Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

10th Day of the 8th Moon

Zaphon Sarrios, Tyrosh

The magister was not happy.

Grudgingly, he looked around his favourite personal bathhouse - everything was covered by intricate tiles made of polished white marble, and the air was thick with the misty veil waffling from the churning waters below.

Velyena, his favourite bed slave and bare just as the day she was born, was just beside him and slowly feeding him sweet, ripe red grapes, the colour of deep amber. Another of his favourites, Deliena, was massaging his shoulders with her soft, pale fingers.

Any of the seven pleasures was within his grasp, but it brought him no joy.

His daughter, Melyta, had already wed Archon Varonar two moons ago, and his own gift had been the most generous and opulent. Yet, it wasn't as good as Zaphon intended; even a skilful veteran sellsail like Saan and Hartys, the best manhunter in his employ, failed to return with weirwood and mammoth ivory.

To make matters worse, that wretch, Arvaad Marinar, had gifted the magister a most luxuriously opulent palanquin for the wedding - an intricately crafted one made out of mammoth ivory and weirwood, with valyrian glyphs running along the length and lined with sapphires and red gold. Even the insides were tapered with black silk, and the ceiling was a delicate painting of a naked dancing maiden.

Archon Varonar liked the accursed palanquin the most out of all the wedding gifts - because the cunning snake had cleared out all the weirwood and mammoth ivory, making his gift unique. Zaphon loathed it when he was outplayed in such a foolish manner.

It was a challenge, an insult to Zaphon, but not one he could pursue openly. No, all he could do was return the favour in full. But the real problem was that Marinar was already pushing one of his daughters for a concubine to the Archon, and from here on, it would be a tug of money and influence.

Still, he wasn't too worried, only angry and annoyed - Arvaad could not pull the same trick again, and Zaphon was sure to win a battle of wealth.

He stood up, let Velyna and Deliena dry his body, and clothed him.

He walked out of his bathhouse and beckoned one of the young servants waiting for him in the courtyard.

"Summon Lazos to the reading room."

Lazos was his slave and mentor - years ago, Zaphon's father had bought the acolyte from the temple of knowledge - all of Anahyt's acolytes could be bought or sold if you had enough coin. Yet, the man had proven himself intelligent, capable, and loyal over the years and had slowly climbed to the position of a personal advisor. Zaphon had even taken his daughter, Gwenlyn, as his concubine, and the girl had given him three more daughters before dying on the birthing bed.

Languidly, he made his way towards the left wing of his manor, where the library resided, followed by his personal guard - the three best Unsullied in his service. His gaze wandered around the garden, but the opulent sight had grown dull again. Perhaps it was time to replace the jade statues with something else?

After taking the side walkway and making his way up a flight of marble stairs, Zaphon finally arrived at the ebony door inscribed with golden valyrian glyphs and guarded by a pair of bronze minotaur statues.

Inside, by one of the varnished tables, awaited Lazos, garbed in his usual dark silken robes decorated with golden numbers and opened scrolls.

"You summoned me, Magister," the thin, balding scholar bowed.

"I want to call all the loans we have on Marinar and his ilk," Zaphon decided as he made his way to the throne-like gilded chair tapered in purple velvet and sat. While his rival and his allies could afford to pay it off, it would make a sizeable dent in their coffers. "And strangle his foolhardy attempts to enter the dye market."

The latter would hurt his finances, but the losses could be recouped later.

"It shall be done," Lazos dutifully began scribbling into an open parchment roll. "Any other instructions?"

Zaphon rubbed his meaty chin thoughtfully, and a brilliant idea began to swirl in his mind. "Spread some rumours about Arvaad preferring to play with his boy slaves. Make sure it's subtle, nothing that can be traced my way."

Which was far from the truth - his rival preferred bedding buxom married women and slaves. Yet rumours could be a dangerous thing, and those who held preference for men tended to be ostracised. It was petty, but the mere idea of maligning Marinar's name brought him more joy than anything else in the last two moons.

"Subtlety would slow down such an endeavour," his teacher said.

The words made him grin.

"Even better." Slow, insidious rumours like that could be very damaging - many amongst the more religious traders and manhunters refused to deal with sword-swallowers if there was an alternative. Oh, if Arvaad managed to push his daughter as a concubine onto the Archon, Zaphon would personally gift him a boy toy slave in front of all the dignitaries of Tyrosh.

He couldn't help it and let out a bellyful of laughter - the image in his head was glorious!

"I think I have some news of Saan's expedition," Lazos' words were slow and cautious but angered the magister regardless.

"Oh, have the fools finally dared to return?!"

"No, but I did find one of Denzo's rowers on the slave market by chance yesterday," the old man's lips curled in disgust. "He finally talked this morning, but I am not sure his words are… trustworthy."

Zaphos groaned; this already sounded bothersome, and he hated problems, especially those which could not be solved with money. He poured himself some wine from a decanter as he prepared for the worst. Usually, Zaphos would have a slave attending to him, but the fewer who heard his personal business, the better.

"What are Denzo's rowers doing at the slave market? Did Saan's expedition get caught by some daring pirates on the way back?"

"Not exactly," his teacher fiddled with his sleeves and unfurled a scroll, inspecting its contents. "It seems our smuggler and Hartys got killed Beyond the Wall, and the rowers absconded with the ships. The fools sailed directly into the Shivering Sea to avoid the Blacksail. One ship sunk in a storm, while the other barely survived, only to get caught by corsairs."

It was not a big surprise - the Lord of Ships had not shown his face in nearly half a year now, and all the bolder sellsails sailed up the Narrow Sea.

"And how did the Prince of the Narrow Sea," the words escaped his mouth with a mocking lilt as he swirled the contents of his wine goblet, "and the finest manhunter in Tyrosh die?"

For all the boasts of skill and success, both had perished miserably. But, his anger was now replaced with curiosity - Saan and Hartys had not cheated him as he suspected; they had simply failed.

"The rower says that your sellsails were massacred by some young Northman, Jon Snow, who could control giant wolves."

"I've not heard of such magic," Zaphon scrunched his brow. "I thought the Andals hated sorcery. Perhaps the rower is lying, and Saan got defeated by some barbarian with well-trained shaggy hounds."

"That is certainly possible," Lazos agreed. "But there are old records of skinwalkers in the sunset lands, sorcerers that could don the skins of beasts."

Magic was dangerous, and sorcerers even more so - only skilled priests were usually trustworthy enough to deal with arcane problems. The real question was whether the rower was speaking the truth or had lost his wits.

"This name, Snow - it sounds familiar."

His teacher nodded, "It's the name for highborn bastards of the North."

Pah, Westerosi and their strange marriage customs. A son was a son - those foolish sunset-landers would have a far easier time if they just took their paramours as concubines as was proper!

"Find out who this Jon Snow is - I want to know who thwarted me this time," Zaphron ordered.

"It is done already - there's only a single young bastard with the name Jon in the North," for some reason, the old scholar seemed apprehensive. "The boy is Lord Eddard Stark's son."

The magister exhaled slowly, trying to get his feelings under control. Starks were an old, powerful house, even more so in this generation, where they had bound more than half the sunset kingdoms together by blood. Lord Stark's son was married to a princess, his wife was the daughter of the Highlord of the Riverlands, his nephew was to be the highlord of the Vale, and he himself was Hand of the King.

He gulped a generous amount from his goblet in one breath and filled another chalice for his mentor.

"Are you certain of this?"

"Indeed," Lazos bobbed his head obediently, even as he accepted the chalice gratefully. "There's only a handful of acknowledged nobleborn Northern bastards under thirty, and only Lord Stark's son is named Jon. House Stark's coat of arms depicts a grey direwolf, and there are records of previous Lords of Winterfell taming such beasts."

And another piece in the puzzle fit. Things rarely aligned so smoothly, and Zaphon never believed in such coincidences.

Now, the question was what to do.

"Is the boy a part of the Night's Watch?"

"That was one of my queries - but Jon Snow had not been garbed in black."

Zaphon hummed thoughtfully and tried to remember his old lessons on sunset politics and laws. The Lands Beyond the Wall were unclaimed by anyone officially and under the purview of the Watch nominally. If Jon Snow had not been part of the Black Order, he would have had no authority to attack Saan and Hartys unprovoked.

It was a grey area at best, but the main problem here was that despite being a bastard, Jon Snow was too well-connected. Lord Stark was not only a powerful man but a dangerous one - tales of his skills in warfare had reached even Essos. But it mattered little; Zaphon knew how to deal with young men - they were all full of greed for glory and lust for flesh or coin.

Besides, he was not without his own cards to play.

Why fight when you could pay them to work for you? If the boy truly slew Saan and Hartys, he would be an invaluable asset and possibly a connection to House Stark and a secure northern trade route.

"Prepare an envoy to King's Landing," Zaphon licked his lips in excitement. "The Iron Throne owes all my cartel over half a million dragons, and it's time to negotiate a settlement."

Lazos unfurled a fresh scroll, inked his quill, and looked expectantly at him. "And what shall be our aim?"

"To present a formal complaint to the Iron Throne for the murder of my expedition and seek a settlement for the debt."

"The restitution?"

"No custom for Tyroshi dyes for three years, and the first instalment of the debt, or," a smile found its way to his face. "They can give me Jon Snow - I want him to work for me. I'll even throw in a daughter or two of his choice for a bride and forgive a third of the crown's debt."

Zaphon had plenty of daughters from his concubines - and a bastard of a powerful line was a fitting match for them. Their station was similar - the children borne out of concubines were barely considered legitimate and all behind the progeny of the main Wife, much like the Westerosi bastards.

"Would such a heavy-handed deal be ever accepted?"

With a generous swig, the magister drained the remnants of his goblet. "For all that talk of honour, glory, and such foolish notions, the Westerosi rarely turned down coin, if ever. Of course, you must phrase it correctly, stoking their pride and honour."

***

11th Day of the 8th Moon

Myrcella

Her new good-uncle's visit was intriguing, to say the least, bringing some dark tidings from the Watch. What exactly those tidings were, Myrcella knew not - but they had Robb worried once more.

Still, between her newfound appetite and exhaustion, she spent most of her days planning and aiding Catelyn around Winterfell… and growing fatter. Pregnancy had made her mercurial, and worse, too much walking would now cause her legs to cramp. And to get anywhere in the Highseat of the North involved far too much walking. At least her husband didn't seem to mind that extra plumpness; it could be said that he loved it dearly - especially her swelling teats.

At least the workers were easily sourced, and the stonemasons had arrived already, but that alone presented new, unexpected challenges.

It was noon, and Myrcella basked under the sun's warm kiss just by the glass gardens, with Greywind lazily laying his head on the bench beside her. Rosamund was inside the glass dome, admiring the assortment of flowers with Lyanna Mormont. Both girls had bonded over the last few weeks, and it surprised Myrcella how close they had gotten together. The youngest she-bear was entirely different from the rest of her family and could easily be mistaken for a well-bred daughter from the South, aside from her fervent worship of the Old Gods.

"Your Grace," Alaric bowed deeply, a greying stout man with shaggy hair, a weathered face, and the head of all the masons in Winterfell. "It would be easier to tear down the broken tower and rebuild it anew - the mortar has long turned to ash, and some of the stones have gone brittle over the centuries."

That was certainly unexpected, but it didn't matter. The real question was if rebuilding the fortification from scratch was worthwhile - there were plenty of other watchtowers around Winterfell, though none as tall as the broken one. Even after a third of it had collapsed, its topmost point stood above the Great Keep and Winterfell's inner walls.

"I want the tower rebuilt as sturdy and tall as possible - made to last," Myrcella decided.

"Tall structures attract lightning easier far too often," the elderly mason coughed. "If we rebuild the watchtower as high as before, it might get struck down the next time there's a thunderstorm."

She groaned - the amount of troubles that kept popping up was unexpected. Still, it felt like a challenge, and Myrcella was never one to give up so easily.

"Can't anything be done for that? My father's ancestral seat, Storm's End, has weathered terrible storms with little to no trouble for millennia!"

Alaric shrugged helplessly, "I'm just an old mason, not Brandon the Builder to work wonders."

"Don't you have some secret techniques passed down from -" the words died on her lips at the older man's amused look, "Go speak to Maester Luwin - maybe the maesters have found some obscure solution to such problems over the centuries," Myrcella decided. "In the meantime, I want the work to begin. Now, your evaluation on the First Keep?"

Beads of sweat had begun to form on the man's brow.

"The old holdfast can be renovated, but the winters there would be… cold."

Myrcella pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration; she had almost forgotten about the cold. Just as she got used to the cool weather, she had to remind herself that this was still summertime.

"Can't you just put pipes into the wall to pump water from the hot springs like in the Great Keep?"

"We certainly can, but that would require us to tear down the castle to the ground and rebuild it, Your Grace." She could only grimace at the man's mournful reply.

"Do you have any suggestions?"

"What would the Keep be used for if I might be so bold to inquire?"

"A meeting place for the ladies of the court."

The old mason scratched his craggy chin, covered by a white stubble. "Must it still be heavily fortified?"

"Not really," Myrcella shook her head. If there was something Winterfell didn't lack for - it was heavy fortification - the walls, holdfasts, and towers were everywhere, all formidably thick and tall.

Even the Great Hall and other residential structures had crenellations atop most roofings and thick walls, allowing defenders to man those roofs. There was being protected, and then there was being a Stark, and Myrcella was starting to think her new family was paranoid. Yet, none could deny that Winterfell was one of the most formidable fortresses in Westeros.

"Then, I'd recommend tearing it down," Alaric huffed. "It's far easier to build towards aesthetics, warmth, and pageantry if fortifications are not considered."

The princess rolled the idea in her mind for a few minutes and considered abandoning this endeavour altogether. But no, Myrcella would not give up so quickly, and the invitations for the ladies-in-waiting were already sent. In the end, did she truly need another tiny fortress behind three layers of curtain walls? A different idea bloomed within her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more it was to her liking. A maidenvault here - but one not to keep women locked away, but as a place of dwelling and ladies' court.

"I want a large ballroom and other official events, a hall for luncheons, at least three galleries, and plentiful private quarters, statues, gargoyles - and it must be warm even in winter," she listed the things that came to her mind. "The building must still be defensible, but the colour grey tires me, so don't go overboard with the granite. Oh, and an inner courtyard with a fountain!"

"Might've to call stone carvers from White Harbour for the fancier details," the old mason said thoughtfully. "At least there won't be any need to lug around tons of stone from the quarries - there'll be more than enough we could salvage from the First Keep."

"Good, but start on the two large granaries first," Myrcella decided. Tearing down the First Keep would still require Robb's permission again since it would not be renovated as was her original plan but a complete rework from the ground up. "You can also start tearing down the broken tower. I need some time to consider my options again - I shall provide my final decision about further construction within three days."

***

 13th Day of the 8th Moon

It took her two days to reconsider her plans and calculate the new costs before going to the old maester. The new ideas and plans sprouted within her mind but also slowed the princess down.

Luwin was usually in the maester's turret or the library tower, and Myrcella found him in the latter, perusing an ancient tome with feeble yellowy pages that looked as if they would fall apart any moment. A curious glance told her it was written not in the common tongue but in… runes of the First Men?

"How might I be of help, princess?" Luwin's cough almost made her jump in surprise, and she took a few seconds to school her face.

"I need some way to protect tall buildings from errant lightning strikes."

The maester's wrinkled brow creased with thought, and she waited patiently as he was thinking.

"I am afraid I cannot be of help with this," Luwin sighed. "Neither construction nor lightning were things I put much effort into studying during my time in the Citadel. I can, however, write to a friend who did study both subjects."

"Do so," Myrcella decided and carefully inspected the old scholar - he was diminutive and shrunken, but his grey eyes were kind and warm. "Maester, is there a reason for your lack of acolytes? All the maesters I've known save for you have at least one accompanying them."

"Most maesters hold acolytes as their assistants instead of learners. Some are means to foster connections, yet not all become maesters," he hummed. "The vows of celibacy and lifelong duty do not seem as appealing to everyone. The temptations of the flesh are not so easily resisted, and many decide to form a family and serve a lord as advisors and attendants instead. I had an acolyte, Banos, but he returned to the Citadel to complete his chain and take his oaths more than a decade ago."

"Surely such a large seat like Winterfell and your duties would benefit from more scholarly aid?"

"Ah, Your Grace… I did not think you wanted to replace me so soon," Myrcella spluttered indignantly under his serious gaze, which quickly softened as the old man chuckled and his face grew thoughtful. "I am not getting any younger - that much is true, and perhaps some assistance might be of aid. But even acolytes are to be picked with caution and require a small tribute of gold to be sent to the Citadel."

Indeed, Myrcella had almost forgotten that the Citadel always required a sum of coins to send any scholars - be it maesters or acolytes. Yet Lady Stark was very frugal and counted every last copper. Even her official garments were plain with barely any ornaments and made of simpler fabrics.

Likely, they didn't see the need to spend coin on additional retinue when Maester Luwin did his job stellarly. Yet, if there was something Myrcella learned in her stay in King's Landing, it was that skilled aides were never in shortage.

"Reach out to your contacts in the Citadel, maester. Two additional acolytes with skills in trade and construction would not be amiss."

Myrcella was even tempted to recruit her own personal Maester, but good and skilled ones were too expensive for her purse, and their loyalties were not guaranteed, especially since the Citadel was the one who chose who was sent in the end, regardless of lordly requests. Then, there was the question of how Luwin would react to the presence of another full-fledged Maester.

"I'm afraid that would require Lady Stark or Lord Robb's blessing first," Luwin coughed. "And a sizeable amount of coin."

"Leave that for me to worry."

She walked out of the library in a daze - Myrcella had half expected the maester to patronise her. In fact, she expected the same from all the people she spoke to, from the lowest mason to her husband.

To not take her seriously.

Yet, they all listened carefully and with attention, and… why, why was she so surprised? Mycella walked around Winterfell aimlessly, deep in thought - many servants and guardsmen smiled jovially at her as if she were their treasure. The realisation came like lightning out of a clear sky and left her stunned, halting her walk.

Myrcella knew why she was so shocked. Everyone had gone along with her idea in some form or another.

You're still a child.

This is not ladylike.

Such base activities are below a princess.

The words her mother and septa had oft dismissed Myrcella with were seared into her mind. Yet, none of that happened here. She was not treated like a foolish young child, nor was she dismissed as a pretty thing either - and everyone listened to her seriously, with respect - and none of it was feigned as far as she could tell.

Predictably, her husband was hesitant to both the new facets of reconstruction and assistance to Luwin, but with a little persuasion, Robb agreed. It had been so easy, and he just trusted her.

It felt… exhilarating.

Her good-mother, however, wasn't so easily convinced.

"If we keep throwing coin away like this, Winterfell's coffers will grow empty within a year or two!" Catelyn's blue eyes held a stubborn glint.

They were walking back to the glass gardens after Myrcella had found her good-mother teaching Arya her numbers. For once, the little hellion was glad for the interruption to her lessons and nearly gave her a half-smile.

"Indeed, the cost is not insignificant," Myrcella grudgingly agreed as they trudged on. Maester Luwin had recommended additional daily walks, which indeed made her feel better, bar for the sore legs. "But, Winterfell is the heart of the North, and having such dilapidated and rickety buildings speaks ill of House Stark."

Back in the Red Keep, there was never a limit on how much gold she could spend, yet her uncle Tyrion had cautioned her from such follies that led to a heavy debt - and the Iron Throne was indeed borrowing money almost all the time.

"This is why I agreed to tear down the First Keep and the Broken Tower," the Lady of Winterfell tilted her chin imperiously.

Myrcella resisted the urge to stomp on the ground like some petulant child and forced herself to slowly count to ten in her mind.

"Even that would be costly on its own," Catelyn only nodded at her words but remained otherwise impassive, so Myrcella steeled herself and continued, "A sizeable amount of stone will be salvaged from the old holdfast according to the masons, and it'd be more prudent to put it to use instead of throwing it away."

Yet, this argument didn't seem to move the Lady of Winterfell either. Her good-mother's frugality was frustrating - she'd agree to spend dragons on tearing old buildings down, but not a little more for rebuilding them?

How did that even make sense?!

Winterfell was so huge, almost thrice as big as the Red Keep, and there was a lot of unused land, and it irked Myrcella. Even as they walked, there was plenty of space around them with many empty or nearly abandoned courtyards.

"I get that, but what about these acolytes you plan on recruiting? Those cost coin and might not even be useful in the end," Catelyn's voice was even, but a hint of frustration leaked through. "Not to mention this new kiln for tiles and bricks."

There was a clay pit a league from Winterfell - which meant that using bricks and tiles on a larger scale was feasible - if only they built an appropriate kiln for it and not the tiny furnace huddled at the edge of Wintertown.

There was no mention of the granaries, meaning Catelyn approved their addition.

"There is always a need for more bricks and tiles, even if we finish rebuilding."

At that moment, Myrcella's mind froze. We - she was already feeling more part of House Stark than Baratheon or Lannister, and she had not even been wed for three moons yet. But then again - House Stark had treated her kinder than them; Myrcella was cloaked before the Old Gods with the grey direwolf and, hopefully, carried the future Stark heir. Even this argument held no bitterness or hard feelings, no matter how frustrating.

She received more genuine warmth and affection in the last three moons than in the last fifteen years. A bittersweet feeling rose within her - an odd mix of joy and sorrow.

"Myrcella, you are young," the red-haired woman sighed as they rested on the bench she had started her day on. A quick glance inside the glass gardens showed that Sansa had joined Rosamund and Lyanna. Arya was nowhere to be seen. "You have seen one short winter in the south - but up here, winters are long, harsh and cold. House Stark does not possess the same ability to collect wealth as Casterly Rock or the Iron Throne, and a sizeable reserve must always be kept in place."

Winter was coming - the words seemed simple enough at first glance, but the more the princess stayed in Winterfell, the more profound and ominous they felt.

"The kiln will make more coin than it will cost," Myrcella said, trying to push down her frustration.

Finally, her good-mother appeared interested.

"How so?"

"I did some reading - good bricks last far longer if properly preserved than crude logs and undressed stone."

She could do this - Myrcella could make it work.

"You can't fleece our smallfolk for coin," the Lady of Winterfell shook her head, immediately catching that Myrcella was talking about Wintertown.

The princess smiled, "Who said anything about fleecing? It's only natural to want to live in a better home, and only those with the means and the desire would buy tiles and bricks."

Truth be told, she remembered her lessons with Pycelle fondly - the grandmaester saw she had a mind for numbers and sums and generously provided all the reading she requested on the topic. Treatises on trade and taxation weren't the most interesting but were not dull either. If her calculations were correct, the kiln would prove a very beneficial investment within two years of operation, if not less.

For the first time, Catelyn Stark looked hesitant, and Myrcella decided to release her last card.

"I know the yearly tithe House Stark has to pay to the Iron Throne is halved until the next spring - and after such a long summer, the treasury of Winterfell has never been more full. I should know - I checked the accounts myself."

"As expected from Tywin Lannister's granddaughter," her good-mother sighed, but there was fondness in her face. "You must understand that there are troubles at the Watch and Beyond the Wall, which might strain our coffers, one that must be planned for."

"Ah yes, that trouble you won't tell me about," Myrcella grumbled.

"It is not a lady's duty or battle," Catelyn shook her head with a fond smile.

"A wife's duty is to aid her husband in every way-"

"Peace, Myrcella," her blue eyes softened. "The Seven Above must be laughing at me - I remember being as young and stubborn as you are right now." A sigh tore out of Catelyn's lips as she idly watched the girls inside the gardens. While her good-mother wasn't young anymore, she was still stubborn. "Fine, you shall have my permission - I can spare thirty thousand dragons from the coffers, but not a single coin more, so use them wisely."

Then, Myrcella stiffened as Catelyn Stark pulled her into an embrace. It felt nice… Cersei had never done something like that before, and for a short moment, the princess felt the urge to cry. A moment later, she hesitantly wrapped her own arms around the Lady of Winterfell, and at that moment, everything felt right in the world.

Myrcella decided to keep her plans for cobbling the pathways and most of the yards in Winterfell to herself, at least for now.

Not half a minute later, the moment was interrupted when Arya ran over, enthusiastically informing them that Tallhart banners were seen coming from the south, earning a slight scolding from her mother. The Princess, however, steeled herself - that meant that her first lady-in-waiting - Eddara Tallhart, was finally arriving.