Aegon's spiritual senses screamed a warning a half-second before the charge began. He didn't think; he threw himself sideways behind the cover of a massive oak. The bear slammed into the space he had just occupied, its claws tearing deep gouges in the trunk. The impact shook the tree, snow raining down from its branches. Aegon was already moving, his boots slipping on the damp ground as he darted to put more distance between them.
HRRROAARR!
The bear turned and charged again. This time, Aegon held his ground until the last possible moment, feeling the thunder of its approach through the soles of his feet. As it closed, he leaped aside, swinging his sword with all his strength as the beast blurred past. The steel bit into its flank, but the wound was shallow, the thick layer of fat and muscle robbing the blow of its full force. In that instant, he discarded any notion of a head-on assault.
KRAAAGH!
A roar of pain and fury split the air, sending birds scattering from the canopy. The bear whirled, impossibly fast, a massive paw swiping at him. His spiritual sense flared, and he dropped into a crouch.
Run!
He lunged sideways, putting another thick tree trunk between them. The bear's claws whistled through the air where his head had been, striking the wood with a powerful thud.
He didn't need to peek to know the bear's location; his spiritual senses painted a perfect picture of the enraged creature. He moved quietly, then threw another stone, sending it clattering against a nearby trunk. The bear's head snapped toward the sound, and with another enraged bellow, it charged toward the source of the taunt. Aegon was already gone, using the brief distraction to reposition himself deeper into a cluster of trees.
GRRHHH...
This became the rhythm of the fight: a desperate, exhausting dance of dodge and strike. The bear was a force of nature, relentless and brutal, but the thick woods were Aegon's ally. The trees broke the bear's charges and its hulking body had to maneuver slowly around them, while Aegon's nimble form flitted between the trunks.
He was a gnat, stinging and fleeing. When the bear, frustrated, tried to swipe around a tree, Aegon would strike at the extended limb, his sword opening deep, bleeding cuts on its forearms. Each successful hit was met with a howl of pain and renewed, but increasingly clumsy, rage.
He lost track of time. His arms ached, his breath came in ragged gasps, and the constant evasion made his legs feel numb and heavy. The mental strain of maintaining his spiritual awareness on both the bear and the treacherous ground; avoiding patches of deep snow and tangled roots, was a constant drain. A single misstep would be the end.
The bear, with its bleeding wounds, was also slowing, but its rage was undimmed. It changed tactics, no longer charging blindly but advancing with a menacing steadiness, herding him subtly toward a dense tangle of fallen timber. Aegon's danger awareness shrieked as he realized he was being cornered.
Fuck, he cursed inwardly. He had to change the direction of the fight. When the bear rose on its hind legs with a final, deafening roar, Aegon didn't freeze. He met its gaze, his lilac eyes holding a calm firmness. As it crashed down, he was already moving, redirecting the frantic chase, using every ounce of his remaining energy to skirt the edge of the timber trap and lure the beast back into the more open woodland.
Hrrnnf... Hrrnnf...
The bear stood its ground, its forearms a bloody mess. It gazed at him, its small eyes now holding a mixture of rage, pain, and a deep, weary irritation. All its attempts had been futile. Aegon was equally spent, his sword feeling like a bar of lead in his hand. For a long moment, they stared at each other, two exhausted combatants.
Then, with a final, dismissive snort, the bear slowly sat, turning its attention to licking its wounds. Aegon remained poised, not daring to lower his guard. After a minute, the great beast heaved itself up, gave him one last look of resigned anger, and turned, ambling slowly away into the shadows of the Wolfswood.
Relief, potent and dizzying, washed over Aegon. He had survived.
And in that exact moment, the notification came.
[Prerequisite Fulfilled.]
[Class: Ironblood Knight – Creation Successful.]
A warm current washed over him. A wave of newfound strength, hard and unyielding as iron, flooded his body. The tiredness vanished. The numbness in his hands disappeared. His mind, moments ago clouded with exhaustion, became preternaturally clear. The sensation didn't stop; he felt it massaging deep inside his body: his organs, his bones, his muscles.
Every part of his body felt like it was being restructured. He could feel his entire physique being reforged. Then came the memories.
Memories of a knight with a strong body. A silhouette, fighting battle after battle, his life defined by the clash of steel. Years passed, but the battles continued, and every time he survived. Many times surviving through running away and using other not-so-honorable means. Honor was a luxury for those who could afford to die for it. He could not. He ran, he dodged, he hid, but he always struck back, ensuring his enemies paid a price.
This carried on. Battles were his life. He practiced and trained constantly, always ready for the next one. And from that endless cycle of survival and combat, a trait was born: Battle Reflex.
That day onwards, he stopped running away. Even against multiple enemies, he alone became enough. His strong body coupled with his unique Battle Reflex made him a fearsome entity in every conflict. His mentality also changed, becoming Unyielding. Regardless of pain, trauma, or fatigue, he pushed forward, becoming a nightmare in every war, battle or fight. And eventually, he earned a name…
"...Ironblood Knight," Aegon murmured.
The assault of memories ended. In real time, only a few seconds had passed.
He had survived a life-and-death fight. The prerequisite was finally satisfied and the class [Ironblood Knight] was created successfully. Aegon smiled, a grin of pure triumphant joy. Of course just gaining the class did not mean he could rival the knight in memories. It just meant that he had achieved the bare minimum. The next part was easier. Upgrading it. Only after the class reached max level, could he claim the title as his own.
Aegon's gaze went to the bear, which had gone further away, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. He did not wish to kill it anymore since it had helped him a lot.
He then slowly sheathed his sword and examined his body. His muscles were different now. Much harder. Stronger.
It was as if he had trained continuously for a few years.
It seems there are many more changes, thought Aegon. But first let me leave these woods.
With a steadying breath, he turned and began the walk out of the Wolfswood, his steps now firm and sure on the frozen earth, heading back to where Dreamfyre awaited.
Summer Sea, Night
The Volantene fleet of seven ships cut a silent path through the inky water, their sails slack in the gentle breeze. The only sounds were the gentle slap of waves against hulls and the low creak of timbers. On deck, the warm glow of hanging lanterns cast dancing pools of light, illuminating the bored faces of guards on watch.
Inside the grand cabin of the flagship, the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasting meat, and perfumed oil. The mood was one of indulgent satisfaction. Several nobles of the Tiger Party reclined on silken cushions, laughing over trade and profit.
Clink.
A silver goblet was raised. "I tell you, the new batch is a prime stock!" a portly magister declared, his ruby rings glittering in the lamplight. "Strong backs, young. They will fetch a fine price in Lys, enough to line all our pockets handsomely."
Another noble, an older man with a beard trimmed to a sharp point, nodded in agreement. He swirled the dark red wine in his cup. "A most profitable venture." His eyes held a cold, calculating light.
In a shadowed corner, a younger noble, his face flushed with wine and a sense of entitlement, was less interested in the conversation. His attention was on a young female slave serving him grapes. Her hands trembled slightly as she offered the fruit. "Still yourself, girl," he slurred, his hands roaming over her body with a possessive familiarity. She flinched but stood perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the floorboards, a vacant mask hiding her terror and shame. Servants moved through the room like ghosts. The soft rustle of their robes and the clink of pottery were the only sounds of their passing.
Rrrrrrrrrrrr...
Suddenly, a sound tore through the peaceful night. It was a deep, guttural roar that seemed to vibrate through the very hull of the ship, a sound that was felt in the bones more than heard with the ears. It was not the wind, nor any beast they knew.
The talking ceased. The younger noble stopped his groping, his hand freezing on the slave's arm. "What in the world was that?" he muttered, his drunken confidence wavering.
Before anyone could answer, the world outside erupted.
A voice shrieked from the deck, followed by other shouts that quickly morphed into screams of pure, undiluted terror.
Thump. Crash.
The nobles scrambled to their feet, knocking over cups and platters in their haste, rushing to the cabin's wide stern windows.
What they saw was a vision from a nightmare. An enormous green shape, vast enough to blot out the stars, descended upon the lead ship. It was a dragon, older and larger than any had dared to imagine. Vhagar's jaws were wide, and in the dark maw, they could see the hellish orange glow of simmering dragonfire.
Whhoooosh!
A torrent of flame erupted from the dragon's throat. It was not a stream, but a deluge. The ship was engulfed in an instant. The lanterns were swallowed by a sun-bright conflagration. The screams from the vessel were cut short almost immediately, replaced by the deafening roar of the inferno and the sharp crack! splinter! of splitting wood. Men became living torches, their silhouettes outlined against the fire for a heartbeat before they were gone.
Panic was absolute. On the other ships, guards scrambled onto decks, their swords and spears looking like toys. "Shoot it! Shoot it!" a captain bellowed, but his order was lost in the chaos. The twang of a crossbow was a pathetic, fleeting sound. Some men, driven by a primal instinct, simply threw themselves overboard with desperate splashes, preferring the dark, cold sea to the fire.
High on Vhagar's back, Baelon held the reins firmly. The wind whipped at his hair. His face was set in a hard, focused line, lit from below by the hellish glow of his own making. "Again. Dracarys!" he commanded, his voice calm amidst the bedlam below.
Vhagar, banked with a grace that belied her immense size, her wings beating with a sound like a continuous thrum-crack that sent spray flying from the sea's surface.
Whoosh! Another stream of fire lanced out, catching the flagship amid. The world outside the cabin windows turned to molten orange and black. The nobles inside screamed as the port side of the cabin exploded inward, a wall of heat and splinters.
"Fiiiiire!" the Magister shrieked, his fine robes smoldering.
The younger noble was thrown from his feet by the impact. He saw the slave girl stumble, her vacant mask finally breaking into raw terror before a falling, burning beam crashed down between them, cutting off his view. He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, the heat blistering his skin, the air thick with the smell of his own singed hair and the horrific scent of cooking meat. He crawled through a shattered window frame, falling through fire and smoke before plunging into the shocking cold of the sea with a loud splash.
Vhagar worked methodically, a harbinger of doom. Ship after ship was set alight, transformed into floating pyres that lit up the night sea for miles. The dragonfire was so potent…it set the very surface of the water ablaze, the sea itself seeming to boil and burn. The desperate cries of men in the water turned to short, sharp screams as the flaming waves consumed them.
When the Volantene fleet was no more than a collection of sinking, burning wrecks and the air filled with the sounds of crackling fire, hissing steam, and final, gurgling cries, Baelon pulled a thick rope secured near his saddle. It was attached to a complex harness holding a large, bound bundle. The knots gave way with a rip, and the bundle unfurled.
From the sky, like falling leaves, drifted long strips of cloth. They were flags, dozens of them, fluttering down towards the carnage. Emblazoned upon them were two symbols: the Titan of Braavos, standing defiant, and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, breathing fire.
Amidst the floating wreckage, the young noble clung desperately to a charred log, coughing up saltwater. "H-help...", he whimpered, his body shivering with shock and cold, his skin a tapestry of angry blisters. He watched, through pain-hazed eyes, as one of the flags drifted down and landed on the water near him, the fabric sizzling where it touched a patch of burning oil. The twin sigils seemed to mock his suffering. He looked up, his face a mask of despair and terror, as the great green dragon and its rider circled once more, a final, shadowy silhouette against the moon, before disappearing into the dark vastness of the night sky. The only sounds left were the pop and crackle of dying fires, the lap of waves on wreckage, and his own ragged, hopeless cry.
***
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