The sun had barely risen above the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone when the boy was already awake, pacing the courtyard with restless energy that no sleep could quell. Westeros moved slowly, with its rigid customs and deliberate pace—but he did not. Every hour in this new life was a treasure chest of possibilities, and he intended to unlock every secret.
He began the day in the forge, the air thick with smoke, heat, and the tang of molten iron. The blacksmith, a broad-shouldered man named Harlan, had initially treated him with suspicion, as one might a clever fox poking around a henhouse. But the boy had not merely survived Harlan's scrutiny; he had turned it into a lesson.
"What's this, then?" Harlan asked, tossing a chunk of iron onto the anvil. Sparks flew, showering the boy's boots with tiny bursts of molten light. "You think you can handle this?"
"I think I can do more than handle it," the boy replied evenly, stepping forward. His fingers brushed the iron, and instantly he understood it—its grain, its temperature, how it would respond to hammer and fire. Knowledge that had taken centuries for others to acquire flowed into him like water into a vessel, precise and complete.
He struck the iron. Sparks danced like fireflies, illuminating the astonished expression on Harlan's face. "By the Seven… that was perfect," the blacksmith whispered.
"Perfect is just the beginning," the boy said, adjusting the hammer's angle in his mind. Each blow, each twist of the wrist, refined the metal into shapes that were simultaneously practical and elegant. Within hours, he had forged swords, nails, and plates of armor, each piece executed with uncanny precision.
Word of his skill spread quickly. Apprentices watched in awe, servants whispered rumors, and even minor knights paused to examine his work. He allowed their admiration but kept his true abilities hidden. Mystery, he knew, was a form of power.
Once the forge grew stifling, he moved to experiments requiring less fire but equal attention. In a quiet alcove near the cliffs, he gathered sand, crushed limestone, and water. He recalled from memory how to make cement, understanding the chemical reactions and ratios intuitively. Within hours, the mixture hardened, stronger and smoother than anything commonly used on Dragonstone.
"Stone holds secrets," he murmured to himself, kneeling beside the drying cement. "And so does steel."
He documented everything mentally: the interlocking grains of sand, the effect of heat on iron, the leverage required for perfect sword strikes. Each observation was a step toward mastery, each experiment a building block in the silent empire of knowledge he was constructing.
Returning to blacksmithing, he began a personal project: a dagger etched with dragon-scale motifs along the blade. Every strike of the hammer and grind of the whetstone was precise, deliberate, imbued with both artistry and function. Harlan watched, captivated.
"You've never struck iron like that in your life," Harlan said, shaking his head. "And yet… you've done more than any apprentice in ten years."
The boy smiled faintly. Admiration could be useful, but trust was a luxury he could not afford. "Then perhaps I have been apprenticed elsewhere," he said, a vague truth that could mean anything.
Magic remained another tool he honed in secret. Returning to his bird and rat transformations, he expanded his network. A sparrow could relay messages to a rat; the rat could slip through walls, carrying information unseen. Within a week, he had eyes and ears across much of the fortress, and even in the harbor, where ships came and went.
He marveled at the intersections of magic and knowledge. Chemistry informed potion-making; geometry guided siege mechanics; physics dictated sword strikes. Westeros, with all its tradition and superstition, was a vast puzzle—and he already possessed the pieces.
One evening, atop the cliffs, he cataloged everyone he had met: gait, speech patterns, likely allegiances. Prince Daemon, the king's volatile younger brother, was brash but cunning, reckless yet capable of genuine strategy. That understanding would serve him well in the tournaments to come, when skill and reputation collided in the spotlight of Westerosi nobility.
Night fell, bringing a chill that crept through his tunic. He welcomed it. Discomfort was a teacher. Stars glittered sharply above, familiar yet alien. He imagined maps in his mind, calculated trajectories for weapons, and rehearsed dialogues with nobles whose names he already knew by heart.
By the end of the second week on Dragonstone, he had achieved mastery over skills that took others years to learn. Blacksmithing, alchemy, magic, and strategy were now tools at his disposal. And yet, he knew the Heir's Tournament would be the first true test of those tools.
He looked out over the sea, the waves glimmering beneath the moonlight, the towers casting long shadows across the cliffs. Dragonstone, with all its jagged beauty and dark history, was his classroom. And he was ready to teach lessons the world would never forget.