The godswood in King's Landing was quiet and serene.
The towering walls blocked out the commotion of the castle, leaving only the sounds of chirping insects, singing birds, and rustling leaves in the breeze.
Queen Margaery Caesar walked alone through the grove, wearing leather boots and a green hunting dress. Her curly brown hair danced in the wind, and her crystal-clear eyes glimmered like a summer lake.
Following the tracks before her, she came to a brown weirwood tree, beneath which sat Bran Stark in his wheelchair.
"Your Grace," Bran lowered his head respectfully from the chair, "did you come looking for me?"
Margaery gently shook her head, flashing a sweet smile:
"I was just out for a walk in the grove. I didn't expect to meet you here."
Bran looked steadily into her eyes, his expression impassive as he said:
"Southerners believe in the Seven. Why would they enjoy walking in a godswood? This is the domain of the Old Gods."
"New gods or old gods, so long as they can protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms, they are all worthy of our worship," Margaery replied.
Bran caught the subtle undertone in her words:
"And if they can't protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms?"
"Then what use are they to us?" Margaery said lightly, her words bordering on blasphemy.
As Caesar's queen, she naturally knew more about the gods' secrets than ordinary people.
For example, the Red God's control over Dickon Tarly, the conspiracy on Bloodstone Isle, and the truth behind High Septon High Sparrow's death.
Knowing these things made it impossible for Margaery to maintain reverence or piety toward the gods.
Bran's blue eyes gleamed sharply as he responded:
"Mortals cannot comprehend the plans of the gods, so misunderstanding them is natural."
Margaery immediately pressed him:
"Then tell me—what are the Old Gods planning?"
Bran shook his head slightly:
"I cannot comprehend the wisdom of the gods either."
Margaery chuckled softly and stepped closer to him.
Before them, the weirwood tree bore a face carved into its trunk, sorrowful and somber. Red sap, resembling blood tears, flowed from its eyes.
After a moment of silence, Margaery spoke again:
"Sam told me that as a chosen of the Old Gods, a so-called 'greenseer,' you can see the past and the future?"
"The ancient gods have lent me their eyes, allowing me to glimpse fragments along the river of time," Bran replied. "But mortal understanding is limited; we may not truly grasp what we see. If you seek a prophecy, I can provide one, but be careful—prophecies are like poisoned pies."
"Sam said something similar," Margaery nodded slightly. "He said that when you think you can control everything by glimpsing the future, reality will often slap you in the face."
"Do you still want to ask?"
"Yes."
"What do you want to know?"
Margaery stepped even closer, gently running her fingers along the rough bark of the weirwood.
"About my son, Octavian."
Bran nodded. His blue eyes suddenly rolled upward, turning entirely green.
His expression became vacant, as if his soul had left his body and drifted to an unknown realm.
Moments later, Bran's voice emerged, ethereal and mysterious:
"He will be king."
Margaery visibly relaxed, but Bran continued:
"He will fall in love with someone he shouldn't. Because of this, the Seven Kingdoms will bleed rivers. He will suffer betrayal by his brother, suspicion from his vassals, and blame from his people. Westeros will burn with war once more. Corpses will fill castles and villages. Dragons will kill dragons. The skies will turn red with blood and fire. Rebellion, slaughter, famine, and death will follow one after another… until sorcery, fire, and sorrow bring it all to an end."
Silence returned to the grove, Bran's words carried away by the wind, dissipating into the air.
Margaery turned to face him, her expression unreadable. She looked into his eyes as they returned from green to blue and smiled:
"Octavian has no brothers."
Bran replied, "He has none now, but that doesn't mean he never will."
Margaery fell silent for a moment, her tone becoming complicated:
"Sam told me to be wary of you. It seems he was right."
Bran remained indifferent:
"I warned you—prophecies are poisoned pies. They may seem sweet, but they hide lethal dangers. Sometimes, ignorance is better than knowledge."
"Still, thank you for your prophecy," Margaery said with a smile. She then added, "May I ask one more question?"
Bran cautioned her:
"The more you know, the more pain you will feel."
Margaery shook her head:
"It's not about Octavian. It's about the White Walkers. They've been quiet for so long. Could the Wall truly stop them?"
This time, Bran answered without using his greenseer powers:
"The Wall cannot stop them. Just as it cannot stop the coming of winter. This is a calamity humanity must face—it cannot be avoided."
"Good. I understand," Margaery nodded. "Two hundred thousand troops are stationed in King's Landing, neither marching north nor disbanding. These days, many lords have been pestering me about it. The next time they come, I'll be firmer in my stance."
"You should, Your Grace."
Margaery thanked Bran and turned to leave. But after a few steps, she looked back and asked:
"One last question. Will Sam recover the stolen dragon egg in Braavos?"
"He will," Bran said with absolute certainty. "He will recover all the stolen dragon eggs."
"All of them?" Margaery asked, puzzled. "But only one egg was stolen."
"House Caesar lost only one dragon egg, but the Targaryens didn't."
Margaery appeared thoughtful, but at that moment, a shadow passed overhead, blotting out the sun.
"His Majesty Caesar has returned," Bran said, looking up at the massive white dragon that filled the sky. His eyes glimmered with an indescribable light.
Margaery smiled sweetly, bid Bran farewell, and hurried out of the godswood.
When she reached Maegor's Holdfast, she saw Samwell dismounting from his dragon, carrying a large bundle.
"Sam!" Margaery quickened her pace, embracing her husband and giving him a kiss. "Everything went well?"
"Of course," Samwell replied, unwrapping the bundle to reveal four dragon eggs. "And I brought back more than expected."
"Four?" Margaery immediately thought of Bran's prophecy. Her expression grew complicated, unsure whether to feel happy or fearful.
Samwell explained:
"The other three were stolen from the Targaryens long ago by Aerea Farman."
"I see." Margaery collected herself and took his arm as they walked into the castle. "Daenerys will be thrilled. By the way, do we need to send troops to Braavos to prevent retaliation?"
"No need. Braavos has already submitted. The Sea Lord is history. That hidden city is now a province of the Iron Throne, with Ferrego Antaryon as its first governor. The Iron Bank is also moving to King's Landing. There's still a lot to finalize, though. Have someone notify the Small Council—I'm calling a meeting."
"Understood." Margaery nodded. After taking a few steps, she turned back:
"Sam, Bran told me some things earlier…"
Samwell glanced at her and said:
"I warned you. Bran Stark may no longer be the innocent boy from Winterfell."
"I know," Margaery said. "He's probably a mouthpiece for the Old Gods now."
"Perhaps 'puppet' is a better term," Samwell replied. "Forget whatever he told you. These prophecies are riddled with traps. Think of how the Targaryens ended up: the wildfire at Summerhall, the paranoia of the Mad King, and Rhaegar kidnapping someone else's betrothed."
"Don't worry. I won't become a Mad Queen," Margaery said with a smile, visibly reassured. "Now go give the dragon eggs to Daenerys. I'll inform the council."
"All right." Samwell kissed her forehead and climbed the spiral staircase.
He found Daenerys in her room, holding their daughter Rhaenys in a rocking chair.
"Shhh…" Daenerys placed a finger to her lips when she saw him, whispering, "She just fell asleep."
Samwell smiled and lifted the bundle of dragon eggs.
Daenerys' eyes lit up, her brows arching in delight.
Daenerys carefully stood up, placing her daughter in the cradle. She gestured for the handmaiden to continue rocking the cradle and quietly stepped out of the room to meet Samwell.
"Why are there so many dragon eggs?" she asked as she took the bundle from him, her face lighting up with joy as she ran her hands over the eggs.
Before Samwell could explain, she quickly deduced:
"These must be the three dragon eggs laid by Dreamfyre, Princess Rhaena Targaryen's dragon, stolen by Aerea Farman long ago."
"Exactly."
"Fantastic!" Daenerys exclaimed as she pulled out each dragon egg, carefully inspecting them with growing delight.
However, her expression soon turned serious as she noticed something unusual about the eggs. Three of them, while beautiful, seemed lifeless.
"These three have been dormant for too long; they're almost petrified," Daenerys said worriedly.
Samwell reassured her:
"The dragon eggs we hatched back then had also turned to stone."
"That's true," Daenerys said, her optimism returning. "So, should we prepare another hatching ceremony? A blood and fire ritual?"
"That might not be necessary. With the resurgence of magic in the world, hatching dragon eggs has become much easier," Samwell replied, placing his hand on one of the ancient eggs. His palm glowed with golden fire.
The egg's scaly surface immediately shimmered faintly, as if responding to the fire's energy.
"This egg has grown significantly warmer," Daenerys said excitedly. "It feels as if it's coming alive again!"
Samwell repeated the process with the other two ancient eggs, gently igniting them with golden fire. Gradually, their vitality returned.
"That should do it. They should be able to hatch now."
"That's wonderful!" Daenerys kissed him joyfully but then hesitated, her face showing a mix of happiness and worry. "Now we need to decide which egg to place in Rhaenys' cradle."
Samwell laughed heartily and said:
"Why not let her choose? Put all four eggs before her and let her pick."
"That's a great idea!" Daenerys said, beaming.
She took the eggs inside to prepare for the selection ceremony, leaving Samwell to head to the council chamber.
By the time he arrived, the Small Council members had already gathered, awaiting his presence.
"Any news from the Wall?" Samwell asked as he took his seat.
"The situation remains unchanged, Your Majesty," replied Galvin Mander. "There seems to be some kind of magic in the Wall that deters the White Walkers."
"Does this mean we can rest easy?" Tyrion Lannister asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"Not necessarily," Randyll Tarly interjected, shaking his head. "The White Walkers are likely plotting something. We cannot afford to drop our guard."
"Lord Randyll is right," Samwell said in agreement. "We must continue with our preparations. What is the progress on forging dragonglass weapons?"
"We currently have enough weapons to equip fifty thousand soldiers," Galvin reported.
"That's not enough," Samwell said, frowning.
"I've already summoned nearly all the blacksmiths across the Seven Kingdoms to King's Landing," Galvin explained. "We've also dispatched a large workforce to Dragonstone to mine dragonglass. Weapon production will increase significantly soon. In three months, we expect to fully arm our two hundred thousand-strong army with dragonglass weapons."
"Three months…" Samwell murmured, pursing his lips. He wasn't entirely satisfied with the timeline but understood it was the best they could achieve with their current resources.
"Very well. Equip the first fifty thousand soldiers immediately and send them north to the Wall," he ordered.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Randyll Tarly replied with a firm nod.
Tyrion, however, voiced a concern:
"Your Majesty, you may not be aware, but many lords are beginning to complain. They believe that since the White Walkers cannot breach the Wall, maintaining such a large army is unnecessary. Winter has already reduced food supplies, and they think we're wasting resources on this prolonged military buildup..."
"Who's complaining?" Samwell asked coldly, cutting Tyrion off.
Tyrion smirked slightly and began listing names:
"Levyll Peake, Mathis Rowan, Merry Mertyns, Alexander Staemon…"
He rattled off a long list, seemingly prepared, naming most of the southern lords but conspicuously leaving out any northern ones.
The council members exchanged odd glances, amused by Tyrion's obvious maneuvering.
"If anyone dares complain further, have them come speak to me directly," Samwell said sharply, pretending not to notice Tyrion's antics.
"Understood, Your Majesty," Tyrion replied lightly, dropping the matter.
Samwell shifted the discussion:
"Next, we need to address the follow-up actions regarding Braavos."
He recounted the events leading to Braavos' submission and its transformation into a province of the Iron Throne.
Hearing that the wealthiest and most powerful Free Trade City was now under their rule, the council members were visibly elated.
"With Braavos' support, our logistical burdens will ease significantly," Galvin noted.
"Your Majesty," Tyrion interjected cautiously, "do you think the Iron Bank could relinquish its ten-year lease on the gold mines of Casterly Rock?"
Samwell gave him a sidelong glance and replied dryly:
"You can negotiate that with them yourself."
Tyrion pouted, realizing the futility of his request.
Samwell stood up and concluded:
"Three days from now, I will head north again. In the meantime, I leave King's Landing in your capable hands."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the council responded in unison.
(End of Chapter)