King's Landing. Red Keep.
The king's solar was closed; inside, a private meeting was underway. Four men stood in the quiet of the chamber. A Braavosi chest lay open on the table, its grisly contents bare to view; three heads of Volantene men frozen in their final grimace. Beside the chest rested a letter: the Sea Lord's reply concerning the attempted assassination of Prince Aegon. The air still felt heavy with their presence.
Jaehaerys's cold gaze moved from Septon Barth to his son and his Master of Ships.
"The Sealord thinks us muddleheads," the king said with a sneer. "A Faceless Man carrying a receipt from his employer, insulting us with this pantomime."
He let the silence stretch, ensuring his words settled. Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes at Baelon and Corlys.
"You will proceed as planned."
Corlys gave a sharp, confident nod. "As you command, Your Majesty. My agents are ready. I will dispatch them to the Stepstones at first light. The Bloodyteeth will be hired and given their orders before the moon turns."
Beside him, Baelon's face split into a cruel, anticipatory smile. "Vhagar and I will deliver the King's Justice in a manner no one in Essos will soon forget."
A look of grim understanding passed between the heir and the Sea Snake. Without another word, they bowed to the king and took their leave, the door shutting firmly behind them.
Only then did Septon Barth, his face etched with concern, speak. "Is this wisdom, Jaehaerys? It feels… hasty. We are setting a fire we may not be able to control."
Jaehaerys did not look at him; his eyes were fixed absently on the window, watching the sun spread its last light across the day. "Hasty?" A shadow of old, profound pain crossed his features. "I was not hasty with the Myrish pirates. I counseled patience. I sought to be the Conciliator." He finally turned, and his eyes were hard. "And for my patience, I buried my firstborn. I will not make that mistake again. I will burn their ambitions to ash before the threat to my family even fully takes form."
Barth sighed, the sound heavy with weary resignation. "Then, if this is the path, you must walk it with your own eyes. Relying on Lord Corlys for such… questionable tasks is a risk. The Crown needs its own shadow, its own Master of Whispers."
A dry, mirthless chuckle escaped Jaehaerys. "Do not worry, my friend. Lord Corlys is ambitious. He serves the Crown diligently, but he serves his own blood more fervently. He will do as he is told," the king said, his tone dropping to a soft, warning register. "Or he can forget any promise of a dragon's egg for his new child."
Winterfell
A week passed quietly. The initial thunderous shock had settled into an undercurrent of awe. For the first few days, Aegon was dutifully escorted by an enthusiastic trio: Brandon, Elric, and the ward Orren, on a tour of the ancient fortress. The more reserved Benjen often followed, a silent shadow observing the Targaryen prince's every reaction.
The tour was a lesson in surrealism. They showed him the old, abandoned First Keep, its squat round form the oldest surviving part of the castle. Aegon's mind, unbidden, supplied an image of a golden-haired couple in a similar location, and a chilling certainty settled over him. This is it. This is where Bran was pushed. The thought struck like a familiar jolt, a collision of televised fiction and cold, tangible reality.
Nearby lay the lichyard, its ancient markers a testament to the Starks' long and unbroken history. But it was the tall watchtower, standing whole and proud near the lichyard, that truly captivated him. He recognized its proportions immediately. The Broken Tower, he realized, a faint smile touching his lips. It was strange to look upon a ruin that was not yet ruined.
He walked through the training yard and descended into the crypts, where the stone statues of the lords of House Stark stood vigil. Here, the weight of history was a physical pressure; even the talkative and quick-mouthed Elric fell silent in reverence.
His final visit was to the godswood, and there he saw the heart tree. The carved face upon it and its legends were spoken by Brandon like a sacred tale, but Aegon's mind was elsewhere. He was busy scanning the mysterious tree, and as expected, he found it filled with numerous magical networks, most of which disappeared underground. Unfortunately, the presence of the trio prevented him from conducting any research. Silently promising himself that he would return, he had to leave.
Aegon also visited Winter Town, accompanied by Benjen, who was silent and solemn most of the time; it was hard to tell whether he was imitating his elders or if that truly was his nature. The trip had to be cut short, since his presence had become a curiosity magnet. Folks had begun to gather around him, with some even following him through the streets.
Back in Winterfell, it was better, but not entirely. Servants paused in their work, maids whispered behind their hands, and guards watched with a mixture of curiosity and awe. He ignored them, for he was already used to such stares. The rumors of his pyromancy lent a sharp edge to their fascination, but the difference in their stations ensured they could only bury that awe in their hearts and keep their distance.
At Lord Rickon's polite but firm request, Aegon had relocated Dreamfyre to a secluded clearing half a mile from the castle walls. The great blue she-dragon seemed unbothered by the cold, curling contentedly on the ground after heating it with her fire.
Lady Margaret had taken charge of managing the provisioning of livestock for the dragon, though a steady stream of pale-faced servants reported the sheer terror of approaching the beast during her feedings.
During a private audience, Aegon mentioned his intent to journey to the Wall. Lord Stark, who had already learned of it, advised strongly against the idea. "The Gift is still a frozen wasteland, my prince," he rumbled. "The Kingsroad is treacherous with snow, and the cold at the Wall now… wait until the spring thaw is truly won. A few more months could mean the difference between a journey and a trial."
Aegon had to agree, since northerners knew their North.
But one thing happened that lifted Aegon's mood.
[ Class: Manipulator (Tier 2) ]
[ Level 10 (MAX) ]
The bite of the morning air was a familiar comfort to Bennard Stark as he adjusted his gloves, the worn leather soft against his calloused hands. In the yard, the horses were ready, their breath pluming in the crisp stillness. Benjen stood beside his own mount, a serious expression on his boyish face that he'd been practicing more and more of late. At four-and-ten, he was eager to prove his worth on tasks beyond the training yard.
"A simple matter," Bennard said to his son, his voice a low rumble. "A farmer's complaint. Good for you to see how we manage these things. We'll be back by midday."
The words had barely left his mouth when a new voice, laced with lightness, cut through the northern chill. "I hope you have room for one more, Lord Bennard."
Bennard turned to see Prince Aegon approaching, his black and blue tunic a stark contrast to the roughspun wool and leather of the North. The boy, for despite the dragon and the magic, he was still a boy, wore an easy smile, but his lilac eyes were sharp with interest.
"My Prince," Bennard said, offering a curt nod. "It's a minor issue. A reported direwolf south of the Wolfswood. Hardly a fitting excursion for a royal guest."
"On the contrary," Aegon replied, his gaze sweeping over the waiting guards. "I've seen your castle, your library, your crypts. I'd very much like to see how the Warden of the North keeps his peace. Unless, of course, my presence would be a hindrance."
It was a politely worded challenge, one Bennard could not refuse without appearing discourteous or, worse, as if he had something to hide. The prince's curiosity was a tangible force, and denying it seemed unwise. Let him see, Bennard thought.
Let him see the true work of ruling is not all feasts and tourneys.
"No hindrance," Bennard conceded. "But we ride without ceremony, and the comfort will be sparse."
"The only comfort I require is a good horse," Aegon said, and Bennard had to admit the boy had a way about him that was hard to resent.
An hour's ride brought them to Harebrook, a hamlet nestled in a shallow valley a few miles from the southern fringes of the Wolfswood. The distance was enough for the people to feel a semblance of safety, but close enough for the forest's shadows to loom large in their minds.
A handful of crofters' huts and a long, low common hall clustered near a half-frozen stream. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. As they rode in, doors creaked open a crack, and wary faces peered out before disappearing back into the gloom.
The village leader, an old man named Tom with a back permanently stooped from labour, hurried forward, wringing a cloth cap in his hands. His eyes, used to the dark hues of northern wool and brown hair, fixed immediately on the stranger among the Starks. He stared not with recognition but with a plain, unvarnished astonishment at the sight of the silver-gold hair and fine, almost otherworldly features.
"M'lord Stark," Tom managed, tearing his gaze away from Aegon to focus on the familiar, stern face of Bennard. "M'lords," he added, a general nod to the rest of the party.
"Tom," Bennard said, his voice deliberately even to calm the man's nerves. "You sent word of a predator."
"Aye, m'lord. A beast, it was. Not a common wolf, no. Bigger. Greda, she… she lost two nannies last night. Her whole flock."
"Take us to her," Bennard commanded.
Tom nodded nervously and called out, "Lew! Here, boy!"
A lanky youth with a shock of straw-coloured hair detached himself from the shadow of the common hall and shuffled over. His reaction was even less guarded than Tom's; he gaped openly at Prince Aegon.
"Lead the lords to Greda's place," Tom instructed, giving the boy a sharp look.
Lew blinked, nodded, and set off at a brisk pace, leading them through the hamlet and out towards its northern edge. Here, the fields gave way to scrubland that climbed gently towards the distant, brooding line of the Wolfswood. The sense of exposure was different here; it wasn't the immediate threat of the trees, but the knowledge that danger had willingly crossed the open ground to reach them. The shack belonging to Greda stood alone here, the farthest outpost of the hamlet, and thus, the most vulnerable.
Bennard's senses sharpened. This was precisely the kind of place a bold predator would strike.
Lew knocked once on the rough-hewn door. It opened to reveal a woman, Greda, her face pale and etched with deep lines of worry. Her eyes darted from Bennard to Benjen, then settled on the strange silver-haired youth. A flicker of confusion crossed her face, but it was swiftly drowned by a fresh wave of her own overwhelming distress. She looked like a creature caught in a trap.
"M'lords," she whispered, stepping back to let them enter the single, smoky room. It was dark and cramped, the air thick with the smell of herbs and hard living. Without a word, she led them through the shack and out a back door into a small, fenced yard.
The scene there was one of stark, bloody reality. Two goats lay dead in the churned, frozen mud. They had been savaged, their flanks torn open, their innards pulled out in a grotesque tangle of purple and red. The snow around them was a crimson-soaked morass, dotted with the sharp, clear imprints of a large canine.
Greda let out a choked sob, her hand flying to her mouth. "They were all I had, m'lord," she wept, her shoulders shaking. "The milk, the cheese… how am I to feed my boy through the winter now? The beast took everything."
Bennard knelt, ignoring the cold seeping through his breeches. He placed a steadying hand on her arm for a brief moment. "Be at ease, woman. Winterfell will see you right. You'll have coin for new stock from Winter Town." He said the words with a firm finality that brooked no argument. It was the Stark way.
The land was hard, but the Starks were the shield that kept it from breaking its people entirely. Her weeping softened into quiet, grateful sniffles.
He turned his attention back to the carcasses, and Benjen knelt beside him, his young face a mask of concentration. "Look here, son," Bennard said, his voice dropping into a teacher's tone. He pointed to the bite marks on one goat's neck. "See the spread of the jaw? The depth of the puncture? A common wolf's is half this size." His finger then traced the path of the slaughter through the snow. "And the tracks. A wolf's paw is smaller, neater. This…" He pressed his own fist into the snow next to one of the massive prints. "…this is a direwolf. No doubt."
***
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