King's Landing
98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 23)
Viserra V
The tourney was to begin upon the morrow, thus a feast of fitting splendor was held upon the eve before that day.
Viserra graced it with her presence, doing so to atone for her own tardy arrival. She had weighed the notion of absence from this entire affair, no matter its grandeur. Sweetport bore duties that demanded vigilant oversight, and she trusted none to tend them as aptly as she herself.
Yet alas, she could not wholly forswear this occasion, drawn more by the prospects it offered than by reverence for her father. Thus had she come, accompanied by her husband and son and a dozen or so of her most faithful knights, to stand for her lands and her wedded home.
Upon her arrival, she had been quite disquieted by the throng of folk and nobles who had gathered for this tourney. The streets teemed full, the inns and manses offered no vacancy. It would have proved a most unwelcome place, were it not for the winter's chill that muted the foul reek of bodies and ordure.
Fortunate it was, as a princess of the blood, that quarters had been readied for her within the Holdfast. The remainder of her household must fashion their lodgings near the tourney grounds.
It was well that snow came late into the winter here, thus warding off the peril of freezing.
Yet to the eve's feast. It was a grand affair, alive with song and drink and victuals and dancing of every sort. Nobles mingled and plotted, and Viserra lagged not far behind. She had nigh forgotten how dearly she was cherished, or rather, how many lords fell under her spell.
They sought her counsel, those lords, and most did so only to murmur honeyed trifles or lavish her with coin and gifts.
And for those who approached with matters of greater substance, she found herself in want of sundry things her lands lacked. There was need for horses to mount her household, and much else besides.
"Our livestock shall want for proper fodder this winter," she had told her husband when he came to her one noon for trifles outside her worries. That trifling oversight had slipped her notice when she had perused the yields of their lands. "And many cattle seem to have deemed this winter apt to swell their numbers."
And swell they had, thus she must make good use of the bounty of milk such increase would yield. Her intent was to seek and enlist men versed in the craft of cheese making, though preferably not those sponsored by her brother.
"We have devised a select few variants of cheese already," Maelys had told her. "I am certain I could spare a few maesters to instruct the folk of your lands in the art."
Kind as ever he was, yet she desired no cheeses deemed unfit for women with child. Moreover, she harbored doubts that maesters knew anything of such pursuits.
Thus she had bidden him wait until her own endeavors bore no fruit. He had taken no offense, though perchance that stemmed from Viserra's ire toward him for neglecting to apprise her of Daemon's betrothal.
The same held for Gael, as her sister had omitted such tidings despite the many ravens they exchanged.
And speaking of Daemon, she had chanced upon him with his betrothed upon his arm. The girl was fair enough, with silver-gold locks that cascaded down her back. A pair of vibrant violet eyes, a heart-shaped face, and elegant lips.
She possessed a compelling form besides, as more than a few lords leered upon her, and her garb was assuredly leagues beyond the craft of Westerosi seamstresses.
Viserra envied only that her own marriage had required no such deliberation.
With a goblet of wine in one hand and Loras in the other, she approached Daemon at the side, the youth doubtless murmuring some crude jests into the Lyseni's ear. She greeted them, donning a mask of courtesy and delight.
"…she is such a beautiful and amiable lady, this betrothed of yours, my dearest nephew." Those had been her words as she regarded the girl, a woman in truth. Not merely an ornament; there was wit and cunning in the girl's eyes. So unlike the Westerosi broodmare ladies that fancied frivolous gossip.
Viserra suspected she would subjugate her nephew in a few moons if he were not wary. Yet Daemon's import was ever by proxy, and neither Maelys nor Baelon were fools to be swayed so lightly.
Mayhap Viserys would prove so, but he was not yet king.
"As is to be expected of a descendant of Old Valyria," Daemon boasted, and his betrothed played the part of a smitten and bashful maiden well enough.
"You are quite beautiful as well, Princess Viserra. I see now why you are famed as Westeros's delight. I dare contend not even the finest in Lys compare to your grace," the girl said. Her voice was melodious enough, High Valyrian twisted by that bastardised tongue the vice city fancied.
Viserra suspected her harlot sister, Saera, would disagree. She had ever been overconfident in her crude capability to ensnare men's hearts. Foolish, if one asked her. Any who wielded her cunt to win fealty deserved neither respect nor regard.
Still, the praise was appreciated, even if it came from the lips of someone she cared little for. Then again, mayhap forging a connection was no waste.
She tarried with the two for a while longer, and they let slip tidings of middling import. One such was the accord between the Rogares and Maelys. The two had agreed to barter goods, and Maelys seemed in great want of honey and the bees that wrought it.
It was a queer thing, to desire bees. Yet Lys boasted plenty of them, and Maelys held a wealth of things that nobles and merchants craved. Viserra would merely inquire of her of brother later what need he had for the honey.
She kept some stores of it she would not be loath to part with, especially since sugar proved more preferable.
As the night wore on, the revelry grew quieter, and many nobles sought their beds. Viserra lingered, even as Loras went ahead to rest. She departed only to ensure her son slumbered safe and sound.
He did.
Upon her return, she sealed further bargains, and to her surprise acquired most of what she desired. None would yield their cheese makers to her, alas. Yet all was well, for her sister knew much of what might be done with the milk.
Gael was disturbingly versed in foodstuffs and cooking and a dozen other lowly tasks. "I see little need for you to know of any of this. It is demeaning," she said as they sat by the high table, the rest of their close kin departed. A few ladies approached them, most like for Gael, seeking counsel.
One lady had besought Viserra's leave to name her daughter after her. She had granted it.
"These are skills for life, dearest sister. I would hate to be helpless should I ever lack servants to attend me. And besides, Maelys is also most adept in such matters, more even." Her sister argued.
Viserra yet saw no wisdom in it. Why would she ever want for servants?
Gael continued thus, face ever serene and a posture rested graceful. "Moreover, I mean not merely to be a princess in a castle, pardon any offense." She smiled with her eyes. If ever Viserra believed in the Andal faith, then she would argue that her sister was born in her the Mother boasted.
She feigned a scoff, though she furthered it with no words. Gael mouthed more her dream of motherhood and journeying.
"I yearn to traverse my lands when they stand complete, to dwell for a time in manses and homes fit only for a family. I wish to be a mother in every sense, to tend my children and feed them meals prepared by my own hand, and to forge memories shared by our kin alone."
My lands, her sister said. What foolishness her brother whispering to her sister? Viserra did not laugh, yet she was amused.
There, upon the floor, a young lady of dull brown hair and a knight danced to a heart stirring melody wrought by a stout bard with soft eyes and an even softer voice. He played with such romance and attentiveness, his hazel eyes locked ever so gently upon the young lass embraced by the ser of blond.
The princess knew a smitten girl when she beheld one, and that young lady was like to have her maidenhead stolen by that siren tongued fat bard.
Bards and their like for noble cunt. At least this small scandal was to make for an amusing story.
"You make it sound as though I am a poor parent for not having done so with Jaedar," she teased her sister, who grew flustered at the feigned insinuation.
"That was not what I meant," Gael said swiftly, though she soon calmed and showed mock annoyance upon perceiving the jest. "I certainly deem you no ill parent. I simply harbor dreams beyond the custom of noble rearing."
It was pleasing that her sister held aspirations of her own.
"Does Maelys know of this?"
Her brother was overfond of children; she doubted he would welcome parting with his for any span.
Gael inclined her head. "He does. This is his dream as well." She smiled with such gentle, distant warmth. "I am certain our children will grow weary of him before all is done."
Viserra could well envision it. Of all whom she envisioned would be a fine father for her boy, Maelys stood foremost, with none drawing near. He had such a way with little ones, and if she spoke true, he seemed happiest in their midst, or at least with her Jaedar.
She let forth a breath, her eyes sweeping the hall. The bards had turned to softer melodies upon instruments she scarce knew. The dancers moved with less fervor as well, and the servants had been relieved by fresh ones. To her surprise, food and drink yet flowed, and some nobles had already succumbed to overindulgence.
Those were the lesser sort, bereft of grand legacy or proper tutelage.
"Speaking of Maelys, I have not seen him in quite some time," she murmured. "Has he gone ahead to rest? Will he enter any of the events upon the morrow?"
"Not abed, like as not upon the roof again. I would grant him some time. He yet mislikes noise and throngs," Gael told her. She sounded untroubled. "As for the contests, I think he will not. He holds great dislike for anything that could risk his untimely end."
Viserra nigh forgot her brother harbored a craven streak. Well, it seemed neither she nor Gael would be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty in the tourney.
After a moment, she beheld the bard who had sung so sweetly slip away from the hall. The young lady followed him scarce a breath later. They were at least discreet enough, she supposed.
Soon Viserra herself departed, attended by her guards and maidservants, though she felt no great weariness nor any pull of slumber. She resolved to seek out her brother, that she might savour his company. Maelys was not one for early beds, nor even late ones.
Perchance the both of them might not even sleep this night, and simply talk until dusk came.
————
Amongst the towers, there stood one farther east of the Red Keep, facing where the winds blew purest, that the city's foul reek might not assail it. It was edged sharply, and whispered rumor spoke of souls who had leapt from its heights into the Blackwater's embrace.
There was where her youngest brother often sought solace, even in his tender years. He perched upon the roof, gazing far into the shadowed distance with a countenance too serene for one so fair of face. Long had he shed the innocence of youth, yet his comeliness ill suited such an expression of profound silence and remoteness.
Viserra ascended the ladder stairs to the roof with an old grace divorced from the haze of her wine. But a faint haze, in truth.
Maelys was there, his back turned to the open hatch.
He sat upon a furred blanket, his legs crossed. A chalice rested nearby, wrought of silver and studded with precious gems. He seemed nigh a statue, so tranquil and still.
"Do you even feel the cold?" she said by way of greeting, easing with care to his side to share in his vigil over the void. "The least you could do is don a cloak."
She settled then beside him. Maelys was warmth itself, or at least a gentle heat that touched her skin.
Odd thing, that.
"I would return the concern, my dearest sister," he said in turn, glancing over to regard her just a bit, though a bit enough. His eyes were a touch glazed over, and his lips bore a faint blue. There was a sickly pallor to his countenance, and something almost eerily ethereal about his voice. "You have only a shawl upon your shoulders."
A chill not born of the winter seized her heart for a second. Dread tugged at her stomach, and fright sought to argue that her regard was colored by her wine's haze.
It was not, and in that moment, whatever dulling of the mind she nursed ceased to be.
"Maelys!" she near shrieked. Her hands flew to him in concern. Was it poison? What vile creature would attempt such upon her brother? "What has happened to you? What is wrong?"
Viserra's heart was near her throat as she shook her brother in panic. She was a beat away from calling for aid before he interrupted.
"Do not yield too swiftly to fright, Viserra," he said calmly, with a laugh that felt like a distant thing. "These are merely the dregs of a hallucinogenic concoction departing me."
What? What was her brother on about?
Still, his clear words stole some of her panic, though not all. Viserra eased her grip. She did not quite let go of him. Maelys's eyes looked past her, and the assuring smile he wore filled her with no relief.
He clearly was not there.
"What ails you, Maelys?" she pressed once more. "You appear not yourself, nor sound it. You seem a man upon death's threshold, and your flesh burns like fire."
She felt the heat more keenly in his shoulder. He smiled still. Viserra found no comfort in it. In her mind's eye, she beheld her brother upon a pier...
…flamed to ashes by dragon fire.
"Peace, sister. I beseech you," he said again. "I am not dying. I have merely partaken of a draught that acquaints me with the depths of my own mind." He gestured clumsily toward the chalice at his side. Her eyes darted to it. Naught but the remnants of a milky liquid remained within. "Might I have your lap for a moment? It proves difficult to converse whilst seated as I am… more so with a mind that twists all I see."
She didn't understand him—could not understand him.
Still, Viserra regarded him closely. He spoke plainly enough, at the least. After a breath, she chose to trust his words, drawing his head to her lap, though not before vowing his death should he prove false and expire. She would not have her brother perish in her arms.
Not thus.
"Ah, this is far better," he declared once his head rested upon her thighs. "My deepest thanks."
"I shall require an explanation of what you have imbibed and why it wreaks such havoc upon you, Maelys," she said, fixing him with a stern gaze. His eyes drifted past her. "Can you even behold me?"
His lips quirked just so persuasively. "Not quite." The confession stirred a flicker of fear in her. Yet her brother sounded unperturbed. "All I perceive are colors and visions. You appear as a waterfall to my sight."
"You sound as a drunkard," she said, shaking her head. Nay, she remained wroth with Maelys. "Now confess to me what you drank."
She prayed fervently that her brother had not yielded to some twisted vice.
"Insistent, are you not?" Of course she was; did he not see he resembled a man at life's end? "Well, the truth is that I drank a shade of the evening, albeit an altered variant."
What was that? She should have known that his choice to draw those alchemists into his counsel would bode ill. This was a venom of their forging, like as not.
Viserra absently brushed her hand through her brother's locks. She wondered if Gael knew that Maelys partook of draughts of dubious make. Probably not.
"Tell me what that is," she demanded of him.
He obliged. The brew was a creation of those charlatans in Asshai, something that stirred wakeful dreaming. Viserra twisted Maelys's hair at that revelation. What folly was this, to consume such suspect elixirs?
Such foolishness.
"…it aids me in recalling things," he said in a panic, striving to halt her chastisement of his witless choice.
"Not good enough." She tapped him upon his forehead. "What would become of Gael if ever you perished?"
What would become of her?
A touch of shame colored his countenance. At least he possessed wit enough to show remorse. By now, she was wholly certain that he would not perish. He too seemed assured he faced no peril.
A breath of relief had left her, and her heart became silent as a lake. The moon that hung over the city was full, thus the world lacked no veil of night entire.
"It was not my intent to affright you. And believe me, the draught has endured thorough trials. It is safe." She struck him for that, and demanded what recollections warranted such a hazard. It was a peril, even if he deemed it none. "The care of babes and sundry other matters."
Maelys presented her a book. Within lay scribbles and scratches, and a few words she fancied she comprehended. "Explain it to me," she bade him. And once more, her brother proved not averse to doing so.
He spoke of many things: of dolls fashioned from wood and feather; of little tomes brimmed with tales and vibrant drawings; of manners to cradle a child, to lull them to repose; of victuals, of garb, and of all other sundry trifles. There was abundance, and abundance yet of things that would prove needful for Gael.
It was touching, yet also disquieting. Naught of what he uttered or schemed bore true weight upon the rearing of children. Her siblings were weaving too much inconsequence into such a simple duty.
"Will you also raise a town of pillows for your children to frolic in?" she teased him once he had finished.
"I would if I could, in truth," he replied, laughing with her. "But pray, sister, think not that I am blind to the folly of my deeds. I know full well how needless all this is, and yet I cannot help but yearn to make it real." He confessed this with a trace of sorrow.
"In honesty, it was not solely for child rearing that I quaffed this draught. The erstwhile slaves and refugees from Essos are bound to reach Havenhall in but a few days. I sought to conclude the framework of governance needful to secure a more ideal future."
Ah, the slaves of Essos. Yet, as she had come to learn, it was not all slaves; nigh more than half the folk were bondmen. "You fret overmuch about trifles, brother. You and Gael both," she told him thus, lifting her eyes to the moon. "You have already wrought so much for legacy and song."
Had Maelys been a man bold with sword and shield, there would have been yet more ballads of his grandeur. Still, if he persevered in his present course, his renown would swell. From prince to chosen one, to a lord of model nobility.
All would be measured against him, and those who lagged behind would reap only discontent from their subjects. Already there stirred unrest born of this holy-book venture. Viserra herself had been forced to dance attendance upon septas who sought to curry her favour by invoking the Andal faith.
Nonsense.
"Such is the way of rulership, dearest sister—at least the rulership I envision for my lands," her brother answered with a laugh. "When tomorrow comes, I would have every soul within my domains take pride in their home."
Of course he would say that.
"And when shall this tomorrow dawn?" she asked, gazing upon him. The moonlight slipped across his face like a dream; he seemed almost at peace.
Mayhap he savoured the warmth of her thighs. He would savour them more were they locked about his hips. She studied his lips. Why did that faint blue tint suit him so? What other shade might become him better?
"I would say a decade or so," he sighed. "The orchards shall hold us back a while longer, I fear."
Viserra had learned that he was in the midst of purchasing trees from the Reach. Rumour held the venture proceeded poorly. No surprise there. Even she would have been loath to part with her own orchards; they were treasures beyond price.
"If you did not strive to make everything available within your lands, Maelys."
"Hardly everything. I am not so greedy," he countered, though his eyes remained closed.
The greediest, she had wanted to say. If only that greed extended to his lover of women.
They spoke on, and on still after that. When the matter turned to Dorne, her brother confessed he had not foreseen such stirrings. He sounded nigh vexed by it all.
"Do you think it will amount to anything?" she had asked. It was near midnight then, and whatever shadow had claimed him had passed. Viserra now lay beside him, her body pressed so closed to his. Maelys minded it not.
He was still warm as living fire, and he smelled of all things handsome and dreamlike.
"I am unsure," he admitted. "In truth, I desire no turmoil. Yet should matters turn that way, it would be wise to have plans already laid to turn them to our advantage."
'Our advantage', he was saying, as though he'd already included her in his machinations for whatever betterment he envisioned. Truly,why did the gods, false and true, deny her deliberation in her wedding?
On the morrow, she would beseech Baelon on an important matter. And depending on how it developed, she might gain an appreciation for her eldest brother.
With that, and with the soft murmurings of dreams, Viserra was claimed by sleep.
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The Saint: Because why shouldn't she dare hope?
I have extra chapters up on my Pa-treon/BoombaTheSaint under the Free Membership section, go and read them, free of charge.
Anyway, bye.