Oldtown woke under a cold, damp sky. Thick fog clung to the streets, hiding everything except the distant beacon blazing atop the Hightower. Travelers picked their way carefully along slick cobblestones, the whole city smelling of salt and stone like a proper old port.
The Honeywine River ran wide and lazy past the great buildings that gave Oldtown its power. On the west bank stood the palace-like guildhalls. Upstream, the Citadel's domes and towers rose on both sides of the water, linked by stone bridges. Downstream, the black marble walls of the Starry Sept loomed over the richest homes like a stern grandmother surrounded by her favorites. Farther out, the river emptied into Whispering Sound, and the Hightower stood tall on Battle Isle, its fire cutting through the gray dawn.
People in the taverns and wine sinks couldn't stop talking about the dragon and the Dragon King. Word from the east had spread fast. Every sailor and merchant had a story.
Inside the Citadel, the mood was very different. A secret chamber glowed with the strange green light of a glass candle three feet tall. The maesters gathered around it, faces tight.
"The dragon is real," one muttered. "The red comet proves it. War in the east is just the beginning."
"The candle lit on its own," Archmaester Theobald said, his lead mask and chain catching the weird glow. "Only fire magic can wake a glass candle. This is no accident."
They spoke in low voices about Viserys Targaryen, the boy who walked out of Valyria's ruins alive. The maesters didn't like it. Magic belonged in old books, not walking around making kings.
"We should send someone to guide him," Archmaester Norren suggested. "Every king needs a maester."
"Viserys never wrote asking for one," another answered. "He might not want our help. And if we don't act, Marwyn the Mage will go instead."
They all fell quiet at that name. Marwyn was already halfway to Andalos with his black glass candle. The maesters swore secrecy. Whatever happened next, the Citadel would stay in control of its secrets.
Ravens flew in every direction from Oldtown. One headed straight for Highgarden.
In the sunlit rose garden, Olenna Tyrell read the letters in silence. The Queen of Thorns sat surrounded by her family—Mace, Willas, Garlan, and a few nervous cousins. Flowers bloomed everywhere, but the air felt heavy.
"The smoke is drifting west," Olenna said at last. "The fire in the east is burning hotter than anyone expected."
Mace Tyrell shifted in his seat, red-faced and sweating. "Andalos is still far away."
"Not for long," Olenna snapped. "If that boy takes Tyrosh and the Stepstones, he'll have a perfect base to hit Westeros. Tyrosh is a hard city, but he's got a dragon now."
Garlan frowned. "He doesn't sound like the same frightened child we heard about years ago."
Olenna's eyes narrowed. "He's Aegon the Conqueror's blood. The east won't satisfy him. He wants the Iron Throne."
Mace leaned forward. "Then maybe we should—"
"Shut your mouth," Olenna cut him off. "Once you kneel to one side, you'll be kneeling to everyone. We wait. Both Robert and this Dragon King will need our grain and our swords before this is over. Let them bleed each other first."
Willas nodded slowly from his chair. "Viserys is building something strong in Andalos. He frees slaves, rewards loyalty, and doesn't tolerate weakness. That's not the Mad King's son we were told about. That's a king who means to rule."
Olenna smiled like a blade. "Exactly. He's already acting like the Conqueror. Strong kings don't leave powerful lords too comfortable. We stay quiet, keep our army ready, and watch which way the wind blows. Renly can wait for his help. The real game is just starting."