After the feast had ended and the castle had fallen silent, Aegon sat alone in his chambers, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls.
His eyes were fixed on the shimring interface hovering beside the Class Tree, a familiar yet endlessly fascinating tool. Tonight, he intended to create a new class, one that would sharpen his perception of magic itself, enhancing both his understanding and his spellcasting.
He had been planning this for days, carefully shaping the concept in his mind. With a quiet ntal click, he activated the [Create] button. The class creation panel expanded before him, sleek and responsive.
Fingers poised, Aegon began feeding in the paraters, defining the class with precision. This class would grant him heightened awareness of magical phenona and improve his ability to weave spells with greater finesse.
He ticulously ensured the prerequisites would already be t. The class was designed as a Tier 2, sothing that built on his existing knowledge and abilities.
With a final click, he submitted the new class. The Class Tree responded imdiately, a new branch sprouting and growing rapidly. Two leaves unfurled and then, suddenly, the entire branch grayed out.
His heart sank.
Failed again.
The familiar notification popped up, cold and precise:
FAILED CLASS CREATION - PREREQUISITES PENDING
Aegon frowned and quickly pulled up the class details to analyze the failure.
[ Class: ntal Adept (Tier 2) ]
[ Prerequisites:
- Has resisted or consciously interacted with a supernatural ntal effect (satisfied)
- INT ≥ 10.0 (satisfied)
- Must have completed at least 10 hours of self-guided ditation or introspective practice (pending) ]
[ Level 1 (000 / 1000) ]
[ Trait : Inner Eye
( 10% awareness of hidden supernatural effects affecting the mind, emotions, or thoughts)
( 15% chance to detect faint supernatural presences while calm or ditative)
( 15% to ntal defense against subtle magical influences or false perceptions) ]
[ Trait : Thought Control
( 15% clarity and retention of complex analysis or theories in high-stress situations)
( 10% ability to visualize and model structures or chanics within the mind)
( 10% speed when creating ntal fraworks) ]
Aegon reviewed his current stats to confirm the prerequisites:
[
CON 7.1
STR 6.9
AGI 7.4
DEX 7.5
INT 10.1
Magic 2.1
]
Thanks to the [INT] bonuses from his [Occult Scholar] class and recent spell research, his intelligence was sufficient. The first prerequisite was fulfilled by the experiences of prophetic dreams and nightmares he had endured.
The only missing requirent was the completion of ten hours of ditation.
Well, then, he thought, there's only one thing to do.
He settled cross-legged on his bed, closed his eyes, and began to ditate. The silence of the room deepened as he focused inward, seeking calm and clarity. Minutes ticked by. Ten minutes later, his eyes fluttered open.
This will be hard, he mused, if I can only ditate ten minutes at a ti, it might take a month just to et the prerequisite.
But he was determined. Each minute brought him closer to the goal, and to unlocking this new path of ntal mastery.
The moon hung like a pale coin over the dark waters when the ships ca, twelve of them, black-sailed and lean, cutting through the waves without a sound. Not a gull cried, not a horn blew. It was as if the night itself held its breath.
Then, boom! A thunderous crash shattered the silence as the first firepot exploded against the castle wall, sending a gout of fla skyward.
"Gods!" shouted a sleepy guard from the watchtower. "Raise the…!"
Another blast cut him off, the flas engulfing him in an instant. His scream pierced the sky, but it was drowned in the roar of another pot smashing into the town granary.
"To arms! Sound the…"
The horn was never sounded. A bolt caught the would-be crier in the throat, blood spurting as he collapsed against the wooden palisade.
Down in the harbor, chaos erupted. Dozens of villagers jolted awake to the sound of shattering glass, fire, and screaming.
"Mother above!" cried a woman, stumbling into the street in her dress, clutching a child to her chest. Flas licked the rooftops around her.
"Where's Roben?!" she sobbed. "He went to the boats!"
From the shadows, a blade flashed.
"No!" she shrieked as her child was torn from her arms, the pirate's axe cleaving downward.
"Hold her!" barked a foreign tongue, Myro, thick with the accent of Myr. Two pirates grabbed the woman by the arms.
"Please…please, we have nothing!" she cried.
"Pretty enough to keep," one said with a leer.
She scread. It was a long, ragged thing that broke apart into sobs.
Fires lit up the coastline. n burst from hos wielding fishhooks and old blades, only to be cut down. Pirates moved like a tide, laughing in brutal harmony.
"Get them out! Burn them if they don't co!" one raider shouted, kicking in the door of a cottage. A sobbing girl no older than twelve was dragged out by her hair. "No…she's my daughter!" cried her father, charging forward. He was t with a spear through the gut, impaled and kicked aside like waste.
Elsewhere, a priest of the Seven tried to offer refuge in the small sept.
"Co to the gods, children, they'll protect us…" he began.
But the sept doors burst open.
"There are no gods here," said a pirate with one blue eye and one blind, milky white. His torch flew across the room. Flas swallowed the tapestries.
The salt air reeked of smoke and blood as the sun clawed its way over the horizon, casting a gray light over the ruins of Evenfall. Ash drifted on the breeze like snow, coating shattered battlents and scorched earth.
The cries of the wounded had long since faded, most were silenced. What remained was the groan of timbers collapsing, the caw of carrion birds already circling overhead, and the booted march of pirates establishing their claim.
Lord Caron Tarth, the Evenstar, stumbled through the forested inland paths with half a dozen n at his back, what remained of his house guard. His armor was scorched, dented at the shoulder, and his sword hung low in a tired grip. His once white surcoat was stained red and black.
Behind him, a younger knight coughed blood, leaning against a tree.
"Leave , m'lord. I slow you."
"You die here, and my house dies with you," Lord Tarth rasped. His voice was hoarse, smoke-burned. "You hold your feet or I carry you. You choose."
The knight nodded, forcing himself upright, teeth clenched. Further behind, a maester's apprentice clutched a singed satchel to his chest, eyes wide with horror. His robes were torn, one sleeve half-burned.
"The raven flew, my lord," he said quietly. "I swear it flew. I watched it go west."
"Good," Caron muttered. "May it find Storm's End before the pirates do."
The crashing of waves guided them. The small cove was hidden behind a curtain of driftwood and sea rock, a place Lord Tarth had used in his youth. There, a fishing skiff waited, half-buried in sand, but intact.
"Help ," he grunted, dropping his sword and moving to push the vessel free. The others joined, grunting, slipping in the sand. The sea licked their boots, cold and cruel.
"Oars ready?"
"Aye, but only two."
"Then we row like devils," Caron said. "And we pray no sails follow."
They pushed off into the surf. The skiff rocked violently, waves crashing over the rim. The n rowed in silence, muscles screaming with each stroke, eyes fixed on the shrinking island behind them.
Tarth burned.
Evenfall's proud towers were shrouded in smoke. The temple do had collapsed, its spire jutting sideways like a broken tooth. Columns of soot rose where villages once stood. And at the port, black sails fluttered, twelve in total, foreign flags now planted in the soil of the Stormlands.
"This is no raid," whispered one of the guards between strokes. "This is a godless war."
"Then we et it with godless steel," Lord Caron said grimly. His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from rage. "House Tarth has not ended. Not yet. They'll answer for this."
The skiff drifted westward, toward Storm's End, toward salvation, toward vengeance.
And behind them, Tarth bled.
The great hall of Storm's End stood cloaked in silence. The storm drums on the cliffs beyond beat a slow, distant rhythm, like the heartbeat of the castle itself. Braziers crackled faintly, their flas throwing long shadows across stone walls.
Salt hung in the air, thick and sharp. The scent clung to Lord Caron Tarth, along with the acrid tang of soot and blood. His cloak was torn, his boots half-lted, and his beard matted with sea spray and ash.
Lord Boremund Baratheon, tall, barrel-chested, and iron-eyed despite the gray in his beard, stood at the foot of the dais, saying nothing as Caron finished speaking.
"…And they took the castle. Burned it. With the children still inside. I tried to rally them, gods know I did, but…" Caron's voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "They weren't raiders. They moved like trained n. The port, the towers, the holdfast, each struck in order. They knew what to hit. And when."
The young maester's apprentice looked down, lips pale and trembling.
Boremund stepped forward. The firelight glinted off the gold antlers at his shoulder. His gaze moved over the survivors, seeing not n, but the last embers of a dying stronghold.
He placed a heavy hand on Caron's shoulder, firm as the storm-worn stone of his keep.
"You did not fail," he said quietly, but with strength behind the words.
Caron's knees buckled slightly, but he remained standing. His voice was raw.
"My people are dying. My daughter's still there, Arianne, just turned twelve. We hid her with a chambermaid when the walls fell, but…"
"We'll get her back," Boremund interrupted. "And every soul still breathing."
He turned without another word, striding toward the high table where a raven sat in its cage. His steward stood ready, quill in hand.
"Ink," Boremund said.
The parchnt bore the black seal of Storm's End before the ink had even dried.
To His Grace King Jaehaerys I Targaryen,
From Lord Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End,
An invasion has begun. Tarth is lost. The enemy flies no crown or lord's banner. Myrish tongues command them. They burn septs. They slay children. They hold Evenfall by force of arms. We must act. Send word to your court. Prepare the realm. Storm's End stands ready.
The raven fought its handler briefly before launching into the gray sky, wings beating furiously against the wind as it vanished north.
Boremund turned to his bannern and the few knights who had gathered.
"Sound the horns. Muster every ship. These aren't bandits, they're soldiers. Pirates with a purpose. And they've taken a piece of our land." He looked once more to Caron. "Then we take it back."
A low rumble of approval followed, quiet but growing. Storm's End was waking.
Outside, the first flurries of winter snow touched the battlents, lting instantly on the wind-swept stone. War had co to the Stormlands.
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