Madrik led Twig through the narrow, shadowed streets of the city until they reached the place where, according to him, they had met for the first time — or at least, where the body now serving as Twig's avatar had first awakened.
The princess accompanied them, despite Twig's repeated pleas for her to return to the castle.
"Princess, this isn't safe. This is the most dangerous part of King's Landing," he had said.
But, as expected, royal stubbornness spoke louder. Twig, having no real authority over her, eventually gave in.
And so, the three of them made their way to Flea Bottom — the poorest and most forgotten corner of the capital.
When they arrived, the stench of smoke and filth hit them immediately. The alleys were dark, full of shadows and bent figures lost to misery. Madrik stopped before a narrow passage and pointed to a gap between two old houses.
"It was right there, master. That's where you found me. I used to hide there during cold nights."
Twig stared at the place for a moment, trying to feel something — a spark of memory, perhaps. Then he turned to the boy and asked quietly,
"And your parents, Madrik? Where are they?"
The boy lowered his head.
"They died long ago, master. I was little... I barely remember their faces."
Twig felt a weight in his chest. Silence hung between them, broken only by the distant creak of a cart and the murmurs of those sleeping on the streets.
He looked around — at the alleys, the ragged bodies curled in corners, the faces carved by hunger and despair. This wasn't just poverty. It was abandonment.
Gods... how can so much suffering exist in one place? Children... the elderly... all forgotten. Worse than seeing pain is seeing innocence suffer.
Twig closed his eyes briefly, feeling his heart tighten. The contrast between the bright tourney and this darkness was almost cruel — a harsh reminder that maybe a knight's true battle wasn't fought in the arena, but here, before the world's silent suffering.
The princess noticed the change in his expression — his distant gaze, his heavy breathing, the sadness visible even in the flickering light. She tilted her head, trying to understand.
"What troubles you, Ser Monde?" she asked, half curious, half teasing. "Do you think something dangerous is about to jump out of the shadows?"
Twig shook his head. "Princess? No... it's not danger I feel here. It's pain. A deep pain in my heart."
Madrik blinked, worried. "Master, are you hurt?"
Twig rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and said calmly, "No, Madrik. I'm not hurt. Sometimes, it's not a blade that cuts the heart — it's sorrow."
He looked around again — at the barefoot children sleeping on the ground, at the hopeless faces.
"I'm sad, Madrik. Sad to see so many suffering. Especially the children… they may never grow up. And if they do, they'll likely remain trapped in this misery."
Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows, surprised by the raw honesty in his tone.
"What do you mean, Ser Monde? Why does the suffering of these people wound you so deeply?"
Twig looked straight at her, his eyes steady.
"Princess... maybe because you've seen this so often that it no longer stirs your heart. But for me... it's different."
He took a deep breath.
"To see people starving, sleeping on the streets, treated worse than animals... that cuts deep. Because a knight — a true knight — protects more than castles and kings. He protects lives. And here, no one protects them."
Silence fell. Even the distant city sounds seemed to fade. The princess stared at him wordlessly — surprised, perhaps, by a truth she'd never heard spoken so plainly.
"But Ser Monde," she finally said, "what can a knight possibly do to change this? These people have been here long before I was born. Maybe even before my father's time. What could be done to help them?"
Twig thought for a moment. "You're right... it's not something that can be fixed overnight. Maybe not even by a knight — or a king."
He paused, then murmured, half to himself, "But even small steps matter. If I can't defeat misery like an enemy in battle, then maybe I can at least ease it."
He turned to her, voice steady. "Princess, if I ask a favor… would you help me?"
Rhaenyra blinked. "A favor? From me?"
"Yes," he said. "I have an idea — something that might help these people. Even if just a little."
She hesitated, then nodded. "I don't know if I can... but if it's within my reach, I'll do what I can."
Twig smiled faintly. "That's all I ask. When I've planned everything out, may I present it to you at the castle?"
Rhaenyra smiled back. "Of course. I'll be there. And I doubt my father would refuse a visit from the tourney's champion."
"Thank you, Princess. Truly," Twig said, bowing his head slightly. "Now, let's get you back. At least to one of the castle's entrances. I assume the front gate is out of the question?"
She chuckled softly, arms crossed. "Indeed, Ser Monde. A commoner like me walking through the main gate might draw... unwanted attention."
Twig smirked. "Then follow my lead."
Under the pale light of the moon, the knight, the squire, and the princess walked together through the quiet streets of King's Landing — their silence filled with an unspoken sense of purpose.
That night, back at the inn, Twig lay awake staring at the wooden ceiling, the image of Flea Bottom haunting his thoughts.
Yes… I'll do it, he whispered before finally closing his eyes, his resolve set.
The next day, under the blazing midday sun, Twig and Madrik made their way to the Red Keep.
At the castle gates, a royal guard recognized him immediately.
"You're Ser Monde Rouster — the melee champion, right?"
"Exactly," Twig replied. "I'm here to request an audience with Princess Rhaenyra. She's expecting me."
The guards exchanged puzzled looks. "Are you sure, Ser?"
"Very sure," Twig said with a calm smile. "You can confirm with her."
Moments later, a tall knight in shining white armor appeared — Ser Harrold Westerling.
"Ser Monde Rouster," he greeted with a nod. "It seems fate crosses our paths again. The princess informed His Majesty of your request, and the king himself wishes to hear it."
Twig blinked. "The king… personally?"
Ser Harrold smiled. "Indeed. Follow me."
Twig straightened his cape, glanced at his nervous squire, and followed. The three walked through the long corridors of stone until they reached a modest chamber — not the grand throne hall, but a private audience room.
Inside, King Viserys sat beside the princess, flanked by a few trusted guards.
"Welcome to my castle, Ser Monde Rouster," said the king warmly.
"Your Majesty," Twig bowed respectfully. "It's an honor to be in your presence once again. And Princess — it's an honor to see you too."
"My daughter tells me you have a request," the king said with curiosity. "I must admit, I'm quite intrigued."
Before Rhaenyra could answer, Twig stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, forgive me for taking your time. My visit isn't about joining the Kingsguard — though I remain deeply honored by your offer. I came here for something else... a personal favor from the princess."
"A favor?" the king repeated, raising an eyebrow. "From my daughter?"
Twig nodded. "Yes. I wish to donate the gold I received from the tourney — and entrust it to her."
"To me?" Rhaenyra asked, puzzled.
"Yes," Twig said firmly. "I want that gold to be used wisely — to help the people of Flea Bottom. My idea is simple: hire craftsmen — blacksmiths, tailors, carpenters, potters — and pay them to teach the children there. If even one child gains a skill, a trade, a future... then this gold will have fulfilled its purpose."
The room fell silent. Even the guards turned to look.
Viserys leaned back slowly, studying the knight before him.
"A knight who seeks not glory or title... but hope for the poor. Truly remarkable, Ser Monde Rouster."
Twig stepped forward and placed a leather pouch on the table. The heavy clink of gold filled the chamber as its weight landed before the throne.
Then, from his satchel, he pulled two small glass vials — crimson liquid shimmering inside. He set them beside the pouch.
"This gold alone won't change the world," he said. "But if Your Majesty — or the princess — would join in this cause, perhaps we could start something real. These potions were gifts from my master. He told me that when a dying man drinks it, his strength returns. They are... healing potions. Miraculous ones."
He bowed his head respectfully. "Their worth is great — but their purpose greater. If these can serve as seeds for a better tomorrow, then my mission will have meaning."
For a moment, silence ruled the chamber. Then Ser Ryam Redwyne stepped forward, his voice deep and sincere.
"I doubted you, Ser Monde Rouster," he said. "Your words about a knight's true worth once sounded like mere idealism to me — noble, but empty. But now... I see I was wrong. You've proven that honor isn't spoken. It's lived."
He touched the hilt of his sword and bowed.
"I don't think the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen a knight with such nobility of soul."
The words echoed — and then everything froze.
The torches dimmed. The colors faded. The world turned gray.
The king, the princess, the guards — all motionless, like painted figures trapped in time.
Twig blinked. A faint hum filled his ears.
"Congratulations," said a deep, resonant voice inside his mind. "You have completed your mission."
A figure appeared before him — a spectral knight, glowing in emerald light.
"You have shown strength without cruelty, humility without pride. You trained your squire, shared your wisdom, and gave your treasure for the sake of others. You have fulfilled the duty and the promise of a true knight."
The figure raised its sword — a long, radiant blade shimmering with green aura — and touched it to Twig's shoulder.
"With this sword, I name you... a Knight."
Light burst forth, surrounding him in a blinding storm of green motes that danced like ethereal fireflies. The energy merged into his body — and when the glow faded, his armor had changed. Gleaming steel, engraved with runic marks of Rune Midgard.
[Ding!] Mission Complete. Class Promoted: Knight.
Twig smiled faintly. "Finally... the true worth of a knight."
[Ding!] Host, mission complete. Return to point of origin?
"Not yet," he answered softly. "There's one last thing I must do."
The world returned to color. Time resumed.
Everyone in the room gasped as a radiant light engulfed the knight. When it faded, Twig stood transformed — his armor shining like something not of this world.
"What is this?!" cried the king, startled.
"Please, remain calm," Twig said gently. "There is no danger. My efforts... were recognized by the Seven."
"Recognized by the Seven?" the king repeated in awe.
Twig smiled. "I must go now. Not through the door — I have another path to take."
The king blinked. "Go... where?"
But Madrik — his young squire — was already trembling, tears welling in his eyes.
"M-master... you're leaving? Please don't go!"
Twig knelt and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"I'm not gone yet, Madrik. But my mission here is over. Yours, however... is just beginning."
He reached into his inventory and pulled forth a sword that shimmered into existence — a silver-blue blade gleaming with starlight.
The Stardust Blade... enchanted with a Mantis Card. +3 STR. Perfect.
He handed it to the boy, still in its sheath.
"Madrik, from this day forth, your name shall be Madrik Rouster. This sword will one day bear its own name — forged by your deeds. Wield it with courage, wisdom, and honor. Never forget your master... nor the virtues I've taught you. This blade will grow with you — but remember: never use it for evil. I'll always be watching."
The boy took the sword, trembling, his tears falling silently.
Twig smiled one last time.
"System... return."
Light consumed him. A beam from the heavens descended, swallowing his form until nothing remained.
The chamber fell silent.
King Viserys watched the kneeling boy clutching the sword against his chest, eyes filled with tears.
"A holy knight vanished before our eyes," the king whispered. "And left his legacy... in the hands of a child."