A rumble of dissatisfaction leaves my lips as I rise from the bed in the chamber I was given. The mattress is excellent by royal standards, but my standards have been ruined by the System; a "royal-quality" bed is, to me, a lesser thing now that I'm used to a System-grade one. Gods, I'm a spoiled brat.
I move to the window and check the sun's position to guess the time.
"Mmmm, it's fairly early. Most folk are still abed—at least the nobles are. Some smallfolk have likely already risen to scrape a few coppers together; some probably didn't sleep at all." I let out a sigh and push the gloomy thoughts away. No point brooding at dawn. King's Landing's affairs don't interest me in the slightest, and I've no desire to burden myself with them.
Better to look at the gacha I won yesterday. Now's as good a time as any to use them. "System, use all pulls."
[Pulls in progress]
[Tattoo Parlour ×6: Infrastructure allowing human bodies to be covered with designs using special ink. Assign villagers to become tattooists.
Livestock: Sheep: Infrastructure allowing you to raise sheep for various uses.
Apiary: Infrastructure allowing you to keep bees for various purposes. Assign villagers to become beekeepers.
Hospital Upgrade: Your hospitals now include a psychiatric wing to treat maladies of the mind. Some village physicians will be retrained as mind-healers.]
And just like that, the solution for the two Targaryens falls into my lap. Praise the Almighty System. The other rewards aren't bad either. I'd forgotten the taste of honey, and I already had tattoos in my former life, so I've no problem getting inked again—perhaps even some new pieces. Who knows.
I run through a quick hygiene routine, dress in my finest, and leave my apartments, sword at my hip. Without a word, the two guards posted at my door fall in behind me as we head toward the one place here I can actually tolerate.
Servants we pass bow with respect and little dips of the head; I answer with a curt nod. Not out of disdain, but because I know nearly all of them spy for the "players" of this castle.
Reaching the castle gardens, I breathe in the scent of flowers basking in the sun. My sharpened senses still catch faint sour notes drifting up from the city. The stink of King's Landing is present, but faint enough to let me enjoy the gardens in peace—though, once again, it's nothing compared to the gardens of the Scarlet Keep back home.
Being a bit of a Game of Thrones fan, a part of me had wanted to see the fortress that housed Targaryens and their dragons. Honestly, after walking the building, whatever excitement I had—little as it was—evaporated. All that remains is a mild thrill at meeting figures from the tales… some of them, anyway. Fanboy or not, this is real life. Almost everyone's a potential enemy until proven otherwise—even Jon Arryn. Just because he was my mother's friend doesn't mean an eye won't be on him day and night. It may sound paranoid, but this is Westeros. Paranoia is a survival standard.
"Sigh. I want to go home." My whining earns only an amused snort as Geralt falls in at my side and joins me on the path toward a nook of the royal gardens, where my handmaidens are doing handmaiden things, I suppose. I wonder how they stay fresh on so little sleep, then remember each of them is an agent trained by my Intelligence Office.
"Don't tell me you want to leave already; we've only been here two days," the witcher says, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, clearly entertained by my misery as we sit at a garden table with a view over the city. "From what I've heard, we might be stuck here until next week." His smile widens as my pitiful groans do.
I rub my brow for a few seconds and let out a long breath. "At least we have an audience with the king this afternoon regarding my expedition to Essos."
"Ah yes, 'permission.' I truly don't see why we have to ask the Fat King first." A small smile tugs at my lips at the nickname he gives "the most powerful man in Westeros," and I shake my head.
"The permission in question—though we don't actually need it—serves as leverage. What we're about to do will make a great deal of noise. Many will try to twist it to their advantage, or to make our lives difficult. With that 'permission,' we can handle nearly any trouble that crops up—at least on the Westerosi side. As for Essos… that's another problem, but I doubt we'll have much trouble there either."
The project itself is simple: buying slaves.
Like anyone thrown into the world of Westeros with lands to manage, I'll use the solution every transmigrator uses: buy slaves, then free them and let them choose whether to become citizens of Skagos—or take their new freedom and live as they please elsewhere.
Reading about people doing it without complications is one thing; doing it yourself is another. When the time comes, I intend to buy every slave on offer in Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. That's a lot of slaves, and impossible to hide.
According to Karl, the transport fleet for this expedition will be ready in a year, thanks to his gifts. In the meantime, Skagos will grow in prominence and, of course, attract covetous eyes. The fact that I'm buying slaves could serve those people—and not in my favor. I'm not trusting fanfiction logic with something like this.
So, to head off future problems—at least on that front—I'll simply convince the Fat King that no, I'm not about to break the law by bringing slaves here to work for me under the lash.
Geralt sighs and takes a sip of wine, his tone plaintive. "Why must everything be so bloody complicated?"
"Because otherwise the gods wouldn't find it amusing, White Wolf." I smile and pull out a deck of cards. "Fancy a round of gwent?"
"Gladly. It'll help pass the time until the audience," he says, producing his own deck.
It's duel time.
The next hours are filled with my attempts to put hundreds of gwent matches into practice against the man across from me. We chat about this and that until the tourney comes up.
"Are you going to compete?" the witcher asks, placing a spy on the board.
"Of all of it, only the melee sounds tempting—and even then, the only worthy opponent would be you." I set down Yennefer—because I'm vicious now and then. "Though the Mountain or Ser Barristan might make for a decent warm-up, I suppose, and… Do you have nothing but spies?" I drop my hand on the table as Geralt throws his fourth spy at my face before unleashing a flood of cards that hands him victory, 113 to my miserable 55.
Utter nonsense.
"Apparently Prince Oberyn and young Loras Tyrell will compete as well. I hear they're very fine fighters," he adds, maddeningly casual, as if he hadn't just won the last five rounds in a row, while I supposedly have a mind ten times sharper than his. "Still, I doubt it changes the tourney's outcome." He bites into a cream-filled bun that, I've recently learned, doesn't seem to go stale, or at least spoils very, very slowly.
"Honestly, I'll only enter the melee—and perhaps archery. There's nothing of interest in this dungheap they call a city. I'll finish what I came to do here and then we're going home." I've mostly spent the last two days wandering and scouting because, according to Elia and Alfred, trying to sell my products the very day I arrived would make me look desperate. Instead, they advised me to let people taste them and come to me.
Once they're hooked on System goods, I'll have no trouble striking trade with the gathered lords. As for this afternoon's audience, I doubt it'll be hard to sway Robert—both for my expedition to Essos and for selling my wares. Of course, the Small Council won't love him spending even more coin while the Crown is drowning in debt—but when has the Fat King ever listened to them?
"I disagree. Apparently the brothels in King's Landing are excellent. The castle guards say Littlefinger's houses are very fine," he says as we start another game—an unwise choice given my recent record. "You should go. You'd unwind—more importantly, you'd finally lose your maidenhead." I only growl, because as much as I'd like to argue, he's not wrong. It's been nearly a year since I landed in this world, and my sex life is nonexistent.
The problem was I had a starving land to drag from the mud, traitors to execute, deals to strike, and so on…
Still, Geralt has a point. Things are stable enough. My current aims are Skagos's development, the projects I gave Heisenberg, and trade with Westeros. All well underway without my constant hand.
The future will be hectic. Best to enjoy the present.
As we keep playing, a voice rings out—though Geralt and I had heard the footsteps and breathing of the newcomers long before. We just didn't bother to let them know. I didn't because I'm busy trying to wipe that smug grin off the mutant's face, and the mutant himself… simply doesn't give a damn.
Whoever comes, it's not as if we've anything to fear here. Between me, Geralt, the handmaidens who double as spies, and the elite soldiers we brought, we could slaughter the castle's entire guard, walk out of the Red Keep, and lose any pursuit with our ships. All that to say— "All right, you're cheating. There's no other explanation."
"I have another explanation, but you won't like it," he says, drinking his wine with complete nonchalance, as if he's just toyed with a child and isn't surprised by the result.
"You know I could toss you over that wall, don't you?" I narrow my eyes dangerously—earning only a disdainful snort.
"And I'd die content, knowing you'd have to live with the shame of a real-life rage-quit." I click my tongue in annoyance. Note to self: don't teach modern slang to the next summon.
"You seem rather wroth for such a fine day, Lord Harlow." I point a finger at Geralt and murmur, "This isn't over, cat-eyes," before rising and turning to our two visitors. Geralt mirrors me.
A man and a woman.
The man is lean but athletic. My heightened senses have no trouble tracing the whipcord muscle shaped for speed as much as strength. Sun-browned skin, high cheekbones, a straight nose, a clean jaw softened by a predator's smile. His eyes, dark as near-black wine, gleam with a mix of seduction and curiosity—and a keen, constant intensity. His black hair, slightly wavy and worn to the shoulders, frames a face as charming as it is dangerous. His light tunic, richly colored in yellow, red, and orange—the hues of his House—hangs open at the chest for comfort, provocation, and style.
The woman is of middling height, her figure supple and balanced, moving with feline grace. Sun-kissed skin sets off the depth of her brown eyes—expressive, intense—and the desire for me and Geralt isn't even hidden. Long, wavy brown hair spills freely over her shoulders, a few locks framing her face: high cheekbones, an elegant nose, full, plush lips. Her garb is light and draped in reds, golds, and oranges—covering only what propriety demands.
"For the love of the gods, spare us the prattle of noble titles, Oberyn." His posture wavers a fraction at that, then he flashes a brilliant smile. "Come, sit. We have sweets, drink, and good company to go with it. But first, allow me to present my friend and captain of my guard, Geralt of Rivia."
Geralt steps forward and greets the pair, who continue to study us with unconcealed interest—and a trace of lust because, well… Henry Cavill.
"Well then, I gladly accept your invitation. And in turn, allow me to present my sublime companion, Ellaria."
I welcome them with a broad smile and let them take their seats.
For a few heartbeats, no one speaks. A surprisingly comfortable silence. Oberyn and Ellaria simply regard me with curiosity and interest, which makes me chuckle. "An old friend once told me that anyone who stares at you for more than ten seconds either wants to kill you or bed you—and it seems you're not armed." His grin widens as Geralt chokes on his wine trying not to laugh. "Should we find somewhere more private, or do you prefer an audience?"
I say this while sipping my juice, and the Prince of Dorne bursts out laughing, Ellaria following with a smoother, more controlled chuckle. At a gesture, two of my handmaidens step forward—one sets two cups before the Dornish pair, the other fills them with spiced wine, which they accept with pleasure.
After a moment, Oberyn breaks the silence in a teasing, confident voice. "Well, I must say I'm pleasantly surprised. You're far from what I imagined—from what all of Westeros imagined."
"Let me guess." I smile. "A place the gods forgot, lawless, crawling with man-eating monsters—barren, blighted lands." My light tone keeps awkwardness at bay, and both Dornish remain rapt.
"And more besides—some of it, clearly, smallfolk delusions," Ellaria says, silky and amused. "But seeing you, it's clear the rumors were greatly exaggerated."
Geralt's forced little laugh draws their eyes and their confusion. I clear it up. "No doubt the smallfolk embellished things, but some whispers were spot on. The cannibals, for one. Geralt had to hunt down no small number when I decided their presence on Skagos was… unwelcome." I chuckle, remembering him grumbling about stupid cannibals in stupid numbers on that stupid island. "Fortunately, we purged them to the last."
"As for the barren, blighted land—partly true once, but like the cannibals, we dealt with it. As for the gods… I've never been much of a believer. It wasn't the Seven or the Old Gods who lifted me and my people after years of poverty and pain. So bugger the Seven, and the Old Gods too."
I finish my cup as Oberyn explodes with laughter at my lack of piety. "I'd be delighted to visit this new Skagos, then."
"You and all House Martell are welcome. I'll prepare a little surprise I'm sure you'll adore." The surprise being his sister he's mourned for years—and her children. Yes, I might draw a few tears.
For a few hours, we talk of things trivial and foolish, then of matters serious—though the "serious" never quite reaches a hundred percent.
Eventually duty catches up. A royal handmaiden—clearly someone else's little bird, not the Crown's—arrives to tell me the king awaits me for my audience.
I thank her with a gold dragon because I'm feeling generous. Her eyes go wide and she departs near tears, stammering thanks.
I rise, Geralt at my side. We take our leave of the Dornish pair, promise to see them again later—this time I mean it. Speaking without the need to watch every word for political and strategic nonsense is a relief.
As we walk the corridors toward the throne room, my step is light and unhurried. I'm not the least bit worried about my ability to persuade. Of course, I know concessions will be needed to soothe a few people's paranoia, but I should manage just fine.
[Hello]
I pause, startled by the System notification.
"Hello? Ryan?"
[You'll be tempted to answer, but this is just a message, so feel free to be embarrassed for greeting the air.]
Son of a bitch.
[It's Ryan, in case you're wondering. You don't have another entity in your head—unless you accept the Light of the Lord of Light.]
"Yeah, no thanks."
[And you're talking to the air again. Anyway, I'm just sending this to wish you good luck.]
Good luck for what? I don't like this. Not one bit.
[Deploying a deus ex machina
3
2
1]
What? Not now.
I glance around quickly, ready for anything unusual. Geralt notices the shift in me and moves in.
"What is it?" His hand goes to his sword.
"I don't know yet." I relax my stance a hair but stay alert. "Just be ready. Something's brewing. Let's go."
Now on guard for whatever that omnipotent troll is about to pull, I reach the throne room. After I'm announced, I step inside—to be welcomed by the Fat King, his harlot queen, the Hand, the Kingslayer… Tywin Lannister, and Ned Stark.
When I enter, they all look at me with different shades of interest. But the most notable reactions belong to the two men who have no business being here today.
Tywin studies me as if he's just found a rare resource. Eddard looks at me as if he hasn't seen a dear friend in years.
What did that bastard do?
I don't understand what's happening—and I do not like it. Not one bit.