The plan required patience.
For nearly a year after withdrawing from the deeper layers of the Old Gods of the Forest, the mercenary remained within the vast roots of the Weirwood tree network.
He had mapped nearly every branch and pathway across Planetos.
Every carved face was a window.
Every root was a vein of memory.
Through them he could watch kingdoms rise and fall.
He could listen to the whispers of forests and rivers.
He could peer through ravens, wolves, and even the occasional wandering greenseer.
But for his plan to succeed, watching was not enough.
He needed to move pieces.
Two bloodlines.
Two people.
One child.
A vessel capable of containing the monstrous fusion of soul, vampiric essence, and primordial chaos he carried within him.
The first bloodline was already close.
Ancient.
Stubborn.
Deeply intertwined with the magic of the land.
House Stark.
Within the castle of Winterfell, the blood of the First Men still flowed strong.
Their connection to the Old Gods of the Forest made them uniquely receptive to greendreams.
And one Stark in particular stood out.
A prince.
A wanderer.
A man with just enough freedom to alter the course of history.
His name was Barthogan Stark.
Known among northern lords as The Wandering Wolf.
The third son of the King of Winter.
A prince without the crushing responsibilities of inheritance.
Which meant he had choices.
Freedom.
Opportunity.
Exactly the kind of man the mercenary needed.
The first contact came gently.
Barthogan Stark slept beneath the cold stone ceilings of Winterfell, unaware that something ancient now watched him through the red eyes carved into the castle's heart tree.
The mercenary slipped into the prince's dreams like mist drifting through an open window.
Greendreams were easy to shape.
The Stark bloodline welcomed them.
In the dream, Barthogan stood upon a shoreline beneath a crimson sunset.
Across the water lay distant lands.
Strange lands.
The prince watched as a woman appeared on the opposite shore.
Silver-gold hair flowing in the wind.
Eyes bright with dragonfire.
A Valyrian maiden.
She said nothing.
She simply waited.
But the dream carried a message deeper than words.
Your destiny lies across the sea.
Barthogan awoke breathless.
Confused.
Yet strangely determined.
The dream returned the next night.
And the next.
Each time the vision grew clearer.
The woman.
The distant eastern lands.
The sense of something unfinished.
By the fourth dream, the prince had made his decision.
He would leave Westeros.
He would travel east.
Across the Narrow Sea.
And find the destiny waiting for him there.
Exactly as the mercenary intended.
The second bloodline required far more precision.
Among the forty dragonlord families ruling the Valyrian Freehold, he needed one with strong lineage yet enough flexibility to allow an unusual marriage.
The choice became obvious after reviewing centuries of Valyrian history.
House Targaryen.
In this era, they were far from the most powerful dragonlords.
A respectable house.
But not dominant.
Which meant their members had more freedom than those bound by the rigid expectations of the great ruling families.
The woman he chose was Daenora Targaryen.
A noblewoman of the house.
An aunt to a young dragonlord named Aenar Targaryen.
And a distant relative of a girl who would one day become famous.
The child known as Daenys the Dreamer.
The mercenary studied Daenora carefully.
Her blood carried the ancient legacy of the Empire of the Dawn through the dragonlord lineages.
Exactly what he needed.
But reaching her presented an unexpected obstacle.
Valyria was not foolish.
The dragonlords had protected their homeland with layers of magical defenses.
Ancient anti-scrying wards blanketed the peninsula.
The mercenary's awareness struck those wards like waves against a cliff.
They did not harm him.
But they blocked direct observation.
He could force his way through them.
The fragment of Amatsu-Mikaboshi inside him could shatter those barriers with ease.
Yet doing so would attract attention.
And he preferred subtlety.
So he chose another solution.
He would go there himself.
Leaving the Weirwood tree network was easy now.
His soul drifted southward like an invisible current of air.
Across forests.
Across mountains.
Across the Narrow Sea.
Eventually the volcanic peninsula of Valyria rose beneath him.
The land burned with magic.
Dragons filled the skies.
Massive cities sprawled across black volcanic stone.
The mercenary spent nearly a year there.
Not rushing.
Not interfering yet.
Simply observing.
Valyria was magnificent.
And horrifying.
Great towers of fused stone reached toward the heavens.
Dragonlords rode their beasts through clouds of ash and fire.
Slave markets filled entire districts.
Thousands of chained people passed through the streets daily.
Yet beneath the beauty and power, corruption ran deep.
Blood magic rituals.
Experiments blending human and dragon essence.
Forbidden sorceries tied to the Fourteen Flames.
The mercenary absorbed every secret he could find.
Hidden vaults.
Ancient libraries.
Treasures buried beneath the volcanic hills.
He memorized them all.
Because when the Doom of Valyria arrived in fifty years…
He intended to profit immensely.
Eventually the time came to act.
The market district of Valyria bustled with activity that morning.
Merchants from across Essos filled the streets.
Spices.
Silks.
Strange beasts from distant lands.
Among the crowd walked Barthogan Stark, newly arrived from the west.
The northern prince looked out of place beneath the hot Valyrian sun.
Yet he moved through the market with quiet confidence.
At the same moment, another figure approached from the opposite direction.
Daenora Targaryen.
Silver hair braided with golden rings.
A dragonlord's noble bearing.
She walked with two attendants.
The mercenary hovered between them.
And whispered a single charm.
A tiny fragment of the compulsion magic once wielded by Alucard.
Compared to the cosmic devastation possible through Amatsu-Mikaboshi, it was laughably small.
Barely more than a nudge.
Just enough to make two people notice each other.
Nothing more.
Barthogan looked up.
Daenora turned her head.
Their eyes met.
And the rest happened naturally.
The prince and the dragonlord spoke for hours that day.
Then again the next.
And again.
Barthogan told stories of frozen forests and direwolves.
Daenora described the skies above Valyria filled with dragons.
Their worlds could not have been more different.
Yet somehow they fit.
Within weeks, their relationship had become the talk of certain noble circles.
Some disapproved.
Others were curious.
But Daenora had the authority to choose her own husband.
And Barthogan Stark was still a prince of an ancient house.
Eventually they made their decision.
They would marry.
First in the ancient rites of Valyria.
Dragonlord customs beneath the smoking mountains.
Then they would travel north.
To wed again beneath the heart trees of Winterfell.
Ice and fire united.
Exactly as the mercenary planned.
Months later, winter winds swept across the northern forests.
Inside Winterfell, Daenora Targaryen gave birth.
The child arrived beneath the watchful eyes of the heart tree.
The mercenary descended into the infant the moment he took his first breath.
The body was perfect.
Strong.
Healthy.
And already humming with unusual power.
The boy had dark hair like his Stark father.
But streaks of silver-white ran through it like strands of moonlight.
His eyes were even stranger.
One amethyst purple.
One cold northern gray.
The assembled family whispered among themselves.
Some saw omens.
Others saw destiny.
Barthogan Stark simply smiled.
"A strong name," he said quietly.
"Something worthy of both bloodlines."
He looked down at his newborn son.
"Maegor."
Thus the child was named.
Maegor Stark.
Prince of Winterfell.
Scion of Valyria.
And vessel of something far older than either house.
Deep within the infant's soul, the mercenary finally felt complete.
He had a body again.
And the game had truly begun.