King's Landing

Alistair was simultaneously satisfied and dissatisfied with his lot in life. He was satisfied with the progress he had made in life since he 'spawned' inside of King's Landing at the tender physical age of five. Of course, at the time he had mentally been fifteen, which, if biology was to be believed, was the premier time to partake in such activities. Flexible yet mature enough mindset to adapt to a significant change and all that. He did, however, feel that it was fair of him to say that the street urchin starting background was fairly horrible as far as those went, even if it was marginally better than the child slave background, he supposed.

This was debatable, given that his power made it quite possible for him to escape, while the value placed on slaves would at the very least be the most meagre safety net ever crafted.

He had a certain advantage, of course, given that he wielded the dubiously infinite power of the system at his fingertips. Not quite a solution to all his problems, as he received only a single attribute point every fifth hard-fought level, however, the skill points gained at every level saved him valuable days of starvation while he figured out how to steal. It was, probably, what saved him from dying to either starvation or from disease when starvation broke him and he ate a certainly diseased rat.

But it wasn't all diseased rats, hunger, and the occasional scuffle with other urchins over commodities such as stale bread and dead birds which were presumably not diseased. When times were good, the merchants more lax, and the harvest rich and oh so easy to steal from, he made quite a few friends with the other urchins.

Eventually, when he reached the age of ten, he proposed a plan to five of his fellow urchins. He divulged to them that he actually had a marketable skill, namely baking and pastry concocting, and shared with them his plan for their success. And so, during a long summer gifted to them in their first hint of luck, they began to gather every coin they could spare. They even shared profits to allow some members of their little conspiracy to plan thieveries which required more time and risked everything once or twice with schemes to gather gold like they never would have been able to otherwise.

Enough gold, in fact, that after a year of hard work, and only a few run-ins with the gold cloaks, they could buy a building and transfer from thieves and street rats to a group of young bakers-sons, and daughters, experimentally running a shop together.

Soon enough, his skill as a baker and pastry chef managed to pull them through the hard beginning and set them on the path of success. He even managed to level the teaching skill quite a bit as he taught the others baking and pastry making.

And now, five years later, they had integrated multiple other urchins into their little business and opened up three other locations spanning across King's Landing.

Which were, once or twice in a blue moon, used for money laundering for their less legal activities, because if the state had no interest in redistributing the wealth to prevent poverty, then they had to pick up the slack.

Alistair hummed happily as he walked to their newest location, a habit he had picked up to counter his old habit of breathing deeply when he was happy, which was not viable in King's Landing. At least, not if you wanted to remain happy, instead of being reminded of the borderline malicious odour of King's landing.

The street of steel was loud, busy, and travelled by virtually every citizen of Kings Landing at least once in their life, if only to get a new cooking knife. In the cold throes of winter, it also happened to be the warmest street, due to the smiths lining the street on either side. Their charming little confection boutique was located a small way into where the gold smiths wrought their craft, as opposed to the loud clanging of the blacksmiths. The store was, after all, so expensive that supporting the debt buying it brought required them to cater to a more privileged target group, the nobles, high born, and 'copper counters'.

However, for such a concept to be successful, they realised their need for a more quiet area, where ladies could eat undisturbed by the clanging of the metal beaters. Yet it also needed to be close enough to be seen by the men and knights shopping for whatever tools of slaughter they wished. And, soon enough, they had built a clientele of highborn who came to eat delicious deserts, be it pudding, cakes, tarts, or, uniquely available now in winter, the delicacy of ice sorbets and creams.

He still fondly remembered the recent false spring, which allowed them to reasonably charge a premium for iced deserts without actually having to take them off the menu afterwards. Of course, the kidnapping of Lyanna Stark which followed swiftly overwhelmed whatever joy he had felt. Both for the abduction of an innocent girl his own physical age and for the rebellion sure to follow. After all, he could imagine few things more likely than the abduction of Robert Baratheon's betrothed more likely to spark Robert Baratheon himself into rebellion.

Alistair sighed lightly as he once again lamented his decision to prioritize the reading of Dune over A Song of Ice and Fire. He knew nothing of what would actually happen in the rebellion beyond who the victor would probably be, and who was on what side. And even that was close to the limit of what he knew of the world as a whole. Alistair could not help but find the humorous irony that what little he knew was gained only in a short moment he had spent listening to his friend try and convince him to pause Dune and read asoiaf, before he protested spoilers. How he longed for spoilers now.

But, it was all fine. Alistair had plans, namely that he was already preparing to sell all the bakeries and patisseries they owned, before fleeing King's Landing to either Sunspear in Dorne or one of the free cities, depending on where, and most importantly when, the ships sailed.

"Alistair! Good you came, we were just getting worried when you hadn't shown up at your usual time. Figured you might have gotten caught in a bad spot after drinking too deeply last night," Jack, one of the original five, said, his voice carrying only a hint of the relief he felt. He wasn't actually referring to drinking, of course, seeing as one of the core rules of the Biscuits Union was that alcohol in any situation was discouraged, and never so much that it became inhibiting.

No, he was inferring to their little heist on the residence of House Swann early that very morning. They had broken into the residence, and stolen their golden cups, before they exchanged bags with their own delivery people in charge of bringing bread unfit for sale into Flea Bottom. Their first Bakery, with mostly normal bread, happened to have a cellar where they could conveniently melt gold and silver into coins before they laundered it through the Biscuits Union

"Oh, no, I was not quite so lost in the haze a good night brings last night. I was simply enjoying a good morning, seeing as there was more bread than usual to distribute to the denizens of Flea Bottom. But enough about that, any new gossip I should hear immediately?"

"No, not really. I mean, the young lady of House Rolaw is apparently up to something again, but when isn't she? Other than that? Nothing. But it is still pretty early, so we should get cooking so we have something to serve our gossip bringers."

Alistair tensed at the denial of any gossip, another code, his fear only being confirmed by the last sentence, a security check so that they would never have to falsify any gossip.

"Of course," Alistair said, glancing briefly at the double-layered window façade of their bakery, made of many glass tiles in a grid pattern, and double-layered for insulation. His gaze then moved to the hanging birch sign with golden words proudly proclaiming it as 'The Biscuit Union's patisserie and Café', and their logo, hands being shaken underneath a loaf of bread, for the sake of branding.

Alistair unhurriedly strolled towards the kitchen, stopping often to speak to both servants here to place orders for delivery to their lords' manors, and young lords and ladies enjoying their breakfast selection. The small round tables of mahogany filling the boutique were yet sparsely populated, with only five of the fifteen available tables occupied, mostly at the entrance, enjoying the light of the outside without the accompanied cold of winter. And a Westeros winter was truly cold, even here in the crownlands, where there were cases of the blackwater rush freezing.

The walnut floors creaked slightly as he walked to the kitchen, pulling off his heavy fur hoodie while 'accidentally' exposing his toned abdomen, for the sake of pleasing customers.

Alistair knew that whatever may have happened was significant, and currently, he could only imagine that anything significant revolved around the upcoming rebellion. He could feel it. Feel it in the way the nobles who came to his shop spoke of increasingly benign subjects with ever-growing enthusiasm, avoiding even speaking of the conflict brewing in the kingdoms. Feel it in how the closer you came to the red keep, the more of King's Landing's energy went away, replaced by soft murmurs, shifting eyes, and ducked shoulders, as if constantly fearing for a blow which never came.

He knew that a decision would have to be made soon, not only by him, but by everyone, on whom to side with. He knew he should simply leave now, but when he heard of a Stark heir who was distinctly not lord of Winterfell in the books, and a current lord of Winterfell who did not lead the north in rebellion, he felt he should at least see the fate suffered by those he forsook. But he also needed to be ready, and the first step for that was taking stock of what he was capable of, so he pulled up his status and ten most relevant skills.

Alistair Albright

Level 24

Unspent skill points: 9

Constitution: 10 Strength: 12

Dexterity: 14 Perception: 10

Wisdom: 10 Intelligence: 13

Charisma: 17

Baking: level 29

Acrobatics: level 21

Slight of Hand: level 19

Stealth: level 16

Teaching: level 25

Persuasion: level 26

Deception: level 23

Bartering: level 21

Socialising: level 40

Leadership: level 27

Acting: level 13

Alistair smiled a little broader, pulling on the white chef's uniform as he had instituted and walked into the kitchens. He had always known that there would be a limit to how far dexterity would take him, however, he had sacrificed his first point to it to make up for his still lacking skill at thievery. After all, his system indicated clearly that he would never become too superhuman, and while being thrice or twice as strong as the average human could be fun, he had to ask himself which aspect of a person would have the greatest effect should it be doubled. And so, he had invested three points into charisma, seeing as it would bring him the furthest, and was also relatively immune to witch-hunts, seeing as it did nothing actually supernatural.

Besides, having more friends was always fun.

As soon as he and Jack entered the kitchen they got to work baking the various pastries expected for both delivery and their customers.

"So, any news regarding our salt debacle? I remain quite curious about how and, honestly, why someone would steal our salt. Hunger I would understand, not accept, of course, however, salt does not strike me as something the starving regularly goes for" Alistair asked, his hands fluidly moving as he whisked egg yolk for the Crème Brûlée, placing the whites aside for crème filled buns.

It was, of course, about things wholly different than salt, with salt meaning Stark, hunger being lust, and the starving being rapists. After all, it was honestly moronic to think that even the most foolish would abduct, and possibly rape, the daughter of a warden.

"Nothing new about the thief, at least not as far as we know, but the son of the salt producer thought he knew who stole it and grabbed a few of his friends to confront him. Turns out the thief wasn't home at the time, and, well, the son was very aggressive about what he would do to the thief, so the father, who was home, called the gold cloaks, and now he's locked up, waiting for trial."

Alistair's movements ground to a halt. That was… alarming, to say the least. Brandon, why did you not at the very least ensure that the person you demanded to kill was there to hear your demands? Or why did you not calm down during the month it must have taken to ride here from Riverrun? And could you not have gotten married beforehand, so that punishing you would have a far greater risk? Although to be fair, no risk is too great for the madman sitting upon the iron throne.

Alistair strained to keep his voice light and casual as he responded. "How disconcerting indeed. Hopefully, it is being treated as a youthful mistake, emboldened by a sense of justice rather than a full crime with intent to harm. Although I suppose the gold cloaks aren't known for their propensity being particularly forgiving in their judgements."

"No, they aren't, and they won't be this time either. Called the fathers of both the son and the son's friends to the trial. Seems a bad sign to me," Jack muttered, the severity of their real topic drifting into his voice, like the events of the outside world were poking holes in their warm home, allowing a chill to drift inside.

"Indeed, it does…" Alistair sighed as he thought of all they would need to leave soon, and the war the realm would be thrust into. He guessed there would pass at most a week before the peace Westeros was thoroughly enjoying burned in the blaze of war, given that Rickard Stark and the other boys' fathers were presumably attending the wedding Brandon ran from, and as such would arrive shortly after him. "Indeed, it does."