GOT/ASOIAF: A Game of Ice and Fire

PROLOGUE

MC'S POV

[PING!]

[HELLO AND WELCOME, PLAYER!]

'What?... Where am I?' I asked myself just as I regained consciousness before looking at my surroundings and falling to find the source of the voice that woke me up.

Darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness.

Where I was there was no sky, no ground, no horizon, only an infinite void stretching in all directions. For all I knew, time seemed to have no meaning here. Seconds, minutes or years could have passed and I would not have known. 

I simply was. And yet… I wasn't.

There was a hollow ache where my identity should have been, a gaping emptiness where my memories once resided. I couldn't recall my name, my face, or the people I lived with before waking in this abyss. Panic gnawed at the edges of my mind, but even that emotion felt distant, as if my very soul had been stripped bare, leaving only a raw fragment of who I used to be.

'My memory... It's all fuzzy. Am I dreaming? In a coma? Or did I finally kick the bucket?' I thought whilst still inspecting the void I found myself in. 

Then, a sound. A soft, familiar ping.

Before my eyes, a translucent window blinked into existence, floating midair, radiant yet casting no light upon the surrounding darkness.

[REBIRTH PROTOCOL INITIATED]

[SELECTIVE AMNESIA IMPLANTED]

*In accordance with system initialization and the user's previous acceptance, certain memories have been erased.

'Really? Did I really accept that?' Was my immediate thought before casually dismissing it. 'It's not like it can be undone now, so why bother.'

[Welcome, Player. You have been selected for transmigration.]

The words were clear, the meaning unmistakable and yet it was a struggle to grasp the full weight of what I was seeing. 

A game window? A system? Transmigration?

'Well, guess I've finally gone crazy. Not to mention, hallucinating about becoming a gamer from one of those fics I loved to read.' I assumed with a sliver of humor.

The window before me remained steady, as if not carrying for my assessment.

'Wait! I remember reading fan inspired stories that usually began just like this.' I vaguely recalled before reaching a conclusion. 'Must be in one of those crazy, clear cases of wish fulfillment as a self-insert.' 

I attempted to chuckle, but no sound came out of me, but by that point it didn't disturbed me as much as it should.

'It's probably every geek's fantasy, living their life as a video game... Not only that, but possibly living in an awesome fictional world as well!' I kept an optimistic view over things. 'If I get to play games for the rest of my afterlife, don't blame me if I consider this a blessing.'

I allowed the silence to linger for a while, noticing the game windows still staring at me.

'Let's play along then.' I said while metaphorically shrugging my shoulders. 

Having nothing better to do, I scrolled through the options and the window before me changed as a result.

[WORLD SELECTION COMPLETE]

[You have been chosen to begin your new life in the world of: A Song of Ice and Fire]

My breath, or whatever passed for it in this place, was caught in my throat. Felt like staying still for days before I finally finished processing what I just read.

Freaking Game of Thrones we are talking about. Westeros. Essos. The Wall. Dragons and White Walkers, kings and traitors, bastards and blades hidden in the dark.

It wasn't just a story to me. It was a world I knew intimately, the great battles, the twisted schemes, the prophecies that hung over the realm like storm clouds. I remembered the books, the Tv show, the awful video games and the theories I once spent hours dissecting.

And the death. So much death I wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream.

Another chime, sharper this time, impatient.

[PLAYER RESPONSE PENDING]

[Do you accept this new life, Player?]

[ YES ] / [ NO ]

First off, thanks for waiting for my answer, but…It wasn't really a choice, was it? Not really.

Situations like this had no way back. There was no past to cling to. Only the promise of a future, one that could very well be draped in blood and betrayal, but a future nonetheless.

With a thought, I mentally selected [YES].

The void shifted. The darkness seemed to hum, vibrating as though some ancient phenomenon had been set into motion.

Then came the next prompt.

[CHARACTER CREATION - CHOOSE YOUR RACE:]

[HUMAN (UNLOCKED)]

*All other races are currently locked.

To be honest I was half-expecting to see Elves, Orcs, or Dwarves, but of course, this wasn't a high fantasy realm filled with magical creatures, this was Westeros. Here, monsters wore smiles and spoke in honeyed words.

With a flicker of thought, I selected HUMAN.

More windows appeared.

[HUMAN TRAITS UNLOCKED:]

[VERSATILE: Choose one origin feat to reflect your inherited gift.]

The Origin Feat options hovered before me, some useful, most mostly flashy, but my choice was obvious.

[LUCKY SELECTED]

A gambler's blessing. The power to twist fate, to reroll a dice in the game of life. In a world where even the most cunning plans could be undone by a single misstep, there was no better shield.

[SKILLFUL: Choose a skill proficiency you are naturally inclined towards.]

I didn't need strength, at least not above all else. Nor did I want to rely solely on my dictionary intellect. No, what I needed was something that would let me talk my way out of danger, to spin lies when the truth would kill me.

[DECEPTION SELECTED]

[RESOURCEFUL: At the end of each Long Rest, gain Heroic Inspiration.]

Heroic Inspiration, a spark of something greater. I wasn't sure how it worked yet, it must be similar to the classic Inspiration mechanic of many tabletop rpgs, but the promise of fate bending just a little in my favor felt like a gift from the gods themselves that would synergy greatly with my lucky feat.

[PING!]

[CHARACTER CREATION - CHOOSE YOUR BACKGROUND:]

[ACOLYTE]

[CHARLATAN]

[CRIMINAL]

 …

[NOBLE]

 …

I chose NOBLE without hesitation.

In Westeros, bloodlines were currency. A name could be both sword and shield, and a highborn status, even a fragile one, would open doors that no amount of luck alone could unlock. It was the safest choice in a world ruled by power and heritage.

[PING!]

[CHARACTER CREATION - MENTAL ABILITIES:]

[INTELLIGENCE: 15 (+2)]

[WISDOM: 13 (+1)]

[CHARISMA: 16 (+3)]

The numbers glowed faintly before me as the system justified them to me, each one a silent judgment of my mind, its strengths and flaws.

[Intelligence: A reflection of the knowledge you still retained — the histories of Westeros, the bloodlines of its great houses, and the dark secrets lurking in the shadows.]

[Wisdom: A modest score, but enough to remind you to tread carefully. You know this is no fairytale realm — death comes swiftly here, and trust is a rare commodity.]

[Charisma: Your highest score — a nod to your past life's fascination with stories, songs, and the art of captivating an audience.]

I wasn't a warrior. Not yet. But words? Words were weapons too.

The final window blinked into view.

[INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]

[Good luck, Player. May the dice favor you…or not.]

[Beginning Transmigration…]

The void quivered. Light, sharp and blinding, split the darkness open like a sword cleaving flesh.

And then, without warning, the world collapsed around me.

My new life had begun.

'Fuck, I forgot to ask which time period I will be arriving. Or if I will be born as a boy or a girl.'

[WARNING!!!]

[GAME MECHANICS PATCHED! UNCONVENTIONAL AND UNSTABLE SEASONS' TIMESPAN! NO LONGER YEARS, INSTEAD NOW MONTHS.]

'Well. Hmmm… that's something-HOLLY SHIT! MOTHERFUCKER! MY METAPHORICAL EYES!!! AH! SHIT!!!' I screamed in silence. 'What's happening? Am I dying already?!'

————————————————————————

283 AFTER AEGON'S CONQUEST 

KING ROBERT BARATHEON'S POV 

Aerys Targaryen was the last of his name to sit on the Iron Throne. Known far and wide as "the Mad King," his was a reign of instability and terror. 

The Seven Kingdoms are well-rid of him and his kind.

Oh, he may have appeared to be a capable ruler at first, but that was due in no small part to his councilors led by the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. 

There may have been years of peace and prosperity during Aerys's reign, but it was Tywin who was really running the country as Aerys spiraled further and further into insanity.

The dragonspawn were famous for losing their minds. It was the price they paid for centuries of keeping the bloodlines pure. And Aerys more than happily continued the noble sister-fucking tradition of his forefathers.

And to think, there's dragon blood in me as well, a thin line, passed down from my grandmother Rhaelle, a Targaryen princess wed to my grandfather. Some say Orys Baratheon, the founder of our House, was a bastard half-brother to Aegon the Conqueror himself. But if that's true, the blood of the dragon has long since weakened in us, tempered by the strength of the stag.

Regardless, as the years passed, Aerys's behavior became increasingly erratic. He cut himself so often on his Iron Throne, many referred to him as "King Scab", though never to his face.

It was rumored he had developed an obsession with wildfire, and was known to inflict horrific punishments on those he considered enemies, including burning them alive.

As his paranoia and bloodlust grew, he had a bitter falling out with Lord Tywin, who had served the Crown faithfully for twenty years.

At least Tywin was able to leave the job with his life and fortunes intact. Subsequent Hands of King Aerys weren't so fortunate.

Then the Targaryens went too far. 

The Crown Prince, Rhaegar, abducted Lyanna Stark, daughter of Rickard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell.

She was my betrothed. She was my beloved. Beautiful and spirited woman, and I loved her more than life itself.

Rhaegar went south with Lyanna, hiding her away in Dorne. What harm he inflicted on the poor girl, the gods only know. 

Brandon Stark, Lyanna's eldest brother, was outraged. He rode to King's Landing to confront the king and demand his sister's safe return. 

Instead, Aerys had him executed. His father, Rickard Stark, as well. There wasn't much left to discuss after that.

Aerys feared their loved ones would seek revenge for what he did. He was right to be afraid.

Aerys wasted no time in calling for the heads of Brandon's younger brother, my friend Eddard Stark, and my head, too, of course. 

I'm sorry he didn't come looking for it himself.

Alongside Jon Arryn of the Vale, the man who fostered Ned and I as children, Arryns, Starks and Baratheons we all called our banners. Even the Tullys joined us once the marriage alliance between Lord Hoster Tully's eldest daughter with Ned's older brother was broken by the Targaryen tyranny.

Once our rebellion began, the Mad King's days were numbered. The crimes of House Targaryen were too heinous to go unanswered. 

Gods, those were some battles!

Our first victory occurred at Summerhall where I faced off against an army of dragon loyalists and won three battles in a single day.

Three! In one day! 

Seven hells, that was a glorious day!

We tried to take Ashford Castle in the Reach, but the Tyrells beat us back. We had to regroup. My army was pursued north by Aerys's army and took refuge in the Stoney Sept in the Riverlands.

When the Targaryen army entered the town, the sept bells tolled, a signal to the townspeople of the battle that was to come. 

As the Targaryens searched from house to house for me, the combined forces of Ned Stark and the Tullys swept into the city.

Gods, what a day that was! 

It's now known as the Battle of the Bells. 

We overwhelmed the Mad King's forces and sent them scampering back to King's Landing.

Aerys's son, Rhaegar, who started the whole damn thing, finally emerged from hiding in the South and assembled his own army to face us. 

As for the Mad King, he must have been pissing himself.

The battle that would decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms occurred at the crossing of the Green Fork of the Trident river. 

Rhaegar commanded the royal host, which was some forty thousand strong. My forces were outnumbered by nearly five thousand men, but that didn't matter. They were fresh, but we were battle-hardened and had justice on our side.

As the battle raged around us, I faced off with Rhaegar. The stag and the dragon right there in the ford of the river. 

I fought with the fury of ten men, raining blow after blow upon that vile prince before burying my war hammer in his chest.

I hit him so hard, the rubies on his armor broke free, flinging them into the stream. They call it the Ruby Ford now.

With that scum Rhaegar dead and the royal army shattered, our next move was to make for King's Landing. 

For our rebellion to succeed, the capital city had to be taken, forcefully. No one was foolish enough to believe that Aerys was gonna hand his crown over peacefully. 

The Mad King's reign needed to end. 

What Tywin Lannister's forces did was unfortunate, but it was necessary to secure the Iron Throne, and bring peace and justice to the Seven Kingdoms.

My glorious victory at the Trident left me wounded, but I sent my personal maester to attend to Ser Barristan Selmy instead; his wounds were more severe. 

Even though Ser Barristan was a member of Aerys's Kingsguard and fought on the opposing side, that man's bravery and loyalty were something to behold.

But this meant my wounds would take longer to heal and I couldn't ride to King's Landing myself. So I sent the one man I trusted over anyone else in this world, Ned Stark, in my place. 

Had I been able to ride, perhaps I could have reached King's Landing sooner and prevented some of the violence that occurred when the Lannisters entered the city. 

Still, what Lord Tywin did was for the greater good.

Even what happened to Princess Elia and her son. 

Baby or not, his was the same cursed blood that flowed within the Mad King's veins, and it would've legitimized his right to rule. The boy was a dragonspawn and couldn't be allowed to survive. 

What would he grow to be? A loyal subject?

The Kingslayer at least made sure to spare his sister of the same fate.

Ned, with his damn honor, didn't see it that way. 

He and I had our first major fight over the deaths of the Martell princess and the Targaryen heir. 

Ned called it murder. 

Murder!? It was war!...It was war...

Lord Stark demanded that the Lannisters be held responsible for their crimes. Was it a crime to put an end to a line of lunatics born of incest? 

I wouldn't, and still won't, blame Tywin. 

Instead, I sent Ned Stark south to finish off the remaining Targaryen loyalists. It was only Lyanna Stark's death that reconciled us. 

Ned had lost his sister. I had lost my betrothed and beloved. We shared that sad bond together, Ned and I. Through it, our friendship was made strong again.

As for the Mad King's surviving male heir... the one that was able to scurry away in the face of my fury now lives somewhere across the Narrow Sea.

He and his sister better stay there. A single girl with the blood of the dragon is more than enough for this continent. If they ever set foot in Westeros again, they will face the King's justice.

The Iron Throne is mine now.

I took it. I rule the Seven Kingdoms from the Red Keep.

For now, the only thing that remains for me is to become King and sire a new line of rulers.

Ours is the Fury!

…(Sigh)

May the gods have mercy on me.

————————————————————————

KING'S LANDING

Red Keep, at the King's Chambers

QUEEN CERSEI'S POV

The pain was excruciating. It felt as though my body was aflame, an unrelenting fire consuming me from within, as I labored through the birth of my first child.

The storm raged outside, thunder crashing like the drums of war, yet it seemed a mere whisper against my screams.

A midwife pressed a cool, damp cloth to my forehead and neck, while two others supported my legs. Grand Maester Pycelle hovered close by, his ancient hands ready to receive the heir to the Iron Throne.

And then there was Jaime, my golden twin, the only constant in a world of betrayals.

He gripped my hand tightly, his thumb gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from my face. "You're doing so well." Jaime murmured, his voice soft yet steady. "Just one more push, Cersei. You can do this."

My fool of a husband was gods knew where, likely deep in the Kingswood, chasing stags and swilling wine, too preoccupied with his precious hunts to witness the birth of his own son. But I didn't care.

Robert could rot in the mud for all it mattered.

Jaime was here. That was all I needed.

With a final, wrenching cry and every last shred of strength I could muster, I felt the life within me slip free, and the room fell into a moment of tense, expectant silence.

Then, a wet gasp, not a cry, but a soft, almost hesitant sound, as Pycelle lifted the child into the air.

"Congratulations, Your Grace." One of the midwives said, her voice breaking the silence like a blade through glass. "You have given birth to a healthy boy."

I sagged back into the pillows, my body trembling, skin slick with sweat. Relief flooded me, yet it was fleeting.

The silence pressed in again. The babe did not cry.

The room remained still, so still it felt as though the storm outside had taken over entirely.

My heart lurched.

"Why isn't he crying?" I rasped, panic slicing through my exhaustion. "Why is he so quiet?"

Jaime's grip on my hand tightened. "Shh, sister." He soothed, though his smile was strained.

Pycelle shuffled forward, the baby bundled in his arms. "The young prince is well, Your Grace." The old man wheezed. "He is merely… calm. If I recall, your father was much the same when his mother, Lady Jeyne, delivered him."

Calm.

The word struck me as wrong. No newborn was calm. They screamed, they wailed, they announced their presence to the world with fury and defiance. Yet my son merely stared.

But at least he was alive.

I exhaled a shaky breath, reaching out to take the child from Pycelle's arms.

The babe was small, but his form was strong, his chest rose and fell steadily, his little fingers curling into tight tiny fists.

My firstborn.

'An older brother for those yet to come.' I thought.

His face was soft, his nose and cheekbones a reflection of mine. His skin was fair, if not too fair, perhaps, but that could change with time.

Then I brushed the blanket aside and froze. The hair on his head, though sparse, was unmistakable.

Not the golden locks I had longed for, the Lannister gold of Jaime and me, but a thin layer of deep black hair.

Baratheon black.

And among the darkness, interwoven like threads of silver, were strands of mismatched, shining hair. Pale as the moonlight.

Valyrian silver.

My breath caught in my throat.

I looked up at Jaime, searching his face for some silent explanation, some reassurance, but his eyes were fixed on the babe's hair, confusion etched into his every feature.

'This is Robert's son.' I reminded myself. 'Robert's.'

But the silver…

'How?'

The question echoed in my mind, a terrible, gnawing thing, and for the first time, fear twisted in my gut like a dagger. This should have been Jaime's child. I had been so careful. So sure.

Before I could unravel my thoughts, the babe shifted in my arms, his tiny body stirring.

And then, slowly, almost deliberately, his eyes fluttered open. Two irises, like twin moons, stared up at me.

One a striking shade of bright blue, so clearly Baratheon, so clearly Robert's. The stormlord's blood.

But the other…

A violet eye. Deep, shimmering, and unnatural. A Targaryen eye, the color of old Valyria, of dragonlords and conquerors.

It was not the soft lilac of some distant inheritance I saw in the occasional bastard or even in the few Velaryons I managed to meet, no! It was the rich, royal purple of the blood of kings.

My child carried the fire of dragons.

I couldn't speak. Staring into those mismatched eyes, I saw the ghosts of two men.

The Stormlord and the Dragon Prince, Robert and Rhaegar, still fighting, still warring, long after their final battle at the Trident.

And then, without my notice as I was still lost in my thoughts, the babe's tiny hand moved.

With deliberate clumsiness that was so strangely intentional for a newborn, he grasped the edge of the blanket and peeked underneath, as if ensuring something was still there. His small chest rose and fell with what anyone that noticed it could swear was a sigh of relief.

As I finally freed myself from my deep thoughts, I opened my mouth to speak, but the chamber doors suddenly crashed open.

Robert stormed in, his boots heavy against the stone floor, the smell of sweat, leather and blood trailing after him. A dirty deer pelt hung over his shoulder, a pathetic offering no doubt, as though a dead stag could ever replace his living son.

He did not greet me. Instead, his gaze locked onto the baby. So I held the boy out to him, but Robert hesitated before taking him.

When he finally did, his frown deepened, a grimace unlike any I had seen before.

It was not the bewilderment of a new father. It was disgust.

"What trick is this?" Robert growled, his voice a low rumble. "What sick joke have the gods played on me?"

He stared at the boy's silver-streaked hair, at the violet eye, as though they were a blight, a curse.

"Haven't I done enough by letting one of them live?" He muttered darkly to no one in particular. "And now this… this dragonspawn. Are you sure it's even healthy?" He said before handing the babe off to Pycelle as if the child was born a dwarf. "This is no son of mine."

The words landed like a blow.

"Don't speak such nonsense, my King." said Lord Jon Arryn, his voice a calm counter to Robert's rage. "The young prince bears the blood of your house and that of old Valyria, a rare gift."

"Indeed." Pycelle added, his voice a wheedling whisper. "House Baratheon is tied to the Targaryens, through your ancestor, Orys Baratheon, widely believed to be Aegon the Conqueror's half-brother. The boy's features are not a curse, they are a sign of your rightful claim."

Robert said nothing, jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might crack. Though finally now I could see some similarities between him and that emotionless brother of his.

After a long silence, I spoke. "What shall we name him, husband?"

Robert's gaze did not waver from the child.

At last, he answered. "Durrandon."

I blinked, knowing I wasn't the only one confused by the choice, before asking. "Durrandon?"

He nodded. "After Durran Godsgrief. Let it be known, just as my ancestor defied the gods, so shall his namesake. I will not bow to their sick games."

I bit back a smile. Spite suited him.

And so, the child in Robert Baratheon's arms became Durrandon Baratheon, first of his name, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

A boy born of storm and fire.

And although none of us knew at that moment, the world would never be the same again after his birth.

————————————————————————

[PING!]

[TITLE: CROWN PRINCE // TINY HUMAN, NEUTRAL]

[LEVEL: 0 // PROFICIENCY BONUS: +1]

[HP:1 // ARMOR CLASS: 5]

[SPEED: 0mph (0ft) // PRONE]

[FEATS: LUCKY]

[TRAITS: VERSATILE // SKILFULL // RESOURCEFUL]

[STRENGTH: 1 (-5) // BABY'S BODY PENALTY]

*Useful to lift, push, pull, or break something. As well to physically resist direct force.

[DEXTERITY: 1 (-5) // BABY'S BODY PENALTY]

*Useful to move nimbly, quickly, or quietly. As well to dodge out of harm's way.

[CONSTITUTION: 1 (-5) // BABY'S BODY PENALTY]

*Useful to push your body beyond normal limits. As well to endure a toxic hazard.

[INTELLIGENCE: 15 (+2)]

*Useful to reason or remember. As well to recognize an illusion as fake.

[WISDOM: 13 (+1)]

*Useful to notice things in the environment or

in creatures' behavior. As well to resist a mental assault.

[CHARISMA: 16 (+3)]

*Useful to Influence, entertain, or deceive. As well to assert your identity.

[CHA] DECEPTION: +4 BONUS (PROFICIENT)

*Tell a convincing lie, or wear a disguise convincingly.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

Yeah, yeah, I have been born to the highest position of power In Westeros, that novelty went away after my first month here. So let me tell you something new, there's a VERY GOOD REASON that most of us don't remember anything from when we are not even a year old. 

The weakness, the soiling, the hunger, the sheer helplessness. Infancy sucks balls when you're fully cognizant dude. 

The only saving grace? Babies sleep. A lot.

And honestly, that's probably what saved my sanity, because somewhere between naps, I got these:

[SHORT REST: A period of downtime, at least 1 hour long, during which a character does nothing more strenuous than eating, drinking, reading, and tending to wounds]

*Restores your health up to 50% of its maximum, and can only be achieved twice per long rest.

[LONG REST: Requires the character to rest for at least eight hours, of which at least six have to involve sleeping]

*Restores 100% of your health, and can only be achieved once per day. Going more than 24 hours without a long rest might grant you exhaustion.

Yeah I know, I'm already so OP! 

BWAHAHAHA!

Fuck, I just have 1 HP! And a god awful defense!

Oh, and by the way? Breastfeeding? NOT as fun as you'd think. Especially since my own mother, the astoundingly beautiful Cersei, wasn't the one doing it most of the time.

I got a wet nurse instead. Luckily, she wasn't bad looking either, but let me tell you, it's hard to appreciate anything when you're a newborn.

[YOUR WATER AND FOOD DAILY REQUIREMENTS HAVE BEEN ACHIEVED]

*Dehydration and Malnutrition might cause Exhaustion.

The highlight of my week? My Grandfather, the one and only Tywin Lannister, graced me with a visit.

Big, tall, stoic man. Eyes like molten emeralds, a face carved from stone. A reputation that could send entire armies packing.

So what did I do? He reached out to poke my cheek with one of his fingers… so I bit him, well aware I didn't yet have any teeth.

What? Gotta establish dominance early.

Obviously, Tywin didn't flinch. He just stared at me, completely unimpressed. Still, I'm pretty sure I earned a sliver of respect for mimicking the same stunt from his childhood.

Or not. It's hard to tell with his permanent resting intimidating face.

And then—

[QUEST ALERT!]

[TUTORIAL! AN OPPORTUNITY TO LEARN THE BASIC, YOU DAMN WELL BETTER TAKE IT!]

[CONDITION: COMPLETE THE PREREQUISITES OF YOUR BACKGROUND]

[1. RAISE YOUR ABILITY SCORES OF STR/INT/CHA EITHER BY +1/+1/+1 OR +2/+1 IN ANY ORDER]

[2. BECOME PROFICIENT IN FIVE MORE SKILLS, TWO OF WHICH MUST BE HISTORY AND PERSUASION]

[3. BECOME PROFICIENCIENT WITH ANY KIND OF GAMING SET]

[REWARD: UNLOCK YOUR FIRST CLASS]

[DO YOU ACCEPT?]

[YES/NO]

Yeah, sure. It's not as if I have anything better to do.

[QUEST ACCEPTED!]

So far, no one else seemed to notice these glowing game windows or the little ping sounds that popped up.

Thank the gods, but I also needed to be careful because I didn't need anyone thinking the Crown Prince was some kind of weird baby staring blankly at nothing.

For good measure, I searched for a System Settings option and adjusted the interface.

[Notification Display and Sound: Minimalist Mode] 

No more massive, screen-blocking pop-ups. No more surprise PING! right when I was focusing on not shitting myself.

Small victories. Yay!

But yeah, for now, life was… monotonous. I couldn't walk, couldn't talk, couldn't even lift my head properly without feeling like I ran a marathon.

Infancy sucks balls. Have I already said that?

In fantasy stories, characters always meditate or train their hidden powers from birth, reaching some next-level epiphany like a badass.

Hell, raising my pitiful strength even if just a little would have made my day, especially after tiring myself to sleep so many times by just trying to sit properly.

But yeah, well…

Reality check: I'm stuck in a medieval deathtrap called Westeros and currently 100% reliant on people who might use me as a pawn the second I become more than a sleeping potato.

So for now? I'll bide my time. Observe. Learn. Survive.

[QUEST ALERT!]

[BE A GOOD BABY!]

[CONDITION: AVOID CRYING AND WAKING UP PEOPLE AT NIGHT]

[REWARD: EVERYONE THAT HATES YOU AND LIVES NEAR YOU WILL BECOME INDIFFERENT]

[DO YOU ACCEPT?]

[YES/NO]

I might have a baby body, but my mind is still that of a grown adult. If Robert is so stupid to hate his own kid because of his appearance, that's his problem.

[QUEST ACCEPTED!]

But I suppose it doesn't hurt to have the King of the Seven Kingdoms himself stop hating my guts.

————————————————————————

And so, the months crawled by, and in between fighting off boredom and mastering the ancient art of not crying, I noticed something else, something big.

The world has changed.

Westeros's climate had always been a strange beast, arid and dry in the furthest south, shifting to cold and harsh winters in the north, and becoming an icy wasteland in the Lands of Always Winter. 

Continental-sized perks, I guess. But what set this world apart were the seasons.

Long. Unpredictable. Sometimes lasting years, a decade-long summer here, a winter that could stretch almost as long there. The Maesters at the Citadel kept themselves busy trying to predict the shifting lengths of seasons, measuring days and temperatures like their lives depended on it, which, for most people, they actually did.

Plant too early? Crops die in the cold. Harvest too late? Starvation. It was all a game of chance, a roll of the dice every year.

And then I was born.

After that fierce storm in King's Landing the night of my birth, the seasons started cycling like they did back in my world, regular, yearly patterns. Summers that didn't drag on for a decade, winters that came and went without overstaying their welcome.

A miracle for me. A nightmare for everyone else.

The entire ecosystem of this planet had adapted to those absurdly long seasons, crops, animals, even people. Suddenly flipping the script wasn't just weird, it was dangerous.

Shorter summers meant less time to stockpile food. Winters might be shorter too, but without the years-long warmth to build reserves, the smallfolk were screwed either way.

I could almost hear the Maesters panicking in their libraries.

And the nobles? Well, let's just say a lot of old plans were about to get tossed out the window.

The Starks… Oh, I bet they were really rethinking their family words.

Winter is Coming sounded a lot more dramatic when it didn't come once a year like clockwork. Maybe they'd switch to something more modern, like…Winter Comes Quarterly.

Not as ominous, I agree, but hey, at least it was accurate.

Being honest now, all of that? The politics, the climate, the prophecies of doom? Not yet my problem.

Let the scholars worry about the changing world. Let the lords scramble to rewrite their strategies.

For me? Survival boiled down to the basics: Stay alive and grow.

————————————————————————

Eventually, the coordination between my tongue and mouth, along with the blessed arrival of teeth, allowed me to start communicating with the people around me.

To absolutely no one's surprise, except theirs, everyone was shocked at how quickly I was developing, at least mentally.

Of course, I didn't overdo it.

The last thing I needed was for someone like Varys, the Master of Whispers, to start wondering if the royal brat had a bit more magic in him than was acceptable.

I might have a head start, but for now? This was still a game and I intended to play it smart.

Speaking of games…Grinding? Yeah, grinding sucked.

Especially when your options were limited to what a squishy, chubby baby could physically do without snapping a bone or stunting their growth.

So my days were spent flailing around, stuffing my face, and trying to build muscle at a slightly-less-pathetic rate than your average baby, all while making sure nobody thought I was some sort of demon spawn.

And under the watchful eyes of others, I made sure to be a very cool child. 

It's true.

I didn't cry unnecessarily. Didn't throw tantrums. Just smiled, giggled at the right moments and acted like a perfectly normal baby…which, apparently, was still enough to freak out a few people.

But if I had to pick a favorite person in my small, suffocating world? It was the one responsible for keeping me fed, the midwife, Jayne.

Jayne Waters, to be precise.

Other than taking care of me, she washed clothes, cooked meals, and aided others like her to handle the more thankless parts of housekeeping a castle. 

But most importantly? She unknowingly helped me grind my first non-embarrassing skill.

[THROUGH CONTINUOUS, NEAR-OBSESSIVE OBSERVATION OF SOMEONE, YOU HAVE BECOME PROFICIENT IN DISCERNING A PERSON'S MOOD AND INTENTIONS.]

[INSIGHT: +2 BONUS]

Hey, it's not obsessive behavior if she's literally the only interesting person, other than my system, that I've been able to interact with since birth.

And if I focused hard enough, I could even glimpse a faint system window hovering over her head.

[JAYNE WATERS, SERVANT OF THE RED KEEP // LV: 0]

I knew Jayne liked me, it was no secret, I was a sweet, quiet boy. Even when my unnatural calmness worried her at times, she still cared.

Which was… nice. Uncomfortably nice, if I'm being honest.

It made me feel something weird. Something awkward and complicated that I didn't have the emotional range, or desire, to unpack right now.

I was fed. That was what mattered.

Just need to act a bit more normal around her and we're good.

————————————————————————

284 AFTER AEGON'S CONQUEST 

Eventually, the baby milestones started rolling in. I could crawl without face-planting every two seconds. I could sit up on my own without needing a nap right after.

And then came the real triumph: standing up. 

I managed it before reaching my first name day. Not even a whole year old and I was already defying baby physics!

[QUEST COMPLETED!]

[AREN'T YOU TIRED OF BEING PRONE ALL THE TIME? STAND UP!]

[CONDITION: STAND ON YOUR TWO LEGS WITHOUT SUPPORT FOR 6 SECONDS!]

[REWARD: WALKING SPEED RAISED TO 0.6 MPH (5FT)]

*Standing up costs half your speed.

Look at me go. Mobile and everything! Even walking was starting to feel more—

[CONSTITUTION SAVE FAILED! EXHAUSTION 1] *Results of all tests are reduced by two times the Exhaustion level. Movement speed is reduced accordingly to your Exhaustion level. If your Exhaustion level reaches six, you die.

*Exhaustion decreases one level after every Long Rest.

Shit.

So maybe I wasn't that mobile yet. But hey, I was still the most awesome little creature in this keep.

I just needed to buff my Constitution before I passed out like a drunken sailor every time I took five steps.

For now, though…? I needed a nap. Again.

————————————————————————

My life in Maegor's Holdfast, a massive square fortress nestled at the heart of the Red Keep, a castle-within-a-castle if you will, wasn't bad. Isolated, yes, but not without its perks.

Granted, I didn't socialize much. Being the Crown Prince made that… complicated. Too many eyes, too many whispers. So most of my days were spent within the walls of my chambers, surrounded by an array of toys meant to entertain me, or at least distract me.

There were fake, baby-proofed swords and shields, more like wooden spoons and plates from the kitchen, but I wielded them with all the solemnity of a knight in battle. The stuffed animals and cloth knights were close contenders for my attention, especially the lion, regal and fierce. Each toy, in its own way, stirred something inside me.

All in all, life was good. Simple. Safe.

But I wasn't content to just be a child playing pretend. Beneath the surface, I was something far more dangerous: a very young, very pretentious boy determined to become a prodigy.

And speaking of that… I finally began to grasp the meaning behind the skills I could train in, the building blocks of what I would become.

Slowly, I scrolled down the list of skills, my eyes catching on each description, weighing what they meant and the abilities they tied to.

[SKILLS:]

[STR] ATHLETICS: -5 BONUS

*Jump farther than normal, stay afloat in rough water, or break something.

Ah yes, the art of not falling flat on my royal behind. Right now, I have the upper body strength of a malnourished kitten, so this one's firmly in the "future me" category. Still, it'll be crucial when I'm not in danger of being blown over by a strong gust of wind.

[DEX] ACROBATICS: -5 BONUS

*Stay on your feet in a tricky situation, or perform an acrobatic stunt.

Let's be real, when standing up too fast feels like a gamble, cartwheels aren't happening. But one day? Vaulting over walls, dodging blades… yeah, I'll want this. Just not right now.

[DEX] SLEIGHT OF HAND: -5 BONUS

*Pick a pocket, conceal a handheld object, or perform legerdemain.

Stealing might sound too mundane, but fake magic through flair? Sign me up, at least when my hands are big enough to hold anything more threatening than a rattle. For now, though, the only thing I'm stealing is hearts and maybe extra snacks, though in this particular setting the best I could find was some berries.

[DEX] STEALTH: -5 BONUS

*Escape notice by moving quietly and hiding behind things.

Toddler-sized ninja? Tempting. But let's be honest, right now, I can't even tiptoe without face-planting, forget catching sleeping cats. Still, I'll want this when the 'sneak out of the castle' plan kicks off.

[INT] ARCANA: +2 BONUS

*Recall lore about spells, magic items, and the planes of existence.

Magic. Real magic. The key to breaking this world's rules and becoming more than just a noble brat. I don't just want this skill, I need it! But until I find a way to actually learn it without sacrificing my soul to R'hllor, I'm stuck with theory.

[INT] HISTORY: +2 BONUS

*Recall lore about historical events, people, nations, and cultures.

Knowing who killed who, who slept with who, and why it all led to war? This gets my attention right away. The more I know about Westeros' history, the better I can play the game. Since knowledge is power, this one's getting invested immediately.

[INT] INVESTIGATION: +2 BONUS

*Find obscure information in books, or deduce how something works.

Critical thinking, problem-solving, and unraveling secrets? Feels like a current me skill. Let's just hope I don't have to investigate who poisoned the royal baby anytime soon.

[INT] NATURE: +2 BONUS

*Recall lore about terrain, plants, animals, and weather.

Unless I plan to run away and live off the land, which I don't, this stays a low priority. Though, knowing which plants are poisonous or how to spot a storm at sea might save my life. Someday.

[INT] RELIGION: +2 BONUS

*Recall lore about gods, religious rituals, and holy symbols.

The Faith of the Seven might not be my path to power, but it's useful to understand what everyone else believes, especially if I ever need to fake piety or manipulate the faithful. Faith moves armies, and gods sway minds.

[WIS] ANIMAL HANDLING: +1 BONUS

*Calm or train an animal, or get an animal to behave in a certain way.

A future warhorse or a trained hunting hound could be useful. For now, though, my biggest struggle is not scaring the castle's pigeons while trying to feed them.

[WIS] INSIGHT: +2 BONUS (PROFICIENT)

*Discern a person's mood and intentions.

Already grinded this, thanks to Jayne. People lie, a lot, even when they don't mean harm. Spotting false flattery or hidden motives is a skill I need now, not later. This stays a priority.

[WIS] MEDICINE: +1 BONUS

*Diagnose an illness, or determine what killed the recently slain.

I'm no maester, but a bit of basic first aid mixed with modern knowledge might save me someday. Still, this one's a slow burn, I've got bigger problems than splints and bandages right now.

[WIS] PERCEPTION: +1 BONUS

*Using a combination of senses, notice something that's easy to miss.

The first line of defense against not being stabbed, poisoned, or otherwise screwed over. The sharper my senses, the longer I live. This gets bumped up as soon as possible.

[WIS] SURVIVAL: +1 BONUS

*Follow tracks, forage, find a trail, or avoid natural hazards.

I'm not about to be exiled to the woods, hopefully, but war has a way of stripping away comfort. Foraging for food or finding a safe route can matter more than swinging a sword. This skill will climb the list fast.

[CHA] DECEPTION: +4 BONUS (PROFICIENT)

*Tell a convincing lie, or wear a disguise convincingly.

The crown prince with a silver tongue and a talent for deceit…what's not to love? Lies are the oil that keeps the court moving. Whether I'm planting false hope, hiding my true intentions, or playing the innocent child, this skill is my bread and butter. So glad to have picked it first to become proficient without having to go through several lies.

[CHA] INTIMIDATION: +3 BONUS

*Awe or threaten someone into doing what you want.

It's hard to intimidate anyone when I'm less than half their height and barely out of the nursery. For now, I rely on my name, my family, and the fear of what could be done to them if I was slighted. One day, though, my words and my presence shall cut deeper than any sword.

[CHA] PERFORMANCE: +3 BONUS

*Act, tell a story, perform music, or dance.

Being a prince isn't just about ruling, it's about appearing to rule. Smiles for the nobles, charm for the smallfolk, and just enough flair to captivate both. A well-timed tale or a perfectly delivered toast can be as powerful as a decree. Plus, who doesn't like a little showmanship?

[CHA] PERSUASION: +3 BONUS

*Honestly and graciously convince someone of something.

The soft touch. The art of making someone want to do what I want without risking a lie that could unravel or a threat that might backfire. It's not about forcing their hand; it's about guiding it, so they think the choice was theirs all along. A velvet glove over an empty fist.

Obviously, I was a completionist and was going after all of them. But the optimizer in me knew that I had to play it smart and have priorities.

————————————————————————

286 AFTER AEGON'S CONQUEST 

By my third name day, I was already treating life in Maegor's Holdfast like an open-world game, ticking off quests wherever I could find them.

Not making noise during the night, eating at the proper times, and keeping my bedchamber neat and orderly, those were the bare minimum.

But the real "missions" were the ones that let me slip beyond my chambers. Delivering messages and small packages, running minor errands for the servants, those were my golden tickets. They gave me a reason to wander the fortress, an excuse to venture out without raising suspicion. Sure, I was always shadowed by someone, a maid or a guard keeping me from getting lost or hurt, but it was freedom enough.

And as I roamed the same corridors, walked the same routes day after day, I began to notice things.

At first, it was just a way to pass the time, counting the steps from my chambers to the Queen's Ballroom, tracking how the torchlight danced along the richly carved walls, and learning which sections of the floor groaned underfoot. Call me crazy, but the old stones of Maegor's Holdfast spoke in their own way if you listened carefully enough.

But then it became more than a game.

I started picking out the small, subtle shifts in my environment. The soft clink of a guard adjusting his grip on his spear when someone important passed by. The way the servants' footsteps varied, the hurried patter of a maid compared to the steady stride of a steward. The faint scent of wax and oil that accompanied a freshly lit torch.

I memorized the routines, when the drawbridge was raised for the night, the exact moment the Kingsguard rotated their posts, and how the night's silence broke with the distant clang of the castle blacksmith finishing his work.

And then I pushed further, training myself to sense not just what was there, but what wasn't. The strange hush before a door opened, the absence of a patrolling guard when someone important was about to arrive, the way a rat's scurry would stop suddenly, not because of me, but because something else had moved in the dark.

Even the Queen's Ballroom, a spectacle of beaten silver mirrors and torchlight, offered its own lessons. The high-arched windows along the southern wall let me track the shifting light as the sun crossed the sky, teaching me to guess the hour by the stretch of the shadows. From the gallery above, I trained my eyes to catch the smallest movements below, the flicker of a lady's fan, the subtle twitch of a servant's hand as they poured wine, the silent signals passed between my mother's allies.

It wasn't just curiosity, it was survival.

In a court where the wrong word or misplaced step could mean disaster, noticing the details could make the difference between safety and danger. I wouldn't be caught unprepared. Not ever.

So I watched. I listened. I learned.

Until finally…

[THROUGH YOUR CONSTANT ALERTNESS, YOU HAVE BECOME PROFICIENT IN USING A COMBINATION OF SENSES, NOTICE SOMETHING THAT'S EASY TO MISS]

[PERCEPTION: +2 BONUS]

Might not sound that much for now, but after learning to enjoy opening my senses to my environment, this notification was cherry on top of what I learned.

In any event, within this gilded cage, I kept building my reputation, not as the Crown Prince, but as the helpful, clever boy who was always doing something. Running errands. Asking questions. Welcoming every lesson, even when the other much older noble children groaned and dragged their feet.

Which brings me to Grand Maester Pycelle, who tutored me in my own chambers whenever he could.

[PYCELLE, GRAND MAESTER // LORE // LV: 5]

The old man had started me off with the basics, letters, simple words, short sentences. His voice was slow and grave, like he thought he was speaking to a regular child. Until, of course, I casually read through the first passage he set in front of me, my small finger trailing across the words with practiced ease but slowly enough to not immediately alarm my teacher.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then cleared his throat.

"You've learned to read at such an early age." He said at last, his tone a blend of surprise and forced amusement. "It appears your mother, the queen, must have swallowed some books and a candle during her pregnancy."

I smiled, not because it was a clever quip, but because I could tell that he was more impressed than concerned.

Perfect.

For all his age and supposed wisdom, Pycelle was exactly what I needed, a convenient, pliable mentor. A jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Or should I say… archmaester of nothing.

Still, I listened to him. I paid attention to his lessons, absorbed his words like a sponge, not just because knowledge was power, but because I knew how valuable it was to appear eager and dutiful.

"Minds are like swords." Pycelle often told me, his voice heavy with the kind of gravitas only an old man can muster. "The old ones go to rust if not well maintained and properly challenged."

He thought he was inspiring me. I let him.

Because as far as Pycelle was concerned, it didn't matter what my mind was like, I was a Lannister, and that alone made me worthy of his careful attention.

Like Tyrion will one day say: Pycelle is a toad. 

To which my reply would be: But better a Lannister toad than an enemy toad, no?

And so I sharpened my mind, step by step, quest by quest, not just because I could, but because I would need it for what was to come.

[THROUGH YOUR DILIGENCE, YOU HAVE BECOME PROFICIENT IN RECALLING LORE ABOUT HISTORICAL EVENTS, PEOPLE, NATIONS AND CULTURES]

[HISTORY: +3 BONUS]

————————————————————————

All things considered, my new family took some getting used to.

My new father, Robert Baratheon, was as headstrong and self-destructive as the books had made him out to be, though, at this point, he could still be mistaken for a competent ruler and a fearsome warrior.

We didn't hate each other. Not anymore, at least.

But the most noticeable flaw in our relationship was that he mostly pretended I didn't exist.

Not out of some deep, smoldering hatred like the one he reserved for the Targaryens, but more like a petty disdain, a reminder that I carried traces of the dragonspawn in my veins. My silver-blonde hair and purple eyes were enough to make him uncomfortable, even if I was his son.

Lucky me.

Still, Robert was a man who could inspire loyalty. Soldiers loved him, the great, roaring warrior king who swung his warhammer like a thunderbolt. He was fearless in battle, stronger than a bull, and loud enough to shake the rafters. There was a certain charisma to him, a rough charm that could win men over… as long as they were brave and honest.

His hatred, though, was a wild thing. When it came to the Targaryens, it was a madness all its own, raw, unyielding and ever-burning. A grudge sharpened by war and personal loss.

But outside of his blood feud, Robert lived as if life were one long, endless feast. He drank like a fish, hunted like a wolf, and fathered enough bastards to fill a small village. His appetites for wine, women, and song were the subject of ribald drinking tunes across the realm I'm sure. 

"A Cask of Ale," "Fifty-Four Tuns," and "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" were his favorites, songs as loud and shameless as he was.

Yet for all his boldness, Robert was not a complicated man. He hated poison as a coward's weapon, spoke first and thought later, and was quick to double down on any drunken boast. He rarely tolerated being contradicted but was easily led by those who knew how to steer him, the kind of king who could be easily manipulated.

Our conversations were rare and short-lived.

Once, after a feast, I found myself lingering by the Queen's Ballroom, half-hidden behind a column as I watched the celebration wind down. The hall stank of spilt wine and roasted meats, the air thick with the echo of bawdy laughter and clinking tankards.

Robert was there, in the center of it all, his voice booming louder than the music, clapping men on the back so hard they staggered. He was red-faced and grinning, a crown askew on his thick black hair, a king more suited to the battlefield than the throne.

[ROBERT BARATHEON, KING OF WESTEROS // CHAMPION // LV: 14]

And then, his gaze fell on me. For a moment, I thought he'd walk past like always. But this time, he stopped.

"You're too quiet, boy." He said, his voice like rolling thunder, facing his 3 year old kid. "A prince should be bold, should speak and be heard."

I blinked up at him, weighing my response. The wrong words could sour his mood, the right ones might make him laugh.

"… Like you, Your Grace?" I asked at last, keeping my voice small, cautious.

There was a beat of silence. Then a bark of laughter escaped him, sudden and sharp. "Aye." He grinned, though there was no warmth in it. "Like me."

His eyes lingered on my hair for a second too long, a flash of something between irritation and regret, before he turned away, his interest already lost.

"Another round!" Robert bellowed to the servants, and the hall roared back in approval.

He was gone before I could say anything more.

To most of his courtiers, Robert was a blustering oaf. A fool in a crown.

To my mother, he was something worse, an ignorant, slow-witted, drunken brute who lacked the cruel edge she believed a king should have.

Speaking of my mother, Cersei…

If Robert was a storm, then Cersei Lannister was a lioness, fierce, proud, and dangerous when cornered.

She was, in a word, beautiful, strikingly so. With flowing golden hair and emerald eyes, Mother carried herself with a different sort of grace, a sharp, cutting arrogance, like she was forever reminding the world that it was beneath her.

Cersei was willful and ambitious, with a certain low cunning, clever enough to scheme but too impatient to be subtle. She was well-known for her hunger for power, for the way she bristled at the limitations placed upon her by virtue of her gender.

She resented that men like Robert, loud and foolish as they were, could command a room with a mere growl while she, the daughter of Tywin Lannister, was expected to simper and smile.

Mother liked to think of herself as Tywin's heir in all but name, a queen as ruthless and calculating as her father, but the truth was…she lacked his restraint. His patience.

Cersei did not just remember slights, real or imagined, she nurtured them, fed them like wounded animals, until they grew into grudges with teeth. Disagreement was defiance in her eyes. Caution was cowardice. And to be contradicted was an insult she rarely forgave.

Her quick temper and fragile pride often pushed her into rash decisions, the kind of choices made in the heat of the moment, with little thought for the consequences.

And, of course, she never shied away from using her beauty as a weapon. Sex, to Cersei, was both a tool of manipulation and a means of control, a weapon sharper than any blade, and far more dangerous.

But beneath all that, the ambition, the cunning, the pride, was the simple truth: she only truly cared for me out of spite for Robert.

Her affection was performative, an unspoken way of saying: Here is your heir, your trueborn son…and he is mine, not yours.

It was a twisted sort of love, but love all the same I guess. And I used it.

Carefully, of course, never pushing too far, never giving her reason to question my intentions, but every moment spent in her shadow was a chance to make her see me as more than just a pawn in her game against my father.

More importantly, though, it gave me time with my siblings.

Yes, siblings. Plural.

It seemed my presence had rippled through time, shifting events like a stone dropped in a pond. The butterfly effect was at play and the children born after me were no longer guaranteed to be the exact same ones I remembered from the books.

Those conceived before I could affect the timeline or those born far enough in terms of distance might still align with what I knew. But the closer the influence, the more unpredictable it became.

That thought haunted me, especially when I considered the Stark children and what else might have changed.

But I digress…

After me, my mother gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Golden hair, emerald eyes, the very image of Lannister perfection.

Their names were Lann and Joanna.

And, amusingly enough, they seemed to hate each other. Well, as much as babies could actually hate.

It was a constant war of shrieks and wails between them, with tiny hands tugging at golden curls or swatting at one another's faces. A rivalry in its infancy…literally.

Mother, ever the Lannister, chose their names as a quiet homage to her house. Lann, for the legendary founder of the family line, bold, unmistakably proud. 

And Joanna, after her own mother, a name that carried weight within the Rock.

Rumor had it that she'd toyed with naming Lann outright Lannister, an unsubtle jab at Robert, a reminder of whose bloodline truly mattered to her, but even she wasn't reckless enough to push that far. 

Not yet. I presume.

Still, it was clear her choice was more than a simple gesture of love, it was a message, one my father was either too drunk or too indifferent to pick up on.

Regardless of the name games and silent power struggles, I found myself caring for the golden twins.

And while they might have been at each other's throats more often than not, there was one thing, one person, who could make them behave.

Me.

For some reason, I was the only one who could sit between them without sparking another round of flailing arms and furious gurgles. Maybe they saw me as the calm in their tiny storm, or maybe they were just too confused by my hair to fight over me.

Whatever the reason, I clung to it.

Because if I was going to stop the war that could tear this family apart after Robert's death, I needed them to see me as more than just their older brother.

I needed to be the thread that tied us all together.

It was late afternoon when I found Mother in the nursery. The twins were asleep, their golden heads resting on silken pillows, faces soft in slumber. Lann's tiny hand had somehow found Joanna's, though if they were awake, they'd likely be pulling each other's hair instead.

Cersei stood by their crib, a lioness watching over her cubs, a goblet of wine balanced delicately in her hand. The room smelled of lavender and something richer, the faint scent of my mother's perfume, sharp yet sweet.

[CERSEI LANNISTER, QUEEN OF WESTEROS // BARD // LV: 2]

I padded closer, small and silent, until I was at her side. 

"They fight a lot." I said softly, my voice carrying the simple observation of a child. "Are they angry?"

Mother's lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. 

"No, my love." She murmured, her gaze fixed on the twins. "They are young. Too young to understand what they mean to each other."

I tilted my head, keeping my voice innocent. "What do they mean to each other?"

Cersei's hand, cold from the goblet, rested lightly on my shoulder. 

"They are brother and sister." She said, the words slow, deliberate. "Family. Blood." Her grip tightened just a little. "Just as you are their brother."

I blinked up at her, keeping my face unreadable. "But I'm older."

"Yes." She said softly as her smile sharpened. "You're their elder brother. Their protector." She leaned down, just enough so we were eye level. "Do you understand what that means, my sweet boy?"

I nodded slowly. "It means I have to keep them safe."

Cersei's smile widened, more genuine this time. 

"Yes." She whispered. "You are the eldest, the strongest. If anything ever happens to me…" Her fingers brushed a lock of my dark hair near my right eye, the only visible ties to Robert that marred her perfect lion cub. "It will be you who must watch over them. Guide them. Defend them."

She let the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. It wasn't love she was appealing to, not really. It was duty. Power. She wanted me to see them not just as siblings but as responsibilities, as extensions of her.

I lowered my gaze to the sleeping twins, letting the silence stretch just long enough. 

"So I'm a lion too?" I asked at last, my voice soft.

Cersei's breath hitched, so brief most wouldn't have noticed, but I did.

Her thumb grazed my cheek, the way she always did when she wanted me to feel hers. "Of course you are." She purred. "My first lion. My strongest cub."

I leaned into her touch, wide-eyed and solemn. "Then I'll protect them." I whispered. "Because we are a family."

Her smile froze for half a second, but she recovered quickly, her fingers tightening in my hair just a fraction before letting go.

"Yes." She said softly, almost to herself. "A family."

[DUE TO YOU CONSTANT USE OF YOUR CHARM TO INFLUENCE OTHERS, YOUR CHARISMA ABILITY SCORE INCREASES BY TWO!]

And just like that, the game was set.

She thought she'd made me hers, bound me with invisible chains of duty and blood. But what she didn't realize was that I was doing the same to her, forcing her to accept me not just as Robert's heir, but as her lion cub.

Because if there was one thing Cersei Lannister would always cling to, it was her children.

And now, I was making damn sure I was one of them.

[THROUGH YOUR EFFORTS, YOU HAVE BECOME PROFICIENT IN HONESTLY AND GRACIOUSLY CONVINCE SOMEONE OF SOMETHING]

[PERSUASION: +5 BONUS]

Not sure how that wasn't just plain out deception, but I'm not complaining.

Still, confined to the Holdfast, my world remained small. I rarely saw Jon Arryn or my uncle Stannis, both too occupied with matters of state to spare much thought for a toddler, heir or not.

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was a distant figure, a stern old man with a long face and longer silences. I caught only glimpses of him, exchanging hushed words with my father or speaking in clipped tones to the castle's stewards. A loyal servant of the realm, yes, but hardly a warm presence in my life.

Uncle Stannis was much the same, cold, rigid, and unyielding. He visited the royal apartments on occasion, though never for me. His stern gaze barely lingered when we crossed paths, and his words, when spoken, were as blunt and joyless as the man himself. There was no affection in him, only duty, a quality I could respect, even if I found him as approachable as a stone wall.

Neither man seemed to know what to make of me, the Baratheon heir with some Targaryen traits. To them, I was Robert's son, a symbol of the Baratheon line, a piece on the board, but little more than that for now.

It was an odd sort of invisibility, one I intended to use to my advantage.

But there was one presence I could not ignore.

Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. My uncle.

He was a more frequent visitor to the Holdfast, though never officially. Jaime moved like a shadow through the royal apartments, appearing whenever my mother was near, a golden ghost clad in white.

Where Robert was a storm, all thunder and bluster, Jaime was a blade, polished, sharp, and dangerously silent when he wanted to be.

He was handsome, of course, even a child could see that, with his tousled golden hair and lazy smile, a man who looked more like a hero from a song than a knight with blood on his hands.

But there was something else beneath the charm, a bitterness, a restlessness, like he was always moments away from unsheathing a sword, if only to remind the world of his edge.

He was kind to me, in his way, ruffling my hair, teasing me about the solemn look I always seemed to wear, but there was an awkwardness to it, a hesitation, as if unsure whether to treat me as his nephew or the son of the man he despised.

And I watched him, always watching.

Because for all his smiles and jests, I saw the way his gaze lingered too long on my mother when he thought no one was looking.

I couldn't help but wonder…Did he see me as a child to protect, or a threat to endure?

————————————————————————

With time, books became another escape for me. With them I exploited the unspoken rule of Maegor's Holdfast I've learned very early: a quiet child was an overlooked child.

And there was no quieter place than the royal library.

It wasn't the grandest collection in Westeros, the Citadel in Oldtown and even Dragonstone held more rare tomes, but for a child locked away in a fortress within a fortress, it was a treasure trove. 

Shelves of dusty chronicles, royal lineages, histories of long-dead kings and their wars… Most of it was dull to the servants who maintained the place, but to me, it was a hoard of hidden knowledge waiting to be picked apart.

At first, Pycelle barely noticed me. The old maester would mutter about matters of state, his mind fixed on quill and parchment rather than the young prince tugging at a volume almost twice his size.

But I was persistent. I learned how to approach him at the right moments, when he was busy faking that his joints ached too much so he could stay at his chambers or his attention was swallowed by a letter to another great house. With polite words and just the right amount of wide-eyed curiosity, I convinced him to lend me "suitable" books, mostly dry records and moralistic fables, anything that wouldn't be seen as too "dangerous" for a child.

It wasn't enough.

So I turned to the septa assigned to the royal apartments, a stern woman who was more concerned with my posture during prayers than with the books I borrowed. It took little effort to ask for my own copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, feigning an innocent desire to better understand the Faith of the Seven. She was only too pleased to provide me with a copy, no doubt hoping it would plant the seeds of piety in the Crown Prince.

What they didn't realize was that I wasn't reading for amusement or even for spiritual enlightenment. I was searching.

I read about the wars of conquest and the building of the Red Keep, cross-referencing accounts to spot contradictions and embellishments. I compared the Faith's teachings about sin and virtue against how nobles actually conducted themselves, a gap so wide it could swallow the Narrow Sea. I combed through royal bloodlines, noting how often the names of houses shifted depending on marriages, betrayals, and executions.

Even the Seven-Pointed Star became more than a holy text to me. It was a key, unlocking how the Faith shaped the politics of Westeros, how the High Septon's words could influence lords and kings alike.

This was more than simple curiosity. It was methodical. Focused. Every piece of information was a brick in the foundation of my mind.

I knew I wasn't strong enough to change my circumstances, not yet, but I could prepare.

So I read. And I studied. And I learned.

Until one day…

[DUE TO YOU PAYING ATTENTION IN ALL YOUR CLASSES AND GOING BEYOND WHAT WAS EXPECTED OF YOU, YOUR INTELLIGENCE ABILITY SCORE HAS INCREASED BY ONE!]

[THROUGH YOUR DEDICATION, YOU HAVE BECOME PROFICIENT IN FINDING OBSCURE INFORMATION IN BOOKS, OR DEDUCE HOW SOMETHING WORKS]

[INVESTIGATION: +4 BONUS]

Sherlock Holmes, beware of me! Hahahaha!

Sorry…anyway…

While books taught me history, patterns and hidden truths, they couldn't show me how to move people. For that, I needed something more subtle, not a weapon, but a lure. A way to make men think, scheme, and betray, all while believing they were simply playing a game less dangerous than the actual Game of Thrones.

And if no such game existed… I would create one.

The idea came slowly at first, born from idle thoughts during yet another lesson on the Targaryen conquest. A single spark, if battles weren't just fought with swords but with strategy and wit, could I depict it with pieces that represented kings and queens, knights and armies?

Cyvasse existed, of course, but that was a nobleman's game, complex, impersonal, locked behind the walls of lords' manors. I wanted something that could be played in a tavern, passed between soldiers and merchants, whispered about in brothels and barracks alike.

So I began crafting it, piece by piece.

With scraps of parchment borrowed from the maester's table and quills worn down to their nubs, I sketched the first cards. Crude at first, a crown for kings, a sword for knights, a dragon for the conquerors, but they grew more complex as I studied.

Each card bore a figure from Westerosi history, some of them being:

Aegon the Conqueror: A card of overwhelming power, but only when paired with his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya.

The High Septon: Able to protect cards from "attacks," but weakened if the Faith's influence was challenged by a royal decree.

Lann the Clever: A wildcard, capable of "stealing" another player's piece, echoing the trickster's legendary cunning.

Brandon the Builder: Slow to act, but with each round, his strength grew, like the long years it took to raise the Wall.

Nymeria of the Rhoynar: A card that allowed for sudden, unpredictable movements across the board, mimicking the princess's bold migration to Dorne.

The Usurper: A dangerous, game-shifting card that could topple a royal family's rule, breaking alliances in a single move.

Sellsword: A weak card alone, but paired with Gold Cloaks or Coin Lords, it could turn the tide in a way only money could.

I worked in secret, fashioning a deck with whatever I could find, old playing cards stripped of their markings, stiffened pieces of cloth, anything flat enough to serve.

The hardest part wasn't the design. It was the balance.

The game couldn't simply be about brute force, the player with the most "kings" or "dragons" shouldn't always win. No, there needed to be alliances, betrayals, gambits.

A player might build a royal family, king, queen, and heir, only to watch their reign collapse when an opponent played the Usurper card, severing their line with a single stroke. Another might clutch a handful of powerful cards, only to lose to a clever opponent manipulating "lesser" pieces, a sellsword suddenly backed by coin, a lowly knight emboldened by faith.

And so, my game took shape. A clash of houses, a dance of dragons, a mirror of the realm itself, all hidden behind the harmless guise of a noble boy's pastime.

At first, I played alone, running both sides of the board in silence, testing strategies, learning which combinations were too powerful and which weren't. I revised the rules time and again, balancing chance and skill, until the game wasn't just about the cards you held… but the mind playing them.

The true test would come later, when others played it. Soldiers gambling over tankards of ale, merchants wagering coin, even nobles idly strategizing between bites of roast and wine. The game would spread, first through the Red Keep, then beyond.

But that was only half the plan. Because while they played, I would watch.

Not for the ones who blundered through their moves or the brutes who relied solely on strength, but for those rare few who saw the hidden gears turning beneath the surface, the ones who anticipated, manipulated, and adapted.

The diamonds in the rough.

One day, this game wouldn't just be a pastime. It would be a net, cast wide across Westeros. And those clever enough to master it… well, I would have a reason to notice them. To speak with them. Perhaps even recruit them.

And if someone like Tywin Lannister or Stannis Baratheon ever sat across the table from me, shuffling the cards with a calculating gaze, the game would offer more than entertainment, it would be a conversation starter, a silent battle of wits.

Because this wasn't just a game of chance. It was a game of minds.

And I would always know the rules better than anyone.

[THROUGH YOUR INGENUITY, YOU HAVE BECOME PROFICIENT WITH A GAMING SET: PLAYING CARDS]

*ABILITY: Wisdom. USE: Discern whether someone is cheating or winning the game.

Awesome! Was worried all of this might've been a terrible waste of time, but—

[PING!]

[QUEST COMPLETED!]

Finally! I was already fed up with years of being stuck in this tutorial.

[TUTORIAL: AN OPPORTUNITY TO LEARN THE BASICS, YOU DAMN WELL BETTER TAKE IT!]

[CONDITION: Complete the prerequisites of your background.]

[REWARD: Unlock your first class.]

Well, how about that?

[PING!]

[NEW CLASS ACQUIRED!]

[IT IS SAID THAT A BLADE IN THE DARK IS WORTH A THOUSAND SWORDS AT DAWN. MASTERS OF INFILTRATION, STEALTH, AND SUBTERFUGE…]

[YOU ARE NOW A ROGUE!]

*Rogues rely on skill, cunning, and exploiting blind spots. They move effortlessly through both shadows and halls, seeing every lock as a puzzle and every fight as a chance to strike fast, smart, and vanish. Why swing a dozen times when one precise strike wins the fight? Why charge forward when a whisper can topple a kingdom?

Not the god mage I wanted, but hey…gotta start somewhere. Though it's a bit disappointing not being the first Rogue Prince, that awesome nickname belonged to Daemon Targaryen.

[CLASS FEATURES — ROGUE (Rank D-)]

*Skill Proficiencies available: Athletics, Acrobatics, Intimidation, Stealth, and Sleight of Hand. Select 4.

Great options, the kind I'd have to grind forever to unlock on my own. Intimidation can sit on the bench for now, my physical stats are a joke so desperately need any help, but Stealth and Sleight of Hand? Mandatory for any Rogue.

[SKILL PROFICIENCIES GAINED: ATHLETICS // ACROBATICS // STEALTH // SLEIGHT OF HAND]

[TOOL PROFICIENCY GAINED: THIEVE'S TOOLS.]

*Thieves' Tools Kit and Burglar's Pack ready for retrieval.

Wow! I actually felt it! Knowledge slipping into my mind, like recalling a long-forgotten dream. Tumblers, lock mechanisms, pressure plates, the basics of breaking and entering.

Guess I'm officially licensed to commit crimes now.

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY GAINED: Light armor.]

*Wearing armor you are not proficient in has penalties!

[PADDED ARMOR (CRAFTED TO RESEMBLE THICK CLOTHING) READY FOR RETRIEVAL.]

Finally, a bit of life insurance, and better yet, it doesn't scream: hit me with all you got.

[WEAPON PROFICIENCIES GAINED: SIMPLE AND MARTIAL WITH THE FINESSE OR LIGHT PROPERTIES.]

[READY FOR RETRIEVAL: 2x DAGGERS // 1x SHORTSWORD // 1x SHORTBOW // 20 ARROW + 1 QUIVER]

Hell yeah. I'd been racking my brain trying to figure out how I'd defend myself if some rat catcher decided to earn a few extra coins by offing me in my sleep.

Now? With a blade under my pillow waiting for the perfect timing? Problem solved.

[ABILITIES UNLOCKED:]

*EXPERTISE: Double your proficiency bonus in two skills.

So proficiency isn't the ceiling? Let's fucking go! Stealth, to slip out of Maegor's Holdfast unnoticed, and Perception, to keep track of anyone watching me. Solid.

[SNEAK ATTACK: You know how to strike subtly and exploit a foe's distraction with finesse and ranged weapons]

So the game wants me to fight dirty? With my HP barely keeping me from an early grave, I didn't need the extra encouragement… but I'll definitely take it.

[THIEVES' CANT: Create your own cipher — hidden symbols, phrases, and gestures — used to convey secret information. Gain fluency in another language of your choice.]

The cipher can wait, but the extra language? No brainer. High Valyrian. Forget the entire years I spent struggling with its basic words back when I had Duolingo at my disposal, now, fluency. Just like magic.

[WEAPONS MASTERY: Unlock special combat techniques with 2 mastered techniques, may switch these techniques for others you qualify after a long rest.]

Neat. Gotta test it out soon.

[REWARDS RETRIEVAL: Please confirm which rewards you would like to claim at this moment.]

I didn't hesitate.

The Padded Armor appeared first, a simple set of thick cloth layers, enough to pass as winter wear, but light enough for summer if I left it open. Perfect. Unassuming.

Everything else could wait. No point in strutting around like an armory on legs.

For now, the blade in the dark stayed hidden, right where it belonged.

[TITLE: CROWN PRINCE // SMALL HUMAN, NEUTRAL]

[LEVEL: 1/3 // PROFICIENCY BONUS: +2]

[CLASS: ROGUE D-]

[HP: 2 // ARMOR CLASS: 10 (PADDED ARMOR)]

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[FEATS: LUCKY// SKILLED]

[TRAITS: …EXPERTISE// SNEAK ATTACK// THIEVES' CANT// WEAPON MASTERY]

[STR: 8 (-1) // CHILD'S BODY PENALTY]

*ATHLETICS: +1

[DEX: 8 (-1) // CHILD'S BODY PENALTY// PROFICIENT SAVE (+1)]

*ACROBATICS: +1

*SLEIGHT OF HAND: +1

*STEALTH: +3 (EXPERTISE)

[CON: 8 (-1) // CHILD'S BODY PENALTY]

[INT: 16 (+3) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+5)]

*HISTORY: +5

*INVESTIGATION: +5

[WIS: 13 (+1)]

*INSIGHT: +3

*PERCEPTION: +5 (EXPERTISE)

[CHA: 18 (+4)]

*DECEPTION: +6

*PERSUASION: +6

[TOOLS: GAMING SET// THIEVE'S TOOLS]

[WEAPONS: ALL WEAPONS WITH THE FINESSE OR LIGHT PROPERTY]

[ARMOR: LIGHT ARMOR]

[LANGUAGES: COMMON TONGUE// THIEVES' CANT // HIGH VALYRIAN]

Not bad.

But I can do better.

Neck popped. Knuckles cracked. Let's grind the shit out of this class.

————————————————————————

Many days later…The room is quiet. Too quiet.

Probably because it's early in the morning.

Still, I sit at my desk, a quill in hand, the tip scratching softly against the parchment. The words flow in neat, practiced strokes.

Zaldrīzes. Īlva ānogar issa syt īlva. (Dragon. Our blood is for us.)

The letters look foreign, but the sounds feel natural on my tongue now. High Valyrian.

I read the words again, whispering them under my breath. Softly. Careful not to let the walls listen too closely.

Then, the real work begins.

I slip from the chair, moving to the loose brick at the base of the wall, a secret I discovered after a hundred careful inspections of this chamber. My fingers find the worn edge and pry it free with a practiced motion. The hidden space behind it is small, but it's enough.

My collection waits for me. My thieves' tools.

I unroll the leather kit, fingers trailing over the lock picks, file, and mirror. The scissors and pliers catch the light, dull but still dangerous. They are unremarkable, each one of average make, but to me, they are a path forward.

I start with the mirror.

The trick is not to grip it too tightly. My fingers curve around the handle, my thumb resting along the edge. The secret, I remind myself, is to act like it's not there at all. I flex my hand once, twice, then sweep my other hand past it, as if brushing a stray lock of hair from my face.

The mirror disappears into my palm.

Palming. Again. Again.

Show the hand empty before revealing the mirror hidden somewhere else.

It's clumsy at first. My fingers are small, and the handle jabs against my palm. But I keep going. It's not about the size of my hand, it's about the story I'm telling to anyone else paying attention.

I move on to stealing.

The scissors lie in the open roll of tools. I keep my gaze fixed on the mirror, spinning it idly, while my free hand drifts down, fingers brushing the scissors. They clink softly against the leather.

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK FAILED!]

Too loud.

I try again, slower this time, a gentle grip, not a snatch. When the mirror turns once more, the scissors are already in my hand.

Silent. Smooth. 

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK SUCCEED!]

Excellent. Now for simulating.

I grab a scissor and mimic sliding it into my boot, but at the last moment, I shift it, tucking it into the gap between my mattress and bedframe. The trick isn't just the movement, it's the weight. I practice again, pretending to shift an invisible weapon between my hands.

It needs to look real. Feel real.

When I switch the file for the lock pick, the motion is awkward at first, the pick catching against the edge of my thumb, but after several tries, my hand moves like water. One tool replaces another. The switch.

The ditch is easier. I palm the file, then let it slip back into the hole behind the brick.

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK SUCCEED!]

Gone. Forgotten.

But the load… that's the hardest.

Sliding the lock pick into my sleeve, I fumble the first time, the tip snagging on the fabric. I growl under my breath, too loud, but force myself to slow down. The next attempt is better. Then better still.

Finally, the lock pick slides into place without a sound, resting against the inside of my wrist. I flex my hand, feeling the hidden weight, then let it drop back into my palm with the smallest flick of my wrist.

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK SUCCEED!]

I can't help but let out a smile. And then… misdirection.

I pick up the stuffed knight on the shelf. It's soft, its stitched mouth permanent and too wide. I stare into its eyes, imagining it's a pair of human ones. A courtier, a servant, a guard.

"Zaldrīzes. (Dragon.)" I whisper to the doll.

My free hand slips behind my back, fingers closing around the scissor still hidden in my waistband.

"Issi īlva ānogar…(It is our blood…)" I added.

The tiny blade slides into the hidden gap beneath the mattress, all while my lips shape words meant for dragons.

My toy kept smiling, unaware.

I repeat the phrase one last time, a quiet mantra.

"Īlva ānogar issa syt īlva. (Our blood is for us.)"

[SUFFICIENT PASSIVE PERCEPTION!]

The door creaks, soft, but not soft enough. The words die in my throat.

A faint shuffle of footsteps ghosts over the stone ground outside and a shadow slips just beyond the threshold.

I didn't think, just acted.

The lock pick vanishes into my sleeve. The scissor stays hidden. I roll the leather tool kit closed and slip it into the hollow behind the loose brick, pushing the stone back into place with the heel of my hand.

My fingers are already smudging the ink on the parchment by the time the door opens.

A maid steps in, one of the many unseen hands of the Red Keep, a shadow in plain sight. She carries a pitcher of water, her movements practiced and quiet. I keep my head down, quill scratching softly, but my senses sharpen.

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

[??? // LV: ?]

There's nothing remarkable about her. Her face is plain, her dress simple, but something gnaws at me, a feeling, an itch just behind my ribs. She lingers by the bed longer than needed, her fingers brushing the rim of the empty pitcher before finally replacing it with the full one.

[INSIGHT CHECK FAILED!]

She leaves. The door closes before I finally exhale.

Then, slowly, very slowly, I slip the lock pick back into my hidden stash, until I'm confident that I can have it with me at all times without drawing any attention.

A smile tugs at my lips again.

I need to get faster. Smoother. But at least I'm learning.

Shifting away from the desk, stretching my arms, my body still unfamiliar, my muscles stiff from hours of writing. 

The change in my physique is barely noticeable to anyone but me, but I feel it. I know it.

Proficiency with Athletics.

I place my hands on the edge of the bedframe, focusing on the solid wood. The plan is simple: jump. Just a short distance, something I can finally manage. But with the way my legs still feel so short, it's harder than I was hoping.

Taking a step back, I clenched my hands into fists. The rough stone underfoot makes it a little more challenging than I expected. 

The jump is supposed to be effortless, right?

I push off the ground, my legs straining, and for a moment, I feel like I might just get it right. But halfway through the leap, I feel the weight of my body throw me off-balance, the ground rushes back at me faster than I anticipated, and my feet hit the floor with a soft thud.

[ATHLETICS CHECK FAILED!]

I grunt, rubbing the back of my legs where I landed awkwardly. Still, it's better than when I first started. A little farther.

I try again. This time, I kept my focus. When my feet hit the ground again, the jump feels just a little higher, just a little smoother.

Until—

[ATHLETICS CHECK FAILED!]

Frustration builds in my chest. I've done this hundreds of times before in my previous life without even thinking. The sweat stings in my eyes as I wipe it away, trying to shake off the failure.

Another try. I push harder. The jump feels even better this time. My muscles burn, and the force from the push is more even, but—

My foot hits the corner of the stone floor too hard. I stumble, my landing all wrong. My knees buckle slightly and I catch myself with my hands.

[ATHLETICS CHECK FAILED!]

This isn't going well. 

The room feels warmer, more suffocating, my body sluggish. I breathe deeply, but the tightness in my chest only grows.

I step back, trying to slow my racing thoughts, trying to find my balance again.

Before I try again, I take a moment to steady myself. The feeling in my stomach is one of unease, and the exhaustion starts to seep in as each failure adds weight to my muscles, pushing them deeper into fatigue.

[CONSTITUTION SAVE SUCCEED!]

Thank the Gods! 

But I know this isn't sustainable.

Headstrong that I am, I push through. I focus on the task, ignoring the fatigue. This time, the jump feels stronger, the muscles in my legs moving with more control. I push harder and the leap feels longer. It's not perfect, but it's an improvement.

[ATHLETICS CHECK SUCCEED!]

A small win. It's progress, even if it's only by a few inches.

Now for Acrobatics.

I roll my shoulders, setting my mind to the task at hand. The room feels too small for what I'm about to try, but there's no way around it. I need to learn to keep my balance, even when I feel like I'm about to lose it.

I take a deep breath, positioning myself in the center of the room. Without warning, I throw myself into a roll, letting my body twist and spring back up into a standing position. The room spins briefly before my feet settle beneath me. But my legs are shaky and I stumble forward, my hand bracing against the desk to keep from falling.

[ACROBATICS CHECK FAILED!]

That was embarrassing. I almost lost my balance entirely. 

But I've seen it done, I've seen the professionals do it in my previous life. So I try again, slower this time, focusing more on keeping my weight centered.

I bend my knees, roll, and land again, only this time my landing is more controlled. The movements feel smoother, less forced.

Unfortunately—

[ACROBATICS CHECK FAILED!]

A stumble. That's all it is. 

My legs give way under me and I crash to the floor. I wince as I rise, already feeling the exhaustion tightening my chest, the world starting to blur at the edges.

I try again, but the second roll doesn't feel much better. My body isn't cooperating. The weight of failure seems to add to the heaviness in my limbs.

[ACROBATICS CHECK FAILED!]

This time, I feel it in my bones. The exhaustion is creeping into every movement, into every thought.

[CONSTITUTION SAVE FAILED! EXHAUSTION 1]

Okay, I admit. That one was on me.

My eyes blur for a moment. I see double. I breathe heavily, but the breath doesn't fill my lungs the way it should. The edges of my vision darken, and I wonder for a moment if I might collapse.

But I can't stop now.

I brace myself, bend my knees, and roll again, pushing through the exhaustion. My movements are shaky, but I stay low, trying to control the dizziness.

[ACROBATICS CHECK SUCCEED!]

The roll is rough. I didn't stick the landing, but at least I didn't fall flat on my face.

Again!

[ACROBATICS CHECK SUCCEED!]

It's still not perfect, but I can feel the difference in my muscles. The trick isn't about making it look effortless. It's about getting the timing right, about knowing when to push and when to hold back.

I stand there for a moment, catching my breath, and I can't help but smile a little. 

Another small victory. 

————————————————————————

(26/07/2020)

(27/09/2021)

(07/04/2022)

(01/01/2025)

*Hey there! Thanks for reading my work and I hope this chapter is of your liking. 

I know starting our journey from the birth of our MC might not be a very popular decision. But I wanted to try my hand and make, what I personally considered a boring period of someone's life, something new and interesting.

As I previously mentioned in my previous chapter, I'm still trying to make the best system that, at the same time is fun, helps me build a story with immersive weight on my character's progression and adds depth to his interactions with the world around him.

Any ideas for perks, skills and anything else that might be a good match with my fic is more than welcomed. 

I might not use anything, but you will have my gratitude for trying.

If this chapter is a mess of grammatical errors, please wait until I promptly try to fix it, but for that I need your feedback.

**Apologies if the constant rework of my work is growing tiresome. 😅 This time I'm really interested in going the Dungeon & Dragons 2024 route. Got really excited about it after gaining more experience playing with family and friends, as well as with Baldur's Gate 3 and watching The Legend of Vox Machina.