I came to as the sun rose, strangely feeling heavy, and not because of the mother and daughter sharing my bed. It was a spiritual weight that I was still trying to get used to, even after nearly a week since the ritual that nearly quadrupled my original soul.

I held out my hand, summoning my belt with my wand in it, feeling the decrease of Magical Energy within myself in a way that I would not have been able to before and feeling it replenish itself in a moment or two.

I could have done the same trick before, using a rather roundabout method of casting the Summoning Charm through the wand on myself. It had limitations, such as the wand needing to be close to me for my soul to reach without touching the wood, but it was possible, the simple principles based on recalling how Harry had managed to cast a wand-lighting charm without touching his wand once. Using the same principles to summon myself to the wand, I let momentum work to get the wand to me instead.

Now, the difference was that I had actual telekinesis; rather than letting the wand do the work for me, I could finally start using actual spells without a wand. It was not much, but being able to summon things without a wand would come in handy in the long term.

The ritual I had done also came with a greater insight into how Magical Energy actually worked. While the soul stored the energy, most plants actually had the ability to absorb said energy, Weirwood being especially suited for the task. Binding the Essence of Weirwood into my own soul allowed me to not only absorb Ambient Magic to replenish my reserves but also made me more attuned to Magic in general. It also made me realize that I had bypassed the main drawback of using Magic in this world as my soul connected with the weirwood of my wand, which in turn allowed me to slowly fill back the energy to my soul when I held it. Now I did not really need the Weirwood wand to do it for me... not that it was not useful for other reasons, and I was still struggling to figure out new methods of casting magic. Maybe I should give a staff a try.

Speaking of replenishing my reserves, the Blood Candles were simultaneously the smartest and most stupid things I had ever created. It had given me a secondary reserve to pull from instead of my own life-fire, binding it to my physical body in the process. The problem was that said reserve did not replenish through my wand, which would lead to my body being bound with more and more souls that were empty of Magical Energy, which I was sure had some side effect.

The effect also explained why I could not help Lanna. I was essentially throwing filled souls into an unfilled container. It countered the physical issues of lacking the life force by enchanting the body, but it did not help with the lethargy she was feeling. The only solution I could think of was to include her in the exclusive group of people I planned to make wands for, which used to only consist of only Dany before.

As for having empty souls bound to my body, I did not think the results would be pleasant once the disparity between my soul size and the soul-amalgamation within my body became larger than it ought to be. It had benefits, like allowing me to use possession more easily through skinchanging as my soul was knocked loose, so to speak. Still, there was the risk of any independent soul forming into something else. I did not need to host a pseudo-god in my body or the potential multiple personality disorders that would imply. I also made Lanna stop her own rituals for similar reasons.

Now was the final step of the Ritual, distributing the soul-stuff over my original soul to act as both an additional layer and a shield. Because the new essence contained a bit of my own through the ritual, I could bind my soul to the new additional soul-stuff. The plan was to fully combine the two by layering the new souls over my original soul. Sure, common sense dictated that I ought not to mess with my own soul, but this world was proving to be far more dangerous, and I was already feeling like the walls were closing in on me. Something or someone was plotting my death; I could feel it beyond paranoia, though the source of the feeling was hard to identify, even with Mind Arts to provide me with increased self-awareness.

I made my way outside to the well that was not a well. The added Weirwood around the hole in the ground that spewed Magical Energy was new, grown from a few saplings in record time to better absorb the released Magical Energy. The Weirwood acted as an anchor to the method I chose to hook the potential access to the local Layline into the protections around the keep. It was not the smartest option, as it still was outside the range of the protections, but it was the only available option I had, passing a rope infused with Weirwood from the well into the perimeter around the building.

I sat on the clearing in front of the well, with a circle carved into the dirt, before removing my latest creation from my robe... the thing I owed all the other upgrades I had made.

The small circular glass disks were dark and attached to a wooden frame that seemed to have grown around the lenses... which it had. It was an unusual design for a pair of glasses. The Lenses were made from a combination of dragonglass and weirwood that I accidentally created after playing around with combining Weirwood Bark and Dragonglass into the Blood Candles at once.

Playing around with dragonglass, I learned a few things. Just heating the glass created glass foam, preventing me from reshaping the volcanic rock without something additional that I was missing. Given how I knew blood could dissolve it, I had a feeling that the famed Valyrian Black Stone was far more bloody than initially believed unless those psychos managed to figure out a magical version of Concrete. I had noticed that the Dragonglass I used in the Blood Candles seemed to pool back into its original form… something about dissolving it in blood using magic must have changed its nature enough that it did not need high pressure to be reformed, burning off the blood allowed the material to return to its glass form. Usually, I would have just reused the dragonglass like I did with the ones from Blood Candles to make more of them, but the variant I had was somehow imbued with Weirwood, which changed its properties.

It did not absorb any Magical Energy like I expected. My basic understanding was that Weirwood absorbed Magic, dragonglass stored it, and dragon bone expelled it. That idea had been incorrect, however. Rather than storing or expelling magic, dragonglass, and dragon bone transformed magic from one form into another. Dragonglass could create light and fire, and dragon bone could create heat and air. My initial theory of White Walkers being created by combining Weirwood Paste and Dragonglass chunks had been incorrect. Cold was just the absence of heat, and a wide area spell to slow down the vibrations of atoms was closer to what the White Walkers would be doing. That did lead me to learn a few ice magic tricks, at least. Glacius is always a nice spell to have in your pocket, after all.

Returning back to the Weirwood and Dragonglass lenses, they somehow allowed me to see the magical energy when I looked through them, absorbing and converting Magical Energy into light. My best guess was that souls were needed to store energy, and without a soul attached to the stone, so it was relatively inert and only reacted to external Magical Energy by producing light. When I put them on, the lenses allowed me to see magical energy, whisps of something floating in the air that seemed to be pushed through my wand every time I cast a spell.

In a way, the material reminded me of Glass Candles with how it worked. I needed to figure out how to see through long distances. However, the news of the Ironborn Rebellion had already reached Braavos after all. While the result of the Rebellion was not much of an issue for me, what with Balon Greyjoy being a moron and Robert actually having competent generals, all I cared for was Tywin losing his fleet of ships.

Putting on the glasses, I looked around. Colors were more defined, yellows were gold, greens were emerald, and black was darkness itself. Looking at the Well of Magic, I could see wisps of something rising from the hole descending into the Abyss.

I resisted the urge to throw an eye into the well to see what would happen. I had to acknowledge those impulses but not let them control me. Eyes were too valuable to sacrifice for an undefined ritual for an unknown benefit. I had only two of those, and depth perception was horribly useful. I would start with the eyes of a few birds first, see if they changed anything with them.

Placing a silvered mirror in front of me, I looked at myself through the glasses. I had barely tapped into the potential uses of mirrors as it was, though this use was one I could say was one of the more valuable ones.

In Vampire Lore, said creatures often lacked a reflection in the mirror, attributed to their lack of soul. Through the same logic, looking into the reflection with the Glasses that see Magical Energy, I had managed to see the Magical Energy on my own body reflected from the mirror. The glasses removed my actual visage on the surface, stripping away the physical phenomenon like light, leaving behind... my own soul shining with the Magical Energy contrasted by the energy from the Well.

I saw Magical Energy and everything that held that energy, like an X-Ray that showed me, my soul, through an Unseen World.

In the silver mirror, in a world of black and white made from the reflection, I saw myself. A cloak covered my body, a cloak I could see through... a metaphor for the secret I kept from everyone, a shroud of secrets made manifest. I understood why the Faceless Men would call me a Champion of Death as I looked at the eyeless skull beneath the hood. Right on my forehead glowed a single eye made from fire, looking back at me. As it was, I looked… Eldritch… closer to the image of a grim reaper than a human.

The metaphysical vision of my self was something of a horror show. There were patches of flesh still missing, with the bone still visible. Given that a week ago, all I could see were bones forming the skeleton that bound my soul to my body, it was a definite improvement. From knowing how Wights could be destroyed by crushing the bones, I knew that Bones and Souls had a strange relationship.

The only strange thing that differentiated my soul from a humanoid form were the two stumpy wings on my shoulders, potentially a remnant from my family's legacy... the last Dragonlords of Valyria. Best I could tell, it was dragon wings... representing the lost connection to the dragons that I had.

Bloodraven had referred to skinchanging as flying, and without their fire-breathing familiars, House Targaryen had lost their wings.

"Nothing but the Shadow of a Wyrm," my mind echoed, paraphrasing the words used to describe Viserys. Unlike my original counterpart, I was still a dragon, and my fire was still deadly, even if I too lacked the wings. Despite all that I had done, a part of me still held a grudge over how weak I would have been without my knowledge.

From beneath the cloak came wisps of something... glowing threads of soul that had frayed off the bone that represented the main piece... a representation of my magic that could connect to the world around me with each spell I cast.

Most of those threads attached themselves to the wand in my hand, remaining even when I let it go. Some of the wisps kept connecting and disconnecting to things around me in waves, pulsing with my heartbeat.

I honestly looked like an eldritch abomination.

Then again, I knew what to expect; the visions that Yna the Whore had seen of me were close enough to what I saw in the Magical Mirror, though she could not see beneath the shroud.

Where my stomach would be was a glowing mess of soul-stuff; white roots and fire burned within it. It was the last vestiges of the ritual I had performed, the remaining soul-stuff that I needed to make part of the whole and integrate over my own soul. The source of the pulse influenced the small threads of my soul, lighting the threads up with my own heartbeat.

I reached out with a mental command, guiding the glowing tendrils that were my magic to dig into the mess of roots and fire that I had consumed. Another lesson learned, only souls could interfere with souls. Where the two substances met, they stuck together, the ritual creating a mixture that was less defined and more akin to clay. Stripping pieces off of it, I guided them to spread over my actual soul, creating a layer of flesh over the bones.

Unlike the usual Cultivator bullshit, there was no core forging, no pulling everything into a nice little ball, at least. The vision in the mirror was my soul as it was right now, stripped bare and in a form that best represented me as I was. The soul bound itself over my bounds and onto my flesh instead. The result allowed me to absorb the ambient magic, which was paramount for any Spell Caster with any ambitions of not relying on a focus.

In the mirror, looking back at me, was a face without eyes now; the bones hidden beneath the wood and flame that became the flesh had covered where my eyelids would be, and the only thing of note was the Third Eye I had.

Once the integration of Souls was complete, I looked over my new metaphysical form. Where before I looked the part of a Grim Reaper, my new look was more refined... more humanoid, at least.

With the souls completely absorbed, I only needed time for my soul to settle and get used to the changes I had made to myself through Soul Surgery. That being said, there was still one problem… my left arm was… well, different would be the best description.

As it turned out, the physical scar that remained was just what could be seen. The curse had been removed from the cut, but it had still managed to damage my soul, even if it seemed to be slowly recovering, given the way the frayed bits of soul were trying to weave themselves together. The metaphysical concept bound to that part of the soul being harmed interfered with methods of healing that I had access to, even when I tried to remove the scarred tissue and force it to re-heal with potions.

Spiritually, the effect was not that obvious, the soul that made up my left arm was slightly more frayed than my right arm, and the line was obvious when I looked through the glasses that allowed me to see the Unseen. Guiding a bit of the soul-stuff, I watched the raw materials try and fail to stick and bind to the cut, so I was now covering my entire soul with additional soul-stuff to act as armor. The result did not completely remove the damage, but Seeing the effect gave me an idea… something to keep up my metaphysical sleeve if you will.

Once I was done, I pulled off the glasses, letting the reflection shift back to my physical one. My shoulder-length hair had shifted from pale blonde to silver, and my skin was paler than before as a reflection of my soul, yet I felt more alive than I had in... ever. I took a breath, feeling the Raw Magical Energy being absorbed through my skin.

I pointed my wand at the bounder, and a bolt of fire leaped out, carrying no intent within it but to reach my target.

CRACK!

The sound echoed through the forest as I looked at the scorched rock. For a basic cast with no intent behind it other than the spellfire that made it, it had some decent weight to it. Anything else I could add in, reducing the spellfire's natural tendency to burn and amplifying the concept of change.

I took a breath to center myself before heading back. I had been ignoring the Faceless Men in exchange for the ritual, knowing that I needed all the advantage I could get against them. Increasing my spiritual weight increased the effect of my spiritual weight, amplifying my Magical Power as a result. While I did not like the Faceless Men after the latest stunt they pulled, I still had to figure out what to do with the skull of that servant that tried to shank the Sea Lord.

There was definitely something fishy going on, and I needed more insights into the politics of Braavos. Luckily, I just knew the perfect person to ask questions to.

---

Black Pearl:

He was fiddling around with a skull of all things as Black Pearl walked through the... Workshop of the Wizard. It was as messy as the Workshops of Painters who were working to create the next great painting of her, poets who had scrolls lying around as they tried to decide on the words that would fail to catch her beauty. Where those artists had a specific theme to their work, Viserys Targaryen had a dozen different things that had no sense when put together.

On one corner was a cauldron, a clear liquid inside it still steaming. Another corner held a pale white staff half covered in Magical Glyphs of Valyria, while another desk had a fabric stretched over it, covering something she probably did not want to know about.

Another wooden desk held a cushion that had been turned into a rather large pincushion, holding dozens of wooden needles of varying sizes, some small while others were the size of daggers, right next to a jar of weirdly shaped beetles with holes in them. Bellonara had no idea what sort of magic it was meant to be used for, probably some dark ritual that only made sense in the sense of the man before her.

A common theme among various workbenches was the rolls of parchment and notes sprawled around any empty space holding scribbles and notes in some eldritch language Bellegere did not know, possibly the one that the Wizard used to cast his spells and would mutter to himself when he stopped caring for the fact that there were others around him.

It was the first thing one noticed about Viserys Targaryen… that he was strange, even by the norms of Westerosi.

At first glance, the strangeness was obvious. His clothes seemed to not fit any style in the Free Cities or Westeros. They were exquisite and tailor-made, as befit his noble status and wealth that seemed to keep growing every day, yet his clothes were in a style that barely paid homage to the styles of Braavosi- though she was certain it was only because the seamstress could not fathom whatever the man had probably designed for himself.

The true strangeness was the patterns on the fabrics, however. A black shirt with swirling patterns that seemed to move with light, with buttons of white wood on the front cut a striking figure. The black pants lacked the complexity of any design that Bellonara knew, being straight and without any pomp that most Bravos favored, though weird cutouts in the sides hid pockets that Bellonara had recently started seeing in the clothing of other men as well. The seamstress who made the clothing probably adapted it to her other commissions.

The leather vest carved with glyphs completed the getup, or at least when he was working on his 'projects.' Having caught a glimpse of one of the knights striking the vest with naked steel and not even making a mark had been just another reminder of the protections the exiled prince wore, even in his own home. Bellonara wondered why he would need to wear such protection while working in his workshop.

With the sleeves rolled up, his arms were bare as he worked on some magical contraption. Watching him was akin to watching a painter work or a bard sing in a way strange and mesmerizing as much as it was unsettling.

His hair had been changing, Bellonara noticed. Whereas before, it was golden; it seemed to have shifted into a lighter color, closer to silver, just as his skin had gotten paler over the last week, though it somehow made him more eye-catching than before.

The long scar on his left arm was easy to spot, the pale line had somehow held an intricate tattoo of three ravens around it that were not there the previous night. Bellonara had heard the story of the scar, of course, the work of a Shadowbinder before the Son of the Mad King set him on Wildfire of all things. It was a battle scar that much Black Pearl could tell with the way how his face darkened when he noticed her looking at it. He was not ashamed of it, but he did not like it either. It was yet another proof that the boy was not as green as she had assumed at first.

"I have found that certain scars are harder to heal than the ones on the flesh," said the Sorcerer-Prince, as though reading her mind. "Take a seat. I am almost done," he added, not shifting his eyes from the eyeless skull he was inspecting, filled with some strange liquid.

"Forgive me, your grace; I was merely lost in thought. You have asked for me," said Bellonara, avoiding any form of flattery, knowing it was useless on the man before her.

At first, it was the prospect of having the Last Targaryen on her side, having heard of the growing wealth and power of Viserys Targaryen. The rumors of his magic, of course, helped, and seeing first hand all but confirmed to Bellonara that he would be a powerful player… a good first lover for her daughter.

Recent events had changed her ambitions, however.

It was not whatever magic he had done that left a warmth between her legs every time she thought about him. Neither was it the power he displayed or the casual way he could kill two of the best fighters she could find, however impressive it was.

The binding had been a stupid plan, one that was forced on her by the Faceless Men. If she had the freedom to choose, she would rather have gained influence over the Wizard of Westeros in a more traditional way. That being said, Viserys had discovered her plot from half-forgotten knowledge, somehow translated from the original texts that he should not have been even able to read.

It was his reaction that had left Bellonara bewildered, however. A simple man would have hurt her and her daughter for their attempt to have influence over him. A cruel man would do much worse. Even a good man would have simply left, or even kill them.

Viserys Targaryen was none of those, choosing a punishment that ended with her being bound to him instead.

Like Bellonara was a stranger to being a servant.

There was only one constant truth in Braavos that all man must serve... or all man must die.

Those words were far more sinister than she had first thought them to be when she first heard them in her youth. In the city where men were free, they were still slaves in one way.

Alas, the Black Pearl served Braavos, and hidden beneath all, Braavos served the Faceless Men. It was not a truth known to many, and those who knew would not risk angering the Faceless Men by revealing it. It was not safe life... but it was better than other cities for those with wealth and influence, even if what the Faceless Men aimed to achieve was unknown to any but the Faceless Men.

And they had threatened her daughter.

All I had done was to change one master to another, thought Bellonara, though this one was much easier to bargain with than the Faceless Men, who seemed to not care about anything but death.

Mayhaps it was magic that made people strange? Viserys Targaryen was similarly strange and aloof, his face carved from stone as his eyes gave nothing away, his tone cold and without emotion when he was angered, something that scared her more upon seeing how cold the Wizard's Wrath could be. The memories of that day, a flash of green light shrouded in fog and two dead men with no bodies to be found.

If she had to serve the Wizard to ensure her daughter's protection, that is what she would do, even if he scared her as much as he excited her. The whole mess had only worked to make Bellonara understand that for the City without Slavery, all of Braavos was still slaves to the Faceless Men, and at least with Viserys Targaryen, Bellonara could tell where she stood.

Her eyes roamed over her newest lover, a strange warmth pooling in her loins as though she was a young girl. A part of it, Bellonara knew to be the result of the magic that chained her, though the young man was one of the better lovers she had taken, despite his age, and he was not hard on the eyes either with his Valyrian features. She had recently noticed a particular glow in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her eyes landed on one of the other skulls on the desk. This one had glinting of the gems resting on a skull upon a pile of books, gilded with jewels and grinning… before it started to shriek as she looked through the jewels fitted in the eye sockets, causing Bellonara to jump back, her back hitting the wall.

"Shit," exclaimed the Wizard, only moving after the shrieking started. Taking the skull and threw it to one of the walls, with enough strength to shatter said bone, littering jewelry onto the floor. What was he doing... torturing that soul?

Bellonara recognized the skull in a way. The two Bravos had not been of any use to provide protection or discourage the Wizard. The exiled prince had taken their heads with a single swing of that stick of his, leaving nothing but a pair of skulls that he now played with.

Even in death, they were being punished for daring to take what the dragon saw as his.

Not cruel... but definitely vengeful, her mind concluded.

Was this some sort of a lesson for her? Was this the real reason she was here? Bellonara was uncertain... a subtle threat, showing her that death would be a mercy if she ever angered him again. She could not move, however, not for some spell on her, but from fear as the boy had perfectly arranged for the skull to do what it did when she walked in.

"That should not have happened; that was unnerving," said the Wizard, scratching his head before turning to her and giving her a sheepish grin before his face fell. Bellonara swallowed in fear before the chair by the side of the wall moved near her on its own. "You look like you might faint... please take a seat."

Bellonara felt herself slip down on the chair, her face still frozen. She was trying her best to not break down, though she was uncertain whether she would laugh at the way the Wizard reacted or cry while begging for his mercy.

Predicting the young man had been an exercise in futility. The way he thought, the way he acted, it was... strange... primal in a way that could only come from the surety of one's abilities and a set of rules he followed only to discard them when angered.

Two things were certain, Viserys Targaryen was powerful, and a second betrayal of his trust would prove fatal for Bellonara. Bellonara could admit that she was terrified of Viserys Targaryen, even if a part of her wished that he took her right then and there.

"Oh, dear," said the Wizard, looking at her as though he had just read her mind, "That was... honestly an accident," he said, and Bellonara heard the muttering of "stupid alarm clock." A few moments later, he handed her a cup and told her to drink.

Bellonara took a sip, too afraid to disobey. The warm camomile tea, best she could judge, immediately caused her to relax... too fast not to be some type of magic.

"Right... I had called you here for a thing... well, two things now that I think about it, I suppose," said the boy, turning around and picking up a skull, holding it upside down, as Bellonara noticed a strange liquid in the skull, with white whisps peeling off the bone and mixing into the liquid.

"Do you wish me to drink that as well, your grace?" asked Bellonara, apprehensive.

"What? No!" exclaimed the Wizard, his voice not raising. "It is called a Pensieve... well, a prototype really... a really crude and limited version, the Memory Potion in it is poisonous, however... probably... a bit of Nightshade in there with the Forget-Me-Not and Evening Shade to give it a... well, never you mind that, give me a second, I might have a better way."

Even if she could not tell what he was talking about, Bellonara could see the passion and excitement he had, and it was contagious. She could only nod, understanding only bits of what he was saying.

Bellonara watched as the man dipped the tip of his wand into the liquid, pulling out a whisp of white... something with the tip. As she watched, the Wizard waved the whisp around before touching it onto his own face, which shifted like a water ripple before settling into the form of... the Faceless Men she had met.

"I see... I had to double-check," he said, reading her like an open book, another power that made her feel lightheaded and her small clothes rather damp, "I was sure I had seen the face in your memories as well, but now I know it to be the same person. There is reason to believe that the man who told you to bind me also threatened this man to stab the Sealord."

"The Faceless Men can have many faces. Are you sure it is the same person?" asked Bellonara, unsure where this was going. It made no sense.

"I know, it does not make sense," said the young man, "But there is a reason they wanted me to see that memory, a reason to antagonize me through you... a reason for me to feel like I was in danger and lash out... I hate puzzles. You are the most experienced person in Braavosi Politics. What do you think are the Faceless Men planning? What benefit do they get by replacing the Sealord or attacking me?"

That made Bellonara snort. Most men would dismiss her when the one who did not need to play petty politics acknowledged her talents. It felt strange, but that seemed to be the norm for Viserys. "The Sealord holds no love for the House of Black and White. My influence over him is limited, and there are others, like Syrio Forrel, who are wary of the Faceless Men."

"That might explain one plot but not both." countered Viserys looking thoughtfully. "The plot against me only happened after the first one, a reaction, an attempt to force my hand and limit my influence?"

"There have been some who are not comfortable with your presence before the Uncloaking, your grace. The Sealord and the Iron Bank saw the worth of having leverage against the Iron Throne; however, with the Stag King having an heir of his own, many fear he might attack Braavos," explained Bellonara.

"Unlikely, but it is possible that someone wants me away from Braavos and on the run again," said Viserys, looking into the fires. "Where does the Faceless Man come in, however? What is his play, and is he working alone or for the whole of House of Black and White?"

"Maybe they are trying to blame one of their own to protect the rest; let one person carry the plot in case it would have you attack them?" Bellonara said, knowing that it was something a noble might try to do.

"A patsy? Potentially... but why make me fight a single... oh... I see." said the Wizard, his eyes widening. Bellonara could admit that the faint glow of his lilac eyes rimmed with a darker violet were mesmerizing to look at, especially when he had that gleam in them. "It seems that that will be another test for me, but that is for me to know."

"Is that wise, your grace, picking a fight with the Faceless Men," started the Black Pearl, only to be interrupted.

"It is what you want me to do, is it not?" asked Viserys Targaryen, looking into her eyes in a way that made Bellonara feel like he was gazing into her soul. Bellonara gulped, feeling the gaze of the young man be replaced by a large predator. "While I will admit that it is tempting, I am not going to pick a fight that is a waste of my time with not enough to gain. As for your predicament, they have no reason to be a threat again."

"They threatened my daughter and expected her to die," countered Bellonara, "and they expect me to do nothing? Kill them, and I am yours as long as you want me."

The Wizard chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that was more primal than anything Bellonara had heard before. "Never tickle a sleeping dragon," he said, once more choosing to speak in riddles. "While tempting, there are not many ways to take them out all at once because if I miss even one, they will be coming after me and those I care about. Wizard means wise man in a way, and I, my dear, am no fool."

Bellonara nodded, knowing that it was not a likely outcome. Other than a direct attack from the Faceless Men, there was not much that could provoke the last dragon to a fight.

"As I was saying, since our little agreement regarding the ritual is done, there is nothing holding you back from leaving. I am sure the Faceless Men will not bother you over me, so you have two options before you..." he said with a look that made Bellonara want to slowly back away, "Given how I seem to be scaring the shit out of you, if you so choose, I can take the memories you have of me and leave you and your daughter be. Now that I know how to draw out memories," he said, pointing at the skull for some reason... was the whisps of... memories or something? "I am pretty sure I can do it if you wish. I have to admit that I dislike the way this... enterprise had turned out, even if our arrangement was profitable in a manner of speaking. I decided that it would be prudent to give you and your daughter an option to never see me again."

Bellonara held back a snort that would be beneath her. "You said two options, your grace?"

"We can make a proper contract, one that ensures that I would not abuse you or your daughter," explained Viserys, looking into her eyes.

"A contract using magic?" asked Bellonara, her mind reaching to the implications.

"Maybe in the future, if you pose a threat to what is mine again, "said the Wizard, making Bellonara gulp, knowing that such an act would end with something worse than death." I am not foolish enough to bind myself with such things for trivial things," came his response. "You will have to trust that my word will be enough."

Had anyone else said that Bellonara would laugh at their face, but Viserys Targaryen, despite his strangeness, was... someone she could not see turning on his word… he had not done it when he had every reason to, he would be less likely to do in the future.

Ending up becoming the Mistress of a Wizard had not been what Bellonara intended for herself as well, even if the thought of being able to personally teach her daughter the art of pleasure was as tantalizing as it was scandalous. The Wizard was a dragon, and there was more than a drop of dragon blood in her that she really did not mind.

Bellonara had no doubt that she was attracted to the Wizard's power... it had such potential. Viserys Targaryen was not the first practitioner of Higher Mysteries, as one of the Maesters Bellonara had met called magic. He was, however, the most... prolific. Few that were worth their salt would trade their firstborn for the type of magic the boy of thirteen did with ease.

Another Courtesan would kill to be in her place right now, gaining the attention of this... what even was Viserys Targaryen? He was certainly more than a man. Some men called Targaryens dragons had they not?

In the end, with some proper guidance, the potential of the one before her was limitless, and Bellonara was not a fool to pass the opportunity that presented itself to herself or her daughter.

A small part of her whispered that Viserys Targaryen stood the best chance that she could make the Faceless Men pay for trying to harm her family, but that was not something she dared bring out. Trying to manipulate him to fight the Faceless Men was a risk, and she was not sure if he could win.

Just as Bellonara started to untie her laces to provide more incentive for her lover, the Wizard froze.

"We have company," he said, making sure her clothing covered her once more with the flick of his wand, just as a knock was heard.

Viserys looked at the man, who poked his head out with a glare. "Yes?"

"Pardon me, your grace, Ser Willem said to get you fast. The Master of Horse came back," said the Man At Arms, who was one of the two named Wat. How the boy ran into two men with the same name was an enigma, though Bellonara thought that it was a way to prevent the name of one man from being given since two shared the same name, maybe another protection from the Faceless Men. She decided to see if she could do the same once the danger they were in passed.

"Strange, anything else that made this urgent?" asked the Sorcerer-Prince.

"His face is all wrong," said the man. "It is hard to explain, but it is wrong. Wat told me to ask you what to do."

Bellonara's blood ran cold.

Viserys Targaryen did not seem fazed, his eyes clouding for a moment before he stood up. "Your wish just might come true, my lady," he said with a confidence that Bellonara though was out of place, given the situation. The wizard picking up the white wooden staff with a smirk on his face and headed out the door.

---

AN: No, it is not dead, it is just slowed down as a result of me being not that good at time management. This chapter had been re-written so many times that it became a pain.

That being said, loads Magical Shotgun with Malicious Intent.

Last edited: Mar 19, 2023