Chapter 6 - The Sage, The Priestess and The Craftsman

TITLE: CROWN PRINCE // SMALL HUMAN, NEUTRAL]

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

[CLASS: ASSASSIN C // BARD D // FIGHTER D // HUNTER D+]

[HP: 6 // ARMOR CLASS: 11 (PADDED ARMOR)]

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

[PRIMAL POINTS: 3 (MAX TIER: 1)]

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[FEATS: …SKULKER]

[TRAITS: …Cunning Strikes // Uncanny Dodge // Deft Explorer // Fighting Style: Two-Weapon Fighting// Hunter's Lore // Hunter's Prey // Expertise]

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

*(EXP) ATHLETICS: +3

[DEX: 9 (-1) // CHILD'S BODY PENALTY (+1 Ability Score Pending) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+1)]

*(EXP) ACROBATICS: +3

*(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: 15 (+2)]

*ANIMAL HANDLING: +3

*(EXP) INSIGHT: +6

*MEDICINE: +3

*(EXP) PERCEPTION: +6

*(EXP) SURVIVAL: +6

[CHA: 18 (+4)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +8

*INTIMIDATION: +5

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +8

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +6

[LANGUAGES: …OLD TONGUE // TRADER TALK]

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

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

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

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

For the first time in months, I could breathe easily within the walls of the Red Keep.

No more slipping through hidden tunnels, no more hasty climbs down forgotten wells, no more creeping past sleepy guards or spooking weak-minded servants. 

I had walked the narrowest edge of a blade long enough, unseen, unheard, untouchable, but even the best gambler knows when to pocket his winnings and leave the table.

Luck, after all, is a fickle friend.

The Butcher was gone, his power shattered and his grip over Flea Bottom broken. It was a victory, but not a final one, if anything, it brought me once again to square one. 

Because power, once taken, creates a void, and voids do not remain empty for long. If I did not fill it with something of my own design, someone else would. Worse still, something else would, some new tyrant, more brutal, more cunning, or simply more desperate.

It was almost begging for people like Littlefinger to come and take over. And that could not be allowed.

The changes I envisioned were not just for the now, but for tomorrow and the many tomorrows to come. Flea Bottom had to be reshaped, reforged.

In the short term, the groups once led by Mudge, Brunna, and Lothar would serve as my foundation. Broken men, their chains cut by my hand, but still shackled by their own nature. 

As they were, they were enough for me to become the next Butcher… but that was never the goal. I did not break the old beast to wear its skin.

Garrick, Salla, and Jory had proven their worth, taking their pieces of the board with swift hands and steady hearts. 

But their value lay not just in what they were, but in what they could become. They were young enough to be molded, to rise beyond the filth they had always known. 

If I was to build something lasting, they needed to be more than lieutenants to a hidden prince, they needed to be pillars of something greater.

So I began to weave the next threads of my plan.

Garrick would approach Hallyne and the Alchemist's Guild, not as a seeker of their forbidden arts, but as a provider of willing hands. 

There were always more urchins in Flea Bottom than the world knew what to do with, and many would leap at the chance to trade starvation for steady work, even if it meant carrying strange powders and breathing in acrid smoke. 

Through them, I would have eyes within the guild's halls, not to steal their secrets, at least not immediately since I doubt the old Pyromancers would be so careless to begin teaching their secrets to whoever appears at their doorsteps, but to understand their ways. 

In time, who could say what might be learned?

I've learned that not even Karl Tenner dared to mess with the Alchemists as long as they remained hidden in their base.

Salla would find her place at Chataya's upscale brothel, alongside a few of her most trusted colleagues. A couple of girls from the slums seeking refuge from a supposed war between the Butcher and his turncoat lieutenants was a believable story, one that Chataya might pity enough to accept. 

Once there, Salla could listen to the whispers of lords, knights, and merchants who came seeking more than just pleasure. Power always loosens its tongue when wrapped in silk.

Jory, meanwhile, would send a handful of sharp-eyed urchins to Tobho Mott, their expenses paid.

To the blacksmith, they would seem like desperate apprentices hoping to escape the poverty of Flea Bottom, like what he might've thought once he accepted Gendry as his apprentice, despite the mysterious coin coming from somewhere he didn't seem to care.

But through these low born apprentices, I would gain a foothold close to the secrets of Qohor's forgecraft. Perhaps, in time, I myself would walk through Mott's doors, just another nameless boy from the slums, learning the weight of a hammer and the song of steel.

If I was ever to touch the mysteries of Valyrian steel, it would not be through books or prayers, but through the fire and blood of the forge.

But even the best-laid plans require careful tending. I couldn't risk meeting with Garrick, Salla, or Jory directly anymore, not now that my position within the Red Keep was secure again. The more distance I put between myself and the streets of Flea Bottom, the better.

So I devised a new way to speak to them, through the Stranger's will.

Every day whenever I had some free time from my obligations, I slipped away to the quiet of my chambers, where no curious ears lurked undetected by my Blindsight. 

I'd whisper a few chosen words to a scrap of parchment, careful to avoid anything that could be traced back to me. Encrypted phrases, layered meanings, messages that only the most devoted to the holy myth of the Stranger would understand. 

I offered a morsel of food to the dove, a creature caught by my cats during my practice of the Animal Handling skill, and whispered the spell's words into the air.

Never chose ravens for this particular purpose, those belonged to lords and maesters, symbols of power and law. The Stranger spoke through a creature more subtle, more poetic. A dove, the color of bone and ash, a symbol of death in the eyes of those who worshiped me.

Under the enchantment of Animal Friendship, the bird would be much more susceptible to my commands for a day, long enough to deliver the message to one of my loyal followers. 

The sight of the Stranger's dove descending from the sky with a missive was a revelation to them, proof that their god walked among them, whispering his will into the wind.

They never questioned it.

Of course, I ensured the dove was seen only by those who already believed unconditionally. A miracle means little without faith to feed it.

The Stranger's will, carried by death's own bird, a trick of magic, but to them, a divine message.

It was a delicate plan, a game of slow steps and quiet moves. Each thread woven carefully, each piece placed with purpose.

And if I failed… if I could not hold this fragile empire together…The Butcher's ghost would be the least of my worries. Something worse would rise, a new monster wearing the skin of my defeat.

As I turned these thoughts over in my mind, a stray bit of trivia flitted through my memory, a small consequence of the storm I had stirred. 

With Karl Tanner's early fall, his reign of cruelty over Flea Bottom had ended long before it could drive Gendry's mother to ruin. She was still alive, no longer forced to scrape by alone, her son spared the fate of growing up motherless.

A minor ripple in the lake of fate. Gendry's mother might never whisper his father's name, Robert Baratheon, but ripples grow into waves and waves can reshape shores.

And so, the game moved forward.

————————————————————————

VARYS' POV

Men called me the Spider long before I came to Westeros. As a young thief in Pentos, I seemed to have eight hands, each dipped into a stranger's pocket.

But the other thieves didn't appreciate my skill, and they had size and strength that I couldn't match. When they discovered why, I was beaten and told that a eunuch boy didn't belong in the streets but in the brothels, as any slave would know.

I managed to escape them and took to sleeping in the sewers by day and prowling the rooftops by night, barely one step ahead of starvation, much less slavery.

Then I met Illyrio Mopatis. He was a Bravosi who lived by his sword, but his mind was sharper than his blade.

I proposed an arrangement. I would spy on lesser thieves and steal their takings. Illyrio would offer help to the thieves' victims, promising to recover their valuables, for a fee.

Soon, every honest man knew to come to Illyrio, whilst the city's cutpurses sought me, half to sell me what they had stolen, and the other half to slit my throat.

Sadly for them, Illyrio needed my throat more than he needed theirs.

Most thieves, like most men, are fools, thinking no further than turning a night's plunder into wine. Luckily, as the other thieves had reminded me, I was not a man. Nor were those I hired with the gold we earned.

I chose the smallest orphan boys and girls, the ones as quick and quiet as me, and taught them to climb walls and slip down chimneys.

My little birds left the shiny trinkets for common thieves and instead stole letters, ledgers, and charts. Secrets are worth far more than silver or sapphires.

Later, I taught my little birds to read the letters themselves and leave them where they lay, so no one would know of our intrusion.

Illyrio and I grew so rich that Illyrio wed a princess of Pentos, whilst whispers of my talents reached the ears of a very anxious king across the Narrow Sea who did not trust his son, nor his wife, nor his Hand.

Nor should he have, as I told him once I arrived and raised more little birds.

They thought it the most amazing game to discover all the secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep and listen to the whispered secrets within the castle walls.

I often wonder what became of my first little birds once I lost contact with them. Most likely, they returned to their miserable lives, or worse, grew up.

Eventually, if our paths cross again, I'll hear their song once more.

Until then, well… the world never lacks for orphans. Little birds sing in the west, and little birds sing in the east. And this spider continues to spin its web.

Yet sometimes, even the most delicate web can shiver without warning.

Karl Tanner, the Butcher of Flea Bottom, had long been a festering wound on the underbelly of the city. Cruel, but predictable. Greedy, but blunt. He was useful, in his way, a villain so blatant that he drew the common folk's fear, a figure so loathed that their anger never rose high enough to notice the strings I pulled above their heads.

His death should have been a solution.

The cult of the Stranger, those hooded fanatics who worship the god of death, were an obvious choice. Desperate men and women clinging to a bleak faith, their hatred of the Butcher only needing the lightest push to boil over.

I gave that push.

A careful whisper here. A promise of inaction there. Let them tear Karl apart with their bare hands, and the king's peace would remain unsoiled.

Neat. Efficient. Bloodless… for the Crown, at least.

But now, I wonder. It was all so perfect. Too perfect.

The mob should have been wild and disorganized, but my little birds speak of something more. Precision in their strikes, purpose in their silence. And not from trained killers, but from the ragged poor of Flea Bottom, the broken and the hungry.

That, alone, might have been enough to set my skin crawling.

Yet it is not what disturbs me most.

No, it is the absence of any figure pulling the strings behind them.

There was no cunning leader rallying the cult. No shadowy hand guiding their fury. Not a single name, not a single face. Just a sudden, coordinated eruption of violence, and then silence once more.

I had expected to uncover some bitter old priest or a fanatical zealot, someone I could see and understand. Someone I could manipulate or destroy.

Instead, there was… nothing. A faceless void, masked by the Stranger's shadow. And it gnaws at me.

The Butcher is gone, but the cult remains, stronger, if anything. Their silence has weight now. Their absence feels louder than their screams ever did.

Perhaps I rid myself of one unpredictable element only to create another.

And now, I must ask myself: Did I push them? Or did someone push me?

The web trembles, but I cannot see what caused the ripple. A wind I did not expect, or another spider lurking unseen?

No matter. A web is not so easily broken.

The game continues, and my next move must be made carefully.

There is another thread to tug, one far more precious than the Butcher or his killers.

Rhaenys Targaryen.

A little dragon, caged within the Red Keep, the unwilling ward of the Crown. I wonder if she knows how many eyes are upon her. Some wish to use her, others to break her.

But I have different plans. After all, there is more than one dragon in this world. And I intend to make certain that the right one rises when the time comes.

For the good of the realm, of course.

————————————————————————

288 AC

RHAENYS TARGARYEN'S POV 

(8 YEARS OLD)

They say a dragon never forgets. But I was only a little girl the night King's Landing fell.

My memories of those years are a tattered tapestry, some threads sharp and vivid, others faded and frayed. 

I remember the lemon-sweet scent of my mother's skin when she held me close, her voice soft in the Dornish accent. I remember Aegon's tiny fingers tugging at my hair, his laugh like silver bells, his cheeks round and pink as he toddled after me.

But that night, the night the usurper's men came, those memories are darker. Bloodier. The sort that comes unbidden, like a knife slipping between my ribs when I close my eyes for too long.

I remember the light of the flames in the far distance out of my window, the faint sound of clashing steel, and the approaching roar of voices too loud for my small ears. 

I wasn't with my mother or my brother. I was alone in my chamber, in a bed too big for a girl my size, with silk sheets that felt too heavy, too warm. I remember a distant scream, high and shrill, echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. I didn't know then if it was my mother's voice. 

Sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of the night hearing them. Without air in my chest and plenty of tears in my eyes.

Then in these memories the door eventually burst open. 

He was a monster of a man, laughing maniacally as he told me the awful end he was about to grant me, his sigil red with a black scorpion. I remember the way he looked at me, not as a person, but as something to be dragged from my bed and killed like an animal.

Ser Amory Lorch.

I screamed, kicking and thrashing as he grabbed me by the arm. His gauntlet crushed my wrist like a vice, and I remember sobbing, not words, just raw, broken sounds.

I begged him, or at least I tried to the best of my abilities as a kid of no more than two or three name days. I think I said I was sorry, over and over again, though I don't remember why.

Sorry for what? For being a Targaryen? For being my father's daughter? For existing?

And then there was another man.

A flash of white. A sword slicing through the air. Blood splattering across my face, hot and metallic, and Ser Amory crumpled like a felled tree.

Jaime Lannister stood over his body, his Kingsguard cloak already stained with red before he killed my attacker.

He saved me. But not my mother. Not my brother.

Their chambers were farther away. Too far.

I know this now, that my room back then was closer to the throne room, closer to where the end unfolded. Jaime could only save the girl within reach. Not the mother or the babe hidden deeper in the Red Keep.

How convenient given how my little brother would no longer be alive to carry the claim as the rightful heir of the throne of my family.

Especially since from what I heard, the monster that murdered my mother and brother, one even worse than the one that almost ended me, still roamed the kingdom. Still acknowledged as a law abiding knight.

The Mountain. A man that was knighted by my own father.

The guilt must gnaw at the Kingslayer, oh, I'm sure it does. But guess what…it gnaws at me too.

Because I wasn't with them. I didn't die with them. And I wonder, would it have been easier if I had?

Now, five years later, I sit in Jon Arryn's solar, the same walls that once dripped with my family's blood now clean and cold.

I am no longer the little girl in the bed. I am a dragon bound in silk and duty, the dark strands of my Dornish hair threaded with whispers of silver. The purple of my father's bloodline never touched my eyes, nor did his fair skin touched mine. 

My gaze, some shade between dark and deep, a constant reminder of the mother I lost every time I looked in the mirror.

Now, as I found myself once again in Jon Arryn's solar, which was as cold as ever, especially during the winter. 

The old falcon sits behind his desk, a mountain of parchments and scrolls spilling across the oaken surface, his face a mask of quiet contemplation, his hand resting lightly on a pile of parchment.

The King's Hand has always watched me. Not openly cruelly, but carefully. I know why. He fears what I might become.

But there is also something else, a sort of quiet concern, though I cannot tell if it is for me or for the realm.

He thinks he's kind, with his soft voice and his silk-gloved warnings, but I see the bars of my cage no matter how gently they are painted.

I kept my back straight, chin high, and forced myself not to sneer at the treacherous Kingsguard standing by the door, Ser Boros Blount, a man as ugly in spirit as he was in appearance, with his short, bandy legs, flat nose, and jowls that quivered with every heavy breath.

He was of no concern to me. He was a dog with no teeth compared to the monsters I've survived.

"Do you know why I've called you here?" The Hand finally addressed me, the question a familiar blade disguised as a caress. The same words, the same tone. As if I am a wayward child.

I met his gaze with a calmness I did not feel. "I am sure you have your reasons, my lord."

His lips pressed into a line. "Almost everyone has a reason for their actions, good or ill. I see you've learned how to speak without saying anything at all…not a bad skill to have at court."

I said nothing.

The Hand studied me for a moment longer, then shifted topics. "Tell me about your studies. Are you making good progress?"

"I've improved my reading and writing. Mathematics remains difficult. The scrolls on religion are nonsense."

He chuckles lightly. "It often seems so."

There is a pause. Too long to be casual.

"Satisfactory, I suppose. But I hear from Septa Sarelle you struggle with your womanly duties." Jon says.

I stiffen. "I find them dull."

"They have their place." The hand tried to persuade me.

"Do they?" I tilt my head. "What place is that? At the side of some lord I'm forced to marry? To bear sons who will bow to the usurper's King?"

His expression doesn't change, but there is a flicker of something behind his eyes. Pity, perhaps. Or understanding. It makes me want to scream.

"What do you want for yourself, Rhaenys?" He asks softly.

I clenched my fists beneath the folds of my gown, nails biting into my palms.

What do I want? 

I want to have my mother's voice back, to hear her call me "sweetling" again. I want Aegon's tiny hand in mine. I want the past undone, the usurper gone, the dragon restored.

But those are dreams for children, some waiting to be fulfilled by the actions of a woman. So I say nothing.

He looks at me mildly, pouring two goblets of water and pushing one toward me. 

I take the goblet but do not drink immediately. I swirl the water, sniff it, then taste a small sip. It is cold. Unfamiliar.

He watches me. "Have you thought about your future?"

I blink. "My future?"

Jon Arryn nods. "What do you wish to become, Rhaenys?"

I almost laughed. "Does it matter?"

"My sweet girl." He says softly. "There is a life beyond the walls of this castle. You need not remain a prisoner to the past."

I grip the goblet tightly, the cold biting into my palm. My silence is answer enough.

"And if the…King…decides to marry me to his heir?" I ask, my voice sharper now. "Would I still be able to leave this castle behind?"

He watches me closely. "Robert has made it clear you will not wed his son."

The words sting, though I do not know why.

Perhaps it is not the rejection itself, I do not want a Baratheon for a husband, but the reminder that I am seen as unworthy. Not a threat, not a prize. An afterthought.

But there was a moment I cannot forget. The Usurper's spawn.

I saw him only once. A boy with hair black and silver, like the storm and the dragon warring on his head. His eyes struck me most, one a deep Baratheon blue, the other pale and amethyst, the mark of House Targaryen.

A living contradiction. A clash of bloodlines.

He looked at me. And I looked at him. For a moment, I wondered if he felt as I did, caught between worlds, belonging to neither.

Then he was gone as the guards pulled me forward.

Jon Arryn's voice brings me back to the present.

"Your family lost the right to rule." He says, not unkindly. "I tell you this not to wound you, but to remind you that revenge will destroy you."

I lift my chin, my heart a drum against my ribs. I know this game. It is one we play often. He pretends to care. I pretend not to hate him.

A not-insignificant number of these meetings end with me being sent away in tears, my pride crushed beneath the weight of forced apologies to those I supposedly wronged, a Septa, a maid, or some lord's son foolish enough to speak to me without respect.

But I have learned. Tears are a weapon I no longer give him.

The wrath inside me was chained, for now, but each time he called me to this tower, each time he reminded me of what I had lost, the links of that chain grew thinner.

What did Jon Arryn know of doom? Of the fire inside me?

What did he know of a mother butchered by Gregor Clegane, of a brother smashed against a wall like a fly? What did he know of the Kingslayer's "mercy," of the way his sword dripped with both my grandfather's blood and that of the knight who would have killed me?

He knows nothing. So I smile, cold, empty, and say. "I understand." 

But I don't. Not truly.

Because the dragon within me still burns. For now, I am caged. For now, I play the obedient princess, the forgotten daughter of a lost house.

But one day, I will rise.

I am Rhaenys Targaryen. I am fire and blood.

And dragons never forget.

————————————————————————

PETYR BAELISH'S POV

From the east coast of the Vale, the Fingers claw their way into the Narrow Sea. Four rocky peninsulas gnawed by wind and rain, barren but for the hardiest of weeds.

The ancestral home of House Baelish.

A grand title for a few crumbling towers perched on a patch of miserable land, granted to my grandfather, a Braavosi sellsword who traded his sword for a hedge knight's spurs and a lord's meager favor. 

He gained a keep on the smallest of the Fingers, though I sometimes wonder if he missed sleeping beneath the hedges his station once promised.

The only thing more pathetic than owning a desolate stretch of coast is owning only a small corner of it. But I never intended to waste away there.

While great lords bled for the crown during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, my father fought for something far more useful… friendship. 

Lord Hoster Tully, Paramount of the Trident, a man whose name opened doors in halls grander than any I had ever seen.

Thus, I was plucked from the gull-stained rocks of the Fingers and fostered at Riverrun among the mighty. For a boy who had only known salt air and stone walls no higher than a ship's mast, Riverrun seemed a castle fit for Gods.

I soon learned gods did not live there, only men and their brats.

Edmure Tully, a boy whose birth gave him everything I lacked, was quick to remind me of my place. "Littlefinger," he named me, for my size and homeland, a cruel little jest that clung to me tighter than any noble title ever would.

But I was less interested in the lordling than in his sisters.

Lysa and Catelyn. They used me as a pawn in their kissing games, passing me back and forth like a trinket, a plaything. Needless to say, I enjoyed their attention, and learned early that desire, even childish desire, is a lever one can pull.

As we grew older, the game changed, as all games do. Lysa grew more bolder, Cat more demure.

Then Lord Hoster broke the game entirely, announcing Catelyn's betrothal to Brandon Stark, a man she had never met but would marry all the same, because a lord's daughter weds not for love but for her father's ambitions.

I was a fool back then, bold in a way only boys can be. I challenged Brandon to a duel. A boy against a warrior. A shortsword against a greatsword. Had Catelyn not begged for my life, I would be a smear of blood on Riverrun's training yard.

For my insolence, I was banished. Sent back to the Fingers, but by then, I had already learned the game I truly wished to play. 

Swords are blunt instruments. Wits are sharper, subtler weapons, and few men can match mine.

Even then, House Baelish might have withered on those rocks had the world not turned.

But turn it did.

The Mad King burned Brandon Stark alive. The realm bled. And my dear Lysa was married off to Jon Arryn to forge a new alliance.

She was no great beauty such as her sister, but she remembered our old "affection." It was easy enough to stoke those dying embers, easy enough to convince her to whisper in her husband's ear until I was made controller of customs at Gulltown.

A war was raging. Armies devour gold faster than they do grain.

So, I did what I have always done, I made myself useful. I increased Gulltown's revenues tenfold, a trick of numbers and greed. Lord Arryn noticed.

And when the rebellion crowned a new king, Robert Baratheon, drunk, reckless, always in need of more gold, it was Lord Arryn who recommended a man clever enough to find coin where others found only cobwebs.

Now, I am Master of Coin. No longer the boy from the Fingers. No longer the poor lord with no name, no gold, and no future.

I have gold aplenty at my disposal now, and eventually not just for the crown. 

My own establishments, my own debts owed, my own people carefully placed will all answer to me.

Gold flows through King's Landing like blood through a body, and I have become the heart, pumping it wherever I see fit.

House Baelish was nothing. A sellsword's dream. A dying ember. Now, I am something. Something more than a name and a barren keep.

What rung will the next generation climb next?

Let us not be hasty. I am not finished yet.

But gold is not the only thing that flows in this city. Secrets run thicker than any river, and I listen.

Flea Bottom has long been a festering wound beneath the capital's skin, a world of slop pots, starving orphans, and the Butcher, from what I heard he was a petty tyrant who ruled the streets with a cleaver in one hand and fear in the other.

Yet, without warning, the Butcher has fallen. His men scattered. His claim over Flea Bottom severed as cleanly as a lamb's throat.

No war banners flew. No lord laid siege. Something else happened, something quiet, something clever.

I do not know who pulled the strings, but I know when a hidden hand is at work. Someone in the shadows, someone patient. Perhaps someone with a longer game in mind.

Hopefully not the Spider, for I didn't trust him enough to remain at such a disadvantage.

A secret war in the gutters, and I am left with questions. But questions are good. Questions create hunger, and hunger makes men dangerous.

Dangerous men are easier to predict, their moves more desperate. And desperate men are the easiest of all to control.

————————————————————————

ALYSSE ARRYN'S POV

(11 YEARS OLD)

"Fine work as always! Well done." Said Septa Sarelle.

"Thank you." I replied with a polite smile, carefully setting the embroidered cloth aside.

The Septa leaned in, tracing a finger along the edges of my work. "I loved the detail on these corners, quite beautiful."

I bit my lip, already noticing a flaw. "I appreciate the praise, but the stitches are too tight. It made it hard to move the needle."

"Oh no, no, child! The stitches are perfectly placed, not a single hole marks the piece. In fact, I think you're ready to begin crafting larger works."

"If you truly believe so, Septa, perhaps I might try my hand at a dress next time? I have a few ideas I've been meaning to test."

Her lips curled into a pleased smile. "Of course, my dear. But you've done enough for today. Go on now, I imagine you're eager to find the Prince."

I blinked, cheeks warming ever so slightly. "I-I'm not sure if he's free," I stammered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Lately, he's been quite busy, training with Ser Barristan or studying with Grand Maester Pycelle. My father mentioned the maester has even summoned help from the Citadel, seeking expertise beyond his own."

Septa Sarelle folded her hands, her voice light. "A truly blessed child. The castle folk speak of him often, singing praises of his cleverness and charm. The gods clearly smiled upon the King and Queen's union, blassing them with such prodigious children."

I tilted my head. "Children?"

"Why, yes, my lady. The young Prince and Princess." She laughed softly. "Haven't you heard? The twins are already walking and speaking, though they're only two. Little Lann may not be as tall as his brother was at his age, but he's as calm as the Crown Prince. And sweet Princess Joanna, such a darling. Though between you and me, I've heard she and her twin are quite the handful when their older brother isn't around."

I smiled faintly, picturing Durrandon's younger siblings. I hadn't met them yet, he was always too busy for such visits, but the way people spoke of him made me wonder if they clung to him the way stray cats once did.

I missed those days, the long hours spent studying together, playing card games he'd painted himself, or simply talking about anything and everything.

He always made me feel… at ease.

Even now, it was hard not to marvel at him. He was only five name days old but already stood nearly at my height, an oddity no one dared to explain. 

My father often spoke of Durrandon's sharp mind and unwavering focus, telling me tales of his early swordplay and endless appetite for knowledge.

A future king. A great one, I was certain.

Perhaps today, he might have a moment to spare.

The thought warmed me as I thanked Septa Sarelle and left the solar, stepping into the cool stone corridors with my father's guards, Ser Hugh and Ser Alden, at my sides.

As we walked, I noticed something peculiar, fewer cats.

Durrandon had once adopted a whole brood of strays, earning their trust until they followed him like shadows. But now, the hallways seemed strangely empty.

'Did the soldiers finally drive them off?' I wondered. 'That wouldn't make sense, the rats would have overrun the castle by now. And I haven't seen a single rat in days.'

The thought gnawed at me, but I let it slip away as we approached the Hand's Tower.

A figure descended the stairs, Lord Petyr Baelish, the King's newly appointed Master of Coin.

His sharp features, dark hair, and small pointed beard were familiar now, though his most striking trait was his ever-present scent of mint. His wardrobe was no less memorable, today, a plum-colored doublet embroidered with a black mockingbird. 

I'd seen him wear a silver cape patterned with the same bird before, my personal favorite.

He smiled as he noticed us. "Greetings, my lady. And to you as well, Ser Hugh, Ser Alden. I trust your mother's affairs have been handled?"

Ser Hugh nodded. "Thanks to your aid, my Lord."

Lord Baelish placed a hand on his heart. "I'm always happy to assist where family is concerned."

Then, his gaze shifted back to me. "And Lady Alysse, you grow lovelier by the day. Your father must be proud."

I dipped my head. "You're too kind, my Lord."

"I hear you have a knack for managing finances." He added, his smile deepening. "If you ever wish to sharpen that talent, I'd be more than willing to guide you."

The offer was unexpected. "I'm grateful, Lord Baelish. Perhaps one day."

His eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he inclined his head and continued down the hall.

As we ascended the stairs, passing the room where the dragon girl was kept, I reached my father's chamber as the Hand of the King.

Few knocks later, I was surprised to be greeted by… that woman.

Lysa Tully. My stepmother.

She was pretty, there was no denying that, with her delicate features, high-breasted figure, and hair the color of autumn leaves falling thickly down to her waist. Her pale blue eyes could have been mistaken for soft and inviting at first glance, but there was a brittle quality to them, like ice that might crack under the wrong step. 

She painted her face with powders and rouges, a little more than was fashionable, as though trying to capture a youth that had started to slip from her grasp.

Time in the capital had not been kind to her. The slender grace of a girl once desired by many great lords was slowly giving way to a heavier form, her cheeks growing puffy despite her efforts to conceal it.

But it wasn't her appearance that weighed on me, it was the way she looked at me.

There was a tension between us, unspoken yet ever present. She smiled, but there was a strain in her lips, a flicker of something bitter just beneath the surface. I often thought she spoke to me less like a mother and more like a jealous older sister, forever measuring me against some invisible scale.

"Oh, hello, my dear." She said, the sweetness in her voice just a shade too sharp, like honey hiding a blade.

I curtsied politely. "My lady."

Lysa leaned against the doorframe, one hand idly playing with a lock of her hair. "Come to visit my husband?"

'Gods, why do you insist on provoking me? I'm not your rival.'

But I kept those thoughts locked away, hidden beneath a serene smile I had practiced countless times. "Yes, my lady. Is my father available?"

"I'm afraid he isn't even here, my dear." She replied, that same empty smile plastered on her face. "From what I heard, he was busy dealing with something the King had requested of him."

Her words were light, but there was an undertone I couldn't quite place, a flicker of satisfaction, perhaps? Or was I imagining it again?

"I see. Then please forgive me for disturbing you, my lady. I'll take my leave."

Lysa's gaze lingered a moment longer before she closed the door softly, but not without a final glance, as though she had won some unseen game.

I stood there for a beat, my mind turning over her words and the way she'd said them.

If father wasn't here, what had Lord Baelish been doing in the tower just moments ago? Was he unaware of Father's absence, or had his business been with Lysa all along?

I bit the inside of my cheek, unwilling to let the thought fester. It wasn't my place to question the dealings of the court, not yet, at least.

Besides, everyone trusted Lord Baelish. Didn't they?

With that settled, I made my way back down, pausing when I saw Durrandon outside in the training yard, with Ser Barristan.

The two weren't merely training despite the snow, they were using it for their own purpose. Even from here I could see that he was having fun despite all his toil.

I felt a smile tug at my lips, watching him. The Crown Prince, the prodigy, the boy destined to be a great king… was still a child after all.

And yet, there was something undeniably captivating about him.

He'd made many friends in the castle, the Summer Islander prince, the Red Priest who drank like a fish, but part of me still longed for the day it was just the two of us, roaming the city, visiting the Alchemists' Guild and the Great Sept of Baelor.

Father had mentioned Durrandon was planning to return to the city soon.

I hoped… just a little… that I might go with him again.

————————————————————————

HALLYNE'S POV

The acrid stench of wildfire clung to the air like a living thing, creeping into every crack of the Alchemist's Guild. It was a smell I have long since ceased to notice, sulfur and death, the scent of a thousand unseen fires waiting to be born.

The halls of the Guildhall whisper with the low muttering of old men, the last remnants of our dying order. Bronze sconces line the stone walls, their green flames flickering like ghostly wraiths. The light warps everything it touches, twisting faces, casting too-long shadows.

Few of us remain, Grandmaster Norren, too frail to mix pitch and resin, spends his days translating ancient tomes written in High Valyrian. Pyromancer Tybero, younger but sour-faced, works with the permanent sneer of a man who believes himself too important for the labor he performs. Seralan barely speaks, muttering to the flames as though they might whisper back.

And me, Hallyne the Pyromancer.

We do not brew wildfire like common alchemists slaving over a cauldron. The crafting of the Substance is delicate, dangerous work, done only when the air is cool and the risk of an errant spark is at its lowest.

Fire wants to be free, the old saying goes. Wildfire most of all.

By day, the heat seeps into the stone of the Guildhall, stirring the Substance like a caged beast. So we rest. We work by night, when the air is cold and still, from dusk until dawn, and the Substance sleeps.

It is during these nights that the children come.

They arrive with the setting sun, barefoot and hollow-cheeked, the lot of them. Urchins from Flea Bottom, desperate for work, for food. 

They were a pitiful sight. Some seemed too small to even lift a jar of pitch without wobbling. Others appeared so slow-witted they couldn't tell saltpeter from powdered chalk.

Yet it was not my decision alone. Tybero mocked them, of course, while Seralan ignored their existence entirely. But Norren, ever the pragmatist, had convinced us to let them in. They do the menial tasks, scrubbing soot from the floors, polishing the glassware, grinding resin into powder. Small hands can be nimble, and so long as they do not touch the wildfire itself, they are useful.

By dawn, they are sent away.

We do not house them, the Guildhall is no orphanage, nor do we pay them, save for the occasional scrap of bread or wedge of cheese. Enough to keep them returning, not enough to make them expect more.

And if a few faces change from night to night, none of us pay it much mind. They are gutter rats, transient, forgettable. So long as there are enough to scrub the floors and clean the tools, the specifics hardly matter.

That is why I did not notice the boy at first.

Arren, he called himself.

No older than eight, with a strip of cloth tied over his left eye, a wound, he claimed, from a fight over a crust of bread. His hair was a jagged mess of black, uneven like he'd hacked it off with a rusty blade.

He did not come every night. Sometimes, he was absent, and said he had other work in Flea Bottom, other masters to serve. I did not ask. Why would I? The boy was not an apprentice. None of them were. They were gnats, flitting in and out, nameless and weightless.

Yet… he was quick. Very quick.

Not brilliant, not touched by magic or prophecy, just clever. He listened to every instruction given, learned fast, and rarely made the same mistake twice.

But what set him apart, if only a little, was the way he helped the others.

I once caught him guiding a girl's hand as she poured pitch into a clay jar, voice low, calm.

"Not too much." He whispered. "Just to the line."

Another time, when a boy struggled to grind resin, Arren covered his hand with his own and showed him the steady, even pressure needed.

He did it quietly, without drawing attention, as though helping them was for his own benefit, to keep the work moving and avoid the wrath of men like Tybero.

Had I not been watching, had I not known the work well enough to spot a sharp mind when I saw it, I might never have noticed him at all.

One night, as the others scrubbed soot from the stone floor, I found him near a small vat of wildfire. He kept his distance, wisely so, but his eye was fixed on the flame.

The green glow reflected in his pupil, too bright, too steady.

And then, softly, he asked. "Do you think it's alive?"

The question struck me, strange, for a boy from the slums. 

I blinked. "What?"

"The fire." He said, voice quiet. "It doesn't move like normal flames. It writhes. Like it wants to go somewhere."

A child's fancy. I nearly scoffed. Wildfire wants nothing. It reacts. It burns.

But… I could not fault the observation. It does move strangely. Even our ancient texts struggle to explain why.

"The Substance is bound to magic." I said, sharper than intended. "Not mere flame. The green is the mark of its unnatural birth."

Arren tilted his head, just a fraction. "So it's not the ingredients alone that make it burn. There's something else."

It was too keen an observation for a boy who claimed to know nothing of magic.

But then…Of course it was.

Even dull minds notice the unnatural. I've heard similar questions from apprentices twice his age.

I shook off the flicker of unease. What was I thinking? He was a clever boy, yes, but no more than that. Hunger makes children sharp.

And yet, I felt the need to remind him of his place.

"You think too much for your own good, boy." I said, voice like flint. "Get back to work."

Arren bowed his head at once, obedient, unassuming. "Yes, Pyromancer."

He turned and returned to the others, vanishing into the rabble, just another dirty-faced urchin among dirty-faced urchins.

By dawn, they were gone. And the moment passed.

Just a clever boy. That's all.

And I had more important matters to attend to than wondering why a child might ask strange questions about strange fire.

After all, there were greater threats than curious boys.

I still remember the day he came openly, many months ago, not skulking with the other urchins but walking through the front gates with Lord Hand's daughter at his side. 

They were escorted by none other than Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, and two others, one clad in the falcon of the Eyrie, the other bearing the crowned stag of the royal house.

The boy prince had not spoken much that day, only asked a few polite questions about the Substance, as if wildfire were no more fascinating than the tapestries of the Red Keep or the fishmongers along the Street of Silk.

Yet there was something in his gaze, too calm, too measured for one so young, that left a mark on me.

It was not him, though, but Ser Jaime who pushed me to the side for a private talk before the Crown Prince and his party departed.

The Kingslayer had cornered me in a shadowed alcove of the Guildhall, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, as if the mere thought of our work set his blood to a simmer.

"You swore to the Mad King…" The infamous Kingsguard had said, his voice quiet but barbed with steel. "Swore to make his wildfire, to stoke his flames. How many jars still remain hidden beneath this city?"

I had stammered some practiced answers about the Guild's duties, how we brewed only on commission, how the Substance was dangerous but contained. The usual platitudes.

But Jaime Lannister was not a man content with pretty words.

His armored hand caught my shoulder, just firm enough to remind me that he could break me like kindling if he chose.

"If this city burns again." He said, his green eyes like twin embers. "I'll know who to blame."

The weight of his threat pressed heavier than the heat of a thousand fires. That was moons ago. Still, the echo of his words smolders in my thoughts.

The Mad King is dead. But wildfire does not die.

Can't believe that I'm saying this, but thanks to the Gutter rats' assistance with the simpler tasks we were able to work in silence, by night, ever watchful.

For the flames, and the men who fear them.

————————————————————————

CHATAYA'S POV

Night always smells different in King's Landing.

Day air stinks, fish rot in the harbor, smoke clings to the sky, and men sweat in the streets. But night… night carries a softer scent. Perfume and candle wax, the salt breeze from Blackwater Bay, the ghost of summer flowers crushed underfoot.

Not like home. Not like Summer.

There, air is always sweet, honey and spice, ripe fruit hanging heavy in the trees. Here, sweetness must be coaxed from the filth.

So I coax.

I run silk over my skin, scent wrists with saffron and cinnamon, brush hair smooth as river water. A goddess must look like one to be seen as one.

This is what mother taught.

Not "I", not "you". Only "this one" and "that one".

Love is not a gift of the self, it is an offering to the world, a prayer in the language of the body. To kiss, to touch, to take pleasure, these are the Gods' work. We honor Qhoredho, the Feathered Serpent, who writhes in endless ecstasy. We honor Fala N'tha, the goddess with a thousand lovers.

A bed is a temple. A body is an altar.

In Summer, a lover is a priest. In King's Landing, a lover is a whore.

Men here make no temples of their bodies, they come with shame in their eyes and curses on their tongues, hating the need that drives them to my door.

They love and hate in the same breath.

So I smile like a goddess, and they worship me like a whore.

Alayaya, my little girl, says I smile too softly. That the men do not deserve it. She scolds me the way daughters scold their mothers, a foolishness only children can afford.

"This one smiles not for them." I tell her. "This one smiles for herself."

She huffs, but I see the way her hands smooth the creases in her gown, how she dusts gold powder along her collarbone. She is her mother's daughter.

The air in my brothel always smelled of perfume and spice, a veil of sweetness draped over the rot of King's Landing.

The silk curtains, the low candlelight, the delicate music, all were carefully arranged. An illusion, like the smile of a lord with a dagger behind his back.

I moved through my temple like a queen, tall and graceful, my dark skin glowing beneath the soft lamplight. I was a Summer Islander, and the blood of gods flowed in my veins, or so I let the men believe.

Alayaya follows behind me, gathering stray silks, snuffing the wicks of half-burnt candles. She is too young to be anything more than a shadow in the corner, but the men watch her anyway. They always watch.

My grown girls flitted around me, adjusting gowns, whispering which lord had come calling, which had left too drunk to stand.

Jayde leans by the hearth, dark-eyed and silent as a shadow, humming a soft Dornish tune as she combs her fingers through Marei's golden curls. Marei kicks her legs idly, more interested in the ribbons at her feet than the song in the air.

A Lannister bastard, I recall the old rumors. 

It matters not. She is a child, my child, now, as much as any girl can be mine.

Dancy watches them from the corner of her eye, stretching her long limbs like a cat, though she's still more kitten than panther. She's not yet the woman men will one day call "graceful", now, she's just a girl, all awkward angles and tentative smiles.

These are my girls. My temple.

But the new ones…The new ones are not like them.

The Flea Bottom girls came weeks ago, ragged as beggars, smelling of onions and sweat. Children, most of them. Dirty fingers, bare feet. They flinched at every sharp sound, darted their eyes like rats expecting a boot.

Salla was the oldest, perhaps thirteen, perhaps less. She did not know her own age.

She spoke with a voice full of gravel and fear. Said the Butcher's thugs kept her scrubbing floors and washing the cookery, working until dawn before sending her away, unless they had other sorts of job for her.

"This one takes them in." I told Alayaya.

She did not understand. The girls had no coin to offer, no skills worth selling. They were not beauties to lure lords from their castles.

But they were still women, or soon would be. And what is a woman without a hand to guide her?

I gave them baths first. It took half the night to scrub the grime from their skin. Salla winced at the touch of warm water, as though gentleness itself was a pain she had forgotten.

Clothed them in simple dresses, roughspun, but clean, and let them sleep on straw pallets in the corner of the common room.

The new girls, did not whisper. They watched.

I had been wary at first, had seen too many schemes unfold in King's Landing to believe in chance.

Yet the girls were… obedient. Quiet. They worked in the kitchen, cleaned without complaint, and kept their eyes downcast.

Salla, the sharp-eyed one, kept her back straight and her mouth shut, but her gaze devoured everything: the way Alayaya danced, the tilt of Marei's chin when a man spoke, the subtle curl of Dancy's fingers when she beckoned.

She was learning. Not the ways of the temple, not yet, but the ways of survival. I noticed, though I did not speak of it. Some fires must be left to burn unseen.

When men come, I keep Salla and her lot hidden behind the curtain. They are not ready. The world will not touch them before I say so.

But still, they watch, wide-eyed, silent.

Alayaya does not trust them. "They are not like us, Mother." She says. "They will run the first chance they get."

"Perhaps," I answered. "Perhaps not."

Survival makes beasts of some, Gods of others. We shall see what these girls will become.

Then there is the man, the one who visited me a fortnight ago.

He was small, with a pointed beard and laughing eyes that never truly laugh. He spoke too softly to be heard without effort, so men lean close, and women tilt their heads. A whisper of a man.

Too useful to be dismissed, too weak to be feared.

That was how he wished to be seen. But this one knows a snake when she sees one.

"Chataya." He says, tasting my name like Arbor gold on his tongue. "What a rare pleasure to finally meet you."

He knows who I am. The dark-skinned whore from the Summer Isles, the woman who built a brothel that smells of saffron. 

Men here do remember a name when it suits them. But I know his too.

"And you are Lord Petyr Baelish." I reply, letting the words linger just long enough to draw his attention. "The new Master of Coin.

"A humble title…" He says softly. "…but I am merely a man keeping the ledgers warm until the crown finds someone more suited to the task."

As if men like Petyr Baelish ever hold a thing they do not mean to keep.

"This one thinks you are too modest, my lord." I tell him, voice smooth as honeyed wine.

"You flatter me more than you can imagine." He says with a lingering smile, sharp at the edges, like a blade pretending to be a feather. "So…as for my visit, I must say that you run your brothel with uncommon grace. I admire the… artistry."

The Master of coin does not speak of pleasure, only profit.

His gaze drifts, counting the men's glances at Alayaya, the shine of Marei's hair, the line of Dancy's neck. He studies them not as girls who will grow into women, but as wares to be measured and sold.

Then, his eyes flicker, quick as a knife, to the Flea Bottom girls hidden behind the curtain. He notices Salla's stiff spine, the hunger in her gaze.

"New blood?" He asks lightly, though his eyes gleam.

"This one takes in strays." I say simply.

"Kind of you." He replies, though there is no kindness in him.

He does not care why I shelter them. He only wonders how much they might be worth, in time.

Men like Petyr Baelish see women as coin purses, some full, some empty, but all waiting to be plucked. He is a spider building a web, and that night he laid his silk threads at my feet.

"Independence is a lovely thing." Baelish said softly, as if sharing a secret. "But does it give you strength?"

I did not flinch, though the question hung like smoke between us.

"Freedom allows me to choose." I replied, voice smooth as silk.

Baelish smiled wider. "Choice is precious, but without influence, how long before a drunken lord refuses to pay for one of your girls? Or before a rival opens their doors, offering more desperate girls for fewer coins?"

His words were like a dagger wrapped in velvet, never unsheathed, yet always felt.

"An alliance, perhaps?" He suggests, his words soft as poison. "I could invest. Expand your… temple."

He thinks himself clever, but this one is no fly to be caught.

"A temple does not serve coin." I tell him. "It serves Gods."

He only smiles wider, not really believing in the words I told him. But then again, men like him never do.

"All I ask..." He said softly, his fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against the arm of the chair. "Is that you think of it, my lady. Consider my offer."

He left not long after, a slight bow and a lingering smile, as though he had already won.

When the door clicked shut, Alayaya emerged from the curtains, arms crossed. "Will you say yes?"

"That would be foolish." I replied smoothly, reaching for a goblet of sweetwine.

My daughter arched her brow. "Then you'll say no?"

Sipping my wine and gazing into the low-burning candlelight. "That too is a dangerous answer."

Silence stretched between us, save for the faint rustle of silk and the distant laughter of a lord drunk on more than wine.

In King's Landing, a blade hidden behind a smile was still a blade.

And I had lived long enough to know that with men like Petyr Baelish, the most dangerous thing you could give them… was certainty.

————————————————————————

TOBHO MOTT'S POV

King's Landing is a city of rust.

The air tastes of salt and soot, the stone reeks of piss, and the forges along the Street of Steel churn out iron like a sow birthing a sickly litter, quick, loud, and without care.

I have walked these streets for years, my boots blackened with soot, my hands calloused from hammer and tongs. The other smiths here, good men perhaps, craft swords that will dent with a single strong blow and helms that buckle at the whisper of a mace. 

They call it steel, but I know better. It is not the fault of the iron, but the men who work it.

Their forges burn too hot or not hot enough, their quenching careless, their hands impatient. They know nothing of the songs of metal, the whispered prayers one must breathe as the blade takes shape.

In Qohor, we listen to the steel, feel the pulse of fire and shadow in its core. To shape a sword is not simply to strike it with a hammer, it is to coax the spirit from the metal, to bind heat and will into a single sharp edge.

The Street of Steel does not understand this. But I do.

My house looms above the others, timber and plaster, larger than any forge along this street of pretenders. Its upper stories watch over the narrow road, the double doors carved of ebony and weirwood, locked forever in a silent hunt. Two stone knights guard the entrance, one armored in crimson like a griffin, the other shaped like a unicorn, their helms smooth and faceless.

These are not simply decorations. They are reminders.

Qohor was a city of blood and fire long before Valyria's shadow fell upon us, and it has remained as such long after its doom. When the Black Goat howled, men learned that strength was more than muscle, and steel was more than iron. There was a language to the forge, an art older than dragons, though few know it now.

In my smithy, a cavernous stone barn behind the house, the air is thick with smoke and heat. Each corner holds a blazing forge, firelight dancing like serpents against the walls. 

Journeymen hammer at anvils, their strikes like thunder, while apprentices stoke the flames, their faces slick with sweat and soot.

I watch them closely, correcting a grip here, a quench there.

"Too fast!" I growl at Lotton, a lad too eager for his own good. "You treat the sword like a nail and wonder why it bends. Again."

The serving girls, slim and silent, move between the men, bringing water and bandages for burned fingers. 

The secret to true smithing lies not just in strength, but in knowing when to stop. When to let the metal rest. When to speak to it.

There are those in Qohor who claim this is magic, a whisper of the arcane that seeps into our work. Perhaps it is. I have seen Valyrian steel drink the light of a room, and I have felt a blade thrum in my hand like a living thing. Some call it magic. I call it craft.

A different branch of the same dark tree, perhaps, as the alchemists and their wildfire. They burn and twist, while we forge and bind. Neither of us speaks of the other, yet we are bound by a quiet, ancient knowledge. The world does not know how close magic and metal lie.

But I know.

And then there are the urchins.

They appeared after the Butcher's war, a small pack of ragged boys and girls from Flea Bottom, thin as crows and twice as hungry. At first, I thought them beggars, scurrying in the alleys behind my forge, watching the flames with wide, soot-smeared eyes. 

Then, slowly, they began to help. Carrying water. Sweeping the yard. Fetching coal. Small tasks, but done quickly, quietly.

I did not ask why they came or who sent them.

No one moves in Flea Bottom without a reason. Not since the Butcher bled his own kin in the streets. Someone had gathered these children, not a mere pack of aimless orphans, but something more… organized. As though some shadow had moved into the void the Butcher left behind and began investing in Flea Bottom's abundant labor.

A smart man, whoever he is. A cruel one too, I'd wager.

I never met the hand behind the urchins. They came and went like ghosts, and though I rarely saw the same face twice, there was always a sense of order to their work. 

Weeks passed. The children were not talented, but they were… focused. Obedient. They did not grumble over burns or blisters. They spoke little, but I saw them listening. Always listening.

Tools went missing, only to be returned sharper than before. Broken buckets were replaced without a word. They never lingered, never begged for coin or food. 

They worked, then vanished.

I noticed one boy among them more often than the rest. He told me, Darin was his name.

He never led them, he seemed too innocent for that, but the others seemed to orbit him, glancing his way for aid. 

His hair wasn't quite silver, but it had a pale sheen to it in the right light, and his eye, a single violet gem, marked him as something rare. The other eye was hidden behind cloth, and when asked, he gave a strange tale of a sickness that stole his sight as a child.

If it was a lie, it was a clever and well acted one.

So I did not press him. After all, Targaryen bastards were not so uncommon as the high lords like to pretend. They scatter like embers in the wind, some with silver hair, some with purple eyes, few with both. The boy had the look of dragonspawn, but faded, like a shadow cast by a dying flame. 

Rare, yes, but not unheard of.

He was quiet, sharp-eyed. Smarter than his ragged friends. I once saw his hand linger on the hilt of an unfinished dagger, his thumb brushing the raw edge, not testing its sharpness, but its weight, its balance. As though he wasn't thinking of what it was, but what it could be.

A strange and clever lad. 

But whoever was moving pieces in Flea Bottom was even more. This boy was a thread in a larger web, and I was not fool enough to pull at it. Some fires must be left to burn unseen.

And then there was Thoros of Myr.

A fool, but a paying fool.

He comes to me before every tourney, his sword blackened and ruined by wildfire, the blade half-melted from his show of flame. He flings it onto my table, the steel still reeking of burnt oil, and demands a new one.

"You ruin them as quickly as I make them!" I tell him each time, scowling at the warped wreck of a blade.

He laughs, a deep booming sound that smells of wine. "Then make them quicker, Tobho. Fire waits for no man."

"Nor does the coin!" I reply.

We haggle, we argue, but he always pays. And I always craft him another sword, simple, strong, cheap steel, for what is the use of art when he means only to burn it?

He is a fool, but a useful one.

I do not sell cheap work to lords. My armor is costly because it is more than mere metal, it is art.

"My work is costly!" I once told a lordling who dared question my price. "And I make no apologies for that. You will not find craftsmanship equal to mine anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you. Visit every forge in King's Landing if you like, and compare for yourself. Any village or castle smith can hammer out a shirt of mail…my work is art."

There were other forges in this city, some few might even be gifted in their own way. But there was only one Tobho Mott.

Steel remembers the fire, just as a man remembers his pride. And in this city of rust and gold, only the sharpest blades endure.

————————————————————————

PETYR BAELISH'S POV

The Eyrie was a castle in the clouds, but thanks to Jon Arryn's endless devotion to one of his foster sons, he had been caged to the cold halls of the Red Keep since the rebellion ended. 

The Hand of the King sat hunched over his desk, an old man weighed down not by the years but by the crown he did not wear.

His beard, once a river of white, seemed more like a frozen stream, stiff and brittle. The lines on his face were not the lines of a man at peace.

"Gold, Lord Baelish." He muttered, his voice soft but firm. "Robert needs more gold."

Robert always needed more gold.

The king's hunger for tournaments, feasts, and whores was bottomless. Coin vanished from the royal coffers like snow in the Dornish sun, and I was the man tasked with making the impossible seem effortless.

I smiled faintly. "The crown's debts grow fatter while the kingdom starves, my lord. I will work my usual magic, of course, but there are only so many tricks I can perform before the smallfolk notice their purses growing lighter."

Jon sighed, rubbing his temple. "It's not just Robert. …Lysa…" He trailed off.

Ah.

I leaned forward slightly, tilting my head, just enough to seem concerned. "The Lady Arryn? Is she unwell?"

He gave a tight shake of his head. "No, not unwell, only… restless."

Of course she was. A girl of twenty married to a man three times her age, the only surprise was that her restlessness hadn't boiled into something worse already.

Jon's knuckles whitened as he gripped a letter, the seal broken and forgotten. "She weeps at the slightest of things. If I do not visit her bedchamber for a night, she takes it as a slight. If I do visit, she clings to me as though I might vanish."

How sad.

I imagined Lysa, tears streaking the rouge from her cheeks, lips trembling as she begged a man old enough to be her grandfather for some scrap of affection. It would have been pathetic had it not been so useful.

I lowered my gaze, schooling my face into solemn understanding. "Marriage is often a difficult dance, my lord. Youth and age rarely step in time."

Jon said nothing.

Good. Silence was fertile ground for a man like me.

"Perhaps she misses the Vale." I offered softly. "Or merely feels lost in a city where whispers fly faster than ravens." I paused. "She always was… tender-hearted."

Jon's lips tightened. "Yes. Too tender."

I wondered how he would react if he knew how Lysa had looked at me in those days at Riverrun, not as a girl looks at childhood friend, but as a woman looks at something she wants and means to have.

He didn't.

A lord like Jon Arryn saw honor and duty. I saw everything else.

Later, in the gardens of the Red Keep, Lysa's hand clutched my arm more tightly than was proper for a married woman.

Her hair, still the color of autumn leaves, tumbled down her back, but there was a desperation to her beauty now, the powder caked a little too thickly, the rouge smeared just enough to suggest she had wiped at her face more than once today.

"You spoke to Jon." She whispered. "What did he say? Did he mention me?"

I smiled softly, the concerned confidant. "He worries for you, my lady. He thinks you might be unhappy."

Her fingers dug into my sleeve. "I am unhappy, Petyr."

I let my gaze drift over her face, the puffiness creeping into her cheeks, the slight heaviness in her jawline, and then back to her eyes, still that brittle blue, like a pond frozen over too thinly.

She wanted me to kiss her. I could see it, the way her lips parted, just a fraction, her breath shallow. The girl from Riverrun, the girl who had once passed me between her and Cat like a pretty toy, was gone.

This Lysa was a woman starved for affection and blinded by her own longing.

I did not kiss her. Not yet.

Instead, I gently placed my hand over hers. "I want only for you to be happy, Lysa."

She blinked rapidly, her mouth trembling, and I knew I'd struck the right chord.

"You're the only one who cares." She murmured, and I let her believe it.

I would always let her believe it.

————————————————————————

RHAENYS TARGARYEN'S POV

Evening crept into my chamber like a thief, silent and unwelcome. 

The flickering candlelight barely chased the shadows from the corners of the room, my prison, though I supposed I should count myself lucky to have even that small comfort.

I was alone, as I always was since that cursed night when the dragon was betrayed.

The Septa came and went, droning on about piety and obedience. The Grand Maester visited too, though never for long, a few clipped words, a scroll dropped into my lap, and a scowl when I struggled to read the letters that danced and blurred before my eyes. 

He called it an affliction, a not uncommon madness of the mind, but I knew better. It wasn't madness. It was frustration, a deep, burning frustration at being left here, forgotten, like a broken relic from a war no one wanted to remember.

Three meals a day. Permission to use the privy whenever I pleased. A gilded cage was still a cage.

A knock at the door broke the silence. Sharp. Impatient.

Knock! Knock!

"My lady, it's already getting dark. Put out the candles and go to sleep." Barked the guard outside, his voice gruff and bored.

I clenched my jaw. "Understood, ser. Have a good night!"

The sound of his snickering reached me through the door. I stuck out my tongue at the wood, a childish gesture, but all I had.

The candle's flame died with a soft hiss as I blew it out, plunging the room into darkness. My hand moved to the wardrobe by instinct. I barely needed to feel along the cracks in the stone anymore, I knew the loose piece by heart. A small tug, and the rock came free, revealing the hidden blade within.

A kitchen knife. One of two I stole last year when the cook's boy wasn't looking. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough to kill a man, if I aimed for the throat or the eyes.

They didn't let me train with a sword, not like a proper princess of House Targaryen should, but that didn't stop me. 

Every night, after the guard's footsteps faded down the hall, I practiced. Footwork. Balance. Slashing and stabbing at the empty air.

I wasn't strong, not like my mother's killer, but I didn't need to be. A giant still bled if you cut deep enough where it hurt most.

Moving with all the grace I managed to learn through several sleepless nights into the familiar darkness, blade in hand. I imagined the Mountain's face, his massive form looming before me, and struck at his throat, again and again. My arm ached, but I didn't stop.

Until—

"I do envy your view from up here, my lady. This is, after all, the second-highest room in the Red Keep." The voice came from the window. A soft, lilting tone, like silk sliding across steel.

I spun, my knife raised, every muscle in my body coiling tight. There, silhouetted against the faint light of the night sky, stood a plump, bald man. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, as though we were old friends meeting for a pleasant chat.

My heart thundered. I cast a glance at the door. Had the guard heard? Would he barge in at any moment?

"Don't trouble yourself, my lady." The man said smoothly. "Ser Mikael has… granted us a moment of privacy."

My grip on the knife tightened. "Who are you?" I hissed, keeping my voice low but firm.

"Just a loyal servant." He replied with a small smile. "The gods know how rare my kind is."

"I hate riddles!" I snapped. "Tell me your name!"

The man inclined his head, his smile never wavering. 

"Forgive me. I am Varys, Master of Whispers." His voice dripped with mock humility. "At your service, my princess."

The name hit me like a slap. Varys. The Spider. The usurper's pet rat.

My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. 

"The usurper's bitch!" I seethed. "Tell me, have you come to share the latest news of my uncle and aunt's capture? Or did you just slither in here to gloat?"

Varys' smile didn't falter. "Quite the contrary, my princess. It is only thanks to me that they still have their freedom."

I barked a bitter laugh. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"You may believe what you wish…" He said lightly, his gaze drifting over my chamber, the empty plates from dinner, the piles of books I barely touched, the rumpled sheets on my untouched bed. "But I imagine turning a blind eye to your nightly… training should count for something."

My stomach twisted. How long had he been watching me? 

I took a step closer, raising the knife just enough to remind him it was there. "What do you want from me?"

Varys tilted his head. "What I've always wanted, my princess. To serve the realm… and the true king."

"My grandfather is dead!" I said coldly. "My father got himself killed for a Northern whore. My brother was murdered while still a baby. And my uncle has been forced to flee in exile or risk meeting the same fate. There is no true king."

The words burned on my tongue, but I refused to take them back. Aside from everyone else, my father left us to die, left me to rot in this wretched tower. He didn't deserve my grief.

Varys' expression softened, though whether it was genuine or just another mask, I couldn't tell. 

"I understand your anger, my princess. Truly, I do." He paused, letting the silence stretch, then added. "But there is one thing you should know… something I thought might bring you hope."

I didn't want hope. Hope was a lie. But… 

"What?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

Varys smiled. "Your brother lives.".

"A-Aegon?" The knife nearly slipped from my fingers as my voice cracked. A tear escaped before I could stop it. "Where is he? Tell me!"

"He is safe." Varys said softly. "Hidden away, far from the usurper's grasp. He is being trained, not only as a prince but as a king. He will learn to wield a sword, to read and write, to speak many tongues. He will know hardship, labor, hunger, and fear. He is learning that kingship is not a right, it is a duty."

Aegon was alive. My brother… my baby brother… he was alive.

I swallowed back a sob. "Take me to him."

Varys' smile dimmed, almost sad. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, not for many years yet. His training must continue uninterrupted before he learns of his identity."

The words hit like a blade to the gut.

"But you are not alone, Princess Rhaenys." Varys added gently. "You have a part to play as well."

Then, from the folds of his robe, he produced a dagger.

Not a kitchen knife, a real blade, small but deadly. The pommel bore the sigil of House Targaryen. I stared at it, breathless.

"Remember my dear, nowadays winters come and go, the lion roars from time to time, and the storm is full of sound and fury that signifies nothing." Varys said softly. "To survive the Game of Thrones you have to play the cards you're dealt. One day, you and your brother will reclaim your birthright."

The dagger gleamed faintly in the candlelight, its hilt cool and smooth beneath my fingers. A proper blade at last. My hand shook ever so slightly as I traced the three-headed dragon.

Aegon lives. But I would not burden my fate to him. 

If Aegon was being shaped into a king across the sea, I would shape myself into something just as dangerous here, a queen in all but name. Let Aegon raise his army in exile, I would prepare the ground for his return.

I lifted my gaze to Varys.

"You've known for some time that my brother lived." I said, my voice steady. "And yet you chose to tell me now. Why?"

Varys offered one of his small, tight smiles. "Because now, my princess, you are ready to hear it."

I met his eyes. "Teach me."

His head tilted. "Teach you, my lady?"

I stepped closer, the dagger at my side. "I want to learn your kind of power, the power of whispers."

For a moment, Varys said nothing. Then he smiled.

"Then, my princess." He said softly. "We shall begin."

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

A small army of tomcats darted around me as I slipped back into the shadows of Flea Bottom, their obedience sharper than ever.

The once wild and vicious, were now obedient shadows at my feet, responding to simple commands, their feral nature dulled by daily discipline. 

A few rats and doves, too, returning day after day, more receptive to my will.

Magic was a cheat code, and Animal Friendship had worked wonders to boost my understanding of Animal Handling.

It was ridiculous for now, training cats like a madman, but it was a start. If I could make a dozen cats dance at my will, what was stopping me from taming beasts far larger?

Hunting hounds. Warhorses. Direwolves.

What about Dragons? Or even Giants?

If they were simple enough creatures, just flesh and instinct, no matter how large, then why not? The world was a forge, and I was the smith.

And it wasn't just beasts I sought to master.

Father had announced a tournament for my upcoming nameday, an excuse to appoint me a sworn shield and another opportunity to shatter the tedium of ruling. He thought of it as a game, a spectacle.

I thought of it as an opportunity.

There was only one man I wanted as my shield, Sandor Clegane.

He was the perfect candidate: 

Strong. Practical. Loyal only to his own survival. Most importantly, a man who would endure Joffrey for years in the books. If the Hound could stomach him, he could surely tolerate me, at least long enough for me to use him.

And beyond the Hound… there was Tywin.

I'd finally manipulated Pycelle into sending a message to the Lord of Casterly Rock, carefully planting the idea that fostering me at Casterly Rock was, of course, his own brilliant suggestion. A clever Crown Prince among lions. Tywin would see it as a move to strengthen his family's position in the game of thrones.

Let him scheme. Let him think he was molding me into his perfect king. By the time Tywin Lannister realized what I truly was, what I was building, it would be too late.

Because magic wasn't just something I dabbled in. I was mastering it.

For I have always been a good listener. A quiet child, polite and unassuming, with eyes that never missed a detai. It only felt natural for me to use that to my advantage.

Infiltration wasn't something a prince should need, yet here I was, slipping through the cracks of King's Landing like smoke through a chimney at Chataya's brothel.

Never through the front door. That would be idiotic.

The chimney was my route, sliding down with the soot like a shadow. Other times, I folded myself into forgotten spaces: behind a seldom-used curtain, beneath floorboards that groaned but never broke.

The art of seduction was just a fraction of what happened within those walls. Chataya's was a neutral ground for whispers and schemes, where secrets were exchanged like coin and alliances sealed over wine-stained lips.

And my cult of the Stranger, those I had scattered within, were sharpening too, learning subtlety and charm.

Then there was Arren, my first disguise.

A ghost at the Alchemist's Guild, a one-eyed boy with a scarred face and a right eye the color of a dull sky. Black hair draped over my face like a curtain, an improvised eyepatch hiding the supposedly empty socket.

Hallyne barely noticed me, no more than I allowed him to in order to lay the seeds for a future tutorship. To the alchemists, I was just another lowborn apprentice scrubbing cauldrons and fetching jars of green death. They were too preoccupied with wildfire and ancient formulas to pay me any real mind.

But even while working, I was listening.

Listening to muttered secrets about binding magic to matter. To whispers of blood spells etched into stone, glass candles that blazed with unnatural light, and formulas so ancient only the eldest dared to study them.

I read when I could, fingers tracing glyphs on forgotten Valyrian scrolls, sorting madness from myth, searching for a single spark of truth.

Details of wildfire's nature. Lists of rare reagents. And, most interesting of all, hints at how arcane formulas could be bound to objects, imbuing them with power.

Alchemy, in its rawest form, was but a cousin to magical item crafting, two sides of the same, twisted coin.

I memorized the runes. Not all of them made sense, yet, but I would unravel them.

And then there were the planes.

Most of the alchemists' talk was tangled nonsense, but thanks to the knowledge of my past life, I caught the threads they couldn't. Speculations about the Realm of Fire, where R'hllor's priests drew their power, the ancient Weirwood net once used by the children of the forest, and the murky plane of shadow and negative energy slipping between worlds.

And so much more. Half fantasy, half forgotten science, but always a pattern. Faint, but there.

And when Arren slipped back into the streets of King's Landing at night, another boy emerged, Darin. A one-eyed, silver-haired bastard, his left eye a glimmering amethyst beneath hair kissed by ash and smoke.

Valyrian enough to draw Tobho's curiosity, but not enough to make him ask dangerous questions. The man had the eyes of a hawk but the patience of a smith, sharp when it mattered, yet dismissive of what seemed irrelevant. Like me.

Arren listened and read. Darin watched and mimicked.

When I wasn't blending with the orphans Tobho allowed to sweep the floors, I was watching how he folded steel, how he worked the Qohorik secrets into the blade's very essence. 

How his hands danced over the anvil, his movements precise as if each strike of the hammer was a spell in itself. I studied the runes woven into the master's prized blades, felt for the faint pulse of magic bound to the steel. 

More than once, I "borrowed" a tool, a small hammer, and a pair of tongs, inspecting them in secret before returning them without notice. At first I didn't yet have the means to replicate his work, but I was finally learning.

It wasn't just about learning a craft, it was about understanding how magic bled into the world. How fire became wildfire. How steel drank blood and grew stronger. How magic didn't just exist, it was built.

And somewhere between Hallyne's mutterings and Tobho's hammer strokes, something inside me clicked.

It wasn't sudden, mind you, not a bolt of lightning or a flash of dragonfire, but a slow, grinding shift, like two great gears finally locking into place. 

[PING!]

A sound I had grown too familiar with, yet this time… it felt heavier.

[QUEST COMPLETED!]

[THE BEST TEACHERS ARE THOSE WHO SHOW YOU WHERE TO LOOK BUT DON'T TELL YOU WHAT TO SEE!]

[CONDITION: Find yourself at least two extraordinary teachers in any skill or tool of your choice that has ties to the Arcane (2/2)]

[REWARD: Unlock another class.]

So that's what it took me to unlock my next class, not just training or surviving, but tearing apart the pieces others hoard like Lannisters with their gold.

Still…Another class. I didn't realize how much I craved those words until I saw them.

[PING!]

[NEW CLASS ACQUIRED!]

[IN THE WORLD OF MAGIC, EVERYONE SEEKS GREAT AND POWERFUL MAGICAL ITEMS, BUT SOMEBODY HAS TO MAKE THEM. ALCHEMISTS, ARCANE INVENTORS, RUNE SMITHS POURING OVER THEIR ANVILS — THE TINKERS, CREATORS, AND ENGINEERS THAT CHANGE THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT.]

About time.

Hallyne hoards his wildfire formulas like they're dragon eggs, and Tobho guards his Qohorik secrets like the last ember of magic in the world. 

They seemed to believe magic was something you lock away or sell to those with sufficient gold, I saw it as something you wielded to attain ultimate power.

[YOU ARE NOW AN ARTIFICER!]

The words burned behind my eyes like wildfire, a flash of raw, undeniable magic. And just like that, the fragments I'd gathered, the alchemists' transmutations, the smith's enchantments, merged into a whole.

It was a science. Magic wasn't abstract anymore like drawing from divine inspiration or raw nature, it was a language, a code waiting to be cracked, a formula that could be bent and broken and reshaped.

The weight of that title settled in my chest like a spark catching fire.

I skimmed the new abilities flooding into my mind, the sudden understanding of how to weave magic into objects, the way a mere tool could become something more.

[CLASS FEATURES — ARTIFICER (Rank D-)]

Tool Proficiency available: Tinker's Tools

Glad to see that my days invested in fidgeting with scraps and some of Tobho's tools have finally paid off.

Skill Proficiencies available: Arcana, Medicine, Nature. Select 1.

Another easy pick.

[SKILL PROFICIENCY GAINED: ARCANA]

The nonsense the alchemists spouted about glass candles, shadowbinders, and the art of waking stone wasn't nonsense anymore, it was an incomplete cipher.

The properties of wildfire, the strange bond Valyrian steel shared with magic, the runes hidden in both Tobho's metalwork and Hallyne's scrolls, they all connected. 

They were steps on a ladder. One I intended to climb.

And why stop at small creations?

If I could master the art of binding magic to steel, then what stopped me from one day crafting more than just enchanted daggers or glowing rings? What stopped me from binding magic to something bigger? 

Fraying threads of a greater weave.

*ARCANE HALFCASTER (Rank D-): You have learned how to channel magical energy through objects. 

[NEW CANTRIPS LEARNED! GUIDANCE // TRUE STRIKE // MENDING]

The first time I cast Guidance, I half-expected some dramatic flare of magic, a glow around my hands, maybe a whisper in the wind. 

But no, it was… quieter. Stranger. The moment my fingers brushed my own wrist, the world stretched. Suddenly, I wasn't just standing there, I was seeing flickers of what could happen. If I took a step left, I might avoid a creaky floorboard, if I leaned my weight just right, my grip would be firmer, if I chose the right words, I could dance closer to a lie without slipping. 

It didn't hand me the answers, it was more like… a subtle pull toward better odds. A minute of hyper-focus where the chaos of possibility sharpened into something I could almost grasp. Almost. Because just knowing the odds didn't guarantee I'd beat them, it just meant I could feel how close I was to failing.

True Strike was… faster. More violent. A snap of awareness, less than a breath, where the world cut itself into perfect angles and precise movements. I wasn't guessing how my blade would swing or how my enemy might dodge, I knew. 

For one heartbeat, I could feel how the dagger's weight shifted in my grip, how my stance would tilt if I put too much pressure on my back foot, how the target in front of me would flinch before it even realized it was moving. 

It wasn't a plan, it was clarity, like the strike had already happened in some unseen future, and I was simply catching up to it and making sure I didn't botch it. 

Mending was slower magic, deliberate, patient, the kind of spell that didn't demand power but precision. I whispered the words over a torn scrap of cloth and pressed the broken halves of a rusted gear together. 

The magic didn't spark or hum, it seeped into the break, as if I were simply reminding the world how things were supposed to be. The rip in the cloth closed without a trace, the gear's fracture faded like it had never been there. 

There was no fanfare, no grand display, just a quiet, effortless correction. And when the magic faded, it left no mark behind. 

Almost disappointing, really. The world didn't seem to care that I'd reshaped it to my will.

[NEW SPELLS LEARNED! DETECT MAGIC AND PURIFY FOOD AND DRINK]

Figuring out what a Ritual spell was… that was a revelation. 

At first, I thought all magic drained me for a day, a spark of power from some unseen well inside me. But rituals? They were different. No rush, no sudden burn of energy, just a slow, methodical unweaving of the world's rules. 

It was magic without cost, if you had the time to spare. 

Almost ten minutes of carefully tracing invisible lines in the air, repeating words until they almost lost meaning, and then the magic would click into place. 

It wasn't about raw power, it was about patience. I didn't have to spend my magic to make it work. I could take the long road and keep my strength for when I really needed it. 

The thought was… comforting. And dangerous. Because the longer I practiced, the more I realized time and secrecy were often more valuable than raw strength.

For the first time I performed Detect Magic as a ritual, it felt like peeling a layer off reality. Long minutes of whispered words and drawn symbols in my chamber, every second an agonizing risk, a passing servant, a hidden spy, one of Varys' birds lurking just out of my blindsight. 

But when the spell finally took hold… It was like opening my eyes for the first time. The world wasn't just stone and wood anymore, it breathed. 

Faint auras pulsed at the edges of objects, the lingering alchemical traces in my Tinker's Tools, the faint glimmer from the Valyrian steel dagger I had with me at all times. 

It wasn't blinding, more like a soft glow, as if magic was a thin mist hanging over everything. And the moment I stopped concentrating, the world went back to normal, solid and still, leaving me wondering if I'd imagined it all.

Finally, Purify Food and Drink felt… practical. Less like bending the rules of the world and more like correcting them. 

I tested it on a rotting apple and a waterskin that reeked of something sour. Several minutes of deliberate focus, words that felt more like an alchemist's formula than a spell, and then, it was done. 

No flash of light, no burst of magic, just… fixing what was broken. The apple's skin smoothed, the stench of spoiled water vanished, and what remained was clean, untouched, as though time itself had reversed, pulling both items back to the moment before they began to decay. 

It wasn't a miracle, it was a method. The spell didn't create anything new, it simply undid the damage. Basic alchemy, transmutation in its simplest form. But simple didn't mean useless. 

It was a glimpse into what could be, if I ever learned to push further, to reshape not just rot, but reality itself.

[NEW ABILITY: TINKER'S MAGIC (Rank D-)]

*Your mastery of assembling pieces into something useful has evolved into something extraordinary. By channeling a touch of magic into your craft, you can create simple, functional items out of whatever scraps you may have at your disposal.

Scraps into something useful? Hmm. 

It started small. A bent nail, a shard of broken glass, a strip of leather, useless on their own. But when I focused, when I willed them to work together, something shifted. 

It was like threading invisible strings through the pieces, pulling them into place, not with logic or skill alone, but with a spark of raw intent. The nail straightened just enough, the glass dulled at the edges, and the leather tightened like a hinge.

A crude lockpick. Barely functional, but functional all the same.

The magic didn't roar to life like a spell, no crackling fire or blinding light. It whispered. Quiet, practical, efficient. Less about summoning magic and more about maneuvering it into form, like heating steel until it bends.

I tested it again, a few rusted nails and a torn piece of cloth in Tobho's forge. With a bit of focus, the cloth wound itself into a makeshift pouch, the nails twisting into a clumsy clasp. 

A few pebbles and a strip of leather? Ball bearings. A broken mug and a bit of twine? A crude bell. It wasn't just about what I had, it was about how I saw it. 

A sack from scraps, a net from frayed rope, a candle from a chunk of wax and a bit of thread.

But they didn't last. That was the catch.

By the next day, the magic faded, the pouch fell apart, the ball bearings crumbled to dust, and the candle melted into a worthless lump of wax. It was temporary, a cheat, like patching a torn boot with spit and hope.

Still… that was enough.

A lockpick didn't need to last a lifetime, just long enough to open a door. A rope only had to hold until you made the climb. Magic was about utility, not permanence.

And when I opened my hand again to see the last remnants of a quickly-forged crowbar dissolving into scraps, a thought settled in my mind like a slow-burning ember.

I wasn't just using magic anymore. I was building it.

————————————————————————

TITLE: CROWN PRINCE // SMALL HUMAN, NEUTRAL]

[LEVEL: 4 // PROFICIENCY BONUS: +2]

[CLASS: ASSASSIN C // BARD D // FIGHTER D // HUNTER D+ // ARTIFICER D-]

[HP: 8 // ARMOR CLASS: 11 (PADDED ARMOR)]

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

[PRIMAL POINTS: 3 (MAX TIER: 1)]

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

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[TRAITS: …Tinker's Magic]

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

*(EXP) ATHLETICS: +3

[DEX: 9 (-1) // CHILD'S BODY PENALTY (+1 Ability Score Pending) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+1)]

*(EXP) ACROBATICS: +3

*(PRO) SLEIGHT OF HAND: +1

*(EXP) STEALTH: +3 

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

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

*(PRO) ARCANA: +5

*(PRO) HISTORY: +5

*(PRO) INVESTIGATION: +5

*NATURE: +4

*RELIGION: +4

[WIS: 15 (+2)]

*ANIMAL HANDLING: +3

*(EXP) INSIGHT: +6

*MEDICINE: +3

*(EXP) PERCEPTION: +6

*(EXP) SURVIVAL: +6

[CHA: 18 (+4)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +8

*INTIMIDATION: +5

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +8

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +6

[TOOLS: …TINKER'S TOOLS]

[CANTRIPS: FRIENDS // VICIOUS MOCKERY // SHILLELAGH // THORN WHIP // MENDING // GUIDANCE // TRUE STRIKE]

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

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

[FIRST TIER ARCANE SPELLS: DETECT MAGIC // PURIFY FOOD AND DRINK]

————————————————————————

(31/08/2020)

(30/09/2021)

(07/04/2022)

(01/01/2025)

*Hope this chapter is of your liking. 

Anything you wish to ask, feel free to do so.

Check out my auxiliary chapter if you still haven't.

Thanks as always for your attention and please be safe.

Any problems with my writing, just point them out and I will correct them as soon as possible.