Deep in the dense thickets of the Reach, Benedarion put his old-life skills to work. Survival wasn't just about food and water; for a Targaryen in hiding, it was about camouflage.
Using *Nyx* with agonizing care, he chopped away at a fallen block of soft willow wood. His tailor's eye for symmetry and form guided his hands as he hollowed it out, carving a smooth, minimalist wooden mask that covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his sharp jaw and intense violet eyes exposed. Next, he gathered ash and charcoal from his small, concealed campfires. He crushed it into a fine powder, mixed it with a bit of animal fat Bastet had brought back from a hunt, and meticulously worked the black paste into his long, silver-gold hair. When he looked at his reflection in Yggdrasil's shimmering, mirror-like scales, the legendary Valyrian features were gone. He looked like a mysterious, dark-haired hedge-knight or a scarred traveler.
But he needed a trade. A reason to wander into villages without drawing suspicion.
Benedarion spent the next two weeks constructing a musical instrument. He couldn't make a perfect modern guitar without steel strings, but using seasoned wood, a hollowed-out gourd for resonance, and tightly spun, dried animal gut for strings, he fashioned a beautiful, deep-toned acoustic lute-guitar. When he plucked the strings, the sound was rich, carrying a haunting, rhythmic resonance that echoed perfectly with the songs floating around in his twentieth-century memory.
Leaving Yggdrasil hidden deep in the cave—the young dragon happily curled up and camouflaged against the grey stone—and leaving Bastet to shadow him invisibly from the tree line, Benedarion walked down toward the banks of the Mander River.
The nearby village was a bustling market hub filled with farmers, river traders, and smallfolk. Perfect for gathering gossip.
Benedarion found the local tavern, a rowdy, low-ceilinged dive smelling of spilled ale and roasted mutton. He walked in quietly, the wooden mask strapped to his face and his black-dyed hair falling over his shoulders. He didn't draw his Valyrian steel sword, keeping it wrapped in drab burlap to look like a common broadsword.
Taking a seat in the corner, he tuned his homemade guitar, drawing curious glances from the patrons. Then, he struck a rhythm. He didn't sing the stiff, formal highborn ballads of Westeros. Instead, he dropped into a slow, infectious, sun-drenched reggae beat, adapting the soulful chords of Bob Marley into a mesmerizing acoustic melody. His deep, smooth voice filled the tavern:
*"Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery... None but ourselves can free our minds..."*
The tavern went dead silent. The smallfolk had never heard a rhythm like this. It wasn't just a song; it was a heartbeat. Men set down their tankards; women paused mid-stride. By the time he transitioned into a haunting, soulful rendition of an Adele ballad—gently twisting the lyrics to sound like a tragic tale of lost Valyrian lovers—half the tavern was wiping away tears, and the other half was tossing copper stars and silver stags into his open upturned hat.
As the night wound down and the ale flowed freely, Benedarion bought a round for a few chatty river merchants, casually steering the conversation toward the gossip of the realm.
"You speak of the capital, friend," Benedarion said, keeping his tone casual. "How fares King Viserys? Is the realm peaceful?"
"Peaceful enough, though the lords simmer," a fat merchant laughed, wiping foam from his beard. "The King still dotes on his little girl, Princess Rhaenyra. The Realm's Delight, they call her. Just turned twelve name-days old, she did. Grand feasts in King's Landing to celebrate, though some whisper the lords are already eyeing her succession with doubt."
*Twelve,* Benedarion noted internally. *The Dance of the Dragons is still years away. Rhaenyra is a child, and Viserys has yet to produce a surviving male heir with Alicent Hightower.*
"Aye, but the real excitement is closer to home!" a local farmer chimed in, leaning over the table. "Have you not heard? Lord Tyrell is hosting a grand tourney at Highgarden next moon. A great joust! Knights from all over the Reach and the Stormlands are riding past the village even now. They say Prince Daemon himself might swing by just to mock the Reach lords!"
Benedarion nodded, his violet eyes flashing behind his wooden mask. "A tourney at Highgarden. Fascinating."
Over the next few weeks, Benedarion became a ghost story and a legend wrapped into one along the Mander River. They called him "The Masked Bard" or "The Charcoal Singer." He never stayed in one village for more than a night, always retreating back into the safety of the deep woods where Yggdrasil and Bastet awaited him.
He was making a name for himself, earning coin, and learning the layout of the land. He was building a reputation as a harmless, mysterious musician—the perfect cover.
Back in the safety of his cave, Benedarion washed the charcoal from his hair, letting the silver-gold locks catch the light of the fire. Yggdrasil nudged his hand, his mirror scales reflecting the dancing flames, while Bastet rested her massive silver head on his lap.
He looked toward the south, in the direction of Highgarden. The tourney was coming. He wasn't ready to reveal his true identity as Benedarion Targaryen yet—not while his dragon was still too small to ride—but a grand gathering of lords was the perfect place to watch the players of the game from behind a wooden mask.
"Soon," he whispered into the dark forest. "Soon."