“I sent for you an hour ago,” Palpatine said, his voice dropping into a low, visceral tone.
He did not look up immediately, but the slight shift of his facial expression and the subtle onset of a scowl were enough to make the air in the chamber feel like a frozen lake.
“Why did you take so long?”
His adjutant flinched, her posture fracturing under the weight of the question.
She swallowed hard, stepping forward nevertheless.
“Apologies, my lord,” she stammered, keeping her eyes fixed safely on the floor before she looked up at him.
“But I… I was delayed by Lord Stark.”
Palpatine did not need to ask which Lord Stark possessed the authority or the sheer arrogance to obstruct his servants.
It certainly wasn’t Brandon.
“And what did he want?” Robb asked, his tone clipped, masking the predatory sharpness behind a facade of youthful impatience.
“The same as before, my lord. It has been two days since I last reported to him,” she said, taking a shallow breath to steady her erratic pulse.
“He merely wished to know how you have been occupying your time.”
“Is that so?”
The words left his lips with a dry, venomous edge—nearly sarcastic, yet entirely devoid of warmth.
‘Her level vocabulary has improved as well; he saw that.’
Mara had long established that her little lord hated his father, or at least disliked him, for lack of a better word and it wasn’t any childish tantrum.
Ned had set Mara to watch Robb, promising her both silver and a promotion in return for her secret services.
Mara, however, had now witnessed the darkness for herself.
At least, she had seen a mere fragment of it.
Sidious was still out there, lurking in the shadows, and she feared for both her life and her career if her loyalties were ever seriously questioned.
Not that palpatine hadn’t always doubted them; he was a Sith, after all he didn’t truly trust anyone.
Yet, she performed her duty.
The first time Ned Stark questioned her, shortly after the fact, she confessed everything to him.
For that, he had commended her and rewarded her with gold and a little more of said trust.
But fear of some supernatural death, like the trails he left behind from his enemies and the obstacles that came in his way, kept her ambition in line as she pursued the grand dream of being more than the filth she was.
“Well, then, I assumed you’d taken care of it,” he stated.
She nodded in response.
“There is something else I need you to do,” he continued, his tone shifting to business.
“There are two men staying in Marva’s inn—two Braavosi, an older man and a younger. Our friends have graciously provided us with this information.”
By “friends,” of course, he meant himself and a pliable stable boy he had dispatched earlier to confirm that it was indeed them, Qarro and Draqen.
“They shouldn’t be difficult to distinguish, dressed as richly as they are,” he continued.
“The younger one wears a ring of gold and ruby on his right hand. The older, a green stone. Tell them that Sidious shall meet them at the night’s zenith. Tell them that they need not trouble themselves to search.”
He offered a shallow nod.
“That is all.”
“It shall be done, my lord.” She said with a respectful bow of her head.
He slipped effortlessly into her mind, reading the undercurrent of her thoughts.
She was chafing, silently complaining that he was speaking in metaphors and vagueness as usual.
Yet, just as he foresaw, her compliance remained absolute.
She would carry out the order to the T.
She brokered no delay, turned on her toes, and left through the door.
At that, Palpatine stood and paced slowly about in his room.
“Wouldn’t it be better to start and sense out a connection to him, master?
We’re here, but how are we supposed to get in touch now?
The moment we entered the town, the aether fell completely silent.
He knows we’re here, but he clearly doesn’t want us to know his exact location.
Draqen said calmly as he looked through the open shutter of a window, looking down on the town and the towering fortress of a castle just a hundred meters away.
“Patience, my former apprentice,” Qarro said, his tone measured and steady.
“Have patience. We have come too far, and I trust the aether not to lead us astray. He has sensed our presence, and he will meet with us, but we cannot expect immediacy. We must wait for him to make his move. And he will.”
Right as the master offered his counsel, a sharp knock echoed against the door.
Qarro’s expression remained unchanged; he had expected such an interruption.
Draqen might have been a sorcerer, but he was no dullard with a blade.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dagger, drawing it smoothly from its sheath before he cracked the door just wide enough to gauge who it was.
The figure standing in the corridor was shorter than him, their face entirely obscured by a heavy hood.
Before Draqen could demand their identity or business, the visitor spoke.
The voice belonged to a woman, her delivery soft and entirely devoid of panic.
“Sidious will see you at the night’s zenith,” she murmured.
“He advises you to wait. He….shall come to you.”
The moment the message was delivered, she turned and scurried away.
“Hey, wait!” Draqen called out, flinging the door wide.
But the woman was already disappearing down the staircase.
“Stop, Draqen,” the master commanded, his voice cutting through the chamber.
“Leave her. We have the information we require. At this point, we only need to wait.”
“It just feels off, Master,” Draqen muttered, his eyes still fixed on the empty stairwell.
“Could it be a trap?”
“How anxious you are,” Qarro replied, a faint, clinical note of amusement in his voice.
“Do you truly believe that, for all his power, he could not have destroyed us long ago? He will not strike. He requires us for a purpose—that is precisely why we are here. And we require his aid to cross the veil in search of greater power. We shall see him tonight, just as the messenger promised. So, have patience. Meditate, and try to immerse yourself in the aether until then.”
Beneath his calculated exterior, an intense current of anticipation rushed through Qarro.
He was profoundly anxious, but it was the sharp, exhilarating anxiety of a man on the precipice of destiny.
It was a one-in-a-million chance to stand before a being who could, in every literal sense, be considered a god.
That was precisely what the Fallen was: a being descended from the sublime realm of the aether into the harsh reality of men.
In the legends, he had gathered his loyal servants, rewarding their absolute faith and dynamic service with unimaginable power.
Now, Qarro allowed himself a rare, quiet hope that his future devotion would earn a similar reward.
He would offer all his resources, even his own life if need be, if he could only see an inkling of the true power of the aether.
He would sacrifice everything if it meant gaining more—more power, more absolute control over the currents of the aether.
Who could truly condemn him for that?
Draqen would soon comprehend the magnitude of what his master was trying to secure, and the man would entirely wash away his doubts.
If everything went according to plan, they would possess more than they could ever dream of.