Chapter 19:
Lysithea:
This was all wrong.
Every note every scrap of information her father had regarding the subject on Magic in their library, she’d pulled and devoured over the course of the last few weeks, even taking meals in the library when her father allowed it.
And all of it, everything was fundamentally wrong.
She read about the blood rituals of the shadow mages of Ashaii, of the legions of sacrifices of slaves used by the Valyrians, the horrors enacted by the ancient magisters of the twelve flames.
None of it made sense.
Magic did not need such… barbarity. Such base, cruel waste.
She knew, deep down in her bones that magic was nothing like the grotesquery she was reading in these pages.
Magic was bound to the person to the self, the soul.
You were the source of magic, life itself, knowledge of the world around you, mathematical calculations and permutations. Its why mages needed to read for the whole of their lives, forever honing their craft.
Faith, strong belief in the Gods, in the natural order of things could also fuel such powers.
She knew. She knew because she’d walked both paths in lives long past, in memories that she’d long since dismissed as dreams and childhood foolishness.
And yet, the consensus to the contrary was staring her in the face.
Nothing she read deviated from the universal conclusion each of these men had reached.
Magic was fueled by dark practices.
Human sacrifice, blood ministrations.
It was like they were bargaining with the world. With the dark entities that gifted them mere morsels of power for prohibitive costs.
And the desperate monsters paid those costs every time.
She kept reading, growing more and more dismayed and disgusted with each tome that passed under her eyes.
She delved into her memories, the magic that she knew, the magic that wasn’t an abhorrent, malformed practice, remembering the many lessons and books and scrolls, the years upon years of practice.
She tried to reach into herself, to pull on that oh so familiar sensation and found only… a ghost.
She didn’t cry, but she felt the muscles under the skin of her face tighten and twist as she grit her teeth and scrunched her eyes in frustration.
She pushed away from her desk, standing up and turning away, beginning to pace before she felt like the cloying suffocating stink of dry pages and ink was choking her.
She marched out towards the nearest balcony, throwing open the doors and marching out to the space overlooking the gardens.
Several of the servants tending the grounds jumped in fright at the sudden noise, she resisted the urge to apologize, even as several of them turned, recognized her, and offered hasty, reflexive bows at her presence.
She took a deep breath, holding it in her chest before letting it out slowly.
Then, something caught her eye.
Or rather someone.
It wasn’t her father, near enough towards the other end of the gardens with his bright, opulent robes and glimmering gold and baubles.
Rather, it was who he was talking to.
She… she recognized that face.
She remembered that face.
They hadn’t noticed her, and catching herself before she shouted out the name, she understood somewhere, by sheer instinct… that she shouldn’t be seen.
So she caught the shout in her throat, stopping herself before she swallowed thickly.
And before she knew it she was all but running out of the Library and down towards the Garden grounds.
—
Petra:
The more that Petra rode with the Westerosi, the more her confusion grew.
They were so odd.
Yes, they had a strength that a Khal could respect. The brutality of the one known as Jeritza was something to behold- She’d seen it when some Khals had made jokes about the one called Edelgard, and Edelgard herself was ruthless seen when she easily bested Drogo’s Bloodrider..
Yet they worried about so many things that were pointless to worry over. And they spoke about so many worthless things too.
“I assure you one simple taste won’t dismount you.” the blonde one said with that strange smile of hers. Petra was beginning to think her smiles false.
“I fail to see the practicality of drinking as we ride,” Edgelgard responded.
Petra tilted her head at that. Wine as they rode was hardly a strange thing. A dothraki that couldn’t fight, drink or fuck as they rode was a poor rider indeed. It was known.
Strange and foolish these Westerosi could be.
Even if she was slowly starting to truly understand their language, even if Drogo’s woman brought the stallion that would mount the world, and the dragons sat back on their metal chair, Petra doubted and feared their strangeness would never leave them.
“Oh come now, it’s hardly an out of place proposition, after all we must commemorate the moment of our friendship, should we not?” The blonde, Constance said.
Petra tilted her head.
“You are friend?” she asked.
The odd blonde scoffed, turning to look at Petra as though she was offended.
Petra shrugged.
It had just been a question.
Edelgard closed her eyes, and Petra barely made out the princess counting down from ten.
“Aquantances for now, though that will perhaps change for the better once we reach our destination.”
“Then why delay the inevitable?” the blonde noblewoman asked, “It’s not as if I plan on poisoning my greatest confidant.” The Blonde returned to her smiles.
Edelgard scoffed. “A confidant? We are using each other for our own ends, it hardly qualifies.” The Princess pointed out.
Constance shrugged “Obviously Princess. But such mutually beneficial arrangements are hardly exclusive to each other. The return of both our houses to prominence I’d say is a solid foundation for friendship.”
Petra looked at Edelgard and the white haired girl looked back. Somehow, it looked like Edelgard was asking her of all people for her opinion. Strange thing, considering it wasn’t for killing or skinning, so the dathraki shrugged.
“Simple goal, worth backing, if strong. Kill her if she not worth it.”
Constance gasped, utterly affronted.
Petra shrugged.
It was the truth.
“Honestly;” The woman frowned. “Even if you were to be as barbaric as to suggest I be killed, me of all people! You’re uncivilized and uncouth enough to say it to my face!?”
“Would you like me to say it to your back?” Petra asked honestly.
Constance blinked, and it was only from the angle of their ride that let Petra see the smirk spread across Edelgard’s features.
She was still wondering why Edelgard had chosen to to ride with her. From what Petra understood; she wished to speak with the people from Sand. But they were riding near Drogo, and Edelgard was far behind along the column; with Petra.
Did she need another protector? Petra doubted, she had her steel fighter, Jeritza and was no fool with a blade herself.
She couldn’t make sense of it.
“Thoughts of assassination aside, we’ve hardly given much reason to trust one another beyond convenience at the moment,” Edelgard pointed out, “To say nothing of you offering me a drink, when I’m not the only voice you need to convince.”
The screaming babe Edelgard called a brother Petra suspected.
Drogo would’ve killed him a long time ago if they were kin. A bloodless death, of course, as the Kin of Khal deserved. But dead nevertheless.
Apparently, the blonde one and Edelgard saw the use of keeping him alive.
For what reason, Petra couldn’t fathom.
“My dear Edelgard, you act as if I’m going to offer this wine to you and you alone.”
“Oh, trying to give the Targaryens a sweet treat before the poison takes them?”
Prince Oberyon rode up to them, swiftly turning his horse around to trot at their side his smile spread across his face, not a care in the wind for him. The brown haired girl was close behind, the Mormont that was given to Edelgard. She rode behind all of them, looking for all the world like she was sucking on bitter fruit.
“You must have wonderful drink if you’re willing to share so readily.”
“Would you like a taste?” Constance’s smile was all honey.
“If you would be so kind.”
The blonde let the sand prince take the wine, and get a large swig. He smiled at the taste, before pausing. He gripped his throat, coughing, gasping and leaning over on his saddle, she was actually worried he’d actually been poisoned for a second, before he smiled once again, now offering the wine to Edelgard.
“If it is poisoned, it’s far less than what I employ on even my weakest spears.”
Petra tilted her head.
Why bother putting poison on a spear? If you stabbed someone they would die regardless? Even what little she knew of the metal men of Westeros, a spear through the eye would be more than enough.
“Be as it may, Prince Oberyon, I’d rather keep my wits until we arrive at our destination.”
“Oh please, enjoyment is the cornerstone to all types of friendships. You won’t be able to sit and work with the men of the stormlands if you cannot drink with them.”
“The home of House Baratheon more than likely be burned down considering who sits on the throne.”
“Ah, yes,” the prince muses, riding up beside Edelgard and leaning back on his mount. His saddle was custom, letting him lean back and perhaps even put his feet up. ”But unless you plan on burning everyone in the stormlands, you’ll still have to sit and drink with even the smallest of lords. They all enjoy a good drink, and the women are a good time, as well as the men.”
Constance scoffed. “Such effortless degeneracy is beneath you, Lord Martel. The Iron Throne won’t conduct itself like those of Dorne.”
Edelgard raised a slight brow, yet said nothing. Maybe she agreed, maybe she didn’t care, Petra couldn’t tell.
“I won’t deny I’ve tasted a great many fruits,” Oberyon said with a shrug, “But you overlook the importance of such… revelries at your detriment, Lady Rayne. Infact Lady Edelgard’s brother, he was quite the minstrel despite his talents with a blade. A wonderful singing voice that no doubt was the envy of many a maiden.”
“Oh?” Edelgard asked. “I haven’t heard much of Rhaegar, beyond his folly at least.”
Oberyn’s eyes sharpened, and his smile fell, a split second of something dark passing through his face before he mastered it and the smile returned.
“I can confirm, my lady,” Constance answered eagerly. If she noticed anything, well, Petra couldn’t tell. “I heard many stories myself about Prince Rhaegar. Rogier can confirm.”
Constance turned towards the old man driving the… Cart? They had another word for it but Pettra could not remember. It was a box that people rode in. Why do that rather than ride with a saddle Petra didn’t know. Seemed like far more useless weight for the horses to carry if you asked her.
The old Grey-beard bowed, and seemed to wheeze out his answer. “Yes milady. Prince Rhaegar was known to have a graceborn gift with the harp and song.”
The sand prince chuckled at that.
“Such is the way that some men can capture the simple hearts of his fellow man.”
“If I didn’t know any better I’d expect you two were lobbying for a position in statecraft.”
Petra didn’t understand half of the words in that sentence.
“Well if you’re offering.” Constance smiled.
“Do you think you’d be good at it?” Oberyn smirked, something new hiding in that smile.
Again, if Constance noticed, Petra couldn’t tell. “Naturally, fallen my house might be but my education was thorough and very high quality. And I’m sure many a Knight will join our cause as well.”
“Because of you? The name attached to you? Or your Grandfather’s name?”” Edelgard asked.
Constance’s smile didn’t even twitch. “Is there a difference?”
“... no, I suppose not. At least if your grandfather joins us at all on nothing but your word.”
Petra raised an eyebrow but it was Oberyn who asked the question she was thinking.
“Who is your grandfather, Lady Reyne?”
“We hardly know each other that well quite yet Prince Oberyn. Should all proceed as planned, you'll learn in due course.”
The Vyper shrugged. “Fair enough.”
Westerosi were indeed masters of speaking nothing for long periods.
—
Lysithea
The Gardens were a lush, well maintained space. The servants had worked hard to do so, and had managed to create verdant expansive spaces, carefully measured in geometric patterns with central pavilions and varied flora, like pomegranate and apple trees, rose and jasmine bushes, and towering cypress trees for spaces of cool shade amidst the dry landscape, an oasis in the deserts of Pentos.
It served her well now, letting her hide amidst the boughs and shadows as she drew close to the pavilion where her father was speaking with the young man that should be a stranger to her.
The servants, if they even saw her, thought she was simply playing a prank and sneaking up on her father. It helped that they were half right from a certain point of view.
She was lucky, in that her father never enjoyed talking ‘business’ without some sort of food or drink on hand, and that held true now, as a servant delivered some sort of food to them before taking his leave as she heard her father speak.
“What does your Master have to report to me now Little Bird?”
Little Bird? Master?
“Merely an update this time my lord.” The young man said. Lysithea could all but hear his smirk. “Baratheon has reached Winterfell, My master expects he should already be returning to the capital with Ned Stark as we speak now.”
Lysithea leaned closer, hiding in the shade of a cyprus tree, peeking past she could just see the back of her father’s head.
And just past him…
Pale skin, pale indigo hair, blue painted lips.
She did recognize him.
She did remember him.
Yuri.
“Hmm. I don't suppose Varys has any greater insight on Stark now than he did months ago?” Her father asked.
Yuri shook his head, body still partly bowed, one hand across his chest, the other behind his back. “No my lord, he hasn’t managed to get the North Lord’s measure quite yet. He hasn’t even left the north as of yet.”
Her father grumbled, sounding displeased. “And the Prince, as popular and beloved as ever?”
“Quite.”
Why were they discussing this? Why was her father involving himself so directly with the politics of Westeros?
Was he really this invested in Targaryen restoration?
“Hn. Even so, should Ned Stark be a stabilizing force, we can always reveal Cersei’s incestuous affair, it will at the very least, throw the succession into crisis.”
Wait… what? What incestuous afair? Cersei? Queen Cersei Lannister? But-
“Quite true my lord.” Yuri’s voice cut off her thoughts and she drew her attention back to the conversation.
Her father scoffed. “I suppose what you’re really here for is news of the Beggar King and his sisters? You brought me nothing of real substance.”
“As intuitive as ever my lord.”
“Feh. The Targaryen’s are on their way to Vaes Dothraak. Disappearing into the Grass sea as of two weeks ago. The Horde will remain until Daenarys falls pregnant and Birth’s her son. Another Targaryen to kill before this is all over…”
She had to fight to stop herself from gasping. What did her father mean? Why did he want to kill the Targaryen’s? Why- none of this made sense!
Oblivious to her spinning thoughts her father continued. “ Hmm… I immagine if you tell Baratheon he’ll fly into a bloody rage.”
“He very well might.”
Was he… was he playing both sides? Why? To what end!?
“Good. Good. Be sure to tell your Master to tell Baratheon about it then, just when he feels it’ll do the most damage.”
“I will convey the message.”
“Dantos-” Her father called to the head servant, who clambered quickly up the steps of the pavilion to bow and wait for his orders. “ see our guest to his usual rooms, provide him with supplies for the return journey.”
“At once my lord Mopatis.”
Her father stood, his large form practically dominating the space before he began to leave.
She hid in the shadow of the tree, eyes following her father.
When she looked away from him, back to Yuri, her heart dropped as she caught his amethyst eyes staring straight at her.
He smiled pleasantly, and then… turned and followed after her father, not saying anything, even as Lysithea’s heart hammered under her ribs.
(X)(X)(X)
And we finally know where at least one whole "house" from three houses are :p Yuri, Balthus, Hapi and Constance are now all accounted for and Lysithea discovers that her father is a bit more "involved" in Westerosi politics than he has any right to be :pNext chap, back to the north! Where the Prince and co go a hunting for Wilding Wabbits.