The Golden Wyrm

"They are my priesthood, my warriors, my trusted guardians. They will die for me because they believe in me."

―Leto II on the matter of the "Fish Speakers"

…

​

Ten years later.

The room was cold, the kind of cold that settled in the stones and stayed there. It was small, walls narrow and dark, the flickering light of a torch doing little to drive away the gloom. The table between them was scarred, the wood old and heavy. Two stools, the kind that creaked if you shifted your weight too much, were placed opposite each other.

The woman on the stool looked tired. There was dirt on her cloak, the hem wet from the slush outside, and her hair was covered by a coarse woollen hood. Her face was plain, pale from long nights without sleep, and her eyes had the sunken look of someone who had not rested in weeks. She looked like any commoner returned from the outskirts to trade—which was exactly the point. No name, no insignia. Just another face in the crowd.

The man before her was different. He wore robes of black, clean and pressed, with no ornament to betray who he might be, but his eyes set him apart. They were sharp, unnaturally so, the kind that might see through to a person's bones. His fingers tapped on a small iron box before him, each click deliberate, measured. He looked at her like a ledger, a balance sheet that needed to come out even.

"State your designation," he ordered, voice even, as though he had asked the same question a hundred times before.

"Agent Dr5-e4," the woman said, "by order of Prince Aemond."

The man—a Processor as some called them—gave a curt nod, his fingers shifting the dials of his iron box. The clicking grew louder, a mechanical rhythm that echoed in the narrow room. He spoke again, his tone betraying nothing.

"Let's begin," he said. "Ready?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Recite your baseline."

Dr5 complied, speaking, "In ash, in blood, bound by fire, through strength, through sacrifice, through loyalty above all, I am iron in service, unwavering and unyielding; I am blood, loyal without question. The fire demands, and I answer; the blood calls, and I rise. Alone."

The man stared in silence for a moment, then spoke.

"Fire. The fire burns, bright and unyielding."

"Fire."

"Do you feel the heat on your skin? Fire."

"Fire."

"Alone. The dragon's roar shakes the earth. You are alone before it. What do you feel?"

"Alone."

"Do you trust in its fire? Alone."

"Alone."

"Do you seek its fire? Alone."

"Alone."

"Fire. They say fire reveals truth. Is that why you serve?"

"Fire."

"Would you walk through it for the crown? Fire."

"Fire."

"Blood. They say blood answers only to blood. Is that why you serve?"

"Blood."

"Do you feel kinship in the Blood?"

"Blood."

"Would you spill it for the crown? Blood."

"Blood."

"Fire. Does it bring fear?"

"Fire."

"Or strength?"

"Strength."

"The fire demands it."

"Demands it."

"Loyalty without question."

"Without question."

"Loyalty. Do you feel loyalty to the throne?"

"Loyalty."

"Even when it stands alone? Loyalty."

"Loyalty."

"Even when others fall? Loyalty."

"Loyalty."

"Would you give everything to it? Loyalty."

"Loyalty."

"Your heart, your soul, your loyalty."

"Loyalty."

"The throne has no rival."

"No rival. Loyalty."

"If one rose against it, would you strike them down?"

"Strike them down. Loyalty."

"Even if they wore your blood?"

"Loyalty."

"Say it: Fire and blood."

"Fire and blood."

"Do you mean it, fire and blood?"

"Fire and blood."

"Would you betray it, fire and blood?"

"Fire and blood."

"Would you live for it, fire and blood?

"Fire and blood."

"Would you die for it, fire and blood?"

"Fire and blood."

"Are you ash, bound to fire?"

"Bound to fire."

"Are you blood, bound to blood?"

"Bound to blood."

"Only fire. Only blood."

"Only loyalty."

The rapid-fire exchange was followed by a silence, thick and heavy, as the Processor watched her, his eyes flicking across her face, searching. The box clicked, slower now, almost hesitant. He frowned—a flicker of movement, there and gone. His eyes narrowed as he twisted another knob, the gears spinning, clicking, then halting abruptly.

"Baseline maintained," the man said in the end. "You may proceed."

"Thank you, sir," Dr5 replied, her eyes still fixed on some unseen point. She rose from the stool, careful not to let the wood creak, her cloak shifting to hide her face once more. The Processor watched her without a word, already turning his attention to the iron box, adjusting the settings for whoever might be next.

"Report to Officer Varian," he said in the end. "Do not deviate."

The agent said nothing, merely bowed her head slightly and left the room, the heavy door closing behind her with a muted thud. Dr5 paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit hallway. The air was cooler here and it carried a faint, mingling scent of lavender oil and something metallic, almost acrid. She gathered her cloak around her and advanced with a soft whisper of fabric. The narrow corridor led her, past three pairs of guards, a clerk and another pair of guards before reaching a stairwell that spiralled upwards, torchlight flickering against the damp, ancient stones.

As she emerged at the top, Dr5 found herself behind a crimson velvet curtain. She listened before parting it—laughter, moans, muted conversations, a lute playing somewhere distant—and then stepped out into the opulence of the brothel's inner rooms, a sharp contrast to the chambers below.

Varian, the thick-set man donning the cloak of the City Watch, stood at attention in a shadowed corner of the corridor beyond. His breastplate gleamed dully, the black and red of his tunic visible beneath it all. His eyes caught hers as she approached. A man of few words, his mouth, as always, was set in a line that seldom moved except to bark orders or answer commands. He inclined his head when she stopped before him.

"I have been instructed to report to you," Dr5 said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, no surprise on his face. He turned and gestured for her to follow. Together, they made their way down the hallway, bypassing a richly-carved door from behind which came the languid sound of a woman laughing, then another, slightly ajar, that showed a room draped in velvet, where a merchant sat with his arm around a bare-shouldered companion.

Varian led her through a maze of passageways at the end of the hallway and through a narrow side door into the night air. The alley outside was dark, the cramped space between the brothel and the neighbouring building just wide enough for two to walk abreast. She followed him without a word, her steps careful on the uneven cobbles, feeling the city's pulse shift as they left the brothel's shadow behind and emerged into the open square.

The market was winding down, stalls being covered with tarps, merchants exchanging a few last coins. The smell of roasted meat lingered from a vendor who was banking his coals for the night, while the cries of beggars mingled with the chatter of the Watch patrolling in pairs. Varian strode ahead, purposeful, cutting a path through the knots of people without so much as a backward glance. Dr5 moved in his wake, her cloak blending easily in the swirl of faded fabrics and city grime.

The Merchant Guild building loomed ahead, an ostentatious structure of polished stone, adorned with gilded sconces and large windows that reflected the torchlight from the street. The banner above the entrance bore the crest of the Guild—two golden scales on a dark green field—signifying balance and prosperity, or so they liked to claim. The structure itself was a testament to the power of King's Landing's emerging bourgeoisie, those whose coin carried half the influence of a lord's birthright. Here, the rules of blood were challenged by wealth, power shifting not through steel or ancient name, but through silver and opportunity.

Two guards flanked the wide double doors, their armour glinting, and they nodded as Varian approached. One of them pushed the door open, and Varian led Dr5 inside. The interior of the Guild building was filled with noise and motion, a stark contrast to the brothel's dim intimacy. Merchants, from as far south as Dorne and as far east as the Free Cities, dressed in fine cloth, their bellies straining against their doublets, spoke in heated tones about tariffs and debts. Servants darted about, carrying scrolls and trays, their heads bowed to avoid the gaze of their betters. City Watchmen stood at strategic points, their eyes scanning the crowd, ensuring that no beggar or thief dared cross the threshold.

Varian moved steadily, and Dr5 kept pace, her hood low, her gaze sliding over the faces without catching any one eye. Past the crowded foyer, they went through a side door and up another flight of stairs, quieter here, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick, intricately woven rugs beneath them. They passed several checkpoints—each one manned by members of the Watch, each nodding in recognition of Varian. Dr5 followed wordlessly, her face shadowed, his presence enough to deter questions.

Finally, they reached a hallway deep in the building, lined with painted portraits of the current Guildmasters—men who had made fortunes from shipping routes, grain stores, and brothels like the one they had just left. Varian stopped before a closed door, knocked twice, then gestured for Dr5-e4 to enter as it swung open.

"Wait here," Varian said, his voice low. She nodded, and he turned, his heavy boots echoing softly as he retreated the way they had come.

The room she entered was small, a waiting room, though well-appointed. The walls were covered with deep green fabric, and a tapestry hung to the right, depicting a scene from the Rhoynar Wars. A table with a silver ewer of water and a matching goblet stood near a cushioned bench. Dr5 did not sit, instead remaining near the door, her gaze steady, watching, waiting.

After a few minutes, the door opened once more, and a young man, his tunic bearing the insignia of the Guild, entered. He gave her a curt nod.

"Lady Mysaria will see you now," he said.

Dr5 inclined her head, following him from the waiting room through another door, down a short, dim hallway, and into a wider chamber. The room was lit by several lanterns, their light casting an orange glow across a desk strewn with parchment. The Lady stood with her back to the door, her pale hair falling down her back in soft waves, her gaze fixed on a map pinned against the far wall.

"Come," Mysaria said without turning. Her voice was soft, accented, but carried an authority that made the young aide step back, his head bowing as he departed.

Dr5 moved closer, the hem of her cloak brushing the marble floor, her eyes fixed on the infamous White Worm. Mysaria turned, her eyes dark, assessing as they settled on Dr5. She was dressed simply, but there was no mistaking the power she held, her presence commanding despite her slender frame.

"The task assigned to you?" the lady asked. "Speak of it."

"I cannot speak of my duties with you, my Lady. The prince impressed upon me that my task can only be disclosed on a need-to-know basis. I do not believe you need to know."

Mysaria watched her, her expression giving nothing away. She moved to the desk, her fingers brushing across the scattered parchment before picking up a quill. She dipped it in ink, her eyes flicking back to Dr5.

"You were deployed to Honeyholt, correct? Lord Beesbury's keep? I find it curious that the old man's health took a sudden decline soon after your arrival. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Dr5's face remained impassive, giving her no reply.

The faintest smile played on Mysaria's lips as she looked up again, her gaze assessing. "Either way, it seems his Highness is pleased with your work. You've been briefed on the purpose of this summons, I assume?"

"I have."

"Good," Mysaria nodded, her tone final. "My aide will see to your lodging, provisions, and fresh garments. You are to present yourself to the prince at first light."

"Understood, my Lady."