A/N/: Life has been busy lately. What with work, family events, and GoT (it's been sooooo good!). Hopefully things will eventually slow down and I can post another chapter soon.
Chapter 11: In the Name of Knowledge
The following morning Jasmine found herself walking through the courtyard towards the cellar. Steps weaving through the hustle and bustle of Springtime activity. Kitchen help running into town for bread and produce. Farmers feeding chickens while the butcher picked the choicest of the lot for tonight's dinner. Laundry maids, guards, smithies, children, builders, everyone had a place to be.
It reminded Jasmine of a passage she once read in Jane Jacobs' book The Death and Life of Great American Cities. It described the city street as a ballet. From the newspaper delivery in the wee hours of the morning, to children doing homework on their stoops, to the drunks and nightclub goers wandering the streets at 3AM, each person played their role in a complex dance.
There goes the baker with his tray, like always.
The reminder brought a smile to her face. A peculiar comfort of familiarity. Though, instead of a city street or a poor provincial town, this dance came in the form of a castle courtyard. Ashemark was a stage, come alive to the production called Spring. Even Jasmine played a role. Albeit a small one.
There goes the West-girl passing through, like always. Who know what plan she's cooking up today?
She was the anomaly in the pattern. The improv artist in the ballet. Each day, a different goal. Yesterday she was a guest and confidant. Today, a scientist. Tomorrow, who's to say? A writer, an inventor, a masseur, a storyteller, the possibilities were limited only by her knowledge and endurance. Each took its own life, and kept her own above the water's edge.
"Good morning, Jasmine." Ah, the trouble with being the improv artist. Your movements risk changing the dance of the ensemble.
"Good morning, Norwin."
"What are you doing today?"
"Replicating Mendel's theory of genetics."
A beat of silence.
"Oh."
Jasmine snickered. It was probably cruel of her to confuse the boy. "I'm only teasing, Norwin." She playfully ruffled his hair, only for the boy to redden and bat her hand away.
"Don't do that! I'm not a dog."
"Of course not," she cooed "you're an adorable little lion cub." More snickering, only this time from a group of boys behind him.
"Morning boys. Need something?"
Norwin pouted but answered the question. "We were wondering if you could tell us the story of the Lion King."
"Again? I told you that one last week, didn't I?"
"Yes, but Damion didn't hear it!"
Her eyes glanced over to Damion Lannister. A head taller than Norwin, due to his age, and had a telltale mop of spun-gold hair. "You'll have to wait. I have things to get done today if I'm going to accomplish anything this Spring."
"We don't have time!"
She shot Norwin a stern look. The boy hesitated as his flush deepened. "Please?" Much better. "...Damion has to leave soon."
She gave Damion a questioning look, and he filled in an answer. "Ser Anders told me we're leaving tomorrow for Storm's End."
Storm's End? "So soon? You've only been back a few days."
"There's to be a tourney in honour of the late Lord and Lady Baratheon." he explained. "Ser Anders says we have to leave now if we're to make it in time for the lists."
Oh, right. Jasmine heard about that. Robert's parents died on their way back from Essos. Poor lads. Though that was nearly a month ago, and the tourney itself was going to take place about two months from now, if she recalled correctly. If that's true, and it takes that long to get there, it must mean Anders and Damion will be away from Ashemark for half a year, most likely. Suppose that explains the boys' sense of urgency.
"Hmm. Well, I still have things to do today. How about I tell you all about it in the evening. Deal?"
"Deal!"
Once that was dealt with, Jasmine continued her journey into the cellar. Frozen bodies of pigs, sheep, and goats hung from hooks in the ceiling. Barrels of grain and wine. Wheels of cheese. She walked past the them all. In one section, roped off from the rest of the produce storage, were four football sized containers of peas. Each lid painted with the initials GS, GT, YS, and YT, a code of traits for her use. Green vs Yellow. Short vs. Tall. This year she was hoping to expand the assortment of traits, and make a challenge to expose the possibility of recessive traits emerging after generations-long dormancy. The containers collected, Jasmine moved out of the room and back through the cellar's winding hallway.
As she neared the entrance, she found the way blocked by someone facing one of the storage doorways. Approaching closer, the face became clearer under the torchlight. "Lord Damon, good morning."
He turned, acknowledging her presence. "Good morning, Switzer."
From the doorway, Jasmine heard a noise. Head turned, she found two more men in the room. One appeared to be the steward, holding a ledger and his finger counted crates. The other looked to be the man in charge of the food stores.
"What's going on here?"
"Preparing for the growing season. We need to see how much can be spared for the New Year's feast and what should be saved for the farmers to raise their crops."
Jasmine hummed in understanding. Eyes glancing over the crates and barrels with new eyes. "Should we even have another feast? There was one for Spring, itself. Might be best to just save what we have, for now."
Damon nodded lightly. "It's a possibility. Hence, why we are inspecting supplies."
They stood there quietly. Thoughts ruminating in Jasmine's mind. "So, I hear that Anders is leaving for Storm's End."
"He is."
It was said rather casual. Matter-of-fact. His tone didn't fit in her mind. "You don't mind that he's leaving after six days?"
"You wouldn't understand." He caught her insulted expression and waved it off. "I mean no offense, Switzer. The Baratheons are one of the great houses of Westeros. It would be in Ashemark's interests to honour Lord Steffon's passing and offer our condolences to the young lords."
"So," its meaning dawned on her, "you're using Anders' love of jousting as a political tool."
Damon allowed a breath of laughter. "No need to sound so dejected, Switzer. I am only doing what is expected of me as lord of a noble house." A smirk crept to his lips. "If such actions happen to benefit future trade agreements, well, surely there can be no issue to that, yes?"
Something about the smile unnerved her. It had the playful sparkle she's seen often in Anders, yet his eyes held a knowing calculation she's seen in Daven when they were working on inventions. A queer expression she hadn't seen on him before; yet, at once, its meaning was clear. 'He's playing the Game.'
It seems the young lord is doing better than he gave himself credit for.
They were interrupted by the steward and cellarman emerging from the room. They gave a short hand report, then moved to the next room. While they worked, a memory emerged from her mind. She'd seen all of this once before in a book. One of the books, actually. With its memory, new thoughts and plans were birthed.
"We've been pretty lucky, lately." Jasmine noted offhandedly.
"Lucky?"
"Ya. For the past three years we've experienced short seasons. Four to five a year. I'd call that lucky, wouldn't you?"
A (thankfully normal) smile graced his face. "Luck would be three years of Summer."
Jasmine smiled at the joke. "Yes, you're right, that'd be better." Then came a moment of paused consideration. "Though, now that you mention it, we had a three year Winter before this trend." She turned to him and offered a casual shrug. "It wouldn't hurt to prepare for something like that."
Damon frowned at the idea. "The steward has made note of that possibility. What would you suggest?"
She considered it for a moment. "Save the feast food for Spring rations. Have an early start of storing fresh crops. Three years of Winter would be a good goal to strive for. Perhaps even save some other items to trade for food from places with a warmer climate?"
They exchanged a glance. An understanding between them. Plans and strategies formulating in the young lord's mind at the implication of that suggestion. It wasn't much, Jasmine mentally confessed, but these seeds of thought may well be enough to make a difference.
Later that day, after a morning of planting and an afternoon of storytelling, Jasmine found her way back to her room. Creeping cautiously through her belongings, she opened up a secret compartment. Therein was a folded sheet of paper. A collection of seemingly random words and numbers dotted the sheet. After much searching, her eyes fixed on a string of code.
280 - Laughing Tree - 282
The year is now 279 AC.
New Year's Day came and went with little fanfare. Lord Damon had decreed two celebrations in eight days to be excessive. Some people grumbled at that. Others praised the young lord for his wisdom. Far as Jasmine was concerned, the naysayers will be sure to thank him once reality bites them in the ass.
The first month of the new year was of little excitement at Ashemark. Mostly it involved people delivering seeds and Winter rations to the surrounding villages to start the first stages of farming, or miners and builders renewing their work in the mountains in search of gold, silver, and other precious materials.
Outside of Ashemark was where the excitement was really happening. The biggest news being that Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell were now engaged. A royal wedding always made for great gossip and conversation. By conversation, meaning the higher ups in the castle were trying to find ways to capitalize on the event. What gift to offer the bride and groom? Which guests should they mingle with? Are there any eligible bachelors and maidens attending to strike marriage arrangements? That sort of thing. Jasmine didn't quite understand the fuss and urgency. The wedding was an entire year away. She had more pressing things to concern herself with.
Like when Margaery went into early labour in February. That had almost been a disaster. They were lucky the Maester has a knack for stitching. Otherwise, well, Jasmine didn't want to think about the otherwise. Margaery had to spend a long time in recovery and, in that time, was doted on by the castle's ensemble of highborn mothers. Helping to care for baby Alerie and keep the new mother's health in check. Lia became something of a wet nurse for Alerie, seeing as the Lannister had her own young toddler, Jocelyn, still on the breast. It was a bonding experience for the lot of them. Jocelyn and Alerie were now milk sisters, something that the collection of mothers praised over, and the Marbrand brides seemed closer together than ever before. Jasmine herself claimed the place of a supportive friend. Staying close enough to help Margaery in her recovery, but not too much to overstay her welcome.
"It's times like these where I'm thankful that I have no children."
Jasmine paused from her notes to glance at the man sitting across the desk. The offhand comment punctuated by the distant sound of Margaery's cries of frustrations mingled with Alerie's wails.
"Sure you wouldn't reconsider? Sounds like so much fun."
"Fun." Daven mocked. "Is that why you're hiding in the library instead of waiting at her side?"
"I have my reasons." She defended, holding up a sheet of paper. "This book won't write itself." But, ya, she was totally hiding. Margaery was healing more, thus taking care of Alerie more. It… wasn't going too well.
"Is that so?" A knowing smirk. "I was under the impression that you're machine did just that."
Jasmine facepalmed at the retort because, damn, she had walked straight into that one. No good retorts came to mind, so she answered with silence. She could always flick a paper ball at him, but that'd only prove that he won. He doesn't deserve that level of satisfaction.
He shuffled his collection of papers to proofread and pulled out one to lookover.
"I must know, did this story truly happen?"
Jasmine gestured for the paper to see what he was referring to. Daven turned it over to her and she glanced at the contents.
The Nigerian Conundrum
The understanding of a family's genetic inheritance is at times best revealed by the emergence of recessive traits. These emergences usually occur early in inheritance, ideas such as having your grandfather's blue eyes or your great aunt's red hair. There are, however, occasions where recessive traits are lost for many generations.
In one instance, there was a husband and wife from Nigeria, a land of people whose complexions are not unlike the people of Sothoryos. This complexion was shared by the husband, wife, and their two children. On the birth of their third child, however, this was not the case. The child was fair of skin, with blue eyes and yellow hair. The husband accused the wife of infidelity. The wife, in turn, sought genetic scientists to prove her fidelity. The scientists inspected the genetics of the child, and found it matched the father's. The child was indeed his, despite not looking either like his father or mother. How could this be? It was revealed, through research into their family histories, that the husband and wife each had a fair skinned ancestor from foreign lands. By the slightest of chances, these traits survived for generations in dormancy in two entirely different bloodlines, and merged together in a single child.
"Oh, it happened, all right! It spurred quite a storm back home." Jasmine grinned as she passed the sheet back to him.
"The child was his?"
"Yessir!"
"For certain?"
"The tests are rarely wrong. Even when they are, there's usually some unusual trait about the person tested that causes it."
Daven looked over the page in attempt to believe it. "And the story of the mismatched twins?"
"That happened, too. And, before you ask, so was the story of the twins with two fathers."
"Incredible!" He breathed in amazement. His eyes rereading the other pages. Jasmine took the silence to continue writing on her own sheets of paper. Allowing the Westerosi to revel in the mysteries of genetic inheritance.
"Switzer," he began, "if this is all true, there may be consequences we haven't considered."
Jasmine paused, quill in hand. "How so?"
"These children could be explained away by your people's methods of 'genetic screening'," the term falling foreign on his tongue, "but, here, we do not possess these machines. You don't explain what they look like or how they work."
"Can't be helped. I don't know how they work."
"That's my point. It gives verdict without proof. If a woman is unfaithful, what is to stop her from claiming her child is like the children in these examples?"
Jasmine pondered over the predicament. It was a good question, no doubt. "It's hard to say. The best we can hope for is looking for proof within a bloodline. I can't say much for lowborns, but highborns have family histories that can be referenced. It could prevent challenges from either party."
"Perhaps." Daven considered. "Though, maybe it would be best to simply not mention these examples in your book? There is also the matter of sex determined by one's father. This idea would spread outrage amongst everyone in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I'm not going to leave that out. Neither of them."
"These words could be dangerous."
"These words are the truth."
They stared at each other a long time. Neither breaking eye contact. Daven can say what he wants, but it wasn't up for discussion. These revelations are going in the book, regardless. She will not back down on that.
"If you do this, then-"
"AAHHHHHHHHHH!" A cry came from the other side of the library. Pronounced by the sound of heavy items crashing to the floor.
Both Jasmine and Daven jumped in their seats. After a moment's hesitation, Jasmine scrambled out of her chair towards the sound. Daven followed close behind. They raced to the source of the noise. Arriving to find a pile of heavy books scattered across the floor; and Maester Harwin, reclining in his seat. Ticking marks onto a couple of sand dials.
"Ah, not long, not long at all. I must say, you both did much better than the handmaidens."
They stared at him, dumbfounded.
"What…" Daven tried to collect his thoughts. "Why did cry out?"
"Testing an experiment, my dear boy." He grinned. "I believe our young flower here called it the Bystander Effect, yes?"
What... the shit… "Are you fucking serious right now?" She demanded. "We thought you were in trouble!"
The maester lessened his grin, but offered little condolence. "That was the point, my dear. A blind study, as you've said, is a viable way of achieving honest results." he explained.
"A blind what?" Daven looked to the two of them for an answer.
Jasmine offered no answer. Too busy burying her forehead into the palm of her hand. There was too much tension in her mind right now. "I am seriously regretting ever telling you about that."
It was no secret that the maester had taken a liking to Earth's advancements in psychology. Even decided to write his own book on the subject, along with the occasional experiment. But to do this? The man is going to get punched in the face one day ...if she or Daven don't do it right this second.
"Don't be so distraught, my dear. It's all in the name of knowledge and expanding our understanding of the world!"
Daven and Jasmine exchanged a look, their recent dispute cast aside. It was bullshit and they knew it. The maester could claim whatever he wanted, but the truth was he got a kick out of toying with people in these experiments. His muffled chuckling hid nothing.
In the silence between the duped volunteers, a sound of feet came pounding across the floor.
"Ah, there's another one." The Maester marked off another sand dial as a guard came running into the room.
"M'lord-" his voice and torso dropped into a pant, "-terrible-" pant "-happened" pant.
"Don't waste your concern," Daven reassured the poor guard "the maester was merely faking his cries."
The man looked up. Face grimacing in confusion "What? No," pant "M'lord." he took a deep breath and stood tall. Eyes flashing between Daven and the maester. "You must come quick! Your lady mother, she's fallen!"
Fallen doesn't sound like much. A slip on the ice or a wet floor, that's fallen. Blacking out while going down a tall flight of stairs and bashing various limbs on the way down, that's a hell of a fall. The maester had spent hours checking over Sybelle Marbrand. Several fractures, a broken hip, and a bruised body. To top it off the blackout was due to some sort of viral or bacterial illness. So they have to worry about it spreading while also making sure none of her cuts get infected. In short, it was a mess.
People were in and out of her bedchambers all day. Her family fretted about before being shooed away by the maester. The handmaids and other attedants fetched water, bandages, and whatever other items the maester needed to easy the lady's pain. Jasmine had joined the handmaids in their efforts; but, at this point in time, there was little else left for her to do. Waiting in uncertainty, Jasmine paced the floor of Lady Sybelle's solar. The maester still working within Sybelle's bedchamber.
The door opened at last, as Maester Harwin walked through. Jasmine jumped to attention and went for the door. She slowed before reaching the entrance. Harwin's shoulders were slumped, and his movements sluggish.
Carefully, she questioned him "How is she?"
The maester shook his head. "Not well. The fall has taken quite a toll on her body. She needs time to heal."
"But she will be alright." Half question, half statement.
His eyes shifted. That wasn't a good sign. "That will depend on the illness. I will do what I can, but only time will tell." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Her sons need to know of her condition. Watch over her until I return."
"Yes, Maester Harwin. Of course."
He nodded and left the solar. Jasmine breathed out, easing whatever nervous tension held in her system before entering the room.
It wasn't enough. The sight of Sybelle Marbrand made her body flinch. All bandaged and bruised like a mummified eggplant.
"If I had any doubt of my state," her voice rasped "that look confirms how terrible this is."
Jasmine grimaced and bowed her head. "Forgive me, my lady. I wasn't expecting-"
"A body broken by a fall? For a storyteller, you lack imagination."
Well, at least she well enough for jokes. "Maybe I was trying to be an optimist?"
"That would be a rare treat." Her head rolled a fraction in Jasmine's direction before flinching at the pain. "Unfortunately, this feels far worse than it looks."
'So, a lot. Got'cha.' "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Tell me, is there anyone else here?"
"No, my lady. Would you like me to fetch someone? "
"No," she groaned in pain, "I- I need you- to send a raven."
Jasmine's hands wrung together nervously. Still, head her nodded. "I can do that. What should I tell him?"
"Tell him- he needs to-" Sybelle's body began to shake as she hacked a cough. Jasmine went to her side, grabbing a handkerchief and placing it close to Sybelle's mouth to keep the illness from spreading. It took time for the coughing to subside. By the time it did, Lady Sybelle was left lolling in a daze before ultimately passing out.
'This is bad.' The thought sneaked through as she cared for the woman. The Maester was right to be worried. There's too much happening at once. How much would her body be able to take?
She looked over Sybelle's bruised face. Even in sleep it contorted in pain. In that moment, Jasmine realized that she didn't need Sybelle's instructions on what to write over raven. What needed to be said was obvious.
"How is she?"
Jasmine jumped and turned to face the new voice. Standing near the foot of the bed was Margaery, with Alerie cradled in her arms.
"Oh! I didn't hear you come in."
She gave a tired smile. "I finally have her sleeping."
'A rare thing. Well done.' Jasmine nodded her head and turned back to Lady Sybelle. "She's not doing well. Actually, you shouldn't be here. She's sick, and I'm not sure if it's contagious."
'I'll keep my distance then." She agreed, unconsciously holding the infant closer to her breast.
"When you go, can you fetch someone to look out for her? I need to write a letter."
"A letter? To who?"
'Ah, crap.' Her brain wrapped around a valid excuse. "To Anders. She needs her sons here. The maester at Storm's End might be able to relay the message, right?"
"He may." Margaery noted. She gave Jasmine a curious stare. Jasmine tried to smile in thanks and distract herself with a wet cloth to wash Sybelle's forehead.
"Do you know much about my family?" Margaery asked.
Jasmine resisted the urge to flinch and feigned ignorance. "House Wylde? I know a bit about. Why do you ask?"
"You're aware that it's a noble house of the Stormlands."
"I am."
"If you were to send a message to Rain House, they can reach Storm's End within two days by ship. With the tourney still going on, my family and their retinue are likely to still be there. It would be much easier to pass your message through family, don't you think?"
Jasmine gave her a questioning look. One that met with a sneaky smile. 'Why would she suggest that? That was exactly what- Oh. She knows. But how- wait, she's a Marbrand now, of course she knows.'
She returned Margaery's smile graciously. "That's a great idea. I'll make sure to send a raven to Rain House tonight."
An understanding was met. With it, Margaery left the room and sent for a handmaiden to take Jasmine's place. Her time now free, Jasmine went up to the rookery and sent out the message. As the raven flew, its words played over in her head.
Ser Dareon,
Lady Sybelle has been gravely injured. She won't last long.
Seek Anders at the tourney in Storm's End. She needs you. Come home.
J. S.
