[Chapter Size: 3600 Words.]

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Third Person POV

King’s Land, 298 AC.

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The birds sang in the Red Keep, while a man moved quickly from the castle to one of the towers. They hadn’t let him cross the garden in some cases, and that made him immediately look up, listening to the birds, seeming afraid of some kind of attack or something similar — a trauma he had acquired.

He went toward the Tower of the Hand, through one of the less popular entrances, the servants’ entrance, checking if anyone was watching besides the guard at the gate, who watched over the place.

He approached as the guard greeted him. “Lord Baelish,” he said.

“Here, no one must know I’m here,” Baelish said as he handed a handful of gold in a small pouch that fit in the man’s palm, to the guard.

“It will be done,” the man said, and Baelish passed by him.

Baelish went to the stairs and began to climb. Upon reaching the chambers of the former Hand and his wife, he looked around to make sure he was truly alone. The tower was completely deserted, so there shouldn’t be anyone there.

He entered the room; nothing seemed out of place, and he went to a small trapdoor on the floor, from which he pulled out a small box. He took an object from inside it, closed the lid, and returned it to its hiding place, concealing it carefully. He was about to leave the room when he came across a man standing in the hallway, watching him in silence. He was startled when he recognized him.

“Lord Varys, what are you doing here?” he asked, surprised.

“Are you truly asking me that question, Lord Baelish?” Varys replied with a slight smile, since he too was sneaking around the place.

Baelish took a deep breath, not denying that he shouldn’t be there.

“And unlike the guards, my dear, I don’t need to bribe them. I have my own means of entering here,” said Varys, adjusting his cloak.

“And I believe the Master of Whispers won’t report my presence, correct?” Baelish asked, while Varys opened a thin smile.

“Of course not. But I am curious. You’re in the chambers of the man who was killed,” said Varys, making Baelish frown.

“I’m merely doing a favor for Lady Arryn. She sent me a letter recently asking me to retrieve something hidden in the room, since she won’t return out of fear of Lannister retaliation,” explained Lord Baelish reluctantly.

“Ah, the Lannisters…” murmured Varys. “They are certainly a problem. It pains me to see the realm divided from within while we have dangerous enemies outside.”

“And whose side are you on, Varys?” asked Baelish, with a cold, calculating gaze. The scars on his face were still visible — reminders of an old attack. No wonder he feared the birds that roamed the Red Keep; since then, he had never been the same. Jon Arctic had used his magic to control birds to cut his face, yet another Stark who had left a mark on his body — first Brandon fighting for Catelyn, and now his nephew.

And now the queen, who at that time had managed to escape, had also been wounded by Arys Stark.

“I hope I’m on the same side as you, Lord Baelish. Dividing the realm with our intrigues doesn’t seem wise at the moment. You should know that — especially with someone dangerous in the North of Westeros,” replied Varys.

“They’re beyond the Wall. If you believe the tales of the war they’re fighting there, then they won’t be coming here anytime soon. Why such concern, Lord Varys?” Baelish narrowed his eyes.

“Because I want the Throne to remain strong. When danger comes, if those beyond the Wall march toward the Seven Kingdoms while we’re fighting among ourselves, we’ll be easily defeated. We must play intelligently; after all, they’re your enemies as much as mine,” said Varys, narrowing his eyes.

“Now, about you entering this room to fetch something for Lady Arryn… that sounds a bit suspicious.” Baelish raised an eyebrow, pulling something from his pocket. A necklace filled with diamonds glimmered under the torchlight.

“This is what Lady Arryn asked me to retrieve. I see no problem in that. She’s an old friend of mine,” he said, holding Varys’s gaze.

“Well, I see… It’s just that some little birds sang that you sent a letter to Winterfell. I was merely curious,” said Varys, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“You know that Lady Stark is an old friend of mine. I want her to be careful as well. I see no problem in saying that,” Baelish replied, with an air of natural ease.

“Well, I understand. And it seems that Lord Stark has turned his back on the king… strange, isn’t it?” Varys noted.

“Which means they’re against the Seven Kingdoms,” Baelish sneered.

“Seems that way. That’s why I’d rather we not divide ourselves so much — at least until we reclaim the North. We only have six kingdoms now to fight for the crown, perhaps fewer… The political game of Westeros is far too different from the past. In just ten years, everything is changing,” he said with a certain sorrow.

“And what do you think about all of this? Shall we fight against the threat from the North?”

“We have no other choice. After everything that happened in Winterfell, there’s no way to change the game that’s about to begin. The ‘Game of Thrones’ has started. New rules and new players are in motion. The question is: what must we do to win?”

With that, Varys simply turned around, leaving Baelish behind. He paused briefly, gave him a look, and said, “Besides, you don’t need to worry. No one will know you were here.”

With those words, he continued walking and disappeared down the corridor. Baelish stood still for a few seconds before starting to move. He put the necklace away again and left through the same entrance, passing by the guard and slipping out unnoticed.

He took a horse and rode straight to his brothels in the city. There, he stored the necklace in a small box inside one of the vaults of the main brothel. Then he went up to his most luxurious chamber and served himself some wine, watching the city through the window.

“She wasn’t convinced by my letter… They didn’t believe,” he murmured with dissatisfaction. He had set up the whole scheme to lure Lord Stark to King’s Landing, but nothing had worked. The wolf of the North remained in Winterfell.

“I have to think of something else,” he murmured again, still unsure of how the other players were moving their pieces and playing their cards across the board of Westeros.

Meanwhile, Stannis had secluded himself on Dragonstone, standing before a map once reconstructed by Aegon, the Conqueror of Westeros.

He had been forced to flee King’s Landing after the death of Jon Arryn. He knew his life was in danger. He had been by Jon’s side when the questions began about the nephews — those Robert believed to be his sons, but who were, in truth, bastards. Abominations born of incest between brother and sister, while the king himself was betrayed in his own bedchamber by a member of the Kingsguard who had sworn to protect and honor him.

Treason, usurpation… and now, murder. The Seven Kingdoms were more dangerous than ever — and Stannis knew it better than anyone.

He wanted to act, to do something, but all he could do now was flee, hide. It was too dangerous even for him. Yet anger did not stop him from striking his fist hard against the table, frustrated by his situation.

“Are you angry, my prince?” — a sweet voice sounded behind him.

Stannis turned and saw the red woman approaching with a calm gaze. She walked up to him, lightly touching his back as her eyes turned toward the map of Westeros spread across the table.

“You should not concern yourself with your brother in the capital,” Melisandre said softly. “Unfortunately, he will be a dead man. I see stags and wolves chained in the flames. Your brother is far beyond saving. Besides…” — her red eyes scanned the map — “all the lands will soon be yours, my prince.”

“I am no king, Melisandre,” Stannis replied curtly.

“No, you are not… yet,” she said, smiling faintly. “But that does not stop the path from being set for you to claim the throne. You are the Promised Prince, the one who will fight against the darkness — and not those creatures from the North. It is in the flames of the Lord of Light that the true hero will be revealed. And that hero is you, and no other.”

She spoke with conviction. Her visions left no room for doubt. Even with the rumors about the powerful king beyond the Wall — Jon Arctic — and the strange tales coming from the East, where red priests called him The Chosen One, Melisandre did not doubt what she had seen. Her flames had shown it: it was Stannis, and Stannis alone, who was the true Promised Prince. Even if the rest of her faith bent toward a false savior, she believed she was guiding the right man.

Stannis, however, still had doubts.

“You call me the Promised Prince, say that I am the true one… That I have more chances than the man in the North, who now fights against the darkness. But what if he is the chosen one?”

“He is false, my prince,” Melisandre replied without hesitation. “In the end, he will be crushed before that war. He may be the first to fight the dead, but he will not be the last. Mark my words: you are the true one. You will be the one to face the Night King.”

Stannis remained silent for a moment, staring at the map before him.

“He has his role to play, that much I know… But he is not the main one,” Melisandre added.

He seemed convinced. Perhaps not of destiny, but that he had an important role to fulfill. There was sorrow in thinking of his brother, but if fate demanded sacrifice, he would accept it. His eyes reflected a different gleam — of faith, or of despair.

Elsewhere in the same castle, Ser Davos was telling a story to young Shireen Baratheon. He had a special fondness for her. The little princess, marked by greyscale, listened attentively.

Davos had learned to read just so he could tell her stories from books. He was the only one who could make her smile. Shireen liked him — he didn’t treat her with pity or as a monster. To her, Davos was more than a knight; he was a friend, someone who saw beyond the scars on her face that everyone else avoided looking at.

“Ser Davos, could you tell that story you heard from the sailors about Jon Arctic and the princess of Yi Ti?” Shireen asked cheerfully.

Davos smiled. He still sailed from time to time in service of Stannis, and in the taverns and ports of the East he often heard tales about the mysterious king beyond the Wall. One of them spoke of his intervention in Yi Ti — and it had already spread throughout the continent of Essos.

Surely, bards and street performers had taken advantage of the event to create ballads and stories, romanticizing the facts. In some versions, they said Jon Arctic had fallen in love with the princess of Yi Ti and asked for her hand in marriage, but her father imposed a condition: that he rid the kingdom of its enemies.

Others told that Jon Arctic had found the country in chaos and, fighting for the honor of Yi Ti, the princess had fallen in love with the hero and won his heart. They became lovers after the battle, and the king of the North had finally earned the blessing to marry her.

Among all the stories about Jon Arctic’s wives, this one was the most popular. The romance with the princess of Yi Ti fascinated the people. Few knew the true details of the war, and the tales were distorted with every retelling — there was no longer mention of the rescue of Lord Shimura, the aid of Jin Sakai, or the battles in the provinces of the Empire, nor of the noble samurai impressed by the lost fighting style of Yi Ti that Jon Arctic had mastered — the man they called The Great Wolf Protector. The stories preferred to highlight romance, heroism, and impossible love.

“Of course, let me remember how it went…” Davos said, adjusting himself in his chair. He too had heard the song in his travels and knew a few versions of the tale. Shireen, excited, leaned closer.

She loved romances — like any girl her age, she dreamed of charming princes and their white horses. Even knowing that Jon Arctic and his people had destroyed part of her father’s and uncle’s fleet, she was still enchanted by those stories.

“As you know,” Davos began, “Arctic’s fleet had sailed to Yi Ti for trade. They landed at Yin, the most powerful port city of the Empire…”

But he could not continue. The door burst open, and Shireen’s mother appeared.

“Ser Davos! I did not imagine you would tell such barbaric tales about those savage Northerners to my daughter! I think I will have to speak to my husband so she won’t see you anymore,” Selyse said coldly, as she walked to the bed and pulled her daughter by the arm.

“Wait, mother, I was only listening!” Shireen murmured, frightened.

“Come! You have lessons with the septa. You will not sit here listening to distorted stories from savages!” Selyse replied harshly. “Those men take women North to rape them! The princess of Yi-Ti was no different!”

Shireen looked at her mother in horror, and even Davos was incredulous at what he had heard.

Stannis had no choice but to leave the room right behind Selyse and Shireen, while the girl glanced back, begging for help with her eyes. Davos remained silent — he could do nothing.

Further north…

Due to the queen’s condition and her brother’s, the royal retinue chose to sail to King’s Landing. More than forty vessels had been prepared by the royal fleet and waited for the king at White Harbor. Stannis himself had supervised the departure, although Robert was a little disappointed that his brother did not come in person — in the end, however, he had too many problems to care about that at the moment.

Now they were at sea, leaving White Harbor and heading for King’s Landing. The king remained silent for most of the voyage, already weary of everything involving the North.

While Robert drank and amused himself with the prostitutes he had brought from the North in his spare time, elsewhere on the ship a woman with her face completely bandaged watched a letter on her desk intently. Her eyes, full of hatred, scanned each line as she finished writing it to make it right.

“Are you sure this will work?” Jaime asked, lying beside her, his right arm still bandaged because of the wound — his hand no longer there…

“It will work, it will,” Cersei replied with a malicious smile. “That girl is too naive. When she reads this letter, she will not hesitate. We have men in the North for that — they will be with her and will follow her as soon as our uncle leaves Winterfell.”

Cersei’s look even made Jaime shiver. Tywin had already sent a letter approving the plan. If it succeeded, they would take Sansa Stark from her family’s arms, drawing Lord Stark to King’s Landing in search of his daughter — and so would begin Cersei’s revenge for all that the Starks had done to her and her brother.

She did not care to kill as many Starks as necessary, even if she died in the process. She had already lost everything she believed she had — now, only vengeance and hatred remained when she had to hide all the time from disgusted looks directed at her.

The letter was delivered to a messenger — a man infiltrated to serve as the contact between the queen’s allies and her spies. Since they could not send the message directly to Winterfell, they would use an intermediary among the allies in the North — the Boltons. Tywin Lannister had assured them that they could be useful.

Meanwhile, Barristan Selmy stood on the deck of the same ship, watching the rough sea. He reflected on his own life, wondering what Jon Arctic would think of the letter he himself had delivered to Arya before all the chaos — on the day she and the other Arcticans left Winterfell.

He knew that Rhaegar’s son still lived beyond the Wall, conquering the world, and he imagined how proud his prince would be of his own son. Yet that thought only made him feel emptier.

He could have been serving a great man — a worthy king — but instead, he served a man and a woman who had lost all honor. He followed two rulers who obeyed nothing but their own desires and carnal impulses.

Perhaps this was punishment — his punishment — for kneeling after Rhaegar’s death.

Perhaps his son despised him, but there was no other choice than to continue living and uphold his oath. In the end, he only let out a weary sigh.

Meanwhile, in Essos, a young man with platinum hair and violet eyes watched three creatures before him when a woman’s voice sounded behind him.

“I see you’re admiring your dragons, my king.”

He turned slowly.

“I can feel your doubts, my king. You seem not to believe in the creatures before you,” she continued, in a calm tone.

“I can’t control them… One year have passed and still they won’t let me near without threatening to bite or burn me…” the young man said, frustrated. His gaze went to his left arm, covered in scars after the black dragon burned him when he tried to tame it.

“Don’t worry about that,” the woman replied, stepping closer. “Just as we helped make them hatch — after using your uncle’s dead body, slain by that monster from the North — we will also help you control them. They will follow you, and you will use them to conquer all Westeros and destroy the great evil that comes from the North. These creatures are the key to your conquest.”

She wore a dark cloak and a scarf covering half her face. Only her eyes — black and deep — were visible, fixed on the young man with an almost hypnotic intensity.

Aegon Targaryen — or as he was called among the men of the Golden Company, Young Griff — had met that woman moons ago, when he roamed the deserts of Essos in search of allies, with the Golden Company also seeking service for more gold.

While his company fought as mercenaries, this same group of strangers approached, bringing stories about the “King in the North,” Jon Arctic, and about the threat he posed to the entire world. It was they who incited the slavers of Meereen and Volantis to retaliate when they tried to attack Arya in Volantis.

Aegon Targaryen, who had spent his whole life with those close to him saying the Iron Throne belonged to him, found himself in a bad situation.

Arctic’s conquests were growing rapidly, and the young dragon knew that if he did not act, he would lose any chance to claim the Iron Throne. His forces were tiny compared to Arctic’s legions, but that group had come to them and claimed to have an answer — and they brought with them a body taken from the Dothraki desert.

It was the body of Viserys Targaryen. The woman and her followers used it in a blood ritual.

Aegon, having dragon’s blood running in his veins, was an essential part of the sacrifice with his own blood. When his uncle’s body was consumed by the flames, three sleeping eggs began to crack — and, between fire and blood, three dragons were born.

Three living dragons.

With them, the world regained a heritage many believed extinct. No realm — be it Arctic’s or Westeros’s — would resist the power his family once wielded.

But there was a problem.

The dragons did not accept him. They would not let him approach, nor did they recognize him as their master. Even after one year, Aegon still could not control them.

He had dragons… but, at the same time, he did not.

How could he conquer Westeros like that?

The woman at his side began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, irritated, frowning.

“That’s an unnecessary worry, my king,” she said, amused. “Anyway, use this. It reached us yesterday.”

She took a necklace with a black stone. “This comes straight from my land. Asshai, like your dragon eggs, according to Illyrio, had come…” — she paused, watching Aegon — “just get close to the dragons.”

Aegon touched the stone with doubt, but nodded. She opened the necklace and placed it around his neck.

“Now go.”

With the necklace, and even before the dragons seemed to accept his presence, their eyes grew calmer, less hostile. He stepped closer one pace at a time and, for the first time, his creatures allowed him to touch them. Aegon smiled and then laughed in amazement.

“This is incredible,” he murmured.

“Yes, my king. Now the dragons will no longer be a problem. We will also accelerate their growth with our magics. However, we demand a single condition.”

“You want us to destroy those from the North, right?” Aegon asked.

“Exactly.” She returned his fixed gaze. “Our only condition is that you destroy Jon Arctic and the kingdom he built — without pity, without mercy.”

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