Godlike Persons List

The people of Westeros loved giving nicknames.

Their skill, originality, and creativity in naming might not match middle and high school students, but they never tired of it.

Viserys, for instance, was called the "Young King," while Daemon had titles like "Prince of the Capital" and "Lord of Flea Bottom."

Rhaenyra was hailed as the "Light of the Realm." As for Baelon,

whether as a Targaryen prince or the Prince of Dragonstone,

or through the factories under his name that poured out gold dragons,

he stood naturally in the spotlight, inevitably becoming one of Westeros's biggest celebrities.

Of course.

That also had everything to do with Baelon spending money to drum up support and being generous to bards and singers.

Sometimes, a tiny gold dragon could accomplish more than an enormous dragon.

He had many titles, good and bad in equal measure.

Across the sunlit lands within his sight,

people raised their hands high, praising him as "the Merciful," "the Gods' Favored," and "the Just."

In the shadows of castles, whispers always arose.

"The Weak."

"The Evil."

"The Sorcerer."

As for his "inventions," they naturally took after their owner and had no shortage of names either.

Toilet paper, for instance-the people of Westeros insisted on calling it dragon paper!

Alcohol.

This thing had abruptly forced its way into Westerosi history ahead of its time.

Thanks to the endorsement of the High Septon at the Starry Sept, the names the people of Westeros gave it sounded much nicer.

"Holy water," "water of life."

They fit perfectly with alcohol's uses in disinfection, warding off the cold, extracting medicinal liquids, and preparing herbal remedies.

Alcohol was now a royal monopoly, and he controlled the technique for distilling it.

But Baelon understood that the technology would spread sooner or later.

Having seen the consequences of alcohol restrictions and prohibition in the history of his previous life, Baelon intended to introduce licensed production in another two or three years.

But between the monopoly, export restrictions, and his free supplies to the Public Birthing House, alcohol had not brought him enormous profits.

Its byproduct, perfume, on the other hand, had sparked an unimaginable craze throughout Westeros.

Baelon quietly listened to the report from Dorey, the perfume factory's steward.

"House Tyrell purchased 340 pounds of Golden Rose floral water last quarter. This quarter, they're requesting 600 pounds."

"The Lannisters are also asking to increase their purchases..."

Baelon opened a bottle of Golden Rose perfume, and a heavy fragrance engulfed his face.

He could not help frowning and waved away the fragrance lingering around his nose.

He did not particularly like such strong, pungent scents. They were stifling enough to make it hard to breathe.

But the nobles of Westeros preferred heavy, intense fragrances.

The moment perfume appeared, the nobles eagerly embraced it.

After two or three years of development in the perfume industry, perfume had become a mark of a person's standing.

A person's scent alone could proclaim his identity.

Nobles were wreathed in fragrance, while commoners reeked.

If someone smelled like ten thousand Golden Roses blooming at once, he must have come from House Tilian.

If someone was surrounded by a powerful, bracing woody perfume, with notes of orange blossom, ebony, and cedar, he must have come from House Baratheon.

But the very next second, Baelon was proved wrong.

"The new Duke Baratheon, Duke Borros Baratheon, has written to request that the perfumers create a new perfume for House Baratheon."

"He says he's had enough of the rotten-orange smell in the perfume!"

Borros's father, Duke Boremund, had passed away in his sleep three months earlier.

Baelon nodded. "It seems the scent Duke Boremund chose doesn't quite suit the new duke's tastes."

"Send five perfumers to Storm's End."

The Baratheons were a major customer.

Nobles were willing to pay ten times, even dozens of times, the cost of the ingredients for perfume.

If the ingredients came from Asshai, the profits on the resulting perfume were even more astonishing. Not a single noble would begrudge the gold and silver.

Leado noted it down with a serious expression.

He continued, "Lys is requesting pounds of perfume for the new quarter."

"How much?!"

Baelon was stunned.

When it came to pleasure, these tried-and-tested feudal nobles always managed to surpass the expectations of an ordinary person like Baelon.

Perfume was as expensive as liquid gold, yet unlike what Baelon had imagined, they did not spray it on small areas such as their necks and wrists.

Instead, they simply treated it like water.

They splashed it over clothes, furniture, and walls.

Even House Lannister's horses were wreathed in fragrance.

House Tyrell poured perfume straight into their fountains.

They also planted thousands of roses in their gardens.

Wealth and status became like fragrance, turning into lingering clouds and hazy mist, soaking into every pore of the Tyrells.

It was said that House Tyrell's monthly spending on perfume equaled the annual income of five minor nobles.

Fragrance thus separated great lords from minor nobles, and minor nobles from commoners.

It became a mark of rank and status.

He had thought that after two years, he was long accustomed to the nobles' extravagance.

Yet the quantity Lys wanted to purchase still left Baelon utterly stunned.

His eyes unconsciously took on the shape of gold dragons.

How much gold would this earn?!

Enough to fill my bedroom!

Baelon glanced at the quantity Lys wanted, gritted his teeth, and painfully rejected their purchase request.

"No. We can only increase the supply by fifteen percent at most."

There was no helping it.

Perfume, perfume-most of the damn stuff was alcohol.

And alcohol was made from grain!

Baelon was not stupid enough to drive up grain prices just to make money.

After all, it was a Targaryen sitting on the throne.

"Ah..."

Baelon sighed in anguish and closed his eyes, refusing to look at the Free Cities' purchase orders again.

Why were they all so rich?!

Fine, the Free Cities were rich. They had been Valyrian colonies, after all. Valyria had fallen, and they had feasted.

But in Westeros, why had Aegon the Conqueror only taken a few lousy swords and looted a few things off the battlefield?

"Who's there? Come out!"

A knight suddenly bellowed toward the door.

With his hand on his sword hilt and his gaze sharp, Ser Uther moved to shield Baelon.

Still wearing his serious expression, Leado stepped sideways in front of Baelon and drew the Dragonbone Dagger at his waist.

Suit after suit of gleaming armor blocked Baelon from view, shielding him completely.

Twenty blades left their sheaths at once with a pleasing sound.

"I... my lords..."

An old, trembling voice rang out.

Baelon rose from his chair, climbed onto the table, and then stood on tiptoe.

There were two stooped old women. One dropped straight to her knees, trembling incessantly.

The other had her hair neatly combed and stood straight, though her legs were shaking.

Faceless Men?!

Or actual old women?!

Baelon said, "Knights, you've frightened her. Lower your swords."

The Faceless Men were human, not gods.

In this low-magic world, if two Faceless Men could break through twenty fully armored knights and kill him,

then what else could Baelon say?

You're already that damn incredible.

You can have my life, then.

In that case, Baelon could face his second death with acceptance.

He would be willing to rank the Faceless Men second on the Godlike Persons List.

First place belonged to Burden Snow. To this day, no one had surpassed his lofty position in Baelon's mind.