Chapter 10 - Start of the Festivities and the Prince’s Name Day

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

Following the staircase, I noticed how it curved upward, its black stone slick with faint silver runes. They pulsed beneath my feet, not with menace, but recognition, as if the dungeon itself acknowledged my right to ascend.

The top of the stairs opened into a vast circular chamber, silent and still as a tomb.

Blinking in amazement as I stepped forward, torchlight bloomed from sconces embedded in the walls, illuminating the space in a steady, golden glow. Every flame danced without wind, perfectly still.

I didn't understand how this place actually sustained itself, but I couldn't argue with the breathtaking sight above. Mosaic tiles arranged into a massive map of Westeros across the ceiling. The three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen spiraled at its edges, wings spread wide around the continents.

No dust here. No decay. Only polished obsidian tiles beneath my boots, etched with flowing Valyrian glyphs that shimmered like rivers of quicksilver. The chamber walls curved inward like the shell of a great egg, veined with recessed lines, dormant conduits, slumbering still.

The air here felt ancient. Not stale, no, it was too pure for that, but reverent, as though every breath might disturb the ghosts of those who'd once tread similar paths.

And in the center, as if placed on an altar, stood a large treasure chest with six Returning Stones orbiting it like a halo of stars.

I approached cautiously, my eyes narrowing.

The chest's hinges bore the rippled texture of folded metal, glimmering faintly with enchantment. It was unmistakable, Valyrian steel, paired with the dark, fossil-like sheen of dragonbone. A piece of history, reforged into something far more valuable than gold.

Still, I wasn't about to throw caution to the wind, so I quickly nocked my last arrow and fired.

CLANK!

The arrow bounced harmlessly off. No teeth. No maw. Just silence.

'Heh. Had to make sure it wasn't a Mimic.' I muttered, thinking back to more than a few Dark Souls trauma dumps.

I stepped forward, knelt, and placed both hands on the lid. It was cool to the touch, heavy, resistant, but it yielded to me. My shadow fell across its gleaming contents just as the six Returning Stones dissolved midair, spiraling downward into streaks of raw magic, coalescing into form.

A notification ping echoed, like the tolling of crystal against flame.

[RETURNING STONES REDEEMED.]

[TREASURE CLAIMED: 6/7]

I didn't even flinch. 

Yeah, the stone I'd used had saved my life. Losing a treasure in exchange for breathing? Totally worth it in my books. So you would get no bitterness from me.

One by one, I reached out and took hold of what was mine.

[VALYRIAN STEEL SHORTSWORD]

I drew the blade, and believe it or not but the room actually dimmed slightly.

The steel drank in the light, no shine, no gleam, just a hungry, flawless black. It felt weightless in my hand, balanced like it was made for me.

I gave it a slow swing through the air, clean, silent. And yet, I could feel the resistance cut away like paper.

Compared to it, even the best castle-forged blades or most of Mott's work felt somewhat crude. 

Forged in what I believe to be Old Valyria, or reforged from another piece of the magical metal, it bears no name. Its hilt is plain, Dragonbone wrapped in black dragonhide, its pommel devoid of any kind of heraldry.

Surprisingly, this wasn't even the most impressive of my rewards.

[ENDURING VALYRIAN CODEX]

Bound in dragonhide, clasped with blackened steel, the tome pulsed faintly with contained power. The crest of the Valyrian Freehold marked its cover, proud and untamed.

I flipped it open and immediately felt something click, a thread tugging at my mind. High Valyrian script flowed like liquid fire across the pages.

Arcane principles, glyph-weaving diagrams, elemental resonance theories… all laid out with surgical precision.

This wasn't myth. This wasn't some mystic's ramblings I suspect I would find being hidden by the Maesters at the Citadel.

It was science. Far more refined, if not a bit too theoretical, to what I've learned from Tobho Mott and Hallyne.

Half the book remained blank, but the pages were spellbound, resistant to age, decay, and tampering. I could feel it waiting for my discoveries, as if daring me to fill it.

Challenge accepted.

[ALCHEMY JUG]

A strange, sturdy and unmarked ceramic jug, capped with a cork.

As I shook it, I noticed how it sloshed. But once I uncorked it, I found nothing. Yet it felt full. Full of possibility. Very similar to my Handy Spice Pouch.

Yeah… I'd be playing with this one later. 

[MAGE'S BRACERS]

Twin bands of silver, shaped like serpent-like dragons devouring their own tails. The moment I touched them, they thrummed, vibrations I felt in my bones.

After a brief moment of experiencing them, I noticed how it seemed to speed up the casting of my Cantrips.

Right now, at best that meant True Strike, but I had plans. Oh, I had so many plans.

[MASK OF THE CHANGELING]

White porcelain, featureless… yet unnerving.

I turned it over in my hands, and felt something watching me. Before I could second guess it, I pressed it to my face.

The change was instant. No light. No sound. Just shift.

The mask bonded to my skin, molding to my thoughts. My reflection in the obsidian tile stared back, taller, leaner, older. A different face, a different voice. With a flicker of will, I morphed again.

A girl with silver hair. A bearded old man. A sellsword. A squire. A White Walker, or at least how they were depicted in the TV Show.

It wasn't an illusion. It was deeper than that. My skin became a lie. My voice changed. Even my bones adjusted.

The only restrictions were my clothing and equipment, that still left a clue of who I really was. That and how my stats didn't change, regardless of how tall and how bulky I made myself appear.

Honestly, it really reminded me of the character creation in Skyrim which stole several if not hundreds of hours from my previous life every time I wanted to make another character.

A whisper filled my mind in some ancient tongue, soft as breath. 'Be who you must, or who they need you to be.'

And right then, I understood its true gift, it wasn't a mere disguise, but free freedom to continue playing the game however I wanted to.

Sure, I could make myself a couple of years younger in order to avoid drawing suspicion from everyone who noticed how much I had grown in a single night.

But if I ever grew tired of being me, as ludicrous as that might sound, I was merely a disposed body away from assuming another identity.

Regardless, for now that was neither here nor there, so I continued to appraise the rest of my rewards.

[MARK OF HOLDING]

A medieval syringe with a needle, filled with starlight ink.

For some reason, I immediately held the needle to the skin of my chest, pressing the needle there for what felt like a long while. 

When the process was complete, the needle's ink produced a tattoo, which appeared as a grinning face, etched in colors. Then… gone.

[INVENTORY FEATURE UNLOCKED!]

I was admittedly surprised at that. 

'Inventory?' I asked out loud and suddenly a brown box appeared in front of me. I then saw that this new box was labeled inventory. 'Duh.'

It had several empty boxes and something told me I would need all of them. 

Slowly staring down at my collection of treasures which I couldn't risk having anyone else to find, with the inventory box in front of me. I took out one of them and then pressed it against the box pushing it forward. 

Golden ripples appeared in the box and the Alchemy Jug disappeared from my hands and reappeared in the inventory labeled as such. 

[12/500 LB]

'Oh yeah!' I couldn't help myself from letting out an excited smile. 'This was going to come in handy!'

After storing what I wasn't equipping, I immediately noticed how the location of the Red Keep lit up on that map over in the ceiling, it just dawned on me that I still had several castles with their own Instant Dungeons to explore.

Oh, boy.

Soon after, a section of the wall shifted before me, in the opposite direction where the stairs from the Dungeon's boss brought me. 

A massive archway, the size of a wall gate, carved directly into the obsidian. Its frame was ringed with glyphs. At its center I saw only stillness, its surface like black mercury, unmoving, awaiting command.

[PORTAL NODE: DORMANT]

[CONNECTED TO: RED KEEP]

A breath caught in my throat once I saw an object spawning right before me.

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

[MAGICAL KEY FOR GAINING ACCESS TO AN INSTANT DUNGEON! AT THE MOMENT THERE ARE NO NEAR ENTRANCES THAT CAN BE FOUND]

It was a key, slender and apparently made of crystal, very similar to the one that put me in this path of dungeon delving.

Despite all the pain and near death experiences this first dungeon put me through, I was beyond excited to keep getting stronger.

For now, before finally returning to the real world, to attend my own Name Day tournament, I still had some interest in staying around and exploiting the time difference between here and outside.

Looking around the chamber, I was already plotting. With the right materials, this could be my sanctum, my forge, my lab, my war room, my escape.

And with the maze itself of this entire dungeon, my own personal kingdom.

Yeah. This place had potential.

————————————————————————

Finally, after years of being caged by it, time now bent to my will here.

The world outside waited, still and unknowing, while I carved days into weeks, weeks into something else. 

I wasn't hungry, not really, not when I had my Goodberries, the Alchemy Jug, and the Handy Spice Pouch. Not when I learned to roast rat meat with honey, oil, and a pinch of saffron like it was a feast. Taking meals apart, to test what happened when I paired sweet with bitter, salt with pepper, fat with heat. 

It quickly became a ritual for me. Hunt in the maze, roast, season, stash the excess into my Inventory until I had dozens of rations, all better than most meals served to squires in the Red Keep.

I turned sustenance into science. 

Poison was at first too limited in output to be truly reliable, half an ounce a day, barely enough to coat a dagger. Until I discovered a way to stash it away at my Inventory easy for me to grab whenever I needed it.

As for acid, it made locks hiss open to deactivate traps and rat carcasses melt into bones. Oil and flame were tools too, but it still didn't compare to what I could do once I got my hands in some Glass Pots of Wildfire.

With the Alchemy Jug, I could plan meals and mayhem.

But when I wasn't cooking, I was also cutting.

The Valyrian Steel shortsword had a name now. Not one I spoke aloud not even in my thoughts, but one I felt. The blade called for motion, fast, decisive, sharp. Not like a longsword's brute grace that required stronger hands to be wielded properly, this was the tool of an assassin, a duelist, a ghost. 

The Valyrian Steel dagger I had found long before it was smaller still, needed less balance, more intent. It hummed differently, sang when drawn in a tight arc, when held in reverse grip. In my off-hand, it whispered of throat-slitting and backstabbing.

Magical Steel was good, but precision was better.

I kept casting True Strike again and again in rapid succession, relying on my Mage's Bracers to keep it flowing. The cantrip itself wasn't flashy, just a shimmer in my focus, a hush before the lunge, but it now finally made me confident in fighting my opponent head on. 

It taught me the rhythm, to wait, cast, step and finally strike. Like a metronome dictating the flow of my dance.

Sometimes I practiced with my eyes closed, feeling over form through my Blindsight. Sometimes with a blindfold, sometimes in pitch black. I started to more clearly see attacks before I made them. 

Not prophecy, just preparation.

And when I wasn't training in steel, I was training in selves. The Mask of the Changeling shifted with thought and touch. I learned how to pull not just the faces of those I've ever laid my sight on over my bones, but also their essence.

Robert came first, easy to mimic, the weight in his walk, the slur in his vowels, the stance that betrayed his still present inhuman strength. I paced like him, drank like him, laughed like him until the echo nearly turned my stomach.

Jaime was harder. He walked like he owned every room, chin tilted just so. The mask let me wear his face, but not his pride. That took study and posture.

Barristan moved like a ghost, always still, always ready. His voice was steady, his presence like granite. I tried him only a few times, but I still felt unworthy.

Tobho Mott and Hallyne were subtler. The way Tobho pinched his brow when he thought, how his speech slowed when he was dealing with any noble trying to haggle his price. The way Hallyne's hands trembled when he spoke too fast to his fellow alchemists, how he hid fear behind flamboyance whenever the subject of their Guild's current state was brought up. 

I copied all their ticks, their tones. Practiced entire conversations, monologues, arguments. If I ever needed to wear any of these men's skins, I would do so seamlessly.

That is, if I ever managed to reliably get the appropriate clothes and equipment necessary to corroborate with my act.

Incidentally, the Enduring Valyrian Codex remained… resistant. I could read it…but truly understanding its depths was another thing. Sometimes, I could even swear that the ink moved when I wasn't looking.

Still, progress came. 

Arcane theory, metallurgical rites, fragments of conjuration and warding rituals. Took me some time to understand that it was no mere book, but a seed to a higher understanding. Each time I turned the pages and read the same segment for who knows how many times, more meaning bloomed. It didn't want to teach me, but to test me. 

But knowledge was patient, and so was I. For I did not tire, but kept sharpening myself instead.

By the end of that first month, I wasn't just stronger, I was shaped. Like a blade drawn from the forge and dipped in cold oil. Quenched, if the word fitted.

Unfortunately, despite my ability to alter my flesh, I suspected that I still aged beneath my Mask. But even time, I realized, could be negotiated, not forever, but just enough.

The Valyrian Codex wouldn't yield its deepest truths yet, but it had taught me enough. Enough to begin experimenting with what I assumed I had finally grasped. Even if just for common things, barely more magical than a clever lie.

Still, there was power in lies and so I started with scent.

It began as a joke. I'd already taken to wearing different faces while mimicking courtly pleasantries, lords and ladies, knights and squires, all of them dancing around the truth behind a mask of charm.

But charm, I realized, was a spell in and of itself. I had felt it every time I cast my Friends cantrip, that gentle pressure behind the eyes, the soft shimmer that laced a voice with honey. It wasn't real friendship, but it was close enough to pass.

So I tried to bottle it.

It took trial and error. Not just in the scraps of alchemy I had picked up from watching and reading, but in emotion. I crushed herbs known to stir memory, lavender, red mint, a drop of clove oil for heat. 

Then I turned to my stockpile, the magical fungus harvested from Dungeon depths, a few flakes of Specter Dust mixed into the base to help veil the enchantment, and a single trace of Wraith Dust dissolved into honeyed alcohol to bind the effect to the user's presence.

Into a phial no bigger than a coin, I sealed the brew. One whiff made me feel just a little warmer, a little more seen. Not magic in itself, not yet.

Then I brought out my Tinker's Tools, not hammers and anvils, but needles, clamps, precision vials, and fine wire loops. The gear of a magician disguised as a medieval craftsman. 

I siphoned in a sliver of raw arcane essence, channeled through my tools, and then…finally…I wove the faintest echo of the Friends enchantment into the liquid.

It finally clicked all together.

[YOU'VE SUCCESSFULLY CRAFTED 10 DOSES OF PERFUME OF BEWITCHING!]

A smile in a bottle. Deception without detection. 

Granted, it only worked on the weak-willed, but so did most things in this world.

And after scent came insight.

True Strike had become more than a crutch. It was a companion, a pulse of certainty to compensate for my physical shortcomings, a narrowing of possibilities into one inevitable point of contact.

But in some fights, I had luck stacked against me. And I needed that clarity, not later, not with time to think, but now. So I tried to cheat the balance of things.

I melted scraps of silver wire with the precision heat of my alchemical torch, twisting the softened strands into delicate curls. Clear quartz, harvested from Dungeon-cracked stone I found almost a year ago, served as the core. 

Into each I etched a tiny eye, no larger than a tear. And inside, where no one could see, I layered a dusting of Remnants, cold spectral residue from defeated shades, trapped like memory in glass.

I shaped them into pendants no bigger than my thumbnail, light enough to conceal at my throat or wrists. Each one linked to a tiny sliver of my own experience, the muscle memory of every moment I had paused to strike just right.

The enchantment was simple, crude even, just a single-use reroute per day. If a blow faltered despite all odds, the pendant would nudge it. Not toward brilliance, but just as my Reliable Talent did for my skills and tools, toward adequacy.

A floor, not a ceiling.

[YOU'VE SUCCESSFULLY CRAFTED 5 PENDANTS OF HINDSIGHT!]

They would not make me sharper. But they would make me steadier. And sometimes, that was more than enough.

Aside from easily impressing nobles and peasants, neither magic item would impress the likes of Tobho Mott, nor the Alchemists, nor even a hedge wizard…as much as that wounded my pride.

But they worked. And more than anything, they were mine.

I began making more of them in the following weeks, perhaps to trade for something else equally as valuable, perhaps to gift someone that did my bidding, perhaps just to see if I could replicate the feeling. 

And so I kept mixing, etching and tinkering. 

It was strange, addictive in its own way. Not just to use magic… but to make it. To pull something permanent from the ephemeral.

Each item became a mark I would leave on the world but also a whisper of the deeper magic still out of reach.

And though I had miles to go before I'd match Tobho Mott… or the Alchemist… much less the ancient forgers of Old Valyria…The first spark had caught.

[PING!]

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ARTIFICER (RANK D)]

[Replicate Magic Item: You have learned arcane plans that you use to make magic items with your Tinker's Tools.]

Finally! The spark didn't just catch, it took root!

I felt it like a click behind the eyes, a piece of the world shifting into place.

The glyphs and diagrams I've been only playing with weren't abstract anymore. They were blueprints, possibilities, orders waiting to be built. It was like the System had finally stopped mocking me for not dedicating enough time with my Artificer work and finally started to speak.

[KNOWN INFUSIONS AVAILABLE (4/4):]

[Goggles of Night]

[Sending Stones]

[Repeating Shot]

[Returning Weapon]

[INFUSION LIMIT: 2 ACTIVE]

[Select Two Infusions to Maintain through Arcane Calibration until your next Long Rest.]

I didn't hesitate.

Goggles of Night, a practical necessity. Darkvision without draining my magic reserves, without wasting points on a spell that had always to be up to make the best use of it. 

Sending Stones, because information is a weapon, and communication is control. If I could keep in touch with an ally, or manipulate a pawn from a distance, even across kingdoms, with just a few words? That was power. That was leverage only greenseers or glass candles could compare to.

The other two could wait. 

Repeating Shot was promising, runic reloading for crossbolts, a magical enhancement to keep the shots flowing. Would have to wait and see how much of a great job Tobho Mott would do with the Dragonbone hand crossbow I'd commissioned from him.

And Returning Weapon was poetry in motion. The thought of hurling my Valyrian Steel dagger and having it reappear back into my hand like a trained hawk made something in me ache with want.

But they weren't essential. Not yet. So I immediately locked the first two in. 

The arcane patterns etched themselves into memory, not just my mind but my body, my fingers twitched with the rhythm of glyphs, muscle memory laying down new tracks, instinctually reaching for tools I'd never quite known how to use until now.

Pulling out from my pouch two smooth, flat Dragonbone pieces I'd picked up from the work I had to bring the necessary material for Tobho Mott to work with, and had never really found any proper use for them until now. Nothing more than polished pebble-like pieces at a glance, but they hummed in my hand now, reacting to the current flowing through me.

I etched them slowly, runes tight and delicate, forming mirrored sigils on each surface. I used the soldering tip of my Valyrian Steel dagger enchanted with a fragment of residual magical ingredients that I still had available, dragging arcs of raw energy along the two pieces like a painter with liquid silver. 

Whispering as I worked, feeding it will, intention, connection. Not just magic, but meaning. When I pressed the two together, they pulsed in tandem, just once, and I knew they were bound. No matter the distance, they would speak.

Next, the goggles.

I scavenged lenses from a broken spyglass I had never replaced in my Thieve's tools, cracked but salvageable. Fused them to a wire frame, then wrapped the bridge with worn leather and riveted it with bits of brass pulled from discarded pieces of traps from the Instant Dungeon's maze that I've broken apart. 

The enchantment came last, two arcane sigils etched into the inside of the lenses, one to filter light, the other to translate shadow into shape. I sealed them with a drop of my own blood mixed with shadow black ink, the way I once heard Tobho bragging to one of his apprentices that the Qohorik did when binding sight into steel.

When I slipped them over my eyes after finding a dark section of the Dungeon, the world didn't just go dark once I opened my eyes, it revealed itself just as it did with my Darkvision spell. 

The pitch-black of the dungeon walls shifted into a sharp grayscale, every edge and surface painted with crisp clarity. I blinked, and something in me aligned, like these had always been mine, just waiting to be built.

Now, about my new spell…

It wouldn't grant me the victory in a duel. It didn't even make me stronger, faster, or more resistant to anything that could hurt me. But Disguise Self? It was liberation. Not from danger, but from inconvenience.

I'd already come as close as I could get with mastering the physical shift of hair, eye, posture and height, without testing myself against the perception of others. 

But clothes? Equipment? That had always been a problem from day-one of me putting on the Mask of the Changeling. 

No one would believe a common boy in silks or a lordling in mud-stained rags. Even the sharpest face faltered when paired with the wrong costume.

Now, finally, I could fix that.

[-2 ARCANE POINTS]

[0/2 AP]

The spell tasted like smoke and felt like thread being pulled tight across my skin. I watched in the warped reflection of the polished black walls of the treasure chamber as my improvised patchy wool shirt shimmered, twisting itself into the dark leathers of a city watchman. A slight pressure on my chest and waist, illusory armor and a belt of tools I didn't have.

Touch it, and it'd vanish like mist under sunlight. But from a distance? In shadow? In motion?

No one would know.

This was freedom. The power to actually become someone else in a heartbeat. A ghost in borrowed clothes. I wouldn't have to spend hours stitching disguises by candlelight unless I truly needed them. Now, I could infiltrate, mislead, vanish, then reappear as someone else entirely.

It wasn't just magic. It was the final piece of the mask.

And just like that, the dungeon felt… smaller. Not useless. Not irrelevant. Just complete.

I had earned my way out. But also had taken more than what I came for. Not with just blood or strength or stealth, but with understanding.

And understanding? That was the one kind of power that no lord, no knight, no king could ever take from me.

And so, after quite some time since I first stepped in this Instant Dungeon, I would finally lay my eyes upon the nostalgic sights of the Red Keep again.

————————————————————————

TITLE: DURRANDON BARATHEON, CROWN PRINCE // MEDIUM HUMAN, NEUTRAL]

[LEVEL: 6 // PROFICIENCY BONUS: +3]

[CLASS: ASSASSIN C+ // GLAMOUR D+ // CHAMPION D+ // HUNTER C- // ARTIFICER D]

[HP: 17 (AID SPELL) // ARMOR CLASS: 15 (DRAGONBONE BUCKLER SHIELD)]

[DIVINE POINTS: 6 (MAX TIER: 1)]

[PRIMAL POINTS: 14 (MAX TIER: 2)]

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

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[SENSES: Blindsight 10ft / Darkvision 60ft (Goggles of the Night)]

[TRAITS: …EVASION // RELIABLE TALENT // IMPROVED CRITICAL // REMARKABLE ATHLETE]

[FEATS: …SHARPSHOOTER // DEFENSIVE DUELIST]

[STR: 10 (0)]

*(EXP) ATHLETICS: +6

[DEX: 13 (+1) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+3)]

*(EXP) ACROBATICS: +7

*(PRO) SLEIGHT OF HAND: +4

*(EXP) STEALTH: +7

[CON: 10 (0)]

[INT: 16 (+3) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+6)]

*(PRO) ARCANA: +6

*(PRO) HISTORY: +6

*(PRO) INVESTIGATION: +6

*NATURE: +5

*RELIGION: +5

[WIS: 15 (+2)]

*(PRO) ANIMAL HANDLING: +5

*(EXP) INSIGHT: +8

*MEDICINE: +4

*(EXP) PERCEPTION: +8

*(EXP) SURVIVAL: +8

[CHA: 19 (+4)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +10

*INTIMIDATION: +6

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +10

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +7

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

[FIRST TIER DIVINE SPELLS: SLEEP // HIDEOUS LAUGHTER // HEROISM // COMPREHEND LANGUAGES // CHARM PERSON ** // MIRROR IMAGE**]

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

[SECOND TIER PRIMAL SPELLS: DARKVISION // AID]

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

————————————————————————

The Red Keep was sleeping. 

Not because of the cold, harsh winter, those winds were still months away, due after my Name Day. But that's precisely why, with so many festivities at the near horizon, most required the proper night of rest in order to be at their best to enjoy it all.

Still, soft candlelight still glowed behind some high windows, but the halls were quiet, hushed like a cathedral of power, too used to whispers and secrets to ever truly rest.

No guards stirred. No servants blinked awake. I didn't need to rush. I had all night, and the city wouldn't dare move without me until dawn.

And so I finally emerged from the Instant Dungeon's portal, alone and unseen, safely within my own chambers. My hand brushed against the cold stone, and just like that, the way back sealed itself, silently enough to not disturb even my trained cats that still slept on top of my bed. 

The Dungeon, my crucible, had released me. Or perhaps it was more appropriate to say I had taken my leave.

My steps were silent as I roamed through my own room like a shade, storing everything of value to me inside my Inventory. The fine clothes were laid out already, ceremonial blacks and golds for the morning feast, the colors of House Baratheon, as expected. But I had other plans.

Having not been long since I took my last Long Rest, curiosity still got the best of me when I wondered how much control I had over where the Instant Dungeon's portal could take me in this castle.

I had some people in mind I would like to visit before the mayhem of tomorrow festivities took my entire day.

Having said that, my first stop had to be Alysse.

She lay curled beneath her very decorative and Arryn themed blanket, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other splayed across a book she hadn't finished. A candle had burned itself out by her desk. The room smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and the rosewater she preferred. 

The ring, the bronze one she'd given me, etched with some ancient First Men charm, rested cold in my hand. She'd handed her late mother's heirloom freely, without knowing what it could truly do but trusting I could be the one to learn. 

She might not know, but it had saved my life. And now, I hoped it could at least save her time, save her breath, let her read and decipher a dozen ancient tongues without begging Pycelle to lend his unimaginative commentary.

I slipped the ring between the pages of the open book she'd fallen asleep reading, 'Tax Structures in the Early Reign of Baelor the Blessed.' Light reading, I see.

But also, I noticed a small diary, which I swear by the seven was open before I got there. Not that I got to know any embarrassing secret she might be hiding, just several ramblings on how she could finally beat me in the game of cards I created myself.

'Heh, good luck kid.' I thought with a smirk while closing her diary.

Beside both books and her bronze ring, I placed the dragonbone sending stone. Smooth, obsidian-black. A lion carved into its surface with a storm surrounding it, the way my sigil might one day be. 

If she kept this token with her at all times, it whispered two things to anyone clever enough to look, especially Baelish who viewed himself as a Queenmaker and would believe she was an investment worth nurturing.

I lingered for a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall. 

'She'll rise faster than they expect.' I thought before motioning for the Instant Dungeon's portal to open. 'Perhaps even faster than I am giving her credit for.'

Once again slipping between dimensions to better help me save time while moving around the Red Keep, I reached for Rhaenys this time.

The moment I stepped inside, I noticed how her chamber door remained guarded, but the bed inside was empty. She was probably still with Varys, learning how to disappear and how to know everything that was worth knowing in King's Landing.

She was clever enough not to need magic, and Varys was cautious enough to be against its existence, much less use. So I left the simplest gift I could for her, one of my many Pendants of Hindsight, folded discreetly into her secret stash where she frequently hid the dagger Varys gave her like a secret she hadn't found yet. 

If she used it right, it would let her see through others' mistakes… or hopefully even her own.

Not much else to do here, so I just moved on again, this time looking for my cute little half-siblings, Lann and Joanna.

They shared a room, though the maids insisted they hated it. But now they were both curled at opposite ends of the same room in different beds, cheeks red and fists still clenched. 

The two twins had fought again.

Maybe because they sensed what was coming, how I was about to leave for Casterly Rock. Even without words, children knew when something was ending.

I knelt by the bedside of both, brushing tangled golden hair from Joanna's angelic face while Lann snored, mouth open. Somehow, he'd ended up wearing one of my old sashes like a knight's cloak. 

Letting out a slow breath and touching each of their brows, I whispered in their ears. "Stay wild. Stay loud. But don't forget me."

Okay, that was a bit more sentimental than I had planned, but still, I felt like after everything I went through before clearing my first Instant Dungeon, I emotionally needed to make sure they hadn't grown up while I was away.

But that was that, I still had a few more people I would like to visit, namely my parents. Since despite their marriage, I knew both the King and Queen were perfectly fine with sleeping in separate rooms, that's why I would have to make two stops.

First one being my mother, the unmatched beauty that was Queen Cersei. I will be totally honest, with all the freedom and practice I got from using my Mask of the Changeling, I was almost set on doing something that would make even the most traditionalist Targaryen blush, but once I noticed that Cersei wasn't alone, I fortunately had a better judgment.

Uncle Jaime, for all his flaws, was genuinely in love with his own sister. The tragedy of his character being that, if not for the Mad King denying her marriage with Rhaegar just to spite Tywin, she would've been more than content in forgetting about her twin brother.

And even now, as uncomfortable as I'm sure it must've been for Brann to look back when he caught them both in the act, it was clear to me through my Insight skill that Jaime was the literal version of how Cersei viewed herself as a man. She didn't love him, she loved who she could've been.

Pretending to be Uncle Jaime just to realize my previous life dream of having some good time with the lioness Queen would be counterproductive if I ever hoped to free Jaime of her.

Still, I would have to find a way to get him out of her shadow if I wanted to make him see his sister's true self and intentions.

But that's not a plan I would like to keep hatching while they might very well be conceiving this reality version of Tommen. Believe it or not, I'm not really into this voyeurism stuff.

Now, praying to the Seven Gods above that I would be spared from seeing another one of my parents naked, I reached for Robert.

And… he was gone.

No guards at his chamber. No snoring behind locked doors. The man who had sired me had probably vanished into wine, into brothels, into memory. 

Not that I really cared…or even blamed him. 

Poor fool was stuck between the ghost of a woman who I believe he might have the slightest of suspicion didn't really love him back, but still had in his eyes suffered a terrible fate in Rhaegar's hands, and a Queen that despite her beauty treated him as if he had forced her into marriage.

Still, I smiled while thinking to myself. 'Hold in there, pops. Any time soon you will have your prayers answered once Balon Greyjoy declares his stupid rebellion.'

Having no one else I actually wanted to visit, I thought about how I still had a long night before dawn, and decided it was finally time to accept my destiny as Robert's son.

Soon after, I went through his less luxurious old clothes and picked out some fine garb that didn't scream out royalty, but still whispered loud enough about wealth. Some use of my Disguise kit and not even Robert would recognize his own property.

Activating the Mask of the Changeling, my fingers burned, my skin tightened, bones stretched, eyes warped, shadows folded inward. 

In the mirror's silvered glass of the King's chambers, the Crown Prince child disappeared and in his place stood a man.

With both sets of Storm-blue eyes, complete coal-black hair and broad shoulders. The heir my father expected. 

No mismatched colors. No blood of dragons. Just a nameless yet wealthy man in the right shape.

The gold I had not stored away at my Inventory jingled softly in the pouch at my hip. Enough for expensive wine, whores, and favors. 

So I slipped into the alleys of King's Landing, cloaked in a false body and real coin, and whispered. "Happy Name Day… to me."

————————————————————————

The streets of King's Landing hours before sunrise were nothing short of treacherous, but never for me, especially not tonight.

Wrapped in the guise of a wealthy, nameless noble with storm-blue eyes and the gait of a man used to command, I walked with a swagger that parted the beggars like waves and silenced the footpads before they even dared step close. 

My coin pouch didn't jingle by accident, it jingled in rhythm, deliberate, loud enough to warn and entice, but never foolishly.

I passed the smoky windows of late taverns and the flickering candles of old stone inns. Through the tangle of alleyways in the Street of Silk, each brothel I passed called with open doors and painted lips. Silken voices offered themselves from balconies, but I wasn't tempted. 

Not by them, only one door called to me tonight, Chataya's.

Her brothel was no den of desperation like the others. Its entrance sat behind a lacquered red door, flanked by carved wooden dragons whose eyes gleamed like garnets. Incense drifted through golden lattices, and rich velvet hung from arching beams. It didn't smell like sex or sweat. It smelled like myrrh, cinnamon, and something sweeter…mystery, perhaps.

Inside, silk-robed girls floated through candlelight like living dreams. None were loud. None desperate. There was laughter, yes, but refined, well-practiced. This was a house of art, not just carnal trade.

And there she was.

[CHATAYA // MADAM OF SUMMER // ROMANCE // LV: 4]

Chataya, the jewel of the silk streets. Dark-skinned and radiant, with eyes like polished amber and hair bound in golden rings. She wore violet silk tonight, wrapped like a serpent around her curves. She moved like royalty, or maybe something older. A priestess of love.

Her gaze slid over me as I entered, curious but calm. 

"My lady, Jaskier Dandelions, humble to finally meet you." I said with a roguish smile as I gave her an unnecessarily deep bow. "I seek not just a night of warmth, but the pleasure of your company. I'm told the owner herself still entertains, rarely, and only if she likes the scent of a man's gold and the sound of his words."

She smirked, smooth and unreadable. "You bring sweet words and heavy coin. Mm… not many do both, no?"

I offered her the heavy pouch from my belt. "Gold for your time, and only your time. If by the end of it you still wish to dismiss me, you'll not hear a complaint. But I'd regret leaving this city without sharing a pleasant conversation with the most beautiful woman it has."

She glanced at the pouch, then at me. Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, weighing both the gesture and the gold with that uncanny poise of hers.

"Your mouth speaks like a poet… but your hands, mm, they speak of steel." She observed. "Come. I'll see where this night leads."

She led me upstairs herself, past rooms that whispered with laughter and moans, past silken drapes and oil lamps that cast dancing shadows. The room she chose for us was one of her finest, cushioned floors, wine chilled in silver, a low-burning hearth, and a bed large enough for a small army. 

But no one followed us. No giggling girls, but also no spying eyes and ears. I made sure of that with my Blindsight.

As the door closed, the silence deepened and my smile faded.

I moved to the window, peeled the curtain aside just enough to check the angle, then to the door before finally turning, slower now.

"I meant what I said." I told her, my voice softer now, deeper. "I do want to bed you. But that's not the reason I'm here."

She crossed her arms, but there was no fear in her gaze, only calculation. "Speak then, Lord Dandelion. I am listening."

"I represent a group that you might've only heard rumors about, I presume. Whispers of the Stranger's will finding form in the shadows of this city's slums."

Her expression flickered, just slightly. "Yes, I have heard these whispers… floating like smoke through silk." She admitted. "But I hear things from everyone. Even the High Septon once shared his concerns to my girls about your people's dispute with the Butcher."

"Of course he did." I grinned at that. "But the Cult of the Stranger doesn't seek chaos. We give… protection. Quiet support. The kind that lets you say yes to men like Petyr Baelish without ever needing to fear them."

Her eyes sharpened, obviously not expecting that fact to be a known knowledge by other parties. "And tell me now, I lose one chain, only to wear yours instead?" She laughed then, low, amused, dangerous, before studying me for a brief moment. 

Not as a man, not as a customer, but as something else. Something in-between threat and promise.

"If you must wear a chain, better one woven of silk than iron." I chuckled back, not cruelly, just amused. "But of course I jest my lady, apologies for my bad timing." Stepping forward, exploiting her moment of reflection, I pointed just once, gently, at the carved box by the dresser. "I meant to say we don't demand obedience. We're already in your debt. Surely you must've wondered who left those gold coins wrapped in silk. No name, no demands. Just generosity."

She said nothing.

I nodded toward the far corner, where some folded blankets sat, neatly stacked. "The girls you took in from Flea Bottom, they weren't sent, exactly. But we knew you'd take them. We'd seen how you ran this place and what you protected. You proved something to us. To me."

Still, she watched in silence.

"If you want no part of us, we'll vanish. You'll never hear from me again. But if you want your sanctuary to stay a sanctuary, if you want it untouched by Baelish, by any troublesome yet influential client that takes pleasure in disrespecting your girls, or by anyone else…you need only nod."

She studied me. Long. Hard.

Then she asked, softly. "And what do you want, really?"

I smiled again, dropping into a chair by the bed, lounging like a man who had all the time in the world. "A few things. First, your permission to return from time to time. Nothing more than a man with coin and stories. Won't be long before I leave this city anyway."

She arched her brow. "And second?"

"To learn." I said, leaning forward. "You have knowledge I don't. I want to know the art of pleasuring women, not fumbling, not force, not pretending. Knowing. You're the best there is."

"And in exchange?" She asked, voice rich with amusement now that I've sung her enough praises.

"I'll play some of my songs." I said. "Sing tales for your clients. Make even the ones who don't care for your beauty care for your atmosphere. A little music. A little magic. Maybe even a tale or two like the one I know about a handsome, nameless bastard who once flirted with a Goddess."

Chataya tilted her head, considering. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a smile.

[PERSUASION CHECK FAILED!]

'Damn, she was tough to influence.'

[HEROIC INSPIRATION USE EXPENDED!]

[PERSUASION CHECK SUCCEED!]

'There we go.' I thought without letting my expression falter.

"Very well. You bring more shadow than sun, but I have always liked the shade." She said, finally leading me to bed as she began to slowly undress. "Then stay, sweet Dandelion. Let us feel what songs you carry in your heart."

I laughed, as much in delight as in excitement for my first time in this life to not only be with such an exotic beauty as Chataya, but with a professional teacher that would help me one day bend any woman to my will.

And just like that, the night truly began, as in her bed of silk, I was no hunter, no shadow, just a boy who dared to dream.

————————————————————————

Only took me a few murmured inspirations and gentle corrections before I fell into the rhythm of it. By then, I was silently thanking the System for bestowing the Reliable Talent feature at exactly the right moment. 

It was a game-changer, to the point that my Performance checks were almost a formality.

Before I knew it, Chataya was kneeling before me while facing the other side, a towering, statuesque figure of smooth ebony skin, glistening faintly in the candlelight, and as I traced my hands down her sides, my mouth kissed the curve of her bare back, leaving a trail of warmth in my wake as I felt that surge of pure desire that made everything else fall away. Her height, her graceful form, only intensified my desire, my lust. 

There was more of her to touch, to savor, to claim.

Almost like I would—

[CHARISMA SAVE FAILED!]

[HEROIC INSPIRATION USE EXPENDED!]

[CHARISMA SAVE SUCCEED!]

Oh, now I see where things are going.

We were both trying to see who would be charmed first by the other. Lucky me, I'm always open to some friendly competition.

With that in mind, I let my subtle magic hum in the air, a faint vibration rippling under my fingertips. It was enough to make her shiver, to heighten the sensation of my touch as I moved to cup her breasts, their weight warm and firm in my hands.

Her body arched back against mine, the movement instinctual, as if our bodies had become attuned to one another. And I couldn't help but revel in the feeling of my new, older form pressing against her. The body my magic Mask had given me wasn't more than a slight edge in combat through height and reach, but right here it was designed to tempt, to pleasure, to fulfill desires in ways no amount of makeup and mundane props could aid in disguising me.

As Chataya glanced down, her eyes widened and breath caught when she saw the heavy proof of my desire pressing against her, pointing out between her own legs eager for entry, a clear reflection of her effect on me.

"Ready for me?" I whispered, my lips brushing her ear, my hands still playing with the tender curve of her breasts, my voice thick with anticipation.

She turned to meet my gaze, her voice low and steady. "Always." As I pulled one hand back from her breasts and guided my cock into her entrance, she let out a soft and warm moan. "Ahm… uh…" 

I guided myself to her, our bodies locking together with a slow, deliberate motion. The tension between us grew with every inch, every breath. Her body continuously responded with soft moans, soft but full of longing, a sound that reverberated deep within me. 

She reached behind her, her arms binding me closer, giving me full control. The weight of her touch, her trust, felt like a promise. My hands moved, one to her chest, the other weaving through her hair, pulling her closer as our bodies found their rhythm.

Kissing her again, this time deeper, more urgently, I kept savoring the way her lips parted beneath mine. Her response was immediate, her tongue moving against mine in a dance of its own. The intensity of it caught her off guard, this wasn't just a lesson. 

This was my way of marking myself in her mind..

It was meant to be the best feeling ever for both of us, having her head turned slightly connecting our lips, so I impressed her again and again with a little creative use of my tongue.

Say what you will about that Martin Lawrence movie, Black Knight, but the guy really was onto something with kissing medieval women the modern way.

"By all the gods…you make teaching such sweet delight!" She whispered to me with her arousing accent, amidst her incessant moans.

Her words struck me in ways I hadn't expected.

Instead of answering, I quickened my pace, deepening the connection, pushing us both to the edge of something new, something electric.

The moment stretched on, each movement a beat in a connection we both felt in our bones. And when she finally reached her peak, her cry-sharp and full of longing-echoed through the air, leaving us both breathless.

"YES!" She gasped, before pulling me for another one of my special kisses.

[TARGET FAILED ITS SAVE! CHATAYA IS NOW CHARMED!]

At that I felt a slow, satisfied grin spread across my face as I rested against her, my heart still racing from the intensity of what we had just experienced. 

Even now, with her body still trembling beneath mine, I knew we weren't finished. Not yet. Not with the way her eyes glinted, her lips still slightly parted, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

[HEROIC INSPIRATION USE GAINED!]

My man!

[CONSTITUTION SAVE SUCCEED!]

"Ready for round two?" I whispered with a gentle provocation of her inviting flower, glad that I could finally risk this from my bucket list. "Or you would li-"

She jumped at me as if she was a predator that had found its perfect prey. Silly her, believe me when I say that I could do this all day, especially when having sex literally gave me this sensation of being able to take on the entire world.

After continuing at nailing the gorgeous Chataya for quite a while after that, having completely surpassed all of the expectations she had when first accepting to teach about lovemaking and sexual pleasure, she finally asked me for a pause so she could rest.

————————————————————————

Accepting the break she asked for, I took the chance to return to the common room and continue polishing my Performance skill, this time for an audience of wealthy and not easy-to-please clients who had begun their evening celebrations early.

The brothel, under my patronage, subtle though it was, had flourished. My agents among the Cult of the Stranger had been quietly reshaping Flea Bottom, and this place had become both sanctuary and stage. 

Chataya's girls, many of them former street urchins now secretly devoted to my persona as the Stranger, had been refined under her guidance. The Summer Haven was no longer a simply expensive brothel, it was becoming an institution of art, pleasure, and performance.

But enough of the details.

For now, I'd found a better place to hone my Charisma than teasing Alysse or entertaining my half-siblings. Here, I posed as a foreign traveler, a minstrel that has traveled all places in Westeros and even many more beyond the sea, sharing the art that my travels have granted me with the nobility of King's Landing.

Lords and knights from across the Crownlands gathered with drink in hand, some in silk, others still half in armor, as I plucked at my lute. 

The other instruments were still new to me, but I was learning them, rhythm, tone, tempo. They responded to my voice. My hands. My intent.

[PERFORMANCE CHECK SUCCEED!]

After nearly an hour, I even noticed my father among the crowd. 

Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident, grinning beneath that wild beard of his, mug in hand. He was enjoying himself. Perhaps it was the music. Perhaps it was the familiar glint in my eye, the one I personally wanted my Mask of the Changeling to attempt to borrow from his own youth. 

Either way, the King raised no objection when I played on.

And so, after introducing myself to all the present clients with all the gallantry that the Knight of Flowers will one day master, I began recalling a tune from my past life, shifting to a brisker rhythm before finally starting to sing.

"Once upon a younger year…" I began. "…When all our shadows disappeared, the animals inside came out to play."

The crowd tilted their heads, intrigued. To be sure it was a strange lyric, to just the same a brand new melody to their ears. That alone gave credit to my mystery.

"Went face to face with all our fears, learned our lessons through the tears, made memories we knew would never fade." 

I tapped my foot against the wooden floor, setting the rhythm, and motioned for the audience to join in. Thankfully, they did, or I would have felt quite silly.

"One day my father told me: 'Son, don't let it slip away.' He took me in his arms, I heard him say: 'When you get older, your wild heart will live for younger days. Think of me if ever you're afraid'…"

My voice rose, clear and sure.

"He said: 'One day you'll leave this world behind, so live a life you will remember.' My father told me when I was just a child: 'These are the nights that never die.' My father told me…" 

The second time I repeated the chorus, I paused, letting the room take over. And they did. On the third time through, the wealthy and drunk and sentimental sang for me.

"When thunder clouds start pouring down, light a fire they can't put out, carve your name into those shining stars. He said: 'Go venture far beyond the shores, don't forsake this life of yours. I'll guide you home, no matter where you are.'"

They were all hooked.

"One day my father told me: 'Son, don't let it slip away.' When I was just a kid, I heard him say: 'When you get older, your wild heart will live for younger days. Think of me if ever you're afraid.'"

I lifted my arms, letting the lute fall silent, singing without it now.

"He said: 'One day you'll leave this world behind, so live a life you will remember.' My father told me when I was just a child: 'These are the nights that never die!' My father told me…"

[SELECTED TARGETS HAVEN FAILED THEIR SAVE! THEY ARE NOW CHARMED!]

Concluding my performance I signaled for them to end the song, finally starting to grasp the real power behind my Enthralling Performance ability.

And they roared it back at me, all at once, clapping, laughing, smiling with tear-streaked cheeks.

"These are the nights that never die!"

"BRAVO!" Bellowed Robert, slamming his mug onto the table, half its contents sloshing over the edge. "ANOTHER!"

The whole room echoed his call. So, naturally, I gave them another. This time, slower, softer. I picked a new rhythm and let my voice carry it.

"Once I was seven years old, my mother told me: 'Go make yourself some friends or you'll be lonely.' Once I was seven years old."

The effect of my Bardic Inspiration mixed with my better understanding of Performance was just too broken.

"It was a big big world, but we thought we were bigger. Pushing each other to the limits, we were learning quicker. By 11 burning herbs and sipping firewine. Never rich so we were out to make that steady figure."

The songs I shared with them weren't merely for their catchy melody, but also because of the deep meaning behind their lyrics thanks to how I've slightly tweaked them to match this world understanding.

"Once I was 11 years old, my father told me:

'Go get yourself a wife or you'll be lonely.' Once I was 11 years old…"

A gentler tune. A story-song. Familiar in structure, but foreign in tone. Evoking emotions amidst the audience, I played with their heartstrings with my best alluring voice.

"I always had that dream like my father before me. So I started writing songs, I started writing stories. Something about the glory just always seemed to bore me. Because only those I really love will ever really know me."

Cheers and claps again kept filling the air of this luxurious brothel. Their hearts were mine as I kept pulling the strings gently.

"Once I was 20 years old, my story got told before the morning sun, when life was lonely. Once I was 20 years old…I only see my goals, I don't believe in failure. Because I know the smallest voices, they can make it major."

The drink, the food, the women were just a combination too hard for any hard-to-please noble to resist, especially the hedonistic type like my father.

"I got my comrades with me, at least those in favor. And if we don't meet before I leave, I hope I'll see you later. … Once I was 20 years old, my story got told. I was writing about everything I saw before me. Once I was 20 years old. … Soon we'll be 30 years old, our songs have been sold. We've traveled around the world and we're still roaming. Soon we'll be 30 years old."

Bringing the energy down for a moment, I watched their faces, flushed, wet, lost in memories of their own. Robert had grown still, not drunk, not loud. Quiet, seemingly nostalgic.

He must've been thinking of the Eyrie, back when he and Eddard were still Jon Arryn's ward. Simpler times, before crowns and wars and regrets.

"I'm still learning about life, my woman brought children for me, so I can sing them all my songs, and I can tell them stories. Most of my comrades are with me. Some are still out seeking glory. And some I had to leave behind. My brother, I'm still sorry. Soon I'll be 60 years old, my father got to 61, remember life and then your life becomes a better one."

And then I brought the music down again, soft and intimate.

"I made the man so happy when I wrote a letter once. I hope my children come and visit, once or twice a month. Soon I'll be 60 years old, will I think the world is cold? Or will I have a lot of children who can warm me? Soon I'll be 60 years old… Soon I'll be 60 years old, will I think the world is cold? Or will I have a lot of children who can hold me? Soon I'll be 60 years old!"

The mood was thick with feeling, and I had to finish this emotional trip I began leading them all through.

"Once I was seven years old, my mother told me:

'Go make yourself some friends or you'll be lonely.' Once I was seven years old. …Once I was seven years old. …"

Well, will you look at that? I've managed to make the mighty Robert Baratheon, demon of the trident, shed a few tears because of my song.

Can't be because of his feelings towards his brothers, or be, my siblings and mother. He's probably reminiscent of his time in the Vale, being raised in the Eyrie with Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark.

Simpler times for him, I suppose.

Hearing the people having a good time, talking, laughing, drinking, eating and some even making out right then and there, I went for another song, this time with a soothing lull.

One even more calm then the previous one.

This one perhaps required a rework the most to fit into this world's view, I was glad that I've learned the names of the week here, something most common folk barely knew the reason behind, but still showed how the Faith of the Seven was ingrained in their day to day lives.

Sunday was Sevenday, easy enough to guess, since it served as their version of a sabbath. 

Then came Moonday, their take on Monday, which still nearly gets a chuckle out of me every time. 

Tuesday here was called Towerday, which Pycelle once explained was named for the Warrior's tower of vigilance. 

Wednesday became Wealday, tied to the Smith's labor and the wealth that follows honest work. 

Thursday was known as Theoday, an apparent homage to the Father Above. 

Friday turned into Fairday, meant to reflect both the Mother's mercy and the Maiden's grace. Finally, our 

Saturday was their Sorrowday, named either for the Crone's somber wisdom or the Stranger's shadowy presence, a point that, amusingly, is still a matter of scholarly debate among the Maesters.

"Where there's a will, there's a way, kind of beautiful. And every night has its day, so magical. And if there's love in this life, there's no obstacle …that can't be…defeated."

Love and hope we're indeed powerful emotions to conjure up amongst an audience.

"For every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable. In every lost soul, the bones of a miracle. For every dreamer, a dream, we're unstoppable. With something to believe in."

Robert supported my claim with a booming laughter.

"Moonday left me broken. Towersday, I was through with hoping. Wealday, my empty arms were open. Theoday, waiting for love, waiting for love."

The rest followed, delighted, laughing and dancing, so I played into it.

"Thank the stars it's Fairday! I'm burning like a fire gone wild on Sternday. Guess I won't be coming to a sept on Sevenday. I'll be waiting for love, waiting for love… to come around…"

The pleasant atmosphere was just too contagious.

"We are one of a kind, irreplaceable. How did I get so blind and so cynical? If there's love in this life, we're unstoppable. No, we can't be defeated. Moonday left me broken. Towersday, I was through with hoping. Wealday, my empty arms were open. Theoday, waiting for love, waiting for love."

Preparing to make this song live in their heads rent free for long after I left this city, I added some extra flair into my performance.

"Thank the stars it's Fairday! I'm burning like a fire gone wild on Sternday. Guess I won't be coming to a sept on Sevenday. I'll be waiting for love, waiting for love… to come around…"

It was an infectious atmosphere, as joy spread like wildfire.

One more song. Just one more. They begged like children at bedtime. Since I didn't want to be a party pooper, I picked another song after making sure they knew this was my last one for the night.

"Feeling my way through the darkness, guided by a beating heart… I can't tell where the journey will end, but I know where to start." I sang with a low voice, as they all listened, rapt. "They tell me I'm too young to understand, they say I'm caught up in a dream. Life will pass me by if I don't open up my eyes. Well that's fine by me."

Then I lifted them high once more as I continued.

"So wake me up when it's all over! When I'm wiser and I'm older. All this time I was finding myself, and I didn't know I was lost. So wake me up when it's all over. When I'm wiser and I'm older. All this time I was finding myself, and I…didn't know I was lost."

Playing each note with the utmost skill I could currently muster.

"I tried carrying the weight of the world, but I only have two hands. Hope I get the chance to travel the world, but I don't have any plans. Wish that I could stay forever this young. Not afraid to close my eyes. Life's a game made for everyone. And love is a prize."

Let's go!

"So wake me up when it's all over! When I'm wiser and I'm older. All this time I was finding myself, and I didn't know I was lost. So wake me up when it's all over! When I'm wiser and I'm older… All this time I was finding myself, and I… didn't know I was lost! …I didn't know I was lost!"

Final notes barely rang out before cheers erupted.

Gold clinked at my feet. Hands clapped my back. Robert raised his mug again, this time silent, but smiling in a way I rarely saw.

He was proud. Or at least what was the face he would've shown me if my appearance didn't constantly remind him of his hate for the Targaryens.

As he turned toward a fair girl with a knowing grin, I bowed and took my leave, slipping back into Chataya's waiting embrace, who by her looks was even more impressed by my musical talent.

Oh the perks of plagiarism some great works without anyone around being there that knows what I did.

Regardless, the night was still young and I had more than earned to celebrate my Name day as much as I could.

Later, whenever asked about my background, I told what the people wanted to hear, just not always the same thing.

To the lords and ladies, I was the bastard orphaned son of a fallen noblewoman, born beneath a dying tree where frost-kissed flowers bloom. She sang to me once, then vanished from this world, leaving me with nothing but a name no one dared to write. I spoke of distant travels, of trading songs for secrets in the soft salons of Lys, of wandering the courts of Tyrosh with a liar's grin and a poet's tongue.

To the sellswords and the rougher sort, I'd slit my first throat with a lute string at twelve, and learned to keep my back to the wall ever since. My father? A blade-for-hire. My mother? Danced for coppers till her feet bled.

To the smallfolk, I was born in a brothel, raised in a barn, kissed by the Stranger, and blessed by the Seven. 

A tale for every ear, a face for every crowd. I changed with the wind, but my songs stayed the same.

————————————————————————

Later that day, I did what was expected of me and made myself present in any manner that mattered, which didn't mean that I appreciated parading around.

"I do loathe such large crowds." I muttered, weaving through the throng of bodies pressing in from every direction while my uncle kept me safe. "My father relishes these tourneys, but I fear the timing is ill-suited for such festivities."

Jaime Lannister chuckled lightly behind me, ignoring the hungry stares from half the women we passed. "You're most ungrateful, my prince. Our fathers paid a mountain of gold for this spectacle. As their kin, we could at least pretend to enjoy it, especially since we're celebrating your sixth name day."

"I'm not you, uncle." I replied, glancing over my shoulder with a smirk. "I'm not a knight yet, and I've no need for glory, not from a suffocating crowd. Still, I do appreciate the fresh blood it's brought into the city."

I smiled at the thought of all the arrivals. Not the gawkers and fools, but the relevant ones. Noteworthy figures from the Crownlands had answered the invitation, houses Bar Emmon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Massey, Rosby, and Stokeworth.

Bar Emmon's attendance gave me a chance to meet young Duram, his quiet but clever heir. Lord Adrian Celtigar, greedy old vulture that he is, had taken an interest in me, which might prove useful. Sunglass, Massey, and Rosby made for solid first impressions: a pious man, an eccentric one, and a noble who was finally no longer too sick to stand upright.

Lady Lollys Stokeworth had also attended, accompanying her family, which meant I could speak with her before she grew into the unfortunate woman the books liked to mock.

Still, a few key names were missing, at the very top of that list was Lord Velaryon of Driftmark. A shame, I could definitely use some Valyrian blood to make me feel less of an oddity in this city.

As I listed each of these relevant houses, I couldn't help myself from thinking that their castles' Magical Dungeons would offer loot just as great as the one under the Red Keep. And now that my command over magic and skill had grown, I was ready for a challenge.

But I digress.

Uncle Jaime and I strode through the city as banners flew proudly from every corner. From the pierced sun of House Martell, an appearance close to miraculous, all things considered, to the golden rose of House Tyrell, it seemed all the great houses had imagined some greater meaning behind this tournament than merely my father wishes to shatter the dull rhythm of his kingship.

Knights on horseback filled the streets, their banners fluttering in the spring wind. The markets blared with noise, horses neighing, merchants shouting, and the clink of rubies and sapphires as armor glinted too bright to bear.

"So the Martells actually came." I muttered, crossing my arms. "I don't recall them ever being this close to King's Landing, not in my lifetime."

"The prince knows his history." Jaime said with a slow, half-interested nod. "Not that you've lived that long, but you're right. They're no friends of Ser Gregor Clegane, and with both him and the Hound in this tourney, it's no surprise they'd show up to reclaim some honor. Maybe more than that."

"Can't blame them." I admitted, tone colder now. "Even I've heard the whispers about what he did." I turned to look up at Jaime, face grim. "If it had been Mother and me, you would have struck that monster down before he ever laid a finger on us."

Jaime said nothing. He only nodded, jaw clenched. By now, everyone close to me knew I was too well-informed for my age, so I was used to getting away without anyone questioning me.

We moved in silence through the gates of the Red Keep, Gold Cloaks parting as we passed. Marble corridors gleamed underfoot, polished so finely they mirrored every torch and shimmered like water.

The Great Hall stood transformed from its state under the Targaryen kings. Long gone were the dragon skulls and austere Valyrian grandeur. In their place were rich tapestries, imported artifacts, and enough gold to feed hundreds of peasants for years. 

Yet, no matter how many years I had to grow used to it, the Iron Throne still sat, ugly and unchanged, a blackened tangle of melted blades.

If I live enough to become king, this monstrosity will be reformed into something more appropriate. To the seven hells with the conqueror and his damn metaphor. A king should sit in command, not discomfort. 

But that was neither here nor there for now, soon we stepped forward and bowed, one knee to the floor before the Iron Throne.

"Your Grace." We spoke in unison.

Robert Baratheon sat slouched and scowling, wine already in hand. His beard had grown thick, hair longer than I remembered from my birth, and though his frame still bore the undeniable strength of a warrior-king, I wondered how long it would last.

The Greyjoys would rise soon, that much was inevitable, but what then? There were still ten years before the books truly began.

"Everything is accounted for." Jaime reported. "The tourney may begin at your command. Your brother leads the Baratheon knights while the lords are taking their seats."

Robert stood, booming with laughter. "Excellent! Let's ride over with the knights!" He clapped his hands and descended the steps with surprising grace for a man so drunk. On his way, he tossed a glance my way and suddenly asked. "Have you placed your bets yet, boy?" 

"Not yet, Your Grace. But I do plan on winning quite a bit."

Robert laughed again, loud and warm, while Jaime subtly shook his head from out of my father's view, amused at our strange bond. It wasn't love, but it was better than hate.

"If you were old enough, I could teach you a few things. I spent a lot of time with the women…" Robert began shamelessly declaring until came the cough, loud and deliberate, belonging to Jon Arryn. 

The King dismissed it as nothing, but from Jaime's look he clearly didn't. His face darkened, jaw twitching. He said nothing, but his loathing was clear to my Insight skill. The Kingslayer had no desire for the King to bed his sister, but he also hated the fact that he would so casually disregard his Queen as if she was some common whore he bought from their father. 

Not that I could blame him. 

In Jaime's eyes, Cersei was one of the most desirable and beautiful women in the realm, and she deserved better. I sort of shared that sentiment, regardless of how much of a spoiled bitch she was, who didn't get enough spanking from her parents while they still could.

"Ha! Enough of this talk!" Robert bellowed. "Let's go see some real action. No more slow meetings, no more counting copper. Today is about glory, honor, and blood!"

While Robert strode ahead, almost as if reading Jaime's festering thoughts, I decided to distract him with an honest question. "Will the tourney champion be named as my sworn shield?"

"That's the plan." He replied, lighting up at the opportunity to tease me. "Disappointed?"

"Not yet. I'm still holding out hope you'll change your mind and join me instead." I told him, earning an awkward laugh and some excuses that my mother and siblings needed him there. Instead of pushing on in that subject, I decided to change subjects instead. "Incidentally, where's Uncle Tyrion? I've been wanting to meet him for quite a while."

"He and my father are still en route from Casterly Rock." Jaime said, falling into step beside me. "They should arrive any moment now."

"I've been meaning to ask. Is it wise to start the tournament before grandpa gets here?" I asked while raising an eyebrow.

"It is not as if your father can wait any longer, my dear nephew." He replied back, with a half amused half worried expression I knew came from years of having Tywin Lannister as his father.

Once again, I sort of understood where my uncle was coming from. Regardless, for now, I had somewhere else to be, someone else to see.

I had to visit Rhaenys before the real party started. 

Definitely couldn't miss the reunion Jaime's butterfly effect actions have allowed once he saved her from Armory Lorch back in the night the Mad King's reign fell.

————————————————————————

RHAENYS TARGARYEN'S POV

Officially, this was a "courtesy visit". That's what Varys had told me. After all, my Martell family had come to attend Durrandon's sixth name day, with murmurs of diplomacy drifting like incense behind them.

But no one ever brings a viper into a garden for peace.

Suffice to say that reuniting with my uncle was… not what I had expected. Uncle Doran had a stillness about him. The kind that made you listen closely to every word, not because he commanded the room with booming speeches or threatening gaze, but because his silences felt like cliffs, one wrong step, and you were already falling.

In his early forties, he moved without hesitation, the only weight he carried was entirely internal, grief-aged and slow-burning, coiled like a viper beneath silken robes.

"It's good to see you, my niece." His voice was soft, like a balm. But I caught the iron behind it. "I feared I would never have this chance."

He embraced me, stiffly at first, as if unsure whether he had the right. But once his arms were around me, I felt it. The quiet sorrow, the layered regret, the buried fury.

"I…thank you for coming." I said, weighing each word. "It means more than I can express."

He nodded, taking in my face like he was trying to memorize it. "And yet, I worry that the baby princess I might have once known is already gone."

"I left her behind." I admitted, immediately catching the meaning behind his words while straightening my posture. "The helpless girl. She wouldn't have survived, and I needed to."

A shadow passed across his expression. "You shouldn't have had to."

"But I did." I said matter of factly.

Doran didn't argue. My quick read on my uncle told me that was the thing about him, he rarely fought in the open.

"You've been learning from the Spider." He observed, gaze flicking toward Varys, who lingered at the edge of our private chamber like a ghost in silk.

"I have." I replied. "He's taught me how to walk unseen. How to listen without being heard. And most importantly, how not to die."

Doran's jaw tightened. "I don't like that he had to."

"Neither do I." I said. "Yet surviving doesn't wait for permission."

He turned to Varys then, and the weight of Dorne's prince settled into his spine like armor being laced onto a patient soldier. "I hear you've shown her the value of masks and whispers. But what do you want, Lord Varys?"

The Spider inclined his head, as humble as always. "Only what is best for the realm, my prince."

A humorless breath escaped Doran's nose. "I've heard that line before, albeit less wrapped in a vague sense of altruism. It usually precedes chaos all the same."

"Sometimes." Varys agreed. "Doubt, division, and mistrust will eat the very ground beneath the rule of the usurper king, whilst the one true king is molded to one day raise his banner so all the sensible lords of the realm might gather round him."

Doran was silent, almost as if a secret that should never be spoken loud enough for another soul to hear, until he finally asked. "The one true king?"

"Aegon is alive." Varys stated, betraying no uncertainty in his claim.

Even now, long after hearing Varys' words for the first time, the weight of it pressed into the room like an unseen tide. Uncle Doran didn't gasp, didn't stagger, but I saw it in the flicker of his eyes as his mind undoubtedly conjured up images of a baby swaddled in a crimson cloak, the cloth stained with the child's own blood and brains. Shock held in check by decades of practice.

I told him the rest. The night I'd learned the truth from Varys's whispers. The boy supposedly saved from death, hidden in shadow. My supposed little brother.

Doran listened without interruption, though his fingers clenched subtly in the folds of his robe.

The only doubt I allowed myself, and even then, only in secret, was the way Durrandon had looked at me whenever the revelation was brought up. He obviously didn't want to hurt my feelings without knowing for sure, but his cunning mind was all the proof I needed to suspect Varys was hiding something.

What might that possibly be I didn't know yet. But the years of being mentored by the Spider had to grant me the necessary skill to find that out for myself.

"And your mother?" My uncle at last asked, voice low, what I kept questioning myself even in my dreams. "She only asked for the boy to be saved?"

"That's what I was told." I said, eyes flicking to the eunuch. "The Spider claims it was her will."

"So you chose Aegon over Elia. Over Rhaenys." Doran turned back to Varys, his tone wasn't accusing, not exactly. But it was sharp enough to almost draw blood.

"I chose the realm." Varys replied, unmoved. "One life, two lives, even ten… what are they against the fires of another war?"

"And yet here you are, kindling another one." My uncle said coldly.

Varys' eyes flicked to him, unreadable.

Then uncle Doran asked the question I'm sure Varys has been waiting for. "What would you have us do?"

"You plan to marry Arianne to Viserys." Varys laid my uncle's plans bare, calm as ever. "Indeed, a sound plan. Strengthening your house ties to the Targaryens would surely earn you some support from the still remaining loyalists." 

The eunuch let the appraisal of my uncle's schemes sink in for a moment. Taking his time to slowly set up the mood for what he was about to say.

"But… perhaps now that I've presented you with a more viable future, now that I assure you that Aegon will be raised to rule and groomed for kingship." He glanced at me again and I met his gaze without flinching. "The thing I believe would be most appropriate would be to wed your nephew to your niece. But I wouldn't dare make any move without consulting you first."

Doran said nothing at first, but I saw the storm clouding behind his eyes.

"Even if what you say is true… even if this boy is who you claim he is… will he be better because you made him into your perfect image of a ruler?" My uncle spared no shadow of doubt in his words.

"Because he was made to survive." Varys corrected, not unkindly.

Doran sat heavily, one hand resting over the other, lost in thought. "It seems peace has many faces. And all of them wear crowns."

I knew what he was weighing. Marrying me to my own brother, regardless of how much of a tradition it might be for the Targaryens, was still a delicate matter even for the rich and open culture of Dorne.

Whatever support both my brother Aegon and young uncle Viserys might raise for himself across the narrow sea would still have to deal against the might of the seven kingdoms. 

Though never conquered, Dorne had been bloodied more than once when it marched beyond its deserts, its armies dashed against the combined might of the Reach and the Stormlands.

Add to that the support the Baratheon King still commands with not only the Starks, the Arryns and the Tullys, but also with the Lannisters, the ones that have made it clear their eagerness to bind themselves to the Baratheons through blood and treachery.

But Durrandon never showed his whole hand. Whatever game he was playing, he played it close to the chest. He clearly knew about the conspiracy the Spider was scheming with the Martells and didn't seem to worry about that, he also knew that his mother had sired children with his Lannister uncle. 

I highly doubted he would just hand the throne over without a fight. Even so, I knew Durrandon better than to expect him to fight a battle he wasn't sure he had all the odds stacked in his favor.

Then again, despite my early illusions of quickly becoming my own master of whispers and playing the game against the best of the best, I now understood that I was still a piece on the board. 

"It's my niece's life you are asking me to gamble with, Spider." He said quietly with a sigh, and to his credit, he looked pained.

I looked back at him, trying to take charge of my life the only way I currently knew how. "I know that, uncle. But we must play with the cards that we are dealt with."

Eventually, after things calmed down again, our talk turned to Durrandon. To the boy I'd secretly grown beside, trained beside, plotted beside.

Varys mentioned he would be sent to Casterly Rock, a ward of the lions. And for a moment, the weight of this whole charade, the Game, the future, the false peace, pressed so tightly against my chest, I could barely breathe.

But I promised myself that I would not remain a pawn forever.

Doran and Varys fell into low conversation after that, their voices rising and falling like soft winds in a dead orchard. And I was led away to meet the cousins I'd once known only by name and vague descriptions.

————————————————————————

As I was led from my uncle's chambers, I felt the air shift. Less heavy, less cloaked in decades of regret, but no less unnerving. I was no longer speaking with ghosts of the past. Now, I would meet the living young blood of Dorne, quickly noticing how they were all sun and color with barely sheathed fury.

I heard them before I saw them. The clash of sandals on marble, the swish of silk, a sharp voice arguing in the hall, Obara, I would later learn. The tallest of them, the loudest, and the one most like a blade in a scabbard too tight.

They came three abreast, and Arianne just behind, more veiled than I expected. Like a secret wrapped in flame. She wore layers of yellow and purple that danced as she walked, her sandals snaking up her thighs, a jeweled girdle glinting like a challenge.

She was shorter than I thought she'd be. The veil shimmered with pale green and gold, and her voice, when she greeted me, was soft and low and thick with her Dornish accent.

"Princess Rhaenys. I'm so glad to finally be able to meet you again. Last time I saw you, you were but a baby I could carry in my arms." She curtsied, gracefully, but not humbly. "I must apologize for the absence of my younger brothers. The road from Sunspear isn't kind to their younger age."

"Princess Arianne, there's no need to apologize. It's good to see you too, dear cousin." I returned the gesture, knowing that unlike me, she wore that title without a dozen eyes questioning her right to it. Turning to the others, I added. "All of you."

Obara snorted, as if I'd said something funny without meaning to. Nymeria smiled back, that small, knowing curve of her lips that made it hard to tell whether she liked me or not. And Tyene… Tyene just looked at me with those deep blue eyes and a sugar-sweet smile that reminded me too much of Alysse. 

The young Arryn's kindness had thorns too, but at least they were honest thorns.

"It might be different for you here in the capital…" Obara began, her voice was rough but not unkind. "But in Dorne, we don't cut one another down to stand taller. We train together. Bleed together. Like sisters."

Her words might've sounded threatening or confrontational at first sight, but I easily saw through it as her way to measure me up. Not that much of a refined tactic, but still more than I originally gave her credit for.

"I thought Dorne didn't kneel." I finally replied, hoping to have come up with an appropriate answer. "Yet here you are, attending the Baratheon prince's name day."

Nymeria's smile sharpened just a little. "Even vipers know how to smile at a feast."

Obara let out a quiet chuckle, then gave me a half-nod of approval. "You still got some bite left on you after all, my princess. If you ever want to learn the skills of battle, I'll teach you."

"Truly?" That startled me. Both Varys and Durrandon had gone to extreme lengths in order to teach me the art of espionage and thievery, but my experience with executing targets from the shadows didn't exactly compare to surviving the open battlefield.

"I don't say things I don't mean." Obara shrugged, as if she hadn't just offered me something most girls would never hear from her lips.

Arianne laughed softly, her eyes gleaming beneath her veil. "We've all lost something, haven't we? Perhaps it's time we find new ways to carry what remains."

That sounded like something Varys might say, which made me wary.

I looked to Tyene, standing demurely behind her cousins in a gown of pale blue samite, Myrish lace dusting her sleeves like frost. Her hands were clasped before her, her smile unwavering.

"You're very pretty." She said, eyeing the strand of silver in my hair that refused to stop growing.

"So are you." I replied, silently recognizing the glint behind her sweetness.

"Forgive me my curiosity, princess." Nymeria stepped closer then, her voice low, her tone measured. "But what do you remember of your mother? My father always speaks of her."

The question hit me harder than I expected. "A scent. A song. Her hands in my hair."

Nymeria nodded. "Father says memory is the only inheritance some of us get."

She meant my Uncle Oberyn, who I'd heard hadn't come along because his bold spirit, and notorious temper, might've led him to declare war on the Lannisters then and there. A risk Uncle Doran wasn't willing to take, even for a brief visit to the capital.

Later on, I kept watching my present cousins closely as we finally began to speak more like girls and less like ghosts or strangers. 

And through that closer observation, I began to imagine them in the years to come, Obara, leading charges down dusty roads. Nymeria, cloaked in courtly silks with daggers hidden in every hem. Tyene, sweetly slipping poison into a cup while no one was watching. And Arianne… the girl who would one day rule Dorne, but for now still praying for beauty under her veil.

They were sharp things. All of them.

We weren't expected to become sisters overnight. The time was too short. The wounds were still too fresh. But if I ever had to turn my back on them, I'd want a mirror behind me. 

————————————————————————

Once our bonding time was over and the Martells were required to leave the Red Keep, off to the tourney grounds beyond the city walls to maintain appearances, I was left alone.

Again.

"Is everything alright?" The familiar voice cut through the silence, pulling me from the swirl of thoughts left in the wake of all the heartfelt encounters I'd just experienced.

I turned toward the hidden passage in my chamber wall and replied. "Yes… just processing my reunion with my mother's side of the family."

Durrandon stepped out from the shadows with that ever-knowing expression of his, the one that made it seem like he understood just as much as I did, and possibly more. But then I saw Alysse standing beside him.

"It must have been hard for you." She said gently, her voice full of quiet compassion.

She came forward and wrapped her arms around me, and for a moment, I just stood there. Did I truly look that fragile? My uncle, my cousins… they had all embraced me too. Was this how everyone saw me? Someone in need of comforting?

Ouch!

I winced as Durrandon flicked me on the forehead with a finger. "W-why did you do that?" I asked, rubbing the spot as Alysse pulled back, frowning in concern.

"You looked far too gloomy for someone who just reunited with her family." He said, not unkindly.

Alysse gently brushed my hair aside, inspecting my forehead with a soft touch.

"It's just that I…" I hesitated, waving off her concern before glancing back at Durrandon. He knew me too well. He always expected honesty. "…I don't know what to make of them yet. I barely remembered their names before today. And all the talk about my mother… it's not easy to keep reliving it."

"Even if our stories are different…" Alysse said quietly. "I understand what that feels like."

Of course she did. Her own mother had died before she could remember her, and the stepmother who followed hadn't lasted long enough to leave anything behind but silence. And from what I knew of her father's current Tully wife… well, it didn't seem like things had improved.

I nodded and returned her hug, this time, with purpose.

"Meow!" The sharp little sound made me glance to the side. Balerion, my beloved cat from childhood, now one of Durrandon's trained strays, had crept in, his body tense, signaling something.

"Sorry, girls." Durrandon said, his voice shifting into that familiar calm command. "Hate to hurry you both, but we need to get going."

We both nodded. The day ahead would be long, with tourneys to attend and influential people to charm.

————————————————————————

(22/09/2020)

(24/09/2020)

(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.

*I do recommend FanFiction.Net "Blood & Vengeance" from Kyoka Suigetsu Totsuka. It inspired me a lot to create my story. I really like it! Check it out!