In his dreams Jon Arryn could see the Great Sept burning. Claws erupted and yearned for the sky in a blinding flash of dark emerald, dragons' breath melted the blackened walls like wax candles, laughing with a terrible madness. Ash lathered the land in piles like pale snow on winter's eve, staining his fingers with death.
His stolen solace followed him to his waking hours. "Enough!" The High Septon cried, the ends of his starry robes muddied upon the white plaza of Baelor, the old king's visage staring down at the mob snarling beneath, the streets of Visenya teeming with anger.
"Demons and heathens, fell lickspittles that insult the name of the Seven! Begone!" he screamed, voice cracking and spit flying, "Free this holy place of their sacrilege!" He demanded, eyes flared at Jon Arryn atop his mount, gold cloaks pressing into the mob as Jon rallied his personal guard to push through with cries of "make way for the Hand."
A rotted onion swept past his head, knocking the High Septon flat onto his back with a screeching curse, his crystal crown shattering against the marble like glittering stars strewn across the sky.
The gold cloaks kept a steady line behind him, the crowd parting as Jon's sky blue surcoat and silver-white robes shone through crowds of poor browns, starved greys and muddied blacks run red with rage. Their attention was sorely divided, few caring for the Hand as pungent shouts of "scum!" and "fat bastard!" and "fucking knave!" stunk the air.
A horrid howl blared louder than Baelor's bells, a woman wailing as she hobbled down Visenya's Hill, shrieking at those came too near, their hands too close. Her white robes were mangled at the bottom, bare-feet bleeding and cut by the harsh edge of King's Landing streets. Jon cantered quickly, following her bloody trail, her dark matted hair flailing with cold tears and snotty sobs.
"Septa Arielle!" Jon yelled, his guards unsheathing steel to form a small circle around her. She fell to her knees with a yelp, grasping her stomach tightly.
"Septa Arielle," Jon said quietly, hands drawn as he came close. The young girl slapped him away with a sorrowed snarl of "don't touch" and "keep away," writhing on the floor with her sharp nails piercing her skin. Her septa's robes had been stained in pale blood, ripped at her abdomen down to her groin which spasmed as crimson blood pooled out, her womb decorated in gashes.
His hands hovered above her in horror. "Septa…" he whispered breathlessly, searching for a maester, anyone! who could help the poor girl. The septons would not come, and the High Septon only blathered behind Baelor's doors.
Her murky blue eyes stared up at him in a twisted amusement, hands rubbing her smile into a crooked grin of blood and pain. She laughed, loudly. Laughed and laughed and laughed until it stole her breath and left her heaving on the ground. He grabbed her wrists tightly, kneeling down to stain his knees red.
"Septa. Septa Arielle!" He called, but her eyes danced in every direction as tears ran like rivers.
"Defiled, m'lord," she muttered in her garbled ramblings, "Defiled and unwashed and profaned. I have sinned, I have sinned, m'lord." She snaps her arms away viciously, smacking at her skull furiously and tearing at his robes if he tried to stop her.
"Sin, sin, sin! Accursed is the sinner. Accursed is the whore that dwell in sin and burden the Holy Seven with profanity!" Sin, sin, sin, she screamed endlessly, shaking her head and rocking herself in the growing pool of blood that circled beneath her.
Jon rose, fingertips stained crimson, "Edwin! Summon Lord Stokeworth here, post-haste! Disperse this crowd at once. Rickard, find the nearest motherhouse and bring a healer here, at once! In the name of the King!" It was to be another routine day. The Feast of the Father would soon close in the week coming, and as before, Jon would spend his morning with the gods, cold waters dripping down his forehead with bowls of judgement before him.
But the Gods enjoyed their little games, the water rippling as self-proclaimed sinners were thrown down the steps, crowds forming to gaze upon the High Septon's judgment. The Feast of the Father was a time of guidance, a declaration of divine judgement, and perhaps even salvation. And yet in King's Landing, the people fasted, the septons feasted, and the Father remained silent, even to Jon Arryn.
A gaunt beggar approached with sunken eyes of sorrow and a frown. On his knees, he tugged at the cloak of a tall woman, her cloak draped upon the ground in embroidered layers of ruby, scarlet and fiery red. "Help her," the man cried, "Help the poor lady," the people echoed with him.
She withdrew her hood, long hair billowing down her shoulders. Jon was struck dumb, her flawless skin flushed with the lightest tinge of rose, ringlets that fell like curled rivers of molten gold. And her eyes, her eyes were like emeralds, playing with light ablaze.
"Your Grace?" Jon whispered. The people cried "The Queen is here" and "Gods save the Queen" and "Good Queen Cersei." She smiled, turning to the crowd with a soft expression, a coldness passing through Jon like winter's chill. Her eyes met his, shrewd and watchful, tracing his skin with a cool acknowledgment.
No, not the Queen. Jon frowned. A red priestess. The very same that the High Septon had damned to the Seven Hells, cursing her nameless name at the foot of the Iron Throne, beneath the shadow of the stone Stranger, heresy and sorcery and evil claimed upon his tongue.
She moved with an effortless glide, red robes unblemished despite the grime of the ground. A pale horse neighed gently behind her, silver-maned with dark eyes, unperturbed by the crowd amassed around it. The cries of "save her" drowned beneath her quiet touch, a hundred gazes locked on her flaming figure.
"Be soft, child," she fell to her knees gently before the young girl, brushing her hands against Septa Arielle ever-so-lightly. The girl did not jump, breathing loudly as her tears fell in a soft silence.
"He hurt me…" she murmured.
"Hush, child. I know," the priestess said, taking her face in hand, rubbing at the blood lapped upon Arielle's lips without staining her fingers. She brushed her tears away, staring down at the wounds of her womb, frowning. Jon Arryn watched with trepidation, faintly listening to the buzz of the mob above.
"Will you come with me, child? You are hurt, and I would help you." The red woman outstretched her hand, crimson jewels adorning half her fingers in gold.
"Y—yes," Septa Arielle said, taking her hand and embracing her in a final sob. The priestess took spare cloths from the satchel hanging from her mount, pressing it against the girl's exposed groin, following with a dark robe hung about shoulders.
They trotted off slowly, half the crowd watching, the rest enraged at the stairs painted in an innocent's blood. The gold cloaks charged through soon after. "Make way," they cried, "to the sept," they ordered, galloping around the red woman's pale horse like a forked river, as if she immovable, implacable, none of them sparing a glance for her, as if she were unseen.
"My lord?" enquired Lord Stokeworth, staring Jon straight in the eye. Jon stuttered, befuddled for a moment, rubbing at his sweat-slicked forehead.
"Disperse the mob, carefully. We have shed enough blood today," ordered Jon, staring at the pool that had spread across the walkway, his own reflection peering up. "And I will need a horse," he added, finding the red woman a distant dot in a sea of men, fading away slowly.
The Dragon's Square fell beneath the afternoon shadow of the Great Sept, miles of sprawling city teeming with life. The Guildhall saw hundreds bustle atop stone steps shoulder-to-shoulder, merchant and labourer haggling and children underfoot at every corner, thousands more littering the cascading hills of a hundred-thousand homes. Banners and buntings hung between wide streets, stalls set on each side as carts and wagons carried men and hay and food and even cattle. Smoke rose from open windows and vaults in smells of meats and odd incense, the fog of the city's fervour running down the Street of Sisters to the shadow of the Dragonpit, Fleabottom floundering beneath it.
Rickard Stone followed closely, bruised and battered from the morrows' events, Jon's sole protector still withstanding. He was a jumpy fellow, stout and black of hair with soft dark eyes. "Make way," he called loudly, hand tight upon the hilt of his sword. All the while, Jon's eyes searched for a familiar cloak of fire, giving his greetings and his small thanks and kind gratitudes absently to each passing stranger.
"M'lord!" Rickard cried, scrambling to unsheathe his sword as a flung a door open, two men crashing loudly into the middle of the street. A steel knife impaled one's hand while the other clutched his groin, curled on the floor like a babe. A chestnut barb horse reared in front of them angrily just as a woman's long nose and naked breasts poked through a hatch two storeys above, yelling to keep the commotion down.
Jon frowned. The men's doublets were embroidered in gold and red-lined patches of wrestling lions, their cloaks wet in the puddles of mud and spraying blood. A familiar tune sauntered from behind them.
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke…" a calm voice sang, whistling the rest as he grinned fiercely at the groaning men, squatting over them as he retrieved his knife. He cleaned it with a burgundy handkerchief, little red suns decorated with little red blotches of blood.
The grinning man kept his grin as he looked up, each tooth glittering, Rickard on guard, Jon sat idly upon his mount.
"Lord Jon Arryn," he said with glee, licking his lips, like a viper spotting his prey.
"Prince Oberyn," Jon nodded politely, eyeing the Lannister men with brows raised.
The Dornishman did not spare them a second glance, evidently bored with their escapade. He wore the same poorly blended mail, robes bright, eyes dark and glinting, studying the stains of Jon's hands and knees.
"You are looking for the red woman," Oberyn deduced, eyes locked with Jon's.
The Viper of Dorne. Dangerous. And far too astute. If the red woman passed through the Street of Sisters, hundreds would turn their heads in wonder. And the High Septon had hardly let her presence go unknown.
A bright red lamplight hung from the building, vulgar art lined into the panelled windows. A brothel. Perhaps Prince Oberyn's reputation could be of some use.
"You are… acquainted with her?" Jon asked.
"Only the tale the ears tell. We all have our duties in the sept, Lord Hand. She is hard to miss. Though, it seems you did," he snorted, gesturing to the far edges of the street.
"I—" Jon frowned, holding tight to the reins and nodding at the grinning prince, "As you say. Good day, my Prince."
The Dornishman placed his hands gingerly upon his horse's mane, "I shall join you."
"There is no need—"
Oberyn waved him off, climbing to his own chestnut barb in front, "Nonsense, Lord Hand. These streets grow perilous of late, and your guard remains few. It would be my pleasure." Jon swallowed deeply. He had no time to scuffle in the street, and the prince would only insist. He nodded at Rickard reluctantly.
"She lives in Fleabottom," Prince Oberyn continued, "In an old home with a great gash wound running down the middle, I believe. Worry not, I will escort you. This city is a maze, even to men of yourself with such… long-lived experience." Jon Arryn ignored the insult, thanking him quietly and gesturing ahead with a short sigh.
The Viper watched him intently, eyes shrewd and sharp. There was a jape upon his tart tongue, and a bitter remark behind his eyes, swirling with a fury that left Jon looking away, acutely aware of the pain in his lower back and knees.
"They say she is Lord Tywin's long lost daughter. Queen Cersei's true twin. More gracious than Her Grace, perhaps even more beautiful," Prince Oberyn said.
Jon rattled the thought in his mind. This priestessresembled the Queen ever so eerily. It swelled the linings of dread in his stomach. Coincidence, surely. What else could it be? Grand Maester Pycelle would call it a mummer's trick, and perhaps a poor attempt to defame the Good Queen. Lord Estermont and Staunton would have little opinion, and Lord Varys had already claimed sorcery. But the Spider's web was weaved with old hatreds and tittered tales, and Jon mistrusted him deeply.
At the end of the Street of Sisters, hagglers covered in ash and dirt with odder clothing promised the best prices for a dozen goods. Prince Oberyn chuckled with glee, purchasing a poorly made satchel and filling it with tallow and a small stunted plant that looked like old mandrake root. He took his time, forcing Jon into conversations with each merchant and artisan and thief, before relenting and leading him towards Fleabottom.
Their short silence was broken quickly as Oberyn said, "I hear the King is no longer abed."
Rumours still ran aplenty, Jon rued. Robert had healed slowly. Weeks of sleepless nights, restless tossing and turning, Lysa's shrill complaints leaving him in long loneliness. One son slept, sickened and sorrowed, and another was born, hearty and healthy. He had named him Robert in a dazed delirium, in some old man's prayer that the gods would bless the child and his namesake. That the king would will himself to leadership, become more than the shell of the boy Jon had known, more than the shell of the man Robert had drowned.
"A terrible shame what befell him. Funny, that such simple pleasures can be a greater poison than any concoction," Prince Oberyn jested.
"Prince Oberyn. I would ask that you speak lightly, and wisely."
It only amused the Dornishman further. "Do not be so prickly, Lord Hand. It is a beautiful day. And besides, is it treason to say men are mortal?" He galloped ahead in a swift spur, forcing Jon to match him, and then again as he slowed to a slow trot in an instant, a wry grin plastered across his face.
"Give him my regards," Oberyn said, scratching the ears of his barb, "And my brother's. From the rumours, I hear his affliction is similar to Doran's own. For that he has my pity, much that he will loathe it."
Cobbled streets soon turned to stones to wet mud, the ground sinking Fleabottom drowned in its own stink. Streets turned narrow, some alleyways no wider than lone men. Horse-drawn carts and wagons climbed to the edges and rises of the streets where loose stones were left in chunks, the houses leaning in over the streets like rotted wooden canopies.
Prince Oberyn enjoyed his detours, leading him up narrow hills, and down slopes where sewage flowed openly, and twice through in circle with naught but an amused chuckle at Jon's questioning. Toying with his food. Jon Arryn was not a foolish man. He saw the veins on the Prince's hands glare with each Lannister banner that draped the streets, grinning all the while.
"May I ask you a question, Lord Hand?" Prince Oberyn prodded as if Jon had a choice in the matter. He nodded, only sparing the Dornishman a glance.
"Do you recall the last time you and I spoke? Not in the sept some weeks ago, but before." The shadow of Sunspear fell dark upon the land, domed towers and stone homes turned red beneath dusk.
Jon kept his eyes ahead, clearing his throat quietly. "I do." He had carried a chest with him; a chest that was a tomb, blinding under the blistering Dornish sky, shining brighter than ever the sun, sculpted in the finest red-gold and carnelian gemstones, beaded pendants and bevelled carvings shaped into Martell stars. The Princess had likely brought it with her from the old rooms of home. She had never seen it return there, even if she did.
"Yes, you do," Oberyn murmured, "It was a terribly cold day. The maester told me it was the driest, coldest day in the last century of Dorne. The deserts scorched in the daylight, and the Marches wept with melting winter snows. I remember your ship making port in the city. I remember your procession rolling under the gate, and my brother's commands to silence my tongue," he spat bitterly, snarling the next words, "Leashed. Left only to watch. Now I return to this… stinking city of shit, and find banners of crimson-gold where black-red once flowed. And a Queen, so very beautiful, with beautiful children of her own," he spoke with a painfully wide smile, eyes sharp with amusement, "I hear you are a father now, Lord Hand. A true father, so they say, of blood and name."
"Yes," Jon murmured. A babe of chubby skin, flushed pink with smiles to join his wails, and little stubby fingers to grasp for his father's chin and his mother's tight embrace. A healthy babe, a healthy son. The Gods were kind.
"Named for the King, I hear. Let us hope he is not as unruly as his namesake, and that his father may teach him goodness, and not cowardice."
"Prince Oberyn, I—"
The Dornishman trotted forward loudly, "I wonder, when you look upon the faces of the royal children and their little manes, do you think of my sister's children? You were there, no? When Lord Tywin honoured our King with his butchery?" Jon swallowed deeply, marking the thatched roofs and collapsed balconies and muddied roads of Fleabottom.
The Iron Throne had loomed above, stained with black-blood as Aerys' life poured onto the steps beneath it, steel eyes glaring. Jon had sifted through the crowds of soldier and sword, crimson cloaks unrolled beneath the feet of all them all. Some said the Princess had killed them in grief, in fear. Others said she suffered the Mad King's final madness. The rest spoke of a mountain of a man, cruel and callous and commanded by his master's golden glint.
But he could not destroy what was built on rumour. The Warrior knew how much they had bled for it. But Eddard… he did not understand. "Coward," he had bellowed. "Coward," another young voice whispered by his mind's ear, so similar to his own.
He had never looked upon their broken bodies again. Not even as the silent sisters took them, and draped in the softest silks. Never again, never again.
"What happened to your sister was a tragedy," Jon whispered, so quietly, it was almost lost beneath the trot of his horse's hooves.
"Tragedy," Oberyn spat, laughing with a furious contempt, sharper than any spear, "A tragedy was the death of your little children, Lord Hand. Babes who bore only a single breath, a single taste of life, burdened only by the god's cruel jests."
"Tragedy," Oberyn said, toying with the word, letting it roll and simmer on his tongue, "The victors are crowned, and the realm's old idols are forgotten. A cold crown in reward for black-hearted murder. Ned Stark speaks true, then, winter does come."
"We do not reward murder, Prince Oberyn. Understand that—"
"And yet it is a Lannister queen, that wears a crown. It is Lannister children that the King sires. Lannister men that arm the Red Keep. Lannister lions, that adorn the walls. I have heard your reasonings before, Lord Hand. I disagreed with them then, I disagree with them now."
"You are a devout man. Tell me, how does the Father deem which are worthier than others? What is a little Dornish girl, to a son of the Vale, to a throne of conquerors?"
"I wonder… how quickly would you call it tragedy, if it were your little son's head crushed beneath a monster's grip?" the Viper smiled tightly, snorting as he slapped his barb's head, "but worry not, I did not come here seeking vengeance."
"Then what?" Jon retorted quickly. Doran was prudent to keep Prince Oberyn's tongue taut, and I was a fool to speak to him alone.
"My old follies and new." He galloped ahead, jumping over children and stray carts. Jon followed, but slowly, watching the Prince stop and circle a slum beneath the Dragonpit.
Between two cluttered and cramp streets lay a tall home, small fumes of smoke rising above with puddles by the entrance. A gash ran down the middle of the structure, the cracked daub and wattle shaped into a thousand bolts of broken lighting. Jon could see holes in the thatch where water and storm would freeze the insides of the home, thin slices of horn where windows would be, the outer yard littered in spare straw and shattered clay. The pale horse neighed quietly, watching Jon as they approached.
"The red woman lives here?" Rickard muttered, mud creeping up his legs and sky-blue cloak.
Oberyn marched ahead, avoiding the grime, knocking harshly on the door. He then turned to him, lunging quickly, his breathe upon Jon's cheek, his touch harsh against Jon's arm, thumb drifting down to press against his wrist.
Steel caught the light of the sun like a flashing star, "Unhand him, good ser, at once!" Rickard demanded. Oberyn did not look at him.
"I will not hurt your lord. I only wish to remember his face. He is an old man, and I am not long for this city," his smile fell, "If you look into a man's eyes, you will see his soul," Prince Oberyn's stared with pits of dark venom, drinking the light with rage, "I look into yours, Jon Arryn, and I do not see a monster. Just a man. Craven, and old."
The Viper loosened and let go, facing Jon, walking back slowly, "That was my folly, then. Expecting cowards to have courage and call murder for what it is. This is my folly now, remembering. The way this city remembers her, I wonder if she had even ever been a Princess of the realm. If she had ever been anyone at all."
"Someone must remember. If not me, who?" He said, mounting his barb with a final scoff, "You?"
As Oberyn rode off with a gallop, a taunt in his wake, Jon Arryn sighed, rubbing at his arm and flexing his hands. The skin sagged over his long fingers, wrinkled and blotched with darker shades of faint bruises that never left, cracking as he stretched them wide and then tight into a fist.
"M'lord, shall I send—"
"No," he said, "Thank you. It is— never mind the Prince." More trouble than it was worth. No doubt the man would have long left the city the moment the cloaks caught his shadow.
The door to the motherhouse opened gently, a gust of warm, incensed air of meadowsweet and burning marjoram harsh against the gamy spoils of Fleabottom's grime.
"Lord Jon Arryn." The red woman's robes rippled in the breeze, a dim light behind. Her golden ringlets fell perfectly on each side, cloak forgotten with her figure flaunted.
"My lady—"
"You are the Hand of the King," she said curiosity as she smiled faintly, catching the trail left in the Viper's temper, denying Jon a single word.
"Your guard must stay outside."
Rickard scoffed, "I protect the Hand, and so I must follow."
"You are a man. There are those who have suffered your peers' presence. I cannot deny the Hand. I will deny you."
Jon relented. "Rickard."
"M—m'lord," he said dumbly.
"Stand guard, good ser. Do not fret."
The red woman met Jon with a brow half-raised, leading him inside, stale bread salted by hand upon an uneven wooden board. If there was danger here, it was not of daggers in the dark.
"Do tell if I fail your tradition. It is an interesting one," she said, watching him intensely with each bite, with each platitude, eyes like embers, unblinking. "You wish to see the young Arielle."
Jon nodded gravely, "Yes. I was known to her in the past. What befell her today… 'twas nothing short of horror. Is she… is she well?"
"As well as can be. Quiet. Some wounds cut deeper than flesh and blood." Long rang the bell toll, crowns and thrones and sons drowned beneath its duty.
She led him to a long room, plastered in ripped settees and damp, swollen seats and tables. Rugs were matted and worn and stained, children's toys piled in corners, spare breads and grains shared in small meals by a half-dozen women, old and young with babes at breast or lap. The ceiling was chipped with small droplets of water falling, weeds weaved in between, the cobbled tiles cracked with mud creeping through like scuttling hands.
"Oh, it be the Hand!" cried a thin woman, hair knotted and face blotched in old dirt, a babe rocking in her arms. Questions of "the Hand?" and "here?" and "how?" ran around the room, the quiet mothers, the loud children, each calling his name and sharing their shock.
Jon smiled, leaning to meet her and the babe, "My lady. How fare the babe?"
"Oh, she be a sick one, m'lord. Wee thing was retchin' me milk all over. The nice lady was of too good help. Now she be sleepin' and eatin' without the wailin'."
"Seven blessings. I am glad to hear it." The babe was a thin thing, without name like the many graves of Fleabottom.
"There is a basin to clean, Lord Hand," the red woman noted, glancing to the blood dried beneath his fingernails. Jon thanked her, abashed, letting the cold waters, clean somehow, fall gentlyfrom the ends of his fingertips.
This place… it was a holy place, once, faint carvings of the Mother, Maiden and Crone entwined with old paneling and crown mouldings all across the walls. Seven bowls, though only one remained, seven effigies in the hands of the few.
A different kind of holy now, Jon mused, watching the red woman whisper gently to the old woman, faint smells of coriander steaming from her cup.
"A motherhouse?" he inquired. There were dozens across the city, held up by the hands of the High Septon's generosities. Far and few between, these days. A regretful thought. Shameful, no matter how true.
"Once a motherhouse. Now a house of mothers," she said, brushing her thumbs against the thin woman's hands tenderly.
Down the hallway, past a broken staircase and the patches of hard dirt that plied through floors, was a small bedchamber. The red woman kept her hand tight on the handle, free of her golden rings, but long and delicate and painted. Up close, Jon spotted the fine embroidery, as fine as the Queen's Myrish dresses of lace, skin as light as the Queen's, red rubies adorned snugly upon her neck as clean as the Lannister red.
Her eyes watched his fascination. You fool, Jon chastised. Ogling her like a drunkard does a whore. His cheeks fell aflame in shame, stammering a half apology.
She chuckled, "You are a man. And I am a beautiful woman. I could hardly blame you."
"I— Forgive me, my lady. It was a terrible trespass upon your person. It is… you… you bear a remarkable resemblance to the Queen Cersei, is all. It is hard not to notice." So much like the Queen. It dumbfounded him, for the oddities were not clear. The nose, perhaps? The shape of her eyes or lips? He could not find it, and side by side, they would surely be the same, and yet entirely different.
It made her wine lips widen, teeth glittering, "I have heard. It is a dashing compliment. Unearned, for I have not a drop of royalty to my blood." Her hand met his in greeting, impossibly warm, tingling the underside of his skin, "Medeya, of the Free City of Myr."
"Well met, my lady." Medeya was tall, barely an inch shorter than him, with eyes of glittering allure.
She defended the septa's door well, squinting in shrewd questioning, "You are here for the young Arielle. But do you come in the bidding of the Hand, the High Septon, or simply as a man, indebted to another?
"In the bidding of good health, my lady. The Septa Arielle's wellbeing, and little else."
"Septa," she hummed deeply, "There was once a fellow that claimed her in the bidding of good health. Of good gods."
"My lady. Whichever… qualms you may hold with the gods of this land, I would ask you set them aside. Her well-being is the only matter of importance."
His politeness amused her, "I have no qualms with the Holy Seven, Lord Hand, but the men who adorn themselves in their colours. The pain inflicted on that poor girl… and the babe she tried to tear out…"
May the Mother have mercy, Jon prayed. Defiled, the girl had screamed. The wounds of her womb, the blood of her life spilled. In his dreams, he could hear Lysa scream, the cloaks of babes lost wrapped in white, wrapped in blue, wrapped in crimson once again.
He cursed whichever fiend committed such depravity, and cursed himself for his anger, "Who?"
The red woman threw him a sneer; sneer that looked a smile that looked a sorrow. "A man who blinds himself has no use of penance. For what good would it bring him? Only cowards asks questions to which they already know."
"Do you?" She opened the door, dim candlelight like the silhouette of a mountain range set across the room.
The septa's struggled breathing rose and fell in the corner, the walls stained with black tears, her featherbed sliced and stitched and stitched again in odd shapes, lumpy and uncomfortable. Her thick wool blanket could not hide the pungent smell of blood, nor the thinning of her arms and the bump of her mangled stomach.
He looked away as Medeya changed Arielle's wrappings, wiping away the leaking blood as red her robes, the smell of vinegar heavy and the stitching deep. Yarrow poultice and garlic was smoothed across her gashes, her murmured pains sharp and sobbing, the poppy calming her after.
Fell magic, foreign poisons and witchcraft, so said the High Septon, more concerned for her charity in the streets than the bellies of which she fed. All Jon saw was a maester born a woman.
"My lady, may I ask why you have come to this city?"
She washed her hands in a small bowl set aside, "Why does anyone go anywhere?" Medeya dried her hands with worn sheepskin, sitting down beside Arielle, chin in hand and searching Jon Arryn's face, "They say you are a kind man, Lord Hand. Honest and honourable to a fault. Is it honourable to ask a woman veiled questions, hm? The High Septon would see me dressed in motley and flogged out the city gates. For no reason but the colour of my cloak. I ask you again, have you come to enact that man's justice?"
He pursed his lips, holding his cloak by his knees tightly. "No, my lady. The High Septon speaks with the Gods favour. He made his complaints, but I, in good conscience, cannot err on the side of prejudice. I see an citizen acting per own her good will. You are free here, my lady. There is no further charge." King's Landing was no stranger to exuberant personalities. What harm could a lone priestess bring, one who shared no sermon, where red warriors and summer princes could not? Even Oldtown tolerated their temples.
She watched him, many questions behind her eyes, silenced by her smile. "I find him to be amusing. Sickening, deplorable, but amusing. He cries heresy and insult, and yet flails his hypocrisy plainly. Ha, forgive my impertinence, but is the Feast of the Father not a time of judgment? Justice?"
Medeya took Arielle's hand, kissing it gently, "Is this justice? I wonder, is the true sin…" she brushed away a small lock from the septa's face, "the sin of silence, as monsters lurk about?"
Then there are many sinners about. He rubbed the rough of Prince Oberyn's touch, his skin bruised and tingling. He had told Robert that the Gods bring justice to all men. Cowherds and Kings alike. But in the red woman's eyes swirled an impossible question, for one he had no answer.
"I did not know it was a motherhouse, at first," she continued, "The woman you met, Betha, was heavy with child, hiding here, with little prospect of life. I did what I could. I do what I can. As the Lord wills it."
"You have done a well job with it, with so little. Call it a passing interest, but one of your countrymen resides in the castle and court. Thoros, of Myr. He is good friends with the King."
She chortled, "We have met. He is a drunkard. Funny, but… lost."
"From your Lord?"
Medaya shrugged casually, as if her faith were no serious thing. "From purpose. He is an aimless man, let alone a priest."
"You asked me why I came to this city. To help. Most men take it for a simple answer that is a clever subterfuge or a lie, perhaps. But the truth always very simple, made into the world around us. This place, this city, perhaps this realm… it is wounded. There is good and there is evil, just as there is night and day. Black and white. And the young Arielle, we know well enough where she falls. But where will she go? Who will take her? For the blackest of men will call her goodness a sin. For now she is now a whore. She would be ordered to prostate herself with her blood still trickling down her leg, until her life is spent. Then, she may find some forgiveness. The poor girl cannot find embrace in the halls of her Gods. But here, where the Gods remain, but her monsters do not…"
"Not in your fires?" Jon inquired.
She snorted, "Fires? My fires may impart many wisdoms. Take a gander and you may glimpse the gleam of your greatest desire, or the even the dread of your death. A soldier may find his peace or his courage in flame, or a wizard and his tricks, or even a priest and his prayer," she swirled a small cup of mead with a damp wooden spoon, mixing small bundles of yarrow, meadowsweet and heather. A medicinal for the babe, Jon mused. Pycelle had concocted many for Lysa, most of which his lady wife had refused harshly.
The red woman whispered sweet words to the teary septa, leaving the drink by her side to grow cold with a wooden effigy of the Mother.
"In the fire, just as one does with their wooden gods, you may find worship. But can fire suckle a babe by its breast? Can it feed a babe's belly, or hold it with a mother's touch? Perhaps here," she raised her arms to the dim walls of the chamber, dingy, undone by the seams of its craft and smellier than barracks at war, "I may offer them some semblance of the mother's mercy, for I too, was once a mother."
Jon frowned, tracing the corners of the young woman's face and the tight width of her hips, perfectly curved and without wrinkle.
Medeya raised her brow amusedly, "You think me a liar? My master willed many a child on me, Lord Hand."
"Master?"
"Master, yes," she spit, "Though, not a master of tanners and chandlers and merchants and key keepers, as you are accustom. A master of man. And if I were to believe his words, then once, a master of my soul. Does the word displease you, Lord Hand?"
"Ah, I—"
"If it please you, my master saw it prudent to leave my face unblemished. Pretty slaves bear the ink of their ownership elsewhere," Her long fingers dug beneath her robes, coming undone by her sharp shoulders to flash the ample of her breast and the pink of her nipple.
Jon looked away, flushed, hand raised in protest, "Please, my lady, I believe you."
"My master thought my beauty and the warmth of my sex a blissful pastime, and his lady wife was never one to voice displeasure, for his hands were rough, and the pain plentiful," she sat down, her eyes heavy on him as Jon lowered his gaze, "Most died within the womb, a few in the small cloths I stole to birth alone in the alleyways beyond my master's manse. Perhaps that is the mother's mercy, Lord Hand, for they were saved from the only life I could offer them. The clink of my master's shackle."
An abhorrent, disgusting practice, Jon mused with pity. Lysa's wails rung in his ears, around and around in old anguish. "My condolences, then, my lady. They are with the gods." In the Mother's Heaven. Perhaps this woman would see them again, as Jon hoped for his own.
"So I believe. And so it brings me peace, as it does many," she nods to the fire aflame in the hearth, crackling in their silenced. She nods to the wooden mother, now tight in the hands of the septa.
The red woman stands to meet him, "But peace in death, does not mean a peaceful life. Take you, for example, Lord Hand. You are the master of this city, and so the master of this motherhouse. If your duty was to demand I abandon this place in exile, then I would have no choice but to obey. It would calm the High Septon, but could you live with it?" her eyes flowed like running rivers covered in a wildfire's green, unwavering in their stare.
In the distance, muffled cries of a wailing baby mixed with the soft sobs of Septa Arielle's moans and twitches, an old nightmare plaguing her.
"Have you lived with it already?" She asked. Jon could feel her gaze, like beams of sunlight scalding his skin, hotter than the Dornish desert, or a Prince's hatred.
Medeya of Myr's face blazed with an amused understanding. "My master was once a lord himself. I know politics well-enough, and the lives crushed beneath the game," She rose to the door, her figure dark as the light formed a blazing silhouette around her, "If you have found what you sought, then I must kindly ask that you leave, Lord Hand. Look to your sins, if you must. For the night is dark and full of terrors. I shall, and so shall she."
He gave Arielle one final prayer. Coward's prayers mean little, the red woman whispered in his mind. Jon ignored it, avoiding Medeya's watchful gaze.
The old mothers had taken their children to rest, the house of mothers quiet, each creak an echo. Rundown and vulnerable to even a single storm, but strong enough with each other in hand. They may do well with the Seven-Pointed Star, if they cared to learn their letters. Mayhaps I shall send a copy. Jon wondered if the red woman would take kindly to that, or laugh in his face.
The septa was in good enough hands, then. Jon sighed, part relief and part exhaustion, and some little part guilt that he had buried. The High Septon would dislike it, but there was little be done. Many had accused the man of corruption, and yet Jon had remained resolute despite it all, trusting in the Most Devout's judgement. But now, a flash of crimson spread across a girl's skin, seeping like the cloaks of Jon's old cowardice. Was he truly as blind as Alester? Or as old as Prince Oberyn claimed?
Sweat clung to his forehead. Robert would return to court soon. News would trickle south of the banners raised beneath the Wall. And now, he had a son. To teach and love and nurture in the lost time the Stranger had given him. Duties of a father he thought he had left behind decades ago, but kept with him still in the brooch pinned to his doublet. He could not waste time on foolish malcontents.
The red light of dusk streamed through the cracks and slits of the walls. Rickard waited outside, dutiful, the pale horse watching Jon again. When he looked back, Medeya of Myr lingered in the ends of the hallway, a shroud of blackness shadowing her fair skin. Her golden ringlets did not sparkle, dark now, her cloak of flaming red faded. But her eyes peered through, like little braziers of wildfire singing with a strange tune.
The door shut, and a coldness swept the streets of Fleabottom. The bells of Baelor rung like drums of death, again and again as crows fluttered awake and searched. The soft pudge of the ground was swallowing, and his breath hitched terribly as goosebumps warred across the field of his skin. His heart drummed at the thin layers of his chest, hands clutching his robes in tight creases, breathing deeply as if he had been woken from a restless dream, terrible and tortuous.