A/N: Wow, nearly a hundred reviews. Last chapter certain woke folks up. With this chapter, I hopefully show why the Lannister kids did what they did. All the Wise know who Taylor is. Not all the Wise appreciate her.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Bad Brood
When Taylor first arrived in Braavos on a Pentosi dromund crewed by converted priests of the Temple of Telos, she could not help but laugh when she found a familiar face waiting for her at the dock where her ship made port.
Tayla of Wolf's Den looked like a taller, better fed version of her mother Morag. She had the pale skin and dark hair of the First Men, with her father's piercing blue eyes. She wore a simple green-dyed dress cinched at the waist with leather, with a sleeveless leather vest. She carried an infant on one hip, and about her stood two other children. The eldest was five. All three were blond, and behind Morag stood their nervous father–a young Braavosi captain and merchant.
"I heard your mother's prayers for your children," Taylor said in greeting as she pulled the beaming Free Folk woman into her hug. She took the little girl in her arms. "Hello, little Moragi."
The infant stared in open-mouthed fascination at Taylor's bifrost eyes, giggling a little.
"I dreamed you were coming," Tayla said. "I've prepared the way as best I could."
Taylor pulled her namesake closer and kissed her forehead. "I know you have. I've been watching you. I'm very proud of you, Tayla. And you, Ander Salisan. I am very pleased with the love and respect you have shown your wife."
The man bowed, stammering a little. "She's said so much of you. It's difficult to see the truth."
Others fell in around them. Since the conversion of Volantis, Taylor never moved alone. Those converted priests that traveled with her formed a quiet, respectful entourage behind them as they made their way through the city.
"The city leaders are concerned," Tayla admitted as they boarded one of the many elegant long-boats that traveled the canals that crisscrossed the islands of the city. "They had spies in Pentos when you arrived. The riots there concerned them."
No religious revolution ever went without violence. Unfortunately, a handful of remnant red priests bribed several magisters to arrest and squash the converted priests. Neither the priests of R"hllor nor the city leaders realized how many people of the city had already converted, though. The riots that preceded Taylor's arrival in the city lasted for almost a week and resulted in several hundred dead.
Of course, riots were nothing compared to the social revolutions Taylor caused in the so-called Free Cities. Just as with Volantis, she used shock and awe to strongly encourage the end of slavery.
Myr was still burning in parts.
Braavos was a unique city, though, and nothing like those cities she'd already converted. Founded by escaped slaves fleeing the Valyrian Freehold centuries before, it had no single dominant ethnicity or culture other than what it created within itself. The people spoke the so-called Common Tongue of Andalese, but worshiped gods from every realm of Essos that the Valyrian Empire conquered. There was even a temple to the Death itself.
The Red Temple of the city was actually larger than any of the other Free Cities save Volantis itself. As the gondolier steered their boat through the canals, she could see the golden dome of the temple rising up over the city.
As they arrived at the stone quay that led up to the forum in front of the temple, Taylor saw easily a hundred priests gathered in their red robes. Their personal belongings, such as they were, rested in trunks at their feet.
"The Temple is ready for you," Tayla said with a sublime smile. "Everything of worth has been removed."
"Well done."
Taylor approached the empty temple as the priests flanking her bowed down in a way that Tayla herself never would. Without the need to scare recalcitrant R'hllor cultists, she didn't bother with a storm and lightning. Instead, she harnessed her magic and began transforming the domed, sprawling monstrosity.
Though the waiting priests said nothing, she heard screams and shouts from the surrounding island neighborhoods as the people of Braavos saw a temple ripped apart and reformed into something wholly new.
Even before the new structure formed itself, Taylor walked inside past the thick halls that would house future priests until she came to the central atrium. Braavos still had the occasional weirwood stump, being settled relatively recently. Which meant the root system that bound the world tree was close.
At her call, a new tree sprouted up and reached red leaves and white branches toward the open ring of sunlight that shone down from the dome above. The priests that came with her began to sing, and those that were outside joined them as they came in. In her mind, the magic and prayer and the adoration swelled within her mind. It was not enough to purge the lingering wound that Melisandre struck her with in Asshai, but it was enough to buoy her steps off the ground of their own accord.
By the time the First Sword of Braavos came, fearful and awed over the act of divine magic, Taylor realized she was likely glowing from the worship of her continent of followers.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
With that first conversion in Volantis, Taylor found she could not really sleep any more. She remembered what it felt like back on earth with her followers. She never had more than a few hundred, though. At least, before the battle with Scion. She remembered the feeling of joy the worship gave her. It might have even made her a little stronger. But here, the worship felt different. Almost like a food, or even a drug. It frightened her a little, how much she found herself craving it. She wondered if her mother felt the same thing as a Vanir goddess–craving the adoration and worship of her people.
With the worship came prayers. From all across the continent, she heard people praying to her. Whereas the Free Peoples who worshiped her barely numbered a fifty thousand, she had three times that many people praying to her across the continents.
At night, while her followers slept, Taylor sat in her chosen chambers and meditated on the prayers. Most were prayers for healing, luck or chance. Some few prayed for harm against their enemies, but others prayed for loved ones. Her divinity seemed to respond unconsciously, sharing the warmth of grace to comfort those whose prayers were sincere. If a priest or priestess whose faith was strong enough asked for healing for others, Taylor unconsciously expended some of her power through that vessel.
And when one of her bespoke from across the Narrow Sea prayed to her to save yet another fallen Stark child, Taylor sat up in alarm.
Hear my prayer, Telos. See my heart and know my pain. A beloved daughter of the Starks, one bespoke to you and filled with love for you, has fallen. I pray to you to grant me the grace to save her.
The prayer came from Lyra, the daughter of Mother Obal of Winterfell and the young lady who measured Taylor for a dress decades before. The girl was truly one of Taylor's, a Bespoke of enduring faith. And through her, a Stark of Winterfell herself had taken Telos into her heart.
Only for that Stark to fall. Once again, she found herself being called to heal a sickened child of Winterfell.
She rose from the bed she used to meditate and draped herself in invisibility. She pulled on her rich silken robe, but over it pulled on her shaped Valyrian breastplate. She summoned a new staff of weirwood to her hand as she secured her hair with a crown of woven weirwood twigs.
She left her quarters. Almost immediately, she encountered dozens of followers in the halls beyond, all of them prostrate on their knees. Many of them were actually asleep, while others were in prayer. She wove her way silently through them and moved down the gently curving hall within the walls of the temple until she turned and stepped into the moonlit sanctum. The young weirwood actually thrived under the moonlight and had grown a little just since she drew it from the soil.
It did not surprise her to find Tayla kneeling before the tree. She turned at Taylor's floating approach. "A child of the north calls," she said.
"And I shall answer," Taylor responded.
"You must leave us?"
"The spirits tell me this is important. Tell me what you know of the state of the Seven Kingdoms."
Tayla nodded. "Civil war. I've yet to hear the details, but traders have stopped sailing to King's Landing for fear of Ironborn fleets. It is the king's betrothed whose prayer you hear?"
"A sister bespoken prays for her. I shall know the truth."
Taylor placed her hand against the white bark. The young tree welcomed her touch, and through it she felt all the other trees in the world. And waiting for her within the infinite root system, with his face constantly shifting from youth to extreme old age and back, she found the Raven.
"Show me what has happened," she demanded.
He bowed and did as she asked.
A beautiful child, on the edge of puberty in the finest silk and cloth-of-gold. She had clean, clear skin and healthy teeth and a piercing, predatory gaze odd in such a young child. She was accompanied by a boy of the same age and coloring, taller and obviously stronger, and carrying a sword that seemed misplaced on a boy who didn't even have to shave yet.
The faded green tent on the edge of Lannisport had a peaked roof to keep the rain from gathering. The inside smelled of rotted food and unwashed flesh, and within sat a squat, bent-backed woman with sallow, diseased skin and jaundiced eyes. Black, rotting teeth smiled as the girl entered.
"You said I was to be queen!" the child shouted. "You said the gods willed it! But the king chose some northern barbarian witch instead of me! You lied!"
The witch grinned, but not for Cersei. Through some innate magic of her own, the woods witch stared straight at Taylor herself, through time and space. "And you still will be, child. But only if you do as I say. The gods spoke to me, you see. They told me the truth. You will need to be strong, and wise. None can know, especially not your father. But you will yet have a chance to be queen, so long as the wolf leaves your neck untouched."
The girl came and sat, her face eager and frightening. She was so very young, but already Taylor could see the child's soul was cracked.
The vision faded; and now she saw war spread across the Seven Kingdoms, a war fueled by treachery, misunderstanding, and the petulant anger of a child.
"Now I understand where all the sellswords of Essos went," she said.
"Indeed," said the Raven. "Lannister gold spends well, especially when the Disputed Lands are now wholly under the teachings of Telos and the mercenaries have no wars to fight."
Twenty thousand experienced, efficient mercenaries and another fifty thousand Lannister men fell on the loyalist army of forty thousand Targaryen soldiers and vassals, and slaughtered them to the man.
"With the Lannister's first victories over the loyalist forces, other houses who have chaffed at the rule of the Targaryons see a weakness and an opportunity," the Raven explained. "Rhaegar's cause was just, but his general-craft is wanting. He has the potential to be a good king, but with his greatest warrior murdered and his heart numbed by pain, he fails in the battlefield. Whereas Tywin's cold heart is merciless and skilled. Relief comes from the North and the Vale, but it will not arrive in time. King's Landing will fall, and the Targaryen dynasty will end."
She turned her attention through the trees to the sleeping beauty in the highest tower of the Red Keep.
Lyra, daughter of Obal and a Bespoke of Telos, sat in silent prayer beside the bed of a frail, wasting girl. Edwyle's granddaughter. Lyanna. Taylor recognized her—she felt the young girl's prayers, like she felt all others. Lyanna was not just bespoke–she carried the grace of her old blood in a way few South of the wall still did.
Lyanna was the key to converting the whole of Westeros to Taylor's cause. Having a Bespoken queen ensured that the followers of Telos would not be persecuted, not even by the once powerful church of the Seven. And the more who worshiped Telos, the less who would die when the world was rediscovered by the rest of humanity.
Just as she felt rushed to convert Essos, though, Taylor realized the time for patience had come and gone. The Lannisters would be hostile to her and her followers and would force her hand. It increased the odds of bloodshed, which was what all the theater she'd engaged in in Essos was designed to prevent. She did not want bloody crusades in her name.
Closing her bifrost eyes, Taylor sent her voice through the entire temple. "The faithful need my grace across the narrow sea. In my stead, Tayla of Braavos is my most beloved and Bespoken servant of this city. Honor her as you would me."
And with that statement, Taylor stepped through the weirwood tree into the world root.
~~Volupsa~~
~~Volupsa~~
Taylor stepped from the young weirwood tree into the gardens of the Red Keep an hour after sunset. It was her first time in the city in what seemed a mortal lifetime.
Just as the Raven showed her, with her bifrost eyes she could see signs of war all around. Beyond the keep, on the curtain walls that surrounded King's Landing, she could see thousands of nervous men walking the parapets, or huddled down just inside the walls in a vain effort to sleep. Beyond the walls, she could see thousands of campfires and tens of thousands of determined or frightened souls.
She sought for one soul in particular. Not the soul of a king or a warrior in arms. It was a strong, powerful soul, to be sure, but not one to ever wield a sword. Words were the weapon of this particular soul.
After a few moments of searching, she found her target laying prone within a luxurious building created originally as a prison. Within that converted prison, she saw one wise, ancient old soul fading on her deathbed. With a simple field around herself that suggested non-importance, Taylor made her way across the grounds of the Red Keep. Frightful, frenetic palace servants, staff and defenders buzzed about like so many bees despite the late hour without paying her any heed.
The Lady Malantia Valyron lay like a withered twig in her overlarge bed. Pillows propped up her balding head. She lay unmoving with her eyes closed, having lost most of the weight she carried when Taylor last saw her.
Her illegitimate grandson–the gold cloak city guard named Gorge Waters–sat at her bedside.
He did not notice Taylor until she let her magic fade. Once he did, he looked up at her distractedly as she entered only to jump to his feet in alarm and pull at his sword. "You! Kingslayer! What are you doing here?"
"Sit down, boy." Malantia's voice sounded weak and thready, but the spirit behind it was as strong as Taylor remembered. "I've been expecting her. The king's fallen betrothed was one of hers."
"Hello, Malantia," Taylor said with a fond smile. She ignored Gorge as she came and sat on the bed beside the dying woman. The woman's body was rotted through with disease and the ravages of age; her time was very short.
"My people have been following your exploits," the old spymaster whispered. "I received a raven just two days ago. Almost all of Essos proclaim you as their god."
"Yes, but they also know one even greater will come. A god of all mankind."
"So you aren't a god anymore?"
"Oh, I am. But there are always greater powers. You of all people know that. By paving the way, I hope to save pain and suffering in the future. I am a goddess of hope and love. The one who follows will not be."
The spymaster considered Taylor for a long moment. "If I were to accept you, what would happen upon my death?"
It was such a beautifully pragmatic question that Taylor couldn't help but laugh. "I would gather your soul and take it into the world tree. The Weirwoods are just parts of a whole, whose roots cover the world in a spiritual shield from the corruption of the heavens. Something happened to weaken the shield, and the corruption that seeped in sought to destroy the trees. Our mortal protection is weak now, far too weak. But it's still there, Malantia. And you can still carry the souls of those you love with you. There would be peace, and no more tears."
Malantia considered the answer, as she always considered others words. "And as my god, would you hear my prayers?"
"It was a prayer that brought me here, Malantia. I hear all prayers, even if I can't always grant them."
Nodding, the cataract-blinded woman squeezed Taylor's hand. "This is my prayer. That this foolish rebellion be ended so that Rhaegar can be the king he was destined to be."
"Do you accept me into your heart?"
Malantia clasped now at Taylor's hand. "I've killed so many," she whispered. "I've lost so much. How can I deserve anything but punishment?"
In that moment, Taylor was struck by an intense memory–of another old woman whose life was bleeding away. Helga Herran's death helped free her granddaughter from the clutches of the Empire 88. This woman's death would do the same for her king.
"With these eyes, I can see the human soul," Taylor told her. "I see your entire life written across it. I see your wedding night, Malantia. I can see where your husband's patience and gentleness won you over, and how very much his loss pained you. I can see the stains of each death you ordered, and the pain it caused you. But I can also see that in every case, your sole cause was to protect your king and your kingdom. Your soul is far from innocent, but it is beautiful nonetheless. Because you regret the pain you caused, and still carry hope for your land even unto death. If you take me into your heart, I will accept you with love and grant you peace."
Tears welled and ran down her wrinkled face. "I sentenced you to death."
"You'd have had as much luck with that as trying to execute the ocean."
Despite her tears, Malantia chuckled weakly. "Yes. Likely so. For all I did, you came to me now. The wax really did help, you know."
"I know. Words have power, Malantia. You of all people know that. Say the words."
She closed her clouded eyes. "Then so be it. I accept you into my heart."
"And I accept you, Malantia Valaryon. And for your faith, I offer you peace and clarity of thought in your last hours. You will feel no pain; your eyes will see and your mind will be swift for the remainder of your waking time. Bring your great-grandchildren. Speak with the last of your family. When you sleep, I shall guide your soul to its rightful place. I give you my word that this rebellion will end. The dragon will have his wolf, because only together can they save the land when one greater than myself comes."
As Taylor spoke, it was a simple matter to undo the cataracts and dull Malantia's nerves so the pain would fade. The old woman wept from relief.
She stood and left Gorge and Malantia to say their goodbyes and restored her spell to hide her presence. Invisible to any prying eyes, Taylor walked unencumbered into the keep proper. She could see one room toward the highest tower where the children who ruled much of Westeros were keeping vigil.
Though she could easily have flown up on the air, Taylor walked through the main keep. She listened to worried men at arms. The rebelling army outnumbered the defenders by a sizable margin, and the city walls could not hold long against a siege.
The ladies in waiting whispered about the sleeping Stark lady in the tower; and the handsome prince who pined for her. The younger ones spoke of it like they might have been discussing a modern soap opera. The older ones just tsked and shook their heads.
Throughout the Keep was a grinding sense of hopelessness and despair.
When she finally reached the room, positioned high in a tower that looked over much of the city, Taylor found a scene right out of a classical romance novel. A slim, strikingly beautiful young girl lay enveloped in red silken sheets, with her black northern hair spread about pristine white pillows. Her skin looked almost yellow from the poison, and her breath came in ragged, hesitating gasps.
In a crimson upholstered chair sat a very young man wearing the armor and sword of a warrior. He had dark blonde hair, but large, rugged features that so resembled those of Edwyle Stark that for a moment Taylor almost forgot what decade she was in. This had to have been Eddard, Brandon's younger brother and the new Lord Stark. And opposite young Eddard Stark sat Rhaegar Targaryen, king of Westeros. The two were speaking to each other in quiet, subdued voices.
Lyra the Bespoke waited nearby in silent prayer. She glanced up, her eyes suddenly awash with tears, when she felt her goddess arrive. Taylor nodded to her, realizing that through her faith the Bespoke could see what others could not.
In the bed, Lyanna Stark looked so very young.
It took Eddard Stark several moments to notice when she let her suggestions fall away; Rhaegar saw her almost immediately and rose to his feet, paling to the color of bone.
"She really is quite lovely, isn't she?" Taylor said before anyone else could speak.
Stark stumbled to his feet, reaching for his sword.
Rhaegar just stood staring at her. "Have you come to take her from me, too?"
The question confused Taylor a moment, until she remembered that Rhaegar's mother also died of the poison. Lyanna lived only because of Lyra's weirwood sap.
She stepped around the bed, forcing Eddard to back away. Planting her staff, she took the alarmed young man by his shoulders. "My goodness, Eddard Stark. You look so much like your grandfather! Edwyle was a strong, handsome man. I think he would be proud to know the grandson who bears his title."
The young Eddard Stark gaped at her for a long second. "But…but you killed…"
"I have never killed a Stark of Winterfell," Taylor said. She continued to hold his shoulders. "Rickard did not die by my hand. And his death was not caused by my people. He died because a Targaryen king made him choose between betraying the goddess who saved his life, or seeing his son die. He told me this himself, the night before he led his army to slaughter my people. He loved you and your siblings so much, Eddard, that he died for you."
With that said, Taylor sat on the bed next to the dying child. The girl's mind was all but stilled of thought as the poison shut down her various organs. "Tell me, Rhaegar. Tell me about Lyanna."
Rhaegar was not his father. He understood immediately what Taylor was saying. What she was offering. Drifting closer to the bed, his eyes drifted down. "When I first spoke to her and told her that she could be queen, she said to me, 'Why would I want to be queen? This place stinks of fish.' I couldn't believe it. I realized she spoke in jest. She rides horses like a man. It was the talk of the whole keep that she rode as well as her brothers. She shoots arrows better than her brother, there. Perhaps not as strongly, but her accuracy is excellent. She is no fainting princess, like some. She knows how to skin a rabbit; she's shorn sheep for wool, and can card it and spin it. She can read and write, knows poetry and can play the harp, but her singing sounds like a dying animal."
"Aye, even our mother gave up on her singing," Eddard said. A tear stood in his eye.
"I was still new to this world when dear Aemon came to me with your grandfather's request to heal his child," Taylor said to Eddard. She studied the young girl, gently touching the sunken planes of her cheeks. "I came with my direwolf. I had cause to kill a brother of the Night's Watch. He was your grandmother's nephew. There was enmity there. But your grandfather?"
Taylor smiled at the memory of Edwyle's admiration, and the feel of his lips on her fingers. "For him, and for your people, I cured Rickard Stark of his grayscale. But I did more. I blessed your family. That's why Rickard died without ever having drawn his blade. I think he knew that he passed my blessing to his children, and he knew that if he struck at my people, the blessing would be lost."
Taking the girl's hand, she turned her bifrost eyes to the young king. "Lyanna of Winterfell is a Stark of Starks. A child of the Old Gods who has taken me into her heart. Her strength would double your own. But nothing is free, Rhaegar. It cost Edwyle Stark three books and a breeding stallion to heal his son. But for a king, the price is much steeper. I can restore her to perfect health. But it will cost you true peace. No harassment. No blockades. Free trade with us as with Essos. Fees and tithes like any other trading ship, but no harassment. And you will accept me as your god, and as the herald of who He comes after me. In return, Lyanna will be healed, and your kingdom will be saved."
The young king sank back down into his chair. "Why would you want me to worship you?"
Taylor shrugged. "I like you. I can see your soul, Rhaegar. I see the love you have. Not just for this child, but for your people. And if you do not, those who come after me will burn your kingdom to ash. I convert as many as I can now to save lives in the future."
Leaning forward, she touched his chest. "But more importantly? You still carry some of the madness of your father. A melancholy weighs down your soul. With Lyanna at your side, you can overcome it. And with her as the mother of your children, your heirs will be stronger than your family has seen in generations. It seems a small price for lasting peace."
"And what of this rebellion?" the king asked.
"If we are allies, Rhaegar… If you truly accept me into your heart, and accept the Free Folk of the north, then I will end this rebellion. I told you once. There is very little I won't do for my people."
He didn't even think about it. "On my honor," the king said raggedly. "On my honor as king, as a Targaryen. As a man and knight. Everything you ask and more. Free passage for your people–we'll open the Wall for peaceful trade. No more harrying of your shipping. We'll build a temple to you here. Everything you ask. Just save her."
There were so many ways Taylor could have healed Lyanna. But she saw a small bowl of freshly ripened apples on a table nearby. She called one to her hand, making both men jump, and pronounced the ancient, powerful spell of Idunn until the apple glowed as golden as the dawn that appeared outside the windows of the tower.
Her touch roused the young woman from her poisoned slumber. "Awake, sleeping beauty," Taylor said gently. "Your prince awaits you. Eat this apple, and be healed."
Lyra drifted closer, weeping in relief. Taylor met the woman's eyes. "I felt your prayer, Lyra. You saved her life, and with your faith and your king's allegiance, she will be whole."
"My goddess," Lyra whispered as she bowed.
Taylor knew that what was happening in that moment would make its way into fairy tales for generations to come. With the first bite, color returned to Lyanna's cheeks. Her eyes widened with that mortal taste of divine magic, and she began to quickly devour the apple. When done, she let the core fall to the floor as juice dripped down her chin and tears welled in her eyes.
"Just like Mother Lyra said," the young woman whispered.
"Lyra is wise," Taylor agreed. "All the wise know me."
Lyanna Stark nodded. "I…I've seen you. In the godswood. In my dreams."
Taylor laughed with the feel of the girl's faith. "Of course. You're a Stark. If you were born north of the wall you'd be among my Bespoken, rich in the truth of the gods and the earth. You carry a spark of faith and magic in your soul. You will be the queen Rhaegar needs. But you will also be Bespoke. I will reside in your heart."
"I feel I should bow."
The girl was Taylor's. She could feel the faith, as strong as Morag's or any of her peoples in the north. And so she leaned over and pulled the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms into a gentle hug. "Bowing is for mortals. Hugs are always acceptable to Telos."
"You'd have healed her regardless," Eddard accused.
"Of course I would have," Taylor laughed. "She's taken me into her heart. She is one of my people. I love my people, Eddard Stark. Even those of you who don't realize you're mine yet."
Rhaegar sputtered for a moment, only to then start laughing himself.
With the thin, still fragile future queen in her arms, Taylor said, "So, dear, now that your betrothed has agreed to a full and lasting peace with the Free Peoples of the North, I need to go deal with this little rebellion."