AN: Hey everybody. It's Alvor first this time. So, we've got a big honking chapter for you guys, bit over 20k words. Nothing compared to some of the crazy post sizes out there, but, uh, it's big for us.
CW: We welcome anyone willing to leave a thorough review on this beefcake of a chapter. Nay, we challenge you who thought 12k was our limit. Just… don't expect this to be a regular thing. The stars really aligned in this instance. It also marks the end of the King's Landing portion of the first Arc. So hooray!
AtW: Now, this is the halfway point. Stuff in the south is officially done, they're heading North. I think we touched base with most of the major players (except, obviously, Stannis), and resolved all the King's Landing exclusive sub plots. Expect… three sub plots we started to be wrapped up in the journey North section, and only the main plot and procession sub plots to be started. I think all our cards are on the table and if we missed anything or anything is confusing at this point, feel free to let us know.
Chapter 8 - The Immigrant Song
Cersei Lannister
Cersei poured the two cups of tea herself.
It might have been something small, but as the light brown liquid splashed into the porcelain pot. For a moment, she focused on the curling wisps of steam. In the past few days she'd been doing more for herself - and her children - than she had thought she ever would. Aside from it being oddly pleasant, the fact she was still relatively sure she'd been drugged she found she just wasn't comfortable unless she was handling her children's food herself.
"Your grace?"
Looking up, she forced a smile and tried to relax. They were in a side courtyard, sitting under the shade of a gazebo, while the laughter of children came from the hedges around them. Discreetly stationed nearby, three of the kingsguard kept a very close eye whenever a servant approached.
"I apologize. Unfortunately my thoughts have been drifting lately."
The young woman across from her smiled more honestly than she had. Though Cersei wondered why that particular look seemed to be so… knowing. It didn't help that the girl was dressed like a servant. A plain blue woolen dress with only enough adornment to meet the concerns of formality, along with being shapeless enough to underplay her own attractiveness. It did a poor job in that regard and Cersei felt a small flash of envy at how casually at ease the young woman seemed as her own gold and black dress felt a bit like a chain around her waist.
In truth, she was self aware enough to know that if the girl had shown up wearing trousers again she would have been offended. Cersei herself had more than once cursed the fact she was bothered with looking pretty.
'How much easier it would have been had I been a man.' She lamented in the privacy of her thoughts. 'Then I wouldn't have to put up with gossiping spies flitting about me, thinking I didn't know they were all bought and paid for.'
But she also knew that, even if given that choice, she wouldn't take it. For nothing else, not even her brother or her beauty, was worth her children. And in that alone she felt superior to the near child across from her. Finery and gold aside - though it was not lost on her that her most valuable lingerie had been made by the young woman - she knew the love of two beautiful sons and a daughter who was a rose of gold.
But, when the young woman spoke, she felt a flash of deep envy and it took Cersei looking at her children - playing with Elia Sand, another of the Martell bastards - to snuff out that worm.
"Perfectly understandable. Having found wildfire in the keep, under the gates, and the sept, the shock of that threat to your children must have been sobering. After all, a woman such as yourself has many luxuries except for those reserved solely for men."
That statement felt pointed. Like her conversational companion was hinting at the obvious fate of Elia Martell. Slowly nodding, Cersei agreed.
"Personally, I have cursed my own lack of… physicality more than once." Adding a small scoop of honey, she gestured for the so-called witch to help herself to whatever she might want. "When you were training down in the yard with my lord husband, you moved like a killer." Taking a sip, she savored the warmth, letting the heat chase away the last hint of morning chill. "It was beautiful, in a way."
"Hardly. My movements were sloppy, my form is utterly out of practice, and I have forgotten just how much a single mistake can cost someone." Ophelia was stirring a bit of lemon into her tea, the young child's eyes dark and heavy. Cersei almost shivered when she remembered the obsession in Tyene's own gaze. "But I do thank you. Your words are high praise."
They sat in silence for a short while, the Queen wondering why she felt safer with the girl who was already building a reputation as an actual witch than she had just a few moments before. Perhaps it was the way her eyes softened when she looked at… Elia Sand. Her younger sister, almost innocently tomboyish in how she played and argued with her own children. Even Joffrey had agreed to join in a little when the girl began explaining how his crossbow was actually made.
'And isn't that just the oddest thing. In the last week I have come to encourage my children to play with a bastard.' She felt uncomfortable at the thought, not because of who the child was, but because it was so utterly out of character for her. 'Perhaps I feel gracious because of the issue with the wildfire?' Snorting, she shook her head. 'No. I highly doubt that. But they are happy.'
That was a good enough answer, in the end, for now. She was compelled to comment on what she saw, though, and was a bit surprised at the answer she received in turn.
"You look at her like she's yours. But you must only be a few years older."
Ophelia turned to the queen at the comment and, after a moment of thinking, shrugged.
"The first word she spoke was to call me mother. I was barely walking myself at the time, but we were inseparable. It was, of course, the accident of a small child and out of respect for my… I suppose you could call her a step mother - out of respect for Ellaria Sand, my father's paramour, that story remained private." Smiling, the teenager shook her head. "Motherhood is something I have spared little thought for, I confess, but recently… I do wonder."
Genuinely smiling, though a touch surprised considering how somber her companion's tone was, the queen couldn't help but feel a moment of pure amusement. Power aside, magic aside, station aside, one thing all women could connect over was their children. Or, at the very least, agree to keep their vehement belief in the unquestioning destiny of their progeny private. Mostly.
"Wait a few more years. Youth is, unfortunately, not eternal. And it is no mean feat to retain a figure after one child - never mind three." Here she shook her head, finishing off the tea. "I had to, of course, when you just find that someone it stops being a question. You'll understand."
"I defer to your superior wisdom, my queen." Ophelia inclined her head, quirking an eyebrow.
"Calling me old, dear child? Should I tell your dear sister that her work in securing an alliance was wasted because you insulted me?" At that, the other woman turned an interesting shade of pale. The kind that jumped past horrified to 'please God no'.
Chortling, the queen felt a deep abiding sense of amusement. Eventually, though, the topic turned as it always did. And unfortunately the topic of conversation was the one that was most obvious.
"It would be an understatement to say that there is bad blood between us."
Ophelia turned to look at her and Cersei felt a small tremor of fear.
"And if I told you I saw it happen, would you believe me?"
Every animal, every insect, even the wind itself fell silent. Cersei poured more tea, the pot coming off the smouldering burned with the ting of metal. That silence was so unnatural it was almost absurd. And, in that moment, she confessed she was mostly glad that at the very least the witch across from her was pleasant to look at.
"Do I even have the luxury of doubting you?"
Her response was short and to the point. But there was so much more she was asking.
"No." Ophelia's response was somewhat amused as noise returned to the world. "I do not think you do. But the question stands. Do you think I have magic?"
Cersei added no honey this time, letting the bitterness focus her.
"Truthfully, I am unsure." Her companion remained quiet, waiting for the queen to finish her thoughts. "I must ask what magic is. What a witch is. And then, in turn, what it would mean for you to be such. If I said you did not feel like a witch, would you be offended?"
Shaking her head, the much younger woman was calm.
"Would you pour me another cup of tea?"
Doing so, she had to wonder where this was going but, as she turned to replace the teapot only to pause. The flame was dead. The ashes cold. And then, just as suddenly, it flickered back to life. Embers smouldered and burst into bright, open flame, climbing up the sides of the burner for a moment until it dimmed back to a low smoulder. All except for a single finger of flame that, even then, continued to snap and crackle and dance in the morning breeze.
A grunt and the flame disappeared.
"It seems that is the limit of my control. Still, I am weak. My teacher could conjure flames that would dance, even sing, if you can believe it. Though she had to bleed herself to do so. Marwyn the Mage might be able to do what I did if he knew the incantations for it. Personally, I have always detested those that depended on wands and chanted spells and the accoutrements of the caster. But that is a prejudice born of luxury and privilege, developed because I have the will and strength to not need them for parlor tricks." Taking a sip of tea, Ophelia paused for a moment. Cersei couldn't help but notice she looked not the least bit strained. "But I will beg your pardon for such a graven display, your grace."
Fear was the first thing she felt.
For herself, her children, for everything. What use was a sword against a spell? If she could do this with ease, what were her true limits? Could she truly compel animals and speak in their tongue or was it a trick?
"Are… are all your siblings… like you?"
Ophelia smiled at her.
"They could be, with time and effort. But no. I have been told that my abilities are somewhat greater than the norm for a practitioner of my age."
"But I have heard your father is-"
"He gave himself a bigger penis."
Cersei blinked.
"What?"
Snorting in laughter, the witch shook her head.
"He spent three years seriously studying magic, just to learn a spell to make his genitals more… impressive. Is that not the sum and substance of a man? Utter, unwavering focus and dedication. Only so that he might be able to more thoroughly enjoy his lovers."
The queen couldn't help it. She threw her head back for a moment, stifling the loud howl of laughter. Instead, she forced herself to snort and chuckle until, eventually, she managed a response.
"Indeed. 'Snort' Jaimie was always interested in his, ah, sword. And you should hear Robert go on about his warhammer."
Both gave in to the utter fit of giggles, tittering away as the tension of the magic faded. It also gave Cersei time to think over, exactly, what that display was. Who it was for. And why Ophelia would make her abilities known to her. As the humor died down and the last of the tea was drunk, her thoughts turned.
"Lannisters always pay their debts." Ophelia met her eyes, Cersei's low words catching her attention. "And there is a debt between our two houses." Because in this moment she understood how poorly she was positioned. "Has your father ever wondered how his sister was found so quickly? Why there were no guards to defend her? Why Ser Oakheart was manning the front gate of the castle, yet did not stop my father's bannermen?"
Stilling, the witch very slowly shook her head. They were quiet now and after the mention of a debt between their houses birdsong had filled the air. Loud, almost in harmony, and so great as to drown out their words. Cersei couldn't help but shiver at the unintentional display of power.
"Pycelle opened the gates to the city. And he opened a side gate to the Red Keep. And he led those two men to where your aunt was. Or, at the very least, told them." She leaned back and the birdsong slowly died down. "What Ser Lorch said about your aunt truly was awful. I shall have to write my father about his unacceptable conduct. House Lannister simply can not permit such atrocious behavior from men selected to represent our interests."
Inclining her head, Ophelia played along well enough.
"Your apologies are much appreciated, your grace. I will communicate them to my father when he is finished enjoying the sympathies of two fine ladies."
"Two?" The queen couldn't help but chuckle.
"Aye. I am afraid he is rather spoiled. If it helps, I promise you that I shall not be curing the hangover he is now courting. Even if the hope that he shall learn a bit of temperance at his age is folly."
Shaking her head, Cersei couldn't help but agree.
"At this point I no longer complain when Robert comes to bed smelling of wine and other women. Even if I would wish he at least bothered to bathe beforehand." Grimacing, the queen managed to communicate her utter distaste with a single noise. "Greasy sheets are most unpleasant."
Ophelia rolled her eyes.
"In all honesty, I would be totally unable to handle the chronic adultery. In Dorne, at least, the two of you would be free to pick out a woman - or man, perhaps - together. That is a question I suppose. When I was speaking with my sister this morning, she mentioned the king was legendarily close with his foster brother Ned Stark. Do you think Robert, when he was a youth that is, and the Lord Stark had a tumble in the hay or two?"
"No." The queen smirked. "But I do think I intend to find out."
They shared a laugh. It wasn't a loud one, but they did, and it was oddly relaxing. Ophelia, the queen thought, was far less intense than her sister. Though that was not to say the witch was any less intimidating, rather she was simply less overtly hostile.
Off to the side, the queen spied as her two youngest frolicked through the gardens. Myrcella, always energetic, so much like how Cersei herself had been back in those happier days, chased after her older brother as he excitedly chattered about the labyrinth in the garden and how he knew all the secret passages.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it.
Two young children, just like them, playing and chasing after each other.
Carefree as only siblings could be.
His excited smile as he swung about a branch like it was a sword. Her running after him with an exasperated smile, with no regard for her dirty dress. A nostalgic feeling of acceptance burned in her chest as she opened her eyes.
It wasn't the same.
Not quite.
The youngest of the Sand girls joined them, a bag slung over her shoulder as she handed them play swords and… small sticks? They were polished artfully, and the way she twirled them about and made loud noises had Cersei look askance at her guest, who smiled thinly, swishing a finger like the younger snake.
The queen chortled.
Magic and sword, huh?
'I suppose they make for better games than playing Princes and Princesses.' She was sure her younger self would have gleefully joined, once upon a time.
Everything was better than playing the damsel in distress.
"It occurs to me my dear, that while I have provided tea, we have nothing to nibble on. Is there anything that you'd like?" Cersei couldn't help but wonder if Dornish cuisine was that different to that of the Crownlands or the Westerlands. "Anything at all, I think the servants are practically bursting for the opportunity to overhear any juicy gossip."
Smiling, if a bit ruefully, her guest acquiesced.
"This may sound a bit odd… but perhaps a bit of milk and a little fish? I've been spending a great deal of time with cats recently, you see." Chuckling, the queen shook her head.
"Do be aware, cats are haughty creatures. Best not take too much after us."
Strangely, Cersei was actually rather interested in how the other young woman would turn out. Their lives were so utterly different, after all, yet in moments like this she almost felt normal. Calling for the food and drink to be brought, her own mind slipped back to her youth. To, in particular, a very different kind of witch she had encountered so long ago. Perhaps, she admitted in the privacy of her own thoughts, she had been hasty.
Letting her thoughts turn, she gestured for the young woman to eat and drink and relax, even as she herself sipped at mulled wine. It was not a particularly expensive vintage, almost a bit tart even, but she had found the small bitterness of the mulled drink sharpened her wit a little.
Or at least snapped her out of her Summer thoughts.
Perhaps it would be worth her time and effort to try and solve this split between the royal family and Dorne. If only to ensure her children's safety. And so that, just perhaps, she might be able to bind this strange young woman to her house too. With her consent and support, obviously, forcing a loveless marriage on a woman who had been born to freedom would be massively unwise, to say nothing of her powers.
'Joffrey… is far too wilful. But perhaps she would not object to Tommen? In a few years, at least. Bastard she may be, Robert would be delighted to legitimize the girl and even if the price of doing so was to legitimize all the Sand Snakes, she'd suck Robert's cock and that would be that.'
"So your grace, I think you for the meal, but I feel there is one more piece of business for us to discuss, if you'd be interested?"
The girl's tone was a bit sleepy, and Cersei laughed a little when the witch yawned, but nodded her assent.
"Well, now that the city has been swept for wildfire, I find my mornings empty after training. It occurred to me too, that, with the upcoming procession, I might offer to teach you and your children how to ride a horse? A female tutor, after all, would be far less scandalous when you wore breeches."
A bit taken aback, the blonde queen was a little slow to respond, only managing to do so when it occurred to her exactly what was being offered.
"I thank you, but I must confess to being unsure. The time commitments aside, Tommen and Myrcella are a bit young to be learning to ride, and I myself am the queen. Thank you for the offer though, truly, I am touched."
Ophelia simply raised her eyebrows, almost amused by the response.
"Formality, now? The politics are done." Dipping a roll in her milk, the young woman sopped up the last few crumbs of baked fish. "It is an offer freely made. Besides, your brother would be invited. Give the children some time to spend with their uncle. And me a chance to ogle a pretty, famous knight."
Green eyes squinted in annoyance at the teasing tone. Doubtlessly the young woman knew exactly what she was doing and Cersei was mostly annoyed at herself for almost leaping at the chance.
"And if you were worried, I would be paying particular attention to the young ones. No harm would come to them and I would stay with them while they made their small mistakes."
And that was that. The queen wanted to groan.
'Does everyone know of my love for Jaimie? Is it so obvious how to bribe me? Am I so cheap as to be bought with a little time with my brother?' Sighing a little, she shook her head.
"Fine. But I expect you to actually teach us." Ophelia made to speak and Cersei raised a hand. "I am serious." Her tone was softer, kinder. "If I'm going to learn to ride a horse properly, then I would learn to ride a horse properly. Even if the offer of the most capable… overseer in Westeros is appreciated, neither I nor my children need be coddled." Somewhat aware of the hypocrisy of that statement, she amended her words slightly. "At least in this matter."
Throwing her head back, the dornish girl laughed, loud and clear, and wiped at her eyes after a moment.
"I yield to you, my queen." There was clearly mirth in the girl's green eyes, somewhat similar in shade, if a darker green, and the good humor between them was comforting. "I shall teach you to ride as best I can in the time we have before the procession leaves."
Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger)
"I am not an evil man, you know. I didn't have a good start, like most players. I was just the stubby little runt of lesser standing. Truthfully, I couldn't even swing a sword to save my own life." Baelish noted as he closed his window, pulling thick drapes over it, allowing shadows to shroud the room.
He was being truthful.
Rounding on his guest, Petyr relished the opportunity to be honest. To pull back the veil of lies and talk frankly with someone for what felt like years.
"But you see. I was born with this… need. This want. Nothing special, I assure you. I wanted what a man of my station couldn't have. The woman of my dreams. To rule from a great keep and watch as my loyal subjects prosper in my name."
It was a silly dream.
Every boy dreamed of being the king of their own little castle.
"But life didn't take kindly to it. I was punished for reaching beyond my means. Forced to take a stand for what I wanted. And I lost. Badly. I told you I couldn't swing a sword and unfortunately that's one of the few ways a man can carve a name for themselves in the world."
Petyr took his seat, reclining comfortably against the expensive chair. Expensive wood, with even more expensive cushions. Had it been any bigger he might as well call it a throne.
He liked the sound of that.
"Oh yes. Where was I? The loss of the love I held so dear and my own humiliating defeat. I'm sure you heard about it. Probably even laughed at it. Please, don't hold back on my account. Feel free to laugh all you want."
His guest remained quiet.
How droll.
Taking a sip from his cup, the man known as Littlefinger relished the taste. By the Seven, was he parched.
"Oh, where are my manners. Would you like some?"
The response came muffled. Growls and curses locked behind a thick strip of cloth.
"You see, my good friend. Life is all about opportunities. They present themselves, and you decide whether to take them or let them pass you by. I was never one to let opportunity slip through my fingers. It's why I am here today. And why you are here today."
He took another sip. The taste was divine.
"I've been a fool. Made mistakes. A few days ago, I was compelled to grant a favor to an acquaintance of mine. He wanted me to flash some gold at a few sellswords and have them turn on their employer-to-be. Nasty piece of business, you see. I didn't care to ask who this man was or why he wanted those sellswords."
Deniability was important these days.
One could never be too prepared for a trial.
"As it turned out, that particular machination backfired spectacularly, and now I find myself thinking on how to earn some rapport with this particular man. I'm sure you know about him. The talk of King's Landing, Prince Oberyn Martell."
His guest shuffled about, trying and failing to move his seat.
Why, if not for the nails keeping his chair fixed to the floor, Petyr dare say he might have achieved just that. Unfortunately, Littlefinger was a man who believed in being prepared for the worst.
Didn't stop his friend from flailing about and trying.
All the power to him.
"Incredible, isn't it? The power of a name. You can imagine someone just by hearing a few words strung together. Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident. A powerful name, no? How about Baelor the Blessed. A name fitting a beloved monarch, yes?"
Bending ever so slightly, Petyr looked closely at his guest.
"How about Littlefinger? Doesn't sound as intimidating, does it? Nor does it carry that flair for dramatics that the dragons had. But I am rather fond of it, these days. Everything I've done, every mistake and triumph, and there has been a great deal of both, has led to it. Perhaps it's even something to be proud of, though I do have my doubts about it."
And there was so much yet to do.
So much he still wanted to do. Until his name, the name he'd been given by others, became something to be envied and feared. A weapon to be levied against his enemies. Until the day 'Littlefinger' rose to take his rightful seat, Petyr Baelish had work to do. And so work he would.
"There is another name I want you to think about." He stood from his seat, leisurely strolling towards his bound friend. "A name that has gained a lot of power over the past few years. A power very few have known or seen. The power to move nations and make all who hear it take note. You know who I'm talking about, don't you? You were probably warned about her."
Ophelia Sand.
The Witch of Dorne.
The Shadow of Sunspear.
That last epithet was something he heard from a traveling merchant. A man he considered well learned and trustworthy. Someone who owed him favors and told Littlefinger all he could about Oberyn Martell's precious daughter.
The girl who saw everything under the sun… or so the rumors said.
"Could you fault me for my interest? Most ladies at court are so droll and uninteresting. Simple pieces to be moved around at one's leisure. But this single girl, barely a woman, demands the attention of the world. Her very presence commands that you pay heed to her. Why, I'm certain even my young self would have been mesmerized."
The weaker him.
The craven him would have prostrated himself before the witch in search of power. Would have tried to use her as he had used so many before. He would have failed to see the danger as a serpent coiled around his neck, whispering promises and sweet nothings.
And then choked him.
Littlefinger knew better. He could see her for what she was.
"I spent whole nights thinking about it. What could I offer to someone who has everything? Someone I don't understand and never met. Power? She commands all of Dorne. Fifty thousand lances and spears and all the swords their wealth can buy. Women? Hardly, if a sliver of the rumors about her sisters are true, I could hardly offer anything she doesn't already have."
Walking over to a desk, he ceased his pacing long enough to snatch up a book.
"The only thing I have that she does not is knowledge." It was a small, thin thing. Bound sheafs of parchements. "Obviously you don't know what this is, but the Lord Varys has been engaging in a… tactical reorganization. When your little birds can't sing for fear of being stung to death, then a good aviarius must move them away from what creature is attacking them." Baelish paused, almost chuckling. "Or at least find a new way to organize them."
Opening it, he displayed the seemingly random collection of scribbles, letters, and mundane receipts to his friend.
"You wouldn't happen to know how to crack his cipher?" Baelish tilted his head. "No? Very well. I might have almost considered worth keeping you if you had." He shrugged. "Still, I do hope you enjoyed your evening with four girls. They certainly enjoyed your gold, even if you needed a wash or three."
Making another circuit of the room, he laid out a few more things and picked up others. Small scraps of paper, his inkwell and quill, and all the tiny things one could possibly drop - all these went into a satchel. Several fat, heavy belts of tools and a… suspiciously well stocked cabinet were set down. This actually drew a chuckle from him as he placed the great collection of glass vials on top of the table, grunting a bit as he picked it up.
"Would you believe me if I told you this right here was what started it all?" He snorted. "A client asked me to make a few inconvenient things disappear. So I did. All of this was my reward."
Ignoring the noises of complaint behind him, the man in question ruefully shook his head.
"It seems a bit of a shame to spend it all in one place, but I have a lot of apologizing to do you see. Plus I was paid a nice, fat sack of dragons to make sure these were secured. Besides, if he wanted me to get rid of it he could have paid me to do so."
When there was a knock at the door, Petyr smiled to himself.
"And that will be your date for the evening. I think you claimed you were an expert at making Dornish whores moan and ruin their smallclothes, yes? If what I've heard is true… then I think you'll actually manage to do so."
Walking over, the Master of Coin opened the thick, heavy door.
"My prince Martell, my princess Sand." He bowed deeply. "Your evening's entertainment is ready."
Baelish kept his face straight, his eyes smiled and his lips curled up. But he couldn't keep down the terrible, horrible flicker of fear when he saw their smiles. The Red Viper, eyes burning with glee and his angelic daughter licking her lips at the sight of the gagged and bound Ser Amory Lorch before them.
Ophelia Sand
It was a strange thing, watching the spirits of the unborn move in the air, doubly so as a few seemed to delight in floating through the wisps of steam coming up from a bubbling cauldron.
Most of the time they didn't have form or shape, more appearing as wisps, but sometimes they would take the shape of the child they could have been, though those were truly few and far between. The Mad King was actually humming, dozens of the things swirling around the insane ghost. His sister-wife, looking almost sad, watched as the man tried to sing to lives that might have been.
Questions of the morality of the previous king aside, Ophelia couldn't help but wonder how the Targaryens had survived with so many lost children. She'd tried to count, to keep track of them, but it was mostly the presence of Daeron, the six month old babe of Aerys II, that let her keep track of the king's children. His older sister's spirit clung to him the closest, only the faintest echo of femininity coming from it giving a hint at that one being Shaena. Around them were also Aegon and Jaehaerys, the former being such a small babe as to seem grotesque, the other being a toddler even but somehow… sadder than the rest. Perhaps it was how his lips were blue and tongue purple, hinting that he had in fact been the victim of poison.
She had learned much watching the spirits, Balerion sitting with her in the Skull Room.
Sarella's advice had been particularly useful in guessing some of the other almost wisps, with the identity of many put down to paper along with their vague jabs based on the "feelings" each spirit there gave her. Though mostly their focus had been on identifying each of the adults.
As for the rest, those had been much easier. Ones like Aegon the Unworthy had been simple, though also the limit of the ones with defined features. Any Tagaryens older than them had features that faded rapidly. Certain ones, like Aegon I, were still strong enough to have a "presence". He and his sister-wives had strong sparks of magic that sustained their wills, even as their forms were eaten away by time and the lack of a body.
Some, like Brightflame and Aemon the Dragon Knight and Rhaegar also had a greater preponderance of magic, though the crown prince's was… warped. Like an instrument out of tune. Shiera Seastar was strong still, one of the strongest in fact, though most curious of all was the fact that the Bloodraven, one of the subjects of her dream, was not counted within the room.
Rhaegar, though, was an object of fascination. He'd come to her, three times now, and whispered in her ear as she slept. The first time it was a prophecy of the Long Night come again. The second a prophecy of Azor Ahai - which, according to Marwyn, was a figure from the legends of the Red Priests and that she should engage Thoros of Myr to learn more. Finally, though, she told him of a dragon with three heads. A song of fire and ice.
"Yet why do you not speak to me now?"
He was holding back, almost as if he was afraid, and had avoided her for the last few of her visits.
As had become habit, her days were routine. She rose in the morning, often finding Tyene in her bed, usually dressed, sometimes nude, only rarely finding that her older sister had partially molested her while they slept, and went to the training yard. There Ser Barristan and sometimes Ser Lannister would drill her, the king, and any others who were interested. The training was harsh and always left her sore, but Obara always knew what to do and say to push her just a little bit farther . Sarella had even taken to drilling her in archery, too, and had started requiring her to loose fifty arrows, admittedly nothing compared to Sarella own two hundred and fifty, with each hand before she was dismissed.
Still, she would soldier on, changing into riding leathers to cover the day's lessons with the queen and the royal trio - often accompanied by Ser Jaimie.
This would be a serious, if simple, lesson. She exercised total control over the horses and, aside from Prince Tommen bruising his arm once, there had been no meaningful injuries. Even that had only made the boy more excited, now that riding his old gelding had a spark of danger.
In a way, it had been charming to see Cersei praise it as a wound nobly won, after thoroughly making sure he was whole.
She had dallied a whole extra half an hour with her brother that day, though Ophelia hardly begrudged them such time together.
After her morning duties were complete, she'd retire for a bath and an early lunch, breakfast usually taking the form of an apple and biscuits eaten in the saddle these days. Once clean and fed, she would come down to the Skull Room, her lair in the castle, and meditate.
It was a rare day when a new secret was whispered in her ear, but the Targaryens welcomed her amongst their number. Queer, for the fact she know her dragon's blood was thin indeed, though Marwyn and Sarella were investigating the turn of phrase "blood and fire" and what that might mean. She had brought both, and her father for that matter, to the room.
All had been affected differently, with Oberyn most deeply struck.
Somehow, the man had felt Rhaenys's hand touch his own.
She did not begrudge him his happy tears, nor told anyone of what she saw that evening. Sarella had, had less of a personal interaction, instead finding her hair played with by the children before some of the female spirits whispered something into her ears that made her blush deeply and that the scholar-to-be refused to share with anyone. Strangely enough, she had not returned to the room since, instead taking Ophelia's notes and applying herself to the castle library when they were not exploring the secret passages together.
Marwyn had the most understandable of all reactions.
Gasping, the old man almost collapsed when he felt the spirits manifest, though he could not see them as she did. Rising up, he performed a few small cantrips, bowed, begged their pardon, and fled.
Several of their number found the entire thing deeply amusing and the man had, slowly, started to come to the room on his own.
In the afternoons, she did what took her fancy. Sometimes it was as vague as resting, or reading, or visiting with the king or queen, or simply spending time with her sisters. But sometimes it was more objective focused, partly that included visiting Tobho Mott or playing the tourist, the Great Sept of Baelor being her intended goal for today before she was interrupted.
"Despite what they did to you, I still can not find it within me to care."
Oberyn had sent Tyene to her. A Tyene that had a glow about her that spoke of a bone deep satisfaction. And no, Ophelia had not been jealous that her sister had found a lover.
"I actually would have preferred that." She frowned. "But I suppose you are neither the first, nor the last body that shall be disposed of for them." Before her was the form of Ser Amory Lorch. "But take comfort. I shall torture you no more."
He was pitiful, disgusting even. More like a mutilated, bloody lump of meat than a man. Still, she had seen worse. And it was all too easy to remember when the false knight had shattered her back, had murdered her mistress, had defiled her mistress's mother - that had been one of the secrets she had learned. So, whimpering on the cold stone ground, nude as the day he was born, he lay in the center of a ritual circle.
Ophelia's eyes were cold and heavy as she picked up a clay pot of wildfire.
"Whether justice or vengeance, I know not. But Amory Lorch, I burn away your flesh, I sear your bones, and I boil your blood. May your soul give life anew to those whom you had wronged."
Tossing the jar, the explosion was small and it was the sudden burst of heat that most affected her. Doused in oil, he burned quickly and brightly, too far gone to scream or do more than limply writhe as his flesh was consumed. The witch watched as the spirits of the dead Targaryens gathered around the burning man, seemingly drawing something up from the pyre and growing… more substantial from it.
Greater. Deeper. More.
She turned away, distantly concerned by the lead in her chest. A fierce joy and a sense of righteousness filled her thrumming heart, the approval of the beings around her driving deep within. The urge to rise up from this crypt and put the whole of the castle to the sword was intense, but, kneeling down, she closed her eyes and let it wash through her.
The hate and pain and rage and suffering of hundreds of years of being flowed into her, then out.
She was filled up… and hollowed out.
Again and again she breathed, letting each wave of emotion and sensation run through her, but never letting it drag her away. Soon enough, it was done, the last embers of wildfire was gone, and she was merely kneeling before a bubbling cauldron and nothing else.
Rising up, she snuffed the flames with a flick of her wrist, drawing up a number of vials and portioning out the bubbling fluid within. Twenty four doses secured, plus the testing dose for the dogs, she placed each clearly labeled vial into a hardened leather satchel. Securing the tie, she rose up from next to her station and summoned forth a swarm of insects to consume the remnants of her work. Turning to the stairs that would lead the most directly to the great hall, she let her thoughts drift as she climbed.
In truth, this kind of spell craft was easy.
Potions, poultices, and little acts of healing - anything she could accomplish in an hour or two - were simple. And it was also what she did most rarely in the free time she had.
Sometimes, she would go into Fleabottom, alone save for her Swarm, and heal those who were within her power to do so. Other times it would be as simple as curing a cold in a high born child. Rarely did she ever intervene directly to save a life, or help with a childbirth, or to be too close to any pregnant women or women trying to get pregnant.
Any child she was involved with delivering might be thought cursed or a changeling or fey touched and the issue with being known as a witch was, always, that people expected a price from her. That and her reputation for spending great amounts of time with utterly lethal insects were largely why she did not do as she did now in Sunspear, for as much as they respected her the small folk could also be rather mightily afraid of her too.
Some prices she invented on the spot, once demanding a man's peg leg in exchange for curing an ulcer. She returned it a few minutes later, having drawn out all the termites from within and having shown him how it had a small colony starting to grow inside.
Another time she had asked for a single, utterly blank silver coin from a minor court noble. A random request, one chosen for the purpose of being random, and it had amusingly become a sort of calling card for her reputation. It had also had the effect of making people wonder what price she would ask for from the king.
"And there she is! The woman I wished I had married!"
Curtsying, she accepted the praise and immediately deflected, even as Robert winced at the booming sound of his own voice.
"Your grace forgets that his queen is far more beautiful."
The tall, still heavy set man was looking slimmer. With the recent uptick in exercise, his face had slimmed somewhat though his gut remained more or less untouched. She would wager he'd lost maybe half a stone, perhaps a little more, in the last week alone.
"Bah. You're the one that cures these damn hangovers. That's it?"
She handed over a vial, before also offering the testing sample.
"If you'd prefer to give it to the dogs first, I-"
He chugged the thing, utterly uncaring that the servants laying out some late day meal saw him toss the potion back. Ophelia would have sighed if her father hadn't come by and snagged the potion from her other hand too.
"Thank you my dear. How wondrous you are to know of our terrible need even before we did."
Snorting.
"With you two, I have little doubt that I shall never run out of need for this particular concoction." She smiled, though Ophelia would be lying if she said there was much feeling to it. "Besides, I am a dutiful daughter. And what good daughter does not honor her father."
Oberyn's own grin grew a bit solemn. Almost melancholy. And then, finally, he was stoic. Satisfied, but less overly mirthful. He too drank his potion and she relaxed a bit when the stress lines on her father's face faded a bit. Both he and the king had gotten blindingly drunk the previous night, so drunk that Robert had missed his morning training. It was the work of a black liver and an iron will that let her father soldier through.
The king was just fat.
"I tell you Oberyn, let me marry her. I'll give you the Stepstones as a dowry. Hell, I'll give you whatever you want!" Chewing away at a piece of ham, the king waved a knife about. "I wouldn't be the first king to marry a witch either. And I remember one of them had his life saved by her."
This time she frowned.
"You mean Maegor the Cruel." His spirit lingered too, a black thing, noticeable in that it was still strong despite its age, but lacking itself in the magic of some of the others. "His witch-wife was a horror and caused not only a number of atrocities, but was a monster to match her husband. So too was he killed by the very throne you sit upon now… or so the rumors say."
Robert's response was to snort in laughter.
"Aye. Dragonspawn were like that." And just like that his mood soured, turning melancholic. "Took my Lyanna from me. Killed so many who did not need to die." Sighing, the great man seemed to almost slump. "Even my parents died doing King Scab's bidding. It's for the best they're gone."
Ophelia caught her father's eye and, at the jerk of his head, acquiesced. She had not intended to sober the king in the way she had. But, perhaps, she did not quite know what to feel seeing as she had just burned a man to death to feed the souls of those lost long ago. Sure, Ser Lorch was a false knight, a murderer and a rapist, and the worst kind of man. But, as her feet carried her away from the great hall, her thoughts turned to her own sins.
Alexandria, she did not regret. And now she could say she even enjoyed killing the woman for the games the false hero had played. Tagg was a monster too, a sadist just like Lorch. Mantellum was… necessary, at the time, as so many things had been. She regretted that murder. Coil she had enjoyed at the time and took pride in now - slaying him had been recompense for the terrible, terrible things she had done on his orders. And even as hard as she tried, she could never make up for the indirect suffering she had caused while working for him. Dinah was only one of a tiny few who had suffered because of her weakness and her selfishness.
Aster, she regretted.
Aster, she accepted.
Aster, she would remember.
There were others, but those had been less personal. The clones, Nilbog's creations, the Chinese soldiers. Strangely, the Yangban had been easy to kill, impersonal and faceless as they had been. Those that died during Golden Morning, though her memories of being Khepri were progressively more distorted the more she had merged with her Passenger.
Rhaegar's ghost floated up into the empty corridor, a number of low burning candles snuffing themselves out. His silver, dead eyes opened up and frozen lips tried to form sounds. A cold wind blew and the words he spoke seemed more to drift to her with the breeze than be spoken.
"A rapist's soul he was, in time a toll because, a child of thirteen, her brother cut open, her maidenhood broken, his blood a knife's sheen."
The prophecy was odd and jumbled, half rhyme and half nonsense. But she took the words to heart. Her kinsmen, however distant, were trying to comfort her and they had come to her. So perhaps she had helped avert some distant, future evil. Or perhaps she had really only committed another evil and sought to justify it.
She nodded to the spirit as he departed. Reaching out, the witch kindled the flames again, casting the interior corridor once more into light.
'In the end, the point is that I made a choice. I could have slit his throat or let him go. I burned him. That was my decision. Justifications be damned, I was true to my family. Perhaps that is all I need.'
Ophelia still felt like Just Taylor in that moment.
"O-phe-li-uhhhhh." And just like that, Elia of all people ran at her from, half tackling her in a hug. "Why are you brooding in some corridor! Ser Jaimie showed me this trick where I riposte and then kick my enemy in the, well, you know where! He said that cheating is how people like me kill people like him and Ser Barristan was gonna lecture him and everything, but then I pouted, and Ser Jaimie got out of the lecture and everything and promised to teach me more tricks too!"
Laughing, that feeling of insignificance, of crushing guilt and indecision and angst left her. Replaced by a fierce, burning fire she pulled her sister in tight.
"Love you kiddo. Come on. Let's go find the rest of us. Maybe do something together."
Hand in hand with her little sister, the witch let go of that tension as best she could, at the very least willing to be content in this moment.
Renly Baratheon
Renly was born to rule.
Even since his oldest brother rose up in rebellion and cast down King Scab, he knew that their family was destined for greatness. When Robert had made Stannis Lord of Dragonstone and him Lord Paramount of the Stormlands that belief was confirmed. And with Robert's children bastards, Stannis and Jon Arryn weren't nearly as discrete as they thought they were, he was the rightful king. After all, Stannis was a miserable, boring, hidebound traditionalist at the best of times.
He had the charisma, the connections, the gold.
'Not to mention the skills with the sword. Loras is definitely good for more than one thing.'
Of the three Baratheon brothers, Renly knew without a shred of doubt that he was the best of both worlds. More personable than Stannis, wiser than Robert had ever been. The Lord of Storm's End knew deep in his bones that he was better, that he could be better than either one of them for the realm. That he was fated to do so.
Destined!
But there had been… complications.
Robert, as always, was being difficult. Unwilling to consider his counsel as nothing but the aspirations of a younger brother seeking acknowledgement. And the less said of the Queen's family, the better. A den of lions waiting to take a turn on the throne that Renly's brother had won. Something which galled him to the core and something he could never, would never permit.
The Tyrells were like minded and thus a pact was formed between them.
A Baratheon was needed to sit on the throne. But theirs would be the honor of birthing the next king, of a dynasty that united the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach as one.
And then… came the news about Dorne.
More complications for his grand plan.
The Martells, often isolated and unwilling to branch out into the wider world, were making movements. And it was from Loras how Renly came to learn of their moves, seeking an alliance with the Tyrells. That his erstwhile allies considered it was more than enough reason for Renly to become suspicious.
What did they have to offer?
What could they have to give that Highgarden couldn't provide for itself?
The answer, as it turned out, was magic.
One of Oberyn's bastard girls had apparently become famous as a practitioner of magic, and through those strange mysteries, was turning the once bereft Sunspear into an oasis amidst the scorching sands. It was only natural that the Tyrells would try and align themselves with this new unknown.
To measure her worth, to see what they could gain, to insulate themselves against a rising challenger or possibly a resurgent enemy.
Renly disapproved.
Dorne would take years to become anything close to plentiful. Whatever the charlatan girl planned, Renly thought his soon to be in-laws shouldn't have bothered with. He was certain that the Martells were making noise, nothing more.
Magic had been dead in Westeros since the dragons died. And any tricks she possessed now were just that. Besides, Dorne was best known for bluffing. Their army wasn't even close to the fifty thousand spears others apportioned them, nor did their navy amount to much, not even with Doran Martell himself pouring gold and silver into wood and sail cloth. Nor did they even enjoy unity, the Yronwoods infamously holding a grudge against the Martells.
"Even if those snake fuckers have managed to advance their station, it can only be through the power of others." Warm lips pressed to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his torso.
"Relax my king." Loras's voice was husky, warm, and full of life. "Brooding will only make you as bald as your middle brother. And I fear that if you take to wine you shall end up as your oldest brother. I think the both of us would be most disappointed if you were unable to perform certain… duties."
Snorting, Renly rolled over in his bed, dragging his lover with him. Ending up with his Knight of Flowers holding tightly to him, the Lord Paramount felt a stirring down below. But, when he moved to indulge that particular sensation, admittedly for the second time that morning alone, his Tyrell love kissed him instead.
"Not now Renly. The sun's up already and we have to be ready to meet my family. Besides, you can't be late to meet your fiance. It would be most unchivalric."
Shuddering, the older knight couldn't help but let a little disgust creep into his voice.
"You're sister is a wonderful young lady, but just the thought of a woman… uh."
Chuckling, Loras kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and slipped out of the bed. Going for the chamber pot, the beautiful man Renly had been blessed to be able to love tossed his hair and yawned, jaw popping, before speaking.
"If it makes you feel any better, the thought of you marrying my sister is truly, utterly strange to me. Revolting, even, since it feels almost like she's your sister too."
Throwing his hands up, the youngest Baratheon looked to the heavens.
"Oh Gods, why did you give him beauty and brawn, yet no brains." He turned to look at an amused Loras. "Because now I'm going to think of her like she's my sister too. And I wasn't aware I looked like a Lannister. So if I've suddenly gone blonde, you'd tell me, yes?"
A pair of pants hit him in the face and his paramour just laughed.
"Get dressed. We have time for a quick breakfast. Still, the servants will be arriving soon. Are you sure you can trust yours?"
Nodding, because it was a necessary precaution, Renly assuaged any fears his lover might have.
"Yes. All of the ones with access to my rooms are from Storm's End, are loyal to House Baratheon, and I brought older ones that have children back in the castle. I provide for them and their descendants." Beginning to get dressed himself, pulling on a clean velvet tunic and hose, the young man helped his lover belt his sword to his waist, stopping only to cop a feel, and then let Loras help him with his own.
"I'll see you in the great hall. Be quick."
A final peck on the lips and Renly slipped on his boots before leaving his lover to finish combing his hair. In fact, not wanting to have to put up with the mass of curls and knots was the real reason he himself kept his own hair cut short.
'Though I have to admit, Loras really is spectacular.'
Renly knew the way to his brother's office by heart. Could find it if he was blindfolded really. Of course, when he said office it was more like a tavern where Robert chose to drink away his sorrows while doing what little work he could in the company of the Kingsguard.
Most of the time mocking Ser Lannister if he had the misfortune of being the one assigned to guard him.
Renly's plan for the day was simple.
Offer his brother some counsel, maybe try and clue him in to the real intentions of his wife's family. Not too much, Renly wanted his brother to come to his own conclusions and see his youngest brother as someone to be trusted.
Small steps. He had appearances to keep.
And maybe, just maybe, convince the man to just name him his heir. He'd done so once, he could do it again.
So imagine Renly's surprise when he walked into the room and found his brother, the king, having a drinking contest with Oberyn Martell. Both men chugging down large pints of wine like they were half their age while the Kingsguard watched transfixed.
What in the name of the Seven….
Perhaps Renly hadn't woken up after all. There was no other explanation for what he was seeing other than that it was a fever dream.
"Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink!"
Half of the bloody Kingsguard was cheering as Robert tilted back a cup made from a dragon's skull, while Oberyn himself had a wine skin closer to the size of a toddler than anything a human should be able to consume. Crying out in victory, the king slammed the skull down, jabbing a finger at the Martell prince and only half slurring his words.
"Stop drinking you… you… dessert dog! Dessert? Desert. Desert dog!"
Grunting, and pulling his lips away from the wine skin, the prince swayed slightly before, very gingerly, setting the sack down.
"Alright then, your grace, let us most graciously and loquaciously measure our weights." Puffing out his cheeks, the man then let out a loud, long belch. "Ah. Just the way to start the morning."
Shuffling over, the wineskin was added to a scale, several lead weights being added until it was balanced.
"Half! That's… that's… how many less is that Blount?"
"Five large weights and one small weight, your grace!"
At the man's response, Renly's brother cried out.
"Hah! Take that Dornishman! I've beaten you! The skull had six weights worth of wine and you only managed five and… uh, how much?"
"One small weight, King Robert."
Once again the king crowed in victory, throwing his arms up and cheering. Unfortunately, this also rather terribly unbalanced him, causing his chair to tip backwards. Tumbling ass over head, the king ended up in a heap as his guards rushed about him. Still, Robert took it with good cheer, clapping them all on the back and being, gingerly, brought to a couch. Even Prince Oberyn helped him move, though not before ordering a servant to bring a wet compress and chilled drinking water.
Somewhat awestruck by the sheer intensity of the drunken revelry in front of him, Renly had to shake his head clear and actually assert himself.
"Robert, is this really the time to be drinking? The Tyrells are supposed to arrive around midday."
Turning to look up at his brother, it took the king several moments and a great deal of blinking before he relaxed. Shooing away his guards, and smirking at the Dornish prince once again, the rather pleasantly sloshed king settled onto a soft pillow and smiled at his younger brother.
"Don't worry Renly, that's plenty of time to sleep off… at least most of this." Chortling, the older man actually looked happy. And even a bit less fat, if still rather heavy, if Renly was any judge. "Plus with Ophelia's potions I won't even be hung over. Hey, Oberyn!" Gesturing to the prince, who even then, was slowly rubbing his face, the king tried to sit up for a few moments, before ultimately giving up and lying back down. "Let me marry your daughter already. I'll let her rule Westeros. She can have all the bloody power, so long as she keeps letting me drink."
"I apologize, your grace." The prince managed a, somehow elegant, seated bow. "You may command me, but I am afraid I have never been able to command my children."
Snorting, the Lord of Storm's End wanted to make a rude comment. However, he had enough tact to know that doing so in front of his brother would avail him nothing. Instead he was treated to the sight of the Kingsguard, Westeros' greatest and foremost knights, having to clean up and make his brother presentable. They also let him sleep for about two hours before doing anything other than getting a clean set of clothes laid out.
Though the sight of Ser Merryn Trent being doused with some of the King's… backdraft was hilarious.
The two drunkards made merry, threatened to kill each other a few times and downed some strange peculiar liquid from the Prince's flask before the group was finally able to leave the office and march in… somewhat orderly fashion, towards the throne room.
If the Seven were kind, perhaps his brother would go through the meeting without insulting any of the Tyrells.
"So which of them is the daughter? They all look the same to me."
'I… just jinxed myself, didn't I?' Renly should have known better at this point.
"It's easier to ask for names, your grace. It's what I do whenever I have to visit Highgarden."
Oberyn's response was tolerable. Tolerable enough Renly tipped his head to him. On the inside he was hoping his brother didn't do something that forced him to push his engagement to Margery ahead. Right now he was still negotiating with the Tyrells, without mentioning his brother's lack of a true born heir, and hoping to get by on Mace's love for his third born son and implying certain things to Olenna.
"The father's name is Mace, you should remember that well enough, he looks like you and enjoys the same things." Robert laughed, nodding along. "He's your Lord Paramount of the Reach after all. His mother is the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell. Try not to be left alone with her." At that Oberyn chipp in too.
"She's a lovely old woman. I've made love to cacti that were less prickly than her. It's hilarious when her tongue is pointed at someone else though."
Opening his mouth to defend Olenna, the youngest man there actually took a moment to think.
"Actually, Prince Oberyn summed it up rather wonderfully. Thankfully her grandchildren are much more pleasant." By now they had reached the great hall and, with food and water in him, Robert was moderately more attentive. It helped that whatever witch's brew they'd downed made both his brother and the prince somewhat immune to any ill consequences of their drinking. "Loras is the youngest, he's actually rode out to meet them, and was my squire, you remember?" Robert jerked his head and gestured for his brother to continue. "Garlan couldn't come, but he's the second son, and Willas, Mace's firstborn and heir, is arriving with his bride Arianne Martel. Margery Tyrell, the daughter of Mace, is also with them."
Robert rubbed his beard a bit, shaking his head.
"Aren't you courting that girl? Margery? Hmm. You should marry her too, after I get back from the North. I'll make Ned organize it and everything."
Snorting, Renly shook his head.
"I can organize my own wedding Robert, thank you."
"Nonsense!" The king barked. "I'm the one who has to plant his fat ass on a pointy chair, the least I can do is help my brother marry a girl he likes. Though, I actually thought yo-." Snapping his mouth shut, the king coughed and ate a piece of ham before continuing. "Anyways, you're my little brother, so let me help you damn it. Also, Oberyn, didn't you cripple the boy Willas?"
Frowning, the prince actually looked genuinely frustrated.
"Aye. We… jousted. My pride ensured that I treated a young knight as if he was a veteran. His leg ended up trapped in a stirrup and Willas was pulled along the ground by it." Somewhat brooding, the prince shook his head. "A waste too. Even when I heard his leg snap, the boy didn't cry out. Since then we've exchanged letters and he's very knowledgeable about horses and hawks. I do somewhat wish I had been too drunk to fight in that particular tourney."
Actually feeling a moment of empathy, Renly nodded.
"Aye, the prince speaks true. But Willas also breeds the finest of hounds and has taught an eagle to act as loyal as a dog. The man is… a bit boring, if I am to be honest, and a bit overly pious in other ways and not at all disposed to the kinds of fun most young men of class enjoy. But he is a good man. So Robert, I beg you, treat them well."
That actually got an offended huff out of the man.
"Seven above man, they're going to be family soon! I'm not going to treat them like Dragon Spawn just because they sided with the damned Targaryens, Hell, I spend more time with Obara than I do my wife and I… well… Oberyn hasn't killed me yet. The important thing is that you care for the girl enough to wed her, I'll treat them right." He reached over and clapped Renly on the shoulder with one hand and Oberyn with the other. "So let's go get ready to receive them. I'm mostly sober, Oberyn's stone cold sober, and you don't drink enough as is Renly. So let's go meet them and I'll take us all out for a night on the town!"
Half an hour later, as the Tyrell procession rode into town, the young Lord of Storm's End was still unsure whether he should be thankful or utterly terrified. Moreover, he wondered if Vary's advice would hold true and if he'd be able to reach Baelish in time.
At least when Loras rode ahead, in silver mail with a green shield painted with three golden roses all to announce the arrival of his family, the rather stressed young man was able to finally relax.
It was always good to see his one, true love.
Nymeria Sand
"This place smells like shit."
Nymeria Sand, second of her father's daughters, tried to behave in a way befitting a woman of her standing. With the noble blood of Westeros and Essos alike coursing through her veins, she was as much a Lady as any of the droll waifs at court could ever hope to be.
Unfortunately, even her practiced patience could be tried. And King's Landing was proving to be quite a challenge.
Not because of its intricate web of lies and schemes.
Not because of some overly complicated plan to lead her to ruination.
No, the journey was such an ordeal because Nymeria had never been to King's Landing before, and thus was wholly unprepared for the offensive stench which assaulted her. The closest comparison she could find was the time she asked dear Ophelia to prepare a poison jar for her… personal usage.
Only for the dratted thing to break when she came to retrieve it.
They spent weeks living at the Water Gardens because of the unholy, definitely poisonous miasma which overtook the palace.
Sarella and Tyene still teased her about it!
"Why do you think I ordered all those damnable roses brought along?" Olenna Tyrell, mother to the current Lord Paramount, loudly grumped. "I have roses on my small clothes, roses in my food, and if I was a Lannister I'd probably find roses in my chamber pot too."
Margery, the woman's granddaughter, put her face in her hands.
"Nana, you can't talk like that! We're not in Highgarden anymore!"
Unfortunately, Nymeria had also spent the last three weeks in the close company of this particular woman. Meaning she still hadn't learned when to keep her mouth shut.
"Oh really? I thought you liked all the roses because watching them wilt reminded you of your own, slowly creeping decay."
Arianne reached over and swatted her arm.
"Cousin. Really?"
Winking at the still embarrassed Margery, the only bastard, but certainly not the biggest bitch, in the wheelhouse tossed her hair over her shoulder.
"Well I haven't poisoned the Queen of Thorns." Turning to glare at the old woman in question, the Sand couldn't help but pull her teeth back. "Despite her slipping something into my food… twice. I feel that it's only fair to warn you that my other sisters won't be so diplomatic in responding to your little jokes."
"And I would have stopped drugging you if you would stop trying to seduce my granddaughter. I know you Dornish are known for being hot blooded, but it's almost like you want to start a war."
Sarella would have laughed it off and then plotted revenge.
Obara would have been annoyed but nothing would come of it.
Tyene… well… that didn't bear thinking of.
Elia wouldn't have been pranked to begin with.
As for Ophelia? She probably would have known ahead of time and sidestepped the entire joke like the know it all killjoy she could be.
Nymeria's response to the old woman's taunt was to simply smirk a bit more deeply before making eye contact with Margery. While she wouldn't actually do anything to a girl as young as the Tyrell child, it infuriated the Queen of Thorns to see her granddaughter blush and look away. Meaning it was a deeper kind of satisfaction than the poisoner had been able to extract in any other diplomatically acceptable way.
"Cousin, please stop. If I have to explain to your father why the Tyrells arrested you I'm rather sure your sisters will burn Highgarden to the ground." Arianne put a hand on her knee, squeezing intently enough to make it clear. "We're about to be around the men again and they expect us to like each other. Please? For me?"
Tossing her hair over her shoulder, the bastard huffed and sighed.
"Very well. I'll play nice. Mostly."
Snorting in derision, Olenna shook her head.
"You, my child, are a dirty old man in the body of a somewhat intelligent young woman."
Her fingers twitched. And Nymeria had to strangle the impulse to reach for one of her hidden knives. Instead, she opted for a pleasant smile. Something so fake it might as well have been glued to her face.
"I am my father's daughter, Lady Olenna. More so than any of my sisters."
Thinking of them, Nymeria couldn't help the flash of warm happiness that filled her. It had been some time since she last saw them. How were they doing, she wondered? Were they eating enough, staying out of trouble? Was Tyene planning one of her little schemes? Had Ophelia already turned the city upside down?
She wanted to see them.
Badly.
Didn't want to leave them to begin with. The Snakes were at their best when they worked together and she'd been missing them quite badly. Hopefully none of them had done something… unwise without her there to reign them in.
Well, them or father. It was a coin toss most days.
"Speaking of the man. You did send him a message sometime ago, didn't you." Nymeria already knew where this was going, having grown familiar with the Queen of Thorns's knowing stare and thin smile.
Like she had caught onto a secret.
"Very perceptive, Lady Olenna. Your vision is not so far gone that you failed to see in plain daylight."
"None of that cheek girl. I'm just curious about what you would have thought so interesting about your cousin's wedding that your father had to be told about."
"Father cares for his family. I was assuaging his worries." Not a lie, but she wasn't saying the whole truth either.
That was the game with Olenna Tyrell.
Whoever said something they didn't mean to, lost.
"Oh, I'm sure he does. Whatever… flaws the man might have, I do not doubt his commitment to family. It's an admirable quality to have. Surrounded by a dead sister, a crippled brother, and more daughters than he knows what to do with, the man must be quite concerned for his family. Spread as they are over the kingdoms."
If the threat was real, she would have cared. But by this point Nymeria simply chalked it up to one more little conversation to share with Tyene. And assuming Olenna was ever an obstacle….
'Well, those pleasant thoughts should be best saved for her funeral.'
Arianne, at this point, had tuned them both out. Instead she was speaking with Margery about Renly, her maybe fiance to be. Even then, the insult levelled at her father would have hardly offended her, considering she would be the one that would be controlling Highgarden the day she was married. Olenna would die soon, after all, and at her age a sudden downward turn in her condition would hardly be unusual. It was the least Nymeria could do for her cousin.
"I thank you my lady." She inclined her head. "We have made inroads with a great many allies. Dorne's period of isolation is finally ending and a point shall be made that the… missteps of the past will not be repeated. Westeros has seven kingdoms, after all, and not just three."
Any further comments would have to wait as the wheelhouse came to a stop, the sound of sudden movement and people dismounting echoing around them. A mild knock out the door forestalled any response.
"My ladies, we have arrived."
A servant opened the door when Olenna wrapped back with her cane and the ladies within made to step out. Willas, with his own cane and sweating a bit, held out his hand for his bride to be. Arianne, a pleasant flush on her cheeks, took the kind man's hand and made her way down a short set of steps used to dismount. Next, Loras arrived, offering a gallant, armor clad hand to his sister. Margery, half tempted to throw her arms around her sibling's neck, Nymeria knew from the way the girl's eyes sparkled in delight, took the hand and gracefully stepped out too.
Next came the great, blustering Mace Tyrell. A pleasant red flush was on his cheeks and the jolly idiot actually offered his hand to Nymeria first, even opening his mouth to invite her to dismount. Olenna, of course, discreetly rapped his shin with her cane causing the man to wince.
"You dunderhead, I may be old but she's not so pretty you'd help a bastard before your own mother, is she?" Nymeria knew the actual importance of the whole situation, specifically because she was an attractive bastard. Helping her down first would lead to, at best, rumors. And Olenna was nothing if not keenly aware of the power of such things.
However, surprisingly, he persisted.
"Come now mother. The prince wants to be the one to help you down."
Smiling, she did genuinely enjoy the man's company as odd as he could be, Nymeria shook her head.
"Thank you my Lord. But help your Lady mother first, it is only polite."
"Of course, of course." He bowed his heads at her words and shuffled slightly so that, when Olenna descended the steps, both Mace Tyrell and her slightly pouting father helped her down.
"My lovely rose, it is so good to see you again. Ah, if only I could steal a kiss." Oberyn was practically dancing in delight. "And you have been so good to bring my daughter back to me. Truly, you have a mother's heart."
What happened next was a flurry of introductions, the king himself was there with his brother and half the court, as names were exchanged, pleasantries layered until the air was thick, and, finally, Nymeria was able to slip away. Spying a trail of insects marching along the castle floor, she snorted and, thankful that she was a bastard and therefore not expected to be at court, immediately began following the bugs.
Coming to a side chamber, she was surprised when a blur struck her from the side.
"Nym, Nym, Nym!"
Elia had tackled her, leaping from a side alcove, and practically knocked her to the ground. Shifting slightly, she made sure none of her knives were poking into either of them and hugged the twelve year old back. Arms wrapped around her neck and her little sister was practically babbling away at her and, hugging her sibling back, the second born Sand Snake wanted to laugh when she noticed a loaf of bread and slab of butter, wrapped up of course, abandoned on the ground.
"Hey sweetling. How are you?" Running her fingers through Elia's hair, she cooed. "You've gotten taller on me haven't you! And even more beautiful than before." Pressing a kiss to her sister's head, Nymeria felt a certain tension within her release. "And you've gotten stronger too."
"Yup! Ser Barristan and Ser Jaimie have been teaching me and Ophelia and Obara and others! Oh, plus Sarella found a magic sword and Ophelia found a bunch of skulls and Obara helped dad fight some bad people and Tyene had a lot of fun playing with a bad man and she made friends with the queen and Myrcella and Tommen are super nice, but Joffrey wouldn't play with us much, though he's actually pretty good with a crossbow. Also, Ophelia said that if I don't have anything nice to say about someone I shouldn't say anything at all so I found something nice to say about him."
"Elia. Did you really tackle our sister." Both girls looked up, only to see a witch standing above them. "Hello Nymeria, it's good to see you."
Sitting up, she moved Elia off of her, only for both sisters to watch the girl scramble after her abandoned snack. Both older girls shared a giggle, Ophelia reaching down and helping her older sister to her feat. Embracing, this particular hug wasn't quite as excitable but no less heartfelt. Oddly enough, the older sister found herself actually looking up at the witch.
"No, I don't believe it, you've gotten taller again!"
Chuckling, the witch shook her head.
"Yeah and your tits are bigger than they were too."
"That's not my fault!" Pouting, Nymeria took Elia's hand as the girl came over and tugged on her sleeve. "The Tyrells have been feeding me like a pig. Mace, and I do have some thoughts on him to share, seems to think that now is the time to start acquiring grandchildren. He offered me my pick of his other two sons and tried to bribe me with food and dates with them!"
Opening the door to the side chamber, Ophelia led the group into what seemed like a now rather lived-in storage room. Large enough that it would have been more than capable of serving as a barracks, the slight hint of stale sweat hinting that it had once been used for just that, the Sand Snakes had taken over the area. Far enough to one side and actually in Maegor's Holdfast, it had wooden slat windows that faced out to the bay, doing wonders for coaxing a slightly salty breeze in from past the port, actually washing away both the odor of the city and the dock alike.
Within, the other Sand Snakes were doing what they did best.
Obara, in a loose shirt and trousers, was doing pull ups using a metal bar attached to the wall, dropping to her feet and picking up a towel when Nymeria walked in. A small smile and the visible relaxation of Oberyn's first born telling the slightly younger sister just how happy her one and only big sister was to see her.
Tyene was… mostly naked, half way through getting dressed and more than accidentally putting on a show in the direction her sisters had just come from.
"Don't worry about her. Tyene is just gonna go seduce the queen now." Elia giggled when she said this. "Ophelia even got a little jealous, though maybe 'cuz she likes the queen too."
Nymeria wanted to say something. Instead, when she turned to Sarella, she hoped the Summer Sister would tell her that Elia was just being a child. Instead, seemingly scribbling a map of many, many tunnels, she looked up, frowned, and shook her head.
"Ophelia's not that into the queen, she's just helping her visit her, uh, 'brother'. But yeah. Tyene roofied the queen and is spending a lot of time with her nowadays. She brought me along to distract the royal children. The younger two are absolute angels, even if Joffrey is as interested in Tyene's choice of dress as the queen is."
"Must you throw me under the horse, immediately, oh sweet sister of mine?"
The blonde gave a great heaving sigh, actually pulling on enough cloth to be considered covered - even if she'd never be called decent by anyone who knew her.
"Well, thank the Seven father didn't try to seduce the queen as some twisted form of revenge."
That got a bark of laughter from the eldest sibling.
"Father took a married woman and a knight from Dragonstone as his lovers. A lady knight with greater strength than a man grown." Mostly clean, she came over and hugged her sister, somewhat gingerly, and whispered lowly in her ear. "I am truly glad to have you back Nym."
Ophelia pulled Elia away, giving the eldest two time to speak, and while Nymeria was touched any plotting could wait. Giving Obara one last squeeze, she turned to the rest of the room.
"All of you, I'm glad to be back. The only thing that would be better was if we were all in Dorne with the youngest too. Still, other than courting absolute disaster, how have we done? Are Uncle's plans progressing well?"
Nodding, Sarella set aside the page she was working on.
"With Ophelia's help the Red Keep has been pretty much mapped out. She may have woken up a bunch of Targaryen ghosts too."
Seeing an opportunity for revenge, Tyene draped her arms around the scholar's shoulders, brushing her ear with her lips, and speaking too.
"But Sarella, my precious, beautiful little sister, why don't you tell dear Nymeria how you started a riot in Oldtown." Her arms wrapped a little tighter. "Besides, Obara is actually getting close to the king, they train together every morning, even go for runs together too. Ophelia just supplies him with very expensive potions at cutthroat rates. And sometimes listens to him brood about Lyanna. Honestly, we really should just remove the queen and marry Robert. He is, more or less, utterly in our hands at this point."
Nymeria gave her blonde sister "the look".
Blushing, she looked away, unable to make eye contact, and that's how Nymeria knew Tyene was actually being naughty. So she raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
"And I've been playing my little games with the court. I've driven three people mad, one couple to lovers suicide, and managed to identify most of the would be spy masters at court."
"You've had less than two weeks." Her tone was a bit dumbstruck. "This isn't even Dorne!"
"Yes." The almost child-like innocence of Tyene shown through. "But they're very horny and exceptionally dramatic here."
That got a round of laughter, though by this point everyone had gathered at one of the beds, Elia in particular handing out warm, soft slices of heavily buttered bread. Eventually, after plenty of gossip and stories being swapped, there was a knock at the door, and a servant informed them that the queen was occupied with the current Tyrell guests.
Tyene smiled and demurred and sent the blushing maid on her way before, turning back to the group. Nymeria, however, knew that what was coming would probably get them in trouble.
"Say, why not take this opportunity to… rekindle our sisterly bonds?"
And there it was.
"Tyene, now is really not the time for one of your games."
Her younger sister pouted, though it looked exaggerated with hurt at the accusation.
"Nothing of the sort, dear sister. I only suggest we take some time to bathe properly. To commemorate our reunion. I'm sure we have more than enough time to… catch up."
Ophelia frowned.
"She's… not actually wrong. Obara needs to get clean and so do you. Father mentioned earlier that we're having a meal with the royals." Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "Did you spike the bathwater with anything?"
The blonde just smirked at her sister's accusation.
Nymeria simply sighed and kept hugging Elia.
It felt good to be with her family again. That didn't mean she wouldn't be raking them over the coals later, though.
Obara Sand
Looking over the manifest, Obara confirmed that, indeed, the last of the Alchemists Guild's key supplies were present. In fact, as she looked inside one particular satchel, she actually noticed the ingredients looked like the same stuff her sister used when making her hangover cure. Maybe. Probably. The man at arms with her probably knew about as much when it came to herbs as she did.
"Is everything in order, Lady Sand?"
Wisdom Hallyne, an old man with a white beard and a cap tied over his head, shuffled over to stand next to the cart Obara had been inspecting. She grunted, nodding.
"For now. Are the sellswords behaving?"
At this the man looked at her like she was a bit slow. Narrowing her eyes, the first born daughter of the Red Viper made it clear what she thought about his opinion. Raising his hands, the old man bowed.
"I meant no disrespect. But they are acting as such men do. However, we have taken great care with the last of the apprentices we recruited. Your family's treasures and our own secrets will remain as such. At the least, Jalabhar Xho seems to have them well enough in hand."
Obara smiled wryly.
Yes, the foreign prince seemed to be quite taken with their business offer, and had taken something of a leading role amongst the sellswords, only to keep them focused on what they stood to gain from behaving and working alongside them.
Eager to finally leave King's Landing behind, the exiled southerner had also expressed great… undisguised… interest in their adventurous sister. Even going so far as making ludicrous promises of making Sarella into a princess.
He was certainly a character.
All in all, things were coming along nicely.
Oh there were some hiccups. Unfortunate circumstances that they couldn't have prepared for. Tyene's… involvement with the Queen being one of them. And her own father nearly starting a war because of his rather understandable vice of wrath. In fact, Nymeria had spent nearly ten minutes chewing the man out for not being more discreet with his open hatred of the now "missing" man, even if that was probably working out her nerves over Tyene continuously teasing her.
'I suppose I'd be annoyed too if I had to leave my twin lovers behind. Nymeria always was spoiled.'
Ophelia was also, as always, unpredictable. Though she'd made quite a few discoveries and retrievals since their arrival. The wildfire traps all over the city proved beneficial, even if they did slow down the witch for a few days, and on the whole King's Landing had received alms twice more, her reputation was firmly established here, and there was that other little tidbit shared during the bath.
'The girl needs to tell us when her powers change like that. Covering the whole of the Red Keep after feeding a bunch of dead, mad Targaryens? Well. Perhaps that's a, what did Sarella say, oxymoron? Yes.'
"Perhaps. But you will be secure, yes?" Her words were chosen carefully. She would not risk them being misunderstood. "I could always speak with Father. A few Dornishmen to escort you might help avoid any misunderstandings."
Barking a laugh, the old man shook his head.
"Misunderstanding? Who could possibly misunderstand a thousand strong host of sellswords marching along with a hundred wagon chain of alchemists, all bound for the heart of Dorne." Shaking his head and muttering, Obara was actually a bit amused by his response. "Kids these days." Speaking up, Hallyne continued after the bastard jerked her head at the man accompanying her, instructing him to remain a discrete distance away. "Yes, that would be most wonderful. Perhaps one of the Reachman lords that accompanied Lord Dondarrion and a Dornish lord that was part of his contingent too?"
"Aye. Point taken. I'll speak with Father. Still, how goes the operation in King's Landing?"
At her words, the Wisdom visibly brightened.
"Wonderful, actually. With the king eager to get our Wildfire out of the city, we've purchased a fortified estate in the countryside. Wisdom Munciter was kin to the man we purchased it from and a King's Landing native besides. So, with our cache being moved there, it should only be… hmm… a month or two more and it will all be secure. Before the royal party returns with the new Lord Hand, at the very least."
"And the guild proper?"
Practically glowing in excitement, he took this as an opportunity to almost babble.
"Your sister's treatments have been a wondrous success. Moreover, she has connected us with one Tobho Mott. Trading secrets for secrets, we have helped him coax the flames in his forge even hotter than his master knew how and he too has shown us how to better shape certain materials. More importantly, your sister's actions have created a new market for healing that does not come from Maestars. Alleged or otherwise. And healing, especially with regards to burns, is something we truly excel at." He sighed in contentment. "I almost regret refusing Qyburn now. The fortunes we could have made, the secrets we could have uncovered, ah…."
Frowning, the bastard couldn't help her curiosity.
"Qyburn?"
Nodding a bit sadly, the old man continued, if a bit less eagerly than before.
"A madman. Utterly, totally mad. But also a genius without compare. Your sisters, Sarella and Ophelia, are close, but they are still young. He had the luxury of many, many years to study." She motioned for him to continue. "Qyburn had been a Maester, once, but the Citadel stripped him of his chain for opening people while they yet lived, all to better study the human body. As for the rumors of necromancy, I can not speak to the veracity of such, but he was a truly gifted healer. I know of no man, magi or not, that had such a grasp on the human form."
Nodding, she took the information in stride. Ultimately it meant little and Obara had other things to focus on. Such as their planned disposition of resources. She knew her father would have discussed such things, but his mind was often more focused on other issues.
"So who will command here and who will command the chapter house in Sunspear?"
"Wisdom Munciter, as mentioned, will oversee the wildfire, as was his job. He has two apprentices who will do the same once we arrive in Dorne. Our plan is to actually recreate the fortified location there too, assuming your uncle sets aside the needed funds. In King's Landing proper Wisdom Malliard will remain, overseeing the renovation and, ah, fortification of our chapter house. Wisdom Pollitor and I plan to travel south, though he has already left."
"With the first group?" Obara spoke softly, thoughts starting to turn.
"Aye. And with the first thousand sellswords your father hired."
Obara snorted then.
"Hardly. That was the fourth or fifth group of mercenaries, even if not all of them were so large."
Leaving the confused and somewhat awestruck man behind, the daughter of Oberyn Martell strolled along the train of carts. It was the third such convoy and would depart in only a few hours, this being the day before the royal procession would head north, and itself would travel in the opposite direction.
Her goal, however, was to now find her sister.
Walking amongst the mercenaries, she snorted as they shied away. One of them had slapped Ophelia's ass a few days ago and Obara herself had taken her whip to the man's face. And when his friends had objected, violently, a horde of birds had descended upon them.
After that the sellswords as a whole had been much better behaved around all women.
"You're eying them like they're meat again." Seemingly coming out of nowhere, Sarella fell into lockstep. "And before you ask, no, they did not bother me. Jalabhar did try to convince me to marry him again."
"Queen of all the Summer Isles?"
Nodding, the younger of the two sisters agreed, even as her own escort stopped to speak with Obara's.
"Queen of all the Summer Isles indeed." She chuckled. "He's a very ambitious man."
Wrinkling her nose, Obara agreed.
"All princes seem to be ambitious these days. Uncle and his army, Father and his games, even the crown prince with how he looks at you and Tyene."
Sarella cut her eyes at her brawnier, taller sister.
"And you the king, sister, so be careful where you cast your darts."
Somewhat uncomfortable, the Dornishwoman shook her head.
"Hardly. He is married."
That got her a look.
"And we are Dornish, dear sister, and bastards besides." Sarella held up her hand to forestall any objections. "The reality of it is that it would be expected, whether that is the intention of your interactions with him."
Unasked went the question of whether Obara actually held any interest in the man. The older sister was still compelled to answer by the simple fact that her younger sibling looked far, far too smug.
"I train with him. That's all." That got her a raised eyebrow and she scowled in response. "You spend as much time practicing with that bow of your as I do learning from Ser Barristan."
"And the jogs? Is that just endurance training? It just seems like a lot of work to make a man look better for another woman is all I'm saying." Sarella paused, smirking. "But if that happens to be how you have fun, I think you and Tyene could spend some time with Ophelia and a few of their, ah, friends."
That got a punch to the shoulder in response. Obara felt deeply vindicated when her sister yelped and rubbed her arm, the miscreant dancing away for a moment before apologetically returning.
"Ok, ok, I had that one coming. But I'm serious." She paused, making sure no one was around and that they were by themselves near the end of the train of carts. "What do you see in him?"
"Sometimes, when he's swinging his hammer, I suppose I can see the warrior he once was. And when he's sober and calm I see the man he could have been." The eldest Sand Snake was unsure why she spoke, only that she felt a deep pang of regret at the fat drunkard, filled with nothing but shame and disappointment that so often was all the king was. "Maybe. I simply do not know. But none of that matters, tell me, is everything secure?"
Huffing, the most scholarly of the sisters crossed her arm.
"If you mean the immense amount of stuff we've looted, then yeah. The books are all secure, the things Ophelia dug up are in good condition, and it still rankles me that we found the Raven's Teeth armory but Father said that we shouldn't knock the door down."
Smirking, Obara clapped her on the shoulder.
"Aye. I doubt we would have been able to sneak all of that out of the Red Keep. And the king might have been forced to actually do something about the sheer amount of shiny things we were picking up."
Shrugging, if a bit ruefully, Sarella didn't argue the point.
"I wonder why they needed barrels and barrels full of dragonglass. It seems like a poor material for such a thing, doubly so since it was just a bunch of arrowheads. They weren't even fletched. If it weren't for the weirwood bows I'd have thought the things were ceremonial."
"Other than the name, does dragonglass actually have any importance?"
At her older sister's question, the younger took a moment to think about it.
"Maester Marwyn would probably know more, but I know the Valyrians had a special name for it and used it to make glass candles. I think the Children of the Forest made weapons out of it."
Shrugging, she tried to communicate that there wasn't much more to say.
"It's a volcanic rock that's shiny and breaks so that it's sharp. Hey, do you think Ophelia might like a glass candle of her own?"
"Maybe. Didn't they all go out years ago?" Nodding at her older sister's question, Sarella agreed.
"Without a doubt. But our sister is a witch." She grinned up at Obara. "Besides, we can tease her about that Targaryen ring she had fixed up for Elia."
Grunting, the older girl agreed.
"You're all spoiled too much. But I hope that particular ring is an omen of good things and not ill." Frowning, she hesitated a moment before pushing ahead. "I disagreed with it. Wearing that trinket."
Sarella frowned but nodded.
"Aye. The last Elia to bear the Targaryen symbol did not end happily. Did you speak with them about it?"
Shaking her head, the whip wielding woman responded in the negative.
"It felt silly to bring it up. Or like saying it might make it true."
Starting a little, Obara took a second to relax before she realized her sister had hugged her. Something that her sister had been only really doing recently, perhaps a bit of clinginess born of homesickness. But she didn't mind, reciprocating with a grunt and a one arm hug of her own.
"All right, enough." Breaking the hug, the older sister began marching back towards the castle. "Tell me about the maps, are they finished? And how, uh, how thoroughly did you scour the library?"
That got a loud, free laugh.
"You wouldn't believe how much fun Marwyn has been having. Between the blacksmith and Pycelle, he's been spending his days learning and teaching and driving that old goat utterly insane! Even Ophelia was warning him that the Grand Maestar has a great deal of pull and access to exotic concoctions. The Mage just retorted that she was enjoying his antics too much to let him die, oh you should have seen her face!"
The words made Obara chuckle, reminding her that her sisters were still young, almost just girls. Even Ophelia was only fourteen, Elia even younger at twelve. Sarella and Tyene were teenagers themselves and only Nymeria was truly a woman grown.
"It sounds hilarious. Perhaps less so for our sister. At least it would have been entertainment for the poor library staff you three have so terribly abused."
"Hey!" Sarella protested. "All I did was distract a few of the younger gentlemen."
"So Marwyn could get his hands on books of magic, no doubt."
The oldest sister's statement got another chuckle and a nod of agreement.
"Speaking of, where are our dear kinsmen? I know Father is with the Mage and the king, but where have our sisters gone?"
Obara's question got a snort and a roll of the eyes.
"Nymeria and Arianne had to, ah, catch up with Tyene. Ophelia ended up taking Elia to go see the royal children and have tea with the queen again. If you ask me, I think our cousin and most innocent of sisters would have rather she joined them."
That got a wry chuckle out of the older sister.
Spending the rest of their journey back to the Red Keep in silence, only speaking when they needed to get around someone, the sisters made good time, half because of their escort and half because of who they were. While their faces were hardly famous, Obara carried a whip and only one warrior woman in the city did so. Rare was the smallfolk who would accost the bastard of a prince, never mind the sister of a witch. In an admittedly twisted sort of way, she admired the fool who had been brazen enough to touch her sister, even if the first born of Oberyn, Prince of House Nymeros Martell, would have dragged the man to the gallows herself if Ophelia had been truly offended.
No woman of their blood could ever afford to be soft north of the Marches.
Musing on that fact, the woman focused on the defense of her kin considered an important fact. Elia Targaryen had made that mistake, or, perhaps, been that mistake. Soft and gentle, a rose without thorns, to borrow a Tyrell expression, and a woman of such gentleness as to be defenseless.
'If she had been cunning, or at least cruel, she might have poisoned the Mad King and saved us a great deal of heartbreak. But she was too kind, too defenseless. Never again shall we make that mistake.'
"Hey, that boy looks like the great bastard Ophelia told us about."
Whispering in Obara's ear, Sarella pointed out a particular black haired young man. He was well formed, strong in the arm and so much like a younger version of the king it was ridiculous. Moreover, he was speaking with a bored looking gate guard, clearly trying to convince the bored looking man of something.
"Oi, shove off brat. Let the ladies past." Knuckling his brow, the Gold Cloak saluted the two bastards. "M'ladies." Neither bothered to correct them on their status, almost amused at how casually the middle aged guardsman made the statement.
"Hey, wait, please!"
The great bastard called after them, drawing a rap of his shins from the man's halberd.
"Now don't you go bothering them! I didn' mind the company but you can't bother the nobles."
"It's fine." Obara raised a hand, getting another salute from the guardsman who shuffled off and visibly busied himself with scanning the crowd. "I trust you won't waste my time." She looked the lad over again, noting that he really looked like his father. Simply younger, more hale, and without the damage years of alcoholism did to the king. For the first time in a very long time, the young woman found herself wishing she had the same great beauty her sisters shared. Or that he was at least five or six years older, then, she thought, her beauty or lack of it would not have stopped her. "Speak boy."
Bowing his head, he did so.
"Yes my lady. My master bid me to inform your sister that 'the time is here'. I haven't the faintest clue what he meant by all that, but that was the message I was instructed to pass along. Thank you ma'am, uh, my lady, my ladies?"
Sarella chuckled, but Obara merely nodded.
"It's fine. Tell your master the message has been received. We shall inform our sister immediately. Thank you."
At this her sister gave the warrior woman a look, one that spoke volumes considering their earlier conversation, but any discussion was forestalled. After all, Obara would be able to deflect at least until after they had spoken to Ophelia. And surely Tyene would have given her an excuse, or ten, to busy herself elsewhere by then.
'Surely she shall….'
Robert Baratheon
The wonders of good wine were plenty.
The heavenly taste. The pleasant warmth which spread from a single cup. The pleasant haze which filled his mind and turned his thoughts away from the despair which had clouded over his life from the moment Robert had lost the love of his life.
Yes, as far as Robert was concerned, wine was the greatest thing in the Seven Kingdoms.
In the end, the only downside were the terrible hangovers.
Something he'd never built a resistance for. And one of the chief reasons why he welcomed Oberyn and his gaggle of bastards so easily. After all, if the man's claims were true, Robert would never have to spend an hour away from his precious wine ever again, or feel the terrible side effects of its intoxicating embrace.
What he failed to realize, however, is that now he didn't have an excuse for not turning up to court.
Gods that realization had stung.
Was this how the Martells planned to have their revenge upon him? By forcing him sober at their convenience?!
'Maybe I slaughtered the wrong House after all.' He chuckled mirthlessly.
Bluntly, the Dornish had proven to be… a force to keep up with. Every single one of Oberyn's daughters had something which drew the eye to them. Be it their bluntness, knowledge, charm, eagerness, or mystery. Even Robert knew that they were a hit at Court, most who disagreed kept their words to themselves out of fear of the witch girl hearing them.
She was very good at keeping the court in line and civil.
'Maybe I should just make her my Hand and be done with this.' The temptation was there. Someone who helped unearth the last scheme of the Mad King, who commanded knowledge even Pycelle was unaware of, who rooted out evil just as easily as his own Master of Laws. Just as good at rooting out information as the Master of Spies.
And if Oberyn's stories had any merit, she was also very good at counting coppers.
Perhaps he should just be done with the Small Council and let her handle it.
He probably would have followed through with the idea too if not for the shit storm that it would cause. Drunk and miserable as Robert was most days, he wasn't eager to throw the Seven Kingdoms into another war. He liked peace. He liked being able to show off in torneys and hunt whenever it pleased him.
Perhaps he might get back to those once they came back from the North.
Aerys' last treacherous plot had stirred him. Robert couldn't relax with the thought of the city going up in flames beneath his very feet. It reminded him of the rage of war, kept him awake some nights as he wondered why he hadn't ordered a search.
The Mad King loved burning people. Why wouldn't he try to do it in his last moments?
The threat was more than enough to have him running around his own courtyards like a fresh faced squire. Impending danger, the feeling of something looming over his neck driving him to do something with all the jittering energy he could muster.
He needed to see Ned.
Needed to visit Winterfell and their crypts.
Perhaps then, he would put these lingering doubts to rest and mend the opened wound. See the final resting place of his dear Lyanna.
"Your Grace." A man stepped aside as Robert and his guards walked past. The man's robes slightly crumpled as he kept stride with the King.
"Varys. Any news on the wildfire?"
"Fortunately yes. Just a few days ago, our men helped remove the last cache hidden beneath the Great Sept. It had perhaps the highest count of jars out of all places so care had to be taken not to set one off."
Typical Aerys.
Planting the biggest trap in one of the most visited places.
"And the Alchemists? Nothing of their involvement?"
He'd put his Master of Whispers to work after the revelation. Dorne's Witch was well and good, but he couldn't trust their word without having his own people look into the situation. Another sign he'd been slipping out of the pleasant haze he enveloped himself with as King.
The bald man sighed in practiced fashion.
"Nothing their own investigations failed to report. Only a small faction was involved with the plot. And they have already been ousted. Though there is one small thing…."
Robert wasn't in the mood for games.
"Speak, Varys."
"With the arrival of the dornish contingent, there have been whispers of the Alchemist's Guild moving from King's Landing following this debacle. Most feel they will be ostracized for the substance's role in Aerys' ploy and fear repercussions will befall them as well."
As they very well should. Robert wanted to say.
Hadn't those fire worshiping freaks not been needed to remove the jars, Robert would have already had them all in chains and thrown into the bay.
"So they're leaving."
"Yes, your grace. Accompanied by a large contingent of sellswords, on boats headed down south and by caravan."
By south he meant Dorne.
And if Dorne was involved, then Oberyn and his Snakes were involved.
Well, far be it from Robert to care about a band of crazy potioneers. If Dorne wanted them to play with fire in their land, then he bid them good luck. At least in the desert there would be less to burn. Maybe. Assuming wildfire didn't melt the grains of sand to glass and then back again. Which, knowing the people who made it, that was entirely possible.
"And the Dragons?"
"The Beggar Prince remains across the sea, seeking any who would lend him an ear and an army. Not many are willing to. Not when he lacks ships and gold to carry them."
That was another worry which kept Robert awake at night.
The Last Dragon was dead.
The Mad King was dead.
But something remained of their cursed family and he wasn't eager to keep his eyes off them for any length of would soon arrive and he would be damned if he allowed chaos to overtake the Seven Kingdoms before it passed.
But that was for later.
Now? Now he had to sit on that pointy chair and do the job he was saddled with.
Gods, how he hated his fucking crown.
There was a buzz in the air, very soon he would be departing King's Landing up North and there were announcements to be made. Who would be acting in his stead, what would be expected of them. As King, he had to address the events of the past few weeks and reassure those at court that the sky wasn't falling down on their heads.
And of course there was the arrival of the Tyrells.
Just another group of troublesome folks hoping to make a stir. Fortunately he wouldn't have to stick around, but he could swear that old hag was mocking him behind her half smiles and pleasant attitude.
Everyone who tried being pleasant around him was a liar.
'Even my wife. Though we haven't fought in, Gods, a week?' Thoughts of Cersei soon left him. She was a Lion and the Lions did not look upon the Stag and see a crown of horns. Only meat. At least Oberyn and his spawn were honest enough to tell him what they thought to his face. Death threats and all. 'At least Barristan and Obara have been good enough to help me lose a stone of weight. Maybe a bit more. Gods I'm a fat fuck.'
What Renly was thinking when he decided to get mixed up with that flowery lot, he'd never know. But at least the prickly old hag's granddaughter seemed to be a good fit for his little brother. He approved.
The arrival of yet another one of Oberyn's brats caused a stir too.
Just how many did the man have? Did he even know?
"Not as many as me." Robert chuckled to himself, waving away his escort and settling onto the Iron Throne. His thoughts turned black for a moment and he would swear he could smell the cooked flesh of the Dragon Spawn again. Almost hear the flames. "Herald, call the court to order."
His trumpet man bowed low, giving a low blast, and announced that it was time to begin. Gathering from the small cliques they intrigued in, Robert's court came together.
There was a change in the air, Robert could tell.
It was a tense sort of calm as people filed in. Waiting, watching each other as they waited. Martells, Tyrells, Lannister, Baelish, Varys, Renly, and so, so many others were present. Thankfully, his wife was absent, with their children and the youngest Dornish bastard girl getting ready for the trip.
'The calm before the storm.' Yes, it was a nice way to put it. 'Well. Better to be done with it all.'
"As you are all aware, I will be heading North to secure the assistance of Ned Stark as my new Hand of the King." He really did have to repeat things like this. People in King's Landing could be awfully stupid. And horny. "Until such time, my brother, Lord Paramount Renly Baratheon will govern as acting Hand of the King. He shall retain his post as Master of Laws. If anyone does anything particularly stupid, he is to hang you and be done with it. When I return, there shall be a tourney for the new Hand of the King. Preparations are to begin now. That is all."
Brief as he'd been, Robert already could see thoughts of intrigue rolling off his court as they conversed with each other. From silly things like who would enter the tourney, to small scandalous lies like how he was favoring his brother unfairly.
Load of hogwash.
Tywin looked displeased in the extreme, but his father in law could fish in a chamberpot for all the king cared The Tyrells looked quite satisfied with the announcement, Renly conversing with them, receiving their empty praises and half smiles. Gods watch over him if they turned out to be anything like Robert's own in-laws. A beautiful wife was cold comfort when she scorned you and spurned you and your own children were an afterthought. And, sitting there, see his brother converse with a young woman who was closer to the age of Robert's own children than his brother… the old king felt a pang.
Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was self loathing. But whatever it was, thoughts of a pregnant cat and a crossbow and a smiling, sweet boy and girl flashed through his mind.
'Gods above I've been a shit king. The bloody witch even taught my children to ride a horse.' Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned back against the still warm metal of the throne, almost wondering if he might die like Maegor the Cruel. 'At least it would be amusing.' He thought. 'And I'd not have to deal with the leeches any more. Maybe I should have Joffrey and Tommen ride with me a ways. Just a little. I can stomach keeping pace with the wheelhouse long enough to calm Cersei's worries for that.'
"Now." His voice boomed out, a voice that had once commanded armies. "Is there any important business to be seen to, or can we all get on with our day?"
What came next was a not at all small line of petitioners. In fact, there were at least a dozen highborn men and women alone. So, grunting in displeasure, he narrowed his eyes, feeling a vindictive sense of satisfaction when four of them stepped back into the crowd.
Being known as an angry drunk did have a few advantages.
Still, of the nonsense he had to listen to only the Tyrells were worth listening to. An invitation to the wedding of Willas of House Tyrell to Arianne of House Nymeros Martell. Renly actually asked him to come as well, making the older of the two brothers chortle and smile. Consenting, he promised he'd be there and would bring a cask of the finest Northern spiced wine.
Which got a whoop of joy from the bride's uncle.
Curiously enough, when the last of the highborn petitioners were finished and the lowborn ones were permitted into the court, they, as one, stepped to the side. Instead, in a far more sedate green dress, embroidered with little golden snakes, and wearing a Dornish veil and jeweled belt, the witch that so often occupied his thoughts stepped forward.
"Your grace." She curtsied. Slightly awkward, yet practiced.
A foreboding smile on her face.
What an ominous image, he mused.
"Well girl, what is it you need?" He spoke not unkindly, but he had enjoyed the lack of scheming amongst the Dornish. He felt somewhat sad they were entering the Game directly. "What boon can I grant you?"
"Thank you, your grace." She inclined her head. "But I come bearing gifts. By your leave?"
Robert thought it was a bit odd, now that he looked, but both of the bastard's wrists were bandaged. And, in fact, he thought he might see a little blood soaking through.
"Go ahead. But are you injured? Why do I see blood on your arms?"
Gesturing behind her, two men left the crowd. One Robert distantly recognized as a smith he'd seen once or twice. The other… made his heart stop. And not just because he had bandages on his arms too. Though most queerly of all was the fact the lad held two swords. Coming to a stop, both the smith and his bastard knelt.
"Magic always has a cost, your grace." Taking one blade from the young man, Robert noticed that it was obscenely ornate. The sheath was red leather, worked and tooled to have serpents, dragons, sun bursts, spears, and hawks around the edges. Looking closely, the order seemed deliberate, but he couldn't place it, with each symbol being worked in a different type of precious or semi precious stone. Just as the covering for the blade was ornate, so too was the hilt and the guard. Looking like weirwood if he had to guess, the grip was well formed with only very small etchings on it, with a pommel sat with a fat ruby and a guard, both of whom had been worked with the same shapes as the sheath though without precious stones, of what looked like a wavy… red… steel.
Robert gasped when Ophelia drew the sword, easily far too large for her, it was clearly a Valyrian steel blade that had been expertly worked. It was a longsword, but not totally of the Westerosi style, instead being a bit longer and bit thinner - though not to the length of a greatsword or claymore - and with an overall feeling of elegance and fluidity. "And this is the sword Serpent's Kiss, which I present to my father. To you, your grace, I offer the Stag's Crown."
Shuffling forward on his knees, Robert's own bastard glanced up, fear and hesitation in his eyes, as he presented a second weapon. Clearly a greatsword, the thing was almost obscene in its size. A long, black and gold sheath with a line of stags marching down both edges and the House Crest of the Royal House of Baratheon plainly stamped on it in cloth-of-gold.
And, now that he looked closer, so too were the stags and all of it was filigree done in gold and silver threading.
Even then, the guard was worked like a set of tines, twelve in total, that clung to the bottom of the blade. Only two actually jutted forward enough to catch a blade, though the rest had been worked close to the blade in such a way that it would make a good grip should someone desire to half sword with the blade. Furthermore, the black, smoky Valyrian steel seemed to ripple in the light, merging quickly into a grip he thought might have been made of ebony and a pommel upon which sat a shining chunk of dark blue sapphire.
The same blue of his eyes.
The same blue of his son's eyes.
Hand trembling, he reached out and took the sword up, freeing it the rest of the way from its sheath. It was gorgeous. It was perfect. It was a wonder.
Glancing down at his boy, he felt a tear start to prick at his eye.
"How-" Robert snapped his jaw shut, voice breaking. Taking a shuddering breath, he tried again. "How did you forge this… masterpiece."
Ophelia dipped her head, smiling.
"I only offered a little blood and a good deal of metal. What you hold in your hands was made from salvage recovered from across King's Landing alongside a… repurposed weapon. It was the Master's skill, and the sacrifice of his apprentice, that made it whole."
Barking out a laugh, the old man shook his head and Robert gave him a look which bade the man speak.
"She spent a week and a half bringing me little trinkets, even shavings and scraps of Valyrian Steel. Even then, she parted with many secrets and much gold for this work. As for my student, he offered up some of the fuel needed to work the metal. Same as the witch. And they did so without flinching. Just so you know, your grace, they bled for nearly an hour. For each blade."
Eyes flashing with fear, he turned to his son, realizing how pale the boy was, and pulled him up.
"Herald, bring something to sit on for the children. Now man! As for you, Master Smith, you and your apprentice are to come with me on the procession North. We shall discuss your rewards then. For now, I name you the Royal Armorer, the position has been unoccupied for too long as it stands. Apartments will be made ready for you in the Red Keep and ten Gold Cloaks will stand watch over your properties." Holding his boy steady, Robert wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms and tell the lad he was loved and missed and how proud he was of his boy. Instead, the king turned to the girl that showed him so much of what he was missing. "And you, Sand, Ophelia, I… thank you girl. I'll think of some way to reward you for all of this. I swear it. For now, I must ask, why do you offer such a gift?"
Sadness and a little fear entered the girl's gaze, her head dipping as her smile grew brittle.
"I had a dream, your grace, in which a dead man with three eyes came to me. He told me such weapons will be needed and that they would be needed soon." She swallowed. "Even so, consider this a gift of thanks for the lovely invitation to King's Landing and for welcoming us to your upcoming journey. May this be a sign of lasting friendship"
Robert's mouth was dry, bereft of any words.
He'd misjudged this girl.
Just who… what was she possibly talking about?
