281 AC, early spring, Wendwater
The sound of the Wendwater thawing grew clearer at night.
Leon stood at the end of the newly built dock, his fingers brushing the varnish on the wooden railing, which had yet to dry completely.
Under the moonlight, silver-gray ripples shimmered across the river, and the Kingswood on the opposite bank looked like a black silhouette painted in thick ink.
In the shadows of the warehouse behind him, Sandor Clegane was sharpening his blade with a whetstone. The sound was monotonous and unceasing, like some enormous wolfhound gnawing to grind its teeth.
Hoofbeats tore through the night just then.
The horseshoes of five horses struck the hardened road in a swift, steady rhythm. They were coming from King's Landing.
Thea's hand was already on her sword hilt.
Barristan Ser Selmy strode quickly out of the tax office, moonlight edging his white cloak in silver.
Oswell Whent appeared directly at the dock entrance. His longsword remained sheathed, but his stance was already ready for battle.
The riders reined in on the open ground by the dock.
Their leader was a herald wearing a Lannister crimson coat, the golden lion on his chest gleaming beneath the lantern. He swung down from his horse, his movements weary from the long journey, but his voice remained loud and clear:
"Where is young master Leon Lannister?"
"I am here." Leon emerged from the shadows of the dock.
The herald knelt on one knee and unrolled a gold-edged sheet of parchment.
It was not an ordinary raven message, but a formal royal decree.
"By the command of His Majesty King Aerys II Targaryen, and by resolution of the Small Council:
"House Whent shall hold a tourney of the Seven Kingdoms at Harrenhal this season, to celebrate spring and honor martial valor. His Majesty expressly commands that the lords, heirs, and important members of all great houses attend.
"Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Warden of the West, and Lord of Casterly Rock, has received this command. Special mention is made that Leon Lannister must accompany him."
The herald paused and glanced up at Leon before continuing with the last line of the decree, clearly added afterward in wild handwriting:
"I want to see those purple eyes in the firelight of Harrenhal. Tell Little Leon to bring every story of dragons he has read.-Aerys II Targaryen, in his own hand."
The air froze for several seconds.
Oswell Whent spoke first, his voice carrying complicated emotions. "Though I was the one who suggested the Tourney at Harrenhal... where did my brother get so many gold dragons to hold it?"
"Your brother?" Thea asked keenly.
"Earl Walter Whent, Lord of Harrenhal," Oswell answered briefly, though his gaze remained fixed on the decree. "He began planning it last year. Some say Prince Rhaegar is funding it behind the scenes... but I never expected the king to agree..."
"Mind your words, Oswell. You must not discuss the prince behind his back..." Barristan Selmy said with a frown.
Leon took the decree.
The parchment was fine, its wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
But what truly activated his [Eye of Insight] automatically was the faint information left on the page:
The uneven concentration of ink showed that the writer's hand had been trembling. The force of the final "in his own hand" strokes penetrated through the parchment, carrying a kind of obsessive excitement.
"Ser Selmy." Leon turned to Barristan. "How has His Majesty's health been lately? Have you heard anything?"
Barristan fell silent for a moment.
As a Kingsguard, he could not speak presumptuously of the king, but his silence itself was an answer.
"His Majesty... has been particularly eager for spring to arrive." In the end, he chose a neutral phrasing.
That meant the Mad King's madness was prone to flare up in spring. Leon understood.
The herald took another letter from inside his coat, this one sealed with ordinary wax. "This is from Lord Tywin, young master."
Leon opened it. His father's handwriting was as terse and cold as ever. There were only three lines:
"Set out for Harrenhal today and join me on the shores of the Gods Eye as soon as possible. Earl Whent's tourney is more than a contest of arms. It is a ceremony in which the power of the Seven Kingdoms will be rearranged. This time, you must use your eyes to see everyone clearly."
"Tyrion has already left King's Landing. He will bring the information you need."
"Remember that your name is Lannister."
No greeting, no inquiry about recent affairs at the Wendwater. Only orders, warnings, and a reminder of his identity.
Leon held the letter to the lamp flame and watched it curl into ash.
"Maester Loomis."
The maester, who had been standing in the shadows of the tax office porch, stepped forward.
Leon briefly told him the contents of both letters.
Loomis listened in silence, moonlight casting deep shadows across his aged face.
"I leave the Wendwater in your hands," Leon said. "Proceed according to our plan. I will return after Harrenhal."
Loomis nodded, but did not speak immediately.
He looked down at the paving stones beneath his feet, as though arranging his words.
"Young master," he finally said, his voice very low, "do you still remember what your mother said before she died?"
Leon's heart skipped a beat.
"Golden and purple flames... the mirror shattered, but the reflection remains."
Loomis had told him those words only once, on the eve of their departure for King's Landing. But Leon had never forgotten them.
"Why bring this up so suddenly?"
Loomis raised his head, two faint points of moonlight reflected in his eyes. "While we were in King's Landing, I found some things in the old archives of the maester's tower. About... purple eyes."
Leon looked at him without speaking.
"House Targaryen is known for purple eyes, but did you know that their purple actually comes in two kinds?"
Loomis's voice was as soft as the night wind. "One is the common deep purple, like the Mad King's and Queen Rhaella's.
"The other is an extremely pale, almost transparent violet, appearing only once in several centuries.
"The last time it appeared was in King Aerys's aunt, who was also his mother-Princess Rhaelle Targaryen."
He paused.
"But there was another person who had eyes like these." Loomis's gaze deepened. "Aegon IV's bastard daughter, Shiera Seastar. Bloodraven Brynden's younger sister."
Leon's breath stopped for a moment.
Shiera Seastar.
He remembered the name from his previous life's memories and ancient books.
One of Aegon IV's "Great Bastards," famed for her beauty and intelligence, she was known as the "Beauty with Different-Colored Eyes." Her eyes were one green and one purple.
"She..." Leon's voice was a little strained. "What connection did she have to the Lannisters?"
Loomis was silent for a long time.
"She, too, lost her mother at birth...
"The Lysene noblewoman Serenei died in childbirth, and this mother had already been deeply distrusted at court because of rumors that she used black magic to preserve her youth.
"As Aegon IV's youngest bastard daughter, she was never truly accepted as a Targaryen, yet inherited her mother's stigma as a 'witch's descendant.'"
By now, cold sweat had appeared on Maester Loomis's forehead, and his eyes stared fixedly.
"According to the records, before the Blackfyre Rebellion, she hovered between 'Bloodraven' Brynden and 'Bittersteel' Aegor, ultimately intensifying the Blackfyre Rebellion.
"She slept with them... but refused their marriage proposals...
"Later, some of her descendants drifted into the Westerlands," Loomis finally said. "A hundred years ago, a bastard of House Seastar married into a cadet branch of Casterly Rock.
"That bloodline later merged into House Lannister, but its traits rarely manifested. Until..."
He did not finish.
Until Joanna Lannister gave birth to Tyrion and Leon.
Tyrion had one green eye and one black...
Or rather, one green and one purple?
Leon recalled his older brother's eyes. That black eye did, in certain light, carry a faint purple sheen.
And his own eyes were both pale violet.
"Are you saying I..." Leon's voice was very quiet. "That our eyes came from Shiera Seastar?"
"I don't know." Loomis shook his head. "No one can be certain. Bloodlines are the most wondrous things. They may sleep for hundreds of years, then suddenly awaken in someone. But I do know one thing..."
He looked straight into Leon's eyes.
"The Mad King may know this legend too. His obsession with 'purple eyes' may be not only because of the Targaryens, but also because of Shiera Seastar.
"They say Shiera could dream of dragons and see things ordinary people could not. And you, young master, can see them too."
Leon pressed a hand to his chest.
Hidden there was the parchment tube Loomis had given him years ago.
Forbidden records concerning Valyria's blood. He had never dared open it.
"Should I be afraid?" he asked.
Loomis thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head.
"You should know. Then decide for yourself."
He stepped back and bowed slightly.
"Young master, every stone of Harrenhal is steeped in ancient blood. After you enter, you may hear voices. Not human voices, but... something else. Do not be afraid. And do not answer. Some bloodlines will let you see things you should not see."
Leon nodded.
Loomis turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Leon remained where he was, his hand pressed to his chest.
What beat there was not only his heart, but also a bloodline that had slept for a hundred years.
After dawn, everyone along the Wendwater knew.
Old Tom stood on the dock with a dozen or so villagers, all carrying various things.
A basket of eggs, a bag of dried fruit, a small jar of honey from home.
"My lord, are you leaving?" Old Tom's eyes were red, but he tried hard to smile. "These are a few things for you to eat on the road..."
Leon looked at him, then at the familiar faces behind him.
The young man missing two fingers, the middle-aged men who worked at the construction site every day, and several children peeking at him from behind the adults' legs.
Little Tom squeezed out of the crowd, holding a crooked wooden carving.
It was a lion. Though the resemblance was poor, the effort was plain to see.
"My lord, this is for you." The little boy pushed the carving into Leon's hands and lowered his head. "By the time you come back, I'll be able to write a hundred words."
Holding the rough wooden carving, Leon suddenly felt his throat tighten.
"I'll be waiting," he said.
He turned to Old Tom and carefully tucked the carving inside his coat. "I'll take the eggs and dried fruit. Keep the rest for yourselves. I've already handed the autumn harvest accounts to Maester Loomis. Go to him if anything comes up. If anyone comes to cause trouble..."
He glanced at Ser Barristan Selmy.
Barristan stepped forward and gave the villagers a slight nod. "I will leave two trustworthy guards here until the young master returns. Your tax reform is the king's command. Anyone who dares interfere will be crossing the Kingsguard."
Old Tom's tears finally fell.
He knelt, and the people behind him followed.
Leon frowned. "I told you, no kneeling."
"My lord," Old Tom said from his knees, looking up, cloudy tears running down his wrinkles, "we're not kneeling to you, but to... your kindness. I've lived fifty years and never seen a lord like you."
Leon was silent for several seconds, then walked over and helped Old Tom up.
"I'm not a lord... this place still has to depend on you yourselves. Wait for me to return."
"In autumn," he said, "the Wendwater dock will be able to berth larger ships. Your grain can be sold in King's Landing and across the Narrow Sea. When that time comes, you won't have to kneel to anyone."
He turned and climbed into the carriage.
Thea closed the carriage door and swung onto her horse.
Sandor sat in the driver's seat, holding the reins.
Barristan and Oswell guarded the convoy from front and rear as it slowly left the dock.
Leon leaned out of the carriage window for one last look at the Wendwater.
The people still stood where they were, motionless.
Little Tom was waving.
Leon waved back, then withdrew into the carriage.
He set the crooked wooden lion on his lap, his fingers gently tracing its rough cuts.
Outside the window, the Wendwater receded farther and farther until it vanished into the morning mist.
Before sunset, the convoy reached a small village on the edge of the Kingswood.
Barristan chose a farmhouse beside the road for the night. It offered open views and easy routes in and out.
Leon did not sleep.
He sat before a window on the farmhouse's second floor, watching the woods gradually darken.
[Eye of Insight] operated at a low load.
He could hear distant night birds, distinguish the layers of wind passing through the treetops, and sense the breathing of living creatures around him.
Then he heard something else.
Very faint. Very distant. But there.
Someone was following them.
More than one.
They were cautious, keeping their distance and hiding in the darkness beyond the reach of the convoy's firelight.
But the rhythm of their breathing betrayed them.
They were all trained, suppressing their presence.
Leon did not move.
He merely sat quietly before the window, gazing into that darkness.
He recalled the words in Tyrion's last letter: the Kingswood Brotherhood's recent activities had shifted northward, and someone had seen their scouts near the Kingsroad.
It was no coincidence.
In the distant darkness, something moved. Very slightly, like wind brushing a branch.
But Leon knew it was not the wind.
He slowly stood, walked to the door, and tapped lightly on the wall of the neighboring room.
Thea's voice came at once: "Young master?"
"Someone's following us," Leon said. "Don't alert them. Tell Ser Barristan Selmy to maintain normal vigilance, as though we haven't noticed anything."
Thea fell silent for a second. "Understood."
Leon returned to the window and sat down again.
He recalled Maester Loomis's words: some colors belonged to more than one family. Some flames burned in more than one place.
He recalled his mother's dying delirium: golden and purple flames... the mirror was broken, but the reflection remained.
He recalled the Mad King's handwritten decree: I want to see those purple eyes.
Purple.
Everyone was chasing that color.
And he happened to possess it.
But tonight, Loomis had given him a new name: Shiera Seastar.
That woman from a hundred years ago, that "Great Bastard" with one green eye and one purple, that woman who was said to dream of dragons.
Did her blood truly run through Tyrion's veins and mine?
Tyrion's wisdom, my eyes?
Did they all come from that ancient, forgotten source?
Outside the window, the moon showed half its face from behind the clouds, washing the woods a ghastly white.
Those dark shapes were still there. Motionless, like a pack of wolves waiting for prey.
Leon slipped his hand inside his clothes and felt the crooked little wooden lion.
The people of the Wendwater were waiting for him to return.
Tyrion was waiting for him to join him.
The Mad King was waiting for him at Harrenhal.
And he himself was waiting for an answer.