In the days that followed, Baelon began to perceive the hidden law that governed the birth of achievements.
It was not whim.
There existed a path, narrow as a blade's edge and just as perilous, that led to further dragon gene enhancements. He had walked it once already.
Baelon named it the Path of Fate.
The first time he obtained a dragon gene enhancement serum, it had not come from blind fortune. It had come because he had intervened in destiny itself. He had shattered Princess Rhaenyra's tragic arc as it had once unfolded in the original story.
From the moment he altered her course, the current of history shifted.
No bastards.
No whispers in corridors.
No convenient stain for rival lords to wield against her claim.
The realm had been denied its favorite scandal, and Baelon had earned his Iron-tier achievement.
From that single success, he drew a conclusion both simple and severe.
Only by fundamentally altering the destinies of those fated for ruin could he unlock further achievements. Only by severing tragedy at its root could he claim new dragon enhancements.
Yet a troubling question lingered.
Had he not already changed many fates?
Take Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince who in the story had wed Rhaenyra and drawn the Seven Kingdoms into blood and fire.
Now Daemon served as head instructor at Harrenhal, his restless ferocity channeled into discipline rather than rebellion.
Even Lady Rhea Royce, who in darker accounts had perished beneath suspicious circumstances after crossing her husband, yet lived. She rode her lands in the Vale and drew breath still.
Or Laena Velaryon, dragonrider of mighty Vhagar, who had once met her end in Essos. In this turning of the wheel, she traveled freely between Driftmark and Harrenhal, her laughter unshadowed, her days unburdened by approaching doom.
Their lives had diverged sharply from the histories Baelon remembered.
Why, then, had no new achievement stirred?
He spent long hours in contemplation before arriving at a sobering truth.
Superficial change was not enough.
Daemon had not harmed Rhea in this timeline. Yet if events were allowed to drift toward their old shape, if ambition and desire pulled him once more toward another marriage, then the stone and blood that marked Rhea's end might still await her. The roots of that fate had not been torn out. They merely lay dormant.
The same held true for Laena.
In every known story, she died in childbirth. Whether delivering a malformed son or succumbing soon after, her fate was sealed at the birthing bed.
If Baelon wished to alter her destiny in truth, he would have to see her survive the very trial that once killed her.
Only by overturning the pivotal moment of tragedy could fate itself be rewritten.
He rested his forearms upon the table and laced his fingers together, gaze lowered in thought. His expression remained calm, yet his jaw tightened slightly.
And yet the easiest piece upon the board was not a Targaryen at all.
It was the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower.
If Baelon were to stride into the Tower of the Hand and cut the man's throat, ending the life of one of the realm's most calculating schemers, the achievement system would almost certainly answer him.
The temptation was real. He could almost feel the weight of the dagger in his palm.
But Otto was still useful.
For now, he was meat laid neatly upon the butcher's board.
Baelon needed him alive. Needed him to steady unrest in King's Landing. Needed him to spend his influence recklessly, to tangle himself in intrigue, to blacken his own name beyond repair.
When that usefulness ended, the blade would follow.
Baelon leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a faint, cold smile.
A true player of the game did not rush a killing move.
Baelon could wait.
The next morning, the Red Keep awoke to rumor and astonishment in equal measure.
By the hour of breaking fast, the news had spread through its halls like wildfire.
Baelon had been named Warden of the Wall.
In the Tower of the Hand, Lord Otto Hightower had scarcely risen from his bed when the report was delivered. He remained seated upon the edge of the mattress, the parchment held stiffly between his fingers, his lined face drawn tight with disbelief.
Years spent at the side of King Viserys I Targaryen had taught him the measure of the man. Viserys prized blood above all things. He clung to the notion of family unity with almost desperate resolve.
His affection for Baelon had always appeared measured, cautious, restrained within the boundaries of courtly propriety.
This elevation, however, was something else entirely.
It stank of intent.
As servants laced his robes and set his chain of office in order, Otto turned his head slightly toward his most trusted aide, who stood waiting near the hearth.
"Do you know what transpired yesterday?" he asked quietly.
The aide lowered his gaze. "My lord, we do not. After Baelon and Princess Helaena returned, the guard within the Red Keep was strengthened. Access was restricted. We had no opportunity to observe further developments."
Otto's fingers tightened faintly upon the golden brooch in his hand.
He despised uncertainty.
He despised the sensation of events unfolding beyond his sight.
Deliberately, he fastened the Hand of the King to his chest. When his hair had been combed smooth and his robes arranged to perfection, he rose and departed the tower without another word.
The small council chamber felt close and heavy when he entered, as though the very air carried expectation.
King Viserys sat at the head of the table, his expression composed, almost placid. The illness that plagued him had not dulled the firmness in his gaze this morning.
The others betrayed more feeling.
Lord Jason Lannister's jaw was set hard, his fingers drumming once against the polished wood before stilling. To him, the title of Warden of the Wall sounded perilously close to exile. The Wall lay at the furthest edge of the realm, far from the pulse of power.
Even a gifted man, sent so far north, risked irrelevance.
Jason had quietly counted himself among Baelon's allies. This appointment unsettled him.
Beside him, Lord Lyman Beesbury remained outwardly serene. Age had softened his frame but not his instincts. A veteran of two Targaryen reigns, he had learned the value of silence. Though House Beesbury maintained traditional ties to Oldtown, Lyman's loyalties lay foremost with his own survival.
He had once favored Princess Rhaenyra. In recent years, as Baelon's influence grew undeniable, the old lord had shifted his weight accordingly.
Now he folded his hands over his ledger and said nothing.
At last, Viserys spoke.
"As I have already said," the king began, his voice steady though faintly weary, "this appointment does not exile Baelon to the Wall."
He lifted his eyes, sweeping them across the table.
"He commands a dragon. He may return whenever he sees fit."
A brief pause followed, measured and deliberate.
"I am entrusting him with full military and administrative authority there."
Otto inclined his head slightly, but his eyes sharpened. Authority at the Wall meant command over men, fortifications, and the flow of northern resources. It was no hollow honor.
Viserys continued.
"As for provisions, we shall adopt the Hand's earlier proposal. Harrenhal, the North, and King's Landing will share the burden."
Otto's expression did not change, yet he felt the subtle shift of the board beneath his feet. His own proposal, now enacted, bound multiple regions into cooperation under Baelon's oversight.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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Send the stones this way. Okay???