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Year 300 AC
Sunspear, Dorne
The heat struck Sam like a punch in the gut the moment they passed through Sunspear's gates.
He had thought himself prepared. The journey from Oldtown had been long and hot, the roads dusty beneath the unforgiving sun. But this was something else entirely. The air itself seemed to shimmer, thick and heavy, carrying scents he could not name—spices and citrus and something sharp that made his eyes water. Sweat soaked through his black wool within moments, plastering the fabric to his skin.
"Seven hells," he muttered, shifting little Sam's weight in his arms. The babe had been fussing since dawn, unhappy with the heat and the endless rocking of the horses. "How do people live in this?"
Gilly walked beside him, her face flushed beneath her hood. She had insisted on carrying the baby for most of the journey, but Sam had taken him when they entered the city proper. Now he wondered if that had been wise. His arms ached, and the child seemed to grow heavier with each step.
"It's like being inside a forge," Gilly said, her voice tight with discomfort. She had never complained, not once during their journey from Oldtown. But Sam could see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders, the way she moved as though each step required conscious effort.
Marwyn rode ahead, his broad back straight despite the heat. The Archmaester seemed unbothered by the temperature, though sweat darkened the armpits of his rough-spun tunic. He had spoken little since they entered Dorne, his attention fixed on the road and the horizon.
Sarella brought up the rear, her posture easier now that she no longer had to maintain the careful slouch of a male novice. Sam was still getting used to thinking of her as her instead of the Sphinx, the quick-witted acolyte who'd helped him navigate the Citadel's labyrinthine libraries.
The streets of Sunspear teemed with life. Merchants hawked their wares in a dozen different tongues, their stalls overflowing with fruits Sam had never seen and fabrics in colors that hurt to look at. Children darted between the crowds, laughing and shouting in the Dornish manner. Guards in burnished scale and sand-colored cloaks stood at intervals, their dark eyes tracking the strangers in black.
Sam's mind turned, as it always did when anxious, to practical matters. They would need lodging. Food. A place where Gilly could rest and the baby could sleep somewhere cooler than this oppressive heat. The coins Marwyn had brought from the Citadel would not last forever, and Sam had no idea what things cost in Dorne. Were they more expensive here? Less?
"We should find an inn," Sam said, raising his voice to carry over the noise of the street. "Somewhere clean. Affordable. Gilly needs to rest, and the baby needs relief from this heat."
"Peace, Tarly." Marwyn's voice cut through his worry like a blade. "We won't be needing an inn."
Before Sam could ask what he meant, a squad of guards approached through the crowd. Six men in gleaming scale armor, their spears held at precise angles. The crowd parted before them like water around a stone.
The guards halted before Sarella, and the captain bowed from the waist.
"Lady Sarella," the man said, his voice carrying the liquid accent of the Dornish. "The Prince awaits you at the Old Palace. Your escort is ready."
Sam exhaled slowly, his racing heart beginning to settle. Of course. They were here at Sarella's invitation, under her protection. He should have realized.
Sarella inclined her head with the easy grace of someone born to command. "Captain. These are my companions, Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel, and Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch, along with his woman and child."
The captain's eyes flicked to Sam, lingering on his black cloak and the sweat-soaked wool. Something that might have been sympathy crossed his weathered face. "The Old Palace has shade and cool water, my lady. We'll see them comfortable."
The guards formed up around them, and they moved through the streets in a tight formation. Sam found himself beside Gilly, watching Sarella walk ahead with the confidence of someone who knew these streets, this palace, this life. It was strange, seeing her like this. At the Citadel, she'd been so careful, so measured. Here, she moved with a different kind of freedom.
The Old Palace rose before them, its towers and domes a stark contrast to the angular keeps of the North or even Horn Hill. They passed through gates carved with suns and spears, into courtyards where fountains splashed and orange trees grew in neat rows. The air here was cooler, shaded by high walls and clever architecture.
Sam had never seen anything like it. The wealth on display was staggering as he stared at the mosaics that covered every surface, precious metals gleamed in the filtered sunlight, and the very stones seemed to shimmer with heat. This was a world away from the austere chambers of the Citadel, farther still from the frozen halls of Castle Black.
A group of women emerged from one of the archways, and Sam's breath caught.
They moved like dancers, each step graceful and deliberate. Their clothing was unlike anything he had seen—loose silks in vibrant colors, cut in ways that would have scandalized the septas of the Reach. But it was their faces that held him. Beautiful, all of them, with the same dark eyes and sharp features.
Sarella's sisters.
The women descended on Sarella with cries of joy, embracing her fiercely. They spoke over each other in rapid Dornish, too fast for Sam to follow. Then they turned their attention to the newcomers.
One of them, tall and lean with a viper coiled around her forearm, looked Sam up and down. "This is the crow you wrote of? He looks half-dead from the heat."
"Nym, please." Sarella's voice carried a note of warning. "They have traveled far."
Another sister, this one with a round face and mischievous eyes, circled Sam like a cat studying a mouse. "Black suits you poorly, ser. You should try orange. Or perhaps gold. Something to bring color to those pale cheeks."
Sam felt his face burning, and not from the heat. "I... that is... I'm not a ser. Just Sam. Samwell Tarly."
"Just Sam," the woman repeated, her smile widening. "How modest."
But when they turned to Gilly, their manner changed entirely. The teasing edge vanished, replaced by something warm and genuine. They surrounded her, speaking in soft voices, reaching for little Sam with gentle hands.
"What a beautiful boy," one of them murmured, taking the baby from Gilly's arms after getting her approval. "Look at those eyes. Like the sea."
Sarella caught Sam's eye. "My uncle is waiting." She turned to Gilly. "Stay. Rest. My sisters will see you want for nothing. We have much to discuss later."
Sam hesitated. Gilly looked back at him, surrounded by smiling women, and nodded. "Go on, Sam. I'll be fine."
Gilly's exhaustion showed in every line of her body, but she smiled as the women fussed over her son. They asked about the journey, about her needs, about whether she was hungry or thirsty. Within moments, they had swept her toward one of the archways, still cooing over the baby.
He watched her disappear into the palace, little Sam's cries fading into the distance. Then Marwyn's heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
"Come, Tarly. Time to meet the Prince of Dorne."
Sam's heart hammered against his ribs. Am I ready for this? The question circled in his mind like a carrion bird. He was just a fat boy from Horn Hill, terrified of his own father, afraid of swords and blood and—
"You're stronger than you know, Sam."
Jon's voice. Not real, just memory, but it steadied him all the same. Jon standing in the cold at Castle Black, Ghost at his side, those dark grey eyes serious and certain. "You killed an Other. You crossed the Wall with Gilly and her babe. You're no craven, whatever your father told you."
Sam straightened his shoulders. His hands still trembled, but he could do this. He would do this.
They walked through corridors lined with tapestries and past chambers where servants moved with quiet efficiency. The palace was a maze, but Sarella navigated it with the ease of long familiarity. They climbed a spiral stair, passed through a heavy door, and entered a solar bathed in filtered light.
Doran Martell sat behind a table inlaid with a cyvasse board, his legs propped on a cushioned stool. His face was a mask of patience, dark eyes watching their approach with the stillness of a man who had learned to conserve his strength.
A woman sat nearby, and Sam's breath caught despite himself. She was beautiful in a way that made his chest tight, with olive skin and thick black hair that fell in ringlets past her shoulders. Her dark eyes studied them with keen intelligence.
Princess Arianne. It had to be.
Arianne leaped to her feet the moment Sarella entered, crossing the room in three quick strides. She embraced her cousin fiercely, and Sam saw tears gleaming in her eyes.
"We heard the ironborn attacked Oldtown! We feared the worst."
Doran's voice was quiet but carried weight. "It seems your time as a novice is over, niece. And you have brought... guests."
His gaze fell on Marwyn first, lingering on the Archmaester's rough clothing and broken nose. Then it moved to Sam, and Sam felt himself being measured and found wanting.
Sarella stepped back from Arianne's embrace. "Uncle, may I present Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel, and Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch."
"The Night's Watch." Arianne's eyebrows rose. "You are far from the Wall, Samwell Tarly."
"I..." Sam's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Your Grace. Princess. I... thank you for receiving us. We did not mean to impose, but circumstances—"
"Peace." Doran raised one hand, the gesture economical. "You are welcome in Sunspear. Though I confess curiosity about what brings a black brother so far south."
Sam fumbled for the right words. Jon had sent him to the Citadel to learn, to forge his chain, to become useful to the Watch. But everything had changed. The ironborn attack, the flight from Oldtown, the things Marwyn had shown him in the glass candle's flame. Everything he's learned.
"Your Grace, I was sent by my Lord Commander to study at the Citadel." The words came out in a rush. "But I must ask for passage north as soon as possible. He is expecting my… report."
Doran's interest sharpened like a blade being drawn. "Tell me, Ser Samwell, what news do you have of the North? Of your Lord Commander?"
"I'm not a ser, Your Grace. Just Sam." He twisted his hands together, aware of how foolish he must look. "As for news... I have none. Not recent. I have been at the Citadel for months, and before that..." He trailed off, suddenly afraid. "Has it begun? The war?"
Doran's expression was unreadable. "The war, you say? It has ended. Your Lord Commander, Jon Snow, came down from the Wall, crushed the Boltons, and has taken the North for his own."
Sam's legs went weak. He groped for the back of a chair, his mind reeling. Jon had left the Wall? Abandoned his vows? That was impossible. Jon would never!
Marwyn's voice cut through Sam's spiraling thoughts. "Which is precisely why we must speak with him."
Arianne turned her attention to the Archmaester, one eyebrow arched. "And why would an Archmaester from the Citadel feel such urgency to meet a... former Lord Commander?"
Marwyn said nothing. He simply unlatched the dark lantern he had carried all the way from Oldtown, revealing the twisted obsidian candle within.
The flame burned with a cold, unnatural light. It cast no shadows, produced no heat. Looking at it made Sam's eyes water and his stomach churn.
"Look into the flame," Marwyn said. His voice was flat, stripped of its usual gruffness.
Doran stared at the candle, his expression unchanged. Arianne frowned, confusion written plainly on her face.
"Uncle," Sarella said quietly. "Humor him. I have seen what this can do."
Doran and Arianne leaned closer, peering into the flame. Sam watched their faces, knowing what they would see. He had looked into that flame himself, back in Oldtown, and the memory still haunted his dreams.
The change was immediate and terrible. Curiosity became disbelief. Disbelief became horror. Arianne stumbled back, catching herself on her chair, one hand flying to her mouth. Doran's face went slack, all his careful control stripped away.
"Magic…" he whispered. He looked at Marwyn, and there was fear in those dark eyes. Real fear. "Is it... real?"
Sam found his voice, though it shook. "It is, Your Grace. More real than you can imagine. I faced one myself. That is why I must return to Jon Snow. To the North."
Arianne's gaze snapped to Sam. She stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. "By the gods. No wonder he took the North. If that is what is coming..."
Doran rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly looking every one of his years. "You will have your passage north. But it will not be swift. My scouts report ironborn reavers in the Stepstones. We must find a safe route."
At the mention of the Stepstones, Marwyn's head whipped up. His eyes locked with Sam's, and Sam saw his own apprehension reflected there. The ironborn had reached that far? That fast?
Euron Greyjoy. The Crown of the Bloodstone Emperor.
"Rest now," Doran said, and his voice carried the weight of command. "You are safe here. We will speak more on this at dawn. It seems our own long night has just begun."
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Harrenhal, The Riverlands
The chamber stank of mildew and ancient stone, but Petyr Baelish had grown accustomed to worse. Harrenhal's ruins offered what palaces could not: obscurity. Here, in the twisted bowels of Harren the Black's folly, a man could disappear entirely from the game board while still moving pieces across it.
He sat in what had once been a lord's solar, though the ceiling had collapsed decades past and the walls bore scorch marks from dragonfire generations old. A single candle illuminated the space, casting his shadow long against crumbling stone. Through a gap in the wall, he could observe the hall below where Ser Lothar Bracken held court over his ragged company of sellswords.
Court. The word amused him. Thirty men drinking watered ale and arguing over dice hardly constituted a court, yet Lothar presided with all the gravity of a king. The younger son of a younger son, playing at lordship in a ruin. Useful, in his way. Men with ambitions beyond their station made excellent tools.
Petyr's fingers drummed against the arm of his chair, a rhythm only he could hear. The game had changed since his flight from the Vale. Sweet little Robin had turned on him with surprising venom, and Sansa had proven herself Catelyn's daughter after all. He should have seen it coming. Should have recognized the steel beneath her courtesy.
I taught her too well.
No matter. Setbacks were temporary. The board was vast, and he had played this game longer than most of the current players had been alive. King's Landing burned, the North bled, and everywhere chaos bred opportunity for those wise enough to seize it.
A rat skittered across the floor, pausing to sniff at the remains of his supper. Petyr watched it with mild interest. Even rats knew how to survive in ruins. One simply had to be cleverer than the other scavengers.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Petyr recognized the gait before the door opened: Ser Lothar, moving with the swagger of a man who believed himself more important than he was.
"My lord." Lothar ducked through the low doorway, his hand resting on his sword hilt out of habit rather than threat. "The men are settled for the night."
"Good." Petyr gestured to the second chair, though he doubted Lothar would sit. The sellsword captain preferred to stand, to loom. Let him have his small victory. "Any word from the Twins?"
"The Freys are dead. Every last male." Lothar's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Some say it was the Brotherhood. Others claim the gods themselves came down to bring justice for the breaking of guest rights."
Petyr's expression remained neutral, though inwardly he filed the information away. The Brotherhood Without Banners had grown bold indeed if they could slaughter an entire house in their own keep. Or desperate. Desperation made men reckless, and reckless men made mistakes.
"And the North?"
"The Boltons are broken. Jon Snow took Winterfell." Lothar spat the name like a curse. "With the Vale's help, they say. Twenty thousand knights marching through Moat Cailin."
Sansa. Of course she would bring her new allies north. The girl had learned her lessons well, had woven her own web and caught him in it. He felt a flicker of something that might have been pride, quickly suppressed. Pride was for fools who believed their students would remain grateful.
"The Vale lords follow Snow now?"
"So the ravens claim. Bronze Yohn bent the knee, and where he goes, the rest follow." Lothar shifted his weight. "There's stranger talk than that coming from the North."
"Oh?"
"Madness, most like. Soldiers' tales growing with each telling." Lothar's discomfort showed in the way he avoided Petyr's eyes. "They speak of a black dragon. Say it burned the Bolton army to ash, that it flies above Winterfell now, breathing purple flames."
Petyr steepled his fingers, pressing them to his lips to hide his smile. "A black dragon. How colorful."
"I know it sounds mad, my lord, but the stories are everywhere. Even the smallfolk whisper of it. Some claim that he flew down from the Wall on top of a dragon to smite the Boltons for their betrayal. Others claim… the dragon is Jon Snow himself."
"Jon Snow. As a dragon." Petyr's voice dripped with amusement. "Tell me, Ser Lothar, do you believe in children's tales? Shall we expect the Others to come riding on ice spiders next? Perhaps the Drowned God will rise from the sea to claim the Iron Islands?"
Lothar's face reddened. "I only repeat what I've heard, my lord."
"And I appreciate your diligence." Petyr rose from his chair, moving to the gap in the wall. Below, the sellswords were settling in for the night, their voices carrying up through the ruins. "But we must separate truth from fancy. Jon Snow is dangerous, yes. He has proven himself a capable commander, and he has won the loyalty of hard men. That makes him formidable."
He turned back to Lothar, his expression mild. "But a dragon? No. What we face is a man, nothing more. A man who has seized power through force and cunning. A man who can be outmaneuvered."
A black dragon. The notion was absurd on its face. Dragons had been dead for more than a century, and even if one had somehow survived, the idea that it was Jon Snow transformed beggared belief. No, this was propaganda. The boy had won a decisive victory and now his supporters embellished the tale to inspire fear and awe.
Clever, in its way. Fear was a powerful tool. But Petyr had built his fortune on understanding that fear could be manufactured, wielded, and ultimately overcome. If Jon Snow wanted to drape himself in dragon imagery, let him. It would make his fall all the more spectacular.
"The North is won," Petyr said, returning to his chair. "But winning is easier than holding. Jon Snow has united disparate factions through the promise of a common enemy, but such alliances are fragile. The Vale lords will chafe under northern rule. And the northern houses themselves will remember that Snow is a bastard, Night's Watch deserter, and oath-breaker."
"You mean to turn them against him." It was not a question.
"I mean to give them a choice." Petyr's smile was thin as a blade. "Men are remarkably predictable when offered what they desire most. The northern lords want stability, legitimacy, a return to the old ways. Jon Snow, for all his victories, cannot give them that. He is tainted by his black cloak and baseborn blood."
Lothar frowned. "But if the Vale supports him..."
"The Vale supports Sansa Stark, not Jon Snow. And Sansa is a woman grown, no longer the child I once guided." Petyr's tone remained pleasant, though the words tasted bitter. "She will pursue her own interests, as is her right. But interests change, Ser Lothar. Alliances shift. Today's ally becomes tomorrow's obstacle."
He could see it clearly, the web he would weave. The North was vast and its lords proud. They had bent the knee to Snow out of necessity, but necessity was a poor foundation for lasting loyalty. All he needed was a crack, a single fissure in Snow's coalition, and the whole edifice would crumble.
"You have a plan, my lord."
"I always have a plan." Petyr rose again, pacing the small chamber. His mind raced ahead, calculating probabilities and contingencies. "Tell me, what do you know of the Stark succession?"
"Bran and Rickon Stark are dead. Arya is missing, presumed dead. That leaves Sansa as the heir, with Jon Snow as her bastard brother."
"Presumed dead," Petyr echoed. "Such a useful phrase. It leaves room for... possibilities."
Understanding dawned in Lothar's eyes. "You mean to produce an heir. A false one."
"False is such an ugly word. I prefer 'alternative.'" Petyr stopped pacing, turning to face the sellsword captain fully. "The North is desperate for stability. They want a true Stark in Winterfell, not a bastard playing at kingship. If we were to find, say, young Rickon Stark, alive and well, hidden away all these years..."
"The northern lords would flock to him."
"Some would. Others would doubt. But doubt is enough. Doubt breeds division, and division breeds opportunity." Petyr's smile widened. "We need not convince everyone. We need only convince enough to fracture Snow's support."
Lothar's expression grew troubled. "Finding a boy who could pass for Rickon Stark, training him, convincing the lords... that would take time, my lord. And coin."
"I have both." A lie, but a useful one. His coin had run low since fleeing the Vale, but Lothar need not know that. "As for the boy, I already have candidates in mind. The Riverlands are full of orphans and bastards. We need only find one with the right look, the right age."
"And if Snow discovers the deception?"
"Then we deny everything and the boy dies a traitor's death. I will be nowhere near the affair, of course. But if we succeed..." Petyr let the sentence hang, watching Lothar's ambition war with his caution.
"If we succeed, the North tears itself apart."
"Precisely. And from that chaos, new opportunities emerge. Perhaps the Vale reconsiders its support. Perhaps the Riverlands see a chance to reclaim lost influence. Perhaps Jon Snow finds himself fighting on too many fronts and makes a fatal mistake."
Petyr moved to a small table where a map of Westeros lay unfurled, its edges curling with age. He traced a finger from Harrenhal north to Winterfell. "The game is not lost, Ser Lothar. It has merely entered a new phase. Snow believes he has won because he holds Winterfell and commands armies. But castles can be retaken and armies can be turned. What matters is the will of the lords, and that is far more malleable than stone or steel."
Lothar studied the map, his brow furrowed. "The Riverlands are broken, my lord. The Freys are dead, the Tullys are gone, and the rest have bent the knee to whoever holds the nearest castle. They'll not rise for a boy they've never seen."
"Not today, perhaps. But tomorrow? Next moon? Give them a cause, a symbol, and men will rally." Petyr's voice dropped to a murmur, intimate and persuasive. "Your company numbers thirty now. Small, yes, but loyal. Loyal to you, and through you, to me. What if I could double that number? Triple it? What if I could give you the resources to become more than a minor sellsword captain hiding in ruins?"
The hook was baited. Petyr watched Lothar's eyes gleam with hunger.
"I'm listening, my lord."
"Good." Petyr returned to his chair, settling into it like a throne. "Here is what we shall do. You will send riders to the Riverlands, to those houses that suffered under Frey and Lannister rule. Blackwood, Mallister, Piper. Tell them that friends of the old regime seek to restore order, that coin and opportunity await those wise enough to remember their true allegiances."
"They'll want proof. Promises mean little these days."
"Then we shall give them proof. Small gestures at first. A shipment of grain to a starving village. A few dragons to a lord struggling to rebuild. Nothing that draws attention, but enough to show we are serious." Petyr's fingers drummed again, faster now. "And while we do this, we search for our Rickon. A boy of the right age, with auburn hair and blue eyes. Malleable, intelligent enough to be trained but not so clever as to question his role."
"And when we find him?"
"We wait. We watch Jon Snow's coalition for cracks. We listen for dissent among the northern lords. And when the moment is right, when Snow is distracted or weakened, we introduce our young prince to the world." Petyr's smile turned cold. "The North will have a choice then: the bastard who broke his vows, or the true heir returned from exile. Some will choose Snow out of loyalty or fear. But others will see an opportunity to rid themselves of a king they never truly wanted."
Lothar nodded slowly, but doubt still shadowed his features. "And if the stories are true, my lord? If there truly is a dragon?"
"There is no dragon." Petyr's voice hardened. "There is a man who has won battles and inspired fear. Nothing more. Dragons are dead, Ser Lothar. They have been dead for a hundred years. What we face is flesh and blood, and flesh bleeds."
A black dragon. The phrase echoed in his mind, unwelcome. He pushed it aside. Superstition and fancy, nothing more. The realm had always been full of such tales. Azor Ahai reborn, the Prince that was Promised, the return of magic to the world. Nonsense, all of it. The only magic that mattered was the magic of coin and fear and carefully planted lies.
Still, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. What if?
He silenced it ruthlessly. Doubt was for lesser men. He had not climbed from nothing to the heights of power by entertaining impossible fantasies. Jon Snow was a man, and men could be destroyed. It was simply a matter of finding the right lever, applying the right pressure.
"Go," Petyr said, dismissing Lothar with a wave. "See to the men. Tomorrow, send your best riders to Riverrun and Seagard. Feel out the lords, gauge their mood. And begin searching for our young prince. Discreetly."
Lothar bowed and departed, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Petyr remained in his chair, staring at the candle flame. The wax had burned low, pooling at the base. Soon it would gutter and die, and he would be left in darkness.
No matter. He had navigated darker places than this.
His thoughts turned to Sansa, as they often did in quiet moments. She had outplayed him, had turned his own lessons against him. Part of him admired the symmetry of it. He had taught her to smile and lie, to see through the masks men wore, and she had smiled at him while plotting his downfall.
Catelyn's daughter indeed.
But Sansa was far away in Winterfell, and her attention would be consumed by Jon Snow's grand plans. She would not think of Petyr Baelish, hiding in ruins, spinning new webs. That was her mistake. The game was never over until one player was dead, and Petyr had no intention of dying.
The candle flickered, casting strange shadows across the walls. For a moment, they almost looked like wings. Great, terrible wings spreading across the stone.
Petyr blinked and the illusion vanished. Just shadows. Nothing more.
A black dragon in the North.
He would see about that.