Winter Morning on a Lone Island in Blackwater Bay
The morning mist clung low over the narrow, lonely isle, its rocky surface dusted with a pale frost. Waves lapped gently at the blackened shores, and above them, rising like a monument to fire and blood, Dreamfyre, scaled in deep, iridescent blue, her vast wings curled inward, slumbering in a light doze. Plumes of steam curled from her nostrils each time she exhaled.
Aegon Targaryen stood a short distance away, his silver hair tousled by the wind, his slender frame wrapped in a dark cloak.
The cold didn't bother him. He crouched low near a small, makeshift desk, a flat stone slab beside his satchel, where a blank notebook from the maesters lay open. A quill danced in his fingers. He scribbled rapidly, eyes sharp with focus.
He rose without a word and walked to the center of the small clearing. Before him stood a large boulder, scorched black from repeated impacts, 15 meters away. His breath fogged as he steadied himself.
He raised his palm, fingers splayed toward the rock.
It was now an instinct.
A sphere of fire manifested instantly in front of his palm, roaring silently into existence, a condensed orb of flickering orange-gold, nearly the size of a clenched fist. With a mental nudge, it shot forward, trailing fire like a comet. It struck the boulder dead-on and exploded in a brilliant flash of heat and light, the shockwave scattering snow and ash around it. A crack split the stone's surface.
Aegon lowered his hand and exhaled.
He walked back to the slab, picked up his notebook, and resumed writing.
{ Spell: Fireball (Finalized - Experiment 27)
Definition: A condensed ball of fire shot at the target
Casting Time: <1 second
Strike Range: 15 meters
Velocity: ~10 m/s
Explosion Radius: ~1.5 meters
Use: Lethal against armored targets at range < 20m
Warning: Avoid use in enclosed or fragile structures }
"Finally… third spell done," Aegon murmured, shutting the notebook with a soft snap. Dreamfyre's great eye opened slightly, observing her rider with a curious rumble, her long tail flicking across the frost-tipped ground.
Two months had passed since Aegon upgraded his class [Occult Scholar] to Level 10, consuming over 45,000 EXP in the process. It had been worth every drop. The clarity it gave him during his magical research was unlike anything he had experienced before. It felt like his mind had been sharpened into a blade.
[Class: Occult Scholar (Tier 2)]
[Prerequisites:
- Possess at least one supernatural or magical trait (satisfied)
- INT ≥ 9.0 (satisfied)
- Demonstrated methodical study or experimentation related to the supernatural (satisfied) ]
[Level 10 (MAX)]
[Trait : Arcane Methodology
(+65% focus and insight on a supernatural trait, relic, magical anomaly, or supernatural-based phenomenon, gaining a moment of structured clarity.)
(+12% INT bonus for every unique magical phenomenon successfully analyzed.)]
[Trait : Rationality
(+60% Mental resistance: Negates harmful side effects from [Arcane Methodology] or exposure to dangerous magical stimuli.)
( -70% INT damage or sanity deterioration effects from magical or supernatural sources.)]
The entire working of his flamecraft ability had been slowly analyzed, disassembled, and reassembled, bit by bit, as if he were unweaving the threads of fire itself.
With the precision of a surgeon and the clarity granted by his fully realized [Occult Scholar] class, Aegon learned not just to wield fire, but to mold it. To shape it. His fire was no longer instinctual chaos. It was measured, intentional, repeatable. He began calling these refined uses spells, even though no incantation or ritual component was involved.
To an outsider, they may have looked like sorcery born of will alone, but to Aegon, each spell was a structured expression of an underlying supernatural principle, crafted with purpose, shaped by will, tested with method, and refined through iteration.
With today's finalization of [Spell:Fireball], Aegon now had three such spells in his arsenal today - the other two being:
{ Spell: Ring Burst (Finalized - Experiment 36)
Definition: Creates a ring of fire around the caster, then bursts it outward in a fiery shockwave
Casting Time: ~2 seconds
Strike Range: 10 meters with user as centre
Velocity: Fast (difficult to avoid within strike range)
Use: Lethal to all enemies within 360° at range <10m
Warning: Do not use with allies within strike range }
{ Spell: Fire Torrent (Finalized - Experiment 9)
Definition: Continuous stream of fire from hands, akin to a flamethrower
Casting Time: < 1 second
Strike Range: 7 meters
Strike Radius: Adjustable by user, can spread or condense
Use: Lethal against armored targets at range <5m
Warning: Enemy may reach the caster while burning }
Each spell was more than a tool, it was a milestone in understanding. And each was rooted in a deeper grasp of his blood-born flamecraft, a power inherited but now studied and weaponized. What had once been creation and manipulation of fire driven by instinct and will were now spells, catalogued and refined.
His dreams had changed, too. The nightmares, twisting voids and fragmenting visions, were gone. Now, his dreams came clear and crisp, like reels of prophecy, glimpses of moments not yet written. He woke with thoughts as clear as still water. It was like being whole again.
He checked his current experience.
[EXP: 100,632]
Even after maxing out his class, the accumulated experience from daily patrols with Dreamfyre had left him with a sizable reserve. With the full power of [Occult Scholar] unlocked, his pace of magical analysis had accelerated like a racehorse unshackled from its starting gate.
His conclusions came quickly, formed from careful notes, repeated trials, and the occasional inspired leap.
Magic, Aegon now believed, was not merely elemental energy, it was dimensional in nature. A force not born of this world, but one that touched it, like a vast sea brushing against the shores of reality. What people called "magic" were just the ripples of that sea, manifesting in the few who could connect to it.
Its forms, pyromancy, dreamwalking, blood magic, green sight, were not disciplines but expressions, shaped by the nature of the user's connection to that power. That connection wasn't random. It was latent, often buried in bloodlines, ancestry, or shaped by physical or spiritual resonance. Perhaps what the Valyrians had stumbled upon, or mastered, was not just control over dragons, but the breeding of a bloodline attuned to magic.
Targaryen bloodlines bore unmistakable mutations that hinted at this deeper link:
Dragon bonding - the near-mystical ability to connect and ride dragons.
Fire resistance - not total fireproofing, but a clear adaptation.
Dream sensitivity - visions, sometimes prophetic, often confusing, but unmistakably magical.
Dragons themselves… they were more than creatures. Aegon could feel it when he laid his hand on Dreamfyre's scales, or when her breath stirred flame that obeyed instinct, not physics.
Dragons pulsed with raw, untamed magic. They didn't cast spells, they were magic, breathing, moving, roaring embodiments of that dimension's presence in this world.
He began thinking in metaphors, the way a philosopher might.
Magic was a sea.
Some people walked beside it.
Some, like the First Men, dipped their feet in.
But others, like the Valyrians and the children of the forest, found sponges.
"Sponge." The word sounded crude, but the image was perfect. When you dip a sponge in water, it absorbs. It retains moisture even after being removed from the source.
Perhaps Valyrian blood, Weirwood trees, and dragonglass were these sponges, substances and bloodlines that could absorb magic from the Sea and carry it into the world.
That would explain why some materials and creatures were so uniquely magical, while others were inert. Why dragonglass killed White Walkers. Why Weirwoods "remembered." Why a child born of two dragonriders might see dreams before he even understands words.
The more magic you had in you, whether by blood, nature, or artifact, the closer you were to that Sea.
And perhaps, if you had enough of it… you could dive in. Not just catch the waves on the shore, but actually breach the veil and enter that higher dimension. Maybe the 'Gods' were from that dimension.
That was what Aegon sought now, not just to use magic.
But to understand it.
Not just to swim on its surface.
But to find the path beneath it.
Many of his notes were still theoretical, bold hypotheses waiting for rigorous testing. But one truth had become undeniable: to truly master his magic, he needed to go one step further.
Perception.
To interact with the force behind the manifestations, he had to see it, truly sense magic in its native form. Only then could the [Occult Scholar] class reach its full potential.
Aegon's thoughts shattered like glass beneath a boot as he checked the sun's position. "Shit, I'll be late—"
He snapped the notebook shut, stuffed it into his satchel, and with practiced ease, swung onto Dreamfyre's back.
The great dragon rumbled beneath him, wings spreading like silver sails across the morning frost. With a powerful thrust, they launched into the sky, wind rushing past him as the coastline blurred below.
The air was cold, biting with winter's breath sweeping over the land. Snow had dusted the hills and castles like powdered sugar, white and serene beneath the gray sky.
But King's Landing was already stirring.
The Red Keep was alive with the sounds of feast preparation, music, laughter, the clink of goblets, the rustle of silks. King Jaehaerys had declared a feast to lift spirits, a reprieve from the gnawing unease of pirate raids and political tension.
Nobles from across the realm had arrived to show face, to speak peace, and perhaps to sniff for advantage in the gathering storm.
Aegon made it just in time. His silver hair was brushed back, his robes fine but understated, deep crimson with faint gold trim. He slid into his seat beside Daemon, who was already nursing a cup of wine and eyeing the guests with amused detachment.
Across the hall, Viserys sat with a group of young lords, laughing too loudly at something one of them said. Prince Aemon, dignified as ever, stood with the King and Queen at the high dais, welcoming each noble guest as a white-cloaked Kingsguard called out names and titles.
Suddenly, Daemon leaned in close, his grin sharp and gleaming.
"Pay attention, brother," he said under his breath, "to who comes next."
Aegon arched a brow but said nothing. The hall fell into a hush as the next names were called.
"Ser Otto Hightower… the One-Eyed…"
The words hung like smoke in the air. A moment of silence, then it broke into barely-concealed snickers, gasps, and murmured amusement. A few courtiers failed to hide their smiles behind goblets.
Daemon stifled a laugh and looked victorious, like a boy who'd just won a bet.
Aegon turned to see Otto Hightower, his face tight with shame, entering the hall with his wife beside him and a thick black patch covering his left eye.
The skin around it was still slightly discolored, the memory of a burn that had never been explained, one Aegon himself had caused, months ago, in the heat of a discreet confrontation.
The young man walked stiffly, posture proud but clearly shaken by the ridicule. He had brought his family as a show of unity, his wife's expression was brittle, her smile pasted on.
Beside them waddled a small child, no older than three, with striking green eyes and red-brown curls. Their presence was a political maneuver, meant to display strength. Instead, it reeked of weakness.
Daemon leaned back, content. "The one-eyed owl," he murmured. "How wise does he look now?"
Aegon didn't smile. He watched Otto intently, noting every flicker of pride, pain, and calculation on the young man's face. The man still had influence. Still had ambition. Wounded pride made for dangerous resolve.
But tonight was a feast. The masks would stay on.
As the feast wore on, with music echoing off vaulted ceilings and nobles weaving through golden candlelight, Aegon rose from his seat beside Daemon. The younger prince's smirk remained, but Aegon had a different purpose in mind.
He crossed the hall with quiet poise, weaving through murmuring lords and ladies until he stood before Otto Hightower. The young noble turned, tension flickering in his lone visible eye.
His wife, straightened beside him, a tall, pale woman wrapped in a conservative gown of pale green and gold, a seven-pointed star glinting on the chain around her neck.
"Ser Otto," Aegon greeted, voice smooth and polite, the edges of his Valyrian accent just faintly audible. "Is this your child?"
Otto inclined his head stiffly. "Yes, my prince. This is my wife, Lady Alyrie Florent… and our daughter, Alicent."
The little girl, barely three, stood between her parents. Her wide green eyes blinked up at Aegon for a heartbeat before she promptly turned away and resumed smearing cake on her fingers with glee, lost in her own world.
Aegon gave a courteous nod to Alyrie. "My lady," he said, offering a brief but respectful smile. "It seems the new Kingsguard on duty lacks a sense of restraint. I will speak to Lord Commander Ryam about it. Such introductions should not be used to mock a man's injury."
Otto hesitated, clearly caught between suspicion and surprise. "I… am grateful for your consideration, my prince."
"Then please, enjoy the feast," Aegon said with a calm finality. He inclined his head and turned away, his crimson and black cloak whispering behind him as he returned to his seat.
Alyrie leaned in, her voice low. "Is he…?"
Otto nodded. "Yes. Prince Aegon. Youngest son of Baelon. Rider of Dreamfyre."
Their daughter, oblivious to the undercurrents flowing around her, had abandoned her cake and now stared at the golden candelabra overhead, humming softly to herself.
Otto's jaw tightened. He watched Aegon retreat, gaze shadowed with calculation.
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