A/N: Chap 19 review responses are in my forums as normal. And now, to set the stage. After all, Taylor is not above a little theatre to make her point.
Chapter Twenty: The Sun Knew Not
The stench of King's Landing was almost more than Taylor could bear.
Tom Copper and his wife Maige, both of the town of Darry, did not sell their goods inside the city. Instead, they sold to warehousemen who would in turn distribute to food sellers within the walls.
"It's a terrible place for a gods-fearing woman, Miss Taylor," Maige told her. "No one of good character will want to stay in King's Landing for long."
Taylor continued alone into the city on foot. For the occasion, she wore leather sandals since she knew bare feet would attract too much attention, and with those sandals she walked through the guarded gate. Guards in dyed gold cloaks demanded her name and her business in the city, to which she explained that she was Taylor of Brockton Bay, and came seeking employment as an herbalist.
Since she had nothing to sell, she had no taxes or levies to pay. They let her through, and in moments she found herself walking through the stench-filled streets of her first Medieval city.
Beggars lined narrow, twisting streets. Most were disabled, through injury or illness. Twice she spotted actual gangrene, and more missing hands and feet than she could count.
The architecture ran the gamut of stone, brick and mortar to wood. There was a uniformity to the construction forced not by any code, but by necessity. Most of the buildings were two to three floors high, with the lower levels made of sturdy stone and upper levels of wood. Some of the fourth floors looked hastily added on and not very safe at all. Some had the bottom floors opened as shops of various goods or foods, while the upper floors housed the business owner and his family or workers.
It was not possible to walk without brushing against people. The streets were so full of people walking about their days that carts had to threaten to run people over to make any headway. Occasionally mounted men would come through wearing armor or weaponry; or palanquins and horse-drawn carriages would make their way through the streets on the shoulders of bent-backed servants. But for the most part, the streets were filled with people from half-naked laborers to extravagantly dressed priests and high born.
A copper coin bought her an eel pie that she nibbled on as she walked. Draped as she was in enchantments, thieves ignored her as they looked for easier prey.
She was still only a day ahead of Aemon and his retinue. It would give her time to explore the city, she thought. However, after a few hours of wandering the various streets, Taylor tired of it. The misery and destitution of the people of King's Landing gave her a headache.
Over it all rose the dominating, pale red walls of the Red Keep. At first Taylor thought it was just a heavily built fortress, but as she walked up one of the many hills that ran through the city, she managed to catch sight of a courtyard within and realized the castle was built upon a terraced hill, with several layers that led finally to a large, extravagant hall.
The outer walls were lined with wide squat drum towers that helped house the small army that kept the people of the castle separate from those of the city around it. But rising within were several tall stone towers. From the city streets, it looked massive and intimidating. But when Taylor saw figures moving on the walls, she realized it was not actually much larger than a typical castle in England or France. It just dominated due to its position on the hill, and in comparison to the city.
Within those walls were Aemon Targaryen's family, and she had no doubt it was where he would go when he arrived. She also thought of Lord Stark's son Brandon. The boy was within the walls as well, possibly still awaiting news.
With that destination in mind, Taylor made her way through the city until she could see the thick, carved blocks of the castle walls. This close to the seat of power, she noticed the shops appeared to be of a higher quality. Silk-sellers and jewelers owned shops with food sellers and seamstresses.
She continued forward.
The main castle gate was a barbican that likely seemed massive and intimidating to those around her. In truth, it was barely large enough to fit a produce truck through in modern times. It had two armed guards, though, with the ubiquitous mail hauberks and conical helmets. The tabards they wore over the mail were black, with a red three-headed dragon on it to accompany their gold cloaks.
More soldiers patrolled the battlements atop the walls. What surprised her, though, was the steady line of foot traffic that ran not through the main gates, but a smaller wooden gate a few hundred feet down. As Taylor watched through the walls of a dressmaker, she saw castle staff of various classes of dress make their way to or from the gate.
Two more guards stood duty, but they looked bored and did not seem to care.
In her relatively clean skirt, blouse and vest, Taylor walked confidently around the turn of the street and onto the avenue that ran unhindered around the castle walls. She made her way to the gate.
"Tallest women I ever saw," was the only comment the guards made when she stepped inside the Red Keep.
Just like that.
The castle smelled only marginally better than the city streets–with more horse shit than human. However, she also caught the distant fragrance of flowers and other blooming things; of grass and trees. The press of humans was much less, here. There were still plenty of people going about their various duties, but not with the shoulder-to-shoulder density of the streets beyond.
Taylor followed the scent of alder and birch and began walking up a long, serpentine set of stairs that scaled the hill that the palace was built upon. She was the only one on the stairs–most of the servants used stairs within the various buildings. She caught an occasional glance her way, but no one moved to stop her.
She crested the stairs and saw what had to be the Great Hall. It was built north-to-south, with tall, narrow windows filled with extravagant stained glass and early Gothic-style towers rising at each corner. Covered walkways branched away from the tall stone structure to various associated buildings. She could see men dressed in clothes that cost more than most of the city was worth, talking together over various issues of state.
She ignored them for now and made her way to the gardens.
It was, she saw, a godswood. There were various stone planters and benches, but the trees were the centerpiece of the acre. The spirits within them whispered joyful greetings to her as she walked across the carefully manicured grass. Butterflies, bees and various insects fluttered about her head as the late afternoon sunlight cast a golden glow through the gardens.
Her feet were drawn to a secluded spot toward the back of the godswood, not far from the outer wall of the keep. Frowning, she knelt down in the grass and placed her hand on the soil.
Just a few yards under the grass, she could feel the withered remnants of a weirwood root. It felt ancient, likely a victim of the Andal invaders who arrived thousands of years ago. But like all weirwoods, the ghost of it remained within the world root. It was not something Taylor could have traveled through, but it remained.
If Kings Landing had a weirwood, it would make her future travel plans much easier.
Magic poured from her hand into the soil, connecting to that root and all the thousands of other roots that covered the continent. The other trees across the land responded, sharing their lives to bring life to the dead roots. With her power to energize it, the weirwood's roots writhed back to life and sent a small, desperate tendril up. Up, up…until it pierced the grass. Like a white worm, the tendril wiggled up toward the sun as her magic powered it, until it was large enough to sprout two blood-red leaves.
"What are you doing?"
Taylor fought back the urge to jump. She'd been so intent on coaxing the tree to grow she didn't realize she had company. She stood and turned to face her interlocutor. The woman looked to be close to Aemon's age, with a bowed back that left her barely the height of Taylor's navel. Despite her short statute, she was dressed in beautifully tailored silks that hung down in a Damask pattern of dragons and…seahorses.
She clutched a cane with a silver seahorse carved as the handle.
Unsure of custom, Taylor performed her best curtsy. "I was checking on the weirwood sapling, m'lady."
One painted brow rose at that. "Show me, child."
Taylor stepped aside and motioned to the sapling.
"I walk this godswood every day," the old woman said firmly. "I have never seen that before. When did it spout?"
"Likely last night," Taylor lied. "They grow quickly for the first few weeks, but then slow considerably."
"And you would know this how?"
"I have tended weirwood trees before, m'lady. I am a gardener, and herbalist."
"Are you?" The old woman shuffled over to a nearby bench. "An herbalist, you say. Did Maester Pycelle hire you, then?"
"Not personally, no, m'lady."
The woman leaned on her cane even while sitting. Shrewd, violet eyes very similar to Aemon's regarded her intently. Behind those eyes, Taylor realized this was no mere noble woman. Her soul was clouded with hard decisions and a lifetime of pain, loss and…death. This woman had killed, and had caused to be killed, hundreds.
In that moment, Taylor realized her entrance into the palace had not gone as unremarked as she thought. "An herbalist," the woman said, as if to herself. "I suppose you know all sorts of potions and cantrips to help. I'm an old woman–my joints ache all the time. What would you suggest?"
"A boiled tea of ground cloves and willow bark," Taylor said. "For your hands and feet, dip them in hot wax. The heat can ease the pain for a time without drying out your skin. Clove oil can also help."
Taylor's answer surprised the woman. She hid it well, though. "I see. What about pregnancy? Our queen has lost several pregnancies."
"Without examining her grace I could not say for sure," Taylor said. "I would need to know what ails her to prescribe a treatment. Usually, though, a high-risk pregnancy can be aided with the right diet and environment."
The woman's purple eyes made Taylor think she would have been a beauty in her youth. She continued to regard Taylor intently. "From your hips I'd say you've never had a child. What do you know of childbirth?"
"I have delivered many children."
Again that painted-on brow rose. The woman had sharp features, and her hair was so white it seemed to burn golden in the late afternoon sun. "Where did you say you were from, child?"
"I'm from a small village called Brockton far to the North. I knew Lord Stark and served his family for a time."
"And you just walked right into the Red Keep upon arriving?"
Taylor shrugged. "I did, m'lady. I walked in through the postern gate, and none stopped me."
The corner of the woman's rouged lips curled up in a dangerous smile. "We don't stop intruders, dear. We observe them to determine their goal. When they have shown us their purpose, I have them arrested, interrogated, and then killed."
Taylor went still, worried she'd have to reveal herself before Aemon arrived. "My lady, I did not enter the Red Keep with any ill intent. I wish only to serve."
The old woman began to chuckle. "I will give you proper due–you've not lied but once, that I could detect. But you must understand, child, that lies are my livelihood. I have two gold cloaks within a stone's throw that could have your head in a second. Who sent you?"
"No one sent me, because I serve no one but myself. I came because I wished to see King's Landing. When I am done here, it was my hope to sail abroad and see more of the world."
The old woman with the warrior's soul regarded her with her raised, painted brows. "I see. Boys! Please escort our unannounced guest to the Maidenvault. See that she's secured but cared for."
True to the old woman's warning, two men in long gold cloaks, wearing full plate armor, clanked through the trees. "I find it distasteful to torture young ladies," the woman said. "Think on that tonight. Perhaps we'll speak again tomorrow."
The two guards took Taylor's arms in gauntleted hands and began leading her out of the godswood. She considered escaping–it wouldn't be that hard. Her staff was in her travel bag under the same illusion she herself was. But the old woman intrigued her, and as long as they weren't trying to actively hurt her she felt no need to fight.
Indeed, the two men in gold cloaks did not strike her, or speak to her at all. They walked across an open courtyard toward an almost Gothic domed tower with seven sides. "So, will I be breaking any rules if I ask what that is, there?"
One of the guards snorted. "You don't know what a fucking Sept is?"
"Should I? Is that where you worship your gods? It has the feel of a holy place."
The guard gave her a funny look. "You don't worship the Seven?"
"Most people in the North don't, you know."
"The whole lot of you are odd," the guard decided.
"Probably. But we probably have better drinking songs."
The other guard shook his head. "You know the Mistress of Whispers just had you arrested, don't you girl? At her word, you could lose your head or spend the rest of your life in a black cell."
"Well, that would be very sad. I hope that doesn't happen."
The two guards gave her an odd look but continued to escort her past the Sept, with its beautifully crafted stained glass, to a long, low hall.
The interior looked like a small palace. Thick, soft rugs covered the flagstone floors. Rich tapestries of hunts and guards and women reading hung on the walls, interspersed with others of women praying to golden figures in the sky. They led her down the length of an open lounge filled with upholstered sofas and settees and eventually pulled into into a spacious suite.
"This is the nicest prison I've ever seen," Taylor said. "Do you ever have people break the law just to get thrown in here?"
"Lawbreakers don't get put here," the first guard said. "Be good, or we'll throw you in a real prison."
"Okay. Well, nice talking to you."
They closed the heavy oak and iron doors, and she could hear tumblers locking them.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
When the old woman next appeared, accompanied by the same two gold cloaks as the day before, the morning sun had already climbed toward the meridian. Behind her came a girl bearing a tray of food–diced fruits and cubed meats and cheeses with little cut fingers of bread spread artistically across the tray. A pitcher of some fruit juice had condensation on it from being cooled.
"I see you found Elaena's library," the Mistress of Whispers said.
Taylor looked up from the book she'd selected from a small collection of twelve and spared a smile. "I did. I hope that was permitted? Gorge there said you might throw me in the black cells if I did something wrong."
"Day's not over yet," Gorge said. Then he frowned. "I never told you my name."
Taylor shrugged. "You look like a Gorge."
The other guard stiffened. "What do I look like?"
"You look like a boiled frog. You should cut back on the liver pies."
Gorge snorted a laugh that he quickly bit back. The servant glanced with a petrified expression at the Mistress of Whispers, placed the food on an ornately carved food and gold leaf table near the sofa where Taylor read, and almost ran out of the room.
"I'm told you haven't eaten since yesterday," the Mistress said. Not-Gorge fetched one of the finely carved upholstered chairs for her to sit. "Please."
"Thank you," Taylor said. She slipped a piece of fruit. "Oh, peaches! I haven't had a peach in a lifetime!"
The old woman watched her intently. "After our conversation yesterday, I struggled to understand if you were simple-minded, or insanely brave. You snuck into the Red Keep while the King and his family were in residence. There are four bodies in gibbets hanging from the palace walls of people who've done that. And yet you sit here without any fear. When we speak, you sound intelligent enough. You've just confirmed that you are literate. You also have confirmed knowledge of a fruit that does not exist in the north, where your accent places you.
"Ordinarily, I might enjoy the game. But it has been a trying day, girl. I am tired, and thus not in the mood for your games. Who are you, where did you come from, and why are you here?"
Taylor ate another slice of peach. "My name is Taylor. I'm from Brockton Bay. And I'm here because I'm concerned for Maester Aemon and Brandon Stark and wanted to make sure they were safe."
The old woman leaned back in her chair. Taylor put a cube of meat and cheese on a little cut of bread and ate it together. "You know Maester Aemon?"
"Very well. He taught me how to read your language. Aemon is one of the kindest, most ethical men I've ever known. It would break my heart if he were to suffer. And though I've not met him, Brandon Stark is just a boy. His father was a loyal man. I just wanted to make sure they were well."
"Because you know what happened in the North," the Mistress of Whispers surmised. "You're a wildling."
Taylor ate another slice of peach. It tasted almost like home, except it wasn't soaked in corn syrup first. "We prefer the term Free Folk, or the Free Peoples of the North. They were even drawing up a charter of rights when I left."
Gorge and his companion shared a concerned look.
"How did this…this Telos sink the royal fleet?"
Taylor poured some of the fruit juice. It was unsweetened pear and orange juice mixed together, and was the most decadent thing she'd had since coming to this world. "Telos is a supernatural being, m'lady," she said. "Some might even call her a god. She can see, speak to and even command the spirits of the world. Air, water, land. The animals in the forest and the trees. She has the last of the Children of the Forest living in her Godswood. If she commands the spirits of the air and sea to sink a fleet, then the fleet will sink."
She took another bite of the admittedly delicious cheese. "The sad thing, though, is that if that fleet had not been sent to rape and murder innocent people, none of those men would be dead. If Lord Stark's son hadn't been held hostage, he would not have led an army of men to their deaths. The Free People had no designs on the Seven Kingdoms. We weren't mining iron to build swords. We're building plows, cook stoves and saws and axes and tools to make our lives better. Those people did not die because of Telos, Lady Velaryon. They died because your King ordered it. Would you like some juice? It really is good."
The woman smiled wanly. "What would happen if Gorge here ran you through with his sword?"
"I'm sure this lovely couch would get stained," Taylor said.
"No fear at all. You're a puzzle, but one I don't have time to solve." The old spymaster stood. "The young Lord Stark is, as far as I know, in no danger. But Maester Aemon is been attainted a traitor, and will burn with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch tomorrow. And I'm afraid, Taylor of Brockton Bay, you will join them. Take her to the Black Cells to await her punishment."
None of them, not even the old spymaster, saw the travel roll still strapped across Taylor's back as the two guards pulled her toward her awaiting prison cell. When the maid returned, the tray of food was gone as well.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
The black cells were tiny, Taylor found. Small enough, in fact, that she could not lay down inside them. The complete absence of light was not an issue for someone with bifrost crystals for eyes, and she made sure the rats knew to keep their distance.
The old goeler was one fried pie away from a coronary. Once the prisoners were secured, the old man made his way up the hall of cells, slumped into a padded chair, and went directly to sleep. Once he was down, Taylor gathered the food and the pitcher she enchanted away, and forced the lock to open with a surge of will.
Two doors down, she opened another cell. Maester Aemon, his chain missing and his robes torn, looked up at her blearily. She closed the door behind her and then summoned a flame in one corner.
"You look different," he said breathlessly.
"I'm in disguise," Taylor said with a sly wink. "On another world, I looked just like this. My mother hid my true being behind powerful enchantments to protect me when I was young."
She brought the pitcher out of her roll, frozen by magic to prevent spilling. She placed the food tray next to it. She had to help him drink because his arms shook so hard.
"Thank you, my dear," the old man whispered.
"Aemon, this king is your great nephew. He's your family. Why is he doing this to you?"
Aemon had violet eyes, though in the firelight they looked dark. They welled now with tears. "Aerys is lost," he said sadly. "His mind is lost. Only rage is there; anger. I don't understand it, but the young man I exchanged letters with, who dreamed such great dreams, has been lost to madness."
He wept as Taylor gently touch-healed his bruises and cuts. He'd been treated horribly, despite being a Targaryen.
"You have been my friend for twenty years, Aemon," Taylor said. "You will not stand alone tomorrow. I read that book you lent me about king's law. Tomorrow, I want you to demand trial by combat. Call me, Telos, as your champion."
He did not answer, but his bald head bobbed. She came and sat beside him, one arm around his shoulders. "Eat, Aemon. You need your strength. I'm here with you. I won't let you stand alone."