[King's Landing | Small Council Chamber]
The Small Council chamber had a long table of dark oak and chairs nobody had chosen for comfort.
Aerys II Targaryen had sent for his own, tall and rigid, with armrests worn down by years of restless fingers. He was leaning forward when Varys entered, his eyes carrying that intensity that shifted between suspicion and enthusiasm depending on the day.
To his right, Tywin Lannister sat with the posture of someone who never needed to learn how to appear important, hands on the table, green calculating eyes sweeping the room with the attention of someone who wastes nothing. To Tywin's left, Lucerys Velaryon leafed through documents in silence, his Valyrian silver hair contrasting with a closed expression. Qarlton Chelsted tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the table, the Master of Coin with the look of someone always adding numbers no one else can see. Steffon Baratheon sat with the solidity of a man accustomed to taking up space, large and direct, without Tywin's rigidity or Chelsted's restlessness. Grand Maester Pycelle occupied the corner chair with that hunched posture that could be age or strategy, thick hands folded on the table.
Behind the king, motionless as part of the wall, Gerold Hightower. The White Bull. The white armor of the Kingsguard without a mark, hand on sword hilt by long habit, eyes making a constant sweep of the room that never stopped.
"Varys." The voice carried its characteristic impatience. "Bring me word from all the Seven Kingdoms."
The eunuch moved forward with those silent steps that seemed to belong to no body in particular, hands folded inside wide sleeves, the courteous smile in its usual place. A bow toward the king, another lighter one for the rest.
"I beg Vossa Graça's and the Council's pardon for the delay. Certain birds arrived later than expected this morning."
No one answered. Aerys made a gesture with his hand, impatience dressed as permission.
"If Your Grace permits, I will begin with the North." A calculated pause. "My little birds whisper that Rickard Stark has enjoyed considerable success in certain commercial ventures. Two drinks produced on his lands, Icefyre and Frostspirit, are being sold in large quantities across the North and reaching as far as King's Landing." A delicate pause. "Indeed, some present in this chamber have already had occasion to sample them."
Two or three pairs of eyes shifted discreetly. Tywin did not move.
Aerys narrowed his eyes. The paranoia left him unable to trust anything that did not come directly from his own kitchens, much less drinks from a Northern lord.
"The gold generated by this trade has been quite generous. Generous enough to fund the reconstruction of Moat Cailin, which I am told has already been completed."
Qarlton Chelsted frowned. "But how would they have enough gold to build a fortress? That makes no sense."
"My birds saw a banker from the Iron Bank in Winterfell shortly after they began selling the drinks." Varys inclined his head slightly. "I presume they secured a considerable loan."
Several council members exchanged glances.
"The restored castle is expected to be given to young Eddard Stark, who still resides in the Vale under the wardship of Jon Arryn, alongside the son of our Master of Laws." Varys continued in the same soft tone. "Additionally, another construction draws my birds' attention. A fortress is being raised at Sea Dragon Point, to be given to young Benjen Stark. There are also reports of active shipyards in the region, building vessels."
Tywin Lannister looked up. His fingers drummed the table once. "Ships. What kind of ships?"
"Nothing that appears military, at first glance. From what my birds could observe, they are merchant vessels."
Aerys frowned. "And why is information from the North always so scarce?"
"Forgive me, Your Grace. The North is a difficult place to send birds. The cold takes many before they can sing. And the Northmen are an extremely private people. They do not trust strangers easily, nor do they welcome men who ask too many questions." A discreet bow. "Even so, my birds continue trying to sing for the Crown."
Tywin went quiet for a moment, eyes on the table. "Moat Cailin completed. With those walls, invading the North from the south is practically impossible. Anyone who dares try will meet stone, iron, and the cold itself. Before they even cross the gates, they will have lost half of what they brought."
Steffon Baratheon stepped forward before Aerys could let Tywin's observation take root. "Your Grace need not concern himself with that. The North has never opposed the Targaryen dynasty. On the contrary, the Starks and their bannermen have always answered the Crown's call and fought to defend it. Moat Cailin restored is simply a lord tending his borders, as is his duty. And from what I know of Rickard Stark, he is simply providing a home for one of his sons."
Varys inclined his head. "Lord Steffon speaks wisely. Nothing in Rickard Stark's conduct suggests anything other than loyalty to the Crown. A father who builds for his children is not a threat. He is a lord fulfilling his obligations."
Aerys looked at Steffon for a moment. Then he settled back slightly in his chair, fingers loosening a little on the armrests.
Varys took a few slow steps.
"In the Vale, peace reigns. Lord Arryn governs with his customary prudence." His hands opened slightly. "In the Riverlands, Hoster Tully remains very interested in matrimonial alliances. Powerful men like to unite their houses, after all."
A few more steps.
"In the Westerlands, everything remains as efficient as ever. Gold continues to flow from Casterly Rock like water from a generous spring."
Tywin showed no reaction. He might have been a wall.
The smile grew a little thinner.
"The Reach prospers under young Mace Tyrell. Plentiful harvests, full markets. Nothing to trouble the Crown." A pause. "Dorne remains quiet. Doran Martell is a cautious man. Some might say excessively cautious."
A bow toward the throne.
"In summary, Your Grace, the Seven Kingdoms appear to be at peace."
No one responded.
Aerys stared ahead with that expression the council members had learned not to interpret too quickly.
Steffon Baratheon stepped forward with the ease of someone who has known the king for years and knows when to redirect a conversation.
"Why do we not speak of possible brides for Prince Rhaegar?"
The change in Aerys was immediate. His shoulders loosened, his fingers stopped their drumming, and something close to genuine interest crossed his eyes for the first time since the meeting had begun.
Tywin raised his eyes from the table for the first time in several minutes. Slowly, with the attention of someone who had already thought about the subject and had been waiting for someone to raise it. Though the last time he had tried, at the tourney held in honor of Viserys's birth two years past, Aerys had refused Cersei's hand before the entire court. The memory sat on Tywin's face like a stone no one could see but everyone knew was there.
"Yes." Aerys leaned slightly forward. "Rhaegar needs a wife worthy of his blood; Speak."
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[The North | Wolfswood]
"Is everyone all right?"
Sigurd was cleaning the axe blade on the back of a dead man on the ground. One pass, then another, satisfied with the result.
"Better than ever." The smile was too wide to be entirely sane.
"Yes," said Perseu.
Kevin looked at his own hands, then at the bodies around him, then back at his hands.
"Could be better," he said. "The last one was ugly enough to kill my appetite for a week. And I was hungry."
Astrid nodded without taking her eyes off the perimeter, which was her way of confirming she was whole and at the same time saying she hadn't lowered her guard.
Belzakar and Morghaz cleaned the tips of their spears in silence, side by side, with that methodical efficiency that years of Unsullied training never fully leaves anyone.
On the ground lay dozens of bodies.
It was the fourth group. Bandits, or wildlings who had come down from the frontier taking advantage of the emptiness on the roads. In a matter of weeks we had found four, and each time the numbers were larger than the last. The old man from the village had said the banditry had increased more than usual. He was right.
We were not in a hurry. Last Hearth was only a few kilometers away, and there was something I had learned through years of work, that haste is the main reason good plans become bad results. So we moved slowly, cleared what appeared, and watched.
The North was telling us something.
I still didn't know what.
Last Hearth appeared on the horizon with that solidity of old stone the Northern houses have, buildings that don't try to impress, only to last. The guards stopped us at the gate with hands on spears, the automatic caution of men who spend their days at a border post.
"Who are you and what do you want at Last Hearth?"
"Arthur Snow," I said. "Son of Rickard Stark."
The guard looked at me for a second. Then he looked at his companion. Then he looked back at me with a completely different expression than before.
It didn't take long.
Greatjon Umber was exactly what the name suggested. A man as large as Sigurd, with a laugh that rose from the soles of his feet and came out with enough force to make the torches flicker.
"A Stark at Last Hearth is cause for a feast!"
And he made one. The Umbers were a people who did not understand hospitality as optional, and the banquet that appeared that night proved it without needing further argument.
In the middle of the feast, he pulled by the arm a boy of three who was looking at everything with the wide eyes of a child who hasn't yet decided whether the world is frightening or fascinating.
"Jon Umber," said Greatjon, with that paternal pride that needs no more words. "But we call him Smalljon."
I looked at the boy. I looked at the father. I thought that at three years old and already that size, Smalljon was a name that would last exactly until he grew up, and from the bone structure he was going to grow considerably.
"He'll be bigger than his father," I said.
Greatjon let out a laugh that made Jon Umber take a step back in fright.
"That's what I say!"
Sigurd and Greatjon met in the middle of the room and stood still for a second, each looking at the other with the expression of someone who rarely needs to look up to speak to anyone and suddenly doesn't need to do that. They were the same height, the same size, the same kind of man that makes the ground seem more solid where he stands.
Greatjon let out a laugh.
Sigurd smiled the way Sigurd smiled when he approved of something without reservation.
Ten minutes later they were sitting together with jugs of mead in hand, discussing the best way to split a man with an axe, with the technical seriousness of two craftsmen comparing methods. The feast went on around them and neither of them paid it any attention.
In the dead of night, when the corridors of Last Hearth were quiet with that heavy silence of old stone, a boy passed me moving too fast to be coincidence, pushed something into my closed fist, and disappeared around the corner without looking back.
I closed my hand. Kept walking.
I reached the chambers they had prepared, went in, closed the door. On the small table in the corner was my bag, where it always was. I sat, opened my hand.
A folded letter. Thin paper, careful ink.
I read.
Ramsay Bolton is dead. His son Roose Bolton has assumed the lordship of House Bolton and the Dreadfort. From what I know of this Roose, he is someone to be watched closely. I have placed someone near him.
The letter was written in Japanese.
I folded it slowly. Walked to the fireplace, laid it on the flame, and watched the paper darken and come apart until nothing remained.
Let's hope he isn't an aspiring Red King, I thought.
I went back to the table. Opened the bag.
At the bottom, wrapped in dark cloth, the Valyrian candle.
One. Black, dragonglass, cold as always.
For years I had tried. Since I opened my mother's chest and found the candle among her other belongings, black, dragonglass, without mark or inscription. I had tried everything I could imagine. Common tinder. Fireplace flame. I had tried to channel magic the way the grimoire described. Nothing. Not a single spark. The candle stayed cold as though warmth had never existed in the world.
I had asked Luwin specifically because I knew what the Valyrian steel link in his chain meant. At the Citadel, each link in a maester's chain represents a field of knowledge. Valyrian steel was rare, and those who carried it had studied what they called the Higher Mysteries, magic, prophecy, the things most maesters preferred to ignore entirely. Luwin did not ignore them.
He had told me, with the care of someone who chooses their words before speaking, that the Citadel held records. That when the glass candles burned, the sorcerers of the Valyrian Freehold could see through mountains, seas, and deserts. Could give visions and dreams to men. Could communicate with one another from half a world away. The Citadel kept some others, three black and one green, brought from Valyria a thousand years before the Doom.
But they had not been lit in more than a hundred years.
I picked up the candle. Held it between my fingers for a moment, as I always did. Cold. Smooth. Indifferent.
There was a theory that had come to me slowly, over months of attempts and pages of the grimoire reread without finding an answer. A hundred years ago the last dragon died. And it was around that same time that the candles stopped. It was not coincidence. It was connection.
Dragons were the fire of the world. Without them, certain things simply stopped working, like a forge without embers.
But there was something more. With the knowledge of magic I had brought with me and what I had learned of the magic in this world, one thing became clearer and clearer. Valyrian magic was different. Different from the magic of the First Men, different from the magic of the Children of the Forest, which grew from the earth, from the trees, from the ancient blood running in the roots of the world. Valyrian magic did not grow from the earth. It depended on a bond.
And that bond was the dragons.
They were not merely symbols of power. They were the thread that connected the mage to the magic, the channel through which the Valyrian flame flowed. When the last dragon died, that thread was cut. Not gradually, not little by little. Cut. And with it, everything that depended on that connection stopped working.
The candles. The prophecy. Perhaps other things I had not yet discovered.
For the candles to burn again, the dragons would have to return. And until then, full use of Valyrian magic was beyond my reach, not for lack of knowledge, but because the channel simply no longer existed.
I put the candle back in the cloth with more care than was necessary.
And the only ones who might know something about this were the Targaryens.
Perhaps at Dragonstone there was something. A book, a tome, a papyrus that the Targaryens had brought from Valyria and forgotten on a shelf. That fortress was ancient and carried centuries of Valyrian history in its very stones. If there was any record about the candles and the dragons, that was where I would expect to find it.
I put the candle back in the cloth. Closed the bag.
Through the window, the North stretched dark and quiet as far as the eye could reach.
'Patience, I thought. Everything has its time.'
I lay down.
The fire in the hearth went low on its own.