I left the festivities and returned to the former overseer's manor with an escort of wight guards for my communication with Stannis Baratheon. There I could make the attempt in far more peace and safety. All the other times I had projected my mind and image across distances I had taken no such precautions but then I had never stretched out my magic more than a hundred miles before, not even with animal proxies or Featherball. There were good reasons for that.
As my facility with both Divination and Greensight had improved, the ability to split my awareness came with it. A group of rats instead of just one. A flock of birds. A dozen passive bird spies each in a different place instead of a flock. A dozen wights fighting both individually and as a unit. Sixty wights spread all over the town doing different things entirely. A part of this was that both animal and wight bodies hosted minds of their own, minds that were either suppressed when my own mind-shadow occupied the body or were pale remnants of the original minds the body once hosted, allowing for significant free space to take in another mind. Less actual splitting of consciousness, more appropriation of the targets into a hivemind, though neither description was fully accurate.
Projection was not like that. There was no receiver on the other end, no frame that could partially support consciousness. Sending a mind-shadow out was like trying to think two things at once, to be aware of two sets of senses at once, without any extra processing capacity. Then there was extending the illusion through this bilocation to actually appear on the other end, basically casting a spell, however minor, a hundred miles away. Doing so while running on a high of hundreds of deaths from a battle was easy; doing the same in calmer moments was costlier and not just in effort.
Two of the wights settled as guards on the front door, two more on the back, two followed me into the manor to stand on the entrance of the overseer's old chambers in the upper floor. The lavishly decorated room had a large four-poster bed, carpets so thick you felt you could sink into them and a bookcase, an absurd display of wealth for any middle-class individual in this age. What it didn't have was windows, the previous owner not wanting his violent passtimes to be seen by the rest of the town.
Bringing my left palm up before my lips, I blew out not air but something thicker, darker. Fire and heat had countless uses but smoke had a subtlety they lacked. It could blot out light and perception. It could choke and disorient. It could be a silent, insidious killer haunting closed spaces that could be neither seen nor smelled. In the aftermath of the pyres, with the violence done and over with, my skills in Subterfuge and Pyromancy had come together with a tiny touch of Elementalism to make smoke not because I couldn't have before but simply because the idea had never occurred to me. Now a faint haze filled every corner of the room, a touch of my power not to blot out or choke or kill, but to reveal. The Faceless Ones could hide as they might under their cloaks of illusion; if they walked here they would tread through my smoke, their every breath take in my power and there would be no hiding from that.
Satisfied that I was as alone in this place as I could make myself, I closed the room's door and lay back on the bed with my eyes shut. My mind's shadow rose as soon as I did so, the bed, the smoke, the room, the wights, Featherball's distant presence as she devoured strips of crispy bacon all fading away. Not entirely, there was still a vague awareness of them, but there was far more of my mind with me outside my body than there had ever been at any time except my confrontation with Bloodraven and possibly that mess with the pirates and the too many wights.
Moving was no longer a stretch even as my awareness stretched across the world to the contours of the earth, the clouds high in the sky, the many life-fires that scurried like ants upon the world's surface. I was myself yet not, walking yet not. A single step and I was halfway across Saelys. Another and I was a mile up the coast. A third and I had set foot into the great span of the Narrow Sea that separated Essos from Westeros. The world was a Dream and with a dreamer's gait I ventured forth, space being more a suggestion than reality.
Greenseers like Bran and Bloodraven could just will themselves to any place or even time their magic reached. Fire-priests could ask the flames to show them specific people, places or events. Blood witches followed the links of blood and Dreamers saw their visions. Theoretically I could have found my way with any of those methods but a broader scope of magic meant fewer instincts for any one discipline and this being my first longer trip I had to improvise. Well no, that was a lie; I always improvised but a structured, formulaic approach to mystery and wonder would be so very boring and magic itself pushed against attempts to thus define it.
A few more steps - and miles - further out I wondered why I was bothering to walk at all. This was a Dream, was it not? And was it not one of the first dreams of men to fly? If some rando Targaryen strapped to a tree could navigate four dimensions, why would I settle for just two? With that thought I flew forth and the world grew small below me. The air thinned and the sky darkened as it gave way to the Outer Darkness but this was a Dream and dreamers only breathed if they felt like it.
Looking down from above I moved west at the speed of a falling star, from Saelys to Torturer's Deep in seconds, then north through the Stepstones to the isle of Bloodstone in a few seconds more. From there I kept going; Estermont and Cape Wrath, Tarth and Massey's Hook, slowing down only as I approached a rocky, mountainous island with a single, towering, smoke-spewing peak; Dragonstone. Smoke and heat and power wafted off the active volcano even in the Dream, echoes of ancient chants coming up the shafts that had been carved into its bulk as my awareness of the place grew. It felt not like the soil and streams and wind and clouds, other natural features that touched my awareness if just a little, but like death and flame, both at a scale that beggared belief. To the power barely dozing beneath the earth here an atomic bomb would feel like a hiccup and all my magic to this day put together was barely worth mentioning.
With effort, I pulled my attention away from the volcano. No matter how tempting it might feel, reaching out to it with my magic would be monumentally stupid, Dream or not. The landmark towering several miles above the sea was a lot larger than my head, after all. As for the island itself, it was not the tiny thing of the movies. It was maybe fifteen miles from east to west, about a third that north to south, with several villages across its coasts. Where the volcano sharply jutted out of the surrounding basaltic rock a castle that could be called small only by the measures of Westeros lay cradled by the footsteps of Dragonmount. Towers shaped like dragons, walls shaped like ridged spines, gates like the maws of dragons, halls like dragons lying on their bellies, even the kitchens were like a curled up dragon, their chimneys the dragon's nostrils.
I rolled my eyes though none would see in the Dream. Targaryens and their overcompensating ways. Too much of a good thing just became tacky, you know? No matter. Stannis Baratheon waited somewhere within, I could feel it in my bones all the way back in Saelys. He certainly wouldn't be caught dead in the fishing village below the castle, let alone the tall dark trees, wild roses, towering thorny hedges, and cranberries of Aegon's Garden. I gathered my mind-shadow more solidly in preparation of appearing in the physical world and tried to think of something awesome yet profound to say to the guy before bursting into laughter.
Then my dreaming self felt like slamming face-first into the castle's walls at a hundred miles per hour and the Dream shattered...
xxxx
"Mother look, look!" her daughter said as she danced and twirled and giggled in happiness. "Don't I look pretty?"
"Yes sweetling," she told her youngest, enjoying how her brown locks flew wild in her happiness. "You are the prettiest."
"This dress and the tiara... I like them very much," she squealed and giggled and twirled again. "But I like the big mirror best!"
"I am glad you like it so much, little rose." She smiled softly, basking in her daughter's happiness. "It is indeed a very good mirror." And well worth the cost for making her children so-
"It better be," a waspish older voice rasped. "That conniving barrel of lard Manderly asked a king's ransom for it and your oaf of a husband paid it, more fool, he."
"Mother," she greeted the older, shorter, wrinkled and yet more dangerous woman as she entered the chamber, her two guards thankfully stopping at the entrance. She had already forced her face to hold no expression and a seemingly casual flick of her hand had swept a lock of white hair back in its place even as she turned around. Not that the old vulture was fooled by either; those beady eyes did not miss much.
"Hush, Alerie, don't take that tone with me," her mother-in-law said with her habitual scowl. "And don't call me Mother. If I'd given birth to you, I'm sure I'd remember. I'm only to blame for your husband, the lord oaf of Highgarden."
"As you wish," Alerie said, because what else could she do? No other old lady would speak of a powerful lord so, her son or not, but the Queen of Thorns had no problem tongue-lashing kings, queens and lords Paramount with impunity. "Why are you here?" She tried not to sound defensive when talking to a woman half her size and more than twice her age but she knew she failed. Olenna Tyrell had that effect on everyone Alerie had ever seen talk to her.
"To see this extravagant, wasteful gift, of course." The old woman walked to where Alerie's daughter was still preening and looked at the perfectly, flawlessly flat and shining surface of the mirror before rapping her gaunt, thin fingers at it.
"Grandmother!" Alerie's little girl exclaimed in surprise and Alerie winced. "Look! Look! Isn't this mirror the greatest?" Her daughter had been so spellbound by the mirror that she had not even noticed the older woman's arrival, a natural reaction by any girl to such a wonder of craftsmanship. Not that the Queen of Thorns would take it in that way; she despised fools and those she believed were fools.
"Yes, Margaery, it is indeed the best mirror I have ever seen." She frowned pensively. "It is also the size of a barn door and weighs even more than that. Considering it was worth twice its weight in gold and more, I would have preferred it had been half the size. It would still be more than large enough for any reasonable person to look themselves in, I reckon."
Alerie was about to give the Queen of Thorns an earful for ruining her little girl's happiness and damn the consequences when the mirror turned pitch black. Alerie froze, gaping at what looked like a window to some lightless cave but Olenna Tyrell did not. She pulled Margaery back at once and took several quick steps back from the sudden strangeness. For a woman of nearly seventy namedays she could move surprisingly swiftly when she wanted, mostly because she ignored the social conventions that delayed things, Alerie thought spitefully. Then she shook herself and tried to gather her wits.
This became far more difficult when the now black mirror spat out a large figure before reverting back to a perfectly normal, if incredibly well-made looking glass. The figure remained however, tumbling into the room as if kicked by a horse. It took a moment for Alerie to realize the figure was a woman because it was almost the size of her husband, though slimmer yet taller. It also wore armor, a thing of leather, chain and small black metal plates.
No helmet though, which made for a further complication; when the woman finally came to a stop and stood up, Alerie felt like a ghost had danced in her grave. Pale skin, high cheekbones, hair like spun silver, eyes gleaming like polished amethysts and the kind of beauty that could start wars - that had started wars in the past. A Targaryen maiden of maybe six and ten, for all her height and attire.
While Allerie scoured her memory for which Targaryen the girl might be, never mind how she had come through the mirror, Erryk, one of the Queen of Thorns' ever-present guards attempted to resolve the problem by the simple expedient of swinging his blade through her neck. Attempted because the sword passed through the girl's throat with no resistance to clang bloodlessly against the flagstones.
Said young woman... moved. Allerie must have blinked and the girl had to be incredibly quick because one moment she lay on the ground, the next she was standing, looking around while ignoring the guard's second swing as if it were not even a nuisance.
"This..." a commanding voice echoed strangely as if from within some deep dark cave "is not Dragonstone."
"Obviously not," Olenna huffed, because of course she did. "Are you daft as well as a ghost, girl?" she demanded.
The room... darkened. The lamps dimmed, the flames in the fireplace guttered and the strange maiden's shadow seemed to grow to loom over them.
If she survived this, Allerie swore to truly give that old hag the tongue-lashing she deserved...
Last edited: October 31, 2025
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Threadmarks 67: Portrents of Doom New
View contentBelial666Supervillain ParagonNovember 1, 2025
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I pulled back at my annoyance before the illusion of my presence became something a lot scarier than some play of shadows and a bit of phantom chill. It was not the Tyrells I was annoyed with in any case; it had not been they that ran head-first in whatever defensive spells Dragonstone was still protected by. The chamber stopped being dark before it could get full of terror as I walked up to the mirror and raised a hand at it more out of habit than anything else. Without my body being physically present there was little I could do, especially at this distance, and yet the mirror felt warm to my phantom touch, welcoming.
It was my own work, of course. One of the mirrors I had made for Lord Manderly back in White Harbor, a large, exceptional piece even by the standards of modern industrial production back on Earth. In this world it would have been an artifact impossible to repeat via mundane means even if it were just the crystal and silver... and I was no longer sure that was the case. There was more to the mirror than crude matter now; whether it was because I had stumbled out of it magically speaking, or the stumbling had happened because I had unknowingly put magic into it when making it-
"Are you a Targaryen?" a girl's voice interrupted my examination of the mirror over whispered admonishments of 'hush, little rose' from her older relatives. I turned around to see a pretty brunette girl of nine or ten peeking around a woman in her early thirties, with a grandmother barely taller than the little girl standing before them both. The woman had pale white hair and alabaster skin, beauty and poise in equal measure in a way that was very familiar, but it was the old woman that drew my gaze the most. Green dress with inlaid roses in gold thread, short stature, old, very opinionated; this had to be Olenna Tyrell... which made the girl Margaery.
"Not everyone with silver hair and purple eyes is a member of House Targaryen, young lady," I told the kid, causing her to cutely scrunch up her nose in thought.
"But you are a dragon princess, right?" she insisted and for some reason the older people let her talk on with the uninvited, obviously supernatural intruder. Eh, it wasn't as if I would harm the girl so I might as well humour her.
"I currently have no command of any dragons nor can I turn into one," I said to Margaery with a smile. "Claims of dragonhood would be premature - if perhaps hilariously deluded." She giggled happily and someone else snorted, though as I was half-kneeling in a futile attempt to stand at the girl's level I did not see who. "Take if from someone who has seen such claims before, young lady; empty boasts only make one a fool."
"Hmf, honesty from a Valyrian," Olenna Tyrell noted drily. "Will wonders never cease?" She scowled at me, still looking up from the unimpressive height of several inches under five feet. "You are too glib for a ghost, girl. Who are you and how are you in our House?"
"This is Highgarden, then?" I looked around but from inside stone buildings it was not easy to see any landmarks. The decoration of flowers, greenery and the combination of gold and green silk still fit though. "I meant to visit Stannis Baratheon in Dragonstone through magic, but it appears I have been diverted. As to your other question, my name is Flann Belaerys." I inclined my head in greeting, a respectful gesture to a peer.
"Twelve hundred miles off course is not a diversion, it is getting completely lost like a fool," the old Tyrell matriarch pointed out with another snort.
"Mother!" the woman that was definitely not Olenna's daughter hissed in warning, only to be largely ignored.
"Normally perhaps," I admitted with a shrug, speaking to the decision-maker in the room. "Not so much when you can cross that distance in moments. It saved me the trouble of a trip across the Narrow Sea, even with this small delay."
"Stannis, you said?" Olenna mused. "Why, does he plan to bathe his child in aurochs blood like that fool Tarly the year before last? As if oversized cattle could help in anything except fatten people up."
"Oh, Samwell Tarly?" I pretended at having to think about the boy. "Unless things change, he shall become a decent warrior when he grows up though still hate battles. The only survivor of a Great Ranging beyond the Wall, too." I shrugged again. "Of course, he will only join the Night's Watch because his father threatens to 'disappear' him so he can make his other son his heir... after chaining Samwell to his room to stop him from joining the Citadel, which would have been so much better for everyone."
Three generations of Tyrells stared at me with various expressions of confusion, incredulity and exasperation.
"What? It is not I that has an unhealthy obsession with battle, that is Lord Tarly." I made the illusion of a chair then sat on it. "I much prefer magic."
"How do you know all this?" the white-haired lady asked shakenly. "That... did not sound like a prophecy."
"But it does sound like Tarly," the grandmother huffed. "All these warriors would do a deal better if they put down their swords and listened to their mothers." She took in my illusory form with a critical eye. "What about you, my dear? Armor, magic, Valyrian features. And you say you are Flann Belaerys? That is no Valyrian name I ever heard."
"No, it is not." And that was all I would say on the matter.
"Shireen Baratheon. Greyscale." Olenna suddenly said, glanced at the mirror then back at my projection. "There was word of a witch in White Harbor, word of fire and healing and dragonseeds. Spread by too many wagging tongues to be mere rumour. And then you come out of that mirror."
"Yes, that was me and yes, I made this mirror and a few others." Why bother denying it when she had already guessed?
"Is the mirror magic?" Margaery reminded everyone of her continued presence with her sudden, eager question.
"Not any more than swords or gems or trees are magic," I told the girl fondly. Odd. Back on Earth I hadn't actually liked her character but now she looked too cute to let her go through the future that waited for her, either the one in the books or the one from the television series.
"Trees aren't magic," the tiny brunette told me dubiously.
"And yet there are evil mages that use trees to do their evil spells." I nodded at the girl solemly. "Trees can bear fruit, warm people when burned in winter, be made into furniture... but also spears and arrows and yes, magic."
"But you are a good magic princess, yes?" I laughed at the question. How could I not?
"Only sometimes, just like everyone else."
"I don't understand..." Margaery said, biting her lower lip.
"You'll understand when you are older, sweetling," her mother said and hugged her. "Ser Erryk? Would you escort my daughter to her chambers?" One of the twin guards did just that, despite Margaery's protests that she did not want to go. The rest of us waited in silence until the child was removed before continuing our little conversation.
"Do not try to wed her to a Baratheon," I advised the two older women. "It will not end well."
"Oh? More of your prophecies?" Olenna asked skeptically. "So far you have said much and proven little."
"There's no need of prophecy for that," I countered, giving Grandma Thorn an eyeroll for good measure. "Much like your boy Loras, Renly Baratheon does not love women, Stannis will never wed again, and the Long Night will come again before Tywin Lannister lets his grandchildren be manipulated by another Great House."
"He wouldn't, would he?" the Queen of Thorns agreed, before all trace of humour vanished from her expression. "Yes or no; can your sorcery heal?"
"Ah." I was wondering when she would ask. "I gave back limbs to two men that lost theirs, the day before yesterday. Before that I fixed many lesser injuries; it is a good way to gain loyal soldiers."
"My grandson Willas," Olenna added with no further explanation. Not that it was needed. "How soon and what will it cost?"
"An old injury, but I have fixed older. The cost... I will do it for your honest opinion to any question once a week, from the moment he is healed and for as long as you live." Because having a skilled and experienced political advisor is worth a hell of a lot. "He would need to come to me in Lys, though. I will not return to Westeros in body for some time still."
"Not a bad deal... I can live with it."
"Hah, good one," I said and winked out...
xxxx
"Have you finally grown senile, Mother?" Alerie spat bitterly. "What kind of negotiation was that?"
"A favorable one, I reckon. Sorceress or no, the girl was young," the Queen of Thorns explained with the long-suffering expression of someone dealing with fools... which was the one she wore more often than any others. "Giving advice in exchange for healing Willas? Her price was a pittance."
"That was hardly the issue!" Alerie almost shouted, her body shaking now that she was more free to express herself. "You do not insult a true mage. You do not trade jokes with a true mage. I shouldn't have to remind you of the tragedy of Summerhall, you are old enough to recall it still."
"Was that where a fool Prince, an idiot Septon and seven mages brought down the castle on their heads? Gods, it sounds like a bad joke," the old harridan muttered and Alerie wanted to pull her hair until she screamed. Her own, the old harridan's either would do to calm her down. "Six and ten she was and no older. Magic or not, people at that age are not nearly as clever as they think - as I am sure you remember, Alerie. Whether she succeeds or fails, having the ear of such a girl would be useful."
"You are wrong," Alerie insisted. "The threat is serious."
"And you read too much, dear. Magic or not, people are people."
"No," Alerie hissed in frustration. "The name Belaerys is known to me."
"Some minor House in Lys, was it?" the old woman mused. "The place would fit the girl's looks at least."
"A Great House of Dragonlords in Old Valyria," Alerie corrected. "They explored Sothoryos and had a stake in Gogossos, where the Valyrians of old were said to twist flesh to make horrors," she added snidely. "Would twisting flesh include healing, you reckon?"
"Ah... from your father's books, yes? ...she did tell little Margaery that being called a dragon would be premature." Olenna's old eyes closed and she took a deep, bracing breath. Finally - finally! - something had given the old woman pause. "Why did you not speak of it earlier?"
"Because you both kept talking over me." Also, because she had been scared out of her wits. The sorceress had spoken of family secrets, both theirs and others, as if they were nothing. She had talked to her little rose, her daughter, so freely. "Do you still believe you got the better of that six and ten year old girl?"
"Mayhaps... mayhaps not." The Queen of Thorns sighed tiredly. "Share with me what you read about Old Valyria in that tower of yours, Alerie. And write your lord father; Leyton Hightower would certainly know more than either of us."
Alerie would... and hope none of that would explode in their face.
xxxx
As what Alerie could recall of the Hightower books was tapped out, I finally left the room through the wall. No longer putting an effort into the illusion of solidity I was but an intangible observer, coming and going unseen and unheard. I was about as certain of my steering Olenna Tyrell as she was of influencing me, that was to say not at all. There would be no certainties unless I slipped into her mind and bound her to me... but that would make me no better than Bloodraven. For now, I would let the Tyrells digest all the things I had let slip intentionally and settle for having another acceptable Great House know that magic was returning and could already prove of use.
I floated in the air, looking down at the beauty of Highgarden sprawled beneath me. Three rings of curtain walls and towers on a hill overlooking the river Mander. The famous briar maze that entertained guests and enemies alike. Three enormous weirwoods entwinted so closely they seemed a single tree. A massive, towering sept of stained glass, marble and granite, as great as the Sept of Baelor in the capital. A palatial keep decorated with statues and colonnades, surrounded by groves, fountains, and courtyards, its structures covered in ivy, grapes, and climbing roses. It was a place of growing; always had been. I may not have come here with a plan in mind, but when the opportunity arose why not sow a few seeds, see what grows from them in such fertile soil?
Let the Game of Thrones go on for now. The time to flip the table entirely was yet to come.
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Threadmarks 68: A Hop, a Skip, and a Song New
View contentBelial666Supervillain ParagonNovember 4, 2025
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#6,123
Disclaimer: the song is not mine. It was from the puppeteer Shari Lewis, published in 1988
I woke up back in Saelys, in the old overseer's manor, with a head that felt the beginnings of a pounding headache, a warm weight on my chest and smoke hanging heavily in the air. Seven pounds of ruby made for a fairly awkward amulet even when it did not glow with an inner fire that had reduced the sheets to blackened flakes for at least a foot in all directions. Had I not been fireproof, this would have been a pretty silly way to die. The defenses on Dragonstone had done more than just bounce me off target, it seemed.
I got up, cooled a picher of water with a touch of elementalism, then drank greedily from it. The trip and the discussion that had followed had left me feeling parched and famished. Checking through our bond to confirm Featherball was still in the mess hall extorting food out of both our own soldiers and guests, I snatched several strips of crispy bacon from her stash and wolfed them down. Feeling more alive than I had felt in days, I settled back on the bed and closed my eyes.
The second trip to Dragonstone came faster. My dream-self barely flickered in the intervening locations for a few moments before appearing once more on the footsteps of Dragonmount. Looking up at the towering active volcano's cloud-covered peak, I was reminded of another setting with such a place and smiled. Both marked the end of an era in their own way and the start of another. Which had come first, I wondered. No, these were questions of another world and had no place here. Decision made, my projection walked up the narrow stairs to Dragonstone's entrance like any other person would have.
This being an occupied castle and the seat of power for a great lord of the realm, soldiers stood guard at its gates. The soldiers wore grey mail and plate with simple teardrop shields and bared swords at their sides. Simple helmets with brims and cheekguards completed their arms, linked to the shoulders of their armor with an aventail that almost made them appear neckless and chinless. The pair at either side of the gate looked at my image in shock, letting me approach a lot closer than they should have before issuing a challenge.
"Who goes there?" demanded the eldest among them, grey hair and wrinkles visible in what part of their face their armor left uncovered.
"Flann of House Belaerys," I introduced myself as I came to a stop. Static electricity seemed to spark in the air, as tangible as it was ominous. I suspected I would not enjoy walking much further. "Inform Stannis Baratheon that the healer he sent for has arrived."
"We don't know no House Belaerys," the old guard said as he looked from the tips of my illusory boots to the top of my head almost a foot above his own.
"Nay," one soldier agreed.
"Nah," said the second.
"Nuhhuh," confirmed the last.
"Be that as it may, I have business with your lord all the same." And if I did not need him to come out to meet me I wouldn't be dealing with minions. "Inform him of my arrival."
"Lord Stannis is too busy to deal with a dragonseed scraped off the port's alehouses," the first soldier sneered again.
"He doesn't traffic with the likes of ye anyway," another sneered.
"Go back to yer brothel or we'll make ye, dragon whore," a voice added from the gatehouse above.
"I take it you have decided not to announce me, then," I muttered. I should have expected this, really. Stannis' men had all suffered a year-long siege during the Rebellion and were very loyal to the Baratheon cause and Stannis himself for staying with them in thick and thin. Except for Robert or maybe Tywin Lannister, they were the least likely to welcome a white-haired, amethyst-eyed visitor... or believe she had legitimate business. Unfortunately in this case they were wrong.
"Just git, ya stupid woman!" the closest of them took a threatening step in my direction.
"I do not think so," I shot back. "And if you do not do your job as you should, on your head be what happens next."
"Are you threatening us?!" the more aggressive guard demanded incredulously. The answer I gave him was not the one he expected.
"This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on, my friends.
Some people started singing it
Not knowing what it was.
And they'll continue singing it
Forever just because".
xxxx
One of the soldiers tried to grab me for the hundredth time, but failed. Even if I hadn't been a weightless illusion, he seemed slow as a green page to my eyes, and had slowed much further over the past quarter hour. He toppled thought the place my image had been as I slipped aside with a thought then fell flat on the road of fused volcanic rock. Largely ignoring him, I kept up my insidious assault.
"This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on, my friends.
Some people started singing it
Not knowing what it was.
And they'll continue singing it
Forever just because".
The twang of crossbows split the air and two quarrels flew at my face and torso at double the speed of a fastball. Someone up there in the gatehouse had reloaded for the ninth time. Terrible loading speed, really; a proper rate of fire for the weapons they had would have been two to three times as fast. Dread Company crossbowmen would have managed three times faster than that again, on a bad day. I made a mental note to tell Stannis to up his men's training; allowing peace to make them soft would get them killed in only a few years. The bolts passed uselessly through my projection. I could have pretended to dodge them but normal human eyes weren't quick enough to note the difference anyway.
"This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on, my friends.
Some people started singing it
Not knowing what it was.
And they'll continue singing it
Forever just because".
By this time, several more Baratheon soldiers had come to reinforce the initial four on guard duty, raising the numbers on the ground to an even dozen. Two of them had even brought dogs - who had taken a single look at my projection before bolting with their tails between their legs. The twelve soldiers had also started hurling various insults, threats and demands to cease and desist about two minutes into this whole mess but by now they were too out of breath to keep it up. Two swords came at me from two different directions, their wielders almost stumbling with each swing as if punch drunk. My projection flickered through their swings like they were standing still.
"This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on, my friends.
Some people started singing it
Not knowing what it was.
And they'll continue singing it
Forever just because".
The pressure my mind's shadow put on the guards for the past quarter hour had something to do with their lackluster performance. Even filtered through the projection, I could probably have done worse had I focused on a single target, but I didn't need to give these guys a killer migraine or make one of them claw his own eyes out or something. All I did was make the song a little more intrusive, each repetition a little more memorable and emotionally charged. Their brains and the song's earworm style would do the rest - unless they relented and informed Stannis Baratheon of my arrival.
"This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on, my friends.
Some people started singing it
Not knowing what it was.
And they'll continue singing it
Forever just because".
"What in the name of the Seven is this ruckus!?" a powerful voice cut through the clamor like a trumpet and had every guart standing up as if jolted by lightning. The voice's owner was a short and muscular stout man, round with thick arms and bandy legs. He had prominent ears and a nose that was broad, eyes that were too close, and a double chin which was saggy. His brows are beetled and both his nose and ears were hairy. Most would call him ugly and from his fierce scowl he gave off the impression that he preferred it that way.
"Ser Axell, we-" one of the guards began to say but I talked over him.
"I informed them that the healer Lord Stannis requested had arrived," I told the guy, who probably was a high-ranking officer in the area. "They refused to take word to the Lord of Dragonstone, as was their duty." Just by looking at him I could tell he was a Florent by blood and a violent and angry man.
"You don't look like a healer to me," the ugly man growled, his eyes taking in the gasping, sweaty guards, the scuffed ground on either side of the path and the near a score of crossbow bolts lying around the impromptu skirmish field.
"She's a witch!" one of the soldiers accused. "She put a spell on us! I can't stop hearing that damned song!"
"That true?" he demanded sharply, proving either bold or stupid. This being Westeros I erred towards the latter.
"More or less," I admitted with a shrug. I was way more than just a witch. "They should have done their job and sent word to Lord Stannis as I originally requested."
"Fucking Hells," he cursed and rubbed his face. "This ain't for me to sort. Lord Stannis will have to be told."
I displayed my supreme maturity by neither exclaiming 'finally' nor showing my tongue at the guards over my shoulder.
xxxx
The small watchpost overlooking the fishing village below was one of the few buildings of fused stone that had not been shaped like a dragon. It was still in the shape of a bony spike or perhaps a dragon's fang and just large enough to house a dozen guards, their gear, half a dozen horses for messengers, and a signal fire at the top. Standing a quarter mile beyond the curtain walls of the castle and right on top of the narrow staircase leading to the village below, it had a heavy bronze door to deter intruders and an extensive cellar filled with simple soldier fare. Its full complement of dozen guards could have barred the path to a raiding force of a thousand by simply locking the tiny gate and shooting the occasional arrow. It would be cramped and lack anything beyond the bare necessities but it would serve.
The large, broad-shouldered, sinewy man sitting across the simple wooden table from me looked just like one of the watchpost's guards. His dark blue eyes, heavy brow, and thin crown of black hair around a bald peak paired with dour black plate armor under a simple brown cloak was no more adorned or impressive-looking than our surroundings except for one thing; his firm, stony, impressively intense scowl on a weathered face like cured leather, with hollow cheeks and pale lips. This was a man that made Sir Florent's fierceness look like empty boasting, a man that had seen dire hardship and survived it, that had made the tough decisions and lived to tell the tale. There was no give to him and all too much anger.
"My castellan tells me you spelled a dozen of my men to hear a song in their minds," Stannis Baratheon said without preamble, without accusation, without expression. He would hear what would be said, weigh my words and then pass judgement.
"I announced my purpose, that I had come to Dragonstone on the invitation of its Lord and that said Lord should be informed of the fact," I told him seriously, because that was the only way one should treat such a man. "They decided to ignore my request, to attempt to throw me out, to ridicule my line, to enact violence, to make decisions beyond the duties of a guard."
"Whether they did or not, it was not your place to punish Baratheon men," he told me with a scowl.
"That was not a punishment but consequence of their actions," I countered. "They chose not to extend the mutual protection of Guest Right to me, or inform one that could make such a decision. I chose to express my displeasure within the limits of the law; neither song nor magic are banned. What I did would not truly harm them; it would either motivate them to do as they should have or draw attention from higher authority anyway."
"I see..." Lord Stannis thought about it for a moment then grudgingly nodded. "When will your... spell fade?"
"The magic already has. Its only purpose was to make the song ominous and memorable." I smiled and for a moment I thought I saw the dour Lord of Dragonstone wince. "The song itself is another matter. A catchy or annoying tune can stay for you for a long time. Myself, I hard that particular song once when I was but a child and remember it still. Your men heard it for close to half an hour; I suspect it will stay with them forever."
"...so be it," he said after a minute's pause, fists clenched. "Your actions and the timing of your arrival proved you are a sorceress. Sir Davos must have passed on my... request." The word came out chopped, as if dragged out by force from a mouth that was unwilling. "How much do you know about healing? Can sorcery heal my daughter where the arts of the Citadel failed?"
Last edited: November 4, 2025
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Threadmarks Interlude V: Council and Counsel New
View contentBelial666Supervillain ParagonNovember 6, 2025
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"Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm of Westeros, and the head of House Baratheon of King's Landing!"
"Stop wasting time, fool," the aforementioned king grunted at the man whose name and position he'd never bothered learning as he ambled into the chambers. "You think my own Small Council has forgotten me? Go find something useful to do; nobody needs to be announced, here." Then the huge man walked further in and his bulk seemed to fill the room.
Jon Arryn held back a wince. Every time he saw Robert he seemed rounder, the boy he had once fostered lost under... how much fat was it? Six stone since he first sat on the throne? Seven? The Demon of the Trident was all but gone. Robert's face was red from too much drink now, his eyes often bloodshot, fatigue ever-present in that broad face. The King's image was all the more painful when compared to the young man that followed him into the room, one very nearly the image of Robert in his youth; a bit slimmer, a bit handsomer perhaps, but the same broad chest, the same jet black hair, the same easy smile and eyes a shade or two greener than Robert's blue.
"Hah, way more comfortable than the other damn chair," Robert grunted as he sat at the head of the Small Council table, the wooden chair groaning under his bulk. He stretched, he blinked, then looked around at the five of them. "Where is Stannis? You have been harping all week that this Council would be important, sent a damn patrol to find me first thing in the morning and he doesn't even bother to show up?"
"He had important matters to deal with on Dragonstone and the North, my king," Jon Arryn spoke up, his voice cracking. By the Seven, he was getting far too old for this... but he could not stop. Robert... Robert needed all the help he could get. "Organized smuggling operations in the Three Sisters with the involvement of local nobility and connections to pirate-"
"Bah! If he couldn't come, he couldn't come," Robert cut Lord Arryn off. A year ago he wouldn't have but the longer the eldest Baratheon remained king the shorter his patience became. "He isn't the only one, though. I see we still have no new Master of Laws."
"It is a... delicate matter your majesty," wrinkled old Grand Maester Pycelle said as he stroked his beard. "It takes deliberation to come up with a list of worthy candidates for such matters." It was a nervous habit of his, fiddling with his beard - or so he would like people to believe.
Jon Arryn had known the Grand Maester long enough to begin to see through the man's deft theatrics but even after decades he could not see to the layer beneath. Pycelle had been Grand Maester longer than anyone in the room other than Jon himself had been alive and Robert was the fourth king the man served. Jon did not trust him, not least because of his inability to read him. Yet there were more immediate problems for him to solve.
"No need for a list, I have a worthy candidate right here," the King chuckled and pulled the much younger man behind him forth. "Go ahead, Renly. Time to man up and sit on the big table." Robert frowned then snorted. "No, it's the 'small' Council, isn't it?"
"Are you sure, my King?" Varys of all people asked before Jon could. "The good of the Realm needs seasoned men to make decisions here."
"I make decisions here, Spider, not you," Robert spat back with predictable distast for the Master of Whispers. "Besides, Renly is plenty seasoned."
"He is but seven and ten, Robert," Jon reminded his former ward with a tired sigh. "Maybe in a year or two..."
"Until which you lot will still not have come up with a decent Master of Laws," the King shot back angrily and everyone could already see the way of things. The fastest way to get Robert to try something was to tell him he could not do it, Jon had found, which was not a good thing for a king. "It comes up every time we gather, nobody comes up with a candidate and we waste more and more time. Well, I came up with a candidate of my own and I say he can sit here until you come up with someone better!" The king's fist struck the wooden table so hard, Jon was surprised the old oak of its surface did not split down the middle.
"Very well," Jon acquiesced as Renly sat down. He knew a lost battle when he saw one. "Let it be noted that on the second day of the second Moon of the year 294 after Conquest, Renly Baratheon temporarily sits as the Master of Laws until a better candidate is found."
"Finally!" Robert exclaimed. "Now let's get down to what was so important that could not have waited till the evening." Suddenly he pointed at the council's cupbearer, a young blond boy Jon was fairly certain was a Lannister and a cousin of the Queen's. "You, whatever your name is. Bring a bottle of Arbor Red and make it quick! Your King is thirsty!" The recipient of Robert's thunderous command bolted. "Hope he doesn't spill the wine. Arbor Red is too good to waste."
xxxx
"...and that is why our trade with Essos has been disrupted and pirate activity has been the highest since the Greyjoy Rebellion, your majesty," Petyr Baelish finished. The short, sharp-featured man was unusually serious, his all but perpetual smirk notable by its absence. "All in all, a drop in trade tariffs over the previous year that, if we add the reduced trade of Myrish glassworks, approached a quarter million golden dragons."
"Damn. You could raise an entire army with that much," Robert whistled in a rare moment of understanding for financial matter.
"Yes, my King," Jon pressed. "Military and logistics expenses is precisely what makes this a significant problem. This kind of loss is equivalent to the expenses of three major tourneys." If the comparison was the only way to make Robert understand the impact this war had on their economy, the Hand of the King was happy to use it.
"What do you want me to do, Jon?" the King protested. "It's not as if we could take out the pirates without taking control of the Stepstones and the Free Cities would not have it. Nobody held on to those damn islands for long in the past four hundred years. They are too important in both continents' trade as you keep reminding me. The Essossi cannot afford to let us take them any more than we can allow them the same." His fat, thick-fingered hand slammed down on the map. "And the Disputed Lands? Forget it. The Nine Bastards tried to take it over and see where that got them."
"Excuse me, my King, but that is not entirely true," Set Barristan Selmy interjected. The ageing Lord Commander of the Kingsguard rarely spoke up in these councils, the usual politics, law, diplomacy and economics beyond his areas of expertise... which gave his words all the more weight the times he did choose to speak up. "The Band of Nine did take over most of the Disputed Lands easily enough and they even controlled Tyrosh for a time. King Jahaerys the Second chose to meet them in the Stepstones not because they could not have held on to those islands but because Maelys the Monstrous was the only one among the Band of Nine to have interests in Westeros. With his death the alliance of the others fractured without us having to send armies across the Narrow Sea."
"When you gutted that dragonspawn like a pig, you mean," Robert Baratheon said with a wide grin that lit up his whole face. "But we can't do something like that now, can we? There is no dragonspawn-led alliance."
"That... brings us to the second major problem, my king," Varys took up the lead again. "I had been receiving some disquieting reports from the area for the past few months. Nothing solid, mind you, but with some potentially dangerous... coincidences. But now... now we finally have confirmation of my worst fears."
"Speak plainly, Spider," Robert sneered. "I reckon Pycelle could write whole tomes about the things you fear. Why should we do the same? None of your double speak, now."
"As you wish, sire." The bald, plump eunuch closed his eyes for a moment as if collecting his thoughts. Another affectation, like Pycelle's; Varys had a mind like a steel trap, Jon knew. All he knew he could recall quickly and accurately when it best suited him. "The first warnings that something was wrong in the area were rumours of Viserys Targaryen had been hosted by the Golden Company. He was laughed at, the rumours said, thrown out along with his sister."
"Damn right he was. Beggar king? Ha!" Robert exclaimed. "He is just a beggar now."
"I thought so too, at first," Varys agreed diffidently. "But then my contacts there brought up two more pieces of information. The first and on the surface more important was that trade ships had started disappearing in the area. Honest merchantment vanishing without any sign of those responsible, without any pirate band coming up to sell their ill gotten gains or worse, slaves. It was how the trade disruptions started." Varys steepled his fingers and rested his prodigious chin on them. "The second bit of information was that a new sellsword company had been created... one owned and run by a Valyrian lady."
"A dragon whore from Volantis or Lys no doubt," Robert said and for once Jon could not fault his reasoning. Unfortunately, they were both wrong.
"Not so. A member of House Belaerys of Old Valyria," Varys added ominously.
"Never heard of them," the King muttered darkly.
"They are known in academic circles, sire," the Grand Maester explained. "They were Dragonlords and explorers. The Citadel has a book written by one Jaenara Belaerys, a female dragonrider that spent three years exploring Sothoryos." The old man looked straight in Robert's eyes. "They were a major noble House, same as the Targaryens."
"How come they weren't lost in the Doom along with all the rest?" protested the King.
"We thought they had..." said Varys. "Or maybe the name is cover for something else. In either case, my king, using an Old Valyrian name while raising troops can be nothing less than a declaration of intent. But that is not all. My little birds managed to track at least some of the moves of this Belaerys woman and as recently as half a year ago she was here in Westeros."
"THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?" Robert was up, his chair crashing on the floor and his meaty hands itching for a weapon.
"Please sit down, Robert," Jon asked his former ward tiredly. "There is more. You need to see the whole picture."
"A fucking DRAGON was in MY fucking kingdom!" the King roared in fury and as he saw him now, Jon could believe this was the Demon of the Trident. "Why do I only hear this NOW?!" Fattened and gone to seed, perhaps, but still there. This was not necessarily a good thing.
"Because we needed to find more, my king," Varys continued calmly despite Robert's rage. Then again, someone who had survived the madness of Aerys would not be alarmed by a very understandable ourburst. "Even now, we don't know nearly as much as we should but we know at least some. Lord Manderly in White Harbor had her arrested immediately, but she somehow escaped. Some rumours speak of sorcery that terrified the prison guards. Others speak of deception, or even bribery with the secrets of Old Valyria. What we do know for sure was that she fled White Harbor atop a known smuggler and pirate ship owned by Salhador Saan."
"That name sounds familiar." Robert's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Why does it sound familiar?"
"Perhaps you remember one Samarro Saan?" Petyr Baelish interjected. This time the Master of Coin's smirk was back with a vengeance. "Nobody terribly important, he only was a member of the Band of Nine. This Salhador guy can't be a relative of his, can he? And I am sure styling himself as 'Prince of the Narrow Sea' while running a whole fleet of pirate ships is not very important either."
"Gods fucking damnit," Robert said, seemingly deflating on the spot. "How bad is it, really?"
"We don't know, Robert." This time it was Jon who spoke, trying to calm his old ward down. "We know far less than I'd have liked but with both Varys and Baelish's reports combined pointing towards... whatever this is, I thought you ought to know immediately."
"That is not all," the Master of Whispers added. "The latest messages from my people in Lys brought word that not only did Lady Belaerys meet with the surviving Targaryens but that a battle was fought by the new company in the Disputed Lands. An enemy army of sellswords numbering no less than three thousand was cut down to the last man."
"I thought you said they made a new sell-sword company, Spider," Robert growled accusingly. "That does not sound like a new company to me. In fact, it sounds like an army getting bloodied on a target they could easily crush so green troops can gain experience. That's about the only way you get that level of losses without one side being so utterly incompetent they get surrounded and trapped by superior forces. How could your spies possibly miss an entire new army?"
"The lost ships might have something to do with it," Petyr Baelish said and everyone turned to the Master of Coin. "If I needed troops and could somehow disappear whole ships without witnesses, I would carry out such raids for the wealth to raise the troops as well as the trasports to move them. The greater the wealth I could plunder, the more ships I could get, the more troops I could support. And if everyone else thought those ships lost, why I could increase my power without anyone noticing."
It was as good an explanation as any, Jon Arryn thought, corroborated by many different pieces of evidence. Sellsword companies, pirate lords, economic upheaval, exiled Targaryens, a war in the Disputed Lands that might quickly grow out of hand. He had seen those signs before, lived through them. The War of the Ninepenny Kings had been no skirmish, no laughing matter. The only reason the Band of the Nine had collapsed had been Ser Barristan slaying their leader and most powerful member in single combat.
Would history repeat itself... or would a new, even worse conflict break out?