Chapter 4 - The Capital City of Westeros

DURRANDON'S BARATHEON POV

288 AC

So this is it. 

I was finally allowed to visit the capital city that had drawn my imagination and curiosity every time I looked out of a window from the Red Keep.

Even with two soldiers that will be dogging my every step, poor souls whose patience was certainly wearing thinner than their swords with all this babysitting work, and Uncle Jaime shadowing me with that ever-present smirk of his.

But that will be tomorrow. Today was a different matter.

For now, I was allowed to wander the Red Keep at my leisure. Or at least the parts the guards thought I was exploring. Let's call it a proper chance to give my so-called home a thorough inspection.

Not that I hadn't done so before.

The Red Keep loomed over King's Landing like some blood-red beast, more fortress than palace. Its walls weren't just tall, they felt angry, as if the very stone still remembered the cruelty of Maegor the Mad who built them.

People liked to talk about how Aegon the Conqueror raised the first stronghold here, the Aegonfort, little more than a wooden palisade thrown atop the hill, a temporary foothold for a man who didn't plan on losing.

But Aegon's son, Maegor, had a flair for the dramatic. 

He tore down the Aegonfort and built something permanent, a monument to fear. And, naturally, once the last stone was laid, Maegor slaughtered the builders to keep the Red Keep's secrets buried with them.

A bit excessive, but I suppose it worked. Nothing says "no unauthorized renovations" quite like a mass grave.

Centuries later, the castle still held its share of mysteries, twisting passages behind false walls, spy holes hidden in forgotten corners, and tunnels that wound their way through the bones of the keep like veins.

I like to imagine it as my very own Hogwarts, complete with secret chambers and a layout so convoluted it feels like the architect lost a bet.

I knew these passages because I'd found several of them.

Not all, of course, I'm not foolish enough to think I've bested Maegor and his paranoia without tripping over Varys' web, but I've made good progress.

There's a narrow corridor behind the hearth in a lesser hall and a hidden door in the pantry that opens with a firm push on a loose stone. Neither led to the secret heart of the castle, but they confirmed something important: Varys doesn't know every passage either.

The first time I stumbled into one of his "little birds," the boy froze like a startled rabbit. My face was hidden, and with a few carefully chosen words and a deliberately bored tone, I convinced him I was just another of the Spider's spies. Then I slipped back into the pantry, muttering about a "midnight snack."

Since then, I've learned to tread more carefully.

The trick wasn't just finding the tunnels, it was using them without alerting the Spider. A silent game of hide and seek with a man who seemed to have eyes everywhere.

But the Red Keep wasn't all hidden doors and dark corners, it was also a fortress, a layered nightmare for any would-be invader.

The high curtain walls and barbican ensured that even if someone breached the city's defenses, they'd still have to fight their way uphill through Aegon's Hill. Good luck with that, scaling a hill while being pelted by arrows and boiling oil didn't exactly make for a pleasant afternoon.

And if they did break into the outer ward, they'd find granaries, wells, and storerooms, stocked and ready for a siege. A grim reminder that the keep was built not for comfort, but for long, miserable battles.

Not that it stopped my grandfather, of course.

Tywin Lannister sacked the city despite all those defenses, proving that gold and betrayal often cut deeper than steel.

Then there was Maegor's Holdfast, a castle within a castle. Encircled by a dry moat, its walls were twelve feet thick, and it had only one bridge in and out, with an iron portcullis at each end.

A prison disguised as a refuge.

If an enemy ever made it that far, they'd find themselves cornered like rats, with no tunnels to slip through, Maegor made sure of that. It was the last stand, the final redoubt.

And it was where I slept. Cozy. If not a bit restrictive.

But for all its grim practicality, the Red Keep still tried to play at being a palace…a strange, split identity of blood and silk.

The godswood, for example, was beautiful in its own way, though the lack of a weirwood made it feel more like a garden than a true sacred place.

Alysse and I used to play there during the summer, using the great oak as our castle for make-believe battles, or as a place for me to sing songs and spin tales.

These winter days, I still found myself drawn there, though more for the quiet than anything else.

The sept was another piece of the palace's softer side, a private place of worship for the highborn. I once met Lord Gyles Rosby there, a wheezing old man with a cough that could shake the rafters. Twice married and still without an heir, he looked less like a lord and more like a corpse no one had bothered to bury yet.

If the gods were listening to his prayers, they were ignoring them.

Then there was the rookery, perched high above the castle like a watchful crow. Grand Maester Pycelle ruled over the ravens and their endless stream of letters, the lifeblood of the realm's secrets.

The old man fancied himself a teacher, though half the time, the "lessons" felt more like gossip disguised as wisdom.

Still, I listened. Carefully.

And, of course, the ballroom, all polished stone and heavy curtains, where lords and ladies danced, their smiles as sharp as their daggers.

My own first dance lessons had been less about grace and more about appearances, a reminder that at court, every step was a move in a larger game.

But nothing compared to the great hall.

The Iron Throne sat there like a trap masquerading as a chair, poetic, really.

A jagged, twisted thing of melted swords, its edges catching the torchlight in a hundred deadly glimmers. It wasn't some sleek, symbolic seat like the nonsense the showrunners conjured, no, this was a throne built to cut. A warning as much to its occupant as to their enemies.

King Robert rarely graced it with his presence. More often, it was Jon Arryn who held court, his stern voice echoing against the stone as he dealt with petitions and emissaries.

It was there, in that cavernous hall, that I first saw Jalabhar Xho, an exiled prince from the Summer Isles, his coat a riot of bright feathers, his skin dark as polished teak.

[JALABHAR XHO, EXILED PRINCE // RANGER // LV: 2]

He looked like a man who had once worn a crown but now only wore its shadow.

Our first conversation happened not long after.

"This one is known as Jalabhar Xho, young prince. But you may just call me Jalabhar." He told me, his voice a smooth, liquid thing, an amber accent flowing through the clumsy edges of the Common Tongue. 

He bowed with the kind of grace that only comes from a man who still remembers what it was like to have people bow back.

"This one has heard that despite your age, you are already an avid learner." He added, his smile equal parts warmth and calculation. "If you wish, I might be of use in better understanding the Summer Tongue and culture. Or perhaps, you might also be interested in some input during your training sessions with ranged weapons. Since your frame isn't yet big enough to fully draw a longbow, I suggest you take proficiency with either the sling or the short bow."

Practical advice, masked as politeness.

"I would be very grateful if you shared your experience, Jalabhar." I replied with the same respectful tone I reserved for those who underestimated me, polite, agreeable, but already thinking three steps ahead.

A new language to learn, new way to wield weapons and perhaps more useful still, a man with a sharp eye and sharper ambitions. 

My mother dismissed him as a highborn beggar draped in gaudy feathers, while my father saw him as a novelty, and, if rumors were to be believed, an opportunity to fill his bed with Summer Islander servants.

But I saw something else. Potential.

"You know, my prince, that this one was a prince once." He told me, much later, once familiarity had loosened his tongue. "As a matter of fact, I am the exiled Prince of the Red Flower Vale, banished after losing one of our highly ritualized wars, as is the tradition of my homeland."

The Summer Isles, a lush archipelago south of Westeros, west of Sothoryos and Naath. A place of warm seas and golden skies, so far removed from the cold stone of the Red Keep it might as well have been a different world.

"This one has come to King's Landing to request gold and swords from your father, King of the Seven Kingdoms, to help me regain my birthright." His voice softened, as if admitting it aloud risked shattering the illusion of hope. "At first, your father seemed interested in the notion, but…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He has, unfortunately, continuously told me he would put it off until next year."

"Really?" I feigned surprise with the wide-eyed innocence only a child could wield.

Jalabhar's smile faltered, just for a moment, but hope is a stubborn thing.

"Not that I'm ungrateful for your sire's hospitality." He added quickly, as though realizing how his words might sound if carried to the wrong ears. "Quite the contrary. I understand that the harsher and more frequent winters are a greater concern for your people here in Westeros."

"But you must miss your home." I said softly, more statement than question.

His eyes lit up, a flicker of longing, a glimpse of a man still reaching for something just out of grasp.

"Precisely!" He nodded. Hopeful. Always hopeful.

I wondered then if that was his curse, to cling to a dream that Robert Baratheon would never grant him.

Because while the King always put off Jalabhar's request for help, he never gave him the courtesy of a firm refusal. No, Robert's answer was always the same, not a hard "no," but a thoughtless "next year."

A promise without weight. A leash disguised as a gift.

And so, year after year, Jalabhar remained, a prince without a home, a petitioner without a cause, slowly becoming more courtier than exile.

Yet despite his colorful feathers and his ever-dimming hope, he was still one of the most intriguing figures at court, though that wasn't exactly a high bar to clear.

One of the few, at least, worth a second glance.

But even Jalabhar's feathers paled next to the man who was often found drinking beside him.

[THOROS OF MYR, THE PINK PRIEST // CLERIC // LV: 1]

A tall, broad-shouldered man in his early twenties, with a shaved head like a monk and a face kept smooth not by discipline but by sheer indifference. His red robes, meant to be a symbol of devotion to the Lord of Light, flapped open most of the time, more like a drunkard's cloak than a holy vestment.

He was as far from pious as a priest could be.

"Hahaha! You've always got the best tales, my prince!" Thoros roared, his laughter echoing off the stone walls as he reacted to one of the more outlandish stories I had, carefully, shared from my previous life.

The Red Priest was, above all else, friendly to a fault, the kind of man who seemed to view everyone as a drinking companion first, and a person second.

"I was born in the Free City of Myr." he said, his voice rough with drink but steady enough to weave his tale. "The youngest of eight children, given to the Red Temple of R'hllor before I was old enough to even know what a god was."

He spoke with the ease of someone who had told this story a thousand times, a blend of pride and self-deprecation, as though daring you to take him seriously.

"Like most, I earned my priesthood… but let's just say I'm not overly pious. Fighting, drinking, women — they call to me more than any holy flame ever has."

"Not very priestly of you, is it?" I said, keeping my tone light.

Thoros grinned. "Heh. I suppose that depends on your definition of 'priestly.' Would you believe me if I told you I once outdrank your father?"

Ah. That explained why Robert liked him so much.

My father, the king had little patience for men who preached, but an endless well of tolerance for those who could match his appetites.

"I was sent to King's Landing to convert King Aerys." Thoros continued, swirling the wineskin he had just fished from his bag. "The old madman had a fascination with fire, so the High Priest thought he'd be an easy convert. Thought I'd whisper of R'hllor's cleansing flames and the King would fall to his knees in worship." He chuckled darkly. "Instead, I found a man who loved watching things burn but cared little for why they burned."

That… tracked.

"And when that failed, what then?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.

Thoros grinned and took a long gulp from his wineskin. "I learned to enjoy the wine. Heh. Did you know one of the reasons I became a Red Priest was because the robes hide wine stains so well?"

I couldn't help but smile. "A most practical form of faith."

Thoros was a fixture at the feasts and tourneys my father threw when the summer sun allowed, not just for his drinking, but for his skill. He fought with a reckless bravado that the smallfolk mistook for courage and the knights mistook for madness.

And for all his drunken antics, the man had a gift for tongues. I'd watched him speak to Jalabhar in the Summer Tongue more than once, a fluid exchange of lilting words that only seemed to widen the gap between them and the rest of the court.

Most Myrmen spoke a dialect of bastard Valyrian, their Common Tongue thick with an accent the Westerosi found sultry. But Thoros' grasp of language was quick and clever, a talent sharpened by a life of moving between worlds.

"But tell me…" I asked, my curiosity shifting to something more serious. "…have you ever seen visions in the flames?"

It was the question I truly wanted answered.

Thoros' expression wavered for a moment, just long enough for me to notice.

"I've seen… things…" He said at last, with a shrug that seemed more for himself than for me.

I wasn't convinced.

Perhaps he'd glimpsed something once, a flicker of prophecy or illusion magic cast by some unseen hand. Or perhaps, like so many priests, he had simply stared at fire long enough to imagine meaning in the dance of embers.

I didn't doubt that R'hllor existed, or that he possessed power mistaken for divinity, but gods were a matter of perspective.

Before the silence could settle too long, Thoros leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin tugging at his lips.

"But come now, my prince, aren't you more interested in my flaming sword?" His eyes lit up with an almost childlike excitement. "Would you like to know how I do it?"

Theatrics. Of course he wanted to change the subject.

"Certainly." I said, keeping my tone mildly interested, though, truthfully, I was more curious about how much of it was trickery with wildfire and how much was something else entirely.

After all, even a drunken fool can wield real magic.

Anyway… back to my quick tour around the entire castle.

The great hall of the Red Keep had endured the centuries, though it hadn't remained unchanged. It was a place where kings stamped their mark, some with fire and blood, others with antlers and wine.

My father, never one for subtlety, had removed the Targaryen dragons' skulls and replaced them with his own hunting trophies. Fanged beasts and antlered stags lined the walls now, as if he thought a room full of dead animals would somehow seem more regal than a room full of dead dragons.

I remember standing there one evening, staring up at the gaping maw of a wolf pelt, its glass eyes locked on me like it still wanted to bite, when Lord Baelish, who had yet to be appointed as Master of Coin, strolled past and chuckled softly.

[PETYR BAELISH, LITTLEFINGER // ELOQUENCE // LV: 4]

"Your father's beasts look fierce enough." He said, with the sort of smile people wore when they were only half-impressed. "But I'd wager they didn't breathe fire."

His voice was light, almost playful, the tone of a man who knew his place in the world was too small for anyone to bother with.

Lord Petyr Baelish, the minor lord of a minor house from the Fingers, with lands so poor they barely warranted a spot on the map. By all accounts, he was unimportant, a clever man, perhaps, but with no banners to his name, no soldiers at his back.

That was how he wanted to be seen.

I glanced at him, taking in the mockingbird pin at his collar, the plain but well-tailored doublet, and the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips. To anyone else, it was the smirk of a man who had risen as high as his lot in life would ever allow. To me, it was something else entirely.

"True." I said, keeping my voice as casual as his. "But then, a dragon never had to worry about getting caught in a hunter's snare."

Baelish's smile didn't falter, if anything, it grew a shade more amused.

"Clever." His gaze drifted back to the wolf pelt. "But snares come in many forms, don't they? Some more subtle than others."

There it was, the first tug on the line. A harmless comment to most, but a test for me. He wanted to see how deep the dragon's fire burned, or if there was even a spark at all.

I tilted my head, letting a thoughtful pause stretch just long enough to feel intentional. Not too quick, not too slow. Just enough to let him wonder.

"Even subtle snares leave a mark in the end." I replied lightly, as though we were discussing the weather. "The trick is making sure no one notices until it's too late."

A flicker of something, surprise, perhaps, crossed his grey-green eyes, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Like a man finding a stone where he expected soft earth.

Interesting.

Baelish studied me for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth twitching as if fighting back a true smile, not the one he wore like armor, but something colder. Calculating.

And then, just like that, the mask slipped back into place.

"You'd make a fine hunter, Your Grace." He said smoothly, offering a slight bow. "If ever you tire of thrones, there's always the thrill of the chase."

His words were courteous, but there was something else beneath them, a subtle reminder that the chase wasn't always for beasts.

"If ever." I agreed softly.

Baelish held my gaze for a moment longer, the test still unfinished, before bowing down and turning away, moving through the hall like a shadow. Just another minor lord, forgotten the moment the next nobleman entered the room.

I stood there for a while longer, staring at the wolf's glass eyes.

A fine hunter indeed.

In any case, a constant through all the reigns, however, was the order of the Kingsguard.

Seven knights, sworn to defend the king, noble in name, if not always in deed. Their base, the White Sword Tower, clung to the outer wall of the Red Keep, overlooking the sea.

It was a modest tower by royal standards, more practical than grand, but for those sworn to it, it was an armory, barracks, and spiritual home.

When I was younger and still mastering the art of being stealthy, snuck in once. 

Well, "snuck" might be generous. Ser Barristan caught me the moment I set foot inside the tower's entrance. I thought I was clever, slipping through a side door, but the old knight was already waiting, arms crossed, expression stern.

"If you wanted to see the White Book." He said. "You only had to ask."

It wasn't a scolding. If anything, there was a flicker of amusement beneath that stony face of his.

The book itself was massive, two feet wide, a foot and a half tall, and a thousand pages thick. A history of loyalty… and, if you read between the lines, a fair bit of treachery too.

Some pages were so faded the ink seemed to shy away from the light, while others, more recent ones, looked a little too pristine, as if someone wanted to make sure certain "heroic" deeds remained bold and unmissable.

From those lofty ideals, my gaze often wandered to a far more grounded reality: the Tower of the Hand.

Imposing, dark, and ever-busy, it loomed over the castle like a second throne, the place where real power often sat, regardless of who wore the crown.

The current Hand, Jon Arryn, resided there with his Tully wife and his daughter from a previous marriage. I rarely saw the man himself, always behind closed doors, bent over letters and maps, but his wife, Lady Lysa, was a different story. She had a habit of watching the feasts, offering brittle smiles that never quite reached her eyes.

But that wasn't all the tower held.

Word was finally spreading around the castle that Princess Rhaenys, the only living child of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, was kept there. The Crown's ward… or its hostage, depending on how charitably you viewed it.

Would you look at that?

An actual princess locked away in the highest room of the highest tower, waiting to be rescued by her knight in shining armor.

It would be romantic… if it weren't so unsettling.

Because from what I heard, the "damsel in distress" might also be the Dragon.

A girl with the blood of the last dragon prince flowing through her veins, and the kind of claim to the throne that made men sharpen their swords in dark rooms.

I'd spent the nights leading up to my visit sneaking through the Red Keep, mapping the castle's layout in the quiet hours. More out of boredom than necessity, really, though knowing a few hidden passages seemed like a wise investment.

The Tower of the Hand, I noticed, sat at the heart of a web of tunnels and hidden passageways, a focal point in the castle's vast and secretive underbelly.

One night, while trailing the outline of a stone wall in a deserted corridor, I found a loose brick, a concealed handle for a hidden door. It didn't lead anywhere grand, just a cramped tunnel reeking of stale air, but it confirmed that the castle had more rats than just the ones in the kitchens.

I wonder how often the Spider scurried through those tunnels, Varys probably knew most twist and turns almost as well as the masons who built them.

But let's change subjects, shall we?

I was also getting familiar with the dungeons, not the one that got me stuck in a hardcore survival game, but the four levels of cold, damp cells buried beneath the castle.

Found the entrance by accident one particular cold night of winter, slipping past a sleeping guard who reeked of sour wine.

The top level was almost… mundane. Cells for common criminals, thieves, drunks, the occasional poacher. I even spotted one poor fool passed out in a cell, snoring louder than the guard upstairs.

The second level was a step darker, reserved for highborn prisoners. The bars were thicker, the chains newer. A silent reminder that even nobles weren't untouchable.

Then came the Black Cells, the third level.

I didn't stay long. No light. No sound, except for the distant drip of water and the rustle of something moving in the dark, a rat, I hoped.

No buckets for waste. No straw for bedding. Just stone, silence, and the slow gnawing of fear. That was where the worst of the worst, or the politically inconvenient, were left to rot.

And finally, the fourth level.

Not a prison so much as a place of interrogation, where chains and racks spoke louder than words, and pain was often the only question asked.

I didn't go in. The smell of old blood was enough to convince me I didn't need a closer look without having a damn good reason.

Charming place, really, if compared to the deepest sections of the Instant Dungeon.

But enough about this scarlet fortress.

Because King's Landing, the city sprawling beyond these blood-colored walls, was something else entirely.

————————————————————————

The next day, I finally met with Uncle Jaime and the two soldiers assigned to guard me, along with my childhood friend, Alysse Arryn.

"Took you long enough." Alysse said from inside the carriage, her smile gentle but teasing.

"The lady speaks true, my prince." Jaime leaned lazily against his horse, his signature smirk in place. "You've kept us waiting in the cold. How unkind."

"My apologies." I offered smoothly. "I lost track of time preparing a few snacks for our trip."

It wasn't the full truth, but it was believable enough, and I did, in fact, have two medium-sized bags filled with fresh fruits, white bread, and other provisions. A simple lie, wrapped in just enough reality to pass undetected.

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCESSFUL!]

I handed one of the bags to the soldiers, catching the way their expressions softened, no longer stiff and formal, but edged with quiet appreciation.

A faint game window hovered just above each of their heads.

[OLLIVER, BARATHEON SOLDIER // CAVALIER // LV: 5]

[OTTO, ARRYN SOLDIER // CAVALIER // LV: 5]

[JAIME LANNISTER, KINGSLAYER // CHAMPION // LV: 12]

They were capable men, certainly, but not remarkable. Amongst the regular guards and soldiers, I hadn't seen a single level above 5. 

It confirmed something I had begun to suspect. Most people were barely a step above the defenseless like my mother. Level 2 meant you had some training, Level 5, like these two, signaled experience. But they were a far cry from true elites, the likes of Jaime, Robert, or the man who still held the highest level I had seen so far: Ser Barristan Selmy as Level 16.

"Shall we?" I asked, slipping into the carriage beside Alysse.

"Of course." Jaime replied, signaling the soldiers to stir the horses. He would ride alongside us, mounted and watchful.

As we approached King's Landing, the city's sheer scale loomed ahead. Whether by road or sea, the first sight of the capital was always the same, a sprawling, chaotic beast of stone and smoke.

"I can't believe we're finally here." Alysse said softly, gazing through the window with wide eyes. "All this time, I've only seen it from afar. It's… so much bigger than I imagined."

"It is." I agreed, indulging her sense of awe. "While Essos may boast larger cities, nothing in Westeros rivals King's Landing. And it grows larger every year."

She nodded. "You've told me that before…how the smallfolk have spread beyond the city walls, building their huts and trading posts along the docks and at the city gates."

"Correct." I said, though I wrinkled my nose in mock disgust, despite having smelled far worse during my time at the Instant Dungeon. "Though I wasn't entirely prepared for the smell."

Alysse laughed, scrunching her own nose in exaggerated fashion. "Gods, can anyone actually get used to this?"

'I've got the Poisoned condition simply by breathing this air.' I thought half-jokingly.

"The stench carries for miles…" I said lightly, "…driven inland by the sea breeze. It's worse down here, but the Red Keep sits above it all. The castle benefits from both height and distance."

"Thank the gods for that." She muttered without losing her gentle composure.

I allowed myself a faint smile. "The sewers and drainage systems installed by King Jaehaerys two centuries ago lessened the risk of disease… but they did little for the city's, let's say, fragrance."

"The Conciliator King, right?" Alysse asked, her voice brightening at the familiar name.

I inclined my head, pleased. "Yes. Without him, it would be far worse."

She beamed at the small bit of praise, and I found myself watching her for a moment longer than intended, though the soft sound of Jaime chuckling from outside the carriage quickly pulled me back.

The city unfolded around us, its skyline dominated by the three hills: Aegon's Hill, Visenya's Hill, and Rhaenys' Hill. Atop them stood the Red Keep, the Great Sept of Baelor, our first destination, and the Dragonpit, a ruined monument to the Targaryens' lost glory.

Not a place I could explore freely, not with Alysse at my side and a small retinue trailing behind. The last thing I needed was loose tongues spreading whispers to the wrong ears, particularly those of the Spider.

Turning my attention back to Alysse, I saw an opportunity to make good use of the time.

"Tell me…" I said, keeping my tone light, "…do you remember the names of the Seven Gates of King's Landing? Aegon the Conqueror named them after the Faith he adopted after his invasion."

Alysse's brows knitted for a moment before her gaze flicked to the gates in the distance and began naming them with finger pointing. "Let's see… Iron Gate… Dragon Gate… Old Gate… the Gate of the Gods… River Gate, Lion Gate, and… the King's Gate?"

"Almost…" I corrected gently, pointing my finger as well. "The Dragon Gate leads north to the Kingsroad. The Iron Gate opens to the Rosby Road."

Her face fell. "I forgot… Sorry."

I reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Don't be. The only true mistake is fearing to make one. Failures can turn you into something better than you were before, but only if you're willing to learn from them."

Her light blue eyes met mine, startled at first, then resolute. "I understand… Yes!"

I heard Jaime's quiet laughter again, a soft, knowing chuckle that seemed to say: How charming.

The streets grew narrower as we drove through the half-empty roads, a thin layer of snow coating the cobblestones. Soon, Visenya's Hill loomed ahead, its summit crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor.

But I didn't signal for the carriage to ascend just yet.

At the foot of the hill, my gaze drifted to an unfamiliar structure, the Alchemists' Guild, a stark contrast to the white marble of the Sept. The guild's black stone seemed to drink in the light, a dark, twisted warren that sprawled along the Street of the Sisters.

The soldiers shifted uneasily when I ordered the carriage to halt. The guild's reputation had that effect on most men.

Even so, I didn't issue a command, not yet. Instead, I spoke calmly, weaving just enough reasoning into my words to soften their hesitation. A touch of my Persuasion skill.

Jaime, though, Jaime was harder to convince. He didn't like the idea of me lingering near the alchemists, and his easy smirk thinned into something cooler.

In the end, though, I swayed him through a bit of Deception. Not with sheer lies, but with a bit of manipulation, the sort of wry, self-deprecating wit Tyrion might have used.

"Come now, Uncle." I had said lightly. "Surely the King's Slayer doesn't fear a few old men playing with wildfire?"

[DECEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

Jaime's jaw tightened… but then, reluctantly, his smirk returned. "Just don't go mixing anything yourself, Your Grace. I'd hate to explain to your father why his heir came back in pieces. And I'm sure you don't wish to spook your lady friend by being inside their grim cave for long."

Trying to turn the game back at me, I see. I just pretended to not have a clue of what he was talking about in regards to Alysse.

With the matter settled, and the guards still casting nervous glances at the dark stone of the guildhall, I stepped from the carriage.

It was time to see the alchemists.

————————————————————————

The Guildhall of the Alchemists was a grim and brooding structure, its black stone seeming to drink in the pale winter light. The very air inside felt thick, not just with the faint, acrid scent of wildfire, but with an ancient, uneasy stillness. 

The torches lining the corridors burned low, their flames kept deliberately small. Fire, after all, was both their craft and their greatest enemy.

As we stepped inside, leaving the soldiers to guard the carriage, I leaned slightly toward Alysse, keeping my voice low. "They may seem like little more than a curiosity now, but there was a time when the Alchemists' Guild held more power than even the Maesters of Oldtown."

Her wide-eyed glance told me exactly what I expected, disbelief. Understandable, considering the alchemists' current reputation, but it was the truth.

"Strange, isn't it?" I continued softly. "There's no record of them before King's Landing was built. Did they come with the Conqueror? Their magic is said to have roots in old Valyria… but no one really knows."

Alysse shivered, though whether from the creeping cold of winter or the weight of the Guild's dark history, I couldn't tell.

Eventually, we were greeted by the current head of the Alchemists' Guild, Pyromancer Hallyne. He was an aging man with a thin beard and a too-eager smile, bowing deeply as we approached.

[HALLYNE, THE PYROMANCER // ALCHEMIST // LV: 4]

"Welcome, welcome, my prince." Hallyne said, his voice smooth with practiced deference. "The Alchemists' Guild is entirely at your disposal."

I didn't miss the slight glimmer of hope in his eyes. Perhaps he thought he could secure my patronage, a royal benefactor, like the Targaryen princes of old.

Perhaps I would. But not publicly, of course.

After all, I was more than familiar with the theory of the Maesters' conspiracy against magic. While I didn't believe Pycelle would betray me unless he thought I endangered the Lannister family, there was always Varys, his web of spies had limits, but they were broader than I liked.

And then there was Jaime. My uncle's loathing for the alchemists was palpable. Winning his trust had taken years, I had no intention of unraveling it by aligning myself too closely with the pyromancers.

Still, there was nothing stopping me from exploring the Guild's knowledge in secret. If they could help me expand my understanding of magic, or better yet, unlock a new class, it was a risk worth taking.

After all, neither the books from my past life nor the fragmented lore of this world ever confirmed if the alchemists were genuine practitioners of magic or simply madmen playing with dangerous alchemy.

I intended to find out.

The Guildhall itself was a fortress of caution. 

Fire was restricted, naturally, but the chambers where wildfire was prepared went further, lined with enchantments, or so the alchemists claimed. 

The ceilings held trapdoors brimming with sand, rigged to release at the first spark, ready to smother any accidental blaze.

A necessary precaution, considering a single batch of uncontrolled jar of wildfire could level more than just the Guildhall, it could take a good chunk of Visenya's Hill with it.

I found some comfort in that. At least it meant no one could simply replicate Cersei's plan from the show.

But there was another danger, the jars of wildfire still hidden around the city by the Mad King's order.

Jaime, apparently, hadn't bothered to track them all down after killing the pyromancer who served Aerys.

The realization hit him like a blade.

His face went pale as Hallyne spoke of the Guild's "past contributions" to the Targaryen cause, his words laced with pride. 

Half a decade had passed since Jaime broke his Kingsguard vows, yet the danger still lingered, the very thing he killed his king to prevent might yet come to pass.

Jaime's jaw tightened. "We need to speak. Alone." His tone wasn't a request.

Hallyne's smugness faded instantly, and he led Jaime away to a private chamber.

I took the opportunity to study the jars of wildfire on display, thick green liquid sealed in sturdy clay containers, just like the ones I found near the entrance of the Instant Dungeon.

When I approached one, a faint game window flickered into view.

[ARCANA CHECK SUCCEED!]

[ALCHEMIST'S FIRE]

Interesting. The game recognized it, though the name was slightly off. A hint, perhaps, that there was more to wildfire than met the eye.

I would return to the Guild again, not for Jaime's sake, but for mine. With the Long Night creeping ever closer, wildfire could prove a powerful weapon against the coming army of the dead.

By the time Jaime returned, his face a shade grimmer and Hallyne looking thoroughly flustered, I decided we had seen enough of the Guildhall for the day.

As we left, I noted how Alysse trailed just a little closer to me than before. Not out of fear, no, the look in her eyes was something else entirely. Fascination.

She was clever enough to keep her interest subtle, especially with Jaime's disdain practically radiating off him, but I could tell.

She wasn't frightened by the alchemists' grim reputation.

She was intrigued.

I smiled to myself as we climbed back into the carriage. There was more to Alysse Arryn than the sweet girl who used to chase me through the halls of the Red Keep.

And if I was right… she might become more than just a lady that wields political influence.

For now, though, we had more of the city to explore.

————————————————————————

HALLYNE'S POV

Dragons conquered the Seven Kingdoms.

But to rule them, the Targaryens required a less temperamental flame.

When the great King Maegor beheld the might of the Alchemists' Guild, he graced us with his royal patronage.

In those golden days, we transmuted metals, crafted elixirs, and worked wonders beyond the grasp of common minds, but it was the Substance that most captivated His Grace.

The unlearned call it "wildfire," a crude name for something so refined.

To the uninitiated, the Substance seems untamable. It burns through water and steel alike, devouring all it touches. But to us, to those who have studied the ancient arts and committed the secrets of Valyrian alchemy to heart, it is a loyal servant.

In the stone cells beneath the Guildhall, our acolytes labor in silence, preparing the Substance with utmost care and delicate magic. Once formed, the jars are entrusted to apprentices, who carry them to secured vaults under the watchful eyes of the Wisdoms, those of us who have mastered the mysteries of our craft.

Should an acolyte falter in their duty, should a single spark betray their incompetence, the ceilings above are rigged to collapse, unleashing torrents of sand to suffocate the flames before they consume more than intended. For once lit, the Substance yields only to smothering or starvation.

Such precautions are necessary. Power demands respect.

For many years, we served House Targaryen with unflinching loyalty. But in time, as all great orders must, we found ourselves beset by enemies.

The Order of Maesters, with their chains of lead and minds of rust, dismissed all learning that did not crawl from the shadow of Oldtown's library. They whispered against us, branding our arts as sorcery, our Substance as madness.

Charlatans, too, emerged in our name, peddling false green flames and crude imitations, further blackening our reputation.

But the final blow came with Prince Aerion Targaryen.

A fool drunk on wine and dragon dreams, he dared to drink the Substance, believing it would transmute his flesh into that of a dragon. Instead, he became little more than ash.

It was a tragedy, not for the prince, but for us.

With his death, the Guild lost its royal favor. Kings no longer sought our counsel; lords no longer funded our work.

Then came King Aerys, Second of his name, a true Targaryen, a dragon reborn.

I was but an acolyte when he restored the Guild to its former glory. He understood what lesser minds could not: that fire is the purest form of power.

In time, he named Wisdom Rossart as Hand of the King. A great honor, the highest ever bestowed upon our order. Together, they wielded the Substance as a weapon fit for a dragonlord, punishing traitors and burning his enemies to cinders.

During the War of the Usurper, I heard whispers, dangerous whispers, that His Grace commanded our most skilled Wisdoms to prepare an ultimate defense against his foes.

Now, through the Kingslayer's grim revelations, I have learned the full extent of the plan, of the caches of wildfire hidden throughout the capital, left unguarded after the Mad King's fall.

A dangerous scheme, perhaps… but was it not born of the same fire that made the Targaryens kings?

Tragedy struck again during the Sack of King's Landing. Many of our greatest Wisdoms vanished, lost to the ignorance of rioters and the unchecked greed of looters.

Perhaps some were murdered. Perhaps others fled into the shadows.

The world, as ever, sought to snuff out our flame.

But we endure.

Forgotten by most, we continue our work in the dark, perfecting the ancient arts. Ours is the fire that never dies, the spark that will one day ignite anew.

We are the masters of the Substance.

We are the keepers of the flame.

And all we require… is the right spark.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

After finally riding up Visenya's Hill… we saw it.

The Great Sept of Baelor.

"It's even more beautiful up close." Alysse remarked, her voice soft with awe, though she couldn't resist slipping into her nerdy mode. "The Great Sept was the brainchild of Baelor the Blessed, the ninth Targaryen king, built over a hundred and thirty years ago. His statue stands proudly in front of the Sept, gazing serenely over the marble plaza and gardens."

I gave a nod of approval, the kind you offer when someone says something obvious but expects a reaction anyway.

Truthfully, if Pycelle's droning lessons on religion were to be trusted, this wasn't the first sept built here. The High Septon in Oldtown had ordered one long before Baelor, back when Aegon the Conqueror decided to plant his new capital by the Blackwater. 

That one didn't last long, though, not with Maegor the Cruel torching it to the ground during his war with the Faith Militant.

So generations later, Baelor, in all his pious glory, saw fit to replace it with this.

And just like that, the Faith of the Seven shifted its heart from Oldtown to King's Landing. From the Starry Sept to the political center of Westeros. 

Convenient. Faith had a way of following power like a dog chasing a bone.

The Sept itself loomed before us, an imposing dome of white marble crowned by seven crystal towers, each blinking and shimmering under the summer sun.

The soldiers escorting our carriage crossed themselves in silent reverence, or superstition, hard to tell which. Though I caught Jaime's eye as he watched them, his lip curling ever so slightly. 

Pious displays didn't seem to impress my uncle. Not that I could blame him.

Each of the seven towers housed a great bell, and their chimes weren't just for show. One bell meant a summoning, a call for the smallfolk to gather for some grand announcement. 

All seven ringing at once? That was for the truly important moments, royal weddings, royal funerals, or royal beheadings. Sometimes, the clamor lasted for a full day.

I remembered a few restless nights back when I still needed sleep to lower my Exhaustion levels, thanks to those damned bells.

The entrance into the Sept was lined with doors, each one reserved for a particular figure of faith. Septons used the Father's door, Septas the Mother's, and so on, a tidy bit of symbolism, I supposed.

Ironically, all those doors led to the same place: The Hall of Lamps.

And it lived up to the name. One step inside, and the ceiling blazed with globes of colored glass, casting intricate patterns of light that danced across the walls like rainbow ghosts. 

It was admittedly beautiful, though I couldn't help but wonder how much those lamps cost, and how many of the smallfolk starving outside the Sept's marble walls might've eaten for the price of just one.

Beyond the hall, the main Sept unfolded, vast and echoing, with seven marble aisles and seven crossing transepts, each leading to an altar dedicated to one of the Seven Who Are One.

I decided to test Alysse's knowledge, if only to see if she would trip over her own eagerness to impress me.

"The Father?" I asked, staring at the statue like Zeus from the old Greek tales.

"Judgment." She replied promptly. "A figure of divine authority."

I arched an eyebrow, thinking of Hera, though with less jealousy and more forgiveness. "And the Mother?"

"Mercy and protection."

"The Warrior?" Recalling Ares, but nobler as the idillic image of a true Knight.

"Strength and courage." She was doing well, expectedly well.

"The Smith?" Now my thoughts drifted towards Hephaestus.

"Creation and labor."

I smiled faintly, now thinking of this world's echo of Aphrodite. "The Maiden?"

"Innocence and fertility."

"The Crone?" Now thinking about a fusion of the Greek Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.

"Wisdom."

"And the Stranger?" I asked, thinking about the God that most people avoided saying its name, almost like people did with Voldemort's name in the Wizarding World.

Alysse hesitated for half a beat longer than the others. "Death…" She said softly. "An outcast, feared and unnamed."

Now that was more like it.

The Stranger always intrigued me, this Grim Reaper figure who embodied death itself, unspoken and avoided like a shadow at the edge of a campfire. The Many-Faced God demanded service, but the Stranger simply existed. I imagined the Stranger as more of a quiet, inevitable force, less "god of assassins," more "the thing you can't outrun".

And as the Dark Knight once said, fear is a tool.

But I digress…

The stained glass windows cast the interior in a kaleidoscope of colors, and the massive dome overhead gleamed with gold and crystal. For a world seemingly stuck in the Middle Ages, they had managed to build something more breathtaking than many modern structures back home.

Faith, for all its mysticism, knew how to spend its money.

People prayed according to their needs: sailors lit candles for the Smith before heading to sea, wanderers sought the Crone's wisdom, and marriages were performed between the altars of the Mother and the Father, by grand unions meant to be blessed by gods but dictated by politics.

The Great Sept had seen its share of famous weddings. Robert and Cersei. Rhaegar and Elia. Even Tywin Lannister, when he was Hand, married Joanna here.

All the public faces of the Faith, spotless and righteous, or so they'd have you believe.

But I knew better.

Beneath the Sept lay its vaults, where the true business of religion unfolded away from prying eyes.

Cells for penance. Private chambers for royal burials. And, though no one spoke of it, hoards of wealth in the form of ornaments, vestments, and jewelry gathered over centuries.

Not coin, of course, that would be too crass, but gold-threaded robes, crystal chalices, and bejeweled relics. Things that "didn't see the light of day."

A waste, really. If it were up to me, those treasures would be put to better use than collecting dust beneath a marble floor.

The Faith of the Seven held the Seven Kingdoms together, more or less, with a veneer of tolerance for the North's Old Gods, the Rhoynar's river deities, and even the Ironborn's Drowned God.

A lesser man might view these other faiths as threats, reasons to declare holy war against heretics and wipe out anything that didn't bow to the Seven.

But that would be foolish.

Granted, I wasn't looking to build some utopia where every religion held hands and sang songs. No, I wanted an empire with the Faith as its dominant pillar, but one that absorbed strength from the others, like Rome did with the Greeks.

Let the North have its Weirwoods, the Rhoynar their Mother Rhoyne, and the Ironborn their salt-soaked rites. None of it threatened the Faith of the Seven, not if I played it right.

Religion could be a weapon, but it could also be a shield.

And I intended to wield both.

————————————————————————

SEPTON LUCAN'S POV

The Father reached his hand into the heavens and pulled down seven stars. And one by one, he set them on the brow of Hugor of the Hill to make a glowing crown.

The Maiden brought him forth a girl as supple as willow, with eyes like deep pools, and Hugor declared that he would have her for his bride.

So the Mother made her fertile, and the Crone foretold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons.

The Warrior gave strength to their arms, whilst the Smith wrought for each a suit of iron plates.

But the gods no longer walk the earth among us, and you need only open your eyes to see the ruin we have made of their creation since.

I was not always a man of silk robes and whispered prayers within the Great Sept of Baelor. I was born in a small village along the banks of the Blueburn, the son of a cobbler who earned his bread mending the boots of men wealthier than himself. My mother, pious and gentle, taught me the names of the Seven before I ever learned my letters. We had no sept, only a rough-hewn altar beneath an ancient oak, its roots twisted like an old man's hands.

The first time I held the Seven-Pointed Star, it was a gift from a wandering septon who came once a year to name our children, bless our crops, and remind us that the gods had not forgotten even the smallest of their flock. It was a simple thing, bound in cracked leather, the ink faded and the pages worn soft from years of use, but I thought it the holiest object I had ever seen.

When I was still a boy, I left my father's humble workshop and walked to Oldtown with nothing but that tattered book and a pouch of stale bread. I believed I was answering a call, the gods' call, and in time, I rose to serve within the Great Sept itself.

At first, I thought I had found paradise. The marble halls, the crystal crown, the golden statues of the Seven, it all seemed so grand, so pure. The heart of the Faith. But stone and gold do not make a place holy. Holiness is found in the hearts of men, and here, those hearts beat for power and coin as much as any king's court.

I saw the High Septon feast on honeyed lamb and Arbor gold while beggars gathered at the gates, pleading for crumbs. I heard his laughter echo through the sept, louder than the prayers he was meant to lead. His crown of crystal and spun gold was heavier than the words of the Seven-Pointed Star he claimed to wield. The other septons spoke in soft, reverent tones when in his presence, but behind closed doors, they traded gossip like merchants haggling over spices in a market square.

And still, I told myself it was not the Faith that was corrupt, only the men who wielded its power.

We still have the Seven-Pointed Star, I thought. The words are unchanging, even when men's hearts falter.

The Andals once crossed the narrow sea with the Star clutched to their breasts, carving its shape into their flesh so the gods would know them. It was not swords that conquered Westeros, but the words of the Seven, carried by wandering septons and devout septas. The First Men had only runes scratched on rocks, only faces carved into trees, but those trees and stones could not withstand the truth written in the pages of the Star.

Kingdoms rose and fell, yet the Faith endured, bound by the will of the Seven.

Or so I once believed.

Now, I wonder if the gods' voices speak louder on the dirt roads between forgotten villages than they do beneath the crystal dome of the Great Sept.

Perhaps the Stranger walks more freely in the hovels of the hungry than in these halls of marble and gold.

I was pondering these very thoughts when I first saw him, the crown prince.

He was but a boy, younger than I expected, yet there was a stillness to him, an unnatural composure that seemed to weigh heavier than his years. 

The oathbreaker knight, Jaime Lannister, flanked his side in polished gold, while the falcon young maid, Alysse Arryn, walked beside him, a silent shadow, but no less sharp for her quiet. Two soldiers followed as well, one bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the other the falcon of Arryn.

I might have thought him a young lordling playing at command if not for his eyes. They were the eyes of a man who had seen something beyond his own station, not yet fully grown but already peering past the veil of courtly games and gilded lies. He did not speak like a boy who believed himself destined to rule by birthright alone. His words, though soft-spoken, carried the weight of thought and purpose, and perhaps something more dangerous: understanding.

The High Septon did not look twice at him, nor did the others of the Faith. A prince was merely another pawn to court or flatter, a future king to manipulate for favor and gold.

But I saw something different.

He asked me a question, not about the splendor of the sept, nor the wealth of the Faith, but about the words of the Seven-Pointed Star. A passage about the Crone's wisdom and the path of righteousness, a verse so often overlooked by men who prefer to speak of the Warrior's strength or the Father's justice.

I answered him, but his question lingers still. Not because it was clever, but because it was sincere.

In that brief moment, I realized there are two kinds of men: those who seek power and those who seek truth.

I wonder which path the crown prince will walk, and whether the gods will guide his steps… or test his resolve.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

It all boils down to Power. With capital "P".

That fickle, elusive thing. It didn't reside in crowns or swords, it existed where men believed it did. A trick. A shadow on the wall.

And right now, that shadow was cast by the Iron Throne, though it flickered dangerously after the fall of the Targaryen dynasty.

Consolidating that power was essential. The realm needed to be reminded, or perhaps reconditioned, to view the Iron Throne as the unyielding heart of Westeros, not just a fancy chair melted from Balerion's fiery tantrum.

To achieve that, I was considering something… ambitious. A sort of reprise of the Conquest, not a reckless, all-at-once campaign like Aegon's, but a gradual, strategic tightening of the crown's grip over the Seven Kingdoms.

Piece by piece. Kingdom by kingdom.

The first opportunity would come with the Greyjoy Rebellion, assuming history didn't veer too far off course. It should still erupt in a couple of years, giving me the perfect excuse to stomp the Ironborn into submission.

But conquest without consolidation was just chaos delayed. I needed an ally among the Ironborn, someone with enough standing to matter but enough pragmatism to bend the knee.

The Goodbrothers of Hammerhorn.

They were one of the most powerful houses on Great Wyk, the largest of the Iron Islands. Unlike most of their kin, their wealth didn't rely solely on raiding the Sunset Sea or pillaging coastal villages. Their fortune came from the mines. Iron, solid, dependable wealth, not salt-stained loot.

A house like that might be more inclined to favor the Golden Price over the Iron one.

And there was a certain… convenience to their lineage as well. Most of the Great Houses of the Iron Islands boasted descent from the Grey King, an almost mythical figure said to have taken a mermaid to wife and slain a sea dragon, among other drunken sailor tales.

The Goodbrothers, however, claimed descent from the Grey King's eldest brother. A subtle but useful distinction.

Ironborn respected strength more than blood, sure, they were essentially Westeros' version of the Dothraki, only with more saltwater and fewer horses. But blood still mattered when it came to legitimacy. And if I played my cards right, I could use the Goodbrothers as a wedge against the Greyjoys.

Divide. Subdue. Absorb.

If all went to plan, the Iron Islands wouldn't just be leashed, they'd be brought under the watchful eye of the Westerlands, with their restless kingdom merged into mine.

The Kingdom of Gold and Iron. It had a nice ring to it.

Of course, that was assuming I could break the Ironborn without sinking the Golden Fleet in the process. Small details.

Then there was the North.

Ah, the North, vast, cold, and entirely too independent for my liking.

It pained me to admit it, but the North had to revolt. It was necessary, just as it had been in the books.

Say what you want about Joffrey, call him cruel, insane, or a spoiled brat playing at kingship, but even he wasn't wrong about one thing: the crown gave too much power to the North.

Given their size, the amount of loyalty they had to their own over the Iron Throne, it was a powder keg waiting to explode.

And explode it did, in both versions of the story. The war for independence, the King in the North, and Sansa Stark's later in the TV Show demand for the North's freedom… it all set a dangerous precedent.

Because once the North broke away, it was only a matter of time before the other kingdoms thought: Why not us?

I wasn't about to let the Seven Kingdoms splinter like a rotten shield.

The solution? Keep the North too fractured to ever stand as one.

And the key to that? The Boltons.

I didn't trust Roose Bolton, not by a long shot, but he was a valuable tool. The man was as cold and calculating as a snake in winter, but that just made him predictable.

The real problem was his bastard, Ramsay.

The feral, unhinged piece of work who would eventually drag the Bolton name through the mud and ensure their ruin.

That couldn't be allowed.

So I was considering a different path, keeping Roose's trueborn son, Domeric, alive. A promising lad, from what little I remembered.

If I could nurture his loyalty, not to his father or the North, but to the crown, he could be a useful counterweight against both his own house and the Starks.

Divide and conquer, again.

And finally, there was Dorne.

The outlier. The one kingdom even the dragons couldn't fully break.

The realm tolerated their defiance because they had married into the Targaryens, turning enemies into in-laws.

But I had no such ties, and no desire to let Dorne simmer in its own stubborn independence.

Their defiance was a crack in the foundation, just like the North's rebellion.

If I wanted to forge an unyielding realm, I needed Dorne under my heel, not simply through marriage, but through replacement.

And I had the perfect candidates for that: The Yronwoods.

Currently, the Yronwoods and the Martells weren't exactly on good terms. That little feud was thanks to Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, who killed Lord Yronwood in a duel for first blood, all because Oberyn had the audacity to sleep with challenging Lord's wife.

Ah, Dornish rashness at its finest.

But more importantly, the Yronwoods still clung to their Andal roots more than the Rhoynish culture that colored the rest of Dorne. That made them outsiders, different, within their own kingdom.

And different meant useful.

By propping up the Yronwoods against the Martells, I could fracture Dorne's infamous unity, which has made served them well against the Targaryen, giving me the opening I needed to bring them fully under the crown's authority.

No more half-measures. No more tolerating their independence out of convenience.

Once the North was defanged, the Iron Islands leashed, and Dorne broken, I could finally do what no Targaryen had managed, even when they had dragons to enforce their will.

Unify the Seven Kingdoms in both name and reality.

One throne. One crown. One realm.

And no shadows on the wall.

Just me, the man casting them.

————————————————————————

Now, having had my fill of the Great Sept's splendor, I led my small retinue back into the tangled streets of the city.

The air was thick with the usual stench, a blend of sweat, horse dung, and the faint, salty bite of the Blackwater Rush. A scent unique to King's Landing, a city that somehow reeked of both power and rot in equal measure.

My thoughts drifted back to the High Sparrow, mulling over the absurd theories about his origins, but they were soon interrupted by the familiar sight of the city's defenses.

The gates were well-fortified, thick portcullises, solid oak doors, and a permanent watch. But it was the walls that drew my eye. Lined along the main thoroughfares and standing atop the ramparts, the Gold Cloaks kept their ever-watchful patrol.

The name was no exaggeration. Their heavy wool cloaks, dyed a rich golden hue, made them impossible to miss, though the symbolism felt less like a mark of authority and more like a gilded coat of paint slapped onto rusted iron.

Jaime must have caught my glance because he let out a dry chuckle beside me. "Admiring the city's finest, are we?" His voice dripped with that familiar mix of boredom and disdain. "Don't stare too long, Your Grace, or you'll scare them. They startle easily."

I almost smiled. Almost.

More than once, I caught myself bracing, muscles tensing, magic thrumming just beneath my skin. A reflex born not of paranoia, but of memory.

The undead guards I had fought in that hellish Instant Dungeon had worn armor strikingly similar to these men. Nearly the same weapons, the same chainmail, the same clumsy postures. It was an effort not to strike first or slip into the shadows every time one of them so much as shifted their weight.

I reminded myself, again and again, that these were not the reanimated corpses I had cut down by the dozens.

But that didn't mean they were much better.

Jaime followed my gaze as we passed a pair of Gold Cloaks standing rigid by a gate, or trying to. One was picking at a scab on his chin, the other looked half-asleep.

"The Targaryen prince who founded them would weep if he saw what his precious City Watch had become." Jaime muttered, almost too low to hear. "Or maybe he'd laugh."

Unlike other cities in Westeros, where lords entrusted their sworn men to guard the walls and keep the peace, the Gold Cloaks answered directly to the crown. An independent force, bankrolled by the royal purse, sworn to protect the city, not any one lord's interests.

Lannisport and Oldtown had their own city watches, paid for by their ruling families, but the Gold Cloaks were supposedly above such petty allegiances.

Supposedly.

A quick glance at their Game windows told me everything I needed to know.

Level 3. Level 4. A rare Level 6.

The two soldiers flanking me, both Level 5, were clearly better trained than most of these so-called Capital Guards. They may have worn their gold cloaks with pride, but I doubted any of them would fare much better against the undead horrors I once faced.

Or against the smallfolk riots and Stannis' invading army, as both the books and the show had proven.

It was laughable, really, how the city's protectors seemed more suited to breaking up tavern brawls than repelling an actual threat.

There was an egalitarian shine to their ranks, or so the smallfolk liked to believe. After all, their Lord Commander, Janos Slynt, was the son of a butcher, not some highborn knight. Promotion within the Gold Cloaks was less about bloodlines and more about loyalty… or the weight of a bribe.

But let's not pretend for a moment that loyalty equated to competence.

These men were no longer the disciplined force that once answered to Daemon Targaryen, the first Rogue Prince. Those days, when the City Watch was a brutal, professionalized arm of royal authority, were long gone.

Now? The Gold Cloaks were a bloated, corrupt shadow of what they once were, a poorly kept secret among the city's nobles. Bribes were as much a part of their daily routine as patrolling the streets. If you had the coin, you could buy anything, a blind eye, a convenient "accident," or a knife in a rival's back.

And the worst part?

No one seemed particularly bothered by it.

Jaime sighed as a pair of Gold Cloaks shuffled past, their armor in desperate need of polish. "If the city ever burns." He said softly. "Don't expect these lot to douse the flames."

I didn't.

In any case… we moved on.

————————————————————————

Leaving the Red Keep far behind, we stepped into the beating heart of King's Landing, a city of both splendor and squalor, pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

For now, Alysse and I focused on the splendor.

The ways in which this city was noteworthy were almost too many to mention, the most populous in all of Westeros, with over half a million souls crammed within its towering walls.

It wasn't just the largest city, it was the center of everything.

The heart of politics, thanks to the Iron Throne and the governance of the Hand of the King, the one truly running the Seven Kingdoms while my father drank, whored, and hunted.

The heart of faith, with the High Septon and the Great Sept of Baelor, whose empty echoes still lingered in my mind from my recent visit.

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

I caught a low murmur from behind.

"Another day, another hundred beggars crowding the sept steps." Muttered the Baratheon named Olliver who accompanied me. "The gods won't fill their bellies, but they kneel anyway."

A subtle exhale from Otto, the Arryn man. "Better to kneel to the gods than to some lord with a sharp blade." His voice was quiet, but the edge was there. "At least the gods don't tax you."

I didn't turn, didn't acknowledge their words, but despite the distance and Alysse's gleeful remarks at our surroundings, I heard them. 

The Maesters may have their roots in Oldtown, but the Grand Maester, Pycelle, a man more loyal to the Lannisters than his own order, called this city home.

The Alchemists' Guild, though a shadow of its former self, still clung to their ancient headquarters here, desperate to maintain their status, however lowly it had become.

King's Landing was a magnet for talent, too. It was here that the finest artisans gathered, like Tobho Mott, the master blacksmith of Qohor. I'd have to arrange a meeting with him soon, both to learn more about his craft and, perhaps, to cross paths with my half-brother, Gendry, once he came of age.

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

"A foreigner blacksmith?" Otto muttered, just low enough that he must've thought that only Olliver could hear him. "Hmpf! Nothing beats the craftsmanship of Gulltown!"

Olliver replied, soft but pointed. "Doesn't your city make plenty of business with the free cities just across the Narrow sea?"

I didn't react at another one of their exchanges, though a small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, it amused me to hear them talk.

And, of course, there was the port, the largest in Westeros, bustling with trade from the Free Cities and beyond.

Stannis would know every inch of it.

He spent more time with maps and manifests than he did with people, his mind forever occupied with the hunt for Viserys and Daenerys, hoping to deliver the last Targaryens to my father and earn back his ancestral home.

Knowing Robert, who might still believe he is honoring his younger brother with the Targaryen ancestral castle, I wouldn't bet on it.

With Renly still too young to be of any use for me, I had no immediate plans to visit Storm's End. My focus, for now, lay with my Lannister uncles.

Whenever Ser Barristan was too busy guarding my father or training the other Kingsguard, Jaime would step in to oversee my swordwork.

The Kingslayer didn't have the same legendary reputation as Ser Barristan, but he was still one of the deadliest men in Westeros. There was a sharpness to his movements, a predator's grace, the fluidity of someone who didn't just know how to fight but enjoyed it.

And unlike Ser Barristan, Jaime wasn't afraid to teach me tricks that were less… honorable.

He seemed to take pride in my quick grasp of swordplay and had even promised to help me secure a teacher in the Braavosi fighting style, keeping it quiet so as not to raise any unwanted questions.

With any luck, Syrio Forel would accept the offer to tutor me, just as he would, in another timeline, train Arya.

And then there was Tyrion.

Though still at Casterly Rock, his letters spoke volumes, sharp, witty, and clever in ways few others were. His curiosity about me shone through each word, veiled beneath his usual humor.

He'd just turned sixteen, but instead of a grand tour of the Free Cities like his uncles, Tywin had punished him with the care of Casterly Rock's cisterns and drains, a cruel reminder of his status in his father's eyes.

Another punishment for the crime of existing.

Say what you will about Tywin Lannister, his hatred for his son, his cold, calculating cruelty, but he was still a force to be reckoned with.

And maybe that was why I found myself favoring the House of the Golden Lion more than I should, more than the Stag or even the Dragon.

The Lannisters had three of my favorite characters in all chronicles of Ice and Fire after all.

One of the best name day gifts I'd ever received was the Cyvasse board Tyrion had sent me, each piece masterfully carved from wood.

In return, I'd presented him with another copy of the card game I crafted that was inspired by the great figures of Westerosi history and sent it to him for his last name day.

Though I've yet to receive his thoughts on it, I was counting that his sharp mind would find its near limitless possibilities really captivating.

But back to the city.

King's Landing wasn't ancient like Storm's End. It didn't have Oldtown's centuries of learning or Highgarden's beauty.

But it didn't need them.

This city was the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, where the great roads converged, the King's Road from the North, the Rose Road from the Reach, and the Gold Road from the Westerlands.

Merchants, nobles, and commoners all passed through these streets.

A young city, founded just three centuries ago by Aegon the Conqueror, but already risen further than most dared to imagine.

It was important. Central. Unmissable.

And for someone like me, reborn with foreknowledge and an unyielding desire to shape my fate, it was the perfect place to begin.

Alysse tugged at my sleeve, her bright eyes filled with quiet excitement. "Do you think it'll snow again?" She asked a bit louder than necessary. "I want to build a snow knight."

I ruffled her hair gently. "We'll see."

[PERCEPTION CHECK SUCCEED!]

Olliver muttered outside the carriage, a faint chuckle in his voice. "Better a snow knight than the drunkards pissing in the streets."

Otto, quieter, but with a thin thread of amusement, replied. "At least the snow knights stand till morning."

They thought I didn't hear. I heard everything.

————————————————————————

And so the day continued until sunset, exploring the city I'd read so much about, my mind ever turning on every new detail that was never too important to be mentioned in the ASOIAF books.

The sight of the Red Keep's shadow always looming over the city as we passed the winding alleys, it was hard not to notice how it seemed less like a symbol of royal majesty and more like a constant reminder of who truly ruled over these streets. 

The flicker of pale winter sunlight caught on the golden dome of the Great Sept as it rose above the roofs, the light colder, thinner than it must have been in the long summers of old.

The chill in the air wasn't the bone-deep freeze of the North, I wager, but it was enough to turn breath to mist and make the smallfolk tug their cloaks tighter around themselves. 

I noticed the faint scent of roasting meat wafting from a small vendor stall, the smoke rising in plumes as an old man stoked the fire with practiced hands. The fire was more than just for cooking, it was a beacon for frozen fingers, and a few urchins lingered close by, pretending to eye the skewers but really just hoping for a bit of warmth. 

It was far from the intoxicating aroma of the kitchens at the Keep, but it was something else, earthy, humble, raw. Probably not the safest thing to eat, but then again, it wasn't like the nobles' feasts were free of the occasional "bad pigeon pie" either.

We passed by a row of women peddling woven baskets and dyed cloth, their high-pitched bargaining voices cutting through the din of the bustling market. Their rough hands, worn from labor, seemed to tell their own stories of survival and struggle, fingers stained with dye, nails chipped, skin calloused. 

I noticed how some of the cloth was more muted in tone than I expected, less vibrant reds and blues, more dull browns and greys. Winter was not kind to the dye pots, it seemed. Fewer plants to draw color from, fewer coins to pay for costly imports. 

No delicate handmaidens here, just women who worked twice as hard for half as much.

A little further down, the cobblestones beneath our feet were cracked and uneven, the frost settling into the gaps like a spiderweb of ice, evidence of years of wear and tear and the season's quiet touch. 

They still held the weight of thousands who walked upon them every day, merchants, beggars, knights, and thieves alike. I supposed if you tripped and cracked your skull, you'd have the honor of dying on the same stones as kings once did. 

Poetic, in a morbid sort of way.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and horses, though the winter wind carried a briny tang from the Blackwater Rush, mingling with the smells of fish and salt from the docks. 

The breeze cut sharper here, curling through alleys like a living thing, and I noticed more than a few folk huddling beneath tattered cloaks, their shoulders hunched as though they could shrink from the cold entirely. 

It was a sharp contrast to the perfumed halls of the Keep, though if I was being honest, even the royal halls had their fair share of unpleasant odors, too many lords in too-tight doublets, sweating through the silk despite the season.

As we passed by a less impoverished section of the city, I found myself admiring the vibrancy of the people in the streets, despite the stupid idea that medieval peasants had no sense of fashion. Their clothes were rich with color, faded blues, deep reds, and soft yellows, though many were layered now, with patched cloaks and scarves wrapped tight around necks. 

Frayed at the edges, like worn banners fluttering in a forgotten breeze. A far cry from the regal attire I had grown accustomed to inside the Red Keep, but at least there was a kind of honest pride in the way they dressed. Bright colors, even in winter, were a defiance of sorts, a silent declaration that the cold would not dull their spirit.

Children played in the streets, their laughter echoing off the stone walls, darting between carts and legs without a care in the world. A few even tossed stones at rats, turning pest control into a game, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold. 

Meanwhile, the occasional beggar lay sprawled in the gutters, bundled in whatever scraps they could find, eyes cast upward with a silent plea for mercy, though whether from the gods or a passing lord's loose purse strings, I couldn't say. 

The winter wind didn't care for status, it bit at the highborn and lowborn alike.

There, a small shrine to the Seven stood, tucked away in a corner, half-hidden beneath an overhang of ivy gone brittle from the cold. The offerings, modest but thoughtful, coins, flowers, bits of bread, all carefully placed with quiet reverence. A few shriveled petals clung to the dying flowers, a reminder that winter showed no favoritism, not even to faith. 

It was a sharp contrast to the grandeur of the Great Sept we had passed earlier, but perhaps more poignant in its simplicity. The gods might live in the Sept's marble halls, but it seemed they listened more closely here, among the forgotten and the desperate.

My attention shifted to a group of Gold Cloaks patrolling the street, their heavy cloaks billowing in the wind. The city's defenders looked nothing like the polished warriors in my books, no shining helms or perfect discipline. 

Their boots were worn from endless marching, their faces hard and cynical as they scanned the crowds, less like guardians of the peace and more like foxes watching a henhouse. 

I noticed how their fingers lingered near their sword belts, to my survival instincts constant annoyance, their leather gloves cracked from the cold. Bribery, I guessed, was the true law of King's Landing, but even corruption needed warm hands.

As we moved deeper into the city, the cacophony of sounds became overwhelming, the shout of a vendor hawking his wares, the clink of metal as an armorer worked on a new breastplate, the neighing of horses from the stables nearby. 

All of it blending into a chaotic symphony of life, louder somehow in the stillness of winter.

And yet, despite all this, I couldn't help but notice how many of these noises seemed to fade away as we neared the quieter corners of the city, where life was simpler, more intimate. 

A young couple sitting on the steps of a small house, their heads close together in quiet conversation, probably dreaming of a future that wouldn't be half as kind as their hopes. The girl shivered, and the boy tugged his cloak off to wrap it around her, the gesture more romantic than practical. 

A boy practicing his swordplay with a stick, his cheeks red from the cold, his eyes bright with determination, while a small crowd of onlookers gathered around him, offering advice or encouragement, half of it useless, I imagined, but well-meaning all the same.

I found myself caught up in the little things, the half-painted sign above a tailor's shop, where the faintest remnants of a lion's head still peeked through the layers of time, as if the past refused to fully let go. 

The old man who sold second-hand books, his stall tucked away in a narrow alley, his wares faded from years of exposure to the sun and now the cold, but still holding secrets within their pages, secrets no maester would ever bother to write down.

These were the parts of King's Landing that I, in all honesty, would come to cherish, not the towering walls or the opulent halls, but the forgotten corners and the stubborn souls who called them home. 

Even in winter, they endured.

————————————————————————

Later that day…at my chambers.

The dagger's edge gleamed faintly in the firelight. I ran the whetstone down the blade again, slow, steady strokes, just as Barristan had shown me. 

Not too fast. A clumsy hand could ruin a weapon quicker than a fight ever could. I wasn't some master weaponsmith, just a boy with enough knowledge to keep his gear from falling apart.

But tonight, everything needed to be ready.

The shortsword came next. Chipped in more places than I liked to admit, the leather grip worn smooth from overuse. Oil darkened the hilt as I worked it into the cracks, the scent sharp enough to sting my nose. 

I tested the weight in my hand, it wasn't too large nor too heavy for me, really. At least if compared to the regular sized wooden sword I used to train with Barristan, which was intentionally heavier for exercising my swings.

I wasn't a soldier. I wasn't even a proper squire.

I was a boy of six with a real weapon. A child playing at war.

Or at least, that's what it looked like.

The Instant Dungeon had burned any illusions of play out of me. Months of fighting, killing, and surviving had done that.

I remembered the first time I had buried this very sword into an undead knight's armor gap, how the blade had wedged between neck and shoulder, how I'd had to kick the corpse off it when it refused to fall. My other hand had finished the job, driving a dagger into the rotting thing's eye socket before it could grab me.

I'd almost lost the sword that day. The handle had slipped in my grip, made slick with undead ichor. I wasn't going to let that happen again.

The shortbow was next.

I grimaced as I unstrung it, half-expecting the damn thing to snap in two the moment I eased the tension. I had kept it ready for too long, far longer than any bow should be.

The wood groaned but didn't break.

Even if I had been careful enough to not use it as an improvised melee weapon, I ran a hand along the limb, checking for cracks. None. Thank the gods, or whatever cosmic game master had thrown me into this world. The string, though… it was frayed. It'd last tonight, but not much longer.

I counted my arrows.

Five of the original iron-tipped ones. Decent enough quality, once. Now, they were nicked and worn, and more than a few fletchings had come loose. The rest of my stock was… less impressive. A dozen or so arrows I'd crafted from the bones of the undead I had slain.

The heads were jagged, crude things, more likely to maim than kill cleanly. They'd work on a rat. Maybe a drunkard in a back alley. But if I had to use them against a knight in armor, I might as well just throw the whole quiver and hope for the best.

And then came the matter of carrying all this without looking like a walking armory.

A dagger strapped to my thigh, small enough to be missed at a glance. Another sheath at my lower back, the blade lying flat against my body. The shortsword slung over my shoulder, hidden beneath my too-large cloak. The shortbow tied tight against my pack, the quiver angled low so it wouldn't jut out.

It wasn't perfect. Anyone who really looked would see the metal.

But most wouldn't look. To the casual observer, I wasn't a prince. I wasn't even a threat.

I was just a scrawny boy dressed in rags, armed like a desperate urchin.

That was the look I needed.

Because tonight wasn't about slipping out of the Red Keep for a bit of fun.

I opened the glowing window in my mind, the one only I could see.

[NEW QUEST: PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT]

*The Red Keep has a network of secret passages and tunnels. The Conqueror's youngest son had them built to enable him to make a quick escape, should his enemies ever trap him. Prove your roguish heart by looking for access to these secret passages and unlocking secrets that have long been forgotten.

[GET ACCESS TO THESE SECRET TUNNELS] 

[PICK LOCKS WITHOUT BREAKING YOUR TOOLS (15/15)]

[DON'T LET THE MASTER OF WHISPERS OR HIS SPIES NOTICE YOU THREADING IN THEIR WEB] 

[REWARD: PROGRESS OVER YOUR ROGUE CLASS AND ALL THE VALUABLE LOOT YOU FIND IN YOUR JOURNEY]

The quest had been hanging over my head for years now, only to finally be completed.

At first, I laughed. Sneak through the Red Keep's hidden passages without alerting Varys and his army of spies? It might as well have asked me to wrestle a dragon.

But then… I learned.

I learned the rhythm of the guards' patrols, how one of the other less important Kingsguard always stopped to pick his teeth when he thought no one was watching, how another lingered at the same hallway intersections just long enough to leer at passing maids.

I learned the servants' routes, how the kitchen girls whispered gossip about the Queen's latest tantrum, how the stable boys always cut through a side corridor to avoid their master's wrath.

And most importantly…I learned which passages the Spider watched, and which ones he didn't.

The Red Keep was a fortress, yes, I've already made it clear, but it was also a maze, not much different than the one in the Instant Dungeon, a web of stone and secrets. Varys knew most of the paths, but not all.

I had found one he'd missed.

A passage hidden behind an old tapestry, so forgotten even the dust seemed untouched. It wound deep into the rock, ending at a narrow stair that led to the cliffs above the Blackwater Rush.

That would be my way out tonight.

And this quest wasn't just about finding the paths, it was about mastering them. Picking ancient locks without breaking my tools. Dodging the eyes of spies. And, best of all, keeping whatever loot I could carry.

At first, it had been scraps left in dusty corners. Rusted coins. Trinkets forgotten by time or too insignificant for anyone to notice were missing.

But then…I found something much more valuable than anything I had currently in my possession all put together.

[ARCANA CHECK SUCCEED!]

[VALYRIAN STEEL DAGGER]

I had read about weapons made of the old forgotten magical metal of the Valyrian Dragonlords, but wielding it in my hand was an entirely different matter.

It looked unassuming, smaller than my other dagger, almost like a kitchen knife. But the moment I pressed the edge to a scrap of leather or iron chain, it parted like wet paper. 

The blade didn't cut, it sliced, almost as if it was one of Wolverine's missing Adamantium claws.

Light. Balanced. It felt more like an extension of my hand than a weapon. It more than made up for my less than average physical stats, almost as if the weapon was leading me towards a path of less resistance towards my targets.

The moment I strapped it to my wrist with a bit of spare leather, I couldn't help but smirk. It was straight out of Assassin's Creed, a hidden blade that melted against my skin, perfect for a quick strike through any Sleight of Hand.

Which was very fittingly given the next thing I unlocked was…

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ROGUE SUBCLASS - ASSASSIN (RANK D+)]

*You focus your training on the grim art of death. Stealth, poison, and disguise help you eliminate your foes with deadly efficiency.

The Assassin subclass. Hell yeah! About time!

It hadn't been a conscious choice, not at first. But… I'd spent enough time with Grand Maester Pycelle to realize something. 

Healing and harming were two sides of the same coin.

Learning how to treat a wound meant learning how to inflict one. Understanding how to cure a poison meant knowing how to brew it. Pycelle thought he was teaching a curious young prince about medicine, but I was learning more than just how to bind a cut or brew a salve. 

I was learning how fragile the human body really was, where the arteries were, how deep a blade needed to go to kill quickly, how subtle a poison could be before its victim ever realized they'd been marked for death.

Knowledge was a weapon just as sharp as any dagger. And now, I have both.

And if that wasn't enough…

[Steady Aim:] You've learned how to channel your focus into a single, precise attack, as long as you stood still moments before and after.

A bit of inconvenience compromising my mobility, but if I manage to drop my target before the conflict even started properly, I could more easily keep the element of surprise against those who were more perceptive than the average brain rotting undead.

[Assassinate:] You are adept at getting the drop on a target, maximizing your lethality in those brief seconds when your target's guard is still rising.

No rat now stood a chance against me, my strikes were much faster in the first few seconds I committed to my attack. Better yet was how frequent my Critical Hits became in those first few moments.

[Assassin's Tools:] You gain proficiency with the Disguise Kit and Poisoner's Kit. (Rewards ready for retrieval!)

Awesome stuff, allowing me the benefit of acquiring useful tools without having to leave anyone missing their stuff.

Another window appeared, one I hadn't seen since I woke up back in the void before my rebirth.

[CONGRATULATIONS: YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A NEW FEAT: OBSERVANT]

*Quick to notice details of your environment, you gain the following benefits:

Ability Score Increase: Your Wisdom score increases by 1.

Keen Observer: You gain Expertise in Insight, Investigation or Perception skill. Pick one.

Quick Search: You can use your Insight, Medicine, Perception, or Survival skill even during combat without sacrificing your focus to attack.

The moment I selected Insight to be the next skill I had Expertise with, the feat locked into place and the world changed.

Not in some grand magical way.

But suddenly, people made sense.

[WISDOM: 13->14 (+1->+2)]

*(EXP) INSIGHT: +3->+6

The way a guard's hand twitched near his sword when he lied. The flicker of a maid's eyes when she gossiped. The subtle shift of a man's weight just before he threw a punch.

It wasn't magic. It wasn't some sudden gift. It was just me, finally reading people as if they were open books.

Adjusting my cloak, I pulled my hood low over my face.

I wasn't a prince tonight. No crown. No name.

Just a shadow slipping through the Red Keep.

Tonight, I would become the ghost the Spider never saw coming.

————————————————————————

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

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

[CLASS: ASSASSIN D+ // BARD D // FIGHTER D // RANGER D-]

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

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

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

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[FEATS: …OBSERVANT]

[TRAITS: …ACTION SURGE // TACTICAL MIND // PRIMAL HALFCASTER // FAVORED ENEMY // WEAPON MASTERY // STEADY AIM // ASSASSINATE // ASSASSIN'S TOOLS]

[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: 14 (+2)]

*ANIMAL HANDLING: +3

*(EXP) INSIGHT: +6

*MEDICINE: +3

*(EXP) PERCEPTION: +6

*(PRO) SURVIVAL: +4

[CHA: 18 (+4)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +8

*INTIMIDATION: +5

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +8

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +6

[CANTRIPS: FRIENDS // VICIOUS MOCKERY // SHILLELAGH // THORN WHIP]

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

[FIRST TIER PRIMAL SPELL: GOODBERRY // HAIL OF THORNS]

————————————————————————

(09/08/2020)

(29/09/2021)

(07/04/2022)

(01/01/2025)

*Hey there! 

Thanks for reading my work! 

I hope this chapter is of your liking. 

If so, I wish to recommend my other stories to you.

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 will 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!