Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Throne Room
Three days had passed since Tyrion completed his first strategic examination. In that time, he had been subjected to three more rounds of grueling tests, ranging from logistics and maritime law to psychological theory. Tyrion had received no feedback, but he knew one thing: if they kept inviting him back, he was winning.
Yet, this vacuum of information was agonizing. To Tyrion, it felt like visiting a brothel where the girls entered and exited with clinical silence—efficient, perhaps, but utterly devoid of joy.
Today, however, the silence ended. He had been summoned to the heart of the Purple Palace. While most in Essos only knew the "White Wolf" by rumors, House Lannister had circulated detailed sketches of the youth who had transformed into a dragon at King's Landing. Tyrion's father, Tywin, had become obsessed with magic following that event, even recruiting the "famed" Maggy the Frog as a mystical advisor to Casterly Rock.
"You actually made it in?" Tyrion asked, surprised to see a familiar face in the hallway.
"Hah! Who do you think you're looking at?" Bronn smirked, though he adjusted his sword belt with a newfound sense of discipline. "I passed the martial and tactical trials with flying colors. You didn't think I'd just be your footstool forever, did I?"
Bronn's swagger was tempered by the presence of the "Chainbreaker" God-Warriors he had seen in the courtyard—men whose supernatural abilities had taught the mercenary a rare lesson in humility.
"Silence!" a sharp, melodic voice commanded. A young acolyte from Oldtown named Alleras—a handsome youth with Dornish and Summer Isles features—glared at them. "You are in the presence of greatness. Do not disturb the Prince with your bickering."
Alleras was part of a wave of "Novices" who had fled the rigid, stagnant hierarchy of the Citadel in Oldtown to join Jon's meritocracy. Jon intended to build a new center of learning in Tyrosh, one that prioritized discovery over tradition.
The Knight and the Lion
"ATTENTION!"
The command rang through the hall like a hammer on an anvil. The Unsullied guards stood at rigid attention, clashing spear against shield in a thunderous salute.
Jon entered, his black plate armor gleaming, the silver-etched Wolf-Dragon sigil on his breastplate catching the light. He wore a blood-red cloak that trailed behind him like a river of fire.
"Bring the seats," Jon commanded as he took the Archon's throne. "We finish the selections today."
Sarene, Jon's silver-haired secretary, stepped forward with a list. Beside Jon stood Ser Barristan Selmy, whose eyes had been locked on Tyrion the moment he entered. Tyrion felt a cold sweat on his neck; he knew the old knight had no love for the family that had discarded him.
"Lord Aegon," Sarene intoned. "Ten candidates have met your standards. Their abilities have been verified. The leaders are Tyrion Lant, Alleras, and Bronn."
"Tyrion Lant, step forward," Sarene called.
"Hold!" Ser Barristan's voice boomed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "My Prince, I know this creature. This is the seed of the traitor Tywin Lannister!"
In Westeros, Tyrion's face was a curse. To Barristan, it was a reminder of the sack of King's Landing and the broken oaths of the Kingslayer.
"I know who he is, Ser Barristan," Jon said, his voice calm. He looked down at the dwarf. "I've been expecting him. Tyrion, you took a long road from the Wall to reach my gates. Why come here?"
Tyrion knelt, his mismatched eyes fixed on Jon. "I tried to save my house from itself, and I failed. They see me as a monster, an omen of their rot. I want power, Jon—no, my Prince. I want the power to take what is mine by right, and in exchange, I offer you the only thing I have left: a mind that knows every crack in the walls of Westeros."
"Lannisters are vipers, my Prince," Barristan warned. "They have Targaryen blood on their hands."
"The Dornish killed Queen Rhaenys once, yet they became our strongest allies," Jon countered softly. He drew Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. "I do not judge a man by his father's sins, but by his own heart. Tyrion Lannister, if you betray me, the fire will be the least of your concerns."
He leveled the blade over Tyrion's shoulder. "In the name of Aegon Targaryen, I accept your fealty. Rise, Round Table Councilor. Rise, Black Lion."
The Sands of the Sphinx
After the other candidates were dismissed to their posts—Bronn to lead a special operations unit of a hundred elite mercenaries—Jon invited the top three to stay for wine.
The young acolyte, Alleras, sat quietly at the end of the table.
"I have a question for our scholar," Jon said, leaning forward. "Why would a girl from Dorne go through the trouble of disguising herself to study at the Citadel, only to fly across the sea to me? Who are you, truly?"
The Kingsguard instantly circled the "youth."
"Heh," Alleras laughed, the voice shifting from a boyish tenor to a warm, feminine alto. She looked at Jon with a playful, unabashed curiosity. "Ser Barristan, put your steel away. I'm just a girl who wanted to see if the Dragon was as beautiful as the songs say."
Tyrion stared, his cup halfway to his lips. "A woman?"
"How did you know?" she asked Jon, brushing a stray curl from her forehead.
"The magic you've been dabbling in—the glass candles, the shadows—it clings to you like a scent," Jon replied. "You're a light in the dark, Alleras. Or should I say... Sarella Sand?"
The girl smiled, her dark eyes flashing. "You're as sharp as they say, Aegon. I am Sarella of House Martell's brood. I grew tired of the Citadel's old men and their fear of the dark. I want to learn the real magic—the kind that builds empires."