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

---

One Who is Many - Chapter 1​

---

Grumbling, he scrabbled for his pants, only to slam his hand against something hard and metal.

“Mother fucker!”

Rolling over in their bed, his consort turned to face him, sunlight caressing her face and illuminating a single, full breast.

“Hmm. Not quite my love. Come back to bed.” She felt for his body, trying to grab him. “It’s too early to get up Oberyn. Especially after last night.”

The Prince of Dorne smiled, reaching down to carasess his paramour’s face. And then a cockerel crowed. Wincing, a throbbing, shooting pain exploded through his head like a lightning bolt.

Grunting in pain, he screwed his eyes shut and felt bile rising up in his throat. Swallowing, he grimaced and staggered over to a chamber pot. Blessedly, the pain faded to a dull throbbing and he was able to, gingerly, grab a pair of pants and pull them on. Then, rather suddenly, he felt the urge to relieve himself. Even the tinkling of passing water against metal was like knives stabbing into the back of his eyes.

“I’m going to get something for my head.”

His words were rough, barely intelligible, and Ellaria Sand, now awake herself, simply smiled and kissed his back.

“Going to see your daughter? And leaving your woman all alone? For shame, my heart. Though if you enjoy that kind of act….”

Lightly swatting her shoulder, they chuckled, Oberyn wincing, before the love of his life pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Give Ophelia my love.”

With a playful slap to his rear, the smiling woman sent her beloved off to visit his daughter by another lover. And both of them were happy with that - because these were two of a very rare breed of human being.

Now, most knew Oberyn Martell by reputation.

As much for his ability on the battlefield, as by his rather exhaustive list of lovers. Which one he was most proud of? Well, that was a secret. Needless to say, most expected the man to be good at three things, getting into fights, getting into someone’s bed, and getting into a fight to get into someone’s bed.

It was this long list of paramours which lead to him fathering nine daughters.

All of them bastards.

All of them were well cared for and loved as they should be.

And the prince well and truly loved each one of them. However, there was one whose own… quirks were just as widely known throughout Dorne. Someone whose name was just as infamous and revered in quiet whispers as Oberyn’s own.

Ophelia Sand, the daughter of a witch.

Or so the story went. Oberyn wasn’t quite sure where the rumours started that he’d bedded a wielder of magic. He was pretty sure he would have bragged about it to no end had he known about that particular achievement during one of his jaunts through the kingdoms.

After all, what else would a girl who spent her time talking with birds and spiders be?

Not that it mattered.

He still very much loved the girl and doted on her the same way he did all his daughters.

Though her requests were usually on the less orthodox side.

For one, she read a lot. About their history. About the Kingdoms. About the gods and war and the sciences. Oberyn thought she fancied becoming some sorta maester when she grew up. She was already smarter than all the nobles and half the scholars he’d met on his trips.

Her other requests though, were even more unique.

Exotic pets for starters.

Ophelia became something of a collector of the rare and dangerous. He could appreciate it, of course, even if it was hardly the most feminine of pursuits. Many of the little critters were deadly and poison was something he was certainly used to dealing with. It seemed natural for the girl to grow an interest in them.

She’d even gotten the little beasties to breed and multiply like rabbits.

Or like him, as the little chit of a girl would say.

And while her sisters were more interested in being warriors or mingling with the high society, the witch girl, as she became known, would continue asking for the strangest things. Like objects shaped out of glass. The likes which would drive a craftsman up the wall with how detailed her requests were and the strange shapes and designs she’d request.

Then she’d asked for a garden.

It was by far the most mundane request he’d ever heard out of her.

And, after getting approval to take over one of the spare sections of the palace, simply granted.

Later he’d heard that the garden had been covered with a dome of glass and that Ophelia had somehow managed to get most of her personal items and collections inside it. Including the various poisonous creatures he’d brought for her.

‘I really should have seen that one coming.’ He realized in hindsight.

But predicting Ophelia was like trying to count grains of sand at a beach. You could try, but then give up after realizing it's just sand.

Harmless, really.

Then she started selling ‘magic potions’ and he stopped being surprised altogether.

“Ophelia, love of my life, I have come for you!”

Dressed in simple robes, loose around the body and tight at the wrists, she continued stirring the mixture she’d been tending to when he arrived. Waving her hand over at a small table, he found a tray of fresh bread, his favorite kind of jam, cheese, fruit, and a thick, blue potion.

“Hello Father. The hangover cure is on the table. Please eat something with it this time or you’ll just be even sicker.”

A long serpent, bright green with yellow eyes, crawled up the outside of her clothes. Wrapping around her neck once, twice, thrice, it slithered across the rich, brown skin so much like his own and underneath the thick braid of black hair that fell past her knees. Twirling around her arm it pushed closer to him, tongue flicking out to scent the air, before lowering itself to the floor and slithering off.

Oberyn, for his part, simply sat down and smiled.

Slathering the flaky, fresh, still slightly steaming bread with a thick helping of apricot preserves he took a bite before downing a swig of the potion. The concoction’s taste was, as ever, bland and slightly chalky. But even before it hit his stomach he could already feel relief spreading through him.

Even better, though, was the large pitcher of cool water, likely having been kept in a beer or wine cellar after being boiled and filtered a dozen times, his daughter was a bit picky like that, that he eagerly poured himself a goblet of.

“You know, most people would be rather terrified to let a green death be in the same room as them.” He wolfed down another piece as he finished the last of the cure, sighing in contentment as the mixture of warm bread, sweet jam, and cool water pushed off the last of his weariness.

“Of course Father. He won’t bother us.”

Snickering, he threw a crumb of bread at her but a bird swooped down and snatched it out of the air.

“So last night, I was doing some thinking.”

She nodded for a moment, still not looking up at him.

“You always do your best thinking when you’ve had a jug of wine and a whore or three, yes, Father.”

This time he threw the now emptied pitcher of water and hooted with laughter as one of his daughter’s apes leapt from a tree to catch it, tucked into a roll, and then carried it back to the table.

Cutting the beast a piece of bread and smearing it with preserves, he fed the little creature for its trouble. Giving a hoot of its own, it began to chew on the treat and plopped down next to Oberyn. Scratching the ape’s head, he continued to speak to his daughter’s back.

“Well, your step mother and I decided. We think it’s time you took a lover. Now, we were wondering if you wanted to marry Trystan? He’s still quite taken with you and if so, you could have him as your first. But you’re fourteen now and it’s time to live a little.”

This time she giggled herself.

“As you say Father. When shall I meet the prince for our tryst?”

“We also figured it would be a good time to go ahead and find you a worthy match. A list was drawn up and letters are to be sent out tomorrow.”

“Of course, Father. Would you prefer I marry someone who lives in a port or on the border with the Tyrells?”

This time he pouted, sending his new friend away with a pat on the back, before focusing fully on his youngest daughter.

“Come now my dearest, most delightful, most dutiful daughter. Surely you can give your poor father a meager crumb of attention before you send him away?”

Lifting a large spoon from the mixture she’d been preparing, she had a small songbird flit down and dip its beak into the potion. And, once it had given a small trill, the bird returned to its family.

“Of course. Let me finish the treatment for Uncle’s gout first, though. Hopefully, this at least stops the pain fully.”

And there it was - the reason why people loved and feared his daughter in equal amounts.

Who else could have made wonderful cures the likes which even maesters couldn’t understand and then, in the very same breath, speak of exotic beasts or politics. She was seen as valuable for her creations, but dangerous for their inability to corral her. If you wanted her favor, you had to pay for it or expect a demand in turn.

She also stunk of alcohol.

And not the good stuff either. The kind she used to clean her tools and hands whenever messing around with herbs.

Fingers stained green and hair pinned into a simple braid, clothes airy and easily cleaned.

Functional.

“Before that, there’s something else I’d like to run by you.”

The young woman never stopped stirring her mix, though he knew he had her attention.

“I was invited to attend a trip up North by King Robert. He is making arrangements to look for a new Hand and requested that I join as a guest. He also permitted me to bring a retinue of my own for the trip.”

Swiftly bottling the mixture and taking a moment, she tentatively nodded.

“The King wishes to meet me, but does not wish to endure the heat of Dorne?”

Oberyn smiled.

“Nothing of the sort. The King will be too busy swapping old war stories with Stark and mourning his lost flame. I’m just using this as an excuse to haul you out of your stifling glass house.”

He raised his hand, anticipating immediate refusal.

“I know very well that you have requests and your own experiments to attend to. Nonetheless, it’s been three days since we’ve seen you for supper and I would hedge a bet you haven’t seen a bath in twice that long. As much as I like a good perfume, I’d say it's not particularly healthy to douse yourself head to toe with it.”

“It’s pollen, not perfume. I was working with some of the bees and-” Opehlia bit her tongue, visibly halting her movement. Slowly, she nodded. “Has it actually been a week already?”

Placing a cork stopper into the small glass bottle, she held the dull green container for a moment before nodding.

“I understand Father. Thank you.”

Turning, she smiled at Oberyn, her green eyes crinkled in happiness as the tall, thin young woman walked over to him.

“Give this to Uncle. I’m going to get a bath… and then I’ll join you all for a meal. And I would hug you, but, well-”

Oberyn stopped her in her tracks, pulling his daughter into a tight hug of his own.

“Go, get clean my child. I need to bathe and tend to Ellaria as well. Hopefully, we can all have lunch?”

Blushing, Opehlia agreed.

“I would like that Father. Thank you.”

Content, now that he was assured his daughter would be leaving her room today, the jovial prince sent her scurrying back over to clean her tools as he pocketed the bottle of the newest miracle his daughter had concocted. While he would have it tested by one of the hounds, just to be safe, he was sure it would help his brother.

And then he was going to go enjoy a bath of his own.

“Maybe a small pitcher of wine. And only Ellaria today? Yes. I think that will be good!”

Oberyn Martell, after all, was the very picture of moderation.

---

She’d been called many things throughout her life.

Villain.

Hero.

Warlord.

Skitter.

Weaver.

Khepri.

In a previous life, Ophelia Sand had seen many things. Made many mistakes and, perhaps, ruined many lives. However, the truth of the matter was that she wanted to help people and make a difference. That’s just who she was.

That was who Taylor Hebert had been.

It’s what had pushed her to make the ultimate sacrifice. To let go of everything and become the monster they needed to save the world. The one who could tip the balance against the world ending horror which had been secretly plaguing them for decades.

And then, when her time came, she accepted the bullet.

It would have been a good ending to her story.

Only, it hadn’t ended there.

Her life, her death, her rebirth. It was all a big jumbled mess inside her head most of the time, but Taylor, now Ophelia, chose to grasp this new chance with both hands. A new life away from pain, violence, betrayal, and politics which had made her time as both a hero and a villain miserable.

She swore to herself she would do things right this time.

That she would live the happy life her parents, her previous parents, always wanted for her.

‘If only things were that simple.’ She sighed - shrugging off her heavy robes as she walked into the bath.

As Ophelia Sand, she learned that her circumstances were nothing short of extraordinary. The bastard child of a prince who chose to accept all his illegitimate daughters into his family to raise and love as his own. Going against common sense and tradition out of pure parental love and devotion.

Ophelia found it very easy to love Oberyn in her own special way.

Perhaps not the same way Taylor loved Danny.

But the mutual appreciation and trust were there. He was like a funny uncle, very doting and a troublemaker in his own right. Ellaria had been kind to her. Not that she was like a mother, but, perhaps, a good older friend? It was her, after all, that had been the first person to teach Ophelia about poisons. As for her sisters, well, she loved them and they loved her, but their relationships could and did vary wildly. Just as much as it did with her own body.

She was still tall, still thin, and she still had her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes. Annette and Daniel Hebert that is. Her skin, though, was now a light bronze and tanned to a rich brown. Even her features had become softer, gentler, and almost… exotic.

“It’s odd, I suppose, but I look more attractive than Emma now.”

However, her chest remained as nonexistent as it always had been. Not that it mattered anymore. Her ego had been permanently deflated when her brain was introduced to a chunk of lead. But it was still strange.

Sinking into the tub of warm water, heated and then carried by serving girls who disappeared just as quickly as they came, Ophelia relaxed. There were aromatics and scented oils available, but she wanted to just enjoy the warmth seeping into her bones for a moment, soap and linen cloths washing away pollen and grime and sweat and exhaustion. Though that indulgence could definitely come later.

“Perhaps Father is right. Spending a week without bathing is disgusting.” She ghosted her fingers across her ribs. “And I can definitely see more of those than I should be able to.”

The greatest change she’d had to deal with, however, had been to do with her powers.

Surprisingly, she’d kept the abilities she had as Skitter. If only muted by whatever caused her to be reborn. Which she was immensely glad for.

Having her Swarm always made things easier. Until she realized her power wasn’t limited to critters anymore.

At first, she thought they were simply growing broader - even if she’d been returned to her pre second trigger state. There was also the issue of the additional information, growing just as surely as the breadth and depth of the rest of her ability, she was gleaning from each contact as well. But as time had passed, and she’d started Warging into her pets more and more often, and she learned more and more about the nature of magic, well, she considered herself a rational person. Meaning that if all the evidence insisted that magic was real, and she was actively using it, then magic was real.

“I wonder if this is the origin of powers? Some of them, at least. Worlds like this have to be more common than… normal? Stable? Physics based ones?”

Unsure of the nature of the multiverse, she had, at the very least, leapt into this world’s common sense with both feet. She couldn’t see the future and she hadn’t been able to acquire an intact glass candle, but, as wisps of darkness gathered around her fingers, caressing her skin almost as if it remembered being wielded by her former… teammate, she was quite pleased she’d learned a bit of shadow magic.

It came easier to her than the powers of the Red Priests, the most she’d managed to was light the wick of a normal candle, as the shadows seemed almost eager to answer her.

Tentatively, she wondered if it was because she had pinged off of Sophia all those years ago. That, perhaps subconsciously, she had suppressed an aspect or even aspects of her own abilities out of a fear of the girl and then, later on, her laser focus on what she already had.

Still, she was capable of levitating herself a few feet, creating flashes of light, and manipulating small amounts of existing flame and water. Though, truly, both were tiring in the extreme. Almost as if something was pulling at her whenever she touched a power that she did not have before.

However, Ophelia had been truly enthralled when, for her thirteenth birthday, she had been permitted to speak with a shadowbinder whom her father had gained special permission to bring into the palace. She had been the one to teach her the tricks she knew with shadow, such as forming hands or mouths with the stuff, as well as calling it to her - either to hide her face or cloak her form in its entirety - as well as the few small spells of fire and water the woman in question knew.

In return, the witch had left with a dozen criminals and ten pounds of silver.

She tried not to think too hard about what happened to those men.

Other than that, it was the study of alchemy that had produced the greatest results. A mixture of chemistry, superstition, and religious and philosophical study, she had disproved an order of magnitude more treatises and writings than she had proved. And those precious scraps of truly magical knowledge were a minority of the knowledge of chemistry she could recall.

Blessedly, her memories of Arcadia’s programs and her own, ocasional, reading of wikipedia pages left her with a basic understanding of the physics, in the crudest sense, of what actually happened. And the understanding of bases and acids were something the maesters had in their actions if not their causes.

And being a Martell bastard meant she had quite literally been able to request as many tutors as she wanted. The castle maester had sufficed until she was eight. At which point she possessed more knowledge than he did on every topic except languages, the Lords and Ladies of the Realm, Ravenry, and the History of Westeros. All topics she continued to study under him, of course. But, utilizing her ability to split her attention and take in information from her Swarm, she’d read every book in the castle using her insects, gone through and cross referenced a great number of them, and then made lists of the many, many, many things she realized she simply didn’t understand.

Terms, phrases, and missing context she did not have, or could not find, rendered much of her attempts at bulk data collection useless. But, thankfully, garnered her a reputation like her older sister’s - that of a rather prodigal child. So when more and more scholars, especially would be alchemists, came to the city of Sunspear, she eagerly engaged them all and devoured every scrap of knowledge they had. They would leave after a month or so, usually exhausted by hours upon hours of debates and lectures, before receiving a generous payment.

By now, the sheer bulk of learned men and women who had gathered in the court of the Prince of Dorne made it the second greatest center of learning in Westeros. Sarella, Nymeria, and Arianne all having picked the ones that were most learned, most willing to aid their ploys, and most cunning. Doran chose the ones that were smart enough to be useful and lazy enough not to try anything stupid.

In spite of, or perhaps because, so many foreign scholars the Citadel in Oldtown had been generous to send a dozen maesters of their own to tutor her in any subject she could request.

Mathematics, sciences, natural and physical, history, geography, philosophy - this world’s equivalent at least -, and ultimately more exhausting subjects such as accounting and economics, the theory of warfare and of some of the principles of the many, many crafts mastered by their order. She, however, had little interest in those, nor a great talent for many of them. In the end, she contented herself with the information she had wished she had when she was ruling a city of her own and did all the work a child could.

Experience had taught her that ignorance could be as dangerous and as time consuming as any other problem.

“Not needing glasses is nice though.”

Leaning back in the water, she rang a small bell and summoned her bath maids. Bringing steaming buckets of hot water they refreshed her tub as she luxuriated in the warmth for a moment longer.

‘There are certainly benefits to being royalty.’ Or at least close enough to it.

As she’d soon learnt, Westeros wasn’t a particularly appetizing place. Like something out of a medieval history novel, you found the usual aspects of power struggles, religious zealotry, and good old fashioned warfare. Of course, the existence of magic and dragons put a certain novel spin to it, but there wasn’t nearly enough of either for Ophelia’s tastes.

Education was… limited. Extremely so.

If you weren’t wealthy, noble, or part of a religious sect, you might as well kiss any chance of ever studying goodbye. It was why she dove into the library the first chance she had. And demanded more whenever it struck her fancy.

In her honest opinion the Seven Kingdoms were… a mess.

They seemed to work well enough as separate entities. But as a unified nation?

Nope! Not at all!

But it wasn’t her job to fix it. She was a bastard girl from a prince that liked to fuck everything with a pulse and had a temper to match. On top of that, she was a witch and a shut in and right now she was just glad she could stretch out.

“Marissa, yes, thank you. Be a dear and give me a rub down?”

Helping her up from the tub, her favorite servant rubbed her down with clean towels, the soap from the bath a bit harsh but leaving her skin scrubbed clean. Gently padding across the cool sandstone tiles of the room she was soon stretched out across linen sheets as her father’s servants began to massage her body and rub out every knot of tension in her muscles.

“It has been a week since you visited us, my lady.”

Taylor blushed, not from her nudity, that was something the woman had seen many times before, but the gentle tone her servant employed.

“I suppose I was caught up in my work.”

“Mmhmm.” Her excuse sounded weak, even to Ophelia’s ears, but her servant merely continued to work out every kink and catch in her body. “I suppose my only concern is that you’re not eating enough.” Soft fingers danced across her ribs. “You were always a tall, thin girl, a bit like your sister. But I worry.”

Nodding, the young witch made a note to try and actually eat regularly for at least the next few days.

“It’s easy to forget.”

Another pitiful defense, but one she felt compelled to offer. Marissa, after all, had started out as a bedroom companion of her father and step mother but had ended up her servant. For the last four years she had done everything in her power to see that Ophelia was looked after.

Something she admittedly probably needed.

Tall and well formed, with a chest and hips and curves that could make any man, and many women, stop and stare, the woman was incredibly beautiful with long, shining copper hair and skin that seemed to be the color of cinnamon. Marissa’s one imperfection, if it could be said to be that, was that she was infertile. Born barren she could bear no children and, therefore, never find a man to wed her. Work as a whore or courtesan or taking up a trade were the only routes for her. And with her beauty, one of those paid far more than the others. Thankfully, she had been found by Ophelia’s father and made one of his… companions, before her motherly nature and seemingly infinite patience were noticed.

Knowing his daughter needed someone to look after her, he asked her if she’d rather be a maid than a prostitute and had her become his daughter’s caretaker.

Since then, she’d seen that Ophelia bathed, ate, and slept as often as she could - only the witch’s laboratory being off limits to her and anyone not of the family in general - and succeeded enough to prevent her charge from simply falling over.

“You’re a special child. But you’re mortal yet. So until the day you no longer have need of food and water and air, do try and have a little something to eat? Even if it’s just a fruit from one of your trees.”

Nodding, the once villain began to feel her eyes grow heavy.

Perfumes filled the air, warmth filled her flesh, and it was all she could do to cling to wakefulness.

Even the warm oil seemed to leak into her skin as skilled, firm fingers found each catch and twitch in her body, all the products of her many days spent bent over a cauldron, and washed away the last of the harshness as the former warlord took full advantage of every luxury offered to her.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

So it was a yawning Ophelia that stretched a final time as the very pretty young women tutted and clucked and told her she needed to eat more and wrapped her in clothes befitting a young woman of her station. Marissa got the last word in, sending her off with a hug and a final promise to do better. Her hair, this time, remained loose so as to dry.

Fingering her robe, she mused on the recreation of her past life’s greatest defensive measure. Also, perhaps, her most profitable one. Spider silk, of course, was now one of Dorne’s most luxurious exports.

Originally, it had been something she created as a way to produce her own materials. That had begun almost a decade ago. Now, she had hundreds of species and dozens of stable crossbreeds that she could select from. And the light, airy garment gently caressed her skin as she stepped into a pair of sandals and laced them up her calves.

She found there were many things to love and hate about this new world.

But mostly Taylor found it utterly, totally, absolutely, unbearably hot.

Stepping out of the partially underground bathing complex, lowered into the earth to offer it some protection from the pounding heat, the temperature hit her almost like a physical force.

Living north of Boston had ill prepared her for living in a semi-literal dessert and it took every ounce of willpower she had to step out and cross the short distance to the family’s private dining space.

Only to find it ominously silent.

‘Strange.’ She noted, moving closer to the large table occupied by her family.

Everyone was gathered. And she meant everyone. Prince Doran, in his wheelchair, was sitting at the head. At his right and left were Quentyn and Trystane, Arianne standing with Ellaria, her cousins and step mother respectively, while the large form of Areo Hotah stood behind them all. Even more telling was how her own father was stalking about the place, eyes practically spitting venom, while all eight of her sisters sat in small groups or stood with their mother.

“I know I promised not to spy on the family, but it is times like these that I wonder if it would be best if I simply forgot that little promise.”

Alternately, the people in the room tensed up and relaxed at her little joke. Ophelia, because Taylor really did try to… compartmentalize those two aspects of herself, simply strolled forward. All of a mighty mountain that a too tall, too thin fourteen year old girl could be.

“Uncle.” She smiled and walked up to him, curtseying. “Did my potion work? Is the pain gone?”

His eyes softened for a moment, having been almost flinty when she first entered.

“Yes, dear child. There are some, ah, prickling feelings in my joints. But the pain is gone and the discomfort is mild, at worst. I am a bit unsteady on my feet though and almost fell over.”

Frowning, her fingers twitched and her mind already pushed into a large portion of the nearby insect population to borrow the Swarm’s brain power for a moment. The most useful new aspect of her power soon faded, however, and she blushed before realizing she’d already begun to slip into her creative mode again.

“Sorry Uncle. But yes, I’ll see to that issue as soon as I can. Still, what news is so terrible it’s put all of us off our food?”

Oberyn snarled, her father practically spitting as he stomped over to Ophelia and thrust a letter in her direction.

“Those feckless whoresons, those child murdering rapists, those cowards and traitors dare to accuse my daughter of murder! Read, child, and know why we are so offended!”

Taking the rather crumpled note from her still pacing father, she quietly and quickly pushed through the offending document.

“And?”

Her reaction made her uncle snort and father throw his hands up to the heavens. At least her sisters laughed. That was enough for Ophelia to continue.

“Jon Arryn died an old man, clinging to the memory of a boy long buried under wine and whores, that he could not handle-” She preempted her father’s disdainful snort “-and now has died to a poison only I am known to cultivate.” The reborn villain frowned though. “What I am confused about, however, is that they did not actually use one of the more lethal concoctions I produce.”

Quentyn grimaced and questioned her.

“What do you mean? He is said to have died shrivelled up, every joint in his body locked in place. Surely that is an agonizing death!”

“The dose makes the poison.”

That got a small chuckle from both Arianne and Ellaria, the prince suddenly realizing what she meant after looking at his sibling.

“You mean to say that it wasn’t a poison that killed him?”

Ophelia shrugged.

“It was a paralytic, harvested from a species of wasps. And is perfectly safe in small doses, only lasting a few hours at the most. However, it is colorless, almost tasteless, and the scent is only slightly acrid. Easy to hide in mulled wine or fruit juice, I suppose. Personally, I have sold it to the Citadel and several physicians as an aid during surgeries and delicate procedures.”

Doran frowned, reclining in his seat as he stroked his beard.

“Then this is an attack on us directly. A blatant attempt to frame us.”

Ellaria, too, spoke up.

“I may have my differences with young Ophelia from time to time, but I must concur. A normal poison would have been more effective. This one took a full day to stop his heart. At the very least, it is a message and a threat.”

Indignant, Trystane banged his fist on the table.

“They would threaten to drag us into a war over this? Is it not enough they kill and rape our family, now they wish to use us as scapegoats as well! Claiming they would send the Kingsguard to arrest her if we do not present Ophelia is a clear attempt to assert their authority over us. And it was not even the king to send this order, but the commander of the goldcloaks! Sand or not, she is still a Martell in all ways that matter. They know what that means.”

“And if they are so foolish as to make an issue of our little sister actually doing something with her spare time, then they must know that we, personally, could not abide such a thing.”

Obara, oldest and in some ways leader of Oberyn’s children, frowned. Her eyes were like their father’s, hot and cold and angry and violent and pregnant with the possibilities for sudden, unrestrained fury. At least in the right situation and with the right target.

“It’s obviously a test, then. To see what we do.” Arianne took a long sip of wine. “Do we ignore them, refusing one whom the king has granted authority in this matter? Do we approach them as rival Lords Paramount? Do we protect a bastard as one of our own? Those northerners, they do not think as we do. Surely this is some scheme they plot and play at and think they shall win some advantage by.”

Nodding, Doran concurred with his daughter.

“Which begs the question, how do we turn it upon them? Work it to our benefit? I see a few paths, but the greatest danger is on you, child. And I would ask your thoughts on the matter first.”

“A letter would only annoy Robert. He would view it as us wasting his time and likely retaliate for it.”

Ellaria’s words got a round of murmurs of acknowledgement. Stalling for time would be against their best interests and the message was loud and clear on Opehlia’s end.While they could play defensively, that would likely not win them this little game.

“Indeed.” Closing her eyes, she considered her possibilities for a moment, discarding the absurd or the impossible and coming to the ultimate conclusion that there were only two real options. “We fight or flee. Either I go with Father on his planned journey, heading straight for the king and bypassing his courtiers, or I head over to Essos for a few years.”

Oberyn frowned but accepted the words.

“The latter will be a tacit admission of guilt to many and common sense to the rest. I would go with you, of course. Robert’s temper is well known and after what happened to the last Martell to suffer a Baratheon king’s wrath, I’m sure we will have a fine excuse.”

This time it was Ophelia’s turn to chuckle.

“So bold, so daring, Prince Oberyn the Viper. Come now Father. Just because it’s my life and our good name on the line, don’t tell me you’re hesitating?”

Puffing out his chest, the man strutted across the room like a fool.

“Of course not! I shall take up my spear and we shall ride to King’s Landing in a day! I will duel every knight we come across and force them to swear to your honor. It will be a crusade of justice!”

“Perhaps. But I do agree that going for the kill has the right of it.” Doran leaned back, regarding his brother and niece cooly. “He is unlikely to kill a child, who I doubt he truly suspects for the murder of his Hand, and I would consider his rivals to be the more dangerous threat. That said, if he likes you he might very well punish Slynt for wasting his gold, his men, and his time. With this, there is a chance of not merely surviving, but winning. I am loath, however, to send you alone and both my sons are already preparing for other tasks.”

“We will go with her. I was already planning to go with father as well, he asked us all last night, we will ensure no harm comes to our sister!” Stepping forward, bold as brass, Obara proudly answered the unspoken call. “Elia and I were both going. We’ll watch her back.”

This got a chuckle from the old man.

“That is what I feared. You’re proud and strong, but what about a threat you do not see coming? What about a knight in full armor, coming at you with a warpick and shield? Nymeria, Tyene, would one of you travel with my brother and nieces? I would ask your mother, but she is staying here with the youngest two, yes?”

Ellaria nodded.

“I have missed my latest moonsblood. And, while I would enjoy the time with my love, I am afraid that the stress of a journey, should I be pregnant, would be too much. I was going to stay here with my three youngest.”

Obella pouted slightly, though neither Dorea nor Loreza seemed overly concerned. In their minds, their family could not be beaten - no matter what the past said. So any threat to their older sibling was one to be dismissed out of hand. After all, she was a good witch and one of the cleverest people they knew.

At that thought, the two shared a look, letting the older people speak before frowning. Coming to a quick conclusion, Dorea spoke up.

“What about sending Sarella?”

The middle child looked up, having been content parsing over a copy of the letter and noting out specific phrases she thought might have been important to the subtext of the threat.

“Well….” The youngest began. “She’s really smart and stuff, right? So maybe she can help Ophelia with her potions and things like she does here.”

Eagerly agreeing with her sister, Dorea continued on.

“And since Nymeria is going with Arianne, cuz Tyene and Arianne tried to run away to meet the Tyrell boy, uh, the one Daddy hurt?”

“Willas.” Oberyn supplied, smirking at how his child nodded.

“Since they’re going to see Willas about the not really secret marriage thingy, Tyene can go with Ophelia since she’s really, really good at getting boys to act stupid. That way you’ll have two really clever people and two who are good at fighting.”

Loreza jumped in as soon as her sister stopped talking.

“And that way Arianne and Nymeria have the guards and stuff and Daddy and the rest of us all have people who can fight and think and stuff too!”

The whole of the room chuckled at the energy of the two youngest, laying out their plan as if it was simply common sense.

“I suppose it’s not a bad plan. And we could stop off in Oldtown for a bit on the way?”

Smiling widely, Oberyn embraced his middle daughter.

“Of course my dear! And we can find a maester and kidnap him too. Maybe one that knows about poisons. Then your sisters would enjoy his speaking as well!”

Sarella laughed and slapped her father on the shoulder.

“I want to sneak in there, not burn the place down! But that does sound like fun. And besides, I’m sure we can find a cute boy we can all drool over!”

This got a round of laughs from the rest of the Sand Snakes, a hearty chuckle from their father, a shake of the head from Doran and his get, and smirk from Ellaria. Area simply stood there, impassive as always, but the slight upturn to his lips told sagas of how amused the man was.

A few more details were planned out, the logistics of moving so many of their family was discussed, and the opinion of their steward, maester, and stablemaster were sought. In the end, even Hotah was asked his thoughts on the matter - all of which were focused on the safety of those he served, and even made a few suggestions on Oberyn and his retinue traveling a bit lighter than they might otherwise.

Food, however, was soon summoned and a late lunch was had. It was as she was carrying a plate and skin of wine to a windowsill, to look out over the city of Sunspear as she ate and thought, that Ophelia felt a soft hand brush against the back of her neck.

“Oh dear sister of mine, what thoughts consume you?”

She squeaked in surprise, a smirking young woman, the picture of utter innocence standing there.

“So little sister, it seems I finally snuck up on you.”

Ophelia blushed, shaking her head.

“I told you, I don’t spy on the family. Even by omission. I don’t monitor anything that goes on in the palace unless we’re in danger.”

Giggling, the blue eyed, blond haired woman skipped up to her side, looping her arm through Ophelia’s.

“Well then. Can you still tell me, oh little sister of mine, why you’re brooding?”

Nodding, and nibbling on a biscuit slathered with blueberry sauce, the witch thought about how to phrase her thoughts.

“I suppose… you know how the longer the summer, the longer the winter?”

The older sibling nodded, indulging the train of thought of the former resident of Earth Bet. With the very noticeable difference in how the weather worked being rather on the nose.

“Here’s the thing, I asked Sarella, this is the longest summer ever.”

“Meaning the longest winter is coming?”

“Yeah. But more than that, things are happening. Way too many for it to be just one person either. There’s rumors that Casterly Rock’s mines have been sealed up, even if the miners still go there to work, the Crown is massively in debt to them, the Iron Bank, and the Faith, plus Robert didn’t rule the Seven Kingdoms - Jon Arryn did.”

“So you think someone wants to make big moves during the coming winter.”

“Multiple someones. Jon Arryn’s only son, to a half mad wife, is a lackwit. Tyrion Lannister is a dwarf, even if he is clever, and the lord of the Riverlands is actively in the process of dying. The king’s brothers are at each other’s throats, Stannis being Lord of Dragonstone but Renly being the Lord of the Stormlands.”

“And the youngest Baratheon is a rather famous sword swallower, yes.”

Giggling at how matter of fact her sister was, Ophelia had to take a moment to wash the last of her breakfast of fruit and bread and fish down with a swallow of wine. Finishing her pull, she offered the skin to her sister.

“Yeah. So Renly and Loras Tyrell are maybe a thing. When you consider Arianne is finally going to marry Willas, that means the Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne could all be united behind the youngest Baratheon should… something happen to the king.”

That got a dismissive snort from the fairest child of the Viper.

“As if Tywin would let Joffery and Tommen lose their claims. One for the throne, one for the Westerlands. That’s a powerful alliance on its own.”

This time, Ophelia got to smirk.

“Well, those rumors about what Jon Arryn was investigating before his death….”

Gasping, the young woman’s eyes sparkled.

“You don’t mean!”

She nodded.

“Aye. They’re suspected of being bastards. And for once, not Robert’s. Arryn was conducting a review of the royal bastards before the end, even visiting several in person, and his last words were, and I quote, ‘The seed is strong.’”

Something their father would very much try to contest if he had his way.

“So you think the Lannisters are going to try something? Perhaps an alliance with the Eyrie to ensure their support?”

Shrugging, the young woman simply sat back.

“In the end, I’m just not sure.” She was chewing her thoughts once again. “Almost everything I’ve told you comes from overheard gossip and rumors. A lot of gossip, of course. But it’s hardly evidence. My personal opinion, however, is mixed?”

Tyene waited patiently, content to braid her younger sister’s hair as they shared a wine skin and digested their thoughts.

“Ultimately, I think there’s just too many people either dying or disappearing for this to be a conspiracy. Part of it is obviously centered on the fact that Robert is a weak king and people are making power plays because of it. I suspect Renly and Stannis both suspect the truth of the royal heir’s parentage but won’t act unless it comes out. Stannis is bitter, but loyal. Renly is ambitious and a boy playing at knighthood. I think it comes down to if someone makes a play for the Eyrie or the Riverlands, maybe? The North is… loyal to the Starks. But if someone were to remove them, the whole place is backwards and caught up in hundreds of local feuds. It could split right down the middle. So if there’s a really bad winter, and the problems that brings are permitted to fester, I think there’s a chance things could explode.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, the last of the wine in their bellies and Tyene’s skilled fingers deftly weaving a braid that twisted half around Ophelia’s body. Leaning forward, her task complete, she wrapped her arms around her sister and pulled her close - the younger sibling actually a bit taller but leaning into the older nonetheless.

“I think you’re scary. And I’m glad you’re my little sister and that you care about us. So thank you and make sure you give Uncle a few hints before you go, ok?”

Nodding, the younger woman squeaked when soft lips pushed against hers, a warm, skilled tongue pushing past her surprised mouth and eagerly dominating her tongue. The kiss was deep and passionate, but also gentle and soothing even as it was consuming and domineering. However, they were in a rather public place and doing something rather scandalous, even for a Martell, and Tyene pulled away.

Taylor-Ophelia almost felt her knees give way, emotions and sensations she’d only barely begun to consider when she was with Brian so, so long ago washing over her.

“Now, let’s go take your plate to the servants, get a bottle of wine for ourselves, and go find Sarella. If we’re to be keeping our older sisters and Father alive on this trip, we’ll need to plan it out. And you can think a bit more on what will happen in the future, ok?”

Her wits somewhat recovered, Ophelia nodded even as she wished she had the answer to that question.

It was so easy to have her little minions spread over the palace, awaiting her commands. Stationed near the most important and influential so that her ears could hear their words. A small rat scurrying down the hallways, a chirping bird near the windowsill. Her powers had grown beyond the scope of her previous peak.

But she still wasn’t everywhere.

There were still holes in her net.

Who ordered the death of Jon Arryn? Why were they trying to incriminate her? She didn’t have the answers yet.

‘That’s why we must meet with the King.’

The man may not have been the best ruler, or hold the most pristine reputation. But he was at the very least considered fair, so long as Dragons weren’t involved. Jon Arryn was his long time friend, so it remained to be seen how much clemency he would spare a suspect of the crime. Yet they had to meet him before he was led to a wrong conclusion.

They had to go north.

---

House Words were important.

Perhaps more so than most people realized. There was a good reason why young lords and ladies were taught to memorize the names and words tied to them since a very early age.

They were more than flowery meanings and cryptic warnings.

They were markings. Values held close by a family.

One could learn much about a given family by reflecting on the words their House took pride in.

Fire and Blood.

Ours is the Fury.

Hear me Roar.

Family, Duty, Honor.

And of course, his own House’s words. Winter is Coming.

Ned Stark had seen much over the course of his life, perhaps too much by the account of lesser men. He’d marched alongside others in rebellion against a Mad King. Had taken up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell in the wake of his father’s and brother’s deaths. He’d done everything he could to foster a good family and maintain peace in the North.

Even if taking up his sword was a necessity.

So if there was one thing his experiences in life had taught him was to heed the warnings given to you.

Which brought him to his current conundrum.

A raven had just arrived, informing him of a small addition to the king’s retinue. The Martells, including the one accused of assisting in the murder of the man who fostered him, were going to be joining the king’s retinue.

Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.

He couldn’t help but wonder what all this meant for him and his family. Because, for the life of him, he hadn’t the faintest clue of what to do. Ned Stark was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He knew Robert was coming up here to ask for his help - in what fashion he did not know - and he also knew he’d probably give the man everything he could. The only problem being that the last time a Stark went south it was in open rebellion because two others had been murdered and a third kidnapped and raped.

“Winter is coming.”

In more ways than one, he supposed. This had been a long summer. And long, harsh, hard winters always followed long summers.

He only hoped events would set before the cold winds of the north blew south.

“You called for me, milord?”

Ned shook himself away from his thoughts, watching as Maester Luwin walked past the door, carrying with him a small stack of papers as he usually did.

“Maester.” He nodded in thanks. “My thanks for coming to see me in this late hour. I hope you are well?”

“I am fine, my lord, but I also think it is odd for you to wake me simply to ask after my health. If you’d forgive my impertinence, my lord.”

Nodding, the Stark patriarch gestured at his desk and the one letter sitting upon it, wax seal glinting in the candle lights.

“Read the third paragraph for a ways. You’ll see what has occupied me.”

Stepping closer to the fireplace in his study, he added another small log before straightening the collar of his tunic. For some reason, his skin was itching like it always did before a battle. Only, he hadn’t the faintest clue why.

“That… does sound odd, your grace. And the Lord Commander is sure of this?”

He grunted.

“Aye. It’s the second time he’s mentioned it and the fourth letter he’s sent where he remarked on the oddities of the animals. For two months now, no member of the watch has seen any living animal that was not one of their ravens or their horses or mules approach the wall from the south, nor has a single living thing other than their patrols approached from the north. No beasts, no birds, no wildlings.”

Brow furrowing, the older maester stepped closer to his lord before speaking quietly.

“I am loathe to suggest such a thing, but do you think it could be magic? I have truly heard no tale of any such phenomena in all of my years and in all of my learning except, from Marwyn the Mad when I was but an acolyte, of a place in Asshai by the Shadow. And if their rangings have uncovered nothing ....”

“Nothing. Not corpses, not signs of settlement, not even game to hunt.”

“Perhaps the winter… or maybe a gathering army? Such a host could strip the land bare of game.”

The lord of winterfell shook his head.

“You saw the words, as did I, not even fish in the waters. What army could be so massive as to eat all the fish in the sea?”

For a long time, both men were silent. Neither spoke, neither made a noise. Only the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wind outside violated the heavy silence. In the end, it was Ned that moved first.

“Winter is coming. I would see our stocks, and Winter Town, readied. And preferably before the king’s visit. In the morning I will visit Vayon. See what needs to be done.”

Dipping his head, the old scholar acquiesced, his chain tinkling as he did so.

“With your leave, I shall send ravens to those maestars who have knowledge of the seasons and beasts in particular.” He grimaced. “But I have heard enough of wargs and greenseers to know that your race’s blood is still… old. And in particular, might I approach Marwyn with this as well? He is lost in dreams of magic long gone, but the rather frightening change north of one of the few, visible pieces of magic in this world seems to be either an omen or a doom. And I have not the knowledge to know which.”

“Aye.”

“Then my lord, my only other piece of advice is that, perhaps, Ser Cassel should know of our… urgency to ensure the safety of such a large body of men as the Royal household is to bring. And how any such issues as might arise would be best attended to with drilled, disciplined recruits. As many as could be subtly acquired without causing undue alarm, of course.”

Closing his eyes, the quiet wolf felt the itching in his skin reach a peek, feeling almost like he wanted to scratch and scratch and scratch until he bled.

“Aye. I’ll see it done as well. But until things can be arranged, and I, personally, will speak to the lords, I would not see a panic. Are we clear?”

“Of course, my lord.”

And their work was done. The maester departed and the Lord Paramount of the North was left only with a feeling of immeasurable dread that he had missed something. That there was something he should be doing. Instead, all that was to be done was to wait and see.

“Perhaps Robert will be able to help. If nothing else, I could see about having him lower our taxes and I could buy more grain from the Reach and the Riverlands. This will be a long Winter indeed.”

Sleep did not find him that night.

 

---

One Who is Many - Chapter 2​

---

“Oof!” The quarterstaff slammed into her stomach again and Ophelia almost got lifted off the ground. Instead, she rolled with the blow as much as she could and pushed through what would certainly be another bruise.

Bringing her own staff up, she lashed out, driving the blunt end straight at her sister’s head. Obara simply snorted, snapped the staff up to her little sister’s fingers, and forced her sibling to snatch the weapon back lest she lose a digit. Not that it was a great loss for the former villain slash hero slash god slaying warlord. No, she was still good at planning ahead.

So, as she jerked her hand back, she also lifted the weapon, bringing it horizontal compared to her body, and twisted into a downward swing.

It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t elegant, but it did catch Obara across the shoulder.

“Huh. First time you’ve hit me all day. Now, let’s see if you can do it again!”

Grinning more than a little viciously, the older girl lashed out with a two handed swing, forcing the would be witch to block, before shifting stances mid strike. Using her now superior positioning, she pressed forward, muscle against muscle, and proceeded to knock her smaller, less physical sister to the ground. And then proceed to jab the point of her, thankfully blunt, staff into her throat.

“Dead, little sister.”

Only… slightly annoyed, Ophelia made a fly land on Obara’s face.

“And you’re dead too.”

This made the other girl chuckle.

“Now, now. Just because I’ve been whipping you like a disobedient stable boy doesn’t mean you get to pout. I thought you out of all of us would be able to lose gracefully, no?”

Sighing, she nodded.

“I am the one who asked you to train me.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to kick your butt while you’re using your powers too.”

Taking Obara’s proffered hand, the young woman let her older, and significantly less sweaty, sister help her up. After a clap on the back, the eldest of the Sand Snakes deemed their training session complete and took the fallen staff up from the dirt and sent her sister away with a shooing motion.

“Go. Get the food ready. I’m sure Tyene has not poisoned it, but you can never be too careful.”

Giggling, said sister called over from the campfire where their assigned men at arms were currently listening to her play a harp.

“Oh you wound me sister dearest. I assure you, I only poisoned your portion. And only so badly as you wound cute, little Ophelia!”

“Hah! Then I would fear for my life, If our sister was not so kind. For we are alike in that we repay ten times the injury given. And I left… more than one bruise on her body and her pride.”

Currently nursing said bruise, Ophelia considered getting up from her tree and flipping off her siblings for making sport of her. Instead, she just tightened the belt around her loose, linen breeches and hobbled over to the small stream they’d camped nearby.

Water was very, very good, she decided.

Even if the lessons could stand to be a bit kinder on her bruises.

Really, Ophelia hadn’t meant to drop her healthier habits. It just so happened that she dedicated so much time to her studying and experimenting, as well as later on doing commissioned work for nobles and the like, that there was very little free time left for her to do anything else.

It was only when traveling that the former villain didn’t have to worry about her new responsibilities.

Now if only her sister did not take them as an opportunity to use her as a sandbag.

Not that she wasn’t thankful.

Just sore. Very, very sore.

But the change in scenery helped. Rather than being battered around the dunes of Sunspear, Ophelia took comfort in the light breeze and partially covered skies. The biting chill contrasted with her warm skin.

A lifetime of living in more agreeable weather hadn’t prepared her for living in Dorne. In fact, it had actively hindered her for nearly a decade before she finally managed to adjust to the scorching heat and the near absence of wind. She couldn’t imagine how much harder it would have been if she hadn’t been born to the Martels.

Just the thought of not having her oils and private bath sent shivers down her spine.

‘Note to self. Invent plumbing and the shower when we go back home.’ She was no handywoman, but the Taylor part of her would be damned if she was forced to look at a chamber pot one more time.

Turns out it's the small things that you miss the most.

Like showers, toilets, night lamps that didn’t melt.

“Ophelia Martel, saving the world one bathroom at a time.” She snorted back a laugh. Having no doubt in her mind that had she been one of those insane geniuses who could replicate technology from nothing, she would have already made a cellphone or something insane to change the world.

But she wasn’t.

She had been a fighter first and something of a bookworm second.

Also a warlord. But she didn’t feel like conquering Westeros anytime soon.

Once had already been enough.

So that left her with little alternative but to become a scholar and inventor.

Whatever she made, she had to apply whatever knowledge she had to the information she had access to in the present. Hence why she had gotten her hands into as many books as she could since very young. Why she demanded tutors and mentors from all forms of subjects.

Getting a feeling from how far this world had advanced. And what she could do with what they had.

Which was, in fact, an immense amount. Despite the severe technological stagnation they seemed to suffer from, it was more of a cultural malaise than an inability to innovate. In truth, dozens, if not hundreds, of small areas had reached levels that had been at its modern equivalent or even, in a few rare cases, more advanced.

Horse breeding, for example, had lines that had been cultivated for literally thousands of unbroken years. Older than the Seven Kingdoms! And while the masters of beast flesh didn’t have names to give to things like genes and phenotypes, they had a hilariously advanced ability to judge traits, the odds of passing them along, and how to both care for a breeding population and exploit it to its utmost.

Wool softer than silk, horses that could challenge slower cars, grape vines that were older than the United States had been.

And they still didn’t have anything approaching steam power.

In fact, things like water clocks were so rare she’d been politely told no when she asked her father to purchase one. Something she was confused by, that he refused her not that she was being told no, but was very, very quickly answered when the price was explained.

‘And I still don’t understand this level of diffusion!’

Some of the free cities were beginning to push the level of technology she might have expected from the renaissance area… but only in ways that didn’t threaten the overall status quo.

Improvements to metallurgy, but not how to harness black powder.

Knotwork and sailmaking to rival even modern innovations, but not the advanced cartography or the concept of stock companies and proper trade organizations to exploit it.

Or closer to home. How people knew how to harness water power for wheels, but not really bothering to push beyond that.

‘Or I suppose how the Starks supposedly use hotsprings to heat their castle, requiring an understanding of water pressure, plumbing, and functional piping and the materials needed. Along with everything needed to maintain and repair that.

‘Note to self, make sure their pipes aren’t lead.’

Frankly, something told her that someone - or something - was holding technology back. But there was nothing she could think of doing that world wide. Even if she didn’t totally trust an organization as powerful as the Maesters, the utter absence of a system of colleges and academies outside of the Citadel just… didn’t make sense.

There was no royal school of engineers, no particularly studious lords organizing or donating a castle or anything. And while there were small, local schools, none of them had anything approaching great thinkers or widespread influence.

“Dwelling in your own thoughts again, sister?”

Jumping slightly, Ophelia looked up from her reflection, realizing her knees were screaming at her as she’d sat there - lost in her thoughts.

“I… uh… yes?”

Tyene just snorted.

“Indeed. We called for you. I had thought you might be bathing, considering your rather fastidious nature.”

Shaking her head, the former villainess didn’t take the obvious bait of her sister’s suggestive grin.

“And you’d been so good. Hadn’t teased me at all since we’d left Sunspear.”

“Of course not. There’d been zero privacy and you’re mine, little sister.”

There was greed in Tyene’s tone, not lust, and that’s what confused the girl who had once been Taylor Hebert. She knew what had happened with Victoria and Amy Dallon, mindrape turned mindbreak and all that wonderful drama. But what confused her wasn’t the blatantly incestuous actions, the Martells likely wouldn’t be more than slightly offended and their father would probably just shrug.

No.

It was the little things.

The searching gaze, the probing questions, the seemingly random suggestions that Tyene knew more than she was letting on.

“Well, I do appreciate the exclusivity. But I hope you know that they execute people for what you tend to do in the less open parts of Westeros.”

That got a bitter laugh from the girl in question.

“If only it were just your body I wanted! And besides, if the queen does it under the king’s nose, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

And there it was - another thing that might get her sister into trouble. Outside of pretending to be a gentle wallflower who could do no wrong, Tyene had a barbed tongue and wasn’t afraid to sting others with it. At least when it wouldn’t get her executed. But that was a close thing these days.

“Do pipe down about that while we’re staying over with the King. I’d hate to give them an actually viable reason for wanting my head on a pike.” And given what she’d learn of the royal family, that might just become an actual concern.

King’s Landing was a pit of snakes.

Yes, she was aware of the pun.

“Like we’d let them. Father would sooner go to war than let one of us come to harm.” Obara snorted derisively.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t a place where they would be allowed to do as they pleased. The walls had ears and eyes. Every stranger down the street could be and likely was a spy. If she had to make another comparison, Ophelia would compare the city to a multi-layered chessboard with half a dozen players and thousands of moving pieces.

The coming of the Martels meant that they would be considered either pieces or a new player.

She knew Tyene would relish the chance to play. And would probably rope half of their family into it, given the smallest chance to have a bit of fun.

The former would see them used for the means of another. The latter would see them executed or driven away to preserve the tenuous balance of power within. Anything could shift the balance and cause the place to tumble into a downward spiral of self destruction.

‘Somewhat like Brockton Bay.’ She realized belatedly.

Only instead of Gangs, you had Houses.

And instead of the PRT, you had the Crown. About as effective as most heroes had been in her world too.

“Games always have losers and sometimes no winners. And I don’t think any of us want to see what a pyrrhic victory looks like by House Martel standards.

It would be so easy to do as she had before. Establish a powerbase, usurp one of the major players, work to overtake dominion over her new territory and establish boundaries amongst the remaining players. Really, if Ophelia had ever intended to join the Game, she wouldn’t have spent the last decade and a half trying to increase the quality of life for people.

Rather she would have taken over, gotten one of her relatives on the throne, then secluded herself again to work in peace. She easily slip back into the role of Skitter, the Warlord of Brockton Bay.

It would have served as a nice trip down memory lane.

Even easier now that she had an entire family with resources behind her.

‘Give five months… seven tops. I’d have the run of the place.’

What could a knight do against a swarm of insects? What could poison do against eyes that watched every hand? What could an army or a castle or all the ships in the world do against the very air around them turning black as night while God’s wrath poured out upon them?

“Must you spoil my fun, sister mine?” Tyene’s hand came to rest on the inside of her thigh. Not high enough for impropriety - they were sisters and bastards of a Prince, no one would dare imply such a thing without hard evidence. But it was high enough that Ophelia knew what her sister was doing.

“When your pretty little neck is on the line, yes.”

She took her sister’s hand in her own and sighed.

“I’m quite serious. Who knows if there are any other mages running around out there? We are at Old Town, after all, and the Citadel is supposed to have a pet caster that’s spent decades learning every scrap of lore he can. Why wouldn’t there be a hundred others like him, hidden amongst the nobility? And there is the Spider. A man like him, from the East, with as many connections as his name implies, are you telling me he doesn’t practice magic?”

“You’re not Uncle, so please, sister, try not to drown in the sorrows of the world.”

Obara trundled over, carrying several plates and a wineskin, before settling on the softest patch of grass she could find.

“And besides, Father always says Uncle gives himself ulcers to go along with his gout because of all the brooding he does.”

“He better not. I struggle with his demands as they are.” Ophelia chuckled. She only enjoyed as much of man’s favor as she did because he went through her creams and potions like a dying man. Well, that and she was far, far less trouble than his own daughter.

The three chuckled, agreeing that their uncle was a bit dour for the normally high spirited clan they all belonged to. However, after that, the former warlord spent more time eating and drinking than she did speaking. Hunger was more important than gossip.

For now at least.

---

Oldtown was just as Oberyn remembered it.

Cramped and humid with a healthy dosage of salt.

The few times he’d taken the time to tour the old seat of power of the First Men, the prince had been more concerned with drinking and touring its less… reputable districts than he had been on appreciating the markings of history few men cared to remember.

Weaving between the various streets and alleyways with effortless grace, Oberyn felt alive as he took in the sights, sounds, and smells of the port city. From the tart smell of pomegranates being sold at the market, to the sweet perfume of merchants and the highborn who pursued their wares.

Spices.

Clothes.

Trinkets and jewels from far away land whose names he never really cared to recall.

Oldtown might be old, but it burst with a vigor few places could match.

People were much more pleasant too. Not nearly as much greed cloying people’s heads. Not a whole lot since King’s Landing became the most important city in Westeros. Old Town, under the watchful eye of House Hightower, prospered without having to concern itself with the workings of a court.

His favorite part, however, were the taverns.

A trading hub as big as this was home to one of the largest collections of exotic drinks, the likes which would make even the hardiest of northmen swoon. There was stuff here he didn’t even know the name of, let alone how it was made or where it even came from.

Something he needed to bring up with dear Ophelia one of these days.

If his prodigious daughter somehow managed to uncover the secrets of brewing the stuff, he would never have to worry about the dent buying it would leave in his coin purse. Well, that and they would have another great contribution to add to her list.

‘Of course, for purely altruistic motives.’

It was for that exact reason… and one more that he found himself waiting at the Golden Trunkard. A small, out of the way tavern which was close to bursting at the seams. Even at this hour of the day you’d find more than enough people willing to drink themselves into an early grave.

He was tempted to start himself.

Unfortunately, business came before pleasure. And there was something he needed to take care before he could indulge his parched throat.

A rather stocky, bulldog like man trundled over to his table, a mug of something cold and sweet smelling in his hands. For a moment, the prince considered taking a sip, surely a Mage wouldn’t refuse the father of a witch? But this particular maester had a shrewd look in his eyes and a firm grip on his tankard.

“Afraid I’m going to steal your drink old man?”

Marwyn snorted.

“Afraid? No, boy, but this costs three silvers for me to buy. And grand maesters get their drinks free here. And unlike you profligate southrons, I’ve learned to hold onto my coin.”

Eyes twinkling, the prince waved down a serving boy and gestured at his companion’s drink - plopping down a number of golden crowns onto the table at the boy’s stunned look. Sighing, the peasant child ran to the back to get the, presumably labor intensive, drink ready.

“So. Now that that’s settled, you wish to see my daughter? Surely you understand a father must be concerned when a man asks for his child with lust in their heart.”

“I’ve got less lust in my whole body than you have in your right bollock, Prince of Whores.” Marwyn took a long drink, clearly enjoying whatever it was he was imbibing. “But I won’t deny that whatever child you sired, during what I’m sure was a lovely, and expensive, oh, three hours, is the most valuable bastard in the Seven Kingdoms.”

This got a raised eyebrow.

“If she’s so important, why weren’t you among the throngs of wise men come to see her?”

“For the same reason we’re meeting in an over crowded hole in the wall half full of foreigners and half full of acolytes.”

There was a loud crash some three tables over as a pair of men fell to the floor, scrabbling and lashing at one another, only for a pair of particularly bury brown skinned fellows to literally pick them up and toss them out.

“So we’re playing cloak and dagger games?”

“The owner is a friend of mine. Kept him from losing his cock to a curse, once.” The so-called Mage’s non answer explained everything.

“How many?”

“Watching us right now?” He actually chuckled. “None. But only because they think I’m asleep. And the lad who was supposed to be outside my chambers is enjoying the evening with an, ah, lady. One who was well compensated to stroke his ego most thoroughly.”

“A pity I don’t have time for that.”

“I always did wonder if you Martells had two heads as well as three legs.”

Guffawing, the prince took his drink and pushed the now slightly smouldering serving boy the gold coins, and down half of it in one gulp.

“Truly, you are a friend of House Martell and-”

For a brief second, he stood outside his own body, reality itself frozen in place. Then - color.

Blues and reds and whites and greens and purples and colors there were no words for. Reality itself bled away into a riot of noise that he could taste, sights he could feel, and a thick, hazy fuzz that seemed to wrap his entire body with warmth.

“Welcome back.”

Blinking, Oberyn realized no time at all had passed. His hand hadn’t even moved from where it’d been halfway to the table.

“Shade….” He found his throat unbearably parched. “Shade of the Evening?”

Nodding his head, the old man smirked.

“Amongst other things. Finish up and we’ll talk. The first time never quite ends until you’re done.”

Another ripple of sound that stretched from the infinite ends of time blossomed like flower petals from the mage’s lips. Words that were true and Truth and TRUTH all at once filled up the waterskin that was Oberyn Martell. Blinking, and realizing once more he’d skipped half a second as he spent years and days and minutes watching the sun spin in the sky through a wooden slat, he shrugged and tossed the rest of his drink back.

What came next didn’t stay with him past the vision.

In truth, all he could recall was his daughter’s face, crawling with insects before peeling back to reveal a girl who looked… almost like her, but older and rougher - though still pretty enough in the way girls who had not yet become women were.

That too peeled back, but he didn’t recall what he saw next. Not… truly. Flashes of two great things, like worms, but made of light. Then a golden man, a swarm of embers, like fireflies, and then a goddess. For what could a woman with a thousand hands be but a goddess? His fist shattered when the goddess shot his not-daughter.

And that moment, when his blood mixed with the clay stained with the drink and the few drops of the narcotic remained he saw them.

White and Red and Black and all the colors of existence. Even a twisting rainbow, he saw every. Last. One.

And they were all looking at his daughter.

Because just as the woman who killed her with fire and steel was not… human, the mass of swarming vermin was too his daughter. Comforting, somehow, in the mass of insects and rats and carrion beasts and worse that swam in the depths that was his most gifted child.

“What did you see?”

Marwyn was greedy, eyes shining with a desire to know that Oberyn had only seen in madmen and fanatics before.

“The gods.”

His voice was a croak, a whisper, somehow the mage knew it wasn’t the truth - not completely. The man’s eyes screamed as much.

“My daughter.”

Lips pulled back showing too large canines and a butcher’s grin.

“Wonderful. Drink this.”

Producing a cup of something steaming and hot, the Red Viper almost hesitated to quaff the beverage. But whether it was relief or Oblivion, it would likely only do him good at this point.

“Thanks.”

And just like that he was back on his feet. Energy rushing through his veins as a lethargy he didn’t realize he was wasting away under disappeared.

“Careful now. That stuff is strong. But you see now why we might be watched?”

“By who?”

“The same people who came to your door.”

“Ophelia is a smart girl, she’d never-”

“She wouldn’t need to. They’re five or six times her age, with goals much more narrow than her own. Scraps for scraps, knowledge for knowledge. While she’s intelligent, she doesn’t quite know what not to give away.” Marwyn finished his own drink, his eyes seeming to dull as he did so. “I tried to visit three times. The first time they were polite, told me to let others investigate so as not to waste my time. The second time, less so. My chain was implicitly threatened. The third, well, I was almost out of the city when a group of acolytes caught me.”

“I must confess confusion that you were not dragged kicking and screaming back to your chambers.”

“Hmmph. I would have been, had a lady friend not promised me you’d visit. Eventually.”

“She knew we had left Sunspear to come visit you?”

“Aye. Three years ago.”

Oberyn had no response for this. Feeling that he’d stepped into something a bit beyond what he was used to. Even the rituals and spells he’d learned had, admittedly, been about improving his, ah, virility and the potency of other, less wholesome, fluids as well. Not prophecy and the gods.

Sitting there in silence, the prince sipped on the warm drink while the wise man took a pull of a cool, dark ale the serving boy had brought to him.

Watching the crowd move was enough conversation.

“Father!”

Sarella, dodging through the crowd with ease, rushed over to her father’s side - only stopping once to break a finger of a man with a wandering hand. Much to the amusement of his companions, who roared with drunken hilarity at their friend’s misfortune.

“I, uh, well.”

“You just broke a man’s finger.”

There was more than a hint of approval and pride in his voice.

“Yes, you see, uh, when I went to check on the Citadel I….”

A sudden commotion at the door distracted the group as several strong, rough looking men tried to force their way past the bouncers - only to be cracked across the face with a wooden club.

“Yeah. I may have pissed off the crew of an Ironborn ship.”

Oberyn snorted with amusement, cutting his eyes to the dagger sheathed at her hip. And then the locations where she’d secreted another three about her person.

“And I hope you left them only maimed and not dead?”

“...Mostly?”

This time Marwyn laughed, barking in amusement.

“Brown skin, like one from Southrys, Summer Islander? I see your father’s eyes… that makes you Sarella.”

“And you’re the Archmaester Marwyn! I’m so glad to meet you sir! I’ve studied your writings on basilisks and unicorns extensively, as well as on the cult practices of Asshai and the similarities of some of their words with common Yi Tish! While I only understood some of the syntax connections it was truly enthralling! And the idea of the Yellow Emperor being connected to the war with the Tiger Men and the Dawn War and- oops.’

The Ironborn had clubs of their own now and the scuffle at the doorway had degenerated into a full on brawl, patrons and staff beating back snarling and furious raiders.

Marwyn just smiled.

“Let’s slip out the back. I’ll quiz you on our way to your family’s camp.” Turning to Oberyn, he nodded. “Quite the wondrous brood for a rake such as yourself to produce. I must say, I approve.”

Shaking his head, the Dornish man took the backhanded compliment and snatched up his spear.

“Let’s get moving. Before we have to kill a kraken - and not just its worshippers.”

---

Ophelia would never forget their visit to Oldtown.

Not because it was such a massive cultural center filled with rich history and exotic goods. Nor was it because it was her first meeting with the enigmatic Marwin. Who’d soon become one of her closest confidants.

Rather, because it was her first time being chased out of a city since being reborn.

Without ever stepping foot inside its walls, most of the Martels were forced to leave after a certain stupid adventurer of an older sister got into a fight with a bunch of pirates. Thus denying her prodigious younger sister a chance to ever learn of its wonders….

“Come on, Ophelia. I said I was sorry” Said stupid adventurer of an older sister whined.

Which the young witch promptly ignored as she kept dumping her woes into the small diary she was keeping for the trip.

“It’s been a week. You can’t still be mad at me!”

The younger sister snorted.

Obviously, Sarella did not know how capable she was at holding grudges. Not that she blamed the older girl too much from interrupting her visit of Oldtown. What had really galled her was that she didn’t even get to do anything before her dummy of a sister decided to start a bar fight.

“I know! I know!” Sarella grunted. “I might have screwed up there. But it wasn’t my fault.”

“You practically mauled half of a longship’s entire crew and killed a quarter of the rest.” She finally spoke out loud.

“In self defense!” Her sister protested.

“After how many tankards of mead?”

The adventurer deflated before her eyes. Mouth closing with a sudden click, a small mumble escaping her lips instead.

“I’m sorry, sister dearest. I didn’t hear that.”

“A couple… ” Came the whispered reply.

“Just a couple, huh? Not a teensy bit more?”

Sarella looked to the side, an auburn glow coloring her cheeks.

“She was sober enough to know to find her father, no?”

Marwyn’s laughter was all the encouragement the two sisters needed to finally make up. This taking the form of Sarella punching Ophelia’s shoulder and the younger sister making a gnat fly into her sister’s eye. Oberyn intervened before the apology could escalate any further.

“Whoever throws the next blow digs the latrines for the next week. For all of us. And the other one gets to take the night watch in the middle of the night for the same period of time.”

Their make up session ended there.

“Good girls.” The prince turned to his favorite maester. “You know, you should try having kids yourself. It’s really not that hard. They’re far more self sufficient and obedient than I was warned they would be. And if you want them to do something, just threaten them with filthy, difficult, back breaking labor. Honestly, I never really understood why some people needed to actually strike their get.”

The older man snorted back a laugh.

“I suspect that would be your kids’ penchant for hitting each other.”

And there was some truth to it. The Sand Snakes rose together, worked together, trained together, fought tooth and nail together, and got into just about all sorts of messes Oberyn could have possibly conceived since they left Sunspear. It only hit him later that this was the first time they were traveling together.

Ophelia in particular, as she almost never left Sunspear. Only leaving to check up in other nearby cities. This trip, ill conceived as its reason had been, turned out to be exactly what his daughters needed to get closer as a family.

“Better they hit each other and live than some stranger hitting them to kill.” He finally answered.

And given where they were headed. That was very much a good thing.

“How much longer until we are there?”

The dornish prince turned to face the young witch.

“I’d say around a week. Maybe less if we ride with haste.”

A few days before Robert planned to make his trip up north. Or so their friends in court had told them.

It made sense. Robert’s most loyal allies during the rebellion had been the Starks, so with Jon Arryn’s death, the man needed a new Hand. And who else could that man trust but the most fanatically loyal of all Houses?

Not House Martel, of course.

In his eyes they were still Targaryen loyalists, just because they hadn’t cheered and clapped when King’s Landing was sacked. Never mind the countless brutalities back then, when they were to avenge the man losing the woman he loved. But when Oberyn gets angry that his own sister was brutalized and killed Robert gets to be all uppity.

And now Ophelia was being dragged into the latest Game.

For what reasons? Probably none good.

“I heard the city stinks of shit. Is that true Father?”

Elia trotted over to them, her mount falling into place beside their father’s own mare.

“Aye. Fleabottom is a slum of the worst kind. And the sewers are poor or nonexistent in much of the city. I heard a story, once, that the Mad King wanted to build a city of marble opposite his city of dung. But such tales are likely as much the product of Aery’s own insanity as anything else.”

“Do you think I might be able to joust there? A tilt with their squires, at least?”

At this, Oberyn pursed his lips. And that expression of displeasure alone was enough to draw Ophelia’s attention.

“You girls know that you’re my greatest pride. But, as much as it turns my stomach, I will ask you to stick together and not… stick out. That city is a place of filth and weakness and treachery. Just as a Stark should never go South, a Martell has no need to go North of the pass.” Visibly grimacing, he shook his head. “Strangely enough, I trust Mace and his sons with your cousin. But she is also not my daughter and they are close to us. Close enough we would be able to exeter a degree of influence over her fate, no matter what. But the Crownlands….”

“Tells us what you think, we’re listening.”

Ophelia’s words had the desired effect. And all of the Snakes there, even Obara, stowed their inevitable objections and listened to their sire’s words.

“To be blunt, the people that live there are often sick. A… desperation of the spirit. A twisted vitality. Their peasants are prone to violence, born from chronic destitution, rampant abuse by their indolent, indulgent nobility, and possess an almost suicidal predisposition to rioting. This is compounded with an oftentimes fanatical devotion to their religions and superstitions, words filling their bellies when the ubiquitous brown can not. And above it all is the king.”

For a moment, the man was quiet.

“In truth, I do not hate him. I feel great anger towards him, and would not weep should he die slowly and agonizingly, but mostly he drowns in solipsism. His pain, his lost love, his cock, his belly, his throat. These are his world. And as he mourns a girl he never knew, the realm circles. Whether into an abyss or to pick at his carcass, you will have to decide for your own.”

Grunting, Obara spurred her horse forward, tossing a few words over her shoulder.

“Sounds like we should do the world a favor and kill the whole city.”

The witch rolled her eyes.

“That’s your answer for all problems, Obara. Besides, if I go there and clear my name, I also get some free publicity which means more business. Which means I get more gold for my projects and an excuse to raise my prices. It’s a win-win!”

“Business? Count me out. Not a merchant.” The Lady Lance rode in besides her sister.

“Do whatever you want, milady. So long as you keep out of sight. The Spider has spies all over the city. We shouldn’t give him any reasons to pry.”

It wasn’t just the Royals and their games. Or the perpetual backstabbing at Court.

All of them knew of the Spider.

The Master of Whispers. One of the most impossibly well informed men in all of Westeros and beyond. Being anywhere near him would be dangerous enough. And the former villain couldn’t help but feel she was missing something in this whole convoluted plan to draw her away from Dorne.

Why was she called?

Who was the one behind this?

Something was afoot and she didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle. Only the small bits and parts she’d managed to gather during their trip. Whoever wanted her in King’s Landing had gone through a lot of trouble to make sure she couldn’t just outright decline.

Whatever they wanted, and however they wanted to get her involved in this mess, there was no way to tell until they reached King’s Landing.

 

---

Chapter 3 - They see me rollin, they hatin!​

---

King Robert of House Baratheon.

First of his Name.

King of the Andals and the First Men.

Protector of the blah blah blah.

Titles, titles, titles.

That was all people seemed to care about these days.

Mind you, he liked his titles. They let him drink as much as he wanted, spend as much as he wanted, and curse others out as much as he wanted. And people couldn’t say anything about it.

Why would they? He was the King!

The brave warrior who broke the Targaryen Dynasty and liberated them from the mad king.

Now he got to sit on a stiff iron chair all day hearing people whine at him about whose house had insulted whose relative and how people weren’t taxed enough and the latest attempt to make him try and attend one of those boring council meetings where all they ever did was try to grease him up and fill their own pockets.

‘All hail King Robert. Long may he reign.’

He almost spat out the wine in distaste.

Not that he would. It was good stuff and the only thing numbing him from the displeasure of having to actually hold court. At the end of the day, he was bored. Bored and miserable and the only people in the whole damn castle who didn’t want to fleece him were his children. Who, in order of birth, were a little monster, a sweet, naive girl, and a boy so gentle he might as well have been another girl.

‘Maybe I should just make Renly my heir. Then go and off myself fighting a bear or something. That’d piss the old cunts off enough to be worth it.”

Thoughts of abdication aside, he finished his glass of wine and gestured for more to be poured.

Though lately… something else occupied his thoughts.

Not the eternal pissing match he had with his wife.

Not the constant harping of Littlefinger and the coppers he so eagerly counted.

No….

The only thing occupying Robert’s mind was death.

The death of his mentor and father in all but name.

Jon Arryn had been a dear friend. The only one he had left in this damned pit of vipers. Someone he trusted to keep a steady hands on things as he drank himself into an early grave. As was his right.

Only he was gone.

Poisoned.

And therein lay the reason he was half-way sober this time.

Because soon enough, the Martells would be arriving at King’s Landing and as unlikely as it was that a little slip of a girl had been involved in murdering the Hand of the King, she was still the one who made the poison.

Which was a start if nothing else. He doubted there weren’t other reasons.

After all, the vipers wouldn’t have told him about it if they didn’t want him to issue a summons. And since justice was the furthest thing away from the minds of the selfish parasites littering his castle, he’d just assume they wanted the girl here for some other reason. Hopefully, the Martells would figure out what it was, murder the people in question, and then go back to that sand pit of a country of theirs. At least that way Jon would have a bit of justice.

‘Gods know I’m not smart enough to figure this out.’

He knocked back another goblet of wine, rivulets of the fermented juice running down his second chin.

It let him pretend that his eyes weren’t stinging, that his chest didn’t ache, that he didn’t miss Lyanna and that he didn’t hate himself for being a useless fat fuck and that he still… mattered.

So, with his temper simmering, he waited out the rest of court, doing the things he was expected to do and not one jot more. Before, as was his right, he called his kingsguard to him.

“Yes your Grace?”

“Don’t yes your Grace me Kingslayer. All you bloody Lannisters are alike. I know what you’re actually thinking! Isn’t Selmy supposed to be on duty today?”

Jaime bowed low, his armor sparkling and cloak sweeping across the ground. Robert wanted nothing more than to choke the life out of the smug little shit. Fucking Lannisters indeed.

“Never mind you ruddy, buggering arse weasel. Just get me Ser Arys. If I have to be alone with your smug, cuntish grin for too long I’ll kill you boy. Fucking Lannisters.” And just like that, the fight went out of Robert, his anger leaving him, his strength parting like a morning fog. “Oh Gods, this whole fucking empire is going to collapse. Stupid parasites, sucking me dry. Leeches.”

He snatched the pitcher of wine out of a servant’s hands and poured himself another goblet of wine - the pewter one, he was shaking too much for glass anymore. It was bitter, his stomach, turned, but Robert held his wine. As he always did. And so he drank and drank until Oakheart arrived.

Instead of roaring and screaming, he put the pitcher down, visibly swaying, and meandered his way to the stable.

“Boy.” His tone was gruff, but not unkind. “Bring me my horse.” Scampering away, the stable boy did just that, bringing his old favorite over. “Heh. Ear Biter. You’ve gotten old.” Robert’s friend, the war horse that had served him since he was a boy, whinnied, nibbling at his hair and giving his ear a friendly nip. “Aye. That’s a good lad.”

For a minute, he just stroked his mount’s whiskers. Greying around the muzzle, Robert worried for a moment if he would be too fat to mount his steed… if he would be too fat for Ear Biter to hold him. Thankfully, the stirrups held and the horse didn’t protest when he climbed aboard. Still, he was drunk enough he needed to be strapped in - and not so drunk he refused to be so. And in this moment, so strong, so bittersweet was his melancholy that his pride abated.

“Lannister. Bring my children. We’ll be going for a ride today.”

Going for a slow, steady trot, he meandered about the yard until he was comfortable that he wasn’t about to snap his horse’s back.

“Gods I’m fat.”

Whuffing, the horse seemed to agree with Robert. Somehow, that was the funniest thing the half sober man had ever heard in his life. And so it was a laughing king that the queen found, the ugly woman - hate making her beautiful features abhorrent. Turning to look at her, he could smell the Lannisters at this point, the once proud and brave man felt his shoulders sag.

“Cersei.”

“Your Grace.”

She did the thing where her smile was bitter, mocking. His title a knife to hurl at him. He grunted, already knowing what was happening.

“Well, out with it, what is it you want, woman?”

“My - I mean our - children are at their lessons. It would be totally inappropriate to drag them off to go run about the woods. Joffrey is not king yet, so does not have the luxury of your position, or the right to ensure that he is not overworked. As I’m sure this was meant to be for your… health. And not some whim you’d drag everyone about to sate.”

Levelling an unimpressed stare at the woman, he noticed that the other Lannisters were circling. His “squire” Lancel and the Kingslayer both.

“You are a bitter cunt.” Snorting, he shook his head. “Whatever. Go fuck your brother for all I care. Oakheart!”

“Yes your grace.”

“If any of the blonde haired cunts try to follow me, kill them.”

“Your… grace.”

Hesitation in the old knight’s voice, he laughed.

“I’m serious. And that goes for you lot too.” He gestured at the men at arms and knights scurrying about the place. “I’m going for a ride and if any of those blonde leeches follow me, you’re to kill them. In fact, I’ll knight any commoners and make a lord of any knight who does.”

He meant it.

The past few days had been trying. While normally he wouldn’t mind giving that Queen of his a much needed tongue lashing, he just wasn’t in the mood to have his patience tried. He needed to be away from her and whatever boot lickers she’d roped into her latest scheme.

And he knew many were considering it.

He was the king, after all. And his word was law.

And maybe, just maybe, some fresh air would help clear his head.

Something strange was going on. Jon Arryn was dead. The court was moving to corner some bastard girl from the south just as he was due to start preparations for his departure up north. And as much as he liked to tout his track record as a tactician and warrior… Robert knew he was ill suited to the Game. It wasn’t just the sneaking or the lies or the back biting, it was all of it at once, constantly, with everyone around him being involved in it.

“It’s madness, how we live. How we think. Even if I was never the greatest knight, I didn’t turn on my friends. I didn’t rape peasants or loot homes. And Dragonspawn aside, I never condoned slaughtering babes either. But this place is evil.”

Muttering to himself wasn’t a great idea. But the smallfolk were staying well clear of him and the kingsguard with him - Blount or Trant or some other lickspittle had joined Oakheart. And right now he barely cared enough to not rage against the stupidity of his younger self, of the unimaginable flight of idiocy that had gripped him when he decided to be king. Deep down, he was forced to admit, he missed the Vale.

He missed the Eyrie.

Missed the days he and Ned would do nothing but train, ride through the Vale, and dream of the future.

Those had been good days. Before his friend had gone quiet with the loss of his father and brother. Before he had sunk to the bottom of a barrel after losing the love of his life.

‘Ah, those days were the best.’

But everything changed. And he couldn’t tell whether it was for the better or not.

Maybe it was selfish of him. But he wondered how things would have gone hadn’t the last dragon not taken Lyanna. Would Ned be the same boisterous runt of his litter? Would he have married and ruled amicably under the dragons, same as his father and his grandfather?

So many what ifs….

‘Must be running out of wine.’ He was starting to hear Ned inside his head.

Even now as he felt the cool wind whip against his face, the king couldn’t help but dwell on his thoughts. So little answers to so many questions. It was why he planned to go North from the start. He needed his brother, the one man in the entirety of Westeros he was sure wouldn’t stick a dagger in his back as soon as it was turned.

He needed some actual loyalty!

And wasn’t it a shame he was being forced to go that far away to find it.

Head down, he pushed out of the city gate, glaring at the kingsguard that wasn’t a real knight hard enough the man backed down when he tried to protest this decision. Once he was on his own bloody road it was easy enough to get a bit of speed out of Ear Biter, the wind whipping in his hair as they galloped a short ways, just enough for the both of them to feel a rush of pleasure. A rush of the old glory.

But, when he noticed his old friend slowing down, Robert actually stopped and got off. Taking his mount by the reins, and getting an affectionate nibble on his fingers for his trouble, he walked the old war horse, ignoring the pain in his own lungs and legs and his now pounding head.

It wasn’t the first time that day he cursed himself for being so fat. And, being honest with himself, he doubted it would be the last.

“Hold! Who goes there!”

Ser Oakheart, wheeling in front of him, drew his sword.

Because, as he looked up, a dozen people were trotting towards him.

Sitting at the head of the party, fingering his spear, grinning ear to ear, was none other than the Red Viper Oberyn Martell himself. And half his bloody household too, from the looks of things!

“Well hello there.”

“Dornishman.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be the man that let my sister be raped and her children murdered, would you?”

---

“Give it back.”

“Nuh uh!”

“Sarella, I’m serious!”

Ophelia prowled closer, mouth turning into a silent snarl as her annoying older sister took a step back, carrying with her the journal the resident witch had been keeping on their journey to king’s landing.

“Sure, I’ll give it back. But only if you take out the parts about ‘stupid adventurers’!”

She took a step closer.

Sarella stepped back.

“It’s only a single passage….”

Her sister flipped open the book in question, showing her the small annotations she made on the bottom of every page.

“You’ve kept writing it at the end of every entry, though.”

Well… she had a point.

“You’re actually right you know.” Sarella looked confused, taking another step back. “It’s a very stupid adventurer that pisses off her little sister. Her little sister that knows magic.” Ophelia smirked. “And whose turn it is to cook dinner tonight. Oh Tyennnnnneeeeeee.”

“Yes dear sister of mine?”

The blonde sashayed over, wrapping her arms around Sarella’s shoulders.

“You called?”

Their middle sister had gone very still and very pale.

“Oh leave her alone.” Obara walked past, bridle in one hand and a horse brush in the other. “You know Tyene won’t hurt us because it would upset Ophelia and Ophelia is too soft to do more than maybe put a spicy herb in your dinner.” The oldest daughter snorted. “And it’s funny how you’ll piss off an entire longship of Iron Islanders, but are still afraid of your own siblings.”

“Your saying that the two of them aren’t much, much scarier than a horde of barbarians?”

Pausing at Sarella’s riposte, Obara inclined her head.

“Fair enough. I wouldn’t sleep tonight if I were you.”

Creeping up, Ophelia was about to snatch her journal back when she felt something that brought her up very short, very suddenly.

“Oh.”

It was Elia who noticed her sibling’s discomfort first, Tyene and Sarella speaking about something that had the younger sister snorting in laughter while Obara groomed her horse.

“What is it sister? What’s wrong.”

Her face had gone a bit pale, her knees a little weak. Still, she knew better than to visibly display her stress any further. So, reaching up to grasp her sister’s hand, she squeezed. Elia tilting her head, very much smelling a rat, but not pushing the issue. She was polite like that. With her family at least.

“All right then. Tell us later suppose. If it’s trouble it's best for us all to know, rather than be surprised by it later.”

“Of course.” Smiling at her younger sister’s wisdom, the once warlord couldn’t help but wish that grown adults had, had this child’s foresight. “Let me speak with father first. Just to be safe.”

Nodding, the Lady Lance guided her mount away, tossing a final worried glance back over her shoulder.

Ophelia simply moved quietly, approaching her father, who was speaking with a few of the guards, and sending them away with a pointed look.

“Now, now. What’s got you looking so glum my dear? You’re much too pretty to glare at the men like that.”

Swallowing, she didn’t bother beating around the bush.

“One of my animals slipped out of my control.”

Oberyn blinked, genuine confusion on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I had one of my birds out scouting. It was flying in a circle above us, near a good couple of hundred yards farther down the road. Watching the forest around the area. Moving a bit higher, it passed outside of my control for about half a second before it dipped back down.” She shook her head. “And even worse, I didn’t notice because I wasn’t really paying attention, but my range is smaller too.”

“So… what does that mean.”

“Not even the foggiest father.”

“Should we, I mean, I thought your reach was growing? You had even mentioned being able to start feeling things like spiders in the harbor port or worms in a dog’s heart. Can you still do so?”

Shrugging, Ophelia tried to communicate how much she simply didn’t know.

“There’s no parasites in the animals, a few fleas, but nothing inside of them. I checked before we left. But, honestly, insects and arachnids are still under my influence.” She caused a spider to drop down onto her hand, a single thread of silk connecting it to the top of the tent. “And I can even feel the worms in the dirt, plus a few smaller things I don’t have a name for. Maybe even some nematodes, I think, maybe? One of the guards had a tapeworm, I ordered it to starve itself and it hasn’t stopped.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Oberyn’s voice was totally deadpan.

“Really… that’s what your focusing on?”

“That your powers are very nasty sometimes?”

“Says the man that used magic to make his cock bigger!”

“Hey! Who told you that!”

Pouting with indignation, the grown man feared by so many came off as so absurd Ophelia couldn’t help but laugh. Her father, the Red Viper, was acting like a teenager right now. And it was just… so him. Eventually, after her guffaws settled down and his indignation faded into an amused smirk, he stepped closer and pulled her into a hug. With that, the panic she hadn’t realized had been building in her breast abated, the warmth and strength of her father keeping even this sudden fear away.

“Now, what do you want to do?”

She looked up at her father.

“Hmm?”

“Well-” He began. “Do you want to play this close to the chest? Tell your sisters? Tell the Mage? Perhaps he could help. Assuming you want to take the risk of trusting him.”

Trust… didn’t come easily to Ophelia.

A throwback to her previous life.

To let people know of something so important and dangerous about herself was a habit she had to relearn over the course of her new life. Accepting the love of her new parents and sisters was what allowed her to be open about many things to them.

Her feelings.

Her interests.

Even if she’d never told them about her previous life as Taylor Hebert, there wasn’t much else she hadn’t told them about.

Her powers, however, were one of those few exceptions.

“I’m… not sure.” It hurt to admit, but even Ophelia didn’t have a good grasp on how her powers really worked. It wasn’t that she missed the similarities to her passenger, or that they were that much different to use.

It just felt like… she was reaching the correct result through the wrong means.

Controlling other animals.

Seeing through them.

Connecting her emotions to them.

Those were all things she could do as Taylor, but as Ophelia she felt as if she was missing something. Like she wasn’t seeing the forest for the trees. Not understanding what made her powers tick like she had before.

And not knowing such an intrinsic part of herself… scared her.

For one… she wasn’t limited to bugs like she had been before. Her range was increasing without losing effectiveness and she was even able to teach her new swarm how to behave independently from her. Those weren’t things she could do before. Sure, her commands would be followed even if she wasn’t conscious.

But this was different.

This was teaching animals that shouldn’t have the ability to process the knowledge she gave them without guiding their actions.

It was… unfamiliar territory.

And that scared Ophelia.

Why had her powers changed? Were they even coming from her passenger anymore? Or were they something new entirely that she was using the same way as she had the power of Queen Administrator.

“I want to tell them. Tell them as much as I can.” She finally confessed.

“But?”

“But I don’t think I can really explain it. Will they think I’m crazy if I explain to them what I’ve seen?” It was a wholly unfounded fear, she knew, but there was still a part of that isolated girl in her heart.

The part of her who thought this might be just another trick to get her to lower her guard.

“That’s why you wanted to meet the Mage. To learn more about magic itself.”

“Part of it, yes. That and I really wanted to visit Oldtown.” She pouted at the end.

Oberyn, to his credit, only chuckled.

“Not gonna live your sister live it down, huh.”

“Eventually.” She smiled. “But not yet.” Stepping back, she took a deep breath. “Ultimately, I’ll have to tell them. It’s wrong to keep them in the dark about something as important as this. I just want to have information to share with them when I do. To try and explain why it’s happening and what it means.”

“To avoid them becoming overprotective.” Oberyn chuckled. “More than they already are.”

That got a scowl out of his daughter.

“Just because I don’t know how to wave a metal stick around doesn’t mean I’m defenseless. In fact, I’m better with a knife, even without cheating, than the rest of you.”

He waved her off, pulling a wineskin out from a sack.

“Perhaps. But that is largely irrelevant. They are family. And we Martells… well, we always worry about our family.” He took a pull. “It’s just in our nature. Still, my daughter, come, it’s time to get moving. After all, the sun’s been up for a while and we might only just make it to King’s Landing by mid afternoon at this rate!”

“Aye, father, I’ll saddle my horse.”

As she turned to leave, he pulled her into one last hug, squeezing her tight.

“And Ophelia, come to me with any problems you have. No matter how silly they seem. I am your father, so, thank you. Now, run.”

Oberyn clapped her on the back before calling his men at arms back, the two quickly finalizing the day’s plans. And, from what she could hear, the poor guard was eager for more than wild greens and hard jerky even though it had only been a week since they’d last eaten in a castle.

‘Ah, such is the opulence of being a prince’s retainer.’

“Slow down Elia! Wait, damn it all, come back here!”

Laughter rang out as the youngest of her present sisters raced ahead of their group, only tossing a jaunty salute back at them with her spear, as Ophelia spurred her mount forward. While she could have taken control of her sister’s horse, she didn’t want to take the chance and throw her. Not when the consequences of that could be so dire. So, instead, she raced behind the girl as two of the men at arms followed her. Oberyn himself simply laughed in turn, glad to see his baby girls having fun. Though he did wave two more of the men at arms forward, their own mounts rushing off forward.

So it was with her family laughing and chatting that Ophelia and Elia, and their escorts, left the others behind - the older sister intending to remind the younger that they were no longer in Dorne.

Unfortunately for the older, the younger was a significantly better horseman and the guards had inferior horses. So it was a lone, dismounted Ophelia that was approached by the Lady Lance, who was totally unperturbed by the fact they’d left their party far behind. The former Cape, however, felt a bit exposed.

“Well sister, did I win? Did I defeat the terrible Witch of Dorne?”

Glaring at her little sister, the witch in question did the most mature thing she could.

She blew a raspberry.

“Hah! I did! Remember that big sister.”

Laughing, Elia dismounted and hugged her own horse’s neck, taking it by the reins and walking it too, the two girls practically strolling up the Kingsroad.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I’ll remember to make a snake crawl into your bed tonight.” Elia put on a brave face and swatted at Ophelia’s arm.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Giggling, the older sister dodged out of the way.

“It depends on when our escort catches up. They shouldn’t be too far behind and we didn’t actually go that far. Especially since we’re on the Kingsroad. It’s a straight shot and it’s not exactly easy to get lost when you’re practically strolling through civilization itself.” Ophelia inclined her head. “Plus I have a few birds watching both us and them.”

Shrugging, and looking distinctly not uncomfortable, Elia sidled a bit closer.

“What does it look like through their eyes?”

“Hmm?”

“The world.” Waving her hand vaguely, Elia elaborated. “Through the eyes of birds and beasts and bugs. What is it all like?”

“Jumbled, I suppose.” That was the easy response and it came to her lips easily. Still, Ophelia tried to communicate the deeper answer. “But it really is confusing. They don’t see like us, smell like us, taste like us. It’s… hard to put into words what a magnetic sense feels like. As if your stomach was pulling towards the Wall at all times?” In the end that was clumsy, not really even useful for the girl in question. “Hold your hand out.”

Complying, the younger sister reached out to the older, Ophelia putting a small apple out of her saddlebag. Placing it in her sister’s open palm, she chuckled.

“Now, tell me what it tastes like. Without biting it.”

“But I can’t do th - oh.” Elia’s eyes widened slightly. “They can do that?”

“Some.” She nodded. “Insect mostly and it’s not truly the same thing. But imagine if you could taste with your fingers, smell with your tongue, hear with your eyes, and taste with your ears. Imagine if you could do all that at once and use them normally and it was coming in at once. Now… try to imagine that the sunlight whispers in your ear, that the darkness speaks back when you call out to it, the every stone and blade of grass has its own saga.”

Elia was quiet, contemplative for a long time. Seemingly content to think on what she’d been told.

“You know what?”

“Oh?”

“That sounds awfully noisy.”

Ophelia couldn’t help but chuckle, ruffling her sister’s hair as she leaned over, Elia biting into the apple in question. Already the sensory organs of a hundred insects detected the spike of tartness in the air, the flash of the green apple’s flesh, even the sweetness in the juices dribbling down her chin left a chemical trail that could be followed. Even her sister’s breath left a recognizable trail, the jostle of her body, the exhalation of her horse, the tussle of her hair - all of it was observed from a thousand eyes. Most of them too small to make out more than the blurriest, most jumbled images.

“Aye. It can be. But you learn how to tune it out with practice.”

And together they watched.

Together they saw.

It was good.

---

Oberyn expected many things of his family’s journey to King’s Landing.

He expected complications.

He expected bickering.

He was pleased to see his daughters mingle and play like when they were younger. So much was happening, so many things changed for him since he first became a father, but the joy of watching on as the loves of his life experienced life to the fullest would never leave him.

If only this trip had come about through more pleasant circumstances.

But that’s what he was there for.

To bare his fangs and his poison at the world to protect his daughters.

Poetic euphemisms aside, he had a duty to his children, his brother, and his nation. And this, no matter how frustrating it might feel, was the best way to achieve those goals. Or, at the very least, it would be the most efficient, and arguably entertaining, way to challenge the idiots that wanted to attack them. Except, he wasn’t sure what was going on. Rather, he didn’t know what his enemy’s win condition was.

And that annoyed him.

So, despite how skilled his own tongue was, he hadn’t gotten any others to wag. His magical vision remained the single most useful source of information he’d acquired and his memory of it was already beginning to blur.

Marwyn, at least, had proven useful and ensured that he put down every detail he could, allowing him to review it at his leisure. Though fundamentally it didn’t answer his questions.

Meaning he was still starting with less than nothing, going into the game half blind. But, at the risk of saying something poetic, he wasn’t called the Red Viper without most excellent cause. In the end, he was confident that his venom would ensure the doom of anyone foolish enough to make themselves a visible enemy. And animals fled when the viper walked.

“Well hello there.”

What he couldn’t have expected, however, was to run face first into the King in the middle on the road.

“Dornishman.”

King Robert Baratheon.

The Liberator as some liked to call him.

Or as some amidst Dorne’s courts like to call him…

The Usurper.

A far more flattering title than Whoremonger, Drunken Idiot, or Murderer, of course. But those were his own private opinions, which his dearest wife and most clever daughter had warned him not to share unless in a trusted, private, company.

A piece wise counsel.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the man that let my sister be raped and her children murdered, would you?”

Oberyn Martel didn’t always follow it.

At once, the man’s escort formed up around him.

Admittedly, the kingsguard looked very impressive. Their white cloaks swished about and their swords were free and ready.

“Do I look like a fucking Lannister to you?”

The Dornish prince spat to the side.

“Lannister, Baratheon. Not a whole lotta difference between the two these days, you know?”

He enjoyed the angry red which overtook the King’s completion. There he stood, a fat king sitting on the back of his old war horse surrounded by a band of hired killers no different than sellswords.

“How about you stop dancing around what you really want to say, Viper.”

The King looked eager for a fight. All too eager in fact, ruddy cheeks coupled with a manic gleam in his eyes belying the danger underneath. Oberyn knew well to be wary of old men who lived through wars.

Though he had stuff himself with wine, Robert Baratheon was still a man bred and born for the battlefield.

A few years ago, he might have even taken him up on the challenge.

From the corner of his eye he could see Obara and Sarella subtly reach for their blades. His eldest looked eager, all too eager, as she eyed the puffed up mercenaries surrounding the King.

Good girls.

But unneeded.

“Maybe some other day. When you’re not already dying of a hangover.”

Robert grunted, pulling his horse around.

“Well, if you’re not going to put me out of misery, you can at least give me another reason to drink. I can’t believe I forgot to bring a wineskin. Give me one of yours!”

Tossing over the one he’d just taken a pull out of, the Prince of Dorne watched as an old man swallowed a skinful of wine like it was water.

“Dornish red, four, five years ago. Good. Good wines too. Well, come on then. I’m not going to murder you for being a cunt. If I did that, I’d have had to burn the city down years ago and I don’t have any salt or bread on me.”

Ophelia rode up to his side and gave him one of those looks. The kind of look that told him if he made an ass of himself he’d find spiders in his food for the next week. So, doing what he always did when a woman was angry with him, he flashed her his best smile.

“My dear heart, my precious love, my inexorably crushing daughter who would never curse her most beloved father… don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

And like that, Oberyn left a suddenly very annoyed little girl to glare at his back. But that was okay. Because she wouldn’t stay angry at him long enough to hurt. So that was what mattered. Mostly. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have laid it on so thick.

“You know your grace, my daughter is a witch.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. What’s your point?”

“Well, I fear I may have just made her rather annoyed at me. In fact, I may have made her so annoyed with me I fear for my hairline.”

Robert snorted.

“She looked like one of those types of women. The dangerous ones that is. In fact, every single one of them looked dangerous. How’d you do that by the way? I got one snivelling little monster, a gentle girl, and a boy so gentle he’d have been better off a girl.”

“Oh! That’s easy. I started with this ritual involving the severed cock of a manticore and-”

A very, very large crow landed on the head of his horse. It stared him in the eye.

“Ok, ok, I’ll save that one for when we’re drinking.”

Using that as an excuse to do just that, Robert held out his hand for another wineskin. This time Oberyn fished out a pair of bottles and handed one over.

“So, you were telling me about how much you want me to kill all the Lannisters for you, yes?”

Glaring at him with a very intense bout of loathing, Robert said something that had him laughing.

“Don’t tempt me you dornish whore monger.” Visibly grumbling, he took a swig. “Those bloody leeches are everywhere. I’d have just let Tywin sit the damnable thing if I’d known how miserable it was. Oh, oh! And you know what the worst part of it is?” Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “The fucking Iron Throne pokes you in the ass!”

Both men roared with laughter, Ser Oakheart and… some other nobody, he was sure his daughters would kill him brutally if he tried anything, both had their swords at the ready. Inside their sheathes, of course, but loose and ready to draw. It was almost like they thought they could stop him from reaching up and driving his spear through the Baratheon’s skull. As if he’d need more than a split second to skewer the pig king’s heart.

It was… quaint.

“Don’t.”

He looked to the side, answering his dear daughter’s milk curdling stare with a winning smile.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear.”

Ophelia didn’t believe him, of course.

She knew better than that.

Settling back into place, he let his fingers dance on the back of his horse’s neck for a bit, getting out their nervous energy. It also let him focus on the conversation a bit too.

That was always nice.

“Now, your grace, it seems we have two common enemies.”

“Hmm?”

“Tywin Lannister. He’s the one that murdered my sister, had her raped, butchered my niece and my nephew, and had their cat killed because he’s a sick fuck who can’t get hard unless he’s murdering someone. Do you think he had to snuff a stable boy before he could mount his wife? I think he probably - wait, off topic. So, as I was saying. Why don’t we forge an alliance and murder him?”

Robert took another drink.

“You know what. Let me get a bit more drunk and we can swing back around to this. Who’s our second enemy?”

“Why hangovers of course, your grace. You see, my sweet, precious, wise daughter Ophelia figured out how to cure them. And while I would taint a man’s veins, just to watch him choke to death on his own pooling blood and vomit, I would never deny a man her miracle in a bottle!”

Suddenly very grave and solemn, the king sat straight.

“You speak truly?”

Oberyn raised his hand.

“By my honor and by the blood of my father and the blood of my children.”

Robert, still very serious, took the Red Viper’s forearm warmly.

“Come Brother. You shall sit at my right hand tonight!”

 

---

One Who is Many - Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo​

---

Ophelia​

---

King’s Landing was many things.

A seat of power.

A mark of history for the past hundreds of years.

A cesspool of scum and villainy the sorts this world would seldom see elsewhere.

But above all else….

“This place smells like shit.” Her younger sister put it best as they rode in past the gates, nose screwed in distaste as they took in all the majesty of the ancient port-city.

Ophelia agreed, of course. Had agreed fifteen minutes ago when they were still outside of the walls and the wind had blown the stench to them.

She knew that most of the world probably didn’t have plumbing at this point. Something she would have to pitch to her father at a later point. The urge to take over and become the Queen of Pipelines was ever so pressing as they passed by a puddle of unmentionables, likely recently thrown out of a window.

It seemed that, as they’d entered through the king’s gate - passing by the city’s wharf and dock - up until the king himself passed through people had just been… tossing their crap everywhere. Fish guts, literal human feces, barrels of what she thought might be pure in one case. All in all, it was disgusting, stinking, and rotting. Even Robert was a bit more sullen, almost embarrassed, as their party swiftly pushed along River Row.

Of course, this meant her power was alight with new energy.

Just from a bit less than three city blocks alone she could feel thousands if not hundreds of thousands of small critters. Underneath homes, inside them, bussing freely amidst the populace. And that didn’t cover the sheer mass of insects. All lured out by the… plentifulness of the city’s filth.

She wasn’t talking just about the shit, of course.

“Impressed, my dears?” Her father called from the front, a teasing smile on his face as he took in the uncomfortable looks of his daughters.

Jerk probably knew what they were in for.

“It is… quite unique, father.” Tyene, the less… blunt of the bunch offered an answer.

“Hear that, Robert. Your city is unique! Quite a unique smell I dare say.”

The King laughed, wine red cheeks pulled back as he guffawed.

“More like shitty! Suppose it takes a while for you Dornish folk to get used to. Not much of anything to smell when it's all sand down where you live at!”

Oberyn laughed with him this time.

‘At least Father’s fingers stopped twitching. I think he might have given Ser Oakheart a heart attack if he kept inching for his spear.’

Their father was a man of great passions. Great love and great hate. He was also a bitter, angry brother who wanted violent revenge on everyone who so much looked at his lost sister poorly. She had actually caught him brooding over thoughts of what he wanted to do to Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. Never mind Tywin, the man he held responsible for her and her children’s death.

And now he was laughing and making merry with the man who profited the most from the sack of King’s Landing.

She knew better than to take him at his word.

Not when it came to his sister.

“Father is acting a mite suspicious, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it takes one schemer to know another.”

Tyene favored her with a teasing smile, gracing Ophelia with an indulgent smile at her sister’s response.

“You flatterer. You know as well as I do that we are all schemers here. Father is just playing a game with the King.”

“Hopefully not the one that gets so many people slaughtered like cattle.”

“Oh nothing so macabre. They just want to see how far they can push each other. You see it with these soldier types all the time.”

Ophelia dearly wanted to know where Tyene had learned about banter.

Because she had an entire lifetime to draw from and had seen plenty of rough around the edges dock workers ribbing and winding up each other to the point they got into fights. Heard about it all the time from Dad too.

“You think father won’t push his luck?”

“Oh he might have while we were outside. It would have been easier to dispatch the knights and kill the King then. But here? Surrounded by witnesses and spies? He can’t do anything other than make the King give him an excuse to fight.”

“The King seems to share his enthusiasm.”

“Why wouldn’t he? Stuck behind high walls with no enemy to fight but his own court and nowhere to explore but the bottom of his cup. Father is… a welcome break from his usual days I imagine.”

“Speaking of welcome breaks… I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me now.”

Rummaging through one of her saddlebags, she pulled out a bundle of herbs. There were several different pouches, even some that would have been identified as rather expensive. A few that would have been considered dangerous. But, instead, she pulled out a small bundle of leaves.

“Here. Tear these up and rub it under your nose.”

Tyene, taking the herbs in question, took a whiff of them first.

“Mint? Oh. Oh. Aren’t you a clever one little sister?”

And just like that, the bundle of fresh mint, picked only a day or so ago, was passed along the group. Oberyn and the king both making a gay time of such a minute thing. Though, curiously, it was Marwyn who caught the group’s attention when he refused it.

“No need. Made my own balm.”

“And you didn’t think to share with your king!?”

Robert cried out, blustering and puffing.

“Of course not. You didn’t ask.”

The old man chortled and everyone else, save for the kingsguard, greatly enjoyed themselves. In truth, it was the sworn sword of the realm that seemed to be struggling the most with the situation. Robert Baratheon, first of his name, lord of the yadda yadda yadda… was playfully bickering with a prince who clearly wanted to skewer him, taking cheek from a crazed old man, and entertaining the bastard daughters of the aforementioned prince. And the angry, drunken, bitter old man they were used to seeing was having the blinking time of his life.

In fact, by the time they were at the castle, Robert brushing off his counselors and practically dragging Oberyn along to tend to their horses, he was in such high spirits that the whole of the Red Keep seemed a bit… awe struck.

Ophelia, however, was still a bit preoccupied as she was deep in a discussion with Marwyn.

“So ambergris, this whale excretion, that’s what the great ships are hunting for? I mean, I’m not saying you speak falsely, but they smell almost as bad as this city. How is perfume made from that?”

“With a great deal of effort.” He tapped the tin of his own concoction. “I learned more in two months with the perfumiers of Essos than in a year of study with hedge witches.”

“I see.” She reached out to her swarm, and, once more, was lost in the sheer weight of filth. Tapeworms, lice, fleas, ticks, and genital crabs were probably the things that bothered her most. Because, even just in the Red Keep itself, she could feel them crawling through people. “Perhaps it's even inevitable. Precision and practice ensure that only the best habits survive amongst merchants. More or less.”

He made a noise of agreement.

“Greedy bastards charged me more than the hedge witches did too.”

Shaking her head, she, after making sure her own mount was being cared for, began to stroll into the almost gargantuan fortification above her. Even then her swarm was surging forward - lizards and rats mapping out the swarming mass of tunnels and secret passages in front of her. And there were a lot. An absurd amount even. Practically every third room had some kind of secret alcove or hidden trapdoor or blocked passageway!

“I suppose….”

“Hmm?”

“My apologies Maestar, I was thinking out loud.”

“Well, do you feel up to sharing with the class?”

She noticed that even Tyene was listening in, though Elia, Obara, Sarella, and the rest were still with their father and the king. Deciding to extend a bit of trust, she inclined her head to the red stone giant looming above them.

“The giant’s body is riddled with… oh… no. It can’t be.”

Ophelia went pale and Tyene was by her side in a moment.

“What is it? What’s wrong!?”

Swallowing, the witch edged forward a particular group of rats, already sending a swarm of spiders and roaches down that particular tunnel.

“Get father. Something's wrong. I… I’m not sure but if what I’m seeing is real then we’re in danger.” Marwyn stepped forward, taking her arm as Tyene nodded and rushed to warn Oberyn, only stopping to give the Mage a meaningful look. One he pointedly ignored. “Marwyn. Wildfire, it’s thick and green, yes?”

Slowly, he nodded.

“When cold, aye.”

Cersei

The King liked screaming.

That was what he seemed to do most days.

Screamed at whatever displeased him. Screamed when he was bored. Raved madly about the better days of his youth.

Cersei knew that all too well.

Over a decade of her being saddled with the bitter drunkard did teach her about the man’s explosive outbursts and need to be heard all across the city when he very well pleased. It was all too predictable by now.

But there were certain occasions.

Rare occasions.

Where the man would go quiet.

‘Burning cold.’ Was what father would call it.

A sort of rare anger, completely unlike anything she had ever witnessed of the man who’d rather pine for a dead woman than to see how blessed he was. But it happened. And when it did, Cersei knew better than to goad the man who pushed the Seven Kingdoms into war… and came out the victor.

So imagine her shock when she watched that same drunk failure of a King prowl silently into court with all the rage of a storm. She’d been left speechless… for a few seconds and proceeded to watch as he emptied the throne room of everyone he deemed unneeded.

He hadn’t bothered trying to shoo her away.

“What’s going on husband?”

Her hair was back, her lips painted, her smile carefully neutral, and even her clothes were modest today. After all, she’d expected him to come back sulking and fuming. But there was also no way she’d let any of her children be around a man as mercurial - and as drunk - as Robert was. Even if they had been his sons and daughter.

The king’s eyes turned to her, seeming almost to flash with malevolence and disgust for a moment. And they, grudgingly, dismissed her.

“Treachery.”

His words were sullen, telling her everything and nothing. She, of course, felt a sudden jolt of panic. Not that it showed. But, instinctively, she looked for her lover, finding a frowning Jaimie suddenly there. And, even more unpleasant, was the fact that all three of their children were assembled in riding clothes too.

“Selmy, you’ve got command of the children’s group. Take three of your brothers and ten gold cloaks. Move swiftly, I’ve got a letter for you. You’ll board a ship and sail for Dragonstone. My brother will be ready to receive you soon enough.”

“Robert….” Carefully eying the Dornish contingent, the Red Viper and his coterie of bastards, she walked closer to him. “What’s going on?”

She had half turned to him, half to the room. Her voice was low, an invitation for privacy, but her question asked openly. The impetus was on him how he wanted to respond and she was actually quite worried. Though that did little to change the situation because, quite simply, she didn’t understand why this particular group had been assembled.

Ser Selmy, Ser Oakheart, her Jaimie, Ser Blount, and Ser Moore were all armed and armored, while Sers Greenfield and Trant had finished shooing everyone but the kingsguard, the Prince, his daughters, a Maestar Cersei didn’t recognize, and the royal family out of the throne room. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out what was going on.

“I… well.” Robert was conflicted, his eyes flickering from her to Joffrey, who, himself, looked confused and a bit scared. “You’re no coward woman. And you, boy, will be king one day. You should know.” Practically deflating, he slumped onto his throne, still clearly stewing with rage. “There’s wildfire in the castle’s tunnels. More than one cache and we don’t know how many.”

“Maegor’s Holdfast!” Her words tumbled out, he blinked. “The Holdfast has no secret tunnels. If it’s a plot, they’d be watching for us.” Still speaking quickly, she tried to get her idea out before Robert rejected it out of hand. He was a stubborn man like that, a bit like her too. “But the Holdfast has only one escape tunnel. We could move the children there, I’ll take the letter to a ship with one of the kingsguard and secure it with gold cloaks. Then row the children out once the ship’s been brought around.”

Slowly inclining his head, he, grimacing, agreed.

“Aye. If spies are able to smuggle wildfire of all things into the Red Keep, we have no idea who we can trust in this city.” Turning to his men, he barked out an order. “Selmy! You’re with my wife. Lannister, Moore, with the children. The rest of you are to secure row boats and bring them around! Now!”

The last word was roared, totally at odds with the low conversational tone of the rest of their discussion. And, as if on cue, a servant with a pitcher of wine pushed open a side door into the throne room. Robert snarled in fury, rising to his feet.

“Those leeches are listening.”

Selmy intercepted the king, stopping him from doing something unfortunate, while Greenfield and Blount snatched the man up and practically threw him out of the room.

Her chest was throbbing, in pain from how her heart was beating a violent tattoo in her chest.

“Ser Lannister. You know something?”

Everyone in the room whirled on the girl who spoke and the man in question. She was tall, but slim, such that Cersei couldn’t determine her age with just a quick glance. Still, a curdle of ugly, black hatred began to form in her heart at the girl. How dare the lowborn whorespawn accuse her brother of treachery! It was unthinkable, it was unimagina-

“Please Ser Lannister. I saw you flinch when the king mentioned wildfire in the tunnels.”

“I….” Her twin prevericated.

“Jaimie! This is madness! She’s a bastard! Surely you know nothing about any of this? Have we even confirmed its there?”

“Peace, sister.” His smile was charming and disarming all at once, her heart actually beating a little faster. “Your grace.” He turned to Robert. “I swear to you - on the blood of my nephews and my niece - that I had no part in any plot against you.” Selmy was eying the Kingslayer hard, fingering his sword even, Cersei was even closer to panic than before as the rest of the room seemed utterly confused. “But I do know where the wildfire likely came from. May I speak?”

Robert was positively thunderous, his face was red and he was nearly on the verge of killing someone. Cersei could see that much. Still, she didn’t let her face so much as twitch.

“Speak, lion.”

Bowing his head, Cersei watched her soulmate look… regretful.

“It is related to why I slew your predecessor.” The whole room was practically circling now. Watching one another and the confession unfolding before them. It didn’t escape the queen’s notice that the new comers hadn’t had their weapons confiscated.

“King Aerys… rightfully feared my father. Or, rather, that King’s Landing would fall. He had negotiated with the Wisdoms of the Alchemists Guild for the production of mass quantities of wildfire. Ser Barristan, you can testify to that?”

“Aye. The Mad King spent vast sums on producing an arsenal that he never used. Unless… Gods.”

“It’s the truth.” Jaimie looked ashamed now. “I was attending to him when he ordered Rossart - his Hand after he burned the last one alive - to ignite caches of wildfire placed around the city. I don’t know why there is any in the castle, perhaps a last line of defense, perhaps it was simply stored there, or perhaps he thought he would become a dragon as his ancestor once believed so deep in his madness was he.” Swallowing, he forged on, even as the room’s reception was mixed. “My deepest regret is that my hand wavered for a moment before I slew him. Rossart, though, I killed without hesitation. Even with my oaths I could not let him destroy the city.’

“A well crafted story, but do you have any proof Lannister?”

The name was wielded like a dagger and Cersei was ready to throw herself at her husband’s feet and beg for her Jaimie’s life when the bastard stepped forward.

“Your Grace, the wildfire is thickened, tacky even. And I have found only the one large stock and a small number of barrels located elsewhere. The side tunnel they’re in is mostly earth, leading, I think, to the outside and… down, I’m not quite sure.” Her words were measured, slow, the bastard strolling across the chamber to stand next to the still bowing kingsguard. “If it has been so undisturbed for so long that it has thickened, Marwyn the Mage is an Archmaestar and can attest to its violent qualities, then Ser Lannister’s words are likely the truth.”

Grimacing, she inclined her head as well.

“When I was growing up, I was told the stories of the abuse Aerys inflicted on his sister wife and even on his children and grandchildren. Blinded by insanity such as his… is it truly so unlikely that he would have concocted such a scheme?” Lifting her haid, she met Robert’s gaze. “I do remind you, he named fire the royal champion once. Why would he not do so again?”

Slumping backwards, the king considered her small speech.

“Lannister.” His voice was low and dangerous again. “Have you any proof at all?”

“None your grace. I hunted down and murdered the other two pyromancers who knew of the plot, Garigus and Belis, and slew them afterwards.”

Ser Selmy, grimacing slightly, stepped forwards himself.

“Your grace?” Robert inclined his heading, deigning to let the man speak. “I can only testify that I know the two men in question were found later. One was given a quick death, the other less so. The killing of those men was brought to my attention as they had been part of Rossart’s retinue from time to time and their deaths were clearly murders.”

“Garigus cried. Begged for his life, but accepted his fate in the end. Belis tried to bribe me.”

Actually snorting in laughter, Robert gave a dark smile.

“You are many things Ser Jaimie. But corrupt is not one of them.” Nodding, he looked at cersei and the fire in his eyes had returned to a dull simmer. “I suppose I should apologize for alarming everyone.” He swallowed. “Get the children’s things? Have a room made ready in the Holdfast?”

His order came out like a question and she was stunned. Struck by how much her husband seemed to age before her eyes. In truth, Cersei herself was wavering between shock and awe. Eventually, she smiled, something small and genuine, and turned to her children.

“Come along. Let’s get a few things and we’ll all stay together tonight. Ok?”

Myrcella looked afraid and was half clinging to sweet Tommen who, not quite understanding what was going on, looked up at her and asked “Might I bring along my cats?”

Joffrey, who was himself shaken too, took her other hand and the four of them walked out of the throne room - three of the kingsguard at their back - as she spoke low and soothingly to her children.

Before she left, however, she turned to the Dornish girl and smiled.

It wasn’t much, but Cersei knew she’d have to thank the girl who had just saved her brother’s life. Robert truly had been that close to having Jaimie executed there and then, consequences be damned. Instead, from the way the others were speaking, it seemed that he was tentatively being considered a hero.

‘I’ll have to do something nice for him to celebrate.’

“Ser Trant.” One of the attending kingsguard stepped up.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Find us a few servants and have them bring a small meal for the children. I’ll also want to make it clear that anything unusual inside the fortress is to be reported immediately. A quick sweep of the Royal Apartments would be appreciated as well.”

“Will that be all my lady?”

Pausing for a moment, she shook her head.

“Have the servants bring Robert’s favorite pillow to him too. The one with the goose down and purple embroidery.”

“Right away my lady.”

---

Oberyn​

---

When he’d agreed to travel to King’s Landing, Oberyn expected many things.

For one, he thought he would have tried to kill the King at their first meeting. Something he had surprisingly avoided doing for the time being. Ophelia would be so proud to see him exercising patience, perhaps he might even get a few more free potions as a reward for his good behavior.

Maybe after he tried to kill the King for real.

What he didn’t expect, however, was for his clever witch of a daughter to sound the alarm on wildfire caches under the castle as soon as they got there.

Already this trip was turning out to be beyond his expectations.

Of course. While she explained what she found to Marwyn and Pycelle, the king’s own maestar, and planned the removal of the wildfire, Oberyn was left to do one of the most important yet dangerous roles of their whole operation.

Babysitting the King.

Or at least stop him from murdering the entire Alchemist Guild.

Scaring them was definitely fine. Maybe killing the most stubborn of them. But Doran had plans and Oberyn had a letter and so he was doing his best to stop another man from crushing a perceived threat to his family.

‘Huh. This actually makes me feel a bit dirty.’

“Robert, the man is clearly about to soil himself. And I know your city already smells like shit, but does your throne room need to as well?”

The king, who was currently glaring at one Wisdom Hallyne - head of the alchemists guild - had, had the man dragged in twenty minutes ago. And then just sat there… glaring at him… while two of the kingsguard held the man on his knees. Frankly Oberyn would have been impressed if he wasn’t tired and a bit peckish. And missing his paramour.

“At the very least can we let the servants back in? I’m not trying to complain here, but you have a pillow and I don’t. And I’m very tired.”

Grunting, the Baratheon slumped in the Iron Throne, eyes staring out with the slowly dimming embers of black rage that had so recently threatened to consume him.

“I’m still deciding whether or not I should kill the Lannister.”

“And that’s your right. But you can’t exactly blame a pyromancer for making wildfire. It’s what they are paid to do.”

The king rounded on him, much to the relief of the pyromancer.

“And what, pray tell, should I do about all the wildfire they stored under my castle?”

“Well, you can’t kill them all. Who else knows how to move the stuff without turning this place into a burning crater?”

And therein lay the problem. Someone had to be punished for all that mess, but the alchemists were the only ones who knew how to move wildfire without causing an incident. Something they couldn’t trust any random worker to do under the Red Keep.

Besides, Doran needed those Alchemists alive.

“You’re telling me to just let them go?”

“I’m saying not to kill them now. Wait until this mess is done with. Otherwise, just blame the Mad King. Every mess seems to go back to him somehow.” Oberyn yawned. “Besides, my lord-” He nodded to Hallyne. “Do you even have any idea what we’re talking about?”

“No sir, I do not.”

Despite looking rather terrified, the man’s voice was firm, unwavering. Only slightly high from the pain. Oberyn’s respect for him went up a good two notches. Commensurately, so did his desire to keep the man alive. If he wasn’t absolute trash then just killing him would be a waste. And that was just wasteful.

“Oberyn, why are you laughing?” Robert sounded confused even as he looked at the Red Prince like the man was mad.

“Oh? I was? Sorry about that. Anyways, he says he had nothing to do with it, the Lannister says he butchered the little piggies that did, and there’s still Seven knows how many barrels of the stuff in the castle and in the city.” Grimacing, the prince continued. “Aside from sand - and I suppose I would include my daughter’s minds in that - I know of no way to deal with it if it were to ignite. So maybe we bring him into this… grand conspiracy of ours and let him prove his worth.”

Shaking his head, the king still struggled to grasp this opportunity.

“And why should I parlay with witches, no offense to your daughter, she’s lovely by the way, and doddering old men playing with themselves and their fancy whale oil?”

Oberyn let his eyes fall to half open, his hooded gaze radiating smugness.

“Because, like I said, you can always blame Aerys if anything goes wrong… or take credit for it if it goes right. Plus the wildfire in question has already been paid for by the crown.”

That got a barking laugh for the fat man sitting on the pointy throne.

“You want me to burn my enemies alive!? Speak sense man, I know how to trim my nails!” Slapping his knee, the man was practically besides himself with laughter. “Never mind that magic always has some awful, vague cost that damns you in the end, why wouldn’t the whole ruddy guild be supporting the Dragon Spawn and praying for their return.”

“Aye. And fire is the weapon of the dragon.”

Opening his mouth to retort, what Oberyn was finally hinting at clicked into place.

“Oh. Oh.” Sitting back, he stroked his beard. “A feint. I… hadn’t considered that. A feint or a false blow either, all hiding the fact I just want to be rid of all these leeches and cock suckers and fools.” Snorting, he shook his head. “No. I’m not mad enough to emulate the dragon. I won’t burn my court alive just because I don’t like them… no matter how much I may want to at times.”

Oberyn could literally see the man’s mind at work, churning away under those bushy brows of his, trying to actually think for the first time in years. Thankfully he had never been an unintelligent man, no matter how prone to excess Robert had been.

“Very well. Damn it all, it seems I won’t be able to kill anyone today at all.” Jabbing his finger at Lord Hallyne he glared at the man as he spoke. “You’ll have a work crew of your best here tomorrow at dawn. I want this castle swept, we’ll get the witch girl to lead you about the place after I pronounce her innocent.”

That got a raised eyebrow from Oberyn.

“While that news pleases me, you’re not even going to pretend to deliberate?”

“Would I even be alive right now if she was guilty?”

The Red Viper merely smiled at the question, his fingers twitching towards his knife.

“Hah! Now. Let him up. After you finish clearing my castle, you’ll do the same for the city. Selmy will be with you when he can be spared and another kingsguard when he can’t. We’ll cover this up with a story about… about….”

“Sewer renovations, your grace?”

Nodding at the Wisdom’s wise excuse, the still rather disappointed man, he really did hate not being able to protect his children, waved his hand.

“Aye. And you’re receiving a royal commission to survey the city for that or whatever. Anyways, I want the wildfire secured. If this all goes well I’ll see about not locking all your order’s members in your guildhouse and setting it on fire.”

“You are most merciful, your grace.”

Despite undoubtedly being sore, if not bruised and strained, the pyromancer still managed a shaky bow.

“Feh. I’m irritable and angry. Now get out of here. I’ve got a wife and children to see.”

And with that excuses were made, agreements to meet later exchanged, and Oberyn, who had a letter tucked in his coat pocket, quickly jogged towards the exit of Maegor’s holdfast. Thankfully Lord Hallyne was an old man and moved slowly, letting him catch up to the pyromancer quickly.

“Prince Oberyn.” His eyes were wary, but he clearly didn’t think he was about to lose his head this second. That bade well for this conversation. “I suppose I should thank you for my life. But I fear the fact we’re having this conversation means I’m still a bit indebted to you.”

“Come now, can’t a noble prince escort a fellow lord to his horse and men?”

Hallyne didn’t even feign a chuckle, simply lifting two white eyebrows in incredulity.

“This is King’s Landing my prince. If you were to actually do so out of the goodness of your heart I would fear myself drugged. Still-” The old man relaxed a bit more when Oberyn chuckled. “My entire guild likely owes our continued existence to your words. It is the rare man that can sway Robert when he puts his mind to things.”

Waving his hand, the prince dismissed the praise.

“Hardly. It is simple if you know how he thinks. And besides, I do not block his strikes, merely parry them.”

Nodding along, the pyromancer agreed.

“Wise when the king swings a hammer and all the world is a nail. Though that does not answer the obvious question. What do you expect in payment?”

Reaching into his coat, he plucked out the letter he’d just been thinking about.

“Read this if you would.”

Frowning, the old man did so, picking up a candle sat in a nearby alcove to better see in the dim light of the castle. It took only a short time, it was a short letter after all, and by the end he looked a mixture of wariness and ecstatic joy.

“Is this real? Not some cruel jest?”

Holding his hand over his heart, Oberyn gave a slight bow.

“From my brother’s hand to yours.”

“I - this - my brothers must know of this.” Hesitating for a moment, he glanced at the candle meaningfully. “Should I burn it or can I show it to them?”

Choosing his words carefully, and glad they were still in Maegor’s Holdfast, he figured that brutal honesty would be the best solution.

“If this is discovered before the plans are finalized, and I am fully authorized to negotiate in my brother’s name, then I shall reveal it is to be a birthday gift for my daughter. With all the attendant camp expected of a young woman being entertained.”

Flinching at the mere thought of his order being humiliated as such, the old man eventually conceded that was a good idea.

“The Martells are indeed well known for your… spontaneity, so I think that would be believed. Still, I will go quickly and summon the other Wisdoms. If this is true, then our very survival will be in your hands.” Straightening his back, the old mage bowed as deeply as he could, clutching the letter as tightly as he dared. “Thank you, my prince. We will not disappoint you!”

With the candle replaced, the Lord Hallyne seen to his horse and the escort of several burly apprentices, and his daughters safely in their own room, Oberyn sighed to himself.

“I am an amazing spy. Truly, just a wonderful master class of subtlety.”

In truth, making contact with the Alchemists was a secondary objective he’d been completely willing to ignore in favor of protecting his daughter. Thankfully, though, he hadn’t needed to murder the entire court and his daughter would safely be declared innocent by the king tomorrow. That would be best for Robert’s health, after all.

“You know, considering how truly awe inspiring my daughters are, I wonder if my next one will be a god?”

Strolling his way down to a brothel he’d been recommended earlier, he couldn’t help but wish his paramour was with him. After all, there was nothing like six nubile young women worshipping your body to ease the discomforts of an aching back and tender breasts. And he was also feeling a bit… lonely. He really hadn’t been away from his whole family in years now and it was strange not having them by his side.

While on the road, it had been easy to view things now as simply an extended hiking trip. But it could be months or even a year before he returned.

‘Still, with one of my daughter’s discovering a decade old plot to destroy the city the very day we arrived, I’m sure they’ll have proved the existence of grumkins, found a clutch of dragon eggs, dueled a demon, and defeated the Others by the time we leave the capital.’

And with that though, he stepped through the doors of a tastefully gauche whorehouse and started looking for the half dozen most attractive whores he could rut with until he stopped feeling lonely.

---

Ophelia​

---

“You’ve certainly made an impression on them, dearest sister.”

Ophelia felt like palming her face in frustration.

“I don’t think now is the time for chit chat, Tyene.”

“No, it is time to save King’s Landing from suffering a fiery death the likes which father must have dreamed over for over a decade now. He must be quite torn over it.”

“You and I both know he would never accept anything short of his own spear claiming revenge. We are simply… making sure he has that chance in the future.”

“By keeping this place from going up in flames?” Elia chimed in from her bed.

“Your words, not mine.”

Pulling a nightgown on, the witch double checked her swarm, making sure that their quarters were actually secure, Ophelia poked her head through the gown and straightened out her still damp hair.

“Also, you know none of the spies can actually see us in here, right?”

Completely nude, Obara was currently looking over and cleaning every single one of her knives. Her whip, already oiled and wrapped up, sat next to her while Sarella maintained her bow, and Elia her spear. Ophelia’s own weapons were, of course, just as well maintained, but she didn’t quite feel the urge to put on the rather absurd display her sisters were.

After all, the eldest sister was currently working on her twelfth knife.

“Additionally, I’m a bit confused on where you kept all of those blades.”

“You have your secrets little sister, I have mine.”

Obara’s line actually sounded a bit cool, with utterly bloodthirsty she looked in the flickering candle light, but Ophelia wouldn’t think of admitting that out loud.

“I will simply say that anyone that attempts to force entry into this room would be swarmed by every beast in the castle and eaten alive.”

Elia giggled at that.

“You already showed off earlier, you don’t have to do it again, you know?”

Ophelia did the mature thing. And threw one of her pillows at Lady Lance.

“I’m sorry, next time you wanna stay at a castle, I’m not gonna tell you about the lethal fire traps under it.”

Elia’s mature response was to grab one of her own and lock swords with the Witch of Dorne. Their sisters laughed as the two youngest began to batter each other with the pillows in some reenactment of a past glorious battle.

“Don’t you find it suspicious though?” Sarella cut in. “That Ophelia just happened to run into a plot to set this place aflame? I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t set up so that she would find it?”

“Ever suspicious, aren't you.” Tyene said. “Not everything has to be a conspiracy, Sarella. Sometimes stupid people do stupid things and are caught. Besides, do you doubt the sincerity of our sister?”

A pillow hit Tyene.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Tyene.” The adventurer hissed. “I am just suspicious of the intentions of those around us.”

“Ah… so you feel this might be an attempt to target us?”

“Not just us. Don’t you think it's strange that Ophelia, the one they wanted to single out, was the only one who could have found the wildfire? There is something strange happening, Tyene, and we don’t know what it is.”

“Then perhaps we should leave it be?”

The older sister turned to the resident witch.

“You want us to just ignore this?” Sarella repeated, dumbfounded.

“If we don’t know enough to suspect anyone, then it doesn’t matter how long we discuss this. We’ll learn more in the days to come.”

“So you do think someone’s out to get you.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes.

“Everyone has someone out to get them, Sarella. It's the reason I’m here to begin with.”

Besides, she had already started the process of seeding every room and corner of the Red Keep with her eyes and ears. Very soon, she would be able to see and hear every plot and scheme being concocted behind closed doors.

Even now, she could feel them.

The thousands of critters and vermin which called the Red Keep their home.

She could almost see them in her mind’s eye. Skittering, crawling and buzzing through the hold stone of the castle.

Almost like a web, weaved under the cover of night.

“All we need to do is prepare for when our enemies make a mistake.” She concluded.

And that was the final word. Obara, sleeping in the bed closest to the door, was on a low bed and practically spooning a small arsenal of weapons. She, as was her want, slept nude. Sarella and Elia, both wearing night clothes, were sharing a second bed on the far wall. Elia was closest to the wall, with Sarella blocking her from line of sight. Tyene and Ophelia had likewise opted to share a bed.

Or, rather, Tyene had opted to share a bed with her and the witch didn’t feel up to telling her no. And right now she was wearing a birthday present she’d actually made her.

It was a rather fine thing, only somewhat sheer, and made of spun golden thread. Unlike cloth of gold it was light and smooth and soft, sliding like water between her fingers. Because the silk was flawless, almost supernaturally so, and matched well with the blonde’s coloration. All the product of a thousand wasps working in concert.

The light shift smelled like home.

An ugly feeling gnawed inside her chest.

How long ago was it that Sunspear had started to feel like home? It was where Ophelia was born, raised, taught, and loved by some of the most caring people she’d known from both her lives.

It was natural.

So why… did she feel guilty?

It was so long since she thought about Brockton. About her past. She chose to move past it a long time ago, yet now, for some reason, she couldn’t help feeling like she was all too quick to forget about that life.

‘To forget about….’

She felt herself be pulled, back lying comfortably against the silk of her own making.

“Tyene?” She turned slightly to face her sister.

“You look concerned.”

Has she? Her back was turned to the blonde the entire time.

“I’m sorry… I….” She thought of something to say.

“You don’t need to tell me.” The beatific Snake gave her a warm smile, motherly. “You must have a lot on your mind. It's just how you’ve always been.”

And that was that.

There was no more to say. Tyene slowly rubbed her back, letting Ophelia’s mind drift away, slowly seeping into every creature her thoughts touched. Even other humans, in that space between wakefulness and sleep, were not so alien to her. Letting that own sense of peace, of home, of comfort seep through her, into them, she eased nightmares and settled rest. Not that she would remember doing such, mind drifting as it was, and thus it was with a watchful patience that the rest of life in that accursed place settled in.

Spiders many eyes watching from silver threads. Rats squeaking and tussling in corners as their whisker twitched. Even a one eared black tom cat passed by the girl’s small window, pushing against the crook of glass and stone to settle in for the warm summer night.

But then sleep fully took her.

The land of life and light was gone, into that other realm where the mind is free to drift and expand.

White snow crunched under her bare feet, but the ice did not bite, did not sting. It was almost comforting, how gentle its touch was. Cold winds cut at her, screaming and crying and wailing in misery and agony as they lashed out. Yet she did not feel them. Their freezing rage was impotent and quickly spent, settling into a sullen, defeated silence. There, then, a blasted, frozen wasteland was revealed to her.

Some massive black stone fortification sat, half rumbled over, as rime crusted battlements and the slumped forms of armor and weapons suggested men.

Though she saw no bodies, smelled no death, for even in a frozen battlefield as this there would still be some stink. Some hint of the slaughter concealed under patches of white, blotting snow. Somehow it was oily and thick, sticking to her skin and sliding off all at the same time. But what struck her was that, in the distance, seated on the back of some great, undulating serpent - though truly her mind could scarcely give name to what it was she saw, other than blackened flesh and bone white scales coiling about far, far too many heads - was a man.

Short, almost, when compared to the vastness of his mount. He seemed gentle, still, as if waiting.

Waiting for a long, long time she grasped.

His hand outstretched she saw, fingers blue and made of liquid, flowing ice.

But it was eyes.

Soulless.

Dead.

Vast.

Powerful.

As if it was a soul so great and terrible as to be beyond anything living, terrible in its might and awe, crowned in an aurora that even then wept as light heralded darkness.

Those eyes grew and grew, glimmers of something other showing through. A hint at the being beyond the temporal, a glimpse of the truth this ice crowned spirit hinted at. Love, of a sorts, spreading as the dead from thousands of years past stood and saluted him.

With a gastly, rasping noise - dead flesh and brittle bone scraping against one another - they formed into legions. In lockstep they marshalled themselves, ready to take up the piles of arms and armor she saw before. Only now there were shivering, living, frightened men within them. Feral in appearance, there was little too them. Frost bitten, worn down, and utterly fearful, they wavered and prepared to rout when something happened.

A great caw struck her as a swarm of ravens descended, each bird firing darts and felling scores with their weapons of glittering black feathers.

Reaching up, the far monster cried out something that made no sound yet deafened her and the worm her rode did something blasphemous. The land itself shook, buckling and writhing, and the flock of ravens were struck at over and over again. Each time another bird fell and she saw that it was too a man. Human and bird in one.

But their work had been done.

The legions of the dead had died again on the spear points of the living, though they too had mostly died and lay still, and, by the very end, only one raven remained.

Possessing three eyes, it cawed and struggled and vines and roots burrowed into its flesh, dragging it into the depths of a weirwood tree so vast it seemed to blot out the very sky. Flesh and bark united, the roots of the tree lashed out and grabbed at the mighty worm, strangling it and crushing unholy flesh with a grip as steel. But, before it was victorious, that thing’s master had slain the last of the living, his legion already rising again as they marched north.

Blinking in confusion, her body freezing, Ophelia woke up.

Realizing she was outside - and in nothing but her nightgown - she had awoken in the roots of an ancient oak. An oak which had a face carved in it. Shivering, teeth clacking against one another, she pushed against the heart tree for warmth like a desperate, dying babe. And, perhaps it was a trick of her mind still caught in that dream, but it almost looked like the boughs of the mighty living temple bent down to shield her.

 

---

One Who is Many - Mr. Blue Sky​

---

Ophelia​

---

Ophelia was many things.

For starters, she was cranky, because she had to wake up early.

She was also hungry, because, instead of letting her eat breakfast, her sisters had spent the last two hours doing their very best to keep her from relaxing as they fretted and buzzed around her, carrying articles of clothing as if they were flower pollen.

Only to dump them on her and tell her to try them.

Dresses.

Skirts.

Robes.

Even the coats she wore when working at her lab!

They had each packed away enough of her own clothes to fill up a closet and wanted to make sure she would present herself at her best now that her court date had finally arrived. The problem being that she hadn’t picked these at all. In fact, Ophelia had travelled light! Other than a number of hardy, practical garments that would resist damage she hadn’t dragged any bits of useless flouncery along with her. But, this was going to be her court debut and her court debut.

‘Heh. Court date at court, for a court.’ She amused herself.

And of course, Elia and Tyene were having a field day dolling her up. Even Obara had chortled and suggested they give her one of those silken veils. To add up to her ‘all knowing mystique’ as the Dornish court liked to put it… when people wanted something from her.

Ophelia could see the appeal.

She might not have been all knowing, but just that very morning she’d seen at least three acts which could be construed as treason and even gotten her father arrested on the spot. As well as a very invigorating meeting between one of the maids working at the Red Keep and a certain stupid father who shall not be named.

‘Really, father, you couldn’t hold back?’

It wasn’t anything new. The Viper was not one to skimp out on his… habits. But buggering an unmarried minor noble, that worked for the recently terrified queen, was likely illegal. For a moment, she considered sending a few ornery creepy crawlies into the room before just giving up. She had only even noticed that there were two people, meeting in close quarters, and had in fact withdrawn the rat she had been piloting as soon as she realized what she was seeing.

‘I swear, he’s worse than Alec ever was. Though I don’t know if it’s crazier that Father is actually charming.’ Not that, that was even the first time she’d caught someone fucking. In fact, she’d actually had the extreme misfortune of witnessing the Grand Maester being… attended to by a pair of prostitutes.

“That one! Yeah, that’s just right!”

“Wait, isn’t that four layers of clothing?” Returning to her body, and leaving behind some extremely unpleasant memories, she looked down when Elia had cried out. “There’s no way we can d-”

Tyene kissed her, practically shoving her tongue down Ophelia’s throat for about fifteen seconds - Elia making the appropriate gagging noises. Pulling back, the shorter blonde kissed her sister’s cheek and winked at her.

“Let me play dress up? Pretty please? You know you’re my favorite… little… doll.”

Ophelia swallowed.

“O-ok.” She looked at the clothes. “I guess… that’s not so bad.”

“Good girl. Now, arms up!”

And just like that, she was stripped, very much not blushing, and found herself stuffed into layer after layer of linen and silk. Tyene’s hand only strayed once or twice. Mostly. And the entire process went rather swiftly now that things were decided on. More to the point, the small storm of fabric and lace was actually cleared away and packed in three surprisingly compact trunks.

In the end, what they decided on was a combination of Dornish and Essosi fashion.

Essossi in the sense that it was - more or less - foreign. And Dornish in that it was mostly consisting of individually light garments that, when bundled together, weren’t nearly as oppressive as thicker cotton or wool.

Her lowest layer down consisted of a two piece silk undergarment, actually something she’d made, that wrapped around her modest chest and ended part way down her stomach with the lower half sitting on her hips and thighs more like a pair of gym shorts than anything else. They were undyed, but treated with a few mixtures to strengthen them, and these served as the base points for the second layer. A loose, almost sheer black gown that hung from her shoulder to her ankles, which was attached by lace ties to her underclothes, to emphasize the shape of her body.

Over this, the two main garments were placed.

The first of which was a shorter green over long tunic. Ending about mid thigh, the rich, deep green garment was a native Dornish product - though allegedly made in the Lyseni style - and belted at her waist. Relying on a small leather thong, it sat higher on her stomach, just under her belly button, and created a sharp, angled drive to her design. One that was accentuated by a plunging neckline that revealed the black gown below that.

On top of that, they chose a deep blue silk cloak. Resting higher on her chest than the incredibly revealing green tunic it had a longer hem but shorter sleeves than the third layer. Slightly loose at the shoulders and hips, for ease of movement, it was still quite easy to move in and only restricted her movement in the least amount. But, being the finishing piece, it tied the ensemble together.

In this way, it revealed a flash of skin at her collarbone and the hollow of her throat, but cast the rest of her form into sharp, angled lines, emphasizing her height and just how whip thin she was. Even more, the richness and colors of the clothing displayed Martell wealth without her, a bastard, wearing house colors. Even better as the blue emphasized the Roynish in her ancestry with yellow and red embroidery, being of sunspears, along the edges of the garment.

To complete it, she put on a silver necklace sat with sunstones - an oblique reference to her father’s house - and let Elia pick out a pair of similarly tasteful silver earrings to wear.

With the dressing up complete, it made her look… tall. Tall and not particularly femine. Even more, with a few touches of make up, she looked sharp and even a bit harsh.

‘Fierce.’

Sarella handled strapping the small forearm sheathes on, making sure to work with the shape of the garment and ensure that the push dagger concealed within would be easily accessible and it was Obara that handed over a number of small rings.

One gold, one silver, and one electrum. Each bore a spear, a sun, or, in one case, the silhouette of sunspear itself.

By wearing such, she made it clear that she not only enjoyed House Martell’s full backing, and that of their armies, but that was also not claiming to be a full member either.

Neither a bastard nor a usurper.

But also neither weak nor afraid.

In the end, the sisters were ready.

Tyene wearing a silk dress in the style of the Crownlands, complete with bows, Sarella in what almost looked like Maester’s robes - though of a far finer cut and make - and both Elia and Obara were wearing tunics and trousers. Well dressed, obviously, but with yellows and reds, only sporting splashes of green and blue and black, to intentionally make her stand out.

Ophelia envied them.

All this garnish and posturing felt so… familiar.

After all, this wasn’t the first time Ophelia dressed to impress others and strike fear into the hearts of her enemies. But that was a lifetime ago. A life she didn’t often find reason to revisit.

‘I suppose one time won’t hurt.’

After all, whoever decided to bring her to King’s Landing was worthy of her full attention.

She was on vacation. And they had fucked with her family. Maybe inflicting a little insectophobia would be cathartic. For her, not whatever dumb bastard thought it was a good idea to piss her off.

“What do you think?” Tyene smiled, looking over the witch appreciatively. Like a work of art to be graded.

“Like we are gonna go to war and then visit Lys and I’m not sure which comes first.”

Sarella snorted back a chuckle.

“You do look… striking, Ophelia. It’s one of your strong suits.”

The witch shuffled awkwardly.

It really felt familiar.

And simultaneously not at all.

“Come on then, before Tyene jumps your bones.”

Just like that, Obara growled, jerking her head and leading the pack of bastards out of the changing room and into the hallway. Waiting for them was Oberyn, looking completely perfect. Oddly enough, he just gave them a lopsided grin, his eyes crinkling in happiness.

“You all look amazing.”

He unfastened his cloak, the banner of House Martell clearly woven into it.

“Come. Let’s get this done and over with.”

And wrapped it around Ophelia’s shoulders, fastening it around her neck.

Another quick round of hugs from her sisters, and another kiss from Tyene once Ophelia used her swarm to confirm no one was around, purely for good luck, and they strolled into court.

Oberyn, a sword at his waist and in partial plate, strolled in first. His head was held high and his white teeth practically flashed as light streamed in through the glass windows. The early morning sun cast the whole room into an orange-red glow as the herald announced him. Gossip, taking the form of a dull roar, broke out as they walked in of course, the statement of her father’s cloak around her shoulders an utter scandal - the act essentially stating that she was being claimed as a legitimate daughter by the man.

Blessedly, it was a small mercy that she didn’t need to fear any of her sisters being envious about that fact. They had all been raised with as much affection as they had wanted and given as much space as they needed. None of them had ever doubted that their father would willingly carve out his own heart if it meant they took a single extra breath.

So when it came to showing up the idiotic, decadent northerners… they wholeheartedly approved.

Ophelia allowed her face to become a dull mask of uninterest. Surveying the room as one would a particularly husky frog she was about to desecrate for one of her experiments. She had eyes on every single person, from every single corner.

From the spider creeping along the ceiling to the fly sitting unknown amidst the mass of gossips and the small bird perched by the open window.

They thought they had her surrounded.

But in fact… she had them all in check from the start.

Now it was only a matter of proving it.

The thing that bothered her most of all, though, was that when she walked into the throne room, crowds of people on all sides, it was a single knight in full armor that got her attention. It was black and there was a stag pendant that fastened a cloak around the warrior’s chest. Somehow, something about the way they looked at her made her feel deeply uneasy.

And then the herald called out, his lungs cutting through the noise like a hammer through someone’s sweetmeats.

“All rise for His Grace, Robert I Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Ophelia could see a change wash over the room as the man she’d come to know as King Robert strode into court.

Perhaps they’d thought him a stupid oaf once upon a time.

A beast long bereft of fangs or claws.

But now? After Ophelia uncovered the wildfire inside the castle, it was like that green flame had roared to life inside the tired king. He seemed impatient, hands clenching involuntarily every now and again as he took his seat on the Iron Throne.

It was about time King’s Landing received a harsh reminder of who their King was. And even now, the nobility which occupied this very room seemed tense, uncertain of how to act before the king whose decisive actions hadn’t been seen since he took the Seven Kingdoms by storm over a decade before.

Ophelia, however, could see something else….

A painfully sober worker who had no time to rest since her arrival.

“Alright. Shut up. Every last one of you.” They grumbled, complaining as they moved. “I said shut up!” And just like that he leapt to his feet, roaring. “Today will be a trial. One that annoys me to have to conduct.” Robert was still red in his face. “So stay quiet and things will move quickly.” Sitting back down, he rubbed at his forehead and muttered to himself. “I need a fucking drink.”

---

Varys​

---

His little birds from the south had told him many things.

Sang many songs.

Ballads of the Viper, whose fangs remained poised to strike at his enemies, ever present lust for revenge burning within his chest.

They sang lullabies of the Snakes.

Prodigious little dears who so adored their father.

Yet lately, the songs had taken a turn for the mysterious… little murmurs rising from the shadows as rumors spread through the ports of Dorne across the shifting sands. Rumors of a girl whose cleverness was unparalleled, and whose thirst for knowledge would render any Maester green with envy.

The Witch of Dorne.

Ophelia Sand.

Varys had gone through great many pains to learn as much as he could of the Viper’s daughter.

How couldn’t he when a single bastard girl rocked the boat so wildly?

At first he believed the songs to be exaggerated. Stories of mystery and magic always were and Varys was nothing if not cautious of those who professed themselves adepts of the occult. Most being illusionists or charlatans. If not simply moderately skilled liars.

But she… was a witch.

Phantom pains told him as such, memories of a voice in flames and of questions asked and bleeding aside, his gut told him that he should be careful of her. And that he had been right to take precautions. That she had - apparently - discovered wildfire in the castle the very day she had arrived simply proved it. Because, and he was quite sure of this, no one else but the Lannister knew of the wildlife plot and he’d long since ensured the king would never trust him.

“Sand, a bastard, a witch, both.” He chuckled from his alcove, just out of the line of sight of court, waiting to be called. “I wonder if that makes her one of the king’s hounds.”

Obviously she was a threat. The kind that needed to be removed.

“But how to do it.”

Speaking clearly, the herald called out the list of charges, announcing that this was the trial for the murder of the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn.

Indirectly, of course. He wouldn’t confront her directly. But, as much as he detested magic, he was also still somewhat averse to murdering a child. Perhaps a distraction then? A way to convince them to leave without realizing it?

The trial was as good a reason as any.

Varys doubted the girl had really done anything at all, never mind those… unfortunate rumors about Oberyn selling criminals to magic users.

His birds down south had grown fewer in the last few years so it was hard to distinguish hearsay from fact when he only had so many voices willing to share.

But what he did know did not raise much cause for concern. A simple bastard girl from a noble house with an affinity for academics and advanced sciences was not a threat. She was an opportunity which Doran Martell had latched into. No matter what powers she might have, she was no more than a hope that his reign might grow more productive.

That he would not be remembered as an unfortunate cripple wearing a crown.

So of course the greedy would try and seize that opportunity for themselves.

This was what the trial was for.

A sham. A farce. A smokescreen meant to draw out the girl and measure her worth.

“I do wonder… she’s rather close with her sisters. If there’s any worth in the girl to go with her finery, perhaps I should court her attentions? Keep your enemies close after all.”

And Varys was very good at that.

“Let’s just be done with this.” The King started, blunt like a hammer. “Did you, Ophelia Sand, have any involvement in the death of Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King?”

Simple, to the point. The Master of Whispers appreciated it.

“No, your grace.”

“Did you make the poison used to kill Jon Arryn.”

“Yes.”

There was tense murmuring as the gossips of the court went about their usual dance unable to keep themselves quiet at the admission.

“Yet you claim to not be involved?”

The girl was… strangely unaffected. Stoic in a way very few could claim to be, the tension of the room slid off her back much like water would a duck’s.

“I am but a researcher and pharmacist, your Majesty. I do not claim responsibility for what my medical products do once sold.”

“You say this poison is meant to heal? That seems patently absurd.” A flicker of the man’s temper began to shine through, but Varys watched as she simply smiled.

“Of course, your grace. It is a paralytic and numbing agent, derived from a species of wasp I have cultivated. Maestars, healers, and physicians have all used it for surgeries, for, in certain cases, the treatment of pain, and as a way to help overcome poppy addiction. It is unpleasant to the system, inducing a degree of nausea after consumption and a mild high when ingested. When rubbed on the skin it deadens the nerves and can make even removing a rotten tooth… mostly painless.”

Varys blinked. That sounded… incredible. He knew pycelle had a bottle of the stuff, yellow tears it was called, for the fact that the fluid was slightly yellow and tended to form large teardrops when allowed to settle, but not that it was that revolutionary. He wouldn’t begrudge her the flicker of pride he saw in her eyes.

“A non addictive painkiller… I wonder… yes. It’s time I ensure that Dorne sings me a song.”

It seemed he was getting lazy in his dotterage. And that was patently unacceptable. However, recriminations for believing stereotypes aside, the king continued to speak and so he listened.

“Whatever.” The king waved his hand, somewhat rudely dismissing the explanation. “You made it, you sell it. I assume you can tell me who you’ve sold it to?” He was relaxing, almost giving up in preparation for what he knew was to come. Varys was truly surprised he wasn’t shouting more.

“Yes sir. I have here, a receipt of all sales of this particular agent. On it you will find the Citadel for bulk purchases, to sales of similar size to merchants bound for Essos, and forty two smaller, personal sales. Including two to the Grand Maester himself.”

The crowd gasped appropriately, even if the girl in question was being rather matter of fact. Their words quickly grew to a dull roar of whispers and gossip. Varys himself could only raise an eyebrow.

‘Accusing Pycelle? Even implicitly. She’s either sure she’s safe to do so or that the old man can’t strike back.’ Thinking to himself, an inkling of an idea began to form. ‘I wonder if she’s in bed with the Lannisters? Stranger things have happened.’

“Y-your grace. I have n-no idea wha-”

Pycelle played the old doddering fool, Varys approved of the man’s commitment if not his lack of imagination, and the herald failed to restore silence. Ophelia, the bastard witch, simply stood there, utterly impassive as the king leapt to his feet.

“SHUT UP! All of you!”

Red in the face again, he roared out, a voice that had dominated battlefields cutting through this one like a knife. Robert was, if nothing else, a most excellent warhammer.

“Pycelle, did you poison Jon Arryn?”

“Such a t-thought terrifies me your grace! To do s-s-such a thing-”

“Pycelle.” Robert snapped. “Yes or no. One word.”

Bowing, the old man seemed weak, almost to the point of collapsing.

“No, your grace.”

And rallied just in time to deliver a final, slightly firmer rejection. His energy seemingly deserting him just after. Truly, Pycelle should have been a mummer.

“If you’d please present the three bottles I’ve sold you, I’d be more than happy to confirm the quantity used and that they are, in fact, my particular medicine.”

‘So that’s her play.’ Varys actually knew the answer to this little game. So, after Robert overrode the stuttering Maester again, the man’s medicine cabinet was ordered to be searched. Pycelle produced the key, even after protesting that this was totally unneeded and he’d happily supply the bottles himself, Selmy departed.

And, just as expected, the kingsguard returned empty handed and whispered something in the king’s ear. Strolling forward, slippers slightly scraping against the stone, he soon joined the veteran knight.

“Your grace.” His words were low and, ignoring the flicker of distaste on the man’s face, Varys bowed slightly. “I have conferred with my little birds and, unfortunately, must report that the Grand Maester seems to have, indeed, been burgled. Two unidentified young women were seen leaving his chambers with a satchel of some kind. I have descriptions, but no idea who they are or what they were doing.”

That was a half lie, of course. One of them was a whore of Baelish’s, coming to attend to Pycelle with their usual… toys the very previous night. Varys knew that explicitly. However, the other was actually an unknown. Perhaps one of Littlefinger’s operatives or simply a whore skilled in stealing from clients. Either way, that, he suspected, was the source of their current courtly debate.

“What good is a Master of Whispers if you can’t even whisper to me the names of my enemies?” Robert rubbed his face and called for the herald to silence the crowd again. Thankfully, this time, it worked. Varys stepped back and to the side and let the king climb to his feet. “All right. This trial is to decide the guilt of Ophelia Sand, daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell, not investigate the murder of the man who fostered me.” Amusingly, the king was actually acting somewhat kingly for the first time in his life. “No evidence has been brought forward that she held ill will towards the man, nor that she wielded the weapon that ended his life, nor that she even had the ability or means to do so. Does anyone have any proof of anything? No? Then I declare her innocent and end this trial. Court is over for the day.”

And that was that.

People were ushered out of the throne room, with only a handful remaining. Those included the Dornish contingent, the small council, such as they were, the kingsguard, and the king himself.

Pycelle, however, was doing his best to complain without seeming to actually complain.

“Your grace, this violation of my quarters is a most terrible breach of palace security. I must see what was taken at once!”

Selmy actually snorted at that.

“It’s more that there wasn’t anything not taken. I opened the secured drawers and the whole thing was, more or less, empty.”

That got a rather dramatic reaction from the Grand Maester.

“Y-your grace… the contents of my private c-collection are invaluable. Even more, s-some are truly deadly!” He was truly laying it on thick. “A-a search must be started at once, I-I-I-I.”

“Pycelle. Stop.” Robert glared at the man, silencing, before standing up. “See a search had. Get the description from Varys. If they’re caught, they’re caught. I imagine we’re running in circles, held by the nose. Ophelia, witch girl, is the cure for my bleeding hangover ready yet?”

That, on the other hand, was concerning.

Varys still held his doubts whether the girl was a true user of magic, at least in the sense of a full shadowbinder or warlock, but the idea that the king might be willingly taking her drugs would represent a far greater threat to the realms than the death of Jon Arryn could possibly be.

And if that turned out to be the case… well….

She wouldn’t be the first of her family to perish within the walls of the Red Keep.

But the very first thing he’d need to do would be to relocate. Clearly the inside of the castle was compromised in total and not even his precautions would be enough to protect against the sheer number of spies and informants. Not if the southern kingdoms were already sending their envoys to court factions such as the Alchemist’s Guild - blessedly the wisdoms were just as greedy as they had always been. And not if Dorne was already gaining sway over the king so swiftly.

---

Oberyn​

---

Squeezing Obara’s shoulder, the Prince of Dorne waited until his daughter fully relaxed.

“Peace my child, we have won.”

She still glared at him.

“You heard what they called us. The daughters of whores and a whoremonger. Savages from the desert. They have neither respect nor fear of us.”

He dipped his head.

“Perhaps. But they have not learned of us yet.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Your sister has uncovered another crime, this one far more recent, already. It is a matter of time until you are knighted, Tyene is made queen, and Sarella Arch Maester.” Chuckling, he stroked his small beard. “No, feel peace, my child. We will have our revenge by proving them wrong.”

Still not completely ameliorated, she complied when he gave her a half hug, blushing slightly at the warmness of his embrace. And by the time they rejoined the rest of their party, the other girls teasing Ophelia, the eldest sister was stoic once again.

“But I had this whole clever plan! It was going to be so simple. All I needed was to get my hands on those tears and a few mosquitoes. Even this far along, I’d have been able to find some traces of the paralytic in his system and then-”

“Do something clever and make the rest of us look like pretty trophies.” Sarella poked her pouting sister in the rips. “Relax little sister. We have two weeks until the king is ready to leave-” She glanced at him and Oberyn nodded. “So you can impress everyone by solving the terrible smell in the air and building the Mad King’s marble city.”

Ophelia colored.

“I’m not that bad.”

Her sisters, however, smelled blood in the water and pounced on the first sign of weakness.

“Yes, of course. Because you did not oversee the creation of a silkworm plantation.”

“Or established the herbal garden.”

“Or opened that small farm just because you wanted to experiment with new food stuffs.”

The Viper couldn’t help but laugh as they ganged up on the most clever of them all. Eager to tease her for getting everything she wanted from him or Doran when it came to her marvelous inventions and experiments. He was pitifully weak when it came to the Witch’s deadly puffed cheeks and tearful gaze.

Had been since she was a toddler.

“Peace, my loves. We are all looking forward to your sister matching wits against the court, but let us solve one problem at a time. The trial is over, Robert’s word is law. But there is still more to do?”

“What comes next, Father? To find the culprit?” Tyene, of course was amongst those more eager to sink her fangs into their next prey.

A real chip off the old block.

“That will come later, my dear. Unfortunately I have a few errands to run today so we won’t have the time to plot and scheme our way to the throne. Instead I want you to take this opportunity to mingle and explore. See the sites, find interesting things. We should not let our enemies dictate our moves for us.”

Going unspoken, of course, was the fact that he didn’t want them to produce any bodies that couldn’t be hidden or do something silly like get caught leading fools around by the nose. His primary concern was that Tyene would end up starting some kind of suicide cult out of boredom. Because she had done that once. And he didn’t care enough about the nobles of the court to try and stop her if she did it again.

“So! Plan. Ophelia, you’re going with Ser Barristan and a few of the king’s men to scour the city, yes?”

She nodded.

“Yes Father. I don’t think it’ll take too long, since there are a few obvious spots, and I won’t need to actually help with the moving of things. But it should be most, if not all, of the day. Maybe some tomorrow too if we need it.”

“Good. And walk. You need to toughen up.”

Obara poked her sibling in the ribs, getting an annoyed giggle as she was tickled.

“Let me get a knife and two bugs and we’ll see who the more skilled is!”

“Ah, that assumes I’m foolish enough to face you when you’re actually being serious!”

And just like that, they were already practically sparring. In fact, if Ophelia wasn’t already committed, he had a feeling his eldest would have had her running through spear and knife drills again. It was always wise to practice. Plus, in a place like this, not being able to protect yourself was tantamount to suicide.

‘I miss you Elia.’

He had dreamed of her last night. Her screams, her children’s screams. In fact, he almost attacked the Hound, Prince Joffery’s sworn sword, with a bread knife when he realized who the man was. But that was that. And this was this.

“Father.” Elia had taken his head. “Thinking about Aunt Elia?”

Oberyn squeezed his daughter’s hand.

“I was thinking about how I would smash open the iron pup the princeling has following him around.” She giggled and his work was done. “Now, who is doing what?”

“Well, I was thinking I could see the Arch Maester. He played the idiot old man to a hilt, but someone like him wouldn’t have had that position for so long if he wasn’t smart. I was going to see if I could get him to slip up.”

Sarella smirked.

“Plus it would give me a chance to raid the castle library.”

Nodding, the Red Viper chuckled.

“Make sure to bring a knife.”

Reaching into her boot and into her pocket she pulled out two.

“That’s my girl.”

Tyene answered next.

“Well, there are so many pretty flowers here. I was thinking of… plucking a few.”

‘Crap.’

Tentatively, he nodded.

“So long as you don’t get caught… please, daughter. I do not wish to start a war with this entire city while we’re still inside of it.”

She just giggled and gave him a smile so full of innocence he knew he was going to be in trouble.

“Elia is staying with Ophelia, mostly so she can ride some of the king’s horses.” The youngest simply shrugged. “And I guess I’ll remain with you Father.”

Turning to Obara, he tried for a charming smile.

“Not feeling up to looking after Tyene?”

It took ten seconds for her to stop laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Eventually, after catching an awful hiccup, she managed to croak out one word.

“No.”

‘Well, I tried.’

Half an hour later he was on the docks, the butt of his spear, used as a walking stick, clacking against the stone flagons, searching for a particular banner he knew to search for amongst the various trade ships. Eventually, spotting the flag in question, that being a yellow spider on a blue field, he boarded with a cheery shout to his countrymen.

“Captain, might I come aboard, I was hoping for news of home?”

Bowing low over the side of his ship’s gunwale, the Dornishman’s long beard almost scraped across the wooden planks between them.

“Of course my prince. I know all too well how only a few weeks can be long enough to make a man homesick.”

All too soon he was below decks with the old man and his truly, utterly spectacular beard, It was a magnificent thing that was longer than he was tall! But that was besides the point. Once they reached his quarters, the captain in question pulled out a thick stack of letters and handed them over to him.

“My prince, orders from your brother. The plan is afoot and you are to secure the final group of reinforcements. As to the news, my cousin, Ricasso, says that the Prince is rationing your daughter’s medicine but mostly doing well. He is even able to walk a little.”

That soothed him, almost as much as when Obara came down behind them, someone else’s blood on her tunic. He asked the obvious questions with his eyes.

“A beggar that wasn’t really a beggar. He talked before the end. Sold information to everyone that would buy, actually lived pretty well. There’s a pouch of silver we’ll want to find later.”

“Good girl. Now, when do you sail?”

Having turned back to the captain, the three people stuffed into his cabin, he shrugged.

“After you do my lord. We’re moving our cargo well enough but it will still be another two, perhaps three weeks before we’ve secured our return cargo. In the end, I do need to turn a profit, even with your family’s generous donations.”

Frowning, he checked the seals of the letters, running his finger along the envelopes to feel for tearing or deformations.

“And I assume a hefty pouch of silver would greatly aid in that endeavor.”

Sparkling with greed, the merchant nodded.

“Aye my prince, it would indeed.”

“Good. Then consider your loyalty bought for another day captain. I’ll have letters and the coin for you soon enough. As to the stick to go with this particular carrot, well, I have little doubt a sailor as experienced as yourself has a wonderful imagination.”

His eyes were dead. His voice was flat. There was nothing in his expression to show even a hint of humanity. The viper’s eyes held neither pity nor remorse. And he was the Red Viper.

Swallowing, the captain nodded.

“Excellent!” And just like that, he was jovial again, smiling as he spoke. “All this unpleasantness is just a bore. As to your profit margins, I have little doubt that you’ll forget this little bonus and ensure that my brother rewards you most suitably for your service.”

Recovered, the man toasted Doran, Oberyn, and House Martell. However, he didn’t think to pour Obara a drink as well until prompted and that, unfortunately, made up the prince’s mind. Back out on the streets, letting the press and roar of the city cover his words, his voice reached only his daughter’s ear.

“Remind me to warn Doran to kill that man. Greed has its uses, but one so greedy as him is a liability should he think he could make more coin elsewhere. Also, he was rude to you.”

“Of course Father.” Obara didn’t breen, but she was gods damned close to it at that moment. “And I think the turn off should just be over here. Hopefully the idiot was speaking truthfully when he tried to ransom himself.”

“Oh? Did you give your word to spare him for his coin?”

She smirked.

“Not at all father. He offered when I nicked him and it started going black.”

“Hah! What did you use?’

Her smirk turned vicious.

“Ash dust. He was panicked and didn’t pay attention. After all, why would I waste good poison on vermin?”

That got her an approving smile and a ruffle of her hair.

“I take it he’s at the bottom of the harbor?”

“Snapped his neck and filled his clothes with rocks, aye.”

“Well done indeed! Yes. I do think we’ll need to celebrate your little victory if it goes so well again.” Frowning slightly, he finished the thought. “But it’s going too well. When is something going to go horrifically wrong and make us regret ever leaving our homeland.”

“When it does, Father.” Obara shrugged, tone matter of fact even as her grin was vicious. “We will simply need to be ready and do what we do best. Fuck every person who looks to harm us before they know we’re there.”

Chuckling, the man couldn’t help but wonder how he’d gotten so many wise, wonderful daughters and decided that it was simply the Gods’ will. Yes. He quite liked that thought.

Blessedly, acquiring the coin had been simple enough, a flash of castle steel and the crack of Obara’s whip being enough to send their obstacles scattering. And, indeed, the pouch, a grimy linen sack that had been smeared with something truly awful, pungent even in the stink of the city, was opened with a stick. Inside was a mound of silver and copper coins with a few golden dragons as well. A fortune by the standards of the city and enough that Oberyn knew they’d be stepping on some toes by taking it.

‘But money promised is money owed. Best to pay this debt now than let it fester.’

Soon enough, money in a clean sack, they were returning to the castle when they were approached by a small party of alchemists. Apprentices, one and all, and some of them very large men, approached as quickly and discretely as some of their number could. However, it was their leader, a young man with a particularly bad burn travelling across his mouth, that caught the Viper’s eye. There was a look of hope and almost desperation in the lad’s gaze.

“My prince.” Their leader croaked. “The Wisdoms would beg your audience. And, if you’d have us, we’re to be your guides while you and your daughters are in the city.” He bowed his head. “If it pleases my lord.”

Thinking for a second, and then deciding it would actually be hilarious if this was an assasination attempt, he jerked his head.

“My dear, take the rest of these strapping young lads back to the castle. Introduce them to the guards and your sisters, if you would?”

Nodding, she gave them a once over.

“Right away Father. Stay safe.”

Her words meant far more than was said. Promising that, if he wasn’t home by the next dawn, they would come and find him even if Ophelia had to scour the entire city again. He gave her a smile and turned to his particular guide, fingers tapping against the haft of the spear in a particular pattern, letting her know he was actually fully armed. Poisons included.

“Lead the way my boy. Let’s see what the Alchemists have decided!”

Reaching the guildhouse in question was a rather quick affair. In fact, he found it moderately telling when the streets around it were actually clear. He actually felt a tingle of excitement when he noticed that a few of the apprentices were carrying weapons. Disappointingly, upon arriving in the Wisdom’s meeting room, he wasn’t facing a dozen crazed cultists throwing wildfire around like madmen.

Instead, it was a servant trying to scrub brain matter out of a table and four old men sitting at a table.

“My prince. It’s good to see you.” They looked tired, exhausted even, and Hallyne had an ugly gash on his shoulder currently being tended to. “We would rise, but must beg your pardon instead.”

“I think I can guess at what happened, so I quite understand.” He took an offered seat and, flicking a piece of skull off of the large, square table in front of him, turned to the other men. “Did you win?”

“Aye.” One of the others there grinned, teeth glinting dully in the candle light. “The traitors and worms in our organization burned. Only those that truly seek the Truth will be allowed to call themselves Alchemist.”

‘Ah. A fanatic. How delightful.’

Seeing Oberyn’s passivity, Hallyne took the lead.

“That is my teacher, Wisdom Pollitor. These are Wisdoms Muncifer and Malliard. I am now the elected Grand Master of our guild and this is my council. As you can surmise, we had… an altercation.”

“So long as you won, I don’t mind. A pity you didn’t call me to join your little, ah, dance.”

Almost growling, Malliard replied to his little joke.

“Those who took gold in exchange for our secrets are dead now. And we sit here, debating whether to sell ourselves to a prince for a promise. Are you the promised prince, my lord, will you be the one saving us?”

“Hardly.” He waved his hand dismissively. “That’s my brother’s duty. As for saving you, no, we want to hire you.” Pulling out a signet ring from a pouch attached to the front of his armor he partly reclined in the, thankfully very sturdy, chair. “He wants to hire you to found a chapter in Sunspear and burn his enemies for him. In exchange, he offers gold, protection, and all the learned men you can cajole into joining your cause.” Grinning, he pushed the ring forward, soon joined by a slightly blood spattered letter. “A signet ring, a sealed letter, and a Lord Paramount’s brother. All it requires is for you to tell me what happened before I arrived, no?”

Muncifer spoke up this time.

“My prince, I can actually explain that best. As with every organization in King’s Landing, there were spies amongst us.” He nodded his understanding. “We kept an eye on them and tolerated them so long as they didn’t sell anything too important or tamper with the wildfire.”

“I can imagine a pyromancer’s response if they did.”

Malliard gave a dark chuckle, but the speaking man simply smiled and continued.

“Indeed. Still, we thought it prudent to ensure that your letter would remain secret for a few days at least. When we moved to secure the most egregious of these individuals, they fought back. And then so did more. And more. And more. I think wholly a third of our number lies dead but, if nothing else, only the most even tempered of the remaining infiltrators remain.”

“A man’s worth is determined by the quality and quantity of his enemies, indeed.” He inclined his head. “So we have, what, three days before everyone who is anyone suspects our little plan?”

Hallyne’s next comment told him all he needed to know.

“Should we be so lucky, my prince.”