He'd met the final requirement weeks ago.
Once the class was acquired, leveling it up to max had taken less than a month, thanks to the huge reserve of stored experience.
The moment he hit Level 10, something inside him clicked.
It wasn't just like learning a new trick, it was like flipping a switch in his entire consciousness.
A sensation hard to describe. If before, his thoughts were like letters written in sand, now they were etched into polished obsidian. Sharp. Permanent. Clear.
It was like going from 480p to 720p… maybe even 1080p.
His memories were crystal. Conversations, inflections, visual details, everything stored and retrieved with eerie precision. Smells. Tastes.
The layout of scrolls he had read once and barely scanned. He could play them back now like a recording, pause, zoom in.
And the numbers told the tale.
[
CON 7.3
STR 7.1
AGI 7.5
DEX 7.6
INT 12.1
Magic 2.3
]
Twelve point one.
That is a genius level of intellect. Not just sharp, but superhuman. And he was still growing.
Though none of the listed traits explicitly mentioned an [INT] bonus, it seemed that simply maxing out the class had passively increased his [INT] by +2.
Then came the [Inner Eye] trait.
This one was subtler, stranger, and harder to fully grasp.
At first, it was just a pressure in the point between the eyebrows, a sensation like the world around him had gained depth.
Now it felt like he had grown a second set of eyes, not physical, but mental, tuned to the hidden and the magical.
In fact, the [Inner Eye] could almost be described as a perception field that looked inward first and foremost. Into himself, into magic, into anything supernatural within ten meters.
He had hoped that the traits might unlock new derivative stats. But it didn't. Or perhaps… it simply wasn't powerful enough yet.
He then sat back up, legs crossed, frowning as he reviewed his recent findings. Taking a deep breath, he focused, and in an instant, his perception shifted.
Everything in the room looked the same, except for one detail: his sword, resting a few meters away from the bed, now faintly glowed with a blackish hue.
Magical aura. That was the name he had given it.
The sword in question was made of Valyrian steel, at least in function, if not in appearance.
It lacked the traditional ripple-patterns of true Valyrian forging, but thanks to techniques he'd developed through his class [Occult Scholar], it possessed all the essential properties: high durability, razor-sharp, and imbued with magic.
It looked like any other well-forged blade, but under his new perception, it stood out clearly.
His spells had also changed. Previously, he had trained three basic spells to the point where casting them was second nature.
But now, with [Mental Adept] at max level, even complex spellwork felt as natural and effortless as a hand gesture.
The new class, however, had revealed something unexpected, and deeply concerning.
With [Inner Eye], he had turned his perception inward to analyze his own body. He saw a steady white glow radiating from within, what he came to identify as his vitality, or life energy.
But as he focused more closely, he noticed something else, scattered pinpricks of black light embedded throughout his body.
These, he recognized as magic.
The black points were especially concentrated along his veins, which made sense. His blood was the primary medium through which he cast his flame-based spells. That, however, wasn't what bothered him.
What did trouble him was a subtle, almost imperceptible change: the white glow of vitality near those black pinpricks was slightly dimmer and mixed than elsewhere.
It was a faint, one he would have missed entirely without the diagnostic precision of his [Occult Scholar] class.
After repeated checks and careful cross-analysis, Aegon reached a troubling conclusion:
The magic within his body was slowly merging with his vitality, tainting it, warping it, like an infection… or perhaps a mutation.
He had already noticed a +0.2 increase in his Magic stat, a sign that this foreign power was becoming a more permanent part of him.
The connections snapped into place in his mind instantly.
The blood sacrifices required to cast [Flamecraft] at earlier levels. The aged, unnatural appearances of warlocks from the Game of Thrones show.
The strange, prematurely worn features of certain red priests and priestesses. There was a consistent pattern.
Aegon formed a working theory:
You can exchange sacrifices, like blood or vitality, through rituals for magic from the "Magic Sea".
Once transferred into the caster, this magic binds to them, forming a tether back to the magic sea.
As you accumulate and use more of this magic, it begins to interact with your vitality.
Magic may gradually intertwine with your life force, leading to mutations such as immunity to fire, the ability to dreamwalk, or other supernatural traits.
These changes can become hereditary, passed down through bloodlines, as seen with the Targaryens.
But if you're not compatible, or if the magic fails to bond with you through magical mutations, it turns parasitic, feeding on your vitality and gradually draining your life force over time.
Magic, he realized, wasn't a benevolent or neutral force. It was predatory by nature, especially toward living energy.
Power always came at a price.
This also clarified why, after maxing out [Heir of Old Valyria], the blood required for his flamecraft ability had evolved, from a sacrificial offering into a conduit, a focusing medium.
It suggested that some new mutation had emerged in his blood, or perhaps a dormant one had finally awakened, granting him the ability to wield flamecraft without the need for sacrifice.
The magic no longer needed to consume life directly to function; it could be directed cleanly, at least for now.
Now, time to go for a new class, Aegon thought, a flicker of anticipation lighting in his chest.
Despite the gravity of what he had just uncovered, he couldn't help the excitement rising in him.
Because this next class wouldn't just be another tool, another stepping stone in his arsenal of power and knowledge.
No. This was different.
This class would be his first true step toward a dream shared by nearly every fiction reader, gamer, or daydreamer in the world he had left behind.
The dream of becoming a wizard.
Not just a fire-slinger. But a real wizard, one who could bend the underlying principles of reality, perceive magical structures, manipulate arcane forces through will, symbols, and knowledge.
He had walked the path of [Occult Scholar], learned the mechanics behind magical phenomena, how to study, analyze, and understand them.
He had walked the path of [Mental Adept], forging the mind into a refined lens, capable of modeling abstract constructs, perceiving the invisible, resisting manipulation.
Now, those foundations were laid. And with those cornerstones, he was finally ready.
Driftmark, House Velaryon
Crash.
The glass jar shattered against the stone wall, splinters of it bouncing across the floor.
"Is this how the Crown repays us?" Corlys Velaryon thundered, breathing hard, fists clenched.
"We risk everything, everything, facing pirates in the Stepstones, bleeding for trade routes, bleeding for the realm! And for what? So your birthright can be stolen out from under you?"
Rhaenys sat still by the fireplace, her eyes following the fire as it crackled and hissed. The shadows on her face deepened.
Her hand moved to her rounded belly, six months along now. She said nothing, not yet. But her silence was not peace, it was fury buried beneath duty.
Corlys paced back and forth like a storm barely contained. "Baelon?" he spat the name.
"He has done nothing you haven't. Less! You are the daughter of the heir."
"The realm mourned Aemon, but they forget his child? As if you are nothing?"
"And I, I've stood by, fought their wars, brought glory and gold to the realm, and still, they treat me like I'm expendable."
"Corlys," Rhaenys said quietly.
He turned to her, eyes still hot.
"He gave him Dragonstone. Do you know what that means? It's not just words. He made it real. That seat is the heir's by tradition, and now Baelon holds it. The old fool has shut every door for our child."
Rhaenys's lips were tight. "He is the King."
"He is a coward," Corlys snapped. "Too afraid of what the lords will say if he names a woman heir. He speaks of unity but yields to pressure like a feeble scribe."
Rhaenys looked at him long, her expression unreadable. "You resigned your post at court."
He gave a bitter laugh. "I threw it in their faces. Let them sit in their hollow court while the realm bleeds."
She lowered her gaze, rubbing her stomach again. "You weren't like this when we married."
Corlys paused. "And what does that mean?"
"You weren't always this angry." Her voice was still calm, but her fingers curled tighter over her belly. "This… consumed."
"I fight for you," he said sharply. "For our child."
"No." She looked up at him now. "You fight for your name."
Corlys said nothing. The silence between them was weighty.
"I am not blind, Corlys," Rhaenys said, more softly now. "You want our son, or daughter, on the Iron Throne."
"Why shouldn't I?" he said, voice low. "You were passed over. The realm made its choice, but that doesn't mean it was the right one."
"But it's done," she replied. "Baelon is named heir. If you defy that, it is treason."
Corlys stepped closer. "And if we do nothing, it's surrender."
Rhaenys closed her eyes. "I wanted peace for our child. A life not bound in fire and crowns."
He scoffed. "There is no peace for those born with a claim."
She turned to look into the fire again. "Then gods help them."
The flames crackled. For a moment, Corlys looked like he might say more, but he didn't.
He turned, picked up a goblet, and sat down heavily in a chair opposite her.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Only the fire spoke, low and constant, as the storm inside both of them quieted for now, but did not pass.
Winter – A Lone Island North of Dragonstone
The cold wind swept across the narrow sea, brushing against the jagged rocks of a small, isolated island far from any trade route.
Aegon sat alone on a patch of coarse grass, his legs crossed and his eyes fixed on the gray horizon.
Behind him, Dreamfyre lay coiled in rest, her head nestled on her front claws, breath misting in the cold air.
Four months had passed since King Jaehaerys had formally named Baelon as his heir. Lords from across the realm had gathered in King's Landing to swear oaths, solidifying Baelon's claim.
Aegon had traveled there as well, flying with his grandmother, Queen Alysanne, atop their dragons.
That visit had left a mark. Queen Alysanne, who had long kept herself above the political fray between Baelon and Rhaenys, grew visibly angry after learning that her husband had dismissed Rhaenys's claim solely because she was a woman.
Though she had expected resistance from the lords of the realm to the idea of a woman upon the Iron Throne, she had not expected it to come from her own husband.
She left the Red Keep in silence, her expression cold, and flew straight back to Dragonstone without a word to the court.
Since then, she had remained there, distant from the capital and the king.
Lord Corlys Velaryon had also resigned his position as Master of Ships, unwilling to serve a court that cast aside his wife's birthright.
The realm saw unrest beneath the surface, but no one dared speak of it too loudly.
Aegon had stayed behind with his grandmother.
His father, Baelon, had instructed him to remain on Dragonstone and continue accompanying the queen.
He had also left Aegon in charge of Dragonstone in his stead, allowing him to act as a steward of sorts while Baelon fulfilled his new role as Master of Laws on the Small Council.
Daemon continued his exploits with the City Watch in King's Landing.
His letters, often brief but always vivid, described the chaos of the streets and the harsh justice he dealt nightly with sword and baton.
He seemed to enjoy it more than he should.
Viserys, meanwhile, drifted from feast to feast, indulging in drink and pleasure.
According to Daemon, he had caught their elder brother more than once stumbling out of Silk Street brothels, red-faced and smiling.
He wrote of it like a joke, "He was so proud, he offered to take you there next time. You'll like it, I promise," Daemon had said in his last letter.
But for now, Aegon remained here, far from all that.
He stood, stretched, and walked toward a stone structure nearby. It wasn't large or elegant, but it was his.
Using stones and mud from the island's shores, he had shaped them, melted them together with Dreamfyre's fire, and slowly constructed the house by hand and his flamecraft.
Two full weeks of labor, and another to make it livable. A simple stone house, but sturdy enough to withstand wind and cold.
The structure stood as a private refuge.
Inside, a stone chair and table sat at its center.
All the gold dragons he had earned from selling the Valyrian steel weapons to Rhaenys were hidden here as well, buried beneath an unremarkable stone slab.
This was where he studied, thought, planned. No servants, no distractions.
His absences went unquestioned.
Queen Alysanne was preoccupied, her mood heavy since the dispute with the king.
Her two daughters, Maegelle and Gael, had come from Oldtown to be with her.
Maegelle, a woman of thirty, had spent her years serving the Faith, tending to children with greyscale.
Gael, only twelve, was more sheltered. She had been sent away at the age of four, kept distant from court life.
The King had feared she might follow the path of her older sister, Saera, who had escaped to Essos under disgrace.
No one spoke of Saera openly, but Aegon had heard enough from his brothers to understand her reputation.
They said she had escaped to Essos, living freely beyond the realm's reach. They called her trouble. Beautiful. Wild. Unbound.
Aegon sat at the stone table. He focused his mind.
The class tree appeared before him. Two new branches had formed.
One branch bore three leaves, his first attempt at creating a Tier 3 class.
But it was grayed out, marked clearly: "FAILED CLASS CREATION - PREREQUISITES PENDING."
The second branch had two leaves, indicating the new Tier 2 class. It was shimmering, unlike the other one.
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