Before the creation of the Runic Knights, when Aegon had only just begun to explore the intersection of biological matter and magic, he beca keenly aware of a significant limitation: his lack of formal dical knowledge.
In his previous life, he had been a ga developer. Beyond the basic biology he had learned in school, he possessed neither advanced theoretical understanding nor practical experience in the field. Yet the path he envisioned for himself, as the Wizard Lord, demanded far more. True experintation, especially that involving living bodies, required precision, understanding, and discipline.
He could have sought instruction from the maesters. Their accumulated knowledge of anatomy and healing was, for this era, considered authoritative. But Aegon knew better. Even his incomplete, modern understanding of biology far surpassed the dical theories of the ti, which were mired in superstition and flawed assumptions. What he lacked was structure and refinent, not a foundation.
To address this gap, he created a new Tier-2 class: [Physician].
The class was designed to build upon his existing scientific frawork, expanding it systematically as he advanced. In his forr life, Physician had been a legitimate career path. Now, he hoped the class would grant him not only so theoretical insight, but the practical instincts required for delicate, dangerous work, at least a fraction of the competence of the fully trained physicians back on Earth.
He knew, after all, that he could not create a class that would grant him the totality of knowledge, earned through years of dical study and subsequent residency. So, to be on the safe side, he devised it in such a way that it would help him learn how to beco a physician, working only with whatever knowledge he already possessed.
As he invested experience into the class, his expectations were t. Knowledge accumulated. Techniques sharpened. Control improved. By the ti the class reached its maximum level, Aegon possessed a degree of dical competence that allowed him to conduct experints with confidence, without needing any teachings of the Citadel.
[Class: Physician (Tier 2)]
[ Prerequisites:
- INT ≥ 12.0 (satisfied)
- Has studied anatomy, wounds, or illness through texts or observation (satisfied)
- Has assisted in, observed, or carefully analyzed dical treatnt, injury, or recovery (satisfied)]
[ Level 10 (MAX) ]
[ Trait : Anatomical Study
( 55% efficiency when learning or researching anatomy, physiology, wounds, and bodily functions)
( 45% effectiveness when predicting bodily response) ]
[ Trait : Steady Practice
( 55% precision and control during delicate manual work such as surgery, dissection, stitching, or experintal procedures)
( 45% resistance to hand tremor or loss of precision under stress, fatigue, or pressure)]
The only hurdle of the [Physician] class was its prerequisite. Under the weight of the nightmarish dreams, Aegon had neither the patience nor the inclination to fulfill it slowly himself. Instead, he found an ingenious solution… his uncle, Vaegon.
His wonderful uncle, lying bedridden due to a lingering "illness," had finally served a purpose. Vaegon had remained in Dragonstone the entire ti Aegon was away in Winterfell, though Aegon had taken certain precautions to ensure that his uncle was ill enough to avoid even entertaining the idea of poisoning Queen Alysanne's mind again.
When Aegon returned from Winterfell, he found Vaegon still confined to his chambers. Thankfully, no further "poisoning" had occurred.
To fulfill the prerequisite of [Physician], Aegon volunteered to oversee the care of the still-"sick" Vaegon, working alongside the attending maesters. He absorbed what dical knowledge he could from them, despite his disdain. And through observation, analysis, and repeated treatnt, successfully completed the requirents to create the class.
Rembering the many tis he had slipped in to worsen Vaegon's condition, again and again, a quiet chuckle escaped his lips. Shaking the thought aside, Aegon refocused and imdiately upgraded his latest class.
[Class: Flesh shaper ( Tier 3)]
[Class Level Increased: 4 → 6]
As the assault of knowledge and mories subsided, Aegon slowly opened his eyes. The remaining experience was not enough for another upgrade.
"It seems… I will have to wait until the academy is announced," Aegon murmured. He looked out through the window, the cool breeze brushing against his face.
It felt peaceful.
For now, that was enough.
Oldtown
The Motherhouse classroom was alive with the soft industry of study: the rustle of parchnt, the faint scratch of quills, and the even cadence of an elderly septa's voice. The lesson, today, drawn from the Seven-Pointed Star's chapter on rcy, had just concluded. Septa Fryda, her face a gentle map of years and patience, regarded the young won seated before her with calm attentiveness.
"That will be all for today," she said. "Before you go to your duties… is there anything you wish to ask?"
For a mont, no one spoke. Then a novice near the front, her cheeks still round with youth, lifted a tentative hand.
"Septa Fryda?" she asked, hesitating slightly. "How long have you served the Faith?"
A small smile touched Fryda's lips, and sothing distant ward her eyes. "All my life, child," she replied.
"I was born here, in Oldtown. My father was a chandler." She folded her hands atop the scarred wooden desk. "The scent of beeswax and incense was the air of my childhood. When he passed… my mother and I had little left to bind us to the world of trade. Our hearts were already here." She inclined her head. "We took our vows together. I have served beneath the shadow of the Starry Sept… nearly forty years now."
The novices listened in thoughtful silence, so with awe, others with a simpler reverence for the weight of such devotion. Fryda noticed their expressions and allowed herself a gentle smile.
"Do not trouble yourselves over years," she said kindly after a brief pause. "Sincere devotion matters more than ti spent counting it."
The young novice who had spoken earlier nodded, visibly relieved.
"Off you go, then," Fryda added, her tone warm. She dismissed them with a nod, and they filed out in order, sandals whispering against the stone floor.
Her teaching done for the day, Fryda gathered her shawl and stepped out into the afternoon clamor of Oldtown. The city surged around her in sound and scent: fishmongers shouting their wares, the ringing hamr of a distant smithy, the rich warmth of bread baking sowhere nearby. She moved through it with the unhurried familiarity of one who had walked these streets for decades, her plain grey robes a calm ripple amid the color and noise.
She did not turn toward the towering Starry Sept, but instead made for a smaller, older stone building nestled close to its flank. The hospice. When she pushed open the heavy oak door, the noise fell away into reverent stillness. The air grew thick with boiled herbs, vinegar, and clean linen, punctuated only by faint coughs and murmured prayers.
Acolytes and fellow septas inclined their heads as she passed. Fryda returned each greeting without pause, her steps carrying her with purpose toward a familiar chamber on the ground floor.
Inside, the light was dim and careful. A row of pallets lined the walls, each bearing a small, too-still form. Grey, stony patches marred young skin: unmistakable signs of the illness that haunted this place. This was the new room set aside for children afflicted with greyscale.
Another septa, a capable woman with steady hands, knelt beside a fevered boy, gently pressing a cool cloth to his brow.
"Lenore," Fryda said softly, mindful of the fragile quiet.
Lenore looked up at once. Weariness lined her face, but her voice remained composed. "Septa Fryda."
"Where is Maegelle?" Fryda asked. Her eyes moved instinctively through the room. The Princess-septa's presence was usually as constant here as the dicine chest itself. Her absence felt like a wrong note.
Lenore sat back on her heels, a crease forming between her brows. "I have not seen her since before morning prayers. She did not co to assist with the washing, nor with the morning tonics."
A thin thread of unease tightened in Fryda's chest. "Did she take leave? Say she was unwell?"
Lenore shook her head without hesitation. "No. She said nothing. It is not like her. Even when exhausted, she always sends word."
"No," Fryda agreed quietly. "It is not like her at all." Princess Maegelle was devotion made flesh; her service was as reliable as the tides. An unexplained absence was not rely unusual.
"I will go and check on her," Fryda said, already turning toward the door. "She may have taken ill in the night and been unable to send for help. Continue here. I will return shortly."
Lenore nodded, concern now mirrored in her own expression, as she watched the older septa hurry away.
Fryda's steps slowed as she reached the narrow door at the end of the passage. Princess Maegelle's cell. The corridor here was quiet, tucked away from the busier wings of the hospice. Too quiet.
She lifted her hand and knocked, the sound soft against the wood.
"Maegelle?" she called gently. "Child?"
There was no answer.
Fryda frowned and knocked again, this ti firr. "Princess. It is Fryda. Are you unwell?"
Silence.
A cold unease crept up her spine. Maegelle was never careless with courtesy, never so withdrawn as to ignore a knock. Fryda reached for the latch and pushed the door open.
The sll hit her first… stale air, old stone, and sothing faintly wrong beneath it.
"Maegelle… "
The word caught in her throat.
The Princess lay on the floor beside her narrow pallet, her body twisted at an awkward angle, one arm outstretched as though she had fallen reaching for sothing. Her silver hair clung damply to her brow. For a heartbeat, Fryda could not move.
Then Maegelle's chest rose. Fell.
"She breathes," Fryda whispered, the words half prayer, half dread.
She hurried forward, dropping to her knees and taking Maegelle's shoulders in her hands. "Maegelle. Wake, child. Wake up."
There was no response. Her skin was cold beneath Fryda's touch.
Fear surged, sharp and sudden. Fryda lifted her head and cried out, her voice breaking the stillness of the cell. "Help! Soone… co quickly!"
Her gaze fell back to Maegelle, searching for injury, for blood, for any sign of what had brought her down. That was when she saw it.
Just above the edge of Maegelle's collar, where the linen of her shift had slipped, a patch of skin showed… grey, stiff, and faintly cracked, like weathered stone.
Fryda's breath left her in a shallow gasp.
"No," she murmured. "No, no…"
Her hands trembled as she reached for the ties of Maegelle's dress. Slowly, as if resisting the truth, she loosened the fabric and drew it back.
The greyscale spread across the left side of Maegelle's chest in a cruel bloom, creeping toward her collarbone and down along her ribs and arm. The skin was hard, unmoving beneath Fryda's fingers, cold as the floor on which she knelt.
Fryda staggered back, pressing a hand to her mouth.
Tears blurred her vision. "Maegelle," she said again, her voice breaking. "Please. Wake up."
Footsteps thundered in the corridor. The door flew open as other septas rushed in… Lenore among them. Their voices faltered as they took in the sight: the fallen Princess, the exposed stone-grey skin.
A hush fell over the chamber.
Fryda remained kneeling on the floor, tears spilling freely now, her hands clasped tight in her sleeves as if in prayer.
The secret Maegelle had begged the Mother to keep was no longer hers to hide.
***
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***
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