WTTV - Chapter 29 - The Magister's Manse (Patreon)

"I watched him drag her across the courtyard and I felt nothing. That scared me more than the Unsullied, more than the khalasar, more than any of it. He was my blood. My uncle. And all I could think was: he has to die. Not anger. Not grief. Just... cold hard fact. I lay awake that night wondering when I became someone who could look at family and see only problems to be solved. I still don't have an answer." 

— Personal journal, 298 AC

Pentos rises from the sea like a fever dream.

Flat-topped towers in ochre and terracotta. Walls of sun-baked brick the color of dried blood. Domes sheathed in copper gone green with age, catching the morning light like tarnished coins. The harbor spreads before us in a lazy crescent—nothing like Braavos's hidden lagoon or White Harbor's orderly piers. This is chaos given form. Ships of every size and nation crowd the wharves, their flags a riot of color, their crews shouting in a dozen languages I only half understand.

The smell hits before we dock. Spices and fish and something sweeter underneath—jasmine, maybe, or some flower I don't recognize. Smoke from a hundred cook-fires. The salt-rot of low tide mixing with incense drifting from a temple somewhere inland.

Different.

Everything is different.

I stand at the rail as Gull's Reach eases toward an open berth, Kutkh on my shoulder, Ghost pressed against my leg. The direwolf's nose twitches constantly, processing scents his northern-bred senses have never encountered. Through the bond: strange-smell, many-prey, too-hot.

I know, I send back. We adapt.

"It's so warm," Wylla breathes beside me. She's shed her cloak entirely, standing in just her tunic, yellow stubble bright in the Essosi sun. "I didn't think anywhere could be this warm in spring."

"This is mild. Wait until we reach Slaver's Bay."

She shoots me a look but doesn't comment.

My eyes are tracking the docks—the pattern of movement, the clusters of guards in unfamiliar livery. And everywhere, woven through the crowd like a second population: the slaves.

Bronze collars around their necks. "Free bond servants," the Pentoshi call them—men and women who voluntarily entered into service contracts to pay off debts. Debts that never seem to shrink no matter how many years they serve.

The distinction is legal fiction. Pentos banned slavery a century ago after their fourth war with Braavos, but what I'm seeing is slavery with extra steps. The bruises on that stevedore's back look the same whether you call him property or debtor.

"Jon." Arya's voice, quiet. She's at my other elbow, Nymeria a grey shadow at her heels. "Look."

She's pointing at a litter being carried through the crowd—silk curtains, gilded poles, four bearers with matching bronze collars. Through a gap in the fabric, I catch a glimpse of the passenger: a woman in Myrish lace, fingers heavy with rings, face painted in the Lysene fashion.

Behind her litter walks a line of children.

They're chained at the ankles.

Arya's jaw tightens. Those grey eyes—Stark eyes, Father's eyes—burn with something that will become very dangerous in a few years' time.

"Don't," I say softly. "Not yet."

"But—"

"We can't save everyone today. We can barely save one."

She doesn't answer. Just watches the litter disappear into the crowd, her hand drifting to Needle's hilt.

Good, I think. Remember this. Let it fuel you.

The gangplank drops. Matthos appears at my side, weathered face unreadable.

"Pentos," he says. "Can't say I love the place."

"Neither can I. And I've never been here."

He grunts. "Probably wise. The Pentoshi smile while they rob you and call it hospitality." A pause. "You know what you're looking for?"

"I have a general idea."

He studies me for a long moment. Whatever he's looking for, he seems to find it.

"We'll be here three days for resupply and repairs. After that, I'm sailing back to Braavos with or without you."

"Understood."

"Good luck, Terro." He uses my cover name without irony. "Whatever business you have here—good luck."

—DT—

The market district sprawls across a dozen streets, each one dedicated to a different trade. Spice merchants here, their stalls fragrant with cinnamon and saffron and peppers that make my eyes water from ten feet away. Silk traders there, bolts of fabric in colors I don't have names for draped across wooden frames. Metalworkers hammering copper into shapes both practical and decorative. Bakers pulling flatbreads from clay ovens. Wine sellers offering samples in tiny cups.

And woven through it all, the exotic animal dealers.

I'd read about them in another life—the Pentoshi appetite for strange pets, the menageries that wealthy magisters maintained as status symbols. Seeing it is something else entirely.

The first stall we pass has a cage of bright green birds, their feathers iridescent in the sunlight. "Parrots from the Summer Isles," the seller calls out in accented Common. "They learn to speak! Very clever, very beautiful!"

The second stall has snakes.

I stop walking.

Dozens of them, in terrariums of varying sizes, scales ranging from dull brown to vivid orange to a blue so deep it's almost black. One in particular catches my eye—a serpent maybe four feet long, its scales a deep crimson with black banding. It watches me with vertical pupils, tongue flicking.

What would that feel like? The thought surfaces unbidden. To skinchange something with no legs. To move by pure muscle, to sense heat, to taste the air...

"Serpents from the Basilisk Isles!" the seller calls, noticing my interest. "The red ones are venomous—very rare, very valuable! A single bite kills a horse!"

"Jon?" Arya's voice. "You're staring."

I am. The snake holds my gaze, and I feel that familiar itch—the skinchanger's instinct to reach out, to touch, to know.

Not now. Not practical. Maybe later, when there's time to experiment.

I force myself to keep walking.

The third stall has something I've never seen before: a creature like a small pig but covered in armored plates, curled into a ball in the corner of its enclosure. "Armored pig-beast from Sothoryos," the seller explains when he catches me staring. "Very docile. Eats insects. Good for keeping pests away."

Arya is vibrating beside me. "Can we—"

"No."

"But—"

"No. We're not here to shop for pets."

"Then what are we here for?"

I don't answer. I'm scanning the stalls, not looking for anything specific, just... looking. Taking in the scope of what's available. Planning.

And then I see it.

In a cage at the edge of a dealer's collection, half-hidden behind a display of exotic birds: silver-white fur. Purple eyes.

A Qohorik lemur. A Little Valyrian.

They're called that because of their coloring—the pale fur and purple eyes that echo the old dragonlord bloodlines. In truth, they're nothing to do with Valyria; they evolved in the vast forest of Qohor, where the light filtering through the canopy favored pale coats and large eyes. But the name stuck, and wealthy Essosi have prized them as pets for centuries.

The creature watches me approach with the calm assessment of something that knows exactly how valuable it is. It's larger than I expected—maybe two feet from nose to tail-tip, with hands that are disturbingly human. The fingers are long and dexterous, tipped with short nails rather than claws. It sits on a branch in its cage, grooming its fur with methodical care.

Hands.

The thought crystallizes instantly. An animal that could go where a raven couldn't. That could manipulate locks and latches. That could move through a wealthy household without drawing suspicion, because what magister doesn't have exotic pets?

Perfect.

The dealer notices my interest—a Pentoshi man with the soft features and calculating eyes of his class. "The lemur interests you? A discerning choice. They are very rare—this one came from a trader who deals directly with the Qohorik foresters. I can assure you of its health and temperament."

Kutkh shifts on my shoulder. Through the bond: curiosity, assessment. Not-bird. Strange-creature. Good-hands.

He sees what I see.

"How much?" I ask.

The dealer names a price that would buy a decent horse in Westeros.

I don't haggle.

His eyebrows rise slightly—the only sign of surprise he permits himself. "You are certain? It is customary to negotiate—"

"I'm certain." I count out the gold dragons. "I'll also need a carrying cage. Something portable."

"Of course, of course." He's already moving, pulling a smaller cage from a shelf. "The creature is docile, as I said. It will eat fruits, insects, small amounts of cooked meat. It does not like loud noises or sudden movements."

Neither do I.

The transfer takes only a moment. The lemur watches me with those purple eyes as I lift its cage, its head tilting in a way that reminds me uncomfortably of Kutkh when he's thinking.

Soon, I tell it silently. You and I are going to get very well acquainted.

—DT—

Arya's reaction is immediate.

"What is that?"

"A lemur. From the Forest of Qohor."

"It looks like someone crossed a cat with a tiny person." She presses closer to the cage, fascinated despite herself. "Why does it have hands?"

"Because it lives in trees and needs to grip branches."

"Can I hold it?"

"Not yet. It needs to acclimate."

Wylla has approached too, her expression torn between delight and suspicion. "Jon. That thing cost more than most sailors make in a year."

"Yes."

"You bought it without even trying to negotiate."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I look at her. At Arya. At the lemur in its cage, watching us all with patient purple eyes.

"Because I need it."

She waits for more explanation. I don't give one.

—DT—

The inn I choose is mid-range—not so cheap that we’d suffer bad accomodation, not so expensive that we'd be remembered. It's called the Leaning Tower, though the building itself is perfectly upright. Pentoshi humor, apparently.

Our room is on the second floor, with a window overlooking the street and a door that locks from the inside. I pay for three nights in advance, and a bit extra for the innkeeper's discretion regarding the wolves.

Once we're settled—the wolves on the floor, the lemur's cage on the table, Kutkh on the windowsill—I start making inquiries.

Information is a commodity, bought and sold like any other good. You just need to know where to shop.

I spend the first day mapping the terrain. The second day, I spend coin.

A dockworker who hauls cargo to the great manses tells me that a wealthy magister—Illyrio Mopatis—has been hosting guests for nearly half a year. A silver-haired man and his sister, rarely seen outside the compound walls.

A wine merchant who supplies the manse's kitchens tells me that there's been unusual activity lately. Extra food ordered, extra servants hired, preparations for something significant. A celebration, perhaps. A wedding.

A guardsman's wife, bitter about her husband's long shifts, tells me that the Unsullied at the manse have been on higher alert. Something important happening soon.

And a boy who runs errands for the harbor master tells me that a Dothraki khalasar has been spotted moving toward the city. Forty thousand riders, they say. Led by a khal whose braid has never been cut.

Khal Drogo.

The timelines are converging. I knew they would—this is when it happens, when canon unfolds—but knowing isn't the same as seeing.

He's coming to inspect his bride.

—DT—

I send Kutkh on the third morning.

The raven launches from our windowsill just after dawn, his black wings catching the warm Pentoshi air. Through the bond, I feel his eagerness—fly-far, see-much, hunt-good—and underneath it, his understanding of what I need.

Find the great-house, I send him. Images: brick walls, iron spikes, bronze-collared guards. Show me.

He circles once, twice, gaining altitude. The city spreads below him like a map made real: the harbor a blue crescent, the market district a maze of colored awnings, the residential areas sprawling east toward the hills. His eyes—my eyes, while I ride him—pick out details no human could see from this height. A woman hanging laundry three streets away. A cat stalking a pigeon on a rooftop. The glint of armor on guards patrolling a wealthy compound.

There.

The manse rises from the eastern district like a squat stone giant. Brick walls twelve feet high, just as the dockworker described, topped with iron spikes that gleam blackly in the morning sun. Three gates: one facing the main road, one opening onto a side street, one—smaller, meant for servants—tucked into the back where deliveries are made.

Inside the walls, I see gardens. Ornamental trees with silver leaves. A marble pool that catches the light, and in its center, a statue of a young man—lean, athletic, nothing like the morbidly obese magister I know Illyrio has become. Walkways of crushed shell wind between flower beds. A menagerie in one corner holds cages I can't quite make out.

And everywhere, guards.

Unsullied. I recognize them by their bronze caps with single spikes, the short swords and shields. But something's... off.

Fat, Kutkh observes. Slow-walk. Soft-belly.

He's right. These Unsullied are plump, their movements lacking the mechanical precision I'd expected. Decorative guards, then—unsullied who went to seed because the master let them. Illyrio wants the prestige of Unsullied protection without making them maintain their edge.

Good. That makes things easier.

I count eight visible guards, which likely means a few more inside. Still a threat, but manageable. Especially if they're asleep.

Kutkh glides lower, riding a thermal that brings him over the eastern wall. Through his eyes, I study the compound's layout. Main house in the center, three stories tall, with a flat roof that would provide good observation points. Smaller buildings arranged around it: kitchens, servant quarters, storehouses. The menagerie is larger than I thought, occupying its own walled section within the larger compound.

Animals, Kutkh notes. Many-animals. Strange-animals.

He dips closer, curious. The menagerie contains things I don't recognize—hulking shapes in large enclosures, bright birds in suspended cages, something that might be a small bear but with stripes. Illyrio collects exotic creatures the way other men collect jewels.

Good. Another lemur in his menagerie won't draw a second glance.

I pull Kutkh higher, not wanting to risk one of the guards noticing a raven lingering too long. He wheels over the compound one more time, banking toward the hills—

And then I see them.

Dust.

A cloud of it, rising from the eastern road. Horses. Thousands of them. A horde spreading across the Pentoshi flatlands like a bronze tide, raising a pall of dirt that turns the morning sky brown at the horizon.

The Dothraki have arrived.

Closer, I urge Kutkh. Show me.

He protests—too many, dangerous, ground-eaters—but I push through his reluctance and he angles toward the approaching khalasar.

The scope of it doesn't translate through raven senses at first. Kutkh sees horses, endless horses, and the men who ride them. He doesn't understand numbers the way I do. But I can extrapolate from what he shows me, and what I see makes my stomach tighten.

Forty thousand.

Forty thousand Dothraki screamers, spread across the flatlands in a loose formation that could become a charge at any moment. Outriders sweep ahead of the main body, their smaller horses quick and agile. Behind them come the warriors proper: copper-skinned men with oiled braids, leather vests painted in colors I don't recognize, curved arakhs glinting at their hips. The sound of bells carries even from this height—countless tiny bells woven into hair and harnesses, marking kills and victories.

And at the head of the column, riding a pale horse whose size dwarfs those around it: Khal Drogo.

Even from the air, he's unmistakable.

A head taller than any man around him, broader in the shoulders than seems possible, moving with his mount as if they share the same skeleton. His braid hangs to his thighs—to his thighs—thick and black and heavy with bells. More bells than I can count, each one marking a victory. His skin is burnished copper, gleaming with oil. His eyes, when he tilts his head skyward for a moment, are black and flat as obsidian.

Never defeated in battle.

The words from the books echo in my memory. His braid has never been cut.

Through Kutkh's eyes, I watch him ride. There's nothing wasted in his movement—no flourish, no showmanship. He sits his horse like a man who has spent more of his life mounted than on foot. When his pale stallion shifts, Drogo shifts with it, their bodies operating as a single unit.

Impressive, I think. And I mean it. Whatever else Drogo is, he's magnificent. A warrior in his prime, undefeated, commanding forty thousand men through sheer force of will and martial prowess.

In another world, we might have been allies. He respects strength, honors warriors, loves fiercely when he loves at all. The books made that clear—his treatment of Daenerys on their wedding night, the way he asked permission, the way he came to love her.

But I can't let that happen. Not because he'd hurt her—by Dothraki standards, he'd treat her well. But because I need her with me. Because she deserves a choice. Because there's a war coming that requires dragons, and dragons require Targaryens.

The khalasar flows past beneath Kutkh like a river of muscle and leather. It takes nearly an hour for the whole horde to pass a single point. Forty thousand warriors means forty thousand horses at minimum, plus pack animals, slaves, captured wealth, everything a nomadic people carries with them when they travel.

I pull Kutkh back, let him climb to a safer altitude. He circles over the manse as the first Dothraki riders reach the area.

They don't enter the compound. Of course not—forty thousand warriors don't fit in a courtyard. They flow around Pentos like water around a stone, making camp in the flatlands beyond the walls. Only a small group approaches the manse: Drogo himself, his three bloodriders, maybe two dozen others.

The feast, I realize. Tonight. Drogo will inspect Daenerys at a celebration in the manse.

I watch him dismount in the courtyard—watch a fat man in flame-colored silk waddle forward to greet him, forked yellow beard swaying with each step.

Illyrio.

I can't hear what they're saying, but I don't need to. The magister gestures expansively, all smiles and welcome. Drogo watches him the way a predator watches something too small to be worth eating: mild disinterest, faint contempt. Servants appear with wine and food. The bloodriders—three copper-skinned warriors with bells in their hair—fan out to inspect the compound with professional suspicion.

And then a door opens, and a girl steps into the courtyard.

Silver hair.

Even from this distance, through raven eyes, I recognize her.

Daenerys Targaryen. Small, slender, with hair that falls to her waist in a straight silver curtain. She's dressed in Pentoshi silk, violet to match her eyes, and she walks the way a small animal walks when surrounded by predators: careful, contained, trying not to draw attention.

Beside her, a hand clamped on her arm, is a young man with the same silver hair. But where hers is straight and shining, his is lank with sweat. Where her expression is carefully blank, his is twisted with barely suppressed rage and hunger and something that might be madness.

Viserys.

The Beggar King. The Last Dragon, as he styles himself. Third of his name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, etc., etc.

My uncle.

I watch him drag Daenerys forward—watch her flinch when his grip tightens—watch him present her to Drogo like a horse being shown to a buyer. The khal's expression doesn't change. He walks around her once, twice, examining her.

He won't hurt her, I remind myself. Whatever else, the books were clear about that. He'll be gentle with her, in his way. He'll come to love her.

But that's not the point.

The point is she’s mine, my family.

A flicker of something crosses Drogo's face—approval, perhaps. He says something to Illyrio. The magister beams, gestures toward the manse. The inspection is over; the feast can begin.

And Viserys...

I watch my uncle's face as Drogo turns away. Watch the way his eyes track Daenerys, possessive and resentful. Watch the barely contained fury at being ignored, at being second, at being nothing in the eyes of the man he needs.

He's exactly what I expected.

A flicker of disappointment, faint. Some part of me had hoped—stupidly, irrationally—that maybe canon was wrong. That maybe Viserys was different in person. That maybe I'd find a man worth saving, a potential ally, a family member I could trust.

But no. He's exactly what the books described. Cruel, unstable, willing to sell his sister for an army he'll never be able to control.

He has to die.

The thought settles into place like a key into a lock. Not anger, not hatred—just cold recognition of necessity. Viserys alive is a threat. A destabilizing element. A claim to the throne that will draw enemies and complicate everything.

I would have liked a brother, I think. A male family member to fight beside. Someone who understood the weight of the Targaryen name.

But I don't get what I'd like. I get what's necessary.

Kutkh settles on a tree outside the compound, close enough to see but far enough not to draw attention. Through his eyes, I watch the feast begin—servants carrying platters, torches being lit, the sounds of music drifting up from the courtyard.

Tonight they celebrate. Tomorrow the khalasar leaves, taking Drogo back to the grasslands. And tomorrow night, when everyone in the manse is exhausted from the gathering, when the guards are tired and the servants are sleeping off the wine...

That's when I move.

—DT—

I pull out of Kutkh's mind slowly, letting the transition happen naturally rather than forcing it. The faint headache that always follows extended rides is there, but manageable.

I'm back in the room at the Leaning Tower, sprawled on the bed where I'd lain down to skinchange. Ghost is pressed against my side, red eyes watching my face. The lemur is awake in its cage, grooming its silver fur with those disturbingly human hands.

Arya is crouched beside me. "Jon? You were gone for hours."

"I know." I push myself upright. "I saw what I needed to see."

Wylla is at the window, watching the street below. "The Dothraki passed through earlier. We could hear the bells from here. What's happening?"

"There's a feast tonight. At the manse." I stand, moving to the table where I've spread my equipment. "Tomorrow, when it's over and everyone's exhausted—that's when I move."

"Move to do what?" Arya's voice is sharp. "You still haven't told us the actual plan."

"You don't need to know the plan. You need to stay with the ship."

"Jon—"

"No." I turn to face her. "This one isn't yours, Arya. Not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because you're too young. Because you have years ahead of you to fight, to train, to become something that makes strong men cross to the other side of the street. But you can't become that if you die in a magister's garden."

"I don't care about—"

"I do." I step closer, put my hands on her shoulders. She's so small. Eleven years old and already harder than most grown men, but still so terrifyingly small. "And if you won't follow my orders—if you insist on coming with me against my explicit command—then I'll walk to the nearest city guard and turn myself in. Let Robert Baratheon take my head. At least then you'll be safe."

She stares at me. Horror dawning on her face.

"You wouldn't."

"I would." I mean it. Gods help me, I mean every word. "I'd rather die than watch you die. So those are your choices, little sister. Stay with the ship, or watch me surrender. Which is it?"

A long moment passes.

Then, slowly, the fight goes out of her. Her shoulders slump. The tears she's been holding back spill down her cheeks, silent and furious.

"I hate you," she whispers.

"I know."

"I hate you and I'm going to punch you so hard when you come back."

"I'll look forward to it."

She hugs me then, fierce and brief, her arms tight around my waist. I hold her for just a moment before she pulls away, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"Fine," she says. "Fine. I'll stay with the stupid ship. But you better come back. You better come back or I swear I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."

"That's fair."

Wylla has been watching this exchange with wide eyes. Now she steps forward, something hard in her expression.

"What about me? What if you don't come back by dawn?"

"Then you take Arya and get Matthos to sail you home. There's enough gold in the bunk for that and more."

"Back to White Harbor?"

"If that's where you want to go."

She nods slowly. Doesn't argue, doesn't question. She understands stakes in a way that Arya is still learning.

"And if you do come back?" she asks. "What then?"

"Then we sail for Braavos. Commission a ship. And then..."

"Astapor," she supplies. "And then Valyria."

"One step at a time."

She almost smiles. "One step at a time."

—DT—

I spend the next day preparing.

The sedative comes from an apothecary on the edge of the market district. I tell him I need something for pain—a relative with a wasting illness, sleepless nights, the usual story. What he sells me is sweetsleep: a thick, cloying syrup that will produce a deep, dreamless sleep lasting hours. A few drops in wine and a man doesn't wake until morning. Too many drops and he never wakes.

I buy double what I think I'll need.

Back at the inn, I transfer the preparation to a container that can hang from the lemur's collar. The creature watches me work with those intelligent purple eyes, head tilting as I fasten it in place.

Soon, I tell it silently. Very soon.

Ghost's saddlebags take longer. The direwolf has grown significantly in the weeks since we found him—sixty pounds now, maybe more, with shoulders that come past my knee. Still a pup by direwolf standards, but bigger than most full-grown dogs.

The bags themselves are simple canvas pouches, connected by a leather strap that crosses his chest. He tolerates them with good grace, understanding through our bond what I need: carry-things, help-hunt, together.

Good boy, I send him. When we get to the manse, there might be things I need you to carry out. Heavy things. Valuable things.

An image comes back: Ghost's jaws closing on prey, carrying it back to the den.

Yes. Like that. But no blood on these. They're special.

He doesn't understand special, but he understands important, which is close enough.

The lemur is the final piece.

I've been avoiding this—pushing it off until I couldn't push anymore. The truth is, I'm nervous. Eight years of skinchanging, and I've never entered a primate mind. Ravens and wolves are one thing. Creatures with hands, with fingers, with something approaching human cognition...

Different.

But necessary.

Night falls over Pentos, painting the city in shades of orange and gold. The sounds of celebration drift from the direction of the manse—music, laughter, the distant roar of Dothraki voices. The feast is in full swing.

Tomorrow, I remind myself. After they leave. After everyone's exhausted.

I sleep fitfully, dreams full of silver hair and purple eyes and bells ringing in the darkness.

—DT—

The next day crawls.

I send Kutkh to watch the manse, riding his senses off and on throughout the morning. The khalasar begins departing at dawn—forty thousand riders flowing east toward the grasslands, taking their noise and their bells and their chaos with them. By midday, only the dust cloud remains, a brown smear on the eastern horizon.

Drogo is gone. Daenerys is still in the manse.

Tonight.

The afternoon stretches interminably. I check my equipment three times. Run through the plan in my head a dozen more. The lemur watches me pace, those purple eyes tracking my movement with unsettling intelligence.

Finally, finally, the sun begins to set.

I arm myself with methodical care. There's a ritual to this—a rhythm that settles my mind. The gambeson first. I pull it over my head, work my arms through the sleeves, let the quilted padding settle against my torso. Dark purple fabric.

"Help me with the laces," I tell Arya.

She blinks, surprised. Then she's on her feet, moving behind me. Wylla joins her a moment later. Their fingers work the side-laces, pulling the gambeson snug across my ribs, tightening the ties at my shoulders until the padding sits flush against my body with no bunching or slack.

I'm already sweating, but that's fine. Sweat means alive. I roll my shoulders. No restriction. Good.

"Mail next."

I bend forward at the waist. Wylla and Arya lift the hauberk together—blackened riveted rings whispering against each other—and guide it over my bowed head. I straighten slowly, letting twenty-five pounds of steel cascade down over the padding. The hem brushes my knees. The split settles front and back.

The weight is familiar. Comforting, even. The gambeson does its work beneath, spreading the load, keeping steel from skin.

I settle the mail with a shrug, let it find its natural hang. Check the split. Check the collar. Everything sits where it should.

"Belt."

Wylla hands it to me—thick leather, blackened to match the steel, with the sword frog and knife loops already in place. I buckle it around my waist, then bunch the mail above it, blousing the rings over the leather. The belt takes some of the weight now, transfers it from shoulders to hips. Better.

"Greaves."

Arya kneels without being told, Wylla mirroring her on the other side. They work the straps together, buckle the greaves snug over my calves.

I stand still and let them work. It gives them something to do.

Wylla rises. Vambraces next—she buckles the blackened steel over my forearms while Arya finds her feet beside her.

"Sword."

Wylla brings Keskydoso. I draw it from the scabbard slowly, letting the blade catch the lamplight. Castle-forged steel. Purple leather under my palm. The dragon-flame pommel cool against my hand. The Veiled—the one who wears another face.

I check the edge with my thumb. Still sharp enough to shave with. Run my eyes along the fuller—no nick, no burr, nothing I missed. I've been maintaining this blade since before we left Winterfell. It knows my hand as well as I know its weight.

"Good steel," I murmur, more to myself than them. I sheathe it and slide the scabbard into the sword frog at my left hip. Adjust the angle until the cross-draw feels natural.

Invictus goes above it—the seax positioned with handle pointing up, angled outward so the grips don't clash. Left hand can pull it if my sword arm gets grabbed. I check that edge too. Also perfect.

Benjen's rondel at the small of my back. 

The helm I set on the table. Spectacle guard detached for now, aventail coiled beside it. I'll grab it on the way out.

Almost done.

Finally, the black cloak with its fur collar. Arya helps me fasten it at my shoulders, standing on her toes to reach the clasp. The wool settles over my armor, hiding the steel beneath. In the growing dark, I'm just a shadow with edges.

I roll my shoulders one last time. Shift my weight. Everything moves the way it should.

The noise in my head is quiet now. Just the mission. Just the next step.

"How do I look?" I ask.

Arya's mouth twitches. "Dangerous."

"Good, stay inside until dawn," I tell them. "If you hear fighting in the streets, bar the door and stay quiet. If I'm not back by sunrise..."

"We know," Wylla says. "The ship. Braavos. Home."

"Right."

Kutkh drops from the windowsill to my shoulder. His weight is comforting, familiar.

Hunt-now? he asks. Hunt-with-pack?

Scout, I tell him. Watch. Call me if there's danger.

He understands. This is what we've trained for, all those years in Winterfell. Ghost presses against my leg. Through our bond: eagerness, excitement, the joy of hunting together.

Soon, I promise him. But first, I need to do something strange.

The lemur waits in its cage, silver fur gleaming in the lamplight.

I sit on the bed. Close my eyes. Reach out with my mind—

And slip into something entirely new.

—DT—

Wrong.

The world through lemur eyes is wrong.

Not bad-wrong, not dangerous-wrong, just... different in ways that make my skinchanger instincts howl in protest. The colors are too vivid, the shadows too deep, and I can see things at the edges of my vision that I shouldn't be able to see. The lemur's eyes are enormous—perfectly adapted for the gloom of the Qohorik forest—and they drink in light that my human eyes would miss entirely.

But that's not the strangest part.

The strangest part is the hands.

I flex fingers that aren't my fingers, feeling joints articulate in ways I've never experienced while skinchanging. Kutkh has talons, Ghost has paws, but this—this is something else entirely. I can feel individual digits. I can feel the sensitivity of the fingertips, the subtle proprioception that tells me exactly where each finger is in space.

I could pick up a coin with these. I could turn a key. I could—

The lemur's body wants to move. Not like a raven's constant restlessness or a wolf's patient stillness, but something in between. An urge to climb, to grasp, to explore with touch rather than scent or sight.

Kutkh's senses are sharp but distant—he experiences the world through sight and sound, hunting from above. Ghost's senses are rich and immediate—smell and hearing and the constant awareness of his own body in space. But this... this is something else. The lemur's world is tactile. Every surface has texture. Every object has weight and temperature and a hundred subtle qualities I've never noticed before in my own body.

This is what hands are for, I realize. Not just weapons. Not just tools. Exploration.

Focus.

I open the cage from the inside, my—its—clever fingers working the latch with surprising ease. The metal is cool against my fingertips. The texture of the wood, the grain of it, registers with a sensitivity I've never experienced.

The lemur—I—drop to the floor. The impact jars through unfamiliar legs, and I nearly overbalance before catching myself on the table leg.

Tail, something whispers. A remnant of the lemur's instincts, preserved despite my intrusion. Use the tail.

I let the instinct guide me. The tail—long, furred, surprisingly flexible—shifts behind me, counterbalancing my movement. Walking becomes easier. Not natural, not yet, but manageable.

From across the room, my own body sits motionless on the bed. Empty eyes staring at nothing. Chest rising and falling with slow, mechanical breaths.

Unsettling.

Ghost's red eyes meet mine—meet the lemur's purple ones.

The lemur's instincts scream. Predator. Run. Climb. Get high, get away, teeth and death and—

I clamp down hard, seize the panic by the scruff and hold it still. Stop. He's not hunting you. He's pack.

The body wants to bolt. Every nerve shrieks to flee, to climb, to get above the jaws that could snap this small body in half. I hold it in place through pure will. My legs tremble with the effort of not running.

Through our bond, I feel Ghost's confusion, his uncertainty. Pack-leader? Where-pack-leader?

Here, I send him. Still here. Different body.

He considers this. Sniffs the lemur's fur—and the prey-Loss surge again, a white-hot spike of flee-flee-flee that I have to strangle into silence. I hold the body still. Barely.

Ghost apparently decides this is acceptable, because his tail wags once before he settles back on his haunches. The terror fades to a background hum. It doesn't disappear entirely. Some part of this brain will always see the wolf and want to run.

That's going to be a problem, I think. Later. Deal with it later.

Kutkh has no such reservations. The raven hops closer, examining the lemur with professional interest. Strange-creature, he sends. Pack-leader-inside?

Yes.

Good-hands. Good-for-hunting.

That's the idea.

I take an experimental step. Then another. The gait is wrong—too much weight on the back legs, not enough on the front—but I adjust, letting the lemur's muscle memory guide me. The prey-fear pulses every time I catch Ghost in my peripheral vision. I ignore it. Mostly.

The window is open, the night air cool against my fur. Outside, Pentos spreads beneath a canopy of stars.

Through the lemur's eyes, I look back at my human body one last time.

Don't die while I'm gone, I think at it. Absurd. But the thought won't leave.

Then I climb onto the windowsill, fingers gripping stone with delicate precision, and launch myself into the night.

Time to hunt.