Seven Dreams One Kingdom Chapter 46, a game of thrones fanfic

A trip north, meeting a new King and Queen, and making plans.

Lord Varys, that slippery eel of the court, was a man of ever-shifting loyalties, a chameleon who adapted to the hues of those in power. Arya, no stranger to the capricious nature of alliances, had opted to tread the shadowed path alongside him. Yet, it was not trust that bound her to the spider; it was the magnetic pull of Winterfell, the ancestral seat that whispered promises of safety for Jon and Sansa. However, Dillyn held no such allegiances, the food taster would follow out of fear.

Dillyn's steps echoed through the hidden passages of the Red Keep, a place he thought he knew intimately. These secret routes had been Arya Stark's refuge during her time in King's Landing as a child, but under Varys's guidance, the labyrinth revealed its true complexity. Flagstones yielded to concealed staircases, cupboards unfolded into hidden chambers, and tapestries served as veils for unseen corridors. Even the privy, once believed to offer a semblance of privacy, was not immune to the secrets woven into the Red Keep's foundations. Varys, the puppeteer of whispers, moved with a confidence that hinted at years spent navigating these clandestine tunnels, perhaps overhearing conversations never meant for his ears.

The passageways, initially shrouded in darkness and emanating the acrid stench of urine, mirrored the murky alleys of intrigue in which No One thrived. These were her hunting grounds, her playground of shadows. Yet, as they delved deeper into the bowels of the Red Keep, the character of the tunnels morphed. The air shifted from the pungent odour of piss to the distinct scent of fish and shit, a testament to their proximity to the Blackwater Rush. The journey unfolded like a descent into the belly of a mythical beast, the scent of sewage marking their descent into the beast's lair.

Light, a rare commodity in the underbelly of King's Landing, graced the passage but sparingly. No torchlight in sconces to guide their way, just the single beacon carried by Lord Varys to illuminate their path. Dillyn, attuned to the nuances of his surroundings, sensed the impending darkness.

As Dillyn and Varys traversed the winding passages, the distant echoes of Kings Landing above ground faded. The Red Keep's hidden veins, with their secrets and mysteries, embraced them in a cocoon of obscurity.

The winding tunnels eventually relinquished their grasp, spilling Dillyn and Varys into the open embrace of the night. A secret cove, invisible to the world, except themselves, and the waves lapping at the sand beneath their feet. Above them, the moon, a veiled sentinel, cast a fragmented glow as clouds yielded to its pale luminescence. The air, heavy with the scent of salt, sea, shit, and secrets, surrounded them in the open expanse.

The sandy cove, a secluded alcove barely substantial enough to cradle a rowing boat, lay before them. Yet, the impressions in the sand betrayed recent visitors, evidence of another vessel that had rested upon these shores. The tide, a patient scribe, had yet to wash away the clandestine imprints, preserving the traces of unseen comings and goings.

"Hurry, we must leave. The King and Queen in the North have need for your services. We cannot keep them waiting," Varys urged, his voice a whisper carried away by the night breeze. Together, they manoeuvred a small wooden rowing boat into the Blackwater Rush, the dark waters below concealing tales untold. Varys's gaze, a compass navigating the night, pinpointed their destination on the opposite shore—the Iron Fist, a ship anchored in silent anticipation.

Dillyn, now a silent shadow in the night, nodded in acknowledgment. The rhythmic pull of the oars echoed in the quiet, each stroke a heartbeat propelling them toward the Iron Fist. The tiny cove, a secret shared with the night, receded into the obscurity as they charted their course across the Blackwater Rush, guided by the moonlight and the unseen currents of fate.

The Iron Fist, a ship cloaked in darkness, awaited on the other side of the Rush, its silhouette blending seamlessly with the night. Dillyn, felt the weight of Winterfell's legacy on his shoulders. Every step carried him closer to a new beginning for the realm, or so Lord Varys would have him believe.

"A journey in the shadows, my lady, or should I call you Dillyn?" Varys murmured, his voice barely audible above the night breeze. "An essential step in the intricate dance of power. The less they know, the safer we sail."

Dillyn removed his mask for a moment, revealing the face of Arya Stark. She nodded in agreement. The pull of Winterfell tugged at her, and the path ahead seemed as uncertain as the shifting shadows beneath the dimly lit streetlamps. "It's been a while since I've been aboard a ship," Arya mused, her eyes scanning the horizon where the Iron Fist awaited. "Not since my time in Braavos."

"A destination that bore witness to such a transformation," Varys replied, his eyes gleaming, an understanding that reached beyond the surface. "Arya Stark became something else entirely. A faceless journey, if I may say."

The corners of Arya's lips twitched with a subtle acknowledgment. "You've been keeping quite a close eye, Lord Varys. More than your little birds, it seems."

"The whispers of the realm carry tales far and wide," Varys said cryptically. "And sometimes, the winds bring back echoes of those who believe they move unseen."

Arya felt a chill down her spine, not from the night's breeze but from the realization that her actions had not gone unnoticed. "So, you know," she said, her voice a mere whisper.

Varys inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the unspoken truth. "Arya Stark, or should I say Dillyn, has embarked on a journey that reaches beyond the walls of Braavos. The path of the Faceless Man however veiled, is never truly hidden. Especially from a trained mummer like myself. However, I would recommend you don't remind your victims of your true identity next time." In acknowledgement, Arya donned the mask of Dillyn once more and continued to row towards the Iron Fist.

The diminutive craft glided through the night-shrouded Blackwater Rush, its progress a mere whisper upon the inky waters. A rhythmic cadence of oars punctuating the silence, a muted conversation between wood and liquid darkness. The occupants, silent as the grave, navigated the river's secret depths, a clandestine passage through the heart of shadows.

Not a syllable ventured forth from their lips, for the night held its own secrets, and the language of silence spoke volumes. The only audible murmurings were the subtle splashes as the oars dipped and rose, punctuating the nocturnal symphony.

Their journey reached its clandestine conclusion at the berth of the Iron Fist, a vessel forged in the image of the Ironborn, a corsair silently anchored under the cloak of night. The master of this maritime domain, none other than Theon Greyjoy, currently held the captain's mantle, steering the ship through the ebony waters of intrigue and hidden currents.

Together, they stepped onto the waiting ship, disappearing into the shadows that clung to the Iron Fist like an old friend. The journey had begun, a journey that held the promise of home, of family, and the echoes of a past that refused to be forgotten.

The Iron Fist, despite its ominous name, cradled them in a cocoon of secrecy. The night seemed to stretch endlessly as the ship cut through the dark waters. Dillyn, standing at the railing, felt the cool sea breeze on his face. The rhythmic sound of waves against the hull provided a steady backdrop to the murmurs of strategy that unfolded between him and Varys.

"I have arranged your quarters, Dillyn," Varys said, guiding Dillyn away from prying eyes. "A space that affords privacy and shields you from unwanted scrutiny. You must remain vigilant. The voyage may test the limits of your disguise."

Dillyn, ever vigilant, like the food taster he purported to be, nodded in understanding. "I've tasted many poisons, Lord Varys. I won't unravel in the salty air of a sea breeze, nor will the taste of iron whet my appetite."

Varys arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his features. "Ah, the bravado of youth. A trait I find both admirable and necessary."

As the Iron Fist unfurled its sails and embraced the boundless horizon of the open sea, Dillyn's contemplations meandered toward the countenances he swore to shield. Winterfell, now under the reign of the newly crowned King Aegon and his queen, Sansa—would they deign to entertain the notion of a food taster? Particularly one who bore the stains of prior service to Cersei Lannister, carried forth under the auspices of Lord Varys himself. The sea, expansive and capricious, reflected the ambiguity that lay ahead.

The passage of time transformed days into nights, as Dillyn adeptly intertwined with the ship's crew, immersing himself in their anecdotes, and cultivating the currency of trust. He assumed the role of a taciturn observer, assimilating the undulating rhythm of life aboard the vessel. The Iron Fist, a formidable bastion amid the vastness of the narrow sea, charted its course homeward, steering toward the North. Occasional glimpses of the ship's captain, Theon Greyjoy, and his sister, Yara, graced his observations, but they paid him no heed—lords, ensnared in their own trifles.

Ellaria Sand, a denizen of the sun-drenched realms of Dorne, emerged from her cabin only under the sun's warm embrace. Ill-suited for the frigid northern waters, the arduous journey seemed to sap her vitality. Claiming a chill had enfeebled her, she succumbed to her bed, the lingering effects of the dank Red Keep dungeon and the biting sea breeze echoing in her weakened constitution.

Varys, a constant presence at her side, shared morsels of information gleaned from the crew. Whispers of unrest, tales of distant lands, and fragments of a realm in flux. Arya, attuned to the currents of power, absorbed these fragments, weaving them into her understanding of the world beyond the ship's railing.

One moonlit night, Varys approached Dillyn as he stood at the prow, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "A girl named Arya Stark once navigated treacherous waters, faced assassins and sorcery. For you, Dillyn, my dear boy, you may but a simple food taster, yet this journey, may prove just as perilous."

Dillyn turned to face him, his expression a blend of curiosity and determination. "Speak plainly, Lord Varys. Why would the King and Queen in the North require a food taster, yet have never had need of one before now?"

Varys sighed, acknowledging the weight of his words. "The North is a place of stark contrasts. Beneath its snowy facade lies a tapestry of intrigue and danger. We sail not just toward Winterfell but into the heart of a game more perilous than any you've played. Vengeance for a woman wronged, and murdered a lifetime ago."

"Go on." Dillyn said.

He sighed, the weight of unspoken truths pressing upon him as he surveyed Dillyn against the backdrop of moonlit waves. "The Iron Throne, a prize so coveted, its echoes of power reach beyond the sea's edge. Our journey, though discreet, may draw undesired attention. There are those with a hunger for dominion who would seize any chance to advance their own designs." His eyes canvassed the surroundings before he drew closer to Dillyn, his voice a mere breath. "Vengeance may be sought, a tool for personal gains. A crimson sun aspires to ascend the northern heavens, yet the Southron landscape is draped in Sand. If the Snow can thaw and cleanse away the Sand, old enmities may be set aside. The golden spear will be wielded to ensure the northern dragon claims the Iron Throne."

Dillyn, now engaged in the clandestine undercurrents of power, queried, "What path do you bid me tread?"

As the Iron Fist sailed through the night, Arya and Varys delved into strategic discussions, plotting their course through both water and politics. The ship, a microcosm of the realm, harboured stories of loyalty and betrayal, alliances and enmities.

As the Iron Fist ventured farther north, the air grew colder with each passing league. Ten nights unfolded since Dillyn departed Kings Landing, shrouded in the secrecy of the night. The ship bore no distinctive Ironborn emblem; instead, a weathered sail concealed their true identity. This concealment held paramount importance, especially as they navigated Blackwater Bay and glided past the looming silhouette of Dragonstone. Lord Varys, once loyal to the Dragon Queen, had confided in Dillyn about his growing reservations regarding her sanity. The notion of using dragons as instruments of punishment for those who refused to submit troubled the eunuch's conscience.

Once the Bay of Crabs faded into the wake, a collective exhale echoed through the crew, and a measure of relaxation settled over Varys and the others, Dillyn included. With the most perilous stretch of their journey behind them, attention shifted to plotting the remainder of their course northward, bound for Winterfell.

One evening, with the ship slicing through the tranquil waters, Varys approached Dillyn, parchment in hand. "A map of our route, young Dillyn. We approach White Harbor, a gateway to the North." Dillyn studied the map, his finger tracing the intricate coastline. "Once we disembark, the road to Winterfell will be treacherous. The snows are unpredictable, and the path unforgiving. But first, we must sail." Varys offered a knowing smile.

As White Harbor materialised on the horizon, a surge of anticipation coursed through Dillyn. The city's lights twinkled like distant stars, beckoning them toward the next leg of their journey. The Iron Fist docked, and Dillyn descended, following Lord Varys, Theon, Yara, and Ellaria into the unfamiliar terrain. In White Harbor, the air carried the crisp bite of winter, and Dillyn, unaccustomed to such cold, tightened his cloak around him.

Varys led them through the bustling streets, where merchants hawked their wares and taverns resonated with animated chatter. The city, a bustling hub of trade and culture, served as a precursor to the untamed wilderness awaiting them. Yet, it wasn't the typical merchants Varys sought. Further along, the riverbank harboured smaller boats designed for sailing cargo up the White Knife River, catering to the needs of the northern houses.

A boat, capacious enough for the four of them, along with their cargo and a modest crew, was secured. The White Knife River had already started freezing in parts, impeding the journey to Castle Cerwyn.

The vessel navigated the White Knife River for eight days. Upon reaching the end, they were greeted by two horses and a sleigh drawn by hounds. The snow had become too deep for a cart, and horses would take longer than dogs, or so they were informed.

The journey from Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell, which took less than a day, was a testament to the wisdom of the northerners. It was quicker than in the summer, highlighting the locals' adept understanding of the terrain.

As Dillyn rode through the gates of Winterfell, he found himself captivated by the stark beauty of the place Arya Stark had once called home. Though the castle had undergone numerous changes, the walls, proudly adorned with the sigils of House Stark, greeted him like the warm embrace of an old friend.

Dillyn lingered in the shadows looking for King Aegon's eyes, reminiscent of the northern sky, scanned their party, but found him missing from the welcome party. Queen Sansa, dressed regally in a well-made, grey woollen coat with leather breeches beneath, stood beside him, her countenance a mask of cold indifference.

While pleasantries unfolded in the courtyard, Dillyn found himself ushered to the side, guided towards the guest quarters. Despite his station as a servant, Lord Varys's influence had secured him chambers adjoining those of the enigmatic spymaster.

After what felt like an eternity within the castle's confines, Dillyn succumbed to the yearning to explore. Arya shed the guise of the food taster, releasing a sigh of relief. The mask had clung to her face for almost a moon's turn, and the need to breathe through her own nose for a few moments was undeniable. Yet, Arya couldn't traverse the castle as herself, for Jon and Sansa would recognize her instantly. Instead, she delved into her satchel of faces, retrieving one pilfered from a dying child—a girl with no name—during her journey to Kings Landing. For the time being, she would remain Arya Stark, concealed within the shadows.

Arya navigated the familiar concealed passages of Winterfell, emerging at a vantage point overlooking the courtyard near the seldom-visited kennels. Below her, Ellaria Sand and Yara Greyjoy engaged in a tense conversation. The night seemed to magnify the brewing tension, and Ellaria, ever attuned to shifts in the air, detected the currents of change swirling around her.

"Why are we here, Varys's whispers and shadows be damned? Theon agreed to this, not I." Yara said, her voice slicing through the quiet of the courtyard.

Ellaria's eyes, a blend of scepticism and calculation, focused on the castle's formidable towers. "Varys is no friend of ours. We must tread carefully, for Winterfell's stone walls harbour more than just memories," she cautioned, her gaze lingering on the shadows that clung to the castle walls. "We are guests, but guests are not always welcome. Keep your eyes open, and your blades closer."

Their conversation revealed little, other than a planned rendezvous in Ellaria's chambers for wine and other indulgences. The two were unmistakably lovers, prompting Arya to withdraw, discreetly from their proximity.

Later, after a rather uneventful exploration of the castle, Arya returned to her chambers to discover a note from Varys, summoning her presence. Eager to shed the guise of the food taster, Arya removed her face, yearning to engage with Varys as herself.

In Varys' secluded chamber, they found solace in their solitude, the flickering candles casting an intimate glow. The roaring fire warmed the air, laden with the comforting scent of the hearth, and Arya grappled with a surge of conflicting emotions.

There, Varys and Arya delved into their plotting, the play of shadows on their faces resembling an intricate dance. The plan to ensnare Ellaria unfolded akin to the unravelling pages of an ancient manuscript, each revelation a brushstroke in the deceptive portrait they meticulously painted.

"You must sway Jon to see Ellaria's treachery," Arya asserted, seizing control of the unfolding stratagem. "The North must perceive her as a menace. If she executes the plan we suspect, Jon will not hesitate to take action."

Varys gazed contemplatively at the flickering candle flames. "I comprehend. Yet, how do we ensure Jon recognises the veracity in our words? You are the one who understands him intimately."

"The Jon Snow I once knew has undergone an irrevocable transformation since our last encounter. The man I knew would never have entertained a marriage alliance with my sister," Arya remarked with a nonchalant shrug. "Yet, this is the thread we must pull. I recommend you sow the seeds of doubt—Ellaria's past deeds, her loyalty to Daenerys, and the lingering spectre of Southern politics will cast a shadow over her intentions. The truth, after all, often lurks in the shades of uncertainty."

A sly smile crept onto Varys's face. "I have a more intriguing notion. Instead of targeting your brother, why not leverage the fears of your sister?"

Arya frowned in contemplation. "How do you mean?"

"Your sister has already witnessed one wedding feast where Lady Margaery was the bride. I would exploit her anxieties, for, as we've learned, kings tend to meet their end at such festivities."

"You're not suggesting we kill Jon," Arya asserted.

Varys shook his head, chuckling softly. "Certainly not. But I believe it might be time for young Dillyn to meet his end, don't you?"