Syrio Forrel disliked waiting... though he disliked having to deal with Slavers more. At the end of the day, that was Pentoshi were just slavers, hiding behind what the boy called slavery-with-extra-steps.

Right now, he was facing a group of them, trying their best to be pests about anything and everything.

Unfortunately for them, Syrio Forrel lacked the patience of the Sealord or even the boy, who had a tendency to go for the kill any time he was pushed. Then again, if he met these fools... Syrio wondered what their fate would be.

"This is highly irregular, the docking fee has not been paid, no permit was issued for entry into the city. To go so far as to risk the life of a the Master of Docks and threatening him..." bumbled the fool in charge of the City Guards.

"Syrio Forrel does not recall any threats being made; Syrio Forrel only remembers armed men sent by a Magister of Pentos," responded Syrio, making sure to see to it that these fools did not anger the boy and his own brand of madness that was only tempered by patience that could best be considered divine.

Syrio Forrel was no fool, and he had seen the attempts that the Sealord had used to control the boy. His old friend was many things, yet he was not even prepared for how the dragon would behave. Viserys Targaryen was a dragon, if not in shape, but by deed and temperament, even if he hid it well.

The screams of the chef serving them food echoed through his mind, the way his face had melted off in golden flame. Syrio had not known the man to be of the Faceless Men, yet Syrio had known the boy long enough to see his hand in it, that subtle blade that waited patiently until you found yourself stabbed thrice and dying.

The only reason Syrio followed the Exiled Prince from Braavos was for the way he cared. Antaryon was a good Sealord, but that much was not without any doubt, yet the boy loved all who served him, and like a dragon protecting his hoard, he fought fiercely when they were threatened.

The truth of it was that Syrio had grown old. His speed was not what it had been a decade past, and he had chosen to shave his head clean off to not show the growing baldness and keep what little illusion of youth he could.

Syrio knew that his time as the First Sword was coming to an end, and a new Master to Champion, one worthy enough, was not hard to find when he had taught the boy.

It had been almost easy for Syrio to be assigned to act as the Representative of the Sealord in this journey, along with the task of protecting the Black Pearl for the sake of her father... when he wished to use this to gain favor with the Prince.

"A single Magister does not hold such influence on foreign vessels, not without the permission of the Council." the Captain of the City Guard declared, his eyes focusing on the Black Pearl lazing on the upper deck, her fingers plucking at the string of the bone white lute that put Syrio on edge. "Regardless, such acts are highly suspicious. You will accompany us to be sorted out by the Council of Magisters, and we will have to do a thorough search of this vessel to ensure that this is not a smuggler's vessel."

What was the boy said... right, 'Fucking idiots.'

Syrio disliked Pentoshi... not because they were merchants, but because they did not really bother to hide their intentions properly... like their slavery, with extra steps that the Sealords could not do anything about, lest the rich men of Pentos pay for the House of Black and White. Then again, the House of Black and White stood empty now.

Syrio was not so blind, just as he had seen through the disguise of the fat cat of Sealords that many claimed was a tiger or a lion, Syrio knew this to be a thinly disguised attempt to search for smuggled goods was just an attempt to steal anything of importance and gather intelligence.

Syrio Forrel was no coward... but he would much prefer to draw his blade and face the City Guards than to have to explain to the boy why half his stuff were missing... or why the idiots searching accidentally torched a ship he had named after his mother while ransacking it for hidden goods. There were less painful ways to die... and Syrio was certain he would not be resurrected to suffer more.

Syrio reached for his rapier, as the boy had named the weapon of the Water Dancer, only for a soft tune to echo, relaxing him and drawing away the dread he always felt when he needed to face the One True God and tell it to come another day.

Were it not for Bellegere playing a calm tune on her lute, Syrio would have run these men through for being pests. Yet the song she played was somehow calming the tension, such that some of the guards were almost dozing while the fat one doing the talking looked at something and paled.

"Why don't we wait for just a bit... I am certain the Magisters will be open to negotiations," said the Black Pearl, her voice making Syrio want to agree before he shook off the effects. The Wizard's Paramour was a dangerous breed of woman, especially when it was known that the boy had taught her a few tricks of his own.

"I think that can be acceptable... even if this is highly... dragon..." said the Captain of the Guards, bumbling through, having long since stopped making sense.

"Dragon?" asked Syrio, curious as he turned to see a red light explode behind the large walls where the First Sword knew the boy was. A dragon rose into the air from beneath the walls of one of the larger buildings... no, it was no dragon. It looked like a large man, yet with wings and horns that would not be out of place on a dragon, with smoke and heat that Syrio could feel all the way from the docks.

Just as the form appeared, a flash of green followed, and the thing vanished into a pillar of golden fires.

"Not today," whispered Syrio to himself at the feeling that clutched at his chest. Death walked the lands this day, and only one person could be both brave and mad enough to call upon such a thing.

"When he said he would give a signal..." muttered the Black Pearl, getting up from the chair she was lounging on, as Syrio watched a three-headed dragon rise from the same place that the humanoid fire had once been. "You were talking about finding the owner of this ship... why don't you walk over there and try to explain to him how you have no intention of stealing or taking anything... I mean, explain how you only wish to search his ship."

"Though I would caution you against any lies," added Moonshadow, walking up as well. "The last one to lie to him has been left addled, his mind broken. The Great Jhat likes to make men think they are newts."

"Then Syrio Forrel asks you gentle man, do you really wish to gain the attention of the awakened dragon?" asked the First Sword, looking at the paling man. "Now, we shall meet the Magisters of Pentos and figure something out."

The man nodded, furiously shaking his head up and down as if it would make the situation more survivable.

Most men thought Viserys Targaryen to be weak, mixing his mercy and wish to avoid conflict and collateral with inability bring ruin upon the. Than again, most men were idiots.

Syrio had seen the boy's scars... the cuts and burns on his arms that Bravos twice his age did not have. The scars spoke the truth... of a man who was forced to fight and walk away upon meeting Death in the Face and calling out... not today.

Syrio, like all Braavosi, was wary of dragons... but even he had to admit, having one, even in the flesh of a human came in handy... especially since this one worked for the good of Braavos, so long as he did not have reason to destroy it at least.

Next to him, Bellegere stood as Syrio had just noticed that what the girl was lying on was, in fact, the large hound that belonged to the boy.

"You think Magister Illyrio will survive the experience?" asked Bellegere, using the strange Westerosi speak of the Wizard, a grin on her face. Knowing how close the Black Pearl was to the Wizard, Syrio could see the slight widening of her eyes at the display of power.

"What was it that Jhat called it... yes... suckers bet," responded Moonshadow, choosing then to speak up, a calculating look filling her eyes as she leaned on her staff.

# A Witch

"High in the halls of the Kings who are gone..." started the boy they claimed to be Dany's nephew, causing Vis to sigh in response. The 'negotiations' were going poorly, and Dany was not sure about what Vis was thinking.

"It is just off-key," spoke Vis, "Go more like... High in the Halls of the Kings who are gone..."

At the song that Vis sang, reality shuddered, and Dany found herself holding her breath.

Vis did not sing.

There was a reason for it.

It was not that his voice was horrible, or he could not carry a tune, no. It was because when Vis sang, he bound all his pain into the song.

When Viserys Targaryen sang, he sang his sorrow and loss, and when Viserys sang, everyone felt.

Dany wiped away the tears from her eyes, the images of her mother holding her from the Pensieve filling her mind. She noted how Morna was doing the same.

Some of the Unsullied, who did not even understand the words, had broken down and wailed their own loss; the vaunted discipline of the Slave Soldiers shredded against the emotions that were pulled by the haunting tune of Dany's brother.

Jon Connington himself was openly sobbing.

"ENOUGH!" roared Illyrio Mophatis, though his rage and his own loss was also clear for Dany to feel through a simple Mental Link. "Is this mummer's farce needed?", the Merchant asked finally breaking the silence.

"The mummer's farce is the only thing keeping me civilized and not getting creative with how you will spend your afterlives," responded Vis in turn, pointing his wand at the giant Three-Headed Dragon behind him.

It was easy to forget Viserys' actions when he would focus on some whimsical things like trying to see if the boy was truly Rheagar's son.

The flicker of an image of what looked to be a Balrog, a green flash that screamed Death, and the giant fiery dragon in the form of House Targaryen Banner.

Then again, not like Dany cared about it that much. Rhaegar was an impulsive idiot who had caused a large mess that ended with them in exile. Granted, why Vis himself was awesome, he was also an impulsive idiot, but at least he was a smart impulsive idiot.

If it was not obvious, Dany had a favorite brother, and it was not the one who got himself killed by 'trying to cross a river to force a fight.'

"Above the Watchers Over the Waves shall he proclaim himself, bannered 'cross the sky in fire," whispered Dany, looking at the giant three-headed dragon that was now wrapped around the largest tower, the living flame darkening the stone it touched.

Viserys turned to her, sufficiently distracted from going for mass murder as the rage-filled vision disappeared, "You and I will have a chat about spending too much time in the Pensieve, little sister," teased Viserys, breaking the silence upon her words.

Dany nodded to herself, satisfied with a job well done. A Murderous Viserys became a broody Viserys, and a broody Viserys did not spend as much time with her after all.

And people thought that Dany was a normal eight-year-old.

Sure, she had spent far longer in the Pensieve than probably reasonable, using the 'Time Dilation' that the Weirwood had within the visions to learn as much as she could.

Not like it was not her fault that the books she had any interest in were all locked within the memories of her brother, recreated through the Divination of the Pensieve that he had crafted.

It had granted Dany a certain level of wisdom beyond her age, and the lessons from the Moonshadow and Bellonara were really useful in ensuring that she achieved her goals of maximizing time she spend with Viserys.

"Right, right... let's get to your little Hamletian Plot, the cruel Uncle and valiant nephew... bit cliche, but I am not sure how you would think to pass off a Blackfyre Brat as my nephew when he is too young to be Aegon?" asked Viserys, as Dany felt Vis take over the shield, and she let him do so.

"You are absolutely Mad," said the Cheesemonger, as Dany noted how rat-like the man looked. She idly wondered if he was a skinchanger or something.

"Illyrio, get with schedule, I went passed Mad and am currently somewhere around Livid and Exterminate every breathing thing in the City," Vis responded instead, his calm tone clashing with his words even as the fire construct having above them flared in response to his rage.

"Do you have proof, instead of something like the boy being bad at singing of all things?" asked Jon Connington. Viserys had told her that the Knight was loyal to Rhaegar and no one else. Dany was not so sure about it as he had stood against the siblings of Rhaegar, but Vis probably knew more. "It would be to your benefit, after all, Prince Viserys if Aegon's claim was false."

"You are right," pointed out Viserys before turning to Dany. "Daenerys, do you have your project with you?"

Dany nodded, pulling out a Weirwood Infused Parchment that she had been enchanting with Viserys. It was a challenge, something she worked on as a way to learn how to refine her enchantments.

Dany felt the presence of Viserys' soul around herself, covering the entire Manse with his presence. She could even hear him mumble some incantations in what sounded like the Latin that only he knew, High Valyrian, and what she was certain was the Old Tongue.

Dany did not know what Vis was doing to the entire Manse as they spoke, but it explained why he needed her to cast this particular spell.

Unfurling the Parchment onto the desk, Dany pulled out a black candle, slowly activating the enchantments that had been cast over and over onto the Parchment.

It was not a permanent enchantment, mostly because the first spell was place-specific.

"Proteus," incanted Dany, slowly binding the smoke from the candle into a circle of ink on the Parchment and a circle of smoke on the ground.

"Nomenum Revelio," she intoned with all seriousness despite the wordplay. She had come up with that on her own, based on another spell that revealed humans.

Instead, the spell she came up with replaced 'Homenum' with 'Nomenum' to reveal the name of a person. Where the original spell used the soul as a framework to check for similar presences, the modification was specifically meant to get names.

Vis called it 'brilliant' and Dany got an extra serving of Chocolate Chip Ice Cream that Vis made and got to choose what they watched in the Pensieve that day, even if the story of the boy who tamed and rode a dragon was a bit silly at times, as everyone knew that Dragons grew far larger than the size of a horse and got stronger with size and Toothless was a horrible name for a dragon.

Once the small ritual was complete, there was a circle of smoke on the ground linked a circle of ink filled a smoky cloud within the smoke. Dany check the enchantment, watching the smoke form the letters that formed her name as she moved the smoke circle to be around herself.

It was not the Legendary Maurader's Map that Dany's brother spoke of, but it got the job done, and they had a few parchments on the Revenge linked to key locations in Braavos as additional security.

"What is that?" asked Jon Connington as Dany completed the binding of the enchantments.

"A piece of parchment, obviously," Viserys responded, "In the mean time, Morna, could you please bring rest of the household out?" he asked, throwing the Wayfinder at her to use to find anyone hidden from her.

Vis pointed at the Red Priestess, which was petrified and stuck on the wall as Dany moved it.

"Melony of Lot-Seven, obviously," Viserys said as Dany saw the Archaic-variant of Valyrian Glyphs, before twisting her wand to shift the focus to another, "Jon Connington... seems accurate," nodded Viserys, making Dany smile. Of course it was accurate, she was the greatest Witch in existence, just as Vis was the greatest Wizard in existence.

Viserys pointed at the boy, taking the Parchment and looming over it.

"What does it say?" asked Dany, taking a step closer.

"Patience, Dany... huh... Aegon Targaryen... I will be damned," said Viserys, his eyes scrunching in the way that it got when he was looking at a particularly difficult puzzle. "Though, there are a lot more of those hidden identities going on in here," he spoke, his eyes staring deep into the eyes of the Septa.

"Septa... Lemur, was it?" Viserys asked as Dany moved the shadow circle to where the septa were.

"It is Septa Lamore," responded the Septa, her voice dripping with venom.

"Well, this says it is Wenda Storm," said Viserys, holding up the Parchment. Dany did not know who Wenda Storm was, but she was close enough to her brother to overhear him. Her brother grumbled something about "wishing it was Ashara Dayne," which made her roll her eyes.

"So, who is the Septa?" asked Dany once it became clear that Vis would not explain and keep brooding.

"Pretty sure she is Wenda the White Fawn... of the Kingswood Brotherhood, a bandit group before our time, Ser Arthur took care of them, supposedly, led by a Simon Toyne," explained Viserys, before turning to the Septa and saying "Thank you for confirming that by the way," while tapping his temple.

"Isn't the current Captain of the Golden Company Myles Toyne?" asked Ser Richard, still holding his weapon close to the Magister and Jon Connington.

Dany realized why Viserys always insist that she focus on her Occlumency instead of fire spells then. If he could pluck secrets from the minds of others with such ease, things became clearer.

Dany watched, understanding that Viserys was simply playing with these people at the moment. He already knew what was going on and was putting on a show for a reason that was beyond her.

As the servants of the Manse came outside, one of the raven constructs that felt like Morrigan flew in. The raven of black sand and blood turned into a snake as it wrapped itself around one of the maids, pulling her to the forefront.

"Hello, Viserra Blackfyre," said Viserys without even needing to look at the bound servant as Dany saw the name on the enchanted piece of Parchment. "You are supposed to be dead."

# A Wizard

"Incarcerous," I cast with a sigh, annoyed at the fact that local magic was shot to hell, and I had to leverage incantations for precision and the political headache that I was facing.

One of the obsidian ravens I pointed at with my wand turned into a black blob before becoming a snake midair as it flew to their target, wrapping around her before transforming into the illusion of ropes with all their strength, binding her.

Let the record reflect that I am not the most patient person when it comes to politics.

Especially, now, when I had half a mind to just torch entire Pentos for being so much trouble, but that would be too close to pulling a Voldemort and start throwing Killing Curses at the three before more with only my daddy issues making me stubbornly hold out on being like Aerys.

Another flick pulled her to the middle of the room at a relatively low speed... well, pulled the rope more than the person. While the Summoning Charm was linked to Gravitational Magics, living beings with an understanding of how gravity worked tended to be resistant to that spell, and those who did not understand it tended to get whiplash.

Illyrio made to stand up before I willed the gravity on him to double, not bothering with finesse as the change caused the fat man to sit back down. Sir Richard was quick to rest his spear against the Cheesemonger after that.

"And this one is Viserra Blackfyre, daughter of Daemon the Fourth. She would be Illyrio's wife, Serra, if I am not mistaken," I said, pointing at the now-bound girl who seemed terrified of me. "You were supposed to have died to Greyscale, but butterflies, I suppose," I said to the woman looking at me with hate in her eyes.

Viserra Blackfyre, or more commonly called Serra the Whore, or Serra the Head Maid when Connington was around, stared at me.

She was supposed to have died to Greyscale or something, but here she was.

I mentally revised any potential greyscale-filledGreyscale ships, but I could not figure out how that was prevented by my actions.

I got nothing.

I mentally checked if I had sold off the Mandrake Potion to anyone; I had given it to a few nobles in Braavos to get something or another from them, so it was possible that Illyrio had gotten his grubby hands on my potions.

In theory, the Mandrake could address the Greyscale, which I had narrowed down to a Wild Magic Equivalent of a Basilisk Scale turned natural disease in the hands of Prince Garin and the death of so many dragons to waters of Rhoyne. The mix of Water and Fire Magic would only leave the Basilification as the only element of the Dragon Corpses and render the dragon blood mixed with water a Petrificant.

I made a note to myself to study the Rhoyne and to kidnap and cure Shireen Baratheon.

What? I really need to balance out my karma with some good deeds after the day I have been having.

Going back to the problem in front of me.

I was biased... and I knew too much.

It is why I had Dany work out that specific spell based on descriptions, confirming with multiple potential hidden identities that it did, in fact, work.

I pointed to Illyrio, Dany, using her spell to reveal the true name of Illyrio Mophatis. "Aelor Targaryen," I spoke the name, looking into the eyes of the man.

I was glad that I had not killed the man first before asking questions... I was not that good with Necromancy. Well... I was, but it did not mean I liked it.

"If I were a betting man, and let's face it, I am," I said with a shrug. It was not my fault that other people did not use precognition to cheat when betting. "I would say that you are the son of Maegor Brightflame, son of Aerion Brightflame."

Wat and Wat took that moment to come out of the Manse, having snuck in to retrieve the more important bits for me.

"Let me guess, you found Viserra here in the Whorehouse that Maelys the Monstrous sold her to?" I asked, taking the flinch from Viserra at the name of her father's murderer as confirmation. "A Brightflame and Blackfyre, how poetic," I spat.

"If it is the sword you seek, you will not have it," responded Illyrio... Aelor... the Cheesemonger... Illyrio... Mophatis, I was going to call the fat man Mophatis. Acknowledgement of any family links was not something I was going to do.

"You sent a rider out," I instead spoke, ripping the knowledge from his head. "A few hours head start, and you think it will work. I don't particularly care about the sword... well, I do, but this... this is more valuable," I said, my hands gliding over the dragon bone chest as the lock simply popped open after a whisper of a word of power.

Three large stones gleamed against the sunlight.

Dragon Eggs... the ones that were stolen by Elissa Farman.

The last viable Dragon Eggs, untouched by the influence of the Maesters of Westeros.

'But not the influence of the Red Priestess,' noted Morrigan in my mind as I nodded in acknowledgment. Rituals of Purification and potential methods of cleansing each egg came to mind before they were dismissed for later.

Hatching the eggs as they were posed a risk, a risk that might go the way of Summerhall.

'Get the sword for me,' I commanded the Crystalized Representation of Death that called me Master.

A flick of my wand sent three of the ravens made of blood and dragonglass out. They would find and cut down the rider, retrieving the blade for me, as linked to Morrigan as they were.

"That leaves this awkward family reunion; pity your twin is not here," I said, turning to Viserra and getting a confirmation that Varys was indeed a Blackfyre. Maelys had gelded Varys the Spider as a boy, sacrificing his genitals in a fire for power.

"I wonder how much of everything that happened was your plots, Blackfyre? Certainly, Summerhall... not entirely... Kingswood Brotherhood was obviously yours; what about Duskendale... no... surprising?" I asked, bombarding them with relevant memories as I ripped through their secrets without them even knowing. Word association guided my search, better than any other form of Legilimency.

What I found was disappointing. Did they have a hand in most of the events? Yes. Was it clear-cut and pointed a clean solution for me to kill all my enemies? Not exactly

Summerhall would have spelled disaster for the line of Maegor Brightflame had Aegon the Unlikely hatched dragons, and he had been in the perfect position to do something being invited to witness the event, even if Illyrio did not know if he had the opportunity for it. Granted, the Blackfyres and Brightflames were not the only ones who did not want dragons around so, it proved nothing.

Duskendale was more clear cut. Illyrio knew that it was entirely the plot of Rhaegar and Tywin, and a move that would have seen Varys loose his position.

"I gotta admit, for half-arsed plans that only worked partially, everything worked for Illyrio Mophatis, huh?" I asked, anger making me slip my control over my tongue, giving it an unfamiliar accent that one would confuse for low born for the fact that it lacked any proper structure.

"Targaryen," countered Illyrio, making me roll my eyes. "If this mummer farce is to end, I am Aelor Targaryen."

Wasn't that a problem on its own?

It meant that Illyrio, and therefore Aegon, had a stronger claim to the Iron Throne than me, or some might argue that they are from an older line uniting different claims.

"Tomato,... Charred Corpse, what is the difference," I responded in turn, causing the fat man to swallow in fear.

Like I cared for feudal rules that were meant to preserve the power at the hands of inbred cunts. Sure, I was part of those inbred cunts now, but that did not mean that another could use it to impose some imaginary power over me. After all, I had just murdered a god that had tried exactly that, hadn't I?

"Honestly, your grandfather was an idiot, naming his son after the least popular King in history without some firepower to ensure that he could have influence... or drinking Wildfire, that one is also stupid."

"You do not care at all, do you, that you would become a kinslayer?" asked Viserra, seeing my face not change. She looked calmer, but my instincts told me that she was a greater danger to me than the Cheesemonger.

"Not anymore, not really," I responded, a flick of my wand silencing them both so I could monologue just a bit. "The world isn't fair, but it is what you make of it. In your place, I would have done the exact same thing... maybe even worse. That being said, passing off your own son as my brother's dead son... I cannot really show mercy here, at least not one that ends up with all of you still breathing... that is just done in bad taste."

"Since when did you know?" asked Illyrio once I was done, slumping back.

"Since I realized that the start of our exile," I said with a shrug. Ser Willem was a good knight and true, but the night of our flight from Dragonstone was hazy. There were theories that Varys had been of help, but the number of people following us to exile was far too small to be of any use unless the purpose of it was less a means of returning with an army and more a means of prolonging the suffering of last Targaryens.

Someone had played Ser Willem for a fool, and Varys was the one I would put my money on.

"It made sense, really; turnabout is fair and all that. You and Varys wanted revenge, and what better way to do it than ensuring that the last two remaining Targaryens had to survive without any support in Essos. Once I looked you in the eyes, I knew that this was your end game, an ironic end to the children of those who have placed you in the hole you crawled out of... both of you," I said, pointing at Serra, who was being hugged by the boy... Aegon.

In all honesty, it was the type of thing I would have made my enemy suffer. Maybe we were similar in that regard. A part of me respected that, and another part of me wanted to turn his body into a red smear against the closest wall for daring such a thing.

I knew that had I not made that first leap of faith, to craft a wand out of hopes and dreams and barely understood concepts, I would not be here and instead remained the puppet of people with more power than me. Maybe I could have survived, maybe I could have convinced a few sellsword companies to join me... and maybe I could have landed on Westeros with an army... but then I would be crushed back just like the Blackfyres.

What I did not know, I plucked from their minds.

I was not monologuing because I wanted to do it. It was a method of reading them... a version of Legilimency empowered Cold Reading their plan from their minds.

Each of my words were carefully chosen, each statement, both the incorrect ones and the correct ones were measured to get the most response.

What I found made my blood heat up and chill at once... but I held on.

Illyrio had accounted for the potential of using me as the bait to obscure his boy's claim by hiding it behind mine before passing him off as Rhaegar's.

Yet it was Viserra's mind that was crueler, and it was she who had suggested selling off my sister to some Slaver or Dothraki as some perceived punishment for her own fate.

The cold rage within me when I first cast Death upon a God returned back to me, clashing against my self-control.

Green light started glowing at the tip of my wand as I started, "Avada..."

I could do it. I would do it.

Viserra Targaryen had dared to plot against me and mine.

I would etch upon her soul the rune of Death.

If reincarnation was possible in this world, her rebirth would be stillborn. No afterlife, no nothing... just emptiness as reality itself rejected your very life.

I would rend her soul to shreds, ensure she could not reform as even a blade of grass.

Yet I could not cast it... I did not wish it. The flash of rage burned hot and left only a smoldering wrath behind, one that wanted me to make her suffer the fate she envisioned for us for herself.

No... my actions would not be so fast, so easy an act for her sins against mine.

Then I stopped... instead of turning to the boy now hiding behind his mother.

"So, what to do with you, kid?" I asked the boy, the terrified gasp of his mother making me smirk... even if I felt like a right cunt for that.

So, here is the entire problem I was facing.

What to do with a child whose mere existence would forever haunt me?

A part of me wanted to repeat the words I had used against the God-Daemon-Thing that Melisandre had created. The same words that I was about to cast on his mother.

The Killing Curse would have solved all my problems.

I could feel Viserra struggle against the ropes binding her... bringing an idea to mind.

It would be a fitting punishment for the woman who had wanted to enslave my sister to the Dothraki and leave us with nothing to beg for scraps.

I could take everything from her, leave her to be enslaved once more. I knew that Illyrio had enemies. The family of her first wife would gladly see the whore sold back into slavery and rid themselves of the boy without a heartbeat.

The boy had to die... so why was I hesitating?

It brought another scene to mind, a Mother willing to give anything for her child... creating an unbreakable protection empowered by a contractual agreement.

"Not Harry," I muttered, the sound echoing through my mind.

Could I do it? Could I pull it off?

Blood Contracts, or Gaes, were familiar to me. It was one of the main methods that I have been trying to figure out and failing over and over again. Any method I had tried in the past was temporary, and any agreement was superficial at best.

Sure, I had alternatives, the Rings I had crafted and given to the Sealord and some of the members of the Iron Bank and the High Priestess of the Moonsingers were mental backdoors that I could check up on at any given time using my mastery over Mind Arts, but they were not perfect.

I had given up on Contract Magic, the type that is enforced by the soul of the person itself, the kind that would give warning if broken. I lacked knowledge and precision to use them.

The Magic around the Manse had been shot to hell, the control needed for something precise was not likely to work, but a Mother willing to do anything for their child's life had power and where knowledge and precision of Wizardry failed, the instincts and power of Sorcery might succeed.

All I had to do was let go of a slight; all I had to do was leave the actions of Blackfyres unpunished.

It would be so easy to just kill them all... so fast... so... wrong.

A part of me whispered that I could do it... that I had killed before.

I had killed all the adults in House Prestayne in Braavos for standing against my interests, even if they had been actually linked to Slaver's Bay before I pointed out the right proofs for the Sealord, even if it was a manipulation on my part, solidifying my grasp on Braavosi.

But the children did not pose a danger back then... their lives were not a danger for me and mine.

This one was, however... if left on his own, he would become a threat to me, raise armies, and make claims. I could end the Blackfyre Line right here and now.

A child...

A child sentenced to death for something he had no hand in.

I paused, mentally checking myself to trace that trail of thought.

When had I become so... Targaryen... so Westerosi?

Killing people who wanted to kill you was fine.

Killing people who were plotting to kill you was pushing it, even if preemptive strikes were useful and effective. Even then, had I not lost enough nights of sleep for my actions in Braavos.

Killing someone for who their parents were... was I becoming like Tywin Lannister?

Or, I could... not forgive, and definitely not forget, but use this opportunity. I could create an anchor for Contract Magic using the love of a mother to protect her child, building upon the framework that would ensure that my family did not have to worry about the loyalty or plotting of fools.

I knew what the decision was.

The ropes unraveled from around Viserra, transforming into a knife in my hands.

Ropes made from dragonglass and the blood of the Unsullied who had died following his orders.

The fiery dragon behind me gave a roar that released a wave of heat before the construct dove into the stone knife in my hands.

Stone and Blood melted and mixed, the death cries of a god, given form, a flame on par with dragon fires, forged a new knife.

"Kill him," I said, throwing the knife that carried the faith of a god and the bindings forged of blood and stone. "Kill your husband, and you and your son can walk away unharmed."

The details of the ritual were more instinctual than anything else.

I was, as the saying went, winging it.

Husband and Father represented Power and Protection, the miniaturized runes within the blade ensuring that the association held true.

Sacrificing Protection and Power for Safety and Mercy.

It was Domination Magic, the utter Submission of the Blackfyre Bloodline by its matriarch, the declaration of their defeat.

It was cruel, and it was everything that Viserra deserved.

I felt her hesitation before I watched her drive the stone knife into the heart of her lover.

I had to give it to Illyrio; he took it like a champ.

Viserra gave a cry, trying to make it to the knife as shadow chains wrapped themselves around her throat, empowered by the ritual that I had finalized.

I had not even cast a thing.

She gasped, still breathing, as I approached and took out the glass knife that acted as the anchor of the Blood Oath.

As it was her line that was bound, the oath was linked to the boy as well, and I would know where they were if I chose to seek them. I would know what they thought of if I wished to know them. And I would know when they moved against me, as I felt the threat at the back of my mind form.

"You are free to walk away, though I would hurry. The Blood Oath protects you from my wrath, but the Magisters are on the way, and they might find something to blame you, especially the one whose daughter was Illyrio's first wife. I heard he was not very pleased when Mophatis married a whore, and he might react harshly upon learning that the whore killed a Magister," I said, dropping a bag of silver that was the same amount as the stash I knew Ser Willem kept for emergencies, the same stash that OG Viserys was left with after they were thrown to the streets.

Turnabout was fair play, after all.

I took the proto-Maurader's Map that Dany had constructed and, using the death of Illyrio and the Blood Oath that I had Viserra do as leverage, exerted my will into the pseudo-Wards that had been formed around the Manse through the presence of Dragon Eggs and Dragon Bones.

The last magic that I could probably do this day without suffering Magical Exhaustion had the Weirwood Infused Parchment show the layout of the large Manse, shadow-smoke runes forming the walls, and every detail.

"Secure everything," I said, holding myself from yawning at how utterly exhausted I was after the whole thing.

Morrigan walked through the gate, her body an illusion hiding behind the cloud of blood and obsidian. Passing the sword in her hand to me, I studied Blackfyre while standing next to the chest with three dragon eggs.

At least I got good loot after all the mess I had wade through.

AN:

"What is dead may never die"... or something like that.

This is back; no, this was never dead, I have no intention to stop this. While Sci-Fi is fun, this has a special place, even if update schedule will likely be less than ideal.

I had hit a huge writer's block and needed to rewrite this chapter three times, mostly because I did not really know how Wiz might react to certain things or get the whole emotional payoff.

I still think there is much that can be improved but I wanted this chapter out so we could move on and progress with the plot. As always, I thrive on feedback, comments, and ideas.

The whole Young Griff/Aegon plot has never really been a big problem for Wiz, as he has a general suspicion and a tendency to flip the board when he bothers to. It was more of a moral dilemma that he faced. Had he been just Viserys with Magic, he might have had some trouble before probably killing everyone, but Wiz was already suspicious, even if the Brightflame thing took him by surprise. Blood Oath just gave them enough rope to hang themselves if they tried anything again.

In this case, I took some of the different theories and put them together. Aegon is the son of Illyrio Mophatis and Viserra Blackfyre, daughter of Daemon the Fourth, who calls herself Serra to hide her heritage. Illyrio is the son of Maegor Brightflame, who became a Sellsword and later a Merchant Prince for all intents and purposes. Illyrio noted the similarities between Dany and Serra and his attraction to a thirteen-year-old girl... so, you know, your typical Targaryen Incest Drive.

It was pointed out that Wiz had become too murderous, or by other readers who want to have a power fantasy where the MC butchers all enemies that he was a coward.

I wanted to focus on that internal struggle he had, a good person given shitty options. He could be clumsy with it, or he could be precise with it, but he had destroyed his enemies to the point that they are all dead before. It is part of Wiz getting a character development to be more subtle and precise with his skills. He is, after all, a Wizard.