I hovered over Castle Driftmark, using the staff to telekinetically levitate myself. The moonstone in the core and the extra power meant that the staff was good enough to handle my weight.

It was not the most effective way to fly properly, but floating was relatively easy.

Maybe I could add a footrest to make balancing easier, and vector thrusting by having the staff branch out at the end to direct the forces more efficiently when moving.

'Note to self, build a broomstick,' I mentally called out.

Only Monford could perceive me, the eyes of the rest of them slipping along where I was.

It was a message... specifically meant for a Valeryon... and maybe a test to see how smart the man himself was.

A message that was rather simple... purposely chosen to have the most impact.

It was the story of a different time.

Times when the dragons flew in the skies of the Narrow Sea, Lords of the Sky, and House Velaryon ruled the seas, before the Dance, before the dragons died. It was from a time when House Velaryon was richer and more powerful, and it was a promise to those times.

It was the carrot to the stick that was the explosion off in the distance. A more overt one than the staff I sat upon, a promise of a threat that could be turned on them if need be.

"Congratulations on your nuptials, Lord Velaryon. Robert has thought to send you three ships as wedding gifts," I said, my voice carried with the wind. "Filled with Wildfire, of course, so I thought I would ensure that it did not burn something important. It was a chore, keeping the winds still enough to delay the ships from arriving until after the bedding."

I was, after all, a gracious overlord.

Monford Velaryon worked his jaw, his eyes switching between the green fires that now covered the sea on the horizon and me.

The staff slowly descended until I was able to land on the ground.

"Huh?" Velaryon responded elegantly.

"Please don't tell me you forgot the boy who hit you in the head with a wooden sword ten years ago for 'daring to harm the dragon,' because you refused to lose to me on purpose, despite what Lord Lucerys told you," I said with a smile, "shall we talk in your solar?" I asked with a smile, as though I did not just burn the seas like some angry god.

"Yes, your grace," said Monford automatically, following after me.

---

I sat in the solar, lounging on the chair as easy as a king sitting on a throne. Wat and Wat stood behind me, looking menacing.

My staff stood to my side, standing straight unaided and acting as a perch for Will, who was in the process of tearing off strips from a raven he caught and cooked with his fire.

A raven that contained the missive from Velaryon's Maester to King's Landing about the explosion. The Maester was in the dungeons now, and the message was replaced with something that Robert would expect. A simple confirmation of what they expected, that the Hull had burned in the Wildfire.

I wanted to see what he planned next. He would blame me, of course, and raise an army to face me in the field.

When the banners were raised and men saw the Valeryons next to me, they would ask questions... ones that Robert would not be able to answer.

I did not really have a full plan, but making my enemies guess and be the fool was a good starting point.

In the meantime, I had already placed Black Knights within the room, hidden in the shadows and waiting for my command to manifest.

"What is it, Monford? I would have thought you would be with Cella," said Lord Ardrian Celtigar, before he noticed my presence. "I saw the green fire at sea, what was it?"

"By the gods.. Rhaegar?" asked Lord Ardrian for a moment.

I chose to stand up. I did not need to, but remaining seated when a man decided to attack was a worse position than if you were standing.

Compared to the Lord of Claw Isle, I was tall.

Seven and ten, and already six feet five inches tall. My face looked like Rhaegar's, as most Targaryens could pass off as near identical from the magic genes, but I was more than half a head taller than my older brother already, slightly skinnier in build, despite the ritual enchanted strength I had. It was hard to balance research and ruling, with working out and maintaining muscle mass was a full-time job on its own.

Lord Ardrian dropped to his knees, "Prince Viserys? I mean... King Viserys, your grace, I..."

"Prince or Archon are fine for now, Lord Ardrian," I responded instead, getting up and approaching the man. "I do not hold the Iron Throne, yet I do hold the titles of Dragonstone."

Ardrian Celtigar was a loyalist.

One of the few that remained.

He had also bent the knee to Robert... if only to survive, but he had worked rather thoroughly in establishing and preserving some remnants of the loyalist cause.

It was not loyalty that had driven him, though, his mind unravelling his ambitions.

He was an opportunist, more mercantile than other lords, and rather ostentatious in his show of wealth.

He was also a realist, one that understood how unlikely it would be for Narrow Sea Lords to gain the favor of Robert and did not waste his time kissing ass.

It had helped with the fact that he held the second largest fleet among the Narrow Sea lords after the Baratheon Fleet for nearly a decade now, not to mention the subtle support from the Iron Bank that the Narrow Sea houses have been getting through my influence.

"Robert," spat Monford through ground teeth, "sent fireships, filled with Wildfire to burn the Hull... in my wedding."

"That is... preposterous," he said first, before turning to look at me.

"And if Wildfire burned your ships, who would you blame, the son of the Mad King or the man who fought against him?" I asked, not in the mood for word plays.

Ardrian froze for a moment.

"And how do we know it is not the case?" asked the Lord to my face, showing spine for once.

I had to remind myself these people were butchers in their own right... not comparable to me, but still.

Points for the guts, I suppose. He was testing me.

I held my hand, a ball of flame forming above my palm, hot enough to be felt. Into the flame, I pushed visions of fires I had lit, pushing them into the minds of those who looked at it.

Lord Ardrian paled.

"A dragon is a beast of flame, my lord," I sang, "and mine burns hotter than others."

I needed to get the response to Tywin's theme song after all, and what better way to do so than subvert it for my needs. Make it more thematic, that there was always a bigger fish.

"If what you say is true, bent knees mean nothing to that Usurper," said Ardrian, a cold fear running through him. "He could order our butcher at his leisure."

"Let it not be said that the Lord of Dragonstone does not protect those who are sworn to him... even if they had to bend knees to survive," I said simply.

Lord Ardrian looked at me with eyes that shone with desperation, a man who wanted to believe... like a man stuck at sea looking at fresh water.

"How many ships do you have?" asked Lord Ardrian. "We have heard whispers of alliances with the Sealord, and if you have brought the might of the arsenal, we would have a chance against the Usurper."

"One," I said simply, suppressing the hint of a smile. The Revenge was no mere warship in the end, but it was still a single ship... one that I needed to send to other ports soon.

"One..." said Ardrian, paling.

"See that ship... it is one of yours, is it not?" I asked, turning and looking over the port. The ship I pointed had red crabs stitched on the black sails.

"I am familiar, your grace," said Ardrian, talking slowly and patiently.

"See the crow's nest," I said, as Ardrian looked confused. "I don't want to," I simply said.

A glint of light, and the entire crow's nest was vaporized by the Solar Cannon, leaving only ash to fall down to the deck.

"Make no mistake, my lord, no ship will sail the Gulf anymore unless I will it," I said, with a smile.

Ardrian gulped.

"Shall we get to work?" I asked, far too cheery for a man who just threatened to burn every ship to ever sailed this island.

"People will flock to you when they learn the truth," said Monford, his eyes gaining a calculated gleam. A moment before, I was of no importance, now... I showed them that I had the power to back my claim.

"Will they?" I asked, deciding to cut through the ambitions.

"They will see reason, your grace," responded Monford, his mind getting confused.

"And if they don't?" I asked simply. Just because I said I was the King did not make it so. People could still refuse to follow or believe.

"You would need proof," said Lord Ardrian, "something irrefutable. The word of the Pyromancers, the higher the better."

I suppressed the wince.

I had wanted to have Will grab Hallyn, just kidnap the Head of the Alchemist Guild, but Hallyn had burst into fire after he arrived at our camp, a vial of Wildfire on his person burning him alive as Will squawked and barely flew away before the Wildfire consumed the Pyromancer.

I really hated Wildfire.

I plucked my portent die from the jaws of the dragon that was my sword's pommel and held it.

I knew what was needed, even if I disliked the method. Yet to be certain, I cleared my mind of doubt and bias, rolling the twenty-sided die and landing on a seven.

I sighed, yet the two lords looked at the dice and made the same connection.

"A trial," responded Ardrian under his breath. "A trial of the seven."

"I am going to need six good men," I said simply. Because in Westeros, there was only one way to make people accept the truth... by hitting them in the head with it using a sharp blade.

---

I watched from the corner, a simple line drawn by my staff in the sand that the sea wind had dragged into the feasting hall, anchoring the disillusionment charm upon me, while all the lords now stood, waiting for an explanation on what had happened.

The people were whispering and talking, but not saying anything of any note.

Among the people in the hall, one drew my attention, like a moth to a flame.

I was proud of my Foresight, and somehow they screamed at me to look at the man, to See.

I opened my eyes, both physical and metaphysical, all three of them staring at the man who drew my attention.

My Sight was something I disliked using since it got upgraded.

Focusing Magical Energy through my eyes to see through magic was something I had learned from Yna, the One Eyed Whore of the Happy Port and her style of Divination.

The fragment of the Ritual of Sunfire involved the starlight being stuck within my eyes. When the Sight was off, it gave a weird glint to my eyes that got people's attention. When mixed with my Sight however, it granted me the ability to see through falsehoods and illusions, an echo of the very act that burned away the false faces of the Faceless Men.

Where there was an elderly knight with a tabard of white bands on purple, my Sight showed a knight, a glowing sword in hand, and standing between a girl of silver hair and a mass of shadowy tentacles that exuded malice.

A True Knight

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Using my Sight drew his attention before I was able to shut it down. That nagging feeling of being watched, enough for him to see through the invisibility field I had cast.

As our eyes met, the remnant of the Sight reflected back on me as well, allowing him to see me as I truly was.

I caught a glimpse of it, a man sitting on a throne of black stone, a white staff topped with a star in hand, and a large white dragon curled behind me, sleeping.

As the Sight faded, I caught what the knight saw in truth: a young man with silver hair and black robes, holding the same staff but diminished. Above him, the seven stars upon the white field of House Sunglass stood, as he brought his finger to his lips in a shushing motion.

I snapped back to my mind, glad to have my chosen location come with an unexpected benefit. It was subtle, but it helped me make an impression on one Ser Bonifer Hasty.

I turned my attention to the crowd that had grown far more restless.

While I was messing with the knight that had once been in love with my mother, the argument had gotten a bit more heated.

"You dare accuse your liege of such dishonor, Velaryon?" asked someone, a Staunton by the look of the two black wings, "on what grounds?"

Well... maybe a bit too much.

He was not the lord, but likely one of the two sons, Simon and Brynden. Given his fervor and anti-Velaryon tendency, the oldest, Simon.

"Who else could have done so?" asked Monford, as we had agreed.

'Say it,' I projected, my small nudge breaking through Simon's inhibition.

"The Targaryens," Ser Simon Staunton accused, causing the entire hall to hush. "We know the dragon banner flies over Dragonstone. We have all heard the rumors, the son of the Mad King holds the island."

The whispers echoed.

The dragons held Dragonstone.

There was something about truths that people did not speak, or ones when spoken, could not be unspoken.

They all whispered it... they all knew it... yet here it was, the first time someone spoke it out loud to all of them.

"As Targaryens should," I caught someone say beneath their breath.

I made a note of the man who said it, a knight with the mark of a brown bear paw on white.

'Interesting,' I said, guessing the man to be a Brune of some sort. Cracklaw Men were loyal for many a reason, but this one got my interest.

Viserys in the original timeline was a fool for believing there were people who were waiting for his return, when the truth was more complex and hinged on how much power one held.

The entire hall was filled with lords shouting at each other.

"ENOUGH!" Lord Ardrian called eventually.

It was drowned out by the shouting, each acting less like Nobility and mere brutes.

Daggers were unsheathed, as swords were left out upon receiving Guest Rights for the Wedding.

Fucking children... that was what they were. These were the people I had to deal with now.

A part of me considered fucking back off to Essos to be honest, maybe the Eldritch Horrors I knew were lurking in the shadows would be easier to manage.

I chose to intervene.

"Expelliarmus Totalum," I whispered, as I slammed my staff into the ground, the echo rolling through ground and bone alike.

I let the sound carry the spell instead of spellfire, the vibrations carrying with each drawn steel blade and causing each weapon to vibrate until the holder dropped them, or their hands numbed enough that they dropped it without meaning to.

Another flick sent all the blades out from one of the doors, as I pulled the staff, using Thaumaturgy to move the weapons.

The hall fell into a stunned, absolute silence.

Every lord, knight, and servant stared at the corner where I now stood, the disillusionment charm having melted away like morning mist. The last of the disarmed daggers clattered to a stop in a pile by the door before the door itself was shut with a bang.

"To draw steel under guest right is punishable by death," I simply said, "Or have the Lords whose line helped Conquer the Seven Kingdoms forgotten such triviality under the rule of the Stag?"

"Viserys Targaryen," the whispers came next.

The small bit of magic was enough to get them to shut up and listen at least. While most people were religious in this world, Magic was something that was regarded with as much fear as awe.

But with Nobility, magic meant something else... Power.

It was deeply ingrained in them. Most lords of Westeros claimed descent from the Sorcerers of one shape or form. Brandon the Builder, Garth Greenhand, Lann the Clever, Elenei of the Sea, and hundreds of others.

Targaryens were just the latest in a long line of Sorcerer Kings to conquer them. Their magic was mostly disguised as dragons, but it was still magic.

My simple act was enough to get their attention, be it their fear, greed, or caution. There was a certain elegance to being able to disarm an entire room with a single move.

I stepped forward into the light of the hearth, my staff held loosely in one hand, ready to draw upon the magic already woven through it at a moment's notice.

"Glad you lot know who I am, my lords and ladies," I said, "I am sure there are those of you old enough to have met me, those of you who know only a boy sheltered from the world..." I simply said. "If it was not obvious, I have returned. Dragonstone is mine."

"So what?" someone said, too brash. "Do you expect us to bow and scrape and make you king?"

"We have made oaths to King Robert," someone else said.

"Oaths made at sword point," another spat... seven stars on a white field... Sunglass. "What did Robert do for us but tax us into ruin while he feasted?"

"I have not come to threaten you," I said simply. "I was a child when I was forced into exile lest I be butchered like my niece and nephew. I have not come to beg, and I do not have need to be called King to do my duty."

"Duty?" asked Lord Guncer Sunglass, "What does a green boy like you know of duty?"

"More than Robert ever would," I responded, "More than any Lannister brat that would come after, or the bitter younger brother that they put in charge of you, waiting at the chance to crush you the moment you recalled your old loyalties. Aegon was crowned as the Shield of his People, and that is what I offer you," I said simply.

The man held their breath, waiting... well, most were waiting willingly. The rest were rather easy to keep quiet with some mental pressure and a bit of enchantment.

"A shield against the man you call king who sends fire to a vassal's wedding feast, afraid that they would side with older loyalties, that they would be brave enough to stand against a king who does not care about them, and hold true to oaths made before the Seven Kingdoms were made one."

My eyes found Monford Velaryon, then swept the room. "Let there be no doubt. The ships filled with Wildfire that burned in your bay tonight were sent by Robert Baratheon. He sought to burn House Velaryon from their ancient seat and lay the blame at my feet, turning the Narrow Sea against itself."

The silence shattered.

"Lies!" The voice belonged to Ser Justin Massey, a knight whose square jaw and righteous fury marked him as utterly devoted. He had been Robert's squire, and his loyalty was personal. "King Robert is a good man and a just king! He would never commit such an atrocity! This is a Targaryen trick, the word of a madman's son!"

Lord Ardrian Celtigar, ever the pragmatist, raised a hand. "An accusation of this gravity, Prince Viserys… it requires proof. You accuse the King of the Seven Kingdoms of treason against his own people."

I met his gaze, my mind flashing to the charred remains of my original plan. The Head Pyromancer was a pile of ash, his testimony silenced by the very substance I sought to expose. The path of evidence was closed to me.

"My proof is the fire you saw on the horizon and the word of the man who stopped it," I stated flatly.

"Your word?" Ser Simon Staunton scoffed, stepping forward. His face was a mask of contempt. "The word of a dragonspawn, raised by savages in Essos? We have a king, one who bled to overthrow your father's tyranny. Why should anyone here trade his peace for more madness of your kin?"

The hall was divided into shouting factions.

The Velaryons and Sunglasses countered the insults, while Massey, Staunton, and their supporters roared back, defending the honor of the Crown. It was an impasse—my word against the King's. And in Westeros, without irrefutable proof, the King's word was law. I needed to shift the grounds of the debate from a court of opinion to one of divine judgment. Ser Simon, in his rage, was about to give me the opening I needed.

"Your father burned men alive!" Simon bellowed, his voice raw with hatred. "And for all we know, you learned your tricks at his knee before you fled with his whore of a queen!"

The shouting stopped, the breath of man misting the air as my wrath slipped from me.

The air turned frigid as my eyes focused on the man.

An insult against a living rival was politics. An insult against a dead queen, a woman many in the room had known and respected, a woman who suffered more at the hands of Aerys than anyone else... that was a line crossed. The argument was no longer political; it was personal.

I let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of every eye in the hall. Then I moved, unfastening the black gauntlet from my belt and letting it clang on the floor.

"Ser Simon," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "You champion the honor of a king who tries to murder his vassals in the night, who smiled at the corpses of my kin, a girl of three and a babe at the teat, who bemoaned his stolen betrothed in the same breath that he put bastards into the bellies of some whores," I responded simply, "I say Robert Baratheon is a tyrant and a murderer. And I say you are a slanderer who lacks the courage to face a man without hiding behind a dead woman's name. Let us see whose word will remain by the time the sun sets."

Simon's face turned purple. He looked at me, then at my staff, a flicker of fear in his eyes at the thought of a one-on-one duel against a man who could disarm a room with a whisper. He sought another way out, a way to rally others to his side.

He puffed out his chest, his voice rising to a fever pitch for all to hear. "If you are truly a fool to believe the gods would side with a Sorcerer, then let them be the judge of it all! I will not fight you alone. I call for a Trial of the Seven! Let the Seven-Who-Are-One bear witness and decide the truth of your claim! Let them judge whether our King is a tyrant, as you say!"

It was a brilliant, desperate move on his part. He had taken my personal challenge and elevated it back to the original accusation, wrapping himself in the sanctity of the Faith and the law. He believed numbers and piety would be his shield.

He had just handed me exactly what I needed.

"I accept your terms," I said without hesitation, a cold smile touching my lips. "Seven against seven. Let the gods decide who speaks the truth."

If they had enough to face me.

---

First, the step forward was the old knight who had seen me first.

"Ser Bonifer Hasty, I presume," I greeted the man.

"You presume correctly, your grace," said Ser Bonifer, "Have you learned of the ways of Knighthood and the Seven?"

"I have been trained and knighted by Ser Willem Darry," I said, simply, "and I have learned of the Gods as I roamed the Hills of Andalos where Hugor was crowned."

Well, it was true. What passed for Andalos these days was essentially Pentos nowadays, and I did learn the nature of gods in that shithole... if only the fiery kind.

"You would fight against your rightful liege, Hasty?" asked Simon Staunton.

"You have spoken dishonor against a Good Queen, ser, a woman whose virtues were surpassed only by the Maiden herself," said Ser Bonifer, "I shall fight for her honor, even if it means fighting beside a man rumored to practice foul magics and lay with demons."

"Slay, ser," I corrected, deciding to lay on the refuge in audacity. I mean, if Jaehaerys could get the Faith to accept Targaryen Incest, I could probably pass my skill with magic off as something from the Seven instead of a demon or something, at least so long as I could keep a lid on the more questionable methods. "I slayed demons... well, one demon whom the Stranger bid me to end. More than enough for a lifetime to be honest."

Ser Bonifer blinked, his mind unable to find any falsehoods.

"Hah, as mad as his father, that one," said another, "I am Ser Godry Farring, and they shall call me Godry Dragonslayer after I am done with you, boy."

"They will call you Ser Godry the Gone when I run you through, good ser," I responded with a smile that showed teeth. The man did not even flinch.

"He did not bear blades in my halls," responded Lord Monford, stepping forward, "unlike you, Farring. I shall fight beside him."

"And so the snake shows his true colors," another knight snarled, his sigil of a pig with wings rather memorable. "I am Ser Clayton Suggs. T'is a pity, letting your lady wife widowed so soon after the Wedding, my lord," said the man. "Worry not, I am sure to comfort her after I am done with you."

Monford made to lunge, as I reached with my staff and physically held him back.

I decided that I was going to make that one fly just for the insult.

Next, Ser Brynden Staunton, Simon's younger brother, walked past his stunned father and brother. He did not look at them. He stopped on my side of the hall next to Monford. "I will not let my brother's foolish pride drag our house into ruin and dishonor," he said, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. "I shall fight for the Dragon, as my family always had."

Ser Simon's face went from purple to white. "Traitor!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "You dare stand against your own blood?"

My eyes found Lord Symond Staunton, a snake if there was any.

The man had been Aerys' Master of Laws, and whispered in his ear of how Rhaegar was trying to usurp Aerys. While the accusation was true, the fact that the man had survived the Rebellion unscathed spoke to his character.

The man had his heir and spare in this Trial, and did not seem that pleased, even if his mind showed the cold calculation as he saw himself win in either case.

Before the argument could escalate, the next knight stepped up.

Ser Justin Massey, Robert's Squire, stood against me... not surprising to be honest. While located near the Stormlands, House Massey of Stonedance answered to King's Landing instead, making them a loyalist to House Targaryen for most of history. I could see how Justin Massey himself was taken as a hostage by Robert to keep the peace and turn them to his cause. I was saddened to see that it had stuck.

The Brune knight stepped up. "House Brune had been Dragon's Man, and a dragon walks among us," he said, turning to me. "I am Lothor Brune, and I will fight for you," he said. He was not a knight, but a freerider, though he was too old to be a squire as well.

His name sounded familiar, yet without a Pensieve to check my memories, I was not sure. Instead, I relied on my Legilimency, feeling the thoughts of the man before me and finding him to be more mercenary than anything else. He was distant kin to the main line of House Brune, but his mind showed that my magic was what made him take the risk. He saw this as an easy win and a path to more fame and glory, expecting to be knighted if we won.

A man in Celtigar liveries walked, only to stand against us. A boy, really, not even twenty from my guess.

"What is the meaning of this, Elys?" asked Ardrian, shocked.

"I will not let your ambitions ruin our house, nuncle," the boy said simply. "Especially for a fool who would come here with no knights sworn to him, expecting our bent knees."

Instead of answering, I sighed. I did want more people to volunteer so I knew who would side with me willingly, but that was a challenge on its own. A move slamming the main door open as another man walked in.

He was clad in a solid plate, pouldrons shaped like skulls, and another pair of skulls were embossed on his breastplate. On his shoulders, the white cloak stood pristine, a simple spell keeping it from getting soiled by mere dirt. The most prominent part of him, however, was his right arm. The wooden arm was left uncovered, carved with glyphs that could be used to cast low-level spells at will. It moved naturally, as though it were flesh itself, but it was uncanny enough to be recognized as magic.

Ser Richard Longmouth, the Knight of Skulls and Kisses

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His head was bare, his hair stark white from the side effects of the Manticore Venom, tied back.

"Your grace," said Ser Richard, nodding at me.

I could tell that his smile was only superficial, and his eyes showed that he disliked this stunt, even if it was an option we discussed before.

"Lord Commander," I said, matching the smirk on the face of my brother's former squire.

Then the knight in the corner stood up.

"I thought you had died, Ser Richard," said the man with a booming voice, bushy white eyebrows, and an equally white beard. "And while I had sated myself on violence after winning the tourney the day hence, honor demands that I fight against the Dragon."

The most distinct feature he had was the bronze livery he wore, embroidered with black runes.

I looked at the eyes of Bronze Yohn Royce, whose glaring eyes kept shifting between me, my staff, and the carved glyphs on Richard's arm.

This was going to be interesting.

Wat the Brains joined in at last as the seventh, his shield and mind best to watch my back. I did not bother to care about the seventh opponent I would face, my focus set on the bronze runed armor.

"You have seven," said the Septon, who was pulled into this mess. The man looked to be sporting a hangover from the last night's feast after he wed the Velaryons.

---

We stood in the little pavilion that was not yet taken down, where the Tourney for the Wedding was held.

It was not large enough for fourteen horses, so we would do this on our feet.

Pity, getting the seven idiots who faced us thrown off their horses and stomped into a bloody pile would have been faster.

"I need Royce alive, but don't inconvenience me with dying," I whispered as Ser Richard leaned in at my command. He was the only one who was fast and strong enough to ensure it happened.

Well, I wanted his bronze armor, and potentially his third-born son. Let no one say that House Royce raised pansies, as Waymar Royce had faced the White Walkers with steel in hand and challenge in his lips... just the type of man I wanted in my party in case I faced an eldritch horror of different flavors.

"He will not share the sentiment, your father killed his brother Kyle," whispered Ser Richard, "but I will keep him busy."

"Do you have armor, your grace?" Monford asked.

"Right," I said, remembering that I was wearing my robes. Granted, they were robes enchanted enough to make steel plate look low-end, but still.

Tapping my staff and letting my body be engulfed in flame, I pulled on my Valyrian Steel Plated Runed Armor to me using the small connection I had to it through my blood.

Yes, I had invented Henshin just after I figured out the Fire Teleportation, sue me.

"Clearly, the Smith has armored you, your grace," said Ser Bonifer Hasty.

I mean, the armor was decent, but not something I would attribute to divine crafted armor. It was something I commissioned back in Braavos, with some added modifications like the thin sheathe of Valyrian Steel to prevent the metal from getting pierced by magic or steel alike.

The runic helmet itself was the fanciest part. It was made to take a hit from the likes of Robert's anvil on a stick, and ensure that I did not feel it, even if it limited my vision. Maybe I should make the next version from an invisible metal, a bit of alchemy, and I can solve the whole sight issue.

The Septon looked at the display while blinking, before deciding to glare at a cup near him instead of the display of magic.

The rest of the peanut gallery gave a wide range of reactions.

"Will you use your magic to kill them, your grace?" asked Lothor, the Brune Freerider who was fast to volunteer. His mind was more organized than others. He was also far too cunning for my comfort. The man had put two and two together and realized that I was likely watching and made his comment accordingly. He had also joined in on the Trial after realizing that I would likely win with magic.

Smart man... with decent morals... very Mercanary minded.

"Though I am told that victory erases dishonor," I said, "I shall do it the right way. Sword," I said, as Will flashed in and dropped Blackfyre to my outstretched hand.

"Do you know how to use that blade, your grace?" asked Ser Brynden, causing Richard to snort. On one-on-one, Ser Richard had an annoying tendency to beat me after figuring out how to stretch time using his weirwood arm, at least when I chose not to use Magic.

"I reckon you stick them with the sharp bit, right?" I responded dryly, though loud enough to make it heard across.

The knights who sided with us seemed to be in different colors.

Wat chuckled, tightening the straps of his shield, hide covering the thin Valyrian Steel surface.

Ser Richard held his glaive with both hands. The weirwood hafted glaive still had the remains of Lamantation for its blade, something that I was not going to speak out loud when the man was fighting Lord Royce.

The honorable action would be to present it to Bronze Yohn... but I was not stupid enough to grant a weapon that could kill me to a man who was fighting against me, not to mention that returning a broken blade was likely not the best gift to give your future allies.

"Does it have a name, your grace?" asked Lothor Brune, as his eyes focused on my sword.

"Blackfyre," I simply said, unsheathing it and letting the black flames lick the edge of it. "What do you think I was doing in Essos for the last nine years?"

The ones unused to my brand of madness blinked.

They likely did not expect me to hold the Sword of Kings.

"Staunton, to the left, I will not have you become a kinslayer on my account, Ser Bonnifer, if you do the honors of teaching the lad some manners," I ordered, furthest from his brother, Ser Simon.

"It would be my pleasure, your grace," said Bonifer Hasty.

"Watch my back?" I asked Ser Richard.

"My choice is made," he responded simply, paraphrasing his house words. He held his glaive, the acid and poison-eaten Valyrian Steel of Lamentation, on a shaft of Weirwood was not a pretty blade, but it was still the second-best weapon I had.

"Watch my back?" I asked Wat in turn, watching him secure the strap of his bronze.

"Just don't die," Wat said simply. "I am too young to be skinned alive by your sister."

"I want the Suggs knight," said Monford simply, having stayed way too quiet as he pulled down his face plate and hefted his great axe in hand.

I sighed, slamming my staff to the ground and binding a specific enchantment to one of the rings.

To prevent Magical interference from the outside.

No need for the likes of Seven to put their hand on the scale when I was around.

The other eight rings along the shaft glittered for a moment, each held the same enchantment, something that would turn the blades and soften the blows from blades against my man, seven for my man and the last one I threw in the direction of the Lord of Runestone, even if the Valyrian Steel of Ser Richard's glaive could pierce it if it became necessary.

I could just be flashy and blast the seven knights fighting against me into vapor, but this was a good experience for combat.

And if anything were to happen, Will could still swoop in and interfere.

"May the Father judge us fairly," said Ser Bonifer.

"Try to keep up and pick up the ones on the edges," I said simply as I closed my helmet.

---

I walked in the middle, clad in black armor and a sword that I held with two hands, not using a shield.

Blackfyre glowed white hot as I let go of my focus, the echo of the starlight pouring through the blood-bonded Valyrian Steel.

My blade was thin enough that I could swing it around for hours without exhausting myself, long enough that I could use it to keep control of the crowd, and while the edge was sharp enough to cut through mail like silk, when it was glowing, it carved through plate as though it was boiled leather.

I brought the sword down, cutting through the shield of the knight whose name I did not bother learning, along the arm behind it, a kick knocking him back as a wide swing had the Farring and Massey step back.

Godry Farring, the would-be dragonslayer, went to strike, as I struck the blade away from me.

Blackfyre whirled, parrying Farring's slow counter as I followed it with a zwerchhau. The false edge of my blade bit through the knight's helm with the overhead swing, down to the eye slit before the now dead body slid off my blade.

That was two down in the first ten seconds.

Monford had already rushed to the Suggs knight, while a single moment was all I needed to confirm that Ser Richard had moved to press on Royce, countering his greatsword with his glaive as the two moved away from the rest.

Wat was standing next to Ser Richard, blocking strikes from Celtigar, as I moved to handle Ser Simon, only to be intercepted by Massey.

"Show me what Robert taught you," I said with a smile behind my helmet.

---

Slow...

That was the best description I had for these men.

Slow and weak...

I simply lacked regular martial combat experience, preferring victory through wit and more esoteric means. I did not spend enough time in the yard, not as much as the likes of Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, or even Jon Snow.

I could last a decent while against three opponents without relying on magic, though Ser Richard tended to break that tie when he got involved, but that was mostly on my style of fighting.

The combination of Water Dancing with a Valyrian Steel blade was deadly. Integrating it into the pseudo-Germanic style that the Stormlanders used, favored by both Richard and Connington, along with a focus that started with pure defense, made me suited for one against many engagements over single combat.

I was... mid, to say the best about my talents with a blade... or at least when it came to compare it against my skill with Magic.

Granted, I was a monster when it came to Magic, so the comparison did not hold.

That did not mean that I was mediocre in a fight, however. I had worked hard to cover my shortcomings.

And here, when the chips were down, that made the most difference.

I had worked to close the experience gap by absorbing the memories of veterans of fights, and my style, supplemented with Battlefield Divination, matched to handle the chaos of a battlefield rather well.

As for my physical capabilities, years of various Rituals to enhance my physique had created something that was definitely unnatural. The Hrakkar's ritual alone gave me the strength and speed to toy with Justin Massey, who seemed only capable of surviving from his familiarity with kiting around stronger opponents.

Robert had taught him well, it would seem.

His blade struck a pauldron, only for Blackfyre to bite through the mail behind his knee, shallow enough to disable him. Running some Reinforcement on my body, I picked him up and tossed him to the side as if he weighed nothing.

He seemed loathe to get up.

I turned to find my next victim.

Ser Bonifer had already seemed done with the younger Ser Simon with the help of Brune, though his singing a hymn to the Warrior was a bit off-putting.

Monford seemed to have been pushed back, the two finding themselves at the edge of a stone parapet, overlooking the cliff.

I moved, my left hand finding purchase on the armor of the Suggs knight and flipping him over Monford's head and down to the rocks that were washed by the waves.

The fighting seemed mostly done, the injured having yielded.

I gave a nod to Monford before turning to face the last problem I had.

Bronze Yohn Royce.

Only for Ser Richard to shift his glaive to his left hand, and raise his wooden hand up.

It was a brief flare, but one of the glyphs flashed as the movement of Yohn Royce slowed just as it smacked against the wooden prosthesis.

Ser Richard proceeded to use the haft of the glaive to trip the older knight over, ending in a twirl that had Ser Richard out of reach, and the glaive's blade pressing against the downed knight's neck, with an unholy screech of magical metal against magical metal.

Ser Richard had just stabbed the glaive through the bronze armor, pinning Yohn Royce in place.

"I yield," Yohn Royce said simply... ending the Trial.

"Hail, hail, Viserys Starborn," someone yelled out next, whom I recognized to be Wat the Eyes, "Prince on Dragonstone, Rightful King of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar, Shield of His People."

And the Lords of the Narrow Sea once more knelt to the dragon.

---

AN: It would always end with a Trial by Combat in the end, but even Wiz is surprised at how overlevelled he became. Sure, Wiz could have just smote them, but becoming a Magical Tyrant is not his goal and it is free xp, especially since he cheated a bit.

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.

Last edited: Jul 10, 2025