The days that followed were unlike any Aegon had experienced. True to his request, both he and Daemon were formally placed under observation with the City Watch.
Their time was split between shadowing patrol routes, observing dispute resolutions, and understanding the common challenges faced by the guardsmen of King's Landing.
They were each given a steel sword of fine make, simple but sharp, and light armor suited for ease of movement.
Their mentor during this assignment was none other than Ser Rickard Redwyne, brother of the famed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ryam Redwyne.
Ser Rickard, though lacking his brother's fame, commanded the respect of every guard under his charge. He greeted them at the Watch barracks, his weathered face stern and disciplined.
"You are princes," he said bluntly, voice carrying over the gathered guards, "but here, you will act as learners. You will not be given special privileges. The City Watch does not serve kings and lords. It serves the peace."
His speech continued at length, a precise lecture on their duties, the history of the City Watch, and what it truly meant to wear the black-and-gold cloaks of King's Landing's protectors. He emphasized restraint, vigilance, and judgment over raw strength. By the end, Daemon looked visibly restless, but Aegon remained attentive, absorbing every word.
Afterward, Ser Rickard assigned three guards each to the princes.
"Today, follow them. Learn by watching. Tomorrow, you may act."
The city was less glamorous than the stories. Aegon and Daemon walked narrow alleys and muddy roads, speaking to bakers, breaking up street squabbles, and watching drunks get tossed out of taverns. He asked questions. He listened.
Daemon, by contrast, took to the action more directly.
"Stop, you bastard!" a guard's voice rang out one afternoon, as a man fled down the alleyways behind Flea Bottom. The man, a rapist, by what the guards shouted, bolted past beggars and stalls, shoving over a merchant's cart.
Daemon and two guards were in pursuit, their boots slapping the uneven stone. Then, without warning, a foot snapped out from the shadows. The man tripped violently, hitting the ground just as another form emerged, a blur of silver-white hair. The man barely saw Aegon before a swift, practiced strike knocked him unconscious.
Daemon huffed as he caught up. "Nice blow, Aegon. Didn't think you'd get ahead of me."
"Just cleaning the trash," Aegon said dryly, wiping his hand on a rag.
The guards bound the man and took him toward the dungeons.
Later, while heading back, Daemon jabbed at him with a grin. "So, you're done pretending to be a smith yet?"
Aegon had, in fact, spent hours in a small forge off Cobbler's Square. After days of following patrols, he had asked to observe a local smith, and eventually joined in minor tasks. The heat didn't bother him. The rhythm of hammer and steel was meditative.
"Not pretending," Aegon replied. "Learning."
Daemon scoffed, but didn't argue. They headed back to the Red Keep together, boots dusty and armor scuffed.
That night, after his bath and supper, Aegon sat alone in his chambers. The firelight flickered as he checked the Class Tree.
There were now two branches with a single leaf each. But one branch held two leaves, a rare sight. He focused on that.
[Class : Heir of Old Valyria (Tier 2)]
[Prerequisites :
- Trait: Valyrian Bloodline (satisfied)
- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)
- Age < 10 (satisfied)
- Physical Contact with Dragon or Dragon remains older than 100 years old (satisfied)
- Swear an oath in High Valyrian while in contact with a dragonglass relic older than 200 years, pledging to awaken the legacy of Old Valyria (satisfied) ]
[Level 10 ( MAX )]
[ Trait: Valyrian Bloodline - Targaryen Lineage
(+60% natural resistance to heat and fire)
(+70% in kinship with Dragons)
(+18% chance of receiving prophetic visions during sleep) ]
[ Trait: Blood and Flame Awakening
( +50% Instinctual Flamecraft: Can create and control fire. The flame obeys the will of the Heir.)
(+12% Obsidian Echo: Slight chance of receiving fragmented visions when near dragonglass) ]
Just a few days prior, he had consumed a massive 30,000 EXP, pushing the class from Level 6 to its peak Level 10. His reserve now showed only [EXP: 8325], yet the cost had been worth it. The transformation wasn't just theoretical anymore.
He extended his palm, focusing inward. He concentrated.
With a faint hiss, flame erupted, not wildly, but as if summoned into existence. A sphere of fire, about the size of a soldier's shield, hovered just above his skin. The warmth pulsed, but it did not burn him. He no longer needed to sacrifice blood to create fire. The blood now only acted as a conduit to what he presumed as – 'Magic', the source of his flamecraft.
He exhaled slowly and began to shape it.
The fire stretched into a spear, hardened to a point. Then it curled inward, taking the form of a dragon's head, its snout open and crackling. The image flickered and shifted into a bird in flight, wings fanned out. With a thought, it dissipated, scattering into nothingness.
Within a five-meter radius, he could now command all flame, shape it, restrain it, unleash it.
Taking a deep breath, he smiled.
Now to the real goal of tonight.
He stood and crossed the room to a shadowed corner, where a simple wooden box lay tucked beneath a folded cloth. With measured hands, he drew it into the light, pulling back the fabric to reveal its contents.
Inside was a short dagger, wrapped in waxed linen. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a blade utterly unremarkable to the eye, unadorned, dull gray steel, with a plain hilt bound in coarse leather. There were no sigils, no ornamentation, not even a maker's mark.
It was exactly as he had requested.
He'd commissioned it two weeks ago, during his routine patrols through the streets of King's Landing. His presence among the City Watch had already raised eyebrows, but the blacksmiths had quickly grown used to seeing the lean, silver-haired prince among them. One of them, Harold, a gruff, weathered man with burn scars along his forearms and smoke-stained teeth, had been the one to forge this particular dagger.
When the blade was finished, Harold had presented it with both hands, respectful but not quite deferential enough.
"It's done, my prince," he'd said, laying the blade out across the anvil. "Plain, as you asked. Won't draw any eyes."
Then, almost nervously, he'd added, "That'll be five silver stags, for the work and the steel."
Aegon remembered the moment clearly. He'd raised a brow, straightened his back just slightly, enough to remind the man of who he was, and replied in a tone sharp and loud enough to draw the attention of the other smiths nearby.
"You should be honored to do a task for the blood of the dragon," Aegon had said coolly. "For such a plain dagger, one without a crest, without Valyrian steel, without even polish, and you dare ask for a price?"
The words hung heavy in the smoky air. Harold blinked, clearly realizing his mistake. He dipped his head quickly, eyes lowering.
"Apologies, my prince. Of course. It was my honor," the old man mumbled, stepping back. "A gift, then. With my thanks."
Aegon had taken the dagger without another word and left the forge.
In truth, he hadn't been trying to humiliate the man, not entirely. He simply didn't have coin to spare. The royal princes were not given stipends or salaries. Everything they needed was provided by the Red Keep, but beyond those confines, they held no purse strings of their own.
Asking for a dagger, even a plain one, meant leveraging status, not silver.
Still, the blade had turned out well. Balanced. Durable. Unimpressive to any thief or noble's eye, which made it perfect.
Now, in the privacy of his chamber, Aegon held the dagger in his palm and studied it in the firelight. Rough, utilitarian, and blank, a fitting canvas for what came next.
He placed the dagger gently on the stone floor of his chamber, away from anything flammable. He then moved to the small side table and picked up another blade, this one a gift from Queen Alysanne herself.
Polished, elegant, made of fine steel with silver inlay along the hilt. It was a treasured item, but not tonight's focus.
Aegon drew a steady breath and pressed the edge of the ceremonial blade against the tips of his index and middle fingers. A sharp sting, and a trickle of red welled up immediately. He didn't flinch. He crouched down and smeared the blood over the blade of the plain dagger, slowly and deliberately, coating the steel with his blood.
Then, standing over it, he raised his palm.
The blood shimmered.
With a hiss, it caught fire, no spark, no ignition source, only his will. The dagger lit up in a thin layer of crimson flame, flickering along its edges, curling around it like it was being baptized.
He did not blink.
The flames slowly began to change. No longer flickering randomly, they moved in patterns. Shapes curled along the surface, forming grooves, etchings that hadn't been there before. Symbols. Swirls. A pattern that echoed something deep and ancient.
Then the fire died out.
What remained on the floor was no longer the plain steel dagger he had commissioned.
It was Valyrian steel.
Aegon stared at it for a long moment. He picked it up, testing the weight. Lighter. Sharper. The blade was now marked with swirling patterns, those unmistakable rivers of color that every Valyrian blade bore.
The same patterns he had seen on Dark Sister, his father's sword. Except this wasn't inherited. It was made.
By him.
The realization struck not with shock, but with satisfaction.
He had done it.
He had recreated a lost art. The final levels of [Heir of Old Valyria] had not just made him stronger, they had gifted him something else: memories, fragmented images of pyromancers and smiths, of dragonfire and screaming steel. Methods lost to the world, preserved only in the legacy of a bloodline older than Westeros.
He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade. It was smooth, flawless. Lethal.
He picked up the other dagger, Queen Alysanne's gift, and carefully wiped it clean, placing it back in its embroidered sheath. It would remain untouched.
Then he tucked both daggers beneath his tunic, one on either side, nestled against his ribs where no one would see them.
He was still just a boy to them, a promising heir, a prince with fire in his veins. But not this kind of fire. Not the kind that forged Valyrian steel in silence.
He didn't plan to use the dagger yet. But it was there now, a piece of ancient power reborn through him. A weapon and a secret both.
One more thing that was affected by the class upgrade. He focused on the attribute panel:
[ Magic 1.7 ]