Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Beyond The Wall
The hum of the Millennium Falcon was a sound Luke Skywalker had associated with safety for most of his adult life. It was the vibration of escape, of defiance, of a hyperdrive spinning up to blur the stars into starlines. But now, the mechanical thrum felt alien. It was a sterile, rhythmic intrusion against the howling, chaotic fury of the blizzard raging outside the hull.
Inside the main hold, Luke sat on the Dejarik table's bench, his hands resting on his knees. He looked across at Robb Stark.
The young Stark heir looked out of place. He was sprawled on the smuggling compartment's bench, his furs matted with ice that was slowly melting into dark damp patches in the warmth of the cabin. His face was smeared with dirt and dried blood—a stripe of red scab across his cheekbone where a shard of his own sword had cut him.
Luke's eyes lingered on the wound. He looked exhausted, hollowed out by the massive expenditure of Force energy he had unleashed on the mountain. He needed to get Robb to the mediscan unit soon.
But his eyes were hard. They were the grey of winter iron, unyielding.
"I taught you to listen to the Force," Luke said. His voice was quiet, steady, but it carried the weight of a disappointed teacher. He did not need to shout. The silence of the ship amplified his words. "The Force was screaming 'Danger' the moment you crossed the Wall. I felt it from leagues away. And yet, you walked right into the ice."
Robb wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing soot. "I had to."
"You had to?" Luke raised an eyebrow. "You are the acting Lord of Winterfell. Your life is not your own to throw away on a gamble. You walked into a trap, Robb. You let them herd you like cattle into to slaughter. If I hadn't arrived..."
"If you hadn't arrived, I would be dead," Robb cut in, his voice rough. "I know that. I felt the blade coming down."
"You are not invincible," Luke pressed, leaning forward. "You are still a padawan in training, Robb. You think because you can move a rock, you can move a mountain? That Walker toyed with you."
Robb stiffened. The accusation hit a nerve. Beside him, the Smalljon grunted, shifting his massive bulk uncomfortably on the bench. The giant Umber looked around the hold with wide, superstitious eyes, clearly terrified of the white walls, but his loyalty to his liege anchored him.
"They were starving, Master," Robb said, his voice rising. "Tens of thousands of them. Innocent people eating their own dead to survive. Mothers smothering their babes rather than let them freeze."
Robb stood up, unable to sit still with the adrenaline still coursing through him. He paced the small floor of the hold, his boots clanking on the grating.
"I am the Warden of the North, Master. Or I will be one day. I could not watch them die from the top of the Wall while I sat warm in a castle, eating roasted capon and drinking wine. That is not what a Stark does."
"The Starks protect their people," Luke countered calmly. "But I thought these were wildling? Enemies of the North for thousands of years."
"They are the Free Folk," Robb snapped.
Luke paused and smiled. He sat back, studying his student. "Free Folk?"
"It's what they call themselves," Smalljon Umber muttered into his chest. The big man was picking at a rivet on his armor, trying not to look at the blinking lights on the wall panel. "Free Folk. 'Wildling' is a kneeler word, they say. Insulting."
Robb stopped pacing. He looked at his bannerman, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "You listened to them?"
Smalljon shrugged, a massive movement that rattled his pauldrons. "Hard not to, when Tormund Giantsbane is shouting in your ear for three days straight. Some of them are vicious bastards, aye, rapers and thieves. But most? Most are just hungry. They bleed red, same as us. They die cold, same as us."
Luke turned his gaze to the silent figures standing by the cockpit corridor. "And your companions?"
Robb introduced his companions. "This is Smalljon Umber, son and heir of Greatjon Umber, the Lord of Last Hearth. And beside him is Sigorn of the Thenn, son of Styr, the Magnar of the Thenns."
Sigorn of Thenn, who had been standing silently by the cockpit corridor like a bronze statue, finally spoke. His voice was grinding stone. "The Wolf fought where even the clansmen ran. He stood before the Shadows without fear. He has earned both the respect of the Thenns and the Free Folk."
Luke sighed. He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, feeling the grit of the day. The anger he had projected—the stern mask of the Master—evaporated. Beneath it, he was just tired. He was a man who had felt the collective misery of a hundred thousand souls pressing against his mind as he broke atmosphere.
He looked at Robb, seeing not just the reckless boy, but the compassionate leader who was emerging from the chrysalis of war.
"I am not scolding you for your heart, Robb," Luke said softly. "Your compassion is your greatest strength. It is what separates you from the darkness."
He stood up and walked over to the young lord. He placed a hand on Robb's shoulder.
"I am scolding you because you do not understand what lives in the shadow of this planet. The Dark Side is not just a feeling here; it is a predator."
Luke looked into Robb's eyes, willing him to understand.
"You treat the Others like an enemy army. Like Lannisters in ice armor. But they are a wound in the Force. You stepped into a ranc—dragon's den without checking to see if the beast was awake. And it noticed you."
Robb swallowed. He looked down at the deck plates. "I felt it. When I pushed him... I felt something push back. Something vast."
"That vastness wants to consume you," Luke said. "And if you are not careful, if you let your need to save everyone blind you to the trap... it will."
Robb pulled away gently, stepping back. He gestured vaguely at the white walls, the blinking consoles, the impossible geometry of the ship.
"You say I don't understand," Robb said, his voice thick with frustration and wonder. "Then make me understand. This ship... it shoots lightning. It flies without wings. What is this, Luke? Where are we?"
Luke looked at the three men. A Stark, an Umber, and a Thenn. Representatives of a world that believed the sky was a dome and the stars were lamps.
"This… this is the Millennium Falcon," Luke said softly. "It is a spaceship. A vessel built to sail the sea of stars. But is not the ship that brought me to your world."
Robb stepped back, his hand falling to his sword hilt, taken aback. "The stars? You mean... the heavens?"
Luke turned to the center of the hold. He reached for the controls of the Dejarik table. "R2 isn't here to run the interface, so this might be a little rough."
He punched a sequence of commands into the keypad.
The table hummed. A low, electronic warble filled the room.
Smalljon yelped and scrambled backward, crashing into the bulkhead. "Sorcery!"
Grey Wind, who had been cowering slightly under the Dejarik table from the ship's strange noises, stood up. The direwolf padded forward.
He looked at the light as he sniffed the air around the hologram.
A blue light sprang from the center of the table. It flickered, stabilized, and resolved into a wireframe projection.
It showed the Frostfangs.
It was a perfect, three-dimensional topographic map of the mountains they were currently flying over. Every peak, every valley, every glacier was rendered in lines of blue light. A small red dot pulsed in the center, representing the Falcon.
"This is the mountain range below us," Luke said.
Robb stepped closer, his eyes wide. He reached out a hand, his fingers passing through the light. "It's... a map. Made of light."
"Watch."
Luke manipulated the controls.
The view zoomed out.
The mountains shrank. The view expanded rapidly. The Wall appeared as a hairline fracture of white against the grey of the North. Then Winterfell, a tiny speck. Then the Neck. The entire continent of Westeros floated in the air, a jagged shape of blue light.
"The world," Sigorn whispered.
Luke didn't stop. He pulled back further.
The continent shrank until it was just a shape on a sphere. The sphere rotated. They saw Essos, Sothoryos, the vast oceans. The planet hung in the air, a marble of blue wireframe.
The image flickered with static—jagged lines of interference that cut through the spiral.
"The static," Luke said, pointing to the interference. "That is the Dark Side. It shrouds this world. It cuts you off from the rest."
The reaction was absolute silence.
Robb stared at the map. He looked for the North. He tried to find the land his family had bled for over eight thousand years. He tried to find the Wall, the Titan of Braavos, the Red Keep.
Then, Luke zoomed out again.
The planet became a dot. It was joined by other dots, the other planets of this solar system, orbiting a central star.
And then, the final pull.
The solar system shrank until it was lost in a sea of stars. The hologram filled the room with a swirling galaxy, a spiral of billions of lights, turning majestically in the silence of the hold.
They were gone. They were microscopic dust in a vast, indifferent void.
The scale of it crushed him. The wars of Westeros, the claims of kings, the pride of houses now all seemed suddenly, terrifyingly small.
"The stars..." Sigorn backed away, his back hitting the cockpit corridor wall. The Thenn warrior, who feared nothing that bled, looked terrified. "They are holes in the sky. The stories say they are holes. You cannot sail a hole. This... this has to be a lie."
Smalljon Umber was staring at the blue particles of light drifting in the air. He held his hand out, letting them dance on his palm.
"Are they souls?" Smalljon whispered, his voice trembling. "Have you trapped ghosts in this table, wizard? Is that what the stars are? The dead?"
"No," Luke said gently. "They are stars. Like your sun. Just very far away."
Robb looked up. His face was pale, stripped of color. He looked at Luke with a new expression of not just incredulousness, but a kind of vertigo.
"Why?" Robb asked. "Why did you never speak of this when you took us as students? Why let us believe the world ended at the Sunset Sea?"
"Because a mind cannot learn to move a stone if it is too busy trying to comprehend the infinite," Luke said. He shut down the table. The galaxy vanished, plunging the room back into the mundane reality of the hold. "I wanted you grounded before I showed you the sky. If I had shown you this on the first day, would you have listened to a word I said about breathing?"
Robb stared at the empty table. "No, no I would not have."
The door to the cockpit slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
"Master Luke!"
C-3PO bustled into the hold, his golden plating gleaming under the lights. The droid's arms were flailing in his characteristic agitation.
"I must protest!" Threepio exclaimed. "The sanitary conditions in this sector are deplorable! And the geomagnetic interference from the planet's pole is playing havoc with my servos! I feel quite stiff!"
The sudden appearance of a golden, skeletal man speaking with a prissy accent was too much for the Smalljon.
The Umber giant roared. It was a sound of pure fight-or-flight panic.
"GOLDEN DEMON!"
Smalljon drew his dagger and lunged. He moved with surprising speed for a man of his size, aiming to drive the steel into the droid's photoreceptors.
Grey Wind snarled, his hackles rising, snapping at the air near the droid.
"Oh my!" C-3PO shrieked, throwing his hands up. "Violence is quite unnecessary!"
The droid scrambled behind a hydraulic strut, cowering.
"Smalljon, no!" Luke shouted, reaching out with the Force to restrain the man.
But Robb was faster.
He didn't draw a weapon. He stepped directly into the Smalljon's path, grabbing the giant's wrist with both hands. He used his lower center of gravity to halt the man's momentum, slamming his shoulder into Smalljon's chest.
"Stand down!" Robb commanded.
Smalljon struggled, his eyes wild. "It's a demon, my lord! Look at it! It has no skin!"
"It is not alive, Smalljon!" Robb shouted, forcing the man's arm down. "Don't attack!"
Robb reached out and slapped his hand against C-3PO's golden chest plating. The metal rang hollowly.
"It is cold," Robb said, holding his hand there. "It is metal. It is like a suit of armor that speaks. It is not a demon. It is a... I do not know what this is."
"He is a machine," Luke interjected, stepping forward calmly to bridge the gap between two worlds. "A construct. Think of a mill or a winche. Gears turn inside to make it work. Inside him, lightning and metal work together to let him speak. He is a ally, Smalljon and will not harm you. I promise."
Smalljon blinked, his breathing heavy. He looked at the droid, then at Robb's hand on the metal.
"A suit of armor... that speaks?" Smalljon asked, lowering the dagger.
"Yes," Robb said firmly. "Stand down."
Luke watched, impressed. Robb had adapted to the impossible in seconds. He had taken a concept that shattered his worldview and translated it into something his man could understand to prevent bloodshed. That was leadership.
"I am not a suit of armor," C-3PO huffed, peering out from behind the strut. "I am a protocol droid, fluent in over six million forms of communication!"
"Quiet, Threepio," Luke said. "Go back to the cockpit and make sure you don't crash the ship, else I have some explaining to do to Han."
"Gladly, Master Luke. These... primitives are far too volatile for my circuits." The droid shuffled away, muttering about uncivilized behavior.
Smalljon watched him go, sheathing his dagger slowly. "Six million?" he muttered. "My father knows two. Common and cursing."
Luke gestured to the seating area. "Sit. We need to talk about what happens next. But first, tell me everything of your journey."
Robb sat, his hands still shaking slightly. He recounted the trek. He spoke of the first encounter with the wights in the snow, the uneasy alliance with Craster, something that made Luke's stomach turn and the meeting with Mance Rayder. He outlined the battle at the Fist, the tactics Robb used to be the decoy group from the main host, and the death of the skinchanger Varamyr.
"They are intelligent," Robb said. "The White Walkers are not mindless monsters. They have a strategy."
"They are generals," Luke agreed. "And they are testing our defenses."
Luke leaned forward. "Now, you need to know what is happening in the South. I know you have been... out of touch, but things have changed."
Robb leaned in, eager for news of his father.
"King Robert is dead," Luke said.
The color drained from Robb's face. "Dead? How?"
"The ravens say he died. I do not know the manner of it," Luke watched Robb carefully. "But the realm is fracturing. Your father is preparing for war."
"War?" Robb gripped the table. "With whom?"
"The Lannisters," Luke said. "Tywin Lannister is gathering swords. There are reports of movements in the Riverlands."
"Why?" Robb demanded. "Why attack the Riverlands? Does this have to do with the catspaw who came for my brother? Or Jon Arryn?"
"The Lannisters claim your father had the King assassinated," Luke said. "Or so the rumors say. They are framing him to seize power."
"And Joffrey?"
"Joffrey sits on the Iron Throne," Luke said. "But there are rumors. Rumors that he is not Robert's son. That none of them are."
"Stannis and Renly are simply letting this happen?" Robb asked in disbelief.
"Both Stannis and Renly have declared themselves Kings," Luke said. "Stannis claims the throne by right of blood and succession. Renly claims it by right of... popularity, it seems."
"Lies and treachery," Robb spat the words out. He looked at the map of the galaxy that was no longer there, then back at Luke. "They are fighting over a chair while the Long Night comes for us all. The fools."
Luke nodded. "I cannot contest that. This is the worst possible time for this war to be taking place."
Robb stood up again, energized by a new, frantic purpose.
"But we have the answer, Master. We have the proof."
Robb pointed toward the secure hold where they had dragged the wight.
"Is it secure?" Robb asked gesturing to detained wight.
Luke nodded. "It is secure. I used a stasis cuff. It cannot move, but it is very much... active. It seems the spell animating it remains."
Robb's eyes lit up with a desperate hope. "Then we show them. We take this ship. We fly to Father. We fly to King's Landing if we have to. We dump that thing on the Iron Throne and ask Joffrey if his gold can kill it."
Smalljon grunted, tapping his sword hilt. "Even a Lion has to run from a dead man. If we drop a wight in the Red Keep, they'll stop fighting the Riverlands and look North."
"It's a powerful idea," Luke admitted. "But fear is dangerous, Robb."
Luke raised a hand to stall Robb's excitement. "Proof is powerful. But if you drop a monster into a room of fearful men, they might not unite. They might panic. They might accuse you of sorcery. They might attack us."
Luke thought of the Senate, of how fear had driven the Republic into the arms of the Empire.
"We must use this carefully," Luke said. "We show your father first. We fly to wherever he is. We let him decide how to present this to the realm. He has the political mind for it."
"We need to find him," Robb said. "We need to head south immediately, Master."
He paused. He looked around the hold.
"Where is Jon?" Robb asked suddenly. "Where is Jon? He should be here for this. He would know what to do."
Luke hesitated. This was the hard part.
"He is with Renly Baratheon's host," Luke said. "On the road to Storm's End."
Robb's eyes widened. "You left him? Alone? In a camp of vipers?"
He almost blurts out, He has Targaryen blood, he isn't safe!—but he caught himself, glancing at Smalljon and Sigorn. The secret of Jon's parentage was a dangerous burden, and one he could not share with his bannermen yet.
"The Force willed it," Luke said quickly. "But he is not alone. He needs to walk his own path for a time. And he is with... friends. People who came with this ship."
"Friends?" Robb asked.
"My sister and brother-in-law," Luke said. "… And another friend. They are with him and they will watch his back."
Robb looked torn. He wanted to fly the Falcon straight to help his father. He wanted to snatch Jon from the South. But he remembered the hundred thousand people below, trudging through the snow.
He clenched his jaw. "My father can hold his own against Tywin Lannister. Jon has your friends. But the Free Folks..." He gestured to the floor. "These people have no one. We have to make sure they reach the Shadow Tower before the Walkers slaughters them."
Robb looked at Luke. "The proof can wait a few days. We finish what we started. We get the Free Folk to the Shadow Tower and deal with any dead that get too close."
Luke smiled. It was the right choice. The Jedi choice.
"Agreed," Luke said. "We make sure the living get sanctuary."
Luke stepped away to the viewport. The storm outside was a swirling grey void, lit only by the ship's running lights.
He looked down at the white expanse. He reached out with the Force.
He felt the "Cold Void" of the Walkers—an elemental, hungry emptiness. It did not feel like the Sith. The Sith were passion and fire; this felt like a black hole of all emotions.
But there was something else.
Luke dwelt on a specific sensation he had felt during the battle. Just for a moment, amidst the chaos of the wights and the Walkers, he had felt a living Force presence watching him.
It hadn't been the wild, chaotic signature of Robb or his companions. It hadn't been the cold static of the Walkers.
It felt disciplined. Sharp. Ordered.
It felt like the mind of a soldier. A mind trained to hunt, to analyze, to obey. It reminded him of the ISB agents he had evaded, or an Inquisitor.
It felt distinctly Imperial.
Someone else is here, Luke thought. Someone who knows what a Jedi is.
He filed this away as a priority threat. If the remains of the Empire followed the Falcon and were on this planet, the stakes had just risen exponentially.
He turned back to the room. Robb was checking his sword, frowning at the notched steel.
"Your blade is ruined," Luke said. "Steel breaks against this cold power. I believe you are in need of a new weapon."
Robb looked up. "I need Valyrian steel. But Ice is with my father."
"You need a weapon that burns," Luke corrected.
He walked to the storage lockers lining the bulkhead. He rummages through crates of supplies—ration packs, emergency medpacs, spare hydro-spanners. He thought of Leia. She was pragmatic, she wouldn't come to a possible war zone unarmed. She always packed for the worst-case scenario.
He found it tucked in a survival kit, wrapped in a moisture-sealed cloth.
A spare lightsaber.
Luke returned to the main hold. He held the hilt out to Robb. It was a simple cylinder of brushed aluminum, unadorned and functional.
"Here," Luke said.
Robb looked at the metal tube.
"What is it?" Robb asked, his eyes lighting up with recognition. "Is this... yours?"
"A spare," Luke said. "You have earned the right to wield a Jedi's weapon."
Robb took it hesitantly. It felt light in his hand, almost insubstantial compared to a broadsword. "Master, are you sure?"
"Without a doubt of uncertainty, Robb," He met Robb's gaze seriously. "But remember: This isn't a regular sword. The blade has no weight. It is pure energy. The only weight is what you feel in the Force. If you use it in anger, or without focus, you will cut off your own arm before you hit the enemy. You cannot rest it on your shoulder. You cannot half-sword it."
Robb nodded, his grip tightening on the hilt. He found the activation stud with his thumb.
Snap-hiss.
A beam of pure blue plasma shot from the emitter. It hummed with a low, vibrant sound that seemed to vibrate the air in the hold. The blue light cast harsh shadows on Robb's face, washing out the red of his cut and the dirt of the battle.
Robb's hand wavered. The lack of weight threw off his muscle memory immediately. The blade drifted dangerously close to his leg.
"Steady," Luke warned. "Feel the sabre in your mind, not your hand."
Robb adjusted his stance. He widened his feet. He brought the blade up to a high guard, his eyes locked on the humming plasma. He breathed out, and the wavering stopped. The blade held steady.
Grey Wind let out a low growl. Robb looked down at his wolf, then at the weapon of a star-traveler. The blue light reflected in the direwolf's yellow eyes.
"It sings," Robb whispered.
Luke watched them united in the belly of a starship above a frozen world.
"It does," Luke said. "Now, turn it off before you burn a hole in the hull. Let's get the three of to the mediscan."
"A what?" A bewildered Smalljon replied.
--------------------------------------------------------
Kings Landing, The Crownlands
The heat in King's Landing did not merely oppress; it assaulted. It was an assault on all the senses, thick with the stench of five hundred thousand unwashed bodies, rotting garbage, and the cloying, sweet reek of nightsoil baking in the sun.
Tyrion Lannister sat inside his litter, a sheen of sweat slicking his forehead, trying to breathe through his mouth. The curtains were drawn tight, turning the small wooden box into an oven, but opening them was not an option. Not today.
He was returning from a fruitless inspection of the granaries near the Iron Gate. He had hoped to find hidden reserves, or perhaps news that the smugglers were breaking the blockade.
He had found neither. The port of King's Landing was technically open, but trade had slowed to a trickle. The few ships that did arrive from across the Narrow Sea were charging ludicrous prices that only the castle could afford.
Thump.
Something wet and heavy struck the side of the litter. A moment later, the smell of rotten cabbage seeped through the cracks in the joinery.
"Demon monkey!" a voice screeched from the crowd outside. "Twisted little monster!"
"Feed us! We want bread, not monsters!"
Tyrion swirled the warm wine in his cup, staring at the dregs. I want bread too, he thought sourly. Or at least a wine that hasn't turned to vinegar in this heat.
The litter lurched as the bearers shoved their way through the press of bodies in Flea Bottom. The city was boiling. The Tyrell blockade of the Roseroad had turned the markets into barren wastelands. A turnip now cost what a side of beef had a moon ago, and a side of beef cost a man's honor.
Through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, Tyrion caught a glimpse of the street. It was a sea of brown rags and desperate faces. A Gold Cloak, his yellow mantle stained with sweat and grime, was shouting at a woman who had fallen in the mud. She was clutching a loaf of black bread to her chest—likely stolen and hard as a rock.
"Sedition!" the Gold Cloak bellowed, raising his cudgel. "By order of King Joffrey, theft is treason!"
The cudgel came down. The woman screamed. It was a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the dull roar of the mob.
"Stop!" Tyrion barked, leaning forward and banging his fist against the driver's partition. "Bronn! Tell that idiot to stay his hand!"
"Can't hear you, Imp!" Bronn's voice drifted down, sharp and bored. "And if I stop to chat, they'll tip this wagon over. You want to save the girl or keep your head?"
Tyrion gritted his teeth as the Gold Cloak struck her again. The bread rolled into the gutter. A skeletal dog snatched it and bolted before the woman even stopped twitching.
Tyrion slammed the curtain shut, his fingers curling into a fist. He hated this. He hated the helplessness. Arresting traitors, Joffrey called it. Keeping the peace.
It was slaughter. And every drop of blood Joffrey spilled watered the seeds of a rebellion that would tear this city apart from the inside before Renly or Stannis ever reached the gates.
"Move!" Bronn's voice roared out. "Make way for the Acting Hand, or I'll start taking heads!"
The crowd parted, grumbling, retreating like a sullen tide. They feared Bronn's sword more than they hated Tyrion's stature, for now. But fear was a brittle shield when bellies were empty.
Father has taken the initial army to Harrenhal, Tyrion thought, the injustice of it stinging like a paper cut. He marches off to play general, taking Jaime with him and leaving me to hold this disaster together.
The litter finally jerked to a halt in the courtyard of the Red Keep. The air here was marginally fresher, catching the breeze off Blackwater Bay, but it still carried the scent of smoke. Burning bread? Burning bodies? In King's Landing, it was often hard to tell.
Podrick Payne was waiting for him as he scrambled out of the litter, his short legs aching from the confinement. The boy looked anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"My lord," Podrick stammered. "You have... a visitor."
"A visitor?" Tyrion dusted off his doublet, grimacing at a stain of unknown origin on his sleeve. "Unless it is a merchant with a thousand wagons of grain, tell them to go away."
"It's Ser Kevan, my lord," Podrick said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He's in the Tower of the Hand. He... he looks unwell."
Tyrion froze Uncle Kevan was his father's right hand, his shadow. If Tywin was the iron gauntlet, Kevan was the leather glove beneath—essential, reliable, and utterly unflappable. For Kevan to look "unwell" was foreboding.
"My uncle is supposed to be with Father at Harrenhal," Tyrion muttered, moving as fast as his legs would carry him. "How did he get in? The city is locked down."
"He came through the Gate of the Gods, my lord," Podrick said, hurrying to keep up. "While you were at the river. The guards said he... he had to cut his way through."
Tyrion waddled through the keep, ignoring the servants who flattened themselves against the walls as he passed. He took the stairs to the Tower of the Hand one by one, cursing the architect with every step.
When he pushed open the door to the solar, the smell of blood hit him before he saw the man.
Uncle Kevan sat in the chair Tyrion had occupied only hours before. His uncle's armor was dented. A bandage, blooming with fresh red, was wrapped around his upper arm. His face, usually so composed, was gray and drawn, etched with a weariness that went down to the bone.
"Uncle," Tyrion said, closing the door and bolting it. "What happened? Podrick said you forced the Gate of the Gods."
Kevan looked up. His eyes were haunted. "A riot," he croaked. "They recognized the lion banners. We didn't quell it, Tyrion. We survived it. They pulled three of my men from their saddles and tore them to pieces. We had to ride over them to reach the Keep."
He gestured vaguely at a pitcher of wine on the table. Tyrion poured a cup and pressed it into his uncle's shaking hands. Kevan drank it in one long swallow, the red liquid running down his chin.
"The city is lost, Tyrion," Kevan whispered. "They hate us. Not just the usual resentment. This is... primal."
"I know," Tyrion said grimly, climbing into the chair opposite him. "I just rode through Flea Bottom. Joffrey's cruelty has done what starvation alone could not. But you didn't ride back from Harrenhal to tell me the smallfolk are angry. Father knows that."
Kevan set the cup down. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. The soldier reasserted control over the traumatized man.
"We received intelligence about the North," Kevan said. "They are near the Twins."
"What now?" Tyrion frowned. "Did Walder Frey try to exact a toll from the wrong army?"
"Walder Frey will be either a prisoner or dead soon enough," Kevan said flatly. "But that is not the news."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice, though they were alone.
"The Starks have Daenerys Targaryen."
Tyrion blinked. "So, the rumors from Braavos are actually true?"
"She is with Ned Stark," Kevan said. "And she marched with his host."
"Well," Tyrion said, trying to process this. "That complicates things. A Targaryen allied with the North gives them a figurehead. It rallies the Targaryen loyalists in the Reach and Dorne. It gives Stannis a headache, at least."
"Tyrion, the North supporting Daenerys isn't the true bad news," Kevan cut him off. He looked at his nephew with a mixture of pity and terror. "She has dragons."
Tyrion stared at his uncle. He waited for the punchline. He waited for the smile, the admission of a grim jest.
"Dragons," Tyrion repeated slowly. "You mean... the sigil? Or the monsters?"
"Of course it's the beasts," Kevan said. "Three hatchlings, the report says. But they are small."
Tyrion sat back, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush.
Dragons.
For a heartbeat, he was a boy of six again, sitting in the library of Casterly Rock, reading about Balerion the Black Dread, tracing the illustrations of Vhagar and Meraxes. He felt a spark of pure, unadulterated wonder. They are real. Magic is real.
Then the adult Tyrion crushed the child's neck.
We are fighting dragons.
He reached for the wine pitcher. His hand shook, just a little. He poured himself a cup, filling it to the brim.
"Dragons," he said again, taking a massive gulp. "Well. That changes the odds quite a lot."
Tyrion imagined the skull of Balerion in the cellars. A monster that could swallow a mammoth whole. And now, a girl in the North held the leash to three of them, even if they are young.
"Tywin is..." Kevan hesitated. He looked at the door, then back at Tyrion. "I have never seen your father afraid. Not when Tytos almost ruined the house. Not when Aerys insulted him. But when he read that report..."
Kevan shuddered. "He knows what this means. Field armies are useless against dragons. Castles are ovens. Harrenhal..." He laughed, a dry, cracking sound. "He is sitting in Harrenhal. The castle melted by dragonfire. He sees the irony."
"I imagine he does," Tyrion murmured. "So. What is the plan? Do we surrender? Do we beg the Dragon Queen for mercy?"
"We do not surrender," Kevan said, his voice hardening. "We are Lannisters."
He reached into his doublet and pulled out a heavy parchment, sealed with Tywin's personal signet. He slid it across the table.
"Your father cannot fight dragons on the field. Not yet. They are young. Vulnerable. But they will grow. Every day, they grow."
Tyrion broke the seal. The letter was short, written in Tywin's sharp, angular hand. It contained no pleasantries.
Drain the vaults. Melt the plate. Sell the tapestries. I require gold. All of it.
"He wants the treasury?" Tyrion looked up. "Uncle, the treasury is empty. Littlefinger left us nothing but debts and creative accounting."
"Then find it," Kevan said. "Borrow it. Steal it. Confiscate it from traitors. Squeeze the merchants. Tywin doesn't care how."
"For what?" Tyrion asked. "To buy sellswords? Sellswords won't fight dragons."
"Not sellswords," Kevan said softly.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the smoke-stained city.
"I am taking a ship tonight," Kevan said. "A fast galley, the Lion's Pride. I am sailing for Braavos."
"The Iron Bank?" Tyrion asked. "To beg for another loan?"
"To meet with the Iron Bank, yes," Kevan said. "But not just them."
He turned back to Tyrion. His face was a mask of grim resolution.
"I am to go to the House of Black and White."
Tyrion felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty tower.
"The Faceless Men," he whispered.
"We cannot kill the dragons," Kevan said. "Not easily. But the girl... she is flesh and blood. If she dies, the dragons are wild beasts. Without a rider, they are just monsters. They can be hunted."
"Do you have any idea what the Faceless Men charge for a target of that magnitude?" Tyrion asked, his voice rising. "To kill a Queen? A Dragonlord? It won't be gold, Uncle. It will be... everything."
"Tywin knows," Kevan said. "He said... 'Whatever the cost.'"
Tyrion stared at the letter in his hand. Whatever the cost.
For a merchant, the price might be his fortune. For a lord, his castle. For a King...
"He is willing to bankrupt the Westerlands," Tyrion realized.
Tyrion looked into his wine cup, seeing his own distorted reflection in the red depths.
"He knows that if Daenerys Targaryen reaches King's Landing," Tyrion said softly, "there will be no House Lannister left to bankrupt."
Kevan nodded. "You are the Master of Coin as well as the Acting Hand, Tyrion. Your task is to find the gold to make the down payment. To show the Iron Bank we are serious. I need a hundred thousand dragons worth of assets on that ship tonight."
"A hundred thousand?" Tyrion laughed, a hysterical edge to the sound. "The bullion alone would sink the ship, Uncle. I don't have that in coin. But... I can give you gems. And deeds."
"Find it," Kevan repeated. "Or we all burn."
He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch.
"One more thing," Kevan said. "The King must not know. Cersei must not know. If Joffrey hears of dragons, he will do something stupid. He will try to hunt them, or provoke them."
"He's Joffrey," Tyrion said. "Oblivious is his nature."
"Keep him blind," Kevan ordered. "And Tyrion..."
Kevan looked at his nephew, and for the first time, Tyrion saw something like respect in the old man's eyes. Or perhaps it was just shared desperation.
"You are the only one in this city with the wits to understand what is coming. Hold the capital. If Renly attacks, hold him off. If the mob rises, put them down. Buy me time to reach Braavos."
"And if the dragons come before you return?" Tyrion asked.
Kevan didn't answer. He didn't have to. He just opened the door and walked out, leaving Tyrion alone in the darkening solar.
Tyrion sat there for a long time. The heat of the day was fading, replaced by a stifling, humid night. Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of the city—shouts, breaking glass, the wail of a siren.
Real, breathing, flying Dragons.
He picked up the heavy chain of office, the golden links clinking softly. Master of Coin.
He had to find a hundred thousand gold dragons in a city of beggars. He had to keep a sadistic boy king from destroying the world. And he had to wait for the fire to come.
He poured another cup of wine.
"Well, father," he murmured to the empty room. "You always said I was good at spending your money. Let's see if I can buy us a miracle."
His eyes drifted to the ledger Littlefinger had left behind. Empty. Useless.
But not quite.
Tyrion's mind began to spin, the gears finally catching. The Spectator died; the Player awoke.
He slammed the cup down. He wouldn't just find the gold. He would carve it out of the corruption of the city.
But gold was only a shield. To survive this, House Lannister needed a spear. Or at least, a friend who hated them slightly less than the Starks did.
He looked at the map of Westeros sprawling across his table. The North was gone. The Riverlands were burning. The Stormlands and the Reach were united against them. The Iron Islands were wild cards. The Vale was silent; Littlefinger had been sent to woo Lysa Arryn, but he had yet to rally the knights of the Eyrie. Without Baelish's success, the East remained a locked door.
That left only one piece on the board.
Tyrion reached into a drawer and pulled out a piece of parchment he had drafted two nights ago, in a moment of wine-soaked inspiration, but had hesitated to send.
"Myrcella," Tyrion whispered.
It was a cruel thing, to trade a sweet girl for spears, but they were past cruelty now. They were in the realm of survival.
Tyrion dipped his quill and signed the document with a flourish.
He imagined Cersei's face when she found out he had shipped her only daughter off to the people she called "savages." She would scream. She would claw at his face. She might even try to have him killed.
A dark, malicious grin spread across Tyrion's face. In a world of dragons, the thought of his sister's apoplectic rage was a warm, comforting ray of sunshine.
He reached for the bell to summon Bronn. It was time to shake the city upside down and see what fell out of its pockets.
------------------------------
If you want to read up to 10 chapters ahead and support me, here is my patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon