Chapter 12: The Crafting Begins
Driftmark, High Tide Castle - Private Forested Shoreline
The morning fog clung to the cliffs of Driftmark like a ghostly veil. Gulls cried over the waves, and the scent of brine was ever-present, lingering like a memory. Vaeron Velaryon stood on the rocky verge where castle gardens bled into wild terrain. His new title of Lord of Driftmark still felt foreign, but the weight of power settled naturally across his shoulders.
What consumed his thoughts more than politics, however, was the recent gift.
> [SYSTEM NOTICE] Congratulations, Lord Vaeron. You have received: Minecraft Player Template (Legendary Item).
Vaeron exhaled slowly, his violet eyes sharp with curiosity. "System," he said, his voice steady, "open Minecraft Interface."
The air shimmered before him. A transparent HUD bloomed into existence: a familiar hotbar, health and hunger meters, armor slots, and an inventory grid. He flexed his fingers. The system reacted.
A stunned laugh escaped him. "It's real. I can really use it."
The hotbar currently displayed empty slots. No tools. No weapons. No materials.
"Let's change that."
He scanned the nearby woods, locating a birch tree with a thick trunk and weathered bark. Walking over, he raised his bare hand and struck.
The first punch hurt.
His fist thudded into the side of a birch tree. No damage to him, but the sound was jarring — like hitting something solid with raw knuckles. Chips of white bark cracked loose, then pop! — the first block broke free and zipped into his hands.
> [Birch Log Acquired]
[New Recipes Unlocked: Birch Planks]
A soft pop and flash. The log appeared in his inventory with perfect square edges.
"That… that was amazing," he muttered.
> [SYSTEM NOTICE: New Crafting Recipes Unlocked]
Oak Planks
Crafting Table
With a thought, he opened the crafting interface. Dragging the oak log to the crafting grid, he selected the recipe.
> [+4 Oak Planks]
He moved fast now. Four planks, square pattern — crafting table.
The system responded immediately:
> [Crafting Interface – Basic Mode]
Input: Oak Log
Output: 4 Oak Planks per log
Recipe Unlocked: Oak Planks ✅
Click.
As he confirmed the recipe, the oak logs shimmered and instantly converted into oak planks, glowing faintly with soft, pixelated warmth before entering his Inventory.
> [System Notification]
You have unlocked the following recipes:
– Crafting Table
– Sticks
– Wooden Slab
– Wooden Pressure Plate
– Wooden Button
– Trapdoor
– Boat
– Wooden Tools (Pending: Crafting Table placement)
Vaeron's eyes gleamed.
> "So this is how it begins… building, not conquering. Creation, not destruction. This world doesn't know what's coming."
He placed four oak planks into the crafting grid and confirmed the next step.
> [Crafting Interface – Basic Mode]
Input: 4 Oak Planks
Output: Crafting Table
Recipe Unlocked: Crafting Table ✅
With a shimmer of golden light, the iconic crafting table materialized before him. A heavy thud followed as it landed on the forest floor with a satisfying thunk. Intricate patterns adorned the surface—a sacred altar of creation.
> "And now… true crafting begins."
He approached the table and opened the Advanced Crafting Interface that came with it. The grid expanded from a 2x2 to a full 3x3. New possibilities exploded into his vision.
> [New Recipes Unlocked]
– Wooden Pickaxe
– Wooden Axe
– Wooden Shovel
– Wooden Hoe
– Wooden Sword
– Chest
– Sign
– Ladder
– Fence
– Gate
It didn't belong here—not in this world of dragons and blades—and yet, it fit him.
Vaeron crouched and ran his fingers across the grid.
"This... changes everything," he whispered.
---
INNER MONOLOGUE – VAERON VELARYON:
In my past life, I played this game to escape reality. Now? Now it IS my reality. Others have dragons, swords, armies. But I have more than all that. I have creation. I can build an empire one block at a time. Walls they can't climb. Fortresses they can't breach. Even tools and weapons they'll never imagine.
If I can merge this with the Lord System, the possibilities are limitless. Farms. Mines. Traps. Defense systems. Entire cities.
He looked up at the towering trees.
Let the others wage war like Targaryens of old. I will do it my way. A new way.
---
With a grin, he crafted a few sticks, then shaped them into a wooden axe.
> [+1 Wooden Axe]
He chopped the next tree down in seconds. It was clumsy work, but faster than fists. More wood. More sticks. The rhythm was forming. A pattern.
Now, time to mine.
---
He found a small exposed patch of stone in a hill's side. With his wooden pickaxe, he chipped away at the surface.
Stone cracked and fell into his hands.
> [New Recipes Unlocked: Stone Tools, Furnace]
Yes. That's what he needed.
In minutes, he crafted a stone pickaxe, stone axe, and stone sword. The wooden tools he'd made moments ago already felt obsolete — relics of a weaker self. He tossed them into a nearby sea without hesitation.
As he mined deeper into the hill, a black-flecked block appeared: coal ore.
He grinned again.
> [Coal Acquired]
[New Recipes: Torch]
He crafted torches, placing one at the mouth of the cave. Soft orange light spilled outward, keeping the shadows at bay.
> "Let's gather materials and prepare. This world… it won't know what hit it."
---
Pleasure House, Lysene Quarter – Night
The air was thick with incense and lust, the scent of spiced wine mingling with sweat and perfume. On the central dais, a pair of lithe Lysene men and a striking Tyroshi woman with shimmering blue hair performed a carnal ballet, their bodies twisting and coiling with practiced seduction beneath the flickering lanternlight.
All around the chamber, golden cloaks lounged in various stages of drunkenness and indulgence. Tables overflowed with goblets and roast meats, but few paid the feast any mind. The captains of the City Watch reveled alongside Prince Daemon Targaryen's entourage, their laughter loud, their coin freely spent. Naked or half-dressed women slinked through the throng like cats, teasing and tempting with hands and whispers.
At one corner, Captain Randyll Barret reclined brazenly in his chair, a whore's head buried in his lap, her dark hair spilling over his thighs like silk. He barely concealed his moans, and no one seemed to care. The prince's men were drunk beyond measure, their discipline drowned in wine and flesh.
And at the bar, aloof from the chaos, stood Prince Daemon himself.
Clad in the dark leather and blackened mail of the City Watch, Daemon leaned against the polished wood, his goblet untouched, his expression unreadable. Eyes of violet fire tracked the debauchery with a mixture of disdain and detachment.
Through the haze, a figure emerged — Mysaria. Pale as moonlight, with eyes like a cat's and a voice that danced with danger, she moved through the room with the grace of a serpent. Snatching a flagon from a passing servant boy, she slid beside the prince.
"You are again the heir," she purred, her tone sultry and sharp. "Shall we drink to our future?"
Daemon regarded her in silence for a heartbeat, the smirk slowly curling his lips betraying both desire and something darker. He pulled her to him and kissed her—possessive, hungry. Then, lifting the flagon high, he turned to address the room.
"King and council have long detested the idea of me as heir," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din. "But no matter their prayers or plots, I am not so easily cast aside."
The revelers quieted. Heads turned, ears pricked. Daemon's grin widened as he felt the room sway to his will.
He raised the flagon higher. "The gods give… and just as swiftly, they take."
His voice rose now, sharp as a blade. "To the king's son, Baelon—Heir for a Day."
A few gasped. Others froze, their cups half-raised. The jest was blasphemous, seditious—delivered with mocking reverence. It hung in the air like a knife unsheathed.
Then Mysaria laughed. A high, silvery sound that shattered the tension. Captain Barret followed with a barking guffaw, wine dribbling from his lips. The rest followed, emboldened by the laughter of their betters, and soon the hall echoed with coarse mirth.
Daemon drank deeply, his eyes scanning the room. He saw sycophants and drunkards, fools and flatterers—all dancing to his tune. And he smiled, thin and knowing.
---
The Red Keep, King's Apartments – Night
The doors to the royal solar opened with a soft groan, revealing the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Ryam Redwyne. Behind him hovered a young woman cloaked in candlelight and uncertainty.
Lady Alicent Hightower had changed.
Gone was the girl in modest gowns and schoolroom braids. In her place stood a vision of courtly elegance—draped in a gown of deep green silk that clung gently to her form, its color echoing the banners of House Hightower. Her hands trembled slightly, one already raw from nervous chewing.
Inside, King Viserys Targaryen sat at his long table, staring absently at his sprawling model of ancient Valyria. Candlelight danced over the miniature towers and bridges, casting long shadows on maps and books strewn beside the work. In his hands, he turned a carved figurine of a dragon, its wings poised in mid-flight.
"The Lady Alicent Hightower, Your Grace," Ser Ryam announced before stepping aside and silently departing.
Viserys looked up—and faltered.
"Alicent…"
He had known her for years. She had dined at his table, read from books in his library. But now, something in her face, in the way she moved, struck him differently. This was not the child he remembered.
"What brings you at this hour?" he asked, his voice soft, tentative.
She stepped closer, holding a thick volume to her chest. "I thought you might appreciate a visit, Your Grace. I brought you a book—a favorite of mine. I recall your passion for the histories."
Her voice was calm, though her fingers clenched the book tight. She hesitated, then placed it gently on the table, forgotten. Instead, she lowered herself beside the king, eyes drawn to the model of Valyria—the lost glory of their ancestors.
"When my mother died," she said quietly, "no one would speak plainly. Everyone spoke in riddles and half-truths. All I wanted… was for someone to say they were sorry."
Viserys turned to her, surprised by the sincerity of her voice.
"I am sorry, Your Grace," she finished, eyes shimmering.
He smiled faintly. There was sadness in that smile—a tired, grateful sadness.
In the quiet of the chamber, surrounded by relics of a lost world, a grieving king and a grieving girl found an odd comfort in each other's presence.
---
To be continued...