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Year 300 AC
The Red Keep, Kingslanding
Qyburn's fingers traced the edge of the parchment bearing Cersei's seal. The candlelight cast long shadows across his laboratory, illuminating jars of preserved specimens and instruments whose purposes would horrify most maesters. A rat scurried along the far wall, disturbing the silence of the dungeon chamber.
He reread her instructions once more, committing each detail to memory before holding the parchment to the flame. The paper curled and blackened, crumbling to ash in the basin beside his workbench.
"Elegant," he murmured to himself, contemplating the queen regent's plan. "Ruthlessly elegant."
Cersei had summoned him three days prior, her green eyes alight with cold fury as she paced her chambers.
"The little rose thinks she's won," she had said, wine sloshing in her cup. "Prancing about the Red Keep, stealing my son with her false smiles and empty promises. The High Sparrow may have released her, but the people must know her true nature."
Qyburn recalled how she'd gripped his arm then, her nails digging through the fabric of his robe. "I want whispers in every corner of this city. I want doubt to follow her like a shadow."
He turned now to the small wooden chest on his table. Inside lay his creation—a modified poison, slow-acting but devastating, designed to mimic a wasting illness. The chest would be his "surprise" for the Tyrells, placed where only the intended target would find it.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called, his voice pleasant and measured.
The door creaked open, revealing a huddle of urchins, their small hands clutching parchment and quills. Ranging from six to twelve, the hollow-cheeked children regarded Qyburn with a mix of wariness and anticipation.
"Ah, my little birds," he greeted warmly, gesturing to the waiting basket of victuals. "Right on time."
Uncovering the basket, Qyburn revealed its bounty—fresh loaves, cured meats, and pouches of dried fruits. The children's eyes gleamed hungrily, yet they waited for his nod before reaching for the fare.
As they ate, Qyburn outlined their missions with fatherly care. "Becca, haunt the taverns near the Street of Silk. Scribble rumors of Lady Margaery entertaining strange men nightly."
The girl, scarcely ten, nodded gravely, quill poised.
"Tym, Wat—the alehouses by the Iron Gate. Write of the Tyrells hoarding grain while the smallfolk starve." He turned to the eldest. "Garen, the merchants near the Great Sept. Whisper of the Tyrells' impiety, their mockery of the Seven."
Each child absorbed the instructions, their youthful faces somber with comprehension beyond their years.
"Remember," Qyburn cautioned, "these are not falsehoods, but truths you've chanced to discover. Scrawl with tears when fitting, with outrage when needed. And always, always fade away ere inquiries arise."
After they had gone, Qyburn wrapped his wooden chest carefully in oilcloth and tucked it beneath his robes. The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, with only the occasional guard to nod respectfully as he passed.
He made his way to the Maidenvault, where Margaery's cousins had their chambers. The youngest, Alla Tyrell, was known to favor lemon cakes with honey. The kitchen staff, well-paid for their discretion, had ensured a tray would be delivered to her rooms this evening—a perfect hiding place for his package.
Qyburn slipped into the servants' passage, navigating the hidden network of corridors with practiced ease. He emerged near the kitchens, timing his arrival between the shifts of the kitchen staff. With swift, precise movements, he placed his package beneath the covered serving tray destined for Alla's chambers.
The poison wouldn't kill immediately. It would begin with fatigue, followed by stomach pains, then fever. By the time the maesters recognized the symptoms, it would be too late—and suspicion would fall exactly where Cersei intended.
Night had fallen by the time Qyburn made his way to Flea Bottom, the stench of the slums assaulting his senses as he navigated the narrow, filth-strewn streets. He wore a plain brown cloak, his face partially hidden beneath its hood.
The Leaky Flagon was nearly empty when he entered, its few patrons too deep in their cups to notice the newcomer who took a seat in the darkest corner. He ordered watered wine and waited.
An hour passed before Garen slipped through the door, his slight frame barely casting a shadow. The boy slid onto the bench across from Qyburn without a word.
"Tell me," Qyburn prompted, sliding a small pouch across the table.
"The rumors spread quick, m'lord," Garen reported, pocketing the coins without counting them. "Folk are angry about the grain stores. One man said he always knew the Tyrells were false friends to the common people."
"And the merchants?"
"They whisper about Lady Margaery's private worship—how she mocks the Mother and favors strange gods from the east." The boy leaned forward. "Three septons were listening. Their faces turned white as milk."
Qyburn nodded, pleased. "And the others?"
"Becca says the tavern girls are telling tales of their own now—about men visiting the Maidenvault at night. Tym heard a goldcloak say there might be cause to investigate."
"Excellent." Qyburn's lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "There's one more task, Garen. A delicate matter."
He produced a small vial of clear liquid. "Three drops in Lady Alla's washing water tomorrow. No more, no less. It will only redden her skin—enough to suggest a fever's beginning."
Garen took the vial, tucking it securely into a hidden pocket. "Will it hurt her bad, m'lord?"
Qyburn studied the boy's face, noting the flicker of concern. "Do you pity her?"
"No, m'lord," Garen answered quickly. "Just wondering."
"Curiosity is a valuable trait," Qyburn said softly. "Remember that pain serves a purpose in all my work. Every action advances knowledge or power—often both."
The boy nodded, his momentary hesitation replaced by the hardened pragmatism of a child who had survived Flea Bottom's cruelties.
"The queen will be pleased with your service," Qyburn added. "Perhaps pleased enough to find a more permanent position for you in the Red Keep."
Garen's eyes brightened at this rare promise of advancement. "I won't fail, m'lord."
As the boy slipped back into the night, Qyburn sipped his wine, contemplating the elegant machinery of Cersei's vengeance now set in motion. Like all his experiments, this one would yield fascinating results—and another step toward the power they both sought.
Qyburn's fingers traced the rim of his wine cup as he considered the next piece of his strategy. The kitchen servants—those invisible hands that fed the entire Red Keep—would make perfect vessels for this particular contagion. He could almost see it now: whispers passing between steaming pots, rumors simmering alongside the broths, how the royal cooks knelt in prayer before dawn, how they traced the seven-pointed star over each loaf before it entered the ovens. Such devotion would seem innocent enough until it became evidence against House Tyrell's kitchens. Faith, like poison, needed only the smallest drop to take effect.
Wolfswoods, The North
The clash of steel and war cries carried on the winter wind, growing louder as the battle between Stannis's forces and the Manderly-Frey alliance intensified. Asha Greyjoy crouched low behind a snow-covered ridge, her companions Tris Botley and Qarl the Maid pressed close beside her. Her wrists still bore the raw marks of ropes, though they'd managed to cut themselves free during the chaos that erupted when the fighting began.
"We move when they're fully engaged," Asha instructed, her voice low yet commanding. "Stannis and the Boltons can kill each other for all I care. We use the chaos to slip away."
Tris nodded, his face set with determination. "The Wolfswood will be our refuge. We know its paths better than any southern knight."
"Let's hope the gods favor the bold today," Qarl added, always vigilant, his eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of guards.
Asha felt the familiar pull of the sea, even here, leagues from the coast. Ironborn weren't meant for snow and forests, but she'd adapt. She always did.
The sounds of battle crescendoed – men screaming, horses shrieking, the dull thud of bodies falling in snow. Asha caught Qarl's eye and nodded. It was time.
They moved like shadows across the white landscape, keeping low and using the scattered pines for cover. The camp behind them had emptied of all but a few sentries, most drawn to the fighting. Those who remained were easily avoided.
Once they reached the edge of the Wolfswood, Asha felt her shoulders loosen slightly. The ancient trees rose around them, their branches heavy with snow, offering better concealment than the open plains.
"Keep low, stay silent," she reminded them, though it wasn't necessary. Both men moved with practiced stealth, following the path she picked through the underbrush.
For nearly an hour, they pushed deeper into the forest, the sounds of battle growing fainter behind them. Asha allowed herself a thin smile. The sea was still far, but freedom was within reach.
The smile died on her lips as they rounded a massive oak. A company of soldiers stood in a small clearing ahead, their merman banners unmistakable even in the dim forest light.
"Halt!" A voice commanded. The Manderly soldiers quickly surrounded them, weapons drawn but not immediately hostile.
"Of all the luck..." Asha muttered, her hand gripping the hilt of her dirk. She counted at least fifteen men – too many to fight, especially in their exhausted state.
They were bound again, this time with leather straps rather than rope, and marched through the forest to a small encampment. There, they were brought before a large man whose imposing figure commanded respect despite his weariness.
Wylis Manderly.
Asha, undeterred by her bindings, locked eyes with him. "We're not your enemy. Why aren't you in the thick of it, anyway? The battle's to the south, not here."
Wylis gave a measured nod, acknowledging her question. "The Wolves of Winterfell do not fight their own kin, nor do we raise swords against those loyal to the true Wardens of the North, the Starks."
Asha's eyes widened in realization. "So you're choosing a side. And it isn't Stannis's."
"House Stark is our liege," Wylis replied, his expression resolute. "We will not do the Freys' bidding. Our quarrel is with the Bolton usurpers and their ilk, not men bound by the same cause as we."
Asha processed this, a spark of grudging respect kindling in her gaze. "You let Stannis exhaust the Freys, weaken them. Smart."
"Not weaken," Wylis corrected. "Eradicate."
Wylis allowed himself a brief, grim smile. "We play the long game, ironborn. The North remembers, and we act when the time is right."
The implications weren't lost on Asha. The Manderlys had positioned themselves perfectly – avoiding direct confrontation with Stannis while letting him bloody the Freys. They'd conserve their strength for when it truly mattered.
"And what of us?" she asked, shifting her bound wrists. "We're neither your enemies nor your friends."
"That remains to be seen," Wylis replied, studying her face. "The kraken has no place in the North's wars, yet here you stand."
"Not by choice," Asha countered. "We were prisoners, same as now. Just trying to find our way back to the sea."
Wylis considered this, his gaze drifting to her companions before returning to her face. "The sea will wait, Lady Greyjoy. For now, you'll remain our guests until we determine your true value in this game."
Near Whitetree, Beyond The Wall
The vast expanse of snow stretched before Jon as he soared above the wildling caravan. From this height, they appeared as dark specks against the white landscape, vulnerable and small. He circled lower, his massive shadow falling across their path.
They fear me, Jon thought, watching them huddle closer together at his approach. As they should. I barely know what I am anymore.
Jon beat his wings and climbed higher, careful to maintain distance. The bitter wind cut through his scales, but the cold bothered him less now—fire coursed through his veins, a constant furnace beneath his obsidian hide.
Strange. I spent my life in Winterfell, yet never truly knew cold until I took the black. Now I'll never feel it again.
He scanned the horizon, his vision sharper than any maester's far-eye. A herd of deer moved through a distant clearing, unaware of his presence.
They need food. The children especially.
Jon tucked his wings and dove, a black arrow against the pale sky. The hunt was laughably easy—his new form made him a predator beyond compare. The deer barely had time to scatter before he seized the three largest bucka in his claws.
Too simple, he thought with a pang of discomfort. There's no honor in this kind of hunting. No skill. Only power.
He returned to the wildling camp, landing far enough away not to cause panic. With careful movements, he placed the carcass at the edge of their gathering and retreated. Jon settled on a rocky outcrop, folding his wings against his body and watches as the Free Folk approached cautiously, but upon seeing the bucks, scrambled towards them.
Day after day, the pattern continued. Jon hunted for them, gradually moving closer to their camp with each delivery. The wildlings' fear began to ease, though wariness remained. All except for two children—a boy and a girl with hair like copper flame, reminiscent of Sansa and Rickon.
No, more like Arya, Jon corrected himself as he watched the girl boldly approach where he had dropped a brace of rabbits. Sansa was always too proper to get so close to danger. This one has the wolf's blood.
The girl—Skara, he had heard them call her—looked directly at him, unblinking. Her brother, Gorren, stood a few paces behind, trying to appear brave though his knees trembled.
"Thank you, dragon-man," Skara called, her voice clear in the still air.
Jon inclined his massive head slightly, careful not to make any sudden movements.
Gorren stepped forward. "Can you change back? To a man?"
The question pierced Jon like a blade. He had tried—gods how he had tried—to return to his human form. Nothing worked.
"No," he answered simply.
The children approached him each day after that, first with their father watching nervously from a distance, then alone as trust grew. They asked endless questions about Castle Black, about the Night's Watch, about what it felt like to fly. Jon answered what he could, finding unexpected comfort in their company.
The innocent see the world as it is, not as they fear it to be, he thought. They don't look at me and see only a monster.
As they neared the Wall, Jon felt a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. The massive ice barrier gleamed in the distance, a pale blue line against the horizon that grew larger with each passing day.
Home, or the closest thing to it since Winterfell. Though what place does a dragon have at Castle Black?
That evening, as the wildlings made camp within a day's march of the Wall, Jon settled on a nearby hillside. The children sought him out as usual, climbing the slope with determined steps.
"Will your crow brothers let us through?" Gorren asked, his young face serious.
"They will," Jon said firmly. Or I will burn the gates myself.
"Father says crows hate free folk," Skara added.
Jon sighed, a plume of smoke rising from his nostrils. "There is old hatred on both sides. But winter is coming, and the dead come with it. We must stand together now."
The girl nodded solemnly, then, without warning, stepped forward and wrapped her small arms around Jon's snout in an awkward embrace.
The gesture caught Jon entirely unprepared. Something cracked within him—some wall he had built against his own grief and confusion. Memories flooded through him: Arya's fierce hugs before he left for the Wall, Robb's brotherly embraces, even Lady Catelyn's cold distance. Family. Home. Everything he had lost.
His tail lashed out involuntarily, smashing through a stand of nearby trees with a thunderous crack. The children jumped back, startled by the destruction.
Gods, I could have killed them, Jon thought, horrified at his lack of control. I am not safe. Not yet.
"Forgive me," he said, drawing back. "I... I must go. Stay with your clan. I will return before dawn."
Before they could respond, Jon launched himself into the air, powerful wings carrying him swiftly away from the camp. Shame and confusion warred within him as he climbed higher, seeking solitude.
I am not a beast. I will not be ruled by instinct. I am still Jon Snow.
He flew until he reached a high, rocky peak far from the wildling camp. Landing heavily, he gazed out over the vast landscape, the Wall a glimmering line in the distance, beyond which lay the Seven Kingdoms with all their petty squabbles and blind ignorance of the true threat.
They fight for crowns while death marches on the living… just as I once thought the wildlings were our greatest enemy.
The night air was still, the stars cold and distant overhead. Jon had never felt so alone.
"Jon". A fluttering of wings broke the silence. Jon turned his massive head to see a raven landing on a nearby rock. It cocked its head, regarding him with an intelligence no bird should possess.
"Jon," it said, the voice unmistakable despite coming from the raven's beak. "It's me."
Jon's heart seized in his chest. "Bran?" he whispered, scarcely believing.
"Yes," the raven replied. "I don't have much time. This takes... great effort."
Bran lives. My little brother lives. Relief washed through Jon like a wave.
"How is this possible? Where are you?!" Jon demanded.
"Beyond the Wall. With the Children of the Forest. I'm learning, Jon. Learning to be the Three-Eyed Raven." The raven hopped closer. "I must stay here. I have to master these powers."
Jon wanted to ask a thousand questions, but something in Bran's tone—older, wiser than the boy he remembered—stopped him.
"Jon, listen carefully," Bran continued. "The Wall is weakening. Its magic fades. The dead rise in greater numbers, and the Others gather strength. Winter is coming, truer than our house has ever known."
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept through Jon.
"You must learn to control what you've become," Bran said urgently. "The dragon's fire will be needed in the war to come. The Great War isn't a story from the Age of Heroes—it's now."
Jon lowered his head, meeting the raven's gaze. "I don't know how, Bran. I don't even know what I am anymore."
"You are both ice and fire," the raven said cryptically. "The blood of the First Men and... more. You were meant for this, Jon."
Meant for what? To be neither man nor beast? To lose everything I was?
"There's something else you should know," Bran said, his voice growing fainter. "Arya, Sansa, Rickon—they live, Jon. All of them."
Jon's heart thundered in his chest. "Where? Tell me where they are!"
"I can't hold this connection much longer," the raven said, its wings fluttering restlessly. "Focus on your path, Jon. Prepare the realms of men. The Isle of Faces must be defended at all costs. I will contact you again when I can."
"Bran, wait—"
But the raven took flight, its wings beating frantically as it disappeared into the night sky. For a moment, Jon considered pursuing it, but he knew it would be futile.
They live. My brothers and sisters live.
The knowledge kindled something within him that he had thought lost—hope. Not just for the North or even for all the realms of men but for himself. He can reunite his family.
"Prepare the realms of men," Bran had said. The weight of those words settled on Jon like a physical burden. Yet for the first time since his transformation, he felt equal to the task.
He spread his wings and launched himself from the peak, circling once before turning back toward the wildling camp. Dawn was approaching, painting the eastern sky with fingers of pale light.
I may not be the Lord Commander anymore, Jon thought as he flew, but I am still the shield that guards the realms of men. Whether as wolf or dragon, that duty remains.
"The Isle of Faces must be defended at all costs." What did he mean by that? Why the Isle of Faces?
The Wall loomed larger now, its massive bulk both barrier and symbol—of division, of protection, of the arbitrary lines men drew between themselves. Lines that would mean nothing when the dead came.
As Jon descended toward the awakening camp, he felt a new resolve hardening within him. The children—Skara and Gorren—were the first to spot him, pointing skyward with excitement rather than fear.
They see me not as I was, nor only as what I've become, but as what I might be. Perhaps that's wisdom even the great lords of Westeros lack.
"We reach Castle Black today," Jon announced as he landed. "And we bring warning of what comes for us all."
The wildling leader, a grizzled man named Torwynd, approached with cautious respect. "You truly think your crow brothers will listen? Will let us pass?"
Jon met his gaze steadily. "They'll listen," he said, smoke curling from his nostrils. "The Watch defends the realms of men. All men. It's time they remembered that oath."
And if they've forgotten, Jon thought grimly, I'll help them remember. Whatever it takes.