– Sarah Pelham (Lady Photon) –
Things had changed massively over the last month.
It wasn't that she wasn't used to rapid changes in the cape scene. She'd been active during Marquis's reign and in the chaos that followed his imprisonment. She'd seen Brockton Bay's cape scene change a dozen times over, but never like this.
Her eyes went up to the bubble that was currently covering the entire city. Some tinkertech device made to keep the Black Pyramid from simply flying out of the containment zone. After everything Brockton Bay had been through, this was the final blow. The rest of the world had just locked them inside and called it a day.
She didn't blame them, in truth. Not after the destruction of the Rig, and Pharaoh's constant escalation had to be stopped. He could turn the Black Pyramid invisible and simply crash it into any PRT headquarters he wanted, so they had to stop him from continuing his war on capes. It still felt like a bad dream that almost the entire Brockton Bay Protectorate had been wiped out.
It was a minor miracle that the Wards weren't called to the emergency meeting, having been at the Wards' base in the city instead of being in the Rig. As far as they could tell, all adult members had been within the Rig when the Pyramid crashed into it, and there had been no survivors.
No villain had ever wiped out an entire Protectorate team in a single blow before. Not the Nine, not Nilbog, nobody. So, no. She didn't blame the PRT for simply locking Pharaoh inside America's newest containment zone, not even when it meant that she and her entire family were equally trapped within.
Still, it didn't change the fact that life had become extremely difficult for those trapped with him. The PRT made frequent drops of food and supplies into the city, and they still had power and water, but it was no exaggeration to say that anarchy reigned within Brockton Bay for the first couple of weeks.
The Teeth had moved in just before the containment zone was raised, answering a challenge by Pharaoh. Lung and the ABB were still active and fighting at the time, but at the end of the day? It was a losing battle. Within a week, the Teeth had lost every cape except the Butcher herself. Oni Lee was slain by the risen Allfather, and Lung himself was killed by the undead Purity and Miss Militia. The Butcher was still alive, as far as anyone knew, despite repeated attempts to get themselves killed by Pharaoh.
Every gang member was killed and then raised as part of Pharaoh's undead army, and very quickly they learnt to stop wearing gang colours or anything that could identify them as a member of any gang. With the extinction of the ABB and the Teeth, an uneasy calm settled over the city.
Undead soldiers and capes patrolled the streets at all hours of the day, never resting, but with no real gangs left, they left the civilians alone. The Black Pyramid itself hovered over the city, a constant reminder of their new overlord.
For most, they'd been forced to accept the simple reality that Brockton Bay was under the control of the Pharaoh. Some civilians even joked that the streets were safer now than ever before, as the undead only attacked criminals and capes. Who was willing to try looting when there were undead seemingly on every street?
But there was a resistance, the few surviving capes working on a way to bring down Pharaoh and free themselves from this place. Coil reached out to New Wave almost immediately after the bubble was erected, but of course… Carol refused.
No matter the situation, Carol would not work with a villain. She refused for New Wave, without even discussing it with the rest of them. It was short-sighted of her. Mark vanished first. Apparently, he'd just gone for a walk of all things, and never came back. That had led to arguments, as Coil had offered his hidden bunkers for the surviving capes.
Next, Crystal had been grabbed. She hadn't gone out in costume, but she'd heard some of her friends from college were in trouble and had gone to try and help, hoping that staying out of costume would let her move freely.
It did not.
The moment a cape poked their heads out of hiding, Pharaoh and his army were waiting. Pharaoh even used Crystal as bait, parading her and some other captured capes (Squealer and some independents) through the streets, chained to pillars on moving platforms as they were led toward the Black Pyramid.
Coil warned them not to take the bait. This time, it was she who ignored him, not Carol.
That was how they lost Neil and Carol. Skidmark and Mush were also caught in an attempt to free Squealer, and the Butcher was once again ignored. Well, that was an understatement. Pharaoh had her eyes gouged out and arms cut off, but used Othala to keep the Butcher alive.
The Butcher managed to disappear in the chaos, and she was forced to fall back as Coil and his Undersiders ran interference. Her sister, daughter and husband were dragged into that Pyramid, and it took off into the sky once more, leaving her helpless to stop it.
This time, she accepted Coil's offer. All that was left of New Wave was her, Eric, Amy and a comatose Victoria, hiding in Coil's hidden bunker as they tried to find a way to bring down Pharaoh.
She knew Crystal and Carol were still alive, though she had not seen Neil since his fall. Pharaoh liked to give speeches, and at a recent one, he'd had Carol and Crystal in chains to show his power. It was a humiliating sight, especially given that they were only wearing a thin silk loincloth and golden jewellery. He'd even had their nipples pierced and golden ring piercings placed on them, leaving them topless for everyone to see. The only comfort she could take was that they were still living.
Tattletale claimed neither had been sexually assaulted, and that the display was made to shame them and to try and lure the rest of New Wave out of hiding. She didn't like the extremely talkative blonde villain, but she couldn't deny that Tattletale was good at her job.
So, here she was, the 'leader' of New Wave, cowering in a villain's bunker, praying for a miracle.
– King Darius –
Sitting in my throne, I look over the city with a frown.
My skeleton workers have begun erecting monuments to me, tearing down the many abandoned buildings and rebuilding them in my image. Most of the capes of Brockton Bay have been brought down, though some still hide from my judgment like the rats they are.
With the points from taking down the few dumb enough to poke their heads out (meaning the entire roster of the Teeth, Merchants and the ABB), my Tomb is a thing of true beauty and power.
[Golden Cap]
The desert sun beats down without rest on the Nehekharan Empire. Why not take advantage of that ceaseless attack? Your tomb's outer shell has been specially made to absorb the rays of the sun and convert them into magical energy. A day's worth of the sun is enough to provide power for a few dozen combat spells, so it can store at a fair rate, and this rate will increase as the size of the tomb increases. You'll need something else to store this energy without limit, as the tomb can only store up to a week's worth of sunlight on its own.
[Reservoir]
Your tomb was constructed in such a way as to gather and store magical energy, allowing you to pour power in with no limit to what it could potentially store. A wizard, working over years and years, could save up for a truly frightening spell with this. If he had a way of gathering power beyond just his personal use, the tomb could become a near-endless wellspring of magical energy for him to utilise.
[Obelisks of Power]
Several of the effects that can be added to your tomb require you to be within the tomb to benefit from them. Not always the situation, and while this option will not get rid of that problem, it will serve to alleviate it greatly. Every purchase of this option adds a ring of stone obelisks in a circle around your tomb, each obelisk 5 kilometres away from the tomb. So long as you stay within the circle created by this ring of pillars, you will benefit from any effect that would require you to stay within the tomb, even ones you add or create yourself. Every additional purchase adds another ring of Obelisks, another 5 kilometres out from the first.
And my power has only grown further.
[Magically Charged]
This tomb was made with a wizard in mind, perhaps you yourself. Being present within the tomb will magnify the power of any within it. Whilst there is only one level to this option, given that the array of runes and formations can only increase your power so far on their own, it is enough to see a fivefold increase in your own power whilst within the boundaries of the tomb. The increased power will only affect the master of the tomb and those he allows to share in it; enemy wizards who have broken in will find themselves out of luck.
With my mastery of the magic of Nehekhara, even the mighty Lung fell to my curses (and the attacks of my undead slaves). The Butcher believes I refuse to kill her out of fear that she'd possess me.
She is wrong.
I refuse to kill her because this is a worse punishment for her. With each attempt, I take something else from her. Her Teeth have been broken and turned against her. Her gang is the one that set me on this path, and I want her to be there to watch my final victory, with her mind being her own.
Then, and only then, will I give her the mercy of death.
And yet, as the city is remade from a festering pit to a shining jewel worthy of Nehekhara, I am unsatisfied. My eyes turn to the bubble that they believe is holding me, and a scowl crosses my face. Do they truly believe that this will hold me?
The Tomb shakes with my annoyance, but I calm it. Once I break the barrier, they will attack with their full force to stop me. My [Ironclaw Cunning] warns me that their full might is stronger than I can currently handle. It infuriates me, but I will allow their arrogance to be their downfall. As long as they believe me imprisoned within this bubble, they will leave me to grow stronger until I no longer have to fear the full might of the PRT.
"Boss- I mean, your majesty," Squealer says, getting my attention from my pondering. I turn my gaze to the former merchant. Her foul-mouthed boss irritated me, which is why I made her watch as I fed him to my scarabs, but she proved useful enough to spare. I disliked the one called Mush as well; he was too pathetic to belong to my glorious empire. "It's finished, exactly as you requested."
She fidgets as I stare down at her, my gaze on her raggedy outfit. She is no Necrotect, dressed in tiny denim shorts and a dirty tank top that struggles to restrain her breasts. I briefly resist the urge to slay her for approaching me in such rags, rising from my throne.
"Show me."
Squealer nods rapidly, leading me to the space where she has been working. I gave her access to the [Auto-Factory] to help speed things up, and she's put it to great use.
"Gotta say, your highness, I kinda enjoyed this. Figured I was gonna get chained up with the rest of your trophies or killed and turned into one of your monsters," Squealer admits, laughing nervously at my stare.
"Remain useful to me, and you will remain alive. Your engineering prowess is impressive," I admit, watching as she leads me into the massive room where my commission is waiting.
"Useful, yeah, I can do that. No need to feed me to anything, boss-man," Squealer agrees rapidly, but my attention is drawn elsewhere, and she wisely remains silent as I examine her creation.
Towering over us, the first of my Warsphixes stands proud. Despite Squealer's often ugly creations, the giant Khemrian Warsphinx is made to my exact demands, black and gold with my regal designs painted onto it.
– Taylor Hebert –
Her world had been turned upside down in such a small amount of time.
The bullying of Emma and her 'friends' had seemed so terrible until recently, but now she was wondering why she ever cared about missing homework or juice being poured on her hair.
Her father was dead. She didn't know how it had happened, only that he'd been caught up in the chaos when the bubble was first put in place. The Teeth had been rampaging, and he was one of the many casualties. Oddly enough, it was the apathy she felt toward the realisation that pushed her over the edge, as she looked down at his corpse.
Winslow was gone. Someone burnt it down. Probably a student, but it wasn't like there was an investigation given the lack of law enforcement. Sure, the police tried to maintain order in the early days, but they quickly gave up. It just wasn't feasible; the closest they had to peacekeepers at the moment were the army of undead monsters patrolling the streets and killing anyone who disturbed Pharaoh's order.
We should be disturbing his order, you fucking coward.
Chaos reigned. As long as you were careful to avoid being caught by the undead, you could do anything to anyone without consequences. That was the current 'law' in Brockton Bay.
Some of the Empire fanboys from Winslow had tried to act on it, despite the Empire they loved being wiped out and enslaved. They'd attacked Sophia at home, attempting to either rape or kill her. It hadn't worked because she killed four of them with her crossbows and knives. They thought they were going after a trackstar, instead they got a murderous vigilante.
Sophia's identity as Shadow Stalker had spread fast after they fled, and once again, Taylor felt numb. It made things make sense, why Sophia seemed immune to consequences, why the school would cover up anything she did, but when the school and the PRT were both gone, she couldn't bring herself to rage.
Pathetic. We should hunt her down ourselves and skin her alive.
She, like most people, remained hidden in her house for most of the time. But even with her only needing enough for one, her food ran out eventually, and she had no choice but to head to one of the food drops to try and get some more supplies. It was nearby, she thought she could make it there, grab enough to keep her going, and get home without any trouble.
And she was right, oddly enough. It was what followed that was the problem. See, food drops were chaos because it was one of the few times people would leave their houses. Everyone was fighting over the supplies, taking more than they needed, and while she'd been pushed, shoved and had to claw her way to the front, she had gotten enough of the simple food to last her another week or so if she rationed.
But she'd failed to understand the true danger. See, why risk getting into a fight for the food when you could just watch for whoever got some and follow them home. She'd got all the way home, feeling proud of herself for achieving this minor victory.
But people wouldn't risk robbing her on the streets, where the Pharaoh's monsters could be watching. No, they waited until she was inside and just broke in through the back door. She'd been asleep, awoken by the crashing downstairs, and foolishly she'd gone downstairs to investigate.
She was a skinny teenage girl. The large man raiding her fridge was bigger, stronger and armed with a crowbar and a knife. Maybe he'd have just left with his prize if she'd stayed put, and she could have risked another food raid, or gone to Kurt and Lacey to see if she could stay with them, something she probably should have done already.
She screamed for him to get out, and he hit her over the head with a crowbar.
Things were understandably blurry after that, but she remembered hearing arguing, though the words sounded so distant. He had a friend, an accomplice. She vaguely remembered one of them leaving, her old school bag full of stolen food. The other picked her up, manhandling her with ease as blood blurred the vision in her left eye from the wound on her head.
Despite everything, she'd been briefly relieved when she was thrown back onto her bed, naively thinking he was going to leave. That lasted all of a few seconds before her flannel pyjama bottoms were yanked down to her knees along with her plain grey panties.
You could do anything to anyone as long as you didn't get caught by Pharaoh's forces.
The panic sent her into full flight-or-fight mode, and she had nowhere to run. She gathered the strength to turn over and try to kick him away, despite her spinning head. She was still a skinny little girl faced with a much larger and stronger man. Her foot connected with his stomach, making him gasp, but he just grabbed her ankle before finishing pulling away her bottoms as she struggled, kicking and scratching.
Her top was torn open, the buttons popping off as her chest was exposed; she didn't wear a bra to bed. Her panic only made her fight harder, for what good it was worth. She even bit him, hard enough to draw blood, as he yelped and backhanded her. One large hand choked her as her vision darkened, the other forced her legs apart.
She remembered seeing him fumbling with his belt through her darkened vision, knowing she was going to pass out. His foul stench and the weight of his body as it pinned her under him as he tried to line himself up.
She didn't remember what happened next, only coming to her senses standing over a mutilated corpse.
Her room was… changed, the walls having shifted, the floor having risen up to grab him. This was her room, this was where she was in control. The bricks, the floorboards, the wiring, it had all come to life to rip her attacker limb from limb.
Only, he wasn't the only one, you fucking bitch.
Oh, stop whining, it wasn't like your body was doing us any good anyway.
Yeah, he wasn't the only one. Her entire street had come to life, and it turned out, a certain crippled bitch was nearby at the time.
Fuck you, Fifteen. Well done, you managed to crush a blind, armless woman. Do you want a fucking medal?
Hey, give the girl credit. Not many can stack a kill count that high within the first minute of getting their powers. I kinda like her.
The cacophony of voices in her head jeered and mocked Quarrel as Taylor stared blankly at the wall.
She'd felt so alone this morning, now she had fourteen 'friends' to keep her company. As she looked to her window, seeing the twisted remnants of her street, she felt the bile grow in her throat, moving to the toilet to vomit (luckily, the toilet had also come to her room to beat her would-be rapist to death).
Aww, are you gonna cry?
Like I said, she's off to a great start. A couple hundred dead civvies on day one is a great start.
This is going to be fun.
Aww, she thinks she's a monster. That's cute.
You're right, you're terrible. You should kill yourself right now. Just go and find Pharaoh, and he'll take care of the rest.
– Rebecca Costa-Brown (Alexandria) –
Trapping Darius inside the new containment zone had the expected result. Pharaoh was too powerful for most capes to survive being trapped in there with him, and normally, the loss of so many capes would anger her, but their experiment had proven that this was the right decision.
Any cape Darius murdered would be brought back afterwards, and these undead capes did not lose their powers. No, in most cases, they became even more dangerous as his undead didn't need to sleep or eat, they had no need for civilian lives and no fear of dying as they'd been observed taking undeniably fatal damage only to rise again with seemingly no long-lasting consequences. Lung ripped Allfather in half during their attack on him, and his body was pulled back together, flesh and bones being knitted back into place.
Now, Lung was an undead as well. Lung had gone blow for blow with Leviathan once, and now he was even stronger.
The fate of Brockton Bay displeased her, but when dealing with the fate of countless words, she couldn't shed tears over the lives lost. No, instead, she had to take advantage of the opportunity before her.
They had no delusions that the bubble could actually hold Pharaoh and his Black Pyramid. It wouldn't even stop Purity, and now she was amongst his numbers. No, the bubble was there to calm the people outside of the Bay. They were playing a dangerous game because Darius was only getting stronger (as they wanted), but there was every chance they'd lose control of him thanks to his rapid growth.
Contessa's paths had to be recalculated on a daily basis, especially after any major victory that Pharaoh claimed. He'd caused a considerable amount of triggers with the chaos he spread in that first week, before things calmed down somewhat, and they'd smuggled certain ones with potentially useful powers out of the city, altering their memories.
She had her eyes on the newest Butcher, but they'd decided to leave the Butcher in the bubble. It was the same reason they left the increasingly unhinged Panacea inside it as well. The conflict would cause Pharaoh to grow stronger, and when he killed them, he'd bring them back anyway, so Cauldron wouldn't lose their powers. Contessa was certain that there was no risk of Pharaoh becoming the Butcher and going insane.
…more insane than he already was.
The issue came with how they needed to point Darius at the true enemy. Contessa believed Darius was the secret weapon they had been looking for, but he couldn't be brought into Cauldron because his ego wouldn't allow him to be a part of an organisation that he did not rule, and she wasn't willing to put a literal lunatic in charge of the secret resistance against Scion.
Of course, there was also Eidolon and his growing anger at Darius' seemingly endlessly growing powers. Doctor Mother suggested that Darius had Scion's version of Eidolon's own shard, but they didn't know for certain. Contessa didn't even think Darius had a shard.
She wasn't sure who to believe. Could their weapon against the enemy truly come from the enemy himself? It would make sense if their silver bullet was not a shard-based power at all. But if that truly was the case, if Darius had gained powers from something other than the entities, then what was it? To her, for as long as she could remember, the entities had been the end goal. Scion and Eden were the only sources of powers. That felt like a hard rule that could not be changed. If it wasn't true, then it meant there were other threats out there.
The point was that for now, Pharaoh remained an uncooperative asset to be worked around and weaponised when the time came. For all his anti-cape hatred, Pharaoh seemed to wish to rule, and he couldn't rule a world that Scion destroyed. It was in their best interests to let him grow.
However, she couldn't deny that Contessa's current plan made her hesitate just for a moment. Brockton Bay was cut off from the rest of the world, the bubble stopped people from seeing inside, and they were blocking outbound connections to stop anything from leaking, but if this got out?
Emptying the Birdcage into a containment zone was not something that could be swept under the rug.
What she knew for certain was that if they didn't stop his growth, they were going to have to give him Earth Bet. He was a weapon that they were actively loading, fully knowing it would shoot them given half the chance.
She was not stupid. The 'spell' that left Glory Girl a cripple would be just as dangeorus to her. She needed to breathe; if he used his ability to cause her lungs to be filled with burning sand, it would incapacitate her. And that was when he was just getting started, his power and control had clearly skyrocketed since.
The PRT was already under intensive scrutiny over the decision to seal Brockton Bay, locking so many people, including an entire Wards team, within the bubble with Pharaoh. If it got out that they were able to get people out but had left the Wards inside, or that they were willingly feeding troublesome villains into the bubble to feed Pharaoh's growth…
She paused, an idea striking her. She didn't disagree with Contessa's plan, in principle, but the issue was that the Birdcage was meant to be one-way, and even a single Birdcaged villain being seen outside was going to cause a scandal that could destroy the PRT. But there were plenty of other villains that could be just as easily pushed into the Brockton Bubble, using Pharaoh as a way to put the more troublesome ones under control.
So, where were the Slaughterhouse Nine currently located? They'd served a purpose, but that purpose could be replaced with Darius himself, the newest boogeyman with his endless hordes, once the bubble finally popped. A small part of her, that tiny voice that still thought she was a hero, pointed out she was hoping that Siberian or Pharaoh would die in the fighting, removing a threat or avenging Hero. The much louder, more realistic part was ready to grab a shovel and toss Hero's body into the bubble for Pharaoh. Hero was the best of them, the shining beacon of what a hero should be. He was one of her closest friends, and none of them had recovered from his death. The little voice mourned him. The louder voice said to desecrate his grave and let Pharaoh puppet around his corpse for a 0.01% chance increase in their chances against Scion.
She knew which one she'd listen to in the end. It was the one that always won.
– King Darius –
In truth, it happened while I was distracted. I was rearranging my trophy room, ensuring that everything remained up to the standards of a Great King. I don't normally pay too much attention to the individual patrolling forces, there's too many of them for me to micromanage them all and they'll alert me if they encounter a cape.
Because even if they get attacked, it doesn't matter, right? My forces will just recover after the battle is over, rising from the dead to serve me again.
That was my mindset, and as I feel my connection to an entire squad of my Tomb Guards, I realise that I was mistaken. They weren't just destroyed, their very bones were rotted in an instant, turning to nothing but useless dust. My mind runs over every single cape I can thing of that could do such a thing, my many undead heroes and villains having shared their knowledge of the cape scene, but I come up empty. This didn't feel like a new trigger, this was targeted.
Looking over the map I had made of the city, I look around the area where they died, scratching my chin in confusion. My confusion turns to rage as another squad just… dies. No attack, no flashy battle, they were fine one moment and seemingly dissolving the next. I had thought that the capes of this city had learnt not to challenge me, but it would seem I was mistaken.
Someone is going to die for this insult.
– Amy Dallon (Panacea) –
Deep beneath the earth in Coil's base, she smiled.
The test-run was complete and confirmed her theory, her virus running its course. It died out, the life-span miniscule by design, but it had done its job. Most of Pharaoh's forces were skeletal, with no flesh to speak of, so she needed something that could destroy bones.
Such as a calcium-eating bioweapon that was neutralised by flesh and saliva. It wouldn't hurt the living, but for the skeletal monsters it came across? Amy smirked darkly as she imagined Pharaoh's rage at losing his men. Tattletale claimed he was extremely prideful, and she could only imagine how furious he would be at this attack, with no-one to blame. She just hoped it was angry enough to do something stupid.
Holding hands with Vicky, she stroked her sister's face as she removed the latest signs of muscle atrophy, and once more resisted the urge to work on Vicky's brain. She wasn't sure she could fix it without wiping out Vicky herself, but as she used her other hand to make the next batch of her virus, she felt her power sing.
Soon. She'd bring Vicky back soon. She had to.
— Bonus Scene — Missy Biron (Vista)
She still felt numb, even a month later. The Rig was gone, sunk to the bottom of the bay along with all the heroes she'd looked up to. It felt like just yesterday that Assault was teasing her, that Armsmaster was demanding in-depth after-action reports over irrelevant patrols. That Miss Militia was comforting her after she saw a civilian get blendered by Hookwolf.
The Protectorate had been more of a family to her than her real family, and now they were gone. Well, not all of them. It was dumb luck that meant that none of the Wards were on the Rig at the time, and the fast actions of one of the few surviving PRT members, Commander Calvert, that got them to safety before Pharaoh's men could find them.
Missy let out a dry laugh, wondering if fate had a sense of humour. How long had she hoped that something would separate Dean and Glory Girl? Well, she'd got it because Vicky was a vegetable. How long had she wanted to be taken more seriously and be allowed a weapon? Again, she'd got it because PR meant absolutely fucking nothing anymore and Commander Calvert had given her a tinkertech baton to defend herself with.
She was their best chance at getting into the Black Pyramid, after all.
— Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger) —
With every passing day, he could feel the headsman's axe getting closer. The Ironborn had proved an insufficient distraction for Orys and his obsessive search over the records.
He had hoped that Orys would be more like his father. That the thought of getting glory in war would send him running to the aid of the North, especially with his reputed skill with a bow and friendship to the wolf brats.
And yet, instead of taking the bait as his father almost did, Orys had been calm, collected and simply arranged for his Uncle to handle things. Stannis was pleased to be given the chance, and already the Royal Fleet was headed north to blockade the Ironborns.
Balon, for all his bluster, would fold and back down. He'd rant and rave, demanding payment for his son's death, but he would fold when faced with Stannis and his fleets. He was a coward at heart, it was why he bent the knee at the end of his last failed attempt. He'd already arranged for some of his captains to pose as Ironborn Raiders and sink some of the Royal Fleet, to make sure this went into a full-blown war. Hopefully, they could kill Stannis himself which would cause utter chaos, but he'd settle for the raids turning into a second Greyjoy Rebellion.
This would distract the King, but not Orys. With whispers of the King stepping back and letting Orys take over the running of King's Landing, it was increasingly important that the Crown Prince be deterred from his investigations.
Ned Stark was proving as useless as he feared. His suspicions of the Lannister's part in Jon Arryn's death were going nowhere, as the man was too poor a player of the game to notice the breadcrumbs he'd laid out for Stark. That this was the fool who got Cat drove him to rage, but he couldn't show it. Fortunately, Cat trusted him more than the crown and her words had made Ned believe that he could be trusted.
He'd need to push Ned to believe that the Queen was behind Margaery's near-death soon. He needed Ned to play his part, but the man was a battle axe in a game where only a dagger was needed.
And yet, it didn't solve his biggest problem. Orys was suspicious of him and he had no idea why. For all his life, he'd thrived from being underestimated, just Baelish from the littlest finger, not worthy of a second look.
And yet, Orys had been suspicious of him since the very first day he arrived in King's Landing. Baelish saw the poorly-hidden distrust on his face during that first Small Council meeting. And yet, why? He'd made sure to be useful enough to the Lannister's to avoid Tywin's gaze so why would Orys arrive with such paranoia about him?
The little information he had on Orys didn't match the confident crown prince that returned from the North. His spies in Casterly Rock were few and far between, but Orys was said to be quiet and studious, not the type to make a scene or splash. He expected a boy closer to Tommen than Joffrey, someone he didn't need to worry about.
This is why he hated dealing with people he didn't have all the information on.
Trying to kill Margaery again would be too risky. The Tyrells were on guard and Olenna was too good at this game for him to take such a risk with her watching so carefully.
As the very man who had caused him such stress appeared, Baelish showed none of his anger or paranoia.
"Quite the mess we've found ourselves in, your Highness," Petyr said, making Orys pause in his confident stride. His boots had mud on them, from the tourney grounds, and yet they hadn't during the council meeting. Why had he gone back, and with no guards in sight?
"Indeed, Lord Baelish. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. It seems like every House has someone representing them here today, visitors from all the Seven Kingdoms and beyond," Orys agreed easily, his tone and posture relaxed. "With such a crowd, chaos was inevitable. I just hoped it would be less fatal."
It was his eyes that gave him away. A stormy gaze that held the mistrust that he was too young to hide. The way they bore into him made him feel exposed, his secrets laid bare before Orys.
"How fortunate that your senses are so honed, that's quite a gift you possess," Petyr continued calmly, watching Orys carefully. The slightest twitch of his lips, amusement, followed by his body stiffening, paranoia.
"It's served me well, true, though it was as much luck as talent. Had we been served different wines, I likely would have never noticed the difference between mine and Margaery's until it was too late," Orys admitted with a frown. His posture stiffened again, but this time it was in anger. Barely concealed fury at the near-death of his betrothed. Ours is the Fury, indeed. "Do you know if Varys has finished the list of people who accessed the kitchens?"
"I fear not. The Lannister guards at the kitchens were lax in their duties, and the list keeps growing with every passing interrogation," Petyr replied smoothly, seeing the frustration on the young prince's face. "I'm sure our Master of Whispers is turning over every rock as we speak."
"Walk with me," Orys commanded, making Baelish hesitate. Something in him told him to run, as if he was being led to his execution, but he didn't show it as he relaxed and walked with the young prince.
Orys led him to the royal library, an oft ignored room by many in his family but Orys seemed fond of the room himself. He almost missed a single step as he noticed the financial documents and records piled up in the corner Orys had claimed as his work area.
"Bella, clear the room, please," Orys ordered his half-sister who bowed and swiftly removed the couple of servants from the room. "Tell me honestly, Baelish. What do you think of Varys?"
Baelish paused at that, his head tilting and his eyes narrowing.
"He's very good at his job, your highness. Perhaps too good. Your father has left him to his devices for years, and nobody ever truly knows what Varys is doing," Baelish answered honestly, not even needing to lie for this.
"He was the Master of Whispers for the Mad King, wasn't he?" Orys asked, making Baelish nod calmly.
"He kept his position, as Pycelle did. Though, I doubt I need to remind you that even your Grandfather was the Hand to the Mad King," Petyr pointed out, making Orys chuckle.
"Grandfather paid for his continued success in Princess Elia's blood, and Pycelle convinced Aegon to open the gates for the Lannister armies. And yet, Varys seemingly served Aegon loyally to the end, only for him to slip right into the court of my father," Orys pointed out, and Baelish could only nod in agreement.
It truly showed how good Varys was at the game that he managed to keep his head.
"You don't trust him, your Highness?" Petyr asked, already knowing the answer.
"The Tyrells served the Targaryens until the Mad King's death. This marriage would tie them to the Baratheon Rule. Any Targaryen loyalist would see it as both a betrayal and a devastating blow to any hopes of restoring the Dragons," Orys explained. "I've heard Varys has been tracking the exiled Targaryen siblings for years, and yet this pair of children have escaped his birds at every turn."
Orys hadn't heard of Viserys' death? Unsurprising, Varys hadn't brought it up to King Robert yet, for whatever reason.
"Indeed. It does seem odd for a man with such a wide web to fail to entangle a pair of baby dragons," Petyr agreed. "And yet, you didn't bring this up during the Small Council meeting."
"You know how my father is when it comes to 'Dragonspawn'. If I was wrong, there was every chance my father would crush Varys' skull before any proof of his innocence could be found," Orys admitted with a frown and a sign, one hand running through his hair. "If he is truly loyal to the crown, I'd not spill the blood of a loyal, talented subject with a false accusation built on hearsay."
"The words of a prince carry a hefty weight, your Highness," Petyr agreed with sympathy. "To answer your question, no. I don't trust Varys. I suspect nobody does, and Varys certainly trusts nobody. It is what makes him good at his job, but shrouds his motives. Whispers have reached me from Pentos that suggest that one of the dragonspawn, Viserys, met his end at the hands of his sister. And yet, Varys with his grand web of little birds has failed to inform your father that one of the children he's been calling for the deaths of is finally dead…"
Orys didn't respond for a moment, leaning against his desk with a frown on his face.
"And now that same man is tasked with ensuring another attempt on Margaery does not occur. If I asked anyone else to handle the investigation, it would seem like an open declaration that I don't trust Varys," Orys pointed out after a long moment.
"If I may be so bold, why ask me, your highness? Petyr asked, making Orys hum.
"There's something rotten in King's Landing, and I don't just mean the smell. Uncle Stannis is busy. Uncle Renly, as much as I love my uncle, is not a serious man. Pycelle is a doddering old man. Eddard… well, I have no doubt Lord Stark is a man of honour, but watching him blunder through the Southern Court has given me second hand embarrassment," Orys admitted, getting a small laugh from Baelish. "When I first arrived here, I was deathly curious why we are in so much debt when everyone I spoke to would tell me that you are a genius with coin. My father is wasteful, but it would take spending on a scale of Aegon the Unworthy to cause such debt in such a small timeframe. I started going over the records but it seemed like I'd barely managed to turn a single page before Lord Varys emerged, eager to point my investigation toward you."
Baelish didn't react to his admission, but inside he felt his anger grow. Varys was one of the other people who had never trusted him, and the idea that Varys had whispered his poisonous words into Orys' ears so quickly infuriated him.
The fact that he hadn't seen through Pycelle's act, and that Tywin hadn't seen fit to inform him of the fact that Pycelle was owned by the Lannister's, made him relax slightly.
"I had noticed your rather intense investigation of the records," Petyr admitted with a wry smile. "And your decision to request records from outside the capital raised many eyebrows."
"I was raised by Tywin Lannister. If there's one thing I know, it's gold. I know when records don't add up, and I suspected they'd been tampered with and didn't trust the royal records," Orys admitted, gesturing at his desk. "Before this near-miss with Margaery, I did suspect you, but what do you have to gain from killing a Tyrell?"
"And yet, you cannot accuse Varys to your father without inflaming his Grace's famous temper when it comes to the Dragons," Petyr continued. "And now Varys is tasked with hunting an assassin he may very well have sent. Even now, he's arranging food tasters that could be the next to attempt to poison Lady Margaery's meal."
"Exactly my dilemma. If I accuse Varys, my father is likely to take his head and call it a day, potentially letting the true culprit escape unnoticed, to continue their schemes. If I don't, I have to pray to the Seven and any other god that is listening that Varys isn't the culprit or I'm making this easy for him," Orys agreed. "The list of people who benefit from Margaery's death is too long to list. I don't want to lose her."
"You seem to have grown fond of her quite quickly, your Highness," Petyr pointed out, making Orys laugh.
"I know. I spent the better part of a year dreading meeting her, knowing I was stuck with her regardless of how we felt for one another, but all those worries faded in minutes of meeting her," Orys admitted with a rueful smile. "She's everything I would want in a Queen."
"I know the feeling, all too well. I had a woman who made me feel the same, that she was all I ever wanted from the moment I met her," Petyr admitted, his mind going back to Cat. "In my case, fate deemed it not to be. She was betrothed to a man from far grander lands than my 'little finger', a man who had muscle where I had intellect. I even challenged him to a duel over it, five namedays younger and half his size. I still have the scars from the beating he gave me."
How much would be different if he'd been more martially-inclined and had defeated Brandon that day? Instead, he was humiliated in front of Cat, and Brandon didn't even get the girl in the end. No, Eddard Stark took his love in his brother's place. He had noticed that Sansa looked so much like her mother, but any temptation to approach her was shut down by the simple fact that nothing would make Stark turn on him faster.
"Then you understand why I find myself unwilling to risk Margaery's life on the chance that the strange, bald eunuch isn't as suspicious as he looks and acts," Orys said bluntly.
His youth was as useful as it was dangerous. He knew all too well how passion could blind even the smartest man. Orys was far too smart, and yet his youthful panic was making him show his hand. But it also meant he was likely to act rashly, despite his usually calm demeanour.
Orys did not fully trust him, even now there was a hint of that paranoia in his posture and expression, but he trusted Varys less. He could use this.
"I do, your highness," Petyr agreed softly. "Your father may have left the Small Council to their devices, but if Varys truly still has Targaryen leanings… the consequences could be disasterous for the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. You stand out too much to investigate Varys yourself, and as you said, the rest of the Small Council either cannot be trusted or or otherwise unsuitable. Your father said to treat your words as if they came from his mouth. If you truly suspect Varys, you need only give the order and I'll look into him and his little birds."
"Do so," Orys ordered, a stern frown on his face that reminded him of both Stannis and Tywin. "If anyone asks, and I'm certain Varys has already heard, I brought you here to discuss several discrepancies I found in the royal accounts."
As Orys explained the main ones, he knew Orys was going to be a problem. He'd already rooted out several positions that were being paid double or being paid to people who didn't exist, but Petyr was able to deflect most of the blame as he didn't personally handle the staffing (instead, having someone he owned do it for him).
If he became King, Baelish knew his network of schemes would slowly unravel, but that was a problem for the future and not the immediate issue on Orys' mind. He could blame a lot on other people, but too much would make him look incompetent at best and lose him his position, if not his head.
But for now, Orys' bloodhound hunt for answers was aimed elsewhere, and as they separated he let out a secret sigh of relief.
It was far from perfect. Orys was too suspicious of him, but at least now he had a better idea why. Varys. The Spider was playing games, as always, and beat him to the punch when it came to their Crown Prince.
Orys had to go. He was too economically trained for him to become King, where he'd have everything he needed to fully unravel his many schemes and cons that had been draining the crown's funds.
But if he could position himself closer to Orys before his demise, he'd be better suited to deflect blame when the time came.
As they went their separate ways, he considered his options and paused before smiling. Joffrey was a cruel, arrogant fool. Three traits he loved in his 'superiors'.
Joffrey's growing rage at the attention Orys was getting was clear for all to see, but the boy was a coward at heart and would likely not act on it in any serious way without some… prodding.
— Orys Baratheon —
It was 100% Baelish and it took all my self-control not to have his head cut off then and there.
But that conversation was the final nail in his coffin, now all I need is for Oberyn to stuff him into it. I was carefully watching his aura throughout the entire conversation and it was all over the place, and I learnt some valuable things through it.
He hates Varys, even before I lied and said Varys pointed me at him. He hates Eddard Stark, who I think might be the man in his own sorry tale of lost love. I could see the sheer bitterness in his heart when he told it, and it was the same bitterness that radiated from him every time Lord Stark was brought up.
And I am almost certain that I was right. He tried to kill Margaery to distract me from his thefts. He's built a business empire on the Crown's coin and he is willing to kill a lot of people to stop me from looking too deeply into his affairs.
The only pieces of evidence I showed him were the ones that I knew he'd be able to explain away. All positions that were filled by people Baelish hired, nothing that would stick to a man as slippery as Littlefinger.
Anything that could actually incriminate him (such as the wildly different records I have for the prices of many deals Baelish struck) are hidden away. I want him to be nervous, not running.
I'm sure he's going to pull some evidence incriminating Varys out of his backside. Obviously, I won't trust a single thing he brings me but there may just be some truth buried under his horseshit. I am still deeply suspicious of Varys, after all.
Mephala approves of me using my prey to ruffle the feathers of another potential threat while I plan Littlefinger's death. If I'm lucky, it'll blind him to Oberyn until it is far too late. Mostly, I'm hoping that pushing my 'suspicion' onto Varys will stop him from trying to kill Margaery again.
Returning to my room, I let out a very undignified groan and slump into my chair. I take a moment to thank Bella as she brings me a drink. She's rapidly becoming my shadow, and I won't deny that it's useful to have someone I can rely on, even if a part of me suspects anything she sees will be in my mother's ears soon after.
Looking over some documents, I let my mind wander elsewhere. I felt the awakening of a champion of Hircine in the North. Bear island, from the dream I had.
Champion may not be the right word. The girl isn't like me, my bond to Hircine is far stronger, but she's closer than Arya. A chosen?
I don't mind. The chosen of Hircine's bear aspect tore apart the Ironborn raiders, and anything that inconveniences them is a benefit for us. When word spreads, the Septons and Maesters will cry out but the North is the North. The Old Gods are the one true faith, and they don't scorn magic as easily as the Southern Kingdoms.
I can feel Mephala's web spreading further as well, but not in the Seven Kingdoms. No, she's reached into the Summer Isles. A part of me is deathly curious what she is doing over there, but a larger part of me wonders if I can use this to add the Summer Isles to my empire.
Nocturnal hasn't had much time to do anything beyond the task I set her on, but I have noticed an increase in ravens around the Red Keep already. They whisper secrets in a language only I can understand.
A part of me, a tiny part, considered bringing Margaery in on my secret. I could grant her a lesser version of Mephala's gift, but it's far too soon. I do truly like her, but the Reach favour the Seven greatly. I can't trust that her reaction would be positive. The Reach also holds Oldtown, where the Citadel lies. The Maesters would not approve of my powers.
While Mephala's gift would help keep her safe, I can't take that chance. Not yet. A single misjudgement could turn Margaery from my betrothed to a major threat.
"You truly do work too hard, Orys," the amused voice of my mother says, distracting me from my thoughts as I turn away from the financial documents (taxes from King's Landing) and to face her.
Bella gives her a deep bow, and wisely makes herself scarce, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
"There's too much work to be done," I counter with a sigh, making her sigh fondly as she approaches, running her hand through my hair as she fixes the somewhat messy black locks. I'd call it motherly if she wasn't also pulling my head so I'm staring directly into her cleavage.
"Then you may not like what I have to say," Cersei continues, pulling up a seat and sitting next to me. Never once in my life have I seen her get her own chair, and she knows a maid is just outside.
Lovely.
"Perhaps, but as bizarre as it sounds, I enjoy the work," I admit with a wry grin. My future kingdoms are a mess, but they're my mess to clean. Cersei smiles at that, her hand resting on mine.
"You were impressive in the Small Council meeting. Authority suits you, Orys," Cersei whispers.
"I should hope so. I've been raised from birth to wear it properly," I reply simply, making her chuckle.
"You were. Which is why your father wants to let you stretch your wings, Orys. He is going to announce that he is stepping back tomorrow at the festival. He'll still be king, but you will be the one holding court and giving orders. You know your father has never enjoyed the more tedious parts of ruling, and he wants to give you time to prepare for when the crown sits on your brow."
My father wants, or she wants?
"What would this mean, exactly," I ask, making her smile softly.
"You'd be King in all but name. Your father rarely wields his Kingly authority for anything more than arranging tournaments, but that power would be yours to wield as you see fit," Cersei continues, just the slightest hint of avarice in her tone. "I suspect he plans to abdicate the throne in the not so distant future. The crown has never sat comfortably on his head."
No, he doesn't plan to do so. She plans to make it so.
Rising from my seat, I move over to my window and lean against it, looking out over King's Landing with a deep frown. These are my people, but King's Landing is no jewel. The seat of my empire is a cesspit, a black mark on my honour.
Cersei moves behind me, her hands on my shoulders as she rubs them gently.
"Am I ready for that? A single mistaken decision from someone with such power can be more damaging than some wars," I point out. Despite my tension, I can't deny that her tender massage feels amazing.
I wonder if she was giving father one as she whispered just the right words to get him to agree to this plan of hers. Maybe even seeing it as his own plan.
"You are, my little stag," Cersei swears, her body pressed against my back as I look out at my city. "You won't carry this weight alone, and it is better that you get a taste of this power before it is thrust upon you. That poison could have just as easily been in your father's goblet and he lacks your skills. This life is unpredictable, Orys. Anything could happen, to anyone. I won't see you unprepared for your destiny."
I know she's trying to manipulate me, which makes it all the worse that it is working. She's telling me everything I want to hear.
I know my father treats his responsibility like some foul thing that he foists off on other people, and have I not seen how untrustworthy his court is? Would it not be better to take it into my own hands?
Turning to face her, she doesn't back away as she stands inches from me, her breasts pressing against my chest. She told me she wouldn't bring up her offer again, and she's been true to her word. Not a single word of it has left her lips, but actions speak so much louder.
Mephala is a Prince of sex amongst other things, I can detect arousal as easily as I can lies. I don't need her gift to see the sheer need in Cersei's eyes, my enhanced nose picking up her arousal and her nipples pressing into my chest.
"You'll help me?" I ask simply.
"With anything and everything, for as long as you need me," Cersei promises, her aura growing lighter with my question.
"In the North, after my illness, I heard the Old Gods," I say, and watch as her entire body freezes up.
"Orys?" Cersei asks, finally taking a step back.
"Hircine, Lord of the Hunt, chose me. I was never that good with a bow, my senses have never been so sharp," I admit, watching her mind race behind her eyes.
"This… new cult in the North?" Cersei asks, making me smile grimly.
"There's nothing new about it, Cersei. Even now, I can feel the call to go out and hunt rushing through my veins. You said you'd do anything for me," I say, my tone a mixture of stern and uncertain as I watch her gather her thoughts. "The Faith would decree me a heretic, and may even try to end my life."
"They will not touch you, Orys. You are the Crown Prince, they exist to serve you, not their gods," Cersei finally says, taking my hand. "You've always been special, I said it from the moment you were born and I'll say it until the day I die."
"I was meant to die. I was chosen by the Gods long before our trip. I watched through their eyes as one of them, Ithelia, saved me from the fever you refuse to talk about," I continue, watching her freeze. "I was meant to die, and my every actions since has sent waves throughout the Seven Kingdoms and beyond."
"I prayed to every god that would listen to save you. I begged the Seven, the Old Gods, even went to the Red Priests. One insisted I burn you to bless all my future children. I had him disembowelled," Cersei admits, the lust replaced with something far darker.
"One listened," I say simply. "And I'm scared, because things are changing across Westeros because of me. Soon, we'll hear word of a woman who can turn into a giant bear in the North, and the Faith and Maesters will bluster and call it false, but I saw it. Even from here."
My voice is incredibly soft, taking zero chances with this knowledge.
It's also the truth. I can feel the other Daedric Princes beginning testing to see just how much they can do without me. I might be the gatekeeper, but that won't stop them from trying to scale the walls, or knock them down altogether.
"You said you were having bad dreams, when you had that f- the fever," Cersei whispers back, making me nod.
"These old gods have names. They were trying to tempt me. I accepted Hircine to help control this… gift of mine and through me, his influence is spreading," I admit. A part of me is just relieved to get this off my chest.
She doesn't respond for a long moment, making me think I've made a mistake. That I've read her aura wrong.
"What do you want, Orys?" Cersei asks, and I know she isn't talking about something as small as a favour.
I turn back out to the window, giving King's Landing one last look.
"I want to be the greatest King the world has ever seen," I admit. I want my name to live on throughout the centuries, long after we're all bones and dust, and for people to say I was the best thing that happened to the Seven Kingdoms.
Cersei moves closer again, her hands wrapping around my waist as she hugs me tightly, placing a kiss on my neck.
"You will be," Cersei swears, a fanaticism in her voice that both frightens and emboldens me. "Make no mistake, Orys, I would truly do anything for you. The Faith can burn. I'll personally tear down the Great Sept brick by brick if they dare threaten you."
The scary thing? I truly believe her.
— Varys —
Fate was a funny little thing.
So much planning, so many whispers and schemes, only for it all to fall away at the final hour. Hiding Viserys and Daenerys from King Robert's rage had been no small task, certainly not while keeping his own neck for his repeated failures to capture or kill the pair.
Admittedly, things had not gone as planned. The Tyrells marrying into the crown was a deadly blow to their hopes and would have made the fight to place Viserys on the throne far harder, but in the end? It didn't even matter.
After so many years of hard work, of planting seeds and weaving webs, Viserys dies through no-one's fault but his own. It seemed the Targaryen madness was strong in him, after all.
This was not necessarily the worst, not a death blow to their plans, but that was before word reached him of how Viserys had met his end.
At the hands of his own sister.
The Dothraki boasted of their Khaleesi slaying her traitorous brother, telling tales of the way she burnt him alive. To them, it was a sign of power. To the rest of the world?
Daenerys Targaryen was a kinslayer who bedded a horse-lord. No amount of whispers would get the Seven Kingdoms to accept her as their Queen. A daughter of the Mad King Aegon who burnt her brother alive? No, she would face resistance beyond anything she could handle.
Dorne would simply pretend the pact they made was false, lying through their teeth to distance themselves from it.
No, their Targaryen restoration plan had ended in tragedy, dying with Viserys. Illyria would not be pleased, but the very fates seemed against them.
How else could he see 'Young Griff' dying to a poisonous spider bite? Nobody should have known of Aegon's existence, the pair of siblings had proven an adequate distraction, and yet he died all the same.
Jon Connington saw it as an assassination, but nobody had found even a trace of the would-be assassin. So, he went from three promising Targaryen children to a single one so tainted that she would never be accepted. Connington was on the warpath, of course, his charge dead despite the many precautions taken, and even accused Varys of being the assassin when he found nothing.
He truly feared that someone else was playing the game with them, someone so good at it he hadn't even seen a hint of their existence. To kill Aegon with a spider? It was a message. A threat.
But from who? He could not say, and that scared him more than anything he'd ever faced before.
— Bonus Scene — Melisandre
Reaching King's Landing was the easy part, in truth. Despite the long journey she took to get here, this was where her trial truly began.
The Lady of Light had guided her well, and she'd felt her powers grow with her guidance, but in this place, magical power alone was not enough.
Azor Ahai, the Prince that was Promised, was within this very city. She'd seen his face in every flame, and her dreams had never been clearer. The Others were soon to awaken, the Kingdoms unprepared for their arrival, but all was not long.
Not while Orys Baratheon still lived.
And yet, while her place was by his side to guide him toward his destiny, how could she approach him? Her religion was barely even tolerated in the Seven Kingdoms, and Orys was the Crown Prince, soon to be the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Even at this grand tourney, she could not simply approach him so easily, and this would be the most approachable he would likely be for a long time.
No, magic alone would not aid her here. This required a subtle touch.
Author's Note: I wrote this one in a London hotel. I'm down amongst the savage southerners for Comicon.
Orys is surrounded by Yandere milfs. There are worse fates.