Chapter - 72

The moment they were alone in their chambers, Ellaria turned to Oberyn, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.

"That was quite unlike you," she said, watching him closely.

Oberyn laughed, pouring himself a generous cup of Dornish Red. "How so, my love?"

"You're not typically one to dismiss tales of the supernatural so readily," she said, moving to stand beside him. "Especially not when we've seen our share of unexplainable things in our travels."

Oberyn took a deep drink, savoring the rich flavor before responding. "Indeed. The shadow binders of Asshai, the warlocks of Qarth with their blue lips and strange potions.. I have witnessed enough oddities that the White Walkers being real doesn't really surprise me."

Ellaria took the cup from his hand, helping herself to a sip. "Then why antagonize him? The healer is clearly not a man to be trifled with."

"Ah," Oberyn reclaimed his wine, his expression turning thoughtful. "I wanted to see how he would react when challenged. To test the mettle of the man behind the legend."

He began to pace the room, his footsteps silent against the stone floor. "Did you notice the change in him when I questioned his story? The anger in his eyes?" He spun to face Ellaria, his smile widening. "That was not the reaction of a man spinning tales. That was genuine rage from someone who has faced death and barely escaped its grasp."

Oberyn took another sip, his voice dropping lower. "And coming from a man as powerful as the mage... I shudder to think what could elicit such a response from him."

"A dangerous game you're playing," Ellaria cautioned.

"The fun ones always are," Oberyn replied. "Coming to Winterfell was the right decision. I've never been more certain."

She smiled, eyes twinkling with mischief. "And here I was thinking you were simply vexed that he's been ignoring you while Tyrion seems to have his favor."

"Ah! Such blasphemy from my own paramour," Oberyn gasped in exaggerated offense, pressing a hand to his chest. "Me, jealous of a Lannister?" His mock outrage dissolved into a genuine chuckle. "Though I must admit, this particular Lannister seems cut from a different cloth than the rest of his family."

"If you say so," Ellaria replied, unconvinced. "What will you do next?" Her fingers traced idle patterns on the bedcovers.

Oberyn's expression softened slightly. "First, I'll write to Doran. He should know what's happening here, whether or not White Walkers prove real." He set down his cup, joining her on the bed. "Then I believe I owe the healer an apology. I will go to the clinic tomorrow myself."

His eyes gleamed. "After all, a man who can do what El does—whether healing the incurable or battling creatures from myth —is someone worth having as a friend rather than an enemy."

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Margaery sat quietly in her chambers, brushing her hair with long, measured strokes as she replayed the evening's revelations. White Walkers. An army of the dead.

She'd kept her composure throughout, of course. A lady of Highgarden didn't betray her thoughts easily. But now, alone with her handmaid dismissed for the night, she allowed herself a moment to truly process what she'd witnessed.

"White Walkers," she murmured, testing the words. They felt foreign on her tongue, like something from a children's tale.

Setting down her brush, Margaery moved to the window. The northern night was clear, its people slept peacefully below, unaware that come tomorrow their world would change.

Margaery was feeling lost. She had been sent north with a purpose, one she had been unable to do much about as she remembered the handful of times she had been engaged in conversation with El. Just when it seemed like she was making progress, he would find some obviously fabricated excuse to escape. She was seriously starting to doubt her own beauty, especially as the school seemed to have no shortage of pretty ladies from across the realm.

Her grandmother's latest letter had left it up to her if she was to pursue this avenue.

But she was sure he found her attractive—that much was evident in his eyes. It seemed like his love for Freya kept everything but his eyes from wandering, which, strangely, only made her want him more.

She really enjoyed her time at Winterfell. Sure, it was cold, but she had gotten used to it once she had bought the appropriate furs, and it seemed like the Starks had accepted their presence for the time being at least, until the King arrived.

Her gaze drifted to the desk where her notes lay scattered. She had started sitting in on the classes at the healing school, initially to learn more about the place of learning that the mage had created but stayed because they were so interesting, she would definitely miss them once she was back in Highgarden.

The maesters of the Citadel would not have been pleased—then she remembered the news of what had happened to the order, supposedly at the hands of the same enigma, although she had no idea how he had done so.

Though no one had any way of proving it, if her grandmother's letter had been right and there was no point in spreading the news as well.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. The door opened to reveal her brother.

"You're still awake," Willas said, stepping into the room.

"As are you." She smiled, gesturing for him to sit. "I take it you couldn't sleep either?"

Willas settled into a chair with a sigh. "It would seem neither of us found today's revelations conducive to restful slumber."

"What do you make of it all?" she asked, studying her brother's face. Willas had always been the most level-headed of her siblings.

"I'm inclined to believe at least some of it," Willas replied after a thoughtful pause. "Benjen Stark has the look of a man who's seen something truly terrible."

"Grandmother won't be pleased," she said finally.

"No, she will not," Willas agreed with a wry smile. "I'm pretty sure her carefully cultivated plans didn't account for armies of the dead."

Margaery returned to the window, moonlight illuminating her thoughtful expression. "What do you think we should do, brother?"

Willas was quiet for a long moment, his clever mind working through possibilities like a master playing cyvasse. When he spoke, his voice carried the careful precision that had made him such an effective heir despite his injury.

"We should extend our stay," he said decisively. "The political landscape is shifting beneath our feet. These White Walkers, whether real or imagined, have already altered the game."

Margaery turned, a smile playing at her lips. "I was thinking the same."

"Were you now?" Willas raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. "And here I thought I was being rather insightful."

"Great minds, brother," she replied, moving to sit beside him. "I've been watching how Lord Stark and his bannermen reacted to the news. They believe it—truly believe it. And when the King arrives..."

"The alliances formed here could reshape the Seven Kingdoms," Willas finished her thought. "Whether the threat proves real or not."

He leaned forward, suddenly animated despite the late hour. "Plus, this gives you more time with the mage. Despite your... limited success thus far."

Margaery's cheeks colored slightly. "It's not just about him."

"Of course not," Willas agreed, though his smile suggested otherwise. 

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I spent every waking moment with Vaylara working out the kinks in the spell that even she had admitted was incomplete in its original form. Days of intense discussion and experimentation had stretched my mental faculties to their limits, but progress was tangible.

I had done all I could for now—the rest was up to her. Making my way back to the clinic, I hoped to refresh my brain and deal with a few other smaller issues that had been nagging at the edges of my consciousness.

"I have work for you," I announced, sliding into the chair across from Tyrion, who was deeply engrossed in yet another book from my library.

"Great," he drawled without looking up. "No 'Hi Tyrion, how are you coping with the end of the world, Tyrion?'"

"Oh, don't be a drama queen. The world isn't ending; I have it under control. Now, I need your help."

He finally looked up from his wine, eyebrows arched in a perfect expression of resigned curiosity. "Oh gods, you were actually serious about giving me more work."

"Well, it's your own fault for being so competent at the things I hate doing," I replied unapologetically. "You should know by now that the reward for good work is just more work."

"And what exactly would that be?" he sighed, already refilling his cup in preparation.

"I need your help starting a bank."

Tyrion choked on his wine, the red liquid nearly spraying across my impeccably clean floor. "What?"

"A bank," I repeated patiently. "I have too much silver stored up and nowhere to spend it. At this rate, I'll be sitting on a pile of money that's actively hurting its own value. With everything else coming our way, the last thing we need is an economic collapse."

Tyrion leaned back, a familiar calculating look crossing his face. "So you want to put the currency back into circulation through a bank and give out loans?"

"Precisely. And before you ask—no, this isn't about making more money. Gods know I can trade for anything I actually need."

"That... actually makes a disturbing amount of sense," Tyrion mused, swirling the wine in his cup. "Though I have to ask—why me?"

"Because you understand money and politics better than anyone else I know," I said. "And you're smart enough to see the bigger picture here and not try any funny business."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my friend." He took another sip of wine. "Though I do hope there are some perks to this position. I heard rumors of a certain establishment essentially giving you a free pass for life."

"What are you talking abo—" I stopped mid sentence as realization dawned. He was talking about the free pass I had at the local brothel, earned by making all the workers essentially immune to diseases because I'd grown tired of curing them repeatedly.

"How do you even know about that?"

Tyrion's grin turned positively wicked. "You underestimate me. I may spend most of my time drunk, but I make it my business to know things."

"The pass isn't transferable," I said quickly.

"Pity," he sighed dramatically. "Very well then, tell me more about this bank of yours. I assume you have some ideas about how to structure it?"

The conversation shifted to logistics and plans, and I could see Tyrion's mind already racing with possibilities. This might actually work better than I'd hoped.

"And if the Iron Bank takes offense?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"Then I go visit them and talk some sense into their heads before offering favorable trade between the two banks."

He gained a thoughtful look at that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tapped his fingers against the armrest. "That... could actually work." His expression shifted suddenly to dramatic despair. "But that is going to be so much work."

"Of course it is, that's why I'm putting you in charge," I countered with a smug little smirk that probably made him want to throw something at me.

"I hate you," Tyrion groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"No, you don't."