The entire court awaited the Stark ship that was bringing Lord Beric's daughter, Wylla, to King's Landing. At the docks, the King stood on a beautifully crafted throne bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, the red three headed dragon on black. His wife, Queen Aelinor, stood beside him, dressed in a superb brown gown and a dragon brooch on her chest. Her brown was long and wavy and her eyes were brown too, beautiful but sad. The rest of the Small Council and a part of the Lords from the court stood on confortable benches behind the royal couple, everyone except Brynden Rivers, who walked impatiently on the boardwalk. The Hand of the King was dressed in his hooded black cloak, with an albino dragon sewed on its back. The sun upsets him, so whenever he leaves the Red Keep, he will put on this outfit, making people fear him even more. He started to talk with a young man with dark skin, dressed in a long, multicolored robe.
"You are from the Summer Isles, right?"
"Yes, Lord Hand. I am Xhon Thelor, thirdborn son of Jazam, prince of Omburu."
"And why did a prince of Omburu leave the Summer Isles to come to a bleak place like Westeros?"
"Well, it's a long story."
"I love stories, especially now that I have to wait for that ship from the North to arrive. Tell me, prince Xhon, I'm waiting!"
"Three years ago, a strange fever took my youngest brother, Chedu. No healer from the Summer Isles could do anything for him. When their rituals failed, father sent his ships to bring in specialists from across the seas, such as Norvoshi healer priests, Lhazareen maegis, Westerosi maesters and even spirit healers from Yi Ti. Only a maester, Graydon, managed to save my brother, stopping his fever with a queer mixture of plants. My father was so grateful that he wanted to give maester Graydon a ship full of gemstones but he refused, saying that the good health of Chedu was enough. Before Graydon left for the Seven Kingdoms, I asked him where he learned to heal and he answered me: at the Citadel, in Oldtown. Since then, my dream was to go to the Citadel in Oldtown, to learn how to heal."
Brynden Rivers gave the prince a faint smile:
"Not all maesters are as kindhearted as Graydon. Do you know his story?"
"No. Our time together was short. Tell me, Lord Hand."
"Well, I suppose I must, since you were so kind as to tell me your story. Maester Graydon was born Graydon Hill, a bastard of Lord Loras Lefford of Golden Tooth. Lord Loras was a pious man, but he fell in love with the daughter of his blacksmith, a beautiful maid of seventeen. He seduced her, bedded her and after his natural son was born, Lord Loras was consumed by guilt, as bastardy is frowned upon here in Westeros. I know this very well, as I am a bastard too. Loras had no choice but to acknowledge his son and, when the boy grew up, he sent him to the Citadel. A good fate for a bastard. Graydon was very intelligent and had a knack for healing. After finishing his studies, maester Graydon was assigned to House Lannister of Lannisport. He still lives there but receives many requests from all the corners of the world."
"He is a good man, and I want to see him again. In the Summer Isles, we don't care if a child is a bastard or not. The goddess professes love and love can't be a sin. I really want to become a maester, to better help my people."
Brynden was impressed with the young Summer Islander. He was young and had that innocence about him and a desire to do well by people. The Bloodraven hoped that prince Xhon will not be perverted by the Westerosi society. After a few more minutes of talking, the prince excused himself and left Brynden, not before giving him a beautifully crafted ruby ring. Prince Xhon said that whenever a Summer Islander has a productive discussion with someone, he will give his fellow interlocutor a gift. Brynden accepted it.
At the superior level of the harbor, the court was impatient. The hot weather was very difficult to bear, especially to the older lords. The queen turned to her husband, caressing his cheek:
"It's so hot today, my love. I pray to the Seven for rain!"
"You should pray to the wind to bring the clouds on the mainland, my queen. Tonight, I will give you my book about rain, it's quite interesting. You should read it!"
Lady Shiera, watching the queen's answer to her husband's proposition, a sad smile, thought:
You fool, she needs cock, not books. Cock!
The Mistress of Whisperers left her place behind the king and went straight to her lover Brynden.
"Our nephew proposed to Aelinor to give her books about rain. Really, I want so much for that Martell side of him to emerge and just fuck the tits off the queen."
Aerys' mother was a Martell, so the propensity for carnality was in his blood. The reasons why it hasn't any effect on the king remains unknown.
"Maybe with this Stark girl… Look, direwolf sails. They will arrive shortly!"
In a few minutes, the ship docked in King's Landing. The royal couple graciously descended the stairs of the harbor accompanied by the court. Lady Wylla's personal guard emerged from the ship, making way for the beautiful daughter of Lord Beric Stark. Everyone gasped when they saw her. Lady Wylla was fair skinned, with black hair and a tiny, oval face with full lips and black eyes that could seduce any man any time. She wore a long, grey dress with a direwolf model, to show her Stark blood. Since the moment they saw her, Brynden Rivers and Shiera knew that she could be the one.
A few days later, Brynden and the king discussed about the problems of the realm.
"Well, the smallfolk returned to their lands and except for a few squabbles with the patrols, everything seems fine. Of course, we discussed in the Small Council several ways of helping the agriculture if the rains won't begin quickly. We considered hiring builders from Braavos to create canals to water the fields. The source will be, of course, the Blackwater. We have a few blueprints, given to us by the man the Braavosi sent to see if it could be done. It can be done."
"A good idea but I'm not sure it would be feasible. The costs will surely be immense and the work would not bear fruits until very late, when the drought, if it continues, will claim many victims."
"We will not start big. According to the plans the Braavosi sent us, the first canal will be ready in three months. As for the costs, Lord Brax assured me that the Crown could afford one half of the money. The other half will be given by the Lords from the Crownlands, as they have the most to gain from this enterprising."
"I don't know if we have another three months, Uncle."
"Well, we certainly don't have another idea."
"You can try to use spells to bring the rains, Uncle. Aren't the smallfolk considering you a warlock of sorts?"
"I'm not joking, Your Grace. The smallfolk do what they do best: trying to explain the world with superstition and religion."
"Exactly, Uncle, but I would be careful with these words around the High Septon."
Brynden Rivers frowned:
"Your Grace, it is because of religion that we are in the situation we are. Just like I told my brother: You cannot hope to bring progress and modernity to a society who still believes in tree gods and seven-faced gods and drowned gods. Westeros will progress the day people will realize that life is shit and the only way to turn the shit into something good is to acknowledge the fact that only by work and intelligence we will prevail. As for the High Septon, he likes to wake up in the morning, spew that nonsense in the Sept of Baelor and then, at night, fuck young girls. And when I say young, I'm talking about pre-flowering young."
"Well, hypocrites will always exist in the world, no matter the age. But at least the Faith keeps people under control."
"Keeps them foolish, more likely. It is a mummer's farce. The Faith claims that the truth is theirs just because the Andal invaders of old believe into the Seven and brought their customs across the sea. In the North, the First Men's descendants tell us that the only gods who tell the truth are the tree gods. Across the sea, the Red Priests tell us that R'hllor is the one true god. In Braavos, there is one temple for each religion. That makes dozens of temples for dozens of faiths. Each claiming the truth."
"It may be true, Uncle, but you cannot deny that faith has its role in the society. Without faith, people will start asking questions and the answers they are may not satisfy them."
"Tell me, Your Grace, what would happen when from the plethora of septons and septas one will rise above all the others and convince the sheep to follow him? Telling them that while individually they amass to nothing but together they could take down empires? What would happen to us?"
"Let's hope that time doesn't come."
"Hope is like building with sand. When you think your castle will stand there forever, the water will come and wash it away. Difficult times are ahead of us. We need stability!"
King Aerys' face darkened. He knew that his uncle was right. Brynden was always right. Sometimes, Aerys believed him to be some kind of a prophet. Whatever the truth may be, Brynden certainly wasn't an ordinary man.
"Tell me, Your Grace, how is Queen Aelinor? Does she enjoy the presence of Lady Stark?"
"Absolutely. She is very interested in stories about the North and they talk countless hours about it."
"I am glad. I was afraid that Lady Stark will be cold and bland, like the region she hails from."
"Calm down, Uncle. I find the lady to be very interesting."
Something just ignited in Brynden's heart. He knew it. Without his intervention, Aerys noticed the young direwolf pup. Could it be something else? Lust maybe?
