The Winter Wizard - Interlude 8 - A Prisoner Freed

The candlelight flickered softly along the stone walls of Varys’ private quarters, casting faint shadows across the maps, scrolls, and tightly bound ledgers that covered the table before him. The air smelled faintly of beeswax, parchment, and something almost floral, but the most important part was that after several long hours of having to interact with both Littlefinger and the King’s Mother, her was finally alone.

Although judging by the approaching rustle of soft footsteps, it was not going to last.

A boy no older than eight stepped into the chamber through one of the entrances that led to the secret passages through the castle without knocking. Silent as a mouse, he approached and held out a pair of folded notes. Varys offered him a kind smile.

"Thank you, my sweet bird," he said gently, taking the messages from the boy’s outstretched hands. He reached into his sleeve, produced a small silver coin, and placed it into the boy’s palm. “You've done well.”

The boy nodded, eyes wide but silent, then darted out just as quietly as he’d entered.

Varys leaned back in his chair and opened the first note.

His eyes skimmed the contents quickly. It was from one of his informants, who had always been a reasonable source of information from events happening near the city of Meereen. The news was grim.

Khal Drogo dead. Khalesaar scattered.

Varys sighed softly and set the note down.

"A shame," he murmured. "The Targaryen girl had so much promise ..."

He had placed certain hopes in the girl. She had the blood, the name, and a legitimate claim. But with the barbarian dead and his khalesaar scattered, she was either dead or in the process of being carted off to Vaels Dothrak to live the life of the window of a Khal.

However, as unfortunate as this was, Varys knew that the game he was playing required many pieces. And it was a good thing he had several.

Shaking his head he reached for the second note.

It was longer, the parchment slightly more worn, the handwriting rougher — a trader’s hand. It had come from further east, regarding an encounter in the Red Waste. A wandering caravan of traders reporting a most peculiar encounter.

Varys read, then blinked. His brow furrowed.

A young girl, silver-haired. Accompanied by a small group of Dothraki, a grizzled Westerosi knight, a few handmaids, and a pair of boys about the girls age. Though as peculiar as the group make-up seemed to be it wasn’t the people themselves who caught the attention of the caravan.

It was the three creatures with the young silver-haired girl. Or rather, the three creatures clinging to her.

Dragons.

The note in Varys’ hand slipped from his fingers. He stared at the parchment, motionless, as if it had turned to flame.

He reread the sentence. Twice. Three times.

Three dragons.

He sat still for a full minute, lips parted slightly, breath slow and measured.

"Impossible ..." he whispered.

But the word rang hollow.

He knew too well the reach of his network. His birds whispered truth significantly more often than fancy. They survived because of it. And Varys … well, Varys was in his position because he knew when to listen.

The eunuch shook his head in disbelief, glancing once more at the first note, the one that hinted that she was dead or soon to be.

"What in the name of the Seven happened out there?" he murmured, staring at the two notes and shaking his head.

The dead khal, the scattered horde, the desert, the birth of dragons.

Blood and fire. Fire and blood.

He leaned back slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin, a slow smile forming.

Perhaps she was a piece that wasn’t yet removed.

Perhaps the girl was more than he expected.

He walked back to his desk and opened a fresh scroll.

His mind raced. If the girl truly had dragons, if she had truly survived the death of her husband and had managed to bring fire back into the world … then, despite the individuals in her party she would not last long in the east. She would need help. Discreet, careful help. Resources. Guidance. A sword. A friend.

And Varys knew exactly the man for the job.

It would take time. Arrangements set in motion. Quiet inquiries to be made. But if done well ...

He dipped his quill, beginning to write swiftly in coded script.

As the ink flowed, so too did the pieces on the board.

The storm was coming, and Varys, as always, would be ready.

He needed to be … for the sake of the realm.

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The brothel on the Street of Silk was quieter than usual, not silent, never that, but quieter. The laughter of whores and drunkards echoed faintly through the wooden floors, muffled as much as possible by the thick curtains and stone walls. Upstairs, in a finely furnished chamber adorned with soft lanterns and golden pillows, Petyr Baelish sat alone at a polished desk.

A single candle burned beside him, casting flickering shadows across his thin face and sharp eyes. He held a parchment in one hand, reading it once more, his lips curving upward as he silently deciphered the coded words he himself had written.

Dearest Lysa,

I hope you find yourself spending almost as much time thinking about me as I find myself thinking of you. There has been much excitement in King’s Landing as of late, some of which was very much unexpected. However, I know better than most that this chaos is but an opportunity. I need you to get the second letter, the one that I had left in your possession the last time we were together, and I need you to send it to the same person the last one was sent to. There is much that needs to be done and I would trust no one else to do this. I’ll be counting down the days until I see you again.

Your devoted servant,

Petyr Baelish.

Petyr smiled to himself, folding the letter with deliberate care. He dipped the quill back into the inkpot and pressed the seal with his personal sigil.

"Sweet Lysa," he murmured. "Sweet, deluded, little Lysa. So desperate for love, so easy to maneuver. Because of you no one else would even think to connect me to what is going to happen."

He stood and crossed to the door, opening it with a soft creak. A man waited in the hall where he had been told to. Thin, balding, nervous-eyed. He entered with a slight bow, hands wringing as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You’ve served me well before,” Petyr said, holding out the letter. “And now I have another task that requires ... discretion.”

The man took the letter carefully. “For the Vale?”

Baelish nodded. “For Lady Arryn. I’d prefer this not go through the ravenry at the Red Keep for a variety of reasons. You, fortunately, are the fourth son from a house rarely paid much mind. Yet your family’s keep still commands a raven bound for the Eyrie. And you know how much I value reliability.”

The man straightened. “This will get there, my lord.”

“Oh, I know I will,” Petyr said, voice smooth. “And once I’ve received word that the letter has arrived safely, you’ll get the rest of what I promised.”

The man’s face broke into a greedy smile, and with a nod, he tucked the letter into his cloak and slipped out the door.

Baelish waited until the footsteps faded, then turned back to the desk.

From the top of the desk, he picked up another letter, one that was identical in every way to the first. He unfolded it briefly, letting his eyes sweep across the carefully crafted words, and then refolded it with the same meticulous care.

Moments later, he summoned another man who had been waiting downstairs, this one broader of shoulder, a hedge knight rather than a lord’s son. This man bowed with far less grace.

“I have a task that needs to be done,” Petyr said, holding out the twin letter. “This letter is for the Vale. It must reach Lady Arryn. You are to set out at once and sail from Duskendale. You’ll find passage waiting at the docks, courtesy of a merchant friend of mine.”

The man grunted an affirmative and took the letter.

“Do it right,” Baelish added, his voice a half-whisper, “and you’ll find yourself considerably wealthier. Do it wrong ... well. You won’t live long enough to regret it.”

The man gave him a toothless grin and left.

Petyr turned then, walking slowly toward the hearth, the fire crackling gently. He poured himself a cup of wine, savoring the silence that followed. The world outside raged with rumor and uncertainty — a king murdered, a bastard on the throne, a wolf uprising in the North, Baratheon brothers circling like vultures. The game had never been more dangerous.

And yet, as he stared into the fire, the flickering light dancing in his eyes, Petyr Baelish felt calm. Confident.

Chaos isn’t a pit, he reminded himself.

A line he believed in more than any prayer, any code of honor.

Chaos is a ladder.

He smiled again, wine on his tongue, heat from the flames licking at his face.

And he would climb it — step by bloody step — until he stood alone at the top.

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The grey skies hung low over Castle Black, snowflakes drifting lazily down like ash from an old fire. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood in the courtyard, his thick black cloak dusted white at the shoulders, arms crossed as he watched the slow chaos of men preparing for the ranging. Crates were being hoisted onto wagons, horses stomped and snorted in the cold, and brothers shouted at one another over who had misplaced a bag of oats.

Jeor shook his head and exhaled hard, breath steaming in the air. “Seven hells,” he muttered. “You’d think after all these years we’d be better at this.”

Beside him, Maester Aemon leaned slightly on his staff, eyes looking out over the mess below unseeing but still sharp with wisdom. “The Wall is old, Lord Commander, and so are its ways. But the men are ever new. And they must learn.”

Jeor grunted. “Aye, some of them barely know how to shit without instruction.”

His eyes drifted to the edge of the courtyard where Samwell Tarly was struggling to lift a sack onto one of the wagons. The boy nearly toppled backward under the weight. Jeor sighed. “That one ... I heard of his father. Randyll Tarly. A hard man. Respected, even in the North. Killed men in battle before he had hair on his chest.”

Maester Aemon’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Yes, I’ve heard the same. Luckily for us his son turned out rather well, I think.”

Jeor turned to look at him and snorted, incredulous. “Are we talking about the same boy? The Tarly boy who joined the wall seems more likely to trip on his own sword than swing it.”

“He’s not a warrior, no,” Aemon conceded. “But he reads, he listens. He’s clever when he’s calm. Samwell may not win battles with a blade, but don’t be so quick to count him out. The Night’s Watch needs men of the mind as well as the body.”

Jeor snorted again but didn’t disagree. “Well, as long as he keeps those clever wits about him on the way to Craster’s, maybe he’ll live long enough to be useful.”

They walked slowly along the ramparts, overlooking the preparations below. Jeor’s eyes narrowed as he watched a group of men lash barrels to a sled.

“Craster,” Jeor muttered. “Miserable old bastard. But he’s always got something useful to say ... or useful enough if you can get past the stink of pigshit and pride.”

“You believe he’ll speak plainly?” Aemon asked.

“No,” Jeor said flatly. “But he might let something slip. He always does if you let him ramble long enough. I want to know what’s happening beyond his keep. The wildlings have gone strangely silent. And more importantly, more rangers have gone missing lately than we have had for several years.”

The two men fell quiet, the weight of one name lingering between them.

Benjen.

Jeor’s jaw tensed. “He should’ve been back by now. If he was alive, he’d have found a way back. And if he were dead, well I doubt the wildlings would have been able to keep that quiet.”

Maester Aemon’s voice was quiet. “Sometimes, no sign is the sign. But perhaps it's all worry for nothing. Perhaps you’ll find him out there, freezing his arse off, wondering why you are looking so concerned.”

Jeor gave a dry chuckle, though there was no joy in it.

Then, as if on cue, Maester Aemon frowned. “Have you given any more thought to Mance’s letter?”

Jeor tilted his head and growled. “I have.”

Aemon slowly turned towards him. “And?”

“I think while I trust the man probably about as far as I could throw him … the man who once fought for the Watch may be worth talking to … and that’s exactly what I hate about it,” Jeor spat, kicking at a crust of snow and sending it scattering. “That bloody turncloak thinks he can play diplomat now? Asking for a meeting as if he hadn’t betrayed every damned oath he swore.”

Aemon didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Jeor sighed, tugging his glove tighter. “I’ll send word through Craster. If Mance wants to talk, he can come find us. He won’t have to meet at the Wall. Not near Castle Black. But we can find somewhere between.”

He paused. “And if it’s a trap ... well, at least I’ll be close enough to take his head myself.”

Suddenly, a sharp crack split the air, followed by a strangled cry of pain. Jeor spun toward the sound, eyes narrowing.

“What now?” he muttered as he moved to the edge of the rampart.

Below, a supply cart had collapsed on one side, a large cask having rolled off onto one of the men who was currently being helped by his brothers. The man on the ground was clutching his leg, grimacing and cursing.

Aemon tilted his head. “What happened?”

“Looks like someone overloaded the wagon,” Jeor replied grimly. “Sidewall gave out … sure looks like it is Karl Tanner who suffered the worse for it, idiots probably thought that stacking everything on the close wagon would save time.”

Aemon adjusted his robe. “Is he badly hurt?”

“Looks it. Might’ve broken his foot or injured his leg.” Jeor watched as two men helped Tanner to his feet, with him being unable to put any weight on his foot. “Might have to leave him behind to recover. Last thing I need is something else slowing us down, this one with a limp and a foul mood.”

Aemon nodded thoughtfully. “Tanner’s never been to Craster’s. And if I may be honest, he strikes me as the kind of man who would be ... covetous of the feast Craster enjoys while providing the meager feast for his guests. And if you hoped to gain anything from this visit that attitude is probably not something you need, especially with Craster’s temper.”

Jeor chuckled. “Aye. Last thing we need is one of ours eyeing Craster’s daughters.”

“Or his wine.”

Jeor gave Aemon a nod and began helping the Maester descend the stairs toward the courtyard. “I best get the rest of this mess sorted, else we’ll be leaving by moonlight.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Maester Aemon nodded and rubbed his arms. “The Starks are right,” he murmured, half to himself. “It sure feels like winter is coming.”

Jeor stopped, turned his head over his shoulder, and spat into the snow.

“Aye,” he said. “And I’d sure like to be on the road before it gets here.”

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Ned Stark had long since lost track of time.

There were no windows in the black cells beneath the Red Keep, no shafts of sun or moonlight to mark the passage of days, no sound but the soft drip of water from stone and the scurrying of rats. He did not know if it had been a week or a month. His beard had grown long, coarse against the skin of his chest, and his limbs ached from cold and the chill stone floor.

He had prayed to the old gods. He had thought of his daughters. He had tried not to think of Robert, or of the moment he’d torn the seal from the parchment that named him Protector of the Realm. And yet, having nothing else to do, the memories of hearing his friends fate haunted him.

Then came the sound.

A key scraping in a lock.

The heavy groan of a door swinging open.

A blinding light flooded the cell, stabbing at his eyes like blades. Ned flinched, raising a trembling hand to shield his face. The pain behind his eyelids was sharp and immediate—he had not seen true light in so long he had almost forgotten it.

Slowly, painfully, his eyes adjusted. A figure stepped forward, silhouetted by torchlight, holding something in one hand.

“Food,” the man said simply, setting a plate down before him.

Ned blinked again, still blinking tears from his eyes. His stomach roared to life before his mind had caught up. He seized the plate and began devouring the contents with shaking hands—crusty bread, soft cheese, a roast chicken leg far richer than anything his stomach was ready for. But he didn’t care. He tore into it like a … starving wolf.

A soft, dry chuckle came from the edge of the room.

“Well,” said a familiar voice, “isn’t this a sight?”

Ned froze mid-bite. He looked up slowly, lips glistening with grease. His eyes met the smirking, almost pitying face of Tyrion Lannister.

“There are few men in the realm I would consider myself to look better than,” Tyrion said, his grin widening, “but here sits the honorable Ned Stark, and I’d wager that nine out of ten maidens would choose me over you at this particular moment.”

Ned spat on the ground near Tyrion’s feet and glared. “If you’ve come to gloat, get on with it and be done. I wasn’t willing to talk to your sister, and I’ll not waste breath on you.”

Tyrion gave an exaggerated wince. “Yes, well, I can hardly blame you for that. I myself find speaking with Cersei to be a burden. Something that is usually only possible with vast amounts of wine.” He glanced down and patted the edge of his cloak. “Unfortunately, to my great displeasure I seem to be forced to talk to her now more than ever, especially now that I’ve taken on a new position.”

Ned’s gaze drifted toward the brooch pinned to Tyrion’s chest, the golden hand clutched in a pin.

He coughed, nearly choking on the food in his throat. “Hand of the King,” he rasped, his voice like gravel. “So that’s what the realm has come to.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Careful. If you insult the Hand, you might find yourself locked in a dungeon.”

Ned growled as he glared at him.

Tyrion smiled and shrugged. “But I’m not here for sport. I came to ask if you would consider writing a letter.”

Ned narrowed his eyes. “To whom?”

“To Stannis. And a few of the other great lords. Something simple. You retract your previous claim about Cersei’s children. Say it was a mistake. Say you were misled.”

Ned scoffed. “Your sister locked me in the dark and left me to rot. If I needed any confirmation I was right, I have it. And now you want me to write something for her?” He shook his head. “With the old gods as my witness, there’s no letter I could write that would make her lies into the truth.”

Tyrion sighed and shrugged. “I figured you might say that. But it was worth asking. You see, I’m trying to stop a war.”

“War?” Ned’s eyes sharpened.

“Yes,” Tyrion said, his tone flattening. “Thanks in part to your last letter. Stannis has rallied men from Dragonstone. Renly’s parading about in the Reach, making noises with his Tyrell friends—though frankly, if those two manage to kill each other, it might save us all the trouble. And then there’s your son.”

Ned’s head snapped up. “Robb?”

Tyrion gave a solemn nod. “He’s called the banners. Preparing to ride south, they say. With quite a few northern lords at his back. The boy moves is smart and moves quickly. Must take after his mother.”

Ned’s heart hammered. He leaned forward. “You’re certain?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that,” Tyrion said. “There’s nothing in it for me. And I doubt even I could manufacture such a tale and make you believe it.”

Ned studied him for a long moment, searching for deceit, but the dwarf merely stood there, looking tired and—more surprisingly—genuinely concerned.

“Of course,” Tyrion added with a shrug, “Even if you did write a letter now, it would be read as having been written under duress. Which might embolden the North rather than dissuade them. And the truth is ... we can’t let you go.”

Ned sat back against the wall, breathing heavily. “So I’m to just stay here until I die.”

“No,” Tyrion said quietly. “It’s worse. You are to live, but you can do nothing about it. Despite your obvious complete ability to play. You’re a key piece in the game, Lord Stark. And no one can agree where to place you on the board. My father says you’re not to be harmed, just in case you’re needed. My sister wants your head on a spike. And me? I just want to do what is best for the realm.”

Ned gave a bitter laugh. “You’ve part of the wrong family for that.”

Tyrion smirked, but it quickly faded. “Perhaps. But that was not exactly a choice I was given, and it is up to me to make do with what I’ve been given.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, Ned spoke, his voice softer. “If Cersei were to tell the truth ... take responsibility ... the throne would pass to Stannis. I would swear to protect her children. No harm would come to them. And a war may yet be avoided.”

Tyrion shook his head sadly. “You still don’t understand. She would burn the realm to ashes before she let that happen. And my father … he’d raze the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms before letting the Lannister name suffer disgrace.”

“Then we’re done here,” Ned said, folding his arms.

“Yes,” Tyrion said, almost sadly. “We are.”

He paused at the door, glancing back.

“For what little it’s worth ... I’m glad she didn’t go further. Imprisonment is merciful by her standards. But I’ll see what can be done about getting you out of the black cells, perhaps into a room in the tower. Still under guard, of course. But warmer. And less wet. With natural light.”

“I don’t need your favors.”

“Maybe not. But not every lion is the enemy of the wolves.”

He turned again, the torchlight casting his shadow long and thin on the damp floor.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Tyrion added. “Whether or not I can get you better accommodations, I’ll make sure you’re fed properly. That’s the least I can do.”

The cell door groaned shut behind him, plunging Ned back into darkness.

…

And then, once again, from the far back of the cell—where the stone wall appeared solid came a faint scraping sound.

“I thought you forgot about me after our last visit.” Ned said before looking up grimly. “Have you come to tell me more pleasant truths, spider?”

From behind a hidden door, Varys stepped into view, clad in his soft, flowing robes, his hands folded demurely in front of him.

“You’ve grown more cynical in your solitude, Lord Stark,” Varys said gently. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected. I do apologize for the delay in returning. It’s … not like I had an excuse to visit often, not without drawing attention.”

Ned's expression darkened. “I had assumed something was going to happen after our last conversation. But instead, I’ve sat here, day after day, counting bricks, roaches, and rats.”

Varys offered a shallow bow of his bald head. “And for that, I am sorry. I waited for the right time. The realm moves slowly—like a glacier—but when it shifts, everything seems to happen all at once. I was just waiting for that moment, but while you were waiting, I made sure more food found its way to you. That is … something, I hope?”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “You’ve come with something more than supper and fancy words. What do you want?”

“Straight to business,” Varys said with the faintest smile. “Good. I’ve come to help you.”

Ned gave a humorless laugh. “Tyrion said the same thing. He offered me a way out—if I would write a letter. Will you ask for my loyalty as well? My signature? My silence?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Varys said, shaking his head. “I might disagree with Lord Tyrion on many things, though he is cleverer than most think. But I, like him, wish to prevent as many deaths as possible.”

“Then I’m glad that my imprisonment was such a boon for the realm,” Ned muttered, the bitterness sharp in his voice.

Varys looked pained. “As hard as it is to hear, you are but a small piece in what is happening and me finding a way to free you would have only benefitted you at a great risk to myself. There was little to no benefit for the realm. Your letter may have quickened the process but a war was inevitable the moment Robert died and Cersei placed her son on the throne. But there may yet be a path forward. And it begins with a task I would request of you.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “A task?”

“I received word from one of my little birds, just earlier this week,” Varys said carefully, watching Ned’s face. “There are dragons again in the world.”

Ned blinked before forcing out a laugh. “Dragons?”

“Yes.”

“You’re mad.”

“Not yet,” Varys said calmly. “Though I suspect many will think me so when I start spreading the news.”

Ned leaned forward slightly, searching Varys’s expression. “I always had a feeling that you knew more than you let on. That you kept your secrets. But I never thought you lied.”

“I do not lie, Lord Stark,” Varys said solemnly. “The Targaryen girl in the east—Daenerys—is said to have brought dragons back to life. Three of them. Hatched from stone, born in flame.”

Ned said nothing at first, simply staring at the eunuch. Then he gave another dry laugh. “And you want me to help her. After what her family did to mine, after the Mad King burned my father alive and strangled my brother … you want me to help her?”

“I understand how this must sound,” Varys said, lowering his gaze. “You are right to feel anger. Her father was a monster. Her brother, from all accounts, was at least shortsighted. But she is not them. From what I’ve learned, she has endured great pain in a short time—exile, slavery, loss. She is young. Forming still. And she would benefit from someone like you … someone with honor. Perhaps you could help guide her toward a future that serves the realm.”

Ned looked away, jaw clenched, wrestling with the emotions that flared up—grief, rage. “Even if I believed she wasn’t like her family … why would I go there rather than head home?”

Varys hesitated, then said, “Because your son may already be with her.”

Ned’s head snapped up. “Robb? But Tyrion said …”

“No,” Varys said gently. “Not Robb.”

“… Jon?” Ned whispered.

Varys nodded. “After your daughters escaped King’s Landing, an act, that I must say, was quite impressive, your daughters did indeed return north. I’ve had it confirmed. But Jon Snow, and the other boy you brought to court … they went east.”

Ned stared at him in stunned silence.

“I’d heard whispers,” Varys continued. “Reports of two young men matching their descriptions making their way toward Meereen, at first I was confused as to their motive. But I’m now almost certain that they are travelling in the company of Daenerys.”

“Jon is in Essos … with Daenerys, but how did he …” he trailed off before looking up at Varys. “Why is he there?”

“I wondered if it was on your orders,” Varys said. “But judging by your reaction … clearly not.”

Ned nodded slowly as he muttered to himself, before looking up again. “What about Robb and the North?”

Varys shrugged. “Despite the concerns of the Lannisters the North will take time to ready itself. And your son will be safe, for now. But the realm … the realm teeters on the brink. You, Lord Stark, may be able to keep it from toppling.”

Ned was silent for a long while, lost in thought, eyes drifting to the dark ceiling above. “How will I find them?” he finally asked. “I’ve never set foot in Essos. I don’t speak the languages, I don’t know the roads, and—” he gestured to himself “—I’m not exactly in shape for wandering through the wilderness.”

“If you do this, I will give you all the information I have,” Varys said. “As best I can determine, Daenerys is in the Red Waste—a vast desert east of Meereen. I cannot say where she’s going next, but perhaps by the time you arrive in Essos, I’ll have more details to narrow down your search. And … as luck would have it, I have just the person in mind to go with you. Someone that even you with your vaulted sense of morals should not object to travelling with.”

Ned considered him for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Essos. I’ll find the Targaryen girl. But I will make my own judgment about her. I will not help a tyrant to the throne.”

“Of course, I was expecting no less,” Varys said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He pulled a key from the folds of his robe, glinting in the dim light. Kneeling beside Ned, he slid it into the shackles on his ankles and turned. The metal gave way with a loud clunk, then another, and Ned Stark was free for the first time in gods-knew-how-long.

Varys stood and extended a hand to him.

“Come, Lord Stark. Let us begin a new chapter.”

Ned stared at the outstretched hand for a moment—then took it.

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The white building stood like a silent monolith in the heart of Asshai—its surface smooth and seamless, looking untouched by time or the filth that clung to most corners of the dark city. The building had no windows, no visible entrance, yet as directed Kael’thar stood before it, his breath shallow, his hands trembling slightly beneath the folds of his black and crimson robes.

His fingers tightened around the pouch tied at his belt, the blood still curiously warm.

Walking up to the wall, he pressed his palm against the blank white wall and muttered a word in a language older than Valyria, older even than the first shadows of the East. The stone rippled like water before revealing a doorway.

He stepped through.

Inside, the light was blinding. No torches, no crystals, just a colorless radiance that seemed to come from everywhere. The hall stretched forward appearing to go forever, and though Kael’thar had been told all about this path in detail, it still felt incredibly wrong. Despite the ground looking as if it was made of marble the floor made no sound beneath his feet.

Finally reaching the end of the hallway he saw that the corridor opened into a great domed chamber. It was as white and seamless as the rest, but the air within felt colder, like it had been untouched by warmth for centuries.

Kael’thar did not speak. He moved to the center of the chamber, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head low.

“I have the blood,” he said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “All it cost was a few whispered directions, sending them toward the new dragon queen.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, from high above came a voice. Cold and distant.

“We shall see how this works out. But you have done well. The blood is the key. It always has been.”

Another pause. Then:

“Leave the pouch on the floor and you are dismissed.”

Kael’thar did not wait. He bowed deeper, rose with practiced grace, and turned on his heel. As he passed through the chamber’s threshold and back into the long corridor, something echoed behind him.

Laughter.

Faint. High. Amused.

But inhuman.

A shiver traced his spine. He stopped, glanced behind him. The chamber was empty once more, the pouch he had put down seemingly having vanished. He pulled his robes tighter around himself and moved faster.

By the time he reached the outside wall, his skin was clammy. He passed through the rippling white surface without another word and stepped back into the choking black streets of Asshai.

Only then did he breathe again.

Turning back, he looked up at the building—utterly still, utterly silent.

He shook his head, more to himself than anyone else.

"Let them deal with her now," he muttered.

And with that, Kael’thar vanished into the misted alleys of the shadow city, leaving the white monolith behind.

Kind Regards,

FavoriteAuthor

If you like this content do not hesitate to smash that like button and subscribe. Haha but seriously if you do enjoy the story - do favorite it, other than messaging me or leaving a comment it’s the only way I know if you are enjoying the stories and chapters.

Story Note 1 – First of all, I have written several of these interlude chapters that take place away from the main plot and I have to say that this one was by far my favorite and I really hope that everyone enjoys reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Story Note 2 – For those who managed to pick it Karl Tanner was the individual responsible for starting the ruckus at Craster’s hut. I wonder how events up North are bound to change because of this?

Story Note 3 – As always really enjoyed writing Tyrion. I think he said it best he didn’t chose to be a Lannister but will play the cards he was given to the best of his ability.

Story Note 4 – And now for Varys/Ned! Well this is certainly big. Ned is about to be free and heading towards Jon. Obviously I imagine a large part of him would want to go home to see the rest of his family but I think hearing that Jon has joined Daenerys’ party would make him feel honor bound to find Jon and have a chat with him … this could be big … also I imagine since he was there he would want to get a measure of Daenerys to make sure she is not on the path to becoming her father. As for who Varys has as a potential travel companion … any guesses? Personally, I’m hoping for Bronn! Haha :)

Story Note 5 – And finally the Shadow-binder in Asshai … this will obviously become very important for the story so not giving anything away … but looks like giving away their blood … well … ugh oh.

A large thanks to those of you out there who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you all are enjoying them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or have reached out to me directly.

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Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own any part of the Game of Thrones nor Harry Potter universes That includes but is not limited to the characters, locations, … Who knew.