Jon Arryn hated the Iron Throne.

It was not just the spiked eye-sore that he hated sitting on, or the dozen blades that dug at him at each second that he had to account for. He had been fortunate enough, blessed enough by the gods, and careful enough that the Iron Throne had not seen fit to cut him since he became Hand.

No, what Jon hated the most was the court itself.

Lords jostling with whispers, sycophants clinging to relevance, Robert, who would normally spend his time drunk and with whores, off to siege Rook's Rest, leaving only the gnats.

The Queen stood by one corner, next to her brother, Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. She was likely to push for another appointment of a Lannister.

Lord Baelish was on the other side, clutching the books of the Master of Coin. He had been invaluable in getting the coin to mobilize the force that Robert had marched with.

The Spider, Varys, was nowhere to be seen... vanished in the dead of night.

He disliked it, yet he was bound by duty and honor; he was bound to the boy he raised as his own son... Robert.

The words of his wife's house, 'Family, Duty, Honor, ' echoed in his mind. It had to be in that order, for Family and Duty, Honor was the first to go.

So Jon had given up on his honor, to make reality the war they were now waging.

"With the King off to wage war, it is more important for the Blacksmith Guild..." the man before him droned on, while Jon imagined the green fires his actions unleashed.

The letter had come from Driftmark, confirming the burning of the Hull.

The ravens had been sent, calling Viserys Targaryen Mad King, born-again.

Then a day later, came the ravens from Driftmark itself, holding the signatures of Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Staunton, along with more than a dozen lesser lords and twice as many knights, including that of Yohn Royce, whom Jon was familiar with.

The letter spoke of an explosion of Wildfire off the coast of the Hull, of a plot to destroy House Velaryon that was prevented by Prince Viserys Targaryen. It spoke of a Trial of the Seven that absolved Viserys Targaryen of any action, while putting the blame on Robert and his pyromancers as the cause of the attack.

It was a letter that spoke of complete dominion over the Blackwater Bay, independent of the Usurper upon the Iron Throne.

What Jon knew was that the boy had played them all for a fool, like his brother would his silver-stringed harp.

Still, he stood straight, wearing honor as his armor. He stood straight on the throne, the old and wise hand ruling with honor.

There was no turning back, that much he had known, now more than a decade passed when he chose his boys over the crown.

He knew that he would have to win, or he would burn.

In this game, you won or you died. There was no middle ground.

And then the doors opened.

And everything stopped.

A figure entered.

He was tall, not as tall as Robert, but tall, built like a house, pale, dressed in crimson and black with traces of unknown runes embroidered along the edges of the cloth that hung to him like a second skin. His sharp cheekbones were framed by long, straight, white hair that seemed to have a glow of its own.

Jon had seen Aerys and Rhaegar enough times that he could see the resemblance.

But where other Targaryens had stood lordly, this one stood... as more.

But none would dispute who this was.

Targaryen.

Viserys Targaryen

The boy, barely a man grown, yet taller than most, moved gracefully, each step fluid, less like a human and more like a cat's. The courtiers stepped back, feeling a predator prowl before them.

The guards stared but did not move. No command had been given. No threat had been taken. There was only… silence.

And silence in the hall stretched out, holding its breath to unleash a thousand screams.

And the worse was the feeling of something else... as though the whole room had turned, everyone and everything focusing on the intruder.

Even the flames on the braziers...

Even the throne, which felt sharper on his back, edges sharp where it would force him to lean in the direction of the Targaryen...

The smallfolk thought the Throne to have a will of its own, though Jon knew better. The throne was a reflection of the one who sat upon it. Just as if a man was calm when he grasped the edge of a blade, the throne would not cut a calm man... a lesson that many Targaryens had not understood.

He wanted to call for the guards, to ask how this man had managed to enter King's Landing without challenge... why he would do such a thing.

Yet just as the thoughts appeared, they slipped from his grasp like steam between fingers.

The figure walked with slow, deliberate steps, his boots echoing on the stone. For a moment, Jon swore he left no shadow.

Jon blinked.

The light must have played tricks.

He stopped beneath the Baratheon banners. He had ordered them hung, years ago.

"You've redecorated," he said, voice calm, unhurried. "I don't like it."

Not a soul answered.

"And your steward is inattentive. I shall do this for once. You stand in the presence of Viserys, son of Aerys, of House Targaryen, Blood of the Dragon, Weilder of The Flame Imperishable."

Viserys. That name cut through the room like a sword through silk.

Like a wave of heat that washed over everyone as whatever spell the sorcerer had woven to keep them from acting broke.

The Iron Throne beneath him felt like it heated up for a moment before settling.

Was Jon nervous?

He was too old to be nervous in the face of some arrogant brat.

There was something... a change in the air. Jon could not say how else to describe it. The braziers flickered, and a copper tang filled his nose along with the smell of wood smoke.

The smell of blood and fire.

And then the banners ignited as though drenched in some Alchemist's concoction.

There had been no spark, no torch; the flames were instant, quiet, unnatural.

In moments, the Baratheon tapestries of hunts and stags were gone. Beneath the soot, Jon ignored the ancient Targaryen sigils, etched into the stone for decades.

It would have been more expensive to replace, Jon had reasoned, to cover up the old to make way for the new.

"Guards," the Queen shrieked before Jon could give the command.

At once, the spell or whatever it was broke. Steel rang as it left scabbards. Guards charged.

And they all passed right through him.

Jon stood frozen as blades sliced through the air, men tumbled, one screaming as he drove a spear through nothing and landed hard behind the apparition. Another blade found the gut of one of the courtiers.

Jon watched the Kingslayer walk up from where he was standing next to the Queen, his swing passing through the apparition.

Next was Thoros of Myr in his red robes. He had picked up one of the swords, dousing it with Wildfire.

The blade, encased in green flames, descended.

Viserys Targaryen slammed the butt of his staff, and everyone holding a blade was thrown back.

"That is quite enough," Viserys said, reaching down and holding the hilt of the still-burning blade. "Do you think I need something as primitive as Wildfire to pretend to use magic?"

The green flames flickered, turning gold, as the metal drooped, melting like candlewax.

Yet the form of the golden fire remained, extending out from the hilt.

The Red Priest looked on, wide-eyed, a whisper of a strange name passing his lips.

Viserys Targaryen swung the burning sword.

Something flashed.

The Kingslayer howled, clutching what used to be his hand.

The bird of flame that Jon had seen before, when it delivered that cursed message, appeared, catching the hand and disappearing in a flash of flame.

"To strike royalty is punishable by the removal of the hand that struck it, Ser Jamie," he said simply. "A lesson known to any who knew the stories of Duncan the Tall. It is the least that should be done to you."

He leaned over the Golden Lion, whispering something that turned Ser Jamie paler than what had become of him upon losing his hand, as he seemed unable to move.

"As for you," he said, raising to his full height. Jon expected that he would be the next to be cut down.

Instead, the Sorcerer turned to face the corner where Grandmaester Pycelle was standing before the chair he would sit on to rest.

The golden blade swung, and the flames turned into a whip that wrapped around the old Maester.

Jon watched frozen as Pycelle was engulfed in the golden flame, fire distorting his panicked screams into a screech like that of a bird of flame that the flames transformed into.

When the fire died down, not even ash remained of the Grandmaester, and Jon knew that he was going to die this day.

The Targaryen's head turned. He looked straight at Jon and raised an eyebrow as though challenging him.

"I am taking the Grandmaester; he has a lot to answer for," the boy said.

His common tongue was strange.

It was too clean, barely holding a tinge of Braavosi that Jon knew from sailors.

"I hear rumors and insults, claims that I use wildfire to burn people like my sire, holding grudges of long past," he said, walking forward and over the wide-eyed Kingslayer. "Well, now you know that I do not need such parlor tricks. Attack me and I will only leave one man alive to tell the tale. As for this supposed madness of mine, here is something I want you lot to think clearly..."

"What would have become of you today, if you were right?" he asked, vanishing as though he was not even there.

The hilt of the molten blade slammed onto the ground, knocking everyone out of their stupor.

All that was left of the fact that Targaryen was in the Red Keep was the missing hand of the Kingslayer, and the burned Baratheon Tapesteries... and a missing Grandmaester.

# Viserys

The little show provided me the distraction needed to get to my destination, as I had Will dump Pycelle into the lair of Tywin the Basilisk, who would petrify the old man and preserve him for his... interrogation.

I was particularly annoyed that I was not able to reach my main goal in the Sept of Baelor.

I had plans before I got to Dragonstone, plans involving finding the remains of our mother, Queen Rhaella, and figuring out a way to resurrect her.

I was a Greenseer now, and I could pull her memories fully intact from the past.

What I could not do was move her soul through time, at least without the bones to act as a temporary anchor while I alchemically forged a new body.

Her bones were not in Dragonstone... having been taken by Stannis to King's Landing, according to what Barre had said.

Yet they were not in the Sept of Baelor either.

Instead, I had Aerys' bones in the sept, just as the kings before him.

Like that would do me any good.

I decided to move them all to Dragonstone just in case. While I would not bother to resurrect any of those idiots, their bones still had some use.

So, I acted out in my frustration, wanted to get my pound of flesh, so to speak.

It was interesting coming face to face with Jon Arryn and Ser Jaime Lannister.

Robert's Hand was not the man I thought he would be. He was far more subtle and honor-bound than I thought. The probes I sent his mind through the projection indicated that it was the Lannisters who came up with the idea of Wildfire.

Well, only one of those was crazy enough to come up with using Wildfire anyway.

So I decided to traumatize the other Lannister.

Ser Jamie was... I knew better than anyone that he would run me through if given a chance. It still did not change the fact that he was the man who killed Aerys.

For that, I admired him, almost as much as I hated him.

Were it that I had the chance to kill that fucker myself...

To clarify, Aerys, not the Kingslayer.

Alas, the actions of Kingslayer had prevented an entire city from burning to the Wildfire.

A secret only two of us knew.

'Did you know that Wildfire gets stronger as it ages?' I had whispered, a little detail that had left the brave knight frozen in shock and fear.

The idiot.

His actions have ensured that the Targaryen name was not too far in the dirt, at least.

That much I owed Ser Jaime.

So, I spared his life and took his hand as recompense for striking down his king.

And because his smirking face annoyed me.

And because I wanted Kingslayer's kingslaying hand for myself.

There were rituals that I could do with that hand, skills I could steal.

Maybe once I am done with the hand, integrate the bones into Richard's arm as well.

Pity Robert was not here, but knowing that he was on his way to siege Rook's Rest was good intel I could act on. A Wizard with a prep time was a dangerous thing.

Making my way to the last location I needed to get to when something stopped me.

"Mrow," a voice said as a cat approached me and sat in front of me, directly looking into my eyes.

I am supposed to be invisible, undetectable, and have an aura that makes anyone who sees me forget it.

'What the fuck?' I mouthed, making sure there was no one around us.

It was an old tomcat, large, shaggy, and black as sin.

It was staring right at me.

And it clicked.

"Balerion," I whispered, kneeling next to the cat, "hey buddy, it has been a few years, huh?" I said, reaching out.

The cat did not run off, allowing me to scratch his one intact ear.

The physical contact nearly knocked me back.

A normal cat should not have such a strong soul... unless.

Could it be...

There were theories... half-remembered even now... of a little girl who was stabbed half a hundred times.

A girl with a kitten she adored, naming it after the largest dragon.

A girl, theorized to have slipped into the skin of her kitten, a kitten that would grow to become a mangy black tomcat that ruled over the rest.

Balerion...

"Rhaenys," I whispered in realization.

"Mrow," the tomcat responded, leaning into my hand.

A perfectly preserved soul of another Targaryen.

Could I?

I mean, I could not restore Rhaella, but doing it to Rhaenys?

Maybe if I had the right components.

"Bones of the mother, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy," I repeated.

Elia's bones would be easy to retrieve. They were returned to Dorne according to all official records.

Flesh of the servant was trickier, but I would figure something out.

As for the Blood of the Enemy... that was the perfectly easy one.

"Amory Lorch," I whispered.

Balerion hissed at the name, taking a step back.

"Yes, little one," I continued, projecting my thoughts as I spoke for the cat to understand, "We shall hunt him like a mouse and make him bleed for us."

Balerion seemed to like that idea, given that he stepped forward and allowed me to continue scratching his ear.

I was perfectly willing to hunt down Amory Lorch, maybe mix in Tywin's blood to it as well.

"Wanna ditch this place and come with me?" I asked.

The black cat launched himself on my shoulder.

Right... I still needed to complete one last task.

The White Sword Tower loomed before me.

# A Bold Man

The echo of his boots in the White Sword Tower was familiar, comforting, even.

Each step along the white marble was a prayer, a reminder of oaths sworn and brothers lost.

Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had come to amend the pages of the White Book, that most sacred of ledgers of his order. It was his duty to record the deeds of knights, their triumphs, their failures, and their deaths.

Ser Jaime's name would need updating.

'Lost his sword hand defending the Queen and Hand,' he considered. It was short enough.

He did not wish to write it. Not now. Not ever.

He did not think the Kingslayer deserved it.

His jaw was tight, and his hand opening the door to the common room, reaching for the quill, before he stopped.

The silence of the room was heavy.

The carved shield-shaped Weirwood table held the White Book, holding three black chairs on each side.

The seventh, the one at the top of the shield that belonged to Ser Barristan and all the Lord Commanders before, was occupied by a man.

Not just a man.

A ghost made flesh.

He looked so much like his brother that it hurt to look at him.

Viserys Targaryen.

Barristan did not hear the door close behind him.

"I wondered how long it would take," said the dragon prince without looking up from where he was reading the White Book. "You always were dutiful and prompt, Ser."

Ser Barristan's instincts surged. His hand was already by his sword.

"How did you get in here?" he asked.

Was this another illusion?

"I walked," responded the Prince

Barristan drew steel. "You should not have."

At that, Viserys turned, calm as a knight facing a squire, eyes like amethyst fire. "Yet, here I stand," he said with an amused smirk.

The air shifted. Something unseen tightened around Barristan's limbs—the taste of metal on his tongue, the buzz of unseen power, like the storm before a bolt.

He charged.

Viserys made no gesture. No incantation. He only scrunched his nose and rolled his eyes.

The sword ripped from Barristan's grip, flung across the room.

Barristan threw his buckler with a shout, aiming for the man's skull.

Viserys held up a finger.

The buckler stopped mid-air, hovering.

"Cute," Viserys said as though expecting that attack.

With a flick of his finger, the buckler returned, slammed into Barristan's temple with a crack, and clattered to the floor.

If not for his helmet, that might have been more serious.

The knight staggered back to his feet, stunned, reaching for a dagger at his side.

He barely drew it.

The blade turned to sand, slipping through his fingers.

Then one of the black oak chairs slammed into Ser Barristan.

Then another came.

Wood groaned as the ancient furniture rose into the air like carrion birds, slammed into him from all sides. One struck his knees, another cracked his shoulder. He was knocked to the ground, windless as though six men were working to hold him down.

The wood of the chairs pressed on him, twisting. Long, pale limbs stretching, crawling, binding his arms and legs with unnatural speed.

In moments, Ser Barristan the Bold was bound in wood, made a prisoner in the Tower of the Kingsguard.

His breathing was labored.

Viserys did not even look winded.

Magic...

Ser Barristan sighed... accepting that this would be his end.

"Do it then," Barristan rasped. "I am sure you think I deserve it. For bending the knee. For failing to come to your banner..."

"You think that's why I would wish you harm, Ser?" Viserys's voice cut like a razor, shocked, affronted. "Because you yielded when you were injured? Because you bent the knee to Robert? Because you thought you saw madness in the eyes of a child who did not know any better, who could be shown better?"

Barristan froze...

"It was too late..." he said instead.

"Was it? Is that your excuse?" Viserys snapped, and suddenly the calm broke. His eyes held a rage that Barristan had not seen in the eyes of the man's sire. "You know the funny thing is, Ser Barristan the Bold... I am not even mad about that. You should have traded your cloak for a black one if you had the honor for it, but we both know that whatever shred of honor you had was long gone as you stood by and did nothing, you and those six cunts who you called brothers. You stood in your white cloaks while the Mad King did to Rhaella what no beast would do to his mate... and you didn't lift a finger."

Ser Barristan wanted to deny...

Ser Barristan wanted to refute...

'Not from him,' Ser Jonother Darry had once said to the Kingslayer.

'It is not our job to protect her from him,' Ser Gerold had said, words that Barristan could not muster the strength to speak those words.

Those hollow words that sullied his cloak.

"I could kill you now," Viserys said, the tip of the staff in his hand glowing, "and no man could say I did not have a good cause. I would spread you onto the walls of this room like a paste with a fraction of the hate I feel."

Barristan stared, ashamed. "Then do it," would it erase his sins?

"No," Viserys said, a smirk appearing. "You don't get the mercy of absolution. You and your brothers do not get to have peace... in life or in death."

He stood, brushing his robes smooth.

"For your case, I offer you something better, ser, something your dead brothers will not have. A wager."

Barristan blinked.

"In a moon's turn," Viserys said, "you will come to Dragonstone. You and I shall duel. No spells. No sorcery. No tricks. Just knight against knight."

"You're no knight," Ser Barristan responded before flinching.

"I was knighted by Ser Willem Darry, a knight truer than any of those whose names are written in that book of yours, Ser," responded Viserys Targaryen, "A man who stood true to his oaths in life and death... a man who was more of a father to me than Aerys ever could be."

"And if I win, Ser?" Barristan asked, finding no falsehood. He knew Ser Willem, he knew him to be a good knight... a better knight than he ever was.

Viserys's eyes glittered.

"Then you may strike me down. There. At Dragonstone. In front of witnesses. You get to end me, and end this war for your King Robert," he said simply, "Though I suppose you would not survive my sister's wrath."

"And if I lose?" asked Ser Barristan.

"Either you shall die, or you will swear your sword to me," Viserys said simply. "As you did to the king before Robert. As you should have done to my mother, Rhaella."

'As you should have done to me.'

Barristan looked up at him from the roots.

"You think I'll serve you?" he asked.

"Or you will die with a shred of honor. But, what I think is that you want absolution, a means to ensure that your oaths to Robert are satisfied, and a means to make up for the fact that your action of saving Aerys in Duskendale doomed House Targaryen," Viserys said, turning to go. "And I am the only person alive who can give it to you. Well, I am off. I am taking the book by the way, and the furniture."

"What?" asked Ser Barristan, only to get ignored.

"Come on, Balerion," he said, as a large black cat jumped from one of the corners, first onto the white table, then onto the shoulder of the King before Ser Barristan.

"Tada," said Viserys Targaryen, before the man, the cat, and the table were engulfed in a flame, leaving not even ash behind.

Ser Barristan, for a moment, saw a little girl holding a small cat.

# Heir of Rook's Rest

Ser Bryndeon Staunton looked over at the army at their gates.

Stormlanders, Riverlanders, and even a few Westerlanders, led by King Robert himself.

"First time getting sieged?" asked the man next to him, leaning on a chair that was not there, sipping on some chilled wine, wearing silk robes, his hair messily tied and held by a pin made from a smoky metal that Bryden knew to be Valyrian Steel. "It is a terribly dull affair."

"You should be more cautious, your grace, while your skill with a blade is known to us, and you may claim mastery over magic, it only takes a single arrow," he warned.

"I did right by gelding your brother," the Wizard said simply, causing Brynden to wince. "You are less of a dolt. Do not worry, I came with a new staff."

Then he pulled the pin holding his hair up.

"Well, this one is a grower, not a shower, I have to admit," said King Viserys as Ser Richard, standing next to him, gave a tired sigh. "No worries, you can build a world on the back of a pin with sufficient skill."

"Oppugno Oculum," he whispered to the piece of metal, in that strange language that made magic happen. "Go for the eyes, Boo,"

The metal lifted from his palm and, like a whisling bolt from a crossbow, flew into the enemy lines.

Brynden watched as the first men fell, a knight of House Rykerr, the man simply falling over like a puppet with its strings cut.

The knight crumbled into dust, and Brynden knew that the pin chose a second victim.

One after the other, the pin consumed another man, leaving behind a pile of dust.

By the time it went through a hundred men, the pin seemingly had grown to the size of a longsword.

Few knights used their swords to parry the projectile, only for it to strike at another victim.

By the second hundred, the pin was the size of a short spear, its end deadly enough to punch through plate armor.

By the fourth hundred, the army had broken and was running, losing any form of organized retreat.

Even as the army ran, the single piece of weapon flew, carving a bloodless path for another hour.

A whistle came from the lips of the King.

The long rod of blackened steel turned around and flew in their direction, and for a moment, Brynden thought to turn and run.

Instead, the pin, now the size of a short spear, slapped into the hand of the Wizard-King before him.

"Good fight," he said, as he vanished in a swirl of flames, taking himself and his Kingsguard with him.

'What fight?' Brynden could not ask.

The army that Robert had was running away.

# Viserys

The visit to King's Landing had been fruitful. Along with the dragon skulls, I had managed to poach Tobho Mott, take the White Book, and the Weirwood Table it sat on.

The confrontation with Ser Barristan had been... enlightening.

Not that I would use the man to fight the army that had been sieging Rook's Rest.

No, for that, I made a simple pin.

I liked the idea of it, the poetry of it.

I took a page from Kubikiribōchō, the sword of Zabuza from Naruto, which used the blood of those it cut to heal itself.

Instead, the pin that held a dash of Phoenix Ash acted as a seed, growing more Soulsteel on its surface as it drank in the blood like water.

The core material of Valyrian Steel was hard to come by, mostly because it required the iron from the blood. An army that attacked my new bannerman was rather a good resource to have, especially if they wished to throw their lives against me.

I tapped the rod of Soulsteel, watching it break apart into individual pieces.

Pity I could not fuse the Soulsteel without the Basilisk Venom-Phoenix Tear alchemy trick.

A thousand souls, all to make enough metal for five blades at most. The boy that I was would have wept. Now, I mourned them in silence, these souls who were used by Robert as tools for his vengeance, now forever made into another form of tools.

Or maybe something different... I was not certain yet. I now had Tobho to do the hard part of actually shaping the swords since he had the experience and time to do it.

I noted the part of me that would feel pity for those souls, but the realization that these men would not show me a lick of mercy shut it down. I still made a note to spend some time meditating to ensure that I did not lose my humanity.

Before I retreated back to Dragonstone, though, there was one last task to do.

Haunt Robert until he goes mad.

"Hello, Robert," I said simply, appearing before him as he sat slouched at a table, wine cup dangling loosely in his hand.

The King threw his warhammer where my face had been.

It passed harmlessly through the illusion and crashed into the stone wall, sending squires scrambling in confusion.

"Rude," I noted, stepping around the table. "Though as you've likely gathered... this isn't real... from a certain point of view."

He didn't respond at first. His eyes were bloodshot but not unfocused. He looked at me, through me, as if testing whether I was a ghost or a madness he could command.

Then he swung again... and again... and again.

I let him tire himself out.

"Hearing voices now, are we?" I asked mildly. "Tread carefully, Robert. You're starting to sound madder than Aerys."

Robert's jaw worked. He wiped away the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Come to gloat, have you? You dragonspawn fuck," he said quietly. Not a roar, but more measured now. His squires shifted again, unnerved by his tone.

"I could claim that I am not much for gloating... but this..." I said, pointing a finger between us. "This conversation we are having... it is a balm to my soul. After nine years of living in fear of the blades you might send after me and my sister, I thought I would meet you, face to face... or close enough."

"Are you here to kill me then?" Robert asked, standing straight.

I leveled my staff. I could do it so easily, the fire within the staff ready to be unleashed, not unlike a dragon's breath, yet hotter, more than a dragon's flame ever could be.

The wood smoked, and a stray thought had it lash out, leaving a thin little slice on Robert's cheekbones, right above his shaggy black beard, letting only a single drop of blood spill.

"I could..." I said, "I could so easily end you, but I think you deserve more. I thought you would come to Pentos to hunt me yourself, to be honest, so I could give you the chance to become the Sellsword King you always dreamed about. I wanted to look you in the eye as I brought down everything you built. But now that I look at you... All I can muster is pity at the man you became... I suppose the Demon of the Trident really died at the Trident, and all that is left is this sad corpse too prideful to realize his death. But in the end, I don't even need to do anything. I just need to let you die in peace."

"Peace?" barked Robert, as if the idea itself offended him. "Are you really dumb enough to think there will be peace between us?"

"How about a ceasefire, neither side attacks the other while your line holds the Throne?"

"Do you think I will stop? Do you think that the rest of Westeros will stop? You sorcerous cunt... Lannisters, Starks, Arryns... All it takes is a knife and a bold man to end you and your dumb whore of a sister?" asked Robert, trying to step forward... only to freeze as his body petrified.

"She is nine," I said simply, the grass beneath my feet freezing and shattering as the wind reflected the cold rage I felt, "She is innocent, as I once was, as my niece and nephew were. When you called them, nothing but dragonspawn."

Robert looked at me with something... regret, maybe.

"I am tired of this, Robert, I truly am. But if it comes down to it, if you make me choose," I let the rage within me shine through my eyes, future and present blurring as lines of probability collapsed at my willpower. I saw fields ablaze, charred corpses, armies rendered into paste at the behest of a monster. "I would rather glass this entire shitty continent and salt the remains than let anyone touch her. That is what I have been trying to spare you, but if it means I have to cut you and all the fourteen children you spawned... then so be it."

I stepped back, centering myself.

Threads of the future untangled as what would be became what may be.

"But I think, for once, I will be subtle. I will just bring down your entire dynasty with a single sentence," I said, feeling cruel.

Robert did not respond, not when the petrification I cast still held.

It would take a single sentence to end Robert in truth... I did not need to unleash the dragon upon an entire continent when simple words could suffice.

Well, multiple single sentences could have the same effect, and I knew most of them all in the end.

Words of a different type of power.

Words that did not even have to be the truth in its fullest.

I could reveal that Lyanna ran away because she was a spiteful girl who thought that turnabout was fair play and spawning her own bastard was her best idea to spite Robert for having a bastard.

Instead, I chose something sharper... something that would hurt his pride.

"Do you think your queen beds her brother because they are both the seeds of my father?"

Robert's eyes widened as I let go of the petrification.

It was a cruel thing.

Half a lie, and half a truth. It had everything needed for a perfect lie.

To shatter Robert's hold on everything.

I called him a cuckold. I told him that he was bedding a child of Aerys, just as Rhaegar and I were. I implied that he had no true heir, that his entire line would end with him.

And only he heard it... that was the cruelty of it.

A truth that he could not speak of.

A doubt was planted that would fester.

I brought down every scaffolding that Robert used to build himself.

And he understood.

Shock gave way to disbelief... which gave way to doubt.

And doubt, in a wizard or king alike, was a terrible thing.

Robert staggered back a step as my spell released him.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then came the roar, not a warrior's battle cry, but the wounded bellow of a cornered beast. Anger laced with humiliation, fury masking fear.

He upturned the table, wine and meat crashing to the floor, startling the squires again.

I let the illusion dissolve.

I didn't need to do anything more.

The seed had been planted.

And Robert Baratheon would never be rid of it.

Funny thing, wizards. They cast these spells with words and get what they want. Sometimes they even use magic.

AN: Wiz being a general pest, and cause for existential horror to friends and foes alike.

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.