Chapter 58 Cruel?

Aegon sat for a while, studying it in the lamplight, the dark purple edges glimmering faintly. The crystal was small, no larger than a walnut, yet his spirituality reacted as if he were holding a viper in his hand.

Although his danger awareness could sense poison, he knew its limits well. It only warned him of poisons that acted instantly, the sort that killed within breaths or minutes. That alone was not enough. 

What about poisons that acted slowly over time? ones that left no sign until the liver or kidneys began to fail months later? And what about those subtle types that only became lethal when mixed with something else: wine, broth, or even another harmless herb? Against such threats, his ability was blind.

He knew this because he had tested it.

Once, in a passing conversation, the Dragonstone maester had told him of a mushroom gathered in the Crownlands. Villagers used it often, drying and grinding it into stews. In small amounts, it was harmless, even nourishing. In larger doses, however, it was dangerous, causing vomiting, fever, sometimes death.

Aegon had tried it once, careful with the quantity. A pinch on his tongue. Nothing. No warning, no flare from his danger sense. Later, he’d tried eating a full handful, only then did his danger awareness stir faintly. 

That experiment had been enough to confirm his suspicion: the ability responded only to what threatened him directly, here and now. Anything slower, dependent on dose or time, could slip past unnoticed.

His first class had given him a strong constitution for his age. The CON value almost matched the adults. His body was tougher, more resistant to pain, fatigue, and poison, much stronger than others his age. But was it enough? Adult-like constitution could not guarantee survival against a deadly poison.

Against a blade, he could fight. Against fire, he could answer with his own. But poison? It could reach him in his sleep, at his table, even in the company of those he trusted. That was why, when he had defined [Ironblood Knight], he had insisted on adding poison resistance as part of its framework. It had seemed the most practical safeguard. 

Even so, he wondered now if it was enough. Resistance did not mean immunity. How much resistance? To what kinds? 

For a brief time, he had even considered designing an entirely separate Tier 2 class, one devoted solely to poison and disease resistance. But every path forward bristled with problems. How should he define it? What prerequisites could he make that were achievable in his position? What if there is a prerequisite of drinking poison daily to build initial resistance… reckless even in theory. The practice would kill him before any class would be created. And in the life he lived now, watched constantly by family, servants, and guards, such behaviour would be noticed instantly.

Up until now, he had hoped [Wizard Apprentice] might fill the gap. With his spirituality, he had been probing food and drink regularly, sensing any subtle traces of something unnatural. But the mushroom test had proved the flaw. Slow poisons, dosage-dependent toxins, things that disguised themselves as harmless until it was too late, these would still slip past him. That blind spot could not be ignored.

Aegon carefully rewrapped the solid poison crystal and carried it to the wall. He pried loose a stone slab with his fingers, slid the bundle into the hollow behind it, then pressed the slab back until it looked no different from the rest. To anyone else, it would be just another piece of cold, grey rock.

“So many problems,” he muttered under his breath.

He moved back to his desk and drew a single page from the stack of notes. It contained a half-formed definition of a class he had been shaping in his mind.

A pale light touched the horizon outside his window, the first grey of dawn pushing against the dark sea. He looked at it for a long moment, his hand resting on the page.

“Ironblood Knight and Poisons will have to wait,” he thought. “Until the right opportunity comes.”
His fingers closed loosely over the note, holding it there. “For now, I follow the other path…the one that turns me from a piece on the board into the player that moves them.”

The class tree already had the [Ironblood Knight] branch grayed out. That meant he still had four more to go… before GAME OVER.

This time he had to be very, very careful. 

No more mistakes.

“Let me revise the class definition a few times more before proceeding. But before that…” Aegon yawned.

He pushed away from the desk and crossed back to the bed. Stretching out on the mattress, he closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle over him.

King’s Landing, Blackwater Bay

The ship cut slowly through the dark waters of Blackwater Bay, its sails slack as oars guided it into the crowded docks. The smell hit first: salt, tar, and fish guts mingling with smoke from the city’s countless chimneys. Gulls screamed overhead, diving at scraps tossed from moored vessels.

On deck, Master Corbin the merchant patted his sweating brow with a square of linen. He was a stout man, belly pressing against his belt, his fine coat straining a little at the seams. The voyage from Lys had been smoother than most, but he already longed for a bench in some winesink and a plate of roasted duck.

“Steady, steady!” he called as the ship nudged against the pier. His servants scrambled to lower the gangplank. Chests and crates were lifted, ropes creaked, curses flew. Bolts of Lysene silk wrapped in oiled cloth, jars of saffron, and bales of dried fish were stacked in a neat row.

Then came the boots. A half-dozen city guards appeared in neat armor. Their captain, a narrow-faced man with a scar across his cheek, strode forward.

“Hold there,” he barked. “All goods are to be searched.”

Corbin’s smile faltered. He waddled down the gangplank, wiping his palms on his coat. “Good ser, surely that is not needful. These are but honest wares: silks, spices, fish, nothing more.”

The captain’s eyes were flat. “Orders. Every crate, every chest.”

Corbin lowered his voice, leaning close. “Perhaps I might… ease your duty. A silver stag for each of your men, and you can be on your way.” He jingled a purse at his belt.

The captain glanced at his men. They exchanged looks, one smirking faintly, but the captain shook his head. “You’ll still have your goods searched. But…” His lips twitched. “Perhaps we won’t dig too deep.”

Corbin forced a chuckle, his shoulders slumping. “As you will. I am but a guest here, after all.” He loosened the purse strings, coins clinking into waiting hands. The guards set about prying open the first crate, making a great show of lifting silks and tapping jars with their daggers.

Trying to mask his irritation, Corbin stepped off the gangplank onto solid ground. The cobbles of the quay were wet, the air thick with the shouts of hawkers and the bray of mules hauling carts. But it wasn’t the noise that drew his gaze upward.

Far above, on the highest walls near the Red Keep, something hung black against the pale dawn sky. A body. Charred so completely it was more shadow than flesh. Two guards stood beneath it, waving long poles to drive away the crows that circled around screeching hungrily.

Corbin squinted, frowning.

“My lord merchant,” a man’s voice greeted him. It was Gordy, the broker who usually met him at dockside. Thin, with sharp features and a ledger tucked under his arm, he bowed slightly. “Welcome once more. I trust the voyage was fair? We should speak of prices this month…”

Corbin lifted a hand, silencing him. He pointed upward at the blackened shape, swaying gently in the breeze. “What is that?”

Gordy followed his gaze, replying, “An assassin. He tried for the prince. Burned for it, and strung up there for all to see.”

“Assassin?” Corbin’s brows shot up. 

Before Gordy could continue, an old fruit seller nearby, arranging his apples into neat little rows, snorted. “Not just any prince either,” he muttered. “The pyromancer prince. That’s the one they came for.”

Corbin turned, surprised. “Prince Aegon?”

The fruit seller leaned closer, lowering his voice though his eyes darted about with relish. “A Valyrian gift. Or a curse, if you ask me. The Seven gave us kings, not sorcerers.”

“Careful, uncle,” Gordy warned. “Loose tongues end on spikes.”

The old man only shrugged, his hands busy polishing an apple on his sleeve. “Loose tongues tell truths too. Since that night, the guards doubled, and curfew comes with every bell. The docks bleed for it. Not just me, ask any man trying to sell in the Bay. No trade moves without a spear at its back.”

Corbin’s frown deepened. He looked again at the corpse swaying on the wall, then back at Gordy. “The curfew, the strict searches… all because of the assassination?”

Gordy gave a short nod. “All because of it. The city feels it. Every merchant grumbles. The taverns empty earlier, ships are delayed at anchor. And the goldcloaks grow richer each day.” His tone was bitter.

Around them, sailors and traders busied themselves with their work. Yet, from time to time, heads tilted upward, hands shaded eyes, and whispers carried. Some pointed; others made the sign of the Seven. The blackened body’s presence seemed to weigh heavier than the stone walls it hung from.

From Corbin’s right came a voice. “Maybe the Valyrian flame is not the blessing it is made out to be.”

He turned. A brother of the Faith stood there, plain-robed, a sack of fruit slung over his shoulder. His gaze was fixed on the body above, lips tight with disapproval.

Corbin shifted uncomfortably under the man’s stare.

The brother turned his eyes to him and spoke more clearly. “May the Seven bless you, traveler.”

Corbin, dipped his head in a polite bow. “And you, good brother.”

The septon gave no more, only walked past, his sandals slapping against wet stone. He disappeared into a narrow alley.

Corbin lingered a moment longer, his gaze once more climbing to the blackened body on the wall. The crows wheeled and cried above, undeterred by the guards’ sticks. 

Red Keep

“How many times must I suffer this, Barth?” King Jaehaerys grumbled. He lay stretched on a couch, his tunic loosened, while two maesters checked his pulse and pressed herbs into his hands. Another worked his stiff shoulders with oil.

“As many times as required, my king,” Barth replied, standing close. His hands were folded in his sleeves, his tone calm. “The realm depends on you.”

Jaehaerys snorted.

One of the maesters muttered something about his pulse, but Jaehaerys waved him off. He turned his head toward Barth. “How fares Baelon?”

“He is well,” Barth said. “He manages the council in your absence, and does so ably.”

Jaehaerys’s expression softened. “Good. Perhaps I should fall ill more often. Gives me excuse for rest, eh?”

Barth chuckled. “You would not know what to do with true rest, my king.”

Jaehaerys smiled with him, then the levity faded. His gaze hardened. “Was the message sent to the Sealord?”

Barth hesitated. “The letter is on its way. Though, I doubt he will reveal who set the Faceless against us. The ring points to Volantis… but it may have been planted deliberately.”

“Then he must be ready to face the wrath of dragons,” Jaehaerys said coldly.

Barth was silent at that.

The maesters finished their fussing, offered instructions for herbs and draughts, and bowed their way out. When the chamber door closed, only Barth and the king remained.

“The spring is near,” Jaehaerys said after a moment, looking out the window at the pale sky.

“Yes,” Barth answered. “By now, Lord Stark will have your letter.”

Jaehaerys gave a low grumble. “You always ruin my mood, Barth.”

Barth’s mouth curved faintly.

The king exhaled heavily. “The assassins are already reaching for Aegon. Perhaps it is foolish to send him north… we should cancel the visit.”

“Or shorten it,” Barth suggested. “The raven is likely already at Winterfell. And we should not offend the Starks again. They remember when you delayed your first visit… when only the queen came, and you followed half a year later. Let us not send slight for slight. Instead, send another raven. Tell them what has happened. Ask that they secure the boy with all their strength.”

Jaehaerys rubbed his beard, reluctant, but gave a slow nod.

“One more matter,” Barth said. “The corpse. Perhaps it should come down. The point has been made. To leave it longer only breeds whispers of cruelty.”

The king raised one brow at him, then sighed. “Very well. See it done.”

“Of course, my king.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing else, my king.”

Jaehaerys leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. Barth bowed slightly and then left the chamber, letting the king rest.