**MC POV:**
The flow of information began as a trickle, then a river. Through the eyes of a hundred scattered shadows, I saw King's Landing in its grimy, vibrant, treacherous entirety. I saw Pycelle's pretended frailty, Varys's endless web of whispers, and Baelish's hungry, calculating eyes in a dim tavern. Good. The board was becoming clear.
But information alone wasn't a move. I needed to act. To stabilize something before the chaos I knew was coming erupted.
*Now what should I do?* I mused, leaning against the sun-warmed alley wall. *If I'm right, Rhaegar Targaryen should be dead by now. Which means… Lyanna Stark.* A pang, not my own but Heartlee's memory of a story's tragic heroine, shot through me. *She's dying in a tower, giving birth. If I save her… the North would be forever in my debt. More than that, it's the right thing to do.*
The strategic and moral paths aligned perfectly. "Beru," I whispered to the shifting darkness beside me.
From my own shadow, a taller, more elegantly armored figure emerged, kneeling. This one radiated an aura of profound, silent healing and gentle strength—the ultimate protector.
"Find Lyanna Stark. She will be in a tower in the Prince's Pass, guarded by three Kingsguard. Stay by her side. Heal her. Ensure she and the child live. Wait for me."
Beru bowed its head, a gesture of absolute understanding. It dissolved, and with it, five lesser shadows peeled away from the walls, streaming southward with impossible speed. The quest was begun.
I looked down at my clothes—simple black wool, functional but utterly plain. In a world of sigils and colors, I needed to make a statement. Not a request. A declaration. I focused, and the shadows clinging to the fabric stirred. They swirled and condensed, not changing the cut, but weaving an emblem across the back of the tunic: a magnificent, serpentine dragon wrought from threads of deep, royal purple, its wings spread as if in flight. *Better. Black for the endless army. Purple for the Monarch.*
Now, for the most delicate rescue.
"Shadow Swipe."
The world bent. The alley's stink and noise vanished, replaced by the muted, lavender-scented air of a sunlit royal chamber. I stood in the sitting room of Queen Rhaella Targaryen.
She was by a window, her back to me, a silhouette of fragile grief against the light. At the sound of my arrival—a soft *rush* of displaced air—she whirled, a hand flying to her throat. Her face, pale and lined with suffering, was a mask of shock. She drew breath to scream.
"Peace, Your Grace," I said, my voice calm, layering it with a hint of the shadow's compelling quiet. I raised a hand, not threateningly, but placatingly. "I mean you no harm. Please, do not call out."
Her eyes, violet and wide with terror, scanned me—the snow-white hair, the unnatural purple eyes, the suddenness of my appearance. They lingered on the purple dragon on my chest. "Who are you?" she breathed, her voice trembling. "How did you enter here? Guards—!"
"I am Asher Ashborn," I said, cutting her off gently but firmly, taking a single step forward. "I know you are frightened. But you must relax. I am here to save you. And my soon-to-be wife."
That stopped her. The fear in her eyes was momentarily usurped by utter, bewildered incredulity. She stared at me as if I'd grown a second head. *She thinks I mean her.* I almost chuckled. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me.
"Not you, Your Grace," I clarified, my tone softening. "The child inside you. The daughter you carry. I wish for her to be my wife. And in return, I will save you. I will save your son, Viserys. And I will save Elia Martell and her children."
The words hung in the perfumed air. Outlandish. Impossible. A proclamation from a madman. Yet, they were spoken with such flat, undeniable certainty that her scream died before it was born. She simply stared, her mind visibly reeling.
**Queen Rhaella POV:**
*A man. From nowhere. He says he comes to save me. He tells me he wants to marry my daughter, who is not yet born. Have the gods sent a new form of madness to plague me? Should I shout? Should I run? But then… he says he will save my children. And Rhaegar's children. Elia and her babes. No one has spoken of saving them. Only Aerys… Aerys with his fires…*
*Who is he? Where does he come from? His eyes… like amethysts, but deeper. Like a sky just after sunset. And his hair… like the Kingsguard cloaks, but purer.*
*As I stood, paralyzed by fear and a desperate, traitorous hope, he stepped closer. He didn't bow. He simply reached out and rested his cool, gentle palm on my forehead.*
**MC POV:**
She stared, frozen. I saw it all—the weakness in her stance, the subtle flinch as I moved, the faint yellowing of old bruises on her wrist peeking from her sleeve. *The Mad King's handiwork.* A cold fury settled in my gut. *Well, let's see if a Shadow Monarch can fix what a king broke.*
"Here goes nothing," I murmured, not to her, but to the power within.
I let a fraction of it flow—not the destructive, army-raising might, but the deep, restorative essence that governed all things ending and beginning. A soothing, dark coolness, like the deepest, most healing night, seeped from my hand into her. The lingering aches from years of fear and violence dissolved. The bruises on her skin faded, then vanished as if they had never been. The pallor of her face gained a faint, healthy blush. The perpetual shadow of pain in her eyes lifted, just a fraction.
She gasped, a small, sharp intake of breath. Her hand flew up to cover mine, not to push it away, but to feel the miracle. Her own skin was now smooth, unmarred.
"Wh-what…?"
"You are healed, Your Grace," I said, lowering my hand. "Now, come with me. We have little time. Soon, Tywin Lannister will arrive with his army to swear fealty."
She blinked, the newfound vitality in her body warring with the chaos in her mind. "How… how do you know this?"
I met her gaze fully, letting her see the vast, ancient knowledge swirling in the purple depths of my eyes. "Because," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet room, "I can see the future. Now, *come*. The lion comes not to swear, but to slaughter. Chop chop."
The strange, informal phrase seemed to finally break the last of her royal resistance. She gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Lead on."
We moved quickly. As we slipped into the corridor, heading for Elia's chambers, we nearly collided with a small, silver-haired boy and the large, worried knight herding him—Viserys Targaryen and Ser Willem Darry.
The knight's hand went to his sword hilt instantly, his body positioning itself between us and the prince. "Your Grace! Who is this? What is the meaning of this?"
I spoke before Rhaella could. "Ser Willem. I know you wish to question me. Who I am, what I am doing with your queen. But first, come with us. We do not have time for explanations. I have no desire to fight an army of traitors and Lannister men today."
Ser Willem Darry, a man of duty and caution, looked desperately to his queen. Viserys just stared at my hair with childish fascination.
Rhaella drew herself up, the new strength in her spine evident. "Do as he says, Ser Willem. For all our sakes."
With a grimace of uncertainty, the knight nodded. He sheathed his sword, took Viserys's hand more firmly, and fell in behind us.
Our small, desperate procession reached Elia Martell's apartments. I knocked twice, sharply. The door opened to reveal Princess Elia herself, looking frail and haunted, her son Aegon in her arms. Behind her, a nurse held young Rhaenys. Her eyes widened at our group.
"Who—?"
"Stop your questions for now," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "Follow me."
Her dark, intelligent eyes flicked from my face to Queen Rhaella's. The Queen gave a single, firm nod. That was all the confirmation Elia, a woman who understood survival in a hostile court, needed. She nodded back, tightening her grip on Aegon.
"We are leaving?" she asked, hope and fear mingling in her voice.
"We are," I confirmed. Then I paused, a flood of new information from my shadows crashing into me. Whispers of crimson cloaks massing at the gates, of hidden gold cloaks receiving new orders, of a silent, murderous intent spreading through the city like a stain. "No. We *were* leaving. We are now too late to leave conventionally."
Everyone stared at me. Ser Willem's face hardened. "What do you mean?"
"The queen was correct. There are too many traitors in King's Landing. The Lannister host is not just approaching; its vanguard is already at the gates under the pretext of ceremony. We cannot fight our way to the docks. We need to be gone. Now." I looked at the assembled group: the healed but anxious queen, the fierce knight, the confused prince, the fragile princess and her two infants, the terrified handmaids. "Everyone. Come closer to me. Touch my cloak, my arm, anything. Do it now."
They looked at each other, a tableau of disbelief. Ser Willem opened his mouth to protest again.
"Just do what he says!" Rhaella commanded, her voice sharper than I'd heard it. The authority of a queen, rediscovered. It broke the hesitation.
They shuffled forward—Rhaella, Elia with Aegon, the nurse with Rhaenys, Viserys clinging to Ser Willem's leg, the handmaids. They pressed in, hands tentatively touching the black wool of my tunic.
"Hold on," I said. "And do not be afraid of the dark."
**"Shadow Swipe."**
The world didn't just bend this time; it inverted. There was a sensation of falling upward, through a tunnel of silent, rushing shadow. There were no screams, only gasps of shock, swallowed by the void. It lasted three heartbeats.
Then, solid ground. The scent of lavender and sweat was replaced by the dry, dusty aroma of red stone and mountain air. The stifling heat of King's Landing gave way to a cooler, drier warmth. The oppressive noise of the city was gone, replaced by the sigh of wind over rocks.
We stood in a rocky gorge, before a slender, watchful tower of pale stone—the Tower of Joy.
And standing between us and its door, swords half-drawn, were three white cloaks that shone brilliantly in the Dornish sun: Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; Ser Oswell Whent; and Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower.
Their faces, initially stern and ready to challenge intruders, transformed into masks of utter, profound shock as they recognized the figures clinging to the strange man in black.
"Your Grace?!" Ser Gerold Hightower breathed, his eyes wide, darting from Queen Rhaella to Princess Elia and the children. His gaze finally landed on me, taking in the white hair, the purple eyes, the strange dragon sigil. His hand tightened on his sword, but confusion stayed his blade. "What… what magic is this?"
I stepped forward slightly, placing myself at the front of our ragged group. I met the Dawnbringer's legendary gaze with my own.
"The only magic that matters today, sers," I said, my voice echoing softly in the mountain pass. "The magic that just saved the last hope of House Targaryen. Now, sheathe your swords. We have much to discuss, and a princess inside who needs your protection more than your suspicion."
Arthur Dayne's eyes went past me, to where Beru, my healing shadow, stood silently by the tower door, having already arrived and begun its work. The greatest knight in the realm saw a being of pure darkness guarding the tower he was sworn to, and for the first time, true uncertainty flickered in his star-purple eyes.
The game had left King's Landing. It was here now, at the edge of the world, with dragons, shadows, and legends gathered in one place.