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Red As Blood and Cold As Sand

Michael Manwoody

In less than a week, everything became known even to the hostages. Lord Qorgyle had arranged the murder of Lyonel Tyrell – and while the opinions in the Targaryen court as to who was truly responsible were divided, there was no doubt among the hostages. Particularly those who knew Aaron Qorgyle in person.

"The last time a mouse farted in Sandstone without my father being apprised of the event must have been well before I was born," was Gulian Qorgyle's appraisal of the situation. Never the one for words, he stayed true to himself, not once showing how this low value on his life by his own father affected him. He didn't even turn pale.

"You should really invite me to Sandstone one day," Quentyn Allyrion quipped. "I'd love to see those farting mouses of yours…"

Everyone laughed and Michael realized just how far on the way to achieving unity they had gone. No one even thought of blaming Gulian for placing them in danger, let alone singling him out. Instead, they tried – for a thousandth time – to guess what was taking place in their homeland, what their parents and grandparents were considering as a possible course of action. And – which no one would discuss aloud but Michael was sure was weighing heavily in everyone's mind, even the children's – was their safety even a factor in what was taking place? For anyone?

"It's stupid to think of that," Elsbet claimed when the two of them were alone, or alone with Riksana. "Our parents love us. They'll never do something that would harm us."

Her voice was firm, her eyes determined and only the occasional trembling of her chin showed that she wasn't as certain as she wanted to appear, and Michael didn't have the heart to tell her that he could tell her lie.

By a cruel twist of fate, Elsbet's safety was the most well established one, more certain than even Cassella's. Lately, Prince Aegon had started making appearances without her plastered at his side. As Princess Naerys' belly swelled further, there were many at court who whispered that the Dornish girl's star was fading. Like our own star, Michael would always think and hate himself for that when he looked at Astra's gaunt frame and constantly flushed face as the foulness in her lungs consumed her. The end was coming and they knew it, yet refused to accept it.

But Elsbet… Daeron Targaryen kept her under his protection discreetly but so constantly that someone might have second thoughts about the nature of their relationship. Not Michael, though, who knew Elsbet's fear and hatred. And when Daeron left to subdue Dorne once again, they were left with cold meals and delayed baths, and no seamstresses sent in time to provide them with new clothes to better fit their growing bodies. Daena Targaryen's revenge, Michael knew. She had taken her brother's interest in Elsbet in the wrong way – and with her new husband, her other brother showing no desire to bed her, her bitterness only grew.


It was a harsh winter when the news spread – dark words on dark wings, dark mourning carrying dark fears. Michael was practicing his swordplay with Jacaerys Velaryon when Princess Baela appeared in the practice yard, the unscarred part of her face white with shock.

"Come inside," she only said and hurried back inside. The boys followed her and joined Elsbet and the Princess' daughters and nieces to hear in no vague words that the young King had been slain under a banner of peace.

That's the end of us, Michael thought despairingly and wrapped an arm about Elsbet's shoulders. They were so stiff that he realized: she was summoning all her courage not to break.

"We're dead," she whispered and when she looked at him, her eyes, as brown as chestnuts, were dark pools of pain and betrayal that pushed even the fear away.

"Perhaps not," Velaena murmured. "They didn't say anything about Aemon. If he's alive…"

Once again, Michael was amazed at the sharp perceptions of this lovely girl who spent her days sewing, talking softly, and smiling prettily. It was so easy to take Velaena for an empty-head when she was anything but. Elsbet smiled a little, albeit shakily, and Michael also felt immensely grateful for that attempt to cheer them up.

"Yes." Princess Baela looked tense, "You will stay here until I can talk to my brother."

But that conversation came only hours later and by Viserys Targaryen's stony face, Michael could read nothing. Even when they were marched to the Red Keep by a group of guards who had closed a triple circle around them to protect them from the crowd that was throwing stones and howling for their deaths, he couldn't say if they were being taken back to their vault or the executioner's block.

It was almost a relief when they were shoved into the tower known as the Traitor's Walk. At least they were alive. And when the cells revealed themselves to be small, windowless but somewhat well-appointed, Michael knew that Velaena had been right. The Hand of the King wanted them alive for a while. And there was only one reason for such a wish. Dorne still had a leverage over him, or at least something that balanced their situation. Prince Aemon lived.

No doubt the Small Council thought they were demeaning them by placing them together into a few small cells meant for one. But Michael preferred it this way. He'd have gone mad if he had had to spend his time alone, thinking of the Stranger, the battles, and the ultimate betrayal that Daeron's murder had been.

"Do our lives mean so little to them?" Allegra Uller asked in a tiny voice.

"I guess the situation was getting so fraught that with his return there, it became untenable for them to let him live," Marisia Jordayne suggested. "They must have had reasons to think that he'd destroy Dorne in revenge."

Do you really believe this, Michael wondered. The Seven knew that he wanted to. And perhaps Marisia was right, She was the one to know. She had been born the heir of the Thor and had received the education Michael and Elsbet lacked.

"If so, they had a good reason," Cassella spoke. "That was his intention, kind of."

Michael wasn't sure if he believed her. But there was no use to say so now. They could clarify their standings later. When they knew what would happen to them all.

Marisia had gone to pile a few blankets together for Astra. In this closed, windowless space where cold was wrapping against everyone's feet now, the child's face was now getting a shade of brighter red, "Go to sleep and you'll be better," Marisia said but the cough shaking the small chest was worse already.


After two weeks that stretched endless, they were given new clothes. They were fed to their heart's content. They were taken out into sunlight so bright that, combined with the whiteness of the snow covering the yards and gardens like the pelt of a white tiger hurt their eyes but through the spears of pain piercing his eyeballs, Michael breathed the chill air and felt delight spreading through him like the most marvelous warmth, Next to him, Marisia bent down and took a fistful of snow that she brought to her mouth and bit. He followed. He had never tasted something so delicious.

A familiar neigh made him look at the group of horses waiting for them under their magnificent harnesses and unbidden tears came to his eyes. Dark Wing! Little Princess Elaena stepped forward from the crowd of courtiers and looked up at him. "I packed your harp in," she said and he smiled.

"Thank you, Princess," he said and bowed.

"Elaena!" the new Queen snapped. "Come here! You have no reason to talk to these… snakes."

Keep talking, Your Grace, Michael thought, Now, her helpless rage even amused hm. But Elsbet had stopped dead in her tracks. Then, she went to her own chests that had been also prepared, exchanged a few words with Riksana and took the vial the old woman dug out for her before going to Daena,

"I have something for you, Your Grace," she said and curtsied as deeply as if she were truly showing respect. And when Daena reluctantly let curiosity get the better of her, Michael, who had made a step to be closer to Elsbet just in case, heard his sister whisper, "You've been wondering for a long time what made your brother want me. Perhaps it was my perfume. Perhaps it will make you desired, too. I'm honoured to make you this gift."

Daena's face flushed as crimson as poor Astra's. With a rough wave, she knocked the vial out of Elsbet's hands and it banged on the pavement, cleared from the snow.

"You think it was your whorish ways I had a problem with? It was never them, It was always your misplaced pride. I swear, I would have changed your plight if you had asked me just once!"

Elsbet smiled. "Why should I have? Whatever you did, it's only been leading me to my fate. In the time your brother was destroying Sunspear, I got the prophecy. One day, I will be the ancestress of kings. I wonder what you're going to be then."

She curtsied once again and went to her horse. Daena made a movement as if she wanted to lunge after her but Naerys stopped her with a firm shake of her head.

They left the Red Keep in a glorious procession that would accompany them only to the gates of King's Landing. Then, it would only be them and the new King.


Sometimes, Michael thought their journey would make a lovely song, if an unconvincing one. The king who looked like a pauper guiding them on his bare, bleeding feet as they rode behind him in full splendor was something that he still couldn't believe sometimes. And of course, he'd never have the time to compose this song if he ever got mad enough to want it. This puny boy king would soon die and they'd be killed the moment the word spread, there was no doubt as to that. It was so certain that he didn't even dream of it in the septs and small castles where they spent the night sometimes. He just went to sleep the moment he lay down, although he knew that he was just losing his time. Soon, he'd go to sleep forever.

"At least we won't have to listen to his ramblings about binding wounds and healing old hurts," Marisia would say in the beginning but as they got nearer and nearer, she fell silent more often. Like most of the others, she was being slowly taken by the strength of his conviction and the enticing visage of his promise. Little by little, Michael came to realize that there was strength to the feeble Baelor that was far more compelling than his brother's. He wasn't completely convinced by the King's rhetoric but sometimes he caught himself contemplating the possibility of it being true. And well before they entered Dorne, he had realized that Baelor wouldn't die. He'd go where he was headed for and then, he might die. "I am not sure I want him to," Elsbet whispered, surprised by herself.

When they reached Blackhaven, Astra could no longer ride her horse and they left it in Lord Dondarrion's stables. Instead, she was provided with a litter, white as hope, as Baelor insisted. Pale as the Stranger's mare, Michael thought as he watched the little girl fighting for every breath as they came closer to their own land – fighting the cough, fighting the cold, fighting the yellow tint in her purple eyes that showed the cruel advancement of the ailment, the Stranger racing them.

"She'll die," the maester of Blackhaven said, sadly.

"She won't," Baelor assured him and went to pray for her in the sept, and as he prayed for her life, those who saw the truth of her condition only prayed that she made it long enough.

It was a lovely day of azure sky and birds soaring high above the Red Mountains, with a spring singing nearby and green forests beckoning them close when Elsbet rode to the litter and pulled the curtains apart. "Look around, Astra," she said. "Look – we're home."

A small tear fell between the pale lashes, glistened, died as the girl forced her tortured lungs to take in the deepest breath for two years. She even rose on her elbow and stayed like this for a while before falling back. But when they reached to draw the curtains back, she shook her head no.

"Let her have her way," Marisia whispered, her face white. "It doesn't matter now."

"Oh please," the twelve-yer-old Olyvar Wyl, Astra's cousin, murmured. "Please don't take her. Not yet."

"The Seven won't take her," Baelor announced. "Not at ten years of age. Not when I have prayed for her recovery."

And now, Michael wanted to slap him, because for all his good intentions and vision, he was still a fool, unable to see what was right in front of him.

The cage was just in the beginning of the olive grove that was perched near the River Wyl. And while Baelor headed straight for it, the rest of them showed no interest to the man kept naked there. They had gathered around the litter where Astra had even found the strength to sit in one last bout of effort. "I am so happy that I came home," she whispered. "I am so happy that I came back before the olives grew overripe."

Tears pouring down his cheeks, Michael reached over and brought her a fistful of small black fruits. Smiling, she reached out and their fingers touched. Then, a sudden convulsion overcame her and she went still, her head thrown back and the upper part of her body hanging over the edge of the litter. They rushed to straighten her out, terrified that she might topple over. It was strange how heavy a dead body was.

Elsbet gave a violent sob and looked at the cage where the naked man was clearly visible, gaunt and exhausted. There was no pity in her eyes and there was no in Michael's heart either.

"The noble Dragonknight and his brave king," he spat. "They killed a girl of all but ten years. I hope the Seven punish them!"

"We must," Marisia said, her eyes cold glints of ice.