21.A Crown for a King

11th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Shireen

Since her greyscale was gone, Shireen’s appetite had returned with a vengeance. She hungered for meat most of all, and no single portion seemed enough. At first, she forced herself to eat sparingly, fearing she might grow soft and round, like Lady Cerwyn, but such restraint only left her belly aching with protest. Maester Wolkan had called it a growth spurt, so she had allowed herself bacon, cheese, and eggs, and ate them with relish. Today was no different.

As was her custom, she broke her fast in the Great Hall, sitting on the high table with the king’s kin and lords. Embroidery would come after, with Sansa Stark and the northern ladies newly come to Winterfell. For good or ill, needlework had become more than just stitching as more maidens had joined. The newly arrived girls and young women subtly pressed the red-haired princess for talk of His Grace, though it was hard to pry anything other than polite deflection from Sansa’s lips. The rest of her day was given to the glass gardens. The servants tended to fruit trees and cabbage, and Shireen busied herself with the flowers. It was no easy work, but it soothed her and left her more content than any needlework.

The murmur of the Great Hall fell in sudden silence, and Shireen reluctantly tore her attention from the sausages. A golden-haired girl stood at the great doorway, flanked by a pair of stern-looking guards. Myrcella Baratheon. A great scar marked her face, stretching from her chin to where her ear was gone. All across the benches, men and women turned their heads, and Shireen glimpsed pity, hatred, and no small curiosity in their eyes.

It had taken half a moon for Maester Wolkan to deem her of good enough health to show her face in court. The small kindness had brought Cersei’s daughter much respite, but one given with the king’s leave. Now, there was no more hiding. The whispers stirred back up, louder and swifter than before. Myrcella shrank into herself for a long moment, and then, jaw clenched, squared her shoulders and walked forth all the same.

She halted before the high table, shaky hands picking the hem of her skirt for a curtsy. Jon Stark stood up, plucking a tray from a nearby servant and walking around the table to the shaky maiden.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Princess Myrcella Baratheon,” the king’s voice rang out, echoing across the Great Hall like a harsh wave that drowned out all whispers. “I offer you bread and salt.”

The hall grew still for a long moment. A few lords sported looks so black it gave Shireen a fright, yet none dared to gainsay the king. Myrcella palmed a crusted slice of bread, dipped it into the salt, and thrust it into her mouth. The rite was done. Now partaken in the king’s hospitality, Myrcella was safe inside Winterfell. No matter how hot the hatred of all things Lannister burned in the hearts of some lords, or how much they wished to wring her neck, they would not dare to touch a hair on her head under the Stark roof.

As the chatter slowly returned, more hushed than before, the golden-haired girl was seated beside Shireen.

“Cella.” Shireen gave her a genial smile. “Last I heard, you were in Sunspear.”

The princess blinked. “Forgive me, my lady… who are you?”

“It’s me, Shireen. We met in the Red Keep years ago at King Robert’s nameday feast.”

Her father had seldom brought her south, and Cersei had done all she could to keep her golden brood apart from Stannis’s sickly child. Laughing widely, Uncle Robert had ordered otherwise, and Myrcella had shown her around the Red Keep.

“Shireen?” The girl’s green eyes flicked to the scar upon her cheek. “You look… changed.”

Shireen smiled. “The greyscale is gone.”

“Wasn’t it said to be incurable?”

Not to the king.

“So it was,” she said instead. “But in their caprice, the gods helped me in my hour of need.” It was true, in a sense. They let her meet a hero straight from the tales, a man so brave that he had not thought twice to save an ugly little girl who was more trouble than she was worth.

She touched the rough scar on her cheek, basking in the feeling of warmth on her face.

“I’m glad you’re faring well.” Myrcella’s smile was brittle, though, and she turned her attention to the plate, stabbing at it with her fork as if it had killed her kitten.

Shireen studied her for a long moment. Their roles had all but reversed, though she remained ugly even without the greyscale, but the golden-haired girl was still pretty, even with her face marred. But no man would yearn for a maiden with a marked face for a wife, so that woe they shared.

At last, she asked softly, “What happened?”

The other girl’s mouth twisted.

“A Dornish knight happened.” She spat the word as if it were a curse, and shot a glance at Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly down the table, who had not spared Myrcella a glance. Her shoulders sagged.

“Vows of knighthood are just words in the wind,” Shireen said softly. She had not forgotten Ser Corliss Penny and Ser Perkin Follard, once sworn to defend the young and the innocent, and a second time to House Baratheon. “Knights are just men, some good, some bad. But you can see a man’s worth by the weight of his word, knighthood or not.”

“Weight of his word?” Myrcella’s eyes grew distant. “How do you measure that? How do you know that their words are not just wind?”

Shireen’s gaze strayed to the high seat. The king ate without haste, his face unreadable, while Lord Umber bent his ear with talk of Last Heart and the North. Each day, a different lord or knight had his turn at the king’s side. Sometimes even the steward, or the kennelmaster. Jon Stark listened to them all with the patience of an old septon.

“You know by watching what they do,” Shireen said. “A man’s words might as well be the wind, that much is true. But if their deeds match them, then you will know their worth.”

Myrcella cut through her pie in silence, but her fork no longer tried to skewer the thing. She looked thoughtful.

Once her plate was bare—for the second time—Shireen excused herself. Today, she did not feel like listening to the tittering of the Northern ladies, so her feet led her towards the glass garden. It had snowed again at night, and the green and yellow panes lay blanketed in white, as did all the nearby treetops. It made the glasshouse dim, though light still filtered in from the glass walls.

Shireen felt a prickling feeling at the back of her neck, and she turned once. There was no one behind her. Both the godswood and the glass gardens were well-guarded, and none could enter without royal permission. Even if someone had slipped in, the whole North knew Shireen was under the king’s protection, and no harm would come to her here.

The moment she looked away, the prickling feeling returned, and she spun around, eyes studying the snowy grove.

“Who is it?” she called out.

All she got was silence.

Her eyes studied the godswood for a long moment. A pale shaft of sunlight speared through the clouds, kissing the white-bound canopy. The snow sparkled like diamonds, and a giggle slipped from her throat.

She shook her head and went into the glass house, hanging her cloak on the rack by the doorway.

Had she lingered longer, she might have glimpsed the great shape lurking between the trees or the two curious eyes that never left her slender frame.

12th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

“Rise, Lady Karstark.”

As she did not move, he took Alys by the hand and drew her to her feet. She had bent the knee, spoken her oaths, yet still looked half a child in his eyes. A year younger than him, long-legged and dark-haired with pale, jaded eyes that shouldn’t have belonged to a maiden of eight and ten. The North bred its men and women all hardy and stubborn, and grief had aged the one before him further.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, holding his gaze without faltering. “I would beg a boon.”

“Speak.”

“My brother Harrion… he fought for King Robb. Gods know he remained loyal to the end. The Lannisters hold him still for it, in Maidenpool. If they hear I have bent the knee to House Stark…” She sank to her knees once more, looking small and fragile. “They will kill him.”

“Fret not,” he said, voice firm. He took her hands and lifted her again. “House Stark shall not abandon its bannermen. So long as your brother still lives, he can still be saved. I will see what can be done.”

That won him a brittle smile, and a murmur of approval rose through the court. Who did not like a show of mercy to the fallen or a strong hand to help them back up? The Karstarks might have left Robb and Jon, but they did so without their lord’s leave. Robb had taken Rickard’s head, though.

Harrion Karstark—the new lord of Karhold—might still be a hostage in Maidenpool, but Myrcella Baratheon was his guest here. Not even Cersei Lannister would risk her daughter’s life for a Northern lord.

When Alys had been led away to the guest house and the court was dismissed for the day, Jon summoned a guardsman. “Fetch the Hand to my solar,” he said, and made his way to the Great Keep.

The Blackfish waylaid him before he could reach the stairs. “Your Grace. Will you not form a Kingsguard?”

“I shall consider it.”

He always said as much, no matter who levied the query.

“Your Grace might fear no fight, but even kings must sleep,” Ser Brynden pressed. “While the direwolf is fearsome, it is a single beast and would make a poor guard for a queen and babes in their cradle.”

Jon knew he was right. Yet he had no need for a white cloak at his shoulder, nor any wish to be dogged by guards at every turn. Sworn to silence or not, they would soon catch a glimpse of his magic, and rumours would then spread, leaving him unable to reject or accept such an arrangement decisively.

“I trust the household guard,” he said at last. “You have picked fine warriors for it, and all of staunch loyalty. I am keeping my eye on every Stark man and testing their mettle and skill in the training yard. Outside of it, too. When the time arises, a martial order shall be formed, but no sooner.” And when and if that time ever came was another matter entirely.

That was enough for Brynden, who bowed and turned to the training yard—doubtlessly eager to drill the men harder.

Half an hour later, Manderly lumbered into the solar, red-faced and sweating from the climb. His chest already bore the hand-shaped pin of his office, but this one was forged in dark bronze instead of gold or silver.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?”

Jon took a map of Westeros from the shelves and spread it on the table. “Tell me of Maidenpool.”

“House Mooton’s seat, a small town and the biggest port on the Bay of Crabs.” The fat man took a strip of green cloth from his belt and dabbed at his brow, cleaning up the sweat. “Sacked thrice in the war. Last I heard, Lord Mooton’s trying to rebuild the town walls, though his coin is sparse. Whatever spine the Mootons had was lost at the Trident with Rhaegar, and now the lord dances to whoever sings the loudest.”

Jon stifled a sigh. How many men had his sire dragged to their deaths for his folly? His hand found his sword’s hilt, and the cool bronze brought him comfort. The sword always did, even though its forging had been steeped in death and half-cursed for it. Not as much comfort as weighing his body by runes and spending hours on end in the yard, training with the men or fiddling with magic.

His eyes returned to the map, and his fingers traced the painted waters and settled on Maidenpool. “Lady Alys says Harrion Karstark is held hostage in the castle’s dungeons.”

“Then we must free him,” Manderly said at once.

“Aye. But how? Maidenpool lies a five hundred leagues from here by boat or road, and the road there is full of foes.”

The old merman hesitated for a long moment. “Perhaps exchange him for the girl. Cersei loves her children, and we can pry a concession or two on top.”

“Too early to reach out,” Jon said. “We are far removed from the war, and word travels slowly through the cold and the snow, so most of the south might not even know of my crowning. Let Tommen and Aegon scramble over the south while the North recovers, and my dragons grow bigger by the day.”

“But words would get out regardless. Dragons cannot remain a secret forever.”

Jon snorted. “Aye, but it will take time. Distance and time have a way of distorting the truth from one mouth to the next, and I’d wager queer tales of dragons, grumkins, and snarks are filtering to southern ears. They might never sort truth from tale, or believe in northern nonsense at all.”

Wyman’s jowls quivered with laughter. “I would scarce have believed it myself, had I not seen Your Grace with dragons at your command.”

“Still, Lord Karstark must be retrieved at all costs. And Myrcella shall remain in Winterfell, as a guarantee, so the Lannisters think thrice before concocting some trickery.”

“Quite prudent, Your Grace.” Wyman lifted a flask of wine and took a deep swallow. “I believe I might have a suggestion, then.”

The next half an hour was fruitful, as they hammered out a rather simple but ingenious plan. Then, the talk turned to the next Justiciar, and Manderly suggested appointing the Glover lord.

“He’s loyal and steadfast, if a bit unexceptional,” the Hand said with a quiet laugh. “Not too ambitious, too, and just the right man for a man that would deal with matters of laws.”

Jon didn’t hesitate to accept. Galbart Glover had carried out Robb’s orders even two years after the Red Wedding, and that alone had to be rewarded. No man suitable for the role of royal spymaster had been found just yet. He had asked Lord Reed, but the crannogman had declined, claiming his skills were most suitable for the marshland.

The topic turned to the keeps and lands that now sat lordless.

Jon stroked Ghost’s white fur, the direwolf stretched at his feet.

“Barrowton is easy enough to settle,” he said. “The late Lord Willem has living cousins of a lesser branch, plenty of them trueborn. Ser Damon Dustin’s the eldest of them, with the strongest blood claim. Have him summoned to Winterfell to swear in as Lord Dustin. As for Hornwood, Larence shall rise to the position, taking his father’s name as is proper.”

Lord Manderly pursed his lips. “Your Grace, forgive me, but Brandon Tallhart’s claim is stronger. He is trueborn, and his mother was sister to Lord Halys.”

“Yet Larence Snow fought for me, while Brandon Tallhart didn’t,” Jon said sharply. “I have not forgotten those who answered me and mine, and came to our side in our hour of need.”

The fat man looked down, chastened, jowls trembling. “As you command, Your Grace.” After hesitating for a long moment, he raised his head. “But what about the… Dreadfort? Those are vast, rich lands that cannot be just given out to anyone.”

“A sixth of those lands shall be folded into royal control.” Jon over the southern half of the Lonely Hills and one of the nameless sleeves of the White Knife. “Another portion shall be surrendered to the Hornwoods as restitution for the murder of the late Lady Hornwood. The castle itself and the remaining lands shall go to one of Maege’s daughters—one of her choosing, but not the daughter set to inherit Bear Island.”

15th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Daenerys Targaryen, Dragonstone

Hope and dread warred within her as she waited, pacing across the black marble floor.

The silence grew oppressive as time stretched, until the door swung wide open. Archmaester Marwyn entered, once again carrying his staff of black wood, carved with runes and glyphs she could not recognise. The man was wise—wiser than any other she had seen, and had mastered knowledge no other could match.

While his loyalty had yet to be tested, he had yet to lie and had proven trustworthy.

“Your Grace.” His voice was rough, yet courteous. “I serve at your pleasure.”

“I have… a question,” Daenerys said, each word slow and deliberate. “Earlier, at the council, you claimed that much is possible with magic, should one know the right price to pay.”

“Much, yes, but not everything,” said Marwy, leaning on his staff. “The greater the sorcery, the greater the cost—and the greater the chance of ruin. But much was lost with the Doom, and after the Freehold was shattered, no soul who knew how to wield the higher mysteries safely survived. Though whatever it is your command, I shall do my best to fulfil.”

The knot in her belly tightened. “The Lhazareen witch, Mirri Maz Duur… she cursed my womb. Four years have passed, and I have bled only once since. Can it be undone?”

Marwyn studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. “I cannot say without examining you, Your Grace.”

The thought made her flush, but she gave a curt nod. What was one more indignity? If the man overstepped, a word would see him skewered by Dogkiller before he could blink.

His touch was cold and dispassionate as he pressed and prodded, muttering under his breath. Ten long minutes passed, each more mortifying than the last, before he stepped back.

“Well?”

Marwyn tilted his head. “Tell me how it was done, Your Grace. How the curse came upon you.”

Daenerys told him. It was hard to find the words at first, but once she did, they spilt out like a torrent. She spoke of Drogo’s festering wound, the sacrificed horse, her twisted babe that had come rotten from her womb, with scales instead of skin and leathery wings. She spoke of Mirri’s mocking words on the pyre, the hatching of dragons, and everything that came after.

It felt as if a burden was lifted from her shoulders. Daenerys had never spoken of this—especially the curse and the hatching of dragons—not even to Missandei.

When she was done, Marwyn sighed. “I have good and ill tidings.”

“Speak.”

“You are not cursed,” he said, voice quiet. “Even if you were, it’s long gone, and the fire would have burned it away.”

“Not cursed?! I have taken men into my bed, yet the seed would never take! What would you call that?”

“The bloodsong in the Khal’s tent may have played its part in the child’s deformity.” He gave her a wan smile. “But the curse upon your womb is no sorcery, Your Grace. You were too young. Too slight of frame. Childbearing at one and four ravages the body and scars the womb. Even without sorcery, most such babes die, and most such mothers are left barren or broken. That is the truth of it.”

A cold knot formed in her belly. “Speak plainly. Your queen commands it.”

The archmaester bowed his head.

The archmaester lowered his gaze. “Your mother, Queen Rhaella, brought forth Rhaegar at three-and-ten. Of the ten children after, only Viserys and you drew breath beyond the crib. The others were miscarried, stillborn, or were too weak to survive a moon. All the wisdom of the Citadel could not fix it, though they certainly tried. Yours is a similar affliction, though worsened by hunger and strain. It prevented your body from mending…”

Why, why had the gods cursed her so? She had been forced to venture into the Red Waste, back then, but thought little of it. Now…

Now the bitterness in her mouth would not go away. Daenerys felt something crack inside her. She had told herself she was barren, had forced herself to accept it—but when hope had crept back, she could not bear to smother it.

“My mother still had three living children,” she said, voice cracking. “What are my chances?”

“Small. Not none, but small. And with each birth, the greater the peril to you. The child may live, but you may not. More than likely, you both will perish.”

Her throat was dry. “What of sorcery? If I paid the price?”

“Perhaps.” His eyes were dark and full of pity. “But no spell I know can mend your ailment. Blood sorcery may be tried, aye—but the cost is always cruel, and the fruit is ever fleeting and twice as bitter. A thousand might die, and still your womb be empty.”

So it was a no, wrapped in fine words. There was no lie she could see in those words, just naked honesty. A cruel jest by the gods.

Daenerys’s nails dug into her palms.

Why?

Why had Viserys wed her so young?

Why had Drogo fallen to a common wound?

Why had the gods taken everything from her, again and again?

The ember of hope was snuffed out, leaving only rage in its place. The pity in his eyes only fanned it loose. She seized a golden chalice and hurled it at him. Marwyn ducked, the cup striking Red Flea’s breastplate with a clang.

“I do not need your pity!” she screamed. Her hands found a candlestick, heavy and sharp, and she flung it too. “Out! OUT! Get out of my sight!”

Marwyn fled, staff clattering on the floor behind him. The Unsullied withdrew without a word, though their eyes flicked toward her warily.

Daenerys was now alone, but her hands did not stop. One by one, she flung the rest: her signet ring, inkwell, a bowl of red apples, parchment and quills, and even the cloth, until nothing remained on the table. She would have flipped the table, too, but the solid oak refused to budge.

All she could hear was the harsh heaving of her breath.

She stood there, amidst the mess of her own making, trembling as the fury refused to recede.

‘No more children, then,’ she told herself fiercely. ‘So what of it? I have three already.’

Her anger slowly left her, but once it was gone, she felt hollow.

She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, not some simpering girl to be pitied. But why did she feel so empty?

16th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

The King of Winter

The godswood was the perfect place to practise magic.

Serene, peaceful, and secluded, where his word could bar entry to others without raising a single brow. They would see a pious king praying to the gods in the quiet of his own godswood. Last but not least, the place was overflowing. The ancient power rippling through the air was thick, thicker than the rest of Winterfell and even the Wall.

He had sensed the change the moment the royal title had fallen on his shoulders. Authority. For a wizard, it could bolster his magic and spells, though he did not think of it much in his last life, for knowledge and mastery were far more potent.

There is power in a king’s blood, Melisandre had said once, and there was more truth to it than she could ever know. Royal blood was the echo of authority in the flesh.

Magic had bent more easily to his will ever since they had called him king. It was easier still by the day, and his training bore twice the result with half the effort. Jon suspected such a boon would remain anywhere in the North. As for beyond… he could not say.

Ghost dashed through the snow and betwixt the trees with abandon, stopping for a roll in the freshly fallen snow. He would sniff out any intruders that would slip past the guards.

It was a good day to practice magic and control, but he had been delaying important matters for too long.

The king stripped to his smallclothes and waded into the black pool of frigid water, clutching bronze, silver, and gold in his hand. This was the deepest cold pool, reaching just above his navel. The water was like a cool kiss upon his skin, and he basked in its embrace.

Emptying his mind, he lifted his palm above the surface, holding the three nuggets—eight parts copper, one part silver and one part gold. Three precious metals, each better at holding magic than the last.

He willed the fire to life and stared down, without daring to blink. Purple flame licked the metals, eating away their shape until they sagged and ran, gold bleeding into silver, copper into both. By his guidance, they all twisted together until a seamless orb the colour of molten dusk formed.

This recipe was dug out from Winterfell’s library, which held records of many curiosities, theories, and experiments, and ‘A Treatise on Blending of Copper‘ was just another long-forgotten tome. Inked down by an archmaester of metalcraft centuries past in his pursuit to replicate the lost black bronze of Old Ghis, a metal said to rival steel and possess a beautiful, dark-purple sheen. The archmaester had failed, but this alloy was perfect for spell-forging, for precious metal would hold magic better.

Steam boiled up from the water, veiling him in ribbons of mist. His head throbbed with the strain, yet he pressed on, willing form into the metal, forcing the dark alloy to remember the shape he gave it. That was how his armour had been made—and his sword.

But this proved harder by far, even though it should have been easier.

Heavy gasps slipped as his chest rose and fell like a bellows when a weight finally fell across his hand. It was a band of strange metal that prickled at his eyes—darker than bronze, but duller than steel.

Runes of the First Men ran across its rim, and for those rare few who knew how, they would read justice, strength, duty, and fire. Running a finger over the metal, he found it plain to look upon yet impossibly smooth.

The crowns of the Kings of Winter eschewed all opulence and pomp, and with this, he had followed the tradition.

Jon set it upon his brow, and the world seemed to hold its breath. It was a perfect fit, yet the circlet weighed heavily upon his mind and magic, even though he had not woven any enchantments. There was more than weight, as something else that should have been elusive stirred in his blood and rippled through his magic, far more tangible than it had ever been before.

Authority.

Jon Stark smiled. Today, he had learned something new, and there was no greater joy to a wizard than uncovering new depths of magic.

He stepped out of the pool, now reduced to a small puddle. The spell-flame had seen the surrounding snow evaporate, revealing the damp, mossy rocks underneath. A wave of fire saw him dry in a heartbeat, then Jon clothed himself and found Winter waiting.

The dragon had grown more monstrous as of late, and not just in size. Powerful muscles rippled beneath the inky blue scales that had grown darker by the moon, and the spikes jutting out of his spine had grown longer and more wicked. He bent his great head and nudged Jon with his snout, purring when Jon scratched beneath his jaw with one hand and rubbed his snout with the other.

That should have been enough affection to satiate the surly drake, but when he pulled away his hands, the dragon’s snout nudged him again, harder and more insistent this time. Frowning, the king lowered the defences in his mind, and Winter’s mind immediately pressed onto his own, heavy with longing.

Fly.

When Winter lowered his neck to the bare ground, Jon knew what was asked of him.

He climbed between the jagged spikes at the base of his neck.

Winter leapt skyward, each stroke of his wings sending them higher. Jon clutched at the ridged spikes, sharp enough to pierce his palm, as if his hardened skin was no better than parchment. Jon ignored the pain, but he couldn’t ignore the pull in his mind that grew stronger with each heartbeat.

He yielded at last, reluctantly opening his mind to the beast.

The whole world shattered, and for a long moment, Jon thought he had broken his mind. Then, it reformed, and for the first time, he was seeing from two pairs of eyes at once. He was man and dragon both, seeing with two sets of eyes, feeling the rush of wind over scale and skin alike. Dragon and rider were united, two bodies, two minds, and one will. It should never have been possible with skinchanging.

Exhilaration burned through every cell of his being. Winter’s roar sundered the clouds, a sound so great the snow shivered from the branches of the wolfswood below. Wind tore at Jon’s hair, slid like knives across his cheeks and stabbed at his eyes, yet it only fed the wild joy surging in his chest.

This was better than any broom.

They soared higher still, the snowy forest stretched endlessly and beneath them, and for a moment, there was only the sky, the dragon-rider, and the wind around them. Nothing else mattered.

Just for a moment, Jon allowed himself to forget about kingdoms and magic and crowns and foes, and he laughed. All he got was a swallow of cool wind, eager to rip through his mouth, but it only made him laugh harder.

Dragonstone

The Spider

Dragonstone was swarming with men. The dreary island had never felt so alive, but Daenerys’s arrival had infused life in these dark rocks. The harbour was now teeming with ships—cogs, galleys, carracks from every corner of Essos—so many that they jostled for mooring, half of them forced to anchor beneath the smoking shoulder of the Dragonmont. Even the Ironmen had gone to anchor on the far side of the island.

It was Tyrion Lannister’s doing, of course. He had scoured the bazaars of Meereen before they sailed, filling holds with goods both common and rare, and now played the merchant prince as readily as he once played the fool. He had done much the same in Lys. Spices, silks, steel, salted meats—he bought, he sold, he traded, and by so doing kept the queen’s host fed and armed.

Somehow, they now had more coin than they had left Mereen with.

Truly, the mastery of gold ran strong in the Lannister line.

Yet the Imp had changed. Wine flowed faster than ever into his gullet, bitterness still shadowed his mismatched eyes, but the soft parts of him had hardened, burned away by loss and hate. He had once spoken of mercy, of prudence, and a peaceful future, before the trial that would damn him for life. Now, Varys had not heard a whisper of either.

Honour and duty were lauded, but Varys knew they were as fickle as the wind. Promise a man a chance, even the barest taste of vengeance, and he would work himself to the bone. For every step an honourable or a dutiful man would be willing to go, the vengeful would be willing to make two. Perhaps three. The vengeful man would grit his teeth and plough through hardships and dark deeds others wouldn’t dare entertain.

Then there was the Mage, looming by the queen’s side. He had come uninvited, and it unnerved Varys, no matter how sound his advice appeared. Those who played with wizardry were secretive by heart and twice as cruel.

His own position was no less shaky. Daenerys had accepted his service, but he was far from trusted. Eyes followed him in every hall and passage. They remembered, as they should: four kings had sat on the Iron Throne since he had started singing, and he had served them all. Some claimed he had betrayed them all, too.

And they were not wrong. Obscurity had kept that out of sight, but now… Varys had entered the Great Game. Now, there was only victory or death, and the players no longer saw a servile eunuch but a foe.

The danger was higher now, but so was the reward upon success, so the Spider continued, if with greater caution than before.

Face painted beyond recognition, he was making his way across the crowded docks, clad in a roughspun vest and with a barrel lobbed over his shoulder. Men, women, and children around him pointed at the sky, but he didn’t need to look up to know what had held their awe. Dragons shrieked above—Rhaegal and Viserion circled warily, keeping a distance, while Drogon had already claimed a smoking cave up the Dragonmont for his own.

A voice hailed him. “You there.” Illyrio Mopatis waddled down the gangplank of a Pentoshi cog, swathed in a robe of red velvet, cheeks glistening with sweat. His friend had grown fatter than before. “Come—I need my hold emptied before sunset. Five stags if you work fast enough.”

Varys didn’t follow into the hold below but into the ship’s sprawling cabin. Groaning, he placed down the empty barrel and eased himself on it as the magister sank into a cushioned chair of his own.

“Magnificent, are they not?” Awe rang in his voice.

“Fire made flesh,” said Varys softly. “Yet dragons are not so easily mastered. Even their mother struggles to command them.”

“Still, they are hers.” Illyrio stroked his beard. “And how fares our dragon queen?”

“Inexperienced,” he whispered. “With a dragon’s pride and temper. Quick to anger, slow to forgive.”

The magister only smiled, biting into a red apple with such hunger that the juice ran down his chin. “Experience will come with time. Pride is no flaw for the powerful. We’re getting close, Varys. We’re almost there—I can taste it.”

“It’s the apple you’re tasting,” the eunuch said dryly. “Close is not victory. Stannis was close, at the Blackwater Bay, yet he slipped and lost it all. A single misstep will see our plans crushed.”

Illyrio waved his hand as if waving away a buzzing horsefly. “You worry too much, my friend. Is she amenable?”

“It’s hard to tell. I am forced to tread lightly—few trust an eunuch, and ever fewer trust me. At most, I can promise they shall meet.”

“A meeting will suffice.” Illyrio shot him a wide grin. “She will see there is no choice. Aegon is her best option. Her only option, in truth. The rest of the sunset lords will look at her and see her father with teats and dragons.”

“I fear she will wish to test him first. Words are easy to weave, but she might seek… more.”

“Fire and blood? Scales of red, scales of black, a dragon is still a dragon.” The magister’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Besides, mine own grandsire was the Brightflame himself. As the fruit of two lines, Aegon has more dragonblood than Daenerys could boast.”

Varys’s hands trembled in his lap. “How much dragon blood is enough? Who can say? Such matters lie in the realm of gods and sorcery, and the caprice of the lords of fire is known to outdo the gods themselves. It’s out of my hands, old friend.”

“You brought us so far, my friend; do not sell yourself short,” his good brother murmured, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Work your magic.”

“I shall need more coin, more birds—”

“Yes, yes.” The magister let out a long yawn. “I’ve heard this song before. You shall have them, even if they cost thrice the gold after the dragon queen’s jaunt in Slaver’s Bay. At this rate, I’ll beggar myself by the end of next year.”

“By then,” Varys smiled thinly, “we shall have no more need of gold.”

‘But only the gods will know if it would be because of victory or defeat.’

?, Elsewhere

Where there were once none, now there were three. The mongrel creatures of air, fire, and sorcery had returned, and their warmth could be felt even through Brandon’s Wall. No… not only three.

There were three more. Smaller and closer, they… did not feel out of place amidst the snow and ice. She had failed to sense them before; even now, she had to strain her senses.

Once… she would have been fearful. But they were all small fledglings, and she was no longer the same. Beings of fire were like the flames, with a fiery temper to match. Sooner or later, they would come to blows as they had done before.

She could feel more. A foolish boy was playing with the sea and darkness amidst the western shores, trying to stir forces he did not understand. Her lips curled in disdain. Just another small gnat, barely worth mentioning.

Yet what angered her the most was the ripples coming from the Fall—not the stormseed that pulsed with fire and thunder in the dark, but something else. Something she had thought vanquished.

It  echoed still, and the power rippled even here… a King of Winter had been  crowned . She could  feel  it now; it was that outlandish son of fire, and he was growing stronger.

And it was once again the get of the thrice-cursed Breaker!

An angry shriek escaped her cold lips as she gathered all her might, echoing into her prison, and the cracked runestone shattered.

Her fury turned into howling laughter, for only one final fetter remained.