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KINGSLANDING – THE HAND'S TOWER
The fires in the chamber burned low, though the night outside was still young. The Hand's Tower overlooked the Blackwater Bay, where moonlight glimmered faint upon the dark waves. Within, however, the people inside were restless.
Daenerys paced the chamber, her silk robes swishing with each turn, bare feet whispering against the stone floor. Her silver hair gleaming as she turned once more. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed tight.
"You should rest," Tyrion Lannister said from his seat, his mismatched eyes followed her as though he expected her to collapse at any moment. "Storming across the room will not carry word from the North any swifter."
Daenerys whirled on him, eyes burning like molten violet. "How can you sit there so calm, Tyrion? We know nothing of the North. Not what is happening, not who still lives, not what horrors march this very moment. Aeron is up there, fighting for fools who scarcely understand what is at their doorstep. And I am here, forced to listen to men squabble about grain and taxes."
Her voice cracked into a snarl, and she turned away sharply, hands trembling at her sides. The firelight played upon her features, making her look both queenly and fragile at once.
Tyrion raised his brows, about to answer, but the soft, calm voice of Varys interjected instead.
"You should trust in your king, my Queen," the Spider said, seated in the shadows of the chamber with his hands folded into his robes. "You have seen his power with your own eyes. We all have. His strength is not easily measured, nor easily broken. The enemy beyond the Wall is vast, it is true… unknown in number, in sorcery, in will. But so is Aeron Grim. You know it better than most. And forgive me if this sounds cruel...but he sent you away because he knew you might be his weakness."
Daenerys turned her head slowly, her eyes narrowing, though she did not speak.
Varys's gaze was calm, unflinching. "You and your dragons. To the people of Westeros, to the lords and ladies who bend the knee, they are symbols of unmatched power. But the enemy in the North may not see them as such. Aeron knew this. He shielded you from it."
Daenerys's jaw tightened. "And left me to do nothing but wait."
Tyrion sipped his wine, then leaned forward, his voice softer. "You mentioned that Aeron's dragon...the Cannibal... was captured somehow. That beast, monstrous as it is, was chained by ice. If such a thing can happen to him, then surely you must see why we keep you here. The realm cannot risk losing both its dragons."
Daenerys's mouth parted as if to answer, but she faltered, shaking her head. Her voice grew lower, quieter. "I… I do not know what I saw. The fog was too thick, the mist was unnatural. One moment he was there in the sky with us, the next… the Cannibal was gone."
"Precisely," Tyrion said, pointing with his cup. "And that is why you must not fly again north by yourself. You cannot fight phantoms. I've no desire to see your my mounted on a spike or to be added to Aeron's army of shadows because we let you fly to your death."
Daenerys's lips twitched despite herself, the faintest ghost of a smile threatening to break her fury. "Is that all you fear? To stand amongst his shadows?"
"Fear?" Tyrion gave a humorless chuckle. "No, my Queen. I dread the thought."
The silence stretched until it was broken by the Dornish prince who had been quietly watching, leaning on his spear by the window. Oberyn Martell's dark eyes gleamed as he finally spoke.
"Well…" Oberyn began, voice smooth as silk. "I have just received a raven from my brother. As you all know he accompanied our fleet to the north, and if the raven has already reached me, then I imagine they have already docked, already seen the Wall, already glimpsed the enemy for themselves."
Daenerys's head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing. "And what did he write?"
Oberyn's smile was faint, bittersweet. "That he wished for this. To see if the stories were true. To look upon the Wall, and upon the army of the dead, and upon your king as he fights. He knew he might not return. That was his wish."
The Queen's eyes softened with a mixture of sorrow and anger, though she remained silent.
Oberyn shifted, planting the spear upon the stone floor. "So I will say this, Dragon Queen. If all is lost in the North...if they fail, then we will need you. You and your dragons. The last fire to hold back the cold."
The chamber fell to silence at that. Even the candles seemed to flicker lower, the shadows stretching long upon the walls.
Daenerys drew in a deep breath, staring out the window toward the north. Her fists clenched, knuckles white, her lips parting in a whisper meant more for herself than anyone else.
"Then the world had best pray… that Aeron does not fail."
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The corridor outside the Hand's tower was dim, lit only by guttering torches that painted the stones in flickering gold. Shadows clung to the corners, but one shadow moved when the others did not. Petyr Baelish lingered there, his head inclined ever so slightly toward the great oaken doors. His lips curved in the faintest smile as voices carried out to him the Stormborn pacing like a caged lioness, the dwarf's dry counsel, Varys' soft murmur, Oberyn's calm venom.
He heard the Dragon Queen's anger, her frustration spilling through wood and iron as if the doors were nothing. He heard her yearning for the shadow-king in the frozen North. And he heard the Spider's careful assurances, that Aeron Grim was no ordinary man, that his power was beyond measure, though even beyond measure has its end.
Baelish's eyes narrowed, his breath fogging in the cold stone hall.
"I see," he whispered to himself, words a soft hiss swallowed by the dark. "So even the Queen is not certain and that monstrous dragon is captured... Even the Spider whispers doubts behind his silken words."
He withdrew as lightly as a cat, footsteps muffled by the rushes strewn across the flagstones. When he was sure no eyes nor ears followed, he slipped into a small chamber he had claimed for such… private matters. A single candle burned low on the table, wax spilling like frozen tears. Petyr sat, drew forth a parchment, and dipped his quill into ink black as pitch.
His hand moved deftly, without hesitation. Words curved into existence, each stroke weaving a thread of chaos.
"The Shadow King wages war in the far North. He may not return. His strength, though whispered of as endless, is yet untested against this foe of winter. Prepare for his fall, for the crown may soon be loosed from his cold grip. The time to act approaches. Do not tarry."
When the quill lifted, Baelish read the lines again, savoring them like sweet wine. Not lies, not truths, but seeds, seeds that would bloom into chaos, as they always had. He rolled the parchment, sealed it with his mockingbird sigil, and called softly.
From the rafters, the raven stirred. Its black eyes caught the candlelight as though reflecting some secret fire. Baelish tied the message with nimble fingers, pausing only a heartbeat to watch the wax glisten.
The bird took wing, wings brushing the stale air as it vanished into the night beyond the narrow slit of a window.
Baelish leaned back, exhaling slowly, that sly smile returning.
"The Shadow King might be living his last breaths," he murmured to himself, voice rich with quiet satisfaction. "It would not hurt to let some people know. Chaos, after all…" He allowed the thought to hang, savoring the familiar taste of the word, his smile widening just so. "Chaos is full of opportunities."
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