It opened its beak to caw, but no voice was heard, but for a song of flames. The flames became a roiling inferno, taking the shape of a man.

I looked around the location.

The Prince's Pass... the border of Stormlands and Dorne.

This was where I needed to be.

Where I would close one cycle and find answers to questions.

I held the large tome I carried, using its residual presence to focus the Wayfinder in my other hand instead of relying on pure desire.

There... I found what I was looking for. Eight cairns on a cliff overlooking the pass where an ideal location to place a small watchtower.

Of course, one had been built during the time of the Young Dragon and pulled down by Ned Stark.

A wave of my wand had the stones rise and reveal eight skeletons, still in their armor.

At least that made it easier to identify.

I knelt down, collecting three of the skulls with armor still embossed with the mark of the three-headed dragon.

My father's Kingsguard...

The ones who sided with Rhaegar...

The greatest of their famed brotherhood...

And the worst twice over... as far as I was concerned.

These brave men who stood by while a King raped his wife.

These honorable men who stood by while a Prince ran off with a teenage girl, barely out of her childhood.

Arthur Dayne

Oswell Whent

Gerold Hightower

"Huh... why is it that whenever House Targaryen faces extinction, there is a Hightower cunt in the court?" I muttered, holding up the skull of said Hightower cunt.

Ceryse Hightower, the barren wife of Maegor Targaryen, whose actions were key in the rise of the Faith Militant. I was pretty sure the bitch was guzzling Moon Tea like the world would end if she had a child.

Otto and Alicent Hightower to Viserys the First and Rhaenyra, triggering the Dance of Dragons. Granted, Viserys was a moron for that, but I had seen one of Alicent's portraits... silver hair inherent in those who descended from the Great Empire of the Dawn or Valyria, and a body to kill for. Too bad she had the personality of a particularly stinky turd.

Jon Hightower, the last Hand of Aegon the Unworthy. He was likely in the room where it happened when Aegon the Worst decided that leaving the rest of the realm unfucked would not fit his theme and decided to legitimize all his bastards on his deathbed. It was an event that would eventually trigger the Blackfyre Rebellions after a long, drawn-out cold war. The man who would be in the perfect position to manipulate the words of a dying king, not like it was above someone honorable like Ned Stark, let alone a Hightower.

And finally... Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of Kingsguard, to Aerys, the man who stood by in the middle of the desert as Robert's Rebellion dethroned the Targaryens. The most experienced war commander on the side of House Targaryen at the time... sitting it out.

One is a happenstance, two is a coincidence... four is just laughing at your face.

I shook my head.

"I am hanging out with Marwyn for too long," I spoke to myself.

If I thought of this a while longer, I would end up convincing myself to nuke Oldtown just to be safe. I was not going to repeat that mistake again... more evidence was needed before I decided that Hightowers were an actual enemy.

Then again...

"Boltons say that a flayed man has no secrets... but it is the dead that truly have none," I smirked, setting out to go through a ritual.

I had come to reap the memories of the dead knights, the best of the best.

I would also do with anything extra.

The flood of conjured sunlight awakened a sliver of Weirwood in my palm, forcing it to grow and merge with the three skulls. I added the bones that belonged to the hand of Jaime Lannister, forming a bowl with a wide range of glyphs and runes etched into it.

A pensieve of a sort.

The potion I added drew out the memories etched into the inside of the skull, making the contraption a pseudo-penseive for a brief moment.

I reinforced the echo of the memories, using them as an anchor and my Greensight as the focus. The connection that was opened to go back into the past, into the fight, and rip their consciousness in their last dying breath.

Such men did not deserve my mercy...

And as I told Barristan, these three had failed my family in life... and so they would serve a purpose in death.

When I had set out on this path, I knew that there would be acts I found unpleasant. Things that I would have to do... the person that I would have to become.

A King... a single man, however wise, could not make.

That was the truth of this world... where memories were the ghosts that haunted us.

To be more, I had to take in more... becoming the vassal of a King.

And a King had to be a Warrior first, but only a Warrior did not a good king make.

I had the basics, hands trained for war, mind trained for judgment, the body trained to be a weapon.

Yet there would always be someone better... someone who spent longer time in the yard every day, someone with more skill, someone with more luck.

So, as the sun set in the Dornish Marches, I drank the memories of the three Knights.

And as the world sank into darkness, so did I descend into the underworld, where I would learn from the dead all that they were, sinking into a Meditation deeper than I had before.

The word 'Necromancy' was stripped of its original meaning in my old world.

It meant the divination through the dead, for all that the word became associated with armies of shambling zombies and skeletons.

Granted, the entire structure of the very first wand I made was technically Necromancy of a sort since I was possessing a dead wood and magical animal bits, but... the point was, I was good at Necromancy.

No... that is an understatement. I was good at Magic... I was very good at Necromancy.

It was the nature of things in the end. To know something, one had to live through it, and me... I had died once, and so I knew death very well, very intimately.

And I hated the fact that I was very good at the art.

That is what I was doing now, divination... knowledge, gathered by the dead, by those warriors who died fighting.

I learned from the dead... I took their experiences, their capabilities, and effort, making it mine own.

I had reaped those warriors who had fallen in battle...

Those whose memories would live on within me...

By sunrise, I had consumed their skills, experiences, instincts, and everything else, butchering and severing anything that was of no other use to me.

They would serve me well. Though I have to admit, I expected more from Hightower... more than an honor-obsessed nihilist he had grown to become.

As I returned to Dragonstone, with the knowledge of the best knights in the world slowly getting assimilated into my self as I got ready.

To face Barristan the Bold, to remove a voice of reason from his court, to be secure in the knowledge that Robert would soon implode.

I had taken steps to ensure that certain actions would take place in the end. Robert knew the truth of his children; whether or not it was true did not matter, as it would rot him from the inside.

With Ser Jaime missing his sword arm, it meant that it was likelier for Robert to purge the Lannisters from King's Landing, ridding me of that pesky problem while ensuring that Robert and Tywin were occupied trying to kill each other.

And if Robert did not act, the paranoia would eat at him... the idea that I could end him at a moment's notice, working hand in hand with the lack of a true heir.

Instead, I focused on the vision I had when I first stepped into Westeros.

The vision I had about the dragon, and deep within me, I knew that it was time for that particular problem.

I was going to need help with this thought.

"Ah, your grace, right on time," said Marwyn, appearing before me.

If I did not feel that he was looking for me, I would have been more surprised.

Then he handed me a glass jar.

"What is this?" I asked, looking at the creature within.

It was some sort of a bug. It had six legs, a pair of crimson wings shaped like the wings of a bat over actual fly wings.

"Gall Fly," said Marwyn, "I had one of the Alchemists with some talent skinchange into one and embed the eggs into the Weirwood. This came out, already dead. The lad had some visions, but he is fine."

I nodded as I caught the next thing he threw at me.

It was a wooden ball, white. "Weirwood Gall?" I asked, getting a nod. "Great, let's head to your lab and get us some Magical Ink."

The Weirwood Gall provided the modified Tannic Acid, and in half a dozen vials, we mixed it with different sources of Iron Salt, testing magical properties.

"This one," I said, to the one marked with the mix of Dragonbone and Weirwood Gall, "not surprisingly."

The process itself was expensive, highly niche, and required a dedicated person to control the gall flies.

I pulled out a prepared parchment, vellum treated with Weirwood Ash.

Once the ink and parchment were ready, I thought of the spell that I could inscribe.

The main problem with most spells was that they required more than simple instructions. There was a lot of feeling along the lines, something that required the ones learning to experience it.

But I had already mastered how to take the experience of another person, so why not go the other way and share my knowledge?

I tapped my wand to my temple, isolating the memories of a specific spell I wanted, before pulling out a ghostly strand of the thought-form that the spell took, which was soon added to the ink itself.

Instead of writing my goal, I let the quill guide me, letting the thoughts take form into what form they would take.

My hand moved the quill through the formation of a Magic Circle, one inner and one outer circle, and three runes in between connecting them.

Kenaz, for fire, to determine the element.

Thurisaz, for lightning and thorn, to determine the form.

Raido, for travel, allowing the spell to leap out.

In combination, they made a single spell that was iconic, something that I had spend hours and hours practicing until I got it down perfect.

But the quill was not done. The ink flowed, forming instructions and shapes around the central circle, instructions that shifted with each moment.

"Impressive," said Marwyn, "the memory is ever-shifting, revealing layers like an onion, yet each piece is part of a puzzle. I wonder if it is all that is needed to cast the spell."

"The intent is baked into the circle through the memories," I explained, "The circle folds the magical energy over itself until it reaches critical levels and wham... Bob's your uncle."

"Who?" asked Marwyn.

"Never mind. Clear your mind and just push your self through it," I told Marywn, who took the rolled-up scroll.

The parchment burst into flames, and a bolt of fire slammed into the wall.

"Firebolt," I muttered, working on making a second scroll. "Though rather expensive for a cantrip. I have a feeling that it would be easy to copy existing scrolls once you can learn the spell. This time, try to pull the knowledge to yourself instead of pushing it out."

I watched as Marwyn tried again. It took five minutes before it was done, and the ink on the parchment lost its shimmer.

Marwyn opened his eyes before pointing with an index finger and unleashing a Firebolt. It was not as strong or impressive as the original, but there was potential.

He tried again, only for me to dispel it. "Focus, Marwyn, play around with fire later."

"Yes, your grace," said the old Maester, looking like a child on Christmas.

I held up the glass jar, inspecting the creature within.

My eyes focused on the dead Weirwood Gall Fly... how its red wings looked closer to those of a bat than an insect.

An insect that had six legs and a pair of wings.

"Create more of the spell scrolls for testing, and the ink as well. Firebolt is simple, but this might provide a means to speed up the creation of our artillery division. And send a batch to my workshop," I said, walking out after grabbing the glass jar, "I am taking this."

"Dany, I need your help with something," I said as I walked into my own workshop to find a bizarre scene.

"Did you finally decide that we should blow up Casterly Rock?" responded my ten-year-old sister, while chasing after my dog with a dragon skull in hand, one that was nearly the size of a horse's head. "Because I have this spell that I wanted to test for something like that."

"No... apart from the fact that it is concerning that you have gone from basics to Siege-Spells, which we will have a long talk about later... what are you doing to Huan?" I asked simply, letting my staff float to its resting place.

"Pulling a Marrowak," was the response I got as my sister waved the draconic skull around.

I blinked.

Yeah, that was on me. Should have known that giving her access to my more comprehensive and modern education through the Pensieve would make my sister slightly more outside context like I was.

"I am going to need you to use more than one word for this," I said with a sigh.

"I was planning to use the faceless man magic and apply it to Huan using the dragon bone as a mask... make him a proper Hellhound," she said, far too proud of herself.

I opened my mouth to chastise her... only to pause. That should have no right to sound like a good idea.

"Right... I am going to grab some coffee. Then you are going to walk me through the ritual," I said instead, as I took the opportunity to teach Dany a few tricks. It was rather nice to be on the other end of this exchange.

Half an hour later, I was holding a now-empty cup, staring at the large piece of slate while Dany completed her explanation.

It was brilliant, to be honest.

The bone would merge with Huan's face, becoming both a helmet and a biologically part of him. It would make him more draconic, but I had him purposefully bred to take in rituals of this caliber.

In the end, it became more of a family project. My already ritually enhanced wolfhound got an upgrade.

"We need a skin that can cover the whole... else it would expose the skull," I said.

"How about the white lion skin you got me?" asked Dany. "It is enchanted with the Numean Enchantment, so it would make Huan super durable. You already have the fox and a bear skin bound to him. We could fleshcraft it over the skull and bind it more permanently. Make it all a single piece."

I considered it. Potentially fire-breathing dog the size of a truck with indestructible skin.

"We need to account for the weight distribution as well," I said simply, "the spine would not hold under the forces. Addressing it now would be better, since the connection could be better established if we get the skull and spine done at once."

A flick of my wand opened one of the chests, pulling out a fully intact and neutralized newborn Basilisk Skeleton.

"So he would need a new spine," said Dany with a grin. "Got it."

My little sister had no right to be this good at magic.

It took us five hours of various spells and rituals, half a dozen blood candles that I kept in store because we needed an anchor for the spells, and Huan looked less like a wolfhound and more like a hellhound.

"If he starts breathing fire, you're training him," I told my sister, who simply smiled at me.

"What were you going to talk to me about?" she asked in turn.

Right that.

"Have you met your niece, Rhaenys?" I asked, lifting up the now napping Balerion that had come with me.

"Mrow," Balerion voiced his distaste at being woken up.

"What?" asked Dany.

"Oh, and I need your help with getting the dragon eggs to hatch," I said, holding up the jar containing the Weirwood Gall Fly. "I have an idea."

Dany looked at me like I was nuts.

Hah... how the turn tables.

A few weeks spent doing nothing but research had a nice way of relaxing me. While other people needed to travel and I wanted to see how Robert would react.

Mostly though, it was because I needed the downtime, spending nearly eight hours every day on the yard facing against my Kingsguard when not working with Dany to hatch the eggs, researching dragonlore, running some esoteric experiments, developing countermeasures in case I died like an idiot... you know the usual stuff.

The countermeasure I had developed was a Grimoire, one that was based on the work that Marwyn had done. Instead of using the pages to store spells ready to cast, however, I went deeper, building a copy of my own mind into a book form.

Death tended to break people, or change their minds, and having a backup of myself sounded rather useful. It was also an emergency I built for the simple fact that I was now messing with my own mind on a larger scale than before.

I probably should have done this before I actually took on the memories of the Three Stooges, but hindsight...

I simply entrusted the Grimoire to Dany, as it meant that she could commune with those memories to ensure she got the education she needed.

Because after turning Huan into a very large, very fire-breathing hellhound, she needed some supervision beyond guards. The me in the Grimoire should be able to warn me if more was needed.

In the meantime, the physical activity kept me grounded, as my muscle memory worked to integrate the new knowledge that I had gained, even if I had excise a surprising amount of PTSD from the three.

The memories that I had absorbed needed to settle. They were there, held in nice little boxes, but I needed my brain to be able to integrate them as I worked to clean out the garbage that came along for the ride.

I had promised Ser Barristan a martial match, 'no spells, no sorcery, no tricks,' but that just meant that I would not be ensuring that I did everything beforehand to win... even if I promised not to throw Fireballs around.

Not when the greatest knights of history all had a magical advantage of their own.

All three of the Kingsguard whose memories I consumed had unique magical advantages, as it turned out, all of them more subtle than the tricks that I had developed.

Hightowers and Daynes were descended from the Empire of the Dawn, yet the echoes of the magic the two Kingsguard had were different as the sun and the moon.

Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, had some sort of mental clarity. It was weird in that there was a sort of equivalent exchange involved. The best I could figure out was that it clouds the judgment of another while clearing your own... not unlike a lighthouse guiding you to safety and doom alike.

My greater skill with Mental aspects of Magic meant that I could, in effect, choose who to target to gain clear thoughts, but if you were less skilled, I could see targeting people who are randomly around you... say the King you were serving.

To be frank, my Mental Mastery already had the same benefits, and the debuff to my enemies was handy if I wanted them to make a mistake for me to take advantage.

Arthur Dayne, on the other hand, now there was a curious case.

He was not magical of his own, but Dawn was magical.

Particularly, it seemed to have a mind of its own... a memory, if you will.

The sword, white as milk glass, obviously contained Weirwood within it, using the blood of those who wielded it and killed by it to grant the last user the combined experience of untold hundreds.

Normally, Ser Arthur's skill would make him pretty good, but the current Daynes were related to House Targaryen through a daughter of the first Daenerys and Marron Martell. The Princess of Dorne had recently wed into House Dayne, igniting the more dormant genes through the cultivated bloodline of Aegon the Fourth.

The trick that Dawn had, I could use with Blackfyre instead. It was wielded by Daemon Blackfyre and Maegor the Cruel, both of whom were the best of the best in their times. Using the trick Daynes seemed to use with Dawn, I poured my soul into the blade, pulling on more and more of the experiences and skills of the past users.

Once I had a decent handle on those two skills, I made sure to integrate the last of the Kingsguard Trio.

Oswell Whent was the outlier, the Whents not being an ancient house with magical ancestry... or at least on the surface. Whents lived in Harrenhall, a place with a known magical effect. There was a reason that the children of Catelyn Tully, whose mother was a Whent, were all wargs without a single miss.

Clearly, the entire place was a recipe for a Magical Location, what with the Weirwood beams and the dragon fire leading to people like Alys Rivers and Danelle Lothston, whose stories might just have more than a bard's truth of magic.

His skill was a more unique one. A form of Battle Precognition that complemented my own. Where mine was meant to intercept any attacks, Oswell seemed supernaturally skilled at knowing where to strike, his blade finding the chinks in the armor.

In the end, I had promised Ser Barristan a fight between Knights... it was simply the fact that most of the greatest knights known in history had some form of magic, and I was good at learning and adapting to magic.

Tobho had done a remarkable job.

I had used Alchemy to combine enough of the Valyrian Steel to make a decent helmet and left Tobho to make it for the last month.

While I could make simple shapes and forms out of Valyrian Steel, properly shaping the magical metal was beyond my skills until I could have the time to absorb what Tobho knew... something I kept for later, given the importance of the upcoming fight.

Instead, I had let Tobho make a Valyrian Steel helmet for me, one that was etched with the protective spells to make it protect my head.

It was, unsurprisingly, shaped like an entire dragon.

A barbute helmet by design, it had the head of the dragon swoop down to rest on my brow, with the wings sweeping down to the side of my face, covering my cheeks, and leaving a T-shaped visor that was wide enough to make eyesight easier.

That being said, I had a modified Valyrian Steel plate behind the actual gap on the armor. It was alchemically treated to be invisible, using a potion made from Ghostskin, a moss that grew in swampy regions of Westeros, which included some regions of Crackclaw Point.

The metal of the visor was invisible when left alone, only gaining a blue tinge when exposed to magical light. I had Tobho shape the visor portion of the helm to integrate it after setting it into shape with my magic. When the two combined, it granted me both protection and visibility, while giving my opponent the illusion of a weak point that was in fact the strongest part of the armor.

I was ready for the fight of my life.

I waited at the beach as the small rowboat approached.

There were two men on it.

One was Ser Barristan, while the other was clearly Thoros of Myr, given the red robes the man wore.

This was interesting.

I waited, Blackfyre at hand. I had seen them coming twenty miles away, keeping track of them and preparing for the fight.

"You have come," I said simply.

"I have," said Ser Barristan, a sword strapped to his hip and a sack that housed his armor, given the clanging. "This is Thoros of Myr. He has volunteered to join me as my squire."

Thoros gave a nod, and a mutter of "Azor Ahai."

I sighed.

Melisandre, who had approached from where she had been standing, had the audacity to giggle. The only reason I tolerated her presence was that she was another potential source of resurrection... in case shit hit the fan.

"Would you like to rest, good ser, or shall we fight?" I asked.

"Now is as good as any," said Ser Barristan, drawing his sword and working to put on his armor.

Slow.

That was the first thing I noticed about Ser Barristan Selmy.

Not clumsy... gods, no.

His stance was flawless, his footwork was impeccable. Each step was exactly where it was needed to provide the optimal leverage and power, every cut precise as a surgeon. He wasted nothing. A lifetime of battle honed into the cleanest, purest form of swordplay.

But it was slow... and weak.

Not to the men who had named him the greatest knight alive, not to the bards who had sung his glories. To them, his perfection would have seemed blinding, inevitable.

An artist, who painted only in red... now I understood.

But to me, it felt… inevitable in another way. I wasn't there when his blade struck. I was already a step aside, already turning. Blackfyre slapped his steel away before it became even a threat.

And that was when a chill crept into my chest.

Maybe... just maybe... I had overdone it.

A Bold Man

Ser Barristan Selmy felt the toll of the years.

King Robert had returned as Ser Barristan was contemplating the challenge issued by Prince Viserys.

A boy, Barristan, now realized he had failed. Another failure in a long line of failures, it would seem.

There was a brashness in the boy, a level of disrespect as he reclaimed what he saw as his.

Yet, he had thought to not accept the challenge. It was foolish, a trap... though what sort, Barristan did not understand.

If Viserys Targaryen wanted to kill him, he would have done so on the White Sword Tower that day, when he had walked into the Throne Room and issued his threats.

If Viserys Targaryen wanted Barristan to bend the knee, it was not something that he showed, throwing the failures that Barristan had to live with. Barristan had seen the murderous rage his mere presence incited... rightful vengeance, even if Barristan wanted to deny it.

His father would have ended Barristan.

'Just like his father,' his voice echoed in his ears. How many times had he heard that spoken?

Mayhaps, he was a failure of a knight.

And so, Barristan had waited, thinking, the questions eating at him, even as I stood guard over a returned Robert.

A Robert who had grown silent, who had drunk more and more each night.

Barristan had heard the soldiers who returned. An entire army butchered by something too fast to see. Many thought it was archers in the trees near Rook's Rest, though some spoke of corpses drained of blood and left as naught but ash.

Then, Barristan asked for leave, and a gleam formed in King Robert's eye, a whisper of 'a bold man with a knife,' that he kept repeating, before giving him leave to challenge the sorcerer.

He had come to Dragonstone with a task... a goal.

He would slay the Sorcerer, or die in the attempt.

Thoros of Myr had chosen to accompany him, to act as his squire, he had said. Thoros spoke of magic, and Barristan had listened, learning the way of his enemy, in hopes that it would prepare him for the fight.

Barristan had come to fight a Sorcerer, an exiled prince, thinking himself invulnerable because of a few tricks.

Barristan did not expect his opponent to be a knight beyond his dreams.

He was tall for his age, though not Robert tall. Yet the way he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had spent years on blood-soaked fields, instead of the clumsiness of a boy yet to fully become a man. It reminded Barristan of Duncan the Tall of all people, from the few times when he had the honor of watching the old Lord Commander in tourneys that Ser Barristan had attended when he was but a squire. He had the same surety in his movements.

Viserys Targaryen was strong. He was stronger than Maelys had been, and Barristan was a young man during that fight.

Viserys Targaryen was fast. He was faster than the Kingslayer, moving with a grace that left Barristan panting and unable to get a good grasp.

Either of those would have been a threat, that much Barristan knew.

Yet Barristan was older. He had seen more war than a boy barely grown at seven and ten. Barristan had traded the vigor of youth for the skill of ages.

Yet it had not been enough.

Viserys Targaryen moved as though an old hand at war.

The grace of a Waterdancer of Braavos probed at his gaps, before shifting to the heavy-handed strikes of Stormlanders that batted away his sword to make way for the quick thrusts of the Dornish.

It took all that Barristan had to keep track and try to find a weakness, yet each opening was closed after a moment, each bait laid perfectly waiting for Barristan to fall into.

Even for all his caution, Barristan was the one who took hit after hit. Each one should have been deadlier than the one before, yet the Prince held back.

The black blade of Blackfyre left another rent through his plate, another cut that was held back just in time to ensure that Barristan was not left crippled.

His first sword was already in ruin, having broken in a block that stopped just short of removing his head.

"Get him another sword," the Sorcerer King commanded without a thought, and for a moment, Barristan saw Arthur Dayne in his stead.

When the sword had come, its fate had become similar.

And the third sword would have likely met a similar fate, if not for Barristan's vision darkening in the edges. The blood from the shallow cuts all added up as he stumbled through the fight, waiting for the final blow that never came.

He remembered the tip of Blackfyre resting on his throat, a foot on his wrist that had been holding onto his dagger.

"I... yield," he whispered, as darkness took him.

AN: Wiz dips 20 levels into Fighter, Marwyn becomes the first Vancian Wizard while finding a way to disperse low level spells, Dany takes after her big brother a bit too much, turning the family dog into a Foo Dog in all principles.

I am thinking that the fighting style that Wiz has is closer to Darth Vader in principles, especially now that he closed the experience gap by taking it from the dead. He might have overdone it just a bit, but I like the idea that the best fighter in existence prefers not to melee. Barristan would have done well against one fighter, but combined experience and buffs that Wiz had been building up were getting extremely high level. Is it coincidence that all three of the Kingsguard in Tower of Joy are associated with magic in some shape or form?

Barristan survived. I sort of re-wrote that section in three forms. One where he just does not fight and chooses to take the black as a final fuck you to both Robert and Wiz, but that came out too out of character. The other took a darker turn and involved Wiz nailing him to the White Shield Table before turning him into a conceptual representation of the Kingsguard, but it came out far too dark and out of character for Wiz. Instead, Barristan lost to a Death by a Thousand Cuts, and a weird parallel to how he was captured in Trident.

Kudos to first one who gets the reference that is the chapter title.

As always, I am motivated by discussions, feedback, and criticism. If you wish to enable my coffee addiction, I made a ko-fi account here if you wish to support my work. I can only promise to spend the time drinking coffee writing my stories, and you get absolutely nothing else in return.