Chapter 12 - The Self Belief Cleric and the Champion’s Prize

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

The System pinged alive before my eyes like a waterfall of rewards.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: GLAMOUR (RANK C-)]

[FONT OF INSPIRATION: You now regain all your expended uses of Bardic Inspiration when you finish a Short or Long Rest. In addition, you can expend two spell points to regain one expended use of Bardic Inspiration.]

My continuous effort in enthralling my audience through every step and move I made had thankfully paid off.

Lovely. More songs, more lies, and now I could refill my inspiring tricks over a few mugs of ale instead of a full night of sleep.

[DIVINE POINTS: 6→14 (MAX TIER: 1→2)]

[SECOND TIER DIVINE SPELLS UNLOCKED: SUGGESTION // PHANTASMAL FORCE]

Always good to keep enhancing my magic. Whispers strong enough to bend wills or plant nightmares. Good for my friends. Even worse for my enemies.

And that wasn't all. Another cascade of notifications followed.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ASSASSIN (RANK B-)]

[INFILTRATION EXPERTISE: You are expert at posing as someone else to aid your infiltrations. While in a disguise aided by the use of your Disguise Kit, you have Advantage on any Charisma (Deception) check you make while pretending to be someone else. You can also unerringly mimic another person's speech, handwriting, or both if you have spent at least one hour studying each one.]

[ROVING AIM: Your Speed isn't reduced to 0 by using Steady Aim.]

To be honest, I expected that all those challenges of marksmanship and carefully picking on my targets during the small battle that was the melee would lead me to raise my Hunter class instead. 

But I won't complain. It was still excellent, not only have I boosted the effectiveness of my Mask of the Changeling, now I could keep focusing on my aim for the next strike and not sacrifice my mobility while doing it. 

Outstanding progress. But the System wasn't finished yet.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: CHAMPION (RANK C-)]

[TACTICAL SHIFT: Whenever you expend a use of your Second Wind, you can move up to half your Speed without provoking Opportunity Attacks.]

Interesting, that ability had admittedly been a back burner amongst all my options during combat up till now.

With this upgrade I could more reliably heal myself while getting some breathing room between my opponents. Hadn't done it before because usually most of my regained HP would just go to waste once an opponent found another gap in my defenses.

This on top of my momentarily extra boost of speed after every critical hit was pushing me into becoming a target very hard for my enemies to pin down.

[ERROR! NON-STACKABLE AND REDUNDANT FEATURE LOCATED! NEW ORIGIN FEAT SELECTED ACCORDINGLY TO YOUR ACTIONS UP TO THIS POINT!]

Wait, what? Origin feat? Haven't heard about it since my first years as a toddler.

[ALERT ORIGIN FEAT UNLOCKED!]

*Always on the lookout for danger, you gain the following benefits: 

Initiative Proficiency: When you roll Initiative, you can add your Proficiency Bonus to the roll. 

Initiative Swap: Immediately after you roll Initiative, you can swap your Initiative with the Initiative of one willing ally in the same combat. You can't make this swap if you or the ally has the Incapacitated condition.

Alertness: You can't be surprised at the start of any sudden combat while you are conscious. And other creatures don't gain advantage on attack rolls against you as a result of being unseen by you.

Wow, not as amazing as the usual general feats that help increase my attribute stats, but still might come in clutch just as my Lucky feat so oftenly does.

Regardless, just as the deluge of notifications ended I managed to hear the judges call out from the center of the arena.

"By the decree of King Robert Baratheon, the final contenders are granted an hour's rest!" The man's voice rang out, amplified by the sudden silence everyone else made. "Tend your wounds! Sharpen your steel! The final rounds will resume after!"

Cheers rolled again from the stands. The still standing fighters, myself included, began to stagger toward the shade of the arena walls or toward the apprentices of maesters moving hesitantly onto the bloodstained field.

It was only after spending the next hour doing nothing but light activity and recovering all my HP with my last use of Second Wind that the next ping from the System popped up like a smug reminder.

[YOU HAVE TAKEN A SHORT REST. YOU MAY HAVE ANOTHER SHORT REST BEFORE REQUIRING TO TAKE A LONG ONE.]

[ACTION SURGE USE RESTORED!]

[ONE SECOND WIND USE RESTORED!]

A slow grin tugged at my mouth as I finished cleaning my breastplate armor so it didn't appear to have accompanied me through the first stage of the melee, especially now that my Disguise Self spell had ended and I had no extra Arcane Points remaining to recast it.

A deep breath filled my lungs. The throbbing ache of my arm dulled, receding under the touch of whatever silent magic stitched me back together during the use of my Second Wind.

I rolled my shoulders experimentally. Good enough. Not perfect, the Exhaustion level still weighed on me like a chain around my ribs, but manageable enough.

As the cheers rang out and I could hear even the nobles shouting for blood and glory, I glanced across the remaining fighters resting alongside me. 

Thoros of Myr wiped wine from his mouth, grinning like a madman. Daemon Sand, pride smoldering in his dark eyes despite his young age, straightened slowly.

'So this is it.' I thought, finishing stretching my body and reading myself for the final acts of my performance to all the people of King's Landing.

————————————————————————

The field had now shrunk to a stage, for only eight men stood. No more, no less.

Across the broken ground, dark with blood, scattered with shards of armor and snapped-off weapons, we were herded into a wide circle, facing each other under the less brutal afternoon sun. My new breastplate caught the light, a gleaming shell over the deep black of my gambeson, each movement I made gleaming sharp against the dirt and wreckage around us.

The crowd had stilled themselves into silence, thousands of hearts beating faster as thousands of mouths held their breath.

This was no longer chaos, no longer a brawl fought in the churn of desperation. It had become a tournament of executions.

And in knowing that, I let the weight of the moment settle into my bones, steadying my breath. Calm. Focused. Calculating.

The others shifted, tightened grips on weapons, rolled shoulders, adjusted stances. Most of them fought their nerves, but I didn't. I was ready.

The judges stepped forward, voice carrying with practiced authority. "Finalists of the Great Melee of King's Landing! You shall now fight in duels! Victory or surrender, until only one remains!"

They eventually barked the first names, and fate chose for me.

The same fool I had struck with Thorn Whip in the preliminary round, the one who had barked for others to rush Daemon Sand, staggered forward. His skin was still healing from the lash, his pride clearly less so.

A thickset man, broad-chested, armor dented and bloodied, axe already glinting red under the sun. He scowled when he saw me.

"I'll break you for whipping me like a damn horse, poet." He snarled, spitting blood into the dirt at his feet. "Armor or no."

The crowd roared, but it sounded distant to me, muffled by my heartbeat and readying footsteps as I shifted my stance, steadying my now roving aim.

He lunged, greedy for blood. Despite my quicker reflexes, I let him believe he was dictating the rhythm of our battle.

His strike came high and sloppy, telegraphed from a mile away. I slipped aside with a dancer's grace, the hem of my gambeson fluttering from beneath the solid gleam of my breastplate as he crashed past me.

True Strike sharpened my focus, my club came up fast, a blur of motion, slamming into the inside of his elbow with a dull crack just as I performed one of my Cunning Strikes.

[SNEAK ATTACK!]

[-20 HP]

His axe clattered to the ground, swallowed by the mud.

Before he could recover, I moved again, Mage's Bracers lending speed to the divining ritual of my strikes. Another flash of True Strike, aimed precisely at the already-damaged joint.

[-19 HP]

He snarled and swung a fist in desperation. My shield flicked out in a blur, catching it before it gained momentum. My club parried his other hand away, as easy as batting aside a child's blow.

He bellowed, staggered, half-falling… perfect. I casually stepped past his guard in one smooth, almost lazy motion, and drove the butt of my club into his gut.

The air exploded from his lungs in a sickly bark.

[-21 HP]

He crumpled to his knees, gasping like a fish on dry land.

Before he could even think of yielding, I spun the club once through my fingers and rapped him neatly across the temple.

[-16 HP]

He pitched forward, face-first into the dirt, unmoving.

Once the crowd erupted, I exhaled slowly, shaking the tension from my wrist, club swinging loose and easy at my side.

No wasted breath, no wasted movement. I was clean, precise and dominant. Exactly the way I needed them all to see me.

Applause and whistles battered the air, hot and violent, while I lifted my chin slightly just as the judges barked for the next bout to be readied.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Arianne Martell at the pavilion, still leaning forward, knuckles white against the rail.

There was heat in her gaze now. Not fear, but actual affection. The reckless, ambitious kind the young wore so easily.

Good.

————————————————————————

Once I finished watching the other duels after mine, it became clear once only four of us remained, that the competition was finally nearing its end.

Thoros of Myr was the only one who matched my theatrical display, soaking in the crowd's roars with the ease of a drunk soaking wine. But the others? Forgettable, to put it mildly.

Across the still bloodstained field, the judges barked the next pairing, and fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor. "Daemon Sand! Jaskier Dandelions!"

The Dornish bastard didn't hesitate. He stepped forward like a man walking toward his own execution, spear gripped tightly in both hands, a thin smear of blood drying along his temple from his earlier fights.

He wasn't just walking toward me, he was walking toward her. Arianne Martell.

Still watching from the pavilion, still leaning forward like her very breath depended on the outcome.

Yeah, it took me a while but I soon noticed his quick glances towards her after every time he downed an opponent, or every time my performance stole her attention.

Daemon Sand had entered this melee for her. For a scrap of her attention. Maybe a kiss, a favor tied to his arm, the beginnings of a song sung in his name.

But now, facing me, he understood, truly understood, just how outmatched he was.

I saw it in the slight hitch of his steps. Saw it in the way his knuckles whitened around the spear. He knew, but still he came. Because boys with dreams built on sand don't get to turn back in front of a princess.

And so, soon we both entered the circle. With Daemon beginning to circle me immediately, wolfish, head low, seeking an opening that wasn't there.

The crowd's roar blurred into a low, thrumming heartbeat in my ears. 

This was personal for him. A fight he couldn't afford to lose, even though he already had. 

Daemon spun his spear with a flashy twist, baiting a reaction. But I gave him none. Instead, I let the club hang loose at my side, relaxed, inviting.

A sneer twisted his mouth.

"No tricks this time, Arrowminstrel?" He spat, voice rough, baiting.

To his annoyance I said nothing, letting him fill the silence with anger, letting him make mistakes for me to exploit.

Not long after, Daemon struck first, a fast, shallow jab meant to probe my defenses. To which I leaned aside easily, the tip of his spear slicing air inches from my leg.

Good footwork and speed. If it weren't for the anger burning under his skin, he might have been dangerous.

The real strike came next, a feint at my knee, followed by a vicious upswing aimed at my arm, hoping to cripple my club-hand.

A clever plan. Too bad for him, I didn't play by others' plans.

Suddenly I stepped into the attack a heartbeat early, prompting his eyes to widen, realizing the mistake a bit too late, for my club came down hard across the shaft of his spear with a sharp crack, halting his momentum mid-swing.

We grappled for a moment, spear locked against club, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath.

Despite the older frame my Mask of the Changeling gave me, underneath, I was still a boy, younger and weaker than Daemon Sand.

But strength alone doesn't win grapples, technique does. And I had that in spades, thanks to my Expertise in Athletics skill.

Predictably, Daemon cheated. His free hand darted for the knife hidden at his belt, silver flashing under the sun.

The crowd gasped but I was faster.

A vicious snap-kick caught his wrist, sending the blade spinning from his grasp. Before he could blink, I twisted, wrenching the spear clean from his hands and flinging it across the ring.

For a heartbeat, we stood face to face, both empty-handed, breathing hard.

I had clipped my club and shield to my waist with a casual, almost lazy motion, as if to say: Come, let's see what you've got.

His fists flew next, wild and undeniably angry.

I ducked the first, slipped the second. Came up inside his guard and slammed my elbow into his jaw. Followed with a quick punch, snapping his head sideways.

[-1 HP]

[-1 HP]

Yeah, I kinda suck at unarmed attacks. But at least I managed to not miss my punches thanks to my Pendants of Hindsight nudging things in my favor, this gave the impression that I was going easy on the young Dornish bastard.

"You know there's no shame in yielding." I said low, my voice meant for his ears only.

"You've already surpassed everyone's expectations. Better to bow out now than be dragged off like a broken fool."

His lip curled. "You would like that, wouldn't you?"

No. I'd rather he kept a shred of dignity. But I also understood that pride…pride was louder than sense.

So I let him stagger back. Let him feel the absence of his weapon, the suffocating weight of the crowd's judgment pressing down on him. Let the rage build until it boiled over.

And when he rushed me, reckless and raw, I was ready. One sidestep, followed by a brutal jab of my club into his ribs as I drew it clean from my waist. And finished with a sweeping trip that sent him sprawling face-first into the dirt.

[-20 HP]

[-12 HP]

He hit hard, coughing dust, the laughter of the crowd rolling over him like a breaking wave. That, more than any strike I could deliver, shattered him.

Daemon shoved himself to his knees, face burning crimson with humiliation. 

For a moment, I thought he might rise again, mad with shame. But instead, he tore his helmet off and hurled it aside.

The meaning was unmistakable. Surrender.

"The competitor Daemon Sand has yielded!" The judges roared for all to hear.

I didn't linger, didn't gloat, didn't smile.

Just left him his pride. I had beat him clean, not dirty, despite that being my preferred style. Finally turning on my heel, I let the cheers of the crowd wash over me like a rising tide.

————————————————————————

As Daemon Sand was led from the field, head bowed but shoulders stiff with pride he refused to shed, the murmur of the crowd grew louder, heavier, like a brewing storm.

Whispers raced through the stands, a living thing, hungry and eager.

"The Bonecrusher has crushed another one's spirit…"

"He's going to win the whole damned thing again!"

"Did you see how he moved? Like a dancer on a stage, light as a feather and twice as sharp!"

"Even the treacherous Dornish bastard couldn't land a blow!"

Their voices rolled over me like waves, but I kept my gaze steady, watching the judges out of the corner of my eye as they huddled together, conferring in low tones.

Across the ring, the last light of the dying sun caught the battered armor of Thoros of Myr as he stepped forward, his grin broad and mad under a battered helm.

The greatsword in his hands burst into flames as if answering his unspoken challenge, the fire dancing bright and hungry, casting flickering shadows all around him.

[ARCANA CHECK FAILED!]

'Damn, I just knew he did something more than just coating it on wildfire.' I argued with myself, really curious about what sort of spell the non-believer red priest had casted without even knowing.

Thoros soon lifted the burning blade in a warrior's salute, his booming voice carrying easily across the arena. "Come then, bard! Let's give them a show they'll never forget!"

The final duel had begun and the heat rolling off Thoros' sword painted the air between us in wavering lines, thick and shimmering. Even from this distance, it was a living thing, wild and primal.

Not nearly as suffocating as the unnatural heat I had faced clearing my first Instant Dungeon, that of the Mad Wraith's phantom sword, but still dangerous enough to demand my full attention.

Perhaps even more, since I was bound to underestimate it due to the comparison.

Regardless, the crowd had once again fallen deathly silent, with the tension thicker than summer humidity. I could feel that every eye was locked on us.

I raised my dragonbone buckler, feeling the primal energy stitched into its core from my Shillelagh cantrip hum quietly against the oppressive heat.

Hidden beneath the leather wraps over my Mage's Bracers, tiny Pendants of Hindsight, my own careful handwork, pulsed faintly, ready to twist a second's bad luck into a saving grace.

Thoros stalked closer, greatsword held low like a torch in the hands of a mad prophet. 

"You smell it, don't you, lad?" He roared. "The fire! The fight! The life! Look at the King up there…slowly drowning in silks and expensive wine…while we drink from the only cup that actually matters!"

He then suddenly lunged, fast. Far too fast for any drunkard priest. His first blow I barely caught on my buckler, the force rattling through my bones like a bell struck by a hammer.

CRACK!

Flames exploded outward, a searing burst of heat washing over me.

[-3 HP]

[HEALTH POINTS: 16/19]

The natural fire-resistant properties woven into my Dragonbone shield drank in the worst of it, but the raw impact still shoved me back a full step, my boots gouging lines into the dirt.

Gasps rippled through the stands, a few screams cutting sharp through the thick tension.

I slid sideways, keeping my profile narrow, minimizing the surface Thoros could target, letting my dragonbone equipment drink the next blow's heat like a stone splitting a raging tide.

No wild counters, no reckless gambles. I had to be patient.

Thoros was relentless, a hurricane of sweeping arcs and blistering heat. Each strike felt brighter, hotter, heavier. Each block made my bones sing with pain, the Dragonbone shield thrumming like a living thing, unseen and unheard to anyone but me.

I waited, searching for the rhythm beneath the chaos.

One, two, three, left, right, overhead.

Then the moment he overcommitted, his weight too far forward, his greatsword swinging too high, exposing his side. I pivoted inside his reach, the flame licking past by a breath, and slammed my club into the hinge of his armor at the knee.

[-22 HP]

Thoros grunted, stumbling a half-step, but the mad grin never left his face. He spun on me in a brutal backhand, the flat of his burning greatsword catching my buckler dead center.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

[-8 HP]

[HEALTH POINTS: 8/19]

Splinters of regular steel flew like dying stars against the unyielding dragonbone.

I staggered, half-blind from the shockwave, while Thoros advanced with the inevitability of a falling star.

This time, he didn't swing, he drove the burning blade straight down at my skull, no finesse, just overwhelming force.

Forcing me no other choice, I braced my buckler and club together, catching the greatsword between them, teeth clenched against the searing agony.

Sparks screamed into the air as magic and muscle warred.

[-4 HP]

[HEALTH POINTS: 4/19]

The heat blistered my skin, singing the tips of my hair. Sweat and ash filled my mouth.

Still, I held and endured. 

Thoros' eyes widened a fraction, reading the truth of me in that instant.

"Good…" He growled. "Very Good!"

And with a sudden twist, I rolled sideways, wrenching the sword out of alignment, away from my skull. 

The stress was too much and the greatsword shattered, snapping between my club and shield with a sound like the death scream of a dying titan.

Thoros stumbled, momentarily unarmed. And that was my chance.

I surged forward, every ounce of focus narrowing to a single point. My club hammered into his chest, guided by the clarity of True Strike and Steady Aim.

[SNEAK ATTACK!]

[CRITICAL HIT!]

[-59 HP]

The impact knocked Thoros sprawling onto the dirt, a sound like a bellows-punched horse escaping his lungs.

Smoke curled around us in lazy tendrils as I stood over him, my chest heaving, the last of my Second Wind refilling my battered body.

Full health. Full fury.

Thoros looked up at me, blood staining his teeth, a mad, proud grin splitting his scorched face. Without a word, he flung the shattered hilt of his sword aside, accepting defeat the way only true warriors could.

Almost to the shock of my combat focused mind, the arena exploded. A wall of noise hit me like a crashing wave, drowning everything else.

The judges rushed forward, shouting, their voices blurred into the roar of the mob.

My name, my nicknames, my victories, shouted again and again, whipped into a frenzy.

"The Dancing Stranger has defeated the Red Faith Champion! The Seven be praised!"

"Did you see how the darkness of his shield ate the flames that would've burned regular men?"

"The Bomecrusher bard doesn't break just bones, he will also shatter your steel if you don't let go of it!"

Victory.

King Robert Baratheon himself rose from his seat, golden crown still glinting despite the sunset. His face was a storm of approval and wild pride, a king who lived for moments like this.

And unbeknownst to all but me, a father that was proud of his first born son without knowing.

"The winner!" He bellowed, his voice carrying across the packed stands like a warhorn. "Jaskier Dandelions…the Bloody Ballader!"

The applause struck like a hammer blow. A tidal wave of roars, stomps, and cheers crashed down from all sides, shaking the very stones of the arena.

I bowed deeply, first to the judges, then to Thoros of Myr, who lay unconscious but grinning in his sleep as if dreaming of better days. Only after honoring the fallen did I turn to the sea of faces, lords and ladies, sellswords and merchants, smiths and beggars alike, all bound together for this fleeting heartbeat of triumph.

"My thanks to the good people of King's Landing!" I called out, voice strained but steady, fighting to reach every ear. "And to all the lords and ladies who have come from across the Seven Kingdoms!"

The crowd responded with another rolling cheer, and I lifted my club in salute, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders.

I drew a slow breath, tasting dust, sweat, and the heady spice of victory. But this wasn't just a fight I wanted remembered.

No, this was a statement that should linger years after more tournaments came and go.

"And to honor this victory…" I shouted, voice sharpening like a drawn blade. "I claim the champion's prize of the melee… not for myself!"

A ripple of mild confusion ran through the stands, heads leaning forward, hands stalling mid-applause. I was about to do what none would have dreamed twice in a single day, I mean, besides winning two competitions.

"But for the families of Flea Bottom…for those whose lives have known only hunger and hardship, but who deserve more than the fate they were born to! May this small offering serve as a spark, a spark of dutifulness, of generosity, for every soul in this city who still dares to hope that King's Landing can be a place where the downtrodden can proudly call their home."

A beat of stunned silence, then the storm broke, again for what felt a hundredth time that day.

The roar that followed was deafening, not applause now but a raw, wordless cry, the sound of a city, however briefly, believing in something larger than itself.

The sound of hearts catching fire and silent prayers of gratitude being poured to the Seven above, more specifically to the Stranger.

Above it all, King Robert threw back his head and laughed, pounding a mighty fist against the rail in front of him, crown askew, pride blazing in his eyes.

And as I stood there, soaked in blood, sweat, and rising smoke, I confirmed something.

This, too, was a kind of battle. And for the first time that day, I had won without needing to break a single bone or shoot a single arrow.

————————————————————————

Finally, once the commotion had finally died down, one of the longest, and most joyful, days of my life in King's Landing was coming to an end.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a golden-orange shroud. Torches flickered to life along the streets, and the first sliver of the moon began to rise, pale against the deepening sky.

Though the day had passed, the night was still young, and the ale flowed freely, hundreds of cups raised high, emptied, and refilled with abandon.

Old and young alike flooded out of the inns and taverns, swept up in the revelry, celebrating the extraordinary outcome of the tourney so far.

Young boys charged through the crowded streets, waving sticks like swords and calling out their new hero's name, their parents watching with pride written plain on their faces.

Across every corner of the city, the name on the lips of the common folk, murmured, shouted, sung, was the champion of both Archery and Melee. Their champion.

A man who had bested the sons of Lords and Knights alike, and asked for nothing in return.

Somehow, Seven knows how, the number of noble competitors who had entered the tourney leaked to the streets. And now Jaskier Dandelions had become a living legend to the lowborn, a lad from nowhere important who had outmatched over a hundred highborns and dared to forfeit both of his rewards.

Ten thousand gold dragons from the Archery contest had been gifted to Jalabhar Xho, the exiled Summer Islander prince. Fifteen thousand more, the Melee prize, had been donated to improve Flea Bottom itself.

Songs and poems were already blooming like wildfire in the night, spread by eager young bards dreaming to follow his path, singing of a day when a commoner had risen higher than princes.

The first crowd that swarmed me caught a few of my half-hearted answers, but soon a hundred voices drowned me out, all shouting at once.

It grew so wild I had to shove my way free, laughing, half-blinded by the press of bodies and the drunken roar of celebration.

The city had been caught in a true fever, and I had to hurry back into the safety of my Crown Prince persona before I was torn apart by frantic, jubilant hands.

At last, safely tucked behind my mask of royal aloofness, I had time to breathe, and to fully grasp what today meant.

I gave a quick explanation to Alysse and Rhaenys, who, with no small amount of amusement, informed me that my father had nearly knighted the mysterious Jaskier Dandelions on the spot, only for Jon Arryn to dissuade him, pointing out that such a fighter would likely prefer to earn his spurs in real battle.

I finally slipped away into the safety of my Instant Dungeon and its blessed time dilation.

There, at last, I took my well-earned Long Rest, sprawling out on the comfortable enough bedroll I had crafted using my Tinker's Magic feature, grateful to avoid another Constitution check against the exhaustion gnawing at my bones.

Not only that, but I even had the luxury of preparing proper meals with my Handy Spice Pouch and Alchemy Jug, feasting like a king inside my own personal domain. As well as made some repairs on my equipment with my Mending cantrip.

Still, there was one last project I wanted…no, I needed to finish before the joust tomorrow morning, before I departed King's Landing with my grandfather, Tywin Lannister, to serve as his ward at Casterly Rock.

The impracticality of spellcasting had finally worn down my patience.

Too many of my spells demanded strange little material components, a stem from a thorny plant for Thorn Whip and mistletoe for Shillelagh for example, and keeping track of them all was fast becoming a nightmare.

Fortunately, over the weeks, I had carefully pilfered pieces of the Alchemist Guildhall's supplies, a glass beaker here, a stirring rod there, a frame, a mortar and pestle, common ingredients like salt, powdered iron, and purified water, until I had a serviceable collection to work with.

It wasn't much compared to the loot I'd scored clearing Instant Dungeons, but it was enough. Enough to craft the thing I needed most…a magical item that would solve my material component problem once and for all.

It took a few disappointing failures, and several frustrating hours of muttered curses and careful recalibration of my recipe. But eventually, with no small amount of help from my Guidance cantrip, I finally succeeded in making some good use of my improvised Alchemist's supplies.

The result was a small, watertight leather belt pouch, no larger than a man's fist, enchanted with tiny, intricate compartments capable of magically producing any costless material component I might need on demand.

No need to dig through my Inventory. No more risk of wasting space. No more wondering if I had packed that damned sprig of mistletoe.

Was it flashy? No. Was it powerful? Hardly. But just like all my other creations, it was mine, a small, perfect victory, crafted with my own hands and magic understanding.

Honestly, after all that work, I had hoped the System would acknowledge my ingenuity, maybe with a new feature or a little something extra…

[PING!]

Hell yeah! I never doubted you, System!

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ARTIFICER SUBCLASS - ALCHEMIST (RANK D+)]

*By constantly applying all of your energy and creativity into the development of wondrous items, you've proven yourself a student of the Arcane that modifies both energy and matter. Alchemy is the oldest of artificer traditions, and its versatility has long been valued during times of war and peace. Some of these practitioners are tinkerers and pranksters, turning people into toads and transforming copper into silver for fun and occasional profit. Others pursue their magical studies with deadly seriousness, seeking the power of the gods to make and destroy worlds.

Yeah, yeah. I'm more of the 'I just want to bend and reshape reality to my will' kind of alchemist. 

But thanks for the promotion, I guess.

[TOOL PROFICIENCY: You gain proficiency with Alchemist's Supplies. In addition, when you brew a potion, the amount of time and cost required to craft it is halved.]

Look at me, becoming a discount potion vendor. Now all I need is a shady little cart and a bell to start hawking 'miracle cures' at the market.

Or 'jars full of pig shit' as Bronn had once described the work of the Alchemist.

[RIGHT TOOL FOR THE JOB: The list of items you can create with Magical Tinkering now includes Artisan's Tools. Whatever tool you create this way, you have proficiency with it when you use it.]

Finally! I was almost doubting that all the countless hours I secretly spent thoroughly studying all the tools used by both Tobho Mott and Hallyne after watching them use them all day long would end up paying dividends.

Even Grand Maester Pycelle had found it a bit too odd for me to keep asking him about the correct handling of tools such as the ones used by cobblers and glassblowers.

No more awkwardly pretending I know how to use painter's supplies to draw the images on the cards I created for my game. Aegon the Conqueror can finally rest easy that I will no longer draw him like an elementary school kid.

[MINOR ALCHEMY: You can now temporarily alter the physical properties of one non-magical object, changing it from one substance into another. By performing a special alchemical procedure on one object composed entirely of wood, stone (but not a gemstone), iron, copper, or silver, transforming it into a different one of those materials. This transformation lasts for one hour unless you use your action to end it. You can use this ability a number of times equal to your Intelligence bonus. You regain your expended uses when you complete a long rest.]

Great. Now I can finally fix a broken chair by… turning it into a broken rock. Truly, the pinnacle of magical innovation.

I kid, of course. My Mending cantrip already has that issue covered.

But where this feature can indeed shine would be to turn my darts crafted from any cheap material into becoming obsidian and hopefully achieving the similar effect Dragonglass has on White Walkers.

[ARCANE POINTS: 2→6 (MAX TIER: 1)]

Ooh, six Arcane Points. I'm practically a low-budget sorcerer now that can cast illusions over his body for up to three hours now. Step aside, Gandalf.

Sorry, I really don't know what's got into me. I'm not usually this sarcastic. My motto can sort of be summed up to: progress is progress, period.

[NEW ARCANE SPELLS LEARNED FROM SUBCLASS: HEALING WORD** // RAY OF SICKNESS**]

See, it's even better than I was giving it credit for.

[CONGRATULATIONS: YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A NEW FEAT: WAR CASTER]

*You have practiced casting spells in the midst of combat, learning techniques that grant you the following benefits:

Ability Score Increase: Your Charisma score increases by 1.

Concentration: You have Advantage on Constitution saving throws that you make to maintain your Concentration.

Reactive Spell: When a creature provokes an Opportunity Attack from you by leaving your reach, you can react by casting a spell at the creature, rather than making a regular strike. The spell must have an instantaneous casting time and must target only that creature.

Somatic Components: You can perform the somatic components of spells even when you have weapons or a shield in one or both hands.

So, let me get this straight… I'm officially stylish enough to throw spells mid-combat without dropping my shield or weapon? About damn time!

Besides, the boost to my concentration is bound to come in handy when I'm being blasted from all sides. And the increase to my Charisma attribute… if my calculations are correct, does that mean that I've just—

[CHA: 20 (+5)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +11

*INTIMIDATION: +7

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +11

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +8

Oh? Oh yeah! So this is what peak charm feels like. I'm now legally required to register as a walking charisma check.

[PING!]

[SECRET QUEST COMPLETED: MAKE SURE THE PEOPLE KNOW YOUR NAME!]

[WIN AT LEAST ONE OF THE COMPETITIONS OF YOUR NAME DAY TOURNAMENT: (2/1)]

[IMPRESS BOTH NOBLES AND SMALL FOLK ALIKE]

[PLANT THE SEEDS FOR THE FUTURE OF YOUR CULT]

[MAX OUT YOUR CHARISMA ATTRIBUTE]

[REWARD: UNLOCK A NEW CLASS]

What?

[PING!]

ARE…YOU…SERIOUS?!

[NEW CLASS ACQUIRED!]

[HAVE YOU HEARD THE CALL OF THE GODS? DO YOU HAVE FAITH IN A HIGHER POWER? WILL YOU BE AN INSTRUMENT FOR THEIR DIVINE WILL?]

[YOU ARE NOW A CLERIC!]

*Clerics are intermediaries between the mortal world and the distant planes of the gods. As varied as the gods they serve, clerics strive to embody the handiwork of their deities. No ordinary priest, a cleric is imbued with divine magic.

[CLASS FEATURES — CLERIC (Rank D-)]

[ABILITIES UNLOCKED:]

[DIVINE ORDER: You have dedicated yourself to the following sacred role.] 

[Thaumaturge: You know one extra cantrip. In addition, your mystical connection to the divine grants you proficiency in the following skill: Religion]

*DIVINE FULLCASTER (Rank D-): You have learned how to cast spells through prayer and meditation. 

[DIVINE POINTS: 14->18 (MAX TIER: 2)]

[NEW CANTRIPS LEARNED! LIGHT // RESISTANCE // SPARE THE DYING // THAUMATURGY]

[NEW SPELLS LEARNED! BLESS // BANE // GUIDING BOLT // PROTECTION FROM EVIL AND GOOD]

So… I'm a cleric now? Just like that? No vision. No angelic herald. No booming voice calling me "my child." Not even a burning bush or a talking goat. Just a notification from my systemand a divine LinkedIn request from the heavens.

But which heavens, exactly?

I mean, fair enough, I've been using the Stranger's name and image considerably more often than my own title as Crown Prince lately. 

Scaring criminals, whispering threats from the shadows, making the wicked kneel and drawing some prayers from the downtrodden. Even planting the seeds of some rumors to strengthen the influence of my fledgling cult during daylight while posing as my Jaskier Dandelions persona. 

It was bound to get some attention from the system.

Still, out of all the gods in Westeros, the Faith of the Seven wasn't exactly the one I was betting against being real, but neither was I holding my breath for some divine intervention any time soon. 

Not just because their Faith militant doctrine could lead to something just as bad as the Red God's heretic burnings or the Old Gods' creepy tree blood sacrifices… but because they've had literal centuries and haven't managed to show even a single miracle worthy of note in the books.

No flames that speak of prophetic visions. No mind-stealing forest spirits. Not even a talking bird that quoted holy scripture, unless you counted Baelor the Blessed, a king some would argue was a different kind of mad. 

Just Septons, taxes and the occasional High Sparrow with a god complex that could topple a king if he didn't thread carefully.

And yet here I am, magic flowing through my veins. Divine magic, similar to the one I wielded as a Bard, but considerably more potent.

If that's not ironic, I don't know what is. Though if I was going to worship someone, it would definitely be my dear Game System. It's consistent, informative, and rewards my hard work. Three things no god in this world has ever managed to pull off.

Still… the spells I've learned from it, were far from useless. 

As I raised my hand and tried to call one of my newest spells into being, I felt the magic was there. I could feel it, humming just below the skin and pulsating within my chest, hearing faint whispers of all the followers I've been able to convert to my cause.

But to my surprise, it stalled. Hesitated. Waiting for… permission? No, permission wasn't the right word. Recognition. 

I could still cast these divine acts of wonder, but they wouldn't be at their peak. Something shifted right as I heard a different kind of whisper behind my thoughts. 

Not quite words, not like the ones singing praises to my actions and hoping for my victory against my enemies, but one more like an instinct. A sense that the divine current now flowing through me wasn't entirely mine to command. Not unless I gave it shape and anchored it to something undeniably real.

Right, of course. Divine magic plays by different rules than Arcane or Primal.

Arcane power is precise. It obeys intellect and discipline. Equations, recipes and runes drawn just right. A magic of scholars, artificers, and any madmen who might try to trap the universe in geometry. You don't just feel it, you must solve it. 

Primal power is wilder. It doesn't speak in glyphs or formulae, but in heartbeat and instinct. It hums in roots and rivers, in the tension of a bowstring, in the moment just before the kill. You don't just command it through logic, you must join it. The predator's hunger, the storm's fury, the forest's slow breath, that's where it lives.

But Divine magic? Divine magic isn't calculated or hunted. It's given.

It answers belief, not necessarily in gods, but in purpose and in meaning. Divine power flows when you declare something is sacred and then act like it. It's conviction made manifest. A whisper with the weight of law that even when silent, it rings in the hearts and heads of others.

So I finally understood what it required. This needed symbolism. An outward sign of inward fire. A symbol of my holy existence, if you will. To use it as a focus, I needed to hold it in hand, wear it visibly or simply bear it upon my shield.

'Well, good thing I always preferred a dramatic flourish.' I told myself before turning my gaze toward the obsidian-hued Dragonbone buckler still hanging over my waist. 'Time to give it a little upgrade.'

From my Inventory, I pulled my Valyrian Steel dagger since I knew precision mattered just as my intent.

Seven points, stark and sharp. A star of the Faith, but black as shadow. And at its lowest tip, a single line of crimson. Just enough to catch the light and suggest blood.

The symbol of the Stranger… my Stranger. The one my recently converted believers created for me. No specific hymns, no singular oath, just quiet intent most of the time. I held the shield aloft. And this time, when I reached for the divine thread, I didn't need to wield, just believe in it.

Power, regardless of its nature, when you first taste it, was like the burn of good wine, heady, rich and just a little dangerous.

The first spell came easily enough this time. I reached toward my Valyrian Steel shortsword which I earned from this very Instant Dungeon and as my hand brushed the hilt, I whispered a word I hadn't known I knew from my past life.

"Lux." The blade lit like a lightsaber.

No heat, like the lightbringer sword Melissandre was said to conjure herself, just light. Warm, pale-gold light, steady as sunrise. Not flickering like a flame, but constant, honest and if you would believe me…pure.

I waved the glowing sword experimentally. Shadows danced along the walls of the treasure room. I could change the color, I realized. Make it red, or gold, or even sickly green, but no. Pitch black with a white bright aura suited me fine, just like the Darksaber from Star Wars. 

A perfect weapon meant to be wielded by the next coming of the Stranger. 

Light, a simple cantrip spell no doubt. But I could already picture its uses. As a distraction, to lure prey into the dark and gloom right before snuffing it out. 

Next came… something else.

As I touched my chest and focused inward. A wordless prayer, not exactly to the Seven. Not to anything that would be flattered by hymns or statues. Just a wish, sharpened into will by the belief placed on my supposed divinity.

I felt it then, a faint shimmer crawling along my skin, like a second layer of armor, translucent and cool. It wasn't quite a shield, not in the way my buckler or breastplate were. 

This was specific and targeted, like I had a choice in what sort of threat to repel.

Cold. I thought of it, and the shimmer shifted to warm me up. Cold wouldn't shake me so easily now. A moment later I tried again. Fire threats would face a chilly layer over me, then it shifted again into something more like glass in order to shield me from Acid. Each time, the faint barrier bent to my decision.

Resistance, the cantrip's name floated to mind like memory. An abjuration, a minor ward against danger. Nothing flashy or absolute, but in the right fight, it could mean the difference between life and death.

Then came something stranger. I cleared my throat, tested my voice and finally spoke. "I am!"

It echoed, louder than it should've. Louder than the vocal cords on my throat allowed, as the stone walls around me almost seemed to lean in. No magic circle, no gestures, just volume. As if my words were being spoken by something larger, something older.

Thaumaturgy.

The name arrived like a title, Ancient Andal magic I recall being referenced a couple of times throughout the Seven-Pointed-Star book. Nothing more than a parlor trick, to be honest, but effective nonetheless. A subtle tool for unsettling foes or charming crowds. 

Booming voice. Flickering lights. Slamming doors. A puff of wind to blow out a candle mid-threat. I could already feel the possibilities stretching ahead of me like a stage.

I tested them, one by one.

With a glance, a magical torch across the room flared through multiple colors, then winked out for a moment. A nearby treasure chest I had already emptied creaked open by itself, the sound theatrical and slow. From the shadows above, a phantom whisper slithered down like the hiss of a viper: "I'm watching." Even knowing I'd done it, it still sent a chill up my spine. 

All very useful, indeed.

Spare the Dying was different. I sort of knew what it did, but I couldn't test it. Not yet, for I had no fallen ally I trusted enough to open up about my secrets, or that I was willing to risk their lives.

Just a quiet certainty that if someone collapsed at my feet, bleeding out, I could stop the end from taking them. Not with bandages, not with a poultice, but with a whisper. As if I was the Stranger himself, deciding when someone's time wasn't over.

That thought… lingered. I have made some considerable progress with my powers now. The kind that could spare lives with my murmur, or damned them to my silence.

The last three spells took more effort. Real spells that drained my pool of Divine magic, which it now shared with my Bard spells, not costless cantrips. They demanded more of me, not just a whisper or a word, but focus. 

Faith, maybe in Stranger or the System, hell for all I knew faith in myself was more than enough. 

Bless was the first. I raised my small shield, the black star gleaming faintly, and directed the spell inward, imagining the push of will, of hope, of confidence. My veins surged, not with strength exactly, but precision. Timing, a breath steadier, a heartbeat sharper.

Bane was the opposite. I tested it on myself just to be aware of the fate I was ushering on my enemies, whispering the invocation and letting my intent twist downward, a pulling, unraveling effect.

If Bless made my targets lucky, Bane made them clumsy. Every swing came late, every step dragged. A penalty not just to the body, but to the soul. No wonder it required a drop of blood.

I pricked my thumb with my Valyrian Steel dagger. The cost was just as trivial as the pain it caused, though the effect was far from it.

Then came the flashiest of the lot so far, Guiding Bolt. It didn't take much imagination to use. I extended my hand, aimed at a patch of untouched stone near the wall and released it.

The bolt screamed through the air like a comet, or perhaps more appropriately a shooting star, a streak of radiant light crashing into the wall with a flash that left afterimages dancing in my vision.

Not just a weapon. A signaling flare. Whatever I hit next, I'd mark for the kill. Made me want to test it out in combination with my Hunter's Mark spell if I ever came against a particularly nasty undead monster.

And finally, Protection from Evil and Good.

That one took time and literal silver. I sat for an hour, grinding the powdered metal with care, whispering quiet syllables that didn't come from any language I'd been taught but were best represented by my vague understanding of Latin.

I literally made Holy Water, something that made this particular spell more expensive than merely expending divine points that were always recovered after a good night of long rest.

When I finally pressed my hand to my chest and let the spell flow, it felt like closing a door. Something shut tight, locked from the inside. Fiends, Undead. Elementals and even Fey.

They'd find me harder to touch now. Harder to bend and harder to break.

"Heh." I leaned back, staring at the vault ceiling above me, as it still depicted the well detailed map of Westeros, before muttering. "So… the question still stands…since when did the Stranger give power to those that honor its name? Or am I to believe that the Seven were just waiting for someone interesting?"

The riddle was somewhat amusing, but for now I knew what I believed in. If there was any god responsible for this, it wasn't the Father, nor the Mother, not the Warrior, nor the Smith, nor the Maiden or Crone, nor even the Stranger.

It was my System. And at the end of the day, I sleep easier believing that it and I… are one and the same.

————————————————————————

TITLE: DURRANDON BARATHEON, CROWN PRINCE // MEDIUM HUMAN, NEUTRAL]

[LEVEL: 7 // PROFICIENCY BONUS: +3]

[CLASS: ASSASSIN B- // GLAMOUR C- // CHAMPION C- // HUNTER C- // ALCHEMIST D+ // CLERIC D-]

[HP: 19 (AID SPELL) // ARMOR CLASS: 19 (DRAGONBONE BUCKLER SHIELD + BREASTPLATE ARMOR)]

[DIVINE POINTS: 18 (MAX TIER: 2)]

[PRIMAL POINTS: 14 (MAX TIER: 2)]

[ARCANE POINTS: 6 (MAX TIER: 1)]

[SPEED: 3.5mph (30ft)]

[SENSES: Blindsight 10ft / Darkvision 60ft (Goggles of the Night)]

[TRAITS: …FONT OF INSPIRATION // INFILTRATION EXPERTISE // TACTICAL SHIFT // TOOL PROFICIENCY // RIGHT TOOL FOR THE JOB // MINOR ALCHEMY // DIVINE ORDER // DIVINE FULLCASTER]

[FEATS: …ALERT // WAR CASTER]

[STR: 10 (0)]

*(EXP) ATHLETICS: +6

[DEX: 13 (+1) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+3)]

*(EXP) ACROBATICS: +7

*(PRO) SLEIGHT OF HAND: +4

*(EXP) STEALTH: +7

[CON: 10 (0)]

[INT: 16 (+3) // PROFICIENT SAVE (+6)]

*(PRO) ARCANA: +6

*(PRO) HISTORY: +6

*(PRO) INVESTIGATION: +6

*NATURE: +5

*(PRO) RELIGION: +6

[WIS: 15 (+2)]

*(PRO) ANIMAL HANDLING: +5

*(EXP) INSIGHT: +8

*MEDICINE: +4

*(EXP) PERCEPTION: +8

*(EXP) SURVIVAL: +8

[CHA: 20 (+5)]

*(EXP) DECEPTION: +11

*INTIMIDATION: +7

*(EXP) PERFORMANCE: +11

*(PRO) PERSUASION: +8

[CANTRIPS: FRIENDS // VICIOUS MOCKERY // SHILLELAGH // THORN WHIP // MENDING** // GUIDANCE // TRUE STRIKE // LIGHT // RESISTANCE // SPARE THE DYING // THAUMATURGY]

[FIRST TIER DIVINE SPELLS: SLEEP // HIDEOUS LAUGHTER // HEROISM // COMPREHEND LANGUAGES // CHARM PERSON ** // MIRROR IMAGE** // BLESS // BANE // CURE WOUNDS // PROTECTION FROM EVIL AND GOOD]

[SECOND TIER DIVINE SPELLS: SUGGESTION // PHANTASMAL FORCE]

[FIRST TIER PRIMAL SPELLS: GOODBERRY // HAIL OF THORNS// LONGSTRIDER // ANIMAL FRIENDSHIP]

[SECOND TIER PRIMAL SPELLS: DARKVISION // AID]

[FIRST TIER ARCANE SPELLS: DETECT MAGIC // PURIFY FOOD AND DRINK // DISGUISE SELF // HEALING WORD** // RAY OF SICKNESS**]

————————————————————————

ARIANNE MARTELL'S POV

The wine was Dornish, dark and heavy with plum and spice, but it still tasted foreign under King's Landing moonlight. 

I swirled it in my goblet and let the cool water of the fountain kiss my ankles while my cousins lingered nearby, Obara sharpening a knife that didn't need sharpening, Tyene humming to herself like a sleepy kitten and Nymeria pretending to read by torchlight. 

The garden atrium of the manse my father paid for us to stay during our visit was quiet, curtained in shadows and trimmed with lion's coin, no doubt. 

We shouldn't have come, I knew that, we all knew that. Despite my father's melancholic feelings for my Targaryen cousin, this city was the same nest of scorpions wearing golden masks that have taken my aunt's life. 

And yet…and yet, I couldn't stop thinking about him, Jaskier Dandelions. The young man with the silver tongue, the shadow grin, and the aim of a goddamn legend. 

He won the archery with a wink, the melee with a laugh, and now his name bloomed in every brothel and ballroom like spring fever. And he'd looked at me, not just at my hips or the crown my name carried, but me… and I'd smiled back like a fool.

"I don't like it!" Obara muttered from the archway. "Too quiet. This place stinks of a Lannister trap."

"You're drunk…" Tyene said sweetly, plucking a fig from the platter. "…and paranoid."

"So are you…" Obara snapped. "…just better at hiding it."

Nymeria didn't even glance up. "If they were going to poison us, they'd have done it in the first course."

I took a sip of wine, letting their voices blur into the background. My mind was elsewhere, for I could still hear his voice. "I aim to please, Princess." 

The way he'd bowed after disarming three knights twice his age, almost like a rogue prince out of a Rhoynar tale.

And then I felt it, the shift. Not a sound, not a gust of wind. Just something in the air, like the pause before a kiss.

My eyes flicked to the shadowed archway, and sure enough, there he was.

Leaning against a painted pillar as if he'd been born there, in that very moment, cloak the color of ink, a wide-brimmed hat in his hand, and that same maddening smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Your wine tastes finer than the Red Keep's, Princess of Dorne." He said, voice like music, low and sure. "But I daresay your company is sweeter still."

Obara moved fast, blade out, ready to call the guards, until I raised a hand and stopped her. "Let him speak."

He bowed, exaggerated and theatrical, a peacock with a poet's tongue. "Fear not, I come bearing no threat or ill-will but a well-tuned lute and a head full of compliments."

"You're mad…" Tyene giggled, delighted. "Do you know what this is? Where you are?"

"Of course, my Lady." He said, strolling closer, slow as molasses. "This is the nest of vipers. But I'm not afraid, for I have come to charm them."

Nymeria looked up at him with cool detachment. "You shouldn't be here. The gates are watched."

"Watched by men who know how to drink…" He said in a dismissive yet polite manner. "And how to look away for just the right amount of flattery and a tale of love."

"Did you climb walls?" I asked, arching a brow while not entirely believing in the tale he was telling us. "Or just turn into a shadow and float past the guards?"

He grinned. "A magician never reveals his tricks."

Obara snorted but didn't lower her blade. Tyene looked like she wanted to feed him grapes and pull him into her lap. Nymeria kept watching, weighing and measuring.

And I… I let him come closer.

There was something fierce about the way he moved, not like a courtier, not even like a knight, but like a street cat who knows every alley and where to bare his claws. He knelt by the pool and looked up at me.

"Four desert roses…" He said softly. "…blooming in a garden far from home. I must be dreaming."

I stood, wine forgotten, and walked toward him.

"You climbed into my father's manse to flirt?" I asked. "Or are you here to steal something?"

"Both!" He said, without missing a beat. "A kiss. A secret. A moment worth remembering. Or anything the four of you judge appropriate for the amount of entertainment I end up bringing to you by the end of my visit."

He met my eyes and didn't flinch, but I swear that I felt the heat creep up my throat.

"You're lucky I'm in a generous mood, Jaskier Dandelions." Was the only reply I was able to give him.

"I always bet on generosity…" He said, standing. "Especially yours, Princess."

"Then earn it." I added while finally getting Obara to calm down.

He unslung his lute with a flourish and strummed a soft chord that shivered across the water. "I intend to."

He strummed another chord, and the sound rippled over the water like silk unraveling in slow motion. Even Obara, fierce as she was, stopped grinding her teeth.

"Will you really sing for us?" Tyene asked, biting into a fig.

Jaskier Dandelions gave her a mock bow. "Sing, juggle, tumble, and tempt fate, if it pleases the court of snakes."

Nymeria snorted softly. "Careful, we've buried men for less."

"I don't doubt it." He twirled one of the empty goblets from the platter, spinning it between his fingers before balancing it on the tip of one. "But I've heard your court prefers a touch of flair to its executions."

Obara rolled her eyes but finally sheathed her blade. "Fine. Impress us. You get one chance."

"Oh, I don't believe in chances…" He said. "…only in moments."

Then he played, not some bawdy tavern tune or the dreary harp songs that pass for ballads in everywhere else. No, this was something strange and swaying, like a shadow-dance. 

His fingers moved like quicksilver, coaxing a melody that felt half Rhoynish, half Essosi, and entirely spellbinding. The music curled around our ankles, climbed our spines, settled in our chests like heat after wine.

And then, the verses came. He began with Obara, of all people.

"A viper raised on spear and spite, who'd rather bleed than bow to fright. Yet sharpest steel, if quenched in flame, can learn to kill and still play the game."

Obara blinked. That was as close to stunned as she ever got. She didn't speak, didn't smile, but she listened. That was enough.

He turned to Nymeria. "Silver masks and courtroom grace, a thousand words, one quiet face. But whisper soft and plot precise…she is her mother's loaded dice."

Nymeria's mouth twitched. That little almost-smile she gave when she thought no one was looking. Mother Rhoyne, he saw everything.

Tyene's verse came last of my cousins. "Sweet as milk, but milk can scald, beneath her kiss, the dead have sprawled. She prays with hands both clean and red, and sings of love beside the dead."

Tyene laughed, delighted. "You've been learning about us."

"Of course…" He said, unabashed. "One does not walk into a garden of poison without learning the names of each bloom."

"And me?" I asked, already knowing he'd saved the most dangerous verse for last.

He looked at me then, truly looked, and for a moment, the jester's smile faltered into something like reverence. "For her, no rhyme will ever do. The sun itself would dim on cue. A crownless queen with flame for grace, the storm she rides will burn this place."

My breath caught. I hated how much I liked the way he said it, like I was legend to come, not just legacy from the past.

I stepped toward him. "You steal words the way others steal kisses."

"And if I steal both?" He asked, standing now, lute slung behind him again. "Would you demand payment?"

"That depends. What else have you stolen tonight?" I asked.

Jaskier responded by extending a hand. "A moment of your time."

The way he said it… low and smooth like a promise whispered in a tent at midnight. I didn't take his hand, I placed mine in it.

He pulled me gently toward the mosaic tiles near the edge of the pool, and then we were dancing, not a court dance, but something freer, more fluid, more…passionate. 

Though his steps were precise but playful, he let me lead, then stole it back, then offered it again.

Meanwhile, he kept talking. "There's a knight in the tourney whose squire takes coin to poison rivals' horses. A hedge bard who's not a bard at all but a spy for Oldtown. And a baker's boy who should've died years ago but keeps showing up in the strangest places."

I raised an eyebrow. "You have many tales."

"I have many eyes and ears…" He replied, twirling me once before letting me rest a hand on his shoulder. "Most of them not my own."

Tyene watched us with fascination. Nymeria seemed to be filing every word into a ledger only she could see. Obara leaned against the pillar now, arms crossed but no longer scowling.

"Where do you come from, truly?" I asked. "Not the Stormlands. Not with that tongue."

He leaned in slightly, voice low like a secret shared under a blanket of stars. "I once fell in love with a princess who lived in a tower of brass, guarded by wind and flame. Her father locked her behind seven walls, but I slipped in wearing rags, and left in silks, with the lamp, the tiger, and a wish-granting genie on my side."

Obara scoffed. Tyene's eyes widened. Nymeria tilted her head, considering.

"You lie." I said, lips curving in spite of myself.

"Only when the truth is weirder than fiction!" He said cheerfully. "That's because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities, truth isn't."

"And this tale?" I asked.

He spun me again, and when I landed back in his arms, his voice was velvet. "Would it matter, if you believed it just long enough to dream?"

I should've pulled away, should've questioned him more, tested his claims. But instead, I held his gaze, and let him steal one more moment.

The man was smoke and silk and seduction. Mother Rhoyne help me, for I wanted to breathe him in.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

There's a particular kind of silence after a performance, not applause, not even breathless awe, but something deeper. A stillness filled with appraisal. Anticipation. As if the room itself holds its breath.

That silence hung over the Martell manse like smoke.

Obara broke it first, with a murmur while rising to her feet with the sharp grace of a predator. "You sing well. But anyone can hide behind a lute."

She tossed me a practice spear from a rack beneath the archway, worn smooth by years of drills. I caught it on reflex, spinning it with a flourish that might've looked like bravado, and partially was, but also disguised the flick of a True Strike weave pulsing through my fingertips ready to be released.

"Let's see if you can keep rhythm with bruises." She said, circling me. "Or will you sing excuses?"

"A lady after my heart…" I said, stepping into the dance of sparring, not to win, but to move with her. The crack of wood rang sharp in the garden, shadows flickering across the tiles with every feint and dodge. Obara fought like someone who'd never been allowed to lose, and I let her strike close enough to almost win.

Behind her, Tyene lounged beside the fountain, plucking figs from a carved silver dish. 

"Don't break him, sister." She called sweetly. "We haven't even asked him the important questions yet."

"Such as?" I deflected Obara's jab, catching it with the shaft of my spear and twisting it gently from her hand, enough to disarm, never humiliate.

"Such as whether he's a sinner or a saint." Tyene tilted her head, smile gentle, but eyes hard enough to cut glass. "Or if he believes in redemption."

"Not for everyone…" I said, stepping away from Obara, who let me go with a grunt and a smirk. "…but for anyone."

"And you?" She asked.

"I've sinned." I said, sitting beside her on the marble ledge, still catching my breath. "Lied. Stolen. Once betrayed a man who trusted me because it was the only way to save a city. That make me evil, sweet one?"

Tyene leaned close, brushed her fingers along my jaw. "Makes you interesting…" She whispered. "But not innocent."

"I haven't claimed innocence since I was five." I whispered back.

That made Nymeria snort, she'd been watching, glass in hand, leaning against a pillar draped in indigo silk. "And how old were you when you started spinning tales instead of truths?"

I turned, hand over heart. "Ah, Lady Nymeria, I never truly lie."

"Only wrap the truth in enough riddles to strangle a maester." She said, approaching with slow, measured steps. "You knew our names. You knew where to find us. You choreographed a song like a court performance. Who sent you?"

"No one. Not in 'the faceless men, no one', but literally no one." I took her glass and sipped before handing it back, noticing how he faltered once I mentioned the infamous group of assassins. "But I've listened. Learned. The world whispers if you know how to listen."

I watched her watch me, no flicker of belief, but no outright doubt either. Just calculation. The way a player weighs the board before making a bold move.

"And what do you want, bard?" She asked, tone light, but loaded.

"To matter." I said it simply, no poetry needed. "To be heard. To never vanish."

Something shifted in her expression, not sympathy, but understanding. She raised her glass again, silent and unspoken respect.

Obara had slumped against a column, sweat on her brow, half-laughing now. "He's a bastard, just like us."

"Not quite…" Arianne said at last, the princess had watched all this unfold from the stone balcony near the closest window with a good view of the capital city, her silhouette a frame of fire and curve, cloaked in torchlight. "He's something stranger."

I looked up. "Care to define strange, Princess?"

"No need…" She replied. "Come, I want to see the city."

I joined her, the others falling back, not dismissed or retreating, but giving space. Almost as a passing of the torch.

The balcony offered a view of King's Landing sprawled in crooked gold beneath the moonlight, its chaos softened by distance.

"You've captured their interest…not for the first time in a day." She said, not looking at me. "That's not easy."

"Should I be flattered?" I asked.

"You should be careful…" Turning to face me with a teasing smile. "We bite."

"I like sharp edges." I replied with a casual yet respectful gesture.

She smiled, faintly. "Then tell me something real. Not a performance. Not a riddle."

I took a breath, and gave her the deception of a lifetime. "I had a brother once. Not by blood, but I'd have died for him. He was better than me in every way. He died in the Rebellion trying to protect a king who never even knew his name."

Arianne turned to me. Her eyes gleamed, not from pity, but recognition. "Then you know what it is to be forgotten."

I nodded.

She stepped closer. "When I was a girl, my aunt Elia used to braid my hair. She told me I would marry a prince. That I laughed like summer."

I studied her, candlelight flickering in her curls. "You still do. Laugh like that."

She touched my hand, fingers brushing mine like a secret, and for a moment, we simply stood in silence. The garden buzzed faintly below with the sound of water, wine and low murmurs from three women pretending not to listen.

The manse changed after dusk, shadows deepened, wine darkened, and time twisted like silk in water.

I don't remember when the music stopped, or when our moans and grunts of sheer pleasure began to feel like a spectacle.

It wasn't seduction, not really, my experience with Chataya had taught me better than that. It was something older, more intimate, a ritual disguised as pleasure. A binding of heat, wit and dare.

Obara came first, challenging me again, this time with teeth and laughter and a grip like a gauntlet. She dared me to lose control, and I let her fool herself just enough. Never really expected carnal pleasure to come from something that more closely resembled a wrestle.

Oberyn's blood was undeniably strong on her, more than just on the battlefield.

Nymeria joined not long after, still half dressed in cynicism and calculation. I thought she'd simply observe, cold-eyed and aloof, but she didn't. She watched, yes, but she moved too. Deliberate, precise, almost a lesson in consequence.

Once I found her weak spot, she began muttering words of pleasure in High Valyrian.

Tyene never announced herself. She simply arrived, fingers at my throat, breath at my ear, soft words spoken with the cadence of prayer or poison. There was kindness in her, somewhere, hidden behind layers of fake purity. I didn't try to find it, I simply let it bloom where it would.

Thanks to her roleplay-like acting of a septa, I could proudly say that I've risked another item from my bucket list.

Arianne was last.

Or perhaps first. Perhaps she had always been there, not joining, but reigning. She didn't seduce me but actually tried to claim me.

But it was right there, surrounded by legs and breasts, that I drew the line. Before they could muster any protest, I finally went from following along their rhythm to dictating the way we exchanged cuddles and pleasure one another.

I didn't just survive the pit of vipers, but actually conquered it. The amusing image of Ouroboros scratching that necessary itch was that hat that kept granting me Heroic Inspiration almost every time I brought them to a loud climax.

The night was not one thing, it was many. Twists of different colors of skins and hairs, limbs tangled like a messy mass of roots, breath against sweat, their womanly curves beneath moonlight. 

I remember Tyene's laugh blending into Obara's growl. I remember the taste of figs and Nymeria having to ditch her collection of hidden blades so as to not cause a problem. I remember Arianne's eyes, hypnotized by the flexing of my muscles.

And then I remember nothing, or everything.

When dawn came, I was already gone, like a song that lingers only in the memory of those who truly listened.

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ARIANNE MARTELL'S POV

The sun rose too fast.

It always does after nights like that, the kind that seem unreal until you realize they've stolen something from you. Something small, but permanent, and that will bring me months of non-stop sermon in case my father ever learned about it.

Jaskier was gone. No note, no excuse, not even a way of finding him again left behind. Only the echo of his voice, humming low and sweet from some distant corner of memory and a sweet token of our night together.

Tyene sat by the fountain, bare feet in the water but hair still messy. She smiled as if she'd just woken from a pleasant dream, but her fingers gently hovered over the spots she had been touched under her robes.

"Interesting man…" She murmured. "I really liked him."

Obara didn't speak. She punched a column hard enough to crack the plaster, knuckles raw, chest heaving.

"Cocky bastard!" She muttered, more flustered than angry. "I cut his manhood for that!"

Nymeria stood alone on the terrace, wind tugging her hair. 

I said nothing. In my hand was the token he left for me, a single black rose, its stem wrapped in silver thread.

As the awkwardness of what we have done to one another under the guidance of that gentle pervert finally settled after an unspoken vow between us of never bringing it up. It wasn't perfume or petals that lingered, but the question. 

Why us?

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JON ARRYN'S POV

Ah, another day, another morning. Such wonders a good night of uninterrupted sleep can bring to a man.

Unfortunately I find myself suffering from the abundance of such nights. Especially since Lysa once again didn't seem willing to open her legs for me. 

Not that I blame her, for a young maiden like her I must look the farthest of the gallant knight I once was, but it is still frustrating to have her father constantly dropping subtle and polite inquiries about when we should be expecting the son that would be expected to inherit the Vale.

Enough of all that whinging, as I took my usual place beside the King's empty seat, I noted with some dismay that, even now, despite the Queen and her younger twins already being seated, Robert had yet to appear. 

Queen Cersei sat proud and cold as a winter frost, her younger son Lann clad in bright Baratheon gold, while little young Joanna wore a wreath of lilies in her hair and watched the hall with wide, curious eyes.

Around me, the great lords of the realm filled the Red Keep's great hall for the morning feast. Lords bantered. Servants wove between trestle tables. The smell of honeyed ham and fresh bread mingled with rose oil and casual oaths.

Lord Stannis arrived in his usual fashion, grim, tight-lipped, jaw clenched like a trap ready to spring. He sat beneath his niece and nephew with that same scowl he'd worn since boyhood, just as Robert once described him to me in the Vale. At his side was Ser Davos Seaworth, calm and ever-watchful. 

The Onion Knight offered me a polite nod, which I returned with a faint smile.

Of those who ought to be here, only Robert, the Crown Prince, and the Warden of the West remained absent. But that changed soon enough.

A long shadow fell over me. I looked up, and there he was, Lord Tywin Lannister. Cloaked in crimson and gold, posture rigid as a tower, face carved from cold stone.

"Good morning, Lord Arryn." He said.

"Ah. Good morning, Lord Lannister." I rose with the stiffness that age insists upon, barely reaching his shoulder. "How was your first night in the capital?"

"Familiar." He said, the word polished smooth like a coin. Not fond, not displeased. Simply… settled.

I nodded. "That is good to hear."

His gaze was sharp and measuring. There was no smile on his lips, only that faint tilt of the mouth he used in place of pleasantries. I suspected it was the closest thing to warmth a man like him ever showed.

"I must congratulate you on your young protégé, Lord Hand." He said. "Prince Durrandon seems to growing into a fine boy, sharp-minded, composed, and gifted in studies that challenge grown men."

I allowed myself a thin smile. "He's had excellent teachers. The Grand Maester grounds him in history and reason. The Lord Commander oversees his physical training. I simply keep him from mischief and try to instill a sense of duty."

Tywin inclined his head, though I sensed skepticism beneath it, as if he thought I understated my role. Or overstated it. It was hard to tell with Tywin Lannister.

"Regardless…" He said. "…from what I hear, the boy impresses. And I understand he'll be joining me at Casterly Rock?"

"So it seems. A bond with his mother's House is both wise and proper." I forced a note of warmth into my voice. "I trust you'll be a steady guide, Lord Tywin."

"A relationship like that must prosper." He said, his eyes drifting briefly toward the Queen and her younger children. "And I suppose it falls to me to ensure that it does. It's my duty to aid in his growth."

That struck more deeply than I let on. Tywin Lannister, guiding the King's heir… it was a notion ripe with possibility and peril. But I smiled all the same.

"I'm glad to hear it." I met his gaze directly. "It is, as you said, a much-needed relationship."

"There's no doubt." He replied. Then, after a beat, he continued. "I understand the Crown Prince must be preoccupied by the celebration, but if I may, I would speak with him. Privately. Before we leave the capital."

I inclined my head. "Of course, my lord. But I'm afraid he and His Grace have already departed for the tourney field. The King insisted on riding out early. They were eager to begin, given what's at stake today. The victor will be named the Prince's sworn shield, after all. But once the dust settles, I'll have him sent to you."

"That will suffice." Tywin nodded once. "I look forward to our meeting."

With that, he turned and strode off, toward his daughter, his sons and his grandchildren.

I watched him go, unsettled despite his civility. Tywin Lannister did not offer praise without purpose. Nor mentorship without motive.

I sank back into my seat and rubbed at my temple, the dull ache there a familiar burden.

'Gods help me.' I thought. 'I am indeed getting too old for all of this.'

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QUEEN CERSEI'S POV

I used to love tournaments as a child.

The colors, the music, the way knights rode as if they truly believed themselves invincible. It had seemed a dream then, a dream spun from gold and steel and pageantry.

Years later, and here I was again. Now? It was noise. Blood and dirt dressed in silk.

I had seen a dozen of tournaments since marrying Robert, and in each, I found less to admire. The best rider won the joust, the best swordsman the melee. Archery was a chore. And the rest? Feasts and fools.

But this one… this one at least had purpose.

Some foreign sellsword, or knight, or gods know what else people's claimed that bard was, had stolen half the spectacle already. A man of too many titles and too much flair, who rumors claimed to hail from so many lands I was certain half those tales were fiction. 

But the man's skill was real, uncomfortably so. He had nearly stolen the melee and performed unerringly in the archery, but at least the drama helped with my boredom.

Still, all of that paled beside the true matter at hand, the joust. For today, the victor of the lists would be named Sworn Shield to the Crown Prince.

My eldest son, ever the dutiful one, always looking for reasons to protect others. It had been his excuse to take up books and arms early, well before custom allowed. He used duty like a sword, wielding it to carve his path where rules would block him.

If the boy required a champion of his own, then let the knights fight for the privilege.

Beside me, Lann bounced in his seat, struggling to stay upright beneath the weight of his little velvet doublet. He had insisted on wearing his "lion armor", a golden-stitched tunic with pauldrons no larger than a man's palm. His eyes followed the knights as they prepared, wide with innocent awe.

"He's going to win." He whispered to no one in particular, pointing to a hedge knight in white and red. "I saw him sharpen his sword yesterday."

"That's a lance tourney, my love." I gently corrected him. "Not swords."

"Oh." He said, blinking. "Can lances be sharpened?"

Before I could answer, Joanna gave a snort.

Seated just a little closer to the Crown Prince, her hands were clasped in her lap, dainty and deliberate. But her eyes… her eyes were narrowed and hungry.

"I hope they hurt each other." She commented offhandedly, her voice light as summer air.

I glanced down at her, and for a moment, her face was all innocence again, pink cheeks and soft curls beneath a wreath of wildflowers. But her smile lingered too long. 

There was something in her that occasionally unsettled me.

Joanna had never much cared for people, save one. Everything she did, she did for Don. And he, of course, encouraged her. He always did. Now, she giggled from his lap, squirming as he tickled her ribs, her tiny laughter ringing like bells in a temple.

Lann watched from the corner of his eye but didn't join them. He rarely did anymore. Not out of jealousy. He simply knew Joanna didn't want him near, she had made that clear early on. That and the fact that Durrandon still tried his best to equally share his time with both the twins.

And for that effort, in front of Don, they played the part of loving twins. They held hands when asked and even smiled for him. 

How long that pretense would last, I did not know. But for now, the trumpets sounded. The jousting was about to begin.

And all eyes turned to the field.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

I braced myself for hours of jousting.

The crowd was electric, restless, drunk on spectacle. I, meanwhile, sat with my back straight and eyes alert, feigning more excitement than I felt while also entertaining my baby half-sister. 

Just like the other nobles present at the Royal Pavilion, Tyrells were also present, Lord Mace in his blustering, self-satisfied glory. He spoke loudly and laughed often, accompanied by his wife and elder sons. The eldest, Willas, I noted, still winced when he moved too quickly, his first joust had ended poorly. But his brother, Garlan, looked eager to prove himself the first opportunity he was granted.

Tourneys weren't boring, just… predictable. Though, at the very least most of the knights not worth watching were too battered from the melee to compete.

Still, men trained since they were boys for events like these, chasing glory they'd likely never taste. Most wouldn't even rise to the level of footnotes in a bard's song. But here they were, some few out in shining armor, but all hungry for attention.

Uncle Jaime wouldn't leave King's Landing even if he won, not that he wouldn't try to. He always plays the part, regardless of the script.

Sandor Clegane was also in the list. That surprised me. I didn't peg him for a man who gave a shit about pageantry or titles. Then again, maybe this was just another excuse to break bones with royal permission.

Ser Arys Oakheart from the Reach and Ser Balon Swann from the Stormlands had also joined. Not yet household names, but talented enough to earn my eye. Alongside them, a few hedge knights who'd managed to avoid the carnage of the melee, either by luck or cowardice.

Like I've already mentioned, the joust itself was a simple concept. A fence between the riders, a wooden lance in hand, blunted to avoid death… mostly. It was far safer than the melee, sure, but not exactly tame. A broken bone here, shattered teeth there, all part of the performance.

The warlance, despite its elegance, was never meant to entertain. It was built for shock, for speed, for raw destructive force. Yet in the lists, repetition almost dulled its menace. 

It was all structure now. Rules and presentation.

My father gave the call to begin, his voice boomed across the field like thunder.

The first tilt was to be, The Hound versus some forgettable Tully cousin of Lysa's. I didn't catch the man's first name, I barely cared to. What chance did he have?

A runt barely brushing six feet, up against the younger brother of a monster. Wooden lances or not, Sandor Clegane was more than dangerous.

Predictably, the match ended in a blink. The Tully left with a broken arm and a jaw hanging off-center. A lucky man, all things considering.

A few dull jousts followed. Men tipping each other like badly balanced statues. Then Clegane rode out again, this time facing one of the many Freys, Steffon the Sweet.

'Sweet.' I barely held out a snort. 'Gods, what a nickname for a man.'

The Freys breed faster than rabbits and uglier than weasels. This one didn't look like he'd ever held a sword outside a practice yard. 

Against Sandor? The outcome felt preordained.

Still, I watched as they charged. Frey's lance hit Sandor's shield, deflected like a twig off a boulder. The Hound slammed into him with a brutal shoulder-check that nearly sent the man flying. 

Credit where it's due, he didn't fall.

Second pass, Sandor raised his lance high, striking down like a smith hammering iron. Frey raised both hands to block with his shield. It flew from his grasp like a leaf in the wind.

Surely I wasn't the only one to notice blood in the water, for Sandor pressed the attack before Frey could be handed a fresh shield. One more tilt, and the Hound's lance crashed into Frey's face. Likely broke his nose, maybe more.

Final pass, Sandor struck with merciless precision. The Frey knight finally went down, unconscious, blood pouring from his face and a dent carved deep into the thinner segment of his breastplate.

In a real battle, he'd be a corpse and the Hound would already be looking for his next kill. But I'd be lying if I said the Frey didn't last longer than I expected. A reminder, perhaps, that I still had more to learn before claiming I truly understood this battlefield.

As expected, Sandor advanced to the next round and bets were flying fast now. Most favored the Kingsguard knights. The smart coin always did. 

They'd dominated the previous tournaments, legends like Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan were names commoners would remember their antipathy for the former of the latter age.

But my attention stayed on Sandor.

The Hound was almost as fearsome as his brother, maybe more since he had his vengeance ever so present on his mind. He'd been killing since twelve, they said, and although he might not match Gregor's size, even though he's the closest one to that, where the Mountain was used to weaker opponents, Sandor was focused on defeating one considerably stronger than him. 

Pain honed, scarred and motivated him.

By now, the crowd had fully surrendered to the thrill. Cheers erupted with every shattered lance and Knights unhorsed to roaring applause. All for the thrill of it.

The joust dragged on longer than I liked. Not as wild as the melee, not as quick as the archery. But still… it served its purpose.

Barristan the Bold unhorsed Uncle Jaime, that certainly woke me up from my moment of boredom.

Thunderous applause shook the pavilion as the old knight saluted the crowd. The commoners screamed his name like he was the Warrior reborn, while even some of the already drunken ones spat offenses at the Kingslayer nickname.

"This is quite amazing." Said Jon Arryn beside my father. "I don't recall any other tourney drawing such an enthusiastic crowd."

Robert beamed like a boy who'd just swung his first sword. This was his vision, a celebration of triumph, strength, legacy. A reminder of his victory at the Trident, of what it meant to be loved by the people.

"This is what all tourneys should be." Robert bellowed. "Men bleeding for glory, gold, and fame! Let the rest of us howl like the beasts we are!" He filled his goblet, wine spilling onto his fingers. "If not for the bloody winters, I'd host a dozen of these a year."

Jon Arryn sipped his wine, likely wishing it were milk.

"It's been a chaotic time." The King said, more thoughtful now. "The transition of power made things stable… but not fulfilling. People need moments like these. To breathe. To feel."

Jon smiled, raising his glass. Robert wasn't always as irresponsible as he looked.

Eventually, we were down to the final sixteen. The yard cleared and everyone's focus sharpened. Then eight. Then four. Then two.

Sandor Clegane and Ser Barristan Selmy.

A match that had drawn blood long before they ever tilted. Sandor had undoubtedly wanted to face his brother, the Mountain. That grudge ran deep, as old as fire and toys and childhood screams.

But the Mountain hadn't come to the capital, probably due to Tywin's command and foresight to avoid conflict with the Martells. Which meant Sandor had been only releasing his frustrations on every poor man that was unlucky to have been pitted against him.

Further down the royal pavilion, I caught Prince Doran Martell glaring at the crowd. He obviously didn't seem pleased to hear the name "Clegane" chanted with such adoration.

Tyrion, for his part, nursed his wine, having already lost his whoring coin on earlier bets, more specifically once his brother was unhorsed by Barristan Selmy. The Dwarf Lannister wisely stayed silent now.

When the finalists entered, the crowd rose to its feet. Two warhorses, two men of different worlds. One, the people's knight. The other, the people's weapon.

They bowed to the King and rode to their marks just as silence fell. 

Then came the signal. Barristan leaned forward, lance poised. Fast, focused. His steed galloped like it had been born to tilt. While Sandor lowered his shield, held firm. 

The two met with a thunderous clash. Barristan's lance clipped Sandor's shoulder while the Hound shattered the older knight's shield.

But Selmy didn't fall. Again, they charged. Again, they clashed. Sparks flew. The third pass ended with neither man yielding.

Then, Barristan raised his lance and lowered it moments before declaring. "I forfeit." 

The entire yard froze.

"So he's my sworn shield?" I muttered, intending to shake my father into motion.

Robert caught the words and seized the moment with a thunderous shout. "People of King's Landing! May I present your champion!"

The crowd exploded with cheers.

Barristan, ever the responsible Lord Commander, had chosen wisely. A shattered rib or a broken limb might have kept him from his post. And the old knight had something he wanted from Robert, something he couldn't afford to risk losing just by not being in top shape.

Sandor didn't care how he won, in his eyes victory was victory.

"Sandor Clegane." Robert declared. "I, Robert of House Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, hereby name you Sworn Shield to my eldest son, Durrandon Baratheon."

And with that, now I had a protector. A weapon. Maybe even a friend, if I played my cards right. Not today, perhaps, but soon.

He hadn't entered this joust to become a babysitter. But he'd heard the right words before it began. Words that convinced him. 

Sandor might not realize it yet, but he was on his way to join my Cult of the Stranger, especially if it could one day grant him the vengeance he has been seeking out so desperately.

Sandor took a knee and gave his vow. A Sworn Shield is more than a guard and more than a sword.

He reflects his lord's honor, as well as his strength and his judgment. He must go further than expected. Never flinch. Never falter.

And above all, never bring shame to the one he serves.

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(12/10/2021)

(24/04/2022)

(01/01/2025)

*Hope this chapter is of your liking. 

Anything you wish to ask, feel free to do so.

Check out my auxiliary chapter if you still haven't.

Thanks as always for your attention and please be safe.

Any problems with my writing, just point them out and I will correct them as soon as possible.