"There is a chance that I will not respond," I said simply, "It will be you three protecting me. The birds do not see anyone near us, but be on guard just in case."

This was, after all, the first time I would set foot on Westeros proper.

I walked forward, bare feet touching dry land as I leaned against my staff.

Then the image hit.

Westeros was a weird place.

One of the main reasons was that it had a root network of Weirwood spanning the entire continent, deeper than anything I had seen, but it was there.

I laid my scarred hand on the ground, using the connection forged between me and the Weirwood in Ser Willem's pyre to reach through.

I felt the spiritual pressure of the land wash over me as I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them, I was falling.

'Fly,' something crowed.

'Piss off,' I whispered as my fall stopped as I hovered in the air, briefly negating the effect of gravity upon myself as I became the air itself.

A thought had a cloud form beneath me, forming a decent throne for me to sit on.

'Fly?' asked the crow, reaching out.

My three eyes met it, as it made the creature reach my forehead.

I felt something stir in my chest, causing the crow to squawk and fly off.

A white dragon with red highlights appeared out of nowhere, snapping at the crow midflight as the dragon chased away the crow.

It was not large, but at the same time, it was.

It was the color of the Weirwood, the color of the first wand that I had made, gleaming white shot with veins of red and black teeth and horns.

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I looked at the dragon as it looked at me, its hot breath forcing me to open my eyes.

Then I saw another vision.

The same white dragon now fighting against a black one...

No... not fighting... dancing.

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A roar that broke through their dance. Something larger, a shadow with teeth, stood before the two.

Then I felt an explosion of green flames approach, even as I wrapped myself in a golden dome of solar flame.

Instead of burning me, I felt the two flames cancel out, as I was pushed out.

I was back on the beach, returned to my flesh.

I frowned, having found myself leaning against my staff at the feeling of dizziness.

Something was leeching my power even as I stood.

I filed away the vision for later, before reaching for the power within my staff.

The small star, designed to be held within the crimson steel that I had decided to name Scarletite, ignited once more, pouring power through the metal, into the wood, along the shaft of my staff.

The Magical Energy refilled me as I countered the small drain imposed upon me.

I pulsed the energy, once, twice, thrice, tracking the flares with my Soulsight.

The tracking took us an hour, taking us more inland, even as my man never spoke up.

The thick forest that started near the beach bent to my presence, the branches and roots making way as we trekked through them until we ended in a clearing.

I felt watched, only to reach for my amulet, expanding the field of anti-scrying magic as runes lit up in my staff to support the temporary ward.

"This is unnatural," spoke Wat the Brains, "It reeks of magic... the bloody kind."

"Obviously," I said, leaning down and placing a hand on the clearing. "We are standing in what used to be a Weirwood Grove," I added, "The roots are still here. They are drinking magical energy as though they have been starved."

"Explains why Magic is gone from the land for so long," said Wat in turn.

"A lot of weirwoods were cut; if they drink all the magic, none are left for the rest of us."

"Not necessarily," I said. "For normal trees, leaves drink the energy from the sun, which allows them to balance it all. Though from my understanding, their natural ability to absorb souls would have allowed them to sustain themselves even when the Andals chopped the Weirwood groves. Without leaves, the roots absorb what they can because they are starved. In response, they became carnivorous, parasitic, needing blood to exist."

"So, Andals are the reason that the magic is gone?" asked Wat.

"I have seen a similar effect," I admitted. "The Valyrian Roads of Essos are designed to siphon magic, acting as artificial leylines that reinforce those who live in larger cities. It has a less potent effect, but I'm uncertain why the roots need to feed on so much power... typical of humanity, doing something that puts us at a disadvantage through zealotry and superstition."

Wat remained silent.

"I see a fork in the road, the energy is siphoned to two locations, one goes South, relatively weaker and almost newer, and the other goes North," I said, "If I had to guess, the Northern one is the Wall. Such a large construct would need more power than anything else of note on the continent. We will check that one out later, as I have after the Southern one, which I have a few suspicions about what it can be."

Closing my Third Eye so as to not get the attention of the Greenseers despite my Amulet against Detection. I did not know the purpose of the Greenseers or what goals they had, so I trusted them less than I did everyone else, which was saying something given that I was a paranoid bastard.

I turned around and left the clearing.

I had a more important job to do. I needed to visit the Houses of Crackclaw Point and convince them to join my side. I needed manpower, and this was the most efficient path.

For nearly a moon of dining, hunting, courting, on one occasion threatening immolation of their entire bloodline, and brief respites where I ran into enough injured and sick to practice my healing magic on the local population, I now had a significant region under my command.

The larger houses of Crackclaw Point were now entirely on board with my side, with the condition of directly paying their taxes to House Targaryen on Dragonstone, rather than King's Landing or Claw Isle. I needed the region that would sustain us with food... even if it was mostly mountainous regions, so I agreed.

During those travels, I raised enough pylons to cut off the entire peninsula from the mainland, from the lands bound to Rook's Rest to the Bay of Crabs, built at the highest peaks that blocked all paths to and from the peninsula.

While I could have handled the entire process with flame apparition now that I had figured out how to do that spell with my staff without having to rely on Will, I still enjoyed the more normal methods of travelling, as it gave me time to rebuild my mental defenses that seemed to have been battered when I first opened myself to the land.

Once the more logistical problems were done, the next phase of my plan required a more subtle touch.

I was aware of a significant force moving North from King's Landing, and I needed to confirm their goals.

That meant doing some infiltration.

King's Landing was easy to get to if you could teleport and had eyes to see where you were going.

Some of the beaches that smugglers might use were easy to scout with my familiars, and a flash of fire announced my arrival to the seagulls as I took my first steps to the Capitol of Westeros.

First impression...

The place stank so much that it was hard to think straight.

I hated the place already.

I pulled on the scarf that filtered the air for me, putting on a wide-brimmed hat enchanted to make whoever looked at me forget that they saw me or entirely ignore me, even as the shadows in the night wrapped around me like swaddling cloth and a stranger's face covered my own.

There were a dozen problems when it came to taking King's Landing, or even being in King's Landing.

My father's cache of Wildfire was only one of those.

The last of the Phoenix Ash from my stash meant that I could take this risk of coming here, but it would not protect an army or fully neutralize the amount of alchemist flame. Not to mention that errant spellfire too close to Wildfire tended to end badly for everyone involved.

Instead, this was strictly a stealth mission.

Taking a secret passage through one of the caves I had scouted and I walked through the halls of the Red Keep under half a dozen charms concealing me.

The half-botched sacrificial protections that Maegor had done through the ritualistic murder of the builders of the Red Keep meant that I could not use my more effective Scry-and-Die tactics.

I could see and observe, but to act, I needed to be inside the walls to be able to cast spells to take out anyone or anything.

In the end, coming to an empty throne room through a back door that led to the Chamber of the Small Council, I saw it.

The Iron Throne...

It was as ugly as my memories made it out to be.

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A towering symmetrical monstrosity that was a mix of the height of Gothic architecture and modern art with a dash of Eldritch Horror added...

I stopped, bringing back my shields up as I mentally chanted 'do not go in that hole, do not think of the eldritch.'

In that line of thought laid madness and worse after all.

Once my mind was further fortified, I stared at the Iron Throne.

Even the name itself was wrong... a mistranslation of the original name it had.

The bloody throne was made from steel swords after all.

The original name it had was Aegon's Throne.

Over time, it was translated literally, with Aegon meaning 'iron' in Valyrian, leading to the general way to refer to it as the Iron Throne, and the name has stuck.

It was a misshapen thing... hundreds if not thousands of swords, tempered in the blood of their owners in the Field of Fire, put together by blacksmiths and bathed in the flames of Balerion.

It did not rust, and it did not dull.

And people dismissed it like they always did.

I did the unwise thing for once.

I opened my Sight and looked.

And I saw horror.

The magic that was anchored to the Throne was not something I could fully explain with words, yet my mind still tried.

It was made with intent, a Sorcery that held echoes of defiance, death, and domination.

It was not clean, like charcoal rubbed on a surface, than the precise spells I preferred.

The dragon fire that burned the knights in their armor had done more than just kill them. It had boiled their blood and smeared the remains upon the steel.

It had trapped their souls into the blades themselves, a perversion of the Ritual of Lightbringer when the blood boiled and soaked into steel.

Same method that made Valyrian Steel, if less refined and lacking precision.

It was a Dark thing.

It was as amateurish as it was brilliant.

Then there were the other spells the thing had gotten, not structured spells, not even intentional from what I understood. They were just there, a display of the lack of control of the process that crafted the Throne.

Ignorant spoke of how the Throne cut those who were not worthy.

They were wrong... from a matter of perspective.

The throne only cut those who did not acknowledge the presence of a threat. A warning system was literally baked into the concept of something that I would describe as a curse or a jinx. It was empowered by the echoes of those who defied the dragon.

Any who made physical contact with the Throne could acknowledge the threat, and the curse would settle down. Yet if you did not see it, understand it, it would prick your flesh to ensure you understood that there were knives in your back... literally.

And that was just one of its side effects, not really the main property.

For the throne was a mark of Conquest that was as much a chain as it was a seat of power.

It tried to chain me, too, as I gazed upon it. Instincts tuned to a blade's edge had me unsheath my Morgul Blade, as the mark upon my forearm stung.

The knife blade, edge bathed in green spellfire of death, moved through the unseen chains, severing its hold.

"Oh, Aegon, you cheeky cunt," I muttered, feeling a bit of my magic drained and my soul strained.

The southern source of that was draining my Magical Energy stood before me.

That fucker had figured out a way to siphon the magic of an entire continent into a throne. He had taken submission and used it as tribute to empower the one sitting on the throne... or at least that was what I assumed the purpose was.

If that was so, it had not worked.

Instead, the Throne itself had done something strange, blocking the passage from the Throne to the one who sat on it.

"Ah, I see..." I muttered, disappointed.

It was less a means to empower a King and more a means to bake the spells within the throne itself.

"A thousand swords forged in dragon fire and tempered in blood..." I muttered.

Aegon had tried to make Valyrian Steel, yet the result was not Valyrian Steel... not fully, at least.

It shared similarities to the less refined Soul-steel I tended to use, but lacked the density. Using blood magic to siphon the souls of those who died for the Throne was brilliant, as it was dangerous.

And that alone explained the purpose of the Throne.

This thing was a weapon... meant to be used against the White Walkers, if I had to guess, though I had to account for the potential of it being used against me.

I could see holes in the spell now. Parts of it that were left untied.

"What an idiot," I muttered. This was why raw Sorcery was something that I preferred to use sparely. It tended to grow kinks where you least expected it, and eventually, you would end up with a scaly right arm that overpowered spells and forced you to retrain your control.

Not to mention further breaking the equilibrium of the energy being siphoned into the Wall by the Weirwood.

My options were limited.

I could likely temper the throne, tie up the open ends of the ritual that had crafted it, but without accounting for every variable, it was dangerous.

Alternatively, I could feed the throne with the power it hungered for as well, the staff in my hand would power it with ease to complete the forging process, but the loose threads would cause different effects.

And I was not going to create a thousand or so swords that actually might pose a threat to me.

Unless I did it both by melting and reforging the throne... used the process to shatter the enchantments and break the bindings that stored the souls.

I did the mental math to calculate the required power to slag the entire thing down in an instant, coming to the conclusion that it would also leak enough energy to ignite the Wildfire.

Plan B it was.

"Will," I muttered, as my familiar flashed into the space above my staff, landing on its head.

Will shook his head, refusing the command and pushing his reasoning.

"Yeah... too much spiritual weight," I muttered.

So, stealing the bloody thing was also out of question, as I could have had Will apparate the throne to a remote island and poured enough nuclear flame to make a false dawn as I turned it into something more useful.

So, Plan C it was.

"I suppose we leave it be for now," I sighed, talking to my bird.

I disliked failure, even as I reminded myself that nuking a city of half a million was not a reasonable response.

I snuck into the dungeons next.

Might as well nick the dragon skulls in the basement while I was here.

A few hours later, I was out of the keep and walking the city.

Collected memories of the Narrow Sea Lords made navigating the city easy, especially when they were supplemented by one of Varys' little birds.

I had taken the memories of the tongueless child, leaving behind a mental command and a dagger for when the boy would next see Varys, as I assimilated the memories of the secret passages he knew.

While the Geas I had made with Saera prevented me from preemptively defending myself against her line, it did not work when I had the right mental frame that kept Varys apart, whose line would not continue, given the fact that he was a eunuch.

Then, I made my way through the Street of Steel, leaving the castle behind through the secret passage in the tower of the hand that led to the Street of Silk, as I mentally thanked Tywin.

I ignored the whores selling their wares as I walked.

I ran into a few plays... not the best quality ones, but impressive nonetheless.

One had me riding a dragon, facing what was clearly Robert and his warhammer. I lost, funny enough, with the head of the silver-haired puppet exploding in strips of red velvet.

I laughed at the art, taking it in with amusement.

One of them had me lose and get hammered in a different... more vulgar way.

I thought it was hilarious... if only at the thought of how Robert would react to watching it.

Even as that one ended when a mysterious fire burned the entire stall down before someone interfered and drenched it in muddy water.

And if the mummer who came up with that brilliant script ended with a knife wound that would fester even after getting treated, I am sure it was just another happy little coincidence.

As the Street of Silk was left behind me, I found myself in the Street of Steel, hearing the beating of the hammers, the forges churning steel when the night was darkest and the color of heated steel truest.

While I could not steal the magic steel chair, I could ensure that no one had the brilliant idea of pulling a few of the swords out and using them as weapons.

Because I was pretty sure it would be a decent counter to magic... more a +1 magic weapon than the vorpal sword that was Valyrian Steel.

A few questions and silver exchanged had me standing in front of the Workshop of one I sought.

"Tobho Mott?" I asked, looking at the bald man.

"Yes," the smith asked, eyes wide as he seemed to be seeing through the glamour.

"I am told you are a man of talent, for the right coin," I stated, as I passed a dark iron coin, stamped with a hooded man's face and the year it was made. "What would this buy me?"

"What is this?" asked Tobho Mott, holding the coin to the light of the forge. His eyes were looking around us in panic.

"You and I both know what it is," I said, giving him a smile. "Shall we talk in private?"

"This way," he said, leading me to his study.

Once inside, he moved to pass me a bowl with stale bread and some salt.

Smart men.

"Who are you?" he asked as I took off my hat.

"A simple wanderer," I said, my glamour fading as I met his eyes.

Tobho said something in a language I did not know fully, though it seemed to be a form of Bastard Valyrian.

"I do not speak that language," I responded. "Though from your tone, I assume you know who I am. I wonder why you have not called the City Watch."

"It is Qohoric," responded Tobho, "It means the... Wrath of Stars. And I know I would be dead before they could arrive. One does not risk the wrath of the Butcher of Death."

I chuckled.

"That title does fit me, though, where you heard of that particular deed of mine is curious," I said, holding up my scaled hand to catch the light before forming a ball of flame in my hand, revealing the Mark of Death on the inside of my arm. "Please, my friends call me Viserys."

"Well, Prince Viserys, how can this one serve you?" he asked in turn. 'Please, not be here to kill me,' his thoughts betrayed.

"Figured out what the coin is, yet?" I asked.

"This is... Valyrian Steel, or as close as it gets," he started.

"I call it Soulsteel," I responded, "Rawer, unrefined form of Valyrian Steel, that can be made into the Steel you know how to work."

"You know the secret, then," he said with a pale face.

"I do. Not just how to reforge it like you do," I said, pulling out a Parchment holding a Geas, "But make more of it. And you are one of the three people who know how to reforge it other than me. I have a business proposition."

I was not surprised that Tobho had figured out the secrets of Valyrian Steel as well... or at least the basics of it.

Smiths of Qohor could split and merge Valyrian Steel in their forges. First was easier, requiring some blood and decent enough control in shadowbinding to split the shadow, empowering the steel. The latter was what required the use of the malleable soul of an unborn to act as the binder between two separate pieces.

They did not have the means to forge more of it, however. That process required magic that had been only present in the dragon's flame, until I came along, at least.

Tobho smiled, far too willing to sign his freedom over for a chance to be more than he was.

Artists tend to do that... making pacts with devils.

"That leaves only one issue," said Tobho after that.

"Your apprentice," I responded, causing Tobho to freeze. His memories revealed a boy with black hair and bright blue eyes.

Nine name days old and already strong enough to operate the bellows on his own.

"I care not who his parents were, you may bring him if you wish, set him loose if you don't. If he has talent, he will succeed you; if not, I shall ensure he is not going to want for work."

I was not going to kill Gendry for the crime of being sired by Robert. I was going to, however, make sure he became a good smith and work those inherited strengths for forge whatever I thought I needed.

That only left a single thing to get from the Red Keep. I would have to wait for the morning; however, I needed that particular tower cleared of residents if I wanted to not getting detected.

Might have to make a theater out of it, though, maybe pull a distraction.

I made my way through the streets, people watching.

The Gold Cloaks were subpar and corrupt.

The people were miserable.

Yet, I could feel life and potential.

Five hundred thousand souls... trying to live, trying to survive.

My steps found me in a large square, with a statue of Baelor of all people.

I went up the stairs and entered the Sept that had its doors open.

I had time to recover a few bones as well, I suppose.

AN: Wiz finally takes the first step into Westeros and a certain Crow makes a visit. Then Wiz decides to sneak around.

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