This took a while, mostly because I was moving and did not have much time to sit down and write... and I really am not that fast at writing interludes and other POVs.

As always, I am purely motivated by likes, comments, and discussions.

# Melony

There was one truth in the world.

God was real, and he hated Melony.

Melony of Lot Seven... a Slave sold in Asshai.

Melony the Temple Whore... trained in the Arts of Seduction in the Red Temple to serve the One True God.

Melisandre of Asshai, the Priestess of the Lord of Light, Shadowbinder, trained in the arts after her skills were discovered.

Melisandre the Fool... facing against the Chosen of the Lord of Light, and burned by the flames of Lightbringer.

To the outside, the fight looked even, a struggle between two sides.

To Melisandre of Asshai, it was anything but even. She watched as a single person held back the faith of three and the scorching heat that was unleashed by the light of the Lightbringer in his hands. That was not Azor Ahai fighting against them, but merely unmaking what they unleashed, as the Chosen of the Lord with the Divine Right to decide on whom the flames would burn.

The wrath of the Lord of Light only came about after. A shadow that killed all who opposed Azor Ahai, a Green Flame of Death, and the Wrathful Shriek of the Firebird that burned against her very soul, cleansing away the corrupt flames and reforming them into the form of the great dragon of fire.

Melisandre should have known that something was wrong when Viserys Targaryen walked off the ship that roiled with magic.

Melisandre of Asshai should have known that something was wrong when Viserys Targaryen had called out her name, the one that had been hidden and forgotten by anyone else by Melisandre herself and her lord.

Melisandre of Asshai should have known that something was wrong when Viserys Targaryen told her that he knew about the sword Blackfyre.

And when the green flames and the fiery bird of vengeance burned away the manifestation of Melisandre's False Faith, Melisandre of Asshai should have known that Viserys Targaryen was Azor Ahai reborn and the Champion of the One True God, and the bird was naught but the Messenger of Her Lord.

The screech of the fire shaped like a bird, her true Lord of Light, came down, swooping in to burn away the unclean. To burn away her false faith and remake it into the truth.

And now, it was time for her penance... for fire was the only thing that could cleanse her of her sins.

She had been left in the darkness, her body unable to move, with only her thoughts and faith to haunt her.

All Melisandre knew was that she had offended her current jailer, and he was both terrible and powerful at once.

Without her ruby, her form was not as pleasing to look at and she doubted she could use her seduction of the guards... even if she wished to escape her fate.

Melisandre of Asshai had faced her God, and her God had found her faith lacking.

In a room plunged into darkness that she was thrown into, her body incapable of movement, with a band made up of two pieces of wood around her neck that grew roots that further bound her, she was left waiting, unable to scream, unable to touch the power that made her more than a mere mortal, alone, alone with her thoughts.

Any spell she tried to conjure was unmade; any attempt to free herself, to call upon fire to burn away the roots, was undone, and she was left to ponder.

The dark room was lit by the light of something Melisandre had never seen before, and Melisandre of Asshai understood the being that she had offended.

In the darkness, with time to think things through, Melisandre of Asshai could admit that she had perhaps made a mistake.

Now was her time for penance... whatever form it took.

It was a ball of light, hanging in the air as though it was a firefly, bathing everything in its soft light that drove away the darkest of shadows.

A Light made of Magic, held in the palm of Viserys Targaryen, whose violet eyes burned as they gazed upon her naked and bound flesh... not with any lust for her glamours were long stripped from her old flesh by the same magical light, but with the way a Noble would look a Beggar or a Slave, in disgust.

'Isn't that what you are, Melony of Lot Seven, just another slave?' whispered the darkness.

"Follow," her lord spoke, his tone cold as ice and twice as chilling.

In his hands, he held a stick as long as his forearm, which was shaped like a curved dagger with a glowing tip. She could not mistake the presence of the Lightbringer.

'Mobilicorpus,' the fire spoke before hitting her, and Melisandre felt her body be lifted by unseen hands, carried behind her Lord.

Instead of the pyre that she deserved, Melisandre of Asshai found herself being dragged outside to the light, to the yard that had been cleaned, where a desk and chair resided, grown out of wood, it's quality and intricacy surpassing the most elegant of Myrish artiss.

Her body somehow relaxed, the spell holding her unmade, as she was left floating before Viserys Targaryen, holding a familiar scepter in his left hand.

"Its core and wood are not properly bound, the jewel atop lacks connections, and the workmanship is shoddy, overall, a subpar imitation," spoke the Wizard, waving the ruby-topped small staff, conjuring fire.

A beam of crimson light formed a solid construct before them, shaped like a human. "Illusionary fire, how... quaint. I suppose it is passable... for a charlatan."

Melisandre's eyes looked away, shame filling her in those words.

Viserys Targaryen held up his small stick, a flick unleashing a light that shattered the illusion into motes of light, chasing away the shadows, further proof that he was truly Azor Ahai in truth, and it was Melisandre of Asshai who had acted against her Lord's chosen.

"You are utterly messed up in the head, aren't you?" asked her Lord, holding the Lightbringer against her neck, a flaming blade blossoming into existence.

The burning blade turned into a serpent that wrapped around her neck. The flaming serpent squeezed, causing Melisandre to gasp, even as she was not burned... not allowed to be burned.

Melisandre cherished that moment. She had sinned and the fire would cleanse her of her sins.

"You disgust me," her lord spoke, unraveling his power that pressed down upon her and left her whimpering as the roots holding her were turned to ash, and she fell.

Once again cursing herself for being fooled that a mere blade could be the weapon of Azor Ahai, Melisandre looked down in shame and submission to her Lord's Chosen who held in his hands the Lightbringer.

The old legends spoke of a blade, yet hadn't Melisandre been fooled by blades before. This was true power, a small stick, holding more power than the scepter that her visions had guided her to create.

"I suppose it makes sense that your mind are a mess. This will not hurt one bit; do not resist," said Viserys Targaryen, dismissing the serpent, placing the tip of the Lightbringer against her head, and pulling her memories.

The Life Fire rose in threads of ghostly white.

"They are memories, not Life Force, you two-bit hack," corrected her Lord, answering her unasked question. "I need to see everything you have learned and done to the eggs to reverse your fuck ups."

A shame filled her at those words once more.

"Yes, my Lord," spoke Melisandre, unable to nor willing to resist. She had done enough of that.

"Are you sure?" asked her Lord, speaking to the air once his task was done. Her memories were taken from her into a white dish that glowed with the fires of her lord.

A form appeared of shadow that is not a shadow. It took the form of a black-haired woman with crimson-glowing eyes that sent a chill up Melisandre's spine.

"I mean, I can probably make sure that you get the body... fine, she gets to keep hers. Do you want the Septa? She is younger... fine, your decision," her Lord's Champion.

"Lech," responded the Shadow in fondness before dissolving back into the shadows.

'Was that... Nissa Nissa?' Melisandre wanted to ask.

Melisandre knew Shadowbinding... that was no Shadowbinding.

The creatures of Shadow were impossible to control without proper training. They hungered, their nature bound to violence. They lacked the ability to speak, nor act so independently.

"Melony of Lot Seven," the words caused her eyes to focus on the one who entered the room. "That was the name you had once, wasn't it?"

A thrill of a song came from the golden perch next to the desk. Melisandre could have sworn it was not there before. The song inflamed the fire within her heart and loins once more.

She nodded, feeling the twinge of Magical Workings in the air, but those clung to True Azor Ahai like he was wrought of them... and when he used her name, a part of her soul, long forgotten surfaced and she felt warmth within herself.

"That would be Will," spoke her Lord, pointing at the chick currently nestled among ashes. "He is a Phoenix; he was the one who ate whatever it was that you summoned. I suppose I should thank you for that. The divine essence of a Fire God seems to have been the kick he needed to stabilize the rebirth trick."

It looked nothing like the form it had, but the Cleansing Flame looked at her with disinterest. Even then, the heat in her heart flared at the chirping of the strange bird... no... fire made flesh.

A bird made of flame, ever-burning with the fire that would not be quenched by death.

Shadow and Fire are in one room, bowing to the man before Melony. If her mind had not been made up. If she was not convinced before, this along would convince her. Was this not the way of Lord of Light, was this not the Chosen of Her Lord?

The people of Westeros used birds for messages... didn't they. Mayhaps the bird was the Messenger of Her Lord? His Will was made manifest, protecting his Champion, speaking to him.

"I... greet... the Will of Fire," spoke Melisandre in a rasp, her body feeling lighter than before.

A snort echoed through the yard they were in. "Now, that leaves what to do with you," spoke the Prince. "I can shove your soul into the dragon egg. You are magic enough, and your soul should be durable enough for the process," said Viserys. "It would give me a dragon, which is worth more than you as you are Melony."

"If that is your will, my lord," said Melisandre... no Melony, she was always Melony, of Lot Seven. Centuries had still not made her more, now she knew, not when faced with one who was truly the Champion of the Flame. "Then I shall willingly submit to my sacrifice."

Viserys Targaryen sighed.

"You are not making this fun, Melony," responded her lord in frustration. "Where is that zealotry? Where is that spunk, where is the fire... you... hag?"

Melisandre looked down in shame.

The air turned frigid as in the air, a spear of ice appeared before Melisandre, yet the Priestess did not feel a thing.

"No words, Melisandre?" asked Viserys Targaryen. "No response to Ice Magic. Clearly, I am the root of all evil, right... come on... ANSWER ME!!!"

"Fire is yours to give or take, my lord," responded Melisandre.

"Fuck... I think I broke Melisandre," said her lord, a hand rubbing down his face. "It is like kicking a puppy; you made it not fun anymore... do you get it, Melony?" he roared.

The name washed over her, forcing her to look up.

"I see... I did not just kill that Deamon you summoned, did I?" asked her Lord, violet eyes meeting the dull red, "I killed your will... no, your faith."

"All I ask... is penance for my crimes, my Lord," whispered Melisandre. "Let fire cleanse me of my sins."

"Oh, you sweet fool, wisdom is truly your dump stat, is it not?" said her lord. "If willing sacrifice is what you give, then willing sacrifice is what I will take from you, Melony," said her Lord. Something shimmered into existence on the table, a golden cup holding a familiar liquid. "This is your penitence. I am sure you are familiar with this particular brew."

The green glow of the Substance was easy to tell. She nodded, accepting that her end would be through Wildfire.

"I will need you to say it," said her Lord.

"Wildfire," whispered Melisandre of Asshai, meeting the violet eyes of the Azor Ahai.

"Illyrio's Grandfather drank this stuff, thinking it would turn him into a dragon," explained Viserys Targaryen. "His own brother would say Gods were more merciful than that and instead turned him into a corpse. Would you drink it for me?"

"Anything, my Lord," whispered Melisandre. "Anything for you. I have blasphemed and cavorted with the Great Other, I have plotted to aid the False Prince, I have sinned and know that I will not get absolution."

"Anything," the prince repeated, "Would you drink it if I tell you to?" asked the prince. "Would you give yourself to me, sacrifice yourself to me in fire?"

"Yes," Melisandre nodded, her still chained hands rising and grasping the cup.

She gulped it down as though a parched man in a desert would drink water.

Heat bloomed from the pit of her stomach, her heart siezing for a moment.

The chains around her wrists and legs fell with a soft click.

Green flames erupted around her, within her, yet Melisandre did not feel it.

Melisandre burned.

The wood around her neck seared her flesh, and green fire wrapped itself around her as Melisandre gave a shriek of pain and ecstasy as the fire filled her insides.

When the fire died down, Melony was left standing, naked, unburnt, cleansed of her sin, and tempered in her faith for her Lord.

She felt not the aches in her bones. Her flesh was supple. The hair that framed her sides just as untouched by the fire was a deep shade of red.

The lord approached her, his left hand rising and pulling her up from where she knelt in supplication to her master.

A palm rested beneath her breast, over her heart, feeling the rhythmic thump of her heart that still left her ears ringing.

Her heart had not beat for years... the noise was not like the silence she was used to.

Melisandre felt a flush come to her in a way that had not been possible for so long. The praise from her Lord left a heat in the pit of her stomach and between her legs.

With a muttered word and a wave of a hand from the Prince, Melisandre found herself standing before a mirror of ice. "Ice and Fire are not two different things," her Lord whispered, as Melisandre listened. "Just energy and movement... The Great Other and the Lord of Light are a lie mortals tell themselves to explain that which is not comprehendible by their tiny minds."

Melisandre appreciated her form, naked as the day she was born. She found it fitting, as this was the day she was reborn in the grace of her Lord. Not feeling the aches and pains of her flesh was truly a testament to her Lords power.

She looked the same as she had when she wove her glamour.

Except for her eyes...

The red in her eyes was gone, replaced by a glowing green that put emeralds to shame.

"It seems your devotion remains true," said her Lord, with a face that did not belly emotion. "Enough for me to give you a chance to properly serve me."

"Is that all you would like of me, my lord?" asked Mel, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Crucio," responded her lord, and pain, unlike anything, ran through her body, leaving her screaming and on her knees.

Melisandre knew pain, yet this... this was the type of pain unlike anything she had felt before, as though her veins were freezing and on fire at once.

"Just because you are given a chance does not give you any other right, do you understand me, Priestess. That is just a taste of what it means to displease me, My Lady Mel. Prove your worth, and we shall see about any rewards," responded Viserys Targaryen, a wave of his hand conjuring dark robes around her.

She heard something along the lines of "May gods spare me from the yandere."

Mel did not know what a yandere was, but she would fight them for her lord.

She did not get a chance to respond however, as a bolt of crimson light slammed into her, as the fire screamed 'Stupify', before darkness claimed her.

# Daenerys

Dany took off the Invisibility Cloak that her brother had Enchanted. Poking the downed priestess with her foot to make sure she was knocked out properly.

"She is a nutjob," said Dany, watching Vis take notes on a parchment.

"That is a nice way of putting it," responded Vis, grimacing.

"Was the Cruciatus needed?" asked Dany.

"Might as well go for the trifecta today," responded Vis in return. "I can feel her soul... it is a mess at the best of times, but it is completely at my mercy after what she had done. I wanted to see if I could stabilize the soul-based torture curse, or if the link could be used against me."

"By poking her in the soul, you mean?" asked Dany.

"Useful spell," countered her brother "Well, if you want to disable someone in a fast way. Granted, baring your own soul for something like that makes no sense. I much prefer stabbing someone with a sword."

"Whatever," said Dany, not really wanting to go into that rabbit hole. "How did you get her to restore her body?"

"Honestly... no idea," admitted her brother, holding the goblet that had been filled. "Phoenix Ash mixed into the Wildfire. It is made to be the basis of a Pyromantic Transportation Ritual. This one was the most successful of the brews I had after animal testing and I needed it to be tested with someone with Pyromancy to see what happens," said her brother, who was already three steps ahead of everything.

"And..." said Dany, wanting him to continue.

"Were she not already undead, it probably would not have restored her life to such an extent. It is honestly not something I expected. Her heart is beating now, so she is definitely not dead. If we can figure out the previous steps..." spoke Viserys, going full Wizard mode.

"Resurrection Magic... it is possible?" asked Dany, completing the trail of thought for herself. "Do you think..." she started, unable to complete her words. 'Do you think you can bring back Mother?' she wanted to ask.

"Anything is possible with Magic, though proper Resurrection might be tricky to pull off. Melisandre might be a special case. Were she not honest in her devotion to me, the phoenix ash would not have been so effective. I can think of a few spells that could be based on such devotion. That alone would buy her my mercy for now," responded Vis, making Dany smile and blink back tears. There were more important matters to handle before.

"Like you said, your grace, she is a zealot," spoke Ser Richard from the corner, having been unmoving before. His words broke the enchantment of the small circle marked on the sand around him that Vis had cast. Blackfyre was unsheathed in his hand and ready to 'cut the witch twain' if needed, according to Vis' words.

"She is... unfortunately, we do not have the luxury to pick and choose people. She is a caster, of what type I do not know... a Warlock of some sort if I am right, and now bound to me," responded Dany's brother. "With the right incentives, she could be a valuable asset."

"I give her a week before she starts preaching that you are a god," responded Dany with a glare.

"Reckon, I should have Brian as a middle name or something?" asked Vis, taking back Blackfyre from Ser Richard and causing Dany to giggle. "Come along now, Dany, I think it is time we learned some proper Shadowbinding. Then we have a lord to entertain. Richard, could you let Nessa know about the Red Witch snoring in the yard before joining us in the Solar."

# Jon

Jon Connington accepted that he had made a mistake... that he had been fooled by Mophatis.

In all honesty, Jon did not expect that Aerys Targaryen's son to wield fire as a knighte would wield a blade, not know of secrets that had left Jon fooled.

The chains around his wrists and legs were proof of that as he walked to the Solar that once belonged to Illyrio Mophatis.

"For when the Ash of Ash Tree is no more an Ash Tree, so is the Ash of Phoenix no more mere ash," spoke the Prince... no King, as he was marched into the Solar that once belonged to Illyrio Mophatis.

Jon saw the Princess there as well, frowning in confusion.

"That makes no sense," said the Princess. "How did you even learn that from the memories of the Witch."

"Technically, it is a form of alchemy that she knew, I just connected the dots. It is Magic, Dany; leave your common-sense out the window," responded the King.

"Do you mean door?" asked the young girl, sounding as confused as Jon felt.

"Window, Door, they are all the same really, for everything is a chance, and every chance is a path, and each path ends and begins with a door that may or may not end with a fall." explained the King. Jon let the words sink in. Where those the words of a wise man or a man addled in the brains? "Remember, when life closes a door, it opens a window. You might even say everything is a door... except for some doors. Do you know why?"

The Princess gave a grin. "Because they are ajar?"

"Exactly," the King gave a wide smile at the Princess.

Jon came to the conclusion that the Prince may just be a little addled, before he made eye contact with Ser Richard Lonmouth, who looked like he was just bored.

"Is that why you have incantations for Spells?" asked the Princess, "So you can spell it out?"

The King froze, his face shifting from confusion to realization to disbelief in a moment before he whispered, "I don't know... maybe... possibly? Brilliant." before opening some time and writing something down. "We will pursue that trail of thought at a later date, Dany. Now, Gubwraithian Fire and how it is the anchor for permanent enchantments. Explain it to me."

"Phoenix Ash is not the ash of Ash Tree, so it has to be something other than ash, meaning it can only be fire," responded the Princess before adding, "So it is Phoenix Fire, but since the Phoenix exists, it is a fire that turns to ash and back to fire once more, linked to the phases of the sun and replenished at every Dawn."

"Indeed. Add in a dash of shadowbinding that is unmade every dawn, and you get a template that is considered the norm for the spell, creating leverage over reality through unreason to make the spell permanent, just as this fire is." explained the King that Jon had betrayed in his actions.

At that moment, Jon made peace with his death, standing straight and accepting that he will definitely end up as some sacrifice to an eldritch horror.

"My head hurts," admitted the Princess, a malediction that Jon could admit that he, too, suffered from. Maybe the King was as addled as his own sire.

"Good, it means it is expanding," responded the King instead, giving the Princess a kiss atop her head. "The confusion that you are feeling is what I am using to power the spell. The logic bomb causes reality to stutter and, as such, grasps any enchantment and perpetuates its existence... allowing one to cast," said the King, holding a hand over the bowl. "Anima, Animus, Animata, Animatum."

A shiver ran down Jon's spine as something moved before stopping at the very edge of perception.

"Hmm... that ought to have worked... you know what... fuck it..." The King frowned, closed his eyes, and spoke in a guttural voice that had the room darken, "**ARISE!!!**".

For a moment, Jon thought he saw the shadow of a giant demon with large wings standing behind a man of pale skin similar in looks to a few Yi-Tish that Jon had seen as a Sellsword.

The black liquid in the bowl bubbled, and a single red eye opened within the bowl as the liquid flowed out to take the form of a raven.

Jon was not sure if it was a raven or some demon in the form of a raven.

The King gave a glare at the giggling Princess. "Not another word; made-up spells are harder to anchor things with," he muttered while the princess continued to look amused. It would have been nothing Jon found amusing, the interaction between the Royal Siblings, if not for the Sorcery that the King was so at ease with.

It left a bitter taste in Jon's mouth.

Despite himself, Jon noticed that he had taken a step back, recalling how deadly those things were as they cut through the Unsullied. The creature looked and behaved like a raven, shaking itself and hopping around before taking flight and landing on the outstretched arm of the King as though it was a true raven and not some sort of an Abomination of Darkness and Smoke.

Jon noted the differences from a normal raven, however. The body of the creature shimmered in light one moment, as though made of glass, before shifting to be made up of smoke, with only the eyes red as blood remaining constant, glowing with an inner fire.

"Since the Flame is permanent, so too does the enchantments gain the properties of permanence. Now, I want you to write a full parchment on why it works this way and create a list of questions to go over, and we will continue after dinner. We should not have our company waiting anymore." said the King, who was also a Witch.

The Princess rose, making to leave.

"Manners, Dany, we are in the company of a Lord," called the King without turning.

It took Jon a minute to realize that he was the only one with such a title.

"Oh... right," said the Princess, giving a curtsy and a "My Lord" to Jon before turning to Ser Richard and saying "My Knight," and turning to the woman who was at the corner taking notes, "My Governess," which got a stern glare from the Lady standing in the corner, with straw blonde hair and a soft smile.

As she was at the door, the Princess turned once more and faced the King.

"Onii-chan," she said in some strange tongue before running out the door. A wave of a stick similar to the one used by the King slammed the door shut behind her, and Jon felt the strangest feelings of dead, of a girl of no more than nine name-days with the powers that the King had shown.

"When the fuck did she get access to the Restricted Section," whispered the King, clearly agreeing with Jon's conclusion, before muttering something about "locking up that bloody damned pensieve."

Jon blinked in confusion.

"She is planning to sneak out to see the City tonight, even coercing Lanna to come along," said the King, giving a sigh and turning to Ser Richard.

"I will let the guards know," responded Ser Richard, "Should we put a stop to it?"

"Nah, if she is motivated enough to unravel the wards I put up, she deserves to see the city. Of course, I will be a step behind her, invisible, so no harm letting her enjoy some time to be herself," responded the King before facing Jon.

As their eyes met, whatever Jon was thinking stopped.

Viserys Targaryen looked like any other Targaryen, Silver Gold Hair, pale skin, a noble visage and a haughty smirk.

The King had a decent built for his age, tall and built like a knight ought to be and not like the Targaryens of old who were known to have shown interest in the Higher Mysteries.

For but a moment, Jon saw someone else though, his Prince, in the place of the younger brother.

Without the long flowing robes, He looked just as Jon remembered Prince Rhaegar to look... his Silver Prince, noble and strong. The Prince wore a pair of black pants and tunic beneath a boiled leather armor with the Crimson Three-Headed Dragon blazing on his chest. The rest of his clothes were silk and well made, even if with a strange design that Jon had not seen before. As light hit the surface of the cloak, it looked as though the silk was made of smoke of some sort.

The eyes of the siblings were different, however.

Jon remembered the haunted eyes of Prince Rheagar well. He saw them every time he slept, accusing, judging, finding Jon wanting.

Where Prince Rhaegar had dark violet eyes that one could almost think to be black in certain lights, the King before him had eyes of amethysts, glowing with a fire as though they were gemstones held before a candle.

'He is still a witch,' a part of him reminded.

"Jon Con... Long Jon... Long Con, gotta admit, George's naming sense is fascinating," he heard his king mutter, sitting on the chair that once belonged to Illyrio Mophatis or Aelor Brightflame. "Males are called Wizards, by the way. Witches are for females, though Witchcraft is another thing entirely to Wizardry... though I do not think it matters for now."

Jon noticed hits of Braavosi accent and something else... something unique that Jon Connington had never heard in his years in Essos. His tone was melodic, certain, and far too calm, less like Aerys' erratic tones or the quiet, melancholic voice of Rhaegar, with power and anger and pain echoing through each of his words.

Those thoughts were stopped by the realization that the man before him just read his thoughts.

"Mind is not a book to be read..." said the King before Jon, repeating the words as though he had done it before, "but it is a good enough comparison for practical purposes. Does it scare you, a king that can hear all your thoughts and see into all your secrets? Do you think Aerys had this ability, to see into the mind of his advisors, to hear their plots. People called him Mad for hearing things, but one has to ask if the world was mad for not hearing them?"

Jon gulped as the king unsheathed the sword from his belt and held the edge against his neck. The Valyrian Steel bastard sword was known to any who had seen the pictures of old kings.

"You recognize this?" asked the King. "Speak its name if you know it."

Blackfyre.

Jon nodded, "Blackfyre... the Sword of Kings," a lump forming in his throat that he forced to swallow.

The last proof that Jon needed was that his betrayal was true, that he was fooled by those damned Blackfyres.

The screams of the burning man, woman, and children still haunted him, along with the maddened laughter of King Aerys.

"There are worse ways to die, I suppose," whispered Jon to himself. A sword was much cleaner.

Jon Connington could admit that he was a selfish man. The children of King Aerys were of no importance to him after his failure and exile. Jon had cared more about the son of his Prince than House Targaryen, saw a path to redeem himself for being the cause of death for his Prince on Trident, after he failed to capture Robert at Stoney Sept.

The song had been what had done it for Jon, long before the reveal that the Brightflame and Blackfyres, the betrayal and wrath he felt for the Spider and Magister trying to pass the son of a Blackfyre Whore for the son of his Silver Prince, buried under his own grief.

And the boy... no... the man before him.

Jenny's Song, the song of his Silver Prince, the song that left every maid at the Tourney of Harrenhall crying.

When the King sang, it had more weight than any other word spoken to Jon. When the King sang, Jon saw his Prince once more.

Jon Connington had not cared for the Targaryen Siblings, dismissed the rumors of their presence in Braavos for drink and life of a Sellsword to pay for the drink.

And now, here he was, chained like the traitor that he was, a traitor to the memories of Prince Rhaegar and his legacy.

Jon Connington, former Hand of the King to Aerys the Second of His Name, may have been a fool, but he knew when a Targaryen King was in the mood to burn a man alive. Jon had remained awaiting his judgment, accepting the only punishment it might have.

Yes, there were certainly worse ways to die.

"Yeah... no," the King stated, making Jon pause. The blade went back into the sheath. "I am not killing you."

The King moved behind the desk, sitting and resting his feet on a chest of dragon bone, and in his hand, he was twirling the wand that Jon knew was far more deadly than the blade between them.

With a soft click, Jon was released from the chains binding him, even as the wand disappeared within the robes that the King wore the next moment.

"Why?" asked Jon Connington uncertainly. He did not feel the relief of being granted mercy.

"I dislike killing, for one. Don't get me wrong, if I thought you posed any substantial threat after what happened, I would have gone for the throat, damned the consequences," responded Viserys Targaryen, holding up his right hand. The hand looked to be scarred... no... scaled, like a dragon's.

"More like a snake's," countered Viserys Targaryen, "healed after I was reborn in fire... though the story of how I got is more impressive, I suppose. Magic has consequences, you see... it is ironic that this was not a cost I was not willing to pay."

"What sort of magic?" asked Jon, unable to resist.

"Death of every Faceless Man who was alive," responded Viserys Targaryen, eyes holding a gleam that he was familiar with. "I made it so each and every one of them died, screaming as their faces burned off."

Jon gulped... the image of the boy was replaced with Aerys.

"Do you think I am too merciful, now, my lord?" asked Viserys Targaryen as an unnatural weight slammed over Jon's shoulders. "Are you asking if I left the Blackfyre Brat to run off into the sunset because I was being nice?"

Jon's eyes widened. He had to admit that he had not spoken much during the supposed 'trial' that the King held for the Blackfyres. He was far too busy being held back by the knight currently standing in the corner.

"What did you expect?" asked the King in turn, "Should I cut your head off or send you off to die in the desert for crimes not intended? You were fooled, just as others, Jon, I will not have your blood on my hands. I thought you would be the one to understand. I did not spare the boy and his mother for any reasons other than my own. So long as they live, I can keep an eye on them, even if I cannot imprison them or hold them hostage through force of arms. An enemy you know is better than one you do not know, just as the knife that you see is better than having knives hidden around you."

There was wisdom in those words, yet Jon could only see the foolishness of such a decision in the future. His enemies would not offer the same type of mercy.

It brought old memories to Jon's mind of his actions that still haunted him.

Jon remembered the Battle of the Bells; his choice to search for Robert was a mistake. He had wanted glory then, not justice or honor... he wanted to be the one to end the Rebellion, and he had failed for it, wasted too much time before Stark and Arryn came with their armies.

And his Silver Prince paid for Jon's actions with his life. His children soon followed him.

It had been a mistake. Myles Toyne had said just as much that had it been Tywin Lannister, he would have burned the entire town of Stoney Sept.

The King gave him a glare, Jon felt like those glowing violet eyes saw through his very soul.

"No... it really was not," said the King, as though plucking the thoughts out of his mind. The words left his mouth, words that no one had told Jon Connington, words that he had desperately needed to hear. "You did not do anything wrong, Jon. Battle of the Bells was not your fault... it certainly was not some tipping point."

"Had I gotten to Robert first..." started Jon Connington.

The image of King Aerys before the burning bodies of people flashed before Jon's eyes.

For some reason, Jon could not see his sire in the King before him. That was a good thing, he supposed.

"Yet you did not. It was not for the right reasons, certainly, for all you sought was glory. Burn an entire town to get to a single man, or waste time and be forced to face reinforcements," said the King, "Tough choice. Tywin would have burned them all; my old man may have even popped a stiffy when doing so."

"The Rebellion may have ended," whispered Jon.

"No, I don't think it would," countered the King. "Stark and Arryn were still around, and they certainly would not have given up. But it is not wise to dwell on what-ifs. What has happened, happened, stop wallowing in it and make up for it."

There was a softness in the boy-king before him. It was not the softness of a fool, however. Jon knew the boy could unleash horrors that would make his sire's acts pale in comparison... no, it was the softness of a different sort, one that held power, yet did not wish to lower himself to use it. There was a regality to it, something that ignited the fire within Jon's heart.

The King continued talking, "Mayhaps more Rebellions may have sprung up, as the Royal cause was stained by the butchery of thousands given to fire. Mayhaps Rhaegar might have still died, just as he may have lived," responded Viserys, leaning back "Mayhaps it would be some other plot."

"And if the boy comes back with an army?" asked Jon.

"Oh... I hope they do," smirked Viserys Targaryen, "I really want to test the effects of the Blood Oath. For now, I have stripped them of the means to pose a challenge," he said, tapping the sword on his hip. "As for you. Do not worry, you, I will let you live with yourself. I am just petty enough to let you live on. Death is simple; it does not have the suffering that life can bring."

Jon's eyes focused on the chest beneath the King's feet before he felt his gaze slide over it, his mind feeling like a wool draped over it.

"What was that?" asked Jon, taking a step back, only to be held back in place by unseen hands.

"Peculiar," responded King Viserys, getting far too close to Jon's face as his violet eyes glowed with curiosity. "I see a form of trauma-induced ability to see into the nature of things. It is honestly the first time I have witnessed an Affinity being formed in a soul... fascinating."

Jon was not sure what the King was talking about, as the King met his eyes.

"I wonder..." spoke the King, before taking out a knife from somewhere, this too Valyrian Steel, and Jon recognized his Prince's knife.

Holding out his palm and pulling the flames of one of the candles that lit the room leaped as though alive, forming the shape of birds and dragons as they danced between the fingers of the King before the blade drank in the fire.

The knife glowed red hot, flashing a familiar green for a moment, causing Jon to take a step back on instinct.

"I don't need a wand to cast magic, Jon; I thought it was obvious after my display the day before," said Viserys Targaryen with an amused smile. "Read this."

"From my blood comes the Prince That was Promised, and he will be the song of ice and fire," Jon read in High Valyrian. "The Stark Girl," muttered Jon to himself.

"That is what Rhaegar thought," said the King, "My Lord of Griffins, tell me what do you see when you look at the words?"

"I..." spoke Jon, in a daze. A Prophecy? Rhaegar had done all this for some Prophecy? "Words are wind," his mouth spoke before Jon could control it.

"Not these words," said the King, waving the knife. "Let's try something else," said the King with a movement of King's hand, a basin filled with a glowing liquid floated in the air, approaching them.

In the middle of the basin was a single black stone that glowed with light.

The room around them somehow faded away, and Jon found himself in the middle of a hill, covered in snow. "The Heart of Winter," spoke the King.

Jon stood before a man... or what looked like it was once a man.

The Creature before him was blue and white and gleamed as though its body was made from ice, as Jon's was made of flesh.

Fear bloomed in Jon's heart, something instinctive, something that was buried deep within his own blood.

"These are memories, though I dare not make them more accurate," explained the Sorcerer-King before him.

"Others," whispered Jon, dread filling his heart.

"Others," agreed the King, "White Walkers, the Cold Ones, Singers of Ice and Death, the Court of Winter Fey, they go by many a name, yet they all want the same thing, Eternal Winter. That is what Rhaegar died trying to prevent... that is the legacy he left behind, the mess that I have to clean up."

"This... Song of Ice and Fire," whispered Jon. "A war between the two sides. Is this what Prince Rhaegar saw."

"I had doubts as well," spoke up Ser Richard, who was standing by the door. The old squire of Rhaegar looked nothing like the boy that Jon himself remembered. Gone was the boy, and in his place was a knight with unmatched strength and skill. "Our Prince was always one too focused on prophecies and books."

"This is horse shit," spoke Jon in anger.

The King smiled, giving a laugh at that. "Words of wisdom, that."

"What?" asked Jon. "So this was some sort of a lie?"

"Not really," spoke the King "Rhaegar truly believed in the Prophecy, and saught to make it real, but that is where the problem lies, my lord. Prophecies only happen if you seek them or seek to avoid them. Catch!"

Jon felt something hit his chest, as he caught what looked to be a pin, shaped like an armored hand... made of the smoky metal that was obviously Valyrian Steel.

The metal was not the best craftmanship Jon had seen; the shape of the hand was rough, pointing with an index finger that extended a stick not unlike the one that the king had used.

"Why?" asked Jon Connington, shocked.

"In all honesty, the whole Kingship thing is just a chore at the moment," shrugged the King. "I will do it since the only alternative is to let some moron run an entire continent into the ground and decide to play stupid games... and I cannot afford a fool to succeed against something like the Long Night. Rhaegar wanted the White Walkers to come, so now they are coming, and we are the only ones who are aware of it."

"Why me?" asked Jon. The shock of the Rightful King of Westeros declaring that the world was coming to an end had been enough to bring Jon out of the pits of despair, only to plunge him back into another pit of despair.

"You were fooled, you failed, yes, yes, we get it, woe is me and all that. I am not going to execute you, Jon, but you still must make up for your crimes," the King said, causing Jon to reel back at the insult, "I mean, I understand, truly, I have seen a mirror, and I remember how Rhaegar looked, the whole Valyrian Pretty Boy thing is honestly just broken... heck, I would go for me if I was interested in men... but I am not so a moot point."

"Your grace... I..." Jon stuttered, trying to interrupt, to stop the implications, the embarrassment. Such words... such insults... the feeling of something crawling at such an image had his cheeks burning, even as he wished for a quick strike of the blade.

"I mean, you love who you love; I am not judging. Using that love to manipulate you... it must sting... but I get it, the desperation... and to think I would throw away such loyalty?" "Talk about wasted effort and potential... I mean, don't get me wrong, Jon, I prefer Richard over there for this job, but I was talked out of it since you are the only qualified administrator that I have," said the King, point at the hand shaped pin. "It is not a chain, but I had to improvise."

"The Half-Maester, unfortunately, left us so soon... but his memories will live on as will his... wisdom," the King spoke. "You will make better use of it than he did"

"I don't need a cunning Hand to plot and do my will... you have served, even if for far too short a time, as Hand to my father. You are a Lord trained from birth, an experienced leader. Sure, you have fucked up, but when it comes down to it, you cover everything that I do not have. Above all, you are loyal, not to me, but to the memory of my brother, and I know the eyes of a man with a purpose. So, when I tell you that Rhaegar was haunted by the same visions I had just shown you and died trying to prevent it, I know you will know it to be the truth." said the King, leaning in, "Also, I am a petty little shit, and you have caused me enough headaches that simply killing you would be a mercy, so I will work you to death making up for your mistakes instead."

Jon Connington paled as though the blood within him had all drained. Yet, something in the King's Speech brought something out of it. Defiance... the promise of a purpose... hope to complete something that His Prince had started.

Jon no longer thought Viserys Targaryen to be a fool. Too kind, certainly, vengeful, the shame he brought upon Jon with mere words was proof of that, wise and a dash mad, certainly... but there was something true about him that Jon could not help but be drawn to.

It did not take more for Lord Jon Connington to speak his oaths to his king.

"Now that the standard oaths are done, I will need specific oaths from you. Richard will act as the binder," said the King, passing a parchment to the Squire of Rhaegar and taking out a glowing stone knife. A slash of the blade had a thin line of blood form in his palm. He handed the blade to Jon, and Jon repeated the motion and cut his hand.

So Jon swore.

To act in the best interest of House Targaryen, to protect the Lord of the House, Viserys Targaryen, and the Heir Daenerys Targaryen.

To serve faithfully as Hand of the King to Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, Son of King Aerys the Second and Queen Rhaella Targaryen, and his chosen successors.

To give honest counsel when called for, to give warning when needed for the betterment of the Royal Family and the Realms of Men.

The intertwining blood landed on the Valyrian Steel Hand pin, smoking and hissing before the pin found its way onto his shirt.

"While the Oath will ensure that you will not betray me. Until I can be certain that you can be trusted, Richard speaks for me... as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," said his king, as the door opened and a maid walked in . "This is Nessa, she is the Governess if that was not obvious, that means she handles most of the household. Of all of you lot, she has been with us longest and deserves your respect. If either of them have anything bad to say about you..." said the King, his eyes gleaming violet flames, "Well, you get it. The rest is for you to handle, Lord Hand. Start by arranging a feast for the men, I am going to go purge a few Magisters for plotting to kill us sometime in the next week." before grabbing the sword and walking out of the office, followed by the now flying chest, carried by the black raven made of glass.

"The blade looks far more tempting after that, doesn't it?" asked Ser Richard , standing by the door.

"Ser Richard," greeted Jon Connington, someone he had not seen in a while.

"Sorry about the nose," responded Richard Lonmouth, the former squire of Rheagar. Jon could only nod in acceptance before pain lanced on his face , and his nose was set right, the shallow cut closing.

Jon reached a hand to touch his nose, the sharp pain returning, settling on a dull throb. "I guess his grace heard that, huh. The bone will take time to heal, but the skin ought to be fine," explained Ser Richard, holding out his right hand that Jon now noticed to be covered in some sort of wood... no, the wood had replaced the limb, yet it was moving as though it was flesh and bone, "and His Grace is the best healer there is."

"Is he always like this?" asked Jon, carefully watching his words. "A whirlwind of magic and sharp truths that bite."

"Hah... My Lord Hand, this is him in a good mood; it is when he gets angry and starts brooding that things get strange... well stranger," said Ser Richard Lonmouth with glazed far , away eyes that were familiar to those who survived wars.

"I need a drink," said Jon, thinking that it was Aerys all over again... if Aerys had traded madness for causally breaking the laws of gods on a whim.

"I will come along; it has been a while since I drank with a familiar face, even if I wouldn't overdo it, lest his grace decides to make all wine taste like vinegar for a moon again," commented Ser Richard, obviously from experience. "Pity it works not on me now."

"Sounds like a tale," said Jon.

"One that is better told with drinks at hand," laughed Ser Richard bitterly.

Maybe the old saying was right about Targaryens and coins. Jon had never seen one that forgot to land.

The Hand of the King straightened himself; he had work to do, and a warm meal would also help... even if a drink was not an option.

# Ned

Lord Wyman Manderly took a sip of his ale before him before going on, "The rumors all call the boy a Wizard, a Sorcerer cavorting with Dark Gods. Cannot take it to mean true. The sailors like to make stories of some sort. So I had to send my secondborn, Wendel, to check if the stories held any truth to them. He has learned that the Sealord was healed by the boy somehow and that the Faceless Men are now all dead. Most think that the Targaryen boy had a hand in it... a burned hand at that."

Ned's face did not change. It was the look of the Lord Stark, hard, unyielding, calculating. Inside, he did not know what to say.

Ned was never meant to rule. This was more than he could handle most days. This life was for his older brother, Brandon, who had been slain by the Mad King. He did not feel prepared, not when he led an army against the Prince, not in the deserts of Dorne, not after he came back.

Even the family he had, the happiness and sorrow were not meant for Ned. His eldest stood by the side, acting in the place of a cupbearer for the Lord of the Lord of White Harbor, watching, learning, and not saying a word, as instructed by Ned himself. The boy would need to be told not to take everything at face value.

Especially Magic...

Magic... changed things.

"And has your son found any rumor about the trade between Braavos and the Night's Watch?" asked Ned instead. He disliked this; plotting and whispers made him uneasy.

"The Targaryens seem to have a hand in the Iron Bank, and they have been the ones to arrange it. I know not how they hold such power in Braavos, and I know not what their plan is, but Braavos is not likely to side with Westeros if they decide to turn their attention to Westeros," responded Lord Wyman.

"What are you suggesting, Wyman?" asked Ned, holding his own thoughts for himself.

"That it is a poisoned gift... there is something going on, and only those Mad Dragons know what it is. Refusing the gift without reason shows that we know of their hand, but keeping an eye on it, I suggest you wait, my lord, keep an eye on it," said Lord Wyman Manderly, whose mind was better made for such plots, even if the few looks he gave Robb were similar to the gaze he had for a juicy piece of pie. The fact that the man had two granddaughters of close enough age was not a secret.

Ned was not a fool. Robb's hand was something he could not give away just yet. His own wedding to the Riverlands had won them a war, and his wife was in the right when she proposed potential marriages with the South. The Targaryens were not gone, and Lannisters and Dorne were not his friends. "Ned, know that if the Targaryens come, House Manderly will side with House Stark, as we have promised."

"Thank you, Wyman," responded Ned, keeping his words short. "Any ways we can gather more information from those we could trust?"

"Trust... no, my lord," responded Wyman, "but I can send a few men to the Company of Rose. They are supposedly Northerners exiled before the Conquest. They are still Sellswords, yet some coin might be open to send word."

It always came back to coin. Coin that would come from what Winterfell had made. Coin that White Harbor would get a share from being the only large enough port to sustain the shipping before it made to cross the Narrow Sea.

Soon, the man Ned's youngest daughter, nicknamed Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-on-a-Horse, was gone, followed by Ned dismissing Robb for his studies. The shadows behind him fell away, leaving behind a short man in a green tunic.

"They had a hand in it, the Targaryens," said Lord Howland Reed. "Magic returning."

"Are you certain?" asked Ned with a frown.

"The Faceless Men are killed off, while a Targaryen with Magic lives in Braavos," countered Ned's old friend and bannerman. "This one might be of the same cloth as his brother... or worse, his father. The Prophecy is still at play."

"A Prophecy believed by a madman," countered Ned, his anger rising.

"Lyanna believed it," countered Howland, getting a glare in turn. "Why would a Targaryen seek to strengthen the Wall of all places?"

"You did not come all the way to Winterfell for tall tales believed by foolish children, Lord Reed," countered Ned instead, not wanting to listen to it anymore.

"I came to make my offer," responded Howland, "same offer as before."

"A Stark's place is at Winterfell," countered Ned.

"How long before your Lady Wife runs your Bastard off," whispered Howland in turn.

"You swore an oath, Lord Reed," rose Lord Stark from his desk, "All I ask is that you do your duty and keep an ear out for any other rumors."

"Aye, I did, Lord Stark, to Ice and Fire, I did," responded Howland Reed, again disappearing, once more showing Ned that Magic was more powerful than before.

Ned took a parchment, writing a letter to be sent by a rider to the Wall. It was time he visited it and got the report from Benjen and Mormont. For all Ned knew, winter was coming.

# The Mage

"Fucking Voyeurs," the echo of the Wizard's voice came before the Glass Candle shut itself, and Marwyn found himself flung back from where he was standing, tumbling in a way that would leave a bruise of two.

Marwyn lost his lunch on the floor, leaving it for some poor acolyte to clean it.

Power, Peerless Power.

There had been a lot of rumors about the boy people called Viserys the Wizard, the last male with the Targaryen last name.

None were real, now, Marwyn knew.

A man who can bring death to a god...

This was different than anything else he had known through his journeys.

This was a man who knew what he was doing, a true Master of the Higher Mysteries.

This was Glorious.

For years, Marwyn has been trying to peek into the Targaryen boy.

Years of failure, and the first glimpse he gets is a monster in human form, with mastery over those Higher Mysteries that have befuddled the Maesters by the dozen.

At first it was a mere curiosity, rumors finding themselves to Oldtown as he returned from his expedition to Essos to find the Targaryens deposed by a Rebellion of all things.

Marwyn was certain that the Archmaesters had a hand in that mess. Everything was too convenient, messages were too well organized, strategies of the Lords far too accurate. Not to mention, the White Ravens used to send messages to the Maesters.

The entire army of Reach sitting out the war sieging a castle with not enough man made no sense. The Prince crossing the river made no sense, especially after Marwyn had told him that the glamour on the rubies would not hold up after passing through running water. They were not all idiots wanting to lose a war, were they?

Marwyn sat up from where he fell, thinking, taking a Weirwood leaves from his special pouch and starting to chew one like it was sourleaf as he took a sip of the Essence of Nightshade that he had learned to brew after he saved a Warlock of Qarth from getting his head shortened by an annoyed Lord Tarly.

Marwyn had scolded the Warlock after hearing the story of the Tarly boy being bathed by Auroch blood, telling the bald man that the boy ought to have eaten the heart instead to take on the strength as the Free Folk Beyond the Wall and the Dothraki believed.

Yes, since the Glass Candles started to burn, not more than a year after the Targaryens were sent into exile, Marywn was trying to get a peak into the Targaryen Exiles using the arcane devices of Valyria.

They were, unfortunately, blocked.

Something about Braavos did not make looking into the Mists easy. There was magic there, Marwyn was sure, some sort of a lingering power that protected them from the sight of Valyria. The region was close to the Axe as well, so it stood to reason that it was the location that the Andals used as a hiding spot before the Braavosi made it out of Valyria, but that was speculation on Marwyn's part.

Nothing else was out of the ordinary other than the Targaryen Exiles.

One day, everything was nice and well, and next he had an Acolyte blinded by the light from the glass candle and a dead man with his face burned of among the barracks of House Hightower that as the Archmaester of Higher Mysteries, he was called to study.

Marwyn was certain it was a Faceless Men that was killed.

Then the news of similar deaths made it through his contacts, sailors, and whores sharing what little they could gather.

Brilliant work. Absolutely brilliant. A powerful strike using the transitive properties of a shared creed or artifact... or mayhaps a plague of some sort.

Needless to say, Marwyn removed the chain around his neck after that. He was not certain if it could be used, but if the Targaryen Boy had a bit of intelligence, the chain around his neck was a threat and a nose.

Then Magic rose with a tide and threw Marwyn off his balance.

The trouble that was in North was still stuck in the North. The Others were getting in on power, but so was the Wall. Marwyn was certain whoever made that marvel knew what they were doing as the two kept each other contained.

Lord Leyton was concerned, as was Lady Melora, as the ancient sleepers stirred.

Essos was another mess entirely. Warlocks of Qarth bunkered down, as they always did. Their influence over the supposed Greatest City There Ever Was was stronger than before, though, but nothing happened.

Then Marwyn saw the boy, standing atop the corpse of a dead demon of fire and shadow, a dragon roaring a challenge and promising only death to those who would take him up for his offer.

Come and See.

A fork in the road... certainly one worthy of the cost it would incur.

Old Town itself would be at the crossroads. A Targaryen with a Grudge was always dangerous; history has shown that, and a Targaryen with a grudge and access to Magic. The last time that happened, Queen Visenya made to burn the entire city of Oldtown, only held back at the last moment... thrice.

Conclave would gather and plot, send someone to obviously get the knowledge that the Boy-King in Exile had. Once all his knowledge was taken, the boy would find himself with poison in his belly and that would be it.

This was not the first time that Maesters moved to do so after all. It was not even the first time they did so to House Targaryen.

A gift would be needed, the Death of Dragons, the old book that contains the old knowledge of Dragonlore and the True History of House Targaryen. It was far too valuable.

It was a good gift, a fitting one.

A new opportunity to toss away the old and remake it into something greater... something in Marwyn's own image.

It was certainly ambitious.

Grabbing his staff, he made it to reach him in time. He would serve, and guide the young Prince, the Conclave be damned.

This place was getting stale anyway.

Marwyn would go to Viserys Targaryen, and see if this wizard was everything rumors made him out to be.

AN: Wiz learning to solve his problems without too much fire or destroying things... mostly.

Writing Melisandre, I sort of started to pity her more as I wrote. In the books, she is all bluster and overconfident, but what if someone came along and schooled her on magic? Are they better than her because they are more in favor of her god? Her restoration to her youth was not something I really thought through. Fire can cleanse and restore, especially if Phoenix Ash is involved, and I liked the idea that Melisandre would have that extra devotion/zealotry to pull it off. It also formed the base of three different spells that Wiz will be reverse-engineering.

Jon was less fun. He is an idiot, but he is an idiot with some use. Being made into the Hand of the King is just a way of showing that Wiz does not really care about rules, so long as the ones ruling Jon is also the only valid option to be Hand to Wiz, being a Westerosi, a former Hand of the King of Aerys, a proven battle commander. I like the duality between the two, Wiz focusing on Magic and Jon handling the other parts, after proving that Jon can indeed learn.

Ned POV, I am not so sure about. Howland Reed is known to have some Magic and the idea that he would panic and reach out to Starks to get more information made sense to me.

Marwyn sort of ended up as Fluder from Overlord, just with Viserys in place of Momonga. I also like the idea that Marwyn is smart enough to figure out something about Magic, just lacking that outside perspective that made Wiz so good.