The protections that hid Braavos spoke of sacrifice, of the death of children and priestesses alike.

It spoke of desperation to hide from the monsters that would see them burn. Dozens, hundreds walking into their own death so that thousands may live.

They certainly did not speak of pleasure and euphoria as the means to weave such protections, not with the way that the Wizard had done things.

Her screams of ecstasy were muffled as she felt the hand holding onto her hair push her down between the legs of the Courtesan of Braavos while Viserys drove his cock into her core from behind with deep and powerful thrusts, occasionally slapping her arse and sending a mix of pain and pleasure through her spine.

"Good girl," her lover spoke from behind her, the words sending another pulse of pleasure from her core, through her spine, and all the way up to the base of her skull.

The Priestess could only mumble, her tongue seeking the treasure between the soft thighs of the Black Pearl, lapping at the cream like it was the sweetest of nectars while the air around them crackled with the magic that was being woven by the Wizard.

Shadowmoon did not know when she ended up enjoying these acts of debauchery.

Her assignment had been clear: guide the Princess into their ways while spying on the Wizard for the Moonsingers. Her mission was to observe, to guide, and, above all, to ensure that the Wizard Viserys Targaryen posed no threat to the Moonsingers or to Braavos. He was to be watched closely to ensure that his actions did not become a threat to Braavos.

At first, Shadowmoon had dismissed the notion entirely. She had scoffed at the idea that the exiled Targaryen king could be anything more than a fraud. In her eyes, he was a man like any other—violent, greedy, and worse still, Valyrian. She had expected nothing from him but arrogance and failure.

Then she met him.

He held himself with a certain authority. That was the first part she realized. Every act he had was measured and controlled as though he was afraid to hurt those around him. Fresh off the conquest against the House of Black and White, others saw Death given form, or a Mage with too much power. Yet, Shadowmoon saw a man who was afraid of becoming a monster.

There was a certain sadness to it, Shadowmoon realized, as she met his eyes.

And somehow, he had her among the dozen Acolytes that the High Priestess had presented him as potential teachers for his little sister.

He chose her over all the true believers. Her, Shadowmoon, the orphan that was named by the High Priestess herself because she had no parents to name her. Shadowmoon could not be bothered to memorize the prayers and had to take the beatings given. Shadowmoon, who could not go through a single ritual without thinking of how needlessly stupid it was, only to be mocked by others. Shadowmoon, who would have as likely to have found herself kicked from the Temple by year's end, to potentially become a whore or something to make a living.

Her interactions with Viserys were sparse at first. He was a king who fancied himself a wizard, and she treated him with the doubt any would hold against Magic in this age. Yet she could not ignore the effect he had on others. Her charge, Daenerys, revered her brother as if he were a god. Lanna, the orphan girl he had taken in, talked of being his apprentice with pride.

And then there were the few times he spoke directly to her. He didn't speak as a king to a servant but as a scholar to an equal. He asked questions about her Order—not prying, but piecing together their secrets from the half-answers she was permitted to give. All the while, she found herself drawn to his glowing violet eyes, eyes that glowed with power and left her flustered.

Worst of all was that he was not a fraud, and shared his knowledge with her willingly. He didn't hoard his power as she had expected. Instead, he crafted a staff for her and taught her the finer points of his magic. With his guidance, she began to see the rituals of the Moonsingers in a new light. Practices she had dismissed as mere superstition revealed their magical underpinnings—magic, not divinity, guiding their traditions. He helped her see what was to be and made it so she could, on her own, achieve what would have taken an entire room of Moonsingers to sing for hours.

When he had come to her for help on a ritual, Moonshadow had agreed. When she heard the details of the ritual, her pride made her refuse to back down, no matter what the strange feeling in her stomach might imply, or the warmth in her nethers.

It made Shadowmoon see a path for herself as a Moonsinger, yet without the chains of the Temple of the Moonsingers to bind her or the treacherous path of becoming another Courtesan in Braavos, to use her body to live without needing anything else.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she reached her peak. Her body shook with pleasure and power at once.

The pair of hands gripping her hips rose, mauling Shadowmoon's breasts while pulling her back. Held against the muscular chest of her lover, she was not who was in the process of making her moan louder while kissing her neck.

"Focus," he whispered into her ear, and she did. Guided by the unseen power of the Wizard, she wove the power from her end, sacrificing her maiden's blood to weave protection around the land itself, even as the small spell she wove, far too weak to be of any effect, was flooded with power from the other end.

As she released the power of the Tantric Ritual, her other lover pulled herself up, a pair of lips wrapping themselves around her hardened nipples.

"Is it done?" asked Bellegere, as Viserys grunted and painted her womb white with his seed, causing her vision to go white with pleasure.

"Yes," said Viserys, right behind her ear. "It should be enough to keep the island from being approached by anyone who considered themselves an enemy or hold malicious intent or whom I would consider my enemy."

"Good," said Bellegere, with a smile, "Does that mean that you are done with playing with the Priestess?"

"I suppose," said Viserys, "Do you suppose that the Moonsingers will care that she is no more a maiden?"

"Yes," whined Shadowmoon, a plan formed in her mind that would see her rid of those stupid hags. "I am ruined."

The acolytes had to remain maidens, after all. That was the rule, not that Shadowmoon thought that it was a good rule.

"They will certainly throw her out," spoke the Black Pearl, "poor thing would have to live in the streets. Though I suppose I could ask my mother to teach her to become a Courtesan, she is beautiful after all and her tongue is divine."

"I don't know, I might keep her for myself," said Viserys Targaryen, a pressure and warmth emanating from where he stood behind Shadowmoon, his length hardening within her once more as rough hands palmed her teets. "A dragon needs to have a hoard after all. What do you say, Little Shadow?"

"Yes," moaned Shadowmoon, as she was pulled back against the muscular chest of the King.

"We can tell the High Priestess that you are going to create your own Temple here in Dragonstone," he whispered, driving himself deeper into her. "You would be a Priestess, and no one would dare make any other insinuations."

"My, and if they did, lover?" asked Bellegere, raising up to capture Shadowmoon's lips.

"I am sure they are wise enough, given that I hold the sun in my hands," said the Wizard, a smile that Shadowmoon could sense was on his lips.

That sounded like the best idea Shadowmoon had heard, to be honest, and all she could think was 'This type of ritual is certainly better than being stuck in that boring temple droning over another.'

# Stefon Spyre

Stefon did not know what to expect as he made his way through the Wyrmway. All he knew was that the Crowned Stag banners were replaced with the Three-Headed Red Dragon one day, and whispers and fire were all that could be heard.

The banners of House Targaryen were something Stefon remembered from his childhood, as he had remembered the war that they had lost. Somehow, House Targaryen had returned, and they had reclaimed their ancestral home.

It was the same day that some of the soldiers in the village had all fallen over, with new ones coming in to collect them. Some had the look of fighters, their eyes without mercy beneath their spiked helms. Others were without faces, clad in armor, and moved with certainty and silence.

Most in the Village were cautious, not knowing how it would affect their lives.

Now, he was sent to treat with the new lord who took the castle, along with two others.

Lord Stannis was not a bad lord, to say the least. He was humorless, and his justice had a bite, as many had learned, yet he was not cruel. It was the first thing they had learned after the Baratheon Fleet came to the island nine years past.

All who lived in Dragonstone were proud to call themselves Dragon's Men. They were the subjects of the Crown Prince, and they had prospered for it.

Stefon had been a guard back then, one of those charged with keeping the peace in the village, a spear given to his hand after the Rebellion, a boy more than a man. He remembered it all.

They had all been ready to fight until they were all dead to the men, all were told the fate that would await the Dragonseeds. All knew what had happened to the children of the Prince, and if the Dragons could not protect their own children, what were all the Dragonseeds to do but to expect death.

Stefon himself knew that he would be put through the sword after the Keep fell after the Rebellion, just as all the others.

Then came the storm—Gods' wrath, they called it—which shattered the Royal Fleet. As if their fate wasn't bleak enough already.

Yet, Stefon was a guard and not a knight, and the Knights left in charge of the Keep had yielded the castle when they learned that the lord of the Keep had vanished into the night.

The most loyal had the fortune to die in the storm, on the ships, where Lord Lucerys Velaryon had kept the most loyal man, the ones who knew best how to fight. All of them dead, to the man.

Then the Stags came.

Lord Stannis had not done as they had expected and spared their lives, even allowing them to return to their lives. In turn, they kept their heads down and did not make too much noise, and the Stags did not move to cut down the entire island to the man.

It did not mean that everyone liked the Stag Lord. His rule was harsh, his justice swift and without mercy. He had even ordered the brothel closed down if the dour fucker could not make them more miserable. But the quiet was what most cared for, and quiet was what the Lord of Dragonstone had given them, even if they had to pay for it.

As he was led through the black hallways of the Castle, Stefon took a deep breath. Now, it was up to him to make sure that the new lord of the Keep did not put them to the sword for some slight, like yielding the Keep when no Targaryen lived there.

He found himself in the Throne Room, the giant Dragonstone throne lying empty, even as another door slammed open, and in walked The Targaryen.

Because this was a Targaryen if there were any.

Stefon himself was a Dragonseed, like many in Dragonstone, though where his hair was the color of straw, the man before him had a hair of silver that shifted as it caught the light to gold. It looked purer than any other Dragonseeds that Stefon had known, as though it was spun of Sunlight.

His face had the look of youth, barely a boy grown. Despite his youth, the boy held himself like a fighter, standing taller than others in the room and built like a wall.

It was the eyes, however, that made Stefon flinch. Eyes that met him and bore through him. They were the purple of Valyria, true but they glowed as though Stefon was staring into a bonfire, and he could not hold the gaze for more than a moment.

Then, as he passed by, Stefon caught a smell of brimstone and ash, and a whisper that told him that this was a dragon more than a man.

The Targaryen sighed, ignoring him to speak to the knight next to him. "Have a runner sent to tell Sajo to follow the birds," spoke the man with silver hair and burning purple eyes, clad in red and black silks. "Tell him to take the Revenge to the new harbor I built; the cavern should make do for now, and I am ordering a chain to be built in Braavos to block the entrance along with the rocks themselves. It should be able to handle any storm while docked within and we can expand as we get more pieces."

"Yes, my lord," spoke the knight next to him, a knight clad in armor and a shield on his back, before turning and leaving.

The Targaryen pulled out a letter from his sleeves, and a red bird burst from nowhere in waves of fire before grasping the large scroll and vanishing into nothing.

It had been enough for Stefon to fall back on his ass in surprise.

This was certainly a Targaryen alright, and one of those from the old stories his ma had told her when he was a child.

"You must be the Alderman I asked for," said the Targaryen, as Stefon got to one knee, hoping against hope that he would not burst into flames like that poor bird.

"Mi-Mi-Mi... yo-your grace," stammered Stefon, scrambling to get on his knees, not knowing how to address the man before him.

The bird burst back, flying around the room before landing on a gleaming gold perch to the side that he had not noticed. The thrill that the bird gave sounded like amusement, and Stefon found himself just a bit calmer, watching the red bird preen on his perch.

"Your grace is fine, and the bird is Will; he is perfectly fine with doing what you saw; you need not worry about him," said the Targaryen before him as though reading his thoughts. "What is your name?"

"Stefon, milord... your grace," Stefon said, "Stefon Spyre."

"Well, while I am sure this would be an interesting conversation on ornithology, let us cut to the chase," said the Targaryen. He had a strange way of speaking, a manner that left him thinking and using words that made Stefon confused. "I am Viserys Targaryen, son of Aerys, Second of His Name. I was granted the rule of Dragonstone by my father eleven years past as Prince on Dragonstone. Nine years past, I was forced into exile for my own safety, and now I am returned. Do you have any questions?"

Stefon's eyes widened at the declaration. This was the Prince, the son of the Old King.

"N-no, your grace," said Stefon daring to lift his head up to look at the Targaryen before him.

"Good, then here is my question to you," said Prince Viserys Targaryen as Stefon met the glowing eyes filled with power. "How may I best serve the people of Dragonstone?"

For one more time, Stefon was surprised that a Lord would ask that question to him of all people.

For a brief moment, Stefon wondered if it was worth his head if he asked the Targaryen to kindly fuck back off to exile so it did not end with the whole village being put the sword by an angry Baratheon.

Viserys Targaryen chuckled as though he knew what Stefon was thinking and found it amusing. Then again, flaming birds and a Targaryen with Magic... maybe he could read his thoughts.

"I would not call it reading, as it is far too unlike how you would read a book, but I would not hold your thoughts against you, so long as they did not whisper of betrayal at least," said the Prince before him, as a chill ran down Stefon's spin. "And while I hold the protection of my subject to be my utmost priority, I have no intention of leaving Dragonstone to the Baratheons. Now, before I order a full census of the population, what would be the most important things, other than Security and Food. Tell me, Stefon of my subjects."

So Stefon spoke, his mouth moving even without his mind telling him to do so.

# The Mage

Marwyn opened his eyes from where he was meditating, using the practices that the King had taught him in exchange for learning the intricacies of what Viserys Targaryen called Fire and the Void.

His fingers wrapped around the dogwood wand, with his Valyrian Steel link denoting him as the Arch-Maester separating the bulbous handle from the rest of the wand as it hid a Firewyrm Egg... or rather, an Ashwinder egg, as the King called it.

With the wand, magic came much more easily, even if he had to make an oath to serve Viserys Targaryen and his chosen heir in exchange, above any other. He knew that he would hold to that oath, even without the binding that had burned into the flesh of his left hand in the form of runes.

"Apologies, my other meeting ran longer than I thought it would," said the younger wizard, walking up to where Marwyn was sitting.

"A king who asks questions where he does not know," Marwyn mused instead, "next, you will say that pigs can fly."

"Honestly, making a flying pig sounds easier than managing an entire island. Figured the ones who handle the day-to-day running of an entire island the size of Dragonstone probably know more than I do," the King responded. "I am trying to wrangle the old protections on the island in the meantime."

"Not enough power?" asked Marwyn, taking a sip of the wine that he had Morna make, one that was aged in a cast of Weirwood and Nightwood.

"Funny enough, power is not the issue here," said the King, "The current power I was able to put made it so anyone who considers my family an enemy or serves another who considers me an enemy is unable to see the island altogether. The mental pressure is strong enough that it would work on anyone who does not have strong enough mental discipline. It would, however, not prevent an experienced sailor to sail blind."

"So, make some spikes from the sea floor," suggested Marwyn.

"I will add it to the list," the King responded, nodding, "Bit more power intensive, but I should be able to reach the seabed at shallower regions without too much power wasted. I was thinking more along the lines of a mist and winds that would keep intruders."

"Right, that also works, I suppose," said Marwyn, "Might want to go on a trip to the Isle of Faces. There is an Archmaester from a few centuries back who swears that the Godseye have currents and winds that work to do something similar, which most Maesters dismiss as hearsay of the smallfolk. Then again, the idiot lost a foot to the Lizard Lions on that same lake, so there might be some truth within."

"Yes, but I cannot figure out how to get the protection extended out to the sea without decaying. I am pretty sure the Targaryens sacrificed a dragon or four before the conquest to bring up the War Wards. The soul-stuff bound to the island has degenerated and repairs are slow."

"Har," laughed Marwyn with a grin. "I am sure it is exhausting work, sharing your bed with such beauties as the Black Pearl and the Priestess."

"While I enjoy the carnal pleasures as much as any man," the King responded, "it is time-consuming, and the essence I can harness is only barely enough to replace what is lost."

"So, you need to sacrifice unborn children to the fire," spoke Marwyn, "now, that is what the Maesters think when they think of Valyrian Sorcery."

"I have a better idea. Actually, I had two out of three men begging me to reopen the brothel on the island," said Viserys, "something about Stannis outlawing it."

"I had heard of that, thought it to be jest," said Marwyn. "What was Cressen teaching that fool?"

"Yes, well, it is one of the oldest human professions," said Viserys, "even if I find the idea of needing to pay for sex distasteful."

"Hah, not everyone has the looks to seduce a Courtesan of Braavos, lad, not to mention the power of gods," said Marwyn, with a serious nod. "But everyone pays for sex in some way."

"I suppose," said Viserys.

"What does that have anything to do with the protections?" asked Marwin.

"Well, since the essence needed for the wards requires it to be only dragonseed," started the King, "what are your opinions on state-sponsored birth control for brothels."

"What, so no little bastards running around. They make for good guards, I heard. One in ten guards in Oldtown is a bastard, and one in seven of the Maesters, as well. If you go for it, me thinks the men on the island will love you for it, and the woman will curse you to your grave or ask for it themselves," chuckled Marwyn, not regretting one bit that he chose to make the journey to join with Viserys Targaryen.

"Right," said Viserys, before turning to the door that Marwyn was guarding for all purposes, flanked by the two Unsullied whose stories were as dry as their non-existing balls. "How is our prisoner?"

"Addled," responded Marwyn simply. "My lord, are you certain that this boy has power?"

"Let's ask him, shall we?" said Viserys, holding his wand in one hand and his dagger in the other.

Of the two, Marwyn did not know which was the most dangerous, a dagger that screamed of death when the Prince held it or the stick that would make reality hitch its breath.

"Hello, Patchface," greeted the Wizard, looking at the former slave whose face was tattooed with patches to designate him as a fool.

"Under the sea, birds have scales. I know, I know, I know," spoke the boy in riddles while held in both chains and magical ropes. Marwyn did not like it, not because he found the ramblings meaningless, but because he felt something pressing into the back of his mind. "Under the sea, dragons ride the rainbows as they make their way through islands."

"Under the sea, a raven is a dragon," echoed Viserys Targaryen... "or he is seeing fish, I have no idea. He is, however, a skinchanger, that much I can tell."

"Right," said Marwyn, not sure how honed one had to be able to tell if that was the case. "So, what now?"

Viserys pulled out a stack of parchments, each containing distinct shapes and glyphs.

"Now, you start testing Patchface over here with everything we can think of," King said with a grin "until we get enough information to come up with a better solution than it is just a man who got possessed by skinchanging fish."

"For a moment, I thought you were going to look into the mind of the fool or, worse, make me do it," said Marwyn with a sigh of relief.

"Don't be ridiculous. I did not become a Wizard, just by poking my head into the minds of Eldritch Horrors. Also, that is what Melisandre is here for, much more disposable and ironically resistant to external magic," said the Wizard, "In the meantime, I will have Melisandre build something for the wards."

# Serpenttongue

Lanna missed her familiar and the safety that Tywin the Basilisk provided, yet she still endured, walking the black hallways with a purpose.

Her Master had commanded the Basilisk to guard the caverns beneath the Keep, the ones that would provide a route to escape but also a vulnerability as well. In the dark, his eyes would be of little use but a serpent in the dark with the venom and the ability to feel any living was far too effective a defense for Lanna to object.

"~Serpensotia~" whispered Lanna, holding her Rowan and Basilisk Horn wand and speaking in the tongue of Serpents that her Master had granted her through ritual.

The echo of the Basilisk wrapped itself around her, a pale copy of the original but with venom just as deadly if lacking the pure magical destruction the original held. She moved with purpose, entering the Workshops beneath the Keep, one that had an Obsidian Raven standing in front of it, keeping watch.

"The pennyroyal, king's copper and the copper interlace with each other," spoke Viserys pointing at a cauldron while standing next to the Red Witch. "The moonbloom, moonstone, and bloodstone bind together to create their own effect."

"So that moon's blood could bloom," Melisandre nodded. "And the pennyroyal acts to bind the second half of the potion to the copper."

"Yes," said Viserys, "I need you to make enough copper for thirty rings, at the least."

"My, my lord, I did not know you were so insatiable," breathed out Melisandre, speaking in the same way that the whores in Happy Harbor used to make a man feel valuable. "If it is pleasure you seek, know that I am yours to serve."

"It is not really for my use," said Viserys, "I just got questions from three different village leaders on whether or not I was planning to get the brothel in the Village that Stannis outlawed back up, and I am going to use that as an excuse to power the wards. The population may not be too closely related to us anymore, but there are still Dragonseeds within, and brothel makes for a good way to keep an eye on things, I heard. I will have to drop by Braavos to get Bellonara to handle the details, move some girls by tempting them with proper healthcare and upgrade the wards in there as well, so I do not have the time to power the enchantments on my own."

Lanna opened her mouth to offer her services. She was the best in potions, after all, a mastery that she had been working hard to acquire.

Before she could speak, Her Prince responded, "No, Lanna, you and Dany are not suitable for this job without long-term consequences to your fertility." he said, turning to the Red Priestess. "Melony, you are to do this because, to be frank, my dear, I do not care that much about you."

"As you command, my lord," purred Melisandre, proving herself to be more shameless than a whore, not caring that the Prince had just called her worthless. "It had been so long since my ability to bear living children was sacrificed."

"Well, that might not be the case anymore, what with being reborn and all that, but who knows," said His Grace, "Granted, it might also just be that your body seems weird enough to have a certain resistance to magical effect, so not really sure if potions can affect you anymore."

"Would you like to try it, my lord?" asked the Red Woman, making Lanna want to strangle her for some reason.

"Lanna," greeted Viserys Targaryen instead of responding to the Witch.

"Your grace," greeted Lanna with the proper courtsy.

"Where is Dany?" he asked, as Lanna shifted her perspective, finding the right snake that was hidden around in her Master's new castle.

"The yard," Lanna responded, sparring against Ser Richard, before flinching as her snake self heard the crow of a raven, the serpentine instincts forcing her to treat it as the prelude for an attack, even as her human self knew it was meant to be a call for the Princess to answer her brother's summons.

"Any questions while we wait for the princess?" asked Viserys, back to his cheery mood.

"I would like to ask about this potion the... Lady Melisandre is supposed to brew. I am competent enough in Potions to do it if needed," Lanna said, not willing to let something that she could do be done by that Hag.

"Like I said, it is more dangerous for you," said Viserys, "The copper is enchanted and bound with an abortifacient, and it is specifically designed to prevent conception while regulating the Moon's Blood," he explained, causing Lanna to blush. "A mistake may lead the crafter barren, not to mention any consequence on those who have not yet flowered."

Lanna nodded to herself. She was two and ten now, almost a woman grown, once she bled and would become a woman grown. If her Master wanted her fertile, then Lanna would follow his orders, even if she was a better Potion Mistress than the Crimson Cunt.

"And his grace has deemed that I am a more worthy sacrifice for such magic," said the smug Redheaded Tart.

"It is because I just don't care about you that much, Melony and any sacrifice on your end would be only if you were incompetent," responded Viserys with a shrug.

Lanna smiled like a cat that had just caught her prey.

Then the Princess came, and their lessons started.

Apparently, they had to learn how to bind potions to squash seeds in case they needed to grow giant squash that could feed all.

Lanna would ensure that she could master this new Herbology that her Master taught.

She was, after all, the Apprentice of the Wizard.

# Septon Barre

Barre waited with bated breath. The guard outside did not speak, but they were not so savage as to intrude upon the Castle Sept itself.

Barre had been the Septon of Dragonstone for nearly five and twenty years now. He had been there when the Silver Prince ruled the island, though he would not call it ruling as he had spent most of his time reading books over passing judgment, letting the old Castellan rule in his stead.

Barre had been the Septon when Dragonstone fell, as he had prayed to the mother for the soul of the poor queen who had died giving birth to a princess.

Barre had been the Septon of Dragonstone still when the island was given to Lord Stannis by the new King, whose rule was at least tempered by Father's judgment.

Barre did not know who ruled Dragonstone now; the three-headed dragons could be that small child hiding behind his mother's skirts or some pretender pirate looking to loot for the richest that were not there.

He was waiting for armed men to finally break the door down, cut him down, and do horrible things to the two Septas that were assigned to Dragonstone, both having come to the island at the behest of Lady Florent.

He did not expect the doors to open on their own or a man wrapped in black and red silks.

For a moment, Barre thought that it was the Silver Prince, returning from the Stranger's embrace... though he supposed even children hiding behind the skirts of their mother had to grow up someday.

"It shows wisdom," said Barre, "to come before the gods instead of expecting the gods to come to you."

"I did not know that the Septons were gods," said the young man who walked in with confidence in his steps. "But it is not like gods can walk, right?"

"No Septon would have such arrogance, as we merely guide all to their will," Barre responded, unable to place the strange way the Once Exiled Prince spoke. "You stand before them. It is customary to kneel."

"I don't kneel to gods or men," the boy spoke, "And all I see are effigies, not gods."

"When Aenar Targaryen came to Dragonstone, he had these figures built from the hull of his best ship," said Barre, "As he discarded the faith of the Valyrians for the Seven."

"I remember you telling the story before you know, though it was mostly meant to comfort a woman who had lost everything," the Targaryen spoke, "You are a kind man, septon, so you have my permission to stay, and as for your gods... they may have guest rights as well," Targaryen held out something, a piece of bread covered with salt.

The piece of bread ignited in a flash of light, the smoke curling as it made its way to the mouth of the Seven Statues.

Barre knew that this was strange.

Yet stranger still was a flash of something, before the hand holding the carved wooden sword of the Warrior fell on the floor, the wood flying to the hands of the Targaryen.

"Do not cause me trouble," the young man spoke before turning and walking away, still clutching the wooden sword. For some reason, Barre thought that he was not talking to him but to the gods themselves.

It was a preposterous idea; then again, wasn't it said that Targaryens did not answer to gods or men?

# The Spider

"The fog swallowed our sails. One moment, Dragonstone was on the horizon. The next, nothing but grey and waves. And the rocks—they moved. The island was just gone, your grace," said the simple Fisherman who had arrived at King's Landing that same morning.

"What the fuck do you mean the island is gone?" roared Robert, the Grandmaester next to Varys flinched. Then again, Pycelle was always a coward.

Varys himself seethed, though not showing it.

Ever since the Targaryens arrived at Pentos, he had not been in control of the events, and he was not able to adapt to do what he did best.

The boy had played them all, it would seem.

At least Serra had reached the Golden Company in Volantis, securing protection and planting seeds of the next steps. That alone should have been Varys' victory. But the game had changed.

The news had taken nearly a week to get to King's Landing. First it was the fisherfolk, then traders.

"It is not there, your grace," said the Fisherman, shrinking into himself in fear.

"Gone? Is that what 'gone' means, you useless cunt?" roared Robert, spittle flying in the air.

It had been three days hence since unnatural mists had clouded the entire Gullet, not enough to blockade the ships from entering and leaving but any ship that wished to make it to any of the isles found themselves unable to find them, the winds fighting them, and if they forced it, the rocks smashing apart the ships beneath them.

Three ships went to the bottom of the Gullet before the survivors could be accounted for.

It was not often that Robert sat on the Iron Throne and held court, but the rumors of war had long been spreading, and Robert needed to be seen to lead. Even then, certain decisions still needed to happen inside the Chamber of the Small Council.

He did not seem overly enjoying this war, however.

Jon Arryn, on the other hand, looked to have eaten far too many sour lemons from Dorne while the new Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, hung by the shadow of the man who gave him the seat on the Small Council, his eyes watching greedily.

Varys had chosen not to leave Westeros, knowing that this would be his best bet to take down the Sorcerer King that the Targaryen had somehow become.

'And if Robert and Viserys Targaryen end up killing each other, it would be all the easier for Aegon to take the throne,' thought Varys, having gotten word that Viserra had made it to the protection of the Golden Company and for some reason insisting that Blackfyres were no more willing to take back what was theirs.

It was a foolish notion, after all, that they had given up.

Varys had to admit that strategies when it came to war were not where he shined, yet it did not mean that he was going to let Viserys Targaryen live after what he had done.

"Your Grace," spoke the Old Hand, "Mayhaps a messenger can be sent to Dragonstone, and a peaceful resolution can be achieved if Viserys Targaryen were given the option to take the Black and his sister wed to your heir."

Varys had to admit that the old hand had some cunning, presenting the offer in the middle of the court instead of bringing it privately to Robert and having him refuse outright.

It also made Baratheon look better compared to the warmongers that he truly was.

"Shut it, the lot of you," said the King, in a soft voice. "I cannot hear myself think."

Silence stretched, as the King deliberated.

"Fuck it," said Baratheon. "How many ships do we have?"

"Twelve, given Lord Stannis has taken most of the Royal Fleet to Pentos," said Pycelle, playing the part of the old man. "We have not heard any news since they left, though there are rumors from merchants that a storm is said to have struck Pentos."

"That should be enough," said Robert, "Get as many men as we can fit on those ships."

"Robert, we do not have the means to sail to Dragonstone," said Lord Hand, before coughing. "The entire point of this is to decide on how to respond to that."

"I know it is the Dragonspawn's doing; I can feel it in my bones," said the King. "If that cunt thinks he can just land on Dragonstone, then we shall give him a proper response."

"Even if that is the case, sailing to an island that has just vanished is not a wise decision," responded Lord Hand, "I taught you better than to rush into a trap like that."

"You did," said Robert Baratheon with a bloodthirsty grin. "That is why we are going to sail to Driftmark, cut down those Velaryon cunts to the man, before they can join with their precious kinsman. That ought to make anyone who is thinking of joining those Targaryen Cunts think again and remember that they are dealing with the Demon of the Trident."

AN: When I said I am very slow with Interludes, I was not supposed to be this slow but there we go, what is dead may never die and all that. A dance has begun, how it will go on, I have some ideas so expect sparodic updates.

Wiz gets to celebrate a bit while handling certain logistics. Who knew sex could power protections, other than Dumbledore. He and Belle tag-teaming Shadowmoon while forming a new sect of the Moonsingers that would work directly under Wiz.

Meanwhile, the poor folk of Dragonstone do not know what hit them. What does a "Benevolent Sorcerer King" mean?

I also wanted to go with the interpretation that the people of Dragonstone were actually not willing to turn over Viserys and Dany but that there were knights from other places who were not as fanatic. Given that they had a fleet docked on the island at the time, it stands to reason that the ships held the more loyal of the soldiers as the first line of defense, and so no one would think to take the ships and run for it.

Lanna is growing up while growing her own complex issues. She is being impacted by the culture of those around her, much to Viserys' frustration.

And Spider plots without knowing that the game has changed, making assumptions that make him look like an ass.

Robert is probably the best strategist in the setting, and he is one of the few who take Wiz seriously. He is also predictable. Unfortunately, he is reacting under certain assumptions and will be disillusioned if he ever comes face to face with Wiz... and survives... if he survives. As an author, I like him so killing him off rightly is a bit of a challenge.

I am motivated by discussions, feedback, and criticism. If you wish to enable my coffee addiction, I made a ko-fi account here if you wish to support my work. I can only promise to spend the time drinking coffee writing my stories, and you get absolutely nothing else in return.