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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 65: Reunion
There was certainly something unnatural about the air in Asshai. It hung heavy as a shroud, pressing against the skin like a physical presence, something akin to gravity but darker, older, and certainly manufactured.
Joffrey could feel it in his bones, in the thrum of his magic, in the way the very stones of the city seemed to hum with a power that was not quite alive but far from dead.
He was sure the others felt it too, though not as acutely as he did. The Hound had grown more restless since their arrival, his hand never straying far from his sword. Daenerys had taken to keeping her dragons closer than ever, as if their warmth could ward off the cold that seeped into everything.
Joffrey knew better.
He stood near the archway that served as the entrance to the tower, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the street beyond. The black walls of Asshai towered over everything else in the city, their fused stone surfaces slick with moisture, their tops lost in the perpetual grey twilight.
He could feel the pressure emanating from them, and it seemed to originate from somewhere deep beneath the city.
'That should be the source of this pressure,' he thought. He was convinced of it, but unfortunately, he had not had the time to investigate the mystery. There was always too much to do, and the twenty-four hours of the day were far from sufficient, even if he avoided sleeping for as much as he could get away with.
Suddenly, he picked up on several presences approaching...the familiar heavy tread of the Hound, the soft rustle of Varys's robes, and the lighter, more deliberate footsteps of two others. A moment later, he spotted four figures emerging from the darkness.
His uncle Tyrion walked at the front, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the blue light of the braziers. Varys walked at one side, his pale face serene, and an attractive woman with fiery red hair walked at the other. Towering behind them was the Hound, dressed in his full set of armor, his dog's helm hiding his scarred face.
"Nephew!" The dwarf spread his arms wide, the grin on his face reaching his mismatched eyes. "You look terrible. Has the Shadow Lands done that to you, or is it the company you keep?"
"Uncle, you sound as insufferable as ever." Joffrey studied his uncle and his female companion for a moment. "I was not sure if you were going to come here. With the amount of gold I left on your ship, you could have disappeared for good."
Tyrion chuckled. "You know I would never do that to my favorite nephew."
"Either that, or you knew I put a curse on the coffers," Joffrey said it in a teasing tone, but he was not joking about the curse. Anyone who got any ideas about stealing what was his would deeply regret it. The fact that Tyrion was standing before him told him what he needed to know.
"Come inside. Let us talk." Joffrey turned and went into the tower.
"What a lovely place," Tyrion commented as he examined the tower...its black stone walls, the glowing glyphs, the cold blue flames that burned in braziers along the walls. "Gods, this place is grim. I thought the Wall was depressing, but Asshai is truly something else." He shook his head. "This makes the Wall look like a brothel in Lys."
They settled in the main chamber, where a fire burned in the hearth...not the cold blue flames of Asshai, but real fire, orange-red and warm. The warmth was welcome after the chill of the streets, and Tyrion settled into a chair with a sigh of contentment.
Behind him came Ros, her red hair bright against the darkness of the tower, her green eyes taking in everything with a professional detachment. She curtsied to Joffrey, then moved to stand near the wall, her hands folded behind her.
"How was the journey?" Joffrey asked. "Did the sea treat you well?"
Tyrion stretched his short legs toward the flames and let out a sigh of relief. "The journey was long," he said. "Longer than I anticipated. The Jade Sea is a fickle mistress. One day calm as glass, the next tossing the ship about like a child's toy." He took a cup of wine that Ros poured for him and drank deeply. "We stopped at Volantis for supplies...an experience I do not care to repeat. Then Qarth, where I had the fortune of hearing about your exploits with the warlocks." He raised an eyebrow. "They say you destroyed the House of the Undying single-handedly. The stories grow more embellished with each telling."
Joffrey shrugged. "I had help."
"Of course you did. The Hound, no doubt, and your new ally." Tyrion glanced around the chamber. "Speaking of which, where is the dragon princess? I confess, I am eager to meet her."
As if summoned, footsteps sounded on the spiral staircase. Daenerys Targaryen descended into the main chamber, her silver-gold hair loose around her shoulders, her violet eyes bright in the firelight. Drogon perched on her shoulder, his black scales gleaming, his golden eyes fixed on the newcomer. Rhaegal and Viserion followed close behind, their claws clicking on the black stone.
Tyrion rose from his chair, his mismatched eyes wide, his cup forgotten in his hand. "By the Seven," he breathed. "They are real."
Drogon hissed, smoke curling from his nostrils, but he did not attack. He studied the dwarf with an intelligence that seemed almost human.
"Tyrion Lannister." Daenerys's voice was cool, measured. "The Imp."
Tyrion winced but recovered quickly, setting down his cup and bowing respectfully. "I have been called such, and much worse, Your Grace. But Tyrion will serve." He straightened, his eyes never leaving the dragons. "I have studied every book I could find on dragons. Valyrian scrolls, accounts of the Dance, even fragments left by the maesters who claimed to have seen the last of them. But seeing them in person..." He shook his head. "Words cannot describe it."
Daenerys glanced at Joffrey for a moment before returning her gaze to his uncle. "Tyrion. Yes... a Lannister as well. Son of Tywin the Butcher and brother of the man who killed my father."
Tyrion did his best to keep his composure. "Well... yes, my family has done many terrible things. But I am not my father, nor my brother, nor my sister. I am the outcast, the dwarf, the one they blame for everything that goes wrong." He met her eyes. "Joffrey can vouch for me. I have no love for the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Besides, one cannot choose their family, can they?"
Daenerys's eyes moved to Joffrey, who had once told her the same thing, and after a moment of silence, she spoke again. "Indeed... one cannot choose one's family. And I have learned not to judge men by the mistakes of their parents. You are welcome to stay with us, Tyrion Lannister. But I will be watching you."
"I would expect nothing less, Your Grace." Tyrion smiled, and the tension in the room eased.
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They settled around the fireplace, the dragons curling at Daenerys's feet. Ros served wine and bread, moving quietly, her eyes taking in everything.
Joffrey leaned forward. "Tell me about the Starks and my siblings. How are they doing?"
Tyrion nodded, his expression growing serious. "The journey to White Harbor was... uneventful. Lord Stark was weak from his imprisonment, but his daughters tended him well. The younger one, Arya, spent most of the voyage trying to sneak into the captain's cabin to study his maps. The elder, Sansa, kept to herself, though she seemed grateful to be leaving King's Landing." He paused. "Tommen and Myrcella were frightened at first. Children, torn from everything they knew. But the Starks treated them kindly. By the time we reached White Harbor, the boy was playing with Bran Stark's direwolf, and the girl was reading with Sansa in the solar."
"And Lord Stark?"
"Grim and quiet, as usual. He spoke little during the journey. But when he did, he mentioned you more than once." Tyrion looked at Joffrey. "He said you saved his life, and the lives of his daughters. He said he owed you a debt he could never repay." He paused. "He also asked about your intentions. He was curious to know why you went so far to save him."
"And what did you tell him?"
"What could I tell him? I did not know either." Tyrion shrugged.
Joffrey smiled. "The North is important. More important than people seem to realize. And the Starks must remain whole." He stopped there and did not elaborate further.
The truth was that Joffrey was not entirely sure himself. But after he visited Winterfell, he understood that much. There was a reason for the Starks to be there...the real function they served might have been forgotten after thousands of years, but it was still there. One could say he was merely listening to his instincts.
Daenerys and Tyrion exchanged a look.
Realizing that Joffrey was not going to elaborate further, the princess asked a question. "What about the war? What are the Baratheons and Lannisters doing?"
Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "Stannis has taken control of Storm's End after killing his brother, Renly... with magic, or so they say."
"Magic? Stannis Baratheon?" This piqued Joffrey's interest. He had never met his 'uncle' Stannis, but from what he had heard of the man, he was not the type to dabble in the mystical arts.
"Not him, of course," Tyrion said. "He has a red priestess at his side. No one knows where she came from, but I believe her name is Melisandre. There are several disturbing rumors about her."
"A red priestess?" Daenerys asked. They had recently been talking about the Red Temple and its interest in her. "She likely came from here."
"Looks like those priests are showing interest in more than one ruler candidate," Joffrey commented, thinking about what Varys had told them the day prior. "What else?"
Tyrion nodded. "The Tyrells have withdrawn to Highgarden. They have not declared for anyone yet, though there are whispers that my father is negotiating with them. A marriage, perhaps, between my sister and a Tyrell."
"She will never agree to that," Joffrey said.
"She will have little choice. At this point, Father is practically in control." Tyrion's voice sounded bitter. "Your mother holds King's Landing, but her grip is weak. There are rumors among the smallfolk... they say that the Queen has gone mad and spends her days drinking."
Joffrey frowned. He had taken his siblings away to protect them, not to punish his mother.
"So Eddard Stark has not joined forces with Stannis?" Daenerys asked. "I thought Lord Stark would see Stannis as the rightful king."
"Last I heard, the North has not declared for anyone. The Stark boy, Robb, called the banners when his father was arrested, but after Lord Stark returned, their armies did not march. They are waiting." Tyrion looked at Daenerys. "Your name is being whispered in the Free Cities, Your Grace. People talk about the Mother of Dragons. They say you are building an army in the east, and they wonder where you will go next."
Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Are they afraid I will attack them? I have no interest in ruling the Free Cities."
"They do not know that. Aegon the Conqueror took over an entire continent with three dragons...the same number you have now. It is natural for people to be wary of your intentions."
"Hmph. Let them be wary." Daenerys scoffed and drank some wine.
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A bit later, when the others had retired to their chambers, Joffrey climbed the stairs to the laboratory. The cold blue flames burned in their braziers, casting strange shadows on the walls. He sat at the obsidian table, surrounded by vials and scrolls.
The texts taken from the warlocks' hideout were dense, written in a script that was neither Valyrian nor the Common Tongue. But slowly, painstakingly, he was learning to decipher some of their contents.
One passage in particular caught his attention.
"Stygai," he read. "The Corpse City."
The description was brief, almost dismissive. A ruined city further up the Ash River, deep in the Shadow Lands. A place where even the shadowbinders feared to tread. A place that held the secrets of a lost civilization...the origin of dragons, the source of the black stone, and perhaps the key to immortality.
Joffrey's eyes began to glow. "That is interesting," he murmured.
He sat back, staring at the map on the wall. It was a crude drawing of Asshai and the lands beyond, marked with the symbols of dead cities and forgotten tombs. Stygai was marked at the edge of the map, beyond the reach of the cartographer's certainty, in a region where the ink faded into nothing.
He would need supplies. He would need men to accompany him. The journey would be dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than anything he had attempted since arriving in this world.
But he would go.
The secrets he sought could be there, waiting for him in the darkness, among the ruins of a city that had died before Valyria was born. And he would find them.
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