High in the heart of Oldtown's prestigious Hightower district, right along the main road, stood a mansion whose grandeur captivated even the snobbiest nobles and wealthiest merchants alike.
Outside, the sprawling gardens were a testament to meticulous care, where flowers from the Reach and beyond bloomed in vibrant displays of colour, their arrangement and composition a testament to the owner's exquisite taste. Marble sculptures of ancient heroes and mythological figures dotted the grounds, each carved with intricate detail that captured both the strength and grace of its subject - their presence undoubtedly intended to engage the visitor intellectually and provide an opportunity for contemplation and self-reflection. Crystal clear ponds shimmered in the sunlight, with lilies floating delicately on their surfaces, while stone paths meandered elegantly through the greenery, inviting guests to explore the serene beauty of the estate. Every detail of the exterior had been carefully considered, presenting a seamless blend of nature and artistry. It was clear to the casual observer that the owner had a discerning eye for beauty and a fortune to match.
Inside, the mansion was no less impressive. The walls were decorated with lavish tapestries depicting scenes of battle and courtly life, woven with the finest threads, their vibrant colours still rich despite their age. Antique vases and trinkets lined the shelves, each piece a delicate work of art, stamped with the name of some long-dead noble or hero, adding to the air of sophistication. Expensive furniture filled the grand rooms - plush velvet sofas, polished wooden tables and chairs that were both opulent and comfortable. Intricate candlesticks hung from the ceilings, casting a warm, glittering light across the room. Gold and silver goblets that once belonged to the nobility gleamed from their places on display. To anyone who walked through the estate, it was a picture of high society - a home that was not only lived in, but celebrated for its grandeur.
Yes. Most people, upon seeing the mansion, would assume that it belonged to someone with impeccable taste, someone who truly cared about aesthetics and the meaning behind each carefully chosen object. The magnificent sculptures, the intricate tapestries, the historic trinkets - it all suggested an owner who valued culture, art and history. It was the kind of place where nobles could imagine long evenings spent contemplating the weight of the past, or ladies could appreciate the delicate beauty of a flower in bloom.
The truth, however...
"Pack it up! Pack it all up! I want everything loaded before we leave for Highgarden!" Helly barked, her loud voice cutting through the peaceful calm of the mansion's grand hall. She stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed as she watched her servants scramble to follow her orders.
One of the older servants, Alfred, whom she had acquired along with the mansion itself, looked at her with a horrified expression, his hands trembling slightly as he stood protectively in front of one of the golden vases.
"B-but, my lady!" He stammered, his voice trembling with obvious disbelief. "Are you certain this is a good idea? These... Many of these things have been part of the mansion for generations! Every piece has a history, a legacy, tied to the great merchant families and noble houses alike..."
"Tell me, Alfred... why should I care about the history of some dead people I never even met?" Helly asked, looking at the man with pure incomprehension in her eyes. She spent most of her life scraping by and selling anything remotely valuable she could find, so refusing to sell things just because they were old or whatever sounded completely alien to her. "Besides, I'm a proper, important merchant and all that now, so I need expensive-looking stuff to sell, right? And that's the stuff."
"But... but..." Alfred's voice cracked, his eyes misting with tears as he tried to think of a good argument to persuade her to abandon her plans. "This vase was made by the craftsmen of Volantis two hundred years ago, and the tapestries were woven by..."
"So what?" Helly cut him off with a roll of her eyes. "I don't even know what Volantis is, so why should I care? What am I going to do with a vase or a tapestry? Sure, some of them look pretty and all, but I can just buy prettier ones later! So pack up this vase! I'll take it to Highgarden to sell. Also, tell someone to move some of the flowers from outside into the pots while you are at it. Maybe some stuffy nobles will like the smell of them or something."
Alfred's face crumpled as he nodded, a single tear slipping down his cheek as he carefully wrapped the priceless vase in a cloth. "Yes, my lady," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the servants bustling around him.
Helly shook her head as she watched the servant carry on with his work, trying to understand why he even cared.
The only things in the whole mansion that Helly even remotely cared about were her comfortable bed and the always full larder stuffed with the finest food and drinks. Everything else? It was all just there to "diversify her assets"—whatever that meant. She'd overheard some fancy merchant say it once, and it sounded smart enough to repeat.
The flowers in the garden? She didn't even know half their names, and honestly, who cared? The sculptures? had no idea who any of them were supposed to be- some kings or gods, maybe? It didn't really matter. Trinkets and decorations inscribed with the names of long-dead nobles? The only thing she understood was that an object having a dead guy's name on it made it worth more. She still wasn't sure why.
In the end, she didn't really care about any of it. All that mattered was that all these things were worth a good bit of coin- a coin that could buy her an even more comfortable bed, even better food, and perhaps most importantly, a chance to see the world.
And now that chance has come. She'd been invited to travel to Highgarden as part of a merchant caravan by her friends from beyond the sea—the strange people who had sold her the glowstones and many other priceless goods. One of them, a strange fellow called Kalé, had said that the journey would be a great opportunity for her to expand her business and, more importantly, to show everyone how far she'd come since her days in the gutter. He'd had a strange look on his face when he'd said it, as if he took some personal satisfaction in the idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the merchants' past problems, which they were very cagey about.
If so, Helly didn't pry. They were her friends, after all.
It was ironic, really. She felt more at home with these foreign merchants than she ever had with the local ones. The Oldtown merchants she met after her sudden rise in status were insufferable, always acting superior, not to mention always hot and bothered about the offered goods. But the Inbetweener merchants were different. They treated her as an equal, trading with her without the air of superiority or the weird creepiness during negotiations. She liked that.
In the end…
"No, Marla! Don't pack that one!" Helly shouted sharply, her attention snapping back to the present as she spotted one of the servant girls packing a green dress she'd already worn. "That's the one I wore last week—people can't think I've only got one fine dress! Pack the blue one! And the one with the silver frills!" She barked, her commands snapping the girl into hurried action.
Helly surveyed the growing piles of clothes, jewelry and various other trinkets that were being stuffed into gilded trunks, all meant for her visit to Highgarden. She had no real sense of whether the clothes and accessories were actually fashionable or whatever, but they all glittered and looked expensive, which was good enough. She was rich, after all. Actually, no, she wasn't rich. She was filthy, disgustingly, gloriously rich. Rich enough to buy a mansion, rich enough to wear the clothes of important ladies, and rich enough to put her old life where it belonged - buried in the muck.
And being rich meant showing it.
"Alton! Where's my fancy coat? It might be cold on the road to Highgarden, so bring it here!" she called, watching with some pleasure as a pretty, muscular boy she had recently hired scurried up the stairs with the requested item in his hand, his cheeks flushed and his body sweating.
She was enjoying the view when a very irritating, vaguely familiar voice floated through the open window, reciting what her servants called "poetry". If it was poetry, she'd rather spend her money on something else.
"Lady Glowstone, oh, your beauty is a treasure,
Each moment with you would be an endless pleasure!
My glowing star of the market, my treasure of the seas!
Will you not give your heart to me?"
Helly cringed as she heard the rhyme, her expression pained.
"Alton, close the damn window!" She snapped. The boy quickly dropped the coat into one of the trunks and rushed to shut out the racket. Damn it, they were really persistent!
As it turned out, being rich made her real pretty, as ever since she had bought the mansion, her courtyard had become a hotspot for all kinds of merchant and noble brats desperate to win her favour and, more importantly, her gold. They all tried to get between her legs, wooing her with bad poetry and sweet words, treating her as if she were some rare prize. She thought it would save everyone time if they would all just thoroughly woo each other's arses instead, but apparently saying that to Oldtown's 'elite' was considered quite rude, something she had already learned the hard way.
As she went upstairs to see if there was anything else worth packing, Helly spotted her mother sitting in one of the plush chairs in the corner of a chamber, watching the chaos with a disapproving frown. The stocky, blonde woman hadn't quite adjusted to her sudden rise in status the way her daughter had, her body now adorned with mismatched jewels and trinkets that looked out of place on her bulky frame and sun-kissed, rough skin.
The moment her mother saw her, she stood up with a frown etched deep into her features. "Helly, girl!" she began, her voice thick with a mix of worry and annoyance. "You really shouldn't be goin' on this daft journey. You got all that money now, so why do ye need more? Ye should be settlin' down, findin' yerself a proper husband. Someone to manage all this—" she waved her hand vaguely at the mansion "—and give ye a bit o' peace. All these proper boys are fightin' fer yer hand, don't ye see that?"
Helly sighed, fixing her mother with a slightly exasperated look. She understood her mother meant well, in her own way, but the thought of some dim, grabby man telling her what to do? No, thanks.
"Ma, I'm tellin' ye, I don't need no daft husband tellin' me what to do. I've got enough coin to buy meself a hundred pretty boys if I wanted. What would I need a husband for, eh? Ain't that right, Marla?" She declared and casted a look at a nearby servant girl who was struggling to fold one of her gowns.
Marla gave a small, resigned nod, her face wearing the tired expression of someone used to Helly's eccentricities.
"A hundred—?!" Her mother's eyes went wide with horror at the very thought. "Helly, have ye lost yer senses?!"
Before her mother could launch into a full tirade, Helly, knowing better than to stay, quickly ducked into another room, already barking at a servant to find her favourite fancy hat—the one with the sparkling stones and hawk's feathers.
From outside, the voice continued its painful serenade, undeterred by the closed windows:
"Your hair shines like the glowstone's light,
A beacon to guide me through the night!"
Helly's patience snapped. Grabbing a pair of stockings off the floor, she hurled them into a nearby trunk with more force than necessary and marched to a locked cabinet, yanking it open to retrieve a particular item.
Another shout echoed from the street:
"Lady Glowstone, if you only knew,
How my heart aches for you, true and true!"
"Oh, for the love of the Seven!" Helly growled, finally grabbing what she was looking for. She stormed over to the nearest window, flinging it open with a look of murderous intent on her face. In one hand, she held a priceless-looking bow of impossible quality; in the other, a glittering golden arrow, gleaming in the sunlight.
She glared down at the offender—a scrawny young man with a wispy mustache, clutching a lute in his hands. He blinked in surprise, his mouth hanging open as she aimed the arrow at him.
"Look here, ye blatherin' twit!" she yelled, her speech slipping back into the rough tones of her peasant days. "If ye don't bugger off this second, I'll shoot ye dead with one of them magic arrows, I will! I'll make ye a new arsehole, I swear it!"
In truth, she had no idea if it was actually magical or just very sharp, Kalé only saying it was effective against walking corpses or whatever, but right now, it didn't matter.
The 'poet' blinked, momentarily dumbstruck by her outburst. His eyes flicked to the golden arrow, and for a brief moment, Helly could see him weighing whether he could dodge the shot and steal it.
Helly's scowl deepened, and she pulled the bowstring taut. "Don't even think about it, ye daft bugger! Now sod off, or I'll fill ye full o' holes!"
The sight of her drawn bow and furious glare finally did the trick. The boy's face paled as he scrambled away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to flee the courtyard.
Helly slammed the window shut with a satisfied nod, then turned to find her mother standing there, arms crossed and face scandalized.
"Helly!" her mother gasped, her hands on her hips and her cheeks flushing red from indignation. "Ye can't be scarin' off suitors like that! He coulda been a good husband! Good family! Money don't last forever, ye know, but a good husband'll keep ye safe and proper—"
"Ah, give it a rest, Ma," Helly groaned, exasperation heavy in her voice. "A husband's all well and good, but right now, I'm havin' more fun doin' what I'm doin'. Besides, I'll finally get to leave Oldtown and see somethin' other than these boring streets! Ain't that somethin'? I'd never have been able to do that before."
Her mother hesitated, her expression softening as she fiddled with the edge of her dress. "I s'pose… Ye know I just want ye to be happy, girl. I am proud o' ye, ye know that. I just worry 'bout ye, thinkin' of yer future and all. It's a hard world out there, and I want to make sure ye've got somethin' solid to stand on."
Helly smiled faintly, the annoyance melting away. "Don't worry, Ma. I'll have a future, all right. But I'm gonna make it myself, on my own terms." Her eyes gleamed with confidence as she spoke, a grin creeping across her face.
Her mother gave her a long, searching look, then a slow, begrudging smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Aye, I reckon ye will, at that." She folded her arms, her voice softening into something proud, if not a little reluctant. "Yer a stubborn one, Helly. Always been."
Seeing her mother calm down, Helly's grin widened, and she sent the woman a mischievous glance. "Tell ye what, Ma—I've been thinkin'. I might just let ye look after the house while I'm gone. I'll even leave ye a bit o' gold so ye can treat yerself. Fancy food, new dresses, maybe some o' that perfume ye keep mentionin' Pa bought you for ye weddin'."
Her mother blinked, surprise flickering across her face before her eyes lit up with excitement. "Ye'll do that? Fancy dresses and all? Well, now I s'pose I can't complain about that, eh?" Her face broke into a wide grin, the thought of luxury too irresistible for a woman who had known nothing but hardship and poverty for most of her life.
Helly chuckled, shaking her head. "Knew that'd cheer ye up."
With a wry smile, she turned back to oversee the packing, her mind already racing ahead to what lay beyond Oldtown. Soon, she'd be off to Highgarden, ready to learn new things, trade more goods, and dive headfirst into the adventure her life had become.
She couldn't wait. The world was out there, and she was finally ready to claim her piece of it.
The small council chamber was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional scrape of a chair against the cold stone floor. The meeting had been called to address the matter that had swept through the streets of King's Landing like wildfire- the arrival of strange people from beyond the sea, the so-called "Inbetweeners." They supposedly hailed from a distant place known as "the Lands Between," bringing with them powerful magic, monstrous creatures, and customs that made even the most worldly Westerosi uneasy.
Agents sent from King's Landing seemed to confirm these rumours- the presence of powerful magic on the shores of Westeros was the new reality rather than a fanciful tale, which made it all the more important for the Throne to choose its representative, someone who could engage with these newcomers and gauge their intentions
Around the council table, the atmosphere was tense, each member pondering the potential threat or opportunity these new arrivals might represent. Some were intrigued, while others were deeply wary of what their presence could mean. At the head of the table sat the king's empty chair, an imposing symbol of power, awaiting its occupant. Flanking it were two more unoccupied seats. One belonged to Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, who had left King's Landing in fury after another of Aerys' provocations. The king's taunts of the Lion Lord had been growing increasingly reckless- something that Council members feared would only end in tragedy. The other empty chair, a void that seemed to loom over the room, was the seat of the Master of Whisperers, left vacant ever since Bloodraven's infamous tenure had ended in exile to the Wall. King Aegon V had left the seat empty, Jaehaerys II had done nothing to change it during his brief rule, and now Aerys II, despite some rumblings, had yet to appoint anyone. Some said the king waited for the right candidate; others believed he simply didn't trust anyone enough.
The rest of the council seats were filled by men of less renown but no less competence. Grand Maester Pycelle sat with his usual air of pompous wisdom, his aged hands stroking the length of his greying beard as if in deep contemplation. Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Coin, sat stiffly beside him, nervously adjusting his sleeves, while Symond Staunton, the Master of Laws, leaned forward in his seat, his fingers steepled in thought. Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, was looking at the people present with an unreadable expression, his posture straight and his eyes half-opened.
But there was one more man in the room whose presence carried a weight beyond that of the other council members, whether due to his status or his longstanding closeness to the king.
Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and childhood friend to both Aerys and the absent Tywin, sat among them as an advisor, summoned by the King to help with the current crisis in Tywin's absence. Despite the offer, Steffon pointedly refused to sit in the Hand's chair, no matter how much Aerys might have welcomed it as a symbolic jab at Tywin. It was a silent gesture, a line Steffon would not cross. He was here to aid one of his friends, not to usurp another.
Stout and resolute, Steffon's calm, thoughtful gaze swept over the gathered council, his mere presence commanding respect. Though he said little, it was clear the others were relieved to have him there. Where the rest of the council walked on eggshells, Steffon stood firm, the weight of his words always carrying the potential to steer Aerys away from his more erratic impulses.
And given the very... sensitive subject they were about to broach with the King, his presence would certainly be a boon at this meeting.
The murmurs quieted as Symond Staunton finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension in the air. "So, we all agree that Lord Tywin is the best candidate to initiate contact with these 'Inbetweeners' on behalf of the Iron Throne, yes?"
Qarlton Chelsted nodded, though his expression was tinged with unease. "Naturally. Who else could manage such a delicate matter? Lord Tywin is methodical, sharp, and when the situation calls for it... suitably ruthless."
Lucerys Velaryon, however, was not so convinced. "I agree it makes sense, but I doubt His Grace will see it the same way. Letting Lord Tywin interact freely with a society of unknown magic and beasts, without the king's oversight? It would be considered... dangerous. His Grace might not appreciate the idea of giving Tywin free rein in such matters."
Steffon leaned back in his chair, his casual posture belying the sharpness of his mind. He had an idea, and his eyes gleamed as he spoke. "You may have a point, Lord Velaryon, but I believe there's a way to make Aerys see the wisdom of it. True, Aerys has grown... cautious of Tywin's power, but this mission is no ordinary one. It's volatile. These Inbetweeners are said to wield magic and command beasts, while their customs are a far cry from the ones we hold dear. By all accounts, they believe in the law of the strongest—violent, unpredictable, dangerous. We need someone who can handle the weight of such a challenge. Who better than Tywin?"
The words hung in the air like a well-placed lure. Steffon hadn't said it outright, but it was clear enough to those listening—Aerys could be convinced that Tywin was the right man for the job, precisely because it was so dangerous. And if Tywin failed or, gods forbid, did not return, the king's power would be untethered from his Hand's shadow. The risk to Tywin would be a risk Aerys might welcome.
Of course, none of them truly believed the venture would be that perilous, least of all Steffon, Tywin's personal friend. The Inbetweeners had kept to themselves in Oldtown so far, their strange magic and monsters not used against Westeros as of yet. But that was not the story they needed to sell to the king. They needed to frame it as a mission fraught with peril, and who better to take such a risk than the Hand of the King?
Their harmless plotting was interrupted by the echo of footsteps in the corridor outside. Moments later, the doors to the chamber swung open, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower entered, his white armour gleaming in the candlelight.
"His Grace, King Aerys Targaryen, second of his name!" Hightower's voice rang out as the council members stood in respect.
Aerys II swept into the room, his long silver hair flowing over his shoulders, sharp violet eyes scanning the faces of his council. The king was young, handsome, and carried himself with confidence, though there was an edge to his movements—a nervous energy that hinted at the erratic temper lurking beneath the surface. His fingers twitched slightly as he clasped his hands behind his back, an increasingly familiar sight to those who spent time in his presence.
Despite his growing reputation for volatility, Aerys had not been a terrible king so far. Ambitious and eager to distance himself from his controversial grandfather, Aegon V, Aerys had shown promise in the early years of his reign. But the pressure to prove himself, to match the legacy of his father's victory in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, gnawed at him. And then there was the paranoia. His once-close relationship with Tywin had soured, and those who knew him best feared that his erratic behaviour was on the verge of becoming something darker. Many in the council held out hope that the birth of his second child would soothe his worries. Queen Rhaella was due to give birth soon, and Pycelle had assured them that this time, she would give birth to a healthy baby.
Aerys settled into his chair at the head of the table, his gaze briefly meeting Steffon's with a small smile before he turned to the rest of his council.
"Well, then," Aerys began, his voice carrying a commanding edge. "Who has my loyal and elite council chosen to represent the Iron Throne? Who will approach these strangers on our behalf and ensure they understand that this place already has a king? I assume you have all already selected a suitable emissary?" He paused, his lips curling in a cold, thin smile. "After all, Tyrells already have a head start, with their clumsy attempt at secret negotiations barely concealed as a tourney."
The council members shifted in their seats uncomfortably. Aerys' tone was sharp, but his eyes—those hard, cold eyes—were the real danger. They gleamed with a hint of provocation, as if daring someone to step forward and suggest the name that had been looming over the room like a shadow.
Tywin Lannister.
There was no doubt in the minds of the council that Aerys was waiting for one of them to mention the Lion of Casterly Rock. He seemed to be in the midst of one of his more unpredictable moods, seemingly eager to catch someone in what he perceived as disloyalty, to find a sign that his trusted advisors were siding with Tywin rather than their king. His fingers drummed faster on the armrest as the seconds ticked by and no one spoke.
Grand Maester Pycelle opened his mouth slightly, then closed it, casting a wary glance at the others. Qarlton Chelsted exchanged a look with Symond Staunton, but neither dared speak. Lucerys Velaryon looked down, focusing on some unseen detail on the surface of the table. One by one, the council members hesitated, clearly unwilling to utter the name they all knew was most fitting. The tension grew unbearable as Aerys' eyes flickered between them, his jaw tightening.
Finally, they all turned their gazes toward Steffon Baratheon.
His presence, so far, had been their safety net. The stout, resolute lord of Storm's End sighed quietly, understanding it was apparently his role to breach the subject with Aerys. Much as it pained him, it was clear that Aerys' distrust of Tywin had reached new heights. The man was no longer simply suspicious of his childhood friend. No, there was a seething resentment bubbling just beneath the surface. Unfortunately, the task was too important, and if anyone could handle the volatile situation with the Inbetweeners, it was Tywin. Steffon knew what had to be done.
"Tywin," Steffon said finally, his deep voice breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. "Tywin Lannister is the most suitable candidate."
Aerys' eyes locked onto Steffon, and for a brief moment, the king's face contorted with a flash of hurt, perhaps even betrayal. His fingers stilled, his entire body tense. The room seemed to freeze, every council member holding their breath as they awaited the king's response.
"Tywin…" he muttered under his breath. "Always Tywin. The great Hand of the King. Is that who you are suggesting, Steffon? Is that who you're all suggesting? That I should send Tywin to deal with this?"
Even as others averted their eyes, hunching down and trying to make themselves seem smaller under the king's heavy glare, Steffon Baratheon held Aerys' gaze, not intimidated. Leaning forward slightly, his tone remained calm and measured.
"As you know, this task is incredibly dangerous. We know little about these arrivals, save for the fact that they command powerful magic, and horrendous creatures walk at their side. Their customs, by all accounts, are crude... barbaric even. A society ruled by the strongest," Steffon paused, watching Aerys carefully. "I am not choosing Tywin over you, Aerys. It's simply that a man of Tywin's strength and foresight would be best suited to navigate such treacherous waters and even then it's not certain he will be successful."
Aerys blinked, narrowing his eyes as he processed Steffon's words. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and though his face remained impassive, Steffon could sense something shifting. Something dark, almost gleeful, flickered behind those violet eyes. He could see Aerys imagining it—the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, thrown into a perilous mission, surrounded by unpredictable forces, with no guarantee of his safe return.
It was a sad, almost nauseating realization. How low had Aerys fallen in his relationship with Tywin? How had their friendship, once strong, deteriorated to this point? When had it all gone so wrong?
Aerys leaned back in his chair, considering the suggestion. He no longer looked betrayed. If anything, there was a spark of interest. Something malicious.
"Tywin," Aerys repeated softly, letting the name linger on his tongue. "Yes... I suppose he would be a strong candidate for such a delicate mission, wouldn't he?" His fingers resumed their slow, rhythmic drumming on the armrest, the sound filling the deathly silence of the room. No one dared speak or even breathe too loudly, unsure whether to agree or remain silent.
Aerys' eyes flicked to Steffon again, and a smile curled his lips, colder and sharper than before. The king's gaze grew more piercing and hard, his next words cutting through the tension like a knife.
"But such a task cannot go unwatched. Tywin has his talents, but we can't let our dear Hand make any... unfortunate decisions, can we?" His voice turned venomous, though the smile never left his face. "After all, his judgment hasn't been the most reliable of late, has it? Running away from King's Landing after just one… harmless comment. No, we must ensure that he stays in line."
The room remained silent, the council members frozen. Aerys leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixing on Steffon with an intensity that left little room for argument.
"You proposed him, Steffon. Therefore, you shall accompany him." Aerys' voice was smooth, but there was an undeniable edge, a tone that he had never used towards Steffon before. "Keep an eye on my Hand. Watch him closely. Ensure that he doesn't stray too far from his duties. You needn't do anything dangerous, of course. Just... be there."
Steffon felt the weight of Aerys' words settle on him like a heavy cloak. For a moment, he didn't respond, the implications of the king's command sinking in. Aerys was asking him to not only risk his life on this, from his point of view, dangerous mission but also to spy on his friend, Tywin Lannister.
He sat in silence for a moment, realizing what exactly Aerys was doing- he was testing him, testing their friendship for daring to recommend Tywin Lannister.
The council remained silent, all eyes now on Steffon, waiting for his response. He looked down for a moment, taking in a deep breath. It was clear that his relationship with Aerys had just been dealt a serious blow, perhaps one from which it would never fully recover. But the choice had been made for him, and there was no turning back.
Finally, Steffon nodded, his voice steady and carefully neutral. "As you command, Your Grace."
Aerys smiled, satisfied. The tension in the room began to dissipate, Council moving on to other matters, but Steffon's thoughts remained elsewhere.
Tywin would be sent to face the unknown threat of the Inbetweeners, and Steffon would be at his side—not as a friend, but as a spy. The bond between him and Aerys had begun to crack, and Steffon could only wonder how much longer it would hold.
Marwyn hoisted the heavy coffer over his shoulder with a grunt, his back straining under the weight of the books, clothes, and various other items he had deemed crucial for the journey ahead. The jagged, wind-beaten island that housed the Sea Tower loomed ahead, its mighty rocks rising against the backdrop of crashing waves below. The salty air bit at his face as he stepped out of the boat and made his way toward the designated spot, expression on his face conflicted.
He was still unsure why Talia, his new master and leader of the Lunar Conspectus, was so interested in Dorne of all places. His scepticism was only reinforced by the fact that the spells he had seen the wizards of Raya Lucaria use were undoubtedly far superior to any of the paltry spells of the water wizards hiding in the southern deserts. Still, he had no intention of questioning his new master.
After all, he knew better than to question someone so much more knowledgeable in the arcane arts - especially when it offered him an opportunity to expand his studies.
Marwyn walked through the busy quasi-town, greeting various sorcerers there, and went past the turtle-infested woods that hugged the island's rocky shoreline. The low hum of magic filled the air as he approached the designated clearing, and he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of apprehension. As he quickly learned, Talia was unpredictable, her strange inventions and whims always keeping him on edge.
As he entered the clearing, his eyes widened at the sight before him.
Dominating the center of the space was what looked like an enormous wicker basket, attached to an equally enormous swath of fabric that spread across the ground like the remnants of a deflated sail. Ropes and pulleys ran through the contraption, tethered to the Sea Tower itself. A metallic apparatus hummed inside the basket, sparking with arcane energy as faint flashes of blue light flickered through the air.
And there, at the heart of it all, was Talia. His new master was tinkering with the strange device, humming cheerfully to herself. Her familiar stone mask—a bizarre thing carved with the serene face of a woman—covered her features, its expression as unreadable as ever. She seemed entirely at ease with the incomprehensible contraption in front of her, as though she were working on a simple piece of furniture rather than whatever impossible device this was.
At the sound of Marwyn's approaching footsteps, Talia looked up and waved enthusiastically.
"Ah, Marwyn! There you are, finally!" Talia called out, her voice ringing with unmistakable cheer. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about our little trip!"
Marwyn set the heavy coffer down with a thud, eyeing the bizarre contraption in the clearing warily. "No, master. I… just wanted to make sure I packed everything." He glanced around his surroundings, noticing something odd. He had arrived by boat, yet there wasn't a single vessel in sight besides his own. Clearing his throat, he hesitated before asking, "Actually, how exactly are we getting to Dorne? I couldn't help but notice there's no ship ready for departure. Are we traveling by sea or road?"
Talia's eyes gleamed behind her mask as she clapped her hands, excitement bubbling beneath her stone mask.
"Neither!" she declared, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. "The Wisdom of the Moon has already sailed off to another destination, and borrowing one of those clunky, half-rotted boats from Oldtown's docks? Not a chance. And traveling by road?" She scoffed, dismissing the very thought with a flick of her wrist. "What a dreadful waste of time! We'd be slogging through dust and mud for weeks with nothing to show for it!"
Marwyn frowned, his gaze drifting back to the strange contraption that loomed in the clearing. An uneasy feeling churned in his gut. No ship, no carriage… "Then… how are we getting to Dorne?"
Talia's excitement seemed to peak as she gestured grandly toward the wicker basket and the fabric spread across the ground, looking at him with a cheerful mischief. "We're going to fly, of course!"
"…Fly?" Marwyn repeated, blinking in disbelief. He glanced from the oversized basket to the vast sheet of fabric sprawled across the ground, then back to Talia, struggling to make sense of her words. "You mean… with this?" He pointed at the contraption, his mind spinning as he tried to grasp the concept. Humans didn't fly—at least, not without dragons. And even then, he was fairly certain something was wrong with the past Targaryens—even beyond the incest—for them to willingly ride a dragon and soar above mountains.
"Yes!" Talia beamed, practically bouncing with excitement, her voice bursting with pride. "This is a flying balloon, a marvel designed by one of the great sorcerers of Raya Lucaria in ages past! I've never had the chance to use one before, so it will be quite the adventure!" Seeing the confused look on his face, she explained further, her enthusiasm undeterred. "The magical flame heats the air, and that hot air will lift us into the sky. We'll soar over Westeros like birds!"
"I… see…" Marwyn muttered, though he didn't see at all.
To him, it just looked like a bizarre, oversized basket attached to a sagging tent. A faint glow flickered beneath the fabric, and the whole thing was connected by ropes that snaked around the surroundings, some of which ended in spikes driven into the ground, seemingly to stop the contraption from being blown away by a strong wind. It didn't look like something used for flying. It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.
Unbothered by his doubt, Talia moved toward the glowing flame, adjusting the magical device with a quick flick of her hand. Slowly, the fabric began to rise, billowing upward as the heat expanded it. In seconds, the sagging tent transformed into a bloated, floating sphere, swelling with… heat? and lifting into the air. Within moments, the entire contraption hovered several feet above the clearing, swaying gently as the ropes anchored it in place. It was clear that once those ropes were released, the balloon and basket would ascend higher, leaving the ground far behind.
Marwyn's mouth went dry as he watched the enormous 'balloon' lift into the air, the impossible becoming reality before his very eyes. It was undeniably a marvel of magic- a device that allowed humans to soar in the sky like birds. Yet, as awe-inspiring as it was, the thought of entrusting his life to an oversized basket soaring high above the world felt far less appealing. The sheer novelty of it did nothing to quiet the growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.
"Actually," he said slowly, taking a step back, "now that I think about it… I don't really want to go to Dorne that much. I mean, I'm sure it's lovely, but -"
Talia's cheerful expression didn't falter for a moment. "Nonsense! You've packed all your things, haven't you? We can't let all that effort go to waste! Come on, Marwyn- it'll be fun!"
"Right…" he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Fun."
A mix of impending doom and morbid fascination churned within him, a dangerous blend of emotions that rarely heralded anything good. His mind swirled with a thousand racing thoughts, each more frantic than the last, but one thing was certain.
He was going to die. He was absolutely, positively going to die.