Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 368: Kindred Spirits

The situation before Petyr was far beyond his ability to comprehend. His heart had been ripped out, yet somehow, it was still beating. And he was not dead.

“My lord! What is it?” The guard outside seemed to sense something was amiss.

“No, I-I-I...” Petyr stammered, trying to speak but finding the words escaping him in a frenzy of panic. He waved his hand, pretending to dismiss the guard. He forced a smile, though his facial features refused to cooperate.

Am I even mentally stable right now? he wondered, but given the circumstances, he already knew the answer. He wasn’t.

“Lady Melisandre, what are you...” He trailed off as his eyes fell on the heart, still beating, cradled in Melisandre's hand. There was no question now—his life was entirely in her grasp.

She's holding everything that matters inside that hand.

“Take me to the location I planned ahead of time,” Melisandre said calmly, her gaze unwavering. The red jewel at her neck glowed faintly, casting an eerie light across her face. There was no need for her to utter threats—he understood perfectly.

“Understood... understood,” Petyr muttered. He didn’t dare entertain a single thought of defiance. He had no doubt that Melisandre had the means to end or restore him with a flick of her wrist.

They soon arrived at a crypt southwest of the barracks at Rook’s Rest. The location was hidden, narrow, but sufficient to conceal a carriage. As they traveled, Petyr’s hand repeatedly wandered to his chest, where the cavity now lay sunken and hollow. There was no heartbeat.

From time to time, he placed a hand under his nose, reassuring himself that by the rhythm of his breath, he still clung to life. Am I alive? Only the air moving in and out of his lungs gave him that certainty.

He dared not harbor a single disrespectful thought towards Melisandre now.

“Just you and I will go in,” Melisandre’s voice echoed softly from the cart. “The others will guard the entrance.”

“Yes, Lady Melisandre,” Petyr responded immediately, fearful of hesitation. He left the guards behind, personally guiding the donkey cart into the crypt.

The crypt was almost completely dark. The dim yellow light of the oil lamp he held illuminated only a few paces ahead. The stone chamber loomed ahead like a maw waiting to swallow him. In one hand, he gripped the lamp; in the other, the whip for the horse.

With a sharp crack, the whip struck the donkey’s flank, its sound echoing eerily through the cave. But it wasn’t just the horse he was trying to control—Petyr was whipping away his own mounting fear.

Soon after, the two arrived at the designated place, which seemed to be a naturally formed cave. Tree roots clung to the surrounding stone walls, and the air was thick with the scent of decaying vegetation. Littlefinger, more attentive than he had been when merely trying to win her favor, even opened the door for Melisandre himself.

But as his hand touched the door, the memory of Melisandre literally pouring his heart out flashed before his eyes, making him cringe.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, he repeated to himself, taking several deep breaths to steady his nerves. When he finally felt composed enough to face the Red Woman again, he gritted his teeth and opened the carriage door.

It didn't matter. The sight before him stole his breath all over again.

The first thing that caught his eye were the rubies on Melisandre's neck, glowing with an intense radiance. The entire interior of the carriage was bathed in the blood-red light of the rubies, casting a glow that resembled a mixture of fire and blood. In this eerie light, Littlefinger could see everything far too clearly.

And at that moment, he would have preferred blindness.

At some point, Melisandre’s once-slender waist had vanished, replaced by an enormous, swollen belly. Littlefinger's eyes widened in shock, his mind racing to comprehend what he was seeing. There was no doubt in his mind now—Melisandre was carrying sextuplets, septuplets, or perhaps even octuplets.

Her body, grotesquely deformed, reminded him of a spider: thin, spindly limbs contrasted by an engorged abdomen. And her face, once strikingly beautiful, was now hideously distorted. What had once been an image of beauty now resembled something monstrous.

“Help me down,” she commanded weakly.

“Yes... yes, Lady,” Littlefinger stammered. Despite her frail tone, he dared not entertain a single inappropriate thought. She still had his heart—literally.

If I could just grab my heart back... would it... The thought flickered briefly in his mind before he quickly dismissed it. He had seen livestock slaughtered before, organs ripped out and eaten. But those organs had been connected to the body. What would happen if I tried to put my heart back in? he wondered.

It was magic. Pure, dark magic. And magic was something he knew nothing about.

Littlefinger decided it was best to focus on serving the “pregnant woman,” even though he had no idea what kind of creature she was carrying inside her.

Littlefinger held a lantern in one hand and supported Melisandre with the other as they ventured deeper into the crypt. Though it wasn’t a long walk, it felt torturous to Littlefinger. He could sense the unnatural heat radiating from Melisandre—hotter than before, as if her very essence was burning. Worse still, her enormous belly kept brushing against him, an unsettling reminder of what lurked inside.

This isn’t a pregnant woman’s belly, he thought with a shudder. It’s the shell of a monster. Any moment now, it felt like some creature would burst forth, piercing him with cold, sharp talons.

Soon, they reached a clean stone slab. Melisandre, panting and sweating, decided this would be her birthing bed. Littlefinger stood by, lantern in hand, as her cries of pain echoed through the cavern, filling the air with a sound unlike anything he had ever heard. It wasn’t just the scream of a woman in labor—it felt like her very soul was wailing.

The sound unnerved him deeply, as if ants were crawling through his joints, gnawing at him from the inside. He had heard women give birth before—his brothel had seen its share of pregnant employees—but this... this was different. Melisandre’s cries were otherworldly, filled with a misery that was more than physical. It seemed as though she was tearing apart from within.

Littlefinger felt his brain shaking, rattled by the sheer intensity of her suffering. His own organs—four of them now, with his heart separated—burned as if they were on fire. All he wanted to do was run, to escape this nightmare.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh...” Melisandre’s scream pierced the cavern, reverberating against the stone walls. It dragged him back to Winterfell, to the birth of Catelyn and Ned’s second child, Sansa. He had been there, watching from a distance. Catelyn had not seemed to suffer so greatly, and the baby had been born easily. But Catelyn’s belly had never been this grotesquely large.

And what emerged from Catelyn had been a sweet baby girl.

Whatever Melisandre is about to give birth to, Littlefinger thought, it’s not going to be human.

As if to confirm his worst fears, two black clouds began to seep from beneath Melisandre’s skirt. Littlefinger recoiled in horror, falling to the ground, his muscles locking in place as if his joints had rusted over. His body refused to move, no matter how much he willed himself to flee. His legs were too weak; fear had paralyzed him.

The two black clouds hovered in the air, swirling and coalescing. Slowly, they began to take shape, forming into figures—two distinct figures, impossibly familiar. As the shadows solidified, Littlefinger's heart nearly stopped.

They became the shadows of two men: Robert and Stannis. Towering over two meters tall, they loomed above him like dark, spectral wraiths.

“Your Grace.” Though Littlefinger knew deep down this could not be the real Robert, his instincts took over. He assumed the most respectful posture possible, bowing his head. But the shadowy figures of “Robert” and “Stannis” paid him no mind. They merely glanced at him before sweeping out of the crypt like a gust of wind.

Outside, the guards stationed near the crypts felt a sudden chill at the backs of their necks, sending shivers down their spines. They turned to look, but there was nothing there. Dismissing the eerie sensation, they returned to their posts, thinking little of it.

...

Rook’s Rest

Rook’s Rest belonged to House Mooton of the Crownlands. As the army advancing from Crackclaw Point approached, William Mooton, the current lord, sent his sons ahead to Viserys, hoping they might become his personal guards. Viserys did not refuse the offer, and the fact that Lord Mooton was named William left Daenerys with a favorable impression.

The army arrived at Rook’s Rest without incident, setting up camp around the castle as a staging area for supplies.

To mark the occasion, Ser Mooton prepared a grand welcome banquet for Viserys. While it seemed somewhat ordinary to Viserys and his company, Ser Mooton believed he was offering the very best his house could provide. Still, something puzzled him.

Among Viserys’s entourage was a man whose attire didn’t resemble that of a noble at all. Upon closer inspection, William realized it was none other than the Great Sparrow—a figure who had long been a thorn in the side of the Crownlands' nobility.