I was lying on a lounge chair, enjoying the soft rocking of the ship and the heat of the early summer sun, while I slowly studied my new connection to the Sun itself for half a hundredth time. Next to me laid Belle, partially draped across me, as my left hand was absentmindedly tracing runes over the shear dress embroidered with runes that hid everything from the world by me, causing her to moan softly near my ear, loud enough only for me to hear... and only for Moonshadow to see. My other hand.... scraped across the wood of the arm of the chair in anticipation of something I could not place; the scales of the snakeskin I wrapped around my burned hand brought a weird feeling… it felt less, but my hand was more at the same time… more dexterous and stronger as I flexed my hand. It was better than a simple glove could ever be.

My skills in Fleshcrafting had improved by leaps and bounds with the knowledge of Morrigan, housed in the Weirwood and Bone Skull hanging from the net from my belt, holding the secrets of long-dead Valyria. It allowed me to reshape flesh such that I could reattach severed muscles, add layers of skin, or even shape it to my will.

The snake skin was a less permanent solution... a modification of the faces that the Faceless Man wore, a treatment of the skin with potions made of Dittany and Knotgrass and blood that acted as a way to create a long-lasting graft over the burned skin. The end result was an arm with improved dexterity, countering any damage I had taken from the dangerous ritual I used to channel the nuclear fires of the sun.

"I had started to think that you had forgotten our deal, Wizard," said Verago Antarion leaning his back against the railing, the nephew of the Sealord, who had come along for the ride.

"Your words had wisdom in them, and the weather has gotten better for an act of leisure such as a simple cruise," I acknowledged... though I was more wary of the Iron Born and the heavier presence of the Royal Fleet led by Stannis in the Narrow Sea. Without the aid of the Iron Bank, the Iron Throne had not really made any profit from Balon's Stupidity that he passed off as Rebellion; there was no loot to be had and no glory as far as I was concerned. That made any sustained invasion while the army was assembled next to impossible, so we would remain safe in Braavos for some short while.

"Indeed... the crew seems to be working well together... better to have them know a ship before it sets off in a voyage. Do you have a destination in mind?" Verago asked, trying to get a glimpse of my plans. He had been instructed to act as a spy by his uncle, the Sealord, which I tolerated because I did not want to give the Sealord a bigger middle finger than fucking his mistress and his illegitimate daughter at the same time... but then again, you did not rule a city like Braavos for decades without being self-sacrificing... and there was the fact that he seemed to be fucking terrified of me according to Bellonara, who was the one who wore the pants in that relationship. As it stood, I had personally taken over the political position of the Faceless Men overnight, standing along with the Iron Bank and the Moonsingers to hold power in the city. Verrago was essentially a potential hostage against such a mercurial ally who refused any direct help and a way to prevent the Sealord from sending his entire navy to sink my new ship for one reason or another.

"I will let the winds decide," I said, avoiding an answer. There were a few ideas... but that was not for others to know.

The ship, Queen Rhaella's Revenge, was a three-masted ship of Braavosi design. The ship's hull gleams in the sunlight, a striking contrast of black and white wood that blended in a pattern of ripples similar writ larger than the ones on Valyrian Steel instead of the purple paint normal to the ships of the Arsenal. The wood from the Doors of the House of Black and White made up the hull, a testament to my victory over them and a final middle finger to their legacy. The sails were pitch black, the clothe treated with a potion of beeswax, dragonglass, dragon bone shavings, and blood that anchored the shadows that ensured that the sails would not tear and could magically fill with the winds with a single thought from me. The hull was also carved with intricate patterns and symbols, multiple spell circles, some that I had worked out, others experimental, while a few were there because... my foot scraped across the deck, the smooth transition from wood to dragonglass and back to wood... better safe than sorry.

The modifications took nearly a month of work to complete, which was why I delayed any trip by sea. I was wary of both other spell casters and what lay beneath the narrow sea and required a bit more... personalization of the ship that would carry me.

I took off the Sunglasses I made out of Dragonglass, looking around the deck and seeing the crew at work. The glasses were a larger version of the Glasses of True Sight that now hid my glowing eyes when I wanted to see beyond what was seen. Nothing unnerved someone more than fiery purple eyes, as it turned out... or twinkling eyes... as Dany described, much to my shame as I slowly became more like Dumbledore.

My eyes focused on the crew, seeing their very essence and observing them, and judging the very thought that passed through their minds. Each and every one of them had been vetted by me and paid in both coin and deed as I used my magic to heal more than one crippling injury that prevented them from finding another job.

"For now, this journey is only meant to train the crew, make sure they are familiar with the ship," I stated, as Belle snuggled closer to me while Moonshadow snorted from the side... not because she was jealous or anything. It had taken the combined efforts of Moonshadow, Wat the Eyes me to make True Sight a possible spell, and I knew that she could see through the illusion keeping our modesty.

Moonshadow was someone I knew literally nothing I could do with. She had been forced upon me by the Moonsingers, a 'teacher' for Daenerys and me on the ways of their religion in an effort to convert us or gain some influence over us, supported by vague prophetic double-speak; I cared not for which reas... as both would fail given the priestess I chose for the job. I was pretty sure that the High Priestess was annoyed by the rebellious and borderline heretical Moonshadow being the one chosen as well, even if she knew that she could not force something like this on me, just as I could not refuse without some strong reason... not after I barbequed the faces of the other religious organization that help found Braavos.

What the Moonsingers assumed would be Moonshadow converting me to their religion or some other reason that I did not bother paying attention to had ended up in a months-long teasing session as she 'apprenticed' under Bellonara to become a Courtesan while I picked her brain of anything potentially useful regarding the religion she was brought up in. I had not plucked that flower yet, but that was mostly because she was still a Priestess until she turned her twenty-first name day and could be presented with the option of leaving the temple as an orphan left there. I did not want her in trouble, mostly because the Moonsingers annoyingly followed the Vestal Virgin line of approach on dealing with broken oaths and lost virginities until they became old enough to have a child of their own... often from the local lord or ruler. Given that I had just come out of a war with one army of fanatic religious cults... I wanted to avoid another one if possible, and the Moon Cult was less of an issue than the Death Cult when it came to reasoning with. The only annoying bit was that she seemed to have picked up a few things from me as well, allowing her to cast 'miracles' based on the prayers she had... though it was limited to a few small healing spells and extremely minor telekinesis, just as I learned more regarding the moon, it's phases, meanings and much more.

Next to Moonshadow was Dany, looking over a specific bowl in front of her, which held an experiment of mine. "Shouldn't it point in the North?" asked Dany, leaning over the needle floating on the cork inside a bowl of water that kept spinning, making me grimace at that experiment I was running at the side. What I assumed to be the magnetic interference of the Giant Bronze Statue on Braavos was a bit more complicated than that, it would seem. Physics in this world had long since taken a leave of absence. "You said it should point to North."

There were a lot of peculiarities in this world. A Moon took exactly thirty days exactly to complete a full cycle, and a year was twelve months exact. The lack of stable seasonal patterns made it hard to discern how accurate of a year that was, as I had dug up records of the last 'cold periods' that behaved less like seasons and more like brief periods of mild weather in scorching heat or freezing cold were the only indicator of an actual season cycle caused by physics to the mini-ice ages that were the Winters... mind the capitalization. At least Braavos had a record of the last four hundred years of winters and any major events... though I could not find a visible pattern. I had even checked the dates of major battles and how they fit on the seasons, in the off chance that Big-G had made the seasons bound to his anti-war beliefs... to no avail.

Now, the magnetic field of the world was wonky... wonder if that was why the seasons were fucked up. I knew there was a magical explanation, but I was not sure. At least it explained the lack of development that followed the Age of Exploration... if the Age of Exploration could not be reliably triggered without a working compass to navigate with.

"Could, would, should..." I said, both to the comment of Dany and to remind myself. I flexed my will, mentally layering an illusion to ensure that this bit of our conversation was private between us, which was way easier aboard the ship even as it ended at the water, which seemed to be running interference to most spells I could cast. "Another lesson, sister, the world does not revolve around your desires and delusions unless you have the strength of will to make it so. The greater your delusion, the more you will face resistance... be it in spells or in politics. You wanted the needle to point north, so you expected that it would happen... remember, Wizard's First Rule..."

"People are idiots; they believe in things that they wish were true or things that they fear to be true; yes, brother, you have repeated it often enough," said Dany, rolling her eyes. "I still do not see how that is related to magic."

"Dreams and Prophecies," I stated simply. "They are not the most reliable of magics, even if all other methods of magic can be driven from with a proper understanding of divination and the ability to foresee the consequences of spells and rituals. If you let your emotions and fears control you, if you let yourself focus on a single solution of some prophecy and ignore other answers, you will find yourself at a dead end and often your own doom. Many in our family fell to the sweet promises of visions only to end up suffering for it, their inability to control their own emotions becoming their undoing."

"But you said emotions powered magic?" asked Dany.

"Therein lies the dilemma, emotions power magic, the sacrifice, the loss, the drive, all those are empowered by emotions, but they also muddy the goals, change it, destabilize it. Take King's Blood, for example; many think it has a power of its own when it is nothing but the emotions it generates from those who follow that king. Mastering your own mind, understanding your own self, and seeing the visions unbiased by emotions is the great challenge of wielding magic." I explained, "Not to mention, the easiest and most common spells are grounded in illusions," I said, taking out my wand and casting a solid illusion of myself. It was... weird one as far as wands went. The wand made from the Rowan and the Raven Feather 'died' after I used it too much, only for it to gain its 'charge' back up at dawn. I managed to link it to the connection between the sun and the sunfire ritual that was superficially bound to the raven now perched on my shoulder. It was better than nothing, though the nerf I got was annoying.

"Which one am I?" I asked, causing Dany to point to the one that had cast the spell. I let the illusion fade, both Viserys' fading. Having used the chance to disillusion myself, I reappeared behind Dany, the light-based spell working with ease from the hiding concept of the moonstone and light control of the sunstone. "Trust only that which you can confirm; now, let us duel..." I declared, making my way to the center of the deck.

Bellegere gave me a pout behind me, as the illusion she was lying on had also disappeared, causing her to end up sprawled alone on the lounge chair. The ritual I had used had made her more... amorous, and being named the new Black Pearl and the Mistress of the Wizard had her trying her best to show me off at any chance she got.

I understood her reasoning, of course, to show the influence she could hold while also subtly hinting at the fact that she held the leash of the big bad wizard who could burn the entire city if annoyed. I gave her a wink, getting a pout in return as I turned around and made my way to the middle of the deck.

Syrio and Ser Richard were sparing, only to stop when they saw me walk close by. Syrio himself was there to ensure Verago did not cause something stupid and get Braavos blown up by an angry Wizard. Being regarded as a person of mass destruction was... strangely flattering and annoying at the same time.

At least whatever loss of common sense that affected most of the world seemed to have not touched Braavos... except for the dozen or so challenges I got every other week either for fucking the newly anointed Black Pearl, or for being a Wizard, or some other reason. Grabbing someone and slamming them onto the ground repeatedly seemed to have not been a good enough discouragement... and that was not even half as annoying as running away from potential Eldritch Cultists and Red Priests claiming that I was some sort of messiah.

I watched my sworn sword sparring against the First Sword of Braavos and actually holding his own. Sir Richard had... well, he had been through hell and back. He had lost a lot of weight that he was still in the process of regaining, his cheeks sunken, but he stood straight, but he looked more formidable than before, his body giving off that subtle aura of 'Do not fuck with me,' that most battle-hardened men gave off but more overtly thanks to the modifications I had to do to keep the Manticore Venom at bay.

The poison in his veins was... stabilized. It took me a while to figure out the right rituals, but my sword shield had not become something like Robert Strong or anything, as his heart still beat. He also gained immunity to most poisons and potentially a way to consume highly dangerous potions without dying from the toxicity, but I was still working on developing said potions to boost his capabilities ala Witcher.

His replacement arm of weirwood and dragonbone was the best I could do since I could not regrow bone even with my Fleshcrafting. The prosthesis was based on my own wand, with joints infused with moonstone for the 'motion' and 'force' that the combination of moonstone and dragon bone seemed to be good at holding, just as the combination of dragonglass and dragon bone had a distinct affinity for fire and the more destructive aspects of magic.

The two stood back as I walked near them, followed closely by Dany. The crew was silent as they watched. It was not the first time we 'dueled,' and the results were often a wonder to behold... after I put out the fires, at least.

"Do we have to?" asked Dany, knowing in her mind that she would not win. That alone was a dangerous notion to have when your will was what you were using to determine the winner of a magical duel... at least at this level.

"Yes... you need to get your sea legs in case you need to defend yourself on a ship. Now, first, we bow," I said, giving a flourish before slapping aside a spell that Dany had sent with the back of my hand and a shield of winds... instead of bowing. I gave a smile... good... she was learning.

I dodged her cutting spell, which was weak enough that my own personal authority over myself would dismiss it, using a trick I reverse-engineered from the Valyrian Steel's ability to no-sell magic, an effect that Morrigan referred to as 'Regimency' based on some teachings from the Cult of Boash that have long since died out. It was sort of a soul-based method of overpowering a spell that you understood and had familiarity with, preventing its effects on your own body and mind. It was the same concept that had a dragon only being harmed by the fires of a larger dragon, which were hotter... or why a Dark Lord would never fall to a stray curse they personally mastered unless through magical shenanigans and bylaws.

I tilted my head to the side, letting the spellfire pass through. While it would have done nothing, it was still not something I wanted to face head-on... since Dany had greater authority over fire than I did... through her frustrating 'dragon' affinity. In real life, people dodged, and Dany needed to anticipate that people may dodge. It had been a few months since she started, and she had gotten good enough with her spells that I had upgraded her starter wand of weirwood and dragonbone, binding dragonglass, moonstone, and sunstone, allowing my sister to gain the versatility of magic through the connections to Earth, Moon, and Sun respectively.

I weaved through her spells, the bolts and lines of spellfire that were imbued with her will, and finally, a clumsily levitated barrel sent in my direction. For a distinct moment, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, an application of Thought Acceleration on my own mind, another principle of Regimency I picked up combined with the Greenseer's timey-whimsy effects that I still did not fully understand even if I could fully utilize. Placing my hand on the barrel at the last second, I took over the spell, letting the barrel land on the ground safely before grabbing the wooden lid and throwing it. Dany, too busy struggling to regain control of her spell, got hit in the shins, jumping in place.

I used the opportunity to pull her with the winds with a flick of my hand... not relying on a wand, while she pushed away from the wind cocoon with her will... managing to break it, though she was close enough for me to rip her wand from her hand, careful to hold it in my left hand. My right hand did not get along with wands after it was burned... at least, that had been the case once I bound the snakeskin over the flesh and isolated the effect to the region where the scar was.

"I lost," grumbled Dany, snatching her wand back. It was a good fit, as far as wands went, but it was not perfect.

"You lasted longer than you had before," Ser Richard countered. "Do not compare yourself to others, but to yourself in the past, and you will find yourself becoming the master of your art."

"Wise words," I nodded, ruffling Dany's hair and getting a glare with the pout that was just adorable.

"Ser Barristan told me that when Prince Rhaegar beat me in a spar tenth time that day," said Ser Richard, getting a distant look. That had been enough to sour my own mood. Ser Barristan Selmy was one of those topics that I had no idea how to address. The aged Kingsguard was loyal until he lost to Robert, swearing himself to the Usurper of my family. He had only sworn himself to Daenerys after he had been dismissed by Joffrey, and he had been the person to save Aerys from Duskendale... though there was a likelihood that I might not have survived childhood if Aerys had died. Combined with his apathy towards what my mother had gone through, I held him in lower regard than Jamie Lannister, of all people.

"Your force spells are clumsy, but it would have worked on anyone who did not know what you were doing. Repetition and practice will fix that. I could have used the spell to cut the air from your lungs... or things something much worse, and you did well breaking it, though you let yourself get distracted. Do not fight someone on their area of mastery; an older mage will have greater mastery of their own minds, just as a knight is more effective up close. So long as you avoid fights where they can win, you should be fine. Overall... good job." I explained, hugging her as my sister simply molded into my hug.

My wand produced a green glow; the wood could store memories, and remembering the healing potion and the spells I used with it, removing the need for the potion after the first few times I cast the healing spells I crafted. The start of the bruise on Dany's shins faded... though not completely, to make sure the lessons stuck.

And my wand died again. I still had not figured out a way to fix that issue, or invested in more wands, mostly because I had not been able to figure out the correct Magical Core of the wand. The dragon bone wands did not work for me anymore, potentially due to the same reason why a Dragonrider could not bond with another dragon after the first one died. As the only other piece of bone from the same dragon went into making Morrigan's skull, and I had not been sure which dragon gave said bones, I needed another Fantastic Beast to use for Wand Core. It may also lead to some issues with claiming a dragon, but I was preparing a workaround. For now, as far as a wand was concerned, I was limited to the feathers from the proto-Phoenix that I had accidentally crafted, and I was halfway through designing that bit of ritual work.

The latest changes to the core allowed me to leverage the connection between the Raven and the Sun, somehow causing the dead wand to be 'reborn' at every dawn. I could not say that the Raven was a Phoenix yet, but I have been working on a series of rituals to finalize the conversion... starting with integrating the parts of the White Raven that I liked.

From the best I could gather, the Maesters had imbued Weirwood Ash into the raven, potentially by feeding the parents a potion of weirwood ash. Feeding the mixture to normal ravens led to a minority of their children hatching white in color and being capable of passively absorbing the magical energy around them... though I was not able to get eggs that lasted long enough to hatch. Without the sap in the mixture, however, the White Raven lacked the ability to fully unlock the Greensight potential, resulting in a raven that was white in color, as per the color of Weirwood, yet retained the black eyes instead of being a complete albino. There were theories that the acolytes who managed to light the glass candle and pass the test were themselves sacrificed and somehow used in the breeding of the white ravens, but I was not sure how accurate such a theory was, even if the soul density of the white raven was significantly larger than a normal one and it would explain the method used to properly fertilize the eggs.

The White Raven was now dead... its essence and flesh bound to the proto-Phoenix. I chose led me to bind the feathers of the White Raven on the outside of the Fiery Raven, akin to the skin-wearing of the Faceless Men, while I managed to create a potion that contained the ashes, ground bones, blood, and the soul of the white raven to provide pressure from the inside, along with the Weirwood Sap. The aim was to have the two magical effects combine and synergize, working from the inside and outside while also ensuring the trapping of the superficial connection to the sun that the Raven still held between the two layers and not remain as superficial as I had initially observed.

A bit of help in divination to make sure everything would work, and now, I was the owner of a large albino raven that still tended to leave smoke behind when he flapped his wings.

"Why can't I spar with Lanna instead?" asked Dany once I finished up her healing, and she decided that she was bored from being hugged. After finding that Magic was a lot of sitting around and talking, Dany had wanted to drag Lanna along since she got bored with most of her lessons. I did not protest, mostly because the blond girl was far too loyal to be a threat. It turned out Lanna... was good at the theory, mostly from our talks about the nature of the soul and the rituals she had been going through to fix the damage she had been through. That being said, the prototype wand I had made seemed to refuse to work for her, implying that she did not have any drop of Dragonblood in her. Combined with her lower-than-average soul density because of the Alchemist..., her talents lay in rituals and more subtle magics that could be powered externally.

"I prefer a sword in a fight, princess," Lanna said, mostly to avoid a magical duel like what we had a moment before. Her strengths came in preparation, ironically, her high affinity to Alchemy. Syrio, who was watching from the side, caught my eye and gave me a nod, getting the message to focus her on that training.

While this world was not a Table Top RPG, it made for a good reference. I was primarily a Wizard; my knowledge and versatility made me a Jack of All Trades, the Master of Few. In comparison, Dany was a Sorceress... more in tune with her blood and heritage. She was naturally talented, potentially more so than me in terms of raw power, even if she needed work on precision. Spells that she did not have as close of an affinity, like the Force Spells we have both been learning through Moonshadow, took longer for her to learn than, say, the ability to throw Firebolts. Lanna, on the other hand, fit in the category of a Witch, someone who could use outside magic to do the work for her. Her sharp mind and close affinity to gems made her better at drawing out meanings for potions and ritual-based spells... even if she did not have a specialized wand, relying on a piece of Weirwood bound to her with her blood to help her focus and recover.

I gave Dany a look, my eyes narrow, which seemed enough for her to realize that what she asked was... not something she ought to have done. "Come on, I still need to finish the work Wiz gave us for our next lessons; you can help me with that since you are more advanced in numbers," she said, grabbing the now brooding older girl and pulling her along.

"Blood of my blood, Slaver Scum on the Horizon," yelled Sajo, causing everyone to snap at attention while I turned to gaze where he pointed. I had felt a call, and it seemed my subtle Foresight called me to war.

"That will have to wait... get below deck and stay with Huan," I said, sending a mental command to my dog, who had been lying on one of the corners, dozing under the sun.

Sajo started barking orders for the crew, getting everyone to be ready for either hauling ass or preparing a confrontation. With me here, it was going to be a confrontation.

Sajo was half-Dothraki and better a Captain than anyone else in the crew I had assembled for my ship. His father was Braavosi, a Captain in the Navy, while his mother was Dothraki, a slave bound for the Pleasure Houses of Lys before his father's ship had intercepted it. What followed was a 'whirlwind romance' that ended with Sajo and his mother in Braavos while his father had disappeared in a storm.

Sajo had been the first mate of one of the more prominent trading ships in Braavos I had invested in before one of the Ironborn ships decided to use the excuse of the Greyjoy Rebellion to attack the ship before being killed by the man. An injury had crippled him in the leg, forcing him to stop his career. Yna had been the one to introduce us, and in exchange for being healed and returning to the seas, Sajo had agreed to serve as the First Mate of my ship, declaring himself my Bloodrider in the Dothraki way and refusing to become the Captain of the Ship that I clearly owned. Lines blurred on who the Captain was, but I trusted him in matters of naval operations due to his experience, and he spoke in my name, as he had given his mind showed no hint of treachery; his loyalty was mine after he watched me heal the bum-leg that had a severed tendon giving him a limp that made him unable to stand on a ship or ride a horse.

His experience made him invaluable, and his hate for slavery marked him as unique for someone who had a drop of Dothraki blood, even as he hung onto the culture of his mother's side. I also found a Half-Dothraki who was at home on a ship amusing… but that would have been unprofessional to consider as a fact. That being said, "A Horse of Flesh, or a Horse of Wood if it moves, Sojo rides," was an impressive creed, I had to admit. He was playing up the Dothraki aspect of his heritage a bit, being able to speak the language and using it to make himself sound tougher and stand out amongst a crowd, and I had to admit that it worked. The bells on his hair and the purple died horse leather vest did indeed make him stand out among the two dozen or so crew members.

My impulse control wanted to see what he would do when facing a dragon, but I was not cruel, and I lacked a dragon to spare... and I was not stupid enough to give other people dragons... like Jacaerys Valaryon.

I grasped my staff, focusing on the moonstone atop it and causing the experiment with the compass creation to fly in the air into my room, among the rest of the experiments I had conducted on the open seas.

A flex had my vision shift to my Familiar, the white raven with red highlights perched atop the main mast. The Raven, who still held onto the connection to the Sun... whose name I still could not decide on, had been upgraded with a few improvements on the same method of skinchanging.

The raven's eyes focused on the enemy ship; his greater eyesight allowed me to make out the bars on the floor of the deck and the full contents within.

"What do you think, Ser?" I asked the shadow behind me. Taking out the broken half of the Lamentation, I let the tip of my staff bind with the hilt, forming a hewing spear or a glaive from whichever perspective one looked at.

"Put on your armor, your grace," said Ser Richard, his voice hoarse and cautious as he pulled aside the white cloak I had given him, revealing the pale wooden arm that wrapped its wooden fingers around the sword.

**Dragonkeeper:**

His new hand grasped the hilt of the sword, the wood scraping against wood as Ser Richard Lonmouth took in the smell of the sea… savoring it… savoring life... in spite of the coming fight... maybe because of the coming fight.

The Queen Rhaella's Revenge was a ship they were given as a gift by the Sealord, and it had already held the Glyphs of Valyria on most surfaces. Glowing softly when he had looked through the small spectacles his grace had made for his use. He trusted those spells, the protections inlaid to the ship itself to keep them safe, but Richard preferred his sword to do the protection.

Prince Rhaegar had been right… Maesters were wrong when they claimed that Magic had gone through the world. It was there, hidden, waiting for the right ones to bring it forth. Rhaegar knew a few tricks; his harp of silver strings and dragon bone, Richard suspected, was one of those tricks... yet he was just that... playing tricks compared to his younger brother and the stick he held.

The wooden hand he had been given moved with his will as though it mimicked the ghost of his flesh hand that was now gone. Beneath, the stump of his arm had veins of black, though the touch of the Weirwood was as though a warm hearth in the middle of the winter and a cooling skin of water under the Dornish Sun at once. He felt the touch, yet the pain was gone, and the arm had more strength than his flesh would have.

Twice, for two princes, he had served, fighting in their name, and twice he had seen death… but that was the way of things it would seem. After the Trident, when Richard ended up in the Quiet Isle, brought there through the currents of the river, Richard had given up on life upon seeing Rhaegar fall... until he woke up in the damp and dark, looking into those familiar yet all so unfamiliar eyes of his Prince. Richard cried out for his gods then, thinking it was the nightmares that haunted him.

Richard had given up, dragged along into the dying embers of a dynasty... until he saw what the Prince stood for. Despite having nothing, the Prince chose to do the right thing, the honorable thing. The golden-haired lass by the side of the Princess was enough to remind Ser Richard that there were those who would need knights, and his prince was one that was worthy enough to serve.

He saw Rhaegar in the young prince, the same hair, the same sad eyes that mourned the death of his family… and even the wrath that was beneath. The king disliked being compared to his own brother, yet they had both done things that were not to their benefit more than once… for the sake of chivalry and the innocent.

The dark-haired girl with grey eyes that had recently joined their 'Party,' as the king called it, brought out other memories as well, Rhaegar's love and ruin... yet there were subtle hints that she was not the same lass. The priestess had a sharp tongue, questioning everything and making the prince as frustrated as she could, though the subtle smile on his face showed the young man matching wits with another person.

His eyes landed on the right hand of his prince… now scaled like a dragon. He had seen what was beneath the magical glove his prince had made out of snake's skin… burned flesh, red and raw, unable to heal completely even after months and potions that Richard had seen knit flesh back together with ease... 'cursed with the flames of the stars itself and quenched in death. Cost of Greater Magicks, I am afraid,' his king called it, dismissing it as mere discomfort before pulling on a layer of skin that molded itself to the flesh.

His eyes fell on his own hand… the one made of wood and bone, the one made by his prince to give him a small amount of his strength in arms... the one that had led to Richard match the First Sword of Braavos when he had no chance of winning without cheating.

"What type of king does not help his own men... fight for his own men?" echoed the words of Rhaegar that day when he had led the charge to reinforce the flank upon the death of Prince Lewyn, despite the risks to himself upon the field of battle. Viserys had comments regarding the Trident, how they ought to have not crossed the water, but what had happened had happened. Viserys, too, showed that he cared for his own men more than his own health. The boy whom Richard had met bled for the innocent lives… he had burned for the sake of his man… Richard admired the boy whom he called King… and he feared him all the same.

A moment, he was laughing and joking, and the next, his eyes had turned to the sea… commanding the Captain tasked with sailing the ship out into the middle of the Narrow Sea.

Years had taught Richard never to blindly follow a Targaryen without preparing for a fight... his magic arm flexed on its own, and the white cloak upon his shoulder... asked by Richard himself after he learned of his inability to have children of his own from the Manticore Venom now moving through his veins.

The crazy Dothraki entrusted with the helm of the ship had not asked questions, like many others before who followed the dragons to ruin. The stars could be used to navigate the Narrow Sea, and he knew the few Braavosi sailors knew the art, relying on Myrish devices or using instead Priests of the Starry Wisdom, whom his grace refused even be near the ship, carving a strange, uneven star with five points across the entire deck of the ship with his dagger while muttering things about 'Eldritch Horrors' and using words that would leave Sailor's blushing and have Queen Rhaella wash his son's mouth with soap had she been alive.

Richard did not care, for whatever could scare the Wizard who killed the entire order of the Faceless Men in a Night was not something Richard cared to meet. If the strange symbol protected them, the Kingsguard was satisfied. The small of his back tingled at that thought, reminding him of the nature of the King he swore to protect and the seven-pointed star that now stood pale against the small of his back.

To those who knew not the King, it would look as though the boy had the blessing of the Seven themselves. When the boy looked, he looked through you, seeing you, judging you as though he was the Father himself. When he healed, his hands were guided by the mercy of the Mother herself, his gaze holding a kindness that soothed Richard's soul. His mind sharp as Valyrian Steel, honed by the Crone and pulling knowledge out of the ether with his will alone, and his will a weapon finer still, a testament to the favor he held in the eye of the Warrior.

Then there was his craft. His hands, making tools of Magic as though guided by the Smith, the powders that Wat the Brains used, causing men to fall before they can make it off the slaver's ship or the arrows of the Wat the Eyes that punched through steel plate, or the polearm in the hands of the king moving with grace the boy never had shown… as though blessed by the Warrior himself, each thrust punching through the armor of one or the other, the long Valyrian Steel blade hewing through chain and leather, it's broken tip a promise of death.

And then there was his new arm, moving with a mere thought to block the slash, quickly blocking and thrusting at once. Made of Weirwood for the flesh, with the bone of a dragon and his own bound together. Made from the materials that made up the wand of the Princess, the wand that had burned for his grace. He was sworn to keep his secrets, and he would do so from now until he had no life left in his body to be the shield.

To the fool, Viserys Targaryen spoke in the voice of the Seven... until you actually bothered to listen and found that gods cared not for the living... only keeping them as food for worship. Richard had cared not much for the Faith he was grown up with. Being the squire to a prince plagued with dreams of destruction, Richard knew that magic was there. Being the sworn sword of the one people called a Wizard showed him how much he underestimated those who held the power of magic... or how terrifying they could be. Men did not break the rules of the world with their wills, yet a wizard did it; his prince did it when he could not be bothered by walking to grab something.

The arm moved as if it was his own, though he could feel when he needed to move in a certain way to find a bout of fight… as though the magical wood guided him.

Men fell against him, their blood landing on his white wooden arm as he felt himself slowly get faster and better until he was breathing hard from cutting through a dozen men and facing the man who could only be the captain, with his fancy clothes, jewelry, and large hat. Even though Richard was good, the Captain seemed better, and a dozen times, their blades met, and all it took was Richard missing a slash. The blade that was aimed at his gut was ripped apart from the slaver's hand with a roar of "ENOUGH!" from the King, a pulse of air ripping the blades of the slavers off their hands.

And the Dragon Awoke.

Compared to the spar His Grace had with his sister, this was the man who chose to fight off a Sorcerer with centuries of experience on him... and won. This was his might bringing itself to the front, the man whom some Braavosi called the Butcher of Death in whispers when in their cups... This was the Wizard of Westeros.

A moment later, one of the slavers who seemed to have snuck past the rest and tried to enter below deck fell apart in four separate pieces... three shadow-ravens emerging from the stumps formed by the invisible blades, each attacking one of the slavers that had the misfortune of being close to the dead one. They did not die from lost limbs or cut-off heads but rather shriveled into themselves, dead for weeks within the span of seconds.

Seeing him fight was... not to watch the Warrior, but the Stranger itself descending to the field of war... for the Ice and Fire and Death and Destruction take the field with him. At that moment, Richard did not see the boy who sparred with him, the one who, with his strength and speed, pushed a fully grown man... even if he lacked the skill of the likes of Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Arthur Dayne, or even the Kingslayer... yet his magic still made him a formidable and dangerous fighter when fully grown.

At that moment, Richard understood why the boy-king refused to use magic when sparring... as the dragon in human form went through the pirates as though a scythe through wheat.

What Richard saw was a dance of death itself. Smoke became blades ripping man apart; bolts of flame burned holes through flesh as though through a cloth. Three men huddled too close together were launched with a wave of the Wizard's hand, and an archer screamed as flames erupted from his eyes before falling off the crow's nest, shattering into pieces of ice.

Compared to the previous spar he had with her sister, Viserys Targaryen unleashed his full might, showing that he was as dangerous as a fully grown dragon.

Along the way, none of the arrows harmed the king, the strange face plate which held a glass visor in place of the gaps of the eyes slits, and the helm that held the rune carving of the spell that halted objects. Each arrow fell on the ground once they were close enough... simply bounced off. Richard had been there when the King ordered a smith to make the helmet to his designs; he had been there when the King showed the glass plate that would be part of the helm, scoffing at the thought until the King brought a hammer upon the glass.

The slavers ran... as cowards often did when faced with a stronger foe. They managed to make it to their ship and cut the lines they had used to climb onto the King's ship, yet the wave slammed its hull back onto the Queen and out of the hull, the wood-formed hands that grasped onto the other ship, ropes launching and binding themselves to keep the ships from separating.

"Yield!" the King roared, "and none shall be harmed while your feet touch the ship," the King commanded once he carved a path of death through half the crew of the ship, and Ser Richard himself resisted the urge to kneel at the presence and the command, his back burning with the thrum of power in the air.

Ser Willem had warned him not to bring up the Seven, and Richard had acquiesced. By his own knowledge and wisdom or by the grace of the Seven, his King had the blessing of the gods… or he was a god in human skin… not that Richard cared for the difference. Unlike the Seven, his grace was before him, bringing magicals to reality while being more than the Seven ever claimed to be.

A dragon in human skin... with the wrath to match when angered. Mayhaps the old sayings were true, that Targaryens were closer to Gods than Man... the King made it appear to be so.

Soon the slavers were bound in ropes and held at sword point.

"You gave your word," said one of the men.

"Where are you from?" asked his grace as the Princess and her 'ladies in waiting' walked from beneath the deck where they were safe from the fight. The giant hound stood next to the Princess, its body larger than any hound or wolf... the fur on his snout was the color of a blood red that was the only thing in its smoky grey fur... fur of a fox that was bound to the creature to give it a better sense of smell than even wolves.

"Ghis... we are from the mighty Ghis," said the slaver. "I am..."

A wave of the wand shut him up, "Far from home and a dead man," the king concluded.

"You promised we would not be harmed on your ship," argued the slaver. "You gave your word."

"I have... your feet are not touching the ship," the king stated, lifting all the slavers with his magic, as a sequence of cracks was heard, leaving the man with broken bones... hanged like the pirates they are from ropes invisible.

Some days… Ser Richard Lonmouth felt as though he was less protecting his grace from the threats and more protecting the world from his brand of crazy, and this was one of those days. The saying about the coin was wrong, Richard decided; all Targaryens were nuts, and some had the balls to embrace it... few had the might to enact it upon the world.

It was his family's misfortune that a Lonmouth always showed up when the crazies changed the world. Hopefully, this time, it will be for the better.

**The Little Dragon**

In the opinion of Daenerys Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men was... the best brother who ever lived... or died... Dany did not know if Rhaegar was a good brother, but Wiz called him a 'self-absorbed prick who plunged a realm into war for his own dreams,' but Dany was not sure if she had any authority to judge, having not met Rhaegar. Wiz was pretty adamant about making assumptions and having the opinion of others corrupt her perception. Her brother said it, and Wiz was smart and awesome, so Dany would listen to her brother.

That being said, Wiz was also annoying... as he was sometimes a bit too overprotective... like now.

The outing with the new ship Viserys got from the Sealord was great. Dany loved their life in Braavos, but her brother kept her close, not letting her go out to the city or explore as much as Dany had wanted. Queen Rhaella's Revenge... named after their mother and one of the bedtime stories that Viserys told her... of Queen Anne's Revenge and her legendary pirate-captain Blackbeard at least gave Dany some freedom, even if that freedom came with lessons in the form of magic duels. Dany was still not sure of the name of the ship, but Wiz had his flights of fancy in naming things... it was fine so long as he did not grow a beard, lit it on fire, and called himself Silverbeard.

The image brought a giggle just as she made her way out of the lower deck to find her brother with Huan by her side.

"You gave your word..." one of the men stated... making Dany want to hiss before she suppressed the instincts of Missy as Wiz taught her. Their presence felt... wrong... like oily and slick, and made Dany feel disgusted... as she felt Missy raise her fur where she was laying all the way back in Braavos, lazing on Ser Willem's lap and getting her ear scratched.

"I have... your feet are not touching the ship," her brother declared. Wiz was technically correct... which was the best type of correct.

Soon, Dany was standing next to Wiz, his hand never leaving her shoulder. It was enough to make Dany curious; seeing her brother's stone face meant he had probably gotten a vision or something along the lines.

"A word is an important thing, sister, yet the punishment of Slavery and Piracy is the same in any truly free city," said Wiz once the bodies were sent to the cold room made with Magical Runes and Weirwood. Dany knew that it was so they could be used for some of Wiz's experiments, for magic that Wiz deemed too Dark and Dangerous for Dany to learn until later.

Dany kept her hand around her wand, getting comfort from it as Moonshadow approached. "Do you understand why he did it?" asked the Priestess of the Moon.

"They were pirates and slavers," Dany repeated, uncertain what was hard to understand about that.

"Your brother has certain views on justice... be they right or wrong, they are his," advised Moonshadow as Wiz walked by. Moonshadow gave Wiz a calculating and annoyed look.

"The Northerners believe that a man who passes the sentence ought to swing the sword... to remind themselves that killing ought not be easy. Some call them barbarians... others call them bloodthirsty. I am of the opinion that the Starks are onto something, given how they ruled over half of Westeros for the longest time amongst all the houses." explained Wiz making Dany nod in understanding. "And a man who cannot do his own killing is less likely to be respected... remember that. The rules are less defined for women, however."

"Iron fist... velvet glove," Dany remembered the lessons that Bellonara had gone through regarding the Court.

"Indeed... and do you know why I chose the method I did?" asked Wiz.

"Your word is your bond; to break it would make you untrustworthy, and the worth of your words mean less," stated Dany, "Yet to keep your word does not mean you cannot go around it."

"Wise words," said the woman, who emerged from among the chained man in the cage. "Though tricky road to walk that... holding to the spirit of your word is better most of the time, less they deserve death for another crime."

Wiz... or rather the King snapped his fingers, and Ser Richard straightened, "You stand before His Grace, Viserys Starborn the Third of His Name of House Targaryen, Exiled King of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar, Archwizard of Valyria" said Richard, having been tasked with the duty of introducing the king, calling him by the title that Dany came up with. If she got to be Stormborn, then her brother ought to be Starborn after all... it only made sense. Wiz got a strange look before accepting the title.

Dany suppressed the urge to giggle, recalling the last time her brother said his own name and caused the flames in the room to rise like towers. It had caused drapes to catch fire on accident… something about remaining enchantment placed upon his own name from the ritual that destroyed the Faceless Men.

'A lesson as good as any, Dany, remember this always... magic leaves a mark, for good or for worse,' her brother explained, and it had been enough for Dany to take the lesson to heart and be extra cautious with rituals using her name.

"That be a long name... though I have heard longer," said the woman grinning a crooked grin, though Dany could not sense any malice in her words.

"Now, what is your name?" asked Wiz to the woman.

"I be called Morna White Mask, and these be my war band… we came seeking ye', Sun King," said the woman who gave a wicked smile.

"Wildlings…" grunted Ser Richard, his hand clutching his blade before the king placed the end of his staff over his hand.

"What brings the Men of the Free Folk… seeking me… and ending up chained in a Slaver's Ship,"

"Aye, but here we are… where we wished to be," said the woman, still grinning. "I saw ye in a dream, as me mask cracked and I glimpsed at ye in my dreams; Mother Mole foretold that if we went to Hardhome, we would find the one we seek... the one with a crown of the sun upon his brow."

'Fucking Divination,' thought Dany, recalling her brother's frustration with the subject... when he was not the one using it, at least, though she was far too refined to speak such vulgar words out loud. Bellegere would tell on her to Wiz, and Wiz would give her that disappointed look he gave people when they were being stupid or wrong... and Dany still remembered the taste of soap from the last time she used a bad word in her brother's presence.

"And your mask?" asked Wiz, making Dany notice that Morna White Mask did not in fact have a mask... white or any other color.

"Wasn't gonna let that fuckers take me mask... I can make a new one with the wood below," said the older woman, grinning and showing a few of her missing teeth.

Dany reached out and felt. Her senses were not as developed as her brothers, but she could feel the presence of a large amount of something wooden beneath the deck of the ship; the mutter of "Weirwood" from her brother confirmed it. It was a lot of Weirwood if what she felt was right, and Dany knew how long her brother spent growing the magical wood and how annoyed he was that he could not find more of it.

"Bread and salt for our guests, and wine as well. Let us feast for freedom and victory," declared Wiz before the temperature dropped around them. "And if any of your men try to think to look at my sister funny," he stated, looking at Morna, "I will kill them, bring them back, and repeat with increasingly different methods of death until all they are will be agony and they will beg that I kill them, breaking guest rights be damned," Wiz stated, causing some of the younger man to blanch. Dany had not noticed their looks, even if she had long since taken a step away from them, keeping Wiz in between her and those men, "and when I am done, I will throw them to the bottom of the sea for the horrors beneath the waves to fuck with you for eternity."

Wiz could be scary when he wanted to, even if some of the threats he made caused Dany to want to bury her face in her pillows as Wiz showed his overprotective side. Dany had a feeling that those men would be the first to fall to a fight or an ambush... for someone who liked showing off, Wiz had a subtlety to him when it came to disposing of his enemies, as fitting for any wizard.

"Hear that, cunts, you look at the girl funny, and I will rip your balls off and feed it to ye' before the King gets to ye,'" said Morna, giving Dany to sigh.

Like Dany was a little girl... and not a dragon like her awesome big brother. She knew what they would try to do, and her fire burned hot; even if it did not match Wiz, she could still burn them before they could toucher her... or Lanna... or even Belle when she stopped behaving like a know-it-all... even if she did know how to sing and dance better than anyone else.

Daenerys Targaryen was a dragon, and just because her fire bolts could not harm Viserys did not mean they could not burn mere men.

"So, Morna, tell me why you have come. Have the Cold Ones started stirring already?" asked Wiz, as the air around them warmed... though the chill in their bones remained. Dany suppressed her urge the sigh. Behold, Viserys the Wizard, everyone, subtle in destruction, with the social graces and patience of a dragon when it comes to topics that normal men would consider nightmares.

"Ye' know 'bout that… don't?" said Morna, spitting to the side. "That makes it easier..."

Dany sighed, she truly loved her big brother dearly, but sometimes, it fell to her to soothe the ruffled feathers of men, unready for the truth of this world.

**Wandbearer**

The addition of Morna's band to the crew had happened rather smoothly. They were scared enough of me and yet respected me enough that they did not have any trouble following Morna's lead.

I noted the few who looked at Dany with desire. They did not really see her, but rather the power they believed she too would have or the influence 'stealing' her may bring over me. Luckily, none of them were sick enough to do anything for now, given her age, and they had all been sufficiently cowed, but I would make a note to make sure to give them the honor of leading the vanguard in any fight in the future. Ambition was a useful tool, but they needed to limit it if they wanted to work for me.

The presence of the Free Folk also balanced things out. The original three men I had, along with Ser Willem, who was overseeing the operations in Braavos, had not been enough to begin with. The recruitment from Essos was one that I was wary of, as most of them were either Sellswords seeing someone with the power to ensure they would win and get a quick pay or fanatics of religions, with a few exceptions that were hard to pick up.

Morna had been a surprise, but not an unwelcome one, given that I could learn a lot more from them. That being said, the fact that she wore a mask made of Weirwood may have helped guide her visions and 'called' her to me. Magic be weird like that so, I had no room to comment.a

In contrast, the Free Folk saw me as someone with power and someone they could respect. Most were already superstitious, following Morna to slavery, and the ones who plotted to slit her throat for ending up in slavery were mortified as they watched me carve through slavers on my own with magic. They had a healthy amount of fear for me, and it was mixed with enough respect that they did not grumble. The fact that I did not ask them to kneel and kiss the bottom of my feet helped as well.

I sighed, having lost my temper when I got assaulted by a vision during the fight. The three slavers who had been sneaking below deck would have... I suppressed the memories of the vision that assaulted me. My visions were getting clearer for a while now and less controlled, as Dragon Dreams seemed to be assaulting me almost every other day.

I had decided to let the crew get bloodied, mostly to make sure they did not rely on me to solve all their problems. It would also bring them a feeling of unity. After the Faceless Men, I had become more reserved in killing; the nightmares I got still did not disappear from that bit of war crimes I enacted to ensure the safety of my family. That being said, I still lost my control when I decided to bring down my wrath for what those men could have done if left to their devices and out of my sight... leading to a swift victory after that, with the crew ending up being terrified of me than anything else. In the end, I disliked fighting non-magicals... it felt like bullying most of the time, even if I would put down rabid dogs.

The ship had docked at Braavos. There were still certain things that I needed to handle before we could fully leave, but the ship had been ready to depart.

I leaned back to the comfy chair in the study of the House with the Red Door. The winter had been rough on the Lemon Tree outside, though nothing a bit of magic could not fix, as the blossoms filled the air with a sweet scent. Dany, in the meantime, worked her best to try and make the tree bloom again.

I dropped Morrigan's skull onto the desk, along with the barbute helmet and the attached visor made with unbreakable dragonglass... to counter any arrows through the eye. The boiled and hardened leather armor I wore was similarly enchanted and matched the best steel plates while being twice as flexible and half as heavy.

Once I was comfortable, I started contemplating my problems... starting with the personal ones.

Souls were tough stuff, not easily mutable. You could give a soul a purpose, you could even twist it to your own ends, but separating it into smaller parts ala Horcrux required... you to crash your own soul against another in a manner that is similar to a primate crushing two rocks against each other until one or both broke... not the best method.

When you cast a spell to harm another, you were throwing your own soul against their own... and just as two rocks, both tended to chip away.

Luckily, my soul had been made... tougher, in a manner of speaking. It was less fragile rock and more fragile rock wrapped in foam. The Tantric Ritual I had developed using the potential of creating a life to wrap my own soul with the soul stuff took on the brunt of the damage... but it also left me with a new problem.

The soft soul stuff had a tendency to stick the souls of the dead to itself. The metaphysical material was far more malleable than normal souls. The people I had killed were a sacrifice to me and, as such, seemed to stick to me in a way. For a normal person without the grounding of the rituals I had gone through, the added spiritual material would last temporarily, potentially transferring to their offspring if they were particularly lusty.

For quick and dirty enchanting, that was useful... but it also created something I had not considered before... a concept that could best be described as Karma.

The Weirwood Wand had been doing far more for me than simply allowing me a convenient medium to cast spells. It had been allowing me to bypass something that I had not considered... the consequences of using your own soul to harm another, using their life as a sacrifice for my own.

While that on its own was not a bad thing, as my soul would grow over time, those souls held... spite against me, and they tended to cause misfortune... in a manner of speaking.

Pit against my own will, the souls of the dead were nearly powerless, yet the more they grew in number, the more they would try to work against me, and like an army of ants overcoming an elephant through sheer quantity, they would work against me. That type of effect against me would mostly reduce my own spell power, the will working against my own.

With the Weirwood Wand as a medium, I essentially held the Blackstaff, the focus that can allow you to preserve your own soul from the Dresden Books. The Weirwood had taken on the souls of the dead, using them to empower and refine itself over time, based on my understanding of the process. It held an echo of my own wish... the ideal of the wand that I saw in my dreams.

The Faceless Men themselves held little in the form of malice... their acceptance of death, their vision to bind me to their cause, and my own feeling of righteousness in offering them peace meant that they had caused little harm, yet even then, the combined unintentional and unguided Death Curse of hundreds of souls with not insignificant amounts of magic had been enough to make my the burn on my arm was nearly impossible to heal.

Without the Weirwood Wand, I needed something more manual methods to do the entire thing that my wand took care of for me.

The chalk, made from the ground bones bound with the soul of the dead, created a simple boundary. As the soul remained a single whole, the moment the chalk touched the stone floor, soul bound itself to the circle using up the 'charge' of the chalk to create an active boundary.

I took out a pouch of ground Moonstone, Weirwood Ash, and Salt, placing a pile in a bowl with me inside the circle, adding three drops of blood, bubbling and smoking, and it slowly dissolved the white powder, creating the bridge for my soul to pass through.

The latest ritual I crafted was a Purification Ritual, one meant for purification of the soul, as I poured my soul through the link to the blood I had, letting the Weirwood shift the souls, the moonstones and salt purified, re-writing the very essence of the souls and extracting the negative effects that the soul retained in death. After the 'tantrum' on the ship, I needed this.

By the time I was done, the mixture in the bowl was a pitch black substance, resembling closer to tar than blood and dust, holding the malice of those I had killed in the form of a miasma... a purely physical manifestation of the very definition of a "Curse".

I took a spare block of beeswax, the solid block melting between my fingers as I manipulated its heat with my willpower alone, landing on and mixing with the black substance. Pouring the liquid around a wick to create a candle.

The Black Candle was not similar to the Blood Candles, as it had a more clear and singular purpose. Though I only used it to make sure the material was safe to contain compared to its liquid form. Placing the candle into a box with other similarly sized candles before closing the box, I snapped my fingers, letting the person at the door in.

"Ye' a warg," stated Morna taking the extra cup of mead. Her eyes shifted from me to Huan in the corner, who had taken over my guard duty for the night by dozing against the fire while Ser Richard was guarding Dany.

Huan buried his now red nuzzle twitched as he took a breath, causing my mind to be flooded with the smells of things men could not normally smell. The addition of the fox fur to improve his ability to smell had not been helpful when it came to the smell of the ocean, but on land, he was better than a fox. Like my snakeskin arm that acted as a replacement skin, I have been working to reverse engineer the skin-wearing of the Faceless Men for cross-species upgrades for Fleshcrafting, and the results looked promising. Huan's upgrades had been one of the myriad ways of achieving it.

I smelled pain and fear and anger... I smelled grief and sacrifice and, beneath all, hope as the woman before me looked at me with determination. This was a woman on a mission... that mission was not known to me.

"That and more," said the image of Morrigan in Old Tongue appearing in the middle of the room. Morna yelped in shock before.

"Ye' be of the Old Gods…" muttered Morna, actually kneeling after seeing the red eyes of the Ghost and the skull-shaped weirwood.

"I was of Hardhome once… before it was gone. In the old ways, I would be known as She who Sings the Song of Doom and Death, but you may call me Morrigan," said the apparition, making me sigh.

"Now, tell us about the greenseer," I said in the Old Tongue that Morrigan was teaching me, knowing that Morrigan served the right type of incentive. "Tell me of the Three-Eyed Crow." Morna looked at me with a puzzled look before sitting down, and gulping down the entire glass of alcohol

AN:

There have been discussions about how Wiz is perceived and what would happen if he faced people who did not have 'hacks' to counter him. The answer, as can be seen... is that he is terrifying. Even those who are in his side are afraid of his wrath, apart from Richard who is just tired of dealing with it, and Dany who was always brave.

There are also other players taking steps, Braavos pretty much leaves him be, since the Faceless Men did not do that and they are now dead. Morna White Mask wearing a mask of Weirwood means she probably got first row seat to the Sun Fire Ritual and decided that Wiz is the safest place against the coming Winter.

Now Wiz has people, not an army but the seeds of one, a few months of down time to study and improve his understanding of Magic with a teacher and already, he has become as terrifying as an adult Wizard with training to fight.