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One Who is Many - [Worm / Game of Thrones]

Reader mode
Good chapter.So, we knew that Baelish in canon killed Arryn - but is it true here,too?
 
Broodlord said:
How exactly can the story be highly problematic while at the same time only breaking the rules in a single instance?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
I'd guess it was the depiction of Tyene and Ophelia's relationship. Wonder if it would have gone over better if Ophelia didn't like it.


Anyway… Scrimshaw, this story got up to like, 9 chapters on SB, but there's only 5 here. Is this a rewrite, or just a reupload on a schedule/with clean-up?
 
Chapter 6
Chapter 6 - Cities in Dust​

Ophelia​


They had been riding for a while now, her mind more connected to her swarm than in her body. In fact, she only came out to let her escort know when she had cleared certain locations or found something else suspicious. Mostly they were little things. Unusual things. Sometimes they were the rotting, robbed corpses of small folk.

The river had been the worst area for that.

Even then, there had been an endless stream of small trinkets, baubles and loose change she'd actually been able to gather. Few things were truly valuable, mostly being badly weathered coppers or small pieces of scrap metal. However, pulled from the survey of nearly a third of the city, with an army of hundreds of thousands of every living thing that skittered, scuttled, swam, and soared she had, indeed, found a number of interesting things which were then handed to the Martell man at arms politely riding behind them.

Chief amongst those finds, of all impossible things, was a badly damaged Targaryen ring.

It was silver, set with two rubies though it had once had places for six. Horribly tarnished, it was only when she had possessed a family of ravens that she had found the object. And, even then, it had taken a silent fifteen minutes of a truly terrifying swarm pouring over the area to find the missing gems.

In fact, it was the delivery of those gems, passed from a magpie to her hands as the bird swooped down to give her its ancient prize, that stirred her from her reverie.

"So, Ser Barisstan, I'm afraid I must ask, but what do you think will happen when we discover more of this substance?"

The gold and white clad kingsguard shook his head, glancing at the ring in her hand and knowing the truth of what she was asking. Hesitating, he chose his words carefully, somewhat annoyingly, before answering.

Though, in truth, Ophelia couldn't blame him, it was a rather thorny question. Especially with Good King Robert's rather… unconventional take on proportionate response. But, even as she was now, after everything she had done, every soul she had broken and enslaved and spent, the thought of simply permitting a massacre did not sit well with her.

"I do not know my lady. All I can say is that I hope that his grace will show great wisdom."

She could very much hear the "but". At the very least, though, she had the tact not to comment on it.

"Perhaps. More astonishing things have happ-"

"Opheliaaaaaaaa!" And just like that, an annoyed shout interrupted her. Elia, riding a young colt, was trotting down the main street with a pair of their family's guards at her side. Not that young woman particularly needed them, being so clearly a spit fire of a child, but at the very least the witch would do these men the service of remembering their faces to her father.

Still, her lips twitched in amusement as her sister rushed forward, somewhat rudely forcing the smallfolk to jump aside.

'I suppose I should speak with her about that later. Injuring someone out of carelessness is unbecoming of us.'

Indeed, when the girl closed, she was torn between glaring at her older sister and shooting awestruck glances at the famous knight. Ser Barristan gave her a small smile and that alone was all it took to leave her an enthralled mess. Though it also left her bashful, turning to Ophelia to pout.

"You said you'd wake me up and bring me with you!"

Side hugging her sister, both young women wearing trousers and riding properly, the reincarnated teenager saw fit to indulge in the sacred right of all older siblings.

"Oh? But did you not ask me to let you sleep in? In fact, I seem to recall me trying to wake you no less than three times, you actually throwing your pillow at me by the end. Not that I blame you. Ser Barristan is a very busy man you see, so I'm sure this won't be the only opportunity you had to badger him about every enthralling detail of when he saved the Mad King from cursed Duskendale!"

"I told you that in confidence!" Dear Elia's ears went ruby red, the usually confident girl nearly stuttering in front of one of her idols.

Ophelia did what any sister would do.

And opted for embarrassing her further.

"Why, you are not doubting the honor of Ser Barristan, are you?"

Elia looked about ready to erupt into flames at that moment. Eyes bouncing between her dear older sister and the Kingsguard like a startled deer. The witch girl smiled mischievously, sauntering up to Ser Barristan.

"Perhaps I should regale the good knight with some of your courageous exploits. Why, I am sure he would love to hear of the time you charged through the palace's dining room with nothing but your trusty mount and a sword in hand."

"I was seven!"

"And I am sure you rode magnificently, Lady Sand."Ser Barristan smoothly interrupted. "But, Lady Sand-" This time he turned to Ophelia. "We do have a schedule to keep."

Seeing him give her sister a wink, the witch simply sighed.

"Very well Ser Barristan. If you insist." She gave her sister a smile and ran a hand through her hair, pulling a small piece of straw out of it. "Though I do think she'd most like to hear of your defeat of Maelys the Monstrous."

Her actually frowned at that.

"With all due respect my lady…."

She inclined her head.

"I know."

This time it was he who nodded.

"Understood." Taking a moment, as she slipped back into the comfort of her swarm, the witch kept the party still as her escort began explaining the intricacies of securing a barrel of salted pork for shipping. And then explaining to a now sober Elia Sand how five men had come to die fighting for that barrel before the campaign was over, one was knighted, and two more met their wives.

It was a truly queer story, but somehow all the more believable for it.

For better or worse, though, it meant she didn't have to speak with the man. Cowardly as it may be, she struggled to reconcile the kind, quiet, polite man with the kingsguard that had served the Mad King and now served a drunkard with a temper. Robert was unquestionably superior to Aerys, if only because he, himself, didn't burn people alive. But could a good man truly sit by and watch as one king murdered and tortured and another drank the realm into ruin and despair?

Add to that some of the rumors she'd heard about Aerys, mostly about how he'd beaten his wife, and the fact that Aerys was also directly responsible for the deaths of Elia and her children by forcing her to remain in the Red Keep and Ophelia truly wasn't sure how to feel.

'Elia, at least, is happy enough hearing his stories. And it's not like we have to depend on others.' A few butterflies lazily drifted past them, stopping to play with her sister's hair and drawing a few giggles from her before moving on. 'Hmm. I wonder how many people I would willingly kill to protect even one of them? A city? A Kingdom? The world? Perhaps Dad would be disappointed that I have truly decided to protect what is mine above all-'

"Stop."

Her eyes returned to normal, the seeming blindness that covered them dissipating as quickly as it came on. Ophelia still needed a moment to recover from the sudden, jolting transition.

"My lady?"

Ser Barristan rode closer, taking hold of her elbow to steady her.

Looking around her, Ophelia saw the beginnings of a shanty town to her right and a great hill to her left. She knew exactly where they were. And more importantly, what they were looking for.

"It's in the Dragonpit. Many, many barrels. Some buried, I think, others stored inside of the structure itself. They're… there. And there, I think." She pointed in the vague direction of the largest caches, Ser Barristan nodded, clearly memorizing where she was pointing.

"Would you prefer to complete the circuit of the city or address this first?" His words were soft and low. "We still need to clear the Sept and the wall. Though I will confess to being worried about Flea Bottom being a fire hazard." As hard as he tried, there was some disgust in the man's voice when he spoke about the slum. Ophelia, without judgement or reservation, agreed.

"Hundreds if not thousands could die if that Hellhole of a ghetto went up in flame. We need to get to work as soon as possible."

The knight gave her a firm nod, turning to her sister and ruffling her hair.

"I am truly sorry Little Lance, but we'll have to end the story time for now. Of course, I promise to tell you how it all ends later."

Nodding carefully, Elia, somewhat somber, leaned over to hug him.

"Thank you Ser Barristan. And I do intend to hold you to that promise."

Ophelia snorted.

"Atta girl."

As the knight turned and rode hard, and the armored and armored men at arm glaring at any of the small folk unwise enough to approach the sisters, witch and lady-knight-to-be began to speak.

"Truly, I am sorry for stopping your conversation. Did you enjoy your time speaking with him at least?"

With a shrewd look in her eye, the younger sister turned her horse slightly, bringing herself as close as she could to her sister.

"You asked him to tell me that story in particular."

"Aye."

"And there was meaning to it."

Smiling, her lips quirked upwards slightly.

"Indeed."

"And it was about the horrors of war, wasn't it?"

Tilting her head from side to side she agreed.

"Perhaps."

Elia's eyes narrowed again.

"No, that's not it. Hmm. Obviously you have not the faintest issue with my training. I feel faintly like a gaping idiot for even thinking that." Ophelia raised an eyebrow at that particular proclamation.

"You may be impulsive my cute little sister, but you are, without a doubt, no fool."

"Oh. Duh." The young girl shook her head. "You want to remind me not to play the part of a jackass and go off on my own and get killed."

Not wanting to add the "or worse" she was truly concerned about that, the former hero nodded.

"There is a time and place for glory and that is at a tourney. Not a war or a duel or a street brawl. I figured I could trust a man who has seen the best and worst of human nature to make that clear."

Shaking her head, the youngest of the Snakes currently in the capitol disagreed.

"Nah, you just didn't want to have to speak with a man you do not know."

Ophelia sniffed in faux hurt.

"To think my own sister thinks so low of me. And even after I went through all the trouble of introducing you to one of your idols. Have you no mercy to spare for your poor sister's heart?"

Elia wasn't amused.

"This coming from the witch who mouthed off to the King at her own trial?"

"It wasn't mouthing off. I was being honest."

This time Elia was the one who smiled mischievously.

"There is a time and a place for honesty, dear sister, and that's not at a trial." She quoted back at her, making a high nasal imitation of her voice.

Why, that cheeky little...! There was no way Ophelia was gonna let her younger sister of all people think she could get away with teasing her like that. She'd had enough of it from Lisa back in her past life.

She was not gonna suffer through another cheeky minx!

This Ophelia swore!

"Well remember that little quip the next time Sarella steals the blankets in the middle of the night and you want to sleep with Tyene and I. Maybe it shall keep your toes from getting too frostbitten."

"Hey! That's no fair!" Quick with the cry of younger siblings everywhere, the hellion didn't go down without a fight. "And besides, you like sleeping with me more because she chews on your ear. So I know that if you put up with Tyene, there is simply no way you won't cave the first second I give you a sniffle and a pout!"

"You are revealing far, far too much of my personal business in public." Ophelia half glared at her sister, though there was no real heat in it, as the men at arms did their best not to snicker at them. "You shall find a rat tail in your breakfast on the morrow."

Making a face, the younger girl eventually just shrugged.

"Ok. I know you'd put a clean one in there, so I suppose it's fine."

Eye twitching, the older sibling just sighed.

"Have I truly lost any means of keeping such ungrateful brats in line?" She looked to the heavens for help. "If a witch can not scare children is she even a witch at all?"

Perhaps an hour later, and returning with a small pack of burly looking young men, the kingsguard cut swathe through the crowd of small folk as he rode. Blatantly obvious in his white and gold armor, none dared so much as approach the living legend until a single, utterly wretched man waddled over. With no legs and only one arm, wearing naught but filthy rags, and, before Ophelia had… adjusted those in this area, previously studded with fleas and lice and worse, he hopped along on two fake legs and a crutch until he bumped into Ser Barristan's horse.

Words were exchanged, quietly, and the beggar was surprisingly polite from what she could see. What surprised Ophelia the most, though, was the shock that appeared in the old knight's eyes. Almost as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. More words passed between them and so did a small object.

Unwilling to let the crowd surge forward and hound the man for alms, the daughter of a prince nudged the man carrying the coins and small trinkets forward.

"A few coins for everyone. Keep one of the silvers for yourself." Eagerly nodding, he swiftly moved to comply. But, thinking better of it, she also nodded to one of the men at arms. "A little security will be for the best." Nodding, he gave her a small salute and maneuvered his horse next to the carrier now handing out the small horde of coins she'd gathered up.

Not that, that was all of the treasures she'd found. More than a few had been too big to move and the rest of the jewelry she'd found were sitting in a saddle bag. That would be for later, after all.

Seeing this, the brave knight clasped arms with the lowly beggar before gesturing to a few workers to join the House Martell man in keeping the crowd under control. Riding over to the witch of the hour, she expected him to politely ask the obvious question as he pulled up next to the group.


"Thank you." She blinked.

"Of… course." Ophelia was more than a little surprised when Ser Barristan simply smiled at Elia and began trotting his mount towards the Dragonpit. There were no questions about where the money was from or if she was sure her father wouldn't mind or anything of the sort. It was honestly confusing and refreshing.

The issue of a woman handing out several thousand, admittedly somewhat poorly preserved, small coins aside, those same coins had been brought to her over the course of nearly six hours spent trotting through the city. They were brought by birds of all kinds and dug up by swarms of cockroaches and ants a hundred million strong - spread throughout the whole of King's Landing at least. And she was now handing them out to the poor and needy, yet there were no questions about curses or hidden powers or if she was enchanting the smallfolk.

'They won't even know the coin comes from anyone other than House Martell.' Her cloak was secured and it was much plainer than the one she wore to court. 'So what does he think?'

Perhaps it was half her fault for not approaching him more directly. She had spent the entire day with the man. But would he truly trust her like that? Elia clearly wasn't concerned, having glued herself to his side once more, eagerly talking his ear off. But that didn't change the fact she expected some form of push back.

That had been part of the plan for today in fact. Father trusted Ser Barristan to, at the least, not try to violently stab her to death in public the second she displayed unusual powers. He would make an excellent bellwether for how the old guard of the less… religiously inclined knights would respond. If only by example.

But there hadn't been any questions, any suggestions, any comments. Not even the slightest moment of hesitation. That wasn't to say the man did not remain scrupulously focused and aware. Only that he did not seem paranoid.

Turning these thoughts over in her head, and deciding she liked the man simply because of how he seriously engaged with Elia, Ophelia let her mind slip further into her swarm. She was actually diving into it deeply enough she relied on her mount to keep her upright, a small issue, and put every ounce of willpower she had into pushing against the limits of her power.

It seemed that, perhaps, day by day her range was growing still, but that it was yet smaller than it had been in Dorne.

A serious issue to ponder indeed. Potentially fatal, even.

"Well, what have we here?" But that would wait. Sending her swarm ahead to explore the depths of the dragon pit and locate every hidden cache, she found something truly intriguing. "Balac." Her man at arms gave her a sign that meant he was paying attention. "Come with me."

Trotting ahead of the group, she and her man waved off the others.

"Just a small thing Ser Barristan! And please keep going, lest I find a most unpleasant substance in my meal tomorrow evening." Elia made a face at her that had the men chuckling. The young woman could be proud and thorny when she was uncomfortable. But here, safe and secure with people she trusted and a knight she idolized Ophelia's younger sister was jokes and wit and good, innocent, childish cheer. In a way, it was infectious.

"Can you move that?"

But, by the time she and Balac had reached the corner of the Dragonpit her smile had faded. While making sure there were no traps, or squatters, or worse they had pushed under a particularly badly crushed heap of stone. And felt heat.

Not like sun warmed stone or an open flame, like a lingering mass of raw warmth.

The fact it was roughly shaped like the blade of a sword had left her confused. When she identified that there was a badly rotten but still extant hilt, her eyes had gone wide.

"Can you shift it?" She pointed at the debris.

"Yes ma'am."

Grunting, her man began moving large chunks of fallen rock as she held the reins to his horse. Eventually he hissed, so suddenly she knew what it was that he had found.

"Lady Ophelia, I think I found what you were looking for."

She nodded, untying her purse from around her waist. Father had given her several gold coins for if she had wanted anything while out. So far, she hadn't spent one. There was probably six months of pay for a soldier. Ophelia tossed it to the man without question and climbed down from her horse.

As Balac snorted and shook his head, though still pocketing the money, she wrapped up the Valyrian steel sword in her cloak. Its hilt was blackened, worn, and its blade was still utterly, perfectly, totally flawless.

Joffrey​


Be on your best behavior.

That was the warning his mother gave him while he was being fitted for the small gathering she would be holding that evening. Normally just opportunities for Mother to show him off at court, or to present him to different potential suitors. After all, he was eleven now and he would be king one day.

'I wish Father would take me as seriously as Mother does.'

It was all frustrating.

Annoying.

Below his station to interact with parasites wanting to marry into power.

Normally, he would be able to wiggle his way out of such arrangements. But today Mother had insisted, and Father himself said he would be attending the official meeting between the Crown and House Martel. Never mind the fact that it was only a single nobleman from the least of the nations, the North at least were scary, and not a single true born child.

'They ought to rename it House Sand.'

With the gaggle of bastards the esteemed Lord Martel had following him into King's Landing, it boggled his mind to imagine why someone with such a pedigree would choose to drag their own name through the mud. And the mad man kept the proof of his indiscretions with him - almost like they were trophies of some kind.

Father was right to think the Dornish savages.

And then, of course, there was the Witch.

The talk of the Red Keep.

Joffrey couldn't go for a walk without hearing someone mention the ill-begotten woman in some way. How she was too intelligent, knowing secrets and hidden places and able to find things without sight. How she commanded fear and respect from men twice her age and size, able to cow even so called knights with no more than a glare. How she had used witchcraft to sway the opinion of court in her favor when she should have been declared guilty!

'After all, even if she isn't guilty, she is still a witch. Why not just hang her and be done with it?'

Joffrey wasn't so weak as to fall for her wiles.

Had he been King, her head would be mounted on a pike!

Of course, he couldn't say that. Not in front of her fellow bastard sisters as they milled about the room Mother had set aside for the occasion. Tommen and Myrcella were already there when he arrived, as were two of the Sand bastards, far too done up for the daughters of whores and foreigners.

Oddly enough, his younger siblings were sitting pleasantly across from the bastards as if the Dornish girls were worth the dust they left on the royal furniture.

Mother's look kept his mouth closed, however.

'If that was the way she wants this to go.' He would just have to talk with Father later. He would understand his grievances with harboring… lowborn commoners inside the palace.

Oh, Mother was speaking.

"-to thank you on behalf of House Baratheon. We understand Prince Oberyn is busy at present, so please pass on our gratitude when you next see him. Despite the circumstances of our meeting, your deeds will not go unrewarded."

By the Seven. Did she have to coddle them like that!

"We are grateful for your time, your majesty." The blonde one lowered her head, not nearly bowing deeply enough, and displaying her… her… her chest area like a common tart! Never mind the fact she was wearing some… clearly warped set of Septa robes. They were far too small on her!

"I hope this does not come off as too forward, but I had hoped to meet with your errant sister."

Great, now he had to hear about the witch, again!

"Unfortunately, dear Ophelia is out with Ser Barristan searching for the last of the wildfire. They won't be expected until the evening. We will, however, make your intentions known to her when she does."

"Has she given any estimates regarding the timetable of her… task?"

The fake septa sighed despondently.

"She wasn't certain. The Mad King could have planted his traps all over the city, it might take days or even weeks until all of it is removed. To no fault of our own. The substance is clearly volatile and Father is working alongside the Alchemist's Guild to see it safely removed."

Smirking, the young prince was… enthused.

He'd heard the story from Mother.

But it was nice to have confirmation that the Mad King had indeed intended to burn the city with him. Though he wouldn't put it past a witch to set it up in her favor, to give Father reason to spare her and earn his trust.

"Something the matter, your grace? You appear distracted."

The blonde turned to face him. A pleasant smile fitting for a Lady of the Court. It was disarming, devoid of second intentions.

He didn't like it.

For some reason it seemed hungry. Like one of his father's dogs staring at a slab of raw beef. One it wanted to tear into bloody, bloody chunks.

"Only considering the merit of allowing a witch free reign on King's Landing. Up until now she was an accused suspect of crimes against the crown."

"Those allegations have been cleared up." Tyene smiled, her lips curving up in a way that made his mouth dry. "And its hardly the most scandalous… rumor little birds are singing."

Joffrey recognized that phrase, he'd heard the eunuch use it many times. But what could she possibly know about Varys? The Spider was hardly unknown, but by the same token mother had always stressed how unsure everything about him actually was.

"If you'd like to speak of bald men and their games we can, but I'm more interested in your thoughts than dusty old politics." His mother smiled, looking as radiant as she always did, and Joffrey was almost offended when the younger bastard didn't even pay attention. No, she had pulled a deck of cards from somewhere in her voluminous robes

Were all the bastards of that Dornish lord like this?

Because Joffrey was certain you weren't supposed to wear septa robes if you weren't part of the religion. Nor could you cut it up until it clung to your body like a well fitting glove.

On second thought… he should see about talking to them when he became King.

All in the name of maintaining a healthy relationship between the Crown and the Faith of the Seven.

The younger sister, Sarella as he learnt, was an explorer of sorts. Less like the savage raiders from Pyke, more than the sailing merchants of the free cities. Joffrey was not one taken with appearances, she looked out of place in the Red Keep, he could smell salt, saw that her hair was unkempt and wild.

In truth, she was pretty. Her skin smooth and shiny, even, like the Summer Islander his father kept around. The Beggar Prince as his mother called him. He thought she was much prettier than any beggar though. Joffrey was also a bit surprised at just how bold she was too. Spotting a number of glinting knives under her clothes, he was sure she was actually rather spectacularly well armed. An almost absurd proposition, if it were not for the fact that the Hound was standing just outside the room along with Ser Trant and Ser Oakheart.

She was a different kind of beauty to her sister. Exotic where Tyene was familiar. Not that the blonde wasn't a stunning beauty. Other than her eyes, somehow so similar to her sister despite being a stunning blue, she was almost… intoxicating. Like when he'd snuck some mulled wine and gotten almost sick on it. This older girl was dangerous, he thought, if only because she was far more distracting than any of the pretty maids his father bedded.

Though he strongly doubted she was actually any threat. Unlike her sister, who was bold and clever and skilled, she seemed pretty and perhaps clever.

But soon enough his attention returned to what the foreign girl was doing. Not just with the cards but how she moved them, the array of sometimes comical and sometimes nearly grotesque pictures, but most of all how she spoke so freely to his sibling. Already having traded names with them and freely calling them as if she was their older sibling instead of he.

Her mannerisms notwithstanding. Her smooth fingers danced over the stock of the cards, pictures flipped up and down, the pieces moved faster than he could keep track of, and, in the end, she held out a single painted sheaf and smirked.

"Is this your card?"

Both Tommen and Myrcella cried out in joy, babbling to the older girl with an excited air that he scoffed at. Though, if he was being perfectly honestly, he was impressed at just how fast she could move those cards.

"I must confess, I was unaware there was a magician in your family as well as a witch."

Snorting, he shook his head. The trick was hardly impressive and it wasn't like getting small children to laugh was any big deal. In fact, he could probably do it even better than she could.

If he wanted to, that is. But he held his tongue when he saw his mother.

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, more than delighted to see his siblings laughing and giggling. For his part, he tried to pay attention because he thought this might be one of those times where people were saying more than they actually were. When their words had other meanings on top of the current one.

"'Tis only a trick, your grace." Sarella dipped her head, a curly lock of hair brushing across a brown cheek. "A sailor traded it to me for a song and a skin of wine. I am no magician." As she said that, she then flipped a pair of cards over and drew another gasp from the crown prince's other siblings.

"Perhaps. But its a remarkable skill nonetheless."

"Of course, I shall take full credit for them." Tyene, the hungry one almost purred. "After all, it was my own suggestion and whispers that put her on the path to her amusing little tricks."

"You would take credit for Ophelia too if you could." Sarella gave her sister a flat stare. Fingers once more shuffling the deck. Ignoring her sibling, she laide the deck down. "Ok you two. I will tell you how to listen to a Queen's Whispers."

Confused, but also somewhat intrigued, Joff only partly listened to the discussion still continuing behind him.

"You deny your sister is a witch, yet she puts paid to the rumors in every possible way. Utterly surpassing them in both mastery and in breadth. Why, if you listened to castle gossip you would surely be compelled to admit she could raise the dead with a gesture."

"Of course not your Grace. If she could, I must confess I do not believe we would be having this particular conversation." He heard the rustle of clothes and noticed that the pretty bastard was sitting closer to his mother. Much closer. Hearing another gasp, he turned back to the trick being performed, still catching a few words. "But the simple fact is that we are. And there are always those that take rumor as… fact."

"Wait, how did you do that?" Joffrey walked over to his sibling finally and paid more attention. "I saw the thing you did with the queen but how? You said you don't know magic."

Seeing that all eyes in the room were on her, Sarella smirked.

"Well my prince, a magician never reveals her secrets. But since I've already confessed the truth I suppose I can show you." Picking up the Queen of Stags, she made sure everyone in the room could clearly see it. "While she's not as pretty as a real queen, she's a very clever girl. And she always knows what's on your mind. Let me show you again. See if you notice when you tell her your secret!"

Cersei​


Cersei expected many things when the Martels were called to court.

She'd recalled the tales about Prince Oberyn Martel, famed throughout the land for his great martial skill, greater promiscuity, and even greater grudge against her family. And she'd been told about the young would-be-witch, the girl who was so clever she tricked an entire kingdom into believing she was a master of secrets and magic.

The latter she'd come to know as the truth.

Or at least more likely once she'd seen the girl unearth a decades old cache of wildfire from beneath the Red Keep.

Cersei was surprised.

Shaken by the thought she and her family could have burned alive at any moment.

But as Queen, she'd recovered and accepted reality for what it was. Ophelia Sand was something altogether different from what she expected. An enigma. Like the stories of dragon riders, witches, and warlocks she'd been told as a child. Not at all like the ugly truth she'd encountered so long ago. But as with any enigma, there were clues to be found and investigated.

The crown owed the girl a debt.

Yet Cersei would decide how to pay that debt.

Which was why she'd invited the rest of Oberyn's bastard girls to attend a small get together.

She wanted to take measure of them. To learn about their precious Witch of Dorne, perhaps gleam from these inexperienced children something she could whisper to the right ear. Their Master of Whispers was clearly lacking in this regard so she would have to take matter into her own hands.

Yet, the more sheedlearnt the greater her vexation.

Nothing useful. No chink on the armor to prod.

Apparently Oberyn Martel was a model parent despite not being able to keep his trousers separate from his ankles.

And of course, there was the Witch.

Like the star of a play. She was captivating. A paragon of wisdom and cleverness who carried on her back the hopes of her people. An image, of course. And one she could even applaud. People were never perfect and by creating the image of a rose surrounded by thorns, or, perhaps, a dove surrounded by serpents, people would focus on her. Target her. And not pay attention when the rest of the pack of bastards crawled all over the place.

She wasn't blind.

Sarella, the Summer Islands girl, had already been expelled from the castle's library by Pycelle on the grounds that she was taking too many books. That excuse was actually tolerated when it was revealed she'd taken more than a hundred and built a small haven in an unused storage room.

Elia, the girl, was winning the hearts of more than a few knights and more than one squire and page by acting her age and being an outgoing, confident, sweet little girl. That she was pretty and ever eager to listen didn't hurt things either.

Obara, the sullen one who dogged her father's steps, even had her place too. Plainer, comparatively speaking, when put next to the rest of her family, she was easy to forget. Meaning no one noticed when she moved amongst the servants or stepped out of the keep to visit the city proper. In fact, she only knew that last fact because one of her maids gossiped about how another girl had seen a boy who had been speaking to another girl whose brother had witnessed the girl meeting with an attractive, scarred alchemist's apprentice.

Cersei deeply doubted that it was for something as tawdry as a dalliance.

But all of that paled compared to the shark sitting across from her. A seemingly open, innocent girl-child that clasped her hands and pressed a kiss to her royal cheeks.

"Of course not your Grace. If she could, I must confess I do not believe we would be having this particular conversation."

Tyene's eyes held the same hunger hers did at her worst moments. But this girl didn't bother pretending, didn't bother hiding it. The queen knew exactly what this was, but it didn't change the fact she swallowed when the girl's hand brushed against her thigh.

"But the simple fact is that we are. And there are always those that take rumor as… fact."

She'd moved away and the lioness instinctively ran her hand along her dress, smoothing it away out of habit.

"And what rumors are you speaking of?" She glimpsed at her children, thankful that all three were now loudly engaged in learning card tricks. Even if she could have sworn the the Queen of Stags, lying face up, was winking at her. "Surely you do not suggest impropriety."

"A woman can never help who it is she loves." Cersei didn't pale, her breath didn't hitch, but her heart began to beat faster. "Trust me. I know that particular pain oh so very well."

It came out without her realizing it.

"Your father…."

Tyene chuckled, blushing demurely.

"Of course I love my father. But he is not the serpent with the scales that shine so beautifully. The one who winds through hearts and minds without even meaning to. Whose eyes captivate the soul."

She would swear that the woman before her glowed when she spoke. A slight blush upon her chest, a chest that required calming, and an obsession in her eyes that almost troubled the queen who had killed her best friend. For a moment she saw that well and heard Melara before she returned to the room that had all three of her children, laughing and smiling, and held a pair of snakes too.

She knew that look.

Knew that tone.

Everything about this girl was oh so painfully familiar to the point Cersei wondered whether she'd been staring at a mirror all along.

"What you imply is treason. For even whispering such obscenities I should have your tongue cut out."

The girl smirked.

"But why would you do that? As I said, a woman loves who a woman loves. Even if they can not have it. And I want what I want. A queen would have it within her power to ensure that such rumors about myself stayed rumors, just as a loyal handmaid can offer to smooth out life's little inconsistencies." Her eyes were half hooded. "And if you should need comfort when your brave Ser is away, well, I must confess that beauty is beauty."

"My children are half a room away-" She hated how she was almost breathless, her heart pounding in her chest.

"And not a single whit of attention is being paid to us."

Swallowing, she held up a hand, playing for space and standing up. Sweeping her way to a window, she threw open the curtains and poured herself a goblet of water.

It helped.

Cold, refreshing, she felt this deep uncertainty wash away. Indeed, she was calm once more. Steady she turned around and almost screamed. There, in the corner of her room, was Melara Hetherspon. Bloated and half decayed, she was a vision of horror, and just like that Tyene was by her side.

"My queen?"

There was honest confusion in her eyes and that calmed Cersei again. Surely this phantom was a conjuration of her mind. An illusion made manifest by the fear and stress of the situation she had grappled with so recently. Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath.

"It's nothing. Just a flash of heat. Thank you, my dear." Smiling warmly, she pulled the girl behind her, bringing her back to their seats. "Now, let us discuss romance and indulgences no more. Lest I suffer another spell such as that."

They shared a giggle, quickly finding that Sarella was giving them a confused look even as she taught the others how to count cards. A flash of disapproval passed through the queen before deciding that this was, perhaps, one of the least dangerous ways for her children to learn both numbers and how to lie and plan.

Gambling was still a horrid vice and she'd sit them all down later, explaining exactly why a royal should be above distractions.

In the end, she wasn't sure what was going on. Thoughts slunk through her mind. Concerns about servants perhaps putting something in her drink or some other form of betrayal did occur to her. But, so soon after the wildfire, would they not simply poison her? Why was she seeing a dead girl and not choking on her own tongue?

'Am I going mad?'

She'd considered the possibility for a moment before, out of hand, dismissing it.

Cersei loved her children, loved Jaimie, and that was all that mattered. So what if visions of a stupid little bitch appeared before her? There was nothing to it. What mattered was the girl before her, the dangerous one. And not the pretty distraction she'd brought to keep the children occupied.

"Before we continue… I know what, Sarella?" Tyene actually gave a soft smile to her. Something that almost seemed human. "Yes. Thank you. She is truly gifted." The girl in question was acting out a fantastical story. One their most unusual of sisters had told them long ago involving a blue knight with a magical halberd and a great dragon. "Even if she is here to distract them, the girl is talented and is bringing them a great deal of joy. For that you both have my thanks."

"If you wish to reward her, perhaps secure her a return to the library?"

Tyene's words drew a snort of amusement from the queen.

"Done. And what is it that you want? For this and your assistance. I am no fool to think that your father would not cut my heart out, butcher my children, and that you are of the same mind. I see it in your eyes." She paused. "But a viper is safest when it is at your breast, so long as it does not bite. What, then, do you want in payment to not strike me and mine?"

For a long moment, the other blonde said nothing, simply letting the emotion and pretense slowly fade away. Turning her eyes cold and dead and hollow. A disinterested cruelty flickered in them that seemed even more familiar to the queen than the blonde hair and blue eyes.

But then, as she spoke, low and heavy and with words that seemed to have weight, there was a spark of something in there. Something that seemed to burn all too much like wildfire.

"To be with the one I adore most in this world. And to see what lies deep, deep within her."

Cersei considered having her killed.

Having the whole of the sisters burned alive in a tragic accident, poisoned, shot, or simply butchered in their beds. And… she let it slip away. If one person knew her secret, then a dozen did. Varys, Baelish, Pycelle might even suspect it. Jon Arryn's last words were no secret, not any longer, and others would look into it. Minor lordlings, even, seeking an in or just a weapon.

But this hollow thing before her, whose eyes had only started to return to warmth as she watched her sister, who Cersei did not doubt she loved - though perhaps not as humans did - was not something she could control.

That did not mean she was not a weapon. And, considering how the Game ended, directing one so likely to meet an unpleasant as Tyene away from herself and her family, and at her enemies, seemed like the wisest move. At least until she could be assured that she could remove the girl without it coming back on her. So she decided. And with that done, she nodded.

"Aye. I will see that you are free to do the one thing I have never been free to do."

Ophelia​


Ophelia sighed, leaning back against the cool stone walls of the Red Keep, letting her thoughts drift. Her acquisitions of the many trinkets and treasures during the day had been a great success. Another sweep tomorrow would undoubtedly find a few more that she had missed. And even then, there were many objects, especially on the river bed, that she simply couldn't move. Those would have to come later, perhaps in the dead of the night when she could use a small army of crustaceans and water critters to do it.

But none of the many little trinkets she'd gathered today compared to the one in her lap.

Snoring, utterly exhausted, Elia was asleep. Ophelia had folded her cloak so her sister could use it as a pillow while they waited on their father and, tired as every child her age would be, she had promptly passed out. She had, had a full day after all.

'She's so much more outgoing than me. Well, I suppose that is the luxury of youth.'

Running her fingers through her sister's hair, the witch relaxed, the rote motion soothing to her mind and calming to the napping girl in her lap.

To think there was a time when she'd been so cold and detached from them.

Unwilling to trust.

Afraid of their love.

When she'd been reborn, Ophelia had still been reeling from the ordeals and traumas of a past life. More than just her battle with Zion and having her Passenger grow closer to her than any other being in existence could, it was her failures, her losses, the missteps that had cut deep. Her choices admittedly were the cause of that endless spiral of betrayal and escalation which saw her die alone in a wasteland with no one to mourn her.

Her final thoughts, as her brain leaked out of the bullet holes in her skull, were if Lisa would miss her. If her father would. If Bitch and Imp and Charlotte and the others would too.

But she doubted it. With what she had become by the end… it only made sense she was alone.

Unwanted.

Unloved.

Indeed, her father and sisters had worried for her when she began her second chance.

An abnormal child who was too silent and too clever for her own good.

Part of her still wondered if this new life was a fever dream her mind conjured up and that she hadn't passed on after all. Just waiting to wake up and get back to fighting gods for the fate of the world. It would make sense. She wouldn't blame reality for being that. This had been more than she had deserved, in the end.

And that's why Taylor didn't come out much. Why Khepri and Weaver and Skitter waited. Because Ophelia accepted the soft, warm skin beneath her fingers. Accepted the roguish grin of her father and the sheer madness that her sisters conjured up.

'Once I have that ring repaired I think another Elia will wear the symbol of the dragons. It's only fitting recompense. Besides, it's a woman's ring and I don't think Tyene has the discretion to not get us in trouble. Obara simply has no care for such things and Sarella would probably be more interested in studying it. Yes. I do think I'll give it to my cute little sister.'

"So tell me my most beautiful and cunning and wise daughter, what is it that dwells in your mind?"

She chuckled.

"Hello father." A warm smile and a squeezed hand was his greeting as they spoke in low tones. "I am currently wondering if you deserve the gift I'm preparing for you."

"Oooh? A gift, from my most sagacious daughter. Why it must be something truly special."

Prince Obery Martel approached his daughter with all the grace and dignity of a child on Christmas morning. As used to Ophelia's wondrous gifts as he was to her strange tastes, man had come to expect only the most unique or the most useful out of young witch.

"Telling you would ruin the surprise, I'm afraid."

"Come now. Not even a hint for your poor father? I have been oh so bored since our arrival. Aging alchemists aren't what I would call an engaging company, you know?"

"No, but a married noblewoman is?"

The Prince offered a sheepish smile.

"Ah, so you've noticed that. Your powers of observation remain as widespread as always, dear."

"I need not look through the eyes of my swarm to assume you've hunted down company to warm your bed, Father. It is simpler to assume you did." The witch was unamused. The man had no idea the number of walk in incidents she'd had to deal with as a child. Before she realized the Martels were as close to hedonists as you could get, then just hollered through the open doors.

A decade and a half of exposure had largely desensitized her to their shenanigans.

Didn't keep her from holding a grudge, however.

"Oh, you wound me. And here I was hoping to share my own surprise with you."

"You Martels certainly seem fond of surprises."

Behind her father, Marwin finally made himself known. Holding two jugs of wine, he sat down in their little nook, letting out a sigh of relief as he was off his feet.

"Now, I am most certainly too old to wait for more surprises. Though you certainly gave the city one with your little show. Alms aside, already people have begun to call you the Lady of Birds." He chortled. "Not the most inspired name, but the sheer number of animals that visited you during your tour of the city was noted."

She cut her eyes to her father who simply shrugged. It was her call.

"It's best to give the rumor mill something to latch onto. They already 'know' I am a witch, and that I have 'ways' of learning things better kept hidden. If I have birds and vermin attending me, that gives them reason to believe I can somehow speak with them."

That was how superstition started.

You made people look over their shoulders and wonder if maybe they are being followed. That maybe their secrets aren't as well hidden as they would have liked.

Pretty soon, the entire city would believe themselves watched from the sky.

Not noticing her loyal critters as they crawled and slithered their way into their houses. Into their hideouts. Those with anything to hide would go deep underground. Lock themselves behind doors and windows.

Her powers might have changed to include more than insects, but Ophelia would always hold a special place in her heart for critters.

Small, imperceptible.

Really it would be terrible if all influential people were forced to attend a meeting behind closed doors, where she could tag anyone she liked without being noticed.

Something like a trial, perhaps?

So long as there remained a threat to her family, she would make sure she held all the cards.

His eyes were intelligent, searching, Marwin knew more than he admitted. Still, his curiosity would not be denied and he had to ask. And she would answer, if only payment for the small secrets they had began to share. Give and take, the nature of magic always.

"And do they whisper to you?"

Lips curving upwards in a smirk a woman she had once held as her dearest friend taught her, the witch answered as plainly as she could.

"Everything and nothing."

Marwyn the Mad hissed in surprise. His mind was already turning her response over and she would swear she could hear the gears turning over in his head. And then, just as suddenly, it clicked into place.

"I thought your range was limited, reduced even?"

She nodded.

"It is. I still do not have the same distance through which I can act as I do in my home, but, just as there, it is slowly growing." Her swarm picked up a servant at a distant door, pausing to listen. An ant gave him a rather rude bite somewhere sensitive. "Aye. And I toured almost all the city today." Her voice was raised slightly, both men followed her eyes to where the man was waiting. "But I take it our refreshments have arrived."

And just like that, the servant scurried in, quickly bringing them a plate of cheeses and small finger foods, sitting on one of the deep set windows nearby. They shooed the would be eavesdropper away before he could think his presence was wanted.

"They are slow to learn, it seems."

Oberyn's quip got a small chuckle from his daughter and a snort from the mage.

"Perhaps. But with how many little birds and gilded girls and handmaids about the place, I'm surprised anyone keeps anything a secret save by sheer volume of intrigue that occurs in this castle."

Marwyn gave her a small look at that.

"Careful there my girl. Your magic is powerful, more so than all but the most… unnatural of those I have encountered in my travels. But even dragon blooded sorcerers could be brought down by a drop of poison or a bolt to the back."

Inclining her head, she accepted the warning for what it was and his eyes softened.

"Good. Good. Now, wine."

Pouring out a generous goblet for each of them, the trio kept their voices low as they spoke about the day. Ophelia about the sheer, insane quantity of Wildfire they'd discovered in the dragonpit, Oberyn about how he was actually the most excellent spy to have ever lived, along with possibly going by the secret name "the Silver Archer" when he was intriguing, and Marwyn then lowly complaining about how annoying Pycelle was to dodge.

"But at least Sarella was a gods sent agent. That girl had the miserable goat wound up so tight I think he actually was stuttering for the first time in his life. I did manage to actually secure the few books I knew about and a few I simply did not believe still existed here."

"But?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow.

"Some are most definitely missing." He harrumphed. "Blatantly and lazily so. If you have time little witch, could you sweep the castle too? For books, trinkets, all the hidden passages. I have… suspicions."

Giggling a bit, but not so much as to disturb Elia, she nodded.

"How ominous master mage. But I shall."

"Thank you my girl." Shaking his head the old man sighed. "Truly, to have lived long enough to see the return of true magic to Westeros. But there is still much, much work to be done!"

Speaking of work.

Her stupid adventurer of an older sister was at the door.

"Father, won't you be a dear and let Sarella in?"

The Prince shrugged but complied nonetheless, opening the door to the nearest stairwell just as her sister had been about to knock on it. Much to Ophelia's amusement. The part time scholar huffed something along the lines of 'know it all smug little sisters' as she plopped herself across from the witch and next to Marwin.

And immediately downed a large swig of wine.

Well now, that was telling.

"Was it that bad with Tyene?" She dreaded the answer.

Sarella took a second swing.

"I think she roofied the Queen."

Ophelia's palm met her forehead.

"You actually used a phrase from one of my dreams. Alright, how bad is i-"

"They have been together doing Seven knows what for the last three hours, I only saw the queen when she left to put her children to bed. I don't know what Tyene's plan is but we really, really do need to get ahead of it."

This was going to end either really well, or with their heads in stakes.

"Yer loud." Sarella winced when she realized Elia was waking up, half rubbing her eyes with the palm of one hand and half yawning. "Hullo everybody. 'wut did I miss."

"Your sister has made it a point to ingratiate herself with the queen."

Blinking at Ophelia's words, the youngest Snake there actually woke up a bit.

"She roofied the queen?"

Everyone gave a laugh at that, though Elia continued, turning to look at her father.

"Does that mean we need to be worried?"

The rest of the group did the same, interested in the man's response. Oberyn, as was usual, shrugged.

"If we get caught. Probably. But knowing your sister, she will most likely have the queen's maids suborned within a week. Maybe less. I take it she plans to set up her own little game here too."

Marwyn looked a bit lost, so, taking pity on him, Ophelia was the one that elaborated.

"She's a very pretty girl."

"Aye." He nodded.

"And teenagers are lustful creatures."

"Aye." Again, he nodded, laughing a bit this time.

"So she shall every young man and woman in the Red Keep dancing to her tune and treating her as if she was a true born princess. By playing matchmaker and with the use of her unique propensity for poisons and venoms."

"Daddy's girl." Sarella fake coughed. Oberyn winked at her.

"I have little doubt that most of her opposition will be side lined, if not worse, by the time we leave for the North. The king confirmed your invitation?"

Leaving the mage to digest the fact that the pretty little flower he'd been travelling with was likely the individual with the second highest body count he had ever met, she turned to her father.

"Indeed! Your sister Obara is with him right now. I think discussing training for the morning tomorrow. You, of course, are expected. She said to tell you that just because you've been commissioned to save the city from burning down, you aren't exempt from training. And to eat meat at dinner tonight, you need the strength."

Ophelia was not amused when Elia poked her in the ribs.

"Yup, nothing there! Flat too!"

Sarella thought this was the height of hilarity and almost fell over herself at the joke. Mostly because she knew she was safe from retaliation over it.

"Says the dwarf."

Pouting, the girl looked up at her sister.

"No way! I am just yet to reach the apex of my flowering!"

Raising an eyebrow, the witch drew a blush from her sibling.

"That's what that one poet said back home anyways."

Ophelia, for all her power, influence and wisdom, wasn't ready to deal with the idea that her little sister was growing up. Instead, she'd turned to the much less complicated matter of saving her family from the largest political game she'd ever had to deal with.

Which was only the second one she was involved with, but it was still strange that she got pulled into one the second time around.

"Any word from uncle?"

Her father, blessedly, took the bait, opening his mouth to speak when her swarm actually detected the young woman who'd caused such a stir. And a visitor no one expected.

"Father!" Tyene cried out. "I'm so glad we found you before dinner. May I have the pleasure of introducing you, Prince Oberyn of House Martell, to Prince Jalabhar Xho, rightful ruler of the Red Flower Vale."

Leave it to Tyene to make a mess and then bring someone they were meant to meet later to cover up her tracks.

Clever girl.

Perhaps it was petty of Ophelia, but seeing the ostentatiously dressed Summer Islander practically leering at her father with greed, the witch couldn't help her thoughts.

'Brian was much more handsome.'

Failed paramours aside, she soon made her excuses, after having been politely introduced, since Elia was falling asleep again.

"I apologize most deeply, your grace, but I must see my sister to our rooms. By your leave?"

Looking somewhat disappointed, perhaps having wanted to meet the current focus of the court's gossip, he gave her leave. So, taking a very groggy Elia by the hand, she led the way back to their rooms. Content to leave the rest of their siblings to her plot.

Because, after they had both dressed for bed and washed their faces, Ophelia was more than happy to snuggle up to her cute little sister for an early night. And, truthfully, protecting someone who relied on her… felt good. So maybe, just maybe, that was as good an excuse as any to dote on her totally not favorite little sister.

This was her vacation, gods dammit, she was going to be happy.
 
interesting with pulling the sword out hidden in the dirt :D
and yea taylor will have to work for her vacation me thinks
nice chapter thx for writing it
 
servant biten in sensitive place? he was lucky.
P.S if she really want venegance for Ellia, both Tywin and Clegane could be eaten alive by ants.
 
Chapter 7
Chapter 7 - Swords to the Sky​

Sarella​

Many were the sweet feelings coursing through Sarella's body at this moment.

Vindication.

Superiority in her knowledge.

Good old smugness.

Indeed, she recalled few sensations more pleasant than watching her younger sister pout as the adventurer proved she wasn't an idiot of any sort. Avenging the loss of her honor back when they visited Oldtown once and for all!

She relished that look of defeated acceptance.

Relished it!

"If I told you that you were correct, how smug would you be?"

Sarella reached up and pulled her little sister's chin down so they were eye level. She wanted to sear this sight into her eyes.

"I'd need you to say that in front of everyone. Nymeria and the ankle biters included."

Ophelia's eyes went through several emotions before settling on something approaching resignation. And then she smirked, leaning over to press her lips to her shorter sister's cheek. Confused, the young scholar-to-be didn't exactly mind the kiss until she heard slippers scrape on stone.

"Ah, I see. I thought you understood that I was finally moving to claim that which is mine." Paling, the middle sister refused to turn around and face the undoubtedly smiling blonde demoness even now coming closer. "But I can hardly blame you. When such glory and beauty is laid out before a… hungry pup, is it their fault for snatching up the juicy steak? Or their owner's for not keeping a better eye on them?"

"Tyene… it's not what you're thinking." Sarella stepped back, bumping against her younger sister as the older one closed the distance.

"Are my eyes faulty then? Because I could swear I saw you partake of our dear sister's affections. Which are exclusively my own."

Sarella's eyes carefully traced her sister's hands.

Or rather, the very distinct glints of metal coming from her sleeves.

"She kissed me!"

"Ah, so you admit to your sin."

Tyene's innocent smile became downright angelic.

A vision of virtue and purity.

The facade worn by a dangerous… terrifying beast.

Sarella would have run away had it not been for the familiar arms enclosed around her waist, delicate chin resting on her shoulder as the Witch of Dorne aimed her best doe eyes at her.

"You didn't enjoy it, big sister. I thought we had something special."

By the Old Gods… her sister was gonna kill her.

She was gonna piss off Tyene, who was then gonna kill her! And no one would know because they were in the gantry next to the dry moat and there was no one around because she had dragged her sister on a treasure hunt because of that book she had grabbed and-

"Shh, shh, be at peace little rabbit." Tyene embraced her from the front, Sarella deeply regretting her relative shortness at the moment. "We only jest. You are safe."

After a moment she actually did. Partly because she knew Ophelia was in on the joke and she would never let anything happen to her and partly because either nothing was going to happen or it was too late at this point. Well, that and being hugged like this by two attractive women, sisters or not, tended to elicit certain reactions in the human body.

'Actually, with how much incest is going on these days I'm surprised anyone even cares. The Lannisters, Tywin and his first cousin, the queen and her brother, the Targaryens for who knows how long, the king and his first cousin that one time… everything Tyene is about.'

"Say Ophelia."

"Yes dear, sweet, enthralling big sister Tyene?"

"What would you say about a… quick tryst. Just the three of us."

Slightly panicking, the girl who read too many books for her own good was unsure what to do. Or what she should do. Because there was a non zero chance that her crazy sister was dead serious and might take offense to a rejection.

"I think not." Ophelia snorted in her ear, pressing another, final, kiss to her cheek. "It might not smell as bad as the rest of the city but it still smells like shit out here. If we are to induct cute little Sarella into a dangerous, erotic, sapphic love triangle, let us at least do so somewhere more romantic."

And with that, she was safe. Her witch of a sister, the thought having a bit more heat at the moment, let her go and stepped away. Tyene's touch lingered a bit more, but it always did.

Sarella wondered how Ophelia did it.

Kept their stranger sister in such a tight hold, that is.

Not that Sarella had anything but love towards her older sister. But she'd always known the girl was an entirely different breed of human. The kind who saw other humans the way you'd look at a particularly endearing housepet.

She'd never hurt any of them, but Tyene had a very different understanding of what 'hurting' someone was.

And then along came dear Ophelia.

Someone Tyene didn't look at as an inferior.

It was the other way around. Ophelia seemed to hold a position of prestige and superiority to their sister. Adored as an idol by her older sister in ways that were almost religious. It wasn't a human love.

And that frightened Sarella. More than the thought that Tyene wouldn't be opposed to having her as a… pet. That, at least, she could compartmentalize.

Nymeria wasn't the only one with such… preferences.

"Speaking of, why are we gathered here?"

Pulling away, with a look that would have stopped the heart of anyone who was not, at least partially, inoculated against such things, the blonde poisoner walked over to the edge of their walkway and peered down at the dry moat.

"Oh, that's easy. Sarella was doing her usual thing of figuring out everyone's most embarrassing secrets." Ophelia looked particularly smug considering that her Summer Island Sister was still slightly blushing. "And came up with a plan to ensure that the king favors us as much as his wife."

"Oi!" She pouted. "You happen to be the one that knows everything and have eyes in everyone's underwear drawers. Besides, Tyene could have gotten us killed the other day!"

"Hardly. The Queen is desperate for someone she feels she can trust. And besides, she has her lord's attention less often than she'd enjoy." The oldest sibling there practically purred, utterly trusting that their low tones and Ophelia's swarm would keep listeners away.

Ophelia actually frowned.

"Sarella's point stands. I'm not upset you did what you did, but the Queen knows we're players now. We must not let her reverse our momentum. Add to that I have little doubt the rest of the court will know soon enough and, well, we must strike quickly. Still, at least we have the means of counterbalancing the risk. And assuming your gamble paid off…."

Head inclined, the blonde at least took her lumps.

"Aye. But it was a calculated risk. She is vulnerable, to not strike now risks being exposed with only the… relatively weak good graces of the king to protect us. The Lannister reputation on the other hand, well, that could work wonders."

Knowing someone had to point out the obvious, Sarella sighed and shook her head.

"Father still wants them all dead. Its why he's taking care not to be in the castle too much and not even be in the same room as Cersei should he not be forced to. Ser Jaimie is at least not so bold as to throw his simmering rage back in his face."

A Lannister with common sense.

Would wonders ever cease?

"Assuming she doesn't turn on us out of fear. Then aye. Direct her away from father as much as possible, if you would?"

Smirking, the blonde crossed her arms under her chest - conveniently, and totally accidentally of course, pushing it up.

"She would be most appreciative if you would attend her for tea on the morrow, after you complete your rounds with Ser Barristan. The Queen Cersei would be most enthused should you bring a few of your simpler potions and silks along too, apparently she has one of your garments - gifted to her by Uncle Doran himself."

"Wait a moment." Sarella giggled when Ophelia's eyes went wide and her cheeks went red. "I remember that piece. Oh no. Did you see it!?"

Almost howling with laughter when Tyene's smirk simply grew even more smug, the young woman barely managed to gasp out a breath when a loud "ting" announced the arrival of what they had been waiting for.

"Orphan Maker." Answering the unspoken question of their sister, the shining blade glinted in the low morning sun before the living tidal wave of insects carrying it up from the moat settled it on the ground and dispersing only when Sarella wrapped the blade in a leather sheath and concealing the weapon. Ophelia reached down and let a few spiders scurry up her arm, drawing a small shiver of disgust from Sarella, before elaborating on where the ancient weapon had been.

"It was trapped in the drainage ditch of the dry moat. Stuck between two spikes and covered with years of mud and crap and debris. Dried, added to, and dried again. Sarella figured out where it was probably lost, I had the swarm search. Ultimately, I must confess that it was only because of the lick of the flame still dwelling within the blade that I even found it."

Frowning, Tyene shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but how? Are these not weapons of legend? Ancient blades centuries or even millennia old, bound to families of age and might? And one was just buried under the waste of a few decades?"

Shrugging, Sarella opened up her robes, flashing a book at her sister.

"Just because Marwyn had his own goals did not mean I lacked my own." Snorting. "Besides, there's so many journals no one can really read them all. I just happened to have known what to look for."

"And how did you find this one?" Still frowning, Tyene at least accepted her words.

"Oh that's easy. I found the journal entry about the secret siege that was referenced in this book." She opened up a different part of her robes flashing another tome. "Politely asked a young, cute library assistant where I might find the diary in question, then spent four hours digging it up before I was kicked out."

"I'm surprised you left your personal library at all." Ophelia's lips quirked in amusement.

"Doesn't compare to the one back home. But it will do."

Library was one way to put it. It was more of a fort, really. Made out of priceless tomes and diaries which Sarella had been… borrowed from Pycelle before the old fart knew what the clever snakes were really up to.

"Well I suppose I should be happy that the blade itself is under our control. But I still struggle to comprehend how such things have not been identified before." Tyene's tone was accepting of their success, but genuinely confused still.

She was a master of secrets and intrigue yet certain mysteries eluded her still.

"Well, for one there's no direct route into the moat itself. Plus it still took little sis an hour at least to find the thing and the time we've been speaking to dig it up. Considering she can search more thoroughly than anyone else, as well as get to places they couldn't either, I think that says a lot. The servant's diary thought it had actually been washed out to sea, too, but I knew how big those drainage tunnels were and didn't think even a small sword could avoid getting stuck."

Shaking her head, the poisoner simply gave her a smile.

"Aye. That's my cute little sister. As wise and clever as any arch maester. But two lost swords in one city? Already it seems a small miracle."

"People are coming." Ophelia slipped the sword under her robes, falling into step behind her two sisters. Continuing to speak, and raising her voice a bit, Sarella made sure to at least partially block her from view and let Tyene catch the eye of whoever it was that was approaching.

"Well, you see, there are two hundred and twenty seven recorded house swords - though not all are actually swords. Amongst those, there are also believed to be an additional sixty four valyrian steel weapons remaining in Westeros. Of that number, as many as eighty one are perhaps lost, missing, or doubted to be Valyrian steel." A squad of guards in Baratheon colors and an annoyed looking man who looked almost exactly like a younger, thinner Robert stormed past muttering about something they couldn't quite make out. Sarella still continued rambling, knowing that if nobles were having a spat then little birds would be near.

"Of course, Maestar Redwyne, admittedly a hundred and twelve years ago, had also figured that there were at least another four hundred magical artifacts, ranging from armor to weapons to jewelry, still in Westeros proper. The most famous of these being the sword of House Dayne and the enchanted bronze of House Royce. Maestar Oldscribble, yes, that was his actual name, figured that of fourteen years ago those numbers were still correct, but that another twelve of the House Swords were now in doubt."

Now back in their room, the three girls secreted the blade under Ophelia's bed, next to Lamentation, and let the nest of very lethal spiders settle back into place. Tyene took the opportunity to smirk and, dropping her dress without a moment's hesitation had only one thing to say.

"And how would you like to be rewarded for finding all of them."

Ophelia threw a pillow at her.

Twenty minutes later a very confused Obara simply shook her head when she arrived to find a giggling Sarella and Ophelia sitting next to a tied up Tyene - still naked - whose eyes practically swore undying revenge.

Oberyn​


Oberyn resented the need to travel north at first.

How could he not?

Those who inflicted so much pain and suffering on his family now demanded he hand over one of his daughters without so much of a 'if you please'. The Red Viper probably would have caused a war had he been allowed to send the letter he composed in response to their raven.

In fact, he'd brought said letter along and planned to read it outloud should he find the right timing.

And those were the moments he relished since this journey began.

Spending time with his precious children. Watching them bicker, plot, and scheme their way through everything together was a rare treat. Even dear Ophelia, so prone to shirking socialization in exchange for her duties to Dorne, was dragged away from her greenhouses and personal gardens.

Oberyn almost felt like letting bygones be bygones this time.

Almost.

He would have shoved his spear into the Fat King's back half a dozen times at this point, hadn't Ser Barristan been the one overlooking this small exercise session.

The Prince didn't have much against the King as a person.

In fact they got along famously.

But no matter how pleasant the man's company might have been, he was still the Demon of the Trident. Still the man who answered Aerys' violent challenge and rose to oust the Mad King. Dragging House Martell into a terrible war which cost Oberyn his most precious sister and her children.

No matter what… Oberyn wouldn't forgive.

He wouldn't forget.

But he could play along.

Because Ophelia had asked him to behave and he was putty in the hands of the young witch.

The same could be said for all of his children. Oberyn was very much a pushover when it came to fulfilling their desires. Though he suspected most parents didn't have to import purebred stallions from Essos, tropical beasts from Yi Ti and Sothrys, or the odd mixture from a reclusive cabal of southern shamans.

Such were the challenges of parenting.

It gave him the chance to see strange and unique sights. Such as the Witch of Dorne running side by side with the King of the Seven Kingdoms as both of them tried to catch up to Oberyn's eldest at Ser Barristan's urging.

"Try to keep up the pace, Your Grace."

"Fuck you and your House, Selmy!"

He sipped from his flask.

Truly, you couldn't find better entertainment this side of the Wall.

While Sarella drilled Elia, and a number of rather attentive young men, surely pure in their affection for such a beautiful maiden, in the proper technique of the longbow, Ophelia and the King, both wearing weighted packs of differing sizes, were doing their best to chase after Obara. An Obara that was barely sweating despite the fact she carried the biggest pack of all. Almost more amusing than watching his twig of a child go nearly as red in the face as their great lump of a king was Selmy's retort.

"Aye your grace." His lips twitched in amusement. "You just gave the group another lap. Or two. I don't quite think I'm tired yet and you could all use the… exercise."

Robert opened his mouth to say something until Ophelia, hair frazzled, forehead shining with sweat, gave him a glare. The kind that told a man he should shut up lest he lose something… deeply important. Oberyn truly wished his whole family could have seen the fat king quail, suddenly confronted by not just as an angry young woman but several suddenly highly annoyed birds.

'How cute can a child be! Oh ho. Elia, you sly devil, what are you thinking?'

Watching as his youngest strolled over to the legendary knight, the Dornish prince howled with laughter when the old man gave her an indulgent smile. And then sent the group a look that promised them almost as much pain as the mischievous grin his child shot her sister.

Oh if only Ellaria were here.

But unfortunately it wasn't to be.

His youngest weren't ready for a long journey and he'd rather they stay at Sunspear or the Water Gardens with Doran where it was safest.

Though he did have to admit his tasks were progressing smoothly so far and he'd soon be compelled to send another letter, hopefully not by raven, about how the alchemists were nearly packed. And how the royal procession would be leaving a bit sooner than anticipated and that they would be accompanying the King up North. It served the older Martell and his designs just fine. Though Oberyn wished Doran would give him some leeway.

He'd barely have the time to bed his usual string of conquests.

"I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. The Lady Byrch has been an amusing distraction. But now that her husband has won her good graces again she only visits every other night." Heaving a put upon sigh, he shook his head. "Oh woe is me, to have fallen so low in the eyes of fair ladies as to be alone. What devilry these idle hands shall get up to."

Satisfied that the patter of feet running away meant that the servants spying on him were contented with that juicy piece of gossip - he suspected this was one of Baelish's, seeing as how it wasn't a child being sent to their near deaths - Oberyn let the wry grin slip away.

Moving with both alacrity and purpose, he cut through a number of side tunnels to poke his way out of a small entrance to the lower courtyard inside the keep but outside of the Holdfast. He'd only broken from cover once and that was to cross from the Holdfast to the rest of the fortification, but he was relatively sure he was still being followed. Frowning, he ducked around behind the stables, hopped a pen into a chicken coop, deftly strolled around a rather impressive pile of feces, and then made his way out next to the far gate. Opening up a small folded bundle of cloth, he wrapped a deep green cloak around himself and half raised it to cover his head.

Considering he had shaved for today and had a small bundle of papers stuffed in the front of his tunic, giving him a not so slight paunch, he was satisfied he'd slipped past the watchers who'd been following him. A thud, wet splat, and a cry of horror confirmed it.

Now feeling rather smug, enough he almost gave himself away, he slipped inside the stables, tossed a silver coin and a wink to the stable boy, and made his way towards where the guest's horses were kept. For this trip, he'd be leaving Not So Small the Third behind, instead taking one of his men at arm's mounts. A good, sturdy, utterly plain brown and white pinto. An odd creature, long in the leg, well set, but a bit too placid to be a proper warhorse the prince suspected the mare would soon need to retire. But, for the moment, it was perfect for his needs. Perhaps he would be his man a fine stallion in replacement.

'Wait. That does not smell like a horse.'

In fact, under the very animal smells that accompanied even the most well mucked stables was a woman's perfume. Lightly scented with a hint of… oranges, he would wager.

And, like any red blooded Dornishman, he was true to his mission. Said mission being to find out why such a well off, or at least well loved, lady was unattended in the stables. And possibly take her somewhere more romantic to bed her, if she proved agreeable to such a suggestion.

And then he looked at her.

And was forced to look up.

'Well now, that's a tall Lady.' He fought the urge to whistle appreciatively.

Not that there was much to see. She was covered head to toe in heavy plate armor and not the kind he had made for Ellaria to dress up in for some of their adventurous nights. This was a thick plate and heavy armor the likes which he'd seen men larger than himself buckle under.

Why, if not for her fragrant perfume, Oberyn wouldn't have spared the massive knight a thought.

But now? Well, he was definitely interested.

And when Prince Oberyn Martell was interested, he expressed it in the most blunt and direct way possible.

"Mighty impressive look, sweet lady. Though I'd favor some chainmail over the full plate."

Unfortunately that didn't have the effect he hoped.

Indeed. Oberyn found himself being pulled by thick gloved hands, feet dangling off the ground as the mysterious Lady Knight picked him up like a rowdy toddler.

Oh, he liked some fire~

"Who are you?!" She growled out, a very definitely female voice echoing from within the black great helm.

"Prince Oberyn Martell, oh mighty warrior woman, and might I inquire as to your name?"

She stiffened, perhaps she finally recognized him? Oberyn lacked some of his striking look when missing his usual clothes.

"And what are you doing here?"

Ohoh? Not backing down from a prince? Color him intrigued.

"Currently? Getting picked up by a rather impressive lady knight. First time for me, I'm afraid. Normally I'm the one doing the picking up, if you catch my meaning."

When the woman growled he couldn't help smirking which, in turn, forced her to visibly relax. He could tell by the way her hands were flexing that she wanted to hit him - an excellent first step - but he had to admit he was a bit disappointed when she sat him down. Stiffly bowing, she quickly took a step back, so as to be less tempted to throttle him he suspected, and he bowed back.

"I apologize for striking you Ser."

"Oh, no need for that. You might have struck me dumb, but I'm sure my daughters would agree that I was already a bit addled at the best of times. Now, shall I continue to refer to you as Dame Greathelm, or shall you grace me with a name?"

"Waters, Ser."

Her response got a quirked brow from him.

"I could tell that much from the absence of heraldry and your accent. Dragonstone, if my memory serves me. Unfortunately, as you know, striking a prince has very severe repercussions."

Once more she tensed, likely expecting him to try and force himself on her.

"But I suppose I could keep your secret. For a price."

And, once again, his excitement was dashed. The fight just went straight out of her! Obviously she was expecting some terrible sexual favor or other evil.

Oberyn, obviously, was deeply, deeply offended. He had more skill than that! Why in the world would he force himself on a lovely woman when he could leave her wanting more!?

"If you'd allow me to gaze upon your face I'm sure I'll be able to remain quite silent about me discovering you grooming your mighty stallion. After all, what young woman doesn't adore horses. They're far more sensible than men after all. More hardworking and loyal too."

Grunting, she seemed to consider killing him again, perhaps wondering if she could hide his corpse in the back of the stables. Just to be safe he palmed one of his hidden daggers. But luckily, for them both, the knight gave up and removed her helm. And Oberyn was… most pleased.

"I thank you Dame Waters." Taking in her rich, black hair, tied back in a tight bun, the smooth angles of her face, and the stunning brown eyes he was… most pleased with his discovery. "Now, I am terribly afraid but I must away. Noble deeds and much derring do and boring meetings with old men to attend."

Bowing deeply, he took his leave, leading the chosen mare out of her stable with a pat. The woman warrior had her helmet back on just as quickly as he had turned around, though that was the benefit of not currently wearing an arming cap, but he gave her a jaunty salute with a horse whip when he left. That she didn't do more than pause for a moment when he did so told him he was on the right track. But, unfortunately, he hadn't been lying and he did have a meeting to get to.

'I've also spent an immense amount of time on this.' He paused, tossing himself onto the mare. 'Maybe I should ask Ophelia to snuff out a few little birds.

His darling daughter was no stranger to the games of shadows. Something she'd proven quite adept at when others first started investigating her. After all, rumors that the Martells had come upon a priceless resource had to be verified.

More than one merchant had tried to bribe palace staff to bring them information on the ever elusive Witch of Dorne.

Their only saving grace was how isolated Sunspear was in comparison to the other kingdoms.

You couldn't just send a spy there. The trip was long and very few were willing to remain down south for long. Even the Master of Whispers himself had failed to gain a foothold because of dear Ophelia's meddling. Though, admittedly, that had to do more with the isolation of Doran's court, the sheer breadth of the Martell family's own kinsmen, and, bluntly, the loyalty of Ophelia's own counter intelligence network.

You could only hide for so long when every bird and rat was looking for you.

Varys, should he have tried hard enough, probably would have been able to thoroughly infiltrate the Shadow City. But that was that and not the palace itself. Now, though, with so many foreigners in the city? It would be child's play to slip into their midst. Thankfully though, that was also a shield. With the sheer weight of foreigners in and around Sunspear's main settlement - the Shadow City itself arguably being the only true city in Dorne at all - everyone was on high alert.

'I am glad Doran at least agreed to increase our guard to eight companies of men. Two thousand men at arms is less than even the King could expect. And he's too lazy to actually ensure the Goldcloaks are his.'

Maneuvering through the city, he let his thoughts drift to what he'd be communicating to his
brother in the next letter. Firstly, the overall state of King's Landing. Doran's expectations had been thoroughly surpassed and most certainly in the worst possible way.

He'd expected Robert to be an unattentive king. A slob unwilling to handle his own affairs - choosing to delegate those duties to whoever his Hand deemed effective. The fact Jon Arryn was dead proved such confidence as unfounded.

Because of this the Seven Kingdoms were teetering on the edge of a precipice. Very few of the King's allies remained loyal, his own brothers sensed this weakness, and Doran's schemes had seemingly passed unnoticed. Had they known, Oberyn was sure the King would have had them incarcerated the moment they arrived, if only because he was impulsive and prone to taking offense at the smallest slight.

Instead, Oberyn was faced with a pit of serpents, all too willing to double cross one another for the slightest advantage.

He found the comparison humorous.

After all, was there a more fitting place for a Viper and his Snakes? Already, he'd heard of their accomplishments and plans. Ophelia captured the attention of all who saw her acts of mystery and wonder, casting a wide shadow for within which he and her fellow snakes could act unimpeded.

Be it the King, Varys or whoever else believed they could trick her… Oberyn couldn't help but pity the fools.

Because he knew all too well how terrifying the Witch of Dorne was.

Even he himself couldn't do anything without her knowing.

Ophelia had already found her perch atop the Red Keep. And before her eyes, they might as well be small ants crawling on the palm of her hand. That was reality for those who lived in Sunspear and it would soon be the same here.

It was only a matter of time. But, as he came to his destinations, he pulled his thoughts from the past and the future and focussed on the now.

"Gentlemen." He threw the head of his cloak back as he came to a stop. "It's good we're all here." His mare came to a stop, tossing her head as they settled into a small courtyard. "We have much to discuss and little time with which to discuss it!" The captains of the sell swords were many - eight - and all of them were eying the others. "But first, your down payments."

Eight small pouches of coins were pulled from his robes, one after the other, and tossed to each of the men. Some opened them, testing the gold dragons within, others simply slipping them into their cloaks. What was important is that their immediate complaints had been forestalled and he would have the initiative.

'Fifteen dragons to eight captains, five to my own man when my daughter bought his silence, were it not for the trinkets dear Ophelia has recovered I fear this trip might have burned through our pocket money.'

Once they were done biting the coins he smiled gaily, spinning his horse about and striding straight into the middle of the group. After all, he had a mission to complete here.

"As you all know by now, we, that is House Martell, are in need of good men."

"Aye." One of the commanders, a fat man who wore a fine tunic and had a jeweled sword belted at his waist. "You're playing games with the fire makers. And the dock workers whisper how sell sails gather in Dorne. If your brother wants to scourge the Stepstones what need does he have for swords? What are you really doing here?"

Adopting a wounded look, he thought he had memorized the faces of all eight of the men. Still, he kept his mare in movement, a slow walk around the inside of the circle.

"Well, we do have a few shiny trinkets that will need an escort back to Sunspear."

"So you want to hire three or four thousand mercenaries to 'guard your treasure'. You didn't pay us enough to pretend to be stupid." This one was actually armored. Chain mail, pauldrons, even spaulders and cuisses and greaves. His shaggy black hair and squinting, bright blue eyes told the Dornishman this was a Northerner. "Tell me what you're here for now or I'm leaving. I'll not get my men butchered trying to usurp your brother."

"Peace good Ser. I have no plans of usurpation-" That got a chuckle or a snort from all but the Northman. "What I do, I do in service to my brother. If you have need of proof, then I offer a letter - penned and sealed by his hand and signet each."

"Then why are you dealing with the pyromancers and what need have you of sell swords?"

Weasel-ish in appearance with grey eyes and dirty red hair this captain had the look of a Frey about him.

"And you are Ser…?"

"Ser Walder Frey." This got another round of laughter, this time quite mocking. The Frey man reddened. "Fourth of my name. And captain of the River Lances. Eighty true knights, sworn to contract and duty! Along with as many squires and three times as many foot men. Who here can boast to command as many as I!?"

"I can." Oberyn's words chilled the group, the sneer and disrespect clear in how he dismissed the embarrassed Riverlander. "And more besides. But that is not why you are here. You have been paid for your time, I offer you proof of your purpose, and now I must know. Will you assent?"

That was enough for the Frey. Purpling in rage, he drew his sword.

"You are far too cheap Dornishman! Your head is worth far more than your pitiful bribe!"

Four other captains present snarled at their fellow conspirator, muttering about how he had been baited too soon. Of the eight mercenaries there, three were genuinely confused. The fat man, the Northman, and a pretty essosi with brown skin and hair that looked more like a slim beauty than a killer all seemed unsure whether to retreat or leap to his aid. Oberyn had no need to hesitate.

Spinning the mare, a trained warhorse even if she wasn't a destrier, the girl reacted to his command and promptly smashed her steel shod feet in the charging Frey man's chest. Armor, a cuirass of castle steel that was two sizes too big for his slim frame, dented. Ironically, that was enough to keep the weasel's chest from being caved in - even if he was still knocked to the ground with a scream. Drawing his horse whip back, he struck out at the nearest man. Catching him full across the eyes with the thick, braided leather the sellsword stumbled back with a scream.

And just like that there were three.

Rallying, the other sell swords, the ones likely seeing an excellent opportunity to get an early bonus, rushed to his aid. The fat one drove his jeweled sword through the throat of the one Oberyn blinded before, despite the immensity of his frame, twisting to the side and dodging the mace of one of the remaining foes. This one fell to the essosi, who, having held back with their spear, drove it under the arm of the man into the weakest point of his armor.

The Northman fell on a fourth with a cry, smashing his axe into the man's shield and battering him to the ground. Oberyn kept him from being flanked, drawing his sidearm - an arming sword - and engaging the last man with sword and whip.

Smashing his sword against the final man's guard, he used his superior positioning to force the man to raise his hands to block. Then he pushed his mare to bite. Screaming, the mercenary dropped his sword, cradling his bloody, crushed hand. Oberyn chuckled as he danced his mount closer and slashed his blade across the man's face.

And just like that, the battle was complete.

Three of the mercenaries were dead, two lived, and the three loyal men now looked very anxious.

"Bring me the two survivor's please." Patting the mare's muzzle, he coaxed his into spitting out the fingers it had bitten off. "And feel free to help yourselves to their share of the coin. Evenly of course." Eventually, with the man who had been wounded under the arm and the Frey before him the Red Viper smiled.

"So gentlemen, who was it that paid you? Oh, and before we start the torture, the first man who tells me what I want to know gets to live. The other… well, I have this lovely knife here and I've always wanted to make a man eat his own cock and balls."

It was telling the Gold Cloaks didn't even bother showing. Oberyn counted that in their favor this time.

Marwyn​


"And that's why Maester Lorcan always wears a strip of cloth around his forehead."

His declaration was met with stunned silence from his charge.

"To hide his… third nipple?"

"His third nipple, yes." The mage cheerfully confirmed. "Mind you, we had no idea that those weren't dragon scales and the man was rather impatient to experiment with the new tonic he was brewing. He's lucky, all things considered."

As was he, now that Marwyn came to think about it.

Leaving behind Oldtown for a life of intrigue and mystery alongside the Red Viper and his brood had perhaps been one, if not, the best decision of his life. Walking alongside such fascinating people as they waltzed through the ancestral home of their ancient enemies was something he'd ever read from fictitious works by his most whimsical colleagues.

So many stories to tell. There was enough to say about the fabled Witch of Dorne that Marwyn felt he could write two diaries worth of theories and random pieces of knowledge they managed to gleam together.

"So, Master Mage, is there a particular reason we're coming to this exact shop?"

He smirked at Sarella's question. Truly, he was far more pleased with his latest gamble than he had any right to be. The fact he'd be facing censure - at best - if he ever returned to the Citadel aside, he'd found a girl he was relatively sure would make an excellent apprentice.

"I have little doubt that will be perfectly clear the moment we arrive."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, clearly a bit less accepting than her sister, still followed quietly. The three were moving on foot, not truly bothering with a disguise, but at least trusting in the crowd to cover their movements. Well, that and the witch's own ability to cover them. That was rather considerable.

"The largest shop on all of the Street of Steel? Surely you aren't just bringing us to the most well known of locations." Sarella's words made him smirk, it was clear she was mostly thinking out loud. "Weirwood and ebony doors, fantastical armor work outside, what looks like a stone barn out back." He nodded, making sure to purposely look up and down the area, hoping she'd notice what he was doing. "Also, it's a bit segregated too, but not isolated from the rest… almost like they… respect him?"

"But it's what's inside that matters the most, yes?" The witch gave him a look that told him she was reevaluating him. "If that boy is who I think he is, I must beg your answer to what exactly it is we are here to do."

"No cheating!" Reaching over and gently swatting her sister on the shoulder, the young scholar to be - Marwyn would be damned before he let the girl's mind be wasted by those idiot Maestars he was so woefully chained to - grumbled. "We are standing in the middle of largest collection of armorers and black smiths in Westeros, the heart of the military industry of the Crownlands, and the Street of Steel itself is often said to be second only to the workshops of Essos. And if we're here to see someone and that someone is not the master smith… then that means it must either be magic or politics." Her eyes narrowed. "Please tell me we are here for something other than games?"

Ophelia reached over and patted her shoulder - in exactly the same spot she'd been swatted - and almost managed to pretend to be comforting.

"Just an hour or two of politics first. Then a bit of magic."

The old man practically roared with laughter when she pouted.

"No-no more." Marwyn barely managed to get out. "We should not make a scene. Go inside you two!"

Stepping past the grand gate they were faced with a large, but mostly practical estate. A house with a dozen or so rooms facing the main entrance, spread across three floors, with a slim, pretty girl obviously there to welcome them.

"Hello miss. Would you please get your master for us. We have a commission that I imagine he would rather kill himself than refuse." Ophelia eyed him again, clearly suspicious about why, exactly, they had come to this place. "He should be in his workshop, the one located in the secret room in the basement. Tell him the Witch of Dorne is here. Go."

Frowning, Sarella watched as the girl, wide eyed, moved to do as told, not given the chance to so much as speak. Turning to her sister, she shook her head.

"Why be rude to a servant, sister, what has offended you so?"

Cutting her eyes away from him for a moment, the old mage wondered if this might have been a mistake.

"The master of this house is a sorcerer of some kind and there is, unless I am utterly blind, a great bastard currently hammering away in his forge." The den of metal being worked on and the noise of the street would have blocked their conversation from any eavesdroppers so it seemed Ophelia had relaxed enough to be honest. "What's more, there are two or three other men in this city that can perhaps work Valyrian steel. Why come to the one with the child that could get us in a great deal of trouble."

"Come now child. You and your kin are perfectly capable of leaping head first into danger without my aid." Marwyn figured he was safed when she sighed and shook her head in agreement. Ophelia, after all, might have a temper from time to time, but the girl was rather fair. "But yes, I confess I had hoped to see if the boy was learning more than just metal working from his master. Could you imagine the power he might be able to wield with the blood of a king so readily available?"

Marwyn, as always, was guided by his curiosity.

It was why he'd used what few contacts he had in the city to get in touch with the old sorcerer who dwelled under the guise of a blacksmith. And as he was wont to, Marwyn had uncovered a secret all by his lonesome. Just not the one he expected to find.

"Though I admit that I am a touch amused to see you are not surprised by the revelation of a great bastard."

The Witch, inscrutable as always, gave a silent huff.

"The King is a whoremonger. I just assumed from the fact that the boy is the spitting image of a younger Robert."

Marwyn would admit that it was hardly difficult to reach that conclusion, doubly so considering that the king had likely bedded literally hundreds of women in his time. Was it any wonder the man had a litany of possible bastards walking the streets as of this very moment? In fact, the secret was so poorly hidden, a random person could come upon it with rationale and simple investigative work.

Who were the women Robert favored, which ones had been 'sickly' over the past years, and if any one of them had recently perished? Not even an uneducated fool from Flea Bottom would believe that the rash of pretty women coming and going from the Red Keep would be anything else than mistresses bedded and dismissed, if only to save them from any unfortunate… accidents.

"I would deeply appreciate, Lady Witch, that you do not scare my staff." Tobho Mott was much like himself, Marwyn decided. Clearly starting to show his age, his pate was smooth and short, white beard clung to his jaw. And just like him he wore a chain. Though the master smith's was that of a large, fat sapphire hanging over the top of the leather apron he wore instead of a maester's heavy links. "The girl fears you mean to curse me dead."

"Perhaps." Marwyn was actually a bit surprised at the sudden coolness in Ophelia's voice. Had he sorely misjudged something? Had he misjudged the girl? "But first I would need to know what kind of blood it is under your nails."

Snorting, the other old man crossed his arms.

"Chicken's blood. For a color changing spell."

Her eyes went white for a moment, Sarella very carefully positioning herself between both the smith and Marwyn. Thankfully the tense moment passed quickly enough and the girl returned.

"In my defense, you have a jar of human hearts sitting on your table down there."

Surprisingly, this drew a grin from the old man.

"You really are a witch. And a powerful one. Tell me child, do you have a Master?"

Marwyn held his tongue, interested in seeing how she would respond.

"I have a very horny sister who takes after the Targaryens."

"Hah!" Barking with laughter, the sorcerer smith waved them inside. "Come, come, you said there was a commission I would kill myself for missing? I do hope that you have something - oh." Marwyn withdrew the pair of long, cloth wrapped packages from his robes. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's particularly sharp metal, then yes." Sarella snorted at his joke and the old man was glad her body language had mostly relaxed. Though he did make a note to avoid any such similar surprises in the future. "Lamentation and Orphan Maker. Recovered by the diligence of the two young women here."

Ophelia snorted.

"I found Lamentation by sheer weight of eyes and it was Sarella who convinced me to look for Orphan Maker. Thank her for the opportunity to revive two blades of such quality."

The master smith.

"Since I assume it will be your father's gold paying for this, I shall thank him. This will not be cheap. Obviously, the blades themselves are fine, though both need to be properly cleaned, but they both need their guard, pommel, and grip replaced. Sheathes too."

Now he spoke, attempting a small subterfuge. Even then, Marwyn was still a bit hesitant if this was the right path. Or if he was courting the worst kind of disaster.

"And will the blood of a king suffice for the changing of the color of Valyrian steel? Or is more required beyond that." This time Ophelia remained quiet when he paused, clearly content to see where this was going. "Of course, we would be more than willing to assist."

"Ah. I see. You wish to know my spells." Waving his hand, the man of Qohor walked back into a room, calling over his shoulder. "Then ask her. I am from the City of Sorcerers and I know less than the girl child. She could teach you ten times the magic that I could. For cheaper too. I am an old man and expect to be paid well for the little time I have left."

"Then a trade then." Marwyn watched as Ophelia walked forward, the girl locking eyes with a broad shouldered, blue eyed apprentice as he entered the shop. "Secrets for secrets. Spells for spells. Fair enough, wouldn't you say young man?"

Obara​


Obara, much like her father, was a woman of action.

A warrior first, a schemer second.

So the trip to King's Landing had been rather frustrating. Surrounded by enemies she couldn't simply run through with her spear as she would have liked, the eldest Snake was relegated to playing the role of support to her savvy sisters.

That was not to say she hadn't been productive.

Not at all.

She'd made sure to touch base with father on their… temporary allies earlier on and then went about checking on the Red Keep's defenses.

Up to and including the Kingsguard.

And she was for the most part disappointed. With the clear exception of their leader and, oddly enough, the Kingslayer, the Kingsguard was a faded shadow of its illustrious past. Most of them little more than glorified butchers looking to be rewarded for their not at all impressive service. She wouldn't get started on the King's sworn sword either. Even if it had been amusing watching Tyene make him flinch when she had her little… court start playing around with those candles.

Standards had dropped and sunk through the mud.

These days all you needed was armor and a big fucking sword to be called a good knight.

The training sessions with her sister, however, had been a rare treat. Not often did Obara have the chance to see her enigmatic sister huffing and sweating like a newly minted page. It helped remind her that for all her mystery and knowledge, Ophelia was still very much human.

A human in need of exercise.

By the gods had she slacked off on that front.

'I'm almost tempted to say something to Tyene. Mention how Ophelia could benefit from some stamina building exercises. I wonder how amusingly she'd choose to interpret such a thing.'

The King joining had been a unexpected surprise.

But a welcome one.

'At least he has a sense of humor, even if we are probably going to kill him at some point. I'm not sure how much longer Father can handle this… dry spell he's going through. I fear Ellaria may have spoiled him and that he shall do something rash when we're not to keep him from dying horrifically.'

Undoubtedly, a bored Oberyn was a dangerous Oberyn.

In more ways than one.

Hopefully the contingent currently arriving would alleviate his boredom. The last thing they needed was for him to pull a Tyene and take someone he really shouldn't to bed.

He'd done it before.

Five times, in fact.

"Lord Dondarrion, hail and well met!"

And just like that her father rushed towards the still falling gangplank, dodging under it as it slammed into the ground, and half crawled up the side of the ship just so he could clasp arms with the laughing Dornish knight sooner.

A young man, with a black satin cape, Obara thought the Lord was the picture of a brash youth. Her own body count undoubtedly exceeded his, perhaps even by a few times over, and that was a totally reasonable method by which to measure his suitability to play whatever game it was that Uncle Doran had them running about for. If nothing else, when she spied the Darkstar of all people, she knew things at least had the chance to go hilariously, violently wrong in the worst possible way.

Clearly the lad was angrier than usual, she could from the way his jaw clenched and his eyes practically smouldered with hatred. 'Tyene might be getting a new plaything.'

Obara would take no chances with a boy as jealous and envious of her own kith and kin as him. He would either learn to get over the fact he wasn't the Sword of the Morning or she'd have him humiliated and disposed of. Arianne's lover or not, the boy was dangerous.

Amongst the number was also Edric Dayne, whom she recognized as a playmate of Trystane's back when they were both young enough to run around the Water Gardens swinging at each other with wooden swords, and now a lord himself. She smiled and waved at him, chuckling as the lad blushed slightly and waved back. Ignoring the way the crew members razzed the youth, Obara kept her eyes on the rest of the dismounting Dornish party.

Mostly they consisted of commoners and seemed to be mostly men at arms, amongst them a small group of archers, and totalled twenty men in all. What surprised her the most, though, was the Knight of Flowers himself came strolling down as well.

Behind him came just as many Reach men, though only half of them carried weapons - the rest being servants laden with several chests and bags.

"Ser Loras! What news do you have of my niece and her husband to be!"

She continued watching as her father greeted the third son of Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell. Another young man, and another handsome young knight at that, gaily returned the greeting, embracing the man he had once quarrelled with. But, what frustrated her more, was the fact that these were all young men. Skill aside, and she did not doubt that Ser Loras was far beyond her own skill with weapons, none of them were likely to understand the unpleasant side of warfare.

'Perhaps, then, I should approach the commoners? They would at least be more amenable to the realities of being surrounded and grossly outnumbered with everyone looking down their noses at you.'

She wondered what uncle Doran was thinking, sometimes.

Of course, she understood what the plan was.

Knew why it was necessary for them to move as they did and build a rapport with these people. Born in the lap of luxury away from the struggles and hardships of life, young men with fire and skill and steel and the urge to prove themselves to their families and the world. Their motivation for answering their call was glory.

Acknowledgement.

For Dorne this matter was much more personal.

It was their revenge.

Their act of rebellion against the Seven Kingdoms. A much more somber affair than the smiling eyes and quirked lips of these man-children could ever hope to understand. And it enraged her something fierce to see them act as if they were the generous benefactors aiding their cause.

Parasites, just as low as the things that crawled in the guts of dogs and pigs.

Obara was much too blunt to deal with their kind. It was why she remained resolutely silent even as her father engaged in pleasantries with the group. She wondered how they would react if they knew just a few hours ago he'd dispensed a group of pretentious cowards who betrayed them for coin.

"They'd whine. And before you ask, I know what you were thinking. You have your 'I hate these idiots' face on."

Obara grunted in agreement, side-eyeing her sister as she moved to stand besides her. Golden locks shining under the light of the sun. A modest dress covering her form, for once. Tyene had donned her mask of civility for the meeting, it seemed.

"I wondered when you were gonna pop out. Surprised father didn't ground you."

The fake septa giggled prettily.

"Come now. We both know only one is fit to punish me."

"And punished you she has. How was the couch last night?"

This earned her a sour look from her younger sister.

"Stiff."

Obara rolled her eyes.

"You did it to yourself. Flying too close to the sun. We were lucky nothing has come out of it yet." Not that they could have stopped her from doing it in the first place. Only Ophelia could pry Tyene's secrets from her and the Witch was far too busy these days to keep their wayward schemer properly leashed.

"Your trust moves my heart, sister. I only do what I must for the good of Dorne."

"The good of our family and of our kingdom are not always aligned, Tyene. You know that."

Looking on as they welcomed Reachmen into the fold, Obara couldn't help but feel her point was vindicated. After all, they cared not for Dorne's glory or the revenge of the Martells. They cared only for gold in their purses and songs to their names.

"It needs not be the case forever, Obara. Uncle is…."

"Playing a dangerous game. Wagering our lives on a bet."

"And as the pieces, it is our duty to stack the odds in our favor. That was the task given to us by our father. Why we abided by their foolish demands instead of ignoring them as we have in the past. Father would have done that and worse for the slight to Ophelia."

'That was different.' Obara wanted to say.

That was Ophelia.

Uncle cared for her far more than he did his other nieces. On some days, cared more about the witch than for his own children. Because she was knowledgeable and clever, and knew of things most only the old maesters did.

To him, Ophelia was not only a valued family member.

She was an opportunity.

A way to climb out of the sandy pits they'd been shoved into time and again by their enemies. A way to bring true prosperity to the people of Dorne and build something greater than anything their ancestors could have dreamt of.

If Uncle was willing to risk their prized Witch, Obara could only imagine what the rewards would be for their success.

"I'm surprised you're willing to risk her." The sheer noise of the docks meant their conversation didn't move more than a few feet, even then the two sisters remained focused on their father. How he interacted with the men around him. "Out of all of us, other than Nymeria of course, you should have objected most stringently against a gamble at all."

Tyene gave her a smile. One of those fake things she'd learned from watching others. And then, looking her in the eye, she let it fade. Cold, dead indifference replacing the almost saccharine lie.

"You say that as if there was a chance we could lose." Even her voice was different. Dry and cold, like the desert sands at night. "Like these people would treat us properly, handle us like snakes, like they are capable of even making the intellectual effort needed to realize that Westeros is not the whole world and their so called Game of Thrones-" Tyene almost spit the phrase, true annoyance and anger shining through. "Is worth risking a single drop of Dornish blood." And just like that, it was gone, the simple innocence back in place. "But Father and Uncle agree, theirs is the tune we dance to, and so we shall behave. For now."

By now their group was halfway back to the Red Keep. The Dornish retinue parted the crowds easily enough and Obara's glare kept any men away from the two girls. Being an utterly irritable bitch was effective enough that she had mastered the act. Especially when it came to keeping her sisters from doing something stupid.

"All I can say, little sister, is that for as much as I love you, I wish I could keep you in check." The eldest Sand Snake rubbed her forehead. "But I haven't been able to do that in a decade."

The blonde giggled, skipping ahead slightly.

"Silly Obara." Tyene's grin grew lopsided. "You never could keep me in check. But don't worry, I appreciate that you tried."

Unsure how honest her younger sibling was being, though she was still oddly touched, Obara opened her mouth to speak. And then she saw something that made her pale.

"Lannisters!"

Tyene whipped her head around, following Obara's gaze. Moving, quickly, they swiftly bullied their way through the mass of milling Dornishmen, one archer actually trying to flirt with the most deranged of the Snakes until she cut him to size with a quick whispered line, and reached their father just in time to see him go utterly, totally still. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open as if he almost couldn't understand what the man sitting atop a horse across from him was saying, and his hands were already moving towards his belt.

Grabbing Oberyn's wrist, Obara needed only one glance to confirm that, sitting atop a shiny white destrier, was none other than Amory Lorch.

"Seize my father! Men of Dorne, unless you want a war, stop my father!"

Ophelia​


After the excitement she'd gone through since arriving at King's Landing, Ophelia reckoned she hadn't had much free time. Between exploring the ancient city, disarming fire traps all over it, visiting hidden sorcerers so they could fix legendary swords and being drilled into the ground like she was a fresh squire, the young witch hadn't been enjoying her vacation as much as she wanted.

Which was why she decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Doubly so considering her father was in such a mood. In fact, she'd be by his side if he hadn't locked himself in a room with some lady knight and the noble woman he'd been sleeping with. As it stood, the joke Lorch had made about her murdered aunt was… unacceptable.

She may not have known the woman, but just thinking about it made her hands clench into fists, hate thick and ugly welling up in her heart.

'I'm gonna need some balm.' Her fingers ached and were actually forming calluses. Which, objectively, were good things. But split blisters and torn skin still sucked until then.

"But at least I have you little guy." The tomcat currently sitting on her feet gave a loud purr, looking up at her with lidded eyes and what she would swear was a smug grin. "You do know I'm going to have to move, yes?"

He simply rumbled again.

"Do I need to make you move?"

Stretching, and making damn sure she knew that Black Tom was only moving because he wanted to, the ancient cat actually hopped up to a window sill with a surprising amount of alacrity for a feline his age. Which, admittedly, she did not know. But going by the white almost mane, the chewed ear, and the absolute disdain he held most of the world in… she would say it was rather impressive.

Napping at her hand, just enough to make sure she was paying him attention, the little animal brushed against a particular stone before sitting down and looking at her with bright, intelligent blue eyes.

"Oh? What's… this." Fingering the spot in question, she found that the brick was actually loose. And, prying it open, found a small clutch that, when released, caused one of the nearby doors to open. "How did you-" Muttering to herself, Ophelia turned to the small animal with a look of confusion. No normal cat, no matter how old, could be smart enough to know such a thing after all. "No. That's just, but how, Gods."

Closing her eyes, she waited until the bur of monochrome memories finished washing over her. They were confused, jumbled, as all the memories of animals were. More flashes of light and sound and things that ever her mind, flexible as it was, couldn't interpret. But she also had the context needed to comprehend at least a little of what she was witnessing.

"Rrrrrroooooowwwww."

With the tip of his tail flicking, the cat hopped to the ground, paws silently padding as he strolled across the hallway. Ophelia couldn't help but to think that, with that action alone, he seemed more the king of the Red Keep than Robert.

Following, she stepped into the room - dark save for the sliver of light that followed from the hallway. Still, she shut the door, her swarm more than able to give her a map of where she was. Walking behind her guide, she heard him give another noise, one that seemed like a low cross between a hiss and a yowl, as he scented the spray of another animal. Nudging him with her mind, the witch convinced her guide to set aside this challenge to his domain for now and continue with her little tour.

Coming to another room, this one cool and a little damp, she stirred up the whole of her swarm. Sending them to the absolute limits of her perception, she had them delve through as many tunnels as they could. Actively taking the shapes of them so as to give her a map.

"Perhaps, next time, you could bring Sarella with us? I would not mind her having a map of these passageways."

Her voice echoed in the dark, the crushing, all consuming blackness of a room without the smallest shred of light almost oppressive… at least to those that needed sight. Black Tom simply continued padding his way along, leading her straight to a long, winding staircase. Here the dampness was replaced, and with her swarm confirming it, she guessed that they had moved away from the seaward edge of the keep - closer to the innards.

Pausing, as if to think about it, her guide gave a rumbling purr. The taste of fish and… human fingers, she supposed, came to her. Ophelia couldn't help but wonder if her sister had already fed the little wizened creature a treat.

Once more pushing her mind into his skin, enough that her eyes began to flicker with the whiteness of the true skin change, she sought out the specific impulses she was looking.

Indeed, she thought, it was her sister. Or at least the clothes looked right. And in the memory, pulled out by the inherent closeness of her connection and the nature of the spells taught to her, warging was far more intimate than her previous control after all, she was able to recognize the clothes her sister wore.

This moment passed and, after Tom padded off, she took a moment to center herself, to shake off the lingering influence of CAT. Mawli had warned her, in those long months of tutelage, of the perfidiousness of most animals. But, most especially, house cats. That woman of Asshai, curiously enough, had eight skins, though how she bound them was utterly different from the wargs of Westeros. That three of them had been cats of varying size and temperament still spoke to the nature of the woman.

Returning to her current task, she was forced to quickly descend the stairs, depending on strategically stationed roaches, including one on each foot, to jog down to the bottom to meet her guide. All the time ignoring the protestations of her body and the demand to return to her room and sleep.

Interestingly enough, they had come to a large, open space with what felt like a small breeze coming through. Following it to its source, she found shutters and, managing to force the old wood to creak open, stumbled back with a cry when they snapped free. The light was blinding after so long in the darkness and Opheia was compelled to turn back to the stairwell until the spots had left her vision.

Opening the rest was thankfully easier, though she had gasped when she realized where she truly was. Massive skulls of black bone sat haphazardly stacked around the place. One, in particular, played host to Black Tom. Sitting atop the most massive head she had seen in this world, larger than even a bull elephant and perhaps about a third the full size of Atlas, was the skull of a truly immense dragon.

What was most disturbing, though, was that she could already feel… magic. It was weak and thin, barely lingering, but it seemed to press against her skin. Cold and burning hot at the same time, it felt hungry and angry. But, under even that, it was scared and confused and alone.

Sitting there, unblinking, she realized so much about the cat she had been following.

"This is how you have lived, how you survived such a thing."

Relaxing her hold over her swarm, intentionally pulling her power to herself, the witch knelt on the cold floor. She was wearing trousers today, the thin linen doing little to keep out the coldness of the stone flagons, but the warm sea breeze, carrying the tang of salt and thankfully only the stink of fish and not the otherwise ever present odor of shit that defiled this city, chased off the chill. Kneeling there, centering herself, slowly allowing every muscle in her body to tense and then relax, over and over, breathing in and out Ophelia let her magic reach out to touch the power around her, once more ignoring the aching of her legs.

She did not gasp this time, though it felt like cold fingers had closed around her heart, when a ghost appeared before her. It was a little girl, with features that were almost familiar. One hand was stroking Balerion's head - she knew the cat's true name now - and the other cradled a baby as close as it could. Slowly, oh so slowly, more and more appeared.

Some were easy to identify, the Mad King with his long nails and unwashed beard, others were simply unknown to her, and even the rest were faded. No more than almost ephemeral spectres lingering in the damp and dark.

Not speaking, she watched as they, as one, turned up and looked. She knew in that moment, without a doubt, that they were turning to gaze up at the Iron Throne. Ophelia felt their emotions and more besides bound up in the great metal chair, so heavy with curses and grudges that she was truly stupefied that she had missed it.

More than that though, the hundred or so ghosts, perhaps a few more, were bound to these skulls. Feeling a flicker of heat coming from the bone, somehow growing warmer and warmer as the moments passed, it was clear that magic still lingered in these skulls. Perhaps enough to fuel the echoes of those she was witnessing, their own blood and fire and magic bound to the only true traces of the Targaryens left in their bloody castle.

One stepped forward, the most worn and thin, and five words were projected into her mind. Each one holding the weight of a thousand, thousand voices, screaming and crying and calling out, the roar of flights of spiralling dragons, twisting stars and bloody ritual circles, flashes of images of horror and grandeur and beauty.

"Blood and Fire, my child."

And just like that, they were gone.

There was no rush of air, no sense of hate or malice, just a lingering smell of perfume and a hint of blood. The almost oppressive heat radiating from the skulls, enough to bring sweat to her brow and compel her to remove her cloak, was gone. In fact the room was freezing and she was shivering, feeling hungry and weak and even more sore and achy than before.

"Rrrrrooooowwwww."

Balerion licked at her hand, clambering onto her lap and purring. Scratching his ears, she knew what she had to do. Delving into his mind once again, almost meshing into the small animal's soul, she understood that he was more than just a cat. That there was more than an animal's magic and spirit in him. What she felt was, mayhaps, the mind and magic and powers of Rhaenys Targaryen and all of her kin too.

That this little animal who was so brave and bold and brash had become their vessel to act out revenge against those who had wronged and betrayed him.

Setting aside the memory of him stealing a quail from Lord Tywin, an amusing story she would share with her kin later, she found the genesis of that moment. Of when the little magic of a dead child, and perhaps her infant brother, slipped inside a creature filled with hate and spite - one who clawed the face of a knight to defend his mistress and had his back broken for it.

She watched the murder and rape of Elia Martell, the murder of Aegon Targaryen - watched as their heads were crushed in. Hers by the Mountain as he took her and raped her bloody. His when he was slammed into the wall.

She watched, impotent and yowling in rage, ignoring the pain as she tried to claw her way to the man stabbing her mistress, and curled up under her body as the light in her eyes dimmed.

The burning of the wing, how the flames passed over her skin and burned off her fur, but not consuming her body. Instead, how the injuries she felt disappeared as fire consumed blood and flesh, how blood popped and sizzled as each wound in her flesh washed away.

Ophelia felt her cheeks were damp when she returned to her own body. Touching them, they came away with tears staining her finger tips.

Stroking the fur of the little dragon, she wondered what all this meant.

What the words meant.

What the images meant.

What the animal's survival meant.

So she sat and thought, fingers sliding through fur without another thought.
 
Are there any changes being made to these chapters as you repost them?
 
Will any polls like the one for familiars on sb be done here? I'm sort of generally assuming not because the story seems like it's more solidified but I wanted to ask.
 
PurgeTheXeno said:
Are there any changes being made to these chapters as you repost them?
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No changes are being made, but the first new chapter will be posted on here before it's posted on SB. Editing will probably need to be done at some point.

Organmonkey said:
Will any polls like the one for familiars on sb be done here? I'm sort of generally assuming not because the story seems like it's more solidified but I wanted to ask.
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Sorry about that, the poll concluded a while ago I'm afraid.
 
thx for posting the chapter
interesting that there is a magic user still in the city would have though the master of wispers would have dealt with him already
 
Good chapter,but how Sarella could read books if she made fort from them ?
 
stads said:
thx for posting the chapter
interesting that there is a magic user still in the city would have though the master of wispers would have dealt with him already
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The Smith is from Qarth and a relatively minor magical. I assume Vaerys didn't particularly care that much, similar to the alchemists.

ATP said:
Good chapter,but how Sarella could read books if she made fort from them ?
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There were a LOT of books.
 
Chapter 8
Chapter 8 - The Immigrant Song​
Cersei Lannister​


Cersei poured the two cups of tea herself.

It might have been something small, but as the light brown liquid splashed into the porcelain pot. For a moment, she focused on the curling wisps of steam. In the past few days she'd been doing more for herself - and her children - than she had thought she ever would. Aside from it being oddly pleasant, the fact she was still relatively sure she'd been drugged she found she just wasn't comfortable unless she was handling her children's food herself.

"Your grace?"

Looking up, she forced a smile and tried to relax. They were in a side courtyard, sitting under the shade of a gazebo, while the laughter of children came from the hedges around them. Discreetly stationed nearby, three of the kingsguard kept a very close eye whenever a servant approached.

"I apologize. Unfortunately my thoughts have been drifting lately."

The young woman across from her smiled more honestly than she had. Though Cersei wondered why that particular look seemed to be so… knowing. It didn't help that the girl was dressed like a servant. A plain blue woolen dress with only enough adornment to meet the concerns of formality, along with being shapeless enough to underplay her own attractiveness. It did a poor job in that regard and Cersei felt a small flash of envy at how casually at ease the young woman seemed as her own gold and black dress felt a bit like a chain around her waist.

In truth, she was self aware enough to know that if the girl had shown up wearing trousers again she would have been offended. Cersei herself had more than once cursed the fact she was bothered with looking pretty.

'How much easier it would have been had I been a man.' She lamented in the privacy of her thoughts. 'Then I wouldn't have to put up with gossiping spies flitting about me, thinking I didn't know they were all bought and paid for.'

But she also knew that, even if given that choice, she wouldn't take it. For nothing else, not even her brother or her beauty, was worth her children. And in that alone she felt superior to the near child across from her. Finery and gold aside - though it was not lost on her that her most valuable lingerie had been made by the young woman - she knew the love of two beautiful sons and a daughter who was a rose of gold.

But, when the young woman spoke, she felt a flash of deep envy and it took Cersei looking at her children - playing with Elia Sand, another of the Martell bastards - to snuff out that worm.

"Perfectly understandable. Having found wildfire in the keep, under the gates, and the sept, the shock of that threat to your children must have been sobering. After all, a woman such as yourself has many luxuries except for those reserved solely for men."

That statement felt pointed. Like her conversational companion was hinting at the obvious fate of Elia Martell. Slowly nodding, Cersei agreed.

"Personally, I have cursed my own lack of… physicality more than once." Adding a small scoop of honey, she gestured for the so-called witch to help herself to whatever she might want. "When you were training down in the yard with my lord husband, you moved like a killer." Taking a sip, she savored the warmth, letting the heat chase away the last hint of morning chill. "It was beautiful, in a way."

"Hardly. My movements were sloppy, my form is utterly out of practice, and I have forgotten just how much a single mistake can cost someone." Ophelia was stirring a bit of lemon into her tea, the young child's eyes dark and heavy. Cersei almost shivered when she remembered the obsession in Tyene's own gaze. "But I do thank you. Your words are high praise."

They sat in silence for a short while, the Queen wondering why she felt safer with the girl who was already building a reputation as an actual witch than she had just a few moments before. Perhaps it was the way her eyes softened when she looked at… Elia Sand. Her younger sister, almost innocently tomboyish in how she played and argued with her own children. Even Joffrey had agreed to join in a little when the girl began explaining how his crossbow was actually made.

'And isn't that just the oddest thing. In the last week I have come to encourage my children to play with a bastard.' She felt uncomfortable at the thought, not because of who the child was, but because it was so utterly out of character for her. 'Perhaps I feel gracious because of the issue with the wildfire?' Snorting, she shook her head. 'No. I highly doubt that. But they are happy.'

That was a good enough answer, in the end, for now. She was compelled to comment on what she saw, though, and was a bit surprised at the answer she received in turn.

"You look at her like she's yours. But you must only be a few years older."

Ophelia turned to the queen at the comment and, after a moment of thinking, shrugged.

"The first word she spoke was to call me mother. I was barely walking myself at the time, but we were inseparable. It was, of course, the accident of a small child and out of respect for my… I suppose you could call her a step mother - out of respect for Ellaria Sand, my father's paramour, that story remained private." Smiling, the teenager shook her head. "Motherhood is something I have spared little thought for, I confess, but recently… I do wonder."

Genuinely smiling, though a touch surprised considering how somber her companion's tone was, the queen couldn't help but feel a moment of pure amusement. Power aside, magic aside, station aside, one thing all women could connect over was their children. Or, at the very least, agree to keep their vehement belief in the unquestioning destiny of their progeny private. Mostly.

"Wait a few more years. Youth is, unfortunately, not eternal. And it is no mean feat to retain a figure after one child - never mind three." Here she shook her head, finishing off the tea. "I had to, of course, when you just find that someone it stops being a question. You'll understand."

"I defer to your superior wisdom, my queen." Ophelia inclined her head, quirking an eyebrow.

"Calling me old, dear child? Should I tell your dear sister that her work in securing an alliance was wasted because you insulted me?" At that, the other woman turned an interesting shade of pale. The kind that jumped past horrified to 'please God no'.

Chortling, the queen felt a deep abiding sense of amusement. Eventually, though, the topic turned as it always did. And unfortunately the topic of conversation was the one that was most obvious.

"It would be an understatement to say that there is bad blood between us."

Ophelia turned to look at her and Cersei felt a small tremor of fear.

"And if I told you I saw it happen, would you believe me?"

Every animal, every insect, even the wind itself fell silent. Cersei poured more tea, the pot coming off the smouldering burned with the ting of metal. That silence was so unnatural it was almost absurd. And, in that moment, she confessed she was mostly glad that at the very least the witch across from her was pleasant to look at.

"Do I even have the luxury of doubting you?"

Her response was short and to the point. But there was so much more she was asking.

"No." Ophelia's response was somewhat amused as noise returned to the world. "I do not think you do. But the question stands. Do you think I have magic?"

Cersei added no honey this time, letting the bitterness focus her.

"Truthfully, I am unsure." Her companion remained quiet, waiting for the queen to finish her thoughts. "I must ask what magic is. What a witch is. And then, in turn, what it would mean for you to be such. If I said you did not feel like a witch, would you be offended?"

Shaking her head, the much younger woman was calm.

"Would you pour me another cup of tea?"

Doing so, she had to wonder where this was going but, as she turned to replace the teapot only to pause. The flame was dead. The ashes cold. And then, just as suddenly, it flickered back to life. Embers smouldered and burst into bright, open flame, climbing up the sides of the burner for a moment until it dimmed back to a low smoulder. All except for a single finger of flame that, even then, continued to snap and crackle and dance in the morning breeze.

A grunt and the flame disappeared.

"It seems that is the limit of my control. Still, I am weak. My teacher could conjure flames that would dance, even sing, if you can believe it. Though she had to bleed herself to do so. Marwyn the Mage might be able to do what I did if he knew the incantations for it. Personally, I have always detested those that depended on wands and chanted spells and the accoutrements of the caster. But that is a prejudice born of luxury and privilege, developed because I have the will and strength to not need them for parlor tricks." Taking a sip of tea, Ophelia paused for a moment. Cersei couldn't help but notice she looked not the least bit strained. "But I will beg your pardon for such a graven display, your grace."

Fear was the first thing she felt.

For herself, her children, for everything. What use was a sword against a spell? If she could do this with ease, what were her true limits? Could she truly compel animals and speak in their tongue or was it a trick?

"Are… are all your siblings… like you?"

Ophelia smiled at her.

"They could be, with time and effort. But no. I have been told that my abilities are somewhat greater than the norm for a practitioner of my age."

"But I have heard your father is-"

"He gave himself a bigger penis."

Cersei blinked.

"What?"

Snorting in laughter, the witch shook her head.

"He spent three years seriously studying magic, just to learn a spell to make his genitals more… impressive. Is that not the sum and substance of a man? Utter, unwavering focus and dedication. Only so that he might be able to more thoroughly enjoy his lovers."

The queen couldn't help it. She threw her head back for a moment, stifling the loud howl of laughter. Instead, she forced herself to snort and chuckle until, eventually, she managed a response.

"Indeed. 'Snort' Jaimie was always interested in his, ah, sword. And you should hear Robert go on about his warhammer."

Both gave in to the utter fit of giggles, tittering away as the tension of the magic faded. It also gave Cersei time to think over, exactly, what that display was. Who it was for. And why Ophelia would make her abilities known to her. As the humor died down and the last of the tea was drunk, her thoughts turned.

"Lannisters always pay their debts." Ophelia met her eyes, Cersei's low words catching her attention. "And there is a debt between our two houses." Because in this moment she understood how poorly she was positioned. "Has your father ever wondered how his sister was found so quickly? Why there were no guards to defend her? Why Ser Oakheart was manning the front gate of the castle, yet did not stop my father's bannermen?"

Stilling, the witch very slowly shook her head. They were quiet now and after the mention of a debt between their houses birdsong had filled the air. Loud, almost in harmony, and so great as to drown out their words. Cersei couldn't help but shiver at the unintentional display of power.

"Pycelle opened the gates to the city. And he opened a side gate to the Red Keep. And he led those two men to where your aunt was. Or, at the very least, told them." She leaned back and the birdsong slowly died down. "What Ser Lorch said about your aunt truly was awful. I shall have to write my father about his unacceptable conduct. House Lannister simply can not permit such atrocious behavior from men selected to represent our interests."

Inclining her head, Ophelia played along well enough.

"Your apologies are much appreciated, your grace. I will communicate them to my father when he is finished enjoying the sympathies of two fine ladies."

"Two?" The queen couldn't help but chuckle.

"Aye. I am afraid he is rather spoiled. If it helps, I promise you that I shall not be curing the hangover he is now courting. Even if the hope that he shall learn a bit of temperance at his age is folly."

Shaking her head, Cersei couldn't help but agree.

"At this point I no longer complain when Robert comes to bed smelling of wine and other women. Even if I would wish he at least bothered to bathe beforehand." Grimacing, the queen managed to communicate her utter distaste with a single noise. "Greasy sheets are most unpleasant."

Ophelia rolled her eyes.

"In all honesty, I would be totally unable to handle the chronic adultery. In Dorne, at least, the two of you would be free to pick out a woman - or man, perhaps - together. That is a question I suppose. When I was speaking with my sister this morning, she mentioned the king was legendarily close with his foster brother Ned Stark. Do you think Robert, when he was a youth that is, and the Lord Stark had a tumble in the hay or two?"

"No." The queen smirked. "But I do think I intend to find out."

They shared a laugh. It wasn't a loud one, but they did, and it was oddly relaxing. Ophelia, the queen thought, was far less intense than her sister. Though that was not to say the witch was any less intimidating, rather she was simply less overtly hostile.

Off to the side, the queen spied as her two youngest frolicked through the gardens. Myrcella, always energetic, so much like how Cersei herself had been back in those happier days, chased after her older brother as he excitedly chattered about the labyrinth in the garden and how he knew all the secret passages.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it.

Two young children, just like them, playing and chasing after each other.

Carefree as only siblings could be.

His excited smile as he swung about a branch like it was a sword. Her running after him with an exasperated smile, with no regard for her dirty dress. A nostalgic feeling of acceptance burned in her chest as she opened her eyes.

It wasn't the same.

Not quite.

The youngest of the Sand girls joined them, a bag slung over her shoulder as she handed them play swords and… small sticks? They were polished artfully, and the way she twirled them about and made loud noises had Cersei look askance at her guest, who smiled thinly, swishing a finger like the younger snake.

The queen chortled.

Magic and sword, huh?

'I suppose they make for better games than playing Princes and Princesses.' She was sure her younger self would have gleefully joined, once upon a time.

Everything was better than playing the damsel in distress.

"It occurs to me my dear, that while I have provided tea, we have nothing to nibble on. Is there anything that you'd like?" Cersei couldn't help but wonder if Dornish cuisine was that different to that of the Crownlands or the Westerlands. "Anything at all, I think the servants are practically bursting for the opportunity to overhear any juicy gossip."

Smiling, if a bit ruefully, her guest acquiesced.

"This may sound a bit odd… but perhaps a bit of milk and a little fish? I've been spending a great deal of time with cats recently, you see." Chuckling, the queen shook her head.

"Do be aware, cats are haughty creatures. Best not take too much after us."

Strangely, Cersei was actually rather interested in how the other young woman would turn out. Their lives were so utterly different, after all, yet in moments like this she almost felt normal. Calling for the food and drink to be brought, her own mind slipped back to her youth. To, in particular, a very different kind of witch she had encountered so long ago. Perhaps, she admitted in the privacy of her own thoughts, she had been hasty.

Letting her thoughts turn, she gestured for the young woman to eat and drink and relax, even as she herself sipped at mulled wine. It was not a particularly expensive vintage, almost a bit tart even, but she had found the small bitterness of the mulled drink sharpened her wit a little.

Or at least snapped her out of her Summer thoughts.

Perhaps it would be worth her time and effort to try and solve this split between the royal family and Dorne. If only to ensure her children's safety. And so that, just perhaps, she might be able to bind this strange young woman to her house too. With her consent and support, obviously, forcing a loveless marriage on a woman who had been born to freedom would be massively unwise, to say nothing of her powers.

'Joffrey… is far too wilful. But perhaps she would not object to Tommen? In a few years, at least. Bastard she may be, Robert would be delighted to legitimize the girl and even if the price of doing so was to legitimize all the Sand Snakes, she'd suck Robert's cock and that would be that.'

"So your grace, I think you for the meal, but I feel there is one more piece of business for us to discuss, if you'd be interested?"

The girl's tone was a bit sleepy, and Cersei laughed a little when the witch yawned, but nodded her assent.

"Well, now that the city has been swept for wildfire, I find my mornings empty after training. It occurred to me too, that, with the upcoming procession, I might offer to teach you and your children how to ride a horse? A female tutor, after all, would be far less scandalous when you wore breeches."

A bit taken aback, the blonde queen was a little slow to respond, only managing to do so when it occurred to her exactly what was being offered.

"I thank you, but I must confess to being unsure. The time commitments aside, Tommen and Myrcella are a bit young to be learning to ride, and I myself am the queen. Thank you for the offer though, truly, I am touched."

Ophelia simply raised her eyebrows, almost amused by the response.

"Formality, now? The politics are done." Dipping a roll in her milk, the young woman sopped up the last few crumbs of baked fish. "It is an offer freely made. Besides, your brother would be invited. Give the children some time to spend with their uncle. And me a chance to ogle a pretty, famous knight."

Green eyes squinted in annoyance at the teasing tone. Doubtlessly the young woman knew exactly what she was doing and Cersei was mostly annoyed at herself for almost leaping at the chance.

"And if you were worried, I would be paying particular attention to the young ones. No harm would come to them and I would stay with them while they made their small mistakes."

And that was that. The queen wanted to groan.

'Does everyone know of my love for Jaimie? Is it so obvious how to bribe me? Am I so cheap as to be bought with a little time with my brother?' Sighing a little, she shook her head.

"Fine. But I expect you to actually teach us." Ophelia made to speak and Cersei raised a hand. "I am serious." Her tone was softer, kinder. "If I'm going to learn to ride a horse properly, then I would learn to ride a horse properly. Even if the offer of the most capable… overseer in Westeros is appreciated, neither I nor my children need be coddled." Somewhat aware of the hypocrisy of that statement, she amended her words slightly. "At least in this matter."

Throwing her head back, the dornish girl laughed, loud and clear, and wiped at her eyes after a moment.

"I yield to you, my queen." There was clearly mirth in the girl's green eyes, somewhat similar in shade, if a darker green, and the good humor between them was comforting. "I shall teach you to ride as best I can in the time we have before the procession leaves."

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger)​


"I am not an evil man, you know. I didn't have a good start, like most players. I was just the stubby little runt of lesser standing. Truthfully, I couldn't even swing a sword to save my own life." Baelish noted as he closed his window, pulling thick drapes over it, allowing shadows to shroud the room.

He was being truthful.

Rounding on his guest, Petyr relished the opportunity to be honest. To pull back the veil of lies and talk frankly with someone for what felt like years.

"But you see. I was born with this… need. This want. Nothing special, I assure you. I wanted what a man of my station couldn't have. The woman of my dreams. To rule from a great keep and watch as my loyal subjects prosper in my name."

It was a silly dream.

Every boy dreamed of being the king of their own little castle.

"But life didn't take kindly to it. I was punished for reaching beyond my means. Forced to take a stand for what I wanted. And I lost. Badly. I told you I couldn't swing a sword and unfortunately that's one of the few ways a man can carve a name for themselves in the world."

Petyr took his seat, reclining comfortably against the expensive chair. Expensive wood, with even more expensive cushions. Had it been any bigger he might as well call it a throne.

He liked the sound of that.

"Oh yes. Where was I? The loss of the love I held so dear and my own humiliating defeat. I'm sure you heard about it. Probably even laughed at it. Please, don't hold back on my account. Feel free to laugh all you want."

His guest remained quiet.

How droll.

Taking a sip from his cup, the man known as Littlefinger relished the taste. By the Seven, was he parched.

"Oh, where are my manners. Would you like some?"

The response came muffled. Growls and curses locked behind a thick strip of cloth.

"You see, my good friend. Life is all about opportunities. They present themselves, and you decide whether to take them or let them pass you by. I was never one to let opportunity slip through my fingers. It's why I am here today. And why you are here today."

He took another sip. The taste was divine.

"I've been a fool. Made mistakes. A few days ago, I was compelled to grant a favor to an acquaintance of mine. He wanted me to flash some gold at a few sellswords and have them turn on their employer-to-be. Nasty piece of business, you see. I didn't care to ask who this man was or why he wanted those sellswords."

Deniability was important these days.

One could never be too prepared for a trial.

"As it turned out, that particular machination backfired spectacularly, and now I find myself thinking on how to earn some rapport with this particular man. I'm sure you know about him. The talk of King's Landing, Prince Oberyn Martell."

His guest shuffled about, trying and failing to move his seat.

Why, if not for the nails keeping his chair fixed to the floor, Petyr dare say he might have achieved just that. Unfortunately, Littlefinger was a man who believed in being prepared for the worst.

Didn't stop his friend from flailing about and trying.

All the power to him.

"Incredible, isn't it? The power of a name. You can imagine someone just by hearing a few words strung together. Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident. A powerful name, no? How about Baelor the Blessed. A name fitting a beloved monarch, yes?"

Bending ever so slightly, Petyr looked closely at his guest.

"How about Littlefinger? Doesn't sound as intimidating, does it? Nor does it carry that flair for dramatics that the dragons had. But I am rather fond of it, these days. Everything I've done, every mistake and triumph, and there has been a great deal of both, has led to it. Perhaps it's even something to be proud of, though I do have my doubts about it."

And there was so much yet to do.

So much he still wanted to do. Until his name, the name he'd been given by others, became something to be envied and feared. A weapon to be levied against his enemies. Until the day 'Littlefinger' rose to take his rightful seat, Petyr Baelish had work to do. And so work he would.

"There is another name I want you to think about." He stood from his seat, leisurely strolling towards his bound friend. "A name that has gained a lot of power over the past few years. A power very few have known or seen. The power to move nations and make all who hear it take note. You know who I'm talking about, don't you? You were probably warned about her."

Ophelia Sand.

The Witch of Dorne.

The Shadow of Sunspear.

That last epithet was something he heard from a traveling merchant. A man he considered well learned and trustworthy. Someone who owed him favors and told Littlefinger all he could about Oberyn Martell's precious daughter.

The girl who saw everything under the sun… or so the rumors said.

"Could you fault me for my interest? Most ladies at court are so droll and uninteresting. Simple pieces to be moved around at one's leisure. But this single girl, barely a woman, demands the attention of the world. Her very presence commands that you pay heed to her. Why, I'm certain even my young self would have been mesmerized."

The weaker him.

The craven him would have prostrated himself before the witch in search of power. Would have tried to use her as he had used so many before. He would have failed to see the danger as a serpent coiled around his neck, whispering promises and sweet nothings.

And then choked him.

Littlefinger knew better. He could see her for what she was.

"I spent whole nights thinking about it. What could I offer to someone who has everything? Someone I don't understand and never met. Power? She commands all of Dorne. Fifty thousand lances and spears and all the swords their wealth can buy. Women? Hardly, if a sliver of the rumors about her sisters are true, I could hardly offer anything she doesn't already have."

Walking over to a desk, he ceased his pacing long enough to snatch up a book.

"The only thing I have that she does not is knowledge." It was a small, thin thing. Bound sheafs of parchements. "Obviously you don't know what this is, but the Lord Varys has been engaging in a… tactical reorganization. When your little birds can't sing for fear of being stung to death, then a good aviarius must move them away from what creature is attacking them." Baelish paused, almost chuckling. "Or at least find a new way to organize them."

Opening it, he displayed the seemingly random collection of scribbles, letters, and mundane receipts to his friend.

"You wouldn't happen to know how to crack his cipher?" Baelish tilted his head. "No? Very well. I might have almost considered worth keeping you if you had." He shrugged. "Still, I do hope you enjoyed your evening with four girls. They certainly enjoyed your gold, even if you needed a wash or three."

Making another circuit of the room, he laid out a few more things and picked up others. Small scraps of paper, his inkwell and quill, and all the tiny things one could possibly drop - all these went into a satchel. Several fat, heavy belts of tools and a… suspiciously well stocked cabinet were set down. This actually drew a chuckle from him as he placed the great collection of glass vials on top of the table, grunting a bit as he picked it up.

"Would you believe me if I told you this right here was what started it all?" He snorted. "A client asked me to make a few inconvenient things disappear. So I did. All of this was my reward."

Ignoring the noises of complaint behind him, the man in question ruefully shook his head.

"It seems a bit of a shame to spend it all in one place, but I have a lot of apologizing to do you see. Plus I was paid a nice, fat sack of dragons to make sure these were secured. Besides, if he wanted me to get rid of it he could have paid me to do so."

When there was a knock at the door, Petyr smiled to himself.

"And that will be your date for the evening. I think you claimed you were an expert at making Dornish whores moan and ruin their smallclothes, yes? If what I've heard is true… then I think you'll actually manage to do so."

Walking over, the Master of Coin opened the thick, heavy door.

"My prince Martell, my princess Sand." He bowed deeply. "Your evening's entertainment is ready."

Baelish kept his face straight, his eyes smiled and his lips curled up. But he couldn't keep down the terrible, horrible flicker of fear when he saw their smiles. The Red Viper, eyes burning with glee and his angelic daughter licking her lips at the sight of the gagged and bound Ser Amory Lorch before them.

Ophelia Sand

It was a strange thing, watching the spirits of the unborn move in the air, doubly so as a few seemed to delight in floating through the wisps of steam coming up from a bubbling cauldron.

Most of the time they didn't have form or shape, more appearing as wisps, but sometimes they would take the shape of the child they could have been, though those were truly few and far between. The Mad King was actually humming, dozens of the things swirling around the insane ghost. His sister-wife, looking almost sad, watched as the man tried to sing to lives that might have been.

Questions of the morality of the previous king aside, Ophelia couldn't help but wonder how the Targaryens had survived with so many lost children. She'd tried to count, to keep track of them, but it was mostly the presence of Daeron, the six month old babe of Aerys II, that let her keep track of the king's children. His older sister's spirit clung to him the closest, only the faintest echo of femininity coming from it giving a hint at that one being Shaena. Around them were also Aegon and Jaehaerys, the former being such a small babe as to seem grotesque, the other being a toddler even but somehow… sadder than the rest. Perhaps it was how his lips were blue and tongue purple, hinting that he had in fact been the victim of poison.

She had learned much watching the spirits, Balerion sitting with her in the Skull Room.

Sarella's advice had been particularly useful in guessing some of the other almost wisps, with the identity of many put down to paper along with their vague jabs based on the "feelings" each spirit there gave her. Though mostly their focus had been on identifying each of the adults.

As for the rest, those had been much easier. Ones like Aegon the Unworthy had been simple, though also the limit of the ones with defined features. Any Tagaryens older than them had features that faded rapidly. Certain ones, like Aegon I, were still strong enough to have a "presence". He and his sister-wives had strong sparks of magic that sustained their wills, even as their forms were eaten away by time and the lack of a body.

Some, like Brightflame and Aemon the Dragon Knight and Rhaegar also had a greater preponderance of magic, though the crown prince's was… warped. Like an instrument out of tune. Shiera Seastar was strong still, one of the strongest in fact, though most curious of all was the fact that the Bloodraven, one of the subjects of her dream, was not counted within the room.

Rhaegar, though, was an object of fascination. He'd come to her, three times now, and whispered in her ear as she slept. The first time it was a prophecy of the Long Night come again. The second a prophecy of Azor Ahai - which, according to Marwyn, was a figure from the legends of the Red Priests and that she should engage Thoros of Myr to learn more. Finally, though, she told him of a dragon with three heads. A song of fire and ice.

"Yet why do you not speak to me now?"

He was holding back, almost as if he was afraid, and had avoided her for the last few of her visits.

As had become habit, her days were routine. She rose in the morning, often finding Tyene in her bed, usually dressed, sometimes nude, only rarely finding that her older sister had partially molested her while they slept, and went to the training yard. There Ser Barristan and sometimes Ser Lannister would drill her, the king, and any others who were interested. The training was harsh and always left her sore, but Obara always knew what to do and say to push her just a little bit farther . Sarella had even taken to drilling her in archery, too, and had started requiring her to loose fifty arrows, admittedly nothing compared to Sarella own two hundred and fifty, with each hand before she was dismissed.

Still, she would soldier on, changing into riding leathers to cover the day's lessons with the queen and the royal trio - often accompanied by Ser Jaimie.

This would be a serious, if simple, lesson. She exercised total control over the horses and, aside from Prince Tommen bruising his arm once, there had been no meaningful injuries. Even that had only made the boy more excited, now that riding his old gelding had a spark of danger.

In a way, it had been charming to see Cersei praise it as a wound nobly won, after thoroughly making sure he was whole.

She had dallied a whole extra half an hour with her brother that day, though Ophelia hardly begrudged them such time together.

After her morning duties were complete, she'd retire for a bath and an early lunch, breakfast usually taking the form of an apple and biscuits eaten in the saddle these days. Once clean and fed, she would come down to the Skull Room, her lair in the castle, and meditate.

It was a rare day when a new secret was whispered in her ear, but the Targaryens welcomed her amongst their number. Queer, for the fact she know her dragon's blood was thin indeed, though Marwyn and Sarella were investigating the turn of phrase "blood and fire" and what that might mean. She had brought both, and her father for that matter, to the room.

All had been affected differently, with Oberyn most deeply struck.

Somehow, the man had felt Rhaenys's hand touch his own.

She did not begrudge him his happy tears, nor told anyone of what she saw that evening. Sarella had, had less of a personal interaction, instead finding her hair played with by the children before some of the female spirits whispered something into her ears that made her blush deeply and that the scholar-to-be refused to share with anyone. Strangely enough, she had not returned to the room since, instead taking Ophelia's notes and applying herself to the castle library when they were not exploring the secret passages together.

Marwyn had the most understandable of all reactions.

Gasping, the old man almost collapsed when he felt the spirits manifest, though he could not see them as she did. Rising up, he performed a few small cantrips, bowed, begged their pardon, and fled.

Several of their number found the entire thing deeply amusing and the man had, slowly, started to come to the room on his own.

In the afternoons, she did what took her fancy. Sometimes it was as vague as resting, or reading, or visiting with the king or queen, or simply spending time with her sisters. But sometimes it was more objective focused, partly that included visiting Tobho Mott or playing the tourist, the Great Sept of Baelor being her intended goal for today before she was interrupted.

"Despite what they did to you, I still can not find it within me to care."

Oberyn had sent Tyene to her. A Tyene that had a glow about her that spoke of a bone deep satisfaction. And no, Ophelia had not been jealous that her sister had found a lover.

"I actually would have preferred that." She frowned. "But I suppose you are neither the first, nor the last body that shall be disposed of for them." Before her was the form of Ser Amory Lorch. "But take comfort. I shall torture you no more."

He was pitiful, disgusting even. More like a mutilated, bloody lump of meat than a man. Still, she had seen worse. And it was all too easy to remember when the false knight had shattered her back, had murdered her mistress, had defiled her mistress's mother - that had been one of the secrets she had learned. So, whimpering on the cold stone ground, nude as the day he was born, he lay in the center of a ritual circle.

Ophelia's eyes were cold and heavy as she picked up a clay pot of wildfire.

"Whether justice or vengeance, I know not. But Amory Lorch, I burn away your flesh, I sear your bones, and I boil your blood. May your soul give life anew to those whom you had wronged."

Tossing the jar, the explosion was small and it was the sudden burst of heat that most affected her. Doused in oil, he burned quickly and brightly, too far gone to scream or do more than limply writhe as his flesh was consumed. The witch watched as the spirits of the dead Targaryens gathered around the burning man, seemingly drawing something up from the pyre and growing… more substantial from it.

Greater. Deeper. More.

She turned away, distantly concerned by the lead in her chest. A fierce joy and a sense of righteousness filled her thrumming heart, the approval of the beings around her driving deep within. The urge to rise up from this crypt and put the whole of the castle to the sword was intense, but, kneeling down, she closed her eyes and let it wash through her.

The hate and pain and rage and suffering of hundreds of years of being flowed into her, then out.

She was filled up… and hollowed out.

Again and again she breathed, letting each wave of emotion and sensation run through her, but never letting it drag her away. Soon enough, it was done, the last embers of wildfire was gone, and she was merely kneeling before a bubbling cauldron and nothing else.

Rising up, she snuffed the flames with a flick of her wrist, drawing up a number of vials and portioning out the bubbling fluid within. Twenty four doses secured, plus the testing dose for the dogs, she placed each clearly labeled vial into a hardened leather satchel. Securing the tie, she rose up from next to her station and summoned forth a swarm of insects to consume the remnants of her work. Turning to the stairs that would lead the most directly to the great hall, she let her thoughts drift as she climbed.

In truth, this kind of spell craft was easy.

Potions, poultices, and little acts of healing - anything she could accomplish in an hour or two - were simple. And it was also what she did most rarely in the free time she had.

Sometimes, she would go into Fleabottom, alone save for her Swarm, and heal those who were within her power to do so. Other times it would be as simple as curing a cold in a high born child. Rarely did she ever intervene directly to save a life, or help with a childbirth, or to be too close to any pregnant women or women trying to get pregnant.

Any child she was involved with delivering might be thought cursed or a changeling or fey touched and the issue with being known as a witch was, always, that people expected a price from her. That and her reputation for spending great amounts of time with utterly lethal insects were largely why she did not do as she did now in Sunspear, for as much as they respected her the small folk could also be rather mightily afraid of her too.

Some prices she invented on the spot, once demanding a man's peg leg in exchange for curing an ulcer. She returned it a few minutes later, having drawn out all the termites from within and having shown him how it had a small colony starting to grow inside.

Another time she had asked for a single, utterly blank silver coin from a minor court noble. A random request, one chosen for the purpose of being random, and it had amusingly become a sort of calling card for her reputation. It had also had the effect of making people wonder what price she would ask for from the king.

"And there she is! The woman I wished I had married!"

Curtsying, she accepted the praise and immediately deflected, even as Robert winced at the booming sound of his own voice.

"Your grace forgets that his queen is far more beautiful."

The tall, still heavy set man was looking slimmer. With the recent uptick in exercise, his face had slimmed somewhat though his gut remained more or less untouched. She would wager he'd lost maybe half a stone, perhaps a little more, in the last week alone.

"Bah. You're the one that cures these damn hangovers. That's it?"

She handed over a vial, before also offering the testing sample.

"If you'd prefer to give it to the dogs first, I-"

He chugged the thing, utterly uncaring that the servants laying out some late day meal saw him toss the potion back. Ophelia would have sighed if her father hadn't come by and snagged the potion from her other hand too.

"Thank you my dear. How wondrous you are to know of our terrible need even before we did."

Snorting.

"With you two, I have little doubt that I shall never run out of need for this particular concoction." She smiled, though Ophelia would be lying if she said there was much feeling to it. "Besides, I am a dutiful daughter. And what good daughter does not honor her father."

Oberyn's own grin grew a bit solemn. Almost melancholy. And then, finally, he was stoic. Satisfied, but less overly mirthful. He too drank his potion and she relaxed a bit when the stress lines on her father's face faded a bit. Both he and the king had gotten blindingly drunk the previous night, so drunk that Robert had missed his morning training. It was the work of a black liver and an iron will that let her father soldier through.

The king was just fat.

"I tell you Oberyn, let me marry her. I'll give you the Stepstones as a dowry. Hell, I'll give you whatever you want!" Chewing away at a piece of ham, the king waved a knife about. "I wouldn't be the first king to marry a witch either. And I remember one of them had his life saved by her."

This time she frowned.

"You mean Maegor the Cruel." His spirit lingered too, a black thing, noticeable in that it was still strong despite its age, but lacking itself in the magic of some of the others. "His witch-wife was a horror and caused not only a number of atrocities, but was a monster to match her husband. So too was he killed by the very throne you sit upon now… or so the rumors say."

Robert's response was to snort in laughter.

"Aye. Dragonspawn were like that." And just like that his mood soured, turning melancholic. "Took my Lyanna from me. Killed so many who did not need to die." Sighing, the great man seemed to almost slump. "Even my parents died doing King Scab's bidding. It's for the best they're gone."

Ophelia caught her father's eye and, at the jerk of his head, acquiesced. She had not intended to sober the king in the way she had. But, perhaps, she did not quite know what to feel seeing as she had just burned a man to death to feed the souls of those lost long ago. Sure, Ser Lorch was a false knight, a murderer and a rapist, and the worst kind of man. But, as her feet carried her away from the great hall, her thoughts turned to her own sins.

Alexandria, she did not regret. And now she could say she even enjoyed killing the woman for the games the false hero had played. Tagg was a monster too, a sadist just like Lorch. Mantellum was… necessary, at the time, as so many things had been. She regretted that murder. Coil she had enjoyed at the time and took pride in now - slaying him had been recompense for the terrible, terrible things she had done on his orders. And even as hard as she tried, she could never make up for the indirect suffering she had caused while working for him. Dinah was only one of a tiny few who had suffered because of her weakness and her selfishness.

Aster, she regretted.

Aster, she accepted.

Aster, she would remember.

There were others, but those had been less personal. The clones, Nilbog's creations, the Chinese soldiers. Strangely, the Yangban had been easy to kill, impersonal and faceless as they had been. Those that died during Golden Morning, though her memories of being Khepri were progressively more distorted the more she had merged with her Passenger.

Rhaegar's ghost floated up into the empty corridor, a number of low burning candles snuffing themselves out. His silver, dead eyes opened up and frozen lips tried to form sounds. A cold wind blew and the words he spoke seemed more to drift to her with the breeze than be spoken.

"A rapist's soul he was, in time a toll because, a child of thirteen, her brother cut open, her maidenhood broken, his blood a knife's sheen."

The prophecy was odd and jumbled, half rhyme and half nonsense. But she took the words to heart. Her kinsmen, however distant, were trying to comfort her and they had come to her. So perhaps she had helped avert some distant, future evil. Or perhaps she had really only committed another evil and sought to justify it.

She nodded to the spirit as he departed. Reaching out, the witch kindled the flames again, casting the interior corridor once more into light.

'In the end, the point is that I made a choice. I could have slit his throat or let him go. I burned him. That was my decision. Justifications be damned, I was true to my family. Perhaps that is all I need.'

Ophelia still felt like Just Taylor in that moment.

"O-phe-li-uhhhhh." And just like that, Elia of all people ran at her from, half tackling her in a hug. "Why are you brooding in some corridor! Ser Jaimie showed me this trick where I riposte and then kick my enemy in the, well, you know where! He said that cheating is how people like me kill people like him and Ser Barristan was gonna lecture him and everything, but then I pouted, and Ser Jaimie got out of the lecture and everything and promised to teach me more tricks too!"

Laughing, that feeling of insignificance, of crushing guilt and indecision and angst left her. Replaced by a fierce, burning fire she pulled her sister in tight.

"Love you kiddo. Come on. Let's go find the rest of us. Maybe do something together."

Hand in hand with her little sister, the witch let go of that tension as best she could, at the very least willing to be content in this moment.

Renly Baratheon​


Renly was born to rule.

Even since his oldest brother rose up in rebellion and cast down King Scab, he knew that their family was destined for greatness. When Robert had made Stannis Lord of Dragonstone and him Lord Paramount of the Stormlands that belief was confirmed. And with Robert's children bastards, Stannis and Jon Arryn weren't nearly as discrete as they thought they were, he was the rightful king. After all, Stannis was a miserable, boring, hidebound traditionalist at the best of times.

He had the charisma, the connections, the gold.

'Not to mention the skills with the sword. Loras is definitely good for more than one thing.'

Of the three Baratheon brothers, Renly knew without a shred of doubt that he was the best of both worlds. More personable than Stannis, wiser than Robert had ever been. The Lord of Storm's End knew deep in his bones that he was better, that he could be better than either one of them for the realm. That he was fated to do so.

Destined!

But there had been… complications.

Robert, as always, was being difficult. Unwilling to consider his counsel as nothing but the aspirations of a younger brother seeking acknowledgement. And the less said of the Queen's family, the better. A den of lions waiting to take a turn on the throne that Renly's brother had won. Something which galled him to the core and something he could never, would never permit.

The Tyrells were like minded and thus a pact was formed between them.

A Baratheon was needed to sit on the throne. But theirs would be the honor of birthing the next king, of a dynasty that united the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach as one.

And then… came the news about Dorne.

More complications for his grand plan.

The Martells, often isolated and unwilling to branch out into the wider world, were making movements. And it was from Loras how Renly came to learn of their moves, seeking an alliance with the Tyrells. That his erstwhile allies considered it was more than enough reason for Renly to become suspicious.

What did they have to offer?

What could they have to give that Highgarden couldn't provide for itself?

The answer, as it turned out, was magic.

One of Oberyn's bastard girls had apparently become famous as a practitioner of magic, and through those strange mysteries, was turning the once bereft Sunspear into an oasis amidst the scorching sands. It was only natural that the Tyrells would try and align themselves with this new unknown.

To measure her worth, to see what they could gain, to insulate themselves against a rising challenger or possibly a resurgent enemy.

Renly disapproved.

Dorne would take years to become anything close to plentiful. Whatever the charlatan girl planned, Renly thought his soon to be in-laws shouldn't have bothered with. He was certain that the Martells were making noise, nothing more.

Magic had been dead in Westeros since the dragons died. And any tricks she possessed now were just that. Besides, Dorne was best known for bluffing. Their army wasn't even close to the fifty thousand spears others apportioned them, nor did their navy amount to much, not even with Doran Martell himself pouring gold and silver into wood and sail cloth. Nor did they even enjoy unity, the Yronwoods infamously holding a grudge against the Martells.

"Even if those snake fuckers have managed to advance their station, it can only be through the power of others." Warm lips pressed to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his torso.

"Relax my king." Loras's voice was husky, warm, and full of life. "Brooding will only make you as bald as your middle brother. And I fear that if you take to wine you shall end up as your oldest brother. I think the both of us would be most disappointed if you were unable to perform certain… duties."

Snorting, Renly rolled over in his bed, dragging his lover with him. Ending up with his Knight of Flowers holding tightly to him, the Lord Paramount felt a stirring down below. But, when he moved to indulge that particular sensation, admittedly for the second time that morning alone, his Tyrell love kissed him instead.

"Not now Renly. The sun's up already and we have to be ready to meet my family. Besides, you can't be late to meet your fiance. It would be most unchivalric."

Shuddering, the older knight couldn't help but let a little disgust creep into his voice.

"You're sister is a wonderful young lady, but just the thought of a woman… uh."

Chuckling, Loras kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and slipped out of the bed. Going for the chamber pot, the beautiful man Renly had been blessed to be able to love tossed his hair and yawned, jaw popping, before speaking.

"If it makes you feel any better, the thought of you marrying my sister is truly, utterly strange to me. Revolting, even, since it feels almost like she's your sister too."

Throwing his hands up, the youngest Baratheon looked to the heavens.

"Oh Gods, why did you give him beauty and brawn, yet no brains." He turned to look at an amused Loras. "Because now I'm going to think of her like she's my sister too. And I wasn't aware I looked like a Lannister. So if I've suddenly gone blonde, you'd tell me, yes?"

A pair of pants hit him in the face and his paramour just laughed.

"Get dressed. We have time for a quick breakfast. Still, the servants will be arriving soon. Are you sure you can trust yours?"

Nodding, because it was a necessary precaution, Renly assuaged any fears his lover might have.

"Yes. All of the ones with access to my rooms are from Storm's End, are loyal to House Baratheon, and I brought older ones that have children back in the castle. I provide for them and their descendants." Beginning to get dressed himself, pulling on a clean velvet tunic and hose, the young man helped his lover belt his sword to his waist, stopping only to cop a feel, and then let Loras help him with his own.

"I'll see you in the great hall. Be quick."

A final peck on the lips and Renly slipped on his boots before leaving his lover to finish combing his hair. In fact, not wanting to have to put up with the mass of curls and knots was the real reason he himself kept his own hair cut short.

'Though I have to admit, Loras really is spectacular.'

Renly knew the way to his brother's office by heart. Could find it if he was blindfolded really. Of course, when he said office it was more like a tavern where Robert chose to drink away his sorrows while doing what little work he could in the company of the Kingsguard.

Most of the time mocking Ser Lannister if he had the misfortune of being the one assigned to guard him.

Renly's plan for the day was simple.

Offer his brother some counsel, maybe try and clue him in to the real intentions of his wife's family. Not too much, Renly wanted his brother to come to his own conclusions and see his youngest brother as someone to be trusted.

Small steps. He had appearances to keep.

And maybe, just maybe, convince the man to just name him his heir. He'd done so once, he could do it again.

So imagine Renly's surprise when he walked into the room and found his brother, the king, having a drinking contest with Oberyn Martell. Both men chugging down large pints of wine like they were half their age while the Kingsguard watched transfixed.

What in the name of the Seven….

Perhaps Renly hadn't woken up after all. There was no other explanation for what he was seeing other than that it was a fever dream.

"Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink!"

Half of the bloody Kingsguard was cheering as Robert tilted back a cup made from a dragon's skull, while Oberyn himself had a wine skin closer to the size of a toddler than anything a human should be able to consume. Crying out in victory, the king slammed the skull down, jabbing a finger at the Martell prince and only half slurring his words.

"Stop drinking you… you… dessert dog! Dessert? Desert. Desert dog!"

Grunting, and pulling his lips away from the wine skin, the prince swayed slightly before, very gingerly, setting the sack down.

"Alright then, your grace, let us most graciously and loquaciously measure our weights." Puffing out his cheeks, the man then let out a loud, long belch. "Ah. Just the way to start the morning."

Shuffling over, the wineskin was added to a scale, several lead weights being added until it was balanced.

"Half! That's… that's… how many less is that Blount?"

"Five large weights and one small weight, your grace!"

At the man's response, Renly's brother cried out.

"Hah! Take that Dornishman! I've beaten you! The skull had six weights worth of wine and you only managed five and… uh, how much?"

"One small weight, King Robert."

Once again the king crowed in victory, throwing his arms up and cheering. Unfortunately, this also rather terribly unbalanced him, causing his chair to tip backwards. Tumbling ass over head, the king ended up in a heap as his guards rushed about him. Still, Robert took it with good cheer, clapping them all on the back and being, gingerly, brought to a couch. Even Prince Oberyn helped him move, though not before ordering a servant to bring a wet compress and chilled drinking water.

Somewhat awestruck by the sheer intensity of the drunken revelry in front of him, Renly had to shake his head clear and actually assert himself.

"Robert, is this really the time to be drinking? The Tyrells are supposed to arrive around midday."

Turning to look up at his brother, it took the king several moments and a great deal of blinking before he relaxed. Shooing away his guards, and smirking at the Dornish prince once again, the rather pleasantly sloshed king settled onto a soft pillow and smiled at his younger brother.

"Don't worry Renly, that's plenty of time to sleep off… at least most of this." Chortling, the older man actually looked happy. And even a bit less fat, if still rather heavy, if Renly was any judge. "Plus with Ophelia's potions I won't even be hung over. Hey, Oberyn!" Gesturing to the prince, who even then, was slowly rubbing his face, the king tried to sit up for a few moments, before ultimately giving up and lying back down. "Let me marry your daughter already. I'll let her rule Westeros. She can have all the bloody power, so long as she keeps letting me drink."

"I apologize, your grace." The prince managed a, somehow elegant, seated bow. "You may command me, but I am afraid I have never been able to command my children."

Snorting, the Lord of Storm's End wanted to make a rude comment. However, he had enough tact to know that doing so in front of his brother would avail him nothing. Instead he was treated to the sight of the Kingsguard, Westeros' greatest and foremost knights, having to clean up and make his brother presentable. They also let him sleep for about two hours before doing anything other than getting a clean set of clothes laid out.

Though the sight of Ser Merryn Trent being doused with some of the King's… backdraft was hilarious.

The two drunkards made merry, threatened to kill each other a few times and downed some strange peculiar liquid from the Prince's flask before the group was finally able to leave the office and march in… somewhat orderly fashion, towards the throne room.

If the Seven were kind, perhaps his brother would go through the meeting without insulting any of the Tyrells.

"So which of them is the daughter? They all look the same to me."

'I… just jinxed myself, didn't I?' Renly should have known better at this point.

"It's easier to ask for names, your grace. It's what I do whenever I have to visit Highgarden."

Oberyn's response was tolerable. Tolerable enough Renly tipped his head to him. On the inside he was hoping his brother didn't do something that forced him to push his engagement to Margery ahead. Right now he was still negotiating with the Tyrells, without mentioning his brother's lack of a true born heir, and hoping to get by on Mace's love for his third born son and implying certain things to Olenna.

"The father's name is Mace, you should remember that well enough, he looks like you and enjoys the same things." Robert laughed, nodding along. "He's your Lord Paramount of the Reach after all. His mother is the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell. Try not to be left alone with her." At that Oberyn chipp in too.

"She's a lovely old woman. I've made love to cacti that were less prickly than her. It's hilarious when her tongue is pointed at someone else though."

Opening his mouth to defend Olenna, the youngest man there actually took a moment to think.

"Actually, Prince Oberyn summed it up rather wonderfully. Thankfully her grandchildren are much more pleasant." By now they had reached the great hall and, with food and water in him, Robert was moderately more attentive. It helped that whatever witch's brew they'd downed made both his brother and the prince somewhat immune to any ill consequences of their drinking. "Loras is the youngest, he's actually rode out to meet them, and was my squire, you remember?" Robert jerked his head and gestured for his brother to continue. "Garlan couldn't come, but he's the second son, and Willas, Mace's firstborn and heir, is arriving with his bride Arianne Martel. Margery Tyrell, the daughter of Mace, is also with them."

Robert rubbed his beard a bit, shaking his head.

"Aren't you courting that girl? Margery? Hmm. You should marry her too, after I get back from the North. I'll make Ned organize it and everything."

Snorting, Renly shook his head.

"I can organize my own wedding Robert, thank you."

"Nonsense!" The king barked. "I'm the one who has to plant his fat ass on a pointy chair, the least I can do is help my brother marry a girl he likes. Though, I actually thought yo-." Snapping his mouth shut, the king coughed and ate a piece of ham before continuing. "Anyways, you're my little brother, so let me help you damn it. Also, Oberyn, didn't you cripple the boy Willas?"

Frowning, the prince actually looked genuinely frustrated.

"Aye. We… jousted. My pride ensured that I treated a young knight as if he was a veteran. His leg ended up trapped in a stirrup and Willas was pulled along the ground by it." Somewhat brooding, the prince shook his head. "A waste too. Even when I heard his leg snap, the boy didn't cry out. Since then we've exchanged letters and he's very knowledgeable about horses and hawks. I do somewhat wish I had been too drunk to fight in that particular tourney."

Actually feeling a moment of empathy, Renly nodded.

"Aye, the prince speaks true. But Willas also breeds the finest of hounds and has taught an eagle to act as loyal as a dog. The man is… a bit boring, if I am to be honest, and a bit overly pious in other ways and not at all disposed to the kinds of fun most young men of class enjoy. But he is a good man. So Robert, I beg you, treat them well."

That actually got an offended huff out of the man.

"Seven above man, they're going to be family soon! I'm not going to treat them like Dragon Spawn just because they sided with the damned Targaryens, Hell, I spend more time with Obara than I do my wife and I… well… Oberyn hasn't killed me yet. The important thing is that you care for the girl enough to wed her, I'll treat them right." He reached over and clapped Renly on the shoulder with one hand and Oberyn with the other. "So let's go get ready to receive them. I'm mostly sober, Oberyn's stone cold sober, and you don't drink enough as is Renly. So let's go meet them and I'll take us all out for a night on the town!"

Half an hour later, as the Tyrell procession rode into town, the young Lord of Storm's End was still unsure whether he should be thankful or utterly terrified. Moreover, he wondered if Vary's advice would hold true and if he'd be able to reach Baelish in time.

At least when Loras rode ahead, in silver mail with a green shield painted with three golden roses all to announce the arrival of his family, the rather stressed young man was able to finally relax.

It was always good to see his one, true love.

Nymeria Sand​
​

"This place smells like shit."

Nymeria Sand, second of her father's daughters, tried to behave in a way befitting a woman of her standing. With the noble blood of Westeros and Essos alike coursing through her veins, she was as much a Lady as any of the droll waifs at court could ever hope to be.

Unfortunately, even her practiced patience could be tried. And King's Landing was proving to be quite a challenge.

Not because of its intricate web of lies and schemes.

Not because of some overly complicated plan to lead her to ruination.

No, the journey was such an ordeal because Nymeria had never been to King's Landing before, and thus was wholly unprepared for the offensive stench which assaulted her. The closest comparison she could find was the time she asked dear Ophelia to prepare a poison jar for her… personal usage.

Only for the dratted thing to break when she came to retrieve it.

They spent weeks living at the Water Gardens because of the unholy, definitely poisonous miasma which overtook the palace.

Sarella and Tyene still teased her about it!

"Why do you think I ordered all those damnable roses brought along?" Olenna Tyrell, mother to the current Lord Paramount, loudly grumped. "I have roses on my small clothes, roses in my food, and if I was a Lannister I'd probably find roses in my chamber pot too."

Margery, the woman's granddaughter, put her face in her hands.

"Nana, you can't talk like that! We're not in Highgarden anymore!"

Unfortunately, Nymeria had also spent the last three weeks in the close company of this particular woman. Meaning she still hadn't learned when to keep her mouth shut.

"Oh really? I thought you liked all the roses because watching them wilt reminded you of your own, slowly creeping decay."

Arianne reached over and swatted her arm.

"Cousin. Really?"

Winking at the still embarrassed Margery, the only bastard, but certainly not the biggest bitch, in the wheelhouse tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Well I haven't poisoned the Queen of Thorns." Turning to glare at the old woman in question, the Sand couldn't help but pull her teeth back. "Despite her slipping something into my food… twice. I feel that it's only fair to warn you that my other sisters won't be so diplomatic in responding to your little jokes."

"And I would have stopped drugging you if you would stop trying to seduce my granddaughter. I know you Dornish are known for being hot blooded, but it's almost like you want to start a war."

Sarella would have laughed it off and then plotted revenge.

Obara would have been annoyed but nothing would come of it.

Tyene… well… that didn't bear thinking of.

Elia wouldn't have been pranked to begin with.

As for Ophelia? She probably would have known ahead of time and sidestepped the entire joke like the know it all killjoy she could be.

Nymeria's response to the old woman's taunt was to simply smirk a bit more deeply before making eye contact with Margery. While she wouldn't actually do anything to a girl as young as the Tyrell child, it infuriated the Queen of Thorns to see her granddaughter blush and look away. Meaning it was a deeper kind of satisfaction than the poisoner had been able to extract in any other diplomatically acceptable way.

"Cousin, please stop. If I have to explain to your father why the Tyrells arrested you I'm rather sure your sisters will burn Highgarden to the ground." Arianne put a hand on her knee, squeezing intently enough to make it clear. "We're about to be around the men again and they expect us to like each other. Please? For me?"

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, the bastard huffed and sighed.

"Very well. I'll play nice. Mostly."

Snorting in derision, Olenna shook her head.

"You, my child, are a dirty old man in the body of a somewhat intelligent young woman."

Her fingers twitched. And Nymeria had to strangle the impulse to reach for one of her hidden knives. Instead, she opted for a pleasant smile. Something so fake it might as well have been glued to her face.

"I am my father's daughter, Lady Olenna. More so than any of my sisters."

Thinking of them, Nymeria couldn't help the flash of warm happiness that filled her. It had been some time since she last saw them. How were they doing, she wondered? Were they eating enough, staying out of trouble? Was Tyene planning one of her little schemes? Had Ophelia already turned the city upside down?

She wanted to see them.

Badly.

Didn't want to leave them to begin with. The Snakes were at their best when they worked together and she'd been missing them quite badly. Hopefully none of them had done something… unwise without her there to reign them in.

Well, them or father. It was a coin toss most days.

"Speaking of the man. You did send him a message sometime ago, didn't you." Nymeria already knew where this was going, having grown familiar with the Queen of Thorns's knowing stare and thin smile.

Like she had caught onto a secret.

"Very perceptive, Lady Olenna. Your vision is not so far gone that you failed to see in plain daylight."

"None of that cheek girl. I'm just curious about what you would have thought so interesting about your cousin's wedding that your father had to be told about."

"Father cares for his family. I was assuaging his worries." Not a lie, but she wasn't saying the whole truth either.

That was the game with Olenna Tyrell.

Whoever said something they didn't mean to, lost.

"Oh, I'm sure he does. Whatever… flaws the man might have, I do not doubt his commitment to family. It's an admirable quality to have. Surrounded by a dead sister, a crippled brother, and more daughters than he knows what to do with, the man must be quite concerned for his family. Spread as they are over the kingdoms."

If the threat was real, she would have cared. But by this point Nymeria simply chalked it up to one more little conversation to share with Tyene. And assuming Olenna was ever an obstacle….

'Well, those pleasant thoughts should be best saved for her funeral.'

Arianne, at this point, had tuned them both out. Instead she was speaking with Margery about Renly, her maybe fiance to be. Even then, the insult levelled at her father would have hardly offended her, considering she would be the one that would be controlling Highgarden the day she was married. Olenna would die soon, after all, and at her age a sudden downward turn in her condition would hardly be unusual. It was the least Nymeria could do for her cousin.

"I thank you my lady." She inclined her head. "We have made inroads with a great many allies. Dorne's period of isolation is finally ending and a point shall be made that the… missteps of the past will not be repeated. Westeros has seven kingdoms, after all, and not just three."

Any further comments would have to wait as the wheelhouse came to a stop, the sound of sudden movement and people dismounting echoing around them. A mild knock out the door forestalled any response.

"My ladies, we have arrived."

A servant opened the door when Olenna wrapped back with her cane and the ladies within made to step out. Willas, with his own cane and sweating a bit, held out his hand for his bride to be. Arianne, a pleasant flush on her cheeks, took the kind man's hand and made her way down a short set of steps used to dismount. Next, Loras arrived, offering a gallant, armor clad hand to his sister. Margery, half tempted to throw her arms around her sibling's neck, Nymeria knew from the way the girl's eyes sparkled in delight, took the hand and gracefully stepped out too.

Next came the great, blustering Mace Tyrell. A pleasant red flush was on his cheeks and the jolly idiot actually offered his hand to Nymeria first, even opening his mouth to invite her to dismount. Olenna, of course, discreetly rapped his shin with her cane causing the man to wince.

"You dunderhead, I may be old but she's not so pretty you'd help a bastard before your own mother, is she?" Nymeria knew the actual importance of the whole situation, specifically because she was an attractive bastard. Helping her down first would lead to, at best, rumors. And Olenna was nothing if not keenly aware of the power of such things.

However, surprisingly, he persisted.

"Come now mother. The prince wants to be the one to help you down."

Smiling, she did genuinely enjoy the man's company as odd as he could be, Nymeria shook her head.

"Thank you my Lord. But help your Lady mother first, it is only polite."

"Of course, of course." He bowed his heads at her words and shuffled slightly so that, when Olenna descended the steps, both Mace Tyrell and her slightly pouting father helped her down.

"My lovely rose, it is so good to see you again. Ah, if only I could steal a kiss." Oberyn was practically dancing in delight. "And you have been so good to bring my daughter back to me. Truly, you have a mother's heart."

What happened next was a flurry of introductions, the king himself was there with his brother and half the court, as names were exchanged, pleasantries layered until the air was thick, and, finally, Nymeria was able to slip away. Spying a trail of insects marching along the castle floor, she snorted and, thankful that she was a bastard and therefore not expected to be at court, immediately began following the bugs.

Coming to a side chamber, she was surprised when a blur struck her from the side.

"Nym, Nym, Nym!"

Elia had tackled her, leaping from a side alcove, and practically knocked her to the ground. Shifting slightly, she made sure none of her knives were poking into either of them and hugged the twelve year old back. Arms wrapped around her neck and her little sister was practically babbling away at her and, hugging her sibling back, the second born Sand Snake wanted to laugh when she noticed a loaf of bread and slab of butter, wrapped up of course, abandoned on the ground.

"Hey sweetling. How are you?" Running her fingers through Elia's hair, she cooed. "You've gotten taller on me haven't you! And even more beautiful than before." Pressing a kiss to her sister's head, Nymeria felt a certain tension within her release. "And you've gotten stronger too."

"Yup! Ser Barristan and Ser Jaimie have been teaching me and Ophelia and Obara and others! Oh, plus Sarella found a magic sword and Ophelia found a bunch of skulls and Obara helped dad fight some bad people and Tyene had a lot of fun playing with a bad man and she made friends with the queen and Myrcella and Tommen are super nice, but Joffrey wouldn't play with us much, though he's actually pretty good with a crossbow. Also, Ophelia said that if I don't have anything nice to say about someone I shouldn't say anything at all so I found something nice to say about him."

"Elia. Did you really tackle our sister." Both girls looked up, only to see a witch standing above them. "Hello Nymeria, it's good to see you."

Sitting up, she moved Elia off of her, only for both sisters to watch the girl scramble after her abandoned snack. Both older girls shared a giggle, Ophelia reaching down and helping her older sister to her feat. Embracing, this particular hug wasn't quite as excitable but no less heartfelt. Oddly enough, the older sister found herself actually looking up at the witch.

"No, I don't believe it, you've gotten taller again!"

Chuckling, the witch shook her head.

"Yeah and your tits are bigger than they were too."

"That's not my fault!" Pouting, Nymeria took Elia's hand as the girl came over and tugged on her sleeve. "The Tyrells have been feeding me like a pig. Mace, and I do have some thoughts on him to share, seems to think that now is the time to start acquiring grandchildren. He offered me my pick of his other two sons and tried to bribe me with food and dates with them!"

Opening the door to the side chamber, Ophelia led the group into what seemed like a now rather lived-in storage room. Large enough that it would have been more than capable of serving as a barracks, the slight hint of stale sweat hinting that it had once been used for just that, the Sand Snakes had taken over the area. Far enough to one side and actually in Maegor's Holdfast, it had wooden slat windows that faced out to the bay, doing wonders for coaxing a slightly salty breeze in from past the port, actually washing away both the odor of the city and the dock alike.

Within, the other Sand Snakes were doing what they did best.

Obara, in a loose shirt and trousers, was doing pull ups using a metal bar attached to the wall, dropping to her feet and picking up a towel when Nymeria walked in. A small smile and the visible relaxation of Oberyn's first born telling the slightly younger sister just how happy her one and only big sister was to see her.

Tyene was… mostly naked, half way through getting dressed and more than accidentally putting on a show in the direction her sisters had just come from.

"Don't worry about her. Tyene is just gonna go seduce the queen now." Elia giggled when she said this. "Ophelia even got a little jealous, though maybe 'cuz she likes the queen too."

Nymeria wanted to say something. Instead, when she turned to Sarella, she hoped the Summer Sister would tell her that Elia was just being a child. Instead, seemingly scribbling a map of many, many tunnels, she looked up, frowned, and shook her head.

"Ophelia's not that into the queen, she's just helping her visit her, uh, 'brother'. But yeah. Tyene roofied the queen and is spending a lot of time with her nowadays. She brought me along to distract the royal children. The younger two are absolute angels, even if Joffrey is as interested in Tyene's choice of dress as the queen is."

"Must you throw me under the horse, immediately, oh sweet sister of mine?"

The blonde gave a great heaving sigh, actually pulling on enough cloth to be considered covered - even if she'd never be called decent by anyone who knew her.

"Well, thank the Seven father didn't try to seduce the queen as some twisted form of revenge."

That got a bark of laughter from the eldest sibling.

"Father took a married woman and a knight from Dragonstone as his lovers. A lady knight with greater strength than a man grown." Mostly clean, she came over and hugged her sister, somewhat gingerly, and whispered lowly in her ear. "I am truly glad to have you back Nym."

Ophelia pulled Elia away, giving the eldest two time to speak, and while Nymeria was touched any plotting could wait. Giving Obara one last squeeze, she turned to the rest of the room.

"All of you, I'm glad to be back. The only thing that would be better was if we were all in Dorne with the youngest too. Still, other than courting absolute disaster, how have we done? Are Uncle's plans progressing well?"

Nodding, Sarella set aside the page she was working on.

"With Ophelia's help the Red Keep has been pretty much mapped out. She may have woken up a bunch of Targaryen ghosts too."

Seeing an opportunity for revenge, Tyene draped her arms around the scholar's shoulders, brushing her ear with her lips, and speaking too.

"But Sarella, my precious, beautiful little sister, why don't you tell dear Nymeria how you started a riot in Oldtown." Her arms wrapped a little tighter. "Besides, Obara is actually getting close to the king, they train together every morning, even go for runs together too. Ophelia just supplies him with very expensive potions at cutthroat rates. And sometimes listens to him brood about Lyanna. Honestly, we really should just remove the queen and marry Robert. He is, more or less, utterly in our hands at this point."

Nymeria gave her blonde sister "the look".

Blushing, she looked away, unable to make eye contact, and that's how Nymeria knew Tyene was actually being naughty. So she raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"And I've been playing my little games with the court. I've driven three people mad, one couple to lovers suicide, and managed to identify most of the would be spy masters at court."

"You've had less than two weeks." Her tone was a bit dumbstruck. "This isn't even Dorne!"

"Yes." The almost child-like innocence of Tyene shown through. "But they're very horny and exceptionally dramatic here."

That got a round of laughter, though by this point everyone had gathered at one of the beds, Elia in particular handing out warm, soft slices of heavily buttered bread. Eventually, after plenty of gossip and stories being swapped, there was a knock at the door, and a servant informed them that the queen was occupied with the current Tyrell guests.

Tyene smiled and demurred and sent the blushing maid on her way before, turning back to the group. Nymeria, however, knew that what was coming would probably get them in trouble.

"Say, why not take this opportunity to… rekindle our sisterly bonds?"

And there it was.

"Tyene, now is really not the time for one of your games."

Her younger sister pouted, though it looked exaggerated with hurt at the accusation.

"Nothing of the sort, dear sister. I only suggest we take some time to bathe properly. To commemorate our reunion. I'm sure we have more than enough time to… catch up."

Ophelia frowned.

"She's… not actually wrong. Obara needs to get clean and so do you. Father mentioned earlier that we're having a meal with the royals." Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "Did you spike the bathwater with anything?"

The blonde just smirked at her sister's accusation.

Nymeria simply sighed and kept hugging Elia.

It felt good to be with her family again. That didn't mean she wouldn't be raking them over the coals later, though.

Obara Sand​


Looking over the manifest, Obara confirmed that, indeed, the last of the Alchemists Guild's key supplies were present. In fact, as she looked inside one particular satchel, she actually noticed the ingredients looked like the same stuff her sister used when making her hangover cure. Maybe. Probably. The man at arms with her probably knew about as much when it came to herbs as she did.

"Is everything in order, Lady Sand?"

Wisdom Hallyne, an old man with a white beard and a cap tied over his head, shuffled over to stand next to the cart Obara had been inspecting. She grunted, nodding.

"For now. Are the sellswords behaving?"

At this the man looked at her like she was a bit slow. Narrowing her eyes, the first born daughter of the Red Viper made it clear what she thought about his opinion. Raising his hands, the old man bowed.

"I meant no disrespect. But they are acting as such men do. However, we have taken great care with the last of the apprentices we recruited. Your family's treasures and our own secrets will remain as such. At the least, Jalabhar Xho seems to have them well enough in hand."

Obara smiled wryly.

Yes, the foreign prince seemed to be quite taken with their business offer, and had taken something of a leading role amongst the sellswords, only to keep them focused on what they stood to gain from behaving and working alongside them.

Eager to finally leave King's Landing behind, the exiled southerner had also expressed great… undisguised… interest in their adventurous sister. Even going so far as making ludicrous promises of making Sarella into a princess.

He was certainly a character.

All in all, things were coming along nicely.

Oh there were some hiccups. Unfortunate circumstances that they couldn't have prepared for. Tyene's… involvement with the Queen being one of them. And her own father nearly starting a war because of his rather understandable vice of wrath. In fact, Nymeria had spent nearly ten minutes chewing the man out for not being more discreet with his open hatred of the now "missing" man, even if that was probably working out her nerves over Tyene continuously teasing her.

'I suppose I'd be annoyed too if I had to leave my twin lovers behind. Nymeria always was spoiled.'

Ophelia was also, as always, unpredictable. Though she'd made quite a few discoveries and retrievals since their arrival. The wildfire traps all over the city proved beneficial, even if they did slow down the witch for a few days, and on the whole King's Landing had received alms twice more, her reputation was firmly established here, and there was that other little tidbit shared during the bath.

'The girl needs to tell us when her powers change like that. Covering the whole of the Red Keep after feeding a bunch of dead, mad Targaryens? Well. Perhaps that's a, what did Sarella say, oxymoron? Yes.'

"Perhaps. But you will be secure, yes?" Her words were chosen carefully. She would not risk them being misunderstood. "I could always speak with Father. A few Dornishmen to escort you might help avoid any misunderstandings."

Barking a laugh, the old man shook his head.

"Misunderstanding? Who could possibly misunderstand a thousand strong host of sellswords marching along with a hundred wagon chain of alchemists, all bound for the heart of Dorne." Shaking his head and muttering, Obara was actually a bit amused by his response. "Kids these days." Speaking up, Hallyne continued after the bastard jerked her head at the man accompanying her, instructing him to remain a discrete distance away. "Yes, that would be most wonderful. Perhaps one of the Reachman lords that accompanied Lord Dondarrion and a Dornish lord that was part of his contingent too?"

"Aye. Point taken. I'll speak with Father. Still, how goes the operation in King's Landing?"

At her words, the Wisdom visibly brightened.

"Wonderful, actually. With the king eager to get our Wildfire out of the city, we've purchased a fortified estate in the countryside. Wisdom Munciter was kin to the man we purchased it from and a King's Landing native besides. So, with our cache being moved there, it should only be… hmm… a month or two more and it will all be secure. Before the royal party returns with the new Lord Hand, at the very least."

"And the guild proper?"

Practically glowing in excitement, he took this as an opportunity to almost babble.

"Your sister's treatments have been a wondrous success. Moreover, she has connected us with one Tobho Mott. Trading secrets for secrets, we have helped him coax the flames in his forge even hotter than his master knew how and he too has shown us how to better shape certain materials. More importantly, your sister's actions have created a new market for healing that does not come from Maestars. Alleged or otherwise. And healing, especially with regards to burns, is something we truly excel at." He sighed in contentment. "I almost regret refusing Qyburn now. The fortunes we could have made, the secrets we could have uncovered, ah…."

Frowning, the bastard couldn't help her curiosity.

"Qyburn?"

Nodding a bit sadly, the old man continued, if a bit less eagerly than before.

"A madman. Utterly, totally mad. But also a genius without compare. Your sisters, Sarella and Ophelia, are close, but they are still young. He had the luxury of many, many years to study." She motioned for him to continue. "Qyburn had been a Maester, once, but the Citadel stripped him of his chain for opening people while they yet lived, all to better study the human body. As for the rumors of necromancy, I can not speak to the veracity of such, but he was a truly gifted healer. I know of no man, magi or not, that had such a grasp on the human form."

Nodding, she took the information in stride. Ultimately it meant little and Obara had other things to focus on. Such as their planned disposition of resources. She knew her father would have discussed such things, but his mind was often more focused on other issues.

"So who will command here and who will command the chapter house in Sunspear?"

"Wisdom Munciter, as mentioned, will oversee the wildfire, as was his job. He has two apprentices who will do the same once we arrive in Dorne. Our plan is to actually recreate the fortified location there too, assuming your uncle sets aside the needed funds. In King's Landing proper Wisdom Malliard will remain, overseeing the renovation and, ah, fortification of our chapter house. Wisdom Pollitor and I plan to travel south, though he has already left."

"With the first group?" Obara spoke softly, thoughts starting to turn.

"Aye. And with the first thousand sellswords your father hired."

Obara snorted then.

"Hardly. That was the fourth or fifth group of mercenaries, even if not all of them were so large."

Leaving the confused and somewhat awestruck man behind, the daughter of Oberyn Martell strolled along the train of carts. It was the third such convoy and would depart in only a few hours, this being the day before the royal procession would head north, and itself would travel in the opposite direction.

Her goal, however, was to now find her sister.

Walking amongst the mercenaries, she snorted as they shied away. One of them had slapped Ophelia's ass a few days ago and Obara herself had taken her whip to the man's face. And when his friends had objected, violently, a horde of birds had descended upon them.

After that the sellswords as a whole had been much better behaved around all women.

"You're eying them like they're meat again." Seemingly coming out of nowhere, Sarella fell into lockstep. "And before you ask, no, they did not bother me. Jalabhar did try to convince me to marry him again."

"Queen of all the Summer Isles?"

Nodding, the younger of the two sisters agreed, even as her own escort stopped to speak with Obara's.

"Queen of all the Summer Isles indeed." She chuckled. "He's a very ambitious man."

Wrinkling her nose, Obara agreed.

"All princes seem to be ambitious these days. Uncle and his army, Father and his games, even the crown prince with how he looks at you and Tyene."

Sarella cut her eyes at her brawnier, taller sister.

"And you the king, sister, so be careful where you cast your darts."

Somewhat uncomfortable, the Dornishwoman shook her head.

"Hardly. He is married."

That got her a look.

"And we are Dornish, dear sister, and bastards besides." Sarella held up her hand to forestall any objections. "The reality of it is that it would be expected, whether that is the intention of your interactions with him."

Unasked went the question of whether Obara actually held any interest in the man. The older sister was still compelled to answer by the simple fact that her younger sibling looked far, far too smug.

"I train with him. That's all." That got her a raised eyebrow and she scowled in response. "You spend as much time practicing with that bow of your as I do learning from Ser Barristan."

"And the jogs? Is that just endurance training? It just seems like a lot of work to make a man look better for another woman is all I'm saying." Sarella paused, smirking. "But if that happens to be how you have fun, I think you and Tyene could spend some time with Ophelia and a few of their, ah, friends."

That got a punch to the shoulder in response. Obara felt deeply vindicated when her sister yelped and rubbed her arm, the miscreant dancing away for a moment before apologetically returning.

"Ok, ok, I had that one coming. But I'm serious." She paused, making sure no one was around and that they were by themselves near the end of the train of carts. "What do you see in him?"

"Sometimes, when he's swinging his hammer, I suppose I can see the warrior he once was. And when he's sober and calm I see the man he could have been." The eldest Sand Snake was unsure why she spoke, only that she felt a deep pang of regret at the fat drunkard, filled with nothing but shame and disappointment that so often was all the king was. "Maybe. I simply do not know. But none of that matters, tell me, is everything secure?"

Huffing, the most scholarly of the sisters crossed her arm.

"If you mean the immense amount of stuff we've looted, then yeah. The books are all secure, the things Ophelia dug up are in good condition, and it still rankles me that we found the Raven's Teeth armory but Father said that we shouldn't knock the door down."

Smirking, Obara clapped her on the shoulder.

"Aye. I doubt we would have been able to sneak all of that out of the Red Keep. And the king might have been forced to actually do something about the sheer amount of shiny things we were picking up."

Shrugging, if a bit ruefully, Sarella didn't argue the point.

"I wonder why they needed barrels and barrels full of dragonglass. It seems like a poor material for such a thing, doubly so since it was just a bunch of arrowheads. They weren't even fletched. If it weren't for the weirwood bows I'd have thought the things were ceremonial."

"Other than the name, does dragonglass actually have any importance?"

At her older sister's question, the younger took a moment to think about it.

"Maester Marwyn would probably know more, but I know the Valyrians had a special name for it and used it to make glass candles. I think the Children of the Forest made weapons out of it."

Shrugging, she tried to communicate that there wasn't much more to say.

"It's a volcanic rock that's shiny and breaks so that it's sharp. Hey, do you think Ophelia might like a glass candle of her own?"

"Maybe. Didn't they all go out years ago?" Nodding at her older sister's question, Sarella agreed.

"Without a doubt. But our sister is a witch." She grinned up at Obara. "Besides, we can tease her about that Targaryen ring she had fixed up for Elia."

Grunting, the older girl agreed.

"You're all spoiled too much. But I hope that particular ring is an omen of good things and not ill." Frowning, she hesitated a moment before pushing ahead. "I disagreed with it. Wearing that trinket."

Sarella frowned but nodded.

"Aye. The last Elia to bear the Targaryen symbol did not end happily. Did you speak with them about it?"

Shaking her head, the whip wielding woman responded in the negative.

"It felt silly to bring it up. Or like saying it might make it true."

Starting a little, Obara took a second to relax before she realized her sister had hugged her. Something that her sister had been only really doing recently, perhaps a bit of clinginess born of homesickness. But she didn't mind, reciprocating with a grunt and a one arm hug of her own.

"All right, enough." Breaking the hug, the older sister began marching back towards the castle. "Tell me about the maps, are they finished? And how, uh, how thoroughly did you scour the library?"

That got a loud, free laugh.

"You wouldn't believe how much fun Marwyn has been having. Between the blacksmith and Pycelle, he's been spending his days learning and teaching and driving that old goat utterly insane! Even Ophelia was warning him that the Grand Maestar has a great deal of pull and access to exotic concoctions. The Mage just retorted that she was enjoying his antics too much to let him die, oh you should have seen her face!"

The words made Obara chuckle, reminding her that her sisters were still young, almost just girls. Even Ophelia was only fourteen, Elia even younger at twelve. Sarella and Tyene were teenagers themselves and only Nymeria was truly a woman grown.

"It sounds hilarious. Perhaps less so for our sister. At least it would have been entertainment for the poor library staff you three have so terribly abused."

"Hey!" Sarella protested. "All I did was distract a few of the younger gentlemen."

"So Marwyn could get his hands on books of magic, no doubt."

The oldest sister's statement got another chuckle and a nod of agreement.

"Speaking of, where are our dear kinsmen? I know Father is with the Mage and the king, but where have our sisters gone?"

Obara's question got a snort and a roll of the eyes.

"Nymeria and Arianne had to, ah, catch up with Tyene. Ophelia ended up taking Elia to go see the royal children and have tea with the queen again. If you ask me, I think our cousin and most innocent of sisters would have rather she joined them."

That got a wry chuckle out of the older sister.

Spending the rest of their journey back to the Red Keep in silence, only speaking when they needed to get around someone, the sisters made good time, half because of their escort and half because of who they were. While their faces were hardly famous, Obara carried a whip and only one warrior woman in the city did so. Rare was the smallfolk who would accost the bastard of a prince, never mind the sister of a witch. In an admittedly twisted sort of way, she admired the fool who had been brazen enough to touch her sister, even if the first born of Oberyn, Prince of House Nymeros Martell, would have dragged the man to the gallows herself if Ophelia had been truly offended.

No woman of their blood could ever afford to be soft north of the Marches.

Musing on that fact, the woman focused on the defense of her kin considered an important fact. Elia Targaryen had made that mistake, or, perhaps, been that mistake. Soft and gentle, a rose without thorns, to borrow a Tyrell expression, and a woman of such gentleness as to be defenseless.

'If she had been cunning, or at least cruel, she might have poisoned the Mad King and saved us a great deal of heartbreak. But she was too kind, too defenseless. Never again shall we make that mistake.'

"Hey, that boy looks like the great bastard Ophelia told us about."

Whispering in Obara's ear, Sarella pointed out a particular black haired young man. He was well formed, strong in the arm and so much like a younger version of the king it was ridiculous. Moreover, he was speaking with a bored looking gate guard, clearly trying to convince the bored looking man of something.

"Oi, shove off brat. Let the ladies past." Knuckling his brow, the Gold Cloak saluted the two bastards. "M'ladies." Neither bothered to correct them on their status, almost amused at how casually the middle aged guardsman made the statement.

"Hey, wait, please!"

The great bastard called after them, drawing a rap of his shins from the man's halberd.

"Now don't you go bothering them! I didn' mind the company but you can't bother the nobles."

"It's fine." Obara raised a hand, getting another salute from the guardsman who shuffled off and visibly busied himself with scanning the crowd. "I trust you won't waste my time." She looked the lad over again, noting that he really looked like his father. Simply younger, more hale, and without the damage years of alcoholism did to the king. For the first time in a very long time, the young woman found herself wishing she had the same great beauty her sisters shared. Or that he was at least five or six years older, then, she thought, her beauty or lack of it would not have stopped her. "Speak boy."

Bowing his head, he did so.

"Yes my lady. My master bid me to inform your sister that 'the time is here'. I haven't the faintest clue what he meant by all that, but that was the message I was instructed to pass along. Thank you ma'am, uh, my lady, my ladies?"

Sarella chuckled, but Obara merely nodded.

"It's fine. Tell your master the message has been received. We shall inform our sister immediately. Thank you."

At this her sister gave the warrior woman a look, one that spoke volumes considering their earlier conversation, but any discussion was forestalled. After all, Obara would be able to deflect at least until after they had spoken to Ophelia. And surely Tyene would have given her an excuse, or ten, to busy herself elsewhere by then.

'Surely she shall….'

Robert Baratheon​


The wonders of good wine were plenty.

The heavenly taste. The pleasant warmth which spread from a single cup. The pleasant haze which filled his mind and turned his thoughts away from the despair which had clouded over his life from the moment Robert had lost the love of his life.

Yes, as far as Robert was concerned, wine was the greatest thing in the Seven Kingdoms.

In the end, the only downside were the terrible hangovers.

Something he'd never built a resistance for. And one of the chief reasons why he welcomed Oberyn and his gaggle of bastards so easily. After all, if the man's claims were true, Robert would never have to spend an hour away from his precious wine ever again, or feel the terrible side effects of its intoxicating embrace.

What he failed to realize, however, is that now he didn't have an excuse for not turning up to court.

Gods that realization had stung.

Was this how the Martells planned to have their revenge upon him? By forcing him sober at their convenience?!

'Maybe I slaughtered the wrong House after all.' He chuckled mirthlessly.

Bluntly, the Dornish had proven to be… a force to keep up with. Every single one of Oberyn's daughters had something which drew the eye to them. Be it their bluntness, knowledge, charm, eagerness, or mystery. Even Robert knew that they were a hit at Court, most who disagreed kept their words to themselves out of fear of the witch girl hearing them.

She was very good at keeping the court in line and civil.

'Maybe I should just make her my Hand and be done with this.' The temptation was there. Someone who helped unearth the last scheme of the Mad King, who commanded knowledge even Pycelle was unaware of, who rooted out evil just as easily as his own Master of Laws. Just as good at rooting out information as the Master of Spies.

And if Oberyn's stories had any merit, she was also very good at counting coppers.

Perhaps he should just be done with the Small Council and let her handle it.

He probably would have followed through with the idea too if not for the shit storm that it would cause. Drunk and miserable as Robert was most days, he wasn't eager to throw the Seven Kingdoms into another war. He liked peace. He liked being able to show off in torneys and hunt whenever it pleased him.

Perhaps he might get back to those once they came back from the North.

Aerys' last treacherous plot had stirred him. Robert couldn't relax with the thought of the city going up in flames beneath his very feet. It reminded him of the rage of war, kept him awake some nights as he wondered why he hadn't ordered a search.

The Mad King loved burning people. Why wouldn't he try to do it in his last moments?

The threat was more than enough to have him running around his own courtyards like a fresh faced squire. Impending danger, the feeling of something looming over his neck driving him to do something with all the jittering energy he could muster.

He needed to see Ned.

Needed to visit Winterfell and their crypts.

Perhaps then, he would put these lingering doubts to rest and mend the opened wound. See the final resting place of his dear Lyanna.

"Your Grace." A man stepped aside as Robert and his guards walked past. The man's robes slightly crumpled as he kept stride with the King.

"Varys. Any news on the wildfire?"

"Fortunately yes. Just a few days ago, our men helped remove the last cache hidden beneath the Great Sept. It had perhaps the highest count of jars out of all places so care had to be taken not to set one off."

Typical Aerys.

Planting the biggest trap in one of the most visited places.

"And the Alchemists? Nothing of their involvement?"

He'd put his Master of Whispers to work after the revelation. Dorne's Witch was well and good, but he couldn't trust their word without having his own people look into the situation. Another sign he'd been slipping out of the pleasant haze he enveloped himself with as King.

The bald man sighed in practiced fashion.

"Nothing their own investigations failed to report. Only a small faction was involved with the plot. And they have already been ousted. Though there is one small thing…."

Robert wasn't in the mood for games.

"Speak, Varys."

"With the arrival of the dornish contingent, there have been whispers of the Alchemist's Guild moving from King's Landing following this debacle. Most feel they will be ostracized for the substance's role in Aerys' ploy and fear repercussions will befall them as well."

As they very well should. Robert wanted to say.

Hadn't those fire worshiping freaks not been needed to remove the jars, Robert would have already had them all in chains and thrown into the bay.

"So they're leaving."

"Yes, your grace. Accompanied by a large contingent of sellswords, on boats headed down south and by caravan."

By south he meant Dorne.

And if Dorne was involved, then Oberyn and his Snakes were involved.

Well, far be it from Robert to care about a band of crazy potioneers. If Dorne wanted them to play with fire in their land, then he bid them good luck. At least in the desert there would be less to burn. Maybe. Assuming wildfire didn't melt the grains of sand to glass and then back again. Which, knowing the people who made it, that was entirely possible.

"And the Dragons?"

"The Beggar Prince remains across the sea, seeking any who would lend him an ear and an army. Not many are willing to. Not when he lacks ships and gold to carry them."

That was another worry which kept Robert awake at night.

The Last Dragon was dead.

The Mad King was dead.

But something remained of their cursed family and he wasn't eager to keep his eyes off them for any length of time.Winter would soon arrive and he would be damned if he allowed chaos to overtake the Seven Kingdoms before it passed.

But that was for later.

Now? Now he had to sit on that pointy chair and do the job he was saddled with.

Gods, how he hated his fucking crown.

There was a buzz in the air, very soon he would be departing King's Landing up North and there were announcements to be made. Who would be acting in his stead, what would be expected of them. As King, he had to address the events of the past few weeks and reassure those at court that the sky wasn't falling down on their heads.

And of course there was the arrival of the Tyrells.

Just another group of troublesome folks hoping to make a stir. Fortunately he wouldn't have to stick around, but he could swear that old hag was mocking him behind her half smiles and pleasant attitude.

Everyone who tried being pleasant around him was a liar.

'Even my wife. Though we haven't fought in, Gods, a week?' Thoughts of Cersei soon left him. She was a Lion and the Lions did not look upon the Stag and see a crown of horns. Only meat. At least Oberyn and his spawn were honest enough to tell him what they thought to his face. Death threats and all. 'At least Barristan and Obara have been good enough to help me lose a stone of weight. Maybe a bit more. Gods I'm a fat fuck.'

What Renly was thinking when he decided to get mixed up with that flowery lot, he'd never know. But at least the prickly old hag's granddaughter seemed to be a good fit for his little brother. He approved.

The arrival of yet another one of Oberyn's brats caused a stir too.

Just how many did the man have? Did he even know?

"Not as many as me." Robert chuckled to himself, waving away his escort and settling onto the Iron Throne. His thoughts turned black for a moment and he would swear he could smell the cooked flesh of the Dragon Spawn again. Almost hear the flames. "Herald, call the court to order."

His trumpet man bowed low, giving a low blast, and announced that it was time to begin. Gathering from the small cliques they intrigued in, Robert's court came together.

There was a change in the air, Robert could tell.

It was a tense sort of calm as people filed in. Waiting, watching each other as they waited. Martells, Tyrells, Lannister, Baelish, Varys, Renly, and so, so many others were present. Thankfully, his wife was absent, with their children and the youngest Dornish bastard girl getting ready for the trip.

'The calm before the storm.' Yes, it was a nice way to put it. 'Well. Better to be done with it all.'

"As you are all aware, I will be heading North to secure the assistance of Ned Stark as my new Hand of the King." He really did have to repeat things like this. People in King's Landing could be awfully stupid. And horny. "Until such time, my brother, Lord Paramount Renly Baratheon will govern as acting Hand of the King. He shall retain his post as Master of Laws. If anyone does anything particularly stupid, he is to hang you and be done with it. When I return, there shall be a tourney for the new Hand of the King. Preparations are to begin now. That is all."

Brief as he'd been, Robert already could see thoughts of intrigue rolling off his court as they conversed with each other. From silly things like who would enter the tourney, to small scandalous lies like how he was favoring his brother unfairly.

Load of hogwash.

Tywin looked displeased in the extreme, but his father in law could fish in a chamberpot for all the king cared The Tyrells looked quite satisfied with the announcement, Renly conversing with them, receiving their empty praises and half smiles. Gods watch over him if they turned out to be anything like Robert's own in-laws. A beautiful wife was cold comfort when she scorned you and spurned you and your own children were an afterthought. And, sitting there, see his brother converse with a young woman who was closer to the age of Robert's own children than his brother… the old king felt a pang.

Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was self loathing. But whatever it was, thoughts of a pregnant cat and a crossbow and a smiling, sweet boy and girl flashed through his mind.

'Gods above I've been a shit king. The bloody witch even taught my children to ride a horse.' Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned back against the still warm metal of the throne, almost wondering if he might die like Maegor the Cruel. 'At least it would be amusing.' He thought. 'And I'd not have to deal with the leeches any more. Maybe I should have Joffrey and Tommen ride with me a ways. Just a little. I can stomach keeping pace with the wheelhouse long enough to calm Cersei's worries for that.'

"Now." His voice boomed out, a voice that had once commanded armies. "Is there any important business to be seen to, or can we all get on with our day?"

What came next was a not at all small line of petitioners. In fact, there were at least a dozen highborn men and women alone. So, grunting in displeasure, he narrowed his eyes, feeling a vindictive sense of satisfaction when four of them stepped back into the crowd.

Being known as an angry drunk did have a few advantages.

Still, of the nonsense he had to listen to only the Tyrells were worth listening to. An invitation to the wedding of Willas of House Tyrell to Arianne of House Nymeros Martell. Renly actually asked him to come as well, making the older of the two brothers chortle and smile. Consenting, he promised he'd be there and would bring a cask of the finest Northern spiced wine.

Which got a whoop of joy from the bride's uncle.

Curiously enough, when the last of the highborn petitioners were finished and the lowborn ones were permitted into the court, they, as one, stepped to the side. Instead, in a far more sedate green dress, embroidered with little golden snakes, and wearing a Dornish veil and jeweled belt, the witch that so often occupied his thoughts stepped forward.

"Your grace." She curtsied. Slightly awkward, yet practiced.

A foreboding smile on her face.

What an ominous image, he mused.

"Well girl, what is it you need?" He spoke not unkindly, but he had enjoyed the lack of scheming amongst the Dornish. He felt somewhat sad they were entering the Game directly. "What boon can I grant you?"

"Thank you, your grace." She inclined her head. "But I come bearing gifts. By your leave?"

Robert thought it was a bit odd, now that he looked, but both of the bastard's wrists were bandaged. And, in fact, he thought he might see a little blood soaking through.

"Go ahead. But are you injured? Why do I see blood on your arms?"

Gesturing behind her, two men left the crowd. One Robert distantly recognized as a smith he'd seen once or twice. The other… made his heart stop. And not just because he had bandages on his arms too. Though most queerly of all was the fact the lad held two swords. Coming to a stop, both the smith and his bastard knelt.

"Magic always has a cost, your grace." Taking one blade from the young man, Robert noticed that it was obscenely ornate. The sheath was red leather, worked and tooled to have serpents, dragons, sun bursts, spears, and hawks around the edges. Looking closely, the order seemed deliberate, but he couldn't place it, with each symbol being worked in a different type of precious or semi precious stone. Just as the covering for the blade was ornate, so too was the hilt and the guard. Looking like weirwood if he had to guess, the grip was well formed with only very small etchings on it, with a pommel sat with a fat ruby and a guard, both of whom had been worked with the same shapes as the sheath though without precious stones, of what looked like a wavy… red… steel.

Robert gasped when Ophelia drew the sword, easily far too large for her, it was clearly a Valyrian steel blade that had been expertly worked. It was a longsword, but not totally of the Westerosi style, instead being a bit longer and bit thinner - though not to the length of a greatsword or claymore - and with an overall feeling of elegance and fluidity. "And this is the sword Serpent's Kiss, which I present to my father. To you, your grace, I offer the Stag's Crown."

Shuffling forward on his knees, Robert's own bastard glanced up, fear and hesitation in his eyes, as he presented a second weapon. Clearly a greatsword, the thing was almost obscene in its size. A long, black and gold sheath with a line of stags marching down both edges and the House Crest of the Royal House of Baratheon plainly stamped on it in cloth-of-gold.

And, now that he looked closer, so too were the stags and all of it was filigree done in gold and silver threading.

Even then, the guard was worked like a set of tines, twelve in total, that clung to the bottom of the blade. Only two actually jutted forward enough to catch a blade, though the rest had been worked close to the blade in such a way that it would make a good grip should someone desire to half sword with the blade. Furthermore, the black, smoky Valyrian steel seemed to ripple in the light, merging quickly into a grip he thought might have been made of ebony and a pommel upon which sat a shining chunk of dark blue sapphire.

The same blue of his eyes.

The same blue of his son's eyes.

Hand trembling, he reached out and took the sword up, freeing it the rest of the way from its sheath. It was gorgeous. It was perfect. It was a wonder.

Glancing down at his boy, he felt a tear start to prick at his eye.

"How-" Robert snapped his jaw shut, voice breaking. Taking a shuddering breath, he tried again. "How did you forge this… masterpiece."

Ophelia dipped her head, smiling.

"I only offered a little blood and a good deal of metal. What you hold in your hands was made from salvage recovered from across King's Landing alongside a… repurposed weapon. It was the Master's skill, and the sacrifice of his apprentice, that made it whole."

Barking out a laugh, the old man shook his head and Robert gave him a look which bade the man speak.

"She spent a week and a half bringing me little trinkets, even shavings and scraps of Valyrian Steel. Even then, she parted with many secrets and much gold for this work. As for my student, he offered up some of the fuel needed to work the metal. Same as the witch. And they did so without flinching. Just so you know, your grace, they bled for nearly an hour. For each blade."

Eyes flashing with fear, he turned to his son, realizing how pale the boy was, and pulled him up.

"Herald, bring something to sit on for the children. Now man! As for you, Master Smith, you and your apprentice are to come with me on the procession North. We shall discuss your rewards then. For now, I name you the Royal Armorer, the position has been unoccupied for too long as it stands. Apartments will be made ready for you in the Red Keep and ten Gold Cloaks will stand watch over your properties." Holding his boy steady, Robert wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms and tell the lad he was loved and missed and how proud he was of his boy. Instead, the king turned to the girl that showed him so much of what he was missing. "And you, Sand, Ophelia, I… thank you girl. I'll think of some way to reward you for all of this. I swear it. For now, I must ask, why do you offer such a gift?"

Sadness and a little fear entered the girl's gaze, her head dipping as her smile grew brittle.

"I had a dream, your grace, in which a dead man with three eyes came to me. He told me such weapons will be needed and that they would be needed soon." She swallowed. "Even so, consider this a gift of thanks for the lovely invitation to King's Landing and for welcoming us to your upcoming journey. May this be a sign of lasting friendship"

Robert's mouth was dry, bereft of any words.

He'd misjudged this girl.

Just who… what was she possibly talking about?
 
nice chapter thx for writing it
interesting with giving away those two weapons wonder if ned will learn about it and the dream once there in the north
 
Thanks for another great chapter.
But,i do not undarstandt how burning Lorch helped his victims ghosts.Is there from canon,or author idea ? or maybe from Greek myths? althought Odyss offered blood of animals,not burned man.
 
ATP said:
Thanks for another great chapter.
But,i do not undarstandt how burning Lorch helped his victims ghosts.Is there from canon,or author idea ? or maybe from Greek myths? althought Odyss offered blood of animals,not burned man.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
Ritual murder is a magic power source in this setting. His identity didn't really matter.
 
Chapter 9
Chapter 9 - Die Rabenballade​

Unknown​


Drifting aimlessly.

Floating uselessly.

What was there to be done? Had it been a mistake? Had there been any choice, or were they led to it by all the ones that preceded it? Since that fateful day, in that fateful battle, was there any point where I'd known life as it was?

Now, it is dark.

All dark as lights float by as I peacefully drifted through the current.

Then a spark of recognition.

Life as I'd known it. Freedom as I'd seen it.

It was back. Somehow, somewhere in this deep empty darkness, I could feel it pulsing steadily. But where? It was beyond my sight, so far away, it might as well be a winking star on a cloudy night.

What purpose had its life served?

What had it accomplished?

Meaningless. Everything meaningless after oblivion. Yet something of it remained, lighting the way through darkness like a beacon. Fleeting and shy as it had always been. As they had always been.

Yet now I sought it.

That light, soft and warm as a fading sun.

Perhaps that was our purpose. To remain together, always.

Ophelia​


"Go on boy! Bring another jug already!" Robert belted out a laugh. "Are you sure you're not a woman? With how pretty you Lannisters are I'm sure Pycelle could be forgiven for making that mistake."

The witch frowned, but said nothing, instead twisting up a ball of shadows and embers.

"Watch my prince. Tell me which orb the flame is in."

A simple shell game made out of magic made an effective distraction for the young man.

"It's the one you hid behind the curtain!"

Innocently gesturing at where she had hidden an orb, Ophelia smirked and let it fall open.

"I'm sorry my prince." Her eyes sparkled and she looked up. "But not quite." Tommen gasped when he saw what she'd done. Dozens of shining blue and orange and yellow and white and purple flames flickered in a rotating pattern, the light show contained by a shimmering wall of darkness existing only for him. "Remember, don't watch what you want to watch, watch what others don't want you to watch."

"Come on girl, be quicker if you don't want to end up in my lap!"

And the shouts of her own father ruined the moment.

Travelling with the royal party had been… more frustrating than she thought possible. For one, the witch had never really felt the urge to go places. And sure she'd taken week long "vacations" in Dorne, though those were far more family oriented than what she was putting up with now.

Tobacco smoke, the stink of alcohol, the dull roar of conversation, even the sounds and smells of sex - one of the downsides of her Swarm - stabbed at her attenion.

This was nothing like the trip to King's Landing, or her time in the capitol, or the weeks spent at the Water Gardens. The inn was rough, full of life, and it was… crude. Crude in the ways that still bothered her. She glanced over at Lancel and saw the poor boy flushing at her father's wandering hand. And he most certainly wasn't flushing in pleasure or good humor like her lush of a parent was.

"My prince, go find your mother, ok?"

The young lad gave her a scared look but one glance to Ser Oakheart and the Kingsguard stepped forward and gave the lad a firm nod. She appreciated his discretion and Ophelia hoped she wasn't about to embarrass Lancel by making a scene on his behalf.

'Perhaps I have another route to success here.'

At the moment, Cersei was furious with her. Enough she'd almost forbidden the once heroine from so much as speaking to her children, never mind approaching her. But Tommen had gotten bored when they settled in at the tavern for the night. Robert and her father and many other lords and knights were drinking, gambling, telling bawdy jokes, and generally having a good time.

Her only issue was with how two grown men were making a fifteen year old boy the butt of their jokes.

"Hey, hey, hey. You trying to kill me boy?" Robert growled lowly. "This wine tastes like piss." He snorted, tossing the drink over his shoulder along with the cup. "Get me something that tastes like someone didn't shit in the vat or you'll be sleeping with the horses. Speaking of, where the Hell is Tyrek. He's supposed to be my bloody squire too."

Ophelia knew at this very moment that Tyrek Lannister was bedding a maid.

She wouldn't have cared if that hadn't left his comrade in arms in the lurch. And facing a problem the would-be potioneer had created herself.

A direct consequence of having her cures for hangovers, both Robert and her father could drink like they were fish. To that end, the former had a temper and the latter was a horn dog. And by encouraging this facet of their bad behavior, regardless whether it was out of pity or simply out of political convenience, had directly led to the situation they were in.

Now about a week into the journey, their slow progress had left both men bored. Miserably, utterly, totally bored. And in the case of Lancel, he was the king's squire and very, very pretty.

And her father was starting to get handsy.

Deploying a number of flies, she swiftly bit her father's wrist and drew his attention. The glare she gave him spoke of the kind of trouble only Ellaria had given him before.

She and her stepmother may not have been as close as she was with her father, but she, without a doubt, understood that sometimes her father went a little too far. Their personal history aside, the low born woman tried to do for him what Oberyn had done for her. And Ophelia took that desire to heart in turn. So making sure he understood exactly how… frustrated with his behavior she was, she jerked her head and indicated for him to come see her.

Just a few moments later, he wobbled his way over to the corner table and flopped into a chair. Slugging back what smelled like strongwine, he gave her the kind of happily glazed over look that told her Oberyn Martell was well and truly drunk.

"I suppose I shall begin with the question if you can even get it up."

"Of course!" The prince's voice was slurred but still intelligible. "But not for my pretty little sand scorpion. Snake. Snake scorpion." He shook his head. "Those Lannisters though? Bwah." Letting out a loud blast of air, he somehow communicated honest appreciation for the physical forms of other human beings… and drunken lust.

Ophelia sighed and let the stern look she'd adopted fade.

"You know Lancel is basically as old as I am?"

Smiling, he took another drink, waving off calls by some of the knights to come gamble.

"And I'm jus' havin' sum fun. 'Sides. I didn' get to use mah new sword and Robb can' see his lad 'cuz the queen is angry. I told him to go fuck 'er, but he said that was the problem."

Maybe it was sensibilities she inherited from a past life, maybe she was just a cold fish, but Ophelia simply couldn't accept that excuse.

"Father." She reached out and took his hand. "I know you're teasing the boy, but it bothers him, deeply. A prank is one thing, but groping him is another. Let the king take out his temper but no more. For me? Please?"

Smiling, her father gave the black haired bastard girl a warm, drunken smile.

"Course! I'll leave 'em all to you 'Phelia."

A half stumbly hug later and Oberyn was returned to the king's side and pounding drinks like the secret to immortality lay at the bottom of a hundred pitchers of wine. Notably, he kept his hands to himself and even kept the king too busy trying to drown themselves to harass his squire.

Content, the Sand Snake rose, ready to step out from the noise and the smoke.

In the end, she knew it wasn't her place to tell her father or the king how to act, or even to interfere with the "training" of a squire. But what had started out as mild jokes was quickly escalating into something unpleasantly similar to the bullying she herself had once been forced to tolerate. And it was always better to head that kind of thing off before her father could egg the king on and encourage him to act on his least noble impulses.

'For all that my father can be a good man, he's just as capable of acting the blind hedonist.'

That didn't mean her seemingly self destructive drive to apologize to the queen was making anything better, of course. Gendry, the great bastard, was more or less hiding in his work. Tobho Mott had found a thousand and one tasks to give the boy and all of them kept him out of the queen's path. Even better, they also tended to put him near Robert and Cersei had needed someone to blame.

"And I suppose it is my fault there too."

Her intention had been to ensure that Gendry received his share of the credit for his sacrifice. The young man hadn't flinched when her knife bit into his skin. And he had only jumped when the flames leapt up and began to swallow each drop of blood as it fell.

She respected that.

Hopefully Tyene would be able to distract the queen from any drastic plans she might feel obligated to make. Or maybe just drug her again. Whichever minimized the body count.

In the end, she was rather glad that the queen had erected her tent away from the rest of the king's party. The large pavilion was erected in an apple orchard, currently being patrolled by four of the kingsguard and a number of Baratheon men at arms, and well away from the raucous inn and the loud men, and women, inside of it.

More to the point, the space was clearly the queens domain. So when Ser Jaimie stepped out of the main area, frowning, she caught his eye. He, in turn, jerked his head. Walking over to a copse of trees he turned to her and spoke in a low whisper.

"I'd caution you not to attempt this. But we both know you are going to brave that storm either way, no?"

He was curt and to the point. Perhaps not rude, but definitely more terse than in the last few exchanges they had when she took the royal children on their riding classes. It was understandable, but Ophelia wouldn't let it get to her.

Whatever anger the man held onto was likely pale in comparison to the Queen's.

That he was letting her through was likely so that his paramour could rant and rage at her than any consideration for the dornish girl's desires.

She thanked him nonetheless.

"My only defense is that I did not intend to do as I had done." Shrugging, she went with honesty. "I brought the boy and the smith to court only so that a son might show his father what he made him." Ophelia lowered her head. "It was an impulsive act."

The knight sighed.

"I'm not enough of a hypocrite to condemn you for impulsiveness. But Cersei won't care, you know that, yes? That the moment you brought that boy to court, you shook whatever trust she had in you."

Ophelia knew that. Or, well, knew now.

The queen deeply resented her husband, resented his cold and sometimes violent treatment of her. She'd fought back with all the weapons she was allowed and that included her children. Keeping the man from ever inflicting upon her the ultimate humiliation of bringing one of his own bastards to court.

In the end, Ophelia had done that for him.

She must be livid.

"Nonetheless, I must try." Otherwise she might make an enemy of a very dangerous woman at a time where her powers were at their lowest. More to the point, she liked Cersei. Even if she wished she could have asked Marissa for advice. Not being able to see her maid was actually starting to seriously get to her. It was just… odd not having had the woman around for more than a month. And the witch had even found herself wishing for her presence. Perhaps just for a quick hug. She liked those… and, if she were being honest, she had become quite greedy for physical affection in this life.

Still, tea with the queen had been a genuinely enjoyable experience, doubly so because the woman treated her like a person. Not a bastard, not Oberyn's daughter, not a princess, not even like a witch. It had been odd and refreshing. And maybe Ophelia was superimposing another blonde friend of hers, one she hadn't seen since before she caught a nine millimeter aspirin to the head, on top of Cersei.

Jaimie shrugged and stepped away, wishing her luck but not interested in dying on this particular hill. The witch took a moment to sigh and wished for a moment that the person she was apologizing to actually was Lisa.

"The worst thing that would be skewered would be my ego then."

Chuckling to herself, she too left the small stand of trees and, reaching out with a hesitant hand, wrapped against a small wooden board hanging from a metal poll.

"Come in."

Cersei's voice was tight, but not screaming, and Ophelia hoped that was a good sign.

Sarella​


Sarella was free!

Free of stuffy castles and shitty streets. Free of overbearing meeting after meeting with her family as they navigated webs of intrigue and betrayal. Free to do as she damn well pleased, roam where she may, and uncover the secrets of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Come back before sunset on the fifteenth day, or I'll be sending half the knights at camp after you." Nymeria reminded her sternly.

Sarella swallowed dry. Her sister meant it too.

So yes, she was mostly free.

But it was a blessing to finally leave King's Landing and it's crowded streets, returning to the beaten roads and fresh airs of nature. As much as Sarella had fun inside the Red Keep, stealing tomes and finding long lost swords, she wanted more, craved the adventure and excitement of the unknown.

At least now that she couldn't go back to Old Town.

In truth, they had made excellent time. Tumbleton wasn't even that far away and with all of their party mounted, and Ophelia to check those mounts, they made excellent time. It had only taken five of their days to find the particular stretch of river they needed.

So, right now, with her shoulders and chest flexing, the whole of her body being used to draw back the string of her bow, Sarella let an arrow fly.

Straight and true, the rabbit she was aiming for was killed instantly, even with Ophelia juking mid hop, and she had secured dinner for them.

"Are you sure you're not threatened by Angui?"

The adventurer scoffed.

"Hardly, there is a marked difference between hitting a target and hunting, sister. You know better than to doubt me."

The witch rolled her eyes at the bragging.

"Yes, yes. Such a fool am I to doubt the uncontested skill of the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps we should go ask him and see what he thinks of your shots?"

That earned an annoyed punch to the shoulder.

"Sister or not, I'll not suffer an insult to my skills!"

Ophelia's thin smile became predatory.

"Of course not. Far be it from me doubting the abilities of Sarella Sand. The skilled adventurer who got us kicked out of Oldtown."

At this the incredibly frustrated girl huffed.

"You're not going to let that go, are you?"

Crossing her arms, she turned away, bow held in one hand. She was still a bit surprised when she felt her sister hug her from behind.

"Of course not. Besides, I saw how you blushed when he challenged you that one time." Arms of growing muscle tightened around her waist. "It occurs to me, between the prince from your mother's homeland and now an archer boy… are you thinking of getting married?"

That got a snort of laughter from the prospective scholar.

"Why do you ask, jealous? Afraid someone will take me away from you?"

Her taller sister leaned just so slightly.

"And if I am?"

The words were said in a low voice, half need and half laughter. Sarella just rolled her eyes.

"Because Tyene is the one with the incestuous fantasies and I know you're not even sure if you're like father, Uncle Doran, or Nymeria yet."

Ophelia huffed, giving her sister one last hug, and pulled away from the embrace.

"And you say I'm the one that doesn't know how to play along with a joke."

"A joke can only be played out so many times before it grows stale sister. I have yet to forgive you for siccing Tyene on me back at King's Landing."

"Oh do grow up, Sarella. You know Tyene is harmless."

The adventurer gave the witch a disbelieving look.

"Well, when she's around me." Her younger sister amended.

Fortunately, their wayward sister hadn't come along for this trip. More than happy with staying at their father's side. She smelled blood, opportunity for mayhem at camp. Particularly because of the great bastard and the Queen. It was why they'd left Nymeria behind to keep watch.

The last thing they needed was Tyene somehow convincing Cersei to try and take over the Seven Kingdoms.

She wasn't above convincing the angry woman from attempting it.

"Actually…." Sarella hesitated, unsure how to ask her current question.

"How did my last meeting go with the queen?" Nodding, the young women walked in silence as they collected the rabbit and the arrow. Eventually Ophelia spoke again. "Words were said. Pointed ones. She was kind enough to let Elia keep playing with Tommen and Myrcella."

Wincing, the older sister couldn't help but wish she had a free hand at the moment. Instead, she simply bumped shoulders with her younger sibling, trying to communicate her understanding.

It wasn't much, but Ophelia smiled at her.

Work was consistent for the rest of the night. Sarella gutted, skinned, and cleaned her own kill, oiled and secured her bow, and even washed up just in time for dinner. Of the party, there was her, Ophelia, Lancel Lannister, Gerold Dayne, a half a dozen men at arms from House Martell and House Baratheon, and a full complement of mounts. That hadn't brought spares, only ones to carry supplies, and the two young men sent to protect them were spending more time glaring at each other than anything else.

For some reason, the way the older of the Dayne's she'd met, Edric Dayne, the current lord, was a courteous young man and Lord Dondarrion's squire, made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was the anger in Gerold's eyes. A deep, abiding indignation that spoke of smouldering resentment.

'A pity.' The archer mused. 'If his hate didn't make him so ugly, he'd be pretty.'

Sleep that night came quickly. The low summer heat and the buzz of insects, Ophelia kindly not forcing them into a silence that was far more ominous than their noise was annoying, serving as a constant chorus. Even then, she was cuddled up to her sister with only a thin blanket over them. Simply because it was too hot not to, they had slept nude and in their nakedness the older of the two reflected on a number of things.

'Her muscles are starting to come in. And she has a new scar.' Sarella's baby sister was finally growing up. Again. And she didn't know how to feel about it. 'I hope whatever this magic… and all these politics take from her, she doesn't go back to how she was when she was growing up.'

Many years ago, her miserable, sad, depressed, and even sickly baby sister had told her a fantastical story. A story she had told the others more than once. Except this time Sarella actually listened.

More than just the horror of what she was told and the miserable state of a world plagued by apathetic gods and raging demons, it was the sadness and weakness in her sister's voice that hooked her. So she listened and, with a shaky hand, put a child's scrawl to parchment and wrote down nightmare after nightmare. They had spent a week together, little Elia uncomprehending of the words that her older siblings shared, and at the end of it Ophelia - Taylor - was lighter.

Not happier, but at least more open.

Happiness took a few more years to fully bloom in her sometimes caustic, sometimes brooding, sometimes sarcasting, and always, always loving sister.

Most of the time the other world sat in the back of her mind, a fact long since processed and accepted, but never truly drawn upon. Some parts were too fantastical, too insane. And she'd never been told the true ending - the Abomination simply leaving was too clean - but she didn't press for more.

She was a smart girl after all.

She could guess.

Pulling Ophelia a little bit closer, uncaring of the heat of the night, the dark skinned girl could only run her fingers through her sister's hair and hope for the best.

And, of course, find more magic swords.

"My lady, the guide says this is the area where the battle took place."

Lancel was polite, deferential even, standing there in a shirt of chain mail with a sword belted at his waist and carrying a spear in his hand. With him was a short man, a local, that nodded eagerly. Sarella smiled at him and held out a trio of silvers, happily handing them over when her guard nodded. With the squire behind her and to her right, she strolled over to her sister - the white, milky clouds of her power leaving her seemingly blind - and touched her shoulder.

"I found… bones. Rusted armor." Her eyes cleared and, after taking several steadying breaths, the witch could finally speak. "There are dragon bones down there, I think. But also a great many human ones too."

They were outside of Tumbleton proper, on the bank of a rushing river. It was deceptively quiet, with only a light frothing at the moment, but under the surface the current was strong and vicious and the bed of the river was full of holes and sudden drops. Even worse it was just deep enough to trick someone into thinking this part of the river Mander was safe.

So near its source it still held much of the wildness of the branch in it and that made it dangerous.

"How many do you think tried to flee when the dragons burned their camp?"

Ophelia shrugged.

"Hundreds. There is what seems to be plunder down there too."

At that, the Darkstar walked closer, his voice low and smile only somewhat mocking.

"And the sword?" At Lancel's glare he snorted and dipped his head. "My lady."

The mocking man was tall, older than Sarella by a few years, his early twenties perhaps. Silver hair split by a single stripe of midnight black down one side and rich, purple eyes spoke of his powerful ancestry, though the Daynes held that it was the Star Men that gave them their coloration and not the Blood of Valyria. Sarella considered that immaterial at the moment and opened her mouth to speak when her sister beat her too it.

"Muzzle your envy lest you let your tongue wag like a dog, boy." Frowning, the girl had given way to the witch. "Obara knows of you and of your cruelty. I know not why you offered to escort us, but should my mistrust grow too great you will sleep and never wake."

He smiled and it was a pretty thing, sweet and charming and lusty as any woman could want.

"Please, dear lady." This time his voice lacked the mocking tone. "I am dear to your cousin and I would not truly insult you."

One eyebrow raised, Sarella was surprised at what she said next.

"I listen, boy, and my father is not one to judge men falsely. Should you wrong me or mine, I care not for what Arianne's afternoon entertainment thinks. But perhaps I will allow Tyene to indulge with you."

Smirking, he too surprised the dusky skinned Dornishwoman and she almost gaped.

"Then I shall endeavor to leave her wanting more." He was practically leering at Ophelia now. "And from what rumors I have heard, you would be more than welcome."

Looking him up and down with disdain, the younger of the two bastards made a small noise.

"You'll forgive me for declining. The king would be preferable to your company."

"Enough." Any further barbs were forestalled. "Ophelia, yes, you're very scary. Ser Dayne, please excuse us." Grabbing her sister by the shoulder, she stepped closer to the river. "Remember. The sword."

Rolling her eyes, the witch snorted. Sarella said nothing when she noticed hundreds of birds had slowly gathered in the area.

"Speaking of, are you sure it's in the river? We only have a few more days before Nymeria founds a chivalric order to reclaim us."

Nodding, the young woman did her best to sum up her research.

"Aye. During the Dance, Lord Ormund Hightower sided with the Greens and had command of a contingent of men. Here they brutalized Tumbleton and were set upon it. It was during this battle that Roddy the Ruin slew him and his cousin, despite losing an arm, and the blade was lost." She smirked. "However, when going through the Grand Maestar's personal collection, I came across a few diaries. Most of them were filled with lewd stories, so I kept the best ones and hid the rest, but there was one I really liked. In it, however, the knight claimed to have fought here for the Greens and he was sworn to Lord Hightower. Most importantly, however, is that during the second battle he and his comrade attempted to cross the river to escape the burning camp… with large quantities of valuables. Their makeshift raft capsized and he lamented that, worst of all, the Valyrian steel sword Vigilance was lost." She paused in her telling of the story for a moment. "If only because of all the, and I quote here, 'fine and wet love' it would have won him."

Ophelia sighed.

"So we are here on the words of a perpetually horny nobleman… from a hundred and fifty years ago?"

Sarella made a so-so gesture.

"The diary was written in one thirty three, so a hundred and sixty four years. And I think it might have been recopied at some point, but yes."

Rubbing her face, the witch shook her head.

"You were right about the shit-sword in the shit-city. So you're right about the horny-sword written about by the horny-knight. I'll find it, just don't start a riot in Tumbleton too, ok?"

Punching her sister in the arm, the scholar went in for a quick, crushing hug.

"I'll have the men set up targets and practice my archery!"

Rolling her eyes, the younger sister couldn't help but make a comment.

"Maybe if you flirt with them they'll try to set one up to your lofty standards."

Her sister grinned cheekily, and Ophelia realized her mistake.

"Do or do not, there is no try!"

Ignoring the gobsmacked look her sister was sporting, the older sister winked at her and ran off. She was definitely going to be able to find another treasure and put Angui in his place when she got back! This was shaping up to be a truly awesome quest!

Ophelia​


She didn't mind the situation she was in.

Soft lips were covering hers, a warm hand was on her hip and the other on her cheek. Firm breasts pressed into her own and Tyene's tongue was exploring her mouth and their embrace was only growing deeper. Fingers pushed down the back of her breeches and down her small clothes, eagerly cupping her buttocks.

Kissing back, she fought for dominance but being both surprised and unprepared Ophelia failed to assert herself. Instead, she found herself pushed down into her bedding and forced to endure long, agonizing minutes of kissing an incredibly attractive young woman.

Pulling back suddenly, chest heaving, Tyene took a deep breath.

Knowing she wanted more, the girl who had never truly appreciated how nice it felt to be kissed… even if you had been asleep just a few moments before, leaned up and resumed the kiss. This time it was Tyene who was surprised and the younger of the two found it easy to pull her companion to the ground, holding her close and tight until they parted for breath once more, both panting and blushing.

"Welcome back."

Her sister's words were needy, almost as needy as her embrace, but most of all it was the tremor of fear in her words that scared Ophelia.

By now they had ended up half on their sides, sprawled out on top of the sleeping roll the witch was using. In truth, she should have been surprised that Tyene had ridden out to meet them, after all she had no way of knowing they were approaching the party. But it seemed like such a her thing to do that the surprised teenager who'd just managed to finish waking up was actually glad. Still, though, the worry made her a bit confused and, shifting so that their position was a bit more comfortable, she pulled her older sister closer. One of the benefits of being so tall was that comforting another was an easy thing to do, after all.

"What's wrong?"

Obvious first words, but necessary all the same.

"Nothing." That was a half lie. They both knew it. The witch let it pass and gave her sister time to formulate a response. "I missed you."

Those simple words were true. And, thankfully, ones that were understandable. Even if she strongly suspected they weren't the whole truth. Still, smiling, the once hero spoke even as she held her sister close.

"It was only two weeks. You couldn't wait one more day?"

A head of blonde hair shook and the younger of the two chuckled.

"Such a big baby sometimes." In a fey mood, the normally more reticent of the two found herself a bit willing to indulge. For a while, she kissed the young woman she wasn't sure if truly loved, their fingers searching each other as their tongues intertwined and they nipped and bit and embraced. But in that moment this was enough, a degree of closeness and familiarity and intimacy.

Even if she still felt like an old pervert indulging in a broken young girl's affections.

After a while, they calmed and settled into bed together. At peace, they were quiet, so quiet they almost could have been mistaken for sleeping, but as Sarella came into the tent they shuffled to the side as the giggling sister of theirs simply grabbed her bow and quiver.

"Oh don't let me disturb the two lovers. After all, I've enjoyed your company every night for the last two weeks dear Ophelia. It would be wrong to deny it to poor, kind Tyene now."

The blonde looked up at her.

"I don't like to sleep alone." Offering an honest defense, she hoped that was enough. And, when her… most innocent seeming of sisters huffed and grabbed Sarella by the arm it was apparently accepted. At least once their third sister was trapped between then and Tyene was snuggled in as closely as she could be.

"So, did you find the sword?" The most committed poisoner of the three asked. "Was it where you thought it would be?"

Sarella groaned at that, half shaking her head.

"It was awful!"

Refusing to say more, she left the rest up to the third sister to explain, quite happily putting that memory out of her mind. For her part, Ophelia mostly found it all a bit darkly amusing and chuckled.

"Oh we found it all right. And you won't believe this, but, somehow, it was lodged through at four different skulls."

Reaching over to her side, she grabbed a small bundle of furs and sat them down, opening it up to reveal the still pristine blade of Vigilance.

"Finding the pommel and guard was actually more time consuming, as they'd fallen off. But our innocent sister here got quite the fright when I had it brought up."

Glaring at the grinning witch, the middle sister couldn't keep the sarcasm out of our voice.

"Oh, no, it wasn't horrifying at all. Four grinning, mud preserved, impaled skulls. All crawling with water bugs and held up by river eels."

"Aww. Poor thing. It must have been awful." Tyene pressed herself against the trapped sister, lips to her ear, and even Ophelia herself was grinning as Sarella grew more and more flustered.

"Would a little kiss help, dear sister? I'm sure that between the three of us we can have a little fun."

Groaning, the scholar simply wriggled free, and made to flee.

"Gods above, you're as bad as Father! Both of you!"

She didn't make it very far.

An hour later they were all three on their horses, clad in breeches or trousers so as to be able to ride them properly. At least in Ophelia's opinion. Side saddle was a quick way to break your neck and she'd insist on that fact till the day she died. It also boggled her mind that no one had bothered to provide the queen or the princess Myrcella with proper riding skirts until she stepped in.

'Scandal be damned, a broken neck isn't worth a bit of perceived impropriety.'

Her thoughts wavered a bit as the day went on, with the party reaching the royal procession by nightfall. Thankfully, in the two weeks of their absence the whole of the thing had only inched forward - relative to their heady pace - and so their return trip was near enough to the same as their leaving to be simple in its familiarity. Meaning finding the damn thing was easy!

Dispersing now that they were returned, the men at arms broke away to return their extra supplies, Darkstar broke to go do as he was want to do, and Lancel gave the trio of young women a nod and excused himself to report to the king.

"I'll go see Father. He'll want to know all about how you pranked me, I'm sure." Sarella was half smirking as she spoke. "Besides, we need to get the sword to Mott."

A hug and the middle sister trotted off on her horse, deftly weaving through the camp.

"You should see the queen." Tyene's words were low. "She was the one that asked me to come find you."

And just like that, Ophelia knew what had her most… attentive of companions truly bothered.

"You know I'll never replace you, right?"

The other girl just shook her head.

"We'll talk more later. Go."

With a sad smile she moved to part ways. Ophelia, however, asserted control over her sister's mount and trotted them behind an out of the way tree. Ignoring the risk, she leaned over and pressed a fierce kiss to Tyene's lips and broke away.

"Now I will. I'm serious. As horrible I am about actually knowing what I want, I'll never replace you, never abandon you. I promise."

Swallowing, the not quite most terrifying blonde Ophelia knew of gave her a smile. It was small, a little afraid and a little hopeful, and they clasped hands for a moment. Then, they too parted, moving out from behind the trees and heading to their respective destination - from the heading of the woman who loved her, the reincarnated human guessed it would be towards the part of the camp where their family was staying. After all, she could hear shouts of excitement and there was a great crowd gathered. Who better than the Dornish to cause excitement?

Smiling to herself, the witch maneuvered towards where her Swarm told her the queen's tent was set and braced herself, wondering what reception she could expect.

"Hello Ophelia." Her hand was halfway to the wooden plate and paused. "I have been waiting for you." Cersei's words seemed unnaturally prescient and Ophelia's own creatures told her that the queen was sitting and reading, sipping from a cup of tea. "Please, come in."

Pushing the entry flap out of the way, she noted that no one else was around save for Ser Jaimie. No servants, no guards, even her children were elsewhere in the camp - only a silent brother that gave her a small smile and stepped outside. On the whole, she wondered what was going and what was about to happen. She even wondered a little if she was about to be asked to sit down on a chair or touch a poisoned dish.

"Your grace."

Caution was no excuse for a lack of courtesy and she dipped her head.

"Sit down." The mother of three waved a hand at her. "I… have a few things to say." There was a little hesitation in the voice of another woman she simply didn't expect that from. "But first, let me say that I am glad you are back. Was your mission successful?"

The queen took a drink from her see and Ophelia nodded and took a seat in a large, plush chair.

"Sarella is a clever woman."

"Of course she is." Cersei gave her a small smile. "Good. Will you be turning this third sword into another masterpiece? Perhaps use it to bring glory to another of Robert's bastards?"

Letting an internal sigh, the amateur alchemist readied herself to respond, taking in the pinched, angry face of the scorned woman she was talking to. And then, it was gone.

"I - we - yes." Swallowing, the blonde beauty shook her head. "What I want to say is that my words were untrue. Both what I just said and what I said before you left. The things I called you…."

"They weren't all untrue." Still tense, the Dornishwoman firmly shook her head. "It was impulsive, thoughtless, and I shamed you in front of the court. I ended up dragging a wife's greatest humiliation in front of the people you're supposed to rule over and practically rubbed your nose in it. My desires for Gendry to be able to make his father proud aside, you… you are my friend. I'm sorry too."

"You really are, aren't you?" Cersei's green, green eyes search Ophelia's face for any sign of a lie, a mild amazement in her tone. "Why?" It wasn't an accusatory question, but a searching one. Spoke out of utter, totally confusion. "Why me? Why you? Why now?" Her words were soft and questing, as if being the Gods for an answer. "Why are you sorry? I accused you and your sisters of seducing my husband, of seducing his son, of infiltrating the court, of manipulating me, and I accused you of being just like me." The last word was said with a bitterness, deep and earthy and full of rot. "Of being like an oath breaker and an adulterer and far, far worse. What I called you would be grounds for a feud and I screamed loudly enough that others could hear… to be honest, I half expected Tyene to be my death."

Snorting, the witch shook her head.

"I told her to watch over you. She won't kill you. Not unless she truly believes you mean to turn against me." Now she shrugged, trying to communicate how much she truly did not understand about her desires, Ophelia forged ahead. "And the truth is I enjoy your company. More than I probably should. Your eyes remind me of a friend I once had."

That last statement had been blurted out. And it was the truth. Cersei didn't have the same mocking wit as Lisa, though both could most definitely be cutting, but they had the same anger and hurt and sense of failure in them. Even if the former had more experience at it.

'Am I truly so attached to the memories of a friend that is lost to me that I am forcing her onto Cersei?' It was clearly an illogical decision, perhaps understandable in the context of the excitement of everything going on around her and the lust born of puberty. 'But I suppose it's true. It's easy to see what you want to see. And maybe I want to see Lisa in her?'

Cersei snorted, she chuckled, she threw her head back and gave a full throated laugh to the heavens.

"A wonder of wonders. That a child would have such a simple reason to do a thing. Tell me, child, of this lost friend of yours?"

There was earnest interest in the question and it was not truly such an odd thing to ask. Ophelia had been the one to bring it up and even now she remembered Lisa, her loyalty, her strength, her failures, her defeats. A glasgow grin, red and ugly and fresh, and how, even at the end, she never left. Even when Taylor was gone and Khepri was barely holding herself together Lisa Wilbourn had been her constant.

One of a few, perhaps, and she shouldn't discount Danny Hebert, her first father, but he just didn't get what she was ever going through. She and Brian had drifted apart, Rachel was… Rachel, Alec died to save Aisha, and Aisha was Aisha too.

There was also Lily and Sabah, even if Sabah had never trusted her, Charlotte, Forest, Sierra, and all the rest of the people who had supported her as Skitter.

Sometimes they died.

Sometimes they disappeared.

Sometimes things just stopped them from reconnecting.

But Lisa was always there. Always figuring out a way to reach out to her, to keep her going, to just help.

"Her name was Sarah Livesy. But I knew her as Lisa Wilbourne." She smiled, something small and a little sad. "Well, that's not quite true. I knew her first as Tattletale."

Doran Nymeros Martell​


"She's doing well my prince." Marissa dipped her head, bowing lowly. "And the child is growing well too. However, the cravings have well and truly started. Her last meal was pickled fish eggs, roasted cabbage, and pomegranates."

Doran chuckled, amused as always at the eccentricities of his brother's paramour.

"You are a loyal attendant." She smiled at his praise. "Have you noticed anything else unusual recently?"

Frowning, the maid shook her head.

"I have not and that is what worries me."

Wholeheartedly agreeing, the crippled prince made his worries known.

"If one little bird was caught, surely there are more. Will you go back to her? Protect her as you protected my niece when she was so sickly?"

Bowing again, the maid nodded.

"Of course, my prince. It will be my honor."

This drew a snort of approval from him.

"If only I had married a woman like you. Aye. Thank you dear."

"I am but gutter trash." Immediately disagreeing, the woman shook her head. "A whore permitted to be a mother, if only by surrogate. It is to you and your brother I owe my thanks."

At this he too had to disagree.

"Hardly. Few women can love the child of another as fiercely as her own. I'll not hear you speak ill of yourself in my presence again."

"You flatter me, my prince. Any more and I'd have you mistaken for Oberyn." She meant it in jest, but he was quite serious. Doran's younger brother had done quite a lot to earn his reputation, something involving a mile long line of lovers and trying to entice anyone he saw as attractive to his bed.

His paramour was no different.

In fact, she could be worse when it came to inviting others to the couple's shared bed.

An invitation that maid had been tempted with… on more than one occasion. Even after she'd taken up a more permanent position as maid to his children.

"I will have you know, my dear, that I am no slouch either. Though I have our bright little Ophelia's remedies to thank for.that. Being a cripple in totality is… unpleasant in the extreme. Even if it is merely a case of rather advanced gout." And that was the least of it. The Witch of Dorne already had earned the Prince's thankfulness and favor a hundred times over by the time she left childhood. "Tell me though. How are the others? Doreah, Lorezza, and Obella? Are they giving you or the other maids trouble?"

Marissa smiled, a warm tender thing, something only a proud mother could manage.

"They are behaving as expected, rowdy at some points, as were their sisters. They miss their sisters and act out to get attention. Thinking that maybe if they cause enough of a mess, their sisters and father will come back to soothe them."

Sunspear was much quieter without most of the Sand Snakes.

And those left were doing their level best to make some noise. Oberyn's children down to their very bones.

"I'm tempted to recall them just to be free of the little ones."

"Oh? So confident you could convince me to order it, my dear?" Doran smirked in challenge.

"My Prince is a wise man, and just ruler. You will always do what benefits our Kingdom and his family. But perhaps he should think of what benefits himself more often."

Well now, consider Doran interested.

But tempted as he was, there was still work to be done.

"Perhaps another time, Marissa. There is much I need to do. Dorne won't elevate itself alone."

"It would if you considered handing it to our dear Witch."

This time Doran laughed.

"If only it were that easy, maybe I'd have considered earlier. But no, even if I offered to make Ophelia my heir, I am sure she would refuse to accept it and lock herself in her glass house. She does not appreciate the weight of the crown."

This time it was the maid who laughed.

"Yes, that shy little thing wouldn't like having to sit on a throne."

Sometimes Doran forgot how well Marissa knew his niece. The woman had been the one who practically raised Ophelia back when she was brought to the palace. Such a quiet little babe, never making a noise. Even back then she unnerved people with how different she was.

But not the woman before him.

She loved and raised the girl, accepting every revelation as it came, never judging or fearing her. No matter how distant the girl was or how strange she acted, there was no doubt that Marissa loved her, and that Ophelia grew to love her back.

"You are quite the wonder yourself, Marissa."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my Prince."

Well, if there were ever a time Doran felt like having Ophelia and her miracle concoctions back. This would have been it. Alas, duty comes before pleasure. And so it was with great effort that Doran resolved to continue investigating this avenue at a later time.

"Is the council ready?"

The maid pouted, her hopes for fun dashed entirely.

"Yes, they have been summoned. I dare say they've been waiting for you for the past five minutes."

Doran's eye twitched.

Really? Distracting him from working himself to death? This cheeky maid was applying what she learnt from Ophelia well. He'd make sure to reward her… thoughtfulness sometime later.

But now? It was time to work.

Grunting, he stood. His body ached and the redness and swelling around his knees and ankles were surely getting worse. Opening up the last flask of potion his niece had prepared for him, the prince knocked it back with a single long, deep swig. Taking a deep breath and suitably fortified, he marched down from his throne and strode over to his table.

"Let them in."

Areo Hotah, his ever faithful guard, saluted.

Looking around the room, he counted those knives he had gathered. His physical state was augmented, of course. Both his brace and his cane were concealed behind a tapestry and his wheelchair was in a side room. His hair and beard had been trimmed, the shots of grey intentionally shaped to exaggerate the sharpness of the planes of his face. Even his robes were such that they suggested a man with vigor the prince had not had in years.

Clad in gold and black, with a samite belt hanging around his waist. His trousers were loose, light, and made of silk in a satin weave. His shirt, if it could be called such, opened down to his waist and it allowed the rest of his guests to see the abdominal muscles he'd cultivated.

'I may not have been able to walk, but I was certainly not lazy.'

On the whole, he was doing everything he could to look like his brother.

Murmuring voices appeared behind him and still, he did not turn to them. Before him was lain out dozens of maps, charts, reports, lists, and even rough sketches of the key targets.

"My prince."

Finally acknowledging the others, he gave Ricasso, his seneschal, a nod. With him came Ser Manfrey Martell, his cousin and castellan, and Lady Allbright, his treasurer. So too was Dantalos of Braavos and Lorsenyo of Braavos with them as well. He greeted Dantalos, an engineer, first, but let the second Braavosi wait for a few moments. His love for the banker was very little, even if he needed the man's help.

"Your sons, my prince."

One of the men at arms walked over, saluting, and withdrawing away. These men were his best and he appreciated the twenty four spearmen in the room with him. Clad in light mail over gambesons, each men wore linen and were black head to toe, save for House Martell sigil on their shields, the veiled warriors stood silent and watched the growing war counsel.

"Stand firm Quentyn, Trystane. The fun begins now."

Quentyn's nod was slightly hesitant but there was determination in his eyes, while Trystane seemed almost arrogant in how the preteen gave as firm a nod as such a child could.

Next came the lords.

First was Anders Yronwood, his strongest vassal and, up until Quentyn fostered with the man, the man most likely to try and usurp him. He was still a threat. Well built with brown hair and dark eyes, he stood there in mail and satin. Behind him was Ryon Allerion and his bastard, Daemon Sand. Larra Blackmont and Allyria Dayne and Franklyn Fowler and Trebor Jordayne and Quenton Qorgyle and all the rest came next.

The lords Santagar, Toland, Uller, Vaith, and Wyl were all there. Representing the sell swords was Prince Xalabhar Xho and Ser Gerris Drinkwater had been elected to represent the hedge knights and volunteers that Quentyn himself had tasked with recruiting. Others stood behind the main body, sons and daughters, either heirs or talented warriors each, and they waited.

"And our guests?"

A final body of men entered the hall. Lord Paxter Redwyne and Lord Arstan Selmy lead the contingents from the Reach and the Stormlands respectively. Garlan Tyrell, however, led them both. The second son of Mace Tyrell was in half plate and nodded to Doran when the prince nodded at him.

"Good. Then we shall begin. Gather round."

He let his vassals and allies sort themselves, seeing how they organized themselves and only using a glare to suppress any potential unrest. In the end, Xho, Yronwood, Tyrell, his advisors, and both Redwyne and Selmy formed the innermost ring. Drinkwater had notably stood at Quentyn's side and joked with Trystane, drawing a laugh from the young man.

"Let me say how thankful I am for this opportunity my lord-"

Redwyne spoke until Yronwood grunted and interrupted him.

"Prince."

Garlan Tyrell gave his father's vassal a significant look and the man dipped his head.

"My prince."

Doran inclined his head.

"You are most welcome. Now, to cut through the suspense and the pretension. We are going to scour the Stepstones." His lips curled up at the suddenly shrewd look in every single man's eye. "And we are going to colonize them, annexing them into Dorne. Then, as repayment for the Prince Jalabhar Xho's aid, we will restore him to his throne in the Summer Islands."

Muttering broke out.

This plan seemed almost mundane compared to what they expected. After all, Dorne scoured the Stepstones every so often and attempts had been made to either raise them as an eighth kingdom or to occupy them or other things. And the prince let them continue plotting for a moment longer.

"And we shall make the Summer Islands the eighth kingdom of Westeros and through all of this, a final solution to the eternal problem of slavery will be in our grasp."

That got him the response he wanted. Xho was bombarded by questions and he answered them smoothly and blithely. As one of the few men who actually knew all of this plan… or at least the greater portion, he knew that this wasn't even the full extent of it. But he fielded the curious words of the others easily enough as the prince himself contented himself with once more watching his vassals. He did not speak again until he placed his fingers on a particular chart.

"Our plan is simple, with a singular goal and overall command will be in my son's hand. Quentyn will explain it now."

"Yes Father." His voice was strong and there was only a flicker of hesitation in him as he stepped forward. "As you can see, we've acquired shipping, tidal, and star charts for the area. The major pirate camps have been identified here, here, and here-" Each time he pointed to a different sketch - not a one of which was drawn to the same scale. "There are a total of forty pirate crews in the area, with a force of maybe two thousand ships to their claim."

That got unpleasant murmurs from the group and Quentyn flinched. Doran waited a moment, about to put his hand on his eldest son's shoulder when the boy rallied and cut through the noise.

"Of those, only a hundred are of the size of our ships, with the rest being mostly longships and raiding vessels. However, directly engaging them on the open sea is not to our advantage. Even with the Redwyne fleet, the lords of the Stormlands, and the sellsails recruited, we can only muster a bit over six hundred war ships. So, instead, we shall prosecute a land campaign."

"And how do you propose to do that, boy."

Yronwood's words were low and firm, but not cruel. A mild challenge, though only one of many Doran knew his son would have to face.

"By the element of surprise, my lord." Pulling out several other reports, he began to pass them around and continued explaining things. "As of right now, with all wages and fees paid, we have a war chest of some three hundred thousand dragons. With that, we wish to fund a series of strikes against the major pirates bases through the use of beached merchant vessels. Their cargoes of warriors will secure beachheads and allow us to land the rest of our ground troops. At that point, we will advance on the fortified locations on each island and lay siege to them, though we would strongly prefer to storm those locations before the pirates can rally to them. "

Passing around more sketches, both depicting the ships and the plans in action, Quentyn paused when the Cripple Prince put a hand on his shoulder.

"Before, the pirates have always used early warning systems to flee and hide when we attacked. But I have engaged Master Dantalos to modify… boarding ramps." The engineer in question stepped forward at Doran's gesture. "A number of retired ships have been refurbished. Each will hold a contingent of knights and sell swords and will beach themselves on the sands of the various island's natural harbors. By this manner, what seems to be a suicidal flight will catch the pirates off guard. We shall ensure rumors are leaked to them that the cargo of these ships is my niece's silk and gold intended to win my lady wife back to my side." Here he chuckled. "Behind them will be our squadron of warships who will prevent any vessels from escaping. And, while the main assaults are happening, the sell sails will be carrying out raids against the other, smaller groups."

Patting his son on the shoulder again, he let the lad take over once more.

"Our initial plan is to crush the pirate ships. We don't want them to be able to escape to return another day. So the conquest of the actual islands themselves can wait until our coalition can exert total dominance over the seas." Pulling out the sketches of the various pirate lords, he passed them around as well. "These are the men we must kill or capture, preferably the latter so we might try and hang them, and our other secondary objectives include the rescue of captives, the freeing of slaves, the seizing of their plunder, and the capture of as many quality ships as possible."

Garlan spoke, voicing the planned concern.

"And if we do face battle?" And then he continued. "Or if a storm strikes us? Or there is disease or plague or the pirates prove stronger than anticipated?"

His son frowned, but they had prepared for this so he simply responded.

"Our squadrons will only move in force. Any direct combat will only be a threat if they can trap us or pick us off. For the former, we have hired sell sails that both have scoured the Stepstones before and for the later a tight command will be maintained." Here he shrugged. "Only the Gods know if they wish to smite us. But, if that does happen, rally points have been established in the Stormlands with Lord Renly's approval and in Essos too."

At that, Dantalos snorted and Lorsenyo stepped forward.

"The Iron Bank has a vested interest in the recovery of certain debts amongst some of the pirates and slavers. We are supporting this expedition in hopes of recouping losses."

"And of driving Dorne to gilded slavery."

The murmur came from the back of the room and Doran didn't waste his time responding. After all, the banker was probably the most powerful man in this room no matter how much it galled the lords. Still, he finally squeezed his son's shoulder and gave him a nod.

Quentyn took over again, explaining their logistics chains, and plans for supply. He mentioned how their support fleet was gathering now and how and where they would rally.

Pay masters and squadron leaders were decided, with the Crippled Prince only interceding when the debates grew heated. Summoning servants, tables, and chairs, food and drink was provided. Ultimately, Doran had to wonder which of the men here were in league with the pirates. He held no illusions that at least half of them would send ravens to their own circles, cliques, and patrons within the week. But that wouldn't be… too dangerous. Not so long as his actual guards, not the ceremonial warrior's he'd dressed up to catch attention, managed to capture the ones that truly were a threat.

Mostly.

If nothing else, he could have them watched. Monitor their mail. Maybe have a few seized and tortured. Doran had little interest in playing the Game. He aimed to sweep the pieces off the board unless they were under his control.
 
I am very glad to see that this is fully caught up to where it was on SB before it was removed. I cant wait to till you start putting out new chapters. I am looking forward to what happens next--both at the invasion of the Stepstones as well as the journey to and meetings with the Starks. It should be awesome!
 
nice chapter thx for writing it
hmm comparing lisa to cersei is abit of a step sure they have issue's with there brother but one killed him self the other one loved his sister to much
and me still think cersei is plotting something of revange
 
Doran is playing a lot more aggressively in this timeline then otl. Those economic gains and medicine really helped their position.

On an unrelated note I wonder if Ophelia is going to make Eddard a little depressed since from her description she actually looks a lot like Ashara Dayne. Same hair, same eyes, same features.
 
Any other places this is being uploaded/reuploaded to?
 
is Darkstar looking for painful death? becouse he must knew what Ophelia could do.
P.S i read,that once eels was fished using cow heads - people after killing cow throw head into river on rope, and after one or two days it was full of eels.Apparently,human skulls work,too.
Interesting - eels are river equivalent of rats,but nobody in Europe eat rats,but almost everybody liked eels.Strange.
 
stads said:
comparing lisa to cersei is abit of a step sure they have issue's with there brother but one killed him self the other one loved his sister to much
and me still think cersei is plotting something of revange
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
Сходство не во внешних чертах. Оно в деталях поведения. Тот же комплекс превосходства, та же нетерпимость, та же жажда контроля. Просто у Лизы было больше оснований для такого поведения (она умнее Серсеи) и Лиза осознавала свои недостатки и могла ограничивать свои амбиции. Ну и не лезла вперёд, оставляя во главе полевого командира, тогда как сама предпочитала тактику Вариса, стоя за троном.

The similarity is not in the external features. It is in the details of the behavior. The same superiority complex, the same intolerance, the same thirst for control. It's just that Lisa had more reason for this behavior (she is smarter than Cersei) and Lisa was aware of her shortcomings and could limit her ambitions. For example, she did not climb forward, leaving the field commander in charge, while she preferred the tactics of Varys, standing behind the throne.
 
Chapter 10
AN: So! Long story short. Real life sucks. And what was supposed to be only a month-long hiatus for one of our stories devolved into a lot of personal drama and a spiral of various issues that had to be handled. So, I'm reiterating… real life sucks. But you know what doesn't? Writing! Which we are really glad to be getting back to.

AtW: Right now we're trying to get the commissions wrapped up, but I'll be heading out of town for a week. So consider this an asterisk attempting to begin ramping up our output again.

CW: Now then! Onto the reading!

Chapter 10 - The Show Must Go On!​

Ophelia​


Wood dug into her jaw, scraping and tearing as Ophelia felt her head snap up and to the side. Even as she tried to bring her shield up, the training weapon snapped down, smacking her collarbone, and then back up against her jaw. And, despite the training armor she wore, even that light tap was enough to send her reeling.

Stumbling backwards, the witch tripped over her own feet and fell backwards.

"Good attempt, my lady, but you lacked rapidity."

Ser Barristan strolled forward, sword out before him, a casual smile on the old man's face even as Obara lashed out with her spear.

Holding it with both hands, the Sand Snake brought the tip up and aimed straight at her opponent's throat, barrelling forward with the intent to do rather serious harm. That, of course, did little to disturb the swordsman.

Snapping his own wooden sword up, he smacked the haft off target, letting it skid across his pauldrons, and then brought his weapon down to wrap the blade against the eldest Snake's fingers. This, of course, only induced Obara to drop her spear and rush her opponent, trying to get inside his guard. Snarling as she drew a wooden dagger, the Dornish woman did everything she could to crowd the veteran warrior… who responded by stepping inside her guard, picking her up using his hip for leverage, and tossing her to the ground with enough force to wind her.

"Remember, my lady, you must not let me close to a grapple. A knife is only good if it strikes home."

Sarella, the third and last of the sisters, then leapt forward. Throwing a clod of mud right into the man's face - the wet splat making even Ophelia wince - she snatched up Obara's fallen spear and tossed it to their sister.

Knowing now was the moment to go, and despite both her spinning head and the blood she could taste, the once warlord rose to her feet. Taking up her shield and sword she advanced, covering her spear wielding sisters, and doing what she could to give the two of them a chance to get their breath back.

After all, Ser Barristan had absolutely pummeled her half Islander sister at the start of the fight, knocking her into the ground twice just to enrage Obara into over extending, leaving Ophelia isolated and without the advantage of a spear's reach.

That he did so on his own, with only a wooden sword spoke of how utterly outmatched they had been.

"Excellent ploy my lady. However, this does not taste particularly like just mud. So I do ask you to refrain from doing this again."

Having just finished scraping off the debris blocking his sight, the old knight parried Ophelia's thrust, then grunted when he blocked her shield strike with his arm. This was not what she had hoped would happen when she aimed the rim of her training shield at his throat.

"I could hear your footsteps, my lady."

And just like that, the man forced a blade lock, bringing all of his weight down on her arm. Grunting, Ophelia reinforced the lock, hoping to buy her sisters time to close and strike, but this was her undoing. As the two spearwomen approached, Ser Barristan gave her an apologetic smile, reared his head back, and brought his forehead down on her padded helmet.

Normally, that would have been a moderate thump, well cushioned and easy to ignore thanks to the layers of padded wool that made up her training armor.

Having already been struck in the head and still a bit dizzy, the blow caused the witch to stumble, losing what little leverage she had managed to preserve, and then found herself bodily picked up and thrown at Sarella.

Yelping, the young woman in question caught her taller, heavier sister, though both were still incredibly light compared to the grown man they were facing, and was knocked to the ground in a tangle of limbs and training weapons. This, finally, drew a snarl and a curse form Obara who replied by throwing her spear with all her might before scooping up Ophelia's dropped sword mid charge.

Ser Barristan simply turned slightly to the side, snatched the weapon out of mid air, and lashed out with it at Obara's ankles.

Leaping over the attack, and striking out with her own weapon, the Sand Snake's attack once more glanced off, the knight turning to the side so as to let the blow simply hit his own armor, and then, as the Flying Snake came down, smacked her in the ribs - winding her once again.

Obara, however, wasn't quite done, pulling another wooden knife and, turning a stumble into a roll, brought it up and angled the blade at the knight's crotch - theoretically at the point where his armor would not cover the inside of his thighs. But probably aiming straight at a spot a bit less polite to stab.

Laughing, he twisted his hips and snapped his legs together, trapping the thrust, and then conked the surprised young woman in the head with the pommel of his sword.

"You know, your daughter sure does spend a lot of time on her knees… my prince." Ser Jaimie chortled from the sidelines, drawing a laugh out of several of the other men watching the fight.

"Aye. Almost as much time as you do cleaning up the king's vomit from your hair. I must say, Ser Lannister, that you preen more than any woman I've ever met, including your sister."

Ophelia sighed at her father's response, because the raucous laughter from the spectating knights and squires told her that he and the Lannister Kingsguard would fighting again… and that meant that Ser Jaimie would probably be far too bruised to satisfy his sister for a few days. Again.

Still, she freed her arm from the straps of her shield and rolled off of Sarella.

"You ok sis?"

The middle sister had landed in the muck and was, even then, trying to scrape some of the mud out of her hair.

"I'll be better when your boney ass isn't crushing my stomach."

Snorting, the witch climbed to her feet, reasserting the passive control over her swarm she had surrendered for training purposes, and held out her hand.

"We lasted longer this time."

"That you did, my lady." Ser Barristan walked over, Obara, somewhat unsteady, stumbling as he helped her along. "All three of you are definitely improving and you, especially, are learning to rely on your own skills and not those of your powers. Lady Sarella, I do request that you… avoid any further projectiles in the future."

Somewhat sheepish, the young woman nodded.

"I do apologize, Ser, I mostly just acted. It isn't… too bad, is it?"

Smiling, the knight merely shook his head.

"Not so bad at all. Not nearly so bad as the knock I seem to have given your sister."

Obara grunted, making some kind of noise and almost fell over.

"Worry not, brave ser knight." Ophelia chuckled. "All you shall have to fear is for your chastity. It seems my sisters have quite the affection for refined men of great skill in combat."

That little jest earned her a clump of mud to the back of the head.

She knew it was coming, of course.

But she'd give her sister the benefit this time. If only to pay her back for the teasing.

"A valiant showing, my ladies."

Ser Jaime walked towards them with all the poised grace of an eager pup. Happy to bask in the sisters'... less than stellar performance. After all, he'd only known their unflappable sides. The ones they used to strike fear on people. It must have been a breath of fresh air to see them so readily handled by Ser Barristan.

Ophelia knew some of the other Royals though it was a riot - Robert's laughter having yet to have fully stopped. Cersei herself seemed content giving the trio a knowing smile and offering polite applause.

'I will see about relieving the King of my valuable services in the coming days.' Let the man feel his muscles tear and burn under Ser Barristan's tyrannic yoke! It served him right for making fun of her.

Speaking of which.

"Ser Jaimie, Prince Oberyn, now that this early challenge has been finished, perhaps the both of you would enjoy another match?"

Winking at the girls, he handed Obara over to her sisters as the two men who had just been trading insults froze.

"Just a bit of light sparring. I am sure that knights of your quality would enjoy the… test."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow when her father froze. And, sharing a grin with Sarella, whom she would get back for the mud in her hair later, the two spoke up as they held Obara between them.

"Indeed. Ser Jaimie, the queen has spoken at length of your prowess and skill."

Sarella spoke prettily and respectfully, looking down as she did so to hide her grin.

"Father, surely you are not afraid to do that which three little girls have done? Big, strong men such as yourselves should find it a simple enough task."

The crowd turned against them both, razzing the men and urging them to face Ser Barristan - who even then accepted a cloth and wiped the last of the mud from his skin. That he wasn't even winded, no matter his age, seemed far more intimidating than anything else about the man.

Ultimately, neither Sarella nor Ophelia lingered, instead making their way over to their other sisters as cheers went up from the makeshift arena behind them. It was as they sat down, Nymeria and Tyene looking over their injuries and tutting - the witch spitting out a mouthful of her own blood from a split lip - that they were joined by one Ser Arys Oakheart.

"My ladies did well. You actually gave him more of a workout than I did when I was first tested by him." Chortling, the knight continued. "Of course, I also didn't throw a mud pie in his face."

Sarella, blushing, looked away so it was the youngest of the Snakes present - Elia having remained behind at the makeshift training field to cheer on Ser Barristan at the top of her lungs - that responded to the man.

"I thought all the Kingsguard trained with Ser Barristan?"

The man smiled wryly.

"Not all of us have that honor, no. He tests each of us, of course. But if you fail said test… well, let's just say Ser Merryn Trant has to spend a good part of his time on chores."

Ophelia bit back a laugh.

So that was why that Kingsguard was helping set up the stables back in King's Landing.

She had wondered about it, but the Red Keep just hadn't seen a moment of peace between her arrival, the discovery of the fire traps, and then the Martells doing their level best to disrupt routine. Ophelia had - somehow - ended up assuming they'd been short on people for whatever reason and the man had offered to help.

'That certainly puts things into perspective.'

And did help allay her wounded pride over getting bonked on the head by a piece of wood.

All the silly knights made it seem so easy, too.

Well, it wasn't that Ophelia was above cheating. In a fight to the death, there was no place for honor and fair play. You fought with everything you had or died. And the witch was in no hurry to see if her miraculous rebirth would repeat itself.

However, now that a gap in the crowd had formed, the group could watch the unfolding duel.

Father and Ser Jaime were so much more impressive than three neophytes like the witch and her sisters.

Of course, the witch had always known her father was a fighter. A truly skilled warrior who wasn't above cheating like a vicious bastard if it would give him the slightest edge. Moreover, he was a trained knight, skilled in all the weapons he was expected to be. But the simple fact was that the Red Viper was a spearman.

It was the weapon he was most comfortable with, most familiar with, and, by far, the most skilled with. Now, wielding a sword just as wooden as Ser Barristans, he displayed a degree of ferocity that he'd only adopted since Ophelia's gift.

Yet, credit where credit was due, Ser Jaime kept up with him.

Better yet. He pushed him.

Their duo was raw, fresh, and they had only faced each other a few times in the past. Now, being suddenly forced to work together as Ser Barristan rained blows down on the both of them, they were hard pressed to so much as stay out of each other's way - never mind actively work together. And in their dance of twisting blows and violent slashes and precise thrusts, she had little doubt that Ser Jaimie was the better swordsman - though, perhaps, not the better warrior - between him and her father. Yet it was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that dominated them both.

In movements as simple as a flick of the wrist, the man could bring his blad around, curving past a solid block or fluid parry, and strike at a man's guard. With every blow that struck out at the man, he turned, letting his body roll with every strike or simply slip past it. More than trusting his arms and armor, the veteran seemed to be intimately, impossibly familiar with the weapons as an extension of his body.

So there, on the muddy, torn up field that had been claimed by the knights and warriors of the royal procession, the three men struck out and dodged and parried and gave their utter all to defeating each other.

A roaring crowd surrounded them and called out, loud bets being exchanged and cries of success or defeat growing with each blocked slash or stunning blow.

Amongst the number of this crowd were, of course, some of the Kingsguard. But also Lord Dondarrion with his squire, the king's own squires, Darkstar, Robar Royce, Loras Tyrell, Thoros of Myr, dozens of minor lords, and fully a hundred hedge knights and sellswords and men at arms. Most of them people Ophelia simply didn't recognize, others she did but could not name. In the end, the crowd turned her thoughts to how the procession had slowly changed.

Their group parted, wounds suitably fussed over, and went to do as they normally did.

Sarella took up a bow, soreness never an excuse not to practice, Nymeria went to join Elia, Tyene attended the queen, and Ophelia herself indulged in a bit of people watching as she walked the camp.

Many things had changed since the arrival of the contingents from the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale. The Blackfish himself, Brynden Tully, had come leading a group of Vale knights and well wishes from Lysa Arryn herself. Allegedly. Ophelia privately suspected the letter was far less polite, but she hadn't been able to read it yet herself.

Still, he was only one of the men to show up. A group of Wester knights rode with Dravid Peyne, the current lord of House Payne and one of House Lannister's strongest supporters. So too did the Riverlands make a showing, under the command of Lord Jonos Bracken, a body of picked knights had joined the royal party as well. On the whole, there were possibly as many as four hundred knights and lords gathered together.

Though, by her reckoning, of them only forty, maybe less, were actually of any significant skill.

Her father belonged in the group of the best, of the ten men most unquestionably talented.

Ser Barristan was without peer, but between her father, Ser Loras, Ser Jaimie, Darkstar, and Sandor Clegane the second most skilled warrior was in great dispute. The king was quickly returning to his previous skill, but had yet to reach it so the title of second best was hotly contested day by day.

In her opinion, it was ultimately between the Hound - Clegane - and her father. Ophelia simply didn't think the rest of the men pragmatic enough to go to the lengths of those two and Darkstar and Loras both suffered from a particular lack of true experience in war.

The rest of the Kingsguard - Preston Greenfield, Meryn Trant, Mandone Moore, and Boros Blount - varied in quality from… disappointing to well within the realms of "fodder".

Lord Dondarrion and Ser Brynden were most wondrously skilled and, along with a peasant archer named Anguy, seemed to represent the best of those who did not quite stand on that level, though the peasant's own skills lay more in the area of archery and he had only some moderate skill with a spear. The witch still considered him important for the one reason he was able to reliably challenge Sarella, who was, without a doubt, the single most sublime archer the reincarnated woman had ever known.

Neither Sophia nor Lily could compare to her sister, with or without their powers.

Snorting, as the sister in question put an arrow through an apple, into a second, then a third, before pinning the cluster to a tree, the once heroine continued to push the limits of her ever shrinking range.

More than them, though, there were other men, knights and sellswords and men at arms alike, who had more or less skill with various weapons. One she had yet to be able to corner was Thoros of Myr, though she knew that was half her own fault. With the king and her father free to push the other to drink as they liked without consequence, they'd roped in half a dozen regular companions to over indulge.

In the end, she realized she'd made a full circuit of the grounds and that Ophelia actually had no pressing business.

So, figuring this moment was as good as any as to have another conversation she needed to, and still a bit worried about bothering Cersei too much, the young woman ceased her pointless meandering and turned towards where she knew Marwyn was.

Quentyn Martell​


Swallowing, the son of Doran Martell shuffled slightly.

"Oh, quit being such a worrier Quentyn. If I wasn't sure that she was attending Uncle, then I might venture to say that you act like Nymeria when no one knows where Tyene is."

Glaring at his little brother and best friend, the young prince tried not to disturb his tunic.

"Quit it Cletus, you almost told your father despite the oath you gave!"

Snorting, the heir of House Yronwood simply shrugged.

"Aye. And what did your father say about telling me?"

"That my son will rule one day, so he must learn to judge men on his own."

Snapping up into a bow, the young knight rose from the plush chair he'd been waiting in.

"My prince."

"Father!"

"Father."

Cletus, Trystane, and Quentyn greeted the smiling man, far less impressively dressed now but still walking under his own power. The youth couldn't stop himself from shooting his younger brother an envious glance, the child's absolute confidence something he desperately wished he had himself.

"I would speak with my son, Ser Cletus, your father is waiting for you in the war room." His father's words were firm, but hardly unkind, though it was the significant look the man gave Trystane that disturbed the young man the most.

After all, if Trystane couldn't hear what they were about to speak about, there was no way this was going to be an easy conversation. Swallowing again, the youth desperately hoped he hadn't screwed up. Even more frustratingly, his younger brother paused long enough to give him a tight hug and a significant look, the kind that said it was the older sibling in dear need of support.

Quentyn was unsure whether to be mildly insulted or just glad the brat was there.

Tossling Trystane's mop of curly hair, the young knight shoved the youth away, giving him a light kick to the rump and sending him in the direction of a silently laughing Cletus.

"Cheeky brats."

Doran's bark of laughter told him that his father had heard his mutter.

"I do not think you have seen enough moons to be calling anyone that." The older man sighed, sitting down where in the unoccupied lounge chair and letting his robes fall open.

"Father, your fingers!"

Rushing to Doran's side, Quentyn was horrified to see how swollen and red and ugly his parent's fingers were.

"Gout, boy." The prince grunted in pain. "I pray to the gods Ophelia either cures it completely or you face a different doom."

"Her potions ran out?"

His question was soft, somewhat worried but ultimately resigned.

"The last was used for my little stunt the other day."

A deep sigh filled the cool afternoon air.

In that moment, the two men simply existed. Sandstone floors beneath them, gentle, sloping walls around them, and a large balcony before them. Looking out onto the sea, and enjoying a cool breeze that smelled of salt and adventure, the wide room was pleasant… peaceful. Something rare the world over.

"My prince." Areo Hotah stepped inside, inclining his head. "I have swept the area. You have your privacy."

Quentyn watched silently his father as he bid thanks to the guard who soon left them. Eyes unwavering as he watched the man lost to his own thoughts. Not that the young man could blame him. He'd been plagued by thoughts of his own.

But looking at his father now, he considered the weight of his worries.

How long had it been since he'd seen the full weight of that damned gout that plagued him? Some days he forgot how painful life was for the man. How painful the days where he'd run out of his cousin's brews were. They'd alleviated father's pain, kept Doran from being forced from his seat of power. Yet Quentyn felt the Prince was only at his best when that phantom loomed over him.

Like a sword hanging over his neck.

A reminder that they still had much to do. And so little time.

When Quentyn looked at the man, he saw something he couldn't be.

A man who was willing bet his own life on a chance at success.

Were his father in possession of a body hale and whole, then House Nymeros Martell would not be known as the Princes of the least of Seven Kingdoms. Dorne would not be sand and bitter tears, memories of glories long past and perfumed submission to dragon lords. If his father could will it, then his sister would not be raped and his niece and nephew dead. Rather, all of Westeros would burn before anyone would ever dare think of raising a hand to one of them again.

Yet now… faced with a reminder of father's condition and his own fears, Quentyn had reservations.

Only a mad man wouldn't.

With Uncle and his cousins away, it was up to them to act without their support. Doran had told him once that everything would only go according to plan if all pieces played their part.

Be it the Red Viper.

The Witch of Dorne.

And yes, even he himself would play a part.

Quentyn, however, wasn't sure if he was ready to play his.

"I will be remembered." a hiss escaped his lips as the waves crashed over the shore.

"Father?" He looked up, his sire's greying hair seeming to almost consume the black.

"What do you see, Quentyn?"

The question caught him by surprise.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

His father rasped a silent chuckle.

"When you look out this balcony, beyond the sea and shit, beyond the horizon and the sun. What do you see, Quentyn?"

What did he see?

There… wasn't much to see so far out there. He saw a few seagulls, he saw the ebb and flow of the waves. If he squinted just right he could see the shape of a small island near the coast. But nothing else.

He told his father as such. And earned himself another rasping laugh.

"Do you know what I see, Quentyn? I see an enemy beyond our border. I see vast foreign lands filled with strange wonders and treasures. I see fire, blood, and war. I see terror and death. I imagine you see many of those when you look out there too."

The younger Martell nodded in shame.

Yes. He saw fear and enemies. He saw the blood and war his father spoke off.

"Aren't you scared, Father?"

Quentyn was a man grown - fifteen, knighted by Daemon Sand - but he had only ever seen a few skirmishes. No true battles and certainly not a war. And now… he faced possibly ruining his entire nation, seeing thousands dead for neither gain nor glory.

"No. I am not." His surprise must have shown, because the older man chuckled. "Death is coming for me, my son. Soon I will be a cripple, trapped in a wheelchair and bound to my bed. When that time comes, you and Trystane must be ready. Because I am afraid I will be leaving you a rather terrible fate."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed." Chuckling again, Quentyn blushed slightly when he, surprised, told his father that he had only just now understood why Cletus and Trystane had been asked to leave. "So, tell me, how much have you guessed?"

"About the plan?"

His father nodded.

"Well, the thing with the Summer Islands are a feint, are they?"

Doran made a gesture to continue.

"Uh… Tyrosh is also part of the Stepstones."

"And?"

A raised eyebrow from his father prompted the teenager to forge on ahead.

"And if we want to secure the Stepstones, that city must fall. But by taking it, we would most certainly provoke a war with the other city states - Lys and Myr in particular - though all the Free Cities would likely oppose such a thing."

"Indeed. Well done my son, you have grasped much. But not all of our ploy is quite so simple." Adjusting his position, the prince gestured for his son to come closer and continued speaking. "I have been working for eight years now to establish these connections and alliances. I would say that, perhaps, nine tenths of my schemes are known to others, in bits and pieces, and that many suspect much. Firstly, I will tell you how I began with a question. Where have your cousins gone, the ones who are not my nieces and nephews."

Biting his lip, Quentyn wracked his brain for names and faces that were long since missing from Sunspear and the Shadow City.

"Cousin Manfrey's sons haven't been here for… four years. Didn't Jacen, his eldest, take up as a merchant? The captain of our silk ships, if I recall correctly."

Clearly pleased, Doran nodded.

"Indeed. Amongst many others, the increased trade of Dorne has allowed a great deal of goods and coin to flow and, with it, information. The work that was done on our docks was vital to that end and, even if it will be a decade still until the last stones are lain, when it's done we will be able to host five hundred trade ships at a time… and considering we have not had extra space there for two years now, I think we might need to be planning a secondary port town even now."

Making a noise of agreement, Quentyn mostly winced at the thick tomes of sums he had been required to learn, so that he might be able to grasp the primary source of income for his House. Trade, after all, was the lifeblood of their nation.

"To that end, we have allies and contacts across Essos, even a few in Southros, and, with Arianne's marriage to Willas, we are secured to our north. All that remains is to prosecute the war itself."

"But father, that's the hard part!" He couldn't help but protest. After all, they were at little risk when counting coppers. Butchering men was bloody work and it always had a cost. "If nothing else, raising so many men, never mind the mercenaries, is going to be ruinously expensive."

At this, the old prince shrugged.

"It would be, had the Braavosi not agreed to certain things. Including exclusive rights to certain colors of silk and certain weaves and sole right to buy it from our merchants in Essos." Here he seemed to hesitate for a moment before, at Quentyn's prompting, he continued. "I have also negotiated a number of loans with the Iron Bank. It is for a not insignificant sum. In collateral, I have offered a great number of weights of silk and also art and treasures. That which Ophelia recovered from King's Landing, once sorted through, will also go a great ways to soothing any concerns about coin."

"We are also paying many of the hedge knights and mercenaries in land and spoils, are we not?"

Quentyn's statement got a pleased grunt from his father.

"Of course. Those who would accept air for bloodshed are most welcome in our first wave."

Frowning, the young man couldn't help but suspect there was more to the story than that.

"What exactly are you planning, Father?"

He frowned.

"Bluntly, to trade gold for blood and soil." Here he shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "House Martell are not witches. Your cousin aside, to my knowledge it is my brother that is our greatest sorcerer and I strongly suspect her magical talent comes more from the combination of blood that runs in Ophelia's veins. We are men of the desert, not of blood and fire. And so we must prove ourselves in ways that are known to us. Bluntly, I plan to sacrifice the sellswords of Westeros in the taking of the Summer Islands, sending the greedy and the evil to their deaths, holding the loyal and dutiful in reserve, and only commit our house forces to battles we are sure of."

"I… Father, you speak of throwing away hundreds of lives! Thousands!"

"Tens of thousands." Doran corrected. "Having spoken to my advisors, we expect about forty thousands losses should the strategy of overwhelming force be applied to the conquest of the Summer Islands."

Horrified, the young man nearly recoiled.

"To what end could you possibly suggest something so cruel!"

With a sad smile, Doran brought up a swollen, gout ridden hand to cup his son's cheek.

"To deny them to our foes."

And then everything slotted into place.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

As the Prince of Doran chuckled, his son finally realized what this gamble meant. Troops from House Martell's own lands and vassals would be deployed to the Stepstones, along with mercenaries and warriors from the Stormlands and the Reach, and that meant the southern nations were vulnerable.

Dornish houses would be gathered and rallied and follow in the second wave, as had been discussed, being used to crush and secure each island one by one and then would fortify and settle them.

Smallfolk, mercenaries, and volunteers from the southern nations would be judged and shipped to the islands to raise wooden keeps and establish docks and expand natural harbors. This would help them supply their forces in the field and also prevent pirates and slavers from creeping back. Obviously, raids and counter attacks were expected, but that would be why the second wave was so important.

"And that is what our third wave will consist of." Doran's voice had grown somber and a bit withdrawn. "Your uncle has been negotiating with every sellsword in Westeros and I shall put out a call for hedge knights, second sons, bastards, mercenaries, and every volunteer that I can negotiate leave for. Our extreme build up in the Stepstones will be explained away as part of the needed constructions for our assault on the Islands. This host will then have the wheat separated from the chaff, those men from the Westerlands, the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale, along with those mercenaries we mistrust or know to be greedy or savage will absorb these losses. But the Summer Islands will break and Jalabhar Xho will be made prince of them."

For a long time, Quentyn was silent. Unsure of how to handle this information. In the end, he simply gave up and bent his head.

"I strongly feel that, that is not the last of your plans for him, but I suppose that you are my father and my lord besides. I will trust in your judgement. What of Tyrosh then? What is our plan to take that city and, I suppose, deal with the others?"

This seemed to improve the prince's mood immensely, even drawing a small laugh at him.

"Do you remember that story your cousin told us, the one about Philip and Alexander?"

Frowning, the teenager nodded.

"Aye. How the former reformed his nation and the latter conquered the known world of his time. It was quite the fantastical tale, especially the idea of such a vast empire, however temporarily, being one."

"Ah, but how was it that Alexander won his lands?"

"By being a stubborn conqueror and excellent leader and killer of men?"

Doran reached over and lightly rapped his son's head.

"No, boy, remember the island siege? The use of flankers and the adoption of the pike and use of reserves? It was by cleverness! Come, help me up, we shall go to see your war party."

Like that, father and son walked out of the room, Doran leaning on Quentyn's shoulder - the younger helping the older make his way without a cane.

Quentyn's questions had been answered. But they still left him with a lingering trepidation. With so much at risk, could he even afford to give voice to his doubts? Father certainly had resolved himself to see his plan through.

Even if he couldn't trust himself, he could at least trust Father.

Such thoughts didn't make his stomach any less sickly, however, when they entered the room where the innermost circle of their confidence had gathered. All of them people he and his father had known for a long, long time… or were forced to accept as the cost of their alliances.. The new faces, foreigners he did not truly recognize, stood to the side.

"My Prince."

Quentyn stood by his Lord's side as he took his seat. Standing resolute as the others settled and the meeting started.

"Preparations are going smoothly. Gods allowing it, the fair weather will permit us safe passage soon. We should still have time to bring up more numbers until then. We can't be sure that our estimates of the pirate's forces are correct, so the more swords we can throw at them, the better."

"And the spoils?"

Quentyn heard his father's sigh.

"Concern yourself with the battle first, Ser Tyrell. The spoils will come later."

"I speak only in the spirit of fairness. All of us wish to have our fair share of the glory. It could be most… inconvenient to have our victory benefit only others."

He, of course, meant more than just the Martells themselves. Because, obviously, with their name plastered across this operation that meant they would be assuming the serpent's share of the expenses and the risk.

As such, a commensurate amount of reward must be waiting for them - should they succeed. But the simple fact that the Iron Bank saw fit to invest in this way meant that there was more than just a small fortune to be made. It meant that enough gold was expected to change hands that the balance of power would shift.

"Aye, good Ser." Quentyn spoke up. "That is why I have had our good Maestar draw up a contract. One that my father and I have both read over and added our own changes to. You can read and write?"

Nodding his head, the middle son of Mace Tyrell seemed more like this grand-dam than his sire.

"That it is in ink, I assume means you wish it to be bound in secrecy too?'

The second sons of a great many lords were neglected. Outfitting and raising one heir was expensive enough.

"Blood, young Ser."

And that's why Doran spoke this time. Quentyn's father had impressed upon him how it was truly Olenna Tyrell that had directed the Lords of Highgarden and that she had seen to all of her grandchildren's educations.

"Secrecy is only as thick as words. But the blood of the covenant is thicker than even the water of the womb." The aging prince inclined his head. "That is why my messengers approached your grandmother first."

"And that's why coin will be offered first, for those men whom are most skilled and those whom are most loyal." This time it was Lord Yronwood who spoke, clearly stepping forward. "All of the men of our own houses will be paid in coin - to them or their families - and we shall set aside more besides to care for the wounded and for orphans and widows. Specific rules of conduct and with regards to plunder will also be addressed. With particular focus on ensuring that shares are properly distributed."

As the other lords began to speak and ask questions, Quentyn let them turn to one another. His focus was on his foster father. On the man he'd spend so many years learning from.

Honestly, today's discussion was going to pale in comparison to how it was his own son who suggested they use one of the best men the young prince knew as a false lead in their plans. But, at the end of the day, he was the one person they could trust. Meaning he was also the one man who coild destroy all of their plans without even realizing it.

Ophelia​


"I apologize lass, normally I make an effort to speak to pretty ladies who want my tongue."

Ophelia snorted, half amused by the old man's flattery, half impressed by how brazenly he employed innuendo. In truth, it had been too long since the alleged witch realized she needed to speak to the Red Priest and their ride to Harrenhal would be a most excellent opportunity.

She'd heard of the followers of the Lord of Light.

Had even seen some of them mingle with the group of magi and wise men while in Dorne. Orators, preachers, a smattering of mad men. Most seemed at least passingly wise, though she doubted any of them were truly Wise, and their powers were real enough. For a given value of real, at least. Universally, they had been… devout. Fanatical, as her father would say, and convinced that the grand indulgence of a bastard's curiosity was somehow important.

Quite simply, the Red Faith was sowing its embers in Dorne because of the men and women whom had answered the call of her questions, though the witch sincerely doubted that R'hllor would find many converts amongst her nation.

The sun was a much greater flame than any little pyromancer could conjur.

Thoros of Myr wasn't like them.

He was brash.

He was blunt.

It could be said he didn't represent what the worship of a god as prevalent as R'hllor was supposed to be. But of all followers Ophelia had observed from afar, Thoros seemed like the only one to hold a different air to others. His shaved pate, his white whiskers, and even his eyes, sharp and clear and unmuddled by wine for the moment, were no different than any other old man's.

The red robes sat over a gambeson and the heavy sword about his waist weren't even unique amongst his number, even if his use of wildfire in augmenting his skills seemed to be.

"Think nothing of it. We are both busy people so it's to be understandable that our paths had yet to cross."

The priest took her gracious comment like he did everything else, with a sack of wine and a mouthful of food. He was surprisingly genuine for someone who was a part of such a relatively secretive cult. Then again, she had heard of his words. Of how he joked about becoming a red priest so the color would hide wine stains.

"Busy is one way to call it." He took another sip of his drink. "Nothing compared to how you've stirred the hornet's nest. Haven't been King's Landing in a tizzy like that in a while."

She dipped her head, acknowledging the thrust, somewhat perversely amused at how easily he kept his horse straight with just his knees - all the better to eat and drink on the move.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the show." Her own mare didn't need guiding, though she still held the reins in one hand and kept her other on her hip. Trousers and impropriety aside, the Queen had made it clear how powerful a weapon even the appearance of nobility could be. And Taylor in particular had learned how important the advice of older women could be.

Ophelia merely wished that air conditioning had been invented by Braavos already.

"So, what would Dorne's prized witch come to see an old drunkard for?"

She gave thanks to the Seven he had finished chewing and swallowed before speaking. Somehow, the drunk priest had greater manners than the king, even if they indulged just as much!

"I suppose I am here for a sermon." The witch gavea wry grin, unsure how to actually express what it was she was precisely asking for.

"Done something to get scolded for? Then again, being called a Witch, that should come with the territory."

More bemused than engaged, the man finished his meal and wiped his hands clean on a rag, tucking the cloth away in one pocket or another.

"Only searching for wisdom. As a priest, I'm sure you must have some to spare."

"Not much wisdom to hand out, girly. Gotta keep my wits instead of sharing them." He snorted, taking another swig from his drink. "But I suppose I could tell you some of what I know. Only you might have already heard it from all the others. I'm sure at least one of them must have come knocking."

He was right, of course.

Any mention of 'miracles' was likely to get the attention of the Red Priests. Of course, her father had no interest in just handing over his own child.

"You know the words."

"Memorized some prayers. Surprising, I know. Can barely recite one after the seventh pint."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"Enough to fill a fancy book with. But you aren't here for those stories, are you?"

"My father might be. Though I should warn you he is quite the drinker himself." She did not mean it as a challenge, but was sure that prince and priest and king already got on like a burning city and a Lannister.

"Aye, that he is!"

Ophelia wondered if her father had finally made friends with someone he didn't feel like killing half the time. There was a first for everything.

She'd leave the merry making for later.

"But as well traveled as he is, and as much as he himself knows of secrets and of mysteries, my father hasn't been able to tell me much of the Red Priests and their faith. At least not in any meaningful way."

There was a difference between knowing something… and knowing it.

"It's why I am here. I have questions, you have answers."

"Could'a chosen better, girl."

"A better priest wouldn't part with his secrets."

He snorted down his drink with a laugh.

"So what do you wanna learn, witch girl? Set something on fire? Maybe learn to get a glimpse of the future? Think you could bring back someone from death? I'm sure you heard enough stories."

Ophelia grimaced.

"I imagine it's better to leave matters of death aside." If there was one thing that her life as Taylor Hebert had taught her was that there was no such thing as a free lunch. Power, especially that kind of power, always came at a price. One she wasn't keen on paying to a foreign god.

"And what's in it for me?"

"Wine."

"What do you think I'm drinking, girl?"

"Try it."

Eyes narrowed, the priest held out his hand as, carefully, Ophelia extracted the bottle in question. It was smooth, dark glass, without a label or a maker's mark. Thoros felt the stopper for a moment, grunting as he broke the wax seal with a harsh twist. Taking a whiff of the beverage, his brow furrowed as he licked the stopper, grunting, before taking a sip.

Swallowing very, very slowly, he kept the vessel to his lips. Tilting it back, the priest closed his eyes, seeming to release every ounce of tension in his body as he drank as deeply as he could. Long moments passed and the witch reached out to the priest's horse, keeping it steady as he drained the bottle. Shivering in delight, with only a little of the wine slipping down the corners of his mouth, he let out a sigh of such utter, complete satisfaction she had to wonder if asking her father for help in this particular mission had been a fool's errand.

"It was to your satisfaction, I hope?"

The man didn't answer. Instead he was… he was… praying?

He was most definitely praying. Hands closed tightly around his drink with all the reverence of a man who'd found salvation at long last. To the point that she wondered whether someone was getting set on fire for it.

Could you even blaspheme in his religion?

She didn't want to know.

"Please try not to get smote while I'm riding beside you."

He paid no heed.

"Where is this from, witch girl? One of your brews?"

Now she rolled her eyes. Of course this was what grabbed his attention.

"Nothing so impressive. It's a special blend of dornish reds. Nothing magical about it… well… about the ingredients at least. You will find it nowhere else in the world aside from my homeland."

He eyed the glass hungrily.

Ironic, given how thirsty he looked.

He wasn't the first one to do so either. Ophelia was sure that more than one Dornish noble had made outrageous offers for the right to cultivate and produce the drink. Which of course, was granted sparingly and at great cost by her uncle. Of course the willy old man would use even someone else's drinking habits against them.

There wasn't much he wouldn't use.

So it didn't bother her to take a page out of his book.

"And you have more?"

"Not on my person, no. But I can arrange for more, if that is your wish. So long as you keep to your end of our bargain, you will find no shortage of it. Presuming you won't squander it like common ale."

Thoros of Myr had never seemed as affronted as he did in that moment.

Wasting drink? Of such good taste and quality?

She was sure nobody had ever accused him of that particular heresy.

"How much for a bottle?"

"I'm sure we can agree on a fair price."

"How. Much." He bit out, looking impatient, a war in his eyes as some great internal debate raged inside of him.

"As much as leaves you sober enough to tell me your order's secrets. As little as I need to give you. And every single drop it takes for you to tolerate my questions." The witch couldn't help but smile. She was finally taking a price. "I do warn you though… I have a great many."

His face turned many colors, as if he was physically ill, before he settled into a resigned slump - running his fingers across his smooth head the false priest gave a heaving sigh.

"You really are a witch." There was a look of such great surrender about him Ophelia almost felt shame. "I have whored and drunk and blasphemed and killed. I am envious and a liar and a false priest." He closed his eyes, a moment of utter sobriety washing away the sway from his body. "But for this I shall sell my order. Damn my weakness and damn you for destroying me."

Joffrey Baratheon​


Crack!

A wooden sword smacked the prince's chin, snapping his head up and to the side. Unfortunately, he was exhausted and disoriented and the blow knocked him to the ground.

"Do you wish to continue, my prince?"

Ser Barristan, resplendent in his white scaled armor, looked down at him.

Joff could taste his own blood and he thought he might have bitten his tongue.

"Stop this madness! My boy is injured!"

Even over the roar of the crowd, he could hear his mother. Men, some knights, some lords, some common soldiers cheered and exchanged coins and others tried to slink off - only to be pulled back by their fellows and forced to pay up. Yet even then, this seemed to fade into a dull roar as his pounding heart filled the young royal's chest.

Already, tears stung at his eyes and the blonde cursed himself and the other squire. The low born lad for taunting him into agreeing to a match - with wooden swords at his father's insistence - and himself for not ever being good enough.

Turning to look at his father, the pre teen was desperately searching the royal pavilion and the king… wasn't there. Just his mother and her entourage.

Not his father. Not his uncle. Not even the Imp.

Sniffling, he opened his mouth, the words ugly and thick on his tongue. But he was bested. The other squire was older and bigger, by three years or so, and he wasn't actually all that spectacularly good at fighting anyways.

Just like he wasn't good at anything that wasn't making people angry.

"Off your ass boy, the fight isn't over yet!"

Suddenly looking up, he realized someone was swearing at him.

"A king isn't beaten so easily!"

Another Kingsguard stood next to that man.

"You're a lion with the strength of a stag, nephew, on your feet!"

His father and his uncles, even the Imp, had come to the side of the muddy ring and were cheering him on. Fear and shame and defeat washed through him. Nothing but failure and disgust heavy in his bones. And then, from within, came a deep, seething rage.

'I am Joffrey I Baratheon, King of all of Westeros! I will not be beaten by some jumped up peasant!'

Roaring, as loudly as a twelve year old could, half blinded by tears, and with his arms numb, face already purpling, and every part of his spirit wanting nothing more than to slink into a nice, hot bath… he stood up.

"It's not over yet!"

Snatching his sword up, he stomped back over to the ready position. Lifting shield and faux blade, he reset to the start position.

Ser Barristan's surprise only fueled the anger in his breast, but it was his rival's that he almost delighted again. What followed was an angry, aggressive exchange of blows. One where the older lad's longer reach, greater size, and superior experience meant Joffrey didn't manage to land a single attack on him.

In fact, he was knocked on his ass no less than three more times.

Once even hitting the ground so hard the world shook!

But each time he just got angrier and angrier. His heart simply pounded harder and harder, his hands gripped the blade and shield with greater force, and no matter how much mud and blood spattered him he shouted over Ser Barristan every time the old knight tried to call the match.

"Again! Again! Again!"

Something inside Joffrey was so heavy it hurt, so hot it burned, so taught he thought he must surely snap! But every time he fell and every time he rose, there was more strength in his hands, more speed in his feet, more surety in his footwork. His range drove him on and in his thoughts swore and cursed at the gods for not giving him his father's strength. And that's when it occurred to him.

He might not have his father's size… but he had his uncle's.

So, employing one of his most favorite of pastimes, he wracked his mind for how he'd seen the Kingslayer take on large men in battle.

Flicking his wrist, he tried to trap his foe's blade against his shield and then wrestle it from his opponent's grasp. This failed miserably, with the older boy more confused and surprised than anything else, merely tossing Joff back to free his weapon. Somehow, in the heat of the moment, their feet grew tangled and both lads fell in a ball of arms and legs and flying armaments. And for once, his opponent's greater weight worked against him, knocking the other lad into the muck with greater force.

That meant Joffrey had a moment, even with the wind knocked out of him, to act.

Grunting, he rolled over on top of the older boy, reached down to his belt, and drew his favorite name day gift.

His father had won a valyrian steel dagger from the Master of Coin on the tourney held for his name day. It was a gorgeous weapon, pure and simple in form and function and the smokey ripple of the blade had enthralled the boy-prince. He'd nearly cried when his father had given it to him with a gruff nod and a one armed hug.

Now, he raised the blade high, light glinting off the steel.

A cry went up amongst the men and even Ser Barristan leapt into action.

Joffrey brought it down into the muck, a good foot to the right of the other boy's head.

"Do you yield?"

"I, uh, y-yes my prince?" The stuttering reply came as a stunned crowd looked on.

"Good. I enjoyed the fight."

And just like that, the mud splattered prince gave a thick shake of his head, his eyes rolled back, and he promptly passed out - unconscious before he slumped over on top of his foe.

Ophelia​


Massive was the word that came to mind.

Burnt was a close second.

Harrenhal loomed over them in the distance. The ancient fortress a stain of blackened stone in ruin as it stood, beyond common sense. Five shattered towers still reached up into the sky, all too much like burnt, twisted towers, and the massive castle was squat and heavy on its raised mound. Somehow the most massive fortification in Westeros, aside from the Wall itself, seemed to linger like a stain on the world itself.

Ophelia took in the view.

She'd read about Harrenhal.

How could she not? It had been one of the first bedtime stories she had been told as a wee little girl. Westeros's foremost cautionary tale. All who saw it knew the tragedy, knew what those burn marks stood for.

It was something else entirely to see it in person.

A burned out husk.

A corpse of what must have been once a feat of ambition and years of work all laid out over the course of a single battle. Nay. To call it a battle would be understating the sheer carnage which had befallen the land.

"Dreadful, is it not?"

Speaking without expecting an answer, it was only with the mildest of surprise she heard one of her companions respond.

"I wouldn't think so. There is a certain beauty to it."

Ophelia disagreed, not when she knew the horrors of choking to death on your own burning flesh. But she would acknowledge the fact that there was still a brooding, dark sense of majesty to it. It didn't stop her thoughts from being sarcastic.

'Leave it to the Darkstar to see something beautiful about this monument to death and fire.'

Her thoughts began to turn dark, dwelling on the sheer number of deaths and curses likely layered into the very stones of the place. Would this journey be like her meeting with the spirits of the Red Keep? Were there vengeful spectres waiting for her within the walls of Harrenhal? None too keen to see visitors, she wagered. The dead were often restless and rarely welcoming to travelers when their home was so dreadful.

"Do you feel anything, sister?"

The witch turned to her adventurous sister.

"The castle is ill kept. Much vermin dwells within its ruins, rats, bats, owls, and more. The birds whose eyes I borrowed see that and more. Those people that live within its walls are few and, while not unhealthy, they seem stooped. As if weighed down."

Sarella frowned.

"It is said that the place is cursed, that every family that has held it has seen the castle be their doom. Do you truly believe it could be cursed as such?"

Shrugging, the witch had no rebuttal to offer.

"Men often make their own curses." Noticing that the Darkstar was still listening - all of their group riding in a relatively close formation, but he only a horse length behind them - she still continued. "Greed, folly, rank ambition. These things can see a family destroyed as surely as anything else. And if the land is believed to be cursed, then any ill fortune or foolish lords will be seen as that curse claiming more victims. Even if it is more likely that it was their own ill laid plans that brought about their fate." Here she frowned at her own words. "But even I must admit there is a… feeling about the place."

"Black Harren was an Ironman. A reaver and a murderer. I have little doubt it was the blood of those he murdered and enslaved that first cursed the stones of this plack." The Darkstar's voice was soft, his words actually murdered. "Then all the envy of the Riverlords whom dwelt in the shadow of this place… then the dragon fire… and all the many dead children."

"Aye." Ophelia dipped her head. "Much death has happened here."

"The Mad Lady Lothston, from way back when, was a friend and ally of the Bloodraven's. Some say they were lovers." Marwyn had approached them, carefully picking his way to form up with the others. "Some say that she had a child by him, but it was stillborn and that was what drove her deeper into madness."

Sarella snorted.

"Hoares, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, Lothston, now the Whents… it seems like this is where noble lines come to die."

Marwyn chuckled.

"Some say it was Harren the Black that first cursed it, that he had driven Lady Lothston mad and turned her to sorcery. Personally, I think she and the rest of her line were simply a bit too deep in the Higher Mysteries. Such things have ways of twisting the perspective of men.:

"Is it true she was a cannibal?" Ophelia's sister asked her question as they passed under a low hanging tree, their party on the final approach to the castle. "That she bathed in blood and held feasts of child flesh and worse?"

"Aye. And I heard that she would send out great black bats to snatch up children and carry them back to the castle." The little lord Dayne spoke up for the first time in front of the group, having previously been too shy or skittish to speak in front of Ophelia.

"I am afraid that my knowledge can not speak to the veracity of those particular claims. All I know for sure is that she was a skin changer and some say a shape changer as well, though those might well be the same thing. Much of what is known is rumor and is distorted by time and agenda - especially that which is recorded by the Citadel. After all, she was mad and it was just to slay her, was it not?"

Marwyn's final words came to pause as the whole of the party coalesced.

Lord Dondarrion and Lancel Lannister rode at the front, as they had for most of the journey, while Thoros of Myr brought up the rear of the group with the Darkstar. Lord Dayne and Marwyn were part of the middle of the group along with Ophelia and Sarella. So it was in this formation that they came to the final bend, instinctively tightening their formation, and found their vanguard staring at the rotting corpse of a fox - a large bat caught in its mouth - in the middle of the road.

Nothing but rotting guts spilled into dust and dirt, as flies buzzed about its empty eye sockets.

"Well now. That's ominous." Ophelia would have agreed if it hadn't been the Darkstar that spoke.
 
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