It was cold and wet inside the ample cellars of the Red Keep. Ser Balon and I were following Qyburn through the catacombs, squeezing our shoulders through narrow passages hewn into the stone. I knew there were easier ways of getting there, but Qyburn had assured me the path we took would be free of prying little birds.

I had another ten men with me, five in the back and five in the front, just in case Qyburn went sick in the head and decided to get funny with me down here where a crown matters little. They were Tywin’s men-at-arms, some of his best guards straight from Casterly Rock. He’d told me the family of some of these men had longer lineages as Lannister men than many noble houses in the Westerlands.

I usually made it my priority to keep my cards close to my chest, even when it came to Tywin, but this seemed like a good place to collaborate. The future fight with giant dragons that could shadow whole towns with their wings seemed like a good enough concern to share with my Hand of the King.

We walked ever downward, left and right and left and right again, like a slowly descending spiral. The air grew thicker and more stale every minute, and my coat sleeves grew sodden as I constantly brushed against the damp stone walls. The lamps some of the men-at-arms carried had been our only light since we first stepped inside the castle’s depths, until the tunnel suddenly opened up suddenly into a cavern-like cellar lit by dozens of torches. The room was larger than two warehouses put together, and the ceiling went so high the columns that rose from the ground like stony fingers disappeared into the lightless dark above.

I looked around the room in appreciation. “You prepared the chamber for us and everything, Qyburn. How nice of you.”

Qyburn was a soft-spoken man, thin and gangly and pallid as bone. He seemed to be made for this, for dark and damp and secrecy. “Despite the informality of the journey, Your Grace,” he said in that half-whisper voice of his, “this is still a royal visit, is it not?”

“I suppose it is, good man.” I gave a simple nod of the head to Ser Balon and he immediately started giving out orders to the other guards, spreading them out across the vast expanse of the cellar. Not only to keep any nasty surprises away from me, but so that at least part of our conversation reamined private. When the soldiers had spaced themselves out along the walls, I turned back to Qyburn. “So, you told me you had made sure our conversation would stay private. Does that mean you’re making progress with our little friends?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Grace. At least as of now, your Master of Whispers has a tight control over his network inside the Red Keep.” He brought a hand out from under the long sleeves of his black robes and started pointing in several directions. “What I did was much more primitive. There’s nine different access routes into this cellar, and I simply temporarily blocked eight of them.”

I nodded. That wasn’t unexpected. Say what you will about Varys, he’s good at what he does. The best, even. It was the sole reason he still breathed. Without his network, I’d be effectively blind and deaf to the happenings of the world.

But I was working on it.

“What about in the city and beyond? Have you made any progress?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. That has been much easier. Between my other works, I’ve managed to set up contact points in several establishments inside the city, and also in villages and towns surrounding King’s Landing.” Qyburn shuffled under his robes. I doubted he was a people person, so all this social management must be annoying. Still, he’d done it for Cersei, so he better do it for me too. “They’re mostly individuals, barmaids and whores and groundskeepers and sailors and everything in between. The men you’ve made available to me as runners have been essential, Your Grace.”

“Good,” I told him. “That’s good.” I had put good gold into his hands to get it done. I couldn’t expect overnight returns in a world of horses and ravens, but I refused to be made a fool of. In this regard, however, Qyburn was above reproach. He was a man who lived for his work, and according to him, I was about to see the result of one such project.

Speaking of the project, I’d noticed the shadow of the gargantuan skull of Balerion the Black Dread sticking out on the corner of my eyes the moment I walked into the cellar, with a not-so-mysterious object covered by canvas standing prominently some fifty paces away from it.

Sharp as he was, Qyburn noticed and smiled. “As for the reason you are here, Your Grace. Come just this way.”

He took me over to the canvas and unveiled the beast, a man-sized ballistae that would help me sleep better at night when monsters roamed the skyes of the Seven Kingdoms again. He unhooked the fasteners that kept the arms of the ballistae tucked in together and showed me where everything went.

When it was finally set up, Qyburn spent a few moments aiming at the skull’s head before pulling on the lever. The shot went just as I recalled, with a loud crack of displaced air, and then the bolt piercing the skull of Balerion.

Despite the supposed success of the weapon, I knew I couldn’t depend on it. Euron taking down that dragon was the mother of all flukes; I wouldn’t bet my kingdom and my life that one of my men would hit the same shot, not even one in a thousand times.

Still, credit where it was due. “You’ve done well, Qyburn. Very well.”

He bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

I looked over to my shadow. “Ser Balon. You’re an expert bowman. Tell me, what do you think of this… scorpion?”

“An impressive weapon, Your Grace,” he said, but I didn’t miss the tightening at the corner of his mouth. I’d yet to break him out of his silent bodyguard style, but when you’re pretty much living with someone every day of your life, you start noticing little things like these.

“But…” I raised an eyebrow.

Ser Balon shrugged under his armor. “This was an easy shot, taken under no pressure or time constraint, against a stationary target a handful of paces away. A target who was not breathing fire. If that thing was flying too…” he trailed off for a moment, thinking. “Unless we manage to trap or ambush the beast, it’s more of a showpiece than anything,” he finally said.

I smiled. I knew I kept him for some reason. “Well?” I turned to Qyburn “What do you think?”

“He’s right, Your Grace.” Qyburn sighed. “As much as I wish he wasn’t.”

I placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t fret, my friend. This is still a great achievement. Dorne took a dragon down from the skys with but a lucky arrow. Your contraption massively increases our chances of success.”

I let go of the chainless maester and walked up to Balerion’s skull. The bolt hadn’t pierced the bone cleanly like I’d previously thought, more like it’d broken through it with the impact. It acted more like a hammer than a knife. Even putting all the points Ser Balon raised aside, this test also didn’t account for something else, something I’d avoided thinking given how little I could control it. I picked up a piece of the bone that’d broken away and went back to the two of them.

“I have another task for you, Qyburn. One that might even take precedence over everything else. You might even find it intriguing,” I told him.

I could see his thin eyebrows raising. Some men are born curious, with noses in the air sniffing for knowledge like bloodhounds. Qyburn was one such man. I just had to point him in the right trail.

“Magic, Qyburn, magic.” I gestured for his hand, and when he presented it to me, I put the bone piece square in the middle of his palm. “A dragon is magic incarnate; it exists because of it, it flies because of it, it breathes fire because of it.”

I reached for Hopebringer and slid it partially out of its scabbard. “This sword I hold in my hands right now, that I carry with me everyday, was made with it. Yet I have no idea what that word even means.” I looked at the thin pale man, who’d cocked his head in expectation. “I need to know what magic is, Qyburn, how it comes to be, how to defend myself against it. And perhaps most importantly, how to wield it. The maesters insist it has died out, that it’s long gone from this world, yet dragons fly in the east, shadow-demons kill kings, and there’s talk of dead men rising on the wall. I thought you’d be the perfect person to disprove the Citadel wrong, eh?”

In the firelight of the torches, I saw the former maester smile hungrily.