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

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One Who is Many - Chapter 1​

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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.

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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.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

---

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.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

---

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!"

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

---

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.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

---

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."

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

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Chapter 6 - Cities in Dust​

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Ophelia​

---

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

The river had been the worst area for that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps. More astonishing things have happ-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia did what any sister would do.

And opted for embarrassing her further.

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

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

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

"I was seven!"

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

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

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

Her actually frowned at that.

"With all due respect my lady…."

She inclined her head.

"I know."

This time it was he who nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop."

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

"My lady?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia snorted.

"Atta girl."

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

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

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

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

"Aye."

"And there was meaning to it."

Smiling, her lips quirked upwards slightly.

"Indeed."

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

Tilting her head from side to side she agreed.

"Perhaps."

Elia's eyes narrowed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia sniffed in faux hurt.

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

Elia wasn't amused.

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

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

This time Elia was the one who smiled mischievously.

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

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

She was not gonna suffer through another cheeky minx!

This Ophelia swore!

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

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

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

Making a face, the younger girl eventually just shrugged.

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

Eye twitching, the older sibling just sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Thank you." She blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you move that?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes ma'am."

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

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

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

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

---

Joffrey​

---

Be on your best behavior.

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

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

It was all frustrating.

Annoying.

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

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

'They ought to rename it House Sand.'

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

Father was right to think the Dornish savages.

And then, of course, there was the Witch.

The talk of the Red Keep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother's look kept his mouth closed, however.

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

Oh, Mother was speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fake septa sighed despondently.

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

Smirking, the young prince was… enthused.

He'd heard the story from Mother.

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

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

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

He didn't like it.

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

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

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

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

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

Were all the bastards of that Dornish lord like this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this your card?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps. But its a remarkable skill nonetheless."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Cersei​

---

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

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

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

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

Cersei was surprised.

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

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

The crown owed the girl a debt.

Yet Cersei would decide how to pay that debt.

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

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

Yet, the more sheedlearnt the greater her vexation.

Nothing useful. No chink on the armor to prod.

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

And of course, there was the Witch.

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

She wasn't blind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It came out without her realizing it.

"Your father…."

Tyene chuckled, blushing demurely.

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

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

She knew that look.

Knew that tone.

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

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

The girl smirked.

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

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

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

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

It helped.

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

"My queen?"

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

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

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

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

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

'Am I going mad?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cersei considered having her killed.

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

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

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

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

---

Ophelia​

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unwilling to trust.

Afraid of their love.

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

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

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

Unwanted.

Unloved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, but a married noblewoman is?"

The Prince offered a sheepish smile.

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

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

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

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

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

"You Martels certainly seem fond of surprises."

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

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

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

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

That was how superstition started.

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

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

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

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

Small, imperceptible.

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

Something like a trial, perhaps?

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

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

"And do they whisper to you?"

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

"Everything and nothing."

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

"They are slow to learn, it seems."

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

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

Marwyn gave her a small look at that.

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

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

"Good. Good. Now, wine."

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

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

"But?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow.

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

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

"How ominous master mage. But I shall."

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

Speaking of work.

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

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

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

And immediately downed a large swig of wine.

Well now, that was telling.

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

Sarella took a second swing.

"I think she roofied the Queen."

Ophelia's palm met her forehead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She roofied the queen?"

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

"Does that mean we need to be worried?"

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

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

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

"She's a very pretty girl."

"Aye." He nodded.

"And teenagers are lustful creatures."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yup, nothing there! Flat too!"

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

"Says the dwarf."

Pouting, the girl looked up at her sister.

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

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

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

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

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

"Any word from uncle?"

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

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

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

Clever girl.

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

'Brian was much more handsome.'

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

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

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

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

This was her vacation, gods dammit, she was going to be happy.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

---

Chapter 7 - Swords to the Sky​

---

Sarella​

---

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

Vindication.

Superiority in her knowledge.

Good old smugness.

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

She relished that look of defeated acceptance.

Relished it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She kissed me!"

"Ah, so you admit to your sin."

Tyene's innocent smile became downright angelic.

A vision of virtue and purity.

The facade worn by a dangerous… terrifying beast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say Ophelia."

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

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

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

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

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

Sarella wondered how Ophelia did it.

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

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

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

And then along came dear Ophelia.

Someone Tyene didn't look at as an inferior.

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

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

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

"Speaking of, why are we gathered here?"

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

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

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

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

Ophelia actually frowned.

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

Head inclined, the blonde at least took her lumps.

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

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

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

A Lannister with common sense.

Would wonders ever cease?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frowning, Tyene shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia threw a pillow at her.

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

---

Oberyn​

---

Oberyn resented the need to travel north at first.

How could he not?

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

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

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

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

Oberyn almost felt like letting bygones be bygones this time.

Almost.

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

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

In fact they got along famously.

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

No matter what… Oberyn wouldn't forgive.

He wouldn't forget.

But he could play along.

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

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

Such were the challenges of parenting.

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

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

"Fuck you and your House, Selmy!"

He sipped from his flask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh if only Ellaria were here.

But unfortunately it wasn't to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he looked at her.

And was forced to look up.

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

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

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

But now? Well, he was definitely interested.

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

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

Unfortunately that didn't have the effect he hoped.

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

Oh, he liked some fire~

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

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

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

"And what are you doing here?"

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

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

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

"I apologize for striking you Ser."

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

"Waters, Ser."

Her response got a quirked brow from him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He found the comparison humorous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you are Ser…?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that there were three.

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

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

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

And just like that, the battle was complete.

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

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

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

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

---

Marwyn​

---

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

His declaration was met with stunned silence from his charge.

"To hide his… third nipple?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man practically roared with laughter when she pouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marwyn, as always, was guided by his curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snorting, the other old man crossed his arms.

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

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

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

Surprisingly, this drew a grin from the old man.

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia snorted.

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

The master smith.

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

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

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

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

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

---

Obara​

---

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

A warrior first, a schemer second.

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

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

Not at all.

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

Up to and including the Kingsguard.

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

Standards had dropped and sunk through the mud.

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

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

A human in need of exercise.

By the gods had she slacked off on that front.

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

The King joining had been a unexpected surprise.

But a welcome one.

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

Undoubtedly, a bored Oberyn was a dangerous Oberyn.

In more ways than one.

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

He'd done it before.

Five times, in fact.

"Lord Dondarrion, hail and well met!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wondered what uncle Doran was thinking, sometimes.

Of course, she understood what the plan was.

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

Acknowledgement.

For Dorne this matter was much more personal.

It was their revenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fake septa giggled prettily.

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

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

This earned her a sour look from her younger sister.

"Stiff."

Obara rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'That was different.' Obara wanted to say.

That was Ophelia.

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

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

She was an opportunity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blonde giggled, skipping ahead slightly.

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

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

"Lannisters!"

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

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

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

---

Ophelia​

---

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

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

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

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

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

He simply rumbled again.

"Do I need to make you move?"

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

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

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

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

"Rrrrrroooooowwwww."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Blood and Fire, my child."

And just like that, they were gone.

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

"Rrrrrooooowwwww."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the words meant.

What the images meant.

What the animal's survival meant.

So she sat and thought, fingers sliding through fur without another thought.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

---

Chapter 8 - The Immigrant Song​

---

Cersei Lannister​

---

Cersei poured the two cups of tea herself.

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

"Your grace?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shaking her head, the much younger woman was calm.

"Would you pour me another cup of tea?"

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

A grunt and the flame disappeared.

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

Fear was the first thing she felt.

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

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

Ophelia smiled at her.

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

"But I have heard your father is-"

"He gave himself a bigger penis."

Cersei blinked.

"What?"

Snorting in laughter, the witch shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inclining her head, Ophelia played along well enough.

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carefree as only siblings could be.

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

It wasn't the same.

Not quite.

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

The queen chortled.

Magic and sword, huh?

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

Everything was better than playing the damsel in distress.

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

Smiling, if a bit ruefully, her guest acquiesced.

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

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

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

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

Or at least snapped her out of her Summer thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was that. The queen wanted to groan.

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

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

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

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

---

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger)​

---

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

He was being truthful.

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

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

It was a silly dream.

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

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

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

He liked the sound of that.

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

His guest remained quiet.

How droll.

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

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

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

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

He took another sip. The taste was divine.

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

Deniability was important these days.

One could never be too prepared for a trial.

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

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

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

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

All the power to him.

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

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

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

And there was so much yet to do.

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

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

Ophelia Sand.

The Witch of Dorne.

The Shadow of Sunspear.

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

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

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

The weaker him.

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

And then choked him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia Sand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marwyn had the most understandable of all reactions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Greater. Deeper. More.

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

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

She was filled up… and hollowed out.

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

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

In truth, this kind of spell craft was easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snorting.

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

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

The king was just fat.

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

This time she frowned.

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

Robert's response was to snort in laughter.

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

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

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

Aster, she regretted.

Aster, she accepted.

Aster, she would remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ophelia still felt like Just Taylor in that moment.

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

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

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

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

---

Renly Baratheon​

---

Renly was born to rule.

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

He had the charisma, the connections, the gold.

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

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

Destined!

But there had been… complications.

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

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

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

And then… came the news about Dorne.

More complications for his grand plan.

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

What did they have to offer?

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

The answer, as it turned out, was magic.

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

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

Renly disapproved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Renly's plan for the day was simple.

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

Small steps. He had appearances to keep.

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

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

What in the name of the Seven….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One small weight, King Robert."

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

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

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

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

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

"I apologize, your grace." The prince managed a, somehow elegant, seated bow. "You may command me, but I am afraid I have never been able to command my children."

Snorting, the Lord of Storm's End wanted to make a rude comment. However, he had enough tact to know that doing so in front of his brother would avail him nothing. Instead he was treated to the sight of the Kingsguard, Westeros' greatest and foremost knights, having to clean up and make his brother presentable. They also let him sleep for about two hours before doing anything other than getting a clean set of clothes laid out.

Though the sight of Ser Merryn Trent being doused with some of the King's… backdraft was hilarious.

The two drunkards made merry, threatened to kill each other a few times and downed some strange peculiar liquid from the Prince's flask before the group was finally able to leave the office and march in… somewhat orderly fashion, towards the throne room.

If the Seven were kind, perhaps his brother would go through the meeting without insulting any of the Tyrells.

"So which of them is the daughter? They all look the same to me."

'I… just jinxed myself, didn't I?' Renly should have known better at this point.

"It's easier to ask for names, your grace. It's what I do whenever I have to visit Highgarden."

Oberyn's response was tolerable. Tolerable enough Renly tipped his head to him. On the inside he was hoping his brother didn't do something that forced him to push his engagement to Margery ahead. Right now he was still negotiating with the Tyrells, without mentioning his brother's lack of a true born heir, and hoping to get by on Mace's love for his third born son and implying certain things to Olenna.

"The father's name is Mace, you should remember that well enough, he looks like you and enjoys the same things." Robert laughed, nodding along. "He's your Lord Paramount of the Reach after all. His mother is the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell. Try not to be left alone with her." At that Oberyn chipp in too.

"She's a lovely old woman. I've made love to cacti that were less prickly than her. It's hilarious when her tongue is pointed at someone else though."

Opening his mouth to defend Olenna, the youngest man there actually took a moment to think.

"Actually, Prince Oberyn summed it up rather wonderfully. Thankfully her grandchildren are much more pleasant." By now they had reached the great hall and, with food and water in him, Robert was moderately more attentive. It helped that whatever witch's brew they'd downed made both his brother and the prince somewhat immune to any ill consequences of their drinking. "Loras is the youngest, he's actually rode out to meet them, and was my squire, you remember?" Robert jerked his head and gestured for his brother to continue. "Garlan couldn't come, but he's the second son, and Willas, Mace's firstborn and heir, is arriving with his bride Arianne Martel. Margery Tyrell, the daughter of Mace, is also with them."

Robert rubbed his beard a bit, shaking his head.

"Aren't you courting that girl? Margery? Hmm. You should marry her too, after I get back from the North. I'll make Ned organize it and everything."

Snorting, Renly shook his head.

"I can organize my own wedding Robert, thank you."

"Nonsense!" The king barked. "I'm the one who has to plant his fat ass on a pointy chair, the least I can do is help my brother marry a girl he likes. Though, I actually thought yo-." Snapping his mouth shut, the king coughed and ate a piece of ham before continuing. "Anyways, you're my little brother, so let me help you damn it. Also, Oberyn, didn't you cripple the boy Willas?"

Frowning, the prince actually looked genuinely frustrated.

"Aye. We… jousted. My pride ensured that I treated a young knight as if he was a veteran. His leg ended up trapped in a stirrup and Willas was pulled along the ground by it." Somewhat brooding, the prince shook his head. "A waste too. Even when I heard his leg snap, the boy didn't cry out. Since then we've exchanged letters and he's very knowledgeable about horses and hawks. I do somewhat wish I had been too drunk to fight in that particular tourney."

Actually feeling a moment of empathy, Renly nodded.

"Aye, the prince speaks true. But Willas also breeds the finest of hounds and has taught an eagle to act as loyal as a dog. The man is… a bit boring, if I am to be honest, and a bit overly pious in other ways and not at all disposed to the kinds of fun most young men of class enjoy. But he is a good man. So Robert, I beg you, treat them well."

That actually got an offended huff out of the man.

"Seven above man, they're going to be family soon! I'm not going to treat them like Dragon Spawn just because they sided with the damned Targaryens, Hell, I spend more time with Obara than I do my wife and I… well… Oberyn hasn't killed me yet. The important thing is that you care for the girl enough to wed her, I'll treat them right." He reached over and clapped Renly on the shoulder with one hand and Oberyn with the other. "So let's go get ready to receive them. I'm mostly sober, Oberyn's stone cold sober, and you don't drink enough as is Renly. So let's go meet them and I'll take us all out for a night on the town!"

Half an hour later, as the Tyrell procession rode into town, the young Lord of Storm's End was still unsure whether he should be thankful or utterly terrified. Moreover, he wondered if Vary's advice would hold true and if he'd be able to reach Baelish in time.

At least when Loras rode ahead, in silver mail with a green shield painted with three golden roses all to announce the arrival of his family, the rather stressed young man was able to finally relax.

It was always good to see his one, true love.

---

Nymeria Sand​

---

​

"This place smells like shit."

Nymeria Sand, second of her father's daughters, tried to behave in a way befitting a woman of her standing. With the noble blood of Westeros and Essos alike coursing through her veins, she was as much a Lady as any of the droll waifs at court could ever hope to be.

Unfortunately, even her practiced patience could be tried. And King's Landing was proving to be quite a challenge.

Not because of its intricate web of lies and schemes.

Not because of some overly complicated plan to lead her to ruination.

No, the journey was such an ordeal because Nymeria had never been to King's Landing before, and thus was wholly unprepared for the offensive stench which assaulted her. The closest comparison she could find was the time she asked dear Ophelia to prepare a poison jar for her… personal usage.

Only for the dratted thing to break when she came to retrieve it.

They spent weeks living at the Water Gardens because of the unholy, definitely poisonous miasma which overtook the palace.

Sarella and Tyene still teased her about it!

"Why do you think I ordered all those damnable roses brought along?" Olenna Tyrell, mother to the current Lord Paramount, loudly grumped. "I have roses on my small clothes, roses in my food, and if I was a Lannister I'd probably find roses in my chamber pot too."

Margery, the woman's granddaughter, put her face in her hands.

"Nana, you can't talk like that! We're not in Highgarden anymore!"

Unfortunately, Nymeria had also spent the last three weeks in the close company of this particular woman. Meaning she still hadn't learned when to keep her mouth shut.

"Oh really? I thought you liked all the roses because watching them wilt reminded you of your own, slowly creeping decay."

Arianne reached over and swatted her arm.

"Cousin. Really?"

Winking at the still embarrassed Margery, the only bastard, but certainly not the biggest bitch, in the wheelhouse tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Well I haven't poisoned the Queen of Thorns." Turning to glare at the old woman in question, the Sand couldn't help but pull her teeth back. "Despite her slipping something into my food… twice. I feel that it's only fair to warn you that my other sisters won't be so diplomatic in responding to your little jokes."

"And I would have stopped drugging you if you would stop trying to seduce my granddaughter. I know you Dornish are known for being hot blooded, but it's almost like you want to start a war."

Sarella would have laughed it off and then plotted revenge.

Obara would have been annoyed but nothing would come of it.

Tyene… well… that didn't bear thinking of.

Elia wouldn't have been pranked to begin with.

As for Ophelia? She probably would have known ahead of time and sidestepped the entire joke like the know it all killjoy she could be.

Nymeria's response to the old woman's taunt was to simply smirk a bit more deeply before making eye contact with Margery. While she wouldn't actually do anything to a girl as young as the Tyrell child, it infuriated the Queen of Thorns to see her granddaughter blush and look away. Meaning it was a deeper kind of satisfaction than the poisoner had been able to extract in any other diplomatically acceptable way.

"Cousin, please stop. If I have to explain to your father why the Tyrells arrested you I'm rather sure your sisters will burn Highgarden to the ground." Arianne put a hand on her knee, squeezing intently enough to make it clear. "We're about to be around the men again and they expect us to like each other. Please? For me?"

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, the bastard huffed and sighed.

"Very well. I'll play nice. Mostly."

Snorting in derision, Olenna shook her head.

"You, my child, are a dirty old man in the body of a somewhat intelligent young woman."

Her fingers twitched. And Nymeria had to strangle the impulse to reach for one of her hidden knives. Instead, she opted for a pleasant smile. Something so fake it might as well have been glued to her face.

"I am my father's daughter, Lady Olenna. More so than any of my sisters."

Thinking of them, Nymeria couldn't help the flash of warm happiness that filled her. It had been some time since she last saw them. How were they doing, she wondered? Were they eating enough, staying out of trouble? Was Tyene planning one of her little schemes? Had Ophelia already turned the city upside down?

She wanted to see them.

Badly.

Didn't want to leave them to begin with. The Snakes were at their best when they worked together and she'd been missing them quite badly. Hopefully none of them had done something… unwise without her there to reign them in.

Well, them or father. It was a coin toss most days.

"Speaking of the man. You did send him a message sometime ago, didn't you." Nymeria already knew where this was going, having grown familiar with the Queen of Thorns's knowing stare and thin smile.

Like she had caught onto a secret.

"Very perceptive, Lady Olenna. Your vision is not so far gone that you failed to see in plain daylight."

"None of that cheek girl. I'm just curious about what you would have thought so interesting about your cousin's wedding that your father had to be told about."

"Father cares for his family. I was assuaging his worries." Not a lie, but she wasn't saying the whole truth either.

That was the game with Olenna Tyrell.

Whoever said something they didn't mean to, lost.

"Oh, I'm sure he does. Whatever… flaws the man might have, I do not doubt his commitment to family. It's an admirable quality to have. Surrounded by a dead sister, a crippled brother, and more daughters than he knows what to do with, the man must be quite concerned for his family. Spread as they are over the kingdoms."

If the threat was real, she would have cared. But by this point Nymeria simply chalked it up to one more little conversation to share with Tyene. And assuming Olenna was ever an obstacle….

'Well, those pleasant thoughts should be best saved for her funeral.'

Arianne, at this point, had tuned them both out. Instead she was speaking with Margery about Renly, her maybe fiance to be. Even then, the insult levelled at her father would have hardly offended her, considering she would be the one that would be controlling Highgarden the day she was married. Olenna would die soon, after all, and at her age a sudden downward turn in her condition would hardly be unusual. It was the least Nymeria could do for her cousin.

"I thank you my lady." She inclined her head. "We have made inroads with a great many allies. Dorne's period of isolation is finally ending and a point shall be made that the… missteps of the past will not be repeated. Westeros has seven kingdoms, after all, and not just three."

Any further comments would have to wait as the wheelhouse came to a stop, the sound of sudden movement and people dismounting echoing around them. A mild knock out the door forestalled any response.

"My ladies, we have arrived."

A servant opened the door when Olenna wrapped back with her cane and the ladies within made to step out. Willas, with his own cane and sweating a bit, held out his hand for his bride to be. Arianne, a pleasant flush on her cheeks, took the kind man's hand and made her way down a short set of steps used to dismount. Next, Loras arrived, offering a gallant, armor clad hand to his sister. Margery, half tempted to throw her arms around her sibling's neck, Nymeria knew from the way the girl's eyes sparkled in delight, took the hand and gracefully stepped out too.

Next came the great, blustering Mace Tyrell. A pleasant red flush was on his cheeks and the jolly idiot actually offered his hand to Nymeria first, even opening his mouth to invite her to dismount. Olenna, of course, discreetly rapped his shin with her cane causing the man to wince.

"You dunderhead, I may be old but she's not so pretty you'd help a bastard before your own mother, is she?" Nymeria knew the actual importance of the whole situation, specifically because she was an attractive bastard. Helping her down first would lead to, at best, rumors. And Olenna was nothing if not keenly aware of the power of such things.

However, surprisingly, he persisted.

"Come now mother. The prince wants to be the one to help you down."

Smiling, she did genuinely enjoy the man's company as odd as he could be, Nymeria shook her head.

"Thank you my Lord. But help your Lady mother first, it is only polite."

"Of course, of course." He bowed his heads at her words and shuffled slightly so that, when Olenna descended the steps, both Mace Tyrell and her slightly pouting father helped her down.

"My lovely rose, it is so good to see you again. Ah, if only I could steal a kiss." Oberyn was practically dancing in delight. "And you have been so good to bring my daughter back to me. Truly, you have a mother's heart."

What happened next was a flurry of introductions, the king himself was there with his brother and half the court, as names were exchanged, pleasantries layered until the air was thick, and, finally, Nymeria was able to slip away. Spying a trail of insects marching along the castle floor, she snorted and, thankful that she was a bastard and therefore not expected to be at court, immediately began following the bugs.

Coming to a side chamber, she was surprised when a blur struck her from the side.

"Nym, Nym, Nym!"

Elia had tackled her, leaping from a side alcove, and practically knocked her to the ground. Shifting slightly, she made sure none of her knives were poking into either of them and hugged the twelve year old back. Arms wrapped around her neck and her little sister was practically babbling away at her and, hugging her sibling back, the second born Sand Snake wanted to laugh when she noticed a loaf of bread and slab of butter, wrapped up of course, abandoned on the ground.

"Hey sweetling. How are you?" Running her fingers through Elia's hair, she cooed. "You've gotten taller on me haven't you! And even more beautiful than before." Pressing a kiss to her sister's head, Nymeria felt a certain tension within her release. "And you've gotten stronger too."

"Yup! Ser Barristan and Ser Jaimie have been teaching me and Ophelia and Obara and others! Oh, plus Sarella found a magic sword and Ophelia found a bunch of skulls and Obara helped dad fight some bad people and Tyene had a lot of fun playing with a bad man and she made friends with the queen and Myrcella and Tommen are super nice, but Joffrey wouldn't play with us much, though he's actually pretty good with a crossbow. Also, Ophelia said that if I don't have anything nice to say about someone I shouldn't say anything at all so I found something nice to say about him."

"Elia. Did you really tackle our sister." Both girls looked up, only to see a witch standing above them. "Hello Nymeria, it's good to see you."

Sitting up, she moved Elia off of her, only for both sisters to watch the girl scramble after her abandoned snack. Both older girls shared a giggle, Ophelia reaching down and helping her older sister to her feat. Embracing, this particular hug wasn't quite as excitable but no less heartfelt. Oddly enough, the older sister found herself actually looking up at the witch.

"No, I don't believe it, you've gotten taller again!"

Chuckling, the witch shook her head.

"Yeah and your tits are bigger than they were too."

"That's not my fault!" Pouting, Nymeria took Elia's hand as the girl came over and tugged on her sleeve. "The Tyrells have been feeding me like a pig. Mace, and I do have some thoughts on him to share, seems to think that now is the time to start acquiring grandchildren. He offered me my pick of his other two sons and tried to bribe me with food and dates with them!"

Opening the door to the side chamber, Ophelia led the group into what seemed like a now rather lived-in storage room. Large enough that it would have been more than capable of serving as a barracks, the slight hint of stale sweat hinting that it had once been used for just that, the Sand Snakes had taken over the area. Far enough to one side and actually in Maegor's Holdfast, it had wooden slat windows that faced out to the bay, doing wonders for coaxing a slightly salty breeze in from past the port, actually washing away both the odor of the city and the dock alike.

Within, the other Sand Snakes were doing what they did best.

Obara, in a loose shirt and trousers, was doing pull ups using a metal bar attached to the wall, dropping to her feet and picking up a towel when Nymeria walked in. A small smile and the visible relaxation of Oberyn's first born telling the slightly younger sister just how happy her one and only big sister was to see her.

Tyene was… mostly naked, half way through getting dressed and more than accidentally putting on a show in the direction her sisters had just come from.

"Don't worry about her. Tyene is just gonna go seduce the queen now." Elia giggled when she said this. "Ophelia even got a little jealous, though maybe 'cuz she likes the queen too."

Nymeria wanted to say something. Instead, when she turned to Sarella, she hoped the Summer Sister would tell her that Elia was just being a child. Instead, seemingly scribbling a map of many, many tunnels, she looked up, frowned, and shook her head.

"Ophelia's not that into the queen, she's just helping her visit her, uh, 'brother'. But yeah. Tyene roofied the queen and is spending a lot of time with her nowadays. She brought me along to distract the royal children. The younger two are absolute angels, even if Joffrey is as interested in Tyene's choice of dress as the queen is."

"Must you throw me under the horse, immediately, oh sweet sister of mine?"

The blonde gave a great heaving sigh, actually pulling on enough cloth to be considered covered - even if she'd never be called decent by anyone who knew her.

"Well, thank the Seven father didn't try to seduce the queen as some twisted form of revenge."

That got a bark of laughter from the eldest sibling.

"Father took a married woman and a knight from Dragonstone as his lovers. A lady knight with greater strength than a man grown." Mostly clean, she came over and hugged her sister, somewhat gingerly, and whispered lowly in her ear. "I am truly glad to have you back Nym."

Ophelia pulled Elia away, giving the eldest two time to speak, and while Nymeria was touched any plotting could wait. Giving Obara one last squeeze, she turned to the rest of the room.

"All of you, I'm glad to be back. The only thing that would be better was if we were all in Dorne with the youngest too. Still, other than courting absolute disaster, how have we done? Are Uncle's plans progressing well?"

Nodding, Sarella set aside the page she was working on.

"With Ophelia's help the Red Keep has been pretty much mapped out. She may have woken up a bunch of Targaryen ghosts too."

Seeing an opportunity for revenge, Tyene draped her arms around the scholar's shoulders, brushing her ear with her lips, and speaking too.

"But Sarella, my precious, beautiful little sister, why don't you tell dear Nymeria how you started a riot in Oldtown." Her arms wrapped a little tighter. "Besides, Obara is actually getting close to the king, they train together every morning, even go for runs together too. Ophelia just supplies him with very expensive potions at cutthroat rates. And sometimes listens to him brood about Lyanna. Honestly, we really should just remove the queen and marry Robert. He is, more or less, utterly in our hands at this point."

Nymeria gave her blonde sister "the look".

Blushing, she looked away, unable to make eye contact, and that's how Nymeria knew Tyene was actually being naughty. So she raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"And I've been playing my little games with the court. I've driven three people mad, one couple to lovers suicide, and managed to identify most of the would be spy masters at court."

"You've had less than two weeks." Her tone was a bit dumbstruck. "This isn't even Dorne!"

"Yes." The almost child-like innocence of Tyene shown through. "But they're very horny and exceptionally dramatic here."

That got a round of laughter, though by this point everyone had gathered at one of the beds, Elia in particular handing out warm, soft slices of heavily buttered bread. Eventually, after plenty of gossip and stories being swapped, there was a knock at the door, and a servant informed them that the queen was occupied with the current Tyrell guests.

Tyene smiled and demurred and sent the blushing maid on her way before, turning back to the group. Nymeria, however, knew that what was coming would probably get them in trouble.

"Say, why not take this opportunity to… rekindle our sisterly bonds?"

And there it was.

"Tyene, now is really not the time for one of your games."

Her younger sister pouted, though it looked exaggerated with hurt at the accusation.

"Nothing of the sort, dear sister. I only suggest we take some time to bathe properly. To commemorate our reunion. I'm sure we have more than enough time to… catch up."

Ophelia frowned.

"She's… not actually wrong. Obara needs to get clean and so do you. Father mentioned earlier that we're having a meal with the royals." Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "Did you spike the bathwater with anything?"

The blonde just smirked at her sister's accusation.

Nymeria simply sighed and kept hugging Elia.

It felt good to be with her family again. That didn't mean she wouldn't be raking them over the coals later, though.

---

Obara Sand​

---

Looking over the manifest, Obara confirmed that, indeed, the last of the Alchemists Guild's key supplies were present. In fact, as she looked inside one particular satchel, she actually noticed the ingredients looked like the same stuff her sister used when making her hangover cure. Maybe. Probably. The man at arms with her probably knew about as much when it came to herbs as she did.

"Is everything in order, Lady Sand?"

Wisdom Hallyne, an old man with a white beard and a cap tied over his head, shuffled over to stand next to the cart Obara had been inspecting. She grunted, nodding.

"For now. Are the sellswords behaving?"

At this the man looked at her like she was a bit slow. Narrowing her eyes, the first born daughter of the Red Viper made it clear what she thought about his opinion. Raising his hands, the old man bowed.

"I meant no disrespect. But they are acting as such men do. However, we have taken great care with the last of the apprentices we recruited. Your family's treasures and our own secrets will remain as such. At the least, Jalabhar Xho seems to have them well enough in hand."

Obara smiled wryly.

Yes, the foreign prince seemed to be quite taken with their business offer, and had taken something of a leading role amongst the sellswords, only to keep them focused on what they stood to gain from behaving and working alongside them.

Eager to finally leave King's Landing behind, the exiled southerner had also expressed great… undisguised… interest in their adventurous sister. Even going so far as making ludicrous promises of making Sarella into a princess.

He was certainly a character.

All in all, things were coming along nicely.

Oh there were some hiccups. Unfortunate circumstances that they couldn't have prepared for. Tyene's… involvement with the Queen being one of them. And her own father nearly starting a war because of his rather understandable vice of wrath. In fact, Nymeria had spent nearly ten minutes chewing the man out for not being more discreet with his open hatred of the now "missing" man, even if that was probably working out her nerves over Tyene continuously teasing her.

'I suppose I'd be annoyed too if I had to leave my twin lovers behind. Nymeria always was spoiled.'

Ophelia was also, as always, unpredictable. Though she'd made quite a few discoveries and retrievals since their arrival. The wildfire traps all over the city proved beneficial, even if they did slow down the witch for a few days, and on the whole King's Landing had received alms twice more, her reputation was firmly established here, and there was that other little tidbit shared during the bath.

'The girl needs to tell us when her powers change like that. Covering the whole of the Red Keep after feeding a bunch of dead, mad Targaryens? Well. Perhaps that's a, what did Sarella say, oxymoron? Yes.'

"Perhaps. But you will be secure, yes?" Her words were chosen carefully. She would not risk them being misunderstood. "I could always speak with Father. A few Dornishmen to escort you might help avoid any misunderstandings."

Barking a laugh, the old man shook his head.

"Misunderstanding? Who could possibly misunderstand a thousand strong host of sellswords marching along with a hundred wagon chain of alchemists, all bound for the heart of Dorne." Shaking his head and muttering, Obara was actually a bit amused by his response. "Kids these days." Speaking up, Hallyne continued after the bastard jerked her head at the man accompanying her, instructing him to remain a discrete distance away. "Yes, that would be most wonderful. Perhaps one of the Reachman lords that accompanied Lord Dondarrion and a Dornish lord that was part of his contingent too?"

"Aye. Point taken. I'll speak with Father. Still, how goes the operation in King's Landing?"

At her words, the Wisdom visibly brightened.

"Wonderful, actually. With the king eager to get our Wildfire out of the city, we've purchased a fortified estate in the countryside. Wisdom Munciter was kin to the man we purchased it from and a King's Landing native besides. So, with our cache being moved there, it should only be… hmm… a month or two more and it will all be secure. Before the royal party returns with the new Lord Hand, at the very least."

"And the guild proper?"

Practically glowing in excitement, he took this as an opportunity to almost babble.

"Your sister's treatments have been a wondrous success. Moreover, she has connected us with one Tobho Mott. Trading secrets for secrets, we have helped him coax the flames in his forge even hotter than his master knew how and he too has shown us how to better shape certain materials. More importantly, your sister's actions have created a new market for healing that does not come from Maestars. Alleged or otherwise. And healing, especially with regards to burns, is something we truly excel at." He sighed in contentment. "I almost regret refusing Qyburn now. The fortunes we could have made, the secrets we could have uncovered, ah…."

Frowning, the bastard couldn't help her curiosity.

"Qyburn?"

Nodding a bit sadly, the old man continued, if a bit less eagerly than before.

"A madman. Utterly, totally mad. But also a genius without compare. Your sisters, Sarella and Ophelia, are close, but they are still young. He had the luxury of many, many years to study." She motioned for him to continue. "Qyburn had been a Maester, once, but the Citadel stripped him of his chain for opening people while they yet lived, all to better study the human body. As for the rumors of necromancy, I can not speak to the veracity of such, but he was a truly gifted healer. I know of no man, magi or not, that had such a grasp on the human form."

Nodding, she took the information in stride. Ultimately it meant little and Obara had other things to focus on. Such as their planned disposition of resources. She knew her father would have discussed such things, but his mind was often more focused on other issues.

"So who will command here and who will command the chapter house in Sunspear?"

"Wisdom Munciter, as mentioned, will oversee the wildfire, as was his job. He has two apprentices who will do the same once we arrive in Dorne. Our plan is to actually recreate the fortified location there too, assuming your uncle sets aside the needed funds. In King's Landing proper Wisdom Malliard will remain, overseeing the renovation and, ah, fortification of our chapter house. Wisdom Pollitor and I plan to travel south, though he has already left."

"With the first group?" Obara spoke softly, thoughts starting to turn.

"Aye. And with the first thousand sellswords your father hired."

Obara snorted then.

"Hardly. That was the fourth or fifth group of mercenaries, even if not all of them were so large."

Leaving the confused and somewhat awestruck man behind, the daughter of Oberyn Martell strolled along the train of carts. It was the third such convoy and would depart in only a few hours, this being the day before the royal procession would head north, and itself would travel in the opposite direction.

Her goal, however, was to now find her sister.

Walking amongst the mercenaries, she snorted as they shied away. One of them had slapped Ophelia's ass a few days ago and Obara herself had taken her whip to the man's face. And when his friends had objected, violently, a horde of birds had descended upon them.

After that the sellswords as a whole had been much better behaved around all women.

"You're eying them like they're meat again." Seemingly coming out of nowhere, Sarella fell into lockstep. "And before you ask, no, they did not bother me. Jalabhar did try to convince me to marry him again."

"Queen of all the Summer Isles?"

Nodding, the younger of the two sisters agreed, even as her own escort stopped to speak with Obara's.

"Queen of all the Summer Isles indeed." She chuckled. "He's a very ambitious man."

Wrinkling her nose, Obara agreed.

"All princes seem to be ambitious these days. Uncle and his army, Father and his games, even the crown prince with how he looks at you and Tyene."

Sarella cut her eyes at her brawnier, taller sister.

"And you the king, sister, so be careful where you cast your darts."

Somewhat uncomfortable, the Dornishwoman shook her head.

"Hardly. He is married."

That got her a look.

"And we are Dornish, dear sister, and bastards besides." Sarella held up her hand to forestall any objections. "The reality of it is that it would be expected, whether that is the intention of your interactions with him."

Unasked went the question of whether Obara actually held any interest in the man. The older sister was still compelled to answer by the simple fact that her younger sibling looked far, far too smug.

"I train with him. That's all." That got her a raised eyebrow and she scowled in response. "You spend as much time practicing with that bow of your as I do learning from Ser Barristan."

"And the jogs? Is that just endurance training? It just seems like a lot of work to make a man look better for another woman is all I'm saying." Sarella paused, smirking. "But if that happens to be how you have fun, I think you and Tyene could spend some time with Ophelia and a few of their, ah, friends."

That got a punch to the shoulder in response. Obara felt deeply vindicated when her sister yelped and rubbed her arm, the miscreant dancing away for a moment before apologetically returning.

"Ok, ok, I had that one coming. But I'm serious." She paused, making sure no one was around and that they were by themselves near the end of the train of carts. "What do you see in him?"

"Sometimes, when he's swinging his hammer, I suppose I can see the warrior he once was. And when he's sober and calm I see the man he could have been." The eldest Sand Snake was unsure why she spoke, only that she felt a deep pang of regret at the fat drunkard, filled with nothing but shame and disappointment that so often was all the king was. "Maybe. I simply do not know. But none of that matters, tell me, is everything secure?"

Huffing, the most scholarly of the sisters crossed her arm.

"If you mean the immense amount of stuff we've looted, then yeah. The books are all secure, the things Ophelia dug up are in good condition, and it still rankles me that we found the Raven's Teeth armory but Father said that we shouldn't knock the door down."

Smirking, Obara clapped her on the shoulder.

"Aye. I doubt we would have been able to sneak all of that out of the Red Keep. And the king might have been forced to actually do something about the sheer amount of shiny things we were picking up."

Shrugging, if a bit ruefully, Sarella didn't argue the point.

"I wonder why they needed barrels and barrels full of dragonglass. It seems like a poor material for such a thing, doubly so since it was just a bunch of arrowheads. They weren't even fletched. If it weren't for the weirwood bows I'd have thought the things were ceremonial."

"Other than the name, does dragonglass actually have any importance?"

At her older sister's question, the younger took a moment to think about it.

"Maester Marwyn would probably know more, but I know the Valyrians had a special name for it and used it to make glass candles. I think the Children of the Forest made weapons out of it."

Shrugging, she tried to communicate that there wasn't much more to say.

"It's a volcanic rock that's shiny and breaks so that it's sharp. Hey, do you think Ophelia might like a glass candle of her own?"

"Maybe. Didn't they all go out years ago?" Nodding at her older sister's question, Sarella agreed.

"Without a doubt. But our sister is a witch." She grinned up at Obara. "Besides, we can tease her about that Targaryen ring she had fixed up for Elia."

Grunting, the older girl agreed.

"You're all spoiled too much. But I hope that particular ring is an omen of good things and not ill." Frowning, she hesitated a moment before pushing ahead. "I disagreed with it. Wearing that trinket."

Sarella frowned but nodded.

"Aye. The last Elia to bear the Targaryen symbol did not end happily. Did you speak with them about it?"

Shaking her head, the whip wielding woman responded in the negative.

"It felt silly to bring it up. Or like saying it might make it true."

Starting a little, Obara took a second to relax before she realized her sister had hugged her. Something that her sister had been only really doing recently, perhaps a bit of clinginess born of homesickness. But she didn't mind, reciprocating with a grunt and a one arm hug of her own.

"All right, enough." Breaking the hug, the older sister began marching back towards the castle. "Tell me about the maps, are they finished? And how, uh, how thoroughly did you scour the library?"

That got a loud, free laugh.

"You wouldn't believe how much fun Marwyn has been having. Between the blacksmith and Pycelle, he's been spending his days learning and teaching and driving that old goat utterly insane! Even Ophelia was warning him that the Grand Maestar has a great deal of pull and access to exotic concoctions. The Mage just retorted that she was enjoying his antics too much to let him die, oh you should have seen her face!"

The words made Obara chuckle, reminding her that her sisters were still young, almost just girls. Even Ophelia was only fourteen, Elia even younger at twelve. Sarella and Tyene were teenagers themselves and only Nymeria was truly a woman grown.

"It sounds hilarious. Perhaps less so for our sister. At least it would have been entertainment for the poor library staff you three have so terribly abused."

"Hey!" Sarella protested. "All I did was distract a few of the younger gentlemen."

"So Marwyn could get his hands on books of magic, no doubt."

The oldest sister's statement got another chuckle and a nod of agreement.

"Speaking of, where are our dear kinsmen? I know Father is with the Mage and the king, but where have our sisters gone?"

Obara's question got a snort and a roll of the eyes.

"Nymeria and Arianne had to, ah, catch up with Tyene. Ophelia ended up taking Elia to go see the royal children and have tea with the queen again. If you ask me, I think our cousin and most innocent of sisters would have rather she joined them."

That got a wry chuckle out of the older sister.

Spending the rest of their journey back to the Red Keep in silence, only speaking when they needed to get around someone, the sisters made good time, half because of their escort and half because of who they were. While their faces were hardly famous, Obara carried a whip and only one warrior woman in the city did so. Rare was the smallfolk who would accost the bastard of a prince, never mind the sister of a witch. In an admittedly twisted sort of way, she admired the fool who had been brazen enough to touch her sister, even if the first born of Oberyn, Prince of House Nymeros Martell, would have dragged the man to the gallows herself if Ophelia had been truly offended.

No woman of their blood could ever afford to be soft north of the Marches.

Musing on that fact, the woman focused on the defense of her kin considered an important fact. Elia Targaryen had made that mistake, or, perhaps, been that mistake. Soft and gentle, a rose without thorns, to borrow a Tyrell expression, and a woman of such gentleness as to be defenseless.

'If she had been cunning, or at least cruel, she might have poisoned the Mad King and saved us a great deal of heartbreak. But she was too kind, too defenseless. Never again shall we make that mistake.'

"Hey, that boy looks like the great bastard Ophelia told us about."

Whispering in Obara's ear, Sarella pointed out a particular black haired young man. He was well formed, strong in the arm and so much like a younger version of the king it was ridiculous. Moreover, he was speaking with a bored looking gate guard, clearly trying to convince the bored looking man of something.

"Oi, shove off brat. Let the ladies past." Knuckling his brow, the Gold Cloak saluted the two bastards. "M'ladies." Neither bothered to correct them on their status, almost amused at how casually the middle aged guardsman made the statement.

"Hey, wait, please!"

The great bastard called after them, drawing a rap of his shins from the man's halberd.

"Now don't you go bothering them! I didn' mind the company but you can't bother the nobles."

"It's fine." Obara raised a hand, getting another salute from the guardsman who shuffled off and visibly busied himself with scanning the crowd. "I trust you won't waste my time." She looked the lad over again, noting that he really looked like his father. Simply younger, more hale, and without the damage years of alcoholism did to the king. For the first time in a very long time, the young woman found herself wishing she had the same great beauty her sisters shared. Or that he was at least five or six years older, then, she thought, her beauty or lack of it would not have stopped her. "Speak boy."

Bowing his head, he did so.

"Yes my lady. My master bid me to inform your sister that 'the time is here'. I haven't the faintest clue what he meant by all that, but that was the message I was instructed to pass along. Thank you ma'am, uh, my lady, my ladies?"

Sarella chuckled, but Obara merely nodded.

"It's fine. Tell your master the message has been received. We shall inform our sister immediately. Thank you."

At this her sister gave the warrior woman a look, one that spoke volumes considering their earlier conversation, but any discussion was forestalled. After all, Obara would be able to deflect at least until after they had spoken to Ophelia. And surely Tyene would have given her an excuse, or ten, to busy herself elsewhere by then.

'Surely she shall….'

---

Robert Baratheon​

---

The wonders of good wine were plenty.

The heavenly taste. The pleasant warmth which spread from a single cup. The pleasant haze which filled his mind and turned his thoughts away from the despair which had clouded over his life from the moment Robert had lost the love of his life.

Yes, as far as Robert was concerned, wine was the greatest thing in the Seven Kingdoms.

In the end, the only downside were the terrible hangovers.

Something he'd never built a resistance for. And one of the chief reasons why he welcomed Oberyn and his gaggle of bastards so easily. After all, if the man's claims were true, Robert would never have to spend an hour away from his precious wine ever again, or feel the terrible side effects of its intoxicating embrace.

What he failed to realize, however, is that now he didn't have an excuse for not turning up to court.

Gods that realization had stung.

Was this how the Martells planned to have their revenge upon him? By forcing him sober at their convenience?!

'Maybe I slaughtered the wrong House after all.' He chuckled mirthlessly.

Bluntly, the Dornish had proven to be… a force to keep up with. Every single one of Oberyn's daughters had something which drew the eye to them. Be it their bluntness, knowledge, charm, eagerness, or mystery. Even Robert knew that they were a hit at Court, most who disagreed kept their words to themselves out of fear of the witch girl hearing them.

She was very good at keeping the court in line and civil.

'Maybe I should just make her my Hand and be done with this.' The temptation was there. Someone who helped unearth the last scheme of the Mad King, who commanded knowledge even Pycelle was unaware of, who rooted out evil just as easily as his own Master of Laws. Just as good at rooting out information as the Master of Spies.

And if Oberyn's stories had any merit, she was also very good at counting coppers.

Perhaps he should just be done with the Small Council and let her handle it.

He probably would have followed through with the idea too if not for the shit storm that it would cause. Drunk and miserable as Robert was most days, he wasn't eager to throw the Seven Kingdoms into another war. He liked peace. He liked being able to show off in torneys and hunt whenever it pleased him.

Perhaps he might get back to those once they came back from the North.

Aerys' last treacherous plot had stirred him. Robert couldn't relax with the thought of the city going up in flames beneath his very feet. It reminded him of the rage of war, kept him awake some nights as he wondered why he hadn't ordered a search.

The Mad King loved burning people. Why wouldn't he try to do it in his last moments?

The threat was more than enough to have him running around his own courtyards like a fresh faced squire. Impending danger, the feeling of something looming over his neck driving him to do something with all the jittering energy he could muster.

He needed to see Ned.

Needed to visit Winterfell and their crypts.

Perhaps then, he would put these lingering doubts to rest and mend the opened wound. See the final resting place of his dear Lyanna.

"Your Grace." A man stepped aside as Robert and his guards walked past. The man's robes slightly crumpled as he kept stride with the King.

"Varys. Any news on the wildfire?"

"Fortunately yes. Just a few days ago, our men helped remove the last cache hidden beneath the Great Sept. It had perhaps the highest count of jars out of all places so care had to be taken not to set one off."

Typical Aerys.

Planting the biggest trap in one of the most visited places.

"And the Alchemists? Nothing of their involvement?"

He'd put his Master of Whispers to work after the revelation. Dorne's Witch was well and good, but he couldn't trust their word without having his own people look into the situation. Another sign he'd been slipping out of the pleasant haze he enveloped himself with as King.

The bald man sighed in practiced fashion.

"Nothing their own investigations failed to report. Only a small faction was involved with the plot. And they have already been ousted. Though there is one small thing…."

Robert wasn't in the mood for games.

"Speak, Varys."

"With the arrival of the dornish contingent, there have been whispers of the Alchemist's Guild moving from King's Landing following this debacle. Most feel they will be ostracized for the substance's role in Aerys' ploy and fear repercussions will befall them as well."

As they very well should. Robert wanted to say.

Hadn't those fire worshiping freaks not been needed to remove the jars, Robert would have already had them all in chains and thrown into the bay.

"So they're leaving."

"Yes, your grace. Accompanied by a large contingent of sellswords, on boats headed down south and by caravan."

By south he meant Dorne.

And if Dorne was involved, then Oberyn and his Snakes were involved.

Well, far be it from Robert to care about a band of crazy potioneers. If Dorne wanted them to play with fire in their land, then he bid them good luck. At least in the desert there would be less to burn. Maybe. Assuming wildfire didn't melt the grains of sand to glass and then back again. Which, knowing the people who made it, that was entirely possible.

"And the Dragons?"

"The Beggar Prince remains across the sea, seeking any who would lend him an ear and an army. Not many are willing to. Not when he lacks ships and gold to carry them."

That was another worry which kept Robert awake at night.

The Last Dragon was dead.

The Mad King was dead.

But something remained of their cursed family and he wasn't eager to keep his eyes off them for any length of time.Winter would soon arrive and he would be damned if he allowed chaos to overtake the Seven Kingdoms before it passed.

But that was for later.

Now? Now he had to sit on that pointy chair and do the job he was saddled with.

Gods, how he hated his fucking crown.

There was a buzz in the air, very soon he would be departing King's Landing up North and there were announcements to be made. Who would be acting in his stead, what would be expected of them. As King, he had to address the events of the past few weeks and reassure those at court that the sky wasn't falling down on their heads.

And of course there was the arrival of the Tyrells.

Just another group of troublesome folks hoping to make a stir. Fortunately he wouldn't have to stick around, but he could swear that old hag was mocking him behind her half smiles and pleasant attitude.

Everyone who tried being pleasant around him was a liar.

'Even my wife. Though we haven't fought in, Gods, a week?' Thoughts of Cersei soon left him. She was a Lion and the Lions did not look upon the Stag and see a crown of horns. Only meat. At least Oberyn and his spawn were honest enough to tell him what they thought to his face. Death threats and all. 'At least Barristan and Obara have been good enough to help me lose a stone of weight. Maybe a bit more. Gods I'm a fat fuck.'

What Renly was thinking when he decided to get mixed up with that flowery lot, he'd never know. But at least the prickly old hag's granddaughter seemed to be a good fit for his little brother. He approved.

The arrival of yet another one of Oberyn's brats caused a stir too.

Just how many did the man have? Did he even know?

"Not as many as me." Robert chuckled to himself, waving away his escort and settling onto the Iron Throne. His thoughts turned black for a moment and he would swear he could smell the cooked flesh of the Dragon Spawn again. Almost hear the flames. "Herald, call the court to order."

His trumpet man bowed low, giving a low blast, and announced that it was time to begin. Gathering from the small cliques they intrigued in, Robert's court came together.

There was a change in the air, Robert could tell.

It was a tense sort of calm as people filed in. Waiting, watching each other as they waited. Martells, Tyrells, Lannister, Baelish, Varys, Renly, and so, so many others were present. Thankfully, his wife was absent, with their children and the youngest Dornish bastard girl getting ready for the trip.

'The calm before the storm.' Yes, it was a nice way to put it. 'Well. Better to be done with it all.'

"As you are all aware, I will be heading North to secure the assistance of Ned Stark as my new Hand of the King." He really did have to repeat things like this. People in King's Landing could be awfully stupid. And horny. "Until such time, my brother, Lord Paramount Renly Baratheon will govern as acting Hand of the King. He shall retain his post as Master of Laws. If anyone does anything particularly stupid, he is to hang you and be done with it. When I return, there shall be a tourney for the new Hand of the King. Preparations are to begin now. That is all."

Brief as he'd been, Robert already could see thoughts of intrigue rolling off his court as they conversed with each other. From silly things like who would enter the tourney, to small scandalous lies like how he was favoring his brother unfairly.

Load of hogwash.

Tywin looked displeased in the extreme, but his father in law could fish in a chamberpot for all the king cared The Tyrells looked quite satisfied with the announcement, Renly conversing with them, receiving their empty praises and half smiles. Gods watch over him if they turned out to be anything like Robert's own in-laws. A beautiful wife was cold comfort when she scorned you and spurned you and your own children were an afterthought. And, sitting there, see his brother converse with a young woman who was closer to the age of Robert's own children than his brother… the old king felt a pang.

Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was self loathing. But whatever it was, thoughts of a pregnant cat and a crossbow and a smiling, sweet boy and girl flashed through his mind.

'Gods above I've been a shit king. The bloody witch even taught my children to ride a horse.' Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned back against the still warm metal of the throne, almost wondering if he might die like Maegor the Cruel. 'At least it would be amusing.' He thought. 'And I'd not have to deal with the leeches any more. Maybe I should have Joffrey and Tommen ride with me a ways. Just a little. I can stomach keeping pace with the wheelhouse long enough to calm Cersei's worries for that.'

"Now." His voice boomed out, a voice that had once commanded armies. "Is there any important business to be seen to, or can we all get on with our day?"

What came next was a not at all small line of petitioners. In fact, there were at least a dozen highborn men and women alone. So, grunting in displeasure, he narrowed his eyes, feeling a vindictive sense of satisfaction when four of them stepped back into the crowd.

Being known as an angry drunk did have a few advantages.

Still, of the nonsense he had to listen to only the Tyrells were worth listening to. An invitation to the wedding of Willas of House Tyrell to Arianne of House Nymeros Martell. Renly actually asked him to come as well, making the older of the two brothers chortle and smile. Consenting, he promised he'd be there and would bring a cask of the finest Northern spiced wine.

Which got a whoop of joy from the bride's uncle.

Curiously enough, when the last of the highborn petitioners were finished and the lowborn ones were permitted into the court, they, as one, stepped to the side. Instead, in a far more sedate green dress, embroidered with little golden snakes, and wearing a Dornish veil and jeweled belt, the witch that so often occupied his thoughts stepped forward.

"Your grace." She curtsied. Slightly awkward, yet practiced.

A foreboding smile on her face.

What an ominous image, he mused.

"Well girl, what is it you need?" He spoke not unkindly, but he had enjoyed the lack of scheming amongst the Dornish. He felt somewhat sad they were entering the Game directly. "What boon can I grant you?"

"Thank you, your grace." She inclined her head. "But I come bearing gifts. By your leave?"

Robert thought it was a bit odd, now that he looked, but both of the bastard's wrists were bandaged. And, in fact, he thought he might see a little blood soaking through.

"Go ahead. But are you injured? Why do I see blood on your arms?"

Gesturing behind her, two men left the crowd. One Robert distantly recognized as a smith he'd seen once or twice. The other… made his heart stop. And not just because he had bandages on his arms too. Though most queerly of all was the fact the lad held two swords. Coming to a stop, both the smith and his bastard knelt.

"Magic always has a cost, your grace." Taking one blade from the young man, Robert noticed that it was obscenely ornate. The sheath was red leather, worked and tooled to have serpents, dragons, sun bursts, spears, and hawks around the edges. Looking closely, the order seemed deliberate, but he couldn't place it, with each symbol being worked in a different type of precious or semi precious stone. Just as the covering for the blade was ornate, so too was the hilt and the guard. Looking like weirwood if he had to guess, the grip was well formed with only very small etchings on it, with a pommel sat with a fat ruby and a guard, both of whom had been worked with the same shapes as the sheath though without precious stones, of what looked like a wavy… red… steel.

Robert gasped when Ophelia drew the sword, easily far too large for her, it was clearly a Valyrian steel blade that had been expertly worked. It was a longsword, but not totally of the Westerosi style, instead being a bit longer and bit thinner - though not to the length of a greatsword or claymore - and with an overall feeling of elegance and fluidity. "And this is the sword Serpent's Kiss, which I present to my father. To you, your grace, I offer the Stag's Crown."

Shuffling forward on his knees, Robert's own bastard glanced up, fear and hesitation in his eyes, as he presented a second weapon. Clearly a greatsword, the thing was almost obscene in its size. A long, black and gold sheath with a line of stags marching down both edges and the House Crest of the Royal House of Baratheon plainly stamped on it in cloth-of-gold.

And, now that he looked closer, so too were the stags and all of it was filigree done in gold and silver threading.

Even then, the guard was worked like a set of tines, twelve in total, that clung to the bottom of the blade. Only two actually jutted forward enough to catch a blade, though the rest had been worked close to the blade in such a way that it would make a good grip should someone desire to half sword with the blade. Furthermore, the black, smoky Valyrian steel seemed to ripple in the light, merging quickly into a grip he thought might have been made of ebony and a pommel upon which sat a shining chunk of dark blue sapphire.

The same blue of his eyes.

The same blue of his son's eyes.

Hand trembling, he reached out and took the sword up, freeing it the rest of the way from its sheath. It was gorgeous. It was perfect. It was a wonder.

Glancing down at his boy, he felt a tear start to prick at his eye.

"How-" Robert snapped his jaw shut, voice breaking. Taking a shuddering breath, he tried again. "How did you forge this… masterpiece."

Ophelia dipped her head, smiling.

"I only offered a little blood and a good deal of metal. What you hold in your hands was made from salvage recovered from across King's Landing alongside a… repurposed weapon. It was the Master's skill, and the sacrifice of his apprentice, that made it whole."

Barking out a laugh, the old man shook his head and Robert gave him a look which bade the man speak.

"She spent a week and a half bringing me little trinkets, even shavings and scraps of Valyrian Steel. Even then, she parted with many secrets and much gold for this work. As for my student, he offered up some of the fuel needed to work the metal. Same as the witch. And they did so without flinching. Just so you know, your grace, they bled for nearly an hour. For each blade."

Eyes flashing with fear, he turned to his son, realizing how pale the boy was, and pulled him up.

"Herald, bring something to sit on for the children. Now man! As for you, Master Smith, you and your apprentice are to come with me on the procession North. We shall discuss your rewards then. For now, I name you the Royal Armorer, the position has been unoccupied for too long as it stands. Apartments will be made ready for you in the Red Keep and ten Gold Cloaks will stand watch over your properties." Holding his boy steady, Robert wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms and tell the lad he was loved and missed and how proud he was of his boy. Instead, the king turned to the girl that showed him so much of what he was missing. "And you, Sand, Ophelia, I… thank you girl. I'll think of some way to reward you for all of this. I swear it. For now, I must ask, why do you offer such a gift?"

Sadness and a little fear entered the girl's gaze, her head dipping as her smile grew brittle.

"I had a dream, your grace, in which a dead man with three eyes came to me. He told me such weapons will be needed and that they would be needed soon." She swallowed. "Even so, consider this a gift of thanks for the lovely invitation to King's Landing and for welcoming us to your upcoming journey. May this be a sign of lasting friendship"

Robert's mouth was dry, bereft of any words.

He'd misjudged this girl.

Just who… what was she possibly talking about?

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

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Chapter 9 - Die Rabenballade​

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Unknown​

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Drifting aimlessly.

Floating uselessly.

What was there to be done? Had it been a mistake? Had there been any choice, or were they led to it by all the ones that preceded it? Since that fateful day, in that fateful battle, was there any point where I'd known life as it was?

Now, it is dark.

All dark as lights float by as I peacefully drifted through the current.

Then a spark of recognition.

Life as I'd known it. Freedom as I'd seen it.

It was back. Somehow, somewhere in this deep empty darkness, I could feel it pulsing steadily. But where? It was beyond my sight, so far away, it might as well be a winking star on a cloudy night.

What purpose had its life served?

What had it accomplished?

Meaningless. Everything meaningless after oblivion. Yet something of it remained, lighting the way through darkness like a beacon. Fleeting and shy as it had always been. As they had always been.

Yet now I sought it.

That light, soft and warm as a fading sun.

Perhaps that was our purpose. To remain together, always.

---

Ophelia​

---

"Go on boy! Bring another jug already!" Robert belted out a laugh. "Are you sure you're not a woman? With how pretty you Lannisters are I'm sure Pycelle could be forgiven for making that mistake."

The witch frowned, but said nothing, instead twisting up a ball of shadows and embers.

"Watch my prince. Tell me which orb the flame is in."

A simple shell game made out of magic made an effective distraction for the young man.

"It's the one you hid behind the curtain!"

Innocently gesturing at where she had hidden an orb, Ophelia smirked and let it fall open.

"I'm sorry my prince." Her eyes sparkled and she looked up. "But not quite." Tommen gasped when he saw what she'd done. Dozens of shining blue and orange and yellow and white and purple flames flickered in a rotating pattern, the light show contained by a shimmering wall of darkness existing only for him. "Remember, don't watch what you want to watch, watch what others don't want you to watch."

"Come on girl, be quicker if you don't want to end up in my lap!"

And the shouts of her own father ruined the moment.

Travelling with the royal party had been… more frustrating than she thought possible. For one, the witch had never really felt the urge to go places. And sure she'd taken week long "vacations" in Dorne, though those were far more family oriented than what she was putting up with now.

Tobacco smoke, the stink of alcohol, the dull roar of conversation, even the sounds and smells of sex - one of the downsides of her Swarm - stabbed at her attenion.

This was nothing like the trip to King's Landing, or her time in the capitol, or the weeks spent at the Water Gardens. The inn was rough, full of life, and it was… crude. Crude in the ways that still bothered her. She glanced over at Lancel and saw the poor boy flushing at her father's wandering hand. And he most certainly wasn't flushing in pleasure or good humor like her lush of a parent was.

"My prince, go find your mother, ok?"

The young lad gave her a scared look but one glance to Ser Oakheart and the Kingsguard stepped forward and gave the lad a firm nod. She appreciated his discretion and Ophelia hoped she wasn't about to embarrass Lancel by making a scene on his behalf.

'Perhaps I have another route to success here.'

At the moment, Cersei was furious with her. Enough she'd almost forbidden the once heroine from so much as speaking to her children, never mind approaching her. But Tommen had gotten bored when they settled in at the tavern for the night. Robert and her father and many other lords and knights were drinking, gambling, telling bawdy jokes, and generally having a good time.

Her only issue was with how two grown men were making a fifteen year old boy the butt of their jokes.

"Hey, hey, hey. You trying to kill me boy?" Robert growled lowly. "This wine tastes like piss." He snorted, tossing the drink over his shoulder along with the cup. "Get me something that tastes like someone didn't shit in the vat or you'll be sleeping with the horses. Speaking of, where the Hell is Tyrek. He's supposed to be my bloody squire too."

Ophelia knew at this very moment that Tyrek Lannister was bedding a maid.

She wouldn't have cared if that hadn't left his comrade in arms in the lurch. And facing a problem the would-be potioneer had created herself.

A direct consequence of having her cures for hangovers, both Robert and her father could drink like they were fish. To that end, the former had a temper and the latter was a horn dog. And by encouraging this facet of their bad behavior, regardless whether it was out of pity or simply out of political convenience, had directly led to the situation they were in.

Now about a week into the journey, their slow progress had left both men bored. Miserably, utterly, totally bored. And in the case of Lancel, he was the king's squire and very, very pretty.

And her father was starting to get handsy.

Deploying a number of flies, she swiftly bit her father's wrist and drew his attention. The glare she gave him spoke of the kind of trouble only Ellaria had given him before.

She and her stepmother may not have been as close as she was with her father, but she, without a doubt, understood that sometimes her father went a little too far. Their personal history aside, the low born woman tried to do for him what Oberyn had done for her. And Ophelia took that desire to heart in turn. So making sure he understood exactly how… frustrated with his behavior she was, she jerked her head and indicated for him to come see her.

Just a few moments later, he wobbled his way over to the corner table and flopped into a chair. Slugging back what smelled like strongwine, he gave her the kind of happily glazed over look that told her Oberyn Martell was well and truly drunk.

"I suppose I shall begin with the question if you can even get it up."

"Of course!" The prince's voice was slurred but still intelligible. "But not for my pretty little sand scorpion. Snake. Snake scorpion." He shook his head. "Those Lannisters though? Bwah." Letting out a loud blast of air, he somehow communicated honest appreciation for the physical forms of other human beings… and drunken lust.

Ophelia sighed and let the stern look she'd adopted fade.

"You know Lancel is basically as old as I am?"

Smiling, he took another drink, waving off calls by some of the knights to come gamble.

"And I'm jus' havin' sum fun. 'Sides. I didn' get to use mah new sword and Robb can' see his lad 'cuz the queen is angry. I told him to go fuck 'er, but he said that was the problem."

Maybe it was sensibilities she inherited from a past life, maybe she was just a cold fish, but Ophelia simply couldn't accept that excuse.

"Father." She reached out and took his hand. "I know you're teasing the boy, but it bothers him, deeply. A prank is one thing, but groping him is another. Let the king take out his temper but no more. For me? Please?"

Smiling, her father gave the black haired bastard girl a warm, drunken smile.

"Course! I'll leave 'em all to you 'Phelia."

A half stumbly hug later and Oberyn was returned to the king's side and pounding drinks like the secret to immortality lay at the bottom of a hundred pitchers of wine. Notably, he kept his hands to himself and even kept the king too busy trying to drown themselves to harass his squire.

Content, the Sand Snake rose, ready to step out from the noise and the smoke.

In the end, she knew it wasn't her place to tell her father or the king how to act, or even to interfere with the "training" of a squire. But what had started out as mild jokes was quickly escalating into something unpleasantly similar to the bullying she herself had once been forced to tolerate. And it was always better to head that kind of thing off before her father could egg the king on and encourage him to act on his least noble impulses.

'For all that my father can be a good man, he's just as capable of acting the blind hedonist.'

That didn't mean her seemingly self destructive drive to apologize to the queen was making anything better, of course. Gendry, the great bastard, was more or less hiding in his work. Tobho Mott had found a thousand and one tasks to give the boy and all of them kept him out of the queen's path. Even better, they also tended to put him near Robert and Cersei had needed someone to blame.

"And I suppose it is my fault there too."

Her intention had been to ensure that Gendry received his share of the credit for his sacrifice. The young man hadn't flinched when her knife bit into his skin. And he had only jumped when the flames leapt up and began to swallow each drop of blood as it fell.

She respected that.

Hopefully Tyene would be able to distract the queen from any drastic plans she might feel obligated to make. Or maybe just drug her again. Whichever minimized the body count.

In the end, she was rather glad that the queen had erected her tent away from the rest of the king's party. The large pavilion was erected in an apple orchard, currently being patrolled by four of the kingsguard and a number of Baratheon men at arms, and well away from the raucous inn and the loud men, and women, inside of it.

More to the point, the space was clearly the queens domain. So when Ser Jaimie stepped out of the main area, frowning, she caught his eye. He, in turn, jerked his head. Walking over to a copse of trees he turned to her and spoke in a low whisper.

"I'd caution you not to attempt this. But we both know you are going to brave that storm either way, no?"

He was curt and to the point. Perhaps not rude, but definitely more terse than in the last few exchanges they had when she took the royal children on their riding classes. It was understandable, but Ophelia wouldn't let it get to her.

Whatever anger the man held onto was likely pale in comparison to the Queen's.

That he was letting her through was likely so that his paramour could rant and rage at her than any consideration for the dornish girl's desires.

She thanked him nonetheless.

"My only defense is that I did not intend to do as I had done." Shrugging, she went with honesty. "I brought the boy and the smith to court only so that a son might show his father what he made him." Ophelia lowered her head. "It was an impulsive act."

The knight sighed.

"I'm not enough of a hypocrite to condemn you for impulsiveness. But Cersei won't care, you know that, yes? That the moment you brought that boy to court, you shook whatever trust she had in you."

Ophelia knew that. Or, well, knew now.

The queen deeply resented her husband, resented his cold and sometimes violent treatment of her. She'd fought back with all the weapons she was allowed and that included her children. Keeping the man from ever inflicting upon her the ultimate humiliation of bringing one of his own bastards to court.

In the end, Ophelia had done that for him.

She must be livid.

"Nonetheless, I must try." Otherwise she might make an enemy of a very dangerous woman at a time where her powers were at their lowest. More to the point, she liked Cersei. Even if she wished she could have asked Marissa for advice. Not being able to see her maid was actually starting to seriously get to her. It was just… odd not having had the woman around for more than a month. And the witch had even found herself wishing for her presence. Perhaps just for a quick hug. She liked those… and, if she were being honest, she had become quite greedy for physical affection in this life.

Still, tea with the queen had been a genuinely enjoyable experience, doubly so because the woman treated her like a person. Not a bastard, not Oberyn's daughter, not a princess, not even like a witch. It had been odd and refreshing. And maybe Ophelia was superimposing another blonde friend of hers, one she hadn't seen since before she caught a nine millimeter aspirin to the head, on top of Cersei.

Jaimie shrugged and stepped away, wishing her luck but not interested in dying on this particular hill. The witch took a moment to sigh and wished for a moment that the person she was apologizing to actually was Lisa.

"The worst thing that would be skewered would be my ego then."

Chuckling to herself, she too left the small stand of trees and, reaching out with a hesitant hand, wrapped against a small wooden board hanging from a metal poll.

"Come in."

Cersei's voice was tight, but not screaming, and Ophelia hoped that was a good sign.

---

Sarella​

---

Sarella was free!

Free of stuffy castles and shitty streets. Free of overbearing meeting after meeting with her family as they navigated webs of intrigue and betrayal. Free to do as she damn well pleased, roam where she may, and uncover the secrets of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Come back before sunset on the fifteenth day, or I'll be sending half the knights at camp after you." Nymeria reminded her sternly.

Sarella swallowed dry. Her sister meant it too.

So yes, she was mostly free.

But it was a blessing to finally leave King's Landing and it's crowded streets, returning to the beaten roads and fresh airs of nature. As much as Sarella had fun inside the Red Keep, stealing tomes and finding long lost swords, she wanted more, craved the adventure and excitement of the unknown.

At least now that she couldn't go back to Old Town.

In truth, they had made excellent time. Tumbleton wasn't even that far away and with all of their party mounted, and Ophelia to check those mounts, they made excellent time. It had only taken five of their days to find the particular stretch of river they needed.

So, right now, with her shoulders and chest flexing, the whole of her body being used to draw back the string of her bow, Sarella let an arrow fly.

Straight and true, the rabbit she was aiming for was killed instantly, even with Ophelia juking mid hop, and she had secured dinner for them.

"Are you sure you're not threatened by Angui?"

The adventurer scoffed.

"Hardly, there is a marked difference between hitting a target and hunting, sister. You know better than to doubt me."

The witch rolled her eyes at the bragging.

"Yes, yes. Such a fool am I to doubt the uncontested skill of the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps we should go ask him and see what he thinks of your shots?"

That earned an annoyed punch to the shoulder.

"Sister or not, I'll not suffer an insult to my skills!"

Ophelia's thin smile became predatory.

"Of course not. Far be it from me doubting the abilities of Sarella Sand. The skilled adventurer who got us kicked out of Oldtown."

At this the incredibly frustrated girl huffed.

"You're not going to let that go, are you?"

Crossing her arms, she turned away, bow held in one hand. She was still a bit surprised when she felt her sister hug her from behind.

"Of course not. Besides, I saw how you blushed when he challenged you that one time." Arms of growing muscle tightened around her waist. "It occurs to me, between the prince from your mother's homeland and now an archer boy… are you thinking of getting married?"

That got a snort of laughter from the prospective scholar.

"Why do you ask, jealous? Afraid someone will take me away from you?"

Her taller sister leaned just so slightly.

"And if I am?"

The words were said in a low voice, half need and half laughter. Sarella just rolled her eyes.

"Because Tyene is the one with the incestuous fantasies and I know you're not even sure if you're like father, Uncle Doran, or Nymeria yet."

Ophelia huffed, giving her sister one last hug, and pulled away from the embrace.

"And you say I'm the one that doesn't know how to play along with a joke."

"A joke can only be played out so many times before it grows stale sister. I have yet to forgive you for siccing Tyene on me back at King's Landing."

"Oh do grow up, Sarella. You know Tyene is harmless."

The adventurer gave the witch a disbelieving look.

"Well, when she's around me." Her younger sister amended.

Fortunately, their wayward sister hadn't come along for this trip. More than happy with staying at their father's side. She smelled blood, opportunity for mayhem at camp. Particularly because of the great bastard and the Queen. It was why they'd left Nymeria behind to keep watch.

The last thing they needed was Tyene somehow convincing Cersei to try and take over the Seven Kingdoms.

She wasn't above convincing the angry woman from attempting it.

"Actually…." Sarella hesitated, unsure how to ask her current question.

"How did my last meeting go with the queen?" Nodding, the young women walked in silence as they collected the rabbit and the arrow. Eventually Ophelia spoke again. "Words were said. Pointed ones. She was kind enough to let Elia keep playing with Tommen and Myrcella."

Wincing, the older sister couldn't help but wish she had a free hand at the moment. Instead, she simply bumped shoulders with her younger sibling, trying to communicate her understanding.

It wasn't much, but Ophelia smiled at her.

Work was consistent for the rest of the night. Sarella gutted, skinned, and cleaned her own kill, oiled and secured her bow, and even washed up just in time for dinner. Of the party, there was her, Ophelia, Lancel Lannister, Gerold Dayne, a half a dozen men at arms from House Martell and House Baratheon, and a full complement of mounts. That hadn't brought spares, only ones to carry supplies, and the two young men sent to protect them were spending more time glaring at each other than anything else.

For some reason, the way the older of the Dayne's she'd met, Edric Dayne, the current lord, was a courteous young man and Lord Dondarrion's squire, made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was the anger in Gerold's eyes. A deep, abiding indignation that spoke of smouldering resentment.

'A pity.' The archer mused. 'If his hate didn't make him so ugly, he'd be pretty.'

Sleep that night came quickly. The low summer heat and the buzz of insects, Ophelia kindly not forcing them into a silence that was far more ominous than their noise was annoying, serving as a constant chorus. Even then, she was cuddled up to her sister with only a thin blanket over them. Simply because it was too hot not to, they had slept nude and in their nakedness the older of the two reflected on a number of things.

'Her muscles are starting to come in. And she has a new scar.' Sarella's baby sister was finally growing up. Again. And she didn't know how to feel about it. 'I hope whatever this magic… and all these politics take from her, she doesn't go back to how she was when she was growing up.'

Many years ago, her miserable, sad, depressed, and even sickly baby sister had told her a fantastical story. A story she had told the others more than once. Except this time Sarella actually listened.

More than just the horror of what she was told and the miserable state of a world plagued by apathetic gods and raging demons, it was the sadness and weakness in her sister's voice that hooked her. So she listened and, with a shaky hand, put a child's scrawl to parchment and wrote down nightmare after nightmare. They had spent a week together, little Elia uncomprehending of the words that her older siblings shared, and at the end of it Ophelia - Taylor - was lighter.

Not happier, but at least more open.

Happiness took a few more years to fully bloom in her sometimes caustic, sometimes brooding, sometimes sarcasting, and always, always loving sister.

Most of the time the other world sat in the back of her mind, a fact long since processed and accepted, but never truly drawn upon. Some parts were too fantastical, too insane. And she'd never been told the true ending - the Abomination simply leaving was too clean - but she didn't press for more.

She was a smart girl after all.

She could guess.

Pulling Ophelia a little bit closer, uncaring of the heat of the night, the dark skinned girl could only run her fingers through her sister's hair and hope for the best.

And, of course, find more magic swords.

"My lady, the guide says this is the area where the battle took place."

Lancel was polite, deferential even, standing there in a shirt of chain mail with a sword belted at his waist and carrying a spear in his hand. With him was a short man, a local, that nodded eagerly. Sarella smiled at him and held out a trio of silvers, happily handing them over when her guard nodded. With the squire behind her and to her right, she strolled over to her sister - the white, milky clouds of her power leaving her seemingly blind - and touched her shoulder.

"I found… bones. Rusted armor." Her eyes cleared and, after taking several steadying breaths, the witch could finally speak. "There are dragon bones down there, I think. But also a great many human ones too."

They were outside of Tumbleton proper, on the bank of a rushing river. It was deceptively quiet, with only a light frothing at the moment, but under the surface the current was strong and vicious and the bed of the river was full of holes and sudden drops. Even worse it was just deep enough to trick someone into thinking this part of the river Mander was safe.

So near its source it still held much of the wildness of the branch in it and that made it dangerous.

"How many do you think tried to flee when the dragons burned their camp?"

Ophelia shrugged.

"Hundreds. There is what seems to be plunder down there too."

At that, the Darkstar walked closer, his voice low and smile only somewhat mocking.

"And the sword?" At Lancel's glare he snorted and dipped his head. "My lady."

The mocking man was tall, older than Sarella by a few years, his early twenties perhaps. Silver hair split by a single stripe of midnight black down one side and rich, purple eyes spoke of his powerful ancestry, though the Daynes held that it was the Star Men that gave them their coloration and not the Blood of Valyria. Sarella considered that immaterial at the moment and opened her mouth to speak when her sister beat her too it.

"Muzzle your envy lest you let your tongue wag like a dog, boy." Frowning, the girl had given way to the witch. "Obara knows of you and of your cruelty. I know not why you offered to escort us, but should my mistrust grow too great you will sleep and never wake."

He smiled and it was a pretty thing, sweet and charming and lusty as any woman could want.

"Please, dear lady." This time his voice lacked the mocking tone. "I am dear to your cousin and I would not truly insult you."

One eyebrow raised, Sarella was surprised at what she said next.

"I listen, boy, and my father is not one to judge men falsely. Should you wrong me or mine, I care not for what Arianne's afternoon entertainment thinks. But perhaps I will allow Tyene to indulge with you."

Smirking, he too surprised the dusky skinned Dornishwoman and she almost gaped.

"Then I shall endeavor to leave her wanting more." He was practically leering at Ophelia now. "And from what rumors I have heard, you would be more than welcome."

Looking him up and down with disdain, the younger of the two bastards made a small noise.

"You'll forgive me for declining. The king would be preferable to your company."

"Enough." Any further barbs were forestalled. "Ophelia, yes, you're very scary. Ser Dayne, please excuse us." Grabbing her sister by the shoulder, she stepped closer to the river. "Remember. The sword."

Rolling her eyes, the witch snorted. Sarella said nothing when she noticed hundreds of birds had slowly gathered in the area.

"Speaking of, are you sure it's in the river? We only have a few more days before Nymeria founds a chivalric order to reclaim us."

Nodding, the young woman did her best to sum up her research.

"Aye. During the Dance, Lord Ormund Hightower sided with the Greens and had command of a contingent of men. Here they brutalized Tumbleton and were set upon it. It was during this battle that Roddy the Ruin slew him and his cousin, despite losing an arm, and the blade was lost." She smirked. "However, when going through the Grand Maestar's personal collection, I came across a few diaries. Most of them were filled with lewd stories, so I kept the best ones and hid the rest, but there was one I really liked. In it, however, the knight claimed to have fought here for the Greens and he was sworn to Lord Hightower. Most importantly, however, is that during the second battle he and his comrade attempted to cross the river to escape the burning camp… with large quantities of valuables. Their makeshift raft capsized and he lamented that, worst of all, the Valyrian steel sword Vigilance was lost." She paused in her telling of the story for a moment. "If only because of all the, and I quote here, 'fine and wet love' it would have won him."

Ophelia sighed.

"So we are here on the words of a perpetually horny nobleman… from a hundred and fifty years ago?"

Sarella made a so-so gesture.

"The diary was written in one thirty three, so a hundred and sixty four years. And I think it might have been recopied at some point, but yes."

Rubbing her face, the witch shook her head.

"You were right about the shit-sword in the shit-city. So you're right about the horny-sword written about by the horny-knight. I'll find it, just don't start a riot in Tumbleton too, ok?"

Punching her sister in the arm, the scholar went in for a quick, crushing hug.

"I'll have the men set up targets and practice my archery!"

Rolling her eyes, the younger sister couldn't help but make a comment.

"Maybe if you flirt with them they'll try to set one up to your lofty standards."

Her sister grinned cheekily, and Ophelia realized her mistake.

"Do or do not, there is no try!"

Ignoring the gobsmacked look her sister was sporting, the older sister winked at her and ran off. She was definitely going to be able to find another treasure and put Angui in his place when she got back! This was shaping up to be a truly awesome quest!

---

Ophelia​

---

She didn't mind the situation she was in.

Soft lips were covering hers, a warm hand was on her hip and the other on her cheek. Firm breasts pressed into her own and Tyene's tongue was exploring her mouth and their embrace was only growing deeper. Fingers pushed down the back of her breeches and down her small clothes, eagerly cupping her buttocks.

Kissing back, she fought for dominance but being both surprised and unprepared Ophelia failed to assert herself. Instead, she found herself pushed down into her bedding and forced to endure long, agonizing minutes of kissing an incredibly attractive young woman.

Pulling back suddenly, chest heaving, Tyene took a deep breath.

Knowing she wanted more, the girl who had never truly appreciated how nice it felt to be kissed… even if you had been asleep just a few moments before, leaned up and resumed the kiss. This time it was Tyene who was surprised and the younger of the two found it easy to pull her companion to the ground, holding her close and tight until they parted for breath once more, both panting and blushing.

"Welcome back."

Her sister's words were needy, almost as needy as her embrace, but most of all it was the tremor of fear in her words that scared Ophelia.

By now they had ended up half on their sides, sprawled out on top of the sleeping roll the witch was using. In truth, she should have been surprised that Tyene had ridden out to meet them, after all she had no way of knowing they were approaching the party. But it seemed like such a her thing to do that the surprised teenager who'd just managed to finish waking up was actually glad. Still, though, the worry made her a bit confused and, shifting so that their position was a bit more comfortable, she pulled her older sister closer. One of the benefits of being so tall was that comforting another was an easy thing to do, after all.

"What's wrong?"

Obvious first words, but necessary all the same.

"Nothing." That was a half lie. They both knew it. The witch let it pass and gave her sister time to formulate a response. "I missed you."

Those simple words were true. And, thankfully, ones that were understandable. Even if she strongly suspected they weren't the whole truth. Still, smiling, the once hero spoke even as she held her sister close.

"It was only two weeks. You couldn't wait one more day?"

A head of blonde hair shook and the younger of the two chuckled.

"Such a big baby sometimes." In a fey mood, the normally more reticent of the two found herself a bit willing to indulge. For a while, she kissed the young woman she wasn't sure if truly loved, their fingers searching each other as their tongues intertwined and they nipped and bit and embraced. But in that moment this was enough, a degree of closeness and familiarity and intimacy.

Even if she still felt like an old pervert indulging in a broken young girl's affections.

After a while, they calmed and settled into bed together. At peace, they were quiet, so quiet they almost could have been mistaken for sleeping, but as Sarella came into the tent they shuffled to the side as the giggling sister of theirs simply grabbed her bow and quiver.

"Oh don't let me disturb the two lovers. After all, I've enjoyed your company every night for the last two weeks dear Ophelia. It would be wrong to deny it to poor, kind Tyene now."

The blonde looked up at her.

"I don't like to sleep alone." Offering an honest defense, she hoped that was enough. And, when her… most innocent seeming of sisters huffed and grabbed Sarella by the arm it was apparently accepted. At least once their third sister was trapped between then and Tyene was snuggled in as closely as she could be.

"So, did you find the sword?" The most committed poisoner of the three asked. "Was it where you thought it would be?"

Sarella groaned at that, half shaking her head.

"It was awful!"

Refusing to say more, she left the rest up to the third sister to explain, quite happily putting that memory out of her mind. For her part, Ophelia mostly found it all a bit darkly amusing and chuckled.

"Oh we found it all right. And you won't believe this, but, somehow, it was lodged through at four different skulls."

Reaching over to her side, she grabbed a small bundle of furs and sat them down, opening it up to reveal the still pristine blade of Vigilance.

"Finding the pommel and guard was actually more time consuming, as they'd fallen off. But our innocent sister here got quite the fright when I had it brought up."

Glaring at the grinning witch, the middle sister couldn't keep the sarcasm out of our voice.

"Oh, no, it wasn't horrifying at all. Four grinning, mud preserved, impaled skulls. All crawling with water bugs and held up by river eels."

"Aww. Poor thing. It must have been awful." Tyene pressed herself against the trapped sister, lips to her ear, and even Ophelia herself was grinning as Sarella grew more and more flustered.

"Would a little kiss help, dear sister? I'm sure that between the three of us we can have a little fun."

Groaning, the scholar simply wriggled free, and made to flee.

"Gods above, you're as bad as Father! Both of you!"

She didn't make it very far.

An hour later they were all three on their horses, clad in breeches or trousers so as to be able to ride them properly. At least in Ophelia's opinion. Side saddle was a quick way to break your neck and she'd insist on that fact till the day she died. It also boggled her mind that no one had bothered to provide the queen or the princess Myrcella with proper riding skirts until she stepped in.

'Scandal be damned, a broken neck isn't worth a bit of perceived impropriety.'

Her thoughts wavered a bit as the day went on, with the party reaching the royal procession by nightfall. Thankfully, in the two weeks of their absence the whole of the thing had only inched forward - relative to their heady pace - and so their return trip was near enough to the same as their leaving to be simple in its familiarity. Meaning finding the damn thing was easy!

Dispersing now that they were returned, the men at arms broke away to return their extra supplies, Darkstar broke to go do as he was want to do, and Lancel gave the trio of young women a nod and excused himself to report to the king.

"I'll go see Father. He'll want to know all about how you pranked me, I'm sure." Sarella was half smirking as she spoke. "Besides, we need to get the sword to Mott."

A hug and the middle sister trotted off on her horse, deftly weaving through the camp.

"You should see the queen." Tyene's words were low. "She was the one that asked me to come find you."

And just like that, Ophelia knew what had her most… attentive of companions truly bothered.

"You know I'll never replace you, right?"

The other girl just shook her head.

"We'll talk more later. Go."

With a sad smile she moved to part ways. Ophelia, however, asserted control over her sister's mount and trotted them behind an out of the way tree. Ignoring the risk, she leaned over and pressed a fierce kiss to Tyene's lips and broke away.

"Now I will. I'm serious. As horrible I am about actually knowing what I want, I'll never replace you, never abandon you. I promise."

Swallowing, the not quite most terrifying blonde Ophelia knew of gave her a smile. It was small, a little afraid and a little hopeful, and they clasped hands for a moment. Then, they too parted, moving out from behind the trees and heading to their respective destination - from the heading of the woman who loved her, the reincarnated human guessed it would be towards the part of the camp where their family was staying. After all, she could hear shouts of excitement and there was a great crowd gathered. Who better than the Dornish to cause excitement?

Smiling to herself, the witch maneuvered towards where her Swarm told her the queen's tent was set and braced herself, wondering what reception she could expect.

"Hello Ophelia." Her hand was halfway to the wooden plate and paused. "I have been waiting for you." Cersei's words seemed unnaturally prescient and Ophelia's own creatures told her that the queen was sitting and reading, sipping from a cup of tea. "Please, come in."

Pushing the entry flap out of the way, she noted that no one else was around save for Ser Jaimie. No servants, no guards, even her children were elsewhere in the camp - only a silent brother that gave her a small smile and stepped outside. On the whole, she wondered what was going and what was about to happen. She even wondered a little if she was about to be asked to sit down on a chair or touch a poisoned dish.

"Your grace."

Caution was no excuse for a lack of courtesy and she dipped her head.

"Sit down." The mother of three waved a hand at her. "I… have a few things to say." There was a little hesitation in the voice of another woman she simply didn't expect that from. "But first, let me say that I am glad you are back. Was your mission successful?"

The queen took a drink from her see and Ophelia nodded and took a seat in a large, plush chair.

"Sarella is a clever woman."

"Of course she is." Cersei gave her a small smile. "Good. Will you be turning this third sword into another masterpiece? Perhaps use it to bring glory to another of Robert's bastards?"

Letting an internal sigh, the amateur alchemist readied herself to respond, taking in the pinched, angry face of the scorned woman she was talking to. And then, it was gone.

"I - we - yes." Swallowing, the blonde beauty shook her head. "What I want to say is that my words were untrue. Both what I just said and what I said before you left. The things I called you…."

"They weren't all untrue." Still tense, the Dornishwoman firmly shook her head. "It was impulsive, thoughtless, and I shamed you in front of the court. I ended up dragging a wife's greatest humiliation in front of the people you're supposed to rule over and practically rubbed your nose in it. My desires for Gendry to be able to make his father proud aside, you… you are my friend. I'm sorry too."

"You really are, aren't you?" Cersei's green, green eyes search Ophelia's face for any sign of a lie, a mild amazement in her tone. "Why?" It wasn't an accusatory question, but a searching one. Spoke out of utter, totally confusion. "Why me? Why you? Why now?" Her words were soft and questing, as if being the Gods for an answer. "Why are you sorry? I accused you and your sisters of seducing my husband, of seducing his son, of infiltrating the court, of manipulating me, and I accused you of being just like me." The last word was said with a bitterness, deep and earthy and full of rot. "Of being like an oath breaker and an adulterer and far, far worse. What I called you would be grounds for a feud and I screamed loudly enough that others could hear… to be honest, I half expected Tyene to be my death."

Snorting, the witch shook her head.

"I told her to watch over you. She won't kill you. Not unless she truly believes you mean to turn against me." Now she shrugged, trying to communicate how much she truly did not understand about her desires, Ophelia forged ahead. "And the truth is I enjoy your company. More than I probably should. Your eyes remind me of a friend I once had."

That last statement had been blurted out. And it was the truth. Cersei didn't have the same mocking wit as Lisa, though both could most definitely be cutting, but they had the same anger and hurt and sense of failure in them. Even if the former had more experience at it.

'Am I truly so attached to the memories of a friend that is lost to me that I am forcing her onto Cersei?' It was clearly an illogical decision, perhaps understandable in the context of the excitement of everything going on around her and the lust born of puberty. 'But I suppose it's true. It's easy to see what you want to see. And maybe I want to see Lisa in her?'

Cersei snorted, she chuckled, she threw her head back and gave a full throated laugh to the heavens.

"A wonder of wonders. That a child would have such a simple reason to do a thing. Tell me, child, of this lost friend of yours?"

There was earnest interest in the question and it was not truly such an odd thing to ask. Ophelia had been the one to bring it up and even now she remembered Lisa, her loyalty, her strength, her failures, her defeats. A glasgow grin, red and ugly and fresh, and how, even at the end, she never left. Even when Taylor was gone and Khepri was barely holding herself together Lisa Wilbourn had been her constant.

One of a few, perhaps, and she shouldn't discount Danny Hebert, her first father, but he just didn't get what she was ever going through. She and Brian had drifted apart, Rachel was… Rachel, Alec died to save Aisha, and Aisha was Aisha too.

There was also Lily and Sabah, even if Sabah had never trusted her, Charlotte, Forest, Sierra, and all the rest of the people who had supported her as Skitter.

Sometimes they died.

Sometimes they disappeared.

Sometimes things just stopped them from reconnecting.

But Lisa was always there. Always figuring out a way to reach out to her, to keep her going, to just help.

"Her name was Sarah Livesy. But I knew her as Lisa Wilbourne." She smiled, something small and a little sad. "Well, that's not quite true. I knew her first as Tattletale."

---

Doran Nymeros Martell​

---

"She's doing well my prince." Marissa dipped her head, bowing lowly. "And the child is growing well too. However, the cravings have well and truly started. Her last meal was pickled fish eggs, roasted cabbage, and pomegranates."

Doran chuckled, amused as always at the eccentricities of his brother's paramour.

"You are a loyal attendant." She smiled at his praise. "Have you noticed anything else unusual recently?"

Frowning, the maid shook her head.

"I have not and that is what worries me."

Wholeheartedly agreeing, the crippled prince made his worries known.

"If one little bird was caught, surely there are more. Will you go back to her? Protect her as you protected my niece when she was so sickly?"

Bowing again, the maid nodded.

"Of course, my prince. It will be my honor."

This drew a snort of approval from him.

"If only I had married a woman like you. Aye. Thank you dear."

"I am but gutter trash." Immediately disagreeing, the woman shook her head. "A whore permitted to be a mother, if only by surrogate. It is to you and your brother I owe my thanks."

At this he too had to disagree.

"Hardly. Few women can love the child of another as fiercely as her own. I'll not hear you speak ill of yourself in my presence again."

"You flatter me, my prince. Any more and I'd have you mistaken for Oberyn." She meant it in jest, but he was quite serious. Doran's younger brother had done quite a lot to earn his reputation, something involving a mile long line of lovers and trying to entice anyone he saw as attractive to his bed.

His paramour was no different.

In fact, she could be worse when it came to inviting others to the couple's shared bed.

An invitation that maid had been tempted with… on more than one occasion. Even after she'd taken up a more permanent position as maid to his children.

"I will have you know, my dear, that I am no slouch either. Though I have our bright little Ophelia's remedies to thank for.that. Being a cripple in totality is… unpleasant in the extreme. Even if it is merely a case of rather advanced gout." And that was the least of it. The Witch of Dorne already had earned the Prince's thankfulness and favor a hundred times over by the time she left childhood. "Tell me though. How are the others? Doreah, Lorezza, and Obella? Are they giving you or the other maids trouble?"

Marissa smiled, a warm tender thing, something only a proud mother could manage.

"They are behaving as expected, rowdy at some points, as were their sisters. They miss their sisters and act out to get attention. Thinking that maybe if they cause enough of a mess, their sisters and father will come back to soothe them."

Sunspear was much quieter without most of the Sand Snakes.

And those left were doing their level best to make some noise. Oberyn's children down to their very bones.

"I'm tempted to recall them just to be free of the little ones."

"Oh? So confident you could convince me to order it, my dear?" Doran smirked in challenge.

"My Prince is a wise man, and just ruler. You will always do what benefits our Kingdom and his family. But perhaps he should think of what benefits himself more often."

Well now, consider Doran interested.

But tempted as he was, there was still work to be done.

"Perhaps another time, Marissa. There is much I need to do. Dorne won't elevate itself alone."

"It would if you considered handing it to our dear Witch."

This time Doran laughed.

"If only it were that easy, maybe I'd have considered earlier. But no, even if I offered to make Ophelia my heir, I am sure she would refuse to accept it and lock herself in her glass house. She does not appreciate the weight of the crown."

This time it was the maid who laughed.

"Yes, that shy little thing wouldn't like having to sit on a throne."

Sometimes Doran forgot how well Marissa knew his niece. The woman had been the one who practically raised Ophelia back when she was brought to the palace. Such a quiet little babe, never making a noise. Even back then she unnerved people with how different she was.

But not the woman before him.

She loved and raised the girl, accepting every revelation as it came, never judging or fearing her. No matter how distant the girl was or how strange she acted, there was no doubt that Marissa loved her, and that Ophelia grew to love her back.

"You are quite the wonder yourself, Marissa."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my Prince."

Well, if there were ever a time Doran felt like having Ophelia and her miracle concoctions back. This would have been it. Alas, duty comes before pleasure. And so it was with great effort that Doran resolved to continue investigating this avenue at a later time.

"Is the council ready?"

The maid pouted, her hopes for fun dashed entirely.

"Yes, they have been summoned. I dare say they've been waiting for you for the past five minutes."

Doran's eye twitched.

Really? Distracting him from working himself to death? This cheeky maid was applying what she learnt from Ophelia well. He'd make sure to reward her… thoughtfulness sometime later.

But now? It was time to work.

Grunting, he stood. His body ached and the redness and swelling around his knees and ankles were surely getting worse. Opening up the last flask of potion his niece had prepared for him, the prince knocked it back with a single long, deep swig. Taking a deep breath and suitably fortified, he marched down from his throne and strode over to his table.

"Let them in."

Areo Hotah, his ever faithful guard, saluted.

Looking around the room, he counted those knives he had gathered. His physical state was augmented, of course. Both his brace and his cane were concealed behind a tapestry and his wheelchair was in a side room. His hair and beard had been trimmed, the shots of grey intentionally shaped to exaggerate the sharpness of the planes of his face. Even his robes were such that they suggested a man with vigor the prince had not had in years.

Clad in gold and black, with a samite belt hanging around his waist. His trousers were loose, light, and made of silk in a satin weave. His shirt, if it could be called such, opened down to his waist and it allowed the rest of his guests to see the abdominal muscles he'd cultivated.

'I may not have been able to walk, but I was certainly not lazy.'

On the whole, he was doing everything he could to look like his brother.

Murmuring voices appeared behind him and still, he did not turn to them. Before him was lain out dozens of maps, charts, reports, lists, and even rough sketches of the key targets.

"My prince."

Finally acknowledging the others, he gave Ricasso, his seneschal, a nod. With him came Ser Manfrey Martell, his cousin and castellan, and Lady Allbright, his treasurer. So too was Dantalos of Braavos and Lorsenyo of Braavos with them as well. He greeted Dantalos, an engineer, first, but let the second Braavosi wait for a few moments. His love for the banker was very little, even if he needed the man's help.

"Your sons, my prince."

One of the men at arms walked over, saluting, and withdrawing away. These men were his best and he appreciated the twenty four spearmen in the room with him. Clad in light mail over gambesons, each men wore linen and were black head to toe, save for House Martell sigil on their shields, the veiled warriors stood silent and watched the growing war counsel.

"Stand firm Quentyn, Trystane. The fun begins now."

Quentyn's nod was slightly hesitant but there was determination in his eyes, while Trystane seemed almost arrogant in how the preteen gave as firm a nod as such a child could.

Next came the lords.

First was Anders Yronwood, his strongest vassal and, up until Quentyn fostered with the man, the man most likely to try and usurp him. He was still a threat. Well built with brown hair and dark eyes, he stood there in mail and satin. Behind him was Ryon Allerion and his bastard, Daemon Sand. Larra Blackmont and Allyria Dayne and Franklyn Fowler and Trebor Jordayne and Quenton Qorgyle and all the rest came next.

The lords Santagar, Toland, Uller, Vaith, and Wyl were all there. Representing the sell swords was Prince Xalabhar Xho and Ser Gerris Drinkwater had been elected to represent the hedge knights and volunteers that Quentyn himself had tasked with recruiting. Others stood behind the main body, sons and daughters, either heirs or talented warriors each, and they waited.

"And our guests?"

A final body of men entered the hall. Lord Paxter Redwyne and Lord Arstan Selmy lead the contingents from the Reach and the Stormlands respectively. Garlan Tyrell, however, led them both. The second son of Mace Tyrell was in half plate and nodded to Doran when the prince nodded at him.

"Good. Then we shall begin. Gather round."

He let his vassals and allies sort themselves, seeing how they organized themselves and only using a glare to suppress any potential unrest. In the end, Xho, Yronwood, Tyrell, his advisors, and both Redwyne and Selmy formed the innermost ring. Drinkwater had notably stood at Quentyn's side and joked with Trystane, drawing a laugh from the young man.

"Let me say how thankful I am for this opportunity my lord-"

Redwyne spoke until Yronwood grunted and interrupted him.

"Prince."

Garlan Tyrell gave his father's vassal a significant look and the man dipped his head.

"My prince."

Doran inclined his head.

"You are most welcome. Now, to cut through the suspense and the pretension. We are going to scour the Stepstones." His lips curled up at the suddenly shrewd look in every single man's eye. "And we are going to colonize them, annexing them into Dorne. Then, as repayment for the Prince Jalabhar Xho's aid, we will restore him to his throne in the Summer Islands."

Muttering broke out.

This plan seemed almost mundane compared to what they expected. After all, Dorne scoured the Stepstones every so often and attempts had been made to either raise them as an eighth kingdom or to occupy them or other things. And the prince let them continue plotting for a moment longer.

"And we shall make the Summer Islands the eighth kingdom of Westeros and through all of this, a final solution to the eternal problem of slavery will be in our grasp."

That got him the response he wanted. Xho was bombarded by questions and he answered them smoothly and blithely. As one of the few men who actually knew all of this plan… or at least the greater portion, he knew that this wasn't even the full extent of it. But he fielded the curious words of the others easily enough as the prince himself contented himself with once more watching his vassals. He did not speak again until he placed his fingers on a particular chart.

"Our plan is simple, with a singular goal and overall command will be in my son's hand. Quentyn will explain it now."

"Yes Father." His voice was strong and there was only a flicker of hesitation in him as he stepped forward. "As you can see, we've acquired shipping, tidal, and star charts for the area. The major pirate camps have been identified here, here, and here-" Each time he pointed to a different sketch - not a one of which was drawn to the same scale. "There are a total of forty pirate crews in the area, with a force of maybe two thousand ships to their claim."

That got unpleasant murmurs from the group and Quentyn flinched. Doran waited a moment, about to put his hand on his eldest son's shoulder when the boy rallied and cut through the noise.

"Of those, only a hundred are of the size of our ships, with the rest being mostly longships and raiding vessels. However, directly engaging them on the open sea is not to our advantage. Even with the Redwyne fleet, the lords of the Stormlands, and the sellsails recruited, we can only muster a bit over six hundred war ships. So, instead, we shall prosecute a land campaign."

"And how do you propose to do that, boy."

Yronwood's words were low and firm, but not cruel. A mild challenge, though only one of many Doran knew his son would have to face.

"By the element of surprise, my lord." Pulling out several other reports, he began to pass them around and continued explaining things. "As of right now, with all wages and fees paid, we have a war chest of some three hundred thousand dragons. With that, we wish to fund a series of strikes against the major pirates bases through the use of beached merchant vessels. Their cargoes of warriors will secure beachheads and allow us to land the rest of our ground troops. At that point, we will advance on the fortified locations on each island and lay siege to them, though we would strongly prefer to storm those locations before the pirates can rally to them. "

Passing around more sketches, both depicting the ships and the plans in action, Quentyn paused when the Cripple Prince put a hand on his shoulder.

"Before, the pirates have always used early warning systems to flee and hide when we attacked. But I have engaged Master Dantalos to modify… boarding ramps." The engineer in question stepped forward at Doran's gesture. "A number of retired ships have been refurbished. Each will hold a contingent of knights and sell swords and will beach themselves on the sands of the various island's natural harbors. By this manner, what seems to be a suicidal flight will catch the pirates off guard. We shall ensure rumors are leaked to them that the cargo of these ships is my niece's silk and gold intended to win my lady wife back to my side." Here he chuckled. "Behind them will be our squadron of warships who will prevent any vessels from escaping. And, while the main assaults are happening, the sell sails will be carrying out raids against the other, smaller groups."

Patting his son on the shoulder again, he let the lad take over once more.

"Our initial plan is to crush the pirate ships. We don't want them to be able to escape to return another day. So the conquest of the actual islands themselves can wait until our coalition can exert total dominance over the seas." Pulling out the sketches of the various pirate lords, he passed them around as well. "These are the men we must kill or capture, preferably the latter so we might try and hang them, and our other secondary objectives include the rescue of captives, the freeing of slaves, the seizing of their plunder, and the capture of as many quality ships as possible."

Garlan spoke, voicing the planned concern.

"And if we do face battle?" And then he continued. "Or if a storm strikes us? Or there is disease or plague or the pirates prove stronger than anticipated?"

His son frowned, but they had prepared for this so he simply responded.

"Our squadrons will only move in force. Any direct combat will only be a threat if they can trap us or pick us off. For the former, we have hired sell sails that both have scoured the Stepstones before and for the later a tight command will be maintained." Here he shrugged. "Only the Gods know if they wish to smite us. But, if that does happen, rally points have been established in the Stormlands with Lord Renly's approval and in Essos too."

At that, Dantalos snorted and Lorsenyo stepped forward.

"The Iron Bank has a vested interest in the recovery of certain debts amongst some of the pirates and slavers. We are supporting this expedition in hopes of recouping losses."

"And of driving Dorne to gilded slavery."

The murmur came from the back of the room and Doran didn't waste his time responding. After all, the banker was probably the most powerful man in this room no matter how much it galled the lords. Still, he finally squeezed his son's shoulder and gave him a nod.

Quentyn took over again, explaining their logistics chains, and plans for supply. He mentioned how their support fleet was gathering now and how and where they would rally.

Pay masters and squadron leaders were decided, with the Crippled Prince only interceding when the debates grew heated. Summoning servants, tables, and chairs, food and drink was provided. Ultimately, Doran had to wonder which of the men here were in league with the pirates. He held no illusions that at least half of them would send ravens to their own circles, cliques, and patrons within the week. But that wouldn't be… too dangerous. Not so long as his actual guards, not the ceremonial warrior's he'd dressed up to catch attention, managed to capture the ones that truly were a threat.

Mostly.

If nothing else, he could have them watched. Monitor their mail. Maybe have a few seized and tortured. Doran had little interest in playing the Game. He aimed to sweep the pieces off the board unless they were under his control.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: So! Long story short. Real life sucks. And what was supposed to be only a month-long hiatus for one of our stories devolved into a lot of personal drama and a spiral of various issues that had to be handled. So, I'm reiterating… real life sucks. But you know what doesn't? Writing! Which we are really glad to be getting back to.

AtW: Right now we're trying to get the commissions wrapped up, but I'll be heading out of town for a week. So consider this an asterisk attempting to begin ramping up our output again.

CW: Now then! Onto the reading!

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Chapter 10 - The Show Must Go On!​

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Ophelia​

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Wood dug into her jaw, scraping and tearing as Ophelia felt her head snap up and to the side. Even as she tried to bring her shield up, the training weapon snapped down, smacking her collarbone, and then back up against her jaw. And, despite the training armor she wore, even that light tap was enough to send her reeling.

Stumbling backwards, the witch tripped over her own feet and fell backwards.

"Good attempt, my lady, but you lacked rapidity."

Ser Barristan strolled forward, sword out before him, a casual smile on the old man's face even as Obara lashed out with her spear.

Holding it with both hands, the Sand Snake brought the tip up and aimed straight at her opponent's throat, barrelling forward with the intent to do rather serious harm. That, of course, did little to disturb the swordsman.

Snapping his own wooden sword up, he smacked the haft off target, letting it skid across his pauldrons, and then brought his weapon down to wrap the blade against the eldest Snake's fingers. This, of course, only induced Obara to drop her spear and rush her opponent, trying to get inside his guard. Snarling as she drew a wooden dagger, the Dornish woman did everything she could to crowd the veteran warrior… who responded by stepping inside her guard, picking her up using his hip for leverage, and tossing her to the ground with enough force to wind her.

"Remember, my lady, you must not let me close to a grapple. A knife is only good if it strikes home."

Sarella, the third and last of the sisters, then leapt forward. Throwing a clod of mud right into the man's face - the wet splat making even Ophelia wince - she snatched up Obara's fallen spear and tossed it to their sister.

Knowing now was the moment to go, and despite both her spinning head and the blood she could taste, the once warlord rose to her feet. Taking up her shield and sword she advanced, covering her spear wielding sisters, and doing what she could to give the two of them a chance to get their breath back.

After all, Ser Barristan had absolutely pummeled her half Islander sister at the start of the fight, knocking her into the ground twice just to enrage Obara into over extending, leaving Ophelia isolated and without the advantage of a spear's reach.

That he did so on his own, with only a wooden sword spoke of how utterly outmatched they had been.

"Excellent ploy my lady. However, this does not taste particularly like just mud. So I do ask you to refrain from doing this again."

Having just finished scraping off the debris blocking his sight, the old knight parried Ophelia's thrust, then grunted when he blocked her shield strike with his arm. This was not what she had hoped would happen when she aimed the rim of her training shield at his throat.

"I could hear your footsteps, my lady."

And just like that, the man forced a blade lock, bringing all of his weight down on her arm. Grunting, Ophelia reinforced the lock, hoping to buy her sisters time to close and strike, but this was her undoing. As the two spearwomen approached, Ser Barristan gave her an apologetic smile, reared his head back, and brought his forehead down on her padded helmet.

Normally, that would have been a moderate thump, well cushioned and easy to ignore thanks to the layers of padded wool that made up her training armor.

Having already been struck in the head and still a bit dizzy, the blow caused the witch to stumble, losing what little leverage she had managed to preserve, and then found herself bodily picked up and thrown at Sarella.

Yelping, the young woman in question caught her taller, heavier sister, though both were still incredibly light compared to the grown man they were facing, and was knocked to the ground in a tangle of limbs and training weapons. This, finally, drew a snarl and a curse form Obara who replied by throwing her spear with all her might before scooping up Ophelia's dropped sword mid charge.

Ser Barristan simply turned slightly to the side, snatched the weapon out of mid air, and lashed out with it at Obara's ankles.

Leaping over the attack, and striking out with her own weapon, the Sand Snake's attack once more glanced off, the knight turning to the side so as to let the blow simply hit his own armor, and then, as the Flying Snake came down, smacked her in the ribs - winding her once again.

Obara, however, wasn't quite done, pulling another wooden knife and, turning a stumble into a roll, brought it up and angled the blade at the knight's crotch - theoretically at the point where his armor would not cover the inside of his thighs. But probably aiming straight at a spot a bit less polite to stab.

Laughing, he twisted his hips and snapped his legs together, trapping the thrust, and then conked the surprised young woman in the head with the pommel of his sword.

"You know, your daughter sure does spend a lot of time on her knees… my prince." Ser Jaimie chortled from the sidelines, drawing a laugh out of several of the other men watching the fight.

"Aye. Almost as much time as you do cleaning up the king's vomit from your hair. I must say, Ser Lannister, that you preen more than any woman I've ever met, including your sister."

Ophelia sighed at her father's response, because the raucous laughter from the spectating knights and squires told her that he and the Lannister Kingsguard would fighting again… and that meant that Ser Jaimie would probably be far too bruised to satisfy his sister for a few days. Again.

Still, she freed her arm from the straps of her shield and rolled off of Sarella.

"You ok sis?"

The middle sister had landed in the muck and was, even then, trying to scrape some of the mud out of her hair.

"I'll be better when your boney ass isn't crushing my stomach."

Snorting, the witch climbed to her feet, reasserting the passive control over her swarm she had surrendered for training purposes, and held out her hand.

"We lasted longer this time."

"That you did, my lady." Ser Barristan walked over, Obara, somewhat unsteady, stumbling as he helped her along. "All three of you are definitely improving and you, especially, are learning to rely on your own skills and not those of your powers. Lady Sarella, I do request that you… avoid any further projectiles in the future."

Somewhat sheepish, the young woman nodded.

"I do apologize, Ser, I mostly just acted. It isn't… too bad, is it?"

Smiling, the knight merely shook his head.

"Not so bad at all. Not nearly so bad as the knock I seem to have given your sister."

Obara grunted, making some kind of noise and almost fell over.

"Worry not, brave ser knight." Ophelia chuckled. "All you shall have to fear is for your chastity. It seems my sisters have quite the affection for refined men of great skill in combat."

That little jest earned her a clump of mud to the back of the head.

She knew it was coming, of course.

But she'd give her sister the benefit this time. If only to pay her back for the teasing.

"A valiant showing, my ladies."

Ser Jaime walked towards them with all the poised grace of an eager pup. Happy to bask in the sisters'... less than stellar performance. After all, he'd only known their unflappable sides. The ones they used to strike fear on people. It must have been a breath of fresh air to see them so readily handled by Ser Barristan.

Ophelia knew some of the other Royals though it was a riot - Robert's laughter having yet to have fully stopped. Cersei herself seemed content giving the trio a knowing smile and offering polite applause.

'I will see about relieving the King of my valuable services in the coming days.' Let the man feel his muscles tear and burn under Ser Barristan's tyrannic yoke! It served him right for making fun of her.

Speaking of which.

"Ser Jaimie, Prince Oberyn, now that this early challenge has been finished, perhaps the both of you would enjoy another match?"

Winking at the girls, he handed Obara over to her sisters as the two men who had just been trading insults froze.

"Just a bit of light sparring. I am sure that knights of your quality would enjoy the… test."

Ophelia raised an eyebrow when her father froze. And, sharing a grin with Sarella, whom she would get back for the mud in her hair later, the two spoke up as they held Obara between them.

"Indeed. Ser Jaimie, the queen has spoken at length of your prowess and skill."

Sarella spoke prettily and respectfully, looking down as she did so to hide her grin.

"Father, surely you are not afraid to do that which three little girls have done? Big, strong men such as yourselves should find it a simple enough task."

The crowd turned against them both, razzing the men and urging them to face Ser Barristan - who even then accepted a cloth and wiped the last of the mud from his skin. That he wasn't even winded, no matter his age, seemed far more intimidating than anything else about the man.

Ultimately, neither Sarella nor Ophelia lingered, instead making their way over to their other sisters as cheers went up from the makeshift arena behind them. It was as they sat down, Nymeria and Tyene looking over their injuries and tutting - the witch spitting out a mouthful of her own blood from a split lip - that they were joined by one Ser Arys Oakheart.

"My ladies did well. You actually gave him more of a workout than I did when I was first tested by him." Chortling, the knight continued. "Of course, I also didn't throw a mud pie in his face."

Sarella, blushing, looked away so it was the youngest of the Snakes present - Elia having remained behind at the makeshift training field to cheer on Ser Barristan at the top of her lungs - that responded to the man.

"I thought all the Kingsguard trained with Ser Barristan?"

The man smiled wryly.

"Not all of us have that honor, no. He tests each of us, of course. But if you fail said test… well, let's just say Ser Merryn Trant has to spend a good part of his time on chores."

Ophelia bit back a laugh.

So that was why that Kingsguard was helping set up the stables back in King's Landing.

She had wondered about it, but the Red Keep just hadn't seen a moment of peace between her arrival, the discovery of the fire traps, and then the Martells doing their level best to disrupt routine. Ophelia had - somehow - ended up assuming they'd been short on people for whatever reason and the man had offered to help.

'That certainly puts things into perspective.'

And did help allay her wounded pride over getting bonked on the head by a piece of wood.

All the silly knights made it seem so easy, too.

Well, it wasn't that Ophelia was above cheating. In a fight to the death, there was no place for honor and fair play. You fought with everything you had or died. And the witch was in no hurry to see if her miraculous rebirth would repeat itself.

However, now that a gap in the crowd had formed, the group could watch the unfolding duel.

Father and Ser Jaime were so much more impressive than three neophytes like the witch and her sisters.

Of course, the witch had always known her father was a fighter. A truly skilled warrior who wasn't above cheating like a vicious bastard if it would give him the slightest edge. Moreover, he was a trained knight, skilled in all the weapons he was expected to be. But the simple fact was that the Red Viper was a spearman.

It was the weapon he was most comfortable with, most familiar with, and, by far, the most skilled with. Now, wielding a sword just as wooden as Ser Barristans, he displayed a degree of ferocity that he'd only adopted since Ophelia's gift.

Yet, credit where credit was due, Ser Jaime kept up with him.

Better yet. He pushed him.

Their duo was raw, fresh, and they had only faced each other a few times in the past. Now, being suddenly forced to work together as Ser Barristan rained blows down on the both of them, they were hard pressed to so much as stay out of each other's way - never mind actively work together. And in their dance of twisting blows and violent slashes and precise thrusts, she had little doubt that Ser Jaimie was the better swordsman - though, perhaps, not the better warrior - between him and her father. Yet it was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that dominated them both.

In movements as simple as a flick of the wrist, the man could bring his blad around, curving past a solid block or fluid parry, and strike at a man's guard. With every blow that struck out at the man, he turned, letting his body roll with every strike or simply slip past it. More than trusting his arms and armor, the veteran seemed to be intimately, impossibly familiar with the weapons as an extension of his body.

So there, on the muddy, torn up field that had been claimed by the knights and warriors of the royal procession, the three men struck out and dodged and parried and gave their utter all to defeating each other.

A roaring crowd surrounded them and called out, loud bets being exchanged and cries of success or defeat growing with each blocked slash or stunning blow.

Amongst the number of this crowd were, of course, some of the Kingsguard. But also Lord Dondarrion with his squire, the king's own squires, Darkstar, Robar Royce, Loras Tyrell, Thoros of Myr, dozens of minor lords, and fully a hundred hedge knights and sellswords and men at arms. Most of them people Ophelia simply didn't recognize, others she did but could not name. In the end, the crowd turned her thoughts to how the procession had slowly changed.

Their group parted, wounds suitably fussed over, and went to do as they normally did.

Sarella took up a bow, soreness never an excuse not to practice, Nymeria went to join Elia, Tyene attended the queen, and Ophelia herself indulged in a bit of people watching as she walked the camp.

Many things had changed since the arrival of the contingents from the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale. The Blackfish himself, Brynden Tully, had come leading a group of Vale knights and well wishes from Lysa Arryn herself. Allegedly. Ophelia privately suspected the letter was far less polite, but she hadn't been able to read it yet herself.

Still, he was only one of the men to show up. A group of Wester knights rode with Dravid Peyne, the current lord of House Payne and one of House Lannister's strongest supporters. So too did the Riverlands make a showing, under the command of Lord Jonos Bracken, a body of picked knights had joined the royal party as well. On the whole, there were possibly as many as four hundred knights and lords gathered together.

Though, by her reckoning, of them only forty, maybe less, were actually of any significant skill.

Her father belonged in the group of the best, of the ten men most unquestionably talented.

Ser Barristan was without peer, but between her father, Ser Loras, Ser Jaimie, Darkstar, and Sandor Clegane the second most skilled warrior was in great dispute. The king was quickly returning to his previous skill, but had yet to reach it so the title of second best was hotly contested day by day.

In her opinion, it was ultimately between the Hound - Clegane - and her father. Ophelia simply didn't think the rest of the men pragmatic enough to go to the lengths of those two and Darkstar and Loras both suffered from a particular lack of true experience in war.

The rest of the Kingsguard - Preston Greenfield, Meryn Trant, Mandone Moore, and Boros Blount - varied in quality from… disappointing to well within the realms of "fodder".

Lord Dondarrion and Ser Brynden were most wondrously skilled and, along with a peasant archer named Anguy, seemed to represent the best of those who did not quite stand on that level, though the peasant's own skills lay more in the area of archery and he had only some moderate skill with a spear. The witch still considered him important for the one reason he was able to reliably challenge Sarella, who was, without a doubt, the single most sublime archer the reincarnated woman had ever known.

Neither Sophia nor Lily could compare to her sister, with or without their powers.

Snorting, as the sister in question put an arrow through an apple, into a second, then a third, before pinning the cluster to a tree, the once heroine continued to push the limits of her ever shrinking range.

More than them, though, there were other men, knights and sellswords and men at arms alike, who had more or less skill with various weapons. One she had yet to be able to corner was Thoros of Myr, though she knew that was half her own fault. With the king and her father free to push the other to drink as they liked without consequence, they'd roped in half a dozen regular companions to over indulge.

In the end, she realized she'd made a full circuit of the grounds and that Ophelia actually had no pressing business.

So, figuring this moment was as good as any as to have another conversation she needed to, and still a bit worried about bothering Cersei too much, the young woman ceased her pointless meandering and turned towards where she knew Marwyn was.

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Quentyn Martell​

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Swallowing, the son of Doran Martell shuffled slightly.

"Oh, quit being such a worrier Quentyn. If I wasn't sure that she was attending Uncle, then I might venture to say that you act like Nymeria when no one knows where Tyene is."

Glaring at his little brother and best friend, the young prince tried not to disturb his tunic.

"Quit it Cletus, you almost told your father despite the oath you gave!"

Snorting, the heir of House Yronwood simply shrugged.

"Aye. And what did your father say about telling me?"

"That my son will rule one day, so he must learn to judge men on his own."

Snapping up into a bow, the young knight rose from the plush chair he'd been waiting in.

"My prince."

"Father!"

"Father."

Cletus, Trystane, and Quentyn greeted the smiling man, far less impressively dressed now but still walking under his own power. The youth couldn't stop himself from shooting his younger brother an envious glance, the child's absolute confidence something he desperately wished he had himself.

"I would speak with my son, Ser Cletus, your father is waiting for you in the war room." His father's words were firm, but hardly unkind, though it was the significant look the man gave Trystane that disturbed the young man the most.

After all, if Trystane couldn't hear what they were about to speak about, there was no way this was going to be an easy conversation. Swallowing again, the youth desperately hoped he hadn't screwed up. Even more frustratingly, his younger brother paused long enough to give him a tight hug and a significant look, the kind that said it was the older sibling in dear need of support.

Quentyn was unsure whether to be mildly insulted or just glad the brat was there.

Tossling Trystane's mop of curly hair, the young knight shoved the youth away, giving him a light kick to the rump and sending him in the direction of a silently laughing Cletus.

"Cheeky brats."

Doran's bark of laughter told him that his father had heard his mutter.

"I do not think you have seen enough moons to be calling anyone that." The older man sighed, sitting down where in the unoccupied lounge chair and letting his robes fall open.

"Father, your fingers!"

Rushing to Doran's side, Quentyn was horrified to see how swollen and red and ugly his parent's fingers were.

"Gout, boy." The prince grunted in pain. "I pray to the gods Ophelia either cures it completely or you face a different doom."

"Her potions ran out?"

His question was soft, somewhat worried but ultimately resigned.

"The last was used for my little stunt the other day."

A deep sigh filled the cool afternoon air.

In that moment, the two men simply existed. Sandstone floors beneath them, gentle, sloping walls around them, and a large balcony before them. Looking out onto the sea, and enjoying a cool breeze that smelled of salt and adventure, the wide room was pleasant… peaceful. Something rare the world over.

"My prince." Areo Hotah stepped inside, inclining his head. "I have swept the area. You have your privacy."

Quentyn watched silently his father as he bid thanks to the guard who soon left them. Eyes unwavering as he watched the man lost to his own thoughts. Not that the young man could blame him. He'd been plagued by thoughts of his own.

But looking at his father now, he considered the weight of his worries.

How long had it been since he'd seen the full weight of that damned gout that plagued him? Some days he forgot how painful life was for the man. How painful the days where he'd run out of his cousin's brews were. They'd alleviated father's pain, kept Doran from being forced from his seat of power. Yet Quentyn felt the Prince was only at his best when that phantom loomed over him.

Like a sword hanging over his neck.

A reminder that they still had much to do. And so little time.

When Quentyn looked at the man, he saw something he couldn't be.

A man who was willing bet his own life on a chance at success.

Were his father in possession of a body hale and whole, then House Nymeros Martell would not be known as the Princes of the least of Seven Kingdoms. Dorne would not be sand and bitter tears, memories of glories long past and perfumed submission to dragon lords. If his father could will it, then his sister would not be raped and his niece and nephew dead. Rather, all of Westeros would burn before anyone would ever dare think of raising a hand to one of them again.

Yet now… faced with a reminder of father's condition and his own fears, Quentyn had reservations.

Only a mad man wouldn't.

With Uncle and his cousins away, it was up to them to act without their support. Doran had told him once that everything would only go according to plan if all pieces played their part.

Be it the Red Viper.

The Witch of Dorne.

And yes, even he himself would play a part.

Quentyn, however, wasn't sure if he was ready to play his.

"I will be remembered." a hiss escaped his lips as the waves crashed over the shore.

"Father?" He looked up, his sire's greying hair seeming to almost consume the black.

"What do you see, Quentyn?"

The question caught him by surprise.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

His father rasped a silent chuckle.

"When you look out this balcony, beyond the sea and shit, beyond the horizon and the sun. What do you see, Quentyn?"

What did he see?

There… wasn't much to see so far out there. He saw a few seagulls, he saw the ebb and flow of the waves. If he squinted just right he could see the shape of a small island near the coast. But nothing else.

He told his father as such. And earned himself another rasping laugh.

"Do you know what I see, Quentyn? I see an enemy beyond our border. I see vast foreign lands filled with strange wonders and treasures. I see fire, blood, and war. I see terror and death. I imagine you see many of those when you look out there too."

The younger Martell nodded in shame.

Yes. He saw fear and enemies. He saw the blood and war his father spoke off.

"Aren't you scared, Father?"

Quentyn was a man grown - fifteen, knighted by Daemon Sand - but he had only ever seen a few skirmishes. No true battles and certainly not a war. And now… he faced possibly ruining his entire nation, seeing thousands dead for neither gain nor glory.

"No. I am not." His surprise must have shown, because the older man chuckled. "Death is coming for me, my son. Soon I will be a cripple, trapped in a wheelchair and bound to my bed. When that time comes, you and Trystane must be ready. Because I am afraid I will be leaving you a rather terrible fate."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed." Chuckling again, Quentyn blushed slightly when he, surprised, told his father that he had only just now understood why Cletus and Trystane had been asked to leave. "So, tell me, how much have you guessed?"

"About the plan?"

His father nodded.

"Well, the thing with the Summer Islands are a feint, are they?"

Doran made a gesture to continue.

"Uh… Tyrosh is also part of the Stepstones."

"And?"

A raised eyebrow from his father prompted the teenager to forge on ahead.

"And if we want to secure the Stepstones, that city must fall. But by taking it, we would most certainly provoke a war with the other city states - Lys and Myr in particular - though all the Free Cities would likely oppose such a thing."

"Indeed. Well done my son, you have grasped much. But not all of our ploy is quite so simple." Adjusting his position, the prince gestured for his son to come closer and continued speaking. "I have been working for eight years now to establish these connections and alliances. I would say that, perhaps, nine tenths of my schemes are known to others, in bits and pieces, and that many suspect much. Firstly, I will tell you how I began with a question. Where have your cousins gone, the ones who are not my nieces and nephews."

Biting his lip, Quentyn wracked his brain for names and faces that were long since missing from Sunspear and the Shadow City.

"Cousin Manfrey's sons haven't been here for… four years. Didn't Jacen, his eldest, take up as a merchant? The captain of our silk ships, if I recall correctly."

Clearly pleased, Doran nodded.

"Indeed. Amongst many others, the increased trade of Dorne has allowed a great deal of goods and coin to flow and, with it, information. The work that was done on our docks was vital to that end and, even if it will be a decade still until the last stones are lain, when it's done we will be able to host five hundred trade ships at a time… and considering we have not had extra space there for two years now, I think we might need to be planning a secondary port town even now."

Making a noise of agreement, Quentyn mostly winced at the thick tomes of sums he had been required to learn, so that he might be able to grasp the primary source of income for his House. Trade, after all, was the lifeblood of their nation.

"To that end, we have allies and contacts across Essos, even a few in Southros, and, with Arianne's marriage to Willas, we are secured to our north. All that remains is to prosecute the war itself."

"But father, that's the hard part!" He couldn't help but protest. After all, they were at little risk when counting coppers. Butchering men was bloody work and it always had a cost. "If nothing else, raising so many men, never mind the mercenaries, is going to be ruinously expensive."

At this, the old prince shrugged.

"It would be, had the Braavosi not agreed to certain things. Including exclusive rights to certain colors of silk and certain weaves and sole right to buy it from our merchants in Essos." Here he seemed to hesitate for a moment before, at Quentyn's prompting, he continued. "I have also negotiated a number of loans with the Iron Bank. It is for a not insignificant sum. In collateral, I have offered a great number of weights of silk and also art and treasures. That which Ophelia recovered from King's Landing, once sorted through, will also go a great ways to soothing any concerns about coin."

"We are also paying many of the hedge knights and mercenaries in land and spoils, are we not?"

Quentyn's statement got a pleased grunt from his father.

"Of course. Those who would accept air for bloodshed are most welcome in our first wave."

Frowning, the young man couldn't help but suspect there was more to the story than that.

"What exactly are you planning, Father?"

He frowned.

"Bluntly, to trade gold for blood and soil." Here he shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "House Martell are not witches. Your cousin aside, to my knowledge it is my brother that is our greatest sorcerer and I strongly suspect her magical talent comes more from the combination of blood that runs in Ophelia's veins. We are men of the desert, not of blood and fire. And so we must prove ourselves in ways that are known to us. Bluntly, I plan to sacrifice the sellswords of Westeros in the taking of the Summer Islands, sending the greedy and the evil to their deaths, holding the loyal and dutiful in reserve, and only commit our house forces to battles we are sure of."

"I… Father, you speak of throwing away hundreds of lives! Thousands!"

"Tens of thousands." Doran corrected. "Having spoken to my advisors, we expect about forty thousands losses should the strategy of overwhelming force be applied to the conquest of the Summer Islands."

Horrified, the young man nearly recoiled.

"To what end could you possibly suggest something so cruel!"

With a sad smile, Doran brought up a swollen, gout ridden hand to cup his son's cheek.

"To deny them to our foes."

And then everything slotted into place.

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

As the Prince of Doran chuckled, his son finally realized what this gamble meant. Troops from House Martell's own lands and vassals would be deployed to the Stepstones, along with mercenaries and warriors from the Stormlands and the Reach, and that meant the southern nations were vulnerable.

Dornish houses would be gathered and rallied and follow in the second wave, as had been discussed, being used to crush and secure each island one by one and then would fortify and settle them.

Smallfolk, mercenaries, and volunteers from the southern nations would be judged and shipped to the islands to raise wooden keeps and establish docks and expand natural harbors. This would help them supply their forces in the field and also prevent pirates and slavers from creeping back. Obviously, raids and counter attacks were expected, but that would be why the second wave was so important.

"And that is what our third wave will consist of." Doran's voice had grown somber and a bit withdrawn. "Your uncle has been negotiating with every sellsword in Westeros and I shall put out a call for hedge knights, second sons, bastards, mercenaries, and every volunteer that I can negotiate leave for. Our extreme build up in the Stepstones will be explained away as part of the needed constructions for our assault on the Islands. This host will then have the wheat separated from the chaff, those men from the Westerlands, the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale, along with those mercenaries we mistrust or know to be greedy or savage will absorb these losses. But the Summer Islands will break and Jalabhar Xho will be made prince of them."

For a long time, Quentyn was silent. Unsure of how to handle this information. In the end, he simply gave up and bent his head.

"I strongly feel that, that is not the last of your plans for him, but I suppose that you are my father and my lord besides. I will trust in your judgement. What of Tyrosh then? What is our plan to take that city and, I suppose, deal with the others?"

This seemed to improve the prince's mood immensely, even drawing a small laugh at him.

"Do you remember that story your cousin told us, the one about Philip and Alexander?"

Frowning, the teenager nodded.

"Aye. How the former reformed his nation and the latter conquered the known world of his time. It was quite the fantastical tale, especially the idea of such a vast empire, however temporarily, being one."

"Ah, but how was it that Alexander won his lands?"

"By being a stubborn conqueror and excellent leader and killer of men?"

Doran reached over and lightly rapped his son's head.

"No, boy, remember the island siege? The use of flankers and the adoption of the pike and use of reserves? It was by cleverness! Come, help me up, we shall go to see your war party."

Like that, father and son walked out of the room, Doran leaning on Quentyn's shoulder - the younger helping the older make his way without a cane.

Quentyn's questions had been answered. But they still left him with a lingering trepidation. With so much at risk, could he even afford to give voice to his doubts? Father certainly had resolved himself to see his plan through.

Even if he couldn't trust himself, he could at least trust Father.

Such thoughts didn't make his stomach any less sickly, however, when they entered the room where the innermost circle of their confidence had gathered. All of them people he and his father had known for a long, long time… or were forced to accept as the cost of their alliances.. The new faces, foreigners he did not truly recognize, stood to the side.

"My Prince."

Quentyn stood by his Lord's side as he took his seat. Standing resolute as the others settled and the meeting started.

"Preparations are going smoothly. Gods allowing it, the fair weather will permit us safe passage soon. We should still have time to bring up more numbers until then. We can't be sure that our estimates of the pirate's forces are correct, so the more swords we can throw at them, the better."

"And the spoils?"

Quentyn heard his father's sigh.

"Concern yourself with the battle first, Ser Tyrell. The spoils will come later."

"I speak only in the spirit of fairness. All of us wish to have our fair share of the glory. It could be most… inconvenient to have our victory benefit only others."

He, of course, meant more than just the Martells themselves. Because, obviously, with their name plastered across this operation that meant they would be assuming the serpent's share of the expenses and the risk.

As such, a commensurate amount of reward must be waiting for them - should they succeed. But the simple fact that the Iron Bank saw fit to invest in this way meant that there was more than just a small fortune to be made. It meant that enough gold was expected to change hands that the balance of power would shift.

"Aye, good Ser." Quentyn spoke up. "That is why I have had our good Maestar draw up a contract. One that my father and I have both read over and added our own changes to. You can read and write?"

Nodding his head, the middle son of Mace Tyrell seemed more like this grand-dam than his sire.

"That it is in ink, I assume means you wish it to be bound in secrecy too?'

The second sons of a great many lords were neglected. Outfitting and raising one heir was expensive enough.

"Blood, young Ser."

And that's why Doran spoke this time. Quentyn's father had impressed upon him how it was truly Olenna Tyrell that had directed the Lords of Highgarden and that she had seen to all of her grandchildren's educations.

"Secrecy is only as thick as words. But the blood of the covenant is thicker than even the water of the womb." The aging prince inclined his head. "That is why my messengers approached your grandmother first."

"And that's why coin will be offered first, for those men whom are most skilled and those whom are most loyal." This time it was Lord Yronwood who spoke, clearly stepping forward. "All of the men of our own houses will be paid in coin - to them or their families - and we shall set aside more besides to care for the wounded and for orphans and widows. Specific rules of conduct and with regards to plunder will also be addressed. With particular focus on ensuring that shares are properly distributed."

As the other lords began to speak and ask questions, Quentyn let them turn to one another. His focus was on his foster father. On the man he'd spend so many years learning from.

Honestly, today's discussion was going to pale in comparison to how it was his own son who suggested they use one of the best men the young prince knew as a false lead in their plans. But, at the end of the day, he was the one person they could trust. Meaning he was also the one man who coild destroy all of their plans without even realizing it.

---

Ophelia​

---

"I apologize lass, normally I make an effort to speak to pretty ladies who want my tongue."

Ophelia snorted, half amused by the old man's flattery, half impressed by how brazenly he employed innuendo. In truth, it had been too long since the alleged witch realized she needed to speak to the Red Priest and their ride to Harrenhal would be a most excellent opportunity.

She'd heard of the followers of the Lord of Light.

Had even seen some of them mingle with the group of magi and wise men while in Dorne. Orators, preachers, a smattering of mad men. Most seemed at least passingly wise, though she doubted any of them were truly Wise, and their powers were real enough. For a given value of real, at least. Universally, they had been… devout. Fanatical, as her father would say, and convinced that the grand indulgence of a bastard's curiosity was somehow important.

Quite simply, the Red Faith was sowing its embers in Dorne because of the men and women whom had answered the call of her questions, though the witch sincerely doubted that R'hllor would find many converts amongst her nation.

The sun was a much greater flame than any little pyromancer could conjur.

Thoros of Myr wasn't like them.

He was brash.

He was blunt.

It could be said he didn't represent what the worship of a god as prevalent as R'hllor was supposed to be. But of all followers Ophelia had observed from afar, Thoros seemed like the only one to hold a different air to others. His shaved pate, his white whiskers, and even his eyes, sharp and clear and unmuddled by wine for the moment, were no different than any other old man's.

The red robes sat over a gambeson and the heavy sword about his waist weren't even unique amongst his number, even if his use of wildfire in augmenting his skills seemed to be.

"Think nothing of it. We are both busy people so it's to be understandable that our paths had yet to cross."

The priest took her gracious comment like he did everything else, with a sack of wine and a mouthful of food. He was surprisingly genuine for someone who was a part of such a relatively secretive cult. Then again, she had heard of his words. Of how he joked about becoming a red priest so the color would hide wine stains.

"Busy is one way to call it." He took another sip of his drink. "Nothing compared to how you've stirred the hornet's nest. Haven't been King's Landing in a tizzy like that in a while."

She dipped her head, acknowledging the thrust, somewhat perversely amused at how easily he kept his horse straight with just his knees - all the better to eat and drink on the move.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the show." Her own mare didn't need guiding, though she still held the reins in one hand and kept her other on her hip. Trousers and impropriety aside, the Queen had made it clear how powerful a weapon even the appearance of nobility could be. And Taylor in particular had learned how important the advice of older women could be.

Ophelia merely wished that air conditioning had been invented by Braavos already.

"So, what would Dorne's prized witch come to see an old drunkard for?"

She gave thanks to the Seven he had finished chewing and swallowed before speaking. Somehow, the drunk priest had greater manners than the king, even if they indulged just as much!

"I suppose I am here for a sermon." The witch gavea wry grin, unsure how to actually express what it was she was precisely asking for.

"Done something to get scolded for? Then again, being called a Witch, that should come with the territory."

More bemused than engaged, the man finished his meal and wiped his hands clean on a rag, tucking the cloth away in one pocket or another.

"Only searching for wisdom. As a priest, I'm sure you must have some to spare."

"Not much wisdom to hand out, girly. Gotta keep my wits instead of sharing them." He snorted, taking another swig from his drink. "But I suppose I could tell you some of what I know. Only you might have already heard it from all the others. I'm sure at least one of them must have come knocking."

He was right, of course.

Any mention of 'miracles' was likely to get the attention of the Red Priests. Of course, her father had no interest in just handing over his own child.

"You know the words."

"Memorized some prayers. Surprising, I know. Can barely recite one after the seventh pint."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"Enough to fill a fancy book with. But you aren't here for those stories, are you?"

"My father might be. Though I should warn you he is quite the drinker himself." She did not mean it as a challenge, but was sure that prince and priest and king already got on like a burning city and a Lannister.

"Aye, that he is!"

Ophelia wondered if her father had finally made friends with someone he didn't feel like killing half the time. There was a first for everything.

She'd leave the merry making for later.

"But as well traveled as he is, and as much as he himself knows of secrets and of mysteries, my father hasn't been able to tell me much of the Red Priests and their faith. At least not in any meaningful way."

There was a difference between knowing something… and knowing it.

"It's why I am here. I have questions, you have answers."

"Could'a chosen better, girl."

"A better priest wouldn't part with his secrets."

He snorted down his drink with a laugh.

"So what do you wanna learn, witch girl? Set something on fire? Maybe learn to get a glimpse of the future? Think you could bring back someone from death? I'm sure you heard enough stories."

Ophelia grimaced.

"I imagine it's better to leave matters of death aside." If there was one thing that her life as Taylor Hebert had taught her was that there was no such thing as a free lunch. Power, especially that kind of power, always came at a price. One she wasn't keen on paying to a foreign god.

"And what's in it for me?"

"Wine."

"What do you think I'm drinking, girl?"

"Try it."

Eyes narrowed, the priest held out his hand as, carefully, Ophelia extracted the bottle in question. It was smooth, dark glass, without a label or a maker's mark. Thoros felt the stopper for a moment, grunting as he broke the wax seal with a harsh twist. Taking a whiff of the beverage, his brow furrowed as he licked the stopper, grunting, before taking a sip.

Swallowing very, very slowly, he kept the vessel to his lips. Tilting it back, the priest closed his eyes, seeming to release every ounce of tension in his body as he drank as deeply as he could. Long moments passed and the witch reached out to the priest's horse, keeping it steady as he drained the bottle. Shivering in delight, with only a little of the wine slipping down the corners of his mouth, he let out a sigh of such utter, complete satisfaction she had to wonder if asking her father for help in this particular mission had been a fool's errand.

"It was to your satisfaction, I hope?"

The man didn't answer. Instead he was… he was… praying?

He was most definitely praying. Hands closed tightly around his drink with all the reverence of a man who'd found salvation at long last. To the point that she wondered whether someone was getting set on fire for it.

Could you even blaspheme in his religion?

She didn't want to know.

"Please try not to get smote while I'm riding beside you."

He paid no heed.

"Where is this from, witch girl? One of your brews?"

Now she rolled her eyes. Of course this was what grabbed his attention.

"Nothing so impressive. It's a special blend of dornish reds. Nothing magical about it… well… about the ingredients at least. You will find it nowhere else in the world aside from my homeland."

He eyed the glass hungrily.

Ironic, given how thirsty he looked.

He wasn't the first one to do so either. Ophelia was sure that more than one Dornish noble had made outrageous offers for the right to cultivate and produce the drink. Which of course, was granted sparingly and at great cost by her uncle. Of course the willy old man would use even someone else's drinking habits against them.

There wasn't much he wouldn't use.

So it didn't bother her to take a page out of his book.

"And you have more?"

"Not on my person, no. But I can arrange for more, if that is your wish. So long as you keep to your end of our bargain, you will find no shortage of it. Presuming you won't squander it like common ale."

Thoros of Myr had never seemed as affronted as he did in that moment.

Wasting drink? Of such good taste and quality?

She was sure nobody had ever accused him of that particular heresy.

"How much for a bottle?"

"I'm sure we can agree on a fair price."

"How. Much." He bit out, looking impatient, a war in his eyes as some great internal debate raged inside of him.

"As much as leaves you sober enough to tell me your order's secrets. As little as I need to give you. And every single drop it takes for you to tolerate my questions." The witch couldn't help but smile. She was finally taking a price. "I do warn you though… I have a great many."

His face turned many colors, as if he was physically ill, before he settled into a resigned slump - running his fingers across his smooth head the false priest gave a heaving sigh.

"You really are a witch." There was a look of such great surrender about him Ophelia almost felt shame. "I have whored and drunk and blasphemed and killed. I am envious and a liar and a false priest." He closed his eyes, a moment of utter sobriety washing away the sway from his body. "But for this I shall sell my order. Damn my weakness and damn you for destroying me."

---

Joffrey Baratheon​

---

Crack!

A wooden sword smacked the prince's chin, snapping his head up and to the side. Unfortunately, he was exhausted and disoriented and the blow knocked him to the ground.

"Do you wish to continue, my prince?"

Ser Barristan, resplendent in his white scaled armor, looked down at him.

Joff could taste his own blood and he thought he might have bitten his tongue.

"Stop this madness! My boy is injured!"

Even over the roar of the crowd, he could hear his mother. Men, some knights, some lords, some common soldiers cheered and exchanged coins and others tried to slink off - only to be pulled back by their fellows and forced to pay up. Yet even then, this seemed to fade into a dull roar as his pounding heart filled the young royal's chest.

Already, tears stung at his eyes and the blonde cursed himself and the other squire. The low born lad for taunting him into agreeing to a match - with wooden swords at his father's insistence - and himself for not ever being good enough.

Turning to look at his father, the pre teen was desperately searching the royal pavilion and the king… wasn't there. Just his mother and her entourage.

Not his father. Not his uncle. Not even the Imp.

Sniffling, he opened his mouth, the words ugly and thick on his tongue. But he was bested. The other squire was older and bigger, by three years or so, and he wasn't actually all that spectacularly good at fighting anyways.

Just like he wasn't good at anything that wasn't making people angry.

"Off your ass boy, the fight isn't over yet!"

Suddenly looking up, he realized someone was swearing at him.

"A king isn't beaten so easily!"

Another Kingsguard stood next to that man.

"You're a lion with the strength of a stag, nephew, on your feet!"

His father and his uncles, even the Imp, had come to the side of the muddy ring and were cheering him on. Fear and shame and defeat washed through him. Nothing but failure and disgust heavy in his bones. And then, from within, came a deep, seething rage.

'I am Joffrey I Baratheon, King of all of Westeros! I will not be beaten by some jumped up peasant!'

Roaring, as loudly as a twelve year old could, half blinded by tears, and with his arms numb, face already purpling, and every part of his spirit wanting nothing more than to slink into a nice, hot bath… he stood up.

"It's not over yet!"

Snatching his sword up, he stomped back over to the ready position. Lifting shield and faux blade, he reset to the start position.

Ser Barristan's surprise only fueled the anger in his breast, but it was his rival's that he almost delighted again. What followed was an angry, aggressive exchange of blows. One where the older lad's longer reach, greater size, and superior experience meant Joffrey didn't manage to land a single attack on him.

In fact, he was knocked on his ass no less than three more times.

Once even hitting the ground so hard the world shook!

But each time he just got angrier and angrier. His heart simply pounded harder and harder, his hands gripped the blade and shield with greater force, and no matter how much mud and blood spattered him he shouted over Ser Barristan every time the old knight tried to call the match.

"Again! Again! Again!"

Something inside Joffrey was so heavy it hurt, so hot it burned, so taught he thought he must surely snap! But every time he fell and every time he rose, there was more strength in his hands, more speed in his feet, more surety in his footwork. His range drove him on and in his thoughts swore and cursed at the gods for not giving him his father's strength. And that's when it occurred to him.

He might not have his father's size… but he had his uncle's.

So, employing one of his most favorite of pastimes, he wracked his mind for how he'd seen the Kingslayer take on large men in battle.

Flicking his wrist, he tried to trap his foe's blade against his shield and then wrestle it from his opponent's grasp. This failed miserably, with the older boy more confused and surprised than anything else, merely tossing Joff back to free his weapon. Somehow, in the heat of the moment, their feet grew tangled and both lads fell in a ball of arms and legs and flying armaments. And for once, his opponent's greater weight worked against him, knocking the other lad into the muck with greater force.

That meant Joffrey had a moment, even with the wind knocked out of him, to act.

Grunting, he rolled over on top of the older boy, reached down to his belt, and drew his favorite name day gift.

His father had won a valyrian steel dagger from the Master of Coin on the tourney held for his name day. It was a gorgeous weapon, pure and simple in form and function and the smokey ripple of the blade had enthralled the boy-prince. He'd nearly cried when his father had given it to him with a gruff nod and a one armed hug.

Now, he raised the blade high, light glinting off the steel.

A cry went up amongst the men and even Ser Barristan leapt into action.

Joffrey brought it down into the muck, a good foot to the right of the other boy's head.

"Do you yield?"

"I, uh, y-yes my prince?" The stuttering reply came as a stunned crowd looked on.

"Good. I enjoyed the fight."

And just like that, the mud splattered prince gave a thick shake of his head, his eyes rolled back, and he promptly passed out - unconscious before he slumped over on top of his foe.

---

Ophelia​

---

Massive was the word that came to mind.

Burnt was a close second.

Harrenhal loomed over them in the distance. The ancient fortress a stain of blackened stone in ruin as it stood, beyond common sense. Five shattered towers still reached up into the sky, all too much like burnt, twisted towers, and the massive castle was squat and heavy on its raised mound. Somehow the most massive fortification in Westeros, aside from the Wall itself, seemed to linger like a stain on the world itself.

Ophelia took in the view.

She'd read about Harrenhal.

How could she not? It had been one of the first bedtime stories she had been told as a wee little girl. Westeros's foremost cautionary tale. All who saw it knew the tragedy, knew what those burn marks stood for.

It was something else entirely to see it in person.

A burned out husk.

A corpse of what must have been once a feat of ambition and years of work all laid out over the course of a single battle. Nay. To call it a battle would be understating the sheer carnage which had befallen the land.

"Dreadful, is it not?"

Speaking without expecting an answer, it was only with the mildest of surprise she heard one of her companions respond.

"I wouldn't think so. There is a certain beauty to it."

Ophelia disagreed, not when she knew the horrors of choking to death on your own burning flesh. But she would acknowledge the fact that there was still a brooding, dark sense of majesty to it. It didn't stop her thoughts from being sarcastic.

'Leave it to the Darkstar to see something beautiful about this monument to death and fire.'

Her thoughts began to turn dark, dwelling on the sheer number of deaths and curses likely layered into the very stones of the place. Would this journey be like her meeting with the spirits of the Red Keep? Were there vengeful spectres waiting for her within the walls of Harrenhal? None too keen to see visitors, she wagered. The dead were often restless and rarely welcoming to travelers when their home was so dreadful.

"Do you feel anything, sister?"

The witch turned to her adventurous sister.

"The castle is ill kept. Much vermin dwells within its ruins, rats, bats, owls, and more. The birds whose eyes I borrowed see that and more. Those people that live within its walls are few and, while not unhealthy, they seem stooped. As if weighed down."

Sarella frowned.

"It is said that the place is cursed, that every family that has held it has seen the castle be their doom. Do you truly believe it could be cursed as such?"

Shrugging, the witch had no rebuttal to offer.

"Men often make their own curses." Noticing that the Darkstar was still listening - all of their group riding in a relatively close formation, but he only a horse length behind them - she still continued. "Greed, folly, rank ambition. These things can see a family destroyed as surely as anything else. And if the land is believed to be cursed, then any ill fortune or foolish lords will be seen as that curse claiming more victims. Even if it is more likely that it was their own ill laid plans that brought about their fate." Here she frowned at her own words. "But even I must admit there is a… feeling about the place."

"Black Harren was an Ironman. A reaver and a murderer. I have little doubt it was the blood of those he murdered and enslaved that first cursed the stones of this plack." The Darkstar's voice was soft, his words actually murdered. "Then all the envy of the Riverlords whom dwelt in the shadow of this place… then the dragon fire… and all the many dead children."

"Aye." Ophelia dipped her head. "Much death has happened here."

"The Mad Lady Lothston, from way back when, was a friend and ally of the Bloodraven's. Some say they were lovers." Marwyn had approached them, carefully picking his way to form up with the others. "Some say that she had a child by him, but it was stillborn and that was what drove her deeper into madness."

Sarella snorted.

"Hoares, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, Lothston, now the Whents… it seems like this is where noble lines come to die."

Marwyn chuckled.

"Some say it was Harren the Black that first cursed it, that he had driven Lady Lothston mad and turned her to sorcery. Personally, I think she and the rest of her line were simply a bit too deep in the Higher Mysteries. Such things have ways of twisting the perspective of men.:

"Is it true she was a cannibal?" Ophelia's sister asked her question as they passed under a low hanging tree, their party on the final approach to the castle. "That she bathed in blood and held feasts of child flesh and worse?"

"Aye. And I heard that she would send out great black bats to snatch up children and carry them back to the castle." The little lord Dayne spoke up for the first time in front of the group, having previously been too shy or skittish to speak in front of Ophelia.

"I am afraid that my knowledge can not speak to the veracity of those particular claims. All I know for sure is that she was a skin changer and some say a shape changer as well, though those might well be the same thing. Much of what is known is rumor and is distorted by time and agenda - especially that which is recorded by the Citadel. After all, she was mad and it was just to slay her, was it not?"

Marwyn's final words came to pause as the whole of the party coalesced.

Lord Dondarrion and Lancel Lannister rode at the front, as they had for most of the journey, while Thoros of Myr brought up the rear of the group with the Darkstar. Lord Dayne and Marwyn were part of the middle of the group along with Ophelia and Sarella. So it was in this formation that they came to the final bend, instinctively tightening their formation, and found their vanguard staring at the rotting corpse of a fox - a large bat caught in its mouth - in the middle of the road.

Nothing but rotting guts spilled into dust and dirt, as flies buzzed about its empty eye sockets.

"Well now. That's ominous." Ophelia would have agreed if it hadn't been the Darkstar that spoke.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: One chapter a month is what we promised and one chapter a month is what we deliver! So, welcome boys and girls to the next installment of One Who is Many, headed by yours truly Wyvern and my co-author, the Warhawk! Cutting it close, I know, but Life has been getting on our nerves lately.

AtW: Perhaps. Perhaps not. This has actually had a good few sections toned down, to avoid it turning into 20k of just snooping around a castle. But yeah. Hope you like it.

CW: I imagine we have some people in the audience who would love 20k words of pure exploration. But unfortunately we must keep the ball rolling. Otherwise we'll never get to where actual canon starts.

Now then, onto the reading!

As always, if you want to support our writing, make sure to follow us! And if you want to see about getting something written by us for you, we'll soon be resuming our commissions, so look forward to that!

---

Chapter 11 ​

---

Edric Dayne​

---

Being a lord of an ancient house, squired to another lord, and travelling in the royal procession of the king was an altogether easy thing. In fact, it wasn't even all that different from his normal duties. His master was still an active man, after all, and Lord Dondarrion was nothing if not diligent.

That meant Edric woke up, got dressed, and had breakfast going before the sun peeked over the horizon.

That meant he checked the horses, packed up their gear, and attended his master's needs. Shaving, fitting him with his arms and armor, and then taking care of all the little things that cropped up in life. Rips, tears, nicks all accumulated, food stuffs needed to be carefully looked over, and the dishes needed to be scrubbed if they were breaking camp that day.

Normally, all of this only took a couple hours each day - Edric had learned very early on as a page not to let things build up.

Actual training tended to come up during the day.

In the mornings his master would select the bow or the sling or the spear for use. During the day Edric would catch their meals, though he had also learned that on spear days he should either try for fish or go bartering for meat as the weapon was still too long for him to properly use.

The missiles he loosed would be collected, small game such as rabbits, or fowl, or other things of that nature would be gutted and cleaned, and that would be their supper.

Most squires practiced with the bow against a target and only hunted sparingly.

Ser Berric said hunger sharpens a man's gaze.

On good days, the lad only needed one shot.

On bad, he at least got plenty of practice in.

For wrestling practice, he'd scrap with other squires, despite his lordship he was still only ten and two years old. And that meant he was small. So he had learned to be quick, rather than try to grapple.

When it came to the sword and mace and lance… those his master schooled him in more formally.

The Lord of Blackhaven was a hard man, good, just, but hard. He had seen enough suffering and misery that it had taught him weakness in battle would be punished. Usually with death. Matches with the man were always short and brutal and then, after, Ser Beric would sit with him and they would work over every mistake, every misstep, every tiny flaw until Edric had mastered the stroke, the step, the tiniest movement of his eyes and feet and hands.

In the evenings, when they were at their own campfire, the older man would warm up the leftovers and make sure Edric stretched. Would show him how to work out cramps or pulled muscles or even just how to bandage bruises and the likes. Stories, some happy, some sad would be shared during those times.

Scars would be explained.

Not as great trophies, but as lost comrades and missteps.

When his master drank, however rarely that was, he would sometimes mention how Edric was the last true Dayne. How the Darkstar was no Sword of the Morning, no matter how much the distant cousin of his pretended to it. And how there was king's blood - and a king's legacy - on his shoulders.

Mostly, Edric liked it when they ate at other fires. There the stories would be loud and raucous and sometimes bawdy, but always happy. Tails of triumph and toasts raised to men who were long since dust - but whose story yet lived on. Robert's Rebellion, the Scouring of the Stepstones, even the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He had heard of them all and more. Mostly he liked them.

But a little bit he thought all of them forgot to mention how much time was spent rubbing down the horses or picking beetles out of bread.

He had even had to, politely, refuse the offer of more than one maid and more than one bed.

He was a lord too, after all.

And that meant politics was a constant concern when he was at castles or around anyone who recognized him. His master, after all, was a true knight and eschewed adultery. Somewhat to the point others occasionally thought the Lord Dondarrion a cold man.

The truth of it was that his master was wed to his duty.

Letter, numbers, and expenses were the three areas Edric was told that duty lay. The ability to read and write his own words and the ability to manage his finances were skills that were far too uncommon amongst even the idle elite, as his master said.

And the one vow he carried was to never shame his master.

"Alright Fawn, that's a good girl." Patting the flank of his mare, the squire couldn't help but giggle when the horse began to lightly chew his hair. "No you dumb beast, you can't eat me."

But those were things that happened before.

It wasn't anything new.

What was new, however, was the company they were keeping.

A royal procession was a big opportunity for making acquaintances that you normally would never see. And none were as unusual or as mysterious as the southerners who seemingly held the attention of everyone around them. If Edric had to make a comparison, it was like the sun of their family crest. You were always aware of it when it was there and noted its absence when it was gone.

All knew about the Red Viper.

Even Edric knew a lot about the man's reputation and deeds, or misdeeds as some might refer to them. He was still larger than life, with a strange intensity behind every action he took, even when he was daring the other knights to a drinking contest.

Or the King, for that matter.

That had been a strange night as nearly two dozen of the greatest lords and knights had drunk from nightfall to dawn.

Nevertheless, it wasn't the Prince that fluttered about inside Edric's mind. The one whose presence he felt strangely bothered by and most keenly felt the absence of whenever he was near the group. It was strange, as he'd never quite cared to pay attention to ladies, regardless of their age or wealth or beauty.

But his eye was still drawn.

His heart still skipped a beat.

His skin still felt clammy as a weight settled on his throat.

'Oh that. Congratulations lad, you're growing up.' His master's reaction was even more puzzling than usual.

Having finished checking up on the horses, the young lad bid good day to the grooms and pages and stable hands, what few of them there were, that serviced Harrenhal.

At the moment, his opinion was that it was a castle… and everything else seemed a bit superfluous. Not only was it too big to be a useful fortification, only a king could afford to maintain the place, and other than that it was just big.

It would have been more effective and cheaper to have created a half dozen different fortifications that were more reasonably sized than this great monstrosity.

Truly the world of adults remained mysterious, and so too did they remain rather silly. After all, the amount of work that would have to go into figuring out how to feed the garrison of such a place was daunting to say the least.

And that, combined with master's advice, meant Edric was resolved to face this mysterious ailment with all his ability. But first he had to understand the symptoms so as to come to a conclusion of what was actually happening to his body and how to cure himself of it. His pride as squire demanded he devote all his energy to it!

First! Approaching the Dornish delegation caused him strange discomfort around the chest. If he stayed around long enough, he would grow shallow of breath.

Second! Though Prince Oberyn remained an exception to the rule, his daughters, the Sand Snakes as they were called, had varying degrees of the same effect.

Third! Though Edric was hardly talkative, he still felt his jaw grow taut as he approached them, thoughts muddling together as he tried to think of something to say to the bastard girls, despite not knowing them or their interests. He would need to ask his teacher whether this was a sign that he was being compelled by some form of magic.

Putting together all these facts, Edric came to the conclusion that one of the Dornish had somehow cast some form of spell or charm upon him.

There were rumours, after all, that one of them was a Witch.

So it all fit!

Obviously, one of the Dornish girls was playing tricks on him. And as a future knight and lord, it was his duty to find the culprit and properly scold them for their lack of manners. Even if they weren't technically part of House Nymeros Martell, they should still be on their best behavior around other high nobles.

'But who is it?' That was the issue.

He couldn't just accuse all of them. It would be seen as him taking an issue with the Dornish as a group. He couldn't even voice his concerns, not when one of the Dornish girls was far and wide known as one skilled at drawing out secrets.

She should have been his first suspect, but Edric wouldn't put it past the other Sand Snakes. They could have learned some of the Witch's tricks after all. His honor would be put into question if he thoughtlessly accused someone with no proof to show for it other than the strange feeling of his stomach doing flips.

That and how his hands grew clammy, how his heart would flutter, and how his stomach would roll. Why, just thinking about it all made him… made him-

"Looks like I finally found you. Anything interesting about that patch of wall?"

And just like that, he froze.

Every thought fled his mind and all he could do was give an ingrained bob of his head.

"M-m-my lady."

"Heh. Why so nervous? We don't bite… at least not when you're ten and two." A girlish chuckle and a hand ran through his mop of blonde hair. "You remind me of Trystane a lot, at least when you're training. But you're a lot more like Quentyn aren't you?"

Wracking his mind, Edric desperately searched his memories for those names. To his shame, it took him thirty seconds just to recall the identities of his future Lord Paramount and the man's younger brother.

"T-thank you my lady."

His cheeks were practically on fire and he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Oh, I suppose it's not fair to tease you. After all, you're hardly ready for the big bad girls to do more than call you cute and mess with your hair. Though I must confess I'm a bit surprised that Obara hadn't made a move on your knightly master."

"My master is chaste and honors his lady wife, no matter the temptation!"

Surprising even himself with his vehemence, the defense of Lord Dondarrion came immediately and without hesitation. After all, defending his master's honor was just part of his duty… though normally he was a bit calmer about it.

"Oh?" The young woman's surprise came low and pleased. "I thought your master was only betrothed, not yet wed?"

Swallowing, and unable to reply with such vigor again, the young man couldn't help but find the stone flagons of the floor infinitely more interesting.

"They are to be wed, but it's the thought that counts."

"Aye." With a gentle pat and an amused chuckle coming from the most dangerous woman he had ever met, the little lord suddenly had to force himself to meet her eyes. "I do suppose it is." An even more gentle smile graced the lips of Sarella Sand, the archer and scholar practically radiating endless amusement. "Now, my lord, would you do me the deepest favor of escorting me to the great hall? I fear for my reputation should I be seen alone."

Swallowing, no matter how dry his mouth was, he gave the barest jerk of his head.

If this was the game she was going to play then he wasn't backing out!

"Of course, my lady, I would be delighted to accompany you!"

He desperately thanked the Seven that his master had taught him his formalities, else he would have been frozen before this Dornish snake! This… beautiful, intelligent, charming, wise, clever, skilled snake. Whose hand was gently resting on his arm and whom he couldn't stop thinking about.

'I think I figured out who placed the charm upon me.'

---

Qyburn​

---

"That's it lad. All better."

Watching the sinews in the young boy's arm flex, the muscles pull taught, the stitching hold - the once maester felt pride in his work.

"Still hurts."

The poor lad hadn't cried, though there were silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

"I know my boy. But trust me, you're far too young for milk of the poppy. At your age it would be more dangerous than not." He gave the child, just turned ten, a pat on the head. "Let's go find your parents now, I'm sure Lady Whent is still sitting with them?"

Climbing to his knees, Qyburn walked with only a little stiffness over to the door of his workshop, rapped on it twice, and wasn't the least bit surprised when the lad's father was standing right there.

"Honored Maestar, is my son-"

Holding up his hand, the man who was glad to be rid of his chain forestalled any other words.

"He is well. I washed the thread in strongwine and cleaned the cut. There may be some slight dizziness and numbness, since the injury is so high up on his arm, but you're more than welcome to watch how I bandage it."

Turning once more to finish his work, he could scarcely still believe how smoothly things had gone for him since he had found Harrenhal.

Nevermind the fools who thought to seize him in the Vale.

Those poisons had been expensive.

But that mattered not. Even if he hadn't interpreted the shadowbinder's prophecy properly, dying in this cursed castle might not be so bad.

"I suppose there's no end to the little things in life."

Sitting down on a tall, straight backed chair next to the cot where he had the child laid out - naked from the waist up - he indicated the pitchers of wine and water he'd kept next to the bed. While the alcohol might make the bleeding worse, if the boy's father believed pain relief from a diluted drink was worth the risk then Qyburn wasn't going to interfere.

Working quickly, he wrapped the boy's arm with the clean linen, gave the lad one last smile, and gave the man profusely thanking him his default smile and nodded along. After all, Lady Whent was paying for all this… but there was no need to mention that.

As the two left, the child in his parent's arms, the old man took a moment to simply take in his home.

Obviously different from when he worked with the Brave Companions, not only was the wood and hay and linen and stone foreign to him, mostly because it was Riverlander and a little because it was simply Westerosi, but it was cool and the castle didn't stink of men rutting and dying and shitting.

In fact, it smelled clean and was cool and even a bit dusty.

His room had come with tables, all the supplies he could scavenge from the abandoned parts of the castle, the recently deceased maester's effects, and the odd trinket and curiosity he had once again begun collecting.

Lucky for him the previous healer had been an utter idiot, despite his chain clearly stating he was a master of poisons, and when it came to making sure the Lady of the castle didn't ask too many questions, well, he had the curse to thank for that.

So, now that the boy was seen to, his hands were washed clean, and he had nothing else to do….

"Perhaps a spot of lunch might do me good."

It would do him some good to indulge. After all, the coming days promised to be interesting, if for no other reason than the waves the Prince of Dorne was making.

Moving through the scorched hallways of Harrenhal, Qyburn was used to the quiet of solitude - almost like a shadow he walked unseen, approaching the great hall, from which he could hear the animated sound of chatter. Louder than usual and from voices he did not recognize.

'Guests?' He could somewhat easily guess.

Not many visited Harrenhal. And those who did didn't often stay unless they could bear the… unique atmosphere of the ruined fortress. Those living here. Those born here. They were used to the underlying scent of fire and ash.

And the underlying weight of thousands of dead men which seemed to stubbornly cling to the walls.

He certainly didn't mind.

If anything, living in a place with such a repellent reputation suited his purposes just fine. All the less likely for pursuers to tread here, should any follow, and all the easier to excuse any indiscretions. Not that he doubted the Brave Companions took offense at his rather sudden departure, but he did rather find the thought of them actually locating him a bit absurd.

It was little surprise that none reacted to his arrival when he finally stepped into the great hall. He was used to it, certainly, relished in it too. Walking around the perimeter of the hall as they chattered, it gave him time to take stock of who their latest guests were.

A blond boy, likely a squire. Not yet full grown.

An older man with a chain hanging from his neck. A Maester? For one of them to be traveling with a group was quite the novelty since most of their kind remained static, serving a single Lord or satisfying their own need for higher learning. Qyburn would not begrudge them, he was much the same.

Another young man sat beside them.

Larger than the other and older than the squire for sure, he had fine, keen features. The black satin cloak was… eye catching if nothing else. He wouldn't deny a man his own sense of style. The lightning on his armor, however, was a bit much in his expert opinion.

As for the girl.

She was looking at him.

Not just noticing him.

She was looking at him. Judging him, like a child would a freshly caught insect. Or, perhaps, a spider was more fitting. With a sense of curiosity that was cold and almost invasive. As if, reflected on the windows of her soul, his own self was being laid bare.

Qyburn felt his lips twitch.

'Well now, isn't this curious.'

Very well, he would do the honors.

"My apologies for my lateness, the young boy was brave but stitches always take time at my age. I do hope there is enough left for one more."

"Please, Maester, have a seat." Lady Whent nodded to him, somewhat grim as ever, and indicated one of the seats across from her.

And who was he to refuse the invitation. It wasn't often to have such refreshing new faces around, and he was eager to dissect the strangers. With his eyes of course. There was no need for any unpleasantness while eating.

'Not where the kind Lady can see it.'

What he saw… interested him. Or, at least, the individual that stood out to him did.

Obviously she was Dornish. Their kind stood out the further north they traveled. And just the same, he'd worked with plenty of them. Both living and not. Though it would seem the girl had been a recluse for quite some time - paler than the specimens he'd been so generously given to further his causes.

His trained eye could judge she was someone who spent quite a bit of time away from the light, even as her skin was taking on the tan of someone who spent a great deal of time in the saddle.

But more tellingly, there was the faint scent of herbs mingling with the usual bodily odors one might expect from a traveler. She hadn't been here for long. Travelers tended to catch the 'scent' of the castle the longer they remained.

"You are all certainly far from home. Might I enquire where you are headed?"

The older man made his pleasantries to Lady Whent, murmured the false name he'd used, and began speaking with the most curious of all the group.

"We are headed north with the King." He turned to look at the man. Not much different from your usual Mester, perhaps more well kept than the doddering old fools he was used to. There was a certain… energy to his gaze Qyburn wouldn't find even in the eyes of half grown youths.

'Curiouser and curiouser.'

"North? My, that's certainly a long journey ahead of you." Honestly, he couldn't care less. But verbal engagement was paramount for obtaining information these days. Even if oftentimes a corpse could be more talkative than a person had ever been.

"I suppose, though it would be discourteous to deny his invitation. Besides, it's not often one travels from the far south to the far north. Few have that luxury."

Making him guess at her purpose?

Clever.

Perhaps he would have been quicker about stitching that boy's arm had he known this was the sort of entertainment he would have for the day. Far more enthralling than the usual variety of travelers to be sure.

The two younger men weren't of much interest.

One was clearly of Lannister blood. That particular shade of blonde gave it away. He'd seen it in half a dozen bodies. And the other young man didn't seem of much promise, strange choices of outfit aside. Just another proud, noble lord off to proudly and nobly chop the limbs off farmers and rape peasant women.

A travelling Maester and a young woman whose eyes glimmered with such ruthless intelligence, however?

They were the real prizes worth examining.

"What of you, Maester? Being this far north, you must forgive my curiosity. It is unusual to see one who does not serve a Castle."

'Ah, now she wants to play, very well.'

Giving her an amused chuckle, he decided that his lunch could wait a bit.

"I am not that much different than your group. I was traveling, finding work wherever I found myself. Harrenhal has sheltered me for some time now, but, as wonderful as the Lady Whent has been to me, I am afraid my time here will end as soon as a replacement for the previous maester arrives."

"He's speaking out of the corner of his mouth." Lady Shella spoke up. "Too clever by half, no chain, has no problems tending to peasants. If it wasn't for the robes and the fact he speaks like he grew up in the Citadel I'd say he was too good at his job to be part of your order, Archmaester."

Blinking, because this was a genuine surprise, he took a second look at the chain of the man across from him. And that's when it struck him exactly whom he was eating lunch with.

"An archmaester! Why, to think I'd have the honor of meeting you."

Qyburn deferred, it was safest after all, and when Marwyn - now that he'd gotten a good, long look the exiled wise man was sure of who it was - looked up, he wondered if it was good or bad that there was no spark of recognition in his eyes.

"I would ask after your chain, and what you did to lose it, but the Lady Whent has invited us and you into her home. So I'll bite my tongue."

Not overly unlike a bulldog in appearance, the Archmaester was one of the few whom Qyburn could say was truly dedicated to knowledge, not just what was found in books.

"Only the same thing that always riles up the conclave…."

That got him a snort of amusement and the tension relaxed somewhat, opening up a space for the young lord to interject.

"So, good healer, are you here alone? Did you come with an apprentice or students?"

"Oh not alone. Not always, at least. One may find friends along the road if they have enough gold to spare. Or if they have skills to peddle. I imagine it would be the same for every scholar, if they were on a journey of learning, would they not make use of everything they had to reach their goal?"

The lord raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing dishonorable I should hope."

Lowering his head, Qyburn gave his standard smile once again.

"Of course not, my lord…."

"Lord Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, head of House Dondarrion. This is Lancel Lannister, squire to the king, and my own squire is Lord Edric Dayne, head of House Dayne and Lord of Starfall. This, as you know, is Archmaester Marwyn and the lovely young woman, Ophelia Sand, is the daughter of the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne. And if I'm not mistaken, she's his favorite."

Her eyebrow quirked, just slightly.

A measured, practiced, movement.

"One of his favorites. In fact, I would say he has, oh, ten or eleven - depending on how you wish to count them."

"Every father has a favorite child." Giving her the best 'grandfatherly' smile he could, the once maester was genuinely interested in how she would respond. "There is no shame in it."

Instead of responding directly, the young woman merely looked away, almost staring off into the distance, before turning back to him.

"And yours would be?"

"Knowledge, of course. I am a man who has learned a little and still seeks to learn more. Nothing more, nothing less. Though if I had to pick my next path now? Well I have heard Dorne has been looking to lure scholars like myself."

In need of money.

And hungry for knowledge.

"Dorne? Are you sure your old bones could handle the heat and the distance and the sand?" The corner of Ophelia's lips twitched, a fleeting bout of mirth coming to the fore. "It gets everywhere."

Oh, playing coy wasn't she. Well, he knew how to be blunt when needed to.

"Come now, I'm sure that a learned young woman like yourself knows all about it. Just a few years ago your own uncle offered gold out of his own coffers, seeking learned men, priceless books, and artifacts. Sunspear is perhaps one of the best places to be for men like me, who seek knowledge. And perhaps a touch of mystery."

"Men who were kicked out of the Citadel for reading books they weren't supposed to."

This time the archmaester's words were almost bitter and Qyburn genuinely hoped this would all work out like that pretty shadow witch had told him it could.

"Reading books, talking to people we're supposed to disdain, asking questions that are imprudent. I'm sure that the Valyrian steel link would have been happily forged by your own fingers… should the council have permitted you the resources needed to truly investigate the Higher Mysteries."

That got a grunt.

"Now I know you're flattering me." The old man's words were bitter. "But I don't suppose you happen to be a mage as well? With the witch girl around, well, I wouldn't be surprised, no matter how unlikely such a thing should be."

"Whatever do you mean, oh Maester Marwyn?" The Dornish girl tittered. "Are you saying that we are not fated to meet a terrible sorcerer in the cursed castle of a mad king, once ruled by a witch so terrible her powers drove her to madness? Would this kind, gentle Lady Whent, who I am sure would never harm a soul-" That got a snort of laughter from the lady in question. She'd earned her position and she'd fought for it with everything she had. "Who so kindly took us weary travelers in, how could we even suspect that she's in league with the most dreadful healers to stitch up peasant boys and deal fairly with small folk. Oh, woe is us."

"Do be careful my dear." He couldn't help the smirk that he felt climbing up his own lips. "Curses are quite real." Truly, Qyburn was blessed with the most golden of fortunes. "And dark secrets have a way of surprising you at the worst times and in the worst of ways."

---

Ophelia​

---

'What a pleasant guy.'

It had been a long time since Ophelia had been able to play around with someone who wasn't related to her or a possible enemy. Of course, she wouldn't count the maester out from having an agenda of his own, that way lay disaster.

What she truly enjoyed was the chance to speak with someone who wasn't aware of who she was and didn't suspect everything special or interesting about her was about magic.

Even if he was very clearly aware of the magic, yes.

As much as she was enjoying the trip, she could only put up with stares of awe and suspicion for so long, and many of those who were traveling north with her family still suspected she had nefarious purposes in mind. Which was a mistake, of course.

They should have been suspecting Tyene.

But most didn't.

Why would they with a perfectly good witch to stare at?

Which was why she appreciated the quiet meal and pleasant company without underlying tension. She could breath without having to consider silly questions like how her sister might cause the next scandal, or which person would be selling secrets to whom on their next stop. Attentive though she might be, Ophelia was still on vacation.

Her father was the one handling intrigue.

Her sisters were the ones causing trouble and getting each other out of it.

Whether or not she was directly responsible for a good deal of all the trouble that had occurred on her alleged vacation, the simple fact was that she was the one who didn't go seeking trouble.

Just magic swords.

And to mend the bond between parent and child.

Who happened to be a king and his royal bastard.

Plus she had outed herself as being magical.

'No, there's no way I could be a hypocrite about this.' For a moment she was worried. 'Totally not.' Sighing, she slumped forward. 'Well, at least I'm doing my job.'

Ophelia was here mostly to have others gasp in awe at or be the showpiece which drew their gaze. Something she was more than comfortable with. Being a symbol of horror and suspicion hit a bit close to home, but if it helped her family move about as they pleased, she didn't mind dusting the warlord books.

Nevermind the secrets she'd uncovered and learnt about since leaving Sunspear.

Priceless artifacts.

Political secrets.

Scandalous affairs.

The Witch of Dorne craved knowing things. Craved knowledge of this strange world which had become her new home. And the mysterious home of cursed stone and dragon fire where their group temporarily resided.

The closest thing she could imagine were the Targaryen Ghosts.

A dynasty of grudges holding onto their resentment for decades, if not centuries. Rage the likes which could keep something alive well beyond its natural lifespan.

But this was different.

This was a scar on the land.

An ugly reminder of a tragedy which still tainted everything it touched.

Animals were sullen and skittish. The people were moody and somber, with some intriguing exceptions. It was a place steeped in the shadows of the past which loomed over the living to this day. Ophelia could feel it in her Swarm and the few animals she'd used to explore the nooks and crannies of Harrenhal.

She could feel it in the way birds stayed far away or in the most distant of towers. Even the animals they'd brought with them, used to the company of humans, were deeply unsettled.

"This place gives me the creeps."

Ophelia started.

"Have you been talking to my sisters?"

Marwyn the mage, Maester of the Higher Mysteries, smiled coyly.

"Perhaps."

'Gods dammit, Sarella. Stop spreading my vocabulary.'

Shaking her head, the witch keeped walking.

"I wish to speak with Lady Whent. Your company would not be objected to."

Right now Ophelia had actually bothered to change out of her riding leathers. In particular, she had changed it out for a rather thin yellow dress, with red Dornish roses done in lace along the sleeves, with linen undergarments that were almost as light as the ones she wore back home. Strangely enough, the coldness had yet to bother her, even while her siblings had all taken notice, in fact she was rather comfortable.

"Oh? A young woman wouldn't rather send an old man away?" Marwyn chuckled and gave her a grin. "I do appreciate the permissiveness. Though, while I have your ear…."

Turning to look at the old Maestar, the witch paused.

"There are no others listening in. My Swarm will ensure it."

His eyes sparkled with interest for a moment, the clear desire to speak about magic having to be tamped down, and focused.

"The chainless maestar."

She nodded.

"He is familiar?"

Marwyn continued walking, nodding as he did so.

"The simple fact that I think he is, means it is highly likely that he is."

"How many chainless maestars have you known?"

Ophelia's question was fair enough. In theory, they should be rather rare.

"More than is good for me, less than my enemies accuse me of." He shrugged. "I'm an old man."

"And one who eschews politics."

Nodding, the old mage agreed.

"That is how I got to be so old indeed."

The duo shared a chuckle.

"Well you're doing great now. Stuck with a bunch of girls that like to cause problems, I'm sure things will stay nice and boring. Happily. Exhaustingly, even."

Marwyn didn't deign to reply. Instead, the pair having come to the door to the Lady's chambers, he gave it a sharp wrap.

"Enter!"

Inside was Lady Whent, knitting in front of a large fire. She was old, not small, but somewhat shrunken in on herself. Tiny, almost, but with an energy that seemed pointed, sharp, aggressive even. Wearing several layers of thick, woolen clothing, the witch thought the woman must have been at risk of heatstroke, but clearly she was fine.

There was an alertness to her gaze, a spark of interest as Ophelia and Marwyn entered the room.

"So, a witch and a mage come to visit me. No bad omens to give, I hope."

The dornish girl smiled wanly.

"None you haven't heard a dozen times, milady."

"Oh, aren't you a clever one." She rasped a laugh. "Come on in, take a seat."

Much like she did the Maester, Ophelia took her time eyeing Lady Whent. She wasn't quite what she expected.No, with a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind, the woman was far from the beaten down husk Harrenhal would have made of others. She seemed comfortable, or perhaps at ease.

"I'm sure you can guess why we are here?"

"Does one need more than the pleasant welcome of Harrenhal to warrant a visit?"

To her side, Marwin snorted.

"Pleasant, that's one way to put it."

Lady Whent's flinty eyes crinkled.

"You would be surprised. Many come here seeking solitude. Or perhaps believe themselves hunters of treasure and mystery. Either way, foolish."

"And which one are you, Milady?" the witch leaned forward.

"Why, both! Of course!"

They shared a quiet laugh.

"Ah, but you aren't here to listen to the ramblings of an old woman, are you, dear? You actually want to learn something, no?" Straight to the point, with no need to stand on formalities, Ophelia supposed that the older you got the less you cared about niceties. Most probably didn't live long enough to he half Lady Whent's age.

She liked it.

"Can you blame a witch for hunting secrets?"

"Well, you are certainly well behaved for one. Better behaved than half the little noble boys and girls I have to put up with. Always with the fake smiles and niceties. Counting the days until they can take control of this cursed pile of stones. You actually want to be here and not just to see me dead."

Sniffing around someone's home with an army of critters was hardly 'good behavior', but Ophelia suspected the woman might actually approve.

If only because it would be amusing.

"I don't see why they would. This place is cursed."

Lady Whent smiled grimly.

"It is. But there is a certain prestige to be earned by taking on Harrenhal. I imagine a witch wouldn't let herself be taken by superstitions and hearsay though. I'm curious to hear what you think of my home."

The witch pursued her lips.

Well, she certainly had an impression of Harrenhal. But she wasn't all seeing or all knowing. The stones in the walls didn't whisper secrets and there was no guide eager to take her to the place where the cursed resided at its strongest.

Not like Black Tom and the Ghosts of the Red Keep.

Because there wasn't a place like that.

"When I say cursed, Lady Whent, I don't mean that the castle brings misfortune to those here. I'm sure it's part of it. But Harrenhal isn't haunted, it's not something you can point out and say that is the cause. Harrenhal itself is cursed from its foundations. The tragedy which took place here was so… devastating that the castle itself remembers… the stones and soil and sky can't move past these events."

It wasn't an angry spirit biding its time for revenge.

This place was a timeless scar on the land. History made manifest.

"The walls remember the fire." The older woman agreed, almost breathlessly.

How long had she lived here, Ophelia wondered. Steeped in this place that refused to forget.

Had she seen the event in visions? Did she feel the flames climbing from the charred floor towards her body?

"You must have seen a lot."

"It loses its charm after the first dozen times. The pain is the same."

Ophelia had no intention of asking what being burnt by Dragonfire felt like.

"I would ask you why you stay, but's obvious too." She paused when Marwyn gave her a look. "It's in her blood. Her bones." Opehlia turned to the noble woman, aged as she was. "That's the energy that burns inside you. The magic."

"Aye." The old woman inclined her head, almost smiling. "My ancestor may have been less discrete. And my husband, well…." Sadness dimmed her gaze. "Magic always demands a price. He paid it for both of us.

"That's why you still live." Amazement filled Ophelia's mind, wonder plain as day at what she saw before her. "The dragonfire, it consumes you and you are reborn. Each and every night."

"Well, it's not immortality, but I've never been sick a day in my life. I refuse to do those ridiculous sacrifices the dragon keeps demanding though. Utter hogwash."

Ophelia looked away, cheeks coloring in slight embarrassment.

Maybe they didn't quite agree on the need for ritualistic sacrifices. But at least she only did them when she was angry enough. And the victim happened to be a family enemy.

That totally made it ok, right?


The air was cool.

Obviously the weather had started to turn as they travelled North, that it grew a bit damper and wetter and the nights a little longer, but now it had a chill.

That's what woke her up.

Wings, the air, fluttering, flying, rapid, jerky movements, and an ever present screech. It was only Ophelia's long, long practice in the body of flying creatures that helped her avoid panic. Not that controlling a small flock was any comparison to the situation she was in now.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of bats swarming up and out of caves and broken towers and trees. A truly unimaginable number of creatures, all moving in a single, unstoppable wave of skin and sinew and screams.

Right then, in that moment, the sheer amount of life she could feel amazed the witch.

From fetuses gestating in some of the females to wizened ancients, there were a half dozen generations moving with singular purpose.

But she had no control.

It wasn't her shrinking radius either, in fact it seemed greater than ever before. But instead of it just being her dwelling within the skins of all living things around her, there was a… shadow. An echo of something other.

However, it was distinctly not hostile. More gentle, guiding, though very old and very alien.

If she was seeing what happened to a warg when they were lost in their skins, then it would be a very, very old warg indeed.

Unsure what to do, what she could do, Ophelia let her body carry her up, up, up, and up.

And then, at the very climax of her ascent, she saw. Harrenhal was gone, there was no more ugly, broken castle. Instead, in the distance, there was only a wall of water. The wind screamed and rain slammed into her and hail battered her form, but still the bat's body held on. So high in the heavens that it ensured that she could see and see and see.

Because that wall of water was growing bigger and closer and angrier and faster and then, like the fist of God Almighty itself, it slammed into the distant horizon. Cutting, shattering, obliterating. Chunks of earth and debris flew for miles as the storm grew and grew and grew.

Desperate for shelter, for salvation, the witch turned and fled.

There, in the distance, though oh so much closer than the furious wall of water, was an island. Sat in the center of a lake, there wasn't so much as a drop of rain touching it. In fact, even the waters of the lake were still.

As she closed the distance, her body battered, one wing barely holding together in tatters, she began to hear a song.

Beyond the edge of the storm there was a hymn.

Slow and refined, gothic even.

Fast and primal, a chase and a hunt.

Gentle and tender, a mother's lullaby.

Powerful.

Purely, simply powerful.

The song called out to her, soothing her weariness and pain, and each flap of her wings brought Ophelia closer. Alighting upon a branch, she felt exhaustion lap at her mind, claw at her form, and her eyes grew heavy.

And then, a predator screeched.

Great, black claws locked closed around her, smashing through creeping green vines that had even then been slowly worming their way along her form, slipping under her skin and binding her body to the tree. Now, though, a terrible beast, like a great eel with eight, misshapen, twisted limbs had snatched her up and thrown her into the sky.

Looking down where Harrenhal would one day sit, there was instead a monster.

With smooth, broad shapes for its face, and teeth as long as a knight and rider, it opened its maw.

Within, she saw time itself blur.

Within, she saw tens of thousands of men and ships and nations live and die.
Within that maw, Ophelia saw every moment of greed and lust and hunger and rage that Harren Hoare had engendered with his great work. The cruelty and blood poured into this fortress and the hatred of the Riverlords for the Reaver King.

She also saw every single thing she had ever desired.

Power, wealth, women, men, magic, armies, a kingdom, an empire.

This castle, if restored, could become a bastion of magic and power beyond any other.

A tongue licked at her mind, something wet and unclean reaching places that should never be touched. Voices from a hundred different times, from conquerors and conquered long since dead. There, she saw them, hanging in the back of the great eel's throat. Burned, charred by dragon fire, and seared by stomach acid were the corpses of hundreds of lords and ladies.

And so she saw too the price of trying to "rule" Harrenhal.

Blood, seared into the stones by dragonfire, and forever added to the great beast the castle one day yearned to become. So that it might pour out its hatred and evil on all the world.

Ophelia turned her head, knowing only that the disgust at this dark price overwhelmed any temptation to embrace its power.

Smiling, something unnatural on the face of such a monstrous being, the Eel merely opened its maw wider, thrashing about with its eight limbs, and exhaled. A breath of fire and acid and pure bile billowed out.

Screaming, she fell.

Desperately attempting to break the fall, she began furiously flapping her wings, trying to juke and dodge and flee, only for charred hands to grasp her throat. They were massive and her form was tiny and it was only when she twisted around, her body bruised and scratched by the violent throttling that she realized who it was.

The ruined, blackened remnants of Ser Amory Lorch wrapped the skeletal remnants of his hands around Ophelia's throat.

With a charred corpse-grin he forced her down into the stream of evil and she could do nothing but suffer.

Washed in this torrent of death, her fur and flesh and muscle turned to ash. Her eyes melted to jelly and that terrible heat even turned that to nothing. In the end, all that was left was a single, screaming heart - beating and beating and beating as it was consumed again and again.

Then, just as those awful teeth were about to close around her, a hand plunged into the stream of fire and plucked her free. They were flying again, a great bat thing holding her aloft as it soared through the heavens.

There, trapped in its claws, her body reformed.

It was strange and confusing and unnatural in every possible way.

But, in the end, she was whole and human - if sore in every possible way.

As the great monster banked in the sky, it turned back towards the castle, now once more blackened stone, and descended. Flying to one of the broken towers, half open to the sky, Ophelia's savior dropped her to the floor of the tower with as much gentleness as a great bat could manage with a human. That is to say, she rolled, groaning in pain, when she hit the ground.

Coming to a stop, she panted, feeling the detritus of a hundred years under her.

Mostly it was soft.

Leaves, hay, rushes. And a gnarled, twisted Heart Tree with eyes that wept blood red sap growing up and out of the ruins. Beneath it sat a suit of black armor and a long sword so dark that it seemed to suck in the very light around it.

Pain kept her from exploring - her skin was still tender, red. So the witch lay there, trying to gather her breath.

And then, when the monster cast it's vast shadow over her, the moon behind it silhouetting a bat larger than a bear, it was gone.

Instead there was a woman there.

Beautiful, tall - taller than Ophelia even, with flowing red hair that fell past her waist and lips that seemed to be painted a bright, right crimson. It would be an understatement to say that she was gorgeous. But there was something in those features that hinted at being not quite human. As if there was a beast pretending to wear the skin of a sorceress and couldn't quite prevent a bit of the primal savagery from showing through.

The woman was also utterly nude.

Pouncing on top of the confused, floundering young woman, the bat monster turned human pinned Ophelia to the ground - drawing another noise of pain from the Dornishwoman as she did so. And then the taller, impossibly strong red haired being did something utterly unexpected.

She leaned down and kissed the very, very confused witch.

When a tongue slid inside her mouth and the taste of copper filled her senses, the once warlord also instinctively recognized the taste of blood. Human blood too, if she was right.

And with that knowledge came visions.

Visions of a woman's life, from her birth to her death.

They were a jumbled, chaotic mess and most of it made little to no sense. Chief amongst the visions it focused on Danelle, for this was Danelle Lothston, and her love for Brynden Rivers. Ophelia saw them coupling, making love and fucking alike. She saw how Danelle worshipped the Bastard, but how the Bastard loved another. She even saw how Shiara Seastar had joined the duo.

Both in the bedroom, no matter how jealous Danelle grew, and, when Shiara deemed her worthy, in the workshop too.

It had been the duo of the Bloodraven and the Bloody Star that taught Mad Danelle Lothston how to weave her spells. They had shown her how to tap into the same powers that spawned her nightmares and fight back against the beast that was Harrenhall.

Or at least to direct its hunger.

Something that allowed all three to tap into powerful, powerful curses.

For there was no mistake in how the arrows of the Raven's Teeth always found their mark.

Struggling against the tide, things moved so rapidly the only thing the mortal could do was try and hold on. To center herself in that storm of sound and color and sensation which never seemed to hold still for even a heartbeat.

The final flashes she saw were of the civil war, of a miscarriage, and, at the very end, of the Lady throwing everything she had against rioting peasants. All over something that the noble woman had thought minor, even. A single sacrificed peasant woman. A spy who had broken into Lothston's private workroom and met her doom for it.

That had seen hundreds calling for her, blaming her for every misfortune and mistake, and then, at the very end, when her body was consumed by fire - Black Harren Hoare and his monster looking on and jeering - her mind had fled into her skins.

So, so many skins.

Danelle simply sang something low and wordless, speech was beyond her now, and let the poor mortal rest her head in the dead sorceress's lap.

All while the moon and stars continued to twist in the sky, a billion, billion eyes looking down at them and never once blinking.

When day broke, Ophelia awoke, finding herself covered in bruises and curled up in the roots of the heart tree. She flinched when sunlight hit her eyes, so much pain and disorientation that the bastard would have sworn her head pounded like a drum.

Realizing the state she was in, the poor girl felt a moment of panic before memories of the previous night asserted themselves. Reaching out, she fumbled, the witch needing a second before she felt her swarm again. Latching onto them, she gathered every living thing she could, dragging them towards herself in a wall of life.

---

Sarella​

---

That night, when her sister vanished from their room, Sarella had done what she'd done the last few times her younger sister disappeared unexpectedly without a trace. She'd waited for the witch to come back of her own volition. And when that failed, went out to look for her without telling anyone.

No need to tell the others, after all, her sister was known for going on… walkabouts.

Just another one of the many charming points of being the older sister of a practitioner of strange mysteries. You never knew if they had actually vanished or if they had left without telling you.

Ophelia, much to her frustration, was prone to doing the latter.

So Sarella did as she always did.

Carefully left her room without waking up anyone and then aimlessly walked around Harrenhal in the middle of the night looking for a witch. Somehow, that made her think back to some of the outlandish tales Ophelia used to tell as a child.

How splitting up and looking for clues never worked.

And that snacks were not a good reward when it came to monster hunting.

Sarella, of course, disagreed.

'Both snacks and adventure? I'd kill for something to eat now.'

Stupid witch sister getting probably kidnapped by the stupid and probably cursed castle. After everything that happened back at King's Landing she really should have known better than to start poking around a place like this. And that was coming from the 'stupid adventurer'.

Still, the token scholar of a family of ruthless bastards knew which signs to watch out for in case her sister ever went missing.

First rule of looking for Ophelia, she is most likely either in the woods or in some ancient hidden chamber.

Both happened when they stayed at the Red Keep.

Fortunately, there wasn't anything resembling an old forest of mystery around Harrenhal, so Sarella had to assume her wayward witch of a little sister had been spirited away to some forgotten corner of the fire-scarred castle. At least, she desperately, desperately hoped that Ophelia hadn't been taken to the Isle of Faces, because that… would be a bother to have to get her back from.

'It's always her who gets taken to nice places.'

Nobody asked her if she wanted to go to the weird forgotten corners of the world.

'Always Ophelia, never Sarella.' she pouted.

Second rule of looking for Ophelia!

Your gut is your best friend.

Because spirits and the like didn't usually enjoy the company of the living, they tried to cause them discomfort whenever they got too close to the places they stayed at. Something Ophelia fondly described as giving someone the 'heebie jeebies'.

She was… halfway sure her sister was messing around with her.

But yes. Ghosts and curses caused you discomfort the closer you got to them, assuming they weren't trying to lure you in, but that was a pretty easy way to find them too. After all, a trap you knew about wasn't really a trap at all!

But most spirits, at least from back in the Red Keep - and it was almost impossible to imagined that monster of a castle being tiny, but compared to the utter leviathan that was Harrenhal that was an understatement - the dead felt like a coldness which seeped through the stomach, or the sensation of a hand gripping your heart. They were echoes trying to push you away from where they resided. Even without Ophelia around, Sarella had learned to trust her gut when it came to finding the strange and the mysterious.

Because of how much it didn't want to be found.

'Crazy' and 'Insane', some might call it.

But to Sarella that was the appeal. The magic. The romance!

To tangle with certain death and the unknown just for the chance of glimpsing what lay beyond the understanding of mortal men. Of knowledge long forgotten and legends which had since faded from memory. Grasping out, desperately for an attempt at comprehending just a sliver of the Truth!

And this? This was her best chance.

Harrenhal. The castle burnt to the ground by dragon fire. Living history which tied the present to the far past. What sort of treasures and dangers would she find while looking for her sister? What tales would she tell to her family come the morning?

Her heart trembled with excitement.

So Sarella said nothing. Not as she silently weaved through corridors under the faint candle light of her lantern, steps light as she delved further and further into the darkness of Harrenhal with nothing but her own instincts and experience to guide her through.

And guide them she did

A cold touch on her shoulder.

A faint whisper in her ear.

Her cloak getting snagged on a door frame.

Sarella was not like her father, who dabbled into the mysteries on occasion. Or like her sister who lived alongside them like some princess of an ancient tale. Sarella was blind to the shapes and wisps that they claimed to see. She was deaf to their words. But that just drove her to dive deeper into the shadows.

Because she wanted, desperately, to see everything.

A true scholar at heart - or at least that was the defense she would offer.

What she found was a sealed up door. One that had been bricked up, likely a long time ago with how the plaster blocking it was literally falling apart, and tucked into the base of what Sarella thought was a tower. Unfortunately, that meant she was rather stuck. Being able to phase through solid stone wasn't one of the powers she'd picked up.

Still, it wasn't like there weren't always other options. After all, a bricked up tower probably meant a secret entrance. And secret entrances were actually kind of predictable.

"Ok, ok. What were the rules again?" Wracking her brain, Sarella tried to remember what Mawli said about finding hidden entrances. "First rule is that they need to be large enough for the components to be hidden from the outside. It'll either be big enough for a man in armor to get through or so small only a child could fit. And they tend to be somewhere obvious and easy to access once you know it's there."

Feeling around the door, she tried to find any loose stones then extended the search to the wall nearby. Finding a spot that was slightly damp - exactly six stones to the left of and one below the nearest torch sconce - she pushed at it. What she found was that the stone was loose enough to spin on a hinge down the middle, even if it did take a good amount of force.

Ultimately, she gained access to a small, dark cubby.

Peering inside, the intrepid adventurer saw that it was smooth and devoid of any joins or further devices and in the back was a simple handle - an ancient and rusted lock the only thing that secured it.

"Really, the sconce just gave it away. Even something like a colored lantern hook or a candle holder with special engravings would have been better."

Pulling the rusted lock thing free, she tossed it off to the side and turned the handle.

Despite a great deal of crunching and scraping and the damnable thing getting stuck twice, she was able to fully turn it three times in a counterclockwise direction before there was a loud bang, the grinding of several hidden gears, and part of the roof fell open.

Jumping back, she almost yelled when half a dozen rats fell out before the furry things scampered off.

Looking at the wooden slats, she found they were actually rather then and the rotten remains of a ladder sat atop it. It was too damaged to unfold, but Sarella was able to climb up the frame itself. Once in the hidden attic, the young woman was very glad to see a rather large window set into the far side of the wall. Prying the wooden slats open, and throwing up a lot of dust, she turned and saw that the room behind her was filled will hundreds of things that could only be described as "interesting".

More significant was the fact that every inch of the floor, ceiling, and walls had been covered in symbols.

"Well now."

Making her way over to the door in the room that should lead to the bricked up tower, she managed to open it with a few shoulder barges and paused.

"Huh. Makes sense I suppose."

What she found was soil. Or, rather, that the external tower was built on top of a natural hill. That it had been enclosed with stone, a passage leading to the top build, but dark, rich soil was definitely leaking through small cracks in the inner wall.

Following the stairs, she found herself coming to another door. This one actually broke a little when she pushed on it hard enough.

Stumbling, as she'd tried to barge through like the first one, Sarella took in her surroundings.

The nesting materials that covered the floor.

The giant weirwood tree at the far end of the broken down, open tower.

And her sister - somewhat badly injured and nude - sitting in the middle of a near solid wall of life. Bugs, birds, even mice and rats and a few cats all stood frozen in place, every pair of eyes in the world seemingly now fixed on Sarella.

"'Phelia? It's me."

She spoke low and soft, hoping to communicate peace and comfort and safety.

Exploding into motion, the various creatures fled and crawled and slithered as reptiles and snakes she hadn't seen before disappeared just as quickly as the ravens and bats and rats.

All that remained was a single large fox, nestled up against Ophelia's chest.

Sarella didn't bother wondering how it had gotten where it did, that didn't matter. Instead, undoing the buttons on her coat, she wrapped her sister as best she could and started looking at some of the more serious bruises.

"Hey. Maybe you let me get kidnapped next time." Her voice was watery, unstable. "Let the ghosts show me some love?" Because right now, the archer was more worried for her sister than she had been in a long, long time. "Are you ok?"

It was a very, very serious question.

Because right now her sister didn't look like she'd been visited by ghosts.

Discretely slipping her hands between her sister's thighs, Sarella probed somewhat for a feeling she prayed wouldn't be there. And, finding neither something sticky nor crusty and dried, she instead slowly slid her arms under her sister. Lifting her up off of the roots, the older sibling did the only thing she could and began checking to make sure there were no broken bones, that Ophelia hadn't hit her head, and then, when her younger sister stirred, the dark skinned teenager let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"I wanna go home Aisha." Blinking, confused, it took another thirty seconds before the witch shook her head. "Sorry. Sarella. I'm… where am I?"

"Destroyed tower only accessible by a secret passageway that hadn't been opened in a hundred years."

"Huh." The one word answer was tired, worn down, and still a little confused.

Sarella just pulled her idiot sister into a tighter hug, holding her close as the fox chose that moment to slip away. As it did, she noticed something it had been sitting on.

"Hey, what's that?"

Pointing at a fist sized, speckled, brown and white ball the scholar only flinched a little.

"Danelle's master work."

Swallowing, smiling, and shaking her own head the older sister gave a final response.

"Huh indeed."

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: Well look who's back with some nice stuff. Wyvern and the Warhawk, Team Scrimshaw presents to you all the monthly goodies of One Who is Many. Much quicker than last time. Then again, some of the scenes we included here were planned months ahead. Hope you guys enjoy it!

AtW: Hopefully our pace picks up. Just dealing with stuff atm and drama never helps the muse. Anyways, if you have questions feel free to ask.

Now then, onto the reading

---

One Who is Many - Chapter 12​

---

Ophelia​

---

When she came to, the first thing Ophelia did was flex her fingers around the egg she could feel at her side - right under the fingers of the one hand she had under the covers and nestled up against her leg.

The second thing she did was wince.

'Oww… everything hurts.'

Indeed, everything from top to bottom felt like someone had used her like a dummy to run warhammer drills on - from her calves to her stomach, even her forehead felt like someone had tried to stomp her down as deeply into the ground as possible.

Trying so much as to twitch did nothing but draw another wince from her as pain flared all over her skin, tender, sensitive, even a little warm. Almost like she'd gotten a mild burn over every inch of her body. It said something that the blankets she was sitting under seemed to be almost scraping against her skin, at least where the linen underclothes she wore weren't actually starting to chafe.

"Finally awake, I see."

Ophelia looked up, shaking off the last lingering dregs of sleep as her eyes slowly focused on the shape of her sister. Familiar flint eyes looking down at her with concern as the older girl's hand pressed against her forehead.

"No fever, do you feel anything?"

Ophelia blinked.

"It hurts."

Gods, even talking hurt. Like someone had bashed her face against the door and her voice was raspy. Almost as if she'd screamed herself bloody raw.

"Should we let the others know she's up?"

Her sister, blessed be her heart, shot the squire down.

"She's still recovering. Try and find Marwyn, or the other Maester. They should come see her first."

The young man behind her sister, Lancel, shuffled awkwardly before murmuring in agreement, clearly uncomfortable with seeing the so far invincible witch of Dorne bound to a sick bed like a common girl.

He left the room silently, the fact that his sword was at his waist and that he was wearing his full armor too.

"Lancel… did…."

Lips twitching, her sister nodded.

"Sat up all night. Watching over you when I needed to use the restroom. I don't think he moved from his post to so much as twitch, once he had his armor on."

Frowning, the witch tried to shake her head.

"I won't… let-"

Suddenly perking up, Sarella held a finger and then stood up. Ophelia tried to follow her as she walked around the bed, but her neck hurt too much to turn. Instead, she could only guess that her older sibling was pouring her a drink from the sound of scraping and liquid rushing.

"Here. Drink this."

Pursing her lips, the witch did her best to swallow when the slightly dry wine hit her tongue. It was strong and good and, almost choking, she managed to take in a few small mouthfuls.

"Easy does it there." Sitting the pitcher back down, the older teenager shook her head. "The drink is strong. Fortified enough to be considered medicinal."

"That explains why my throat doesn't hurt so much."

It took a few tries for Ophelia to fully form the words, but the pleasant numbness in the drink made everything bearable for the moment.

"Lancel, the boy, I won't let Robert punish him for my stupidity."

"Aye." Sarella had sat down again, slowly running her thumb over the witch's hand. "I know you would never allow him to suffer that. He does too, I suspect. It's why I think he likes you."

Drawing a groan from the far, far too sore dream traveller, the younger sister replied the only way she could.

"Is that necessary?"

Sarella, curse her heart, rolled her eyes at her.

"Yes, it is very much necessary. Do you have any idea where I found you?"

"At the stables? I feel like a dozen horses stampeded all over me."

"No, I found you in some weird secret chamber deep in the most cursed, haunted corner of this already cursed and haunted castle. How did you even get there?!"

Ophelia wanted to ask the same thing.

"I don't know? One moment I was somewhere, and then the next… poof."

Her sister blinked.

"Poof?"

Ophelia nodded sagely, no matter the twinges of pain in her neck.

"Poof. It felt like I was dragged somewhere, but I don't know where or even when it was. The castle must have spat me out in whatever corner you found me."

"You're lucky I found you. Who knows what the spirits wanted from you down there."

Ophelia shuffled, taking a deep breath as her chest complained in discomfort, the wine not enough to dull all the pain. And that was the way she liked it.

"Probably some kind of vessel. Lady Whent is getting up in years. They must have tried to get me to stay. Maybe take her place. I didn't understand half of what they tried to show me. But it looked like an offering."

Sarella looked disbelieving.

"So are you the new Lady of Harrenhal?"

"Clearly I refused. Which is why they took out their frustrations on me."

The curse of Harrenhal clearly felt something in her that it disliked. Perhaps her connection to the curse back at King's Landing. Those who died here probably didn't like that she spent some time with the people who burned them alive.

"Given how someone left a gift, I doubt you made a bad first impression."

More than a little confused, she responded as best she could.

"Huh?"

Pulling back the edge of the blanket, and it was only now that Ophelia started noticing that it really was warm in the room, the technically more adventurous of the duo indicated the prize.

"Congratulations, sister. You, little sister, are a mommy."

It was Danelle's egg.

"Perhaps." Running her fingers across the speckled. "If I told you I had an idea that the creature inside this little thing was a genuinely terrifying monster, would you believe me?"

Slowly nodding her head, the dark skinned girl asked the obvious question.

"Is it worse than a dragon?"

Pausing, the witch considered her words and, ultimately, decided that honesty was the only real explanation.

"I don't know."

"My ladies, I have returned." There was a firm rap at the door and Sarella threw the blanket back over the egg in question. "The Lady Whent and Healer Robert."

"Please enter."

Glancing over at Ophelia, the older sibling called out, somewhat worried but also unwilling to defy a noble in her own castle. At least without very, very significant back up. And, as dutiful as Lancel was, she doubted he would be able to project enough force to see the bastard girls granted their usual privileges.

Having an infamously violent father did have some privileges after all.

"Well, you lived." The old woman walked in, her back only slightly bent by age. "They visited me too." Lady Whent pursed her lips, walking over to Ophelia's bedside. "If it's any consolation, I didn't think they'd be so… vicious."

Bent fingers ran across a particularly ugly bruise that wrapped around the witch's throat.

"Do you have to deal with that every night?"

Shaking her head, the old woman responded with a sense of pity.

"No. My magic never was strong enough to fuel them so. But you, well, I think you know better than I do what this place is."

Knowing there was something very, very important she had to say, Ophelia stretched out with her powers. Ignoring the feeling of the castle, as now that she was aware of its gaze she couldn't help but feel it all around her, she brushed up against the egg and then the animals around her and she pushed and pushed and pushed until she found what she needed.

"If it helps you sleep at night, the dragon doesn't have your husband."

"What… I… how could you…."

It was clear that the young bastard had struck a nerve. And Sarella visibly tensed when the healer approached, the old, grandfatherly man checking how much of the strong wine had been drunk.

"Danelle, she saved them." With great difficulty, the young seeker of secrets raised her hand to the other. "Let me show you."

At the tentative contact, Ophelia let the tiny, tiny bond that existed between her and the great monster bat solidify before passing over to the older woman.

"The castle, I think it's taking their power, their… strength and will to exist. But Lady Lothston is taking their souls and letting them slip into her skins."

There were a few long moments of silence, lights and colors shifting, pain dancing up the witch's arm, and it was only when the old woman broke the contact did she realize that the reincarnated mortal hadn't taken a breath in almost a minute.

"Shella, you may call me Shella." Eventually, the Lady of Harrenhal replied. "I, well, words can never express what you have done for me." Her voice was thick and heavy, unshed tears pricking at her eyes. "Every night I prayed to the Gods, the Old, the New, the ones of Valyria that my ancestors worshipped… I…. thank you." Sniffling, it was clear that the old woman was totally overcome by emotion. "Healer, see that she is made well. I am sorry my dears, I must, well, I must pray I think. And then give thanks the right way too."

As the woman who had born the burden of the ancient curse turned to walk away, a tired looking - and extremely confused - Lancel Lannister caught her by the arm and glanced as the two Sand Snakes. At a small nod, he gave the two sisters an unsteady smile and gently but firmly escorted the Lady of the Castle towards the kitchen.

"He's a sensible boy." Glancing up, the Dornishwomen finally paid attention to the erstwhile healer. "Tea and company will do good for her, then she can go pray. Besides, I do not think the gods would begrudge her a few moments of peace."

"You knew what she was going through?"

Sarella's question provoked a question from the older man.

"I could guess. But it was never my right to pry. After all, a place like this has no use for an old man like me. The most I could have done is ease her physical pains, never the true ones."

Slowly, the archer nodded.

"Now, there is the matter of the healing." Robert continued, smiling. "I approve of your restraint, my lady, in the administering of the strong wine. But do I have permission to inspect your body?"

Ophelia nodded and the blankets were pulled back.

Now, in the light of day it was obvious how much damage she'd taken, though the healer had taken care not to reveal more of her body than he had needed. The thick, purple-black lines more than made her state clear.

"Well, firstly, I must ask the obvious my lady. Please understand I mean no disrespect by this, but I am given to understand that you were found nude, on your own, in a secluded area of the castle. That, combined with what I can very clearly identify as strangulation marks-" Here, he indicated the lines of bruises on her neck. "Indicate one likely course of events. Should you need care in that way, I can contact a midwife or, perhaps, prepare a letter for your father….?"

Once more, Sarella's tension was visibly increased and it took everything Ophelia had to reach over her free hand and take her sister's.

"No, good sir, but I was not raped. What I experienced was somewhat different than any normal, physical assault."

At this, he nodded.

"And you have no concerns with either myself or the boy hearing what you had to say to Lady Whent?"

This managed to draw a small smile out of Ophelia.

"I would ask what exactly, old man, would you say and to whom would you say it?" Even though it pained her, she managed a small chuckle. "That a young woman was viciously attacked and suffers delusions as a result of it? That I am a witch? That Harrenhal is cursed? That every last soul here is mad?"

Her small speech left the too tall girl sagging in the bed, clearly exhausted.

"No. I am not."

Snorting, the old man gave her an almost indulgent grin.

"I knew I liked you. That is a rather fiery tongue you have there. And speaking of fire, I would say that it's almost like all of your body has suffered some minimal burns. Other than that, there are the strangulation marks, what looks like injuries from being dropped, and, dare I say, almost something like the marks a bird of prey makes when it grabs its supper."

Unfortunately, it turns out addressing magically inflicted injuries required a significant amount of time diagnosing things, with the egg only remaining hidden by the discrete positioning of the blankets and Sarella taking them and "moving the bundle aside" so that the healer could see to Ophelia's legs. Something that moderately annoyed the witch when the man confirmed that he saw neither bruising nor other injuries he might expect of an intimate attack. After all, she had said it hadn't happened!

She would be lying if she said she wasn't a little happy at how worried her sister was for her though. It felt nice to have someone be so clearly protective.

'Other than Tyene, I suppose.'

Yawning, before the young witch even noticed it, she had dozed off, the healer smiling and leaving a few things with the older sister of the two before excusing himself.

Sarella mostly just chuckled, content to remain with her sister and decided to use the daylight she had left to read a tome borrowed from Lady Whent's library. Once the old surgeon had excused himself, she rearranged her sister's body, placed the egg back with the sleeping witch, and ended up slipping back into sleep herself.

Young Lancel, however, would keep his vigil, eventually switching out with Ser Dayne and only departing to explain things as best he could to the somewhat irate Lord Dondarrion.

After all, the dashing knight had already gotten his cheeks pinched once for raising his voice to Lady Whent! It would be a travesty if it happened again and the Lannister wasn't there to witness it.

---

Cersei​

---

Reclining in her tent, she gently sipped at her mulled wine as she wrote out the last of the three letters she'd finished today alone.

Aside from the normal scheming whores she had to put in her place, Cersei had absolutely no doubt about her loyalty to House Lannister. Her sons, after all, would need to be able to support each other. And if she wanted Tommen to inherit instead of the dwarf, she would have to ensure that the bannermen understood it would be in their best interests to support her son's claim and cause.

'Damn the mad king.' Her quill scratched particularly deep. 'But that wildfire, had it been even the most minutely bit more like Robert, the whole city would have burned.' Even if she'd never admit it out loud, discovering exactly how little she knew had been a bit of a wake up call. 'But at least with Pycelle gone my father now depends on me.'

A woman she may be, but no one else would rule her, not so long as she had her beauty and her mind.

"Sister, she's on her way."

Looking up, she noticed that her brother had stuck his head under the crook of the tent, locks of blond hair falling past his chiseled jaw, blue eyes still simmering with lust.

"Thank you. After this, would you check on Joff and Tommen? I think they wanted to spend the day with… the boy." Her voice grew clipped, but thoughts of sneering vengeance were not allowed to make her visibly ugly. "And Myrcella is with the septa, I think. Make sure she the Snake is somewhere not close to her." She paused, thinking for a moment. "Be a dear and tell the servants to bring tea and milk?"

He nodded, a less carnal type of love in the Brave Ser Jaimie's eyes, and let the flap of the tent fall as his woman's lips took on an amused quirk.

"Aye. And a little wine too, for the girl."

Cersei's smile faltered. Because of course word had reached the Queen that the Dornish witch girl had become entangled in some form of incident and came off worse for it. And that meant, as the responsible adult, she'd done the logical thing.

Politely inquire about it.

Of course, what she meant to do was test the emotional response from the girl's companions. Lancel in particular had been an obvious source of possible information. So too had she asked Tyene about what had happened, trying to gauge their reactions so she could have an understanding of the witch's actual condition and whether she was in any sort of danger or not.

For entirely tactical reasons, of course.

She couldn't just come out and ask to see her. By the Seven, no. As the queen she had been compelled to wait until the conversation had taken a natural turn towards the girl's recent absence and whether the events of the past few days would leave any permanent marks on her health. As someone obviously valuable to the Game, she was a very important piece to keep track of.

Yes, that's why she was taking a moment to adjust her hair and smooth out her dress now that she was finally getting to speak to the child. After being denied access to Ophelia's room by Harrenhal's physician - the nerve of which had almost seen him horse whipped - Cersei had been left to content herself with the words of others.

She was Queen and could very well visit a bedridden girl if she so wanted. Only she hadn't forced the issue as she normally would. Why, if a rumor started about her visiting the Dornish witch by her lonesome… Cersei couldn't think of anything worse.

"It's obviously bothering you. So why not go see her?"

Cersei pinned her brother with an unimpressed glare, both at the fact he was still standing at the front of the tent instead of checking on their children and that he would question her.

Trust Jamie to just go out and suggest the simplest solution to an issue with no regard for how it reflected on her.

"I already told you. I need to wait-"

"For an opportunity. Yes. You said that, many times. In fact, you told me last night how uncouth it would be if you forced your attentions on a young woman in her sick bed."

"I can't just barge into her room unannounced."

"The King certainly can. I heard he was euphoric at hearing her recovery was moving along quickly enough that he'd be getting those potions again. Gods forbid that he has to be sober for a day."

Cersei's nose wrinkled in distaste.

Robert and his wine.

Having had to spend just a few days without being able to recklessly imbibe had left him near in tears from the collective hangover. Because, quite frankly, the queen had almost laughed at her husband when he was left bedridden with a ringing migraine. It was almost enough to convince her that there was justice in the world.

Almost.

"There is a difference and you know it. Robert doesn't care what others think of his relationship with the Dornish. He would just as easily run them out of King's Landing as he would welcome them and none would bat an eye."

"And you, Queen Cersei, care about what others think of your friendship with the witch girl."

She pushed him, irate as she looked through the opening of her tent.

"Would you stop calling it that?"

"Well, what should I call it? You're obviously getting nothing out of the witch besides company. Unless I'm missing something…."

"No, Jamie, I did not bed the girl."

"Oh, good. I already have to drink until I pass out until Robert visits you, lest I run him through like I did the Mad King." His grin grew rakish for a moment. "Though I would have to applaud your taste if you wanted to acquaint yourself with the Snakes. Assuming they deign not to bite your breast. After all, I think Tyene, that is her name, yes? Yes. I think she might want to take my place in that respect."

Cersei dearly wished she had something to throw at her brother.

Then she realized that might have been what he wanted.

"Are you trying to get me angry?"

His charming smile held no deceit.

"Not at all, dear sister! I'm only saying that… should you need an excuse to go see the witch whom you feel nothing but ambivalence for, one of the best ways to do so would be to find an excuse to be there that did not sound like you got caught while trying to sneak past Mother to watch me train with the squires."

Her cheeks colored in embarrassment.

"That was one time, and you know it."

"Once was enough for her."

"Do you want me to injure you or not?"

"Well, if you don't want to do it I can go ask Oberyn."

She twitched.

"Since when have you gotten so close to the girl's father?" Cersei stared at her brother. "If any of them is likely to murder us it would be him. Unless, of course, you are thinking of another spear. One that might not always be in his hand…."

"Whatever you are thinking - drop it."

Her smile was a demure picture of innocence.

"I have no idea what you mean by that, brother dear."

"Cersei, I mean it."

"Though now that I think about it, you have been spending an awful lot of time around the man. Hoping to stab him with something other than your sword, hmm?"

"My queen, Ser Jaimie." And just like that, perhaps the worst possible person that could choose that moment to appear, did. "I must ask that if you wish to indulge with my father, that you do so somewhere my senses can not perceive." Here, the very witch the Lady of Lannister had been… well, not fretting over, she would never fret, but the point stood that the witch in question was standing at the entrance to her tent and smirking. "After all, he's rather taken with his newest paramour. Perhaps he even has another daughter on the way."

Here, the smirking Dornishwoman paused again. It was also an excellent opportunity to take in her new appearance. Mostly, she was clad in green - dark, if of a light cloth - with a dress, a cloak, and a veil. Her dress was full body, going from her ankles up to, presumably, her throat. It covered the whole of her body except for her hands - which were the only part of her left uncovered. The cloak was of a slightly darker color and of wool with a fur ruff, which was bound at her waist by a gold chain, and left only the front of her dress visible.

Tellingly, her ensemble was finished by a Dornish veil, something the young woman had never worn before, and that left only her face visible.

"But I do think it would be a lie to say he would not appreciate a form such as yours, Ser Knight."

Jaimie opened his mouth to reply, nothing coming out. Ultimately, once he had finished stuttering, he tried to sputter out a defense.

"My lady, I have no idea what you mean! Truthfully, please, I…." His face crumpled slightly. "I do not need to give the king any further reasons to accuse me of such things. Wait a moment-" The knight's eyes widened when Ophelia slowly lowered the veil she was wearing, seeing the yellow-purple bruises on her face. "Child, what happened, are you ok, who did this to-"

Reaching out, Cersei put her hand on Jaimie's shoulder.

"Love, check on the children."

This time the words were no request.

And, realizing what the hate already twisting his sister's face meant, he simply sighed and nodded. Pausing only to squeeze her hand and give the witch an uncertain nod, the Kingslayer withdrew.

"Who did this to you?" Stalking over to the wounded girl before her, the queen's fingers cupped her companion's cheek. "Tell me and I will make them scream."

Now, in full force, the anger and rage that so easily came to her made itself known.

Her teeth were grinding, her lips curled in sneer, fire practically burning in her eyes.

Somehow, it only made the girl smile.

"They are long since dead." Ophelia paused, shaking her head slightly. "It was my own folly that invited them back." Cersei's fingers pushed a little harder, enough to draw a wince but not to push deeply enough to truly hurt. "If it helps, I intend to go back there one day and finish what it started."

Emotions washed through the queen. A great many emotions in fact, mostly things she refused to consider at the moment. But the final thing she chose to focus on was… exasperation.

"The next time you choose to injure yourself most severely, you will be injured by someone I can torture."

Throwing her head back, the Dornishwoman laughed, showing the top of the strangulation marks just visible above her high collar line.

"I shall endeavor to keep that in mind, your grace."

Taking the young woman by the hand, the royal blonde decided the least foolish thing was to sit with the newly arrived hunter of secrets and talk. If only to find out the exact details of what had happened, perhaps even talking the young woman out of something similarly foolish in the future.

Cersei wasn't going to hold out much hope for that one.

---

Nymeria​

---

​

"And that was when Gandalf roared, slamming the butt of his staff downwards and onto the stone path. You shall not pass, he said! A spark of magic illuminating the caverns, piercing through the smoke and shadows cast by the Balrog…"

Nymeria watched as her younger sister rapped a cane against the bottom of the wheelhouse.

"Our heroes, beset by the heat of Durin's Bane, could do nothing but watch as the mighty beast reared backwards, its whip of dark fire ready to lash out… when…"

"Wheeeeen?"

Her captive audience, composed of very excitable children, plus a certain adventurer, leaned forward, eyes shining with interest as they hungered for details, hungered to know what would happen to the fellowship of heroes who embarked on a journey to prevent the rise of an evil king and his minions.

"The bridge shuddered, mortar and stone crumbling under the weight of the Balrog's next step!"

Chuckling at the appropriate "oohs" and "aahs", it was clear that Ophelia practically vibrated with satisfaction.

Truly, her sister remained a master of her craft, even in another kingdom.

"Did the Balrog fall?"

"Is Gandalf alright?"

The queen's youngest, Tommen and Myrcella, seemed enraptured by the tale.

Though they were not the only ones listening intently. As the second eldest Sand Snake could tell that her younger sisters were also listening in as the middle child spoke. Sarella, of course, listened with unabashed glee, genuinely loving these kinds of stories with an immense amount of passion. In fact, it was she who had helped Ophelia refine her ability to tell her tales by being a willing audience.

Who cares if this was the sixth time she heard the story? The little scholar still seemed to enjoy each time as it was the first.

Even if Ophelia had to convince her that, no, Middle Earth was not a cleverly disguised retelling of Westerosi history and that the witch wasn't trying to give her clues about where to find treasures like the One Ring or the Arkenstone. At this point, the last thing Nymeria needed was for her foolish sisters to get it into their thick heads that dragons kept hoards of gold and stolen treasure.

As it stood, there was a not unrealistic fear that they'd simply disappear in the night and wake up on a boat to Old Valyria the very next day.

Of course, Nymeria smiled when the children cried out as Gandalf's "dying" message was delivered, the wizard then falling to his certain doom alongside the demon of flame and shadow.

They seemed utterly insistent to Ophelia that the heroes should rescue him and save the day. Unfortunately, the witch shook her head and continued the tale with the remaining group making their escape. But the point was made that Gandalf had bought the Fellowship a chance at ultimate victory.

Let it not be said that Nymeria didn't recognize the sacrifice of a valiant man, even if her interests sway the other direction. Though she did think the idea of many genuinely heroic people in so many positions of power was a tiny bit silly.

It was a nice thought though.

Tyene, the last of the Snakes in the wheelhouse, whispered something into the queen's ear. Something that made Nymeria frown.

"It's impolite to talk during a show, little sister."

Cersei, the queen ,glanced between the two sisters. Nymeria gave her the same look she did to the twins when they were naughty. It actually made the older woman pale.

"Now, now, it was nothing but a little comment, big sister." The blonde demurred, but it was obvious how Ophelia had to glance at her first. "I mean nothing by it."

That actually earned a small frown from her.

"Of course not. I would hope that you would never think me suspicious of your intentions. But I must say that there is always a longing in me for warmer climates."

Nymeria's words caused a visible stiffening in her sister, doubly so when she pulled her fur cloak tighter about her shoulders. Neither the queen nor Tyene missed the fact that it was very, very impressively made. Underscoring her point, the second eldest of the Snakes pulled one of the corners down a little bit to the coat of arms done on the collar.

Small, discrete, and obviously a gift from a lord.

The message needed no more saying so, after taking a long look at the others in the room, Tyene dipped her head.

"Then allow me to apologize, especially to the dear children, for spoiling their fun."

Nodding her acknowledgement of the situation, the more discreet of the family's political operatives was glad that things might be less… overly dramatic in the future.

"Now, sister, tell them about Darth Vader." Turning to Ophelia, who jumped slightly as her eyes had gone milky white, the Dornishwoman was glad to see that the bruises were starting to fade. "I think they'll absolutely adore hearing about such a dark and mysterious knight."

"I was half considering the Lion King."

Even Cersei had a small chuckle at that, though she certainly hadn't heard the story yet.

"While I appreciate the gesture, I think my husband and his party have returned, yes?" Turning to the witch, the queen's eyes changed in a way that meant Nymeria was going to be able to tease her sister for a long, long time. "That is what you were checking on, yes?"

"The crown prince is safe, Robert is practically glowing with pride too."

Smirking, Nymeria could only pray that the boy's ego continued to shrink instead of inflate.

"How many prongs on the stag?"

"Four or five."

This time it was Sarella who caught on.

"Managed to finally bring something down with that crossbow of his?"

Ophelia only shrugged at this, letting the potential insult pass without comment. It was telling that Cersei's only response was to sigh and shake her head. The Snakes certainly didn't hear her mutter under breath the phrase "thank the gods it wasn't another cat".

"You were going to tell us about the greatest dark knight." Tyene interjected, pointedly. "Because you truly have done the children a disservice if you have yet to communicate that particular hero in his full glory."

Sarella snickered a little at just how sweetly her older sister acted and Nymeria leaned back into her seat. Things were safe when her sisters were like this. They were… stable.

Which was no small thing for their family.

Of course, their sister jumped back into her tale, more than willing to indulge Tyene' request.

"She is speaking of a dangerous man. A tragic man known as Darth Vader whose breath could freeze the heart of the bravest men and whose presence was like the night itself. You would be forgiven to think of him as nothing but a monster of cold iron and burning hatred whose blade killed many knights."

Nymeria settled down, watching with fondness as the children, plus her sisters, huddled closer to listen to a tale that was as wondrous as it was tragic.

Only her sister could imagine something as ludicrous as a city in the sky ruled by an Emperor drunk on power and the might of his magical terror. A clear reference to the Mad King, if nothing else. Having the heroes ride dragons to destroy it went a bit against the usual narratives, but copious use of duels as opposed to larger battles wasn't so different from the usual stories.

She was very fond of the tale, herself. And of the princess who took fate into her own hands to lead the resistance against the evil emperor.

'The empire should have won, my left foot. And by the gods did it ever give Tyene ideas.'

Ophelia was not helping her sister become Empress of the Galaxy.

And Nymeria would like to keep it that way.

As uneventful as the journey had proven to be at first, the second eldest of the Sand Snakes knew it was only a matter of time until one of the youngest, namely the magically gifted of the bunch, would get into some kind of trouble. There was no avoiding it, and they were all somewhat used to it.

She didn't have to like it, however.

And she liked the hastily covered bruises on her sister's skin even less so.

Because of all places to get into trouble, Ophelia had somehow been dragged to the depths of Harrenhal by what she had to assume was some kind of vengeful ghost from eight hundred years ago. Why? Because her sister had been cavorting with ancient Targaryen spirits in King's Landing of all places.

Nymeria suspected some kind of scent had stuck on her ,which ended up with her getting beaten black and blue. It was the only explanation that made sense. How else could such truly improbable events occur to place her little sister so squarely in the path of danger?

It had been a week before she had calmed down enough to merely be livid.

Of course, the second eldest blamed herself - she had taken her eyes off the girl for a couple of nights. Only a handful. And by now everyone knew that was all it took for Ophelia to somehow be spirited away by unknown forces for what was the second time this year. What made it worse was that Nymeria had only heard of her sister's… spelunking in the godswood because Elia didn't know it was supposed to be kept a secret.

And after a stern talking to, so had Ophelia.

'By the old gods and the new, she did not get into this much trouble back home.'

At least there she stayed in her personal study, working and developing medicines. Away from trouble and surrounded by her many exotic pets. Even if she ended up becoming a hermit in all but name, Nymeria was sure she would not get early gray hairs out of it.

But ever since leaving home, she'd heard nothing but trouble out of their young witch.

Digging around King's Landing for ancient swords. Dragging a great bastard into plain view of the entire court. Getting shown hidden paths by what she could only guess must have been a possessed cat. And then roping their father into ritualisticly sacrificing a man to the spirit possessing said cat.

Nymeria was not one prone to senseless punishments, but perhaps she should have a stern-er talk with Ophelia.

After she was done having an even sterner talk with her other troublemaker of a sister.

---

Ophelia​

---

"So this is Moat Cailan."

Another ruined castle stood in front of her, this one even more ancient than that of Harrenhal and just as ruined. Thankfully less magical.

"I hope you're not considering adopting a lizard lion, dear child of mine."

Oberyn chuckled as he directed his horse over next to Ophelia's, the man smirking as he did so. In fact, he seemed almost inordinately proud for reasons that the witch somewhat feared to guess. That didn't mean her curiosity would go unsated though.

"While I am glad you're happy Father, but what has you so suddenly pleased?"

His grin spread and that was when she knew her mistake.

"Because I thought I would have a few more years before I would become a grandfather!"

Groaning, Ophelia turned her horse away and trotted off, ignoring the laughter that followed her, as she rubbed her stomach. There, bundled at her waist, was Danelle's egg. It was in contact with her skin as much as she could without overly risking the thing, because it was very much alive.

Inside the shell, itself as hard as stone, was a life.

A strange, different kind of life she'd never felt before, but life nonetheless. And it was growing. The only problem was that it was growing very, very slowly, something she knew she was supposed to remedy.

'But that can keep, I suppose.'

Turning her horse wide, she took in the causeway and the three towers and the rotten keep.

What had long, long ago been a mighty fortress was now sinking into the very earth it had been raised out of. Pillars of basalt, like weathered teeth, stuck out of the swamp of the Neck. This left access to the towers, such as they were, open. Mismatched, no two alike, three of the twenty were still mostly complete. Positioned over and around the patch of good ground, any attempt to pass along it would see a force ride under the towers and be subject to bombardment - at best.

In truth, it was obvious that just dragging a few pieces of the ruined wall over would be enough to block the road and moreover assault would be impossible.

Even now she was reaching out with her powers and calming the teams of horses the procession was using to ferry their supplies across. Remnants of a half filled in moat held the lairs of a great number of lizard lions and, even with her power keeping them away from the column, their musk and smell bothered the other animals.

All of this was made necessary by the clinging, sucking mud.

There was a swamp to their East, marshy and filled with brackish, green water that came up to the waist or neck of a man. Filled with leeches, lizard lions, and biting insects approach for any kind of a force was impossible, doubly so since the landing at Moat Cailin would be on jagged, broken ground where parts of the crumbled wall once stood.

Off to the West it was worse.

Seemingly normal, with thick grasses that stretched for leagues, the illusion was a lethal trap. Instead of firm earth any who walked into that field would find quicksand and boggy ground sucking them as they walked along. Oh, it wasn't all a death trap. But there was no straight line through it, nor any kind of cover, and the grasses were such that any attempt at passing through them would be made immediately obvious.

Not that the builders of the defenses trusted merely this. Not only did the Moat of the North still have part of its actual moat still intact, these deep grooves sat under a raised hill where she thought stakes might have been driven into raised earth.

This would have been an outerwork where troops could pour flanking fire onto the main causeway and command the vast field of death traps off to the western flank of the once castle. As she moved further up and along the road, she even saw that a tower once sate there too, one that would have been all too defensible.

Now though there were merely three, clustered together more or less, right around the causeway itself.

"Still, it is impregnable you know?"

Her father had caught up.

"Those towers alone make of the North a fortress."

Shaking her head, Ophelia couldn't help but marvel at the scene.

"Until the stone itself rots away this area is truly impossible to take. If only Dorne had so absolute guarantee we would be safe for ever and ever." Reaching out with her magic, she had to stop a horse from kicking out and bolting away from its owner. "I shudder to think how many bones rest in the earth around us."

"As many as it took to keep the North free."

Once more, the reincarnated had to shake her head at the audacity of her sire.

"Truly, you wish for the king to take your tongue."

Chuckling, the prince shook his head.

"And miss out on my wit and good taste? I think not."

Looking back over to the main group of men, far enough away and swearing loudly enough that none could possibly overhear them, Ophelia continued.

"You know that some whisper."

"Oh?" Raising one eyebrow, her dashing father asked the obvious question. "What do they whisper about?"

"About how we control the king, how I seduced him. Or his wife. Or the kingsguard. Or all three." Here she turned to face the man more fully. "They whisper how our contingent has displaced the traditional Players. More importantly, they whisper how things are changing."

"By that you mean how everyone around us seems less desirous of murdering each other?" Laughing, the Dornishman's ire came out. "Every night, I dream of Elia. I see my sister and her children bloody and burnt and broken." And just as suddenly it left him, weariness replacing it. "My child, I am tired of pretending. I am tired of dining with my enemy and drinking his wine."

Leaning over, she pressed her lips to her tired father's brow.

"For Dorne and for Uncle, you will endure." Ophelia wasn't sure if she believed her own words, but she knew it would comfort the man who had so loved her. "Besides, imagine the Old Lion's surprise when you've seduced both his daughter and his good son."

That restored his good humor, even if Oberyn's eyes still flashed with a hint of the lingering frustration and, dare she say, exhaustion.

"Robert might be worth seducing if he keeps up his training. Why, he almost looks ten years younger. The Demon of the Trident may yet be worth skewering if he truly manages to restore himself."

"So long as your attentions do not see us viewed with even more suspicion." Sighing, the witch was compelled to admit a few lingering fears. "I think I acted too hastily. Perhaps treating this whole thing like a joke was… too much, too soon. But I don't know what else I'm supposed to do."

"Have you considered finding a nice young man and making him very, very happy?"

Turning to look at her father, the young woman repeated his earlier gesture and raised an eyebrow.

"Peace, child, my words are only half serious. I do wonder though, if that it is boredom or consequence that now has you faltering."

Actually giving her father a small glare, Ophelia couldn't quite keep the heat out of her voice.

"Do you think that I'm unaware of the costs of what I have done? That I was not willing to pay those debts? Or perhaps did you think that I would come running to you or Obara or Nymeria or Tyene and ask you to simply make the bad things go away."

Smirking, her father responded in the way only a parent could.

"And was this not the first time you have truly been beaten?" Holding up his hand, he forestalled any further objections. "In Dorne, men died for daring to look too hard at you. Here, you are a witch and a bastard and my daughter all in one." His words turned soft and a bit melancholic. "You have not been denied in a long, long time, but when beaten for the first time in a decade you come out the other side. I am not complaining that you go to your sisters for comfort, it is good you trust them, only that you hide your wounds." Reaching up, he tugged at her veil, freeing her face. "Do not hide them, for they do not mar your beauty."

And with that, he left, turning to join Obara - who had arrived atop her own horse - and rode to the front of the column.

Looking through the eyes of a low flying bird, the witch saw that there was some commotion.

But also something even more curious.

Because as thoughts of her parent's gentle rebuke cast her actions since Harrenhal in a new light,Ophelia noticed Gerold Dayne of all people with a camp follower. And as much as he might agitate her, the man was not the kind to tarry with a whore.

Eventually, her instincts were proven right.

Having shadowed the duo for a while, just keeping them within her ever shrinking range, she saw something far more important than scandal or gossip. After rebuffing the advances of the woman, the elder Dayne handed her a letter and turned to stalk off. Subtly maneuvering off the muddy path and just into the nearby swamp where she knew the ground was safe by the beasts which had crawled along it, she waited until he was past and chose to follow the woman instead.

This investigation turned out to be both boring and disgusting, as the prostitute did her job as well as could be expected - something that the reincarnated woman was growing ever more tired of having to observe. Ultimately, it wasn't until it started to grow dark that the woman took the letter to a mummer dressed in bright, garish clothes.

He in turn handed it to a tall, thin, somewhat ugly horsemen who, without so much as a glance at the woman, set off at a steady trot.

Neither particularly shocked, though still a little disappointed, Ophelia turned her horse back.

The details of that letter were lost to her, but now she knew to keep an eye on the young man. It also occurred to her that this might even be a bit of an opportunity.

"Tyene has been itching to stretch her legs ever since Nymeria started drawing lines in the sand." With a mirthless chuckle the Sand Snake decided that this is what her sister needed. "Just a little project for her and her friends. Perhaps the Darkstar might even outlast their… attentions."

No matter what, the point was moot.

Either he was an enemy, and so would die, or he was an ally. In which case he would merely be annoyed into working the stick out of his ass.

Suffice to say, it would be amusing and Tyene would be free to blow off some steam, she could use it to brew some potions, and perhaps address the fact she's felt the need to lick her wounds. After all, Westeros wasn't Brockton Bay or Chicago and Ophelia could trust her sisters in ways she hadn't been able to trust even the Undersiders.

'And they didn't spend nearly as much time in my bed as the new bunch do.' Chuckling, she couldn't help but find it touching her siblings had decided that the nocturnally mobile amongst the group, as they put it, no longer got to sleep alone. 'It is nice having someone there though. I really did need to get out of my lab more if I'd forgotten how nice it felt to just be around people.'

Of course, Ophelia had one skill she had truly excelled at in this life and the last.

Rank denial.

Because she had yet to mention once, to anyone, that since that night in Harrenhal she had been nothing but pleasantly warm or pleasantly cool no matter how much or how little she had on or where she was or whether there was a fire roaring just an inch away from her face.

Stroking the egg held close to her belly, she practiced that skill just as deftly as she maneuvered her horse over next to Marwyn's, calling out to the man as she approached.

---

Cletus Yronwood​

---

"All good. How are the straps? Too tight?"

"No… no. They're fine."

Reaching out, Cletus put his hand on Quentyn's shoulder.

"I have your back, m'lord, the only scars your cousin needs to see will be on your front."

The Yronwood heir's best friend and future Prince glared at him. Quentyn Martell was suffering from nerves, as might well be expected from such a young man, but his brother in all but blood was a knight. Neither of them would shame themselves today.

"M'lord, our final approach is beginning now. The pirate ships herding us towards the beach have fallen back and are driving us into the cove. We have also confirmed with signalling mirrors and the Myrish lens that the encirclement is complete. When we run up the battle flag of Dorne, they will pounce."

"E-excellent. That will be all."

Frowning, the blonde Dornishman, even if his blood was actually that of the First Men, glared at the captain and even put his hand on his sword. The threat clear, the uncertain idiot scurried away to resume command of the hulk.

"Your father's plan is excellent and you will lead us to victory. Trust me, I know you. Once the fighting starts and your blood is up, the shakes will stop. I promise."

Once more, he privately cursed the Prince of Dorne.

Quite simply, Quentyn was not his father's son. He was gentle and kind and not at all bold or audacious. Not to say he was a coward, his best friend was excellent with the spear and axe and Cletus would gladly mock anyone who wanted to challenge the Martell heir to a sparring match, but that, put simply, his friend was a bit of a worrier. Prone to seeing how a plan could go wrong and then dwelling on those aspects of presumed failure.

At least where it came to himself.

In truth, sometimes, it seemed silly that a lad who had been practically born in the saddle would fret over the state of his tack and bridle - as if he needed them.

But that was simply how he was.

"You say that." The prince to be's eyes were slightly crooked, his face almost hilariously small under his arming cap. "But what if I fall? What if I catch a crossbow bolt through the slit in my helmet? What if my spear breaks?"

"Then you will stand back up, then you will lose an eye, then you will drive the haft of your weapon into the soft bellied gut of the nearest pirate rapist that dares to challenge you." The taller, older blonde gave his friend a lopsided smile. "You will do your duty, my prince."

And just like that, with a single word everything had changed.

Oh, there was still fear in his lord's eyes, but there was a set to his jaw and a stiffening of his spine. Because nothing would ever be allowed to shame House Nymeros Martell so long as there was yet blood in the young knight's veins. Something the Yronwood would be taking great care to ensure remained in place.

"Run the colors! All hands, prepare for impact!"

The time for action was upon them. Fumbling for a moment, Cletus made sure his lord's helm was secured and tied and then lowered his own visor. Grunting, he shuffled forward as the contingent of Dornish fighting men gathered near their lord and took their places at the top of the ramp. Mentally preparing for the coming fight, the eighteen year old knight went over the composition of the vanguard.

Leading the operation would be Ser Quentyn Martell, who would be first off the boat, followed by himself, Ser Daemon Sand, Ser Garlan Tyrell, and Lord Arstan Selmy.

They were Quentyn's bodyguard and would also serve as the first wave in the attack.

Behind them would come fifty other knights, led by Sers Blackmont and Fell from Dorne and the Stormlands respectively. Amusingly the two had both been minor, unlanded tourney knights, both had been cousins of the current lords of their houses, and both had experience commanding amphibious landings in Essos.

It had been the duo, whom had become fast friends, that had suggested the change in standard equipment for this operation.

Instead of being clad in plate, the force of fifty five knights wore chainmail and gambesons, carried shields and spears, and had been drilled relentlessly in quickly stripping off their helmets and armor. After all, even a small puddle of water could drown an emperor, at least according to a story the duo had recounted different, and consistently escalating, versions of.

"Hey, remember how the first time Blackmont told the story the Emperor had gotten stuck in mud and drowned in a small river."

"Yeah." Quentyn cautiously responded and Cletus took that as an excellent sign.

"Well, Fell told the story to the lads just a bit ago. This time he drowned because he slipped in horse shit and a donkey drowned him with its urine. The emperor also sounded suspiciously like Tywin Lannister."

Snorting, then chuckling, then shaking his head, the younger of the two men eventually gave his friend a single, small smile.

"Gods damn those two if the Lannisters take that as an affront."

Suddenly, there was a loud crunching noise and the whole of the boat shook.

"Though I know it was much, much cheaper, I do think I might resent the fact Father chose to purchase refurbished merchant ships."

And just as the young knight finished speaking, there was another shuddering lurch and the crew aboard went into a frenzy of action as they either started securing every last scrap of cloth or taking up javelins and cutlasses and bows.

Marines they might not be, but any weapons would be better than none.

"Impact imminent, we're over the sandbar, coming up the beach now!"

Ahead of them, there was a wide, sandy beach broken up by oddly placed large grey rocks. Mostly thought it was totally clear and free of any kind of defenders. Something the contingent was more than happy to exploit which, as about a dozen large, brawny men took up large wooden ramps, the whole of the crew and contingent braced for the final arrival.

First came a grinding noise.

Then a crunching sound.

Finally the front of the deck began to lean forward, the ship having been under full sail at the time had ground its way up the shore as far as possible and beached itself totally on the rock line.

Suffice to say, the men had been tossed around but there was a reason that it was a company of knights being sent on this mission.

They still needed a moment to collect themselves, reorder their force, and for Quentyn to cry out.

"For Dorne!"

Leading the way, he actually leapt over the side of the railing before the ramp was all the way down. It meant he stumbled and almost fell off, before just barely managing a recovery. Cletus wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his previously jittery, nervous friend rushing off on his own. Instead, he cursed his slowness in reacting and climbed onto the ramp to try and catch up with his idiot little brother.

There were pirates to kill, but that didn't mean immediately breaking ranks and running off was a good idea!

And all it took was a minute of a somewhat awkward dismount and the knights were assembled, not that the heir of House Yronwood knew, as he was more concerned with trying to catch up to his friend.

A friend who was being verbally accosted by what looked like a half drunk sentry.

All it took was a vaguely threatening gesture with a spear and Quentyn had zeroed in on the man - and it took all of fifteen seconds for the lad to finish his charge, let the pirate's spear thrust glance off his shield, and bury the point of his own weapon in the man's throat.

It was a movement straight out of a fighting manual, with a perfectly aligned extension of the arm and a full step into the strike.

Not a sound made it past the pirate's ruined throat, nothing but a bloody bubble of spit made it past his lips.

Unfortunately for the people the men of Dorne sought to destroy, this was their only guard. And now with him bleeding out on the sound this left the settlement, if it deserved such a term, wide and open for the now rapidly advancing body of men. Though, curiously, the lack of any other signs of life seemed almost impossible.

Like an ambush just waiting to happen.

"You idiot!"

Making sure to announce his approach, Cletus immediately moved to cover his friend's right flank.

"What were you thinking, running off like that!"

"Where are they?"

The response he got was not what he expected.

"It doesn't matter, we need to get back to the formation. Now."

Suddenly, the wail of a lone woman called out from the distance and the Dornish knights fully took in the town.

Firstly, it was a double row of buildings - back to back - with the town forming a long curved line along the side of a hill, Well enough constructed, it was clear where things like the tavern and the blacksmith and the cobbler were, but most of all it made the path of advance very, very clear too.

Swiftly falling into rank, first the other three knights of Quentyn's bodyguard, then the main force of knights, then some of the sailors fell in line. And, while it was clear from their looks that both Ser Garlan and Ser Daemon would have words for the young lordling, such disagreements would not happen in front of the others. Instead, the whole of the group quickly ordered the sailors and marines to form into loose bands and sweep behind the group and to the sides and behind the buildings while the knights advanced forward.

What they came to was genuinely.

There, at the end of the row, was the whole of the town gathered - perhaps three or four hundred people in all - at the foot of a hanging gallows. In it, an Essosi swung from a noose, shirtless, clad only in faded trousers of some kind, while a sobbing woman knelt at the foot of the feet of the hung man.

Strangely enough, Cletus felt that he almost recognized the dead man's face.

Unfortunately, the good fortune of the Westerosi warriors lasted no longer, as the men in the crowd and some of the women turned and shouted in alarm.

Every person there drew a weapon of some kind, either knives or axes or swords, and a few in the crowd had on armor and even fewer were carrying spears. On the whole, it seemed like the pirate settlement had gathered to hang a criminal amongst their own number.

"Surrender now, or die!"

Ser Sand had stepped forward, his longsword flashing in the afternoon light as the whole of the fifty man group of knights formed a line.

"Surrender, so you can hang us later? Damn you all! Fight my boyos, fight for you women and your lives! Don't let these blue blooded bastards rape your children and burn your homes!"

The oldest man in the crowd, perhaps only in his fiftieth year, roared and the crowd, shaking off its shock, roared back.

"Archers!"

Of the fifty or so sailors that had come with them, about twenty carried bows of various fashions. And, upon the order, they too shook off their shock.

"Get 'em!"

Of the whole of the crowd, about two hundred of them surged forward and rushed the defensive line formed by the knights.

Each of the archers took aim and fired, even as the first of the fallen were trampled under foot, even as the points of fifty spears were shown to them, still, the crowd surged.

What happened was a bloody scrum, with Cletus lashing out and doing his best to cover his friend's spear arm. Having formed up a line, three deep and filling the whole of the road, the knights fought in formation as they held their ground against the frenzied, screaming, crying, desperate tide of humanity.

However, their chances of mounting a defense died with their guard.

Utterly out of time to organize, the mob was stopped in their tracks by the line of mailed and shielded knights, then promptly flanked by the sailor's who had been sent around the houses.

Focusing solely on protecting his friend, the young knight did what all knights were trained to do.

He killed.

Cletus found that battle had quickly become rote, his arm punching out again and again, using the same motion to skewer man after woman after man. Even their blows were poorly aimed, trapped by the press of the bodies and out of formation the pirates tried to rain attacks down on the line and died for it. And ultimately the fighting ended quite quickly, cut down by arrows, surrounded, and unable to so much as land more than a glancing blow the fight went out of them soon too.

Roaring out, Ser Garlan in particular noticed the flagging morale of the crowd and forced his way to the captain, cutting the older man down with a brutal blow.

Finally, the fight went out of the rest.

Finding himself climbing over entrails and having to ignore the cries of the wounded, the young Yronwood was confused when he noticed Quentyn charge off.

Ignoring both the defeated enemy and the group which did not fight, the princeling instead climbed up the gallows and cut the man down well before his bodyguard could even catch up. Coming to a stop behind him, stinking like death, and smelling nothing but blood and shit the group of knights shared a single question.

"Who is he?"

The words were gentle, but forceful, and Ser Garlan knelt down to examine the corpse.

"My cousin. One of the ones Father sent out as spies. Tomas… he used to let me ride on his back as he showed me about the walls of the Shadow City."

Cletus put his hand on his friend's shoulder while the older men simply sighed, turning to see the work done. And, knowing that appearances had to be maintained, the knight did what he thought was best.

"Go with them. I shall keep vigil over his body."

A jerk of the head was all the acknowledgement he got for a long moment before, pausing at the foot of the gallows, the newly blooded knight lifted his visor and spoke in a voice that was a mixture of pain and anger and pure exhaustion.

"Thank you."

---

Brandon Stark​

---

Bran loved climbing.

Loved the feeling of the breeze running over him, whipping his hair from one side to the other. Loved the feeling of absolute focus as he looked after the next stone to grab onto, the next ledge to balance on as the sun warmed his back. Feeling the slippery ice and smooth rock and dry moss and rough wood and every other texture in the world as he kept moving upwards.

He'd been told, many times, by his parents that it was not safe for him to play on the old keep.

That it was dangerous and falling apart.

He didn't see it that way.

It was a challenge. Something to prove himself to. A task he could dedicate his mind and body to, it was a test he could excel at and feel proud of accomplishing every time he reached the top of the tower successfully. Sometimes taking an entire afternoon to finish because he'd enjoyed the climb so much, enjoying the breeze and the sun and the pleasant burn in his muscles.

Today was different.

Today he spent a little bit too much time enjoying himself and when he'd blinked, the sun was seemingly already close to setting and the sky was a beautiful shade of orange. Still, he was closer to the top than the bottom and the stairs were a safer way down than scaling the side in the dark, so Bran did his best to climb the rest of the way up.

Even if his hands felt tired.

Even if it felt like he'd been climbing for hours already.

Frustratingly, no matter how high he got, it was like he hadn't moved from where he was. Even worse, as the abandoned tower seemingly went on forever it was steadily getting darker and colder and he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers. At this point, he wondered if he should start calling for help, even if mother would get mad and scold him again for climbing somewhere he was told not to go.

Truthfully, Bran was now starting to understand why.

"No, no!" Crying out, the young Stark was so close he refused to stop.

There was no way he wouldn't get to the top by the time the sun was set. In fact, Bran welcomed the challenge as he pushed himself upwards, sweat running down his brow and freezing on his cheeks as he looked towards the end goal.

The window into the top floor.

Not a challenge.

Bran already lost count of the number of times he reached it, this time would be no different!

And now he was finally nearing it. Inch by painful inch. Each step was painfully slow as his breath had grown fast. The air felt light and cold at the same time. No wind attempted to push him off the tower, but at the same time, he felt as if someone had tightly gripped his chest.

Even so, he continued no matter how much his body might have ached and his lungs burned and head pounded.

Then, right when his hand gripped the edge of the window, Bran screamed as something pulled him off the wall, up into the air, and then dragged him into the tower - the world swimming in his vision, misty as it was with sweat and tears.

Kicking, he was shaken about before being thrown into a mound of hay.

Not that it did much to cushion his fall as he hit the ground, back screaming at the impact, breath knocked out of his chest as he coughed and tried to keep from fainting. HIs vision grew dim before he could pull himself off the floor.

Looking up, suddenly the world came into focus, so sharp and clear it was almost hyper real.

Standing before him, likely the one who pulled him off the tower, was a… person?

He couldn't tell.

The sun had set and lack of any light meant he could barely see the shape of the being as they stepped closer, the sound of something clicking against the floor with each step. Like metal tapping stone. Bran tried to stand, tried to run away, but with his back to the wall and this stranger coming closer it was all he could do to scoot along the freezing wall and try to look for a way out.

Something that didn't involve jumping off the window.

He inched to the side and flinched as the figure pounced, wild untamed black hair covering a face so pale it was as if it was dead. Juking, he tried to dodge the tackle before his arms weres seized and claw like fingers snatched up the front of his clothes in a hard vice grip. Reacting, his own hands flew out to grab at the wrist, only to feel the cold of metal as whoever was there pulled him back towards them.

Holding him off the ground.

Yellow-green eyes stared out at him from a face that was seemingly stretched in terror. There were scars, many scars, that formed a spider web of damage across the lips and cheek and across one brow of the woman who held him. More than that there was a hole in her head - as if something had forced its way out from inside her skull. Where something unnatural twisted in the void formed by that terrible injury. A black chitined monster with a thousand, thousand eyes and legs and mouths, gnawing and stretching and sinking its hooks into the flesh beneath.

Frozen, seized by fear,, staring into the maw of an abomination beyond the wildest tails of the Far North and the Others, Bran finally screamed.

With every fiber of his being he cried out as pure, utter terror washed through him.

And then, at the very climax of this moment, he felt a single, impossibly pure thought press into his mind.

[QUERY?]

Bran's head rang in pain, staring in shock at the thing. Feeling like he was being peeled back layer by layer as it stared him down. The single word etched inside his head, repeating itself over and over again and pressed against his skull as if it was trying to shove information and context and meaning into spaces that weren't meant to hold such things.

He tried to say something.

Anything.

Only for the thing to speak again.

[DESTINATION?]

For a final time Bran screamed, his throat raw and sore, as if a nail had been driven into his head. Yet still the thought repeated itself over and over, countless meanings he couldn't even begin to understand forcing themselves through him as it peered at him. Eyes searching for something.

What for? He couldn't even guess.

Only hanging limp from its metal arms as it turned around, walking back towards the window as darkness claimed his vision.

"Bran, Bran, wake up! You're having a nightmare!"

Screaming, kicking out, he only stopped lashing out when he realized his mother was besides him with his father holding him down to keep him from hitting them or himself.

Heart thundering inside his chest as he took deep calming breaths.

His parents calmed him, soothing him, and even his siblings gathered in his room. It took a long, long time before the household calmed down and even longer for Bran to be able to force himself to try and unwind.

But, even once he'd washed the sweat from his body he still spent the next few hours doing everything he could to convince himself that it was a nightmare, just a silly dream he had because he asked the Septa for scary stories again. Though he would not say anything about the dream itself.

Rather….

He found he couldn't.

Not to his parents, not to his brother or sisters, not even to the walls around.

That monster simply would not let him speak.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

Word of God Statements

Year Date as of Chapter 1: 297 After Conquest (AC)

Spoiler: Changes to Dorne and Clarification of Ophelia's Impact

The largest and most significant change, as has been elucidated upon, is the triple Martel-Tyrel-Baratheon alliance. Arianne is to marry Willas Tyrell with the full consent of all parties involved. Yes, this means exactly what you think it does regarding the plan focused on Viserys. Garlan and Loras are both active agents of House Tyrell as in canon and remain unmarried as of this point in time. Loras is already attached to Renly and is... as infatuated with him as canon, possibly as infatuated as he was in the semi canon source. This forms the political backbone of a new power block in the south. I.E. loose, untested, but rapidly solidifying.

Dorne itself has only benefited somewhat. Doran, while quite happy to indulge Ophelia so long as she remains an asset to the family, has requested she hold back on any truly revolutionary inventions until Dorne itself is secure against outside influence. Things such as a modified wine press into a type setting machine, crude solar desalination plants for salt harvesting and water reclamation, and certain other technologies either exist but are HIGHLY secured inside Ophelia's personal workshop (I.E. guarded by both swarms of dangerous animals and squads of highly trained men) or exist only in notes and prototypes. Sunspear and the Shadow City itself is much, much more important, however. Not only has Doran been able to remain in his seat of power, thereby exercising a greater degree of influence over his own holdings, but Ophelia's nature as a witch and a prodigy has attracted both sorcerers and learned men from across the known world.

There is a strong contingent of Maesters - loyal to Oldtown - that have both served as tutors and set up their own practices inside the city, but also a small contingent of shadow binders (a VERY small number of them), hedge witches, healers, wise men, and professionals of any and every field that Oberyn could beg, bribe, or borrow access to. It would be accurate to say it is the most intellectually diverse center of learning in the world, but poorly organized and not the largest. To that end, Doran has plans to do that once he has the coin, leverage, and room to do so.

This has caused something of a minor economic boom all of its own, but increased trade is hampered by increased piracy. Something he has actively been taking steps to curtail (something only obliquely mentioned in the first chapter). To that end, Ophelia now exports many, MANY, MANY forms of silk. Every natural color, ranging from gold to blue, from spiders, wasps, silk worms, caterpillars, and more. She has bred species specifically for this and exports totally unique luxury resources. Doran has, though Ophelia is only very minimally aware of this, had people tortured and murdered for trying to steal from Ophelia. Brutally. It was not pretty. You do not want details. The prices she can charge for this is insane and a custom made silk dress (literal woven to be a single, un broken piece of flawless cloth) can be sold for more than fifty times its weight in silver (or more) depending on the level of intricacy of the design, patterns, and level of effort put into it. Her silk farms continue mostly on auto pilot, though output has slowed without her presence. Doran, wisely, is tapping into strategic reserves and slowly parceling out the supply to avoid a market crash. Ophelia also has a large menagerie, several (rather crude) greenhouses, and several farms that were under her or Oberyn's direct control. There she experimented with an immense number of plants, animals, and other forms of life (insects in particular) and Doran is actively planning to introduce new staple food sources once his current plans are complete.

The downside is that Dorne was rather poor before all this began, most of the profits have gone into building her zoos and experiments, and large portions of the coin are needed simply for basic upgrades to the city and castle to handle the influx of nexcomers.

Spoiler: Changes to the Martell Family

Arianne, Quentyn, and Trystane do not have their low level conflict. Quentyn is somewhat more confident, though even more desperate to prove himself. Arianne is no longer wary of her father and is also much more trusting of his lead in general (they had a MUCH needed heart to heart), Trystane, bluntly, has a crush on Ophelia though its more of an innocent puppy love. Ophelia never overly minded and finds him a bit silly, if good company (no serious romance, she considers him to be child). Doran was much healthier thanks to Ophelia's potions, though she never managed to fully cure his gout, only combat and manage it. Her potions also sometimes had... side effects. Of the gassy kind.

Oberyn has a baby on the way! A bit early. But there are actually 9.75 Sand Snakes at this point in the time and soon approaching 10! Maybe he'll finally get a son (don't hold your breath, but we might flip a coin). Ellaria is quite happy with this arrangement and is remaining at Sunspear with her two youngest. Doreah and Loreza are too young to have truly hit their personality, but have grown up in a family fully adjusted to the "common sense" of magic being an active force in their lives. Obella is ALMOST old enough to fit the role of dangerous flirt, which she seems to be growing into quite quickly, already slipping quite nicely into her canon personality (if moderately more cunning, as she has to sneak extra hard around her siblings to prank them). Elia is, frankly, spoiled by Ophelia and her father. She's even more insistent about being a Lady Knight than canon and has trained harder too (in case this wasn't clear enough). Sarella was moderately jealous of Ophelia for a long time and a bit confused about why she was so sullen, though she shares a unqiue bond with her younger sister (that we've hinted at) that not even Tyene can boast. Tyene is Tyene. Despite not being shown yet, Nymeria is more or less her canon self, though with even more poisons at her disposal. Obara, out of all of them, is even more protective because of the attention her family garners. As such she is also actually their unquestioned leader in the absence of their father. Without a doubt, if Oberyn is not around, they would quite willingly follow Obara's instructions.

Spoiler: Order of the Sand Snake's Birth and Ages

For convenience, and because GRR Martin never gave us canon ages, Obara (~272 AC), Nymeria (~275 AC), Tyene (~278 AC), Sarella (~281 AC), Ophelia (~283 AC), Elia (~285 AC), Obella (~288 AC), Doreah (~292 AC), Lorezah (~293 AC), Unnamed Child (~Month 7 of pregnancy).

Spoiler: Ophelia's Parentage

Ophelia Sand, the reincarnated form of one Taylor Hebert, was sired by Oberyn Martell - who was roughly 26 at the time - on a Prostitute that lived on Dragonstone. This occurred in, roughly, 283 AC. Ophelia is, as of the first arc, 14 going on 15 or just recently 15 depending on when in the year we place her birth date. Ophelia herself was born on Dragonstone but was soon returned to Sunspear by her father, who gladly raised her.

Ophelia's mother is a prostitute named Rhaella. Rhaella, other than being particularly intelligent and attractive, if on the thin and tall side, had little of note about her otherwise (being a life long prostitute). She was somewhat prone to illness - a fainting sickness that left her cold and she suffered badly in Winter - but was talented enough at her job to excel. She had bright blue and amethyst eyes, particularly fair skin, and black hair (northern by the then young and inexperienced Oberyn's reckoning and he suspected her to be a bastard Stark or Karstark mostly because those were the two houses he remembered the most). However, she had particularly fine Valyrian features in all other ways.

Rhaella's parents were Roose Bolton's father (the Bolt-on theory may or may not be accepted as you like) and a prostitute named Calla. Calla was a whore as well, with white-gold hair, bright amethyst eyes, a fiery temperament, and held the same particularly fine beauty as her daughter (and, before she suffered from her profession, the same extreme beauty as her mother). Her parents were an unnamed bed slave of extreme and purposely bred beauty bought from Lys, of pure Valyrian extraction and a great bastard of a number of Valyrian royal lines, and Maelys the Monstrous. Calla was the sole issue of this... rather violent coupling.

Calla's mother was pregnant when Maelys was slain and captured by the Westerosi. Unwilling to sully his sword with the blood of a pregnant woman, or allow another to slay her, Ser Barristan demanded they take the woman prisoner instead. If Calla had been a boy, the child would have been either exiled or killed, but was born a girl instead. As such, both Calla and her mother were sold to a whorehouse on the island by the Lord Celtigar at the time - as he had been the one who held them in captivity and no lord or knight was permitted to marry either woman. Refusing to kill them, they were, instead, given a... different fate.

Rhaella did not know her lineage, what so ever and thought she was merely another whore born bastard. Calla did not know her true lineage, but knew she was under no circumstances ever to be permitted to learn it.

Ophelia is the bastard daughter of four or five lines of kings and of two princes. This is intentional, explicit, and should be kept in mind going forward.

Spoiler: Ophelia's Relationships

Doran Martell: Originally loved her, as he does all his nieces, before growing deeply, deeply suspicious. To a degree he feared and mistrusted her for a good while. However, over years of interactions, he's come to deeply trust Ophelia. Second only to Oberyn and Areo. Quentyn is actually considered less competent than her by him, even if he does love his son, and that is a big part of why he feared a usurpation. At this point she has, more or less, cart blanche so long as she doesn't endanger the House, the Country, or risk war with a foreign power.

Arianne Martell: Originally she didn't think much of Ophelia, considering her one more of her uncle's children. When her intelligence and powers became clear she was rather jealous of those abilities. But it was when Tyene transferred her obsession to Ophelia instead of her that she began to fear the girl. While she does trust her cousin, she is deeply concerned by the fact she grows more powerful, more vital to Dorne, and more learned with every day. To that end she fears what Ophelia will one day ask in payment for her assistance. However, recently that has begun to change as Ophelia vocally supported her cousin's marriage with Willas the first time around (when she eloped) and even helped distract the guards sent after her for a time by having their horses refuse to run. This forced the men to travel into town to acquire more and was actually one of the few times Ophelia was actually punished by her father.

Quentyn Martell: He's somewhat intimidated by his cousin, especially as she helped tutor him in his studies once he finally returned home, but is genuinely appreciative of her. He also doesn't fear her possibly usurping the throne as he genuinely believes she's destined for greater things. Their interactions are, however, somewhat limited as Quentyn was fostered elsewhere, though Ophelia has done what she can to boost his confidence, knowing that her own success has put an even heavier burden on him to succeed.

Trystane Martell: Trystane is utterly infatuated with her, having a deep, deep crush on his cousin. More than once he's broached the topic of marrying her one day with both his father and uncle, though Ophelia, because of her inherited age, considers this to be mere puppy love and has politely declined. To that end, he's taken them well and isn't pushy about things, though he has actually learned how to play the flute (rather well) just to impress her. It could be said that Ophelia views him more as a good friend that she wants to mature into a fine young man than a potential marriage partner. She has, once, sicked Nymeria on him to try and play matchmaker (without Tyene's games) and this almost worked - only being failing when the young woman in question got too eager and Trystane had to flee to preserve his honor.

Marissa: She was her wetnurse, maid, and is the closest thing Ophelia has to a mother. While Marissa has no real power or influence, Ophelia would genuinely listen to her and take her advice. While intelligent, she was a whore and lacks much in the way of a formal education. This tends to limit her to good, common sense advice and helping Ophelia sort through her emotions.

Areo Hotah: Surprisingly hit and miss. While he does not dislike her, his goal is to protect Doran and his direct line. To that end he considers Ophelia the one person most likely to be able to usurp the throne of House Martell. While they're polite and respectful to one another, he's taken as many precautions as he possibly could to ensure that her magical reach inside the court is limited to public areas and has even gone out of his way to prepare a number of magical countermeasures. Though, it should be noted, he has not tested any of them on her and would defend her to the death if she was attacked.

Oberyn Martell (Father): She is close to her father, who knows, roughly, the exact specifics of her powers. She trusts him enough to share recent developments with him but also does not feel pressured to come running if something happens. To that end, he is as engaged with her as she wants him to be. Meaning, mostly, he spoils the girl, does everything he can to indulge her whims, and treats her like the rest of his daughters. Who, infamously, are known for having him wrapped around their finger.

Ellaria Sand (Step Mother): The two are close, but not particularly so. Ellaria is close enough to be counted as family, but they are mostly on friendly terms. She was also the one who helped educate Ophelia on female courtly manners, though Ophelia balked when offered to be taught how to seduce a man and wrap him around your finger. Ellaria generally considers Ophelia somewhat scary, but a good person at heart. She worries what might happen if Ophelia is pushed too far by an enemy, but freely admits she'd likely by right beside the girl should something happen to Oberyn or one of her girls (which includes her non blood children too).

Spoiler: Colors of Silk Ophelia Can Produce

Worm Silk: Gold, Brown, Pink, Red, Black, Blue, Yellow, White, Orange, and shades of such based on diet and proportions. Wasp Silk: Gold, White, Yellow. Spider Silk: Theoretically any color given time and breeding due to chemical makeup of spider silk. As of right now, primary colors are: White, Black, Orange, Red, Gold, Yellow. Silk can be iridescent and non iridescent.

Certain colors and shades can be either EXTREMELY hard to produce or resource intensive. Red/Orange/Yellow silk requires extremely specialized diets to produce even small amounts. Gold requires specialized breeding programs or species. White is easiest and most consistent, Gold follows (once breeding populations are established for farming), and all other colors fall somewhere between these and the ROY colorations.

Spoiler: Ophelia's Business Dealings

Ophelia herself doesn't actually usually deal with the money side of things. Rather, her farms produce a certain quantity of goods, these fabrics are then checked and weighed, and Doran and his Castellan oversees the sale (at auction) of each unit of cloth. Right now they're going the diamond route - forced scarcity. He maintains a rigid control over the supply and is slowly selling it at market prices as demand for it grows. At this point in time, it is known as "Dornish Silk" of various grades. These grades tell you what kind of creature produced it and whether its better for reinforcing armor or clothes. Ophelia herself has made clothes and garments for her family (and Marissa) as gifts, but rather rarely does custom pieces for sale. At the moment we'd say there are maybe thirty complete garments made by her swarm out there.

To that end, many knights HAVE had their arming coats reinforced with particularly strong spider silk, though whole gambesons made of it are extremely rare and produced by people other than Ophelia. While not as valuable as Valyrian Steel, it's about as rare as right now, both because of a stringently controlled supply and a small production base.

Her potions, however, are more well known. Ophelia directly produces certain batches upon request and rarely bulk batches for export. Mostly she deals with venoms, antivenin, and poisons derived from plants and animals rather than chemicals, diseases, or magic. She also much prefers to produce medical products over things that are lethal, such as her paralytic. Additionally, she is also working on other - here to less successful - projects related to a mild narcotic that can work to purge the system of addictions, a truth serum, and treatments for heartburn, gout, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and stroke.

I think that about covers everything. We'll update this when/if we make more WoG statements. If we missed anything or anything needs extra clarification, let us know!

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, readers across the internet! Wyvern and the Warhawk, Team Scrishaw, proudly brings to you the next installment of the Wicked Witch of the West(eros). An extra large chapter to commemorate the beginning of the long awaited Winterfell Arc!

AtW: Perhaps we're getting our groove back, but I can say all of the drama seriously hampered my will power to keep pushing ahead. I'm glad we did though.

CW: Hopefully we can start getting back some momentum!

AtW: Annnnd depending on certain bits of feedback, we may or may not have something special for QQ planned. So. You know. Let us know if you want the obvious XD (Yes my laughter is nervous, why do you ask?)

CW: Now, without any further ado, on with the reading!

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One Who is Many - Back in Black​

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Jon Snow​

---

Adjusting the hem of his blue tunic, the young bastard took a moment to reflect. In truth, Jon liked to think he had a firm grip on the virtues of House Stark.

Even as a bastard, he'd been brought up understanding that someday he would find a duty to dedicate his life too. Something he could do that meant something. An honor he could earn even if his name was "Snow" and not "Stark". As petty as it sounded, he thought that by putting into action the lessons he learned from his father, he would feel closer to being an actual member of the family.

Escorting his sisters and their friend to Septa Mordane was, regrettably, not what he had in mind when he imagined the ideal of the "dutiful protector".

Not that he had anything against it.

Not truthfully.

It just felt… demeaning to do what amounted to a menial task while pretending it was anything other than a menial task. But Lord Stark had asked him to accompany his sisters for the day and it would be a warm day in Winterfell before he thought to disappoint the man who'd done his best for him.

Even if playing escort could grow tiresome.

"Jon? Jon! Are you listening to me? Jooooooooon!"

And there was, of course, Arya to consider.

His youngest sister had been pestering him nonstop, asking whether he had news on the royal procession due to arrive soon. Since he was the oldest person around, of course she would latch onto him rather than Sansa and Jeyne, the latter of whom she admittedly had a less than positive rapport with.

Meaning he had to be the one to keep her occupied until Septa Mordane took her off his hands.

'Gods, aren't we there yet? Why aren't we there yet?'

"They said that there are a bunch of Dornishmen coming along with the King! Do you know anything about that, Jon?"

"Maybe you can ask Septa Mordane to teach you about Dorne today?" He offered hesitantly.

"But she never teaches anything interesting! Besides, I heard there is a witch coming with them. Do you think Septa Mordane is gonna teach me anything about being a witch?"

Well, given how the woman acted when her mood was foul… there was a chance that she could.

But Jon wasn't going to say that.

He already had enough women hating him in his life. There was no need to add a second one. And if asked, that would be his defense on why he didn't suggest that she ask Old Nan about witchcraft instead.

"Arya, what have I told you. That stuff about witches, hidden swords, and haunted castles are just overblown stories. Stuff people tell so you'll be scared of them." Sansa spoke at last, perhaps as annoyed by the younger Stark's inquisitiveness as he was worn out by the repeated questions.

"Well, you never know. Maybe she really is a witch! They say she is the most famous woman in all of Dorne."

Sullenly glaring at her sister, Arya's tone let Jon know that a spat between the two was imminent. Which was something neither he, nor his father, would be interested in dealing with. So he acted.

"They say the bastard-" He didn't flinch when he said the word, didn't glower or snarl or gnash his teeth. "Girl rides on griffins, that she has apes from Southryos, manticores from Essos, direwolves and mammoths and giant hawks. They say serpents that can swallow horses carry her over the sands and that the beasts and birds and even skittering insects will devour any man who looks upon her with so much as a hint of displeasure. That the land of Dorne itself loves her and she will be taken as Dorne's bride, raised up as a New God amongst the Old." He paused and sighed. "I shall refrain from angering Lady Stark by mentioning the less savoury rumors, but I assure you two, she is a girl. Like you are. Maybe not as pretty as you Sansa or as clever, and annoying, as you are Arya." Jon tousled his sister's hair. "But just a girl."

"And what truth, then, lies in them?"

Sansa gave him a small smile. The same kind of smile Lady Stark wore when she looked at him. Somehow it hurt his heart when his sister's face was the one bearing it forwards.

"I can not say. And if I would guess, then I imagine more would be wrong than not. Unless you wish to believe that snarks are just as real as witches are too?"

When the true born girl dipped her head he sighed. Truthfully, Snow hated arguing with his siblings, any of them, even if there were some he was closer to than not. But there were enough unofficial Stark sayings he had heard that he got the point. Infighting leads to death. And even if he was a Snow and not a wolf, well, he had a wolf pup too.

"Come on. The Septa's just down the hall. Let 's go."

Driving the group on, the bastard kept his eyes ahead of him and his mind on the present.

It was one way to not think about everything else going on.

"Septa?" He knocked on the door. "Your students are here?"

The woman in question was sat at a desk, several rather intimidating books before her.

"Thank you most kindly, young Snow." Her tone was a bit dry, but not unkind. Mostly the young man was happy she was polite. Or at least that was what he said to himself. "You may leave now."

Bowing slightly, he turned and smiled to his sisters, faltered slightly when only Arya returned it, and recovered by giving his youngest sibling a wink.

He'd sneak her a honey cake later.

Moving quickly, he reached the more densely populated parts of the castle soon enough. Inclining his head, he greeted the men at arms who were standing watch over the entrance to the residential part of the castle.

"Snow, your father was looking for you." Alyn, one of the household guards stated. "He looked a bit worried, you should go see him, I think he was in the great hall last."

"Thank you, I'll make my way there now."

And just like that, his next task was upon him.

Hopefully one that was less likely to result in him annoying Sansa or Lady Stark. With the king's visit soon upon them, the last thing he needed was a preparatory scolding.

So, putting speed into his step, he focused on maneuvering through the rather crowded hallways as best he could. Not only had the population of Winter Town swollen with the pending arrival of the King's procession, but also with the large body of men recently recruited, both for the Night's Watch and for his father's own household guard.

Ultimately, there was only one thing that still bothered the bastard and that was why his father actually needed more men. Doubly so when so many of the troublemakers in the north were actively being taken care of!

But he would remain quiet.

Jon would do his duty.

Skirting around one of the recently restocked barracks, he nodded to the old men he passed, waved to others that waved at him, and once or twice returned greetings.

Which still boggled his mind a bit.

Even if he understood that there was room enough in Winterfell for a hundred thousand men or more, the reality of only about six thousand was that it seemed… flooded. Of course, more people were starting to pour into Winter Town as they did every time Winter approached, but that was distant enough to not be a constant presence. The increased number of bodies, never mind the additional traffic needed to feed them, in the castle proper was just so unusual as to be disorienting. Though, quietly, Jon had enjoyed the fact that all of them seemed at the absolute worst respectful towards him.

Bastard or no, he'd been treated oddly well by the old men who had come to join the Night's watch.

Proof that they loved Eddard more than they looked down on him.

All of which had been odd, once, but was less so now. After all, Robb looked the part of a Tully, while Jon, well, as he'd been told he was his father's son. Which ultimately led to the new guards standing at the entrance of the Lord Stark's private offices snapping off a salute, waving him inside, and letting the young lad overhear a snatch of conversation.

"-and perhaps we could speak to the king? I know that already much has been given, but still, if Maester Aemon is correct and the records are too then we will need it and more."

In the room was his uncle, who was the man speaking, and his father. Clad in all black, as members of the Night's Watch tended to be, Uncle Benjen was standing somewhat in front of the large fireplace that dominated one side of the room. His father, the Lord Eddard Stark, currently had his back to the entrance - his attention on his brother and not the door.

"Sirs."

Both men turned to look at him, obviously trying to decide how much he had heard and whether or not to continue. The bastard simply chose to stand there, hands clasped behind him, and wait.

It also gave him a few moments to try and put what he'd heard together with what he already knew.

Jon had spoken with his uncle as much as possible since his arrival from the Wall and, though there hadn't been much time for pleasantries, the man always made an effort to spare an hour or two to speak with him. Enough that, when considered with the fact his uncle and father were speaking with either a lord or Maester Luwin more often than not, it meant it was important. And when he wasn't, Benjen interacted with the men who had been brought to Winterfell at his father's request.

To reinforce the Night's Watch, again, along with every criminal that could be forced into it..

That meant that the topic of their conversation was somewhat obvious, but, even if he could guess, the bastard didn't know why. His father had kept the truth close to his chest and when asked, waved it away as a task that was long overdue. Sending more men to take the black as a personal favor to his uncle, who expressed worry that they would soon be short for men and swords.

He, of course, did not question further.

Or rather, he'd offered to go alongside the other men, but received no confirmation.

Even Uncle Benjen had refused to acknowledge his intent to take the black, instead changing the subject in the least subtle way imaginable.

"Lad, what are you doing here?" The comment was not unkind and Jon smiled at his uncle.

"I was told father wanted to speak to me?"

Turning, Eddard Stark nodded.

"Aye. Your sisters are with the Septa?"

"Yes sir." Nodding, Jon's smile turned a little brittle. "Both are with Septa Mordane along with Jeyne Poole, who accompanied Sansa today."

"Good. Good." Turning to his desk, Eddard took the collar of his grey tunic in hand, took a sniff, grimaced, and then continued speaking. "If you don't mind doing me a favor, son, I would have you inform your brothers that the King's party will be arriving by tonight. Catelyn will wrangle the youngest into the bath, of course, but Robb, and Theon too, should be told to get ready. And would you…."

"Make myself scarce? Yes sir."

There was pain in Ned's eyes at Jon's words. Enough the man simply frowned and nodded.

"Robert will want to meet you later on, I suspect, but for the arrival, would you stand with the men at arms?"

"Of course. Is there anything else Father?" Somehow, his chest was hurting. "If not, I'll inform Robb and Theon, I think they're still in the yard." But it was a cold hurt, an old one. He could live with it, as he had for so many years already.

"I…." And for a moment, it looked like his father wanted to say something, perhaps related to the trouble up at the wall. Instead, the Lord Paramount of the North sighed and shook his head. "I love you son. Never forget that."

"I love you too Father. And you as well Uncle."

And with that, he left, going to find his brother and his brother's best friend.

After all, a Stark did his duty.

---

Tyrion Lannister​

---

Many were the ways Tyrion was used to waking up.

Sometimes, after a night of hard drinking and reconsidering the overall worth of his existence, he found himself waking up in a pile of whores. All of whom had been well paid and were warm, soft, and very eager to wake him up with a pitcher of wine and their mouths around his cock.

Sometimes, especially if he had run out of coins, he woke up under a tree. If he was lucky, he'd have a blanket, his things, and not be covered in fleas. If not, well, he'd maybe at least have his clothes.

Sometimes, when the Gods wanted to remind him how much they hated him, he would wake up in a pile of pig shit after a kind passerby decided to douse him in a bucket full of damn near freezing water.

"Now, now little brother, if I didn't know better I'd say you want to prove Cersei and Father wrong." Squawking, disgusted, and confused the Imp tried to avoid falling back over into the excrement and mostly managed to splutter his way to not drowning. "Because from what our dearest sister says, sleeping with pigs is beneath you."

Sprawled out, one arm over the lowest rung of a wooden fence, the blonde haired dwarf looked up at his brother, glared, and then sighed.

"Damn you." Wrinkling his nose, he looked down and gave a curious piglet a scratch of the snout. "My head is pounding."

That got a dismissive snort.

"You, the king, and all the king's friends."

Managing to open a single bleary eye, the drunkard did his best to glare at his too perfect gilded shit of a sibling.

"I don't suppose you have another bucket of water, do you?"

Jaimie simply lifted a second wooden bucket high.

It was an hour later that the dwarf found himself, rather furiously scrubbed clean, lightly shivering under a pile of blankets. Even then, he was a bit feverish and it felt like his extremities were burning, his torso was pricked by pins and needles, and he was sweating like a madman. Worst of all was the fact he was painfully, painfully sober, forcing him to curse at the now empty glass vial his brother had coaxed him into drinking from.

"P-Please br-brother." Barely managing to burrow deeper into the mound of pillows he'd collected during his stay in Winter Town's brothel, he tried to convince his sibling of the necessity of heeding his desperate plea. "Just a s-s-small d-drink."

Not even looking up, the kingsguard turned another page in the book he was reading.

"The witch said no alcohol until the shakes stop." Pausing, he did look up. "And, to quote, 'it will prevent him from dying a mad syphilitic, but it will not unpickle his liver. Gods Old and New know my father is trying to do the same.'"

And just like that he returned to his book.

"W-When d-did you start re-eading?"

Another turned page.

"When our sister made me help with answering Father's letters."

Guffawing, falling over, and then desperately scrambling back under his blankets - and wishing he had been able to fit three pairs of socks on - the Imp couldn't keep the mockery out of his tone.

"You helped th-their plots? Has th-the world gone mad? Have you been c-cursed by the witch?"

Snorting, the kingsguard continued perusing his tome.

"Hardly. I got bored after the third blatantly implied attempt at murder, noticed Robert was trying to hunt a boar when utterly drunk again, so I wandered off. Obara, that's Oberyn's eldest daughter, shared this with me. A nice girl, bit too vicious for most, but I imagine that the North will find her utterly… charming. Brilliant with a whip though."

"W-whips. I c-can't say I'm surprised-d-d our si-ister dearest f-favors them, b-b-but how will sh-he feel about y-your eyes turning a-a-away."

This time his brother actually scowled at the Imp.

"I do not speak of the whips you find yourself lashed by. Rather, the kind that splits skin like an overripe grape" Shrugging, he tried to pretend he wasn't bothered. Tyrion still managed to give him a look that got a groan and, with a sigh, the blonde swordsman tossed what the dwarf could now see was a water dancing manual onto the table. "If anyone favors the Dornish over much, it's the royal family."

Perhaps Tyrion should have considered the value of his existence harder the previous night. Had he known that he'd have drunk himself into such a stupor that he'd wandered into a new realm of fantasy he'd have perhaps stopped at the third pitcher of ale. Admittedly, it was only the third time this week the Imp had passed out, some small progress, but the point stood that things had become genuinely, utterly strange.

"Morning Tyrion." The familiar, chipper voice of Ros called out as she opened the door. "I heard my lord had a ramble around town last night, thankfully things weren't too cold, I would hate for your mighty sword to have frozen off an-" Pausing, seeing the knight in the white cloak, with white scaled armor, blonde hair, blue eyes, and sitting across from the shaking dwarf she did something of a double take. "My lords." And just like that, she fell into a deep curtsy with one hand, the other holding up a tray laden with biscuits, jam, and tea. "I apologize, I brought breakfast."

"Leave the food, then get on. My brother will pay you later."

And just like that, the redhead was scuttling off, the knight chuckling and slathering a flaky biscuit with apricot jam.

The proper response to this situation, of course, was to curse his brother.

"Father's balls, Jamie! She could have warmed me!"

Waving his hand, the older brother dismissed it.

"I'd rather not have to see that truncheon of yours waving about. Besides, the shaking is starting to wear off."

"Your bedside manners are as charming as always, Jamie."

"Well, I could ask Cersei to wake you up next time if you'd rather."

A chill crawled down Tyrion's spine. Because he didn't trust his sister to not try and smother him with a pillow if she caught him asleep. Also, for the single fact that the last time he saw Jamie, he was with Cersei, who was with the rest of the king's merry band of bastards. Both known and unknown. A group which he himself had fled from as soon as he could convince the King to let him ride on North ahead of them for….

What was he doing again?

"Tyrion. I can find a third bucket if you fall asleep on me."

"Gods no, you maniac!"

His brother, who he planned on somehow getting even with, teasingly tossed an empty bucket he'd kept onto the bed. Because of course he brought the damn thing along to torment him the poor, innocent Imp with.

Snorting, Tyrion shook his head.

Even he had to admit that was a bit absurd.

"I'm up, I'm up!"

Laughing, Jaimie took a sip of his tea.

"Shouldn't you be with the Starks? Buttering them up or something?"

"Shouldn't you be with Cersei and the King. Keeping the Seven Kingdoms safe from whatever goes on when there's no wine and they are left alone."

Jamie, the figurative bastard, rolled his eyes at him.

"Well, I'll have you know she's found herself a friend to keep her company."

That got another absurd look from the youngest of the Lannister siblings.

"What? Did you buy her one of those Lizard Lions on the way here?"

"Must you antagonize her like that?"

"Well, she already hates me. All I wish to do is proffer a mirror to her soul."

"You won't have to wait much longer to do that then. She'll be arriving soon enough. Remind me to warn you about her latest scheme before you have to see her."

Tyrion was tempted to ask how soon, but then that would give away his plans to get out of Winterfell before they arrived. Mostly he contented himself with grimacing.

After all, the reason Tyrion had left ahead of the Royal procession was precisely because he was trying to avoid this sort of madness. Between the King, the Dornish Prince, the Queen, and the Witch, Tyrion had figured someone was gonna try something with him. He'd promptly cut his losses and scuppered off straight ahead.

Of course, he'd stopped on the way to recover during his long arduous trip.

Mostly between the bosoms of beautiful women from every kingdom he could find.

And then went on his way.

The plan, to reach the Wall before his Majesty reached Winterfell, was to avoid whatever drama unfolded, and then double back after pissing off of the Edge of the World. Because if he was gonna be drunk and miserable during the trip, it might as well be on his terms and without the figurative and literal snakes surrounding him.

Oberyn Martel hated Lannisters

He was a Lannister.

Cersei hated Tyrion.

And he was Tyrion.

It was simple math really. And of course, he'd heard enough about witches that he didn't want to find out if Oberyn's girl was gonna make a bid for his bits. Who knew, Cersei and the King might actually consider it!

He knew his father would.

If only to be rid of him altogether.

"And they sent you after me? Seems hardly fair." Then again, life in general wasn't fair on him, so he should have realized something like this was going to happen.

"Just to make sure you didn't join the Night's Watch by mistake."

"What? And deprive Father of my continued existence? You must be confusing me with another dashing rogue of lesser stature."

"I'd pay ten golden dragons to see you actually dash, brother."

"Yes, yes. Just let me know when the procession is due to arrive and I'll earn that gold."

That got him a sad sigh from Jaimie before the older brother forged ahead.

"And if you are gone, who do you think will help me keep this visit from turning into a war declaration? Between the King, the Dornishmen, Cersei, and whoever gets too drunk and makes a stupid mistake, this visit has all the markings of a potential disaster."

He had a point, of course. Not that Tyrion would let him know.

"And I'm supposed to help? How? Maybe doing a funny dance will distract the Dornish. Face it Jamie. Between the Royals and the Dornish, we can only handle one side at a time. The King… will do as the King does. Drink and make a nuisance of himself. Ned Stark is his friend, so we won't have to worry about him."

The 'for once', went unstated.

"Oh don't start with the whining Tyrion. You're a people person. You've always known how to get people to do what you want them to do. All I'm asking is that you put this remarkable talent to good use in case someone does something stupid."

Rubbing his face, the dwarf actually felt less… weighed down than he had in years. Enough that his forced clarity was pointing out how important not getting people killed was. After all, if the nation was at war he'd have less time and gold to spend on wine, women, and warm beds.

"Ok." Jaimie's smile turned thankful and relieved and the Imp glared at his brother. "I will do my best, I suppose. But don't expect to be able to keep me sober the whole time!"

Jabbing a finger in his brother's direction, the young man tried to shake off the creeping feeling of slowly growing doom. Like he was about to put himself in the path of a charging stallion.

"Perish the thought! I'll get you a bottle of Arbor Gold and a Dornish Red." Pausing, Jaimie couldn't help but ask one question though. "By the way brother, do you know why there are so many old men at Winterfell?"

---

Nymeria Sand​

---

The North was… certainly living up to the stories. The small wooded copse she and her family were in somehow encapsulating the whole of it. Doubly so as a large bear was currently letting Ophelia and Elia pet it as it ate small berries out of the youngest's fingers - making the girl giggle as its long tongue lapped at her hand.

It was cold, inhospitable, but mysterious in a way Nymeria could appreciate. It was an old slumbering beast huddled comfortably in its cave, waiting for the right time to wake up and prowl its ancestral woods. The same way Dorne was a serpent which moved unseen through the sands. Something that was in the air, the earth, and the blood of the men whom had sprung up from it.

She'd never traveled this far up so the climate was, predictably, an annoyance.

Colder than anything she'd experienced before.

Colder than the windy nights of the desert. Here, the slightest breeze would cut a man to the bone, chill their spirit and freeze their blood like a monster from the legends of old. Or perhaps one of her sister's fantastical tales.

This would be the stage where her family would once more dance with intrigue and deceit. One could hardly expect people to have sufficient time to plan and plot while on the road, so their arrival at Winterfell marked the end of the interregnum and the start of another round of battles.

Which included herself and her family.

Though perhaps not Tyene.

The girl plotted and schemed with every breath and every second of the day. She'd behaved relatively well during their journey, but now the calm which heralded the storm was at an end, and Nymeria would have to watch her younger sister like a hawk lest she pull off another of her stunts without family approval. It was that last bit that made her so dangerous as it meant they had no idea how to react - not that the blonde ever seemed to care.

"Which is why you'll be keeping an eye on her." Nymeria decided, making sure Sarella knew who she was talking to. Who she was talking about was obvious, of course.

"But why me?!"

Sarella was reasonably affronted at the idea.

"Because you failed to watch Ophelia at Harrenhal. Think of this as your penance."

Objectively, the second born of Oberyn Martell knew it was unfair to hold Sarella solely responsible for what had transpired at the cursed castle. It was impossible for any of them to keep up with Ophelia and the middle sibling had even found the fifth child with as much rapidity as she could. But the point stood that she had specifically claimed that she wouldn't let their second most troublesome sister stick her nose into anything that could bite back.

She also needed an excuse to not be Tyene's minder. A task which had been hers during the journey up to this point.

"I already told you, I can't stop Tyene from doing stuff. She doesn't listen to me!"

The third eldest Snake sniffed in disdain.

"You speak as if I'd listen to anyone."

"You do when it's Ophelia." The riposte from the fourth born was as true as it was immediate.

"I can't hide anything from Ophelia. Nobody can. So I might as well tell her what I'm doing."

Unfortunately, Tyene's words were just as obvious and, for them, just as reasonable.

Sarella rounded on Nymeria once again, eyes pleading.

"Let's just have Ophelia watch her then."

She could tell when the adventurous Snake was trying to manipulate her through pity. Unfortunately the girl was much too old to incite the same combination of "fuzzies" Elia could in her sisters.

Ophelia's words, not hers.

"Ophelia will continue her tasks with the Royal Family. Earning their favor and maintaining a good relationship with them has been of paramount importance to our mission. Both the King and Queen favor her in equal measure, and the court holds itself a respectful distance away from us so long as that is the case. Unless you can think of a way to make them favor another of us to such a high degree?"

"Well… I think dad invited them to a threesome?"

Nymeria rolled her eyes.

"Something that won't get our heads on pikes, Sarella."

"Well, what about Obara then? What is her job?"

"Watching father, of course."

"Girls. I am right here."

The entirety of the Martel contingent was. Which was the whole point of this small meeting, to assign tasks and objectives to be handled during their stay on Winterfell. As well as preventing the more volatile elements amongst them from doing anything… unwise. Anything that Tyene and her father would do if left alone, really.

"Of course, Father. Remind me, how was it that you nearly caused a war at King's Landing? Or how many times Ophelia had to stop you from murdering the king? Or how you almost killed no less than three members of the kingsguard for, and I quote, 'being sacks of pig shit'. Or when you romanced a Lady who was married, a Lady Knight with whom you have continued your dalliances for the entirety of this trip, and collapsed the top floor of a brothel doing gods only knows what."

Oberyn pouted, clearly looking torn between taking pride in his escapades and apologizing for making more work.

"In my defense, Obara murdered the only mercenary to witness what happened and one of Tyene had the brothel bought up by one of her little boy toys - and I really must thank you for teaching Sarella so many wonderful words, Ophelia, you do know you can share with the rest of the family, yes?" Oberyn plowed ahead as his daughter opened her mouth, leaving her to just sigh and rest her face in her hands. "And Ser Delilah Waters is a delightful woman. Ellaria will love her."

Every single one of his daughters sighed this time, Nymeria deciding to forge on as best she could.

"Which is why Obara is going to be accompanying you. Please, for the love of the gods, do not seduce any more married women. And please do not seduce anyone who is important enough to get you in trouble. That includes the wives and daughters of smallfolk who might get angry and have a spear handy. Sarella, your duty is to make sure our sister's little friend group doesn't do anything silly and Tyene… I guess just keep on doing what you're going to do anyways." The blonde raised a single eyebrow in response. Nymeria did not take it as a good sign. "Elia will be spending time with the royal children or Ser Barristan, as the man doesn't mind her essentially declaring herself his squire. I will remain with Ophelia as much as possible in the vain hope that nothing will happen. Hopefully, this will keep any of us from being singled out during our stay. It also gives us the most effective approaches to our objectives."

Father and Obara were forceful and unyielding. The perfect face to showcase to the northmen.

Sarella and Tyene were cunning.

They would operate while others looked away.

Elia was much too young to have any stake in their current goals, but would nonetheless be positioned with the Royal children in case something of interest had to be reported or handled by them. While Ophelia was, as always, the beacon which drew the gaze of all who surrounded her.

While she often obviously needed more than one minder, it was Nymeria's intent to pair off with the Witch in the coming venture - or at least to make sure that there was a minder with the too curious for her own good girl at all times.

Her sister would lay her web as she always did and Nymeria wanted to have all the information she could get while acting upon her own agenda. Managing the rest of the Snakes would be a task in and of itself, while making the initial contact with the lords and ladies of Winterfell would be her mission.

Something her sisters were not as suited to.

Ophelia had a strong presence which intimidated all. Obara was not patient enough for mindgames. Tyene reveled in intrigue and deceit when it suited her fancy, but could not be bothered to foster relationships which did not strike her fancy. Sarella was, at her core, a scholar as well as blunt as a hammer.

And while Elia would be able to charm all but the walking dead, Nymeria would not include her unless absolutely necessary.

"And there's really nothing for me to do?"

The youngest Snake present seemed dejected.

"Besides keeping close to the royal children, you are free to interact with the Starks at Winterfell. I've been told they have many younger children. Perhaps you will find friends amongst them."

Friendship wasn't something Nymeria indulged herself in.

Seduction was her forte.

So creating a bond of mutual liking was fine, so long as Elia knew not to let anything slip around them. Having loose lips was fine and all when she sold Nymeria secrets. But not the other way around.

"So, I'm playing nanny." There was definitely a hint of rebellion in Elia's tone but the planner of the group did her best to head it off.

"Think of it as being the grown up in the room. We can't expect the royal children to handle themselves as well as you do."

Thankfully, that seemed somewhat ameliorating. Enough that Elia gave a sharp nod and went back to petting the bear. Meaning it was now Obara's turn to interject.

"With all this planning I have to wonder how spectacularly things will collapse. And if father is going to do as he will and leave me behind." Grunting, she finished whittling away at a piece of wood and placed the half finished thing into a pouch along with a carving knife. "Though we shall at least have a few trinkets to show for our work, if our luck continues to hold up. Ophelia can barely keep her nose out of those books Lady Whent gave you two."

Looking up from said book, the witch in question simply shrugged.

"When I tried to participate before I was shut down. Additionally, I trust Nymeria. She'll get us through this… more or less intact. Mostly. Probably." Pausing, the witch closed her gifted tome. "We are all aware that I'll likely have another vision when we get to Winterfell, yes?"

Nymeria nodded.

"Try not to go streaking this time?"

And this time it was Tyene who cut off Ophelia's response.

"And please don't get hurt again. I know we had this discussion before, but we do get worried."

Ophelia nodded, fingering her long black braid, and picked at the weave.

"I don't do it on purpose."

"Perhaps. But seeing you like that was difficult." Tyene stepped closer to the sister in question and reached out a single hand. "I can only say that I am thankful Sarella was there. If it had been I whom had discovered you, well…."

Taking the hand, the fifth sister nodded.

Nymeria only sighed.

"In front of Father you two?"

Blushing, the witch looked away but didn't remove her hand.

"Well, I suppose I might say something if I wasn't aware that my own discretions weren't so apparent." Coughing and pretending not to notice, the only man there chose to focus instead on the noise coming up to them from the camp they had departed from. "But I do not think it would be wise for me to comment on the tastes and opinions of anyone." Here he paused for a moment, clearly thinking on how to choose his words. "However, I do think it wise to remind you two that not everyone will be so… accommodating as I. And that discretion is advisable."

"Oh, is that what you're worried about father?" Tyene wore a shark's smile and, after a glance at the witch and a hesitant nod from her, the third born seemed to practically delight in her next words. "Don't worry. The queen and her brother seem to be of the same inclination."

Oberyn blinked.

"So that particular rumor is true then?"

"Indeed. The all knowing trouble maker even covered for them with her horse riding lessons." Nymeria's statement won her a glare from the young woman in question. Their shared father simply chose to chuckle.

"Everyone is selling me out then? And I don't even know if this is what I want! I just… well… you know! Is no one going to listen to me on this?"

And Ophelia's desperate pleas earned exactly one response, Elia piping up again now that she was done feeding the bear.

"We've never done that before, why would we start now?"

---

Ophelia Sand​

---

​

Her sister snorred.

Not gentle, cute snores, but great big tent shaking ones.

And that was part of what woke her up.

Ophelia didn't like sleeping alone, so she chose to bear with it. It helped that Obara was the only one of her sisters to seemingly not genuinely care about all the… fun that the witch had gotten into. Her response to being told about the visions and the monsters was to shrug and ask if the curse of Harrenhal would be able to follow them. Then, upon being told that, no, it probably couldn't, she opined that it wasn't worth continuing to worry about.

That had actually helped her sleep a little better and the reincarnated young woman had decided to, for once in her two lives, just roll with something.

While conveniently reserving the right to plot to murder her magical, castle sized dragon enemy later.

So, snuggling a little closer she tried to push back against the stirring camp around them. Peeking through the eyes of a horse, the witch looked around, noticing that the sun wasn't up yet but there was a small commotion. Enough that there was a knot of men surrounding a group of what looked like criminals.

The clanking of weapons and armor and now the shouting of a few of the guards was starting to build. Managing an annoyed sigh, she started to climb free of her sister's arms and sat up.

"I know you're awake."

Obara grumbled.

"How?"

"You stopped snoring."

"I don't snore!"

Indignant protestations were always the most effective way to deny the truth. Ophelia the Teenage Witch just gave her sister a pat on the shoulder. And then pinched her cheek lightly.

"You snore like the king, but that's ok, no one's perfect."

Dodging a half hearted swipe, the once warlord rolled off of her sleeping roll with a giggle, making sure to take care not to damage the bundle of cloth wrapped around her stomach, and stood up. Checking the egg, she found the life within and the smooth, speckled shell to be just the same as before. Slowly growing, without so much as a hint of discomfort, and a lingering desire to be.

"What's going on out there?" Sitting up, Obara let the blanket fall past her waist. Stretching, she instinctively fumbled for her knife belt and started to get dressed. "It doesn't sound like an attack, but it's definitely getting louder."

"Men clapped in irons approached the camp guards." Pausing, the witch scanned the group again. "It looks like they're being led by a man in all black. Perhaps a Brother of the Night's Watch."

"Want to check it out?"

Turning to her sister, Ophelia weighed her options.

"I want to get another hour or two of sleep."

That got her a chuckle and the Dornishwoman sighed.

"In that case, sure."

Now dressed in trousers, leggings, two pairs of socks, boots, a tunic, a pull over jacket, a scarf, and a head wrap - plus her weapons - Obara just winked at her sister and smacked her on the bottom.

"We'll start your training early today. You need to make up for lost time after you got your ego skewered by a bad dream."

Pulling off her sleep wear, the former warlord liked to pretend that she wasn't sore, that her bruises didn't still smart if she moved too fast. But the truth was she knew she was going to be ever worse off if she wasn't ready to give the training her all. And she really, really wanted to get revenge for her sister's revenge for her teasing, which itself was revenge for the teasing the other evening.

But that was just part of being Dornish.

"And stop justifying your attempts at getting even.

And with that parting riposte, Obara slipped out of the tent and started walking off.

Without a doubt, Ophelia was not pouting!

Of course, training doesn't go on forever and even a procession as slow as the one the Dornish were a part of didn't actually take forever to get where it was going. It helped that they'd already been on the road for about three months now, her birthday come and gone, and celebrated with a small, private gathering.

But now… now she stood just a few hundred yards off from Winterfell itself, gazing up in awe at the great castle with her own eyes.

"Hey, are you ok?"

Elia brought her horse over to stand near her dismounted sister, the witch holding her mount's reins in her hands.

"I… yes." Smiling, the witch shook her head. "Perhaps it was a mistake to take in the Red Keep and Harrenhal with the eyes of falcons. It diminishes their grandeur a bit."

Rolling her eyes, the youngest of the snakes simply did what all siblings did best.

"Then it's your fault for being awestruck now. Come on, the queen's wheelhouse finally got unstuck and now the royal party is making its final approach, they even opened the gates and everything."

Urging her mount forwards, the youngest of the Dornish began moving off and leaving the witch to stare in silence for a bit longer, taking in the vista before her.

Unlike Harrenhal or even Moat Cailin, the fortification was itself clearly Northern. Set on a raised hill, though not a mountain proper, the outermost walls easily encircled an area as big as a city itself. She could see the tops of trees, Winterfell's Godswood, in the distance while small buildings clustered around the base of the imposing defenses and around the main gate.

Of the defenses there was a great deal to say. Primarily that there are three, perhaps even four or five, different types of design and improvements. The most basic shape was that of gently sloping grey stone, huge things that she could only make out the details with the eyes of the few birds her ever shrinking range allowed her to snare. These formed a curtain wall, if such a term could be applied to the utterly monolithic fortifications, which stood perhaps as many as eighty feet high.

Moreover, she could make out both matriculations and crenulations and counted at least thirty towers from above, now that she was trying to soar.

Even more than that, there was a dry moat separating the curtain wall and the even taller interior wall, no less than a dozen sequential killing fields, a half dozen internal structures that looked sufficiently fortified to qualify as a keep on their own, and even then the outer walls, raised as they were, had a staked ditch at the base of the raised hill.

All of this was supported by a number of cleared spaces and flat topped towers that she thought might be able to support mangonels or trebuchets or other such weapons. Even then, there were obvious stores of rocks along the covered wooden walkways, a few men along each stretch of the wall, and a steady flow of traffic in and out two of the secondary gates.

And, of course, all of the gates had reinforced houses, barred doors, and iron portcullises.

As she approached with the second part of the party, the king, his family, and their honor guard had gone first, she had time to take in the vast castle before her and the rows of tiny, neat homes. There was an inn and an alehouse and a couple brothels, but it wasn't the tiny village that held her attention.

No, it was the Lord Paramount and his family that she focused on.

The Starks of Winterfell were certainly imposing in their own way.

Covered in furs from the eldest to the youngest, the family was quite large by the standards of her previous life, most couples wouldn't have a literal handful of children. But she'd long since gotten used to having a massive family, so by contrast the Starks seemed almost tame in her eyes.

Not everyone could be Oberyn Martel.

She and her family would also relentlessly mock whoever tried.

There were, of course, more differences to note.

Whereas the Sand Snakes had a fair amount of divergence in their looks and ancestry due to having different mothers, all Starks came in one of two styles. From the shape of their eyes to the color of their hair and even the way they held themselves… with some exceptions.

Amusingly, the youngest girl looked about ready to bolt.

Clearly, she was the normal one of the family. After all, who in their right mind would like to stand still in front of a bunch of strangers backed up by the literal King of their nation. Ophelia certainly wouldn't have cared if she were in their shoes.

Now then… what were their names again?

'Eddard, Catelyn, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon.'

Those were the names Nymeria had spent half the morning hammering into their heads until they could tell which was which at a glance. From their age, to their overall features as well as behavior, her older sister had been thorough in her studies of the Starks while preparing them for the meeting.

Not that Ophelia cared.

She was here to look mysterious and intimidating, after all, not to gush over how adorable the youngest siblings were standing next to each other like that.

'Such pinchable cheeks.' It finally struck her that she might be missing her littlest sisters quite a lot lately.

There were also a very, very distinct distraction for her to grapple with too.

One of the Starks,the second youngest of the boys, Bran she thought, felt… oddly familiar. And not in the way where she thought she'd possibly killed someone related to him. But almost like there was an aura around him she should recognize.

For some reason, it made her sad and a little wistful.

Watching as Prince Joffery, her father, King Robert, and Queen Cersei rode onto the grounds of Winterfell, Tommen and Myrcella having both fallen asleep in the wheelhouse, the witch ignored the king's jest, Eddard Stark's response, and how the queen actually looked almost sympathetic when Robert asked her if she minded getting the children settled while he visited the late lady Lyanna Stark.

It was a small reminder that there were many, many people in this world that carried their own stories. Their own victories and failures, ghosts and dreams and nightmares.

Perhaps it might not have involved an alien god like Zion, perhaps it might have been a smaller, more personal struggle. But seeing how a king could be brought low by memories of a woman he loved, how even her own irrepressible father could refrain from joking out of respect for the loss, it was sobering.

'Perhaps I could ask Father about Lyana Stark, then. A woman like that must have been spectacular.'

---

Oberyn Martell​

---

"Lord Stark, I am glad you were willing to make time to speak with me."

Oberyn Martell sipped at the mead he'd been offered - a strong, rich brew made of fermented honey and other northern staples - and relaxed in front of a large, crackling fire. His tunic was open at the chest and his coat was draped over the high back of the chair he was sitting in. Smirking, he turned his easy grin to the ever stoic Lord of the North and let his teeth flash in the low, flickering light.

"Of course my prince. I am surprised, but glad, that you have come to Winterfell."

It was obvious that the man's wife had coached him in Southron manners. A small thing that would be important when one considered just how many people from so many realms had arrived.

The Riverlands, the Vale of Arryn, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne all had their little parties and contingents and emissaries. Even the Westerlands had nominal representation in Jaimie Lannister and newly recovered dwarf-heir to Casterly Rock. That the man had been staying just ahead of the royal party and remained almost perpetually drunk was… immensely amusing. Letting that amusement color his tone, because what he was planning on discussing was obviously going to be anything but pleasant, the prince stretched his grin just a tiny bit wider and launched directly into the offensive - glad Obara wasn't here to stop him, stuck as she was getting settled in with her sisters.

"When I came North, I wondered if I should love you or hate you." Pausing to drink again, the Red Viper was immensely pleased when the other man froze in the midst of lighting a candle. "After all, you killed Ashara's brother and murdered her by stealing your baby." Sighing, he leaned forward, resting his head on his hand. "But I see that you have loved Jon, even as your Lady Wife hates him, though I find it sad he knows nothing."

Lord Stark's hand shook for a moment before lighting the candle he had intended to, using it to fill the room properly with illumination.

"I did not mean to… take her will to live. Ashara Dayne was a woman I deeply, truly loved."

"Of course, of course. I do not wish to imply that my lord did not love the woman who stole his heart." Oberyn nodded at the northman lord. "And I must confess I loved her too, though as a sister and not a woman. But Ashara was not like my own sister or me or even her brother. Had it only been Arthur who had died, or Elia, or her son taken from her I do not doubt she would have survived, but not all three."

Having sat down, there was a mix of anger and pain and a good deal of resignation in the older man's eyes. But mostly there was a wary kind of caution about him and in his words.

"My duty was always to the North." Speaking carefully, it was clear that Eddard was doing what he could to keep things from escalating. Oberyn found it amusing. "My own desires, one way or another, died in King's Landing and rests in the crypts of Winterfell."

Nodding, the prince agreed.

"A mad king and a sudden trimming of the family tree does tend to cause such things, yes."

What went unsaid was that he understood exactly what that felt like and the gentle rebuke quickly dawned on the Lord Stark.

"Aye. That it does. I… you said that I had murdered Ashara, for that I can not argue even if I do not agree, but you said I killed Ser Arthur?"

Nodding, the Dornishman accepted the change of topic.

"Slew him and his brothers Ser Whent and and Ser Hightower. Built cairns for them and your fallen comrades from the Tower of Joy and carried your sister's body home. There, you did your duty." Waving his hand, he took another drink. "I do not blame you for that. Only taking a second sister from me. That is why I wished to speak with you."

Frowning, the old lord moved very, very carefully.

"And I am aware of the oaths you swore against the men who took one sister from you. Do I need to be worried about my family? About myself/? Or are the bonds of guest right enough."

It wasn't a question, but a warning. And there was force behind it too. Enough to actually draw a chuckle from the prince who crossed his legs and reclined, finishing his drink.

"If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead. And if I wanted to make your family suffer then your wife would be speaking with my beautiful daughter Tyene right now. No, I wish to ask your blessing to take Jon Snow as my squire."

Blinking, the Stark patriarch took a second to rally before responding.

"At the moment the lad is committed to joining the Night's Watch. While I may think he could do well squiring for you, he is also Northern and we do not have knights here as you do in the south. But I must say that a direwolf does not do well in the heat of a desert."

Pouring himself another cup full, the Prince chose his words with as much care as he ever did.

"If you let the boy join the Night's Watch without ever having lived life, I will kill you."

Lord Stark made a noise of objection, clearly growing angry and Oberyn simply snarled at him.

"Whether or not you have treated him like a son, you have no right to let him freeze to death! Your own blood may yet flow but Ashara's does not! No, her lifesblood cooled on the rocks upon which she threw herself. Her brother's dried in the sands. The Dayne's number five, only two of them able to continue their line. And if Jon is your child, he is a Sand, not a Snow, and a Star as much as he is a wolf! What respect I owe you ends where you fail to keep your wife from browbeating the boy into submission, it ends where you might let him damn himself to a frozen Hell, and it ends where I can do something to alleviate his suffering."

Reclining in the chair once again, Oberyn let the anger slip from him, returning to his almost friendly tone from before.

"Jon Snow may have all the situational awareness of a newborn lamb, but my daughters, well, one of them is a spear, another a gilded tongue, a third a Viper, a fourth a sharpened quill, a fifth… there is no hiding secrets from the fifth. Amusingly it was Elia who found all this out, my sixth, she simply followed him when he went to train and overheard his complaints as he smashed a training target to pieces."

Another sip to soothe his parched throat.

"You really do need to improve your security, especially with another thousand or so men in your castle now. Do you Starks normally host so many of the old and dying persuasion?"

Once more, anger, shame, and plain confusion warred in the Lord's face, Eddard clearly having no idea how to handle what was going on. As such, he defaulted to Northern bluntness.

Something which Oberyn greatly preferred, even if he appreciated the earlier effort, if only because something as trifling as manners was a bit of an enjoyable waste of time.

"I have never been spoken to like that before." It was clear that the Northman's ire had been raised. "Not in my own home, not even by my worst enemies." He was practically grinding his teeth. "If it was not that your position was to defend Jon, I would demand satisfaction."

"Like I said my lord, I came North willing to love you or hate you." Knocking back the rest of his second cup of mead he stood. "My point is that you have allowed a rot to seep into your house and you do not demand the same respect for one of your sons as you do the rest."

Sighing, Lord Stark shook his head.

"Get out of my office. I shall tell Jon about your offer. Do not be seen until the feast tonight."

Picking up the bottle he'd been drinking from, the Dornishman gave his host a salute.

"As you command my lord!"

And just like that he left the room, glad he'd meant to achieve what he needed to without drawing blood. Stabbing people was always more fun but he promised his brother he wouldn't cause too much trouble and Oberyn did try to behave. Mostly.

'Maybe if I ask with all the right words, he will consider crossing swords. I would very much like to test Serpent's Kiss against Ice.'

Of course, the right words usually consisted of biting remarks and insults to get his opponent's in the mood for a rousing round of trying to maim each other for honor and sport. A favorite pastime of Oberyn's and time honored tradition across the Seven Kingdoms.

"Now, to find the little Lord Dayne. Eddric is Jon's milk brother after all and the two should meet."

Just another one of the tasks he had set aside for himself over the course of this journey.

Of course, it wasn't like he knew that they would accompany the King up North, but it became apparent after his sweet daughters worked their usual magic that it would be the inevitable outcome.

And Oberyn was nothing if not an indulgent parent.

Especially when it allowed him to face people he wanted to rant at. And even more so if during the course of this long journey he happened to cross paths with a most extraordinary young woman with the strength of a dozen men.

How could he have resisted?

Not very much.

Ellaria would be delighted to meet Dame Waters once he returned to Dorne. She was always fond of the mysterious, silent and strong types. And of course, the two would take the opportunity to induct the knight into their admittedly very broad circle of paramours. Just thinking about all the fun that would entail drove a shiver of delight down his spine.

All because of the cold weather, of course.

Maybe he should look for a bed to warm himself? Preferably one with a warm body already included.

It would take some time to settle matters over Jon Snow. And Oberyn was sure that Nymeria or Tyene would bring anything of grave importance to his attention if need be. His second eldest had a way of taking over for her father on matters of political intrigue. Something she inherited from her mother in full.

Obara had inherited the vengeful streak of her mother, Tyene her mother's seeming innocence, and Nymeria her mother's gift for simply handling people. Oddly, Sarella hadn't quite inherited her mother's extreme wanderlust and Ophelia had only inherited her eyes and a sickly constitution from her mother - and the latter hadn't reared its head since before she had flowered.

In truth, he was aware of just how lucky he was.

How most people lost at least one or two children during difficult births or chance, yet he had almost a dozen beautiful daughters who were strong and brave and clever!

Out of all of them it had only been Ophelia whom had ever truly been at risk of death, that damned scorpion still gave him nightmares from time to time, and she had turned out to be the most powerful of his children by far!

"Bah. These depressing Northmen are getting to me." Shaking away the last of the melancholic thoughts and his lingering fears the Dornishman firmed his spine. 'Now, to go find Robert… or Delilah.' Snorting, he shook his head. 'My lady love of course. Besides, we have enough time for, hmm, three rounds? Four if my form is excellent tonight. Yes. That sounds delightful!'

Moving with a purpose, the Red Viper of Dorne - who might be better known as the perpetually horny goat from the sandy place down south - was most eager indeed!

---

Ophelia Sand​

---

Well, they were a few hours into the welcome feast and Winterfell remained unspoiled and unburnt.

It must have been her lucky day.

The royal procession had taken their time getting settled after greeting Lord Stark and his family as was customary. Much to her pride, Ophelia had kept from pinching the cheeks of the youngest as her older sister's instincts demanded of her. A mark of personal growth, as Elia and the younger sisters could attest to.

Ophelia's cheek pinching technique was legendary.

On the same level as elderly septas, she was told!

Unfortunately, there had been a great deal more ceremonial wasting of time before the Sand Snakes could retire to their quarters. A lady needed time to look her best, after all. And considering that this would be their home for at least the next week then it was worth it to make an impression.

That was why they had all gone for the best clothes they had with them.

Obara was wearing what amounted to a hunting suit - thick wool breeches, a calf length brown tunic that matched her hair, and had both belted around the waist with a knotted white silk cord. Woven into the cord was a series of copper suns that caused it to sit on her hips and served as a connection point for her to rest a pair of long daggers on one hip and her whip on the other.

Her brown hair was worn in a loose braid, woven by Elia, and held by a series of small, bronze clasps that was matched by the loose coat of wool and linen backed decorative bronze scales she wore to keep warm.

Nymeria had gone for something far more traditionally feminine, though her initial garment had to be slightly adjusted because of the chill of the North.

The primary component of the ensemble was an ankle length yellow and red dress made of silk damask. It sat heavy on her shoulders and the normally loose, rather suggestively cut evening gown found its shape filled out by two layers of linen underclothes, both pure white, that went from Nymeria's navel up to her collarbone. Instead of her more normal… undergarments, Ophelia's second eldest sister was actually wearing riding breeches as they clung tightly enough to her form not to disturb the dress itself but had enough bulk to them to hide the concealed knives she'd secreted about her person - tainted with something painless and disturbingly fast acting of course. Finalizing the garment were a pair of earrings, small bronze studs, and a pair of rings - these being red gold with a pair of yellow diamonds set in them.

It was rather on the nose House Nymeros Martell coloration, but no one else was subtle and neither was the lightly perfumed Dornish cloak she had wrapped about her body.

Plus it kept people's eyes on the showy one of the group, the small amounts of kohl and blush all it took to turn Nymeria from "merely" an exotic beauty to a sensual mistress of desire.

All the better to stop people from noticing Tyene in the witch's opinion.

Like Obara, the third sibling had forgone a dress. However, this time there was no compromise between appearance and pragmatism. Tyene had gone for something that was nearly as scandalous as showing up naked and was only less so because she had worn her modified septa robes before.

Because right now she was dressed like a page or a particularly comely squire. Lightly powdered cheeks, her hair in carefully curled ringlets that fell past her shoulders, and wearing a blue tunic that fell just to the top of her knees along with white hose. It was a very, very small compromise for the sake of tact, which was blown out of the way by her men's slippers - the masculine garment completing the image of a young, highborn man, but at least she'd been talked into wearing full body underclothes beneath the costume.

She wanted to make a statement, not spend a night in the dungeons for causing a disturbance with only her light blue linen cloak for warmth.

Out of all of them, Tyene was the most heavily armed with an arming sword belted at her waist and a dagger Ophelia knew was poisoned with something painful and fast acting.

'It's probably necrotic as well.'

Focusing on the agonizing death her sister might cause was, of course, paramount. Because said sister had gone to great lengths to let the witch drink in every detail of her body as she first undressed, in an admittedly… sensuous manner, and then redressed.

Sarella, at least, had been practical about things. Aside from a leather harness holding a pair of knives under her garment of choice, she was rather conservatively dressed in a purple silk dress. It went from her ankles up to her throat, was embroidered with small serpents devouring their own tails about her waist, and was completed by a pair of gold armlets. All of this was protected by a heavy woolen cloak that, even now, the dusky skinned Dornishwoman had tight about her shoulder.

Ophelia actually took a good measure of pride in how precisely she'd managed to feather her sister's hair. While she was hardly a beautician, impossible precision and preternatural knife skills did help a bit when it came to fixing up one's 'do.

Elia had gone for something endearingly childish and something that actually wouldn't cause a stir, for as bold as it was the fifth of the Snakes was yet a child. She too was dressed like a squire, though not nearly as suggestive as Tyene was. No, she wore thick black wool trousers, a tunic of red and gold over, and a thick scarf of cotton over a layer of thick undergarments. This was also completed by a black dyed jacket embroidered with cloth of gold stags.

This particular piece had been gifted to her by Robert in a fit of whimsy. That it only needed a little taking in had been lucky and none of the Snakes had anything but approval for it.

The Lady Lance did have a particular fondness for men's clothing and anything even slightly fancy that she didn't object to wearing was a Gods sent mercy.

Choosing to lean into her reputation, Ophelia had decided to go with "amusingly appropriate" as her own theme. A black dress whose collar actually curved up the sides of her jaw and fell past her ankles to brush against the tops of her feet was decorated with tiny silk stars. Woven in dark blues, purples, and greens they covered the whole of the dress, but were only noticeable when one looked for them. If the observer had an eye for constellations they'd notice all of the usual ones, in their astrographically correct positions, along with a number of more esoteric designs. This being one of her own pieces meant it was a single, seamless whole and practically clung to her body. Across her chest and down her shoulders were a particular chain of alchemical symbols that actually covered the process of the basic stages of the production of various alchemical fires in shades of red silk indicating the potency with the brighter, more potent symbols trailing up her arms and around her collar bone before crossing over her shoulder blades. Now the piece was neatly completed with a number of white symbols detailing the creation of wildfire in an unbroken runic band made from raw silk that wrapped around her throat.

While the new additions were smooth and flawless, it was also a bit bold of her to loudly broadcast such secrets openly. However, when neither the old healer Robert - the man whom they'd met at Harrenhal - nor Marwyn had been able to dissect them she felt it was only… somewhat arrogant.

Enough that she had to complete the garment with a chain of gold moons that she let rest around her hips, each different link being the moon in a different phase, and ended the whole ensemble with a Dornish head scarf. This wasn't so much as to cover her hair, which fell down her back in a single wave, bundled with a silk cord fixed with a Valyrian steel clasp - made for her by Gendry and given to her by a chuckling Master Mott.

That it was shaped like a sunburst and engraved with the form of a woman made it clear who it was meant for.

"You know, I do worry dear sister of mine." Tyene appeared behind her, the blonde wrapping her arms around Ophelia's waist. "With a man's jewelry now adorning you, the eyes of so many lords… and ladies upon you, well, I worry for your virtue."

Snorting, Ophelia tried not to ruin the small amount of make up she'd meekly sat still for.

Nymeria was simply far and away superior to her in that regard and many others.

Still, there was only one response to Tyene that could be made.

"Dear sister of mine, you are the one my virtue is most in danger from." A light kiss told the poisoner that the witch meant nothing by the words but no more passed from them, Tyene squeezing her stomach lightly and pulling away. Now, after all, was not the time for games.

'Not these games at least.'

"Elia, sit still. You won't impress Ser Barristan if your hair falls into the soup. Besides, if you really want to be his squire, or at least pretend like it for the duration of this trip, then you're going to need to get used to this kind of thing." Nymeria was fussing with Elia's own braid, trying to get the youngest Snake present to let the second eldest pin it down.

"Eddric just gets to shave his head!"

The pout was audible.

"Yes and he's a boy that sleeps in the mud and cleans up horse crap. Do you want to spend your time doing that, or would you rather play with your friends?"

Grumbling, the twelve year old tried to dodge the question.

Nymeria just pinched her cheek.

"Use your words."

Trying to bat away her sister's hand, Elia gave in.

"I want to play with my friends."

"Then you will not shave your head and you will let me braid your hair."

As for the rest of their preparations, those were simple. Checking weapons, organizing the room they had been given - the Sand Snakes had once more decided to share a room for a number of reasons - and letting Ophelia check on their father.

"You're making the face again."

Sarella chuckled at her and Ophelia tried not to retaliate by vividly describing what she was aware her parent was currently doing.

"He and the new woman are probably making us another sister. Mostly I was checking to see why I could smell multiple people in the area. There is a non zero chance that a serving girl was pulled into bed with them."

Obara grunted and lightly bumped her shoulder.

"Don't worry too much, sister, we all know you'll dote on the baby as soon as you can."

Pretending that she didn't hear what her sister was saying, the reborn warlord simply gathered the hem of her dress, once more downplayed the fact that she wasn't cold, if only because she still hadn't figured out why, and led the way to the next bit of ceremonial time wasting the Sand Snakes were going to get to enjoy.

Perhaps ten minutes later the group of bastards found themselves outside the main entrance to the great hall of Winterfell.

Slightly late, they were greeted by a pair of rather surprised guards - understandable considering Tyene had her clique of followers, Nymeria had a pair of lords already squabbling for her attention, Sarella was being escorted by her… alleged rival Anguy, and Obara was Obara and had actually been escorted by one Ser Robar Royce. Elia had, of course, run ahead to attend to Ser Barristan as the perhaps slightly over indulgent knight permitted her to.

And no Ophelia was not a hypocrite and she did not spoil her younger siblings any more than was absolutely necessary.

Just like how she was no more paranoid than was absolutely prudent and practical.

'I suppose I'm a little disappointed by how paltry my swarm truly is.'

At the moment, her range was shrinking, enough that it was less than it was in her last life by a fair margin. Standing in the hallway outside of the great hall she had a few dozen birds scattered throughout the room itself, a number of hounds and cats and rats enjoying the entertainment as they normally would, and a few dozen beasts watching the ways in and out - but that was it.

Her powers simply couldn't stretch further than they currently did and every insect of value she'd been able to gather were either hiding in her bed - watching over the egg which she had poured her energy into before coming - or happened to be secreted in various hiding spots on her body. Even the couple hundred venomous spiders she had were starting to truly suffer in the northern weather.

But that would simply have to be enough.

"Come on! I know you want to play with the giant puppies, but they belong to the Starks and you can't just break into the kennels. That's the kind of thing that causes problems!"

Grabbing her by the hand, Sarella, already having kind of left her escort floundering - and in the company of a cute redhead - pulled the witch out of her reverie.

That meant the duo was the first of the Sand Snakes to enter the hall proper, the meal having started its first course and Robert having gotten it all going in as blunt a manner as was possible.

Coming into the room, a wall of sound practically knocked her off her feet as she realized just how many people had been crammed onto a series of nine tables. One sat at the far end of the hall on a raised platform, this one for the high lords and visiting notables, and was occupied by the royal family, Ophelia's father, Dame Delilah Waters - the woman he was currently so infatuated with, the Starks, Tyrion Lannister, and a bemused looking Brynden Tully. Notably, Lords Peyne and Bracken hadn't won an invitation to dine with the king but, instead, sat at the heads of the nearest of the eight tables that filled the center of the room.

Of the additional notables, the Kingsguard was on duty and in their full regalia, Sandor Clegane loomed in the shadows behind the crown prince, Lords Dondarrian and Dayne had also won seats close to the high table - though it seemed the elder of the two was more interested in drinking with a giant of a man Ophelia suspected was Lord Umber.

"I see my target."

Sarella glanced over at her and followed her gaze, giving her a shake of the head.

"Leave the poor man alone. You've practically broken the red priest."

Raising an eyebrow, the witch made a gesture that seemed to communicate the idea of obvious incredulity.

"Who? Me? How can you level such slanderous accusations against your own blood!"

Going through a series of expressions, the archer settled on resigned and somewhat pitying.

"You know he feels partly responsible for what happened to you at Harrenhal. Don't make him hurt any more, ok? Don't… don't do what Tyene would."

Flinching slightly, the witch opened her mouth to retort before, slowly, closing it. Because the truth was that her plan had been to poke at him, maybe pry a few more bits of information out of him and ply him with liquor. And that was wrong. Evil. Fucked up.

"I'm going to be witchy. But I'm not going to be bitchy."

Snorting, the elder sister squeezed her hand and Ophelia knew she was forgiven.

"And you say you don't want me picking up your lingo. Go on, I trust you. I'm gonna go ruin Anguy's night because he's way too quick to jump at the first pair of tits to look his way."

Smirking, the once conqueror couldn't help the sense of schadenfreude that was boiling up in her.

"Want me to drop a few spiders down his shirt?"

Pulling away, Sarella performed a mildly rude gesture and left a chuckling teenager to consider the best way to approach an old man in the middle of a loud party. Deciding that valor was the better part of discretion, she identified Marwyn, though not Robert, at the feast.

Maneuvering through the crowd she took notice of what her siblings were doing - Elia wrestling with a few boys her age and showing them why you fought dirty, Sarella already dragging her "not boytoy" towards one of the tables, Tyene trading thinly veiled insults with a Lord's wife, Nymeria was dancing with a pair of pretty young noble women, and Obara… Obara was dragging a Northman out of the hall after beating the poor bastard in an arm wrestling contest by using her foot to do something under the table. With a rather tipsy looking Lord Royce being pulled along with her other hand.

'Poor buggers.'

She spotted a few others running around - Lancel and the king's other squire waiting on Robert - but the room was actually a largely even mix of Northerners and members of the royal procession - perhaps six hundred and fifty men and women total - along with the staff and servants of the Stark household.

On the whole, the only other face of any import she couldn't spot was the Darkstar. Gerold, like Healer Robert, was simply not at the feast. So, thinking on it, she made her way to Marwyn and tapped him on the shoulder, drawing him away from his drinking companions.

'That feels important. I must be missing something.'

Falling onto the bench next to Thoros, Ophelia reached beneath the table and took a bottle of Dornish Red, originally intended for the high table and now secured by a frisky cat and a dutiful hound, she popped the cork of the near brandy and filled the Red Priest's cup.

"No questions today gentlemen. But I do want to celebrate magic in all its glories… especially from the bottom of a cup."

At first the men around her were confused, both at her and at the very fine wine she was now pouring quite liberally. And then she simply snapped her fingers at a servant and gave them a look. That alone was enough to have them scrambling to bring more and stifled any possible objections to a beautiful young woman forcing herself into a rather heavily masculine space and, once the drink was flowing again, the tension her forced arrival caused quickly dissipated.

Not that she was indulging quite as much as they were.

A single glass of undiluted Dornish Red - Arbor Gold was for Reachmen who couldn't handle a truly refined drink - and then only watered wine after. Getting black out drunk wasn't in her plans tonight and, even if she was cutting loose a bit, perhaps even letting her magic slip a little too when she had the cats start dancing along to the music alongside the humans, there was still no excuse for making a fool of herself.

Indeed, this was a most pleasant welcoming feast for the King. Who, of course, demanded that their entire delegation be supplied with hangover cures - allegedly to confirm the quality of Ophelia's potions. Mostly so that he and his drinking companions could have a truly massive blow out of epic proportions.

"A dwarf, a king, a prince, and a Northman try to drink a castle dry." Thoros murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "A priest, a witch, and a mage are there too." Sipping at his wine, not pounding it, the red priest kept speaking. "And not a single piece of gossip."

Ophelia inclined her head.

"It occurs to me I am much too eager to pry into the business of others.

Two large northmen climbed on top of the table, holding one another and drunkenly roaring out an ode to Robert's drinking prowess, his magnanimity, and the size of his "warhammer".

"Perhaps." Thoros of Myr nodded. "And perhaps I have been a weak old man for too long."

"If old men aren't allowed to be weak then I shudder to think what standards I might have to measure up to." Ophelia chuckled and shook her head.

"My dear, before you continue attempting to apologize - allow me to stop you." Marwyn interjected. "While you might be suffering from a great deal of vestigial morality, I would much rather we acquire the secrets of the Red Priests."

Raising an eyebrow, the witch did her best not to let her tone grow too dry.

"You may not have many more nights worth of sleep to lose, old man, but I would like to avoid crows feet for a few more years at least."

"Come now lass." This time it was Thoros who spoke, chuckling. "Where's the fun in being young if you can't break all of the rules?"

Sighing, Ophelia did the only thing she could.

"Gods help me. I'm trying not to act like my sisters."

Both of the older men laughed uproariously while a few of the others nearby, all of them being Northmen, pointedly tried to not look too hard at the witch now that they'd realized who she was. It was almost flattering how one of them kept glancing at her chest - what she had for him to try and ogle at least.

Sometimes it was nice being reminded that she had looks Emma would have slit Madison's throat for. At least so long as she was the one who held all the power in the room.

"How about this. Why don't we just agree to start fresh. I don't manipulate you, you don't break your vows. Fair?"

Thoros shook his head immediately, shooting Ophelia down.

"Sorry Witch Girl, but it doesn't work like that." Once again he sipped his drink, making a point to go slow and savor the red wine. "What's done is done. And we have a deal."

Once more interjecting, Marwyn agreed.

"It may sound like a kind thing to do, but what you and he have spoken of is already too much."

Glaring at the mage, the priest shook his head.

"Even if you're right, don't remind me. No. I shall still teach you, as was agreed upon. But this time I shall do it because I choose to do it." Closing his eyes, the once lusty and raucous mercenary seemed to sink in a little. "And because, perhaps, it shall be needed."

"A vision." Marwyn's words were so low they were almost lost in the roar of the crowd and Thoros glared at the man and shook his head.

"Don't call it that."

"Since Harrenhal." Ophelia nodded slowly. "That's why you didn't drink for three days."

"Spying on me Witch Girl?"

Laughing, she brushed the implications away.

"No, I just noticed you didn't smell like fermented grapes for the first leg of the return journey."

And so like this the feast passed, Ophelia doing her best to relax, contenting herself to trade barbs with the other magicals, then with some of the nearby Northmen. This led to a few making fools of themselves when they tried to test her to see if she was a real witch - and nearly getting their beards singed off for their trouble. Ironically, it had been her temper that had won her more friends than anything else.

Apparently not taking crap from anyone, regardless of who you were, was a trait the First Men still admired to this day.

Ophelia approved.

More than she did about the king loudly promising hangover cures to any man who had his favor. Something which led to a great deal of drunken boasting, then a bit of fighting, then the Lord Stark bodily picking one of his bannermen up and throwing him back into the crowd when the foolish young lord had tried to approach the high table.

A crowd that then carried said young, foolish man over to the door of the great hall, out past the entrance to the keep, and dumped him - face first - into a snow drift.

Of course, none of that stopped Robert from liberally handing out the glass vials - keeping a flask of her potion for himself - to any and every who would "risk the witch's miracle brew."

Which was now all but gone….

'Maybe I should warn him about it?' It would be the just and righteous thing to do.

…

But not the most entertaining.

Doubly so now that Robert had just raised another toast and drained another flagon of ale in celebration of the fact that her father had gotten Dame Delilah Waters with child - there would be another Sand Snake in eight months or so, and the mother to be was the only person at the high table who did not drink to that.

Coincidentally that was the toast when she saw her father start to waver in his seat a bit, no longer able to fully support himself as he drank and danced and cheered with all the more fervor - ever ecstatic to add to his family.

And it just so happened that the famous Witch of Dorne had inherited some of her father's infamous sense of humor. It was ever so delightful to watch someone hang themselves with the rope you offered to them in good faith. Especially when her father forgot to inform her that she would have a new sibling to spoil and look after.

By tomorrow morning she would be sure to let the King know he was down to his last flask of potion… and that the poor prince had used all of his.

The Queen would share in her amusement, Ophelia was sure of it. Doubly so considering that Good King Robert, upon realizing just how handsy he was getting with some of the Stark serving girls had, in his drunkenness, scooped his royal wife up and deposited her on his lap.

Neither Cersei nor Jaimie had been pleased at that, but the suspiciously still loyal, and slightly nervous, Tyrion Lannister had actually seemed rather exquisitely amused by the whole thing.

Unfortunately for the queen, the two estranged royals would have to keep up appearances by tolerating one another for the foreseeable future - though they had been, blessedly, given separate rooms. After all, Winterfell could host a hundred thousand strong army, a bit of extra heating for the Royal Family wasn't even an issue.

All of this jovialness, the singing, the seven course feast, the drinking, the minstrels performing and the jugglers and acrobats and the dancing - which Ophelia had found herself being forced into partaking in - had somewhat gotten to her.

It was when she was cheek to stomach with the Greatjon Umber himself, the blasted half giant practically spinning her around the room, that she realized something.

She was having fun.

The Witch of Dorne was laughing as she flew through the air… and she was having fun.

Immediately the urge to investigate every nook and cranny in the castle slammed into her. Something was obviously going to happen soon and not knowing what it was made the normally omniscient Witch feel like she was half blind and half deaf without the full backing of her swarm. Even worse, it was obviously going to be proportional to the amount of fun she was having now and that meant it was going to be violent, explosive, and someone that was important might lose their life.

It didn't help that the cold weather did wonders to limit the number of critters available to create a new swarm. And her ever reduced range wasn't much help either. Only after a few days would she be able to have the full picture of Winterfell - and even then her exploration would be limited by the reduced size of her swarm and the temperature.

Low temperatures were hell on earth for bugs and those remained her most useful tools.

But it was when she had finished a second dance with her father that exhaustion truly claimed her. Stuffed to the brim, ever so slightly buzzed, and enjoying the high of physical exertion she waved goodnight to her dinner companions - the dozen northern lords she'd come to know all cheering for her as she left - and waved goodbye to the high table too.

Curiously, as she looked through the eyes of her Swarm, she noticed that the queen and Tyene had both retired as well. The children, squires and pages included, had been put to bed two courses ago and Lady Stark had retired with her children as well. But Ophelia had missed when her sister and Cersei had left. Tapping into the senses of a few of the hounds, she slipped down a few passageways and made her way towards where she could detect them both - already wondering on how she should approach both her father and Dame Waters about the newest addition to the family. Obviously, the lady knight was an unknown, but her sire was deeply taken with her. Enough that anything too overt would not only be rude, but could run the risk of causing discord between the two and that was simply unacceptable.

It only occurred to her once she had arrived that she was entering the private area of the royal family, receiving a polite nod from a pair of Lannister house guards. And that she was even more specifically in the queen's wing. Which was segregated from the rest of the area.

"Come in Ophelia."

Hand raised at the doorway to knock, she paused, swallowing, only the knowledge that the two weren't… indisposed allowed her to turn the knob and ignore the vague feeling of dread.

"How did you-"

"Know it was you?" The witch was floored when she entered and snapped her jaw shut. "Simple my dear. Robert would have stumbled into his bed to pass out, Jaimie would have made more noise coming down the hallway, and it's not your father that would pay me a late night visit."

Lounging before her was something she knew men would have killed to be able to simply see. Or even to just glimpse one blonde or the other, never mind them both!

"So. What's going to happen now?"

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: It's that time of the month once again folks. Where Wyvern and the Warhawk bring to you more of your favorite Sand-Witch and her weird sisters as they make the world a stranger place!

AtW: It's also smaller than originally planned. Both because I'm rather seriously ill, bleh, and because of school keeping us from writing as much as we want. However, that's also some good news for you guys, since we've decided we're going to post two chapters this month!

We have about 50 scenes planned to take place at Winterfell to cover just the absolute basics of what's going on. Unfortunately, a lot of that is going to have to be cut. That would be anywhere from 100k to 150k just focusing on a week of time spent in the castle. So yeah, we're gonna be moving along as best we can and actually try and speed things up. We'll also be mentioning in story dates next chapter and trying to keep them in mind when we write going forward.

As for everyone else, QQ will be receiving a specific update that is a bit… bluer than our normal chapters. Assuming my embarrassment doesn't stop us, lol.

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Chapter 14 - Drifting Ivory and Winter Spell​

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Ophelia Sand​

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The wind was cold - biting - and cut through flesh to seek deep into her bones and it roared so loud her bones shook and her own heartbeat was drowned out of her ears. Raising one hand, the warlord felt the earth itself spin under her. A great flurry of white, raging snowflakes filled the world as her breath came out in sharp, painful puffs of frost.

Gone was the soft bed and the even softer bodies of her companions.

Gone was the crackling fireplace and thorough warmth.

Gone, even, was the egg she kept with her at all times.

That bond of life, guttering like a candle in the wind when not fed with her own power, was missing. Reaching out with her powers, her hands, her eyes, she desperately tried to latch onto anything. But in that Hell of white, cutting wind, and ice there was only the blackness creeping up the soles of her feet and along her fingers.

Reaching out, her hands disappeared into the blizzard but, knowing she was soon to die, she forged ahead. Shivering, shuddering, teeth chattering, the nude witch cursed the fact her visions seemed to delight in returning her to her natural state. Even worse was that it seemed to have removed her resistance to the cold and the heat alike, leaving her little better than a normal girl and for all her power she had no means to command the weather.

Not like this, at least.

So she kept moving.

Her will was hardly being tested, the full body sensation of pins and needles was steadily intensifying to a combination of numbness and ache but that was nothing compared to losing an arm.

Even as her fingers turned a blue-grey, she pushed ahead.

Even as the ice under her feet tore her soles to bloody shreds, she pushed ahead.

Eventually her hair froze too, strands locked into clumps, turning frigid and brittle.

Once she snapped a clump off by stumbling, stepping on it, and pushing forwards. And still she kept moving. By the time her fingers and ears and nose and lips were totally numb she had started to feel warm, flushed with heat and oh so drowsy.

Hypothermia, eventually, became a pleasant way to die. So for hours, perhaps days, perhaps years she marched forward, freezing just a little more.

It was as her footsteps began to slow, that her head began to droop that she finally staggered and fell.

Sliding across the ground, the witch took several long, laboring breaths. Her quest was futile, even taking in air was a painful thing, and she had no swarm, so sense of direction, and no hope of escape. Ophelia's feet weren't responding and neither were her toes. So much like ungainly stumps that, getting her knees under herself, she had to awkwardly push herself up.

That, at least, was easy. When she felt pain in her feet again she knew she was steady.

When a sudden, strong gust slammed into her, nearly bowling the witch over, she grew somewhat desperate. However, this obstacle seemed to be a boon as much as a final burst of Winter's Fury. As this great wall of wind buffeted her, so too did it clear away the blizzard, driving back the clinging gale and leaving her world clear for the first time since she awoke.

Standing on a cobblestone path, there were two rows of statues, one on each side of the path all of whom bore swords of iron and knives of obsidian, and behind them was a freely growing winter garden. Hardy blue spruces formed walls of nettles and pine, with red twig trees growing around them, intertwining in a riot of color. Below them were holly trees, below them were firethorns, winterberries, and snowberries. All of this formed a vast wall of boughs and bark, unbroken, and seemed to hold back the storm.

Looking behind her, Ophelia saw nothing, the white expanse ending just behind her as the freezing, cutting cold almost seemed to rage and reach for her - hungry and desperate.

Shivering, though the temperature had become merely freezing, she forced her battered body to look away from the wall of death.

Instead, as she walked along the path, she took in the vast, sprawling garden that filled up the space between the tree line and the statues. There were camelia flowers and hyssop and coneflowers and iris and lily-of-the-vallies. There were cat mints and acer shrubs and onions, scallions, leeks, parsnips, and more. Beets, broccoli, radishes, and turnips seemed to grow wild too - along with a dozen or more other winter crops - and a hundred other types of flowers had woven together between the few shoots of grass that could find purchase.

Snow had fallen on the field, but only lightly, a dusting to sweeten the vegetables, and not enough to strangle the flowers.

Without a doubt, it was a truly beautiful sight.

Made all the more haunting when she looked down at her own body.

The Martell witch knew that, had this not been a vision, she would have been dead. Tendrils of dead flesh crept up the sides of her calves, everything below them already frostbitten. Her arms were almost nearly as bad and she dared not look at her breasts for more than a second. Somehow, after the time she'd just spent with Cersei and Tyene it seemed all the more macabre and terrifying.

Still, her journey was not at an end. So she walked forward. Dragging her feeting, shivering, stumbling forward she walked and walked and walked. For hours she pushed ahead, passing statue after silent, staring statue.

All of them were both alike and different, most shared many features, some only shared a few, but it was clear that it was a statue - man and woman alike - of every Stark that had ever lived. Not the babes, those she did not see, though she thought she heard giggles from time to time. Soft words in a language older than man and the sounds of children at play in the trees - made all the more eerie by the fact that it was the only noise she could hear at all.

"I wonder if the Children of the Forest were more literal than we thought."

Black lips parted and her words were stuttered out between chattering teeth, yet once again the witch kept moving. Even as cats eyes peeked out between the gently waving bushes.

Once again something appeared in the distance. This time it was a wall of stone, with an iron barred wooden gate sat in the middle. Idly, Ophelia noted that it looked like the wall around the Stark's Godswood. If it was a thousand years younger and was covered in frescoes of scenes long since past. From hordes of wildlings, to giants and mammoths, even an ice dragon that seemed to rise up from a frozen lake. All of that and more was worked in colored pieces of stone, set in an unbroken tale of war and heroism and glory and death and horror - ending with Bran the Builder raising the Wall.

With how many of the seemingly legendary figures dying in agony, she wondered exactly how true these scenes were.

"What-" And just like that she'd jumped forward a thousand yards or more. Ophelia had crossed the whole of the distance in the time it took her to look more closely at the images. Ultimately, she simply accepted that this was part of the vision and reached out to touch the gate - itself swinging open at the merest touch of her fingers.

Now the scene changed once again.

Behind her stood the statues of every Stark, arrayed in what she assumed was the order of their birth on the path behind her, and before her was a vast forest. Within it was a small, winding path of snow and dirt, with the whole of the wood being weirwood trees. In the mid distance there were small clusters of rocks and pools of water, unfrozen despite the snow on the ground next to them.

This time there were no other plants, only the bone white bark and heavy red leaves filling up the area. And with it came the first sign of animal life she had seen too.

Sitting up on a high branch was a raven with three eyes. It was large, though not impossibly so, and seemed to carry an aura of age around it. Not so heavy as that of the trees, but older than she who had lived twice by far.

"Follow, follow!" It croaked out.

And so Ophelia did.

After all, this was the same raven she'd seen before and all of her visions had ended with some revelation. A hint of what was to come. So, trusting that she'd probably not die, or that at least there was nothing she could do to escape a trap without springing it, she followed.

Besides, a three eyed raven had particular connotations that she doubted were coincidental.

There was more noise now, more than the now yawning silence of the second part of her journey and less than the deafening roar of the storm from before.

Snow crunched under her feet, there was movement between the trees around her, and the sound of wings flapping came from above. Reaching out with her power, she felt no crow, but rather something… illusionary, phantasmal. But she did find foxes and voles, rabbits and squirrels, and all the animals she might expect in a forest.

Even a few insects hid in the ground, burrowed near the pools for warmth, and in other places where they were insulated against the killing touch of winter.

Her path was both longer and shorter this time. Long in that the sun had fallen to the very edge of the sky, setting the world aflame in orange light, but short in that it passed more quickly than any other part of the experience so far. When it ended she came to a stop before a great heart tree, it's living face dripping with blood red tears of sap, and two men stood before her.

On the left was a gaunt, but still regal man. He wore a tunic of woven oak leaves, had skin that was a rich, deep brown, and had eyes that shined a dull yellow with mirth. His crown was woven from branches of iron and weir woods and studded with amber and flint and obsidian and pearl, at his waist was a great knife of carved bone and a belt of deer skin and brass. It was clear though that he was fading. Thin, like a starved peasant, and with a deep sense of exhaustion to him. Still, he smiled when he saw her, opening his mouth and greeting her with birdsong.

To his right was a boy, or rather a youth. Young, hale, but not yet fully grown. His clothes were made of layered nettles, blues and greens and yellows and blacks, and his skin was a bright, pure white - like sun shining off of snow. So too did his eyes shine, a deep, rich blue, that had an inner light despite their darkness. Unlike his companion, he wore no crown, though she noted one made of ice spun like glass and set with sapphires and drops of gold and covered with the branches of a still living red twig tree. At his waist he wore no knife nor belt, but bore a shield of ironwood and carried a spear tipped with obsidian. His voice, when he greeted her, was like snowfall.

Somehow, she understood that he too was greeting her.

"Listen, listen!"

The crow squawked, so, falling to the ground, Ophelia fought the exhaustion no more. Instead, she sat there and listened and watched.

Snow spun and the trees reached and before her she was shown many things. First was that of a war, between First Men and Children, then of a peace born from mutual need as a great evil marched south. It was a man no longer, but something terribly beautiful. Woven from ice and flesh, bound together with the Children's magic, but gifted with Man's cunning and cruelty. All life died as he marched south

Laying there in that snow, she watched as time and time again the elven snow beasts rose and fell, coming and going like the tide, and how each time they rose they came a little closer to victory. How just a few more fell to stop them. How they were just a little more clever.

She understood that they were telling her this for a reason.

Taylor understood why she had been given a second life.

"So what must I do? Where must I go? And how long do I have?"

Turning to the crow, the two men waited for it to speak. Fluttering to the ground, it took the shape of a man, though an old and weak one, and spoke with a human tongue.

"Fight. My grove in the True North. And not long. Maybe a year. Maybe a decade. Maybe a century. To the Night's King, to his… makers, it is all the blink of an eye."

As he spoke that title, the winds held at bay by the Godswood roared, suddenly pushing inwards and cutting at the beings within. Only at the roar of the two spirits did it retreat, a hundred inhuman faces staring out of the raging winds and clawing cold, but Ophelia knew that much of the life within had died.

So much in fact it had almost shocked her.

What shocked her more was how the King of Oak, for she instinctively knew that was what he was, his birdsong voice had told her as much, cut his hand and watered the ground with his blood. And just like that the death was reversed, the creatures springing to life once again but at the cost of diminishing him even further.

Somehow, the spirits of cold death seemed smug with their beautiful, inhuman faces.

The witch put aside considerations of this magic, of whether it was true or not, or if this was creeping madness, and focused on the mortal man before her.

"Brynden Rivers."

"Aye." He nodded. "You are Taylor Hebert, now Ophelia Sand. My replacement."

Her eyes softened.

"I was born to take up your task when you die."

Hard as stone, he too nodded.

"You or the boy Bran. You would be better, stronger in ways the child could not be." Looking up at the stars, he shook his head. "I had to lead your companion away from this place before she found you, if I had not it would have led him to you. Beware, young child, beware the Old Things that yet dwell in this world."

Looking at the two man-shaped spirits, she earned a laugh from the old man.

"No, girl, these are born of the Starks. Their bloodlines for five thousands years and all the blood spilt by them and bred into them. They are protectors of this place, as much as they can be. Think of them as nameless gods of the trees."

Parting her lips with a rasp, she forced out her final question.

"The Kings of Oak and Holly."

Brynden nodded.

"One to rule the summer, the other to rule winter." He looked up at the sky. "Had Man been less foolish, we might not have needed to fight the wars we do now." Looking back down at her, he smiled. "Be glad the gods of your own blood did not appear, for the Flayer God is not a pleasant or gentle thing. He would have taken you by force, body and soul, but in these walls he is not permitted."

Shivering, the image of a monster in the shape of a man appeared. Something of ice and blood and cutting steel. She bowed her head in thanks to the two Old Gods before her, however young they might actually be.

"Can I help?"

A fox's laughter and the rumbling chuckle of a distant avalanche answered her. She already had. But the babbling of a brook and the soft cry of an owl told her what she already knew.

Blood and Magic would help them.

Thoughts of the egg she protected came to her and she felt a flash of approval from them both. Nodding, she acknowledged the task they had set her. The Bloodraven sighed, though, and took their attention.

"I must go. My grove is being attacked." Turning to look at her, he seemed to think for a long moment before speaking. "If you wish to save the lives of a hundred thousand men, women, and children, earn your allies here, then march North as swiftly as fast as you can. However, without the king's blessing upon you, those under my protection will still die waiting to cross the wall. So don't come until you are absolutely ready. For now I yet hold back the dead."

He was gone, disappearing into nothing, and a black shape vaguely like a crow flew high, high into the evening sky and disappeared.

Bowing, the two kings waited until the shape passed before turning to her and picking up the witch. The youth held her to his chest, and only now did she realize that they were massive, easily greater than ten feet in height or more. 'Or perhaps the vision is changing? Perhaps I am shrinking?'

As they took her to a pool the moon had fully risen and the King of Oak placed his finger in the water, a trickle of immense, ancient power slipping from him as it began to gently bubble. Once life giving heat spilled from it the King of Holly lowered her into it with all the care taken with a babe, being both respectful of her dignity and mindful of the rot in her limbs. Pushed fully beneath it, she struggled for a moment and then went still. Realizing that the cold and the pain and death inside of her was being washed out, she rose, finally, warm and flushed with life once more.

Looking around, she found herself awake and fully refreshed.

Nude, of course, and in the heated pools in the Godswood of Castle Stark. It was early morning and, looking at her body, she found even the bruises inflicted upon her at Harrenhal gone. Her body was not free of scars, a few here and there lingered, and the skin around her fingers had the barest hint of green, but other than that she was fully restored.

"Well. Fuck. There goes my vacation."

Realizing that her range was insufficient to get a message to one of her siblings, the reincarnated warlord resigned herself to some kind of scandal and relaxed into the hot spring.

"You know, the only thing that would make this better is… damn. They really are gods."

One of the foxes she had under her sway had found a bottle of berry wine. Bringing it over to her, she found it both sweet and chilled to perfection.

Taking a deep breath, the young woman tried to do something she hadn't managed since she was Taylor.

Relax.

The world wasn't ending today after all.

---

Eddard Stark​

---

Cold wind bit through his heavy fur cloak, the sun not quite having broken through the morning fog, and his heavy breeches, even heavier blue tunic, and thick soled boots provided only a moderate defense against the coming Winter bite. It still felt good, bracing, to push his way through the soft, fresh powder and take in the great weirwoods of his family's sacred plot. With naught but the crunch of his steps and the distant sounds of a still mostly sleeping castle as company, he somewhat pondered the absence of animal life.

However, he had much to think on and little sleep the previous eve. In fact, one could say that many were the nights which he spent awake - wondering if there was something he had failed to do. Something that could have been done to prevent so many deaths. Chief amongst them were his father's and sister's, though many other names and faces would feature in these moments of melancholy too.

'The old gods take Brandon though.' Snorting, the grim fate of his brother turned almost light. 'That idiot didn't even wait for me to raise a few of the men of the Vale in our support before he ran off. If the Wolf's Blood hadn't charged ahead without his pack, then the Mad King would have had swords from four kingdoms confronting him. Not a lone wolf pup who thought his teeth bigger than they were.'

Often were the times Ned wished his brother was alive. That's not to say he thought of his brother every day, or even those he lost. He was not a man ruled by melancholy. But he did pray for them. He did write to those who were survived by kin from time to time.

However… every so often… he would find himself in the Crypts of Winterfell and there he would gaze upon faded, dead statues. And feeling one of them himself, he would stand there in silence for an hour or three, only leaving when his prayers and vigil were complete. Sometimes he left his innermost thoughts with them, always he left news of Jon with Lyanna.

But this morning it was different.

This time his wishes weren't born from the guilt of a false son who couldn't even slay the man who caused his family so much pain. This time his wishes were possessed of a selfishness he often thought himself unable to muster as the Lord of Winterfell. Perhaps not dishonorable so much as embarrassing.

Ned desperately wished his brother had been alive.

'Maybe he would have an easier time keeping Robert from acting out.'

Foster brother or not, Robert had grown even more rambunctious than Ned recalled.

Of course, he had never been the picture of temperance, yet the years had worn down what little self control the man had in matters of vice and indulgence. To the point that he wondered if the man was trying to hasten his own demise with recklessness.

Then he saw the man pop one of the mixtures prepared by Oberyn's daughter and wake up the next day hale and hearty.

Truly, the gods had seen fit to play a new cruel trick upon him.

It was little wonder that Robert had been indulging. With medicine as good as that, what little restraint his sworn brother had snapped in half like a twig. With no consequences to punish him for his excess, Robert was now very much testing the limits of Ned's patience. Loyalty or no loyalty.

'That fat excuse of venison cheated.' Rubbing his eyes, the Warden of the North should have known something was amiss when his friend had goaded him into a simple wager during the banquet. Something from their old days in the Vale, when the two were still hopeless youths daring each other to sneak past Jon Arryn to visit the inn or, in Robert's case, the brothel when the man could easily see through them.

And of course Ned had fallen for it.

The consequences of which he was now suffering.

'It's too early for Maester Luwin to be up.'

Too early for him to be up too.

Unfortunately his body had seen fit to rebel under the sway of wine. Something to be said about the vigor of youth. Back when he and Robert used to dare each other, he wouldn't have suffered this much the next day.

Robert probably wouldn't either if not for the aid of the dornish Witch.

'It explains why he likes her so much.'

Unfortunately he was not held so high in the esteem of the Southrons as to be granted a flask of that most accursed of tonics and as such Ned found himself walking through the Godswood. The crisp winds of the morning doing wonders to steady his mind for the coming trials that the royal court's visit was promising.

Besides, the walk would do him some good, clear his mood and the melancholy that seemed to spring up from his nostalgia like weeds in the trestles of the glass houses.

But this morn there was also something… more.

Something almost invigorating which set his blood aflame and sharpened his sight, the by now familiar silence fading as a faint buzzing grew the deeper he walked into the woods. Most curious was a sense of familiarity that brushed against him.

Acknowledgement, perhaps, but Ned wasn't one who made declarations regarding his beliefs often.

The Old Gods were just that. Old. Unknowable forces of the trees and stones and rivers which the grandparents of his grandparents had treated with as much respect as he himself did. But it was a careful respect, politely maintained from a distance.

Like a bear which stirred within its cave. One could feel the breathing of the great slumbering beast if they walked closer to the den, but so much as a single step could rouse it and see you turned into a snack before it went back to it's rest. And as all great beasts of the North, something old and terrible stirred behind the faces carved in wood.

Yes, Eddard would respect them, respect the North as he had been taught to.

There would be trials in the coming times. Challenges which the Seven Kingdoms would be forced to stand before.

"Winter is Coming." He repeated softly, wondering for a moment if it seemed like the snowflakes shimmered in agreement. After all, the words weren't a warning, but an inevitability. An absolute that could only be accepted.

One could prepare for the cold and the lack of food. They could gather lumber and remain watchful of plague and the beasts of the North. Yet Ned felt that this would not be the only challenge he would have to contend with, come the long winter he knew would follow a long summer. Even that the maester's agreed with that much and Luwin, who normally disdained magic, had confessed to seeing unnatural signs in the movement of the birds and also in the reports of disappearing fish. He had claimed that either it was a sign of a truly horrific storm, of which there were neither clouds nor winds nor unusual lights and weather formations out to see, or something entirely less normal.

Something the maester had convinced his lord that should not be permitted south of the Wall.

It was a concern that could not be dismissed, not when Benjen's letters spoke of mysterious horrors lurking beyond the wall. Of vanishing corpses and empty forests and a cold beyond anything he had ever felt before. Because the man was stone cold and sober, firm and with his wits about him. Most of all his little brother wasn't a liar.

Even for the sake of a good story.

But Eddard couldn't afford to jump to the worst possible conclusions, not when he needed to still appear to be in command of his senses. Perhaps the vanishing bodies and the scarcity in animals were signs of another wildling raid. Perhaps someone had managed to organize and unite them, hence the fewer sightings by the Night's Watch. And perhaps the horrors his brother described were a byproduct of forbidden arts long forgotten by their people.

If Dorne could have a Witch, then so too could the ancient savages and cannibals north of the North. And the wonders of the girl child from Dorne aside, the Stark patriarch had most certainly seen her spells the night before, his concerns were in grain, gold, and good men.

Convincing Robert to help, however, was another matter entirely.

"Perhaps his kingly pride?" That was one route but, stopping to feel the bone white bark under his gloves, the Lord Paramount chuckled. "Perhaps. But I fear I shall need something more substantial." Closing his eyes for a moment, he let the almost biting air fill his lungs. 'Relying on Robert alone is a bad idea. I think I will go to the Manderly's, the Foresters, the Glovers, the Reeds, and perhaps the Umbers and Karstarks. They all have something to gain that I can offer them without loss and little reason to mistrust me.'

Frowning, he moved on, disliking having to rely on the cadet branch of the Starks. Once, they had been kin, but these days he felt they were growing… wilder. More like the mountain clansmen they had married with and less like the Kings of Winter they were descended from.

Offering up a small prayer, he gave thanks to the Old Gods that the Umbers were simply as blunt as Robert's warhammer and that he only had to grapple with one Bolton and a misbegotten bastard.

Frowning, he considered what to do with Ramsay Snow for a moment.

Murder, of course, was the easy option - probably the smart one too. If half of what he'd heard then it would be justice for a great many people as well. But the thought sat poorly in the lord's mind. Killing a child based on rumors smacked of the Old Lion and that alone was to force him to forge ahead.

Perhaps prayer would cleanse him of the roiling disgust Tywin Lannister's name conjured.

"Good morning, Lord Stark."

Or… perhaps they would tell him why there was a Dornish girl in the middle of the godswood.

"You are naked." He noted dully.

The witch nodded solemnly.

"Unfortunately the gods did not seem fit to apparate my clothes alongside me for this jaunt."

Apparate?

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

"People seldom do. The long and short of it is that something in this forest wanted to speak to me badly enough that they had me moved during the night. I've had a very lucid dream about… I'd say half a dozen of your gods. Almost froze to death. And after some kind of secret test of character they rewarded me with this strange hotspring."

Yes, Ned did mean to ask her about that.

The vapors of the warm water kept the young woman's body mostly hidden from sight. Enough that had she not called out to him he wouldn't have noticed her presence at all. However, this whole thing was so absurd that Ned wasn't sure whether this was lucid dream or the waking world just yet, so he opted for averting his gaze and treating the young woman with respect.

"Lady Sand, I mean no disrespect, but that pool is normally pleasantly warm. Sometimes it freezes in deepest Winter. Only the ones nearer the heart tree stay boiling."

He heard the shrug, or at least the water moving from it, and the young woman spoke.

"You're welcome to join me and test it yourself, if you'd like, but I strongly suspect your lady wife might object." The humor in her tone was obvious, but, curiously, it almost seemed serious. "Look at me, Ser."

Shaking his head, he refused.

"Not when you are unclothed, my lady."

Snorting, the Dornish Woman stood up.

"I am aware. And no, Lord Stark, I am not trying to seduce you."

"Of course not." He protested softly. "I would never imply such a thing."

"No. But you've had more than one naked woman throw herself at you. Now, if you don't want to offend my Dornish sensibilities, you'll look me in the eye when we speak. I refuse to speak to a man who can't meet my eyes for fear of seeing a bit of fat and skin"

Somehow, this absurd child was talking down to him! A bastard witch from Dorne, naked, dripping wet in the freezing cold, was talking down to him. An armed Lord Paramount that stood a head taller than most men.

"Without a doubt, you are your father's daughter." Forcing himself to look up, he did find himself somewhat relieved. "Thank you." His smile was awkward, but her's was genuine.

There, instead of displaying her body with wanton lewdness, she stood with her long hair forming a curtain about her shape. It was still scandalous and he found himself awkward with a girl not too much older than his own children presenting her form in such a way, but he still met her gaze.

"So long as you don't tell a lady she's not worth seeing nude you'll do fine." Her crooked grin seemed equal parts challenging and mocking, however it then slipped to a frown. "I'm afraid I do have two awkward requests, my lord."

Nodding, he motioned for her to go on.

"I think I can imagine what they are." Already, he began to undo the clasp of his cloak.

"Joining me after all Lord Stark?"

The Northman gave the witch the same look he used to cow his children when they were doing something foolish. She laughed and slipped back into the water.

"Only my cloak is being removed, fair lady."

His tone brooked no argument.

"Blame my father's blood for that joke. In all seriousness though, my vision was rather clear. I need to go north of the wall. To the North-North, if you will, and I would like to request both an escort and a guide."

Eddard paused, moderately dumbfounded.

"Without a doubt, the Wall is no place for a woman, the wild lands even less so. What they would do to you would be unspeakable, should you be caught."

In this case, the "they" in question went unspecified for very regrettable but equally obvious reasons.

"Yet I must go. Your own dead kin have told me I must go and so I shall. And while I may rely on tricks more than once, this is no Mummer's dragon."

For a long moment he considered simply refusing outright. That would be the sane thing to do. But it also occurred to him that not only would Benjen be going, but that Robert would send an escort along as well. That, combined with her own entourage, would be a considerable force. And he could genuinely use the help as well.

"Perhaps." He closed his eyes, walking closer and laying his cloak down at the edge of the pool. Still in every other layer, from his high collared tunic to his tucked in trousers, to his gloves and scarf and boots, he turned away from the frustrating young woman. "But I would ask for something in return."

"Ooh. A deal with a witch. How dangerous." The teasing was back in the girl's voice and he appreciated the levity, though wished it wasn't directed at him. "Tell me and I will consider it."

"Something is terribly wrong up there, more now than others. I suspect… trouble." He turned away from the lounging girl, walking over to one of the weirwood trees and sitting down with his back against it. "You are a witch and have the king's confidence. Meaning he will likely send some of the best in the realm to watch over you."

"Ah." There was a long moment of silence where the girl soaked and the man would swear her eyes had gone milky white. Eventually, though, her voice resounded. "So whether it be a wildling horde or something less natural, I would be well equipped to investigate it."

When she put it like that his guilt returned full force and, had it not been his desperation for information, he would have withdrawn the offer then and there.

"Then it shall be done." There was a little splashing and Ophelia swam to the edge closest to Eddard. "I suspect it is the gods will, one way or another, and will do my best."

"Thank you."

He hated how his stomach roiled at the thought of sending a child into such a dangerous situation.

"It's not done yet, my lord." She was so soft spoken in reply, nothing but kindness in her tone. "But remember, you do not have the luxury of softness. A million souls may depend on your judgement and you must make the hard choices. Never forget that your privilege is to fortify you for this burden." The witch snorted. "As a horny mummer once said, heavy is the head that wears the crown."

Nodding, the Quiet Wolf agreed.

"Wise, for someone from Dorne."

That earned him a high, clear laugh.

"Perhaps. Though they were only Dornish in spirit. Now, my second request."

Bracing himself for something rather extreme, the first one had been extraordinary, he gave a jerk of his head and signalled for her to ask.

"Would you go find my sisters? Let them know I need some clothes and where I am? You're more than welcome to attend to your prayers first, I quite enjoy the warm water."

Sighing in relief, Eddard Stark was all too happy to agree.

"Of course my lady. As soon as I reach the castle I'll find them."

For some reason, the smirk she gave him this time felt… far more ominous than it should have.

"See that you do, my lord. But, ah, if you see any blondes, it might not be wise to tell them the state you found me in."

Making his way to his prayers, he didn't give that warning a second thought, not even as a small winter fox came up to him and plopped down at his feet.

---

Elia Sand​

---

"Hmm? Who's that?"

Elia stepped out of the shadows of the small forge, enjoying the way she'd made the blacksmith jump. And definitely enjoying the warmth of the room as it melted the snow from her green and brown cloak.

"Heya Gendry."

Immediately, the young man relaxed.

"Oh, it's you. Close the door though, don't need anymore of that snow getting in here"

That got a tilt of the head before, at a gesture, she moved off to comply. The room itself was a bit stuffier now, but it wasn't too bad, and was shaped a bit like an old stable, made out of mudbrick and a bit of stone, and housed a large number of old barrels, odds and ends, and the currently burning blacksmith's forge her older, taller friend was working at.

"Were you expecting someone else?"

Grimacing, the teenager shook his head.

"Not in particular, but, well, I haven't exactly had much time to focus on my work." Jerking his head at a low burning forge, the Sand Snake noticed a rather large pile of bent nails and a smaller pile of perfectly straight ones. "Master Mott says we need to have things fixed before the king's ready to head south… and that pretty much everyone else is incompetent."

Nodding, the twelve year old immediately understood the problem.

"And no one will leave you alone to work."

She stood there, hands on hips, beaming up at the slightly older boy until he sighed.

"Alright. Stay. At least you don't touch things. I had to stop Joff, er, the prince-" That earned him a giggle. He chose to do the responsible thing and stick his tongue out at the girl poking fun at him. "Yeah. My half brother. I had to stop him from setting the hem of his tunic on fire and the youngest Lady Stark-"

"Call her Arya." Nodding, the young bastard found a mostly clean chair and plopped down in it. "Otherwise she'll just needle you until you do.

That got her a snort of laughter.

"Keep a secret?"

Eyes lighting up, Elia quietly agreed.

"Of course. What do I look like? A Northman?"

This particular statement got her an exasperated sigh.

"Since we're in the North and you still made that comment, I think the cold might have gotten to your brain." Already preparing her puppy dog eyes, her pouting offensive was blocked by the blacksmith's raised hammer. "But I know you. So the secret's pretty funny. Jon, the Stark bastard, came to Master Mott and commissioned a sword to be made, Needle it's to be called, after Winterfell's blacksmith mentioned something about having to work on the queen's wheelhouse."

Humming in thought, and then snorting, the girl realized something very important.

"Master Mott was tired of working on that axle wasn't he?"

The ring of a hammer on metal answered her.

"Yes."

Ding.

"He."

Ding.

"Was."

Ding. And just like that, the nail was moved over to the done pile with a pair of tongs and a red hot one was fished out of the burning coals. What went unspoken was that Gendry was more than happy to bang away at simple nails because - by the gods old and new - was that wheelhouse a frustration.

"I take it there was something you wanted to actually talk about? All the times you came to see me on the trip you asked about the swords my master made or the armor of the knights I was helping to repair."

Frowning, the preteen couldn't keep the sulk out of her voice.

"I can't just come see a friend?"

He glanced up for just a moment, gave her a look like she was insane, and then returned to his task.

"You forget I know your sisters."

Elia opened her mouth and then closed it. Because the fact was that she often grumbled about them during her visits. And, in particular, their thoughts on her youth.

"Well it's not like they ever let me do anything fun. It's always 'Elia, you're not old enough to distract the maester' or 'Elia, you're too young to go see the giant castle'. But I'm old enough to babysit the royals when they're not at their lessons."

Powering through a few nails, the blacksmith nodded along and made noises of agreement. When it came his turn to speak, he turned the particular item he was working on around a few times, gave it a few small taps, then ran it through a small circular metal object with a hole in the middle.

"What's that called?"

"This?" Gendry held up the tool in question. "It's a nail header. I don't actually need to use it since I'm just straightening them out, but this one seems a bit big so I wanted to make sure it fit." Hammering out the kinks in another couple of nails, he ended up taking a moment to chew his thoughts over - Elia knew this because he actually made a slight chewing motion when thinking. "As to your sisters, well, I don't want to say anything bad about them. But you do know they take… a few risks, yes?"

"Like how Ophelia plays with dangerous animals that could kill her with a scratch, Tyene likes to toy with the affections of other people, Nymeria messes with the minds of married nobles and especially their pretty wives, Sarella likes collecting both old books and people's private journals despite being told not too, Obara spends more time wrestling and fighting than she does thinking, and Father finds it funny to poke and prod the tempers of dangerous and powerful people." Taking a breath, she finished up. "Yeah. I know."

Grunting, it seemed like the young man wasn't quite sure how to respond.

Not that Elia blamed him.

'I mean, it's not like Ophelia doesn't do pretty much whatever I ask her to, but only when she already knew everything would be alright.' Her thoughts weren't settled yet and she didn't expect the blacksmith to have all the answers. 'Sarella always loves to bring me along when she can, but I tend to get bored, leave, and then miss all the crazy fun stuff when things get set on fire.'

Finally speaking, Gendry set his hammer and tongs down, having chewed through about half of the pile, and seemed to have chosen humor.

"I think everyone is glad that you didn't decide to take after Lady Tyene."

Making a face, the girl tried to communicate how crazy that particular idea was.

"No, just… no." She wasn't supposed to be old enough to know exactly what it was Tyene did and even Elia knew the blonde got into more trouble than any amount of excitement was worth. "And it's not even because she likes to kiss pretty boys and girls. But she's scary. Though I do know she loves me." Pausing, a bit of hesitation welled up inside of her. Yet, trying to act just like her idol, she took the Bold course of action. "Once she told me that Ophelia loved me best of all and that she was jealous. But that she would never allow me to be hurt, so long as she lived, because I was precious to her and Ophelia both." Not sure how to totally express what she was trying to say, she ended up shrugging. "She's not quite right, Tyene, but she tries to care in her own way. I think I even trust her, but maybe that's because I didn't know her before 'Phelia."

"Your sister Nymeria warned me that, if Tyene ever offered me a kiss, to refuse politely."

Tone neutral, words just loud enough to be heard over the steady ding, ding, ding of his hammer, face marked with sweat and smoke, the blacksmith spoke truly.

"Yeah. That's probably for the best."

Silence, save for the never ending pounding the hammer, fell again after Elia's response and the girl brought her knees up to her chin. In full honesty, she clashed with Nymeria because her older sister would sooner lock the youngest Wandering Snake in a tower than let her anywhere the sort of political intrigue the second eldest navigated like a seasoned sailor. Possibly because Elia's sibling just so happened to be as raunchy as the sailors she saw at home too. And, of course, the firstborn of Ellaria Sand didn't have much experience around people like some of her older siblings did.

Nor was she inclined to bother learning how to play a man like a harp, or a girl for that matter. It seemed that some of her kin were a bit too obsessed with spending time in other people's beds and her goal remained to be a knight one day. Dame Sand to one and all.

Of the older Snakes, Obara was the one she found the most in common with.

Sure, the eldest sister was something of a grouch. Not doing much outside of training herself or training others. But she at least had the same affinity for combat that Elia was enamoured with since she could walk. Out of all of her siblings, it had been Obara that most agreed with her desire to become a knight, the rest seeing it as a bit silly for one reason or another, and even had helped their father train her.

She was Lady Lance after all - a nickname she hoped to one day deserve.

Maybe then she would stop being just 'Elia'.

Elia, who wore the name of a dead woman, the one her parents couldn't speak about without tasting bitter loss. Elia, who wasn't ever allowed to do something dangerous because another Elia died before her. Elia, who was small and weak and fragile and not trustworthy because she was still too young.

She hated it.

Hated that above everyone, Elia Martel's spectre hung over her the most.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't right.

And more than anything she wanted her sisters to realize she was ready to well and truly be one of them. Not just the tagalong kid from one of Ophelia's tales.

This trip was her chance to prove it. To show everyone what Elia Sand could truly do when she was relied upon. And if she had to watch a bunch of younger kids mingling and playing around to get that chance? Well, she would just have to tough it out and put on her phoniest smile.

What was it that Sarella said again?

'No pain, no gain.'

Then again, looking after the royal children while they mingled with the Starks wasn't that hard. Myrcella and Tommen were nice enough and Joffrey was… weird but nothing she couldn't deal with.

The Stark children, however, were complete unknowns and she had to make sure to know them well. Her sisters would surely reward her if she came back bearing juicy secrets and knowledge about the future lords and ladies of Winterfell. Though something told her that, that wouldn't be the thing she needed to really get them to count on her.

Arya Stark reminded Elia a lot of herself, enough that she had felt the younger girl was a bit of a kindred spirit. Not as a schemer and warlock, but great in the ways that were good, noble and strong both in body and spirit, kind and just and wise, and, above all else, free.

It was such a shame that her family wouldn't let her pursue that passion. Elia had been able to take up the lance because nobody really cared about what the Sand Snakes did. As far as the Seven Kingdoms were concerned, they were just lucky bastards who got to do what they wanted because their father had a soft heart, not that anyone would dare say it to his face.

Their father was known for three things after all: Having a lot of lovers, siring a lot of daughters, and killing a whole lot of men.

It was that reputation alone which prevented most from so much as looking at her sisters the wrong way. Because Oberyn Martell's ability to hold onto grudges and visit painful retribution onto those who slighted him was legendary.

"I have to say, it's nice being a bastard. At least one of Father's. I know pretty much no one is as lucky as we are, but I do have to say it's rather annoying being famous. Perhaps it would have been nicer if the rest of my family knew how to keep their heads down."

Elia did enjoy the added freedoms and wealth and the ability to do what she wanted. What she didn't enjoy, however, were the constant questions.

"What is it like living in Dorne? Do you guys have witches there? I heard there was a witch there. Have you met her?" Huffing, the preteen did as all young children do and expressed a rather amusingly intense burst of frustration with a single sound. "Seriously, you would think all everyone knew about the Martells was that we had magic users in our House."

Gendry snorted at that, not offering more of a comment, and satisfied himself with attending to a particularly stubborn bit of iron.

"There was no way I was that bad when I got to King's Landing or I wanted to speak with you. And now it seems like no one ever stops asking so. Many. Questions. You'd think Northerners didn't need to breathe!"

It would have been impressive if it wasn't driving Elia up the wall.

"It's hot. There's sand. It's coarse and gets everywhere. Yes, there is a witch back home. Yes, I've met her."

So had Arya, for that fact, her mother just wouldn't let her know yet. It had been funny how Nymeria of all people had assuaged the fears of Lady Stark by having Sarella perform her tricks.

"It must be so exciting. I couldn't imagine living like that. Going wherever I wanted. Sounds like a dream."

Elia squeaked when she spun around, finding an annoyed looking Arya stark looking at her from the door of the forge. Gendry, for his part, tried and failed to hold back a laugh.

"Did I not warn you against talking about Northmen in the North?"

Glaring at the blacksmith, the Dornishwoman spun back around to look at the other girl.

"I'm a bastard, Arya. Father loves me but without him things would be bad. No titles or anything. If he died and Uncle didn't like me? Well, I'd be out the gates the next morning. Or worse."

It was a lie, of course.

Because the Sand Snakes had Nymeria and her schemes to rely on. They had Ophelia, who was more important than all their cousins. Buf if they didn't… Arya would be scared for her life.

"I'd give everything to be able to travel like that. Just not caring about stuffy rules and having to be a lady. Sansa is much better at it than me and besides, you get to play with swords whenever you want."

Gods, she was insistent!

"Hardly. I don't play with swords, or spears, or bows, or horses, I train. And even then it's not exactly as easy as Ser Barristan makes it look. Even my Father spends a few hours a day, every day, making sure his skills are sufficient. And don't forget that he's had to pick up his training since 'Phelia got him his new sword. It's not about goofing off."

The northerner girl hummed in thought.

"If you say so. But it's not like your other sisters have much in the way of trouble. Nymeria even got to eat with the king." Huffing a bit, the Stark child crossed her arms. "My Nymeria has to stay in a cage until everyone leaves."

Crossing her arms too, the older of the two girls tried to end the argument then and there.

"I guess we just think different."

"Don't think so. I wanna go out on adventures and have sword fights. You want to have sword fights and become a knight like your sister, right?"

"Arya, Obara isn't a knight. And I'd rather joust than have duels every day."

"Sounds boring. Duels sound much more interesting than trying to push someone off a horse."

The nerve of this brat!

"You're mad. Jousting is way harder than that."

"Sure it is. You hold a stick, run at someone, and if you're lucky you don't fall off."

"Well, you won't be pushing over anyone with those sticks of yours." The dornish girl huffed, pointing at the Stark's rather… unimpressive lack of muscle.

Which of course, got the appropriate reaction.

"I totally can!"

"Cannot!"

"Can too!"

"Cannot!"

"Can too!"

"Uh huh. What will you do, recite House Words at me until I fall over?"

That earned Elia a shove. Which sent her stumbling backwards. Right into the back of the resident blacksmith.

---

Bran Stark​

---

"This isn't working,"

Bran looked up from the desk he'd been working on, dropping the quill he'd been holding in frustration as he looked at the drawing the three of them had been working on.

Much to his annoyance, it wasn't turning out as he wanted.

For starters, Bran didn't have any aptitude for the fine arts. Something he had never really considered important. Why would he when there was a whole world outside to explore? Unfortunately that mindset had cost him when he found himself needing to draw a picture for the first time in his life.

"I think it looks nice."

The older girl, Meera, smiled lightly, just like she had on the night of the feast.

Her brother snorted, just a hint of bittery mockery in the sound.

"What did he draw, Meera?"

She tilted her head.

"That's the castle isn't it? Seen from above? You can kinda see the walls around the smaller circles, and I guess that wedge over there could be a moat, you can even see the little waves."

"Winterfell doesn't have a wet moat, Meera."

Her mature response was to stick out her tongue at her brother.

"Well, it totally could!"

"It's a face." Bran's own face fell, fingers flexing around the quill, defeat once more creeping up on him. Hardly a new feeling, but one he'd hoped his new… friends would have been able to vanquish entirely.

More importantly, he'd been trying to draw the face of the woman from his nightmare. The one who had attacked him at the tower. Dangled him over the lip of that old, shattered tower without even a hint of effort, wondering whether it was worth the effort of bringing him inside or not.

Even now, he could see her standing there.

The sickly skin.

The green eyes.

The long, raven black tresses cascading over her face.

He just couldn't tell anyone about it. He couldn't write about it. He couldn't even draw it!

'Well, it's not like I was a great artist anyway.' The scrawl he'd presented to the siblings wasn't that much worse than his usual attempts at drawing or painting. In fact, both he and Rickon were still banned from so much as touching paint after they, and their direwolves, had made a rather… impressive mess. Across the entire east wall, top to bottom. Bran still didn't know how he'd done that if he was being honest.

"Can't you just ask someone to draw it for you?"

"He said he can't describe it. Like one of those curses from dad's stories."

Bran nodded, though he didn't criticize the suggestion. As it stood, he was a bit worried that the odd siblings would leave him if he allowed his confusion to manifest too directly. The less said about his night terrors, the better. It had already taken Jon chewing out some of the other boys his age to stop the title "Ser Bran the Chicken" from making its rounds.

He couldn't say anything, even hint at what he had seen. His tongue would end up glued to the top of his mouth when he tried and his fingers cramped when he tried to write out the words. And, of course, everyone assumed he was making stuff up about the nightmare.

His mother most of all had told him it was a sign from the gods to stop climbing the tower.

"If he can't draw it and can't even tell us how that girl looks, how are we supposed to find out what she looks like?"

Jojen stared at her.

"How do you even know if it's a she?"

"Like this." she turned to look at him. "Bran, was the one who attacked you a man?"

Bran shook his head.

"See?" Meera smiled triumphantly, showing the same spirit she'd used to bull him over, pepper him with questions until he submitted, and convince him to let her and her brother help..

Jojen, for his part, only stared.

"Didn't you just say that he couldn't tell us anything about it?"

At once the older girl and younger boy blinked in realization. They had completely overlooked that. Rather, he had been so focused on finding a way to tell them what he knew that he didn't think about telling them what he didn't know.

"Oh."

"Oh." Meera echoed his sentiments.

"Oh?" And Jojen promptly gave them an uninspired look. "Well, let's start from the beginning then. Did the girl who attacked you have red hair perchance?"

Bran shook his head.

"Golden tresses, mayhaps?"

He did so a second time.

"Hmm, oaken like wood? White as snow?" And onwards they went. After all, it wasn't like every single person was unique, so by pointing out the wrong actions, Bran could finally see himself making progress. Though there wasn't much he could say, he could at least say whether they were headed in the right direction.

Height.

Skin.

Eye color.

Clothes didn't work, unfortunately. He didn't know how to describe what he saw the woman wearing, and the siblings quickly ran out of options from him to deny. So they would leave that as it was, being something that looked like a mix between full body smallclothes and armor.

He'd ask Sansa for help with that, but she was ignoring him. She always ignored him when he tried to tell her about the dream. Just like how mother would just smile and say that he was scared over nothing. Even when he could feel… whatever that was digging its claws into the back of his head, feel that unclean breath on his cheek, see the bloodshot pupils, smell the stench of an unwashed body and old blood.

Bran couldn't forget.

He couldn't stop seeing it.

Hearing its words every night.

"So, how does this look?" Jojen passed him a sheet of parchment. The older boy turned out to be a godsend, actually knowing how to draw a straight light and a circle. Much to his sister's embarrassment, who looked to the side with cheeks set aflame.

As it turned out… her drawings were worse than Bran's.

Make of that what you will.

"It's not very similar."

Sure, Jojen had gotten the length of the hair and how wavy it was. But the shape of the girl's face was all wrong. She didn't look at all like a Northerner, and Jojen had only ever lived around people from the North so it wasn't like he knew what different faces could look like. If anything, it made things more difficult.

He'd have to ask Old Nan or Maester Luwin about it later. But for the moment he was just glad their father had brought them along. It was a once in a king's lifetime event after all and meeting the other noble children of the North would be good for them, so they alleged their father said.

"It's just a rough start. We'll eventually get it done." Meera whooped in joy.

"And then what?"

Before promptly deflating.

"What do you mean?"

"Assume we get this done right, what are we going to do with it? Ride from town to town, village to village looking for this mystery girl? Even if she is messing around with Bran's dreams, do we even know where she is?"

The young Stark felt a defeated sigh escape him.

That's right.

'QUERY'

But even so. He couldn't let it go.

Because every night, when he heard that thing speak inside his head he could make out how… desperate it was. Asking him for something he couldn't understand. So he had to assume that what it was asking for, what it was looking for, was the girl it was showing to him.

So he would find her.

Maybe then he would have some answers.

Maybe then he could sleep without being haunted.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: Happy Spook-month everyone, Wyvern and the Warhawk here once again, bringing you the next installment of everyone's favorite Teenage Witch. Though this time we're bringing in the drama! As always, we'd like to thank all our loyal readers who keep us going. next up on our lists should be Flame Emperor and Mutant Bay.

AtW: Sink or Swim will be posted twice over the next weekish, so look forwards to that too. Anyways, there may be a small delay as midterms are the next three days for me.

CW: Now then. Onto the reading!

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Chapter 15 - Ring of Fire​

---

Ophelia Sand​

---

"That's it my dear. Just like needlepoint."

Ophelia somewhat tactfully held back from mentioning that her needlepoint was, in fact, not on point. One could even venture so far as to suggest it was poor indeed. For the sake of her patient, and not her womanly pride, whatever such a thing might be, that secret would remain so.

"Actually, she's awful at needlework." Sarella, of course, was more than happy to be a… good big sister. "Awful even. Tried to make a tree once, Father thought it was a snake, tried to make a sunburst and a spear and Uncle Doran thanked her for the image of snakes and a castle."

Turning to face her sibling, the witch chose to say nothing.

But she did narrow her eyes.

"Before you start ripping each other apart, finish sewing up my arm."

Eye twitching, the witch looked over at the Hound and smothered the impulse to pull the stitches a bit tighter. Instead she dipped the needle back into flesh and returned to her work.

"I thank you for volunteering brave Ser-"

"I'm not a knight." Interrupting Healer Robert, the sworn sword half grunted the words out.

"Just the same, there is only so much one can learn seeing to colds and the small nicks of small folk and their tools. This sword cut is just the right size for the Ladies to learn from."

Happily babbling away, it was clear to both the girls that their instructor was taking great pleasure in annoying the knight. And, dare they say, had seemed almost frustrated when he'd come in from the training yard sporting a cut, perhaps four inches long, down the outside of one arm.

Apparently, both to ensure his skills remained sharp and to borrow the education of Maester Luwin, the healer had convinced Lord Stark to lend him the use of a spare room in the castle. A stable boy paid a handful of coppers later and the lad had four or five friends in there scrubbing it top to bottom with soap and boiled water, dried with fresh linens the old man had sweet talked out of the head maid, and the castle now had a suitable infirmary, at least according to his views.

Located along an inner bailey it was on a slightly elevated section over a small slope in the interior ground, near where part of the old tower sat, and closer to the front gate than not. Still sectioned off by two interior gates it required an escort to approach but he'd been seeing to the wounds and illnesses of smallfolk, at cost to the Lord of Winterfell, soldiers, on the king's coin, or nobles - though these he charged a respectable sum.

Ophelia herself could confess to the paradox of gaining more highborn clients by charging them for the, ah, prestige of merely being tended to.

In less than two days Healer Robert had probably tended to forty patients and fobbed off another dozen onto Maester Marwyn when the Mage's own not inconsiderable medical training would see the job done.

Though currently he was with Maester Luwin, Winterfell's assigned man of learning, tending to a birth down in the village.

Apparently a cow was having, of all things, twins and that necessitated medical intervention from trained veterinarians. It went without saying that the loss of such a valuable animal could be ruinous to an otherwise relatively poor farmer and Eddard Stark himself had requested their aid.

Marwyn had been bribed with access to the journals of an old Stark Greenseer.

So far, though, Opehlia had learned more than she had expected, her own medical skills seeming paltry in comparison to this learned and, more importantly, experienced man's.

To start with, the healer used specifically silver needles and catgut threads. The silver needles came in eight shapes, three straight, three curved, and two that had a more exotic shape for sewing at multiple points at once. Catgut, actually made largely from the intestines of sheep or goats, was found by him to be the most effective in avoiding long term complications.

Additionally, the man had managed to make a simple form of ethanol from sugars and yeast and three decades of experimentation. While it wasn't what would have been considered pure in her previous life it was still incredibly advanced. Using that, he cleaned his tools, including knives with blades of dragonglass, a dozen other tools such as a spreader, clamps, forceps, and more, along with a handsaw whose bit was made of Valyrian steel!

Compared to her previous work in King's Landing, her small cantrips, herbal remedies, and common sense advice was little more than woods witchery.

Of course, that was only the initial preparation. To work with, the man wore a butcher's apron over his robes and a layered scarf over his mouth and nose. His hair was kept short and when he had a surgery he would shave it totally. Before she began working Ophelia had been politely but firmly instructed to pin her hair up and cover it with a wimple to keep strands from falling near a wound.

When it came to the work itself, he mostly used his fingers - touch was apparently one of the best senses for finding the absolute sources of injuries - but also his smell and sight too. Apparently, he could detect a broken bone, set it, and see it on its way to healing with what looked like a gentle grope.

For Sandor Clegane's injury the bastard girl had found herself armed with a curved needle of the smallest size and catgut thread that had been rubbed with a small amount of strongwine.

"Give it a bit more slack my dear. You know he'll be back at it again tomorrow and just a bit more room might keep it from bursting." Chuckling, the healer finished washing one of his knives and sat it to dry - the silver blade glinting with a few drops of water and wafting of steam. "Though I suppose I wouldn't mind charging the king double for my time and your edification if he did so."

"Charge… idiots… double… for… the… pain… of… dealing… with… them."

Sarella's quill had been scribbling almost nonstop, sometimes taking great liberties with what was said but always sticking to the spirit of the Healer's words.

Mostly though she had documented his tools, their dimension and materials, and all the processes he had undertaken to keep them seen to. Those had occupied her time more than the repetition of basic cures, whom she had soon described down to the most basic of details, and seemed more interesting to the witch's darker skinned sister.

"So long as it's the king's silver and not mine." Slightly adjusting how he was sitting, the Hound jerked his head at the very, very shiny handsaw. "Tell me old man, how did you get that."

"Peasant boys who've almost lost fingers move less than you. Now stop fidgeting or I'll have to start over again." Glancing up at the burned man, she met his eyes daring him to do more than comply. Thankfully, after opening his mouth with something close to a sneer he shut it. "Good. Now, I'll try and finish this up."

"Heh. Since you're being such an excellent example for my student, brave Ser-"

"I'm not a bloody knight." Clegane grumbled, Robert simply continuing on over him.

"I shall tell you. Back when I rode with the Brave Companions I found myself often being paid in small trinkets and bits of valuable things instead of actual coin - to make it more difficult for me to simply slip enough with the funds needed to, let us say evade my then patron. So, over time, I continued to collect little bits of jewelry made with tiny pieces of Valyrian steel. You would be amazed at how much is just… floating about the place over in Essos. Perhaps here too, unless our dear witch gets to it of course!" Chuckling, he pauses, sitting down and seeming a bit out of breath. "Well, after working with a smith from Qohor, I saved his hand you see, he offered me anything he could make. So I chose this." Smiling, the healer seemed proud and a bit melancholic, so it was with a quieter tone that Robert finished his story. "Nothing too grand about it. Just something to make a bloody business a bit cleaner and a bit quicker. I suspect, though, that it has maybe saved as many lives for the sureness of cuts as any amount of my little skill."

"Done. Now, pretty boy, unless you want more than just my sister and I having fun at your expense you can head on out." Smiling, Ophelia let her eyes slide right over his burns and meet his. "So if you want to stay and let two pretty girls have a bit of fun with a big, strong man such as yourself… Well, don't expect it to get physical. But we can comment on the disaster that is your hair."

Flexing his arm, the small giant of a man nodded as no new blood stained the linen wrap Ophelia had placed around it.

"Thank you. You too, Master Healer." Pausing, he nodded at Sarella. "And I suppose the scribe as well. I'll make sure to let Squire Lancel know not to expect the traditional womanly skills from you."

Confused, it took the witch a moment to realize what he was saying. Though, when he was about halfway out the door, realization dawned on her and she tried to stutter out a protest.

"What? No! What are you possibly talking about?"

Sarella, coughing, looked up from her parchment.

"You are fond of both blondes and peoples whose last names begin with Ls."

Doing the mature thing, the witch made a few spiders drop down into her sister's hair.

Responding in just as mature a manner, the hardworking scribe flicked a drop of ink right onto Ophelia's forehead.

Healer Robert merely chuckled and slipped out of the room, Ophelia's creatures watching him as he made his way to the kitchens to fetch some lunch - a wise man indeed for taking advantage of what was most certainly a temporary lull in traffic. Something that the witch, ink splattered as she was, used to check on her egg.

Bundled up against her stomach and swaddled in more than a few layers of cloth, the tiny life within was definitely growing but it left the bastard girl to wonder if she would have to wait the nine months all other women did. Or, perhaps, if it might indeed be even longer.

Such were the frustrating vagaries of magic.

Perhaps an hour later the three were still at work, alone for a while now, and Robert was listing out a number of bits of advice to Sarella who dutifully recorded them exactly as repeated.

"...and that is why I do not advise bleeding, unless absolutely needed to relieve pressure somewhere vital in the body. While there are some who claim that it can restore the body of an ailing man I have found that it is ineffective at best and often fatigues the individual in question even further."

Then, hearing something through the ears of a half dozing dog, the warg had the creature open one lazy eye.

Marching down the halls of the castle in a panic was a line of men carrying another on a stretcher. The old hound's eyes weren't so good and the angle poor so she could make out few details other than that Clegane was the one in the lead and the injured man had suffered a terrible wound on the leg - the smell of cooked meat making it obvious that it was some sort of terrible burn.

"What is it my dear?"

Shaking her head, she stood and made for the door.

"I don't know Healer, but a group of men are bringing someone who was burned terribly."

Frowning, Robert took up a few tools and made sure his surgery table was clear. Lighting three extra candles he made his way over to the slat windows and opened them fully to the early afternoon sun.

"I see. Dear Sarella, would you mind moving over to the back? If the group of men mean to be present I imagine they might crowd you."

Working not quite as a practiced team the three were soon in position - the archer having little stomach for a surgeon's work though she could record it - and it was Ophelia that confirmed the patient.

"Put him down here, then leave. All of you are filthy and we need room." Trying to shoo them away, a young knight almost sneered at her instructions.

"I'll not leave the side of the king's son, not when he's injured so!"

Sandor Clegane, using his good arm, picked the man up by the throat and bodily dragged him out. Pausing only to nod at the healer and the witch.

"Burned by nails on the leg, accident at the forge. See that he lives before the king arrives."

Nodding her thanks to the sellsword she turned to find Robert already hard at work.

"We need to remove the nail… and bring your maggots girl." Voice hard, he gestured at the burns while the witch began to summon, quite specifically, the blue bottle flies in her swarm. "Hold the wound, try not to break the blisters, the metal must be removed before it can burn any deeper. Careful, don't burn yourself."

Taking up the tongs, Ophelia watched as Robert held the wound with one hand and wielded a long, thin metal instrument almost like a scalpel with the other. She took the other side of the burn and grasped the end of the still hot metal as the obsidian blade of the healer's tool cut at flesh with ultimate ease. Taking great care, she made sure that the metal neither touched her fingers nor brushed the healer nor bumped against the boy more than absolutely necessary.

What had happened is that the still hot nail had, somehow, pierced poor Gendry's breeches, perhaps burning through them, and the point had settled itself into the meat of his thigh.

The men who had found him had removed the leg of his pants and that made it easy for them to get at the wound. It also meant it was easy to see how bad things actually were. There were four burns, in a rough pattern, and they went up the side of his thigh.

When the nail finally came free the Blacksmith woke up, crying out and trying to sit up before Robert pushed him down against the table with surprising strength.

"We need help in here!"

Clegane entered the room at Robert's call, visibly blocking off the still fuming knight, and helped pin Gendry down.

"Calm boy, calm. You're hurt bad but the healers have you."

Surprisingly calmly, the large man held the scared bastard in place while Ophelia, looking for somewhere to dispose of the nail, dropped it into the cauldron they'd been using to wash tools between uses.

"Sarella, get the boy a bit. Boy, what's your name?"

"G-Gendry sir." Voice trembling a bit, confusion and pain and fear was thick in his voice.

"You're doing fine Gendry, you're being brave." Sarella stopped to grasp his hand, squeezing it and running a damp cloth across his forehead even as she slid a piece of leather into his mouth. "Just stay strong."

Ophelia came by and took his other hand, squeezing it too before moving back down to the injury.

"What next Healer?"

"It's bad. Down past the muscle. Maybe to the bone." His words were low and Robert stopped speaking just long enough to smile at the boy, it was a tight, empty thing. A motion meant to reassure, but clearly not reassuring. "I would say it looks like he maybe fell back against the nail, or maybe nails, and it was caught between him and something with less give than leather and skin."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, the Sand Snake jerked her head.

"Is he going to lose the leg?"

"Can't lose m'leg." Having spit out the bit, the apprentice shook his head. "Can't work withou' a leg."

"Is there nothing we can do?"

For all of a second the Witch and the Healer stood silent, Ophelia's question clearly pushing him to one direction. Something in her stomach warned her she wouldn't like it.

"Clegane, leave, please, and don't let anyone else in here until we're done." Confused, the man seemed genuinely confused before ultimately nodding… but only once Robert had cut his eyes back to Ophelia - the implication clear. Once the door was shut, the old man took the young lad's face and made him focus up. "Listen Gendry, we can save your leg but it will have a cost. A cost from me and you but most of all Ophelia. Doing this will, well, it will change the limb a bit. Are you willing to live with that?"

No hesitation at all and the blacksmith nodded.

"Please, don't make me a cripple. I want to work… I want to be a master."

Words clear, though pained, the teenager communicated his desires specifically and unequivocally.

"Sarella, milk of the poppy please." In the ten seconds it took her to fetch the substance the healer had snatched up a few more implements and Ophelia was left to hold the boy's hand.

"That which is dead can never be returned to life and the nerves of his leg are definitely dead. But muscle and sinew is so much meat and meat can be made to move again, even meat scored by fire." Once more he turned to Gendry, a strange gleam in the healer's eye as Ophelia watched his hands twitch. "The price of this will be at least all the feeling in your leg below the wound to one degree or another the burns will never feel touch again. But we can make your leg whole."

Gasping, Ophelia actually felt a small tremor of fear.

"You mean necromancy."

"Aye." Robert nodded. "Blood magic. It's the only way to save the boy's leg. This or cut it off, the burn is down through the muscle and scraped the bone. Anything else would leave too much missing for it to ever properly work again."

"Please, Ophelia, help me."

Gendry's words tore her. This was perhaps the one area of magic she truly had no experience in, her teachers never speaking of it except Mawli and she had said only that it was something Ophelia should not concern herself with until she was older or crueler and not before.

"Are you sure? There's nothing else at all we can do?"

Shaking his head, the healer - the necromancer - rejected her plea.

"Do you know of any spells that could cure this without sacrificing a man or ten?"

Pausing, sighing, wanting to tear at her hair for approaching what had been perhaps the only taboo school of magic for the witch she shook her head.

"No. A man and maybe a stag is the lowest price I know of to heal this otherwise." Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. "Other than offending the gods and nature itself, what will be the price of this?"

Giving her a sad smile, Robert picked up a knife.

"A bit of blood… and maybe a year of life, between the three of us."

Sighing, the witch nodded.

"For this Gendry, I am forgiven for dragging you into court that day."

The idiot boy did the worst thing he could do. He smiled up at her.

"You let me meet my father. You're already forgiven. Don't do this if you don't want to. I… I can't ask for your life."

'Gods damn this idiot.'

Guilt was welling up in her stomach and she turned away from the apprentice

"Drink your milk and shut up already." Glaring at the healer, Ophelia nodded her agreement. "Let's get this done already then. Sarella, bar the door. I don't know if I'll be able to use my swarm to keep others out."

Scrambling to comply, both Ophelia and her big sister pretended they weren't seriously conflicted about what they were doing and the healer, well, his blade drew blood and the ritual began. All the witch could do now was pray that this was the right choice and not some horrible, horrible mistake.

---

Robert Baratheon​

---

Robert was a proud man.

Rightfully so.

He'd conquered the last of the Dragons. He'd cracked open the Seven Kingdoms in a journey for love and revenge the likes of which you often heard of in epic sagas detailing the lives of demigods from the far past, all the while smashing through his enemies with his trusty warhammer.

Plus Ned.

Ned helped.

Case in point, Robert Baratheon was a proud man who had made the known world his own and celebrated it for the next ten years.

He didn't beg for help.

He didn't beg for anything.

He was the King after all.

But the gods would damn him if he didn't feel like hunting down that Witch and offering her a castle or two in exchange for one of her miraculous products. Because of course the last one would eventually run dry and just after Robert had tricked the quiet wolf of the North into a drinking contest like in their youth.

He'd won the battle and would lord it over Ned for the rest of their lives.

'Gods, why must you punish me like this?'

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Here in the North where the only Gods were the ones his friend's family worshipped, perhaps Robert should have known better than invoking such fearsome entities in a bout of pained frustration.

Then again, he felt like his head was about to split in half.

Laying awake on top of massive furs, Robert debated the advantages of pretending to be deathly sick. Perhaps someone might pity him and find more of the miraculous cure. Perhaps his Wife would take advantage of the circumstances and finally put him out of his misery like she probably wanted to since he called out Lyanna's name on their wedding night.

It would probably feel better than being punished for his love of the sweet nectar that was wine.

Though, if he were being honest, Northern Mead wasn't bad either.

'Did they leave someone posted outside?' Nobody would ever leave the King unprotected after all. Of course, there was a chance that it might be someone he was related to by marriage, so the possibility of asking a blonde for help gave Robert the will to resist and endure his torture.

Of course, the choice was taken off his hands when his eldest burst through the doors.

The banging of wood on stone sounding like a cannon to Robert's ears.

"Father, you must do something about this!"

Boy had too much Lannister in his blood, he even sounded like his wife's family. Always demanding something from him. As if they hadn't swapped sides when it benefited them. Thinking they had won them the war when it was clear they would have stayed as the Mad King's lapdogs had Robert failed.

"Are the Others marching on us?"

His response brought the boy up short, words heavy in a mouth like cotton.

"W-What?"

"Do you see any dragons sweeping through the sky as Aerys' spawn come to cook us all alive?"

"No?"

"Then you better have a good excuse to come banging on my head at such an early hour, boy."

For a moment, he looked confused.

"But Father, it's already past lunch. I'm certain they are preparing dinner."

Robert felt his stomach roil in need.

He'd missed breakfast and lunch? Truly his body had become weak under the ministrations of the Dornish Witch. He'd forgotten the cruel and unfair punishment of waking up under the yoke of a heavy night of drinking. Comfortable with her potions, he'd forgotten the pain and anguish that were his early mornings.

He'd grown weak and soft.

It wasn't helped by the fact his skull was still ringing.

"So? What's happened? Someone important better be dead."

The way Joffrey stilled, mouth open as he considered whether to speak or not threw Robert for a moment. He knew the boy. Well, he didn't spend as much time as he could with the boy, but he knew him well enough to know he was opinionated like his mother and as headstrong as a mule.

"It's… It's Gendry."

And like that, Robert felt the chill of winter crawling up his spine.

"Speak. What happened?" Already the old king started to roll out of bed, blindly fumbling for his trousers as his son raced over with his boots.

"I don't know the details. But there was an accident! He's being tended to by the Witch and the Maesters. But he was hurt badly. Lord Stark and Lord Martel are having an argument and I couldn't find anyone for help."

No one? Where in damnation was Cersei?

She didn't let their eldest out of her sight most days and she chose today was a good one to try and wean him off!

Strength returned to his limbs, Robert fully climbed off the bed. Though his eyes stung and his ear yet rang, the King found it in himself the manic energy to belt his trousers up and throw the rest of his clothes on, lest he barge into a Maester's office half dead and sick from the cold.

"Take me to him."

He'd have to speak with his friend and the Dornish prince. Obviously the two of them knew what happened and were having a fight over it. Which he'd have to solve because of course he had to solve problems despite being the bloody King.

But that came later.

"Father?"

Robert pulled the boy closer, hanging an arm over his shoulders as he pulled himself up. And then promptly slung the boy over his shoulder like a particularly shrill but small sack of potatoes.

Gods, what were they feeding this boy? He barely weighed anything!

And then off he went, thunderous steps carrying him through the doors and down the hallways as Robert Baratheon, first of his name and protector of the realm, tried to remember which way was the blasted Maester's office. Because of course he'd forget where the damn books were stored.

"Alright, calm. You're calm. Stay calm."

"Father?"

"I'm calm, son. You have to stay calm!"

They must have cut quite the strange picture. The King carrying his son on his shoulder as he did his best to carry them through the ancestral home of his closest friend. So of course someone would take issue and come to him.

"What do you want, Kingslayer?"

The Kingsguard, poised and looking frustratingly chipper, fell in step behind him.

"An answer for starters, Your Grace. Why are you carrying your son like fresh venison?"

Robert decided he didn't have time for this shit.

"Because my son's been hurt!"

The blonde idiot had the nerve to look confused.

"He doesn't look hurt to me."

"Not this son, the other one! Gendry!"

Just thinking about it had Robert hastening his step as he pushed open another door, heart thundering against his chest as he tried and failed to keep his breathing steady. Gods, how long had it been since he'd had to run this much carrying weight when he didn't have the benefit of bloody magic? Joffrey wasn't even heavy, and here he was huffing and puffing.

He could have run across Winterfell as a toddler!

Turning a corner into the great hall, he found it mostly empty, with only a few men who quickly stood and bowed to him and one of the prince's bastards in the hall - carrying a large tray of what might be best described as snacks and tea.

"Your grace?" The demure blonde Tyene inclined her head. "Why are you in such a rush?"

"Gendry is hurt, do you know where the maester is?"

Blinking, the girl child took a moment before responding.

"I do believe that Maester Luwin and Archmaester Marwyn are in Winter Town, something about the smallfolk needing aid - Lord Stark asked them to see to it. However, if the blacksmith has been injured then surely his master would have either sent for Healer Robert or taken him to the man."

Confused, the good king Robert simply blinked.

"And where is he?"

"By the third bailey, your grace, near the old tower and down the side corridor leading off of the training yard. Between it and the side gate leading in from the first inner courtyard past the main gate."

Now even more confused than before he looked over at his Kingsguard who gave an apologetic shrug, still managing to appear both utterly calm and slightly smug.

'I want to punch him. More than usual.'

Focusing back on the task at hand he turned to the girl child who simply smiled.

"It would be my honor to show you there, your grace." Bowing her head, Tyene Sand called over to one of the men sitting in the room. "Ser Kay, if I might have a moment of your time. This is for the Queen and the Lady Stark and their other ladies besides. I know you're quite busy, but would you do me this favor?"

Pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders, the knight quickly made his way over and, inclining his head, took the tray with a few words.

"The honor is mine, my lady, your grace."

Leaning forward as she handed the tray over, the king heard the bastard whisper in the man's ear.

"Molly is attending to the queen today, though I know she only has obligations for a few hours more. If you might spend a little time waiting on them I'm sure she'd be most pleased to have your company for a walk through the godswood."

Blushing, the knight bowed again and made his way to where the Queen was holding court - the tray of snacks quite carefully balanced before him. Robert would have laughed if the situation had been any less serious and instead simply gestured at the girl to lead on with his free hand, Joffrey still being held in the other.

And that was how he found himself trying to keep up with a whip of a girl, the bastard moving with a grace that was belied by her comeliness. Obviously he had… appreciated her form, safely and from a distance, he wasn't stupid, but he hadn't really noticed that she, just like all of her siblings, moved like a fighter. Tyene hid it well, definitely better than both Ophelia whom he had spent the most time around and her older sister Nymeria, but it was how her eyes moved.

Robert had known too many killers and it was only in that moment, as he huffing and puffing and trying to keep up with a girl that, still in a simple dress - nevermind the cold that she showed not the smallest hint of - managed to force his kingsguard to jog to keep up with, that he realized why he hadn't been interested in the young woman.

'Her eyes are like Cersei's when she sees someone she doesn't like.'

Disturbing thoughts aside, the girl took him where he needed to go. Indeed, Sandor Clegane and a few other men were waiting outside and the door to the infirmary was open.

"Your grace, he's alright, but you might want to go see him."

Shutting down another, rather angry looking, knight with a snarl, the Hound lived up to his name. Taking Joffrey from the king he sat the very confused and slightly flustered boy on the ground - even getting an imperious thank you for his trouble.

Still, the king hesitated. He could smell cooked meat coming from within the room and herbs and unguents and potions as well. In particular there was what smelled like warm honey mixed with vinegar and strongwine coming from within. That particular combination, he knew, meant that burns were being tended to. Serious ones.

However, his hesitation meant one thing in particular.

"Come on Father, why are we just standing around?"

Joffrey, annoyed, petulant child he was, grabbed the old warhorse's hand and half dragged him into the medical room - only letting go when he saw his brother and rushed over to his side.

"Woah there, don't jostle him, he's sleeping my prince."

Sarella, another of the Snakes, and Robert couldn't help but think that those Dornish bastards really were everywhere, gently stopped his trueborn son from grabbing his sleeping brother's side.

"If you want to speak to him you'll need to let him get the milk of the poppy out of his system."

"But his leg! Is he ok? What about it! I saw the nail sticking out and it was still practically glowing! It doesn't look like he lost the limb, but what about infection? Did it burn the bone? I heard some of the squires talking about how if a bone is ruined it can take the leg too and what about the other burns? The knight cut off his pants leg to stop the flames, I saw it smouldering, but what about those? Are they alright too? His skin isn't going to peel away is it?"

His rambling boy was an almost painful reminder that, for all his ability to preen and strut, Joffrey really was only twelve and that Robert hadn't actually been in his life long enough to wash out the Lannister's tendency to vacillate between demanding and cuntish. In this one instance, though, he'd forgive his mother's blood as he wanted to know the answers too.

"Your grace, my prince, I am here and I can answer your questions." The old healer walked in, none of Pycelle's feigned weakness in him, and inclined his head just enough to not be insulting. "But the leg has been saved. Here, I shall let you take a look."

Walking over, he peeled back the bed sheets and then, carefully, removed a linen cloth set over the area of the burn.

The seared flesh was barely visible, hidden underneath the tincture applied to it. Though you could almost see past it and the striking wound underneath.

"We have applied a salve of herbs, vinegar, honey, and strongwine. Obviously, the boy is lucky to have been brought here as soon as he was. No miracle would have saved his leg from a festered wound."

"Honey?" The king questioned.

"To keep the mixture together and in place, as well as to form a base with which to mix the other substances and to help keep out infection. It was brought from the kitchens, but I assure you we took great care to make sure that it was clean and good for use. Though I shall have to apologize to Maester Luwin upon his return as I had to borrow a bit of his feverfew to help bring the lad's temperature down."

Swallowing, Robert nodded, accepting the healer's words as his fingers curled around his bastard's hand.

"And the witch girl?"

"Asleep in the back your grace." Sarella interjected, looking up from where she was still keeping the prince's attention. "Treating his leg required a bit of effort and it was… ugly." The dark skinned girl paled slightly and looked away from Gendry's quietly sleeping body. "It took a lot out of her, you know they worked on your sword together. So my sister feels responsible for what happens to him, now that she's dragged him into, well, all of this."

"Can I sit with him?"

"Of course your grace." Healer Robert slid back into the conversation, having finished putting away the last of his things. "I shall give you the time you need. If you have any further need for me, I shall be in Maester Luwin's office."

Sarella, having discretely locked the door to the room her sister was sleeping in, though Robert had noticed the action, gave the king's son a gentle pat on the shoulder and followed the healer too.

Taking his healthy son by the hand he made him kneel. There, by the side of the sickbed of his eldest boy, he and his trueborn heir sat in silence.

Eventually the king clasped his hands, though he did not pray, for he had not done so in a long, long time. No hymns came to mind, no great words of wisdom. Instead, he simply sat with his sons and silently hoped that his bastard would keep the use of his leg, that there would be no infection, and that there would be no more hardship in his life.

---

Nymeria Sand​

---

'This is a disaster.'.

The Lady of Winterfell's smile went from almost brittle to so obviously pained it was hilarious. And, of course, taking a sip of her mulled wine, the Queen chose that moment to make another vaguely pointed comment.

"As we've discussed the nature of the Blackfyres and the perfidy of bastards, I do have to wonder what your thoughts are on Lann the Clever." Another sip. "Unlike the Royal Tullys, we Lannisters only rose through wit and the hand of a Casterly daughter."

'No, scratch that, Catelyn Stark has made a blunder of catastrophic proportions.'

"I would never think to imply that your line was anything but noble, your grace, all I meant was that I understand how hard it can be for a woman to deal with her husband's indiscretions." Catelyn Stark let her smile fade a bit, settling for awkward disquiet, still intentionally not meeting Nymeria's pleading gaze. "After all, his grace is attending to his own great bastard at this very moment - putting off an engagement with you to do so."

"Aye. Bastards… a curse on every house and the blot of a noble's honor. Useless little monsters, wouldn't you agree?"

Thankfully the highborn woman, still very obviously confused, managed to finally pick up on the massive undercurrent of threat in the queen's tone. Wisely she chose not to speak.

Nymeria cursed the fact she'd been seldom given the chance to so much as string two words together, stuck between the two women as she was. Instead, she was forced to sit there, smiling vapidly like the mewling ladies in waiting that her sister played with as a child does with dolls.

On the whole she wouldn't complain too, too much. At the moment they were sitting on a covered balcony, set where a rocky outcropping had created a raised bank of earth that had been completed with a squat, round tower. And it was a testament to the sheer age and scale of Winterfell that places such as this existed. Set high up it had a clear view over half of the castle, driving home the knowledge that this fortification was built to hold a force of one hundred thousand fighting men, and giving the royal party a clear view of the vastness of Winterfell's territory.

The balcony itself was fair sized, able to hold thirty or forty people if they were squished in, with a removable wooden roof. It was sloped, but also slatted, some trick of clever design and hard work by an ancient carpenter that allowed sunlight to dance down between the thin planks of weirwood, no thicker than half a finger,and create an almost serene, picturesque sight.

Small flakes of snow, no more than the lightest bit of powder, fell from the sky in lazy circles while the heavens above were dotted with a few clouds. Mostly though the Northern sky was clear and blue with a blazing sun above - still so cold Nymeria shivered under her three layers a bit, but of no bother to the Lady Stark and little trouble at all to the queen in her two layers.

Sitting out there were fifteen people or so. The Queen, of course, who had been in a rather excellent mood - despite Ophelia's disappearance. And Nymeria was almost tempted to ask her sane… ish sister for details. Cersei was quite beautiful of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that Nymeria was annoyed, stressed, and missing her twins at all. Opposite her sat Lady Stark, once Catelyn Tully, and the red haired fish's plans for today had fallen apart so spectacularly she had to wonder if it had all been one of her father's plans.

'Nothing explodes quite like a Martell's half drunken decision to storm a rival brothel with a small army of whores and their clients.'

With them had come a number of ladies in waiting, three for each of the nobles, who sat quietly to the sides. They were knitting and gossiping at first but had now fallen silent. Completing the party were a trio of armed men. Ser Meryn Trant of the kingsguard, a Stark man at arms that Nymeria did not recognize, and the Darkstar as her own bodyguard.

Apparently, the Dornish contingent had been drawing straws to set up the rotation of looking after the Snakes. He was her bodyguard today.

'And I have no idea whether it's a good thing or not that Tyene was sent for tea.'

Right now complaining would have to take a backseat though. Tensions were already high between her father and Lord Stark after the Dornish prince had done as he always did. That meant their alignment with the royals would also be called into question, which wasn't great considering that tensions in the North were already high. Combine that with the extensive preparations for a military campaign and rumors would be flying wild.

'There's no telling what Varys or Tywin would do if they thought they could drive a wedge between the North and everyone else. Doubly so if Tywin thought the North might be a threat to his… legacy.'

One of the small benefits of her earlier conversation with the Imp had been a glimpse at his father's psyche, invaluable insight indeed.

'I'll do something nice for the little lord. Perhaps one of the lewder journals Sarella recovered? If nothing else it ought to amuse him.'

For now though, she had to work.

No motion could be wasted.

Not a second more could be spent dawdling on errant thoughts.

Nymeria knew she had to strike while the iron was still hot and in the blacksmith's thigh if she wanted to keep this situation from taking an unfavorable turn for House Martell, the very reason why she had been sent on this long winded trip to the North alongside her volatile father and sisters.

Though she would confess to being surprised. Of all sisters to cause this sort of situation, Nymeria could scarcely believe young sweet Elia to be the culprit.

"Your grace, my lady, do pardon me for speaking, but I was wondering when Lord Manderly would be arriving? My father wished to speak with him most dearly."

Catelyn Stark's eyes tightened for a moment, instinctual dislike of bastardy, which had obviously festered for years with Jon Snow about the place, tainting her view of Nymeria. But considering Cersei had made it clear that she preferred the Dornish company to that of the Great Trouts, well, the Lady of Winterfell would have to deal.

"Soon, I think, his sons have already arrived. However, the Mer-Lord is, well… generously apportioned."

Smiling, Nymeria bowed her head. She hadn't noticed either of the men since the feast, when she'd been escorted by the Blackfish, but a point would be made to seek them out.

Pursing her lips, the Stark woman seemed to chew on her thoughts for a few moments.

"You know, I'm sure your sister meant nothing by it."

Raising one eyebrow, the bastard almost took offense at how blatantly the woman was fishing for an apology. For a way to put the impetus on the Sands and so that her own daughter would be justified in their little scuffle.

"I must confess ignorance, my lady. I'm not even sure what words were or were not said. My lord father is speaking with Elia now, though, so he might be better able to address any such concerns."

Certainly, she had asked her informant for confirmation, knowing that it would have been much more likely if another of her sisters had been the one to cause an 'accident'. Tyene would have been the safe bet in that regard. Father was distracted tending to his Lady Knight and their newest sibling, Ophelia had been… grounded with the Maesters until she could convince Nymeria she was not about to get dragged further north by malevolent spirits or nosy mages.

Frankly, Obara had a higher chance of causing issues than Elia.

Which explained why this had caused such a stir.

'Maybe I'll have to look into that abandoned tower after all.' Though not for the sister she had expected.

But first, she'd have to handle this situation.

"I see. Perhaps it would be best left to the menfolk, then, to discuss such issues. But a woman cares for her child, as you will one day come to know. They are precious to us and if there was anything we could do to help them, then we would."

'Well, perhaps that was a tad over dramatic.' Half an apology and half an accusation, Catelyn Stark was still trying to be a bit discrete, those few lines meant that her probing was done… for now.

Nymeria reclined in her chair a little, considering whether or not to take offense. If nothing else Cersei seemed a little amused so that was good, though by now the balcony area was indeed growing dark. The sun had yet to fall under the line of the horizon, but now dark clouds muffled the last of its light as a small number of candles were lit. This kept the room from falling completely into shadows and it was at this time that a knight and a few servants, not Tyene, arrived with a tray of still steaming edible bits and several pots of tea.

Certainly a pleasant smell.

Of course, the women sitting at the table weren't particularly interested in it.

For all her attempts to connect with the two, Nymeria was a bastard after all. Nevermind the legacies which ran through her veins, before the Queen and the Lady of the North, she might as well have been a servant girl. Here to deliver news and gossip from the court to them like an errant maid, even if Cersei was more willing to indulge the snakes than not.

'It's not as far from the truth.'

She pursued her lips.

"Perhaps we should simply be honest. If my lady and your grace do not mind, I would be quite willing to relay what I know for certain."

Queen Cersei, with her golden curls and high cheekbones chiseled on a feline face, looked every bit the picture of a satisfied lioness. Mostly comfortable to watch her discomfort and Lady Stark's as the other women spoke, the royal probably wanted to be with other people doing other things and that was particularly understandable.

Unfortunately for Nymeria it was paramount to control the narrative. Blessedly, for once, she got a nod.

"Earlier today the blacksmith Gendry Waters was carried to the Maester's office by a group of men at the request of young Lady Arya. From the few accounts I have heard, there was an incident between your daughter, Lady Stark, and my sister. This resulted in the young man being injured and requiring emergency medical attention."

There was a time to be honest and a time to be cunning.

Fortunately, she did not need to lie to the girl's mother in order to be the latter. She would of course take the girl's side if Nymeria implied Arya was solely to blame. It was best, then, to admit some fault than to have the bulk of it pushed onto them in an act of overprotective love.

She could only hope her own father was not acting upon his own overprotective desires.

"What of the slander my daughter was subjected to?"

Lady Catelyn Stark, while not as imposing a presence as Queen Cersei, still cut a striking figure. With locks of deep auburn and eyes which pierced through the gathering evening, the woman looked the part of a bird of prey more than a fish as if readying itself to descend upon any unfortunate enough to earn her displeasure.

Though she would find no serpent this day, Nymeria respected the noble woman's desire to protect her own child.

"Harmless, though it would seem she fretted for the young man's injury. It speaks to her character that her immediate concern was for the injured party."

Cersei, brows creased in exaggerated concern, leaned closer.

"And what of your sister? It pains me to hear she might have been hurt."

Nymeria dearly wished the woman would remain silent. She knew better than to bring up a bastard girl, no matter how well regarded, in front of a woman known to dislike them at the best of times. So this was probably revenge for Ophelia disappearing in the middle of the night.

"Elia was also unharmed and called for dear Ophelia's assistance on the matter. She is now tending to the blacksmith alongside Healer Robert while a messenger was dispatched to seek Maesters Luwin and Marwyn."

The mention of her other sister gave pause to the Queen's needling.

Trust the enigmatic Snake to make something of an ally out of the famously difficult woman.

"It is clear that this was a simple incident between boisterous youths. I've been told that Elia and Arya are similar in temperament and taste. As they say, too much of a good thing often leads to mistakes. I'm sure that our father will dole out the appropriate punishment." Inclining her head, the bastard thanked the two trueborn women for letting her speak.

"And you wish us to impart that message to our husbands." The queen finally threw her a bone, not needling the woman across from her any further. "That we should let the menfolk decide the course of the day and we should demurely sit to the side as children potentially cripple each other?"

'Fuck. She's still angry.' The faux concern was just that and Nymeria knew her next words would need to be chosen carefully. "Yes, there is no need to drag out a simple incident. The boy will recover, and my sister will be cautioned for her poor conduct-"

"Cautioned?" Genuine offense was thick in the red haired woman's voice.

Nymeria sat straighter, hands flat against the wooden table. "Lady Stark?" She had chosen careful curiosity.

"Pardon me, but I believe you're understating the part your sister played on that boy's injury. Simply warning her to not do it again with a slap on the wrist won't please the King. I am certainly not pleased."

Luckily, or perhaps not, it was the queen who replied for the bastard and the weight of that title at least meant that Catelyn bit her tongue instead of… making things unpleasant.

"Your daughter too had a part in it, Lady Stark. We should let cooler heads prevail instead of exacerbating this unpleasant situation further than it already has been. Accept that both girls were involved in this incident and that they should share the blame."

Sighing, Cersei poured the last of her wine back into the pitcher she'd been given, took up her tea cup and stood.

"I tire of this." Ser Meryn snapped to attention. "I would see my children now."

And that was that.

The two parties shuffled out, eventually leaving only the bastard and the Dornish knight. Coming over, Darkstar dropped into the Lady Stark's vacant seat and kicked his feet up onto the queen's.

"Well, that went brilliantly."

Glaring at him, Nymeria opened her mouth to say something impolite.

Instead, after smirking, she simply leaned back herself.

"Tell me, where's Tyene… and what do you think the queen will do when she finds out you put your filthy boots on her chair?"

Pausing and paling, the knight very, very quickly removed his shoes and stood up - scanning the room as if the poisoner would be right behind him - and grunted.

"I'll remember that."

Nymeria stood and lightly patted his cheek.

"And I'll tell Ophelia to put something particularly angry and violent in your bed for when you sleep. Now come on. We have work to do and not the least is convincing the Northern Lords to view this as the Stark girl having Wolfsblood and the Dornish as being indulgent of youthful enthusiasm." Pausing, she gave a small inclination of the head. "Do well and I'll have Elia get you a sparring match with Ser Barristan, I know you've been itching to actually train with him and honest work deserves honest pay."

---

Olenna Tyrell​

---

"Took you long enough boy."

Wrapping her cane on the table, she did as she always did when some idiot thought they could push her around.

"The next time you leave me waiting this long again I'll simply have Margery marry Tommen and be done with you." Harrumphing, she settled down in her large chair. "If nothing else the Lannisters are at least polite when they need you."

Renly Baratheon stood in the closed doorway of his private apartments with a look that was a cross between surprise, horror, anger, and outrage. Eventually he settled on the latter.

"If I wanted an old woman in my bedchambers I'd be wed already." His hair was mussed, his tunic disordered, and belt only half done. "How did you even get in here!"

Olenna simply snorted.

"A little bird let me in, how do you think, boy." Running a hand across her face, the old woman toned down her speech to the level of a spoiled village idiot. "Now, I don't care that you've been fooling around with someone, Loras doesn't need to know about it unless you catch the pox, but when we have a meeting arranged it is best to be there. Youth may grant you vigor, but I'm not aging in reverse." Muttering, she turned and looked out the window, taking in the sparkling sea beyond. "Besides, it's expensive to distract both Baelish and the eunuch, gods know they're too clever by half."

"What even is there to discuss?" Somewhat apologetic, Renly straightened his tunic and meandered over to the hearth in his room. "As for who I was with, Loras knows, ah, you could say that he even introduced us. Normally it was the three of us together when we had the time and we were actually discussing a surprise for him when he returns. If you would, do you know if he prefers the eggs of wild fowl or domesticated? And if he prefers the eggs of geese or chickens?"

Annoyed at the folly of youth, the Queen of Thorns wasn't quite pleased by these questions. But, and this was a very small but, she also knew the man currently stoking the fire across from her was utterly incapable of disassembly. So she relented just a bit.

"He likes quail eggs. And still, we have much to discuss. My dalliance with Varys is in just an hour if you haven't been so addled by your lusts that you've forgotten."

Standing up, the youngest Baratheon gave her a winning smile. Standing there in the low light, deep green tunic over white hosen, smart velvet shoes, and wind blown black hair - he looked like a storybook prince. And all Olenna could see was the wasted potential in his empty, empty words.

"And what is there left to discuss? The royal bastards are just that, bastards, and none of my brother's children will inherit. Tywin wouldn't have it, assuming he doesn't surrender when we take his children and grandchildren hostage. Meaning that leaves Stannis. Stannis, who has Dragonstone, maybe, and no one likes." Shrugging, he brought over a pair of mostly clean cups and poured two steaming cups of water before turning to a box and fiddling around with some leaves. "Cruel as it is, that's the truth."

"And everything will go perfectly?" Sheer incredulity was clear in the old woman's voice. "You think the gods will simply will you to victory and that you aren't going to have to get your hands dirty?"

Holding his arms out, he gave her another broad smile.

"People love me. And a beloved king is forgiven a great many things." Starting to prepare the tea for both of them, Olenna was a bit annoyed he didn't ask but also knew that Renly only drank the best tea despite otherwise being a quack when it came to art, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands continued speaking. "With your help and the help of Dorne, Doran will have no choice but to back us as his armies will be off fighting over a bunch of pirate infested islands, that leaves the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Westerlands."

Ticking off his fingers one by one, the prince laid out his thoughts.

"Tywin will back down so long as we agree to let him make Jaimie his heir, a loss to be sure, but we could hold the bastards and his daughter as hostages.The Vale is under the control of a madwoman broken by probably having a hand in her husband's murder and her only heir is feeble in body and mind. When it comes to that, we just declare the Harding boy as the new Arryn, perhaps bribe the Royces with a small council position, and they'll be satisfied for a decade or two. The trout-men and the northern savages are either too busy dying of gout or fornicating with pet wolves from what I hear, I doubt they'd ride to aid a Lannister either way. And the Ironborn are still reeling from what my brother did to them years ago."

"Hoster Tully is slowly recovering. The Witch Girl gave him a potion on the behest of the king and taught his maester how to make a treatment."

Pausing, the prince passed the tea cup over and began to sip at his own drink.

"And that is why you want to speak to the Spider?"

Shaking her head, the Queen of Thorns spoke almost truly.

"Hardly. His mind is going, slipping day by day, I know the like. You see, when you get old and you have a little cleverness you hide that your mind is going. Tricks to compensate for your weakness. My own guests in his court confirm he uses such things when I told them to look for certain signs. His boy, Edumure, he's rash though. None of his father's ambition or cunning, but all of his vigor and more loyalty to the Starks than can be broken."

Nodding, Renly agreed with her words even as he dismissed them.

"Eddard loves my brother. That love will protect me once Robert dies. Either the drinking or the whoring or an angry husband or scorned lover or the queen will do him in. When that happens, all we need to do is step in and administer justice."

Pausing, he finished and raised his cup.

"For the good of the realm."

Olenna didn't respond, instead holding her cup and waiting for her conspirator to recline.

"And if he doesn't die."

Snorting, the beautiful man put his cup to the side and took in the green and gold dress of the lady of highgarden. From her wimple, embroidered with horses and knights and ladies, to the bodice that was pinned with a golden rose, to the long, flowing body of the garment. It was worked through with little bits of silver thread and seemed to shimmer as light glinted off of the semi precious stones sown into the hem.

After deciding that it seemed to portray the story of the Field of Fire, the young man nodded.

"Then I suppose he might need to be helped along. His great bastard was brought to court. I'm sure the queen sees that as a threat, why not encourage her to protect my inheritance and give us a cause to act at the same time?"

"That means we need Varys. Maybe Baelish too. But definitely the Spider."

Her words were met with another shrug.

"What does Varys want?"

This time it was Olenna's turn to shrug.

"The Witch Girl. Dead. He's convinced she's using magic to influence the king. Why do you think he's renested his little birds? She spooked him."

That got her a raised, artfully crafted eyebrow.

"You mean that a eunuch is afraid of a little girl? A little girl whose powers allegedly let her summon gold from thin air, walk through shadows, and to command every beast that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud to worship her." Snorting as he rubbed his face, the Tyrell matriarch finally took a sip of her now mildly warm tea as the young man across from her continued to speak. "Just… let him deal with her. If he manages it, we blame it on Cersei thinking the scary magic girl child had seduced the king or somesuch."

Right now it took every ounce of strength she had not to throttle the idiot sitting across from her. Already she'd come up with a dozen different issues that would need to be taken care of, not the least of which being Oberyn Martell himself, and how the only saving grace about her future son in law being an idiot was that it meant Margery would be able to control him without issue.

Instead she gave him a small smile.

"I shall see it done, your grace. For the good of the realm."

Privately, she couldn't help but sigh in relief.

'At least Varys won't be an utter bore.'

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Team Scrimshaw here once again with the latest instalment of 'My Witch Sister Can't be this Adorable'! Unfortunately, real life gets in the way, as is the case for most, so we couldn't post this at the start of the month as per usual.

However, we are still committed to telling Ophelia's Bizarre Adventure.

As a heads up, since this is the end of the year and things are getting busier for me and Alvor, I'd like to warn our readers that there might be a slight delay on our other works such as commissions and other assorted stories.

We'd thank you for your continued support and hope you enjoy it.

AtW: Hey guys, just wanted to come let you know it's me holding us up. I had a genuinely, utterly shit week, followed by a surge of schoolwork, combined with worsening health. Honestly, I think it's stress combined with allergies doing it to me but I vomited up a mix of blood and mucus earlier… so yeah.

We'll try to keep at it, I promise, just please bear with us for a little while. Sorry for all this.

Now, onto the reading!

---

One Who is Many - Chapter 16​

---

Quentyn Martell​

---

Keeping his shield held high, the young prince ignored the growing numbness in his shoulder. This battle would be over soon enough - then he could get an armorer to pry the damaged joint apart and he could properly inspect the damage.

"Steady!" Instead, he screamed his already sore throat raw to keep his men firm. "The ships are coming around!" More pirates gathered on their crude wall and continued to hurl stones and abuse on the trapped men. "Hold damn you!" One of the mercenaries wobbled, dropping his shield for just a moment and had a heavy stone nearly take one of his eyes. Quentyn mostly focused on shuffling a few men over and allowing his comrades to tend to the wound as best they could under a roof of wood and iron.

"Thwack!"

A large bolt smashed through a pirate above, catching him in the chest and knocking him off of the wooden rampart and several more soon joined the dead man on the ground below.

Relief surged in his heart as, in the distance, several ships anchored themselves in the cove his men had seized. On the whole it meant the fight would soon be over, one way or another, and it all came down to if his reserves would hold.

By now, the Gods alone knew how many months into their operation, the pirates were well informed of the fury coming for them. Some fled, some chose to hide, and the most desperate chose to fight. These pirates in particular, the largest remaining group in the islands according to their prisoners, were known as the Rake's Bastards and were, allegedly, an entire clan of bastards descended from some rich Essosi nobleman.

They slit their father's throat and used his gold to buy a fleet… and the hundred or so men that escaped were all that remained of that mighty armada after a run in with Euron Greyjoy.

What was important is that they held the entrance to Bloodstone, the largest of the islands in the Stepstones, and had chosen a sheltered cove as their stronghold.Vitally, all three other landing sites on the islands had been blocked with scuttled ships, mostly fat bottomed whalers and merchant vessels, and the enterprising pirates had even raised many of the sandbars by hauling large rocks onto them.

This forced the coalition under Quentyn's command to funnel itself into a single, narrow passage they had well fortified. Firstly, they had a chain of sorts, though a crude one, that had been lowered when the coalition ships had first approached, but more than that they had also set up a palisade around the landing site, several raised platforms to hold missiles that ranged from stones to cauldrons of boiling water to archers and even a large number of low, squat towers that would allow the Bastards to pour flanking fire onto any vessel that entered.

A terrifying, layered defense with another wall behind it too.

Quentyn had also learned, from Ser Daemon's "interrogations" of a captured pirate captain, that the chief bastard himself had gathered at least three thousand cut throats, rogues, and brigands to his cause, fortified two or three old castles further inland, and was more than happy to let the Westerosi bleed themselves on his defenses.

He had ordered all of their remaining combustibles be loaded onto a trio of their remaining hulks and that the great things be sent careening into the harbor.

Once the screaming had stopped and the fire had mostly died down, he had led a force of mercenaries into battle himself. At his side were Ser Daemon and Lord Selmy and a small force of other knights, but they were the exception and not the rule.

This too had been an intentional choice to not risk his better troops and instead hold them for his second wave - more traps were always to be expected.

Rowboats had deposited his forces along the scorched sands of the beach and, with a squad of mercenaries sent ahead to find the way, the princeling had taken a moment to look out over the smoke-wrecked battlefield. Charred corpses hung from blackened supports, a great gaping hole had been smashed into the first palisade where one of the ships had managed to bring itself far enough up the beach to slam into it, and the other two still smouldering hulks had shifted to just below the waterline where all that was left of them now rested.

That had been fifteen minutes ago.

Now he and his men were pinned down before the second wall and were unable to climb it. This left them vulnerable as hundreds of enraged men set against them with everything the pirates could lay their hands on. However, zeal and fury was no match for the accurate, steady fire of scorpions.

Those damnably accurate weapons could keep a position suppressed and would remain at the ready to fire for as long as it took for a target to expose themselves. Moreover, now that friendly ships had moved into the cove proper, more troops could be landed to support their advance. So, knowing what he wanted, Quentyn reached over and grabbed a knight's shoulder.

"Ser, run down to the beach and tell them to land the Summer Islanders. I want their goldenheart bows picking off enemy archers from the beach and the outer wall. Have work crews start to clear the landing area of rubble too - I want clear lines of reinforcement and, if need be, retreat."

His words were low enough to not overheard when he used the word retreat, there was no need to risk a panic, but he otherwise nearly shouted his orders. The firm nod he received gladdened him and, moving to cover the knight's withdrawal, his retainers formed a small shield wall as his chosen man slung his shield onto his back and started sprinting.

Everything fell into a lul once more and Quentyn held his men firm.

Time would shift the balance of this fight and all that remained to do was wait.

Not that it made the waiting itself any easier - though at least rocks had stopped falling upon his line. That didn't stop the insults or the enemy archers, both protected behind the foe's ramparts, but it did make things just a little more tolerable. Arrow loops were a bit of a challenge to put a bolt through though.

A multitude of trumpet blasts came from the beach after a few more of his mercenaries fell, screaming, to bleed on the sand and dirt below. But the Summer Islanders let their shafts fly as one, accuracy unerring sending no less than fully a quarter of the enemy's archers to the the Stranger. These miraculous men were quite capable of going where heavier pieces could not and, with a steady, thrumming song of death their bows sang of the end of the fight.

Indeed, no sooner had the last of the pirates been suppressed than ladders had arrived from the ships.

Crying out, Quentyn himself sounded a battlecry that filled the cove and sounded the clarion call and was up the ladder before any other man so much as touched it.

His dagger took the fingers off the first pirate to lay hands on the lip of the device, arrows and scorpion bolts having dissuaded any other from trying up to that point, and hauled himself over the edge with his blood on fire. Half ducking back down the ladder, the Dornishman dodged a club before stabbing out and burying his blade in the throat of a surprised looking old man. Blood, hot and wet, splashed down across his face and it was half blind that he finally pulled himself over the lip of the enemy's wall.

Laying into the nearest man with his knife, he managed to get inside the man's guard, taking a glancing blow on his already wounded shoulder as he did so, before managing to bury his dagger into the unarmored belly of his opponent six or seven times.

Pushing the man back and ripping his blade free at the same time, he knocked the pirate into a group of his fellows. Catching their comrade easily, they were able to hold him up until they noticed his intestines had started spilling out along with large gushing spurts of blood. This momentary distraction, and the wailing of a man already condemned to die, bought the knights behind Quentyn enough room to climb to his feet.

From there the bloody work became even bloodier.

The battlements were slick with the fluids of the dead, pirates rarely had armor and where they did it was even less rarely good, and the clearing of the wall became one long series of very short, very sharp exchanges. With crowds of bodies pressing out from three points along the relatively short walls, the pirates were separated into smaller groups that slowly dwindled under the pressure of an ever increasing wall of blades and bodies.

When their boats had landed the sun had been high in the sky above and now, with the last of the defenders breaking, the light had begun to fade.

Quentyn, exhausted and sore and mind still filled with a lingering haze of killing, shuffled over to one side as a maester tended to his shoulder.

"Definitely something cracked my prince. You'll need a sling for a while. Of the rest of your wounds, only bruises and a bit of bleeding. Your armor did well."

He was a young man, more wisps of hair about his cheeks than even the start of a beard, and it occurred to Quentyn that he'd killed a man today that could have passed for his very own healer's brother. It was queen enough to draw a laugh from him. A great, sudden laugh that burst out of him and washed over the prince in a sudden, all consuming fit of mania.

His escort stood there in the dying light as the healer recoiled, wariness in the young, though still older than the prince, man's eyes. Each man was a veteran and knew the laughter would pass soon enough. Instead, they stood in a blood splattered vigil as the smell of charred flesh, death, and burnt wood wafted through the air, a strange and rather new sense of respect in how they looked at him.

"Prince Martell." One of the captains approached the nobleman, inclining his head and saluting him with his sword, and spoke rapidly. "We've chased the pirates all the way up the beach, but just before the forest's edge they have a fortified cave entrance. They're firing on us from there and covered the fleeing men's retreat. If we don't catch them now the damn cowards will make it inland!"

Calming down, and accepting a towel from Ser Daemon, Quentyn wiped his face and spoke.

"Fire served us once today." Rough and raw, his throat practically burned from the mixture of smoke and screaming. "Smoke them out. And have men in the ships look for smoke plumes, that'll tell us where their exits are."

Soon more and more officers came and the prince found there would be no rest for him, the mercenaries and knights now strangely eager to ask his opinion and look for orders from him. This, the first true battle of their campaign, had seemingly made him a man at last.

But such thoughts could, would, wait.

There were wounded to see to, dead to bury, fires to put out, and supplies to offload. He sent out teams of scouts and ordered the shifting of rubble to block the forest approach and the felling of the trees to create a deadzone before the defenses. Around him sprung up a command post of tents and cots, where those needing aid were tended to and from where he could oversee the whole preparation of what was quickly becoming the first step of a wonderfully long and violent struggle.

And only one part of many different operations taking place concurrently. Ser Garlan and Prince Xho both had their own detachments sent to clean out other islands and their own campaigns would likely be smaller, but far more numerous mirrors of his own.

Hopefully his men's superior arms and armor would mean that those operations wouldn't take too long. After all, this was only the first phase of his father's plan and there was still much work to be done.

---

Ophelia Sand​

---

Waking up in a bed she didn't remember getting into was always a bit terrifying, the smooth stone walls before her known only by the roughness on her palm. The room itself was pitch black and without so much as a hint of light and the whole of her situation seemed to press down against her - doubly so when she could feel a body clasping to her from behind.

Thankfully, the loud snores of Obara were almost hilariously recognizable, had been for almost as long as the once-hero had been living in this world.

It took the edge off of the guilt and panic and shame she felt - never mind the lingering weight of death she could still feel on the edge of her consciousness. Her swarm had rebuilt itself, living things slowly filtering back into the area around her, but Ophelia had done something she hadn't in years. She… had sacrificed part of her swarm to preserve herself, reflexively.

Snuggling deeper into her sister's arms, the part of her that was Taylor rose up for a moment.

Between the looming threat to the world and then dabbling in necromancy, allegedly for a good cause, that bitter, exhausted, tired part of her stirred. Old justifications and sins too.

"I know you're awake."

Obara adjusted her position a little and brought the witch's head over a bit and away from the wall.

"How did you know? I kept my breathing even."

Rolling her eyes, the once warlord relaxed as she sighed.

"You snore."

"No I don't." The spearman grunted. "You cheated using your swarm."

Chuckling, the younger of the two women couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.

"Perhaps." A few moments of long silence later and she found the words she wanted to use. "So, I take it the lot of you were worried I'd disappear again? How did the boy's leg turn out?"

"Aye. We drew lots. I lost the draw. That's why I'm on a too hard bed in the back of a butchery instead of entertaining the Not-So-Little Jon."

That got a raised eyebrow.

"Word play? From you dear sister?"

Obara squeezed her.

"You looked like you wanted to murder someone for a second there. Did I distract you a bit?"

"Shocked me I suppose."

The two fell back into silence, Ophleia's statement lingering, clearly the start of a confession of some sorts. But the weight of what she had done, what she had taken, was still heavy.

"I suppose you want to know what I did?"

Shuffling over a little, the spearwoman pulled the blanket up a little higher, their room wasn't heated and the witch's sisters didn't benefit from her own resistances, before finally deciding on how she wanted to answer.

"Will it help you to tell me?"

Shrugging, the girl from a poor street on Earth Bet turned over.

"Maybe. I don't know. I… I guess I want to think that I'm doing better, being better than I once was. But it feels like the temptation to backslide is constantly there." Thinking back to the spell, the witch wasn't sure how to explain it to someone who'd have no frame of reference. Ultimately, she spoke as truly as she could. "When I felt his leg start pulling from me, it was like my warmth, my life, my soul was being pulled out. Not even a great deal, but just a little. A tiny part of who and what I was, was being used up. So I panicked." The shame had returned, but still Ophelia pushed ahead. "Tapping into my swarm, I used them up instead. I felt their light die, because I chose to do something that wasn't natural."

Grunting, Obara actually sat up on one elbow, the darkness doing nothing to hide her anger.

"So you're saying it's worth the life of a few bugs to leave a boy crippled?"

Confused, the witch recoiled, pulling away.

"No, I'm not saying that I should have left Gendry a cripple, but-"

"But what?" Pushing forwards, Obara didn't allow her sister a moment of room. "You chose to heal his leg. You chose to pay a price. And when you did, instead of giving up part of you, you ate up a few bugs. Are you going to claim that you'll not eat meat again next?"

Frustrated and angry, Ophelia pushed back.

"It's not that simple! What I did was wrong, on a fundamental level. I twisted up nature and perverted the very course of life and death itself - no matter why I did it, I still crossed a line."

The unimpressed snort that answered her said a great deal.

"Hardly. You're whining like a child that just had to gut and clean their first fish. I have killed dozens of men in my life, a few women too. Does that make me someone evil who perverts life and death?" After a few harsh breaths the older sister calmed herself. "Do not take my words to be an attack against you, sister, but you used up bugs-

"And took from a few birds and the last bit of life in an old dog and I took a few years off a cat too. I have felt insects die, dogs die, men and women and thousands of them at once die. But when something dies it simply leaves my control and my perception, it is gone in a moment before I can do more than simply move on. What I did… I felt their life be torn from them, like everything I ripped from their fles was twisted up into a ball and shunted into a splinter of Gendry's flesh."

Feeling her sister put a hand over her mouth, the young woman smothered the urge to lick it just to annoy her sibling. Instead she sighed and settled down to listen to the rest of her telling off as, now that she had stopped, it was clear she was growing manic. But truly, what she had done was even more alien than the height of her powers as Khepri. And that alone had cost her all that she was. What, then, could the Blackest Arts take from her should she let them?

"In the end, by your technique, you made his leg whole. Or at least as whole as it could be." Obara allowed. "If the act was so wrong then do not do it again, but accept what you have done and move on. To linger on it indefinitely is to revel in cowardice and to insult the sacrifice of those you took from."

Huffing, the witch turned over and faced the wall again.

"Burning Lorch alive was easy. He was a rapist and murderer. Plus I didn't actually experience death when I did that. But that dog belonged to someone, even if it didn't suffer, they did."

Rubbing her face, the exasperated older sister simply groaned.

"Gods help me with my stubborn ass of a burden."

"Hey!" Ophelia exclaimed in the tone of younger siblings everywhere. "I am most certainly not a burden! I helped Sarella finish mapping Winterfell and most of its crypts yesterday morning!" Pausing, she asked a small question in a more polite tone. "It was yesterday morning, wasn't it?"

"You worked yourself to the bone and had to be carried to bed. I think that qualifies as being a burden, Ophelia. Even if you're a bit lighter than a sack of potatoes…."

The witch gave her eldest sister a deadpan stare.

"Kindly refrain from comparing me to root vegetables, sister. I'd like to think I'm a bit more valuable."

Smiling, though the younger of the two could not see it, the older snake shrugged.

"I dunno. You're always saying vegetables are good for us."

"Then I suppose you won't mind chewing on them raw like a rabbit when we get back home."

Her danmable older sister chuckled. Clearly underestimating the power a petty sibling could bring to bear.

"I know you, sister. And I know turning people into animals is outside your domain for now."

Laughing, the witch agreed.

"Aye. For now." Eventually the two settled into an amicable silence, with small moments of sleep from both, though neither truly returned to it. And, eventually, once Ophelia felt ready for it, she once more turned to her sister. "Obara, would you help me to the Godswood? Bathing in the springs there would be… good for me, I think."

"Of course. You're feeling weak aren't you?"

"Is it so obvious?" Her tone soft, the would-be sorceress hated the fact she was vulnerable.

"Indeed." Rolling out of bed, the warrior stood and popped her back. "You've been asleep for almost a full day and you didn't immediately get out of bed to pee."

Crying out, Ophelia did the sensible thing and threw a pillow at her sister's head.

---

Ned Stark​

---

For a while now, months even, thoughts had been weighing on him. If he was making the right choices, if he was planning for the right emergencies, if there was something obvious he was missing. Because, truthfully, it felt like there was something just out of sight. A patch of weak ice and when he stepped on it more than just he would plummet to the frozen waters below. What had made it worse is that his younger brother, his foster brother, and a man that reminded him almost painfully of his older brother were all still in his castle. And the Lord of Winterfell was struck with an odd question, a fierce, burning question that gnawed at the back of his mind as he sat at his desk, cup of mead in one hand and cyvasse piece in the other.

Looking over at the lesser Prince of Sunspear he wondered if he should offer a game.

"If you had been in my brother's place, what would you have done?"

"Excuse me?" Oberyn looked up, genuinely confused, and Eddard Stark bowed his head slightly. The lord considered that melancholy might not be the best game to play, but that, at his wife's insistence, it was a somewhat safer first foray into Southron play than he might otherwise find.

"Apologies, I was thinking, Prince Oberyn. And I find myself with a rather serious question. My brother, Brandon Stark, was challenged for the hand of my wife, then Catelyn Tully, by Petyr Baelish. Are you aware of the story?"

Closing his eyes for a moment, the prince slowly nodded.

"Aye. I think I am, but I do not remember the details of the duel, save that your brother won."

Leaning back in his chair, the Lord Paramount nodded.

"Sometimes I wish he lost the duel, for he would not have been able to ride to his and my father's death had he been overcome." Looking out of the window of his office, Ned sighed. "Then I hate myself because I realize that, if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have my children. And I don't think I could choose my brother and my father over them." Looking back at his… guest, he finished his thought. "So I ask you, if you were in my brother's place, what would you have done?"

Smirking, the prince leaned back, his green and gold tunic open at the collar and his high necked jacket draped over the back of his seat painting him the picture of a lounging, green scaled serpent.

"I would take them both then and there. That way everyone is satisfied."

Ned narrowed his eyes.

"Hah! You Starks are as truly humorless as your reputation says." Sipping on his cup of tea, the prince visibly pieced together his thoughts before answering seriously. "I confess I would have killed him, but not out of bloodlust. If his heart would remain against me for life then, to avoid a knife in my back, I would end him. But also, for the sake of his honor, I would let him die on my spear."

This time it was Eddard's turn to be confused and, making his question known, he tried to avoid any openings that would allow the prince to turn the conversation onto him.

"From the perspective of a Southron I suppose preventing an enemy makes sense. Though I am surprised at how concerned you would be for another man's honor." Blunt words, unkind words, insulting words, even, but the Martell simply grinned across the desk at him.

"I know my own reputation is poor amongst many, but I am neither cruel nor callous. "

Remaining quiet, the Stark lord allowed the silence to speak for him.

"Truly, I am not!" The prince protested. "My passions are strong, my love is stronger than my hate though. Other than a few choice enemies I am without disdain for any man!" Oberyn smiled. "After all, it takes love to hate and while I may love greatly and love a great many… few are the men, and women, whom have proven worthy of my true enmity. That is why I slay my enemies quickly and grant them that honor which they have earned."

Nodding, Eddard allowed his fingers to tap his desk - a sheaf of papers blunting the sound of his nails hitting wood.

"Perhaps you are a little like my brother, Brandon, but you are more different than alike. And I do not know if that is for better or worse."

"Oh? But you are exactly like my brother, Lord Stark."

Raising an eyebrow, the Quiet Wolf allowed the grinning Dornishman to continue.

"Both of you put up with me wonderfully and need more excitement in your lives!"

Ned just snorted.

"Perhaps."

Settling into his high backed chair, he admitted to himself that there would never be love between this man and him. Ned was simply of the North, moreover they were too different. On top of that, Oberyn held a little hate for him, having been the one to draw up the plans that saw Lewyn Matell and his sister and her royal children dead. Eddard would similarly dislike how the prince challenged his guardianship over Jon, even if only privately, and the disrespect the man had and continued to show.

'He's already been in two duels with my bannermen, though neither were lethal. I have to wonder, though, if the Red Viper is called so from the red faces of the husbands whom he has cuckolded. One day that'll see him dead if his pride doesn't get him first.'

Yes, there would always be friction between the two of them. But that didn't mean they couldn't work together -for the king's sake at least.

"When I received Robert's letter and word that he would be journeying North, I genuinely hadn't known what to expect from him. He is an old friend but I confess I parted ways with him in a situation that could be said to be… fraught. Frankly, I didn't know what to expect."

Pausing, he gave his beard a stroke before frowning.

"No, that isn't right." Thinking over what he wanted to say, and what should not be said, he eventually settled on the obvious, subtle and gross at once. "I had suspicions. And fears."

Eddard knew Robert didn't trust anyone in King's Landing, least of all the Queen's family. The man had always been headstrong and prone to rash decisions while in the throes of rage. So when Jon Arryn had died… of course he would come all this way.

Because Ned was his closest living friend, maybe his only friend left in the world.

And that could only mean one thing. Ned was to be offered the seat of Hand.

One of highest honors a man could hope to achieve. The right to rule with the power King, to wield his word and work in his best interests against all those who wished to betray Robert I Baratheon. To, in theory, carry the weight of the realm on his shoulders as much as his foster brother did.

It was a dangerous offer.

Ned hadn't been to King's Landing since their rebellion. He had no allies or acquaintances amidst the courts that far south. All he would have was the King and what few men he could afford to bring with him. Starks had a bad history going South and Ned considered rejecting the offer.

"Indeed." Oberyn drawled, swirling his wine about. "Suspicions… of murder and reward." Sipping at the drink, the Dorishman let his smile turn feral. "Because with the sudden death of your foster father, and in most tragic circumstances, it is obvious that Jon Arryn did not die without effort."

"You tread dangerously close to accusing me of murder, Southron."

Laughing at the Lord Stark's narrowed eyes and heavy tone, Oberyn waved him away.

"Of course not. Sure, you may be the one to most benefit from his death, but the very act of killing the man goes against all you believe in. Plus you're not the type to be very good with poisons, never mind a chirurgeon's aid being misapplied to fatal effect."

He was the King's last friend. The only one he could trust. It was good that he was not a murderer. At least that much was clear to Ned.

"Aye." The lord agreed. "I am not a poisoner. But you are."

"Me? Not my daughter?"

The question was honest and it seemed that the prince was more confused than insulted.

"You aren't the type to send a child to take revenge for you. Besides, Ophelia seems to be more interested in… communing with the gods than in killing old men."

That got him a leer.

"Didn't you happen to have a run in with her when she was 'communing'?"

Ned frowned.

"You're not upset I saw your daughter naked?"

"I'm just happy she has ambition." Chuckling, Oberyn waved Ned's concern away. "Besides, if she decides to seduce you, then Doran will stop whining like a child that's had its toys taken away every time she wants to spend money."

Running his hands over his face, the poor Northman sent a quick prayer to the Old Gods for patience. Partly because he dreaded having to explain that previous chance meeting to his wife at some point, better she hear it from him than a servant gossiping, and because it seemed like the Southrons truly were all lunatics.

Honestly, he didn't know what to make of them quite yet, the Dornish that was. Their animosity as a people was well known, House Nymeros Martell playing the stereotype to an eccentric, swarming, sometimes charming T. They were, perhaps, one of the few Houses Ned had always had a measure of respect for, even if only in passing. They were passionate and prone to volatile behavior - a good match for the King's own temper.

And Oberyn Martell exemplified those qualities even more than the rest of his kinsmen.

He was indulgent, passionate, prone to whims which matched the King's own. In another time and place, if he was a younger man and still the second son, Ned was sure that the two would have been either bitter rivals or the best of friends. Admittedly, he still found the man's company to be enjoyable at times… despite their disagreements.

Brandon had been similar in that way too.

As quick to anger as he was to humor. When he'd been alive Brandon Stark held that very same fierce temper, that fire which quelled the chill of winter with its ferocity. Seeing shades of that fire in the Dornishmen kindled a sense of bittersweet nostalgia within Ned. Of easier times when he'd had both a Father, a Sister, and an elder Brother.

Perhaps that's why they could see eye to eye on this matter.

Because for all their differences, Ned Stark found there was something both he and the Dornish prince shared.

They loved their children.

And Robert, in his own way, loved them also - which was why they had to settle this now.

Gendry Waters was a great bastard, of that much Ned was sure, there could be no doubting he was Robert's son. And as the host of the King's entourage, it was his responsibility and honor which demanded he defend his friend's unacknowledged boy. Because the King wouldn't stand for anything less and Oberyn wouldn't stand for just his daughter taking the blame.

Both girls were at fault, so both would have to be punished.

"The boy will recover?" It was the topic they had both refused to touch on and, perhaps because Oberyn could see the change in the set of his face, the Southern man asked.

"Aye, the Seven were kind to him. The Maesters told me he will have a scar from this ordeal, but that the worst has been avoided."

His companion took a sip from his cup, rising from his chair and standing across from him as the King suddenly entered, clear surprise at the seemingly perfect dramatic timing of the third of the three fathers. The royal moved slowly, dark circles around his eyes clear proof of both his drinking and his lack of sleep. Saying nothing as he entered, he instead gave the two men a wave and a nod and walked over to the small fireplace.

It was a little eerie, how the amber glow illuminated the weary father's face as he seemed deep in thought. Not something others expected from him. Ned knew better. The man who conquered the Targaryen Dynasty was not a simple brute.

One thought did consume Eddard 'How long has it been since I've seen him like this?'

"He is lucky he kept his leg."

"We have my daughter to thank for that." Oberyn Martell, standing to the side now and nursing his drink, couldn't help but brag. Unfortunately the King didn't seem to approve, shooting him a warning glance for bringing up such a thing without leave.

"Daughters are tricky little things. They make fools out of us, their fathers. Your girls went a tad beyond the line this time. And I can't overlook it." Robert was calm though, his voice steady and words without great anger. Because his son might be the one hurt, but it had only been by the actions of two children in a moment of foolishness and there would be no terrible maiming."

And neither man would dispute it. Had it been them in his place, they would have surely demanded justice just as fervently as their king.

"But I can be merciful."

Ned Stark found himself grateful once again - this time to the Dornish witch.

There was no doubt that Robert was being lenient because the boy's leg had been saved. Had he lost it, then the Demon of the Trident would have surely demanded something just as grievous in return. Reparations would have been made, of course, and Ned's heart would have been that much heavier for it.

Even Oberyn, passionate and given to protective anger, accepted this truth.

Had one of his daughters been hurt, he wouldn't have stopped at reparations.

This was a slap on the wrist.

"And what would your Grace demand?"

"Cut the horse shit, Ned. I'm not chopping off your daughter's leg." The King poured himself a cup of wine. "But I can't let those two get out of this lightly. An attack on the King's family is an attack on the King himself. Hmm." Before either man could speak, the knight-king nodded to himself. "They have to sit at the high table during the New Year's feast, they aren't allowed to train or to watch the knights train until we all leave Winterfell, and they have to spend the whole day in lessons with that Septa that serves your wife, Ned."

"Oh Gods." Oberyn spoke. "Elia is going to be inconsolable."

Agreeing, the Northman submitted to his friend's will.

"Harsh but fair." Still, he grimaced. "I hope Arya doesn't get up to any trouble. Now that she's finally stopped crying and those two have stopped praying, I fear they'll get up to some scheme just to check on your son, Robert."

For some reason, this made the Dornishman laugh. When the other two turned to look at him, he simply grinned.

"One of my daughters is aiming for a Lord Paramount, the other the bastard son of the king himself! I'm so proud."

Taking a moment to realize what the prince had said, the Stormlander turned to his foster brother and simply nodded.

"It's about time you took a mistress, Ned! And those Dornish girls are wild! Just be careful about the blonde one, I think she works for my wife. The warrior woman is great though."

Sighing, Eddard Stark simply buried his face in his hands again.

'I really am going to have to speak to my wife soon.'

---

Sansa Stark​

---

A proper lady didn't run.

A proper lady didn't skip.

A proper lady most certainly didn't hum to herself as she strode through the Godswood on a cold afternoon. Nonetheless, that is what Sansa found herself doing as she hurried through the damp and loamy soil of the sacred forest, boots sinking awkwardly into the snow-melt made muck as the young lady struggled to walk as swiftly and respectably as she could. The surprisingly warm day, just enough for the light snow from the day before to melt completely in the clear noon sun, doing little to aid her advance.

"Sansa, wait! Sansa!"

Unfortunately, the girl's friend didn't share her enthusiasm.

"Hurry up, Jeyne. We'll be late and I doubt that Queen Cersei would appreciate that!"

Frankly, she couldn't understand how her best friend wasn't every bit as excited as she was.

How couldn't she be after being invited to a meeting with the visiting ladies? The queen's very own retinue. Sansa could scarcely believe it herself when she'd been handed the missive by one of the Queen's servants. An invitation to spend the evening in the company of one of the most important women of the Seven Kingdoms.

How could they not come?

And Sansa, above all others, had to.

This was her chance.

The chance to prove to herself, prove to her family, that she was ready to be like the intelligent and graceful ladies who'd traveled to see them. To show her mother that she could trust her eldest daughter to be the woman she was raised to be. That she wouldn't be a disappointment.

And maybe, just maybe, Sansa… might be able to help Arya this way.

Winterfell was aflame with gossip, servants and visitors alike chattering about what occurred between her sister, the Dornish girl Elia, and one of the boys who came with the King's retinue - some kind of bastard blacksmith he'd brought along to work with the others.

Sansa didn't know and she didn't particularly care about bastards either. What mattered was that Arya, her sister, was in trouble.

Injuring a boy to the point he'd almost lost a leg, both she and the Sand girl had been confined inside Winterfell until the King, her father and the Dornish prince could decide on a proper punishment.

What that entailed, Sansa didn't know, but she wanted to help.

Robert Baratheon was known as the Demon of the Trident and had… tolerated the deaths of the royal children, as recompense for Rhaegar's rape and kidnapping of her aunt, Lyanna Stark. He wasn't exactly known for being merciful and she knew that that meant talking with the Queen and the Prince's daughter, surely they could help if anyone could.

And if the worst came to pass, no matter how loath she was to plead with people who were so wild, Sansa would even beg the Dornish prince and his daughters for help. After all, she loved her sister more than her pride and the Stark girl very much preferred her sister to be called Arya Horseface, not Arya Horsemeat.

"Slowwww down!"

Frowning at her friend's slipping, she turned and grabbed her by the arm, stopping Jeyne from face planting in the mud.

"Come now, Septa Mordayne gave us permission to do this. If you come back with your dress all muddy we'll both be scolded!" Continuing onwards, the red haired child of the North cursed the fact that she too was slipping now - footprints and not at all gentle progress having churned the ground up more than a bit.

Chest aflame, Sansa felt her forehead dampen and heart hammer out of control as she tried to keep her pace. Gods, she thought, why did she have to dress up so heavily? What was the point of dressing up warm if she would cook inside her clothes or freeze with the wind?

'Focus, Sansa.'

She strove to calm herself, though it did little to assuage her heart as it drummed on.

The eldest Stark sister could already hear the voices of the royal party, muffled and mixed together as they were. Unfortunately, the noble child couldn't tell what they were talking about, bits and pieces getting lost as words blended together as what sounded like a large group of ladies spoke louder and louder over each other so as to be heard.

How could Sansa measure up to that?

Knowing herself, she wasn't outspoken like Rickon, she couldn't bulldoze her way through problems like Robb, nor did she have the foolhardy confidence of Arya - she was like Bran.

Yet those thoughts, that lingering fear of being some middling child with no great gifts or destiny, waned as Sansa Stark continued to move in the direction of her goal, teeth grinding together in anxiety as the equally eager and scared child jogged through the tree line.

Somehow she'd lost sight of Jeyne, who'd likely ran out of breath or got stuck trying to waddle through the loamy soil, and only realized it now. "Maybe I should go look for her."

It occurred to her that if she went and found her friend, then she wouldn't have to face the most important woman in the Seven Kingdoms without backup.

Not that it would have helped her.

Not when she'd finally arrived at the meeting and saw for her own eyes.

"Come on, Obara! I got gold riding on this!"

One of the Dornish girls, the one Sansa had seen snooping around Maester Luwin's study, called from the sidelines, aged diary in one hand and in the other a small purse which rattled with the sound of coins. By her side, her sister, a beautiful blonde woman giggled in amusement and waved a handkerchief like a noblewoman at a tourney. Both of them were in one of the hotsprings and a tray of fruits and cheeses and a bottle of wine sat between them.

Their older sister, the intimidating warrior woman, knelt on the muddy ground, arm propped up against a slab of stone, face to face with Prince Oberyn's latest paramour as each attempted to force the other's arm onto the slab, straining with all their might as chiseled muscle bulged angrily.

Sansa blinked, speechless.

Sitting around the women, the ladies who accompanied the queen whooped in support of their chosen champion, many of them lounging about in the hot springs, drinks and snacks and party favors in hand as the Queen herself reclined in her own spring, uninterested in the contest as she conversed with the last of the Sand Snakes.

The Witch… who was contenting herself with merely letting her feet soak.

Shunting aside the fact that they were all without even a stitch of clothing, the young woman focused on the magic user - as there was a veritable swarm of spiders currently weaving a web between her fingers. She was someone Sansa wouldn't have given much attention to before. But in hindsight it wasn't for a lack of beauty that kept her from noticing the older than her witch. Rather, it was how striking everyone else around the Dornishwoman was.

From the taller and muscle bound warrior sister to the innocent and beautiful blonde sister, or the regal and gorgeous second sister - Nymeria, the woman who shared a name with Arya's wolf.

Compared to them, the Witch's beauty was… humble. And made a little terrifying by the nature of her abilities. In a way, Sansa was reminded of Arya, or at least if Arya knew spells.

And that was the crux of the problem, all of their problems really. Why her father's foster father had died, why the southerners had come to see them, why her sister was in such dreadful trouble.

Magic. Or something as close to it as possible. But the point of all that was the fact that if the rumors were true, then Sansa owed a great deal of gratitude to the Dornish girl.

'If she hadn't saved the blacksmith's leg…' she shuddered at the thought.

Sansa might not have been her sister's biggest supporter, but she didn't want her mangled or crippled because of a stupid mistake. It was in the king's right to demand everything from a weregild to reciprocal injury to death. The North knew how damning it could be to lose a leg and royal blood was protected by their law.

So all she needed to do was somehow convince the Witch, her sisters, and the Queen to help her. Gods, she felt ill already.

"Well thanks for waiting, Sansa, I almost got… lost… eep."

Jeyne, finally finding her, had frozen up as she came out of the woods. She was also blushing head to toe and even jumped when a great cry went up, Dame Delilah Waters having managed to defeat Obara Sand, much to the dismay of half of the onlookers and the joy of the rest. Because somehow the bacchanal had needed gambling to go with the feasting and the drinking.

It was Sansa's turn to squeak and jump when something small and furry ran past her, a smug little fox that raced over to the witch and the queen. Stealing a sausage the critter hopped and jumped until it was in petting range of Cersei, the amused royal snorting before scratching its ears.

"Come on you two." However, it was the witch that spoke - through a raven. "Cersei wants to speak with you." More terrifying than anything else was the fact that it was the Dornishwoman's voice coming from the bird. "You have my word."

Fluttering off, the creature, just like the fox, seemed to tell them what they needed to do.

Grabbing her friend's hand, purely to calm the common girl - Sansa wasn't scared, how could she be with such an absurd scene happening around her - she started forwards.

Skirting around the main group of people, the Sand Snakes have decided to bully their eldest for losing in a rather public display of sibling fervor, the duo of young women avoided scrutiny as there was currently a pile of limbs flying about the place as several smaller and weaker, though equally as vicious, young women pulled their larger, stronger sister to the ground and got mud in her hair.

Truly, the Stark thought, the Southrons were a savage and cruel race to do such a thing to their siblings! Never mind that she and Arya had done just the same a week ago - in a spat over this very visit in fact.

"So, you're the little wolf cub?" The queen drawled, holding a cup wine in one hand, long locks of wet hair hiding her nakedness as she lounged in one of the springs. "Come before a lioness?" Sansa had, in fact, come to stop in front of the older woman. "You do know a lion's pride is her weakness… yet you keep shooting glances at my pet snake."

Curtsying, because there was no way in the Gods' infinite wisdom they had seen fit to prepare her for this madness, she fell back on formality.

"Y-yes, your grace. I r-received your invi-invitation." Swallowing, she cleared her throat. "Thank you for extending such a courtesy to me."

"Oh do relax, we're not Tywin, we don't murder children." The Witch snorted at the queen's glare and Sansa could only pale. "Don't worry Lady Stark, your sister is fine, and I'm sure her grace will be happy to speak with the king. Won't you?"

"Woe is me." Taking a drink, the queen lamented. "My pet not only steals the attention of fair maidens, but gives out my favors too. Whatever is a lady to do with such profligate servants."

At this the Witch giggled, Sansa looking from one to the other in confusion, before the Dornishwoman simply gestured at the Northerner and her servant.

"The hot springs belong to the Starks, she is a Stark, I'm sure you don't need me to do the rest."

Huffing, the queen contented herself with rolling her eyes.

"You're all lucky I'm in such a good mood." Turning back to face Sansa, she nodded. "Aye, as the bastard says I'll speak with my husband. Now, come and sit with me. You and your peasant girl should make for better company than my own ladies. They seem content with watching a group of young women bludgeon each other to death over ruined hair… an understandable casus belli, no?"

Once more overwhelmed and totally unsure of what to do, Sansa Stark and Jeyne Poole shared a look, a hesitant nod, and a silent prayer to the Gods.

"As you say, your grace."

Complying, because what other option did she have, Sansa was unsure what it was she needed to do. That was when her issues were solved for her by a small blonde missile running past and jumping into the air.

"Cannon ball!"

Myrcella Baratheon, princess of the realm, did a flying leap into a nearby pool and soaked the whole group. This treated the young lady of the castle to one of the most ridiculous things she'd ever seen, even as she herself was left soaked head to toe. The Witch, Ophelia, had used her body to shield the spiders and their webs, ending up half sprawled in the mud as she tried to avoid jostling the little creatures… bottom up into the air, hair fanned out around her, and several sticks and bits of debris covering her. However, it was the queen who had ended up the most compromised

Somehow entirely dry, the pure white fox had found itself on top of the Lannister woman's head, perched in her blonde locks, looking insanely pleased at it's excellent escape.

"Get the rat out of my hair, Sand. Or I'll turn it into the hat it seems to take after."

Upon hearing that threat the smugness immediately evaporated and the albino creature leapt away with all of its power. This somehow amazed the Witch who began laughing, despite her own compromised position.

"I, hahahahahaha, I didn't even make it do that!" Rolling over on the ground, the bastard girl brought her now drenched hair around. "You just scared a magical fox into running away! And they call me a witch!"

Glaring imperiously, the blonde woman simply turned her chin up and away before purposefully washing her hair - something that only made Ophelia laugh harder.

"Co-come on over Stark." Waving to Sansa the Witch gestured for her to come closer, even as she let the spiders in her hand crawl onto a nearby tree, somehow transferring the web with them. "Do me a favor?"

Suddenly a bit terrified, and not just because holding in her own laughter had started to hurt, she glanced over to Jeyne.

"I… ma'am? What could I do?"

Lifting a single eyebrow, the Dornish sorceress was thankfully more amused than offended at the clear stammer in the redhead's voice.

"Go distract Myrcella for me? You and your friend over there should get along with her wonderfully. I need to apologize to the queen for laughing at her… and possibly for passing on words to the princess that shouldn't exist."

Nodding, still rather confused about everything, Sansa tried to lean on her mother and the septa's teachings.

"With your leave my lady, your grace?"

A witch's laughters and a haughty, queenly sigh were her amusing, and slightly terrifying, answers.

---

Thoros of Myr​

---

​

"Wine or mead?"

Thoros sighed, looking into his bottle and guessing he'd been at this for about forty five minutes. He'd never get the damn thing to last a full hour at this point.

"So I am. What gave it away? Was it the smell, or perchance the ale I'm holding?"

His tone was a little annoyed, a bit of heat to it and he wondered when it was that a single woman could make him so angry. Six months ago he'd have been trying to finagle his way into the witch's smallclothes, taking the hint of a smile pulling at her cheeks as encouragement to show her a "magic trick".

"You were daydreaming again."

Grunting, he shoved the bottle into a tree's hollow, wondering if he should reconsider his decision to cut back.

"Can't blame a man for dreaming. It's all most of us have."

"Quite." She inclined her head. "Though you're not like most men, are you? A Myrish slave, risen to a Red Priest, then to a famed tourney fighter who wields a flaming sword. I would hope that whatever you were dreaming of would have been at least interesting."

And there it was again - that damn sense of knowing. As if this wisp of a girl, barely a woman really, had lived long enough to know what ailed the hearts of men. As if she knew their suffering. He'd met those who pretend to understand and sympathize with the common folk, masters of empty words and reassurance, but she cut through it.

Her eyes said she already knew what he wanted to say and that the only reason she asked was to help him puzzle it out. How she stood there, the light snowfall drifting past her, covering up the faded signs of yesterday's revelry, simply waiting. And it wasn't even as if she was patient! No, Ophelia had precious little patience when dealing with people she thought foolish…. Yet she always had time for a child's foolishness too.

The Royal children, her own sister, even the Stark children, she more than tolerated them, doted on them, seemed to get along with them.

A mother, though without children of all.

A student, yet one who knew all the answers.

A girl-child, yet with knowledge of the hearts of men.

"If I said it was you, would you begrudge me?"

The witch sighed and he hated her for it, because it was an understanding noise. A sound that said she wished she was less of a problem and more of an answer, that she didn't choose to be so difficult. For a moment, Thoros almost wanted to strangle her.

"Me? Of course not. But others might. You'll have to be careful around Tyene, of course, but I'll keep your secret. Though if you wish to stroke my ego I am afraid I shall need to know more."

Drawing a knife he let the tool sit in his hand for a moment. In the end, he gave up the murderous impulse and slumped in on himself, finally committing to his great sin.

"My payment."

Answer and question, truth and lie, the Sand Snake gave her prey a sad little smile. Thoros saw the self loathing in her eyes as she did so and the bottle of fortified brandy slipped free of a single, voluminous sleeve. Taking the bottle, Ophelia finally advancing close enough to the Red Priest to hand it over, he took her in.

A crown of daylilies sat on her brow, the burnished skin of the witch contrasting with the blue-white of her dress. Falling from her collar bone to about mild calf, it was a simple thing, heavy and woolen and warm, and with a great deal of embroidery about it. From stags, to wolves, to roses, to even a few trout, it took the foreign born man a moment or two to realize that it had heraldry from the house of every lord paramount in Westeros, lions and suns and dragons included, from a generation ago. Most significant about it was how the sleeves billowed, several colors of fabric visible from within and telling him the garment was actually heavily layered. Oddly, though, she walked with bare feet in the cold and dirt and seemed to dig her toes into the ground as she swayed, step to step.

Around her neck was a scarf to keep out the chill, small gusts carrying with it unseasonably fierce winds for Autumn, though this was a simpler bright yellow and red, quartered, and unadorned. Her hands were free and as she stood there took up her hair, tied in a long braid, and began to lay it about her shoulder - keeping the ends from dragging on the damp ground.

Somehow, the snow didn't stick except about her eyebrows and on the flowers, and he couldn't help but love her and hate her at once, that same murderous urge coming to him once again. This time it had a mouth and a face and a voice, his old master, and it snarled and screamed and pleaded with him… even as the memory lashed out, kissing his skin with biting, knotted leather, and it was in those jolts of pain that he remembered his very first vice.

Thoughts of a knife and a bottle alike tormented him and so, setting aside the Dornish venom, for it was poison, he instead pricked a finger, the red of the blood somehow alike the green of her eyes in how it held the world.

"I hate it when I get poetic." Bending low, the witch watched as he blew on his finger, the droplets spiralling up and into the air… as embers burning on the breeze. "The Breath of R'hllor, Lord of Light and Shadow, the Fire Burning in the Breast of All that Live, and the truth of the world."

Reaching out, he mimed grabbing the embers and brought them to his chest. Sitting up, he dragged himself over to a nearby tree without rising from the ground and then cupped his palms. Breathing again he drew up the embers into a small flame, about what one would expect from a candle, and he finally smiled.

"Allow me to teach you of my first desire."

Kneeling on the ground, the snow settled a bit more heavily around her, creatures that scurried and creatures that flew settled around them too, the witch turned her full attention to him.

Thoros of Myr was not a blind man, he could see and feel the power she was already gathering about her and almost cried out. For this was an old and familiar vice.

"As you say, teacher. I shall listen just as surely as I do with Qyburn and Marwyn."

'One of three… yet never enough.' Shaking his poetry away he focused on the spell he worked at this very moment. "This is the vice of every mortal, master of their hearts." Nodding, he quite liked his thrust. "She is an old mistress whose whims are difficult to navigate and who's wiles were irresistible to any like me, like your father, like Lord Stark and King Robert and the Spider and Marwyn and every man, woman, and child to have ever been." It was more than what he could express, less than the truth still, and so very important he said this. "In all my many years basking in the many pleasures of the world, expensive wine, cheap women, and dalliances enough mischief to keep me afloat in the vast sea of the Seven Kingdoms, this is the single greatest thing I have ever imbibed."

Somehow she wanted with bated breath, though he knew the witch girl could control flames and snuff them out. Somehow she had turned a thousand eyes and a thousand minds towards this little Working. Somehow it was flattering and terrifying and the priest felt he was flying.

"Lately I have seen fit to flit from desire, to impulse, to orgy, hoping to find a new vice to occupy my time with. But the thrill of spilling one man's brains hardly compares to this."

Power, pure and simple, burned in his hand.

Reaching out, he grasped onto the power around his student too and pulled it down. Channeling it into the flames the embers roared up, almost singing his beard, before dying.

Once, where there had been a candle flame, now burned ten times that.

"Do you remember where we ended our previous talk?"

She nodded, dutifully reciting her lesson.

"Fire is the prime mover, that which allows Earth to harden, water to flow, and air to drift. Without it, there is no ignition. It burns in a vacuum because it is the burn of the vacuum and death is only fuel to the flames. Purest of the four crude elements, fire is only overcome in potency by the Breath of the Gods itself and Aether is too pure to easily work in mortal shape. And men work fire through the use of breathing"

"Well, few teachers could ask for such an attentive student. Reciting passages from books won't help either of us to conjure up more flames, though. So let me see you breathe."

And that's what their meetings had been about.

The power of breathing right.

Perhaps the greatest symbol of the Lord of Light's doctrine. Fire was the medium by which Priests and Priestesses alike conversed with and received guidance from Him in the form of visions and whispers from the flames. Some of the texts Thors had gotten his hands onto even spoke of how the greatest amongst the clergy could conjure a swath of flames into being.

A fanciful tale.

Perhaps a metaphor for their great power of persuasion. Or their ability to ignite the hearts of men into action. It was the tongues of the Red Priests, not their slave-soldiers, that had advanced their cause across so much of Essos.

But the Witch saw it differently.

She saw power where others saw fantasy and he was forced to agree. What he touched now was a different sort of thing. Unlike any magic he'd courted in the past.

To have the power his sworn brothers and sisters seldom, if ever, wielded themselves brought about a rush which Thoros couldn't quite understand. A thrill that many would attribute to the tales of danger and adventure toted about by bards in inns and courts.

It was like living in a dream, a never ending fantasy. One he could only live through as long as he held the attention of a certain woman. And after seeing the young woman call down beasts from the wilds as if they were loyal pets, Thoros was inclined to believe there might have been some reason to believe in her own obsession with the old stories of the Lord of Light's most faithful.

Either way, he won.

Waking up meant the truth of the limits of magic were confirmed, continuing to dream meant that magic had never died in Westeros. It wasn't normal and it certainly wasn't safe. His instincts, dulled as they were by years of drinking, told him that much. But at least it was interesting.

'Much more interesting than the dullards I usually have for company, at the very least.'

"Enough breathing. Cast."

"What, I-" Blinking, and a bit confused at the sudden command, Ophelia tried to protest.

"Act!"

Standing, he threw the flame at her, old man and young girl caught in a mystical duel that lasted for all of a second.

Slashing out with a clawed hand, she caught the fire and took it from him, Thoros eagerly passing control of the Working over to his student, and brought it to her breast. Breathing in, the Dornish girl let the flame dissipate - heat and energy and life filling her from her fingers to her toes - before exhaling.

With it came a stuttering, guttering flame from nothing.

Another breath, another burst of light.

Another breath, a steadier flame.

Another, final breath and, this time, her breath was long. Easily reaching three or four feet in length, the tongue of fire rushed out in a narrow cone.

Snapping her jaw shut, whimpering slightly in pain, the witch screwed her eyes shut. Still keeping her hands cupped, she, tears falling from her eyes, managed to gather a steady flame about her fingers… without blood. Small, but steady, the fire was a cautious, gentle thing.

"Open your mouth, child."

As his student complied, Thoros saw that she burned herself quite badly. Not so badly as a normal person would have been, they would have likely killed themselves choking on the heat they conjured, but still quite injured.

Sticking a finger into her mouth, he pulled out the heat in her wounds with his own magic, gathering it to himself. It was a little trick, one all Red Priests learned in training.

Meaning that when he turned the heat onto itself, using it to soothe the burns and relax tense muscles and kindle the flame within all flesh just a bit he was very, very good at it. Eventually, when her humors had been restored, he withdrew his finger - finding the skin covered in soot and ash - and brought with it a little burning coal about the size of his nail.

Taking the burning pain, he placed it into a tree, watching as an area about the size of his fist crumpled and cracked as the heat and pain he drew out was paid for.

"T-thank you." Slightly slurred by the pain of it, Ophelia still managed to wipe her eyes and nod her head. "I almost lost control there."

Thoros was mostly focused on the fact that the flame she conjured, without using blood, yet burned.

"It is a little thing, one I will teach you in time." He paused, ultimately deciding to continue. "Though I am glad there are no slaves to practice it on. Now we sit… and breathe." Taking up his bottle with one hand and flame with the other he settled down under the singe mark his God given powers had made. "Remember that. Fire is about Breath and Blood. One way or another."

Her eyes understood and Ophelia did not need words. The burns to her mouth, only mostly healed, were her sacrifice for this knowledge as nothing was ever freely given.

But there was still something behind those too old eyes which cautioned him from testing the girl's limits. He'd seen eyes like those people. The eyes of an old woman who'd seen the horrors of the world and the ravages of time. On a young maiden's face, those eyes reminded him of some of the faith's priestesses.

'Eyes too old for those who should yet be children.'

He feared what they might do with all the power of the Red God.

For Thoros of Myr knew without a doubt that, upon this witch, his master would pour out all of his blessings… and curses.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

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Chapter 17 - Rolandskvadet​

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Jon Snow​

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This was a bad idea, Jon could already tell.

Granted, most of Theon's ideas tended to end with either him or his brothers in dire straits. The man liked to live dangerously, at least for Winterfell, and he liked dragging others along for the ride. Especially Rob. But as his brother was currently busy doing important heir things for Father, it was up to Jon to keep the excitable man from doing something that would cost him his head, or his balls.

Whichever came off first.

So it was with a heavy heart and a pounding migraine that Jon followed Theon down to the local tavern he so liked to frequent.

Frankly, it was also the only permanent tavern in Wintertown, meaning it was the only structure more than a story or two in height, and therefore it was stuffed to the brim. Men, women, kids, strangers, castle residents, the young, the old, the wise, and the foolish. The Tavern, called the Winter Rose, was a place to go for a meal, a drink, and a game of dice or conversation.

Itself an old, six sided affair made of a mixture of stone and timber, the walls were particularly sturdy and the old sloped roof was so miserably hard Old Nan told a tale about a trebuchet's missile bouncing off. Jon wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but the layered gray and white tiles were made of some stupidly strong mixture of clay and mud that no one doubted it could, at the very least, stand up to the fury of a Northern winter.

Today, however, there were no families or old regulars gathered for the festival and soon-to-start tournament - both held in honor of the Crown Prince - but mermen. Retainers of House Manderly, visible by the simple fact they were half Southron, but Northern enough to have a spine. Maybe about sixty or seventy of them, were he to guess by the raucous they caused.

Maybe they wouldn't even get into trouble, not with a sensible sort about.

A boring evening actually wouldn't be all that bad, not after everything that had been happening. On top of that a bit of it would give Jon an excuse to fob off looking after the children, should it be needed, as clearly the Greyjoy hostage needed to be looked after and clearly that meant he, the dutiful son, wouldn't be available to escort Sansa and Arya to and from their lessons.

'Not that anyone's stupid enough to try anything in Winterfell anyways.'

Once everything went well, his brother's friend would drink himself silly, then Theon would ask to visit the women nearby, and pay for a short night of short pleasures followed by a long, but loud, sleep. Jon, however, would spend his night back in his own bed in the castle, perhaps after visiting Ghost and the rest in the kennels, and then wake up just before morning.

A surefire way to make sure he was the one who got to drag his father's other almost-son back to the keep once everything was done.

If he were lucky, maybe it would go by smoothly and he might even grab himself a drink and be at peace with himself. Without having to worry about the specters that followed him everywhere he walked in Winterfell. Never mind the rather insistent guest who seemed intent on getting acquainted with Jon… blessedly not in the way the man's reputation suggested the Dornish prince might have wanted to.

Oberyn Martell, father said, was a passionate man.

A southern one, for sure, but one with a charisma and moral fiber, if of a peculiar weave, that very few men were acknowledged for these days. Not for temperance or patience. But for the ability to direct his savage temper towards accomplishing his ends without regard for how much those might cost him.

Honorable in his own way? Yes.

Dangerous? Very.

It was for that reason that when Jon arrived at the tavern with Theon he felt as if the Others had taken his heart on their icy grip. Fear and the sensation of impending doom hanging over them all as a very familiar young woman found herself already at the tavern.

Part of a circle of about eight girls, Ophelia Sand, clearly drunk, was spinning in a large circle and singing a sailor's song at the top of her lungs.

"-roll the old chariot along, roll the old chariot along, and we'll all hang on behind!"

Skin flushed, in even the low light of the tavern, the Dornish girl led a group of hollering Manderly-men in a joyous call for, what he assumed was, strong spirits and mutton stew. Perhaps a little more telling was the fact that the tavern, small as it was, had actually cleared up enough space for what looked like sailor's daughters to dance with the bastard.

"A night upon a whore wouldn't do us any harm, oh, no it would not!"

This line, still sung by the girls, got a particularly loud round of cheers… though half the reason might have been the fact that all of the girls chose that moment to kick up as one.

"No a drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm!"

Still cheering and hollering, the men crowded at the edges of the wood and stone building, having dragged all the chairs and tables clear to make room for the dancers. There they sat, six or seven to table, drinking, eating, laughing, and making merry. Two or three had produced instruments, an accordion, viol, and a small metal thing that looked like a pipe or a whistle of some sort, but all joined in with the raucous chorus one way or another.

Though, after realizing Theon was looking somewhere else, the Stark bastard also noticed that a southron knight, going by the long knife belted at his waist and the make and cut of his clothes, sat over in one corner… with Ros on his knee and her hand brushing along his stomach. What was queer was that the man, out of everyone in the room, looked the least pleased at all. In fact, if Jon didn't know better, he'd say the man looked downright annoyed. Which, quite frankly, was a bit difficult to imagine considering the immense energy of the place.

Indeed, having been recognized, Sygerrik, the tavernkeeper, had dragged the young man over to the keeper's side of the bar and shoved a tankard of ale into one hand a steaming, crumbly meat pie in the other.

"They've been up at this for a while?"

The older man snorted.

"Dornish lass arrived in a huff, tossed a bag of coins at me and paid for a hundred rounds before getting into her head to pull this off. The boys just went along with it. Free ale is free ale. Probably would have cheered and clapped along even if she was a shit singer."

Which she clearly wasn't.

Jon eyed Theon. His friend looked ready and eager to jump in and Jon would have probably let him if not for the mammoth in the room.

"Think it's too late to stop her?"

Sygerrik snorted.

"Yer welcome to try, lad. Figured that if I did, that lousy bunch woulda thrown me out of the tavern."

And why wouldn't they? Nobody liked having their fun ruined. But Jon was more so fearing for their lives than their fun. He wasn't sure whether Prince Martell's reputation was accurate enough to risk the man slaughtering them all because something happened to his daughter while they were in attendance.

Even if she looked like she was having fun.

It was pretty jarring. To see the cool headed and unflappable Witch of Dorne hollering about ale and whores with a bunch of drunken sailors. Taking drinks of her own and dancing with a slight sway whereas lesser men would have long since collapsed from all the twirling and jumping she was doing.

Never mind the alcohol.

And it wasn't like she'd lost her head completely - she was neither debasing herself sexually nor exposing herself. Something Jon doubted the Ironborn could do if he was in a situation like this.

"Well you can just stand there looking like a gormless idiot if you want. Give me two drinks and put it on my tab."

Smirking, Theon pushed past the bastard and took up the demanded drinks, maneuvering his way through the crowd as the song began to wind down. Clearly intent on approaching the intoxicated Dornish girl, Snow figured it would be… wisest to stop his brother's idiot friend. If only so he didn't end up in the Martell Prince's first display of public hypocrisy. After all, when a man was deflowering another's daughter it was one thing, but when t was their own daughter being defiled by some jumped up Ironman….

"Where do you think you are going?"

Only for none of that to matter.

"Take your hands off me, Southron."

Theon's arm had been grabbed by one of the Prince's retainers. A pretty young man, with shoulder length white hair, purple, angry eyes, and a streak of midnight black through one of his forelocks, the foreigner only had a knife belted at his waist but Jon suddenly wished he had his sword. Theon, however, saw fit only to sneer and bluster.

"I'll have you horsewhipped if you don't!"

Smirking, the Dragonblooded man jerked his captive closer, knocking one of the tankards to the ground, and snarled in Theon's face.

"Oh? I knew you barbarians had no honor, but Ironborn usually fight their own battles. Too afraid to face a knight."

Unwilling to let this go farther, Jon, swallowing any hesitation he might have had, stood up to the self proclaimed knight.

"Ser, would you kindly unhand my companion? Let us not spoil this fine evening."

Trying to imitate his father's tone of voice and Lady Stark's more courtly choice of words, the bastard did his best to figure out how to avoid starting a feud. Obviously, Lord Stark would look after his ward. And just as obviously that would cause a feud with such a… strident young man. At least that's how Lady Stark would have put it.

"Here, take this, he and I will get our own drinks for tonight."

Pulling the last tankard of ale out of the Greyjoy's clenched fist and pushing it towards the knight, Jon gave him a wan smile and hoped that this all could end peacefully.

"Hmph. I do have better things to do with my time." Cutting his eyes back over to Theon, the knight smirked. "Turns out that Lord Stark's great mistake was a fortuitous fuck up for you, boy."

Grinding his teeth, Jon did everything he could to not lash out and smash the smarmy shit's face in. He was a bastard, this man was a knight. Nothing any Snow could do or say would do more than cause trouble. He was just a bastard, a mistake, and the rude Southron wasn't even wrong.

"How dare you speak of Lord Stark like that! I'll teach you a lesson about respect, you incest born Dragonspawn!"

Theon, however, was the heir of a powerful lord.

"Says the boat worshiping rapist, besides, your thrall mother was a sheep herder's daughter your father got around to mounting after he was finished with her father and her father's livestock. And I am a Dayne, you buffoon!"

By now the room had gone quiet as the nobles began quarreling, loudly at that, and the common men simply backed away. After all, striking a noble could cost you a hand… or your life.

"And you're a silver haired poofter, who spends more time polishing his liege-lord's 'sword' with your 'sheath' than training. I heard men like you shit themselves, how many times have you had to change your pants today, Sandborn!"

Snarling, red in the face, the two men continued to trade insults - Jon chose to back away. His father wasn't being insulted any more and getting into a fight now would only prove Lady Stark right.

"Hah. I see cowardice runs thick in your blood. The bastard runs away the first time he sees a true knight… not so different from his father, who could only kill a real warrior by stabbing him in the back!"

Whirling around, Snow could take it no longer. Seeing red, he stood there and visibly shook. His fists were clenched and his face hurt and he bit his lip so hard it bled.

"Fuck you, cunt!"

Theon threw the first punch, though, coming in with a hard right hook.

It caught the southron knight in the jaw, knocking his head back, and both men seemed stunned. Then Dayne punched Theon in the throat and caused the young man to start to choke and cough. Jon, deciding to act like his Aunt Lyana for once in his life, rushed to the Ironborn's side and threw every once into a punch aimed right at the knight's nose… only for the man to step to the side and grab the bastard's cloak. Dragging him down, he tossed Jon to the side and slammed him against the wood floor.

"Weakling."

Snarling, the knight picked his foot up and made to bring it down on the bastard's face.

However, the Ironborn had recovered enough to make his second move. Half leaping forward into the knight's leg, he knocked the man over with nothing but brute force. Yet, by the time Dayne had bucked Theon free, Jon was already on top of him and lashing out with his fists.

Not that the crowd tried to stop them.

No, no, no. In fact, the sailors were loudly cheering their liege lord's bastard and ward on, hollering, drinking, and eating while the three scrapped away on the dirty tavern floor.

---

Torfinn​

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"Damn buckets, why won't you… why won't you work!"

Pausing, the young man looked around, wondering if there was somebody waiting to prank him.

"Stupid dogs. Just like Brutus. Either slobbering all over me or wanting me to carry those huge bags of food. If only Rachel was still around."

Because standing in front of him, trying to drag two massive buckets of guts, was the bastard princess. Or, rather, at least one of them. And Torfinn wasn't sure whether he should try to help or not.

"Man, I really do miss Rachel. She would have loved the direwolves."

Pausing to fish a flask from somewhere inside of her dress, the bastard took a long, hard slug of some type of liquor he could smell from where he was standing… and then promptly fell on her ass when she tried to pick the buckets up again.

"Ma'am… ma'am, do you need help?"

Stepping forward, he held out his hand to help the southron girl up. However, as he approached, her eyes snapped open and several large crows flew down and started squawking. Flinching, the servant boy didn't know whether to stand still or run, because this was clearly the Witch.

Mother had always been very, very clear about those.

"Wha-who-who are you?"

Clearly confused, the young woman managed to sit up after trying a few times. Torfinn remained where he was, as several dogs and cats had now joined the growing horde of beasts.

"Oh. You don't look dangerous. Are you a faceless man?"

Genuinely confused why she was asking if he was a legendary assassin, the peasant boy tried to answer in a way that wouldn't get him ripped apart.

"If I say no, are you going to still kill me?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?" Scowling, the bastard half heartedly glared at him before, after taking another slug of something much stronger than beer or ale - Torfinn could smell it from where he was standing - she looked around. "Oops. Sorry. Poof."

Wiggling her fingers, the swarm dispersed, seemingly going back to being animals in a moment, and the princess flopped back onto the ground.

"So you aren't going to kill me, or, um, curse me, m'lady?"

A snort was his only answer. Less comforting than what he might have otherwise hoped for, but the girl held out her hand in turn and gestured for him to help her up.

After a few moments of staggering about the place, the Dornish bastard was stable enough that Torfinn figured it was better to step away. If only to avoid any accusations of impropriety. It was said that the temper of Oberyn Martell was nearly as legendary as his libido. Frankly, there was little doubt that it would be wiser to avoid potentially… arousing either. Just like with witches, the young man had been well warned about "that" sort of lord, the kind that could be "fond" of peasant boys. And what could happen when they got bored of them, too.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there?" Still more than a little confused, Torfinn took another moment to realize that the noblewoman expected him to pick up the other bucket of guts. "I can feel myself aging as you gawp, boy." She poked him in the ribs and smiled. "Now, bring that. If you behave yourself then we shall both get to see something amazing tonight."

Unwilling to risk a Witch's anger, he complied.

However, when he had the one bucket of entrails in hand, he reached for the other and was stopped.

"I'm drunk, not useless."

And now the princess was half mumbling as, with a very unlady like grunt, she heaved up the other overfilled bucket and began waddling away. It was almost comedic and more than a little terrifying.

Glancing about, he hurried along to follow behind her, hoping no one would see this.

"M'lady, please, let me carry that for you. If it pleases you of course. M'lady."

Her response was an equally unlady like grunt of refusal.

"No. Now keep walking."

Licking his lips, Torfinn tried to wrack his mind to figure what he should do - what he could do. Touching her was obviously out of the question, that was a quick way to end up hanging from the gallows. Not even Lord Stark would be kind enough to cut his head off if the kennel boy was that jumped up. So that left him with pleading.

"M'lady, I beg you. Please let me carry it. You already have left smears and stains on your dress."

"They shall be washed. I will make… Tyene do it. Yes. She will enjoy it."

Not sure who Tyene was, he assumed it was the girl's least favored maid. Or most favored. Nobles were weird people and so were many of the people that looked after them. Unfortunately, such truths would not save him from horsewhipping.

"But m'lady, if I do not carry the scraps for you, I'll have dishonored you. Please marm, don't do this to me. I don't want to be punished!"

Now pleading under his breath, because there were a few others around, he hoped against hope a knight or a warrior from one of the lord's retinues didn't decide he needed a thumping for not doing his job. And yet the cruel witch refused him again.

"Drink this and stop whining. God, you complain more than Alec did. Now just do as you're asked or I will put spiders in your breakfast every day for a month."

Caught by surprise, the young lad was a bit dumbfounded. Such a childish thing seemed like it better belonged in a children's tale rather than being levied as what he assumed wa sa serious threat. However, he was wise enough to know when a girl was angry enough at him to start pulling his ear, so, with no other choice than but to comply, he took the bottle and did as instructed.

Coughing and spluttering when the liquor hit his throat, Torfinn bent double as he tried not to choke.

"Hah! You're more of a lightweight than the serving girls pretend to be." Pointing a finger at him, the drunken noblewoman lost her balance again and, with the buckets of guts now in hand, ended up splashing herself with a good portion of the stuff and covering her legs in it. Falling over, she also stumbled, and ended up plopping onto her butt.

Desperately, Torfinn tried to fight it.

With all his might he tried to rail against it.

Tears in his eyes, the poor, poor lad tried not to laugh….

"'Snicker' Heh. Hehe. Hehehehe. Hahahahaha!"

He failed. And, tears still in his eyes from the liquor, he laughed almost hysterically.

For a moment several other people stopped and stared. A commoner was openly laughing at a noble's daughter, after all. And yet… she laughed too. Giggling like the young woman she was before throwing her head back and letting out a belly laugh. Unnoticed by the duo, their audience relaxed, now glad to know that there would be no incident. At least not immediately.

It took some time but, sooner or later, the laughter died down and, once again, the young man helped the witch to her feet. This time he snagged the second bucket before she could and, even when the witch girl gave him another glare, he just pretended like he hadn't noticed.

That was the best strategy he decided.

Huffing and crossing her arms, she just turned away and began leading them off again.

"So," he began. "Where are we going ma'am?"

"Call me Ophelia." The bottle was back in her hand and she waved his concerns off. "And we're going to see some dogs."

Frowning, he expressed his confusion.

"Yes m'lady, but the kennels are at the other end of the gates."

Snickering, she covered her mouth a little.

"We're not going to the kennels, but the Godswood."

Unsure of what to say or do to that, he shut his mouth again. After all, contradicting a noble was dangerous, even if this one was odd. Especially because this one was odd. Yet his wish was not granted as, after about a minute of silent walking, Ophelia began to speak again.

"Tell me, boy, what is your name? Who are you?" Smirking at him, the noble flashed her white teeth in what he might call a grin. "Or should I just keep calling you boy? No… no… I think… Chicken Little. Yes. You are now Chicken Little!"

Flushing slightly, he kept his focus on not slipping and responded.

"M' names Torfinn, ma'am. It's a name from Skagos. My da's da was from there and my brother got my da's name, so I got my gran da's. Or so Old Nan says."

"An accent and a rare name, I approve!" She gave him an exaggerated wink and giggled when he flushed a little more. "Peace, young man. I won't bite." Ophelia took another slug of her drink. "I'm drunk, that's all. It make me, well, not moody, per se."

"Mercurial, ma'am."

"Ooh, that's a nice word, I shall have to use it. Learn it from a Maester?"

"From a mummer, ma'am."

"I told you, Torfinn, call me Ophelia."

"Yes, Lady Ophelia."

That earned him a sigh of defeat and a bit of silence until they reached the gate to the Godswood. A few looks at the guard on duty later, and it was a bit telling how it only took a look from her to get the grown man to comply, and the two were being escorted to the edge of the internal woods.

Finding a rock to sit down on, Ophelia made a gesture that he should spill the entrails out before pulling off her shoes and stockings with a grimace.

"Is it odd that I don't mind the taste or the feeling of warm blood, but cold, clotted blood disgusts me? I've tasted my own blood enough not to mind the flavor of iron, of course. But when it's… clumpy and sticky… just ugh. What's worse is Tyene just adores black pudding. Absolutely can't stand the stuff."

Once more concerned about getting horsewhipped, after all there was a noble girl undressing just behind him, the poor stablehand focused on baiting whatever trap it was the witch wanted set.

"Oh God, not again. No more silence! I'm complaining, not stripping. You can look at me." There was the sound of a bottle hitting the ground and of a cork being popped. Turning around, he found the girl had discarded the, presumably empty, liquor flask and instead took a swig from what he thought might be ale or beer. Seeing his look, she gave him a bright smile and sing-songed. "Beer before liquor, never been sicker. Not that I've my liquor, I'll a have tipper. Tipper? Tipple? Close enough I do suppose. Now, while we wait, come over here and tell me about yourself."

"Well, Lady Ophelia, I'm a kennel assistant. But I suppose that's not what you wanted to know?"

Waving for him to continue, the high born bastard pointed at the ground next to her and kept drinking. Looked more than a little tired by this point… and more than a little melancholic.

"Um, I guess I like my job. Supposedly I'm to look after the hounds, but the Lord Stark and his kin always look after their own dogs. Direwolves need no looking after, as far as we can tell. Most of the time I help Maester Luwin or Farlen or Hullen with whatever they need. Mucking stables, helping tend to the dogs, assisting when there's a birth. Even a few things to help with the ravens and falcons, should the good Maester need the extra pair of hands."

There was a pause, broken only by the sounds of a few, small animals and the near silent swallows of drink. Eventually, Ophelia pulled the bottle from her lips and spoke.

"Any family?"

"Walder and Old Nan, I suppose. My father… didn't make it back one trip. Wildlings what had snuck past the Wall. My mam works in the Winter Town mostly, usually spinning wool or lace, but she's not been right since Da didn't make it back. So yeah. Mostly me and Walder."

"Huh. You lost your father. I, well, in another life I lost my mom to a drunk and then my dad to depression. Not Oberyn, I don't think he can be depressed, just blindingly angry, but yeah. In another life, I know exactly what you went through."

The witch held her bottle back out and he hesitated for a moment. Torfinn was deeply unsure what the girl was talking about, but she sounded serious. Not like she was making sport of him, not like a few of the boys or the Greyjoy might. So he drank and sat and listened when she spoke.

"It's strange. I thought death would be peaceful. When I let Contessa shoot me, I thought that of all things would end the Cycle. Zion was dead, Eden's corpse scattered, I had brought together pretty much every threat that remained too. One way or another Cauldron, what was left of them at least, should have been able to clean up." Pursing her lips, the young woman looked genuinely, truly furious for a moment. "But perhaps it was arrogance. I don't deserve peace, certainly not the peace and love that I have been given. Not after the lies and the killing, not after Aster, not after Alexandria, even. Certainly not after Khepri."

Another long swig and the young boy just listened. There was, after all, nothing he could say.

"Not that I regret all the killing, Hell, not even most of it. The Slaughterhouse 9000 needed to die. Coil needed to die. Ashbeast, well, I'm not sure if what I did was right, but it wasn't exactly human anymore. There was one hero, fuck, I can't even remember his name… but the villain he was fighting had a better power. It was one or the other, life or death. I, well, I made the choice I felt was necessary. But certainly not the heroic one."

These names meant nothing to him, even the terms Hero and Villain sounded wrong, at least how she used them. But something told the boy what he was hearing of was a war. At least, that was the closest thing he could imagine.

"Tagg, well, I liked killing him. I can't even lie about that. Alexandria deserved it, but I mostly killed her out of anger. Coil too, but I kind of enjoyed that kill as well. I felt vindicated. Right. Just." Ophelia spat the word, almost like it felt wrong on her tongue and in her mouth. "I don't think I even care about the Yangban I killed, they were drones, less than people, and were in my way. That idiot in the Behemoth fight, though I'm not even sure if I'm truly responsible for that. Not really, at least. Court's Castle and the refugees, though, were probably all mine. A thousand, probably more. I guess the ones inside Echidna too, but if I didn't convince Sundancer to end that problem then, at best, Jack would have gotten them. Like with Aster, I suppose, but more. And not a baby. God, you know I still see Aster sometimes? A baby's head isn't meant to just… pop!"

There was a great, heaving sob, several gulps of air and, out of the tree line, several dark shadows began to amble towards the duo.

Torfinn was frozen once again, but more from fear than anything else.

"I don't even know if I actually hit the poor thing in her head or not, I just… my dreams… they show it exploding. Like if you took a mallet to a rat. When that happens, after I swallow the vomit I always wake up with in my throat, I tell myself that if I hadn't done it that Jack or Bonesaw or or or… I don't know what, but they would have done something awful. They were monsters."

Those shadows had become bodies, long, lean, and heavily built forms that softly padded across the snow.

"There's the people I killed going after Mantellum, there's Cherish, but I'm not sure if she counts either, being a clone in all. Trickster… uh, I think I sent him to his death. But he was a Ziz-bomb, wasn't he? I… I don't… I don't think I remember?"

Grey Wind.

Lady.

Nymeria.

Shaggy Dog.

Summer.

One by one, the pack seemingly materialized. They circled about a bit, lapped up some of the meat that had been set out, and then plodded over. Nymeria was the first to reach her, immediately licking at the witch's blood stained toes, turning Ophelia's sobs into a mixture of giggles.

"Stop, stop you dumb mutt."

The bastard playfully pushed at the head of the giant apex predator and it was all the stablehand could do to sit there and stare in awe and horror.

"Oh, damn you, now I'm covered in blood and dog spit. Heh. Just like when I helped Rachel."

Playfully growling, Nymeria leapt up, and, using her front two paws, pushed the witch onto the ground. Once pinned, the direwolf began aggressively licking and sniffing and acting exactly like a puppy might. Of course, the other four weren't exactly far behind either and soon the first direwolf was "gently" tackled by one of her siblings. The two animals now snapping and play fighting with one another.

Summer, or so Torfinn though, had settled down next to the witch and half covered her with her bulk - holding her in place while he took his turn sniffing her face and making sure she wasn't crying any more.

And though he wasn't proud to admit to it, the servant boy squealed a little when the sixth direwolf, as silent as the grave, sat down next to him.

Ghost, as Jon Snow had named the albino, made no noise. Not when he walked, not when he had, seemingly, eaten - going by the flecks of blood on his muzzle - and not even when he breathed. Torfinn could watch as his chest rose and fell slightly and not a single sound came out. Instead, the great beast nose his hand up until, guessing what was being asked for, the lad began to scratch the monster's head.

Closing his eyes, the albino wolf simply sat his head on the ground and luxuriated in the attention.

"They're good, aren't they? Beautiful, honest, loyal. Good." Sitting up, the witch had started speaking again. "When I was at my strongest, I fought a god. Millions, probably billions, maybe even trillions died. Worlds burned. But I did my duty. I fought to the end. And still… I need to do it again."

Tears were trickling down her cheeks, this time as silent as Ghost himself.

"I don't want to kill a million people. I don't want to even kill one, I suppose. Gregor Clegane, yeah, I'll kill him. But that's family. If I have to fight though, if I have to do what I did before, am I going to destroy this world too?" In a small, scared voice, she finished her statement. "I don't want to lose my family again. I can't. Not… not again. I think it would kill me. After Brian and Alec and Aisha and Lisa and Charlotte and and and and my dad and all the rest… I'm afraid."

She curled up and turned towards the side of the of the giant wolf she was leaning into and sobbed. Ghost stood up too, giving him a gentle bump from his head, almost as if to say "thanks", before plopping down on her other side. Eventually all six of them surrounded her, seemingly trying to comfort the person whom had called out to them.

Sniffling, feeling tears pricking at his own eyes, Torfinn wished he could do more.

Wished he could help.

Wished he even understood what he'd just been told.

Instead… he took off his coat.

Walking over, he laid the thick wool garment over the shaking shoulders of the crying witch, gave them a small squeeze, and walked back towards the entrance.

Because he was pretty sure she wasn't a witch.

Indeed. This young man was convinced what he'd just heard was the confession of either a goddess or a demoness.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do.

---

Eddard Stark​

---

"So the decision is set, yes?"

Eddard Stark gave a small smile. It was a wan smile. A tight smile. A very frustrated smile. Mostly because he was footing half the bill of this tournament, but a little bit because he really, really wished he could actually tell his friend no.

"Aye, your grace. We have the grounds clear and the final details are being seen to as we speak."

His friend and king gave a small burp of approval and patted his kingly belly.

"A shame you dogs fret and whine and fear to let me fight in the damn thing. Even if I've lost half the gut I started the journey with and gained back most of my old strength! You lot are just afraid I shall crush your vassals in the melee!"

Sipping at his water, Ned made a noise.

It wasn't a particularly coherent response, but it was a response.

'Hardly, my good king, you might swing and miss and throw out your hip!"

Oberyn had no such restraint and happily jabbed back at the other man… who wasn't that much older than he was. Though it might also be said the Lord of Winterfell was a bit annoyed because he was of an age with his friend and no one liked to be reminded of that small patch of hair thinning out or how there was more grey in their beard than not. But he also knew it was a jest given in good humor. Still, such a claim required an appropriate counter!

"Mayhap. But I think all of you shall find the Northern shieldwall unbreakable."

"Talking about the upcoming training battles?" A new voice called out to the trio, stirring them from their rather calm evening, for a given value of calm, and a Valeman approached. "King Robert, you know I mean no offense, but a Knight of the Vale is worth two or three of any other!"

"Lord Royce, come, join us!" Laughing, Robert gestured for the man to approach after a quick glance at Ned to make sure it was ok. The Quiet Wolf simply smiled and nodded. "We have drink and wool aplenty."

"If the Bronze-Yohn is joining us, why not invite a few others. I see your man, Lord Stark, speaking over there, and your Kingsguard is a Westerlander. Hmm. All we're missing now are a Crownlander and a Riverlander." Obery was stroking his chin, recently clean shaven, and his jaw length black hair threw the man's face into sharp lines. "Ah, but my Lord Royce, is the Blackfish not a Riverlander himself?"

Robert frowned a bit.

"Good man, I know you take delights from both man and woman, but I did not think you the sort to make the seven with old men such as us!"

Abandoning his faux-seriousness half way through, the king laughed and Oberyn laughed with him. So too did the others, once they realized the Dornishman took no offense.

"Hardly, hardly. You are all too grey for my blood to stir. And my spear too great for you to handle too!" Another round of laughter and even Ned had to snort at that one. After all, he'd been treated to the good Prince whipping out his "spear" and slapping a knight from the Stormlands across the face with it - a disputed game of cards turned into a burning humiliation for the man who promptly demanded satisfaction. To which Oberyn had simply knocked him out cold. "No, I speak of the tourney! After all, we all have contingents gathered, no? Our men will be performing as best they can, so should we all not have a good reckoning of our forces and skills?"

"I agree, my lords." Ned spoke up. "Best we not risk surprising each other. Nasty accidents happen that way."

That got a round of nods from everyone present and Lord Stark pushed out a chair for Lord Royce to join them around their table, gesturing for a page while he was at it. Moments later and the young man was rushing off, going to find a number of people.

When the fourth man sat down, servants brought over a second table, bread, salt, mutton, and meat pies. Ale and wine, too, was provided in abundance. In fact, they had about a third of the tavern to themselves. The building itself was a wooden frame with a strong, layered set of tents set over them. A mobile structure which had a couple dozen tables, plenty of high born men, and everything from dice, to the odd brawl, and a woman or two.

They were most certainly not high born, even if they were paid well.

Ned said little in that regard, though his thoughts were known.

What was important was that the four men were well settled, with a few retainers and guards about the tavern, and quickly immersed in their discussion.

"You see Ned, it's not just about the quality. There must be a spirit of aggression in the warriors."

Jabbing a drumstick like a sword, Robert half agreed with Lord Royce and half let his own Stormlander blood rise up.

"My kinsmen know. They'll crash into any shieldwall, any line of knight like the storms that named us. Now I know our eagerness sometimes gets the better of us," he raised a hand to forestall the obvious counter. "But the truth of the matter is that battle, and even war, is about momentum. And an army that marches to victory, marches to victory, you get me?"

"Perhaps." Eddard allowed. "But the Winter Wolves marched to death and won a war."

"Old men that went South, leaving their families to shield them from the harshness to come."

Lord Royce's words were approving and he elaborated.

"In that way you Northmen are like us. While our blood is not the same, us Men of the Vale still remember our own old ways. When we carved a seven pointed star into our foreheads and swore upon our lifesblood - victory or death. Not that it well pleased the First Men we fought."

It was the Stark's turn to laugh.

"Indeed not. But your clansmen do not fight as we do. It's true our tactics might have once been similar, with the shieldwall being the core of our army, but the press and push is one thing, one tool, not the whole of how we fight."

Oberyn, whom had been long silent, cut his eyes slightly, alerting the Quiet Wolf that their audience had arrived.

"My Lords, Sers, please, join us!"

Joining the King's circle were Lord Berric Dondarrion, Ser Jaimie Lannister, Ser Brynden Tully, Lord Manford Velaryon, and Lord Howland Reed.

Clad in his black satin cloak, Lord Dondarrion bowed slightly at the waist along with the Blackfish, eternally clad in his scaled armor, Lord Velaryon, bedecked in his purple and white silks, and Lord Reed, in a simple green tunic, but Robert waved them all off and bid them to sit, calling for more chairs, and more food, as he did so.

"It's a war council for our bloody pretend war! No need for this nonsense and the titles. To you, my friends, I am Robert. At least for tonight."

The king, despite being sober, was in a fine mood and he thumped Lord Reed on the back and bid him sit next Eddard and himself, heaping praise on him as he did so.

"And for you my lord, why, you saved my friend! Why, Ned couldn't praise you enough. You're always welcome at my table." Pausing for a moment, he turned to the smiling Lord of the North and sheepishly asked a question. "Though, uh, speaking of, why did you invite him, Ned? Isn't he your bannerman? A Northman too?"

"What's the harm in letting him join, Robert?" Oberyn Martell saluted the group with his wine cup and, with the king's leave, made sure they were all well placed to sit and drink and talk. "Surely it won't hurt to have a bit of a home field advantage, no?"

It was chit chat at best.

Just a group of veterans indulging in some stories and ideas they'd probably never employ as long as there was peace. Ned knew that Robert enjoyed war stories, and loved to daydream about great battles ever since they were young, so it was easy to see where the conversation would go as soon as his friend got the other men riled up.

"Horseshit!"

"Mind repeating that?!"

Of course, the Dornish prince took every opportunity to amuse himself poking at battle plans and proposed formations. The man was surprisingly insightful when he bothered thinking before opening his mouth.

"You can't expect us to believe you could actually take Harrenhal with that few men."

Their fellow lord colored. A healthy red from the wine they'd shared.

"It is possible! The numbers don't lie!"

The Dornish man snickered.

"Do you tell that to your brats before going to sleep? It's a mighty fanciful tale, complete with heroism and whimsy."

"Like you'd have a better idea!"

"I don't need ideas, m'lord. I have a Witch. If there was a Harrenhal to take, I'd just point her at it and call it a week of work done."

"So you're the sort of man to allow his daughters to do his work for him?" Ned spoke cooly, but not cruelly. "Besides, magic always has a price. Us Starks might not have had a greenseer in many generations, but we remember." Grimacing, he shook his head a little. "Magic's not worth the cost to get involved with it."

Frowning, Oberyn nodded a little.

"Perhaps you're right. For an old man, at least."

It was a small jape and Ned just chuckled in response.

"Old, aye, but not that old. Besides, I'd like to see grandchildren before I end up 'old', right?"

At this the prince actually gave an over dramatic sigh and seemed to throw his hands up.

"Speaking of grandchildren, would you believe my eldest has finally found someone she wishes to wed? And it's two men! Whom are both besotted with her!? And the two idiots won't even fight each other for her hand, rather, they've agreed she's far too much of a handful to bother trying to break! Where's the drama, the passion, that lustful urge that drives men insane and to their doom. Such a simple resolution is hardly fit for a song."

The younger men at the table simply stared at him in a mixture of shock and confusion. Even Robert, for all his indulgences, could do little else but laugh. Ned was actually a bit scandalized and unsure how to respond without possibly starting a feud.

In the end, it was Lord Reed who broke the silence.

"Bloody Southrons."

Grim, Lord Dondarrion raised his glass.

"Aye."

Robert's laughter turned into howls of hilarity, with the rest of the group slowly joining.

About ten minutes later, with scandal forgotten and differences once more set aside, each of the lords and knights continued to argue the strengths of each of their nations. The Kingslayer, in particular, stridently defending the utility of his father's training methods.

"My lords, I must reiterate - luck is for mummers and children. By training, through discipline, and with great rigor and effort, even a commoner can be brought up to be the equal of a knight. At great cost, my father's own men at arms are almost entirely brought up from the stock of Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Yet they have proven themselves and their valor against landed knights more than once. To ignore such a potential asset is to ignore a threat to the institution of knighthood itself."

"Nay Kingslayer, I say nay!" Lord Royce, now a bit into his cups, threw an arm over the shoulder of the kingsguard. "Your own existence and that of Ser Barristan disprove such claims, being equal to at least twenty or thirty commoners. And a Vale knight is worth ten normal men! How else would we have managed half of what we did?"

"Indeed." Lord Velaryon voiced his agreement too. "You can give them a pike or a crossbow and drill them, but a commoner simply lacks the elan of a true knight."

Robert shrugged when his bodyguard turned to him.

"While I won't say the lowborn can't be exceptional, it's the exception, not the rule. They aren't bred for war, but for the fields."

Ned couldn't help but smirk when Oberyn caught his eye and then glanced at some of the Northern men in the tavern.

"My friend, are you saying there's something unique in knights and only in them?"

Taking another sip of his drink, and feeling a bit of heat flush his cheeks, the Warden of the North couldn't help but chuckle when the king immediately seemed to smell a trap.

"No… not only in them."

"But your grace," Oberyn slid into the conversation. "Mostly in them?"

A cautious "aye" was the king's response.

"And yet the North has almost no knights. Are you saying that all of us lack a warrior's spirit?" Tipping his cup back, the Northman couldn't help but smile when his friend simply set his jaw and firmly refused to respond.

"Seven take you, Ned, this is why I want you as my hand! I'm no good at this shit!"

More laughter and the Lord Paramount was glad the conversation quickly moved on, turning once again to Lord Reed's arrival. No one else challenged his presence, but it was clear the group was interested. Prince Oberyn in particular looked thoughtful and spoke softly.

"So, they truly fight in a way so divergent you would count them as a unique asset? Not even in Dorne do the Orphans fight so differently than the rest of our people. Still, would that mean all the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, save for those mountain clansmen and the Ironmen are represented. Does your Grace plan to open an academy of war?"

There was something to his words that stirred the others. A slight hint of mockery and of admiration and also of something else. Something almost dangerous. It was even more strange from a man such as he, as the Red Viper had never spoken so in Eddard's presence. Disconcerting when compared to his almost absurd lewdness and debauchery.

"You think they should be here?"

It was the Lord of Tides, Manfred Velaryon, who spoke. Hints of a Valyrian accent, matching his almost porcelain features, seeped through equally quiet words. But it was actually what he didn't say that spoke the loudest.

"Is Dorne truly that pressed for men?"

Robert, lacking somewhat in his vassal's tact, stepped in and spoke the unspoken.

"No, no. We have more than enough mercenaries to fill our ranks." The prince waved away the king and gestured with his cup. "Speaking of, Lord Stark, are you sure there's absolutely nothing I can do to win the rights to recruit some of your men? I promise adventure and gold!"

With this the conversation slowed, the older men and the younger sharing certain stories alike. It was also revealed that Oberyn had, in fact, won the rights for his brother to hire men and accept volunteers from all the kingdoms but the Vale and the North. Lady Arryn had refused to receive the prince, even going so far as to burn his letters without opening them, while Ned himself remained a bit stubborn. Partly to support his wife's sister, partly because he wasn't happy with the thought of his fighting men going south.

Most importantly, though, was the fact that all the lords there had promised their support for the coming tournament… with rumors that letters would be sent out.

A small delay, of course.

But one that hopefully promised something spectacular to come.

---

Garlan Tyrell​

---

Parrying the pirate's axe strike, he darted forwards.

Aiming low, the knight let his opponent move his shield to block the thrust before, at the last moment, snapping his blade up and extending forwards. The attack was a parody of a Braavosi water dancer's high stroke, but the tip of his broadsword still bit deep into the neck of the poorly armored man. Still possessed of enough strength to lash out a final time, the pirate tried to throw his axe at his slayer's chest. Turning to the side, the fully armored Reachman let the iron blade skid off of his breast plate and withdrew his sword.

Dropping with a groan, the filthy raider clasped his neck and shoulder as best he could and tried to staunch the flow of blood. Garlan Tyrell simply slashed the man's face open and moved on, more concerned with how the rest of the ambush was developing than a freshly cooling corpse.

Keeping his sword up, the warrior saw that more longboats were landing - Ironborn and Essosi pirates leaping to shore alike. The camp itself was in good order, with Quentyn and Cletus urging the mercenaries forwards.

Daemon Sand was with them too, shadowing his master's son and slaying man after man. Yet even a knight of Ser Daemon's caliber had failed to notice that the battle had degenerated. No longer did the Westerosi forces hold a formation. No longer did they present a unified front to their attackers. No, they were open and engaging in violent single combat all across the beach.

Knowing what he needed to do, Garlan launched into action.

Striding swiftly across the rocky beach, he let his plate harness take odd, glancing shots from slings and a few bows. Nothing too impressive, more of a smattering of light projectiles from Ironborn youths safe by their boats, but the shots did annoy him. Enough that, upon coming across his next foe, he brought his sword down in a two handed blow that cut the man from collarbone to crotch. Kicking out at the dying man's knee, he shattered it with his steel clad foot and left the bastard to hold his entrails and die.

Practically snarling at the lack of discipline, he brought several Dornish archers into good order and led them across the battlespace to join a few Summer Men - their white teeth flashing brightly as the dark skinned men rained lethal showers of arrows into the battle below.

With their ranged contingent somewhat gathered, he ordered the ranged fighters to begin attacking the enemy's own missile troops.

And, as one might expect, grown men armed with longbows did far more damage than young boys and teenagers with shortbows and slings.

Quelling the urge to curse when he saw a young man drop to the ground, dead as the arrow buried in his skull, the warrior focused on his self appointed task. Cletus, Quentyn, and Ser Sand were still battling at the very front and the trio had halted the approach of as many as fifteen or twenty pirates. That being because of a mixture of their skill and the simple fact that lords and knights could afford better steel and more of it. However, as they skirmished and traded blows with this group of men they were pushed more and more away from where the rest of the battle was taking place.

Quite simply, they were being isolated.

Garlan yelled out more orders and moved into the double tent line that formed the rear of the camp. Cutting down a few idiots that had already started trying to loot the Dornish camp, he rallied the wounded and half ready soldiers that had held to the rear of the battle so far and took the best of them with him. The rest pulled back to support and protect their archers and gather up those that had yet to join the larger body.

Now backed up by half a dozen other armed and armored men, the Tyrell knight pushed past the double tent line and to the line of cooking pots and their supply tents. Here he found more dying and dead men and where the camp's sentries had made their stand.

At least half of them were dead and a quarter were too wounded to keep fighting. Even worse, they were outnumbered three to one. Yet surprise was a potent factor and the enemy was mostly concentrated on attacking the knot of soldiers defending their fallen comrades. Ser Garlan took the opportunity to stab a pirate in the back, at full charge, and knock his body into his fellows. Even better, his silent charge was joined by the other men with him and they set to work hacking at the backs and sides of the pirates and drove them back.

Now trapped in a semi-circle by warriors who didn't have to worry about tripping over their fallen brothers, the pirates and raiders found themselves hemmed in and pressed back against the small outcropping the Westerosi had built their camp near. Even worse, trapped as they were, they lacked the space and room to properly form up or bring their spears and axes and swords to bear.

In short, the few moments of hesitation and disorder they faced when Garlan attacked doomed them.

Trapped and now facing a strong line of mercenary and knightly arms, the attackers slipped in the mixture of blood and entrails that soaked into the rough ground under them. Still, they were experienced fighters and their leaders roared and screamed, barking threats and orders in equal measure, and their stumbling retreat became a counter charge. So fierce was their sudden response that the weary sentries faltered and two more fell to the ground, screaming as they were wounded or cut down.

Yet the archers, having dispersed or suppressed or slain the Ironborn archers and slingers, turned their fire to this obvious grouping of foes. Their arrows rose and fell from Goldenheart bows and the Summer Islanders wrought a terrible toll on their enemies. And when the missiles had struck true, Garlan roared out a battle cry and pushed ahead, driving his enemy backwards and leading the Westerosi to smash the attempted escape.

For the Ironborn, none came to their aid. And as they fought and bled and died, their desperate defense became a vicious massacre. Armor shattered, shield splintered, men screamed, men died. Garlan didn't linger.

His mission here was done and, sending a few of the most exhausted men to aid the wounded and calling some of the archers down to help too, he took the rest and pushed to the very front of the battle lines.

Past the supply tents, the part of the company that hadn't been trapped had charged down against the pirates. Some of them had been out hunting and had returned when they heard the violence, a few had simply been exploring the area beyond the picket line. Either way, it represented about half of the men who hadn't been archers.

So, taking his squadron of fighters with him, he moved from cluster to cluster. Each time he'd rush the largest pirate he could see, promptly stab them in the back, and start hacking. None of it was glorious. His armor was covered in gore and filth. His arms felt like lead. His head was pounding. Still, he kept moving, slashing, twisting, turning, killing with every stroke.

Because more boats were still landing!

By now about twenty longboats, each of which had been fully loaded, had slid up the beach and dropped off a force of armed men. Worse, most of the recent arrivals were armored in mail coats and gambesons too.

Nothing compared to his plate harness, but enough that one good hit was severely unlikely to kill them.

Licking his dry lips, he hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to take the group of men under his command. There were no clear openings, no sections of weak line, and enough archers under the enemy's command had formed up to take up all of the attention of their own missile troops.

That hesitation cost him.

A massive man with a grim set to his face stepped forwards. Raising his equally massive axe high, he brought it down against Quentyn. The young man raised his shield, but the blow simply shattered through the wood and both a violent snap and a loud grating was heard.

When the princeling cried out in pain, the warrior simply brought the axe around and slammed it into the boy's chest. Quentyn stumbled, arm limp by his side, but brought his blade up and thrust it at the seeming giant's unarmored head. Andrik the Unsmiling, for Ser Garlan had figured out who the Lord of Southshield was, simply turned his head, grabbed the blade with an armored fist, and jerked the wounded prince forwards.

Cletus roared and the Yronwood charged the giant, slashing out at him, Lord Andrik brought his weapon around and blocked the young knight's blow before kicking out and sending the boy sprawling backwards. Three more Ironborn were on him in a moment, wrestling with Ser Cletus and clearly trying to get his helmet off. Ser Daemon, however, slew the man he had been dueling by pulling a dagger from his belt and throwing it into his opponent's throat.

Twisting in a move that Garlan would have been loathe to replicate, the Bastard of Godsgrace moved his spear in a figure eight. Each point along the move was a thrust and each thrust drove past a sword or a shield and left a man's arm or hand sliced open. Darting forwards, Ser Daemon drove his spear through one of Ser Cletus's attackers before driving off the rest.

Ser Garlan knew this was when he must strike and dashed forwards with his men.

They struck the end of the battle line that had formed, wrapping around the edge of the pirates and killing a few. Mostly, though, they simply knocked them back and started pushing up the line.

Andrik the Unsmiling simply frowned even more deeply, grabbed Quentyn, and started walking back to the boats.

He dragged the wounded boy behind him.

Garlan snarled, cutting down a few of the last of the unarmored men before smashing his fist into the nose of some idiot Ironborn that went without a helmet.

That fool died to one of his followers and the Tyrell knight kept pushing forwards - almost as if he was aiming to intercept Andrik.

Responding to this perceived threat, many of the Ironborn's remaining warriors clustered together, forming a second reserve line, and positioned themselves to intercept his attempted charge. Turning aside at the last moment, Garlan drove his men into the gap between the second line and the first and pushed to relieve Sers Cletus and Daemon.

Linked up with these two men, and the front of the Ironborn's line now partly encircled, the three knights began hewing at those in their path.

However, their fury was seemingly for naught, as Andrik had reached the boats with his prize. Ordering his men to help him load up Prince Quentyn, the giant of a man leaned down to pick the captive up. Only for the Dornish lad to have one last surprise.

Once Andrik had bent over, the seemingly unconscious young man suddenly stabbed his misericorde into the Ironman's cheek.

Jerking back, the raider roared in pain and ripped it free.

One half of his face was now a bloody ruin, cheek widely cut open, and the leader of the pirates found himself injured. Even worse, some of his bodyguards rushed back to aid him.

A fatal mistake that weakened the second line of defenders and, thinking their kinsmen were fleeing, the rest of the Ironborn turned to flee… leaving the now confused and panicked pirates to their deaths. Surging forwards, the Westerosi lines snapped closed and the front of the attackers were swallowed up.

Again, battle became massacre and those that didn't immediately surrender were hacked to pieces by furious mercenaries. Even worse for the Ironborn, this bred more confusion and the sudden loss of the pressure at the front meant many of those attempting to flee were cut down. The doubling back had become a rout.

During all of this, using his good arm, Quentyn had been crawling away from an Andrik who was hastily trying to get his men back in order. A task he might have managed if the remaining Dornish archers hadn't taken the opportunity to pour fire into the Ironborn's archers, using the confusion to pick off enough of them that the rest couldn't retaliate. So, seeing that this battle had become a total loss, the Lord made to grab up his wounded prize… and was met with three weapons. Ser Daemon held his spear ready, taking the point of the formation, while Ser Garlan wrapped around the side - sword out and point leveled, and Ser Cletus picked up a fallen bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed it at the Andrik's head.

The Giant deflected the shot by raising the flat of his axe, snarling as he did so, and hauled himself over the edge of his personal longboat.

There was little fighting after that and the retreat, such as the Ironborn managed, was made good. Of about a hundred and twenty men, perhaps only twenty or thirty escaped, taking only three boats instead of the fifteen they'd arrived with.

Garlan counted less than forty of the hundred the Westerosi had started with still amongst the living.

It was victory.

Bloodied? Definitely.

Bruised? Certainly.

But it was still a victory.

He wondered though, if the little princeling saw things that way. A hair's breadth away from death, the young boy looked panicked, his chest rose and fell erratically as he wiped sweat and tears from his face, leaving a small stain of blood on his cheek as he watched the last of the enemy sail away, cradling his wounded arm and wheezing deeply.

"Cletus…." Garland sighed and sheathed his blade once his commander reached for his brother. The Yronwood boy scrambled too, almost frantic in looking over Quentyn's injuries. Daemon stopped the youths from removing the prince's armor, though, speaking quietly.

"Wait, wait. Hold until the Maester can see to him. The prince can breathe?" Turning to the princeling, the other men got a nod. "Good. We wait then, to make sure its not stopping up or holding a worse wound in check. Try not to move my lord."

A few quick nods and the boy clasped his friend's arm, face pale from pain but not crying out. Whetting his lips, the Martell called out.

"Brothers, see to the wounded. Cletus… see to them."

Frowning, the young man looked ready to argue with his friend before nodding. Garlan actually approved and jerked his head for the warriors following him to go too.

"Ser Daemon go get the Maester? Bring quills and ink too. I have letters to dictate."

Smirking, looking more than a smidge proud of his lord's son, the knight gave a jaunty salute and ran off - his urgency clear to Garlan from the stress visible in the bastard's movements.

"Ser Garlan, come here, please."

Kneeling down next to Quentyn, who was now lying in the sand, his cloak bunched up beneath his head by Cletus before the lad moved off, the grown man reached down and lightly gripped his commander's shoulder.

"Now you're one step closer to being a man. You've killed and almost died."

There was a pause and the Tyrell couldn't keep sadness completely from his face.

"Still, you lived. So you've done better than many. Yeah?"

"Aye, m'lord." Soft words and a small nod. "See to the defense of the camp?"

It was a question. A tentative one, asking whether a defense would be needed.

"I'll see to it."

An answer that was pragmatic but one that sent a small burst of resignation across the lordling's face. They both knew weakness was an invitation to disaster after all. And Garlan had to wonder if it was a kindness or a cruelty to leave the lad alone with his thoughts and the pain.

---

Elia Sand​

---

Being scolded by her father was a novel experience for Elia Sand.

For a long time she'd always been the baby. The apple of her father's eyes. The one who could get away with everything because she just happened to be the first child of his longest running relationship. A position which she had relentlessly abused in the past if it meant getting the things she wanted.

Like learning to ride a horse.

Learning to hold a lance.

And charging at other people with said lance on top of said horse.

If Elia ever happened to get in trouble, it would sooner be her own mother or older sisters to lay down the law and punish her in whatever way they thought would make the lesson stick. Because she was Elia Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell, brother of Elia Martell. The man looked at her… differently, sadly sometimes, others his eyes would burn with an intense reminder of what happened to the first Elia.

She wondered why he gave her that name?

Was it to give the first one a way to live on even after death?

Did he love her so much that it took until she was born for him to consider calling another girl with the same name?

Her father loved her.

Elia knew that.

But she hadn't known what was going through his head when she was born, and why she was the one he decided to name after the sister he adored more than anything in the world and still mourned to this day. Was it because she loved her as much as she did his aunt Elia? Did she look like her in some way?

She did learn the answer to another question, however.

Yes, Oberyn Martell was capable of punishing his children.

It wasn't a small punishment either. Both her and Arya had been given over to Septa Mordane for… remedial lessons as her sister liked to put it. Losing all of their privileges and being forced to stay inside the castle at all times. There would be no games or horseriding of any kind.

It was horrible.

Torture of the worst kind.

Elia would have sooner lowered herself to wiping tables or cleaning stables before she was forced to suffer through another lecture on House words and crests. She didn't even need to learn about the Northern ones and yet she was only allowed to finish her penance after memorizing and reciting enough for the Septa to be satisfied.

One month into her punishment.

A whole month… gone, reduced to dust.

"I hope you have learnt your lesson from this." Her father said as he looked her straight in the eye. He was being serious, Elia knew. Because it could have been so much worse hadn't it been the smith boy who got hurt. Someone who would have her actually punished for the accident.

She could have lost more than just her time.

But on the other hand, Elia knew this wasn't a normal situation.

Gendry wasn't just a blacksmith. Or, at least, the way her sister had brought him into the fold hinted at him being more than just someone she roped into making those Valyrian Steel swords.

"I'll be careful."

Oberyn smiled thinly.

He looked sad.

"Good. If you do the wrong thing, hurt the wrong person, next time there might not be an easy way out. Just… take care and pay attention to what is going on around you. Your mother would kill me if something happened to you on my watch."

Gods, her mother.

If she ever heard of this, Elia wouldn't be able to sit until she was an adult.

Most of all, she worried for Ophelia. Her sister hurt herself terribly trying to heal the smith's injured leg. Parts of Elia felt terrible, but it was just for the harm she caused to her older sister, not the blacksmith. That seemed so much worse than making a stranger crippled. And she felt even worse because she knew that was shameful. Even if someone was precious to you, that didn't mean you should only worry about them. And maybe Elia was only worried because that meant her big sister might be angry with her.

And that was wrong too!

Because she wasn't just a brat anymore. And all of her family, except for Tyene, had said that others shouldn't have to suffer for her mistakes. Tyene told her it was funny when that happened, so long as they weren't nice people, and it was okay to do anything so long as it helped the family. But she was also scary sometimes so Elia figured it probably wasn't best to listen to her.

But mostly it really was because she was afraid that Ophelia would be angry.

Or worse, disappointed.

Elia didn't know what scared her more.

So she accepted the punishment. She read and memorized as best she could and kept out of trouble with Arya until they were forgiven. She learnt her lesson!

"Sweet summer child." Oberyn reached over and mussed her hair….

"Ow!"

Then bapped her.

"What was that for?"

Smirking, her father simply shook his head.

"Because I know my children. You're going to get into trouble the second I take my eyes off you. Now, go. Nymeria is waiting for you. And here, have fun today. It's not every day a Great Tournament is held."

Eyes wide, the twelve-almost thirteen year old girl stared at the fat septim and clinking silver coins in the money pouch her father gave her. Leaping up, she hugged the man around his waist, clinging like a limpet for a moment before, worrying he might reconsider, Elia raced off.

"Bye Poppa! Love you!"


"I hope you realize how lucky you were."

Unfortunately her father wasn't the only one who wanted to give her a final-final warning. Which meant that the walk from the castle with Nymeria was a somewhat tense affair where the woman described what exactly could have happened to her in extremely graphic detail.

'Goodbye sweet dreams.'

She'd be having nightmares about it for months.

"Yes, Nym. Father already told me it was a horrible, terrible thing that I should be careful and to not get into any more trouble."

Her sister snorted, making sure to squeeze her hand. Elia had already tried to slip off twice and, unfortunately, she'd been caught both times. Though it had nothing to do with not wanting to see Arya and everything with not wanting to see Arya's minder.

"Like you'd have a choice."

She resembled that!

"Face it Elia, our family is full with people prone to causing massive disasters which could reshape the entire landscape of the Seven Kingdoms if left unchecked. Either Sarella will discover some ancient horror which will bring a thousand years of darkness upon us, Tyene will make a deal with it because she is bored, Ophelia will get kidnapped by it…"

She couldn't hold back.

"And what about you? I've never heard father scold you."

"That's because you were too young to remember. Why, I was a proper hellion back in the day. So many dodged scandals and possible wars, I was lucky I got my wits quickly or I could have become a much more subtle version of Tyene. Complete with poison."

Now that was a terrible image.

'Two Tyenes.' Elia shuddered. One was already more than what they could deal with.

"What am I supposed to do, then? If trouble's gonna find me anyway?"

Nymeria shrugged.

"You deal with it. Obara stabs her problems, Tyene poisons them, Sarella causes a bar brawl and runs away, Ophelia has some kind of divine intervention that keeps her from being actually killed by any other mysterious force."

"How do you deal with yours?"

"I take them to bed."

The youngest present Snake wrinkled her nose.

"Eww."

The older sister laughed and tugged her hand along.

"Come. The nice Septa is waiting for us. And I'm sure Arya's eager to get into trouble too."

Elia scrunched up her nose but complied, eventually managing to tug her hand free once the two sisters left the guest rooms of Winterfell. Smooth stone, with more than a few tapestries, and long carpets, lit by candles and hearths, and brightened with flowers and art - it was the exact opposite of the Starks. Others might have thought a bit more on it, but Lady Lance mostly found the sheer number of trophies the Starks had collected to be more than a smidge impressive.

From antler racks larger than a man was tall, to sharks teeth bigger than her fingers, to the stuffed head of a bear whose mouth was large enough to decapitate a horse in one bite. It was, to beggar a pun, a rather stark reminder of the power and beauty of the North.

Her favorite was the splintered lance once used to slay a wildling king.

"Hey Elia!"

Arya Stark, running as she so often did, nearly tripped and fell as she dashed over from the Lord's quarters… a metal helmet firmly locked atop her head. Frowning, Elia gave her a good wrapping.

"Now what did I tell you! Stop wearing men's armor. It covers your eyes and you'll break your neck. Come on, we can't go to the tournament with you trying to dress like a boy!"

Grabbing the younger girl's hand, the bastard girl began to drag the trueborn child along. Proper station and decorum be damned. They were also heading straight towards a certain armory that had become something of a meeting place for the two of them and, more rarely, Tommen and Bran too. More chiefly, the young man who worked in that particular forge was totally incapable of saying no.

"Heya Gendry!"

Having been somewhat subdued by the sheer energy of her companion, Arya had mostly been cowed by the sheer intensity of the scolding she was suffering under. Now, though, she found the courage to pipe up again.

"Ah. You two. Are you here to rob me again?"

Scowling, Elia made sure he wasn't working with anything dangerous, and then thumped the boy on the arm.

"We only stole your sweet roll once! Now, Arya needs something proper to wear."

Slightly confused, and a smidge offended, the child crossed her arms and set her lip.

"I look fun. You're the one that looks funny, wearing so many clothes!"

Glancing at her scarf, sweater, coat, tunic, trousers, wool socks, and thick boots, the Dornishman looked back up at her companion and responded with perfect eloquence.

"Huh? It's freezing up here! We're in a forge and I can still see my breath."

"Yeah," Arya pointed at said forge. "Because it isn't going."

"My ladies, as happy as I am to see you, is there anything I can do to help you today?" Gendry, putting down a quill and finishing a letter, picked up a blunt sword and set to checking it over.

Taking this as an invitation to hand out a laundry list of demands, Elia Sand did what her family did best.

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this."

"Well, you were the one who wanted to play dress up. And if I have to play at being a 'proper northern lady', then you get to be my loyal assistant and squire."

The Snake gave the Wolf a dry look, almost impressed at the young girl's audacity.

"Ladies don't get squires, Arya."

"Well then, just pretend I'm a Lady Knight."

Truly, Arya Stark's ability to get in trouble was only surpassed by how flippant she was about getting in trouble. Elia would have thought her one of her half sisters if not for the fact that the girl's mother would sooner cast her father into the cold than look at him. And if what she heard was anything to go by, Lord Stark was the one with the bastard.

Or not.

Her sisters were still investigating.

Not that she cared, the one thing claiming Elia's attention now was the ongoing tourney. The promise of glory and infamy just a couple dozen feet away as men wearing sigils of various Houses milled about, some already donning armor, others in lighter - for the North - clothes but carrying with them their knightly arms.

Swords, bows… lances.

Elia's heart yearned for her confiscated weapon.

Father had seen to it that she wouldn't have her trusty lance for the remaining duration of their visit. And having not been able to ride a horse for nearly as long made Elia unsure she'd even remember the feeling of a trusty steed galloping beneath her. The young Snake was more than sure that she could have taken to the tourney like a fish took to water and made her mark in plain view of the King.

Or so she told herself.

'Watching isn't that bad though.'

So many events, so many challenges. Though you'd be forgiven for thinking the joust was the only one that mattered, it was certainly the main event, as Ophelia liked to say. And Elia was just as much of a fan as anyone could be.

Tourneys were important.

"Nuh uh, the Melee sounds like much more fun."

Unfortunately her new friend was the sort of uncultured swine who couldn't understand the appeal of the sport.

"Listen, Arya, I know you're just a child-" Elia tactfully ignored the loud complaint that she was only a few years older. "But this isn't just a tournament. This is a Great Tournament. And it's also a celebration for Prince Joffrey's nameday… and also maybe his engagement." When Arya made a gagging noise, the youth gave a sage nod. Boys were stupid. Knights were cool. And the Prince definitely wasn't a knight. "Plus the king overheard my sister talking about all kinds of other events too, so it's a bit of a tryout."

"Tryout?" The younger girl scrunched up her face. "But I thought that was last week?"

"No, no, no, I mean the events are being tried out. All the people already tried out."

"But if the events have already been picked, how are they being tried out?"

"Because this is the first time they're being performed in a tournament!"

"But I thought every tournament had a melee, joust, and most had archery competitions?"

"I mean the other events!"

---

Septa Mordane​

---

Unable to contain her amusement, the middle aged woman chuckled as her ward expertly wound up the bastard escorting her.

It was humanizing to see such a normal scene from such utterly abnormal people.

"It is nice to see my sister actually acting her age for once."

Mordane's laughter slowly died off as she turned to face her… companion for the evening. For once Nymeria Sand dressed down, a simple fur cloak and wool dress in subdued colors hiding the bastard's wealth though very little of her beauty. It was a much welcomed change from her rather scandalous displays from a month ago.

"Of course, ma'am."

The response was polite and perfectly safe.

Nymeria saw right through it.

"Come now, dear Septa, wasn't it my plan to watch them from afar?"

Choosing her words carefully, Mordane matched the other woman's slight grin with a polite smile.

"It was. But it will only be so until something goes wrong. Then it is my responsibility to see to little Arya."

"Oh? Something's going to go wrong?"

A lifetime of service told the Septa exactly how to respond.

"It always can. Especially when one tempts the gods."

That earned her a laugh.

"Aye. Isn't that the truth. Still, with all these wonderful knights and so many warriors about the place, any such trouble ought to be seen to quickly enough." Here the bastard paused, taking a breath of the chill afternoon air - ignoring the smell of men and sweat and horse. "Lord Stark suffers no villains on his land."

"Only those invited by the King."

There, she said it.

Perhaps not the most… proper choice of words, but Septa Mordane was a woman who was proud of her pious dedication to what she felt was righteous. And while her respect for King Robert was… earned by his actions against the Mad King, that only meant she wouldn't voice certain opinions around the man himself or his close friends.

Alone with one of the Dornish girls, however, that was different.

In a world of carefully constructed order, a tower painstakingly built brick by brick through the wisdom of the Seven, Oberyn Martell and his… spawn stood proud against thousands of years of tradition and dogma. And had they been anything other than who they were, maybe they wouldn't have been allowed to live as they had.

But they did.

Because they were of Dorne, and the people of the sands had always been, if nothing else, stubborn and unyielding.

Had it been their bastardry alone, she would not have faulted them. Many exemplars of the Faith had been bastards and commoners.

Had it been their licentiousness alone, she would not have voiced her concerns. Such men and women were unfortunately common, even in Wintertown itself.

Had it been their lack of worshipfulness, she would have bit her tongue. Godliness was rare in all of Westeros and the Old Gods at least enforced Guest Right and the Right Order of things.

But their father flaunted a pregnant woman whom was his lover, his daughters flaunted their lewd behavior, their whole family threw around gold without care, and the openly practiced sorcery and witchcraft! It was as if the perfect humanist and hedonist was encapsulated in the immorality of their ways, a parody of what it meant to be Dornish, and, even worse, they spread such sins about them. After all, Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow and Ser Gerold of House Dayne had been arrested for brawling! Never mind their… parties, loose and lewd meeting in the Godswood where the women drank and gossiped and acted as if they were wildlings!

Frankly, she was afraid. And not just because of the injury of the King's own bastard, but because of the sheer influence these "Sand Snakes" wielded. After all, did Dorne not test Baelor the Blessed with vipers? Was Oberyn's epithet not the Red Viper? Did Ophelia, the Witch Girl, not have a heathen, a chirurgeon, and a mad maester as her teachers?

From then on they walked in silence. First in one of the castle's galleries, itself far more filled than normal. She, as a Septa, had been well trained in the signs and houses of various lords and knights. Usually, there might be twenty or third such flags. The Umbers, Karstarks, Mormants, Umbers, Foresters, Ironhills, Boltons, Ryswell, Manderlys, and more were the usual sorts when Lord Stark held his councils. Now though? A hundred houses had come from across the North, with a hundred knightly banners flying too. Every man who had claim to a sign and words were proudly displaying theirs.

So too did other banners fly.

Nymeros-Martell, Tully, Royce, Lannister, and highest of them all - the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon of King's Landing.

It had only been at Good King Robert's loud acclaim that the Stark's direwolf should fly as high as his own. A refusal to put himself above his host and his childhood friend and ally. A simple act that had, no doubt, won him much love amongst the Northmen.

Of course, most of those who dwelt in Winterfell were not Northern.

She had heard tell that the castle could host a hundred thousand men under arms and, right now, there was a fifth of that number. Many were hedge knights and mercenaries, brought inside the castle's walls to segregate them from the civilians in Wintertown, but most were the highborn and their retinues.

As they walked under the portcullis, held open so that traffic could freely move about, they kept shadowing the two girls.

"The little wolf seems very… enthused by the tourney. You'd think she was the one brandishing a sword, daring to go poke the knights until they surrendered."

Mordane sighed.

"Arya is… taken by the old takes of warrior queens and dragon riders. I'm afraid she's grown quite enamored with the idea of digging out a sword from who knows where and going out to become some Knight errant."

The snake tittered.

"Yes, I know the type. We should count our blessings then, that she agreed to wear a dress and handed that too-big helmet she foisted onto my sister."

Yes, the Septa would count her blessings.

She could only hope the Royal Family would depart soon. The less time these… influences spent in the North, the sooner she could begin weeding out whatever bad habits the Stark children had learnt from them.

Especially that witch.

"Tell me, Septa, you are highborn?"

Carefully keeping to the inside of the track, nearer the buildings and away from the muddy ruts formed by horses and carts and men marching along the main street, the woman of the cloth tried to figure out if this was a trap.

"I am." Mordane answered, carefully inclining her head to Lord Reed as he passed by. Her walking companion flashed the man a grin from within her hood and the Crannogman blinked for a moment before blushing slightly and hurrying off. "But that means little. I have little doubt you know that we give up our names when we join the Faith."

"Ah. But it means everything."

The bastard girl spoke no further, merely continuing to walk along besides the Septa. She spoke freely when others called out to them, clasping hands with men and women and children, looking them in the eye and smiling at them. A few coins, silvers and coppers, slipped from her palm to the palms of the children and a few beggars too. All of this she did hidden away in the depths of her cloak. And even more, Nymeria caught the eye of every man they passed.

Her curves were concealed and her dress as proper and shapeless as the Septa's own. So too was their hair equally covered.

Yet when their eyes met and their hands touched, she would give them a small smile or a big one. A closed one or an open one. Some she seemed to almost challenge, others she submitted to with grace, and even more she seemed to greet as friends. Except for one.

When they passed by the Flayer Lord, clad in his pink and grey and blue, she stepped aside.

Like a hound that sensed danger, she tucked her ears in and let the crowd separate them and she even took the Septa's arm. It prompted Mordane to check after their quarry - the two girls whom had run off ahead. Yet even with a crowd such as this, hundreds and thousands of men and women, two highborn children received all the space they needed. Especially when Arya's wolf, Nymeria, had loped up alongside the girls.

That, without a doubt, won the girls all the space in Westeros.

"Tell me, dear septa, what is it about my sisters and I that most offends you?"

Asked gently, without accusal or reproach, the two women parted slightly as they came to the recently built racetrack. Men and hounds alike were charging across beaten earth and horses would be brought out later. Set out past the walls of Winterfell, it was put to the side of Wintertown, running the length of the town, the space was segregated off by wooden posts and had been cleared of snow. Stands had been raised too and the space was further divided by more posts, though of a smaller scale, and it was designed to be easily prepared for each event.

Today, on the first day of events, were the contests of speed.

Ironic, considering they allowed Mordane time to put her thoughts in order and decide how to respond.

"The Faith teaches us to abhor sins and love the sinner."

"Ah." Nymeria replied. "But the very act which made me was a sin."

It wasn't a threat. The young woman didn't sound insulted, though the septa couldn't say whether that was something good. No, the bastard girl looked at her like one would a peculiar puzzle, or perhaps a riddle they were eager to piece together.

Eyes piercing her through the cool breeze. Of a woman much too smart for the good of others.

"You were, I am sure, made out of love. At least at the time." She continued as was due. Life was sacred to the Seven, even if it wasn't properly reared.

"A polite answer, but hardly the truth. The Seven condemn bastardy."

"The Seven Who Are One condemns lust and drowning in it."

As if reading her thoughts the Snake's brow quirked askance.

"My father's proclivities are explicitly considered unnatural."

"And yet he is a prince and I am a septa." All those who lived under the light of the seven had their place, from the lowest beggar to the highest of kings and lords. It wasn't her place to preach the Faith to one naturally expected to uphold it. A lord should be above such… banal questionings.

Even if someone ought to have confronted the man long ago, in her private opinion.

"If you were not?"

"I would still be wise to hold my tongue."

Kings judged Lords. Lords judged the common folk. But the Gods judged all.

"Then be foolish. Tell me, why are we so monstrous? Why are we little devils, come to steal souls and hearts?"

"You admit it yourself."

"Jealousy? I had thought more of you, dear Mordane."

"Hardly. I gladly took my vows. But you go out of your way to play games and spin webs and drip venom into the hearts of men. It is women such as you which bring low whole kingdoms."

"Women such as us? We are but bastards, born without even the name you gave up gladly - as you yourself said. Our fate would be to whore ourselves and beg, should our father not care to keep us. Obara's mother even gladly gave her up, too, considering her too ugly a child to make a whore of."

Turning her lips down, the Septa silently displayed her disapproval for such vulgarity.

"Be that as it may, we do not aspire to be as beasts and we should not inspire such feelings in others." She raised her hand slightly, stilling the coming response. "I do not scorn love, nor do I find love a sin. But it is not for Lords and Ladies to abdicate their duty. Love is a luxury, a nicety, a part of being human. Those who rule must be better, for it is also human to sin, to war, to rape, to pillage, to abuse, to defile. The Seven bless us and grant us strength to rise above. How you and yours act would see us wallow."

"Would you say my charity is wallowing? My kindness is wallowing? The happiness I bring others? Is that not equally human, is it not equally as good as holding to some grand ideal?"

"You do it because you wish to be looked upon with desire, to be seen as kind and virtuous. Each act of charity and healing gains you cover, that your sins might go unnoticed in the shadows. Even that happiness you bring the lords who abandon their wives for you is a tool with which you gain greater advantage."

"I am no whore." Nymeria's words were clipped. "I sell neither my heart nor my body. And I need to sell neither. And your duty more often leaves starving orphans and widowed wives than the purity you cling too. At least I can fill a few bowls."

"For that I am glad and I shall pray that you never do either. As to charity and kindness, why do you think I do not? That Lady Stark does not have both? She sees food and clothing and medicine given to the poor. I, myself, knit clothes for them and tend to a few scrapes and those wounds I know how to bind. My hands are as often bloodied as the Maester's."

Taking several deep breaths, the base born girl visibly calmed herself and finally let her hood down. Perhaps an act of intimacy, perhaps an attempt at calming herself, it still drove the differences between the two of them into even starker difference.

The sun was starting to crest to high noon, its feeble rays pushing away the last of the mist that clung to the ground, and taking away most of the bite in the air. On the grounds a dozen horses dashed along, their hooves churning the ground and mouths heaving as their riders dashed and turned, dashed and turned, and raced around the edges of a great oval set into the earth.

"You have never doubted, septa, your place in life." Nymeria walked forwards, gesturing for Mordane to follow her, and the woman did so. Feeling a strange urge to continue their conversation… so long as they could keep their charges in view. "Even when you serve as a midwife, even when you hold the hands of the sick and dying, even when you first took your vows, you were protected." Each word was spoken normally, in tune with the words around them, yet gently. Regretfully, even. "You have never once woken up in the morning and wondered where your next meal might come from, or if you'd be tossed out."

There was a pregnant pause. The Septa felt no need to point out the bastard's privilege and the wealth her father poured out upon her and her sisters. So, it was after they had bought a great many meat skewers, that the Dornish girl continued speaking.

"Growing up, I was lucky. But it took me years to understand exactly how lucky I was. My father did not know of me and I am a twice bastard - my mother, of the Noblest Blood of Volantis, was a married woman. My mother and her husband sold me to a merchant of Lys. I was about eight or nine. He was accepting bids on my maidenhead." Turning to look at Mordane without shame, though the septa's face had given way to horror and confusion, the girl finished with a wan smile. "Prince Oberyn found his daughter naked, with about twenty or thirty men making offers for her in a small room in the bowels of a ship. He and his brother mercenaries killed every man there, with Oberyn offering them the wealth of the men and the ship as payment, and he took me with him from Essos. That is the truth of why he returned from exile in fullness."

"Dear child, I can not… what men would do such things?"

"Wealthy men, dear septa. Nobles and great merchant princes. Men of the sheets and pillows. As for my mother? She did not care."

Torn between wanting to reject the very idea that such evil could be perpetrated on a child and the knowledge that Essos was far, far less enlightened than Westeros… and that such evil still occurred in Westeros, the Septa was unsure what to say or do. In the end, she took the other woman's hands in hers and bowed her head. Humility was the correct choice. And so too was charity.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to insult you so. Though I can not sanction your behavior, I am glad you were spared the wickedness and indignities that so many are not."

"Apology accepted." Smiling, the bastard cheered immediately, becoming a young woman who only had a little hate, a little bitterness, a little evil in her eyes. She also squeezed the Septa's hands, letting her know that there was truth in her forgiveness, if not her cheer. "And I am glad that you do good, too, and not only pray for it."

Mordane took a skewer of chicken and bit into it, fat and grease popping in her mouth and wild herbs. Chewing on the meat, savoring the flavor, she reflected on the fact that she had never worried about where her next meal would come from. And she equally reflected on the number of broken hearts, and broken marriages, that the base born girl had supposedly left in her wake. It was something of a quandary that her faith simply would not allow her to excuse, nor did she want to simply admit that pure self interest was the path to bringing universal happiness.

"We shall never be alike, you and I, Nymeria. But I can respect that you have your own ways. I shall still pray that you accept the Seven and their light."

"Hah!" Laughing, the young woman threw her head back, exposing once again her pale skin and the perfect beauty she was blessed and cursed with. "Then I shall pray, in my own ways, that you have some fun."

After that their conversation was of little importance. Mostly details of the North's houses and the court of Lord Stark. There had been a few pointed remarks from Nymeria that the Lady Stark might not always grasp the totality of Northern culture, and that it might be wise to introduce the Stark's children to a few of their more orthodox peers. In particular the budding friendship between Bran and the Reeds was brought up and elaborated on. And it was odd enough that Mordane vowed to mention the bastard's interest to her mistress.

Even if it was purely well intentioned, such interest could often help nobles avoid unpleasant surprises and keep ahead of their opponent's maneuvers. Plus, if Nymeria was asking, she was undoubtedly gathering information for her father and uncle too. It was simply how such games were played.

Once more chatting about everything and nothing, the duo joined Arya and Elia and the… greater of the two Nymerias, handing each their own skewer of chicken, and both septa and sister enjoyed how their charges started in surprise.

And it was good indeed.

Strangely enough the Snake held out her hand for a small bird, of a type whose name escaped Mordane. But it didn't matter, the bird chirped once… twice… and then flew over their head as the bastard sighed fondly.

"What a worrywart of a little sister."

The septa paled.

---

Robert I Baratheon, King Smash Hammer​

---

Nothing got the blood boiling quite like a tourney.

Robert was something of an expert on the matter, and not just because he'd ordered more than a few over the course of his reign. Ironically, this one would be the first he felt any form of actual excitement from in years. The blasted thing had proven to be more than just an excuse for drinking and feasting while watching men younger than him put their lives on the line for a chance of glory and fame across the land.

Gods, how he wished he could be down there!

Unfortunately, his attending physician had declared she would never brew another of her potions for him ever again if he saw fit to ignore her… expert opinion on the matter. Even if Robert felt like he could have gone out there and showed some of those so-called knights how real men did it. After all, almost none of them were like his Kingsguard, none of them were like Ser Barristan, and he, well, Robert remembered well the feeling of Rhaegar's chest caving in under his hammer.

But for now, he'd enjoy the festivities.

Heart beating against his chest like a drum, Robert wondered if it was the fact he hadn't touched a single cup of wine since waking up.

Because he wanted to feel it.

Wanted to feel the excitement and the anxiety.

How long had it been since he'd pried himself away from the haze to properly look at a show like this? A year ago he'd have been halfway through his second pitcher before the events even started. Yet here he was, King Robert of House Baratheon, about to watch the opening fight that would mark the beginning of his son's name day celebrations.

His son's nameday!

When was the last time he actually commemorated it? Not just used it as an excuse for a monthly feast?

'Far too long.'

His hand moved softly through short blond tresses. He felt awkward, as if he'd forgotten what it was like to touch something and not bend or break it.

"Father?" Joffrey, the little lad, looked up confused.

"Just thinking boy." The blonde mop of hair was like his son's mother. Or his uncle, maybe. And in some ways that disappointed the king. Robert wished he had a child that looked like him that he could bring to something like this. Still, he squeezed his lad's shoulder.

"What are you thinking about Father?"

Tommen, speaking softly, looked up from where he was seated.

"About how much I wish I could be down there. But you two'll be fighting soon enough. So maybe I'll just sit back and cheer you on!"

Robert snorted and ruffled Joff's hair again when the boy practically lit up like the sun. Tommen was less enthusiastic, or so it seemed, but the old warhammer knew his second son was just a bit softer.

'Aye. He's meant for the Citadel or the Faith. Bloody right, considering he reads more than I ever did.'

Or maybe he'd get the witch girl to teach him some tricks.

Wouldn't that rattle those old sacks of bones back at the Citadel?

Leaning over, the king scooped his younger son up, the child laughing as he was picked up, and then stood up. Joffrey came too, trapped in a light headlock, and the king decided he'd make a speech. Never mind what the rest of his retinue might think.

"Lads, cover your ears." Once his boys were ready, Robert Baratheon patted his belly, took a small gulp of wine, and then used a voice that had led armies "Alright! Listen up!" His roar rippled out across the crowd, both of his sons laughing when he smiled at them. "You lot are going to get to see a real treat today. Prince versus Kingslayer! Fighting on foot for you lot, no armor, and to the first blood! After that, we'll hand out rewards to the winners of the races!"

Plopping back down on his throne, and letting his boys return to their seats, he kicked up his boots, gestured for his herald to announce the duelists, and got comfortable.

"Now you two, make sure you watch your uncle. The prince is too fancy for my tastes. Bit prideful in battle too. So I don't want you learning any bad habits. Save the flourishes and perfume for impressing the ladies, not when you're trying to make someone's insides, their outsides."

Good, fatherly words of wisdom.

A bit awkward but he was getting there.

He did pride himself on his predictions, however. As good a fighter as the Red Viper was, the man was legendary for playing with his food, enough that Robert was confident that he'd go for some showmanship. The daughters took after the father, and from what he'd seen, only the actually dangerous one didn't.

The reach of a spear was better than a sword.

Not that he'd ever used one for much. His proud warhammer remained the favorite till this day. But he could see how someone as… nimble as the Dornishman could make it work for anything other than as a joke about his 'godly cock'.

Down below the Herald announced the arriving fighters, with Ser Jaimie clad in a simple, sleeveless tunic of white linen and Oberyn strolling bare chested. Both men wore similar trousers, necessary this far North, and hobnailed boots. Jaimie, with his castle-forged longsword, was also given a small buckler to protect himself with. The spearman had declined anything but his primary weapon, which he even now twirled about. Its long red haft and shining steel head flashing in the low morning light.

Patting his boys on the shoulders, he sent them further down, out of the royal box, so they could stand near the railing of the dirt arena and get a better look.

And, after fixing himself another small glass of wine, by ordering his less useful squire to do it, the king watched as the two men on the field bantered and taunted one another in perfect courtly language. More importantly, he turned to his other brother in law and elbowed the man in the ribs.

"Hey, Imp. How about a bet?"

"Ah, your grace, I'm not so sure that would be… appropriate." His brother in law tried to deflect, the Halfman doing his best not to grimace.

"Psshaw. You're doing the finances now, more or less, and you're my brother in law too. Even if you lose, you win."

"Yes." The dwarf deadpanned. "I'm sure my father would be thrilled to hear his son is gambling with his money."

"I thought Lannisters shit gold?"

Both men turned to look at their host, Ned Stark, who simply looked right back at him. His face didn't so much as crack, his eyebrow didn't lift, there was almost no sign at all he'd even spoken.

"My word, Lord Stark, did you actually just make a joke? Are you human after all?"

The ugly dwarf, enjoying his own glass of honeyed mead, simply smirked and riposted while Robert was left incredulous.

"No. My children seem to think we're wolves."

Struggling not to break out in a fit of mad giggles, the king was actually knocked from his chair when his best friend's son did something he'd have never expected any of the flea and ice bitten Northmen to do in a thousand lifetimes.

"Bark, bark, Father. Your grace."

Robb, seated right next to Eddard, even inclined his head to both of them!

Sitting further away, his wife, Lady Stark, his daughter, Ned's eldest daughter, and a few of Oberyn's girls were off in a private box. Robert could see the Dornish prince's brood huddled together and being rather expressive in their support for their father, even the Witch, someone he had once thought wasn't quite given to socializing.

Gods knew he wasn't much for it these days.

But he found it… good that the young woman saw fit to make her presence known. Without the magic and scandal and massive magical swords. He'd heard some strange tales from Ned's boys about her being down at a tavern. And that there was a brawl between some of them and that Dayne boy that seemed to follow the witch's heels like a hunting dog.

Not that he believed it, but it was good.

Some brawling would do those boys well. Put some hair on their chests before they had to go out into the world and start fighting for real. Maybe he'd get to see them today, though if Ned didn't let his oldest participate then the chance was low.

Good sign at least.

Meant he wasn't as old as he felt.

When his bones ached and his breath rasped, when he felt like he couldn't even lift his hammer. That weakness that settled on him after there were no more battles to fight or wars to be won. He had a fire lit under him, and watching those two men, two of the finest men to ever touch a weapon in this side of the world, trying to tag each other with their pointy stick made the King wish he and Ned were down there.

Just like the old times.

'Maybe next year.'

If he kept at it, he should be well enough to go and put a show of his own. Maybe Ned would be there as his Hand and they'd do a heroic display for the people.

Oberyn, mid flourish, snapped his spear out and dashed forwards. They were only a few yards away and the Kingslayer barely brought his shield around in time. The Kingsguard had been playing to the crowd a bit and the Red Viper, darting in and slashing at the man, was almost playing up the underhanded villain.

"Imp, bet, now. I've got a hundred dragons on your brother."

"Your grace, I, uh, well, I can't bet against family?"

"If you win, buy him something nice. Double or nothing. Take it or leave it!"

"Well, I-"

"I'll take it Robert. Two hundred dragons and a promise, betting on the Prince."

Looking over at his friend, the king was actually a little worried but Ned just gave him a look. The same kind of look he gave him back during their rebellion, when he went North to raise an army. So, unable to do anything but agree, Robert gave a nod.

"Aye. Two hundred and a promise. Now come on you lot. I couldn't see them shit from up here."

Getting up out of his throne, the old man heartily abused the power he had to drag his friends along and took them down into the lower levels. Finding his boys, he made them both jump by clapping them on the shoulders, teasing them a little for being engrossed in the fight. Privately he was glad to see that Joffrey had actually been helping hold his younger brother steady while Tommen stood on top of a box to better see over the railing.

"Watch closely you two. They're killers."

Jaimie clearly knew how to fight a spear. Pressing forwards, the man brought his sword around and batted the haft away. Oberyn took this as a challenge and actively spun away, twisting and flourishing with the move. This let the swordsman close and, perhaps a bit miffed at being ambushed earlier, the kingsguard came in close and hard.

His slashes were tight, controlled, and flowed from one to the next. Yet the prince clearly saw this as a game, bending over backwards to dodge one slash, then executing a series of backflips to dodge several more. Popping up, he winked at Jaimie and beckoned him forwards with his spear. Obviously not dumb enough to just charge in, the blonde knight snorted in amusement, his derisive laughter audible from the sidelines, and advanced in a controlled, focused manner.

The prince, who had so far alternated between sudden, explosive bursts of energy, and near passivity, fell back into a period of slowness.

Each sword stroke was deflected with the minimum amount of effort, he never moved, his feet only stepping to the side and never forwards or backwards. Indeed, the prince was more likely to step into the knight's thrusts. Using the haft of his spear to knock the blade of the sword away, taking great care to strike it on the flat, he pushed the tip of his spear forwards.

The move was up and along the shield, aimed squarely at the outside of his opponents arm.

It would have won him the bout.

Yet Jaimie, seeing this coming, chose to push into the path of the blow.

Insteads of grazing along his arm, Oberyn's stroke would have buried the point of his spear in the meat of the other man's bicep. Instead, the prince jerked the strike off target and once more spun away - seemingly taking the measure of his opponent once again.

"Father, why didn't the prince strike Uncle?"

Joffrey, visibly confused, looked a bit constipated. Instead of teasing his boy, Robert just reached down and mussed his hair again, turning the young man's look of confusion to one of mild annoyance.

"Your uncle just gambled with his body. A wound like that might cost him his arm. The prince wasn't willing to go that far to win." Going unsaid was the fact that such a thing was a bit of a surprise.

"Father's growing rusty then."

One of Oberyn's girls, the second oldest, walked over. Accompanied by the Stark's septa as well as two others. The littlest snake and wolf not even acknowledging the powerful men before them, eyes fixated on the combat. As they properly should, Robert was never one for pleasantries.

And it was a hell of a bout.

"Come here all this way just to say hello? Tyrek, stop daydreaming about ti- time. Free time! Go bring some chairs for the ladies! As for you lot, sit! I got money riding on this one."

Septa Mordane, Robert remembered Cat telling him about her, sighed, disappointed. Then again, those types were always disappointed around him for whatever godly reason they could come up with. And the older Snake seemed very confident her father would win. Not that he'd blame her. For children, their parents always appeared unbeatable. And in a real fight to the death, Robert wasn't entirely sure she was wrong. Oberyn had been killing for as long as Jaimie had and without the benefit of the support of his brother-knights. Put simply, the Martell had been forced to struggle to survive more than his opponent had. And for the king, well, he figured that might just make all the difference when it came down to the wire.

It was still adorable when the littlest Snake, dressed more like a squire-to-be than anything else, bounced on her feet as she took a seat and Ned's girl wasn't any better. It was almost impressive at how quickly Tyrek Lannister, puffing as he carried several large wooden stools, managed to screw up too. Robert just glared at him when the boy stopped for a break and sent him scrambling back for more when he thought just seating the children would be enough.

"Raising Lady Knights now, Ned?"

His friend rolled his eyes, or at least very much looked like he wanted to.

"Don't humor her, Robert. Last thing I need is to get her wolf's blood up. Never mind her hopes. I'm half worried she's going to sneak off with-"

"Wait, watch Oberyn, he's about to strike!"

Interrupting his friend, Robert pointed out when the prince shifted his weight.

"Joff, Tomm, watch his back foot and his grip, he's about to go on the attack!"

Perhaps recovered from his earlier displays of acrobatic prowess, the bare chested warrior physically leapt forwards with a two handed strike. Almost sloppy, the move surprised Jaimie with its brute ferocity and caused the knight to fumble his block. This in turn created an opening for the prince to unleash a punishing series of blows.

Coming up from below chest height, he drove the point straight at his opponent's throat and, unwilling to gamble once again, Jaimie brought his buckler up. However, Oberyn's gamble paid off. With the line of sight broken between the knight and his enemy's weapon, the blonde was forced to back off as the Dornish prince snapped his weapon down and struck out a number of low blows.

These short, sharp attacks aimed at the kingsgaurd's forward thigh and foot and the prince did his best to drive the other man back.

With the momentum of the battle completely in his opponent's favor, Robert's bodyguard did what the king expected. Which is to say, something stupid. Jumping up, just like Oberyn had earlier, Jaimie landed on top of the spear shaft. Trapping the blade, he then lashed out with his buckler and punched Oberyn in the face.

Both men seemed a little shocked and, after a second's pause, the prince reached over, grabbed the kingsguard's wrist, and lifted the other man's hand high.

The crowd exploded into a wall of sound, cheering their hearts out, stomping, and hollering! Robert and his boys along with them, too. Even little Arya seemed to be cheering. Though it was a tad amusing how little Elia was pouting even as she clapped. The king took the chance to pat her shoulder and give her a wink, between those two there would definitely be a rematch.

All as a long line of red dripped from the prince's split lip.

"And that's how you win a bet, boys."

Elia Sand's booing echoed with a lot more coming from a select few northmen. Her sister merely clapped politely.

"Guess I win this time, Ned."

The Lord of Winterfell sighed.

"Fourteen for you, fifteen for me. I believe the count was."

"Oh no, I ain't counting that time we visited Old Town. That fight was rigged and you know it!"

His too-clever friend gave him a grin.

"It wasn't a fight at all, Your Grace. It was a play, you were just too deep in your cups to realize they were wooden swords. You even went and gave the poor lad some pointers after the whole thing was done. He was terrified."

And that was another strike against handing the Smug Wolf a seat of power.

"Maybe you should go console your champion then. I'm sure he could use some pointers in handling his spear."

Septa Mordane and Nymeria Sand fortunately had their hands covering the ears of the two confused young ladies, one looking mortified while the other looked rather amused at seeing the King bicker with his oldest friend as if they were two squires seeing a Tourney for the first time.

Robert certainly felt like it.

"How about another one? Triple or nothing?"

"Careful, Your Grace. I'd hate having to ask the Queen to settle your debts."

"Oh we'll see who'll be asking for coppers after this is done. By the end of it you'll have to work it off cleaning the shitters of my shitty city. Who knows, maybe you'll find some Valyrian Steel the witch girl missed."

 

[Zachers Zachary]

Yeees it's back and I can finally upload my fanart, hope y'all like it! Anyways gonna go read the chapter now, since I uploaded the image first