Duncan the Tall's tale was told so vividly by Mufasa that even the wildling boy Aggo forgot to eat, only noticing the bear-meat slip from his fingers when it hit the ground.
"A man from Flea Bottom becoming Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and a prince named after him—astonishing," Aggo said.
"But what a pathetic death! Dying while fighting a fire? That's no ending."
"It was an accident," Mufasa replied.
The Tragedy of Summerhall became the tragedy of the entire Targaryen Family; after the dragons vanished, House Targaryen lost its power to rule Westeros alone.
Yet they still clung to one dream: to hatch dragons once more.
"Melisandre, can wildfire truly hatch a dragon egg?" Tyrion asked, licking grease from his fingers.
"No. wildfire is a flame of ruin, not of rebirth. And the dragons vanished because the tide of magic receded; so the Targaryens can no longer hatch eggs."
"But now the tide returns. The Direwolf's return and Heraka's mutation prove it," Melisandre said.
Mufasa thought: Heraka mutated because of me.
Still, the old Heraka had already been a monster, a product of natural change.
"The ancient books of Asshai say: when the stars bleed, magic will fully return," Melisandre added.
"What does 'the stars bleeding' mean?" Tyrion asked.
"I don't know; it hasn't happened yet."
"Aren't you a sorceress? Look into your flames and find out." Tyrion rolled his eyes.
"The fire's secrets lie deep; sometimes I see only the surface," she answered.
"Mufasa, do you know what The Stars Weeping Blood are?"
Tyrion asked.
"It is a sword that slays the seasons; its coming heralds a long winter."
"Though most maesters think it's just a comet with a very long tail."
"By the way, have you forgotten the pattern on the back of the playing cards?" Mufasa said.
"Oh, I think I really did forget."
Mufasa produced a deck and showed him.
Mufasa had produced several decks. First the iron throne, later the Flaming lion—the banner of the Lionheart Society.
Finally he printed a deck showing The Stars Weeping Blood. He kept one for himself, giving the other two to Joffrey and Sansa.
They'd become addicted; a day without cards felt unbearable. In entertainment-starved Westeros, playing cards were revolutionary.
They suited common folk. Cyvasse had existed—an elaborate mix of chess, war-games and animal-combat—but that was for the clever, like Tyrion.
He played Cyvasse rather well.
"After dinner I'm bored—let's play cards," Mufasa said, looking at Benjen Stark and Qyburn.
"How do we play?" Qyburn asked eagerly.
"Four is perfect. Come, I'll teach you," Mufasa answered.
For the next few days they rode by day and played cards whenever the nights dragged.
Life felt full—until the cold grew so bitter no one wanted to bare their hands.
At last they reached Queenscrown, once visited by Queen Alysanne, wife of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
They would rest a day, and Mufasa used the pause to search for a lost dragon egg.
One glance told him he might fail; the place had changed beyond recognition—only a weirwood tree remained constant.
Wait… the weirwood.
Before him stood a weirwood taller than Winterfell's heart tree. In a Greenseer's vision he had seen this very spot.
"If memory serves, this is the place!"
He summoned Heraka.
"Dig down through the snow until you find the dragon egg."
Heraka gave a puzzled, almost human frown.
Mufasa's words made little sense to him.
So Mufasa demonstrated.
Understanding, Heraka began to paw away the snow.
The racket drew everyone, but Mufasa no longer bothered to hide.
All who returned to King's Landing would be his own men.
"What are you doing, Mufasa?" Tyrion asked.
"There might be treasure; I'm prospecting," Mufasa replied casually.
"Gold? the Westerlands are full of it," Tyrion said.
"But you're digging for something else—an antique, or something magical?"
Mufasa only laughed and said no more.
The others, half-frozen, went back to bed; only Melisandre stayed.
"I see it, Ser Mufasa! Soon you will ride Heraka over The Wall," she said suddenly.
Mufasa looked at her and met burning eyes, within their fire a mysterious vision flickered.
Heraka dropped a fist-sized stone at his feet. Mufasa picked it up—inside was the dragon egg, lifeless.
He remembered the draconic essence his champion had won; it could breathe life into a dead egg.
"With true magic still sleeping, will it even work?"
Only one way to find out. He drew out the essence and let it seep into the egg.
Then he set the egg atop the fire; flame is a dragon's strength.
Feeding the blaze with fresh logs, he left the egg to roast and went to sleep.
At dawn no roar woke them; the whole camp overslept.
"What in seven hells…?" Mufasa muttered.
"Ser Mufasa, your pet has… changed," Melisandre called from outside.
He stepped out and saw a White Lion the size of a mammoth, three horns jutting from its brow.
Two were long scythes; the third, newly grown, still short.
Between its ribs a pair of leathery wings unfurled, veined like a wyvern's.
"How—?" Mufasa asked. Heraka only growled; lions lack tongues for words.
"There lies your answer." Melisandre pointed to the fire—no egg remained.
"He… ate it?"
"Cooked and devoured. The dragon within remade him. Satisfied, ser?"
"Now I need a tale for Robert and the rest."
Without a good lie, no one would swallow the truth.
Tyrion supplied the lie.
"Say a wildling Witch cursed him. He's monstrous in shape, yet still the same loyal beast."
Plausible enough; wildlings keep crones who traffic in curses.
Mufasa mounted the winged lion; together they flew the last leagues to Castle Black.
Castle Black crowns the Kingsroad and serves as the Night's Watch citadel.
"No wonder the learned Lomas Longstrider counted The Wall among the nine wonders," Mufasa murmured.
Before him The Wall rose like a frozen sky, a blade of ice across the world.
"My life's goal: piss off the edge into the haunted forest. Care to join, Mufasa?" Tyrion quipped.
"Uncle, one gust and you'll ride the wind like a leaf."
"Better to step outside the gate," Mufasa said.
"We are the king's envoys, after all."
Under Benjen Stark's guidance he met the Watch's high command.
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, blind Maester Aemon, the First Builder, First Ranger, First Steward, master-at-arms, Armorer—every senior brother.
The black brothers gaped at Heraka; Mufasa's renown swelled by hundreds of points.
Benjen introduced the Bear and the rest, naming Mufasa envoy of the crown.
"A Lannister envoy," Ser Alliser sneered. He had been a royal officer until Tywin took King's Landing; refusing to kneel to Robert, he'd been sent to The Wall.
"You must be Ser Alliser, last stalwart of House Targaryen," Mufasa said, eyeing the gaunt, silver-templed man.
"Had the dragons kept a strong head, Robert would still be drunk in the Vale," Alliser replied.
"Kings win or lose; Robert Baratheon now warms the iron throne. Outside these walls your words are treason."
"Let Robert come and take my head—if he dares set foot here."
Alliser's laughter died as a colossal lion head turned his way.
He swallowed, fumbling for steel. Aggo plucked the blade from his hand before it cleared the scabbard.
"A wildling," Alliser breathed, taking in Aggo's braids and pelts.
"The free folk bid you kneel to Ser Mufasa, crow," Aggo said, sword at Alliser's throat.
Between Heraka's fangs and Aggo's steel, Ser Alliser's knees began to bend, his face twisting with hate.
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