The journey south from the New Gift to the Dreadfort was a test of endurance. Days bled into weeks, the chill of the North slowly giving way to a damp, biting cold that seemed to sink into Maegor's bones, even as his internal Flame Adaptation subtly began to warm him. Balerion, his little dragon, remained hidden, nestled in a specially crafted pouch near his chest, feeding on scraps of rabbit and warmed milk Maegor carefully procured. The creature grew steadily, its movements more confident, its tiny roars surprisingly potent. Maegor felt a growing bond with the hatchling, a silent communication that transcended words.
Arriving at the Dreadfort was like riding into the maw of a beast. The castle loomed, a collection of grey, spike-topped towers, the banners of House Bolton – a flayed man on a red field – whipping in the perpetual wind. The air itself seemed to carry a faint, metallic tang, a whisper of blood and fear. Maegor, his black hair and common attire serving as a perfect disguise, drew no undue attention as he rode into the bustling lower town.
His first stop was the Broken Blade, a grimy, smoke-filled tavern known to be a haunt for sellswords and desperate men. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies. Maegor pushed through the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces, looking for the tell-tale signs of men hardened by coin and conflict. His Valyrian Insight hummed, an instinctual guide.
He quickly spotted them: five men huddled in a corner, their movements sharp, their gazes wary. They weren't soldiers in fine plate, but hardened individuals – a gaunt archer with eyes that constantly darted, a burly axeman whose arms seemed thicker than Maegor's thighs, two grim-faced spearmen who moved as one, and a wiry swordsman with a cynical smirk. They looked like men who knew how to kill and, more importantly, how to survive.
Maegor approached their table, ignoring the wary glances. "A moment of your time, if you're not too busy polishing your teeth," he stated, his voice low but firm, a hint of the Draconic Persuasion seeping into his tone. The swordsman raised an eyebrow, but the others watched him intently.
"What do you want, lad?" the axeman grunted, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his weapon.
"Work," Maegor replied. "Steady pay. Danger, yes, but reward to match. I'm looking for five good men to journey with me across the Narrow Sea."
The words hung in the air. Essos was a far cry from the cold, familiar lands of Westeros. The swordsman let out a short, scoffing laugh. "Across the Narrow Sea? For what, to pluck daisies in the Summer Isles? You got coin, boy, or just big dreams?"
Maegor reached into his pouch, pulling out a handful of Gold Dragons, letting them clink on the rough wooden table. The sound was universally understood. Eyes widened, and the laughter died. "Gold, and more where that came from. Enough to keep you well-fed and well-armed. But I require discretion, loyalty, and skill."
The men exchanged glances. This wasn't a petty lord seeking bodyguards for a season. This was serious coin, and a serious venture. They began to haggle, testing his resolve, trying to gauge his inexperience. But Maegor, armed with Aemon's lessons and the nascent cunning of Maegor the Cruel, held firm. He knew the value of his coin, and the worth of their services. After a tense discussion, they came to terms: a generous monthly retainer and a bonus upon reaching Essos, with the promise of more if the venture proved fruitful.
As they finalized the agreement, a sixth man approached the table. He was leaner than the others, with eyes that seemed to hold the cold depth of the sea, even as his brown hair was mundane. But there was something else in those eyes, a hint of violet beneath the grey, a subtle intensity that snagged Maegor's Valyrian Insight. This is him.
The man looked at Maegor directly, a flicker of something akin to recognition in his gaze, though he'd never seen him before. "Heard you were looking for help," he said, his voice quiet, calm. "I hear you're paying well for a journey across the sea."
Maegor studied him. "I'm hiring five men."
"Then you've got five," the man replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "But you'll need someone to keep them in line. Someone who knows the rougher edges of the Free Cities. My name is Kaeto."
Maegor felt an odd pull, a sense of immediate, inexplicable trust. This was the dragonseed. "You're hired, Kaeto. Consider yourself the sixth, and the first among them."
Kaeto's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, but he simply nodded.
With his small band gathered, Maegor led them to a quieter corner of the tavern. "Now that we've agreed on terms," he began, his voice dropping, "I must address something. The purpose of our journey to Essos, the ultimate goal, is not something I can disclose here, or now."
The swordsman, a man named Ryker, scoffed. "And why not, boy? We're taking your coin, we've a right to know what we're risking our necks for."
"Because it is a matter of life and death, of kings and thrones, and of secrets that would earn us all a short drop and a sudden stop if they were known in Westeros," Maegor stated, his voice resonating with an authority that surprised even himself. The shadow of Maegor the Cruel seemed to loom behind his words, lending them an undeniable weight. Draconic Persuasion pulsed, demanding their attention, their belief.
"What I can tell you," he continued, looking into each man's eyes, allowing his gaze to linger on Kaeto's for a moment longer, "is that the rewards will far outstrip any you have ever known. But the purpose… you will learn it when we are safely out of Westeros. When we are beyond the reach of those who would see us dead. Are you men of your word?"
Silence stretched, thick with suspicion and greed. The sheer audacity of the demand, coupled with the glittering promise of gold and the strange, compelling force of Maegor's presence, swayed them. Ryker, the swordsman, finally grunted. "A man's word is his bond, so long as the coin keeps flowing, boy." The others muttered their agreement.
Kaeto, however, simply held Maegor's gaze, a knowing glint in his unique eyes. "When do we ride?"
Maegor allowed himself a small, private smile. "At first light."
As he prepared to leave the tavern, the System's familiar notification appeared, glowing subtly in his vision.
[ Mission Complete: First Steps ]
Objectives Fulfilled:
Go to Dreadfort. (✓)Hire 5 Mercenaries. (✓)Find the Dragonseed. (✓) - Kaeto has been identified.
Reward Granted:
Ability Upgrade: Flame Adaptation (Tier 1) - Increased resistance to fire; minor fire manipulation.Loyalty of Mercenaries and the Dragonseed.
Maegor felt a subtle shift within him. The chill of the Dreadfort felt less biting, and a faint warmth hummed beneath his skin, a readiness for heat and flame. The true reward, however, was the loyalty of his newly formed retinue. He could feel it, an almost tangible connection, a quiet acceptance of his authority. It wasn't love or devotion, not yet, but it was obedience, respect, and a willingness to follow, born of his unique presence and the promise of reward. With Balerion hidden and his first men acquired, the road to Essos beckoned, and with it, the path to a reclaimed throne