The Winter Wizard - Interlude 7 - The Plotting Begins

The wind screamed as it swept through the narrow towers of Dragonstone, salt and storm clawing against ancient stone. Within the dimly-lit chamber, warmed only by the dull crackle of coals in the hearth, Stannis Baratheon stood rigid near the largest of the windows, his face cast in hard shadow. He did not look up as Melisandre entered.

She walked softly, red silks trailing behind her like a trail of blood, her hands clasped around a parchment bearing the broken wax seal of a flame. She did not speak until she stood almost directly beside him.

“Dragons have returned to the world,” she said, her voice low, reverent. “A red priestess from the east sent word. A miracle. Three eggs have hatched.”

Stannis turned, the frown etched on his face fitting his face better than any smile. He stepped away from the window, toward her.

“First comes a letter from Lord Stark’s hand revealing that the boy on the throne is no Baratheon. But rather a bastard born of incest.”

He shook his head, disgusted.

“Ned Stark … honorable to a fault. And a fool. He tried to play the game with a soldier’s code and expected justice in a court of snakes.”

Melisandre remained still, waiting.

“There’s been no word since,” Stannis continued, his voice tightening. “No ravens from the Hand. No news from the capital. Then my brother decides he should next in line for the throne,” he said, voice hollow with restrained rage. “And now this …” He motioned sharply to the letter in her hand. “Dragons. What does it mean?”

Melisandre’s expression did not change. “I don’t know,” she said at last.

Stannis’s jaw clenched. In one sudden motion, he grabbed the goblet from the nearby table and hurled it across the room. It struck the stone wall with a crash, scattering wine like blood across the floor.

“You don’t know?” he growled. “Then look into your damn fires! That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re here because my wife believes in you. You burn things to your gods, speak riddles, and claim to see the future. What use are you if you can’t explain this?”

She did not flinch. Her gaze remained steady, unwavering.

“I am looking,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “But what I see … I do not understand.”

Stannis opened his mouth, rage smoldering behind his eyes, but Melisandre raised a hand and stepped forward.

“There is fire,” she said. “Flame and shadow. A darkness vast as the night sky, moving across the world like a plague. And then—light. A sword, burning red in a warrior’s hand. A king born of smoke and storm. I have seen this before … but now things have shifted slightly.”

Stannis watched her warily.

“What do you see?”

Melisandre tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “The dragons are not the end. They are the beginning. A sign. Something ancient stirs in the east, yes … but the true war is still to come. Not for thrones. Not for crowns. For life itself.”

She stepped closer, her voice intensifying like a flame catching dry wood.

“The cold winds rise, my king. From beyond the Wall. I see bones in snow, and dead things walking. And amidst all of it, I see a man.”

Stannis frowned. “Me?”

She paused for a second before nodding. “I believe so. You are in the fire, always. A shadow among flame. And though I cannot read all the signs … the one thing I am more certain of than ever …” Her eyes locked on his, glowing faintly in the hearthlight. “Is that Azor Ahai will put an end to the darkness. That, I am certain of.”

Stannis’s brow furrowed. He said nothing, only stared, pacing away as if to shake off the weight of her words. He stood by the hearth, where the flames danced low and red, casting shapes that only Melisandre seemed to see.

After a moment, his voice came again, quieter, but still edged with iron.

“Azor Ahai? Some hero from old stories.”

“Not a story,” she said firmly. “But rather a prophecy. His destiny is to fight the Great Other, the one who brings the long night. Azor Ahai will wield Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes. And he will triumph.”

Stannis looked down, silent for several seconds before finally letting out a sharp breath, as he dragged a hand down his face.

“Dragons,” he muttered. “The last ones died out a century ago. And now you would have me believe that they live again. Who brought them back?”

Melisandre looked out the window before looking to Stannis, her expression unreadable. “The Targaryen girl. Across the sea. Daenerys Stormborn. She was reborn in fire … with three living dragons.”

Stannis scoffed quietly, but there was no humor in it. “So, what, now the dragons belong to her? Am I to bend the knee to a silver-haired girl playing with fire?”

“It is more than just playing with fire,” Melisandre said. “She is fire. But I am certain that she is not Azor Ahai. I believe that the Lord of Light chose you. You are the rightful king. The realm is heading  to chaos. Your brother is dead, the boy on the throne is a lie, and the eternal night approaches. The time has come.”

“To do what?” Stannis asked sharply.

“To claim your destiny.”

He turned, eyes burning. “You want me to march on King’s Landing. But I have no army.”

“You have faith.”

“I have nothing,” he snapped. “Not yet.”

Melisandre stepped closer. “You will have what you need and more. The Lord will provide. He tests you, as all worthy men are tested. But you must burn away doubt. Burn away weakness. Only then will your destiny be achieved.”

Stannis looked at her, eyes narrowing.

And in response Melisandre smiled faintly, enigmatic and eerie.

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The thick stone walls of Winterfell kept the bitter wind at bay, but Robb Stark still wore his cloak, fur-lined and fastened with a silver wolf’s head brooch. The fire in the hearth crackled softly as he stood by the tall window, looking out over the godswood, his expression shadowed by thought.

Behind him, Sansa and Arya sat on the long bench, Arya appreciatively quiet for once.

“I still can’t believe how lucky you were,” Robb said, finally turning to face them. “The letter Stannis passed along from Father …” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I shudder to think what might’ve happened had you both stayed in King’s Landing after Father sent out that letter.”

Sansa rose first, stepping forward to wrap her arms around him. “I’m happy we’re here,” she said softly. “Safe.”

She pulled back, her eyes glimmering with worry. “But … I do wish I knew what happened to Jon and Harry. They’re the only reason Arya and I made it off that dock.”

Arya stood as well, nodding firmly. “It’s been months since we left Kings Landing, even with bad weather they should have arrived by now.”

Robb looked from one sister to the other, then turned back toward the window. “We can only hope that wherever they are, they’re safe.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. A page stepped into the solar, bowing slightly. “My lord, the northern lords await you in the Great Hall.”

Robb nodded once. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly.”

The page bowed again and slipped out.

Arya immediately straightened, her eyes flashing. “We’re coming with you.”

Robb arched a brow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Arya crossed her arms, feet planted firmly. “Why not?”

He started to answer, then caught himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Because our mother would say no.”

“Good thing she’s not here,” Arya said with a smirk.

He shook his head, resigned. “Even if I told you not to come, I imagine you’d find a way into the hall anyway, wouldn’t you?”

Arya didn’t answer—she didn’t have to. The slight, guilty smile tugging at the corner of her mouth said it all.

Robb sighed, but then caught the look on Sansa’s face. While she didn’t have the same defiant look as Arya, she looked almost embarrassed.

“You as well?” he asked.

Sansa hesitated, then nodded. “I want to know what’s being done about Father.”

Robb looked between them and exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging for just a moment. “You’ve been spending too much time with Arya.”

Arya stuck out her lower lip dramatically. “That’s not fair.”

He chuckled despite himself and turned toward the door. “Fine. Come. But try not to make a scene.”

The hall was filled with firelight, flickering against shields and spears, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air buzzed with voices, everyone excited for what was happening.

Robb Stark strode through the crowd, watching as both Arya and Sansa walked into the door and then immediately stepped into the shadows alongside the far walls. The lords of the North, old and young, turned as he entered. Their cheers rose like a storm.

“The King in the North!”

The cry echoed off the walls, a dozen voices at first, then dozens more, and then the whole hall.

“THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!”

Robb moved toward the high seat, where Catelyn sat beside Theon Greyjoy, who lounged slightly in the chair beside hers, pride alight in his eyes. Robb nodded to them both and took his place at the head of the hall.

Catelyn stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your father would be proud,” she said, voice soft amidst the noise.

Robb did not smile as he looked over to her. “I look forward to having that chat with him myself.”

He stepped forward, raising a hand until the crowd began to quiet.

“The Lannisters have gone too far,” he said, voice clear and strong. “They think they can butcher our men, imprison my father, and call it peace.”

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the room.

“Eddard Stark would not sit idle if they took one of us,” Robb continued. “He would march. And so shall I.”

The murmurs became a cheer again.

“I will not accept their peace, certainly not with their boot on my father’s neck.”

The cheers were almost deafening as he turned to Theon, who had risen and now stood beside him.

“I need you to return home. Speak with your father. Convince him. The North will need help and ships.”

Theon nodded at once. “I’ll not let you down, Robb.”

Robb clasped his forearm. “I’m counting on you.”

As Theon departed, the mood of the hall slowly settled, as everyone began feasting and drinking. Catelyn remained seated, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“While I know this is necessary. I don’t like this,” she said quietly once the crowd was distracted. “The South is a lion’s den. We’ve no idea what they’re planning or what we will be marching into. We have no idea what’s happened to your father … what could be happening still.”

Robb didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the rear of the hall, where his sisters stood in the shadows, listening.

“At least the family is safe,” Catelyn added, her voice almost a whisper.

Robb’s lips tightened, as he looked south. “Almost all of them.”

She looked up at him, and for a moment her stern expression faltered.

“Yes,” she said, as she sighed softly. “Almost all of them.”

A cool wind blew lightly as Robb stood alone atop the battlements, cloaked in fur, watching the quiet spread of the North beneath the moonlight. He heard footsteps behind him, soft and light.

“You didn’t make a scene,” he said without turning.

Arya came to stand beside him. “Didn’t see a reason to.”

“You’re growing up,” he said.

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say that.”

He smiled slightly, then looked out across the snow-covered land.

“You really think Jon and Harry are still alive?”

“I know they are,” Robb said, voice firm. “They have to be.”

Arya nodded slowly. “Then we’ll see them again.”

They stood together in silence, two Starks looking into the dark.

Then, faint but clear, the sound came … a howl.

Low and mournful at first, then echoed by another. And another. The direwolves, calling in the night.

Arya flinched.

Robb turned toward her sharply. He hadn’t expected that. Arya never flinched.

“Arya?” he said quietly. “You all right?”

She looked away, down at her boots. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if shielding herself from more than just the cold.

“I’m fine,” she muttered.

Robb didn’t move, didn’t press. He’d learned with Arya that patience bore more fruit than persistence.

A beat passed. Then another.

She sighed. “It’s just … lately …”

Robb turned more fully toward her. “Lately what?”

Arya shifted uncomfortably, as if annoyed with herself for even saying anything. She kicked at a small rock stuck between the stonework with the toe of her boot.

“It’s probably nothing,” she said, still not looking at him. “Stupid, really.”

Robb raised a brow. “I doubt that.”

Arya hesitated, then gave him a quick glance. “I’ve been having … dreams.”

Robb’s brow knit together, the seriousness in her voice cutting through the night.

Arya looked back over the walls into the woods. “Weird dreams. Almost like I’m … not me.”

She finally turned her head to meet his gaze, her voice low, uncertain. “It’s like I’m Nymeria. Running. Hunting. Feeling the wind in my fur. Smelling blood on the air. And it all feels so real.”

Robb didn’t respond at once. He studied her, his expression unreadable. The only sound between them was the whisper of the wind and the far-off calls of the direwolves in the dark.

He stepped closer.

“I’ve felt something too,” he said after a pause. “With Grey Wind. Usually when I’m asleep. But sometimes when something’s wrong. When I’m awake it feels like a pressure in my chest and slight pain in my head.”

Arya nodded, biting her lip. “It’s like … we’re a part of them. Or they’re a part of us.”

Robb looked over at her, a touch of something unreadable in his eyes. “You haven’t told Mother?”

Arya gave him a look. “What do you think?”

“Didn’t think so.”

She gave a small huff of laughter, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I think it started when we left King’s Landing. Or maybe before that. I don’t know. Maybe it was something that happened because of Harry. Maybe it’s always been there.”

Robb nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s in our blood.”

Arya turned to look at him fully. “Do you think I’m mad?”

Robb offered her a faint smile. “No … You’ve always been strange. But not mad.”

She smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

They stood in silence again, this time more comfortable, the direwolves’ howling fading into the night. Above them, the stars began to pierce through the grey veil of cloud, cold and distant.

Arya looked away, wiping her sleeve across her nose.

“Jon would understand,” she said quietly.

Robb glanced at her. “Aye. I think he would.”

“He used to say Ghost was the only one who ever really listened to him.”

Robb chuckled. “Ghost was the only one who didn’t talk back.”

Arya’s mouth twitched into a brief smile.

“I hope he’s with Harry,” she murmured. “I don’t like thinking of either of them alone.”

“They’re not alone,” Robb said. “They have each other. And they’re stronger than people give them credit for.”

Arya nodded slowly. “I just hope … I hope they come back. Both of them.”

Robb said nothing, but his jaw clenched, and his hand tightened on the edge of the stone wall.

The quiet settled between them once more. The last echo of the wolves faded away, leaving the air still.

Then Arya leaned her head against his arm. Not quite a hug. Just … leaning. Like when they were children and he’d let her sit beside him while reading by the fire.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move away.

Together, they watched the night unfold over the land of the North.

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The midday sun cast long shadows through the lattice windows of the tower chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of parchment and wine. Cersei Lannister stood near the hearth, arms crossed, her golden hair catching the light like a halo, though nothing in her expression spoke of divinity.

Tyrion, seated comfortably at the table with a goblet of arbor red in hand, waved the open scroll in the air like a fan.

“Well,” he said, smiling in that familiar way that always managed to enrage his sister, “I’ve seen many unexpected things in my time … a drunken king toppling into his own piss, a septon caught in bed with a goat, but this ... this takes the prize.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “That letter is forged.”

Tyrion chuckled, setting it down. “No, sister. I had it read thrice. Tywin Lannister’s own seal. The ink was dry, the wax unbroken. It’s real.”

“It should be me,” Cersei snapped, striding forward. “I’m Joffrey’s mother, I should be the Hand of the King.”

Tyrion tilted his head. “Ah, yes. The Queen Mother. What a sight that would be. You playing Hand of the King. Would you wear a little pin too? Perhaps on one of those ... elaborate gowns you favor? Something to match your smile.”

She snarled, stepping closer. “You think this is a game? You, a miserable little creature, think you can rule anything? You’ll drink and whore the Seven Kingdoms into ruin.”

Tyrion took another sip of wine, licking a drop from his lip. “You must be confusing me with our dearly departed Robert. He certainly left the realm in pristine condition, didn’t he?”

Cersei’s lip curled.

“Unlike Robert,” Tyrion went on, “I actually believe I would be interested in managing the realm. I listen. I understand the way things work. And apparently …” he said, pointing to the letter that Cersei had thrown onto the table after reading it, “Father agrees.”

She stared at him, venom in her gaze, then looked to the letter still resting on the table.

“I’ll burn it,” she hissed.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “By all means. I doubt I could stop you even if I tried, and I won’t. But I daresay I doubt Father would only send one letter. And eventually, he will return to King’s Landing. How long do you think it’ll take him to realize what you’ve done?”

For a moment, she looked like she might strike him. Instead, she turned and snatched a goblet from the nearby table and hurled it at the wall. The crash rang out like a bell tolling for her temper. Shards scattered across the floor.

She breathed heavily, then composed herself. “Fine,” she said coldly. “What do you intend to do with this ... position? Besides embarrass the family.”

Tyrion gave her a long look, his smile slowly fading. “Has there been any word of the Stark girls?”

Cersei’s eyes flickered. “No.”

“Are you quite sure?” Tyrion asked, voice soft but probing. “Because if you’ve heard something or have them squirreled away somewhere, I need to know.”

She paused, then looked at him as if weighing the worth of her words. “Lord Varys had heard a whisper. That the ship that they boarded sailed north. Back to the wolves, no doubt.”

Tyrion sighed. “Considering what happened to her father, running was likely the wisest thing they’ve done in their lives.”

Cersei’s mouth twisted. “My son had a bride run away. Do you know what that makes him look like?”

“A lucky boy,” Tyrion said, raising his goblet in mock toast. “Do you honestly think it would have helped Joffrey’s reputation to marry the daughter of a man we branded a traitor? While said traitor rots in our dungeons? I’d say we were spared a considerable diplomatic disaster.”

Cersei took a step forward, but Tyrion raised a hand.

“We’ll come back to what to do about Lord Eddard,” he said, “but first, we need to talk about the future. My first act as Hand will be to find Joffrey a new match.”

Cersei’s laughter was sudden and sharp. “I will not have him married off so quickly, especially after what happened last time?”

Tyrion shrugged. “What happened is exactly why we need to do it now. Turn the page. Quiet the whispers. The girl fled? So what. That’s yesterday’s gossip. A new match, a strong alliance, something the realm can rally around.”

He stood, pacing slowly across the room as he spoke. “If the North won’t have us, then we find allies elsewhere. According to the rumors the Tyrells are tied to Renly, which is ... inconvenient. But the Hightowers still hold sway in the Reach. Or perhaps we can consider Dorne.”

Cersei nearly spat. “I’ll never allow one of my children to be married to anyone from Dorne.”

Tyrion stopped, turned, and gave her a long, measured look.

“Well,” he said at last, “it’s a good thing your shortsighted nature isn’t responsible for making decisions for the realm.”

Her nostrils flared. “I will not let you do this.”

“You won’t let me?” Tyrion said, feigning surprise. “You must have missed the part where Father named me Hand of the King. You can pout, Cersei. You can throw wine cups and mutter threats in the dark. But you will not stop me.”

He walked back to the table and picked up the letter again, waving it at her and smiling.

“I didn’t ask for this and I sure didn’t expect it. But now that I have it, I will use it. Because gods help us, someone has to.”

She was glaring again, her body rigid with restrained fury.

“I am the King’s mother.”

“And I,” Tyrion said, folding the letter, “am the one responsible for cleaning up the messes that son will no doubt cause.”

The chamber fell into a tense silence. Only the faint cry of gulls from the harbor below filtered in through the windows.

Tyrion downed the last of his wine and set the goblet down with a clink.

“Good talk,” he said lightly, brushing past her.

Cersei turned after him, voice low and venomous. “I will not let you ruin this for our family, I’ll be watching you.”

Tyrion smiled over his shoulder. “Of course you will. You’re so very good at watching things fall apart, hopefully I manage to surprise you.”

Kind Regards,

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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 – This and the next chapter will be little interludes giving a snapshot as to what is happening across Westeros while Jon and Harry were making their way across Essos to Daenerys.

Story Note 2 – For the most part events are still on track, although there will definitely be some huge variations from what is happening as you shall see next chapter.

Story Note 3 – For Stannis – looks like Melisandra is still seeing things in the fire although sure looks to be a bit of uncertainty. I wonder what it is she is seeing in her fires.

Story Note 4 – As for Robb – Looks like he was still crowned King of the North but this time it is to fight back and hopefully get their father. Kinda unfortunate that he still trusted Theon but hopefully his extracurriculars are a little more well thought out … only time will tell.

Story Note 5 – And finally Tyrion – (yay Tyrion) sure seems to have his hands full. Certainly hope he watches his back around Cersei as he is about to have a war to fight with the North and the Baratheons. Although I wonder who the Lannisters will approach with the marriage proposal. Honestly I think Tyrion would make the best choice for the realm so should be fun!

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.

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.