AN: What is this? Could it be possible? Can this be allowed? A fresh chapter so soon towering over the last one as the biggest single chapter we've written to date? It sure is! And you all aren't seeing things!

AtW: Sorry this wasn't actually out sooner. That's kind of my fault. 'sigh' Life, you know? Still, I'm big on this chapter. Really enjoyed getting this out. We're establishing two big points of our interpretation of the world of Planetos. If you can guess what they are, I dunno, maybe we'll do another 2k word teaser? Nag Wyvern.

Oh, by the way, we have a thing we will be posting a link to when it's done. It'll be Worm themed but, uh, over on QQ since it'll be a bit on the more mature side. At the moment I think it's approaching 20kish words. So look out for that!

CW: Yes, nag me. For I am both generous and benevolent. Fear my merry-making ways...

Now then, onto the reading.


Chapter 7 - Swords to the Sky


Sarella


Many were the sweet feelings coursing through Sarella's body at this moment.

Vindication.

Superiority in her knowledge.

Good old smugness.

Indeed, she recalled few sensations more pleasant than watching her younger sister pout as the adventurer proved she wasn't an idiot of any sort. Avenging the loss of her honor back when they visited Oldtown once and for all!

She relished that look of defeated acceptance.

Relished it!

"If I told you that you were correct, how smug would you be?"

Sarella reached up and pulled her little sister's chin down so they were eye level. She wanted to sear this sight into her eyes.

"I'd need you to say that in front of everyone. Nymeria and the ankle biters included."

Ophelia's eyes went through several emotions before settling on something approaching resignation. And then she smirked, leaning over to press her lips to her shorter sister's cheek. Confused, the young scholar-to-be didn't exactly mind the kiss until she heard slippers scrape on stone.

"Ah, I see. I thought you understood that I was finally moving to claim that which is mine." Paling, the middle sister refused to turn around and face the undoubtedly smiling blonde demoness even now coming closer. "But I can hardly blame you. When such glory and beauty is laid out before a… hungry pup, is it their fault for snatching up the juicy steak? Or their owner's for not keeping a better eye on them?"

"Tyene… it's not what you're thinking." Sarella stepped back, bumping against her younger sister as the older one closed the distance.

"Are my eyes faulty then? Because I could swear I saw you partake of our dear sister's affections. Which are exclusively my own."

Sarella's eyes carefully traced her sister's hands.

Or rather, the very distinct glints of metal coming from her sleeves.

"She kissed me!"

"Ah, so you admit to your sin."

Tyene's innocent smile became downright angelic.

A vision of virtue and purity.

The facade worn by a dangerous… terrifying beast.

Sarella would have run away had it not been for the familiar arms enclosed around her waist, delicate chin resting on her shoulder as the Witch of Dorne aimed her best doe eyes at her.

"You didn't enjoy it, big sister. I thought we had something special."

By the Old Gods… her sister was gonna kill her.

She was gonna piss off Tyene, who was then gonna kill her! And no one would know because they were in the gantry next to the dry moat and there was no one around because she had dragged her sister on a treasure hunt because of that book she had grabbed and-

"Shh, shh, be at peace little rabbit." Tyene embraced her from the front, Sarella deeply regretting her relative shortness at the moment. "We only jest. You are safe."

After a moment she actually did. Partly because she knew Ophelia was in on the joke and she would never let anything happen to her and partly because either nothing was going to happen or it was too late at this point. Well, that and being hugged like this by two attractive women, sisters or not, tended to elicit certain reactions in the human body.

'Actually, with how much incest is going on these days I'm surprised anyone even cares. The Lannisters, Tywin and his first cousin, the queen and her brother, the Targaryens for who knows how long, the king and his first cousin that one time… everything Tyene is about.'

"Say Ophelia."

"Yes dear, sweet, enthralling big sister Tyene?"

"What would you say about a… quick tryst. Just the three of us."

Slightly panicking, the girl who read too many books for her own good was unsure what to do. Or what she should do. Because there was a non zero chance that her crazy sister was dead serious and might take offense to a rejection.

"I think not." Ophelia snorted in her ear, pressing another, final, kiss to her cheek. "It might not smell as bad as the rest of the city but it still smells like shit out here. If we are to induct cute little Sarella into a dangerous, erotic, sapphic love triangle, let us at least do so somewhere more romantic."

And with that, she was safe. Her witch of a sister, the thought having a bit more heat at the moment, let her go and stepped away. Tyene's touch lingered a bit more, but it always did.

Sarella wondered how Ophelia did it.

Kept their stranger sister in such a tight hold, that is.

Not that Sarella had anything but love towards her older sister. But she'd always known the girl was an entirely different breed of human. The kind who saw other humans the way you'd look at a particularly endearing housepet.

She'd never hurt any of them, but Tyene had a very different understanding of what 'hurting' someone was.

And then along came dear Ophelia.

Someone Tyene didn't look at as an inferior.

It was the other way around. Ophelia seemed to hold a position of prestige and superiority to their sister. Adored as an idol by her older sister in ways that were almost religious. It wasn't a human love.

And that frightened Sarella. More than the thought that Tyene wouldn't be opposed to having her as a… pet. That, at least, she could compartmentalize.

Nymeria wasn't the only one with such… preferences.

"Speaking of, why are we gathered here?"

Pulling away, with a look that would have stopped the heart of anyone who was not, at least partially, inoculated against such things, the blonde poisoner walked over to the edge of their walkway and peered down at the dry moat.

"Oh, that's easy. Sarella was doing her usual thing of figuring out everyone's most embarrassing secrets." Ophelia looked particularly smug considering that her Summer Island Sister was still slightly blushing. "And came up with a plan to ensure that the king favors us as much as his wife."

"Oi!" She pouted. "You happen to be the one that knows everything and have eyes in everyone's underwear drawers. Besides, Tyene could have gotten us killed the other day!"

"Hardly. The Queen is desperate for someone she feels she can trust. And besides, she has her lord's attention less often than she'd enjoy." The oldest sibling there practically purred, utterly trusting that their low tones and Ophelia's swarm would keep listeners away.

Ophelia actually frowned.

"Sarella's point stands. I'm not upset you did what you did, but the Queen knows we're players now. We must not let her reverse our momentum. Add to that I have little doubt the rest of the court will know soon enough and, well, we must strike quickly. Still, at least we have the means of counterbalancing the risk. And assuming your gamble paid off…."

Head inclined, the blonde at least took her lumps.

"Aye. But it was a calculated risk. She is vulnerable, to not strike now risks being exposed with only the… relatively weak good graces of the king to protect us. The Lannister reputation on the other hand, well, that could work wonders."

Knowing someone had to point out the obvious, Sarella sighed and shook her head.

"Father still wants them all dead. Its why he's taking care not to be in the castle too much and not even be in the same room as Cersei should he not be forced to. Ser Jaimie is at least not so bold as to throw his simmering rage back in his face."

A Lannister with common sense.

Would wonders ever cease?

"Assuming she doesn't turn on us out of fear. Then aye. Direct her away from father as much as possible, if you would?"

Smirking, the blonde crossed her arms under her chest - conveniently, and totally accidentally of course, pushing it up.

"She would be most appreciative if you would attend her for tea on the morrow, after you complete your rounds with Ser Barristan. The Queen Cersei would be most enthused should you bring a few of your simpler potions and silks along too, apparently she has one of your garments - gifted to her by Uncle Doran himself."

"Wait a moment." Sarella giggled when Ophelia's eyes went wide and her cheeks went red. "I remember that piece. Oh no. Did you see it!?"

Almost howling with laughter when Tyene's smirk simply grew even more smug, the young woman barely managed to gasp out a breath when a loud "ting" announced the arrival of what they had been waiting for.

"Orphan Maker." Answering the unspoken question of their sister, the shining blade glinted in the low morning sun before the living tidal wave of insects carrying it up from the moat settled it on the ground and dispersing only when Sarella wrapped the blade in a leather sheath and concealing the weapon. Ophelia reached down and let a few spiders scurry up her arm, drawing a small shiver of disgust from Sarella, before elaborating on where the ancient weapon had been.

"It was trapped in the drainage ditch of the dry moat. Stuck between two spikes and covered with years of mud and crap and debris. Dried, added to, and dried again. Sarella figured out where it was probably lost, I had the swarm search. Ultimately, I must confess that it was only because of the lick of the flame still dwelling within the blade that I even found it."

Frowning, Tyene shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but how? Are these not weapons of legend? Ancient blades centuries or even millennia old, bound to families of age and might? And one was just buried under the waste of a few decades?"

Shrugging, Sarella opened up her robes, flashing a book at her sister.

"Just because Marwyn had his own goals did not mean I lacked my own." Snorting. "Besides, there's so many journals no one can really read them all. I just happened to have known what to look for."

"And how did you find this one?" Still frowning, Tyene at least accepted her words.

"Oh that's easy. I found the journal entry about the secret siege that was referenced in this book." She opened up a different part of her robes flashing another tome. "Politely asked a young, cute library assistant where I might find the diary in question, then spent four hours digging it up before I was kicked out."

"I'm surprised you left your personal library at all." Ophelia's lips quirked in amusement.

"Doesn't compare to the one back home. But it will do."

Library was one way to put it. It was more of a fort, really. Made out of priceless tomes and diaries which Sarella had been… borrowed from Pycelle before the old fart knew what the clever snakes were really up to.

"Well I suppose I should be happy that the blade itself is under our control. But I still struggle to comprehend how such things have not been identified before." Tyene's tone was accepting of their success, but genuinely confused still.

She was a master of secrets and intrigue yet certain mysteries eluded her still.

"Well, for one there's no direct route into the moat itself. Plus it still took little sis an hour at least to find the thing and the time we've been speaking to dig it up. Considering she can search more thoroughly than anyone else, as well as get to places they couldn't either, I think that says a lot. The servant's diary thought it had actually been washed out to sea, too, but I knew how big those drainage tunnels were and didn't think even a small sword could avoid getting stuck."

Shaking her head, the poisoner simply gave her a smile.

"Aye. That's my cute little sister. As wise and clever as any arch maester. But two lost swords in one city? Already it seems a small miracle."

"People are coming." Ophelia slipped the sword under her robes, falling into step behind her two sisters. Continuing to speak, and raising her voice a bit, Sarella made sure to at least partially block her from view and let Tyene catch the eye of whoever it was that was approaching.

"Well, you see, there are two hundred and twenty seven recorded house swords - though not all are actually swords. Amongst those, there are also believed to be an additional sixty four valyrian steel weapons remaining in Westeros. Of that number, as many as eighty one are perhaps lost, missing, or doubted to be Valyrian steel." A squad of guards in Baratheon colors and an annoyed looking man who looked almost exactly like a younger, thinner Robert stormed past muttering about something they couldn't quite make out. Sarella still continued rambling, knowing that if nobles were having a spat then little birds would be near.

"Of course, Maestar Redwyne, admittedly a hundred and twelve years ago, had also figured that there were at least another four hundred magical artifacts, ranging from armor to weapons to jewelry, still in Westeros proper. The most famous of these being the sword of House Dayne and the enchanted bronze of House Royce. Maestar Oldscribble, yes, that was his actual name, figured that of fourteen years ago those numbers were still correct, but that another twelve of the House Swords were now in doubt."

Now back in their room, the three girls secreted the blade under Ophelia's bed, next to Lamentation, and let the nest of very lethal spiders settle back into place. Tyene took the opportunity to smirk and, dropping her dress without a moment's hesitation had only one thing to say.

"And how would you like to be rewarded for finding all of them."

Ophelia threw a pillow at her.

Twenty minutes later a very confused Obara simply shook her head when she arrived to find a giggling Sarella and Ophelia sitting next to a tied up Tyene - still naked - whose eyes practically swore undying revenge.


Oberyn


Oberyn resented the need to travel north at first.

How could he not?

Those who inflicted so much pain and suffering on his family now demanded he hand over one of his daughters without so much of a 'if you please'. The Red Viper probably would have caused a war had he been allowed to send the letter he composed in response to their raven.

In fact, he'd brought said letter along and planned to read it outloud should he find the right timing.

And those were the moments he relished since this journey began.

Spending time with his precious children. Watching them bicker, plot, and scheme their way through everything together was a rare treat. Even dear Ophelia, so prone to shirking socialization in exchange for her duties to Dorne, was dragged away from her greenhouses and personal gardens.

Oberyn almost felt like letting bygones be bygones this time.

Almost.

He would have shoved his spear into the Fat King's back half a dozen times at this point, hadn't Ser Barristan been the one overlooking this small exercise session.

The Prince didn't have much against the King as a person.

In fact they got along famously.

But no matter how pleasant the man's company might have been, he was still the Demon of the Trident. Still the man who answered Aerys' violent challenge and rose to oust the Mad King. Dragging House Martell into a terrible war which cost Oberyn his most precious sister and her children.

No matter what… Oberyn wouldn't forgive.

He wouldn't forget.

But he could play along.

Because Ophelia had asked him to behave and he was putty in the hands of the young witch.

The same could be said for all of his children. Oberyn was very much a pushover when it came to fulfilling their desires. Though he suspected most parents didn't have to import purebred stallions from Essos, tropical beasts from Yi Ti and Sothrys, or the odd mixture from a reclusive cabal of southern shamans.

Such were the challenges of parenting.

It gave him the chance to see strange and unique sights. Such as the Witch of Dorne running side by side with the King of the Seven Kingdoms as both of them tried to catch up to Oberyn's eldest at Ser Barristan's urging.

"Try to keep up the pace, Your Grace."

"Fuck you and your House, Selmy!"

He sipped from his flask.

Truly, you couldn't find better entertainment this side of the Wall.

While Sarella drilled Elia, and a number of rather attentive young men, surely pure in their affection for such a beautiful maiden, in the proper technique of the longbow, Ophelia and the King, both wearing weighted packs of differing sizes, were doing their best to chase after Obara. An Obara that was barely sweating despite the fact she carried the biggest pack of all. Almost more amusing than watching his twig of a child go nearly as red in the face as their great lump of a king was Selmy's retort.

"Aye your grace." His lips twitched in amusement. "You just gave the group another lap. Or two. I don't quite think I'm tired yet and you could all use the… exercise."

Robert opened his mouth to say something until Ophelia, hair frazzled, forehead shining with sweat, gave him a glare. The kind that told a man he should shut up lest he lose something… deeply important. Oberyn truly wished his whole family could have seen the fat king quail, suddenly confronted by not just as an angry young woman but several suddenly highly annoyed birds.

'How cute can a child be! Oh ho. Elia, you sly devil, what are you thinking?'

Watching as his youngest strolled over to the legendary knight, the Dornish prince howled with laughter when the old man gave her an indulgent smile. And then sent the group a look that promised them almost as much pain as the mischievous grin his child shot her sister.

Oh if only Ellaria were here.

But unfortunately it wasn't to be.

His youngest weren't ready for a long journey and he'd rather they stay at Sunspear or the Water Gardens with Doran where it was safest.

Though he did have to admit his tasks were progressing smoothly so far and he'd soon be compelled to send another letter, hopefully not by raven, about how the alchemists were nearly packed. And how the royal procession would be leaving a bit sooner than anticipated and that they would be accompanying the King up North. It served the older Martell and his designs just fine. Though Oberyn wished Doran would give him some leeway.

He'd barely have the time to bed his usual string of conquests.

"I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. The Lady Byrch has been an amusing distraction. But now that her husband has won her good graces again she only visits every other night." Heaving a put upon sigh, he shook his head. "Oh woe is me, to have fallen so low in the eyes of fair ladies as to be alone. What devilry these idle hands shall get up to."

Satisfied that the patter of feet running away meant that the servants spying on him were contented with that juicy piece of gossip - he suspected this was one of Baelish's, seeing as how it wasn't a child being sent to their near deaths - Oberyn let the wry grin slip away.

Moving with both alacrity and purpose, he cut through a number of side tunnels to poke his way out of a small entrance to the lower courtyard inside the keep but outside of the Holdfast. He'd only broken from cover once and that was to cross from the Holdfast to the rest of the fortification, but he was relatively sure he was still being followed. Frowning, he ducked around behind the stables, hopped a pen into a chicken coop, deftly strolled around a rather impressive pile of feces, and then made his way out next to the far gate. Opening up a small folded bundle of cloth, he wrapped a deep green cloak around himself and half raised it to cover his head.

Considering he had shaved for today and had a small bundle of papers stuffed in the front of his tunic, giving him a not so slight paunch, he was satisfied he'd slipped past the watchers who'd been following him. A thud, wet splat, and a cry of horror confirmed it.

Now feeling rather smug, enough he almost gave himself away, he slipped inside the stables, tossed a silver coin and a wink to the stable boy, and made his way towards where the guest's horses were kept. For this trip, he'd be leaving Not So Small the Third behind, instead taking one of his men at arm's mounts. A good, sturdy, utterly plain brown and white pinto. An odd creature, long in the leg, well set, but a bit too placid to be a proper warhorse the prince suspected the mare would soon need to retire. But, for the moment, it was perfect for his needs. Perhaps he would be his man a fine stallion in replacement.

'Wait. That does not smell like a horse.'

In fact, under the very animal smells that accompanied even the most well mucked stables was a woman's perfume. Lightly scented with a hint of… oranges, he would wager.

And, like any red blooded Dornishman, he was true to his mission. Said mission being to find out why such a well off, or at least well loved, lady was unattended in the stables. And possibly take her somewhere more romantic to bed her, if she proved agreeable to such a suggestion.

And then he looked at her.

And was forced to look up.

'Well now, that's a tall Lady.' He fought the urge to whistle appreciatively.

Not that there was much to see. She was covered head to toe in heavy plate armor and not the kind he had made for Ellaria to dress up in for some of their adventurous nights. This was a thick plate and heavy armor the likes which he'd seen men larger than himself buckle under.

Why, if not for her fragrant perfume, Oberyn wouldn't have spared the massive knight a thought.

But now? Well, he was definitely interested.

And when Prince Oberyn Martell was interested, he expressed it in the most blunt and direct way possible.

"Mighty impressive look, sweet lady. Though I'd favor some chainmail over the full plate."

Unfortunately that didn't have the effect he hoped.

Indeed. Oberyn found himself being pulled by thick gloved hands, feet dangling off the ground as the mysterious Lady Knight picked him up like a rowdy toddler.

Oh, he liked some fire~

"Who are you?!" She growled out, a very definitely female voice echoing from within the black great helm.

"Prince Oberyn Martell, oh mighty warrior woman, and might I inquire as to your name?"

She stiffened, perhaps she finally recognized him? Oberyn lacked some of his striking look when missing his usual clothes.

"And what are you doing here?"

Ohoh? Not backing down from a prince? Color him intrigued.

"Currently? Getting picked up by a rather impressive lady knight. First time for me, I'm afraid. Normally I'm the one doing the picking up, if you catch my meaning."

When the woman growled he couldn't help smirking which, in turn, forced her to visibly relax. He could tell by the way her hands were flexing that she wanted to hit him - an excellent first step - but he had to admit he was a bit disappointed when she sat him down. Stiffly bowing, she quickly took a step back, so as to be less tempted to throttle him he suspected, and he bowed back.

"I apologize for striking you Ser."

"Oh, no need for that. You might have struck me dumb, but I'm sure my daughters would agree that I was already a bit addled at the best of times. Now, shall I continue to refer to you as Dame Greathelm, or shall you grace me with a name?"

"Waters, Ser."

Her response got a quirked brow from him.

"I could tell that much from the absence of heraldry and your accent. Dragonstone, if my memory serves me. Unfortunately, as you know, striking a prince has very severe repercussions."

Once more she tensed, likely expecting him to try and force himself on her.

"But I suppose I could keep your secret. For a price."

And, once again, his excitement was dashed. The fight just went straight out of her! Obviously she was expecting some terrible sexual favor or other evil.

Oberyn, obviously, was deeply, deeply offended. He had more skill than that! Why in the world would he force himself on a lovely woman when he could leave her wanting more!?

"If you'd allow me to gaze upon your face I'm sure I'll be able to remain quite silent about me discovering you grooming your mighty stallion. After all, what young woman doesn't adore horses. They're far more sensible than men after all. More hardworking and loyal too."

Grunting, she seemed to consider killing him again, perhaps wondering if she could hide his corpse in the back of the stables. Just to be safe he palmed one of his hidden daggers. But luckily, for them both, the knight gave up and removed her helm. And Oberyn was… most pleased.

"I thank you Dame Waters." Taking in her rich, black hair, tied back in a tight bun, the smooth angles of her face, and the stunning brown eyes he was… most pleased with his discovery. "Now, I am terribly afraid but I must away. Noble deeds and much derring do and boring meetings with old men to attend."

Bowing deeply, he took his leave, leading the chosen mare out of her stable with a pat. The woman warrior had her helmet back on just as quickly as he had turned around, though that was the benefit of not currently wearing an arming cap, but he gave her a jaunty salute with a horse whip when he left. That she didn't do more than pause for a moment when he did so told him he was on the right track. But, unfortunately, he hadn't been lying and he did have a meeting to get to.

'I've also spent an immense amount of time on this.' He paused, tossing himself onto the mare. 'Maybe I should ask Ophelia to snuff out a few little birds.

His darling daughter was no stranger to the games of shadows. Something she'd proven quite adept at when others first started investigating her. After all, rumors that the Martells had come upon a priceless resource had to be verified.

More than one merchant had tried to bribe palace staff to bring them information on the ever elusive Witch of Dorne.

Their only saving grace was how isolated Sunspear was in comparison to the other kingdoms.

You couldn't just send a spy there. The trip was long and very few were willing to remain down south for long. Even the Master of Whispers himself had failed to gain a foothold because of dear Ophelia's meddling. Though, admittedly, that had to do more with the isolation of Doran's court, the sheer breadth of the Martell family's own kinsmen, and, bluntly, the loyalty of Ophelia's own counter intelligence network.

You could only hide for so long when every bird and rat was looking for you.

Varys, should he have tried hard enough, probably would have been able to thoroughly infiltrate the Shadow City. But that was that and not the palace itself. Now, though, with so many foreigners in the city? It would be child's play to slip into their midst. Thankfully though, that was also a shield. With the sheer weight of foreigners in and around Sunspear's main settlement - the Shadow City itself arguably being the only true city in Dorne at all - everyone was on high alert.

'I am glad Doran at least agreed to increase our guard to eight companies of men. Two thousand men at arms is less than even the King could expect. And he's too lazy to actually ensure the Goldcloaks are his.'

Maneuvering through the city, he let his thoughts drift to what he'd be communicating to his
brother in the next letter. Firstly, the overall state of King's Landing. Doran's expectations had been thoroughly surpassed and most certainly in the worst possible way.

He'd expected Robert to be an unattentive king. A slob unwilling to handle his own affairs - choosing to delegate those duties to whoever his Hand deemed effective. The fact Jon Arryn was dead proved such confidence as unfounded.

Because of this the Seven Kingdoms were teetering on the edge of a precipice. Very few of the King's allies remained loyal, his own brothers sensed this weakness, and Doran's schemes had seemingly passed unnoticed. Had they known, Oberyn was sure the King would have had them incarcerated the moment they arrived, if only because he was impulsive and prone to taking offense at the smallest slight.

Instead, Oberyn was faced with a pit of serpents, all too willing to double cross one another for the slightest advantage.

He found the comparison humorous.

After all, was there a more fitting place for a Viper and his Snakes? Already, he'd heard of their accomplishments and plans. Ophelia captured the attention of all who saw her acts of mystery and wonder, casting a wide shadow for within which he and her fellow snakes could act unimpeded.

Be it the King, Varys or whoever else believed they could trick her… Oberyn couldn't help but pity the fools.

Because he knew all too well how terrifying the Witch of Dorne was.

Even he himself couldn't do anything without her knowing.

Ophelia had already found her perch atop the Red Keep. And before her eyes, they might as well be small ants crawling on the palm of her hand. That was reality for those who lived in Sunspear and it would soon be the same here.

It was only a matter of time. But, as he came to his destinations, he pulled his thoughts from the past and the future and focussed on the now.

"Gentlemen." He threw the head of his cloak back as he came to a stop. "It's good we're all here." His mare came to a stop, tossing her head as they settled into a small courtyard. "We have much to discuss and little time with which to discuss it!" The captains of the sell swords were many - eight - and all of them were eying the others. "But first, your down payments."

Eight small pouches of coins were pulled from his robes, one after the other, and tossed to each of the men. Some opened them, testing the gold dragons within, others simply slipping them into their cloaks. What was important is that their immediate complaints had been forestalled and he would have the initiative.

'Fifteen dragons to eight captains, five to my own man when my daughter bought his silence, were it not for the trinkets dear Ophelia has recovered I fear this trip might have burned through our pocket money.'

Once they were done biting the coins he smiled gaily, spinning his horse about and striding straight into the middle of the group. After all, he had a mission to complete here.

"As you all know by now, we, that is House Martell, are in need of good men."

"Aye." One of the commanders, a fat man who wore a fine tunic and had a jeweled sword belted at his waist. "You're playing games with the fire makers. And the dock workers whisper how sell sails gather in Dorne. If your brother wants to scourge the Stepstones what need does he have for swords? What are you really doing here?"

Adopting a wounded look, he thought he had memorized the faces of all eight of the men. Still, he kept his mare in movement, a slow walk around the inside of the circle.

"Well, we do have a few shiny trinkets that will need an escort back to Sunspear."

"So you want to hire three or four thousand mercenaries to 'guard your treasure'. You didn't pay us enough to pretend to be stupid." This one was actually armored. Chain mail, pauldrons, even spaulders and cuisses and greaves. His shaggy black hair and squinting, bright blue eyes told the Dornishman this was a Northerner. "Tell me what you're here for now or I'm leaving. I'll not get my men butchered trying to usurp your brother."

"Peace good Ser. I have no plans of usurpation-" That got a chuckle or a snort from all but the Northman. "What I do, I do in service to my brother. If you have need of proof, then I offer a letter - penned and sealed by his hand and signet each."

"Then why are you dealing with the pyromancers and what need have you of sell swords?"

Weasel-ish in appearance with grey eyes and dirty red hair this captain had the look of a Frey about him.

"And you are Ser…?"

"Ser Walder Frey." This got another round of laughter, this time quite mocking. The Frey man reddened. "Fourth of my name. And captain of the River Lances. Eighty true knights, sworn to contract and duty! Along with as many squires and three times as many foot men. Who here can boast to command as many as I!?"

"I can." Oberyn's words chilled the group, the sneer and disrespect clear in how he dismissed the embarrassed Riverlander. "And more besides. But that is not why you are here. You have been paid for your time, I offer you proof of your purpose, and now I must know. Will you assent?"

That was enough for the Frey. Purpling in rage, he drew his sword.

"You are far too cheap Dornishman! Your head is worth far more than your pitiful bribe!"

Four other captains present snarled at their fellow conspirator, muttering about how he had been baited too soon. Of the eight mercenaries there, three were genuinely confused. The fat man, the Northman, and a pretty essosi with brown skin and hair that looked more like a slim beauty than a killer all seemed unsure whether to retreat or leap to his aid. Oberyn had no need to hesitate.

Spinning the mare, a trained warhorse even if she wasn't a destrier, the girl reacted to his command and promptly smashed her steel shod feet in the charging Frey man's chest. Armor, a cuirass of castle steel that was two sizes too big for his slim frame, dented. Ironically, that was enough to keep the weasel's chest from being caved in - even if he was still knocked to the ground with a scream. Drawing his horse whip back, he struck out at the nearest man. Catching him full across the eyes with the thick, braided leather the sellsword stumbled back with a scream.

And just like that there were three.

Rallying, the other sell swords, the ones likely seeing an excellent opportunity to get an early bonus, rushed to his aid. The fat one drove his jeweled sword through the throat of the one Oberyn blinded before, despite the immensity of his frame, twisting to the side and dodging the mace of one of the remaining foes. This one fell to the essosi, who, having held back with their spear, drove it under the arm of the man into the weakest point of his armor.

The Northman fell on a fourth with a cry, smashing his axe into the man's shield and battering him to the ground. Oberyn kept him from being flanked, drawing his sidearm - an arming sword - and engaging the last man with sword and whip.

Smashing his sword against the final man's guard, he used his superior positioning to force the man to raise his hands to block. Then he pushed his mare to bite. Screaming, the mercenary dropped his sword, cradling his bloody, crushed hand. Oberyn chuckled as he danced his mount closer and slashed his blade across the man's face.

And just like that, the battle was complete.

Three of the mercenaries were dead, two lived, and the three loyal men now looked very anxious.

"Bring me the two survivor's please." Patting the mare's muzzle, he coaxed his into spitting out the fingers it had bitten off. "And feel free to help yourselves to their share of the coin. Evenly of course." Eventually, with the man who had been wounded under the arm and the Frey before him the Red Viper smiled.

"So gentlemen, who was it that paid you? Oh, and before we start the torture, the first man who tells me what I want to know gets to live. The other… well, I have this lovely knife here and I've always wanted to make a man eat his own cock and balls."

It was telling the Gold Cloaks didn't even bother showing. Oberyn counted that in their favor this time.


Marwyn


"And that's why Maester Lorcan always wears a strip of cloth around his forehead."

His declaration was met with stunned silence from his charge.

"To hide his… third nipple?"

"His third nipple, yes." The mage cheerfully confirmed. "Mind you, we had no idea that those weren't dragon scales and the man was rather impatient to experiment with the new tonic he was brewing. He's lucky, all things considered."

As was he, now that Marwyn came to think about it.

Leaving behind Oldtown for a life of intrigue and mystery alongside the Red Viper and his brood had perhaps been one, if not, the best decision of his life. Walking alongside such fascinating people as they waltzed through the ancestral home of their ancient enemies was something he'd ever read from fictitious works by his most whimsical colleagues.

So many stories to tell. There was enough to say about the fabled Witch of Dorne that Marwyn felt he could write two diaries worth of theories and random pieces of knowledge they managed to gleam together.

"So, Master Mage, is there a particular reason we're coming to this exact shop?"

He smirked at Sarella's question. Truly, he was far more pleased with his latest gamble than he had any right to be. The fact he'd be facing censure - at best - if he ever returned to the Citadel aside, he'd found a girl he was relatively sure would make an excellent apprentice.

"I have little doubt that will be perfectly clear the moment we arrive."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, clearly a bit less accepting than her sister, still followed quietly. The three were moving on foot, not truly bothering with a disguise, but at least trusting in the crowd to cover their movements. Well, that and the witch's own ability to cover them. That was rather considerable.

"The largest shop on all of the Street of Steel? Surely you aren't just bringing us to the most well known of locations." Sarella's words made him smirk, it was clear she was mostly thinking out loud. "Weirwood and ebony doors, fantastical armor work outside, what looks like a stone barn out back." He nodded, making sure to purposely look up and down the area, hoping she'd notice what he was doing. "Also, it's a bit segregated too, but not isolated from the rest… almost like they… respect him?"

"But it's what's inside that matters the most, yes?" The witch gave him a look that told him she was reevaluating him. "If that boy is who I think he is, I must beg your answer to what exactly it is we are here to do."

"No cheating!" Reaching over and gently swatting her sister on the shoulder, the young scholar to be - Marwyn would be damned before he let the girl's mind be wasted by those idiot Maestars he was so woefully chained to - grumbled. "We are standing in the middle of largest collection of armorers and black smiths in Westeros, the heart of the military industry of the Crownlands, and the Street of Steel itself is often said to be second only to the workshops of Essos. And if we're here to see someone and that someone is not the master smith… then that means it must either be magic or politics." Her eyes narrowed. "Please tell me we are here for something other than games?"

Ophelia reached over and patted her shoulder - in exactly the same spot she'd been swatted - and almost managed to pretend to be comforting.

"Just an hour or two of politics first. Then a bit of magic."

The old man practically roared with laughter when she pouted.

"No-no more." Marwyn barely managed to get out. "We should not make a scene. Go inside you two!"

Stepping past the grand gate they were faced with a large, but mostly practical estate. A house with a dozen or so rooms facing the main entrance, spread across three floors, with a slim, pretty girl obviously there to welcome them.

"Hello miss. Would you please get your master for us. We have a commission that I imagine he would rather kill himself than refuse." Ophelia eyed him again, clearly suspicious about why, exactly, they had come to this place. "He should be in his workshop, the one located in the secret room in the basement. Tell him the Witch of Dorne is here. Go."

Frowning, Sarella watched as the girl, wide eyed, moved to do as told, not given the chance to so much as speak. Turning to her sister, she shook her head.

"Why be rude to a servant, sister, what has offended you so?"

Cutting her eyes away from him for a moment, the old mage wondered if this might have been a mistake.

"The master of this house is a sorcerer of some kind and there is, unless I am utterly blind, a great bastard currently hammering away in his forge." The den of metal being worked on and the noise of the street would have blocked their conversation from any eavesdroppers so it seemed Ophelia had relaxed enough to be honest. "What's more, there are two or three other men in this city that can perhaps work Valyrian steel. Why come to the one with the child that could get us in a great deal of trouble."

"Come now child. You and your kin are perfectly capable of leaping head first into danger without my aid." Marwyn figured he was safed when she sighed and shook her head in agreement. Ophelia, after all, might have a temper from time to time, but the girl was rather fair. "But yes, I confess I had hoped to see if the boy was learning more than just metal working from his master. Could you imagine the power he might be able to wield with the blood of a king so readily available?"

Marwyn, as always, was guided by his curiosity.

It was why he'd used what few contacts he had in the city to get in touch with the old sorcerer who dwelled under the guise of a blacksmith. And as he was wont to, Marwyn had uncovered a secret all by his lonesome. Just not the one he expected to find.

"Though I admit that I am a touch amused to see you are not surprised by the revelation of a great bastard."

The Witch, inscrutable as always, gave a silent huff.

"The King is a whoremonger. I just assumed from the fact that the boy is the spitting image of a younger Robert."

Marwyn would admit that it was hardly difficult to reach that conclusion, doubly so considering that the king had likely bedded literally hundreds of women in his time. Was it any wonder the man had a litany of possible bastards walking the streets as of this very moment? In fact, the secret was so poorly hidden, a random person could come upon it with rationale and simple investigative work.

Who were the women Robert favored, which ones had been 'sickly' over the past years, and if any one of them had recently perished? Not even an uneducated fool from Flea Bottom would believe that the rash of pretty women coming and going from the Red Keep would be anything else than mistresses bedded and dismissed, if only to save them from any unfortunate… accidents.

"I would deeply appreciate, Lady Witch, that you do not scare my staff." Tobho Mott was much like himself, Marwyn decided. Clearly starting to show his age, his pate was smooth and short, white beard clung to his jaw. And just like him he wore a chain. Though the master smith's was that of a large, fat sapphire hanging over the top of the leather apron he wore instead of a maester's heavy links. "The girl fears you mean to curse me dead."

"Perhaps." Marwyn was actually a bit surprised at the sudden coolness in Ophelia's voice. Had he sorely misjudged something? Had he misjudged the girl? "But first I would need to know what kind of blood it is under your nails."

Snorting, the other old man crossed his arms.

"Chicken's blood. For a color changing spell."

Her eyes went white for a moment, Sarella very carefully positioning herself between both the smith and Marwyn. Thankfully the tense moment passed quickly enough and the girl returned.

"In my defense, you have a jar of human hearts sitting on your table down there."

Surprisingly, this drew a grin from the old man.

"You really are a witch. And a powerful one. Tell me child, do you have a Master?"

Marwyn held his tongue, interested in seeing how she would respond.

"I have a very horny sister who takes after the Targaryens."

"Hah!" Barking with laughter, the sorcerer smith waved them inside. "Come, come, you said there was a commission I would kill myself for missing? I do hope that you have something - oh." Marwyn withdrew the pair of long, cloth wrapped packages from his robes. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's particularly sharp metal, then yes." Sarella snorted at his joke and the old man was glad her body language had mostly relaxed. Though he did make a note to avoid any such similar surprises in the future. "Lamentation and Orphan Maker. Recovered by the diligence of the two young women here."

Ophelia snorted.

"I found Lamentation by sheer weight of eyes and it was Sarella who convinced me to look for Orphan Maker. Thank her for the opportunity to revive two blades of such quality."

The master smith.

"Since I assume it will be your father's gold paying for this, I shall thank him. This will not be cheap. Obviously, the blades themselves are fine, though both need to be properly cleaned, but they both need their guard, pommel, and grip replaced. Sheathes too."

Now he spoke, attempting a small subterfuge. Even then, Marwyn was still a bit hesitant if this was the right path. Or if he was courting the worst kind of disaster.

"And will the blood of a king suffice for the changing of the color of Valyrian steel? Or is more required beyond that." This time Ophelia remained quiet when he paused, clearly content to see where this was going. "Of course, we would be more than willing to assist."

"Ah. I see. You wish to know my spells." Waving his hand, the man of Qohor walked back into a room, calling over his shoulder. "Then ask her. I am from the City of Sorcerers and I know less than the girl child. She could teach you ten times the magic that I could. For cheaper too. I am an old man and expect to be paid well for the little time I have left."

"Then a trade then." Marwyn watched as Ophelia walked forward, the girl locking eyes with a broad shouldered, blue eyed apprentice as he entered the shop. "Secrets for secrets. Spells for spells. Fair enough, wouldn't you say young man?"


Obara


Obara, much like her father, was a woman of action.

A warrior first, a schemer second.

So the trip to King's Landing had been rather frustrating. Surrounded by enemies she couldn't simply run through with her spear as she would have liked, the eldest Snake was relegated to playing the role of support to her savvy sisters.

That was not to say she hadn't been productive.

Not at all.

She'd made sure to touch base with father on their… temporary allies earlier on and then went about checking on the Red Keep's defenses.

Up to and including the Kingsguard.

And she was for the most part disappointed. With the clear exception of their leader and, oddly enough, the Kingslayer, the Kingsguard was a faded shadow of its illustrious past. Most of them little more than glorified butchers looking to be rewarded for their not at all impressive service. She wouldn't get started on the King's sworn sword either. Even if it had been amusing watching Tyene make him flinch when she had her little… court start playing around with those candles.

Standards had dropped and sunk through the mud.

These days all you needed was armor and a big fucking sword to be called a good knight.

The training sessions with her sister, however, had been a rare treat. Not often did Obara have the chance to see her enigmatic sister huffing and sweating like a newly minted page. It helped remind her that for all her mystery and knowledge, Ophelia was still very much human.

A human in need of exercise.

By the gods had she slacked off on that front.

'I'm almost tempted to say something to Tyene. Mention how Ophelia could benefit from some stamina building exercises. I wonder how amusingly she'd choose to interpret such a thing.'

The King joining had been a unexpected surprise.

But a welcome one.

'At least he has a sense of humor, even if we are probably going to kill him at some point. I'm not sure how much longer Father can handle this… dry spell he's going through. I fear Ellaria may have spoiled him and that he shall do something rash when we're not to keep him from dying horrifically.'

Undoubtedly, a bored Oberyn was a dangerous Oberyn.

In more ways than one.

Hopefully the contingent currently arriving would alleviate his boredom. The last thing they needed was for him to pull a Tyene and take someone he really shouldn't to bed.

He'd done it before.

Five times, in fact.

"Lord Dondarrion, hail and well met!"

And just like that her father rushed towards the still falling gangplank, dodging under it as it slammed into the ground, and half crawled up the side of the ship just so he could clasp arms with the laughing Dornish knight sooner.

A young man, with a black satin cape, Obara thought the Lord was the picture of a brash youth. Her own body count undoubtedly exceeded his, perhaps even by a few times over, and that was a totally reasonable method by which to measure his suitability to play whatever game it was that Uncle Doran had them running about for. If nothing else, when she spied the Darkstar of all people, she knew things at least had the chance to go hilariously, violently wrong in the worst possible way.

Clearly the lad was angrier than usual, she could from the way his jaw clenched and his eyes practically smouldered with hatred. 'Tyene might be getting a new plaything.'

Obara would take no chances with a boy as jealous and envious of her own kith and kin as him. He would either learn to get over the fact he wasn't the Sword of the Morning or she'd have him humiliated and disposed of. Arianne's lover or not, the boy was dangerous.

Amongst the number was also Edric Dayne, whom she recognized as a playmate of Trystane's back when they were both young enough to run around the Water Gardens swinging at each other with wooden swords, and now a lord himself. She smiled and waved at him, chuckling as the lad blushed slightly and waved back. Ignoring the way the crew members razzed the youth, Obara kept her eyes on the rest of the dismounting Dornish party.

Mostly they consisted of commoners and seemed to be mostly men at arms, amongst them a small group of archers, and totalled twenty men in all. What surprised her the most, though, was the Knight of Flowers himself came strolling down as well.

Behind him came just as many Reach men, though only half of them carried weapons - the rest being servants laden with several chests and bags.

"Ser Loras! What news do you have of my niece and her husband to be!"

She continued watching as her father greeted the third son of Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell. Another young man, and another handsome young knight at that, gaily returned the greeting, embracing the man he had once quarrelled with. But, what frustrated her more, was the fact that these were all young men. Skill aside, and she did not doubt that Ser Loras was far beyond her own skill with weapons, none of them were likely to understand the unpleasant side of warfare.

'Perhaps, then, I should approach the commoners? They would at least be more amenable to the realities of being surrounded and grossly outnumbered with everyone looking down their noses at you.'

She wondered what uncle Doran was thinking, sometimes.

Of course, she understood what the plan was.

Knew why it was necessary for them to move as they did and build a rapport with these people. Born in the lap of luxury away from the struggles and hardships of life, young men with fire and skill and steel and the urge to prove themselves to their families and the world. Their motivation for answering their call was glory.

Acknowledgement.

For Dorne this matter was much more personal.

It was their revenge.

Their act of rebellion against the Seven Kingdoms. A much more somber affair than the smiling eyes and quirked lips of these man-children could ever hope to understand. And it enraged her something fierce to see them act as if they were the generous benefactors aiding their cause.

Parasites, just as low as the things that crawled in the guts of dogs and pigs.

Obara was much too blunt to deal with their kind. It was why she remained resolutely silent even as her father engaged in pleasantries with the group. She wondered how they would react if they knew just a few hours ago he'd dispensed a group of pretentious cowards who betrayed them for coin.

"They'd whine. And before you ask, I know what you were thinking. You have your 'I hate these idiots' face on."

Obara grunted in agreement, side-eyeing her sister as she moved to stand besides her. Golden locks shining under the light of the sun. A modest dress covering her form, for once. Tyene had donned her mask of civility for the meeting, it seemed.

"I wondered when you were gonna pop out. Surprised father didn't ground you."

The fake septa giggled prettily.

"Come now. We both know only one is fit to punish me."

"And punished you she has. How was the couch last night?"

This earned her a sour look from her younger sister.

"Stiff."

Obara rolled her eyes.

"You did it to yourself. Flying too close to the sun. We were lucky nothing has come out of it yet." Not that they could have stopped her from doing it in the first place. Only Ophelia could pry Tyene's secrets from her and the Witch was far too busy these days to keep their wayward schemer properly leashed.

"Your trust moves my heart, sister. I only do what I must for the good of Dorne."

"The good of our family and of our kingdom are not always aligned, Tyene. You know that."

Looking on as they welcomed Reachmen into the fold, Obara couldn't help but feel her point was vindicated. After all, they cared not for Dorne's glory or the revenge of the Martells. They cared only for gold in their purses and songs to their names.

"It needs not be the case forever, Obara. Uncle is…."

"Playing a dangerous game. Wagering our lives on a bet."

"And as the pieces, it is our duty to stack the odds in our favor. That was the task given to us by our father. Why we abided by their foolish demands instead of ignoring them as we have in the past. Father would have done that and worse for the slight to Ophelia."

'That was different.' Obara wanted to say.

That was Ophelia.

Uncle cared for her far more than he did his other nieces. On some days, cared more about the witch than for his own children. Because she was knowledgeable and clever, and knew of things most only the old maesters did.

To him, Ophelia was not only a valued family member.

She was an opportunity.

A way to climb out of the sandy pits they'd been shoved into time and again by their enemies. A way to bring true prosperity to the people of Dorne and build something greater than anything their ancestors could have dreamt of.

If Uncle was willing to risk their prized Witch, Obara could only imagine what the rewards would be for their success.

"I'm surprised you're willing to risk her." The sheer noise of the docks meant their conversation didn't move more than a few feet, even then the two sisters remained focused on their father. How he interacted with the men around him. "Out of all of us, other than Nymeria of course, you should have objected most stringently against a gamble at all."

Tyene gave her a smile. One of those fake things she'd learned from watching others. And then, looking her in the eye, she let it fade. Cold, dead indifference replacing the almost saccharine lie.

"You say that as if there was a chance we could lose." Even her voice was different. Dry and cold, like the desert sands at night. "Like these people would treat us properly, handle us like snakes, like they are capable of even making the intellectual effort needed to realize that Westeros is not the whole world and their so called Game of Thrones-" Tyene almost spit the phrase, true annoyance and anger shining through. "Is worth risking a single drop of Dornish blood." And just like that, it was gone, the simple innocence back in place. "But Father and Uncle agree, theirs is the tune we dance to, and so we shall behave. For now."

By now their group was halfway back to the Red Keep. The Dornish retinue parted the crowds easily enough and Obara's glare kept any men away from the two girls. Being an utterly irritable bitch was effective enough that she had mastered the act. Especially when it came to keeping her sisters from doing something stupid.

"All I can say, little sister, is that for as much as I love you, I wish I could keep you in check." The eldest Sand Snake rubbed her forehead. "But I haven't been able to do that in a decade."

The blonde giggled, skipping ahead slightly.

"Silly Obara." Tyene's grin grew lopsided. "You never could keep me in check. But don't worry, I appreciate that you tried."

Unsure how honest her younger sibling was being, though she was still oddly touched, Obara opened her mouth to speak. And then she saw something that made her pale.

"Lannisters!"

Tyene whipped her head around, following Obara's gaze. Moving, quickly, they swiftly bullied their way through the mass of milling Dornishmen, one archer actually trying to flirt with the most deranged of the Snakes until she cut him to size with a quick whispered line, and reached their father just in time to see him go utterly, totally still. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open as if he almost couldn't understand what the man sitting atop a horse across from him was saying, and his hands were already moving towards his belt.

Grabbing Oberyn's wrist, Obara needed only one glance to confirm that, sitting atop a shiny white destrier, was none other than Amory Lorch.

"Seize my father! Men of Dorne, unless you want a war, stop my father!"


Ophelia


After the excitement she'd gone through since arriving at King's Landing, Ophelia reckoned she hadn't had much free time. Between exploring the ancient city, disarming fire traps all over it, visiting hidden sorcerers so they could fix legendary swords and being drilled into the ground like she was a fresh squire, the young witch hadn't been enjoying her vacation as much as she wanted.

Which was why she decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Doubly so considering her father was in such a mood. In fact, she'd be by his side if he hadn't locked himself in a room with some lady knight and the noble woman he'd been sleeping with. As it stood, the joke Lorch had made about her murdered aunt was… unacceptable.

She may not have known the woman, but just thinking about it made her hands clench into fists, hate thick and ugly welling up in her heart.

'I'm gonna need some balm.' Her fingers ached and were actually forming calluses. Which, objectively, were good things. But split blisters and torn skin still sucked until then.

"But at least I have you little guy." The tomcat currently sitting on her feet gave a loud purr, looking up at her with lidded eyes and what she would swear was a smug grin. "You do know I'm going to have to move, yes?"

He simply rumbled again.

"Do I need to make you move?"

Stretching, and making damn sure she knew that Black Tom was only moving because he wanted to, the ancient cat actually hopped up to a window sill with a surprising amount of alacrity for a feline his age. Which, admittedly, she did not know. But going by the white almost mane, the chewed ear, and the absolute disdain he held most of the world in… she would say it was rather impressive.

Napping at her hand, just enough to make sure she was paying him attention, the little animal brushed against a particular stone before sitting down and looking at her with bright, intelligent blue eyes.

"Oh? What's… this." Fingering the spot in question, she found that the brick was actually loose. And, prying it open, found a small clutch that, when released, caused one of the nearby doors to open. "How did you-" Muttering to herself, Ophelia turned to the small animal with a look of confusion. No normal cat, no matter how old, could be smart enough to know such a thing after all. "No. That's just, but how, Gods."

Closing her eyes, she waited until the bur of monochrome memories finished washing over her. They were confused, jumbled, as all the memories of animals were. More flashes of light and sound and things that ever her mind, flexible as it was, couldn't interpret. But she also had the context needed to comprehend at least a little of what she was witnessing.

"Rrrrrroooooowwwww."

With the tip of his tail flicking, the cat hopped to the ground, paws silently padding as he strolled across the hallway. Ophelia couldn't help but to think that, with that action alone, he seemed more the king of the Red Keep than Robert.

Following, she stepped into the room - dark save for the sliver of light that followed from the hallway. Still, she shut the door, her swarm more than able to give her a map of where she was. Walking behind her guide, she heard him give another noise, one that seemed like a low cross between a hiss and a yowl, as he scented the spray of another animal. Nudging him with her mind, the witch convinced her guide to set aside this challenge to his domain for now and continue with her little tour.

Coming to another room, this one cool and a little damp, she stirred up the whole of her swarm. Sending them to the absolute limits of her perception, she had them delve through as many tunnels as they could. Actively taking the shapes of them so as to give her a map.

"Perhaps, next time, you could bring Sarella with us? I would not mind her having a map of these passageways."

Her voice echoed in the dark, the crushing, all consuming blackness of a room without the smallest shred of light almost oppressive… at least to those that needed sight. Black Tom simply continued padding his way along, leading her straight to a long, winding staircase. Here the dampness was replaced, and with her swarm confirming it, she guessed that they had moved away from the seaward edge of the keep - closer to the innards.

Pausing, as if to think about it, her guide gave a rumbling purr. The taste of fish and… human fingers, she supposed, came to her. Ophelia couldn't help but wonder if her sister had already fed the little wizened creature a treat.

Once more pushing her mind into his skin, enough that her eyes began to flicker with the whiteness of the true skin change, she sought out the specific impulses she was looking.

Indeed, she thought, it was her sister. Or at least the clothes looked right. And in the memory, pulled out by the inherent closeness of her connection and the nature of the spells taught to her, warging was far more intimate than her previous control after all, she was able to recognize the clothes her sister wore.

This moment passed and, after Tom padded off, she took a moment to center herself, to shake off the lingering influence of CAT. Mawli had warned her, in those long months of tutelage, of the perfidiousness of most animals. But, most especially, house cats. That woman of Asshai, curiously enough, had eight skins, though how she bound them was utterly different from the wargs of Westeros. That three of them had been cats of varying size and temperament still spoke to the nature of the woman.

Returning to her current task, she was forced to quickly descend the stairs, depending on strategically stationed roaches, including one on each foot, to jog down to the bottom to meet her guide. All the time ignoring the protestations of her body and the demand to return to her room and sleep.

Interestingly enough, they had come to a large, open space with what felt like a small breeze coming through. Following it to its source, she found shutters and, managing to force the old wood to creak open, stumbled back with a cry when they snapped free. The light was blinding after so long in the darkness and Opheia was compelled to turn back to the stairwell until the spots had left her vision.

Opening the rest was thankfully easier, though she had gasped when she realized where she truly was. Massive skulls of black bone sat haphazardly stacked around the place. One, in particular, played host to Black Tom. Sitting atop the most massive head she had seen in this world, larger than even a bull elephant and perhaps about a third the full size of Atlas, was the skull of a truly immense dragon.

What was most disturbing, though, was that she could already feel… magic. It was weak and thin, barely lingering, but it seemed to press against her skin. Cold and burning hot at the same time, it felt hungry and angry. But, under even that, it was scared and confused and alone.

Sitting there, unblinking, she realized so much about the cat she had been following.

"This is how you have lived, how you survived such a thing."

Relaxing her hold over her swarm, intentionally pulling her power to herself, the witch knelt on the cold floor. She was wearing trousers today, the thin linen doing little to keep out the coldness of the stone flagons, but the warm sea breeze, carrying the tang of salt and thankfully only the stink of fish and not the otherwise ever present odor of shit that defiled this city, chased off the chill. Kneeling there, centering herself, slowly allowing every muscle in her body to tense and then relax, over and over, breathing in and out Ophelia let her magic reach out to touch the power around her, once more ignoring the aching of her legs.

She did not gasp this time, though it felt like cold fingers had closed around her heart, when a ghost appeared before her. It was a little girl, with features that were almost familiar. One hand was stroking Balerion's head - she knew the cat's true name now - and the other cradled a baby as close as it could. Slowly, oh so slowly, more and more appeared.

Some were easy to identify, the Mad King with his long nails and unwashed beard, others were simply unknown to her, and even the rest were faded. No more than almost ephemeral spectres lingering in the damp and dark.

Not speaking, she watched as they, as one, turned up and looked. She knew in that moment, without a doubt, that they were turning to gaze up at the Iron Throne. Ophelia felt their emotions and more besides bound up in the great metal chair, so heavy with curses and grudges that she was truly stupefied that she had missed it.

More than that though, the hundred or so ghosts, perhaps a few more, were bound to these skulls. Feeling a flicker of heat coming from the bone, somehow growing warmer and warmer as the moments passed, it was clear that magic still lingered in these skulls. Perhaps enough to fuel the echoes of those she was witnessing, their own blood and fire and magic bound to the only true traces of the Targaryens left in their bloody castle.

One stepped forward, the most worn and thin, and five words were projected into her mind. Each one holding the weight of a thousand, thousand voices, screaming and crying and calling out, the roar of flights of spiralling dragons, twisting stars and bloody ritual circles, flashes of images of horror and grandeur and beauty.

"Blood and Fire, my child."

And just like that, they were gone.

There was no rush of air, no sense of hate or malice, just a lingering smell of perfume and a hint of blood. The almost oppressive heat radiating from the skulls, enough to bring sweat to her brow and compel her to remove her cloak, was gone. In fact the room was freezing and she was shivering, feeling hungry and weak and even more sore and achy than before.

"Rrrrrooooowwwww."

Balerion licked at her hand, clambering onto her lap and purring. Scratching his ears, she knew what she had to do. Delving into his mind once again, almost meshing into the small animal's soul, she understood that he was more than just a cat. That there was more than an animal's magic and spirit in him. What she felt was, mayhaps, the mind and magic and powers of Rhaenys Targaryen and all of her kin too.

That this little animal who was so brave and bold and brash had become their vessel to act out revenge against those who had wronged and betrayed him.

Setting aside the memory of him stealing a quail from Lord Tywin, an amusing story she would share with her kin later, she found the genesis of that moment. Of when the little magic of a dead child, and perhaps her infant brother, slipped inside a creature filled with hate and spite - one who clawed the face of a knight to defend his mistress and had his back broken for it.

She watched the murder and rape of Elia Martell, the murder of Aegon Targaryen - watched as their heads were crushed in. Hers by the Mountain as he took her and raped her bloody. His when he was slammed into the wall.

She watched, impotent and yowling in rage, ignoring the pain as she tried to claw her way to the man stabbing her mistress, and curled up under her body as the light in her eyes dimmed.

The burning of the wing, how the flames passed over her skin and burned off her fur, but not consuming her body. Instead, how the injuries she felt disappeared as fire consumed blood and flesh, how blood popped and sizzled as each wound in her flesh washed away.

Ophelia felt her cheeks were damp when she returned to her own body. Touching them, they came away with tears staining her finger tips.

Stroking the fur of the little dragon, she wondered what all this meant.

What the words meant.

What the images meant.

What the animal's survival meant.

So she sat and thought, fingers sliding through fur without another thought.