The sea howled against the black cliffs of Skagos, waves breaking white in the night. To the south, sailors whispered of cannibals and madmen, of shaggy men gnawing on bone by firelight, of shadowcats large enough to tear a horse in half. Skagos was death, they said, a place where no ship should ever anchor.
They were half-right.
Beyond the jagged headlands and the storm-swept coasts, a valley opened, hidden by mist and mountain. There, where no map of the Citadel spoke true, lay a city vast as any in Westeros. Quarethon, the beating heart of House Quark, glowed in the gloom like an ember fanned in secret.
Lamps of blue-white light flickered along its avenues, their glow casting strange halos on the wet stone. Aqueducts ran above broad, straight streets, water whispering in the night. The walls were black basalt veined with red, runes faintly alive with fire. On towers and banners, a shadowcat reared up in defiance, flanked by crossed axes. This was no savage outpost. This was power, hidden in silence.
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Inside the Great Hall, the Grey Council gathered. Their words echoed against pillars carved from skagosi stone. At the table sat the regents of Quarethon:
Lord Hroth Varrek, Commander of the Grey Axes, armor dented by years of reaver blood.Mael Othrin, Warg-Master, his pale eyes ever distant, a raven perched upon his shoulder.Scholar Deyros, guardian of the Library, robes stained with ink and ash.Seren Thane, Merchant-Lord of the Sable Manticore, his fingers heavy with foreign rings.
Before them, on a great slab of polished obsidian, a map of Westeros glimmered with tiny glass markers. Each stone was placed where a warg had seen, where a raven had flown.
"The realm unravels," Mael murmured. His raven gave a rasping croak. "At Harrenhal, Prince Rhaegar crowned a wolf maid with flowers, and now the wolf is gone. Lyanna Stark, vanished. Brandon Stark rode to the city like a fool, and Aerys has seized him. The North will howl for blood."
"Let them," growled Lord Varrek. "Wolves, lions, dragons — they all tear at each other. It is no concern of ours."
Scholar Deyros stroked his beard, ink staining his fingertips. "No concern? We have eyes in every hall and harbor from White Harbor to Volantis. If the world burns, it will reach even here in time. Knowledge is armor, but only if we use it."
Seren Thane's rings clinked as he folded his hands. "War fattens merchants. Already the Sable Manticore profits. Grain, salt, arms — chaos makes good trade. Better to stay hidden, unseen. If the wolves and dragons claw each other, our coffers fill while theirs empty."
The council's voices rose, old quarrels surfacing. Yet above their words came the soft sound of a child's laughter.
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At the hall's edge, seated upon a high carved chair, sat Myra Quark, heir of Quarethon. Four years of age, small legs swinging above the stone. She clutched a wooden axe carved for her by the smiths, her fingers tracing the runes burned into its haft. A great shadowcat lounged beside her chair, its yellow eyes half-lidded, tail flicking in time with the council's arguments.
The men and women spoke as if she were not there, but from time to time she would repeat a word she liked, clear and sharp: "Wolves." Or, "Blood." Once, when Varrek thundered that Quarethon must remain silent, her high voice piped: "Silence."
The council stilled, uneasy. Even at four, the child had a way of echoing truths that unsettled hardened warriors.
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When the meeting broke, her nurse carried her through the deeper halls of Quarethon. They passed the Library, where thousands of candles burned above shelves of endless parchment. The girl reached out a hand toward the great doors, but the nurse pulled her gently away. Not yet, her eyes seemed to say.
Deeper still, to the Vault. Guards bowed their heads as the iron gates groaned open. Within, treasures gleamed under lamplight: racks of black steel rippling with Valyrian waves, golden caskets heavy with jewels, dragonglass glittering like frozen fire. At the center, upon pedestals of carved stone, rested ten dragon eggs, each unique — one shimmering green, one as black as night, one pale as bone veined with scarlet.
Myra wriggled in her nurse's arms until she was set down. Barefoot, she padded across the cold floor and pressed her small palm against the glass that cased the nearest egg. The guards stiffened. The egg was cool to the touch, lifeless, yet her storm-grey eyes lingered on it with silent curiosity.
Later, she stood on a balcony of the Great Hall. Snow blew in from the cliffs, dampening her hair. Below, Quarethon pulsed with quiet life — guards marching, presses clattering, aqueducts singing their watery hymn. Beyond the walls, the sea roared against the cliffs.
Somewhere across those waters, a crown was slipping, a rebellion was stirring, and kingdoms were bleeding. But here, in silence, a child watched the storm.
Quarethon would wait.