Chapter 7: Interlude and Transition
The stars were obscured by storm clouds, and the night was very dark. The wind was howling outside, occasionally whistling through the windows of Dragonstone. The waves of the story sea could be heard splashing onto the shore violently. Even Davos Seaworth would not be able to navigate in this weather.
The wind had gutted the torch next to the window, only the fireplace was lit. The Red Priestess was staring at the flames intently, and even as they burnt bright, all she could see were shadows. The portents of darkness were getting darker, but where was Azor Ahai?
Melisandre had felt weak ever since her exhortation to the R'hllor on the day of the battle of Blackwater, as if she had expended more energy than she had to spend. For days she had been listless, feeling her true age. Only the greatest feats of magic, propelled by the sacrifice of a hundred and one men could have caused her to feel like this, and yet nothing had seemed to change.
But she knew that her magic worked. It did when she had sacrificed leeches with King's blood.
After all, sacrifice begat reward.
Robb Stark had died. The leeches had worked. Under unusual circumstances, too, as could be expected from a death propelled by magic. Only the false King Joffrey was left, and Melisandre knew that her magic would eliminate him, too.
Yet now her magic seemed different, urging her in another direction. The flames...they kept flickering, one shadow now, another later. There was often a boy in one of them, a tad younger perhaps than Edric Storm. When she revisited the flames once more, the boy was gone, replaced by a bushy haired girl. And again another time she saw someone else...
Something strange going on.
Melisandre had heard of another prophesy in her wanderings through the seven Kingdoms. A prophesy she had dismissed as the bastardisation of the legend of Azor Ahai. The ramblings of arrogant kings obsessed by their legacy with dragons. But what if there was some truth in it? The dragon has three heads...
Were these the three heads? They were not Targaryens. Blackfyres, then? Possible, but her heart told her not...
Whoever they were, how would she find them? Would they aid Stannis?
A gust of wind rushed through the window, bringing in an icy spray. The flames in the fireplace flickered, even as the hearth lay on the other side of the room. Melisandre placed a log in the fire. The flames were still dying down. She invoked R'hllor, and the flames were back, licking the new log, consuming it at a pace that would render it to ashes in a minute. Figures were flickering in the flames now. Figures the priestess could not recognise, and then finally, Sansa Stark. Melisandre's ruby was glowing.
It was a pleasantly balmy autumn afternoon. The party of four waited on the dusty road on the outskirts of the city, to welcome their most difficult guests. A row of goldcloaks on horseback stood lining the road, a few yards from where they were clustered.
An hour had passed, and there was no sign of them yet. Podric Payne, Lord Tyrion's squire, was holding the royal standard, while Ser Bronn, a newly knighted sellsword of dubious repute was standing laconically, leaning on a banner carrying the Lannister arms. Under the shade of a rather verdant tree, his back againt its sturdy trunk, sat Lord Tyrion Lannister, tired of waiting, his new nose still under bandage. Three horses and a gelding stood not far from their group, their tails twitching sporadically.
Peter had done a good job, he observed. Only two days, and Lord Tyrion's nose was almost healed. He would be all fine by tomorrow. It was almost a pity that Peter wouldn't be there to see the final outcome of his efforts. Well, it was small sacrifice to make for his life and freedom. It was almost a stroke of luck to have landed here. He wasn't a wanted man in this world. There was no TV or broadcasting system. He could be free. Free for the first time in thirteen years.
"So why did you have to come? Why not some other lord?" asked the former sellsword, with a degree of familiarity that surprised Peter.
"Who else is there?" The dwarf lord replied, his tone equally friendly, "it would have to be someone from the family to greet a Prince of Dorne, taking up a seat in the small council. This is the first time since the sack that any of the Dornish have come here. My uncle Kevan is in no state to come, my father too busy. If it were the Prince of Dorne himself, the King should have come to meet him, but for Prince Oberyn, the younger son..."
While Bronn and Lord Tyrion made small talk (whores were the topic of choice), Peter took in his surroundings. Far in the distance lay the Blackwater bay, the Dornish and their hosts would need to take a barge back to the gates of the Red Keep. In the distance, towards the north west, perhaps a couple of miles off, lay the King's Road, the highway that Peter would take to Oldtown.
Oldtown sounded like heaven to Peter. A place where he could remain obscure, while still being able to gain some respect. Perhaps he would truly become a maester. He would find a castle away from here, teach the children their sums, help with the running of the keep...or perhaps find a place in some far off village, a better alternative to a woodswitch. The profession seemed very respectable, and he'd truly be independent, not the servant of some lord. That sounded nice.
In the distance, a cloud of dust announced the arrival of a horde of horses. Finally.
House Martell, Peter had learnt, had been married into the former Royal House. The Targaryens had been madder than the Blacks and more inbred. Their madness had caused their three hundred year old dynasty to collapse, finally culminating in the sack of King's Landing.
When Peter had confessed to Lord Tyrion his sins, the man had assumed that Peter had given information that caused the brutal murder of the last of the Targaryens. The baby Prince Aegon, as well as the rape and murder of his mother, Princess Elia. While Peter had not corrected this impression, he really hoped that he hadn't had anything to do with such distasteful business. Even so, Peter was surprised and grateful when he realised that Lord Tyrion understood the exigencies of war, and would help him to safety.
With the Donish party now within line of sight, a flurry of activity ensued.
Horses were to be mounted post haste: Peter hoisted himself up his horse with ease, this world's body with sufficient muscle memory to compensate for any lack of equestrian skill. Bronn helped Lord Tyrion up his horse. Moments later, Bronn hopped into his saddle effortlessly. Podric after a brief struggle with the royal standard also managed to climb on to his gelding. They moved their horses into position and waited.
Safety was now mere moments away.
Lord Tyrion would greet the party, make introductions, and welcome them into King's Landing. Lord Tyrion along with Podric would ride at the head of the party, escorting the Prince. The gold cloaks would flank the party on both sides, and Bronn would bring up the rear, escorting the last of the guests. Peter would instead head north, away from the capital, into freedom.
The banners were visible now. Bright in the dust, flapping in the wind.
Lord Tyrion had taken the opportunity to quiz his young squire. Bronn was describing the arms, and Podrick was naming the houses they represented. It was interesting to watch. What things people found important and relevant in this world. Knowing this world's history was critical. Peter would also have to immerse himself in the culture. Even go native; he wanted to thrive.
Peter had already identified five of the principal families of the land: Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell, Martell and Stark. Historically, there were seven kingdoms in total. Peter would find out all of this soon enough. From what Lord Tyrion had told him, the Citadel was exactly the place for a person who wanted to learn about just about anything. It was a place that was open to all walks of life. Peter could just blend in...
Podrick had identified nine houses by now: Martell, Dalt, Blackmont, Manwoody, Qorgyle, Uller, Allyrion, Gargalen and Jordayne. There were no more to identify.
A boy of nine? ten? knew more about this world than Peter did. It was a deficiency he would quickly remedy.
"Banners forward," came the cry, and Lord Tyrion had spurred his horse towards the Dornish party. Peter followed not far behind. The Dornish too spurred their horses seeing them come forward.
This was it. His last task before freedom...
Three hundred men in all, besides the lords and ladies had come to represent Dorne, and among them was their leader, Prince Oberyn Martell's paramour. Even from the little he had picked up in the last two days, Peter could identify a diplomatic nightmare.
In spite of this, polite greetings were exchanged, real animosity cloaked for the time being. Once the niceties were done, they proceeded back towards the city.
The Prince recounted the unpleasant story of his stay at Casterly Rock shortly after Lord Tyrion's birth, as they rode back. It was probably meant to be humiliating or provocative for the Lannisters, but what a treasure trove of information it provided Peter. It clued him in on why Lord Tywin had been unimpressed with Peter's skill, learned of the disdain with which Tyrion had been treated with since birth, gave him an outline of the hierarchy at Casterly Rock, the politics of recent times, the details of the sack of King's landing...
Peter finally had some real context on the events that were even now shaping Westeros.
Oh how he loved the outspoken and the outraged!
They had reached the barge now, and the conversation between the leaders of the parties had moved past the Tyrells to whores. Peter had come to admire Tyrion's wit and wished he could hear this conversation as well, but their party were now boarding the barge. If Peter continued on, he would be trapped in King's Landing for the forseeable future. Reluctantly, as the last of the party boarded, he turned his horse around and rode away.
Joffrey had been ecstatic when he heard the news that Robb Stark had been murdered at the wedding of his own uncle. One more enemy of his, dead. He had rushed to rub it in Sansa Stark's face. Told her that her mutilated brother's body would be seated at the High Table at his wedding. Yet, even as he gloated, his pleasure turned to ash. He had, in that moment of giddy happiness, forgotten all about Severus Martell, whom he just glimpsed. Severus Martell, who had been wed to Sansa Stark. The wedding where Joffrey had been frozen, and where the groom had lain in a pool of his own blood and who even now sat white faced (the fucker hadn't yet stood up in presence of his king - he absently ordered guards to beat some respect into him).
Even as Sansa screamed in defence of her husband who had finally staggered onto his feet, and given a shaky bow under the ministrations of Ser Meryn, all Joffrey could think about was his own wedding, now less than a week away. Ill luck seemed to stalk weddings, and sorcery was at play for certain. Would it strike at his as well? And then there was Lady Margaery herself. Already wed once to his Unlce Renly. Did they not see that his wedding would be twice cursed?
Already the fool Pycelle had poisoned his grandfather and mother against Joffrey's theory.
He couldn't back out, could he? They'd call him craven.
There was only one way for it. It would have to be called off because of Margaery.
He'd have to get another groom, mayhaps. Tommen could be bullied into it, but would Lady Margaery accept? Why would she want to be a princess when she would have been queen? What of the bedding? Could Tommen even do it? Perhaps Joffrey could check...
What other option could there be? A forced wedding was out of the question, it would be dissolved post-haste.
What if Lady Margaery were to be despoiled? Surely they couldn't expect the King to wed a low-born's leavings? Surely he could find somebody to the the job? He'd cut off their heads later, naturally, but they'd have an honour few could ever have. Then he could order Margaery to become a septa and regain some of her honour. Or give permission to wed her to a bannerman. Then Joffrey would be free from needing to a wed for the time being.
He looked at Sansa, who was cowering in the corner and her pathetic husband who was finally standing at her side. It would be best if he could get a Dornishman to do the deed; there would be plenty of them in the city soon. And they hated the Tyrells. It would also please Joffrey to punish Sansa and Severus Martell for it. Joffrey wasn't picky, though. Just about anyone would do as long as they did it soon. How could it be done without word getting out that Joffrey had arranged it? How could he get her away from those who surrounded her, protected her? He could hardly take her to flea bottom without a guard.
Which place would be unguarded enough for anyone to slip in, yet somewhere Lady Margaery would not fear to tread alone? Where it would take at least a few minutes for guards to respond, and any blame could be cast would be on someone else...
Lady Sansa's hands were clasped and her lips were moving in prayer.
Stupid little thing...as if any of the gods could help her now...
Yet...the Godswood...unguarded, yet safe enough for a woman gently born to venture...Margaery could be lured there.
There may actually be something to prayer...
Septons said that an act of mercy could counter the worst of magicks.
Mayhaps Joffrey could beat this sorcery after all.
Joffrey would show mercy today. He had heard talk from an especially stupid maester that criminals could be reformed. Well he would test that today. He decreed that ten and one of the worst common criminals lodged in the dungeons (including some especially nasty Northern rapers, who scared the rest of the prisoners), would be freed in anticipation of his wedding. As this was a holy act, they would be required to pray for forgiveness. And if they did revert to old ways, he'd pull the maester's tongue out.
The scream that came from the woods pierced through the the surrounding revelry. It was a scream of desperation, of terror, and Sirius who had been to Azkaban knew it well. He raced towards the sound, Remus running besides him. It was growing louder, shriller, and Sirius pumped his legs faster. An unmistakable cry for help sounded, and yet, Remus and Sirius ran alone. The guards were too far, and while they were moving towards the sound, it would take them several minutes to reach there.
It didn't matter to Sirius. From the little that he had learned here, no one would dare harm a Tyrell.
She was struggling beneath him when they got there. A monstrous, shaggy, smelly man. He had his trousers down, and he was thrusting into her. Remus grabbed the man from the back and wrestled him down. They were struggling, but Remus was too strong.
Sirius looked down to help.
Good heavens! It was Margaery! He couldn't believe it! She had recognised him as well.
She ran to her brother, tears in her eyes, and an odd sort of determination as well. Before Sirius could collect himself, she whipped out the dagger from its scabbard at his side, and thrust it in the struggling monster's back. The man howled. She drew the blade again and thrust it in his neck, cutting an artery. The blood spurted through her rapist's neck, and bathed her face and arms. Sirius watched as Margaery stared into the monster's eyes until all life left it. She then ran into Sirius' arms and sobbed.
He did not know what made him say it, but it seemed as if he knew just the thing to say. "Well done, Margaery, I am proud of you. I am sorry that you had to go through that, but you are strong, I can see it. He is dead, and you are alive. Whatever he did to you, does not matter. You killed him. You won. Remember that. Let's patch you back up. Give you a bath. You'll feel better..."
"They'll call off the wedding. I will never make a good match...they'll send me away..."
He did not know why she still wanted to be wed to some idiot who was too thick for her, but Margaery was a political creature and he was not.
"You are rich, you are clever, and anyone who dares make you feel small will have me to deal with. You may not become queen, but I assure you that if a good match is what you want, a good match is what you will get. And you shall rule."
There was a tense silence at the court when they got there. Margaery had insisted on coming as well. Sirius didn't care if she never wore a crown, but in his opinion, Margaery had borne her trauma like a queen. She had bathed thoroughly, and had taken a cup of moon tea. Then she had insisted on going to witness her downfall. The throne room was packed. Even the Dornish were here, and they were, in spite of their general animosity against the Tyrells, uncharacteristically silent and sympathetic. A handsome man dressed in orange, much like Snape, was looking positively murderous.
The King was seated on the iron throne, a monstrosity that Sirius would have loved to melt with Fiendfyre. "Grave news comes today. Lady Margaery was dishonoured. The man who did this deed has met his maker, in no small part because of the courage of the Lannister bannerman, Ser Remus Clegane. For his tremendous courage, I award him Blackhaven. I thank you for saving my lady." Remus frowned, stepped forth and gave a stiff, shallow bow, before stepping back next to Sirius.
The King continued, "While I have great fondness for Lady Margaery, I have been informed by the High Septon and Grand Maester Pycelle, that I must put the betrothal aside. A King cannot wed a woman despoiled. It pains me to do this, but a King's duty is to his realm, and the love for his kingdom must come before the love for a woman."
The King paused, perhaps for some more grandstanding and speech giving on how and why the match would need to be called off, and how great the little spineless shithead was. Sirius would not allow it. He didn't care what his grandmother thought. What the queen, his own rumoured intended would think. That little wedding was off now for sure.
"Your Grace! Is it not the duty of the King to protect his subjects? Is it not the duty of the King to protect his betrothed most of all? Does this incident not shame the King, who cannot maintain peace in his own realm, in his own castle?!"
A couple of Kingsguards stepped forward, but no one else said a word in defence of the King. They stopped.
The boy was looking furious, but Sirius had more to say. "Your Grace, you have allowed insult to your bride, and yet you set her aside for your fault rather than hers!"
The Grand Maester stepped forth before Sirius could say anything else. "My Lord, I know the pain you must feel as a brother. But the realm would not allow it. It was unprecedented for the widow of a rebel to be betrothed to the King, but this, I am afraid just cannot be accepted. The man was a lowborn criminal. To have been despoiled by one so low...know please, my Lord, that the King has great affection for Lady Margaery..."
"Despoiled indeed? How, do you say? I see that my sister is as clever, as accomplished as she was before."
"My lord, there are ladies present here, matters such as these should not be discussed in front of female ears. Their minds get affected, as you would know had you been a trained maester. Similarly the answer to this question cannot be appreciated without prior knowledge, that only a thorough study at the citadel can provide. It is therefore it is because of this, my lord, that it is the duty of maesters to guide even the most exalted of lords."
"Of course Grand Maester, what would we do if we hadn't anyone to do our thinking for us..."
"And so," continued Pycelle as if he hadn't heard Sirius, "his grace has in his generosity, allowed Lady Margaery choice in her future."
"Why, how very kind of him..."
"My lady," the King said, "It pains me to see you so, but the demands of the realm, the High Septon says, trump the desires of the King. I therefore give you a choice: if you wish to wed, you may have any man noble born who will have you, in spite of your widowhood, in spite of your dishonour. You can choose too, to wash away this stain, choose the holy vows and become a septa. I was advised against giving you this choice, but as this was caused partly due to my misplaced mercy, I would atone for it by taking your sin upon myself, should you so desire."
"I choose to be wed, your grace."
"I will grant you this, my lady. You can choose any man, nobly born who will have you in this hall. My lords! Before you here stands Lady Margaery, widow of my rebel uncle Renly, mine own former betrothed, whom I have been compelled to set aside because she has been dishonoured by a low born criminal. Who will have her, and have the courage to take on her stain before the gods?"
Fuck. Now? He was forcing a choice now? The filthy hypocritical fuck. It was Joffrey's fucking stain, Joffrey's fucking dishonour. What kind of King could not protect his own betrothed?
Morros Slynt stepped forth hesitantly.
"You are not nobly born, my lord. I will not have my lady brought any lower."
There was silence. No one was stirring, and then, as if they had both come to the same conclusion, they stepped up together.
Prince Oberyn Martell had just offered his hand in marriage to Margaery, as had Ser Remus Clegane.
