AN: Happy Spook-month everyone, Wyvern and the Warhawk here once again, bringing you the next installment of everyone's favorite Teenage Witch. Though this time we're bringing in the drama! As always, we'd like to thank all our loyal readers who keep us going. next up on our lists should be Flame Emperor and Mutant Bay.

AtW: Sink or Swim will be posted twice over the next weekish, so look forwards to that too. Anyways, there may be a small delay as midterms are the next three days for me.

CW: Now then. Onto the reading!


Chapter 15 - Ring of Fire


Ophelia Sand


"That's it my dear. Just like needlepoint."

Ophelia somewhat tactfully held back from mentioning that her needlepoint was, in fact, not on point. One could even venture so far as to suggest it was poor indeed. For the sake of her patient, and not her womanly pride, whatever such a thing might be, that secret would remain so.

"Actually, she's awful at needlework." Sarella, of course, was more than happy to be a… good big sister. "Awful even. Tried to make a tree once, Father thought it was a snake, tried to make a sunburst and a spear and Uncle Doran thanked her for the image of snakes and a castle."

Turning to face her sibling, the witch chose to say nothing.

But she did narrow her eyes.

"Before you start ripping each other apart, finish sewing up my arm."

Eye twitching, the witch looked over at the Hound and smothered the impulse to pull the stitches a bit tighter. Instead she dipped the needle back into flesh and returned to her work.

"I thank you for volunteering brave Ser-"

"I'm not a knight." Interrupting Healer Robert, the sworn sword half grunted the words out.

"Just the same, there is only so much one can learn seeing to colds and the small nicks of small folk and their tools. This sword cut is just the right size for the Ladies to learn from."

Happily babbling away, it was clear to both the girls that their instructor was taking great pleasure in annoying the knight. And, dare they say, had seemed almost frustrated when he'd come in from the training yard sporting a cut, perhaps four inches long, down the outside of one arm.

Apparently, both to ensure his skills remained sharp and to borrow the education of Maester Luwin, the healer had convinced Lord Stark to lend him the use of a spare room in the castle. A stable boy paid a handful of coppers later and the lad had four or five friends in there scrubbing it top to bottom with soap and boiled water, dried with fresh linens the old man had sweet talked out of the head maid, and the castle now had a suitable infirmary, at least according to his views.

Located along an inner bailey it was on a slightly elevated section over a small slope in the interior ground, near where part of the old tower sat, and closer to the front gate than not. Still sectioned off by two interior gates it required an escort to approach but he'd been seeing to the wounds and illnesses of smallfolk, at cost to the Lord of Winterfell, soldiers, on the king's coin, or nobles - though these he charged a respectable sum.

Ophelia herself could confess to the paradox of gaining more highborn clients by charging them for the, ah, prestige of merely being tended to.

In less than two days Healer Robert had probably tended to forty patients and fobbed off another dozen onto Maester Marwyn when the Mage's own not inconsiderable medical training would see the job done.

Though currently he was with Maester Luwin, Winterfell's assigned man of learning, tending to a birth down in the village.

Apparently a cow was having, of all things, twins and that necessitated medical intervention from trained veterinarians. It went without saying that the loss of such a valuable animal could be ruinous to an otherwise relatively poor farmer and Eddard Stark himself had requested their aid.

Marwyn had been bribed with access to the journals of an old Stark Greenseer.

So far, though, Opehlia had learned more than she had expected, her own medical skills seeming paltry in comparison to this learned and, more importantly, experienced man's.

To start with, the healer used specifically silver needles and catgut threads. The silver needles came in eight shapes, three straight, three curved, and two that had a more exotic shape for sewing at multiple points at once. Catgut, actually made largely from the intestines of sheep or goats, was found by him to be the most effective in avoiding long term complications.

Additionally, the man had managed to make a simple form of ethanol from sugars and yeast and three decades of experimentation. While it wasn't what would have been considered pure in her previous life it was still incredibly advanced. Using that, he cleaned his tools, including knives with blades of dragonglass, a dozen other tools such as a spreader, clamps, forceps, and more, along with a handsaw whose bit was made of Valyrian steel!

Compared to her previous work in King's Landing, her small cantrips, herbal remedies, and common sense advice was little more than woods witchery.

Of course, that was only the initial preparation. To work with, the man wore a butcher's apron over his robes and a layered scarf over his mouth and nose. His hair was kept short and when he had a surgery he would shave it totally. Before she began working Ophelia had been politely but firmly instructed to pin her hair up and cover it with a wimple to keep strands from falling near a wound.

When it came to the work itself, he mostly used his fingers - touch was apparently one of the best senses for finding the absolute sources of injuries - but also his smell and sight too. Apparently, he could detect a broken bone, set it, and see it on its way to healing with what looked like a gentle grope.

For Sandor Clegane's injury the bastard girl had found herself armed with a curved needle of the smallest size and catgut thread that had been rubbed with a small amount of strongwine.

"Give it a bit more slack my dear. You know he'll be back at it again tomorrow and just a bit more room might keep it from bursting." Chuckling, the healer finished washing one of his knives and sat it to dry - the silver blade glinting with a few drops of water and wafting of steam. "Though I suppose I wouldn't mind charging the king double for my time and your edification if he did so."

"Charge… idiots… double… for… the… pain… of… dealing… with… them."

Sarella's quill had been scribbling almost nonstop, sometimes taking great liberties with what was said but always sticking to the spirit of the Healer's words.

Mostly though she had documented his tools, their dimension and materials, and all the processes he had undertaken to keep them seen to. Those had occupied her time more than the repetition of basic cures, whom she had soon described down to the most basic of details, and seemed more interesting to the witch's darker skinned sister.

"So long as it's the king's silver and not mine." Slightly adjusting how he was sitting, the Hound jerked his head at the very, very shiny handsaw. "Tell me old man, how did you get that."

"Peasant boys who've almost lost fingers move less than you. Now stop fidgeting or I'll have to start over again." Glancing up at the burned man, she met his eyes daring him to do more than comply. Thankfully, after opening his mouth with something close to a sneer he shut it. "Good. Now, I'll try and finish this up."

"Heh. Since you're being such an excellent example for my student, brave Ser-"

"I'm not a bloody knight." Clegane grumbled, Robert simply continuing on over him.

"I shall tell you. Back when I rode with the Brave Companions I found myself often being paid in small trinkets and bits of valuable things instead of actual coin - to make it more difficult for me to simply slip enough with the funds needed to, let us say evade my then patron. So, over time, I continued to collect little bits of jewelry made with tiny pieces of Valyrian steel. You would be amazed at how much is just… floating about the place over in Essos. Perhaps here too, unless our dear witch gets to it of course!" Chuckling, he pauses, sitting down and seeming a bit out of breath. "Well, after working with a smith from Qohor, I saved his hand you see, he offered me anything he could make. So I chose this." Smiling, the healer seemed proud and a bit melancholic, so it was with a quieter tone that Robert finished his story. "Nothing too grand about it. Just something to make a bloody business a bit cleaner and a bit quicker. I suspect, though, that it has maybe saved as many lives for the sureness of cuts as any amount of my little skill."

"Done. Now, pretty boy, unless you want more than just my sister and I having fun at your expense you can head on out." Smiling, Ophelia let her eyes slide right over his burns and meet his. "So if you want to stay and let two pretty girls have a bit of fun with a big, strong man such as yourself… Well, don't expect it to get physical. But we can comment on the disaster that is your hair."

Flexing his arm, the small giant of a man nodded as no new blood stained the linen wrap Ophelia had placed around it.

"Thank you. You too, Master Healer." Pausing, he nodded at Sarella. "And I suppose the scribe as well. I'll make sure to let Squire Lancel know not to expect the traditional womanly skills from you."

Confused, it took the witch a moment to realize what he was saying. Though, when he was about halfway out the door, realization dawned on her and she tried to stutter out a protest.

"What? No! What are you possibly talking about?"

Sarella, coughing, looked up from her parchment.

"You are fond of both blondes and peoples whose last names begin with Ls."

Doing the mature thing, the witch made a few spiders drop down into her sister's hair.

Responding in just as mature a manner, the hardworking scribe flicked a drop of ink right onto Ophelia's forehead.

Healer Robert merely chuckled and slipped out of the room, Ophelia's creatures watching him as he made his way to the kitchens to fetch some lunch - a wise man indeed for taking advantage of what was most certainly a temporary lull in traffic. Something that the witch, ink splattered as she was, used to check on her egg.

Bundled up against her stomach and swaddled in more than a few layers of cloth, the tiny life within was definitely growing but it left the bastard girl to wonder if she would have to wait the nine months all other women did. Or, perhaps, if it might indeed be even longer.

Such were the frustrating vagaries of magic.

Perhaps an hour later the three were still at work, alone for a while now, and Robert was listing out a number of bits of advice to Sarella who dutifully recorded them exactly as repeated.

"...and that is why I do not advise bleeding, unless absolutely needed to relieve pressure somewhere vital in the body. While there are some who claim that it can restore the body of an ailing man I have found that it is ineffective at best and often fatigues the individual in question even further."

Then, hearing something through the ears of a half dozing dog, the warg had the creature open one lazy eye.

Marching down the halls of the castle in a panic was a line of men carrying another on a stretcher. The old hound's eyes weren't so good and the angle poor so she could make out few details other than that Clegane was the one in the lead and the injured man had suffered a terrible wound on the leg - the smell of cooked meat making it obvious that it was some sort of terrible burn.

"What is it my dear?"

Shaking her head, she stood and made for the door.

"I don't know Healer, but a group of men are bringing someone who was burned terribly."

Frowning, Robert took up a few tools and made sure his surgery table was clear. Lighting three extra candles he made his way over to the slat windows and opened them fully to the early afternoon sun.

"I see. Dear Sarella, would you mind moving over to the back? If the group of men mean to be present I imagine they might crowd you."

Working not quite as a practiced team the three were soon in position - the archer having little stomach for a surgeon's work though she could record it - and it was Ophelia that confirmed the patient.

"Put him down here, then leave. All of you are filthy and we need room." Trying to shoo them away, a young knight almost sneered at her instructions.

"I'll not leave the side of the king's son, not when he's injured so!"

Sandor Clegane, using his good arm, picked the man up by the throat and bodily dragged him out. Pausing only to nod at the healer and the witch.

"Burned by nails on the leg, accident at the forge. See that he lives before the king arrives."

Nodding her thanks to the sellsword she turned to find Robert already hard at work.

"We need to remove the nail… and bring your maggots girl." Voice hard, he gestured at the burns while the witch began to summon, quite specifically, the blue bottle flies in her swarm. "Hold the wound, try not to break the blisters, the metal must be removed before it can burn any deeper. Careful, don't burn yourself."

Taking up the tongs, Ophelia watched as Robert held the wound with one hand and wielded a long, thin metal instrument almost like a scalpel with the other. She took the other side of the burn and grasped the end of the still hot metal as the obsidian blade of the healer's tool cut at flesh with ultimate ease. Taking great care, she made sure that the metal neither touched her fingers nor brushed the healer nor bumped against the boy more than absolutely necessary.

What had happened is that the still hot nail had, somehow, pierced poor Gendry's breeches, perhaps burning through them, and the point had settled itself into the meat of his thigh.

The men who had found him had removed the leg of his pants and that made it easy for them to get at the wound. It also meant it was easy to see how bad things actually were. There were four burns, in a rough pattern, and they went up the side of his thigh.

When the nail finally came free the Blacksmith woke up, crying out and trying to sit up before Robert pushed him down against the table with surprising strength.

"We need help in here!"

Clegane entered the room at Robert's call, visibly blocking off the still fuming knight, and helped pin Gendry down.

"Calm boy, calm. You're hurt bad but the healers have you."

Surprisingly calmly, the large man held the scared bastard in place while Ophelia, looking for somewhere to dispose of the nail, dropped it into the cauldron they'd been using to wash tools between uses.

"Sarella, get the boy a bit. Boy, what's your name?"

"G-Gendry sir." Voice trembling a bit, confusion and pain and fear was thick in his voice.

"You're doing fine Gendry, you're being brave." Sarella stopped to grasp his hand, squeezing it and running a damp cloth across his forehead even as she slid a piece of leather into his mouth. "Just stay strong."

Ophelia came by and took his other hand, squeezing it too before moving back down to the injury.

"What next Healer?"

"It's bad. Down past the muscle. Maybe to the bone." His words were low and Robert stopped speaking just long enough to smile at the boy, it was a tight, empty thing. A motion meant to reassure, but clearly not reassuring. "I would say it looks like he maybe fell back against the nail, or maybe nails, and it was caught between him and something with less give than leather and skin."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, the Sand Snake jerked her head.

"Is he going to lose the leg?"

"Can't lose m'leg." Having spit out the bit, the apprentice shook his head. "Can't work withou' a leg."

"Is there nothing we can do?"

For all of a second the Witch and the Healer stood silent, Ophelia's question clearly pushing him to one direction. Something in her stomach warned her she wouldn't like it.

"Clegane, leave, please, and don't let anyone else in here until we're done." Confused, the man seemed genuinely confused before ultimately nodding… but only once Robert had cut his eyes back to Ophelia - the implication clear. Once the door was shut, the old man took the young lad's face and made him focus up. "Listen Gendry, we can save your leg but it will have a cost. A cost from me and you but most of all Ophelia. Doing this will, well, it will change the limb a bit. Are you willing to live with that?"

No hesitation at all and the blacksmith nodded.

"Please, don't make me a cripple. I want to work… I want to be a master."

Words clear, though pained, the teenager communicated his desires specifically and unequivocally.

"Sarella, milk of the poppy please." In the ten seconds it took her to fetch the substance the healer had snatched up a few more implements and Ophelia was left to hold the boy's hand.

"That which is dead can never be returned to life and the nerves of his leg are definitely dead. But muscle and sinew is so much meat and meat can be made to move again, even meat scored by fire." Once more he turned to Gendry, a strange gleam in the healer's eye as Ophelia watched his hands twitch. "The price of this will be at least all the feeling in your leg below the wound to one degree or another the burns will never feel touch again. But we can make your leg whole."

Gasping, Ophelia actually felt a small tremor of fear.

"You mean necromancy."

"Aye." Robert nodded. "Blood magic. It's the only way to save the boy's leg. This or cut it off, the burn is down through the muscle and scraped the bone. Anything else would leave too much missing for it to ever properly work again."

"Please, Ophelia, help me."

Gendry's words tore her. This was perhaps the one area of magic she truly had no experience in, her teachers never speaking of it except Mawli and she had said only that it was something Ophelia should not concern herself with until she was older or crueler and not before.

"Are you sure? There's nothing else at all we can do?"

Shaking his head, the healer - the necromancer - rejected her plea.

"Do you know of any spells that could cure this without sacrificing a man or ten?"

Pausing, sighing, wanting to tear at her hair for approaching what had been perhaps the only taboo school of magic for the witch she shook her head.

"No. A man and maybe a stag is the lowest price I know of to heal this otherwise." Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. "Other than offending the gods and nature itself, what will be the price of this?"

Giving her a sad smile, Robert picked up a knife.

"A bit of blood… and maybe a year of life, between the three of us."

Sighing, the witch nodded.

"For this Gendry, I am forgiven for dragging you into court that day."

The idiot boy did the worst thing he could do. He smiled up at her.

"You let me meet my father. You're already forgiven. Don't do this if you don't want to. I… I can't ask for your life."

'Gods damn this idiot.'

Guilt was welling up in her stomach and she turned away from the apprentice

"Drink your milk and shut up already." Glaring at the healer, Ophelia nodded her agreement. "Let's get this done already then. Sarella, bar the door. I don't know if I'll be able to use my swarm to keep others out."

Scrambling to comply, both Ophelia and her big sister pretended they weren't seriously conflicted about what they were doing and the healer, well, his blade drew blood and the ritual began. All the witch could do now was pray that this was the right choice and not some horrible, horrible mistake.


Robert Baratheon


Robert was a proud man.

Rightfully so.

He'd conquered the last of the Dragons. He'd cracked open the Seven Kingdoms in a journey for love and revenge the likes of which you often heard of in epic sagas detailing the lives of demigods from the far past, all the while smashing through his enemies with his trusty warhammer.

Plus Ned.

Ned helped.

Case in point, Robert Baratheon was a proud man who had made the known world his own and celebrated it for the next ten years.

He didn't beg for help.

He didn't beg for anything.

He was the King after all.

But the gods would damn him if he didn't feel like hunting down that Witch and offering her a castle or two in exchange for one of her miraculous products. Because of course the last one would eventually run dry and just after Robert had tricked the quiet wolf of the North into a drinking contest like in their youth.

He'd won the battle and would lord it over Ned for the rest of their lives.

'Gods, why must you punish me like this?'

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Here in the North where the only Gods were the ones his friend's family worshipped, perhaps Robert should have known better than invoking such fearsome entities in a bout of pained frustration.

Then again, he felt like his head was about to split in half.

Laying awake on top of massive furs, Robert debated the advantages of pretending to be deathly sick. Perhaps someone might pity him and find more of the miraculous cure. Perhaps his Wife would take advantage of the circumstances and finally put him out of his misery like she probably wanted to since he called out Lyanna's name on their wedding night.

It would probably feel better than being punished for his love of the sweet nectar that was wine.

Though, if he were being honest, Northern Mead wasn't bad either.

'Did they leave someone posted outside?' Nobody would ever leave the King unprotected after all. Of course, there was a chance that it might be someone he was related to by marriage, so the possibility of asking a blonde for help gave Robert the will to resist and endure his torture.

Of course, the choice was taken off his hands when his eldest burst through the doors.

The banging of wood on stone sounding like a cannon to Robert's ears.

"Father, you must do something about this!"

Boy had too much Lannister in his blood, he even sounded like his wife's family. Always demanding something from him. As if they hadn't swapped sides when it benefited them. Thinking they had won them the war when it was clear they would have stayed as the Mad King's lapdogs had Robert failed.

"Are the Others marching on us?"

His response brought the boy up short, words heavy in a mouth like cotton.

"W-What?"

"Do you see any dragons sweeping through the sky as Aerys' spawn come to cook us all alive?"

"No?"

"Then you better have a good excuse to come banging on my head at such an early hour, boy."

For a moment, he looked confused.

"But Father, it's already past lunch. I'm certain they are preparing dinner."

Robert felt his stomach roil in need.

He'd missed breakfast and lunch? Truly his body had become weak under the ministrations of the Dornish Witch. He'd forgotten the cruel and unfair punishment of waking up under the yoke of a heavy night of drinking. Comfortable with her potions, he'd forgotten the pain and anguish that were his early mornings.

He'd grown weak and soft.

It wasn't helped by the fact his skull was still ringing.

"So? What's happened? Someone important better be dead."

The way Joffrey stilled, mouth open as he considered whether to speak or not threw Robert for a moment. He knew the boy. Well, he didn't spend as much time as he could with the boy, but he knew him well enough to know he was opinionated like his mother and as headstrong as a mule.

"It's… It's Gendry."

And like that, Robert felt the chill of winter crawling up his spine.

"Speak. What happened?" Already the old king started to roll out of bed, blindly fumbling for his trousers as his son raced over with his boots.

"I don't know the details. But there was an accident! He's being tended to by the Witch and the Maesters. But he was hurt badly. Lord Stark and Lord Martel are having an argument and I couldn't find anyone for help."

No one? Where in damnation was Cersei?

She didn't let their eldest out of her sight most days and she chose today was a good one to try and wean him off!

Strength returned to his limbs, Robert fully climbed off the bed. Though his eyes stung and his ear yet rang, the King found it in himself the manic energy to belt his trousers up and throw the rest of his clothes on, lest he barge into a Maester's office half dead and sick from the cold.

"Take me to him."

He'd have to speak with his friend and the Dornish prince. Obviously the two of them knew what happened and were having a fight over it. Which he'd have to solve because of course he had to solve problems despite being the bloody King.

But that came later.

"Father?"

Robert pulled the boy closer, hanging an arm over his shoulders as he pulled himself up. And then promptly slung the boy over his shoulder like a particularly shrill but small sack of potatoes.

Gods, what were they feeding this boy? He barely weighed anything!

And then off he went, thunderous steps carrying him through the doors and down the hallways as Robert Baratheon, first of his name and protector of the realm, tried to remember which way was the blasted Maester's office. Because of course he'd forget where the damn books were stored.

"Alright, calm. You're calm. Stay calm."

"Father?"

"I'm calm, son. You have to stay calm!"

They must have cut quite the strange picture. The King carrying his son on his shoulder as he did his best to carry them through the ancestral home of his closest friend. So of course someone would take issue and come to him.

"What do you want, Kingslayer?"

The Kingsguard, poised and looking frustratingly chipper, fell in step behind him.

"An answer for starters, Your Grace. Why are you carrying your son like fresh venison?"

Robert decided he didn't have time for this shit.

"Because my son's been hurt!"

The blonde idiot had the nerve to look confused.

"He doesn't look hurt to me."

"Not this son, the other one! Gendry!"

Just thinking about it had Robert hastening his step as he pushed open another door, heart thundering against his chest as he tried and failed to keep his breathing steady. Gods, how long had it been since he'd had to run this much carrying weight when he didn't have the benefit of bloody magic? Joffrey wasn't even heavy, and here he was huffing and puffing.

He could have run across Winterfell as a toddler!

Turning a corner into the great hall, he found it mostly empty, with only a few men who quickly stood and bowed to him and one of the prince's bastards in the hall - carrying a large tray of what might be best described as snacks and tea.

"Your grace?" The demure blonde Tyene inclined her head. "Why are you in such a rush?"

"Gendry is hurt, do you know where the maester is?"

Blinking, the girl child took a moment before responding.

"I do believe that Maester Luwin and Archmaester Marwyn are in Winter Town, something about the smallfolk needing aid - Lord Stark asked them to see to it. However, if the blacksmith has been injured then surely his master would have either sent for Healer Robert or taken him to the man."

Confused, the good king Robert simply blinked.

"And where is he?"

"By the third bailey, your grace, near the old tower and down the side corridor leading off of the training yard. Between it and the side gate leading in from the first inner courtyard past the main gate."

Now even more confused than before he looked over at his Kingsguard who gave an apologetic shrug, still managing to appear both utterly calm and slightly smug.

'I want to punch him. More than usual.'

Focusing back on the task at hand he turned to the girl child who simply smiled.

"It would be my honor to show you there, your grace." Bowing her head, Tyene Sand called over to one of the men sitting in the room. "Ser Kay, if I might have a moment of your time. This is for the Queen and the Lady Stark and their other ladies besides. I know you're quite busy, but would you do me this favor?"

Pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders, the knight quickly made his way over and, inclining his head, took the tray with a few words.

"The honor is mine, my lady, your grace."

Leaning forward as she handed the tray over, the king heard the bastard whisper in the man's ear.

"Molly is attending to the queen today, though I know she only has obligations for a few hours more. If you might spend a little time waiting on them I'm sure she'd be most pleased to have your company for a walk through the godswood."

Blushing, the knight bowed again and made his way to where the Queen was holding court - the tray of snacks quite carefully balanced before him. Robert would have laughed if the situation had been any less serious and instead simply gestured at the girl to lead on with his free hand, Joffrey still being held in the other.

And that was how he found himself trying to keep up with a whip of a girl, the bastard moving with a grace that was belied by her comeliness. Obviously he had… appreciated her form, safely and from a distance, he wasn't stupid, but he hadn't really noticed that she, just like all of her siblings, moved like a fighter. Tyene hid it well, definitely better than both Ophelia whom he had spent the most time around and her older sister Nymeria, but it was how her eyes moved.

Robert had known too many killers and it was only in that moment, as he huffing and puffing and trying to keep up with a girl that, still in a simple dress - nevermind the cold that she showed not the smallest hint of - managed to force his kingsguard to jog to keep up with, that he realized why he hadn't been interested in the young woman.

'Her eyes are like Cersei's when she sees someone she doesn't like.'

Disturbing thoughts aside, the girl took him where he needed to go. Indeed, Sandor Clegane and a few other men were waiting outside and the door to the infirmary was open.

"Your grace, he's alright, but you might want to go see him."

Shutting down another, rather angry looking, knight with a snarl, the Hound lived up to his name. Taking Joffrey from the king he sat the very confused and slightly flustered boy on the ground - even getting an imperious thank you for his trouble.

Still, the king hesitated. He could smell cooked meat coming from within the room and herbs and unguents and potions as well. In particular there was what smelled like warm honey mixed with vinegar and strongwine coming from within. That particular combination, he knew, meant that burns were being tended to. Serious ones.

However, his hesitation meant one thing in particular.

"Come on Father, why are we just standing around?"

Joffrey, annoyed, petulant child he was, grabbed the old warhorse's hand and half dragged him into the medical room - only letting go when he saw his brother and rushed over to his side.

"Woah there, don't jostle him, he's sleeping my prince."

Sarella, another of the Snakes, and Robert couldn't help but think that those Dornish bastards really were everywhere, gently stopped his trueborn son from grabbing his sleeping brother's side.

"If you want to speak to him you'll need to let him get the milk of the poppy out of his system."

"But his leg! Is he ok? What about it! I saw the nail sticking out and it was still practically glowing! It doesn't look like he lost the limb, but what about infection? Did it burn the bone? I heard some of the squires talking about how if a bone is ruined it can take the leg too and what about the other burns? The knight cut off his pants leg to stop the flames, I saw it smouldering, but what about those? Are they alright too? His skin isn't going to peel away is it?"

His rambling boy was an almost painful reminder that, for all his ability to preen and strut, Joffrey really was only twelve and that Robert hadn't actually been in his life long enough to wash out the Lannister's tendency to vacillate between demanding and cuntish. In this one instance, though, he'd forgive his mother's blood as he wanted to know the answers too.

"Your grace, my prince, I am here and I can answer your questions." The old healer walked in, none of Pycelle's feigned weakness in him, and inclined his head just enough to not be insulting. "But the leg has been saved. Here, I shall let you take a look."

Walking over, he peeled back the bed sheets and then, carefully, removed a linen cloth set over the area of the burn.

The seared flesh was barely visible, hidden underneath the tincture applied to it. Though you could almost see past it and the striking wound underneath.

"We have applied a salve of herbs, vinegar, honey, and strongwine. Obviously, the boy is lucky to have been brought here as soon as he was. No miracle would have saved his leg from a festered wound."

"Honey?" The king questioned.

"To keep the mixture together and in place, as well as to form a base with which to mix the other substances and to help keep out infection. It was brought from the kitchens, but I assure you we took great care to make sure that it was clean and good for use. Though I shall have to apologize to Maester Luwin upon his return as I had to borrow a bit of his feverfew to help bring the lad's temperature down."

Swallowing, Robert nodded, accepting the healer's words as his fingers curled around his bastard's hand.

"And the witch girl?"

"Asleep in the back your grace." Sarella interjected, looking up from where she was still keeping the prince's attention. "Treating his leg required a bit of effort and it was… ugly." The dark skinned girl paled slightly and looked away from Gendry's quietly sleeping body. "It took a lot out of her, you know they worked on your sword together. So my sister feels responsible for what happens to him, now that she's dragged him into, well, all of this."

"Can I sit with him?"

"Of course your grace." Healer Robert slid back into the conversation, having finished putting away the last of his things. "I shall give you the time you need. If you have any further need for me, I shall be in Maester Luwin's office."

Sarella, having discretely locked the door to the room her sister was sleeping in, though Robert had noticed the action, gave the king's son a gentle pat on the shoulder and followed the healer too.

Taking his healthy son by the hand he made him kneel. There, by the side of the sickbed of his eldest boy, he and his trueborn heir sat in silence.

Eventually the king clasped his hands, though he did not pray, for he had not done so in a long, long time. No hymns came to mind, no great words of wisdom. Instead, he simply sat with his sons and silently hoped that his bastard would keep the use of his leg, that there would be no infection, and that there would be no more hardship in his life.


Nymeria Sand


'This is a disaster.'.

The Lady of Winterfell's smile went from almost brittle to so obviously pained it was hilarious. And, of course, taking a sip of her mulled wine, the Queen chose that moment to make another vaguely pointed comment.

"As we've discussed the nature of the Blackfyres and the perfidy of bastards, I do have to wonder what your thoughts are on Lann the Clever." Another sip. "Unlike the Royal Tullys, we Lannisters only rose through wit and the hand of a Casterly daughter."

'No, scratch that, Catelyn Stark has made a blunder of catastrophic proportions.'

"I would never think to imply that your line was anything but noble, your grace, all I meant was that I understand how hard it can be for a woman to deal with her husband's indiscretions." Catelyn Stark let her smile fade a bit, settling for awkward disquiet, still intentionally not meeting Nymeria's pleading gaze. "After all, his grace is attending to his own great bastard at this very moment - putting off an engagement with you to do so."

"Aye. Bastards… a curse on every house and the blot of a noble's honor. Useless little monsters, wouldn't you agree?"

Thankfully the highborn woman, still very obviously confused, managed to finally pick up on the massive undercurrent of threat in the queen's tone. Wisely she chose not to speak.

Nymeria cursed the fact she'd been seldom given the chance to so much as string two words together, stuck between the two women as she was. Instead, she was forced to sit there, smiling vapidly like the mewling ladies in waiting that her sister played with as a child does with dolls.

On the whole she wouldn't complain too, too much. At the moment they were sitting on a covered balcony, set where a rocky outcropping had created a raised bank of earth that had been completed with a squat, round tower. And it was a testament to the sheer age and scale of Winterfell that places such as this existed. Set high up it had a clear view over half of the castle, driving home the knowledge that this fortification was built to hold a force of one hundred thousand fighting men, and giving the royal party a clear view of the vastness of Winterfell's territory.

The balcony itself was fair sized, able to hold thirty or forty people if they were squished in, with a removable wooden roof. It was sloped, but also slatted, some trick of clever design and hard work by an ancient carpenter that allowed sunlight to dance down between the thin planks of weirwood, no thicker than half a finger,and create an almost serene, picturesque sight.

Small flakes of snow, no more than the lightest bit of powder, fell from the sky in lazy circles while the heavens above were dotted with a few clouds. Mostly though the Northern sky was clear and blue with a blazing sun above - still so cold Nymeria shivered under her three layers a bit, but of no bother to the Lady Stark and little trouble at all to the queen in her two layers.

Sitting out there were fifteen people or so. The Queen, of course, who had been in a rather excellent mood - despite Ophelia's disappearance. And Nymeria was almost tempted to ask her sane… ish sister for details. Cersei was quite beautiful of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that Nymeria was annoyed, stressed, and missing her twins at all. Opposite her sat Lady Stark, once Catelyn Tully, and the red haired fish's plans for today had fallen apart so spectacularly she had to wonder if it had all been one of her father's plans.

'Nothing explodes quite like a Martell's half drunken decision to storm a rival brothel with a small army of whores and their clients.'

With them had come a number of ladies in waiting, three for each of the nobles, who sat quietly to the sides. They were knitting and gossiping at first but had now fallen silent. Completing the party were a trio of armed men. Ser Meryn Trant of the kingsguard, a Stark man at arms that Nymeria did not recognize, and the Darkstar as her own bodyguard.

Apparently, the Dornish contingent had been drawing straws to set up the rotation of looking after the Snakes. He was her bodyguard today.

'And I have no idea whether it's a good thing or not that Tyene was sent for tea.'

Right now complaining would have to take a backseat though. Tensions were already high between her father and Lord Stark after the Dornish prince had done as he always did. That meant their alignment with the royals would also be called into question, which wasn't great considering that tensions in the North were already high. Combine that with the extensive preparations for a military campaign and rumors would be flying wild.

'There's no telling what Varys or Tywin would do if they thought they could drive a wedge between the North and everyone else. Doubly so if Tywin thought the North might be a threat to his… legacy.'

One of the small benefits of her earlier conversation with the Imp had been a glimpse at his father's psyche, invaluable insight indeed.

'I'll do something nice for the little lord. Perhaps one of the lewder journals Sarella recovered? If nothing else it ought to amuse him.'

For now though, she had to work.

No motion could be wasted.

Not a second more could be spent dawdling on errant thoughts.

Nymeria knew she had to strike while the iron was still hot and in the blacksmith's thigh if she wanted to keep this situation from taking an unfavorable turn for House Martell, the very reason why she had been sent on this long winded trip to the North alongside her volatile father and sisters.

Though she would confess to being surprised. Of all sisters to cause this sort of situation, Nymeria could scarcely believe young sweet Elia to be the culprit.

"Your grace, my lady, do pardon me for speaking, but I was wondering when Lord Manderly would be arriving? My father wished to speak with him most dearly."

Catelyn Stark's eyes tightened for a moment, instinctual dislike of bastardy, which had obviously festered for years with Jon Snow about the place, tainting her view of Nymeria. But considering Cersei had made it clear that she preferred the Dornish company to that of the Great Trouts, well, the Lady of Winterfell would have to deal.

"Soon, I think, his sons have already arrived. However, the Mer-Lord is, well… generously apportioned."

Smiling, Nymeria bowed her head. She hadn't noticed either of the men since the feast, when she'd been escorted by the Blackfish, but a point would be made to seek them out.

Pursing her lips, the Stark woman seemed to chew on her thoughts for a few moments.

"You know, I'm sure your sister meant nothing by it."

Raising one eyebrow, the bastard almost took offense at how blatantly the woman was fishing for an apology. For a way to put the impetus on the Sands and so that her own daughter would be justified in their little scuffle.

"I must confess ignorance, my lady. I'm not even sure what words were or were not said. My lord father is speaking with Elia now, though, so he might be better able to address any such concerns."

Certainly, she had asked her informant for confirmation, knowing that it would have been much more likely if another of her sisters had been the one to cause an 'accident'. Tyene would have been the safe bet in that regard. Father was distracted tending to his Lady Knight and their newest sibling, Ophelia had been… grounded with the Maesters until she could convince Nymeria she was not about to get dragged further north by malevolent spirits or nosy mages.

Frankly, Obara had a higher chance of causing issues than Elia.

Which explained why this had caused such a stir.

'Maybe I'll have to look into that abandoned tower after all.' Though not for the sister she had expected.

But first, she'd have to handle this situation.

"I see. Perhaps it would be best left to the menfolk, then, to discuss such issues. But a woman cares for her child, as you will one day come to know. They are precious to us and if there was anything we could do to help them, then we would."

'Well, perhaps that was a tad over dramatic.' Half an apology and half an accusation, Catelyn Stark was still trying to be a bit discrete, those few lines meant that her probing was done… for now.

Nymeria reclined in her chair a little, considering whether or not to take offense. If nothing else Cersei seemed a little amused so that was good, though by now the balcony area was indeed growing dark. The sun had yet to fall under the line of the horizon, but now dark clouds muffled the last of its light as a small number of candles were lit. This kept the room from falling completely into shadows and it was at this time that a knight and a few servants, not Tyene, arrived with a tray of still steaming edible bits and several pots of tea.

Certainly a pleasant smell.

Of course, the women sitting at the table weren't particularly interested in it.

For all her attempts to connect with the two, Nymeria was a bastard after all. Nevermind the legacies which ran through her veins, before the Queen and the Lady of the North, she might as well have been a servant girl. Here to deliver news and gossip from the court to them like an errant maid, even if Cersei was more willing to indulge the snakes than not.

'It's not as far from the truth.'

She pursued her lips.

"Perhaps we should simply be honest. If my lady and your grace do not mind, I would be quite willing to relay what I know for certain."

Queen Cersei, with her golden curls and high cheekbones chiseled on a feline face, looked every bit the picture of a satisfied lioness. Mostly comfortable to watch her discomfort and Lady Stark's as the other women spoke, the royal probably wanted to be with other people doing other things and that was particularly understandable.

Unfortunately for Nymeria it was paramount to control the narrative. Blessedly, for once, she got a nod.

"Earlier today the blacksmith Gendry Waters was carried to the Maester's office by a group of men at the request of young Lady Arya. From the few accounts I have heard, there was an incident between your daughter, Lady Stark, and my sister. This resulted in the young man being injured and requiring emergency medical attention."

There was a time to be honest and a time to be cunning.

Fortunately, she did not need to lie to the girl's mother in order to be the latter. She would of course take the girl's side if Nymeria implied Arya was solely to blame. It was best, then, to admit some fault than to have the bulk of it pushed onto them in an act of overprotective love.

She could only hope her own father was not acting upon his own overprotective desires.

"What of the slander my daughter was subjected to?"

Lady Catelyn Stark, while not as imposing a presence as Queen Cersei, still cut a striking figure. With locks of deep auburn and eyes which pierced through the gathering evening, the woman looked the part of a bird of prey more than a fish as if readying itself to descend upon any unfortunate enough to earn her displeasure.

Though she would find no serpent this day, Nymeria respected the noble woman's desire to protect her own child.

"Harmless, though it would seem she fretted for the young man's injury. It speaks to her character that her immediate concern was for the injured party."

Cersei, brows creased in exaggerated concern, leaned closer.

"And what of your sister? It pains me to hear she might have been hurt."

Nymeria dearly wished the woman would remain silent. She knew better than to bring up a bastard girl, no matter how well regarded, in front of a woman known to dislike them at the best of times. So this was probably revenge for Ophelia disappearing in the middle of the night.

"Elia was also unharmed and called for dear Ophelia's assistance on the matter. She is now tending to the blacksmith alongside Healer Robert while a messenger was dispatched to seek Maesters Luwin and Marwyn."

The mention of her other sister gave pause to the Queen's needling.

Trust the enigmatic Snake to make something of an ally out of the famously difficult woman.

"It is clear that this was a simple incident between boisterous youths. I've been told that Elia and Arya are similar in temperament and taste. As they say, too much of a good thing often leads to mistakes. I'm sure that our father will dole out the appropriate punishment." Inclining her head, the bastard thanked the two trueborn women for letting her speak.

"And you wish us to impart that message to our husbands." The queen finally threw her a bone, not needling the woman across from her any further. "That we should let the menfolk decide the course of the day and we should demurely sit to the side as children potentially cripple each other?"

'Fuck. She's still angry.' The faux concern was just that and Nymeria knew her next words would need to be chosen carefully. "Yes, there is no need to drag out a simple incident. The boy will recover, and my sister will be cautioned for her poor conduct-"

"Cautioned?" Genuine offense was thick in the red haired woman's voice.

Nymeria sat straighter, hands flat against the wooden table. "Lady Stark?" She had chosen careful curiosity.

"Pardon me, but I believe you're understating the part your sister played on that boy's injury. Simply warning her to not do it again with a slap on the wrist won't please the King. I am certainly not pleased."

Luckily, or perhaps not, it was the queen who replied for the bastard and the weight of that title at least meant that Catelyn bit her tongue instead of… making things unpleasant.

"Your daughter too had a part in it, Lady Stark. We should let cooler heads prevail instead of exacerbating this unpleasant situation further than it already has been. Accept that both girls were involved in this incident and that they should share the blame."

Sighing, Cersei poured the last of her wine back into the pitcher she'd been given, took up her tea cup and stood.

"I tire of this." Ser Meryn snapped to attention. "I would see my children now."

And that was that.

The two parties shuffled out, eventually leaving only the bastard and the Dornish knight. Coming over, Darkstar dropped into the Lady Stark's vacant seat and kicked his feet up onto the queen's.

"Well, that went brilliantly."

Glaring at him, Nymeria opened her mouth to say something impolite.

Instead, after smirking, she simply leaned back herself.

"Tell me, where's Tyene… and what do you think the queen will do when she finds out you put your filthy boots on her chair?"

Pausing and paling, the knight very, very quickly removed his shoes and stood up - scanning the room as if the poisoner would be right behind him - and grunted.

"I'll remember that."

Nymeria stood and lightly patted his cheek.

"And I'll tell Ophelia to put something particularly angry and violent in your bed for when you sleep. Now come on. We have work to do and not the least is convincing the Northern Lords to view this as the Stark girl having Wolfsblood and the Dornish as being indulgent of youthful enthusiasm." Pausing, she gave a small inclination of the head. "Do well and I'll have Elia get you a sparring match with Ser Barristan, I know you've been itching to actually train with him and honest work deserves honest pay."


Olenna Tyrell


"Took you long enough boy."

Wrapping her cane on the table, she did as she always did when some idiot thought they could push her around.

"The next time you leave me waiting this long again I'll simply have Margery marry Tommen and be done with you." Harrumphing, she settled down in her large chair. "If nothing else the Lannisters are at least polite when they need you."

Renly Baratheon stood in the closed doorway of his private apartments with a look that was a cross between surprise, horror, anger, and outrage. Eventually he settled on the latter.

"If I wanted an old woman in my bedchambers I'd be wed already." His hair was mussed, his tunic disordered, and belt only half done. "How did you even get in here!"

Olenna simply snorted.

"A little bird let me in, how do you think, boy." Running a hand across her face, the old woman toned down her speech to the level of a spoiled village idiot. "Now, I don't care that you've been fooling around with someone, Loras doesn't need to know about it unless you catch the pox, but when we have a meeting arranged it is best to be there. Youth may grant you vigor, but I'm not aging in reverse." Muttering, she turned and looked out the window, taking in the sparkling sea beyond. "Besides, it's expensive to distract both Baelish and the eunuch, gods know they're too clever by half."

"What even is there to discuss?" Somewhat apologetic, Renly straightened his tunic and meandered over to the hearth in his room. "As for who I was with, Loras knows, ah, you could say that he even introduced us. Normally it was the three of us together when we had the time and we were actually discussing a surprise for him when he returns. If you would, do you know if he prefers the eggs of wild fowl or domesticated? And if he prefers the eggs of geese or chickens?"

Annoyed at the folly of youth, the Queen of Thorns wasn't quite pleased by these questions. But, and this was a very small but, she also knew the man currently stoking the fire across from her was utterly incapable of disassembly. So she relented just a bit.

"He likes quail eggs. And still, we have much to discuss. My dalliance with Varys is in just an hour if you haven't been so addled by your lusts that you've forgotten."

Standing up, the youngest Baratheon gave her a winning smile. Standing there in the low light, deep green tunic over white hosen, smart velvet shoes, and wind blown black hair - he looked like a storybook prince. And all Olenna could see was the wasted potential in his empty, empty words.

"And what is there left to discuss? The royal bastards are just that, bastards, and none of my brother's children will inherit. Tywin wouldn't have it, assuming he doesn't surrender when we take his children and grandchildren hostage. Meaning that leaves Stannis. Stannis, who has Dragonstone, maybe, and no one likes." Shrugging, he brought over a pair of mostly clean cups and poured two steaming cups of water before turning to a box and fiddling around with some leaves. "Cruel as it is, that's the truth."

"And everything will go perfectly?" Sheer incredulity was clear in the old woman's voice. "You think the gods will simply will you to victory and that you aren't going to have to get your hands dirty?"

Holding his arms out, he gave her another broad smile.

"People love me. And a beloved king is forgiven a great many things." Starting to prepare the tea for both of them, Olenna was a bit annoyed he didn't ask but also knew that Renly only drank the best tea despite otherwise being a quack when it came to art, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands continued speaking. "With your help and the help of Dorne, Doran will have no choice but to back us as his armies will be off fighting over a bunch of pirate infested islands, that leaves the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Westerlands."

Ticking off his fingers one by one, the prince laid out his thoughts.

"Tywin will back down so long as we agree to let him make Jaimie his heir, a loss to be sure, but we could hold the bastards and his daughter as Vale is under the control of a madwoman broken by probably having a hand in her husband's murder and her only heir is feeble in body and mind. When it comes to that, we just declare the Harding boy as the new Arryn, perhaps bribe the Royces with a small council position, and they'll be satisfied for a decade or two. The trout-men and the northern savages are either too busy dying of gout or fornicating with pet wolves from what I hear, I doubt they'd ride to aid a Lannister either way. And the Ironborn are still reeling from what my brother did to them years ago."

"Hoster Tully is slowly recovering. The Witch Girl gave him a potion on the behest of the king and taught his maester how to make a treatment."

Pausing, the prince passed the tea cup over and began to sip at his own drink.

"And that is why you want to speak to the Spider?"

Shaking her head, the Queen of Thorns spoke almost truly.

"Hardly. His mind is going, slipping day by day, I know the like. You see, when you get old and you have a little cleverness you hide that your mind is going. Tricks to compensate for your weakness. My own guests in his court confirm he uses such things when I told them to look for certain signs. His boy, Edumure, he's rash though. None of his father's ambition or cunning, but all of his vigor and more loyalty to the Starks than can be broken."

Nodding, Renly agreed with her words even as he dismissed them.

"Eddard loves my brother. That love will protect me once Robert dies. Either the drinking or the whoring or an angry husband or scorned lover or the queen will do him in. When that happens, all we need to do is step in and administer justice."

Pausing, he finished and raised his cup.

"For the good of the realm."

Olenna didn't respond, instead holding her cup and waiting for her conspirator to recline.

"And if he doesn't die."

Snorting, the beautiful man put his cup to the side and took in the green and gold dress of the lady of highgarden. From her wimple, embroidered with horses and knights and ladies, to the bodice that was pinned with a golden rose, to the long, flowing body of the garment. It was worked through with little bits of silver thread and seemed to shimmer as light glinted off of the semi precious stones sown into the hem.

After deciding that it seemed to portray the story of the Field of Fire, the young man nodded.

"Then I suppose he might need to be helped along. His great bastard was brought to court. I'm sure the queen sees that as a threat, why not encourage her to protect my inheritance and give us a cause to act at the same time?"

"That means we need Varys. Maybe Baelish too. But definitely the Spider."

Her words were met with another shrug.

"What does Varys want?"

This time it was Olenna's turn to shrug.

"The Witch Girl. Dead. He's convinced she's using magic to influence the king. Why do you think he's renested his little birds? She spooked him."

That got her a raised, artfully crafted eyebrow.

"You mean that a eunuch is afraid of a little girl? A little girl whose powers allegedly let her summon gold from thin air, walk through shadows, and to command every beast that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud to worship her." Snorting as he rubbed his face, the Tyrell matriarch finally took a sip of her now mildly warm tea as the young man across from her continued to speak. "Just… let him deal with her. If he manages it, we blame it on Cersei thinking the scary magic girl child had seduced the king or somesuch."

Right now it took every ounce of strength she had not to throttle the idiot sitting across from her. Already she'd come up with a dozen different issues that would need to be taken care of, not the least of which being Oberyn Martell himself, and how the only saving grace about her future son in law being an idiot was that it meant Margery would be able to control him without issue.

Instead she gave him a small smile.

"I shall see it done, your grace. For the good of the realm."

Privately, she couldn't help but sigh in relief.

'At least Varys won't be an utter bore.'