AN: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Team Scrimshaw here once again with the latest instalment of 'My Witch Sister Can't be this Adorable'! Unfortunately, real life gets in the way, as is the case for most, so we couldn't post this at the start of the month as per usual. However, we are still committed to telling Ophelia's Bizarre Adventure. As a heads up, since this is the end of the year and things are getting busier for me and Alvor, I'd like to warn our readers that there might be a slight delay on our other works such as commissions and other assorted stories.
We'd thank you for your continued support and hope you enjoy it.
AtW: Hey guys, just wanted to come let you know it's me holding us up. I had a genuinely, utterly shit week, followed by a surge of schoolwork, combined with worsening health. Honestly, I think it's stress combined with allergies doing it to me but I vomited up some blood earlier… so yeah.
We'll try to keep at it, I promise, just please bear with us for a little while. Sorry for all this.
Now, onto the reading!
One Who is Many - Chapter 16
Quentyn Martell
Keeping his shield held high, the young prince ignored the growing numbness in his shoulder. This battle would be over soon enough - then he could get an armorer to pry the damaged joint apart and he could properly inspect the damage.
"Steady!" Instead, he screamed his already sore throat raw to keep his men firm. "The ships are coming around!" More pirates gathered on their crude wall and continued to hurl stones and abuse on the trapped men. "Hold damn you!" One of the mercenaries wobbled, dropping his shield for just a moment and had a heavy stone nearly take one of his eyes. Quentyn mostly focused on shuffling a few men over and allowing his comrades to tend to the wound as best they could under a roof of wood and iron.
"Thwack!"
A large bolt smashed through a pirate above, catching him in the chest and knocking him off of the wooden rampart and several more soon joined the dead man on the ground below.
Relief surged in his heart as, in the distance, several ships anchored themselves in the cove his men had seized. On the whole it meant the fight would soon be over, one way or another, and it all came down to if his reserves would hold.
By now, the Gods alone knew how many months into their operation, the pirates were well informed of the fury coming for them. Some fled, some chose to hide, and the most desperate chose to fight. These pirates in particular, the largest remaining group in the islands according to their prisoners, were known as the Rake's Bastards and were, allegedly, an entire clan of bastards descended from some rich Essosi nobleman.
They slit their father's throat and used his gold to buy a fleet… and the hundred or so men that escaped were all that remained of that mighty armada after a run in with Euron Greyjoy.
What was important is that they held the entrance to Bloodstone, the largest of the islands in the Stepstones, and had chosen a sheltered cove as their , all three other landing sites on the islands had been blocked with scuttled ships, mostly fat bottomed whalers and merchant vessels, and the enterprising pirates had even raised many of the sandbars by hauling large rocks onto them.
This forced the coalition under Quentyn's command to funnel itself into a single, narrow passage they had well fortified. Firstly, they had a chain of sorts, though a crude one, that had been lowered when the coalition ships had first approached, but more than that they had also set up a palisade around the landing site, several raised platforms to hold missiles that ranged from stones to cauldrons of boiling water to archers and even a large number of low, squat towers that would allow the Bastards to pour flanking fire onto any vessel that entered.
A terrifying, layered defense with another wall behind it too.
Quentyn had also learned, from Ser Daemon's "interrogations" of a captured pirate captain, that the chief bastard himself had gathered at least three thousand cut throats, rogues, and brigands to his cause, fortified two or three old castles further inland, and was more than happy to let the Westerosi bleed themselves on his defenses.
He had ordered all of their remaining combustibles be loaded onto a trio of their remaining hulks and that the great things be sent careening into the harbor.
Once the screaming had stopped and the fire had mostly died down, he had led a force of mercenaries into battle himself. At his side were Ser Daemon and Lord Selmy and a small force of other knights, but they were the exception and not the rule.
This too had been an intentional choice to not risk his better troops and instead hold them for his second wave - more traps were always to be expected.
Rowboats had deposited his forces along the scorched sands of the beach and, with a squad of mercenaries sent ahead to find the way, the princeling had taken a moment to look out over the smoke-wrecked battlefield. Charred corpses hung from blackened supports, a great gaping hole had been smashed into the first palisade where one of the ships had managed to bring itself far enough up the beach to slam into it, and the other two still smouldering hulks had shifted to just below the waterline where all that was left of them now rested.
That had been fifteen minutes ago.
Now he and his men were pinned down before the second wall and were unable to climb it. This left them vulnerable as hundreds of enraged men set against them with everything the pirates could lay their hands on. However, zeal and fury was no match for the accurate, steady fire of scorpions.
Those damnably accurate weapons could keep a position suppressed and would remain at the ready to fire for as long as it took for a target to expose themselves. Moreover, now that friendly ships had moved into the cove proper, more troops could be landed to support their advance. So, knowing what he wanted, Quentyn reached over and grabbed a knight's shoulder.
"Ser, run down to the beach and tell them to land the Summer Islanders. I want their goldenheart bows picking off enemy archers from the beach and the outer wall. Have work crews start to clear the landing area of rubble too - I want clear lines of reinforcement and, if need be, retreat."
His words were low enough to not overheard when he used the word retreat, there was no need to risk a panic, but he otherwise nearly shouted his orders. The firm nod he received gladdened him and, moving to cover the knight's withdrawal, his retainers formed a small shield wall as his chosen man slung his shield onto his back and started sprinting.
Everything fell into a lul once more and Quentyn held his men firm.
Time would shift the balance of this fight and all that remained to do was wait.
Not that it made the waiting itself any easier - though at least rocks had stopped falling upon his line. That didn't stop the insults or the enemy archers, both protected behind the foe's ramparts, but it did make things just a little more tolerable. Arrow loops were a bit of a challenge to put a bolt through though.
A multitude of trumpet blasts came from the beach after a few more of his mercenaries fell, screaming, to bleed on the sand and dirt below. But the Summer Islanders let their shafts fly as one, accuracy unerring sending no less than fully a quarter of the enemy's archers to the the Stranger. These miraculous men were quite capable of going where heavier pieces could not and, with a steady, thrumming song of death their bows sang of the end of the fight.
Indeed, no sooner had the last of the pirates been suppressed than ladders had arrived from the ships.
Crying out, Quentyn himself sounded a battlecry that filled the cove and sounded the clarion call and was up the ladder before any other man so much as touched it.
His dagger took the fingers off the first pirate to lay hands on the lip of the device, arrows and scorpion bolts having dissuaded any other from trying up to that point, and hauled himself over the edge with his blood on fire. Half ducking back down the ladder, the Dornishman dodged a club before stabbing out and burying his blade in the throat of a surprised looking old man. Blood, hot and wet, splashed down across his face and it was half blind that he finally pulled himself over the lip of the enemy's wall.
Laying into the nearest man with his knife, he managed to get inside the man's guard, taking a glancing blow on his already wounded shoulder as he did so, before managing to bury his dagger into the unarmored belly of his opponent six or seven times.
Pushing the man back and ripping his blade free at the same time, he knocked the pirate into a group of his fellows. Catching their comrade easily, they were able to hold him up until they noticed his intestines had started spilling out along with large gushing spurts of blood. This momentary distraction, and the wailing of a man already condemned to die, bought the knights behind Quentyn enough room to climb to his feet.
From there the bloody work became even bloodier.
The battlements were slick with the fluids of the dead, pirates rarely had armor and where they did it was even less rarely good, and the clearing of the wall became one long series of very short, very sharp exchanges. With crowds of bodies pressing out from three points along the relatively short walls, the pirates were separated into smaller groups that slowly dwindled under the pressure of an ever increasing wall of blades and bodies.
When their boats had landed the sun had been high in the sky above and now, with the last of the defenders breaking, the light had begun to fade.
Quentyn, exhausted and sore and mind still filled with a lingering haze of killing, shuffled over to one side as a maester tended to his shoulder.
"Definitely something cracked my prince. You'll need a sling for a while. Of the rest of your wounds, only bruises and a bit of bleeding. Your armor did well."
He was a young man, more wisps of hair about his cheeks than even the start of a beard, and it occurred to Quentyn that he'd killed a man today that could have passed for his very own healer's brother. It was queen enough to draw a laugh from him. A great, sudden laugh that burst out of him and washed over the prince in a sudden, all consuming fit of mania.
His escort stood there in the dying light as the healer recoiled, wariness in the young, though still older than the prince, man's eyes. Each man was a veteran and knew the laughter would pass soon enough. Instead, they stood in a blood splattered vigil as the smell of charred flesh, death, and burnt wood wafted through the air, a strange and rather new sense of respect in how they looked at him.
"Prince Martell." One of the captains approached the nobleman, inclining his head and saluting him with his sword, and spoke rapidly. "We've chased the pirates all the way up the beach, but just before the forest's edge they have a fortified cave entrance. They're firing on us from there and covered the fleeing men's retreat. If we don't catch them now the damn cowards will make it inland!"
Calming down, and accepting a towel from Ser Daemon, Quentyn wiped his face and spoke.
"Fire served us once today." Rough and raw, his throat practically burned from the mixture of smoke and screaming. "Smoke them out. And have men in the ships look for smoke plumes, that'll tell us where their exits are."
Soon more and more officers came and the prince found there would be no rest for him, the mercenaries and knights now strangely eager to ask his opinion and look for orders from him. This, the first true battle of their campaign, had seemingly made him a man at last.
But such thoughts could, would, wait.
There were wounded to see to, dead to bury, fires to put out, and supplies to offload. He sent out teams of scouts and ordered the shifting of rubble to block the forest approach and the felling of the trees to create a deadzone before the defenses. Around him sprung up a command post of tents and cots, where those needing aid were tended to and from where he could oversee the whole preparation of what was quickly becoming the first step of a wonderfully long and violent struggle.
And only one part of many different operations taking place concurrently. Ser Garlan and Prince Xho both had their own detachments sent to clean out other islands and their own campaigns would likely be smaller, but far more numerous mirrors of his own.
Hopefully his men's superior arms and armor would mean that those operations wouldn't take too long. After all, this was only the first phase of his father's plan and there was still much work to be done.
Ophelia Sand
Waking up in a bed she didn't remember getting into was always a bit terrifying, the smooth stone walls before her known only by the roughness on her palm. The room itself was pitch black and without so much as a hint of light and the whole of her situation seemed to press down against her - doubly so when she could feel a body clasping to her from behind.
Thankfully, the loud snores of Obara were almost hilariously recognizable, had been for almost as long as the once-hero had been living in this world.
It took the edge off of the guilt and panic and shame she felt - never mind the lingering weight of death she could still feel on the edge of her consciousness. Her swarm had rebuilt itself, living things slowly filtering back into the area around her, but Ophelia had done something she hadn't in years. She… had sacrificed part of her swarm to preserve herself, reflexively.
Snuggling deeper into her sister's arms, the part of her that was Taylor rose up for a moment.
Between the looming threat to the world and then dabbling in necromancy, allegedly for a good cause, that bitter, exhausted, tired part of her stirred. Old justifications and sins too.
"I know you're awake."
Obara adjusted her position a little and brought the witch's head over a bit and away from the wall.
"How did you know? I kept my breathing even."
Rolling her eyes, the once warlord relaxed as she sighed.
"You snore."
"No I don't." The spearman grunted. "You cheated using your swarm."
Chuckling, the younger of the two women couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.
"Perhaps." A few moments of long silence later and she found the words she wanted to use. "So, I take it the lot of you were worried I'd disappear again? How did the boy's leg turn out?"
"Aye. We drew lots. I lost the draw. That's why I'm on a too hard bed in the back of a butchery instead of entertaining the Not-So-Little Jon."
That got a raised eyebrow.
"Word play? From you dear sister?"
Obara squeezed her.
"You looked like you wanted to murder someone for a second there. Did I distract you a bit?"
"Shocked me I suppose."
The two fell back into silence, Ophleia's statement lingering, clearly the start of a confession of some sorts. But the weight of what she had done, what she had taken, was still heavy.
"I suppose you want to know what I did?"
Shuffling over a little, the spearwoman pulled the blanket up a little higher, their room wasn't heated and the witch's sisters didn't benefit from her own resistances, before finally deciding on how she wanted to answer.
"Will it help you to tell me?"
Shrugging, the girl from a poor street on Earth Bet turned over.
"Maybe. I don't know. I… I guess I want to think that I'm doing better, being better than I once was. But it feels like the temptation to backslide is constantly there." Thinking back to the spell, the witch wasn't sure how to explain it to someone who'd have no frame of reference. Ultimately, she spoke as truly as she could. "When I felt his leg start pulling from me, it was like my warmth, my life, my soul was being pulled out. Not even a great deal, but just a little. A tiny part of who and what I was, was being used up. So I panicked." The shame had returned, but still Ophelia pushed ahead. "Tapping into my swarm, I used them up instead. I felt their light die, because I chose to do something that wasn't natural."
Grunting, Obara actually sat up on one elbow, the darkness doing nothing to hide her anger.
"So you're saying it's worth the life of a few bugs to leave a boy crippled?"
Confused, the witch recoiled, pulling away.
"No, I'm not saying that I should have left Gendry a cripple, but-"
"But what?" Pushing forwards, Obara didn't allow her sister a moment of room. "You chose to heal his leg. You chose to pay a price. And when you did, instead of giving up part of you, you ate up a few bugs. Are you going to claim that you'll not eat meat again next?"
Frustrated and angry, Ophelia pushed back.
"It's not that simple! What I did was wrong, on a fundamental level. I twisted up nature and perverted the very course of life and death itself - no matter why I did it, I still crossed a line."
The unimpressed snort that answered her said a great deal.
"Hardly. You're whining like a child that just had to gut and clean their first fish. I have killed dozens of men in my life, a few women too. Does that make me someone evil who perverts life and death?" After a few harsh breaths the older sister calmed herself. "Do not take my words to be an attack against you, sister, but you used up bugs-
"And took from a few birds and the last bit of life in an old dog and I took a few years off a cat too. I have felt insects die, dogs die, men and women and thousands of them at once die. But when something dies it simply leaves my control and my perception, it is gone in a moment before I can do more than simply move on. What I did… I felt their life be torn from them, like everything I ripped from their fles was twisted up into a ball and shunted into a splinter of Gendry's flesh."
Feeling her sister put a hand over her mouth, the young woman smothered the urge to lick it just to annoy her sibling. Instead she sighed and settled down to listen to the rest of her telling off as, now that she had stopped, it was clear she was growing manic. But truly, what she had done was even more alien than the height of her powers as Khepri. And that alone had cost her all that she was. What, then, could the Blackest Arts take from her should she let them?
"In the end, by your technique, you made his leg whole. Or at least as whole as it could be." Obara allowed. "If the act was so wrong then do not do it again, but accept what you have done and move on. To linger on it indefinitely is to revel in cowardice and to insult the sacrifice of those you took from."
Huffing, the witch turned over and faced the wall again.
"Burning Lorch alive was easy. He was a rapist and murderer. Plus I didn't actually experience death when I did that. But that dog belonged to someone, even if it didn't suffer, they did."
Rubbing her face, the exasperated older sister simply groaned.
"Gods help me with my stubborn ass of a burden."
"Hey!" Ophelia exclaimed in the tone of younger siblings everywhere. "I am most certainly not a burden! I helped Sarella finish mapping Winterfell and most of its crypts yesterday morning!" Pausing, she asked a small question in a more polite tone. "It was yesterday morning, wasn't it?"
"You worked yourself to the bone and had to be carried to bed. I think that qualifies as being a burden, Ophelia. Even if you're a bit lighter than a sack of potatoes…."
The witch gave her eldest sister a deadpan stare.
"Kindly refrain from comparing me to root vegetables, sister. I'd like to think I'm a bit more valuable."
Smiling, though the younger of the two could not see it, the older snake shrugged.
"I dunno. You're always saying vegetables are good for us."
"Then I suppose you won't mind chewing on them raw like a rabbit when we get back home."
Her danmable older sister chuckled. Clearly underestimating the power a petty sibling could bring to bear.
"I know you, sister. And I know turning people into animals is outside your domain for now."
Laughing, the witch agreed.
"Aye. For now." Eventually the two settled into an amicable silence, with small moments of sleep from both, though neither truly returned to it. And, eventually, once Ophelia felt ready for it, she once more turned to her sister. "Obara, would you help me to the Godswood? Bathing in the springs there would be… good for me, I think."
"Of course. You're feeling weak aren't you?"
"Is it so obvious?" Her tone soft, the would-be sorceress hated the fact she was vulnerable.
"Indeed." Rolling out of bed, the warrior stood and popped her back. "You've been asleep for almost a full day and you didn't immediately get out of bed to pee."
Crying out, Ophelia did the sensible thing and threw a pillow at her sister's head.
Ned Stark
For a while now, months even, thoughts had been weighing on him. If he was making the right choices, if he was planning for the right emergencies, if there was something obvious he was missing. Because, truthfully, it felt like there was something just out of sight. A patch of weak ice and when he stepped on it more than just he would plummet to the frozen waters below. What had made it worse is that his younger brother, his foster brother, and a man that reminded him almost painfully of his older brother were all still in his castle. And the Lord of Winterfell was struck with an odd question, a fierce, burning question that gnawed at the back of his mind as he sat at his desk, cup of mead in one hand and cyvasse piece in the other.
Looking over at the lesser Prince of Sunspear he wondered if he should offer a game.
"If you had been in my brother's place, what would you have done?"
"Excuse me?" Oberyn looked up, genuinely confused, and Eddard Stark bowed his head slightly. The lord considered that melancholy might not be the best game to play, but that, at his wife's insistence, it was a somewhat safer first foray into Southron play than he might otherwise find.
"Apologies, I was thinking, Prince Oberyn. And I find myself with a rather serious question. My brother, Brandon Stark, was challenged for the hand of my wife, then Catelyn Tully, by Petyr Baelish. Are you aware of the story?"
Closing his eyes for a moment, the prince slowly nodded.
"Aye. I think I am, but I do not remember the details of the duel, save that your brother won."
Leaning back in his chair, the Lord Paramount nodded.
"Sometimes I wish he lost the duel, for he would not have been able to ride to his and my father's death had he been overcome." Looking out of the window of his office, Ned sighed. "Then I hate myself because I realize that, if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have my children. And I don't think I could choose my brother and my father over them." Looking back at his… guest, he finished his thought. "So I ask you, if you were in my brother's place, what would you have done?"
Smirking, the prince leaned back, his green and gold tunic open at the collar and his high necked jacket draped over the back of his seat painting him the picture of a lounging, green scaled serpent.
"I would take them both then and there. That way everyone is satisfied."
Ned narrowed his eyes.
"Hah! You Starks are as truly humorless as your reputation says." Sipping on his cup of tea, the prince visibly pieced together his thoughts before answering seriously. "I confess I would have killed him, but not out of bloodlust. If his heart would remain against me for life then, to avoid a knife in my back, I would end him. But also, for the sake of his honor, I would let him die on my spear."
This time it was Eddard's turn to be confused and, making his question known, he tried to avoid any openings that would allow the prince to turn the conversation onto him.
"From the perspective of a Southron I suppose preventing an enemy makes sense. Though I am surprised at how concerned you would be for another man's honor." Blunt words, unkind words, insulting words, even, but the Martell simply grinned across the desk at him.
"I know my own reputation is poor amongst many, but I am neither cruel nor callous. "
Remaining quiet, the Stark lord allowed the silence to speak for him.
"Truly, I am not!" The prince protested. "My passions are strong, my love is stronger than my hate though. Other than a few choice enemies I am without disdain for any man!" Oberyn smiled. "After all, it takes love to hate and while I may love greatly and love a great many… few are the men, and women, whom have proven worthy of my true enmity. That is why I slay my enemies quickly and grant them that honor which they have earned."
Nodding, Eddard allowed his fingers to tap his desk - a sheaf of papers blunting the sound of his nails hitting wood.
"Perhaps you are a little like my brother, Brandon, but you are more different than alike. And I do not know if that is for better or worse."
"Oh? But you are exactly like my brother, Lord Stark."
Raising an eyebrow, the Quiet Wolf allowed the grinning Dornishman to continue.
"Both of you put up with me wonderfully and need more excitement in your lives!"
Ned just snorted.
"Perhaps."
Settling into his high backed chair, he admitted to himself that there would never be love between this man and him. Ned was simply of the North, moreover they were too different. On top of that, Oberyn held a little hate for him, having been the one to draw up the plans that saw Lewyn Matell and his sister and her royal children dead. Eddard would similarly dislike how the prince challenged his guardianship over Jon, even if only privately, and the disrespect the man had and continued to show.
'He's already been in two duels with my bannermen, though neither were lethal. I have to wonder, though, if the Red Viper is called so from the red faces of the husbands whom he has cuckolded. One day that'll see him dead if his pride doesn't get him first.'
Yes, there would always be friction between the two of them. But that didn't mean they couldn't work together -for the king's sake at least.
"When I received Robert's letter and word that he would be journeying North, I genuinely hadn't known what to expect from him. He is an old friend but I confess I parted ways with him in a situation that could be said to be… fraught. Frankly, I didn't know what to expect."
Pausing, he gave his beard a stroke before frowning.
"No, that isn't right." Thinking over what he wanted to say, and what should not be said, he eventually settled on the obvious, subtle and gross at once. "I had suspicions. And fears."
Eddard knew Robert didn't trust anyone in King's Landing, least of all the Queen's family. The man had always been headstrong and prone to rash decisions while in the throes of rage. So when Jon Arryn had died… of course he would come all this way.
Because Ned was his closest living friend, maybe his only friend left in the world.
And that could only mean one thing. Ned was to be offered the seat of Hand.
One of highest honors a man could hope to achieve. The right to rule with the power King, to wield his word and work in his best interests against all those who wished to betray Robert I Baratheon. To, in theory, carry the weight of the realm on his shoulders as much as his foster brother did.
It was a dangerous offer.
Ned hadn't been to King's Landing since their rebellion. He had no allies or acquaintances amidst the courts that far south. All he would have was the King and what few men he could afford to bring with him. Starks had a bad history going South and Ned considered rejecting the offer.
"Indeed." Oberyn drawled, swirling his wine about. "Suspicions… of murder and reward." Sipping at the drink, the Dorishman let his smile turn feral. "Because with the sudden death of your foster father, and in most tragic circumstances, it is obvious that Jon Arryn did not die without effort."
"You tread dangerously close to accusing me of murder, Southron."
Laughing at the Lord Stark's narrowed eyes and heavy tone, Oberyn waved him away.
"Of course not. Sure, you may be the one to most benefit from his death, but the very act of killing the man goes against all you believe in. Plus you're not the type to be very good with poisons, never mind a chirurgeon's aid being misapplied to fatal effect."
He was the King's last friend. The only one he could trust. It was good that he was not a murderer. At least that much was clear to Ned.
"Aye." The lord agreed. "I am not a poisoner. But you are."
"Me? Not my daughter?"
The question was honest and it seemed that the prince was more confused than insulted.
"You aren't the type to send a child to take revenge for you. Besides, Ophelia seems to be more interested in… communing with the gods than in killing old men."
That got him a leer.
"Didn't you happen to have a run in with her when she was 'communing'?"
Ned frowned.
"You're not upset I saw your daughter naked?"
"I'm just happy she has ambition." Chuckling, Oberyn waved Ned's concern away. "Besides, if she decides to seduce you, then Doran will stop whining like a child that's had its toys taken away every time she wants to spend money."
Running his hands over his face, the poor Northman sent a quick prayer to the Old Gods for patience. Partly because he dreaded having to explain that previous chance meeting to his wife at some point, better she hear it from him than a servant gossiping, and because it seemed like the Southrons truly were all lunatics.
Honestly, he didn't know what to make of them quite yet, the Dornish that was. Their animosity as a people was well known, House Nymeros Martell playing the stereotype to an eccentric, swarming, sometimes charming T. They were, perhaps, one of the few Houses Ned had always had a measure of respect for, even if only in passing. They were passionate and prone to volatile behavior - a good match for the King's own temper.
And Oberyn Martell exemplified those qualities even more than the rest of his kinsmen.
He was indulgent, passionate, prone to whims which matched the King's own. In another time and place, if he was a younger man and still the second son, Ned was sure that the two would have been either bitter rivals or the best of friends. Admittedly, he still found the man's company to be enjoyable at times… despite their disagreements.
Brandon had been similar in that way too.
As quick to anger as he was to humor. When he'd been alive Brandon Stark held that very same fierce temper, that fire which quelled the chill of winter with its ferocity. Seeing shades of that fire in the Dornishmen kindled a sense of bittersweet nostalgia within Ned. Of easier times when he'd had both a Father, a Sister, and an elder Brother.
Perhaps that's why they could see eye to eye on this matter.
Because for all their differences, Ned Stark found there was something both he and the Dornish prince shared.
They loved their children.
And Robert, in his own way, loved them also - which was why they had to settle this now.
Gendry Waters was a great bastard, of that much Ned was sure, there could be no doubting he was Robert's son. And as the host of the King's entourage, it was his responsibility and honor which demanded he defend his friend's unacknowledged boy. Because the King wouldn't stand for anything less and Oberyn wouldn't stand for just his daughter taking the blame.
Both girls were at fault, so both would have to be punished.
"The boy will recover?" It was the topic they had both refused to touch on and, perhaps because Oberyn could see the change in the set of his face, the Southern man asked.
"Aye, the Seven were kind to him. The Maesters told me he will have a scar from this ordeal, but that the worst has been avoided."
His companion took a sip from his cup, rising from his chair and standing across from him as the King suddenly entered, clear surprise at the seemingly perfect dramatic timing of the third of the three fathers. The royal moved slowly, dark circles around his eyes clear proof of both his drinking and his lack of sleep. Saying nothing as he entered, he instead gave the two men a wave and a nod and walked over to the small fireplace.
It was a little eerie, how the amber glow illuminated the weary father's face as he seemed deep in thought. Not something others expected from him. Ned knew better. The man who conquered the Targaryen Dynasty was not a simple brute.
One thought did consume Eddard 'How long has it been since I've seen him like this?'
"He is lucky he kept his leg."
"We have my daughter to thank for that." Oberyn Martell, standing to the side now and nursing his drink, couldn't help but brag. Unfortunately the King didn't seem to approve, shooting him a warning glance for bringing up such a thing without leave.
"Daughters are tricky little things. They make fools out of us, their fathers. Your girls went a tad beyond the line this time. And I can't overlook it." Robert was calm though, his voice steady and words without great anger. Because his son might be the one hurt, but it had only been by the actions of two children in a moment of foolishness and there would be no terrible maiming."
And neither man would dispute it. Had it been them in his place, they would have surely demanded justice just as fervently as their king.
"But I can be merciful."
Ned Stark found himself grateful once again - this time to the Dornish witch.
There was no doubt that Robert was being lenient because the boy's leg had been saved. Had he lost it, then the Demon of the Trident would have surely demanded something just as grievous in return. Reparations would have been made, of course, and Ned's heart would have been that much heavier for it.
Even Oberyn, passionate and given to protective anger, accepted this truth.
Had one of his daughters been hurt, he wouldn't have stopped at reparations.
This was a slap on the wrist.
"And what would your Grace demand?"
"Cut the horse shit, Ned. I'm not chopping off your daughter's leg." The King poured himself a cup of wine. "But I can't let those two get out of this lightly. An attack on the King's family is an attack on the King himself. Hmm." Before either man could speak, the knight-king nodded to himself. "They have to sit at the high table during the New Year's feast, they aren't allowed to train or to watch the knights train until we all leave Winterfell, and they have to spend the whole day in lessons with that Septa that serves your wife, Ned."
"Oh Gods." Oberyn spoke. "Elia is going to be inconsolable."
Agreeing, the Northman submitted to his friend's will.
"Harsh but fair." Still, he grimaced. "I hope Arya doesn't get up to any trouble. Now that she's finally stopped crying and those two have stopped praying, I fear they'll get up to some scheme just to check on your son, Robert."
For some reason, this made the Dornishman laugh. When the other two turned to look at him, he simply grinned.
"One of my daughters is aiming for a Lord Paramount, the other the bastard son of the king himself! I'm so proud."
Taking a moment to realize what the prince had said, the Stormlander turned to his foster brother and simply nodded.
"It's about time you took a mistress, Ned! And those Dornish girls are wild! Just be careful about the blonde one, I think she works for my wife. The warrior woman is great though."
Sighing, Eddard Stark simply buried his face in his hands again.
'I really am going to have to speak to my wife soon.'
Sansa Stark
A proper lady didn't run.
A proper lady didn't skip.
A proper lady most certainly didn't hum to herself as she strode through the Godswood on a cold afternoon. Nonetheless, that is what Sansa found herself doing as she hurried through the damp and loamy soil of the sacred forest, boots sinking awkwardly into the snow-melt made muck as the young lady struggled to walk as swiftly and respectably as she could. The surprisingly warm day, just enough for the light snow from the day before to melt completely in the clear noon sun, doing little to aid her advance.
"Sansa, wait! Sansa!"
Unfortunately, the girl's friend didn't share her enthusiasm.
"Hurry up, Jeyne. We'll be late and I doubt that Queen Cersei would appreciate that!"
Frankly, she couldn't understand how her best friend wasn't every bit as excited as she was.
How couldn't she be after being invited to a meeting with the visiting ladies? The queen's very own retinue. Sansa could scarcely believe it herself when she'd been handed the missive by one of the Queen's servants. An invitation to spend the evening in the company of one of the most important women of the Seven Kingdoms.
How could they not come?
And Sansa, above all others, had to.
This was her chance.
The chance to prove to herself, prove to her family, that she was ready to be like the intelligent and graceful ladies who'd traveled to see them. To show her mother that she could trust her eldest daughter to be the woman she was raised to be. That she wouldn't be a disappointment.
And maybe, just maybe, Sansa… might be able to help Arya this way.
Winterfell was aflame with gossip, servants and visitors alike chattering about what occurred between her sister, the Dornish girl Elia, and one of the boys who came with the King's retinue - some kind of bastard blacksmith he'd brought along to work with the others.
Sansa didn't know and she didn't particularly care about bastards either. What mattered was that Arya, her sister, was in trouble.
Injuring a boy to the point he'd almost lost a leg, both she and the Sand girl had been confined inside Winterfell until the King, her father and the Dornish prince could decide on a proper punishment.
What that entailed, Sansa didn't know, but she wanted to help.
Robert Baratheon was known as the Demon of the Trident and had… tolerated the deaths of the royal children, as recompense for Rhaegar's rape and kidnapping of her aunt, Lyanna Stark. He wasn't exactly known for being merciful and she knew that that meant talking with the Queen and the Prince's daughter, surely they could help if anyone could.
And if the worst came to pass, no matter how loath she was to plead with people who were so wild, Sansa would even beg the Dornish prince and his daughters for help. After all, she loved her sister more than her pride and the Stark girl very much preferred her sister to be called Arya Horseface, not Arya Horsemeat.
"Slowwww down!"
Frowning at her friend's slipping, she turned and grabbed her by the arm, stopping Jeyne from face planting in the mud.
"Come now, Septa Mordayne gave us permission to do this. If you come back with your dress all muddy we'll both be scolded!" Continuing onwards, the red haired child of the North cursed the fact that she too was slipping now - footprints and not at all gentle progress having churned the ground up more than a bit.
Chest aflame, Sansa felt her forehead dampen and heart hammer out of control as she tried to keep her pace. Gods, she thought, why did she have to dress up so heavily? What was the point of dressing up warm if she would cook inside her clothes or freeze with the wind?
'Focus, Sansa.'
She strove to calm herself, though it did little to assuage her heart as it drummed on.
The eldest Stark sister could already hear the voices of the royal party, muffled and mixed together as they were. Unfortunately, the noble child couldn't tell what they were talking about, bits and pieces getting lost as words blended together as what sounded like a large group of ladies spoke louder and louder over each other so as to be heard.
How could Sansa measure up to that?
Knowing herself, she wasn't outspoken like Rickon, she couldn't bulldoze her way through problems like Robb, nor did she have the foolhardy confidence of Arya - she was like Bran.
Yet those thoughts, that lingering fear of being some middling child with no great gifts or destiny, waned as Sansa Stark continued to move in the direction of her goal, teeth grinding together in anxiety as the equally eager and scared child jogged through the tree line.
Somehow she'd lost sight of Jeyne, who'd likely ran out of breath or got stuck trying to waddle through the loamy soil, and only realized it now. "Maybe I should go look for her."
It occurred to her that if she went and found her friend, then she wouldn't have to face the most important woman in the Seven Kingdoms without backup.
Not that it would have helped her.
Not when she'd finally arrived at the meeting and saw for her own eyes.
"Come on, Obara! I got gold riding on this!"
One of the Dornish girls, the one Sansa had seen snooping around Maester Luwin's study, called from the sidelines, aged diary in one hand and in the other a small purse which rattled with the sound of coins. By her side, her sister, a beautiful blonde woman giggled in amusement and waved a handkerchief like a noblewoman at a tourney. Both of them were in one of the hotsprings and a tray of fruits and cheeses and a bottle of wine sat between them.
Their older sister, the intimidating warrior woman, knelt on the muddy ground, arm propped up against a slab of stone, face to face with Prince Oberyn's latest paramour as each attempted to force the other's arm onto the slab, straining with all their might as chiseled muscle bulged angrily.
Sansa blinked, speechless.
Sitting around the women, the ladies who accompanied the queen whooped in support of their chosen champion, many of them lounging about in the hot springs, drinks and snacks and party favors in hand as the Queen herself reclined in her own spring, uninterested in the contest as she conversed with the last of the Sand Snakes.
The Witch… who was contenting herself with merely letting her feet soak.
Shunting aside the fact that they were all without even a stitch of clothing, the young woman focused on the magic user - as there was a veritable swarm of spiders currently weaving a web between her fingers. She was someone Sansa wouldn't have given much attention to before. But in hindsight it wasn't for a lack of beauty that kept her from noticing the older than her witch. Rather, it was how striking everyone else around the Dornishwoman was.
From the taller and muscle bound warrior sister to the innocent and beautiful blonde sister, or the regal and gorgeous second sister - Nymeria, the woman who shared a name with Arya's wolf.
Compared to them, the Witch's beauty was… humble. And made a little terrifying by the nature of her abilities. In a way, Sansa was reminded of Arya, or at least if Arya knew spells.
And that was the crux of the problem, all of their problems really. Why her father's foster father had died, why the southerners had come to see them, why her sister was in such dreadful trouble.
Magic. Or something as close to it as possible. But the point of all that was the fact that if the rumors were true, then Sansa owed a great deal of gratitude to the Dornish girl.
'If she hadn't saved the blacksmith's leg…' she shuddered at the thought.
Sansa might not have been her sister's biggest supporter, but she didn't want her mangled or crippled because of a stupid mistake. It was in the king's right to demand everything from a weregild to reciprocal injury to death. The North knew how damning it could be to lose a leg and royal blood was protected by their law.
So all she needed to do was somehow convince the Witch, her sisters, and the Queen to help her. Gods, she felt ill already.
"Well thanks for waiting, Sansa, I almost got… lost… eep."
Jeyne, finally finding her, had frozen up as she came out of the woods. She was also blushing head to toe and even jumped when a great cry went up, Dame Delilah Waters having managed to defeat Obara Sand, much to the dismay of half of the onlookers and the joy of the rest. Because somehow the bacchanal had needed gambling to go with the feasting and the drinking.
It was Sansa's turn to squeak and jump when something small and furry ran past her, a smug little fox that raced over to the witch and the queen. Stealing a sausage the critter hopped and jumped until it was in petting range of Cersei, the amused royal snorting before scratching its ears.
"Come on you two." However, it was the witch that spoke - through a raven. "Cersei wants to speak with you." More terrifying than anything else was the fact that it was the Dornishwoman's voice coming from the bird. "You have my word."
Fluttering off, the creature, just like the fox, seemed to tell them what they needed to do.
Grabbing her friend's hand, purely to calm the common girl - Sansa wasn't scared, how could she be with such an absurd scene happening around her - she started forwards.
Skirting around the main group of people, the Sand Snakes have decided to bully their eldest for losing in a rather public display of sibling fervor, the duo of young women avoided scrutiny as there was currently a pile of limbs flying about the place as several smaller and weaker, though equally as vicious, young women pulled their larger, stronger sister to the ground and got mud in her hair.
Truly, the Stark thought, the Southrons were a savage and cruel race to do such a thing to their siblings! Never mind that she and Arya had done just the same a week ago - in a spat over this very visit in fact.
"So, you're the little wolf cub?" The queen drawled, holding a cup wine in one hand, long locks of wet hair hiding her nakedness as she lounged in one of the springs. "Come before a lioness?" Sansa had, in fact, come to stop in front of the older woman. "You do know a lion's pride is her weakness… yet you keep shooting glances at my pet snake."
Curtsying, because there was no way in the Gods' infinite wisdom they had seen fit to prepare her for this madness, she fell back on formality.
"Y-yes, your grace. I r-received your invi-invitation." Swallowing, she cleared her throat. "Thank you for extending such a courtesy to me."
"Oh do relax, we're not Tywin, we don't murder children." The Witch snorted at the queen's glare and Sansa could only pale. "Don't worry Lady Stark, your sister is fine, and I'm sure her grace will be happy to speak with the king. Won't you?"
"Woe is me." Taking a drink, the queen lamented. "My pet not only steals the attention of fair maidens, but gives out my favors too. Whatever is a lady to do with such profligate servants."
At this the Witch giggled, Sansa looking from one to the other in confusion, before the Dornishwoman simply gestured at the Northerner and her servant.
"The hot springs belong to the Starks, she is a Stark, I'm sure you don't need me to do the rest."
Huffing, the queen contented herself with rolling her eyes.
"You're all lucky I'm in such a good mood." Turning back to face Sansa, she nodded. "Aye, as the bastard says I'll speak with my husband. Now, come and sit with me. You and your peasant girl should make for better company than my own ladies. They seem content with watching a group of young women bludgeon each other to death over ruined hair… an understandable casus belli, no?"
Once more overwhelmed and totally unsure of what to do, Sansa Stark and Jeyne Poole shared a look, a hesitant nod, and a silent prayer to the Gods.
"As you say, your grace."
Complying, because what other option did she have, Sansa was unsure what it was she needed to do. That was when her issues were solved for her by a small blonde missile running past and jumping into the air.
"Cannon ball!"
Myrcella Baratheon, princess of the realm, did a flying leap into a nearby pool and soaked the whole group. This treated the young lady of the castle to one of the most ridiculous things she'd ever seen, even as she herself was left soaked head to toe. The Witch, Ophelia, had used her body to shield the spiders and their webs, ending up half sprawled in the mud as she tried to avoid jostling the little creatures… bottom up into the air, hair fanned out around her, and several sticks and bits of debris covering her. However, it was the queen who had ended up the most compromised
Somehow entirely dry, the pure white fox had found itself on top of the Lannister woman's head, perched in her blonde locks, looking insanely pleased at it's excellent escape.
"Get the rat out of my hair, Sand. Or I'll turn it into the hat it seems to take after."
Upon hearing that threat the smugness immediately evaporated and the albino creature leapt away with all of its power. This somehow amazed the Witch who began laughing, despite her own compromised position.
"I, hahahahahaha, I didn't even make it do that!" Rolling over on the ground, the bastard girl brought her now drenched hair around. "You just scared a magical fox into running away! And they call me a witch!"
Glaring imperiously, the blonde woman simply turned her chin up and away before purposefully washing her hair - something that only made Ophelia laugh harder.
"Co-come on over Stark." Waving to Sansa the Witch gestured for her to come closer, even as she let the spiders in her hand crawl onto a nearby tree, somehow transferring the web with them. "Do me a favor?"
Suddenly a bit terrified, and not just because holding in her own laughter had started to hurt, she glanced over to Jeyne.
"I… ma'am? What could I do?"
Lifting a single eyebrow, the Dornish sorceress was thankfully more amused than offended at the clear stammer in the redhead's voice.
"Go distract Myrcella for me? You and your friend over there should get along with her wonderfully. I need to apologize to the queen for laughing at her… and possibly for passing on words to the princess that shouldn't exist."
Nodding, still rather confused about everything, Sansa tried to lean on her mother and the septa's teachings.
"With your leave my lady, your grace?"
A witch's laughters and a haughty, queenly sigh were her amusing, and slightly terrifying, answers.
Thoros of Myr
"Wine or mead?"
Thoros sighed, looking into his bottle and guessing he'd been at this for about forty five minutes. He'd never get the damn thing to last a full hour at this point.
"So I am. What gave it away? Was it the smell, or perchance the ale I'm holding?"
His tone was a little annoyed, a bit of heat to it and he wondered when it was that a single woman could make him so angry. Six months ago he'd have been trying to finagle his way into the witch's smallclothes, taking the hint of a smile pulling at her cheeks as encouragement to show her a "magic trick".
"You were daydreaming again."
Grunting, he shoved the bottle into a tree's hollow, wondering if he should reconsider his decision to cut back.
"Can't blame a man for dreaming. It's all most of us have."
"Quite." She inclined her head. "Though you're not like most men, are you? A Myrish slave, risen to a Red Priest, then to a famed tourney fighter who wields a flaming sword. I would hope that whatever you were dreaming of would have been at least interesting."
And there it was again - that damn sense of knowing. As if this wisp of a girl, barely a woman really, had lived long enough to know what ailed the hearts of men. As if she knew their suffering. He'd met those who pretend to understand and sympathize with the common folk, masters of empty words and reassurance, but she cut through it.
Her eyes said she already knew what he wanted to say and that the only reason she asked was to help him puzzle it out. How she stood there, the light snowfall drifting past her, covering up the faded signs of yesterday's revelry, simply waiting. And it wasn't even as if she was patient! No, Ophelia had precious little patience when dealing with people she thought foolish…. Yet she always had time for a child's foolishness too.
The Royal children, her own sister, even the Stark children, she more than tolerated them, doted on them, seemed to get along with them.
A mother, though without children of all.
A student, yet one who knew all the answers.
A girl-child, yet with knowledge of the hearts of men.
"If I said it was you, would you begrudge me?"
The witch sighed and he hated her for it, because it was an understanding noise. A sound that said she wished she was less of a problem and more of an answer, that she didn't choose to be so difficult. For a moment, Thoros almost wanted to strangle her.
"Me? Of course not. But others might. You'll have to be careful around Tyene, of course, but I'll keep your secret. Though if you wish to stroke my ego I am afraid I shall need to know more."
Drawing a knife he let the tool sit in his hand for a moment. In the end, he gave up the murderous impulse and slumped in on himself, finally committing to his great sin.
"My payment."
Answer and question, truth and lie, the Sand Snake gave her prey a sad little smile. Thoros saw the self loathing in her eyes as she did so and the bottle of fortified brandy slipped free of a single, voluminous sleeve. Taking the bottle, Ophelia finally advancing close enough to the Red Priest to hand it over, he took her in.
A crown of daylilies sat on her brow, the burnished skin of the witch contrasting with the blue-white of her dress. Falling from her collar bone to about mild calf, it was a simple thing, heavy and woolen and warm, and with a great deal of embroidery about it. From stags, to wolves, to roses, to even a few trout, it took the foreign born man a moment or two to realize that it had heraldry from the house of every lord paramount in Westeros, lions and suns and dragons included, from a generation ago. Most significant about it was how the sleeves billowed, several colors of fabric visible from within and telling him the garment was actually heavily layered. Oddly, though, she walked with bare feet in the cold and dirt and seemed to dig her toes into the ground as she swayed, step to step.
Around her neck was a scarf to keep out the chill, small gusts carrying with it unseasonably fierce winds for Autumn, though this was a simpler bright yellow and red, quartered, and unadorned. Her hands were free and as she stood there took up her hair, tied in a long braid, and began to lay it about her shoulder - keeping the ends from dragging on the damp ground.
Somehow, the snow didn't stick except about her eyebrows and on the flowers, and he couldn't help but love her and hate her at once, that same murderous urge coming to him once again. This time it had a mouth and a face and a voice, his old master, and it snarled and screamed and pleaded with him… even as the memory lashed out, kissing his skin with biting, knotted leather, and it was in those jolts of pain that he remembered his very first vice.
Thoughts of a knife and a bottle alike tormented him and so, setting aside the Dornish venom, for it was poison, he instead pricked a finger, the red of the blood somehow alike the green of her eyes in how it held the world.
"I hate it when I get poetic." Bending low, the witch watched as he blew on his finger, the droplets spiralling up and into the air… as embers burning on the breeze. "The Breath of R'hllor, Lord of Light and Shadow, the Fire Burning in the Breast of All that Live, and the truth of the world."
Reaching out, he mimed grabbing the embers and brought them to his chest. Sitting up, he dragged himself over to a nearby tree without rising from the ground and then cupped his palms. Breathing again he drew up the embers into a small flame, about what one would expect from a candle, and he finally smiled.
"Allow me to teach you of my first desire."
Kneeling on the ground, the snow settled a bit more heavily around her, creatures that scurried and creatures that flew settled around them too, the witch turned her full attention to him.
Thoros of Myr was not a blind man, he could see and feel the power she was already gathering about her and almost cried out. For this was an old and familiar vice.
"As you say, teacher. I shall listen just as surely as I do with Qyburn and Marwyn."
'One of three… yet never enough.' Shaking his poetry away he focused on the spell he worked at this very moment. "This is the vice of every mortal, master of their hearts." Nodding, he quite liked his thrust. "She is an old mistress whose whims are difficult to navigate and who's wiles were irresistible to any like me, like your father, like Lord Stark and King Robert and the Spider and Marwyn and every man, woman, and child to have ever been." It was more than what he could express, less than the truth still, and so very important he said this. "In all my many years basking in the many pleasures of the world, expensive wine, cheap women, and dalliances enough mischief to keep me afloat in the vast sea of the Seven Kingdoms, this is the single greatest thing I have ever imbibed."
Somehow she wanted with bated breath, though he knew the witch girl could control flames and snuff them out. Somehow she had turned a thousand eyes and a thousand minds towards this little Working. Somehow it was flattering and terrifying and the priest felt he was flying.
"Lately I have seen fit to flit from desire, to impulse, to orgy, hoping to find a new vice to occupy my time with. But the thrill of spilling one man's brains hardly compares to this."
Power, pure and simple, burned in his hand.
Reaching out, he grasped onto the power around his student too and pulled it down. Channeling it into the flames the embers roared up, almost singing his beard, before dying.
Once, where there had been a candle flame, now burned ten times that.
"Do you remember where we ended our previous talk?"
She nodded, dutifully reciting her lesson.
"Fire is the prime mover, that which allows Earth to harden, water to flow, and air to drift. Without it, there is no ignition. It burns in a vacuum because it is the burn of the vacuum and death is only fuel to the flames. Purest of the four crude elements, fire is only overcome in potency by the Breath of the Gods itself and Aether is too pure to easily work in mortal shape. And men work fire through the use of breathing"
"Well, few teachers could ask for such an attentive student. Reciting passages from books won't help either of us to conjure up more flames, though. So let me see you breathe."
And that's what their meetings had been about.
The power of breathing right.
Perhaps the greatest symbol of the Lord of Light's doctrine. Fire was the medium by which Priests and Priestesses alike conversed with and received guidance from Him in the form of visions and whispers from the flames. Some of the texts Thors had gotten his hands onto even spoke of how the greatest amongst the clergy could conjure a swath of flames into being.
A fanciful tale.
Perhaps a metaphor for their great power of persuasion. Or their ability to ignite the hearts of men into action. It was the tongues of the Red Priests, not their slave-soldiers, that had advanced their cause across so much of Essos.
But the Witch saw it differently.
She saw power where others saw fantasy and he was forced to agree. What he touched now was a different sort of thing. Unlike any magic he'd courted in the past.
To have the power his sworn brothers and sisters seldom, if ever, wielded themselves brought about a rush which Thoros couldn't quite understand. A thrill that many would attribute to the tales of danger and adventure toted about by bards in inns and courts.
It was like living in a dream, a never ending fantasy. One he could only live through as long as he held the attention of a certain woman. And after seeing the young woman call down beasts from the wilds as if they were loyal pets, Thoros was inclined to believe there might have been some reason to believe in her own obsession with the old stories of the Lord of Light's most faithful.
Either way, he won.
Waking up meant the truth of the limits of magic were confirmed, continuing to dream meant that magic had never died in Westeros. It wasn't normal and it certainly wasn't safe. His instincts, dulled as they were by years of drinking, told him that much. But at least it was interesting.
'Much more interesting than the dullards I usually have for company, at the very least.'
"Enough breathing. Cast."
"What, I-" Blinking, and a bit confused at the sudden command, Ophelia tried to protest.
"Act!"
Standing, he threw the flame at her, old man and young girl caught in a mystical duel that lasted for all of a second.
Slashing out with a clawed hand, she caught the fire and took it from him, Thoros eagerly passing control of the Working over to his student, and brought it to her breast. Breathing in, the Dornish girl let the flame dissipate - heat and energy and life filling her from her fingers to her toes - before exhaling.
With it came a stuttering, guttering flame from nothing.
Another breath, another burst of light.
Another breath, a steadier flame.
Another, final breath and, this time, her breath was long. Easily reaching three or four feet in length, the tongue of fire rushed out in a narrow cone.
Snapping her jaw shut, whimpering slightly in pain, the witch screwed her eyes shut. Still keeping her hands cupped, she, tears falling from her eyes, managed to gather a steady flame about her fingers… without blood. Small, but steady, the fire was a cautious, gentle thing.
"Open your mouth, child."
As his student complied, Thoros saw that she burned herself quite badly. Not so badly as a normal person would have been, they would have likely killed themselves choking on the heat they conjured, but still quite injured.
Sticking a finger into her mouth, he pulled out the heat in her wounds with his own magic, gathering it to himself. It was a little trick, one all Red Priests learned in training.
Meaning that when he turned the heat onto itself, using it to soothe the burns and relax tense muscles and kindle the flame within all flesh just a bit he was very, very good at it. Eventually, when her humors had been restored, he withdrew his finger - finding the skin covered in soot and ash - and brought with it a little burning coal about the size of his nail.
Taking the burning pain, he placed it into a tree, watching as an area about the size of his fist crumpled and cracked as the heat and pain he drew out was paid for.
"T-thank you." Slightly slurred by the pain of it, Ophelia still managed to wipe her eyes and nod her head. "I almost lost control there."
Thoros was mostly focused on the fact that the flame she conjured, without using blood, yet burned.
"It is a little thing, one I will teach you in time." He paused, ultimately deciding to continue. "Though I am glad there are no slaves to practice it on. Now we sit… and breathe." Taking up his bottle with one hand and flame with the other he settled down under the singe mark his God given powers had made. "Remember that. Fire is about Breath and Blood. One way or another."
Her eyes understood and Ophelia did not need words. The burns to her mouth, only mostly healed, were her sacrifice for this knowledge as nothing was ever freely given.
But there was still something behind those too old eyes which cautioned him from testing the girl's limits. He'd seen eyes like those people. The eyes of an old woman who'd seen the horrors of the world and the ravages of time. On a young maiden's face, those eyes reminded him of some of the faith's priestesses.
'Eyes too old for those who should yet be children.'
He feared what they might do with all the power of the Red God.
For Thoros of Myr knew without a doubt that, upon this witch, his master would pour out all of his blessings… and curses.
