Chapter 10: An Interlude - II

The room was plain, housed at the back corner of the barracks. A large table took up most of the room's space. A much smaller desk stood next to a large window, allowing light to illuminate the multiple papers scattered on it. There were but two chairs in the room. One behind the desk, on which the new healer, Qyburn, was seated, and another before it, on which sat Joffrey, flanked by two of his Kingsguards.

Joffrey would have dismissed Qyburn as an ill-dressed peasant if it hadn't been for Pycelle's disdain. The Grand Maester had protested vehemently against the man's appointment in any capacity at the Red Keep. His chain had been revoked, Pycelle had stated bluntly, and his conduct was unbecoming of the order of the maesters. Lord Tywin was wont to agree with Pycelle, but Qyburn had saved Uncle Jaime's life, and a place was thus found for the man in barracks of the city watch, as healer for the men there.

The level of Pycelle's disgust against Qyburn had intrigued Joffrey, and that Qyburn's chain had been stripped for his experiments on necromancy and magicks, intrigued him more, so Joffrey found himself in the plain room with the shabby man with grey hair.

"Leave us," Joffrey told his guards. "Close the door and stand outside. Let no one in."

The door closed, and Joffrey assessed the man before him. The man was stooped, and had a smiling old face that engendered confidence. He certainly looked like a man with better ability than Pycelle. Pycelle was likely jealous, Joffrey decided. Yet, it paid to make one's inferiors uncomfortable.

"They say they took your chain. Why?"

"The citadel is made of grey sheep, Your Grace. They found my methods distasteful. It is not possible to understand life without understanding death, and the processes that lie in-between...while the sheep continue to bleat, I possibly know more of life and death than any man in Oldtown. For example, did you know that a man with a stopped heart can be brought back to life, why..."

Joffrey had listened fascinated for a quarter hour on the experiments that Qyburn had conducted, of opening up people to study their hearts and lungs, of observing the effect of poisons as they flowed through the subject's veins, and how the antidotes undid the actions of the poisons that Qyburn had injected. It was absolutely fascinating, and Joffrey couldn't help but think about the complete stupidity of the measters of the citadel, to set aside one such as Qyburn.

This was the man he was looking for. The only man who could help him against Stannis Baratheon's foul magicks, and so he asked, "What are your thoughts on sorcery?"

"A much misunderstood word, Your Grace. It can mean anything, it can mean nothing. True sorcery can be very powerful, and one would do well to study it."

"They say that a shadow killed my Uncle Renly, a shadow with the face of Lord Stannis..."

The old man brought his palms together under his chin, and sat for a moment, weighing his words, then said, "There are shadowbinders in Asshai who claim that such can be done, but most such knowledge remains in the East. The maesters have actively discouraged and disparaged study in this field. There are certainly magicks that can be used to control malign spirits and sorcery to force the shadows to do one's bidding."

"They say there is a Red Woman in his service, a sorceress..."

Qyburn nodded. "A priestess of R'hollor, Your Grace. It is certainly possible that she can do such as this."

Joffrey leaned forward. "How is it done? How can I prevent it?"

"Blood magicks are bound in sacrifice, Your Grace. It is not an easy task to undertake. The target's blood is generally needed to be sacrificed to the flames...the spells that are spoken are guarded jealously, and I know them not."

"And if I am the target, how would Lord Stannis get my blood? How do I repel these shadows, these bringers of death?"

"Have you had a cut or scrape, Your Grace? A servant may have brought him your blood. It is possible that he may have used a substitute: a blood of a relation. As your uncle, he may have very well used his own blood, exploiting the tie between you. As for how this may be contained, a sacrifice should in theory pay for a sacrifice. A bigger sacrifice, Your Grace, or a more potent one should undo the work of Lord Stannis..."

A bigger sacrifice...what sacrifice was big enough to save a king? Yet there must be one...

Joffrey had left the barracks, then, with a mixture of trepidation and hope in his heart. If Joffrey survived this, Qyburn would be made his personal advisor, Joffrey decided, as soon as his investiture was done. Finally Joffrey had some answers. He had known it. Sorcery was real, and Stannis was out to get him. But it could be prevented! A sacrifice. A sacrifice fit for a King...

It was a moonless night, and overcast. The clearing in the forest was pitch dark, and the fire burnt all the more brightly for it. It hadn't been easy to do it discreetly, but Joffrey had managed. He sat atop his horse, Ser Meryn on one side, and Qyburn on his other, and waited. His men had told Joffrey that he need not come in person, that the King's command would be executed, but this was a matter Joffrey could not risk. He would see it done. He clamped down on his impatience and waited.

Some time later, Ser Osmund Kettleblack rode through, leading a carriage driven by his brother Osney. Seeing the King, the knight stopped, and stepping off his horse smartly, bowed. "The bastards are here, Your Grace."

Joffrey nodded, his face pale in the firelight.

He had bought half a dozen whores's bastards. It had taken some effort to ensure the bastards belonged to highborn fathers. It would hardly have been a sacrifice otherwise. The little whoremonger, Baelish had arranged it.

The carriage halted. Osney bowed, and at his brother's gesture, opened the door. There were six in all, five of them bound, two girls and three boys, and one a babe.

"Do it," commanded Joffrey. Ser Osmund took the largest of the boys, and poured oil over him. The boy looked confused at this. Stupid idiot, thought Joffrey.

Moments later, realisation dawned, as Osney took the boy by his bonds and pushed him into the fire. The boy screamed, an unearthly shriek, but there was nothing that could be done, even had Joffrey decided to show mercy. The oil had caught flame, and even as the fire burnt away the boy's bonds, the flames continued to leap from his body as he ran and ran and died.

Then the other bastards started shrieking too. Joffrey hoped that their noise would reach the heavens and grant him a reprieve. It was nearly dawn by the time the babe was sacrificed. By the looks of it, it was a Tully bastard. It had a likeness to the traitor Robb, and eliminating another traitor always gave Joffrey pleasure.

The deed done, Joffrey raced back to the Red Keep with his entourage. Except for Qyburn, who had stayed back to examine the ashes. Yet he couldn't help but think that the death of six bastards could hardly qualify as equal to even a quart of Baratheon blood.

The wedding was a day away, now. Ruined Margaery Tyrell would be her goodsister, and Lord Sirius, her Lord Husband. Oh she knew that half of the court envied her. Lord Sirius was handsome, wealthy, never wed, and a built like a maiden's dream. But Cersei knew. She had wed another man like that seventeen years ago, and he had been a stupid drunk slob in love with another woman, who grew fatter and stupider as time passed. She wished she had killed Robert sooner. Why couldn't they let her be?

Even so, Cersei was a Lannister, and she would do as her father would command. There was nothing greater than the honour of her house.

And for the honour of her house, Cersei had agreed to wed Lord Sirius, but upon her own honour, she would not bed him.

The man was friend to Robert, she remembered, and friend to Eddard Stark as well. At only six and ten, the man had joined Robert's army against the Tyrells during the rebellion, and Cersei couldn't forget that it was his intelligence that had allowed the Baratheon forces to intercept Rheagar's at the Trident, and Cersei was not sure that she could forgive him for it.

What she did know was that that she hated him. She hated him for being friends with Robert, she hated him for his role in Rhaegar's death, and she hated him for agreeing to marry her. Marry her he would, but not for long...

Cersei carefully tested the ring, a slight touch, and the clasp opened, discreetly emptying the poison below. Perfect. All she needed was someone else to pour the wine...

She refilled the ring, and concealed the poison under the ring's large emerald.

In the hearth of the Red Woman, six shadows stirred, one shaped like a babe. The flames in the hearth twisted as if the fire itself was in agony, and then, the flame turned a blinding white. A moment later, the flames changed back, almost as if such a thing never happened. At that point, the Melissandre knew, that another sorcerer was active in the Kingdom, and was currently somewhere near King's Landing.

While word had not officially arrived, it was almost certain that Lord Commander Mormont was dead. Jon had brought with him tales that were difficult to believe but were consistent with all that had been happening. Maester Aemon was generally considered second in command for tasks not relating to military activities, and as such his orders carried considerable weight.

If the Others had indeed been sighted, those from the Legend of the Long Night, it was imperative that the realm unite to fight a foe greater than ever seen in hundreds of years. At the very least the wall needed to be strengthened, and men were needed. Someone would need to journey South, and inform them, urge them for help. Maester Aemon examined the men in the Night's Watch. They needed a good emissary. Someone who could be convincing, someone they wouldn't dismiss completely. He knew the people at court, how they thought. No matter how good, how brave, a man lowborn would barely be given an audience.

Who else could be sent? Honourless knights? Rapers and theives? There was of course Jon Snow...the blood of the Starks flowed in his veins, even as he was born our of wedlock. The boy was strong, honourable and had a good mind. Yet, the crown saw the Starks as the enemy. Would the black cloak of the Night's Watch be enough to save the boy from the Lannisters? Would the boy be able to resist temptation and take back Winterfell from betrayers? What other choice did he have? Jon's word would have to be enough.

Even if Jon failed at getting help (a very probable scenario to Maester Aemon's mind), Jon could at the very least go to the citadel and gather as much information as possible on these unnatural beings of winter...

It was the most interesting letter that the Prince of Dorne had received, so much so that he studied it at least twice for signs of forgery. The handwriting though, was unmistakable. The narrow, cramped, hand, with the occasional flourish. It was Oberyn through and through. Doran would have recognised it even without the seal. The letter spoke of court gossip, and frivolous philosophising, yet it was obvious that it had been sent in haste. From the state of the raven that brought it, it was obvious that the bird had travelled as fast as it could, and without rest. The maester, seeing the bird's state, and rushed to bring him the letter personally.

My Prince,

King's Landing is as appalling as ever: a smelly place full of foul people. My time here makes me wonder whether our ambitions for our children have any meaning? Elia would have been Queen, yet all she became was meat. What is the meaning of life, if we cannot glean from it even the minutest of happiness and allow those we hold dear, to enjoy it for themselves?

I can see the misery that Lord Tywin forces upon his daughter by asking her to remarry. I wouldn't wish such a thing on anyone I love. I understand that you wish the best for Arianne and Quent, but what use is prestige and power if one is condemned to misery? Arianne will do well with Willas. I know that Arianne writes him often and is fond of him. I think that we have been wrong in dismissing Willas as a suitor on account of his disability. Their children will reign over Dorne and Highgarden, besides, what matters then that Willas is a cripple?

As for Quent, the boy is a good lad, and even now paying for the sins of his uncle. I believe that any duty that he owes Dorne in that matter has been repaid in full. Call him back to Sunspear from Yronwood. Let him marry whom he likes. He is a second son, and as a fellow second son, I hope to see him as happy, if not happier than myseslf. He owes no further debt. I do, and I shall.

You have often asked me to marry, an alliance to strengthen Dorne. Well, I will be doing so in a matter of days. I have offered my hand, and it has been accepted by Lady Margaery Tyrell. The circumstances surrounding this engagement will no doubt come to you soon enough, but know that Lady Margaery is very respected in the city, and by all who know her, including our new good-sister.

Princess Sansa is the most gentle lady that I have come across. I wonder though, whether she is wasted on Severus. He doesn't really have it in him to be a man deserving a consort such as her, yet I hope for her sake as well as for the honour of our house, that Severus rises to the occasion.

I hope that all is well in Dorne, and that your knees are feeling better.

Your humble servant,

Oberyn Nymeros Martell

There was just so much in the letter, and so much more between the lines. So many things to throw any reader but for himself. Doran had never asked Oberyn to marry. That he was doing so, in spite of Ellaria meant something serious was afoot. Oberyn had practically asked him to investigate it. What had happened had convinced Oberyn to undo years of planning, of putting Viserys or (if tales of his death were true) Daenerys Targaryen on the throne. It was also obvious to Doran that his hot headed younger brother felt that Severus would make a good substitute Martell/Targaryen king, which was something that Severus was reluctant to do. Sansa Stark was the key. Consort was the word Oberyn had used.

It could be a possibility, Doran admitted to himself. Winterfell, Highgarden, Dorne, perhaps even the Eyrie and the Riverlands if they played their cards well. Yet there were rumours of dragons...all the Kingdoms (save Dorne) could not resist the might of three firebreathing beasts...Severus was correct in being wary.

As for Quent, Oberyn's words disturbed him. Revenge for Elia had been a large part that defined Oberyn's being. His speaking of happiness instead of ambition felt like a slap to Doran's face. Quentyn deserved to make his own choices, as long as they were not detrimental to House Martell. Doran would recalibrate Dorne's strategy, for he knew that Oberyn would not turn his back on justice.

Author's Note:

Apologies for the delayed update, I hope to put up the next update sooner, maybe in a couple of days.