Aegon walked toward the river, chuckling. The woods were quiet save for the rustle of branches in the breeze and the steady crunch of twigs beneath his boots. He had long noticed the two knights the moment he arrived at the inn. Though he did not know their purpose, nor why they had chosen him as their prey, he had kept his guard up from the start. They had followed him with hungry eyes, the kind of gaze only desperate men gave.
In a way, it was their presence that reminded him how important vigilance was when traveling. They had indirectly forced him to sharpen his caution. Thus the precautions he had taken while sleeping: a chair braced against the door, his spiritual field spread across the room, his dagger and sword within easy reach. Such measures were never wasted.
When he found them again that morning in the hall, Aegon knew they would strike soon. Two against one, their confidence had likely stemmed from that advantage. He had read their intentions as easily as one read a child's scrawl.
But Aegon was not their prey.
So, while keeping a careful eye on them, he ate his meal with calm composure and then departed. He deliberately turned into the woods instead of the road, thwarting their plan before it had begun. Their faces had flickered with surprise at that sudden turn, though they followed him anyway. The rest had been simple.
He had used the [Spell: Mirror Disguise] for sudden disappearance and the illusory theatrics, vanishing from their sight and reappearing behind them like a ghost. Then he used his newest creation: [Spell: Haemostasis]. With it, he took them down easily and bound the "curse" that would make them obey him.
[Spell: Haemostasis] was a three-rune model and the last one to completely fill his mental space. Though not true healing, as its name suggested, it could stop bleeding by inducing clotting in wounds. A man with a gash could be saved from bleeding out; a soldier on the battlefield could live long enough for treatment. Overall, it was a noble spell.
And yet, Aegon had discovered a darker use.
From his previous life, he recalled a colleague who had been forced to leave work after a doctor discovered a blood clot in his brain. The man had lived with unbearable headaches and blackouts until he was half-ruined. The memory had stuck with Aegon like a thorn. Now, with this new spell, he applied the same principle.
Against the two banished knights, he created blood clots within their brains, leaving them reeling with sudden pain and disorientation. Their screams in the forest echoed still in his ears. When a single dose was not enough, he repeated it. The agony had brought them to their knees, trembling and broken. Finally he had forced clots into their hearts, striking at the very seat of their life, and convincing them that they had been 'cursed'.
He had not killed them.
Aegon made sure to dissolve those lethal clots before they could bring death. The last thing he wanted was to end them there. Still, he would not let them go entirely free. No, he left behind tiny fragments in their peripheral vessels; small, deadly seeds drifting in their blood. In weeks or months, those fragments would wander into vital arteries. When that happened, they would suffer sudden cardiac arrests, fatal and final. Unless…
Unless he removed the 'curse' himself.
Thus the bind was complete. To them, it was no longer mere intimidation. They would see the truth of it in their own bodies. One day, one of them would collapse, gasping, and the other would watch, helpless, realizing the curse was real. Despair would follow, and then death. Unless they obeyed him.
"As if they could walk away unscathed… after trying to kill me," Aegon muttered coldly as he approached the riverbank. His reflection stared back at him from the water, silver-gold hair and violet eyes shining faintly in the ripples.
As for why he had given them gold coins, the reasoning was simple. He wanted to form his own power. This journey was not only about reaching Winterfell; it was about laying foundations for something more. A rudimentary secret force, bound not by oaths or crowns but by something stronger; fear and loyalty to him alone.
He did not have time or energy to recruit, train, and discipline men in the way lords did. Nor did he want a host that anyone could trace back to Prince Aegon Targaryen. What he needed was a shadow organization, loyal beyond doubt, expendable when necessary. The 'curse' was the perfect leash.
The two knights were the first bricks in that foundation.
Aegon had already brought with him half the gold he had saved from selling the Valyrian daggers to Rhaenys. That alone was enough to form the initial financial backbone of his secret organization. Gold bought greedy men. Gold bought silence. The 'Curse' brought fear… and fear would keep them bound.
He had decided that his new organization would serve under a different name, a different mask, with nothing linking it to Prince Aegon or House Targaryen. Its members would be drawn from those already cast out of society: banished knights, sellswords without masters, thieves, cutthroats, and desperate wanderers. The worst of men. Most of them had already committed crimes that damned them, so he could bind them easily. They had nothing left but to serve or die. He would not feel guilt disposing of such men if they failed him.
The structure, he mused, would resemble the Night's Watch in its own twisted way; a brotherhood stripped of old ties, bound by necessity. But unlike the Watch, they would not serve the realm.
They would serve him, and him alone.
Recruiting this…Olyvar and Halden had been a spur of the moment decision. Fate had delivered them to his path, two fools greedy enough to follow him, and desperate enough to accept any leash so long as they lived. Why waste such an opportunity?
As he thought, he checked the newest addition to his class tree.
[ Class: Manipulator (Tier 2) ]
[ Prerequisites:
- INT ≥ 14.0 (satisfied)
- Has used structured speech or repetition to influence behavior without direct commands (satisfied)
- Has achieved a personal goal by guiding others' actions without openly stating the goal (satisfied) ]
[ Level 3 (000 / 4500) ]
[ Trait : Conversational Framing
(+20% effectiveness in structuring speech to guide attention toward desired topics)
(+20% ability to phrase suggestions in ways that appear natural or self-motivated to the listener) ]
[ Trait : Psychological Anchoring
(+20% proficiency in reinforcing ideas through repetition, pauses, or symbolic cues)
(+20% long-term retention of influence across repeated interactions, by creating subtle patterns the listener recalls later) ]
This class was created after the failed attempt at [Ironblood Knight], and Aegon had been far more cautious in defining it. This time, the creation succeeded at once. The prerequisites were already in place; after all, in this new life he had played the manipulator often enough.
He studied the traits once and recalled how effortlessly he had steered Olyvar and Halden.
Good, thought Aegon, as a smile formed on his lips.
He had already raised the class to level three and he planned to raise it higher, at least level 7, by the time he reached Winterfell. With its knowledge and subtle abilities, he could form the first shape of his secret organization. His words alone would become tools sharper than any sword. But for the greater goal; a true network of men, a lasting force, Tier 2 would never be enough. He would need something stronger, a higher tier class, one that would stand as the core of this ambition.
"Slow and steady," he murmured, "for now…focus on the current."
He looked up at the sun. The blazing light was already climbing toward its peak. "Seven hells, it's almost noon," he cursed softly. He quickened his pace.
The trees thinned, and soon Dreamfyre came into view. She was awake and waiting, her massive body stretched across the grass. At the sight of him, she rumbled a low, throaty greeting.
Aegon approached, a faint smile softening his stern face. He ran a hand along her neck, fingers brushing over warm scales. "You ate well, didn't you?" he murmured. Dreamfyre's eyes half-lidded in satisfaction, her chest rising with a deep breath. She was content.
After checking her over and giving her scales a fond rub, Aegon mounted. The saddle straps tightened, and he swung astride her.
"Well then," he said aloud, "time to continue our journey."
Dreamfyre answered with another rumbling growl. With a great leap, her powerful claws gouged the earth as she threw herself upward. Her wings spread wide, the downdraft scattering leaves and dust in a wild storm.
"Left, Dreamfyre," Aegon commanded silently through their bond. She banked gracefully, wings tilting as they turned north.
Below, the Kingsroad stretched like a pale scar across the land. They would follow it north once more. And soon, they passed over the Two Crowns Inn again.
The people below shrieked and pointed, their morning torn apart by the shadow of a dragon. This was the second time in two days that Dreamfyre had crossed their skies. Already, the tale would grow. By nightfall, the common room would be full of voices retelling how a great blue dragon had wheeled above the inn twice, casting its vast shadow over the crossroads.
Aegon, listening to Dreamfyre's wingbeats and feeling the rush of the wind on his face, allowed himself a thin smile. His next destination: The Twins, seat of House Frey.
Oldtown
The morning light slanted through the tall windows of the Starry Sept. Within one of the cloisters, a row of pallets lined the walls, each occupied by small bodies swaddled in thin blankets. The air smelled of vinegar and boiled herbs, strong enough to sting the nose. The coughs of children echoed faintly, mixed with the quiet prayers of the sisters who moved from bed to bed.
Septa Maegelle bent low beside a boy no older than eight. His face was half-hidden beneath a hood, but one could still see the skin, mottled with the hard grey scales that gave the sickness its name. The flesh around his lips cracked when he tried to speak.
"Water," he rasped.
Maegelle dipped a cloth into a basin and pressed it gently to his mouth. "Only a little," she whispered. The boy sucked greedily, eyes half-closed, until she pulled the cloth away. His fingers twitched weakly against the rough blanket.
Across from him, another child wriggled, a girl, scarcely six, whose right arm had turned stiff and useless. The scales glistened dully in the morning light, climbing up toward her shoulder. She wept softly into the crook of her other arm.
Maegelle rose, moving with silent steps, and knelt beside her. "Shh, little one." She brushed the girl's hair from her brow, careful not to touch the greyscaled flesh. "Does it hurt?"
The girl nodded without looking up.
"Then let us try the salve again." Maegelle reached for a small pot, scooping a thin smear of the foul-smelling paste onto a strip of cloth. The child whimpered when it touched her skin, but did not pull away. Maegelle murmured a prayer softly, under her breath. "Mother above, grant mercy to the suffering."
At the far end of the hall, another septa approached, older, her veil pulled tight over her weathered face. She carried a tray of fresh bandages and set it on the table between them. Her eyes lingered on the children before she sighed heavily.
"Fewer every season," she said quietly. "Donations from the Reach lords have fallen again. They send silver to their hunts and tourneys, but little enough reaches us here."
Maegelle looked at her, then back to the girl cradled in her arms. The child's sobbing had stilled, exhaustion pulling her back to sleep. "The sickness spreads still," Maegelle said. "And yet the aid dwindles."
The older sister gave a small weary shrug. "Aye. The nobility remember us only when one of their own falls ill. It is always thus."
Maegelle's lips pressed together. She looked about the room, at the boy whose mouth cracked with thirst, at the girl with her wasted arm, at the three others sleeping fitfully beneath their rough blankets. The sept was grand, but within these chambers the grandeur faded into shadows and silence.
She rose, folding the girl's blanket up to her chin. "They deserve more," she said softly.
The elder septa gave her a long look. "And what would you have us do, child? The world's cruelty is not ours to change."
Maegelle's violet eyes met hers. "Perhaps not. But I can write."
The elder frowned faintly. "To whom?"
Maegelle turned toward the narrow window. Beyond the city walls, she could hear faintly the cries of gulls from the harbor. "To my father," she said at last. "The King has always cared for the realm. If he knew how poorly these children were tended, he would act."
The elder sister gave a small, doubtful hum, but did not argue. Instead, she gathered the tray and moved to the next cot.
Maegelle lingered where she stood, her gaze returning to the children. One boy groaned painfully, scratching at the hardened scales on his cheek until blood welled beneath the grey ridges. She hurried to him, catching his wrist gently. "No," she whispered, binding his hand with a strip of linen so he could not wound himself further. His eyes, fever-bright, flicked up at her.
"Will it… go away?" he asked in a thin, hopeful voice.
Maegelle hesitated only a breath before smoothing the hair from his brow. "Rest now," she said gently. "We will do what we can."
The boy sank back, comforted by her presence more than her words.
When at last the children slept, she left the chamber and walked down the long, cool corridor toward her cell. On her narrow writing desk, she pulled out parchment, ink, and quill. Dipping the nib, she began to write in a steady hand:
To my most honored father, Jaehaerys, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men…
I pray this letter finds you in health, as it leaves me in sorrow. As you know, at the Starry Sept in Oldtown, many children suffer from the scourge of greyscale. Their cries fill the halls, yet our coffers diminish. Fewer gifts come from the lords of the Reach this year, though the need is greater than ever. The septas here do all that may be done with what little we are given, but the sickness spreads, and mercy alone does not suffice without aid.
I beg that you send what support the Crown can spare. These children are subjects of the realm as much as any lord's son, yet they fade before our eyes for want of charity. If it pleases you, let the realm remember that even the least deserve the care of their king.
Your faithful daughter, in the light of the Seven,
Septa Maegelle
She set the quill aside, the words stark in the pale light. Folding the parchment with care, she sealed it with a drop of wax and pressed the sept's sigil into it. Then she sat back, her eyes heavy with fatigue, and thought again of the children's faces; the cracked lips, the wasted arms, the whispered questions she could not answer.
***
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