***
The fire had burned low when Castor heard footsteps in the corridor.
He sat hunched over the solar table, maps spread like battlefield plans under lamplight. Parchment curled at edges from moisture—trade routes inked between White Harbor and the Free Cities, supply lines marked in his own hand.
The Dreadfort squatted pink in the center, Winterfell grey to the west, White Harbor blue at the coast. Eastward the map hazed into Essos—Braavos canals, Pentos elephant sigils, Myr and Lys beyond.
Wind clawed at shutters, rattling wood against stone. Snow hissed against glass. Deep winter wasn't here yet but it crept closer each night, cold seeping through walls that had stood centuries.
Late 296 AC.
Twelve moons, maybe less.
The knock came sharp—knuckles on oak.
"Enter."
Jeren pushed through, snow swirling behind him. His cloak hung heavy with wet, beard crusted white with ice. Road exhaustion showed in red-rimmed eyes, wind-burnt cheeks, the stiff way he moved. He shut the door hard, cutting off the gale's howl.
"M'lord." His gaze went to the maps immediately. Years of service had taught him—when Castor summoned after dark with maps out, plans were moving.
"Sit." Castor kicked a chair out with his boot, reaching for the wine flagon. He poured two cups, the liquid dark as old blood. "You rode from the Hills?"
"Aye." Jeren dropped into the chair with a grunt, joints protesting.
Took the offered cup and wrapped both hands around it, warming fingers gone numb from riding. "Twenty-two bars this moon. Veins holding strong. Reserves at eighty-nine total now." He sipped carefully, letting the wine burn down his throat.
"You pulled me back urgent. Problem with the gold?"
"No." Castor slid a dagger across the map, moving the Braavos marker slightly east.
"Different matter. The Targaryens."
Jeren's cup paused halfway to his lips. He set it down slowly, deliberately. "The exiles."
"Viserys and his sister. Daenerys." Castor traced the Narrow Sea with one finger. "They're in Braavos now. Merchants from White Harbor confirm it—saw them begging at the Sealord's court. Doors closing. The Beggar King's worn out his welcome."
Jeren rubbed his jaw, stubble rasping under callused fingers. "Robert Baratheon pays good gold for their heads. Why chase ghosts?"
"Because ghosts are only dead if you let them stay buried." Castor leaned back, fire warmth against his shoulders contrasting with the cold drafting under the door. "Viserys won't stay in Braavos. Too proud to work, too broke to impress anyone who matters. He'll move."
"Where?"
"Pentos." Castor tapped the elephant sigil. "That's where the fat magister lives. Illyrio Mopatis."
Recognition flickered across Jeren's face. "I've heard that name."
"Where?"
"White Harbor docks. Merchants talk about him—rich Pentoshi bastard with a manse the size of a castle. Connected somehow to the Spider in King's Landing. Varys." Jeren picked up his cup again, swirling wine. "They say he backs lost causes if they're useful to him."
"They say right." Castor refilled his own cup, the glug of liquid loud in the quiet room. "Illyrio collects exiles like other men collect swords. Uses them for leverage in the game. The Targaryens will end up there—probably within a few moons. Viserys chasing anyone who'll fund his crown dreams, and Illyrio's one of the few with gold and ambition enough to play."
Jeren nodded slowly, processing. "What's his play with them?"
"That's what you're going to find out."
The words hung between them. Jeren's fingers tightened on his cup, but he didn't speak. Waiting.
Castor stood, moving to the window. Through the gap in shutters he could see snow falling thick, coating the courtyard in white. Torches on the walls flickered like dying stars. "Illyrio doesn't just collect exiles. He collects curiosities. Things from Asshai, from the Shadow Lands. Strange items that most men dismiss as worthless."
"Like what?"
"Dragon eggs."
Silence. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Wind moaned through stone cracks.
"Dragons died in the Doom," Jeren said finally, voice careful. "Nothing but stories now."
"That's what everyone thinks." Castor turned from the window, leaning against cold stone. "But Illyrio has three eggs in his manse. Petrified stone now—fossils from old Valyria. Worth something to collectors, but mostly just... curiosities."
"Then why do we care about them?"
"Because of the girl."
Jeren's brow furrowed, waiting for explanation.
Castor moved back to the table, placing one finger on the silver-haired marker he'd drawn. "Daenerys. Twelve years old. Pure Valyrian blood—the last of the dragonlords' line that matters. There are... rumors. Old stories from Asshai, whispers that Essosi merchants carry." He met Jeren's eyes. "That true dragonblood can wake old things. Fire calling to fire."
Understanding dawned slowly on Jeren's face. Not belief, not yet—but recognition of the possibility. Of what it could mean.
"You think the girl could hatch dead eggs."
"I think she's the only one with a chance." Castor straightened. "And I think it's worth finding out. Because if it works—if those eggs crack and dragons breathe again—we'd have weapons no army in Westeros could stand against."
Jeren drank deep, throat working. Set the cup down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"That's..."
He paused, choosing words carefully. "A long gamble, m'lord. On old stories and dead things."
"Every advantage starts as a gamble." Castor pulled out a sealed packet—thick vellum, Bolton's flayed man pressed in pink wax.
"But I'm not betting blind. The timeline's tight. Late 296 AC now. They'll reach Pentos by early next year."
"Twelve moons."
"At most. Probably less." Castor slid the packet across the table. "This is why I pulled you back. Read it. Memorize it. Burn it when you're done."
Jeren broke the wax seal, unfolding pages covered in Castor's precise script. His eyes moved across the text slowly, absorbing details. The room fell quiet except for fire crackling and wind howling and the rustle of parchment.
Phase One: Braavos—hire local informants, track movements, confirm next destination.
Phase Two: Pentos—establish trading office as cover, place eyes on Illyrio's manse, wait for targets to arrive.
Phase Three: Execute—Viserys accident (drunk fall, tavern brawl, sellsword grudge), egg acquisition during chaos, girl extraction (merchant protector offer, force if necessary).
Jeren read through twice, lips moving silently on the second pass. Finally he folded the pages with careful precision, tucking them inside his cloak. "Clear enough. But contingencies?"
Castor ticked off on his fingers. "Illyrio resists? Gold usually opens Pentoshi hands. If not, there are other methods. Varys sniffs something wrong? You abort, sail back empty. The girl fights extraction? Put her below decks in irons if you have to. Priority is her first, eggs second. I need both, but she's the key."
"And Viserys? How clean does his death need to look?"
"The Beggar King's reputation does half the work. Arrogant drunk who thinks he's owed a throne—that kind of man makes enemies everywhere. Pentoshi taverns are full of stories about fools who insulted the wrong sellsword." Castor's smile held no warmth. "Just make sure it looks like his own stupidity caught up with him."
Jeren nodded once, accepting. "Ship?"
"Blood-Red Tide. Finishing at White Harbor in a fortnight—modified merchant galley. Fast hull, concealed armaments, cargo space for cover goods." Castor refilled both cups. "You sail within the moon. I'm giving you twenty men—hand-picked, mouths that stay shut. Cargo manifest says Dreadfort black ale and Bolton trade goods. Reality is gold for bribes and room for passengers on return."
"Duration?"
"However long it takes. Six moons to position and execute if everything goes smooth. Twelve if it doesn't. I want you back before winter truly hits, but not at the cost of rushing and fucking it up."
Jeren wrapped both hands around his cup, staring into the wine as if reading futures in dark liquid. "And when I return? The girl's Targaryen. Northern winter will be brutal for southern blood."
"She adapts or she doesn't. That's not our immediate concern." Castor's voice went flat, emotionless. "Keep her isolated until she proves useful. The eggs go into the deepest vault we have. No one sees them, no one knows they exist except you and me."
"Understood." Jeren drained his cup and stood, fatigue showing in the way his shoulders set. "When do I sail exactly?"
"Moon's end. That gives you two weeks to prepare—gear, crew briefings, cover story memorization. The printing press is already producing false manifests that put you as a legitimate Bolton merchant expanding trade routes." Castor extended his hand.
"This is the most important mission I've given anyone. Success means leverage no one else in the world will have.
Failure..."
"Means I'm a rogue merchant lost at sea, and you deny all knowledge." Jeren clasped his forearm in the Northern way, grip firm. "I know the stakes, m'lord. It'll be done."
"See that it is."
Jeren released his arm and moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.
"One question. Why tell me about the eggs at all? Could've just said 'get the girl' and left it at that."
Castor considered him for a long moment. "Because you're not stupid, and you'd wonder why she mattered so much. Better you know what we're actually chasing than fumble in the dark." He picked up his wine cup. "And because if something happens to me before you return, you need to know what you're carrying."
"Fair enough." Jeren pulled the door open, snow swirling in again. "I'll report when I'm ready to sail."
The door thunked shut. Wind filled the silence, moaning through gaps.
Castor stood alone with maps and markers and the weight of what he'd just set in motion. He moved the Pentos elephant slightly, then placed a small silver marker on top of it—the girl who might wake dragons.
Twelve moons. Less if fate's unkind.
The fire burned lower, coals glowing red like dragon eyes in darkness. Outside, wolves howled in distant forests—or maybe just wind through stones, sounding like beasts.
Castor poured more wine and studied the map until the lamp oil ran low.
The gambit was moving.
***
CHAPTER END