Apologies for the delay on this. I returned from a conference in Singapore on Thursday and I think that I have just about recovered since then. Perhaps. Maybe.
Doran
His brother was standing there, staring at the message in his hand as if it represented a personal affront to him, and Doran sighed to himself a little as he brought his wheeled chair to a halt. Normally he would get someone to push him, preferably Oberyn when he was around, but only close family. He did so hate this weakness, this pain in his feet.
After a long moment Oberyn finally surfaced and noticed him. "Your pardon my brother," he said in a distracted voice. "I was thinking about the message I have received from the Citadel. The news is true – the glass candles can be relit. Magic has returned to these lands."
Doran nodded slowly. "And what are your thoughts about the impact of this?"
There was a pause as Oberyn sat on a nearby stone bench slowly, his face set in concentration. Doran liked watching his brother thin. When he bothered to take his mind off drinking and fighting and fucking and brooding over their revenge Oberyn had a remarkable capacity for brilliant thought. He seemed to be exercising it now.
"This might change everything," Oberyn said heavily. "There are the obvious things, the less obvious things and the things that terrify me."
This was enough to get Doran peering at his brother worriedly. "What terrifies you?"
Oberyn pulled a slight face. And then he paused. "First, brother, let me ask you a question. When Lord Dayne was here with Dawn you were troubled and you said that you had thought of something that Father told you. What was it?"
Ah. That. Doran leant back in his seat tiredly. "When I came of age," he said quietly, "Father told me many things about what it means to be a Martell of Sunspear. The need to lead, the men I should watch, the women I should watch even harder, the agreements that were in place between us and Kings Landing. And also the old agreements, the secret ones, within Dorne."
Oberyn stared at him. "Within Dorne?"
"Agreements with the Stony Dornish. Some are old, Oberyn. Very old. And one dates back to the time of Nymeria. It is also… a kind of prophecy."
Something flickered in Oberyn's eyes at the very mention of the word 'prophecy', a combination of uncertainty and annoyance. "Prophecy, eh? You do know that half of them are total pigswill that can be bent like a serving girl into all manner of positions, whilst the other half are gibberish?"
He looked flintily back at his brother. "This one is different. It was very clear. The Daynes swore allegiance to our ancestors early on, with one condition. That nothing would ever stop them from going North with Dawn if ever 'The Call' came. It was important to them. And when Nymeria had a dream that led to her confirming this… well that set it in stone. Especially when she said that to stop the Daynes from going North with Dawn would result in the fall of Sunspear, and of Dorne… and of all men in Westeros."
His brother raised both eyebrows at him. "So…" he said thoughtfully, "That was why you gave Lord Dayne permission to go North, despite the fact that he's visibly dying?"
Doran nodded tiredly. "A prophecy, but a clear one, my brother. And one that I hoped I would never have to see. But it came anyway. And now we have the news of the return of magic. Surely there has to be a connection? So – what are your conclusions?"
"As magic has returned," Oberyn said heavily, "We must view prophecy in a new light. A careful light, but we must view it again. I cannot imagine what this has done to the Citadel, but I imagine that every Maester who has ever studied magic will be looking at it again. There certain things that were alleged to be created by magic that might be affected. The Wall perhaps? Storm's End? Anything at Sunspear? I know not.
"What worries me more are… well, dragons. The loss of the Targaryen dragons, as they shrunk in size with every generation… that showed that magic was leaking out of this world. Now that it is back… well, what if some fool decides to try and bring a dragon egg to life with another version of Summerhall? What will people do with their dragon eggs, or their alleged dragon eggs? I can see trouble ahead."
Doran looked at his brother for a long moment. "And what of the thing that terrifies you?"
Oberyn raised his head a little and then grimaced. "I have heard of many odd things of late. Robert Baratheon visits Storm's End for no reason, pulled by something. Rumour has it that he has discovered something. What? I do not yet know. Alster Dayne came here with a restless sword that drew a dying man North. Blackwoods swear great oaths with Brackens, ending centuries of hatred. Willas Tyrell is said to have stalked Highgarden like a man possessed by something or someone. The Mountain Clans of the Vale have vanished, apparently saying that they are going North. And… Stark is asking for information about the Others. Stark the pragmatist, Stark the practical, asks for information about a legend. And that, my brother, is what terrifies me. What if… in these times of magic… legends are real?"
And then Doran shivered as if his bones had for a moment turned to ice.
Varys
He sat there in the silence of his room and stared at the map of Westeros that took up a part of one wall. He didn't really need the map, he knew every location as if it was etched in his mind, but it served to focus his mind – and the Gods alone knew how much he needed that right now.
Speaking of focus – he lifted his right hand and then smiled slightly. The shaking had stopped. That was a good thing. Memories of… memories what had been done to him by that madman who thought that he could revive blood magic… well, such memories were bad ones. The pain, the blood, the need to move and scream when that was denied him… A finger twitched but he willed it to be still. Yes, that was better.
He returned his gaze to the map. Things were… changing. Altering. Moving out of his gaze. And he disliked all of those things. He preferred people to be, well, reliable. Reliable people could be predictable, could be controllable. Instead…
Robert Baratheon was in his own way deeply predictable. He could be relied upon to be headstrong, greedy, violent in his choice of actions and overall a bad king. But his recent decision to go to Storm's End on a total whim was not predictable and was a mystery to Varys. Why had he gone? The one message that his little birds had been able to send him from that place had been a brief one, that the King had attacked a particularly foolish Septon and had then vanished underground in the tunnels. It was all most peculiar. And unpredictable.
Other events were also worrying him. Apparently it was quite true that Aemon Targaryen had left Castle Black and gone to Winterfell. Why? Something to do with all this talk about the Others. And apparently ravens were flying all over the North about the same things, as well as protestations of loyalty to 'The Stark in Winterfell'. Ravens from South of The Neck as well apparently.
And then there was all this strange activity in Highgarden, with Willas Tyrell apparently demolishing parts of walls and then screaming a lot. The message had been very shaky and unclear, as if the little bird who had written it had been shaken by something. He needed to look into that. He needed his little birds to be reliable these days.
He didn't like it. It was… chaos. Perhaps there was some kind of order behind it, some pattern that he had yet to discern, but if there was he couldn't yet see what it was. Varys pursed his lips slightly. Perhaps a raven to Illyrio, to see what he had learnt about it? After all, his old friend had his finger on a surprisingly large number of pulses.
A small figure appeared in a doorway, approached carefully, deposited a small rolled up message and then vanished the way it had come. Varys picked it up and unrolled it quickly, before reading it. And then both eyebrows went up and then down and he lifted a plump hand to his mouth to swallow a chuckle. Oh dear. It seemed that a certain noble lord here in King's Landing was about to have his day – no, his entire life – absolutely ruined.
Perhaps he should sell tickets?
Petyr
The warehouse smelt of many things. Rotten apples was the main odour, followed by old boxes, damp straw, mildew and rat droppings. Such a charming bouquet, one that was seeping into his clothes with every moment that had passed since he'd been forced to take refuge in here. And that was a lot of moments.
He closed his eyes for a long moment and successfully resisted the temptation to shout at himself. He'd been stupid. He'd been hasty, he'd been arrogant and he'd been stupid. Years of work, years of patience, years of careful manoeuvring, all ruined. Because he'd seen one of the pieces of the game move in a way that he hadn't foreseen, or at least had moved before he had anticipated.
He'd always hoped that one day he might be able to manipulate dear sweet deluded Lysa in such a way that he could rise to power somewhere. There were so many intriguing possibilities, but Jon Arryn was an old man and his son was young and sickly – and the heir to the Vale. Possession of Robert Arryn was important.
So he'd gambled, in a hurry and without a decent plan. And he'd lost. Fortunately he'd had warning of the moment that he had lost, thanks to a hurried message from a Goldcloak with a gambling problem who had apparently heard the news that the Hand of the King had issued a warrant for his arrest not long after the fact.
Fortunately when he received the message he had not been in the Red Keep, but instead visiting one of the many brothels that he owned in King's Landing and he'd been able to slip out of a side door down an alleyway and into this warehouse, that he also owned. Where he was now waiting for nightfall.
He looked at the upper storey for a moment and sighed. He'd been able to leave a sign for one of his emergency plans to be activated. It wasn't a brilliant plan, it was dangerous, but at least it was better than sitting in a black cell awaiting a trial. He looked at the cloak and cowl, both made of rough and scratchy material that would be his disguise on the way to the meeting place. They'd better all be there. He had paid them well beforehand, with the promise of another payment once they got to the ship. And after that he would be well on his way to Braavos and the money that he'd been saving there for years. Well, diverting and then saving there.
Bells tolled in the distance and he looked up. Ah. Almost sundown. Well, at least the waiting was almost over. He ran a hand over his smooth face. Parting with his facial hair had been a wrench, but also a necessity. People on the streets would be looking for him. Risking discovery just because of his vanity was nonsensical.
As darkness finally started to fall he put on the cloak, draped the cowl around his face and then went out into the street. He faked a slight hitch in his gait, not enough to make people take notice of him, but just enough to make them think that here was an old man going home.
The streets were alive with people even as darkness fell – King's Landing seldom slept – but he stayed away from the lamps and the largest concentrations of people. Better to be careful. But soon he was away from the busiest areas and in the more quiet streets. Of course there was danger here as well – a man on his own could easily fall victim to a footpad or three, and he clutched at the dagger up his sleeve every time someone walked past him.
But nothing happened and he passed on down the quiet streets until he reached an archway. Through he went, down a short dark alleyway and then he was in front of the gate. He looked to either side carefully and then pulled out his key and unlocked it. Once through he made for the lit courtyard beyond.
He could see a dark shape at a window above, with a crossbow on the window ledge. That was good. The four idiots sitting around a table in the courtyard with flagons of wine in front of them was bad. He huffed in fury as he pulled the cowl down and then shrugged off the cloak. "I thought that you'd be ready by now – we have to go."
No response and he felt his hackles rise. Ah. By now news must have spread about the bounty on his head. He wondered what it was. Arryn must have promised quite a lot to whoever brought him in. Well, he had expected that. "Remember our bargain – and that I can pay you again in Braavos."
More silence and he paused and then peered at the figures. They were all very still. Perhaps too still. Slowly he walked up to them – and then reeled back once he smelt the blood and the evidence that at least one of them had voided himself after dying. Dead. They were all dead.
Someone behind him took a step forwards, boots scuffing on stone, and he turned in a flash. A lean man with dark hair and stubble, dressed in dark leather armour was standing there, cleaning his sword on a piece of rag. He smiled cheerily at Petyr after a moment and then pointed at the dead men at the table with the hand holding the rag. "I don't know exactly where you go them, but they were rubbish. Pay them much did you?"
Petyr narrowed his eyes. This man was new to him. "You killed them all?" Hopefully the man at the window would get this rogue with the crossbow. Why hadn't he before though?
"Oh yes," the man said with that same cheery smile. "Oh, if you're wondering about your man up there with that crossbow, he's dead too. First one I killed. Now he wasn't bad – I think he spotted me and almost got a warning out. Not that it did much. You must be Petyr Baelish by the way. Lost the fuzz I see. Shame about the grey streaks in the hair. And everything else about you."
The dagger was still up one sleeve and all he needed to do was get close. But perhaps there were other ways.
"You found me out. Clever of you."
The man shrugged. "Nah, easy really. I know a lot of people here. More than a few thieves too. People like that tend to know where's safe to steal from and where's not. This is one of the places that has a warning outside. In thiefspeak of course. A lord like you wouldn't be able to see it by the way. So I wondered who owned this place. Turned out it was you."
Petyr's tongue moistened suddenly very dry lips. "Very resourceful of you then. Tell me, what's your name? I always need good men."
"Bronn."
Petyr sketched a salute. "Pleased to meet you friend Bronn. I see no House colours on you, so you cannot be from the Tower of the Hand."
"Oh I'm not." Bronn smiled that cheery smile again. "I'm just a sellsword. But Lord Arryn sent me after you. He seems a bit annoyed with you."
Oh. Aha. A sellsword. He could work with this. "Whatever Jon Arryn is paying you, I'll double it."
The cheery smile again, but with something else behind the eyes. "Oh, he said that you'd say that. It was good of him to warn me. Very generous man Lord Arryn."
This was not going as he had hoped. "Then I'll triple it. As I said – I always need good men."
Bronn pursed his lips slightly and then wiped his sword again. "I'm guessing you have a plan. Wait – let me guess. Get to the docks, get to a ship, get to Essos and then access money that you've been squirrelling away for an emergency?"
Petyr smiled a little. "An excellent guess."
"Not a bad plan," Bronn said as he stuffed the rag into a pouch and then looked at him. "Just a few problems with it."
"Problems?"
"Well, firstly the Hand of the King said that you'd try and bribe me, or rather better his own offer. Nothing wrong with that, I'm a sellsword. But he also pointed out a few facts. First that every gate is watched, as is every wharf. Getting you away wouldn't be as easy as you might think. I'm just the one man – I can't fight my way through a gauntlet and protect you at the same time. Then there's the fact that you're offering money that you can only get in Essos. You can't it here, not with everything you own being ransacked. And it is, right now. Lord Arryn's got some mousy little fellow going through your books. And the secret books you had."
Shock roiled through him. No. No, they were too well-hidden.
"I've known a lot of clever men. Odd how they always hide things in places that they think are hard to find – but aren't." Bronn looked at him with a wry smile. "There was a lot there. Every property, every bribe, every transaction. You're a ruined man Lord Baelish. Lord Arryn can afford my fee and then pay me again several times over by the morning. You, on the other hand, are a bad investment."
This was slipping away from him, too fast for comfort. "Do you have any idea what I could pay you in Braavos?"
Bronn pulled a thoughtful face and for a moment Petyr felt his heart rise in exultation. But then the sellsword shook his head. "No, I don't. But then I'll guess that you don't either. The ravens are flying Lord Baelish. Lots of information in those books. Plus Lord, erm. What was his name, oh yes, Lord Varys turned up and said that he had details of your account in Braavos. Lord Arryn was very pleased with him."
Horror stole over him. No. No, this was disaster. He had to get away. The dagger. He needed to get rid of this smirking man and get away from here. His hand flashed into his sleeve for the pommel of his knife, but as he reached for it he could see Bronn darting to one side. As the dagger emerged he saw movement to his right and he looked up just in time to see a fist crash into his temple and-
Everything went black.