42.Precipice

23rd Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Tommen, Casterly Rock

His new betrothed, Floris Rowan, was kind, quiet, and pretty, but he missed Margaery.

Mother tried to hide it, but Tommen could see she disliked his new bride-to-be. But his mother rarely liked anyone. Tommen felt sad.

His thoughts settled on his companions. Ser Pounce, Lady Whispers, and Ser Boot—all abandoned in the Red Keep when they fled, much to his dismay.

“Having small, soft, mewling things as pets is unkingly,” his mother had said. “You’re already two and ten, my son. You must get yourself a mighty destrier—or a proud hawk to hunt.”

Tommen only grew dejected at the memory. They were dead. His cats had died because he had been too craven to save them.

He dragged his feet to the library for another lesson with Maester Greylen.

Would they make him stamp scrolls again later? Somehow, he couldn’t find the strength to feel excited about it. At first, Tommen had liked the feeling of pressing his signet into the beeswax and then the parchment, but now it brought him no joy.

Two sets of footsteps echoed in his wake like a shadow. His newest protectors—Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Tytan Brax. Both looked big and scary on the outside, but after two moons, Tommen could see that it was simply a facade hiding softness on the inside.

At the edge of his vision, he spied a flicker of movement and turned. Something small prowling between the gilded pillars.

It was a large, golden-furred kitten. Bigger than any cat he had seen before. It was hesitantly pawing forward as if it were lost.

Plenty of cats in Casterly Rock were kept to deal with rats, but Tommen had scarcely seen any beyond the ground floor. Abandoning all caution, the boy-king stepped towards the feline.

The large cub immediately turned his gaze; slitted green eyes met with emerald.

Tommen slowly approached, gauging the feline’s mood. It looked cautious but not angry or fearful. After half a minute, the kitten looked comfortable enough with his presence, and he gently picked it up and managed not to get scratched. It even closed its eyes and mewled happily.

At that moment, Tommen’s heart melted. A glance told him the kitten was a girl.

For some reason, Crakehall and Brax looked tense while looking at the cat. But they remained silent, for the white cloaks rarely spoke.

“You shall be named Lady Prowl!” The declaration was met with a lick on his fingers.

He gently scratched her neck and received another soft mewl.

Then, his veins turned to ice.

His mother would be wroth.

He hesitantly placed Lady Prowl on the polished floor, only for her to quickly come back to him and rub her head against his leather boot. Then, she raised her fluffy head and looked at him with pitiful green eyes.

Seven above, Tommen was unwilling. He wanted to keep this one. She was… golden. The same colour as the Lion of Lannister. Surely, it would be a sign of the gods?

But his mother wouldn’t care.

He felt a sharp, stinging pain in his palms, and he looked down, only to realise that they were balled painfully and his nails were digging into his skin.

No!

His mother would not take away Lady Prowl! He was to be king, and his word would be the law. But could he…could he truly oppose her?

Cersei was scary, and he was not brave and strong like Joffrey, nor was he big like his kingsguard.

She refused to let him squire and learn to wield a sword when he asked. “Why would a king need to fight when there are others to do it for you?”

At that moment, hurried footsteps were heard from around the corner, and Lady Prowl hid behind his boots. Sers Lyle and Tytan edged closer to his sides, hands on their swords. They had been jumpy since that terrible roar a few days prior, but nobody had told him anything, so Tommen assumed the problem had been solved. The worry was silly—Casterly Rock was a fortress carved into the mountain rock, impenetrable to all foes.

Surely enough, it was Ser Daven Lannister and the greying Lord Crane from the small council. His kingsguard eased, but Tytan Brax’s hand remained glued to the handle of the wicked battle-axe.

“Lord Hand, Lord Crane,” Tommen greeted as was proper. “You look rather hurried.”

“Because we are.” Ser Daven’s voice was a faint whisper, as if afraid anyone else could overhear. “It’s a matter of utmost urgency, Your Grace.”

“Shouldn’t those be addressed by my Lady Mother, who is also my regent?” he asked timidly.

“Quite,” Lord Crane said, his beard twitching with worry. “Only this time the concern is the Queen Regent herself, Your Grace—so we can only come to you.”

“But we did not dare speak of this in the hallway,” the Hand added, cautiously looking around.

Was there a problem with Mother?

Tommen rubbed his face tiredly and hesitantly agreed.

They went to one of the empty rooms adjacent to the library. Lady Prowl followed after him all the way like a little golden shadow.

Ser Tytan remained to guard the door while Ser Lyle stayed within an arm’s reach of Tommen, ready to strike down any threat.

“Tell me of this matter,” Tommen said, speaking with confidence as he straightened his spine just like the lessons had taught him. It should have made him look kingly—or at least he hoped so. But his voice came out soft and high-pitched, like a girl’s.

The royal councillors shared a silent glance, both looking troubled.

Ser Devan gritted his teeth and leaned in. “The Queen Dowager… she has been gravely misusing the royal authority in her hands, acting against Your Grace’s interests.”

“It’s unforgivable,” Lord Crane added tightly. “If this continues, Her Grace will lead us all into ruin. We plead that you dismiss her from her post and confine her to her quarters, Your Grace.”

Has it gotten that bad?

But his mother… his mother knew how to rule—she had said it herself.

Could Tommen even do anything?

Nobody had listened to him before. He doubted anyone would listen to him now, even if he were the king. He was not scary and inspiring like Joffrey or big and thundering like Robert. But here were the royal councillors—his own councillors—looking to him for guidance.

His throat was dry, and his hands felt clammy.

What was a king supposed to say?

“What has Mother done?” he asked at last, voice quivering.

Ser Daven cleared his throat. “She received an envoy from Winterfell alone, keeping his presence and the meeting a secret from the small council. We might have never known if we hadn’t found Her Grace later in the guest wing, half-crying, half-laughing hysterically. Between her tears, she spoke of terrible dragons, she claimed that the envoy had been the Northern king himself, who killed Ser Robert Strong and attacked her—”

“Is Mother well?!”

“She is unharmed,” Lord Crane said flatly. “The same cannot be said for the white cloak. He was cleaved in twain, armour, flesh, and bone sliced clean as if they had been made out of butter. Yet there are many problems with the queen’s tale, and it’s not the dragon—a great black beast was seen circling the Rock by all souls in Lannisport.”

“Ser Robert Strong looked rather dead,” Devan said with a heavy sigh. “Dead for months—a purple mass of festering flesh and a face that belonged to Gregor Clegane.”

“We suspect that royal advisor Qyburn practises necromancy—he was the one to ‘prepare’ Ser Gregor’s body after his demise, and he was the one to later present Ser Robert Strong to the kingsguard. Of course, Her Grace did not allow us to question him, and had him hanged for colluding with the royal enemies just this morn.”

The two of them paused, looking cautiously at Tommen, eager to gauge his reaction. But… but wasn’t everything peaceful?

“Why would the Northern king attack Mother?” he asked weakly, his mind a mess.

“We’re not certain that he was the one to attack,” the Crane lord murmured. “The dragon outside did not attack anyone. Guest right had been offered and accepted according to the servant, and the Dowager Queen is completely unharmed. It’s probably Her Grace that ordered the envoy attacked…”

The words hung over the room like a shadow. Guest right given and broken, right inside Casterly Rock. This was almost as bad as the Red Wedding.

Tommen swallowed heavily. “Why would Jon Snow come here in person?”

Lord Crane pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can think of only one reason—alliance against the Targaryens. We could have negotiated for Princess Myrcella’s safe return, and many more. Aegon and Daenerys are too overbearing, and they would never let the North go.”

But there could hardly be any alliance if the envoy had been attacked under guest right. Tommen could see the disappointment on his councillors’ faces as plain as day.

“Regretfully, this is not the extent of Her Grace’s crimes,” Ser Daven continued, not sounding one bit regretful. “I have made an inquiry with the treasurer, and Ser Damien Lannister confessed that Her Grace ordered him to smuggle out fifty tons of gold from the family vaults.”

Tommen reeled.

“Fifty tons?!”

“Your Grace!” His councillors took a knee, bowing deeply. “We beseech you to detain the Queen Dowager and dismiss her from the Regency, lest she lead us all into further ruin!”

“The war has reached a turning point, and even the smallest misstep could spell our doom,” Crane added, his whiskers quivering with agitation.

Tommen was torn. Could he really do it? Could he go against his domineering mother?! Wouldn’t she scold him with disappointment heavy in her gaze and send him back to his quarters?

His faithful kingsguard must have seen the hesitation on his face as he moved closer to him.

“Your Grace,” Ser Lyle said, slamming a fist to his breastplate. “I await your orders, and so do my brothers. Give me your command, and I shall fulfil it without fail, even if I have to march into the Seven Hells!”

Tommen’s hands shook. He could hear his heart hammering away all the way to his head, and his tongue felt as heavy as lead. But then Lady Prowl rubbed into his boots again, and he felt a jolt. A foreign feeling of warmth bloomed within his chest, and his hesitation melted away like snow under the sun.

They were all looking at him. They all wanted to hear his words. They all wanted to obey.

Feeling an odd bout of courage, he stood up straight and spoke with all the authority he could muster.

“Ser Crakehall, Lord Hand, and Lord Crane! I hereby relieve my Lady Mother from the position of regent and Lady of Casterly Rock and confine her to her quarters with all comforts allowed.”

“It shall be done, Your Grace!”

He could do this. They even… they even listened!

Shireen Stark, Near Westwatch-by-the-Bridge

“Dracarys!”

A streak of purple fire crashed into the waves of wights and spread quickly, choking the air with the stench of rot and charred meat. While Stormstrider understood the common tongue of the Andals, he was far more pliant to commands given in High Valyrian.

Shireen carefully steered the purple dragon to set everything climbing out of the Gorge ablaze, and the ridge quickly turned into a purple inferno.

It had been three days and three nights since she had arrived. No matter how many she burned, they kept pouring out of the Gorge without pause.

But it was enough. Enough to allow the tired host to construct a makeshift rampart out of wood and mud and raw clay. Now, the entrance to the Gorge was completely closed off, blocking the endless surge of wights.

Snow had not stopped drifting from the grey sky below, and the veil of white choking the air made it harder to see at a distance. There was no wind today, and the cold almost felt bearable under layers of fur, leather, and wool.

Shireen wheeled over the ridge for nearly an hour, incinerating everything that poured out of the Gorge before her dragon started feeling sluggish, his wings struggling to stay aloft. As soon as his flames became smaller and weaker, she turned Stormstrider back to the fortifications. She had given plenty of respite to the defenders. As soon as her dragon rested, she would set out again.

That was her life reduced to now. Fly and set the wave of corpses aflame, then rest, eat, and sleep—both her and Stormstrider, and rush for the skies again. It had been the most daunting venture Shireen had ever done. But she soldiered on; it was her duty. Each time she took to the skies to torch wights, and each time she returned, half-dead from exhaustion and cold, the respect in the grim eyes of the Northmen grew deeper. The hope in their eyes shone brighter, they stood prouder and fought and toiled harder. It was like her presence alone had steeled their resolve to push through no matter what. In turn, it gave her strength where she would have otherwise faltered.

Stormstrider flew over the wooden fortifications and landed in a snowy clearing where swarms of men were toiling over a half-finished hall of crude wood amidst a sea of tents.

Jyanna stood there, garbed in furs and ringmail, uneasily waiting for her. By her side was Ghost, his great shaggy tail wagging lazily—the direwolf had shown up yesterday, much to Shireen’s joy. But his presence frightened many, even though the direwolf seemed happier than ever, uncaring about the looming threat. Ghost could often be seen playfully rolling around the freshly fallen snow.

Jyanna’s unease was not towards Ghost—they got along swimmingly. The source of her concern was the dozen spearwives led by the wildling chieftain-witch Morna White Mask, who had eagerly declared herself as the honour guard of the ‘Little Wolf Queen’. Royal shieldmaidens, they called themselves.

There was also the plump form of Jorelle Mormont with her brigandine, who refused to be outdone by some wildlings. Shireen didn’t mind, especially since Ghost seemed amicable towards their presence, and she trusted her husband’s direwolf with her life. Jon had confided to her that Ghost could sense the ill intent of others and lies, which had been of great help in dealing with the wildlings, the black brothers, and the Northern chieftains and lords in the last few days.

Shireen forced her stiff limbs to move, slowly dismounting and running her fingers over that spot under Stormstrider’s snout, which he liked.

“Go rest at the Wall and come back here when you’re rested enough,” she whispered, only to receive a tired huff from the drake. He leapt up and flew off, raising a drift of snow in his wake, forcing her to shield her eyes. Shireen made way to the command tent, followed by her newfound honour guard.

Or were they her retinue?

Most of her shieldmaidens took post at the entrance, joining the two burly clansmen.

Inside, around a large, crude table, sat the wounded Greatjon Umber, Hugo Wull, Denys Mallister, the Great Walrus, Maege Mormont, who had arrived yesterday with longships from Bear Isle and three hundred men in tow. Facing them was the giant form of Wun Wun, along with a handful of wildling chieftains who had hastily made their way here to fight against the dead as they had sworn to her husband.

She sat on a makeshift wooden throne that the Lord of Last Hearth had presented the day after she arrived. Ghost lazily curled by her feet. Morna, Jorelle, and Jyanna fanned behind her.

“Now that the rampart is finished, we’ll have far fewer problems holding the endless onslaught of wights,” Wull said with a sigh after a short round of greetings.

There was a murmur of agreement, and for good reason.

Defensive fortifications were an undeniable advantage, even at fifteen feet tall, and they would doubtless continue to reinforce it in the future. Of course, it would have been a nigh impossible endeavour without the giants and the mammoths helping with harvesting, dragging, and hammering the trees.

Shireen had been far from the only one who pushed herself. Black brothers, wildlings, Northmen, all worked to the bone to see the twelve hundred yards of ramparts completed.

“Have any more of these frozen demons shown themselves?” asked the Greatjon, shifting in his seat with a grunt of pain.

He had slain one of the White Walkers, but at a great cost. The wound left by the crystalline sword had festered purple, and now he winced with every breath. Some brave fool had tried picking it up before it melted, only to burn his hand through the gloves.

“No,” Denys Mallister said. “Seems the death of one gave the rest pause. All we’ve faced is wave after wave of shambling wights. Mullin reckons more than eighteen thousand corpses have been torched.”

“Do we even know how many wights the enemy commands?” Shireen asked.

Everyone looked to the wildling chieftains, who looked grim.

Great Walrus patted his large belly. “Our people have burned our dead since we can remember. But I cannot speak for the other clans and tribes…”

“If the wights don’t bury us, the snow will soon enough,” Maege muttered. “It’s been falling without end for days now, even if it’s thin.”

“Our scouts spotted the mountain clansmen around a sennight away,” Wull added. “And Lord Commander Tollett is marching here with all the watchmen he could muster and a few thousand…free folk. A raven from Eastwatch arrived half an hour ago, saying the Skagosi clans have landed there with their unicorns. A thousand strong, maybe even more.”

Shireen frowned. “Can we feed so many?”

More swords to wield would be useless if they were too hungry to fight. And food was hard to find in the deep, cold snow.

“Everyone brought what supplies they could carry,” Greatjon said, rubbing his greying beard. “With the men fishing and hunting, we can last for…. maybe half a year at most. Only if we ration carefully.”

They had all suspected something similar, but having it voiced saw many faces turn grim.

Feeding an army surrounded by snow proved far more difficult than she expected. Her father had taught her that twenty thousand men could live off the bounty of the land in summer. But this was winter. The land was frozen and barren. Even feeding seven thousand would be a struggle, let alone more.

There was a reason why nobody warred in winter.

It was miserable, and nearly everywhere felt cold and damp.

Shireen looked down and sighed. She had thick furs, braziers and the warmest tent. Everyone out there had less. She couldn’t complain.

And yet, her thoughts turned to Jon. If only he were here. He would know what to do. Jon would smash through these enemies like rotten wood, and even the White Walkers would be broken—of that Shireen had no doubt. Yet he wasn’t here.

Even though everything seemed well on the surface, Shireen knew better. The sinking feeling in her gut would not go away—deep down, she knew that this was merely the calm before the storm.

“There’s another problem,” Mallister continued. “Food might be just enough, but the rest ain’t. We need more oil, tar, and linen, or we won’t have anything to burn wights with. Aye, Your Grace’s dragon is powerful and can turn just half a horse and a few hours of rest into a field of fire, but it tires too. Those supplies won’t last us through a moon’s turn.”

“Can’t Tollett bring more?” Shireen asked.

“Perhaps,” Mallister said. “But Castle Black gave most of what it had to your father.”

He didn’t call Stannis ‘king.’ No one did. In the North, Stannis Baratheon was just her father, nothing more. It was a stark contrast to just a year prior, when she had been known as Stannis’s scarred daughter. Shireen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about it.

“We should build more walls, westward, toward the Bay of Ice,” Maege suggested. “Making a whole walled fort would be best.”

“Why bother?” asked the Great Walrus. “If wights could swim, we’d be dead already.”

Maege narrowed her eyes. “It’s cold. If the snow doesn’t stop, the whole bay could freeze. It’s happened before—after the False Spring. And if it freezes thick enough to bear the weight of many…”

The words hung like a headsman’s axe, but they all heard it. If it freezes, the wights could spill into the Gift, and either surround the host or completely bypass it.

The thought chilled Shireen’s blood more than the freezing cold outside.

She clenched her hands in her lap.

‘Jon, where are you?’

Sarella Sand

Sarella dipped her quill in the inkpot and carefully continued transcribing the last page of Clansmen of the North by Maester Alorin. It was a tome penned in the century after the Conquest by the maester serving Alaric Stark—one of the many books unique to this collection.

Winterfell’s library was everything she expected and more. However, Grand Maester Wolkan did not allow her free rein. The old man was soft-spoken and seemingly amiable but firm, even if he did not look down on her for trying to become a woman scholar. For every day of reading, she had to spend another day copying down some of the older scrolls and books, which was a fair trade and something she readily agreed to. The fact that she would read what she was copying meant she would be reading nearly twice as much as agreed!

Still, she had to be careful. The oldest tomes were ancient and could easily crumble under a cruder touch. In a decade or two, they could crumble on their own.

The loss of such things would be unacceptable, spurring her to work with greater fervour.

The Grand Maester was too busy with his duties to Winterfell and the crown to aid her, and Winterfell did not have a single acolyte. From what little they talked, Sarella realised Wolkan had a strained relationship with the Conclave and the Citadel, which had yet to acknowledge his new status or send any of the requested acolytes.

She was well aware of the subtle power plays the Conclave loved to play, but never cared much for them. In fact, the thought of being able to forge her chain and give solemn vows not to sire any children or wed no women was greatly amusing. The vows of the Citadel were all tailored to men, which meant she was not constrained by them either. Nothing was mentioned about taking a husband or bearing a child.

But those were matters for the distant future.

Sarella, her siblings, and her royal cousin were stuck in Winterfell. The surprisingly beautiful Sansa Stark did not want to deal with them, so they were mostly left to their own devices as guests, if under observation. The younger princess, Arya, seemed to dislike them and always wore a frown when they crossed paths.

And gods, she was a fierce little thing, more wolf than maiden. Every morning, she would start training with the men-at-arms at the crack of dawn, running herself ragged, not shying away from mud or snow. They trained her in spears and axes, shields and swords, and even lances and bows upon horseback.

Even in Dorne, you would struggle to see a maiden being trained in warfare like a son would be. There were some, but they were rare. Even then, most warrior women were trained in the subtler aspects of combat, such as Sarella and her sisters’ daggers, poisons, and bows. Only Obara wielded a spear among her eight siblings.

She saw Princess Arya’s training once, but didn’t pay it much heed.

As interesting as the Starks and Winterfell were, Sarella preferred to spend almost all her day in the library, soaking up all the new knowledge.

Everything would be perfect if not for the guardsman assigned to watch her. She found herself sneaking a glance or two now and then.

It was not some common man-at-arms or lazy guard keeping an eye on her, but Rickard Liddle, the dashing Captain of the Guards himself. Sarella suspected he had volunteered for this particular duty, for the men guarding, or, better said, observing her royal cousin, hailed from far lesser stock and importance.

Even now, Sarella could feel Rickard Liddle’s gaze burning on her back and had to muster all of her will to resist looking at him. He was incredibly comely, in a rugged kind of way that just drew her gaze in.

As Oberyn Martell’s daughter, she knew how to deal with lustful gazes and deny their advances by force if necessary. Or how to capture her supposed target of interest. Not that she had any so far.

But the Northern clansman had been the epitome of politeness and chivalry despite not being a knight. There was only the barest hint of lust in his gaze, hidden underneath his undisguised interest. Yet Rickard did nothing beyond keeping an eye on her as was his duty. She had no idea what to do and refused to ask her sisters for advice. They would doubtless say something like, “Bed him!” Or make it a game to see who would bed the Northman first.

The problem was that she didn’t hate his gaze, his face, or his deep Northern brogue. In fact, a part deep inside herself basked in it—to feel so desired instead of her sisters or cousin? It did wonders for her self-esteem. But she was unsure if she wanted to—or even if she should tread that road. Her freedom and desire to prove herself a scholar would doubtlessly lead her away from Winterfell.

Logic dictated she ought to pay these feelings no heed.

It should have been easy to ignore the rugged clansman who barely spoke and watched her with smouldering eyes. Yet why did she feel so torn?

With great struggle, Sarella pushed down her turmoil and focused on the parchment before her, and the library scribbling of a quill again broke the silence.

After she finished her task, Oberyn’s daughter quickly fled the library tower as if the quiet Rickard Liddle were a leper.

She sighed as she finally arrived at the quarters where the Dornish delegation stayed. Only Nymeria was missing, doubtlessly out on whatever task Arianne had sent her.

Ser Andrey was sitting on one of the chairs, moaning in pain, his face bruised and swollen purple. Tyene was fussing over him with a wet towel.

“What happened to him?” Sarella coughed to hide her chortle. “Who beat the poor Lemon knight to the point even his mother won’t recognise him?”

“The fool took upon himself to cross swords with the Lannister red cloaks in the training yard,” Arianne said, dark eyes glimmering with amusement. “And here you can see the result. Ser Vylarr effortlessly smacked him only on the face with a blunted sword until Drey was knocked out.”

“Only because the Lannister dog was used to the cold and Drey wasn’t,” Tyene tutted.

Neither seemed angered at their friend’s predicament, though, at most, they seemed exasperated. Poor Drey—a proud knight reduced to their plaything for amusement.

Sarella barely covered her snort with another cough and sat on one of the chairs. “So, I take it that Nymeria is still slinking around, fishing for rumours?”

Arianne’s laughter was like a song, soft and lyrical. “Of course. She hasn’t given up despite sticking out like a sore thumb with her purple eyes.”

“She heard the Dragon Queen visited more than a moon ago,” Tyene pouted. “Aerys’s proud daughter. Gods know what else she might unearth if she digs further.”

“Dead things walking in the snow,” Arianne sneered. “I’ve heard the servants whisper of it, too. Ice, walking and breathing in the shape of a fiend, and killing men and attacking the Wall. The cold has scrambled their wits, I say. I heard a few speak of dragons, and how the bastard mastered them—as if dragons were cabbages to be found on a farm and wolves could fly.”

“Even Quent got burned to death by Daenerys’s drakes,” Tyene added, her voice tight. “And he has far more dragon blood than some Northern bastard.”

A daughter of the Unworthy had married into House Martell, and it was a source of pride in Sunspear a century later. They had gotten a Queen for it, too, despite losing all battles. But having the winner’s boons despite losing a war had ignited much hatred and loathing from many. Tens of thousands had died to conquer Dorne, and they had gotten a slap to the face for it. Yet they did not hate Baelor the Pious or Daeron the Good, but House Martell.

Her royal cousin continued dismissively, “As if dragons are chickens that could hatch if you had the eggs. Even if they were, most eggs were destroyed in the Tragedy of Summerhal, and the remaining few were lost after the Rebellion. But to the Starks? They were never anywhere near Dragonstone.”

The door opened with a bang, and Nymeria rushed inside, face flushed and cloak covered in snow.

“They have a bloody dragon!”

Arianne choked on her wine. She was overtaken by coughing, and Sarella leapt to her side and slapped her back.

Tyene and Nymeria quickly came over to help, but she shook her head and continued striking, and they settled for watching worriedly.

After a few moments, the wine was out of the wrong pipe, and the Dornish Princess’s coughing was replaced by raspy wheezing as she waved them off.

The sisters moved away, sharing exasperated glances.

“Come again, Nym?” Tyene said lightly. “Did you just say the Northmen have a dragon?”

“I did,” Nymeria echoed, a heavy grimace on her face. “A scaly, winged monstrosity the size of an elephant.”

“Have you been drinking poppy wine?” Arianne demanded once she calmed down.

“I’m not jesting!” she snapped. Then, with a huff, she ran to the shuttered windows overlooking the yard and unlatched them open. “Come see for yourself.”

They wordlessly clustered around Nymeria, braving the rush of frigid air pouring in from the outside. They saw it then.

Across the yard, on the roof of the Great Keep, a giant lizard—no, a giant dragon with ruby scales and giant bat-like golden wings had curled at the edge of the battlements, and its tail was lazily swinging in the air like a scaly pendulum.

Sarella pinched herself to check if she was dreaming, but the jolt of pain was very much real, and the scaly beast did not disappear. This was not a dream.

“A dragon,” Tyene said, her breath growing heavy. She rubbed her eyes, absentmindedly tugged on her hair, before her eyes flickered to the magnificent crimson beast. “Dragons roosting in Winterfell!”

“It’s an entirely different colour from what is written about Daenerys’s drakes,” Sarella observed, but her voice quivered. “A fourth dragon. There could be a fifth and a sixth, too…”

“This is absurd,” Arianne whispered. “What’s next? Has Jon Stark truly risen from the dead only to become a master of the sky?”

The dragon was not small at all. It was about thirty feet from tail to snout, and none of the Northmen seemed bothered by it, as if it were a common sight. In fact, there seemed to be a score of guardsmen nearby, guarding the beast.

Her mind raced as the implications sank in. Shireen Baratheon had a Targaryen great-grandmother, and it shouldn’t be impossible for her to master a dragon. It would certainly explain why she wedded the Northern bastard-king. But what if he had also managed to mount a dragon?

Jon Stark’s so-called negotiations with the Targaryens took an entirely more sinister undertone—a clash of dragons.

They had walked deep into the dragon’s lair on their own, thinking it a wolf’s den. Her royal cousin seemed to have reached a similar conclusion, judging by the apprehension on her face.

“Well,” Sarella said lightly and clapped Arianne on the shoulder. “You were definitely right. The Northern King is certainly a figure of mystery and interest.”

The Spider, Outside the Golden Tooth

The eunuch had made his peace with the fact that he had little talent for warfare. All his plans for martial matters had gone awry. The War of the Five Kings had proven to him that one should leave planning, commanding, and fighting a war to those skilled at it.

Delegation was a crucial skill, and Varys could only assist the war effort with what he did best—scheming, subterfuge, and secrets. However, the confusion of nearly half a decade of war had uprooted his network and saw many of his little birds die or fly away. Replacing them had become nigh impossible, too. Qyburn had proven himself a cunning and dangerous man and had removed the remnants of his birds in the Westerlands, so they knew nought of what was happening in Cersei’s court.

Fear and paranoia had taken root in Casterly Rock, and the blame for the Desolation of King’s Landing still lay at Aegon’s feet, turning away many of the Westerland nobles who lost kin in the city that would have otherwise been amiable to bending the knee.

And now, the war had reached a stalemate here, outside of the pile of stones called the Golden Tooth.

The morning assault could be called a small disaster. The Unsullied had been culled, leaving very few behind. A thousand Unsullied had already been granted to Bracken to pacify the remains of the Riverlands, and now the queen had less than fifteen hundred left. Daenerys’s influence was weakened, and the eunuch slave soldiers were less of an eyesore. There had been losses amongst the Stormlanders, but it was nothing more than levies or culling half-loyal houses.

The lords would become even happier if the few hundred Dothraki could die in some skirmish.

Regardless, the more Aegon accepted the Westerosi ways, the fewer troubles he would face in his rule.

Still, there was one thing Varys had learned about war: your victory was never certain until your foes had their knees bent or were slain.

Aegon was close, very close to unifying Westeros, leaving only two weakened kingdoms behind. Yet success now seemed a distant thing, for those two weakened kingdoms were the most stubborn and troublesome of the lot.

While the Spider was not well-versed in warfare, Tyrion Lannister had a sharp mind that could cut through anything… if he would apply himself to it. It was why Varys found himself seeking out his old companion.

So he reluctantly trudged through the wet slush in the camp through the dreary sea of tents and solemn faces. After nearly half a year on the march and myriad battles, the men’s morale had declined, even more so after the failed assault.

Varys could see it in the soldiers’ eyes: weariness, fear. Fear that they would be the next ordered to storm the walls and die. Some huddled over the campfires and reached out their gloved hands to find meagre heat, as wet snow filled the air and ground with a terrible chill. The Unsullied had perished under the Golden Tooth’s walls this time. Who would be sent for the next assault?

Finally, Varys reached a lonely crimson tent atop a small hill. Tyiron was inside, lazily sprawled on his silken cot.

It seemed that today was one of the many evenings when the master of coin decided to spend in deep contemplation under the haze of wine. Of course, all his duties had been finished earlier, which meant Tyrion could indulge in all his proclivities and wallow in his misery on his own. Or as he himself called it, plot revenge against his family in silence.

“Ah, my old friend,” Tyrion said, raising a cup of wine. “Come, come! Let us drink.”

Varys poured himself a small cup from the pitcher and took a sip as he sat down at the wooden chest to the side. He almost spat it out—it was bitter and rough, almost as bad as the swill Robert had loved drinking at the end.

“Your tastes have gotten worse,” he noted mildly.

Tyrion burped, unbothered. “Alas, good wine is hard to find in the snow. I wanted to get my hands on the Riverrun’s stock, but His Grace guards it jealously.”

The smallest lion looked quite terrible today. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was puffy and had begun to take on the red hue of those who had overindulged in wine for decades despite not being barely thirty. His skin looked as dry as an old roll of parchment, and the dwarf had begun to put on some weight. It was of little wonder, though. In the last half a year, Tywin Lannister’s son had drunk enough wine for half a dozen men daily without fail.

After a long moment of silence, he closed his mismatched eyes and sighed. “You never seek me out for drinking, Varys. Spill.”

“As sharp as always,” Varys chortled. “I’m merely here to order my thoughts. I’ve heard a thousand suggestions after the battle—night attacks, surprise manoeuvres, digging into the rock, or even building trebuchets to lob corpses over the walls. Some suggest retreat, others advance deeper into the Westerlands. Yet the king remains indecisive.”

“I can peer into His Grace’s mind no more than you can,” was the slurred reply. “But I can feel he’s reluctant. Reluctant to stop so close to his goal, reluctant to take another risky battle, reluctant to remain here in the snow. Many choices, and each one uglier than the last.”

“It’s a burden all monarchs must face,” Varys tittered. “The sooner the better.”

“None wants my sister and her little nephew dead more than I,” the Imp said. But there was no hatred in his voice, no fury, merely a dull melancholy and a sliver of anger. The wine had long dulled all else. “But the world rarely bends to our desires. Yet the most wroth with today’s development seems to be our gracious queen.”

“Few are eager or happy after a setback. We had all prayed for a swift victory and even swifter end to this dreadful war, but the gods have decided otherwise.”

“Spare me the theatrics,” Tyrion scoffed. “Daenerys and Aegon are young. Royal advisors are here to advise them from these pitfalls.”

The Spider wrung his hands nervously.

“You and I know quite well that prudent advice is not always heeded. His Grace seems to love his lovely wife, dragon temper or not,” his voice lowered to a whisper. “I fear Aegon would take unnecessary risks to appease her anger.”

Even a blind man would see how badly Aegon wanted to follow his wife when she had stormed out of the tent. But the king’s duties were not so easily shrugged off in a campaign, especially after a defeat.

Tyrion drained his cup empty and reached for the flask on his belt.

“Perhaps. But the children of anger are easily abandoned by the morrow—I’ve found that a good night of sleep cools off tempers like nothing else.”

“Anger comes and goes,” Varys agreed, “but the sting of wounded pride lingers long. Alas. Let us not speak of gossip like some washerwomen. I came here to ask if you know some secret goat path, a way to dislodge your brother from that hardy pile of stones.”

Tyrion lifted his flask of wine, but only a single drop fell onto his greedy tongue.

With a frown, he stared at the flask as if it had killed his favourite pet.

“I’m not a wizard, Varys,” Tyrion said, tossing the empty flask away. “If I were one, I’d conjure myself some more wine. We’ve already done all we can, but it is winter that will halt the war, regardless of whether the Golden Tooth falls or not. Asha Greyjoy and her reavers won’t move before spring comes, and neither will the Reachmen. My sister has removed all obstacles inside the Westerlands for Tommen, so victory by betrayal is unlikely. Oh, how I wish I were in King’s Landing to witness her squirm in her Walk of Atonement. I would have pelted her with rotten eggs and spoiled fruit.”

The vitriol in his voice made Varys cringe.

Clearing his throat, he steered the topic away. “So you’re in favour of retreat, then?”

“The Starks were always right—winter has come, Varys.” Another burp. “You have spent your life in the comforts of a city. In the royal court, everything is provided to you. But here, out in the open? Food is scarce and warmth fleeting. No matter how much I thirst for revenge, I know that regrouping and building up our forces will see us in an even stronger position in two to three years, for the Lannisters have no allies left. Bad choices are like bedding an ugly whore—close your eyes, and be done with it quickly.”

Varys remembered the grim faces on his way here. Yes, the army had lost much of its fighting spirit. Tyrion was right, of course. Besides, Cersei Lannister’s worst enemy was herself, and she tended to undermine herself first and foremost. Given sufficient time, she would make a grave, possibly fatal misstep.

“Alas, retreat or advance is not for us to decide.” Varys clasped his hands. “We can only pray His Grace sees reason. But a few years would allow him to consolidate the kingdoms under his rule.”

“And decide upon a new seat of royal power.” Tyrion yawned. “King’s Landing is a cursed ruin that kills all who enter—”

Their talk was interrupted by a distant commotion on the outside.

“I’ll go see what this is about,” Varys said, standing up and smoothing the rims of his cloak.

The Imp shrugged and shuffled into his cot, turning his back to him as if to sleep.

Varys rushed out and quickly found the commotion.

Near the camp entrance, a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a red silk gown and a crimson cloak was arguing with a few sentries. Her dress was too thin and revealing to ward off the winter chill, yet she seemed completely unbothered by the cold.

Everything about her screamed danger—from her long hair that flowed like molten copper to the crimson eyes adorning her pale face. Her voice was melodic and seductive even to Varys, who had long parted with such earthly desires. But the most unnerving thing was her unsettling, eerie red eyes and the red ruby choker clasped around her neck.

It took him a few heartbeats, but his eyes widened in realisation.

“What is happening here?” he demanded.

“This… priestess demands an audience with the king, Lord Varys.”

This was too dangerous. He could not allow Melisandre of Asshai to roam free and murder his nephew!

“Seize her!” Varys stabbed a finger at the Red Witch.

He had no authority to command them and had never ordered men-at-arms before. Much to his relief, they were quick to fulfil his command. The guardsmen quickly swarmed and apprehended the priestess, though the captain looked at him quizzically, “She’s just a woman, m’lord.”

“This is Stannis Baratheon’s pet witch,” he hissed out. “Dark sorcery, seduction, and deceit are her forte. She can only be here to kill His Grace at the behest of the Baratheon girl!”

The nearby men-at-arms who were listening to the commotion quickly ran over. More and more soldiers swarmed the red priestess. She did not even resist but raised her head haughtily.

Varys was not speaking in vain. He had Brienne of Tarth’s tale about a shadow slinking in the night, a shadow in the flesh that could kill. It was not a madwoman’s tale, he knew, but sorcery.

As any man who loathed the dark arts of the arcane, he possessed some knowledge. Knowledge acquired out of sheer caution and fear, so he knew what to avoid.

Commanding shadows to their will was the forte of the shadow-binders of Asshai… the same distant land of horrors where Melisandre hailed from. The coincidence was too much to ignore. The risk was too high to bear, especially now that success was in his grasp.

“Foolish eunuch.” The silken voice only made his spine crawl as her crimson eyes settled on him. “I do not need to seek the death of the black dragon, but to warn him. He’s already marked for death by the One of Many Faces!”

“Gag her mouth and don’t let her speak,” Varys urged. “She can bewitch you with her voice.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when a piece of dirty cloth was stuffed into Melisandre’s mouth and then wrapped up with a leather strap. She finally struggled, but even her magicks seemed of no use against the strength of men.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Clasp her in irons and have a dozen men watch her! If she says another word, lop her head off and keep stabbing her until she stops moving. Don’t let her pretty looks deceive you—this witch managed to assassinate King Renly Baratheon in a camp of a hundred thousand men.”

The guards looked far more alert and carefully dragged the Red Witch away.

“Curious.” Tyrion’s slurred voice came from his left, the dwarf lazily strolling through the slush. “How do you know who assassinated Renly? If she could assassinate Renly, why didn’t she do the same to my unlamented nephew, who remained woefully uninformed of such a threat to his life?”

“It’s nothing more than a conjecture, my Lord Tyrion,” Varys tittered. Tyrion rolled his eyes. “After all, magic was supposed to be gone from the world, and I did not find out until much later—”

A bloodcurdling roar echoed across the sky, so loud that it made his bones vibrate. Dragons were terrifying, even though they had yet to grow into adulthood.

“So our Good Queen finally returns,” the Imp drawled, and Varys’s gaze moved towards the snowy sky. “It must be nice to fly away from all your troubles, if only for a few hours.”

A large draconic form dived straight towards the centre of the camp. His mind told him something was off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“AEGON!” A thunderous shout tore through the camp, and Varys’ heart leapt in his throat. “COME OUT!”