Tyrion Lannister looked out the narrow window of the tower, watching the snowflakes spiral down like tiny, dying stars. After searching the room and failing to find a single brazier, he turned to his brother, who was leaning against the cold stone wall.
"This place is quite nice, Jaime. Truly. It's much better than the dungeons of King's Landing, no damp, no smell of rot, and the air is remarkably... refreshing."
"Hm?" Jaime Lannister pushed a tangle of matted golden hair back from his eyes. He looked at his brother, who had just stepped into the room, with a gaze of utter incredulity. A slow, weary smile touched his lips. "The wolf pups must have taken pity on me. They dragged me out of that lightless hole and shoved me into this 'renovated' suite."
Jaime stood up, the iron chains connecting his leg irons and manacles clanging with a heavy, rhythmic discordance. Though his frame was gaunt and his face was hollowed by months of captivity, he remained an imposing figure. His beard had been groomed, and his long, mane-like hair caught what little light filtered through the window, making him look like a proud lion even in his distress.
Surprise flared in Jaime's light green eyes. He strode forward, laughing a dry, raspy sound, and crouched down to pull Tyrion into a fierce embrace.
Tyrion let out a grunt as the air was squeezed from his lungs. "Jaime, if you think the Starks did this out of the goodness of their hearts, you've been in a cell too long. You're in this tower because I paid the price. Thirty thousand gold dragons and the head of Balerion the Black Dread. I'm using Tyrell gold and Targaryen relics to buy Lannister comfort."
"You were always the clever one," Jaime said, releasing him. But as he stepped back, his eyes locked onto the heavy black wool of Tyrion's robe. The smile vanished. "Why are you wearing that, Tyrion? Did Father finally find a way to strip you of Casterly Rock? Did he force you to join the Watch?"
"Our father has many ways of making the world bend to his will," Tyrion replied indifferently.
He sat on the edge of the bed and recounted the events of the last few months: the battle at the Crossing, the treaty, and the nightmare in King's Landing. As he spoke of the wedding feast and the purple, choking death of the boy-king, Jaime's face became a mask of jagged pain. He immediately thought of Cersei. He could imagine her screams echoing through the Red Keep.
"It truly wasn't you?" Jaime whispered, his voice cracking.
"Has the damp turned your brain to mush?" Tyrion snapped, jumping to his feet. He took a step back, his face flushing with an uncharacteristic rage. "Do you think I didn't know he was yours? For all his cruelty, for all his madness and gods, he was a monster, Jaime, I wouldn't commit kingslaying. I loved you too much for that."
Jaime looked down at his shackled hands, the weight of the guilt visible in the slump of his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Tyrion."
The room fell silent as the light faded into a bruised purple twilight.
"How is Father? And Cersei? And Uncle Kevan?" Jaime asked after a long pause.
"Alive. Plotting. Scheming," Tyrion said. "Father has a new grand plan. He's sent Littlefinger to the Vale to marry Lysa Arryn. He's sent Uncle Kevan to Lys to hire ships. He's gathering an army in the capital and told the Reach to mobilize. He wants you back, Jaime. He wants you to give up the white cloak and become the heir to Casterly Rock."
Jaime looked up, his jaw set in a stubborn, familiar line. "Once you swear the oath, you wear the cloak for life. Sansa Stark told me as much when she visited. I won't break my word."
"The world has changed, Jaime," Tyrion countered. "Joffrey threw Barristan Selmy out of the throne room like a stray dog. The oath is a suggestion now. No one will care if the Kingslayer becomes the Lord of the Rock."
"No," Jaime said firmly.
"So you'd rather rot here? Starks plans to keep you for twenty years. He'll find some Northern widow to marry you off to, just to ensure your line serves Winterfell."
"I'd rather jump from this tower than let a Stark own me!" Jaime shouted.
"And what of Bran Stark? He's the King of the North now. If he remembers what happened on that broken tower, Jaime... the hospitality will end. Winterfell's deepest cells are cold enough to freeze the blood in your heart."
Jaime looked at his brother, his expression softening into a sad, knowing smile. "So, you came all this way to persuade me to be Father's heir?"
"No," Tyrion said, his eyes turning cold and sharp. "I came to ask about Tysha."
The name hit the room like a physical blow.
"Was she really a whore, Jaime? Was it all a setup?"
Tyrion watched his brother's green eyes. He saw the flicker of panic, the deep well of guilt, and the sharp, sudden fear.
"She wasn't, was she?" Tyrion shouted, his voice echoing in the stone chamber. "You lied! Tywin forced you to lie!"
Jaime turned his head away, unable to meet Tyrion's gaze. His voice was a thin, trembling thread. "Father said she was only after your gold. She was a commoner... you were a Lannister. He said it was a lesson. He said you'd thank me for it one day... that it was for your own good."
"My own good?" Tyrion stepped back until his spine hit the heavy oak door. He saw Bronn standing in the corridor, the sellsword's face full of a rare, genuine pity. Tyrion's face twisted into something ferocious and ugly. "He gave her to an entire camp of soldiers! He made me watch! He made me pay each of them a silver stag!"
"I didn't know!" Jaime wailed, reaching out a shackled hand. "I swear to you, I didn't know he would do that! You have to believe me!"
"I believe you," Tyrion said, his hand finding the latch. He forced a smile that looked more like a snarl. "But Jaime... a Lannister always pays his debts. And I intend to pay this one in full. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."
The door slammed shut with a violent BANG, leaving Jaime alone in the gathering dark.
Winterfell.
"Come with me. Relying on worldly power, you will never be able to protect your family."
Bran was dreaming. In the dream, he was Summer. He saw his reflection in the dark waters of the pools beneath the heart tree and knew his own skin. Above him, the Three-Eyed Raven circled, its third eye a milky, lidless beacon.
The bird showed him visions. He saw Robb, clad in bronze and iron, pursuing the Ironborn along the jagged coast of Sea Dragon Point. He saw the sea boil. He saw the black tentacles surge from the depths like the fingers of a drowned god, dragging his brother and Grey Wind into the abyss while the soldiers watched in helpless horror.
"No!" Bran shouted, but he had no voice.
"Come with me. Fly north, little wolf. The crown is a chain of stone."
Bran snapped his eyes open. He was back in his bed, the smell of woodsmoke and old stone filling his senses.
"Another nightmare?" Jojen Reed asked, looking up from where he sat by the hearth. His moss-colored eyes were full of a heavy, ancient sorrow.
"I dreamt of Robb again," Bran whispered. "I dreamt of the raven. It wants me to leave, Jojen. But how can I go? I am the King. Mother needs me. Rickon is afraid. I have to find Arya."
"A winged wolf bound by stone chains," Jojen said softly. "The crown is the stone, Bran. You are not meant to rule from a chair. You were born to fly. You must go north, beyond the Wall, to find the Green Seer."
Bran looked down at the piece of dragonglass hanging around his neck on a leather cord. He remembered what Eddard Karstark had told him before leaving for the Crossing.
"Bran, this obsidian contains a structure. A pattern. If you focus your sight, the sight you use to find Summer, you can learn the spell. It is called Magic Armor. Don't tell anyone but Luwin. It is a secret for the blood of the First Men."
Bran had seen Eddard cast it. He had seen the shimmering, transparent film that turned aside a steel dagger.
"Eddard said the North of the Wall is a graveyard now," Bran said. "He said the dreams are traps."
"I don't know if Lord Karstark is right," Jojen said, turning back to the fire. "I only know what I see. The rest is your choice."
Bran lay back, clutching the dragonglass. He closed his eyes, ignoring the physical world, and focused all his will on the cold, black stone.
In the darkness of his mind, bright lines of light began to flicker. They danced and spun, eventually forming a brilliant, stable, and incredibly exquisite rune, a geometric pattern that felt as solid as a mountain. Bran stared at it, etching every line and curve into his very soul.
On his chest, the dragonglass suddenly flared with a blinding white light.
A faint, sharp cracking sound filled the room. Spiderweb fractures spread across the obsidian, the light growing so intense it penetrated the heavy velvet quilts, illuminating the bedchamber for a fleeting, magical second.
Then, the black gem turned to fine, grey powder.
Thousands of miles away, in the high tower of Harrenhal, Eddard Karstark suddenly sat up in his bed. He felt a sharp, resonant throb in his mind, a psychic echo from the dragonglass he had engraved.
He did it, Eddard thought, a slow smile spreading across his face. Bran Stark has learned the magic.
Eddard looked at the blueprint for the [Magic Stele] hovering in his vision. He realized now that the inhabitants of Westeros weren't just capable of magic, they were hungry for it. The rising tide was providing the energy; they only needed the keys.
"If I can't be the Hero," Eddard whispered to the empty room, "I'll be the one who builds the school for them. Let's see how the 'Game' looks when everyone has a Thunderbolt in their pocket."
[System Notification: First Pupil detected: Bran Stark.]
[Magic Spread initiated: 0.1%.]
[Dominion Feature: 'Magic Stele' construction priority increased.]
[Soul Power Gained (Propagation): 200 SP.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_