One Who is Many - Chapter 2
"Oof!" The quarterstaff slammed into her stomach again and Ophelia almost got lifted off the ground. Instead, she rolled with the blow as much as she could and pushed through what would certainly be another bruise.
Bringing her own staff up, she lashed out, driving the blunt end straight at her sister's head. Obara simply snorted, snapped the staff up to her little sister's fingers, and forced her sibling to snatch the weapon back lest she lose a digit. Not that it was a great loss for the former villain slash hero slash god slaying warlord. No, she was still good at planning ahead.
So, as she jerked her hand back, she also lifted the weapon, bringing it horizontal compared to her body, and twisted into a downward swing.
It wasn't pretty, it wasn't elegant, but it did catch Obara across the shoulder.
"Huh. First time you've hit me all day. Now, let's see if you can do it again!"
Grinning more than a little viciously, the older girl lashed out with a two handed swing, forcing the would be witch to block, before shifting stances mid strike. Using her now superior positioning, she pressed forward, muscle against muscle, and proceeded to knock her smaller, less physical sister to the ground. And then proceed to jab the point of her, thankfully blunt, staff into her throat.
"Dead, little sister."
Only… slightly annoyed, Ophelia made a fly land on Obara's face.
"And you're dead too."
This made the other girl chuckle.
"Now, now. Just because I've been whipping you like a disobedient stable boy doesn't mean you get to pout. I thought you out of all of us would be able to lose gracefully, no?"
Sighing, she nodded.
"I am the one who asked you to train me."
"Good. Then I won't have to kick your butt while you're using your powers too."
Taking Obara's proffered hand, the young woman let her older, and significantly less sweaty, sister help her up. After a clap on the back, the eldest of the Sand Snakes deemed their training session complete and took the fallen staff up from the dirt and sent her sister away with a shooing motion.
"Go. Get the food ready. I'm sure Tyene has not poisoned it, but you can never be too careful."
Giggling, said sister called over from the campfire where their assigned men at arms were currently listening to her play a harp.
"Oh you wound me sister dearest. I assure you, I only poisoned your portion. And only so badly as you wound cute, little Ophelia!"
"Hah! Then I would fear for my life, If our sister was not so kind. For we are alike in that we repay ten times the injury given. And I left… more than one bruise on her body and her pride."
Currently nursing said bruise, Ophelia considered getting up from her tree and flipping off her siblings for making sport of her. Instead, she just tightened the belt around her loose, linen breeches and hobbled over to the small stream they'd camped nearby.
Water was very, very good, she decided.
Even if the lessons could stand to be a bit kinder on her bruises.
Really, Ophelia hadn't meant to drop her healthier habits. It just so happened that she dedicated so much time to her studying and experimenting, as well as later on doing commissioned work for nobles and the like, that there was very little free time left for her to do anything else.
It was only when traveling that the former villain didn't have to worry about her new responsibilities.
Now if only her sister did not take them as an opportunity to use her as a sandbag.
Not that she wasn't thankful.
Just sore. Very, very sore.
But the change in scenery helped. Rather than being battered around the dunes of Sunspear, Ophelia took comfort in the light breeze and partially covered skies. The biting chill contrasted with her warm skin.
A lifetime of living in more agreeable weather hadn't prepared her for living in Dorne. In fact, it had actively hindered her for nearly a decade before she finally managed to adjust to the scorching heat and the near absence of wind. She couldn't imagine how much harder it would have been if she hadn't been born to the Martels.
Just the thought of not having her oils and private bath sent shivers down her spine.
'Note to self. Invent plumbing and the shower when we go back home.' She was no handywoman, but the Taylor part of her would be damned if she was forced to look at a chamber pot one more time.
Turns out it's the small things that you miss the most.
Like showers, toilets, night lamps that didn't melt.
"Ophelia Martel, saving the world one bathroom at a time." She snorted back a laugh. Having no doubt in her mind that had she been one of those insane geniuses who could replicate technology from nothing, she would have already made a cellphone or something insane to change the world.
But she wasn't.
She had been a fighter first and something of a bookworm second.
Also a warlord. But she didn't feel like conquering Westeros anytime soon.
Once had already been enough.
So that left her with little alternative but to become a scholar and inventor.
Whatever she made, she had to apply whatever knowledge she had to the information she had access to in the present. Hence why she had gotten her hands into as many books as she could since very young. Why she demanded tutors and mentors from all forms of subjects.
Getting a feeling from how far this world had advanced. And what she could do with what they had.
Which was, in fact, an immense amount. Despite the severe technological stagnation they seemed to suffer from, it was more of a cultural malaise than an inability to innovate. In truth, dozens, if not hundreds, of small areas had reached levels that had been at its modern equivalent or even, in a few rare cases, more advanced.
Horse breeding, for example, had lines that had been cultivated for literally thousands of unbroken years. Older than the Seven Kingdoms! And while the masters of beast flesh didn't have names to give to things like genes and phenotypes, they had a hilariously advanced ability to judge traits, the odds of passing them along, and how to both care for a breeding population and exploit it to its utmost.
Wool softer than silk, horses that could challenge slower cars, grape vines that were older than the United States had been.
And they still didn't have anything approaching steam power.
In fact, things like water clocks were so rare she'd been politely told no when she asked her father to purchase one. Something she was confused by, that he refused her not that she was being told no, but was very, very quickly answered when the price was explained.
'And I still don't understand this level of diffusion!'
Some of the free cities were beginning to push the level of technology she might have expected from the renaissance area… but only in ways that didn't threaten the overall status quo.
Improvements to metallurgy, but not how to harness black powder.
Knotwork and sailmaking to rival even modern innovations, but not the advanced cartography or the concept of stock companies and proper trade organizations to exploit it.
Or closer to home. How people knew how to harness water power for wheels, but not really bothering to push beyond that.
'Or I suppose how the Starks supposedly use hotsprings to heat their castle, requiring an understanding of water pressure, plumbing, and functional piping and the materials needed. Along with everything needed to maintain and repair that.
'Note to self, make sure their pipes aren't lead.'
Frankly, something told her that someone - or something - was holding technology back. But there was nothing she could think of doing that world wide. Even if she didn't totally trust an organization as powerful as the Maesters, the utter absence of a system of colleges and academies outside of the Citadel just… didn't make sense.
There was no royal school of engineers, no particularly studious lords organizing or donating a castle or anything. And while there were small, local schools, none of them had anything approaching great thinkers or widespread influence.
"Dwelling in your own thoughts again, sister?"
Jumping slightly, Ophelia looked up from her reflection, realizing her knees were screaming at her as she'd sat there - lost in her thoughts.
"I… uh… yes?"
Tyene just snorted.
"Indeed. We called for you. I had thought you might be bathing, considering your rather fastidious nature."
Shaking her head, the former villainess didn't take the obvious bait of her sister's suggestive grin.
"And you'd been so good. Hadn't teased me at all since we'd left Sunspear."
"Of course not. There'd been zero privacy and you're mine, little sister."
There was greed in Tyene's tone, not lust, and that's what confused the girl who had once been Taylor Hebert. She knew what had happened with Victoria and Amy Dallon, mindrape turned mindbreak and all that wonderful drama. But what confused her wasn't the blatantly incestuous actions, the Martells likely wouldn't be more than slightly offended and their father would probably just shrug.
No.
It was the little things.
The searching gaze, the probing questions, the seemingly random suggestions that Tyene knew more than she was letting on.
"Well, I do appreciate the exclusivity. But I hope you know that they execute people for what you tend to do in the less open parts of Westeros."
That got a bitter laugh from the girl in question.
"If only it were just your body I wanted! And besides, if the queen does it under the king's nose, I'm sure we'll be fine."
And there it was - another thing that might get her sister into trouble. Outside of pretending to be a gentle wallflower who could do no wrong, Tyene had a barbed tongue and wasn't afraid to sting others with it. At least when it wouldn't get her executed. But that was a close thing these days.
"Do pipe down about that while we're staying over with the King. I'd hate to give them an actually viable reason for wanting my head on a pike." And given what she'd learn of the royal family, that might just become an actual concern.
King's Landing was a pit of snakes.
Yes, she was aware of the pun.
"Like we'd let them. Father would sooner go to war than let one of us come to harm." Obara snorted derisively.
Nonetheless, it wasn't a place where they would be allowed to do as they pleased. The walls had ears and eyes. Every stranger down the street could be and likely was a spy. If she had to make another comparison, Ophelia would compare the city to a multi-layered chessboard with half a dozen players and thousands of moving pieces.
The coming of the Martels meant that they would be considered either pieces or a new player.
She knew Tyene would relish the chance to play. And would probably rope half of their family into it, given the smallest chance to have a bit of fun.
The former would see them used for the means of another. The latter would see them executed or driven away to preserve the tenuous balance of power within. Anything could shift the balance and cause the place to tumble into a downward spiral of self destruction.
'Somewhat like Brockton Bay.' She realized belatedly.
Only instead of Gangs, you had Houses.
And instead of the PRT, you had the Crown. About as effective as most heroes had been in her world too.
"Games always have losers and sometimes no winners. And I don't think any of us want to see what a pyrrhic victory looks like by House Martel standards.
It would be so easy to do as she had before. Establish a powerbase, usurp one of the major players, work to overtake dominion over her new territory and establish boundaries amongst the remaining players. Really, if Ophelia had ever intended to join the Game, she wouldn't have spent the last decade and a half trying to increase the quality of life for people.
Rather she would have taken over, gotten one of her relatives on the throne, then secluded herself again to work in peace. She easily slip back into the role of Skitter, the Warlord of Brockton Bay.
It would have served as a nice trip down memory lane.
Even easier now that she had an entire family with resources behind her.
'Give five months… seven tops. I'd have the run of the place.'
What could a knight do against a swarm of insects? What could poison do against eyes that watched every hand? What could an army or a castle or all the ships in the world do against the very air around them turning black as night while God's wrath poured out upon them?
"Must you spoil my fun, sister mine?" Tyene's hand came to rest on the inside of her thigh. Not high enough for impropriety - they were sisters and bastards of a Prince, no one would dare imply such a thing without hard evidence. But it was high enough that Ophelia knew what her sister was doing.
"When your pretty little neck is on the line, yes."
She took her sister's hand in her own and sighed.
"I'm quite serious. Who knows if there are any other mages running around out there? We are at Old Town, after all, and the Citadel is supposed to have a pet caster that's spent decades learning every scrap of lore he can. Why wouldn't there be a hundred others like him, hidden amongst the nobility? And there is the Spider. A man like him, from the East, with as many connections as his name implies, are you telling me he doesn't practice magic?"
"You're not Uncle, so please, sister, try not to drown in the sorrows of the world."
Obara trundled over, carrying several plates and a wineskin, before settling on the softest patch of grass she could find.
"And besides, Father always says Uncle gives himself ulcers to go along with his gout because of all the brooding he does."
"He better not. I struggle with his demands as they are." Ophelia chuckled. She only enjoyed as much of man's favor as she did because he went through her creams and potions like a dying man. Well, that and she was far, far less trouble than his own daughter.
The three chuckled, agreeing that their uncle was a bit dour for the normally high spirited clan they all belonged to. However, after that, the former warlord spent more time eating and drinking than she did speaking. Hunger was more important than gossip.
For now at least.
Oldtown was just as Oberyn remembered it.
Cramped and humid with a healthy dosage of salt.
The few times he'd taken the time to tour the old seat of power of the First Men, the prince had been more concerned with drinking and touring its less… reputable districts than he had been on appreciating the markings of history few men cared to remember.
Weaving between the various streets and alleyways with effortless grace, Oberyn felt alive as he took in the sights, sounds, and smells of the port city. From the tart smell of pomegranates being sold at the market, to the sweet perfume of merchants and the highborn who pursued their wares.
Spices.
Clothes.
Trinkets and jewels from far away land whose names he never really cared to recall.
Oldtown might be old, but it burst with a vigor few places could match.
People were much more pleasant too. Not nearly as much greed cloying people's heads. Not a whole lot since King's Landing became the most important city in Westeros. Old Town, under the watchful eye of House Hightower, prospered without having to concern itself with the workings of a court.
His favorite part, however, were the taverns.
A trading hub as big as this was home to one of the largest collections of exotic drinks, the likes which would make even the hardiest of northmen swoon. There was stuff here he didn't even know the name of, let alone how it was made or where it even came from.
Something he needed to bring up with dear Ophelia one of these days.
If his prodigious daughter somehow managed to uncover the secrets of brewing the stuff, he would never have to worry about the dent buying it would leave in his coin purse. Well, that and they would have another great contribution to add to her list.
'Of course, for purely altruistic motives.'
It was for that exact reason… and one more that he found himself waiting at the Golden Trunkard. A small, out of the way tavern which was close to bursting at the seams. Even at this hour of the day you'd find more than enough people willing to drink themselves into an early grave.
He was tempted to start himself.
Unfortunately, business came before pleasure. And there was something he needed to take care before he could indulge his parched throat.
A rather stocky, bulldog like man trundled over to his table, a mug of something cold and sweet smelling in his hands. For a moment, the prince considered taking a sip, surely a Mage wouldn't refuse the father of a witch? But this particular maester had a shrewd look in his eyes and a firm grip on his tankard.
"Afraid I'm going to steal your drink old man?"
Marwyn snorted.
"Afraid? No, boy, but this costs three silvers for me to buy. And grand maesters get their drinks free here. And unlike you profligate southrons, I've learned to hold onto my coin."
Eyes twinkling, the prince waved down a serving boy and gestured at his companion's drink - plopping down a number of golden crowns onto the table at the boy's stunned look. Sighing, the peasant child ran to the back to get the, presumably labor intensive, drink ready.
"So. Now that that's settled, you wish to see my daughter? Surely you understand a father must be concerned when a man asks for his child with lust in their heart."
"I've got less lust in my whole body than you have in your right bollock, Prince of Whores." Marwyn took a long drink, clearly enjoying whatever it was he was imbibing. "But I won't deny that whatever child you sired, during what I'm sure was a lovely, and expensive, oh, three hours, is the most valuable bastard in the Seven Kingdoms."
This got a raised eyebrow.
"If she's so important, why weren't you among the throngs of wise men come to see her?"
"For the same reason we're meeting in an over crowded hole in the wall half full of foreigners and half full of acolytes."
There was a loud crash some three tables over as a pair of men fell to the floor, scrabbling and lashing at one another, only for a pair of particularly bury brown skinned fellows to literally pick them up and toss them out.
"So we're playing cloak and dagger games?"
"The owner is a friend of mine. Kept him from losing his cock to a curse, once." The so-called Mage's non answer explained everything.
"How many?"
"Watching us right now?" He actually chuckled. "None. But only because they think I'm asleep. And the lad who was supposed to be outside my chambers is enjoying the evening with an, ah, lady. One who was well compensated to stroke his ego most thoroughly."
"A pity I don't have time for that."
"I always did wonder if you Martells had two heads as well as three legs."
Guffawing, the prince took his drink and pushed the now slightly smouldering serving boy the gold coins, and down half of it in one gulp.
"Truly, you are a friend of House Martell and-"
For a brief second, he stood outside his own body, reality itself frozen in place. Then - color.
Blues and reds and whites and greens and purples and colors there were no words for. Reality itself bled away into a riot of noise that he could taste, sights he could feel, and a thick, hazy fuzz that seemed to wrap his entire body with warmth.
"Welcome back."
Blinking, Oberyn realized no time at all had passed. His hand hadn't even moved from where it'd been halfway to the table.
"Shade…." He found his throat unbearably parched. "Shade of the Evening?"
Nodding his head, the old man smirked.
"Amongst other things. Finish up and we'll talk. The first time never quite ends until you're done."
Another ripple of sound that stretched from the infinite ends of time blossomed like flower petals from the mage's lips. Words that were true and Truth and TRUTH all at once filled up the waterskin that was Oberyn Martell. Blinking, and realizing once more he'd skipped half a second as he spent years and days and minutes watching the sun spin in the sky through a wooden slat, he shrugged and tossed the rest of his drink back.
What came next didn't stay with him past the vision.
In truth, all he could recall was his daughter's face, crawling with insects before peeling back to reveal a girl who looked… almost like her, but older and rougher - though still pretty enough in the way girls who had not yet become women were.
That too peeled back, but he didn't recall what he saw next. Not… truly. Flashes of two great things, like worms, but made of light. Then a golden man, a swarm of embers, like fireflies, and then a goddess. For what could a woman with a thousand hands be but a goddess? His fist shattered when the goddess shot his not-daughter.
And that moment, when his blood mixed with the clay stained with the drink and the few drops of the narcotic remained he saw them.
White and Red and Black and all the colors of existence. Even a twisting rainbow, he saw every. Last. One.
And they were all looking at his daughter.
Because just as the woman who killed her with fire and steel was not… human, the mass of swarming vermin was too his daughter. Comforting, somehow, in the mass of insects and rats and carrion beasts and worse that swam in the depths that was his most gifted child.
"What did you see?"
Marwyn was greedy, eyes shining with a desire to know that Oberyn had only seen in madmen and fanatics before.
"The gods."
His voice was a croak, a whisper, somehow the mage knew it wasn't the truth - not completely. The man's eyes screamed as much.
"My daughter."
Lips pulled back showing too large canines and a butcher's grin.
"Wonderful. Drink this."
Producing a cup of something steaming and hot, the Red Viper almost hesitated to quaff the beverage. But whether it was relief or Oblivion, it would likely only do him good at this point.
"Thanks."
And just like that he was back on his feet. Energy rushing through his veins as a lethargy he didn't realize he was wasting away under disappeared.
"Careful now. That stuff is strong. But you see now why we might be watched?"
"By who?"
"The same people who came to your door."
"Ophelia is a smart girl, she'd never-"
"She wouldn't need to. They're five or six times her age, with goals much more narrow than her own. Scraps for scraps, knowledge for knowledge. While she's intelligent, she doesn't quite know what not to give away." Marwyn finished his own drink, his eyes seeming to dull as he did so. "I tried to visit three times. The first time they were polite, told me to let others investigate so as not to waste my time. The second time, less so. My chain was implicitly threatened. The third, well, I was almost out of the city when a group of acolytes caught me."
"I must confess confusion that you were not dragged kicking and screaming back to your chambers."
"Hmmph. I would have been, had a lady friend not promised me you'd visit. Eventually."
"She knew we had left Sunspear to come visit you?"
"Aye. Three years ago."
Oberyn had no response for this. Feeling that he'd stepped into something a bit beyond what he was used to. Even the rituals and spells he'd learned had, admittedly, been about improving his, ah, virility and the potency of other, less wholesome, fluids as well. Not prophecy and the gods.
Sitting there in silence, the prince sipped on the warm drink while the wise man took a pull of a cool, dark ale the serving boy had brought to him.
Watching the crowd move was enough conversation.
"Father!"
Sarella, dodging through the crowd with ease, rushed over to her father's side - only stopping once to break a finger of a man with a wandering hand. Much to the amusement of his companions, who roared with drunken hilarity at their friend's misfortune.
"I, uh, well."
"You just broke a man's finger."
There was more than a hint of approval and pride in his voice.
"Yes, you see, uh, when I went to check on the Citadel I…."
A sudden commotion at the door distracted the group as several strong, rough looking men tried to force their way past the bouncers - only to be cracked across the face with a wooden club.
"Yeah. I may have pissed off the crew of an Ironborn ship."
Oberyn snorted with amusement, cutting his eyes to the dagger sheathed at her hip. And then the locations where she'd secreted another three about her person.
"And I hope you left them only maimed and not dead?"
"...Mostly?"
This time Marwyn laughed, barking in amusement.
"Brown skin, like one from Southrys, Summer Islander? I see your father's eyes… that makes you Sarella."
"And you're the Archmaester Marwyn! I'm so glad to meet you sir! I've studied your writings on basilisks and unicorns extensively, as well as on the cult practices of Asshai and the similarities of some of their words with common Yi Tish! While I only understood some of the syntax connections it was truly enthralling! And the idea of the Yellow Emperor being connected to the war with the Tiger Men and the Dawn War and- oops.'
The Ironborn had clubs of their own now and the scuffle at the doorway had degenerated into a full on brawl, patrons and staff beating back snarling and furious raiders.
Marwyn just smiled.
"Let's slip out the back. I'll quiz you on our way to your family's camp." Turning to Oberyn, he nodded. "Quite the wondrous brood for a rake such as yourself to produce. I must say, I approve."
Shaking his head, the Dornish man took the backhanded compliment and snatched up his spear.
"Let's get moving. Before we have to kill a kraken - and not just its worshippers."
Ophelia would never forget their visit to Oldtown.
Not because it was such a massive cultural center filled with rich history and exotic goods. Nor was it because it was her first meeting with the enigmatic Marwin. Who'd soon become one of her closest confidants.
Rather, because it was her first time being chased out of a city since being reborn.
Without ever stepping foot inside its walls, most of the Martels were forced to leave after a certain stupid adventurer of an older sister got into a fight with a bunch of pirates. Thus denying her prodigious younger sister a chance to ever learn of its wonders….
"Come on, Ophelia. I said I was sorry" Said stupid adventurer of an older sister whined.
Which the young witch promptly ignored as she kept dumping her woes into the small diary she was keeping for the trip.
"It's been a week. You can't still be mad at me!"
The younger sister snorted.
Obviously, Sarella did not know how capable she was at holding grudges. Not that she blamed the older girl too much from interrupting her visit of Oldtown. What had really galled her was that she didn't even get to do anything before her dummy of a sister decided to start a bar fight.
"I know! I know!" Sarella grunted. "I might have screwed up there. But it wasn't my fault."
"You practically mauled half of a longship's entire crew and killed a quarter of the rest." She finally spoke out loud.
"In self defense!" Her sister protested.
"After how many tankards of mead?"
The adventurer deflated before her eyes. Mouth closing with a sudden click, a small mumble escaping her lips instead.
"I'm sorry, sister dearest. I didn't hear that."
"A couple… " Came the whispered reply.
"Just a couple, huh? Not a teensy bit more?"
Sarella looked to the side, an auburn glow coloring her cheeks.
"She was sober enough to know to find her father, no?"
Marwyn's laughter was all the encouragement the two sisters needed to finally make up. This taking the form of Sarella punching Ophelia's shoulder and the younger sister making a gnat fly into her sister's eye. Oberyn intervened before the apology could escalate any further.
"Whoever throws the next blow digs the latrines for the next week. For all of us. And the other one gets to take the night watch in the middle of the night for the same period of time."
Their make up session ended there.
"Good girls." The prince turned to his favorite maester. "You know, you should try having kids yourself. It's really not that hard. They're far more self sufficient and obedient than I was warned they would be. And if you want them to do something, just threaten them with filthy, difficult, back breaking labor. Honestly, I never really understood why some people needed to actually strike their get."
The older man snorted back a laugh.
"I suspect that would be your kids' penchant for hitting each other."
And there was some truth to it. The Sand Snakes rose together, worked together, trained together, fought tooth and nail together, and got into just about all sorts of messes Oberyn could have possibly conceived since they left Sunspear. It only hit him later that this was the first time they were traveling together.
Ophelia in particular, as she almost never left Sunspear. Only leaving to check up in other nearby cities. This trip, ill conceived as its reason had been, turned out to be exactly what his daughters needed to get closer as a family.
"Better they hit each other and live than some stranger hitting them to kill." He finally answered.
And given where they were headed. That was very much a good thing.
"How much longer until we are there?"
The dornish prince turned to face the young witch.
"I'd say around a week. Maybe less if we ride with haste."
A few days before Robert planned to make his trip up north. Or so their friends in court had told them.
It made sense. Robert's most loyal allies during the rebellion had been the Starks, so with Jon Arryn's death, the man needed a new Hand. And who else could that man trust but the most fanatically loyal of all Houses?
Not House Martel, of course.
In his eyes they were still Targaryen loyalists, just because they hadn't cheered and clapped when King's Landing was sacked. Never mind the countless brutalities back then, when they were to avenge the man losing the woman he loved. But when Oberyn gets angry that his own sister was brutalized and killed Robert gets to be all uppity.
And now Ophelia was being dragged into the latest Game.
For what reasons? Probably none good.
"I heard the city stinks of shit. Is that true Father?"
Elia trotted over to them, her mount falling into place beside their father's own mare.
"Aye. Fleabottom is a slum of the worst kind. And the sewers are poor or nonexistent in much of the city. I heard a story, once, that the Mad King wanted to build a city of marble opposite his city of dung. But such tales are likely as much the product of Aery's own insanity as anything else."
"Do you think I might be able to joust there? A tilt with their squires, at least?"
At this, Oberyn pursed his lips. And that expression of displeasure alone was enough to draw Ophelia's attention.
"You girls know that you're my greatest pride. But, as much as it turns my stomach, I will ask you to stick together and not… stick out. That city is a place of filth and weakness and treachery. Just as a Stark should never go South, a Martell has no need to go North of the pass." Visibly grimacing, he shook his head. "Strangely enough, I trust Mace and his sons with your cousin. But she is also not my daughter and they are close to us. Close enough we would be able to exeter a degree of influence over her fate, no matter what. But the Crownlands…."
"Tells us what you think, we're listening."
Ophelia's words had the desired effect. And all of the Snakes there, even Obara, stowed their inevitable objections and listened to their sire's words.
"To be blunt, the people that live there are often sick. A… desperation of the spirit. A twisted vitality. Their peasants are prone to violence, born from chronic destitution, rampant abuse by their indolent, indulgent nobility, and possess an almost suicidal predisposition to rioting. This is compounded with an oftentimes fanatical devotion to their religions and superstitions, words filling their bellies when the ubiquitous brown can not. And above it all is the king."
For a moment, the man was quiet.
"In truth, I do not hate him. I feel great anger towards him, and would not weep should he die slowly and agonizingly, but mostly he drowns in solipsism. His pain, his lost love, his cock, his belly, his throat. These are his world. And as he mourns a girl he never knew, the realm circles. Whether into an abyss or to pick at his carcass, you will have to decide for your own."
Grunting, Obara spurred her horse forward, tossing a few words over her shoulder.
"Sounds like we should do the world a favor and kill the whole city."
The witch rolled her eyes.
"That's your answer for all problems, Obara. Besides, if I go there and clear my name, I also get some free publicity which means more business. Which means I get more gold for my projects and an excuse to raise my prices. It's a win-win!"
"Business? Count me out. Not a merchant." The Lady Lance rode in besides her sister.
"Do whatever you want, milady. So long as you keep out of sight. The Spider has spies all over the city. We shouldn't give him any reasons to pry."
It wasn't just the Royals and their games. Or the perpetual backstabbing at Court.
All of them knew of the Spider.
The Master of Whispers. One of the most impossibly well informed men in all of Westeros and beyond. Being anywhere near him would be dangerous enough. And the former villain couldn't help but feel she was missing something in this whole convoluted plan to draw her away from Dorne.
Why was she called?
Who was the one behind this?
Something was afoot and she didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle. Only the small bits and parts she'd managed to gather during their trip. Whoever wanted her in King's Landing had gone through a lot of trouble to make sure she couldn't just outright decline.
Whatever they wanted, and however they wanted to get her involved in this mess, there was no way to tell until they reached King's Landing.
Chapter 3 - They see me rollin, they hatin!
King Robert of House Baratheon.
First of his Name.
King of the Andals and the First Men.
Protector of the blah blah blah.
Titles, titles, titles.
That was all people seemed to care about these days.
Mind you, he liked his titles. They let him drink as much as he wanted, spend as much as he wanted, and curse others out as much as he wanted. And people couldn't say anything about it.
Why would they? He was the King!
The brave warrior who broke the Targaryen Dynasty and liberated them from the mad king.
Now he got to sit on a stiff iron chair all day hearing people whine at him about whose house had insulted whose relative and how people weren't taxed enough and the latest attempt to make him try and attend one of those boring council meetings where all they ever did was try to grease him up and fill their own pockets.
'All hail King Robert. Long may he reign.'
He almost spat out the wine in distaste.
Not that he would. It was good stuff and the only thing numbing him from the displeasure of having to actually hold court. At the end of the day, he was bored. Bored and miserable and the only people in the whole damn castle who didn't want to fleece him were his children. Who, in order of birth, were a little monster, a sweet, naive girl, and a boy so gentle he might as well have been another girl.
'Maybe I should just make Renly my heir. Then go and off myself fighting a bear or something. That'd piss the old cunts off enough to be worth it."
Thoughts of abdication aside, he finished his glass of wine and gestured for more to be poured.
Though lately… something else occupied his thoughts.
Not the eternal pissing match he had with his wife.
Not the constant harping of Littlefinger and the coppers he so eagerly counted.
No….
The only thing occupying Robert's mind was death.
The death of his mentor and father in all but name.
Jon Arryn had been a dear friend. The only one he had left in this damned pit of vipers. Someone he trusted to keep a steady hands on things as he drank himself into an early grave. As was his right.
Only he was gone.
Poisoned.
And therein lay the reason he was half-way sober this time.
Because soon enough, the Martells would be arriving at King's Landing and as unlikely as it was that a little slip of a girl had been involved in murdering the Hand of the King, she was still the one who made the poison.
Which was a start if nothing else. He doubted there weren't other reasons.
After all, the vipers wouldn't have told him about it if they didn't want him to issue a summons. And since justice was the furthest thing away from the minds of the selfish parasites littering his castle, he'd just assume they wanted the girl here for some other reason. Hopefully, the Martells would figure out what it was, murder the people in question, and then go back to that sand pit of a country of theirs. At least that way Jon would have a bit of justice.
'Gods know I'm not smart enough to figure this out.'
He knocked back another goblet of wine, rivulets of the fermented juice running down his second chin.
It let him pretend that his eyes weren't stinging, that his chest didn't ache, that he didn't miss Lyanna and that he didn't hate himself for being a useless fat fuck and that he still… mattered.
So, with his temper simmering, he waited out the rest of court, doing the things he was expected to do and not one jot more. Before, as was his right, he called his kingsguard to him.
"Yes your Grace?"
"Don't yes your Grace me Kingslayer. All you bloody Lannisters are alike. I know what you're actually thinking! Isn't Selmy supposed to be on duty today?"
Jaime bowed low, his armor sparkling and cloak sweeping across the ground. Robert wanted nothing more than to choke the life out of the smug little shit. Fucking Lannisters indeed.
"Never mind you ruddy, buggering arse weasel. Just get me Ser Arys. If I have to be alone with your smug, cuntish grin for too long I'll kill you boy. Fucking Lannisters." And just like that, the fight went out of Robert, his anger leaving him, his strength parting like a morning fog. "Oh Gods, this whole fucking empire is going to collapse. Stupid parasites, sucking me dry. Leeches."
He snatched the pitcher of wine out of a servant's hands and poured himself another goblet of wine - the pewter one, he was shaking too much for glass anymore. It was bitter, his stomach, turned, but Robert held his wine. As he always did. And so he drank and drank until Oakheart arrived.
Instead of roaring and screaming, he put the pitcher down, visibly swaying, and meandered his way to the stable.
"Boy." His tone was gruff, but not unkind. "Bring me my horse." Scampering away, the stable boy did just that, bringing his old favorite over. "Heh. Ear Biter. You've gotten old." Robert's friend, the war horse that had served him since he was a boy, whinnied, nibbling at his hair and giving his ear a friendly nip. "Aye. That's a good lad."
For a minute, he just stroked his mount's whiskers. Greying around the muzzle, Robert worried for a moment if he would be too fat to mount his steed… if he would be too fat for Ear Biter to hold him. Thankfully, the stirrups held and the horse didn't protest when he climbed aboard. Still, he was drunk enough he needed to be strapped in - and not so drunk he refused to be so. And in this moment, so strong, so bittersweet was his melancholy that his pride abated.
"Lannister. Bring my children. We'll be going for a ride today."
Going for a slow, steady trot, he meandered about the yard until he was comfortable that he wasn't about to snap his horse's back.
"Gods I'm fat."
Whuffing, the horse seemed to agree with Robert. Somehow, that was the funniest thing the half sober man had ever heard in his life. And so it was a laughing king that the queen found, the ugly woman - hate making her beautiful features abhorrent. Turning to look at her, he could smell the Lannisters at this point, the once proud and brave man felt his shoulders sag.
"Cersei."
"Your Grace."
She did the thing where her smile was bitter, mocking. His title a knife to hurl at him. He grunted, already knowing what was happening.
"Well, out with it, what is it you want, woman?"
"My - I mean our - children are at their lessons. It would be totally inappropriate to drag them off to go run about the woods. Joffrey is not king yet, so does not have the luxury of your position, or the right to ensure that he is not overworked. As I'm sure this was meant to be for your… health. And not some whim you'd drag everyone about to sate."
Levelling an unimpressed stare at the woman, he noticed that the other Lannisters were circling. His "squire" Lancel and the Kingslayer both.
"You are a bitter cunt." Snorting, he shook his head. "Whatever. Go fuck your brother for all I care. Oakheart!"
"Yes your grace."
"If any of the blonde haired cunts try to follow me, kill them."
"Your… grace."
Hesitation in the old knight's voice, he laughed.
"I'm serious. And that goes for you lot too." He gestured at the men at arms and knights scurrying about the place. "I'm going for a ride and if any of those blonde leeches follow me, you're to kill them. In fact, I'll knight any commoners and make a lord of any knight who does."
He meant it.
The past few days had been trying. While normally he wouldn't mind giving that Queen of his a much needed tongue lashing, he just wasn't in the mood to have his patience tried. He needed to be away from her and whatever boot lickers she'd roped into her latest scheme.
And he knew many were considering it.
He was the king, after all. And his word was law.
And maybe, just maybe, some fresh air would help clear his head.
Something strange was going on. Jon Arryn was dead. The court was moving to corner some bastard girl from the south just as he was due to start preparations for his departure up north. And as much as he liked to tout his track record as a tactician and warrior… Robert knew he was ill suited to the Game. It wasn't just the sneaking or the lies or the back biting, it was all of it at once, constantly, with everyone around him being involved in it.
"It's madness, how we live. How we think. Even if I was never the greatest knight, I didn't turn on my friends. I didn't rape peasants or loot homes. And Dragonspawn aside, I never condoned slaughtering babes either. But this place is evil."
Muttering to himself wasn't a great idea. But the smallfolk were staying well clear of him and the kingsguard with him - Blount or Trant or some other lickspittle had joined Oakheart. And right now he barely cared enough to not rage against the stupidity of his younger self, of the unimaginable flight of idiocy that had gripped him when he decided to be king. Deep down, he was forced to admit, he missed the Vale.
He missed the Eyrie.
Missed the days he and Ned would do nothing but train, ride through the Vale, and dream of the future.
Those had been good days. Before his friend had gone quiet with the loss of his father and brother. Before he had sunk to the bottom of a barrel after losing the love of his life.
'Ah, those days were the best.'
But everything changed. And he couldn't tell whether it was for the better or not.
Maybe it was selfish of him. But he wondered how things would have gone hadn't the last dragon not taken Lyanna. Would Ned be the same boisterous runt of his litter? Would he have married and ruled amicably under the dragons, same as his father and his grandfather?
So many what ifs….
'Must be running out of wine.' He was starting to hear Ned inside his head.
Even now as he felt the cool wind whip against his face, the king couldn't help but dwell on his thoughts. So little answers to so many questions. It was why he planned to go North from the start. He needed his brother, the one man in the entirety of Westeros he was sure wouldn't stick a dagger in his back as soon as it was turned.
He needed some actual loyalty!
And wasn't it a shame he was being forced to go that far away to find it.
Head down, he pushed out of the city gate, glaring at the kingsguard that wasn't a real knight hard enough the man backed down when he tried to protest this decision. Once he was on his own bloody road it was easy enough to get a bit of speed out of Ear Biter, the wind whipping in his hair as they galloped a short ways, just enough for the both of them to feel a rush of pleasure. A rush of the old glory.
But, when he noticed his old friend slowing down, Robert actually stopped and got off. Taking his mount by the reins, and getting an affectionate nibble on his fingers for his trouble, he walked the old war horse, ignoring the pain in his own lungs and legs and his now pounding head.
It wasn't the first time that day he cursed himself for being so fat. And, being honest with himself, he doubted it would be the last.
"Hold! Who goes there!"
Ser Oakheart, wheeling in front of him, drew his sword.
Because, as he looked up, a dozen people were trotting towards him.
Sitting at the head of the party, fingering his spear, grinning ear to ear, was none other than the Red Viper Oberyn Martell himself. And half his bloody household too, from the looks of things!
"Well hello there."
"Dornishman."
"You wouldn't happen to be the man that let my sister be raped and her children murdered, would you?"
"Give it back."
"Nuh uh!"
"Sarella, I'm serious!"
Ophelia prowled closer, mouth turning into a silent snarl as her annoying older sister took a step back, carrying with her the journal the resident witch had been keeping on their journey to king's landing.
"Sure, I'll give it back. But only if you take out the parts about 'stupid adventurers'!"
She took a step closer.
Sarella stepped back.
"It's only a single passage…."
Her sister flipped open the book in question, showing her the small annotations she made on the bottom of every page.
"You've kept writing it at the end of every entry, though."
Well… she had a point.
"You're actually right you know." Sarella looked confused, taking another step back. "It's a very stupid adventurer that pisses off her little sister. Her little sister that knows magic." Ophelia smirked. "And whose turn it is to cook dinner tonight. Oh Tyennnnnneeeeeee."
"Yes dear sister of mine?"
The blonde sashayed over, wrapping her arms around Sarella's shoulders.
"You called?"
Their middle sister had gone very still and very pale.
"Oh leave her alone." Obara walked past, bridle in one hand and a horse brush in the other. "You know Tyene won't hurt us because it would upset Ophelia and Ophelia is too soft to do more than maybe put a spicy herb in your dinner." The oldest daughter snorted. "And it's funny how you'll piss off an entire longship of Iron Islanders, but are still afraid of your own siblings."
"Your saying that the two of them aren't much, much scarier than a horde of barbarians?"
Pausing at Sarella's riposte, Obara inclined her head.
"Fair enough. I wouldn't sleep tonight if I were you."
Creeping up, Ophelia was about to snatch her journal back when she felt something that brought her up very short, very suddenly.
"Oh."
It was Elia who noticed her sibling's discomfort first, Tyene and Sarella speaking about something that had the younger sister snorting in laughter while Obara groomed her horse.
"What is it sister? What's wrong."
Her face had gone a bit pale, her knees a little weak. Still, she knew better than to visibly display her stress any further. So, reaching up to grasp her sister's hand, she squeezed. Elia tilting her head, very much smelling a rat, but not pushing the issue. She was polite like that. With her family at least.
"All right then. Tell us later suppose. If it's trouble it's best for us all to know, rather than be surprised by it later."
"Of course." Smiling at her younger sister's wisdom, the once warlord couldn't help but wish that grown adults had, had this child's foresight. "Let me speak with father first. Just to be safe."
Nodding, the Lady Lance guided her mount away, tossing a final worried glance back over her shoulder.
Ophelia simply moved quietly, approaching her father, who was speaking with a few of the guards, and sending them away with a pointed look.
"Now, now. What's got you looking so glum my dear? You're much too pretty to glare at the men like that."
Swallowing, she didn't bother beating around the bush.
"One of my animals slipped out of my control."
Oberyn blinked, genuine confusion on his face.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I had one of my birds out scouting. It was flying in a circle above us, near a good couple of hundred yards farther down the road. Watching the forest around the area. Moving a bit higher, it passed outside of my control for about half a second before it dipped back down." She shook her head. "And even worse, I didn't notice because I wasn't really paying attention, but my range is smaller too."
"So… what does that mean."
"Not even the foggiest father."
"Should we, I mean, I thought your reach was growing? You had even mentioned being able to start feeling things like spiders in the harbor port or worms in a dog's heart. Can you still do so?"
Shrugging, Ophelia tried to communicate how much she simply didn't know.
"There's no parasites in the animals, a few fleas, but nothing inside of them. I checked before we left. But, honestly, insects and arachnids are still under my influence." She caused a spider to drop down onto her hand, a single thread of silk connecting it to the top of the tent. "And I can even feel the worms in the dirt, plus a few smaller things I don't have a name for. Maybe even some nematodes, I think, maybe? One of the guards had a tapeworm, I ordered it to starve itself and it hasn't stopped."
"That's disgusting."
Oberyn's voice was totally deadpan.
"Really… that's what your focusing on?"
"That your powers are very nasty sometimes?"
"Says the man that used magic to make his cock bigger!"
"Hey! Who told you that!"
Pouting with indignation, the grown man feared by so many came off as so absurd Ophelia couldn't help but laugh. Her father, the Red Viper, was acting like a teenager right now. And it was just… so him. Eventually, after her guffaws settled down and his indignation faded into an amused smirk, he stepped closer and pulled her into a hug. With that, the panic she hadn't realized had been building in her breast abated, the warmth and strength of her father keeping even this sudden fear away.
"Now, what do you want to do?"
She looked up at her father.
"Hmm?"
"Well-" He began. "Do you want to play this close to the chest? Tell your sisters? Tell the Mage? Perhaps he could help. Assuming you want to take the risk of trusting him."
Trust… didn't come easily to Ophelia.
A throwback to her previous life.
To let people know of something so important and dangerous about herself was a habit she had to relearn over the course of her new life. Accepting the love of her new parents and sisters was what allowed her to be open about many things to them.
Her feelings.
Her interests.
Even if she'd never told them about her previous life as Taylor Hebert, there wasn't much else she hadn't told them about.
Her powers, however, were one of those few exceptions.
"I'm… not sure." It hurt to admit, but even Ophelia didn't have a good grasp on how her powers really worked. It wasn't that she missed the similarities to her passenger, or that they were that much different to use.
It just felt like… she was reaching the correct result through the wrong means.
Controlling other animals.
Seeing through them.
Connecting her emotions to them.
Those were all things she could do as Taylor, but as Ophelia she felt as if she was missing something. Like she wasn't seeing the forest for the trees. Not understanding what made her powers tick like she had before.
And not knowing such an intrinsic part of herself… scared her.
For one… she wasn't limited to bugs like she had been before. Her range was increasing without losing effectiveness and she was even able to teach her new swarm how to behave independently from her. Those weren't things she could do before. Sure, her commands would be followed even if she wasn't conscious.
But this was different.
This was teaching animals that shouldn't have the ability to process the knowledge she gave them without guiding their actions.
It was… unfamiliar territory.
And that scared Ophelia.
Why had her powers changed? Were they even coming from her passenger anymore? Or were they something new entirely that she was using the same way as she had the power of Queen Administrator.
"I want to tell them. Tell them as much as I can." She finally confessed.
"But?"
"But I don't think I can really explain it. Will they think I'm crazy if I explain to them what I've seen?" It was a wholly unfounded fear, she knew, but there was still a part of that isolated girl in her heart.
The part of her who thought this might be just another trick to get her to lower her guard.
"That's why you wanted to meet the Mage. To learn more about magic itself."
"Part of it, yes. That and I really wanted to visit Oldtown." She pouted at the end.
Oberyn, to his credit, only chuckled.
"Not gonna live your sister live it down, huh."
"Eventually." She smiled. "But not yet." Stepping back, she took a deep breath. "Ultimately, I'll have to tell them. It's wrong to keep them in the dark about something as important as this. I just want to have information to share with them when I do. To try and explain why it's happening and what it means."
"To avoid them becoming overprotective." Oberyn chuckled. "More than they already are."
That got a scowl out of his daughter.
"Just because I don't know how to wave a metal stick around doesn't mean I'm defenseless. In fact, I'm better with a knife, even without cheating, than the rest of you."
He waved her off, pulling a wineskin out from a sack.
"Perhaps. But that is largely irrelevant. They are family. And we Martells… well, we always worry about our family." He took a pull. "It's just in our nature. Still, my daughter, come, it's time to get moving. After all, the sun's been up for a while and we might only just make it to King's Landing by mid afternoon at this rate!"
"Aye, father, I'll saddle my horse."
As she turned to leave, he pulled her into one last hug, squeezing her tight.
"And Ophelia, come to me with any problems you have. No matter how silly they seem. I am your father, so, thank you. Now, run."
Oberyn clapped her on the back before calling his men at arms back, the two quickly finalizing the day's plans. And, from what she could hear, the poor guard was eager for more than wild greens and hard jerky even though it had only been a week since they'd last eaten in a castle.
'Ah, such is the opulence of being a prince's retainer.'
"Slow down Elia! Wait, damn it all, come back here!"
Laughter rang out as the youngest of her present sisters raced ahead of their group, only tossing a jaunty salute back at them with her spear, as Ophelia spurred her mount forward. While she could have taken control of her sister's horse, she didn't want to take the chance and throw her. Not when the consequences of that could be so dire. So, instead, she raced behind the girl as two of the men at arms followed her. Oberyn himself simply laughed in turn, glad to see his baby girls having fun. Though he did wave two more of the men at arms forward, their own mounts rushing off forward.
So it was with her family laughing and chatting that Ophelia and Elia, and their escorts, left the others behind - the older sister intending to remind the younger that they were no longer in Dorne.
Unfortunately for the older, the younger was a significantly better horseman and the guards had inferior horses. So it was a lone, dismounted Ophelia that was approached by the Lady Lance, who was totally unperturbed by the fact they'd left their party far behind. The former Cape, however, felt a bit exposed.
"Well sister, did I win? Did I defeat the terrible Witch of Dorne?"
Glaring at her little sister, the witch in question did the most mature thing she could.
She blew a raspberry.
"Hah! I did! Remember that big sister."
Laughing, Elia dismounted and hugged her own horse's neck, taking it by the reins and walking it too, the two girls practically strolling up the Kingsroad.
"Perhaps. Perhaps I'll remember to make a snake crawl into your bed tonight." Elia put on a brave face and swatted at Ophelia's arm.
"You wouldn't dare!"
Giggling, the older sister dodged out of the way.
"It depends on when our escort catches up. They shouldn't be too far behind and we didn't actually go that far. Especially since we're on the Kingsroad. It's a straight shot and it's not exactly easy to get lost when you're practically strolling through civilization itself." Ophelia inclined her head. "Plus I have a few birds watching both us and them."
Shrugging, and looking distinctly not uncomfortable, Elia sidled a bit closer.
"What does it look like through their eyes?"
"Hmm?"
"The world." Waving her hand vaguely, Elia elaborated. "Through the eyes of birds and beasts and bugs. What is it all like?"
"Jumbled, I suppose." That was the easy response and it came to her lips easily. Still, Ophelia tried to communicate the deeper answer. "But it really is confusing. They don't see like us, smell like us, taste like us. It's… hard to put into words what a magnetic sense feels like. As if your stomach was pulling towards the Wall at all times?" In the end that was clumsy, not really even useful for the girl in question. "Hold your hand out."
Complying, the younger sister reached out to the older, Ophelia putting a small apple out of her saddlebag. Placing it in her sister's open palm, she chuckled.
"Now, tell me what it tastes like. Without biting it."
"But I can't do th - oh." Elia's eyes widened slightly. "They can do that?"
"Some." She nodded. "Insect mostly and it's not truly the same thing. But imagine if you could taste with your fingers, smell with your tongue, hear with your eyes, and taste with your ears. Imagine if you could do all that at once and use them normally and it was coming in at once. Now… try to imagine that the sunlight whispers in your ear, that the darkness speaks back when you call out to it, the every stone and blade of grass has its own saga."
Elia was quiet, contemplative for a long time. Seemingly content to think on what she'd been told.
"You know what?"
"Oh?"
"That sounds awfully noisy."
Ophelia couldn't help but chuckle, ruffling her sister's hair as she leaned over, Elia biting into the apple in question. Already the sensory organs of a hundred insects detected the spike of tartness in the air, the flash of the green apple's flesh, even the sweetness in the juices dribbling down her chin left a chemical trail that could be followed. Even her sister's breath left a recognizable trail, the jostle of her body, the exhalation of her horse, the tussle of her hair - all of it was observed from a thousand eyes. Most of them too small to make out more than the blurriest, most jumbled images.
"Aye. It can be. But you learn how to tune it out with practice."
And together they watched.
Together they saw.
It was good.
Oberyn expected many things of his family's journey to King's Landing.
He expected complications.
He expected bickering.
He was pleased to see his daughters mingle and play like when they were younger. So much was happening, so many things changed for him since he first became a father, but the joy of watching on as the loves of his life experienced life to the fullest would never leave him.
If only this trip had come about through more pleasant circumstances.
But that's what he was there for.
To bare his fangs and his poison at the world to protect his daughters.
Poetic euphemisms aside, he had a duty to his children, his brother, and his nation. And this, no matter how frustrating it might feel, was the best way to achieve those goals. Or, at the very least, it would be the most efficient, and arguably entertaining, way to challenge the idiots that wanted to attack them. Except, he wasn't sure what was going on. Rather, he didn't know what his enemy's win condition was.
And that annoyed him.
So, despite how skilled his own tongue was, he hadn't gotten any others to wag. His magical vision remained the single most useful source of information he'd acquired and his memory of it was already beginning to blur.
Marwyn, at least, had proven useful and ensured that he put down every detail he could, allowing him to review it at his leisure. Though fundamentally it didn't answer his questions.
Meaning he was still starting with less than nothing, going into the game half blind. But, at the risk of saying something poetic, he wasn't called the Red Viper without most excellent cause. In the end, he was confident that his venom would ensure the doom of anyone foolish enough to make themselves a visible enemy. And animals fled when the viper walked.
"Well hello there."
What he couldn't have expected, however, was to run face first into the King in the middle on the road.
"Dornishman."
King Robert Baratheon.
The Liberator as some liked to call him.
Or as some amidst Dorne's courts like to call him…
The Usurper.
A far more flattering title than Whoremonger, Drunken Idiot, or Murderer, of course. But those were his own private opinions, which his dearest wife and most clever daughter had warned him not to share unless in a trusted, private, company.
A piece wise counsel.
"You wouldn't happen to be the man that let my sister be raped and her children murdered, would you?"
Oberyn Martel didn't always follow it.
At once, the man's escort formed up around him.
Admittedly, the kingsguard looked very impressive. Their white cloaks swished about and their swords were free and ready.
"Do I look like a fucking Lannister to you?"
The Dornish prince spat to the side.
"Lannister, Baratheon. Not a whole lotta difference between the two these days, you know?"
He enjoyed the angry red which overtook the King's completion. There he stood, a fat king sitting on the back of his old war horse surrounded by a band of hired killers no different than sellswords.
"How about you stop dancing around what you really want to say, Viper."
The King looked eager for a fight. All too eager in fact, ruddy cheeks coupled with a manic gleam in his eyes belying the danger underneath. Oberyn knew well to be wary of old men who lived through wars.
Though he had stuff himself with wine, Robert Baratheon was still a man bred and born for the battlefield.
A few years ago, he might have even taken him up on the challenge.
From the corner of his eye he could see Obara and Sarella subtly reach for their blades. His eldest looked eager, all too eager, as she eyed the puffed up mercenaries surrounding the King.
Good girls.
But unneeded.
"Maybe some other day. When you're not already dying of a hangover."
Robert grunted, pulling his horse around.
"Well, if you're not going to put me out of misery, you can at least give me another reason to drink. I can't believe I forgot to bring a wineskin. Give me one of yours!"
Tossing over the one he'd just taken a pull out of, the Prince of Dorne watched as an old man swallowed a skinful of wine like it was water.
"Dornish red, four, five years ago. Good. Good wines too. Well, come on then. I'm not going to murder you for being a cunt. If I did that, I'd have had to burn the city down years ago and I don't have any salt or bread on me."
Ophelia rode up to his side and gave him one of those looks. The kind of look that told him if he made an ass of himself he'd find spiders in his food for the next week. So, doing what he always did when a woman was angry with him, he flashed her his best smile.
"My dear heart, my precious love, my inexorably crushing daughter who would never curse her most beloved father… don't worry. I've got this."
And like that, Oberyn left a suddenly very annoyed little girl to glare at his back. But that was okay. Because she wouldn't stay angry at him long enough to hurt. So that was what mattered. Mostly. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have laid it on so thick.
"You know your grace, my daughter is a witch."
"Yeah, yeah. And I'm the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. What's your point?"
"Well, I fear I may have just made her rather annoyed at me. In fact, I may have made her so annoyed with me I fear for my hairline."
Robert snorted.
"She looked like one of those types of women. The dangerous ones that is. In fact, every single one of them looked dangerous. How'd you do that by the way? I got one snivelling little monster, a gentle girl, and a boy so gentle he'd have been better off a girl."
"Oh! That's easy. I started with this ritual involving the severed cock of a manticore and-"
A very, very large crow landed on the head of his horse. It stared him in the eye.
"Ok, ok, I'll save that one for when we're drinking."
Using that as an excuse to do just that, Robert held out his hand for another wineskin. This time Oberyn fished out a pair of bottles and handed one over.
"So, you were telling me about how much you want me to kill all the Lannisters for you, yes?"
Glaring at him with a very intense bout of loathing, Robert said something that had him laughing.
"Don't tempt me you dornish whore monger." Visibly grumbling, he took a swig. "Those bloody leeches are everywhere. I'd have just let Tywin sit the damnable thing if I'd known how miserable it was. Oh, oh! And you know what the worst part of it is?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "The fucking Iron Throne pokes you in the ass!"
Both men roared with laughter, Ser Oakheart and… some other nobody, he was sure his daughters would kill him brutally if he tried anything, both had their swords at the ready. Inside their sheathes, of course, but loose and ready to draw. It was almost like they thought they could stop him from reaching up and driving his spear through the Baratheon's skull. As if he'd need more than a split second to skewer the pig king's heart.
It was… quaint.
"Don't."
He looked to the side, answering his dear daughter's milk curdling stare with a winning smile.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear."
Ophelia didn't believe him, of course.
She knew better than that.
Settling back into place, he let his fingers dance on the back of his horse's neck for a bit, getting out their nervous energy. It also let him focus on the conversation a bit too.
That was always nice.
"Now, your grace, it seems we have two common enemies."
"Hmm?"
"Tywin Lannister. He's the one that murdered my sister, had her raped, butchered my niece and my nephew, and had their cat killed because he's a sick fuck who can't get hard unless he's murdering someone. Do you think he had to snuff a stable boy before he could mount his wife? I think he probably - wait, off topic. So, as I was saying. Why don't we forge an alliance and murder him?"
Robert took another drink.
"You know what. Let me get a bit more drunk and we can swing back around to this. Who's our second enemy?"
"Why hangovers of course, your grace. You see, my sweet, precious, wise daughter Ophelia figured out how to cure them. And while I would taint a man's veins, just to watch him choke to death on his own pooling blood and vomit, I would never deny a man her miracle in a bottle!"
Suddenly very grave and solemn, the king sat straight.
"You speak truly?"
Oberyn raised his hand.
"By my honor and by the blood of my father and the blood of my children."
Robert, still very serious, took the Red Viper's forearm warmly.
"Come Brother. You shall sit at my right hand tonight!"