Chapter 41 Faith (Patreon)

A sharp, tearing pain suddenly shot through Aegon’s head. He groaned and slumped back in the chair, barely able to stay upright as the agony

A sharp, tearing pain suddenly shot through Aegon’s head.

He groaned and slumped back in the chair, barely able to stay upright as the agony pulsed through his skull. Inside him, something was shifting.

His mental space and spirituality were undergoing profound changes.

Bit by bit, his mental space began to expand, pushing outward like a bubble stretching at the edges. As it grew, the total amount of spirituality within it increased as well, rising in direct proportion.

Eventually, the expansion slowed and came to a stop. But the transformation wasn’t over.

Now, the spirituality itself began to change, not in volume, but in nature. 

It was becoming purer, more refined in a way that was hard to define. 

The searing pain in his head slowly faded, replaced by a cool, soothing sensation that washed over him. It felt like finding water after being lost in a desert, relief so deep it bordered on euphoria.

Only a few seconds had passed in the real world. But to Aegon, it felt like an hour.

He blinked, slowly regaining awareness. His entire body was soaked with sweat, and he was breathing hard, like he’d just come out of a storm.

“Fuck…” Aegon muttered under his breath. “Why did that hurt so much?”

None of his previous class upgrades had caused pain anywhere near this level.

He shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, heart still thudding in his chest. For several minutes, he sat motionless, recovering, regaining his center.

Always upgrade in a secure place, he reminded himself grimly.

Once he felt composed, Aegon closed his eyes again and peered inward into his mental space. It had expanded, almost by ten percent. The mist-like energy within, his spirituality, had grown both in volume and presence.

But the biggest shift wasn’t in quantity.

It was in quality.

The spirituality now felt… refined. Sharper, clearer. As though it had touched something beyond his comprehension. Something higher. 

He let out a long breath, then focused on the interface to review the changes summarized by the Class Tree.

[ Class: Wizard Apprentice (Tier 3) ]

[ Prerequisites:

- Max level Class: Occult Scholar (satisfied)

- Max Level Class: Mental Adept (satisfied)

- Understanding of Runes (satisfied)

- INT ≥ 13.0 (satisfied)

- Magic ≥ 2.5 (satisfied) ]

[ Level 3 (000 / 30,000) ]

[ Trait : Spirituality

(+20% perception of ambient or hidden magical phenomena)

(+20% interaction with supernatural forces)

(+15% regeneration rate of Spirituality when resting or meditating) 

(+5% passive danger awareness) ]

[ Trait : Spellcraft

(+20% creation of mental spell models from runes)

(+20% stability of custom spell models during casting)

(−10% Spirituality and Magic cost when activating refined spell models) ]

[ Trait : Magic Control

(+20% control over magical power flow)

(+20% effectiveness in shaping or bending magic )

(+20% resistance to uncontrolled magical interference) ]

Aegon’s eyes paused on the new line: +5% passive danger awareness.

Danger awareness? That was new… and exactly what he needed.

Perfect. A small smile tugged at his lips. Just what I’ve been missing.

He had become too high-profile of late. Too visible. He’d already been planning to include a danger-sensing trait in his next class design, but now, it seemed he wouldn’t need to.

Still, curiosity crept in. How does it actually work?

His gaze drifted to an apple resting on the table. He picked it up, weighed it lightly in his hand, then tossed it into the air and shut his eyes.

A faint tingle spread through his spirituality, a subtle ripple, like static brushing his skin. Then a momentary chill prickled the back of his head.

Thud.

The apple smacked squarely against his forehead.

He opened his eyes with a slow blink. Blank expression.

“…That’s it?”

So the tingling was the warning. 

Passive danger awareness, indeed.

He let out a long breath, somewhere between a sigh and a dry chuckle, rubbing the spot where the apple had landed.

Well… it’s something. Not quite a spider-sense, but definitely better than nothing.

Maybe it’ll sharpen as the class grows. 

He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching in reluctant amusement. 

King’s Landing, Red Keep 

The heavy oak door of the king’s solar groaned shut behind Septon Barth, sealing away the murmurs of the court still lingering in the corridors beyond. The afternoon light slanted through the leaded glass windows, casting geometric patterns across the Myrish rug. 

The king stood by the window, his back to the room, watching the distant shimmer of the Blackwater. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the stone sill before he turned.

"Yes, Barth?" His voice was calm, but the undercurrent was steel. "You said you wished to speak in private."

Barth bowed his head slightly, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his simple brown robe. He had been Hand for decades, but even now, there were moments when the weight of counsel sat uneasily upon him.

"Your Grace," he began, then hesitated.

Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow. “Speak your mind.”

Barth inhaled slowly. "The Faith's reaction to Prince Aegon's... awakening has not been favorable."

A beat of silence. The king's face remained impassive, but his knuckles whitened where they rested against the sill.

"Unfavorable how?"

Barth chose his words carefully. "Whispers, Your Grace. Among the septons. Some call it sorcery. Others speak of Maegor's flames returning."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Jaehaerys' eyes, usually warm, turned cold.

"They dare." The words were quiet, but the edge in them could have drawn blood. "To spread such filth about a prince of the blood, is not just insolence, it is treason."

Barth did not flinch, but his fingers tightened within his sleeves. "I do not disagree. But silencing them outright may only fan the flames."

Jaehaerys' lip curled in anger. "Then let it burn them."

Silence fell between them for a long moment.

Jaehaerys’s voice was tight. “He’s a child. A child! And they would rather call it cursed blood than admit that something great has returned.”

“Great and terrible often share the same shadow,” Barth replied gently.

"Your Grace," he pressed, "we risk turning murmurs into outright defiance. The Faith is no longer armed, but tongues can wield sharper knives than swords."

The king turned fully now, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "What would you have me do, Barth? Beg their forgiveness for my grandson's gifts?"

"No," Barth said. "But we might... sanctify them."

Jaehaerys stilled. "Explain."

Barth stepped closer, his voice lowering. "The Faith fears what it does not understand. But it reveres what it believes is blessed. If we frame Aegon's gifts as divine, a vessel of the Crone's wisdom or the Warrior's fire, then it is no longer sorcery. It is grace."

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the distant cries of gulls over the Blackwater. Jaehaerys exhaled, the weight of years pressing upon him like a physical thing.

"Do you remember Maegor's reign?" he asked abruptly, his voice distant.

Barth blinked. "Only from the histories, Your Grace."

"I was a boy," Jaehaerys murmured, "but I remember the fires. The way the septons screamed as Balerion's shadow passed over them." His fingers flexed against the sill. "I swore I would never rule through fear. And yet now they whisper of my grandson as though he were Maegor reborn."

Barth studied the king's profile, the deep lines etched by time. 

"They fear what they do not understand," he repeated. "But fear can be shaped, Your Grace. The Conqueror was feared too, until the Starry Sept and the High Septon anointed him with holy oils."

Jaehaerys frowned. 

Barth hesitated. Then added, “There’s more, Your Grace. Prince Baelon has been… overly proud of Aegon. At court, he boasts openly. He tells the lords how Aegon conjured fire from his hands, how no knight could hope to stand against him.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “That fool.”

Barth continued, gently but firmly. “And he rides Dreamfyre, outmatched only by Balerion, Vhagar and Vermothor in might. His power is real, Your Grace. And he is not yet ten.”

The truth settled between them like a stone dropped in a still pool.

The king turned, his gaze sharp. "You suggest I lie?"

"I suggest," Barth said carefully, "that truth is a malleable thing when it comes to gods and kings. The Faith proclaims miracles when it suits them. Why should the Crown not do the same?"

Jaehaerys was silent for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, a dry chuckle escaped him. "You make a terrible septon, Barth."

Barth’s lips twitched. "Fortunately, I serve a higher power." 

The tension in the room eased, if only slightly. Jaehaerys moved to the table, pouring two cups of wine, a rich Arbor gold that caught the firelight like liquid amber. He handed one to Barth.

"After the hunt, then," he said at last. "If the whispers persist, we will... reshape the narrative, as you say." He took a slow sip. "But gently, Barth. I'll not have my grandson used as a pawn in some mummer's farce of piety."

Barth raised his cup in acquiescence. "Of course, Your Grace."

Outside, the bells of the Great Sept began their evening chorus, their deep peals rolling across the city like a tide. Somewhere beyond the Red Keep's walls, the smallfolk would be kneeling in prayer, their faces turned toward the Seven.

Jaehaerys' gaze drifted to the window again, toward the distant spires. "Do you think it will work?"

Barth followed his gaze. "If the gods are good."

Jaehaerys gave a faint snort. “The gods have little say in politics, Barth. But you and I? We’ll manage.”

Barth raised his cup in agreement. “Together, Your Grace.”

As the bells continued to toll and the shadows lengthened across King’s Landing, the king and his Hand stood side by side, two weary men watching the storm they would soon need to weather.

Narrow Sea, just before dawn.

The rowboat cut quietly across the waves, its wooden frame groaning faintly under the shifting weight of its passengers. The sea was calm, the sky a dull slate of pre-dawn grey, and Dragonstone loomed in the distance like a brooding beast, half-shrouded in mist.

One of the guards, broad-shouldered, balding, and not built for rowing, grunted and wiped sweat from his brow. “We’re going to lose our bloody jobs,” he muttered.

“Only if someone talks,” said the other, younger and thinner, his voice low as he glanced over his shoulder. “Which you just did.”

The balding one glared. “I meant to you, idiot.”

From beneath his dark cloak at the bow, a third voice rang out, loud, clear, and very much not bothered.

“I can hear whispering,” Daemon said lazily, lifting his head. His silver hair poked from beneath his hood, catching the weak morning light. “Do the King’s men always mutter like fishwives, or is it only when accompanying greatness across the sea?”

The guards shared a look.

“I swear,” the older one grumbled, “he’s been talking like this since we left the docks.”

“'You two are honored,’” the younger mimicked in a nasal tone, “‘to assist me in a mission worthy of song.’”

Daemon sat up straighter in the boat, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Aye. And when they do write songs about me, you’ll be in the footnotes.”

“You mean the bit where we got flogged for desertion?” the older one asked dryly.

Daemon spread his arms, dramatic as ever. “Desertion? Nonsense. You’re escorting a prince. There’s honor in that.”

“You threatened to report us to Lord Rickard if we didn’t come,” the younger said.

Daemon pointed at him. “Which worked. Excellent initiative on my part.”

The castle grew larger as they approached, jagged towers rising like fangs from the stone. The wind picked up. Daemon’s cloak fluttered behind him as he stood in the swaying boat.

“Ah, Dragonstone,” he said grandly. “Land of my birth. Roost of dragons. And home… of Caraxes.”

The boat rocked, and the older guard grabbed the side. “Sit down before you tip us all in, Your Bloody Grace.”

Daemon grinned at them and didn’t sit.