280 AC, early winter, King's Landing.
Three miles outside King's Landing, the Roseroad gradually gave way to a dusty, muddy track.
"I swear," Tyrion said, pulling his head back through the carriage window, "if the gods granted me one wish, I'd ask for a pair of boots that could walk on shit."
The convoy passed slowly through the Iron Gate.
At the sight of House Lannister's golden lion, the Gold Cloaks guarding the gate immediately straightened their backs.
A man who looked like a captain hurried forward and saluted. "His lordship is already waiting in the city. Word came down from the Red Keep that His Grace knows you're arriving today."
His eyes strayed involuntarily toward Leon's carriage.
Thea's hand settled on her sword hilt.
Just then, a gentle voice sounded from the shadows of the gate:
"Thank you for making the journey, everyone."
The voice was like silk sliding over silk, smooth and seamless.
A bald man emerged from the depths of the gateway, his silk robes gliding soundlessly over the ground.
His round face wore a smile that made people want to check their purses.
Varys.
"Lord Master of Whisperers." Gerion bowed slightly. "I hadn't expected you to welcome us in person."
"His Grace always takes particular care of honored guests."
Varys's gaze swept over the convoy before settling on Leon's carriage window for precisely one second. "Especially guests bearing... unusual colors."
Leon's [Eye of Insight] activated instinctively.
The light in Varys's chest was unlike anything he had ever seen-
Countless fine threads extended in every direction, their colors constantly shifting. There was no core, only a web.
This man had no heart.
Or rather, his heart was that web.
As though sensing the scrutiny, Varys tilted his head slightly and offered the carriage window a harmless smile.
The carriage continued into the streets of King's Landing.
They were narrow and winding, paved with uneven stones, with crooked buildings crowded together on either side.
Hawkers' cries, drunkards' bellows, and women's shrill laughter mingled into a dizzying din.
Leon forcibly suppressed the instinctive workings of his [Eye of Insight].
There was too much information here. Opening it fully would overload him.
He picked out only certain things:
The pottery vendor whose eyes kept straying toward the convoy.
The woman wearing cheap makeup at a second-floor window, whose gaze lingered too long on Leon's face.
The two men in faded robes at the corner, pretending to converse when their lips barely moved.
And, on a distant rooftop, a swift shadow that flashed past.
Not a bird.
"Our friends in King's Landing are punctual," Tyrion murmured. He had noticed too. "At least three groups following us."
The carriage jolted suddenly, a wheel sinking into a puddle.
Just then, a commotion arose ahead.
A troop of riders approached, wearing dark green coats and breastplates engraved with golden roses.
The young knight leading them was handsome, his gaze haughty.
Gerion rode forward. "This is House Lannister's convoy. Make way."
The young knight reined in his horse, his gaze falling on Leon's carriage window as the corner of his mouth curled upward. "Lannister? Lord Tywin's 'special cargo' has arrived."
His voice carried to everyone nearby. "I come from Highgarden. Lord Mace asked me to bring a message to our young guest from the Westerlands. Roses may be beautiful, but winter in King's Landing is cold. Take care that beauty doesn't freeze."
Stifled chuckles came from the crowd.
Leon pushed open the carriage door and stepped down.
His pale violet eyes stood out starkly in the gray winter light.
The young knight's smile froze.
"Thank you for Lord Mace's concern."
Leon's voice was clear and steady. "Please tell his lordship that the Lannisters have spent three hundred years deep in the mines of the Westerlands. We understand better than anyone how to keep warm in the cold."
He inclined his head slightly. "Also, please give young Lord Willas my regards. I learned a great deal from the copy of A Study of the Reach's Hydrology he gave me."
The young knight's expression changed.
He opened his mouth, but finally only nodded stiffly and signaled his men to make way.
The convoy moved on.
"Ordered to probe you," Tyrion said inside the carriage. "That sort of harassment is a test. To see what you're really like away from Highgarden, and whether you'd reveal your hand."
Leon nodded. "A final confirmation from the Queen of Thorns: whether she saw genuine ability or responses Uncle Gerion had taught me."
"Did you pass?"
"For now." Leon looked out at the approaching outline of the Red Keep. "But the real test hasn't begun."
The air gradually grew fresher...
They had reached the nobles' quarter.
Stone houses, carved windows, and the occasional garden of withered roses.
Four household guards stood before the gates of the Lannister courtyard.
One was particularly conspicuous:
At twelve, Sandor Clegane was already more powerfully built than many grown men.
Half his face was hideously red with burns, and his eyes were those of a beaten dog: wary, sullen, ready to bite at any moment.
The gates slowly opened.
Tywin Lannister stood on the steps before the main building, dressed entirely in black save for the golden lion brooch at his collar.
"Get out," he said.
Leon and Tyrion stepped out of the carriage.
Thea followed close behind.
Tywin's gaze passed over everyone before settling on Leon. "What happened on the road?"
"One search, one attack."
Gerion stepped forward to report. "Someone slipped aboard the ship to search it. Five well-trained men attacked the convoy and took poison after their defeat. Before dying, they mentioned that the king wanted to test the violet eyes.
"They bore the Kingswood Brotherhood's 'oak leaf and dagger' tattoos, and there was also a badge made by a Lysene craftsman."
Tywin's expression did not change, but the air in the courtyard grew several degrees colder.
"A Tyrell knight tested us as we entered the city," Leon added. "He told me to 'beware the winter in King's Landing.'"
Tywin's mouth curved coldly. "Olenna is displaying Highgarden's influence. Varys welcomed you personally to make his presence known as well."
He turned toward the house. "Come inside. We leave for the Red Keep in two hours."
In his room, Leon stood by the window, looking at the pale red walls of the Red Keep.
His [Eye of Insight] caught the shadow flashing across a distant rooftop.
The watchers were still there. More than one group-at least two, taking turns watching, their methods professional.
"Young master?" Thea's voice held concern.
Leon came back to himself and realized his nose was bleeding again. He wiped it with a handkerchief, his movements practiced.
"Someone's following us," he said. "They started when we entered the city. At least two groups, taking turns."
Thea frowned. "I'll tell Lord Gerion."
"No need."
Leon shook his head. "Let them watch. Right now, we're in the open and they're in the shadows. But if they don't know we've spotted them, who stands in the light and who stands in the dark isn't settled yet."
He took parchment and a charcoal pencil from his luggage and began drawing a web of relationships:
The Iron Throne at the center, with lines extending to the Small Council, the great houses, and the factions within King's Landing.
Beside "Master of Coin," he drew a purse; beside "Varys," a spiderweb; beside "Cersei," a lioness with exceptionally long teeth.
Finally, at the edge of the sheet, he drew a question mark surrounded by several pairs of eyes.
Tyrion leaned over. "What's this?"
"The game board of King's Landing," Leon said. "First, we need to know who the players are."
Tyrion stared at the drawing. "How do you know the Master of Coin is greedy?"
"A guess," Leon said. "But some things don't need evidence. The king's been mad for over a decade. The treasury must be empty. If the man managing the money weren't corrupt, he'd have been replaced long ago."
Gerion's voice came from downstairs. "Children, time to go. The king doesn't like waiting."
Leon put away the drawing.
Passing the window, he glanced once more at the distant rooftop.
The shadow was still there.
Good.
He said it inwardly. Keep watching.
Let's see how long you can keep it up.
Outside the Red Keep's throne room, the enormous oak doors stood tightly shut.
Leon had been standing outside them for a full two hours.
His knees were beginning to ache, and keeping his back straight for so long had left a dull pain along his spine.
Beside him, Tyrion had changed his stance three times, straightening hastily each time Tywin's icy gaze swept over him.
Sounds kept seeping through the gap between the doors.
Not speech, but sharp, broken laughter, like glass scraping against slate.
It mingled with indistinct muttering, the words inaudible, only the pitch rising and falling like the tide.
A Kingsguard stepped out, glanced expressionlessly over them, and inclined his head to Tywin. "Lord Hand, His Grace is still receiving the Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild. Please continue to wait."
He withdrew through the doors.
Tyrion whispered, "The Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild? He's already been in there for..."
Tywin's gaze swept toward him. Tyrion shut his mouth.
Another two hours passed.
Leon's knees began to go numb.
He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, then back again.
Beside them, Cersei had long since received special permission to sit, and was now watching her two younger brothers with undisguised glee.
A scream came from inside.
Not a scream of pain, but one of excitement and wild delight, as though someone had discovered a treasure.
More confused muttering followed, extremely rapid, interspersed with several Valyrian words Leon could recognize-"fire," "dragon," "blood."
Tywin's expression did not shift.
At last, the doors opened.
The Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild stumbled out, his face deathly pale, suspicious black scorch marks staining his cuffs.
He bowed hastily to Tywin and vanished down the corridor at something close to a run.
A Kingsguard appeared in the doorway. "His Grace summons House Lannister."
Tywin stepped forward first. Cersei followed.
Leon and Tyrion brought up the rear.
The instant they crossed the threshold, a wave of heat mingled with an overpowering smell of spices struck their faces, nearly suffocating them.
The hall was absurdly vast, dozens of carved stone pillars supporting a ceiling too high to see, each pillar's base shaped like a dragon's head.
The torches burned too fiercely, making everything seem unreal.
At the far end of the hall, steps rose in a mountainous heap, and atop them stood the Iron Throne.
A monster forged from hundreds of swords, their blades tangled together and jutting outward, their sharp edges gleaming coldly in the firelight.
Anyone sitting on it had to be careful, or be cut.
Aerys II Targaryen sat upon it.
He was thirty-six and looked seventy.
Sparse white hair clung to his scalp, and deep within sunken sockets, violet eyes burned with a sickly fire.
His purple robe was covered in gold embroidery, and the spikes of the Valyrian steel crown on his head forced him to keep his chin raised.
He was talking to his left hand.
"No, not today," he murmured to his empty left hand. "We have guests today. Look, here they come. Tywin has brought his... his..."
His gaze drifted toward the approaching party, then suddenly fixed on Leon.
"Joanna?" he said softly, his voice dreamlike, almost delirious. "You've come back?"
Tywin's steps faltered for a moment, then returned to normal.
Aerys blinked. The madness receded, and another kind of madness surged up.
He suddenly burst into laughter, laughing until he coughed, until he could not breathe, until saliva ran from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto his purple robe.
Grand Maester Pycelle offered him a cup of water, and Aerys knocked it flying.
The cup shattered on the marble floor, its clear crash making everyone in the hall hold their breath.
The laughter stopped abruptly.
Panting, Aerys wiped the saliva away with his sleeve, then raised his head.
His gaze slid like a snake over Tywin, then Cersei, before fastening firmly on Leon.
The hall was deathly silent.
Leon felt that gaze pressing against him like something solid.
His [Eye of Insight] activated instinctively-
But it had only operated for an instant before being forced to shut down.
The mass of light in Aerys's chest was also unlike anything he had ever seen:
Dark red intertwined with inky black, its edges constantly disintegrating and reforming, its center a pitch-black, bottomless hole.
That mass of light was burning, screaming, devouring itself.
What is this...
Leon lowered his eyes, not daring to look again.
"Come closer." Aerys's voice rasped like a rusty hinge.
Leon looked at Tywin. Tywin nodded almost imperceptibly.
He walked forward.
One step, two.
Through the shadows of the stone pillars, over the fragments on the floor, past the silent nobles.
He could feel Thea trying to follow, only to be stopped by Gerion.
He stopped ten paces before the steps to the throne and went down on one knee.
"Your Grace."
He did not lower his head, letting the king see his face, his eyes clearly.
Aerys leaned forward slightly on the throne.
The movement opened a cut on his arm against a sword blade, and blood seeped into his purple sleeve. He did not notice.
"Look up," he said.
Leon looked up.
Their gazes met.
Purple against purple.
One murky, burning, filled with madness.
One clear, cold, far too calm.
But Leon's calm was a disguise.
His heartbeat was spiraling out of control, cold sweat seeped from his palms, and the floor beneath his knee seemed to sway slightly.
He could feel that mad gaze trying to burrow into his eyes, searching for something, demanding something, claiming something.
Don't be afraid, he told himself. Don't let him see you're afraid.
Aerys stared at him for a long time.
Then he spoke softly, his voice as faint as a murmur in a dream. "Joanna..."
His gaze grew distant for an instant, as though he saw some other shadow through Leon.
"No." He suddenly frowned. "You're not Joanna. You're... you're that..." His brow furrowed further, as though he could not remember Leon's name.
Then he saw Leon's eyes.
"Your eyes!" His voice suddenly rose, echoing throughout the hall. "Why are they that color? Tywin said they were like your mother's, but Joanna's purple was warmer, more... human. Yours are different. Yours are like..."
He stood, cutting himself in several more places without caring. He staggered down the steps, one, two, three...
He bent down before Leon, so close their noses almost touched.
Leon could smell wine on his breath, spices, and a certain rotten sweetness.
He could see the deep-purple bruises that years of sleeplessness had left at the corners of his eyes.
He could see his own tiny, upside-down reflection in his pupils.
"Your eyes," Aerys murmured, "are like flames in ice. Like... the flames of Valyria. Do you know what color the flames of Valyria are?"
Leon's throat tightened.
He forced himself to speak, his voice steady. "Purple, Your Grace. Ancient texts record that Valyria's dragonfire was purple."
Aerys smiled.
There was actually a trace of lucid approval in that smile.
"You know," he said. "You really know. Not the rubbish those maesters recite to me. You truly... know."
He reached out, his trembling fingers moving toward Leon's cheek.
Leon froze. He wanted to retreat, but his knee seemed nailed to the floor.
That rotten sweetness drew closer and closer, that hand nearer and nearer...
"Your Grace."
Varys's voice was like silk sliding over a blade.
He did not step forward or place himself in front of Leon. He merely turned slightly, bringing himself just into the edge of Aerys's vision.
At some point, a silk handkerchief had appeared in his hand, and he gently offered it toward the king's bleeding hand.
"Your Grace, your wounds need dressing."
His voice was as gentle as though he were coaxing a child. "Young Master Leon has only just arrived in King's Landing and still carries the dust of the road. Why not let him wash first and return tomorrow? His eyes will be clearer then, and Your Grace will be able to see them more clearly."
Aerys's hand stopped in midair.
He looked down at his bleeding hand, then at the silk handkerchief in Varys's hand, and finally at Leon.
"Tomorrow?" he asked, his tone like a child bargaining.
"Tomorrow." Varys smiled. "Once he is well rested, he will be able to converse properly."
Aerys considered it, then nodded.
He straightened and staggered back to the throne, a little more carefully this time.
"Tomorrow," he repeated, leaning against the throne and closing his eyes. "Come back tomorrow. All of you leave. Except..."
He opened his eyes and looked at Leon again.
"You stay," he said.
Varys bowed slightly. "Your Grace, Young Master Leon's quarters have yet to be arranged. Once he is settled, I will personally bring him to see you first thing tomorrow morning."
Aerys stared at Varys, a flicker of clear, unsettling lucidity passing through his mad eyes.
Then he smiled.
"My Master of Whisperers always thinks of everything," he said. "Very well. Tomorrow. But you must promise... he must come tomorrow."
"I promise," Varys said.
Aerys closed his eyes as though he had fallen asleep.
Varys turned and gave Tywin a slight nod. His gaze swept over Leon, and he gave an exceedingly subtle, fleeting wink.
It was not a friendly wink.
It was a warning: Follow me. Don't speak.
Leon rose. He discovered that his knees were trembling slightly.
In the corridor, Varys walked beside Leon.
As they passed a corner, he suddenly stopped and said to Gerion, who was following behind, "Lord Gerion, please wait a moment. I would like a private word with Young Master Leon."
Gerion frowned, but Tywin approached from behind and nodded slightly. Gerion stepped back.
Varys led Leon to a window.
Outside lay King's Landing at night, its lights like stars.
"You were very frightened just now," Varys said. His tone made it a statement, not a question.
Leon remained silent.
"Fear is normal." Varys's voice was very soft. "Any normal person would be frightened at the sight of His Grace. Only someone abnormal would not be."
He paused.
"But your fear was different from everyone else's. What were you afraid of?"
Leon looked out the window and did not answer for a long time.
Then he spoke, his voice very low. "I was afraid that the things he said... might be true."
Varys did not press him.
He merely looked at Leon, something shifting in his eyes like an undercurrent beneath deep water.
"Some truths," he finally said, "are more dangerous than lies. Especially when you cannot yet be certain whether they are truth or madness."
He turned to leave, then stopped again.
"One more thing," he said, his voice regaining its usual smoothness. "The walls of the Red Keep are very thin. You may hear some sounds tonight. Rats, the wind, or something else. Pay them no mind."
He bowed slightly and melted into the shadows.
Leon stood where he was, looking out the window.
His hands had long since stopped trembling.
He, too, had been probing Varys...
In the room, Thea was inspecting every corner.
"Young master?" Thea approached, concern in her voice. "You look very pale."
"I'm fine," Leon said.
The scene from moments ago replayed over and over in his mind...
Aerys's breath as he leaned close, that trembling hand, those mad eyes, and those murmured words:
Your eyes are like flames in ice. Like the flames of Valyria.
The flames of Valyria.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic pounding of his heart.
What if he was telling the truth?
What if my eyes really aren't Lannister eyes?
If I'm not Tywin's son, not a Lannister... then who am I?
Outside the window, the night wind stirred the curtains.
Faint laughter drifted from afar.
Perhaps it came from some feast, perhaps from a room deep within the Red Keep, perhaps it was only the wind.