Reviews make me write faster! I use the quatermaester interactive game of thrones map when writing.
TRIGGER WARNING – At one point in this chapter some truly horrific medical information is briefly mentioned. Namely the worst-case scenario for pre forceps childbirth.
If you are pregnant, or have someone close to you who is, have suffered a miscaradge, a stillbirth, or you're squeamish, I recommend skipping it.
Normally I'd consider the fandom itself to be a trigger warning. But lets just say I was nearly sick during my research, and I'm a man who would never have had to go through something like that. Any SI's that introduce things like the printing press and gunpowder but not something as simple as forceps….well. I'm going to be judging them harshly from now on after reading about what they prevent!
Once Willas had calmed down and realised that, unlike his first instinct towards Jon and Arya, I wasn't going to turn him in to save myself matters had proceeded quickly.
As I had suspected, the Wilted Rose had revealed himself to be a powerful skinchanger. He'd evidently learned how to use his magic to escape into this horse, his hound, and his eagle as a coping mechanism after his injury. The desperate need to be able to escape his crippled body and chronic pain had led to him finding the outlet by sheer instinct. Just as Bran had done with Summer to escape his shattered legs, and Arya had done with a cat to escape her blinded eyes.
The self-hatred of a permanent, life changing, injury was a powerful motivator. Especially if combined with chronic pain. A motivator that had overcome the lack of formal instruction for all three of them.
Fortunately, there would be no need for Arya to lose her sight this time. After a conversation that had Jon experiencing his first genuine panic attack, and had Arya bouncing of the walls in excitement, both had agreed to attend intense lessons with Willas to learn the art of skinchanging into their direwolves. Combined with Jon's martial and training with Loras and Garlan, and Arya's new lessons in ruling from Willas and Maester Lomys, neither of them would be getting much sleep.
Arya had been bitterly disappointed that I wouldn't be the one teaching her. But while I was to spend a little time with her to help her learn the art of ruling, terms of magic I'd begged off. Claiming to have absolutely no talent at either greendreaming or skinchanging.
The only thing I'd been able to impart was the warning against the three skinchanging abominations. Namely: don't eat human flesh while in an animal's skin, don't fuck while in an animal's skin, and never, ever, try and skinchange into a human. Warnings that none of the Starks had ever received originally, as they had all been making it up as they went along. Something that had had dire consequences for Bran as he had already committed two of the abominations before even reaching the cave of the last greenseer. Only avoiding a full house because he was too young to understand the desire to fuck.
After all three of them had come down from the emotions those warnings inspired, I'd delivered my prepared defence with a dejected air. Complaining that any magic in the Baratheon line from the Durrandons had long since been spent. Instead, I'd spun the line that the magic I possessed had come from my Targaryen side and that the green, instead of violet, eye colour as an indicator of my abilities was the only legacy of the old Storm Kings that remained.
As the occasional marriage to a Velaryon, or a Free Cities Archon, found in the Baratheon family tree had plausibly kept the Valyrian magic of my bloodline far stronger than that of the 300 year dead Durrandons, my lie had thankfully stood up to scrutiny. Especially when I'd noted my grandmother Rhaelle Targaryen had given another influx of Valarian blood into the Baratheon line only one generation before magic started returning to the world in force.
Unfortunately, that evasion wouldn't hold for much longer unless I started providing some demonstrations of Valyrian magical abilities. And my secret attempts at night when I should be sleeping were still proving to be little more than exercises in frustration. Even with the material stolen from the Citadel along with the Archmaester of Magic's mask and rod.
Still, I'd managed to deftly avoid the accusation of being full of shit with regards to my own magical abilities for a little longer by pushing Willas to inform Garlan, Loras, and Margaery of the revelations. Something that had proven the perfect distraction as it had been met with a great deal of incredulity, tears, and anger from all involved.
Loras had come around quickly, thinking nothing of Willas' ability and turning on me to jape that at least now if the Faith caught us we'd get the entertainment of watching them try to decide whether to stone me to death for sword swallowing, or burn me alive for magic use.
Knowing of the High Sparrow, I didn't find the jape funny. He'd probably decree that people should only start throwing stones when the flames had reached my waist or some other awful compromise.
Garlan had been far more disturbed at the revelation of his brother's abilities. But he had swiftly diverted himself with the thought of Willas spying on enemy troop movements from the safety of an eagle's eyes while his body was guarded in the command tent. When I explained that a skinchanger often took on some aspect of their animal a small smile had appeared on his face as he muttered that that explained the arrogant and haughty piercing glare Willas had perfected.
Margaery however, had taken it very badly. Not from any hatred of Willas, or even of magic itself, but in how vulnerable it left her. She'd lost her cool entirely, shouting about threats to expose Loras having been enough to deal with. Angrily predicting the whispers of the court claiming her bloodline was tainted with sword swallowers and magic and having to spend all her energy and capital crushing them. The Targaryen bloodline had used dragons to stop people complaining too loudly about the taint of incest and magic in their line. Margaery had no such recourse.
All of us had agreed to give the Rose of Highgarden a couple of days to process the revelation, which had led to an uncomfortable atmosphere that everyone except Mace had noticed. Though it was clear that Margaery hadn't ratted us out to her grandmother, given the lack of poison in my wine or an angry crone in my guest chambers.
Ser Baelon Swann and Ser Corwin Mertyns had remained passive throughout the revelations. They hadn't said a word since either. Even now as we strode towards Margaery's solar in the morning sun, white cloaks billowing behind them, they remained silent.
The heavy emphasis that Westeros placed on oaths was evidently working in my favour. As I had gambled it would. It had kept good men like Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy loyal to Aerys even as he burned men alive. The attitude of 'We guard the king. We do not judge him' was alive and well and protecting me as it had Aerys. Which was part of the reason I had instituted the Rainbow Guard. Future queens and royal children needed to be guarded by people who wouldn't be honour bound to stand outside the door while they were brutalised by the king. A vengeful queen and royal children had been the end of many a dynasty.
We arrived at Margaery's solar to find Ser Robar Royce handing off guard duty to Sers Rickard and Lucas Tyrell. The two distant Tyrell cousins that had been induced into the Rainbow Guard on Margaery's request, despite both of them being only barely old enough to shave. Though they were so new they didn't even have rainbow cloaks yet, the two teenagers nevertheless acted the part. Challenging us and bidding us wait until Margaery gave me leave to enter.
She did so as Megga and Alla Tyrell exited, giving their brothers fond looks. I bid Ser Corwin and Ser Balon remain outside and entered to find Margaery reclining on one of the chaises longues, with a look that was equal parts challenging, exasperated, and curious.
"Mina Forrester?" I questioned.
"Attending Arya. I have to maintain my hold on that girl somehow when you have her with Willas or her swordmaster every moment of the day and night." Margaery remarked dryly.
"And her?" I raised my chin in Elinor Tyrell's direction. The beautiful Tyrell cousin made a commendable job of pretending that she was the only one in the room. Continuing to embroider without a care in the world despite being mentioned so dismissively.
"There are too many eyes on this solar to dismiss all my ladies. If you want total privacy, we'll have to do this later." Margery replied.
I pursed my lips as I considered the matter. There was still so much to place in motion before I rode out to war and so little time. I refused to be like Robb Stark, winning every battle but losing the war because I hadn't ensured my political flank was secure.
Margaery's response was painfully patronising. "Elinor is far too sensible to jeopardise her betrothal. The chance to be one of the richest women in the realm, the lady of the first new city since King's Landing, is far too large a prize to throw away. Especially not when her brother is due a title and lands of his own and she knows you will deliver for him, just as you have for her."
I inclined my head. "As you say my lady. Have you had a chance to think matters over?"
The Rose of Highgarden's face twisted into something sour. "You seem to delight in creating problems for me, Your Grace. How am I to be the most beloved queen when my husband and eldest brother both practice magic? If even a whisper of it escapes the smallfolk will drag both of you down and I know not if I can save either of you. I do not visit orphanages and dispense charity solely to look good. I feel for the smallfolk, I have talked to them, and so I understand them in a way few highborn do. Trust me, while they may suffer a sorcerer as an evil advisor if forced, they will not suffer one on the Iron Throne."
Elinor's hands paused only for a moment on her embroidery before resuming. If a little more shakily than before.
"As things stand you couldn't. I have great respect for the strength of the smallfolk my lady. Especially when they are encouraged to anger by the Faith. I remember the wars that Aenys I and Mageor the Cruel fought against the Faith Militant when the Faith and smallfolk moved against them for their magic and their incest. They would have been deposed without their dragons, and we, sadly, have none. But I have a plan."
Margaery dipped her head before raising her eyes to me in a long suffering manner. "Of course you do."
I snorted. "You could at least try and sound enthusiastic."
"You wanted honesty, Your Grace. And in the spirit of honesty, I must tell you that if I had a sworn sword for every time a man said, 'I have a plan' and then proceeded to espouse the most useless drivel I have ever heard I wouldn't need you. I could take the throne myself." Margaery snarked leaning back with a resigned air.
I smirked in spite of myself. "Fair point."
Taking a few moments to gather herself, Margaery picked up a goblet of lemon water and took a fortifying sip before giving me her attention again. "Enlighten me, Your Grace."
"I will work on the Faith in the traditional manner. There are several possible avenues of bribery and intimidation I will explore with the septon of the Starry Sept when he arrives to officiate our wedding. I won't settle for just bringing them onto our side. I will ensure that he and the rest of the Most Devout bind themselves to us so closely that they will bury any accusations of magic against us themselves. Rather than face the truth and have to admit to the rest of the Faith that they were fooled."
"Ambitious." Margaery remarked with a raised eyebrow. "The High Septon?"
"Won't be a problem much longer." I answered while studying my fingernails in the morning sun.
My betrothed smirked. "Better than I expected I'll admit, but there's still much room for things to go wrong."
"That's where you come in." I countered with a genuine smile. "While I work on the Faith, you'll work on the smallfolk. Making them adore you with such fervour that they'll tear apart anyone who dares to accuse magic of tainting their beloved Queen Margaery's line. Even if the High Septon himself declares it true, they'll love you so fiercely that they'll believe that our enemies have bribed him before they believe the accusations of sorcery.
Margaery scoffed in contempt. "And you were doing so well. I could empty the entire treasury of Highgarden feeding the poor and buying toys for the orphan children and still not create that level of goodwill. Though they are grateful, the memory of hunger fades, and the children grow up. Their gratitude is similarly fleeting. It is simply the consequence of life."
"I know." I shrugged.
"You know?" The Rose of Highgarden looked poleaxed.
"I know. Which is why I have a new suggestion of a charity for you to create."
"What charity?" Margaery's eyes narrowed.
"The Mothers of Highgarden. Modelled after the Silent Sisters, but we don't want the Faith to be able to take credit for this. So, it has to be entirely secular. I suggest you use some of your father's treasury to buy a building in every market town in the Reach. There you hire a number of midwives, who will go out into the town and deliver any child without asking for payment. As they will the child of any mother who makes their way to the motherhouse from the surrounding villages. And we'll credit you with expanding the Mothers of Highgarden across all Seven Kingdoms when I take the Iron Throne."
Elinor had stopped even pretending to embroider and was staring at me in open incredulity.
Margery was the very picture of polite interest. Which meant she had to be badly shaken to have retreated behind such a mask.
"The expense…" Elinor protested weakly, before flushing as she remembered she was supposed to be pretending that we weren't there.
"The expense will be significant, especially with the purchase of appropriate buildings. Even once that is done, the yearly running costs are likely to be more than the entire Tyrell household guard. Though obviously once I take the Iron Throne the costs will be borne by the royal treasury rather than your father's. While I have hope that we might peel off some donations from rich smallfolk and highborn that would otherwise have gone to the Silent Sisters and other religious orders, there's no escaping that the Mothers of Highgarden will likely become the largest peacetime expense for the Iron Throne besides the Royal Fleet. That is unavoidable. We're trying to draw the smallfolk's loyalty away from the Faith and towards the Iron Throne. That takes golden dragons, not copper stars."
"And this will have the effect you desire? To make the smallfolk devoted to us beyond all reason?" Margaery was still hiding her thoughts behind her placid mask.
She was highborn, so she couldn't understand the impact such an institution would have on the lives of the smallfolk. Due to the maesters assigned to their keeps, even the poorest highborn had healthcare from the cradle to the grave. Just as I had had in the modern world.
But I was old enough to have spoken to my grandparents at great length about the times before the NHS was created to give free healthcare to all throughout their lives. Indeed, my great-grandparents were ideally placed to understand it. On my mother's side they had been a scullery maid and a factory worker. On my father's, a doctor and a teacher.
The stories they had told of that time when healthcare was a matter of what you could afford were terrible to hear, but nevermore so than when it came to childbirth. They'd seen friends die as they went through labour with only family or local amateurs to help. They'd seen children's lives disintegrate when their mother died trying to bring a sibling into the world. They'd seen families go hungry as the woman's time neared, trying desperately to save up enough to afford the doctor's fee if something went wrong and he had to be called. They'd seen entire communities try and fail to bring a mother back from grief when a child died in delivery. They'd seen too many fathers drink themselves to death when they lost wife and child both.
Beyond the local amateurs, the only beacon of light that had been present for those too poor to afford the doctor's fee were charity hospitals and religious nursing and midwifery orders of the sort that had been immortalised by shows like Call the Midwife. But they had rarely operated outside the cities and towns, leaving those in the countryside to fend for themselves at the hands of self-trained midwives. Though even then those well-meaning amateurs had had access to medical textbooks and at least understood germ theory enough to wash their hands with soap and water.
The stark terror surrounding childbirth in Westeros where the only contraception was expensive moon tea and germ theory and true gynaecology were unknown was almost incomprehensible to a modern person. And, it seemed, to a highborn.
"You know how many women die in childbirth my lady. How would you feel knowing that you had to face it without a Maester? Without even a local midwife if you couldn't afford her fee either? For all that they're self-trained, or at best trained by an existing midwife, they're still the most skilled healer most smallfolk will ever see. Many cannot afford them, and many die as a result. Sometimes the mother, sometimes the child, sometimes both. Whichever it is it rips families apart. To suddenly be given the chance to avoid that fate, without charge? The smallfolk will praise Good Queen Margaery till the end of time. The mothers will praise you every time they see the child that would have been born dead. The fathers, daughters, and sons will praise you every time they see the mother that would have died with them."
"And the midwives we hire will save enough mothers and children to make that difference?" Margaery asked, deadly serious.
"They will, especially with the use of these." I uncovered what looked to be a giant pair of highly polished wooden scissors with flattened and curved oval wooden blades, offset 90 degrees to usual. "I call these 'mother's hands' and they'll help midwives birth babies that would otherwise die before being delivered or become stuck entirely. The smallfolk will consider them to be a miracle, and whoever created and shared them to be touched by the Mother herself. So, of course, you will be the one to introduce them to the midwives of Westeros."
Margaery was far from stupid, and immediately saw how the recreation of forceps I presented her with would be used. "While I don't doubt they'll certainly be more pleasant than a midwife trying to fit their fingers between a baby's head and an already…overstretched…passage, will the increased comfort truly be that much of a relief to labouring mothers?"
"These mother's hands will allow midwives to guide out troublesome babies from a far earlier point in labour. That increased reach will prevent many babies from becoming irreversibly stuck, as currently midwives can only help guide them in the last moments. When much of the danger of such things has passed."
I grimaced and steeled my stomach. "I wished to spare you this, my lady, but do you know how midwives try and save the mother by removing a baby that has become irreversibly stuck and perished?"
"Of course." The Rose of Highgarden shot back tartly, insulted at the idea that I might know more of childbirth than a woman. "The Maester will cut open the lady's belly and remove the child. The odds are…not good… for the mother, but all efforts must be made to save the future of the house in question. They'll also do so before the baby perishes Your Grace. Whoever informed you otherwise was badly mistaken."
"That is the way for highborn ladies." I conceded. "But among the smallfolk none have the skill to attempt such and give the mother even a chance of living. Instead…"
I had to stop for a moment as I fought down the urge to be sick.
"Are you sure you wish to know Margaery?"
"Tell me." My future wife growled out. Her lips thin and white from supressing her anger at being treated as a delicate flower that needed to be protected from the world.
TRIGGER WARNING
"The midwives will crush the baby's skull and see if that allows its body to be delivered. If it does not, then they must cut the baby out of the mother piece by piece. The mother, tragically, will feel every moment of it."
TRIGGER WARNING ENDS
Elinor vomited violently; her embroidery abandoned.
Margaery suddenly looked a lot less angry at my reluctance to tell her as her own throat muscles worked, showing she had barely avoided doing the same.
"I see. Thank you for informing me, Your Grace. I will ensure that news of this invention is spread to midwives across all of Westeros, not just those I employ. To hold back a tool that could save mothers and babies from enduring such a fate would be unforgivable."
"I didn't think you could rise any higher in my estimation my lady, yet you continue to surprise me." I smiled grimly. Pleased that Margaery had proven herself a better person than the family that had invented forceps, and then kept them secret for a hundred years so that they would be considered miracle workers when it came to childbirth.
"I would hope you thought better of me than that, Your Grace. Any who would abandon mothers to that fate when such a simple thing could prevent it are true monsters." Margaery answered tightly. Clearly still trying to keep terrible images from her head."
"Indeed, my lady."
Silence filled the solar for some time before Margaery spoke again. "I think, Your Grace, given the fates we will be preventing, your ideas for gaining the loyalty of the smallfolk have much merit. Combined with your plan for the Faith I cannot see a way to improve on our chances."
"So you're back on side?" I asked.
Margaery shot me a rueful half smirk. "I was never off it. Loras would have never forgiven me."
My returning smile was still grim. "Good. Because I need you join me, Willas, and Garlan tonight."
"Not Loras?" Margaery asked, disturbed.
"He'll be ensuring we aren't disturbed."
Apprehension and resignation filled my betrothed's tones in equal measure. "What are we doing?"
"We're informing your grandmother of those in this castle that have the gift of magic. And then I'm informing all of you of the magical threats bearing down on us."
Margaery stood and strode determinedly to the door, commanding her Rainbow Guard and a couple of servants that had unsubtly found reasons to be near her solar in the hopes of picking up titbits of gossip. "Ser Lucas, find Guard Captain Vyrwel and tell him to round up all the midwives in Highgarden town and assemble them in the great hall before midday. You, Lady Elinor has been taken ill, fetch a mop and clean it up. And you…you bring me wine. I find myself in need of it."
This is a little shorter than usual and entirely polticical rather than having the political-battle/war mix i strive for to keep people satisfied.
We were supposed to see the Battle Beneath the Walls of Riverrun in this chapter. But reading a superbly written 1,000,000+ word star was fix it series has really made me question the quality of my own writing. To the point that I've been struggling with the battle for weeks.
So I thought you deserved the portion of the chapter that was completed rather than continuing to make you wait while I struggle with the rest of it.