The next morning brought new problems.
I was on the deck of the Sea Dragon, enjoying the fresh air and relative peace, when I saw a figure approaching along the dock. He was old, with a long white beard and the heavy chain of a Maester around his neck.
Pycelle.
I'd seen him at the feast last night, watching me with barely concealed fascination. Now he was here, and I doubted it was a social call.
"A moment of your time, Lord Jon," Pycelle said when he reached the ship, his voice a honeyed wheeze. "The Archmaesters of the Citadel are most intrigued by your... remarkable gift. They've sent word requesting that you visit Oldtown for examination."
I kept my face neutral. "Examination?"
"Nothing invasive, I assure you," Pycelle said, his smile oily. "Merely a few simple tests to understand the nature of your abilities. For the benefit of the realm, you understand. Such knowledge could help countless people."
Translation: they wanted to study me like a specimen. Figure out how my power worked. And if they decided I was too dangerous, they'd find a way to eliminate the threat.
"I appreciate the interest, Grand Maester," I said firmly, "but I must decline. My ship leaves in a few days, and I have no time for such examinations."
Pycelle's smile faltered. "Surely you understand the importance—"
"My loyalty is to my king and my family," I interrupted. "Not to the Citadel. If the Archmaesters wish to study healing, they can read their books and practice their arts. But I won't be their subject."
Pycelle's face went through several expressions—surprise, indignation, calculation. Finally, he settled on benign concern.
"I fear you may be making a mistake, my lord. The Citadel's support could be quite valuable to a young man such as yourself. And their opposition..." He left the threat hanging.
"I'll take my chances," I said.
Pycelle stared at me for a long moment, then bowed stiffly and walked away.
Ghost, who'd been lying on the deck, raised his head and watched the Grand Maester leave. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
"I know, boy," I murmured. "Another enemy added to the list."
I sat back down on a coil of rope, trying to enjoy the sea air. Father and I would stay a few more days. Then he we'd sail back to White Harbor, and I'd make my final preparations for Essos.
Just a few more days. I could manage that.
That same afternoon, a Lannister guard in polished armor approached the ship.
"Lord Jon Stark," he said formally. "Lord Tywin Lannister has requested an audience with you. He arrived in King's Landing this morning and would speak with you immediately."
My stomach dropped.
Tywin Lannister. The most powerful man in Westeros—The ruthless pragmatist who let nothing stand in his way.
And he wanted to talk to me.
"Lead the way," I said, keeping my voice steady.
Ghost rose to follow, and the guard's eyes widened slightly. But he didn't object—probably because he was too smart to try stopping a direwolf the size of a horse.
We were led through the city to a private chamber in the Red Keep. The room was austere but expensive—every piece of furniture, every tapestry spoke of wealth and power.
Tywin sat behind a large oak desk, standing beside the desk, goblet of wine in hand, was the Tyrion Lannister.
He was small—perhaps four and a half feet tall—with a large head and mismatched legs. His face was clever and sardonic. He watched me with open curiosity as I entered.
I sat in the chair across from him, acutely aware of Ghost's presence at my side and the two Lannisters studying me.
"I had no idea Father believed in fairy tales," Tyrion said, swirling his wine. His voice was higher than his brother's, but rich with wit.
Tywin eyes never left mine. "I witnessed the proof myself. Jon Arryn walks and talks, brought back from six days of death. That is no fairy tale."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense.
"I have a proposition for you, boy. A problem that requires a unique solution." For just a moment—so brief I almost missed it—his eyes flickered to Tyrion. "I want you to use your gift on my son. I want you to make him whole. A man in all respects, not a..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Not a mockery of what a Lannister should be."
The room went utterly silent.
Tyrion's face went blank, carefully neutral, but I saw the flash of pain in his eyes before he hid it.
Tywin wanted me to cure Tyrion's dwarfism. Change him fundamentally, reshape his entire body from the genetic level up.
Not healing an injury or reversing death, but rewriting the very blueprint of a person.
And Tyrion... I'd always liked him in the books. Clever, cynical, but fundamentally decent despite the cruelty he'd endured. Changing him seemed wrong somehow, like erasing part of who he was.
But this was also an opportunity. Tywin Lannister was the richest man in Westeros. If I did this, I could name my price. I could get the funding I needed for Essos, for building an army, for preparing for what was coming.
"I can do it," I said carefully. "But it won't be easy. And I'll require payment. One hundred thousand gold dragons."
Tyrion choked on his wine. "One hundred thousand?"
Tywin didn't even blink. "Done. And I've already had the materials prepared."
He stood and led me to an adjoining room.
The sight that greeted me was surreal. In the center of the room was a soft, expensive bed. But beside it was a massive pile of freshly cut green wood—branches, logs, all still living. Enough to build a small house.
Tywin had received words about Jon Arryn's resurrection and immediately understood what I would need.
"Get on the bed, Tyrion," Tywin commanded.
Tyrion looked between his father and me, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged and climbed onto the bed, settling back against the pillows.
"Well," he said dryly, "this should be interesting."
Before I could begin, the door burst open.
Cersei Lannister swept in, her beautiful face twisted with fury.
"Father! What is the meaning of this?" Her golden hair swirled as she spun to face Tywin. "You cannot believe this nonsense! this... this charlatan's tricks?"
"Get out," Tywin said quietly.
"Father, I—"
"Now."
Tywin gestured to the guards at the door. They moved forward, and Cersei's face went purple with rage.
"You'll regret this!" she shrieked as they took her arms. "All of you! This is madness!"
Her screams echoed down the corridor as they dragged her away, finally fading to silence.
Tywin turned back to me as if nothing had happened. "Begin."
I looked at Tyrion, who'd watched the whole scene with that same carefully neutral expression.
"This will be uncomfortable," I warned him, moving to stand beside the bed.
Tyrion's eyes met mine—mismatched colors, one green and one black. "Pain is an old friend, Jon Snow, or I say Stark now? Do what you must."
I placed one hand on his chest and the other on the pile of green wood.
Then I closed my eyes and began the most complex work of my life.
...