Chapter 3 - Surviving the Dungeon

BARRISTAN SELMY'S POV

288 AC

Barristan the Bold, they call me to my face. But I know what they say behind my back, Barristan the Old. 

Though that is true, I am growing old, with hair nearly as white as all the winters I have seen. The older a man grows, the less sleep he needs. These days I barely sleep at all. 

When darkness falls over this strange city, I find myself visited by the faces of the kings I have served. The faces of those I swore to protect. The faces of those I failed. 

All I ever wanted was to live a life of honor, defending a king worthy of service. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, I sought out Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre Pretenders, who had started this whole war. 

Maelys believed that his Targaryen blood gave him a claim to the Iron Throne. I made sure that his blood claimed nothing more than the dirt around his corpse. To show his gratitude, the King elevated me to his Kingsguard. 

It was the proudest moment of my life. 

But that king died, and I wasn't with him. Not that I could have saved him if I had been. But still, I vowed to do better with his son, young Prince Aerys. 

For twenty years, his reign was peaceful and prosperous. Aerys was well-loved by his people and respected by his lords. 

But as years went on, Aerys' temper soured. He became obsessed with dragons and fire, and the swords of the Kingsguard couldn't defend him from the enemies he saw lurking in every shadow. 

My king went mad. 

But there was hope, his son and heir. Prince Rhaegar was everything a kingdom could hope for in a ruler, he was strong but gentle, wise and cautious, and a good friend. 

No matter the wounds Aerys dug into the realm, we had faith that his son would sew it back together again when he ascended the throne. 

Then came Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal, the largest ever in Westeros. I unhorsed every man against me until only Prince Rhaegar remained. We each set our feet in our saddles and lowered our lances and charged, and I fell. 

Muddy and bruised, I then watched Rhaegar present Lyanna Stark with the victor's crown of roses, though she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar himself was married to Elia Martell. 

We all know what happened after. If I had been a bit quicker with my lance, had I chosen a faster horse, perhaps I could have spared the kingdom from the destruction that came after. 

Or if I had thought to warn Brandon Stark against his rashness. He came to King's Landing himself demanding Rhaegar return his sister. Poor fool. If he had only known the depth of Aerys' madness, he wouldn't have dared provoke him. 

Aerys ordered Brandon imprisoned, while I could do nothing but obey. When Brandon's father, Lord Rickard Stark, came to King's Landing to beg for his son, Aerys burned him alive, while I could do nothing but watch. 

I had sworn a vow to a mad king and was honor-bound to obey him, even at the cost of my soul. 

Ravens soon arrived with dark news for the king; the Vale was in open revolt. Demanding Lyanna Stark's return, Robert Baratheon was smashing any army that dared face him. 

Eddard Stark, Brandon's younger brother, was marching the whole of the North down the Neck and had taken Catelyn Tully, Brandon's betrothed, for his own, thus winning the support of the Riverlands. The king sent ravens to Casterly Rock to beg his former Hand, Tywin Lannister, for help, and no ravens returned. 

A plan was devised; Prince Rhaegar would personally lead the royal forces, now reinforced with ten thousand Dornishmen, north to face Robert, while the Kingsguard, Lewyn Martell and I, would ride with the prince. 

Before we left, the prince confided in me that when he returned from this battle, there would be a great many changes in court. Despite my vows to the king, I confess I was excited. 

On the march to face Robert's army, we were sure we would win. We had superior numbers and we had Prince Rhaegar. His presence lifted the spirits of our men and he looked every inch the king he was destined to become. 

But at the Trident the gods played a cruel joke. Robert proved the Baratheon words as his army smashed through our lines. 

Lewyn Martell was killed, I fell in combat badly wounded and could do nothing but watch as Robert's war hammer ended Rhaegar's glorious reign before it began, and the kingdom that would never be washed away down the Trident with his life's blood. 

Yet Robert spared me, insisting his personal maester tended to my wounds out of respect. 

But respect for what? A Kingsguard shouldn't survive one king, let alone two, and one who should have been. 

I swore an oath to House Targaryen, and I failed them. 

All that is left of the great rulers of the past is a single ember, a boy, half conceived with the spark of the storm that almost put an end to it. 

Durrandon Baratheon.

As the gods are good, I am still young enough to be in the fullness of strength. 

So whatever the cost, I will not let this next coming of Rhaegar go out. 

This time I will not fail.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

The days once again blurred into a familiar rhythm, mornings spent sparring with a sword too heavy for a boy my age, afternoons lost in dusty tomes I had no right to be reading, and nights honing a magic I could never be caught using.

Each passing day, I grew a little stronger, a little sharper. If I wasn't lifting my blade, I was lifting my voice, singing the songs of my previous life to an empty hall until the melodies felt just right, or spinning tales for unsuspecting servants just to loosen their tongues.

And at last, it paid off.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: BARD (RANK D)]

*Your constant practice has bolstered your bravado. You have gained two new features!

[EXPERTISE: You gain Expertise in two of your skill proficiencies of your choice.]

Expertise, always a welcome gift. 

I chose Performance, naturally, not just to charm those around me, but to honor the artists of my past life. Their songs deserved more than a clumsy echo.

And Deception, because a near brush with death has a way of teaching you what really matters.

Varys had almost seen through me once, when I used magic to charm a scribe into willingly handing over a restricted text. The memory still prickled at the back of my neck. I could play the bold prince all I wanted, but without a silvered tongue and a sharper wit, I'd be dancing on the edge of a knife every time I faced a real player in the Game of Thrones.

[JACK OF ALL TRADES: You can add half your Proficiency Bonus, round up, to any ability check you make that doesn't otherwise use your Proficiency Bonus.]

Well, what could I say?

I was already good at most things, now I was slightly better at everything else.

It wasn't much, not with my current proficiency bonus, but it was another layer of protection, another ace up my sleeve.

In a world where life and death could turn on a single misstep or a half-forgotten detail, sometimes "good enough" was all the edge you needed.

That's why I kept grinding. Because soon, "almost" wouldn't be enough.

[NEW SPELL LEARNED! HEROISM]

I wasn't sure how useful this one would be at first, not until I put it to the test.

Of all my bardic spells, Heroism felt the most… honest.

I used it sparingly, maybe once a fortnight, mostly on minor nobles or guards during their training sessions. There's always that moment before a spar, when someone hesitates. Facing a better opponent. Knowing they might be embarrassed in front of their peers.

That's when I'd step in.

A pat on the back, the somatic component disguised as a show of encouragement. 

A simple Valyrian mantra whispered low enough for only them to hear. "Drēje ao, se ao ūndegon. Be strong, and you will endure."

No glowing aura. No flash of light. Just a sudden firming of their stance. A tightening of their grip on the sword. A flicker of resolve where fear once stood.

It wasn't me making them braver, not really.

I was just lighting the spark. The fire was already theirs.

————————————————————————

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

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

[CLASS: ROGUE D // BARD D // FIGHTER D-]

[HP: 4 // ARMOR CLASS: 11 (PADDED ARMOR)]

[DIVINE POINTS: 2 (MAX TIER: 1)]

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[TRAITS: …FIGHTING STYLE: DEFENSE // SECOND WIND // WEAPON MASTERIES // EXPERTISE // JACK OF ALL TRADES]

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

*(PRO) ATHLETICS: +1 

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

*(PRO) ACROBATICS: +1

*(PRO) SLEIGHT OF HAND: +1

*(EXP) STEALTH: +3 

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

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

*ARCANA: +4

*(PRO) HISTORY: +5

*(PRO) INVESTIGATION: +5

*NATURE: +4

*RELIGION: +4

[WIS: 13 (+1)]

*ANIMAL HANDLING: +2 

*(PRO) INSIGHT: +3

*MEDICINE: +2 

*(EXP) PERCEPTION: +5 

*SURVIVAL: +2 

[CHA: 18 (+4)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +8

*INTIMIDATION: +5

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +8

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +6

[WEAPONS: …MARTIAL WEAPONS]

[ARMOR: …MEDIUM ARMOR AND SHIELD]

[CANTRIPS: FRIENDS // VICIOUS MOCKERY]

[FIRST TIER SPELLS: SLEEP // HIDEOUS LAUGHTER // HEROISM]

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

Days later, I wiped the sweat from my brow, standing shirtless and barefoot on the cold stone floor. 

The chill bit at my skin, a sharp reminder of the winter that had once again gripped King's Landing. Though the Red Keep's walls shielded us from the worst of the frost, the cold still slithered in through every crack, an unrelenting presence just beyond the roaring hearths and thick tapestries.

The dawn exercise session had become as routine as breathing, up before the sun, pushing my body to its limit as usual. Even if the winter air made the stone beneath me feel like ice, numbing my feet as I moved through my drills. My Chamber's windows, high and narrow, were frosted at the edges, the glass fogged with a thin layer of white.

And then, there it was. The first light of morning breaking over the horizon, a pale, fragile thing, more silver than gold, struggling against the iron-gray sky.

[SECRET QUEST COMPLETED!]

[THE TIME FOR TUTORIALS HAS FINALLY ENDED! ARE YOU UP FOR AN ADVENTURE?]

[CONDITION: Become capable enough in both exploration and combat!]

[REWARD: Magical Key (Ready for Retrieval)]

A secret quest? That totally caught me off guard.

Has the Game grown tired of watching me grind every day and night since my birth?

How many other hidden quests were lurking in the background, their conditions unmet, just waiting for me to stumble upon them?

Still, whatever this Magical Key was, I wasn't about to ignore it. I selected Retrieve.

The key materialized in my hand, a slender thing, seemingly made of glass or crystal, shimmering faintly in the morning light. As I focused on it, a soft ping echoed, and a new window appeared.

[MAGICAL KEY FOR GAINING ACCESS TO AN INSTANT DUNGEON! THE NEAREST ENTRANCE CAN BE FOUND AT: RED KEEP'S THRONE ROOM]

An instant dungeon?

For a long moment, I just stared at the words.

I'd almost forgotten about this trope, the Game System protagonist gaining access to pocket dimensions full of monsters and loot. It had been years since I'd even thought about it. But now, holding the key in my hand, I couldn't shake the feeling…was this really just a Game?

The Solo Leveling comparison hit me like a hammer. Was I going to have to fight the System itself one day? Facing whatever DM or Moderator that has been pulling the strings since before my birth?

The thought gnawed at me, but there was no use dwelling on it.

The real question was: What awaited me in that Instant Dungeon?

[QUEST ALERT!]

[EVERY KEY BELONGS TO A LOCK, AND EVERY LOCK CONTAINS A SECRET!]

[CONDITION: Survive your first visit to a instant dungeon]

[REWARD: Unlock a new class!]

[YES/NO]

I won't lie, "Survive" was a bit of a heavy word for a so-called "first dungeon."

The Game had been oddly lenient with me so far. Handing me quests, giving me rewards, guiding me step by step… and now, suddenly, death was on the table?

Still… a new class.

After everything I'd gained from my previous classes, how could I not take the risk?

I accepted the quest. Though I didn't rush towards it, I still had some preparations I could make. 

And so I decided to carry on with the day like I regularly did, despite the foreboding feeling I was getting, spending some extra time with my little half siblings, Lann and Joanna, and the other people that I genuinely made a connection in case I never came back, and waited until the throne room was empty, staying awake in my bedchamber till midnight until the castle became deadly silent.

By then, I had made good use of my time to better think about everything.

If the condition was to survive, that could be a hint. Maybe the Game was nudging me to bolster my Survival skill. It wasn't my strongest, but it wasn't terrible either.

I remembered a book I once found, used to provide basic survival instructions for knights and scouts, at least through someone that could read it for them.

A normal reader might be fooled by empty words of advice, but not me. With the System, I could tell when a book was genuinely useful.

[BY CONSULTING A ACCURATE NONFICTION BOOK ABOUT SURVIVAL TOPIC, YOU GAIN A EXTRA +5 BONUS TO ANY CHECK YOU MAKE ABOUT THAT TOPIC FOR THE NEXT 24 HOURS!]

Excellent, with that covered, I moved on to secure my Burglar's Pack and my Thieve's Tools, you never know when they could come in handy.

As for weapons, I finally had the opportunity to bring my shortsword and shortbow out of my stash. Sneaking them into the dungeon was a risk, but going in unarmed was suicide.

Next was my protection, since my Padded armor was no worse than my heavier training gear, which the later my System seemed to count as Hide armor, I had to compromise by remaining with Light Armor.

At least I had learned to use Shields, though not yet of the regular size if I wanted to be able to switch between my weapons. But I could still make perfect use of a smaller one I found while studying the castle armory with Barristan, it was what you could call a Buckler Shield which granted me another +1 to my Armor Class while being wielded in one of my hands.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I checked everything twice, then a third time. No unnecessary weight. Nothing that would hinder my movement.

When the shifts of the tired guards occurred and the servants were the only ones that occasionally roamed around like ghosts, I left my chambers wearing a dark cloak that muted my color and muffled my gear sounds before walking outside.

Almost everyone was asleep on this cold night of winter. Even the torches along the halls seemed to burn smaller, their flames battling the icy drafts that crept through the ancient stone. I pulled my cloak tighter around me, each breath a faint cloud in the dim corridor.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

If it wasn't for the presence of the rare inattentive servant passing by the halls I would have thought that I could simply walk carelessly with a candlelight in my hand, just had to keep close to the shadows and in one occasion fake being someone else passing by just by my voice.

The Game's reminders kept buzzing in my mind before I deactivated those specific warnings.

[WHILE RELYING ON SIGHT IN LIGHTLY OBSCURED AREAS YOU HAVE DISADVANTAGED ON WISDOM (PERCEPTION) CHECKS!]

*Dim light, also called shadows, creates a lightly obscured area. An area of dim light is usually a boundary between a source of bright light, such as a torch, and surrounding darkness. The soft light of twilight and dawn also counts as dim light. A particularly brilliant full moon might bathe the land in dim light.

I glanced down and saw one of my cats slinking beside me, his eyes glowing in the darkness. Scratching behind his ear, I whispered, "Lucky you and your night vision. At least one of us can keep watch."

He purred softly, tail flicking.

I moved on, double checking my plan and possible countermeasures for anything that I might have missed, like making sure that the likes of Varys would be busy with their own matters, before stepping forward into the Throne Room while looking around.

If Maegor the Cruel could die on his own throne without a soul to witness, surely a young prince could sneak through its dark corners unnoticed.

The Iron Throne loomed over the room, a jagged, towering monstrosity of melted swords. The high, narrow windows let in the faintest slivers of moonlight, casting long, sharp shadows across the long carpet stretched on the floor and nearly reaching the hall's great oak-and-bronze doors.

The cavernous Great Hall could hold a thousand people, being oriented north to south, with high, narrow windows on the eastern and western walls. 

If I recall correctly, the skulls of the Targaryen dragons once adorned the walls, but my father had them moved to a cellar and replaced with hunting tapestries since the beginning of his reign.

Still, I didn't come all the way here to just sightsee.

The King's Door behind the throne, a private exit, seemed too obvious for the Instant Dungeon's entrance, but I checked it anyway.

Nothing. The key didn't fit.

Annoyance simmered as I paced, the silence gnawing at me. Then, a flicker in the corner of my eye. A wall to the side rippled, a small keyhole manifesting from thin air.

I froze. That's it.

Gripping the Magical Key, I felt the weight of every second stretch longer as I approached. My heart pounded, but my hand didn't shake as I slid the key into the lock.

Immediately causing the translucent material my Magical Key was made to turn blood red, like the Red Keep itself.

The wall vibrated and then…A silhouette of a doorway formed, stone shifting and sliding until a dark passageway stood before me.

[YOU HAVE OPENED A PASSAGEWAY LEADING TO THIS CASTLE'S DUNGEON! BE WARNED, MANY DANGERS LIE WITHIN, BUT MANY REWARDS AS WELL!]

I exhaled before telling myself: So this is it. Good thing I came prepared.

[WISDOM SAVE SUCCEED! YOU HAVE RESISTED BEING FRIGHTENED!]

Well, at least my legs weren't shaking…yet.

Looking at the entrance pop up window and then at the passageway before me, I stayed there for an entire minute.

My cat blinked up at me until I knelt, scratching him one last time before murmuring. "Bye boy, go hunt some prey and go back to my room, enjoy my comfortable bed for me while you can, don't wait for me!"

And so I finally entered the secret passage, and as I walked further into the set of stairs leading down, I saw the passageway in the wall seal back up. 

The only way now was forward.

Cracking my knuckles before stepping through the entrance to the dungeon, I calmed my nerves as a sense of adventure took over me. Adrenaline surged and a grim smile tugged at my lips.

"I need to do this." I whispered into the dark, one hand on my sword hilt, heart pounding. "I want to do this."

This was a crucial step towards conquering everything I desired. And I was as ready as I could possibly be for whatever awaited me.

————————————————————————

The staircase seemed endless, each step dragging me deeper into the bowels of the dungeon. It felt like I had descended for miles, though I had long lost track of time.

Before I could dwell too much on how long the System expected me to "survive" down here before unlocking another Class, a familiar game window flickered to life before my eyes.

[YOU CANNOT EXIT THE DUNGEON FROM WHERE YOU ENTERED IT. YOU MUST EITHER DEFEAT THE BOSS OR USE A RETURN STONE!]

'Oh, okay…sure…' I thought. "We're really going all in on the Solo Leveling mechanics, huh?"

For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself the absurd hope that I might actually carve a path through this place and clear it on my first try. Wishful thinking, most likely, but it was better than surrendering to fear.

The staircase finally ended, spilling me into a narrow tunnel. The walls were built of ancient red brick, their surfaces cracked and worn, the gaps stuffed with moss and something worse, strange, pulsating fungi that oozed a faint glow.

Torches lined the passage, their flames flickering unnaturally, too steady and bright to be anything but magical. They cast a wavering light that barely touched the edges of the corridor, leaving long shadows to creep and shift along the walls.

Carvings, deep, deliberate and utterly alien, marked the stone in uneven patterns. 

[ARCANA CHECK FAILED!]

I couldn't decipher their meaning, but each strange symbol sent a ripple of unease down my spine.

I paused.

Right. My trusty survival guide had boosted my Survival skill to a solid +7 for the next 24 hours. Still, theory and practice were very different beasts, especially when you're a five-year-old prince armed with average-quality gear and a head full of dreams.

And a very fragile head at that.

As I crept forward, a sudden warmth kissed the air, an odd contrast to the bone-deep chill of the throne room I had left behind. It wasn't comforting, though. It felt wrong, as though the dungeon itself was exhaling a slow, humid breath.

The tunnel widened.

Rusty iron bars jutted from the wall like broken teeth, forming narrow alcoves. Behind them, rows of glass pots sat in eerie stillness. Some were shattered, their contents long dried to a dark crust, but others remained intact, filled with a vivid, almost hungry green substance.

Wildfire.

I didn't need a tooltip to tell me what it was.

I stepped back, every muscle tensed, careful not to disturb the ancient alchemical death traps.

'Yeah, that's definitely ominous.'

Silence pressed in. The only sounds were the distant drip of water and the faint skitter of unseen vermin.

The corridor morphed into something more complex, deeper compartments carved directly into the rock. The air thickened with the stench of damp earth and something worse, something rotting.

It reminded me of the dungeon cells beneath the Red Keep, the same sickly sweet reek of decay that clung to the air regardless of the distance.

I wondered if I had stumbled into an ancient crypt.

My heartbeat thudded a steady rhythm against my ribs as I passed crumbling graves set into the walls, shallow recesses holding the remains of long-forgotten souls. I kept my distance, but I could swear I heard faint sounds from within.

Grunts.

My breathing slowed. My footsteps became careful, each movement a measured whisper.

And then—A low groan echoed through the corridor.

The walls shivered, ancient stones grinding against one another. A sudden tremor rattled the tunnel, dust cascading from the ceiling as the sound of shifting rock filled the air.

I froze as one of the graves burst open.

A rotten, armored hand clawed free, fingers twisting and twitching as though testing their own strength. A disfigured face followed, half-rotted, the jaw hanging at an unnatural angle. It growled, a gurgling sound like water down a rusted drain.

The creature collapsed to the ground in a tangle of limbs, only to rise again, slow, careless, each movement a cruel mockery of life.

With a screeching rasp, it reached into the dirt, pulling free a rusted arming sword. Its cloak, which appeared to have once been completely golden, now blackened with mold and time, looked hauntingly similar to the garb of the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing.

A game window blinked into view above its head.

[ZOMBIE, MEDIUM UNDEAD // LV: ¼]

Oh. So we're doing this.

I slipped behind a protruding column of stone, forcing my body to remain perfectly still.

The zombie staggered forward, each step jerky and unpredictable, like a puppet with half its strings cut. It began roaming aimlessly, in search of any target that could validate its miserable existence.

I studied it carefully, weighing my options. I could run, but that would only take me deeper into the dungeon. I could hide, but that would solve nothing.

Or… I could fight.

Despite the fear gnawing at my stomach, a part of me, the part that still remembered I was more than just a child, whispered that I could take it.

It wasn't a real threat. It was a warm-up fight. A red herring. The tutorial mob designed to boost my confidence right before crushing it once I came face-to-face with this dungeon's boss.

Regardless of that, I could definitely use the practice.

Drawing my shortbow, I notched an arrow, exhaled slowly, and aimed. Let's do this. 

The bowstring hummed as I released it.

[-5 HP]

The arrow struck true, piercing the zombie's neck, a killing blow for any actually living opponent, but the creature only let out a wet snarl.

I didn't wait for it to pinpoint my location. My instincts kicked in, and I darted into the shadows, activating my Cunning Action to duck behind another stone outcropping.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCESS!]

The zombie lumbered toward the spot where I had been standing, its glowing eyes searching but finding nothing.

Thanks to my Vex mastery in my Shortbow, its guard momentarily dropped, leaving an opening too perfect to ignore.

I drew again, fingers steady, the arrow's fletching brushing my cheek. The faint glow of the torches reflected off the creature's helm, and I spotted it. A gap. A tiny slit revealing a single, lifeless eye.

I aimed and finally fired.

[CRITICAL HIT! -9 HP]

[SNEAK ATTACK! -3 HP]

The arrow slammed into the zombie's eye socket, the impact sending a sickening crack through the corridor.

The creature shuddered. For a moment, it stood frozen, teetering, then collapsed in a lifeless heap, the flicker of undeath snuffed out.

Silence returned.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the giddy grin threatening to spread across my face. I wanted to cheer, to pump my fist in the air and shout "Hell yeah!"…but I bit my lip instead.

No need to announce my victory to whatever else might be lurking.

'Okay. That was so cool!' I thought while taking a slow breath, I crept forward, bow still drawn. The zombie lay still, but I poked it with an arrow, just in case.

No movement.

Satisfied, I began rifling through what was left of its possessions.

Its armor was barely functional, rusted, rotting, more decorative than practical. The arming sword was worse, so blunt I doubted it could cut through butter.

I almost felt bad practicing my combat skills on it. Almost.

All I found were a few moldy rations, long past their prime, and a tarnished silver flask, an echo of the life it once had.

No Returning Stone. Of course not.

Worse, I just managed to recover only one of my arrows. The other one was completely useless after shattering Zombie's skull completely.

Sighing, I rose to my feet and tightened my grip on my bow.

'Great…' I thought. 'Guess I'm moving on…'

————————————————————————

The following hours blurred into a tense rhythm of cautious steps, sharp focus, and quiet violence as I occasionally felt the temperature rising if ever so slightly.

The tunnel soon revealed itself to be far more than a simple winding path. It branched into multiple corridors, twisting off into deeper shadows, some so narrow I had to turn sideways just to squeeze through. Others opened into small chambers lined with more of those crumbling wall-crypts, rows of hollow-eyed skulls staring out like silent sentinels, as though they were watching, waiting.

A creeping sense of the dungeon's theme began to take root in my mind. This wasn't just a random cave, it was a maze. 

An ancient, rotting labyrinth of death. 

It wasn't simply a resting place for the long-dead, it was a trap-laden, corpse-filled gauntlet, where every step felt like a gamble and every corner threatened violence.

The zombies, though unsettling, quickly became the least of my concerns.

I crossed paths with more of them, some alone, others in small, staggering groups. At first, I fought them with the same caution I'd used against my first kill. But the more I encountered, the quicker I noticed a pattern.

Unless I struck with enough force, a well-placed Critical Hit through an eye socket or a shot straight through their half-exposed skulls, they didn't stay down for long. 

A simple wound, even one that would have killed a living person ten times over, barely slowed them. They groaned, staggered, and then pushed themselves back to their feet with mindless, unnatural persistence.

Realizing this, and constantly reminding myself that a single hit from one of them could drop me like a sack of flour, I adjusted my strategy.

One zombie alone? A silent approach, steady hands, and two daggers through its rotting brain before it could react. That didn't always work, most times, I had to climb something just to reach their heads, but I made sure to keep a clear escape route. Hit and run. 

Cowardly? Maybe. Stupid? Hell no.

Two or three together? A quick flurry of arrows, picking them off one by one from behind cover. But only if running wasn't an option, arrows weren't growing on trees down here, after all.

Anything more than that? I didn't even hesitate. I melted into the shadows, heart pounding, slipping past them like a ghost or even relying on Disengaging and Dashing my way out of there. 

There was no sense in wasting precious arrows on things too dumb to strategize, things that would just keep rising if I didn't kill them right the first time.

The longer I spent in those winding halls, the more I realized something else: the zombies were predictable. Loud. Slow. Almost comforting in their simplicity.

In fact, they were so predictable that I found myself growing bold, reckless, even. 

At one point, after running low on arrows, I decided to pickpocket a lone zombie just to see if it had a Returning Stone. 

It was a ridiculous gamble, for sure, but the thought of wasting more time in this death trap pushed me to take the risk. 

I crept up, slipped my hand into the tattered remains of its belt pouch… and came up empty. The thing didn't even notice me. It just kept dragging itself forward, oblivious.

That was when I truly confirmed my suspicions, the zombies were just a distraction.

The real danger came from elsewhere. 

The classic dungeon traps struck first, subtle, cruel, and far deadlier than any walking corpse.

A rusted pendulum blade, hidden in a sliver-thin groove along the wall, came swinging down as I brushed past. It missed me by a hair's breadth, a stroke of luck, or maybe just the advantage of having a smaller, child-sized frame.

Probably both.

A snare trap of ancient, enchanted rope nearly hoisted me into the air. I only managed to slash it apart with my dagger after narrowly succeeding on what I could only imagine was some sort of Dexterity Save.

Bear traps, rusted and hungry. Pit traps barely concealed beneath layers of dust. Pressure plates disguised as loose bricks. Each step became a battle against death itself, a silent test of nerve and skill. 

I found myself absurdly grateful for the moment I chose to pick Expertise in Perception. Without it, and the constant use of Dodge, I'd be dead ten times over by now.

I learned quickly, testing the ground ahead with a broken bit of bone I'd found, tossing it forward, watching for movement, listening for the faint click of hidden mechanisms. 

Every inch of progress felt earned, stolen from the dungeon itself.

But the worst surprise wasn't the traps. It was the damn skeletons.

The first time I saw one, I thought it was just another pile of old bones, crumpled in a forgotten alcove. The skull lolled to the side, the ribcage half-buried in dust. No movement. No breath. Just… dead.

Until I got too close.

With a sudden, violent clatter, the bones snapped together, ribs aligning, limbs twisting into place, and before I could react, a rusted dagger was in its hand, stabbing toward my throat.

I barely had time to throw myself back, the blade slicing through the air where my neck had been a heartbeat ago.

That was when it became painfully clear. 

The zombies were loud and obvious.

The skeletons? They were patient. Silent. Deceptively still.

A game window flickered into view:

[SKELETON, MEDIUM UNDEAD // LV: ¼]

Technically, they were no stronger than the zombies, but they were faster. Much faster. Faster than me.

And their weapons, though ancient and dull, still cut enough to leave a noticeable dent in my buckler shield when I finally blocked an attack instead of narrowly dodging it.

If the zombies were mindless brutes, the skeletons were traps in their own right, not built into the walls or floors, but hidden in plain sight, lying in wait for the careless and the overconfident.

From that point on, I treated every pile of bones with suspicion. Every dark corner was an ambush waiting to happen.

Hours passed like this, a brutal game of cat and mouse through a maze of death, where every choice felt like a gamble and every sound could be the last thing I heard.

I needed that Returning Stone. And I needed it fast.

————————————————————————

The next encounter happened so fast I almost didn't process it, but it taught me a vital lesson.

I was creeping through yet another winding corridor, testing the ground ahead with the broken bit of bone I'd picked up earlier, a habit now as natural as breathing. 

It was about the length of my forearm, thick and weighty enough that I assumed it must've belonged to a leg or arm. Probably a femur. The end was jagged where it had snapped, but the rest of it was solid, dense, and surprisingly well-preserved.

It had served me well so far, setting off a hidden pressure plate just minutes before, saving me from a nasty row of poison darts that would've struck me square in the chest.

But now, it was about to serve me in an entirely different way.

I rounded a corner into a small, claustrophobic alcove, the air stale and heavy with the scent of old death. Crumbling shelves lined the walls, and scattered piles of bones littered the floor like discarded puzzle pieces. My gut told me something wasn't right, the arrangement was too deliberate. Too staged.

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

And then I saw it.

The skull, resting neatly atop a heap of ribs and vertebrae, was facing the entrance, facing me.

It was subtle, but the longer I stared, the more I realized the bones weren't as random as they seemed. The arms were positioned just so, and the bony fingers still curled around the rusted hilt of a dagger. It wasn't a pile of bones. It was a trap.

A waiting, breathing…well, not breathing…thinking trap.

I stepped back and the skull twitched.

[STEALTH CHECK FAILED!]

Bones clattered.

In a blur of motion, the skeleton assembled itself, the ribs aligning, the spine clicking into place like a macabre marionette, and the skull snapping upright as though pulled by an invisible string. Before I could fully react, it surged forward, the rusted dagger slashing through the air.

I threw myself back, barely avoiding the swipe, and slammed into the wall behind me.

'Shit—!'

The skeleton was fast. Faster than the last one. Its dagger flashed again, and this time, I barely managed to bring up my buckler in time. The blade struck the worn iron with a metallic clang, the impact rattling my arm to the bone.

I staggered, the small alcove offering almost no room to maneuver. My daggers were in their sheaths, but I didn't have the space to draw them, not without opening myself up to a fatal strike.

And then my fingers tightened around the bone I was still holding. A flash of desperate instinct, and I swung it.

[- 5 HP]

Crack! The femur struck the skeleton square in the ribcage.

The sound it made wasn't what I expected, it wasn't the dull thunk of a blade against ancient bones. No, this was sharp, brittle, like hitting porcelain with a hammer. The ribs splintered under the impact, fragments of bone scattering across the ground.

The skeleton staggered back, an unmistakable hiss of something, not quite pain, but a reaction, escaping its jaw as it lurched to recover.

I froze for half a second, my past gamer experience burning into my mind, until it all clicked.

The bone, a blunt weapon. Not a blade. Bludgeoning damage. That's what these things were weak to.

I didn't need to kill it with precision, I needed to break it. Smash it to pieces. No more careful dagger work. No more aiming for eye sockets or threading needles through ribs.

Just pure, brutal force. And that must be a great view coming from my childish appearance.

I tightened my grip on the makeshift club and stepped forward.

The skeleton hissed again, dagger raised, but this time, I didn't back away. I ducked under its swipe, drove my shoulder into its brittle frame, knocking it further off balance, and then brought the femur down like a hammer.

[- 3 HP]

CRACK!

The skeleton's left arm, the one holding the dagger, snapped at the elbow, the bone shattering on impact. The weapon clattered to the ground, useless.

I didn't stop.

Before it could react, I spun the club in both hands and swung again, this time aiming for the legs.

[- 4 HP]

CRUNCH!

The femur connected with its knee joint, and the brittle bone buckled under the strike. The skeleton crumbled, collapsing to one side as its remaining hand scrabbled at the floor for balance.

It was still moving, still trying to rise, but now it was slow. Clumsy.

I wasn't.

With a final swing, I brought the bone down on its skull.

[- 11 HP]

The impact echoed through the alcove, a sharp, cracking sound as the skull fractured under the force of the blow.

And then, with a final twitch, the skeleton went still.

My chest heaved, sweat slicking my forehead as I stared down at the crumpled heap of shattered bones at my feet.

My hand was still clenched tight around the makeshift club, the femur, its jagged edge now chipped from the repeated strikes.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't elegant.

But it worked.

And now… I had a weapon that could actually break these things apart.

Slowly, I exhaled, then crouched to sift through the shattered remains, already searching for anything useful.

Because this dungeon wasn't done with me yet.

No Returning Stone…but I at least got another bony club for me to dual wield.

…yay…whatever…

————————————————————————

Okay, I admit, I lost track of time.

At first, it was simple. I'd be late for breakfast, a small inconvenience, really. An apology to my mother, maybe an excuse about getting lost in the castle halls or distracted by some book in the library. 

Plausible, if a bit weak given how intelligent I've proven myself.

But as I gnawed at a stale ration bar in a cramped alcove, taking my first real Short Rest, the hours stretched longer than expected. 

I ran through more excuses.

Maybe I could claim I fell asleep in some hidden corner of the castle, worn out from "exploring" or "studying." I could fake innocence. Pretend I didn't hear the servants calling for me.

Then the hours bled into an entire day.

That was harder to explain. A day meant worry. It meant Father might have to send men to search for me. It meant Mother would be… upset.

The rations tasted like sawdust in my mouth as I chewed slower, staring at the maze of bones and stone around me.

A day might become two.

Maybe I'd fallen and hit my head, a believable story. I could claim I woke up disoriented, lost in some remote section of the castle, too dazed to find my way back.

…But then what if it was longer than two days?

What if a week passed? What if it already had?

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. There were no windows here. No sun to mark time. Just the same endless corridors, the same flickering magical torches. I had no way of knowing if hours or days had passed.

Only the threat of Exhaustion levels piling up that forced me to take a Long Rest gave me a semblance of time orientation.

And then… the weeks crept in.

By the time I truly felt the weight of it, the slow decay of my thoughts, the gnawing ache in my stomach, I knew I'd been down there far longer than a day. 

Longer than a week. Maybe even a month.

The rations didn't last, of course. They never would.

I was left with vermin, rats scurrying along the base of the walls, bats hanging from ceilings in the larger, hollowed-out chambers, and insects bold enough to crawl over the bones littering the ground.

[SURVIVAL CHECK SUCCEED!]

It wasn't hard to fashion traps. Bones tied with scraps of rotting cloth. A noose made from a frayed rope I'd found clutched in a long-dead zombie's hand. I laid them out in the narrow corridors, baited them with whatever crumbs I had left, and waited.

The first rat I caught was a small victory. A sick, twisted one, but a victory nonetheless.

Cooking it was another problem.

The magical torches lining the maze gave off a faint, cold flame, not enough to burn me, but enough to scorch the rat's flesh if I held it long enough above the flame. It wasn't cooked, not really. More like… seared. 

The meat was rubbery, the skin charred, but at least it didn't squirm in my hands anymore.

And I ate it.

The first bite nearly made me gag, but I forced it down.

I wasn't about to die here.

The fungi came next, pale, sickly things growing from cracks in the walls. Some were black, others a dull, bruised purple. I nibbled them carefully, testing for anything that made my tongue tingle or my head spin.

Some were safe enough. Others weren't.

[NATURE CHECK FAILED!]

There was a day, or what I think was a day, when I hallucinated an entire battle happening just down the corridor. I saw the shadows moving and heard the clash of weapons against bone. 

I sat frozen for hours, clutching bone-turned-club in one hand and a dagger in the other, waiting for the unseen army to come finish me off.

No one did.

It was the mushrooms. I learned to test smaller pieces after that.

Water was trickier. It leaked from the ceiling in places, slow, frustrating drips, and I used anything I could to catch it. A rusted helmet from a fallen zombie. A hollowed-out bone. Even my cupped hands, if it came down to it.

Boiling it was another matter. I found a way to hold the makeshift containers over the magical torches, just long enough to kill whatever invisible horrors were lurking in the liquid.

[SURVIVAL CHECK SUCCEED!]

Not perfect, but better than dying of thirst.

Then there were the wells.

Ancient, crumbling wells tucked away in certain chambers, promising water, but I wasn't stupid. 

Not to that extreme.

The first well I approached had been surrounded by bones, and not the long-forgotten kind. Fresh kills. Zombie limbs, skeleton ribs. 

Something had lured them there, I realized. The well wasn't a gift, it was bait.

So I didn't come near it.

Instead, I found dead ends in the maze, small, cramped corridors where I could press my back against the wall, pile bones and rusted weapons into a makeshift barricade, and rest.

Sleep was… never restful.

Every sound jolted me awake, the distant scrape of bone, the whisper of movement, even the trickle of water down the walls.

I talked to myself more than I liked to admit. Sometimes, I talked to the bones. Just to hear something. Anything.

Not all that smart when trying to remain sneaky, I know, but it was better than lashing out at the System.

Once, in desperation, I stripped the armor off a fallen Golden Cloak zombie and scattered the pieces around me, a crude, morbid disguise. I crouched in the dark, hoping any passing monsters would mistake me for another lifeless corpse.

[SURVIVAL CHECK SUCCEED!]

It worked. Twice.

[STEALTH CHECK FAILED!]

The third time, a skeleton did notice me, and I had to smash its skull in with my bone clubs before it could alert the others.

The days, weeks, months blurred together.

The dungeon was chipping away at me, piece by piece, but I refused to break.

I adapted.

[SURVIVAL CHECK SUCCEED!]

I made bone darts from shattered ribs. Crafted torches by tying cloth to broken swords. Set noise traps by balancing loose armor so they'd clatter if something approached.

I learned how to trigger the dungeon's own traps, collapsing a portcullis on purpose to seal myself away from the undead when I needed rest.

And slowly, too slowly, I noticed the change.

The air was warmer.

Faint, but undeniable.

The deeper I went, the more I could feel it, the rising temperature.

I wasn't moving in circles anymore. I was getting closer to the heart of this place.

Closer to the Boss of the Dungeon since the Returning Key was nowhere to be found.

My only way home.

And if I had to spend months clawing through bones, eating rats, and drinking boiled ceiling water, so be it.

Because I wasn't dying here. Not in this dungeon.

Not today.

[PING!]

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: FIGHTER (RANK D)]

*Your constant tenacity against your foes in combat has strengthened your fighting spirit. You have gained two new features!

[ACTION SURGE: You can push yourself beyond your normal limits for a moment.]

[TACTICAL MIND: You have a mind for tactics and getting the upper hand on and off the battlefield.]

Grinning at the recent progress I made, I thought to myself. 'Now we are talking.'

————————————————————————

And so…It happened after what felt like months, maybe longer.

I was moving deeper into the dungeon, guided by the subtle rise in temperature. It was the only clue I had, the only sign that I was inching closer to the heart of this wretched maze and, hopefully, to the Boss of the Dungeon, my one chance of escaping this survivalist nightmare.

The undead I faced were familiar by now. 

Zombies… slow, mindless, reeking of rot. Skeletons… faster, brittle, but still bound by simple patterns. I'd learned to predict them, to outwit them.

But this… this was something else.

I knew it the moment the air turned cold again, a sharp, unnatural chill that bit through my clothes and gnawed at my bones.

It wasn't just a shift in temperature. It was wrong.

I rounded a corner and there it was.

A figure floated above the ground, silent and still. Translucent yet painfully clear, the outline of a man clad in armor that shimmered like smoke. A long cloak trailed behind him, its edges fraying into the nothingness of his form.

At his hip, an ethereal sword, sharp as a cruel whisper, hung weightlessly.

But it was the helmet that froze me. The shape of it. The narrow slit for the eyes. The ghostly remnants of a golden crown across the brow.

A Kingsguard. Or at least… what resembled one.

[WISDOM SAVE FAILED! YOU ARE NOW FRIGHTENED!]

*A frightened creature has disadvantage on ability checks and attack rolls while the source of its fear is within line of sight. The creature can't willingly move closer to the source of its fear.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Every part of me screamed to run, to bolt back the way I came, to put as much stone and bone between me and this thing as possible.

But I didn't.

Because in the same section as the Specter, half-buried in a pile of bones and rusted weapons, its dull surface faintly pulsed, a slow, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of something long asleep. It was the size of a potato, smooth and weighty-looking, carved with ancient runes that flickered dimly in the maze's gloom.

The Returning Key. It was there. Right fucking there!

But so was the Specter.

I gripped my bone club and iron dagger tighter, the same weapons that had shattered countless skeleton skulls, splintered undead ribs, and pierced rotting zombie brains.

It felt utterly useless now.

The Specter drifted forward a few inches, its movement smooth and soundless.

I stayed frozen.

What should I do?

A bone dart? No, it would most likely pass right through him.

A trap? Ridiculous, he floats.

Fire? The magical torches weren't strong enough to burn him.

Every trick, every scrap of wit I'd used to survive this long suddenly felt like a child's game. All the little victories, cooking rats, drinking boiled ceiling water, tricking zombies, they didn't mean a thing against this.

This wasn't something I could outsmart. It wasn't something I could fight.

Perhaps it wasn't even something I could survive.

And then the Specter turned its head.

It didn't move like a living thing, no gradual shift, no weight behind its motion. Just a sudden, eerie tilt, as though reality had skipped a frame.

The hollow slits of its helmet stared directly at me.

I don't know if it saw me, if it was truly aware of me, or if it simply sensed a presence. But in that moment, another realization dawned upon me.

This wasn't even the boss.

If this thing was down here, patrolling, guarding, then there was something far worse lurking deeper within the maze. Something this Specter, and supposedly six more of it, served.

The gap in power between this creature and the zombies or skeletons I'd fought was too vast. This was an entirely different class of monster.

And the thing it answered to?

I wasn't ready for it. Not even close. I needed to get out. Now!

The Returning Stone was right there.

I just had to grab it.

I could taste freedom. Feel the weight of weeks, months, of surviving on rats and dungeon water finally lifting as I sneaked my way towards it while avoiding to approach the Specter.

One more step. Just one.

[STEALTH CHECK FAILED!]

[TACTICAL MIND USAGE!]

[STEALTH CHECK FAILED!]

Then the Specter moved.

Not with the clumsy shuffling of a zombie or the rattling march of a skeleton. No, this was soundless, sudden. One moment it hovered in place, and the next it was inches from me, the empty slits of its Kingsguard helm staring straight into my soul.

I froze.

My hand hovered over the stone, so close I could feel the faint thrum of magic against my fingertips.

A wisp of shadow curled out from the Specter's chest like smoke drifting from a dying fire. The air between us grew colder, a biting, unnatural chill. My breath left my lips in a faint mist.

Then I saw it. Its hand.

No longer a ghostly blur, but a clawed, ethereal thing, reaching for me with an unnatural grace, and I knew what it was.

The Life Drain.

I'd read about monsters like this in my previous life, incorporeal undead who could rip the vitality from their prey with a touch. It wouldn't just kill me. It would empty me.

My strength. My health. My very soul.

Gone.

There was no time to think. No plan to form.

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK FAILED!]

[TACTICAL MIND USAGE!]

[SLEIGHT OF HAND CHECK SUCCEED!]

I grabbed the Returning Stone.

Magic flared beneath my palm, a sharp, searing pulse of energy that shot through my arm like lightning. The runes along its surface blazed to life, a blinding glow that bathed the dungeon corridor in harsh white light.

The Specter recoiled, letting out that same horrid, echoing whisper, a soundless scream that made my skull throb.

And then—The world tilted. The dungeon vanished in a flash of white.

I felt like I was falling, not forward or backward, but in every direction at once. The magic clawed at my skin, tugging me through some unseen space.

And just as suddenly as it began—It stopped as I hit the ground hard, the stone slipping from my fingers as I collapsed onto solid, familiar ground, dematerializing after its one time use.

The entrance.

I was back at the dungeon's entrance. The same dark corridor, the same unsuspecting pathway of stone that connected the Instant Dungeon with the Throne Room of the Red Keep, and in front of me, a swirling portal now hung in the air, a twisting mass of shadow and light.

The portal, the one that had been sealed shut this whole time, was open again.

I stared at it, heart still hammering in my chest, the image of that Specter burned into my mind.

I'm alive.

The thought came slow, disbelieving. I flexed my fingers. Pressed my hand against the dirt. Felt the steady thump of my heart, still racing, but steady.

I wasn't a hollowed-out husk. I wasn't dead.

I was out. Finally out.

My legs ached, burning from weeks of running, dodging, surviving. My clothes and armor were more rags than fabric, torn and stained with blood, dirt, and gods know what else.

My gear, the bone club, the makeshift traps, the broken sword hilts, all of it screamed danger.

If I walked back into the Red Keep dressed like this, I wouldn't get a second to explain. The Kingsguard, the real ones like Barristan and Jaime, would cut me down the moment they saw me.

Slowly, I began shedding the dungeon-crafted tools.

The bone darts. The tattered armor stripped from long-dead zombies. Anything that could link me to the nightmare I'd just escaped.

All that remained was me, filthy, bruised, and desperate for a bath, but at least I looked like a person again.

I stared at the portal.

The faint, twisting magic inside it seemed to ripple and pulse, a dark wound in the air itself.

And then something strange hit me as I finally stepped through it.

The sky above…It was night.

Not just any night, but one exactly like the cold night I first entered the dungeon.

The moon hung in the same place. The stars scattered in the same familiar patterns. The cold wind brushing my skin carried the same midnight chill.

It was like I had never left.

Confused, I stepped back, my mind scrambling to explain what I was seeing.

Had time… not passed?

Before I could fully process it, the System chimed.

A floating screen blinked to life before me, that familiar, coldly efficient text flashing bright in the dark.

[Congratulations! You have braved the depths of an Instant Dungeon, adapted to its brutal environment and found a Returning Key. Notice: Time does not pass outside of the Instant Dungeon.]

[QUEST COMPLETED!]

[EVERY KEY BELONGS TO A LOCK, AND EVERY LOCK CONTAINS A SECRET!]

[CONDITION: Survive your first visit to a instant dungeon]

[REWARD: Unlock a new class!]

I blinked. Once. Twice.

The words didn't change. Time does not pass outside of the Instant Dungeon.

The full weight of the statement crashed into me like a warhammer to the chest. All those weeks, maybe even months, of struggling to survive.

The rats I ate. The water I boiled. The countless battles. The Specter that nearly killed me.

All of it…Had taken no time at all in the real world.

It was still the same night. The same hour. As if I'd never even gone in.

I stood there, the System's words burning in my mind.

And for the first time since I woke up back in the void, I began shedding tears. I didn't even know if it was relief, rage, or the sheer weight of it all finally breaking me.

But I just couldn't stop myself.

————————————————————————

Sneaking back to my chambers wasn't difficult, I've grown far too used to silence, to moving like a shadow. 

The Red Keep at night feels almost too still, too quiet. No lurking undead. No bone-dry corridors of the dungeon maze. Just stone walls and the faint whisper of winter's wind outside.

And yet… it doesn't feel like home anymore. It feels distant, like I'm drifting through a dream.

When I finally reach my chambers, the familiar scent of the room, the faint trace of lavender from Jeyne Waters' constant efforts to keep my bedding fresh, clashes harshly with the stink of blood, sweat, and rot still clinging to me.

The mirror stands against the wall.

For a moment, I almost didn't recognize myself.

My hair, of black and silver, once neatly trimmed, barely brushing my ears, now falls nearly to my shoulders, an unruly mess that frames a face sharper than I remembered.

I was leaner, harder. My skin, though mostly unscarred, thanks to the unforgiving rule of "don't get hit or die", looked weathered, my knuckles raw from gripping bone clubs and iron daggers for what felt like months.

And there was something in my eyes, both the blue and purple one, a quiet, watchful intensity, that wasn't there before. A look that didn't belong to a pampered prince of the Red Keep, not even to one pretending to be pampered, but to a survivor of a world where death was a constant companion.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the unfamiliar length of it, and couldn't help but wondering… is this what Rickon Stark must be going through in the later books?

The wild boy they all whisper about, the wolf-child raised in the chaos of Skagos, stripped of comfort, growing into something feral and unrelenting.

I didn't feel feral, exactly. But I didn't feel… normal either.

I peeled off the last remnants of my dungeon gear I forgot to get rid off, like the tiniest of the tattered scraps of armor, the worn leathers looted from long-dead corpses, and threw them into the hearth. The flames devour them, and I watch the smoke curl into the air, a silent purge of the nightmare I just escaped.

The bath was next.

At first, the water felt wrong. Too hot. Too soft. Too much.

I was used to cold dungeon water boiled over makeshift fires, not the steaming bath drawn for a prince. My body tensed at first, my mind half-expecting some trap, some attack. It took me long moments before my muscles finally unwind, the heat sinking into my bones.

And when the grime started to lift, the layers of filth, dried blood, and gods-know-what-else swirling away in the water, I realized how much I've been reduced to survival instincts.

I scrub myself raw, over and over, as if trying to scrape away not just the dirt but the weeks of hunger, fear and battle that clung to me.

It's only when the bath water turns murky and the fire begins to dim that I realize how long I've been sitting there.

When I finally pull myself from the tub, drying off with a cloth finer than anything I've touched in weeks, I find myself hesitating.

The bed. It's too soft.

Yeah, I know, I'm sounding like your typical war veteran coming back home.

But it's just that the moment I sink into the mattress, the plushness of it feels like it might swallow me whole. It's nothing like the cold, hard dungeon floor or the moments of sleep snatched in a corner, one eye always open, dagger clutched in hand.

The silence is unnerving too.

No distant shuffling of the undead. No echoing whispers of the Specter. No constant awareness of death lurking just around the corner.

Just the stillness of my room.

I lay there for a long time, my body screaming for rest, but my mind still caught in the rhythm of survival, listening for sounds that won't come, muscles tensed for enemies that aren't there.

And when sleep finally dragged me under…For the first time since stepping into that Instant Dungeon, I dreamed.

Not of monsters or battles.

But of the Red Keep before all of this, when my only concern was proving unfounded Robert's dislike for my Valyrian traits, enduring Cersei's twisted affection, and keeping my secret magic hidden.

And somehow, that life feels more distant now than the dungeon ever did.

————————————————————————

JEYNE WATERS'S POV

It was the smell that told me something was wrong.

Not the faint trace of lavender I worked into his bedding, nor the comforting scent of woodsmoke from the hearth, but something sharper. Bitter. Burnt.

I paused in the doorway of the prince's chambers, my hand tightening ever so slightly on the edge of my apron. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting long, golden streaks across the stone floor, and that's when I saw it.

A pile of charred scraps near the hearth, cloth, leather, I couldn't tell. It was too burnt, reduced to little more than blackened curls of ash.

The fire itself had nearly died out. Which was a bit strange to me, I always tended to it before leaving at night, and the other servants wouldn't dare let it burn down so low without orders. Especially during winter.

Then I saw him.

He was sitting by the window, the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms, but not the boy I had seen just yesterday.

His hair was longer, falling past his shoulders in dark, unruly waves. It hadn't been like that before. It couldn't have been. 

I saw him yesterday, didn't I? Yes. I had. 

His hair had barely brushed his ears then. Now it framed his face like a dark curtain.

And his face…

Thinner. Sharper. The soft lines of childhood were gone, replaced by the lean, almost gaunt frame of someone who had been stretched too thin.

It had only been a night. One night since I last came to his chambers to tidy his things and prepare his evening wash. Yet the boy I had known, the quiet child who never cried as a babe, the prince who always spoke to me with a rare gentleness, looked as though he had lived months since then.

And his eyes…

Gods, his eyes.

I remember his mismatched gaze from the moment he was born, one blue, the other purple, both striking and strange in a way that even the queen's ladies whispered about when they thought no one was listening. 

But now, those eyes felt older. He felt older.

Not in years, but in weight.

Like he had seen something, endured something, in the brief hours since I had last left his side.

I swallowed. My tongue felt too thick in my mouth. 

"My prince…" I said softly, keeping my voice steady, the way I had learned to do all my life. "Shall I prepare your bath? You seem… tired."

It was the only word I could think of. But it wasn't right. He didn't look tired, he looked… worn.

At first, he didn't answer. Just kept staring out the window, his fingers resting on the wooden frame like he was holding himself still.

Then, his voice broke the silence, rougher than I remembered, quieter, but steady. "I've already bathed."

I froze.

He had drawn his own bath? Alone?

That wasn't… that wasn't how it worked. A prince didn't do such things. Not even one as solemn and independent as him. Servants drew his water, prepared his clothes, combed his hair. It wasn't just custom, it was the order of the world.

But the damp towel by the hearth, the faint trail of water on the stone floor… It all told the same story.

He had done it himself.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't dare ask.

So I reached for something safer. "Would you like me to trim your hair, my prince?"

His head tilted slightly, and for a moment, his fingers brushed a lock of his too-long hair, like he was reminding himself of its length.

"It has grown..." He muttered. More to himself than to me.

"Yes, my prince." I replied gently. "A bit longer than the last time I saw you."

It was the way he looked at me then that made my heart skip.

A flicker of something, calculating, almost, but gone too quickly for me to grasp.

Then his expression softened. His lips, pressed too tightly before, eased into a faint, familiar smile. The same one I had seen since he was a little boy. The same solemn calm he always carried, but now with a trace of warmth, the sort of smile that could melt even a wary heart like mine.

"I've just been restless." He said softly. "A poor night's sleep, nothing more."

His voice was smooth now, reassuring, steady in a way that made me feel foolish for thinking otherwise.

Of course. That had to be it.

I was just… seeing things. Imagining. His hair might have seemed longer in the morning light. Perhaps he had skipped a few days of proper care. The sharpness in his face? A trick of the shadows, or maybe he truly had lost sleep.

I had always been too soft-hearted when it came to him. The only noble who ever spoke my name as if it mattered.

Yes… yes, I was just worrying too much.

I nodded, my smile a little too tight. "Of course, my prince. Shall I still cut your hair?"

He inclined his head, the picture of a calm and dutiful boy. "Yes. Please."

As I gathered the shears and comb from his dressing table, I felt a small wave of embarrassment at my own foolishness. I was a mother before I was a servant, perhaps that was all this was. A motherly worry, stirred by a prince who had always felt more like a quiet son than a distant royal.

I worked carefully, smoothing his hair and trimming it back to a more proper length. My fingers brushed his neck as I tilted his head forward, and I noticed the faint scars on his knuckles again…

But this time, I told myself they were old marks. From training, perhaps, or play.

Boys sometimes scuffled, even princes.

So I said nothing. Just kept cutting.

When I finished, I stepped back, smoothing the front of my apron.

The boy who sat before me looked as he always had, quiet, composed, his mismatched gaze as calm as a still pond.

And as I met his eyes one last time, I felt a small, quiet relief.

Yes… it was just a restless night.

That was all.

"Shall I fetch you something to eat, my prince?" I asked, my voice lighter now, more certain.

He gave a soft smile. "Yes, Jeyne. That would be good."

The warmth of him saying my name again settled my heart.

I bowed my head and left the chamber.

And though the unease still lingered, a whisper at the back of my mind, I told myself it was nothing.

Just a trick of the morning light. Just my own heart playing games.

After all, he was still the same boy I had helped raise… wasn't he?

————————————————————————

DURRANDO BARATHEON'S POV 

The moment the last echo of Jeyne's footsteps faded down the corridor, I let the smile slip from my face.

My reflection in the polished silver mirror stares back, hair freshly cut, expression calm, but the storm inside me hadn't settled. I could still feel the ember of tension from that brief moment when Jeyne had noticed.

I was quick enough to snuff it out, quick enough to wear the mask of the boy she remembered, but it was a sobering reminder.

With a slow breath, I focused on what I had been holding back this entire time, the glowing text still lingering in the corners of my vision.

[NEW CLASS ACQUIRED!]

[DO YOU WANNA HUNT THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME? WILL YOU BRAVE THE FIERCEST WILDS, FROM THE DARKEST FORESTS, TO THE DEEPESTS DUNGEONS AND THE MOUNTAINS OF OLD. ARE YOU AN EAGLE-EYE TRACKER AND PEERLESS ARCHER? WERE YOU BORN TO BE WILD?]

[YOU ARE NOW A RANGER!]

*Warriors of the wilderness, rangers specialize in hunting the monsters that threaten the edges of civilization—humanoid raiders, rampaging beasts and monstrosities, terrible giants, and deadly dragons. They learn to track their quarry as a predator does, moving stealthily through the wilds and hiding themselves in brush and rubble.

Ranger. The word hummed in my mind like a distant drumbeat.

It wasn't a class I had expected to unlock this early, if I'm being honest. I thought maybe Barbarian, something simple, direct, or maybe even Sorcerer given how tied my appearance was to the blood of House Targaryen.

But no, this was something wilder. Rougher, perhaps. 

It wasn't a path of shining swords and dragonfire. It was a path of silent steps and watchful eyes.

And maybe that suited me more than I wanted to admit.

The words kept flowing.

[CLASS FEATURES — RANGER (Rank D-)]

*Skill Proficiencies available: Animal Handling, Nature or Survival. Select 1.

I barely hesitated.

[SKILL PROFICIENCY GAINED: SURVIVAL]

Survival wasn't just a fancy trick, it was a necessity. If there was one truth I had learned, it was that my life, and the lives of everyone I cared about, depended on my ability to endure.

I couldn't afford to always rely on the comforts of royalty. I couldn't lean on the weight of my name or the power of my blood. Those things were fragile, fleeting.

But survival? That was something I could trust.

It meant reading the land, sensing danger before it struck, whether that danger was a hidden blade in the dungeon or a lurking beast in some dark forest. It meant knowing how to live when the world turned hostile.

And, if I'm being honest, it felt like a small act of defiance. A prince choosing a skill meant for commoners, for hunters and trappers and wanderers who lived outside the castle walls.

Could have chosen Animal Handling, something noble and respectable, like training hunting hounds or warhorses. Could have picked Nature, a scholarly pursuit fit for lords who fancied themselves learned.

But Survival?

That was for those who expected no one to come save them. It fit me like a knife sliding into a sheath.

The text shifted again.

[ABILITIES UNLOCKED:]

*PRIMAL HALFCASTER (Rank D-): You have learned to channel the magical essence of nature to cast spells. 

[NEW CANTRIPS LEARNED! SHILLELAGH AND THORN WHIP]

[NEW SPELLS LEARNED! GOODBERRY AND HAIL OF THORNS]

Magic.

Not the dragonflame of my ancestors, or the magic of my songs and tales for that matter, but something raw and elemental. 

The magic of wood and bones breaking through stone and thorns tearing through flesh.

Goodberry, simple magic, but practical. I wouldn't starve as long as I could conjure those small, enchanted berries. A safety net in case the worst happened…again.

Hail of Thorns, something more violent, more feral. A spell that let me prepare and turn a simple arrow into a storm of barbed needles.

I flexed my fingers, half-expecting to feel the magic simmering beneath my skin. But there was no heat, no crackling energy, just a quiet hum in the back of my mind. A new part of me, waiting to be called.

*FAVORED ENEMY (Rank D-): You mark one creature you can see within range as your quarry for one minute while you concentrate on it. Dealing an extra Force damage to the target whenever you hit it with an attack roll. You also have Advantage on any Wisdom (Perception or Survival) check you make to find it. If the target is put down before this effect ends, you can mark a new creature you can see within range.

My jaw tightened.

I recognized this. A magical predator's instinct, a hunter marking its prey.

Force damage… not steel or fire, but something that struck deeper, almost like a magical pulse. Perhaps the tool I needed to stand a chance against that Specter that almost ended me.

And the ability to track them, not just by sight, but by something more primal.

*WEAPON MASTERY (Rank D-): Your training with weapons allows you to use the mastery properties of two kinds of weapons of your choice with which you have proficiency.

Yeah, sure…why not?

Finally letting out a slow breath as the glowing text faded away.

I flexed my hand again, and this time, I swore I felt the faintest spark, like a whip curling around my wrist, waiting to strike.

The hunt had begun.

————————————————————————

Training under Barristan Selmy did not stop for winter, not after I proved that I was a talent worth his full dedication.

If anything, the old knight welcomed the cold like an old friend, treating the snow-covered training grounds as just another battlefield to master.

"Back in my days I couldn't say this, but now, your enemies won't wait for spring." He'd said that morning, his breath a ghostly cloud in the frozen air. "Steel feels heavier in the cold, feet slip where the ground betrays them and frost numbs the fingers before a sword can ever strike true."

A bitter wind howled through the courtyard, carrying with it a fresh flurry of snow. It clung to the edges of my cloak, dusted the scabbard at my hip, and pooled in the dips and hollows of the worn training dummies.

It wasn't just the weather we fought against, it was the way it gnawed at the body, crept into the bones.

Barristan tested me in ways the summer couldn't.

Balance drills became treacherous games of footing, each step a gamble on slick stone or hidden patches of ice. He made me fight with blunted swords weighed down by frost, the leather grips stiff from the cold. My strikes slowed, not from fatigue, but from the way the weather itself dragged me down, every movement a battle against both man and nature.

[CONSTITUTION SAVE FAILED! EXHAUSTION LEVEL 1]

"Again." He commanded, as I barely parried a downward strike. "Your sword arm is quick, but winter cares not for speed. Endurance, boy. Without it, the cold will steal your life long before an enemy's blade does."

It wasn't just about fighting an opponent. It was about resisting. And yet… while Barristan saw winter as a test of will, I saw something else entirely.

I saw an opportunity.

The Ranger class within me stirred at the sight of the snow-draped world, a primal, instinctive tug urging me to use the environment rather than fight against it.

When Barristan dismissed me for the day, his parting words were sharp as the wind itself. "War does not care for comfort, my prince. Grow used to the ache in your bones."

But once the old knight was gone, I didn't retreat to the warmth of the Red Keep like the others.

Instead, I stayed.

The snow was not a hindrance, it was a teacher in its own right.

I practiced moving silently, using the soft powder to study the sound of my own footsteps. Snow muffled noise, but ice cracked like glass beneath careless weight. I learned to step lightly, spreading my balance so that no sudden sound betrayed me.

[STEALTH CHECK SUCCEED!]

I tracked the faintest imprints of animals that had scurried through the courtyard, their tiny trails etched into the snow. Sparrows, rats, even the paw prints of a stray cat I had yet come across, each mark taught me how to read the world around me, how to see what others missed.

[SURVIVAL CHECK SUCCESSFUL!]

And when the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the white-blanketed ground, I practiced blending into the world itself. My winter cloak, light as the snow, wrapped tight, I moved with the wind, letting the swirling snow become my cover, learning not just to walk unseen but to become a ghost in plain sight.

A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

By the time I finally returned to the Red Keep, half-frozen and sore to the bone, I realized something else.

[CONSTITUTION SAVE FAILED! EXHAUSTION LEVEL 2]

I mean, other than that my Constitution still sucked.

Barristan taught me how to survive winter's cruelty.

But the Ranger in me? It taught me how to use it.

————————————————————————

A couple of weeks later, winter had sunk its claws deeper into King's Landing. 

The air was sharper now, the cold gnawing at the bones of those unaccustomed to it. 

Even within the walls of the Red Keep, the draft crept through the cracks, whispering reminders that this was no ordinary season.

Come to think of it, my generation had felt the touch of winter coming and going more than our parents and grandparents ever did.

The long summers they had enjoyed were gone. Now, the cold seemed more than just a shift in weather, it was a promise of harder days ahead.

And still, despite the chill, I found myself once again standing in the throne room.

It had become something of a routine, a quiet obsession. I would come here whenever I could slip away, standing before the Iron Throne with its twisted swords and jagged edges. Not because I craved the seat itself, far from it, but because I needed to remind myself that the dungeon I found in this very room had been real.

Sometimes, I would let my gaze drift to the hidden entrance, half-expecting it to yawn open, daring me to descend once more.

A part of me itched to.

I didn't know if it was the Ranger class in me stirring, the hunter restless without a quarry, or if it was something darker. A need to reclaim the part of myself I left behind that night.

But today, my silent ritual was interrupted.

One of my cats, lounging atop the raised dais, twitched its tail before lifting its head sharply. Its ears flicked toward the sound of soft footsteps long before I acknowledged them.

I didn't need the warning. I had already noticed.

The footsteps belonged to someone who didn't wish to sneak, measured, composed, the kind of stride belonging to a man who didn't need to announce his authority.

And sure enough, a familiar voice echoed through the empty hall. "Good morning, my prince. Up so early?"

I turned, schooling my expression into something polite, pleasant, a far cry from the silent storm I'd kept leashed moments before.

Standing there, surrounded by a small retinue of Baratheon and Arryn soldiers, was Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.

Even after all these years, the man looked ancient. His hair, a thin veil of white, clung to his scalp like the last leaves of autumn. His face bore the weight of a thousand worries, lined and stern, yet his gaze was clear and calculating.

Funny how he already looked older than Pycelle did when the Grand Maester wasn't busy pretending to be a doddering fool.

But what truly caught my eye wasn't the Lord Hand. It was the dornish girl standing quietly beside him.

She couldn't have been more than seven years old, small, but with an unmistakable fierceness to her. Long raven-black hair cascaded down her back, but it wasn't the color that gave me pause, it was the silver strands running through it, glimmering in the cold morning light like threads of moonlight.

And her eyes…Dark, sharp, unflinching, they met mine with a defiance that felt oddly relatable.

Took a moment for my memory to confirm what I already suspected.

[HISTORY CHECK SUCCEED!]

[RHAENYS TARGARYEN, THE WARD OF THE CROWN // LV: 0]

Ah. So that's… new.

I kept my face neutral, though the revelation coiled like a viper in my gut.

Rhaenys Targaryen.

The daughter of Prince Rhaegar, the man whose very existence still cast a long, bitter shadow over my father's reign. The girl whose mother, Elia Martell, had died in the Sack of King's Landing at the hands of men wearing the banners of House Lannister.

And yet, here she stood, alive, not a ghost or a memory, but a child under the protection of Jon Arryn.

She was a living reminder of the blood that still ran through the veins of House Targaryen. A spark that could, under the right…or wrong…circumstances, reignite a firestorm.

Jon Arryn's voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"Is it so?" He said with a small, diplomatic smile. "What a commendable effort on your part. I must thank you for helping my daughter with her studies. Her improvement is beyond notable… she even aids me in my work from time to time."

His daughter, Alysse Arryn. A far safer topic.

I let a more genuine smile cross my lips.

"Don't mention it, Lord Arryn. She's been a great friend to me."

And she had…a quiet, clever girl who, despite being mentally younger than me, possessed a keen mind and a gentle curiosity. I was already considering ways to have her subtly plant some of my ideas into her father's ear, small improvements for King's Landing disguised as innocent suggestions from a daughter eager to help.

Jon's smile didn't falter. If he suspected I had ulterior motives, he didn't show it. 

[INSIGHT CHECK SUCCEED!]

But his ulterior motives were clear to me.

"Good to know." He said softly. "But my gratitude remains. Do visit us when you have the time, my little girl would enjoy it."

I faked a polite chuckle, bowing my head slightly. "I am humbled by your kindness, Lord Arryn. I'll find the time to visit you both soon. I swear it."

The Hand gave a satisfied nod, and with a flick of his hand, his retinue began to move past me, their boots tapping a steady rhythm against the cold stone floor.

But my gaze didn't follow him. No, my eyes remained fixed on her.

Rhaenys hadn't moved, lingering just a step behind Jon Arryn.

She didn't speak, didn't curtsy, she only stared.

A silent challenge hidden behind a child's face.

And I met her gaze without flinching.

The system's words still hung in the corner of my vision, a quiet reminder of what this girl truly represented.

————————————————————————

Later, from what I was able to uncover, Rhaegar's daughter was secured with an iron grip.

Almost five years under lock and key, hidden so well that it took nothing less than sheer coincidence for us to cross paths.

I spoke to Alysse about it not long after. She admitted, with a tilt of her head and a thoughtful hum, that she hadn't met Rhaenys either, only heard whispers. Rumors that the girl was ill-tempered, prone to sharp words and sudden moods. 

A "difficult child," as the Red Keep's servants murmured when they thought no one important was listening.

Though, if the girl had truly inherited a streak of Dornish fire… who could blame her?

She was a survivor of a massacre, the daughter of a slain prince and a murdered princess, now living under the roof of the very man who helped orchestrate her family's downfall. If anything, it was a miracle her defiance hadn't burned brighter.

But still… Her presence was a silent weapon.

With Rhaenys alive, the Martells would tread carefully. Elia's blood still flowed in her daughter's veins, a thread binding Dorne's loyalty, or at least their restraint. So long as Rhaenys remained a ward of the Crown, House Martell would have to think twice before openly defying the Iron Throne or the Lannisters.

And, with any luck, this delicate balance might extend to Daenerys as well, once the last dragon princess of House Targaryen inevitably became something more than a mere exile.

A mother of dragons.

Gods, that was a complex thought I will have to unpack eventually. Sooner or later.

The clink of my boots against stone echoed softly as I reached the stairs leading to the dining hall. I kept my pace measured, unhurried, letting the pieces fall into place in my mind.

Jon Arryn's presence today was no accident. Nor was Rhaenys' sudden appearance at his side.

The Hand of the King was many things, a just man, a patient one, but subtlety was a blade he wielded with precision.

Speaking of Jon Arryn…Alysse.

The girl who shouldn't exist.

By all accounts, at least from what I remembered, Jon Arryn was only supposed to have one child: the sickly, frail Robert Arryn, the "Sweetrobin" born of his second marriage to Lysa Tully. A boy destined to cling to his mother's skirts, too weak of body and will to be a proper heir.

And yet, there was Alysse. Bright-eyed, clever, and most importantly, healthy.

No doubt, her existence has already shifted the board for all the other players of the Game of Thrones.

Alysse Arryn could mean many things, a tool for Jon Arryn to secure his legacy, an alternative to the yet to be born sickly heir of the Vale, or perhaps something more subtle… a future player in this ever-churning game.

And whether Jon Arryn meant to or not… he had placed her in my orbit.

I adjusted the sleeve of my tunic as I reached the entrance to the dining hall, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine already drifting through the open archway.

But even as I prepared to step inside and play the role of the king's eldest son, smiling, laughing, masking my thoughts behind a wall of practiced charm, one question gnawed at the back of my mind.

Why had Jon Arryn chosen today, this morning, to let Rhaenys Targaryen stand at his side?

What game was the Hand playing?

And more importantly…Was I already a piece on his board?

————————————————————————

The dining hall of the Red Keep was alive with quiet tension masked by the clinking of silverware against fine plates. 

Servants bustled between long tables, their movements efficient, heads bowed, voices a mere whisper beneath the low murmur of noble conversation. 

The air smelled of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced wine, a cruel contrast to the biting chill I had witnessed outside.

I entered silently, a ghost at the edge of the torchlight, and took a moment to assess the room.

The royal family was already gathered around the high table.

Robert Baratheon, the King of the Seven Kingdoms and my father, was tearing into a hunk of bread like a man starved, chewing with little regard for decorum. His beard, black as a crow's wing and speckled with crumbs, shifted with every grunt of satisfaction. 

Uncle Stannis, seated to his right, was the picture of restrained fury. His jaw clenched so tightly I half-expected the stone chair beneath him to crack. Every breach of etiquette Robert committed seemed to wound him more deeply than a blade ever could.

Cersei, my mother, sat like a statue carved from gold, perfect and unyielding. Her smile was a mask of polite disinterest, the slight shadow beneath her eyes betraying a lack of sleep. Not that anyone would dare mention it. She ate delicately, each movement a lesson in courtly grace, a queen playing her part to perfection.

And beside her, Uncle Jaime.

He lounged in his chair with the effortless arrogance of a man who knew he was the most beautiful person in the room. The Kingslayer wore his signature smirk, more amused by Robert's lack of manners than offended, the gold of his hair catching the morning light like a halo.

Then there was Jon Arryn, the Lord Hand, with his hawkish eyes and weathered face, deep in quiet discussion with Uncle Stannis. They spoke in hushed tones, their words too soft to catch, but the concern etched into the Lord of the Vale's brow told me more than enough. Whatever troubled them was not some trivial court matter.

At Jon's side, his wife, Lysa Tully, remained distant, both in spirit and presence, picking at her food with all the enthusiasm of a woman forced into a marriage bed long gone cold. 

And Alysse Arryn, Jon's daughter, sat beside her father, though her gaze wandered until it found me.

A sly smile played on her lips, and when she was sure no one was watching, she winked.

So, she had gained permission too.

Good.

The moment I stepped into the light, the conversations slowed, and heads turned.

"By the Gods, lad." Robert's voice boomed across the hall, louder than necessary, it always was. "Were you planning on starting your day on an empty stomach?"

It was more of a bark than a question, the kind of fatherly concern only Robert Baratheon could muster, veiled beneath a layer of noise and bluster.

"Apologies for my lateness, father." My reply was smooth, the words dipped in just enough respect to keep him content without sounding servile.

I crossed the room, stopping first before my mother. Leaning down, I kissed her cheek. 

"Good morning, mother." I murmured softly enough that only she could hear.

Cersei's lips curved, a smile warmer than usual, not entirely maternal, but not wholly empty either. 

"Good morning, my sweet boy." She said, and for a moment, just a fleeting one, it sounded genuine.

Jaime's hand ruffled my hair as I straightened. 

"You look half-frozen." He said with a chuckle. "What were you doing, wrestling snow bears beyond the Wall?"

It wasn't the worst guess.

I took my seat as servants appeared like phantoms, setting a plate before me, steam still rising from the freshly cooked meal. My stomach twisted at the sight. The hunger was sharp, a lingering echo of the time I spent trapped in the Instant Dungeon, where food was a distant memory and survival meant more than sating mere hunger.

The composure I kept now, not devouring the meal like a starving hound, took far more effort than the false smiles I handed out to the court.

Robert's voice broke the silence again. "Had some trouble sleeping, boy?"

I wiped my mouth with a cloth, already bracing for the next round of bluster. 

"I was busy doing my morning exercises." I replied, carefully casual. "It's the only way to keep from freezing in this cold."

The King grunted approvingly. "Ah, as good a reason as any." Then, with a glimmer of something between curiosity and exasperation, Robert's eyes narrowed. "So, I hear you want to visit the city. In the middle of a bloody winter?"

I nodded. "Indeed, father. It's actually the perfect time for such an endeavor. With the season, I hear King's Landing is less… chaotic." My words were precise, calculated. "I've already spoken to Maester Pycelle and Lord Commander Barristan. Both agreed it would be a valuable experience, and even suggested a few places I might visit. All I need is your permission."

Robert sighed. I knew why. This wasn't the first time he had been dragged into one of my "ambitions"… my push to train, to learn, to grow… and every time, it stirred a fight between him and Cersei. 

Not because she feared for my safety, mind you, but because it reminded her how little control she had over me.

"Fine." The King finally said, waving a hand. "I'll arrange for some guards to go with you."

As expected, Cersei bristled. "Are you sure that's wise, Robert?" She asked, her voice silk hiding steel. "Our son is young. The city will still be there in a few years. There's no rush."

I smiled softly. "Please, don't worry, mother. I'll be well-guarded, and I promise to avoid the more troublesome districts."

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCESSFUL!]

Cersei's frown lingered for a heartbeat, but she relented. 

"If you insist." She eventually murmured.

Jaime chuckled. "Come now, sister. We were younger when father took us to Lannisport, weren't we?" His easy grin was a shield against her disapproval. "Besides, I'll make sure the boy returns in one piece before nightfall."

Cersei's gaze softened just enough at Jaime's words, the invisible thread between them tugged, ever-present, ever-tense.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat, his voice calm and steady. "You should eat first, my prince. No man, however fast he grows, can face a city like King's Landing on an empty stomach."

Alysse smiled again from her seat, her amusement a quiet flame hidden behind a proper mask.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, taking my time with the meal as the conversation dissolved into quieter exchanges. 

Jon and Stannis returned to their secret discussion, whatever troubled them lingering like a dark cloud over the Hand's brow.

Once breakfast concluded, the nobles scattered like leaves in the wind, each off to their own business.

I left the hall with one thought lingering in my mind, not about the city, nor the guards, nor even the mission I had carefully concealed from my family.

No, it was something else entirely.

If the gaming system ever granted me true immunity to the cold… Well, it would be a boon, certainly, perhaps even a necessity when the Long Night finally came. 

But beyond the practical…

I smirked to myself.

If there really was a female White Walker out there, who better than the prince immune to winter to charm her?

Father would be proud of that I'm sure.

————————————————————————

(09/08/2020)

(29/09/2021)

(25/02/2022)

(01/01/2025)

*Hey there! 

Thanks for reading my work! 

I hope this chapter is of your liking.

Any ideas for powers, equipment, girls 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 try to fix it as soon as possible. 

But for that I need your feedback.

Thanks as always for your time, hope you have a fantastic day and please stay safe. 

Bye.