ARC IV: THE SECOND DANCE OF DRAGONS
Chapter 67: The Chitin Web
POV: Prince Tommen Stark (307 AC)
The steady rhythm of my horse's hooves against the packed dirt and damp grass of the Riverlands brought a sense of calm I hadn't experienced in a long time. Riding slowly through the vast green expanse, I found myself contemplating the two years of peace the continent had enjoyed since the end of that violent, noisy conflict that the Southern lords and distant nobility nicknamed The Second Dance of Dragons.
For me, however, the true dance never involved giant wings of fire or the colossal roar of winged monsters covering the sun. My dance happened in the dead silence of the soil, in the imperceptible rustle of leaves, in the hidden vibration of thousands of minuscule legs, and in the invisible beating of chitin wings that crossed the skies without any man noticing.
In the distance, the wide, muddy bed of the Red Fork emerged on the horizon, cutting through the landscape like a living scar. That river marked the exact border: on one side, the northern part of the Riverlands, taken from the former domains of the extinct Freys and the Mallisters who had sworn direct allegiance to the Northern Empire; on the other side, the southern lands loyal to the Crown in King's Landing. That remaining territory of the South still formally belonged to House Tully—simply because they were relatives of the King on the Iron Throne through his mother, Catelyn Tully. But with the loss of almost half their former domain to the Empire, the political and military strength of the Tullys, which hadn't been much to begin with since the days of Robert's Rebellion, had weakened into a mere bureaucratic shadow.
On the other side of the riverbank, under the shade of a weeping willow, the solitary figure of the man I had come to meet awaited me patiently in his saddle.
I slowed my horse to a walk and stopped at the water's edge, raising my hand in a calm gesture:
— Good morning, Ser Brynden.
The old knight stared at me for long seconds under the shadow of his helmet. The wrinkles around his blue eyes seemed deeper, and his silver beard was slightly longer than the last time our paths had crossed. The Blackfish kept his upright posture in the saddle and answered in his usual grumpy tone:
— I am fine, boy... If that's what your inquiring gaze is trying to ask.
— I am genuinely glad to hear that, Ser Brynden, — I replied politely. — So, Lord Brynden... How is the little Lord of Riverrun?
The old knight let out a heavy sigh, adjusting the leather reins in his calloused hands:
— Young Edmure grows strong and healthy with every passing day... exactly as his father would have been, had he been given the chance.
I tilted my head slightly, observing the old man's reaction:
— Then you should do something to make sure he doesn't resemble his father too much... The late Edmure had a disastrous tendency to make the worst tactical decisions at the most wrong moments possible.
Ser Brynden stiffened instantly. His eyes flashed with a mix of irritation and restrained bitterness:
— Why do you do this, boy? Why do you insist on crossing the Empire's border from time to time just to check on the state of a child who won't even remember his father? Is it guilt over what you did at Riverrun?
I stared at the Blackfish in silence. In the depths of my mind, the memory of the day I summoned a terrifying swarm of insects that devoured Edmure Tully and his entire army during the Imperial War remained crystal clear. It had happened back when Catelyn imprisoned Ned Stark in the dungeons for following Robert's orders to act as regent for her son and the king. That horrific display was the very origin of the terror people harbored for me—why they called me the "Prince of Pestilence" in the South.
— A bit of guilt, yes... — I confessed in a low voice, without looking away. — I cannot deny that I feel the weight of that tragedy. But now... I think it has just become a habit. However, you don't need to worry, my good knight. My work in the South is officially done for today. Until next time.
I turned my horse's head without waiting for an answer and began riding back toward the imperial side of the riverbank. My patrol and inspection mission in the South was complete, and it was time to return to the place I truly belonged.
How are things over there, brother? — I sent the thought through the invisible web of our spiritual connection.
The response was quick to echo in my mind. The voice of Brandon Stark—my twin brother, the Greensight user—echoed clear and crisp in my thoughts, carried by that familiar warmth of someone who had shared the same soul since our mother's womb:
We are doing very well, Tommen... Robb's children with Wylla are already big, strong, and running all over the courtyard of Moat Cailin. Little Ned almost knocked over a guard yesterday while trying to chase a hound.
I smiled to myself along the way, feeling a pang of longing:
— Yeah... I can't wait to get back and really meet them.
There was a brief pause in the mental bond. I noticed a subtle fluctuation in my brother's spiritual signature.
— But what is worrying you so much, Bran? — I asked directly, narrowing my eyes while my horse kept a steady trot.
Bran's voice came back with a short, mental laugh:
And why do you think I'm worried about anything, Tommen?
— Because I'm your twin brother, Bran... — I answered in an obvious tone. — And because sensing the hidden anxiety in your mind during a telepathic conversation is the easiest thing in the world for me.
Bran sighed through the bond, his spiritual presence becoming a bit graver:
I don't know for sure, my brother... But my weirwood eyes and visions of the future tell me that something truly gigantic is about to happen in the North.
I felt a subtle chill run down my spine:
— Is the Great War finally about to begin, brother? The Long Night?
I believe so, Tommen... The winds of Winter are changing. The Night King is moving his shadows beyond the Wall.
— Then it's a very good thing I'm heading home soon, — I declared firmly. — After all, as our father Ned and Emperor Arawyn always taught us... The lone wolf dies when the Winter comes...
...but the pack survives, — Bran completed our House's sacred phrase in my mind, his voice resonating in unison with mine.
After a few seconds of solemn silence, Bran's presence shifted drastically in tone, adopting a teasing and playful vibe:
And speaking of being 'lone'... I heard through Aemon's letters that a certain beautiful lady of Naath must be feeling terribly lonely lately in that white castle in the Frostfangs.
I felt my cheeks warm up slightly. I tried to keep my voice firm in the mental reply, refusing to lose the teasing match:
— At least I have the excellent excuse of being on an extremely important imperial mission in the South, my dear brother... What about you? When are you going to stop being shy and take care of the loneliness of your dear friend from House Reed? Meera has been spending a lot of time in the Neck lately, hasn't she?
Bran's mental presence choked for a second, caught off guard. He tried to clear his throat mentally to hide his embarrassment:
Riding so long through the Southern lands is definitely affecting your judgment, Tommen! Now you've learned to backtalk even your elder brother?!
— I am the elder brother by three whole minutes, Bran! — I shot back, laughing.
Never! Maester Luwin always said I came out first! — Bran protested.
We continued our childish exchange of teasing for a few more minutes, just as we used to when we were boys running through the corridors of Winterfell before the world changed. Finally, Bran said goodbye, feigning he had urgent matters of state to attend to—when in reality, he simply realized he had lost the teasing battle.
I cut the telepathic bond and continued my journey. About an hour later, I spotted the stakes and dark tents of my imperial camp pitched at the edge of the forest.
As I approached the entrance of the main tent, I dismounted my horse. One of the officers of the Empire's Dark Guard approached immediately, striking his fist against the breastplate of his dark steel runic armor:
— My Prince.
— Did anything out of the ordinary happen while I was away talking to the Blackfish? — I asked, handing the horse's reins to the guard.
The Dark Guard soldier answered directly, coldly, and flawlessly:
— Nothing to report, my Prince. The perimeter remained 100% secure.
— Excellent... — I ordered. — Strike camp immediately and prepare the horses. We are heading home. Our mission in the South is officially complete.
I entered my tent and sat at the small wooden desk, beginning to organize the detailed reports I was to hand over personally to Emperor Arawyn as soon as I set foot in Winterfell.
Reviewing the sheets of parchment, I couldn't help but contemplate the sheer magnitude and terrifying genius of the mission Arawyn had entrusted to me years ago.
Prince Tommen Stark's task was not to lead armies of knights or ride fire-breathing dragons. My mission was to spread my "little friends" to every corner, every castle, every tavern, and every fortress in the Seven Kingdoms: an invisible army formed by swarms of insects, flies, beetles, spiders, and ants under my absolute mental control.
While other Wargs and skinchangers in the North still relied on birds, hunting hounds, or small rodents to spy—animals that were easily noticed and now served more as obvious decoys—my espionage network was 100% organic, microscopic, and completely invisible to the human eye. No one suspected a simple spider on the ceiling of a royal solar or a fly perched on the wall of a secret council room. Every whisper, every conspiracy, every plot of treason hatched against the Northern Empire in any corner of Westeros was instantly picked up by my mind through the chitin web.
Of course, to achieve this unprecedented and terrifying level of biological domination, I had to undergo a painful and profound process of arcana alteration.
I unbuttoned the top buttons of my leather tunic and looked at my own chest in the travel mirror. Etched directly onto my skin, shimmering with an almost imperceptible silver-blue hue, were the markings of a completely unique runic tattoo matrix, drawn and applied personally by Emperor Arawyn.
Arawyn had told me, on the day he finished etching those runes onto my body, that from that moment on my Warg capacity and mental density equaled his in terms of reach and biological control.
I, however, doubted that claim deeply. Emperor Arawyn still performed magical feats absurdly superior to anything I could conceive... And the fact that he was a Warg was merely the smallest and most basic of his infinite arcane abilities. But having his blessing and recognition was something that filled my chest with pride.
I rested my gaze on a small, ornate wooden box at the corner of the table. I stepped over and opened the lid carefully.
Inside rested a delicate piece of Northern silver jewelry set with ice-blue stones—a special gift I had bought to hand over to Missandei as soon as I reached the Far North.
After the end of the war and the wedding of Aemon and Daenerys at Dawn's Keep, King Aemon and his Queen had decided to play royal matchmakers and signed a formal betrothal agreement between me and the young advisor from Naath.
Personally, I had nothing to complain about. Missandei was an incredibly beautiful, cultured, and gentle woman, possessing a soft voice that brought peace to any room. But the most extraordinary and striking thing about her... was that Missandei was one of the very few people in the entire world who didn't look at me with fear or dread because of my abilities with insects. She treated me as an ordinary man, with genuine respect and affection. That was precisely why I liked her so much: she didn't fear the "Prince of Pestilence."
That alone was worth more than any wealth in Westeros.
I closed the jewelry box and packed it carefully into my travel bag. It was no time to dwell on the past or get distracted by vague feelings. Winter was falling upon the world, danger was approaching beyond the Wall, and the Empire's chitin web needed to be perfectly woven before the final storm began.
I walked out of the tent, where my Dark Guard soldiers were already waiting with saddled horses.
— To the North! — I ordered, mounting my saddle.
And my silent army of millions of legs and wings accompanied me in the shadows.