Chapter 20: Heat

Eddard Stark was falling but in reverse. He looked above as he fell and didn't see a sky. He saw Winter and in it all the souls it had claimed. The next moment, he was in a land unlike any he knew.

The world around him shimmered in a spectrum of jade—dark, light, and every shade between—evoking the shifting leaves of the weirwoods. Above, the sky had changed again, swirling, alive with hues of obsidian and gold, scarlet lightning slicing the horizon. It felt wrong, more wrong than anything he had ever known. But here, in this place, the wrongness was palpable, like a heartbeat thrumming through the earth.

Is this the world? Or what it's becoming? Something whispered. It sounded like the wind passing through leaves. It sounded awed.

A cold wind swept over the ground, but the sound it carried was not the rustle of grass. Not grass. Chains. They lay tangled in the fields, their links glowing faintly green. A harsh metallic scraping echoed as slaves’ hands clawed from the dirt beneath, their fingers outstretched toward the sky. Their mouths opened, but no cry escaped them.

A figure stood among them—a Valyrian looking boy with golden broken shacles, a boy with wings, a boy with a crown, a boy who looked like a god—bathed in a golden light that wasn’t entirely his own. The power radiating from him spilled like water, reaching beyond the slaves, beyond the chains, into the void.

Who is this boy? Ned thought, the question like lead in his mind.

“A boy, or something else?”

The vision shifted. The chains became a sea, and from that sea rose the shadows of Dothraki riders, Ned recognized their faces hollow, their bodies insubstantial.

At their head rode a fool thing. It looked like a twisted version of a stallion. It’s form was dark, oily and worse, undoubtedly Malevolent. It was surrounded a smoldering cloak of flame and smoke. His face was twisted, wrathful, a visage of death.

The wind carried a cacophony of distant voices—not warriors, but the dead.

In an instant, the world around him changed again. The boy of before now stood against them, soldiers with eyes of gold and broken shackles gathered behind him. The very air around him cracked, power drawn from what seemed to be the depths of the world itself.

The Stallion howled, his dark eyes gleaming with something ancient, something more terrifying than mere fury in the eyes of such a being, it was something Ned Stark was familiar with, that he had seen in the eyes of men on the execxution’s block. It was fear.

The Stallion seemed to be looking in all direction as if trying to escape before its gaze met the one of Ned and stopped as if it could see him. Ned Stark watched almost frozen as the thing tried to move in his direction before the thing was shattered in thousand of pieces by gold—a million shards of glass, scattering into the Earth, in the void.

Ned’s breath caught, and the scene twisted once more. Now, he stood in a hall, vast and cold, shadows flickering in the corners. The air smelled of stone and secrets.

His gaze fell on a black dragon with stomps at the place of his wings with a spider face The Spider’s face gleamed in the dim light of candles, and beside him, a man clad in gold and bitter steel from head to toe smiled. The smile wasn’t warm, but calculating. They whispered to one another, voices too quiet for Ned to make out. He strained to hear, but the words slipped away like water through his fingers.

For a moment, the flames flickered black-black as night, black as fire—and then were gone.

In the blink of an eye, Ned was somewhere else, standing in a bedchamber heavy with the scent of wine. A giant stag with the voice of Robert was there, his voice booming through the room, thick with rage.

The Stag was looking at a feeble looking lioness with wings and scales.

Her face was a mask of defiance, but beneath it, Ned saw fear—fear like cracks in a shattered mirror.

“Whore!” the Stag roared. “All this time—my kingdom, my family—a lie! You and that brother of yours! Bastards, Targaryen Bastards the lot of them! I'll kill you. I'll kill them all!”

Ned’s heart sank at the words. Images of corpses of butchered children, of Robert laughing and calling them dragon spawns. Jon, both his nephew and son could have been one of them, could still be one of them.

A chill crept into the room. Winter’s cold.

“Promise me Ned,” her voice echoed.

The sky above shifted again, and Ned saw the North, his kingdom but it wasn’t right. The stars began to blink out, one by one, until there was nothing but darkness.

Magic. Not the magic of men, nor of gods. This was older, deeper. Something darker. He didn't know how but he knew.

“It was awakening,” something murmured at the edges of the dream, almost as if calling to those who could hear.

The ground trembled beneath Ned’s feet, and in the distance, the god in form of a boy floating rose again, a shadow looming over the world. His army was at his back, dozens, hundreds, thousands, dozen of thousands and so much more voices screamed at him, screamed and called him saviour, liberator, screamed at him for mercy, screamed at him for help, screamed at him to held his light. Hands so much more numerous than the voices rose from under trying to reach him.

Then, he saw them. Two human looking dragons by their lonesome, one older, male with a scar the shape of a crown on the head, in the clothes of a beggar, the second, the youngest shining from inside with fire and lightning that seemed to be begging to be releasing. Their faces were pale, eyes wide as they journeyed through endless deserts, crossing seas of jade and gold, all leading toward a city beyond the horizon, once red now one of gold, laugh and broken shackles.

They whispered to one another, their voices thin and brittle.

"It is him," the older dragon muttered, his voice trembling. "It must be him. He was never truly gone."

The youngest dragon clung to her brother’s arm, her expression full of awe and wonder.

A gust of wind roared, and Ned was falling, tumbling through the world as it unraveled, pulling him toward something he knew was greater.

The weirwoods loomed in the distance, their faces etched in wood, their eyes ever-watchful.

"What is this?" Ned whispered into the void. His voice trembled, the question lost in the vastness around him. “Am I dreaming?"

The weirwoods did not answer. But their faces twisted and shifted, some familiar, some strange, each bearing the weight of the past, each cradling the future.

The trees bled, green sap seeping into the earth. The world shuddered under the weight of it.

“This is what had come and is coming,” the trees whispered. “This is what you must know.”

The ground shook, trembling beneath Ned’s feet, and terror clawed at his chest. His heart thundered in his ears, the air thick and suffocating.

And then, silence.

The dream shifted one last time. Ned stood in the Great Hall of Winterfell, his family gathered around him—his children. But their faces, their appearances were wrong.

Robb with the bloody head of a wolf sewn on his neck, Robb he only had recognized because of his eyes, the eyes he inherited from his mother, that Ned loved so much shining where there were supposed to be wolves’ eyes.

Jon who had scars etched on face as if someone had grated at his face, to remove his eyes violently. The eyes of Lyanna’s boy, of his son were dull the same way the eyes of a corpse would look like. There was a dagger piercing through his flesh, the wound still bleeding.

Rickon, his youngest looked at him and Ned saw the recognizing in his eyes. Rickon had wild eyes, the eyes of a wolf, the eyes of a beast who didn't know who Ned was.

Sansa, his oldest sweet daughter looked bloody as if she had been beaten. She wasn’t smiling. His daughter wasn’t smiling. She looked as if she had forgotten to do so.

Arya’s eyes looked cold, devoid of life. Arya didn't look like Lyanna anymore. She looked like a cold monster, like a murderer.

And Bran—Bran was not Bran. He was something else, something larger, something that saw far beyond what lay before him.

"You have to wake up," Bran whispered, his voice ancient, his eyes boring into Ned’s soul.

"You have to see." the others whispered.

The dream crumbled at the edges, slipping away from Ned’s grasp.

In the distance, the boy of the beginning, the one who looked like a god stood, still, watching Ned the same way Ned was looking at him.

He raised his hand, and the world began to bent to his will.

"Wake up!” Bran’s voice echoed once more, a thousand and one times simultaneously urgent now, louder.

Ned opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came.

The world collapsed.

And Ned woke up.

*scene*

The chamber was dimly lit, and the light from the flickering candles cast long, twisting shadows across the stone walls. The air carried the scent of parchment, ink, and something more ancient I recognized, that you felt in old offices but couldn't name. This was the first council meeting I’d attended since returning from the campaign against the Dothraki. Though I could easily have let Nileyah handle the meeting as she had in my absence, I needed to see for myself how things were progressing, how the city I had liberated was functioning and had functioned without me being directly involved.

Seven figures sat before me, the legislative representatives of Astapor—once slaves, now the chosen voices of the new Astapor I was trying to build. Lazaro the artisan, Araz the scribe, Daenolla the whore, the one the original Aegor had seen as his sister, as his betrayer, Noraphos the undefeated warrior, Varello snake-eye, Lessirah the matron, and Tychor the smith. They honestly looked way better than they did the last time I've seen them. It made me wonder if the effects of my Panaceas could be cumulative. Another thing I'll have to check.

When I had left, I had placed the weight of governance on their shoulders with the ones of Nileyah when I left for war. Now, I was back, and it was time to see them report what they had done.

I had looked into their eyes and due to it, already knew what they did. None of them did things I would qualified of wrong yet, but it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have done better. Still, I wanted for the better and worse see if they would be honest.

The room was silent, save for the soft shuffle of feet as they adjusted in their seats. I could feel their eyes on me, the usual Reverence was still there in some of their eyes even though it appear hidden. Araz, Noraphos and Tychor were the ones looking at me and thinking of a god.

"Thank you all for gathering," I began, my voice steady, calm, yet with an edge of command that I couldn’t fully suppress. "I have returned to Astapor, victorious, as you know. The Dothraki threat has been dealt with. Now we must turn our attention to the governance of the city, and to the future."

I surveyed them, each in turn, and they met my gaze with what seemed to be mixes of respect and anticipation. Lazaro, with his hands rough from his craft, leaned forward, always the first to speak his mind. Noraphos, the undefeated, sat with a quiet strength,. Daenolla, who looking at felt more bearable. She flashed me a soft smile. I wanted to act as if I didn't see it. I knew it wouldn’t be fair no matter what I may feel toward her so I just gave her a nod.

Araz, the scribe, was the first to speak, as expected. He leaned forward, his thin fingers laced together. "There are matters we must discuss, my lord," he said, his voice even. "The election of the Second is fast approaching. The people are eager to know how it will be handled, now that you are back."

"Handled as all elections in the future should be, through the votes of each of the people of Astaport," I replied. "The people will choose, as they did with you, representatives. I will not interfere in the election. My role is not to dictate the will of the people but to ensure they have the freedom to express it."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table. Lazaro nodded approvingly, and Lessirah smiled faintly, her matronly features softening at the mention of the people’s will. I had no intention of ruling as a tyrant; Astapor would not become another city of chains.

“What do you mean by the people of Astapor,” the voice of Noraphos, softer than I thought it would be rang through the room.

I knew what it meant the moment the words came out of his mouth. Others didn't or maybe they did and didn't like what his words implied.

“What do you mean by that?” Lessirah the Matron asked him. “We are all people of Astapor.”

Like the devil, Varello chose this moment to intervene “Are we though? All of us in here in This room had been slaves under the ‘good masters’. We know their cruelty. We had known the same anger, the same hatred. Noraphos isn’t wrong. There are people in this city even though their lives may have not been easy before who had never been slaves under the good masters, who never experienced continuous humiliations the way we did. They came to Astapor for safety, for a better life and I'm not against that but why should they be able to decide at least for now with the people who suffered for years under the good masters to help choose the second, the one who will be directly operating in the name of us all just under his Grace Aegor.”

I really wanted to hit him after he had stopped talking not because there wasn’t any truth in his statement but because he was saying it not only because of the reasons he had given. I had seen the conversation he had with his sister which I had found both insulting and enlightening. He was removing possible competition but wasn’t in the wrong due to the way he was doing such. He would have been a good accuser.

I saw some of the representatives like Noravos nod at his words. Others like Lessirah were frowning “I thought that the Astapor we were trying to make was not built of suffering,” she said coldly “but in the goal of making everything better, in making the world better by making the dream of Aegor coming true. I think all the people in this city free, safe and happy because of Aegor, who believes in him should be able to vote because we shouldn’t need suffering to come together. Joy and camaraderie should be enough!”

I watched her words strike the others like a wave. The representatives were all looking for more representatives. Peering through their mind made me know that most in different degrees found a part of them agreeing with the two different ideas.

“The solution is simple,” I said and they all turned in my direction. “We will make a mini vote here in three days about what is the best idea to adopt.”

I won’t say that I didn't have my own presence about how the vote of the second should be done, organized. I knew that if I enforced my will, they would all accept the decision, the direction I wanted to take but I needed to learn to do things by themselves, to choose instead of being commanded.

“Next subject,” I said.

Araz cleared his throat, glancing around before continuing. "Then there is the matter of resource distribution. The city grows by the day, and while we have made great strides in ensuring that no one is left without, we must consider the future. There are whispers of fears of hunger in the future in the outer districts. The Panaceas have helped immensely with healing and keeping the population healthy. Some of the people fear than more people coming in meant there would be less Panaceas.”

I stopped myself from rolling the eyes. Human stupidity, you always surprise me.

“They know I can always create more don’t they?” I asked the scribe.

“Your grace, they are a minority in truth but all men fear losing what make their life easier. Your grace, all those things came because of you. Today, we are blessed to have you in our surroundings but maybe in their eyes, most of this if not all of this could disappear if you do too.”

“That’s stupid,” Tychor the smith, grumbled. “Acting because of a fear that could be instead of seeing a beautiful thing that is.”

“It's in man’s nature to be stupid, Tychor,” Daenolla said to him. “Maybe they fear such thing because they don’t feel any control?”

I nodded, understanding the meaning of their words. The Panaceas, created from my essence as the Archmage, were a marvel, a cure for any ailment short than death, capable of healing any injury. In the end, they were still something coming only from me, dependant of me and I could see why someone who once had been slave would fear being dependent even if it was of their savior. Maybe if I gave them some agency back or at least some semblance of it.

"I have a thought about this," I said slowly. "The land surrounding the city... I can reshape it, as I did with the Dothraki Sea. I can make it fertile, capable of growing crops year-round." I could probably also do more than that but I didn't say this. In the great scheme of things, it would change nothing but It wouldn’t hurt.

"There is another matter," Daenolla spoke up, her voice lilting yet sharp. "The remnants of the Dothraki. The women, the children. We have integrated many of them into the city, but there are... difficulties. Some resist, some refuse to accept our ways. They are young, innocent, but they carry the scars of their people. How should we proceed?"

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the decision. I had killed their fathers, their brothers. I had reshaped their world. And now they were here, in Astapor, among the freed slaves. "We offer them the same freedom we offer everyone else," I said finally. "They will learn, in time. The city will embrace them, as it has embraced all who come here."

"Not all," Varello snake-eye muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Some will never accept what we are trying to build. Some will always see us as conquerors, as the enemy when in truth, your grace only went to eradicate them because you had to."

Varello wasn’t wrong. I had literally let them be warned that I would come. They knew that by myself, I had destroyed a Khalaasar yet instead of maybe thinking they should stop, they didn't. Sure, It was kinda the fault of the great Stallion but something told me that even without it, nothing would have changed.

"Then we will be patient," I replied, my voice hardening. " They had only known one thing most of their lives immersed in their culture. They can, will change if we allow them to do so."

More than that, what I didn't added was that it could be said in a sense that the first victims of the Dothraki were their wives and their children.

It's like with an abused pet. You have to be patient, caring, forgiving, show them that you would not be like the person who hurt them before and they will change for the better.

The room fell silent again, the tension palpable. I could feel their unease, their doubts, but they knew as well as I did that my words, my commands as rare I gave them were to be respected. Astapor was supposed to be a haven, to become a paradise for all. I would not allow it to not be the case because it would be easier.

Araz cleared his throat again, drawing the attention back to him. "There is one other matter, my lord. If I'm not mistaken, the cities of Essos guilty of the slave trade, you have sent them a letter, demanding they end their trade in slaves, or face the same fate as those who defied you before. But...there is more I think we can do."

That was interesting and unexpected especially coming from Araz. I didn't look deeper in his mind. I didn't want to be spoiled. I raised an eyebrow, truly curious. "Go on."

Araz leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a mixture of resolve and caution. "The wealth of these cities is built on the backs of slaves, yes. But wealth can be... reshaped. What if, instead of simply threatening them with war, we made it too costly for them to continue their trade? What if we made slavery ruinous for them?"

"And how would you propose we do that?" Lazaro asked, his voice skeptical. "Slavery has been the foundation of their wealth for centuries. What could we offer that would make them give it up?"

Varello chuckled softly, his snake-like eyes gleaming in the dim light, almost screaming Eureka. "We already have something," he said, his voice sly. "Something more valuable than slaves. Something that could bring down empires, make kings beg for it. Something that all men, all women, crave more than anything."

The others turned to him, intrigued. I felt a stir of recognition, a cold certainty settling in my gut. Even if I hadn’t had my powers, I knew I would be able to rightly guess what he was about to say.

"The Panaceas," Varello continued, a grin spreading across his face. "Your Panaceas, my lord. They heal wounds, cure diseases, even seem to stave off the ravages of age.”

Varello wasn’t wrong about the age thing. I had seen someone old enough to be a grandfather bite into one of my panaceas and come out looking like someone at least 40 years younger.

“What man would not trade his wealth for such a gift? What slaver would not abandon his trade for the promise of immortality? We could ask anything of them, their children, their mothers, their fathers and they would accept."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table, and I could see the realization dawning in their eyes. The Panaceas were more than just a cure; they were power in a way, true power, the kind that could reshape the world.

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. Varello was right. The Panaceas were the key. They could bring down the cities of Essos without a single drop of blood being spilt and in the case conflict was inevitable, make things truly harder for those opposing me. They could give me opportunities. Could I for example force a slaver city to attack another just for one of my Panaceas?

But that was a matter for another day. For now, I would focus on the task at hand. The cities of Essos would learn, one way or another, that the age of slavery was over.

"The Panaceas," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Yes. They could indeed make things easier." yet there was a little voice inside of my head that couldn’t help but say that it would instead make things worse.

*scene

Kevan Lannister walked the stone corridors of Casterly Rock with a heavy heart, his boots echoing ominously against the cold floor. The castle walls, once a symbol of impenetrable power, now felt suffocating, pressing in on him with a weight he had never felt before. It was as if the very foundation of House Lannister was cracking beneath his feet, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was beginning to unravel.

Everything was falling apart.

Cersei and Jaime, his niece and nephew—his blood—had been accused of being Targaryen bastards. A letter, sent to every lord and lady in Westeros, had turned their world upside down. Whispers spread like wildfire, rumors that the twins were caught acting way too close for siblings, that their bond in truth resembled, was akin to the excesses of the Targaryens more than that of respectable Westerosi nobility. It was a scandal that could destroy them all.

As if that wasn’t enough, another letter had come—more damning than the first—accusing Cersei’s children of being Jaime’s bastards. This time, the accusations were more than words. The truth, or what appeared to be the truth, was right in front of them or at least Kevan knew it is what the people of Westeros would think, believe. Cersei’s children bore no resemblance to Robert Baratheon they would begin to say. They had no trace of the black hair or the strong jawline that marked the Baratheon line they would murmured. Instead, they would comment end think about how they looked every inch the Lannisters—golden-haired and sharp-featured, like Jaime, Jaime who had been caught with Cersei.

He didn't even to imagine those things, he knew the realm was already talking. Kevan could already imagine the whispers, the glances exchanged over goblets of wine in the halls of power. Of course, it’s true, they would say. Look at the children. They’re all Lannisters through and through. Not a hint of Robert in any of them. The conclusion they would all come with was simple, was obvious. Cersei’s children were bastards, born of an incestuous union with her brother. It was too perfect a story for people not to believe and there were nothing that the lords of Westeros loved more than stories.

Kevan’s steps quickened as his mind swirled with the implications. The walls seemed to close in tighter, and he felt his breath came in shallow, measured bursts. He could already feel their enemies circling like wolves, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. The bannermen, who had once feared and respected the Lannisters, would soon test their limits, poking at the cracks that Jaime and Cersei’s actions had created. House Lannister, the lions of the West, surrounded by foes, had never seemed so vulnerable.

Yet, in spite of it all, Kevan had not feared. Even as their reputation was and would be dragged through the mud, even as the letters spread like a plague, he had not despaired. He had trusted in his brother, Tywin, as he always had. Tywin had always known how to navigate the most treacherous of waters. Kevan had witnessed his brother’s genius firsthand—Tywin had brought the Reynes and Tarbecks to their knees when no one thought it possible. The truth was that It had been Tywin who made the Targaryen fall. He had saved House Lannister from ruin once before, made them greater with each challenge and Kevan had no doubt he could do it again.

When the first letter had arrived, Tywin had been decisive. Letters were sent to their bannermen, reminders that House Lannister remained strong, that the lions of the West were still their betters. Kevan could only imagine the subtle threats woven into those messages, the reminders of what had happened to houses that dared defy Tywin in the past. The sellswords had been hired, armies readied. Kevan had followed his brother’s orders without question, even though he knew that going to war against Robert Baratheon would be folly. But Tywin had always had a plan, a way to turn the impossible into victory.

Yet now, as Kevan approached the door to Tywin’s chambers, something gnawed at him, something unsettling. Since the second letter—the one accusing Cersei’s children of being bastards—Tywin had retreated into his room and had not emerged. Days had passed, and Kevan had heard nothing from his brother.

The guards flanked the door, standing stiff and uncomfortable as Kevan approached. “Let me pass,” Kevan said, his voice firm but calm.

“Lord Tywin asked not to be disturbed,” one of the guards replied, his tone hesitant but resolute.

Kevan narrowed his eyes, his patience fraying. ‘Since when do guards give orders to Lannisters?’ he thought, a wave of irritation rising in his chest.

“You forget yourself,” Kevan said coldly, pushing past them without waiting for a reply. “You are still guards. I am still a Lannister. Do not mistake your place.”

The guards exchanged nervous glances, backing away under the weight of Kevan’s authority. They knew better than to argue.

Kevan pushed open the heavy door and stepped into his brother’s chambers. The stench of wine hit him immediately—a foul, acrid odor that clung to the air like a sickness. The room was dimly lit, the candles on the table flickering weakly as if they, too, had given up hope. Kevan’s gaze swept the room, landing on the figure slumped in a chair by the hearth.

Tywin Lannister, once the most feared and respected man in Westeros, looked… small. He was draped in a robe, a goblet of wine in his hand, staring into the flames as though they held the answers to all his troubles. His once-sharp eyes were dull, unfocused, and for the first time in his life, Kevan saw his brother not as the lion of the West, but as something else—something weaker, something… broken.

Kevan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart heavy with a mixture of sorrow and disgust. Tywin would have hated to be seen like this, and yet, Kevan couldn’t shake the image before him. His brother looked like their father, like Tytos Lannister, the man Tywin had despised for his weakness. The resemblance was uncanny, and it twisted something deep inside Kevan, something he had never felt before toward his brother.

Tywin took a slow sip of his wine, not bothering to look up as Kevan entered. “It's the second time. It seems my guards are as useless as they are disobedient,” Tywin muttered, his voice slurred but still carrying that familiar edge of disdain. “I told them not to let anyone in.”

Kevan ignored the comment and stepped forward, taking a seat across from his brother. “I’m here because you were supposed to come back to me about the things that needed to be done,” Kevan said, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of frustration.

Tywin’s eyes flickered briefly, a faint glimmer of recognition, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He chuckled darkly, a sound that sent a chill down Kevan’s spine. “Things that needed to be done,” Tywin repeated, as though the words were foreign to him. “There’s nothing to be done, Kevan. Haven’t you heard? Jaime and Cersei were caught… acting like Targaryens.” His lips curled into a bitter smile. “The realm knows. It’s all over.”

Kevan’s stomach churned as Tywin continued, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “Even if I wanted to do something, there’s nothing I can do. It would be us against all of them. The Dornish hate us for Elia and her children. Stannis and Renly have ties to the Reach through marriage and the ties between Renly and the Tyrell boy of his. The Stormlands are loyal to Robert. The North belongs to Ned Stark. The Riverlands to the Tullys. We’re surrounded, Kevan. Surrounded by enemies. What’s the point in trying to salvage anything… for bastards that aren’t even mine? Let Robert execute them. Let them all laugh at the remnants of my legacy, a cuckold, father of an imp.”

Tywin poured himself another goblet of wine, his hand shaking slightly as he lifted it to his lips.

Kevan watched him in silence, a slow, burning anger rising in his chest. The words his brother had just spoken—bastards that aren’t even mine—echoed in his mind, twisting and warping until all that remained was a single emotion, one that Kevan had never thought he would feel toward Tywin.

Disgust.

Kevan’s lips pressed into a thin line as he spoke, his voice cold and sharp. “It seems I was wrong about you, Tywin. I believed you loved Joanna. I believed in that much.”

The reaction was immediate. Tywin’s eyes snapped to his brother, and for the first time in days, the fire in him returned. His expression darkened, and the Tywin Lannister that Kevan had always known—the lion, the ruthless man who had brought entire houses to their knees—was back.

“How dare you,” Tywin hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “What did you just say?”

Kevan didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down, even as Tywin’s gaze turned murderous. “I said,” Kevan repeated slowly, meeting his brother’s eyes with a steel of his own, “that I believed you loved Joanna.”

Tywin’s hands clenched around his goblet, his knuckles turning white. “You of all people should know that family wouldn’t save you from my wrath, Kevan. How dare you question me? How dare you speak of Joanna?”

Kevan leaned forward, his voice steady but filled with a quiet fury. “If you loved Joanna—truly loved her—then why are you doubting her now? Why do you believe the lies in those letters? Why are you questioning her faithfulness?”

For a moment, Tywin said nothing. His eyes softened, the fury in them dimming as Kevan’s words sunk in . Tywin’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Kevan could see the struggle in his brother’s eyes, the war between pride and pain, between the man Tywin had built himself to be and the one he had buried deep down—the man who had loved Joanna, perhaps more than he had ever loved anything else.

“What do you believe, Kevan?” Tywin finally asked, his voice quieter now, a ghost of its usual force.

Kevan sat back, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied his brother. “I believe in the man who taught me what it meant to be a Lannister,” Kevan said. “I believe in the proud lion of the West. I don’t believe in this pathetic man hiding in his room, drowning himself in wine like Tytos Lannister. That man isn’t my brother.”

Tywin’s eyes flashed at the mention of their father, but he didn’t lash out. He simply stared at the fire, the shadows dancing across his weathered face. The mention of Tytos always cut deep, and Kevan knew that. But it was time for Tywin to confront the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

“You can still change things,” Kevan continued, his voice firm. “House Lannister has suffered a blow, yes. But we’re not finished. We’re not dead. Not unless you allow us to be.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, and he turned his gaze back to Kevan. “And what would you have me do, brother? Our name is tarnished. Cersei and Jaime… they’ve destroyed our reputation. And if these letters are to be believed, if my children aren’t mine, if Cersei’s children are truly bastards…” He trailed off, his hands gripping the goblet so tightly it looked as if it might shatter in his grasp.

Kevan shook his head, his patience wearing thin. “Maybe the letters are true. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe Jaime and Cersei’s actions have nothing to do with Targaryen blood. But what matters is what you do now. Whether you fight for your family or let us fall apart, whether you act or so nothing just like our father.”

Tywin stared at his brother for a long moment, the firelight casting harsh shadows on his face. Kevan could see the weight of the decision in his eyes, the conflict raging within him. This was the moment. This was where Tywin would either rise or fall.

“I’ve always respected you, Tywin,” Kevan said quietly. “I’ve always believed that you were the man to lead us, the man who could pull us out of the darkest situations. But if you’re going to sit here and wallow in self-pity, then maybe I was wrong. Maybe you never loved Joanna the way I thought you did.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Kevan thought his brother might strike him. But instead, Tywin’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a slow breath.

“What would you have me do, Kevan?” Tywin asked, his voice quiet, almost broken.

Kevan stood, his heart heavy with a mixture of anger and sorrow. “I would have you remember who you are. You are Tywin Lannister, the lion of the West. You brought the Reynes and Tarbecks to their knees. You made the name Lannister feared across the realm. Act like the man I’ve always believed you to be. Fight for your family.”

Tywin’s gaze followed Kevan as he crossed the room toward the door. Kevan could feel his brother’s eyes on him, could feel the weight of the unspoken words that hung between them.

At the door, Kevan paused, his hand resting on the cold iron handle. He didn’t turn back to face his brother, but his words were clear, unwavering.

“All of this,” Kevan said, his voice calm but firm, “depends on whether you truly loved and trusted Joanna. Hiding yourself in a cup won’t change anything.”

“She was my family too,” Kevan added more softly. “Maybe the letters are right, maybe they are wrong but I remember Joanna and I know that no matter what it could have been said, thought about you, she loved you. Do what you think is best about the children of the woman you love, about Joanna’s children. Me and the rest of the family will follow you no matter what.”

With that, Kevan pushed open the door and stepped out into the corridor, leaving Tywin alone in the dark, the flickering firelight casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.

Later that day, Kevan Lannister would be called by his brother in his solar to share his future plans.

*scene*

Rollo felt his bones crack under the weight of his shackles as the guards dragged him to the docks. The iron around his wrists and ankles had been forged not for a man, but for a beast, and his flesh screamed where it met the cold metal. He stumbled, his legs weak from the beating he had taken earlier, and the guards, laughing, yanked him forward without mercy. His breath came in ragged gasps as they reached the water’s edge, and he looked out over the inky expanse of the bay, its surface reflecting the faint glow of the moon.

This is how it ends.

Rollo had always known it would come to this. In Tyrosh, the lives of slaves were measured in heartbeats, in the brief moments of respite between labor and pain. He had been a slave for as long as he could remember, his early memories blurred by fear and suffering, the face of his mother a distant, ghostly thing that he could never fully recall.

And now, his master had tired of him. The man who had beaten him, starved him, used him as though he were nothing more than an animal, had decided it was time for Rollo to die. There would be no trial, no explanation. Just the cold embrace of the sea.

The guards lifted him effortlessly, their laughter echoing in the still night. His limbs, shackled to heavy blocks of iron, dangled uselessly as they swung him toward the edge of the dock. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming for air that would soon be denied him. He thrashed, though he knew it was futile.

And then, they threw him.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Rollo felt weightless, suspended in the cold night air. He could hear the distant murmur of the city, the lapping of the waves against the shore. Time slowed to a crawl, and in that endless instant, he thought of nothing but the sensation of falling.

Then the water closed over his head.

It was like being swallowed by the darkness itself. The cold hit him like a physical force, squeezing the breath from his lungs as the weight of the chains pulled him down. His arms flailed, desperate, but the iron around his wrists and ankles dragged him deeper, deeper into the black abyss.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. Water rushed in, filling his throat, his lungs, choking him. The pressure built in his chest, his body convulsing in an instinctive attempt to breathe, but all he could take in was the suffocating brine of the sea.

His vision blurred, the world spinning as he sank. His chest burned, his lungs screaming for air that would never come. Every instinct, every nerve, begged him to fight, but there was nothing left to fight with. The water was all-consuming, crushing him, smothering him.

It was terrifying in a way he had never imagined. The sensation of drowning wasn’t like being stabbed, or beaten, or whipped. It was a slow, agonizing death. His body fought, even when his mind knew it was over. His body struggled, flailed, convulsed, even as it began to shut down.

And in those final moments, as his vision darkened and his body went limp, Rollo remembered something.

He didn’t know why, but he remembered a conversation he had once overheard, whispered in the dark by another slave. A story, or maybe just a legend, about a boy—no, a god—who had once been a slave like them, but who had risen again. A boy who had broken his chains and freed the slaves of Astapor. A boy whose power had shaken the sky, whose will had turned the Dothraki Sea into a green paradise.

He hadn’t believed it, not then. How could he? Slaves didn’t have gods or at least gods who cared because if they had, none of them would be slaves. No, instead they had masters. They had chains. But now, as he felt the life ebbing from his body, as he sank deeper into the cold, black water, the name of that boy slipped into his mind.

Aegor.

It was ridiculous, absurd, to think of such things now. But it was all he had left. And in his final, desperate moment, Rollo prayed.

Save me.

He wasn’t sure if he had spoken the words aloud or if they had only formed in his mind. It didn’t matter. As soon as the thought passed through him, something changed.

A warmth, a flicker of light in the darkness. It started in his chest, a pulse, a heartbeat, then spread, filling his veins with a strange, unfamiliar strength. The pain in his lungs, the crushing weight of the chains, the suffocating cold of the water—slowly, they began to fade. The agony that had consumed him moments before disappeared, replaced by a sense of calm, of clarity.

Rollo’s eyes opened. The blackness of the water seemed less oppressive now, the darkness parting before him as though something, some force, were guiding him. He flexed his wrists, and the iron shackles that had bound him for so long snapped, shattering as though they were made of glass. The weights fell away, sinking into the depths.

His body moved with a fluid grace, his limbs strong and sure, as though he had been born to swim, to rise from the depths. He kicked once, then again, his movements effortless, powerful. The surface of the water grew closer, and with one final surge, he broke through, gasping for air.

The night air filled his lungs, sweet and cool, and he dragged himself onto the bank of the river, collapsing in the grass. His chest heaved, his heart racing, but he was alive. For the first time since he had been sold into slavery, he felt as if he was truly alive.

The city of Tyrosh lay on the horizon, its towers and domes silhouetted against the night sky. He had never seen it from this side, never been outside the walls unchained, unburdened, free as he was.

Rollo laughed, a wild, disbelieving sound that echoed across the riverbank. He had survived. He had broken free. The other slave had been right—there was a god, a god who cared for the lowly, for those the world had forgotten.

And his name was Aegor.

Footsteps crunched behind him, and Rollo tensed, but the same presence that had guided him to the surface whispered in the back of his mind. It told him not to worry. He was still safe.

He turned to see a man standing above him, a familiar face. It was the slave who had told him the stories, the one who had whispered the name Aegor in the dead of night.

The man smiled down at him. “The ways of the Great Liberator are confusing,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “But you being here, feeling as I do, shows how clever and kind our god is.”

Rollo’s mind raced with questions, but the first that escaped his lips was, “Did you know this would happen? How are you here, outside the city, without chains or master?”

The man’s smile widened. “I went through something like what you did. Something I should not have survived. And when it happened, I prayed. I prayed to all the gods I knew, but only Aegor saved me.”

He knelt beside Rollo, his eyes gleaming with something close to wonder. “Afterward, I broke my chains and escaped. The only reason I was still in Tyrosh, pretending to be a slave, was because Aegor’s voice told me to find you, to tell you what I had learned.”

Rollo blinked. “Voice?”

The man nodded, his grin widening. “Not a voice like we’re speaking now. It’s more…intent, a presence in the back of your mind, guiding you. You must feel it by now.”

Rollo paused, focusing inward, and he did feel it. A soft, gentle presence, like a parent’s touch, like the warmth of a hearth after a long winter. It was comforting, familiar in a way nothing else had ever been. It reminded him of a time before he had been taken, before he had been sold into slavery.

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “It’s…kind.”

The man’s smile softened. “That’s the voice of Aegor. He saved you, just as he saved me. And now, you’re free. Free to do whatever you want.”

Rollo frowned. “But…what does he expect of me? What service must I perform in exchange for my life?”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s the beauty of it. He expects nothing of you. Nothing except that you be free, and that you never take another’s freedom.”

Rollo stared at him, disbelieving. “That’s all?”

The man grinned. “That’s all.”

Rollo prodded at the presence in his mind, searching for some sign of obligation, some hidden price. But there was none. Only a gentle confirmation, a feeling of peace, as though Aegor were telling him that the man spoke true.

In which world does a god have more kindness than men? Rollo thought, his heart feeling heavy with the weight of the words of the other man. Nothing was expected from him.

He turned back to the man, his mind still spinning. “If that’s true, why were you still in Tyrosh, pretending to be a slave?”

The man’s eyes darkened, a flicker of fire sparking within them. “Because I want to see the slave masters fall. I want to avenge those who have died, who have suffered because of them. I want to free every slave in Tyrosh.”

Rollo’s heart Rollo’s heart skipped a beat at the man’s words. The thought of overthrowing the very men who had tormented him all his life—who had shackled him, beaten him, treated him like an animal—sent a wave of adrenaline rushing through him. But as quickly as the fire ignited in his chest, doubt crept in to smother it.

“How?” Rollo asked, shaking his head. “Even if we were to rise up, the sellswords they hired would slaughter us all. They outnumber us. They have weapons, training. They know how to fight. We—slaves—are nothing but laborers. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

The man nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he admitted. “If we were to fight them with nothing but our bare hands, we’d be cut down like wheat before the scythe. But you’re forgetting one thing, Rollo.”

“What’s that?”

“Aegor.”

Rollo blinked, uncertainty washing over him. He thought of the power that had surged through him moments before, the strength that had broken the chains, allowed him to swim when he had never learned how. But even that… Could it really be enough to challenge the might of the Tyroshi slavers and their armies?

“Think about it,” the man continued, his voice growing more animated, more fervent. “You’ve already felt his power. You broke steel shackles with your bare hands. And you’re neither the first nor the only one. There are others like us—slaves who have been touched by Aegor’s voice, who have been freed by his power. Imagine what the slaves of Tyrosh could do if they stood together.”

Rollo frowned, his mind racing. He had indeed felt something extraordinary. The strength, the clarity—it had been unlike anything he’d ever known. But still, the idea of going to war against the slave masters of Tyrosh… It seemed impossible. Madness.

Rollo’s heart pounded in his chest. “But even if there are others… The slavers have wealth. They’ll just buy more sellswords. Hire more soldiers.”

“Let them,” the man said with a smirk. “Sellswords fight for gold, but what good is gold against powers like ours? What would they do against us when we have a god supporting us, guiding us?”

Rollo swallowed, remembering how easily he had shattered the chains that should have drowned him. He couldn’t deny the truth of the man’s words. Whatever this power was, it made him feel invincible. But could he really believe that enough slaves with said power could topple the entire slave system of Tyrosh? That the slaves of Tyrosh could truly be free?

“Even if you’re right,” Rollo began, “how do you know Aegor will come? How do you know he’s even aware of what’s happening here?”

The man’s grin returned, more confident than ever. “Because Aegor already gave them an ultimatum.”

Rollo’s eyes widened. “An ultimatum?”

“Yes. Word’s been spreading among the slaves for weeks. Aegor sent a letter to every slaver city in Essos, including Tyrosh. He told them to end slavery, to free all the slaves, or face his wrath. He’s coming, Rollo. It’s not a question of if—it’s only a matter of when.”

The air seemed to still around them, the weight of the man words pressing down on Rollo’s chest. Aegor was coming. The same god who was said to have shattered the Dothraki, who had freed the slaves of Astapor, was on his way to Tyrosh. The fall of the slavers wasn’t just a hope—it was a promise.

Rollo looked out over the horizon, toward the distant city of Tyrosh, its towering walls still visible under the pale light of the moon. He could almost see his master there, sitting in his lavish estate, surrounded by wealth and power, unaware that his reign of terror was nearing its end. The thought of that cruel man—of all the slavers—being brought low filled Rollo with a sense of justice, of righteous fury.

His fingers clenched into fists at his sides. He had spent too many years in chains, too many years being beaten, humiliated, broken. If what Qilōnarion said was true—if Aegor was truly coming—then Rollo would stand with him. He would fight, not just for himself, but for every slave who had ever suffered, every life the slavers had destroyed.

“Can I help?” Rollo asked, his voice steady, his resolve firm.

The man eyes gleamed with approval. “Of course. The more, the merrier.”

Rollo extended his hand, his grip strong, determined. The other took it with a wide grin. “I knew you’d come around.”

As Rollo stood, his mind still racing with the implications of what lay ahead, the other suddenly laughed and slapped his own forehead. “Ah, I nearly forgot! You don’t even know my name, do you?”

Rollo shook his head. “No.”

His grin widened. “You may call me Qilōnarion.”

The name rolled off his tongue like liquid silver, and though it sounded foreign, unfamiliar, Rollo felt something in his mind shift. The presence at the back of his thoughts—the voice of Aegor—seemed to whisper its meaning to him.

“Punishment,” Rollo muttered under his breath, understanding the name’s translation without knowing how.

Qilōnarion’s grin turned feral, his eyes gleaming with something dark and fierce. “Fitting, isn’t it? Punishment for the slavers of Tyrosh.”

Rollo nodded, his own lips curling into a smile. Yes, it was fitting. The slavers had lived in luxury for far too long, while the slaves had suffered beneath their heel. It was time for the tables to turn. It was time for them to feel the pain they had inflicted on others.

He took a deep breath, feeling the cool night air fill his lungs. For the first time in years, he felt truly alive. The weight of the chains was gone. The fear, the helplessness, the despair—it had all melted away, replaced by a burning determination.

“I’m Rollo,” he said, meeting Qilōnarion’s gaze with a newfound sense of purpose. “And I’m ready.”

Qilōnarion clapped him on the shoulder, his grin widening. “Welcome to the cause, welcome to divine and holy purpose. I’m glad to have you.”

Together, they turned to face the distant city of Tyrosh, its walls looming ominously in the distance. But Rollo no longer saw it as a place of fear. He saw it as something else, he saw Tyrosh as the enemy and he knew he would not allowed himself to be stopped until his enemy was completely destroyed And with the voice of Aegor guiding him, he knew they would be victorious.

It was time for payback. The rebellion to make Tyrosh fall had begun.