Title: Shadows in the White Tower
Title: Shadows in the White Tower
Year and Month: 81 AC, 10th Moon
The silence of the nursery after midnight was my sanctuary, the one place where the suffocating mask of infancy could be peeled back. Moonlight, filtered through the thick diamond panes of the window, striped the floor in bars of silver and grey. It was here, in the dead of night, that I truly worked. My sister Gael slept, her dreams no doubt filled with the simple comforts a child desires. My dreams were of corporate takeovers and hostile negotiations, played out on a board of seven kingdoms.
I stood. My legs, pumped with the quiet power of the serum, were steady beneath me. At seventeen moons, I should have been taking my first clumsy, stumbling steps. Instead, I could walk the length of the nursery with the silent grace of a cat, my balance perfect, my muscles under absolute command. I practiced every night, building strength, mapping the pathways of my nervous system, preparing for the day when I would no longer have to hide. Tonight, my pacing was driven by a restless impatience. Three months had passed since my name day, since I had planted the seed of suspicion in the mind of the Lord Commander. It was a long-term investment, and I was anxious to see it mature.
My 'portent' had been a masterstroke of psychological warfare. The cold, green, sorcerous fire was a spectacle designed to bypass logic, to convince a man of honor like Ryam Redwyne that he had been touched by something beyond his ken. The dream itself was the payload, specific and symbolic. I had provided the lead, but for it to be of any value, it had to be proven through conventional means. My father, the great lawgiver Jaehaerys, would accept nothing less. And so, I waited. And I watched.
My sight was no longer confined to the four walls of my room. Closing my eyes, I reached out, and the world opened up.
He has reason to be, I replied, my mind sinking into our bond. Show me.
The nursery faded. My consciousness soared. I was looking down at the Red Keep, a vast, sleeping beast of stone. Balerion's vision was a marvel, a tapestry of heat and movement. I could see the warmth of the kitchens, the cold stone of the dungeons, the singular heat signatures of the guards walking the battlements. I had directed him to focus on the White Sword Tower, and the story of the investigation unfolded for me night after night.
Lord Commander Redwyne was a good man, a methodical man. He did not act rashly. He began by observing. I watched through my dragon's eyes as he shuffled the guard rosters, pairing Ser Gyles Morrigen with the most stoic and unobservant of his brothers, then having a trusted arms-captain, a man sworn to him personally, follow the knight on his off-duty hours.
The hunt for Ser Gyles's vice was a simple affair. My 'assistance' was minimal. One evening, as the arms-captain was about to lose the knight in the chaotic labyrinth of Flea Bottom, I had Balerion shift his weight. A loose piece of slate from a high roof, dislodged by the movement of the gargantuan dragon hundreds of feet above, slid down and shattered on the cobblestones just behind Ser Gyles, who had been about to slip into a nondescript doorway. The sharp sound caused him to startle and look back, giving the captain the precious second he needed to mark the location—a notorious gambling den known as the Rat Pit. Within a week, Redwyne had his proof: a ledger from a moneylender detailing Ser Gyles's staggering debts. It was a disgrace, a violation of the trust placed in him, but not unheard of.
Ser Lucamore Strong was the real prize. His crime was a deeper, more profound betrayal. He was clever, covering his tracks meticulously. He claimed his frequent absences were for prayer at the Grand Sept. For weeks, Redwyne's observations yielded nothing. The Lord Commander was growing frustrated, beginning to doubt the veracity of his divine vision. He was questioning his sanity. I could not allow that. My credibility, and the utility of this new channel of information, was on the line.
I decided to intervene more directly. I knew from the books that Lucamore kept his secret family in a small, respectable townhouse on the Street of Silk. It was audacious, hiding his sin amongst the very merchants who catered to the nobility. The investigation needed a nudge.
One night, as Redwyne stood on the balcony of the White Sword Tower, staring out at the city in troubled contemplation, I gave him that nudge. I had Balerion inhale deeply, pulling in the cool night air, and then exhale in a tight, focused stream. The resulting downdraft was a miniature gale, entirely localized. It swept across the courtyard below, kicking up dust and leaves, and slammed into a stable boy leading a horse. The boy stumbled, and a saddlebag he was carrying fell, spilling its contents. Among the brushes and tack was a small, intricately carved wooden bird.
Redwyne's gaze was drawn to the minor chaos. The bird was identical to one I had seen Lucamore purchase from a carver near the city gates days before. This, on its own, was nothing. But then, I used the bond to project a single, fleeting image into the Lord Commander's mind—the memory of the dream I had given him, specifically the part with the three crying babes wrapped in a white cloak. I linked the image of the bird to the image of the babes.
It was a thread of connection so tenuous it would never hold up in a court of law. But in the mind of a man already primed for suspicion, it was a spark in a tinderbox. The Street of Silk was famous for its high-end brothels, but it also housed woodcarvers, weavers, and other artisans. The bird was a toy. Toys were for children.
The next day, Redwyne did not send a subordinate. He went himself, cloaked and hooded, a grim shadow moving through the bustling city streets. I watched his every step from the sky, a silent, obsidian guardian angel of justice. He did not go to the Street of Silk. Instead, he went to the Guildhall of the Toymakers. He asked questions. He learned of a knight in a white cloak who was a regular customer, always buying gifts for a boy and two girls. He got a description of the man. He got the location of the townhouse.
"It is an oracle."
Septon Barth's voice was filled with a reverence that bordered on fear. He stood before the King in the royal solar, the setting sun casting long shadows that seemed to dance and conspire between them. I was not there, of course. I was miles away in the Dragonpit, my body nestled in furs, my mind soaring. But through Balerion's acute hearing, focused on the vibrations carried through the stone from that very room, I heard every word.
"Do not use that word, Barth," Jaehaerys's voice was sharp, cutting. "An oracle is a mouthpiece of the gods. My son is a child. A… gifted child."
"Is there a difference, Your Grace?" Barth countered, his tone respectful but firm. "Twice now, he has gifted you knowledge you could not have obtained otherwise. Knowledge that protects the integrity of your Kingsguard and the security of this castle. He did not speak a word. He did not write a line. He sent a vision to an honorable man, and that vision proved to be as true as the sunrise. If that is not the work of an oracle, what is?"
There was a long silence, filled only by the crackle of the fire.
"It is the process that disturbs me," the King finally admitted, his voice low and troubled. "I am a man of law. I built my reign on the principle that justice must be seen to be done. It must be based on evidence, on testimony, on proof. This… this is knowledge gained from shadows and dreams. I have authorized an investigation that borders on espionage, based on a source I can never name. I feel… unclean."
"And yet, you acted," Barth pointed out gently. "Because you knew the information was true. Your Grace, you are the law. If the gods, old or new, have chosen to grant you a new way of seeing, a new tool to uphold that law, is it not your duty to use it? Think of this not as a violation of the process, but as an evolution of kingship itself. The Conqueror had three dragons. You, Your Grace, have Balerion reborn… and an infallible source of intelligence."
"Infallible?" Jaehaerys scoffed, though the sound lacked conviction. "He is a child. What if he is wrong? What if he is manipulated by some other force? What if this power drives him mad, as it did so many of our ancestors?"
"Then we shall guide him," Barth said simply. "As you commanded. We will teach him justice, so he may aim his gifts towards righteous ends. We will teach him wisdom, so he may understand the consequences of his knowledge. You fear you are using him as a tool, Your Grace. I believe he is choosing to serve you. The offering of the dragonglass, the revelation about your knights… these were not the acts of a mindless conduit. They were the acts of an ally."
My father did not reply. But I could feel the shift in his posture through the floorboards. Barth was winning the argument. He was framing my actions in the exact light I intended: not as a threat, but as a service. A valuable, indispensable service.
The end came swiftly. Lord Commander Redwyne, his face a mask of cold, heartbreaking fury, presented his findings to the King in secret. The next day, the castle awoke to the shocking news. Ser Gyles Morrigen was stripped of his white cloak for conduct unbecoming a knight of the Kingsguard, his gambling debts a public shame. He was exiled, sent back to his family's lands in the Stormlands, a broken and disgraced man.
Ser Lucamore Strong's fate was far more severe.
There was no public trial. There was no spectacle. Jaehaerys's justice in this matter was swift and internal. I watched through Balerion as Ser Lucamore was dragged from his bed in the White Sword Tower before dawn. He was not taken to the black cells. He was taken to a small, windowless room in the dungeons, a room usually reserved for chirurgeons to perform emergency amputations after a battle.
The King was there. Lord Commander Redwyne was there. And Grand Maester Elysar was there, his face pale, his chain of office seeming to weigh him down. Septon Barth was also present, a silent, solemn witness.
I focused Balerion's senses, pushing the bond to its limit. I felt the cold air, smelled the antiseptic herbs, heard the desperate, terrified pleas of Ser Lucamore.
"Your Grace, mercy!" he begged, groveling on the stone floor. "I have served you faithfully for twenty years!"
Jaehaerys's voice, when it came, was devoid of all warmth. It was the voice of the King, the law, the judge. "You swore an oath, Ser Lucamore. You swore to have no wife, to father no children. You swore to protect my family, to be a shield for the innocent. Your life was forfeit to your duty. And you betrayed every word of that oath."
"It was love, Your Grace! I could not help it!"
"You could have resigned your cloak," Jaehaerys stated flatly. "You could have come to me. But you chose deceit. You chose to live a lie, to endanger your brothers with your secrets, to weaken the shield that protects the realm. You have a wife. You have children. You cannot be a Kingsguard."
"Then release me! Let me go to them!" Lucamore wept.
"You have a duty," the King said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "And you will serve it. You have forsaken your vows here. You will take new ones at the Wall. But a man who cannot control his lusts has no place among the silent brothers of the Night's Watch. Maester."
Grand Maester Elysar stepped forward, his hands trembling as he held a small, sharp knife. "Your Grace," he stammered, "This is…"
"This is justice," Jaehaerys finished for him. "He broke his vow of chastity. We shall ensure he can never break it again. Proceed."
Ser Lucamore screamed. It was a sound of pure, animal agony that was quickly muffled. I did not flinch. I watched, I listened, I learned. This was the cold, hard reality of power in this world. Mercy was a luxury. Justice was a blade. And my father, the Conciliator, the Wise, was not afraid to wield it.
That night, for the third time in my short life, the King came to my cradle alone. He did not carry a candle this time. He stood in the darkness, a tall, imposing shadow. I could feel the weight of the day's events on him. He had cleansed his Kingsguard, but the act had stained him.
He did not speak. He simply stood there, looking down at me. The look in his eyes, which I could see with perfect clarity in the low light, had changed. The fear was still present, a deep-seated caution that would never fully leave him. But the awe, the confusion, had been replaced by something new. A hard, pragmatic respect.
It was the look a king gives to his most effective, most dangerous, and most secret weapon. It was the look a CEO gives his top operator, the one who closes the impossible deals and handles the dirty work. He no longer saw me as just his son, a phenomenal child to be guided. He saw me as an asset. A source of power he now understood how to wield.
I met his gaze, my own eyes reflecting the dim moonlight. I did not smile. I did not make a sound. I simply held his stare, letting him see the quiet, waiting intelligence within. The message passed between us in that silent moment.
I have served you, my gaze said. And I will serve you again.
I know, his look replied. And I will use you.
The dynamic had shifted, irrevocably. The King's Dilemma was resolved. He had chosen to embrace the shadows. And I, his son, his oracle, his secret, was the one who cast them.