nice spell to have in your pocket, after all.

Returning back to the Weirwood and Dragonglass lenses, they somehow allowed me to see the magical energy when I looked through them, absorbing and converting Magical Energy into light. My best guess was that souls were needed to store energy, and without a soul attached to the stone, so it was relatively inert and only reacted to external Magical Energy by producing light. When I put them on, the lenses allowed me to see magical energy, whisps of something floating in the air that seemed to be pushed through my wand every time I cast a spell.

In a way, the material reminded me of Glass Candles with how it worked. I needed to figure out how to see through long distances. However, the news of the Ironborn Rebellion had already reached Braavos after all. While the result of the Rebellion was not much of an issue for me, what with Balon Greyjoy being a moron and Robert actually having competent generals, all I cared for was Tywin losing his fleet of ships.

Putting on the glasses, I looked around. Colors were more defined, yellows were gold, greens were emerald, and black was darkness itself. Looking at the Well of Magic, I could see wisps of something rising from the hole descending into the Abyss.

I resisted the urge to throw an eye into the well to see what would happen. I had to acknowledge those impulses but not let them control me. Eyes were too valuable to sacrifice for an undefined ritual for an unknown benefit. I had only two of those, and depth perception was horribly useful. I would start with the eyes of a few birds first, see if they changed anything with them.

Placing a silvered mirror in front of me, I looked at myself through the glasses. I had barely tapped into the potential uses of mirrors as it was, though this use was one I could say was one of the more valuable ones.

In Vampire Lore, said creatures often lacked a reflection in the mirror, attributed to their lack of soul. Through the same logic, looking into the reflection with the Glasses that see Magical Energy, I had managed to see the Magical Energy on my own body reflected from the mirror. The glasses removed my actual visage on the surface, stripping away the physical phenomenon like light, leaving behind... my own soul shining with the Magical Energy contrasted by the energy from the Well.

I saw Magical Energy and everything that held that energy, like an X-Ray that showed me, my soul, through an Unseen World.

In the silver mirror, in a world of black and white made from the reflection, I saw myself. A cloak covered my body, a cloak I could see through... a metaphor for the secret I kept from everyone, a shroud of secrets made manifest. I understood why the Faceless Men would call me a Champion of Death as I looked at the eyeless skull beneath the hood. Right on my forehead glowed a single eye made from fire, looking back at me. As it was, I looked... Eldritch... closer to the image of a grim reaper than a human.

The metaphysical vision of my self was something of a horror show. There were patches of flesh still missing, with the bone still visible. Given that a week ago, all I could see were bones forming the skeleton that bound my soul to my body, it was a definite improvement. From knowing how Wights could be destroyed by crushing the bones, I knew that Bones and Souls had a strange relationship.

The only strange thing that differentiated my soul from a humanoid form were the two stumpy wings on my shoulders, potentially a remnant from my family's legacy... the last Dragonlords of Valyria. Best I could tell, it was dragon wings... representing the lost connection to the dragons that I had.

Bloodraven had referred to skinchanging as flying, and without their fire-breathing familiars, House Targaryen had lost their wings.

"Nothing but the Shadow of a Wyrm," my mind echoed, paraphrasing the words used to describe Viserys. Unlike my original counterpart, I was still a dragon, and my fire was still deadly, even if I too lacked the wings. Despite all that I had done, a part of me still held a grudge over how weak I would have been without my knowledge.

From beneath the cloak came wisps of something... glowing threads of soul that had frayed off the bone that represented the main piece... a representation of my magic that could connect to the world around me with each spell I cast.

Most of those threads attached themselves to the wand in my hand, remaining even when I let it go. Some of the wisps kept connecting and disconnecting to things around me in waves, pulsing with my heartbeat.

I honestly looked like an eldritch abomination.

Then again, I knew what to expect; the visions that Yna the Whore had seen of me were close enough to what I saw in the Magical Mirror, though she could not see beneath the shroud.

Where my stomach would be was a glowing mess of soul-stuff; white roots and fire burned within it. It was the last vestiges of the ritual I had performed, the remaining soul-stuff that I needed to make part of the whole and integrate over my own soul. The source of the pulse influenced the small threads of my soul, lighting the threads up with my own heartbeat.

I reached out with a mental command, guiding the glowing tendrils that were my magic to dig into the mess of roots and fire that I had consumed. Another lesson learned, only souls could interfere with souls. Where the two substances met, they stuck together, the ritual creating a mixture that was less defined and more akin to clay. Stripping pieces off of it, I guided them to spread over my actual soul, creating a layer of flesh over the bones.

Unlike the usual Cultivator bullshit, there was no core forging, no pulling everything into a nice little ball, at least. The vision in the mirror was my soul as it was right now, stripped bare and in a form that best represented me as I was. The soul bound itself over my bounds and onto my flesh instead. The result allowed me to absorb the ambient magic, which was paramount for any Spell Caster with any ambitions of not relying on a focus.

In the mirror, looking back at me, was a face without eyes now; the bones hidden beneath the wood and flame that became the flesh had covered where my eyelids would be, and the only thing of note was the Third Eye I had.

Once the integration of Souls was complete, I looked over my new metaphysical form. Where before I looked the part of a Grim Reaper, my new look was more refined... more humanoid, at least.

With the souls completely absorbed, I only needed time for my soul to settle and get used to the changes I had made to myself through Soul Surgery. That being said, there was still one problem... my left arm was... well, different would be the best description.

As it turned out, the physical scar that remained was just what could be seen. The curse had been removed from the cut, but it had still managed to damage my soul, even if it seemed to be slowly recovering, given the way the frayed bits of soul were trying to weave themselves together. The metaphysical concept bound to that part of the soul being harmed interfered with methods of healing that I had access to, even when I tried to remove the scarred tissue and force it to re-heal with potions.

Spiritually, the effect was not that obvious, the soul that made up my left arm was slightly more frayed than my right arm, and the line was obvious when I looked through the glasses that allowed me to see the Unseen. Guiding a bit of the soul-stuff, I watched the raw materials try and fail to stick and bind to the cut, so I was now covering my entire soul with additional soul-stuff to act as armor. The result did not completely remove the damage, but Seeing the effect gave me an idea... something to keep up my metaphysical sleeve if you will.

Once I was done, I pulled off the glasses, letting the reflection shift back to my physical one. My shoulder-length hair had shifted from pale blonde to silver, and my skin was paler than before as a reflection of my soul, yet I felt more alive than I had in... ever. I took a breath, feeling the Raw Magical Energy being absorbed through my skin.

I pointed my wand at the bounder, and a bolt of fire leaped out, carrying no intent within it but to reach my target.

CRACK!

The sound echoed through the forest as I looked at the scorched rock. For a basic cast with no intent behind it other than the spellfire that made it, it had some decent weight to it. Anything else I could add in, reducing the spellfire's natural tendency to burn and amplifying the concept of change.

I took a breath to center myself before heading back. I had been ignoring the Faceless Men in exchange for the ritual, knowing that I needed all the advantage I could get against them. Increasing my spiritual weight increased the effect of my spiritual weight, amplifying my Magical Power as a result. While I did not like the Faceless Men after the latest stunt they pulled, I still had to figure out what to do with the skull of that servant that tried to shank the Sea Lord.

There was definitely something fishy going on, and I needed more insights into the politics of Braavos. Luckily, I just knew the perfect person to ask questions to.

Black Pearl:

He was fiddling around with a skull of all things as Black Pearl walked through the... Workshop of the Wizard. It was as messy as the Workshops of Painters who were working to create the next great painting of her, poets who had scrolls lying around as they tried to decide on the words that would fail to catch her beauty. Where those artists had a specific theme to their work, Viserys Targaryen had a dozen different things that had no sense when put together.

On one corner was a cauldron, a clear liquid inside it still steaming. Another corner held a pale white staff half covered in Magical Glyphs of Valyria, while another desk had a fabric stretched over it, covering something she probably did not want to know about.

Another wooden desk held a cushion that had been turned into a rather large pincushion, holding dozens of wooden needles of varying sizes, some small while others were the size of daggers, right next to a jar of weirdly shaped beetles with holes in them. Bellonara had no idea what sort of magic it was meant to be used for, probably some dark ritual that only made sense in the sense of the man before her.

A common theme among various workbenches was the rolls of parchment and notes sprawled around any empty space holding scribbles and notes in some eldritch language Bellegere did not know, possibly the one that the Wizard used to cast his spells and would mutter to himself when he stopped caring for the fact that there were others around him.

It was the first thing one noticed about Viserys Targaryen... that he was strange, even by the norms of Westerosi.

At first glance, the strangeness was obvious. His clothes seemed to not fit any style in the Free Cities or Westeros. They were exquisite and tailor-made, as befit his noble status and wealth that seemed to keep growing every day, yet his clothes were in a style that barely paid homage to the styles of Braavosi- though she was certain it was only because the seamstress could not fathom whatever the man had probably designed for himself.

The true strangeness was the patterns on the fabrics, however. A black shirt with swirling patterns that seemed to move with light, with buttons of white wood on the front cut a striking figure. The black pants lacked the complexity of any design that Bellonara knew, being straight and without any pomp that most Bravos favored, though weird cutouts in the sides hid pockets that Bellonara had recently started seeing in the clothing of other men as well. The seamstress who made the clothing probably adapted it to her other commissions.

The leather vest carved with glyphs completed the getup, or at least when he was working on his 'projects.' Having caught a glimpse of one of the knights striking the vest with naked steel and not even making a mark had been just another reminder of the protections the exiled prince wore, even in his own home. Bellonara wondered why he would need to wear such protection while working in his workshop.

With the sleeves rolled up, his arms were bare as he worked on some magical contraption. Watching him was akin to watching a painter work or a bard sing in a way strange and mesmerizing as much as it was unsettling.

His hair had been changing, Bellonara noticed. Whereas before, it was golden; it seemed to have shifted into a lighter color, closer to silver, just as his skin had gotten paler over the last week, though it somehow made him more eye-catching than before.

The long scar on his left arm was easy to spot, the pale line had somehow held an intricate tattoo of three ravens around it that were not there the previous night. Bellonara had heard the story of the scar, of course, the work of a Shadowbinder before the Son of the Mad King set him on Wildfire of all things. It was a battle scar that much Black Pearl could tell with the way how his face darkened when he noticed her looking at it. He was not ashamed of it, but he did not like it either. It was yet another proof that the boy was not as green as she had assumed at first.

"I have found that certain scars are harder to heal than the ones on the flesh," said the Sorcerer-Prince, as though reading her mind. "Take a seat. I am almost done," he added, not shifting his eyes from the eyeless skull he was inspecting, filled with some strange liquid.

"Forgive me, your grace; I was merely lost in thought. You have asked for me," said Bellonara, avoiding any form of flattery, knowing it was useless on the man before her.

At first, it was the prospect of having the Last Targaryen on her side, having heard of the growing wealth and power of Viserys Targaryen. The rumors of his magic, of course, helped, and seeing first hand all but confirmed to Bellonara that he would be a powerful player... a good first lover for her daughter.

Recent events had changed her ambitions, however.

It was not whatever magic he had done that left a warmth between her legs every time she thought about him. Neither was it the power he displayed or the casual way he could kill two of the best fighters she could find, however impressive it was.

The binding had been a stupid plan, one that was forced on her by the Faceless Men. If she had the freedom to choose, she would rather have gained influence over the Wizard of Westeros in a more traditional way. That being said, Viserys had discovered her plot from half-forgotten knowledge, somehow translated from the original texts that he should not have been even able to read.

It was his reaction that had left Bellonara bewildered, however. A simple man would have hurt her and her daughter for their attempt to have influence over him. A cruel man would do much worse. Even a good man would have simply left, or even kill them.

Viserys Targaryen was none of those, choosing a punishment that ended with her being bound to him instead.

Like Bellonara was a stranger to being a servant.

There was only one constant truth in Braavos that all man must serve... or all man must die.

Those words were far more sinister than she had first thought them to be when she first heard them in her youth. In the city where men were free, they were still slaves in one way.

Alas, the Black Pearl served Braavos, and hidden beneath all, Braavos served the Faceless Men. It was not a truth known to many, and those who knew would not risk angering the Faceless Men by revealing it. It was not safe life... but it was better than other cities for those with wealth and influence, even if what the Faceless Men aimed to achieve was unknown to any but the Faceless Men.

And they had threatened her daughter.

All I had done was to change one master to another, thought Bellonara, though this one was much easier to bargain with than the Faceless Men, who seemed to not care about anything but death.

Mayhaps it was magic that made people strange? Viserys Targaryen was similarly strange and aloof, his face carved from stone as his eyes gave nothing away, his tone cold and without emotion when he was angered, something that scared her more upon seeing how cold the Wizard's Wrath could be. The memories of that day, a flash of green light shrouded in fog and two dead men with no bodies to be found.

If she had to serve the Wizard to ensure her daughter's protection, that is what she would do, even if he scared her as much as he excited her. The whole mess had only worked to make Bellonara understand that for the City without Slavery, all of Braavos was still slaves to the Faceless Men, and at least with Viserys Targaryen, Bellonara could tell where she stood.

Her eyes roamed over her newest lover, a strange warmth pooling in her loins as though she was a young girl. A part of it, Bellonara knew to be the result of the magic that chained her, though the young man was one of the better lovers she had taken, despite his age, and he was not hard on the eyes either with his Valyrian features. She had recently noticed a particular glow in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her eyes landed on one of the other skulls on the desk. This one had glinting of the gems resting on a skull upon a pile of books, gilded with jewels and grinning... before it started to shriek as she looked through the jewels fitted in the eye sockets, causing Bellonara to jump back, her back hitting the wall.

"Shit," exclaimed the Wizard, only moving after the shrieking started. Taking the skull and threw it to one of the walls, with enough strength to shatter said bone, littering jewelry onto the floor. What was he doing... torturing that soul?

Bellonara recognized the skull in a way. The two Bravos had not been of any use to provide protection or discourage the Wizard. The exiled prince had taken their heads with a single swing of that stick of his, leaving nothing but a pair of skulls that he now played with.

Even in death, they were being punished for daring to take what the dragon saw as his.

Not cruel... but definitely vengeful, her mind concluded.

Was this some sort of a lesson for her? Was this the real reason she was here? Bellonara was uncertain... a subtle threat, showing her that death would be a mercy if she ever angered him again. She could not move, however, not for some spell on her, but from fear as the boy had perfectly arranged for the skull to do what it did when she walked in.

"That should not have happened; that was unnerving," said the Wizard, scratching his head before turning to her and giving her a sheepish grin before his face fell. Bellonara swallowed in fear before the chair by the side of the wall moved near her on its own. "You look like you might faint... please take a seat."

Bellonara felt herself slip down on the chair, her face still frozen. She was trying her best to not break down, though she was uncertain whether she would laugh at the way the Wizard reacted or cry while begging for his mercy.

Predicting the young man had been an exercise in futility. The way he thought, the way he acted, it was... strange... primal in a way that could only come from the surety of one's abilities and a set of rules he followed only to discard them when angered.

Two things were certain, Viserys Targaryen was powerful, and a second betrayal of his trust would prove fatal for Bellonara. Bellonara could admit that she was terrified of Viserys Targaryen, even if a part of her wished that he took her right then and there.

"Oh, dear," said the Wizard, looking at her as though he had just read her mind, "That was... honestly an accident," he said, and Bellonara heard the muttering of "stupid alarm clock." A few moments later, he handed her a cup and told her to drink.

Bellonara took a sip, too afraid to disobey. The warm camomile tea, best she could judge, immediately caused her to relax... too fast not to be some type of magic.

"Right... I had called you here for a thing... well, two things now that I think about it, I suppose," said the boy, turning around and picking up a skull, holding it upside down, as Bellonara noticed a strange liquid in the skull, with white whisps peeling off the bone and mixing into the liquid.

"Do you wish me to drink that as well, your grace?" asked Bellonara, apprehensive.

"What? No!" exclaimed the Wizard, his voice not raising. "It is called a Pensieve... well, a prototype really... a really crude and limited version, the Memory Potion in it is poisonous, however... probably... a bit of Nightshade in there with the Forget-Me-Not and Evening Shade to give it a... well, never you mind that, give me a second, I might have a better way."

Even if she could not tell what he was talking about, Bellonara could see the passion and excitement he had, and it was contagious. She could only nod, understanding only bits of what he was saying.

Bellonara watched as the man dipped the tip of his wand into the liquid, pulling out a whisp of white... something with the tip. As she watched, the Wizard waved the whisp around before touching it onto his own face, which shifted like a water ripple before settling into the form of... the Faceless Men she had met.

"I see... I had to double-check," he said, reading her like an open book, another power that made her feel lightheaded and her small clothes rather damp, "I was sure I had seen the face in your memories as well, but now I know it to be the same person. There is reason to believe that the man who told you to bind me also threatened this man to stab the Sealord."

"The Faceless Men can have many faces. Are you sure it is the same person?" asked Bellonara, unsure where this was going. It made no sense.

"I know, it does not make sense," said the young man, "But there is a reason they wanted me to see that memory, a reason to antagonize me through you... a reason for me to feel like I was in danger and lash out... I hate puzzles. You are the most experienced person in Braavosi Politics. What do you think are the Faceless Men planning? What benefit do they get by replacing the Sealord or attacking me?"

That made Bellonara snort. Most men would dismiss her when the one who did not need to play petty politics acknowledged her talents. It felt strange, but that seemed to be the norm for Viserys. "The Sealord holds no love for the House of Black and White. My influence over him is limited, and there are others, like Syrio Forrel, who are wary of the Faceless Men."

"That might explain one plot but not both." countered Viserys looking thoughtfully. "The plot against me only happened after the first one, a reaction, an attempt to force my hand and limit my influence?"

"There have been some who are not comfortable with your presence before the Uncloaking, your grace. The Sealord and the Iron Bank saw the worth of having leverage against the Iron Throne; however, with the Stag King having an heir of his own, many fear he might attack Braavos," explained Bellonara.

"Unlikely, but it is possible that someone wants me away from Braavos and on the run again," said Viserys, looking into the fires. "Where does the Faceless Man come in, however? What is his play, and is he working alone or for the whole of House of Black and White?"

"Maybe they are trying to blame one of their own to protect the rest; let one person carry the plot in case it would have you attack them?" Bellonara said, knowing that it was something a noble might try to do.

"A patsy? Potentially... but why make me fight a single... oh... I see." said the Wizard, his eyes widening. Bellonara could admit that the faint glow of his lilac eyes rimmed with a darker violet were mesmerizing to look at, especially when he had that gleam in them. "It seems that that will be another test for me, but that is for me to know."

"Is that wise, your grace, picking a fight with the Faceless Men," started the Black Pearl, only to be interrupted.

"It is what you want me to do, is it not?" asked Viserys Targaryen, looking into her eyes in a way that made Bellonara feel like he was gazing into her soul. Bellonara gulped, feeling the gaze of the young man be replaced by a large predator. "While I will admit that it is tempting, I am not going to pick a fight that is a waste of my time with not enough to gain. As for your predicament, they have no reason to be a threat again."

"They threatened my daughter and expected her to die," countered Bellonara, "and they expect me to do nothing? Kill them, and I am yours as long as you want me."

The Wizard chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that was more primal than anything Bellonara had heard before. "Never tickle a sleeping dragon," he said, once more choosing to speak in riddles. "While tempting, there are not many ways to take them out all at once because if I miss even one, they will be coming after me and those I care about. Wizard means wise man in a way, and I, my dear, am no fool."

Bellonara nodded, knowing that it was not a likely outcome. Other than a direct attack from the Faceless Men, there was not much that could provoke the last dragon to a fight.

"As I was saying, since our little agreement regarding the ritual is done, there is nothing holding you back from leaving. I am sure the Faceless Men will not bother you over me, so you have two options before you..." he said with a look that made Bellonara want to slowly back away, "Given how I seem to be scaring the shit out of you, if you so choose, I can take the memories you have of me and leave you and your daughter be. Now that I know how to draw out memories," he said, pointing at the skull for some reason... was the whisps of... memories or something? "I am pretty sure I can do it if you wish. I have to admit that I dislike the way this... enterprise had turned out, even if our arrangement was profitable in a manner of speaking. I decided that it would be prudent to give you and your daughter an option to never see me again."

Bellonara held back a snort that would be beneath her. "You said two options, your grace?"

"We can make a proper contract, one that ensures that I would not abuse you or your daughter," explained Viserys, looking into her eyes.

"A contract using magic?" asked Bellonara, her mind reaching to the implications.

"Maybe in the future, if you pose a threat to what is mine again, "said the Wizard, making Bellonara gulp, knowing that such an act would end with something worse than death." I am not foolish enough to bind myself with such things for trivial things," came his response. "You will have to trust that my word will be enough."

Had anyone else said that Bellonara would laugh at their face, but Viserys Targaryen, despite his strangeness, was... someone she could not see turning on his word... he had not done it when he had every reason to, he would be less likely to do in the future.

Ending up becoming the Mistress of a Wizard had not been what Bellonara intended for herself as well, even if the thought of being able to personally teach her daughter the art of pleasure was as tantalizing as it was scandalous. The Wizard was a dragon, and there was more than a drop of dragon blood in her that she really did not mind.

Bellonara had no doubt that she was attracted to the Wizard's power... it had such potential. Viserys Targaryen was not the first practitioner of Higher Mysteries, as one of the Maesters Bellonara had met called magic. He was, however, the most... prolific. Few that were worth their salt would trade their firstborn for the type of magic the boy of thirteen did with ease.

Another Courtesan would kill to be in her place right now, gaining the attention of this... what even was Viserys Targaryen? He was certainly more than a man. Some men called Targaryens dragons had they not?

In the end, with some proper guidance, the potential of the one before her was limitless, and Bellonara was not a fool to pass the opportunity that presented itself to herself or her daughter.

A small part of her whispered that Viserys Targaryen stood the best chance that she could make the Faceless Men pay for trying to harm her family, but that was not something she dared bring out. Trying to manipulate him to fight the Faceless Men was a risk, and she was not sure if he could win.

Just as Bellonara started to untie her laces to provide more incentive for her lover, the Wizard froze.

"We have company," he said, making sure her clothing covered her once more with the flick of his wand, just as a knock was heard.

Viserys looked at the man, who poked his head out with a glare. "Yes?"

"Pardon me, your grace, Ser Willem said to get you fast. The Master of Horse came back," said the Man At Arms, who was one of the two named Wat. How the boy ran into two men with the same name was an enigma, though Bellonara thought that it was a way to prevent the name of one man from being given since two shared the same name, maybe another protection from the Faceless Men. She decided to see if she could do the same once the danger they were in passed.

"Strange, anything else that made this urgent?" asked the Sorcerer-Prince.

"His face is all wrong," said the man. "It is hard to explain, but it is wrong. Wat told me to ask you what to do."

Bellonara's blood ran cold.

Viserys Targaryen did not seem fazed, his eyes clouding for a moment before he stood up. "Your wish just might come true, my lady," he said with a confidence that Bellonara though was out of place, given the situation. The wizard picking up the white wooden staff with a smirk on his face and headed out the door.

AN: No, it is not dead, it is just slowed down as a result of me being not that good at time management. This chapter had been re-written so many times that it became a pain.

That being said, loads Magical Shotgun with Malicious Intent.

Last edited: Mar 19, 2023

022 Out of the Shadows

AN: This took a bit too long to come out, mostly because I did not actually have the time to write for most of the two months and I kept re-writing multiple versions of it.

EndOfTheGlory said:

Are there any news when the new update will be? It's almost two months since the last chapter.

Since you asked so nicely, yes there is. Enjoy!

# 022 Out of the Shadows

Did I expect the Faceless Men to come knocking?

No, I did not. I suppose it made sense in a way, with me flipping the board and making myself nearly impossible to find through the wards.

Did it really matter?

Not really.

Was I prepared? Not as much as I would have liked... but I had a few tricks up my sleeve if it came to a fight.

I tightened the grip on my staff. It was one of those preparations I had made in case I had to face a numerically larger opponent, trading finesse for power. Where my wand was a tool of control and precision, the staff was a weapon meant for war. The wood was reshaped from the Weirwood Ritual Circle I had used, making the wood connect to me on a spiritual level. At the same time, the nature of the material was ideal for channeling Magical Energy, which was the main advantage of a Focus of this size. The tip of the staff had the three-headed dragon that had been the remaining parts of the cloak pin, bound in Obsidian, similar to the core of my wand, ready to bring fire and blood to my enemies.

I stopped, looking at Dany standing by Ser Willem. Her eyes were filled with worry, as though something was going to happen.

"Princess insisted that there was a danger, and Wat seemed to notice something odd about the man," said Ser Willem, having recovered his sword, "Brains noticed that he should not be here on time, and the Eyes think he acts funny... stiffer, unused to his body."

"Missy was acting up," said Dany holding a ball of fur in her arms. "Says there is danger."

"Meow," greeted the kitten named Missy, already the size of a fully grown cat despite being only a few months old at best, her raised fur making her look larger still. She was named after another cat of impressive size... with adjustments made to fit her gender.

Missy was... by all definitions, a Kneazle... or a magical cat that had a strange ability to tell if someone was trustworthy. I do not think I need to explain why an animal like that might come in handy... or why I made sure Dany bonded with her.

Missy was one of the continuing Magical Experiments I had been running. Having mostly mastered the art of breeding normal animals and making them larger, I was working on adding concepts to them now. Trying to bind specific affinities to animals to give them Magical Talents was the first experiment I did when I discovered the concept of Magical Affinities before I used it on myself.

It was the next step of my long-term plans of Fleshcrafting, and modifying a pregnant cat to deliver what amounted to a Kneazle was a decent step for practical purposes. An extra large cat that was soul bound with the Concepts of Revealing and Survival through runes was as good of a defense as any when faced with Super-Assassins. I had to bind a Magic Circle onto the skin of his mother while pregnant and feed the pregnant cat a potion regimen based around Moonstone, but the result was a species that could sense hidden dangers and threats, making it an invaluable part of my preparations.

The fact that Dany took a liking to the kitten and stopped asking me to somehow combine owls and cats so she could have a pet of hers was an added bonus. My rules were mostly set, no cross-species experimentation without access to both Wildfire and Valyrian Steel... just in case.

A touch of the kitten's mind gave me a more comprehensive vision than any of the words that could be exchanged.

'That makes sense,' I thought, pushing the thought to the kitten. While she was Dany's familiar with all applications, she responded to my thought as well, and it was easier to train her this way.

I patted Dany's head, watching her lean towards my hand. Given how young Dany was, I wondered if the bleed-over from sharing a mind with a cat would be too bad. I needed her to start somewhere when it came to magic, and the instincts of a Kneazle were one of the most valuable things I could grant her, allowing her to feel whom she could trust in the long run. She was older than Rickon Stark when he got his dire wolf, so I was optimistic and a deft hand at Mind Magic if optimism did not pan out.

"The lads are outside with our guest," said Ser Willem interrupting my train of thought.

"Not a guest," I corrected, clutching my new staff. There was no need to give Guest Rights to someone who was not welcome. I did not know if Guest Rights held power, but I treated the whole thing as though I was making deals with Fey. With the White Walkers being compared to the Sidhe... it sounded reasonable to stick to small things. "I shall meet him outside, Ser Willem, secure the keep and stay with my sister."

"You do not need to go out there; only one of them exists. What can it do against a knight and two armed men? Let him try to storm the keep on his own," stated Ser Willem, clutching his cane that hid a blade.

"Underestimating the enemy is a path to failure. The Faceless Men thrive in shadows; I would much rather fight where I can see him... though let us hope it does not come to that, and he is simply a messenger," I said, taking a deep breath to calm myself.

"And if he is not?" asked Ser Willem, giving me a look.

I stiffened. From the memories I was able to gather, the Faceless Men were trying to pit me against one of them for a reason I did not understand. It might have been their way of testing me, similar to how Arya had to fight Waif. It was also possible that they decided what I had discovered regarding Magic was as much as they could tolerate and would take the knowledge through wearing my face.

That being said, one thing was certain, I did not trust the Faceless Man who was pretending to be the Master of Horse.

"Then I won't hesitate," I said with finality.

Ser Willem nodded before stating, "Take the dog as well; he is of more use to you outside than waiting in a room," he advised; as I moved outside, Huan followed without even being told, some weird combination of using telepathy to teach him language allowing him to understand the conversation. Dany would be safe with Ser Willem, and both mine and the dog's talents were much more useful out in the open.

A tap of my staff shut the doors behind me, the runes of Force glowing along the staff. Due to its size, a staff managed to channel more energy than a wand, but that meant a lack of versatility because it was clumsier to draw runes with it... not to mention the whole wand core not working. My solution had been to carve the runes onto the surface of the wood to act as a shortcut. It limited my choices to a dozen spells that I could cast with additional power faster than with a wand, but that would be worth it if Faceless Men had some counter-magic protection.

Sir Richard was standing there, with his sword drawn, while Wat the Eyes held a Myrish Crossbow aimed at the man standing there, as he was the one with the most talent for ranged combat.

The Master of Horse had been working in the Ranch for longer than I owned the place. He was waiting and pretending to be confused about why he was not granted entry. I was going to assume that the unusualness of the man's early arrival was a result of enemy action instead of anything else.

As a general philosophy, I did not believe in coincidences.

"Ah, Prince Viserys, it is good to see you," said the Master of Horse. "Your men are threatening poor..."

Something caused my ears to ring as my mind screamed, 'Danger!'.

THUNK!

My left hand, still holding the staff, had moved on its own volition, the tip of a black blade sprouting through the white staff that I somehow pulled in front of me.

There were no words exchanged, no boasting or speaking, no offers or targets to give, only an uncharacteristic scowl of the Faceless Men for failing to kill me in a single fast strike. It was unusual... Faceless Men were patient, and the deaths they caused were akin to accidents.

This felt personal.

Had it not been for the staff, the blade would have hit me through the eye and into my brain.

The ripples on the blade and spiritual pain that resonated through me were enough to let me know that this was Valyrian Steel. While the blade had been physically stopped by the wood, my soul was connected to the Weirwood it cut through, meaning that my soul was also harmed, even indirectly.

I noticed a lance of pain on the back of my left hand, though the flesh was not harmed.

'Valyrian Steel can harm the soul,' I noted, not putting it into words. That type of information was something I did not want another to realize. I did not spend time pondering the spiritual meaning of that event more than that, focusing on providing a response for the assassin before anything.

I chose to use my wand to respond to the attack instead of the staff, as I was not going to try casting with a Focus that just stuck by what was obviously Valyrian Steel. The best-case scenario would be the staff blowing up in my face, so it was going to be useless unless I fixed it.

In my opinion, I gave the most reasonable answer to someone throwing a magical blade to my face... lifting my wand, and sending fire... not a spell, but raw spellfire with the command to 'consume.' The spell engulfed the Faceless Men in a corona of blue flames fueled by my anger to consume the one before me.

I have played around with feeding my emotions to the spells, only to see if they had an effect. The more emotional I was, the less stable magic became... more destructive... reflected by the temperature of the fire. While I could do the same with simply control... control and emotions rarely went hand in hand.

I channeled my frustration... not the frustration at the Death Cult but the frustration at myself. Reasoning and dealing with a Death Cult was stupid... trying to understand them was an exercise in futility.

I was not sure what sort of logic a fanatic death cult followed... not that there needed to be a logic given it was a fanatic death cult, but the one before me wanted me dead, either because all of them wanted me dead or because this was some sort of a test.

The flames lasted for but a moment before collapsing into nothingness, leaving behind... the Faceless Men, untouched but lacking the clothing... Unburnt.

"What the hell?" I heard Ser Richard mutter, and I found myself agreeing.

My initial attack stopping had been the signal as Wat the Eyes, losing a bolt, while Ser Richard prepared to leverage an opening I would create when our opponent got close enough. We had worked through such potential scenarios, including a few instances of me using my magic against them, and they were not so stupid to try to get in close with a deadly assassin where they would be collateral damage to one of my stronger spells.

That game was changed the moment the Faceless Men proved himself to be fireproof.

That was my schtick!

The assassin's next move was some sort of a smoke pallet aimed at me. He must have been already holding them in his palm, ready to throw them.

The faint shimmer of the bubblehead charm protected me from inhaling the smoke as I held my wand in my right hand. A flick of it had the winds disperse the smoke while Ser Richard was far enough to not get the brunt of what was obviously pepper spray of some sort.

Realization dawned on the Faceless Man's face as I watched him realize that I did not say a word for the fire spell either. My use of Non-Verbal Casting granted me a brief window, as I caught a glimpse of the mind behind the Occlumency through the shock. He expected me to become incapacitated, choking on the smoke and unable to cast a spell. He seemed to have studied me enough to think that I was solely dependent on incantations, an illusion and an ace that I knew had been worth it.

Before I could take away anything else or leave him unable to move through a Mental Attack, I was locked out through the variant of Occlumency that the Faceless Men practiced.

A sweep of my wand caused the grass to burst into flames and release smoke. Plants had their own form of soul stuff... a bit more foreign and lacked the more complex properties of a living being, but it was still useful when molded into the most destructive Cutting Curse I could produce. The Curse was amplified by shadow smoke from the grass, giving it more substance. Accounting for the fact that the Assassin was fast enough to dodge all the bolts sent by Wat, I sent a wide crescent of shadow without a word, a moment later followed by another, just behind it, slightly higher.

In the first spell, the Assassin jumped over before Huan slammed into him, catching his sleeve and ensuring that the Assassin could not dodge the second cutting curse before releasing and running away, knowing that a prolonged struggle would end up with him injured.

I watched the blade of shadow hit its target, droplets of blood flying in the air.

The smoke and shadow that caused the shallow cut roiled before sinking into something close to his neck instead of bisecting the man as I would have expected from the experience.

'Some form of protection,' my mind supplied as I followed through with the bolts of fire meant to pierce instead of burn.

The Assassin dodged the three bolts of Magical Flame, responding with another throwing knife that bounced off the shimmering air in front of me. A flick of my wand sends the compressed Air Shield to my opponent. The assassin rolled to the side of the shimmering air, only to catch an arrow to the shoulder... to no effect.

'Resistance to Physical and Magical attacks,' I mentally counted, the way the Assassin shrugged off the bolt and my spellfire... that was essentially dragon fire. 'Must be an item or something,' I concluded, knowing that such a process was hard to achieve on your own.

Seeing that he was focused entirely on me, I noticed that the only proper offense he was aware of that could definitely hurt me was the knife made of Valyrian Steel; I chose to do the simple thing of banishing the staff from my hand to Huan, who took it between his jaws and ran towards the woods with a mental command.

The look of offense I got caused me to smirk as I sent three more Firebolts, the most simple yet efficient spell I had. Instead of the assassin, the flames hit the drops of blood that had landed on the grass, allowing me to forge a link and push a mental attack through it.

Fun fact, Faceless Men have some sort of Occlumency... a way to keep their personality and tap into the memories of the faces they wore. That was their trick, how they could get around more powerful Mages in this world, using the memories from the dead to form a front while hiding their true intentions. It probably made them very good at killing anyone who dabbled in Magic and got far enough to be considered a danger... like the Pyromancers of Valyria.

Another fact, mentally I had the mental impact of Robert's Warhammer when I wanted to. It was not useful for Legilimency, but for controlling bodies... or making sure they are locked just long enough for someone to stab my opponent... I could do that.

While we were locked in a battle of wills that brought the Assassin's speed down to manageable rates, Ser Richard had swung his sword and carved a long gash across his torso.

The bite of steel broke the Mental Connection as the Faceless Man turned to face the knight, as though his guts were not starting to fall off.

Sir Richard took a knife to the gap in his armor on his thigh, grasping at the Faceless Men and trying to pull him back. The training armor he had on when the Assassin showed up was padded, but it was not the best at protecting him against sharp objects.

A mental thug moved Ser Richard out of the reach of the blade that was aimed at his throat. The modified summoning spell was the most I could achieve without a wand, as I was simultaneously occupied with the air rushing into a small ball between my left hand and the tip of my wand.

He turned to charge at me, but Ser Richard's distraction gave me time to charge something I had not managed to stabilize into a proper spell yet.

A breath later, the Assassin was before me, his knife made to stab me in the center mass. It was hard to miss... only stopping because of the enchantment I had bound to the leather vest. Unlike the tunic, the leather could hold stronger protection, and all I felt was a hit that would bruise instead of break a rib.

The ball of compressed air destabilized as it always did when I tried casting it, exploding outwards with force, launching all three of us away from the center.

My back hit the ground, the shield spell I wove in the last moment preventing the worst of the damage, even if I was going to end up bruised from the impact. The prototype Explosion Spell, shelved until I either figured out how to ensure the explosion happened away from me or until I had more protective gear, did its job of giving me distance and physically stunning my opponent.

It also had the side effect of turning my entire body into a bruise. It would have been worse without the shield spell I had managed to layer around myself, but it was not a spell I had mastered yet.

Rather than wasting time to get up normally, I pulled a move straight out of Dracula, using Magic to lift me up to my feet, as my entire body rotated upwards around the balls of my feet to stand up.

My entire body was going to bruise, and that trick was a pain on my ankles... but time was of the essence.

'What is this guy made out of?' I thought, watching the Faceless Men get up, his right arm broken and his body looking like it had gone through the ring a dozen times over. There was blood, a large yet shallow gash across his chest from the Cutting Curse, and a deeper cut through his stomach with his bowels hanging out and the bits of broken arrow shafts sticking out his body.

None of the injuries seemed to have an effect on the Faceless Men, so I decided for the countermeasure I prepared for those who were harder to kill, like the Alchemist and now the Faceless Men... taking out a specific knife.

The blade was the one I had recovered from the Sorrowful Men, coated with what I now knew to be Manticore Venom. Before, I had made the mistake of not having a blade that could potentially harm someone with magic against the Alchemist, and I was left wanting. My use of Shadowbinding ought to have addressed that, but apparently, there were protections against that type of magic, as my current opponent showed.

The blade itself was nothing unnatural, but it was coated by the venom of the Manticore. I had no idea how the venom worked, as any attempt to study had been a failure, mostly because I did not wish to possess the rats I killed with the poison on the off chance that it was magical enough to influence the soul. What I could gather from observing the dead rats with my Glasses of Mage Sight was that the venom seemed to have poked a hole in the soul for the Magical Energy to rapidly escape... leaving the victim without any Life Force, leading to death. Being magical in origin, it was hard to heal, so I tended to keep the blade away unless I really needed to.

I reached to the shadows bound to my arm, pulling the Shadow-smoke from the scar that I had used as storage. Wrapping the shadow smoke around the blade, I threw it with my left hand. The blade was hidden by the Shadow binding, taking the form of a raven made of smoke and magic, accompanied by two other shadow ravens that leaped out of my sleeve.

I threw the blade with my left hand just as three shadowy ravens came out of my sleeve, one of them covering the dagger and guiding its flight midair, making it curve and aim for my target.

All three ravens, made from shadow-smoke to become my variant of Magic Missile, bound around the cut on my arm to act both as a temporary suture and in case I needed to call upon self-guided shadow familiars. With the cutting curse removed, the flesh still had an affinity to Shadow-Smoke.

All three of the bolts, vaguely shaped like ravens, hit their target even when the Faceless Men moved to dodge. The first two got absorbed by the same protection that shielded my opponent against the Cutting Curse, while the last one revealed the dagger sticking out of his chest.

The Manticore Venom on the blade that was once owned by the Sorrowful Men that targeted me proved to be deadly and efficient, the blue color tinting the veins on the neck of its victim. The Faceless Men looked at me with shock, understanding clear in his eyes that he had just been killed.

Instead of accepting it, however, his shocked look changed to a sneer. With a strength he should not have had, the man before me took out the dagger that had been stabbed to his own heart and threw it back at me before collapsing.

'Should have I dodged,' I thought to myself as I watched the blade rip apart the Magical Shield I hastily erected. Against a normal weapon, the shield would have held. A knife covered with blood and Manticore Venom was not a normal weapon, however, not to mention the fact that I had tinkered with it enough times to know it would pierce through my armor. As I reached to alter the path of the knife, my control slipped, the covered blood causing blocking my access. As the accidental Blood Magic caused my control over the spell to be ripped from my metaphorical grasp.

Something, or rather someone, tackled me out of the way as we fell into a heap of muscle and steel. A second was all it took me to get my bearings, summoning my wand back to my hand from where it had fallen as I made to get up.

The Faceless Men seemed to be dying, the black veins slowly spreading out from the cut.

That did not change the cold anger I felt as I slashed my wand up from the ground, pulling on nature itself to bind to my will.

A wordless roar heralded the water rising out of the grass and the ground itself, wrapping around the Faceless Men's fallen body, before turning into a block of ice with my will forcing its vibrations of the atoms to stop, pulling the heat into my own wand and encasing the collapsed Assassin in a block of ice before turning around to the man who had saved my life... again.

Spells, when you knew how to make them happen with the rules of physics, worked best, in my experience.

Sir Richard was on the floor, the blade stuck to his right arm. He was still alive as I pulled out the blade from where it was stabbed into the armor, having punched through the steel plate as though it was not there. Next, I pointed my wand at his arm, burning away the clothing and straps that kept the armor together, revealing slowly spreading blue veins.

The good news, they were not black... indicating that the venom was diluted after first use.

Bad news, I had no idea how to treat and counter the Magical Venom.

"Shit," I said, pulling the knife out and stretching out his arm. While common sense indicated that a knife should not be removed from where it was hit to prevent the victim from bleeding out, venom-coated daggers had other rules.

Sir Richard looked at me with pleading eyes before his eyes hardened as our eyes met. He gave me a nod of understanding as Wat made it close enough to get an idea of what I was about to do, placing a few arrow shafts between the fallen knight's mouth.

"Apologies about this, Ser," I said, lifting my wand and swinging it. "Lacero Inflamare!" I intoned, using a variant of the cutting curse. The made-up incantation was meant for a Cursed Fire that caused inflation and further torture. It was a way for me to put down groups of people and prevent them from further attacking, but the basis of it was still a flaming cutting curse. Given that I was knocked around more than my fare share, the added focus that the incantation could provide was needed.

I slashed my wand down, drawing a line of fire in the air with my wand, sending the spell-flame imbued with the concept of cutting, severing the limb just below the shoulder, and cauterizing the wound at the same time. My intent targeted the Manticore Venom, burning the damage around the area.

Ser Richard... screamed, as Wat kept him from trashing about. The limb fell away, but the danger had not yet passed.

Manticore Venom was potent, but most of it had already dissolved in the body of the Assassin. Whatever remained on the blade after it was used a second time was less potent and slower to spread... or so my brain came up with, having gone fully logical when confronted with an emergency.

Taking out a Bezoar from my pocket, I held it next to the stump, letting spellfire consume the material and take on the properties of the Bezoar. While normal Bezoar did not have the properties of counteracting poisons as I hoped it would be able to on its own, combining it with magic allowed me to create a spellfire that absorbed foreign materials.

The echo of the cursed flame from the cut joined to the flame that was meant to absorb the poison of the stone from the stomach of a goat, providing me with a way to burn the poison out.

The flames that were burning a soft yellow took on a blue tint for a moment as I wove a quick enchantment on the remnants of the poison itself, breaking down the will of the Manticore with my own.

A bird landed nearby only to burst into flames with a look from me and a finger of fire from my left hand, the ring on my finger acting as the focus. The fire and shadow wove themselves to anchor the enchantment... binding the Manticore Venom to the blood and the enchantment of cursed flame and Bezoar... reaching a balance.

I used the small break to take out my glasses, putting them on. They were no simple aids for my vision. The Glasses of Mage Sight were crafted from a combination of Dragonglass and Weirwood and gave me the ability to see Magical Energy and even souls.

Watching the process through the Glasses of Mage Sight, I saw the strange way the remnants of the Venom influenced the body before me. "The Manticore Venom is slowly leaking Magical Energy," I mumbled to myself, watching whisps of light leave through the cauterized wound.

The effect looked the same as it did with... Nightwood. That was what I was missing... Nightwood must be some sort of a hybridization of Manticore Venom and Trees, which would explain why it had the ability to remove Magical Energy from the soul.

Magical Energy was so linked to willpower and drive. A vision of Ser Robert Strong came before me, lacking his own will... his own motivation, and drive.

Where my initial treatment had prevented the actual venom from causing damage, its ability to leak magic was one that I needed to fix, lest Ser Richard would find himself with no life force and a shell of his former self.

'Your fault!' a treacherous part of me whispered in my mind.

There was, ironically, only one answer I could think of to solve his problem.

I clenched my left arm, only now noticing the ghost of a cut on my hand. It had been... something, a strange feeling that I had forgotten in the heat of battle. While my flesh itself looked unharmed, in the Unseen through the glasses on my face, there was damage, as though my hand had been stabbed through instead of the staff that I used to intercept the Valyrian Steel.

There was nothing to do with my injury directly, but I noted that it was only skin deep... in a metaphysical sense, at least. It was limited to the layer of soul I added lately... in my pursuit of divinity. A layer of soul that was meant to absorb, amplify and channel Magical Energy... the Life Energy.

The layer of soul-stuff I wrapped around my own self was meant to absorb Magical Energy, a process that I had achieved by binding the Essence of Weirwood to my own soul. It was the exact opposite of Nightwood in a sense, the exact opposite of what the Manticore Venom was doing. It could balance it out.

Threads of soul-stuff extended from the fingers of my right hand, digging themselves into my left hand where the cut was, tearing off a chunk of the added layer I had gained through the Ritual through gritted teeth.

The soul stuff looked frayed in the corners; it was still malleable enough that I could remove it. In the unseen, I could see the smooth cut from Valyrian Steel, with the skeletal outline of my original soul remaining, but the ghost of the pain was gone now. The soul-stuff I took was held in my hands, though I would need a medium to bind it.

I coughed, my throat felt raw, as I noticed that I was screaming in pain... not even noticing that, so wrapped in my task that I was. What I was doing... it was hard to put to words, instincts guiding me through Soul Magic as I surrendered myself to what I intended to do.

The cut from the Valyrian Steel was part of the soul now, a piece of it. I poured my will through the connection, shifting that story of the soul slightly. Where the soul stuff was initially cut, now it would cut. Where the soul stuff was severed, now it could be used to sever.

"My blade," I declared in High Valyrian, finding the words fitting.

I pressed my hand onto the back of Ser Richard, pouring the essence onto his flesh, watching the soul stuff bind itself to the dimming soul of the knight who had taken a knife for me... who had saved my life more than once.

"He will live, but it is still touch and go," I admitted, collapsing onto the couch. It had taken hours and dozens of potions to stabilize the Manticore Venom, along with other poisons that the Assassin had used.

Now that I had time to relax, I felt the bruises on my body. Using Magic to move was much more dangerous than normally moving, as it turned out, which, combined with having a spell explode in front of me, made me feel like I was a walking bruise.

Nessa had brought some food while others were waiting on me to explain what happened or come to a decision in the case of the Black Pearl and her daughter. It was only the adults in the room.

I did not realize that the sun had already set, and everyone was looking at me.

'They are afraid,' I noticed, realizing that most of them had not seen me use my spell to go all out. Ser Willem knew, as he had watched me use most of my spells one time or another, and Bellonara had an idea of my abilities but not the extent. Compared to the fight, all I had used were cantrips in comparison.

Dany was standing next to Ser Willem, looking at me with wide violet eyes while still holding Missy. She was the first to move, forcing me to scoot over as she sat next to me on the couch, snuggling beside me.

'She is the same girl who would hatch and ride dragons,' I mused mentally, playing with her silver hair as I watched her fall asleep against me. That seemed to have set everyone at ease, as Lanna's stiff shoulders relaxed while Bellegere looked at me, biting her lips while making eyes at me.

"What will you do?" asked Bellonara, her intentions clear.

"You would have me declare war on the Faceless Men?" I asked, breaking through the subtlety that she was trying to go for.

"What do they want?" asked Ser Willem, looking his age more than before.

"I do not know," I admitted. At the end of the day, the Faceless Men were a Death Cult, and those tended to not be limited by mortal concepts like logic or reason.

Looking back, every action of the Faceless Men has been beneficial to me until now. Sir Richard had proven his loyalty more than enough times. The Alchemist had been the path to discovering more magic than I could normally do in a short amount of time. The attempt on the Sea Lord of Braavos seemed too staged and had been a boon for me. Even Black Pearl had been a boon, the Faceless Men forcing my hand and teaching me to distrust the motives of others.

What was their end goal, though, that remained a mystery. The Kindly Man claimed that I was some sort of messianic figure, blessed by their Many-Faced God, but their actions were very... Sith, you know, kill everyone you care about, break down your morals for power... that kind of thing.

"When will it end?" asked Ser Willem, "if we left Braavos..."

"Valar Morgulis," I whispered, repeating the words of the Faceless Men. 'Until I am dead,' the words whispered.

"That is ominous," commented Bellanora, making me realize that I had spoken those words out loud.

"Can you kill them?" asked Ser Willem, finally asking the right question. 'Can you win?' his words meant.

'Not in a straight fight, obviously,' I thought to myself. Fighting Faceless Men would be futile unless I took them all out in a single blow. While I could protect myself by hiding, it would not change the fact that sooner or later, someone close to me would get hurt instead.

I would need a decisive strike, one that would end the threat in an instant. I could not let the Faceless Men respond, not give them a choice in the matter. That is what the likes of Tywin would do if he were in my place. I found myself agreeing... fuck, when did Tywin Fucking Lannister become the voice of reason in my head?

If you hit the king, you better kill the king, as the saying went.

Huan trotted in then, distracting me from my thoughts, my staff still between his teeth.

"Good boy," I said, ruffling his fur as Huan dropped the staff onto my lap. The blade was still stuck a quarter way through to the top of it.

I severed the part of the staff that had the blade stuck in it, leaving me with a walking stick. I was not sure if the cut itself could be fixed, but I was not willing to risk using it.

A flick of my wand had the Weirwood and the knife it was connected to set on fire. The spell I used cleaned the Valyrian Steel knife from any substance around it, my insight returning only traces of blood and cleaning oil. I would have expected poison of some sort, a trick that I would expect from the Faceless Men and 'Constant Vigilance' and whatnot.

Once the Weirwood was burned out, I was left with a gloved blade on the floor. The flames also caused the blade to reveal something.

I grasped the dragon bone handle; it was not hot, as dragon bone had some unique thermal properties. The words in High Valyrian Glyph clashed against the ripples of the Magical Crucible Steel, which the ignorant would think to be folded instead of formed naturally through a chemical reaction.

"From my blood comes the Prince that was Promised, and he will be the Song of Ice and Fire," I read out loud... before cursing whichever idiot had the idea of putting the words of a Prophecy into a Magical Artifact and leaving it unsupervised.

Everyone looked out the window to the field where I fought the Faceless Men, half burned and half frozen.

Strangely, it reminded me of which world I now lived in.

This was a cruel world... and I had no luxury of hesitating.

I did not want to choose to be reborn as Viserys Targaryen, but living a peaceful life was not going to happen. It was time I stopped holding back.

Before making any more life-altering and possibly foolish decisions, I needed to strip everything off of the Faceless Men that came to kill me.

The ice that trapped the now frozen corpse of the Faceless Men slowly retreated with my will until I could stab the corpse in the heart with the Valyrian Steel dagger... just to be thorough, before proceeding to decapitate the corpse... through... definitely not for some reasonable anger on my end... just being through.

When I swung the blade the first time around, the blade clinked against something, causing me to do a few follow-up cuts to remove the head... both because the dagger was too short to do it in a single swing and because whatever was around the man's neck was strong enough to stop Valyrian Steel.

That thing turned out to be a necklace that I was quite fascinated by. It is clearly Valyrian Steel, with dragonglass and rubies decorating it. Interestingly, there are bits of the metal that look like it had melted and cooled, and half the jewelry is missing, with the remaining half looking as though it had melted. It was likely that it had been recovered from the Royal Treasury by the Faceless Men when he stole the dagger. Knowing only dragonfire or possibly wildfire could melt Valyrian Steel, which narrows the object to an heirloom of House Targaryen that either survived Summerhall or even possibly belonged to the only female royal executed by a dragon... Rhaenyra Targaryen.

"Wonder if Sunfyre died from choking on Valyrian Steel," I muttered to myself, deciding to gift it to Dany. Even if it was half melted, it was still Valyrian Steel and managed to absorb any Shadowbinding-based attacks I could throw at its wearer. With the dagger by my side and the necklace on her, I would feel much better.

The thought about Sunfyre gave me an idea that I would need to pursue, but for now, I needed intel.

The face peeled away after I poked at it for a few minutes, figuring out how to remove the face he wore. The edge of my wand carving through the actual flesh. Once the skull was cleaned and prepared for me to turn into a Proto-Pensieve, so I could take a peak at the memories of the Dead Assassin.

The frustrating part was that there was nothing that made the Faceless Men my enemy. There was no personal grudge, no survivor of Aerys' cruelty wanting to get payback... he had been just a man, his life given to Faceless Men for revenge against those who wronged him. He had nothing personal against me, being told to take me out.

What was not there were memories of knowledge best shared with No One... the story of Valyria and the foundation of the Faceless Men was there, but the fate of the Fire Mages that Arya had not heard was not.

"An acolyte... maybe an apprentice," I commented, my hand falling from the Memory Potion I used to fill the skull to draw out the memories. The bone itself had merged with Weirwood, a white skull with no eyes or any holes... forming a cup. The white threads of memories were drawn out by the Memory Potion that filled it.

The Glasses of Mage Sight I crafted out of combining Weirwood and Dragonglass failed to penetrate the protections on the Faceless Men's face, while a bit of divination using scrolls of runes showed traces of Weirwood and Nightwood in the blood, consumed through some sort of a potion.

I clenched my jaw, thinking of an improvement to my glasses and how to increase its range... making a better variant of the Glass Candle that I was sure made from wood, dragonglass, and dragon bone, not dissimilar to my wand.

"Fuck it, let's go for broke," I muttered to myself, taking out the bronze cauldron I used to make potions.

The bronze cauldron sat before me, scrubbed clean for nearly an hour on the running river. It was decent enough, and I had channeled my Magical Energy to my at, ensuring that the cauldron would be clean enough for the delicate potion I was makin'.

My wand moved along the surface of the bronze, etching Glyphs onto the metal... delicate potion meant the cauldron would be single-use.

'Ask me the secrets of Sith Alchemy,' I heard the words echo in my memories... something I had only heard once, the voice cold and dark, 'and I would ask you for three measures of blood: one from a person you love, one from a person you hate, and one from yourself.'

First was the blood. The blood of the Faceless Men, who was my enemy, the blood of Ser Richard, who was my protector, and finally, my own blood.

Naga Sadow had been onto something. Three was a powerful number, one that happened in more than one work of fiction. Blood had power, and the three types of blood were all delicate in their nature.

'Blood of the Enemy, forcibly taken, you shall not hide from the Maker, ' another voice echoed; this one was hesitant, shaking, echoing as I focused on the heart's blood of the Faceless Men. It still held traces of the potion that worked to hide them from the sight of other magicals, a mix of Nightwood and Weirwood Saps that hid the Faceless Men from detection. It was a more permanent form of my amulets... though less refined and more long-term. I had no idea if the process left them unable to use magic or some other marginal side effect, but I was not going to try it... best I could think was that it would leave the drinker infertile.

'Blood of the Servant, given in defense, you shall protect the Maker, ' the words sounded in my ear as though spoken by me. The Blood of Ser Richard was an important aspect, the Venom in his blood, the essence of Weirwood bound to his soul, and the multiple set of unique effects that his blood now contained... a mocking copy of the potion the Faceless Men consumed to gain their powers... the same liquid that left them blind.

'Blood of the Caster, willingly given, you shall bind to the Maker,' the words completed themselves; I let my instincts guide me as I made a shallow cut on the finger and let three drops of my blood mix with the content of the cauldron.

Next was stone... sticking to the theme of threes. One for Sight, One for Hiding, and One for Revealing.

I already knew Dragonglass was magical and made the base of the Glass Candles, so I had the sight covered.

Hiding was easy as well, for Moonstone was the answer. I had a single piece of Moonstone I was experimenting with, using Sympathetic Magic to bind the stone to the New Moon and the conceptual hiding the moonless sky represented.

Revealing was tricky until I found a ring in the pile of jewelry we took from Dragonstone. Among the pile was a ring made of ruby and Sunstone... one that belonged to Elia Martell.

At first, I reached for the ruby before my fingers brushed against the Sunstone. It made sense, in a way, a representation of the sun to go with the moon.

Dragonglass, Moonstone, and Sunstone went in next, with three stones that represented the Earth, the Moon, and the Sun, respectively. Dragonstone to bind to Earth, Moonstone to find the hidden, and Sunstone to reveal it.

Lastly, three pieces of wood are suspended over the cauldron. The Weirwood and Nightwood were given. The combination of the woods hid the Faceless Men, and they would reveal it all the same.

Last, I went with the ash wood mostly because I found the concept of 'ash of ash' poetically appealing, and Goldenheart wood would not be of any use without understanding its properties. As the wood pieces burst into flames, I watched the ash mix into the potion, thickening it.

Three of threes, making nine, the number of divination and knowledge. Three stones, three kinds of wood, and three types of blood.

The last piece was going to be the part that closed the ritual in a way. The head of the Magical Staff I made, the three-headed dragons of dragon bone, even though it was also one, completing the potion with ten ingredients, and cycling back to the number One, representing unity and singularity, the three-headed dragons holding a fourth conceptual set of threes, which made twelve. That held meaning as well, one for unity, two for pairing, and three for stability all at once.

Pulling on the Magical Energy around me, I slowly reached out, lifting the potion out of the bronze cauldron. The materials resonated with my wand, the dragon bone was the same, and there was power in shared cores, even if the rest of the materials were different.

The final piece was some soul-stuff, like the piece I removed from around my own to remove the cut, a connection that would be established, elevating the control from affinity to mastery.

I slowly channeled spellfire through the ball of potion, crushing the liquid under my will, boosted by the power of the Well of Magic I had access to.

The potion ignited from the inside as the memories of the fires within the world came to me.

"Proteus," I muttered, opening my mind to those memories, using them to guide my consciousness through the world, reaching out and down to the core of the world, building a link between the core of the black sphere that was slowly forming and the core of the World, it's insides still glowing yellow, even though outside of the glass ball was cold enough to hold.

Once the Orb was complete, I held it in my palm. It was smooth, perfectly spherical, and large enough to hold within my fingers.

The core of the Orb glowed, and I saw.

In the Isle of Gods, in the middle of Braavos, a man walked off a drifting barge, guided by no one. Magic was handy like that.

I did not have time to heal up, my body was still too stiff for my comfort, but I needed to have this talk with the Faceless Men all the same and the two days I had was all I could afford.

"A man is angry," stated the Kindly Man upon seeing me standing before the House of Black and White.

I raised an eyebrow at the observation. "What gave it away?" I asked as sardonically as I could.

"The servants can clean bird droppings on his cloak so many times before he gets the idea," came the explanation, making me smirk. It had only been a week, but I had managed to put a more long-lasting hex on all the Faceless Men, linking the face I acquired, along with some specific memories of the Hall of Faces, to define the conceptual representation of a 'Faceless Men.'

"Even the ones who use less than magical means?" I asked, pretending and failing at sounding innocent... on purpose, at least.

"Just so," responded the Kindly Man, narrowing my eyes. 'Yes, you little shit, I can target each and every one of you; imagine what I plan to do next.'

And the two days was just enough to make sure that the Faceless Men got that message.

That had been the main issue with killing off the Faceless Men; their diverse methods of changing faces were not ideal. The only solution I could find was to target them, using some High-Level Sorcery to curse every face they wore.

In a similar vein, I could not target their non-existent name. While I did not know how to leverage the name of the person, there were enough stories that I could figure out with some effort.

Instead, I attacked their very identity, the face, the name, and the memory all at once, specifically using my own memory of the Hall of Faces that I removed from my mind, to isolate those who had seen the center of the House of Black and White, with the exclusion of myself... as I no longer held that particular memory.

In comparison, binding a constant compulsion on the birds to make them shit on the Faceless Men was rather easy, requiring a few birds to sacrifice. It was a bit wasteful, as I disliked sacrificing animals or people for spells that reduced over time but it was a necessity... sometimes, you needed to get the point across.

I could hit each and every Faceless Men all at once was the point... if it was not obvious.

"I killed that little test of yours..." I stated, causing Kindly Man to sigh. "That makes me one of you... now I want answers," I declared.

"A man is now truly, No One," said the Kindly Man, pausing for a moment, "now, could he stops the spell he put on the Servants of the Many-Faced God."

"Fine... no more bird poop for you lot," I nodded, tapping my staff and undoing the Jinx with a flex of my will. The Orb of Divination I crafted, the one that I placed as the new headpiece of my staff, glowed for a moment.

"A wizard is most gracious," said the Faceless Men,

"So, Servant of the Many-Faced God... what is the deal exactly? You lot are not really against slavery, or you would have killed off all the Masters and there would be an unending string of Slave Rebellions but you have weird rules and..." I was cut off, feeling something punch through my chest.

"A Servant of the Many Faced God would not have hesitated, he ought to have struck the killing blow when he had the chance," said the Kindly Man, "this way the Enemies cannot get a Wizard... he would be wise to accept the Gift. Valar Morghulis," said the Kindly Man, as I looked down and saw the hilt of a sword sticking out of my torso, clutched by the Kindly Man.

For a moment, all I could feel was the cold.

AN: Good news, this fic is not dead... Viserys on the other hand... well, find out next time on ~~Dragon Ball Z~~ Wandbearer. It should not take two months.

Last edited: May 13, 2023

023 Into the Sun

AN: This chapter was the reason the previous one took so long to complete, since I wanted to be mostly done with both to make sure there was no waiting between them.

Previously:

"A Servant of the Many-Faced God would not have hesitated, he ought to have struck the killing blow when he had the chance," said the Kindly Man, "this way the Enemies cannot get a Wizard... he would be wise to accept the Gift. Valar Morghulis," said the Kindly Man, as I looked down and saw the hilt of a sword sticking out of my torso, clutched by the Kindly Man.

For a moment, all I could feel was the cold.

First thing I did to having my body be impaled by what looked like a sword was to slam my staff down, the butt of it revealing the Valyrian Steel dagger that buried itself into the ground.

In hindsight, I should have something cool like 'A dragon is no slave,' or something like that... you know, instead of 'All Men must serve' that they parroted all the time. Even something like 'You are confusing my mercy for weakness,' would have been better.

The only word that I could croak out was... "Textbook," commenting on the placement of the blade. Center mass and through where the heart your be... the man before me was clearly skilled as he had hit the mark to the inch.

He had also missed me by a mile... well, more like twenty miles and some change, but who was counting.

As for the feeling of cold, I mean... what should I expect, sitting in the middle of a Ritual Circle, naked at the tail-end of Winter.

How, you will ask... well, the short answer is... Shadow Clones... bitch!

Well, not really; it is more of a combination of Shadow Clones, puppetry, and fleshcrafting... along with a bit of magical ventriloquism... I think. I was going to go with Necromancy but I have lines I would rather not cross, and bodies decapitated with Valyrian Steel turned out to be a bitch to resurrect... or make them talk in any way.

The long answer was that, as a proud nerd with detailed knowledge of things that came in handy in this world, I have been working to create Shadow Clones from Naruto ever since I figured out how Shadowbinding sorta... kinda worked.

The "shadow-demons" that I could craft by burning a body and binding the soul to the smoke that came out was a tricky process. The shadow could be made solid, but only for a short while, like when you wanted to use it as a Cutting Curse to kill someone. It was however not enough to be able to carry a staff... which I needed to place inside the House of Black and White for my next trick to work.

I finally realized the missing bit, once the need to create a new arm for Ser Richard came to be an actual problem I needed to solve.

A glamour over the shadow-demon I could conjure up by burning the body of the dead was good enough to stab something, but it tended to degrade over time. The glamour also was not solid enough for me to be able to fool the Faceless Men.

Instead, I had crafted a wooden puppet spending the last fourty-eight hours enchanting it to high-heaven to be as close to human body as I could. It was still wooden and stiff in places but binding the shadow-smoke from the Assassin to the puppet, and using my latest creation, the Orb of Divination, to remote control the entire thing gave me the tools needed to enter the Place of Power of the Faceless Men.

The torso, hidden by the clothing, was the only part of the puppet that was not shadow-bound... mostly because I knew from the Valyrian Steel stabbing into my staff that injuries using Magical Weapons would transfer to the soul casting a spell or animation and, therefore, the original body. Limb injuries were easy to handle and less risky, and I did count on the Faceless Men to go for either the heart or the neck if they attacked. It was not that I could not take it, but no one likes getting injured and while it did not physically hurt to peel back the layers of soul-stuff I added to myself, it would weaken me until I found a way to use the ritual again.

The face fell as the magic holding everything together unraveled, revealing a raven behind it... a way for me to speak. A combination of using Ravens to speak and pass messages used in the old times by the First Men and the Children of the Forest and the variant of Fleshcrafting that the Faceless Men used that turned the raven into a speaking head that I could attach to the puppet torso gave me eyes, ears and a mouth.

I had even gone so far as to magically alter the face of the one sent to kill me to become like me, morphing the magically treated skin with Transmutation and a bit of my own blood. Combined with my spiritual presence and the added layer of glamour, I managed to fool the Faceless Man before me.

In the end, the Simulacrum I crafted was a mishmash of Magical concepts I had learned from day one, made to give me the time I needed to complete the Ritual I was going through... and to get answers... and give me a backdoor into their Headquarters.

Dangerous folk Wizards... should not give them time to prepare and a clear enemy to target.

What? Did you think I was stupid enough to go into the Headquarters of a bunch of Death Fanatics without a plan... which did not involve me being as far away from said Headquarters as possible?

Even without the two dozen methods of Divination I tried to use to see the outcome of me walking into their place of power, I knew that I would not be spared... or at least I was not taking chances. You simply cannot threaten a group of people that see death as a mercy and a gift. Death was not the most pleasant state of being, and I liked my new life.

There was more to the Faceless Men than I could think, but the thing that clued me in was that when I fought the Faceless Men who came after me, he was surprisingly immune to both Magical and Physical Attacks.

Faceless men did not like Magic Users so it made sense that they knew ways to protect themselves from the most common methods of magic used by their greatest enemy... Valyrian Pyromancers. It was understandable, Valyria may sound fancy but the mines were something that would make Warhammer Universe look nice. I could argue that the Alchemist was on the same status as the Pyromancers of Valyria and we could have a debate about that the whole day, but at the end of the day, fire and shadow were magic that Faceless Men would have faced before.

Physical Immunity however, if you thought of it, it looked like everyone and their cat had that nowadays. Then I had this tiny gnawing feeling... they sent me after the Alchemist for a reason. Memories of the Faceless Men, or his skull rather, called the liquid Wine of Courage, or the recipe that the Faceless Men must have bought from the Alchemist in exchange for their immunity. The memories of the Faceless Men showed a concoction that he took, made from Blood Fly Larvae that slowly left him unable to feel his body. My own memories implied a connection to the Unsullied, but I could not recall the details and Memory Potion I had access to was still technically poison.

The whole knowing the name of the Alchemist was a clever excuse as they had used me to take out someone they promised would not be targeted... because a few hundred year old immortal alchemist would know to bribe the local murderers to be left alone... just like a decade old wizard would.

So, I had no trust for the Faceless Men, who would walk in invited to a home and kill the owner.

Also, please, this is the world where main characters drop like flies... I am not a moron. I have plans to avoid even my own wedding... because I did not trust weddings to not end in a massacre. If Jaehaerys the Old could pull of elopement and get away with it, so could I.

I shivered, not liking the fact that I was sitting naked in the middle of the woods; tapping into a Magical Power source to remote control a body was not the best way to keep warm.

The Orb of Divination I created and placed on top of my staff was connected to me, like an antenna allowing me to reach the House of Black and White and set up Step Two of my plan to eliminate my pest problem.

Pity, the Faceless Men did not manage to kill me... I really did not want them to give me the reason to go through with this.

Now, it was my turn to kill them... and I had a lot of time to think about how I could manage something so monumentally dangerous and stupid.

The fact of the matter was the Faceless Men had to die. That part was no more a matter of question. There was no condition attached. It was not something that was up for debate any more. There was no bargaining with men who had made their peace with their own death and dedicated their life to a creed.

A part of me considered all the people they killed, all the politicians, artists, creative minds... all those who died for the ambitions of another so they could finance their ambition to kill all magic users in the world. This world was stuck in the middle ages, sure, which had something to do with the Magic influencing things like chemistry to the point of messing with any fire-based inventions like steam engines, but there was also the effect of those people killed by the Faceless Men. Why was rest of the world stuck in Dark Ages while Braavos was going through the Renaissance?

In the end, I had already made up my mind, hadn't I. There was nothing more the Faceless Men could do for me and I was not going to serve their whims and become their attack dog. Even then, would they be satisfied with a few lives when I became truly a significant player in the great game?

Even then, this was my attempt to make peace before I channeled Good Old Aerys and killed them all with Fire and Blood Magic... just to make sure I slept well at night.

How... that was... a thought experiment I had been working on for... more than a year now... since I faced the Alchemist and thought how they were using me as a tool against things more powerful and dangerous than most people could handle until I died.

So I went all out, combining every bit of knowledge and information I had collected, researched and practiced into a single silver bullet.

The first thing you have to understand is that Magic is about bending Reality to your will. It was tricky, though; you needed to first be able to bend your own mind to your will. 'If I look back, I am lost,' was how Daenerys would say it before hatching dragons. If you could convince yourself that up was down, you could convince Reality that up was down, and the next thing you know, you have a squirrel clutching at the branches of a tree to not fall to the stratosphere. Speaking from experience.

It was hard, though; even when you had a floating flame in front of you, it was hard to convince someone grown with the scientific knowledge of the modern world that magic worked. That being said, science had a rather lovely way of accepting evidence, so once the initial doubt was gone, I could do a lot of things if I had the power or precision required for it.

There was a method to the madness, a logical progression of breaking Reality. That worked on small things, Spellcraft, where you could slowly build up and modify spells to do things. My wand helped, recalling every spell that came before and aiding in recreating the same spell while I added just a bit more to it. First came fire, next a fire that did not burn, next a fire that did not burn but forced your weapon to fly out of your hand... you get it.

On a larger scale problem like the one I was facing now, I needed another approach, as building up a Spell that could target all the Faceless Men at once would be impossible before they cottoned on to the fact that I could indeed target each and every one of them. The Kindly Man had been at least honest about that, though I had used ravens to track one of the sloppier Faceless Men who used make up and checked that my Jinx worked even on him.

My solution to doing such a complex bit of magic to kill off a group of Super-Assassins was... complexity. The complexity of the Rituals was the best; the effort I placed into each part of the ritual accumulated and that feeling of sunk cost fallacy ironically made for a stable ground to force Reality to call you daddy.

Sympathetic Magic was an obscure branch of magic I had used for years. The flames held a connection with each other, allowing me to look through one and see another with ease. I did not do it a lot; that way lay madness and getting hounded by a bunch of Red Priests, whom I avoided like the plague after I learned the barebones of their magic from the local branch of pyromaniacs. I don't know which is more disappointing, their inability to understand what they are doing or their zealotry.

By the same logic, I could use the concept of Thaumaturgy from Dresden Files. 'As is above, so is below' was a wider-scale application of the Sympathetic Magic after all.

The Orb of Divination was an item that worked on the same principles as the Glass Candles, with the added ability to slip through the protections of the House of Black and White, containing both the blood of a Faceless Men and the combination of Dragonglass, Dragon Bone, Weirwood and Nightwood... instead of the original version that I was certain did not have Nightwood... or the Manticore Venom.

The Simulacrum had been a proof of concept to ensure that what I would do would pass through their protections, just as the Jinx I placed on the Faceless Men to have birds shit on every one of them... on the planet was a confirmation that I could hit them all at once.

The entire confrontation was an experiment as much as a way to convince me that I could not bargain with a fanatic death cult. It was a test to see if I could control a connection even if they hid behind the Magical interaction between the wood that was bound with bones and the wood that was bound with Manticore Venom. That was the secret of the two magical woods in the end. Weirwood was made of bones and could channel Magical Energy, even if it seemed unable to hold onto the souls. In contrast, Nightwood was wood bound with Manticore Venom, allowing it to slowly separate Magical Energy from the soul, leaking it.

It also explained the properties of Shade of the Evening, as consuming it allowed one to cast spells... like a bootleg wand with a core of Manticore Venom.

The combination of Weirwood and Nightwood stripped souls of their Magical Energy, the Od, the Motive Force, the Willpower, if you will. That was what kept the boundary that formed, preventing people from looking through. Weirwood sucked them in, and Nightwood undid the magic's purpose.

My necklace felt heavy on my chest. I had long since discovered that blood allowed one to bypass the Magical Phenomenon, as the owner of the blood could skinchange into the Nightwood and, in turn, gain access to the lost Magical Energy. It was as much responsible for me not ending up as brain-dead as Brandon the Broken as my wand.

The orb worked on similar principles. While the Protean Charm I created bound it to the very planet's core and the fires within, the materials used allowed me to access through the normally magic stripping effects of Nightwood in a way only a Greenseer could.

The puppet body fell apart, having completed it's task of stabbing the Valyrian Steel dagger hidden by the Weirwood, sinking the blade into the floor. That was what I had actually come to the House of Black and White for after all. In a metaphorical way, that was me punching a whole through their protections and taking over the control of the House of Black and White, using the entire building as a Magical Focus to channel my spell, creating a backdoor.

I had a method of bypassing their protections. Next, I needed a connection to reach each and every Faceless Men.

The Jinx I used worked as a proof of concept as I tapped the skinned face in front of me, acting as a makeshift bowl to hold the correct memory that was shared by every Faceless Men.

Lastly, a way to kill each and every one of the Faceless Men... and I was going to do it with style.

"Out of the Shadows..." I muttered as I felt the connection to every Faceless Men in existence.

There were spells that I did not dare to us, spells that were physically dangerous. I did not know how to cast Fiendfyre but I knew another fire that was far too potent for me to be able to safely cast near me.

But the spell I crafted would be cast far from me in this case.

Names, in this world, held a degree of power that I was barely scratching the surface of. Where in another universe, someone named Severus Snape created a Severing Curse that severed and snapped. In this world, the names held a more abstract connection.

In that regard, my name, Viserys, was a unique one... and it was my name, no matter what the Faceless Men claimed.

The origins of name came from Visenya, a name given first to the son of Aenys Targaryen, whom Maegor had allegedly tortured and killed. Visenya itself was a variation of the High Valyrian word, Vizenka, which means sun.

In the same line of thought, High Valyrian for Fire was Perzys, and Dragon Fire was Dracarys. By following the same line of logic, I could indicate that the High Valyrian word for Sun Fire was, in fact, Vizerys or Viserys if you wanted to make it compatible with the Westerosi Common.

Viserys meant sun fire... talk about Greens sucking up to Viserys the First.

Dismissing the stray thought, I focused on my task.

What the meaning of my name meant for me was a bit more complicated. The ritual I had designed connected and channeled a single spell through the Faceless Men's specific type of Magic, through the link I used to target each Faceless Men of House of Black and White, conceptually identifying a Faceless Men... a No One.

The effect was not limited to the ones who could wear the faces of others, but also the ones who wore glamours and makeup to change their identities, as they too had seen the Hall of Faces and they too were No One.

If I did a spell, I did it right... and none of the Faceless Men would escape my wrath.

For a brief moment, I was connected to all the Faceless Men. The ritual stripped me of my identity as someone who was not Viserys Targaryen. As I imposed my name, Viserys, Sun Fire, over every Faceless Men on the planet, using the Orb of Divination to bypass their protections and the Valyrian Steel of the dagger, I got to punch through the protections they had on their own House of Black and White, giving me access to the Faces in the Hall of Faces to channel the spell through, allowing for the spell to gain more momentum.

In doing this spell through my soul, I etched into my very soul my identity of Viserys, thus precluding me from being targeted by the spell in the same way as others. To me, the spell had no effect. I was not No One, or a Nameless Reincarnate. I was Viserys Targaryen, Third of my Name... and I was already Sun Fire.

To the rest of the Faceless Men who were No One... I gave Reality a set of instructions to make sure that the Faceless Men too, were Sun Fire.

Tapping my wand onto the Sun Stone inside the skin bowl, I pulled on the small amounts of sunlight I was able to bind to the stone before the sunset, "Into the Sun."

"Incendio Solem," I incanted, pulling on a concept that is foreign to this world.

The face that was before me was a link to the Faceless Men, their own faces, the fake mask they pulled over themselves, more than just the Magical Item it had become.

The spell of my choice was not a matter of energy but knowledge and will. I knew how to cast the spell, the path that the physics needed to bend to achieve the result. I did not, however, want to risk it before... as it was never something that I thought I would need soon. Guided by my will, nuclei imposed themselves on spaces occupied by other nuclei through the Quantum Tunneling effect.

The wave function collapsed under my mental heel as atoms went through a process known as Cold Fusion and released a nuclear flame so small that it would be barely enough to heat an entire room.

As is above...

The spell took it's hold on the Hall of Faces first, which was the closest thing to my reach I had. The Valyrian Steel knife that I stabbed into the ground inside the House of Black and White acted as a way for me to subvert their protections and reach out to the faces in the Hall of Faces.

In a moment, all the faces in the Hall ignited in fire, causing the spell to gain more and more momentum before I let it expand across the planet, like a tide washing over the shore, reached the Faceless Men.

In dozens of different locations worldwide, thousands of pairs of atoms decide to occupy the same location at the same time. Reality flexed under my will, though Quantum Mechanics held, and fire... nuclear fire bloomed.

Where to me, Sun Fire became my name as I embraced who I was; in dozens of different locations around the world, the sun's fire ignited through the faces of men and women with no name to protect them, killing them instantly.

...So is below.

All around the world that a Wizard called Planetos, Assassins whose mere name sends a shiver down the spines of the most powerful men of the Realms died in pain as the laws of Physics bent to my will, as their faces melted in the fires of the sun, all that was left were corpses... faces burned off. Now, the Servants of the House of Black and White were indeed Faceless.

My name is Viserys Targaryen... and I am a Wizard.

As such, I am subtle and quick to anger.

Do not fuck with me!

AN: To those of you who saw through the puppet, kudos. I did not make any comments because I did not want to spoil it. As many of you guessed, it could have only been a puppet or just a vision. Wizerys is not that stupid and he had already made up his mind about killing the Faceless Men, which is going to become an important decision and place Wiz in the watchlist of every magical and non-magical power block.

Before anyone asks, no, Sun Fire is not a spell that is in any shape or form stable. There is a reason Wizerys avoided even thinking about such a trick. The only reason it worked was that the targets were far enough away from Wizerys that any actual side effect would be minimal... but those side effects are for later chapters to explore.

Robert: Decides to send Assassins after Viserys.

Viserys: Kills the scariest group of assassins on the planet with Nuclear Flames.

Robert: Surprise Pikachu Face

Red Priests watching the Flames and getting Sunburn from the magical backlash alone: He is the chosen one!!!

Next Chapter: Consequences of Wizerys' Actions.

024 Interlude 2

She Who Sings the Song of the Moon:

She felt the air shift as she conducted the prayers for all the singers in the middle of the night, the Moonlight blessing her naked flesh... her song was cut short as the very air thickened around them.

The chorus around her, too, gasped, or those with the blessing of the Moon, those devout enough, sensitive enough to the shifts of the tides to be able to sing the harder songs of the Moonsingers.

Above her stood the Great Goddess in her three forms, yet it was the image of the Moon-Pale Maiden, who guided the living to death, who stood the brightest, the Moonlight streaming through the colored glass.

The High Priestess offered a brief prayer to the Pale Mother, feeling her judge events as just. Her order had been to act as a priestess, healer, and judge.

It had been the Moonsingers who truly founded Braavos, guiding the ships meant for the Flesh Pits of Gogossos to the hidden lands only visible to the sight of the Moon Goddess.

Now, something had shifted; the very air felt heavy with the presence akin to what the records of her order had when Doom came to Valyria. There was a great work of magic being done... and the High Priestess knew of the one responsible.

There was only one person who had the potential to cause such an event... who would not have done so in the past... the Targaryen Prince.

It was no secret that the Wizard of Westeros, Viserys Targaryen, had a reputation in Braavos. A boy who had grown into a man, the High Priestess remembered the days when the boy would listen to the sermons and the songs of the Moonsingers, a quill in hand.

Once, she had hoped that the boy would join their temple, as exceptions were wont to happen for boys with the gifts to perform the songs and the prayers to the Moon, and he was pretty enough to pass for a girl.

That was not to be, however, as the Prince in Exile showed those who bothered to watch the difference between the common practitioners of Magic and a Dragonlord of Valyria.

It was then that one of the beggars in the corner cried out, her face bursting into flames too bright to look at. As the Priestess heard the cries, she also felt the heat in her bones as though she had been lying naked under the sun for too long. Whatever magic was being worked... one that had the blessing of the Moon Mother, who would stand judge over the dead as Moonsingers stood judge over the living.

As the dawn broke over the horizon, the light of the sun hiding the moon from their eyes, the High Priestess of the Moonsingers knew what that light was as she saw the same bright light that burned the beggar's face rise from the east... it would seem the Sun had chosen it's Champion.

Now, so too should the Moon choose one of her own... as it was meant for in the songs of the Sun and the Moon.

Ferrego Anteryon:

Ferrego Anteryon woke to the banging on his door. "Come in," the Sealord of Braavos commanded.

"Your Excellency, First Sword is here to see you; he says it's urgent," said the Guard, his tone showing his panic.

"And it is," entered Syrio, not even bothering with the protocol. He threw three coins to the bed as Ferrego held on and passed his thumb over the coin, finding a rather familiar face hidden beneath a cowl.

"What happened?" growled the Sealord, knowing that either the Faceless Men attacked someone or someone managed to kill three of them... either way, that was a problem he would have to deal with.

"Four corpses were found by the guards, in three different locations, their faces burned off, the coins were found in each location on one of the bodies," stated Syrio.

"And the fourth one?" asked Ferrego.

"The two bodies were found to be in the middle of coupling," said Syrio, sounding amused and uncomfortable at once.

'Faceless Men actually fucked, poor thing, only a moment away from death either way,' Ferrego thought to himself. "Do we know who might be responsible?"

"I have received a raven an hour ago, with the Wizard claiming that the Faceless Men were responsible for the attempt on the life of his excellency during the Uncloaking," said Syrio. There was no need to name which Wizard. For all he had seen, Ferrego only knew one person who was competent enough to lay claim to the title.

"We cannot act with mere suspicion, less he has proof." countered Ferrego before sighing. Once, he had been a young lad with dreams of putting a stop to the rogue ways of the Faceless Men. He was wiser now, though leverage against the House of Black and White would have been a useful tool to have. "How reliable is he?" asked Ferrego, having assigned Syrio to teach the boy to get a measure of him.

"He does not lie if he can help it, avoid the truth certainly, but not outright lie. If he says the Faceless Men are responsible, they had a hand in it," stated Syrio simply, "Directly or indirectly, I cannot say."

"Are we sure he did it... killed these four Faceless Men?" asked Ferrego, unable to believe a boy of three and ten capable of killing four Faceless Men, even with whatever magic he had.

"There was a red priest stumbling around the Isle of Gods, preaching the coming of a dragon breathing sun fire to cleanse the servants of the Great Other," said Syrio with a tone that ought not to be so serious.

'Visions and Portends... I miss the times when my greatest problem was foreign rulers refusing to pay the Iron Bank,' Ferrego thought to himself with a sigh as the guard knocked on the door. 'At least the boy's father had the courtsy to threaten war before he relied on fire.'

"What say you, First Sword, would it come to a war between the Wizard and the Faceless Men? Do you think him capable of killing all the Faceless Men in the city?" Ferrego, his mind trying to figure out a way to stop the fighting, even if it means sending the Wizard away. The Exiled Prince was a useful political asset against his opposition and a threat to hold over the Stag King and the Old Falcon he had for a Hand, gaining some lucrative deals to delay any ambition the boy might have, given how he could have given the boy the ships needed to launch an invasion.

"The war is over, your excellency," said Syrio instead. "I have taught the boy long enough to know he does not do things in half measures. If he killed more than one at the same time, the dead are not just the ones in the city," corrected Syrio, making Ferrego look at him in confusion. "If he has some sorcery to kill more than one Faceless Men in Braavos at once... he would end the fight and strike the killing blow to all. There are no more Faceless Men living."

"Is that so?" asked Ferrego, contemplating that fact.

"Just so," responded Syrio, his head held high... as he was probably proud of the student he had who seemed to tell Death to come another day. Ferrego once more congratulated himself for having chosen Syrio Forrel, and even though the man was getting on with his years to still be working as the First Sword, he had a certain dislike for the Faceless Men that he shared with Ferrego.

As the silence filled the room, a knock was heard, and the guard at the door poked his head in. "Tycho Naharis is awaiting in the meeting chamber, your excellency," said the guard, letting the old man in the purple robes walk in. "He came in a moment ago, your Excellency, said he just landed from the ship from Westeros. He was dropping off an agreement he had worked on, but I thought you might want to see him, your Excellency."

"Why would you let some Iron Bank representative this early," asked Ferrego, confused.

"There are rumors that he worked with the Wizard, your Excellency," said the guard, "figured he might know something of use to you."

Ferrego looked at the guard for a moment before turning to Syrio, who gave a shrug. After a moment, Ferrego sighed before stating, "Thank you, Captain."

"I am not the Captain, your excellency," said the man in the guard uniform.

"Clearly, you ought to be," said Ferrego, getting a nod from Syrio that meant he would arrange it. "Syrio, make it so... and have guards posted on the Isle of Gods; the last thing we need is a religious upheaval."

"Already done," said Syrio, the smirk clashing with his hooked nose, "I have also sent men to usual places Viserys Targaryen visits, however few they are, to let us know if he shows up. He has not been seen for nearly a moon now."

'Let us hope that Bellonara was right and the boy is sweet on Bellegere,' thought Ferrego, as a way to keep the Last Dragon sated enough to not cause problem for Braavos was the best he could do.

"Good... if you are right, he will show up somewhere soon... I would like you to ask him kindly for a private meeting," said the Sealord, looking at Syrio "... kindly," he repeated, getting a nod of understanding back from the First Sword. "There was no need to offend the Targaryen Prince if he was truly the one who had killed all the Faceless Men in the city."

There was no love lost between the Sealord and the Faceless Men, though Faceless Men often worked with the Sealord to handle a threat or two to Braavos... they were far too independent for the Sealord to hold any authority over. Few knew the secrets of why the Faceless Men did what they did; even Ferrego knew not. Yet, the order of assassins killed whomever they were paid to kill, and the Braavos had prospered for it. Now, it was up to Ferrego to ensure the same with the Wizard, who granted the most dangerous assassins in history their so-called gift.

Herald of the Stars

Their time had come.

The Star-Child had revealed himself.

Their time had come.

The Sleepers stirred.

Soon, Star-Child would lead them.

Soon, all would know the Secrets of the Stars.

Soon, the sleepers would awaken.

Melisandre of Asshai

The flames showed him once more... Azor Ahai.

It had been nearly three years now, three years since the flames had shown her Lord's Chosen.

Melisandre of Asshai had been ecstatic when the visions came of the white-haired man holding a flaming sword. Then a few days later, they were gone, leaving behind the vision of a skull hidden beneath a cloak and nothing else.

It had led Melisandre into despair... for surely the Great Other had hooked his claws into the Savior and ended him before he could forge the Lightbringer to the fullest.

She could not find where Azor Ahai was... that knowledge eluded her, veiled by the foul powers of the Great Enemy.

Then, she had a vision, looking for Lightbringer, and she was granted arcane knowledge by the Lord of Light... a tool for her to use to bring the faithless back to the grace of her Lord.

Her hands traced over the scepter as though it was the mast of her lover. She had it made from Ash Wood, named as such, for it was holy to the Lord of Light. Cleverly slotted into the wood by the hands of a Myrish Acolyte, the scepter held a piece of the wing of a dragon, capped with a Ruby matching the one on her neck.

She had bound the shadow of the Acolyte who helped her build the tool of the Lord and fed the scepter his blood as a sacrifice, the scepter breathing fire and cleansing the devout, binding his essence to itself.

Even with the scepter, her vision had not revealed the location of Azor Ahai until one day, it did, bringing flames that left Melisandre blinking away the sweet light of R'hollor.

She saw him again, not as he had been when forging Lightbringer, but as he had become. The tall man, holding a blade made of fire that left dark spots on her vision, as he slashed at what was certain to be the Servants of the Great Other, covered in black cloaks with skeletal faces.

The one wielding the black flaming blade.

It was time for Melisandre of Asshai to leave the Red Temple of Asshai and go west. She would find the Lord's Chosen and bring him to light.

AN: I think this fits better between the last two chapters, but I am open to your opinions.

Melisandre is fun to write... because she is such an idiot... and she has a Wand... or close enough, which is a terrifying thing. She is probably not the only one because Divination is a prick when used against you. Three guesses who she is going after.

Last edited: Jun 4, 2023

025 Through the Veil

The first spoon of the white and red paste tasted of rotten flesh and sickness that stuck with me my whole life... and the last tasted of the sweetest berries of honey mead and warm milk.

"Good, the paste is going to open your eye and wed you to the trees; in time, you will take my place," said the blind and old woman with a raven on her shoulder, watching the world with a judging eye.

Mother Malna was the Village wise woman, one that the Crows called a witch, though few dared attack her, smarter ones... 'Alive ones,' a part of me said, took her bread and salt, and listened to her tell her dreams. "Now off to your parents with you; I tire of your presence," said Mother Malna, using her cane, a twisted piece of white Weirwood, to smack me in the leg and chase me out.

The crow chose that moment to make herself know, landing on my shoulder, nibbling at my ear that tickled before I swatted her away with annoyance that it knew was superficial.

The laughter of the children filled the air as the summer snow fell on Hardhome. I made my way through the village, passing through the wooden houses huddled against the cliff. Hardhome was not much but it was the only town in the True North, where only clans of Free Folk, descendants of the First Men, lived. It was relatively safe, where girls were not stolen without the leave of their families, and fights were kept in the yard when a man was insulted.

Ma and Pa were waiting for me, a pot of beaten bronze holding warm stew that I could not wait to taste. I must have beaten others to supper then.

Everything was peaceful and calm.

Then one fateful night, Hell came to Hardhome... and demons descended upon the shore.

The roar of the dragons was like thunder... and their fire set the wooden houses on fire.

Ma burned to dragon fire... Pa was cut down by the spears of the man with bronze skin and bronze armor, their eyes dead. I do not know what happened to the others.

Mother Malna was atop a hill, singing a song in the Old Tongue, her hands wide as a dragon made to dive towards her, spewing fire and death. In the last moment, the dragon opened its wings and somehow flew into the cliff face, crashing into the stone and bringing rocks down onto the village; as Mother Marla screamed, her eyes engulfed in flames. A moment later, she, too, was lost in the fire of another dragon that came out of nowhere.

Come dawn, the smart ones had hidden themselves in the caves, only for the bronze men to seal them all in. They were the fortunate ones, while the ones who were not, they took us all in chains, in galleys, under threat of their steel blades and whips that ripped the skin; they chained us and made us kneel, made us no more Free Folk.

Men were of less use to them, but a few that survived were put in heavier chains. The ones that knew how to fight, ones I somehow knew would be made to fight for the enjoyment of these... Masters.

My eyes landed on another with chains, a Black Brother whose eyes were slashed, blind to the world, his limbs bleeding with half dozen cuts that would fester soon. 'A Crow was taken in chains... what sort of Kneelers were these?' I thought, seeing the man... the boy really... be forced to move.

The fires of Valyria hungered for death, yet the Masters of Valyria hungered for the gems and the glittering metals that came from the ground.

I had been too sickly since birth, a cost of the gifts of Gods, Mother Marla would say. I was too sickly for housework, not pretty enough to be made into a whore. So here I was, serving in the Mines of Valyria, forced to mine metals through the scorching heat.

That is how I died... the first time... and the second time... and the third.

The Sorcerers called it the "kiss of life", though it was more a curse.

Pain became lessened with each death, hunger mattered not, sleep was not needed.

We were all dead, man, working in the mines, after all. Chosen for not being strong enough for the fighting pits or crippled and of no better use to them. Their sorcerous ways brought each of us back each time we died... made lesser than we were before but also less bothered by the fires that burned within the walls.

I forgot their faces first, Ma and Pa... and then I forgot their names, and I had a brother... I think.

A fourth death, and a fifth... each death meant we were sent deeper into the mines, where the fires within the Fourteen Flames burned closer. Another step closer to the deepest of hells.

The only ones spared were those consumed by the fire or had their bones crushed beyond repair... or the things that moved through the ground, melting and carving their own mines through the very stone itself...

By seventh, I was just another slave with no name and no power.

Those fortunate faded after the first death, no word they uttered, just mindless dead working until their flesh burned off and bones crumbled to dust.

He endured, though... the Blind Black Brother. He was there, not too far away from me. It was as if the Gods themselves guided him to me. Every moment he breathed, he repeated it again and again... "Night gathers, and now my watch begins..."

I tried holding on, but there was nothing but the groans of Men dying and falling apart... and the non-stop chant of the Crow, his words echoing through the groans of the dead.

"It shall not end until my death."

Death was the only mercy in this hell... Death was the only god that mattered. Until death, we all served.

'I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.'

None of the Masters cared for the faces of the dead men of the mines... they cared for the numbers. We were No One to them.

"I shall live and die at my post."

I do not remember why I chose to grant him his wish or what guided me to pick up the black rock left behind by the beasts that moved through the ground. I wanted him to be taken far away from me... I wanted him to stop talking... for his watch to end... for him to be silent for once.

The rock fell, and the Black Brother died.

And he did not rise again... the mages could not make him rise again and I knew there was mercy in death. The body, someone had to drag out of the mines... the Masters of Valyria would not sully themselves, so it was me and another who had moved the body. With sand, we washed his body, for water was not wasted on the dead.

I noticed the crack in the stone, only realizing that I still held onto it. A chipped piece came off from the black stone, flat and sharp.

I wondered what he was thinking, where he had gone to after death.

Mother Malna had told me of the gift I had; Skinchangers she had callde us, the memories of those stories had not faded; nothing had faded after the foul taste of the paste.

The black stone was sharp, and it could cut the skin of a dead man. No magic without sacrifice... I recalled the Wise-woman preach in lessons of how to serve the Old Gods. I took the stone to my face, a long cut across my forehead. I stuck the skin onto the skin and felt the blood stick the skin to my own.

I was supposedly a skinchanger, so it made sense to me to wear the skin of another. The face of the blind man left me blind, but it mattered not in the darkness of the mines when I had long since learned to see without my eyes.

Then came the memories of the dead man who was supposed to have faded into nothingness.

Among those memories was one of a black stone... Obsidian... Dragonglass. The Watched were armed with knives made of Dragonglass for when the horn was blown thrice. The stone would bring true death, and it could be made into blades.

Ice or Fire, was it any different? Were the dead in the mines not Wights of a different form... were these Valyrians not akin to White Walkers of the stories I had forgotten since then.

From the Black Brother, I learned how to hold a knife... and of the Cold Ones and the true purpose of the Night's Watch. From the Black Brother, I learned how to chip at the black rock, make it into blades.

'I am the sword in the darkness.'

Each night, I waited. Each night, I gave the gift of mercy to the ones who begged, taking their faces in exchange. Soon, I learned so much, how to survive in the winter, how to dig, how to make knives and weapons.

And each night, I watched the Masters move.

'I am the watcher on the walls.'

'There is only one wall,' my mind supplied, making me scratch my head. It is far away, and I will never see it again. 'Then why did the Black Brother call it walls?'

Then came another and another. One after the other, their memories came to me, Many Faces I wore and Many Faces I served.

Then one day, I found one who did not beg for his own death but the death of a Master... one who held on, one who was cruel... one half-mad, and a Warg whose partner burned in dragon fire.

But everything had a cost, and the only thing a man owned was his life.

It was not hard to sneak out of the Mines. A dozen lifetimes of picking locks and sneaking while hunting helped. The Master did not feel the black blade slice his throat. That day, the First Master died... and one became two.

Many months later, taking the knife to cut the face off the dead Blood Mage... to take it for my own. A thousand years of knowledge flooded into me, and I understood for the first time.

Master to Apprentice, the Blood Mages moved from body to body, their souls growing with each life, becoming more and more while bound to the same Dragons that had grown so large that they could not fly with their wings.

The Blood Mages lost their names, taking on the names of the Fourteen Dragons that now lived in the Fourteen Flames... Myraxes and Vhagar, Syrax and Arrax, and many others.

All men must die, for that is the way of things. Blood Mages were not men. Abomination is what Mother Malna would call them, not men.

'I am the shield that guards the realms of men.'

Was I not dead now... yet unable to die.

"All Men must serve," I added, knowing the secrets of the Pyromancers. Their knowledge would serve so that Men could live and die as they ought to.

'I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch for this night and all the nights to come.'

And in the night, I hunted.

Enacting a Global Scale Ritual that targeted a conspiracy of Assassins, as it turned out, was exhausting... and included me tripping balls as I lived through the highlights of the life of who I could guess to be the first Faceless Men. 'That is going to be the last time I shared a connection with them as I killed them,' I thought to myself.

I wiped the wetness on my cheeks as my eyes adjusted to the white light, witnessing something as horrifying as the mines of Valyria.

Also, I would like the records to reflect that Valyrian Freehold was fucked up, and they deserved to get their asses blown up. I would have frozen their asses up just to be contrary if the little girl had not somehow managed it using all the knowledge she got from Blood Mages and Pyromancers.

"So you understand," said the voice of the girl I had dreamed of. I stood up from where I was lying, naked as the day I was born, and I looked at my surroundings, shrouded in a white mist.

She stood before me, with her pitch black hair and glowing red eyes indicating her potential as a Greenseer. This was the nameless girl who had carved her way through the Freehold... her name forgotten and sacrificed to the altar of vengeance, justice... and mercy to those who had been subjected to such cruelty.

The being before me had my senses scream 'DANGER!' and the ritual had left me disoriented enough that a more primal part of me had taken over. I held up my arm, my wand materializing in my hand and shooting a blast of destructive nuclear flames, brought into existence through my will, memory, and knowledge, only for my opponent to brandish her own wand in return. It was a familiar-looking, pale wand, long and straight with bulbs along the wood itself. I knew it to be Elder, Thestral Tail Hair Core... fifteen inches, unyielding... deadly.

My opponent simply slapped away my spell, sending a green light that hit my wand in response. In a second, the white wood turned to ashes in my hands as I watched.

The green spell-fire traveled up my arm and vaporized the flesh of the bone up to my elbow before it stopped. Once it managed to sear off the soul-stuff bound to my arm up to the elbow, the pain was gone, and I was left gasping.

Right... do not pick fights with a potential representation of Death... and try to keep a better hold of the impulses.

"Close... but no," said the being before me, reading my mind. "I am not Death, just a Greenseer... or at least I was... once. All that is left now is a shadow, as a shadow in the Weirwood who serves Death, and now you know why I do so."

"Offended that I killed off your Death Cult?" I asked, grasping the soul-stuff that was on fire from the backlash and ripping it off, letting it consume itself in a conflagration of golden and green flames.

"That is disturbing even by my standards, Wizard," commented the Faceless Men, "And I am not offended"

"You destroyed my wand," I countered.

"And you targeted the Faces of the Faceless Men," countered the girl "The wand was gone the moment you poured Star Fire through it. There is a cost of the ritual you have done, a backlash of using that particular spell; you really should not dabble in such things without a proper focus, you know."

"And you would know, how?" I asked while trying to not panic. I watched the flames burn through the flesh of my arm... stopping only when the bone remained. 'It took away all but my own soul,' my mind concluded.

"I have the knowledge of many, and in here, I have the knowledge you hold as well. It was not a spell you were ready for, not one that you would have called on had the Faceless Men shown themselves to be a threat. Now, you pay the cost...you might find that specific combination no more work for you... sacrifices should mean something after all," said the Faceless Men, waving her wand around. "now, you know who I am and why I became what I was."

A cold feeling shot through my spine as I tried to calm myself. The Elder Wand came from my memories... but to claim it as her own.

"All men must die," I repeated, now understanding more of the Faceless Men and their creed. "Am I dead then?" I asked.

"No... not yet, at least," said the girl in turn, her eyes closing for a moment as though she remembered something before she spoke, "Even if not for that dog of yours acting as an anchor through your Skinchanging, you are not dead. You are in the In-Between, Limbo, the Gate... consider it.. the bridge in that story of Three Brothers from the memories that you hold. Killing so many all at once, their souls tried their best to drag you along, so here you are. While I cannot cross to the land of the living, this neutral ground, though... we are overdue for a chat... Wizard." said the girl, twirling her wand. "Fascinating, isn't it... so simple yet so versatile, no wonder you managed to outsmart the best of them with it; the mages of Valyria would give their firstborn for less power... and they have done so in the past," she stated as she inspected the wand.

"I cannot take the whole credit," I admitted, "You do not sound so sad, what with the order you built dying out," I countered, making her look at me with pity.

"All Men must die, and All Men must serve. It was the time for Faceless Men to die, and now, it is time for you to serve," said the girl with a shrug.

"I am not a Faceless Man," I countered, knowing it was a futile argument.

"Are you not? They have learned from the ones they hunted and those they deemed too dangerous for the realms of men, as I learned the spells of Blood Mages and Pyromancers, only to turn it on them, as they would have done to you," explained the girl.

"Is that what they wanted, gain my knowledge once it was ready?" I asked.

"Had you joined the Faceless Men, they would have learned from you," said the girl. "Had you died in their hands, they would have taken your face and worn it, and your knowledge would serve them. Had you killed them all, they would have the gift and you to pick up their task... it matters not to Faceless Men. Do you think the one who stabbed that puppet of yours cared that he died when the knowledge you held could be used to bring the gift to those who have avoided them for centuries?"

I nodded, understanding why they were so contradictory. They supported me until I became capable of avoiding them... until I was considered good enough to be made part of the group. "The Faceless Men turned their very magic on Valyria, and Valyria burned for it," I stated.

"Have you not done the same for the Faceless Men?" asked the girl before me.

"You have made the call," said the girl. "You have passed the sentence, and now, you will live with that decision... the burden."

I took a step back. "I am not going to kill humans on the whims of a god," I stated simply, preparing to go out fighting.

"Foolish boy... without death, life cannot flourish. We serve the Realms of Men," she responded her tone even and under control. "The likes of Valyria are rare and far between, but should another rise, the cost to the living is far too high. The Many Faced God cares not the living, but the ones who threaten it."

"Sounds hypocritical from knives for hire," I countered, not buying the whole thing, considering that Qohor had human sacrifices, Asshai and Qarth existed for those who practiced Magic that even I would have questions looking into.

"Is it? Coin, food, steel... resources are needed to keep a close watch on the Realms, as the foolish push the boundaries of what they ought to do. The Many Faced God cares not for the sacrificed, for all return to him. He cares for those who are bound in chains, forced to remain beyond death... begging for the Gift. A Red Priest raises the dead and a few years later, an army of dead burn through cities in their religious zealotry. We keep watch, intervene when those with power abuse it." explained the Faceless One. "Some learned to avoid us, but they would not be able to avoid you."

"What makes you think I am even willing to do something like that?" I asked "Why would I pick a fight I have no qualms with."

"Do you not think there ought to be a reason you were returned from the Beyond, do you think Him of Many Faces would have let you go without reason?" asked the Faceless One "There are more of the kinds who would pervert Death, I would call them Wights, and you would call them... Liches, Ghouls, Wraiths, Vampires, Immortal Sorcerers, and God-Kings," the girl paused, as though she had tasted something bitter "Your knowledge of the undead is both disturbing and terrifying but I suppose that is why you would have been the best of us. How many ways can you list, Wizard, that can be used in this world?" asked the girl, somehow looking through my memories without even an effort, making me think it over. Off the top of my head, there were three methods, but with the proper understanding, there could be dozens.

"And you expect me to hunt your run-of-the-mill undead that thinks they have found ways to run from their end, only to prey on the innocent of having one more day on this world," I asked, ignoring that bit of thought.

"Not soon, but in time. First, the ones in hiding will show up, the users of Magic who avoid the attention in fear of what we might do, thinking us the hunters of all with Magic. Then will come the ones corrupted with power, working to build an empire of their own. There will be those who would raise the dead and bind them to their will and take that belongs to Him of Many Faces for their own ends... those like the Blood Mages, drunk on their power... you would not let another Valyria come to be, would you?" asked the Faceless Men.

"What do you expect me to do, serve like some slave, and fight everything that goes bump in the night until I am old or a cripple?" I asked, not really following the cryptic talk.

"Like a slave?" repeated the girl, "No, you are not a slave, little dragon; you have proven that once more,". I gave her a look that showed how unamused I was with the nickname. "Beneath all the bravado and arrogance, you are, however, kind... and you would not let the innocent be defenseless. With the Faceless Men gone, they will come out as cockroaches that they are. You will choose to stand against the Enemies of Men because that is the type of person you are... and when I pass you the mantle, you will become a Shield that Guards the Realms of Men, whether you want it or not. Whether you choose to do it alone, or let others join you, it is a choice of your own. Rebuild the House of Black and White if you wish, or hunt them one at a time, bringing fire and death upon them far from your tower... you will not stay idle."

"Is that so?" I asked, ignoring that bit of assessment. I had long since gone far from the idealist I was when I found myself in the life or when I had taken a life. Good men did not kill hundreds of people in a second... good men would feel regret.

"It is so, and the choice will be yours," she said with finality. "Are you not the man who chose to fight for a little girl against someone with greater power and experience. Are you not the man who refused to break the minds of the weak as punishment for protecting their families and yet binds them in oaths they could not break as would be just... Are you not the man who braved the fires of the sun to kill his enemies yet still offered his enemy a last chance."

"So they were tests," I observed, realizing that it was the case.

"Thrice you were tempted to cruelty, to become an abomination in line with the others, and thrice you refused. We are the shield that guards the realms of men... more so than that decrepit institution under the shadow of that ice wall... we are the Watchers on the Walls," she said, and I could feel the capitalization of the last phrase.

"This is happening in my head," I declared simply, "how can I know you are not some hallucination or manifestation of my guilt?" I asked.

"You do not..." she shrugged, "mayhaps I am a hallucination, mayhaps I am who I say I am, mayhaps I am you from the future, manipulating you in the dream world, does it matter when it comes down to it, you will answer the call," the girl stated with finality. "Your time here draws to a close, Wizard; mayhaps we will talk again," she said finally.

"And how do you expect me to leave this place?" I asked.

"Where do you think we are?" she asked in return.

I looked around, pushing against the mist and opening my Third Eye to see through everything.

The ground was covered in black sand, with a hill that moved up. Through the mists, I saw a familiar castle, half-remembered but easily identifiable, with dragon-shaped black stone towers. "Dragonstone," I stated, "seems fitting, given this is where I started this whole life."

"Then you know how to get back," the girl said to me.

"I suppose I could take a ship," I admitted before getting a feeling that that was not what I was supposed to do.

"I suppose you could... but this is a place beyond time, Viserys Targaryen, and there is another way off this island," said the girl with a smirk. Her red eyes had a carefree attitude that they did not have before... as though her burden was passed.

I paused before closing my eyes and reaching out with my senses. A moment was all it took for the wind to change direction and a roar to be heard almost at the same time.

A great pure white dragon, shot with streaks of red beneath the scales, landed in front of me with a thud; its head was larger than Balerion's skull, its eyes the color of crimson sunrise.

I reached out, my right hand touching the dragon before I opened my eyes to a searing pain as I felt myself engulfed in the golden fire.

AN: This chapter was inspired by "The Seven SIs You Never Hear About," ([https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13366539...3366539/1/The-Seven-SIs-You-Never-Hear-About)) which I would recommend as a read... though it made me lose sleep after reading that fic from the shear horror elements.

The connection between Hardhome, Faceless Men and Valyria is my own interpretation based on theories. My estimation is that, Hardhome happened 600 years before the canon, which is 200 years before the Doom. Uncloaking of Uthero happend 111 years after Braavos was founded, so timeline-wise it all fits. Given what we know from Faceless Men being found in the mines of Valyria, there is a decent chance that the first Faceless Men was some Warg or Greenseer from the North, given how they are training Arya to reach her full potential as a Skinchanger.

Also, the limbo is how Viserys would subconsciously process it, given his understanding of being reincarnated into a fantasy series. To him, HP-verse is off in one direction of the multiverse, so he has his own mental King's Cross, only his is Dragonstone, which was the starting point of the entire new life.

Yes, the entire chapter is Viserys having a Dragon Dream after going through the Ritual, because that much magic will have side effects and he barely got a glimpse of the consequences of his actions. With Faceless Men gone, magic users will become bolder, as well as magic starting to play a larger role in the whole world and not only for Viserys.

Last edited: Jun 15, 2023

026 A New Day

Incidiff said:

Not today too.

AN: Maybe today

Previously:

A great pure white dragon, shot with streaks of red beneath the scales, landed in front of me with a thud; its head was larger than Balerion's skull, its eyes the color of crimson sunrise.

I reached out, my right hand touching the dragon before I opened my eyes to a searing pain as I felt myself engulfed in the golden fire.

# 026 A New Day

I did not know how long I spent passed out, my mind catching up to the real world as it replayed my wand turning to ash. The fire on my arm had gone out a moment later, but the skin had burned badly up to my elbow... so much so that I did not feel any pain.

The ground around me was still burning, however... yet there was no fire. I blinked, watching the ethereal flames of gold rise from the ground itself.

I blinked, looking at my hands; overlayed over the flesh was the image of my skeletal hands... 'No... my soul,' I thought as I reached out to the world around me.

Slowly, my skeletal image moved outside my flesh, moving beyond the limits of the flesh, holding a golden glow similar to the flames that rose from the ground itself. I was the air itself, as I was Viserys Targaryen. Possessing the air, I saw the golden flame move, reaching out to slowly move around the skeletal fingers... the Magical Energy being pulled as I slowly wove a spell before letting it disperse.

'Looking through the Gate must have given me Mage Sight,' I theorized, 'That or looking at pure magical sunlight got to me.' All I knew was that I could see Magical Energy and potentially souls when filled with the Magical Energy.

I closed my eyes and focused... feeling. As I opened my eyes, I willed myself to see the physical and ignore the metaphysical, my sight returning to its original form.

I breathed, inspecting my right hand. The skin was... warped... as though it had been burned and healed in an instant. The flesh felt raw, as though it was supposed to be burned but not at the same time. It still hurt as though it was burnt, though.

Channeling the sun fire was dangerous; I knew that before I decided on the course of action and actually cast the spell, and the feedback my body got, as a result, was... something I had to live with in order to end the fight that the Faceless Men started.

My wand... unfortunately, did not survive the ritual. The fact that both dragon bone and dragon glass had turned into ash made me reconsider ever using that bit of spell-work again, given how the focus I had crafted essentially blew up in my face.

I took a moment to grieve the wand that unlocked the path to power for me, the pile of ash looking as though it had a weight of its own that mere wind could not move around.

The fact that I saw it in my vision made me wonder if I could truly not use the same wand combination... and if it meant the rest of the vision was reliable as well. I was not going to simply take the word of some dead Greenseer, however, and I would definitely be testing it out, both to make sure I was armed and to check if what the First Faceless Man... the Faceless One, had claimed.

Worst case scenario... I was going to go with Plan B. I did not like Plan B... Plan B had a decent chance of death involved.

Clamping on my mind, I got up from where I was lying, only to come face to face with Huan. My dog had long since grown large enough to meet people at eye level, and he had been standing guard outside the circle, holding a first aid kit in his mouth.

"Good boy," I muttered, picking up the first aid kit with my left hand. The latest Healing Potion was built upon the old one, the healing poultice, mixed with Dittany Leaves. I grew myself in a pot. I did not know how to create the Essence of Dittany for now, but the leaves themselves worked fine enough as ingredients to improve the quality of the potion and accelerate the healing process and maybe save most of my skin. I was not sure if the injury could heal as though it was a physical one, but I could only hope.

I looked up, the branches of the Rowan Tree casting a shade over me, guarding me against the first lights of the dawn as though shielding me from harm. I found it poetic, as my mind picked up on something... something that I had forgotten... but something important about the Rowan Tree itself.

Ever have that thing where you have a word at the tip of your tongue, but it does not come... what I had was like that but with memories.

My hand traced over the vial of Memory Potion in the bag instead of the Healing Potion. A potion of Forget-Me-Not and Nightshade... it was the liquid I used on the proto-Pensieves to pull memories out of the skulls... a way to preserve said memories out of the body. The problem was that the Memory Potion, as it was, was also poisonous... magically poisonous. Magic amplified all the properties of the ingredients, and Deadly Nightshade had already made a name for itself.

I uncapped the seal, dipping a finger into the potion before drinking the rest of it with a single motion.

Tapping the finger, I dipped into the potion to my temple; I focused on the memory I was looking for, the one that refused to come to the front of my mind but existed within my mind before pulling.

The silvery thread started to rise out of my temple, called forth, and bound to the Memory Potion at the tip of my finger, amplified by the potion I had just drunk.

Once I removed the memory, that feeling of having forgotten something I should have remembered left me until I placed my forefinger and the thread of memory to the middle of my forehead, where my Third Eye was.

The name came to me then... Wiggenwald... a magical tree that had a basis of the Rowan Tree... used in healing due to the association between Rowan Tree itself and healing... Magical Rowan Tree used in healing potions. In Harry Potter, it made the Wiggenwald Potion, which healed... I suppose.

My memory recovered; I took a Bezoar and forced myself to swallow the enchanted piece of calcified goat hair and whatever... just as the edges of my vision started to darken from the poison of the nightshade. Magically enchanted anti-poison to counter the magically enchanted poison.

It was hard to admit, but I was slowly losing the knowledge that I had before this life... not as a consequence of any spell I cast, but from how long it had been since I had learned of that knowledge. Repetitions helped, and it worked for most of the knowledge regarding Westeros and Magic, but the Memory Potion was what I counted on to be the true winner for my retention of the more esoteric forms of Magic I had read up on my first life... and maybe a few improvements to the comfort levels of this world.

The leaves fell from the tree, willingly given through a basic application of Greensight... Druidcraft? Technically they were both a form of Druidcraft... have the power to skinchange the tree and go through the right rituals, and greenseers could do what they just did.

Instead of falling to the floor, the wind picked up the leaves, causing each of them to land on my outstretched right arm, slowly covering the burned flesh and giving off a feeling of comfort.

Slowly adding the Healing Potion to the leaves, I reached out to the side, outside of the circle, where I had left my clothes. From the pile, I took out my ring, with a piece of obsidian attached to it. The ring was less of a fashion statement and more of a utilitarian backup that I disliked using, mostly because the fire I could conjure from the obsidian was less reliable and far more resistant than the spellfire from my wand, not to mention that the metal itself overheated from the magic.

The magical flame sank into the cast as I pulled on the transformative properties of fire, willing it to merge together with the leaves and absorb the potion. Ever so slowly, my right arm was covered by a green glow that left behind a similarly colored cast made from the Healing Potion and the leaves of the Magically activated Rowan Tree. While my Transfiguration was limited to wood, I was good at it from the sheer practice I got.

I could feel the cast slowly absorb Magical Energy, not dissimilar to the Weirwood... just slower. The cool feeling brought comfort to me even if I could force my mind to work through the pain.

The potion slowly healed the burn, accelerating the healing process and ensuring that the flesh was not as red and easy to get infected as it would be. I would need to figure out a way to solve the problem of having such an injury, but for now, the cast would have to do. At least there was no great pain, though that probably meant the damage was worse than superficial.

I slowly got up, relying on a large stick I took from the ground as my body ached from a combination of being bruised and sitting still the whole night in the cold. I was tapped out for all intents and purposes until my own reserves recovered to a safe level to casually use magic again.

Leaning onto one of the fallen branches of the Rowan Tree, I slowly hobbled towards the keep, Huan close behind to provide support if needed.

"The Faceless Men are dead," I declared simply, having sent a raven to check the House of Black and White, which was still standing, though its doors barred entry to anyone who came to check.

Ser Willem looked up at me, his eyes clouded with age, but I knew he saw me clearer than anyone else. He nodded, looking at my arm.

"I had Nessa prepare food. You hurt?" he asked from the chair he was sitting on. He did not seem like he had slept since I left the night before.

"Nothing crippling," I dismissed, though I was not sure. I did not sense any deep damage, the Shadows I bound to my flesh taking on the brunt of the backlash. It would scar... and I would have some issues of mobility if it healed wrong, but it was a sacrifice I had made, and I was going to live with it. There was no use angsting over it.

Ser Willem nodded as I fell on the other chair, taking a deep breath while simultaneously pulling on the ambient magical energy to replenish my reserves.

"Nothing the last night. Your eyes have changed again, your grace," said Wat the Eyes, coming over to give a report after Wat the Brains took over the watch on the wooden tower I had raised with my magic, which looked more like a glorified tree house. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes from standing watch the whole night while I was near the Dragon Well. "They twinkle with light," he added, answering the unasked question.

I grunted in acknowledgment, burying the fact that I had eyes that twinkled. That way led to eating lemon drops and calling people 'my boy.'

Looking at the cup of soup, not feeling like I could eat it... though I still forced myself, as magic had this tendency to make you ignore mortal requirements. The best bet was the disparity between the Magical Energy in the soul and the actual physical food one consumed. It was hard to live without both. "Anything else?" I asked the Eyes, who had the inexplicable ability to see any sort of glamour... while lacking in any other magical talent whatsoever.

"Your hair is closer to silver than the white it had become; it has a faint flow to it, your grace," he stated before leaving to take a nap. I mentally reached out, feeling the self-inflicted glamour of my own perception of myself. It was similar to the trick Belle pulled unconsciously; those strong with magic seemed to hold some sort of an illusion, projecting their image of themselves out.

The subtle shift in light was... not something I expected. My increased connection to the Sun must have caused it. As I pushed my will, I felt the glamour I tried to weave collapse, forcing me to sigh. I usually kept my hair short because the upkeep was less of a hassle, but I might have to come up with a way to hide the glowing hair or even shave my head to operate without getting too much attention.

Three ravens landed before me as I held my hand, calling fire from the dragonglass on my ring, binding the shadows to the three birds to prepare a Magic Missle for future use, as the one I had before was burned off during the ritual.

"I had a vision... a Dragon Dream," I said finally, after forcing a few spoons of soup, making Ser Willem turn his attention back to me.

"You once told me that visions, when you do not look for them, mean everything and nothing," responded Ser Willem, making me nod.

"It warned me that there would be threats in this world, supernatural in origin and dangerous," I repeated, trying to wrap my head around it.

"You do not need prophecy to tell that, can you, your grace? What did you see?" asked Ser Willem, giving me the look that he did when he thought a move I made in the yard was too reckless.

"I saw man... turned to monsters. I saw a future of the path I could build," I said, knowing that it would be the truth. I had plans to create a Valyria that was better than what had been. Westeros was great and all, but creating something from scratch in the Stepstones would have been preferable to having to listen to the whinging of idiots who cried about my magic being unfair.

Now, I was not so sure. If Valyrians had access to the wands I could make, they would have become worse than what I had seen in my visions. This world was too grimderp for things to go my way for too long, and I needed to have an organization in place to take over what the Faceless Men were doing.

"Maybe it is far too soon for my plans. All I saw was a warning for the future... which has become more obscure after what I had done," I stated, getting a nod from the old knight. Contrary to popular belief, I had a plan... a long-term one that hinged on certain events happening as they should. I had killed off the Faceless Men, meaning there was a likelihood that the White Walkers would prove to be more problematic than it would have... if I took the shows I had seen as the potential future... I took them as loose guidelines, given how I knew most characters were named after their book versions.

For now, White Walkers were a priority, but I would need to gather more knowledge and an army to get there, as I would not launch an invasion and kickstart all the wars that would follow Robert's Death. Despite being a drunkard beggaring the Realm, Robert's Peace was still a Peace in the end. It gave me time to prepare for the more important war.

The calm silence ended when Ser Willem next spoke, "You are nearly four and ten, yet you have done more valiant deeds than the greatest men I had the honor of knowing. You do not need to burden yourself with the weight of the world... at least not on your own. I am sorry, your grace, for there is not much I can give you... but there is one thing I can do if you permit me, for I cannot ask my king to kneel, your grace, as it would not be proper."

I looked at him before snorting. "And I care so much for propriety," I stated. My knee hit the ground for the last time in my life. "I would be honored, Ser."

"Viserys of House Targaryen, you have defended the innocents, shown mercy where you could, and put an end to those who declared themselves your enemy. So you are old enough for me to do this," he said simply, taking the sword out of the cane.

My knighting was a private affair... a formality meant to honor Ser Willem more than my own actions... mostly because I did not care about being a knight that much, nor the renown it would bring. Witnesses were important for such events to show that your knighthood was legitimate. To those who would demand proof from me, I owed none.

I had thought of it, the concept of knighting. I was decent with a blade, but I knew that my opponents went easy on me even now. I had no care for becoming a knight, mostly because there were no knights whom I respected enough to grant me the honor, save one. Ser Barristan was a good man, but he was flawed, and he had bent the knee to Robert instead of dying or taking the black, an act that I could understand, an act that I could forgive should he come and beg to become my Kingsguard, but not an act that I could not forget. I considered Rhaegar to be a moron, and he was dead. The Sers Hightower, Whent, and Dayne, or the Idiot Trio as I called them, chose to die after supporting the Crown Prince in whatever harebrained scheme he had that caused the Rebellion. Sir Richard, who had been still sleeping, was a good man who had saved my life twice, but he, too, had his own demons and flaws.

Ser Willem had been there when I most needed it, and he

was loyal and true when none were. He knew my thoughts on the matter, that if I were going to be knighted, the old man was the only one whom I respected enough to do it for me.

Once the ceremony was done, I checked up on my sister only to find her and Lanna passed out, probably after staying up all night, unable to sleep with me out there.

I ended up being sequestered in my workshop, trying to figure out a way around the problem of lacking a wand and gathering enough tools to handle a fighting retreat from Braavos if it came to that. Just because I was going to the enemy territory did not mean I could not prepare.

I first removed the memory and knowledge of being incompatible with the Weirwood and Dragon Bone combination; such things had no place when using magic.

The Weirwood reached out like a bony white hand, grasping the sliver of dragon bone. It had taken me months to grow the Weirwood to bind the dragon bone, but my abilities had grown since then.

A wave of the wand did nothing, only for golden flames to lick through the red veins of Weirwood before the entire thing broke apart into dust. Sighing and deciding to work it out later. Dragon Bone and Weirwood combo did not work, yet I did not know of any other alternatives for now. Nightwood would not work, the material had the ability to unravel any structured spell that was not blood magic, and I did not have easy access to another magical animal to use for parts.

As I moved around pieces of moonstone around, I heard a knock, letting the door open on its own with a thought. "I have heard the news, your grace... or would you prefer Ser Viserys?" asked Bellonara once the door opened on its own just as she was about to knock, stating the fact once more as though she had trouble believing it. It was always fun to use magic to unsettle people and remind them of my power, and the power game we played seemed to be doing it for the Black Pearl.

"Technically, Dark Lord is the proper term... given how I killed off an entire religion, but I will let you choose," I quipped, as my mind picked up on her thoughts. She seemed to be suppressing her actual reaction, which cycled through disbelief, shock, disbelief, confusion, back to disbelief once more, before accepting, knowing that I did not like lying, and this was too serious a topic to joke about before her mood shifted to arousal.

"Well, my lord, I would have thought you had come to bed... to celebrate," said Bellonara, pressing herself to my back as I worked.

"Where is Belle?" I asked, my mind cleared of the distraction as I pushed the half-finished Cloak of Invisibility to the corner, making space for the large stick of rowan I had used as a walking stick as I started carving glyphs along the shaft. Normal wood did not have the efficiency of the Weirwood, but a staff was a staff, and I could pull more Ambient Magic through the staff than I could on my own. The ash of weirwood and dragon bone went into the cauldron, mixed with blood, and slowly painted on the runes.

"It is only a few hours past dawn, your grace; she is still sleeping," said Bellonara as she watched me work. "It is news that is hard to believe, however," stated the Black Pearl, holding herself with grace.

"You can always confirm it; I know you have your spies," I stated, turning towards her. "Now that you and your daughter are safe from any potential reprisal, what is it you wish to do?"

"Why ask us, your grace?" asked Bellonara, giving me a coy smile. "I thought you enjoyed our company."

"I do, but I dislike having someone bound to me against their will," I countered, having done some reflection after living a life as a slave in the Valyrian Mines had me... it was traumatizing. "I am giving you a choice to leave and have things return to normal. You chafed under the control of the Faceless Men, and I am not foolish enough to keep you against your will and have you plot my downfall. Now is your chance to make your own path, given your pet wizard killed them for you."

"You act as though they were not a threat to you, your grace, or who truly holds the leash," said Bellonara with a smirk, "Or that you did not wish to rid of them."

"The world I am building has no place for the likes of Faceless Men; I dislike zealots on principle, even if I might agree with some of their points," I shrugged, not mentioning the potential mess that it may have caused. If the Faceless Men were playing whack-a-mole with the crazier cults that could abuse magic, then I would have to figure out how to address that problem in the long run. I did not have the temperament of trying and failing to destroy cults, but I had proven that I could hit an entire cult all at once if I chose to dabble in the Darker aspects of Magic. In the short run, I had too many things on my plate to care much. "Just because they think some way is the best does not make them the authority."

"And where would me and Bellegere fall... in this world that you are building, your grace?" asked the Black Pearl pressing herself closer to me, her breath tickling my lips.

I dropped the chip of dragonglass I used to carve the runes into a box with other pieces of obsidian fragments, shutting it and willing the wood to merge, locking it completely before focusing on the woman before me.

"There is a place for you if you ask for it," I stated, enjoying the curves pressed against me, slowly grinding against me as I looked into her chocolate-colored eyes. I reached out to the connection I had to her binding, causing Bellonara to shudder at the presence she felt. Her mind was in ecstasy, as my mere presence had slowly become like a drug to her.

"Under you, your grace?" the Black Pearl purred, placing kisses as she buried her face against my neck, her breath tickling my neck as she rode a mini-orgasm. Her hands traced along my abs before going lower. While I would enjoy victory sex, there was a time and a place for it.

I looked to the side, my eyes landing on my hand, the green me against... still covered by the green cast that protected it and worked on healing it. The fact that I had been losing the soul stuff that I had built around my body since I first created it made me sigh.

I needed a focus that was not made from Weirwood. That being said, I needed it to contain the magical properties of a Weirwood. The soul-cultivation ritual was specifically designed to imbue the properties of the Weirwood, its essence, along with other concepts, and bind it to a vessel... any vessel. In theory, I could even split the raw soul stuff produced from the potential of creating life through sex across myself and, say, a piece of wood to force an artificial bond.

"You make it so hard to despise you, Viserys Targaryen... a man who could hold what many can only dream of in the palm of his hands," said Bellonara, guiding my left hand to her ample breasts "and yet is willing to let it go... had I been any younger, I would keep to myself, though I am glad Belle found a good one," she teased, closing the distance and getting a growl in return. "Have I awakened the dragon?" teased Bellonara, palming my manhood.

I leaned in to capture her lips, only for Bellonara to pull back, scrunching her nose in the act. "You need a wash..." she stated, making me snort at her exaggeration, despite the fact that I smelt of ash, blood, and sweat... and the stink of death that was less physical and more spiritual. My action had marked me in more ways than one... but this was the first time she actually said anything about it, "Why don't we draw you a bath," suggested Bellonara.

My hands ghosted over her soft curves, a growl rising from my throat as I flipped us around so that Bellonara had her back pressed against the desk, my body trapping her there.

"I need to get to House of Black and White... there are things I must retrieve," I stated, not wanting to lose the Orb or the Dagger. "I do not have time for baths."

"Can any enter the House of Black and White?" asked Bellonara

"None but me," I admitted, having felt my spell target, even the Novices.

"Then, you have time for a bath," she said, pulling me by my uninjured hand. "Rest will wait for the whims of the king, as they should."

She had a point, and I was not at my best as I was. I never liked resting on my laurels, but making sure I was at my best was going to be handy.

"And the Sealord?" I asked, getting a dismissal wave from Bellonara, "He will be easy to convince, what with his plot to have you take Belle as a lover. The Sealord knows better than any that an alliance with you is more profitable than the other options," said Bellonara, comprehending the political problem that would be happening.

"Well, my lady, why do you not advise me on Braavosi Politics?" I asked, with a smirk as I

"Later... First, I shall wash you, then... well, I will ride you until you ask for mercy, as I promised I would, should you actually rid us of those death worshippers," said Bellonara with eyes filled with lust as she pushed me before taking my hand and guiding me upstairs.

I liked that plan... I liked that plan very much.

I took a sip from my flask, a potion... made from a version of Wake Bean Tea..., also known as Coffee, with added magic to boost its effect. It was apparently something belonging to the Summer Islanders that Bellenora was addicted to as well, though she kept it for special occasions, which the death of the Faceless Men and the mind-blowing sex counted as.

Having arrived in a pleasure barge, I grew out of the trees. I had sent Bellonara to the Sealord's Palace, dropping by her more public Pleasure Palace to pick up clothes and guards for her.

The next stop I made was the Happy Port. The partially made Cloak of Invisibility holds enough enchantment to keep me hidden from the ones who might be seeking me, including the guards who seemed to be trying and failing to not stick out. The cloak was mostly a Notice-Me-Not Enchantment which was less effective than I would have preferred, but the Disillusionment Charm proved itself to be both an elusive and hard-to-master spell.

The brothel would be the best location where I could get some information on the gossip of the months I have been away from the city. The sources that Bellonara's... apprentices had given me a general picture, but relying on one source made a man blind.

"Impressive," I commented, seeing Yna's illusion in the bed with a man. I had only taught the Seer how to use the basics, and she had apparently mastered it enough to make it work for her over the months. 'She is probably powering it with the Tantric Magic,' my mind noted.

"Your grace," said Yna, bowing low. "That one leaves bruises, so all he gets is a ghost," she said with a smirk. Her two eyes gleamed in the light of the hearth before I dismissed the glamour that was made of compulsions, coming face to face with the one-eyed witch who could tell the future from a drop of blood. "I was expecting you."

I held my left hand up, pulling spellfire from the dragonglass, shaping into the glyphs of 'Sleep' and throwing it at the man. The illusion disappeared, and the man fell back onto the bed, unconscious.

Ignoring the sting of the heated metal of the ring, I sighed, knowing that I was going to get a new headache. I hated Divination.

The House of Black and White still stood, a Monument to the Dead... as though I had not burned everyone who had been a member of the giant House of Marble and Misery that looked as large and grim as it always did. No one thought that the mists were too low, this being Braavos and all, though it gave us an advantage in sneaking into the building as I wrapped it around us using my cloak as a focus.

Those who saw me would find their eyes slipping past my form.

What I heard from rumors and preachers was worrisome. I had caught the tail end of a sermon by the Church of the Starry Wisdom, whom I avoided for the simple fact that their mere presence implied worse things than Mages trying to find ways beyond death. Their sermon, something of a "newborn star," had me almost go through a panic attack and figure out a way to add them to the House of Black and White in the now-extinct clergy.

I only needed to tap the Weirwood Door once before it opened up, and Wat the Brains and I went in while Wat the Eyes and Ser Willem stayed back in the Ranch behind the Magical Protections to watch over Dany and others. I had figured out how the Faceless Men entered, as the assassin used the face of the old man whose face he took as a vessel to skinchange into the horses. Since the horses were already inside, he had moved through the magical protections with the help of his Valyrian Steel trinkets.

The air was oppressive, worse than it had been, as though the souls of the Faceless Men were there with us. I opened my eyes to my new sight, seeing golden flames of Magical Energy and the shifting forms of humans, their form slowly losing their cohesion. I had to do something about that before their souls were absorbed by the building and wove themselves into a subtle curse.

The Entrance Chamber of the House of Black and White was always eerie. It was quiet in a way only a Morgue could be, empty apart from the Dead Priest on the floor... the Kindly Man who had stabbed me, lying next to a mess of wood and cloth. The remains of the puppet had a sword sticking through its torso that sent a twang of pain through my chest.

My focus was drawn to the staff, still standing upright, still holding the Orb of Divination atop it... yet the wood itself lacked the signature red color. My hand wrapped around the staff, pulling on it only for the staff to snap and turn to nothing but dust.

The Orb of Divination fell on the floor, rolling towards one of the corners of the room. As I picked it up, I noticed that I was standing in front of a Weirwood Face, its eyes looking as though there had been a fire beneath the chunk of weirwood that was hung on the wall. 'Or is it hanged... is a Weirwood Face a tapestry, or are they still considered a person, given they are likely the Greenseers turning into Weirwoods?' I mused idly.

"What can break Valyrian Steel?" asked Wat behind me, breaking me from my thoughts. He had already filled a skin with the poisoned waters of the Well.

"Same thing that forged it. Dragon fire and magic," I responded automatically, knowing the answer from the necklace I had given Dany. There were few things hotter than dragon flame. I turned to find Wat inspecting the blade that had been shoved into the chest of the puppet I had used.

What I had first thought to be a short sword that had pierced the chest of the puppet turned out to be a broken blade. Normally, I would wonder why someone would use a broken sword, but the subtle smoky pattern on the blade meant it was Valyrian Steel.

I took the blade, inspecting it against the light, making out a faint impression of runes that were not Valyrian.

The blade was warped and obviously broken; the blade was as thick as my hand ending in a sharp edge. The colors were lighter however, as though the shadowbinding used in its enchanting was reduced.

"Runes of the First Men," I noted with a soft hum. "From my knowledge, there are two Valyrian Steel blades in the world that might have such runes on them... and I am only certain of one."

"Right... I saw them runes... on the banner of a knight from House Royce when he came to Gulltown once," said Wat, making me nod. "Which swords are they, your grace?" asked Wat.

"One of them is Ice, the Ancestral Blade of House Stark, and it is in Winterfell, and the other was lost during the Storming of the Dragon Pit in the Dance... this is Lamentation," I stated before proceeding to curse in three different languages, one of which was not ever heard in this world.

The fact that Faceless Men had this particular sword that was lost during the Storming of the Dragonpit was rather damning. It was broken, burned, and the smoky pattern faded, suggesting that the shadow binding that made the enchantment over it was somehow used up.

I placed the blade to the side, as I would take it with us. Honor demanded that I return it to House Royce. They could have it when they bend the knee. Until then, I could study it without having to worry about accidentally destroying it... given that the blade was already mostly destroyed and thought to be lost to time.

I turned to the ashes of the Weirwood staff, and the pile of white dust, black as sin with the handle of dragon bone standing half-molten from the heat but still usable. The blade went into its sheath on my belt, followed by a pouch that now contained the Weirwood Dust, finding itself next to the pouch that contained the ashes of my wand.

I held out the Rowan staff I brought with me, the moonstone on top of it glowing softly to cast light that was bound with conceptual revealing.

The layout of the House of Black and White was a simple one; a couple of corpses were in the rooms where they slept before I finally found the Hall of Many Faces... or what was left of it. Anything beyond was now unreachable.

"Sunfire must have melted the stone columns, causing a cave-in," I muttered to myself, touching the wet stone and mud blocking the path. The columns that stored the faces of the dead, as it turned out, were load-bearing, and the entire Hall of Faces had collapsed. Being constructed in the middle of an island, the collapse had led to flooding, which further made any further attempt at accessing the loot a long and drawn-out process. A cursory spell through the orb in my hand showed that the rest of the House of Black and White beyond the Hall of Faces was intact, though flooded. Any books I could get would be ruined, but I could not see any gold... or rather the emptiness that I knew to be how I saw gold when looking through the magical sight.

Fuck.

Giving a sigh, I decided to start on my next plan to go through the physical obstacle. Taking a lesson from nature, I dropped a few saplings on the floor, pulling on the residual magical energy and casting a spell that was Druidic in nature. Channeling the ambient Life Force in the air from the simultaneous death of the Faceless Men into the saplings, I watched as roots and branches started to dig into the rubble, slowly shifting it until it formed a passage to the other end of the Hall of Faces.

It would take a while, maybe a few years even, but trees could crack stones and move through the water, and they could grow to shift the rocks around enough to form a trunk that I could manipulate into becoming a passage... but it would just take time.

I used Lamentation to cut off the head of the High Priest of Death that was in the entrance hall as well, the skull was intact, and I had a special purpose for that skull. Taking the head and burning the body, I turned to head out when a raven landed on my shoulder... a raven that was

"What happened to you?" I asked, looking at the raven that I had used to talk through the puppet. His wings had a glow to them, and each flap of his wings seemed to cause a wave of heat and flakes of amber to float.

"Sun... Fire," the raven croaked as I went through the mental gymnastics to understand why this specific effect happened. The raven had been at the ground zero of the ritual, channeling the entirety of the sun fire through itself. Where my wand had disintegrated, and my arm burned, the raven looked to be changed in a more general manner, bound to fire as it was.

"Right... you just got promoted to the status of familiar," I declared, a smirk forming on my lips, "And I am going to need a tail feather later," I stated, not trusting the protections that may be compromised in this location to craft a new wand.

"Ah... your grace, the First Sword and guards are at the door," said Wat, looking through the eyes on the face of the moon that was carved on the doors.

"Tell them to wait," I commented, dumping the materials we were able to scavenge from the House of Black and White in the middle of the room, carefully away from everything else.

"What if they attack?" asked Wat, paling at the idea.

I looked at him for a moment, "You are quick; figure something out and tell Syrio that I killed all the Faceless Man for harming one of my men; I am not above doing the same to the entire city," I stated, knowing that the First Sword would wait.

That got Wat to nod as he started to go outside. I trusted him to keep things from escalating or act as an early warning should they decide to try to burn the temple to handle me, not that it would work. Should words not work, Wat had the bag of grenades I prepared in case we needed to make a fighting retreat. Given the lack of explosions, I think he had everything under control.

Closing my eyes, I placed my left hand on the Weirwood Face, focusing on what I wanted, what I needed. My mind reached beyond thought and memory, beyond form and time itself, as I used Divination in its rawest form to pluck the knowledge I needed from the Ether itself.

Visions meant nothing if you were not looking for a specific something... but they were invaluable if you had an idea of what you wanted and a grounding on how you wanted it done. I had looked through the Weirwood to the future it would have.

Taking chalk from my pocket and drawing a simple pentagram on the large slab of stone that made up the ground, I placed the Weirwood Face on top. Next, I placed the skull of the Kindly Man I had taken, filling it with a vial of Memory Potion and the water from the Pool in the Middle of the House of Black and White.

Lastly, I dropped the Orb of Divination inside the skull.

I took off my Dragonglass Ring, the skin under it red from the heating of the ring every time I pulled on the fire to make spellfire. I would have to figure out a safer method next, but for now, I pulled on the spellfire once more, in the comfort of having taken off the ring.

The Weirwood Face, the last remnants of the face of a Greenseer long dead, turned to stone over the centuries, came to life, the Memory Potion seeping through the bone to the Weirwood. Spellfire flowed through the red veins of the wood as the wood itself, animating it, making it flow. Soon, the face grew taut over the skull of men before flowing into the bone itself.

As I shaped the wood, I watched the souls around me slowly flow, sinking into the `host` that they were familiar with at a conceptual level, merging and becoming a single soul.

Once it was done, I held a white skull, its eyes glowing with the flames of the dragonglass that made the Orb of Divination held within.

"Viserys Targaryen?" asked the Faceless Men, whose shape took the form of a familiar girl in the middle of the large room, an illusion formed from the light of the Dragonglass. "What have you done to me?"

I faced the black haired girl, looking into her red eyes. I tapped my hand to my head, pulling out the memory of the vision, and threw it at the white skull, the Weirwood absorbing the memory and the experiences.

"So you know," she said, the knowledge and memory becoming part of her.

"I understand why you have done what you did... heck, I even understand the Storming of the Dragonpit, given how both Rhaenyra and Aegon were unworthy of even having dragons with how they bumbled their way through that Civil War of theirs... that does not mean that you get to fuck off to the afterlife, however." I started, looking at the founder of the Faceless Men, the black-haired girl with the red eyes of a greenseer. "Here is the deal, I will take care of the major problems that may lead to extinction-level events... given I live in this world as well. I will even set events in motion once in a while to make sure what happened in Valyria will not happen again... Hell, I will even personally make sure that the White Walkers are dealt with."

"And in exchange?" asked the girl without a name, whose wrath carved through Valyria just as mine carved itself through the House of Black and White.

"You serve me," I declared, "You are bound to an artifact with the ability to observe the world, and you hold the knowledge of Magic from the last six hundred years," I stated with a smirk. "And you are not bound to your body or soul anymore, just a coalescence of memories... a ghost. You are... a Spirit of Intellect," I said with a smirk. "Or at least close enough to one that the difference does not matter."

Had I made a Bob... yes, yes, I have. Eat your heart out Kremmler... or whoever made Bob.

"Then serve, I shall," stated the girl accepting the situation. "Though if my soul is no longer bound to my own body... am I who I was... if not, who am I?"

I looked at her for a moment, considering my option. "I think I will call you... Morrigan," I said with a smirk.

I felt something bind itself to me as I named the spirit... my right arm started to itch.

I ripped off the cast made of leaves and potions to heal it. The skin beneath looked burned and ugly, still red, but somehow healed as though it was months old after less than a day.

On my forearm, shadows danced... flowing like ink.

First, the shadows formed a line, the shadows moving from my elbow to my hand.

Next, it formed a circle bisected by the line.

And finally, as the itching stopped, the shadows formed a triangle containing the line and the circle... forming a symbol that had a personal meaning for me... a form I knew it took for the knowledge I held within my own self, much more than being an actual rune or glyph.

"Then I shall be called Morrigan... Master" said the being I bound to my will.

AN: A few days late, but enjoy.

As always, I appreciate all your comments and it drives me to work more, so go for it.

JustAReader! said:

Watch Wizerys create the orks to replace the faceless men as a deterrent to invaders

"We'ze gonna krump da humies. For da see-boss! WAAAGH!"

Now, I have to figure out if it is feasible to fuse Mushrooms with Humies... and there is a theory that weirwood is a mushroom... so human Weirwood hybrids that go WAAGH!!!... maybe... not canon though, but I would love it if anyone made an omake of this.

Last edited: Aug 1, 2023

027 Pact Bound

"Have you bound the blade to yourself yet?" asked Morrigan once our talk was completed, and I started gathering everything I could. The additional enchantments I placed on the lower levels would prevent people from finding it, using the residual magical energy as well as a few twigs of Nightwood and Weirwood.

"Bound to me?" I asked, taking the Valyrian Steel knife out. It had a sharp, smoky pattern that had darkened since I last saw it, pitch-black ripples clashing the pale waves. 'Shadowbound with the souls,' I noted, though not all of it. The best I could tell was that the knife held the souls bound to the faces I burned while the Faceless Men themselves now formed Morrigan. "You mean to tell me that there is a special way to attune to Valyrian Steel?" I asked; the concept was familiar to me, though not in this world. "How?" I asked.

"As any magic of Valyria... Fire and Blood," said Morrigan, explaining the rather simple process. I held the blade, pressing my thumb onto the blade, letting a single bead of blood coat the tip of the black blade.

Next, I called on fire, the dragonglass forming a flame that ran through the edge of the blade, causing the blood to boil and sink into the knife, and I felt something connect to me... like something at the very edge of my mind.

Seeing as the flame leaped from the blade to the cut on my thumb without me controlling it, sealing the small cut and leaving a thin line behind, I hissed. It was not something I minded. I had cut my fingers to give blood for magic more times than I could have counted; the scars were familiar to me, though that did not make them welcome.

"The steel of Valyria has powers unknown to most..." explained Morrigan. "The bond will last so long as you live, or another binds themselves to it."

"I can feel it in my mind, the presence of echoes...." I started closing my eyes and listening, knowing that my use of Occlumency was the only reason why I was not overwhelmed by the echoes within the blade or had some drastic change in my thought process.

I recalled Catelyn Stark's change after being cut by the same blade; her thought process was more compromised.

"So long as you are bound, you are one," said Morrigan. "It is the secret of Dragonlords to be untouched by lesser flames, yet it has limits that change from steel to steel. It shall also act as a shield for your mind from the outside... as your amulet normally does... yet the effect is greater."

"Convenient," I commented. "Weirwood and Nightwood...." I noted, inspecting the smoky pattern on the blade standing so prominently despite the darkened black. To the uninitiated, it was steel a thousand times... yet the finer ripples were closer to Crucible Steel than folded steel. "Is that what it is made out of?" I asked, fascinated by the subject.

"That and more, but that is a secret unknown to me. I had not taken the faces of the Dragon Lords or their Sorcerers... as such an act is dangerous when they have mounts of their own," said Morrigan, making me wonder if there were any such attempts that had been recorded in history that survived Doom. "I know the spells to reforge it, known to a smith of Qohor, yet that shall be a lesson for later... we have company," she declared, turning towards the doors.

I nodded, stashing Morrigan's new vessel, a white skull with glowing eyes, into the satchel by my side, hastily wrapping my arm and my new... tattoo... brand? I would need more time to study it, but it would have to wait for now.

Once outside, I found Wat juggling three balls as the guards looked like they were about to shit their pants while Syrio was staying a distance away.

I had to do a double take and realize that said balls were grenades I had made in case we needed to blow up the House of Black and White as we beat a hasty retreat... in case I missed an assassin or two. "When I said distract them, I did not mean do tricks with explosives," I whispered through gritted teeth as I got close to Wat, who looked at me with a smirk on his face.

"It worked, init... your grace?" asked Wat the Brains, making me sigh. He took out something from his pockets, showing that he had taken the fuses out while saying nothing. It made me sigh in relief before I realized that Black Powder required mixing with blood to activate, and I could still ignite it with a stray thought... or any stray pyromancer could do it with the same trick to pull fire from dragonglass. The fact that I had to cover the grenades with Nightwood and Weirwood to just keep them from being exploded by the thoughts of any Red Priests made it

not something I could mass-produce, but a few for special occasions was something I could afford.

"Your man told us to wait if we did not want to go the way of Faceless Men. Not exactly subtle, is it?" asked Syrio, leaning against the stone wall beneath the stairs.

"Believe it or not, that was subtle," I stated, thinking of multiple faces being burnt off with Sun Fire. "unsubtle would have burned cities off the map instead."

Syrio looked at me for a moment, trying to decide if I was serious. I suppose I did have a reputation to those in the know, more than limited by being the son of the Mad King Aerys. People who wanted to harm me in Braavos tended to disappear into thin air... not to mention that deal with the burned house that belonged to a man no one remembered even existed.

"Just so. Are you sure you got all of them?" asked Syrio, seemingly considering his options and who to side with.

"Distance means nothing to a magic user," I declared, posing while enjoying the way some of the guards took a step back from sheer terror. The subtle threat was really doing more for my odds of getting out of this than an actual confrontation.

"Good riddance, then," said Syrio, his body stiff though he was forcing himself to look relaxed. It was a subtle difference, one I only saw when I managed to land a lucky hint on the Waterdancer in our spars. "May I ask what happened to your arm?" he asked, his eyes drawn to the wrappings as though he could feel something. He seemed less intent on gaining more intel for his boss and more on actual curiosity, like there was something forcing him to pay attention to the injury.

"Half-swording accident," I said cryptically, waving the wrapped arm nonchalantly. Syrio blinked, his thick brows raised as he tried to comprehend how what I said was technically correct.

He probably, correctly assumed that it was related to the spell I did, which worked for me. If people in the know thought that the cost was too high for such a thing, they would assume it was a one-off and go about their lives. I could probably cast the spell again, but the number of factors required to be able to specifically target a single group of individuals would be next to impossible. I had combined Memory, Blood, and Name, using them all to target a 'No-one' that happened to be multiple people. The closest I could think were the Undying, and even they spread around their Shade of the Evening to those outside their organization. "Are you here to arrest me or attack me?" I asked directly, as Syrio was not the type to deceive.

"And meet our gods? No... not today," said Syrio Forrel, his eyes moving from the staff carved with runes and the wand that was at my hip as I relaxed. "It is better to keep a man like you as an ally than an enemy... your enemies tend to meet their gods too soon for my likes," stated Syrio, looking me in the eyes and showing that he was being honest. "The Sealord has kindly asked that we act as your honor guard to attend a meeting with him you have requested... so that you can discuss the recent events and how to further the alliance between Braavos and House Targaryen."

'Nice way of wording it as if it was my idea and asking me not to burn the city off the map,' I thought. That sounded reasonable and contrary to the image I might have had... I was not much on collateral damage... or at least not in the form of lives.

Magical death cults that wanted me dead... was one thing when my own survival hinged on it. Masses of innocent bystanders with no protection from my magic... made me uncomfortable. I did not consider myself a mass murderer... even if one could argue that the ritual I designed implied premeditation, I had the finger on the button and only pressed it when they attacked me. 'It was self-defense, honest, officer... or natural selection at best,' I thought, getting a snort from the image of Morrigan in response to my thoughts, seen only by me. That being said, using magic on innocent people felt... dirty after the vision I had... too much like bullying.

Faceless Men... ironically... had been an easy extermination. Maybe I could do the same to the White Walkers, but I would need to check. I had a feeling that I would not be lucky twice... this world would not make it easy for me.

I looked at him, my mind taking a peak through the minds of the guards, finding no deception. Most were afraid and did not think highly of their chances, especially when the First Swords seemed to want to avoid a fight.

One of the guards caught my attention, though, who thought he was smart and thought that I was not as much of a threat as Syrio thought I was.

I grasped one of the explosives, throwing it into the canal and willing it to blow up with a flex of my will. A moment later, a splash of water had everyone looking in that direction... creating a large enough ruckus for me to weave the water particles into a mist of concealment in the same manner as the one that hid Braavos from the Wrath of Valyria.

"Right... I will see you at the palace," I stated, looking at Syrio before pulling on my cloak and the Mists of Braavos to fade from view. What followed along, close enough to be woven to be part of the disguise, while a raven followed in the air... leaving smoke with each flap of his wings.

I took the long way around to the Sea Lord's Palace, mostly to gather some materials, drop off a few of the loot, and integrate the Weirwood Ash into my Rowan Staff to improve the quality for channeling magic without changing its nature... in case I had to fight my way out.

I wanted to create a new wand, using the feather of the Raven bound to the Sun's fire, yet it felt... off. The feather had a rather superficial connection to magic... and a test showed that it could be stripped off with the right amount of pressure. Best I could guess, the ritual had left its mark on the bird... but it was not permanent, akin to how shadow-binding souls to the body tended to decay over time. That made for a sub-part Magic Core, and I did not want to rely on a wand that would stop being magic in the middle of a fight.

The boat ride to the Sea Lord's palace was quiet. The glimpses of thoughts I managed to catch from the 'honor guard' waiting for my arrival suggested that the guards were afraid, while Syrio seemed to be trying his best to not snap at the son of the Mad King who had burned the faces off every Faceless Men and exterminated the boogeyman of Planetos.

"And the staff... and the stick, Prince Viserys," said the guard, whose fear was just rolling off him. I looked at him with a smirk raising an eyebrow. I had a simple branch of Weirwood on my belt to trick those who knew me enough, but that did not mean I was going to play ball.

No words were needed before Syrio declared, "He can keep the sticks; just bring bread and salt... that will work as a better guarantee against him."

I gave Syrio a nod... the man understood the way things worked. He would also probably not try to stick a knife in me, but my current outfit could take that. I really needed to make a leather duster... but my growth spurt made such an investment infeasible as I had yet to release souls and reuse them once they were bound.

The Sealord was not waiting for us in the Great Hall with its throne upon the raised platform that allowed him to overlook everyone else.

Instead, we were led to the menagerie, where the Sealord was waiting for us with Bellonara in his arm. She felt me first, her mind opening herself to me with the mere push, as I got a cliff notes version of how much she could manipulate the old man before she sent me a cheeky wink.

"You always have the most marvelous beasts," said Ferrego, looking at the raven perched on my shoulder. I let the silence linger, working my way through his mind just in case. "One of my advisors suggested I attack and take your sister, hostage," admitted Ferrego, throwing a piece of meat at the creatures in the cage. Said creatures were a pair of Velociraptors that would be at home in the set of Jurassic Park... looking like giant bipedal lizards. "I had his tongue removed for his stupidity," he added, throwing another small piece of meat at the dinosaurs.

I nodded, slowly releasing the magical energy I had instinctively pulled from the air. While a wand was necessary to focus my power, I did not need it to crush someone; it just meant less collateral.

"They seem to be afraid of you," noted the Sealord, pointing at dinosaurs. Their eyes watching me before they decided to slowly back away... their instincts probably screaming them to run.

"They have good instincts," I stated, making the Sealord chuckle. Bellonara giggled at the way the lizards did not seem to look away from me as they retreated into the cave built for them.

"There is no use thinking of what could have been. The Faceless Men are dead for better or for worse. That means there will be trouble with what you have done; some might find your action an attack on Braavos... others might consider you responsible for cleaning up the mess your actions caused," said Ferrego making me chuckle.

"And most men are stupid," I stated simply, "even in death, I can do as Garin and destroy Braavos... if I were inclined to harm Braavos."

"Last time a Targaryen threatened the Sealord of Braavos, it was King Jaehaerys the Old who had the crown," said Ferrego, breaking the silence once it was clear that I was comfortable with the silence.

"Correct me if I am wrong, but the Old King threatened the Sealord with dragons when he refused to return three dragon eggs that were stolen from my family. The promise was, should a dragon ever fly over Braavos, that there would be Faceless Men sent after my family." I said instead,

"Indeed... it would seem that Faceless Men are with their god now, and a dragon stands before me," said Ferrego, giving me an inch. "You claim the title of king, so I would ask what you would do in my place?"

"You are not your predecessors, just as I am not my father... nor am I, Jaehaerys the Old," I responded, "When our family's fate was darkest, it was in Braavos we found a safe harbor, Sealord," I said. "I will not break faith with Braavos if she does not break faith with me."

"When I was struck by the blades of the Faceless Men, it was your magic that saved my life," countered the Sealord. "For that, I owe you a debt."

"It was a plot meant to force me to reveal myself to the public," I admitted, simply to show how little the Faceless Men cared for his life. There was also that little bit of wisdom that holding the debt over someone would make them easily irritated.

"Yet you chose to help me instead; a debt is owed, one that I could not pay back with a simple ship that awaits you at the port," stated the Sealord instead. "All it requires is a name and a crew."

I nodded, having put off the ship until I handled the Faceless Men.

"Yet politics means you could not offer more without causing strife with Westeros, and you cannot host me in Braavos to prevent the fallout from the death of the Faceless Men," I nodded, understanding his position. That did not mean that I was willing to let him get away with it.

"We had news from Westeros that the Iron Born Rebellion has been put down," stated Ferrego, seeing no change in my face. "Yet you knew it already."

"And given how Robert showed his might against a naval power, you are hesitant to go to war," I observed, making Ferrego nod.

"For someone who seeks to reclaim their throne, you do not seem to be rash in going to war," said the Sealord.

"If Robert attacks Braavos, you will find that I will help defend your city," I stated. The royal fleet may find themselves in unfortunate storms as I tested the so-called Stormlord's heritage. "Yet I understand that it is not your war, and asking men to die for you for a war that is easily avoidable makes sense."

"Were you my son..." sighed Ferrogo, his voice barely above a whisper, though the wind carried it to my ears all the same, "I cannot give you an army or be seen to openly support your bid for a foreign throne, Braavos holds no interest in. The only cause Braavos would fight for is the freedom of slaves."

"A wise man once said everything said before a but is worth horse-shit," I stated, giving the older man an amused look, before noticing a familiar face approaching us. Tycho Naharis looked as he always did, long white beard and purple robes that made me think he was trying for a Dumbledore cosplay.

"Yet, I find myself less in doubt of your success by each day," stated Ferrogo, "You are familiar with Tycho Nestoris."

"Your grace, it is nice to see you well," said the Banker. "You will find that our enterprise in the North was successful. Now, it has come to our attention that the Iron Bank recently lost one of their greater tools in recollecting their debts; without the threat of Faceless Men, most would find defying the Iron Bank a lesser risk," said Tycho, his robes holding hints of being too long at sea.

"Woe betide the fool who does. Here I thought the Golden Company would be getting more contracts," I joked, knowing that the Sellsword Company, founded by Blackfyre supporters, was employed by the Iron Bank. I had refused the offer of the Iron Bank to get in contact with them on my behalf during our negotiations, but I thought that would be it.

In canon, Viserys had feasted the Captains of the Golden Company, only for them to laugh at his face. My knowledge of the potential Blackfyre plot meant I would not suffer their existence or waste resources on a group that may betray me for another claimant.

"A contract would be extended had they not refused twice over the last year; our sources suggest that it is on the basis that House Targaryen live in Braavos, your reputation reaches beyond the Titan, your grace," stated Ferrago, "Their Captains seem to avoid Braavos, and before today, I could not place any reason."

'Before today, you would have underestimated me,' I thought to myself. "How smart of them..." I started, only to be interrupted by the strange mind of a raven that was held in a cage... a white raven.

"You know what this means, then?" asked Ferrego, gesturing at the white raven. I took a breath, feeling the winds in a way people without magic could never truly understand.

For a moment, I was the wind; for a moment, I was the air itself. I looked..., and I saw the blue eyes, waiting... plotting. "Winter is coming to a close," I stated, looking at the sky. "It will be a long summer next and a long winter that will follow."

I could feel the trouble brewing, the Golden Company being wary of me made things... complicated. It meant that Varys and Illyrio were going to start causing trouble for me... if the theory that them supporting Blackfyres is correct at least.

"Then the Iron Bank will require someone reliable... and dangerous to reclaim their investments... for the short term at least," said Tycho with a smirk.

I nodded before starting the negotiation process.

As we were walking to the exit of the Sealord's palace, neither side happy with the amount they had to give, Bellonara and I came face to face with a gaggle of... nuns?

Well, they were not Septas, they wore white gowns with white headdresses to cover their hair, but the general style looked like a nun's habit... without the black parts. From the moonstones and pearls and the excessive use of moon imagery, I could tell who they were.

"Your grace, may I introduce the High Priestess of the Moonsingers and her acolytes," introduced Bellonara for the sake of propriety. "You stand before the presence of King Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name."

'She has no name,' Morrigan whispered, appearing to the side of my vision. 'They give it to the Moon-Pale Maiden in exchange for wisdom."

"We know each other," said the High Priestess, bowing before me. I nodded in turn as I had talked with the Moonsingers to gain some perspective of their magic. "We greet the Great Jhat." the rest of the Moonsingers bowed as well.

I sent feelings of confusion to Morrigan since I knew that Bellonara, too, did not seem to have a clue. I had to figure out how to do telepathy, but for now, simple emotions were easy to project.

'Peculiar... Jhat is a term they use to refer to their male leaders, who are warriors and kings,' explained Morrigan. 'The lore of the Moonsingers is known only to Moonsingers, though House of the Black and White learned some of the rights of the Moon Pale Maid who is of the Many-Faced God.'

I clutched my staff while I knew Wat was ready to pull out a bomb or two at a moment's notice... just in case. I was wary of any priest, given how some could pop out shadow demons.

"Apologies... your grace, we meant no disrespect," said the High Priestess, bowing her head in submission, "It is good to see that you have grown. We have come to see Him who Holds the Sun's Light, and we have," she said, her eyes focused on my right hand, hidden behind bandages. "As well as to offer our services for she who sings the moon's song."

I made eye contact with the High Priestess and pushed myself through the connection. For a moment, her eyes widened as I felt the presence of decent Mental Protections in her mind, as expected of a person who was devout in her beliefs and worshipped the conceptual representation of hiding and revealing. I pulled on my own understanding of the moon and the sun, of the concept of revealing. The protection fell apart, and a moment later, the shock turned into comprehension, own as she bared her mind for me.

A moment of confusion on my end was clarified as the High Priestess saw the remnants of the sun's flames, the starlight that was now captured in my eyes, and knew me to be the one she was seeking.

I pulled back, letting my mind re-orient itself to my own perspective.

"Sun and the Moon are lovers," said the Priestess, "or siblings, if one takes the Ancient Valyrian Texts to account. We offer the services of Moonsingers to your Household to do as you wish."

I was stumped. That... was like providing an open check... which meant they were either crazy or had a motive behind their actions. Given that they were part of organized religion... it was a coin toss.

'Moonsingers are one-third of the pillars of Braavos; the Iron Bank and the House of Black and White are the others. With the House of Black and White no more, they will try to ingrate themselves to the one that could have killed them. They are not stupid, as they understand the dangers of a force capable of taking out the House of Black and White.' stated Morrigan, explaining the entirety of the confrontation.

"And what does that mean?" I asked, the Moonstone on top of my staff casting a soft glow holding the concept of 'revealing' within. It was not a Zone of Truth to the fullest, but it would make any who are trying to hide something stumble and get distracted.

The Moonsinger's eyes widened upon seeing the glowing Moonstone. "So you have managed to bring the light of the Moon Mother from the stone," stated the High Priestess, making me chuckle.

"The moon reflects the light of the Sun," I countered, getting a snort from one acolyte. "That one holds doubt in her, does your blind devotion blind you from the truth of things?" I noted, focusing on one of the older girls. She could not have been older than twenty, with black hair, pale skin, and pale grey eyes.

I opened my eyes in truth, seeing a girl with moonlight in her eyes and a subtle smell of wolf... too subtle for what I would expect from a full-blooded Stark, even if the only potential candidate would be Lyanna Stark and I was sure her form in the unseen would be crowned in blue roses, but there were more than a few off branches in Essos of the family.

Then I remembered why the name sounded familiar... Moonshadow was one of the Courtesans of Braavos... one that I had noticed as the author's throw-away what-if characters, the courtesan path offered up to Arya fully realized.

I threw a silver coin to my back, letting the light of my staff reflect off it, showing off a bit of magic. If they wanted to discern my worth, I could show off a bit. "Does the silver glow on its own... or does it reflect the light of the staff?" I asked.

"Moonshadow, apologize for your insolence; I may tolerate your behavior up to now, yet I will see you punished." chastised the High Priestess... clearly annoyed by one of her supposed priestesses. At least, unlike the rest, who were scared, apathetic, or zealous, she had... character.

"What insolence? Doubt and curiosity are good tools to have in life," I laughed out loud, finding the girl's attitude far better than the rest of them... blind deference and awe were nice, but the one before me was... amusing. At least her thoughts were honest as her words. Looking at the grey eyes of the woman before me. There was something to her... a subtle presence of magic that I mistook for character... a resistance to her mind that put me on edge and made me notice her at the same time.

"A dragon is a dragon... no matter if some prophecy says you are supposedly the Greatest King to have ever lived," said Moonshadow, not breaking eye contact.

"Good... prophecies are fickle... and you seem to have some spine compared to the others," I countered. "You said anything I need, have you not?" I asked, turning to the High Priestess.

"Indeed... though if you wish to learn our ways, there are more studious acolytes who know of the songs," said the High Priestess, worried that Moonshadow would botch it all up.

"I have never been much for songs, cannot carry a tune for the life of me... my brother had been the bard," I dismissed. There were... songs... well, more like spells, but I was always more inclined for silent casting, calling on the song of the world instead of singing my tune.

"She has not long left in the temple. Once she reaches her twentieth name day, should she prove incapable of the songs, she will be thrown out... she is not worthy of the attention of the Great Jhat," warned the High Priestess, as I nodded, further convinced.

"And what else would she do?" Bellanora gasped, playing along.

"Become a Courtesan most likely... at least I will not have to suffer the indignity of having to sing for free," whispered Moonshadow.

I grinned... an idea forming in my mind.

Once I returned from my day trip to Braavos, hashing out a deal with the Sealord, letting Nessa settle an annoyed Moonshadow as a governess to teach Dany. The High Priestess had effectively thrown the poor girl in my direction, and Moonshadow had been chafing under the Moonsingers enough to go through with it... and she leaped at the chance to live a life of comfort as a Courtesan by making connections with the Black Pearl.

I headed to the workshop... sleep alluded to me as I considered my current lack of a wand, placing the caged White Raven of the citadel in the corner and placing a cloak over it. The Sealord cared not much for the raven, though his obsession with peculiar creatures made him less than pleased to part with the raven that was larger, smarter, and stronger than its lesser cousins. The Maesters could go die in a ditch as far as I was concerned, and that bit of secret they kept, I was going to take apart.

I took out the Rowan Staff I had used that was infused with Weirwood, grasping the last foot off the staff that I had purposefully made longer to channel more power. A piece of wood from the tip snapped off, flowing like water. The wood was rowan and only had a small amount of Weirwood to copy the properties of the magical wood... which, while superficial, should do for a wand.

Given my experience, it took less than an hour to make the proto-Wand from the feather of the sun-fire-infused Raven and Magical Rowan. Both the feather and the wood were only superficially magical, the raven had the conceptual sun fire in him, but it felt... disjointed. Similarly, the ash within the wood felt artificial, as if the absorbing process was not as homogenous as if the rowan naturally grew to integrate those components. I had a feeling that it would be limiting my spells by a large margin... but a wand was a wand... even if it ran on a charge as this one seemed to be.

I decided to add a few new things to the wand... beyond what I normally added.

First was an actual soul, a method of sustaining spells without having to concentrate on them, allowing me to keep an enchantment going. I called on a normal raven that came with me down to my hand, choosing the animal for its connection to the ability to speak the 'True Tongue,' which the Children of the Forest used for Magic. With a slash of my knife and the raven's blood went to the bronze cauldron I pulled up, its body bursting into flames and joining the blood.

The raven was followed by pieces of dragonglass, Moonstone, and sunstone from my stash. My old wand had only used the dragonglass, and it was most useful in magic that involved fire or ice. My experience indicated that it was possible to pull concepts from other stones, so combining them into a single wand is more versatile.

Once the wand was complete, I waved it, pointing the point ending aimed at the hearth with a simple "Incendio," causing a bolt of fire to reignite the fire... less powerful than what I expected, but much more refined than the original wand I had crafted.

I pointed my wand at the book Tycho had given me, declaring "Accio" and catching the flying book with my left hand. 'Moon is connected to Tides, leading to Gravitational Spells... or rather Force-based spells,' I mentally concluded, determining that the wand was good for more force-based spells that my old wand struggled with.

As I cast channeled magic through the wand, pulling and pushing the now empty bronze cauldron, I tried to get a better understanding of how magic flowed through my new focus. There was a strain like too much magic would break it, but it was robust enough for me to use in a pinch.

Finally, I took a small bit of kindling, placing it before me. Pulling on the sunstone, in the sun, and the concept of Change that the giant fusion reactor represented, I let my magic and will guide me.

The wood morphed, changing to become pointy, an eye-opening in the other end before it started to gain a smooth surface that started to shimmer... gaining an illusion, and the wand died... at least it did not burst into flames.

I inspected the needle; it looked like metal, it shone like steel... it even tasted like steel.

Opening my eyes to the Unseen... I looked through the needle, seeing the wood for what it was... Its essence was unchanged. "In form and function, a needle... in essence... wood," I muttered, throwing the wand to the side and calling it at least a progress in Transfiguration. I could morph wood to my will, and now I could layer its form with an illusion to make it look the part of a needle... but the essence... required me to study more into alchemy. I would study it later as I focused on the other item on my desk.

I felt the book beneath the layers of leather, feeling no poison or trap. The history of the book shows that it was written by Maester Aemon Targaryen in the hopes that it would prevent me from ending up killing myself. The book itself was encrypted, with a simple note saying, "The knife is key," which I took to mean the writing on the blade was the key to the encryption. The fact that Maester Aemon knew how encryptions worked was impressive, and he must have assumed that I could either figure it out or find a Maester to learn it from.

"Viserys," I read out loud, translating from the encrypted High Valyrian, "it is my great shame that I share this with you, of the lore of our family, brought forth from mine own memory. Know that I have made many mistakes, yet I fear that this may be my greatest mistake or the one act I can do to ensure the line of my brother endures. I pass this on with a heavy heart, with a warning that Wildfire is not the key as we had once thought. Trust none of it, for I fear the knowledge has been long since changed... yet let it be a guide to you."

I flipped the page, "Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History," I translated, reading out loud. That explained how that copy found its way into the Library of the Red Keep after Baelon the Moron burned all the books.

Just as I settled on to work on it, someone barged into my workshop, who turned out to be Dany.

"Do you just collect women on a whim, or should I call you Viserys the Unworthy?" asked Dany making me wince internally

"Ouch..." I said in a cold tone, mostly amused with how Dany was trying to project her authority. "What brought this on?"

"Your new whore," said Dany. "Shadowmoon... or whatever her made-up name is..." I chuckled at the way she was standing, pouting.

"She is trained as a Moonsinger... and she is here to instruct you on the ways of laws and political aspects," I countered. "Moonsingers are trained for navigating religion and laws. Moonshadow is old enough to have a decent understanding of the world. Where Bellegere and Bellonara can train you in intrigue and ways of the court, Moonshadow was a perfect fit for teaching you laws and justice given that it was what Moonsingers preside over."

"And how long will it be before you bed her?" asked Dany, seeing through me. I did find Moonshadow attractive, and given that she was a priestess, I could leverage her purity to cultivate more soul-stuff.

"I do not think that is relevant, Dany... what is this really about?" I asked, knowing that it was one of the plans that Moonsingers had... trying to get someone to spy on me while also trying to influence my decisions. "Did you feel something... do you think she is untrustworthy?"

"Not more than anyone else... it is just..." said Dany pausing and gathering herself, "You do not spend time with me anymore," she accused, making me chuckle. "You fight and protect me, but you get hurt, father is gone, brother is gone, mother is gone and I... I... I don't want to lose you too." her eyes were stuck to my arm; the bindings had come loose. She slammed herself to my chest, and I only heard her through the spell I used to carry sound through the wind. "I don't want to be alone."

"You will find death to be less effective against one like me," I stated as Morrigan snorted in the corner. "Trust your brother to protect you..." I said, hugging her. "Alas, you are right; let me make it up to my little sister then... what would make the little dragon less wroth with this lowly mortal?" I teased, feeling her grin.

"Teach me magic," demanded Dany, making me stop for a moment. "I am old enough," she argued.

I would lie if I told you that I had not thought about it, but magic was dangerous, and Dany was barely seven.

My eyes landed on the covered cage holding the white raven that announced the change of seasons. Winter was gone... and it would be coming with a vengeance, as Starks kept reminding the world.

I had thought to wait until she was eleven, mostly to make sure that she did not accidentally burn something down in the family tradition of destroying things with fire when they annoyed us... which I was not part of. 'Behold, the might of House Targaryen, our chief weapons are fire, alchemical fire, and magic fire... no wonder all our problems had a tendency to look like kindling.'

Magic was... still primal, and I could barely protect myself from the backlash... but I did not have time... or luxury to be cautious. I needed my sister to be able to protect herself. The books started when she was thirteen... and two years would not be enough for Dany to know the basics.

I snorted, seeing the expectant look on my sister's face. "As far as manipulation attempts went, I would say six out of ten," I said, getting a pout in turn from Dany in turn"... maybe seven," I amended, seeing the way she was looking at me. She buried her face to my chest, but her smile did not fade, knowing she had won.

I took one of the Weirwood and Dragon Bone wands from the locked box, the simpler versions that would not burn the place down if she got angry but were strong enough to teach her to basics.

I pulled Dany to my lap, handing her the wand. The air filled with warmth a moment later as she waved it, and the smile she gave me was... worth all the pain I had to suffer as I flexed my hand.

Last edited: Jul 3, 2023

028 Queen Rhaella's Revenge

# 028 Queen Rhaella's Revenge

I was lying on a lounge chair, enjoying the soft rocking of the ship and the heat of the early summer sun, while I slowly studied my new connection to the Sun itself for half a hundredth time. Next to me laid Belle, partially draped across me, as my left hand was absentmindedly tracing runes over the shear dress embroidered with runes that hid everything from the world by me, causing her to moan softly near my ear, loud enough only for me to hear... and only for Moonshadow to see. My other hand.... scraped across the wood of the arm of the chair in anticipation of something I could not place; the scales of the snakeskin I wrapped around my burned hand brought a weird feeling... it felt less, but my hand was more at the same time... more dexterous and stronger as I flexed my hand. It was better than a simple glove could ever be.

My skills in Fleshcrafting had improved by leaps and bounds with the knowledge of Morrigan, housed in the Weirwood and Bone Skull hanging from the net from my belt, holding the secrets of long-dead Valyria. It allowed me to reshape flesh such that I could reattach severed muscles, add layers of skin, or even shape it to my will.

The snake skin was a less permanent solution... a modification of the faces that the Faceless Man wore, a treatment of the skin with potions made of Dittany and Knotgrass and blood that acted as a way to create a long-lasting graft over the burned skin. The end result was an arm with improved dexterity, countering any damage I had taken from the dangerous ritual I used to channel the nuclear fires of the sun.

"I had started to think that you had forgotten our deal, Wizard," said Verago Antarion leaning his back against the railing, the nephew of the Sealord, who had come along for the ride.

"Your words had wisdom in them, and the weather has gotten better for an act of leisure such as a simple cruise," I acknowledged... though I was more wary of the Iron Born and the heavier presence of the Royal Fleet led by Stannis in the Narrow Sea. Without the aid of the Iron Bank, the Iron Throne had not really made any profit from Balon's Stupidity that he passed off as Rebellion; there was no loot to be had and no glory as far as I was concerned. That made any sustained invasion while the army was assembled next to impossible, so we would remain safe in Braavos for some short while.

"Indeed... the crew seems to be working well together... better to have them know a ship before it sets off in a voyage. Do you have a destination in mind?" Verago asked, trying to get a glimpse of my plans. He had been instructed to act as a spy by his uncle, the Sealord, which I tolerated because I did not want to give the Sealord a bigger middle finger than fucking his mistress and his illegitimate daughter at the same time... but then again, you did not rule a city like Braavos for decades without being self-sacrificing... and there was the fact that he seemed to be fucking terrified of me according to Bellonara, who was the one who wore the pants in that relationship. As it stood, I had personally taken over the political position of the Faceless Men overnight, standing along with the Iron Bank and the Moonsingers to hold power in the city. Verrago was essentially a potential hostage against such a mercurial ally who refused any direct help and a way to prevent the Sealord from sending his entire navy to sink my new ship for one reason or another.

"I will let the winds decide," I said, avoiding an answer. There were a few ideas... but that was not for others to know.

The ship, Queen Rhaella's Revenge, was a three-masted ship of Braavosi design. The ship's hull gleams in the sunlight, a striking contrast of black and white wood that blended in a pattern of ripples similar writ larger than the ones on Valyrian Steel instead of the purple paint normal to the ships of the Arsenal. The wood from the Doors of the House of Black and White made up the hull, a testament to my victory over them and a final middle finger to their legacy. The sails were pitch black, the clothe treated with a potion of beeswax, dragonglass, dragon bone shavings, and blood that anchored the shadows that ensured that the sails would not tear and could magically fill with the winds with a single thought from me. The hull was also carved with intricate patterns and symbols, multiple spell circles, some that I had worked out, others experimental, while a few were there because... my foot scraped across the deck, the smooth transition from wood to dragonglass and back to wood... better safe than sorry.

The modifications took nearly a month of work to complete, which was why I delayed any trip by sea. I was wary of both other spell casters and what lay beneath the narrow sea and required a bit more... personalization of the ship that would carry me.

I took off the Sunglasses I made out of Dragonglass, looking around the deck and seeing the crew at work. The glasses were a larger version of the Glasses of True Sight that now hid my glowing eyes when I wanted to see beyond what was seen. Nothing unnerved someone more than fiery purple eyes, as it turned out... or twinkling eyes... as Dany described, much to my shame as I slowly became more like Dumbledore.

My eyes focused on the crew, seeing their very essence and observing them, and judging the very thought that passed through their minds. Each and every one of them had been vetted by me and paid in both coin and deed as I used my magic to heal more than one crippling injury that prevented them from finding another job.

"For now, this journey is only meant to train the crew, make sure they are familiar with the ship," I stated, as Belle snuggled closer to me while Moonshadow snorted from the side... not because she was jealous or anything. It had taken the combined efforts of Moonshadow, Wat the Eyes me to make True Sight a possible spell, and I knew that she could see through the illusion keeping our modesty.

Moonshadow was someone I knew literally nothing I could do with. She had been forced upon me by the Moonsingers, a 'teacher' for Daenerys and me on the ways of their religion in an effort to convert us or gain some influence over us, supported by vague prophetic double-speak; I cared not for which reas... as both would fail given the priestess I chose for the job. I was pretty sure that the High Priestess was annoyed by the rebellious and borderline heretical Moonshadow being the one chosen as well, even if she knew that she could not force something like this on me, just as I could not refuse without some strong reason... not after I barbequed the faces of the other religious organization that help found Braavos.

What the Moonsingers assumed would be Moonshadow converting me to their religion or some other reason that I did not bother paying attention to had ended up in a months-long teasing session as she 'apprenticed' under Bellonara to become a Courtesan while I picked her brain of anything potentially useful regarding the religion she was brought up in. I had not plucked that flower yet, but that was mostly because she was still a Priestess until she turned her twenty-first name day and could be presented with the option of leaving the temple as an orphan left there. I did not want her in trouble, mostly because the Moonsingers annoyingly followed the Vestal Virgin line of approach on dealing with broken oaths and lost virginities until they became old enough to have a child of their own... often from the local lord or ruler. Given that I had just come out of a war with one army of fanatic religious cults... I wanted to avoid another one if possible, and the Moon Cult was less of an issue than the Death Cult when it came to reasoning with. The only annoying bit was that she seemed to have picked up a few things from me as well, allowing her to cast 'miracles' based on the prayers she had... though it was limited to a few small healing spells and extremely minor telekinesis, just as I learned more regarding the moon, it's phases, meanings and much more.

Next to Moonshadow was Dany, looking over a specific bowl in front of her, which held an experiment of mine. "Shouldn't it point in the North?" asked Dany, leaning over the needle floating on the cork inside a bowl of water that kept spinning, making me grimace at that experiment I was running at the side. What I assumed to be the magnetic interference of the Giant Bronze Statue on Braavos was a bit more complicated than that, it would seem. Physics in this world had long since taken a leave of absence. "You said it should point to North."

There were a lot of peculiarities in this world. A Moon took exactly thirty days exactly to complete a full cycle, and a year was twelve months exact. The lack of stable seasonal patterns made it hard to discern how accurate of a year that was, as I had dug up records of the last 'cold periods' that behaved less like seasons and more like brief periods of mild weather in scorching heat or freezing cold were the only indicator of an actual season cycle caused by physics to the mini-ice ages that were the Winters... mind the capitalization. At least Braavos had a record of the last four hundred years of winters and any major events... though I could not find a visible pattern. I had even checked the dates of major battles and how they fit on the seasons, in the off chance that Big-G had made the seasons bound to his anti-war beliefs... to no avail.

Now, the magnetic field of the world was wonky... wonder if that was why the seasons were fucked up. I knew there was a magical explanation, but I was not sure. At least it explained the lack of development that followed the Age of Exploration... if the Age of Exploration could not be reliably triggered without a working compass to navigate with.

"Could, would, should..." I said, both to the comment of Dany and to remind myself. I flexed my will, mentally layering an illusion to ensure that this bit of our conversation was private between us, which was way easier aboard the ship even as it ended at the water, which seemed to be running interference to most spells I could cast. "Another lesson, sister, the world does not revolve around your desires and delusions unless you have the strength of will to make it so. The greater your delusion, the more you will face resistance... be it in spells or in politics. You wanted the needle to point north, so you expected that it would happen... remember, Wizard's First Rule..."

"People are idiots; they believe in things that they wish were true or things that they fear to be true; yes, brother, you have repeated it often enough," said Dany, rolling her eyes. "I still do not see how that is related to magic."

"Dreams and Prophecies," I stated simply. "They are not the most reliable of magics, even if all other methods of magic can be driven from with a proper understanding of divination and the ability to foresee the consequences of spells and rituals. If you let your emotions and fears control you, if you let yourself focus on a single solution of some prophecy and ignore other answers, you will find yourself at a dead end and often your own doom. Many in our family fell to the sweet promises of visions only to end up suffering for it, their inability to control their own emotions becoming their undoing."

"But you said emotions powered magic?" asked Dany.

"Therein lies the dilemma, emotions power magic, the sacrifice, the loss, the drive, all those are empowered by emotions, but they also muddy the goals, change it, destabilize it. Take King's Blood, for example; many think it has a power of its own when it is nothing but the emotions it generates from those who follow that king. Mastering your own mind, understanding your own self, and seeing the visions unbiased by emotions is the great challenge of wielding magic." I explained, "Not to mention, the easiest and most common spells are grounded in illusions," I said, taking out my wand and casting a solid illusion of myself. It was... weird one as far as wands went. The wand made from the Rowan and the Raven Feather 'died' after I used it too much, only for it to gain its 'charge' back up at dawn. I managed to link it to the connection between the sun and the sunfire ritual that was superficially bound to the raven now perched on my shoulder. It was better than nothing, though the nerf I got was annoying.

"Which one am I?" I asked, causing Dany to point to the one that had cast the spell. I let the illusion fade, both Viserys' fading. Having used the chance to disillusion myself, I reappeared behind Dany, the light-based spell working with ease from the hiding concept of the moonstone and light control of the sunstone. "Trust only that which you can confirm; now, let us duel..." I declared, making my way to the center of the deck.

Bellegere gave me a pout behind me, as the illusion she was lying on had also disappeared, causing her to end up sprawled alone on the lounge chair. The ritual I had used had made her more... amorous, and being named the new Black Pearl and the Mistress of the Wizard had her trying her best to show me off at any chance she got.

I understood her reasoning, of course, to show the influence she could hold while also subtly hinting at the fact that she held the leash of the big bad wizard who could burn the entire city if annoyed. I gave her a wink, getting a pout in return as I turned around and made my way to the middle of the deck.

Syrio and Ser Richard were sparing, only to stop when they saw me walk close by. Syrio himself was there to ensure Verago did not cause something stupid and get Braavos blown up by an angry Wizard. Being regarded as a person of mass destruction was... strangely flattering and annoying at the same time.

At least whatever loss of common sense that affected most of the world seemed to have not touched Braavos... except for the dozen or so challenges I got every other week either for fucking the newly anointed Black Pearl, or for being a Wizard, or some other reason. Grabbing someone and slamming them onto the ground repeatedly seemed to have not been a good enough discouragement... and that was not even half as annoying as running away from potential Eldritch Cultists and Red Priests claiming that I was some sort of messiah.

I watched my sworn sword sparring against the First Sword of Braavos and actually holding his own. Sir Richard had... well, he had been through hell and back. He had lost a lot of weight that he was still in the process of regaining, his cheeks sunken, but he stood straight, but he looked more formidable than before, his body giving off that subtle aura of 'Do not fuck with me,' that most battle-hardened men gave off but more overtly thanks to the modifications I had to do to keep the Manticore Venom at bay.

The poison in his veins was... stabilized. It took me a while to figure out the right rituals, but my sword shield had not become something like Robert Strong or anything, as his heart still beat. He also gained immunity to most poisons and potentially a way to consume highly dangerous potions without dying from the toxicity, but I was still working on developing said potions to boost his capabilities ala Witcher.

His replacement arm of weirwood and dragonbone was the best I could do since I could not regrow bone even with my Fleshcrafting. The prosthesis was based on my own wand, with joints infused with moonstone for the 'motion' and 'force' that the combination of moonstone and dragon bone seemed to be good at holding, just as the combination of dragonglass and dragon bone had a distinct affinity for fire and the more destructive aspects of magic.

The two stood back as I walked near them, followed closely by Dany. The crew was silent as they watched. It was not the first time we 'dueled,' and the results were often a wonder to behold... after I put out the fires, at least.

"Do we have to?" asked Dany, knowing in her mind that she would not win. That alone was a dangerous notion to have when your will was what you were using to determine the winner of a magical duel... at least at this level.

"Yes... you need to get your sea legs in case you need to defend yourself on a ship. Now, first, we bow," I said, giving a flourish before slapping aside a spell that Dany had sent with the back of my hand and a shield of winds... instead of bowing. I gave a smile... good... she was learning.

I dodged her cutting spell, which was weak enough that my own personal authority over myself would dismiss it, using a trick I reverse-engineered from the Valyrian Steel's ability to no-sell magic, an effect that Morrigan referred to as 'Regimency' based on some teachings from the Cult of Boash that have long since died out. It was sort of a soul-based method of overpowering a spell that you understood and had familiarity with, preventing its effects on your own body and mind. It was the same concept that had a dragon only being harmed by the fires of a larger dragon, which were hotter... or why a Dark Lord would never fall to a stray curse they personally mastered unless through magical shenanigans and bylaws.

I tilted my head to the side, letting the spellfire pass through. While it would have done nothing, it was still not something I wanted to face head-on... since Dany had greater authority over fire than I did... through her frustrating 'dragon' affinity. In real life, people dodged, and Dany needed to anticipate that people may dodge. It had been a few months since she started, and she had gotten good enough with her spells that I had upgraded her starter wand of weirwood and dragonbone, binding dragonglass, moonstone, and sunstone, allowing my sister to gain the versatility of magic through the connections to Earth, Moon, and Sun respectively.

I weaved through her spells, the bolts and lines of spellfire that were imbued with her will, and finally, a clumsily levitated barrel sent in my direction. For a distinct moment, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, an application of Thought Acceleration on my own mind, another principle of Regimency I picked up combined with the Greenseer's timey-whimsy effects that I still did not fully understand even if I could fully utilize. Placing my hand on the barrel at the last second, I took over the spell, letting the barrel land on the ground safely before grabbing the wooden lid and throwing it. Dany, too busy struggling to regain control of her spell, got hit in the shins, jumping in place.

I used the opportunity to pull her with the winds with a flick of my hand... not relying on a wand, while she pushed away from the wind cocoon with her will... managing to break it, though she was close enough for me to rip her wand from her hand, careful to hold it in my left hand. My right hand did not get along with wands after it was burned... at least, that had been the case once I bound the snakeskin over the flesh and isolated the effect to the region where the scar was.

"I lost," grumbled Dany, snatching her wand back. It was a good fit, as far as wands went, but it was not perfect.

"You lasted longer than you had before," Ser Richard countered. "Do not compare yourself to others, but to yourself in the past, and you will find yourself becoming the master of your art."

"Wise words," I nodded, ruffling Dany's hair and getting a glare with the pout that was just adorable.

"Ser Barristan told me that when Prince Rhaegar beat me in a spar tenth time that day," said Ser Richard, getting a distant look. That had been enough to sour my own mood. Ser Barristan Selmy was one of those topics that I had no idea how to address. The aged Kingsguard was loyal until he lost to Robert, swearing himself to the Usurper of my family. He had only sworn himself to Daenerys after he had been dismissed by Joffrey, and he had been the person to save Aerys from Duskendale... though there was a likelihood that I might not have survived childhood if Aerys had died. Combined with his apathy towards what my mother had gone through, I held him in lower regard than Jamie Lannister, of all people.

"Your force spells are clumsy, but it would have worked on anyone who did not know what you were doing. Repetition and practice will fix that. I could have used the spell to cut the air from your lungs... or things something much worse, and you did well breaking it, though you let yourself get distracted. Do not fight someone on their area of mastery; an older mage will have greater mastery of their own minds, just as a knight is more effective up close. So long as you avoid fights where they can win, you should be fine. Overall... good job." I explained, hugging her as my sister simply molded into my hug.

My wand produced a green glow; the wood could store memories, and remembering the healing potion and the spells I used with it, removing the need for the potion after the first few times I cast the healing spells I crafted. The start of the bruise on Dany's shins faded... though not completely, to make sure the lessons stuck.

And my wand died again. I still had not figured out a way to fix that issue, or invested in more wands, mostly because I had not been able to figure out the correct Magical Core of the wand. The dragon bone wands did not work for me anymore, potentially due to the same reason why a Dragonrider could not bond with another dragon after the first one died. As the only other piece of bone from the same dragon went into making Morrigan's skull, and I had not been sure which dragon gave said bones, I needed another Fantastic Beast to use for Wand Core. It may also lead to some issues with claiming a dragon, but I was preparing a workaround. For now, as far as a wand was concerned, I was limited to the feathers from the proto-Phoenix that I had accidentally crafted, and I was halfway through designing that bit of ritual work.

The latest changes to the core allowed me to leverage the connection between the Raven and the Sun, somehow causing the dead wand to be 'reborn' at every dawn. I could not say that the Raven was a Phoenix yet, but I have been working on a series of rituals to finalize the conversion... starting with integrating the parts of the White Raven that I liked.

From the best I could gather, the Maesters had imbued Weirwood Ash into the raven, potentially by feeding the parents a potion of weirwood ash. Feeding the mixture to normal ravens led to a minority of their children hatching white in color and being capable of passively absorbing the magical energy around them... though I was not able to get eggs that lasted long enough to hatch. Without the sap in the mixture, however, the White Raven lacked the ability to fully unlock the Greensight potential, resulting in a raven that was white in color, as per the color of Weirwood, yet retained the black eyes instead of being a complete albino. There were theories that the acolytes who managed to light the glass candle and pass the test were themselves sacrificed and somehow used in the breeding of the white ravens, but I was not sure how accurate such a theory was, even if the soul density of the white raven was significantly larger than a normal one and it would explain the method used to properly fertilize the eggs.

The White Raven was now dead... its essence and flesh bound to the proto-Phoenix. I chose led me to bind the feathers of the White Raven on the outside of the Fiery Raven, akin to the skin-wearing of the Faceless Men, while I managed to create a potion that contained the ashes, ground bones, blood, and the soul of the white raven to provide pressure from the inside, along with the Weirwood Sap. The aim was to have the two magical effects combine and synergize, working from the inside and outside while also ensuring the trapping of the superficial connection to the sun that the Raven still held between the two layers and not remain as superficial as I had initially observed.

A bit of help in divination to make sure everything would work, and now, I was the owner of a large albino raven that still tended to leave smoke behind when he flapped his wings.

"Why can't I spar with Lanna instead?" asked Dany once I finished up her healing, and she decided that she was bored from being hugged. After finding that Magic was a lot of sitting around and talking, Dany had wanted to drag Lanna along since she got bored with most of her lessons. I did not protest, mostly because the blond girl was far too loyal to be a threat. It turned out Lanna... was good at the theory, mostly from our talks about the nature of the soul and the rituals she had been going through to fix the damage she had been through. That being said, the prototype wand I had made seemed to refuse to work for her, implying that she did not have any drop of Dragonblood in her. Combined with her lower-than-average soul density because of the Alchemist..., her talents lay in rituals and more subtle magics that could be powered externally.

"I prefer a sword in a fight, princess," Lanna said, mostly to avoid a magical duel like what we had a moment before. Her strengths came in preparation, ironically, her high affinity to Alchemy. Syrio, who was watching from the side, caught my eye and gave me a nod, getting the message to focus her on that training.

While this world was not a Table Top RPG, it made for a good reference. I was primarily a Wizard; my knowledge and versatility made me a Jack of All Trades, the Master of Few. In comparison, Dany was a Sorceress... more in tune with her blood and heritage. She was naturally talented, potentially more so than me in terms of raw power, even if she needed work on precision. Spells that she did not have as close of an affinity, like the Force Spells we have both been learning through Moonshadow, took longer for her to learn than, say, the ability to throw Firebolts. Lanna, on the other hand, fit in the category of a Witch, someone who could use outside magic to do the work for her. Her sharp mind and close affinity to gems made her better at drawing out meanings for potions and ritual-based spells... even if she did not have a specialized wand, relying on a piece of Weirwood bound to her with her blood to help her focus and recover.

I gave Dany a look, my eyes narrow, which seemed enough for her to realize that what she asked was... not something she ought to have done. "Come on, I still need to finish the work Wiz gave us for our next lessons; you can help me with that since you are more advanced in numbers," she said, grabbing the now brooding older girl and pulling her along.

"Blood of my blood, Slaver Scum on the Horizon," yelled Sajo, causing everyone to snap at attention while I turned to gaze where he pointed. I had felt a call, and it seemed my subtle Foresight called me to war.

"That will have to wait... get below deck and stay with Huan," I said, sending a mental command to my dog, who had been lying on one of the corners, dozing under the sun.

Sajo started barking orders for the crew, getting everyone to be ready for either hauling ass or preparing a confrontation. With me here, it was going to be a confrontation.

Sajo was half-Dothraki and better a Captain than anyone else in the crew I had assembled for my ship. His father was Braavosi, a Captain in the Navy, while his mother was Dothraki, a slave bound for the Pleasure Houses of Lys before his father's ship had intercepted it. What followed was a 'whirlwind romance' that ended with Sajo and his mother in Braavos while his father had disappeared in a storm.

Sajo had been the first mate of one of the more prominent trading ships in Braavos I had invested in before one of the Ironborn ships decided to use the excuse of the Greyjoy Rebellion to attack the ship before being killed by the man. An injury had crippled him in the leg, forcing him to stop his career. Yna had been the one to introduce us, and in exchange for being healed and returning to the seas, Sajo had agreed to serve as the First Mate of my ship, declaring himself my Bloodrider in the Dothraki way and refusing to become the Captain of the Ship that I clearly owned. Lines blurred on who the Captain was, but I trusted him in matters of naval operations due to his experience, and he spoke in my name, as he had given his mind showed no hint of treachery; his loyalty was mine after he watched me heal the bum-leg that had a severed tendon giving him a limp that made him unable to stand on a ship or ride a horse.

His experience made him invaluable, and his hate for slavery marked him as unique for someone who had a drop of Dothraki blood, even as he hung onto the culture of his mother's side. I also found a Half-Dothraki who was at home on a ship amusing... but that would have been unprofessional to consider as a fact. That being said, "A Horse of Flesh, or a Horse of Wood if it moves, Sojo rides," was an impressive creed, I had to admit. He was playing up the Dothraki aspect of his heritage a bit, being able to speak the language and using it to make himself sound tougher and stand out amongst a crowd, and I had to admit that it worked. The bells on his hair and the purple died horse leather vest did indeed make him stand out among the two dozen or so crew members.

My impulse control wanted to see what he would do when facing a dragon, but I was not cruel, and I lacked a dragon to spare... and I was not stupid enough to give other people dragons... like Jacaerys Valaryon.

I grasped my staff, focusing on the moonstone atop it and causing the experiment with the compass creation to fly in the air into my room, among the rest of the experiments I had conducted on the open seas.

A flex had my vision shift to my Familiar, the white raven with red highlights perched atop the main mast. The Raven, who still held onto the connection to the Sun... whose name I still could not decide on, had been upgraded with a few improvements on the same method of skinchanging.

The raven's eyes focused on the enemy ship; his greater eyesight allowed me to make out the bars on the floor of the deck and the full contents within.

"What do you think, Ser?" I asked the shadow behind me. Taking out the broken half of the Lamentation, I let the tip of my staff bind with the hilt, forming a hewing spear or a glaive from whichever perspective one looked at.

"Put on your armor, your grace," said Ser Richard, his voice hoarse and cautious as he pulled aside the white cloak I had given him, revealing the pale wooden arm that wrapped its wooden fingers around the sword.

**Dragonkeeper:**

His new hand grasped the hilt of the sword, the wood scraping against wood as Ser Richard Lonmouth took in the smell of the sea... savoring it... savoring life... in spite of the coming fight... maybe because of the coming fight.

The Queen Rhaella's Revenge was a ship they were given as a gift by the Sealord, and it had already held the Glyphs of Valyria on most surfaces. Glowing softly when he had looked through the small spectacles his grace had made for his use. He trusted those spells, the protections inlaid to the ship itself to keep them safe, but Richard preferred his sword to do the protection.

Prince Rhaegar had been right... Maesters were wrong when they claimed that Magic had gone through the world. It was there, hidden, waiting for the right ones to bring it forth. Rhaegar knew a few tricks; his harp of silver strings and dragon bone, Richard suspected, was one of those tricks... yet he was just that... playing tricks compared to his younger brother and the stick he held.

The wooden hand he had been given moved with his will as though it mimicked the ghost of his flesh hand that was now gone. Beneath, the stump of his arm had veins of black, though the touch of the Weirwood was as though a warm hearth in the middle of the winter and a cooling skin of water under the Dornish Sun at once. He felt the touch, yet the pain was gone, and the arm had more strength than his flesh would have.

Twice, for two princes, he had served, fighting in their name, and twice he had seen death... but that was the way of things it would seem. After the Trident, when Richard ended up in the Quiet Isle, brought there through the currents of the river, Richard had given up on life upon seeing Rhaegar fall... until he woke up in the damp and dark, looking into those familiar yet all so unfamiliar eyes of his Prince. Richard cried out for his gods then, thinking it was the nightmares that haunted him.

Richard had given up, dragged along into the dying embers of a dynasty... until he saw what the Prince stood for. Despite having nothing, the Prince chose to do the right thing, the honorable thing. The golden-haired lass by the side of the Princess was enough to remind Ser Richard that there were those who would need knights, and his prince was one that was worthy enough to serve.

He saw Rhaegar in the young prince, the same hair, the same sad eyes that mourned the death of his family... and even the wrath that was beneath. The king disliked being compared to his own brother, yet they had both done things that were not to their benefit more than once... for the sake of chivalry and the innocent.

The dark-haired girl with grey eyes that had recently joined their 'Party,' as the king called it, brought out other memories as well, Rhaegar's love and ruin... yet there were subtle hints that she was not the same lass. The priestess had a sharp tongue, questioning everything and making the prince as frustrated as she could, though the subtle smile on his face showed the young man matching wits with another person.

His eyes landed on the right hand of his prince... now scaled like a dragon. He had seen what was beneath the magical glove his prince had made out of snake's skin... burned flesh, red and raw, unable to heal completely even after months and potions that Richard had seen knit flesh back together with ease... 'cursed with the flames of the stars itself and quenched in death. Cost of Greater Magicks, I am afraid,' his king called it, dismissing it as mere discomfort before pulling on a layer of skin that molded itself to the flesh.

His eyes fell on his own hand... the one made of wood and bone, the one made by his prince to give him a small amount of his strength in arms... the one that had led to Richard match the First Sword of Braavos when he had no chance of winning without cheating.

"What type of king does not help his own men... fight for his own men?" echoed the words of Rhaegar that day when he had led the charge to reinforce the flank upon the death of Prince Lewyn, despite the risks to himself upon the field of battle. Viserys had comments regarding the Trident, how they ought to have not crossed the water, but what had happened had happened. Viserys, too, showed that he cared for his own men more than his own health. The boy whom Richard had met bled for the innocent lives... he had burned for the sake of his man... Richard admired the boy whom he called King... and he feared him all the same.

A moment, he was laughing and joking, and the next, his eyes had turned to the sea... commanding the Captain tasked with sailing the ship out into the middle of the Narrow Sea.

Years had taught Richard never to blindly follow a Targaryen without preparing for a fight... his magic arm flexed on its own, and the white cloak upon his shoulder... asked by Richard himself after he learned of his inability to have children of his own from the Manticore Venom now moving through his veins.

The crazy Dothraki entrusted with the helm of the ship had not asked questions, like many others before who followed the dragons to ruin. The stars could be used to navigate the Narrow Sea, and he knew the few Braavosi sailors knew the art, relying on Myrish devices or using instead Priests of the Starry Wisdom, whom his grace refused even be near the ship, carving a strange, uneven star with five points across the entire deck of the ship with his dagger while muttering things about 'Eldritch Horrors' and using words that would leave Sailor's blushing and have Queen Rhaella wash his son's mouth with soap had she been alive.

Richard did not care, for whatever could scare the Wizard who killed the entire order of the Faceless Men in a Night was not something Richard cared to meet. If the strange symbol protected them, the Kingsguard was satisfied. The small of his back tingled at that thought, reminding him of the nature of the King he swore to protect and the seven-pointed star that now stood pale against the small of his back.

To those who knew not the King, it would look as though the boy had the blessing of the Seven themselves. When the boy looked, he looked through you, seeing you, judging you as though he was the Father himself. When he healed, his hands were guided by the mercy of the Mother herself, his gaze holding a kindness that soothed Richard's soul. His mind sharp as Valyrian Steel, honed by the Crone and pulling knowledge out of the ether with his will alone, and his will a weapon finer still, a testament to the favor he held in the eye of the Warrior.

Then there was his craft. His hands, making tools of Magic as though guided by the Smith, the powders that Wat the Brains used, causing men to fall before they can make it off the slaver's ship or the arrows of the Wat the Eyes that punched through steel plate, or the polearm in the hands of the king moving with grace the boy never had shown... as though blessed by the Warrior himself, each thrust punching through the armor of one or the other, the long Valyrian Steel blade hewing through chain and leather, it's broken tip a promise of death.

And then there was his new arm, moving with a mere thought to block the slash, quickly blocking and thrusting at once. Made of Weirwood for the flesh, with the bone of a dragon and his own bound together. Made from the materials that made up the wand of the Princess, the wand that had burned for his grace. He was sworn to keep his secrets, and he would do so from now until he had no life left in his body to be the shield.

To the fool, Viserys Targaryen spoke in the voice of the Seven... until you actually bothered to listen and found that gods cared not for the living... only keeping them as food for worship. Richard had cared not much for the Faith he was grown up with. Being the squire to a prince plagued with dreams of destruction, Richard knew that magic was there. Being the sworn sword of the one people called a Wizard showed him how much he underestimated those who held the power of magic... or how terrifying they could be. Men did not break the rules of the world with their wills, yet a wizard did it; his prince did it when he could not be bothered by walking to grab something.

The arm moved as if it was his own, though he could feel when he needed to move in a certain way to find a bout of fight... as though the magical wood guided him.

Men fell against him, their blood landing on his white wooden arm as he felt himself slowly get faster and better until he was breathing hard from cutting through a dozen men and facing the man who could only be the captain, with his fancy clothes, jewelry, and large hat. Even though Richard was good, the Captain seemed better, and a dozen times, their blades met, and all it took was Richard missing a slash. The blade that was aimed at his gut was ripped apart from the slaver's hand with a roar of "ENOUGH!" from the King, a pulse of air ripping the blades of the slavers off their hands.

And the Dragon Awoke.

Compared to the spar His Grace had with his sister, this was the man who chose to fight off a Sorcerer with centuries of experience on him... and won. This was his might bringing itself to the front, the man whom some Braavosi called the Butcher of Death in whispers when in their cups... This was the Wizard of Westeros.

A moment later, one of the slavers who seemed to have snuck past the rest and tried to enter below deck fell apart in four separate pieces... three shadow-ravens emerging from the stumps formed by the invisible blades, each attacking one of the slavers that had the misfortune of being close to the dead one. They did not die from lost limbs or cut-off heads but rather shriveled into themselves, dead for weeks within the span of seconds.

Seeing him fight was... not to watch the Warrior, but the Stranger itself descending to the field of war... for the Ice and Fire and Death and Destruction take the field with him. At that moment, Richard did not see the boy who sparred with him, the one who, with his strength and speed, pushed a fully grown man... even if he lacked the skill of the likes of Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Arthur Dayne, or even the Kingslayer... yet his magic still made him a formidable and dangerous fighter when fully grown.

At that moment, Richard understood why the boy-king refused to use magic when sparring... as the dragon in human form went through the pirates as though a scythe through wheat.

What Richard saw was a dance of death itself. Smoke became blades ripping man apart; bolts of flame burned holes through flesh as though through a cloth. Three men huddled too close together were launched with a wave of the Wizard's hand, and an archer screamed as flames erupted from his eyes before falling off the crow's nest, shattering into pieces of ice.

Compared to the previous spar he had with her sister, Viserys Targaryen unleashed his full might, showing that he was as dangerous as a fully grown dragon.

Along the way, none of the arrows harmed the king, the strange face plate which held a glass visor in place of the gaps of the eyes slits, and the helm that held the rune carving of the spell that halted objects. Each arrow fell on the ground once they were close enough... simply bounced off. Richard had been there when the King ordered a smith to make the helmet to his designs; he had been there when the King showed the glass plate that would be part of the helm, scoffing at the thought until the King brought a hammer upon the glass.

The slavers ran... as cowards often did when faced with a stronger foe. They managed to make it to their ship and cut the lines they had used to climb onto the King's ship, yet the wave slammed its hull back onto the Queen and out of the hull, the wood-formed hands that grasped onto the other ship, ropes launching and binding themselves to keep the ships from separating.

"Yield!" the King roared, "and none shall be harmed while your feet touch the ship," the King commanded once he carved a path of death through half the crew of the ship, and Ser Richard himself resisted the urge to kneel at the presence and the command, his back burning with the thrum of power in the air.

Ser Willem had warned him not to bring up the Seven, and Richard had acquiesced. By his own knowledge and wisdom or by the grace of the Seven, his King had the blessing of the gods... or he was a god in human skin... not that Richard cared for the difference. Unlike the Seven, his grace was before him, bringing magicals to reality while being more than the Seven ever claimed to be.

A dragon in human skin... with the wrath to match when angered. Mayhaps the old sayings were true, that Targaryens were closer to Gods than Man... the King made it appear to be so.

Soon the slavers were bound in ropes and held at sword point.

"You gave your word," said one of the men.

"Where are you from?" asked his grace as the Princess and her 'ladies in waiting' walked from beneath the deck where they were safe from the fight. The giant hound stood next to the Princess, its body larger than any hound or wolf... the fur on his snout was the color of a blood red that was the only thing in its smoky grey fur... fur of a fox that was bound to the creature to give it a better sense of smell than even wolves.

"Ghis... we are from the mighty Ghis," said the slaver. "I am..."

A wave of the wand shut him up, "Far from home and a dead man," the king concluded.

"You promised we would not be harmed on your ship," argued the slaver. "You gave your word."

"I have... your feet are not touching the ship," the king stated, lifting all the slavers with his magic, as a sequence of cracks was heard, leaving the man with broken bones... hanged like the pirates they are from ropes invisible.

Some days... Ser Richard Lonmouth felt as though he was less protecting his grace from the threats and more protecting the world from his brand of crazy, and this was one of those days. The saying about the coin was wrong, Richard decided; all Targaryens were nuts, and some had the balls to embrace it... few had the might to enact it upon the world.

It was his family's misfortune that a Lonmouth always showed up when the crazies changed the world. Hopefully, this time, it will be for the better.

**The Little Dragon**

In the opinion of Daenerys Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men was... the best brother who ever lived... or died... Dany did not know if Rhaegar was a good brother, but Wiz called him a 'self-absorbed prick who plunged a realm into war for his own dreams,' but Dany was not sure if she had any authority to judge, having not met Rhaegar. Wiz was pretty adamant about making assumptions and having the opinion of others corrupt her perception. Her brother said it, and Wiz was smart and awesome, so Dany would listen to her brother.

That being said, Wiz was also annoying... as he was sometimes a bit too overprotective... like now.

The outing with the new ship Viserys got from the Sealord was great. Dany loved their life in Braavos, but her brother kept her close, not letting her go out to the city or explore as much as Dany had wanted. Queen Rhaella's Revenge... named after their mother and one of the bedtime stories that Viserys told her... of Queen Anne's Revenge and her legendary pirate-captain Blackbeard at least gave Dany some freedom, even if that freedom came with lessons in the form of magic duels. Dany was still not sure of the name of the ship, but Wiz had his flights of fancy in naming things... it was fine so long as he did not grow a beard, lit it on fire, and called himself Silverbeard.

The image brought a giggle just as she made her way out of the lower deck to find her brother with Huan by her side.

"You gave your word..." one of the men stated... making Dany want to hiss before she suppressed the instincts of Missy as Wiz taught her. Their presence felt... wrong... like oily and slick, and made Dany feel disgusted... as she felt Missy raise her fur where she was laying all the way back in Braavos, lazing on Ser Willem's lap and getting her ear scratched.

"I have... your feet are not touching the ship," her brother declared. Wiz was technically correct... which was the best type of correct.

Soon, Dany was standing next to Wiz, his hand never leaving her shoulder. It was enough to make Dany curious; seeing her brother's stone face meant he had probably gotten a vision or something along the lines.

"A word is an important thing, sister, yet the punishment of Slavery and Piracy is the same in any truly free city," said Wiz once the bodies were sent to the cold room made with Magical Runes and Weirwood. Dany knew that it was so they could be used for some of Wiz's experiments, for magic that Wiz deemed too Dark and Dangerous for Dany to learn until later.

Dany kept her hand around her wand, getting comfort from it as Moonshadow approached. "Do you understand why he did it?" asked the Priestess of the Moon.

"They were pirates and slavers," Dany repeated, uncertain what was hard to understand about that.

"Your brother has certain views on justice... be they right or wrong, they are his," advised Moonshadow as Wiz walked by. Moonshadow gave Wiz a calculating and annoyed look.

"The Northerners believe that a man who passes the sentence ought to swing the sword... to remind themselves that killing ought not be easy. Some call them barbarians... others call them bloodthirsty. I am of the opinion that the Starks are onto something, given how they ruled over half of Westeros for the longest time amongst all the houses." explained Wiz making Dany nod in understanding. "And a man who cannot do his own killing is less likely to be respected... remember that. The rules are less defined for women, however."

"Iron fist... velvet glove," Dany remembered the lessons that Bellonara had gone through regarding the Court.

"Indeed... and do you know why I chose the method I did?" asked Wiz.

"Your word is your bond; to break it would make you untrustworthy, and the worth of your words mean less," stated Dany, "Yet to keep your word does not mean you cannot go around it."

"Wise words," said the woman, who emerged from among the chained man in the cage. "Though tricky road to walk that... holding to the spirit of your word is better most of the time, less they deserve death for another crime."

Wiz... or rather the King snapped his fingers, and Ser Richard straightened, "You stand before His Grace, Viserys Starborn the Third of His Name of House Targaryen, Exiled King of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar, Archwizard of Valyria" said Richard, having been tasked with the duty of introducing the king, calling him by the title that Dany came up with. If she got to be Stormborn, then her brother ought to be Starborn after all... it only made sense. Wiz got a strange look before accepting the title.

Dany suppressed the urge to giggle, recalling the last time her brother said his own name and caused the flames in the room to rise like towers. It had caused drapes to catch fire on accident... something about remaining enchantment placed upon his own name from the ritual that destroyed the Faceless Men.

'A lesson as good as any, Dany, remember this always... magic leaves a mark, for good or for worse,' her brother explained, and it had been enough for Dany to take the lesson to heart and be extra cautious with rituals using her name.

"That be a long name... though I have heard longer," said the woman grinning a crooked grin, though Dany could not sense any malice in her words.

"Now, what is your name?" asked Wiz to the woman.

"I be called Morna White Mask, and these be my war band... we came seeking ye', Sun King," said the woman who gave a wicked smile.

"Wildlings..." grunted Ser Richard, his hand clutching his blade before the king placed the end of his staff over his hand.

"What brings the Men of the Free Folk... seeking me... and ending up chained in a Slaver's Ship,"

"Aye, but here we are... where we wished to be," said the woman, still grinning. "I saw ye in a dream, as me mask cracked and I glimpsed at ye in my dreams; Mother Mole foretold that if we went to Hardhome, we would find the one we seek... the one with a crown of the sun upon his brow."

'Fucking Divination,' thought Dany, recalling her brother's frustration with the subject... when he was not the one using it, at least, though she was far too refined to speak such vulgar words out loud. Bellegere would tell on her to Wiz, and Wiz would give her that disappointed look he gave people when they were being stupid or wrong... and Dany still remembered the taste of soap from the last time she used a bad word in her brother's presence.

"And your mask?" asked Wiz, making Dany notice that Morna White Mask did not in fact have a mask... white or any other color.

"Wasn't gonna let that fuckers take me mask... I can make a new one with the wood below," said the older woman, grinning and showing a few of her missing teeth.

Dany reached out and felt. Her senses were not as developed as her brothers, but she could feel the presence of a large amount of something wooden beneath the deck of the ship; the mutter of "Weirwood" from her brother confirmed it. It was a lot of Weirwood if what she felt was right, and Dany knew how long her brother spent growing the magical wood and how annoyed he was that he could not find more of it.

"Bread and salt for our guests, and wine as well. Let us feast for freedom and victory," declared Wiz before the temperature dropped around them. "And if any of your men try to think to look at my sister funny," he stated, looking at Morna, "I will kill them, bring them back, and repeat with increasingly different methods of death until all they are will be agony and they will beg that I kill them, breaking guest rights be damned," Wiz stated, causing some of the younger man to blanch. Dany had not noticed their looks, even if she had long since taken a step away from them, keeping Wiz in between her and those men, "and when I am done, I will throw them to the bottom of the sea for the horrors beneath the waves to fuck with you for eternity."

Wiz could be scary when he wanted to, even if some of the threats he made caused Dany to want to bury her face in her pillows as Wiz showed his overprotective side. Dany had a feeling that those men would be the first to fall to a fight or an ambush... for someone who liked showing off, Wiz had a subtlety to him when it came to disposing of his enemies, as fitting for any wizard.

"Hear that, cunts, you look at the girl funny, and I will rip your balls off and feed it to ye' before the King gets to ye,'" said Morna, giving Dany to sigh.

Like Dany was a little girl... and not a dragon like her awesome big brother. She knew what they would try to do, and her fire burned hot; even if it did not match Wiz, she could still burn them before they could toucher her... or Lanna... or even Belle when she stopped behaving like a know-it-all... even if she did know how to sing and dance better than anyone else.

Daenerys Targaryen was a dragon, and just because her fire bolts could not harm Viserys did not mean they could not burn mere men.

"So, Morna, tell me why you have come. Have the Cold Ones started stirring already?" asked Wiz, as the air around them warmed... though the chill in their bones remained. Dany suppressed her urge the sigh. Behold, Viserys the Wizard, everyone, subtle in destruction, with the social graces and patience of a dragon when it comes to topics that normal men would consider nightmares.

"Ye' know 'bout that... don't?" said Morna, spitting to the side. "That makes it easier..."

Dany sighed, she truly loved her big brother dearly, but sometimes, it fell to her to soothe the ruffled feathers of men, unready for the truth of this world.

**Wandbearer**

The addition of Morna's band to the crew had happened rather smoothly. They were scared enough of me and yet respected me enough that they did not have any trouble following Morna's lead.

I noted the few who looked at Dany with desire. They did not really see her, but rather the power they believed she too would have or the influence 'stealing' her may bring over me. Luckily, none of them were sick enough to do anything for now, given her age, and they had all been sufficiently cowed, but I would make a note to make sure to give them the honor of leading the vanguard in any fight in the future. Ambition was a useful tool, but they needed to limit it if they wanted to work for me.

The presence of the Free Folk also balanced things out. The original three men I had, along with Ser Willem, who was overseeing the operations in Braavos, had not been enough to begin with. The recruitment from Essos was one that I was wary of, as most of them were either Sellswords seeing someone with the power to ensure they would win and get a quick pay or fanatics of religions, with a few exceptions that were hard to pick up.

Morna had been a surprise, but not an unwelcome one, given that I could learn a lot more from them. That being said, the fact that she wore a mask made of Weirwood may have helped guide her visions and 'called' her to me. Magic be weird like that so, I had no room to comment.a

In contrast, the Free Folk saw me as someone with power and someone they could respect. Most were already superstitious, following Morna to slavery, and the ones who plotted to slit her throat for ending up in slavery were mortified as they watched me carve through slavers on my own with magic. They had a healthy amount of fear for me, and it was mixed with enough respect that they did not grumble. The fact that I did not ask them to kneel and kiss the bottom of my feet helped as well.

I sighed, having lost my temper when I got assaulted by a vision during the fight. The three slavers who had been sneaking below deck would have... I suppressed the memories of the vision that assaulted me. My visions were getting clearer for a while now and less controlled, as Dragon Dreams seemed to be assaulting me almost every other day.

I had decided to let the crew get bloodied, mostly to make sure they did not rely on me to solve all their problems. It would also bring them a feeling of unity. After the Faceless Men, I had become more reserved in killing; the nightmares I got still did not disappear from that bit of war crimes I enacted to ensure the safety of my family. That being said, I still lost my control when I decided to bring down my wrath for what those men could have done if left to their devices and out of my sight... leading to a swift victory after that, with the crew ending up being terrified of me than anything else. In the end, I disliked fighting non-magicals... it felt like bullying most of the time, even if I would put down rabid dogs.

The ship had docked at Braavos. There were still certain things that I needed to handle before we could fully leave, but the ship had been ready to depart.

I leaned back to the comfy chair in the study of the House with the Red Door. The winter had been rough on the Lemon Tree outside, though nothing a bit of magic could not fix, as the blossoms filled the air with a sweet scent. Dany, in the meantime, worked her best to try and make the tree bloom again.

I dropped Morrigan's skull onto the desk, along with the barbute helmet and the attached visor made with unbreakable dragonglass... to counter any arrows through the eye. The boiled and hardened leather armor I wore was similarly enchanted and matched the best steel plates while being twice as flexible and half as heavy.

Once I was comfortable, I started contemplating my problems... starting with the personal ones.

Souls were tough stuff, not easily mutable. You could give a soul a purpose, you could even twist it to your own ends, but separating it into smaller parts ala Horcrux required... you to crash your own soul against another in a manner that is similar to a primate crushing two rocks against each other until one or both broke... not the best method.

When you cast a spell to harm another, you were throwing your own soul against their own... and just as two rocks, both tended to chip away.

Luckily, my soul had been made... tougher, in a manner of speaking. It was less fragile rock and more fragile rock wrapped in foam. The Tantric Ritual I had developed using the potential of creating a life to wrap my own soul with the soul stuff took on the brunt of the damage... but it also left me with a new problem.

The soft soul stuff had a tendency to stick the souls of the dead to itself. The metaphysical material was far more malleable than normal souls. The people I had killed were a sacrifice to me and, as such, seemed to stick to me in a way. For a normal person without the grounding of the rituals I had gone through, the added spiritual material would last temporarily, potentially transferring to their offspring if they were particularly lusty.

For quick and dirty enchanting, that was useful... but it also created something I had not considered before... a concept that could best be described as Karma.

The Weirwood Wand had been doing far more for me than simply allowing me a convenient medium to cast spells. It had been allowing me to bypass something that I had not considered... the consequences of using your own soul to harm another, using their life as a sacrifice for my own.

While that on its own was not a bad thing, as my soul would grow over time, those souls held... spite against me, and they tended to cause misfortune... in a manner of speaking.

Pit against my own will, the souls of the dead were nearly powerless, yet the more they grew in number, the more they would try to work against me, and like an army of ants overcoming an elephant through sheer quantity, they would work against me. That type of effect against me would mostly reduce my own spell power, the will working against my own.

With the Weirwood Wand as a medium, I essentially held the Blackstaff, the focus that can allow you to preserve your own soul from the Dresden Books. The Weirwood had taken on the souls of the dead, using them to empower and refine itself over time, based on my understanding of the process. It held an echo of my own wish... the ideal of the wand that I saw in my dreams.

The Faceless Men themselves held little in the form of malice... their acceptance of death, their vision to bind me to their cause, and my own feeling of righteousness in offering them peace meant that they had caused little harm, yet even then, the combined unintentional and unguided Death Curse of hundreds of souls with not insignificant amounts of magic had been enough to make my the burn on my arm was nearly impossible to heal.

Without the Weirwood Wand, I needed something more manual methods to do the entire thing that my wand took care of for me.

The chalk, made from the ground bones bound with the soul of the dead, created a simple boundary. As the soul remained a single whole, the moment the chalk touched the stone floor, soul bound itself to the circle using up the 'charge' of the chalk to create an active boundary.

I took out a pouch of ground Moonstone, Weirwood Ash, and Salt, placing a pile in a bowl with me inside the circle, adding three drops of blood, bubbling and smoking, and it slowly dissolved the white powder, creating the bridge for my soul to pass through.

The latest ritual I crafted was a Purification Ritual, one meant for purification of the soul, as I poured my soul through the link to the blood I had, letting the Weirwood shift the souls, the moonstones and salt purified, re-writing the very essence of the souls and extracting the negative effects that the soul retained in death. After the 'tantrum' on the ship, I needed this.

By the time I was done, the mixture in the bowl was a pitch black substance, resembling closer to tar than blood and dust, holding the malice of those I had killed in the form of a miasma... a purely physical manifestation of the very definition of a "Curse".

I took a spare block of beeswax, the solid block melting between my fingers as I manipulated its heat with my willpower alone, landing on and mixing with the black substance. Pouring the liquid around a wick to create a candle.

The Black Candle was not similar to the Blood Candles, as it had a more clear and singular purpose. Though I only used it to make sure the material was safe to contain compared to its liquid form. Placing the candle into a box with other similarly sized candles before closing the box, I snapped my fingers, letting the person at the door in.

"Ye' a warg," stated Morna taking the extra cup of mead. Her eyes shifted from me to Huan in the corner, who had taken over my guard duty for the night by dozing against the fire while Ser Richard was guarding Dany.

Huan buried his now red nuzzle twitched as he took a breath, causing my mind to be flooded with the smells of things men could not normally smell. The addition of the fox fur to improve his ability to smell had not been helpful when it came to the smell of the ocean, but on land, he was better than a fox. Like my snakeskin arm that acted as a replacement skin, I have been working to reverse engineer the skin-wearing of the Faceless Men for cross-species upgrades for Fleshcrafting, and the results looked promising. Huan's upgrades had been one of the myriad ways of achieving it.

I smelled pain and fear and anger... I smelled grief and sacrifice and, beneath all, hope as the woman before me looked at me with determination. This was a woman on a mission... that mission was not known to me.

"That and more," said the image of Morrigan in Old Tongue appearing in the middle of the room. Morna yelped in shock before.

"Ye' be of the Old Gods..." muttered Morna, actually kneeling after seeing the red eyes of the Ghost and the skull-shaped weirwood.

"I was of Hardhome once... before it was gone. In the old ways, I would be known as She who Sings the Song of Doom and Death, but you may call me Morrigan," said the apparition, making me sigh.

"Now, tell us about the greenseer," I said in the Old Tongue that Morrigan was teaching me, knowing that Morrigan served the right type of incentive. "Tell me of the Three-Eyed Crow." Morna looked at me with a puzzled look before sitting down, and gulping down the entire glass of alcohol

AN:

There have been discussions about how Wiz is perceived and what would happen if he faced people who did not have 'hacks' to counter him. The answer, as can be seen... is that he is terrifying. Even those who are in his side are afraid of his wrath, apart from Richard who is just tired of dealing with it, and Dany who was always brave.

There are also other players taking steps, Braavos pretty much leaves him be, since the Faceless Men did not do that and they are now dead. Morna White Mask wearing a mask of Weirwood means she probably got first row seat to the Sun Fire Ritual and decided that Wiz is the safest place against the coming Winter.

Now Wiz has people, not an army but the seeds of one, a few months of down time to study and improve his understanding of Magic with a teacher and already, he has become as terrifying as an adult Wizard with training to fight.

Last edited: Jul 22, 2023

029 Skin Deep

# 029 Skin Deep

The cost of being able to kill the Faceless Men was high, but it was worth it. Without their presence, I did not need to worry about my own safety while I experimented with the type of magic that one would consider... dark in nature.

Without the Dragonbone cores working for me, the proto-Phoenix limiting my casts, and running into Morna White Mask, a Chieftain of the Free Folk, it seemed reasonable to expect visits from the possessors of some sort of Divination-based ability I barely understood. It meant that I was now low on time before more trouble would start finding me or less moral characters than a Free Folk Raider would seek me out.

As such, I was forced to try my hand at Plan B... where B stood for Basilisk. I was, understandably, not the biggest fan of Plan B. A Snake with a venom that could not be countered, with skin hard enough to resist most spells, and toxic blood that may or may not melt metal to such a degree that I was not certain even Valyrian Steel could resist it... all for a Horn that may or may not be a good match for me as a wand? Yeah... not my best plan to date... which included some rather questionable plans in the past.

It had been more than a month since adding Morna's War Band to our ranks... which had been growing steadily to nearly a hundred men. Of the group, there had been two Skinchangers, Sylva and Rolf, who had an eagle and a wolf, respectively, though only the eagle had survived the journey, while Rolf took on one of the hunting dogs with my permission.

Both skinchangers were initially terrified of me and my ability to control almost any beast I wished, and I had a feeling that they felt me when I was reading their surface thoughts, catching thoughts of 'Varamyr Sixskin' and 'Greenseer' which made me worried. Luckily, Free Folk had a certain amount of reverence for the Greenseers, even if Morna knew nothing of the Three-Eyed Crow. The panic they felt upon feeling my presence kept them in line, and they had some unique insights regarding skinchanging that earned them a place of honor among my men... a status that was different enough from how they were treated as pariahs when beyond the wall that it got me their respect in turn. There was also the fact that Huan towered over most men these days, so they knew not to act out.

As a precaution, I had everyone sign into a notebook with ink containing their blood, inspired by the practice of the Second Sons; I did not really have a method of enforcing said contract through magic for now. The mark of the Deathly Hallows on my arm was definitely a form of a contract, a Geas that was formed through the curse left behind by the Faceless Men, which I was able to tame and control into a less dangerous form. The rune for the mark itself was a conceptual representation of Death and my authority over it... but it was going to take longer to actually find the method. That being said, I simply told them that if they broke the contract, a curse would be upon them... and given my more magical capabilities, they all bought it without question. Now, all I needed was to keep track of the ones most likely to sell me out and have some misfortune happen to them. The rumors and superstitions would take care of the rest.

My eyes focused on the wand twirling between my fingers, the one of Rowan and Raven's Feather. The wand was good for a few healing spells but limited my options unless I used the backup wand once it ran out of its daily charge. I had a smaller wand kept up my boot, but that one was far more temperamental and lacked precision. Most healing that I needed to do to get the man's loyalty required a bit more finesse than what I could do without a wand, and I was not going to lead men to war without the capabilities of stitching them up, given I could not afford to lose any of them.

The spell I had cast pinged at the back of my mind. The soul of the raven I bound acted as a bridge to provide me the information in a form that was interpretable for my mind as I stashed the dead wand into its holster, picking up my other weapon.

"Three hundred paces forward, twenty to the left," I stated, opening my eyes and slowly walking, followed by Ser Richard, Wat the Eyes, and Wat the Brains. This was the type of hunt that required... experience and preparation with regard to Higher Mysteries... and none of my other men were ready for this level of operation.

In my hands was a spear, the reason for why I was taking this type of risk in the first place, a six-foot white wooden shaft tipped with a Valyrian Steel in the form of half of Lamentation that I did not mind partially damaging, unlike my Morghul Knife or something like, say, Blackfyre that I had planned to track down but failed due to the nature of Valyrian Steel and it's ability to undo spells.

The shaft was made of a special piece of Weirwood that I had been cultivating, one grown from a unique soil that was as much a potion as it was dirt. The secret, as I figured, was to use Dragon Bone mixed into the soil in a pale white potion that got its color from the crushed moonstones added to it. The mixture replaced the red swirls natural to the Weirwood, gaining a strange sheen in the light that contained the very concept of 'motion' that came from combining moonstone and dragon bone. It was well worth half the pile of ash that I had left of my original wand. As I was 'bonded' to that specific dragon who gave me the bone of the dragonbone pin that became my first wand, I could slowly extend that bond to items that contained some portion of the dragon's bones and any additional dragon bone I could add to the construction process. The spear shaft did not really work as a magic staff, lacking a magical core or a focusing crystal where the Valyrian Steel tip would have been, but it flew true when I threw it, and the wind seemed to pick it up and extend its range.

With my version of Gungnir that could hit a target through divination at distances normally impossible for a spear of similar size and weight, I had finally gotten the proper tools to counter a proper Basilisk and use a part of it as Wand Core.

With added insight into Skinchanging, I was now confident enough in my knowledge to consider myself a master of the art of possession. It took a deeper look into the nature of skinchanging for me to understand how and why the magical ability manifested... and specifically why it seemed to be so common North of the Wall and not anywhere else.

All that I knew of Skinchanging pointed to an interesting conclusion... that Furs made wargs... or rather, the skin held an echo of the original soul of the wolf, allowing the wearer to take on some aspects of it. The principles were the same as the Skinwearing of the Faceless Men, and it was a form of Blood Magic in a way. With a weak constitution leading to more time spent under furs, the power of hate directed at your own body making the soul willing to seek out a different host, and voila, you got a person capable of shifting to the bodies of nearby canines... often consisting of Bastard, Cripples and Broken Things.

It also explained why Wargs, people who skinchanged into canines, were more common. Wolf pelts made for warm cloaks... you did not let the ones who sought you out alive because they were probably starving and there to eat you, not to mention how hard they were to tame, and the wolf had enough of a pack mentality to allow for the connection to be formed. Once the soul was attuned through a mix of body dysmorphia, self-hate to leave your own body for another, and a genuine affection for the dogs around the camps, that would make for useful new hosts once the attunement was complete.

With that insight, I now had a white raven feather with red highlights tied to my shoulder-length hair that had grown over the months, meant to strengthen the connection I held to my proto-Phoenix Familiar... and my sister's insistence on braiding my hair. I had briefly toyed with the idea of naming the sun-raven something like Rhaelor to link him to R'hollor and take either a bit of his power or influence the Fiery-Fuck, but that sounded like a recipe for disaster, and the second the thought passed my mind, I felt a deep chill in my spine... before spending the next three days going through Purification Rituals of various designs, and redoubling on my Occlumency and trying to trace the origin of that specific thought... just in case said Fire God did not try to manipulate me to get an immortal avatar and some control over me or something like that.

Furthermore, I modified the snakeskin glove I wore on my burned hand, improving upon it by shadow binding the soul of the snake to purposefully improve my skinchanging abilities when it came to snakes.

The snake skin graft I wore was a bit closer to the skin than wolf pelts that made warging possible... so to speak, but the mechanics were the same. It would allow me some small amount of control over the Basilisk I was breeding, not the six-legged giant lizard version but the more... magical snake one. There were banners and legends of the Cockatrice, and it was a close enough recipe that both would work as I intended... only to be proven wrong.

The problem... as it turned out, was that breeding a basilisk was a bit more complicated than hatching a chicken egg under a toad... apparently... even if it fits with the basics of how I knew magic in this world worked.

Close contact with an animal granted an affinity to the soul of that animal. In a grown person, that affinity manifested as skinchanging, but what happened if said soul belonged to a fetus and was more... mutable? What happens if a skinchanger pulls the soul of their familiar while pregnant?

For a Dragon Rider, the result was children with silver hair and violet eyes, and occasionally a Dragonborn at the worst, a name used in Valyria to describe the dragon-like features of mostly stillborn babes, with a few surviving babes being given to the Onagrion, the Temple of the Blood Mages, to be raised as High Priests and Wisdoms, according to Morrigan's knowledge. It was the dragon pushing the link in the direction of the rider instead of the other way around, often as a result of stress or danger, and I suspected that it also could occur with dragon eggs and unborn children as well, though that specific detail was not something I was sure of. The mechanics also fit in with more... primitive skinchangers in the setting; the Direwolves and Starks both had longer faces than usual, while Borroq looked a lot like his boar, according to the books. For a grown person, the physical changes were minimal while mental effects were easy to counter; for a child, their physical and mental growth was influenced to a certain degree, often making them feral and beast-like in behavior... like Rickon Stark would have become; and for a child in the belly, the result was... what I called Basiliskification, a hybrid with the features of both animals.

Using the same principles, you could use the soul of an egg from one animal and bind it to an incubator of a different type of animal together, forcing the egg to develop in unnatural ways. One needed a third soul as well to satisfy the three heads of the dragon rule that Valyrians had noticed. Valyrians used unborn children, using a pseudo-necromancy to transfer the soul of the human babe into the animal that ought not exist... while I used soul-stuff from Tantric Rituals without a physical host in the form of a fetus... as that bit of detail made me... queasy.

On the other hand, it also explained the weird nature of the naturally found Basilisks of the Basilisk Isles. Brood-parasitism was rare, but it occurred often enough for a type of Basilisk to occur in the wilds of Sothoryos... in the form of the six-legged bastards that still left me bewildered as to its parentage... which I was half sure was part-crocodile or lizard-lion... and another half that had me scratching my head.

So, I got a chicken egg and placed it under a toad, as per my knowledge of how to hatch a basilisk... which worked, but it did not work as I expected. Hence why, the impromptu hunt where we had to catch the bloody thing that left a trail of rot and decay through the forest.

"There," yelled out Wat the Eyes, pointing at the air, before loosing three Weirwood arrows, striking a single hit before the creature disappeared into the woods.

Wat the Brains growled; his body held more hair than usual, his facial structure resembled closer to a wolf than a man, and his ears slightly elongated and twitched. "Left, twenty paces... moving to... king," he added in a more gruff tone, the Belt of Wolfskin having the effect of turning him temporarily into a werewolf.

The Belt of Wolfskin was the other result of my newfound expertise. It combined the Skin-wearing of the Faceless Men, but instead of a human, using an animal to create a partial transformation. The changes were temporary and were undone once the belt was removed, though it did bind the soul of the animal and the human for the duration.

Unfortunately, Wat was the only person who seemed to be able to use the damned thing without turning into a murderous rage monster. Whatever made him have common sense also prevented him from being influenced by the soul of the wolf... too much, at least.

I held my hand out upon his warning; the four rings in the four fingers of my left hand shimmered. Dragonglass for the spellfire, Moonstone for the force, Sunfyre for the purification and power of the sun, and finally, the Diamond for the strength and order, all four rings made combined to protect me from the attacking creature the size of a small dog.

The space before me shimmered for an instant, spellfire, invisible a moment before turning a light blue, with distinct lines appearing in thin air as the air before me took on a fractured look, not dissimilar to a diamond, just as something crushed into the Shield Spell I had finally figured out how to cast properly.

Touching my Shield Charm sent the creature back into the air through the built-in Banishing Charm I added... while I was left with rings that were warmer to the touch. The rings that the gems sat on were made of Weirwood to improve my control over the spells, though the added heat tended to either cause the gems to burn the wood and fall off or had the weirwood crumble when its magic ran out.

The basilisk hit a tree, only to jump back towards us in a wide arc.

"How high can that thing jump?" asked Ser Richard, coming to a stop and tracing the creature in the air while wearing a pair of goggles that I had made from Weirwood and Nightwood Ash and normal Glass. The anti-magic goggles were thoroughly tested on rats and a couple of murderers and pedophiles I picked up from Sealord's Dungeon... same ones who were then used to evaluate the creature's poison when they survived the killing gaze, at least.

"It is part frog and part chicken... so it should not be high enough to be considered flight," commented Wat the Eyes as he traced its path with the crossbow, launching another set of three weirwood bolts at once from the Myrish Crossbow... missing with two and grazing with one.

Said creature was... ugly if the word ugly had a definition. Two large yellow 'eyes' that were not eyes but worked to cast a light that petrified, as the rats and the pedophiles of Braavos found out before they died, a black tar-like skin with spikes that left wounds refusing to heal... as the pedophiles of Braavos found out. A body that was toad-like-like with a tail. Front legs had wing-like membranes that ended in three fingers with claws that hinted at its origins as a chicken and small razor-sharp teeth... filled with poison.

Toad-Basilisk

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

The creature looked more like a toad than a chicken; its skin secreted some of the most corrosive substances that I had ever encountered, capable of eating through anything organic, making its escape relatively easy. Luckily, the features that made it dangerous also made it easy to track for experienced hunters, though it had enough magic to be a threat to four of the most competent people in Braavos when it came to facing magical threats.

The creature was mostly toad with features of a chicken, yet the only aspect that I truly considered weird was the 'eyes.' The ritual of creation must have also latched onto the image of a Basilisk from one of the games I had played in my old life because the creature looked rather similar to that specific form... though its most powerful weapon was... "CROAK!"

Right.. that.

I sighed as the magic of the Basilisk burned up against the combined conceptual weight of the concept of sun and death that had latched themselves onto my own soul. As its creator, I seemed to have certain... privileges when it came to the deadly croak of the toad-basilisk, not a lot, but enough to afford me some small protection. It was a paralysis effect or petrification sent through the medium of sound, and while it did not kill, it temporarily locked you out of your own body... so it was still annoying to go through. I felt the push it made for my soul to move out of my body as the sound wave hit me, feeling the oily presence of the spell burning up against my own soul.

My perception slowed down as I closed my eyes, feeling the strain I felt from undoing the petrification from the croak of the Toad-Basilisk. The little fucker was getting stronger by the minute, and I had a feeling that in a few weeks, its croak would be strong enough to push a soul permanently out of its victim's body, killing the victim instead of temporarily sending them on a permanent Astral journey.

A subtle flex of my will released the rest of the group from the petrification before they could fall, the three men holding a small fragment of my burgeoning divinity in the forms of a small amount of soul-stuff and, therefore, my protection... which worked to counter the petrification, the soul-stuff acting like a spring to pull their souls back to their bodies. Ser Richard was the first to recover, his own blood burning up the remaining enchantment, while Wats were shaking themselves to get their souls oriented the right way... so to speak.

While I was not a god yet... or even a demigod in terms of spiritual capabilities, my presence was more akin to Fey of stories... and the three were my warlocks... in the manner of D&D and not the Servants of the Undying, holding a fragment of my power that I could reach out to. On second thought, the Warlocks of Qarth may have worked the same way... I was not sure. It had been a calculated risk. The Ser Richard already had my 'blessing,' the bit of soul-stuff that absorbed the souls he killed. I had fixed the issue of soul-absorption of the binding, a bit of modification changing the nature to have those souls permanently boost his physical capabilities, with me getting a bit as 'tax,' so to speak. It was all very Medieval as far as Magic went.

Wat the Eyes and Wat the Brains had been loyal; they had been there, watching my back in the toughest times, facing a Faceless Men and after, when I was at my weakest. They were "Dragon's Men', as they called themselves, finding the life of being far more than mere bandits stealing from others to feed their families preferable to their old lives.

They would need me to process and purify the added souls, but that worked for my benefit as well, keeping them close to me. I did not even know how the mutations would take place. It was a good countermeasure in case someone I empowered in the future decided to go rogue.

And the three stood with me in our hunt... hunting a creature that was anathema to the world.

In the next attack, Ser Richard proceeded to bitch slap the toad back to the forest, using the edge of his sword, which started to smoke as the edge seemed to do nothing against the magical skin covered with magical acid. I noticed that the Weirwood arm gave Ser Richard a boost in short-term precognition like it gave me precognition when it came to magic, making him better than most fighters. Syrio said it was cheating after losing the tenth time in a row, It was a weird and subtle bit of magic, but it made Ser Richard a better fighter, so I was not going to take it back. I looked at the superficially enchanted blade. A thin coat of shadow that was bound to the Qohoric Steel by yours truly smoked, and there was a thin line of blood that was eating away at said enchantments, proving that I was wrong in my assumption that it was completely useless against the toad-basilisk. I had hoped that it would have been enough, but the nuclear option it was... well, not the literal one... that one was a bit too excessive.

My focus turned to the basilisk in the air that was trying to change its flight arc with its small, winged arms.

Eyes closed, I concentrated before making my move when I heard the crack of the basilisk hitting one of the trees upon landing. My spear flew through the air, the weirwood shaft foreseeing its impact, and the shaft swaying in the wind in just the right way, causing cause and effect to happen at once, as the blade at the end impacted the toad-like creature sticking into the tree and pinning it, despite its futile attempts change it's fall, leaving two pieces connected by a small patch of skin and a slowly dissolving tree trunk.

The blood smoked, burning through the wood and grass alike and darkening it as I felt myself returning to my own body. While not as powerful as channeling the power of fusion, bending causality over a barrel and having my way with it was a useful trick to have.

I sighed, removing the spear from where it was launched and inspecting it. The Valyrian Steel blade that made up the end of my spear smoked; the blade was missing a bit of its pointy end, and its edges looked far too dull for Valyrian Steel, while the shaft itself was darkening up to a third of the way, forcing me to use my knife to cut it down to four feet.

Costly hunt that... it did mean that I had a better understanding of Basilisks, at least.

"What has that achieved?" asked Ser Richard as he made his way next to me.

"That brood parasitism leads to the creation of weird creatures with primary traits from the host instead of the progenitor?" I started before getting empty looks at me, repeating the hypothesis that was proven by the creature before me. "It means that a Basilisk inherited its looks from the creature it was incubated by more than its progenitor, meaning a Cockatrice would be a snake egg incubated by a chicken... or was it a rooster, and a proper Greater Basilisk, which is what I need, was made from a Chicken Egg incubated by a Snake... probably," I theorized, as I inspected the corroded tip of the Valyrian Steel Blade. Fortunately, Lamentation itself was already partially damaged; the shadow-binding had been undone sometime between the Storming of the Dragon Pit and when I reclaimed it from House of Black and White. Even if I managed to add a bit to its enchantments myself... Its tip most definitely needed reworking and sharpening.

Barth had theorized that Valyrian Dragons were fleshcrafted by breeding Firewyrms and Wyverns. A bit of mental math made me decide that it was not impossible for a skinchanger of sufficient strength to force a Wyvern to incubate a Firewyrm egg to create a fire-aligned ever-growing winged creature with attitude problems and smoking blood though it was a process that I did not want to be part of.

At least my understanding of the twisty logic of Magic was still as impeccable as it got.

As part of the project to create a Basilisk to use its horn as a Magical Core of a Wand, I needed to take certain precautions for the creation of a Basilisk. The murderous croak of the Toad Basilisk was quite possibly the single best hint I could get for the next experiment I had in mind and a way to counter the petrification that would be possible for the more unnatural version of a Basilisk than one connected to a creature of Metamorphosis that was the Toad.

Yna had been making certain observations, one of which was a more recent one. She had seen me as a cloaked man covered in darkness, wearing my own funeral shroud... yet everyone looked normal to her, apart from a few animalistic features. Apparently, Dany looked like a small red dragon nestled against a larger white dragon with fire for wings. Everyone looked like a symbolic animal, everyone except Verago... who apparently also had a shroud over his face, same as I did... though his was a more recent change that had nothing to do with another soul possessing his body... meaning he ought to be dead for some reason. I mentally checked if I killed someone who may have harmed the nephew of the Sealord of Braavos, but I was drawing a blank... chalking it up to all the butterflies. I had killed way too many people for me to narrow it down to some disgruntled idiot or another.

Dany watched me work, having taken a break from practicing her spells and mastering the shield charm, which took priority for her. "What are you doing, Wiz?" she asked, watching me inspect the yellowed piece of calcification.

"This is the fake eye of the creature we hunted... it is... fascinating," I noted, holding up the fake eyes of the Basilisk Toad. They had no basis in the physical rules... yet they still existed. There was nothing, no logic, no grounding... it was a round yellow bone-like piece that looked like an eye that grew on top of the actual eyes of the Toad-Basilisk. "It is a calcification, a Tumor, and potentially similar to a Bezoar in composition than anything else I can think of," I stated, running the tenth Scroll of Detection on the item.

The stone had 'Un-changing' as the main concept bound to it... as though the toad-basilisk poured out that aspect of its existence to a single location. The fact that the stones were connected to the voice box made me assume that the stones acted as a focus for the Petrification that came with the croak and eye contact someone made with said 'eyes.' I chalked it up to the nature of the Metamorphosis that Toads went through, being reversed in the creature that was unnatural and anathema to its parents.

The stone gave me an idea, along with the conceptual 'leverage' I needed to create a rather distinct bit of flora if I wanted to counter the Petrification of the Basilisk. What I needed was a Mandrake to be able to brew a Restorative Draught based on my potions knowledge.

Mandrake Plant already had an offshoot of turnips that was poisonous with neat little concepts that I never got to work with due to how weak said connections were compared to the toxicity it had. To make it magical was an entirely different process, and it required a bit more active magic from my end, something more potent than what nature could create.

The first step was binding the shadow of some slaver scheduled for execution in exchange for the large spider egg I gifted the Sealord gave me a life to bind to the plant.

The soil I created for the Mandrake contained the fake 'eye' of the Basilisk in the form of a potion that I had to brew in a golden cauldron because it melted any lesser metal. The blood and the body of the toad-basilisk also joined into the potion, its death reversing its effects and making for the perfect starting point for countering the basilisk's magic itself, with human and dragon bone added because the thing was named man-drake. I did not really have a justification for most of the materials I added, having fallen into a trance to pull a bit of divination-based shenanigans to get the results I wanted.

Once the potion was ready, a purification ritual to remove all the negative energy, which was a lot more than expected... and I could feel the stirring of the Mandrake within the soil.

Right... let's try chicken egg under a snake next... that should get me a snake-like creature.

A few months later, I idly thought of the nature of Skinchanging. Snakes... for Skinchanging was a wonky experience. Their understanding and perception of the world were rather unique, and I could not say that the memories and thoughts I retained were pleasant.

That being said, while possessing a snake, I understood snakes to a degree... specifically the snake-like creature with a single feather on its head. The effect was not so similar to Parselmouth ability, even if it was less refined and limited to when I took the skin of a snake, but I had the urge to obey the demands and questions of the King of Snakes, only to be broken by my chronic need to disrespect authority.

There was no talking... no real language... not really, more of a mental presence that forced itself against my will. Ser Richard mentioned that I was hissing, but that was the same mechanics that made a warg howl in their sleep. I noted the effects of the command the Basilisk had over other snakes for my improvements on the Imperius Curse before bringing the remaining sharp edge of Lamentation down to the snake that hatched in a cage under a shadow-bound silk.

The snake, with a single feather atop his head, died in darkness before I took apart its body with gloves coated in a thin layer of gold.

My newest wand was made through a Ritual I had devised to speed up the usual process. Rowan and Basilisk Horn, twelve inches, with a core bound by Sunstone, Moonstone, and Dragonglass... and the soul of the basilisk itself bound to the wand after purification rituals I pushed it through. The wood was grown in soil containing dragon bone, weirwood ash, and the second fake eye of the Toad-basilisk to make it take on the properties of the two materials and resonate, and the pommel looked like the head of a snake, with a piece of black diamonds in its eyes.

Where the Weirwood Wand was bound to me by blood, I had used the basilisk's own blood and soul for the process to create greater cohesion between the wood and the core. Once I figured out how to render said blood non-toxic using the mandrakes, I started cultivating and the purification rituals.

The result was a wand specifically good at protecting and healing charms... ironically. That also meant that my theory of using a Basilisk part as a core allowing for me to cast the Killing Curse, would have to wait; the nature of the wood and its affinity to protection and healing did not make for the best tool of death... resisting any spell that directly caused pain to another... with a few exceptions.

The wand was still good for levitating a large boulder and dropping it onto the head of some idiot, though, so it was only direct harm that the wand opposed. The wand, however, was surprisingly robust when it came to casting the Petrification Hex, which almost came naturally to it. Since petrification did not mean any form of harm and lost its effect in an hour, it was a useful non-lethal option.

Cutting Curse was mid, and the fire-based spells were actually harder to cast. But the piercing spell I derived, along with the Shield Charm, worked wonders... probably another residual affinity from the basilisk itself, its fangs and scales, which were comparable to dragon bone. The Shielding Charm, or the variant I was able to cast with my new wand, actually completed the aspects that I had been lacking to a degree, greatly helping in refining my own understanding of the spell.

I still had the actual eyes stalks of the snake-basilisk as well, though I had not managed to find a wood compatible enough to handle the more destructive properties of the nerve cells that could channel the killing gaze of the Basilisk. It did not help that the wood started to rot when they touched the eye stalks.

I sighed and went to find Dany. There were spells I could not teach her, and I had to update her wand for a Shield Spell as well.

"What is this one now?" rasped the voice of Ser Willem, trying to rise from the bed he had been confined in for the last week.

It had been a few months since I had struck the Faceless Men, and Ser Willem had been steadily getting worse, to the point that he had not managed to hide it from me until recently.

"A new potion," I explained, having integrated Basilisk parts for healing potions. Not the blood, which melted more cauldrons than I could count, while the heart was just toxic waste at this point without a way to counter the blood. The liver, however, resonated with the potion I crafted. Said potion would remove any harmful substance from the body... which formed the basis of the latest version of my healing potion when combined with the Magical Mandrakes I cultivated... the ones that now screamed and knocked souls out of the bodies of people.

"Is it as bad as the old potion?" asked Ser Willem, giving me a look. I did not mention the Basilisk parts, but my silence was his answer. Ser Willem drank the potion and started coughing. "What is this one supposed to do that the old one did not do?" he wretched as I passed him a cup of water. The potion did not look appetizing, even if it did not kill the rats I tested it on.

"Burn anything harmful within your body," I said, still unsure if it could actually heal the old man.

In the books, Ser Willem had died of Spring Sickness... which I was sure was Flu or Common Cold. The main problem was that such a disease was more likely to affect those who were already infirm... in Ser Willem's case... it turned out to be lung cancer, which took too long for me to figure out after I noticed the symptoms he tried to hide away.

The potion I gave him was essentially magical Chemotherapy... good for a small while but deadly in the long term. I had slowed down the Basilisk's venom enough and gave it a target, but I was improvising at this point... since there was no other option I could take. The body fighting itself was the one thing that the magic I had could not counter.

"There are better things to do than to keep an old man alive, your grace," said Ser Willem, his eyes blinded by age, looking at me and seeing through me. He lifted himself up from the bed he was spending more and more time in.

"I am not letting you die," I declared, causing the old man to place his hand on my shoulder.

"All men must die... you know that" the old knight said, and I took a sharp breath. I flexed my hand, feeling the burn on my forearm where the glyph of Death was, hidden beneath the skin of the snake.

The vase in the corner shattered... before I pointed my wand and whispered, "Reparo," pulling on the memory of the object to make it return to the whole.

"Does it hurt?" rasped Ser Willem, wincing as he forced himself to get up.

"Does what hurt?" I asked, taking the cup and holding a second potion that was meant to increase the healing of the body... one made from the Eyes of Newts, of all things... talk about cliches. The regeneration of the Newts passed into a Healing Potion.

We both knew that it was not working, yet I did not want to give up.

"Dying... does it hurt?" asked the old man, making me sigh.

"Faster than falling asleep," I admitted, and I meant it. My first death, I did not recall... but the others... sharp pain and the cold... a sacrifice of myself to myself every time I killed something after possessing it.

"How many times have you died now?" asked Ser Willem, seeing my resignation.

"Every sacrifice I make... it has to be done willingly; I need to live through it fully," I stated. "Every animal I possess, to bind to a spell, an object... there is a flash of pain, cold, then nothing. It is strangely peaceful and terrifying at once."

"Do you know what comes after?" asked Ser Willem, whom I did not think to be that interested in philosophy.

"Same thing that happens when you wake up from a dream; you become something else. I am sure the Faith has a better explanation than what I can provide," I said, thinking of my 'next great adventure'... it was a nice one, I had to admit, but it was one that I had carved out of nothing myself, bleeding for it every step of the way.

"Apologies for my language, your grace, but fuck the Faith; they know less than a boy barely grown," said Ser Willem Darry, making me snort.

I sighed after that, my spirits lowering as I understood that Ser Willem was trying to make peace with his fate. "I think it depends on who you believe. When you die, your soul joins the God that you worship, to feed and nourish them, or to be tortured by them in their stomach."

"Pity, I would make for horrible food," jested Ser Willem, "Grant mercy to our weak; it is part of the oaths... I never told you what that meant... but I never had to."

"Don't," I said instead.

"I have lived a long life, your grace, a life of regret," said Ser Willem. "But you and your sister are one regret I will never have. As your sworn shield, it was my honor to protect you... and I would ask to do so even in death." I stopped at that, trying to understand what he meant. "Make use of it, turn me into Valyrian Steel, and wield me in battle if you must, but don't let my death be in vain to feed some self-righteous cunt of a god."

"It takes more than sacrificing a man to make Valyrian Steel, Ser," I said, my fingers playing with a single coin-sized steel I took out of my pocket... about four grams in total. The coin felt heavy, made from the corpse of a slaver, burned in spellfire. It was not Valyrian Steel, not yet, but I could feel that I was getting close. I understood it better now... or I suspected. "Not enough iron in their blood..."

Metals were tricky to enchant and required some Alchemy to modify to bind the souls to the metal and provide an enchantment. The binding itself decayed rather fast, or the enchantment was weaker. The only exception was the iron that came from the blood, which was naturally attuned to the soul of the body that the blood came from, the purest form of Blood Magic I could think of. Blades of Qohor tapped into the same concept, though their best works quenched in the blood of a sacrifice only held a thin layer of blood-iron upon the surface of the blade that allowed improved resilience, yet doing nothing against breaking or chipping. It was fitting that Fire and Blood was what made Valyria's steel, just as it made up all its other Magics.

"How many?" asked Ser Willem, making me sigh.

"About four hundred for a longsword... maybe fewer if you made it thin enough. The red in the blood is from the rust that is formed from the life-fire." I tried to explain the process. "No metal holds the soul as well as its original vessel, and spells can make it stronger if you know the right ones," I added, knowing I could pull the hardness of diamonds and pour it into a spell.

"With all due respect, your grace, but the Valyrians were right cunts, weren't day?" said Ser Willem, grimacing as he noticed my glare.

"You haven't the faintest idea, Ser, though it does explain the cost of a single blade being equal to that of an army," I said, my face twisted in disgust. "And you are the only one I would allow to insult my ancestors..." I added with a glare, however. There were lines that a king ought to have.

"Not all of them were that bad..." countered Ser Willem said, looking at me. "A few could even be worth being called King, really," he joked, making me snort.

"It is your health that is declining, Ser, don't let it drag your sense of humor with it," I said, making the old man laugh, only for the laughter to turn to coughing. I let the healing spell fix as much as I could... but the lungs were tricky... I left too much scar tissue, and I could not remove it all.

"Your grace..." started Ser Willem once he recovered from his coughing fit.

"I will take your request under advisement, Ser," I said with a sigh "though, I would ask that you refer to me by name when it is just us two... you were more of a father to me than Aerys ever was... and that is an order from your king," I said, giving him a look that had made an assassin shit himself in fear.

The silence was one we were comfortable with at this point.

"Viserys... I know I will not see you reclaim Westeros... I have made my peace with it but know that whatever you chose, you will never be left alone, not with your power... not with your claim or name," said Ser Willem with a calm tone, his mind focusing on ensuring that I was ready for when he died. He did not seem concerned about our safety, knowing that I would be able to take care of myself and Dany, but he still had his own thoughts on the future... on what was best for me.

"Holding the throne is trickier than taking it, Ser... it requires people to... follow you," I said with a sigh. Westerosi were prickly folk... not so different from the Free Folk in the regard of whom they followed... and most were against me already. I would find little support among the nobility, and unlike the Faceless Men, I could not kill all of them without risking more chaos in turn.

"I know..." said the old man, giving me a look I was familiar with, "You need more allies. What do you say to contacting Dorne?"

"Like you have not already reached out to them, Ser?" I asked with an amused look "Reliable lot they will be," I muttered, making the Crownlander knight chuckle. I knew that Ser Willem had his own efforts, of course, and I let him do as he wished, mainly because I knew how that particular move would play out and I did not really care about the Dornish as Doran Martell would only make a move when he was sure to win... when winning itself required you to make moves.

"Give them a chance," he said, "they are surprisingly resilient."

I nodded, listening to the advice of the men who had made peace with his death and still cared to protect me and support me as he had once promised.

AN: This chapter was becoming far too long so I decided to split it up instead of letting you wait longer.

Basilisks, Plots and Valyrian Steel, kudos to those who figured it out in the comments.

As always, I am singularly motivated by likes and comments.

Last edited: Jul 29, 2023

030 A Study of Snakes

"We have a problem," whispered Bellonara, sitting down next to me in the theater, with Dany by my other side, trying to look like she was not listening instead of watching the play on display from the loge.

"Is it the Dornish who just arrived in the city?" I asked as I checked on the ship that had docked with a nifty bit of Divination... some bird or another provided me the eyes to see the yellow sails and the giant orange sun emblazoned on the main sail that was hard to miss.

"Ferrogo did not let me know they were coming," said Bellonara, her eyes focusing on the play as Bellegere takes the stage, the show's star, as she was playing an Expy of Helen of Troy. The playwright, Izembaro, was decent in his job... and the outline I gave him was solid... the dialogue could have improved. I had to change a few things up to make it parallel the story of Lyanna and Rhaegar, though, just to mess with Robert... apart from the child bit.

It was properly re-framed to be the story of Maris the Maid, for whose hand the first recorded tourney was arranged, won by a giant of a man Argoth Stone-Skin with a war hammer, only for Maris to run off with Uthor of the High Tower. I had changed the plot to have Argoth kill Uthor, leading to Maris throwing herself off the tower to hammer in the Star-Crossed Lovers thing. I was not the Bard, but I managed to cobble a decent play, even one in iambic pentameter of all things, with the help of Izembaro.

"She seems to be drawing all the eyes," I noted as I felt the spiritual pressure to watch Bellegere perform. Her spiritual presence had been solidifying after the ritual, and I could feel her intentionally pushing out her 'fuck me' aura, which was a bit too much for those with weaker minds.

"For better and for worse," noted Bellonara, agreeing with me and drawing my attention to one of the audiences who was pushing through the crowd in a daze without regard before freezing and falling after moving passed a line on the ground.

The Proximity Ward with Petrification Charm I placed seemed to be working as expected, as the shadow bound to my wand was currently assigned to keep that specific enchantment up for the duration of the play while allowing me to cast other spells.

There was a hush as Bellegere ignored the magic to continue with her lines. I could imagine her rolling her eyes at that particular trick. "It is troubling that my influence over the Sealord is waning. I would have to bed him soon once more at least... the few of the girls I have are keeping him busy, but he is catching on that I am more your mistress than hus," said Bellonara continuing to press on.

I noticed that three among the crowd had started moving, their minds open for me to see their intent.

An inhuman growl was the response to that, making Bellonara whimper and scoot back while Dany snorted. I could smell the arousal from the former-Black Pearl, though. I clamped down on my mind to focus, ignoring one of the few additions I took on from the original Viserys... my possessiveness was closer to a dragon's than humans. "Putting me on a hard position, Black Pearl," I growled, making Bellonara gulp.

"I have retired, as you would say, your grace, Bellegere is the Black Pearl now," said Bellonara coyly... though retirement meant taking over the management of the spy network that I burrowed inspiration from Littlefinger of all people... with Bellonara slowly purchasing brothels in Braavos and ready to expand to other free cities. It was lucrative, and I was planning on using it as a spy network, so it worked for both of us.

"Regardless, there are whispers that Ferrego may be replaced soon while you are sent away, and the next Sealord might use the chance to gain control over the little dragon. The advisor he killed was not the only one to have the idea of using the young one to control you," whispered Bellonara, gasping as the fires around us dimmed... only the ones around Bellegere stood, her innate Sorcery countering my Accidental Magic, as they were closer to her.

Well, so much for allies, I suppose... though I could not fault the Sealord for trying to gain some control over me given that I had effectively thrown the entire Braavosi politics into chaos, and Ferrego needed something to ensure my support, even if I could blame him for being an ambitious cunt with limited foresight when it comes to messing with a dragon.

"And you are telling this to me now... because?" I asked once I was calm enough to talk; Bellonara simply stared at me for trying to play dumb.

"I will think of something," I said, thinking of how I could control someone from a distance, making to get up. "Now, if you would excuse me, I have an assassin trying to make his way to our booth, hired by... huh... it appears Tywin has joined the strange lot that wants me dead... will wonders never cease... I will take care of the two morons planning to ambush me and challenge me to a duel as well. I find myself in need of stress relief," I said, taking out a few slivers of Weirwood, Nightwood, a small chip of obsidian, and dragon bone from my pouches.

I gave a nod to Ser Richard to leave him behind to protect Dany... or prevent her from burning down the place. You could never be sure with the little Firestarter these days.

I held up my latest wand, Magical Rowan, cultivated with both Weirwood ash and Ground Dragon Bone to make it better at channeling magic and more resistant to heat. I had added half the ashes of my original wand to it in the form of a potion made from my own blood to ensure the attunement of the wood to my soul.

The core was Basilisk Horn, similar to the core of the wand of Salazar Slytherin. Unlike the Toad Basilisk with its fake eye, the King of Snakes had its magic imbued through its bones, making the Horn one of the better sources of spellfire. Ironically, the spell-fire took on the shape of light on its own, unlike the proper fire that the dragon bone and dragonglass combination provided.

I had combined the core with the potion of Dragonglass, Moonstone, and Sunstone, as per my latest discoveries... while the wand itself took on a serpent-like form over time, with eyes made of Black Diamonds. It was less feeling, and I found the Arithmancy more appropriate, as three types of stone within the core were more stable than four types of stone, especially when the three represented Earth, Moon, and the Sun.

The result was a wand that worked, even if it did not seem to make it easy for me to cast spells like the pseudo-Phoenix Feather wand... it lacked the shortcomings as well.

Ten minutes later, I came back up. I had disarmed and petrified the two Bravos before sending them on a moonlit journey on some random gondola that was making its way through the canals. They had been sufficiently cowed, while the would-be assassin had a less pleasant fate.

A brand new coin rolled between my fingers... this one had a dark and smoky texture, steel made from the blood of the assassin, combined with Weirwood and Nightwood, with trace amounts of Dragonbone and Dragonglass to make it Dragonsteel.

The coin in my hand was not the exact replica of Valyrian Steel, unfortunately. The actual recipe of Valyrian Steel was lost, and even Morrigan had suspicions and nothing else. I had narrowed down the blood-iron to be sourced from either shit ton of human sacrifices or a single large dragon that produced enough iron to make up a weapon, while the anti-magic abilities and rippled pattern was surely connected to the combination of Weirwood and Nightwood.

Knowing what I knew, my efforts were focused on creating Dragonsteel, a more common term, with Valyrian Steel being a specific formula as far as I could gather. I had a feeling that the blood from a human was not enough, as there were theories that Nissa Nissa was, in fact, a dragon, making Valyrian Steel actually made of dragon blood instead of human blood. The amounts involved would work... and a dragon soul seemed more magical than a few hundred humans.... but I could have been wrong.

Being short on dragons, I pulled on the concept of 'Dragon' from Dragonbone and Dragonglass instead to imbue the steel to create with the required properties, experimenting by creating soul-coins that trapped the soul of my would-be killer, reflecting on how I had grown desensitized to the deaths of those who wanted to kill me in turn. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, even if I knew that it was the only path I could have. In this world of death and misery, you were either the butcher or the meat.

I flipped the latest soul-coin in my hand... before the coin landed on its edge on the small table by my chair... a drop of blood gleamed on the coin as I noticed the cut on my palm from when I squeezed it too hard, not noticing.

I tapped my palm with my wand, calling on the healing flames I created when burning the strongest healing potion I could make with the Mandrakes. The wood of the wand remembered the first time it happened, and it was enough to cast the soft green flames, stopping the healing... though I noticed a thin scar form... right, Magic Steel created wounds that were hard to heal even at the best of times.

I tapped my own forehead as well, after that, removing the experience of death I had to live through to forge the coin as it slowly dissolved in the air. Burning alive was unpleasant, even if it was the body of another doing the burning, but Mind Arts tended to help with any trauma that was purely mental, at least before it took time to get a hold of you and I was able to keep them locked tight in a box until I figured out how to remove them a few months ago.

As I looked upon the dark metal and the blood upon it, I looked back at the rings on my finger... I just had the perfect idea to solve multiple issues of mine.

The House with the Red Door had become a vanity project of mine, a statement of my prowess in Warding. The protections I placed and took down over and over again, as the entire House had slowly developed into a small fortress as a result. To the outside, it looked like any other Palace that acted as its own fortress in the many isles that dotted Braavos... except for the Red Door, of course.

First were the wooden shingles carved with different runes and glyphs, creating a field of magical disturbance that made any use of Divination or other tricks extremely hard within the borders through the Moonstones buried in each corner, while the frame the made up the structure was a single web of Magical Wood as hard as steel and thrumming with the souls that made up it's 'curse' as some called it. There were enough protective spells to hold back Dragon fire for a few minutes, and above all else, it was littered with compulsions to keep the less pleasant sort from finding it in the first place, their eyes moving passed the house as if it was the most boring thing in the world.

The Palace of Ghosts, most men in Braavos muttered... a rather fitting name to the building that none with ill-will could find, thanks to a few whiskers from Missy the Kneazle. Those who knew that I lived in it when I was in Braavos called it Wizard's Keep instead.

The stone of the building was nothing significant, though if someone tried to take a hammer to the walls, they would find a thin layer of spellfire stopping such an act, absorbing the energy to strengthen itself. 'Protego Totalum' covered the entire building in the form of a dome, making it impossible for man to scale the walls completely or fall from the sky. It was tricky, but I managed to add the enchantment such that the climbers would slip and fall in the last leg of the climb, but the broken legs of the would-be Witch Hunters, Glory-hogs, and Assassins made all the effort I put into learning how to Ward worth it, as did their souls feeding the protections of my home.

All the Wards needed to draw power, however. Souls were useful so long as they held energy, and only living creatures seemed to be able to draw that mystical pool that was Unseen in the air back into their souls. I had anchored the protections to the Lemon Tree in one corner of the yard as the only tree inside the property. Its branches were reaching out to a specific window that I knew led to Dany's room... long before any magic I tried or any I thought Dany, one of those points proving that Dany was a natural when it came to magic.

The Lemon Tree itself had changed since I started experimenting on it with Fleshcraft... or was it Woodcraft... Druidcraft... right, Druidcraft, that was the correct word. Names had weird effects, and the Lemon Tree was partially merged with the remains of the single Silver Lime tree that had been growing so close to the Dragon Well, being exposed to strange Magical Energies as a result. I needed a bridge of sorts in the form of a branch from a Lime Tree, and the transformation of the tree was incapable of producing lemons, but the protection was worth the effort. I did not really understand the way names and identities worked, but they could be used as a bridge, which I had still not properly experimented with yet. The Magical Silver Lime combined with the Lemon Tree allowed the tree to hold and pull more Magical Energy than normally possible so as to power the additional Wards that were more energy expensive.

"Reach out," I explained as I stood next to Dany. "Feel the tree... it is harder than doing so with Weirwood, but the connection will be far more profound and stronger to develop."

Dany nodded, closing her eyes as she pushed. The stage that allowed one to jump from Weirwood to normal wood was hard but necessary. The results created bonds that were far more personal and harder to subvert. A few times in our spars, I had managed to interfere with Dany's spells altogether by simply reaching out to the Weirwood and blocking her... a feat that would be harder to achieve with a more personalized wand wood.

Greenseers were an evolution of Skinchanger, where the skin was the trees themselves. It was a tricky bit of magic to develop, but I had figured out a way based on what I recalled from Bran's Chapters. A skinchanger needed to grow in strength enough to be able to take over the minds of a human... without a wand, that is. The next step was to possess a Weirwood, as the Weirwood itself was made from the strange fleshcrafting of wood and bones of the dead

Once the soul became attuned to the Weirwood, the Greenseer could use any tree to look into the strange method of Memory that the trees had, making the Greenseer capable of seeing into the Past and most likely futures if they were strong enough and even significant enough.

In theory, the approach of Greensight would mean the inability to change the past that was being observed, as it was just a memory. That being said, Bran had somehow managed to possess Hodor in the past, pulling a Bootstrap Paradox by weakening his mind until Bran's younger self gained the ability to skinchange the poor boy, creating a self sustaining time-loop. It was unfortunately a skill that was still beyond me, mostly because the shortcut of consuming Weirwood paste was something I did my best to avoid. I had no intention of growing a tree through myself like Bloodraven.

Regardless of the potential, I would have to take things as they came, and one of the steps I needed to take was to ensure that Dany had a bespoke wand. I looked at the white raven perched on the branches of the tree, a sign of things yet to come... though the last pieces were not there yet, preventing me from going off to places other than Braavos.

One of the higher branches, the same one that was coincidentally the closest to the window of Dany's room, bent down as my sister grasped the branch, turning to look at me with wonder.

"Reach out, and ask nicely now. The branch has to be willingly given by the tree, lest the wand refuse you," I stated, knowing that breaking the branch never worked for a wand. It was some distinct lore about the Elder Wood and breaking a branch cursing you, but a wand wood that willingly came to you tended to work for you better than the alternative. I had almost gotten brained by a flying piece of dragon bone one too many times not to make that specific mistake again.

"I did it," said Dany holding a branch of the Lemon and Lime tree. 'Sour truths and futures,' I commented mentally, 'but ones that will nurture and protect.'

"Great job," I voiced, ask I patted her head, checking that her soul took on the added soul-stuff I added. Being related so closely, thanks to incest, made Blood Magic I cast compatible with my sister, allowing me to simply share a bit of my soul-stuff with her to slowly increase her power. "Ask Nessa to help you cultivate the branch into a tree, keep it close, and once we have a core, we can work on making your own bespoke wand beyond your training one."

Dany ran off, leaving me to ponder the nature of things... as a Wizard wont to do.

I was interrupted by the opening of the Red Door and giggling as two people walked in.

Belle was giggling, pulling on a girl slightly shorter than her. Given that she was still dressed in the silks of Maris the Maid, I felt the dragon within stir from her mere presence.

"My lord," said Belle, giving me a curtsy as the girl next to her followed suit. I did not need to read her mind to know what she was thinking and why she dragged another girl to my home. "May I introduce my newest friend," she said,

"I am called the Poetress, your grace," said the girl with pale skin and dark hair, her warm brown eyes that watched Belle approach me, biting her full lips. "I have seen Belle's play and could not resist meeting the one who wrote it."

"Izembro wrote it," I countered.

"My lord, Izembro is good, but he is not that good, and a play mocking the Westerosi King, he does not read that much history," said the Poetress, batting her eyelashes.

"I like her," I said, turning to Belle. It was hard to find someone who understood the subtleties of literature in this world. Belle, on the other hand, was trying her best to grind against me, her breath smelling of wine she must have been drinking after the play. I could feel the goosebumps on her skin; the dress she wore was not good at keeping her warm, it would seem, nor good at hiding her arousal as her nipples pushed against my chest.

"I thought your grace deserved a reward for protecting a maids honor; I have a good feeling about her," whispered Bellegere, teeth grazing my earlobe. "She was most interested in the collection of books you kept in your chambers... I could not say no to such a beauty," said Belle louder, pulling me along into the house and almost throwing me into my own room.

"They say you have read ten thousand books," said the Poetress, whose thoughts were rather divided between books and other activities. "That you are wise beyond your years."

"I don't keep count, to be honest, though I am certain that wise is the most flattering thing anyone has called me," I said, smirking at the idea... I was lucky if I could find a thousand books in Braavos. While small book shops existed as extensions of other businesses, with scribe shops working to make copies of books on commission, mostly being run or working for a temple or another.

I had thought of getting the Printing Press working on the side were... but Printing Press would take decades to pick up and only cause more people to grow disillusioned with the nobility. Given that my position in the nobility was supposed to be on the very top... it was rather self-sabotaging to give people the ability to read and think for themselves... and I was in Braavos, and I did not feel like accelerating their Renaissance.

"The Targaryen King... I have read about your family," said the Poetress making me raise an eyebrow. "The Lives of the Four Kings was fascinating, though it was a bit of a dry read."

"I believe the summary is Daeron fought, Baelor prayed, as Aegon fucked, and all of it was left for Daeron the Good to clean up after," I said, recalling that the book barely mentioned my favorite King, Viserys the First... even if he was a shitty father.

Poetress giggled at that, "There is a copy that I found... of the Lives of the Four Kings... the original by Kaeth's hand," she said, getting my attention.

"And why have I not heard of such a rare book existing then?" I asked curious, as the rule of Dearon the Good was strangely limited in policies other than pro-Dorne.

"The Sealord at the time was a Prestayn, and the book was a gift to him from King Aerys the First," said the Poetress, and I could feel the connection there.

"Prestayn, huh... I will see if I can borrow it for a while. You must have another name; Poetress is what you are, I am sure, but you were not born with such a name," I said, approaching the girl and pulling her close to me. The Poetress seemed to not be bothered though

"It is the only name I have left, your grace," said the girl breathily. "My family was rather insistent on me dropping my birth name, lest they give it to the House of Black and White."

"House of Black and White is no more," I boasted, making the Poetress shiver.

"They are not the only ones who may take the coin to deal death," countered Poetress, "Though the protection of one such as you... it would go a long way in ensuring my own protection,"

"And what exactly is it that you wish of me?" I asked instead, knowing that everyone wanted something.

"I watched the play tonight and saw how everyone's eyes were on the Black Pearl... I want that; I want to be desired like that," she said, making me smirk at the vanity of it. I raised an eyebrow and looked at Belle.

"Better others than me; I am satisfied with the lover I have," said Belle with a shrug sipping on her wine.

"I am going to need a drop of blood," I said, taking out a scroll from the stacks I had made. These were less magical and did not have as much of a light show... which worked better for me as they were easier to make than the original versions of the Affinity Scrolls.

"Poetry, fitting, I suppose," I said, my eyes glowing as I glimpsed at the scroll in the Unseen and watched the flow of Magical Energy move toward different glyphs on the page. My comment made Belle snigger... while I schooled my features. 'Rituals,' I mentally added, looking at the second brightest rune. Runes were not a perfect representation of concepts, not as defined, as they were ideas... and I had not noticed that Rituals and Poetry might be so inline... sort of explained some of the more complex aspects of Rituals I knew that I found to be 'poetic.'

"What is it you desire, Poetress," I said, pulling her closer to me. There was physical desire between us, certainly, but her affinity was one that I desired most.

"Protection and Power sound nice... they say that you can kill armies with a wave of your hand," moaned the Poetress as I cupped her ass before guiding us to the bed.

The Ritual Circle was carved on the floor, hidden beneath the rug under the bed we landed on.

Belle watched from the couch, knowing that she would only join after the Poetress went through the ritual at least once.

"You have exhausted the poor girl, my lord." purred Belle as we lay in bed, the Poetress passed out on my other side. A wave of my hand and a few runes traced in the air with the fire from the obsidian ring cleaned us up... at least superficially.

"Hmm... yeah," I confirmed, reaching out to her mind and finding her asleep. My left hand rose, flames forming a simple glyph of 'sleep' that my finger traced into the air. The flame dulled, heat becoming less as the spell sank into the body of the Poetress just in case. "What are you planning?" I asked.

"She is a cousin to the Prestayn who holds ambitions for becoming the Sealord; I was thinking of convincing her to spy for us by giving her my place as Maris," explained Belle, as I glared at her, both of us knowing that that was not what I asked.

"What makes you think I am planning anything else, my lord?" asked Belle, making me growl. "You are preparing to leave; I want to come with you," she answered as fast as she could. She probably observed some of the more long-term moves I was making.

I was borrowing heavily from the Iron Bank, putting future investments that would only pan out in the long run, trade expeditions that I had placed coin in knowing that they would succeed. The return from the investment was more than double what I borrowed, but it would be years before the expeditions returned and the money was ready for use.

"What do you want in life?" I asked, laying in bed with Bellegere, "Tell me you never thought to be a Queen?"

"All girls wish to be the queen, my love, yet I am not a fool to covet the position of another who would never lose your favor," said Belle, "nor am I a suicidal as to awaken the wrath of the dragon. What has brought this on, lover, is this your way of trying to get rid of me, because I warn you that it will not work?" she asked.

"Here I thought the famous Black Pearl belonged to Braavos," I teased, getting a slap on my chest.

"I am the descendent of Aegon the Fourth and Pirate Queen Bellegere of the Black Pearl; I go where I want, I fuck who I want... if it is your luck that your side is where I want to be, and you are whom I want to fuck," countered Belle, making me chuckle.

"Are you to tell me that without my power, you would still want me?" I asked, making Belle look away. "I thought as much." I commented before declaring, "I am not giving you a wand... if it is power you seek."

"I don't care about a stick, apart from this one," she said with a grin as her hands wrapped around me. "Is it so hard to accept that I want to be with you... that you have ruined me for other men... you infuriating nerd," responded Bellegere, getting up from the bed.

I snorted, "Picking up some of my vocabulary there... lover," I said, flipping us over.

"You make up too many words... it is hard to track of... but I manage," said Belle. "For you, my dragon," she added in the Tongue of the Summer Islanders.

"Then, I ask again, what do you want from me... what is it that you desire, that you think will come from me?" I asked.

"One day, all I ask is a pearl of my own," said Belle making me stop. "One that would be the consort for a king. That is all I ask is a daughter to stand by the side of her brother, to love him and be loved by him in turn."

"Not to be the mother of a king?" I asked as I knew most people

"I shall raise your son as my own when the time comes, lover; I will share your bed with others you desire, but I will not be the one to give birth to him; that position belongs to another."

"And who exactly does that position belong to?" I asked, confused and most definitely not using Occlumency to not think about it.

Belle chuckled. "For a man so wise, you are truly clueless," she said, making me scoff as I felt her hand grasp. "While I will give you a child when you sit upon a throne, I think we can practice."

"That seems acceptable," I noted, knowing that incest, while applicable for Valyrians, also had to be tempered with some additional diversity. The Dragonlords of Valyria fixed that issue of biological diversity through Polygamy, along with introducing new bloodlines into the mix while maintaining the existing ones. Half-Sibling incest was less destructive than full-on incest, though it was lost in the translation and cultural differences.

"Before that, though..." I said, snapping my fingers and having one of the chests open. "If you are coming along, you are going to need something,"

I presented her with my gift... a lute made of Weirwood. I had taken inspiration from Rhaegar's harp, the dragon bone with silver strings, I had to admit, and it sort of got out of hand after that. The bridge, the nut, and the pegs were made of dragon bone, while the pickguard of Mother of Pearl gleamed in the light of the candles. The wires were Dragon Steel, ones that I personally made to ensure that it would hold magic.

I had played a few tunes, enough to know that the lute held magic that the player could direct, but I had never been interested in music in my old life, and what I had inherited from Viserys' training had long since atrophied as even singing brought the pain of loss, reminding me of the times with Rhaella, and few times Rhaegar sang to us... peaceful times... innocent times.

"I thought you said you were not going to give me a wand," said Belle in wonder, feeling the magic from each tone.

"I am not, not that I think you would be good at that specific method of magic... but this... I think this is far more your style," I commented, knowing that Belle was more of a Bard build than a Sorcerer or a Wizard. Her songs carried a power of their own, and she was relatively talented with most musical instruments.

"You planned this, have you not?" asked Belle, placing the lute back in the chest. "That you planned to bring me with you all this time?"

"A dragon does not share," I said with a grin.

Belle turned toward me, walking back toward me, her hips moving in a hypnotic pattern; my gaze moved up to her breasts and her mouth, agreeing with the fools who lost themselves in the beauty before me. She bit her lip, her eyes gleaming with arousal.

Once she was over me, I flipped us both around, guiding my cock into her, causing Bellegere to gasp.

"You know that is not how you make a child, right, lover?" teased Belle as I pushed into her puckered hole. Fleshcrafting made the process as pleasurable as possible for Belle as she moaned.

"You do not seem to mind that much," I grunted as I hilted myself in her.

"No, I do not... all of me belong to you, your grace, so make use of me as you will," declared Belle, her mouth finding mine.

I liked taking walks in Braavos... though it was not exactly good for the population count of the city.

Take this night, a few weeks of waiting for the Dornish to come knocking or try to make some contact, and nothing.

From my first observation, the Dornishmen were... going to become trouble.

I had snuck in to meet Prince Oberyn when he did not seem that inclined to make contact, only negotiating trade deals with the Sealord and debts with the Iron Bank while spending his nights in one brothel or another... he was not hard to track; given how Varys' mice already had an eye on him, before suddenly deciding to go watch some other brothel.

Now, he was in a high-end Brothel that Bellonara owned... after finding the Courtesans of Braavos unwilling to be seen with him. Something about offending me or something like that.

Three bolts of spellfire leaped from my wand, hitting the three in the bed together in the throes of passion. Two were knocked out... third leaped for his knife.

I had to give it to Oberyn Martell... he was quick... and immune to magic. I snarled as a flick of my wand had one of the chairs fly and crash into his head, knocking him out as the wood crushed to his head.

I dropped the disillusionment on me as another flick of my wand bound all three in ropes I brought for the occasion.

"Is it me, or does everyone have a counter for Magic, your grace?" asked Richard as I wove wards around the room, anchored to a blood candle. It would not last long, but it was the easiest way I knew. I briefly considered if the steel itself could be used before filing it away for later experiments.

"Hmm... moths to a flame, I seem to attract the lot," I muttered, knowing that it was the case. Magic tended to attract those who were in tune with it... unless you actively avoided it. My fingers brushed against my Amulet before I gathered myself. The Moonlit World hid itself, but there was a lot more to this world than even what I knew.

"As you say," muttered Ser Richard behind me, taking off the latest iteration of my Invisibility Cloak, this one actually using an illusion of the background from where ever you looked, combined with a powerful suggestion to ignore anything abnormal.

"Revelio," I muttered, releasing a light imbued with the soul-stuff stored in the wand, the same one that allowed for it to sustain a single enchantment, like the disillusionment charm that I used on myself.

The light bent around a specific location; as I looked at the 'light sink' as it were, the point where the magical light seemed to be bending around something or another.

"Of course, the motherfucker has forged at least one chain of Valyrian Steel," I noted, lifting up the chain that mostly consisted of silver for Healing, a few iron for War, and a few others, mostly ones that he would have already learned with a proper lord's education. The single smoky steel, however, stood out amongst them.

"Finite," I muttered, guiding the basilisk soul within the wand to form a shield between the superficial blood attunement anyone with a basic understanding of forging Valyrian Steel could make. I had a feeling that Aemon had been the one to suggest Longclaw be given to Jon for a similar reason, as the same fire that burned his hand burned the steel as well.

With a bit of push of my will, I was able to unravel the attunement between the blood and Valyrian Steel, as I threw a small healing spell, followed by a stunner to knock out the bound and gagged Prince of Dorne, already drooling on the carpet. "You do not seem to be against this idea of mine," I said to my sword.

"I am a Stormlander, your grace," countered Ser Richard making me snort. "You will not hear me complain if you choose to knock around a few Dornish, and Prince Oberyn once threatened me, so seeing him being as he is now, it does not feel unjust," he added, as he had not made any comments about knocking out the guards in a similar manner. "Though, Ser Willem might have words if he found out about our stroll..."

"I am sure he will, but I sense... a plot against us," I muttered. It was easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission, and Red Viper of Dorne was a loose cannon in the best of times; the bastard of Uller did not help the case either.

"And Dorne is hot," countered Ser Richard, passing me the bag that contained what I needed, which included a round bowl the size of my hand, made from a white metal that gleamed in the light, with glyphs and gems embedded in the outside.

I nodded, tapping the Moonstones attached to the surface of the small bowl with my wand, leaving it to hover in the air.

The Pensieve was a rather fascinating bit of Magic Item from the World of Harry Potter, one that I had been tirelessly working to recreate since the first time I cast a spell with my wand. There were many reasons, a Well of Memories to share with Dany, a method for me to recollect my own memories and make it easier for me to recall meta-knowledge, a method to relax as I watched a few of the old favorite movies from my past life... the potential was endless, just as making one was the trickiest bit of Magic I came across to date.

The prime material, as with anything related to Memory, was Weirwood, while the bowl itself required a way for me to hold the memories without making the container absorb the potions.

The main problem with Memories was... they were not infallible. They changed and decayed over time, and the few prototypes I had generated images that were fuzzy.

I had started with a simple Weirwood bowl, eventually moving on to test a special clay mixed with Weirwood Ash, only for said Pensieves to be sub-par and 'leak' memories when I left them be.

No, what I needed was something that would be less likely to change, something that would remain the test of time, something made of metal. The process of creating the metal was the same one that I used for creating the Dragonsteel Coins, with the only difference being that the metal of the Pensieve contained Weirwood as the only wood, creating pale white steel that held the enchantments regarding memory rather well. The runes and gems, on the other hand, held the rest of the spells, balance, hovering... the works.

The Pensieve I made had a specific method of Divination, creating a Protean charm on the Memory that was linked to the Earth itself, using the Memory to scry the event in the past through the very memories of the world and fill in the gaps that the memory had. It was stabilized and streamlined Greensight, with a search function that I could use, even if it required a fragment of the memory.

The round shape was a necessity for the custom Magic Circle I had personally etched upon the inner and outer surfaces in runes and glyphs made from Blood-Metal mixed with Nightwood, which absorbed and emitted the magic in a single form. The Magic Circle held the enchantments of preservation and divination on the inside and balance, protection, and hovering on the outside to prevent it from spilling through the careful application of a shield charm.

The metal itself was not indestructible, however, and tended to be good at absorbing magical energy... one of the reasons it made for a good Pensieve as the memories remained vivid after a while, unlike the alternative methods I came up with.

The small bowl was made from the Weir-Steel, stretched thin, though it still was relatively small, a hand in diameter at most, with rolled edges to prevent it from cutting flesh. The metal itself was crude, with too many bumps, mostly because I lacked much experience in shaping it still, and the entire thing had to be forged by hand due to the way Magic seemed to interact with Dragonsteel. I could form the Dragonsteel into small coin-sized ingots, but shaping it with magic was impossible once the metal cooled down.

I took out a vial of Memory Potion; this one was made in such a way that it would kill me if I ever drank it, even with a Bezoar, due to the interaction between Nightshade, Wormwood, and Weirwood. The intensity of the poison, however, only worked if consumed, though the liquid had a strange ability to put a person into a trance on skin contact... after a few adjustments at least.

I guided the bowl to Oberyn Martell's head, slowly pulling on the memories of the Dornish Prince and all the secrets that came with it.

You might argue that what I was doing was dishonorable, that the Dornish as my allies deserved some basic decency... if I had heard a hide or hair from them since now.

I had my own theories, of course; maybe Doran assumed I would end up dead with the rumors of my obsession with magic, or maybe he wanted to distance himself from me, knowing that the Faith would stand against me at the best of times... but you know the saying about making assumptions.

The problem was, Dornish made me more paranoid than ever. There were a lot of half-hearted attempts in the whole Rebellion, and while Tyrells were chief among them with their choice of feasting while laying siege to an empty castle, the Dornish were not without blame, sending men only after Aerys had threatened Elia and turned her into a hostage... and even then, only half-heartedly. I could agree with their reluctance after what Rhaegar did, but their lack of foresight when it came to the potential fates of Elia and her children should Robert win made me irritated.

Along the way, I tapped a few select memories, whispering "Geminio" that had them be recreated within the material of the Memory Potion as long strands of memory. I took his training in healing, his training with a spear and lance, his experience in fighting, and anything else I found worthwhile. It was a trick that required a living head, unfortunately, so I could not do the same with Morrigan and gain the experienced and tricks of the Faceless Men without having my talking skull lose said memories. It had something to do with the brain holding a physical copy of the memories that made them easier to replicate, but I did not really care, as I had only done it a few times, once to a blacksmith and once to a jeweler.

The Legilimency allowed me to slowly wiggle out the right memories linked to House Targaryen and the plots they had. Oberyn, ironically, was my biggest supporter, wanting to declare for me after the news of the Sack of Kingslanding and the butchery of Elia and her children reached his ears, while Doran did nothing.

I dismissed the morality of my actions, mostly because Targaryens were really bad at playing the game and only succeeded when they flipped the board and made up new rules... so I was doing just the same. While I trusted Ser Willem's judgment, prepared Wizards are ones you do not mess with.

Getting the memories I wanted, modifying the last twenty minutes before he passed out into memories of debauchery built around suggestions, compulsions, and older memories of similar deeds, I mentally considered how idiot a Manipulative Dumbledore in the stories I read would have to be to fail at this whole cloak and dagger stuff.

The memory potion, now filled with the memories I chose to duplicate, went into a glass jar as I moved the bodies into their right position. A quick muttering of "Reparo" to fix everything broken, and I was ready to leave before stopping and turning to Ellaria Sand. Wasn't she an Uller or something like that?

The ball of shadow leaped from the Valyrian Steel chain link when I was done taking the memories of the Dornish Bastard regarding Hellholt as well, the shadow-soul returning to my wand as I walked out the door, light wrapping itself around me, with Ser Richard behind me with his cloak pulled up.

Sun Tzu once said, 'Know yourself and your enemy, and you will win all your battles,' and nothing allows you to know your enemy than their own memories and thoughts taken from their head.

"Evening," I said from the corner of the room, my Occlumency at full force so I do not turn the Dornishman into a smear on the wall or a pile of charred bones. I was mentally repeating my mantra of 'do not go full-Aerys, never go full-Aerys,' while sipping on my tea.

The reason Doran refused contact was two-fold, and I knew that now, and they did not know that I knew that.

One was what I had assumed, with Doran being uncertain if I could survive or not with me dabbling in Magic, as well as potentially proving trouble with the Faith. He was aware enough that while Dorne suffered little from the uprisings of the Faith, the rest of the Kingdoms south of the Neck were less secular.

The other was the reason for my current strain on self-restraint.

Varys had played his hand in desperation, potentially upon hearing that I was dabbling in magic... magic that made Bloodraven look like a mere conjurer of cheap tricks before he was hooked up to the Weirwood Net and got unlimited access to history.

The result of his play was a betrothal between Arianne and the Aegon he hid away. It was a desperate attempt to deny me Dorne, causing the delay from happening.

It also meant that I had to operate under the assumption that Dorne was an enemy but also with the fa"ade that they were my allies.

"Viserys Targaryen... you are a hard man to find," Oberyn Martell said with a smirk as he sat back in comfort on the couch in front of me. 'Do not blast the Dornish Prince in the face; the couch was expensive and a pain in the ass to get it made just right,' I mentally tacked on.

The idiot had been followed by four spies, two of the Iron Bank and one of which was Sealords, as he and his paramour were trying to sneak into the House with the Red Door. The last one belonged to Varys, a former slave without a tongue, 'and now without a head.'

"Not really, though you have been avoiding me," I said instead. "Has Doran finally gotten bored waiting for the oranges to rot and decided to eat one?"

"My brother was not so keen on the idea of an alliance," countered Oberyn, his black eyes focusing from one point to another. "A Targaryen, dabbling in Magic... I had to take a measure of the rumors since Maesters seem to think you are either a charlatan, taken in by Hedge Wizards, or Maegor the Cruel Reborn."

"Funny, I thought the actions of Maegor ensured the stability of Jaehaerys' reign and broke the back of the Faith Militant. It was Aenys who dabbled in Sorcery. So, what have you found?" I asked, sipping on mead that some of the Free Folk seemed to be so fond of.

"The rumors seem to be true," said Oberyn, his body tense, " I find a distinct lack of Faceless Men to take on contracts these days..."

House of Black and White still stood, mostly because it was an organized religion. A bit of support here and there, a bit of use of Memory Charms to create a Priest of Death without access to the knowledge and rites that made the Faceless Men so dangerous from Morrigan's own, and I had a puppet religion that was now only limited to religious services and assisted suicides.

Morrigan disappeared every now and then, bringing the gift to people who probably deserved it through the shadow-bound body I gave her access to. With access to the Orb of Divination within her skull, she did not need to continue the work of a hired Assassin to take out those deserving. The last one was some charlatan in Volantis claiming to be able to raise the dead as thralls.

"Maybe they are just hiding or busy with other contracts?" I asked, before focusing on the other thread, "Does my reputation reach all the way to the Grey Rats then?"

"Only those with ears to listen. Archmaester Marwyn is of the opinion that should they send a Maester, he would not survive a meeting with the Butcher of Death," said Oberyn, making me smirk on the inside.

"Ridiculous, I would love to pick their brains," I countered, having taken the memories of the Citadel from the man before me... on the off chance that I found myself in Oldtown and working to repossess their library for myself in reparations for... let's see, treason, sedition, assassination, and conspiracy.

I was not sure how much the Maester Conspiracy held true, but while not every Maester was guilty, not every Maester was innocent either. The future of one Maester Cressen, as he attempted to poison Melisandre, was a good indicator that 'independent actors' that made up a majority of Maesters pointed to a distinct culture set for the preservation of the Greater Good and the Destruction of Magic. I found dogmas insufferable and fanatics unpleasant, so I was going to have to put an end to that specific culture.

"Well then, Prince Viserys," started Oberyn, no doubt making to say something smart.

"King," Interrupted Ser Willem, "Have care with your words; you are in the presence of King Viserys the Third, Rightful King of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar," he declared, holding himself straight despite the pain I knew he was in. He was desperate to be in this meeting, to make sure that he could act as a shield for me against the Westerosi politics. I... I appreciated that, even if I would have preferred that he rested more.

"In retrospect," I replied calmly, placing my hand on the shoulder of my sword shield, "the Andals wanted my family dead since Aenys, the First Men, have chosen to unanimously rebel against my father after he barbequed their lord, and the Rhoynar are..."

"Eagerly awaiting your return," Oberyn interrupted.

"Only care about me so long as they can get revenge against the blood of innocents that were spilled... without spilling their own blood like proper people with self-dignity," I countered, deciding to channel Lyanna Mormont and Ollenna Tyrell and Sparta kick subtlety off the cliff.

"Dignity?" asked the clearly Dornish Woman who was watching the exchange. "House Targaryen owes Dorne a debt of blood."

"And you must be Lady Ellaria Sand. I have heard of your beauty, and now I see the viciousness that would attract a man like the infamous Red Viper of Dorne," I greeted the woman. "Do not presume to tell me of debts owed, Uller," I snapped back,

"Aegon and Rhaenys were the Blood of the Dragon, just as Elia was; any debt Dorne is entitled to, House Targaryen is owed to twice over," I said before taking a deep breath and calming myself. 'Yes, assume that I do not know of this Aegon to be alive, even if I need to figure out a way to distinguish if he was a Blackfyre or not,' In a soft tone, I simply stated, "Why don't you enjoy the sun, my lady? It is rare in these parts of the world to have such a nice day... and three can keep a secret only if the two are dead."

Ellaria's eyes flashed with anger before making to leave the room, but Oberyn placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled... it had too many teeth in it. "You have a sharp tongue, Viserys. I like that. You remind me of your brother... he, too, had a way with words... though he was more soft-spoken."

"Well, I am not my brother," I said in turn, mentally revising when Rhaegar would threaten Dorne...

"Clearly not..." said Oberyn, "My brother Prince Doran has sent me to negotiate this alliance... Rhaegar would not be so callous as to insult the only allies he had left."

"Says the man who gave the Heir of Hightower the nickname of Breakwind and got exiled for killing a bannerman. And I remember my brother running off with another when your sister proved too unhealthy to bear more children."

"You, my prince, are well informed," said Oberyn laughing, though it did not reach his eyes, "Alas... like you, I am not my brother. Doran was always the one who was cautious and prudent. He does not act rashly or impulsively. He waits for the right moment to strike, and he has been waiting for you."

"When he is done waiting for me, he will wait for the winter, then the summer... he will wait and wait, and wait some more..." I countered, causing Oberyn to sigh, though his reaction was more of a mental one.

"Then allow me to put your thoughts at ease, your grace. May I present the proposal my brother has for House Targaryen," asked Oberyn, presenting a parchment.

Sir Richard held it, making sure to not hold it with anything but his wooden arm, hidden beneath the gloves and long sleeves of his doublet. Poisoned letters were a thing, and I did not trust the Red Viper as far as I could throw him... without magic... mostly because I could launch him halfway back to Dorne with magic.

"A betrothal, signed by a second son. An agreement that is not enforceable, one that can easily be declared the overreaching rebellion of a second son and disavowed by the Prince of Dorne." Ser Richard countered, repeating a snippet of the long list of complaints I aired to my sword.

"Even if I did not know your plans to have my Sworn Shield sign in my stead, such a contract would not be binding unless Doran wanted it to be, which implies that I would already be in a position of winning. Your brother knows how to hedge his bets and not put his own neck on the line," I countered. "Tell me, Oberyn, why should others fight for someone who will not fight for their own blood?"

"Dorne awaits for you to claim your birthright, your grace. The betrothal ensures that my niece Arianne will be your Queen while your sister marries his eldest son, Prince Quentyn," he said. "It honors the promise of your father when he had Elia wed Rhaegar, and it makes up for his crimes. It ensures that fifteen thousand spears to your cause, man that you lack."

'Do not vaporize the Dornish Prince... the repairs would be costly,' I mentally chanted as I read through the so-called pact.

I liked how neither he nor the contract actually mentioned the name of the king in the whole thing, referring to the 'Rightful Heir of House Targaryen.' The agreement said that the king would marry Arianne while also asking me to marry Dany to the would-be Dragon Thief.

Even Doran was hedging his bets, playing Varys against me and seeing who would act first. I could see Doran's hand at this, ensuring that his daughter would be Queen either way while also gaining leverage against me through Dany.

I considered my options. The infamous Dornish Plot Armor was something of a dilemma. They had defended themselves against Dragons, Armies, and even Occupation. They had been instrumental in the Blackfyre Rebellions, mostly because their inclusion into the Seven Kingdoms was the cause of most of the support for the Blackfyres.

Nothing prevented me from drawing a line on the sand and letting everything within burn to death, for the sand to melt and turn to glass... but I needed a reason... an excuse.

I hemmed and hawed as was proper.

I did not have any intention of marrying Arianne Martell... mostly because I did not need to, nor did I have any intention of letting some brat raised by the Spider hold any form of power over me. It did not matter if he was Rhaegar's son, a Blackfyre, or some random bastard from Lys. Once the crown sat upon his head, I could expect to be shafted by the 'Rightful King' as was the Westerosi tradition. If he was true, he was welcome to Westeros and all the problems that entailed; if he was false, his fate would be fire and blood.

Similarly, the Arianne in the books was... a spoiled and reckless princess who plotted to crown a small girl without consulting anyone else. She was so similar to a young Cersei that I was certain any marriage with her would be one that would be miserable, not to mention that she was also promiscuous and unfaithful, sleeping with half of Dorne and beyond as far as I knew. I was not going to marry someone whose fidelity I could no ensure, whose virginity I could not use to empower myself, or whose children I would have to test just to be certain that they were mine... and Margaery Tyrell came with seventy thousand more spears than the Dornish... who would already be honor-bound to support me.

That was the problem, wasn't it? They knew that their support would have to be given if I landed with an army if I had a shot at winning. There were certain things a Lord could not let be. An opportunity to avenge their family, the loss of their seat of power... those were weaknesses that they could not let be without people questioning them. Doran would have a rebellion in his hand if he did not raise his army to support me; a lord not seeking justice for his family was not worth any salt, a sign that they were too weak. The Prince of Dorne was overreaching... his Westerosi greed showing through as he grasped for more and more at the cost of what was best.

All of those did not even include the part about marrying Dany off to the Dragon-Thief. Quentyn Martell was not getting a second chance from me; his actions of trying to ride one of Daenerys' dragons in the books were not only ill-thought, but the consequences would lead to war no matter what.

Horse thieves were executed in this world, and Dragon Thieves in Old Valyria had a worse fate. Once the dragon was put down by the Dragonlord families, the rider was raised from death and executed fourteen times in a row, once for each Dragon God of Valyria, each time resurrected. The remains of the body after the fourteenth resurrection were for the family who owned the dragon to do as they will, though one account that Morrigan knew included a blood curse that boiled the blood of those related to the Dragon Thief.

I sighed, clearing my mind of all distractions and pushing down my emotions for what I had to do, knowing that there was no other way to get Dorne without tipping my hand and, above all else, there was no other way of not letting Varys realize that I was onto him.

"I do not need Dorne to claim what it mines, and you..." I countered, giving the man a glare, the pressure I exerted rooting him on his seat. I could feel his fear, even through the protection of the small link of Valyrian Steel, "You do not need a betrothal to seek revenge from the Usurper or the Lion. I will consider your proposal and give you an answer at a later date. Prince Doran is married to Lady Mellario of Norvos," I stated simply.

I acted like I just had the idea as I said, "I propose a meeting between the parties of concern... say a coincidental meeting when Lady Mellario visits a family with her eldest daughter and son in two years' time when I have an army at my back?" I did not mention the fact that they would essentially become hostages in all but name should Dorne try anything.

Oberyn chuckled. "You are clever, your grace. You know how to play the Game, but so does my brother. I know when a man made up his mind, so I shall agree, though the betrothal to Arianne to ensure she becomes the Queen will have to be signed today," he said, pointing at the parchment.

I once again had to remind myself why ashing a Prince of Dorne was a stupid idea; he would be good fodder against Clagane. I then had to convince myself why I should not just create my own kingdom in Stepstones while the Others butchered all of Westeros.

I held the parchment before flames engulfed it.

I had once heard someone say that politics was telling someone to go fuck themselves and having them thank you for it... or something like that. It was probably Churchill, it sounded like something Churchill would have said.

I had done exactly that, telling Doran to go fuck himself and nothing could be done about it. Aegon, whether Blackfyre or real had his days numbered, and I had a plan to deal with him discretely once I figured out the Marauder's Map project of mine to be sure of his identity.

"Two years' time, Norvos... or we will see how much fire it takes for Sands of Dorne to melt, given it has not been bent or broken before," I said, looking Oberyn in the eyes, seeing the anger he held back at the implied threat. It was a sweet feeling that rage.

It was then that Ferrego decided to enter the room, the Sealord of Braavos dropping by for another meeting with me and coincidentally to act as a witness to any potential improved agreement that did not include any betrothals. Second point was moot though, unless Oberyn was not going to swallow his pride. The dark ring of Valyrian Steel gleaming on the Sealord's ring finger was the only indicator of his true allegiance, as it matched with the one on Bellonara's finger, hanging off the Sealord's arm.

Last edited: Aug 12, 2023

031 Ashborn

AN:

minAaronssthanss said:

Author San please update! I am dying to read the next great story line.

Then be reborn from the Ashes.

# 031 Ashborn

The visions-slash-dreams were tricky to maintain. Greensight was not an inborn trait for me, but I could learn enough of it to peer into the past, and listen to the echoes of the futures that may be. Dreams, acted as a conduit for such magic, and one that I have had in the past was back once more, the white dragon shot with red veins, looking at me with a glare, judging me and finding me... lacking.

I did not sleep much nowadays; my body was filled with too much energy, and the short meditation was the closest I got to proper sleep unless something took hold of me and pulled me under.

Even then, a part of me was too wired to go into the depths, the same fear of drowning that all humans have to keep me afloat.

It was no wonder that my eyes shot open when I heard the yell of "Fire!" from Belle and tasted the distinct taste of magical energy in the air, its flavor matching that of fire.

A wave of my hand froze the flames. They still burned, but the heat stopped as the atoms stopped accelerating... before the fire, too, realized that it had died, leaving naught but hoarfrost covering the surface of the curtains. The energy that took the form of light simply dimmed the next moment, leaving once magical, now normal ice behind.

My eyes roamed, trying to find the reason for the fire. It was not me... I stopped setting things on fire on accident after the third or so time. It was not Belle; her affinity to fire came with a built-in safety to prevent such things.

Noticing the small orange glowing eyes in the corner under the drapes, I knew I found the suspect.

"So that is where it went," I muttered as I grasped the white serpent that crumbled into ash, leaving an egg in its stead. It's life bound to the fire that had been.

This was sort of on me... an accidental binding of a basilisk's soul to fire and ash to practice my Animation Charm was a good idea... on paper. Sure, my end goal was to create a giant flaming serpent ala Voldemort, but you needed to build up to that but application led me to a hole of Magical Breeding that I did not foresee.

One moment, you are controlling a moderately sized elemental serpent of fire and ash, and next, you have bred a new magical species and have an Ashwinder Infestation trying its best to set your house on fire.

The initial Ashwinder, the one crafter purely out of magic did not leave any eggs behind... but with a bit of Flame Freezing Charm and hatching the snake egg within a fire, I was able to combine the properties of the fiery snake animation with an actual magical body... creating a new magical species based on the bastardization of the Basilisk Breeding Ritual that in turn left eggs behind upon death... if only a few had not managed to escape their cage.

Let's just say that the whole fire protection that can hold back the Dragon Fire thing was put to the test over the last week, and no one was injured, apart from the Ashwinders, who were frozen solid before crumbling into dust.

Luckily, the magical fires the new Ashwinders produced, while strong, gave way to the magical cold I could impose over the area rather easily. Ice Magic was not my forte, and I seemed to be working twice as hard to get decent control over that specific branch of Elemental Magic, but it was worth the investment for its versatility.

I know I know... "bad Viserys," "be more diligent Viserys," "those things explode and catch the entire house of fire Viserys," for a seven-year-old, Dany was far too bossy for her good... probably something about being a princess. It was a good thing the entire house was already enchanted to prevent such things as fires.

The Ashwinder Incident at least allowed me to narrow down the way my Magic hooked itself to my own memories, knowledge, and expectations, both conscious and subconscious ones, given that I was sure Ashwinders were native to the Harry Potter Universe even if they would be related in some way to Firewyrms.

I sighed, as I knew that at the end of the day, Magic was not really a Science, and if an idea existed, it was possible to make it into reality.

Now that I was awake, I might as well get some of the work I was putting off done. Let's first do a full cleaning of the entire manor, though... again... just to be sure.

Focusing on the egg covered in hoarfrost in my hand, I could feel the potential... The idea of an infinite loop of a snake born from the fire, laying an egg that created the next fire for the next snake to be born.

I had the end goal of figuring out how to make Firewyrms, both because those were obviously not natural, being elementally aligned with fire and fitting in the same category of 'Magical' as the Dragons and Ice Lich Fae that were the White Walkers, and I had this feeling that Firewyrms were actually required for crafting Dragons of Valyria.

The logic for the Dragons that Barth proposed was not impossible in the end. His theory that the Dragons were bred from a combination of Wyverns and Firewyrms was definitely a possibility. The cockatrice, as I managed to narrow down with my research into Basilisk breeding, was possible if you hatched a snake egg under a chicken, and a fiery snake and a larger winged creature would, in the end, result in the creation of the Valyrian Dragons if I experimented long enough... even if that required me to have access to a Wyvern... or desire to hatch more dragons than I could safely keep.

There was also a strange allure to creating more creatures, like something in my very essence was compelling me to create more beings with magic.

Unlike the magical construct that I lost control of, the hatched Ashwinders were far more stable, even if their birth was linked to the fire that hatched them. They also left behind half a dozen eggs each for me to study, reproducing asexually at that.

It went without saying that Ashwinder eggs were useful for both Wand Cores and some of the strongest potions I had a passing knowledge about.

"Heading out without saying goodbye, lover?" asked Belle, posing naked on the bed. "or have you decided what to do with your little problem."

"Subtly manipulating the city into trying to drive me off despite the wishes of the Sealord is not what I would call a little problem," I countered, approaching Belle.

Poetress, a distant cousin of House Prestayn, had revealed a rather long list of 'offenses' meant to be against me that I had not even noticed before. It was concerning, given the fact that I was careful to avoid antagonizing the local nobility too much.

I had no idea how Belle had figured out that but she was learning from her mother and the Black Pearl had a rather large network of information brokers at her service. Given that they worked for me, I had nothing but praise.

After a month of spying through magical and mundane means, I finally had enough understanding of the plots against me within Braavos to put my hand on the scales. A month later, and I was finally convinced that I should just flip the board on those who wished me and mine harm. A message would be a start... now, I needed to do it in style.

But first, I had a lusty Mistress to sate. Coincidentally, I still held the Ashwinder Eggs, which were used in love potions and acted as aphrodisiacs... if you knew how to control the flow of magic that is.

I got this strange 'bad feeling' whenever I thought of moving to another city.

Morrigan told me it had to do with what she referred to as the Mists of Braavos, an enchantment woven by the Moonsingers and powered by the countless sacrifices made to the House of Black and White to keep the city hidden from being scryed upon through Glass Candles or Greensight.

It was sacrificial magic at its finest, even if it was relatively primitive compared to some of my own works... it was more powerful than anything I could bring to bear on my own.

It was... Old Magic... Ancient Magic. It was magic without a system, built over decades, centuries. It was wrought with sacrifice and willpower, changing the very land itself to make it accept that the magic was part of the world.

It was like Mystery, in a way, the ever-elusive concept that governed Magecraft in the Nasu-verse. It took years of effort before it took hold, and the 'suggestion' that a person gave to the world became a 'rule.'

It was not perfect by all means; my understanding of the concept came from the limited number of cases of such effects I managed to study.

It took me a few days of wrangling soul-stuff before I managed to take the original spell and build up from it. The end result was a more stabilized form of the spell, through the runes melted onto the surface of the bronze titan that stood watch over the city to the fires that burned in its eyes. A few Ashwinder eggs into the pits that made up the source of the fire, and I had managed to create a self-sustaining Magical Fire.

"Centuries of work and a boy of five and ten make all of us look like fools," muttered Morrigan, manifesting herself next to me.

"Don't be salty about it," I countered, as I waved my hand and made the guard watching not recall anything being said. "I only took what was already there and made it last longer and more powerful."

"Not... salty, as you say, rather, humbled," countered Morrigan. "To have a way beyond the sacrifice of hundreds, thousands over the years."

Yes, Gubraithian Flame, as I called it, was a tricky bit of magic to master, but once you mastered the Sun's Fires and studied the Ashwinders long enough, it was not impossible.

"Hmm... that only leaves one last thing," I said as I wrapped myself up with the light and disappeared from the view, replacing myself with a Simulacrum that would go through the steps of an elaborate ritual that did nothing to add to the finished work.

As I joined in the shadows, unseen by the naked eye under the enchanted cloak and Disillusionment Charm both, I headed to my destination that required me to have an alibi just to be certain.

Briefly, I noted that the Disillusionment Charm was one of the more complex spells I had access to... as well as the most useful one. Technically, it was an illusion upon the skin and the clothes of a person, making light bend around them. It was most useful when you did not move or when you cast it on unmoving objects. That was the basis of Invisibility Cloaks and why, as objects that had simpler motion, were easier to hide beneath.

The version that I was using was dubbed the Cheshire Mode since it caused my skin to become invisible. Seeing a pair of floating eyes and teeth was creepy, but I would have to turn on my Mage Sight if I wanted to go fully invisible. Seeing the world as the currents of Magical Energy was one of those things that required some adjustment, given the whole thing looked too close to what I would imagine an LSD trip would look like.

'House Prestayn,' noted Morrigan, not needing to read my mind.

House Prestatyn was one of the Noble Houses of the Braavos, one that I did not have too much interaction with. They were rivals to House Antaryon and had tried their hands in countering my power more than once or twice, failing most of the time in their attempt to remain subtle.

I had to give it to them; they were not stupid, at least, and never really tried something that would be considered against me overtly. Unfortunately, they were a threat now that Ferrego was under my control. The Valyrian Steel Ring I crafted with a single drop of my own blood granting me a backdoor access to his mind. The connection was useful to influence him and it withstood distance unlike any other method I found.

Invisible, I stood before the Mansion where most of House Prestayn lived. There were distant relatives as well, but the main trouble was within this house that was protected by people who could not see the end of their noses.

A bit of willpower had the children be sent off to visit distant relatives before the adults called it an early night. It was a bit early, but it was a long day... right? They certainly thought so once I was done with the compulsion.

By the time everything settled, I had already raided their mail, taking in some rather unique letters between the Prestayn Patriarch and a certain Cheesemonger from Pentos. If Ser Willem did not require medical attention almost daily nowadays, I would drop by to say hi to Illyrio... and by say hi, I mean flay him alive to extract all the plots he has cooking before killing him and interrogating him again... but I had more important things to do.

Fortunately for the Blackfyres, I had more important things to do, and the protection of the Mists worked to shield my workings from those outside, while the ones inside Braavos were pretty much cowered after hearing about the Fate of the House of Black and White.

I still had to occasionally deal with a Red Priest mind you, but freezing one's clothes solid while burning another's robes to ash without harming either at once had them confused enough that they left me alone. On the other hand, the House of the Starry Wisdom simply kept away after I added an Elder Sign onto the back of my Amulet of Protection, forged out of Valyrian Steel... and a bigger one on the door to the House.

Going back to the task at hand, there I was, standing in the middle of the Prastayn Library. I only spent time in the mansion because of the curious suggestion that Poetress had made about the first edition book called Lives of the Four Kings. Given that I had read the first part of Fire and Blood, the events that followed were ones that I was curious about, and an unfiltered version had the potential to reveal some secrets.

While I did not have a way to replicate the Duplication Charm, Geminio, I had come up with a clever alternative.

The Book of Mimicry took more effort to come up with than I wanted to admit. It was a simple spell, a Sympathetic Connection between the original and the book itself, bound to the ink to replicate the shape of the ink. The pages of the book were high-quality vellum, alchemically bonded with a potion that took on the properties of the Weirwood, causing the copied text to be a distinctly red color against a background of pure white.

I placed the spine of my book against the rare tomb, watching as the spell took hold of it. The variant Protean Enchantment bound the two tomes together as the contents of one on the shelf were replicated on the surface of the one I held.

A cursory glance did not show me anything interesting in the library before my eyes passed over one scroll... it felt... important.

"Dragon Charmer," I read the title, reading a poem about three heads of the dragon and blood magic.

I knew of the poem in passing; Morrigan had memories stolen about that from a Dragonkeeper during the Dance. Those memories implied that it was some sort of a spell of some sort sung by the dragon riders, potentially a method of training them from hatchlings through the use of the song, allowing for easier bonding. Whatever it was, I now had an actual copy of it in my hands.

I took out a parchment of similar size, the dried animal skin morphing to my will to take a similar shape. After a bit of modification, I had a ruined copy of the scroll that went back into the original place, while the actual scroll went into my bag.

The rest of the books did not survive the foundation collapsing, killing all the members of House Prestayn as they were crushed or drowned, being trapped under the rubble.

While I could have burned the place, that would be linked to me far easier than a rumble of earth, and I was conveniently busy, working another grand magic to protect Braavos, paid rather well by the Iron Bank and the Sealord combined.

With another enemy gone, I could probably relax a bit... even if that bad feeling in my stomach did not go away.

Once home, I decided that I would make use of the last Ashwinder Egg I had before I bred a new batch.

Heading down to my workshop, I sent a mental command to Huan, who joined me, before heading to one of the workbenches that was covered with a large fur.

Huan gave a curious sniff at the fur before me.

Hidden among the chests of furs that the Slavers had somehow managed to acquire along with slaves from the Lands Beyond the Wall, there was a cloak made from Direwolf fur that I had claimed to study its properties.

I spent time with the fur, slowly attuning myself to the soul signature in the event that I needed to take control of a Direwolf or something of that nature. I did not trust the Stark Children, given their behavior in the show, and a counter would work well, given that I knew it was possible for a Greenseer to force themselves to disrupt the bond between a dragon and a rider for a short time.

And if my understanding of how close the soul of a Direwolf was to a human, then residual spiritual resonance would lead to some trouble. This world did not need that type of werewolf, along with all the bullshit it had.

The insights I gained, however, allowed me to take a normal Wolf Pelt and treat it with a potion of knotgrass, mixed with blood and ash of both the original body the skin came to and the new wearer of the skin. It was through combining the insight from the Direwolf skin and the magic of the Faceless Men that I managed to create the Werewolf Belt I gave to Wat the Brains.

The Belt was not the hardest thing I had crafted, though mass-producing it was not likely to work. The way magic seemed to slip off of Wat's mind was hard to replicate, even for me.

I did not dare to use the same method to make a belt with the Direwolf pelt... therein laid danger I would rather not try my hand on. I had a distinct feeling that if I tried it, the effect would be permanent and potentially linked to the phases of the moon, and I learned to trust my instincts; thank you very much.

Now that the fur was virtually useless apart from the 'status' wearing it would bring, I wanted to gift it to Huan in a more permanent way. Ironically, the ritual itself was based on the Werewolf Belt in turn... though far more lasting.

While a human wearing the Direwolf pelt would create a Werewolf of some sort, I was counting on the malleable nature of Huan's soul.

Faceless Men themselves used a Valyrian Steel dagger to create a shallow cut on the face of the user, a cut that was less about damaging the skin to let the blood flow and more about damaging the soul to allow it to bind better with external souls. My own ritual to increase my soul mass used a similar concept, the 'damage' increasing the small threads formed that the soul would bind to.

The process was such that the user could wear any face once the first one was made for them, and they were sufficiently attuned to the magical process. The last stage, which was called the Mask of Many Faces, came when the Faceless Men gained so much experience that they could physically transform their face at will, though I had no idea how to achieve such a thing without years of repeated use.

Consuming the heart of the animal provided a form of internal binding to the external binding of the skin, locking the transformation into place. Huan had already gone through the process to improve his smelling abilities with those of a fox.

The lack of a direwolf heart led to me using a wolf heart and wolf skin along with the process, essentially adding the smaller wolf over the dire wolf fur.

The potion I made acted as a way to bind everything together. It was both consumed and applied to the inside of the fur, though I played around with the original recipe of wolf heart, knotgrass, and ground bones of the wolf, adding Ashwinder Eggs to the process.

Something about Ashwinder Eggs and Magical Wolf resonated as far as materials were considered, and one of my more obscure methods of divination, using Water Scrying on the Pensieve, gave me the name 'Eduras' of all things.

Beneath the skin, the flesh felt hard as stone... literally.

It was somewhere between physical petrification and the petrification spell I had access to, acting practically as a less contagious version of the Greyscale. While my Latin was relatively limited, "Duro" was a spell I was familiar with that showed similar results, and I could use the process to effectively replicate the results that I observed on Huan.

The good news was, my dog was now the size of a small horse and practically immune to swords, given the stone flesh his body seemed to transform into.

One unique effect, however, was the reaction between the normal wolf pelt and the direwolf pelt. The best way was that Huan's size slowly started to shrink, his size becoming closer to that of a normal wolf, which was smaller than his original form.

It was a form of Transformation, Enlargement, and Reducement Charm if I recall correctly.

"Fascinating... though now I am curious to know where does the mass go?" I muttered in amazement as Huan cocked his head in question. Scratching behind his ear as I watched him wag his tail in happiness. Huan was a good boy, once capable of becoming a horse-sized half-dire wolf with stone for flesh when he wanted to be, but he was a good boy.

"It is not working," complained Dany, looking at the partial transfiguration of the bird that was halfway between a goblet and a bird. It was funny seeing a goblet with wings trying and failing to fly.

I looked up from the parchment that I was working on, inspecting the end results of Dany's spell-work.

Transfiguration was one of the funkiest bits of Magic I had run into. It was not exactly full-on morphing the shape and material of an object, which was what Transmutation was all about.

The best method I could come up with for Transfiguration to work was the use of illusions to make reality think that an object was, in fact, another object. It was at least the insight I gained from the way that the Eduras Potion worked or how Huan became larger than he could possibly be. It was all an illusion, one that was so convincing that the Universe was convinced to be the truth.

"You are trying to make the bird into a goblet," I said, flicking my wand to reverse the transfiguration, "You should instead be trying to convince the bird that it has always been a goblet and layer the illusion over it to make it so."

My initial conclusion of the object's shape, image, and essence was not really off. The similarities of shape helped, while the image was simply the illusion that was placed over it. With a matchstick to the needle, the image was implanted on the organic material and stuck, but when you involved more advanced animals, partial success was expected.

The principles of Transfiguration were a cobbled together one, reverse engineered from the Transfiguration curriculum of Hogwarts, some bits and pieces of Alternation and Projection Magecraft from Nasuverse. Instead of convincing the world that the object was, in fact, another object, you convinced the object itself that it was the other object.

Matchstick to needle thought control over spellfire, how to not make the spellfire burn the target while layering a simple illusion upon the wood. Since the wood lacked a will of its own, it was easy to change into an object of similar size. The next step was Animate to Inanimate Transfiguration, which, while tricky, was straightforward, as the illusion had to be sustained by the target instead of by an outside force.

In that regard, it was overly similar to the final stage of the Faceless Men training... the skill that I called Mask of Many Faces. Over time, the Faceless Men grew proficient enough in the use of faces to transform themselves so that they could change into any face they wanted instead of relying on the skins of those they killed. The skins helped, bringing the memories and the insight to impose the Transfiguration, but they were not really needed once you understood, stopped caring about having a face you called your own, and got used to the process of changing it. It did not help protect them in the method of their death, but the Kindly Man was right in a way; you only needed to puff up your cheeks to change your face... in a manner of speaking.

"The bird must think it was a goblet and impose its own soul to sustain the enchantment, resulting in the sustained glamour," I explained, "It is as much about mind arts as it is about illusions, so creating mental links and similarities always help."

"Is that why most changes rely on alliterations or puns?" asked Dany, noting the main aspect of why certain transfigurations were done before others. "Beetle to Button makes sense, as well as the porcupine to pincushion, but mice to snuffbox is hard to get."

"It is because mice like to snuff around," I explained, knowing that it was not the most straightforward concept, "And bird to water goblet is as much about the shape and function of their beaks and legs and their similarity to goblets as the fact that birds gobble water. The bird does not understand the difference, but you do, and you can impart that bit of your insight into the animal with the spell."

"Their essence remains the same," I nodded, "but unless they are damaged a lot, to the point of death, their form will be sustained. They are still alive, though, so they will starve and die if left as a goblet for long, and the transfiguration will break. Why don't you try again?"

"Other spells do not work that way," complained Dany

"Don't they?" I asked in turn, holding my wand and creating a floating bloom of fire. "It is fire, yet it exists because you pull on the memories of the obsidian, of the fires of the world. The fire is not there, but the idea of it is... and ideas hold power. Charms just hijack the nature of change within the fire to create different changes. It imposes a new functionality to the target and uses the fire to layer an illusion to make it change."

"But it does not last long..." countered Dany

"No, the essence... the very being of an item knows what it is, it remembers, and it does not agree with what it becomes. Stronger the Essence, or the Soul, less mutable it is... both for charms and transfiguration," I said, trying to explain as best as I could. Dany was already aware of the Alchemical Philosophy of Essence, Spirit, and Body, and nothing from my observations suggested that it was different. Could it be further split up? Probably, but I was not going to go around experimenting with my soul more than I had to.

"But the Essence must agree with the Spirit, the Thoughts and Memories of the target. It is why Animate to Inanimate comes before all; you are pushing the animal to think it is something else, and the result lasts so long as the creature believes it is the new object," I added, getting a nod from my sister. "It is why Ashwinders and Basilisks have their own magic; the spells are wrought into their very soul as they are hatched," and it was why Ashwinders I bred were more resilient and actually bred more Ashwinders while the ones I conjured with magic did not.

"Alright, I think I understand it better," said Dany, taking a deep breath and scrunching her face in concentration before muttering, "Vera Verto."

The spellfire hit the bird, and a moment later, there was a goblet where the raven stood. It looked like it still had a few feathers, but it was definitely an improvement over the previous attempt, and it held.

"Good job, little sister," I said, causing Dany to give me a beaming smile before she inspected her work and frowned, "Nothing repetition and some more trial and trial and error cannot fix," I said, getting a determined nod from the seven-year-old.

I was not really an expert in this branch of magic... but I had managed to get to the point where I could turn a pig into a piano. I was trying to get pig-to-pillow working, but the weight difference was stumping me. It might be better to switch gears, so to speak, and try to figure out the next step, Switching Spells.

I focused back on my own project, the complex Arithmancy I was trying to figure out. It was Math if math was multi-dimensional and worked to account for your mood while doing it. I only did it because more complex ritual circles took care of most of the mental load from the caster and made everything much easier, even if any mistake would cause the purpose to be thrown off-course.

There was also an aspect of it that was personal. The knowledge of Arithmancy of the caster guided the spells they cast, similar to how the Toad-Basilisk took on the form of the one from Dark Souls or how the Ashwinder was so willing to become something that I was familiar with or expecting as a result.

That was how the divination aspect of the numbers actually worked in a way. Spells formed influences that caused feelings linked to numbers. When I cast my version of Human Presence Revealing Charm, the "Homenum Revelio," and got an overwhelming feeling of separation, I knew there were two people near me, but if I also had the feeling of oneness, that meant that the number had to both hold the Arithmancy for one and two, which likely meant that there were instead eleven people all around.

In the end, Arithmancy was also a more stable form of Divination than simple feelings, so when it came to stuff that exploded, I had long since cobbled together a system that kept everything stable-ish. I still would not do something with just the Arithmancy to account for since there were aspects other forms of Divination could utilize, but the combination of the methods worked better than individual aspects.

In this case, the ritual circle I drew from ink mixed with animal blood on the animal skin caused the vellum to bubble and slowly morph before it tore itself apart and burst into violet fire.

"Ventus Glacius," I muttered as the air around the parchment turned cold enough that hoarfrost formed over my desk and sucked out all the heat, putting out the fire in an instant.

Dany looked up and raised an eyebrow before breaking down into giggles.

"Eyebrow?" I asked, getting confirmation that I was indeed missing an eyebrow between the sound of laughter. I waved my wand, regrowing the eyebrow with my will alone.

"What was it anyway... I saw your work on it but never seen it do anything like that," said Dany, leaning over to inspect the Magical Symbols on the parchment I had started to draw once more.

"It is Magical Contract, a Geas that will make the signer's blood boil if they break the contract," I stated, having based it off of the tattoo on my forearm that somehow bound me to Morrigan. It allowed me greater control over the spiritual entity that was more than the soul of a Greenseer, but it was also pushing me to do things I normally would ignore. If only I could leverage it for my own use. "Ideally, the same principles can allow one to store spells in scrolls for later use, but... it is a work in progress."

Dany nodded before returning back to her Transfiguration work.

A moment later, a knock came on the door, only for the door to open with a soft "Alohomora." I turned and looked at a smug-looking Dany, turning her wand back to the bird-goblet that had returned back to being a bird.

"Good job, though next time, I expect you to cast silently as well; it is a valuable skill to have and helps with control," I said, reaching out and ruffling her hair.

Dany nodded as Lanna entered, looking at us with a proud grin. "The Stirring Rod for the Potions works like we thought it would," Lanna stated, placing the thin obsidian rod that was twisted clockwise.

I considered myself perceptive, though I would admit that it took a moment to realize that there were a lot of stains on Lanna's clothes, and her hair looked far too unkept, which was odd considering her obsession with keeping her hair tidy. She must have been spending hours working on... obviously potions, it would seem.

I inspected the item, one that Lanna had come up with when she and Dany were complaining about the logic behind why stirring in one direction boosted the magic of the last item while the other direction reduced it or even reversed it... or rather why it was random and not reliable.

"Good job," I said, having told Lanna to figure it out and test it with the help of Morna. Given the latter had a Weirwood Mask that acted as a form of stable divination and danger sense, they were much safer than the stupid number crunching I was doing could provide.

I felt an overwhelming feeling of relief from Lanna, making me reel back a bit. I pushed just a little further, passing through the feelings she felt to trace them back to the thoughts that passed through her mind.

Lanna was smart... she had noticed how things had been moving, realizing that I was preparing to leave Braavos almost at a notice, and she was afraid of being left behind.

"Dany, could you give us a moment, please?" I said to Dany, who nodded and got up. Once my sister left the study, I turned my attention to the blonde before me. The raven was also a part-time water container followed after my sister, though not really willingly until I mentally pushed it the promise of one of the choice cuts for dinner.

"I gave you a challenge, and you overcame it," I said once the door closed, trying to think of a way to reassure the girl that she would not simply be left to fend for herself. After a moment of silence, a... feeling came over me, and I placed the Rowan and Basilisk Horn Wand on the table, along with a sack of coins that I kept in one of the drawers.

"The wand is working for me," I stated, as I saw Lanna give it a look of confusion, "but it feels off... these violent delights have violent ends... a bard once said... I killed the basilisk whose horn made this wand... the same creature that I hatched with magic. Place your hand over it, and tell me what you feel."

Lanna did as she was told, closing her eyes and feeling the wand, her hands hovering over it. "It remembers the betrayal," noted Lanna, "It feels... sad."

I had crafted the Basilisk to provide a core, but it was not a material that I held any form of affinity to. I had killed the Basilisk and taken its horn as my wand core, and that act had tainted it for me. I was its creator twice over, yet I was also its destroyer, its killer, its bane. The Right of Conquest, if it was truly a thing, made the wand mine, but like any under the control of a tyrant, I faced resistance from this wand. There was... simply too much distrust between us.

"Why bring such a thing up, my lord... would a potion help with it?" asked Lanna,

I snorted, "Possibly, though it is not why I asked you. The dragon bone does not make for a good core for you; it has more to do with the affinity one has as well as one's heritage, hence your lack of affinity to such wands." I said, confirming that Tyrion was, in fact, not the son of Aerys. The heterochromia and white blonde hair were still a bit suspicious, but I was pretty sure the Imp of Casterly Rock was not related to me in any way.

It made things better since I could kill the meddling dwarf without any social or supernatural repercussions when the time came. The show-Tyrion was a drunken idiot who was responsible for the failures of Dany's early campaign, and the book-Tyrion was a drunken rapist who fantasized about raping his own sister and sent off a teenager to cause as much chaos in Westeros as he could. He was the type of arrogant who liked to say they were smart even when they were a fool. Killing him was probably the best option, though I would have to see if I could do it discretely.

"This wand is not made from Dragon Bone," remarked Lanna, her mismatched eyes not breaking from me.

"No... it is not," I agreed.

It might have been foolish to give such a wand to Lanna, of all people. Some might argue that giving a wand that I personally betrayed might be a way to get betrayed in turn, but the wand was not the basilisk; it was a rebirth of the basilisk, a new life that recalled an impression of the old life.

Magic... soul magic that the wands worked on was closer to the essence of acts than the actual acts. The Basilisk was betrayed in the same way as Lanna was, with their creator throwing them away. That created a resonance deeper than anything I could mimic with another material. It felt... right in a way I could not put into words.

"Why?" asked Lanna, understanding the trust I was placing in her.

"I will tell you a story... it concerns a proud man," I said, telling her the story of Tywin and his rise to power, of Tyrion and Tysha and their marriage. I told her the truth as I knew it, that Tywin had Tysha raped, that he forced his own dwarf son to rape the girl at the end, paying her with coin and getting rid of her... only for Tysha to make her way to Braavos and becoming the Sailor's Wife.

By the time I was done, Lanna was shedding tears, unable to stop listening, unable to interrupt. It was a cruel thing I did, but certain truths had to be revealed.

Lanna was barely ten, but the medieval world was a cruel one where rape was common, and justice was an illusion unless you had the strength and will to enforce it. That was without mentioning whatever the Alchemist had done to her or what she had witnessed with the other children who died in that basement.

"Now, you have a choice... with what I have taught you, you can probably curse and even kill all the Lannisters... if so, you ought to take the coin here. It is the same coin that was given to your mother as a man raped her. It should be enough to book you a passage to Lannisport," I said, giving her a choice before I could trust her to teach anything more.

"And the other option?" asked Lanna, her mind simply dismissing the idea. She seemed set on staying close to me. I could feel her fear at the thought of being dismissed and not being close. I was not sure it was the most healthy expression of her trauma, but it was what she was using.

I pushed the wand toward her. "Swear your wand to me; your enemies will be my enemies, just as mine will be yours... and when the time is right, Fire and Blood."

"And what is the difference?" asked Lanna, relieved at the option to stay close and also confused. "Lannisters are your enemies as well."

Was I manipulating her, giving her an illusion of a choice... probably. I was not going to let her stay if she wanted to leave, but her own doubts and insecurities meant that I would have to make it look like she was the one making the choice.

I chuckled at that, knowing it to be true, "Sharp as always, but I have more enemies, and I can teach more to you. It is that opportunity to choose that chance your parents did not have, and your fate is only in your hands."

Lanna nodded, thinking it through.

"And you knew... all this time, you knew, that I was a Lannister,"

"I did," I admitted, leaning back. My left hand held four Valyrian Steel Rings, each with a different gem that would allow me to cast with a versatility second only to a wand.

"And you still saved me, shielded me... the blood of your enemy," whispered Lanna, her voice barely audible as revelation slowly came. "Why?"

"You were innocent," I admitted, looking her in the eye, "whatever your grandfather has done... you had no fault in it; when I looked at you, I saw a girl who was in need of help... so help I did."

Lanna blushed before nodding. "What about you? Will you not need a wand?"

"I don't need a wand to cast magic," I stated, knowing that there were certain things I could not have for what was coming, what I was waiting for. A wand was one of those.

Having access to the Basilisk Wand for over a year was useful, even if it was not compatible. It's magic allowed me to refine my abilities to be better, but I had one of those 'Feelings' that told me that having a wand going into what I planned was going to end badly.

It was almost time I finally finished what I started when my wand was destroyed, and an alternative wand that did not really fit me would make it harder.

Lanna reached for the wand, uncertain but fully understanding the meaning behind the gesture of owning such an item. She had my favor and my trust.

I could feel the wand sing a melody... soft hissing in a tone that sounded like the cymbal of a drum set, vibrating at the roots of my teeth.

"I swear myself to you, I name you my lord, Viserys of House Targaryen, upon my blood, my life, my soul," stated Lanna, as magic around us shimmered in the Unseen. "Your enemies are mine. Your friends are mine. Your will is mine."

The tip of the wand released a smoke that took on the form of the basilisk its core was made of, coiling itself down the wand and around Lanna's arm. We both watched, mesmerized, as the smoke sank into her skin and almost bound itself to the wand and the oath she gave.

"Before you leave," I said, pointing at the sack of coins, "It is yours at the end... I was just keeping it safe for you,"

"Melt it down... please, my lord... that coin is useless to me," said Lanna. "House Lannister will end, and the Legacy of Tywin will be a legacy of ashes, and I shall help you with that."

I nodded, taking out the single golden coin and throwing it at the eleven-year-old girl with the maturity of a grown woman.

The rest of the coins, thirty pieces exactly, I placed on the desk.

Spellfire leaped from my ring, answering my call without a wand there, as I slowly traced a Magic Circle in the air made of fire. It was a trick, one that some of the Red Priests could do, used for a more proper purpose instead of minor parlor tricks.

The circle formed a pentagram; the five represented transformation, the alchemical balance of the five elements upon reality. It was often used in things like summoning circles, as the conceptual value of the sign echoed through the subconscious.

This was the difference between Transfiguration and Transmutation; even then, this was the weakest form of transmutation as I channeled the heat through the silver, melting it and letting it flow with my will.

Slowly, the silver blob changed shape, taking the form of a dagger with a thin triangular blade, a spiraling hilt, and a crossguard made up of a single piece that would be impossible to forge.

"Silver has its uses, and might be that inherited silver even more so..." I said, recalling some other works of fiction, "but the gold is for you to keep."

Lanna took the dagger I made, "I recall one of the stories you have told my lord, the one about the ferrymen of the dead. I shall return this to my grandfather... for his ferrymen," said Lanna, bowing. "For a Lannister always pays her debts."

"They will," I said, smirking.... "With Fire and Blood, they will."

I did not have to wait long for that feeling of dread I was getting, the unease I was feeling for the last few months, to reveal itself.

In my new life, I had been cut, burned, and poisoned more than once. Most were, admittedly, by my own hand, but some were from the hands of others who wanted me dead. Magic, Mind Arts, Potions, and a shit ton of Baezor got me through it all... helping remove both physical and mental damages, yet none of those pains felt or tasted as bitter as seeing Ser Willem lying there, unmoving.

None hurt more than seeing the lifeless body of the closest thing I had to a father... my helplessness against the cold embrace of death... the numbness that came after.

"His bones should be returned to Darry, as is proper," said Ser Richard, eyeing the funeral pyre I had constructed on my own.

Dany was crying next to me, her face buried into my shirt and I... I could not offer any words of comfort.

'Don't waste it,' echoed his words of the Old Man... 'Don't waste my life... use it to gain as much advantage as you can. I care not if I live, I will die today or tomorrow, it matters not... but I shall not be fed to a cruel god. If it can protect you or your sister, if it can save you one last time... I am willing to die a thousand deaths... as many as it takes.'

"As many as it takes..." I repeated his last words to me, my silent tears landing on his chest, "Careful what you wish for, old man; I can make them real," I said with a sad smile before turning to Ser Richard. "I... I will honor his wishes," I said instead, my voice cracking as I took a deep breath to hold myself upright.

Ser Richard hesitated, before he sighed, knowing that this was something he could not change.

There were many things I could have done with the soul of the one who was most loyal to me. I could have resurrected him, though the Cancer was tricky to work around and had long since spread. Creating a homunculus out of his blood would not work for similar reasons.

I could have built a golem of some sort, taking a few pages out of Elric Brothers to bind his memories and soul to a construct, but it would not be flesh and bone, and it would not be more than an Automaton.

One of the lessons Morrigan taught me was simple, 'The soul needed flesh to evolve, and flesh needed soul to live.'

Any other choice I could have made would be temporary, fake, or not the best thing I could provide in terms of magic. It would not last; as the spells would fade, the soul would diminish, and Ser Willem would forever fade.

It was maybe fate that the one option I considered last was the only one that I knew would grant the man who loved me as a son the eternity he deserved, beyond the reach of any god... even the Many-Faced One.

Morrigan was silent, the apparition of herself projected only to my eyes watching silently... not interfering.

The Ritual I had designed was one that made use of some of the more complex aspects of Magic. I was... on par with the Sun Fire Ritual I used to kill the Faceless Man, a 'Grand Sorcery' as I referred to it, a combination of Thaumaturgy and Sorcery, though the end result would be less destructive and more... utilitarian in purpose.

Poisons and plots hounded me at every step as I held the Ashwinder egg in my hand, knowing that what I was about to do was not only possible, but something was pushing me to complete that which I started.

I had to admit, most of it was me making it up as I went along, listening to both my blood and my feelings, that subtle form of Divination that had let Dany hatch dragons from a funeral pyre in another world... in another time.

The location of the ritual was chosen specifically, the site of the Dragon Well that had been formed from the volatile potions, containing the conceptual meaning of a dragon, would act as the site to power this ritual. It was away from the city of Braavos and out of the prying eyes... as well as a deep reserve of raw Magical Energy that I could tap into should the need arise.

"Two heads to a third one sing," I muttered in High Valyrian. "The price is paid in blood magic."

For a Dragon, that was a horse and a human sacrificed in a fire, as Dany had shown, a mount for a mount, a life for a life.

I was not hatching Dragons, however... I was going to be doing something similar, if not much more foolish... a madness without a peer in this world, to call upon greatness without equal... something more lasting than dragons ever could... for dragons could die, and dragons could go extinct.

It was said that Magic died when the last dragon died... I was doubtful of such a statement, though I was going to ensure that Magic was coming to stay after this... more permanent than before.

That required far more, and the Basilisk and Human provided that. The power of entropy folded into the essence of a Basilisk, reversed in it's death, combined with the soul of the one who was loyal to a fault.

The white raven, specked red with flecks of flame that came with each beat of his wing, had my mind whirling as he landed upon the chest of the dead man. The once black feathers, now white, stood against the background, but when I looked... when I truly looked beyond the Seen and into the Unseen, I caught a glimpse of feathers of red instead of white.

Alchemy, proper Alchemy, not the limited perception this world had, which boiled down to chemistry with added magic, had a single goal in mind... Magnum Opus, the Philosopher's Stone. It was a path to eternal life and the ability to create the Panacea that would heal any wound or illness.

According to my meta-knowledge, Philosopher's Stone was made up of souls used to fuel the spells in one universe, and based on my understanding and observations of Alchemy, it was definitely possible... but that was not the point of this specific ritual.

There were stages to the Magnum Opus, three to be exact.

Nigredo, the Darkening, and Putrification came first, a black smoking raven.

Albedo, Whitening and Purification, a large white bird with embers from each flap of his wings, was next.

Rubedo, the Reddening was the last... an eternity in the form of a fiery bird, immortal, a being that held the secrets of the panacea, it's song to heal the soul and it's tears to heal the body.

Since my start on the tricky road of Magic, I have seen some patterns; chief among them was the nature of Ritual Magic.

Sure, there was the simple aspect of stacking your end of the ritual with as much as possible to gain a stable result, materials, enchantments, runes, glyphs, and shapes to pull on the right Arithmancy and made-up incantations to resonate with it all. That was Wizardry at its core, knowledge compiled and laced together into a stable form.

There was also another aspect, the one that was affected by who you are. Magical Fire came naturally for Dany; Magic came naturally to me, just as I could still feel the Sun Fire that was hidden beneath the surface. That was Sorcery, what you are affecting, and what was through your willpower.

But, Rituals were as much science as they were art... as much Sorcery as they were Wizardry. It was a form of symbolic poetry that I found strangely enthralling. I now understood that The Sun Fire Ritual worked not because of the steps I took but rather because it was me casting the spell. Viserys Targaryen... the Sun Fire... the man who had lived past his death, with affinities of 'Magic,' 'Survival,' 'Fire,' and 'Amplification.' I worked because of who my enemies were as well, a group dedicated to suppressing the knowledge of Magic... ones who had led to the destruction of Valyria.

Of course, that could also be my latest affinity in 'Poetry,' which worked rather well with ritual creation, I had to admit. I had slept with the Poetress for that specific purpose, though a threesome with two of the most beautiful women on the planet did things to my ego; it was her affinity to 'poetry' and how close it was to 'rituals' that was both confusing and intriguing, as such I desired it possibly more than the thought of bedding another girl.

Deep in my memories came another bit of information that I found relevant. Loki, the God of Magic, had once said that Magic is telling a story so convincing that, for a moment, reality believes it.

There was poetry in Magic... I took out the remaining ashes of my first wand as the Firebird watched me. The bond within was special, its value immeasurable as the bond I held with the knight before me. Both were my first shields, and both were my first swords. It was the reason I gave the new wand to Lanna, knowing that it would interfere with the process I was enacting.

I placed a raven egg in the center of the ash pile. "Egg and Bird, Bird and Egg... Fire and Phoenix... Phoenix and Fire... Which comes first?" I chanted in High Valyrian, the Magical energy swirling around me.

Valyrians had a concept of Phoenixes, though it was in the same way that Dragons would be to Westerosi. However, instead of a bird reborn from its own ashes, the Phoenixes were reborn by entering the pyres of the dead. It was intricately linked to the blood magic and the understanding the Valyrians held to it.

Combined with my new understanding of Fire and how to create an everlasting flame, I had everything at my disposal, including the final pieces.

The corpse of the Basilisk wrapped around a raven egg in a way that it was eating its own tail... representing the Ouroborous and the infinity. In life, the Basilisk was the breaking of the infinite cycle of chicken and egg; in death, it was the start of a new one... It's corpse restarting the eternal cycle anew.

There was power in opposing forces... in the meeting of ice and fire... life and death... and death and rebirth.

There was poetry in the relationship between a Basilisk and a Phoenix... the eternal enmity that existed beyond reason the two Magical Creatures.

A Basilisk was the opposite of the Eternal Cycle, as an egg becomes something other than its parent. It was the end of the cycle, a break from the philosophical discussion of chicken and egg. It was why Basilisk Gaze could kill, why its venom was so potent that I could not even contain it without significant risk... but it was also why a Phoenix was the only counter to a Basilisk.

The old legend of the Basilisk being vulnerable to the crow of the rooster made little sense, and in application, it was rather fitting if one relied on the relationship between the sun and the roosters.

More so, the basilisk eating its own tail reinforced the ritual I had designed. It was an irony, forming an Ouroboros that represented infinity through the corpse of a being that was in essence the end of infinity. Just as a Phoenix was anathema to the very concept of a Basilisk, so was the symbol of it's corpse for this ritual, holding the symbolic meaning of the rejoining of the break into the cycle. What I was creating was something new, something more... an eternal cycle with no end but a single beginning. 'And now, eternity begins.'

My blood... my soul called for this... this ritual that was as much Sorcery as it was Wizardry and Witchcraft... a Ritual so closely tied to my identity that it could not be crafted or enacted by another... my own very unique Sorcery, an innate magic that came from my very essence, my very soul. My name binding me to the Sun, my knowledge of Magic, my connection with Death... my Rebirth, purpose-built to create something that ought not to be, a Fantasy brought to Reality... my own rebirth brought forth into creation... into a single being.

Without a word, flames leaped from my fingers, the Sun's fire blooming as the spell burned off the glove of snakeskin, leaving the rune of the Deathly Hollows bare before the world. I felt it, the concepts the rune held... 'Death' holding back the untapped fires of creation. In flames, I felt something touching my mind, looking through my soul... judging me.

Sun Fire did not burn me, as it had done before, as thought it understood what I was doing. The golden flames consuming the funeral pyre made of Weirwood and Nightwood, arranged from North to South, and East to West.

As the fires of the sun burned the body of the man who had been most loyal to me, I felt the Magic around the area be pulled.

"It is incomplete, it is missing something" noted Dany, as though in a trance, looking at the pyre and refusing to look away despite her tears. I frowned as I let my mind see through the time itself. Greensight would take longer to master, but Dany was right.

"Yet the signs are there," said Morna, walking toward us. "Look,"

Her finger was pointed at the horizon, the start of a red line appearing.

"That should not be doing that," I muttered, not recalling if the red comet had actually been on the horizon in the original timeline of these event. Turning to my sister, I met her eyes and for a brief moment, glimpsed at what she saw.

Dany had a specific affinity, 'rebirth', and I knew that the creation of mine would require it as much as it would require the 'sun fire' that I now held.

"Together?" I asked, interpreting the Divination as best as I could.

Dany hummed, her feeling of unease vanishing as the decision was made. Seh closed her eyes in response, listening... or trying. "It is like a larger version of the fire exercise."

Fire Exercise, as I called it, was the variation of the Lorathi Candle Game I reverse-engineered from the descriptions of in from the books... or was it only show specific? The purpose of it was to improve control over fire and it required a second caster. Both sides 'pushed' their control over the flame, in an effort to not burn. The one with the greater control was unharmed and one with lesser control was burned... or at least, that was the original purpose. I had managed to figure out that Dany and I could use it to build our control and strength, sort of like a resistance training that would push each other to greater power.

"He was there when no one else was," I said as the fires reached their zenith, feeding on my loss, feeding on my pain. "He was the one who went beyond his duty. He was not of the Kingsguard, yet he shamed all who had Kingsguard with his loyalty... he was not of the blood, yet he was more true... when my family needed it the most... when I needed him the most... Ser Willem Darry was there."

"When you most need it... There is a song..." I whispered as a crack echoed through the golden flames... echoing through the air in a warmth that was impossible not to hear. "And now... the circle begins anew."

I gave Dany's hand a squeeze, as we both took a step into the funeral pyre.

I came to with the sun, my right hand giving a brief twinge at the presence of the link it held to the giant ball of flame. I was holding Dany close to me, as though to shield her from the funeral pyre.

A flex of my will had the ash rise and weave itself into two grey robes around us, when I heard the soft chirping sound. Dany revealing that she was holding onto a small chick between her dainty hands.

"Born under the Bleeding Star," someone said... Richard, I recognized once my brain caught up.

I looked at the sound and saw the few men who followed us to pay their respects on their knees.

And for the first time in an eternity, the song of the world changed. The bird that never was, that never should be, that never would be, was reborn from ashes, its cry filling the air.

It sang a new song, the song of a bird that ever will be.

And I felt Magic roiling off the Phantasmal being, the Phoenix. I felt Magical Energy rise with each of his tiny breath... and I was filled with both hope and dread at once.

AN: I am back from my scheduled study of Barrel-mancy, which may have affected some of the direction of the next chapter, so thank you for your patience.

I am not sure why there was a sudden spike of Fried Chicken related fics in this site, but it fits with the theme so, I dedicate this chapter to those beautiful minds who wrote those stories... and all those HP fics where they turn Hedwig into a Phoenix without an actual explanation other than, it is cool.

Farewell, Ser Willem, the Most Based Knight in the History of Westeros. As far as the names are concerned, I am going for Will the Phoenix for now, but I can be convinced if I run into a strong argument in the comments.

It is still a bit rough around the edges but I needed to upload a chapter for my sanity, so I appreciate any feedback.

Last edited: Sep 18, 2023

032 Interlude 3

# 032 Interlude 3

Red Priestess:

Pentos had not changed since Melisandre of Asshai had last set foot on the city all those years ago.

It had taken her longer to travel to the City of Merchants than she anticipated, as her journey from Asshai to Volantis had been delayed by a few pirates... pirates that were sacrificed to the might of R'hllor's fires, his will enacted through his servant.

The scepter within her grasp, the gift of her god, proved its worth as it allowed her to not only weave illusions of great power to make the unfaithful cower but burn the servants of the Great Other that would dare to defy the Will of R'hllor.

Within Volantis, she had to work with High Priest Bennero to ensure that the gift from R'hllor would be known to as many as possible. There were a few trinkets from Old Valyria, but none have worked or been created after the Doom. The Ring upon the High Priest's finger is one such gift, allowing one to bring out the flames of their Red God to bear. The scepter would need to be known by the forces of the Light so that they would be ready when the Long Night came.

Still, the scepter in her hand felt heavy. It had been the reason for the delay... and even as she disliked the thought of letting Azor Ahai wait in ignorance, the secrets revealed in the Fire were better to be shared.

The visions still showed a man holding a flaming blade, the background one that Melisandre had recognized as the City of Merchants... and it had not been hard to gain the passage from Volantis to Pentos after the gift of knowledge Lady Melisandre of Asshai had brought the Red Temple of Volantis.

Bennero whispered of a potential source of her visions that Azor Ahai was in Braavos... the last Targaryens, the Last Dragonlords of Valyria... yet Melisandre saw nothing when she wished to see Braavos and the Last Targaryens.

So, there she was, within the Red Temple of Pentos, awaiting the next vision, preying and asking for more visions, yet she got the same vision every time she looked for him.

Was Azor Ahai in the city?

If so, why was it that every time she looked, all she saw were vermin?

It had been months still since she first set foot on this retched city, and she had nothing to show for it.

One moment, it was calm, and next, she felt the surge of magic, her eyes finding the Red Comet in the sky through one of the open windows of the Temple.

She almost stumbled when she felt it... releasing a moan of pain and ecstasy at once, feeling herself being filled to the brim with the Life Force, as though she had been through one of the nights of passion with the believers... back when she was no more than a Temple Whore... back before she had been deemed powerful enough to be taught the secrets of R'hllor.

Some sort of great magic was being worked, and it was far away and not within the city.

Had the visions been wrong?

Was she too late... was she too early?

She had somehow ended on her knees in the middle of the Red Temple, the priests around her similarly fallen as all had the vision of a fiery form, with a large white dragon hovering over the burning man.

The Watcher on the Wall:

The Song had changed... the Singers felt it... just as he had felt it.

The air felt fresher, colors were sharper. He could feel it, something pushing back against the Chill of the Cold Ones... lessening the burden that the Greenseer had taken upon himself.

It was not such that the Summer would last longer, but it had brought him time that he did not have in the end... maybe a few years... but that would have to be enough to unmake the influence of the enemy below the Wall.

Winter was insidious like that... the cold did not manage to get past the spells woven into Wall, yet their influence had been subtle, hiding treachery, shifting the minds, hiding that which would have been used against them.

It was hard for the one who was known as the Bloodraven to not feel the distinct ripples that touched his soul... the fire within what passed off as his blood nowadays.

What was this power?

Who was the source of this change?

Thrice Magic had stirred now, shrugging off the dust that had settled upon it since the Death of Dragons... since he had given up on the House of his father's. Thrice, Lord Bloodraven... the Last Greenseer had failed to find its source... hidden as it were from the sights of those from the outside.

First, was the visions he had once had of that staff of wood, cored with the bone of a dragon, turning into a white dragon breathing shadow-flame... had it been half a decade already?

It had been a shift, a small one that brought the old Lord Commander some degree of hope, as his visions changed to a boy of silver hair holding a flaming blade.

There were only two who could fit that description... and each brought a different form of dread for the former Hand of the King.

Years later, there was the Second Shift, more noticeable than the First, and it was one that provided him the cleanest vision. The white dragon that had oft represented Lord Bloodraven himself now championed another... its golden flames burning away shadow and skull alike before wrapping the rest in chains of word and will.

It was not one of the players in this Game of Gods, at least not the ones that mattered. He had kept a close eye on those... as was his duty as the Watcher on the Walls.

The failed replacement was gone from the shores, exiled from his sight, but his presence was hard to conceal, even if Bloodraven's sight was less precise across the Narrow Sea. He was seeking knowledge from all he could find... putting together dredges of half-forgotten lore to awaken that which was denied to him.

The Song of Ice and Fire, which his manipulations brought about, was safe and hidden behind the strangest Magical Protections that had been brought to bear by the first of his kind.. the Builder, denying even his eyes upon the Promised Child. Plans were formed and discarded as Bloodraven's spirit gave a sigh.

The Red Priests preached as they always did, yet their power had remained mostly the same. Their God was stirring. It always did; its influence a threat to the Weirwoods that bound the Greenseer... yet its priests were man... and man could be controlled.

The Warlocks of Qarth might have been to blame. Their Black Trees holding power on par with the Power of Greenseers... yet they were slow to act, phantom tortoises a good representation of their masters. Immortals tended to act lethargic even when the world changed around them... a fault that Brynden himself saw within him.

The ones hidden beneath the shadow slumbered and waited, as they oft did. As with the Warlocks, these immortals too acted slow, patience and sloth woven into their very essence as it were.

Bloodraven steeled himself before turning his gaze into the smoky ruins of Old Valyria... and what lay beyond the ruins... it was as it had been in the past... a threat lurking but waiting still... bound within the lands of Valyria as any land outside would not sustain them... until now.

That was a threat he would have to figure a way around, but as far away as it was, the Realms he was charged to protect would be last to be affected. He had time, as his predecessors had time, to deal with the Slavers who took over Old Valyria.

That left only one source, one that was harder to see than any other. The Greenseer's gaze turned to the Mists that shielded the Free City of Braavos... bringing all of his might to catch a glimpse at the two sources that he knew lay in the city with such power.

The Faceless Men had been gone... wiped away by the Second Working of the Great Magic that brought the sun's wrath upon them. It had released enough energy for Lord Bloodraven to sustain his own workings for a moment or two, allowing himself to be shielded from the workings of the Enemy in turn... allowing him to push the changes he needed... to ensure peace was possible once Spring came.

That left the Moonsingers, whose workings in the past had commanded the seas and the tides... yet the ones that remained were naught but a shadow of themselves. Yet, their magic was made for healing and protection, and the sun was in opposition to the Moon. They had their plots still, and without eyes on the city, all he had were rumors and stories of the sailors that had visited the city.

Those rumors were why he had even looked at the last two potential sources in the first place. Within Braavos, his sight was limited, his blood too distant from his kin to be of any use, even if he could use it as Shiera had once taught him.

The girl was too young, even if the storm that brought her to this world was one wrought with magic of blood and sacrifice... the blood spilled on the now-named Ruby Ford, spilling into the sea, bound with the wrath of the Storm Lord... even then, wisdom of watching the workings of old implied that the Sorcery of the Second working would have been one of thunder or storm had it been the girl... or dragon's flame if the portends were to be believed... telling of the Thunder of Dragon Wings.

No, the Faceless Men were not struck down by the wrath of heavens as lightning fell upon them... nor were their flesh turned to the scales of dragons as one Bloodpriest could have done in the olden times.

That left only one... the boy named after his own grandfather.

Viserys Targaryen... vexed him.

Too close to Aerys in his youth... too powerless to be of any use but a pawn... too much like Aerion even before the cruelty of exile for Brynden to like... yet the shift had been there, hadn't it?

Dragonstone was beyond his sight as a Greenseer, his Blackwood blood being rejected by the protections layered onto the old stronghold, deeming him what he was... a bastard unworthy of the lands of the Dragonlords. He needed to see what had changed in the island for Viserys Targaryen to become as he did... yet the answers were hidden from him.

Had Bloodraven missed something?

Had Rhaella called upon something in her dying breath to protect her children?

The Wizard of Westeros, the rumors called the exiled Prince... yet Brynden needed eyes to see for himself... trusting rumors never worked.

A small part of him hoped against all hope... that the descendants of the brother he loved would be safe.

Another sent another raven to brave the ocean winds, hoping that this one would make it to the isles hidden behind the mists.

The Key Holder:

The weight of the key on his neck felt heavy as he sat upon the chair in the hall facing the rest of the Key Holders.

The Sea Lord ruled Braavos in matters of politics, yet the Key Holders held the true reins, controlling the money, and as such, they were the true rulers within the Hidden City.

They did not have a name, yet some called them the Shadow Council. Made up of Key Holders of the Iron Bank and the influential

Three were missing in their meeting.

"What happened to House Prestayn cannot be allowed to stand," said one of their members. "We did nothing when the boy destroyed the Faceless Men. We did nothing when he all but took over the control.... even now, his whispers in the ear of Sealord threaten our very way of life. If we remained silent..." his words impassioned, "Who among us will be the next?"

"No need to ask who will be next when it is all of you," said a voice as all turned to find the visage of a man with a long white beard and purple robes... dressed as a wizard... though all knew that he worked for one.

"Tycho Nestoris... you traitor!" one of the keyholders exclaimed, making to get up, only for his legs to leave their strength.

"Do not blame dear Tycho on this, dear," said a voice, the shimmering of light revealing the robes of the High Priestess, wearing a mask made of Mother of Pearls and holding a Staff adorned with Moonstones. "This was all your doing, that I can reassure you."

"This will not be allowed to stand," the first voice said.

"Stand? My dear, this is where you fall," said the High Priestess, slamming her staff down and causing all the council to crumble to their legs. "Years ago, when Braavos was first founded, there was an agreement made... years ago, when this city was built upon the corpses and blood of the Moonsingers, the First Law came to be... and yet the Iron Bank did not follow through."

"What are you implying, Priestess? Iron Bank does not trade in flesh," countered one of the keyholders.

"No... merely profits from them," responded Tycho, dropping a stack of letters.

Grabbing one in random, the key holder found it to be a deal between House Prestayn and a Magister in Pentos... regarding the relocation of children... slave children.

"This is preposterous... we do not deal in slaves," he tried to say, only for his tongue to be tied.

"The light of the Moon reveals that which is hidden," countered the High Priestess. "Take care to select your lies better."

The Key Holder sank lower on his chair, knowing that those who could not pay off their debts through coin had to pay it in some way. How was he wrong if their flesh could pay what was the Iron Banks due?

Those were his last thoughts when the last sleep claimed him.

# Maiden of the Moon

The shadows unwrapped themselves around her as Moonshadow stood next to the High Priestess. The Moon hid that which needed to be hidden, and Moonshadow had spent enough time around the Targaryens to pick up a trick or two.

"Is it wise to trust his words..." the words muttered through the silent hall. "The Sun's Champion he may be, yet he is dangerous... too uncontrollable."

"So were the House of Black and White," countered the High Priestess. "Once, they were much less refined than they had been later in their existence. There are records of the bloodbath they unleashed within Valyria that would make your bones chill, girl. It is our duty to guide, not to judge. There is a reason we gave up our names, Moonshadow... we are not the Sun to burn away the dark. We are the Moon's light, holding the dark at bay until the Sun rises to do the deed for us."

"He holds to the words of an oath, even if he finds ways around the spirit of it." countered Moonshadow, "How are we to trust such a man?"

"Through understanding that he was born in a world of lies and deceit. It makes one so used to such things, but also value truth more, that is why you gained his attention above others who might have been less willful. Be yourself, and the Wizard will lend an ear to your concerns," countered the High Priestess. "Trust in him to do what he believes is right... guide him when he needs a light. He is no different than other jhat, one wise enough to heed the council of others."

"It is just... he has been more brutal lately... more murderous; House Prestayn was his doing, I am sure of it," countered the Acolyte, who strafed under the burdens of the duty Moonsingers took upon themselves.

"Of course, it was. Yet, House Prestayn was a tragedy... yet we have reason to believe that they were seeking allies against the Wizard from outside our city... such actions tend to lead to chaos and suffering within the city once they unfold," countered the High Priestess "It had happened before when a House had the Sealord murdered and blood and chaos was all that was left. The loss of a single Keyholder Family is worth the price for peace, even if the consequences might lead to the Wizard being driven off. Would you say he would choose to fight?"

"I think not," countered Moonshadow. "He struggles, yet he holds back all the same... though for what reason, I do not understand."

"When one loses all, they tend to value what they have left. What of the girl?" asked the High Priestess. "Is she the one we are looking for?"

"The Wizard has taken her on as his apprentice, teaching her spells of power..." explained Moonshadow. "She is fire and blood, far more than her brother, however... though she listens when I have something to say."

"Good... that is good to hear," said the High Priestess. "Start teaching her the songs of the Moonsingers, and keep an eye on them... ensure that he heeds your wisdom... whatever means necessary. We will clean this mess up," she added, pointing to the corpses of men with keys around their necks. None had seen the poison that was added to their drinks... the shadow of the Moon hiding it from sight.

"Was this necessary?" Moonshadow asked paler than she would be.

"The tide washes away the sands clean, heralding a new day. Rejoice, apprentice of mine, can you not feel the song... the Curse of Blood Betrayal has been broken..." said the High Priestess, "The Long Night of Magic has ended, and the Sun has risen once more."

"And now, the sleepers awaken," nodded Moonshadow, repeating the old words she learned in their sermon.

"And now, the sleepers awaken," repeated the High Priestess, "so men will need our guidance more than the word of those controlled by their greed."

Black Pearl

Bellegere Otherys laid back against her seat, the lute in her hands thrumming with each stroke of her long, delicate fingers as she watched her lover work on... whatever it was he worked on.

Belle had watched Viserys walk into a funeral fire and come out with not a scratch... his sister was the only one to share in such an act.

It was not the most magical thing Viserys had done; sharing the bed of the man who claimed the title of Wizard with pride let you see some interesting things... let you learn some things that even the greatest priests dared not know.

Hatching the Phoenix, who was named Will by Viserys, was peculiar, but Belle chalked it up to whatever magic her lover had done. Hatching a bird was not that significant as far as Belle was concerned, even if the creature seemed to be unique... it was not a dragon... was it?

Belle knew not to underestimate the red bird that looked so much like a raven chick at first. Viserys did not do things halfway... as he had proven over and over again.

Killing off the entirety of the Faceless Men after defending her had been only the last in the long line of actions that made her fall for him. She was his, in body and soul.

At first, he was kind, walking around as though the world around him would crumble at his touch. Belle had found the act that was not oddly endearing, and she rather enjoyed it when he stopped holding back and took what was his, showing the power hidden behind his eyes.

To think her fate was to be a glorified whore, to please the whims of any and all highborn who found themselves in Braavos before Belle met her Dragon.

As much as he called himself wise and cultured, Viserys Targaryen was a Dragon through and through... and dragons, as Belle found out, liked to hoard things. This one specifically hoarded people, people who were utterly devoted to him. It was unlikely that he would let Belle go... not that Belle would like to leave at all.

The way he held himself, the way he moved... there was something primal hidden beneath, though it was brought more and more to the surface as time passed. It made Belle weak at the knees and wet between the legs.

The fires of the funeral had changed something. However, Belle could tell.

His right hand, the one that had been covered in burns after the same morning of his spell to destroy the Faceless Men, had changed once more. The rough and scaly snake skin glove was gone, yet the skin itself looked healed, covered in silvery skin with smaller scales. Belle could feel her fingers interlaced with his in their moments of passion.

The bird's thrill-filled the room, and Belle felt it in her soul, guiding her to match the melody of the bird.

"When were you going to tell me we were leaving Braavos?" asked Daenerys Targaryen as she barged into her brother's room.

Bellegere's fingers paused over the strings that reverberated through her soul and the air itself each time she plucked them.

The girl was the only one who could do such an act without punishment... even if the punishment was of the fun kind.

A lesser woman would feel jealous.

A lesser woman would be dead.

Viserys Targaryen were many things: a Dragon pretending to be a Targaryen Prince, a Wizard with Power over Life and Death..., and a great lover. What he was not, however, was a patient man when it came to those he deemed to be a danger to his family... a family that was made up of the silver-haired girl in its entirety... now that the old knight was gone.

His actions against House Prestayn were proof of it once Belle managed to convince the Poetress to share their bed. It had been enough to bring the Noble House of Keyholders to the attention of the Dragon.

No one could be certain... so of course, everyone knew. Everyone also knew that House Prestayn was one of the few families who had been working against Viserys and his interests... not that her Dragon had cared until she guided his gaze at them.

Belle had read enough from the diaries of her predecessors to know that House Prestayn was always against those of Valyrian Descent. Descended from Rhoynish slaves, it would seem old grudges did not go away so easily.

It did not take her and her mother to prepare the required paper trail to implicate the House Prestayn for slavery. Combined with Viserys' own knowledge of the works of the Pentoshi Magister, it was almost far too easy.

With the Sealord under his thrall and the keyholders dealt with, Braavos was a city that belonged to Viserys, that belonged to them, even if none knew it to be so-a conquest within the shadows, subtle and deadly.

And to think her lover always complained about lacking subtlety.

"There are places we ought to visit, contacts that need to be reminded of our existence," said Viserys as his eyes turned. "Items of import that need recovering."

Items of import... Belle almost snorted. There were only two that would make the Wizard leave the comfort of Braavos: Dragon Eggs or the Sword.

Will gave a cry upon his golden perch, a warning for Bellegere or something else she did not know. As Viserys' eyes turned to the phoenix... before shifting to the hearth, Belle caught that minute widening of the eyes that usually meant her bed would be cold for the next few nights as Viserys worked out whatever new miracle he cooked up.

"Though... maybe..." said Viserys, looking at the fiery bird that was perched, "its travel did not last as long; Braavos makes for a good base, after all. I would not like to leave it undefended."

Belle's fingers glided over the Valyrian Steel Strings of the Lute her lover had gifted her, calling upon one of many songs she listened to in the Pensieve that held knowledge beyond anything Belle understood.

She picked one of those that was a favorite of her lover, with how vivid the memories were in the Pensieve of his that he shared with her.

"Aldiun's wings, they did darken the sky..."

AN: This was a bitch and a half to write because writing to reactions of Wiz's brand of crazy is always harder without spoiling everything and because I had trouble finding the right POVs for it and re-wrote it a bunch of times. I know it took more than a month but RL deadlines and work needed to take priority. I will not say that it will not happen again but I have enough story threads to make this last until the Long Night, so not gonna abandon this for the foreseeable future, even if I want to split my time writing this and my other fics.

As always, I appreciate all the feedback, comments.

Last edited: Oct 21, 2023

033 Driven by Desire

# 033 Driven by Desire

AN: Let's go back to the basics.

The feather looked at me in defiance, just floating there... mocking me.

It was no ordinary feather after all, but the feather of the Phoenix that I had... crafted?... hatched?... conjured?... evoked?

Well, I wasn't really sure what the hell I had done during the funeral pyre of Ser Willem Darry, but based on the pure amusement, I felt rolling off of the crimson bird on his golden perch... I had done something right.

It had been three months since the funeral, since Dany and I walked into the fire and came out holding a creature of magic that had effectively flipped the board.

Will... the Phoenix cut a distinct figure. He looked like a larger, more red version of a raven, shot with golden accents. He was no raven, though; a slightly longer neck and plumage made it such that no one would mistake him for one, even if he was around thrice as large as a regular raven, closer to a golden eagle in size.

In the Unseen, beyond the illusory form, he looked closer to a bird-shaped mass of crimson flames wrapped around a golden, ever-burning egg made of sunlight and star fire.

Will had just become old enough that I could use one of his feathers to make a wand... a proper wand.

Sitting in front of the workbench in my workshop, I slowly willed the wood to wrap itself around the feather, the wood flowing as though liquid to follow my will.

The tip started to glow softly. First, it gave off a golden light before it slowly shifted to an angry red.

"Oh... shit!" I yelled, pushing myself back, falling away from the desk as my chair tipped back. In a flash, the wood turned to ash.

Right... it was easier said than done.

So, it turns out, Phoenix Feather essentially solidified Sun Fire, the same sun fire that ashed my old Weirwood wand.

'Fool,' the song-like cry of the phoenix echoed through my mind, the bird looking at me as if I was the stupidest person in the world for not noticing something so obvious.

While Will seemed to not like speaking like a raven, his voice was closer to a song-like quality that roiled off magical energy, and he could project the sentiments of his thoughts... at least to my own mind.

I rose to my feet, a flick of my hand righting the chair in a display of wandless magic that would have been impossible just a few months ago.

It was hard for me to admit, but Will... he had changed the nature of the very magic itself.

Whereas before, Magical Energy felt like small puddles, now, it was as though there was a source of magical energy that was seemingly unending.

There were sources, old ones grown through the death of thousands like The House of Black and White, or new ones like the Dragon Well that I had accidentally created through my experiments with potion. These sources, while not necessarily finite, limited the power of magic I could bring to bear... even then, Weirwood was the only means I had of tapping into said energy field.

Not to mention the ease with which I could channel the spells through my own body now.

The funeral pyre had done something to both my body and soul. It had burned away anything that was physically subpar while... consolidating my very soul. I could feel the soul-stuff I had bound through the many rituals was simply my own soul now.

I sighed... once more regretting that I was not more into the Cultivation bullshit that seemed to have some grounding in this world's magic.

My eyes turned to the Phoenix Feather that was floating on the desk, now covered with a circle of wood ash.

'At least the feather was not burned up,' I thought to myself, looking at one of the jars that contained the floating fire that had consumed the Ash and Phoenix Feather wand and refused to go out.

I was still not sure what went wrong with that one... or how to put it out.

"Wiz?" came the voice of Dany "Are you busy? Belle said you were locked in your workshop for hours again."

"I am working," I said as my seven-year-old sister entered, a tray holding a tea set behind her... though unlike me, she still had a wand of dragon bone to cast her spells, not that she could not pull off some of the first spells without it now...

'Just like me...' I thought, my mind going back to the fire that we had walked into.

Her short hair grew back as platinum instead of the golden silver it had been. I was not sure what the color difference was, but in the Unseen, her new hair was glowing, while it had not before, so I chalked it up to that. 'To think that she figured out a hair growth potion just to get her hair back,' I mentally mused, getting a glare from my sister for my silence. Who knew knotgrass could be used as the basis of a potion for that.

My fingers passed through my own hair, now shoulder length. Just because I did not come up with the idea did not mean I was not using it. I sort of liked sporting the the shoulder length pretty boy style. It still felt weird to have the feeling on my right hand back, the skin being restored from the funeral fire, even if it now sported small scale like patterns instead of a smooth human skin, a side effect of spiritual bleed-through from the snake skin I used.

"The feather will be the core of my next wand," I explained as Dany pulled a chair next to me, listening carefully, "but it is not cooperating; the power is too... explosive."

Dany hummed as she sipped from her tea, humming to herself.

For someone who was barely eight years old, Dany was definitely a genius. While she did not have the experience or insight into magic that I had, the speed at which she picked up spells or advanced magical concepts still astounded me.

"Does it have to be wood?" she asked, looking at her wand, which she had placed next to the feather. I had unlocked it fully, adding obsidian, moonstone, and sunstone, along with a dash of the phoenix ash from the funeral pyre that birthed said phoenix.

"Not necessarily..." I countered, knowing that bones could also be used. "The wood acts to form a spiritual resonance with the wielder, but it also taps into the natural reserves of magical energy around you... amplifies your own magic through sorcery... without the user needing to consciously control external magical energy," I explained, "I cannot use Dragon Bone, mostly because I do not know which dragon I had initially used for my first wand and once bonded replacing that bond is impossible for humans."

Luckily, Will had small amounts of the dragon bone I had used, making his fire useful as a bridge should I ever get my hands on some dragon eggs.

Leaning back and glaring at the feather mocking me, I summoned the tea cup to my hand through wandless magic.

Telekinesis was the ability I learned from the Moonsingers, trading off some of the control over Braavos along with a staff of Moonstone and Willow that I personally crafted for the High Priestess. It was not full on telekinesis, having been closer liked to the tides and the gravitational attraction... but I had a functional wandless Summoning Charm at least.

"What about metal?" asked Dany, "it can act as a barrier for the magic, right?" making me sigh at the fact that I had not thought of such an obvious thing before.

It was worth a shot.

A wire of Valyrian Steel was wrapped around the core to contain and direct the power.

Around it grew the wooden shell, the best I could do for the first test.

As I waved the wand, it sputtered, spellfire exploding out both ends, as the wand wrenched itself out of my hand.

"God... damn it!" I growled, watching as the wand exploded from both ends upon impact with the floor and flew into the air once more, somehow ending up being embedded into the ceiling, buried halfway through.

Dany barely looked up from the scroll she was reading on the corner, behind the Shield Charm she had cast.

I replaced the Valyrian Steel wire around the core with steel made out of the blood-iron of a dozen ravens, along with Weirwood ash, which countered the random Magical Energy release from the Valyrian Steel. It also formed a nice homage to my first wand, as the Weirwood still played a role.

One end of the wire had been beaten thin, forming an indent that the quill of the Phoenix Feather could stick to, acting as a cap to limit the flow of energy out only one end.

The white wire wrapped around the feather, and wood wrapped around that, a special version of a powerful tree grown in a soil that contained dragon-bone as I had chosen specifically the Elderberry to grow the wood around the core.

I did not know why I chose Elder... it just felt right, I suppose. I knew that the Elder and Rowan had a connection, but a part of it was to see if I could, and the rest was the realization that with the birth of a phoenix... I was one of the most powerful Sorcerers on the planet... at least based on the rumors I had been collecting.

Be it arrogance or madness, I knew that no other wood would work now that I had shown my mastery over the more complex aspects of magic.

The Elder wood grew around the core wrapped with the wire, forming a comfortable handle out of the roots, while the body tapered to a point. I had finished it off by bonding the core with the Obsidian, Sunstone, and Moonstone to the core.

The result was an Elder and Phoenix Feather Wand, thirteen inches and reasonably flexible despite having some metal for core... it made magic as easy as breathing after the first wave of it released a cry of the firebird that left the room far too warm for most.

I waved the wand, causing it to explode and take my eyebrows... when I just wanted to generate fire.

On the one hand... it was a wand that actually worked, and I could feel that it was bonded to me.

On the other, my control was shot, and I needed to spend some time trying to adjust my spells to the new wand.

I sighed after some mental calculations to balance intent with the feeling of the flow of the magical energy. Whispering "Incendio Draconifors", to stabilize the intent with incantation and action, I reduced the amount of energy I was channeling as I wove the wand in the air, flames taking the form of a fiery snake.

Right... different core means I had to essentially relearn every spell I could do.

The Revenge crashed through the wave as I rose my latest wand, forming a dome of ionized air to meet the seawater and the rain.

It had taken six months to complete what could be considered my third wand and involved me almost exploding about seven times.

Will the Phoenix had grown to full size by that time, looking like a larger version of a raven with red feathers edged with gold. Of course, in the Unseen, beyond the illusion, he looked closer to a bird-shaped golden flame than any creature of flesh and bone.

"This is madness! We have been going in circles," said Sajo next to me as I guided us through the storm.

"We are going as we are meant to go, Sajo.... it is called... Counter-Sight," I called back, though I was not as confident as I ought to be.

There was a lot on my mind as I had made the plan to leave Braavos. Unfortunately, I was not sure how good at divination other people in this world were, so I was not thinking of my destination, using Occlumency to keep it from even subconsciously being acknowledged. That also meant that I needed alternate methods of navigation.

Leaving Braavos was my decision, a temporary vacation while I worked to figure out the exact mechanisms that would allow me to convert Phoenix Ash into Floo Powder for easier transportation.

Instead, I had to confuse even myself as we traveled through the seas to our destination.

Destination that I kind of... sort of... forgot.

Well, I did not really forget; more... mentally suppressed.

My study into divination allowed me to understand that decisions solidified possibilities. As intent formed action, without intent, the future was less defined.

Combining Occlumency and Desire-based magic ought to be enough to confuse anyone sneaking a peak into the future as we made it to our first destination. I got the idea from the newer Harry Potter movies. It's not exactly a box of worms I liked to open for my bag of magic tricks, but the idea of Counter-Sight had merit, even if the application left a lot to be desired.

Speaking of desire, my hand drifted to the compass in my belt, affectionately called the Wayfinder. The needle was made from Valyrian Steel and embossed with glyphs on one end that translated to 'Desire,' 'Need, ' and 'Seek. ' I had, through magic, inspired by the Compass of Jack Sparrow... with bits and pieces from the Mirror of Erised along the way.

It was a tool that was completely divination-proof as far as I could tell, as it was made from Valyrian Steel and still held the enchantments for the one using it to find what they desired. A rather finicky bit of Divination Magic that leveraged the magnetized and shadow-bound steel.

Valyrian Steel was virtually immune to magic... it's nature absorbing and repurposing the magic into a form that sustained itself. For a knife, it made the blade sharper, as was the essence of a blade. For a chain, it was... ironically, a binding, lest you were attuned and linked your soul to the chain through your blood.

It made Valyrian Steel impossible to scry. It protected the owners of the Spells Steel from being observed unless you already had a direct link to them or indirect methods.

For the case of the magnetized needle... it was really good at pointing at things... the added runes acted as a guide for what that thing was.

The needle had been rather erratic for the last week on the sea as we lost sight of the Titan of Braavos.

Unfortunately, as was the case when Magic met Real World, it did not really scream competent when your Captain, yours truly, decided to run around in circles and double back for nearly a week of sea travel.

Alright, so, first problem: we ran into a storm... and navigating out of it was a bit of an issue since the thrice-damned thing was just following us.

"This storm and fog are not natural," noted Wat the Brains on the second day of our journey, looking at the heavy fog before a wave of my staff pushed it back and away from the ship.

"Of course not. We are being tracked," I countered as the fog settled all around us.

With the other ship I had in my small naval resources docked at Braavos in trust of the Sealord, I really did not like Revenge getting into a fight with whatever was after us.

"I got eyes on the target, boss," screamed Wat the Eyes, pointing at the location. "It is a large red eye on black sails."

So the Crows-Eye actually came to play. Not unexpected... I had pulled a Batman and actually prepared for this... and you know what they say about Wizards with prep time.

"Alright, Sajo, get them to chase us... Morna, have your men fetch the barrels that have the image of a crow on it, with a large red X on top," I said,

"You know who it is?" asked Ser Richard, standing next to me.

"Euron Greyjoy, also called Crows Eye," I said, "He is a dabbler of Magic and a Rogue Greenseer from what I know... overall, bad news. I have been keeping an eye on people, and he is on the top of the people I wouldn't mind killing,"

Euron Greyjoy was an enigma to me. According to some, he was a charlatan playing at having magic. To others, he was the mad disciple of the Greenseer or his failed successor. To the rare few, Euron Greyjoy had died, and what was occupying his meat suit was an eldritch horror.

I really hoped it was not the last one... I was not equipped to handle the Eldritch.

I was not sending Morrigan after him, as he was still a skinchanger, and the magic of Morrigan's shadow-bodies were unstable at best of times.

"You expected this?" asked Ser Richard, his tone less surprised and more resigned.

"Expecting is a strong word... prepared for... that is more accurate," I countered. I had my pride as a Wizard after all.

The protection Braavos provided was beyond anything I had thought of. I knew that I could not spend more time in Braavos, given how the rest of the people with power were chafing with our presence. The smart ones kept to themselves or liked the prestige of being associated with a Wizard and the last of the House Targaryen; the ambitious ones feared us. House Prestayn was not the first one to make plots, and they would not be the last... even if their sudden turn of misfortune had to be done in such an unpleasant way.

Staying away would give them the illusion of freedom, while I could control things from a distance. Leaving only a skeleton crew behind under the command of Bellonara, Queen Rhaella's Revenge left the docks of Braavos.

At the end of the day, staying longer in Braavos had not become feasible if I wanted to grow my more esoteric resources, both for political and personal reasons. The butterflies my presence set off were already being felt, the game-changing fundamentally into something that would make my knowledge of the future mean nothing more than hypotheticals.

I knew some of my enemies, and that was all I could rely on at this point.

With Dany old enough and decent with a wand to be a threat to fully trained knights, and Ser Willem... gone, I had to take the risk of traveling beyond the limits of the Hidden City.

That did not mean I could not spend the last six months preparing countermeasures for both mundane and magical trouble that we would run along the way.

The birth of a Phoenix had sped up my own agenda as well. I did not expect the sudden surge of Magic within the world from my act, but I was running out of time... for what... my Occlumency blocked me from even thinking of it.

Like I said, Counter-Sight.

Euron Greyjoy was not the only person I knew to have some divination-based abilities, though he was going to be an enemy one way or another. And he would soon find out why a Wizard with preparation time was a dangerous thing.

The barrel was brought out by the men, containing a modified Potion Base; the Blood and Obsidian were mixed with Weirwood Ash and left to absorb ambient magic, with the smaller barrel containing an inert mix of Saltpeter, Charcoal, and Sulfur that would remain inert unless blood was added. That is exactly what I did: dumping the black powder into the potion before closing the lid.

Next was the lid of the barrel, upon which I had carved a specific bit of Magic Circle, a Pentagram with a triangle in the center; it was one of the simpler and more stable Magic Circles I had come up with. The triangle represented stability, which in turn allowed the Magic Circle to be more stable than if it had not been used.

A pentagram, on the other hand, held multiple meanings, though the primary one I managed to find was the transformation that any five-sided geometric construct seems to have and, specifically for the pentagram, amalgamation. The lines met to form a smaller pentagram, creating a magical representation of the combination of individual materials to form a whole. It made alchemy easier and potions more stable to have a pentagram carved on the outer surface of the cauldron.

In this case, it made mixing black powder and potion base more stable despite the inherent instability of Wildfire, or rather the Enhanced Wildfire that I was creating. I was still not the best at Transfiguration, having only just progressed out of the Second Year Hogwarts curriculum of animate-to-inanimate, but I had a few tricks to speed up effects that should take years down to a few minutes.

Once the lid was secure, I held out my left hand and willed one of the raven shadows I kept up my sleeve to reach out, binding itself to the Magic Circle and activating, ensuring that the black powder started combining with the liquid base.

The three ravens I kept up my sleeve were now mostly relegated to emergencies, as the spell was relatively stable and quick to cast, making it a viable offensive tool with little effort... or quick and dirty enchantments that would last for a few hours.

I dropped the barrel into the sea, letting it drift.

"That did not seem to be slowing them down," commented Ser Richard as they passed so close to the empty ship. His sense of humor was... appreciated as it calmed the shaking of my hand.

The silhouette of Silence was hard to miss, and in the Unseen, when I looked through my enchanted glasses, it glowed like a beacon, almost comparable to the Revenge.

I held up my wand, taking a deep breath and pointing at the palm of my hand. A shimmering ball appeared in my palm, powered through the single Valyrian Steel ring that replaced the four individual ones on my left hand, quartered with the four gems. The shield contained the spellfire that I was building up within the shield spell.

Shielded Casting... a small trick I picked up from the story of a rather overpowered Slime was a method of Spellcasting where you wove the spell within a shield bubble. The new wand and access to denser ambient magic had allowed my knowledge to deepen, allowing me to experiment with more than just the basics.

The effects protected the spell from interference, while the best benefit was that it allowed me to cast spells over running water from a distance. Unfortunately, such a trick was useless anywhere other than at sea unless you were fighting people who could casually unravel a spell... I went with the assumption that Euron was on that short list of people.

It had its drawbacks, being slow and requiring a great deal of Magical Energy, not to mention that the spell was effectively double casting with the shield and the spell within, requiring so much concentration that it left me physically vulnerable. Even on board a ship, if you were aiming for anything that you were connected to with a solid piece of material, like the entire ship's hull, it did not improve much.

A spell over the running water, however, was a tricky business. Shadowbinding tended to decay, spells ran into interference, and even skinchangers were limited to their bonded familiars, unable to form new connections through the water.

If it came down to it, Sun Fire would simply overpower the interference, but that was the last resort.

The shield around the spell acted as a buffer, a secondary layer that the running water slowly drained away, unable to affect the spell inside unless the shield spell itself ran out.

"FLIP-ENDO!" I yelled out as the ball of magic rushed through the air, cutting through the storm and hitting the barrel.

Tricky thing, Wildfire... shake it too hard... and it explodes, jar it too hard... and it explodes, look at it hard enough... again it explodes. As expected, flip its arse over the tea kettle... and you guessed it, it explodes.

When said Wildfire was modified to include a more effective magical absorption ability and let in the premises of a magical power source that was a phoenix... the resulting liquid was going to be far more effective at what it was supposed to do.

An explosion rang through the storm, the Revenge making its way to Pentos through the Narrow Sea with a blue mushroom cloud at its back.

"You reckon the fucker is dead?" asked Morna, having overheard the comment about the Rogue Greenseer bit.

"I am not that lucky, but he seemed to have lost control of the storm at least," I countered as I kept an eye on where Silence had been.

I could feel the storm slowly lose its strength, and with a wave of my wand and a call of "Meterelojinx Recanto," I took control of the storm and dismissed it, forcing the clouds apart. As I pushed my presence into the storm, I felt something resist against me.

Lightning descended down, only to hit the water as the hasty shield of ionized air made the ship the least likely place to hit. I had been playing with the more physical side of spells ever since I harnessed Nuclear Fusion.

Lightning did not fall on a negatively charged area... hence why it was technically impossible for the Lightning to strike the same place twice in a short period of time.

I lifted my wand once more, repeating my spell while feeling the wand strain against the power. Unlike my old wands that lacked the oomph to cast more powerful spells at my disposal, this version had to be limited to channel just enough to not blow up the wand itself.

Once the weather cleared as my will broke apart the spell that Euron wove, I saw that the Wayfinder was pointing in a single direction instead of unstably rotating around like before.

'The Wildfire explosion must have disrupted the voyeurs,' I mentally noted with a satisfied smile before calling out, "Open the wings."

Sajo nodded at me and repeated the command.

The wings were a Valyrian Design, one that was related to the Swan Ships of the Summer Isles. They were large triangular sails that expanded out of the sides of the ship, like the wings of a dragon.

The result was an increased area for the wind to move... rather useful when you could simply will the winds to move to your will.

"Alright, folks, buckle up; we are about to break a lot of speed limits!" I yelled out as everyone braced.

"VENTUS SERVITAS!" I called, taking a page out of Dresden in the incantations department. 'Ventus' did not really have the power I needed when I used it to dry my clothes.

The winds filled the sails as we started heading full speed to our destination.

The Revenge made it smooth sailing after the initial hiccup, arriving in Pentosh a few days after the confrontation with Euron Crows-Eye, the Rogue Greenseer.

Dany seemed to be excited about seeing land once more, having been stuck inside the cabin during the storm.

At the end of the day, all my foreknowledge would mean nothing if I did not secure the Dragon Eggs before the magical saturation reached the point where they could hatch on their own... a small probability, but I prepared for the worst and hoped for the best when it came to my luck.

Now that I was armed with a wand that did not die out after a few uses and actually worked for me, I knew where to go.

I had the start of a rather unique group.

There was a small army consisting of three proto-Witchers in the form of Richard and the Wats, a seer in the form of Morna White Mask, two skinchangers, couple of dozen raiders, an equal amount of Braavosi Water Dancers with too much bravery than sense, a courtesan turned bard that made Succubi question their sexuality, an eleven-year-old witch with luck on her side and not to mention my little sister, who was well on her way to revive the Crimson Demon Clan if being a Targaryen proved an insufficient excuse the burndown stuff.

I had Shadowfax and his two siblings below deck, the three horses that I had fleshcrafted already the size of a Warhorse and ridable. Their body had integrated the Shadowbinding pretty well and made their body far more malleable for Ritual Magic, even if I had not gotten a chance to play around with it.

Huan stood next to me, the form of a large dog hiding the fact that he could grow to around twice that size with stone-skin, while Will was dozing, perched upon the head of the wolfhound.

The last addition was Tywin the Basilisk, not to be confused with the equally deadly and cold-blooded Tywin Lannister, which was made from the egg of a hawk hatched under a snake. While snakes did not have eyelids, a slight modification to the original ritual of hatching a hawk egg under a serpent allowed me to include additional eyelids from the hawks, the transparent ones that protected the eye from projectiles in their dives, into the serpent to protect everyone from accidentally making eye contact with the invisible beams of death.

While I was his creator, Lanna had instantly bonded with the Basilisk, a resonance of owning a wand with the Basilisk horn. Given that I had noticed that I myself had a similar bond to Will the Phoenix, I did not mind that Lanna had access to what amounted to a Weapon of Mass Destruction.

While I was going to name the Basilisk something along the lines of Bessy or maybe Sally, but I could not really help snort at the suggested name from Lanna.

Let's hope Pentoshi were smart enough to survive the experience.

The official reason for our arrival was to put the Pentoshi Magisters in their place... that is to say, stop their 'slavery with extra steps' that was their debt slavery in its entirety.

With the Iron Bank under control, I had the Sealord draft a contract as part of the payment for enchanting the Titan to sustain the protections around the city. It gave me the backing of Braavos in terms of dealing with the Pentoshi, and it was only one in a long list of 'excuses' I prepared to make sure that other people did not realize my destination.

While the mercantile layer over slavery the Pentoshi placed, using debts to force the slaves to remain as slaves, was inhumane, it was not exactly illegal as far as Braavosi were concerned.

Given that slavery itself was not a simple problem to solve... one that those who worked against it understood after a while.

What bothered me, and Ferrago coincidentally, was the debt that was placed on children, or ones they inherited from their parents to ensure they remained as slaves. While the general approach when it came to declaring bankruptcy was to go on a one-way journey to the House of Black and White for the Braavosi, in the rest of the world, the debts of parents tended to be left to their children, whether they wanted it or not. I was lucky in that regard. I still had my freedom, even if I knew it would be so easily stripped away if I stepped foot onto Westeros without an army at my back.

Now, we could not incite a slave rebellion in Pentos, mostly because that meant I would not be able to get the Unsullied the same way that Dany did. Being known for anti-slavery was not a good thing to do business with the Slaver's Bay after all. As such, I acted closer to a muscle, letting Ferrogo be seen as the one who came up with the plan.

The main problem, as far as the Sealord was concerned, was the fact that Magisters had a single silver bullet in the form of their wealth. They could, if Braavos pushed too hard, use said wealth to hire the Faceless Men.

Unfortunately for the Magisters, the Faceless Men were gone, and I did not really need an excuse to stamp on the neck of the Cheesemonger and his plots regarding my family.

Varys should not have made any move, including that trick with the Dornish... he was not prepared to play against me.

For Braavos, this was a power move: show off the Wizard to scare the Magisters into compliance and coincidentally allow said Wizard to reclaim some of his family heirlooms... not that Ferrego even had a thought in that direction, thanks to the compulsions I placed on him.

For now, I let the illusion hold itself. A Wizard was a dangerous thing to run around doing anything they wanted, but bound to a known entity; they were predictable, if only because they were beholden to the one that held their leash. I made them think I was held back by the Sealord, and everyone was less uneasy. No one wanted a Wizard that did as they pleased... and a King with powers over Magic was far more dangerous than one with dragons; people in Essos seemed to have understood that.

The Dockhand came aboard the ship, Syrio handling the paperwork as the representative of Braavos. I noticed the movement; some of the children on the streets were moving relatively fast in a specific direction. I assumed that they were the infamous Rats that Varys had come up with.

The Dockhand sent a runner to the Magister, though it took less than an hour for the Unsullied to form up in front of the Docks while we waited for the Magisters to send a representative.

"That is unusual," said the poor man as I noted the same sigil each of them had worn.

"Who do they belong to?" I asked the man who was panicking next to me. My people seemed to be itching for a fight instead.

"Slavery is illegal in Pentosh," countered the Dockhand.

"Still... who do they belong to?" I asked, pointing at their armor and the sigil on it. I may have pushed a bit of my presence upon the old man.

"Magister Mophatis..." answered the Dockhand with a sigh.

My wand slipped out of my sleeve, wrapped in a simple illusion that made it unnoticeable, while my left thumb ran itself over the Shield Ring.

"How are we playing this?" asked Ser Richard, reaching to my side with his wooden hand upon his blade.

"I can probably take them out..." I suggested this as I was not really looking forward to just cutting through the entire way to Mophatis's mance.

"I think the Wildlings are getting antsy about not being allowed to fight," countered my sworn shield. "You keep taking care of the problems, and they might get sloppy."

"By all means," I said, stepping aside before something flared near the Unsullied sent to intercept us as I turned and saw the three Red Priests. The two on the sides were male, carrying staffs that felt alight with Magical Energy, while the one in the middle, the Priestess, by the way, the curves of her figure, held a shorter scepter with a glowing red gem attached atop it.

I had considered the idea that someone may have used their Divination to see how I crafted my wand before I figured out methods of countering such methods, and it had haunted my nightmares.

My first instinct was to pull on Sun Fire and ash the three priests. While I could channel a limited amount of my strongest spell with my new wands, I was still wary of pulling the nuclear option.

I disliked attacking first, especially when I did not have access to all the variables.

The lead Red Priestess removed her hood, greeting us with a "Prince Viserys Targaryen, welcome to Pentos."

Melisandre of Asshai was easy to identify. Her red hair and red eyes cut a distinct image even among the Red Priests, as was the white-washed old lady image she truly was in the Unseen.

"Azor Ahai awaits you," the hag behind the glamour.

I looked at Melisandre of Asshai and considered if she was dropped on her head when she was a child... about five hundred years ago. That had to be the reason she had stuck to Stannis in the books, of all people.

As far as I know, the moron in red before me had the best Sight in existence, and having dumped wisdom, worse interpretations possible.

"Your Counter-Sight is bullshit," commented Richard as the words of the Red Priestess sank in.

"Agreed," I responded, "on second thought... you know... now I am kinda curious," I said with a grin as I took a step forward off the gangplank.

"Of course you are," bit back Ser Richard, as I could almost hear the way he was internally cursing Targaryens and their need to put themselves and others in danger.

I couldn't say I blamed the man.

AN: I know it has been a while, real life took some priority, and I kept changing this chapter and adding and removing bits, or writing future chapters.

Next chapter: Wizard vs Red Priests... or is it?

Last edited: Dec 10, 2023

034 Fires Dark

# 034 Fires Dark

"Speech"

'Thoughts and Telepathy'

"~Sspoilerss~"

To most historians, the period known as Interregnum of the Targaryen Dynasty began on the day of the murder of Aerys the Betrayed and lasted until the One Day Conquest of Pentos.

While most historical sources that have survived from the time of the Interregnum give King Aerys the Second the title of Mad King, confession records, trial proceedings and further evidence uncovered upon the end of the period would argue otherwise, revealing the string of betrayals and plots against the regnant Targaryen Dynasty that can be traced all the way back to the Tragedy of Summerhall.

The Interregnum would last exactly seven years, and is considered an auspicious sign, declaring the time spent in exile to be a Pilgrimage for the sake of the Seven by the followers of the Faith. These seven years, apart from a minor rebellion in the Iron Islands, would be considered a period of peace despite the waste and mismanagement of the corrupt Steward Robert the Whoremonger and Lord Jon Arryn the Cunning.

Officially, the period of Interregnum would come to an end on the day Viserys the Wandbearer, then simply known as Viserys the Wizard, set foot upon the City State of Pentos with a force of two hundred. Among his companions, were notable figures of his courts, including Princess Daenerys Stormborn, and the Kingsguard, Ser Richard Lonmouth the White, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and twins Ser Wat the Allseeing and Ser Wat the Allknowing.

The One Day invasion would be attributed to the strange and often exaggerated powers of King Viserys the Third, as rumors of his single-handed victory against anything from an army of men to even fighting a demon. Even though the Blessed Powers granted by the Seven Who are One to the Wisest of Kings are a matter of record, it is more likely that the Pentoshi were unwilling to put up a fight against the man who had such influence over the City State of Braavos, then known to have control over the City of Pentos following the war the two sides fought a hundred years prior.

While the time that the Exiled King and Princess spent in the City of Braavos prior to their arrival on Pentos is one shrouded in myth and mystery, the banner of the Three-Headed Dragon raised into the sky on the day the Court of the Dragon Reborn landed on Pentos would be considered by most historians, along with the King's own personal journals, to be the start of the reign of the self-proclaimed Sorcerer King Viserys Targaryen. Even to this day, the date is celebrated as a holiday by many cults, and gained popularity as the Day of Rebirth that marks the start of each New Year. --- Excerpt from "The Flight of the Dragon, a Realistic Look into the Second Exile of House Targaryen" by Archmaester Gilbay.

I swear Gilbay, all you write is bullshit and should be treated as such... except for Steward Robert being a Whoremongering Wastrel, that totally happened, signed ~~the Wizard~~. --- A hand-written message that appears on every copy of "The Flight of the Dragon, a Realistic Look into the Second Exile of House Targaryen" by Archmaester Gilbay on every page of the book upon publication. The identity of the signatory is unknown, and there is no need to investigate its nature as per the Royal Decree.

# Wizard

"Azor Ahai awaits you," Melisandre of Asshai called up to the ship from the Docks of Pentos.

"So, Melony, what made you conclude that Azor Ahai had decided to show himself?" I asked, sauntering down the gangplank as though I owned the place, "Was it his big sword... I bet it was his big sword."

I did not need to look through the eyes of the birds around us to know that I got at least a dozen eye rolls from the passengers of the ship I had just disembarked from.

Looking into the red eyes of Melisandre of Asshai, I was relatively surprised to learn that the Red Woman was an... idiot.

While Melisandre had what passed off as mental shields, they were lackluster... rigid in a way that implied indoctrination without comprehension. In practice, the mental shields of the Red Priestess were the opposite of Dany. My eight-name-day-old sister had a more thorough Occlumency even if her strength was limited due to inexperience, mostly because I refused to pull a Snape and repeatedly bashed into her mental shields until they became strong enough.

I suppose that was the difference between Wizards and Warlocks, one understood what they were doing, the other fed babies to the fires to get what they had.

I was easily able to slip through the large gaps, a combination of Melisandre's lack of understanding of her abilities, my excessive need to master the Mind Arts, and the massive power move I pulled by using her True Name.

Melony of Lot Seven... my words called without so many words, calling on the True Name of Melisandre of Asshai.

Names, after all, had power, specifically True Names, as I should know. I could barely use mine without setting something on fire by accident or turning my hair into a lightbulb nowadays... a flaw in the multitude of rituals that I had gone through.

Being versed in magic, I could lace my tongue with the magical energy as I spoke, sending a wave that a non-magical would not be able to. It was not as fancy as 'FUS-RO-DAH'ing someone off a cliff with my words, but I was learning.

There was also the possibility that whatever magic that Melisandre used to gain visions was not really constructive to Occlumency or any variant... or possibly I was just that much higher in the pecking order that was wizardry.

The next thing I noticed was that Will had disappeared... which was sort of the norm with the Phoenix. A combination of his internal magic, combined with the memories I had on spells to make someone unnoticeable, meshed well with the fact that, as a Phoenix, he was pretty much independent.

The freaking drama queen was probably waiting for me to make a suitably dramatic reveal before making an appearance. I'm pretty sure he got that from me, as his personality was a strange mesh of Ser Willem, Dany, and I from how the ritual had turned out.

'Revelio,' I thought as I took a whiff, smelling the sea air and the shoddy craftsmanship of the carved dragon bone that seemed a moment away from splitting off from the wooden casing it was housed in. Using the Revealing Charm to notice hidden things was good for most things, but I was determined to push it until I could use it with all my senses and without speaking the words.

The glint from the strange gem that glowed like a ruby but was not a ruby made me wary. I could feel something off about that thing that made me want to strike at it with the coldest ice spell I could produce. That thing had a funky aura in the Unseen.

Compared to Melisandre, the two priests by her side were almost negligible. Similarly built staves that did not fully fit their wielders, which probably could channel more power than the first wand I had given the full-length dragon bone fitted within the quarterstaves, topped with regular dragonglass was not comparable to the wand I had at my hand.

Still, I could see the way they seemed to be wary of me.

'These are more competent looking than the bumbling ones from Braavos,' I noted, projecting my thoughts to the skull attached to my belt through a net.

'The Red Priests in Braavos are the least troubling ones... they learned to keep themselves low. They are also the ones lacking in any form of talent... as the others did not live too long in our city,' responded Morrigan through the mental link, waking up at the power that I released through my fingertips, 'Why do you think they did not hassle you so much? Unfortunately, it was a result of a policy that the Faceless Men were in the middle of ensuring in Pentos before...'

'Before I burned their faces off, yes, I remember,' I responded Morrigan, my right fist tightening around my wand. The magical burns had healed and the skin had gained small silvery scales after the Phoenix Hatching ritual, but the phantom pain I had felt from the backlash was hard to forget, cautioning me against using my strongest spell.

Tired of posturing, I finished up activating the countermeasures to protect the Ship by adding a confusion field that swapped left and right to ensure that anyone attacking my ship would find themselves aboard the unfortunate ship docked on the other side of the wooden platform, a Lysene Trader which was in the process of unloading bolts of silk.

"This is a terrible idea," stated Ser Richard, walking next to me, clutching the Weirwood Spear with the broken half of Lamentation as its tip. I would have agreed if not for the fact that my Legilimency seemed to be able to read our greeters with relative ease.

"Hmm... maybe... formation six... and potion up," I responded in turn as my left hand landed on Dany's shoulder, who was walking along with me. Discretely checking that her Valyrian Steel necklace was on, I traced a glyph of shielding on Dany's neck, not as an enchantment, but as an assignment of the task she would have. Feeling my sister nod as subtly as she could.

"Can your men handle any attack?" I asked Syrio, while subtly weaving a confusion field around Ser Richard to prevent people from noticing the stony look of the man's flesh. The Eduras Potion that was made from Wolf Fur and Ashwinder Eggs was not really safe for consumption since a normal person would end up with patches of stone-like skin similar to Greyscale, but the Manticore Venom running through his veins made Ser Richard an exception, as for him, the potion would run its course in an hour or so.

"The Magisters will send someone to meet us. They will not be happy with any action taken by only a single one of them, but Syrio Forrel can keep some grubby merchants busy, that much you need not worry, Wizard," said the now Former-First Sword of Braavos.

I turned around and commanded, "Still, Belle, Moonshadow, stay on the ship in case. Sajo, take the helm. I will give you a signal to indicate how this turns out," I said, pointing at the Red Priests.

I trusted Belle to handle any political issue, with the aid of Syrio's political influence as the representative of Braavos. My paramour's skills laid in more soft power than I had a feeling would not be of much use against Mophatis as I had a feeling any talk we have would be short.

In comparison, while the Priestess of the Moon was trained in politics, now armed with a staff of her own, could raise the tides to flood the entire docks should worst come to worse. That was the best option, rather than risk the Revenge sticking around out in the sea without me when Euron was likely out there.

The Unsullied surrounded us as we walked, the three primary casters taking the center, surrounded by a few Men at Arms that Ser Willem and later Ser Richard could train, with Morna covering the rear with her raiders.

From a medieval tactical standpoint, Formation Six was a blunder. The offense made up the rear, the sides were covered by the guards with no real experience, and Casters concentrated at the center when they should have been spread out with a potential path to retreat.

It also conveniently ensured that no one was looking in the direction of the Basilisks wrapped around Lanna's shoulders, located right behind me, at the true epicenter of the formation, in the event that everyone had to face outside when we were surrounded, just like we were right now.

"~Help Daeneryss with the projectiless, await an opening,~" a hiss left my mouth in a language only Lanna understood. Pulling on the soul of Tywin the Basilisk, I let my words echo through the serpent's own magic. Everyone else... they just heard hissing.

The mechanics of Parseltongue were built around the same mechanics as Skinchanging, like every other bit of magic. A novice skinchanger could sometimes have an effect that I dubbed spiritual back-wash, to choose the best of words, as the animal souls poured themselves back into the human... taking control over the more basic actions.

The symptoms were volatile and almost wild behavior, severe mood swings, and making animal noises without meaning to. I took the last effect and weaponized it.

With magical animals, the effect was far more potent. In the books, Arya had been howling while warging into Nymeria, similar to how the younger Stark Children could.

Combined with that one vision that Jon had as a Ghost where he talked with Bran through the Weirwoods, it made sense that the animals had a language of their own that they could use among themselves.

This led to the conclusion that the sounds made by the skinchanger formed a language of its own that they channeled, Parseltongue, for this instance, with a snake. Forming a passive skinchanging effect as a result of acting as a plain, impossible-to-decipher language.

With access to a basilisk and a general understanding of the hows, I could have some private conversation with Lanna, who had the perfect means to take care of other magic users should they attack.

Once I had given her the command, my mind reached out, slipping through the minds of the Unsullied next.

If Melisandre was an open book, the Unsullied had the mental resistance of wet tissue paper, that came with a built-in search engine for Legilimency.

I had some understanding of the training that the Unsullied went through, and the pure torture they endured seemed to have formed a rough approximation of Occlumency... only inverted it to prevent their mind from forming any individual thought.

This was the first time I interacted with the infamous slave soldiers, and their mental conditioning seemed to have made them almost too rigid, blocking them from even acknowledging that they had their own thoughts. It was stripping them off of their very selves... almost like an Anti-Occlumency.

Once I projected my thoughts, I could feel something else as well, a form of connection to something... a bit of a mental push and my vision shifted to see the world through a dozen pair of eyes, and I stumbled, only to be caught by Ser RIchard as my presence slammed back into my own flesh.

"Sea legs," I excused, while my sword sword gave me a concerned look, but I gave him a nod, feeling the confusion from the priests.

That... was going to prove troublesome.

The Unsullied were a result of a very sloppy Ritual Magic... that somehow gave them a rudimentary skinchanging ability... or rather a version of it that connected each of the slave soldiers to the other. Whatever method the Valyrians had developed to create these soldiers was... nauseating was the first word that came to mind.

Combined with their training, I could see how it would work to make them a cohesive unit, but it threw away all my plans since the Unsullied were far too easy to subvert, as their mind could not even pick up a Notice-me-not.

"Imperio," I muttered beneath a cough, using the one Unforgivable and amping up the power by pulling on all the past instances when I muttered those words, using Greensight to tap into the memories through my wand. The result was an empowered and stabilized spell that became a mental assault that, like a virus, spread from one Unsullied to the next, through the unique bond that they shared.

While this surprise weakness worked to my advantage now, it threw away the thought of taking over the Unsullied in a method similar to how Daenerys from the books had done. If their mind was so open to being influenced by me and they were connected in such a way, they would be far too open for it to be influenced by another and far too easily subverted.

Then again, a part of me wanted to ensure that they were freed and deprogrammed if I could.

With the understanding of how the Unsullied from the TV Show could be handled with such ease by, say... a paraplegic-Greenseer who could possess humans, and simply be sent off to an island known for killing any outsiders by the next day.

All I had to do was slip through the facade of obedience, and their minds leaped at the thoughts I pushed up, bringing up a clutter of associations through the most basic application of Legilimency, and commands that I had bound to them granted me over the army around us, along with access to all their memories to pull from to gain some perspective on the situation.

Melisandre had done... what I can only refer to as 'a Melisandre' and, upon seeing a man holding a flaming sword and visions of Pentos, somehow unraveled the entire Blackfyre conspiracy and decided that it was obviously the Blackfyre brat was the promised savior... and that I would be helping in this endevour, willingly, or as a sacrifice.

Apparently, it was decided that I should help my 'nephew' reclaim the Throne that was his by right... since I refused to play by the script that Illyrio and potentially Varys had come up with and started making too much noise and gaining far too much power for them to be comfortable with, Illyrio had accepted the Red Woman's suggestions, even when the Unsullied had a specific order to kill her along with me.

I placed my hand on the skull on my belt, sending a command to Morrigan to take over some of the ravens and provide recon, the protections on the skull hiding it from being seen through a dozen different illusions.

"It is Melisandre, my lord," corrected Melony of Lot Seven, feeling more discomfort than she showed as it seemed to have taken some time for to recover from her shock.

"Huh?" I asked, my focus returning to the present.

"My name, it is Melisandre of Asshai, my lord," responded Melony of Lot Seven, the former Temple Prostitute that was turned into a Priestess and trained as a Shadowbinder said.

"Right... Maleficient," I countered, "and the proper way to refer to one of my position is, my prince, since we are being pedantic," I added, hiding the smirk behind a cough. I did not know what to expect from the Red Priests in terms of Mind Arts, but I did not need to reach further than the surface level, feeling her spike of panic at my use of her actual name.

A subtle compulsion blocked her from bringing up R'hllor and trying to convert me, as I was not in the mood to listen to an entire sermon by the pyromaniacs.

I had heard enough of those from the ones in Braavos before they got the message after I made sure one of them spent thinking himself to be a newt for a few moons before getting better.

'Half a dozen archers, as many slingers are manning the Manse. Are you really going to walk into a death trap? I think we should just kill the hag,' whispered Morrigan, materializing into her body next to me... or at least projecting her form in my mind.

While she could project herself into a physical form through the shadow that was bound to her skull, I was still wary of the Shadowbinder I was walking next to and potential danger this idiot could do.

'Not before I get answers... and make sure they do not smash the dragon eggs,' I countered. 'Also, I wanted to rip her mind open like a melon and learn new tricks,' I tacked on.

'Believe me, what she can do, you can do better... just torch the undead bitch before she does something more stupid, give her the gift she has avoided,' Morrigan responded.

'Picking up my own manners, I see. Any tricks that a shield spell cannot counter?' I countered instead, pulling back to my own body.

'No... none are arm with dragonglass, though I am not able to sense if they have Valyrian Steel, I can tell that the arrows are all tipped in iron or bronze. I will take care of the ranged fighters, yet you will owe me one, however, Viserys Targaryen,' said Morrigan, vanishing from my vision. Having what was effectively an invisible spiritual amalgamation of the quintessential Assassin in this world as my own Servant had it's own advantages, even at the cost of favors owed.

"You ought to not mock the High Priestess," one of the fodder in red spoke, making me regret not going for the nuclear option.

"Oh... did something happen to Bennero or Kinvara?" I asked, gasping in faux worry. "I would think there are more qualified priests than Matilda over here."

Those words were enough for the two priests who came with Melisandre to reveal their knowledge to me as I caught glimpses of heated discussions that implied the formation of factions within the Religion of the Red God.

"You are well informed of our Order, my prince" responded Melony, taken aback. "And it is Melisandre, my prince."

"Eh... I make it my business to keep track of morons who confuse accidental magic with divine providence," I countered, feeling the priests get annoyed as we walked, both sides tense.

Was I purposefully egging them on to attack, obviously, but that last one was probably far too obvious, as they just stopped talking to me.

Whatever their plan was, I wanted to know more about and the more annoyed they got, the easier it was to pick up bits and pieces from their minds as they patiently reminded themselves why I should not be attacked now.

The Manse that belonged to Illyrio Mophatis was effectively a castle. With thick stone walls manned by the Unsullied.

I could probably walk through the city and raize the entire stronghold that the Manse truly was... well, if I pulled on my more destructive spells at least... but the problem was not the power, and I had to hold back in showing off until I could ensure they could not do something to damage the eggs. At the moment, all they had were rumors that were far too unbelievable but a single mistake, and I could see Illyrio being a petty bitch.

As I got close to the threshold, I could feel the pressure upon my soul, as if weights were bound to the strands of my self that I would normally call upon to enact magic.

It was not so much the threshold itself, the concept of a home that I was facing, but rather the ownership of the land combined with the exotic artifacts that had been saturating the air with Magical Energy.

Illyrio Mophatis dealt in Dragon Bones and housed the Dragon Eggs that were my first priority. The presence of items saturated in magic seemed to have given a distinct tint of magic into the air, almost similar to the Dragon Well I had created in Braavos that made it easier for me to cast spells.

"Viserys Targaryen, we were not expecting you, but it is an honor to host you," spoke the fat man standing atop the stairs leading to the entrance of the Manse before the gates of the Manse. The streets were empty, and I could not see or feel the presence of anyone outside the Mase.

"Now, a feast was not what I was expecting, nor the welcoming committee... but I have to admit, Melty here has done a wonderful job," I stated, my eyes roving a large number of Unsullied peppered along the hired archers and slingers that I was warned about.

Pity... I had hoped that I could get rid of the Golden Company along with the whole mess, but it would seem that they were not here.

Melisandre made to raise an objection, only to find her voice had left her with a silencing charm I silently cast, subtle enough not to be noticed by anyone. Being a good little zealot, she attributed it to the will of R'hllor.

"Give us a moment, we shall ensure that it is the best a royal like you would deserve in short notice," countered Illyrio, as my mind focused on the mind of a young child in the building before me.

My mind went through dozens of plans before deciding to use a bit of Divination. to check the best one. Occlumency to decide on a path, followed by throwing my mind into the future.

While I was technically a Greenseer, projecting my mind through time was one of those skills that required a lot of practice.

When it came to post-cognition, I was passable at best. For me, it worked in speeding up my casting time, pulling on the pre-cast spells bound to the memory of my wand. While it would have been useful to unravel the full plan once I was able to enter the Manse, I had another means.

The area of divination I excelled however was in pre-cognition, ability to connect with the future and get... feelings of danger. It guided me and revealed not only new spells but new knowledge as I experimented... or plotted, really. It was still limited to decisions that had been made, but against predictable enemies, it was handy.

"Be done with the mummer's farce, Mopatis," I said, interrupting the still-talking Magister that I had tuned out. "I know you have my nephew in the Manse," I said. "I take his safety to be paramount, and I would like to see him."

I could feel the confused look that Dany was giving me, as she had been in my presence as I ranted about the potential Young Griff plot and how many different ways it was definitely, probably, not little Aegon... and how many different was that I was going to definitely, probably curse someone as a result of the plot... no... specifically Varys for the trouble he was causing me.

The plan of Illyrio was solid, if I was anyone else... if I did not suspect.

In a version of the Dance that George had read before publishing, Illyrio had gifted Young Griff a sword... a sword that he insisted was important. Most theorized that the sword was instead Blackfyre and actually revealed the identity of the boy as a Blackfyre.

Illyrio made a bet that by convincing the Red Priests, I would also be convinced and drop my guard down. After all, I was known for my interest in the Higher Mysteries, with a lot of rumors, an image cultivated during my time in Braavos.

Melisandre showing me a few illusions would solidify my acceptance, and in exchange, I would be part of any King's Blood that the Red Priests may require, potentially recreate Aerion Brightflame or another Summerhall as a result of my foolishness... or a convenient source of King's Blood for Melisandre to use. I could see that his plan for Dany was relatively straightforward and would be a way to unite the claims.

And if I resisted, the Unsullied were there for a reason.

I mean... I am a pretty understanding guy, but that these fuckers plotting to take my sister... that I took personally, now, I was going to make it last.

"Prince Viserys, may I ask how you know that your nephew is Azor Ahai Reborn?" asked Melisandre, taking a step forward.

"I have my sources," I stated cryptically. Being all-knowing and cryptic was part of the difference between a regular Spellcaster and a Wizard, after all. "Thought that was just a deduction. Not surprising that a leech like you stuck herself to the closest person with Targaryen blood."

Melisandre's eyes smoldered, as her anger rose, only for Illyrio raise his hands, "Peace, peace, why don't we walk inside, I am sure your men could use some rest and I will have baths prepared for you and the princess."

'Rest that does not end and a bath of blood, more likely,' I thought, taking a few steps forward before raising my wand. I noticed that only Melisandre noticed the focus, eyes widening.

The ground smoked and stone bubbled, melting into lava, before an upward flick of my wand raised it to the form of a long-backed chair right in the middle of the courtyard, a clockwise twist rapidly cooled the chair, leaving behind a pitch black throne, which I immediately sat on, crossing my legs. It lacked the magical properties of natural obsidian, but it was still a handy trick that I was trying to get to the level of being able to raise castles. The chair was the most I could do before it started getting crumbly though.

"Zrtys perzys," I heard one of the three stooges in red whisper, shocked at my display of magic.

'That is right, two-bit warlocks, behold in the presence of my Lavabending,' I mentally laughed at them, letting the emotions I was detecting through passive Legilimency provide a balm to my soul and I now understood why Dumbledore was fond of this specific power move.

I met Illyrio's eyes, and smiled, "I think we will wait while the boy shows himself."

That seemed to have shocked everyone, as I was pretty sure whatever display of magic that they might have seen before or expected was not it. With Illyrio before me, and a basic sense of every living mind in the Manse, I did not need to pretend.

The outside was also where the archers were... which was probably why Illyrio decided to agree, realizing that I would not be split from the group that came with me.

The Cheesemonger gave a nod, probably thinking that I could probably use the same trick to, say, turn a Manse into molten slag on top of them. After the signal, a group just walked out, led by a familiar Westerosi.

The red hair and beard, the way he walked like he owned the place, and the relatively familiar face gave him away. The Hand of the King that my father exiled was not someone I had known for long but I had seen him when I was forced to bear cups for Aerys, the memories of those times having long since become part of my identity.

"Jon Connington," I said, looking at the red-headed man who came with a six... maybe seven-year-old kid. "Heard you had drowned in a ditch."

"It was a ploy to ensure that the Usurper did not find me, so I may continue serving our rightful king," responded the former Hand of the King that my father had exiled for failing to hunt down and kill Robert. "The Son of your elder brother, Prince Rhaegar."

He was laying it a bit thick, but I did not really blame the man.

The Battle of the Bells that Jon had lost was a weird fight full of chaos, and the potential alternative of setting the entire town on fire would not have really helped House Targaryen in terms of their fucked up PR problem... not to mention all the lives involved. I was more vexed at how Robert managed to sire a Bastard while hiding in a whorehouse and the fact that Jon Connington was such an idiot to fall for this obvious con of passing off some yellow-haired boy as the child of Rhaeger.

"And now, here we are," I said, "I suppose, this is Aegon, he looks like an Aegon" I said, looking at the child being held tight by the septa behind him. I got up, the throne of black stone cracking and turning to fine dust with a mutter of "Finestre" and a flex of my will.

Jon Connington's shoulders relaxed as if the crumbling throne meant I had given up my throne.

While I cared not for a throne, he could not be more wrong.

At the end of the day, it was never about the rightful claim at all, was it?

The identity of the child did not really matter so much as his existence did.

In the end, it was all about power someone might have over me... any illusion of authority that I would be expected to bow down to... because the thought that this boy was actually my brother's child was far scarier than any Blackfyre Plot.

Then again, would it really have mattered? Would it have mattered if this boy was my brother's son?

I thought of the possibility of someone else having any form of power over me because of some stupid law of succession that meant everyone was subservient to the lord of their family. I thought of how no one did anything while Aerys forced himself on Rhaella.

I imagined the scenario of Aegon, succeeding Rhaegar, or even Rhaegar himself, declaring that Dany would be married off to some old man, that I would be married off to someone I had not even met for the sake of petty politics of these petty mortals. That someone with illusion of power would take away from the freedom that me and people I cared about had.

I did not really need to imagine when I knew what would eventually happen, the history repeating itself.

A deep dive into the histories of Valyria would reveal an interesting cultural tidbit that Westerosi liked to ignore. Just as a Dragon could be male and female, the gender roles of Valyrian Freehold were much more... equal, especially when it came down to Dragonlords. A woman or a man on a dragon did not really matter if you rode the largest beast with the hottest flame. Sure, there was the whole incest thing to keep things likes claims and succession stable, but that was mostly a method of preserving magic within bloodlines and the spiritual connection to the older dragons that previously had riders.

The gender equality among the Dragonlords also reflected on their view of ownership, specifically that Aegon the Conqueror never held the title of Archon, while his elder sister Visenya did, whose authority Aegon wed to in order to get the power of Dragonstone behind himself as he made to conquer lands that he would truly call his own.

Because Maesters never wrote about who truly owned Dragonstone, as I had to trace down half a dozen treatises from the final years of Valyria that were signed by the elder sister of the Dragonrider family that governed the Three Daughters.

That mattered because, by all rights of succession, Dragonstone belonged to Visenya and Maegor after her, through her. While I had to give it to Maegor for being the closest approximation of Henry the Eighth with a flying nuke, it was Aenys who stripped Dragonstone off his brother, a brother who had a stronger claim to the ancient stronghold of Valyria than the authority of some iron chair could boast.

I did not approve of Maegor's actions, but I understood his reasonings, being forced to bow down to the authority of a lesser man, a lesser line. Just as I understood the hate, Daemon the Rogue had for his wife Rhea Royce after he was forced to marry her by his grandmother... using the authority of the crown.

For a moment, I glimpsed at a future, a vision showing Daenerys being forced to marry some unfaced man, looking sullen and being forced with a metaphorical blade pointed at her back, and I knew the answer.

It did not really matter who wore the crown: Aegon the Conqueror atop Balerion or Jaeherys and his sons on their dragons, or some brat raised by a rat faced fuck and a ginger cunt. It did not matter if the person had some blood-tie to me or if I had been reborn as a peasant.

It would still end up with me holding a raised wand and a curse on my lips.

For what was a king to a god?

I would never allow another to determine my fate, and I would never allow anyone to command the fates of my loved ones.

A decision had loomed over me, and I took the plunge.

They were not the only ones stalling in the end, as I had been working to figure out the programming that the Unsullied were put to and introduce some of mine into their minds, subtly twisting them to my means.

"Well," asked Illyrio, expecting me to decide.

"You have not brought enough men," I said with a soft smile as I accepted what I was going to do.

"How unfortunate," responded Illyrio to the confusion of Jon Connington, who was unaware of what was going to happen. "Unsullied," the owner commanded in High Valyrian

"Execute Order Sixty Six," the words left my mouth in High Valyrian, triggering the commands that my Imperius had added to the minds of the Unsullied. The words did not need to be heard, as the mental echo I sent would be enough to get the job done.

Like the obedient soldiers that they were beaten into becoming the Unsullied turned and attacked as one, either violently stabbing the mercenaries around them with their spears, or holding spears to the necks of those with potential value.

It was not all of the Unsullied however, as my control was limited when spread so widely, and I did not have the time to consolidate my will on all of the Unsullied one by one.

Those who were younger, thinner, and did not have the time to forget the grueling training they went through were the ones that I had subverted, while those who had been older had recovered enough willpower to question the orders, but the two-thirds that I had subverted would be enough to win.

It was fortunate that Illyrio had beefed up his guards after hearing rumors of my influence and power in Braavos.

A click of my left hand sent a pulse through my Ring of Shielding that bound one of the two remaining raven shadows that I kept on me, creating an expanding shield of smoke and crystalized air that pushed everyone I considered a threat out of the center of the formation of my people.

After that, all hell broke loose.

Next to react, being familiar with the order after watching the movies in the Pensieve was my little sister.

"Protego Totalum," yelled out Dany, taking over the control of the shield I cast and transforming it into a dome like shield around us to counter anything from the outside. Unlike the solid air that took on the strength of the diamond, this one was stronger however, woven with a shadow that gave it more weight.

"Arresto Momentum," added Lanna, further amplifying the intent behind the shield and changing it to protect specifically against projectiles, as any arrow or stone to strike the semi-transparent dome lost their momentum before dropping to the floor.

While not exactly a petrification spell, the spell Lanna had used was similar in intent that Lanna had a distinct advantage, with her Basilisk Horn wand and Basilisk Familiar who acted as a power source for her spells.

The dome fluctuated upon the transfer of energy as it ate the momentum of all the projectiles, though enough of them hit it at all the different angles for the overall energy to cancel out and stabilize.

I would have gone with an 'Impedimenta', to follow through with a counter banishment for the floating projectiles, but I was still proud of both of them for working together, given how I usually had them work together against me.

After the shield came to be, Melisandre and the Priests reacted as one, unleashing red flames from their staves aimed at various points within my group... which I took personally.

"Expelliarmus Trio," I roared in response, awaiting how the three would react. Had they gone for Shadowbinding, I would have countered with a shield of shadows to match and counter, but the spellfire they conjured needed me to meet it with the crimson spellfire branching out into three prongs as it exited out of my wand.

I know, I know... Expelliarmus... really?

Well, first of all, that is the only spell that I can actually send to three different targets at once, so yes, beggars meet choosers.

Multi-Casting was one of those skills that I was still working on, now that my new wand could actually sustain multiple spells as a result of the multiple raven souls bound to its core through Blood Magic. The Disarming Charm was one of the easier spells to multiply in quantity due to it's straightforward nature.

With the Red Priests taking my priority, I did not really have a choice in spells as the spellfire from me intercepted all three fires from the Red Priests, forming three seperate solid beams of spellfire that connected their foci with my own.

The spellfire from the two fodder shifted in direction, away from their target which had been my people, physically yanking the staves and forcing the two priests to face me, as the spellfire converged to a straight line.

Melisandre's was easier, as I had simply intercepted the spell she sent my way.

There was also a specific advantage of the Disarming Charm.

Sure, if you were a noob, you could remove a wand, or a knife, or even a sword out of the hands of the wielder.

But that was the basic use of it.

In actuality, the Disarming Charm thrived when you added Metamagic to it; Metamagic, in terms of D&D, was the act of raw manipulation of a magical spell to behave in a slightly different way.

If you were into that sort of thing, you could disarm a person in a more literal sense, ripping their arm off or simply modifying the spell to vaporize the weapon, even if that specific trick used by Grindelwald in the movies required me to chain the disarming charm with another spell.

In my case, the spell was shifted into doing something much more conservative... it simply disarmed a spell of intent and power, empowered by my own personal Sorcery, containing the magical impression of my own self, rebirth from the Phoenix Feather, in my wand, and entropy, from the Basilisk I hatched, the unique stain of Ritual Magic within my soul combining to negate any other spell effect.

My logic was simple: with Magic, you had to mean it. By removing the intent and power behind a spell, I could cause it to fall apart, replicating the properties of Valyrian Steel.

In other words, Counterspell was truly the most useful spell in a Wizard's Spellbook.

The collision of the spells released what could best be described as a shit-ton of Magical Energy that, a year ago, would be impossible. The energy was without purpose, untamed, Wild, as I pit my will to unravel the will of the three priests.

Then I felt it... the eyes upon me.

It was something large and powerful that seemed to be looking through me, into my very soul.

As the air took on the smell of ozone from the unleashed Magical Energy, I saw something take form behind the three Red Priests, and I saw a pair of red glowing eyes in the Unseen, raising itself from the elongated shadows of the red priests.

It was a being of flame and shadow, red burning eyes framed with a crown of horns, a hunched body like that of a devil with giant wings of smoke, both there and not there, like a mirage or an illusion but... still present.

That... escalated rather quickly.

I may have made a slight miscalculation by countering the spells of the three Priests' head-on. Unfortunately, I still sucked at ice spells to counter fire, so here we were.

Having no time to think it through, I braced myself, ready to pull everything I had and hopefully contain the explosion in a single direction instead of erasing Pentos off the map, along with us.

"That would probably make this much worse," I heard the voice of Morrigan speak as time seemed to have slowed down. I felt my awareness left my body, the world around me frozen in an instant.

"Calm down, Wizard," spoke Morrigan, appearing next to me as I noticed that my left hand was resting on top of the magical skull. I looked around, seeing everything had simply frozen.

"How?" I muttered, realizing that the very time itself had stopped.

"This is a more advanced skill of the Greenseers, to stretch out the present longer than it is, at least mentally. We are in what can be called the Green Dream, it is... a part of the Unseen that allows Greenseers to watch events of the past," explained Morrigan before rather unhelpfully adding "we appear to have a problem."

"No shit... Is that what I think it is?" I could only ask as I stared at the image of the Balrog taking form, fear crawling itself into my heart as I had no time to understand how Morrigan had stopped time for us.

"Names have power, Wizard; need I remind you?" interrupted Morrigan, taking her full form next to me. "It is made of thought and memory and belief, not a god unless you make it. Please do not give it power over you by thinking it to be one," responded Morrigan, looking like she was frustrated at my consideration. "It is no more than what I am, Wizard, or what that bird of yours is... weaker even without a physical vessel."

"Is that what it is trying to do?" I asked, "Gain a body?"

"It appears to be," observed Morrigan. "Without a physical vessel, it is hard for souls to interact with the world... which was why my influence has increased since you placed me into that skull of yours. It is not complete, however. Assume it to be a soul of its own, just not a real one... more of a facsimile that would crystalize if it is fed one."

"Got it, don't let someone die to fire... how do we kill it?" I nodded in understanding that a God of Fire had claim over souls given to fire. Whatever I was facing was pure Wild Magic, empowering a manifestation of belief. Whatever would come out of this was closer to a daemon than any true deity.

The form of the Balrog made more sense if it was something that the God of Fire could see within my mind through all the Occlumency I was using.

"It has never lived to be able to die, yet it is using your power to form itself," Morrigan observed. "It is a being of pure Magic... or belief," countered Morrigan instead, making me realize that I had majorly fucked up.

This was the cost I had felt, the cost of Magic, a world where the line between belief and reality was thinner. This was my roosters coming home to roost.

"You may think this as a consequence of your actions, Wizard," responded Morrigan, interrupting my thoughts. "Or you may take it as an opportunity to learn and weaken a potential enemy. Though if you wish to do the first, do it after this enemy is defeated."

"Enemy?" I asked, momentarily taken aback. "I thought this thing would be an ally, given how it would fight the Cold Ones."

"Too much black or too much white, neither is suitable for life, just as Eternal Winter will leave all things frozen, Eternal Summer would not be beneficial for life to thrive as a draught would still leave fields barren." Morrigan said, "The Red God would have everything be consumed by fire, and without life, there can be no more death."

I nodded, having long since accepted the way whatever passed for Morrigan's mind work. "Did you allow this to happen?" I asked instead, just to be certain. The power I had over the skull was enough that I could force her to be truthful.

"No... I have not, nor would I try. This is dangerous even now. Risking everything this early is not beneficial for the future. This was not something I had foreseen. The witch had copied your power; mayhaps she was influenced to force this confrontation. Had you struck when I have told you to, none of it would have happened, or it would still have happened," countered Morrigan, making me realize that I was way too arrogant with my actions when I should have been disillusioned, behind a dozen obscuration charms and simply took the stealthy approach.

"How do we kill this thing?" I countered, knowing that anything less would just prolong this fight.

"Valar Morgulis," responded Morrigan, making me roll my eyes.

"This is not exactly a human," I responded in turn.

"And these, Wizard, are strange times. One might even say that Death has long died," said Morrigan with a grin as a shiver ran down my spine.

Never been a fan of Lovecraftian Horror... it got far too Dark for my liking.

Then, it dawned on me that I may have made a pact with something far more dangerous than I had previously thought.

I suppose I always suspected, in one way or another, the way I could so easily tap into the concepts related to Death without major consequence.

Had I known yet refused to acknowledge what I had done?

In all honesty, Warlock pacts still sucked, even if I could appreciate the ironic parallel between Melony and I.

What was it Olena said... no way to get the cream back into the udder.

"That does not tell me how to kill a being that is immortal," I responded, focusing on one problem at a time.

"It is not without physical form yet, and as such, can be changed in essence," responded Morrigan, as I felt the mark on my right arm flare with a sharp pain.

Souls could not self-actualize without a vessel, which is why I had hatched Will to capture the concept of Rebirth and the Sun Fire.

I had shifted the soul of Ser Willem into the form by adding those ideas into the Ritual, and it had only stabilized after the Phoenix hatched.

Right... 'It is a conjuration,' I thought, as insight filled me as I understood that this was similar to the ritual that created the Phoenix. 'Without a physical vessel, it cannot interact with the world, but also its essence can be changed by a strong will... or a strong idea,' I thought.

I knew that my thoughts were read by the being before me, because the next moment, I could see the large wings of the apparition descended upon me, like large claws of shadow-smoke poised to strike at me.

'This was not R'hllor, but an idea of R'hllor as the three Red Priests saw it, in the form of a Balrog in the way I perceived a being of Fire and Shadow,' I reminded myself, gaining control over the being with those thoughts alone.

It was thought and memory that made up this being. The thoughts of zealots and the memories of a Wizard too smart for his own good.

Just as my own thoughts and memories shaped Will into the form of a Phoenix, so was the Wild Magic taking form from the stray thoughts of the people around us.

That meant it could be unraveled, not without a significant enough power, but its form changed before the ritual was completed.

All I needed was a sufficiently good conceptual leverage to make an idea killable.

"You already have the power, Master," said Morrigan as the time resumed its natural flow upon the pressure that the being before me had placed upon feeling my intent through the bond it had forced on me.

The bony wings made of shadow that the Balrog had aimed at me were met with shadow-bound ravens, as Morrigan vanished from next to me.

The ravens however had more substance than the god, these were more than mere smoke and shadow that I had stored in Morrigan's skull after sacrificing a few dozen ravens.

The birds glistened like they were made of glass and I knew that Morrigan had used the dust on the ground, from the obsidian I transmuted, to give her familiars more substance, their presence was denser, stronger, more substantial as far as conjurations of Shadowbinding went.

I focused back onto my problem, the words of Morrigan, calling me her Master, unbound something within me, a power, a pact, pinged within my very soul as something rose from within me that I did not know exist until that moment.

I felt the Mark of the Hallows on my right arm flare with heat, the mark etched into my soul by the actions of an arrogant boy who faced Death and lived to see another sunrise.

Power flowed through my arm, through the wand in my hand, as I understood what Morrigan meant by changing the nature of the being before me, and I understood how I could change it.

The power that flowed was not of Magical Nature or physical in any way. It was a concept, an idea of its own that was a constant in the Universe, for only an idea can strike another idea.

'Valar Morghulis,' the Faceless Men believed.

All men must die... but it was not limited to just men, was it?

It was a simple idea I pulled on instead... and idea of Mortality, even if a mortal god was a strange thought.

After all, these were strange times.

"Avada Kedavra," I whispered. The words came with my need to ensure the spell was stable, that I would not end up killing myself with it. The incantation came out as a hiss that seemed to echo through reality itself, etching the words into the memories of the world.

I watched as the crimson that bathed the surrounding shifted color, the spell that had bound my wand to the other three foci was expelled all at once, the crimson spell ripping of the scepter and the staves from the grasps of my opponents and launching them away.

Following the crimson fire, a jet of green soared out of my wand, not aimed at the three priests but sailing through the air to collide with the hazy mirage of the god that was taking a more defined shape moment by moment.

The Deadly Curse did nothing to the god, though I felt the spell impose death upon the being before me... not killing it, but etching a new rule into the presence that was being formed, a promise, that it could be killed.

I felt the Red God pull back from my mind, it's hunger and greed replaced by something different... fear of unknown.

The next moment, a Thrill of the Firebird came from nowhere, a Cry of War echoing through the air, before a golden fire flashed above the red priests.

In an instant, the talons of the red bird that appeared sank themselves into the still hazy form of the god before Will the Phoenix erupted into golden flames, his Phoenix fire consuming the red fires and vanishing the shadows that made up the form of R'hllor.

I felt the burning heat that was the presence of the Red God vanish, the Manse filled with a second sun that vanished in a cloud of ash. A small mass fell from where the bird had been, dispersed in a cloud of ash as I felt the oppressive presence of what passed for divine vanish.

On instinct, my left hand rose to summon the falling mass, forming a small bubble of solidified air around it to pull what I knew to be a Phoenix fledgling that remained of my familiar.

Memories from the small chick filled me in, giving context to what he had done. I understood how Will had used his burning day on the now-mortal Red God, consuming the lesser flame that paled against the eternity that a Pheonix had. While both beings were made of flame, Will's rebirth allowed the golden fire to consume the red fire of R'hllor, ending the physical presence of the god before it could be formed.

'Wait... Did my phoenix just rip a metaphysical chunk out of a god?' I asked myself before placing Will's new body into the inner pocket of the robe I wore after confirming that it was still just Will in there.

With the presence of the Red God gone, I could feel the shift in Morrigan's presence as the obsidian ravens flew past the shield that Dany and Lanna were still holding, heading to the ranged fighters that had been lining the battlements, safe from the spears of the subverted Unsullied. Where the ravens passed, their glass wings carving through flesh and bone and taking a red tint.

I looked at the three disarmed idiots who almost possibly ended the world in their stupidity. I was ready to repeat the last spell I had used, knowing that if used on a mortal, the Killing Curse would end them on the spot and no amount of Skinchanging would save them.

Even if the moment I thought it I gained the understanding that using the Killing Curse against a mortal would come with consequences, I did not really care about it at the moment, as I had passed that point of anger where I was just calm... far too calm.

Before I could speak the words however, a spell slammed into Melisandre, Lanna's petrification spell from the shiver it sent down the back of my neck at the entropy it carried, lesser than the green spellfire I had conjured to counter the conjuration, but still deadly if powered properly.

The Red Priestess froze, her hands snapping around her body as she fell backward, still alive.

With the archers dead, it freed Lanna to aid, as Dany alone could keep up the shield against any stray attacks; Lanna, having a far violent disposition despite Dany's fieriness, had taken the opportunity to attack, while something green and black, leaped in front of one of the priests.

Tywin the Basilisk gave a hiss as he met the eyes of the man, petrifying him and the two of the Unsullied who had the misfortune of being in the line of sight. He then jumped the distance to the other priests and bit into the ankle of the last priest.

The priests that was bitten by the Basilisk cried out, as everyone slowly watched the man's flesh melt into a pile of acidic goo.

I heard the fighting end, weapons being thrown around as the tortured man gave a long cry of pain before becoming silent forever.

I checked that Dany was fine, if a bit tired, with her hair clinging to her face from sweat. I caught her as she stumbled, the strain of shielding everyone taking a toll. Once I was sure she was fine, I turned around to see the rest of my people.

Ser Richard now had a rapier stuck through his wooden arm, and I could see more than a few gashes on his hauberk and clothes, though there was no blood thanks to his skin being turned into stone. His other hand was clutching the spear of Weirwood with its Valyrian Steel tip pointing to the neck of the fallen Jon Connington, who was holding his broken nose and a few nasty-looking cuts. On the other side was Illyrio Mophatis, one shoulder lower than the other and a bleeding hand, my sworn-sword having taken the two on his own.

I nodded at Morna leaning against her Weirwood Staff, blocking the way up the Manse with five of her men. The boy and the Septa that came with him were held close, though I could see the warning in her eyes about harming children.

The Wildling Chieftain was scary with her foresight and ability to use the more subtle spells, like the Notice-Me-Not. She must have foreseen that Illyrio might retreat and snuck around them while I was talking. The fact that it even worked on me was... concerning, but that meant more Occlumency practice for my end.

Before I could turn to take care of the prisoners, I needed to take care of something first.

I reached beneath my clothes and took off my Amulet of Protection and Valyrian Steel ring, releasing my own powers to sense the world around me.

I reached out with my soul expanding to the walls surrounding the lands owned by Illyrio Mophatis. I felt the shock from still alive Melisandre, which I ignored for the sake of grasping the untamed Magical Energy that still lingered after the destruction of the Red God.

Where my presence reached, I could feel others retreat, almost fleeing from my presence, yet remaining at the edges of my attention.

"Fucking voyeurs," I muttered, as I focused on the task at hand.

Unlike possessing another physical vessel to cast magic, I was taking over the raw Magical Energy directly, guiding it into my self, giving it what it needed, a purpose.

At that moment, I gained more insight into Wild Magic and how it worked than before, and I made a note never to match spells with Counterspell for too long again unless I had to.

"Incendio," I muttered, bringing forth a ball of fire that was mine own, feeding the Magical Energy into the flames. No need for the amount of Magical Energy being used to be let loose to run wild and conjure a physical manifestation of a god or something.

The red orb of flame hovered in the air, as a twist of my wand instead transformed the flame into a new shape with the words "Draconifors".

The fire grew two wings, a pair of legs, and a long tail first before unfurling. Instead of a single head, the dragon I had turned the fire into had three, ending around thirty feet tall as it consumed the magic in the air, before giving off a roar of challenge, sending a wave of heat across the entire courtyard.

Yes, yes, bad idea Viserys, have you not learned a moment before... but the fire was me, and I was the fire, I could feel that it was without any other presence, and it made to end the rest of the fighting when the literal manifestation of my House Sigil imposed itself into reality... even if it was effectively a construct of fire that required half my attention to remain around.

"Come and see," I muttered, finding the quote strangely fitting, as I felt all the presences watching us retreat and disappear at once, accept for three, though their presence was far too subtle for me to gain any insight into the one doing the watching.

Then again, what was a god to a nonbeliever?

I then turned to the more mundane problems, placing the amulet back around my neck.

"Oh... you guys thought that all those stories of Viserys the Wizard were mere rumors, is that it?" I asked out into the open, enjoying the fact that I could finally stretch my wings and flex my power. The candles on the table rose over a foot in length as I spoke my own name, and I felt a pulse of energy from the fire construct behind me at my words.

I would say I had cast an impressive image: smoldering robes, outstretched hands, with my wand pointed to the side, a good enough approximation of King Ghidorah in Red standing behind me, and a dozen ravens made of obsidian and shadow perching on the battlements that were now manned only by corpses.

Some believe that gods made men, and the Killing Curse made all equal. - A common phrase attributed to Viserys the Wizard.

AN: I had to split this into two chapters again since 20k was a bit too much per chapter and thematically splitting the supernatural from natural made sense, but the next one will be following once I am done cleaning it up, since I did not want to spend more time on this one and make you wait.

Wiz flexes his magic, then a wild god appears. Luckily, Death is cosplaying as Wiz's cheerleader and gave him a magic gun.

Melisandre is schooled in magic, though her approach is more brute-force so, it was not really something that was a skill issue. Wiz had superior knowledge despite being younger by a few centuries and he had a better focus, along with a solid backup that was versatile and talented. Melisandre had two other Priests that were effectively her, but lesser.

I was not going to include Balrog/R'hllor before realizing that that amount of magic stripped of purpose would be the perfect grounds for something to poke his head, and something needed to poke it's head because this is the first time Wiz got out of the comfort of Braavos. Remember kids, Wild Magic is all fun and games until it summons a Balor on top of you. Blame JustAReader! for inspiring me to write about gods with his awesome omake.

As always, I appreciate the feedback.

Last edited: Jan 24, 2024

035 Fires Bright

# A Sword

Syrio Forrel disliked waiting... though he disliked having to deal with Slavers more. At the end of the day, that was Pentoshi were just slavers, hiding behind what the boy called slavery-with-extra-steps.

Right now, he was facing a group of them, trying their best to be pests about anything and everything.

Unfortunately for them, Syrio Forrel lacked the patience of the Sealord or even the boy, who had a tendency to go for the kill any time he was pushed. Then again, if he met these fools... Syrio wondered what their fate would be.

"This is highly irregular, the docking fee has not been paid, no permit was issued for entry into the city. To go so far as to risk the life of a the Master of Docks and threatening him..." bumbled the fool in charge of the City Guards.

"Syrio Forrel does not recall any threats being made; Syrio Forrel only remembers armed men sent by a Magister of Pentos," responded Syrio, making sure to see to it that these fools did not anger the boy and his own brand of madness that was only tempered by patience that could best be considered divine.

Syrio Forrel was no fool, and he had seen the attempts that the Sealord had used to control the boy. His old friend was many things, yet he was not even prepared for how the dragon would behave. Viserys Targaryen was a dragon, if not in shape, but by deed and temperament, even if he hid it well.

The screams of the chef serving them food echoed through his mind, the way his face had melted off in golden flame. Syrio had not known the man to be of the Faceless Men, yet Syrio had known the boy long enough to see his hand in it, that subtle blade that waited patiently until you found yourself stabbed thrice and dying.

The only reason Syrio followed the Exiled Prince from Braavos was for the way he cared. Antaryon was a good Sealord, but that much was not without any doubt, yet the boy loved all who served him, and like a dragon protecting his hoard, he fought fiercely when they were threatened.

The truth of it was that Syrio had grown old. His speed was not what it had been a decade past, and he had chosen to shave his head clean off to not show the growing baldness and keep what little illusion of youth he could.

Syrio knew that his time as the First Sword was coming to an end, and a new Master to Champion, one worthy enough, was not hard to find when he had taught the boy.

It had been almost easy for Syrio to be assigned to act as the Representative of the Sealord in this journey, along with the task of protecting the Black Pearl for the sake of her father... when he wished to use this to gain favor with the Prince.

"A single Magister does not hold such influence on foreign vessels, not without the permission of the Council." the Captain of the City Guard declared, his eyes focusing on the Black Pearl lazing on the upper deck, her fingers plucking at the string of the bone white lute that put Syrio on edge. "Regardless, such acts are highly suspicious. You will accompany us to be sorted out by the Council of Magisters, and we will have to do a thorough search of this vessel to ensure that this is not a smuggler's vessel."

What was the boy said... right, 'Fucking idiots.'

Syrio disliked Pentoshi... not because they were merchants, but because they did not really bother to hide their intentions properly... like their slavery, with extra steps that the Sealords could not do anything about, lest the rich men of Pentos pay for the House of Black and White. Then again, the House of Black and White stood empty now.

Syrio was not so blind, just as he had seen through the disguise of the fat cat of Sealords that many claimed was a tiger or a lion, Syrio knew this to be a thinly disguised attempt to search for smuggled goods was just an attempt to steal anything of importance and gather intelligence.

Syrio Forrel was no coward... but he would much prefer to draw his blade and face the City Guards than to have to explain to the boy why half his stuff were missing... or why the idiots searching accidentally torched a ship he had named after his mother while ransacking it for hidden goods. There were less painful ways to die... and Syrio was certain he would not be resurrected to suffer more.

Syrio reached for his rapier, as the boy had named the weapon of the Water Dancer, only for a soft tune to echo, relaxing him and drawing away the dread he always felt when he needed to face the One True God and tell it to come another day.

Were it not for Bellegere playing a calm tune on her lute, Syrio would have run these men through for being pests. Yet the song she played was somehow calming the tension, such that some of the guards were almost dozing while the fat one doing the talking looked at something and paled.

"Why don't we wait for just a bit... I am certain the Magisters will be open to negotiations," said the Black Pearl, her voice making Syrio want to agree before he shook off the effects. The Wizard's Paramour was a dangerous breed of woman, especially when it was known that the boy had taught her a few tricks of his own.

"I think that can be acceptable... even if this is highly... dragon..." said the Captain of the Guards, bumbling through, having long since stopped making sense.

"Dragon?" asked Syrio, curious as he turned to see a red light explode behind the large walls where the First Sword knew the boy was. A dragon rose into the air from beneath the walls of one of the larger buildings... no, it was no dragon. It looked like a large man, yet with wings and horns that would not be out of place on a dragon, with smoke and heat that Syrio could feel all the way from the docks.

Just as the form appeared, a flash of green followed, and the thing vanished into a pillar of golden fires.

"Not today," whispered Syrio to himself at the feeling that clutched at his chest. Death walked the lands this day, and only one person could be both brave and mad enough to call upon such a thing.

"When he said he would give a signal..." muttered the Black Pearl, getting up from the chair she was lounging on, as Syrio watched a three-headed dragon rise from the same place that the humanoid fire had once been. "You were talking about finding the owner of this ship... why don't you walk over there and try to explain to him how you have no intention of stealing or taking anything... I mean, explain how you only wish to search his ship."

"Though I would caution you against any lies," added Moonshadow, walking up as well. "The last one to lie to him has been left addled, his mind broken. The Great Jhat likes to make men think they are newts."

"Then Syrio Forrel asks you gentle man, do you really wish to gain the attention of the awakened dragon?" asked the First Sword, looking at the paling man. "Now, we shall meet the Magisters of Pentos and figure something out."

The man nodded, furiously shaking his head up and down as if it would make the situation more survivable.

Most men thought Viserys Targaryen to be weak, mixing his mercy and wish to avoid conflict and collateral with inability bring ruin upon the. Than again, most men were idiots.

Syrio had seen the boy's scars... the cuts and burns on his arms that Bravos twice his age did not have. The scars spoke the truth... of a man who was forced to fight and walk away upon meeting Death in the Face and calling out... not today.

Syrio, like all Braavosi, was wary of dragons... but even he had to admit, having one, even in the flesh of a human came in handy... especially since this one worked for the good of Braavos, so long as he did not have reason to destroy it at least.

Next to him, Bellegere stood as Syrio had just noticed that what the girl was lying on was, in fact, the large hound that belonged to the boy.

"You think Magister Illyrio will survive the experience?" asked Bellegere, using the strange Westerosi speak of the Wizard, a grin on her face. Knowing how close the Black Pearl was to the Wizard, Syrio could see the slight widening of her eyes at the display of power.

"What was it that Jhat called it... yes... suckers bet," responded Moonshadow, choosing then to speak up, a calculating look filling her eyes as she leaned on her staff.

# A Witch

"High in the halls of the Kings who are gone..." started the boy they claimed to be Dany's nephew, causing Vis to sigh in response. The 'negotiations' were going poorly, and Dany was not sure about what Vis was thinking.

"It is just off-key," spoke Vis, "Go more like... High in the Halls of the Kings who are gone..."

At the song that Vis sang, reality shuddered, and Dany found herself holding her breath.

Vis did not sing.

There was a reason for it.

It was not that his voice was horrible, or he could not carry a tune, no. It was because when Vis sang, he bound all his pain into the song.

When Viserys Targaryen sang, he sang his sorrow and loss, and when Viserys sang, everyone felt.

Dany wiped away the tears from her eyes, the images of her mother holding her from the Pensieve filling her mind. She noted how Morna was doing the same.

Some of the Unsullied, who did not even understand the words, had broken down and wailed their own loss; the vaunted discipline of the Slave Soldiers shredded against the emotions that were pulled by the haunting tune of Dany's brother.

Jon Connington himself was openly sobbing.

"ENOUGH!" roared Illyrio Mophatis, though his rage and his own loss was also clear for Dany to feel through a simple Mental Link. "Is this mummer's farce needed?", the Merchant asked finally breaking the silence.

"The mummer's farce is the only thing keeping me civilized and not getting creative with how you will spend your afterlives," responded Vis in turn, pointing his wand at the giant Three-Headed Dragon behind him.

It was easy to forget Viserys' actions when he would focus on some whimsical things like trying to see if the boy was truly Rheagar's son.

The flicker of an image of what looked to be a Balrog, a green flash that screamed Death, and the giant fiery dragon in the form of House Targaryen Banner.

Then again, not like Dany cared about it that much. Rhaegar was an impulsive idiot who had caused a large mess that ended with them in exile. Granted, why Vis himself was awesome, he was also an impulsive idiot, but at least he was a smart impulsive idiot.

If it was not obvious, Dany had a favorite brother, and it was not the one who got himself killed by 'trying to cross a river to force a fight.'

"Above the Watchers Over the Waves shall he proclaim himself, bannered 'cross the sky in fire," whispered Dany, looking at the giant three-headed dragon that was now wrapped around the largest tower, the living flame darkening the stone it touched.

Viserys turned to her, sufficiently distracted from going for mass murder as the rage-filled vision disappeared, "You and I will have a chat about spending too much time in the Pensieve, little sister," teased Viserys, breaking the silence upon her words.

Dany nodded to herself, satisfied with a job well done. A Murderous Viserys became a broody Viserys, and a broody Viserys did not spend as much time with her after all.

And people thought that Dany was a normal eight-year-old.

Sure, she had spent far longer in the Pensieve than probably reasonable, using the 'Time Dilation' that the Weirwood had within the visions to learn as much as she could.

Not like it was not her fault that the books she had any interest in were all locked within the memories of her brother, recreated through the Divination of the Pensieve that he had crafted.

It had granted Dany a certain level of wisdom beyond her age, and the lessons from the Moonshadow and Bellonara were really useful in ensuring that she achieved her goals of maximizing time she spend with Viserys.

"Right, right... let's get to your little Hamletian Plot, the cruel Uncle and valiant nephew... bit cliche, but I am not sure how you would think to pass off a Blackfyre Brat as my nephew when he is too young to be Aegon?" asked Viserys, as Dany felt Vis take over the shield, and she let him do so.

"You are absolutely Mad," said the Cheesemonger, as Dany noted how rat-like the man looked. She idly wondered if he was a skinchanger or something.

"Illyrio, get with schedule, I went passed Mad and am currently somewhere around Livid and Exterminate every breathing thing in the City," Vis responded instead, his calm tone clashing with his words even as the fire construct having above them flared in response to his rage.

"Do you have proof, instead of something like the boy being bad at singing of all things?" asked Jon Connington. Viserys had told her that the Knight was loyal to Rhaegar and no one else. Dany was not so sure about it as he had stood against the siblings of Rhaegar, but Vis probably knew more. "It would be to your benefit, after all, Prince Viserys if Aegon's claim was false."

"You are right," pointed out Viserys before turning to Dany. "Daenerys, do you have your project with you?"

Dany nodded, pulling out a Weirwood Infused Parchment that she had been enchanting with Viserys. It was a challenge, something she worked on as a way to learn how to refine her enchantments.

Dany felt the presence of Viserys' soul around herself, covering the entire Manse with his presence. She could even hear him mumble some incantations in what sounded like the Latin that only he knew, High Valyrian, and what she was certain was the Old Tongue.

Dany did not know what Vis was doing to the entire Manse as they spoke, but it explained why he needed her to cast this particular spell.

Unfurling the Parchment onto the desk, Dany pulled out a black candle, slowly activating the enchantments that had been cast over and over onto the Parchment.

It was not a permanent enchantment, mostly because the first spell was place-specific.

"Proteus," incanted Dany, slowly binding the smoke from the candle into a circle of ink on the Parchment and a circle of smoke on the ground.

"Nomenum Revelio," she intoned with all seriousness despite the wordplay. She had come up with that on her own, based on another spell that revealed humans.

Instead, the spell she came up with replaced 'Homenum' with 'Nomenum' to reveal the name of a person. Where the original spell used the soul as a framework to check for similar presences, the modification was specifically meant to get names.

Vis called it 'brilliant' and Dany got an extra serving of Chocolate Chip Ice Cream that Vis made and got to choose what they watched in the Pensieve that day, even if the story of the boy who tamed and rode a dragon was a bit silly at times, as everyone knew that Dragons grew far larger than the size of a horse and got stronger with size and Toothless was a horrible name for a dragon.

Once the small ritual was complete, there was a circle of smoke on the ground linked a circle of ink filled a smoky cloud within the smoke. Dany check the enchantment, watching the smoke form the letters that formed her name as she moved the smoke circle to be around herself.

It was not the Legendary Maurader's Map that Dany's brother spoke of, but it got the job done, and they had a few parchments on the Revenge linked to key locations in Braavos as additional security.

"What is that?" asked Jon Connington as Dany completed the binding of the enchantments.

"A piece of parchment, obviously," Viserys responded, "In the mean time, Morna, could you please bring rest of the household out?" he asked, throwing the Wayfinder at her to use to find anyone hidden from her.

Vis pointed at the Red Priestess, which was petrified and stuck on the wall as Dany moved it.

"Melony of Lot-Seven, obviously," Viserys said as Dany saw the Archaic-variant of Valyrian Glyphs, before twisting her wand to shift the focus to another, "Jon Connington... seems accurate," nodded Viserys, making Dany smile. Of course it was accurate, she was the greatest Witch in existence, just as Vis was the greatest Wizard in existence.

Viserys pointed at the boy, taking the Parchment and looming over it.

"What does it say?" asked Dany, taking a step closer.

"Patience, Dany... huh... Aegon Targaryen... I will be damned," said Viserys, his eyes scrunching in the way that it got when he was looking at a particularly difficult puzzle. "Though, there are a lot more of those hidden identities going on in here," he spoke, his eyes staring deep into the eyes of the Septa.

"Septa... Lemur, was it?" Viserys asked as Dany moved the shadow circle to where the septa were.

"It is Septa Lamore," responded the Septa, her voice dripping with venom.

"Well, this says it is Wenda Storm," said Viserys, holding up the Parchment. Dany did not know who Wenda Storm was, but she was close enough to her brother to overhear him. Her brother grumbled something about "wishing it was Ashara Dayne," which made her roll her eyes.

"So, who is the Septa?" asked Dany once it became clear that Vis would not explain and keep brooding.

"Pretty sure she is Wenda the White Fawn... of the Kingswood Brotherhood, a bandit group before our time, Ser Arthur took care of them, supposedly, led by a Simon Toyne," explained Viserys, before turning to the Septa and saying "Thank you for confirming that by the way," while tapping his temple.

"Isn't the current Captain of the Golden Company Myles Toyne?" asked Ser Richard, still holding his weapon close to the Magister and Jon Connington.

Dany realized why Viserys always insist that she focus on her Occlumency instead of fire spells then. If he could pluck secrets from the minds of others with such ease, things became clearer.

Dany watched, understanding that Viserys was simply playing with these people at the moment. He already knew what was going on and was putting on a show for a reason that was beyond her.

As the servants of the Manse came outside, one of the raven constructs that felt like Morrigan flew in. The raven of black sand and blood turned into a snake as it wrapped itself around one of the maids, pulling her to the forefront.

"Hello, Viserra Blackfyre," said Viserys without even needing to look at the bound servant as Dany saw the name on the enchanted piece of Parchment. "You are supposed to be dead."

# A Wizard

"Incarcerous," I cast with a sigh, annoyed at the fact that local magic was shot to hell, and I had to leverage incantations for precision and the political headache that I was facing.

One of the obsidian ravens I pointed at with my wand turned into a black blob before becoming a snake midair as it flew to their target, wrapping around her before transforming into the illusion of ropes with all their strength, binding her.

Let the record reflect that I am not the most patient person when it comes to politics.

Especially, now, when I had half a mind to just torch entire Pentos for being so much trouble, but that would be too close to pulling a Voldemort and start throwing Killing Curses at the three before more with only my daddy issues making me stubbornly hold out on being like Aerys.

Another flick pulled her to the middle of the room at a relatively low speed... well, pulled the rope more than the person. While the Summoning Charm was linked to Gravitational Magics, living beings with an understanding of how gravity worked tended to be resistant to that spell, and those who did not understand it tended to get whiplash.

Illyrio made to stand up before I willed the gravity on him to double, not bothering with finesse as the change caused the fat man to sit back down. Sir Richard was quick to rest his spear against the Cheesemonger after that.

"And this one is Viserra Blackfyre, daughter of Daemon the Fourth. She would be Illyrio's wife, Serra, if I am not mistaken," I said, pointing at the now-bound girl who seemed terrified of me. "You were supposed to have died to Greyscale, but butterflies, I suppose," I said to the woman looking at me with hate in her eyes.

Viserra Blackfyre, or more commonly called Serra the Whore, or Serra the Head Maid when Connington was around, stared at me.

She was supposed to have died to Greyscale or something, but here she was.

I mentally revised any potential greyscale-filledGreyscale ships, but I could not figure out how that was prevented by my actions.

I got nothing.

I mentally checked if I had sold off the Mandrake Potion to anyone; I had given it to a few nobles in Braavos to get something or another from them, so it was possible that Illyrio had gotten his grubby hands on my potions.

In theory, the Mandrake could address the Greyscale, which I had narrowed down to a Wild Magic Equivalent of a Basilisk Scale turned natural disease in the hands of Prince Garin and the death of so many dragons to waters of Rhoyne. The mix of Water and Fire Magic would only leave the Basilification as the only element of the Dragon Corpses and render the dragon blood mixed with water a Petrificant.

I made a note to myself to study the Rhoyne and to kidnap and cure Shireen Baratheon.

What? I really need to balance out my karma with some good deeds after the day I have been having.

Going back to the problem in front of me.

I was biased... and I knew too much.

It is why I had Dany work out that specific spell based on descriptions, confirming with multiple potential hidden identities that it did, in fact, work.

I pointed to Illyrio, Dany, using her spell to reveal the true name of Illyrio Mophatis. "Aelor Targaryen," I spoke the name, looking into the eyes of the man.

I was glad that I had not killed the man first before asking questions... I was not that good with Necromancy. Well... I was, but it did not mean I liked it.

"If I were a betting man, and let's face it, I am," I said with a shrug. It was not my fault that other people did not use precognition to cheat when betting. "I would say that you are the son of Maegor Brightflame, son of Aerion Brightflame."

Wat and Wat took that moment to come out of the Manse, having snuck in to retrieve the more important bits for me.

"Let me guess, you found Viserra here in the Whorehouse that Maelys the Monstrous sold her to?" I asked, taking the flinch from Viserra at the name of her father's murderer as confirmation. "A Brightflame and Blackfyre, how poetic," I spat.

"If it is the sword you seek, you will not have it," responded Illyrio... Aelor... the Cheesemonger... Illyrio... Mophatis, I was going to call the fat man Mophatis. Acknowledgement of any family links was not something I was going to do.

"You sent a rider out," I instead spoke, ripping the knowledge from his head. "A few hours head start, and you think it will work. I don't particularly care about the sword... well, I do, but this... this is more valuable," I said, my hands gliding over the dragon bone chest as the lock simply popped open after a whisper of a word of power.

Three large stones gleamed against the sunlight.

Dragon Eggs... the ones that were stolen by Elissa Farman.

The last viable Dragon Eggs, untouched by the influence of the Maesters of Westeros.

'But not the influence of the Red Priestess,' noted Morrigan in my mind as I nodded in acknowledgment. Rituals of Purification and potential methods of cleansing each egg came to mind before they were dismissed for later.

Hatching the eggs as they were posed a risk, a risk that might go the way of Summerhall.

'Get the sword for me,' I commanded the Crystalized Representation of Death that called me Master.

A flick of my wand sent three of the ravens made of blood and dragonglass out. They would find and cut down the rider, retrieving the blade for me, as linked to Morrigan as they were.

"That leaves this awkward family reunion; pity your twin is not here," I said, turning to Viserra and getting a confirmation that Varys was indeed a Blackfyre. Maelys had gelded Varys the Spider as a boy, sacrificing his genitals in a fire for power.

"I wonder how much of everything that happened was your plots, Blackfyre? Certainly, Summerhall... not entirely... Kingswood Brotherhood was obviously yours; what about Duskendale... no... surprising?" I asked, bombarding them with relevant memories as I ripped through their secrets without them even knowing. Word association guided my search, better than any other form of Legilimency.

What I found was disappointing. Did they have a hand in most of the events? Yes. Was it clear-cut and pointed a clean solution for me to kill all my enemies? Not exactly

Summerhall would have spelled disaster for the line of Maegor Brightflame had Aegon the Unlikely hatched dragons, and he had been in the perfect position to do something being invited to witness the event, even if Illyrio did not know if he had the opportunity for it. Granted, the Blackfyres and Brightflames were not the only ones who did not want dragons around so, it proved nothing.

Duskendale was more clear cut. Illyrio knew that it was entirely the plot of Rhaegar and Tywin, and a move that would have seen Varys loose his position.

"I gotta admit, for half-arsed plans that only worked partially, everything worked for Illyrio Mophatis, huh?" I asked, anger making me slip my control over my tongue, giving it an unfamiliar accent that one would confuse for low born for the fact that it lacked any proper structure.

"Targaryen," countered Illyrio, making me roll my eyes. "If this mummer farce is to end, I am Aelor Targaryen."

Wasn't that a problem on its own?

It meant that Illyrio, and therefore Aegon, had a stronger claim to the Iron Throne than me, or some might argue that they are from an older line uniting different claims.

"Tomato,... Charred Corpse, what is the difference," I responded in turn, causing the fat man to swallow in fear.

Like I cared for feudal rules that were meant to preserve the power at the hands of inbred cunts. Sure, I was part of those inbred cunts now, but that did not mean that another could use it to impose some imaginary power over me. After all, I had just murdered a god that had tried exactly that, hadn't I?

"Honestly, your grandfather was an idiot, naming his son after the least popular King in history without some firepower to ensure that he could have influence... or drinking Wildfire, that one is also stupid."

"You do not care at all, do you, that you would become a kinslayer?" asked Viserra, seeing my face not change. She looked calmer, but my instincts told me that she was a greater danger to me than the Cheesemonger.

"Not anymore, not really," I responded, a flick of my wand silencing them both so I could monologue just a bit. "The world isn't fair, but it is what you make of it. In your place, I would have done the exact same thing... maybe even worse. That being said, passing off your own son as my brother's dead son... I cannot really show mercy here, at least not one that ends up with all of you still breathing... that is just done in bad taste."

"Since when did you know?" asked Illyrio once I was done, slumping back.

"Since I realized that the start of our exile," I said with a shrug. Ser Willem was a good knight and true, but the night of our flight from Dragonstone was hazy. There were theories that Varys had been of help, but the number of people following us to exile was far too small to be of any use unless the purpose of it was less a means of returning with an army and more a means of prolonging the suffering of last Targaryens.

Someone had played Ser Willem for a fool, and Varys was the one I would put my money on.

"It made sense, really; turnabout is fair and all that. You and Varys wanted revenge, and what better way to do it than ensuring that the last two remaining Targaryens had to survive without any support in Essos. Once I looked you in the eyes, I knew that this was your end game, an ironic end to the children of those who have placed you in the hole you crawled out of... both of you," I said, pointing at Serra, who was being hugged by the boy... Aegon.

In all honesty, it was the type of thing I would have made my enemy suffer. Maybe we were similar in that regard. A part of me respected that, and another part of me wanted to turn his body into a red smear against the closest wall for daring such a thing.

I knew that had I not made that first leap of faith, to craft a wand out of hopes and dreams and barely understood concepts, I would not be here and instead remained the puppet of people with more power than me. Maybe I could have survived, maybe I could have convinced a few sellsword companies to join me... and maybe I could have landed on Westeros with an army... but then I would be crushed back just like the Blackfyres.

What I did not know, I plucked from their minds.

I was not monologuing because I wanted to do it. It was a method of reading them... a version of Legilimency empowered Cold Reading their plan from their minds.

Each of my words were carefully chosen, each statement, both the incorrect ones and the correct ones were measured to get the most response.

What I found made my blood heat up and chill at once... but I held on.

Illyrio had accounted for the potential of using me as the bait to obscure his boy's claim by hiding it behind mine before passing him off as Rhaegar's.

Yet it was Viserra's mind that was crueler, and it was she who had suggested selling off my sister to some Slaver or Dothraki as some perceived punishment for her own fate.

The cold rage within me when I first cast Death upon a God returned back to me, clashing against my self-control.

Green light started glowing at the tip of my wand as I started, "Avada..."

I could do it. I would do it.

Viserra Targaryen had dared to plot against me and mine.

I would etch upon her soul the rune of Death.

If reincarnation was possible in this world, her rebirth would be stillborn. No afterlife, no nothing... just emptiness as reality itself rejected your very life.

I would rend her soul to shreds, ensure she could not reform as even a blade of grass.

Yet I could not cast it... I did not wish it. The flash of rage burned hot and left only a smoldering wrath behind, one that wanted me to make her suffer the fate she envisioned for us for herself.

No... my actions would not be so fast, so easy an act for her sins against mine.

Then I stopped... instead of turning to the boy now hiding behind his mother.

"So, what to do with you, kid?" I asked the boy, the terrified gasp of his mother making me smirk... even if I felt like a right cunt for that.

So, here is the entire problem I was facing.

What to do with a child whose mere existence would forever haunt me?

A part of me wanted to repeat the words I had used against the God-Daemon-Thing that Melisandre had created. The same words that I was about to cast on his mother.

The Killing Curse would have solved all my problems.

I could feel Viserra struggle against the ropes binding her... bringing an idea to mind.

It would be a fitting punishment for the woman who had wanted to enslave my sister to the Dothraki and leave us with nothing to beg for scraps.

I could take everything from her, leave her to be enslaved once more. I knew that Illyrio had enemies. The family of her first wife would gladly see the whore sold back into slavery and rid themselves of the boy without a heartbeat.

The boy had to die... so why was I hesitating?

It brought another scene to mind, a Mother willing to give anything for her child... creating an unbreakable protection empowered by a contractual agreement.

"Not Harry," I muttered, the sound echoing through my mind.

Could I do it? Could I pull it off?

Blood Contracts, or Gaes, were familiar to me. It was one of the main methods that I have been trying to figure out and failing over and over again. Any method I had tried in the past was temporary, and any agreement was superficial at best.

Sure, I had alternatives, the Rings I had crafted and given to the Sealord and some of the members of the Iron Bank and the High Priestess of the Moonsingers were mental backdoors that I could check up on at any given time using my mastery over Mind Arts, but they were not perfect.

I had given up on Contract Magic, the type that is enforced by the soul of the person itself, the kind that would give warning if broken. I lacked knowledge and precision to use them.

The Magic around the Manse had been shot to hell, the control needed for something precise was not likely to work, but a Mother willing to do anything for their child's life had power and where knowledge and precision of Wizardry failed, the instincts and power of Sorcery might succeed.

All I had to do was let go of a slight; all I had to do was leave the actions of Blackfyres unpunished.

It would be so easy to just kill them all... so fast... so... wrong.

A part of me whispered that I could do it... that I had killed before.

I had killed all the adults in House Prestayne in Braavos for standing against my interests, even if they had been actually linked to Slaver's Bay before I pointed out the right proofs for the Sealord, even if it was a manipulation on my part, solidifying my grasp on Braavosi.

But the children did not pose a danger back then... their lives were not a danger for me and mine.

This one was, however... if left on his own, he would become a threat to me, raise armies, and make claims. I could end the Blackfyre Line right here and now.

A child...

A child sentenced to death for something he had no hand in.

I paused, mentally checking myself to trace that trail of thought.

When had I become so... Targaryen... so Westerosi?

Killing people who wanted to kill you was fine.

Killing people who were plotting to kill you was pushing it, even if preemptive strikes were useful and effective. Even then, had I not lost enough nights of sleep for my actions in Braavos.

Killing someone for who their parents were... was I becoming like Tywin Lannister?

Or, I could... not forgive, and definitely not forget, but use this opportunity. I could create an anchor for Contract Magic using the love of a mother to protect her child, building upon the framework that would ensure that my family did not have to worry about the loyalty or plotting of fools.

I knew what the decision was.

The ropes unraveled from around Viserra, transforming into a knife in my hands.

Ropes made from dragonglass and the blood of the Unsullied who had died following his orders.

The fiery dragon behind me gave a roar that released a wave of heat before the construct dove into the stone knife in my hands.

Stone and Blood melted and mixed, the death cries of a god, given form, a flame on par with dragon fires, forged a new knife.

"Kill him," I said, throwing the knife that carried the faith of a god and the bindings forged of blood and stone. "Kill your husband, and you and your son can walk away unharmed."

The details of the ritual were more instinctual than anything else.

I was, as the saying went, winging it.

Husband and Father represented Power and Protection, the miniaturized runes within the blade ensuring that the association held true.

Sacrificing Protection and Power for Safety and Mercy.

It was Domination Magic, the utter Submission of the Blackfyre Bloodline by its matriarch, the declaration of their defeat.

It was cruel, and it was everything that Viserra deserved.

I felt her hesitation before I watched her drive the stone knife into the heart of her lover.

I had to give it to Illyrio; he took it like a champ.

Viserra gave a cry, trying to make it to the knife as shadow chains wrapped themselves around her throat, empowered by the ritual that I had finalized.

I had not even cast a thing.

She gasped, still breathing, as I approached and took out the glass knife that acted as the anchor of the Blood Oath.

As it was her line that was bound, the oath was linked to the boy as well, and I would know where they were if I chose to seek them. I would know what they thought of if I wished to know them. And I would know when they moved against me, as I felt the threat at the back of my mind form.

"You are free to walk away, though I would hurry. The Blood Oath protects you from my wrath, but the Magisters are on the way, and they might find something to blame you, especially the one whose daughter was Illyrio's first wife. I heard he was not very pleased when Mophatis married a whore, and he might react harshly upon learning that the whore killed a Magister," I said, dropping a bag of silver that was the same amount as the stash I knew Ser Willem kept for emergencies, the same stash that OG Viserys was left with after they were thrown to the streets.

Turnabout was fair play, after all.

I took the proto-Maurader's Map that Dany had constructed and, using the death of Illyrio and the Blood Oath that I had Viserra do as leverage, exerted my will into the pseudo-Wards that had been formed around the Manse through the presence of Dragon Eggs and Dragon Bones.

The last magic that I could probably do this day without suffering Magical Exhaustion had the Weirwood Infused Parchment show the layout of the large Manse, shadow-smoke runes forming the walls, and every detail.

"Secure everything," I said, holding myself from yawning at how utterly exhausted I was after the whole thing.

Morrigan walked through the gate, her body an illusion hiding behind the cloud of blood and obsidian. Passing the sword in her hand to me, I studied Blackfyre while standing next to the chest with three dragon eggs.

At least I got good loot after all the mess I had wade through.

AN:

"What is dead may never die"... or something like that.

This is back; no, this was never dead, I have no intention to stop this. While Sci-Fi is fun, this has a special place, even if update schedule will likely be less than ideal.

I had hit a huge writer's block and needed to rewrite this chapter three times, mostly because I did not really know how Wiz might react to certain things or get the whole emotional payoff.

I still think there is much that can be improved but I wanted this chapter out so we could move on and progress with the plot. As always, I thrive on feedback, comments, and ideas.

The whole Young Griff/Aegon plot has never really been a big problem for Wiz, as he has a general suspicion and a tendency to flip the board when he bothers to. It was more of a moral dilemma that he faced. Had he been just Viserys with Magic, he might have had some trouble before probably killing everyone, but Wiz was already suspicious, even if the Brightflame thing took him by surprise. Blood Oath just gave them enough rope to hang themselves if they tried anything again.

In this case, I took some of the different theories and put them together. Aegon is the son of Illyrio Mophatis and Viserra Blackfyre, daughter of Daemon the Fourth, who calls herself Serra to hide her heritage. Illyrio is the son of Maegor Brightflame, who became a Sellsword and later a Merchant Prince for all intents and purposes. Illyrio noted the similarities between Dany and Serra and his attraction to a thirteen-year-old girl... so, you know, your typical Targaryen Incest Drive.

It was pointed out that Wiz had become too murderous, or by other readers who want to have a power fantasy where the MC butchers all enemies that he was a coward.

I wanted to focus on that internal struggle he had, a good person given shitty options. He could be clumsy with it, or he could be precise with it, but he had destroyed his enemies to the point that they are all dead before. It is part of Wiz getting a character development to be more subtle and precise with his skills. He is, after all, a Wizard.

Last edited: Apr 13, 2024

036 Interlude 4

AN: Special Thanks to Jasticus for some of the suggestions for POVs.

This took a while, mostly because I was moving and did not have much time to sit down and write... and I really am not that fast at writing interludes and other POVs.

As always, I am purely motivated by likes, comments, and discussions.

# Melony

There was one truth in the world.

God was real, and he hated Melony.

Melony of Lot Seven... a Slave sold in Asshai.

Melony the Temple Whore... trained in the Arts of Seduction in the Red Temple to serve the One True God.

Melisandre of Asshai, the Priestess of the Lord of Light, Shadowbinder, trained in the arts after her skills were discovered.

Melisandre the Fool... facing against the Chosen of the Lord of Light, and burned by the flames of Lightbringer.

To the outside, the fight looked even, a struggle between two sides.

To Melisandre of Asshai, it was anything but even. She watched as a single person held back the faith of three and the scorching heat that was unleashed by the light of the Lightbringer in his hands. That was not Azor Ahai fighting against them, but merely unmaking what they unleashed, as the Chosen of the Lord with the Divine Right to decide on whom the flames would burn.

The wrath of the Lord of Light only came about after. A shadow that killed all who opposed Azor Ahai, a Green Flame of Death, and the Wrathful Shriek of the Firebird that burned against her very soul, cleansing away the corrupt flames and reforming them into the form of the great dragon of fire.

Melisandre should have known that something was wrong when Viserys Targaryen walked off the ship that roiled with magic.

Melisandre of Asshai should have known that something was wrong when Viserys Targaryen had called out her name, the one that had been hidden and forgotten by anyone else by Melisandre herself and her lord.

Melisandre of Asshai should have known that something was wrong when Viserys Targaryen told her that he knew about the sword Blackfyre.

And when the green flames and the fiery bird of vengeance burned away the manifestation of Melisandre's False Faith, Melisandre of Asshai should have known that Viserys Targaryen was Azor Ahai reborn and the Champion of the One True God, and the bird was naught but the Messenger of Her Lord.

The screech of the fire shaped like a bird, her true Lord of Light, came down, swooping in to burn away the unclean. To burn away her false faith and remake it into the truth.

And now, it was time for her penance... for fire was the only thing that could cleanse her of her sins.

She had been left in the darkness, her body unable to move, with only her thoughts and faith to haunt her.

All Melisandre knew was that she had offended her current jailer, and he was both terrible and powerful at once.

Without her ruby, her form was not as pleasing to look at and she doubted she could use her seduction of the guards... even if she wished to escape her fate.

Melisandre of Asshai had faced her God, and her God had found her faith lacking.

In a room plunged into darkness that she was thrown into, her body incapable of movement, with a band made up of two pieces of wood around her neck that grew roots that further bound her, she was left waiting, unable to scream, unable to touch the power that made her more than a mere mortal, alone, alone with her thoughts.

Any spell she tried to conjure was unmade; any attempt to free herself, to call upon fire to burn away the roots, was undone, and she was left to ponder.

The dark room was lit by the light of something Melisandre had never seen before, and Melisandre of Asshai understood the being that she had offended.

In the darkness, with time to think things through, Melisandre of Asshai could admit that she had perhaps made a mistake.

Now was her time for penance... whatever form it took.

It was a ball of light, hanging in the air as though it was a firefly, bathing everything in its soft light that drove away the darkest of shadows.

A Light made of Magic, held in the palm of Viserys Targaryen, whose violet eyes burned as they gazed upon her naked and bound flesh... not with any lust for her glamours were long stripped from her old flesh by the same magical light, but with the way a Noble would look a Beggar or a Slave, in disgust.

'Isn't that what you are, Melony of Lot Seven, just another slave?' whispered the darkness.

"Follow," her lord spoke, his tone cold as ice and twice as chilling.

In his hands, he held a stick as long as his forearm, which was shaped like a curved dagger with a glowing tip. She could not mistake the presence of the Lightbringer.

'Mobilicorpus,' the fire spoke before hitting her, and Melisandre felt her body be lifted by unseen hands, carried behind her Lord.

Instead of the pyre that she deserved, Melisandre of Asshai found herself being dragged outside to the light, to the yard that had been cleaned, where a desk and chair resided, grown out of wood, it's quality and intricacy surpassing the most elegant of Myrish artiss.

Her body somehow relaxed, the spell holding her unmade, as she was left floating before Viserys Targaryen, holding a familiar scepter in his left hand.

"Its core and wood are not properly bound, the jewel atop lacks connections, and the workmanship is shoddy, overall, a subpar imitation," spoke the Wizard, waving the ruby-topped small staff, conjuring fire.

A beam of crimson light formed a solid construct before them, shaped like a human. "Illusionary fire, how... quaint. I suppose it is passable... for a charlatan."

Melisandre's eyes looked away, shame filling her in those words.

Viserys Targaryen held up his small stick, a flick unleashing a light that shattered the illusion into motes of light, chasing away the shadows, further proof that he was truly Azor Ahai in truth, and it was Melisandre of Asshai who had acted against her Lord's chosen.

"You are utterly messed up in the head, aren't you?" asked her Lord, holding the Lightbringer against her neck, a flaming blade blossoming into existence.

The burning blade turned into a serpent that wrapped around her neck. The flaming serpent squeezed, causing Melisandre to gasp, even as she was not burned... not allowed to be burned.

Melisandre cherished that moment. She had sinned and the fire would cleanse her of her sins.

"You disgust me," her lord spoke, unraveling his power that pressed down upon her and left her whimpering as the roots holding her were turned to ash, and she fell.

Once again cursing herself for being fooled that a mere blade could be the weapon of Azor Ahai, Melisandre looked down in shame and submission to her Lord's Chosen who held in his hands the Lightbringer.

The old legends spoke of a blade, yet hadn't Melisandre been fooled by blades before. This was true power, a small stick, holding more power than the scepter that her visions had guided her to create.

"I suppose it makes sense that your mind are a mess. This will not hurt one bit; do not resist," said Viserys Targaryen, dismissing the serpent, placing the tip of the Lightbringer against her head, and pulling her memories.

The Life Fire rose in threads of ghostly white.

"They are memories, not Life Force, you two-bit hack," corrected her Lord, answering her unasked question. "I need to see everything you have learned and done to the eggs to reverse your fuck ups."

A shame filled her at those words once more.

"Yes, my Lord," spoke Melisandre, unable to nor willing to resist. She had done enough of that.

"Are you sure?" asked her Lord, speaking to the air once his task was done. Her memories were taken from her into a white dish that glowed with the fires of her lord.

A form appeared of shadow that is not a shadow. It took the form of a black-haired woman with crimson-glowing eyes that sent a chill up Melisandre's spine.

"I mean, I can probably make sure that you get the body... fine, she gets to keep hers. Do you want the Septa? She is younger... fine, your decision," her Lord's Champion.

"Lech," responded the Shadow in fondness before dissolving back into the shadows.

'Was that... Nissa Nissa?' Melisandre wanted to ask.

Melisandre knew Shadowbinding... that was no Shadowbinding.

The creatures of Shadow were impossible to control without proper training. They hungered, their nature bound to violence. They lacked the ability to speak, nor act so independently.

"Melony of Lot Seven," the words caused her eyes to focus on the one who entered the room. "That was the name you had once, wasn't it?"

A thrill of a song came from the golden perch next to the desk. Melisandre could have sworn it was not there before. The song inflamed the fire within her heart and loins once more.

She nodded, feeling the twinge of Magical Workings in the air, but those clung to True Azor Ahai like he was wrought of them... and when he used her name, a part of her soul, long forgotten surfaced and she felt warmth within herself.

"That would be Will," spoke her Lord, pointing at the chick currently nestled among ashes. "He is a Phoenix; he was the one who ate whatever it was that you summoned. I suppose I should thank you for that. The divine essence of a Fire God seems to have been the kick he needed to stabilize the rebirth trick."

It looked nothing like the form it had, but the Cleansing Flame looked at her with disinterest. Even then, the heat in her heart flared at the chirping of the strange bird... no... fire made flesh.

A bird made of flame, ever-burning with the fire that would not be quenched by death.

Shadow and Fire are in one room, bowing to the man before Melony. If her mind had not been made up. If she was not convinced before, this along would convince her. Was this not the way of Lord of Light, was this not the Chosen of Her Lord?

The people of Westeros used birds for messages... didn't they. Mayhaps the bird was the Messenger of Her Lord? His Will was made manifest, protecting his Champion, speaking to him.

"I... greet... the Will of Fire," spoke Melisandre in a rasp, her body feeling lighter than before.

A snort echoed through the yard they were in. "Now, that leaves what to do with you," spoke the Prince. "I can shove your soul into the dragon egg. You are magic enough, and your soul should be durable enough for the process," said Viserys. "It would give me a dragon, which is worth more than you as you are Melony."

"If that is your will, my lord," said Melisandre... no Melony, she was always Melony, of Lot Seven. Centuries had still not made her more, now she knew, not when faced with one who was truly the Champion of the Flame. "Then I shall willingly submit to my sacrifice."

Viserys Targaryen sighed.

"You are not making this fun, Melony," responded her lord in frustration. "Where is that zealotry? Where is that spunk, where is the fire... you... hag?"

Melisandre looked down in shame.

The air turned frigid as in the air, a spear of ice appeared before Melisandre, yet the Priestess did not feel a thing.

"No words, Melisandre?" asked Viserys Targaryen. "No response to Ice Magic. Clearly, I am the root of all evil, right... come on... ANSWER ME!!!"

"Fire is yours to give or take, my lord," responded Melisandre.

"Fuck... I think I broke Melisandre," said her lord, a hand rubbing down his face. "It is like kicking a puppy; you made it not fun anymore... do you get it, Melony?" he roared.

The name washed over her, forcing her to look up.

"I see... I did not just kill that Deamon you summoned, did I?" asked her Lord, violet eyes meeting the dull red, "I killed your will... no, your faith."

"All I ask... is penance for my crimes, my Lord," whispered Melisandre. "Let fire cleanse me of my sins."

"Oh, you sweet fool, wisdom is truly your dump stat, is it not?" said her lord. "If willing sacrifice is what you give, then willing sacrifice is what I will take from you, Melony," said her Lord. Something shimmered into existence on the table, a golden cup holding a familiar liquid. "This is your penitence. I am sure you are familiar with this particular brew."

The green glow of the Substance was easy to tell. She nodded, accepting that her end would be through Wildfire.

"I will need you to say it," said her Lord.

"Wildfire," whispered Melisandre of Asshai, meeting the violet eyes of the Azor Ahai.

"Illyrio's Grandfather drank this stuff, thinking it would turn him into a dragon," explained Viserys Targaryen. "His own brother would say Gods were more merciful than that and instead turned him into a corpse. Would you drink it for me?"

"Anything, my Lord," whispered Melisandre. "Anything for you. I have blasphemed and cavorted with the Great Other, I have plotted to aid the False Prince, I have sinned and know that I will not get absolution."

"Anything," the prince repeated, "Would you drink it if I tell you to?" asked the prince. "Would you give yourself to me, sacrifice yourself to me in fire?"

"Yes," Melisandre nodded, her still chained hands rising and grasping the cup.

She gulped it down as though a parched man in a desert would drink water.

Heat bloomed from the pit of her stomach, her heart siezing for a moment.

The chains around her wrists and legs fell with a soft click.

Green flames erupted around her, within her, yet Melisandre did not feel it.

Melisandre burned.

The wood around her neck seared her flesh, and green fire wrapped itself around her as Melisandre gave a shriek of pain and ecstasy as the fire filled her insides.

When the fire died down, Melony was left standing, naked, unburnt, cleansed of her sin, and tempered in her faith for her Lord.

She felt not the aches in her bones. Her flesh was supple. The hair that framed her sides just as untouched by the fire was a deep shade of red.

The lord approached her, his left hand rising and pulling her up from where she knelt in supplication to her master.

A palm rested beneath her breast, over her heart, feeling the rhythmic thump of her heart that still left her ears ringing.

Her heart had not beat for years... the noise was not like the silence she was used to.

Melisandre felt a flush come to her in a way that had not been possible for so long. The praise from her Lord left a heat in the pit of her stomach and between her legs.

With a muttered word and a wave of a hand from the Prince, Melisandre found herself standing before a mirror of ice. "Ice and Fire are not two different things," her Lord whispered, as Melisandre listened. "Just energy and movement... The Great Other and the Lord of Light are a lie mortals tell themselves to explain that which is not comprehendible by their tiny minds."

Melisandre appreciated her form, naked as the day she was born. She found it fitting, as this was the day she was reborn in the grace of her Lord. Not feeling the aches and pains of her flesh was truly a testament to her Lords power.

She looked the same as she had when she wove her glamour.

Except for her eyes...

The red in her eyes was gone, replaced by a glowing green that put emeralds to shame.

"It seems your devotion remains true," said her Lord, with a face that did not belly emotion. "Enough for me to give you a chance to properly serve me."

"Is that all you would like of me, my lord?" asked Mel, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Crucio," responded her lord, and pain, unlike anything, ran through her body, leaving her screaming and on her knees.

Melisandre knew pain, yet this... this was the type of pain unlike anything she had felt before, as though her veins were freezing and on fire at once.

"Just because you are given a chance does not give you any other right, do you understand me, Priestess. That is just a taste of what it means to displease me, My Lady Mel. Prove your worth, and we shall see about any rewards," responded Viserys Targaryen, a wave of his hand conjuring dark robes around her.

She heard something along the lines of "May gods spare me from the yandere."

Mel did not know what a yandere was, but she would fight them for her lord.

She did not get a chance to respond however, as a bolt of crimson light slammed into her, as the fire screamed 'Stupify', before darkness claimed her.

# Daenerys

Dany took off the Invisibility Cloak that her brother had Enchanted. Poking the downed priestess with her foot to make sure she was knocked out properly.

"She is a nutjob," said Dany, watching Vis take notes on a parchment.

"That is a nice way of putting it," responded Vis, grimacing.

"Was the Cruciatus needed?" asked Dany.

"Might as well go for the trifecta today," responded Vis in return. "I can feel her soul... it is a mess at the best of times, but it is completely at my mercy after what she had done. I wanted to see if I could stabilize the soul-based torture curse, or if the link could be used against me."

"By poking her in the soul, you mean?" asked Dany.

"Useful spell," countered her brother "Well, if you want to disable someone in a fast way. Granted, baring your own soul for something like that makes no sense. I much prefer stabbing someone with a sword."

"Whatever," said Dany, not really wanting to go into that rabbit hole. "How did you get her to restore her body?"

"Honestly... no idea," admitted her brother, holding the goblet that had been filled. "Phoenix Ash mixed into the Wildfire. It is made to be the basis of a Pyromantic Transportation Ritual. This one was the most successful of the brews I had after animal testing and I needed it to be tested with someone with Pyromancy to see what happens," said her brother, who was already three steps ahead of everything.

"And..." said Dany, wanting him to continue.

"Were she not already undead, it probably would not have restored her life to such an extent. It is honestly not something I expected. Her heart is beating now, so she is definitely not dead. If we can figure out the previous steps..." spoke Viserys, going full Wizard mode.

"Resurrection Magic... it is possible?" asked Dany, completing the trail of thought for herself. "Do you think..." she started, unable to complete her words. 'Do you think you can bring back Mother?' she wanted to ask.

"Anything is possible with Magic, though proper Resurrection might be tricky to pull off. Melisandre might be a special case. Were she not honest in her devotion to me, the phoenix ash would not have been so effective. I can think of a few spells that could be based on such devotion. That alone would buy her my mercy for now," responded Vis, making Dany smile and blink back tears. There were more important matters to handle before.

"Like you said, your grace, she is a zealot," spoke Ser Richard from the corner, having been unmoving before. His words broke the enchantment of the small circle marked on the sand around him that Vis had cast. Blackfyre was unsheathed in his hand and ready to 'cut the witch twain' if needed, according to Vis' words.

"She is... unfortunately, we do not have the luxury to pick and choose people. She is a caster, of what type I do not know... a Warlock of some sort if I am right, and now bound to me," responded Dany's brother. "With the right incentives, she could be a valuable asset."

"I give her a week before she starts preaching that you are a god," responded Dany with a glare.

"Reckon, I should have Brian as a middle name or something?" asked Vis, taking back Blackfyre from Ser Richard and causing Dany to giggle. "Come along now, Dany, I think it is time we learned some proper Shadowbinding. Then we have a lord to entertain. Richard, could you let Nessa know about the Red Witch snoring in the yard before joining us in the Solar."

# Jon

Jon Connington accepted that he had made a mistake... that he had been fooled by Mophatis.

In all honesty, Jon did not expect that Aerys Targaryen's son to wield fire as a knighte would wield a blade, not know of secrets that had left Jon fooled.

The chains around his wrists and legs were proof of that as he walked to the Solar that once belonged to Illyrio Mophatis.

"For when the Ash of Ash Tree is no more an Ash Tree, so is the Ash of Phoenix no more mere ash," spoke the Prince... no King, as he was marched into the Solar that once belonged to Illyrio Mophatis.

Jon saw the Princess there as well, frowning in confusion.

"That makes no sense," said the Princess. "How did you even learn that from the memories of the Witch."

"Technically, it is a form of alchemy that she knew, I just connected the dots. It is Magic, Dany; leave your common-sense out the window," responded the King.

"Do you mean door?" asked the young girl, sounding as confused as Jon felt.

"Window, Door, they are all the same really, for everything is a chance, and every chance is a path, and each path ends and begins with a door that may or may not end with a fall." explained the King. Jon let the words sink in. Where those the words of a wise man or a man addled in the brains? "Remember, when life closes a door, it opens a window. You might even say everything is a door... except for some doors. Do you know why?"

The Princess gave a grin. "Because they are ajar?"

"Exactly," the King gave a wide smile at the Princess.

Jon came to the conclusion that the Prince may just be a little addled, before he made eye contact with Ser Richard Lonmouth, who looked like he was just bored.

"Is that why you have incantations for Spells?" asked the Princess, "So you can spell it out?"

The King froze, his face shifting from confusion to realization to disbelief in a moment before he whispered, "I don't know... maybe... possibly? Brilliant." before opening some time and writing something down. "We will pursue that trail of thought at a later date, Dany. Now, Gubwraithian Fire and how it is the anchor for permanent enchantments. Explain it to me."

"Phoenix Ash is not the ash of Ash Tree, so it has to be something other than ash, meaning it can only be fire," responded the Princess before adding, "So it is Phoenix Fire, but since the Phoenix exists, it is a fire that turns to ash and back to fire once more, linked to the phases of the sun and replenished at every Dawn."

"Indeed. Add in a dash of shadowbinding that is unmade every dawn, and you get a template that is considered the norm for the spell, creating leverage over reality through unreason to make the spell permanent, just as this fire is." explained the King that Jon had betrayed in his actions.

At that moment, Jon made peace with his death, standing straight and accepting that he will definitely end up as some sacrifice to an eldritch horror.

"My head hurts," admitted the Princess, a malediction that Jon could admit that he, too, suffered from. Maybe the King was as addled as his own sire.

"Good, it means it is expanding," responded the King instead, giving the Princess a kiss atop her head. "The confusion that you are feeling is what I am using to power the spell. The logic bomb causes reality to stutter and, as such, grasps any enchantment and perpetuates its existence... allowing one to cast," said the King, holding a hand over the bowl. "Anima, Animus, Animata, Animatum."

A shiver ran down Jon's spine as something moved before stopping at the very edge of perception.

"Hmm... that ought to have worked... you know what... fuck it..." The King frowned, closed his eyes, and spoke in a guttural voice that had the room darken, "**ARISE!!!**".

For a moment, Jon thought he saw the shadow of a giant demon with large wings standing behind a man of pale skin similar in looks to a few Yi-Tish that Jon had seen as a Sellsword.

The black liquid in the bowl bubbled, and a single red eye opened within the bowl as the liquid flowed out to take the form of a raven.

Jon was not sure if it was a raven or some demon in the form of a raven.

The King gave a glare at the giggling Princess. "Not another word; made-up spells are harder to anchor things with," he muttered while the princess continued to look amused. It would have been nothing Jon found amusing, the interaction between the Royal Siblings, if not for the Sorcery that the King was so at ease with.

It left a bitter taste in Jon's mouth.

Despite himself, Jon noticed that he had taken a step back, recalling how deadly those things were as they cut through the Unsullied. The creature looked and behaved like a raven, shaking itself and hopping around before taking flight and landing on the outstretched arm of the King as though it was a true raven and not some sort of an Abomination of Darkness and Smoke.

Jon noted the differences from a normal raven, however. The body of the creature shimmered in light one moment, as though made of glass, before shifting to be made up of smoke, with only the eyes red as blood remaining constant, glowing with an inner fire.

"Since the Flame is permanent, so too does the enchantments gain the properties of permanence. Now, I want you to write a full parchment on why it works this way and create a list of questions to go over, and we will continue after dinner. We should not have our company waiting anymore." said the King, who was also a Witch.

The Princess rose, making to leave.

"Manners, Dany, we are in the company of a Lord," called the King without turning.

It took Jon a minute to realize that he was the only one with such a title.

"Oh... right," said the Princess, giving a curtsy and a "My Lord" to Jon before turning to Ser Richard and saying "My Knight," and turning to the woman who was at the corner taking notes, "My Governess," which got a stern glare from the Lady standing in the corner, with straw blonde hair and a soft smile.

As she was at the door, the Princess turned once more and faced the King.

"Onii-chan," she said in some strange tongue before running out the door. A wave of a stick similar to the one used by the King slammed the door shut behind her, and Jon felt the strangest feelings of dead, of a girl of no more than nine name-days with the powers that the King had shown.

"When the fuck did she get access to the Restricted Section," whispered the King, clearly agreeing with Jon's conclusion, before muttering something about "locking up that bloody damned pensieve."

Jon blinked in confusion.

"She is planning to sneak out to see the City tonight, even coercing Lanna to come along," said the King, giving a sigh and turning to Ser Richard.

"I will let the guards know," responded Ser Richard, "Should we put a stop to it?"

"Nah, if she is motivated enough to unravel the wards I put up, she deserves to see the city. Of course, I will be a step behind her, invisible, so no harm letting her enjoy some time to be herself," responded the King before facing Jon.

As their eyes met, whatever Jon was thinking stopped.

Viserys Targaryen looked like any other Targaryen, Silver Gold Hair, pale skin, a noble visage and a haughty smirk.

The King had a decent built for his age, tall and built like a knight ought to be and not like the Targaryens of old who were known to have shown interest in the Higher Mysteries.

For but a moment, Jon saw someone else though, his Prince, in the place of the younger brother.

Without the long flowing robes, He looked just as Jon remembered Prince Rhaegar to look... his Silver Prince, noble and strong. The Prince wore a pair of black pants and tunic beneath a boiled leather armor with the Crimson Three-Headed Dragon blazing on his chest. The rest of his clothes were silk and well made, even if with a strange design that Jon had not seen before. As light hit the surface of the cloak, it looked as though the silk was made of smoke of some sort.

The eyes of the siblings were different, however.

Jon remembered the haunted eyes of Prince Rheagar well. He saw them every time he slept, accusing, judging, finding Jon wanting.

Where Prince Rhaegar had dark violet eyes that one could almost think to be black in certain lights, the King before him had eyes of amethysts, glowing with a fire as though they were gemstones held before a candle.

'He is still a witch,' a part of him reminded.

"Jon Con... Long Jon... Long Con, gotta admit, George's naming sense is fascinating," he heard his king mutter, sitting on the chair that once belonged to Illyrio Mophatis or Aelor Brightflame. "Males are called Wizards, by the way. Witches are for females, though Witchcraft is another thing entirely to Wizardry... though I do not think it matters for now."

Jon noticed hits of Braavosi accent and something else... something unique that Jon Connington had never heard in his years in Essos. His tone was melodic, certain, and far too calm, less like Aerys' erratic tones or the quiet, melancholic voice of Rhaegar, with power and anger and pain echoing through each of his words.

Those thoughts were stopped by the realization that the man before him just read his thoughts.

"Mind is not a book to be read..." said the King before Jon, repeating the words as though he had done it before, "but it is a good enough comparison for practical purposes. Does it scare you, a king that can hear all your thoughts and see into all your secrets? Do you think Aerys had this ability, to see into the mind of his advisors, to hear their plots. People called him Mad for hearing things, but one has to ask if the world was mad for not hearing them?"

Jon gulped as the king unsheathed the sword from his belt and held the edge against his neck. The Valyrian Steel bastard sword was known to any who had seen the pictures of old kings.

"You recognize this?" asked the King. "Speak its name if you know it."

Blackfyre.

Jon nodded, "Blackfyre... the Sword of Kings," a lump forming in his throat that he forced to swallow.

The last proof that Jon needed was that his betrayal was true, that he was fooled by those damned Blackfyres.

The screams of the burning man, woman, and children still haunted him, along with the maddened laughter of King Aerys.

"There are worse ways to die, I suppose," whispered Jon to himself. A sword was much cleaner.

Jon Connington could admit that he was a selfish man. The children of King Aerys were of no importance to him after his failure and exile. Jon had cared more about the son of his Prince than House Targaryen, saw a path to redeem himself for being the cause of death for his Prince on Trident, after he failed to capture Robert at Stoney Sept.

The song had been what had done it for Jon, long before the reveal that the Brightflame and Blackfyres, the betrayal and wrath he felt for the Spider and Magister trying to pass the son of a Blackfyre Whore for the son of his Silver Prince, buried under his own grief.

And the boy... no... the man before him.

Jenny's Song, the song of his Silver Prince, the song that left every maid at the Tourney of Harrenhall crying.

When the King sang, it had more weight than any other word spoken to Jon. When the King sang, Jon saw his Prince once more.

Jon Connington had not cared for the Targaryen Siblings, dismissed the rumors of their presence in Braavos for drink and life of a Sellsword to pay for the drink.

And now, here he was, chained like the traitor that he was, a traitor to the memories of Prince Rhaegar and his legacy.

Jon Connington, former Hand of the King to Aerys the Second of His Name, may have been a fool, but he knew when a Targaryen King was in the mood to burn a man alive. Jon had remained awaiting his judgment, accepting the only punishment it might have.

Yes, there were certainly worse ways to die.

"Yeah... no," the King stated, making Jon pause. The blade went back into the sheath. "I am not killing you."

The King moved behind the desk, sitting and resting his feet on a chest of dragon bone, and in his hand, he was twirling the wand that Jon knew was far more deadly than the blade between them.

With a soft click, Jon was released from the chains binding him, even as the wand disappeared within the robes that the King wore the next moment.

"Why?" asked Jon Connington uncertainly. He did not feel the relief of being granted mercy.

"I dislike killing, for one. Don't get me wrong, if I thought you posed any substantial threat after what happened, I would have gone for the throat, damned the consequences," responded Viserys Targaryen, holding up his right hand. The hand looked to be scarred... no... scaled, like a dragon's.

"More like a snake's," countered Viserys Targaryen, "healed after I was reborn in fire... though the story of how I got is more impressive, I suppose. Magic has consequences, you see... it is ironic that this was not a cost I was not willing to pay."

"What sort of magic?" asked Jon, unable to resist.

"Death of every Faceless Man who was alive," responded Viserys Targaryen, eyes holding a gleam that he was familiar with. "I made it so each and every one of them died, screaming as their faces burned off."

Jon gulped... the image of the boy was replaced with Aerys.

"Do you think I am too merciful, now, my lord?" asked Viserys Targaryen as an unnatural weight slammed over Jon's shoulders. "Are you asking if I left the Blackfyre Brat to run off into the sunset because I was being nice?"

Jon's eyes widened. He had to admit that he had not spoken much during the supposed 'trial' that the King held for the Blackfyres. He was far too busy being held back by the knight currently standing in the corner.

"What did you expect?" asked the King in turn, "Should I cut your head off or send you off to die in the desert for crimes not intended? You were fooled, just as others, Jon, I will not have your blood on my hands. I thought you would be the one to understand. I did not spare the boy and his mother for any reasons other than my own. So long as they live, I can keep an eye on them, even if I cannot imprison them or hold them hostage through force of arms. An enemy you know is better than one you do not know, just as the knife that you see is better than having knives hidden around you."

There was wisdom in those words, yet Jon could only see the foolishness of such a decision in the future. His enemies would not offer the same type of mercy.

It brought old memories to Jon's mind of his actions that still haunted him.

Jon remembered the Battle of the Bells; his choice to search for Robert was a mistake. He had wanted glory then, not justice or honor... he wanted to be the one to end the Rebellion, and he had failed for it, wasted too much time before Stark and Arryn came with their armies.

And his Silver Prince paid for Jon's actions with his life. His children soon followed him.

It had been a mistake. Myles Toyne had said just as much that had it been Tywin Lannister, he would have burned the entire town of Stoney Sept.

The King gave him a glare, Jon felt like those glowing violet eyes saw through his very soul.

"No... it really was not," said the King, as though plucking the thoughts out of his mind. The words left his mouth, words that no one had told Jon Connington, words that he had desperately needed to hear. "You did not do anything wrong, Jon. Battle of the Bells was not your fault... it certainly was not some tipping point."

"Had I gotten to Robert first..." started Jon Connington.

The image of King Aerys before the burning bodies of people flashed before Jon's eyes.

For some reason, Jon could not see his sire in the King before him. That was a good thing, he supposed.

"Yet you did not. It was not for the right reasons, certainly, for all you sought was glory. Burn an entire town to get to a single man, or waste time and be forced to face reinforcements," said the King, "Tough choice. Tywin would have burned them all; my old man may have even popped a stiffy when doing so."

"The Rebellion may have ended," whispered Jon.

"No, I don't think it would," countered the King. "Stark and Arryn were still around, and they certainly would not have given up. But it is not wise to dwell on what-ifs. What has happened, happened, stop wallowing in it and make up for it."

There was a softness in the boy-king before him. It was not the softness of a fool, however. Jon knew the boy could unleash horrors that would make his sire's acts pale in comparison... no, it was the softness of a different sort, one that held power, yet did not wish to lower himself to use it. There was a regality to it, something that ignited the fire within Jon's heart.

The King continued talking, "Mayhaps more Rebellions may have sprung up, as the Royal cause was stained by the butchery of thousands given to fire. Mayhaps Rhaegar might have still died, just as he may have lived," responded Viserys, leaning back "Mayhaps it would be some other plot."

"And if the boy comes back with an army?" asked Jon.

"Oh... I hope they do," smirked Viserys Targaryen, "I really want to test the effects of the Blood Oath. For now, I have stripped them of the means to pose a challenge," he said, tapping the sword on his hip. "As for you. Do not worry, you, I will let you live with yourself. I am just petty enough to let you live on. Death is simple; it does not have the suffering that life can bring."

Jon's eyes focused on the chest beneath the King's feet before he felt his gaze slide over it, his mind feeling like a wool draped over it.

"What was that?" asked Jon, taking a step back, only to be held back in place by unseen hands.

"Peculiar," responded King Viserys, getting far too close to Jon's face as his violet eyes glowed with curiosity. "I see a form of trauma-induced ability to see into the nature of things. It is honestly the first time I have witnessed an Affinity being formed in a soul... fascinating."

Jon was not sure what the King was talking about, as the King met his eyes.

"I wonder..." spoke the King, before taking out a knife from somewhere, this too Valyrian Steel, and Jon recognized his Prince's knife.

Holding out his palm and pulling the flames of one of the candles that lit the room leaped as though alive, forming the shape of birds and dragons as they danced between the fingers of the King before the blade drank in the fire.

The knife glowed red hot, flashing a familiar green for a moment, causing Jon to take a step back on instinct.

"I don't need a wand to cast magic, Jon; I thought it was obvious after my display the day before," said Viserys Targaryen with an amused smile. "Read this."

"From my blood comes the Prince That was Promised, and he will be the song of ice and fire," Jon read in High Valyrian. "The Stark Girl," muttered Jon to himself.

"That is what Rhaegar thought," said the King, "My Lord of Griffins, tell me what do you see when you look at the words?"

"I..." spoke Jon, in a daze. A Prophecy? Rhaegar had done all this for some Prophecy? "Words are wind," his mouth spoke before Jon could control it.

"Not these words," said the King, waving the knife. "Let's try something else," said the King with a movement of King's hand, a basin filled with a glowing liquid floated in the air, approaching them.

In the middle of the basin was a single black stone that glowed with light.

The room around them somehow faded away, and Jon found himself in the middle of a hill, covered in snow. "The Heart of Winter," spoke the King.

Jon stood before a man... or what looked like it was once a man.

The Creature before him was blue and white and gleamed as though its body was made from ice, as Jon's was made of flesh.

Fear bloomed in Jon's heart, something instinctive, something that was buried deep within his own blood.

"These are memories, though I dare not make them more accurate," explained the Sorcerer-King before him.

"Others," whispered Jon, dread filling his heart.

"Others," agreed the King, "White Walkers, the Cold Ones, Singers of Ice and Death, the Court of Winter Fey, they go by many a name, yet they all want the same thing, Eternal Winter. That is what Rhaegar died trying to prevent... that is the legacy he left behind, the mess that I have to clean up."

"This... Song of Ice and Fire," whispered Jon. "A war between the two sides. Is this what Prince Rhaegar saw."

"I had doubts as well," spoke up Ser Richard, who was standing by the door. The old squire of Rhaegar looked nothing like the boy that Jon himself remembered. Gone was the boy, and in his place was a knight with unmatched strength and skill. "Our Prince was always one too focused on prophecies and books."

"This is horse shit," spoke Jon in anger.

The King smiled, giving a laugh at that. "Words of wisdom, that."

"What?" asked Jon. "So this was some sort of a lie?"

"Not really," spoke the King "Rhaegar truly believed in the Prophecy, and saught to make it real, but that is where the problem lies, my lord. Prophecies only happen if you seek them or seek to avoid them. Catch!"

Jon felt something hit his chest, as he caught what looked to be a pin, shaped like an armored hand... made of the smoky metal that was obviously Valyrian Steel.

The metal was not the best craftmanship Jon had seen; the shape of the hand was rough, pointing with an index finger that extended a stick not unlike the one that the king had used.

"Why?" asked Jon Connington, shocked.

"In all honesty, the whole Kingship thing is just a chore at the moment," shrugged the King. "I will do it since the only alternative is to let some moron run an entire continent into the ground and decide to play stupid games... and I cannot afford a fool to succeed against something like the Long Night. Rhaegar wanted the White Walkers to come, so now they are coming, and we are the only ones who are aware of it."

"Why me?" asked Jon. The shock of the Rightful King of Westeros declaring that the world was coming to an end had been enough to bring Jon out of the pits of despair, only to plunge him back into another pit of despair.

"You were fooled, you failed, yes, yes, we get it, woe is me and all that. I am not going to execute you, Jon, but you still must make up for your crimes," the King said, causing Jon to reel back at the insult, "I mean, I understand, truly, I have seen a mirror, and I remember how Rhaegar looked, the whole Valyrian Pretty Boy thing is honestly just broken... heck, I would go for me if I was interested in men... but I am not so a moot point."

"Your grace... I..." Jon stuttered, trying to interrupt, to stop the implications, the embarrassment. Such words... such insults... the feeling of something crawling at such an image had his cheeks burning, even as he wished for a quick strike of the blade.

"I mean, you love who you love; I am not judging. Using that love to manipulate you... it must sting... but I get it, the desperation... and to think I would throw away such loyalty?" "Talk about wasted effort and potential... I mean, don't get me wrong, Jon, I prefer Richard over there for this job, but I was talked out of it since you are the only qualified administrator that I have," said the King, point at the hand shaped pin. "It is not a chain, but I had to improvise."

"The Half-Maester, unfortunately, left us so soon... but his memories will live on as will his... wisdom," the King spoke. "You will make better use of it than he did"

"I don't need a cunning Hand to plot and do my will... you have served, even if for far too short a time, as Hand to my father. You are a Lord trained from birth, an experienced leader. Sure, you have fucked up, but when it comes down to it, you cover everything that I do not have. Above all, you are loyal, not to me, but to the memory of my brother, and I know the eyes of a man with a purpose. So, when I tell you that Rhaegar was haunted by the same visions I had just shown you and died trying to prevent it, I know you will know it to be the truth." said the King, leaning in, "Also, I am a petty little shit, and you have caused me enough headaches that simply killing you would be a mercy, so I will work you to death making up for your mistakes instead."

Jon Connington paled as though the blood within him had all drained. Yet, something in the King's Speech brought something out of it. Defiance... the promise of a purpose... hope to complete something that His Prince had started.

Jon no longer thought Viserys Targaryen to be a fool. Too kind, certainly, vengeful, the shame he brought upon Jon with mere words was proof of that, wise and a dash mad, certainly... but there was something true about him that Jon could not help but be drawn to.

It did not take more for Lord Jon Connington to speak his oaths to his king.

"Now that the standard oaths are done, I will need specific oaths from you. Richard will act as the binder," said the King, passing a parchment to the Squire of Rhaegar and taking out a glowing stone knife. A slash of the blade had a thin line of blood form in his palm. He handed the blade to Jon, and Jon repeated the motion and cut his hand.

So Jon swore.

To act in the best interest of House Targaryen, to protect the Lord of the House, Viserys Targaryen, and the Heir Daenerys Targaryen.

To serve faithfully as Hand of the King to Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, Son of King Aerys the Second and Queen Rhaella Targaryen, and his chosen successors.

To give honest counsel when called for, to give warning when needed for the betterment of the Royal Family and the Realms of Men.

The intertwining blood landed on the Valyrian Steel Hand pin, smoking and hissing before the pin found its way onto his shirt.

"While the Oath will ensure that you will not betray me. Until I can be certain that you can be trusted, Richard speaks for me... as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," said his king, as the door opened and a maid walked in . "This is Nessa, she is the Governess if that was not obvious, that means she handles most of the household. Of all of you lot, she has been with us longest and deserves your respect. If either of them have anything bad to say about you..." said the King, his eyes gleaming violet flames, "Well, you get it. The rest is for you to handle, Lord Hand. Start by arranging a feast for the men, I am going to go purge a few Magisters for plotting to kill us sometime in the next week." before grabbing the sword and walking out of the office, followed by the now flying chest, carried by the black raven made of glass.

"The blade looks far more tempting after that, doesn't it?" asked Ser Richard , standing by the door.

"Ser Richard," greeted Jon Connington, someone he had not seen in a while.

"Sorry about the nose," responded Richard Lonmouth, the former squire of Rheagar. Jon could only nod in acceptance before pain lanced on his face , and his nose was set right, the shallow cut closing.

Jon reached a hand to touch his nose, the sharp pain returning, settling on a dull throb. "I guess his grace heard that, huh. The bone will take time to heal, but the skin ought to be fine," explained Ser Richard, holding out his right hand that Jon now noticed to be covered in some sort of wood... no, the wood had replaced the limb, yet it was moving as though it was flesh and bone, "and His Grace is the best healer there is."

"Is he always like this?" asked Jon, carefully watching his words. "A whirlwind of magic and sharp truths that bite."

"Hah... My Lord Hand, this is him in a good mood; it is when he gets angry and starts brooding that things get strange... well stranger," said Ser Richard Lonmouth with glazed far , away eyes that were familiar to those who survived wars.

"I need a drink," said Jon, thinking that it was Aerys all over again... if Aerys had traded madness for causally breaking the laws of gods on a whim.

"I will come along; it has been a while since I drank with a familiar face, even if I wouldn't overdo it, lest his grace decides to make all wine taste like vinegar for a moon again," commented Ser Richard, obviously from experience. "Pity it works not on me now."

"Sounds like a tale," said Jon.

"One that is better told with drinks at hand," laughed Ser Richard bitterly.

Maybe the old saying was right about Targaryens and coins. Jon had never seen one that forgot to land.

The Hand of the King straightened himself; he had work to do, and a warm meal would also help... even if a drink was not an option.

# Ned

Lord Wyman Manderly took a sip of his ale before him before going on, "The rumors all call the boy a Wizard, a Sorcerer cavorting with Dark Gods. Cannot take it to mean true. The sailors like to make stories of some sort. So I had to send my secondborn, Wendel, to check if the stories held any truth to them. He has learned that the Sealord was healed by the boy somehow and that the Faceless Men are now all dead. Most think that the Targaryen boy had a hand in it... a burned hand at that."

Ned's face did not change. It was the look of the Lord Stark, hard, unyielding, calculating. Inside, he did not know what to say.

Ned was never meant to rule. This was more than he could handle most days. This life was for his older brother, Brandon, who had been slain by the Mad King. He did not feel prepared, not when he led an army against the Prince, not in the deserts of Dorne, not after he came back.

Even the family he had, the happiness and sorrow were not meant for Ned. His eldest stood by the side, acting in the place of a cupbearer for the Lord of the Lord of White Harbor, watching, learning, and not saying a word, as instructed by Ned himself. The boy would need to be told not to take everything at face value.

Especially Magic...

Magic... changed things.

"And has your son found any rumor about the trade between Braavos and the Night's Watch?" asked Ned instead. He disliked this; plotting and whispers made him uneasy.

"The Targaryens seem to have a hand in the Iron Bank, and they have been the ones to arrange it. I know not how they hold such power in Braavos, and I know not what their plan is, but Braavos is not likely to side with Westeros if they decide to turn their attention to Westeros," responded Lord Wyman.

"What are you suggesting, Wyman?" asked Ned, holding his own thoughts for himself.

"That it is a poisoned gift... there is something going on, and only those Mad Dragons know what it is. Refusing the gift without reason shows that we know of their hand, but keeping an eye on it, I suggest you wait, my lord, keep an eye on it," said Lord Wyman Manderly, whose mind was better made for such plots, even if the few looks he gave Robb were similar to the gaze he had for a juicy piece of pie. The fact that the man had two granddaughters of close enough age was not a secret.

Ned was not a fool. Robb's hand was something he could not give away just yet. His own wedding to the Riverlands had won them a war, and his wife was in the right when she proposed potential marriages with the South. The Targaryens were not gone, and Lannisters and Dorne were not his friends. "Ned, know that if the Targaryens come, House Manderly will side with House Stark, as we have promised."

"Thank you, Wyman," responded Ned, keeping his words short. "Any ways we can gather more information from those we could trust?"

"Trust... no, my lord," responded Wyman, "but I can send a few men to the Company of Rose. They are supposedly Northerners exiled before the Conquest. They are still Sellswords, yet some coin might be open to send word."

It always came back to coin. Coin that would come from what Winterfell had made. Coin that White Harbor would get a share from being the only large enough port to sustain the shipping before it made to cross the Narrow Sea.

Soon, the man Ned's youngest daughter, nicknamed Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-on-a-Horse, was gone, followed by Ned dismissing Robb for his studies. The shadows behind him fell away, leaving behind a short man in a green tunic.

"They had a hand in it, the Targaryens," said Lord Howland Reed. "Magic returning."

"Are you certain?" asked Ned with a frown.

"The Faceless Men are killed off, while a Targaryen with Magic lives in Braavos," countered Ned's old friend and bannerman. "This one might be of the same cloth as his brother... or worse, his father. The Prophecy is still at play."

"A Prophecy believed by a madman," countered Ned, his anger rising.

"Lyanna believed it," countered Howland, getting a glare in turn. "Why would a Targaryen seek to strengthen the Wall of all places?"

"You did not come all the way to Winterfell for tall tales believed by foolish children, Lord Reed," countered Ned instead, not wanting to listen to it anymore.

"I came to make my offer," responded Howland, "same offer as before."

"A Stark's place is at Winterfell," countered Ned.

"How long before your Lady Wife runs your Bastard off," whispered Howland in turn.

"You swore an oath, Lord Reed," rose Lord Stark from his desk, "All I ask is that you do your duty and keep an ear out for any other rumors."

"Aye, I did, Lord Stark, to Ice and Fire, I did," responded Howland Reed, again disappearing, once more showing Ned that Magic was more powerful than before.

Ned took a parchment, writing a letter to be sent by a rider to the Wall. It was time he visited it and got the report from Benjen and Mormont. For all Ned knew, winter was coming.

# The Mage

"Fucking Voyeurs," the echo of the Wizard's voice came before the Glass Candle shut itself, and Marwyn found himself flung back from where he was standing, tumbling in a way that would leave a bruise of two.

Marwyn lost his lunch on the floor, leaving it for some poor acolyte to clean it.

Power, Peerless Power.

There had been a lot of rumors about the boy people called Viserys the Wizard, the last male with the Targaryen last name.

None were real, now, Marwyn knew.

A man who can bring death to a god...

This was different than anything else he had known through his journeys.

This was a man who knew what he was doing, a true Master of the Higher Mysteries.

This was Glorious.

For years, Marwyn has been trying to peek into the Targaryen boy.

Years of failure, and the first glimpse he gets is a monster in human form, with mastery over those Higher Mysteries that have befuddled the Maesters by the dozen.

At first it was a mere curiosity, rumors finding themselves to Oldtown as he returned from his expedition to Essos to find the Targaryens deposed by a Rebellion of all things.

Marwyn was certain that the Archmaesters had a hand in that mess. Everything was too convenient, messages were too well organized, strategies of the Lords far too accurate. Not to mention, the White Ravens used to send messages to the Maesters.

The entire army of Reach sitting out the war sieging a castle with not enough man made no sense. The Prince crossing the river made no sense, especially after Marwyn had told him that the glamour on the rubies would not hold up after passing through running water. They were not all idiots wanting to lose a war, were they?

Marwyn sat up from where he fell, thinking, taking a Weirwood leaves from his special pouch and starting to chew one like it was sourleaf as he took a sip of the Essence of Nightshade that he had learned to brew after he saved a Warlock of Qarth from getting his head shortened by an annoyed Lord Tarly.

Marwyn had scolded the Warlock after hearing the story of the Tarly boy being bathed by Auroch blood, telling the bald man that the boy ought to have eaten the heart instead to take on the strength as the Free Folk Beyond the Wall and the Dothraki believed.

Yes, since the Glass Candles started to burn, not more than a year after the Targaryens were sent into exile, Marywn was trying to get a peak into the Targaryen Exiles using the arcane devices of Valyria.

They were, unfortunately, blocked.

Something about Braavos did not make looking into the Mists easy. There was magic there, Marwyn was sure, some sort of a lingering power that protected them from the sight of Valyria. The region was close to the Axe as well, so it stood to reason that it was the location that the Andals used as a hiding spot before the Braavosi made it out of Valyria, but that was speculation on Marwyn's part.

Nothing else was out of the ordinary other than the Targaryen Exiles.

One day, everything was nice and well, and next he had an Acolyte blinded by the light from the glass candle and a dead man with his face burned of among the barracks of House Hightower that as the Archmaester of Higher Mysteries, he was called to study.

Marwyn was certain it was a Faceless Men that was killed.

Then the news of similar deaths made it through his contacts, sailors, and whores sharing what little they could gather.

Brilliant work. Absolutely brilliant. A powerful strike using the transitive properties of a shared creed or artifact... or mayhaps a plague of some sort.

Needless to say, Marwyn removed the chain around his neck after that. He was not certain if it could be used, but if the Targaryen Boy had a bit of intelligence, the chain around his neck was a threat and a nose.

Then Magic rose with a tide and threw Marwyn off his balance.

The trouble that was in North was still stuck in the North. The Others were getting in on power, but so was the Wall. Marwyn was certain whoever made that marvel knew what they were doing as the two kept each other contained.

Lord Leyton was concerned, as was Lady Melora, as the ancient sleepers stirred.

Essos was another mess entirely. Warlocks of Qarth bunkered down, as they always did. Their influence over the supposed Greatest City There Ever Was was stronger than before, though, but nothing happened.

Then Marwyn saw the boy, standing atop the corpse of a dead demon of fire and shadow, a dragon roaring a challenge and promising only death to those who would take him up for his offer.

Come and See.

A fork in the road... certainly one worthy of the cost it would incur.

Old Town itself would be at the crossroads. A Targaryen with a Grudge was always dangerous; history has shown that, and a Targaryen with a grudge and access to Magic. The last time that happened, Queen Visenya made to burn the entire city of Oldtown, only held back at the last moment... thrice.

Conclave would gather and plot, send someone to obviously get the knowledge that the Boy-King in Exile had. Once all his knowledge was taken, the boy would find himself with poison in his belly and that would be it.

This was not the first time that Maesters moved to do so after all. It was not even the first time they did so to House Targaryen.

A gift would be needed, the Death of Dragons, the old book that contains the old knowledge of Dragonlore and the True History of House Targaryen. It was far too valuable.

It was a good gift, a fitting one.

A new opportunity to toss away the old and remake it into something greater... something in Marwyn's own image.

It was certainly ambitious.

Grabbing his staff, he made it to reach him in time. He would serve, and guide the young Prince, the Conclave be damned.

This place was getting stale anyway.

Marwyn would go to Viserys Targaryen, and see if this wizard was everything rumors made him out to be.

AN: Wiz learning to solve his problems without too much fire or destroying things... mostly.

Writing Melisandre, I sort of started to pity her more as I wrote. In the books, she is all bluster and overconfident, but what if someone came along and schooled her on magic? Are they better than her because they are more in favor of her god? Her restoration to her youth was not something I really thought through. Fire can cleanse and restore, especially if Phoenix Ash is involved, and I liked the idea that Melisandre would have that extra devotion/zealotry to pull it off. It also formed the base of three different spells that Wiz will be reverse-engineering.

Jon was less fun. He is an idiot, but he is an idiot with some use. Being made into the Hand of the King is just a way of showing that Wiz does not really care about rules, so long as the ones ruling Jon is also the only valid option to be Hand to Wiz, being a Westerosi, a former Hand of the King of Aerys, a proven battle commander. I like the duality between the two, Wiz focusing on Magic and Jon handling the other parts, after proving that Jon can indeed learn.

Ned POV, I am not so sure about. Howland Reed is known to have some Magic and the idea that he would panic and reach out to Starks to get more information made sense to me.

Marwyn sort of ended up as Fluder from Overlord, just with Viserys in place of Momonga. I also like the idea that Marwyn is smart enough to figure out something about Magic, just lacking that outside perspective that made Wiz so good.

Last edited: Jun 5, 2024

037 Interlude 5

# Interlude 5

AN: Interludes are slower to write for me and I got distracted from this. Hope you enjoy.

# Viserys

Viserys hated Magic.

Ever since he was a boy, when the monster who killed his father cut him and threw his flesh into the fires, the monster whom he once called Nuncle, Viserys Blackfyre, hated anything to do with magic.

All of that was before he had simply become Varys.

Varys... the nickname his twin had given him when she could not fully pronounce his name in her youth.

Those were the nicer times when they were children.

He would never have children; he would never sit on the Throne that was his by all the rules of this thrice-damned land. The line of Daeron the Falseborn was nothing, and now, the one who sat on the throne, the Fat Whoremonger even denied his own heritage that allowed him to keep the Iron Throne with a modicum of dignity.

All proving the one lesson that he had learned the hard way.

Power was an illusion... nothing more than a shadow cast by small men.

It was a lie people told themselves to make it easier for them to sleep in the night for the excuse to commit atrocities, to satisfy an unquenchable need to feel better than others.

What Varys would give to slit each of their throats or watch them drown in poison or fill them up with crossbow bolts... alas, that was not him.

Varys was to be the Spider, his role in this mummer's farce, weaving threads and intrigue, whispering poison into the ears of the right person, using the very tools of that dreaded Bloodraven, the Master of Whisperers, and bringing about the rise of a Blackfyre King through plots when force of arms had failed over and over and over again.

Unfortunately, Varys learned that power was a fickle thing... it was of no true value when a blade was all it took to take things that gave you that power.

It had been the case for his house since the Dance of the Dragons.

Had his ancestor, Daemon Blackfyre, taken the throne, it would be the line of the Falseborn who would be made exiles... as it had taken Varys years of plotting and playing this retched Game of Thrones to achieve... their exile the sweetest bit of justice in this world that lacked any form of justice.

It had taken Varys years to achieve his goals. He planted and nurtured seeds of doubt into the ear of Aerys. He had cut off the right weeds to ensure that the infestation took hold, and prevent the Silver Prince from undoing the work of his father. Oh, how he enjoyed strangling his enemies like unseen webs until they killed themselves in their foolishness.

And he was at the center of it all. Viserys was no more. He was and will always be Varys, the Spider in that garden, watching, waiting, plotting.

If gods were real they surely did love their irony.

Another Viserys had cropped up to undo all his hard work.

It had been the sweetest ironies, the boy, Viserys Targaryen in exile, with a sister that would surely be sold like some whore, the sweet ironic justice that had been a balm to his soul.

And then the boy had messed it all up.

Varys had heard rumors of the so-called Sorcerer Prince who lived in Braavos. He had not given it much credence at first. A fool making a fool of himself in search of a way to get back that which was never meant to be theirs. A fool seeking the path that looked the easiest and always ensured that the seeker died early.

Magic was for children and the foolish after all, a lesson that Varys had learned at the edge of a blade.

And the boy survived.

That was the most bizarre part.

The one person who should have not survived did.

The rumors trickled in, first slowly, then as though through a flood.

If it was anyone else, Varys would have dismissed it, but the blood of Aegon the Unlikely was the blood of the Targaryens and Blackwoods, just as that accursed Bloodraven. So Varys watched, trying his best to stop the rise of another like Brynden Rivers.

It was still not something he could afford, having seen the power men could get from such vile acts of Magic.

The Sorrowful Men had been sent by his friend in Pentos... under the guise of a Gift for the Old Lion. Illyrio had even planned to get something out of the Old Lion in favors, making himself richer through trade with Lannisport.

It had failed.

And it had cost them their ability to contract the more affordable guild of assassins to carry their less pleasant operations.

The Quarthine Assassins refused to go near the Sorcerer Prince after that. Something had scared them off... and Varys had thought it to be the Faceless Men of Braavos, who, too, refused to pick up the boy's contract.

Then the Faceless Men, too, had fallen silent.

Then came stranger and stranger news, as his spies in Braavos were countered or subverted. It was the unknown that made it worrisome.

Some said that the Prince was replaced by a Shadowbinder from Asshai, and some said that his arms had been cut off by a giant hound that haunted the night. Others claimed that he had been ensorcelled by the Black Pearl of Braavos and served at her whims.

More and more outlandish news, kept at bay by Varys for the right time from reaching the wrong ears. What little news that Varys was forced to give to appease the Fat King had him send his assassins, which suited well for Varys.

All had failed.

Then came stranger and stranger news.

The Iron Bank had been refusing to give loans to the Iron Throne... meaning they supported the Targaryens. A bank known to hold themselves neutral, the Iron Bank now supported the Targaryens in Exile, allowing them to somehow match the wealth of Illyrio, a wealth that had been in the making by generations of Blackfyres.

The House of Black and White were silent. Any attempt through any source to contact them for a contract had vanished overnight, leaving only the same means of death, burned off faces and a charred corpse.

It was not hard to conclude that the Faceless Man had all died.

It was not hard to confirm that they had died to Magic.

The shiver that ran up Varys' spine upon observing the dead

The last news was the most dire. After reading and re-reading it, Varys gave a deep sigh.

Viserys Targaryen was last seen entering the Manse of Illyrio Mophatis, and any news after that of his old friend and dear sister were gone... and the banner of House Targaryen, the red three-headed dragon was proudly displayed over the Manse that had once been gifted to Daemon Targaryen the Rogue Prince.

Had Varys been anyone else, he would have raged and thrown things around.

Instead, Varys read the news with a tired sigh once more, his attention turning to the little bird, the child that had once been a slave waiting for him expectedly for his reward.

For a brief moment, Varys considered paying this little bird by reaching for the dagger concealed up his sleeve before his hands found a silver coin instead.

It was hard to find the right types of little birds. It had to be children without tongues, so they could not talk. Yet loyalty was fickle for men, and he could not have their tongues removed themselves.

Luckily for Varys, Essosi Slave Masters were cruel, though, and there were more tongueless slaves than Varys knew what to do. Teaching them how to read and write was also another matter, as finding a boy with both features was next to impossible. Not to mention the need for their disposal once they grew too old to be able to get away from getting caught or walk through the secret passageways of the Maegor's Keep.

Varys handed the child the silver coin and dismissed him.

It would seem that they had underestimated the Targaryens.

His namesake, Viserys Targaryen, was clearly cut from the same cloth as his ancestors and had clearly made deals with the same kinds of voices that Maelys the Monstrous had spoken in those blue flames that consumed Varys' flesh.

The voice still haunted his nightmares.

Varys still remembered the stories he had heard of the Sorcerous Hand who had killed more of his kin than any other, stories told to him by his father... and this Viserys somehow turned out to be made from the same cloth.

Varys knew enough of Magic to justify his hate for it. He had given credence to some of the rumors regarding Bloodraven's powers, and even then, had he not done the same without needing vile sacrifices and treating with monsters in the dark.

All it had taken were a few boys, his little birds, in mockery of the Bloodraven. Kindness and sweetmeats earned Varys their loyalties as they passed on the secrets for him to use.

Varys did not need or want magic to work his craft. He did not need to skinchange into little boys and leave them addled like Brynden Rivers.

And now, another Targaryen had revealed their supposed gifts. Another like that monster Bloodraven was the last thing Varys could tolerate, that the Blackfyres could tolerate.

'Mayhaps it is Bloodraven haunting my family from the grave, reborn as this monster,' thought Varys as he softly walked through the hallways in soft slippers, ignoring the black cat that was lazing upon his path.

Something had happened in Pentos, and it was likely that Illyrio was dead. Their plot to pose Viserra's boy as the dead child of Prince Rhaegar was gone in smoke. There were resources that Varys had stashed away that Viserra and the boy could use, but another plot was needed, one that would not be expected by this so-called Wizard.

And Varys the Spider, the greatest Master of Whisperers in existence, was left blind.

Varys mourned for his friend.

Illyrio had been there with him since the Braavosi ship he worked on had intercepted the ship heading to Astapor from Tyrosh that fateful day, carrying the already cut Varys to be turned into one of the Unsullied.

A Brightflame and a Blackfyre. They made for strange fellows.

It was the two of them who gathered the coin needed to buy back Viserra from the Whorehouse, using the Little Mouses that would grow wings and become his Little Birds.

Aelor Brightflame became Illyrio. Viserys Blackfyre became Varys, and Viserra Blackfyre became Serra the Whore.

The three plotted... plotted to bring down the Targaryens for their crimes against their families.

All that, the peace between the two families stripped away the ambitions of one man.

And now, Illyrio was dead. Forced upon by Serra's hand by the Wizard and his vile sorceries.

The question that remained, however, was... who talked? Who helped the Sorcerer and told him the location of the one who might prove to be a challenge.

There were not many people aware of the presence of Young Aegon Targaryen. There were only three people left alive of his true origins, Illyrio, Serra, and finally, Varys.

The previous play they had made was the only other option.

Varys needed to remove the potential alliance between Dorne and the Targaryens in exile. They were the only major player who would help them in their bid to return.

What Varys and Illyrio needed was to deny the hand of Princess Arianne from Viserys Targaryen. Without at least a kingdom to support them, the Sorcerer had no way of conquering back Westeros. Even Aegon Targaryen needed three dragons for that, and Viserys Targaryen certainly did not have dragons.'

Revealing the presence of Aegon was a gambit, but with another Targaryen from a male like with a known identity and fame, against Varys' wishes, they had revealed the boy to Oberyn Martell.

The marriage would have ensured that Aegon's legitimacy could not be questioned so long as the family of Princess Elia would support his claim. Then Viserys Targaryen would look nothing more than a power-hungry uncle looking to usurp his nephew, like Maegor the Cruel. If he chose to ally with Aegon's claim however, well, there were certainly ways of ensuring that he did not wake up one day.

And now, the game has changed. Pentos had fallen to a single boy of six and ten and a handful of men of dubious quality.

The question was, what drove Viserys Targaryen to Pentos? What made him directly attack Illyrio?

Had the Martells told him of Aegon?

Anger within Varys stirred, simmering into the cold rage that allowed him to endure.

Mayhaps it was time to unleash the Demon of the Trident upon this so-called Wizard and his allies. After all, what better way of ridding himself of potential problems than by making them fight each other.

It was time for his enemies to burn through Fire and Steel.

# The Queen of Thorns

Olena Tyrell was old.

Old...

Wasn't that the joke in there?

Age made her bitter; others called it. Age made Olena less patient, she knew... or rather, less willing to tolerate the same song and dance that she had to endure in her youth.

Queen of Thorns, they called her. No doubt the work of her sister, who had been the one meant to wed Luthor Tyrell before Olena took her place.

It was a joke.

She was supposed to be a Princess... back when she was a maid with a head full of dreams and delusions and went by the name Olena Redwyne.

Her match had been Prince Daeron, not to be confused with the Drunken, for while Olenna was old, she was not that old. The prince was pleasant, but he was a sword swallower, through and through... utterly obsessed with that Norrige boy.

Olenna would go to her grave, still claiming that it was she who did not want to wed the boy.

As Olena looked at the letter from her grandson, Loras, she wondered if those silent gods were mocking her after so long. She loved her grandson dearly. The boy was a bit too foolish with his dreams of knighthood and another swordswallower to boot. His relations with the King's youngest brother were worth it, at least.

"Well, boy, speak," said Olenna, watching her oldest grandson read the letter.

"As pleasant as ever, grandmother," spoke Willas, leaning back and showing his relief. "Is father going to join us?"

"He is better served feasting the Lords; this is not an urgent matter for now," Olenna said, once more cursing that fool of a son of hers. Lord Mace Tyrell had once forced Willas into that joust that had him injured by the hand of Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper. The horse had fallen on the boy's leg and it would never be as it once was. 'For the better, the boy's mind is better to be used than any delusions of knighthood for this one,' she tacked on, even as she cursed Mace for his actions. Olenna may have been bitter about the Dornish but once the cow was milked, there was no squirting the cream back to the udder.

"Well, the boy hasn't sent himself the way of Summerhall; what does that tell you?" asked Olenna, referring to the latest bit of news.

Sailors from Pentos claimed that the city was now being controlled by Viserys Targaryen of all people.

"He is smart?" asked Willas, "or he is a fool."

"He is dangerous," responded Ollena. "Do you know why?"

"He claims to use magic?" asked Willas, with a raised eyebrow.

"He has the right name and the right claim, but he also acknowledges that he uses magic," countered Olena. "He is either a fool or has enough power to protect himself. Even the likes of Maegor or Visenya never spoke of using their magics."

"And he did not go the way of Summerhall," added Willas.

"And that..." smirked Olena, leaning back. "Should he arrive, it can be arranged such that Faith would be made his enemy, along with most lords, the same ones who would covet something like Magic and, because they lacked it, ensure that no one else can use it."

Willas rubbed his chin. The neatly groomed facial hair was not something Olenna cared for, but it made the boy look older and more like his father. The image was important, after all, and no, Tyrell was as big a fool as the likes of the current Queen, dressing her golden-haired children in nothing but reds and golds. Should King Robert pass early, Olenna could easily see people start claiming the children to be bastards or some tripe, like the daughter of Tywin Lannister would be such an idiot as to give horns to a King. "It would make any plan to conquer Westeros harder. The Faith would never allow it. Faith Uprising would..."

"Do not make such conclusions, boy. I said that the Targaryens are confident or arrogant enough to make the Faith their enemy, not that it would happen without prompting from the right people. That means that either Viserys Targaryen believes that the Faith would be able to do nothing, or he is too arrogant. Either way, he can be made to fight a losing battle," interrupted Olenna. "As for the smallfolk, they are a cowardly lot... but ask your mother what Hightowers are up to in their towers. Those of the Faith care about magic as much as any other person in power. Do remember your lessons, who won the Faith Uprising?"

"Maegor, even if the Faith would never admit it," said Willas. "Jaehaerys may have written the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, but it was Maegor's Ghost who won the fight. It was Maegor and Visenya who nearly burned Oldtown twice."

"Power is fickle," nodded Olenna with approval. "But there are many would-be-Lords that have vanished into thin air in Essos, pursuing the lands and titles promised to them by the Baratheons, only if they killed the Targaryens. The Dragons have something, and it might as well be Magic. That brings to question, how powerful is he really?"

"So are we to consider that the Targaryen Prince can actually use Magic?" asked Willas, "That is ridiculous."

"Let your father play the fool, boy, you are not a fine hand at it," said Olenna, taking out another letter and passing it. "Marwyn the Mage is missing."

"The Archmaester of Higher Mysteries?" asked Willas. "Was he one of ours?"

"Not one of ours... or anyone, really. The man was a no one, yet he has been sponsored by Leyton to the position," said Olenna. "He is supposedly half-Dornish, but none knows what the other half is. There are whispers of it being Ibbenese. A mongrel, but one with some skill, according to your mother's family."

"So... Magic, huh?" asked Willas, letting silence. "He has a sister."

"Now you are using your head," said Ollena, feeling pleased. "The Flower of Reach for the Queen, and a Princess for the Heir of Highgarden."

"Do not overreach, Grandmother," countered Willas. "The close nit weddings in the Reach are all that hold us in our position, now that the Crown favors us less. Should our bannerman think us overreach...."

"Bah... wouldn't work anyways," said Olenna, throwing the fig that had spoiled to the side. "Targaryens are all a strange lot, headstrong to a fault, and dangerous as both an ally or enemy, not that they would be willing to share their Magic with outside. If they are smart, they will be cautious."

"We still sided with them," countered Willas, "something that the King Robert still remembers. Would the King call the banners and sail to Pentos?"

"For riches of Pentos, if not anything else," said Olena. "This reminds me of the War of the Nine Penny Kings, this one, a Free City Sacked by one who calls himself the Rightful King. Most of Westeros will not take kindly to the foreign invasion, even if they have the right name. Soon, ravens will come, and bards will decry the foul magics of this Dark Sorcerer. We will have to play our hand very carefully, not give our full support. Dragons were easy to predict but we do not know what sort of Magic the Targaryens have had to use so openly."

"I understand, grandmother. We should not leave our flanks exposed, I understand," said Willas with a nod, his hand clutching over his bad knee. "Will it work, a token force against this Sorcerer-King? Attacking someone who may have powers you do not know about is a risk, but doing nothing sounds dishonorable."

"Bah, who cares. I told Mace the same thing when I told him to siege Storm's End. Stay away from fighting and ensure that we would not suffer any consequence if either side won," said the Queen of Thorns, "Last time Reach meddled with Dragons, Reach almost burned down."

"So we do nothing?" asked Willas, curious.

"We shall wait; give it time. We let our enemies fight their wars, and in the meantime, we grow strong," responded Olenna, "as they are, Targaryens are not worth much as conquerors of some Free City. It would not matter if they remained there. It might be in our interest to ensure it even, not have them turn their attention west."

"And if they don't?" asked Willas. "Robert will not live forever, and his heir is young. Father insists on a Royal Marriage of some sort. If the Targaryens come to Westeros again, would it be wise to bind ourselves with their enemies?"

"Eighty thousand men wins wars, better than a lone Sorcerer," countered Olenna, though there was a thoughtful frown on her face.

"That is the only certainty, then Grandmother," sighed Willas, "There will be a war."

The silence was all the answer Olenna gave.

# Prince of Dorne

His knees ached as he read the note.

It had been worse before, the gout acting up when he least wanted it, Prince Doran Martell could admit.

The scroll that his brother, Oberyn, had brought from Braavos had helped. The gift of Viserys Targaryen containing instructions on what to eat and what to avoid had been a balm.

At this moment, it was a curse, however. Doran desperately needed some wine so he would forget the letter that he had read.

Pentos was fallen, a three-headed dragon bannered across the sky.

The message could not be any clearer.

More than a dozen merchant ships, all telling the same story.

Just what in the seven hells was that foolish boy doing, conquering a Free City with a handful of men?

How in the seven hells had that boy conquered a Free City with so few a man?

"He has balls, that one, you have to admit," said Oberyn in front of Doran Martell. "Little Ari will love him."

"You are the one who met him, what do you make of him" countered Doran before sitting in silence, reading the note sent with the Targaryen Seal.

"He is bold and has a temper... but he has a weight to him, something that Aerys lacked," said Oberyn, looking unconcerned, reaching to take the offered wax piece.

"A brain?" suggested Doran, turning his attention to watching the children play at the water gardens. He passed the letter to Oberyn.

"He is calmer, but meeting him was like looking into the mouth of an angry dragon. You do not want his attention," added Oberyn, taking the letter. "His eyes hold a form of cunning. He watches you and studies you. It is as though he sees into your mind and soul. He is a dangerous foe to cross."

"Like a viper then, baring his teeth," said Doran, looking at the seal once more, an intricate design of a red dragon holding a stick in one hand, with Valyrian Runes around it forming a circle that reminded Doran of a sun.

Seal of the Wizard

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

Just looking at it made his knees ache for some reason.

The man who delivered it looked relieved upon presenting the letter after mumbling something about not wanting to be melted from the inside out.

"What does a letter have to do with melting one's insides?" Doran mused out loud, passing the seal.

"I am the Fire of the Sun," Oberyn read the Valyrian Script, being more versed in the language. "The Chosen of Death, The Reborn Dragon. Slayer of Divine. Open if I named you, burn if I have not."

Under the seal was the name of Doran Martell, along with his list of titles.

The Prince was mocking them, certainly.

The Fire of the Sun...

"Seems the Prince is playing into his reputation," said Doran, "It is a letter that claims the Aegon that the Spider produced was a Blackfyre son of a Pentoshi Merchant and a Whore," said Doran, reading the letter carefully, over and over again. "And he claims to have found evidence of a betrothal between the boy and Arianne Martell."

"So, did he offer his own hand instead?" asked Oberyn, "given that he more likely killed the boy."

"He did not," said Doran, watching children of the same age running around in the Water Gardens. All it took was a single man to be fooled, and any boy with silver hair could be passed on to Rhaegar's Child... Elia's Child. "And he claims to have ensured that the boy can never be king."

"Gelded then?" asked Oberyn, grimacing. "We both knew that the boy was not Elia's. We wanted our revenge, and the boy was just another means."

"It does not say what was done to the boy, but you are right all the same. The boy is now worthless, yet his life goaded a better option to stir" Doran responded in turn, his eyes catching a particularly ripe Blood Orange on one of the branches. "He still has a year to meet us in Norvos."

"Pentos is closer," countered Oberyn. "Baratheon might decide to sail."

"It is the Spider that worries me more," whispered Doran, "I may need you exiled once more, should knowledge of the contract be known to Robert."

"The boy has made a right mess of your plans, hasn't he?" asked Oberyn, drinking deeply from his cup. "Would you be hurt if I said I liked him for it?"

Doran rolled his eyes. Oberyn lacked patience and liked to rush into things. Given that one of his chains from the Citadel that he forged was of Valyrian Steel, he had long been fascinated by the Wizard of Westeros who lived in Braavos. It was likely that he would do something rash and sail to join the Targaryen soon if something was not done.

"We must not rush this; Melora is strangely agreeable to the plan of visiting her family. It is better than when she threatened to leave for Norvos. We might be able to salvage a marriage to the dragons and get our revenge at once," said Doran, his eyes focusing on an orange hanging from one of the trees.

"Salvage your marriage more likely," grumbled Oberyn, drinking from his cup of Dornish Wine. "We shall follow this path for now. Let us see where we end up."

"We will move with caution," agreed Doran. The orange fell, splitting in two.

Pity that there were other oranges he would wait for.

# The Grandmaester

The letter from Oldtown was concerning; Pycelle would have to agree.

It was also bloody late, is what it was.

As he entered the Chamber of the Small Council, Pycelle saw the King sitting at the head of it, a goblet in hand.

"Finally, the old fuck is here as well. Come on then, what is this important news?" roared King Robert, taking another large gulp of the wine.

Pycelle was old... he had seen kings rage, the Madness of Aerys as he gave men to the Wildfire... he had seen Lord Tywin's wrath, the bloody cloaks that held the Dornish Princess and her children. Never had he felt such fear as he did now for his life as he did now.

Pycelle wondered if he should slip something into the drink of the King before dismissing it. The Crown Prince was too young and a regency would be of use to no one.

"There is news, your grace, from across the Narrow Sea," tithered the Eunuch, "The banner of the Three-Headed Dragon has been raised on Pentos. There are those who claim that an army is being raised by Viserys Targaryen to reclaim the lands taken from him. There are many refugees and traders asking for the aid of Westeros."

"Today, I had to sit and listen to the thirtieth Pentoshi Merchant requesting that the Iron Throne intervene in Pentos today, Robert," continued on Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. Pycelle wondered if he had talked with the Spider beforehand, in how the two agreed. "They all say that Viserys Targaryen took the city to the sword, that the streets run in blood. That he cavorts with dark gods and slaughters the innocent for his dark purposes."

The King did not say a word, instead choosing to drain his cup. The poor Cupbearer rushed to refill the cup.

"Didn't you also say that Viserys Targaryen had died after walking into a fire?" asked Stannis Baratheon. "You are speaking one thing one day, another the next. What use is a Master of Whisperers who cannot tell what is going on? The sailors, I have told of all that you have spoken already. What of Westeros?" asked Stannis, ever the pragmatist.

"Unfortunately, my contacts in Essos are less developed, Lord Stannis," countered Varys. "My little birds have also spoken of the Dornish starting to get ready for war, your grace. It would appear that they are preparing to support Viserys Targaryen now that he has gained full control over Pentos."

Pycelle flinched at that as metal bending was heard, and the goblet that the King held was crushed under the grasp of the Demon of the Trident. It was fortunate that the wine within was long gone.

Then a bird came to be in the middle of the air, out of pure flame, and dropped a letter on top of Pycelle's head, giving a cry and bursting into flame once more, vanishing into thin air.

Pycelle blinked, looking at the letter as though it was not real.

What the hell just happened.

He opened it with shaking hands. As he made to read the letter before the letter floated up on its own.

The pages folded before the letter took the form of a face, a mouth forming from the folds of the parchment. The letter started speaking in the air with the sound of a man.

"Dear Robert... no, Dear Bobby B... nah... Dearest Cunt... that was close, but not enough pizzaz. Dearest King Cunt... no, you know what, fine, To Fat Bob, King of Whores, Bane of Feasting Halls, Emptier of Wine Casks and Lord Steward of Westeros," addressed the letter out loud.

It was loud enough to echo through the entire Maegor's Keep.

"You think you know me. You do not," stated the Letter, "You knew my brother, though. Not as well as he knew your betrothed after the girl ran off refusing to wed a Whoremonger like you, but still."

"They say I am a madman... that is true. They say that I have made strange pacts with stranger gods... that is also true. They say that I can kill a man by merely looking at them... which I have done. They say that I am a dragon in human form... debatable but agreed. They say I am Death, Destroyer of Worlds... yes, I am. They say a lot of things about me," the letter declared, floating just high enough for cupbearer to miss and thumble as he jumped to catch the letter.

"Know that all of these and more are true..." said the Letter, turning around and somehow glaring at the cupbearer.

"When I left the shores of Westeros, you, Robert, were left as Steward of the Realm. You have fucked it all up, beggared the realm, caused a squid infestation, and set the Realm for Ruin in your foolishness," the Letter declared, calling out the wildest and most foolish things. "And now I hear that you call yourself King."

"By the time you read this letter, I will be in Pentos, gathering my army. I await thee, Horned King," the letter spoke and at those words something shifted in the air.

The Letter then said, "This is my declaration of WAR, Heir of Argillac."

"I am coming for you and the seven and ten bastards you spawned, Stormlord," said the Letter, causing Pycelle to note how there were no mention of trueborn. That was not good.

"So, bring your armies. Pray that they are enough," said the Letter, dodging the cupbearer once more. "Bring your ships. Pray that they are enough. Bring all your hammers too. Prey that they will be enough." before tagging along "Not that you have enough balls left after the Lions were done with it."

The letter remained silenced for but a moment, before stating "May you remain eternally sober and forever flacid. Signed by Fire and Blood, Your Cousin, The Wizard of Westeros, Last Archon of the Valyrian Freehold, Champion of Death, the Butcher of Gods, the Dragon Reborn, One True Protector of the Realms of Men, the Wicked Wizard of the West."

"This message is brought to you by Will of Fire, The First Phoenix, Winged Flame Eternal." another voice spoke far faster than before.

The letter blew a raspberry before bursting into flames and turned into ash.

The silence filled the Small Council Chambers, as everyone thought the same thing.

Magic.

After some time, a sound was heard, as "banners," King Robert whispered.

"Robert..." started Jon Arryn.

"CALL THE BLOODY BANNERS!!!" roared King Robert Baratheon.

The validity of the infamous Pentoshi Letter has been up for debate by scholars of history. While the callous nature of Viserys the Wandbearer is known throughout his long list of deeds and misdeeds, one must note the anachronistic nature of the letter that supports these claims. The fact that the original letter was claimed to have been immolated by the then Grand Maester Pycelle leads most scholars to assume that the letter was nothing but a lie concocted to justify the Military Campaign to the Free City of Pentos.

The letter is specifically noted to exclude the Trueborn Children of Robert Baratheon from Cersei Lannister, along with their supposed illegitimacy that would lead to strife at a later date. Many scholars agree that such knowledge at the time frame of the supposed letter made little sense. The Legitimacy of Robert Baratheon's Heirs would not be brought into question until a later day, leading to many scholars agreeing it to be an act of historical revisionism by the Grand Maester himself to demonize the Exiled Monarch. The letter, however, supports the thesis provided by "The Flight of the Dragon, a Realistic Look into the Second Exile of House Targaryen" by Archmaester Gilbay on the Baratheon Stewardship and the Interregnum.

--- excerpt from "Pentoshi Wars of 292-293 AC"

I did it. It was a mistake. I should not have drunk the Weirwine that Morna made. That shit hits like a truck. Also, fuck Gilbay and his fanfiction with Blackfyre*. --- signed The Wizard**

*The sword, not the family. --- signed The Wizard*

**a note that appeared on the original copy of the Pentoshi Wars by the infamous Vandal going by the nickname The Wizard, potentially an unstable individual obsessed with the Life of Viserys III Targaryen. It is unclear the means and motive of the individual.

Fuck you with Blackfyre, too... the Family, not the Sword this time. --- the Wizard*

AN:

A look into Westeros and the politics therein.

Varys plots, as always.

Tyrells are trying to marry the crown.

Dorne is being Dorne.

The Small Council collectively shit their pants.

I am entirely motivated by praise and likes, and discussion makes me write more.

Last edited: Jun 21, 2024

038 Lion's Heart, Serpent's Tongue

AN: [Trigger Warning]: Slight Ritualistic Self Mutilation. You have been warned.

"You practice Magic for the modicum of power it gives you. I practice Magic because I think it is fun to make Physics my bitch. We are not the same." --- Common statement attributed to Viserys the Wizard

In the outstretching Velvet Hills that surrounded Pentos, a lone wizard sat, cross-legged, naked as the day he was born.

Then, he spontaneously combusted.

"FUCK!!!" the roar echoed over the hills and through the underbrush.

Pulling my mind back into my own flesh, I frowned.

"Again," I muttered.

In my right hand, I clutched my wand of Elder and Phoenix Feather, pointing to the palm of my left hand. My left hand was clutched like a claw, as though holding an invisible ball.

Streams of fire leaped out of the tip of the wand, first forming a simple loop held within the invisible boundary declared by my left hand.

Then another stream joined the first, the loop itself rotating around the same center. First, the rotation was slow before it started to accelerate.

The Flaming Sphere was suspended within my palm as a third flaming loop joined in, rotating in the last axis.

The loops of fire rotated around, derived from the infamous Rasengan that was favored by Naruto but made of flames instead of Chakra.

As the spell slowly reached its crescendo, my mind focused on the right incantations and wand movement to evoke the perfect symbology for it.

The wand movement was simple: a flick to mime the throwing motion and a clockwise swirl representing the spell's expansion. A simple control derived from a Thaumaturgical foundation of sympathetic magic to take place, allowing the ball of flame to expand in tune with my wand movement.

"Fuego," I muttered, going through the wand movements.

Simple, powerful, iconic.

Harry Dresden would be proud.

The Fireball exploded at the tip of my wand, covering me and the area around me with flames.

"Fuck," I said as the area around me continued to burn.

Again, Harry Dresden would be proud.

The reality flickered, the damage resetting itself as I restarted threading through another path.

I was, after all, not stupid enough to set myself on fire without the aid of Divination.

While my own Magical Flames did not really burn me, the concentration needed for this spell was tricky enough without me having to worry about that aspect of the consequences.

Granted, pulling a Doctor Strange and looking through potential futures to brute-force a spell was far less elegant than what I was used to, but these were trying times.

Simply put, I lacked War Magic.

For someone who called out a king and potentially murdered an aspect of a Deity, I was going to find myself with a lot of enemies, so I needed something suitably powerful and dangerous to make sure no one wanted to pick a fight with me. I needed a spell that would make a statement, something that said, 'Pick a fight with me at your own peril.'

Oh, I had offensive magic, but those were not really what I would call War Magic.

While I had spells designated against single targets, with the Killing Curse and the Cutting Curse being my specialty against targets in short range and animated Fire Constructs allowing me to take out groups on mass, that gave me a form of tunnel vision with how much I had to concentrate.

What I lacked was Heavy Artillery Spells against groups.

Something that could be considered an Army Killer.

Fireball was iconic and something I wanted to create for that reason.

Fireball was the original War Magic.

Fireball was a Statement, and that Statement was "Fuck you and everyone in your vicinity."

And Fireball was versatile, as the structure would allow me to swap out Magical Fire with Sun Fire for bigger explosions that I could call on from a safe distance away.

I wanted that Artillery Spell.

I got back to work.

When crafting spells, I usually had a process. Will and intent combined with a mild form of Self-Hypnosis that I could manage with the Mind Arts. Infused in a medium of heat-less spellfire made me capable of casting any Charm I could think of, and practiced for a few weeks.

This was a relatively new method of Spellcrafting... using Thaumaturgy in the wand movement was incorrect... I needed one that worked to stabilize the Fireball spell and gave me time between throwing and expansion.

'How about a twirl in, flick followed by a twirl out? Compress, throw, and expand,' I thought to myself.

The hill away from me was covered in a fiery explosion.

A thrill of a bird overhead interrupted me as my eyes focused on the crimson bird circling around me.

A shift to my vision showed me what Will had warned me of, and I smirked in satisfaction as a plan came together.

My next ritual was coming for me. Experiment time is over, unfortunately.

I was, if it was not obvious, racing against the clock, and I knew that Pentos would grow to become a trap soon.

It was not just the remaining Magisters being a bother and acting like teenage girls demanding my attention or throwing temper tantrums for being forced to treat their people like decent human beings. That was easy to handle, if a lot more demanding than I liked.

It was not even the fact that I had goaded Robert into coming and attacking Pentos in a drunken haze. In hindsight, Robert was not that big of a problem to me compared to my other problems, but his actions were predictable and could be planned around.

With the fall of Pentos to my control and the disabling of the Blackfyre Conspiracy, I had an opportunity.

I could kill Robert, of course; an army was not something that I could not face with enough application of fire, given an armor reinforced with enough lead, even if it would be a very close call.

The problem was the cost and consequences of the action I would choose. Killing Robert would cause trouble at Westeros, and I was unsure how to best proceed regarding that shithole.

I wanted nothing better to do than let Westeros get ganked by White Walkers, but strategically, it was the starting point of their invasion, and giving the Cold Cunts millions of souls to use for Magics or even as an Undead Army was not constructive for my end goal of survival.

Not to mention that I had a mutually beneficial deal going on with the Aspect of Death that I had named Morrigan. A Wizard capable of killing Gods and a God of Death made up a good team. Given that her purpose was to keep track of Necromancers who would eventually get uppity enough to pick a fight with me, we had mutual goals.

No, killing Robert would be more troublesome, and a petty part of me wanted him to suffer loss after loss as I humiliated him and butchered his legacy. A part of me did not want to kill Robert; it wanted to watch Robert beg for the mercy of death from me.

A more rational part of me wanted to keep the Lannisters weaker and without any control of King's Landing. Killing Robert now would be gifting the entire kingdom to Tywin and I wanted Westeros as divided as potentially possible for a specific reason, even if it would be detrimental in the long run.

Getting the Royal Navy all into a single place meant I had the perfect idea for a spell.

But before that, I needed to experiment, and there were rituals that I needed to go through.

When I figured out this whole Wizarding business, I had started taking notes. Over the last years, I have come up with processes and rituals ranging from "neat little trick" to "are you absolutely out of your mind."

I kept to the smaller stuff. Soul Cultivation using Tantric Magic was civilization. Potion experiments were relatively safe, with the small risk of super-acids eating through the ground. Fleshcrafting turned out pretty beneficial.

One thing that I had promised myself was not to fuck around with rituals that would Permanently alter my body.

My scale-covered right hand flexed at that, reminding me of what a great job I did regarding that principle. While the burned skin had been healed and replaced by golden scales that were immune to fire, it was not exactly my intention and more of a side effect of other rituals that I failed to account for.

With a war before me and the potential of Gods playing around, that rule had to be taken as a guideline more than an iron-clad principle.

So, my prey came to me.

Let me ask you if you have heard of this before. There is an old story, of a young man. The young man kills a monster. The young man eats the heart of a monster. The young man gains superpowers.

That was the only part of the story of Sigurd from Volsunga that stuck with me. Sigurd, or Siegfried if you were more of a Wagner fan, killed a dragon and ate the dragon's heart, gaining its power.

Ritualistically, the process was as ancient as human culture. Slaying a beast and eating their heart to gain its strength within you was... old magic... simple magic.

It even existed in this world in some way or other.

Wildlings had the threat of eating the hearts of their enemies.

In Westeros, the heart of a beast in a feast was offered to the highest nobles or King and might play some role in the whole King's Blood business.

Varamyr had eaten the heart of his mentor to add his skinchanging powers to his own, gaining an unprecedented six skins in total.

Daenerys was made to eat a Horse's Heart to give strength to her unborn child in that other timeline.

It was the last one I understood best.

Unborn children had souls that were malleable, and the ritual could be used to bind the soul of the horse to the child, making them a greater rider or even possibly a Skinchanger with a high affinity to Horses.

I wanted to test it out, and I had a perfect subject to use for this experiment of mine.

The white male lion met my eyes, giving a low growl of threat as though feeling that I was his predator.

Hrakkar

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Hrakkar, the white-pelted lion of the Dothraki Sea, was in that unique category of animals that may or may not be magical at the same time.

With Morna's Weirwine temporarily unlocking my Greenseer Powers of CHRONOMANCY!!!, and yes, the capitalization is necessary, I had located a Hrakar from the Dothraki Sea and slowly coaxed it to move to its edge, through the forks of Rhoyne to hunt in the Velvet Hills over the last few months, using a spell that I had essentially cast last night.

It was a good practice, creating a Bootstrap Paradox and trying my hand at using the Temporal Shenanigans that came with being a powerful greenseer who could 'possess' things while looking into the past.

If Bran could possess Hodor in the past and cause the present Hodor to become his training aid in human possession and show that this world timeline was less of a line and more of an Inverted Mobius Strip, I could certainly use the added Weirwood Essence that granted me the added boost needed for this type of spellwork to summon a magical lion to my door.

A Lion was not a Dragon, as Tywin would soon find out, yet the Heart of a Lion had its own magical connotations that I could leverage, and ever since I had faced a fucking Balrog, I was thinking of what other stories I could leverage.

King's Blood... I was pretty sure the real reason most 'kings' and nobility in general had any magical blood was a result of them being given the hearts of animals to consume.

I could certainly see Robert's strength being a result of his love for hunting. The meathead has probably unknowingly been using some sort of a ritual to enhance his own strength. No way a normal human could lift that anvil on a stick that he called a warhammer any other way.

I was using a more refined approach, of course. Being aware of the Ritualistic Aspects of the acts allowed me to figure out a deliberate, intentional act that would have a stronger effect.

My own divinations revealed that Hrakar had enough of Magic to be considered a Magical Creature, and my own contributions would push it the rest of the way.

So, I hunted a Hrakkar on my own.

What, you expected some daring adventure of trial and hardship? I was a Greenseer, and my prey was still just a really big cat.

So I hunted a lion.

Sure, said cat was the size of a tank, weighted as much as a pickup truck, and could casually kill a person or dozen with ease, but I was still magic.

A flick of my wand launched a string of smoke. With a whisper of "Incarcerous," the smoke became a rope, wrapping itself around the White Lion.

I could use other spells, but strangling it worked in my favor, enacting the required ritualization anchors.

The Lion met my eyes in his last moments, unwilling to die and willing to take the only way through the bond.

To a normal skinchanger, having a lion second life into your own body would be disorienting, to say the least. To me, a Master of the Mind Arts, it was just another day.

I removed the skin, the claws, and the fangs, as the form and viciousness were not the properties I sought out. I wanted the changes to be internal rather than external. They would make good gifts, however.

Removing the heart came last.

Then, it was the actual ritual.

The jar of Eternal Flame came out, the ever-burning fire following the movement of my wand in the air, forming scripts of flame, Runes and Glyphs, and Magical Circles of ever-increasing complexity.

Those were not really necessary, I had to admit, but they provided me with more leverage to succeed in enhancing my body.

I used runes focusing on the natural aspects of Male Lions... their endurance, survival instincts, and strength, along with the more human associations, grace, and speed, along with other runes, written in Merkstave or inverted, were meant to counter properties that I did not wish to take. The individualistic nature, arrogance, and cruelty of the Lions were some of the features I did not wish for.

As I bit into the flesh, sitting within a Magical Circle along with the body of the Lion, I focused on completing the ritual, guiding the Lion's soul into my own flesh.

The Ritual Circle of Salt and Moonstone around me darkened as my teeth bit through the heart over and over again, consuming the enchanted organ.

Once the heart was fully consumed, I threw a handful of Phoenix Ash that consumed the rest of the body of the lion, leaving me within the ritual flame.

By the time dawn came, all that was left were me, my wand, and ash. I shrugged off the ash that was left behind, taking only enough for future studies and potential rituals to undo the effects, if this venture proved to have bad side effects.

I put on the clothing that I had stripped off, finding them to be tighter than before.

I smiled at a job well done.

The Ritual was designed specifically for this reason. While I was no slouch when it came to martial pursuits, I did not spend a lot of time in the yard for the sake of other pursuits.

It was less of a ritual designed to make me superhuman and more a ritual made to bring out the full potential within my own body and amplify the existing features.

It also apparently meant a slightly taller frame and broader shoulders.

And a more prominent six-pack compared to my old one.

Because against someone like Robert, I was not going to risk being his physical inferior.

I noticed Will flying in the air, a warning flashing at the back of my mind.

The bonfire had attracted some attention, it would seem.

Walking to where my horse was resting, I took my clothes from the saddle, along with a bracelet of bronze disks that made its way to my left wrist.

As the bracelet clasped around my wrist, a shimmering solid air slowly formed around my body, as the passive enchantments activated with a whisper of "Protego Totalum."

Dothraki Outriders. Scouts. Two dozen riders, maybe more.

They were tracking the lion, it would seem.

I did not say a word.

I did not need to.

I grasped the nature within me, the dragon roaring in challenge, along with the echo of the lion within.

A silent shout echoed in the sky. Projecting the roar of a predator without equal.

The horses that the Dothraki had bred for war and tamed from young panicked as prey before predator.

The Dothraki fell off their horses, one by one.

Look, George, I did not need some incantation to put a stop to charging cavalry.

One of them recovered quickly, taking out a bow and launching arrow after arrow in my direction.

None of them touched me, of course.

There were many forms of Shielding Charms imbued into the Bronze Shield Charm, but the ones that I favored were more refined and simpler ones. 'Protection from Arrows' was one such shield, with an incantation of "Protego Sagitarum," if I really bothered to speak it out loud.

Even now, barely thinking it was enough.

I was wrong... I could admit that.

Magic is Magic is Magic.

There were no solid rules. If you could leverage something, it would work. Magic was where rules came to die.

I had initially worked with Incantations to provide a mental framework to make things stable. That had proven useful, especially as I began to integrate Greensight into the process, allowing the recreation of the same spell by tapping the memories of the wand itself to the previous instances of the same incantation being spoken.

A Sympathetic Echo to the first time it was used.

Then Dany had said something that made me think things through. "A Spell had an incantation so it could be Spelled Out."

That insight alone would empower incantations, let alone the simple ritual I had used to bind that concept into my wand and my Shield Charm, now carved with words of Valyrian Glyphs and First Man Runes, to act as anchors for the spells.

It made things stable, which, in turn, made it predictable and safer. Say the spell, or think it, if you were good enough, and pour power into the existing vessel.

I rarely bothered to speak out loud the incantations though, not unless I planned to leave my audience alive at least, even if thinking of the incantation granted me a more stable spell.

Structured Wizardry versus Raw Sorcery... the difference was easy to understand.

The charm itself was one that was simple and efficient, not requiring that much power to work.

Instead of acting like a shield or armor, this specific charm made it so a projectile always missed, utilizing the reverse of the effect I had imbued into the Weirwood Spear that Richard often used. It was far more energy-efficient for the arrow itself to bend in the wrong direction or wind to push it to the side.

A part of me whispered that I should work to counter solid steel arrows as well... but that was not likely to be something I would come across.

I had to give it to the Horse Lord, three misses and he had thrown aside the bow, thinking the bow to have gone bad.

The crack of a whip was heard as a blue light flashed by the side of my face, the shield taking on the strike from the whip and holding. The Shield Charm on my arm grew hot as the other spells pulled power from me.

"Maegi," spat the Dothraki.

I smirked, eager to test out my improved body.

'Incendio Flagellum,' I thought; a flick of my wand to the side followed a long cord of fire sprouting from the tip of the wand, again with no word spoken. The whip of flame fed on my will, tinted with anger and hate I felt for its soon-to-be victims, Dark Magic granting it destructive potential that made the whip sharper than any Cutting Curse.

The Flame Whip sailed through the air, removing the head of the Horse Lord that had attacked me with his own whip.

Fire Whip was not a spell I favored all too often.

It was flashy, effective, and as much a psychological weapon as a physical one. It was also utterly overkill unless I was facing something like an army of wights. I could get the same mileage from a Cutting Curse with the added range as well... not to mention the effect of seeing someone of Valyrian Descent wield a whip.

Like I said, I did not favor it much. The PR nightmare was not worth it.

But also, like I said, I needed practice for when it would come in handy.

Against acceptable targets, I think the Fire Whip Spell fit my purposes. In an environment with no possible witnessed to survive, it was just as good as any other spell.

I disliked Dothraki... if that was not obvious.

There were many reasons for it that I could list.

'Crown for a King!' the guttural voice spoke.

I did not need to make that list.

The next Dothraki that I struck with the flame whip had his head flash vaporize instead of getting cut off, leaving behind a charred skull that dispersed into ash and a smoking corpse.

I brought my Occlumency up, taming back my emotional control needed to bring the spell back under control.

It was a more stable framework of Magic, but it was still not perfect, as I had proven. Runaway thought and mood could give the spell a tint.

Without a Spoken word to act as a Symbolic link to previous times the incantation was used, the Wizardry was less stable, and Sorcery, while great at covering the lack of stability, also meant a greater dependence on my own emotions.

Such Magic was far too raw for any structured spell casting when emotions went out of control. It was not some precompiled computer program that produced the same result every time you said the same incantation.

It was getting better, however.

As my anger subsided, I fed it back to the whip, imagining a razor-thin wire with a mono-molecular edge instead of the heated plasma I was brandishing.

As I moved, I could feel the differences from my old body.

My steps were surer, and my balance was better. My body moved with mere thought as I danced through the attacking warriors, their blades bouncing off the shimmering shield.

Not much blood spilled after that... even if a lot of limbs went flying.

Oh yes... this body was a fighting body.

My horse slowly walked back into the City State of Pentos through the gates, followed by two dozen Dothraki horses that had taken me two hours to convince that I would be their best option to survive despite their instincts.

As we walked through the streets of Pentos, I focused on people watching, hidden beneath the Veil of a Notice-Me-Not Charm that emanated from my amulet around my neck.

I had to remake half my tools with the knowledge that Melisandre had given me, but it would improve my chances in the future.

Robert was coming, along with who knew what else from the challenge I issued.

A part of me wondered if I had any right to put these people at risk for my ambitions. How many children would die from my actions?

Then I remembered what would follow Robert's death... and that doubt disappeared.

Alas, the die was cast, and I rolled a three.

Literally... and I suppose figuratively as well.

Once I was within my new Manse, beneath the protections I had layered over the place, I had rolled the glowing piece of dice before me over the table, ending up with a Three.

It matched the answer I got the day before and the day before that.

There was a lot of loot I got from Illyrio's Manse.

The most obvious was the Dragon Bone... as in a shit ton of dragon bones.

For someone who created his entire powerbase on top of a single sliver of dragon bone left behind as an heirloom, along with some half-baked delusions of a child and hope, what I had access to was... cathartic.

From large pieces that I could use as the core of a staff to smaller ones that could equip an army with miniature flamethrowers that my wands defaulted to, I had enough to arm a decent core of Mages should I wish it.

That, however, was for later. I did not have time to train a Core of Spellcasters, nor did I have enough people with skill, brains, and loyalty.

Among those bones, I found a knuckle bone, which I carved into a twenty-sided die I now used. A quick dip in a potion of Weirwood Ash and Dragonglass with a dash of Eternal Flame later, I had what acted as a less specialized glass candle, a black dice that glowed with an inner light, highlighting the numbers atop it, which I called a Portent Die.

What is a Portent Die, one might ask? It is like a Magic Eight-ball that uses modified Greensight to answer a question and give it a rating between one to twenty. Not exactly how D&D rules had it made, but it was good enough to foretell the future once each dawn before the magic settled.

So, I rolled a three upon asking, "How many moons will it take for Robert's Army to get to Pentos."

So, by my best divinations, I had three moons before the Royal Fleet hit Pentos.

That had been two moons past.

It was way more reliable than focus-less Divination, at least, and there were ways to confirm it.

One of my raven familiars had made it across the Narrow Sea, and I had eyes on Robert's Movements through the blood link to the construct of dragonglass.

I grasped the die in my palm, plans and plots being considered and discarded, before returning it to its resting place within the pommel of my blade.

The Blackfyre, I would keep it for myself for now. Having been re-hilted with a handle of Weirwood that was shaped like the form of a dragon with the glowing gem clutched in its jaws cut a distinct form, along with the original crossguard that was made from the other two heads of the dragon, it was iconic to those who studies history.

I sighed.

What I needed was manpower.

The Blade and the Eggs were the most valuable resources I had, but neither would truly help in the short run.

The Manse itself was now mine. Once given to Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, it had exchanged a number of hands, but Daeron the Good somehow managed to reclaim it through politics. Magisters of Pentoswere not really the type to make a fuss, given that I had gained enough dirt through Dany to justify their deaths.

Granted, dealing with the Council of Magisters and the Prince of Pentos was an exercise in patience, but they were attached to their lives and wealth to not be an issue.

They, in turn, treated me like they would some Dothraki Khal, bribing me with gifts so I don't kill them.

Having caused the death of its previous owner and claimed the Manse for my own, the residual Dragon Aura that I felt seemed to bend to my will easier than before, which was helpful.

A bit of Warding with the new Contract Magic thrown in to prevent anyone with ill intent from perceiving the walls or the Manse itself took nearly a week. I was certain it would be able to hide it away with enough effort.

The more active protections were linked up to Tywin the Basilisk, creating an Intent-based Ward built upon a Geas that triggered when one willingly passed the property line, unknowingly agreeing to no harm.

That little trick netted me a crew of fifteen Ironborn, three Westerosi Exiles who wished to get a pardon from Robert but did not want to serve House Targaryen, and about a dozen or so Slavers.

Given their desires to see my family die, I was not regretful about killing them and making them be more useful. For now, all those men were petrified and stuck in one of the vaults, waiting for me to use them for various experiments.

It also brought to my attention that I needed a Manse to act as a Decoy because a Safe House in Pentos might come in handy, and the ancestral claim I had for the place made working my magic in Daemon's Manse far easier than some random Magister's halls.

I needed another place for Robert to siege, thinking I was in there.

All the Dragon Bones that Illyrio had were transferred to Revenge, including two dragon skulls, one the size of a horse's head and the other big enough to swallow a man whole.

That left more material wealth to make use of.

Illyrio had a few chests filled with gold, around twenty thousand gold dragons in worth, along with another two chests of valuable gems that I kept for myself, but most of his actual wealth, like that of other Magisters, were tied up in trade.

Granted, given that a horse costs around a single gold dragon, the sum I got ought to last us a while.

Not all was perfect however, given that the Merchant Ships that Illyrio had were a bust. The Captains who were out in sea were likely to not return and I lacked more man to take over the few that were docked at port.

A few weeks of negotiations with the Magisters to liquidate those investments, and I was effectively shortchanged, got me another fifty thousand gold to make use of.

That left me with a decent amount of resources and not enough manpower.

Manpower that I did not wish to reinforce using Sellswords with dubious allegiance.

It was why I was currently doing something to address the problem we were facing.

Deep in the bowels of the Manse, inside the Vault of Magister Illyrio that I had converted into a temporary Workshop, I was working over a Pensieve.

Memories were precious things. They were what made people themselves. It was experience that one could gain without spending the needed time if they knew what they were doing.

To be Wise is to use your time wisely.

That, beyond all, was what made Magic so fascinating to me.

I was using the same trick I used to become a Braavosi Waterdancer with nearly a century of experience in dueling, a Master of the Staff and Spear from the memories of Oberyn Martell, and a dozen Unsullied.

By the time I had left Braavos, I was a Jewelsmith and Blacksmith, an Armorer, a Healer, and even a Midwife. I had enough memories of songs and stories to disappear and live a life as a Bard without needing to repeat a song or story.

I had become what the Maesters wished they were... but better.

It also meant that I could raise an army and make them decently competent by shoving memories of experienced soldiers into their minds instead of wasting my time training them for years.

It did not make for a high-quality army to start off, but reinforced with drills and their own experiences made them far better than any levies that Lords of Westeros could raise.

Dany watched as I worked to edit the raw experience of war, trying my balance it out by removing the traumatizing aspects to prevent unexpected artificial PTSD.

Twirling around the Threads of Memory, I let them coalesce into a cohesive form before slowly binding the memories into the bound book before me, binding Geas written on the book with the Memories, creating a Contract of War that would grant basic training and discipline to the ones who signed it in exchange for allegiance to my and my chosen successor.

Once I was done, I held up the Book that would elevate my army to be on par with professionals.

"Did you get the process?" I asked Dany, who nodded from where she sat atop the Dragonbone Chest, holding hot coals and dragon eggs. I had tasked her with protecting the eggs, and Dany took it a bit more seriously than I thought.

I felt proud, my sister was growing properly paranoid.

"Wouldn't Dragons be more use?" asked Dany, ignoring the fact that she was a princess sitting on a chest.

"Probably, but Dragons take time to grow, we need some place they can be safe in during that time," I countered. "In the other timeline I saw, they grew far too fast to be natural and I am working on how that happened."

"I thought it had something to do with freedom to fly and food to eat. The books you have say the dragons grow slower in captivity," responded Dany.

"I am not sure that is as accurate as people claim," I said, bringing the conversation to an end, "Even so, they will not be of use to us in this conflict. Soldiers are what we need."

"Dragons can win conflicts, but they cannot hold lands," repeated Dany, "yes, you have told me a million times already."

"We will just have to be more Wizard about it, hmm?" I said, "It is time we started your studies in Thaumaturgy since I will need help on that front if I wish to pull my plan off."

Ser Richard chose that moment to walk in, followed by Wat and Wat, and just in time for their part.

I had designed the Contract on the same principles that allowed Ser Richard's arm to absorb the blood of those he had defeated and absorb their skills and abilities after all, and the three would be the first ones to gain the added Experience.

"Your Grace," greeted my Sworn Sword, the white cloak on his shoulders hiding the missing right arm that I had taken to work on. "Have you grown taller overnight?"

"Yes," I said without offering further explanation as Dany giggled. She had been the first to notice that I had grown taller, mostly because of the remnants of the Notice-Me-Not Charm around me, but two inches were noticeable, as I now stood at six-feet-three.

"You three have been watching my back for longer than any other who still lives," I said, looking at the three men. "You have been loyal when the price of loyalty was high."

"It gets weird once in a while, but it is better than any other job, your grace," responded Wat the Eyes, going to the point. "Sorta feel useless when it comes to fighting, but it passes."

"What the idiot means, your grace, is that we are honored to serve you and your House," said Wat the Brains, getting an unimpressed look from me. "And the pay is nice, along with the safety of my sister," he added hastily, making me smirk.

"And me, mum," tacked on the other Wat. "We are grateful, your grace."

"Well, good help is valued," I responded. "I will be fighting a war soon. I will not insult you by offering a way out, not after you have seen what lies beneath the surface. I have seen your hearts and know you to be true."

The two men shivered; whether from my words or the memory of seeing the Fire Demon rise and fall, I knew not. "The Kingsguard was established to protect the King. History showed that the idea while having merits, lacked in certain aspects. What I need are loyal men who can be more than simple guards, men who have experience in dealing with things that others cannot comprehend, and men who can lead when needed in my absence. Kneel," I commanded, drawing Blackfyre.

I had higher standards than other knights for whom I chose to knight. After the mess of Rhaegar knighting Gregor Clagane, I was extremely cautious.

As I went through the words, charging them with the duties of Knighthood, I knew that I was justified. I felt their pride and joy and felt joy and pride in turn.

Wat the Eyes and Wat the Brains had proven that they were loyal, and the years we spent were dedicated to ensuring the two had the required training and skills to be Knights thrice over. They were not the best of the best, but the potential was there. "You two shall be my voice in Infantry and Archery, while Ser Richard will do the same for the cavalry. Rise as Knights of the Realm," I responded as the two rose. "You three will be the first of my knights... the first of my Order of the Dragon."

My knights... my men.

Once the ceremony was done, words came to me unbidden.

'_Like clay, I shall mould them and in the furnace of war forge them. They will be of iron will and steely muscle. In great armor shall I clad them, and with the mightiest arms will they be armed._'

I held it back, knowing that this was not the time for too much change for those who would fight for me. Anything too drastic would take time to adjust, and time was not something we had.

It was a mystery to me how Thaumaturgy could work with knowledge and stories as well, but it did, and I could use that.

'Not yet,' I reminded myself, my eyes turning to stare into the distance to see my goal.

Unfortunately, it was not the time.

I felt the spell hang in the air, and I really needed to be careful how I acted if my emotions got the better of me. I knew that the words would not have as much effect as they did if I had not prepared to do just that.

"This is a Contract, one that will improve your skills and experience; it is based on Ser Richard's arm," I said, passing them the book. "It will not replace training, but ought to speed things up. Sign them in blood, and we shall proceed."

The Wat's signed without question, starting the process as their blood touched the book. A flick of my wand healed the cuts they made.

It would take a while for the training to settle, but slowly, both would notice an increased improvement in their skills as they trained more, the sort of instinct that would come from living through centuries of war without the associated trauma.

Once the skill integration started, I moved on to the Workshop table. "While the contract will improve your abilities and training, I would have three of you stand above your peers," I said, pointing at the cloth covering the workbench. "Ser Richard, if you would."

The knight reached with his left hand and revealed what was beneath the cloth, his white prosthetic arm with a few upgrades.

I could not restore his arm yet unfortunately... bones were trickier than I initially assumed.

While the concoction I fed Melisandre made from Wildfire and Phoenix Ash would restore youth to an undead, it was not likely to work on missing limbs of a living person, not to mention the Manticore Venom that was within the man.

And no, Phoenix Tears did not work to counter the Manticore Venom since the body had integrated it into being the norm.

The dragon bone, now standing out as the artificial black claw from the fingers, allowed the arm itself to act not dissimilar to my original wand instead of being limited to movement. With access to a lot more dragon bones, that was a power that I had long since wanted for my Kingsguard.

There were also two red carvings, one on the back of the hand and another on the forearm. Runes and Geometric Carvings adorned the lower arm, standing out as red upon white wood.

"Two Magic Circles are bound in a Geas of Control to his arm. It should allow you to cast a shield or push stuff away from you, both of which will complement your fighting style," I said, showing the runes carved along the Weirwood Prosthetic Arm. Automating the spellcasting to arm my people was on a list and the tricks I was able to gleam from the Blood Oath that I had made with Blackfyres was worth the price.

The arm itself was derived from my first wand, and that meant that it was good as a way to control the winds. The circles themselves used Aeromancy to create a shield or a strike.

It was trickier than actually casting the spell myself however, as I had to guide the enchantment through the process and repeat it until it could do it on it's own without guidance. In theory, it would refine over time as it was used more and more but I would have to check on it every once in a while.

Granted, while hard, it was not the hardest aspect of the enchantments, as that honor belonged to linking the concept to the Spelling of a phrase had been the hardest part, not to mention that I needed a new language to bind it to prevent accidental activation.

Or it would be if I didn't act like a nerd about it.

"Aard to Attack, Quen to Shield, simple enough to remember," I said, taking the words directly from Witcher Signs.

Ser Richard looked at the arm and nodded, working to strap it back on.

Patting the knight on the unharmed shoulder, I pulled out a bow next.

"This is a Dragonbone Bow," I said, pointing out the obvious, "Has twice the range of a normal bow and ability to punch through plate from six hundred yards. It used to be the bow of Daena the Defiant and is one of the three Treasures of House Blackfyre, along with the blade, and... well, we will get to that one."

The three men looked at the longbow that reached my chin in length.

"Wat, this is yours," I said, handing the bow to Wat the Eyes. "I changed the handle to be Weirwood to improve the connection you can use for divination, but with a Weirwood Arrow, you should be able to hit the eye of anyone you want from... around half a mile."

Normal archers had an accurate range of three hundred yards.

Wat's range was thrice that.

Wat the Eyes looked at the bow with wide eyes.

"Your grace, this... is a royal treasure," said the man with reverence.

"Implying that the Blackfyres are Royalty would be considered Treason, Wat," I said with a straight-face. Wat's eyes widened, causing me to snort, and I started laughing. "Take it. I am better with a wand, Dany does not have the strength to use a bow at full potential, and you are the best shot we have. The bow is there to amplify what you have."

"Yes, your grace," said the man.

I turned to Wat the Brains next.

"I want a shield," said Wat the Brains immediately, making me stop. "Don't care about no Blackfyre Treasure, your grace. If that idiot is going to have a bow, I need a shield."

"I would not shoot you," said Wat the Eyes in turn, horrified at the implication.

"Beg your pardon, your grace. The idiot, there might be a good shot now, but I was there when that idiot's pa taught him how to shoot a bow. I was nearly shot half a dozen times before the idiot learned how to hold the damned thing straight. I need a shield." said Wat the Brains, starting to hyperventilate.

Wow... there was trauma there. I was not going to dig that up.

"Well, that is fortunate," I chuckled, taking the sheet of the next item to reveal a heater shield. "The third treasure of Blackfyres was the Shield of Sandoq the Shadow. Well, I say Blackfyres, but it was actually given to Bittersteel. It is made of Nightwood, so it ought to fit you well."

"Thank the gods," whispered Wat the Brains, taking the shield.

I knew the man favored a mace or an axe lately, so a shield would be a good addition to it.

"I added a thin sheet of Valyrian Steel over the wood, so it should not break or split," I said, not being able to hold myself from tinkering with it. "Along with an enchantment to ensure anything that might hit you will only hit the shield. The Geas on that was a bitch to work out, by the way. Should work against any arrow as well."

"Thank you, Your Grace," said Wat the Brains, while Wat the Eyes grinned like a loon. Ser Richard only sighed.

The shield also was the basis for my "Protection from Arrows" spell that did the exact same thing, because I was not an idiot to give something like the bow and shield to anyone without having a way to counter it. It was not that I did not trust these two man, it was just being smart at this point.

By the gods, I am traumatized by this Hellhole.

I also added a mace hafted with Weirwood for the man, just because I could.

"Right, Baratheons are going to be sending an army in our direction in a moon time; I want us to be ready to take advantage of that," I said to the three men before me. "Here is the game plan..."

I raised my shield up to deflect the hit from the mace, while waving my sword in the air to intercept the arrow aimed at me.

I raised my leg just in time to avoid the spear meant to trip me up.

The blade in my hand felt uncomfortable, too unbalanced compared to Blackfyre, as I grunted in annoyance.

Three against one was certainly not something I would consider easy, especially without Magic.

A murderstrike to Wat's shield ensured a hit on the shield before I managed to reach out and use the crossguard of my blade as a hook. Off-balanced, Wat was pulled between me and Ser Richard and his spear. A forward strike allowed me to push the pommel of my blade into the helmet with a clang that had the armor light up from the enchantments that indicated a solid hit and ensuring no injury.

I pulled my head back just in time for an arrow to whiz passed where my head was.

Ser Richard and I circled each other, him with a spear, me with a shield and sword.

The first stab was deflected by my shield, before as quick as a snake, the second stab ended passed my guard, causing me to step to the side.

"Aard," whispered Ser Richard, causing me to take another step to avoid being thrown back, too late to move at the flare of warning.

An arrow exploded against my pouldron, causing me to instinctively put up a full body shield over my skin.

"And that is a win," spoke Wat the Eyes with a smug smile, "No Magic, your grace, your rules."

"Says the man with auto-aim on," I grumbled, reaching with my hand and pulling the towel from the corner with a bit of Gravity Magic. "Well played, ser."

Dany giggled, only to get a solid hit to the shoulder from Syrio, who tutted.

"My sister thinks it funny, that her brother is so bad with a blade, Sers," I called out. Granted, my opponents had cheat items that I had built for them, so it was not really a fair fight. "Though, it seems to have distracted her from her task," I chided.

Dany did the proper thing as my eight year old sister, and responded by sticking her tongue at me, causing me to chuckle.

"Your Grace," greeted Nessa, walking through the yard.

"Yes, Nessa?" I asked as the door opened on its own in response to my will.

"There is a Maester looking for you, my prince," said the Governess, sounding nervous. "He said he came to swear himself to you."

That put me on edge, as I checked from one of my familiars who it was, finding a squat, robust man with a squashed-in nose and a prominent forehead reminiscent of the Ibbenese.

"Well, let us see what he wants, shall we," I asked my companions, who nodded and followed me.

"Your grace I am..." started the man, only to be interrupted.

"Marwyn the Mage, yes, I know," I responded, feeling the way Magic worked around this man.

Marwyn was potentially an ally, possibly an enemy, but I knew that he was certainly dangerous. His blue lips implied a steady consumption of Shade of the Evening, along with red teeth that were said to be from Sourleaf, though potentially from Weirwood Leaves.

He felt simultaneously part of the magic and disconnected from it. I was as curious as I was impressed with whatever that whole thing was.

A probe through his mind had me flinch back at the image of nothing but a bright fire within an emptiness of the void.

"Ah, yes, it is an ancient Hightower trick, your grace, to keep the mind clear of influence," spoke the Archmaester of Higher Mysteries, "It is called..."

"The Void and the Flame," I muttered in annoyance. Of, bloody, course those stuck up pricks would have the one decent skill to counter my mental arts. I disliked being put on the back foot, "Impressive mastery, Marwyn," I spoke amicably.

I was anything but feeling amicable.

'Calm,' I ordered myself, working to gain back my equilibrium. It was not everyday that I could meet someone with Mental Fortitude to match or even surpass me.

"Yes, your grace. I suppose spending the thrall to a Shadowbinder in Asshai for a year was good motivation to improve upon it, even if it took me a year to do so," said Marwyn with a red grin. "I came to swear myself to you and to warn you."

"That there is a group of Maesters that want nothing but to end Magic?" I asked, "Yes, I heard about that, even if there is no evidence presented. I do not see your chain, Archmaester, nor your mask, ring, and rod."

"Do you really think they are such idiots to not keep those locked away, your grace? The chain I left behind so as to not get noticed, a learned man in the Free Cities, is a tempting property to own," asked Marwyn, reaching for his bag, "I have brought a gift and evidence, potentially."

Ser Richard grasped his sword, ready to draw, while I had dug deep into the ground beneath me, ready to pull it up in case of treachery.

Marwyn slowly brought out a book before it was ripped from his hand and floated before me.

"Fascinating control over... it looks nothing like Aeromancy," spoke Marywn, only to be ignored.

I held a hand over the book in question, reaching out and finding no poison upon the pages, confirming that it was safe for me to grasp.

"Blood and Fire," I read out loud. There was blood in some of the pages.

"It has another name among the Citadel, your grace, the Death of Dragons," spoke Marwyn as I held up a hand to stop anyone from reacting.

"Well, it does certainly sound better than the book on Shrubbery that I found among the library within the Manse," I said out loud to sound political. Granted, 'Shrubbery, Being a History on the Flora of the Valyrian Freehold' by Jaehaelor Mataeryon was a tome that was almost crumbling apart. It was certainly an interesting treatise on Valyrian Blood Magic and its use in Horticulture, but it was relatively a dry read-pun intended.

"Until such time as I can decide on what to do with you, Maester Marwyn, you shall be our guest, given bread and salt, and allowed a room," I ordered before getting up and leaving.

"Report," I said, entering the makeshift Council Room. With around a month until the Royal Navy was set to sail, my days were busy.

"Two hundred Unsullied have been liberated from the Magisters," said Richard. We also have another fifty debt slaves wanting to join us as Sellswords. I am having that group trained to be Crossbowmen for lack of time. Both of those cost a lot of our resources, but we will be ready. Magisters, while ambitious, seem more content with giving what we ask for at low prices."

"So, the Magisters gave us Two hundred Unsullied to kindly fuck off," I guessed, getting a scoff from Ser Richard. Dany giggled before getting shushed by Nessa. "That gives us what... five hundred men in total. And the contracts?" I asked.

"Five-year contracts, to be up for renewal at the end of it, signed by all who wanted to join us in blood," said Ser Richard, pulling out the Contract of War, "I have doubts that they will all hold to their ends."

It was not really hard work to replicate the Oath that I had extracted from the Blackfyres. A Sacrificial Magic of that scale left an impression on magic and a bit of effort had me capable of replicating it and standardizing it into the form of a Geas that could be signed in Blood.

Combined with my Weirwood infused parchment and a Sympathetic Bond to the one who signed the contract and, I had a basic method of keeping people in line, or at least keeping an eye on them.

So long as the Contract was valid, they would keep the skills. I was not sure if they would keep the memories after, as adding more complexity to the item was beyond my level for now.

"It will work as intended, and the contracts will ensure none will turn their cloaks after the first few are made into examples," I reassured the knight, knowing his reluctance to fully rely on such magics, a trait I liked about my brother's former squire.

I lacked a reliable way to recruit for men, so I had to make up for the quantity with quality. Using the amalgamation of the memories of the training that the Unsullied went through and dumping them into fresh man-made raising quality levies slightly easier. There were a few initial complications but I got it to work by locking the memories behind a need for training to properly stick. Less dumping the required XP and more of a personalized trainer who made sure you learned properly. At least it gave them the required instincts to follow commands and work in a group.

It was not the most active of magics, unfortunately, but it would do.

Unlike the Blood Oath that I extracted from Serra Blackfyre, the Oaths that I could extract from another and form into Geas were diluted down to almost nothing, being made from replicating the original's magical effect as it was.

That being said, a mental ping and a direct line into the mind of the one who breached the contract was still worth more than anything. I would even say that it made for a more useful tool. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.

The book floated up before locking itself in another chest. Since I would need their signatures to enforce such bindings, the Book of Contracts also needed securing.

While I was looking to have something along the lines of the Swedish Heavy Infantry to act as a good counter against Westerosi Cavalry, but Unsullied armored as much as possible would do for now.

"It will not be enough," Lord Connington advised, "If we are stuck in a siege, walls of Pentos will not hold against a Westerosi Siege. It is less a matter of numbers and more a matter of siegecraft. Atop a good wall, those men could hold a hundred of their number, yet with what we have, I would be surprised if they can hold back a tenth that. It is why the Pentoshi pay the Dothraki... to kindly fuck-off, to use your words, your grace."

I chuckled at that. Jon Connington was rather annoyed with me for calling Robert over for a fight. He thought it was foolish.

Jon was right, of course, in both regards. The recruitment gave me a core of five hundred men, which would be considered decent for a household guard... not so much for an army to defend the city.

One could argue that I could make a difference, but I did not want to operate on a single point of failure when it came to the safety of my sister.

"Not enough for a prolonged siege, no, but to occupy a place with better walls... it should be enough as a start. What of other problems?" I asked, agreeing with Jon's experience.

"The smiths in the city are taking to producing halberds and billhooks. They are the best against armored fighters and the closest we can get to their shortest spear of the Unsullied and make use of their training. Pentos lacks most methods of acquiring the required materials, especially after their last loss to Braavos. There are Myrish Traders willing to sell Crossbows, so those are less of a pain in the arse to get, your grace," said Wat the Eyes, who was given the charge of getting the equipment for everyone, "It is armor that is gonna be a problem. The Unsullied are trained to fight in gambeson and bronze scale armor. Mail is the best we got, but what we have access to, it ain't the best quality."

"We will make do until better resources are available," I said with a nod. Good soldiers were hard to find, and wars required arms and armor as much as manpower. Food and medicine as much as weapons. "What of medicine?"

"We got enough potions for a few fights, but Dittany is hard to find and needs time to grow," said Morna, having been forced to take over the Potions side of things as punishment for experimenting with Wines.

What can I say? Morna was good at her job.

I nodded.

"Food?" I asked Nessa who was in charge of the kitchens and supplies.

Dany's wetnurse had essentially taken over as Steward nowadays. With enough manpower but lacking in properly educated people, the poor woman was running ragged, trying to coordinate everything.

"We need more food," she responded simply. "But we have a decent store to feed the men. If it came to a siege, they would not last."

"We will always need more food," I shrugged, "Start acquiring Hard Tack and non-perishable goods. Coin is not an issue. I will also need to have half the treasury moved to Braavos with Syrio and the representatives of the Iron Bank," I added, "They have their instructions to follow."

"While our chests are not empty, they are limited, your grace," countered Jon Connington.

"Coin is not an issue," I repeated, getting a nod from my Hand. If it came to it, I was willing to take a walk, after all.

And by take a walk, I meant I would go out under magic and pull something new out of my arse and make money, probably re-acquire the money we spent from the people we had to pay premium to get the food. I was not above robbing the Magisters blind after paying them. Those lot were annoying in the best of times... and pieces of shit at the worst.

"A strategic retreat ought to be considered," said Jon Connington with a sigh. My Hand was already overworked, which was understandable really. He was effectively charged with gathering the required resources for a potentially drawn-out campaign. "Andalos is a possible location we can retreat to."

"Andalos is empty hills and long-raided ruins," I countered, having sent a few of the raven familiars to observe the location. Whatever had not been nailed down and destroyed had long since been looted by the Dothraki.

As for magic, the Familiars did not feel anything, but I could always make the personal trip to check on a later trip. "We are better off going somewhere else."

"With a fleet that Baratheons have, seas are not as safe, your grace," countered Jon concerned. "In a fight, their fleet has proven to be capable."

"Just so," I hummed, savoring the Wine infused with the Essence of Dittany, feeling the healing properties soothe the sore muscles from the training yard.

I had no intention of throwing away the lives of the living for something as pointless as trying to keep Pentos. There was nothing left of worth in the city. The city lacked Magic or any mention of Magic, other than some loose connection to the Andals through being the port city that supported the Andal Invasions before falling under Valyrian control.

Of course, normal men were not the limit of my capabilities.

My hand passed through the feathers of the raven next to me. It looked almost life-like, beneath the illusion of a raven at least.

In reality, it was fluid and solid and sharp and blunt at once. Blood, smoke, ash, and black sands formed the shape and form of a raven. Within the creature was the soul of a raven as well, yet the closest thing I could use to describe it was that it was a construct of necromancy, even if the enchantments were bound into the material with Eternal Flame.

Animation Charm was tricky to make permanent.

The construct had lasted for nearly a three months now... which itself was beyond what normal workings could achieve.

Shadowbinding, on principle, worked as any other spell, dispelling itself at each dawn. The only method I could find that did not break down after less than twenty-four hours involved binding the shadow into the iron within the blood. That was how Valyrian Steel worked, and that was how the Shadowbound Armor I used worked.

Now, I was looking at a construct that worked rather well for long-term use, making me ask if I could get an army of Animated Statues to act as the main offense.

I had already given Morrigan a Shadow-bound body with the same method, the solid avatar getting some use from the Faceless Man as she got to do her job.

I poked at the raven, pondering the possibilities in the future.

How much control could I get over an army? How much could I stretch myself for that control? Morrigan was one of a kind, a Greenseer with her own powers loosely bound to me by a Geas. Could I make my own version of the White Walkers out of smoke and shadow and dragonglass?

A thought for another day, perhaps, but definitely worth inspecting more... but it would not be an army of Necromantic constructs that would win me this war.

"You are plotting something," said Syrio from the corner, a hand on the hilt of his rapier.

He was the first one to voice it.

Ser Richard and Wats were more used to following without questioning things. They had a better understanding of my work progress, though I should start to get them to question things further.

Jon Connington was on the opposite end. He did not know me well enough, and his frustration at my lack of decisive plans was amusing to me.

"I am always plotting something, Syrio," I countered with a smirk, looking at the map of the Narrow Sea. "I have a message to the Sealord that you ought to bring, would you play the messenger?"

Syrio nodded.

I threw myself back into the chair in my Workshop, releasing a groan of irritation.

It was the waiting that got to me.

A shift in my perspective had me take a look at the ships anchored in King's Landing, and another showed me Dragonstone. The familiars I had sent allowing me to keep an eye on Robert's actions and his supposed 'Royal' Fleet.

I sighed, knowing that I needed to do something else to distract myself, so I got back to my hobby.

In between preparations for our plans, I spent my downtime working on learning more about the Magic of Asshai and the Shadowbinders from the memories I extracted from Melisandre.

I was decent for a self-taught Wizard, but there were small insights that I would miss.

As I was removing knowledge from Melisandre's own experience, I had marked particular memories, specifically rituals of interest, to see if they would be of use.

It was one of those memories that provided me with one of those feelings, like tingling at the back of my skull, that implied something useful that I ought to do.

As I placed the memory in the Pensieve, I saw a group containing younger Melisandre, still alive, with a man... a slave brought before them.

It was less a properly structured ritual with arcane circles that contained geometric shapes to stabilize it through Arithmancy or runes and glyphs to limit and guide the end result.

It was closer to some of that Occult shit people got up to.

The chanting grew to fill the entire dark hallway, the flames dancing. The words were in High Valyrian, an older dialect than what I was used to being familiar with.

A silver knife was produced.

The man started to beg, in Westerosi, I knew, but the words did not mean anything, except for a single one... Sunchaser. Memories of other people were like that. The languages only mattered if the person knew them.

I watched as they ripped the man's tongue, using the silver knife to cut it.

I watched as the tongue was thrown into a potion of acid, along with familiar herbs and chanting in High Valyrian.

I watched as the man was given to fire, screaming, alive.

I watched as Melisandre approached, cutting her own tongue before consuming the vile liquid. I felt its taste in my mouth, bitter and burning and painful, the memory etched with the impressions of the taste.

A ritual to learn the tongue at the cost of sacrificing your sense of taste.

It was vile, it was cruel, and worst of all, it was inefficient.

That last bit offended my sensibilities.

It was, however, something that gave me an idea.

"What do you think, Will?" I asked, looking at the Phoenix, "Should I indulge myself?"

Will gave a cry between frustration and amusement.

"Yeah, I think I can one up this," I said with a smile.

I reached out and pulled a thick book from one of the locked chests, opening my own thoughts on something similar.

Power was a fickle thing.

It took many forms.

My power was in my Mind and Magic.

Both of those were held in trust of a simple book. It was an inefficient method of holding my knowledge. I could be rid of it as I now could use my Pensieve to truly reconstruct my memories at their highest clarity.

However, a Grimoire was more than mere notes on Divinations and Magical Mechanics I was able to glimpse at.

It was part of a Wizard's style... like a long knobby staff and a large dreary tower. I was currently working on acquiring both... but the Grimoire I had in my hands.

The Grimoire that I had been using for years now had evolved over time. The leather-bound notebook had long since changed with additions. With a cover and face of Dragon Bone, a lock of Valyrian Steel that had no key, and pages of Weirwood infused Vellum and blood-red ink, the book contained more than notes and knowledge of my magic... it contained memories and impressions as well... a deviation of the same models I used for my Pensieve as the ink shifted and reformed at my will, and a similar design to the Contract of War.

There were various rites and rituals that I had designed over the last eight years. Stuff that came from my mind and made itself part of the Grimoire as my knowledge and understanding of the Magic increased.

The Lion's Heart Ritual was one of those, having effectively given me the equivalent of a Fighter Body, boosting my physical capabilities with a focus on Endurance.

There were others in the Grimoire as well.

Those were the workings that would allow me and anyone I deemed worthy to grow in power. These were the workings I came up with when I was too tired to practice or think of anything. These were secrets that would render the right person into a powerhouse or the wrong person into a monster.

I had, over the last eight or so years, come up with methods that could reforge a body into something more. Inspired by fiction and fanfiction alike, requiring material components that existed or would have to be crafted from scratch. These were the Works of a Wizard who had specialized in an area that could only be classified as Magical Munchkinry.

They were also mostly half-baked ideas that lacked a proper foundation.

Others were simple and repeatable, like the cleansing ritual that allowed me to trap the filter out the souls of those I had killed from sticking to my own soul.

Others were one-off, like the Phoenix Ritual that had not only transformed Ser Willem's soul into a Phoenix but also shifted both Dany's and my soul, allowing us to share the Magical Affinities I had gathered.

Those last ones were less defined, extremely circumstantial, but worth more than any other. Sorceries that you just had to feel through instead of being prepared for.

Then there were the ones that went under the category of stupidly dangerous and dangerously stupid that I knew would work.

Those were the permanent ones... those were the ones that would cause a change and make good, great and bad, worse.

The Lion Heart Ritual fell under this category in a way, but it was one of the milder rituals.

The one that I always came back to was... neither of those things.

It was like an annoying itch in my brain, one that I could not discard.

I had a war on my hand, an army that would soon be at the gates.

But it was not the army that bothered me as before. It was the potential of another Demon being accidentally created. It implied that there were certain things in the East that I did not want to even think about. The nature of the Black Goat of Qohor, what lay beyond the Five Forts, and more.

I suppressed a shiver as the name Carcossa rose within my mind before it was suppressed.

There were things in this world that one ought to not look too deeply... and I was going full speed at them.

I had my arms and tools as weapons

I had my fireball as artillery.

I had the Killing Curse against things more powerful than armies.

It was not enough and I did not have the time.

Closing my eyes and sinking into my own self, I felt around my soul, studying the edge of it where I felt the soul to be still... tender.

The consequences of the Killing Curse I cast, bashing a soul against another soul to impose the essence of Death, was not the best solution I could think of.

The malleable soul of the unborn god-ling had still left an impression, it would seem. It was healed up mostly; Tantric Rituals had patched it up even as it would take time to fully mend the chink in the metaphysical armor I had forged over the years.

That meant that I had to take certain steps that I had been far from willing to go through before. Rituals that I would rather not go through if given the alternative.

If the Soul-Cultivation Rituals were my armor, then the Killing Curse was my greatest weapon against the Supernatural. It was also a doubled-edged sword... one that lacked a hilt.

I flexed my hand, opening my eyes to look at the scaled skin and the wand within it.

It was fortunate that I was rather good at creating the right hilt.

I took a deep breath and focused.

One step at a time.

This one was the ritual that would benefit me the most in the long run.

I had improved myself physically by binding the soul of a lion into my flesh, enhancing most of my physical abilities.

I now had to improve myself metaphysically.

The Grimoire in my hand felt heavy as I opened the page that had one of the ideas I was going to work on. Placing my hand and pushing my thoughts shifted the ink to integrate my new insight through Melisandre's memories.

I could use what I had come up with for something that worked for more than one purpose.

One stone, two birds.

There was a story as old as time.

A Hero who slays a monster and eats its heart. This is the story of Sigurd of Volsunga or Sigfried of Wagner's work if you preferred that version of it.

There was, however, power in belief and stories.

The story of Sigurd had many lessons, but it was the story of a man who ate the heart of a dragon and gained its power and strength, as I had done with the Hrakar.

It had also given Sigurd the ability to talk to birds.

That one was the important bit now, instead of the power, despite being the one benefit everyone sort of forgot.

It was symbolic.

It was King's Blood.

It was Authority.

Heart's blood of the King of the Skies for the right to command the creatures of the sky.

The logic was straightforward.

Connections formed between barely held knowledge, and I knew what to do.

I did not have a Dragon to slay and consume the heart of. Well, I did not have one to spare, and the ones within their eggs were still work-in-progress.

What I had was another King's Blood.

One that equally tempted me and terrified me.

The Heart of the King of Serpents.

That was a title well deserved.

A more philosophical part of me noted how the King did not in fact belong to the domain they presided over in either case.

A Basilisk was only shaped like a serpent, and a dragon was as far from a bird as you could get.

Yet the Basilisk was the mightiest of the serpents and dragon mightiest of flying beasts.

Then again, power was an illusion, Authority was something that could be usurped from another usurper.

King's Blood, Melisandre called it.

Mayhaps that was the nature of King's Blood... the Authority to command, thousands of souls sacrificed in your name.

And was that not Divinity at its core, Authority over a Domain? Was that not what the Affinities I glimpsed into were?

Now, here are a few problems with this ritual I was conducting.

Basilisk's Blood contained its own venom. The same venom that can eat through pretty much anything, including stone and Valyrian Steel, if left long enough.

Moreover, Basilisk Magic worked through possession, a fact that I knew from interracting with the Lesser Basilisks. Their souls are so out-of-synch with their own body that they are natural Skinchangers. That meant that Basilisk Blood, if consumed created a permanent link to the creature's soul.

It was the reason that the consuming of the blood of a Basilisk drove the consumer crazy if they were hot-blooded or more powerful if cold-blooded. For the case of the cold-blooded... well, a Basilisk consuming another Basilisk grew in power, as Tywin had shown.

This is the part where you finally realize that I am not, in any technical definition, sane. That being said, you know, Madness and greatness, same coin really, same Targaryen, just different perspectives on what consitutes the floor.

I suppose my coin simply forgot to land. Or maybe it was edgy enough to get stuck on the wood of the rafters.

The first part of the problem is that Basilisk Blood is corrosive to pretty much anything.

That one had already had the solution.

I just had to pay to win.

Well, technically true, but what I really needed was gold.

Gold did not rust, gold could not be tarnished, gold did not die.

Basilisk Venom could not effect gold, hence the cages that were effectively gilded with gold to hold Basilisks.

It was a combination of effects, I reckoned.

In Alchemy, gold represented the sun and immortality. In Chemistry, there were no single chemical that could dissolve gold. Aqua Regia was a thing, but it was a mix of two different acids, so it did not count as far as magic was concerned, as Basilisk Venom was a single uniform component.

The Golden Chalice I used to contain the heart glared at me.

The cup was something I took from Illyrio's pile of goods. He had far too many of those things for me to care about the plain looking cup that was made from pure gold... mostly pure. There were some divots from the first round the chalice had with Basilisk Venom as a test, but it was mostly intact with any impurities on the metal vaporized.

The next problem was that possession by a Basilisk drove the person insane.

Well, I say problem, but I sorta banked on it.

This is where things got a bit iffy because this was what I needed to happen in the first place.

It was fortune that I had relatively recently walked out of a ritual that biased my soul into the direction of a Phoenix as protection from most of the negative effects.

The Serpent-tongue was an edge that I could use, but it was the soul of a Basilisk bound to me that I needed to better be able to use the Killing Curse. In binding the soul of the basilisk to mine own, I would have a soul attuned with death and destruction to use as the medium for the spell that imposed Death.

The soul of a Basilisk was uniquely suited for the Killing Curse, even if I disliked the spell's nature.

The workaround on how to graft the soul without destroying the flesh was provided to me by Melisandre consuming the Wildfire mixed with Phoenix Ash and reforming her flesh as she envisioned it.

The mix of wildfire and phoenix ash had a lot of uses, but for this case, it was a reaction that would act as an alchemical application for what could best be described as a Soul Graft. Given that Soul-Grafting was using Blackpowder and Phoenix Ash, it was closer to spot welding than grafting, but... details.

As such, next materials to add were simple. Saltpeter, Sulphur and Charcoal. I had made the Charcoal myself, out of Weirwood for this very purpose.

The last material added was Phoenix Ash, in opposition to the Basilisk Blood I was consuming. It stood in opposition to the blood specifically, not.

Once those were done, I watched Will lean over the chalice, three drops of Phoenix Tears ending into the mixture. That ought to neutralize the venom, at least.

I was not an idiot. I would not test this on myself without actually making sure it worked.

Unfortunately, I only could breed two Basilisks during my stay in Pentos, mostly because I could, but also because Basilisks were themselves lesser versions of WMDs with their stares.

It meant that the heart of a basilisk was an expensive ingredient that took a month to make.

Luckily, Pentos was big enough city and I was not wont for willing volunteers. And by willing I mean an unlucky Ironborn with less brains than brawn volunteered for the experiment after trying to sneak into my domain, kill me, and take my sister, only to fall face first at the first layer of the Wards around my Manse... I felt no issue using them for this.

The Ironborn survived the Wards... petrified by the Wards.

That was rather misfortunate for him.

The Ironborn also survived the experiment... lucky bastard.

I still turned him into a Valyrian Steel Ring shaped like a Basilisk eating its own tail with emerald eyes.

The fact that I had tested this on another human did not change the fact that the last bit was not going to suck since consuming this potion would be temporary until it was removed from my body, and I needed this to be localized to my tongue and be permanently bound to me.

It was why the mixture was enhanced with the Blackpowder and Phoenix Ash afterall.

I took out a golden blade, edge beaten and honed to be razor sharp, before dipping it into the paste.

Lifting my tongue up, I was quick to place the poisoned blade to the flesh and pulled up, cutting a thin line beneath my tongue.

As I said, Melisandre's ritual was inefficient... I could do better.

The pain came quickly as I felt the Basilisk's blood slowly seep into my flesh, killing anything it touched.

By the time my tongue left without sense, I had grasped my wand and, with a flash of spellfire, ignited the black powder mixed into the blood.

On the outside, it looked like I was a dragon, breathing a greenish-black flame.

To me, it was pure agony as my tongue was burned away and remade at once.

As far as my soul was concerned, I was effectively forge-welding a Basilisk Soul Graft to the conceptual aspect of mine that represented speech.

In my soul, I felt something settle, the soul of the Basilisk at the tip of my tongue, incapable of moving, bound to my will completely. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had crafted the creature that made me have much greater control over the soul fragment I made part of me, but I did not know.

In doing so, I also created a medium to cast the Killing Curse without as many negative effects, a rugged piece of soul that would allow me to cast the spell without mangling my own soul.

It probably required the spell to be spoken out, but I could live with that.

I fell back, breathing heavily and still very much alive.

"Ouch... maybe that was a terrible idea," I spoke out, though it came our more like "Ouch... math-bee dat wath a tewible 'dea" to myself as I made to get up.

Will, ever watchful from his perch, released an annoying caw as though saying, 'Really, you moron.'

Just to be certain, I drank another vial, one that contained a mix of Phoenix Tears, Essence of Dittany, and Ground Bezoar. The mixture soothed my tongue, and the numbness went away.

I spat away a glob of black spit. Blood and ash.

A wave of my wand cleaned out the rest.

Half an hour testing different tastes proved that my taste range was the same... which was nice.

Once I had ensured that there was no permanent damage to the ritual, I started testing the benefits.

"Serpensotia" I cast, something moving from the tip of my tongue through my body and out the wand tip.

The smoke that was expelled took the shape of a serpent. It was not really an illusion, yet it was also not an actual snake, closer to the Perpetual Shadowbound that my latest Raven Familiars and Animated Statues were.

"~What isss thine command, Master?~" asked the snake, and I perfectly understood it without needing to pull a partial possession.

"~Ssstand ssstraight,~" I said, as the snake obeyed me. Flicking my wand and vanishing the snake back into smoke.

I felt something slot back into my soul, something that had been taken even for a brief moment.

"~Interessting,~" I muttered to myself, calling on the connection that I had forged to use Parseltongue.

Closing my eyes, I focused on the image of a serpent and hissed, "~Incendio Serpensotia~" conjuring a fire-wrought serpent.

Fire Serpent

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

I smiled.

I could feel the connection between the fiery snake and myself, but it was far more defined than the three-headed dragon I had animated before. The control felt more natural; I did not need to concentrate on forcing fire to hold its form.

Something about the Basilisk Soul bound to me acted as a versatile vessel, a blueprint to transform things into.

"You will not have an issue with this, will you, my friend?" I asked the Phoenix, finding my tongue move naturally, watching him swoop and grasp the fiery serpent with a talon.

Watching the Phoenix consume the serpent was fascinating.

I felt the fragment of the soul move through the Familiar bond I had with Will, settling back into my soul to where I assumed my tongue was. I wondered if the sympathetic bond between the tongue and serpents through the form had any hand in this skill.

Feeling the soul of the serpent settle back into me, awaiting to be called upon, was vexing... but that was Soul Magic to you.

My Phoenix familiar hopped closer and tapped his beak against my heart.

My hands brushed against his feathers, feeling the heat hidden beneath. "So long as your heart remains true, huh?" I asked, getting a thrill in turn.

"I thought you said the tongue of birds came from the heart of a dragon, not a basilisk?" spoke Morrigan, forming out of shadows.

"Meh, Familiar Bonds are weird like that, and I am only speaking the Common Tongue. How is the new shadow-form?" I asked the personification of the Faceless Men.

"Better than before," responded the Assassin. "It allows me to travel further than a day before having to reform. I like it better than being stuck within the skull watching things."

"Is it bad that I dislike the monster I have to become," I responded, leaning back and letting my soul settle a bit after the ritual. "So callous with the lives of others. The War that I foresee is more than the deaths I caused... and I caused a lot of deaths."

"And yet you serve," responded the Last of the Faceless Men. "Wasting the lives of those fated to die does not make you a monster, especially when their souls would be wasted where they go. Future is not clear, even to Greenseers, but picking a fight with Westeros might be the only way to save it."

There were days when I thought Morrigan was the most dangerous thing I had met. Then, she would say things like that and make me regret that assumption.

"Just warn me if I start spouting shit about the Greater Good," I bit back in annoyance before deciding not to think about it.

Instead, I focused on the results I got. "I can see why this skill is considered dark," I responded in turn, feeling the new graft upon my soul. I can think of nothing beneficial to do with the soul of a basilisk being made part of your own apart from mind control over snakes and an improved safer version of the Killing Curse. The only reason I can think of it working for me is the Phoenix Flame that remains within me from the Funeral Fire."

"The imprint of the ritual that birthed Will would have left its own mark within you, I suppose. The two ought to form a balance. As for your concerns, some skills are better to belong to those who do not wish to use them," responded Morrigan, "Once again, I am reminded that I have chosen my champion well."

My eyes looked at the shadow form reflecting from the mirror I was inspecting, only raising an eyebrow. Given that my mouth was open and I was looking at the thin vertical line beneath it, I must have looked like an idiot.

"Never mind..." sighed Morrigan, making me chuckle.

I took out my Morghul Knife, the Valyrian Steel knife I used as the Ritual Anchor to kill off the Faceless Men.

As I held the blade, green flames started licking against the edges.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

Granted, the only reason I knew was the illusion she wove over the dark form, but it still got the point across.

"Neat trick, huh," I said, looking at the knife now imbued with Death. "Anything else?" I asked, taking a pinch of salt and eating it before spitting it out. I did not feel any difference in terms of taste or control of my tongue.

I did not feel anything in terms of souls. In theory, the Basilisk Blood would cause partial possession of my tongue and parts of my soul that represented speech, and the use of the black power and Phoenix Ash would force a soul graft as the two souls merged into a single being.

"Nothing more than what I had warned you of before. Your actions have caused stirrings. None were certain who had caused the destruction of the Faceless Men, yet the death of the Aspect of R'hllor by your hands was seen by many," responded Morrigan. "They now know you to be my chosen. Some will move against you hoping to stop the rise of another order like the House of Black and White. They might aid your enemies to see you fall."

"They do not know of your presence?" I asked.

"No. Some might suspect but as I am, I can work independently to handle the lesser problems sent your way. It is good that you are taking precautions and preparing, yet I worry. Even without Baratheons, you may find Pentos to be unsafe," said the Aspect of Death. "A secure base is what you need, potentially something with older protections than what you can create."

"I am working on it," I said in turn, watching the form vanish midair.

"So much for not making deals with unknown forces," I muttered to myself. "Granted, this one turned out not so bad."

Next were about half a dozen different cleansing rituals, just to be certain that the ritual was not going to kill me out of the blue... before further experiments could commence.

I needed Bellegere for those, though.

For RESEARCH, of course. The capitalization was necessary... I think.

AN: So, I was going to split this into two chapters and release them with a week in between, calling them "Lion's Heart" and "Serpent's Tongue" respectively, but I did not want to stretch out the prep chapter to be two parter, so you get a big chunk of text now so I can focus on the next chapter.

The book Shrubbery, Being a History on the Flora of the Valyrian Freehold can be found here. It is as stupid evil as one would expect.

As usual, I am solely motivated by your comments and suggestions.

Last edited: Aug 2, 2024

039 Hearth and Home

# The Wizard

The army was at the gate.

I scoffed at the idea that I had become such a danger to Robert that he sent an army after me... and did not deign to show up himself. I was not sure if I ought to be insulted or not.

I found myself to be mostly disappointed.

Predictably, the Sellsword Company that the Pentoshi Magisters hired to man the walls turned in an instant as the gates were opened, and an army of men marched through the streets to the Manse that I was currently occupying.

It might have something to do with the illusion of my man along the same walls disappearing.

I was alone, of course; I was not foolish enough to drag people I care for into this pissing match when all I wanted was to be left alone.

Also, it meant that I could fool myself into thinking that the Collateral Damage would be acceptable.

To be honest, Robert was not even in the top ten of my worries, even if I was probably his highest priority. That made him a useful tool for my enemies, Varys being chief among them.

I could divert that attention to another target, probably. I knew enough to set him against half of Westeros, but Starks were useful as a way to soften the beaches should the White Walkers invade and Dorne was useless if they got invaded by the combined forces of Westeros.

The only other alternative was to reveal the Lannister incest, but even Tywin could not win against the rest of the Realm put together, and the end result would be a more solidified Baratheon Rule. No, I needed Lannisters where they were, making the most damage through their pride alone.

If you want something done right, do it yourself and all that.

The twenty-sided die rolled out of my palm, carrying my question. The roll landed on twenty, forcing me to suppress the laughter.

That was the third time I rolled a twenty this morning... for the same question.

An army of men entered my throne room led by the Company of the Cat, the traitorous scum led by a large man named Bloodbeard.

I clicked my tongue in disgust, tapping at the scroll beneath my hand with a finger and activating the blood connection to their brains.

The mercenaries fell over, dead, with naught but a small application of force into their brain through a more refined version of what I had used to kill off the Faceless Men, empowered by the Contract that I had them sign in blood.

In hindsight, I could have done so much worse to them than letting them through and giving them a fast, clean death, but I needed their lives for the next steps, or rather, I needed their deaths, and I was not cruel as to lengthen their suffering.

Flames rolled out of the tip of the wand in my hand, burning the contract and pulling the souls into the flame in the Unseen. Rolling the flames into my right palm, my right hand to close around it. The scaled skin was immune to flames lesser than the original flames that burned it off, pulling on the souls of the damned to amplify the effect as I whispered the incantation that would fit.

"~Strun Bah Qo~" the words came out of my mouth in a hiss.

With a snap of my fingers, between my thumb and forefinger, I held a compressed ball of fire glowing an eerie golden hue before I flicked it out through the window, causing it to explode in the air.

Using a judicious application of Mind Arts to suppress the fact that I had taken a move out of one Sasuke Uchiha, I leaned back and waited for the rest, now that Step One was complete.

It did not take long for the first motley bunch of fools to arrive after the Company of the Cat, all of them Westerosi. All of them entered into my trap by wading their way through the pile of dead bodies.

I could feel their fear from seeing all the dead men before me, no injury upon them being visible.

"I would not do that if I were you," I spoke out atop the throne I was sitting, my wand at hand, while the other slowly stored away the Portent Die into the pommel of my sword, and a large red bird perched over my shoulder gazing at the room silently.

It cut a decent image, at least.

They are an odd group of wanna-be heroes of legend. First through the unguarded walls, first to enter the center of the Manse I was staying in.

On the other side, a lone Sorcerer King mantled in Black Plate and Mail and Blood Red Silk Cape. My hands were bare for now, revealing blackened nails that rapped against the black stone of the Throne.

'When your team mascot is a dragon and your color scheme is shared by Dracula, you have to embrace the edge,' I mentally repeated.

The nails on my left hand were a new addition, more of a necessity and a precaution. An infusion of Dragon Bone and Moonstone, along with a slow methodical flesh-craft, binding small bits of the material into my own nails so they don't rub off. The process had darkened their color to pitch black in exchange for minor Telekinetic Tricks without needing a wand.

It was limited, I had to admit to a Forceful application of a push, similar to a punch, but it was among the two dozen backup plans of mine.

I did not need much more for now, as what I had meant I could summon my wand to my hand to do more.

The modification, while not even technically permanent, was worth the investment. Since I could let the nails grow and cut the infused parts, or if it had turned out to be dangerous, simply pull them out and let new nails grow back out. The last one was a bit more of an extreme measure, surely, but permanent access to low-level Force Push worked rather well with my other skills.

Back to the motley bunch of morons before me...

Despite my warning, one of the idiots decided to take a step forward.

His body crumbled to dust, falling onto the floor along with the clinking of armor.

"Told you," I muttered, looking at the shimmering form of my defense, the culmination of my Wardcraft.

I did love the vicious little Shielding Charm, and "Protego Horribilis," as I called it, was the best I could do for now. The Shield Charm started off basic but branched out rather fast; the branch that was designed for the enemies was one of those.

The more complex versions were all a form of Contract Magic, ironically.

It was a simple contract. Passing the border meant accepting that they would not act to dominate or destroy the castor. The cost, in turn, was determined by the incantation.

While Protego Inimicum blocked an enemy from crossing a border or petrified them, its elder, more vicious brothers were less restrained, and the Protego Horriblis was the efficient and effective workhorse that was seen in every other sibling with the Middle Child Syndrome.

Granted, I would have preferred a Protego Diabolica in this situation, but I have discovered that Magic was about building things up, and that spell was still very much a work in progress. I would probably need a dedicated item for it as well, but I had what I needed for now.

The line on the sand, as it was, made for some interesting enchantment work that I was quite proud of combined with a simple Contract. In passing the line, the person acknowledges that they would not act to harm the caster, binding their very essence to the effect.

A Jinx, by all my definitions, is the protection made for a simple spell, powering itself further by the souls of those who breached the contract, the souls turning on their flesh.

If they all dogpiled it, maybe it would break, but for now, the first death had been effective in stopping the greedy morons that called themselves knights, at least.

Some of the knights started throwing obscenities, only for one to insult my mother and get squished into a pile of blood with a muttered "Descendo," that fucked up the gravity around him.

"Anyone else wish to insult my family? None? Good. I think we should wait for whoever is in charge... what do you lot think?" I asked upon my throne.

The Knights nodded dumbly as I made a note of their sigils and kept them in mind.

Like I said, I was waiting for Robert.

Instead, I got his bargain bin version.

And a lot more disappointment.

Swans of House Swanns stood with turtles of Estermont and fawns of Cafferen. There were others, the hanged man of Trant, the black lion of Grandison, and Death's Head Moths of Horpe.

They were mostly Stormlanders, I noticed, with a few Westerlander houses sprinkled in. A Marbrand, another that I recognized as a Lefford. A few Lannets or whatever.

No Narrow Sea houses despite it being Stannis leading the charge.

And no Vale Knights either.

How peculiar.

I would have thought Robert would not use his Marcher Lords on the off chance that the Dornish might counterattack, but given that he was not present, I could see how he would think he could easily counter such a response.

"Took a while to call all the banners, eh?" I asked, again noting the lack of Crownlander houses among the mix.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" roared Stannis Baratheon. "WHY HAVEN'T YOU TAKEN HIM IN CHAINS?"

Do not get me wrong, I respected the hell out of Stannis the Mannis. He, like the protective enchantment I had made, could be considered the poster boy of Middle Child Syndrome. Duty obsessed and gets shafted at every turn. His resilience and bullheadedness were simply without a peer.

In another life, I might have even considered him a worthy friend.

"Ser Stannis," I greeted, "I know we narrowly missed meeting nine years past. I would say it is an honor, but that would be a lie."

"It is Lord Stannis, Sorcerer," someone with too much balls and not enough brains called out. The onion sigil implied Davos Seaworth, a good man, loyal, unfortunately, to the wrong person in this case.

"Newtifors," I said, pointing my wand at the Onion Knight.

In the Unseen, I used a bit of Magic to push his soul out of his body and placed the soul of the newt that was tucked away in one of my pouches in its place.

Immediately, his eyes rolled around his head, and he started looking around in confusion.

"What did you do to him?" asked Stannis, seeing the man start crawling around.

"Turned him into a newt; it is a favored spell of mine," I responded with a shrug, "He should get better in a few days. Now, Ser Stannis, what is the meaning of this invasion upon my house?"

Granted, invasion was not really the word for it. Pentos did not field any defenses apart from the sellswords who turned, and I simply let Stannis walk into my domain.

With the Baratheon Fleet parked just where I wanted them.

The sky rumbled as Stannis spoke, coincidence or not, I was on schedule, "Viserys Targaryen, you are a pretender to the Throne. In the name of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, I, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships, command you to surrender, or be cut down where you stand."

"Let's see," I said, leaning back, crossing my legs, and holding up my fingers to count. "My father named me his heir, and Robert is the Lord of Stormlands, who rebelled to Usurp his rightful liege not because he was a huge cuck. And, you are at best a Steward, Ser, even if you were given Dragonstone by your brother," I responded with a shit-eating grin. "As I do not recognize any honor bestowed upon you by your brother to be legitimate, and certainly not to domains pass down to me by the command of my father."

Given the way Stannis remained stone-faced, I seemed to be getting to him.

I liked Stannis. I would let him live.

I wanted to see what his mind would conclude as I used the very logic that he so liked to use.

"Also, I don't want to," I added, just to be petulant.

Stannis, predictably, ground his teeth.

"Shut up, traitor," someone said, holding up his sword and pointing at me.

"Treason implies submission, you uneducated moron," I responded to the one who spoke, turning to Stannis, who looked to be split between wanting to agree and continuing to grind his teeth in impotence.

He chose to do the latter.

"Have you come to surrender and beg for my mercy, cousin," I asked, showing the dead mercenaries, "for know that I shall allow you to take the black, allow your daughter to keep her rights to Storm's End, and spare anyone else who kneel this day. I am not cruel, and you broke no oaths to me like those treacherous cats."

Stannis released a huff through his nose before speaking out. Ironically, I would be indirectly acknowledging the only thing he wished for and did not get from Robert, even if it would be his daughter who got to keep Storm's End. "The Sellswords were oathbreakers; their lives were of no consequence. I was told to capture you and your sister by my brother, and I will do my duty."

'I will not fail again,' the words echoed from his mind.

Well, that was a waste of time.

Stannis managed to take a single step, blade in hand.

It was honestly hilarious, the first few knights who had witnessed the initial idiot get burned to death, tackling Mannis, trying to prevent him from getting killed, and having to explain to Robert why his brother was now a pile of dust.

No one really held back one of the knights that came in with Stannis, though. The man had a livery that would be described as vairy orange and blue, upon a black canton, a golden stag beneath an orange bend sinister... so some Bolling Knight.

Predictably, Ser Bolling died.

And not cleanly either.

I felt the drop in power of the enchantment before it turned back on. It would hold until next Dawn, not that it would matter in a bit. Even if recycling the souls, it was hard to maintain a permanent enchantment when people threw themselves at it and corroded its very purpose.

Thankfully, my opponent did not know about it.

"It is not often that I meet someone unafraid to die, Ser, yet your task is one of futility. Did that one have a name?" I asked as Stannis froze with wide eyes, "I feel like he needs his name recorded in some book or something... met the Wizard, tried to kill him, died, like all the others."

"Ser Herbert Bolling," responded Stannis, standing straight.

Oh, this was interesting... a calm Baratheon.

Well, calm was a bit of an overstatement. I could smell the fear of the man. Yet, Stannis deserved the title of Mannis and simply stood there, back ramrod straight, blade at hand. I could feel his mind turning trying to find ways around an unfamiliar problem.

"Hmm, so Ser Stannis, what now?" I asked, my eyes scanning the knights surrounding him. There were many sigils to identify. "Would you parley with your enemy?"

I used the small moment of pause to strike, slipping deeper through the mind of my enemy.

Stannis was bullheaded, but his mind was not that hard to observe passively than any other stubborn man, even if it made it harder to make him think certain things, limiting deeper Legilimency without being noticed.

I did not need to look too deeply, only enough to find out the movements and plans of Robert, only to be disappointed that the plan was entirely defined by taking Pentos and capturing my family.

Robert did not want to be seen as weak, nor did he wish to chance failure or treachery. Both of those would be the case if he conducted offensive war, or so Jon Arryn had argued. Should Robert or Jon leave Westeros, they feared that there would be other uprisings.

'Huh, it appears that the Greyjoy Rebellion was not as clean as I thought it had been,' I thought to myself pulling back from the mind of the man I was forced to call my enemy.

Not to mention that the crown was essentially bankrupt and could not afford to fight a war with full mobilization of the kingdoms. I pulled back from the memory of the meeting of the small council and how Jon Arryn worked to convince Robert to send a smaller force made of trusted bannerman, led by Stannis using the Royal Fleet, just enough to take Pentos with the promise of help and payment from some of the Pentoshi.

I was expecting a bigger army, but I got what I really needed from the Baratheons while I was in Pentos.

As for personal vengeance, that could be arranged at another time.

How unfortunate for them, they played into my hand.

I could just burn them all alive, even if they probably had brothers, sons, and fathers who would swear eternal vengeance... or worse, mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters who would stop at nothing to ensure my end. Nothing worse than women scorned and all that.

It would be so easy. Yet, it would make me no different than the likes of Maegor, would it?

Not that I cared about what history thought about me, so long as I was the one who wrote it.

If I killed them all, chances were high that I would have rebellions in my hands at every turn should I conquer Westeros.

"You are surrounded, witch," spoke a knight in armor with a lion paw for a sigil. "Yield and you may retain what honor remains as you join the Night's Watch."

I met the man's eyes, finding that he was from Lannisport, part of a group of knights sent to King's Landing. As I saw his memories of King's Landing, I recoiled in disgust. He was there during the sack... memories of atrocities that made me recoil from his mind not so subtly.

The knight doubled over, clutching his head.

"I resent that," I said voice cold as ice, sending a cutting curse to the man who spoke with a swipe of my wand, unmanning him on the spot. "Especially from a rapist. I am a Wizard for I am of the Wise though I will tolerate being called a Sorcerer by you unread animals, but a Witch, do I look remotely like a female to you?"

Another spell staunched his bleeding.

Granted, it also caused him to spontaneously combust, so there was that.

I took a deep breath to center myself.

I was specifically going for an image here; no need to overdo it.

Even if a part of me felt vindication at what small amount of justice I could extract.

Someone smart seems to have cranked up a crossbow because the shield around me flared, causing the bolt to fall on the floor with a flash of light.

The new amulet around my neck heated up. Basilisk Eye doing its job to unmake the motion of objects that would hit me.

I banished the bolt back to the sender's eye socket in turn.

"How about this," I asked, as the fire behind me rose into the form of a Gigantic Serpent of Fire... not specifically Fiendfyre, but against these lot, just as deadly.

Basilisk Soul graft for the win.

The Brave Knights of Westeros all looked upon the Firewyrm I conjured and took a step back, some of the smarter ones actually turning and running off.

Only for the doors to slam in front of them.

"As I said, I am not without mercy," I spoke, using the words that Stannis would have used against his younger brother a few hours before murdering him with magic. "I shall let you live for now."

I heard the rumble of the skies at that moment, coming closer than before, just as I had calculated.

My hand reached to my belt, to a specific pouch to double check it's presence.

Time for a hasty exit.

Will gave a thrill from where he was perched, taking wing and flying around the flaming serpent as though flames dancing within a heart.

A bit later than I anticipated, to be honest, but perfect timing required practice. "Alas, I have duties to do, Kings to kill, Castles to raze, Maidens to kidnap, you know... Dragon things. To be frank, I am not in the mood to burn people alive this day, so I shall let you live. So why don't we say, I chose to spare you a lot as proof that I am not my father, and you lot can claim that you made me run in fear with my tail between my legs despite the fact that I am not the one with soiled pants. Next time we meet, I promise I will personality introduce you all to Fire and Blood, that is, of course, if you can actually survive to get out. Until then, well, I shall have Queen Rhaella's Revenge."

The wyrm of fire behind me wrapped itself around me at my last moments.

The Phoenix circling overhead dove down into the pyre.

The fire flashed green and dispersed, leaving neither the Throne nor the Wizard behind.

And the sky broke and gods grieved.

Saltpeter, Charcoal, Sulfur... the base materials for Black Powder and Wildfire, representing Destruction.

Phoenix Ash, representing Rebirth.

Weirwood ash is used as the anchor for connecting two specific hearths by using the connection of a Heart Tree.

Those were the materials required for the crafting of a potent enough Powder to act in the same way as what would be called a Floo Powder, fire-based instant transportation utilizing Pyromancy.

Five Materials, with Five Representing the transformation and motion through the Five Elements and Arithmancy.

Gunpowder, the same materials that made the basis of Wildfire, to destroy, Phoenix Ash to recreate.

Pyromancy to translocate from one fire to another in that moment between total bodily destruction and reconstruction.

The weirwood ash was taken from the hearth that I appeared in, designating the endpoint and focusing the transportation into a single destination.

Because relying purely on unfocused Pyromancy to determine your endpoint would probably end up with you in multiple pieces or in one of the random places. Let us just say I was not willing to experiment on that.

When said places included Valyria as well, due to the higher concentration of Magic that even my gaze could not penetrate, you better not make a chance.

For now, the exit point did not matter, but that was because only two Floo Exit existed, and the only one active at the moment was a custom structure integrated into Queen Rhealla's Revenge.

Combined with a bit of Thaumaturgy of reenacting my initial escape from the hands of Baratheons, I felt the spell's longer-term effect slot into my soul, leaving the impression that would allow me to use it without such a complex set of spells again while simultaneously granting Will the ability to use his flames to teleport.

A bolt of lightning slammed into the fire pit built into the center of the Elder Sign on my ship's deck.

And in a flash, the flames transformed into my form, with Will on my shoulder.

It was lucky that Robert would only trust Stannis to do this job because anyone else and I was not confident about this trick, and burning through an entire army along with a city was at the very end of my list of things I wanted to do.

I stepped out of the dedicated fire pit, the flames remaking my flesh as it was before my soul settled back into my flesh, only for me to trip and fall onto the deck of Queen Rhaella's Revenge.

"Are you alright, your grace?" asked Richard from where he was standing, his flesh hand clutching the pommel of his sword.

"Fine," I murmured, slapping myself, "got my soul misaligned with my flesh for a bit... it happens sometimes."

One of the hounds that belonged to Rolf the Warg snorted, even if Rolf himself looked stoic.

"You are late," commented Dany from where she sat, sweat covering her brow from holding into the Magical Circle around her. "How did it go?"

"Stannis was there; Robert was not," I explained, gathering my self and starting to take off my cloak, followed by the plate underneath, leaving only silk undershirt as I sat in front of Dany, slowly checking the ritual she was holding on to. "And don't complain; you asked to help."

"My hand was right, it appears that Robert was persuaded to not take the bait. We are still going to proceed as planned," I spoke out while most of me was going through the ritual through the path that Dany had burned with her will, Sorcery, and a dozen Black Candles.

I smiled as the hair at the back of my head rose from the static electricity, the air rumbling with the gathering of the Storm Clouds.

Storm Kings, Durrandons were called, to be re-minted as Baratheons.

I could play with storms too, unfortunately for Stannis.

Euron, despite being an amoral monster of the highest order, was still quite talented in manners of Higher Mysteries, I had to admit. It was one of those reasons I chose not to hunt him and put him down like a rabid monster. While it may be arrogant of me to assume I could win against him, letting him do his thing and swoop in to steal his research into Magic was far more efficient for me in the long term... that and I needed a patsy to blame should Oldtown spontaneously go up in flames.

In this case, it was Euron who inspired me with the whole Storm trick he pulled.

There was a poetic irony in that.

The storm that brought Dany to the world and sank the Royal Fleet of House Targaryen reenacted upon the Baratheons ten-fold.

And I could leverage quite a bit more narrative leverage to hit a Royal Navy using a Storm as I made my escape from a place that I claimed my own, powering it through the Wards that I had collapsed at my exit.

Physics worked as it should; small amounts of Sun Fire I could shunt into the air above Pentos, taking the form of storm clouds as Magic roiled and awaited, lacking in sacrifice. The waters churned as I dedicated hundreds yet still living to Storm and Wind.

Without constant control over the storm, such an action would be quite dangerous. However, that is where Dany came in to supplement my Sorcery with her own.

Lightning descended from the sky, a portend of destruction.

"You did a good job, Stormborn," I said, ruffling Dany's hair. She smiled smugly at me, even as I could see her hair was matted by sweat and sea water.

The Thaumaturgy that Dany could leverage through a Storm was more powerful than what I could pull off, or at least that was in theory, while I would reenact the events that have led to our exile to further empower the spell by binding more weight into it. It meant that this step could kickstart while I was busy with the enemy.

All so it can end up with... this.

A bolt of lightning fell from the sky, then another, and then another.

Each bolt hit a ship, breaking or causing them to catch on fire. I could feel and hear the sheer panic of the crews as the wooden ships they stayed on were broken and carried away with winds crashing into each other or the bay where Pentos was located.

I lifted my wand up and created a dome around the Revenge out of ionized air as one of the bolts bounced off it, grounding in the sea.

Soon, the sea was filled with an unnatural electrical storm that hit each and every ship.

Once...

Twice...

Thrice...

To call the storm unnatural was to call a dragon dangerous.

It got the point across, but it did not hold the required weight of hundreds of different spells cast over a month being unleashed all at once.

The Royal Fleet was, in the kindest terms, fucked.

"Was the fleet your goal, your grace?" asked Jon Connington, walking up next to me, watching the thunder and lightning dance across the sky and, for once, looking as awed as he was scared.

I did not blame him. Even I could admit that I was terrifying when given the time to do what I did best.

The fire teleportation was the main goal, obviously. Will could, in theory, pull it off, but taking other people with him was a bit tricky. By using the connection between his birth, Dany, and me, I managed to ensure it happened.

The other goals were good to have but not essential.

"It was one of the goals," I admitted, "I had hoped that they would bring the Redwyne Fleet as well, but from what I could glimpse at from Stannis' mind, Jon Arryn convinced Robert not to send everyone at once, and chosen a mainly Stormlander Contingent for their loyalty and readiness. A few Lannister Man were there as well, but none that would be deemed significant. Robert seems to think that this is a trap of some sort."

"And he was right," said Jon, knowing Stormlands better than me. "I agree, this is the doing of Jon Arryn. Robert would have jumped at the chance for a fight. No Vale Knights either, he is being cautious."

"It was indeed Arryn was the one to convince Robert not to make the journey, though his reasonings were far more simple, I reckon. Probably afraid that he would not return," I joked. To be honest, I had hoped that the chance would be enough for Robert to run off and become a sellsword like he once told Ned Stark, but this worked for me just as well.

"Also, I am now certain that their treasury is broke now... so they could not afford to feed and arm a large army. They borrowed a million dragons for this venture alone from the Lannisters," I said.

"You need a quarter of that amount for the man sent," Jon said, surprised.

"Yeah, their new Master of Coin is rather useful for our goals," I nodded, making a note to rob Baelish blind.

"What if they decide to give chase with the surviving ships of theirs?" asked Marywn, half-distracted, his eyes tracing over and memorizing every detail of the spell in progress.

"You know all the traps we prepared, how you complained that it would end up trapping someone in as much as it would keep people out?" I asked, in turn, getting a nod from the Maester, who got to watch me work the spells in exchange for help in filling some of the gaps in my knowledge. "By the time they get out, we will be long gone and hopeful settled into our new place."

"And if they choose to sack Pentos and recover the gold of the Magisters?" asked my Hand, "They will be richer than before the fight."

"With which gold would they do that, exactly, my lord?" I asked, taking out a golden coin and holding it up as the rain slowly washed away the illusion over it, revealing a wooden coin instead. "The one beneath our boards? I had a few weeks to think it all through, you know."

It was not hard to replace the treasures of Magisters with something more artificial after all.

"Oh, I like your way of thinking, lad," Marwyn started cackling like a lunatic.

"I still say you should have killed them. I fear that your mercy has left us exposed," said Jon, "A destroyed fleet can be rebuilt. The Lannisters are still rich, and Pentos is still a rich city; golds and jewelry are worth something, but it is the grain that truly matters for man, and silk and lace and other luxuries are just as valuable to the right buyer." asked Jon, clearly not convinced.

"And Stannis would have to be the one to sack the city, officially at least. What is it that bothers you, Lord Hand?" I asked, admitting that Jon knew more about wars.

"You had Stannis, right there, at your hands," spoke Jon, and I understood him. He was taken back to the Bells, where a fight could be ended.

"I did," I admitted, "and he knew that as well, as I immolated one of his men and addled the mind of another. I could have done the same to any one of them or all of them. Yet, I do not intend to follow the path of Maegor, my lord, but the threat of something is just as effective as the use of it. More so in the case of Magic. As for them following us, they will be distracted with... blah... I almost called him an associate; well, they will be distracted by a distraction I managed to get on time. Regardless, I trust that Stannis will be able to handle it, even if it will take some time." I said. "Alas, I am sure they will get the message."

"What message?" Dany asked, confused.

"That if they wish to come after us, they ought to do the smart thing," I said with a grin, "Let someone else have a go first."

My people looked at me with understanding.

"Tough luck; they are not really smart or have the needed self-preservation for such things." I said, barely a whisper, before roaring out, "Deploy the wings," as the sails on the sides unfurled even within the storm.

The Queen Rhealla's Revenge sailed unseen and unbothered.

# Alynn The Trapbreaker

Alynn Storm, now called Alynn the Trapbreaker for his newly discovered talents, used the long handle of the pike to activate the trap before him, sighing in relief as the trap took to the rat attached to the end of the piece of wood.

The rat slowly rotted away, but better the rat than Alynn.

Alynn was not the first man to disable the traps of the Dragonspawn. He was also not the twentieth man to work whatever devilish trap the Dragonspawn had put up between them and the ships.

He was, luckily, the last one needed... if the gods were good.

They had lost two hundred men to the traps on their way out of the Targaryen Manse before Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, suggested poking where a man ought to walk with a stick.

That was, of course, the Onion Knight regained his wits the day after the Targaryen cunt burst himself into Wildfire and hopefully died.

"How do we go around it?" asked said Smuggler turned Knight.

"On the roof," pointed Alynn to the strange runes painted above them, using the steel tip of the pike to slowly scratch it away, praying to the Smith and hoping that it was not one of them false runes.

Alynn had been a lad during the Siege of Storm's End, but he had survived. Now, trapped within the Manse, he felt like those days, forced to starve and stretch the rations that they had come with.

A black raven watched Alynn work, following them along and slashing at any man who thought to catch the bloody thing with razor-sharp wings.

It was as much a show that the Targaryen cunt was taunting them as it was how utterly powerless they truly were. If the bloody thing wanted, it could kill, just as it had done to the Trant knight, flowing like water through his visor and reducing everything within to blood.

Alynn gulped, having seen what some of the other traps could do.

Some traps were simple, leaving man frozen stiff until the next dawn.

Others were deadly, as Alynn had seen with Ser Donnel Swann, who got crushed by a giant hand made of a black clawed hand of stone.

It was still better than poor Kennet.

Kennet got struck by lightning through the window when he tried to break through the wall to get out.

Same lightning that was beating upon the Royal Fleet like Alynn's Old Man used to beat on his kids.

Their losses reached up to a hundred in the fortnight they were stuck within a glorified building of stone, the rations they had the food rotting within a day to the ground itself deeming them their enemy.

Half of them had lost their minds and tried to make a run for it.

They did not live long after that.

Alynn was no stranger to starvation. They had started cooking the rats that seemed to spawn out of nowhere, until the Rats started to eat some of the man in turn.

The King claimed Viserys Targaryen was a Sorcerer.

The King was right, though Alynn did not care about whichever demon from the Seven Hells the Targaryen learned his magic.

The King could also go fuck himself, the fat useless cunt.

Not that Alynn would ever speak of it out loud.

Alynn had seen the man give some speech, red-faced and a cup in hand, even if there were rumors that he had lost a stone in three moons.

He had not even bothered to come himself and got smote like Kennet or exploded like Jerrel. Alynn liked Jerrel; he made the best stew, not the watery shit his wife used to make or the one he got to eat now that their rations were set on by rot and rats alike.

It had been mostly Stormlanders who were sent to deal with the Dragonspawn in Pentos, led by Lord Stannis Baratheon. Leal man, loyal man, King's Men.

The King had ordered them to attack Pentos to take it, chosen for their loyalty by Lord Stannis and Lord Hand.

The King himself was the Lord of Stormlands before he was king, so Alynn answered when called upon, even if he had given the lands to his younger brother Renly, the boy was not even a knight yet, and Alynn preferred Lord Stannis, not that he would speak it aloud.

So it was the Stormlanders who had to live through this shit now. Was this what loyalty brought? A slow and painful death... or getting struck by lightning.

Alynn had not been a godly man; he had far too much like for wine and woman to be a Septon, yet here and now, Alynn prayed to the Seven, even if some whispered that the Seven were the ones who protected the Targaryen.

"It is silent," said Alynn finally, looking at the threshold and the now cleared air.

"Seven Hells, fucking finally," spoke Ser Willis, a Hedgeknight who stood behind Alynn with a sheathed sword.

Alynn was not a fool, knowing that the sword was meant for him if he chose to refuse the given order. Luckily, the Seven had given him a talent for these things, and he was able to survive breaking through the traps that the Sorcerous Dragons left behind.

"My lord, thank the gods, you are alive," Ser Cedrik Storm, the Bastard of Bronzegate, followed along from the docks.

"What happened here?" asked Lord Stannis following along when they were certain the traps were done with, gritting his teeth at seeing the disorganized man. Even Alynn could say that they were disorganized.

"The storm, it came all of a sudden. It... it destroyed the ships," gasped Ser Cedrik Storm, walking beside one of the Magisters of Pentos that opened the gates for them.

The fat man, rumored to be the good-father of the first Magister that the Wizard had burned, gave a bow. The fat man was dressed in silks and covered in gems and rings to show of his wealth and Alynn hoped he would get some coin for what he did. Lord Stannis had promised him Knighthood after all.

One of the rings glittered with something before Alynn dismissed it, thinking of the land he would own instead.

"Prince Stannis, it gives me much joy to see that you have survived. I have told you that we ought to have burned the entire Manse down," spoke the Magister, having been supportive of the cowardly way. In hindsight, it would probably have worked.

The Wizard himself had burned alright. Alynn had not seen it, but people called the boy the next Brightflame.

A part of Alynn knew that the Wizard was not dead, that fire would not kill such a monster. Targaryens were said to be unburnt, that they were closer to gods than man.

Alynn gulped down from the water skin that was passed, one of the first to quench his thirst.

Ten days with not much water had not been good for the man trapped in the Manse, especially when the ones outside seemed incapable of entering from the excuses that the Bastard of Bronzegate was making.

"How many ships are left?" asked Lord Stannis, as he took long gulps once he was sure all man got their fill of it.

"Two, my lord," said the Bastard of Bronzegate.

"Two? Which ones?" asked the Onion Knight, asking the question that everyone wanted to know.

"Lady Lyanna and Black Betha," responded the knight, "But there is another matter you ought to know, my lord."

"What is it?" gritted Stannis Baratheon, "Has the Sorcerer decided to unleash dragons upon us as well?"

"No, my lord, it is the Dothraki," responded Ser Cedrik. "The Pentoshi had a few men in their employ who knew the language. Some warlord named Khal Drogo demands tribute from Pentos for killing one of his bloodrides and two dozen of his men, some time past, along with stealing their horses. He claims that the Westerosi left their burnt bones to taunt him, nailed to crosses on the Velvet Hills. His messenger said that he will enslave or kill every Westerosi that is in Pentos."

A sharp crack of a tooth breaking was heard, causing Alynn to flinch and making him want to cry.

Alynn blamed the Wizard for this.

But the Wizard was scary as fuck.

Alynn instead blamed Robert for this.

Did he have to sit on that iron chair? He bet it was mighty uncomfortable.

Alynn did not want to fight the Dothraki, and the Others could fight the bloody Wizard for all he cared.

Alynn wanted to go home, hug his wife, and have a bowl of her watery stew.

# The Wizard

The Mists rolled across the black sands that made up one of many beaches of the island.

To the people living on the island, nothing was out of the ordinary, apart from the rolling of the unnaturally thick fog coming from the sea.

Magic and water interacted rather strangely. Any living Water could wash away any lesser magics. The flow of the water had a habit of disrupting away any soul that may linger within it.

With rain, that was rather simple in washing off enchantments that were not anchored beyond the surface.

With rivers and such, the effect was straightforward, and some Rhoynish practices that I had recovered in Braavos actually made use of the rapid flow.

With seas, the effect was more potent, with the exception of whatever the fuck Moonsingers could do.

Carrying a Mist over the surface of the Sea was one of those things.

None saw the large Braavosi Ship of White and Black hull, with rolling smoke for sails and the head of a Dragon for a prow, eyes alive with a flame and mouth rolling with smoke.

All it took was to bind the larger dragon skull that I now owned to become the new figurehead, enfleshed with Magical Wood and now capable of acting as a flame-thrower.

From the top of the prow, a figure of shadows rose, and from atop the dragon's head, he descended as rolling shadows wrapped around the figures with fiery wings of starlight.

"Son cruelly banished, despair of the daughter, return great avenger with wings from the water," I whispered to myself as I set foot upon the familiar sands of the island that had been once my domain, unfurling the enchantment that ensured that I landed smoothly.

I turned to Will who let go of my shoulder and landed on the pauldron shaped like a dragon head that I was working on. "Yeah, it's still a shitty poem. Even if it fits for once."

Will gave a thrill that sounded like he did not really care.

I took out a pouch of coins attached to my belt and threw it into the ground, spilling blackened iron coins to the ground.

A pinch of Phoenix Ash flew in the air, a single grain falling onto each coin.

The coins burned with an inner flame before the black sands beneath my feet started to flow around them, giving them a body.

Closing my eyes and pulling on my strength, I opened my mouth to speak.

"ARISE!" I ordered as four score shadows started rising around me.

Stone Men, Black as sin. Animated Statues with Souls that were bound to their own cycle of rebirth at each dawn. Broken men, remade and taught only to serve, given new purpose to serve once more.

The dead Unsullied that once belonged to Illyrio, the ones that I was unable to spare, their bodies and souls left to me after the confrontation.

An army formed around me, my Vanguard, my Black Guard.

It was my seventeenth birthday.

It had been nine years since I left this shore.

I was home.

The Black Stone of Dragonstone loomed over me.

Appear strong where weak, appear weak where strong - a quote attributed by Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, to Elemental Principles of War, by Fol-Fing, the General Who Fought a Thousand Battles and Lost None from Yi-Ti

AN: Alright, this one was a bit of a bitch to write and I am still not sure about it. The next chapter is just as long and already written for most of the way.

That last bit was a reference to Purple Days, if anyone did not catch it. I recommend it as a fic to read, even if you don't like Lannisters much.

Anyway, as always, I am purely motivated by likes and discussions, and kudos to the few people who managed to figure out parts of the plan that Vis had.

Last edited: Sep 9, 2024

040 Arch-Wizard of Dragonstone

My brother has his own ideas on how magic functions. The Dark and the Light, the Collective Beliefs and Godhead. To me, I always saw it closer to how one can make fire.

Dark Magic is like Fossil Fuels. It consumes the existing energy and leaves nothing behind. It is not replenishable and is generally bad for the environment and the user.

Divine Magic is Solar Powered. The Sun and the Moon it is always the light bouncing around and changing things. It is raw life made manifest, accessed by those who are beyond the limits of mortality, with power difference so high that to the ignorant, they might as well be divine.

Arcane Magic is Nuclear Powered. It requires years of study and mastery of the rules of reality itself to get started. But once you master it, you can make energy ex-nihilo and start spamming it with impunity. Of course, there is that tiny chance that you end up poisoning yourself, but that ensures that those who survive to be masters are not idiots.

To those in the know, the best of those come from the same source. It also likes to take the form of a large ball of fire, which is always neat.

- excerpt from "The Princess of the Wizards Tower, Memoirs of Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen*" written during her Apprenticeship to the Wizard.

- *declared Pyromaniac Extraordinaire and the Best Sister of the Order of Wizards. - Wizard.

- Stop defacing books, you idiot - Pyromaniac Extraordinaire and the Best Sister of the Order of Wizards.

# Wizard

[293 AC]

"Is Lightbringer a sword?" I mused out loud, my left hand atop the pommel of Blackfyre while the tip rested on the ground.

The black sands of Dragonstone stretched out to the large Gatehouse and the long winding path beyond it.

Dragonstone

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

"It is said so in the ancient prophecies, my lord," said the redhead next to me.

"Fuck the ancient prophecies," I responded, more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything else. Marwyn, next to me, chortled, trying to hide his laugh behind a cough.

Melisandre made to disagree, only to gasp at the pain from her choker.

I had played around with the enchantment of the pseudo-phylactery that had once held her soul, animating the flesh of her being. A dash of loyalty enchantments built around a Geas, and it had this unique effect of twisting her soul in wrong angles that the self-perceived as pain whenever she had a disobedient thought.

Because if I was going to keep a Shadowbinder around, I was going to ensure that she understood that I was the one in charge, even if I had to create my own version of the Cruciatus for it to stick.

"What is your opinion, my lord?" asked Melisandre once she noted that any of the usual rhetoric would mean more pain for her.

"I am the bone of my sword," I repeated sagely, only getting confused looks. I held up my right hand, wiggling my fingers and letting the sunlight catch the scaled pattern of the scars. "I mean that Magic leaves scars," I said simply, "not always physically mind you, but an impression, a memory of the instance it was used... and memories can be called upon."

The wand in my hand unleashed a small puff of golden light. Melisandre's green eyes darkened while Marwyn stood up straight as the small amount of nuclear fire was converted to raw lifeforce and infused into the area around us.

I tucked away the wand into my left grieve, such that I could easily will it into my offhand if need be, but precision was not something I needed for my task.

Putting on my helmet, the black armor I wore etched with runes that contrasted gave the illusion of gold.

Armor

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

It was not Valyrian Steel, but the fitted plate and mail of the gothic style were still treated with a thin outer layer of Bloodiron that I took from the Dothraki Outriders that I had lured into Pentos.

It made for a decent protection and gave a more manacing figure that I usually sported, but style was as important as anything else now.

Will gave a thrill, flying off from his perch on the left pauldron shaped like a roaring dragon head that was just small enough to keep its form and ensure that my identity was easy to discern and not give up on functionality.

Shadows darkened, the dead rising to serve me, while a large Serpent of Fire started to uncoil around me from thin air with a whispered hiss.

I grasped Blackfyre, the Ancient Valyrian Steel blade now attuned to my soul.

Blackfyre

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

The magic of Valyrian Steel was weird in the best of days. The magic infused on it reinforced the material and form by absorbing any other magic. It made a piece of magical steel shaped like a sword better at being a sword, sharper, stronger, lighter and just that bit faster.

That was annoying to work with in the best of days, especially for those who did not have the power to throw around.

Flames licked along the edge of the metal, black flames shot with gold.

I lifted my sword, the swirling black patterns of bound shadows reacting to my presence as they danced.

"A sword on its own has no will, no authority, no understanding of what is being cut. A wand or a sword, if I held a wrench, it would still be Lightbringer, for I am the one holding it. For I am the sword."

The Sun Fire gave me a way to fill up the metal and let the power overflow.

I brought it down, sending an arc of black fire that smashed into the Gatehouse of Dragonstone and shattered the wooden portcullis.

And the Reclamation of Dragonstone began.

# Cressen

"The Wyrmway has fallen," spoke Ser Axell Florent, the Castellan of Dragonstone, as he rushed to enter the room, taking off his helm. His hair was covered in sweat and soot. There was fear in his voice as he said, "The man bears the sigil of the three-headed dragon. Any gate we close opens on its own as though by magic."

"Magic is not real," repeated Cressen to himself, more a prayer now than what he was taught. "And whoever would try to raid Dragonstone is a fool. This must be some foolish pirate using mummery."

Ser Axell yanked Cressen off his feet by his chain. "I just watched a dozen knights charge a man clad in black. The man turned into a fucking dragon and burned them all before walking out of the fire like it was nothing. I saw a dozen of his men clad in black walk through the guards and walk away with no scratch. I care not what you think, you fool I saw what I saw. Pirate or not, the castle is about to fall, and we should leave, daughter."

Lady Selyse Baratheon looked up from where she sat before nodding. "What of my daughter? I am not leaving her."

"The girl has Grayscale, my lady; it would be a danger to anyone involved if she were to travel with rest. The closeness of any ship would make it a danger to everyone involved," said Cressen steeling himself. "I shall remain, ensure that her treatments continue."

"I will not leave without her," declared the Lady.

"We do not have a choice," spoke Axell Florent, nodding at the Maester as he dragged the Lady.

Cressen himself headed to the Sea Dragon Tower. He was not as young as he once was, and he had stopped to catch his breath by the door, coughing into his fist at the exertion. His aching bones carried him all the way to the room where a girl that was by all right a Princess stayed. He took the time to push some of the furniture, finding the strength to barricade himself and the girl.

He looked at the girl sleeping, a toddler, no older than three-name-day-old, whose face was scarred from Greyscale.

The initial treatment of vinegar had been successful, yet the infection was still capable of spreading.

Cressen considered using it against the Pirates attacking, only to dismiss it as foolish. He was a man of healing and reason, not a monster who would spread such a disease to more people, even pirates. No, it was better to give the girl a quick end.

From his sleeve, Cressen took two vials containing beads of poison.

Yes, better a quick end for the girl and him as well, for his crimes.

The door, blockaded by furniture, exploded into kindling as though the wood itself was long rotten, and a figure stood, armored in black with a crimson cloak.

"Expelliarmus," the man spoke, a white stick in his hand. Cressen found his hands empty the next moment before the armored mage took off his helmet, the runes that glowed over the metal fading away.

"By gods dead and alive, this helm is far too stuffy," the man complained, placing the rune-carved helm with dragon horns onto the desk. "Maybe I ought to go for a wide-brimmed hat, enchanted to high heavens and back. You are Cressen, I presume."

The face beneath was young, barely a man grown, but the most distinct features were the white golden hair and the piercing violet eyes that seemed to twinkle and catch the light.

"You presume correctly, and you would be Viserys Targaryen," spoke Cressen, "I am uncertain if I would have preferred Pirates," he said, reaching for the knife in his belt as he knew he was a dead man either way. He would have a single chance, his old bones lacking the strength and speed. He would take that chance, however, to protect the small girl in the room, only for his body to freeze in place.

"None of that now, I think enough people died today," said the young man as the knife flew from Cressen's hand. "Your loyalty gives you credit. Pity you are just another fool."

"Ravens were sent to every major keep in Westeros," spoke Cressen, "The King and Lord Stannis will have your head for this."

"In their dreams, mayhaps," the Targaryen spoke, flicking a finger in the direction of the window and causing it to open. "As for your ravens," he added as a raven landed by the window sill with a message attached to its leg. "I figured out that trick years ago."

"Warg," whispered Cressen. He had not studied the Higher Mysteries in the Citadel, but he knew some things from even before.

"The proper term is Skinchanger when it is not a dog or a wolf; you have no idea how annoying it gets to correct people from that notion over the years. All wargs are skinchangers, but not all skinchangers ought to be wargs," countered another voice that walked in, the sound of a staff slamming into the black stone as a stocky beetle-browed man walked into the room. "But the sentiment is the same, I suppose. This must be little Shireen Baratheon. You were always a deft hand at healing, Cressen, one of the favorites of Ebrose, that fool. But then again, like attracts like."

Cressen recognized the face of Archmaester Marwyn, shock, and betrayal fighting within him, even as he took a stand between the girl and the others.

"Do not confuse me for Tywin, Maester, and the girl is innocent and more importantly, still in pain," spoke the boy, approaching the crib. "And isn't it a bit hypocritical when you were planning to poison the poor girl?"

"Do you think she can be cured?" asked Marwyn leaning over.

"Let us see," spoke the Targaryen, taking off the gauntlets from his hand before flame covered them for but a moment. "Greyscale, and still active too... simply retreated from the surface. Vinegar bath and something... ah, ambient magic of the Wards of the castle reacting with hers to protect her. Yes, a combination of the remnants of the enchantments on the castle and good old Science. The way it had mutated into countering the disease is definitely interesting. Fortunately, I am deeply familiar with the initial conditions needed to start Garin's Curse, and what can be made can be unmade." His hand reached to touch the affliction.

"Is that?" asked Cressen, praying that the Targaryen too would get infected before the hand shifted to look as though it was covered in scales, as though it belonged to a snake... or a dragon.

"No, that is not Greyscale... I suppose if there was a name for it, it would be Dragonscale," he said, showing off his hand. "A magical accident followed by an amateurish attempt to fix a cursed wound and an unrelated ritual has left me marked in more ways than one, I have to admit. Lessons learned and all that, nothing to worry about. Greyscale, I have learned, is what you get when you mix a Basilisk's blood with water and breed what are effectively algae... ah, moss, that absorbs energy and calcifies human flesh."

He unstoppered a vial of green liquid, spreading it over the cracked skin and murmuring some unknown prayer.

The scaled hand glowed a golden light, flames dancing along his fingers, as the fire sank into the skin and the strange potion.

Cressen watched, unable to move and unwilling to look away as the afflicted skin peeled away and turned to ash, leaving behind raw muscle and bone before flesh itself seemed to grow where the golden green flame touched the potions and tinctures that the man applied.

Once he was done, the Greyscale was replaced by silvery scales not dissimilar to the scales that covered the Targaryen's hand.

"Not bad, your grace," said Marwyn, pulling out a notebook and scratching upon it using a wooden stick attached to a piece of coal on one end.

"Hmm... I had to do a bit of fleshcrafting for that. Had to use the other side as a guide, but she may have a bit far too symmetrical face. Not that the scar would show it. I don't suppose she would mind much. Not likely for her to grow to be a great beauty anyhow. I saw her mother, ears for days that one." explained the Targaryen with a shrug. "Speaking of, the Florents are also our guests, even if they tried to make a run for it."

"You healed her," Cressen spoke, not believing what he saw, "with Magic."

"Of course I did," the man responded as if he was saying the sun rose from the East or the sky was blue. "How old is she?"

Fear engulfed Cressen's soul. He now realized that the rumors that many Maesters dismissed were in fact the truth.

"S-she had her f-fourth name day three moons ago," he stuttered.

"My niece was four when the Lannisters came for her," muttered the Wizard, "Gods do love their irony. Like I said, this little one is innocent of any crime, and I fear that her father will eventually give her to flames for some obscure chance to win a fight... though it might not have happened given the changes."

"Are you a Dreamer as well, my lord," gasped Cressen, deciding that discretion was part of the valor. Cressen was the Maester of Storm's End before Stannis had brought him along to Dragonstone. It was Cressen who had been there when the Baratheon siblings were born, and he had been the one to teach them. If he could learn all that the Wizard was able to do and find the opportunity.

"I suppose, though being a Dreamer was part of my skill set, one that is obvious even if I try to keep it a secret," said Viserys Targaryen. "As for what to do with you..."

"I am a Maester of the Citadel; I serve the Lord of the Keep," spoke Cressen, knowing that his life was at stake. "The Maesters take no sides."

"And yet you do, don't you, Cressen, plotting to learn my secrets and find the opportunity to kill me so you can protect those morons you call Lord," spoke the Wizard, his eyes glowing as Cressen felt unseen fingers press upon his head, baring his soul open. "You raised the Baratheons... you care for them. You whispered in Stannis' ears to follow his brother into the Rebellion. Don't give me that look. You are proof that not all Maesters are in on murdering Targaryens, you know. That is what Marwyn thinks at least. He is a bit on the nutty side, but I like his... enthusiasm."

Said Archmaester barked in laughter at that statement.

"It is the way you are trained, the culture that you are indoctrinated into. You cannot help yourself but meddle, thinking you know better. Granted, the lot of you serve are either vicious cunts or idiots or a mix of both, and in most cases, you probably know better. But for all your knowledge, the Higher Mysteries evade your comprehension, and it drives you wild, causing you to hate what you do not understand. It is far more insidious and annoying than some conspiracy that would justify me putting your entire lot to the torch. In the end, you are just... human," the Targaryen said with sad eyes. "I am not really sorry, you know. I saw you try to poison one witch, and I cannot have you hanging around those I care about. I shall make it quick and ensure nothing feasts on your soul in the afterlife."

"What?" was all Cressen could ask before the Wizard spoke once more.

"Avada Kedavra," the words echoed, and Cressen saw a flash of green light and nothing more.

# The Mage on Dragonstone

Marwyn sighed, catching a steel coin from the Wizard, who looked at the corpse of the dead Maester Cressen, pulling out the Maester's chain.

"What are the chances that you idiots figured out how to get magic to work and focused on ensuring it did not work?" Viserys asked, his eyes not leaving the chain in question.

"What do you mean, my lord?" asked Marwyn, recognizing that the boy preferred being referred to as a Lord, mostly after that one boastful rant about being the Greatest Dark Lord and Bright Lord to ever live after getting a bit too into his cups. Granted, the Wine aged in a Weirwood cask certainly had an appeal to the old Archmaester of Higher Mysteries.

"The chain forms a circle," sighed Viserys, "It acts like a localized Ward, using symbolic association of rules that they learned for each chain, chaining reality to their knowledge, linked to the sacrifice that they make. The chains enforce local rules to match what the Maester knows. The chain acts as the Magic Circle. It would be quite brilliant if it was not so annoying."

"Makes sense," said Marwyn, having realized that his spells worked better since he put away his chain, though it might have also been being close to Viserys Targaryen, who, like his sister and that red bird of his, was roiling with Magical Energy. "It explains why most Magic works in Essos or Beyond the Wall and not in Westeros, especially the South. Will it have any effect on your plans?"

"Not particularly. I will have to be indirect about it and pull a bit more power," said the Wizard, freezing and tilting his head in a way that Marwyn learned to associate with him skinchanging into one of his many Familiars, not that it left his flesh vulnerable, given how Marwyn could feel eyes upon him from the shadow of the fellow Master of Higher Mysteries.

Viserys Targaryen straightened as he smirked. "I had accounted for the possibility of the Weirwood interfering with the Magical Energy already, but that is not an issue nowadays. It just means I need to be subtle and use methods that are less overt. It will be annoying, but I can be subtle," said the younger Wizard, an annoyed look on his face.

Marwyn barked a burst of laughter, having heard the stories of how bad at being subtle the boy king was.

"Who are you?" the girl spoke, as she must have woken by the noise, or it might have been the Targaryen Prince who was bored of the conversation and doing something. Her voice was sleepy as a large cloth appeared over the dead Maester at the wave of Viserys' wand.

"Hello," softly spoke the man who had nearly single-handedly butchered a hundred men at arms. "I am Vis, your cousin, twice removed."

"Second cousin once removed, actually," corrected Marwyn, finding it hilarious that a man who could memorize the specific phases of the moon required to make a potion that fixed spots had no care about knowledge of relations in Westeros that the Nobles found essential as breathing.

"Point is, I am your cousin from your father's side. Our families don't really talk, so we never got to meet," said Viserys. "Your father was nice enough to look after my old home for me."

"Is my father back?" asked the girl before freezing, her hand reaching out to touch her unblemished face. "My face is..."

"No, he will be busy. As for your face, it is healed," said Viserys, holding up his hand and making pretty lights. "I am magic like that. Wanna get out of here and go for a walk? This place looks stuffy."

"The Maester said I am not allowed to go outside," said Shireen Baratheon.

"Well, that was because you were sick, and now you are not. Also, see, this is Archmaester Marwyn; he is like the Old Maester Cressen but smarter. He says it is alright to walk, right?" said the Wizard, giving him a look that had Marwyn nodding. "He will even make sure you are alright."

Marwyn did not know what to expect, but looking after children was not on his list when he set out to join the Wizard and learn more about Magic.

That said a lot more about Marwyn than anything, given that he had expected to get chased by Eldritch Horrors, which was fortunately not that common.

# Wizard

Having left Shireen under the care of the Archmaester, I got to work securing the islands, which involved talking with the current Lady of the Keep.

I leaned back on my chair, my eyes meeting the Lady before me.

"I hold the keep. Most of the guards are either dead or surrendered. This is my land, by right of blood and conquest. If the fact that you and your daughter are alive at the mercy of myself, you can also consider that your husband promised anything to the person who could fix your daughter," I said, pulling out a parchment.

"You want the Dragonstone," said Selyse Florent, clutching her daughter in a way that surprised me. Relief was replaced by a mixture of surprise and disbelief; the woman had been holding onto the girl like a lifeline. Granted, this was not the same woman who got turned into a zealot by Melisandre, but still.

"Don't be ridiculous, my lady; you cannot give that which is mine by every right. This signs away your unconditional surrender and acknowledges your unlawful occupation in exchange for clemency," I explained, having drafted the scroll on the way.

Legally, it had no weight.

Magically, I was pulling on the fact that Stannis attacked me and the fact that I spared his life to do some clever bit of magic to reinforce my ownership of the land.

It did not take long for Selyse to sign the paper.

"Ensure that they are well treated," I stated to the guards.

"And my father?" asked Lady Selyse.

"Ser Axell will be treated with dignity as a knight, should he remain cooperative," I responded, "My Steward will meet you to get a better understanding of the Keep; I hope for your sake you do not mislead her."

"The Gods will see to your death, heathen witch," roared Ser Axell, only to stop making any noise after a wave of my wand knocked him out.

"I am sure his emotions will calm down... eventually," I told Lady Selyse, "Be a dutiful daughter and ensure that it does."

I got up, leaving the room and the guards by the door behind.

That was it.

Dragonstone was mine.

I left the room holding Selyse Baratheon, which was located next to her father. Having Shireen as a Ward ensured that the woman complied, even if it meant that I had to threaten a little girl.

"Fight me, you coward," roared the elderly knight as I flicked my wand, transforming the door to be metal bars out of pettiness. Unlike his daughter, the knight was less than pleasant and did not get the luxury of the illusion of having rooms instead of a cell.

While I was confident in my ability to cut down Ser Axell Florent in a duel, I had him as a hostage, and he would be more useful alive... I think.

I ignored the knight as I walked away, rolling the Geas I had crafted that officialized the fact that Selyse, as the Lady of the Keep, yielded the castle to me and signed in her and Shireen's blood.

It was the second part of the plan I had made to reclaim the ownership of the island before I could leverage that ownership to build a stronger Ward Scheme than any this world would have seen.

First had been Stannis himself. His act of entering my home and my mercy allowed for a subtle contract to form, one that was bound to this very same scroll.

The second was Selyse yielding the hearth to me.

The third was going to be trickier, and it would take longer, but I was confident it would work.

As I walked through the black stone hallways, flames rolled from the tip of my wand, spellfire washing away every path that I passed through and cleansing the building.

Leaving Braavos has made me notice a weird interaction between the Local Magic in an area and the spells I could use. It was as though the entire city had an affinity to itself for protection.

In short, Wards in Braavos worked better than Wards outside Braavos... especially ones based on 'non-detection.'

I could feel the difference; reality was less willing to bend in that direction outside of Braavos, which sort of made sense. You were familiar with the history of Braavos and the magics used in the creation of the specific protection magic done by the Moonsingers. Whatever Magic the Moonsingers had managed to cast, through however many sacrifices, the Mists of Braavos were almost eager to hide things.

My best guess was that Braavos itself held conceptual affinity to the concept of being 'Hidden.'

It was one of the few concepts that I was intimately familiar with, pulling on the feelings and experiences to wrap a cloak of fog around myself to accompany the cloak over my shoulders that hid me from sight.

The same logic meant that I needed to visit other places of Magic to better learn certain forms of spells and add them to my ever-growing repertoire. If the location helped take the burden off the caster, it made it perfect as training wheels to learn different branches of Magic. It made things safer.

Ironically, in order to travel, I needed to settle down.

Granted, having unlocked the secrets to Pyromancy-based Teleportation so I could travel in an instant. It made having a base more convenient than any other alternative.

With the Floo Enchantment proven to be working, travel limitations were no longer an issue, and the contacts I had built in Braavos and the safehouse that was still hidden in Pentos could act as one of the two staging grounds to access anything more I needed.

It also meant that I could send out scouts to set up further access points and safehouses in other cities and not waste time traveling for months.

It also meant that I could build a proper base.

Given that I was starting to mess with some serious stuff in my quest for knowledge, a place I could bunker down if it got tough made sense. Some place that I could enchant and improve and build up, some place to lay my head and recover should I find myself in trouble.

And what better base was there than the only Valyrian Outpost that survived the Doom relatively intact?

For all that it was worth, while Braavos was nice and protected and Pentos was likely to need a new leadership, they were not home, they were not what I needed.

'For a Wizard needs a Tower, as a Hermit Crab needs a Shell,' I recalled some Mage tell. The more powerful a Wizard becomes, a larger Wizard's Tower they need to fit all their magic and ego.

And who was I to do away with tradition?

Hence my choice: Dragonstone, the Last Stronghold of Old Valyria.

Granted, there were other options, but Dragonstone was just what I needed.

In my youth, I had dismissed Dragonstone as useless, given that it lacked more strategic resources to allow for a conquest or defense. It lacked bounty or riches. It was far too close to King's Landing. It was relatively barren apart from sheep and fish, but the volcanic soil would prove useful for my future experiments on that front.

Most of those limitations were no longer an issue with my powers, and I had in my possession three dragon eggs that needed a volcano to nest in.

Combined with the spell that I called "Hidden Mists of Braavos" that I bootlegged and bound to the dragon skull that now made up the prow of Revenge, I had a way to smuggle resources through any blockade if I did not bother to Fireball the ships that formed said blockade.

Granted, magically speaking, there were other places of worth as well that I had considered, places that I believed to hold some power that I wished to study.

Harrenhall was the best one, with access to Godswood of Weirwoods. Yet without access to the sea, thanks to the location of King's Landing, locking the mouth of Blackwater, the castle built with Weirwood and exposed to Dragon Flame was as much a liability as any other castle in Riverlands. Not to mention the time and resources it would take me to repair everything and potentially exorcise a few hundred unsettled souls held within, along with whatever bullshit Greenseers had pulled up in God's Eye.

Valyria was a potential option, but it was a bit too far away and unknown, not to mention whatever I might find in there would be a resource sink to fix up. I did not want to have some supernatural pest problem. The occasional Ashwinder setting the drapes on fire was bad enough and I did not want to mess with whatever had time to evolve over the last four hundred years in such a Magically Volatile environment.

There was also the castle once built on the Isle of Bloodstone by Daemon Targaryen after his conquest of the Stepstones. Grounds tempered with dead and dragon fire, Stepstones would have given me what I needed to build something from scratch... but that same freedom made it a resource and time sink.

There was a small castle there, from what I heard, but it was more of an outpost filled with Pirates than anything. It was not a castle that could withstand a siege. Unfortunately, building something from scratch would have to wait, as I could simply take over a better position with a complete Fortress.

Other options were also considered. Skagos, with some Dragonglass Reserves and Unicorns, was far too close to the North and lacked other resources that would make it livable, not to mention the need to build the keep again.

The same reason was why I dismissed Hardhome as another base. I technically should hold some Authority over the land as the Greenseer who is the successor of the region through Morrigan, but I was not going to live in a location that did not have a magically crafted eight hundred feet ice wall between me and one of the few things that could reliably kill me.

Tarth was effectively a paradise but lacked in Magic, and the Shipbreakers Bay made logistics tricky to conduct any war of sorts, even if I would be sitting right in front of Robert's Ancestral Home. There was also a part of me that was biased about House Tarth and they may or may not be related to House Targaryen through one of Aegon the Unlikely's sisters... the one that he was supposed to marry before the girl got impregnated by Duncan the Tall, I think. I also liked Brienne of Tarth as a character; she was one of the few good people in this hellhole of a world and a truer knight than anyone else. I would not steal her lands from her and make her face reality before she was ready, lest I break one of the good things in this world.

I may be a petty cunt to my enemies, but I was not cruel.

Beyond Magic, there were other considerations.

Politically, Dragonstone was the obvious choice.

My control over the island represented defiance against Robert's Reign, as the Targaryens reclaiming the staging ground of the Conquest and their ancient home had symbolic value that I could not simply let go of, even if I was falling into the Sunk Cost Fallacy just a bit. It was the same reasoning while Robb losing Winterfell had led to him losing the war, or how Storm's End falling may have been the key to ending Robert's Rebellion if not for those Tyrells being habitual fence-sitters.

Robert's Reign would mean nothing so long as a Targaryen-held Dragonstone. Then again, making Robert lose sleep was always a worthy goal. The fact that I was within dick-waving distance of King's Landing and would soon turn the island into an impregnable fortress helped.

My feet found me before the large doors of a particular chamber.

"The docks and the village are secured as planned. They are in the Chamber," said Ser Richard, in step with me. "Nervous?"

"A bit," I admitted.

"You will do great," said my Sworn Sword, giving a nod to the Unsullied to open the door.

"And if I don't?" I asked.

"You will Magic something up, though hopefully, not with as much fire. The fire snake trick is already enough for my nerves." shrugged Ser Richard before opening the door.

"All Hail Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, Shield of His People, the Last Archon of the Freehold," announced Ser Richard, a grin on his face before adding, "The Dragon Reborn and Archwizard of Dragonstone."

I looked around, to my sister, seeing Daenerys beaming with happiness, standing next to the chest that held the three Dragon eggs.

I saw Lanna nervous but resolute in the face of future conflict.

I ignored Wat and Wat, sending off waves of anticipation and wishing to prove themselves.

Marwyn and Melisandre were to one side, clearly discussing something before I interrupted them.

Jon Connington stood with his Valyrian Steel Hand pin on his chest.

I walked into the room, pulling Starlight and weaving it into my hair, forming a glowing halo around my head.

I winked at Dany, who just rolled her eyes at the display of Magic.

Tough crowd that one.

My fingers trailed through the table as I walked.

The Painted Table.

Constructed by Aegon the Dragon, using wood imported from Seven Kingdoms and shaped into an exact replica of Westeros after months of scouting with dragons.

Where Dragonstone ought to be was now a Glass Candle, placed atop a Weirwood Spear that was embedded into the floor, and bathing the room with light that washed away some colors and amplified them at once.

I nodded in approval; Dany's work was rather straightforward, a logical next step for her that effectively hacked into the Weirwood Network through the Sympathetic bond and highlighted every spear and spear-shaped object in the continent before projecting it all into the Painted Table.

I looked over the Map of Westeros, light forming dots showing the location of every army in Westeros, live.

I smiled.

Yeah, this place made for a perfect Wizard's Tower.

"Right, let's get to work," I said.

# The Princess of Dragonstone

Dany watched Vis wave his wand, a wave of flames washing over the black stone and doing absolutely nothing.

"Do I have to be here for this?" asked Dany, sitting on top of the floating chest containing the Dragon Eggs. Hers was the black one, while Vis said something about the dragon choosing the rider as he had claimed the white one.

"Yes," her brother said, waving his wand around and stopping, "gotcha."

The wall moved out of the way.

"What exactly is the point again?" asked Dany.

"The Dragonpit," said Viserys, pointing at the large ramp-like structure that reminded Dany of the docks of Braavos. "The naturally formed cave system that originally housed the dragons before Maegor fucked it all up and created a lesser copy in the mainland like an idiot."

"Do we need access to the Dragonpit?" asked Dany, "I thought you said we are not going to try to hatch the eggs until the time is right and the eggs are awakened."

"Yes, well, when you start to dream of the dragon, you will be closer to ready, but no that is not the main goal. The cave system provides entrances to the keep that need to be guarded," said Vis, as two ravens flew out of his shadows to perch on one of the openings. "But they also provide a more direct access to the Magic within the island."

"Yes, yes, there are spells woven into the stone," nodded Dany, not wanting to hear the lecture again.

Vis glared at her, though he was smiling, so it was not like he was angry. Dany, being the mature princess that she was, stuck out her tongue in response, only to yelp as the floating chest she was sitting on dropped to the ground.

"Ouch," she said, pushing down the tears of surprise.

"That was... not me," said Vis with a frown, waving his wand as flames seemed to flow in one direction. Vis simply breathed out, "Fascinating."

Dany closer her eyes, focusing on her magic and bringing out her wand in turn. 'Revelio,' she thought, not speaking the words since calling out incantations was for noobs, or so Vis said.

"It feels like the Magical energy is sucked in that direction," said Dany.

"Yes, it does," said Vis with a smile, as though he found a puzzle that needed to be solved. "And it is going deeper into the cave system, deeper into Dragonmont."

"I want to come," Dany demanded, giving her brother the right glare and standing up.

"Right," said Vis, a wave of his wand covered the chest containing the Dragon Eggs in a dome of stone. "Let's keep these here, where only two of us know," he winked. "Oh, and remember the rules?"

"If you say run, I run," said Dany, with as much seriousness as she could, a shiver running down her spine at remembering how the one time she did not take that advice seriously had been one of the few times Vis had genuinely been angry at her.

"Good girl," her brother said, rubbing her head and making Dany hum with how pleasant and warm he felt. "Right, onward into adventure."

"Adventure sucks," said Dany, sweat making her dress cling to her body, even as she made sure to keep the scarf Vis enchanted around her mouth to keep the fumes out. The red silk scarf had already blackened from filtering so much nastiness, and Dany had no intention of inhaling any of it.

Vis was not that different, armor and shirt long since discarded, with only Blackfyre and his wand at his side.

Dany's hand reached for the pommel of the dagger her brother gave her, feeling the comfort and the way its magic absorbed the foreign presence around them.

"Most of the time," nodded Vis, waving a new shield around them that kept the air cool. "The heat is mostly artificial and empowers the spells to keep the people away from this section."

"Oh, that means we are on the right track," said Dany, remembering her lessons. If a Wizard wanted to keep something hidden, protecting it too much was the same as putting up a flag saying there was something interesting there.

"Yes, we are, in fact, here we are," said Vis, as the Targaryen siblings entered a large hall.

"It is empty," said Dany with a puff, even as the feeling of heat simply disappeared.

"Describe it to me," said Vis, going into lecture mode.

"Decorated walls, with Valyrian Glyphs and images of dragons, an intricate dance between the dragons as they move from frame to frame. There is an altar in the middle of the room. The ceiling is vaulted and high enough for an older dragon to move through," said Dany, looking at her brother, who was impatiently tapping his feet.

Dany frowned, not sure what she was missing, as her eyes focused on where Vis was tapping his foot and her eyes widened. "The floor is uneven."

"So it would seem," Vis said with a smile. "See the part that is even. Let's move there."

"Someone flooded the room," said Dany. The altar and the walkway merged with the cooled surface. Dany stood next to the altar. "They hid something beneath the stone."

"I would hope so," said Vis, "Because if that is not the case, I will look very foolish. Be a dear and stand behind that large pillar," her brother added, standing before the altar.

Dany did as she was told, watching as Vis set up something.

Blackfyre was stabbed behind him, between Dany and him, anchoring a shimmering field of some advanced shield as Vis muttered in High Valyrian instead of Latin that Dany knew he preferred, before turning his back and facing the altar.

Valyrian Magic always required Blood and Fire, Maester Marwyn had said... well... ranted.

Vis called them two-bit hacks, unable to understand the intricacies of Magic.

So, as Dany's brother raised his wand, Dany watched with interest behind the pillar as Vis the Wizard spoke Words of Power.

"YOL," the tip of his wand glowed with fire.

"TOOR," the fire leaped out to form a sea of flames over the black obsidian, somehow sinking into the stone.

"SHUL," the fire turned golden as wave after wave of pure energy empowered the inferno of flames.

The stone that had once been solid softened, glowing as it melted into lava once more.

Vis clapped his hands together before pulling them apart with a roar of "Partis Temporum,"

The lake of lava started to move, splitting in two and getting pulled apart as Dany looked on in awe.

This was her idiot big brother.

This was the Wizard that everyone with half a brain feared.

This was Viserys the Dragon Reborn.

The red sea of molten stone parted, revealing a beam of blackened metal that stood like a spike driven into the ground as the two sides of the lava rapidly cooled.

Vis slumped over the alter, smoke coming from his skin.

"Ouch, I think I pulled a muscle," said Vis before sighing and straightening up. "It is safe now," he said. "I think."

Dany walked forward, crushing into Vis in a hug and burying her face in his chest. She did not care about the tears coming from her eyes nor the comforting warmth that had enveloped her.

Vis was an idiot sometimes.

"It appears to be a Ward Anchor," said Vis, looking at the glowing glyphs while sitting on the altar and dangling his feet over the edge. "The Valyrian on it is old, even from what I know, and very archaic, but I think I got the gist of it. It is blood magic."

"Obviously," said Dany, sitting next to him. "Can you translate?"

"That side is about the power, how to start the powering of the wards and have it sustain using the heat of the volcano," said Vis, pointing at one of the three faces of the large pillar of Valyrian Steel. "Standard stuff, really, blood sacrifice, dragon fire, the usual."

Dany nodded, not moving from the altar that was obviously the location that got the blood sacrifice.

"The second face is what the protection does," said Vis, "General protection from outside influence, though I am not sure if that means outside the walls, the island, or the entire plane of existence, but I am sure we can figure it out later.

"What is the last side?" asked Dany.

"Oh, that is the part that instructs what not to do so the wards can remain self-sustaining and general warnings," said Vis with a frown.

"What should not be done?" asked Dany.

"Standard notes on Blood Magic. Turns out Dance did not fully kill the Dragons," said Vis with a frown. "With the adult dragons already dead, Targaryens having given up the old traditions of throwing people into the pit of lava as sacrifice, which is not the worst idea granted, and no Targaryens living on the Island to sustain the Blood Magic, well, the protections of the island needed to get the magic from somewhere."

"Sucked the magic out of the younger dragons?" asked Dany.

"Pretty much," said Vis with a nod, puffing his chest with pride. "The power I fed into the wards should do the trick, and I managed to do a bit of Green Magic to get the Wards at the moment they were starting to unravel and pull them to the present."

"Is this the part where I say that my big brother is awesome?" asked Dany.

"Brat," responded Vis with a smile and ruffling her hair.

"Nerd," replied Dany in kind, though smiling.

"Yes, well, casual Time Magic aside, I got access to the wards for now, but I am not sure I can sustain it," said Vis. "This type of magic is... it is effectively Hearth Magic, very female-oriented. It strains my soul just holding onto it."

"And it will work for me?" asked Dany with a frown.

"Eh, Rhaenyra Targaryen could do it," said Vis with a shrug, "And that bitch had the magical capacity of an above-intelligence gecko."

Dany winced, hoping it was not going to be another lecture on the Dance. She recalled her own lectures, matching the times. Visenya Targaryen had stayed for long durations in Dragonstone, despite the fact that Aegon ruled from King's Landing. Rhaenys Targaryen had similarly stayed on the island when Alysanne was gone. The only time Dragonstone would have been left alone would be during the Reign of Viserys the First, and even then, Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, would have been in charge of the dragons of the island and close enough.

"The rules are slightly simple," said Vis. "The Volcano is still dormant, and I would rather it stayed that way. The power I gave the anchor should last a good while, and I will add a ritual so it should repower itself once every year and a day."

"Why year and a day?" asked Dany.

"Well, it is technically a year and a few hours," said Vis, "A full rotation around the sun, but the concept is linked to sunrise, so it ensures magic lasts a year and a day."

"Cool," said Dany. "Does that mean I have to be stuck here like some princess in a tower?"

"Not particularly," said Vis with a shrug. "At most, you would need to spend a day for every moon. Since I am setting up the Floo Network, you are not really trapped here. I will have to add some special protections to keep unwanted people out, but it is the perfect home for us."

"But I need to protect us," said Dany, feeling happy that she got to protect their family like Vis had been doing. "I will do it."

"You are my favorite sister," said Vis, ruffling her hair once more.

"I am your only sister, you idiot," Dany responded, not wanting to think about all of their dead siblings.

"Come on, let's go get something to eat," said Vis as if feeling her mood and jumping off the altar. "I am starving."

AN: This is back from the hiatus that the show that must not be named put it on. I shall do the wise thing and remember the saying, "We do not show." Anyway, it's back to semi-regular updates while I mainly focus on my 40k fic. It took me a while to figure out which direction I wanted to take this in, but I am going to still ask you guys before.

The problem is the power difference. Nothing is stopping Wiz from going around killing off every High Lord, starting with waltzing into Casterly Rock and merking Tywin and causing chaos in general, at the cost of being completely blind to the events people are setting up.

For Wiz, War of the Five Kings happening is useful since it shows that Targaryens are the only ones who can give a stable realm to Westeros. It also means the enemies of Targaryens fighting each other.

Also, the timeline is not the best. This is 5 years before the start of books, and all the fun characters haven't grown up yet.

I have ideas on how to continue, but I would love to hear your opinions. I had this idea of a pseudo-Fidelius to keep Dragonstone from being approached from Westeros, but I am open to other ideas.

Last edited: Dec 17, 2024

041 Interlude 6

# The Priestess

The protections that hid Braavos spoke of sacrifice, of the death of children and priestesses alike.

It spoke of desperation to hide from the monsters that would see them burn. Dozens, hundreds walking into their own death so that thousands may live.

They certainly did not speak of pleasure and euphoria as the means to weave such protections, not with the way that the Wizard had done things.

Her screams of ecstasy were muffled as she felt the hand holding onto her hair push her down between the legs of the Courtesan of Braavos while Viserys drove his cock into her core from behind with deep and powerful thrusts, occasionally slapping her arse and sending a mix of pain and pleasure through her spine.

"Good girl," her lover spoke from behind her, the words sending another pulse of pleasure from her core, through her spine, and all the way up to the base of her skull.

The Priestess could only mumble, her tongue seeking the treasure between the soft thighs of the Black Pearl, lapping at the cream like it was the sweetest of nectars while the air around them crackled with the magic that was being woven by the Wizard.

Shadowmoon did not know when she ended up enjoying these acts of debauchery.

Her assignment had been clear: guide the Princess into their ways while spying on the Wizard for the Moonsingers. Her mission was to observe, to guide, and, above all, to ensure that the Wizard Viserys Targaryen posed no threat to the Moonsingers or to Braavos. He was to be watched closely to ensure that his actions did not become a threat to Braavos.

At first, Shadowmoon had dismissed the notion entirely. She had scoffed at the idea that the exiled Targaryen king could be anything more than a fraud. In her eyes, he was a man like any other-violent, greedy, and worse still, Valyrian. She had expected nothing from him but arrogance and failure.

Then she met him.

He held himself with a certain authority. That was the first part she realized. Every act he had was measured and controlled as though he was afraid to hurt those around him. Fresh off the conquest against the House of Black and White, others saw Death given form, or a Mage with too much power. Yet, Shadowmoon saw a man who was afraid of becoming a monster.

There was a certain sadness to it, Shadowmoon realized, as she met his eyes.

And somehow, he had her among the dozen Acolytes that the High Priestess had presented him as potential teachers for his little sister.

He chose her over all the true believers. Her, Shadowmoon, the orphan that was named by the High Priestess herself because she had no parents to name her. Shadowmoon could not be bothered to memorize the prayers and had to take the beatings given. Shadowmoon, who could not go through a single ritual without thinking of how needlessly stupid it was, only to be mocked by others. Shadowmoon, who would have as likely to have found herself kicked from the Temple by year's end, to potentially become a whore or something to make a living.

Her interactions with Viserys were sparse at first. He was a king who fancied himself a wizard, and she treated him with the doubt any would hold against Magic in this age. Yet she could not ignore the effect he had on others. Her charge, Daenerys, revered her brother as if he were a god. Lanna, the orphan girl he had taken in, talked of being his apprentice with pride.

And then there were the few times he spoke directly to her. He didn't speak as a king to a servant but as a scholar to an equal. He asked questions about her Order-not prying, but piecing together their secrets from the half-answers she was permitted to give. All the while, she found herself drawn to his glowing violet eyes, eyes that glowed with power and left her flustered.

Worst of all was that he was not a fraud, and shared his knowledge with her willingly. He didn't hoard his power as she had expected. Instead, he crafted a staff for her and taught her the finer points of his magic. With his guidance, she began to see the rituals of the Moonsingers in a new light. Practices she had dismissed as mere superstition revealed their magical underpinnings-magic, not divinity, guiding their traditions. He helped her see what was to be and made it so she could, on her own, achieve what would have taken an entire room of Moonsingers to sing for hours.

When he had come to her for help on a ritual, Moonshadow had agreed. When she heard the details of the ritual, her pride made her refuse to back down, no matter what the strange feeling in her stomach might imply, or the warmth in her nethers.

It made Shadowmoon see a path for herself as a Moonsinger, yet without the chains of the Temple of the Moonsingers to bind her or the treacherous path of becoming another Courtesan in Braavos, to use her body to live without needing anything else.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she reached her peak. Her body shook with pleasure and power at once.

The pair of hands gripping her hips rose, mauling Shadowmoon's breasts while pulling her back. Held against the muscular chest of her lover, she was not who was in the process of making her moan louder while kissing her neck.

"Focus," he whispered into her ear, and she did. Guided by the unseen power of the Wizard, she wove the power from her end, sacrificing her maiden's blood to weave protection around the land itself, even as the small spell she wove, far too weak to be of any effect, was flooded with power from the other end.

As she released the power of the Tantric Ritual, her other lover pulled herself up, a pair of lips wrapping themselves around her hardened nipples.

"Is it done?" asked Bellegere, as Viserys grunted and painted her womb white with his seed, causing her vision to go white with pleasure.

"Yes," said Viserys, right behind her ear. "It should be enough to keep the island from being approached by anyone who considered themselves an enemy or hold malicious intent or whom I would consider my enemy."

"Good," said Bellegere, with a smile, "Does that mean that you are done with playing with the Priestess?"

"I suppose," said Viserys, "Do you suppose that the Moonsingers will care that she is no more a maiden?"

"Yes," whined Shadowmoon, a plan formed in her mind that would see her rid of those stupid hags. "I am ruined."

The acolytes had to remain maidens, after all. That was the rule, not that Shadowmoon thought that it was a good rule.

"They will certainly throw her out," spoke the Black Pearl, "poor thing would have to live in the streets. Though I suppose I could ask my mother to teach her to become a Courtesan, she is beautiful after all and her tongue is divine."

"I don't know, I might keep her for myself," said Viserys Targaryen, a pressure and warmth emanating from where he stood behind Shadowmoon, his length hardening within her once more as rough hands palmed her teets. "A dragon needs to have a hoard after all. What do you say, Little Shadow?"

"Yes," moaned Shadowmoon, as she was pulled back against the muscular chest of the King.

"We can tell the High Priestess that you are going to create your own Temple here in Dragonstone," he whispered, driving himself deeper into her. "You would be a Priestess, and no one would dare make any other insinuations."

"My, and if they did, lover?" asked Bellegere, raising up to capture Shadowmoon's lips.

"I am sure they are wise enough, given that I hold the sun in my hands," said the Wizard, a smile that Shadowmoon could sense was on his lips.

That sounded like the best idea Shadowmoon had heard, to be honest, and all she could think was 'This type of ritual is certainly better than being stuck in that boring temple droning over another.'

# Stefon Spyre

Stefon did not know what to expect as he made his way through the Wyrmway. All he knew was that the Crowned Stag banners were replaced with the Three-Headed Red Dragon one day, and whispers and fire were all that could be heard.

The banners of House Targaryen were something Stefon remembered from his childhood, as he had remembered the war that they had lost. Somehow, House Targaryen had returned, and they had reclaimed their ancestral home.

It was the same day that some of the soldiers in the village had all fallen over, with new ones coming in to collect them. Some had the look of fighters, their eyes without mercy beneath their spiked helms. Others were without faces, clad in armor, and moved with certainty and silence.

Most in the Village were cautious, not knowing how it would affect their lives.

Now, he was sent to treat with the new lord who took the castle, along with two others.

Lord Stannis was not a bad lord, to say the least. He was humorless, and his justice had a bite, as many had learned, yet he was not cruel. It was the first thing they had learned after the Baratheon Fleet came to the island nine years past.

All who lived in Dragonstone were proud to call themselves Dragon's Men. They were the subjects of the Crown Prince, and they had prospered for it.

Stefon had been a guard back then, one of those charged with keeping the peace in the village, a spear given to his hand after the Rebellion, a boy more than a man. He remembered it all.

They had all been ready to fight until they were all dead to the men, all were told the fate that would await the Dragonseeds. All knew what had happened to the children of the Prince, and if the Dragons could not protect their own children, what were all the Dragonseeds to do but to expect death.

Stefon himself knew that he would be put through the sword after the Keep fell after the Rebellion, just as all the others.

Then came the storm-Gods' wrath, they called it-which shattered the Royal Fleet. As if their fate wasn't bleak enough already.

Yet, Stefon was a guard and not a knight, and the Knights left in charge of the Keep had yielded the castle when they learned that the lord of the Keep had vanished into the night.

The most loyal had the fortune to die in the storm, on the ships, where Lord Lucerys Velaryon had kept the most loyal man, the ones who knew best how to fight. All of them dead, to the man.

Then the Stags came.

Lord Stannis had not done as they had expected and spared their lives, even allowing them to return to their lives. In turn, they kept their heads down and did not make too much noise, and the Stags did not move to cut down the entire island to the man.

It did not mean that everyone liked the Stag Lord. His rule was harsh, his justice swift and without mercy. He had even ordered the brothel closed down if the dour fucker could not make them more miserable. But the quiet was what most cared for, and quiet was what the Lord of Dragonstone had given them, even if they had to pay for it.

As he was led through the black hallways of the Castle, Stefon took a deep breath. Now, it was up to him to make sure that the new lord of the Keep did not put them to the sword for some slight, like yielding the Keep when no Targaryen lived there.

He found himself in the Throne Room, the giant Dragonstone throne lying empty, even as another door slammed open, and in walked The Targaryen.

Because this was a Targaryen if there were any.

Stefon himself was a Dragonseed, like many in Dragonstone, though where his hair was the color of straw, the man before him had a hair of silver that shifted as it caught the light to gold. It looked purer than any other Dragonseeds that Stefon had known, as though it was spun of Sunlight.

His face had the look of youth, barely a boy grown. Despite his youth, the boy held himself like a fighter, standing taller than others in the room and built like a wall.

It was the eyes, however, that made Stefon flinch. Eyes that met him and bore through him. They were the purple of Valyria, true but they glowed as though Stefon was staring into a bonfire, and he could not hold the gaze for more than a moment.

Then, as he passed by, Stefon caught a smell of brimstone and ash, and a whisper that told him that this was a dragon more than a man.

The Targaryen sighed, ignoring him to speak to the knight next to him. "Have a runner sent to tell Sajo to follow the birds," spoke the man with silver hair and burning purple eyes, clad in red and black silks. "Tell him to take the Revenge to the new harbor I built; the cavern should make do for now, and I am ordering a chain to be built in Braavos to block the entrance along with the rocks themselves. It should be able to handle any storm while docked within and we can expand as we get more pieces."

"Yes, my lord," spoke the knight next to him, a knight clad in armor and a shield on his back, before turning and leaving.

The Targaryen pulled out a letter from his sleeves, and a red bird burst from nowhere in waves of fire before grasping the large scroll and vanishing into nothing.

It had been enough for Stefon to fall back on his ass in surprise.

This was certainly a Targaryen alright, and one of those from the old stories his ma had told her when he was a child.

"You must be the Alderman I asked for," said the Targaryen, as Stefon got to one knee, hoping against hope that he would not burst into flames like that poor bird.

"Mi-Mi-Mi... yo-your grace," stammered Stefon, scrambling to get on his knees, not knowing how to address the man before him.

The bird burst back, flying around the room before landing on a gleaming gold perch to the side that he had not noticed. The thrill that the bird gave sounded like amusement, and Stefon found himself just a bit calmer, watching the red bird preen on his perch.

"Your grace is fine, and the bird is Will; he is perfectly fine with doing what you saw; you need not worry about him," said the Targaryen before him as though reading his thoughts. "What is your name?"

"Stefon, milord... your grace," Stefon said, "Stefon Spyre."

"Well, while I am sure this would be an interesting conversation on ornithology, let us cut to the chase," said the Targaryen. He had a strange way of speaking, a manner that left him thinking and using words that made Stefon confused. "I am Viserys Targaryen, son of Aerys, Second of His Name. I was granted the rule of Dragonstone by my father eleven years past as Prince on Dragonstone. Nine years past, I was forced into exile for my own safety, and now I am returned. Do you have any questions?"

Stefon's eyes widened at the declaration. This was the Prince, the son of the Old King.

"N-no, your grace," said Stefon daring to lift his head up to look at the Targaryen before him.

"Good, then here is my question to you," said Prince Viserys Targaryen as Stefon met the glowing eyes filled with power. "How may I best serve the people of Dragonstone?"

For one more time, Stefon was surprised that a Lord would ask that question to him of all people.

For a brief moment, Stefon wondered if it was worth his head if he asked the Targaryen to kindly fuck back off to exile so it did not end with the whole village being put the sword by an angry Baratheon.

Viserys Targaryen chuckled as though he knew what Stefon was thinking and found it amusing. Then again, flaming birds and a Targaryen with Magic... maybe he could read his thoughts.

"I would not call it reading, as it is far too unlike how you would read a book, but I would not hold your thoughts against you, so long as they did not whisper of betrayal at least," said the Prince before him, as a chill ran down Stefon's spin. "And while I hold the protection of my subject to be my utmost priority, I have no intention of leaving Dragonstone to the Baratheons. Now, before I order a full census of the population, what would be the most important things, other than Security and Food. Tell me, Stefon of my subjects."

So Stefon spoke, his mouth moving even without his mind telling him to do so.

# The Mage

Marwyn opened his eyes from where he was meditating, using the practices that the King had taught him in exchange for learning the intricacies of what Viserys Targaryen called Fire and the Void.

His fingers wrapped around the dogwood wand, with his Valyrian Steel link denoting him as the Arch-Maester separating the bulbous handle from the rest of the wand as it hid a Firewyrm Egg... or rather, an Ashwinder egg, as the King called it.

With the wand, magic came much more easily, even if he had to make an oath to serve Viserys Targaryen and his chosen heir in exchange, above any other. He knew that he would hold to that oath, even without the binding that had burned into the flesh of his left hand in the form of runes.

"Apologies, my other meeting ran longer than I thought it would," said the younger wizard, walking up to where Marwyn was sitting.

"A king who asks questions where he does not know," Marwyn mused instead, "next, you will say that pigs can fly."

"Honestly, making a flying pig sounds easier than managing an entire island. Figured the ones who handle the day-to-day running of an entire island the size of Dragonstone probably know more than I do," the King responded. "I am trying to wrangle the old protections on the island in the meantime."

"Not enough power?" asked Marwyn, taking a sip of the wine that he had Morna make, one that was aged in a cast of Weirwood and Nightwood.

"Funny enough, power is not the issue here," said the King, "The current power I was able to put made it so anyone who considers my family an enemy or serves another who considers me an enemy is unable to see the island altogether. The mental pressure is strong enough that it would work on anyone who does not have strong enough mental discipline. It would, however, not prevent an experienced sailor to sail blind."

"So, make some spikes from the sea floor," suggested Marwyn.

"I will add it to the list," the King responded, nodding, "Bit more power intensive, but I should be able to reach the seabed at shallower regions without too much power wasted. I was thinking more along the lines of a mist and winds that would keep intruders."

"Right, that also works, I suppose," said Marwyn, "Might want to go on a trip to the Isle of Faces. There is an Archmaester from a few centuries back who swears that the Godseye have currents and winds that work to do something similar, which most Maesters dismiss as hearsay of the smallfolk. Then again, the idiot lost a foot to the Lizard Lions on that same lake, so there might be some truth within."

"Yes, but I cannot figure out how to get the protection extended out to the sea without decaying. I am pretty sure the Targaryens sacrificed a dragon or four before the conquest to bring up the War Wards. The soul-stuff bound to the island has degenerated and repairs are slow."

"Har," laughed Marwyn with a grin. "I am sure it is exhausting work, sharing your bed with such beauties as the Black Pearl and the Priestess."

"While I enjoy the carnal pleasures as much as any man," the King responded, "it is time-consuming, and the essence I can harness is only barely enough to replace what is lost."

"So, you need to sacrifice unborn children to the fire," spoke Marwyn, "now, that is what the Maesters think when they think of Valyrian Sorcery."

"I have a better idea. Actually, I had two out of three men begging me to reopen the brothel on the island," said Viserys, "something about Stannis outlawing it."

"I had heard of that, thought it to be jest," said Marwyn. "What was Cressen teaching that fool?"

"Yes, well, it is one of the oldest human professions," said Viserys, "even if I find the idea of needing to pay for sex distasteful."

"Hah, not everyone has the looks to seduce a Courtesan of Braavos, lad, not to mention the power of gods," said Marwyn, with a serious nod. "But everyone pays for sex in some way."

"I suppose," said Viserys.

"What does that have anything to do with the protections?" asked Marwin.

"Well, since the essence needed for the wards requires it to be only dragonseed," started the King, "what are your opinions on state-sponsored birth control for brothels."

"What, so no little bastards running around. They make for good guards, I heard. One in ten guards in Oldtown is a bastard, and one in seven of the Maesters, as well. If you go for it, me thinks the men on the island will love you for it, and the woman will curse you to your grave or ask for it themselves," chuckled Marwyn, not regretting one bit that he chose to make the journey to join with Viserys Targaryen.

"Right," said Viserys, before turning to the door that Marwyn was guarding for all purposes, flanked by the two Unsullied whose stories were as dry as their non-existing balls. "How is our prisoner?"

"Addled," responded Marwyn simply. "My lord, are you certain that this boy has power?"

"Let's ask him, shall we?" said Viserys, holding his wand in one hand and his dagger in the other.

Of the two, Marwyn did not know which was the most dangerous, a dagger that screamed of death when the Prince held it or the stick that would make reality hitch its breath.

"Hello, Patchface," greeted the Wizard, looking at the former slave whose face was tattooed with patches to designate him as a fool.

"Under the sea, birds have scales. I know, I know, I know," spoke the boy in riddles while held in both chains and magical ropes. Marwyn did not like it, not because he found the ramblings meaningless, but because he felt something pressing into the back of his mind. "Under the sea, dragons ride the rainbows as they make their way through islands."

"Under the sea, a raven is a dragon," echoed Viserys Targaryen... "or he is seeing fish, I have no idea. He is, however, a skinchanger, that much I can tell."

"Right," said Marwyn, not sure how honed one had to be able to tell if that was the case. "So, what now?"

Viserys pulled out a stack of parchments, each containing distinct shapes and glyphs.

"Now, you start testing Patchface over here with everything we can think of," King said with a grin "until we get enough information to come up with a better solution than it is just a man who got possessed by skinchanging fish."

"For a moment, I thought you were going to look into the mind of the fool or, worse, make me do it," said Marwyn with a sigh of relief.

"Don't be ridiculous. I did not become a Wizard, just by poking my head into the minds of Eldritch Horrors. Also, that is what Melisandre is here for, much more disposable and ironically resistant to external magic," said the Wizard, "In the meantime, I will have Melisandre build something for the wards."

# Serpenttongue

Lanna missed her familiar and the safety that Tywin the Basilisk provided, yet she still endured, walking the black hallways with a purpose.

Her Master had commanded the Basilisk to guard the caverns beneath the Keep, the ones that would provide a route to escape but also a vulnerability as well. In the dark, his eyes would be of little use but a serpent in the dark with the venom and the ability to feel any living was far too effective a defense for Lanna to object.

"~Serpensotia~" whispered Lanna, holding her Rowan and Basilisk Horn wand and speaking in the tongue of Serpents that her Master had granted her through ritual.

The echo of the Basilisk wrapped itself around her, a pale copy of the original but with venom just as deadly if lacking the pure magical destruction the original held. She moved with purpose, entering the Workshops beneath the Keep, one that had an Obsidian Raven standing in front of it, keeping watch.

"The pennyroyal, king's copper and the copper interlace with each other," spoke Viserys pointing at a cauldron while standing next to the Red Witch. "The moonbloom, moonstone, and bloodstone bind together to create their own effect."

"So that moon's blood could bloom," Melisandre nodded. "And the pennyroyal acts to bind the second half of the potion to the copper."

"Yes," said Viserys, "I need you to make enough copper for thirty rings, at the least."

"My, my lord, I did not know you were so insatiable," breathed out Melisandre, speaking in the same way that the whores in Happy Harbor used to make a man feel valuable. "If it is pleasure you seek, know that I am yours to serve."

"It is not really for my use," said Viserys, "I just got questions from three different village leaders on whether or not I was planning to get the brothel in the Village that Stannis outlawed back up, and I am going to use that as an excuse to power the wards. The population may not be too closely related to us anymore, but there are still Dragonseeds within, and brothel makes for a good way to keep an eye on things, I heard. I will have to drop by Braavos to get Bellonara to handle the details, move some girls by tempting them with proper healthcare and upgrade the wards in there as well, so I do not have the time to power the enchantments on my own."

Lanna opened her mouth to offer her services. She was the best in potions, after all, a mastery that she had been working hard to acquire.

Before she could speak, Her Prince responded, "No, Lanna, you and Dany are not suitable for this job without long-term consequences to your fertility." he said, turning to the Red Priestess. "Melony, you are to do this because, to be frank, my dear, I do not care that much about you."

"As you command, my lord," purred Melisandre, proving herself to be more shameless than a whore, not caring that the Prince had just called her worthless. "It had been so long since my ability to bear living children was sacrificed."

"Well, that might not be the case anymore, what with being reborn and all that, but who knows," said His Grace, "Granted, it might also just be that your body seems weird enough to have a certain resistance to magical effect, so not really sure if potions can affect you anymore."

"Would you like to try it, my lord?" asked the Red Woman, making Lanna want to strangle her for some reason.

"Lanna," greeted Viserys Targaryen instead of responding to the Witch.

"Your grace," greeted Lanna with the proper courtsy.

"Where is Dany?" he asked, as Lanna shifted her perspective, finding the right snake that was hidden around in her Master's new castle.

"The yard," Lanna responded, sparring against Ser Richard, before flinching as her snake self heard the crow of a raven, the serpentine instincts forcing her to treat it as the prelude for an attack, even as her human self knew it was meant to be a call for the Princess to answer her brother's summons.

"Any questions while we wait for the princess?" asked Viserys, back to his cheery mood.

"I would like to ask about this potion the... Lady Melisandre is supposed to brew. I am competent enough in Potions to do it if needed," Lanna said, not willing to let something that she could do be done by that Hag.

"Like I said, it is more dangerous for you," said Viserys, "The copper is enchanted and bound with an abortifacient, and it is specifically designed to prevent conception while regulating the Moon's Blood," he explained, causing Lanna to blush. "A mistake may lead the crafter barren, not to mention any consequence on those who have not yet flowered."

Lanna nodded to herself. She was two and ten now, almost a woman grown, once she bled and would become a woman grown. If her Master wanted her fertile, then Lanna would follow his orders, even if she was a better Potion Mistress than the Crimson Cunt.

"And his grace has deemed that I am a more worthy sacrifice for such magic," said the smug Redheaded Tart.

"It is because I just don't care about you that much, Melony and any sacrifice on your end would be only if you were incompetent," responded Viserys with a shrug.

Lanna smiled like a cat that had just caught her prey.

Then the Princess came, and their lessons started.

Apparently, they had to learn how to bind potions to squash seeds in case they needed to grow giant squash that could feed all.

Lanna would ensure that she could master this new Herbology that her Master taught.

She was, after all, the Apprentice of the Wizard.

# Septon Barre

Barre waited with bated breath. The guard outside did not speak, but they were not so savage as to intrude upon the Castle Sept itself.

Barre had been the Septon of Dragonstone for nearly five and twenty years now. He had been there when the Silver Prince ruled the island, though he would not call it ruling as he had spent most of his time reading books over passing judgment, letting the old Castellan rule in his stead.

Barre had been the Septon when Dragonstone fell, as he had prayed to the mother for the soul of the poor queen who had died giving birth to a princess.

Barre had been the Septon of Dragonstone still when the island was given to Lord Stannis by the new King, whose rule was at least tempered by Father's judgment.

Barre did not know who ruled Dragonstone now; the three-headed dragons could be that small child hiding behind his mother's skirts or some pretender pirate looking to loot for the richest that were not there.

He was waiting for armed men to finally break the door down, cut him down, and do horrible things to the two Septas that were assigned to Dragonstone, both having come to the island at the behest of Lady Florent.

He did not expect the doors to open on their own or a man wrapped in black and red silks.

For a moment, Barre thought that it was the Silver Prince, returning from the Stranger's embrace... though he supposed even children hiding behind the skirts of their mother had to grow up someday.

"It shows wisdom," said Barre, "to come before the gods instead of expecting the gods to come to you."

"I did not know that the Septons were gods," said the young man who walked in with confidence in his steps. "But it is not like gods can walk, right?"

"No Septon would have such arrogance, as we merely guide all to their will," Barre responded, unable to place the strange way the Once Exiled Prince spoke. "You stand before them. It is customary to kneel."

"I don't kneel to gods or men," the boy spoke, "And all I see are effigies, not gods."

"When Aenar Targaryen came to Dragonstone, he had these figures built from the hull of his best ship," said Barre, "As he discarded the faith of the Valyrians for the Seven."

"I remember you telling the story before you know, though it was mostly meant to comfort a woman who had lost everything," the Targaryen spoke, "You are a kind man, septon, so you have my permission to stay, and as for your gods... they may have guest rights as well," Targaryen held out something, a piece of bread covered with salt.

The piece of bread ignited in a flash of light, the smoke curling as it made its way to the mouth of the Seven Statues.

Barre knew that this was strange.

Yet stranger still was a flash of something, before the hand holding the carved wooden sword of the Warrior fell on the floor, the wood flying to the hands of the Targaryen.

"Do not cause me trouble," the young man spoke before turning and walking away, still clutching the wooden sword. For some reason, Barre thought that he was not talking to him but to the gods themselves.

It was a preposterous idea; then again, wasn't it said that Targaryens did not answer to gods or men?

# The Spider

"The fog swallowed our sails. One moment, Dragonstone was on the horizon. The next, nothing but grey and waves. And the rocks-they moved. The island was just gone, your grace," said the simple Fisherman who had arrived at King's Landing that same morning.

"What the fuck do you mean the island is gone?" roared Robert, the Grandmaester next to Varys flinched. Then again, Pycelle was always a coward.

Varys himself seethed, though not showing it.

Ever since the Targaryens arrived at Pentos, he had not been in control of the events, and he was not able to adapt to do what he did best.

The boy had played them all, it would seem.

At least Serra had reached the Golden Company in Volantis, securing protection and planting seeds of the next steps. That alone should have been Varys' victory. But the game had changed.

The news had taken nearly a week to get to King's Landing. First it was the fisherfolk, then traders.

"It is not there, your grace," said the Fisherman, shrinking into himself in fear.

"Gone? Is that what 'gone' means, you useless cunt?" roared Robert, spittle flying in the air.

It had been three days hence since unnatural mists had clouded the entire Gullet, not enough to blockade the ships from entering and leaving but any ship that wished to make it to any of the isles found themselves unable to find them, the winds fighting them, and if they forced it, the rocks smashing apart the ships beneath them.

Three ships went to the bottom of the Gullet before the survivors could be accounted for.

It was not often that Robert sat on the Iron Throne and held court, but the rumors of war had long been spreading, and Robert needed to be seen to lead. Even then, certain decisions still needed to happen inside the Chamber of the Small Council.

He did not seem overly enjoying this war, however.

Jon Arryn, on the other hand, looked to have eaten far too many sour lemons from Dorne while the new Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, hung by the shadow of the man who gave him the seat on the Small Council, his eyes watching greedily.

Varys had chosen not to leave Westeros, knowing that this would be his best bet to take down the Sorcerer King that the Targaryen had somehow become.

'And if Robert and Viserys Targaryen end up killing each other, it would be all the easier for Aegon to take the throne,' thought Varys, having gotten word that Viserra had made it to the protection of the Golden Company and for some reason insisting that Blackfyres were no more willing to take back what was theirs.

It was a foolish notion, after all, that they had given up.

Varys had to admit that strategies when it came to war were not where he shined, yet it did not mean that he was going to let Viserys Targaryen live after what he had done.

"Your Grace," spoke the Old Hand, "Mayhaps a messenger can be sent to Dragonstone, and a peaceful resolution can be achieved if Viserys Targaryen were given the option to take the Black and his sister wed to your heir."

Varys had to admit that the old hand had some cunning, presenting the offer in the middle of the court instead of bringing it privately to Robert and having him refuse outright.

It also made Baratheon look better compared to the warmongers that he truly was.

"Shut it, the lot of you," said the King, in a soft voice. "I cannot hear myself think."

Silence stretched, as the King deliberated.

"Fuck it," said Baratheon. "How many ships do we have?"

"Twelve, given Lord Stannis has taken most of the Royal Fleet to Pentos," said Pycelle, playing the part of the old man. "We have not heard any news since they left, though there are rumors from merchants that a storm is said to have struck Pentos."

"That should be enough," said Robert, "Get as many men as we can fit on those ships."

"Robert, we do not have the means to sail to Dragonstone," said Lord Hand, before coughing. "The entire point of this is to decide on how to respond to that."

"I know it is the Dragonspawn's doing; I can feel it in my bones," said the King. "If that cunt thinks he can just land on Dragonstone, then we shall give him a proper response."

"Even if that is the case, sailing to an island that has just vanished is not a wise decision," responded Lord Hand, "I taught you better than to rush into a trap like that."

"You did," said Robert Baratheon with a bloodthirsty grin. "That is why we are going to sail to Driftmark, cut down those Velaryon cunts to the man, before they can join with their precious kinsman. That ought to make anyone who is thinking of joining those Targaryen Cunts think again and remember that they are dealing with the Demon of the Trident."

AN: When I said I am very slow with Interludes, I was not supposed to be this slow but there we go, what is dead may never die and all that. A dance has begun, how it will go on, I have some ideas so expect sparodic updates.

Wiz gets to celebrate a bit while handling certain logistics. Who knew sex could power protections, other than Dumbledore. He and Belle tag-teaming Shadowmoon while forming a new sect of the Moonsingers that would work directly under Wiz.

Meanwhile, the poor folk of Dragonstone do not know what hit them. What does a "Benevolent Sorcerer King" mean?

I also wanted to go with the interpretation that the people of Dragonstone were actually not willing to turn over Viserys and Dany but that there were knights from other places who were not as fanatic. Given that they had a fleet docked on the island at the time, it stands to reason that the ships held the more loyal of the soldiers as the first line of defense, and so no one would think to take the ships and run for it.

Lanna is growing up while growing her own complex issues. She is being impacted by the culture of those around her, much to Viserys' frustration.

And Spider plots without knowing that the game has changed, making assumptions that make him look like an ass.

Robert is probably the best strategist in the setting, and he is one of the few who take Wiz seriously. He is also predictable. Unfortunately, he is reacting under certain assumptions and will be disillusioned if he ever comes face to face with Wiz... and survives... if he survives. As an author, I like him so killing him off rightly is a bit of a challenge.

I am motivated by discussions, feedback, and criticism. If you wish to enable my coffee addiction, I made a ko-fi account here if you wish to support my work. I can only promise to spend the time drinking coffee writing my stories, and you get absolutely nothing else in return.

Last edited: Jun 6, 2025

042 May the anger of the gods sear through your very souls

# Karl Tanner

Karl Tanner, the Legend of Gin Alley, did not know how he ended up on a ship heading to an island that no one could see.

One moment, he was shanking a Septon, and the next, Gold Cloaks had caught onto him, throwing him to the Black Cells with a choice, Block or Black. Karl would have chosen the Black had it not for the goaler, who gave him another choice. Get to Dragonstone and kill the Targaryens.

He didn't ask questions, not when they gave him a pouch heavy with coin, a name, and a poison that could kill a horse. He liked that part.

The mists came in two days out from Blackwater Bay. The sailors grew quiet. They didn't say prayers, just drank like men already halfway to the Stranger. One jumped overboard, claiming that the sun turned green. Another slit his own throat yelling that the stars started moving in ways they shouldn't.

Nothing but a bunch of cunts that let the sea get to them.

Karl just laughed and kept sharpening his knife.

Another day. The winds went still. The sails hung like wet sheets. The island was not there one moment, and the next, it was there once more, appearing through the fog.

He didn't see no dragons. The dragons were all dead.

The boat ground against black rock slick with moss. The crew made no move to follow. Just dropped him off and rowed backward into the mist, not waiting for payment or goodbyes.

"Cunts," Karl muttered, stepping off and straightening himself, readying the knife some inbred cunts.

That was the last thought he had.

No scream. No thought.

Just nothing.

One moment, he was there.

The next, his head spun, his torso falling over without his head. Karl's head landed on the black sands, and he knew no more.

# Viserys

"Seven and ten," the ghost-like voice spoke as I lounged on my chair, a Grimoire propped up before me as I was already designing improvements on the Amalgamation of Physics and Magic that I had crafted.

Sipping on a rather delicate vintage of chilled weir-vine that I had grown a taste for, I watched the giant contraption of my construction complete its work, the unnatural light fading away.

The passive defenses of my island were pretty decent.

Powered by the consequence-less sex provided for coin, guided by the old magic of Valyria and some creative use of Thaumaturgy into a contract that allowed passage to those who would honor guest rights, those defenses were great at blocking anyone who was not loyal to me from entering so long as I did not allow it.

But passive defenses had a limit... like every protection, it could be subverted through luck or sufficient time to test its limits.

That is where the second layer of defenses came in... something more active in its capabilities.

It was... a Solar Cannon.

Something I could build with the near-unlimited supply of Dragonglass found in the island and an alchemical infusion of Phoenix Ash that formed crystals linked to the sunlight itself, drinking it and getting powered by it.

A bit of glass-making using Magic to guide it, and I had the right lenses for the job, creating a Magi-tech Death Beam 9000 to snipe ships and people alike.

Even if it looked a bit Steam-punk... or would it be Solar-punk? Debate for the Maesters, I am sure.

Solar Cannon

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

In the end, it was made for a single purpose.

So, what if I went a bit mad scientist and built a big fuck off death laser.

Siege my island now, you muggle cocksuckers.

I managed to build a control system, hooking it up to the skull of Meraxes that I found lying around in Dragonstone after enfleshing it in a layer of Weirwood.

It was the perfect too for the job.

A dragon attacked those that attacked it. It was a predator with no peer; it did not have the fight or flight instinct, or it was magically bred out to seek to only fight.

The skull held that echo, and its history made it ideal. The death echo of the Dornish Scorpion Bolt that had pierced its eye made it ideal for defensive enchantments.

The skull sustained a simple programming.

Any who came with malintent would be struck down.

The dragon skull laid the foundation, yes, but it was human skulls-taken from the few Unsullied casualties-formed the controls. They had died taking this land, and they would shield it even in death as lesser versions of what I'd done with Morrigan's held them in vigil.

The esthetics were a bit much, I had to admit, but if the price of securing my home was to go full Warhammer with all the skulls... well, necessities and all that.

I pushed down the urge to laugh like a madman, thunder echoing in the skies, as I waved my wand to engage the safety limitations, like not being able to aim upward... just in case it did not like dragons.

I did not want the dragons that I was planning to hatch to be turned into vapor the moment they took flight after all.

The Solar Cannon whirled around in wooden framing, a second beam vaporizing the small ship that brought the would-be assassin.

"One and twenty," the near mechanical voice spoke, sounding like sand sliding over glass after declaring that it had just vaporized four more people.

I lowered my custom-made dragonglass sunglasses once the light faded and the power crystal disengaged by moving out of alignment.

A sigh escaped my lips, fucking Baratheons forcing me to develop such weapons just to survive.

An order had some guard dispatched to recover the skull of the cutthroat so I could interrogate it a bit more.

Speak with Dead was a D&D game spell that allowed the caster to ask five questions to a dead person. My version was not as restrictive, but the process was slightly more complicated.

A wave of my wand had some Weirwood grow and merge with the bone in a process similar to how I had crafted my first wand.

Once the skull was merged and made leak-proof, I used my Valyrian Steel knife to carve Valyrian Glyphs of recollection, etching red lines into the inside of the skull before adding a Memory Potion.

As I stirred the contents of the skull with my wand, the threads of slivery memories slowly peeled away from the inside of the skull. The threads started to slowly weave together to take the shape of a man's head, a ghostly impression of the original head, an echo of the original mind suspended in the potion.

"What is your name?" I asked the ghostly image of the gaunt man.

"I am Karl Fooking Tanner, Legend of Gin Alley," the ghost introduced himself.

"Well, just my luck," I sighed and started working on the memories within the skull. I extracted the memories about the layout of King's Landing, the skills the idiot had with a knife, and... that was pretty much anything useful about the guy, to be honest.

"Who ordered the attack on Dragonstone?" I asked.

"Some goaler... he told us that we would be rewarded. It was either the Black, the Block, or this," the ghost said.

This was going to take a while.

# Queen

Her cubs played peacefully as Cersei watched, the Queen surveying her domain.

Joffrey, five-name days old, swung his wooden sword like a conqueror, striking at the shins of the maids with delighted shrieks when they flinched. "Slain!" he declared, puffing out his little chest.

Cersei curled her lip in a faint, disapproving smile at the foolish girl.

"Have that one washed once more," she ordered the crying girl. "You're useless standing there weeping over my dresses and soiling them."

The girl stumbled away, red-faced, and Cersei turned her gaze back to her children.

Myrcella, beautiful, golden, three-name days old, sat cross-legged by the window, arranging seashells into neat little rows, humming softly. Tommen, her precious youngest, barely a moon old, suckled contentedly at the wet nurse's breast.

They were safe.

For now.

Cersei sipped her wine, her fingers rigid around the cup, her eyes fixed on the chamber door. She should have felt calm here, with her children, but calm was for fools. Her mind twisted and turned, flinching at shadows, parsing every word spoken near her, weighing every silence.

She dismissed Jon Arryn's page, summoning her to the King's Solar like she was some peasant.

Jon Arryn.

His name slid through her thoughts like a knife beneath silk.

He watched. Always watched. She remembered the look in his eyes when Tommen was born-the cold flicker of suspicion, quickly buried but not forgotten. As if he were counting moons. As if he knew.

Did he know?

Her pulse jumped, sharp and sudden.

No. He was a man of honor and a fool besides. Why else would he have brought someone like Littlefinger-a man her spies claimed boasted of bedding both Tully sisters-to become Master of Coin when a Lannister would have done a far better job?

Yes, Arryn was nothing but a fool.

She would see what he wanted.

Cersei entered the room with the grace of a lioness to find Robert in his cups, yelling at Jon Arryn.

"Your Grace," Arryn said, voice flat, after the barest formality. He looked tired. Older than his years, his skin pale as parchment, mouth drawn with restraint beneath his high nose and hollow blue eyes.

"He's taunting us," Robert snapped. "Sitting in Dragonstone, doing who knows what. Soon, the Narrow Sea houses will flock to his banner; the moment he reaches out, they will be on their knees like a whore eager for cock." Robert growled, slamming a cup down. "Damn the Velaryons and damn the Narrow Sea. We'll make an example of them."

Cersei stepped lightly toward the table, letting Robert's cupbearer fill a cup of wine for her.

"It may be so, Robert, but that does not mean we can attack them without the Narrow Sea Houses turning their cloak," said Jon Arryn instead.

"Aye, I remember getting bored out of those lessons, but I am not a fool," said Robert, "well, you are awfully quiet Cersei, not comment on what your father, great Tywin Lannister, would do?"

"I do not think I need to say anything," responded Cersei, already aware of the troubles. "Your wisdom is clear, my love."

"Yet you will still say something, so go on, tell my Lord Hand he is being an honorable fool," responded Robert.

"Traitors need to be made an example of," she responded with a smile, "and once they are dead, who cares what their claim is. The truth will become what we say it is."

"Is that what I taught you, Robert? What of honor, what of vows?" asked Jon Arryn, raising his voice.

"They have gone to shit the moment that dragon cunt started using Magic," said Robert.

She laughed too sharply. "Is that what they're calling wildfire and mummer's tricks now, Lord Hand?"

But her gut clenched.

'Gold shall be their crowns, and gold their shrouds.'

The words dripped from memory, Maggy's voice thick with rot. Her eyes flicked, almost unwillingly, to her children. Joffrey, bold and willful. Myrcella, arranging shells. Tommen, peacefully asleep.

"I have already ordered the Maesters to scour their records for magics; they found records of Glass Candles doing similar things from old Valyria. At best, he found some book on illusions and parlor tricks," said Jon instead, "The last time Targaryens tried to hatch dragons, they all died to Wildfire in Summerhall."

"Would that they would all die to Wildfire like before," said Robert, drinking deeply from his cup.

"Then give him fire, love," Cersei purred. Internally, she wanted to skin the idiot and salt the wound.

"Let Valeryons burn and blame the Targaryens for it. If this so-called sorcerer likes to play with Wildfire, then we ought to make sure all see it," Cersei added, "I hear a wedding is taking place for Lord Velaryon. The Crown could send gifts, a few ships of Wildfire to rid us of both Driftmark and Velaryons, and a convenient Targaryen to blame."

Jon's face hardened. "You propose more dishonor, as though it would clean up on attacking your own bannerman?"

"Would you ask me to convince Robert not to rid us of some traitors, Lord Hand? I merely suggest a means to ensure both the deaths of traitors and let the blame fall on our enemies," she said sweetly.

He said nothing.

"Aye... that could work," said Robert, eyes glazed over. "We rid us of the first ones to turn traitor, and the rest will think it was the Mad King's whelp."

She rose then, walking slowly to the window, watching the sunlight gild Myrcella's hair. Joffrey was terrorizing a guard now, shrieking something about kings and heads.

"Let the realm fear the dragons again," Robert said with a chuckle. "Let them remember fire and madness. They will flock to me for protection, and there will be no keep for the dragonspawn to hide this time."

Jon sighed, sounding more tired than before, "You would ask me to dishonor myself?"

If Arryn refused, it would allow her father to take the position that should have been rightfully his to begin with.

"Hardly anything about the Sorcery is honorable, Jon, you know that as well as I," responded Robert.

"Is that your command, your grace?" asked Jon after a moment.

"It is," Robert responded.

Jon Arryn left after that with a stiff back and a face like stone, the chain of hands still around his neck. Off to his books, his shrew of a wife, and his festering honor.

Cersei stood still for a long while before choosing to leave herself.

When she moved again, it was with purpose.

She drained the cup that she was still clutching.

It was empty. It slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stone.

"Your Grace?" a servant asked, already stooping.

"Leave it," she said. Then, lower: "Fetch Ser Meryn. I have a task for him."

Letting this boy king play sorcerer on his fog-wrapped rock, as sailors claimed, was dangerous.

And to trust Arryn to succeed was a foolish notion.

Cersei had her own plans. She would ensure this pretender burned, and all she needed was the right man to throw a vial of Wildfire to the man.

After all, Wildfire had killed dragons before.

# The Wizard of Dragonstone

There were too many projects that I needed to address; chief among them was an upgrade to my own power... or rather, figuring out a method of safely using the power that I already had in my hands.

Despite the fact that the Solar Cannon I built could protect the island, it was not my most powerful weapon. It was merely a light cantrip used with superior alchemy and a decent bit of engineering.

My most powerful tool, in truth, was my Sun Fire, the Flame of Anor, to quote a grey wizard, but there were limitations that I needed to address before it could be safe to use without burning myself.

If I could harness it and contain the dangerous and unstable nuclear flame, I would have the ability to sustain spells of immense power without considering the cost.

The Red Priests could call it Life Fire, and I could call it Magical Energy, but in the end, all of it was energy from the sun that was metabolized by living beings.

I had the means to create it, and now, I needed a way to hold it without burning myself such that I could use it to power my more effective spells.

The radiation was still a major issue, even if Fusion produced clean energy. The heat and the flame needed to be contained properly, and sustaining layers of shields over others was not an easy or fast process.

The only metal that I knew to be able to contain the brunt of the Nuclear Flame without getting damaged was Valyrian steel, as I had proven with the power I fed into the ward anchor under Dragonstone.

It gave me an inspiration for something simpler.

A small chamber to contain the power, the fire. Something enclosed but also something that could be unleashed at will.

"The problem with Valyrian Steel is how it's made," I explained to Dany, who was listening with her full attention. She was the only other person I had shared the secrets of the magical steel that I had rediscovered. "The blood-iron binds the soul, but it is also the limiting factor. The amount of iron in a body makes a coin's worth of steel. I call them Soul Coins for their purpose."

I flicked a piece of iron coin. Dany caught it, inspecting it.

Exposing a nine-year-old to the secrets of such Dark Magic might sound irresponsible, but she needed to be aware of the cost of our legacy, and she was mature enough to get exposed to more memories than a normal child would.

"Valyrian Steel does not like to get forge-welded. Souls do not naturally merge. Drawing it out into wire or stretching it into a thin coating of a plate is possible, but merging them... that is a problem," I said.

I had extracted blood from cows, pigs, and even humans, though humans worked better for holding enchantments.

"I dislike the idea of souls being used as such," said Dany, "the dead should be left to rest."

"To understand how others work magic is important, Dany; it keeps you from sticking to a narrow point of view and ensures that you are armed against those who would employ these methods," I said, knowing that she was right. "To use the souls as penance of those who dared attack us is a fine line to walk, I agree. Yet, it is the decision and burden we bear without satisfaction. I am glad you dislike it. It makes you a kinder soul."

Dany did not speak and did not need to speak.

"Shall we continue?" I asked, getting a nod.

I drew Blackfyre, placing the sword between us.

I waited for her to ask the question that mattered the most.

"How could they make such a large blade then?" asked Dany, still holding the coin.

"I can think of only two ways," I said, "One is known to Qohoric Smiths, according to Marwyn, and involves sacrificing newly born children, using their malleable souls as the binding agent. It is not the prettiest method."

Dany made a face of disgust that I agreed. Most magic held something nasty deep within. "Or you kill something big enough to supply you with enough blood," I said, looking over the recipe one more time.

"What is big enough to have enough blood-iron for... a dragon?" Dany said, eyes wide.

"Hmm..." I responded, "Never let it be said that Valyrians are not inefficient."

"Is this the part where you will humbly brag that you have outdone our ancestors?" Dany deadpanned, getting a glare from me.

"I have, of course, found a workaround that involves Alchemy," I said, with a chuckle, adding a black liquid from a diamond vial.

"Basilisk Venom," said Dany, eyes twinkling.

"The souls are deconstructed," I explained slowly, letting the blood drip from the reservoir above, mixed with a potion to prevent clotting. "The blood dissolves within venom, leaving only the iron within, which settles into dust once neutralized, now containing the amalgamated single soul... and any other properties that are contained."

The setup for it was one that had taken a while to get right, but I had access to a lot more blood now; nearly a hundred would-be fortune seekers from Westeros arriving in small boats to kill the last Targaryen and become a lord. They had made it to the island, half of them getting petrified and stored in one of the deeper levels for later use while the other half were killed, a precise shot through the head quicker death than most deserved before they were drained of blood that now was arrayed in casks mixed with an anti-clotting potion made of leeches.

At least it made some aspects of my research much easier.

The base liquid in the golden cup was Basilisk Venom mixed with Ashes of Weirwood and Nightwood and ground Dragonstone and Dragonbone, which were the materials I had narrowed down for Valyrian Steel.

I had added crushed Bloodstone and Sunstone to the mix as well, along with a dash of Phoenix Ash that dissolved in the venom, unlike the tears.

Over the next week, fifty men's worth of blood went into the mix from a ship of Lysene slavers that came too close and had their sails and oars cut down. They had been preserved through Petrification after I had guided the ship to the beach.

Last came a mixture of Phoenix Tears and my own blood, neutralizing the venom and binding it to me at the same time.

In a flash, the black mixture distorted, becoming almost milky white before slowly precipitating fine dust of Crimson-colored steel.

It was not Valyrian Steel, but something much more fitting for my purposes... something much more refined to channel and contain Sunfire.

With the trick that bypassed the venom to bind the steel to me, I could shape the steel with my will alone, but converting the dust into a single ingot took more power.

I took the metal, heading deeper into the mountain as I left Dany behind.

I had to use the altar in the Ward Chamber beneath Dragonstone for it, unleashing torrents of Sun's Wrath.

Once I had a large enough block, I managed to slowly coax the steel into a spherical form.

Well,... two co-centric spheres with a single pin prick hole on them.

The idea was simple.

I would create the sunfire inside the sphere and use the metal to channel the magic, similar to how the Ward Anchor worked.

And if I needed something more, I could always control the hole of the inner sphere to align with the hole of the outer sphere and unleash the flames held within.

"That took a while," commented Dany, reading through a tome on spell structures that I had penned for her.

"Some things should not be rushed," I responded as I inspected the red metal orb. I cast my mind through time to be certain and smiled.

"Power of the sun, in the palm of my hand," I muttered, using the statement as the focus as I ignited the fire inside the contained chamber.

Energy flowed through the metal sphere, flames being contained as I held the orb in my right palm, the scales that took the place of my scar protecting me from potential burns.

The crimson sphere was enough to contain and transfer the power through the steel.

My soul drank hungrily from the source of power.

A tongue of flame appeared around the orb out of nothing, licking the nearly imperceivable scales of my right hand.

On a whim, I reached out and shared the energy with my sister. "Woah, that feels... nice."

"Like caffeine, a hint of coconuts and sunshine," I said with a grin. "I will have to find coconuts for you to taste."

"You shall not consume a power source bigger than your head," she said simply.

"Right," I said. Yes, I had taught my sister the Evil Overlord List... she was still young enough to count for the child advisor position, and it was the smart thing to do. "It is why the orb is the size of my fist. I think I can think of a way to use this new power source," I added.

"Holding a sphere to cast spells in war might not be the best idea, big brother," said Dany in a smug tone while inspecting it closely now that I knew it was safe.

"It is incomplete," I muttered, my hand clutching the orb. A simple flex of my will summoned one of the books, my Grimoire opening to a specific staff design from one of my dreams.

The weirwood staff with a core of dragon bone and nine rings along the length of the staff sectioned the staff into eight parts, each part holding three runes.

Staves provided more magical energy, but the precision required there to be runes carved along the wood itself to substitute for wand movements... limiting the spells to the meaning each carving held along with combinations.

"Can you pass me a blank," I said, catching the staff that Dany sent with a flick of her wand.

The blank staff itself was rather generic.

I had gotten five of them built, using a long piece of a Dragon wing bone from Illyrio's stash. Weirwood wrapped around it, forming a sheathe, treated in a Memory Potion to store any spells it was used to cast. The core itself was bound with thirteen different gems alchemically merged into a single crystal along the center of the staff.

These blanks were far higher quality than what I let the Red Priests now work for me. These were reserved for personal use, experiments, and research.

The magical wood awakened to my touch and will, slowly growing root-like branches that wrapped around and over the crimson sphere, clutching it with long, thick fingers while aligning it all so that the aperture within the sphere pointed along the axis of the staff upwards.

"There is more work to be done, but it will work as a Staff of Power for me," I said, instructing the finer points of wand and artifact lore to Dany during the process.

Nine rings of Valyrian Steel slipped along the shaft, each one meant to hold an enchantment and layer it over itself in an infinite loop through the rings.

Between the rings, I carved Runes along the staff.

Most of the staves I made were for specific uses, but a fully versatile staff was one that I had long dreamed of.

I could have chosen Valyrian Glyphs, chosen among three hundred and sixty or so Glyphs.

I could have chosen First Man Runes, the eighteen Eldritch Runes that I barely understood.

I went with something unorthodox, something that could not be subverted by other beings on this planet. The fiery fuck had given me enough of a fright to last me a lifetime already.

I went with something personal, something unique, something that had a meaning that only I knew of, memorized after a dare.

Elder Futhark... Twenty-Four Runes of the Nordic Pantheon.

It was utterly alien to this world, out of context. It was also pretty versatile in meaning in combinations and came with the fact that the meaning behind it would entirely depend on what I put into the carving.

With the power issue solved when it came to Life Force, I could create my own runes for greater control and authority. Not to mention that using runes that did not exist in this world would double the versatility and security as only I knew the full twenty-four runes and their meanings and as such only I could determine their meaning.

Meaning that I carved into the wood, weaving meaning into each one with each line carved into the essence of the wood with the Valyrian Steel.

Three between the gap of each ring.

Eight gaps in total.

Eight spell concepts that would come naturally from the staff, making specific castings much more efficient while giving me access to the full runic system.

The two of us worked on the staff for nine days, weaving rituals and spells into it, as I taught the runes to Daenerys, working together until it was ready.

I activated the orb once more, watching the Life Fire get absorbed along the core of the staff and expand outwards until the energy hit the first trio of runes.

Isa, Kenaz, and Wunjo activate the spell for the harmony of ice and fire, containing the fire while ensuring a balance within the staff.

Next came Algiz, Uruz, and Thrusaz, reinforcing and strengthening the staff to contain the power. Strength and defensive enchantments formed through the staff, and a mere thought was enough to raise a shield with the staff now.

More and more runic triads activated as the staff became more than what it was.

I watched the staff change, not physically but metaphysically, slowly becoming something more than its parts.

Before I could say anything else, I felt the Wards pinging at me.

"We have company, come on," I simply said as Dany straightened, falling lockstep behind me. A flick of my wrist sent Shadow Ravens to warn others.

"What is happening?" asked Jon Connington, a sword on his hip, as he walked to catch up.

"There is a ship that manage to pass the first layer of the Wards," I explained, letting the overlay of the image as I blinked to keep track of it. "The intent wards did not trigger, so they are not hostile, but it is better to be cautious. Everyone, armor up," I commanded, moving past them to put on my own armor.

The small fishing boat that approached was not what I expected.

Based on the dimensions, it could hold maybe twenty people at most, making me less afraid and more cautious.

Ten of my Black Knights stood at the vanguard, the pawns on the board. They were, ironically, the most disposable of my units. The long list of modifications I made, allowing each to reform at dawn, made them easier to spend than the lives of actual people.

Behind them, a thicker line of twenty Unsullied blocked the path, ready to pull back to the Gate manned by archers at a moment's notice.

From on top of the Gate, I observed the robed figures disembark from the fishing boat onto the small stone dock that I had raised a week before to make rowboats easier to access, rather than the option of just beaching them.

"Who are they?" asked Ser Richard next to me.

"Alchemists," I snarled, casually glancing at their minds. I did not like where this was going.

Ser Richard stiffened, "My father's pet pyromancers, not the cunt we faced in Braavos," I corrected as the knight relaxed.

"I am Wisdom Lucan of the Alchemists' Guild, here to request a meeting with the Lord of this Keep," the one in the head yelled out, eyes moving to and from the Black Knights.

"Third one on the right," I said to Ser Richard, after completing a casual glimpse into the minds of the Alchemists, "has a vial of Wildfire up his sleeve. He seems to be working alone. If it comes to it, I will throw one of the Black Knights to contain it."

I leaned against my new staff, a sliver of my mind pushing itself into one of the Black Knights behind the gates. Another flex layered the illusion of myself onto it before the gates opened, allowing my decoy to walk out.

"Good," said Ser Richard, next to my true self, watching the drone walk forward. "But a simpler solution would work as well," he added, nodding at Wat and the arrow he had notched.

"Right, Wat, do the thing," I said to the other man standing next to me. "His right sleeve, five inches above where his middle finger ends."

Wat the Eyes lifted his dragon bone bow, shooting a single arrow aimed at the target I gave.

The arrow flew, and it flew true, piercing the hand and the vial, green flames igniting the man alive, consuming first his sleeve and then the rest of him.

"Death to the False Dragon," I heard another one yell, his mind far too focused for me to catch the threat, and the Green Vial crashed into one of the Black Knights just after I was pulled back to my body by Richard kicking the staff under me.

"I hate Wildfire," Ser Richard and I muttered at once as I recovered, as I sent a mental order that had the other Knights move and dog-pile the would-be-assassin.

"Good call," I told my knight.

"Just doing my job," said Richard, enjoying it far too much. "Getting over-confident gets you dead," he repeated one of my sayings.

We looked at the second assassin, long since disabled.

Because nothing said disabled like a half-ton animated pile of magic sand slamming into you.

The rest of the Alchemists seemed surprised as they were now held at spearpoint by the Unsullied and their ten-foot spears.

Soon, they were all stripped and bound before me... or was it another Black Knight pretending to be me? Eh... semantics.

"We had nothing to do with this," the one in charge, Lucan as the one in charge, stammered, afraid for his life, "mercy, your grace."

"Had I been my father, what would you think I would do about your claims, Lucan Waters?" I asked a question echoing through their minds as I grasped the full name of the man before me.

The bastard of some tourney knight and a tavern wench, Lucan went pale, then turned a rather unique shade of green.

The remaining Alchemists did not fair as well, either, knowing that they were fucked.

"But I believe you," I said simply. "I have seen your mind, Alchemist, and know that there are old loyalties within. So speak, convince me to spare you."

Theatricality and deception were powerful tools if used well... especially for a Wizard.

At the cost of a Black Knight, which would reform the next day, I had gained leverage over the Alchemists, became the offended party, and shown myself to be merciful.

I was already in his mind, going through his decisions.

Lucan Waters, the man kneeling before me, was the most senior of the Alchemists that defected to me, an acolyte of nearly a decade.

"Speak, why have you come here," I said, face blank with the staff in my left hand, Will appearing in a flash of flame and landing on top of the crimson orb.

"We, I am innocent, your grace, I..." started Lucan.

"Are not responsible for the decisions of others," I said, "But why have you made this journey?"

A moment of silence stretched, a mix of awe and fear and relief flooding within the man.

"Even after our order brought down the Walls of Pyke for him, we knew that the Usurper would only tolerate us," said Lucan, his eyes focusing on my right hand, the one covered in golden scales that I had kept revealed for this meeting. "We had, of course, heard rumors of His Grace, his power, his fire... his titles. Wisdoms disagreed, too afraid to rise up, too set in their ways to leave."

"What made you come?" I asked.

"We were told to gather Wildfire for a task. We were not told why. Three ships worth," he said simply, "but rumors still made its way that the Dragon banner was raised over Dragonstone. We, the few of us, had heard rumors of Targaryen patronage and thought to make the journey. It was Tadd who had the idea; he was mighty rushed to get to Dragonstone."

"Which one is Tadd?" I asked as the Acolytes all pointed to the pile of ash to the side.

A check on the surviving would-be-assassin still moaning on the ground from broken bones confirmed Lucan's statement.

How peculiar.

The ones who wanted me dead had arranged for this group to come together, potentially hoping to remain hidden until they had the opportunity to strike. It was not the best plan, but I could see the desperation within their minds now that I knew what to look for.

I could not really blame the two. I had seen their thoughts... well, the one that survived at least.

Someone had taken their families and threatened them to come here and throw Wildfire at me. Given that it was the Gold Cloaks who had passed them their orders, the options on who was behind the attack were limited to either Baelish or Varys.

Hmm... I should take out the Spider when I get a chance. His existence is a threat more than anything.

I smirked as the tingling feeling from the Geas I got when I considered the option of Serra Blackfyre did not trigger, even if having a known stock of Targaryen Blood that doubled as Blood of the Enemy was useful. However partial the sacrifice would be.

Whoever it was that led to the Acolytes of the Alchemist Guild coming to Dragonstone deserved my thanks.

"They are not even Masters," said Richard next to my actual flesh.

"It matters not; I prefer those with experience but not the ones too set in their ways."

"You are planning to keep them, aren't you?" asked Ser Richard as we listened to their story.

"I need people who know how to make soap," I responded, getting a shake of my Shield's head. "Have some of the builders from the village set up a separate research area in one of the unoccupied lands," I said. Will flashed and landed on top of my staff, a rolled-up parchment held in his beak.

I took the scroll containing the protocols I came up with for safely conducting experiments with highly volatile substances.

"Once I get them bound to enough oaths, I need you to get the War Council," I said simply.

"How much Wildfire?" asked Jon Connington as I leaned back on my throne in the Chamber of the Painted Table, seven Black Knights standing around Lucan.

Because the surviving Alchemists revealed a much more dangerous plot against us.

"Three boats full, Lord Hand," said Lucan.

"What would Robert want with three boats full of Wildfire?" asked Jon, focused on the threat of the Wildfire.

It was one of the substances that I knew would work against me, a secret that I kept guarded even from my Council. Only Dany, Richard, and Lanna were fully aware of the fact that the Wildfire could and would burn the small piece of the soul one used when casting spells.

It made Wildfire a good enough counter to Magic, something that held me back from taking a walk through King's Landing and ending this war.

I had developed counters, as any proper Wizard should.

Will was immune to Wildfire as a Phoenix, of course. The Black Sand, the prime mix of Weirwood, Nightwood, and Phoenix ash added to the ground Obsidian that shaped my long-term conjurations like Black Knights and the Glass Ravens, were similarly not affected once you shattered the sand that was melted into glass. I had also kept a small stash of Phoenix Ash in case I was ever exposed, but it did not make the risk zero.

Granted, throwing a lump of Magic Sand at it was not really that much advanced than what the Alchemists' Guild that had come to join my ranks had figured out, but if it worked, it worked, you know.

"He means to burn ships... or a port," spoke out Wat the Brains.

"He cannot sail to Dragonstone. What use would such a thing have?" asked Wat the Eyes.

I watched the spears gather and move along the map, small dots of lights all along the map of Westeros, concentrated on major points of interest.

Dany was working on a color gradient to approximate their number by intensity and concentration, but for now, it gave me an overall view of Westeros.

My eyes were focused on the Lion spears positioned near the Goldroad, between the Westerlands and the Reach, along with a second group slowly growing near Goldentooth.

She had even updated the light projection to show animals that matched the banners for most of the cases.

And they say Divination is unreliable.

Around ten thousand spears, give or take a thousand, ready to crush any rebellion.

And three ships of Wildfire as the opening move.

I stood up, my hands going through the hand-sized table that represented Driftmark.

Pity, my bet was on Darry.

"The Hull? That is ridiculous," responded Connington, catching my hint. "That is not something Robert would do. It is dishonorable. Velaryons have bent the knee."

"Who said it was his plan?" I asked, turning to Lucan. "Who ordered the ships?"

"The Lord Hand had been the one to order it, your grace, I was there with Wisdom Hallyne when he sent his squire with the orders, but it bore his signature," responded Lucan.

Ah... there was the thread I missed.

I never accounted for the old Falcon because I did not know how he would operate. I took him for how he wished to be perceived, the Honorable Lord of Arryn, and missed the cunning old man who had been the Hand of the King and ruled in Robert's place for years.

Robert, I knew from the Glass Ravens sent to spy on the Red Keep, wanted the Velaryons made an example of.

Jon Arryn had other plans, it would seem... or it could be Varys or Baelish... those were also tricky players.

"Who would be the one blamed if boats of Wildfire burned down half of an island?" I asked innocently. 'Who would be blamed if war triggered because a Lady decided to spurn her betrothed and run off with a Prince?'

Jon fucking Arryn... the Honorable Arryn.

A man who had managed to rule a literal powder keg as Hand of the King for sixteen years.

It would seem I had an opponent that was not as rash as Robert or as blood-thirsty as Tywin.

"An honorable king of the Seven Kingdoms, or the Son of the man who executed people with Wildfire?" I asked, getting a flinch from everyone in the room.

"King Aerys was fond of Wildfire," said Lucan, like it helped.

I turned and glared at the Pyromancer, making him shrink back. I smiled at the poor man... well, boy, really, barely six and ten. "You are not wrong."

"He means to make it look like you attacked Velaryons," said Jon, "Make it look like you are a merciless madman, one who would not accept the fealty of those who had bent the knee to Robert. Destroy any hope of gaining a power base."

"Can your contraption take it out?" asked Dany, her eyebrows furrowing in the sort of focus that only a child could achieve. "It can sink ships, with ones filled with Wildfire... boom," she said, making a motion of explosion.

"The Solar Cannon? The range is not an issue... in theory," I admitted after a bit of mental calculations. "But the curvature of the planet becomes an issue after a while, though. Given the elevation of the castle and the height, around forty miles," I said. "What is the distance to Driftmark?"

"Closest point, five and twenty miles, five and forty to ruins of High Tide, Five and eighty miles to Castle Driftmark and the Hull," instantly responded Marwyn, his fingers clicking at multiple similar colored rings, likely ones for Geography.

"So, it won't reach Hull," said Jon with a huff. "Can you build another on Driftmark?"

That was a terrible idea.

"Building more is not feasible," I said politically, dismissing the option of building more and placing them on ships or some of the smaller islands where others might be able to take or subvert them.

Dragonstone was where we would dig in and entrench. Having such a weapon here made it less of a liability and less likely to fall into enemy hands, which is why I had made the decision to build it in the first place.

"It is just light, right? Not like your staff?" asked Dany, more knowledgeable than others, to which I nodded. The main crystal stored sunlight being focused over time before unleashing it. "Would mirrors help?"

I froze... that was... not mirrors, but prisms to divert the light through relay towers.

"I would need towers, not necessarily for humans but for the range, pylons effectively," I muttered, half-remembered information returning to my mind. "I can add towers. There are enough small islands along the Gullet to hold relay stations using mirrors. It would also work to act as lighthouses when not at war."

The mechanics of it would be tricky to get working, but not impossible. Raising relay towers that reflected and diverted the laser along the Gullet to be high enough would make blockade possible.

"Mayhaps," I said, my mind whirling.

"If you can build more, why not build enough to blockade the Gullet?" asked Marwyn before turning to see me grinning.

"Oh... I will have to build so many pylons," I said, grinning like a madman before clamping down on my manic glee.

I coughed, centering myself and returning to the aloof king's face. It was not effective against my Inner Circle, but needs must.

"That answers how and why," I said, "which leaves when as the question?"

"Could be any time," responded Jon.

"We can dispatch Glass Ravens," Dany suggests, "gives us two days of warning."

"Good idea," I said, with a nod. "Get the Skinchanger Squad to help you out, set up shifts watching the docks for any ships."

Marwyn coughed to draw our attention.

"I might have an idea of when they would do so, your grace. I have found a wedding invitation among the missives that were piled in Cressen's office," said Marwyn, pulling a message from his robe, "Between Lord Monford Velaryon and Cella Celtigar. It is in a sennight."

How... convenient.

"The timing is funny," observed Dany.

"Weddings are as much a chance to plot as it is to build alliances, just like Tourneys. A lot of lords are located in a single location," explained Jon to Dany in an even tone.

"They are scrambling to make sense of things, left alone without Stannis there; it has been more than a moon since Dragonstone was blocked from being seen, let alone reached," Richard spoke up. "These men are as much Lords as they are Sailors, and the winds are shifting. I was there while Rhaegar ruled as Prince of Dragonstone. It is not hard to know how they think."

All the Narrow Sea Lords, who were not trustworthy enough to be taken by Stannis, assembled overlooking a pyre ready to set.

That is when I would do it.

That is when this plot would make the most impact... most damage to our cause.

I really hated weddings in this world.

We have a plot to unravel and a wedding to save.

"This meeting is over," I said, my staff slapping into my hand from where it was leaning on my seat. "Jon, figure out backup plans. I am going to scout ahead and set up something in Driftmark. Wat, Wat, you two are with me. We have a wedding to save," I said, a mental nudge causing Will to appear in a flash of flame, his talons sinking into my shoulder as I vanished in a corona of flame.

I appeared in a flash in the woods of Driftmark.

The woods were thinner than I expected, low, salt-stained scrub and wind-warped trees, more skeletal than sheltering. Ideal for making clear glass a part of my mind supplied.

I gripped my staff, using the power to weave a Seeming over myself, a simple Notice-Me-Not Charm that sent a constant echo of 'Not my fucking business' out there as I got to work.

For the first step, I used the butt of my staff to form a rough circle, the runes on the staff glowing as I channeled the power.

Perthro for secrets and Algiz for defense and instinct.

Once the protection was done, a wave of the staff created a fire pit, and another summoned dried twigs.

I placed a black brick into the middle of the small fire, a tongue of flame igniting everything.

The brick was not an ordinary one. I had baked it out of ground Dragonglass and the ashes of Weirwood and Phoenix. It was much more affordable to integrate the Phoenix Ash into a single anchor brick for the Floo Network than to turn it into a powder after all.

"Driftwood Beachhead," I muttered, linking the same before throwing a pinch of black powder.

The flame flashed green and out walked Wat the Brains and Wat the Eyes.

Brains wore a full plate, a Black shield, and a bronze mace with a weirwood haft in his hands.

Eyes, on the other hand, wore mail, his dragonbone bow strung and at hand.

My scaled hand reached out and plucked the still-hot brick from the flame, using physical contact to leech the heat from it. Once the brick was safely stored, I turned around and started walking.

My two guards remained lockstep behind me, added to the seaming I had woven, and soon we were where we needed to be.

I overlooked the ruins of High Tide, the castle that was a testament to the fall of House Velaryon, the ruin that the ambitions of Corlys Velaryon had that reduced them to a minor house after the Dance.

The castle was built on a tidal island off of Driftmark, an island fortress at High Tide that gave it its name. Around the castle were the remains of Spice Town.

Both the keep and the city around it were destroyed during the Dance of Dragons, left to ruin after the Battle of the Gullet and the sacking of both the castle and town.

All that remained were the ruins, a monument of the Icarus that was the Seasnake.

That did not mean that it was useless, however.

The ruins themselves provided something unique, more than being a high vantage point that could overlook the entire island and the seas around it where a pylon can be raised to reflect the Solar Cannon.

The location had a history, a history that reeked of its destruction, kept untouched by the waters that formed the pseudo-isle.

I grasped that history, those echoes begging for salvation and safety, as I wove the magic through stone, the pieces of the castle's outer walls, the echo of the deaths, the cries for help for salvation against invaders infused into raw Obsidian with a wave of my staff, forming a spiraling tower to reflect the solar cannon at the seas surrounding the isle.

The top of the glass tower was a sphere, with the black color leaching to leave a pure crystal behind. It was not clear so much as semi-liquid, awaiting the instructions to change the focus. It was a prism meant to guide and reflect light as I saw fit.

A mental command caused a beam to come from the horizon before striking the top of the tower. The beam from the Solar Cannon reflected a point in the sea that hissed for a moment.

Yes, this would do.

I came to, my soul settling back into my skin from casting such a large-scale magic. The power from my staff worked to replenish my power, even as my soul settled back, slowly recovering from the strain of weaving the spell.

"Well, that took a while," said Wat the Brains, poking at the campfire he had made.

"How long?" I asked, realizing that my throat was parched.

"This is the second night," said Wat, passing me his bandolier containing every type of potion one would need in a fight. I took the ones that would boost my physical recovery, fix the aches, and allow me more rest. Once the potions made their way down, I slowly stretched from where I was standing. "Eyes is taking watch, and we have some stew if you are hungry."

"Good," I said, "we rest tonight, and tomorrow, let us see if we can make our way into the Keep."

"Please tell me we are not dressing up as bards, boss," said Wat, "I cannot carry a tune."

All I could do was smirk.

# Lord of the Rising Tides

The bells of Hull were clanging as an echo of the celebration.

Monford stood on the balcony of his father's..., his solar Monford corrected, the wind ruffling his dark green cloak, lined in seafoam silver. His betrothal feast was in three days, and the harbor below teemed with ships, guests, and merchants alike.

What was once the long-neglected docks had been rebuilt, if only partially. It had been hard, it had been costly, and Monford had to borrow heavily from the Iron Bank of Braavos to do so at rates that had been far too suspicious if Maester Perros were to be believed. It was Monford's pride and joy, proof that he did not need the Crown's favor as he brought his House to the prominence once achieved by the likes of Seasnake and Oakenfist.

The rebuilt docks now bustled.

Longships from Massey's Hook jostled beside the squat, square-prowed cogs from Wendwater and the Ironborn longships claimed by Duskendale during Balon's Rebellion.

It announced a rebirth of his House.

And with this wedding, the continuation of his legacy.

But beneath it all, there was something spoken in whispers.

Gold changed hands faster than tides. And in every tavern, men whispered of mists and vanished ships, of strange storms in Essos, and the whisperings of dragons.

"Two more galleys sighted off Crackclaw Point," said Ser Brynden Staunton, stepping beside Monford. The second son of Lord Symond had been an old friend of Monfords from the time when the two were squires to Lord Ardrian Celtigar. Monford had offered to make him a Master at Arms as a jest once, and the man had accepted without hesitation, unwilling to return to Rook Rest and his father.

Brynde, a year older than Monford, was already balding, with a long white scar from brow to jaw from an Ironborn axe from the Rebellion. "Came from Braavos. Claimed they saw a storm like no other off the coast of Pentos. Spoke of waves as high as towers and pillars of lightning that broke a fleet of ships."

"Off Pentos?" Monford asked, turning. Other sailors had whispered similar stories to him.

"Aye." agreed Brynden, slipping into the way sailors spoke with ease. "They say the sea spat green fire. Some of the sailors swear they saw a dragon. Others claim it the work of Krakens?"

Monford frowned. "And yet no word from the Royal Fleet. No word from Stannis."

Ser Brynden said nothing.

Stannis had not called the banners, not for the Narrow Sea Houses, keeping the fleet filled with men who only answered to him. That alone was telling what Stannis was sent to do... dragon hunting.

All had heard of the dragons, of course.

The exiled remnants of House Targaryen, with whispers of strange powers and magic.

Monford did not believe any of them. They did not matter for his designs.

House Targaryen was long gone, and House Velaryon was all that remained of Old Valyria. He would have to ensure that he could helm the ship.

"Nervous about the wedding, my lord?" Brynden asked, dragging him from his thoughts with the grace of an Aurochs, an easy smile forming on his face as he sipped from a chipped wine goblet. "The way you and Cella look at one another, it's a wonder if the feast does not end early in favor of the bedding."

Monford smiled, recalling the soft kisses and whispered promises.

The future he had promised himself to protect.

"There he is," said Brynden, "'tis your wedding, my lord. You ought not be so dire and plotting all the time."

"If you say so, Ser," said Monford, making his way to the feasting hall, putting away rumors of dragons and the feeling of the storm that was coming off.

Tides were turning, and his instincts warned him. For good or for bad, he could not tell, but the tides could wait another day.

The wedding was slow, the oaths made before gods and man. Once or twice, Monford thought he saw a pair of purple eyes upon him before it was gone.

"Lord Ardrian," Monford smiled, embracing his goodfather.

"Monford, you seem thoughtful," the man said jovially, his cloak embroidered with red rubies in the form of crabs glistening in the sunlight, similar to the cloak that he had peeled away from the shoulders of his Cella in favor of the silver seahorse on sea green.

"You have taught me to mind a ship in storms, old friends," responded Monford. "It requires care and thoughtfulness."

"Yet, you have become a remarkable Captain, and Lord besides," said Ardrian, proud, "I am sure you will make my Cella very happy."

Lord Ardrian embraced him once more before whispering, "Massey and Staunton are Stag's men; mind your words before them. Rest are hedging their bets," he added simply and walked off. 'Trust only Bryden' was left unsaid, not needed after all.

This was the game they played now.

A game where loyalties were hedged, and survival was all that mattered.

The wedding was swift.

The Septon said the words; Monford placed the sea green cloak in place of the cloak of ruby crabs upon the shoulders of his Cella.

The feast that followed bled into dusk, the vaulted hall of Castle Driftmark bustling with cheers and lords who drank as much as the sailors that they commanded. Arbor Gold and Dornish Red flowed like river. Their bellies were filled with roast fish, stuffed crabs, and plump lampreys swimming in spiced wine.

The air was thick with sea salt, honey, and the stink of wet wool. Somewhere, a Tyroshi bard plucked at a lute, singing a tune too soft to carry over the din.

His eyes found Cella, a soft smile on her face as the bride and groom danced in the hall. They spun around until the bedding was called, and the feast was over, at least for the Lord and the new Lady of the Tides.

The dawn awoke them both, not with the soft golden glow of the sun but the sharp green roar of something worse.

Monford rushed through, half-dressed as he overlooked the sea.

Off in the distance, in the sea at the horizon, there was fire, fire that looked like a mushroom that sprouted from the ground.

He felt the eyes on him again as he turned and saw him...

He was there, sitting upon a branch, looking the part of a king surveying his lands.

He had the features of Valyria on him, silver hair that caught the light and eyes glowing like Amethysts against flame. He was clad in clothes of red and black, and a sword hung on his hip.

He did not need to know the man's identity; that much was emblazoned on his cloak, a black cloak waving like a flag in the wind, bearing a crimson-colored three-headed dragon.

Viserys Targaryen.

The infamous Wizard.

It took Monford a moment to comprehend, but he understood what was wrong.

The branch that the Targaryen was sitting on was not attached to a tree, floating in the air in defiance of all the laws of gods and all the notions of man.

It was a statement.

It was a declaration.

House Targaryen had returned.

With fire and blood.

With magic and might.

King who bears the Sword and Staff

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

AN:

Varys sends a knife after Viserys. It does not affect...

Viserys went full Odin/Mad Wizard, starting with Death Lasers and ending in Nuclear Shotgun. He is prepping for the White Walkers and killing Gods, while everyone is preparing for a Civil War.

Robert, Jon and Cersei come up with a good plan. Then Cersei goes rogue with her better plan to sabotage all, once more showing that her greatest enemy is herself.

Both Jon's are just suffering through their king's brand of crazy.

Lords of the Narrow Sea are being rescued from the Baratheons, by force if necessary.

Wiz can fly now.

What are your thoughts on longer chapters? Should I go for more updates that are shorter?

Last edited: Jun 9, 2025

043 The Trial of a Wizard

I hovered over Castle Driftmark, using the staff to telekinetically levitate myself. The moonstone in the core and the extra power meant that the staff was good enough to handle my weight.

It was not the most effective way to fly properly, but floating was relatively easy.

Maybe I could add a footrest to make balancing easier, and vector thrusting by having the staff branch out at the end to direct the forces more efficiently when moving.

'Note to self, build a broomstick,' I mentally called out.

Only Monford could perceive me, the eyes of the rest of them slipping along where I was.

It was a message... specifically meant for a Valeryon... and maybe a test to see how smart the man himself was.

A message that was rather simple... purposely chosen to have the most impact.

It was the story of a different time.

Times when the dragons flew in the skies of the Narrow Sea, Lords of the Sky, and House Velaryon ruled the seas, before the Dance, before the dragons died. It was from a time when House Velaryon was richer and more powerful, and it was a promise to those times.

It was the carrot to the stick that was the explosion off in the distance. A more overt one than the staff I sat upon, a promise of a threat that could be turned on them if need be.

"Congratulations on your nuptials, Lord Velaryon. Robert has thought to send you three ships as wedding gifts," I said, my voice carried with the wind. "Filled with Wildfire, of course, so I thought I would ensure that it did not burn something important. It was a chore, keeping the winds still enough to delay the ships from arriving until after the bedding."

I was, after all, a gracious overlord.

Monford Velaryon worked his jaw, his eyes switching between the green fires that now covered the sea on the horizon and me.

The staff slowly descended until I was able to land on the ground.

"Huh?" Velaryon responded elegantly.

"Please don't tell me you forgot the boy who hit you in the head with a wooden sword ten years ago for 'daring to harm the dragon,' because you refused to lose to me on purpose, despite what Lord Lucerys told you," I said with a smile, "shall we talk in your solar?" I asked with a smile, as though I did not just burn the seas like some angry god.

"Yes, your grace," said Monford automatically, following after me.

I sat in the solar, lounging on the chair as easy as a king sitting on a throne. Wat and Wat stood behind me, looking menacing.

My staff stood to my side, standing straight unaided and acting as a perch for Will, who was in the process of tearing off strips from a raven he caught and cooked with his fire.

A raven that contained the missive from Velaryon's Maester to King's Landing about the explosion. The Maester was in the dungeons now, and the message was replaced with something that Robert would expect. A simple confirmation of what they expected, that the Hull had burned in the Wildfire.

I wanted to see what he planned next. He would blame me, of course, and raise an army to face me in the field.

When the banners were raised and men saw the Valeryons next to me, they would ask questions... ones that Robert would not be able to answer.

I did not really have a full plan, but making my enemies guess and be the fool was a good starting point.

In the meantime, I had already placed Black Knights within the room, hidden in the shadows and waiting for my command to manifest.

"What is it, Monford? I would have thought you would be with Cella," said Lord Ardrian Celtigar, before he noticed my presence. "I saw the green fire at sea, what was it?"

"By the gods.. Rhaegar?" asked Lord Ardrian for a moment.

I chose to stand up. I did not need to, but remaining seated when a man decided to attack was a worse position than if you were standing.

Compared to the Lord of Claw Isle, I was tall.

Seven and ten, and already six feet five inches tall. My face looked like Rhaegar's, as most Targaryens could pass off as near identical from the magic genes, but I was more than half a head taller than my older brother already, slightly skinnier in build, despite the ritual enchanted strength I had. It was hard to balance research and ruling, with working out and maintaining muscle mass was a full-time job on its own.

Lord Ardrian dropped to his knees, "Prince Viserys? I mean... King Viserys, your grace, I..."

"Prince or Archon are fine for now, Lord Ardrian," I responded instead, getting up and approaching the man. "I do not hold the Iron Throne, yet I do hold the titles of Dragonstone."

Ardrian Celtigar was a loyalist.

One of the few that remained.

He had also bent the knee to Robert... if only to survive, but he had worked rather thoroughly in establishing and preserving some remnants of the loyalist cause.

It was not loyalty that had driven him, though, his mind unravelling his ambitions.

He was an opportunist, more mercantile than other lords, and rather ostentatious in his show of wealth.

He was also a realist, one that understood how unlikely it would be for Narrow Sea Lords to gain the favor of Robert and did not waste his time kissing ass.

It had helped with the fact that he held the second largest fleet among the Narrow Sea lords after the Baratheon Fleet for nearly a decade now, not to mention the subtle support from the Iron Bank that the Narrow Sea houses have been getting through my influence.

"Robert," spat Monford through ground teeth, "sent fireships, filled with Wildfire to burn the Hull... in my wedding."

"That is... preposterous," he said first, before turning to look at me.

"And if Wildfire burned your ships, who would you blame, the son of the Mad King or the man who fought against him?" I asked, not in the mood for word plays.

Ardrian froze for a moment.

"And how do we know it is not the case?" asked the Lord to my face, showing spine for once.

I had to remind myself these people were butchers in their own right... not comparable to me, but still.

Points for the guts, I suppose. He was testing me.

I held my hand, a ball of flame forming above my palm, hot enough to be felt. Into the flame, I pushed visions of fires I had lit, pushing them into the minds of those who looked at it.

Lord Ardrian paled.

"A dragon is a beast of flame, my lord," I sang, "and mine burns hotter than others."

I needed to get the response to Tywin's theme song after all, and what better way to do so than subvert it for my needs. Make it more thematic, that there was always a bigger fish.

"If what you say is true, bent knees mean nothing to that Usurper," said Ardrian, a cold fear running through him. "He could order our butcher at his leisure."

"Let it not be said that the Lord of Dragonstone does not protect those who are sworn to him... even if they had to bend knees to survive," I said simply.

Lord Ardrian looked at me with eyes that shone with desperation, a man who wanted to believe... like a man stuck at sea looking at fresh water.

"How many ships do you have?" asked Lord Ardrian. "We have heard whispers of alliances with the Sealord, and if you have brought the might of the arsenal, we would have a chance against the Usurper."

"One," I said simply, suppressing the hint of a smile. The Revenge was no mere warship in the end, but it was still a single ship... one that I needed to send to other ports soon.

"One..." said Ardrian, paling.

"See that ship... it is one of yours, is it not?" I asked, turning and looking over the port. The ship I pointed had red crabs stitched on the black sails.

"I am familiar, your grace," said Ardrian, talking slowly and patiently.

"See the crow's nest," I said, as Ardrian looked confused. "I don't want to," I simply said.

A glint of light, and the entire crow's nest was vaporized by the Solar Cannon, leaving only ash to fall down to the deck.

"Make no mistake, my lord, no ship will sail the Gulf anymore unless I will it," I said, with a smile.

Ardrian gulped.

"Shall we get to work?" I asked, far too cheery for a man who just threatened to burn every ship to ever sailed this island.

"People will flock to you when they learn the truth," said Monford, his eyes gaining a calculated gleam. A moment before, I was of no importance, now... I showed them that I had the power to back my claim.

"Will they?" I asked, deciding to cut through the ambitions.

"They will see reason, your grace," responded Monford, his mind getting confused.

"And if they don't?" I asked simply. Just because I said I was the King did not make it so. People could still refuse to follow or believe.

"You would need proof," said Lord Ardrian, "something irrefutable. The word of the Pyromancers, the higher the better."

I suppressed the wince.

I had wanted to have Will grab Hallyn, just kidnap the Head of the Alchemist Guild, but Hallyn had burst into fire after he arrived at our camp, a vial of Wildfire on his person burning him alive as Will squawked and barely flew away before the Wildfire consumed the Pyromancer.

I really hated Wildfire.

I plucked my portent die from the jaws of the dragon that was my sword's pommel and held it.

I knew what was needed, even if I disliked the method. Yet to be certain, I cleared my mind of doubt and bias, rolling the twenty-sided die and landing on a seven.

I sighed, yet the two lords looked at the dice and made the same connection.

"A trial," responded Ardrian under his breath. "A trial of the seven."

"I am going to need six good men," I said simply. Because in Westeros, there was only one way to make people accept the truth... by hitting them in the head with it using a sharp blade.

I watched from the corner, a simple line drawn by my staff in the sand that the sea wind had dragged into the feasting hall, anchoring the disillusionment charm upon me, while all the lords now stood, waiting for an explanation on what had happened.

The people were whispering and talking, but not saying anything of any note.

Among the people in the hall, one drew my attention, like a moth to a flame.

I was proud of my Foresight, and somehow they screamed at me to look at the man, to See.

I opened my eyes, both physical and metaphysical, all three of them staring at the man who drew my attention.

My Sight was something I disliked using since it got upgraded.

Focusing Magical Energy through my eyes to see through magic was something I had learned from Yna, the One Eyed Whore of the Happy Port and her style of Divination.

The fragment of the Ritual of Sunfire involved the starlight being stuck within my eyes. When the Sight was off, it gave a weird glint to my eyes that got people's attention. When mixed with my Sight however, it granted me the ability to see through falsehoods and illusions, an echo of the very act that burned away the false faces of the Faceless Men.

Where there was an elderly knight with a tabard of white bands on purple, my Sight showed a knight, a glowing sword in hand, and standing between a girl of silver hair and a mass of shadowy tentacles that exuded malice.

A True Knight

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Using my Sight drew his attention before I was able to shut it down. That nagging feeling of being watched, enough for him to see through the invisibility field I had cast.

As our eyes met, the remnant of the Sight reflected back on me as well, allowing him to see me as I truly was.

I caught a glimpse of it, a man sitting on a throne of black stone, a white staff topped with a star in hand, and a large white dragon curled behind me, sleeping.

As the Sight faded, I caught what the knight saw in truth: a young man with silver hair and black robes, holding the same staff but diminished. Above him, the seven stars upon the white field of House Sunglass stood, as he brought his finger to his lips in a shushing motion.

I snapped back to my mind, glad to have my chosen location come with an unexpected benefit. It was subtle, but it helped me make an impression on one Ser Bonifer Hasty.

I turned my attention to the crowd that had grown far more restless.

While I was messing with the knight that had once been in love with my mother, the argument had gotten a bit more heated.

"You dare accuse your liege of such dishonor, Velaryon?" asked someone, a Staunton by the look of the two black wings, "on what grounds?"

Well... maybe a bit too much.

He was not the lord, but likely one of the two sons, Simon and Brynden. Given his fervor and anti-Velaryon tendency, the oldest, Simon.

"Who else could have done so?" asked Monford, as we had agreed.

'Say it,' I projected, my small nudge breaking through Simon's inhibition.

"The Targaryens," Ser Simon Staunton accused, causing the entire hall to hush. "We know the dragon banner flies over Dragonstone. We have all heard the rumors, the son of the Mad King holds the island."

The whispers echoed.

The dragons held Dragonstone.

There was something about truths that people did not speak, or ones when spoken, could not be unspoken.

They all whispered it... they all knew it... yet here it was, the first time someone spoke it out loud to all of them.

"As Targaryens should," I caught someone say beneath their breath.

I made a note of the man who said it, a knight with the mark of a brown bear paw on white.

'Interesting,' I said, guessing the man to be a Brune of some sort. Cracklaw Men were loyal for many a reason, but this one got my interest.

Viserys in the original timeline was a fool for believing there were people who were waiting for his return, when the truth was more complex and hinged on how much power one held.

The entire hall was filled with lords shouting at each other.

"ENOUGH!" Lord Ardrian called eventually.

It was drowned out by the shouting, each acting less like Nobility and mere brutes.

Daggers were unsheathed, as swords were left out upon receiving Guest Rights for the Wedding.

Fucking children... that was what they were. These were the people I had to deal with now.

A part of me considered fucking back off to Essos to be honest, maybe the Eldritch Horrors I knew were lurking in the shadows would be easier to manage.

I chose to intervene.

"Expelliarmus Totalum," I whispered, as I slammed my staff into the ground, the echo rolling through ground and bone alike.

I let the sound carry the spell instead of spellfire, the vibrations carrying with each drawn steel blade and causing each weapon to vibrate until the holder dropped them, or their hands numbed enough that they dropped it without meaning to.

Another flick sent all the blades out from one of the doors, as I pulled the staff, using Thaumaturgy to move the weapons.

The hall fell into a stunned, absolute silence.

Every lord, knight, and servant stared at the corner where I now stood, the disillusionment charm having melted away like morning mist. The last of the disarmed daggers clattered to a stop in a pile by the door before the door itself was shut with a bang.

"To draw steel under guest right is punishable by death," I simply said, "Or have the Lords whose line helped Conquer the Seven Kingdoms forgotten such triviality under the rule of the Stag?"

"Viserys Targaryen," the whispers came next.

The small bit of magic was enough to get them to shut up and listen at least. While most people were religious in this world, Magic was something that was regarded with as much fear as awe.

But with Nobility, magic meant something else... Power.

It was deeply ingrained in them. Most lords of Westeros claimed descent from the Sorcerers of one shape or form. Brandon the Builder, Garth Greenhand, Lann the Clever, Elenei of the Sea, and hundreds of others.

Targaryens were just the latest in a long line of Sorcerer Kings to conquer them. Their magic was mostly disguised as dragons, but it was still magic.

My simple act was enough to get their attention, be it their fear, greed, or caution. There was a certain elegance to being able to disarm an entire room with a single move.

I stepped forward into the light of the hearth, my staff held loosely in one hand, ready to draw upon the magic already woven through it at a moment's notice.

"Glad you lot know who I am, my lords and ladies," I said, "I am sure there are those of you old enough to have met me, those of you who know only a boy sheltered from the world..." I simply said. "If it was not obvious, I have returned. Dragonstone is mine."

"So what?" someone said, too brash. "Do you expect us to bow and scrape and make you king?"

"We have made oaths to King Robert," someone else said.

"Oaths made at sword point," another spat... seven stars on a white field... Sunglass. "What did Robert do for us but tax us into ruin while he feasted?"

"I have not come to threaten you," I said simply. "I was a child when I was forced into exile lest I be butchered like my niece and nephew. I have not come to beg, and I do not have need to be called King to do my duty."

"Duty?" asked Lord Guncer Sunglass, "What does a green boy like you know of duty?"

"More than Robert ever would," I responded, "More than any Lannister brat that would come after, or the bitter younger brother that they put in charge of you, waiting at the chance to crush you the moment you recalled your old loyalties. Aegon was crowned as the Shield of his People, and that is what I offer you," I said simply.

The man held their breath, waiting... well, most were waiting willingly. The rest were rather easy to keep quiet with some mental pressure and a bit of enchantment.

"A shield against the man you call king who sends fire to a vassal's wedding feast, afraid that they would side with older loyalties, that they would be brave enough to stand against a king who does not care about them, and hold true to oaths made before the Seven Kingdoms were made one."

My eyes found Monford Velaryon, then swept the room. "Let there be no doubt. The ships filled with Wildfire that burned in your bay tonight were sent by Robert Baratheon. He sought to burn House Velaryon from their ancient seat and lay the blame at my feet, turning the Narrow Sea against itself."

The silence shattered.

"Lies!" The voice belonged to Ser Justin Massey, a knight whose square jaw and righteous fury marked him as utterly devoted. He had been Robert's squire, and his loyalty was personal. "King Robert is a good man and a just king! He would never commit such an atrocity! This is a Targaryen trick, the word of a madman's son!"

Lord Ardrian Celtigar, ever the pragmatist, raised a hand. "An accusation of this gravity, Prince Viserys... it requires proof. You accuse the King of the Seven Kingdoms of treason against his own people."

I met his gaze, my mind flashing to the charred remains of my original plan. The Head Pyromancer was a pile of ash, his testimony silenced by the very substance I sought to expose. The path of evidence was closed to me.

"My proof is the fire you saw on the horizon and the word of the man who stopped it," I stated flatly.

"Your word?" Ser Simon Staunton scoffed, stepping forward. His face was a mask of contempt. "The word of a dragonspawn, raised by savages in Essos? We have a king, one who bled to overthrow your father's tyranny. Why should anyone here trade his peace for more madness of your kin?"

The hall was divided into shouting factions.

The Velaryons and Sunglasses countered the insults, while Massey, Staunton, and their supporters roared back, defending the honor of the Crown. It was an impasse-my word against the King's. And in Westeros, without irrefutable proof, the King's word was law. I needed to shift the grounds of the debate from a court of opinion to one of divine judgment. Ser Simon, in his rage, was about to give me the opening I needed.

"Your father burned men alive!" Simon bellowed, his voice raw with hatred. "And for all we know, you learned your tricks at his knee before you fled with his whore of a queen!"

The shouting stopped, the breath of man misting the air as my wrath slipped from me.

The air turned frigid as my eyes focused on the man.

An insult against a living rival was politics. An insult against a dead queen, a woman many in the room had known and respected, a woman who suffered more at the hands of Aerys than anyone else... that was a line crossed. The argument was no longer political; it was personal.

I let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of every eye in the hall. Then I moved, unfastening the black gauntlet from my belt and letting it clang on the floor.

"Ser Simon," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "You champion the honor of a king who tries to murder his vassals in the night, who smiled at the corpses of my kin, a girl of three and a babe at the teat, who bemoaned his stolen betrothed in the same breath that he put bastards into the bellies of some whores," I responded simply, "I say Robert Baratheon is a tyrant and a murderer. And I say you are a slanderer who lacks the courage to face a man without hiding behind a dead woman's name. Let us see whose word will remain by the time the sun sets."

Simon's face turned purple. He looked at me, then at my staff, a flicker of fear in his eyes at the thought of a one-on-one duel against a man who could disarm a room with a whisper. He sought another way out, a way to rally others to his side.

He puffed out his chest, his voice rising to a fever pitch for all to hear. "If you are truly a fool to believe the gods would side with a Sorcerer, then let them be the judge of it all! I will not fight you alone. I call for a Trial of the Seven! Let the Seven-Who-Are-One bear witness and decide the truth of your claim! Let them judge whether our King is a tyrant, as you say!"

It was a brilliant, desperate move on his part. He had taken my personal challenge and elevated it back to the original accusation, wrapping himself in the sanctity of the Faith and the law. He believed numbers and piety would be his shield.

He had just handed me exactly what I needed.

"I accept your terms," I said without hesitation, a cold smile touching my lips. "Seven against seven. Let the gods decide who speaks the truth."

If they had enough to face me.

First, the step forward was the old knight who had seen me first.

"Ser Bonifer Hasty, I presume," I greeted the man.

"You presume correctly, your grace," said Ser Bonifer, "Have you learned of the ways of Knighthood and the Seven?"

"I have been trained and knighted by Ser Willem Darry," I said, simply, "and I have learned of the Gods as I roamed the Hills of Andalos where Hugor was crowned."

Well, it was true. What passed for Andalos these days was essentially Pentos nowadays, and I did learn the nature of gods in that shithole... if only the fiery kind.

"You would fight against your rightful liege, Hasty?" asked Simon Staunton.

"You have spoken dishonor against a Good Queen, ser, a woman whose virtues were surpassed only by the Maiden herself," said Ser Bonifer, "I shall fight for her honor, even if it means fighting beside a man rumored to practice foul magics and lay with demons."

"Slay, ser," I corrected, deciding to lay on the refuge in audacity. I mean, if Jaehaerys could get the Faith to accept Targaryen Incest, I could probably pass my skill with magic off as something from the Seven instead of a demon or something, at least so long as I could keep a lid on the more questionable methods. "I slayed demons... well, one demon whom the Stranger bid me to end. More than enough for a lifetime to be honest."

Ser Bonifer blinked, his mind unable to find any falsehoods.

"Hah, as mad as his father, that one," said another, "I am Ser Godry Farring, and they shall call me Godry Dragonslayer after I am done with you, boy."

"They will call you Ser Godry the Gone when I run you through, good ser," I responded with a smile that showed teeth. The man did not even flinch.

"He did not bear blades in my halls," responded Lord Monford, stepping forward, "unlike you, Farring. I shall fight beside him."

"And so the snake shows his true colors," another knight snarled, his sigil of a pig with wings rather memorable. "I am Ser Clayton Suggs. T'is a pity, letting your lady wife widowed so soon after the Wedding, my lord," said the man. "Worry not, I am sure to comfort her after I am done with you."

Monford made to lunge, as I reached with my staff and physically held him back.

I decided that I was going to make that one fly just for the insult.

Next, Ser Brynden Staunton, Simon's younger brother, walked past his stunned father and brother. He did not look at them. He stopped on my side of the hall next to Monford. "I will not let my brother's foolish pride drag our house into ruin and dishonor," he said, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. "I shall fight for the Dragon, as my family always had."

Ser Simon's face went from purple to white. "Traitor!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "You dare stand against your own blood?"

My eyes found Lord Symond Staunton, a snake if there was any.

The man had been Aerys' Master of Laws, and whispered in his ear of how Rhaegar was trying to usurp Aerys. While the accusation was true, the fact that the man had survived the Rebellion unscathed spoke to his character.

The man had his heir and spare in this Trial, and did not seem that pleased, even if his mind showed the cold calculation as he saw himself win in either case.

Before the argument could escalate, the next knight stepped up.

Ser Justin Massey, Robert's Squire, stood against me... not surprising to be honest. While located near the Stormlands, House Massey of Stonedance answered to King's Landing instead, making them a loyalist to House Targaryen for most of history. I could see how Justin Massey himself was taken as a hostage by Robert to keep the peace and turn them to his cause. I was saddened to see that it had stuck.

The Brune knight stepped up. "House Brune had been Dragon's Man, and a dragon walks among us," he said, turning to me. "I am Lothor Brune, and I will fight for you," he said. He was not a knight, but a freerider, though he was too old to be a squire as well.

His name sounded familiar, yet without a Pensieve to check my memories, I was not sure. Instead, I relied on my Legilimency, feeling the thoughts of the man before me and finding him to be more mercenary than anything else. He was distant kin to the main line of House Brune, but his mind showed that my magic was what made him take the risk. He saw this as an easy win and a path to more fame and glory, expecting to be knighted if we won.

A man in Celtigar liveries walked, only to stand against us. A boy, really, not even twenty from my guess.

"What is the meaning of this, Elys?" asked Ardrian, shocked.

"I will not let your ambitions ruin our house, nuncle," the boy said simply. "Especially for a fool who would come here with no knights sworn to him, expecting our bent knees."

Instead of answering, I sighed. I did want more people to volunteer so I knew who would side with me willingly, but that was a challenge on its own. A move slamming the main door open as another man walked in.

He was clad in a solid plate, pouldrons shaped like skulls, and another pair of skulls were embossed on his breastplate. On his shoulders, the white cloak stood pristine, a simple spell keeping it from getting soiled by mere dirt. The most prominent part of him, however, was his right arm. The wooden arm was left uncovered, carved with glyphs that could be used to cast low-level spells at will. It moved naturally, as though it were flesh itself, but it was uncanny enough to be recognized as magic.

Ser Richard Longmouth, the Knight of Skulls and Kisses

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His head was bare, his hair stark white from the side effects of the Manticore Venom, tied back.

"Your grace," said Ser Richard, nodding at me.

I could tell that his smile was only superficial, and his eyes showed that he disliked this stunt, even if it was an option we discussed before.

"Lord Commander," I said, matching the smirk on the face of my brother's former squire.

Then the knight in the corner stood up.

"I thought you had died, Ser Richard," said the man with a booming voice, bushy white eyebrows, and an equally white beard. "And while I had sated myself on violence after winning the tourney the day hence, honor demands that I fight against the Dragon."

The most distinct feature he had was the bronze livery he wore, embroidered with black runes.

I looked at the eyes of Bronze Yohn Royce, whose glaring eyes kept shifting between me, my staff, and the carved glyphs on Richard's arm.

This was going to be interesting.

Wat the Brains joined in at last as the seventh, his shield and mind best to watch my back. I did not bother to care about the seventh opponent I would face, my focus set on the bronze runed armor.

"You have seven," said the Septon, who was pulled into this mess. The man looked to be sporting a hangover from the last night's feast after he wed the Velaryons.

We stood in the little pavilion that was not yet taken down, where the Tourney for the Wedding was held.

It was not large enough for fourteen horses, so we would do this on our feet.

Pity, getting the seven idiots who faced us thrown off their horses and stomped into a bloody pile would have been faster.

"I need Royce alive, but don't inconvenience me with dying," I whispered as Ser Richard leaned in at my command. He was the only one who was fast and strong enough to ensure it happened.

Well, I wanted his bronze armor, and potentially his third-born son. Let no one say that House Royce raised pansies, as Waymar Royce had faced the White Walkers with steel in hand and challenge in his lips... just the type of man I wanted in my party in case I faced an eldritch horror of different flavors.

"He will not share the sentiment, your father killed his brother Kyle," whispered Ser Richard, "but I will keep him busy."

"Do you have armor, your grace?" Monford asked.

"Right," I said, remembering that I was wearing my robes. Granted, they were robes enchanted enough to make steel plate look low-end, but still.

Tapping my staff and letting my body be engulfed in flame, I pulled on my Valyrian Steel Plated Runed Armor to me using the small connection I had to it through my blood.

Yes, I had invented Henshin just after I figured out the Fire Teleportation, sue me.

"Clearly, the Smith has armored you, your grace," said Ser Bonifer Hasty.

I mean, the armor was decent, but not something I would attribute to divine crafted armor. It was something I commissioned back in Braavos, with some added modifications like the thin sheathe of Valyrian Steel to prevent the metal from getting pierced by magic or steel alike.

The runic helmet itself was the fanciest part. It was made to take a hit from the likes of Robert's anvil on a stick, and ensure that I did not feel it, even if it limited my vision. Maybe I should make the next version from an invisible metal, a bit of alchemy, and I can solve the whole sight issue.

The Septon looked at the display while blinking, before deciding to glare at a cup near him instead of the display of magic.

The rest of the peanut gallery gave a wide range of reactions.

"Will you use your magic to kill them, your grace?" asked Lothor, the Brune Freerider who was fast to volunteer. His mind was more organized than others. He was also far too cunning for my comfort. The man had put two and two together and realized that I was likely watching and made his comment accordingly. He had also joined in on the Trial after realizing that I would likely win with magic.

Smart man... with decent morals... very Mercanary minded.

"Though I am told that victory erases dishonor," I said, "I shall do it the right way. Sword," I said, as Will flashed in and dropped Blackfyre to my outstretched hand.

"Do you know how to use that blade, your grace?" asked Ser Brynden, causing Richard to snort. On one-on-one, Ser Richard had an annoying tendency to beat me after figuring out how to stretch time using his weirwood arm, at least when I chose not to use Magic.

"I reckon you stick them with the sharp bit, right?" I responded dryly, though loud enough to make it heard across.

The knights who sided with us seemed to be in different colors.

Wat chuckled, tightening the straps of his shield, hide covering the thin Valyrian Steel surface.

Ser Richard held his glaive with both hands. The weirwood hafted glaive still had the remains of Lamantation for its blade, something that I was not going to speak out loud when the man was fighting Lord Royce.

The honorable action would be to present it to Bronze Yohn... but I was not stupid enough to grant a weapon that could kill me to a man who was fighting against me, not to mention that returning a broken blade was likely not the best gift to give your future allies.

"Does it have a name, your grace?" asked Lothor Brune, as his eyes focused on my sword.

"Blackfyre," I simply said, unsheathing it and letting the black flames lick the edge of it. "What do you think I was doing in Essos for the last nine years?"

The ones unused to my brand of madness blinked.

They likely did not expect me to hold the Sword of Kings.

"Staunton, to the left, I will not have you become a kinslayer on my account, Ser Bonnifer, if you do the honors of teaching the lad some manners," I ordered, furthest from his brother, Ser Simon.

"It would be my pleasure, your grace," said Bonifer Hasty.

"Watch my back?" I asked Ser Richard.

"My choice is made," he responded simply, paraphrasing his house words. He held his glaive, the acid and poison-eaten Valyrian Steel of Lamentation, on a shaft of Weirwood was not a pretty blade, but it was still the second-best weapon I had.

"Watch my back?" I asked Wat in turn, watching him secure the strap of his bronze.

"Just don't die," Wat said simply. "I am too young to be skinned alive by your sister."

"I want the Suggs knight," said Monford simply, having stayed way too quiet as he pulled down his face plate and hefted his great axe in hand.

I sighed, slamming my staff to the ground and binding a specific enchantment to one of the rings.

To prevent Magical interference from the outside.

No need for the likes of Seven to put their hand on the scale when I was around.

The other eight rings along the shaft glittered for a moment, each held the same enchantment, something that would turn the blades and soften the blows from blades against my man, seven for my man and the last one I threw in the direction of the Lord of Runestone, even if the Valyrian Steel of Ser Richard's glaive could pierce it if it became necessary.

I could just be flashy and blast the seven knights fighting against me into vapor, but this was a good experience for combat.

And if anything were to happen, Will could still swoop in and interfere.

"May the Father judge us fairly," said Ser Bonifer.

"Try to keep up and pick up the ones on the edges," I said simply as I closed my helmet.

I walked in the middle, clad in black armor and a sword that I held with two hands, not using a shield.

Blackfyre glowed white hot as I let go of my focus, the echo of the starlight pouring through the blood-bonded Valyrian Steel.

My blade was thin enough that I could swing it around for hours without exhausting myself, long enough that I could use it to keep control of the crowd, and while the edge was sharp enough to cut through mail like silk, when it was glowing, it carved through plate as though it was boiled leather.

I brought the sword down, cutting through the shield of the knight whose name I did not bother learning, along the arm behind it, a kick knocking him back as a wide swing had the Farring and Massey step back.

Godry Farring, the would-be dragonslayer, went to strike, as I struck the blade away from me.

Blackfyre whirled, parrying Farring's slow counter as I followed it with a zwerchhau. The false edge of my blade bit through the knight's helm with the overhead swing, down to the eye slit before the now dead body slid off my blade.

That was two down in the first ten seconds.

Monford had already rushed to the Suggs knight, while a single moment was all I needed to confirm that Ser Richard had moved to press on Royce, countering his greatsword with his glaive as the two moved away from the rest.

Wat was standing next to Ser Richard, blocking strikes from Celtigar, as I moved to handle Ser Simon, only to be intercepted by Massey.

"Show me what Robert taught you," I said with a smile behind my helmet.

Slow...

That was the best description I had for these men.

Slow and weak...

I simply lacked regular martial combat experience, preferring victory through wit and more esoteric means. I did not spend enough time in the yard, not as much as the likes of Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, or even Jon Snow.

I could last a decent while against three opponents without relying on magic, though Ser Richard tended to break that tie when he got involved, but that was mostly on my style of fighting.

The combination of Water Dancing with a Valyrian Steel blade was deadly. Integrating it into the pseudo-Germanic style that the Stormlanders used, favored by both Richard and Connington, along with a focus that started with pure defense, made me suited for one against many engagements over single combat.

I was... mid, to say the best about my talents with a blade... or at least when it came to compare it against my skill with Magic.

Granted, I was a monster when it came to Magic, so the comparison did not hold.

That did not mean that I was mediocre in a fight, however. I had worked hard to cover my shortcomings.

And here, when the chips were down, that made the most difference.

I had worked to close the experience gap by absorbing the memories of veterans of fights, and my style, supplemented with Battlefield Divination, matched to handle the chaos of a battlefield rather well.

As for my physical capabilities, years of various Rituals to enhance my physique had created something that was definitely unnatural. The Hrakkar's ritual alone gave me the strength and speed to toy with Justin Massey, who seemed only capable of surviving from his familiarity with kiting around stronger opponents.

Robert had taught him well, it would seem.

His blade struck a pauldron, only for Blackfyre to bite through the mail behind his knee, shallow enough to disable him. Running some Reinforcement on my body, I picked him up and tossed him to the side as if he weighed nothing.

He seemed loathe to get up.

I turned to find my next victim.

Ser Bonifer had already seemed done with the younger Ser Simon with the help of Brune, though his singing a hymn to the Warrior was a bit off-putting.

Monford seemed to have been pushed back, the two finding themselves at the edge of a stone parapet, overlooking the cliff.

I moved, my left hand finding purchase on the armor of the Suggs knight and flipping him over Monford's head and down to the rocks that were washed by the waves.

The fighting seemed mostly done, the injured having yielded.

I gave a nod to Monford before turning to face the last problem I had.

Bronze Yohn Royce.

Only for Ser Richard to shift his glaive to his left hand, and raise his wooden hand up.

It was a brief flare, but one of the glyphs flashed as the movement of Yohn Royce slowed just as it smacked against the wooden prosthesis.

Ser Richard proceeded to use the haft of the glaive to trip the older knight over, ending in a twirl that had Ser Richard out of reach, and the glaive's blade pressing against the downed knight's neck, with an unholy screech of magical metal against magical metal.

Ser Richard had just stabbed the glaive through the bronze armor, pinning Yohn Royce in place.

"I yield," Yohn Royce said simply... ending the Trial.

"Hail, hail, Viserys Starborn," someone yelled out next, whom I recognized to be Wat the Eyes, "Prince on Dragonstone, Rightful King of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar, Shield of His People."

And the Lords of the Narrow Sea once more knelt to the dragon.

AN: It would always end with a Trial by Combat in the end, but even Wiz is surprised at how overlevelled he became. Sure, Wiz could have just smote them, but becoming a Magical Tyrant is not his goal and it is free xp, especially since he cheated a bit.

Last edited: Jul 10, 2025

044 Within the Dragon's Lair

I sat before the Painted Table, watching the pieces move in real time.

A week had not changed much, even as the Lords of the Narrow Sea sailed to Dragonstone and swore their oaths one after the next.

Once the event was concluded and a feast was done, it was time we got to work.

First was a meeting with my Inner Circle... to determine our next steps.

My eyes roamed through the map of Westeros, landing on the North.

If Robert called the Banners, the North had not answered yet.

Well, neither had the Reach, nor even Westerlands, but there were some movements in the West at least, south moving to the Gold Road.

Knowing Tywin, the fucker was planning to burn through the Fields of Reach the moment they switched... not that the Queen of Thorns was likely to do so.

North was what concerned me.

I wanted to bank on their neutrality, or the slow mobilization at the least, but I did not expect that fact to last long.

Eddard Stark was anything if not inconveniently dutiful.

I started walking around the map, placing an iron coin on top of Casterly Rock, one on Oldtown, another on a narrow passage along Prince's Pass between Reach and Dorne.

A coin landed on an island in a lake in Riverlands... God's Eye.

Places of interest that I wanted access to.

Places of magic and power that my ravens were already flying to, creating anchors that I can use to Teleport to.

Connington, on the other hand, put the pieces that were of relevance for the war in the near future in gold coin, reminding me of reality like a dutiful hand he was. 'Too much trauma,' I mentally corrected, knowing that he dreamed of burning cities to the sound of bells.

"The Narrow Sea lords are certainly... colorful," Daenerys said simply, though her eyes showed she wanted to call them 'a bunch of prompt up peacocks'.

"They are certainly a motley bunch, I agree. Not exactly the best hand, huh?" I asked out loud. "Is it wrong to think of trading the entire lot for a Seasnake or Oakenfist?"

"This is the hand you are dealt, your grace," said Marwyn simply, "And now we are to make the best of it. Mayhaps another Seasnake or Oakenfist will come out of them."

"Daenerys, if you would," I said, leaning back on my throne.

"Claw Isle, House Celtigar, Lord Ardrian Celtigar," she said, introducing each piece on the board. "Holds domain over Crackclaw Point."

"Celtigar's nephew lost a hand to Wat's mace during the trial," said Ser Richard. "He is disowned in all but name and has chosen to take the Black."

"Ardrian is loyal to the dragons," Jon spoke simply. "He held together those left loyal and holds wealth and manpower."

"He is good with coin from the books he brought," Marwyn stated, being a maester and the one with the most up-to-date knowledge of Westeros.

"But the men he brings are limited. Crackclaw Men are not his to call on... they chafe under Celtigar and are ruled directly by King's Landing. They haven't paid taxes to Robert at any time, but they lack the Targaryen Name to rally behind until now."

"So the Clawmen butcher any who comes to take their coin," I noted, "either fickle allies or opportunists, they will require a more personal touch when I have the time. Yet Lord Ardrian has proven himself loyal. Make an argument against making him Master of Coin?"

"Do you wish us to challenge the idea, your grace?" asked Jon, not used to my approach.

"He is a Westerosi Lord," Belle piped in, sauntering in with a feline grace that had my eyes glued to her swaying hips. "They tend to look down on matters of coin. Tycho is a better candidate."

"The King's Purse and the Royal matters of economics are two things, my dear," I responded as my Paramour ignored the empty seat that moved on its own in favor of my lap.

Bellegere was not as interested in the politics, even as she was now working in an unofficial capacity as the Mistress of Whisperers and handling the higher-level management of the brothels and taverns that we had set up to keep the pulse of the people of Dragonstone. The fact that she was working to establish half a dozen bards for propaganda made her invaluable.

I met her eyes, tilting my head in question, as my hand rested on the curve of her hips.

'Later,' she mouthed, passing me a letter from the Sealord.

"Bartimos Celtigar was the Master of Coin for the Blacks. He was known only to raise taxes," said Marwyn, ignoring the byplay. "Many blame the riots that led to Princess Rhaenyra losing her grasp on the throne on his policies."

"Yes, no one likes high taxes. Have Nessa keep an eye on the books; she has done well as my Steward until now, and learned a lot of tricks from the Iron Bank. Have him start re-draw the trade routes for our benefit," I simply said. "If he is not corrupt and likely to beggar the smallfolk with taxes, he will do for now. His loyalty is less of an issue."

"Yes, your grace," said Jon Connington simply.

"Driftmark, House Velaryon, Lord Monford Velaryon," said Dany with a self-satisfied smile.

"Barely twenty, newly wed, with no heir but for his bastard brother Aurane Waters, a lad of four and ten," said Marwyn, "Been the lord since Lord Lucerys had fallen with the Royal Fleet."

"Now, there was an ambitious cunt, tried to have me betrothed to his niece before the storm took him with the fleet," I sighed, leaning back, "May he rest in the halls of his Merling King," I muttered to the nod of everyone.

A silence passed.

"Monford is ambitious and a bit rash, but Lady Cella is smart where it matters and likely to keep him in line. He is, however, loyal to us at the moment," I said after a bit of thought.

"Master of Ships is the normal position for House Velaryon. He sounds experienced enough," suggested Jon Connington. "Would be better if we had ships," he added.

"About that..." I said with a grin. "We have a thirty-piece Fleet complete, with another hundred on the way," I said, holding the letter.

"Braavos," asked Dany.

"I sent a decent chunk of Illyrio's coin with Syrio with the order for a strong fleet," I said simply, "Which did leave us slightly broke, but it was worth it. We will make back the gold in time, once we get the Narrow Sea under our chokehold."

"The Stepstones," said Marwyn simply, getting a nod. "I will draw up the numbers. If the contraption can extend that far, it changes this war."

"His brother is a bastard, but would do as your squire," suggested Ser Richard.

"And a hostage if he tries to run off with the ships," said Jon Connington. "Who is next?"

"Sweetport Sound, House Sunglass," said Dany when the next piece came in, "Lord Guncer Sunglass. Valyrian House."

"A religious nutjob, if there was ever one," I said, having met the man preaching the Seven. It took Lord Guncer and Ser Bonifer fifteen minutes to descend into an ever-escalating dick measuring contest on who was the most faithful. "But a useful one who sang my praises, but he did not step up for the trial," I said, pointing at the largest island in the Bay.

"Squire for one of his sons," suggested Dany.

"You are catching on," I said with a grin.

The next castle was pointed.

"Rook's Rest, House Staunton," said Dany. "Closest house on the mainland."

"Lord Symond Staunton remains the Lord since before Robert," explained Marwyn. "Though gelding his heir with Blackfyre might have soured the relations."

"Yes, consider Ser Bonifer sufficiently told of for his passionate conduct," I said, not really wanting to make it worse.

"Symond was your father's former Master of Laws; he had whispered treasons of Rhaegar to the ear of Aerys and bent the knee when his schemes failed," Jon summarized.

"Fickle friend, but one whose ambitions can be of use. Ser Brynden fought by my side, and I learned he did not share a mother with Simon. He will do better as lord. Send Simon to take the Black," I said simply, "And command Lord Symond pull his smallfolk to his castle and prepare for a potential siege."

"He has two nephews," said Jon simply. "They are young and can be taken as squire as well."

"I will need a squire as well, your grace," said Ser Richard, nodding at the Griffin Knight. "Mayhaps, they shall be invited to test their mettle."

"Do so," I said, understanding that it was both another opportunity to get more hostages without being overt about it and a subtle insult as the position was not as prestigious as being a King's Squire. "Next."

"Sharp Point, House Bar Emmon, Duram Bar Emmon," said Dany, scrunching her face. "That one was not in your books, Maester."

"Because he is just a lad of seven, as his father fell during Robert's Rebellion," Marwyn supplied. "He was in the wedding."

"Who is his mother?" I asked, knowing that she would influence the boy more than others.

"Niece of Lord Guncer," said Richard, "I remember the wedding. Religious as her uncle."

"Might I suggest taking the boy as a cupbearer, and later as a squire?" suggested Marwyn, "It would ensure the safety of the House's future and allow you to have influence on the boy."

"Reasonable suggestion," I said, as Jon drew an imaginary line from Rook's Rest to Driftmark down to Sharp Point.

"Stonedance, House Massey, Ser Justin Massey, formally bent the knee after the Trial of the Seven. He is currently our guest. Former lordly house, reduced by Robert down to a Knightly House when Stone Dance was stripped of its lands," explained Dany.

"He was also the squire of Robert," added Marwyn, "just so we all are aware."

"Anyone else?" I asked.

"There are various other lesser houses, but we will see who comes seeking to bend the knee soon enough. That leaves two men... Ser Bonnifer Hasty," said Ser Richard.

"Dany can use a Sworn Sword," I said simply, causing my sister to turn and look at me in shock. "Ser Bonnifer once crowned mother as his Queen of Love and Beauty," I explained. 'Use him well and gain his loyalty,' went unspoken.

"And Lothor Brune," asked Ser Richard.

"Richard, knight him," I said, "Offer him a place in the household if he does not wish to forsake his future for a white cloak."

"I shall do so," said Ser Richard, "Speaking of the white cloak, your grace," his eyes pointing at the two guarding the door.

"That leaves one thing," I said, turning to the two guards waiting by the door.

"Wat and Wat, step forward," I said simply. "Both of you. This was a long time coming."

"Your grace?" asked the two at once.

"My brother knighted Gregor Clagane," I said simply, "who paid it back by murdering his children and raping his wife. I have made a promise to myself not to do this to anyone... but you have both proven yourselves in deeds since the day I knighted you."

I drew Blackfyre.

"Do you stand witness to their oaths?" I asked Jon and Richard.

"We shall stand witness," the two said at once.

Wat the Eyes was not overly skilled in melee, but he saw things clearer than anyone else, and a bow without peer. Wat the Brains, on the other hand, was a tricky fighter that pushed you where you least expected.

Yet it was not skill or names that made them worthy, but their loyalty.

I placed Blackfyre on each of their shoulders, letting the spellsteel bite and leave a mark, not just upon their flesh but on their souls as well, marking them with their new oaths.

In turn, the two spoke the vows of the Kingsguard .

"You knelt as mere knights, now rise as Knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Wat the Allseeing and Ser Wat the Allknowing, Knights of my Kingsguard," I said.

Once the meeting was concluded, the next person I visited was Yohn Royce, who seemed strangely calm for a man who was technically a hostage.

Granted, he was currently located not in a dungeon but given his own quarters to stay in, but that was for politeness' sake, as a glass raven stood by the windowsill.

"Lord Royce," I said.

"Targaryen," he responded. His eyes had widened at how I casually deconstructed their family's greatest secret. "Came to bring me to be burned by Wildfire."

"The terms of your release are simple," I said, "An oath to never rise against me, made in blood, and a son to be given as squire."

"Do you think I would give my son as a hostage to you?" asked Royce, sounding not so pleased.

"I have no need of a hostage from you, my lord," I said.

Hostages worked only so long as their life was valued by the other side after all. "It is clear that hostages did not work on House Royce before, as Kyle Royce has shown," I said simply, "or Elbert Arryn or Jeffory Mallister, but we both know it did not matter when you chose to raise your banners for Robert. I will let the boy watch as I burn the rest of you lot, root and stem, should you break your oaths. I am sure he will not be quite as rushed to fight back against me."

Jaehaerys had the right of it after all. Dragons did not need hostages when they could fly in and burn it all down.

"Your nephew, Kyle, did not deserve it," I said simply, plucking the knowledge from his mind. "I remember that day, you know... I remember Stark's cry... 'Rhaegar come out and die, ' and yet it is my father who is remembered as mad. Would it have mattered if he had Ser Barristan Selmy cut down Lord Stark before hanging the son?" I asked, "Alas, it matters not."

"We remember," Royce said simply, his anger almost palpable.

"Do you?" I asked.

A flick of my wand had my Pensieve float, causing Bronze Yohn to freeze.

"I find that I sometimes find myself with too many thoughts in my head," I said, placing my wand to my temple and pulling a strand of memory. "This is something that helps... I built it based on the Magic of the Weirwood."

The memory fell into the potion as the image formed.

Ser Waymar, facing the White Walkers.

Bronze Yohn simply watched.

He did not speak.

"I am the shield that guards the realms of men," I repeated after that. "What does that make you?"

I left the old man to think after that, the bowl of memories following in my wake.

I entered Marwyn's workshop.

The new Acolytes have taken well to their new overlord, it would seem. They were stacking books, writing tomes, and there were a few pots brewing alchemical reagents.

And not a single pot of wildfire.

This was what magic was all about.

"Any accidents?" I asked, to which Marwyn pointed at the molten desk.

There was a hole going rather deep, but we were using the dungeons for potions for a reason.

"Reagent interaction, one of the idiots tried to make Maiden's Tears with magic, and melted through the gold cup he was using. Threw Weirwood Ash into it, so it is good."

"Melted through the gold cup..." I repeated. There were a few acids that could eat through gold. "Explain what Maiden's Tears are," I said instead.

Aqua Regia, I thought after a lengthy explanation. Maiden's Tears was Aqua Regia, an acid that could eat through even gold.

The thought of mixing that with Basilisk Venom brought a shiver down my spine... but I would make time for it later.

I had to prioritize thought.

"What of the pylons? Marwyn, have the calculations been done?" I asked as Marwyn unfurled a map.

"Yes, your grace. The Alchemist's acolytes are trained well enough for their profession, and some are good with numbers. The 'calculations' you provided allowed us to predict locations for the new pylons to spread," he said simply, unfurling a map over the painted table of the Gullet. "I had to get some of the fisher folk to point out the known location of a few of the Spears of the Merling King. They are the jagged rock formations spread across the Bay, likely from Volcanic Activity, but they have strong currents and would work for the foundation for any Pylons should range become an issue. The Gullet requires ten pylons to allow full blockade, twice that if we wish spares."

I nodded. "Are these land pylons?"

"The plan is to spread them through the Crackclaw starting from Rook's Rest, create a set of watch towers through the mountain tops, with a direct line of sight to main roads. A few men might make it through, but it would stop an army if needed. From there, we can potentially expand North to the Bay of Crabs or up the Trident from Saltpans," he said simply.

"And secure the primary salt source of Westeros for Winter, potentially put them in a chokehold. What about expansion southward?" I asked, pointing at the pylon locations in that direction.

"Once we have Massey's hook, we can theoretically make it all the way down to Tarth, following the coast," said Marwyn simply. "We only need ships to secure the rest."

I smiled. I would need to get these done first.

"Then I shall start taking care of that issue. Is there anything specific you need from me?" I asked Marwyn, looking at the increasing number of acolytes.

"A tower dedicated to the New-Maesters would be nice," said Marwyn simply.

"The College of Wizards," I said, "And use the Sea Dragon Tower for now."

"Some oak galls would be nice as well," said Marwyn simply, causing me to tilt my head, "For ink. With new students, our reserves are running dry. We will need to make new ink."

"Don't look at me," I said with a shrug, "I have an ink guy in Braavos that I buy from, not exactly something I learned how to make."

"Bah," said Marwyn, showing me how Oak Galls could be turned into an acid and mixed with iron salts.

"It needs the Gall Flies, their larvae leave behind the Oak Galls," he said simply, "ran into a few in Aegon's Garden."

I nodded. "Get someone to collect them... Though one wonders..." I spoke.

"What?" the Archmaester asked.

"What would happen if we used Weirwood instead?" I asked.

Marwyn gave me a grin like I just told him it was Christmas already, his red teeth clashing wildly with his pale skin.

"As for the iron salt," I said, passing a vial of black shavings of dragon bone.

"Viserys the Wizard, this is why you are my favorite noble..." he said simply.

"Get me a sample to study," I said, leaving Marwyn with a pot containing Weirwood to figure out the mechanics of creating Weirwood Galls and keep an eye on how the flies evolved. Seeing that the flies would consume parts of the Weirwood and potentially evolve into a magical species, it would require some delicate work.

In the meantime, I got to work.

It took a week of working to get every Pylon up in Blackwater Bay, usually involving sailing to the location with Revenge and getting close enough for me to Levitate to the small jagged rocks and start raising the solid blackstone towers topped with a single crystal.

It was monotonous, and the planned spread such that we always had the backing of the Solar Cannon.

The last one involved Rook's Rest and dealing with a very unhappy-looking Symond Staunton, whose firstborn had been sent to the Night's Watch.

And with that, the Gullet was mine, while the plans for expansion would ensure that I could secure the entire coastline.

# Fire and Glass: A Political History of the Rebirth of the Targaryen Dynasty

## Chapter VIII: The Megiddo Array and the Gullet Standstill

By Maester Ronnel of Oldtown, Archmaester of History and Political Analysis, 317 AC

"It is the historian's burden to separate myth from reality, legend from logistics, and sorcery from statecraft. With the life of Viserys III, however, those lines tend to blur." - Archmaester Gilbay.

### The Myth of the Megiddo Array

In the year 293 AC, the man now referred to (by some, including himself) as "Viserys the Wizard" emerged on the world stage from exile with claims of royal legitimacy, magical mastery, and what he termed 'tactical enlightenment.'

While much has been written, often uncritically, about his so-called Megiddo Array, there remains little consensus among learned men as to how such a device truly functioned. Reports suggest it was a magical siege weapon, skeptics suggest it to be a mere creation of artifice, potentially of Myrish origin. What is known, however, is that it is powered by sunlight and reflected through enchanted towers, capable of incinerating ships on the open sea with unnatural precision.

### A Cold War Under the Sun

It is generally accepted that for five years, from 293 to 298 AC, Westeros entered a period of military inaction centered around the Gullet, the stretch of water separating the Blackwater Bay from the rest of the Narrow Sea, stretching from the Sharp Point to Crackclaw Point.

The reason often given is fear. Fear that any naval action against Dragonstone would result in catastrophic loss. But it must be noted: no contemporary source ever witnessed this array in use beyond a handful of isolated events, and most reports of "sunfire" and "glass towers" come from peasants and sailors, not confirmed witnesses.

Wandbearer: Peasants and sailors. Imagine trusting a maester who refuses to believe anything without a citation, but also refuses to go look. Classic. Why send a raven when you can just be smugly ignorant from a tower?

Still, the threat of the weapon was enough. Dragonstone became a fortress no one dared to approach by sea, not because of what was seen, but because of what was believed.

Wandbearer: "The weapon wasn't real, it merely made all our ships disappear." A+ scholarship, Maester Ronnel. If you were my acolyte, I would have you clear out an ant nest with a magnifying glass just so you can get the point.

### Diplomacy or Delusion?

Viserys claimed his blockade was not an act of war but a "deterrence." That phrase - lifted from the ravings of a Braavosi scholar obsessed with Valyrian warfare established on how the Forty Families could remain peaceful became the cornerstone of his magical foreign policy.

Rather than mount invasions, Viserys expanded his array across coastal holdings. Isles and peninsulas such as Driftmark, Claw Isle were covered just as well as Rook's Rest and Sharp Pointe, each protected under the so-called "Sunbeam Doctrine."

It drew a line in the sand, a border that the Baratheon Rebellion was unable to pass.

Wandbearer: "Peace through superior firepower" is only a problem when I do it. If House Lannister or Tyrell had invented this, they'd be carving lions and flowers onto cliffsides. No one mentions how the array was used to make new roads in the spirit of Valyrian Roads.

### The War of Whispers

The Siege of Rook's Rest proved that armies were useless, the casualties of the first assault broke the army as Robert Baratheon was forced to return to King's Landing to quell the whispers of unrest. Given the pride of Baratheons, they were unwilling to call upon men to be slaughters, both sides turned to subterfuge, even as the halls of the Red Keep were filled with the cries of the "Cowardly Dragonspawn," before a call for Hedge Mages and Charlatans was given to fight fire with fire.

Viserys, allegedly, stole royal artifacts, assassinated pyromancers, and established what some claim was a 'network of magical teleportation'. These reports remain dubious.

Wandbearer: "Dubious" = "It worked, and I don't know how." Also, I didn't "steal" anything. You cannot steal something that belongs to you. You're welcome.

Meanwhile, the Crown quietly prepared countermeasures. Assassins dispatched. Maesters recruited to explore "counter-sorcery." The Faith issued sermons warning of unnatural kings.

Wandbearer: Hah... 'counter-sorcery', good one. Honestly, the definition of sorcery seems suspiciously convenient when it's just something you don't understand.

### What Did the Array Really Do?

Let us be clear: no castle fell, no navy was razed in open war, and no battle occurred in the traditional sense.

The Megiddo Array may have been powerful - or it may have been a grand illusion. Regardless, it created a new kind of warfare: psychological, magical, and painfully slow.

Wandbearer: "Painfully slow" is exactly how I'd describe reading your chapters, Ronnel. It's like being lectured by a lemon with tenure. Also, there was no navy razed because I had taken care of that beforehand, and sailors are a superstitious lot. You only need to spontaneously combust one ship for the rest of the fleet to turn the other way and haul ass.

Viserys' critics note that he held power without armies. He expanded his influence but never conquered through strenght. The man waged a war of delay, not of victory.

Wandbearer: I needed time for dragons to grow, you cabbage. If you build a library and raze a few gods, people call you lazy. By the Stars, Ronnel, must I annex the Moon to be taken seriously? No, never mind that, there are strange things on the Moon that I do not want to think about.

### The Time of Inaction

When the true war came - as it always does - the groundwork laid by the Megiddo Array shifted the terms of engagement.

Naval commanders were terrified. Spymasters cautious. Lords were hesitant to march without seeing a sunbeam sear a ship in the Bay.

In the end, Viserys Targaryen had proven something simple and terrible:

That dragons may not be able to hold lands, but with enough magic, patience... a man could hold back a kingdom.

Wandbearer: Correction: One man held back seven kingdoms. You forgot the tagline: "Viserys the Wizard: So Dangerous, No One Dared Provoke Him Except Idiots-turned-Corpses." Put that on your next book cover, Ronnel.

### Conclusion

The Megiddo Array was not a myth. Nor was it a miracle. It was, at its core, a statement:

"I am here. I cannot be touched. And I am watching."

Wandbearer: Alright, that one is actually pretty good. I am borrowing that.

---

*With Personal Annotations of Viserys Targaryen Third of His Name, etc., etc., etc., aka Wandbearer

**Allegedly - Archmaester Gilbay

*** Fuck you - Wandbearer

AN: The politics of what Wiz pulled slowly spreads out.

Last edited: Jul 15, 2025

045 Under the Shadow of the White Dragon

My bare feet remained within the water, just at the edge of the shoreline.

"There is a chance that I will not respond," I said simply, "It will be you three protecting me. The birds do not see anyone near us, but be on guard just in case."

This was, after all, the first time I would set foot on Westeros proper.

I walked forward, bare feet touching dry land as I leaned against my staff.

Then the image hit.

Westeros was a weird place.

One of the main reasons was that it had a root network of Weirwood spanning the entire continent, deeper than anything I had seen, but it was there.

I laid my scarred hand on the ground, using the connection forged between me and the Weirwood in Ser Willem's pyre to reach through.

I felt the spiritual pressure of the land wash over me as I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them, I was falling.

'Fly,' something crowed.

'Piss off,' I whispered as my fall stopped as I hovered in the air, briefly negating the effect of gravity upon myself as I became the air itself.

A thought had a cloud form beneath me, forming a decent throne for me to sit on.

'Fly?' asked the crow, reaching out.

My three eyes met it, as it made the creature reach my forehead.

I felt something stir in my chest, causing the crow to squawk and fly off.

A white dragon with red highlights appeared out of nowhere, snapping at the crow midflight as the dragon chased away the crow.

It was not large, but at the same time, it was.

It was the color of the Weirwood, the color of the first wand that I had made, gleaming white shot with veins of red and black teeth and horns.

Albion

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

I looked at the dragon as it looked at me, its hot breath forcing me to open my eyes.

Then I saw another vision.

The same white dragon now fighting against a black one...

No... not fighting... dancing.

Black and White Dragon Dancing

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

A roar that broke through their dance. Something larger, a shadow with teeth, stood before the two.

Then I felt an explosion of green flames approach, even as I wrapped myself in a golden dome of solar flame.

Instead of burning me, I felt the two flames cancel out, as I was pushed out.

I was back on the beach, returned to my flesh.

I frowned, having found myself leaning against my staff at the feeling of dizziness.

Something was leeching my power even as I stood.

I filed away the vision for later, before reaching for the power within my staff.

The small star, designed to be held within the crimson steel that I had decided to name Scarletite, ignited once more, pouring power through the metal, into the wood, along the shaft of my staff.

The Magical Energy refilled me as I countered the small drain imposed upon me.

I pulsed the energy, once, twice, thrice, tracking the flares with my Soulsight.

The tracking took us an hour, taking us more inland, even as my man never spoke up.

The thick forest that started near the beach bent to my presence, the branches and roots making way as we trekked through them until we ended in a clearing.

I felt watched, only to reach for my amulet, expanding the field of anti-scrying magic as runes lit up in my staff to support the temporary ward.

"This is unnatural," spoke Wat the Brains, "It reeks of magic... the bloody kind."

"Obviously," I said, leaning down and placing a hand on the clearing. "We are standing in what used to be a Weirwood Grove," I added, "The roots are still here. They are drinking magical energy as though they have been starved."

"Explains why Magic is gone from the land for so long," said Wat in turn.

"A lot of weirwoods were cut; if they drink all the magic, none are left for the rest of us."

"Not necessarily," I said. "For normal trees, leaves drink the energy from the sun, which allows them to balance it all. Though from my understanding, their natural ability to absorb souls would have allowed them to sustain themselves even when the Andals chopped the Weirwood groves. Without leaves, the roots absorb what they can because they are starved. In response, they became carnivorous, parasitic, needing blood to exist."

"So, Andals are the reason that the magic is gone?" asked Wat.

"I have seen a similar effect," I admitted. "The Valyrian Roads of Essos are designed to siphon magic, acting as artificial leylines that reinforce those who live in larger cities. It has a less potent effect, but I'm uncertain why the roots need to feed on so much power... typical of humanity, doing something that puts us at a disadvantage through zealotry and superstition."

Wat remained silent.

"I see a fork in the road, the energy is siphoned to two locations, one goes South, relatively weaker and almost newer, and the other goes North," I said, "If I had to guess, the Northern one is the Wall. Such a large construct would need more power than anything else of note on the continent. We will check that one out later, as I have after the Southern one, which I have a few suspicions about what it can be."

Closing my Third Eye so as to not get the attention of the Greenseers despite my Amulet against Detection. I did not know the purpose of the Greenseers or what goals they had, so I trusted them less than I did everyone else, which was saying something given that I was a paranoid bastard.

I turned around and left the clearing.

I had a more important job to do. I needed to visit the Houses of Crackclaw Point and convince them to join my side. I needed manpower, and this was the most efficient path.

For nearly a moon of dining, hunting, courting, on one occasion threatening immolation of their entire bloodline, and brief respites where I ran into enough injured and sick to practice my healing magic on the local population, I now had a significant region under my command.

The larger houses of Crackclaw Point were now entirely on board with my side, with the condition of directly paying their taxes to House Targaryen on Dragonstone, rather than King's Landing or Claw Isle. I needed the region that would sustain us with food... even if it was mostly mountainous regions, so I agreed.

During those travels, I raised enough pylons to cut off the entire peninsula from the mainland, from the lands bound to Rook's Rest to the Bay of Crabs, built at the highest peaks that blocked all paths to and from the peninsula.

While I could have handled the entire process with flame apparition now that I had figured out how to do that spell with my staff without having to rely on Will, I still enjoyed the more normal methods of travelling, as it gave me time to rebuild my mental defenses that seemed to have been battered when I first opened myself to the land.

Once the more logistical problems were done, the next phase of my plan required a more subtle touch.

I was aware of a significant force moving North from King's Landing, and I needed to confirm their goals.

That meant doing some infiltration.

King's Landing was easy to get to if you could teleport and had eyes to see where you were going.

Some of the beaches that smugglers might use were easy to scout with my familiars, and a flash of fire announced my arrival to the seagulls as I took my first steps to the Capitol of Westeros.

First impression...

The place stank so much that it was hard to think straight.

I hated the place already.

I pulled on the scarf that filtered the air for me, putting on a wide-brimmed hat enchanted to make whoever looked at me forget that they saw me or entirely ignore me, even as the shadows in the night wrapped around me like swaddling cloth and a stranger's face covered my own.

There were a dozen problems when it came to taking King's Landing, or even being in King's Landing.

My father's cache of Wildfire was only one of those.

The last of the Phoenix Ash from my stash meant that I could take this risk of coming here, but it would not protect an army or fully neutralize the amount of alchemist flame. Not to mention that errant spellfire too close to Wildfire tended to end badly for everyone involved.

Instead, this was strictly a stealth mission.

Taking a secret passage through one of the caves I had scouted and I walked through the halls of the Red Keep under half a dozen charms concealing me.

The half-botched sacrificial protections that Maegor had done through the ritualistic murder of the builders of the Red Keep meant that I could not use my more effective Scry-and-Die tactics.

I could see and observe, but to act, I needed to be inside the walls to be able to cast spells to take out anyone or anything.

In the end, coming to an empty throne room through a back door that led to the Chamber of the Small Council, I saw it.

The Iron Throne...

It was as ugly as my memories made it out to be.

Aegon's Throne

[img: data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7]

A towering symmetrical monstrosity that was a mix of the height of Gothic architecture and modern art with a dash of Eldritch Horror added...

I stopped, bringing back my shields up as I mentally chanted 'do not go in that hole, do not think of the eldritch.'

In that line of thought laid madness and worse after all.

Once my mind was further fortified, I stared at the Iron Throne.

Even the name itself was wrong... a mistranslation of the original name it had.

The bloody throne was made from steel swords after all.

The original name it had was Aegon's Throne.

Over time, it was translated literally, with Aegon meaning 'iron' in Valyrian, leading to the general way to refer to it as the Iron Throne, and the name has stuck.

It was a misshapen thing... hundreds if not thousands of swords, tempered in the blood of their owners in the Field of Fire, put together by blacksmiths and bathed in the flames of Balerion.

It did not rust, and it did not dull.

And people dismissed it like they always did.

I did the unwise thing for once.

I opened my Sight and looked.

And I saw horror.

The magic that was anchored to the Throne was not something I could fully explain with words, yet my mind still tried.

It was made with intent, a Sorcery that held echoes of defiance, death, and domination.

It was not clean, like charcoal rubbed on a surface, than the precise spells I preferred.

The dragon fire that burned the knights in their armor had done more than just kill them. It had boiled their blood and smeared the remains upon the steel.

It had trapped their souls into the blades themselves, a perversion of the Ritual of Lightbringer when the blood boiled and soaked into steel.

Same method that made Valyrian Steel, if less refined and lacking precision.

It was a Dark thing.

It was as amateurish as it was brilliant.

Then there were the other spells the thing had gotten, not structured spells, not even intentional from what I understood. They were just there, a display of the lack of control of the process that crafted the Throne.

Ignorant spoke of how the Throne cut those who were not worthy.

They were wrong... from a matter of perspective.

The throne only cut those who did not acknowledge the presence of a threat. A warning system was literally baked into the concept of something that I would describe as a curse or a jinx. It was empowered by the echoes of those who defied the dragon.

Any who made physical contact with the Throne could acknowledge the threat, and the curse would settle down. Yet if you did not see it, understand it, it would prick your flesh to ensure you understood that there were knives in your back... literally.

And that was just one of its side effects, not really the main property.

For the throne was a mark of Conquest that was as much a chain as it was a seat of power.

It tried to chain me, too, as I gazed upon it. Instincts tuned to a blade's edge had me unsheath my Morgul Blade, as the mark upon my forearm stung.

The knife blade, edge bathed in green spellfire of death, moved through the unseen chains, severing its hold.

"Oh, Aegon, you cheeky cunt," I muttered, feeling a bit of my magic drained and my soul strained.

The southern source of that was draining my Magical Energy stood before me.

That fucker had figured out a way to siphon the magic of an entire continent into a throne. He had taken submission and used it as tribute to empower the one sitting on the throne... or at least that was what I assumed the purpose was.

If that was so, it had not worked.

Instead, the Throne itself had done something strange, blocking the passage from the Throne to the one who sat on it.

"Ah, I see..." I muttered, disappointed.

It was less a means to empower a King and more a means to bake the spells within the throne itself.

"A thousand swords forged in dragon fire and tempered in blood..." I muttered.

Aegon had tried to make Valyrian Steel, yet the result was not Valyrian Steel... not fully, at least.

It shared similarities to the less refined Soul-steel I tended to use, but lacked the density. Using blood magic to siphon the souls of those who died for the Throne was brilliant, as it was dangerous.

And that alone explained the purpose of the Throne.

This thing was a weapon... meant to be used against the White Walkers, if I had to guess, though I had to account for the potential of it being used against me.

I could see holes in the spell now. Parts of it that were left untied.

"What an idiot," I muttered. This was why raw Sorcery was something that I preferred to use sparely. It tended to grow kinks where you least expected it, and eventually, you would end up with a scaly right arm that overpowered spells and forced you to retrain your control.

Not to mention further breaking the equilibrium of the energy being siphoned into the Wall by the Weirwood.

My options were limited.

I could likely temper the throne, tie up the open ends of the ritual that had crafted it, but without accounting for every variable, it was dangerous.

Alternatively, I could feed the throne with the power it hungered for as well, the staff in my hand would power it with ease to complete the forging process, but the loose threads would cause different effects.

And I was not going to create a thousand or so swords that actually might pose a threat to me.

Unless I did it both by melting and reforging the throne... used the process to shatter the enchantments and break the bindings that stored the souls.

I did the mental math to calculate the required power to slag the entire thing down in an instant, coming to the conclusion that it would also leak enough energy to ignite the Wildfire.

Plan B it was.

"Will," I muttered, as my familiar flashed into the space above my staff, landing on its head.

Will shook his head, refusing the command and pushing his reasoning.

"Yeah... too much spiritual weight," I muttered.

So, stealing the bloody thing was also out of question, as I could have had Will apparate the throne to a remote island and poured enough nuclear flame to make a false dawn as I turned it into something more useful.

So, Plan C it was.

"I suppose we leave it be for now," I sighed, talking to my bird.

I disliked failure, even as I reminded myself that nuking a city of half a million was not a reasonable response.

I snuck into the dungeons next.

Might as well nick the dragon skulls in the basement while I was here.

A few hours later, I was out of the keep and walking the city.

Collected memories of the Narrow Sea Lords made navigating the city easy, especially when they were supplemented by one of Varys' little birds.

I had taken the memories of the tongueless child, leaving behind a mental command and a dagger for when the boy would next see Varys, as I assimilated the memories of the secret passages he knew.

While the Geas I had made with Saera prevented me from preemptively defending myself against her line, it did not work when I had the right mental frame that kept Varys apart, whose line would not continue, given the fact that he was a eunuch.

Then, I made my way through the Street of Steel, leaving the castle behind through the secret passage in the tower of the hand that led to the Street of Silk, as I mentally thanked Tywin.

I ignored the whores selling their wares as I walked.

I ran into a few plays... not the best quality ones, but impressive nonetheless.

One had me riding a dragon, facing what was clearly Robert and his warhammer. I lost, funny enough, with the head of the silver-haired puppet exploding in strips of red velvet.

I laughed at the art, taking it in with amusement.

One of them had me lose and get hammered in a different... more vulgar way.

I thought it was hilarious... if only at the thought of how Robert would react to watching it.

Even as that one ended when a mysterious fire burned the entire stall down before someone interfered and drenched it in muddy water.

And if the mummer who came up with that brilliant script ended with a knife wound that would fester even after getting treated, I am sure it was just another happy little coincidence.

As the Street of Silk was left behind me, I found myself in the Street of Steel, hearing the beating of the hammers, the forges churning steel when the night was darkest and the color of heated steel truest.

While I could not steal the magic steel chair, I could ensure that no one had the brilliant idea of pulling a few of the swords out and using them as weapons.

Because I was pretty sure it would be a decent counter to magic... more a +1 magic weapon than the vorpal sword that was Valyrian Steel.

A few questions and silver exchanged had me standing in front of the Workshop of one I sought.

"Tobho Mott?" I asked, looking at the bald man.

"Yes," the smith asked, eyes wide as he seemed to be seeing through the glamour.

"I am told you are a man of talent, for the right coin," I stated, as I passed a dark iron coin, stamped with a hooded man's face and the year it was made. "What would this buy me?"

"What is this?" asked Tobho Mott, holding the coin to the light of the forge. His eyes were looking around us in panic.

"You and I both know what it is," I said, giving him a smile. "Shall we talk in private?"

"This way," he said, leading me to his study.

Once inside, he moved to pass me a bowl with stale bread and some salt.

Smart men.

"Who are you?" he asked as I took off my hat.

"A simple wanderer," I said, my glamour fading as I met his eyes.

Tobho said something in a language I did not know fully, though it seemed to be a form of Bastard Valyrian.

"I do not speak that language," I responded. "Though from your tone, I assume you know who I am. I wonder why you have not called the City Watch."

"It is Qohoric," responded Tobho, "It means the... Wrath of Stars. And I know I would be dead before they could arrive. One does not risk the wrath of the Butcher of Death."

I chuckled.

"That title does fit me, though, where you heard of that particular deed of mine is curious," I said, holding up my scaled hand to catch the light before forming a ball of flame in my hand, revealing the Mark of Death on the inside of my arm. "Please, my friends call me Viserys."

"Well, Prince Viserys, how can this one serve you?" he asked in turn. 'Please, not be here to kill me,' his thoughts betrayed.

"Figured out what the coin is, yet?" I asked.

"This is... Valyrian Steel, or as close as it gets," he started.

"I call it Soulsteel," I responded, "Rawer, unrefined form of Valyrian Steel, that can be made into the Steel you know how to work."

"You know the secret, then," he said with a pale face.

"I do. Not just how to reforge it like you do," I said, pulling out a Parchment holding a Geas, "But make more of it. And you are one of the three people who know how to reforge it other than me. I have a business proposition."

I was not surprised that Tobho had figured out the secrets of Valyrian Steel as well... or at least the basics of it.

Smiths of Qohor could split and merge Valyrian Steel in their forges. First was easier, requiring some blood and decent enough control in shadowbinding to split the shadow, empowering the steel. The latter was what required the use of the malleable soul of an unborn to act as the binder between two separate pieces.

They did not have the means to forge more of it, however. That process required magic that had been only present in the dragon's flame, until I came along, at least.

Tobho smiled, far too willing to sign his freedom over for a chance to be more than he was.

Artists tend to do that... making pacts with devils.

"That leaves only one issue," said Tobho after that.

"Your apprentice," I responded, causing Tobho to freeze. His memories revealed a boy with black hair and bright blue eyes.

Nine name days old and already strong enough to operate the bellows on his own.

"I care not who his parents were, you may bring him if you wish, set him loose if you don't. If he has talent, he will succeed you; if not, I shall ensure he is not going to want for work."

I was not going to kill Gendry for the crime of being sired by Robert. I was going to, however, make sure he became a good smith and work those inherited strengths for forge whatever I thought I needed.

That only left a single thing to get from the Red Keep. I would have to wait for the morning; however, I needed that particular tower cleared of residents if I wanted to not getting detected.

Might have to make a theater out of it, though, maybe pull a distraction.

I made my way through the streets, people watching.

The Gold Cloaks were subpar and corrupt.

The people were miserable.

Yet, I could feel life and potential.

Five hundred thousand souls... trying to live, trying to survive.

My steps found me in a large square, with a statue of Baelor of all people.

I went up the stairs and entered the Sept that had its doors open.

I had time to recover a few bones as well, I suppose.

AN: Wiz finally takes the first step into Westeros and a certain Crow makes a visit. Then Wiz decides to sneak around.

Last edited: Aug 1, 2025

046 Words of Power

# The Old Hand

Jon Arryn hated the Iron Throne.

It was not just the spiked eye-sore that he hated sitting on, or the dozen blades that dug at him at each second that he had to account for. He had been fortunate enough, blessed enough by the gods, and careful enough that the Iron Throne had not seen fit to cut him since he became Hand.

No, what Jon hated the most was the court itself.

Lords jostling with whispers, sycophants clinging to relevance, Robert, who would normally spend his time drunk and with whores, off to siege Rook's Rest, leaving only the gnats.

The Queen stood by one corner, next to her brother, Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. She was likely to push for another appointment of a Lannister.

Lord Baelish was on the other side, clutching the books of the Master of Coin. He had been invaluable in getting the coin to mobilize the force that Robert had marched with.

The Spider, Varys, was nowhere to be seen... vanished in the dead of night.

He disliked it, yet he was bound by duty and honor; he was bound to the boy he raised as his own son... Robert.

The words of his wife's house, 'Family, Duty, Honor, ' echoed in his mind. It had to be in that order, for Family and Duty, Honor was the first to go.

So Jon had given up on his honor, to make reality the war they were now waging.

"With the King off to wage war, it is more important for the Blacksmith Guild..." the man before him droned on, while Jon imagined the green fires his actions unleashed.

The letter had come from Driftmark, confirming the burning of the Hull.

The ravens had been sent, calling Viserys Targaryen Mad King, born-again.

Then a day later, came the ravens from Driftmark itself, holding the signatures of Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Staunton, along with more than a dozen lesser lords and twice as many knights, including that of Yohn Royce, whom Jon was familiar with.

The letter spoke of an explosion of Wildfire off the coast of the Hull, of a plot to destroy House Velaryon that was prevented by Prince Viserys Targaryen. It spoke of a Trial of the Seven that absolved Viserys Targaryen of any action, while putting the blame on Robert and his pyromancers as the cause of the attack.

It was a letter that spoke of complete dominion over the Blackwater Bay, independent of the Usurper upon the Iron Throne.

What Jon knew was that the boy had played them all for a fool, like his brother would his silver-stringed harp.

Still, he stood straight, wearing honor as his armor. He stood straight on the throne, the old and wise hand ruling with honor.

There was no turning back, that much he had known, now more than a decade passed when he chose his boys over the crown.

He knew that he would have to win, or he would burn.

In this game, you won or you died. There was no middle ground.

And then the doors opened.

And everything stopped.

A figure entered.

He was tall, not as tall as Robert, but tall, built like a house, pale, dressed in crimson and black with traces of unknown runes embroidered along the edges of the cloth that hung to him like a second skin. His sharp cheekbones were framed by long, straight, white hair that seemed to have a glow of its own.

Jon had seen Aerys and Rhaegar enough times that he could see the resemblance.

But where other Targaryens had stood lordly, this one stood... as more.

But none would dispute who this was.

Targaryen.

Viserys Targaryen

The boy, barely a man grown, yet taller than most, moved gracefully, each step fluid, less like a human and more like a cat's. The courtiers stepped back, feeling a predator prowl before them.

The guards stared but did not move. No command had been given. No threat had been taken. There was only... silence.

And silence in the hall stretched out, holding its breath to unleash a thousand screams.

And the worse was the feeling of something else... as though the whole room had turned, everyone and everything focusing on the intruder.

Even the flames on the braziers...

Even the throne, which felt sharper on his back, edges sharp where it would force him to lean in the direction of the Targaryen...

The smallfolk thought the Throne to have a will of its own, though Jon knew better. The throne was a reflection of the one who sat upon it. Just as if a man was calm when he grasped the edge of a blade, the throne would not cut a calm man... a lesson that many Targaryens had not understood.

He wanted to call for the guards, to ask how this man had managed to enter King's Landing without challenge... why he would do such a thing.

Yet just as the thoughts appeared, they slipped from his grasp like steam between fingers.

The figure walked with slow, deliberate steps, his boots echoing on the stone. For a moment, Jon swore he left no shadow.

Jon blinked.

The light must have played tricks.

He stopped beneath the Baratheon banners. He had ordered them hung, years ago.

"You've redecorated," he said, voice calm, unhurried. "I don't like it."

Not a soul answered.

"And your steward is inattentive. I shall do this for once. You stand in the presence of Viserys, son of Aerys, of House Targaryen, Blood of the Dragon, Weilder of The Flame Imperishable."

Viserys. That name cut through the room like a sword through silk.

Like a wave of heat that washed over everyone as whatever spell the sorcerer had woven to keep them from acting broke.

The Iron Throne beneath him felt like it heated up for a moment before settling.

Was Jon nervous?

He was too old to be nervous in the face of some arrogant brat.

There was something... a change in the air. Jon could not say how else to describe it. The braziers flickered, and a copper tang filled his nose along with the smell of wood smoke.

The smell of blood and fire.

And then the banners ignited as though drenched in some Alchemist's concoction.

There had been no spark, no torch; the flames were instant, quiet, unnatural.

In moments, the Baratheon tapestries of hunts and stags were gone. Beneath the soot, Jon ignored the ancient Targaryen sigils, etched into the stone for decades.

It would have been more expensive to replace, Jon had reasoned, to cover up the old to make way for the new.

"Guards," the Queen shrieked before Jon could give the command.

At once, the spell or whatever it was broke. Steel rang as it left scabbards. Guards charged.

And they all passed right through him.

Jon stood frozen as blades sliced through the air, men tumbled, one screaming as he drove a spear through nothing and landed hard behind the apparition. Another blade found the gut of one of the courtiers.

Jon watched the Kingslayer walk up from where he was standing next to the Queen, his swing passing through the apparition.

Next was Thoros of Myr in his red robes. He had picked up one of the swords, dousing it with Wildfire.

The blade, encased in green flames, descended.

Viserys Targaryen slammed the butt of his staff, and everyone holding a blade was thrown back.

"That is quite enough," Viserys said, reaching down and holding the hilt of the still-burning blade. "Do you think I need something as primitive as Wildfire to pretend to use magic?"

The green flames flickered, turning gold, as the metal drooped, melting like candlewax.

Yet the form of the golden fire remained, extending out from the hilt.

The Red Priest looked on, wide-eyed, a whisper of a strange name passing his lips.

Viserys Targaryen swung the burning sword.

Something flashed.

The Kingslayer howled, clutching what used to be his hand.

The bird of flame that Jon had seen before, when it delivered that cursed message, appeared, catching the hand and disappearing in a flash of flame.

"To strike royalty is punishable by the removal of the hand that struck it, Ser Jamie," he said simply. "A lesson known to any who knew the stories of Duncan the Tall. It is the least that should be done to you."

He leaned over the Golden Lion, whispering something that turned Ser Jamie paler than what had become of him upon losing his hand, as he seemed unable to move.

"As for you," he said, raising to his full height. Jon expected that he would be the next to be cut down.

Instead, the Sorcerer turned to face the corner where Grandmaester Pycelle was standing before the chair he would sit on to rest.

The golden blade swung, and the flames turned into a whip that wrapped around the old Maester.

Jon watched frozen as Pycelle was engulfed in the golden flame, fire distorting his panicked screams into a screech like that of a bird of flame that the flames transformed into.

When the fire died down, not even ash remained of the Grandmaester, and Jon knew that he was going to die this day.

The Targaryen's head turned. He looked straight at Jon and raised an eyebrow as though challenging him.

"I am taking the Grandmaester; he has a lot to answer for," the boy said.

His common tongue was strange.

It was too clean, barely holding a tinge of Braavosi that Jon knew from sailors.

"I hear rumors and insults, claims that I use wildfire to burn people like my sire, holding grudges of long past," he said, walking forward and over the wide-eyed Kingslayer. "Well, now you know that I do not need such parlor tricks. Attack me and I will only leave one man alive to tell the tale. As for this supposed madness of mine, here is something I want you lot to think clearly..."

"What would have become of you today, if you were right?" he asked, vanishing as though he was not even there.

The hilt of the molten blade slammed onto the ground, knocking everyone out of their stupor.

All that was left of the fact that Targaryen was in the Red Keep was the missing hand of the Kingslayer, and the burned Baratheon Tapesteries... and a missing Grandmaester.

# Viserys

The little show provided me the distraction needed to get to my destination, as I had Will dump Pycelle into the lair of Tywin the Basilisk, who would petrify the old man and preserve him for his... interrogation.

I was particularly annoyed that I was not able to reach my main goal in the Sept of Baelor.

I had plans before I got to Dragonstone, plans involving finding the remains of our mother, Queen Rhaella, and figuring out a way to resurrect her.

I was a Greenseer now, and I could pull her memories fully intact from the past.

What I could not do was move her soul through time, at least without the bones to act as a temporary anchor while I alchemically forged a new body.

Her bones were not in Dragonstone... having been taken by Stannis to King's Landing, according to what Barre had said.

Yet they were not in the Sept of Baelor either.

Instead, I had Aerys' bones in the sept, just as the kings before him.

Like that would do me any good.

I decided to move them all to Dragonstone just in case. While I would not bother to resurrect any of those idiots, their bones still had some use.

So, I acted out in my frustration, wanted to get my pound of flesh, so to speak.

It was interesting coming face to face with Jon Arryn and Ser Jaime Lannister.

Robert's Hand was not the man I thought he would be. He was far more subtle and honor-bound than I thought. The probes I sent his mind through the projection indicated that it was the Lannisters who came up with the idea of Wildfire.

Well, only one of those was crazy enough to come up with using Wildfire anyway.

So I decided to traumatize the other Lannister.

Ser Jamie was... I knew better than anyone that he would run me through if given a chance. It still did not change the fact that he was the man who killed Aerys.

For that, I admired him, almost as much as I hated him.

Were it that I had the chance to kill that fucker myself...

To clarify, Aerys, not the Kingslayer.

Alas, the actions of Kingslayer had prevented an entire city from burning to the Wildfire.

A secret only two of us knew.

'Did you know that Wildfire gets stronger as it ages?' I had whispered, a little detail that had left the brave knight frozen in shock and fear.

The idiot.

His actions have ensured that the Targaryen name was not too far in the dirt, at least.

That much I owed Ser Jaime.

So, I spared his life and took his hand as recompense for striking down his king.

And because his smirking face annoyed me.

And because I wanted Kingslayer's kingslaying hand for myself.

There were rituals that I could do with that hand, skills I could steal.

Maybe once I am done with the hand, integrate the bones into Richard's arm as well.

Pity Robert was not here, but knowing that he was on his way to siege Rook's Rest was good intel I could act on. A Wizard with a prep time was a dangerous thing.

Making my way to the last location I needed to get to when something stopped me.

"Mrow," a voice said as a cat approached me and sat in front of me, directly looking into my eyes.

I am supposed to be invisible, undetectable, and have an aura that makes anyone who sees me forget it.

'What the fuck?' I mouthed, making sure there was no one around us.

It was an old tomcat, large, shaggy, and black as sin.

It was staring right at me.

And it clicked.

"Balerion," I whispered, kneeling next to the cat, "hey buddy, it has been a few years, huh?" I said, reaching out.

The cat did not run off, allowing me to scratch his one intact ear.

The physical contact nearly knocked me back.

A normal cat should not have such a strong soul... unless.

Could it be...

There were theories... half-remembered even now... of a little girl who was stabbed half a hundred times.

A girl with a kitten she adored, naming it after the largest dragon.

A girl, theorized to have slipped into the skin of her kitten, a kitten that would grow to become a mangy black tomcat that ruled over the rest.

Balerion...

"Rhaenys," I whispered in realization.

"Mrow," the tomcat responded, leaning into my hand.

A perfectly preserved soul of another Targaryen.

Could I?

I mean, I could not restore Rhaella, but doing it to Rhaenys?

Maybe if I had the right components.

"Bones of the mother, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy," I repeated.

Elia's bones would be easy to retrieve. They were returned to Dorne according to all official records.

Flesh of the servant was trickier, but I would figure something out.

As for the Blood of the Enemy... that was the perfectly easy one.

"Amory Lorch," I whispered.

Balerion hissed at the name, taking a step back.

"Yes, little one," I continued, projecting my thoughts as I spoke for the cat to understand, "We shall hunt him like a mouse and make him bleed for us."

Balerion seemed to like that idea, given that he stepped forward and allowed me to continue scratching his ear.

I was perfectly willing to hunt down Amory Lorch, maybe mix in Tywin's blood to it as well.

"Wanna ditch this place and come with me?" I asked.

The black cat launched himself on my shoulder.

Right... I still needed to complete one last task.

The White Sword Tower loomed before me.

# A Bold Man

The echo of his boots in the White Sword Tower was familiar, comforting, even.

Each step along the white marble was a prayer, a reminder of oaths sworn and brothers lost.

Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had come to amend the pages of the White Book, that most sacred of ledgers of his order. It was his duty to record the deeds of knights, their triumphs, their failures, and their deaths.

Ser Jaime's name would need updating.

'Lost his sword hand defending the Queen and Hand,' he considered. It was short enough.

He did not wish to write it. Not now. Not ever.

He did not think the Kingslayer deserved it.

His jaw was tight, and his hand opening the door to the common room, reaching for the quill, before he stopped.

The silence of the room was heavy.

The carved shield-shaped Weirwood table held the White Book, holding three black chairs on each side.

The seventh, the one at the top of the shield that belonged to Ser Barristan and all the Lord Commanders before, was occupied by a man.

Not just a man.

A ghost made flesh.

He looked so much like his brother that it hurt to look at him.

Viserys Targaryen.

Barristan did not hear the door close behind him.

"I wondered how long it would take," said the dragon prince without looking up from where he was reading the White Book. "You always were dutiful and prompt, Ser."

Ser Barristan's instincts surged. His hand was already by his sword.

"How did you get in here?" he asked.

Was this another illusion?

"I walked," responded the Prince

Barristan drew steel. "You should not have."

At that, Viserys turned, calm as a knight facing a squire, eyes like amethyst fire. "Yet, here I stand," he said with an amused smirk.

The air shifted. Something unseen tightened around Barristan's limbs-the taste of metal on his tongue, the buzz of unseen power, like the storm before a bolt.

He charged.

Viserys made no gesture. No incantation. He only scrunched his nose and rolled his eyes.

The sword ripped from Barristan's grip, flung across the room.

Barristan threw his buckler with a shout, aiming for the man's skull.

Viserys held up a finger.

The buckler stopped mid-air, hovering.

"Cute," Viserys said as though expecting that attack.

With a flick of his finger, the buckler returned, slammed into Barristan's temple with a crack, and clattered to the floor.

If not for his helmet, that might have been more serious.

The knight staggered back to his feet, stunned, reaching for a dagger at his side.

He barely drew it.

The blade turned to sand, slipping through his fingers.

Then one of the black oak chairs slammed into Ser Barristan.

Then another came.

Wood groaned as the ancient furniture rose into the air like carrion birds, slammed into him from all sides. One struck his knees, another cracked his shoulder. He was knocked to the ground, windless as though six men were working to hold him down.

The wood of the chairs pressed on him, twisting. Long, pale limbs stretching, crawling, binding his arms and legs with unnatural speed.

In moments, Ser Barristan the Bold was bound in wood, made a prisoner in the Tower of the Kingsguard.

His breathing was labored.

Viserys did not even look winded.

Magic...

Ser Barristan sighed... accepting that this would be his end.

"Do it then," Barristan rasped. "I am sure you think I deserve it. For bending the knee. For failing to come to your banner..."

"You think that's why I would wish you harm, Ser?" Viserys's voice cut like a razor, shocked, affronted. "Because you yielded when you were injured? Because you bent the knee to Robert? Because you thought you saw madness in the eyes of a child who did not know any better, who could be shown better?"

Barristan froze...

"It was too late..." he said instead.

"Was it? Is that your excuse?" Viserys snapped, and suddenly the calm broke. His eyes held a rage that Barristan had not seen in the eyes of the man's sire. "You know the funny thing is, Ser Barristan the Bold... I am not even mad about that. You should have traded your cloak for a black one if you had the honor for it, but we both know that whatever shred of honor you had was long gone as you stood by and did nothing, you and those six cunts who you called brothers. You stood in your white cloaks while the Mad King did to Rhaella what no beast would do to his mate... and you didn't lift a finger."

Ser Barristan wanted to deny...

Ser Barristan wanted to refute...

'Not from him,' Ser Jonother Darry had once said to the Kingslayer.

'It is not our job to protect her from him,' Ser Gerold had said, words that Barristan could not muster the strength to speak those words.

Those hollow words that sullied his cloak.

"I could kill you now," Viserys said, the tip of the staff in his hand glowing, "and no man could say I did not have a good cause. I would spread you onto the walls of this room like a paste with a fraction of the hate I feel."

Barristan stared, ashamed. "Then do it," would it erase his sins?

"No," Viserys said, a smirk appearing. "You don't get the mercy of absolution. You and your brothers do not get to have peace... in life or in death."

He stood, brushing his robes smooth.

"For your case, I offer you something better, ser, something your dead brothers will not have. A wager."

Barristan blinked.

"In a moon's turn," Viserys said, "you will come to Dragonstone. You and I shall duel. No spells. No sorcery. No tricks. Just knight against knight."

"You're no knight," Ser Barristan responded before flinching.

"I was knighted by Ser Willem Darry, a knight truer than any of those whose names are written in that book of yours, Ser," responded Viserys Targaryen, "A man who stood true to his oaths in life and death... a man who was more of a father to me than Aerys ever could be."

"And if I win, Ser?" Barristan asked, finding no falsehood. He knew Ser Willem, he knew him to be a good knight... a better knight than he ever was.

Viserys's eyes glittered.

"Then you may strike me down. There. At Dragonstone. In front of witnesses. You get to end me, and end this war for your King Robert," he said simply, "Though I suppose you would not survive my sister's wrath."

"And if I lose?" asked Ser Barristan.

"Either you shall die, or you will swear your sword to me," Viserys said simply. "As you did to the king before Robert. As you should have done to my mother, Rhaella."

'As you should have done to me.'

Barristan looked up at him from the roots.

"You think I'll serve you?" he asked.

"Or you will die with a shred of honor. But, what I think is that you want absolution, a means to ensure that your oaths to Robert are satisfied, and a means to make up for the fact that your action of saving Aerys in Duskendale doomed House Targaryen," Viserys said, turning to go. "And I am the only person alive who can give it to you. Well, I am off. I am taking the book by the way, and the furniture."

"What?" asked Ser Barristan, only to get ignored.

"Come on, Balerion," he said, as a large black cat jumped from one of the corners, first onto the white table, then onto the shoulder of the King before Ser Barristan.

"Tada," said Viserys Targaryen, before the man, the cat, and the table were engulfed in a flame, leaving not even ash behind.

Ser Barristan, for a moment, saw a little girl holding a small cat.

# Heir of Rook's Rest

Ser Bryndeon Staunton looked over at the army at their gates.

Stormlanders, Riverlanders, and even a few Westerlanders, led by King Robert himself.

"First time getting sieged?" asked the man next to him, leaning on a chair that was not there, sipping on some chilled wine, wearing silk robes, his hair messily tied and held by a pin made from a smoky metal that Bryden knew to be Valyrian Steel. "It is a terribly dull affair."

"You should be more cautious, your grace, while your skill with a blade is known to us, and you may claim mastery over magic, it only takes a single arrow," he warned.

"I did right by gelding your brother," the Wizard said simply, causing Brynden to wince. "You are less of a dolt. Do not worry, I came with a new staff."

Then he pulled the pin holding his hair up.

"Well, this one is a grower, not a shower, I have to admit," said King Viserys as Ser Richard, standing next to him, gave a tired sigh. "No worries, you can build a world on the back of a pin with sufficient skill."

"Oppugno Oculum," he whispered to the piece of metal, in that strange language that made magic happen. "Go for the eyes, Boo,"

The metal lifted from his palm and, like a whisling bolt from a crossbow, flew into the enemy lines.

Brynden watched as the first men fell, a knight of House Rykerr, the man simply falling over like a puppet with its strings cut.

The knight crumbled into dust, and Brynden knew that the pin chose a second victim.

One after the other, the pin consumed another man, leaving behind a pile of dust.

By the time it went through a hundred men, the pin seemingly had grown to the size of a longsword.

Few knights used their swords to parry the projectile, only for it to strike at another victim.

By the second hundred, the pin was the size of a short spear, its end deadly enough to punch through plate armor.

By the fourth hundred, the army had broken and was running, losing any form of organized retreat.

Even as the army ran, the single piece of weapon flew, carving a bloodless path for another hour.

A whistle came from the lips of the King.

The long rod of blackened steel turned around and flew in their direction, and for a moment, Brynden thought to turn and run.

Instead, the pin, now the size of a short spear, slapped into the hand of the Wizard-King before him.

"Good fight," he said, as he vanished in a swirl of flames, taking himself and his Kingsguard with him.

'What fight?' Brynden could not ask.

The army that Robert had was running away.

# Viserys

The visit to King's Landing had been fruitful. Along with the dragon skulls, I had managed to poach Tobho Mott, take the White Book, and the Weirwood Table it sat on.

The confrontation with Ser Barristan had been... enlightening.

Not that I would use the man to fight the army that had been sieging Rook's Rest.

No, for that, I made a simple pin.

I liked the idea of it, the poetry of it.

I took a page from Kubikiribch, the sword of Zabuza from Naruto, which used the blood of those it cut to heal itself.

Instead, the pin that held a dash of Phoenix Ash acted as a seed, growing more Soulsteel on its surface as it drank in the blood like water.

The core material of Valyrian Steel was hard to come by, mostly because it required the iron from the blood. An army that attacked my new bannerman was rather a good resource to have, especially if they wished to throw their lives against me.

I tapped the rod of Soulsteel, watching it break apart into individual pieces.

Pity I could not fuse the Soulsteel without the Basilisk Venom-Phoenix Tear alchemy trick.

A thousand souls, all to make enough metal for five blades at most. The boy that I was would have wept. Now, I mourned them in silence, these souls who were used by Robert as tools for his vengeance, now forever made into another form of tools.

Or maybe something different... I was not certain yet. I now had Tobho to do the hard part of actually shaping the swords since he had the experience and time to do it.

I noted the part of me that would feel pity for those souls, but the realization that these men would not show me a lick of mercy shut it down. I still made a note to spend some time meditating to ensure that I did not lose my humanity.

Before I retreated back to Dragonstone, though, there was one last task to do.

Haunt Robert until he goes mad.

"Hello, Robert," I said simply, appearing before him as he sat slouched at a table, wine cup dangling loosely in his hand.

The King threw his warhammer where my face had been.

It passed harmlessly through the illusion and crashed into the stone wall, sending squires scrambling in confusion.

"Rude," I noted, stepping around the table. "Though as you've likely gathered... this isn't real... from a certain point of view."

He didn't respond at first. His eyes were bloodshot but not unfocused. He looked at me, through me, as if testing whether I was a ghost or a madness he could command.

Then he swung again... and again... and again.

I let him tire himself out.

"Hearing voices now, are we?" I asked mildly. "Tread carefully, Robert. You're starting to sound madder than Aerys."

Robert's jaw worked. He wiped away the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Come to gloat, have you? You dragonspawn fuck," he said quietly. Not a roar, but more measured now. His squires shifted again, unnerved by his tone.

"I could claim that I am not much for gloating... but this..." I said, pointing a finger between us. "This conversation we are having... it is a balm to my soul. After nine years of living in fear of the blades you might send after me and my sister, I thought I would meet you, face to face... or close enough."

"Are you here to kill me then?" Robert asked, standing straight.

I leveled my staff. I could do it so easily, the fire within the staff ready to be unleashed, not unlike a dragon's breath, yet hotter, more than a dragon's flame ever could be.

The wood smoked, and a stray thought had it lash out, leaving a thin little slice on Robert's cheekbones, right above his shaggy black beard, letting only a single drop of blood spill.

"I could..." I said, "I could so easily end you, but I think you deserve more. I thought you would come to Pentos to hunt me yourself, to be honest, so I could give you the chance to become the Sellsword King you always dreamed about. I wanted to look you in the eye as I brought down everything you built. But now that I look at you... All I can muster is pity at the man you became... I suppose the Demon of the Trident really died at the Trident, and all that is left is this sad corpse too prideful to realize his death. But in the end, I don't even need to do anything. I just need to let you die in peace."

"Peace?" barked Robert, as if the idea itself offended him. "Are you really dumb enough to think there will be peace between us?"

"How about a ceasefire, neither side attacks the other while your line holds the Throne?"

"Do you think I will stop? Do you think that the rest of Westeros will stop? You sorcerous cunt... Lannisters, Starks, Arryns... All it takes is a knife and a bold man to end you and your dumb whore of a sister?" asked Robert, trying to step forward... only to freeze as his body petrified.

"She is nine," I said simply, the grass beneath my feet freezing and shattering as the wind reflected the cold rage I felt, "She is innocent, as I once was, as my niece and nephew were. When you called them, nothing but dragonspawn."

Robert looked at me with something... regret, maybe.

"I am tired of this, Robert, I truly am. But if it comes down to it, if you make me choose," I let the rage within me shine through my eyes, future and present blurring as lines of probability collapsed at my willpower. I saw fields ablaze, charred corpses, armies rendered into paste at the behest of a monster. "I would rather glass this entire shitty continent and salt the remains than let anyone touch her. That is what I have been trying to spare you, but if it means I have to cut you and all the fourteen children you spawned... then so be it."

I stepped back, centering myself.

Threads of the future untangled as what would be became what may be.

"But I think, for once, I will be subtle. I will just bring down your entire dynasty with a single sentence," I said, feeling cruel.

Robert did not respond, not when the petrification I cast still held.

It would take a single sentence to end Robert in truth... I did not need to unleash the dragon upon an entire continent when simple words could suffice.

Well, multiple single sentences could have the same effect, and I knew most of them all in the end.

Words of a different type of power.

Words that did not even have to be the truth in its fullest.

I could reveal that Lyanna ran away because she was a spiteful girl who thought that turnabout was fair play and spawning her own bastard was her best idea to spite Robert for having a bastard.

Instead, I chose something sharper... something that would hurt his pride.

"Do you think your queen beds her brother because they are both the seeds of my father?"

Robert's eyes widened as I let go of the petrification.

It was a cruel thing.

Half a lie, and half a truth. It had everything needed for a perfect lie.

To shatter Robert's hold on everything.

I called him a cuckold. I told him that he was bedding a child of Aerys, just as Rhaegar and I were. I implied that he had no true heir, that his entire line would end with him.

And only he heard it... that was the cruelty of it.

A truth that he could not speak of.

A doubt was planted that would fester.

I brought down every scaffolding that Robert used to build himself.

And he understood.

Shock gave way to disbelief... which gave way to doubt.

And doubt, in a wizard or king alike, was a terrible thing.

Robert staggered back a step as my spell released him.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then came the roar, not a warrior's battle cry, but the wounded bellow of a cornered beast. Anger laced with humiliation, fury masking fear.

He upturned the table, wine and meat crashing to the floor, startling the squires again.

I let the illusion dissolve.

I didn't need to do anything more.

The seed had been planted.

And Robert Baratheon would never be rid of it.

Funny thing, wizards. They cast these spells with words and get what they want. Sometimes they even use magic.

AN: Wiz being a general pest, and cause for existential horror to friends and foes alike.

Last edited: Aug 4, 2025

047 Those who Fight Alone

The black glass raven landed on a cairn, its eye glowing purple for but a moment..

It opened its beak to caw, but no voice was heard, but for a song of flames. The flames became a roiling inferno, taking the shape of a man.

I looked around the location.

The Prince's Pass... the border of Stormlands and Dorne.

This was where I needed to be.

Where I would close one cycle and find answers to questions.

I held the large tome I carried, using its residual presence to focus the Wayfinder in my other hand instead of relying on pure desire.

There... I found what I was looking for. Eight cairns on a cliff overlooking the pass where an ideal location to place a small watchtower.

Of course, one had been built during the time of the Young Dragon and pulled down by Ned Stark.

A wave of my wand had the stones rise and reveal eight skeletons, still in their armor.

At least that made it easier to identify.

I knelt down, collecting three of the skulls with armor still embossed with the mark of the three-headed dragon.

My father's Kingsguard...

The ones who sided with Rhaegar...

The greatest of their famed brotherhood...

And the worst twice over... as far as I was concerned.

These brave men who stood by while a King raped his wife.

These honorable men who stood by while a Prince ran off with a teenage girl, barely out of her childhood.

Arthur Dayne

Oswell Whent

Gerold Hightower

"Huh... why is it that whenever House Targaryen faces extinction, there is a Hightower cunt in the court?" I muttered, holding up the skull of said Hightower cunt.

Ceryse Hightower, the barren wife of Maegor Targaryen, whose actions were key in the rise of the Faith Militant. I was pretty sure the bitch was guzzling Moon Tea like the world would end if she had a child.

Otto and Alicent Hightower to Viserys the First and Rhaenyra, triggering the Dance of Dragons. Granted, Viserys was a moron for that, but I had seen one of Alicent's portraits... silver hair inherent in those who descended from the Great Empire of the Dawn or Valyria, and a body to kill for. Too bad she had the personality of a particularly stinky turd.

Jon Hightower, the last Hand of Aegon the Unworthy. He was likely in the room where it happened when Aegon the Worst decided that leaving the rest of the realm unfucked would not fit his theme and decided to legitimize all his bastards on his deathbed. It was an event that would eventually trigger the Blackfyre Rebellions after a long, drawn-out cold war. The man who would be in the perfect position to manipulate the words of a dying king, not like it was above someone honorable like Ned Stark, let alone a Hightower.

And finally... Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of Kingsguard, to Aerys, the man who stood by in the middle of the desert as Robert's Rebellion dethroned the Targaryens. The most experienced war commander on the side of House Targaryen at the time... sitting it out.

One is a happenstance, two is a coincidence... four is just laughing at your face.

I shook my head.

"I am hanging out with Marwyn for too long," I spoke to myself.

If I thought of this a while longer, I would end up convincing myself to nuke Oldtown just to be safe. I was not going to repeat that mistake again... more evidence was needed before I decided that Hightowers were an actual enemy.

Then again...

"Boltons say that a flayed man has no secrets... but it is the dead that truly have none," I smirked, setting out to go through a ritual.

I had come to reap the memories of the dead knights, the best of the best.

I would also do with anything extra.

The flood of conjured sunlight awakened a sliver of Weirwood in my palm, forcing it to grow and merge with the three skulls. I added the bones that belonged to the hand of Jaime Lannister, forming a bowl with a wide range of glyphs and runes etched into it.

A pensieve of a sort.

The potion I added drew out the memories etched into the inside of the skull, making the contraption a pseudo-penseive for a brief moment.

I reinforced the echo of the memories, using them as an anchor and my Greensight as the focus. The connection that was opened to go back into the past, into the fight, and rip their consciousness in their last dying breath.

Such men did not deserve my mercy...

And as I told Barristan, these three had failed my family in life... and so they would serve a purpose in death.

When I had set out on this path, I knew that there would be acts I found unpleasant. Things that I would have to do... the person that I would have to become.

A King... a single man, however wise, could not make.

That was the truth of this world... where memories were the ghosts that haunted us.

To be more, I had to take in more... becoming the vassal of a King.

And a King had to be a Warrior first, but only a Warrior did not a good king make.

I had the basics, hands trained for war, mind trained for judgment, the body trained to be a weapon.

Yet there would always be someone better... someone who spent longer time in the yard every day, someone with more skill, someone with more luck.

So, as the sun set in the Dornish Marches, I drank the memories of the three Knights.

And as the world sank into darkness, so did I descend into the underworld, where I would learn from the dead all that they were, sinking into a Meditation deeper than I had before.

The word 'Necromancy' was stripped of its original meaning in my old world.

It meant the divination through the dead, for all that the word became associated with armies of shambling zombies and skeletons.

Granted, the entire structure of the very first wand I made was technically Necromancy of a sort since I was possessing a dead wood and magical animal bits, but... the point was, I was good at Necromancy.

No... that is an understatement. I was good at Magic... I was very good at Necromancy.

It was the nature of things in the end. To know something, one had to live through it, and me... I had died once, and so I knew death very well, very intimately.

And I hated the fact that I was very good at the art.

That is what I was doing now, divination... knowledge, gathered by the dead, by those warriors who died fighting.

I learned from the dead... I took their experiences, their capabilities, and effort, making it mine own.

I had reaped those warriors who had fallen in battle...

Those whose memories would live on within me...

By sunrise, I had consumed their skills, experiences, instincts, and everything else, butchering and severing anything that was of no other use to me.

They would serve me well. Though I have to admit, I expected more from Hightower... more than an honor-obsessed nihilist he had grown to become.

As I returned to Dragonstone, with the knowledge of the best knights in the world slowly getting assimilated into my self as I got ready.

To face Barristan the Bold, to remove a voice of reason from his court, to be secure in the knowledge that Robert would soon implode.

I had taken steps to ensure that certain actions would take place in the end. Robert knew the truth of his children; whether or not it was true did not matter, as it would rot him from the inside.

With Ser Jaime missing his sword arm, it meant that it was likelier for Robert to purge the Lannisters from King's Landing, ridding me of that pesky problem while ensuring that Robert and Tywin were occupied trying to kill each other.

And if Robert did not act, the paranoia would eat at him... the idea that I could end him at a moment's notice, working hand in hand with the lack of a true heir.

Instead, I focused on the vision I had when I first stepped into Westeros.

The vision I had about the dragon, and deep within me, I knew that it was time for that particular problem.

I was going to need help with this thought.

"Ah, your grace, right on time," said Marwyn, appearing before me.

If I did not feel that he was looking for me, I would have been more surprised.

Then he handed me a glass jar.

"What is this?" I asked, looking at the creature within.

It was some sort of a bug. It had six legs, a pair of crimson wings shaped like the wings of a bat over actual fly wings.

"Gall Fly," said Marwyn, "I had one of the Alchemists with some talent skinchange into one and embed the eggs into the Weirwood. This came out, already dead. The lad had some visions, but he is fine."

I nodded as I caught the next thing he threw at me.

It was a wooden ball, white. "Weirwood Gall?" I asked, getting a nod. "Great, let's head to your lab and get us some Magical Ink."

The Weirwood Gall provided the modified Tannic Acid, and in half a dozen vials, we mixed it with different sources of Iron Salt, testing magical properties.

"This one," I said, to the one marked with the mix of Dragonbone and Weirwood Gall, "not surprisingly."

The process itself was expensive, highly niche, and required a dedicated person to control the gall flies.

I pulled out a prepared parchment, vellum treated with Weirwood Ash.

Once the ink and parchment were ready, I thought of the spell that I could inscribe.

The main problem with most spells was that they required more than simple instructions. There was a lot of feeling along the lines, something that required the ones learning to experience it.

But I had already mastered how to take the experience of another person, so why not go the other way and share my knowledge?

I tapped my wand to my temple, isolating the memories of a specific spell I wanted, before pulling out a ghostly strand of the thought-form that the spell took, which was soon added to the ink itself.

Instead of writing my goal, I let the quill guide me, letting the thoughts take form into what form they would take.

My hand moved the quill through the formation of a Magic Circle, one inner and one outer circle, and three runes in between connecting them.

Kenaz, for fire, to determine the element.

Thurisaz, for lightning and thorn, to determine the form.

Raido, for travel, allowing the spell to leap out.

In combination, they made a single spell that was iconic, something that I had spend hours and hours practicing until I got it down perfect.

But the quill was not done. The ink flowed, forming instructions and shapes around the central circle, instructions that shifted with each moment.

"Impressive," said Marwyn, "the memory is ever-shifting, revealing layers like an onion, yet each piece is part of a puzzle. I wonder if it is all that is needed to cast the spell."

"The intent is baked into the circle through the memories," I explained, "The circle folds the magical energy over itself until it reaches critical levels and wham... Bob's your uncle."

"Who?" asked Marwyn.

"Never mind. Clear your mind and just push your self through it," I told Marywn, who took the rolled-up scroll.

The parchment burst into flames, and a bolt of fire slammed into the wall.

"Firebolt," I muttered, working on making a second scroll. "Though rather expensive for a cantrip. I have a feeling that it would be easy to copy existing scrolls once you can learn the spell. This time, try to pull the knowledge to yourself instead of pushing it out."

I watched as Marwyn tried again. It took five minutes before it was done, and the ink on the parchment lost its shimmer.

Marwyn opened his eyes before pointing with an index finger and unleashing a Firebolt. It was not as strong or impressive as the original, but there was potential.

He tried again, only for me to dispel it. "Focus, Marwyn, play around with fire later."

"Yes, your grace," said the old Maester, looking like a child on Christmas.

I held up the glass jar, inspecting the creature within.

My eyes focused on the dead Weirwood Gall Fly... how its red wings looked closer to those of a bat than an insect.

An insect that had six legs and a pair of wings.

"Create more of the spell scrolls for testing, and the ink as well. Firebolt is simple, but this might provide a means to speed up the creation of our artillery division. And send a batch to my workshop," I said, walking out after grabbing the glass jar, "I am taking this."

"Dany, I need your help with something," I said as I walked into my own workshop to find a bizarre scene.

"Did you finally decide that we should blow up Casterly Rock?" responded my ten-year-old sister, while chasing after my dog with a dragon skull in hand, one that was nearly the size of a horse's head. "Because I have this spell that I wanted to test for something like that."

"No... apart from the fact that it is concerning that you have gone from basics to Siege-Spells, which we will have a long talk about later... what are you doing to Huan?" I asked simply, letting my staff float to its resting place.

"Pulling a Marrowak," was the response I got as my sister waved the draconic skull around.

I blinked.

Yeah, that was on me. Should have known that giving her access to my more comprehensive and modern education through the Pensieve would make my sister slightly more outside context like I was.

"I am going to need you to use more than one word for this," I said with a sigh.

"I was planning to use the faceless man magic and apply it to Huan using the dragon bone as a mask... make him a proper Hellhound," she said, far too proud of herself.

I opened my mouth to chastise her... only to pause. That should have no right to sound like a good idea.

"Right... I am going to grab some coffee. Then you are going to walk me through the ritual," I said instead, as I took the opportunity to teach Dany a few tricks. It was rather nice to be on the other end of this exchange.

Half an hour later, I was holding a now-empty cup, staring at the large piece of slate while Dany completed her explanation.

It was brilliant, to be honest.

The bone would merge with Huan's face, becoming both a helmet and a biologically part of him. It would make him more draconic, but I had him purposefully bred to take in rituals of this caliber.

In the end, it became more of a family project. My already ritually enhanced wolfhound got an upgrade.

"We need a skin that can cover the whole... else it would expose the skull," I said.

"How about the white lion skin you got me?" asked Dany. "It is enchanted with the Numean Enchantment, so it would make Huan super durable. You already have the fox and a bear skin bound to him. We could fleshcraft it over the skull and bind it more permanently. Make it all a single piece."

I considered it. Potentially fire-breathing dog the size of a truck with indestructible skin.

"We need to account for the weight distribution as well," I said simply, "the spine would not hold under the forces. Addressing it now would be better, since the connection could be better established if we get the skull and spine done at once."

A flick of my wand opened one of the chests, pulling out a fully intact and neutralized newborn Basilisk Skeleton.

"So he would need a new spine," said Dany with a grin. "Got it."

My little sister had no right to be this good at magic.

It took us five hours of various spells and rituals, half a dozen blood candles that I kept in store because we needed an anchor for the spells, and Huan looked less like a wolfhound and more like a hellhound.

"If he starts breathing fire, you're training him," I told my sister, who simply smiled at me.

"What were you going to talk to me about?" she asked in turn.

Right that.

"Have you met your niece, Rhaenys?" I asked, lifting up the now napping Balerion that had come with me.

"Mrow," Balerion voiced his distaste at being woken up.

"What?" asked Dany.

"Oh, and I need your help with getting the dragon eggs to hatch," I said, holding up the jar containing the Weirwood Gall Fly. "I have an idea."

Dany looked at me like I was nuts.

Hah... how the turn tables.

A few weeks spent doing nothing but research had a nice way of relaxing me. While other people needed to travel and I wanted to see how Robert would react.

Mostly though, it was because I needed the downtime, spending nearly eight hours every day on the yard facing against my Kingsguard when not working with Dany to hatch the eggs, researching dragonlore, running some esoteric experiments, developing countermeasures in case I died like an idiot... you know the usual stuff.

The countermeasure I had developed was a Grimoire, one that was based on the work that Marwyn had done. Instead of using the pages to store spells ready to cast, however, I went deeper, building a copy of my own mind into a book form.

Death tended to break people, or change their minds, and having a backup of myself sounded rather useful. It was also an emergency I built for the simple fact that I was now messing with my own mind on a larger scale than before.

I probably should have done this before I actually took on the memories of the Three Stooges, but hindsight...

I simply entrusted the Grimoire to Dany, as it meant that she could commune with those memories to ensure she got the education she needed.

Because after turning Huan into a very large, very fire-breathing hellhound, she needed some supervision beyond guards. The me in the Grimoire should be able to warn me if more was needed.

In the meantime, the physical activity kept me grounded, as my muscle memory worked to integrate the new knowledge that I had gained, even if I had excise a surprising amount of PTSD from the three.

The memories that I had absorbed needed to settle. They were there, held in nice little boxes, but I needed my brain to be able to integrate them as I worked to clean out the garbage that came along for the ride.

I had promised Ser Barristan a martial match, 'no spells, no sorcery, no tricks,' but that just meant that I would not be ensuring that I did everything beforehand to win... even if I promised not to throw Fireballs around.

Not when the greatest knights of history all had a magical advantage of their own.

All three of the Kingsguard whose memories I consumed had unique magical advantages, as it turned out, all of them more subtle than the tricks that I had developed.

Hightowers and Daynes were descended from the Empire of the Dawn, yet the echoes of the magic the two Kingsguard had were different as the sun and the moon.

Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, had some sort of mental clarity. It was weird in that there was a sort of equivalent exchange involved. The best I could figure out was that it clouds the judgment of another while clearing your own... not unlike a lighthouse guiding you to safety and doom alike.

My greater skill with Mental aspects of Magic meant that I could, in effect, choose who to target to gain clear thoughts, but if you were less skilled, I could see targeting people who are randomly around you... say the King you were serving.

To be frank, my Mental Mastery already had the same benefits, and the debuff to my enemies was handy if I wanted them to make a mistake for me to take advantage.

Arthur Dayne, on the other hand, now there was a curious case.

He was not magical of his own, but Dawn was magical.

Particularly, it seemed to have a mind of its own... a memory, if you will.

The sword, white as milk glass, obviously contained Weirwood within it, using the blood of those who wielded it and killed by it to grant the last user the combined experience of untold hundreds.

Normally, Ser Arthur's skill would make him pretty good, but the current Daynes were related to House Targaryen through a daughter of the first Daenerys and Marron Martell. The Princess of Dorne had recently wed into House Dayne, igniting the more dormant genes through the cultivated bloodline of Aegon the Fourth.

The trick that Dawn had, I could use with Blackfyre instead. It was wielded by Daemon Blackfyre and Maegor the Cruel, both of whom were the best of the best in their times. Using the trick Daynes seemed to use with Dawn, I poured my soul into the blade, pulling on more and more of the experiences and skills of the past users.

Once I had a decent handle on those two skills, I made sure to integrate the last of the Kingsguard Trio.

Oswell Whent was the outlier, the Whents not being an ancient house with magical ancestry... or at least on the surface. Whents lived in Harrenhall, a place with a known magical effect. There was a reason that the children of Catelyn Tully, whose mother was a Whent, were all wargs without a single miss.

Clearly, the entire place was a recipe for a Magical Location, what with the Weirwood beams and the dragon fire leading to people like Alys Rivers and Danelle Lothston, whose stories might just have more than a bard's truth of magic.

His skill was a more unique one. A form of Battle Precognition that complemented my own. Where mine was meant to intercept any attacks, Oswell seemed supernaturally skilled at knowing where to strike, his blade finding the chinks in the armor.

In the end, I had promised Ser Barristan a fight between Knights... it was simply the fact that most of the greatest knights known in history had some form of magic, and I was good at learning and adapting to magic.

Tobho had done a remarkable job.

I had used Alchemy to combine enough of the Valyrian Steel to make a decent helmet and left Tobho to make it for the last month.

While I could make simple shapes and forms out of Valyrian Steel, properly shaping the magical metal was beyond my skills until I could have the time to absorb what Tobho knew... something I kept for later, given the importance of the upcoming fight.

Instead, I had let Tobho make a Valyrian Steel helmet for me, one that was etched with the protective spells to make it protect my head.

It was, unsurprisingly, shaped like an entire dragon.

A barbute helmet by design, it had the head of the dragon swoop down to rest on my brow, with the wings sweeping down to the side of my face, covering my cheeks, and leaving a T-shaped visor that was wide enough to make eyesight easier.

That being said, I had a modified Valyrian Steel plate behind the actual gap on the armor. It was alchemically treated to be invisible, using a potion made from Ghostskin, a moss that grew in swampy regions of Westeros, which included some regions of Crackclaw Point.

The metal of the visor was invisible when left alone, only gaining a blue tinge when exposed to magical light. I had Tobho shape the visor portion of the helm to integrate it after setting it into shape with my magic. When the two combined, it granted me both protection and visibility, while giving my opponent the illusion of a weak point that was in fact the strongest part of the armor.

I was ready for the fight of my life.

I waited at the beach as the small rowboat approached.

There were two men on it.

One was Ser Barristan, while the other was clearly Thoros of Myr, given the red robes the man wore.

This was interesting.

I waited, Blackfyre at hand. I had seen them coming twenty miles away, keeping track of them and preparing for the fight.

"You have come," I said simply.

"I have," said Ser Barristan, a sword strapped to his hip and a sack that housed his armor, given the clanging. "This is Thoros of Myr. He has volunteered to join me as my squire."

Thoros gave a nod, and a mutter of "Azor Ahai."

I sighed.

Melisandre, who had approached from where she had been standing, had the audacity to giggle. The only reason I tolerated her presence was that she was another potential source of resurrection... in case shit hit the fan.

"Would you like to rest, good ser, or shall we fight?" I asked.

"Now is as good as any," said Ser Barristan, drawing his sword and working to put on his armor.

Slow.

That was the first thing I noticed about Ser Barristan Selmy.

Not clumsy... gods, no.

His stance was flawless, his footwork was impeccable. Each step was exactly where it was needed to provide the optimal leverage and power, every cut precise as a surgeon. He wasted nothing. A lifetime of battle honed into the cleanest, purest form of swordplay.

But it was slow... and weak.

Not to the men who had named him the greatest knight alive, not to the bards who had sung his glories. To them, his perfection would have seemed blinding, inevitable.

An artist, who painted only in red... now I understood.

But to me, it felt... inevitable in another way. I wasn't there when his blade struck. I was already a step aside, already turning. Blackfyre slapped his steel away before it became even a threat.

And that was when a chill crept into my chest.

Maybe... just maybe... I had overdone it.

A Bold Man

Ser Barristan Selmy felt the toll of the years.

King Robert had returned as Ser Barristan was contemplating the challenge issued by Prince Viserys.

A boy, Barristan, now realized he had failed. Another failure in a long line of failures, it would seem.

There was a brashness in the boy, a level of disrespect as he reclaimed what he saw as his.

Yet, he had thought to not accept the challenge. It was foolish, a trap... though what sort, Barristan did not understand.

If Viserys Targaryen wanted to kill him, he would have done so on the White Sword Tower that day, when he had walked into the Throne Room and issued his threats.

If Viserys Targaryen wanted Barristan to bend the knee, it was not something that he showed, throwing the failures that Barristan had to live with. Barristan had seen the murderous rage his mere presence incited... rightful vengeance, even if Barristan wanted to deny it.

His father would have ended Barristan.

'Just like his father,' his voice echoed in his ears. How many times had he heard that spoken?

Mayhaps, he was a failure of a knight.

And so, Barristan had waited, thinking, the questions eating at him, even as I stood guard over a returned Robert.

A Robert who had grown silent, who had drunk more and more each night.

Barristan had heard the soldiers who returned. An entire army butchered by something too fast to see. Many thought it was archers in the trees near Rook's Rest, though some spoke of corpses drained of blood and left as naught but ash.

Then, Barristan asked for leave, and a gleam formed in King Robert's eye, a whisper of 'a bold man with a knife,' that he kept repeating, before giving him leave to challenge the sorcerer.

He had come to Dragonstone with a task... a goal.

He would slay the Sorcerer, or die in the attempt.

Thoros of Myr had chosen to accompany him, to act as his squire, he had said. Thoros spoke of magic, and Barristan had listened, learning the way of his enemy, in hopes that it would prepare him for the fight.

Barristan had come to fight a Sorcerer, an exiled prince, thinking himself invulnerable because of a few tricks.

Barristan did not expect his opponent to be a knight beyond his dreams.

He was tall for his age, though not Robert tall. Yet the way he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had spent years on blood-soaked fields, instead of the clumsiness of a boy yet to fully become a man. It reminded Barristan of Duncan the Tall of all people, from the few times when he had the honor of watching the old Lord Commander in tourneys that Ser Barristan had attended when he was but a squire. He had the same surety in his movements.

Viserys Targaryen was strong. He was stronger than Maelys had been, and Barristan was a young man during that fight.

Viserys Targaryen was fast. He was faster than the Kingslayer, moving with a grace that left Barristan panting and unable to get a good grasp.

Either of those would have been a threat, that much Barristan knew.

Yet Barristan was older. He had seen more war than a boy barely grown at seven and ten. Barristan had traded the vigor of youth for the skill of ages.

Yet it had not been enough.

Viserys Targaryen moved as though an old hand at war.

The grace of a Waterdancer of Braavos probed at his gaps, before shifting to the heavy-handed strikes of Stormlanders that batted away his sword to make way for the quick thrusts of the Dornish.

It took all that Barristan had to keep track and try to find a weakness, yet each opening was closed after a moment, each bait laid perfectly waiting for Barristan to fall into.

Even for all his caution, Barristan was the one who took hit after hit. Each one should have been deadlier than the one before, yet the Prince held back.

The black blade of Blackfyre left another rent through his plate, another cut that was held back just in time to ensure that Barristan was not left crippled.

His first sword was already in ruin, having broken in a block that stopped just short of removing his head.

"Get him another sword," the Sorcerer King commanded without a thought, and for a moment, Barristan saw Arthur Dayne in his stead.

When the sword had come, its fate had become similar.

And the third sword would have likely met a similar fate, if not for Barristan's vision darkening in the edges. The blood from the shallow cuts all added up as he stumbled through the fight, waiting for the final blow that never came.

He remembered the tip of Blackfyre resting on his throat, a foot on his wrist that had been holding onto his dagger.

"I... yield," he whispered, as darkness took him.

AN: Wiz dips 20 levels into Fighter, Marwyn becomes the first Vancian Wizard while finding a way to disperse low level spells, Dany takes after her big brother a bit too much, turning the family dog into a Foo Dog in all principles.

I am thinking that the fighting style that Wiz has is closer to Darth Vader in principles, especially now that he closed the experience gap by taking it from the dead. He might have overdone it just a bit, but I like the idea that the best fighter in existence prefers not to melee. Barristan would have done well against one fighter, but combined experience and buffs that Wiz had been building up were getting extremely high level. Is it coincidence that all three of the Kingsguard in Tower of Joy are associated with magic in some shape or form?

Barristan survived. I sort of re-wrote that section in three forms. One where he just does not fight and chooses to take the black as a final fuck you to both Robert and Wiz, but that came out too out of character. The other took a darker turn and involved Wiz nailing him to the White Shield Table before turning him into a conceptual representation of the Kingsguard, but it came out far too dark and out of character for Wiz. Instead, Barristan lost to a Death by a Thousand Cuts, and a weird parallel to how he was captured in Trident.

Kudos to first one who gets the reference that is the chapter title.

As always, I am motivated by discussions, feedback, and criticism. If you wish to enable my coffee addiction, I made a ko-fi account here if you wish to support my work. I can only promise to spend the time drinking coffee writing my stories, and you get absolutely nothing else in return.

Last edited: Aug 26, 2025

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