Fandom Bleeding Dawn {CLOSED}

[Asteria]

“When you play a game of thrones you win or you die.”
​

Lucyfer ​

 

[Lucyfer]

Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton were both clever men. Tywin Lannister would understand the need of Arya Stark in the North, but he also had to know that Arya wasn’t here – which meant, someone was going to be taking her place. The best way to spite Ramsay Snow was to find out who, and make that threat disappear.

Obviously, Amara could not go snooping about on her own.

The key had come to her unexpectedly, following the dream that wasn’t a dream, and the event that estranged her from Sansa Stark. She could skinchange. It was something she tested now, again and again, in the safety of the Godswood of King’s Landing. She could reach out to the steed Aeacus, but Aeacus was no use to her. He was too far away, and far too large, to snoop.

He was also, frequently, behind stable doors and trying to destroy those to get to some place where she could eavesdrop on Roose was utterly pointless. That just drew stablehands to restrain him again.

She needed something smaller.

Thankfully, the Red Keep was full of cats – black cats, in particular, and one that was infamously cruel. Whether the other black cats were descendants of that one with the torn ear or not was uncertain, but they, at least, had more malleable minds, and Amara was able to eventually entice one to her with scraps of food, and start to get it used to her. Eventually, she was able to figure out how to get into its head.

It was a startling event for the cat, and it rejected her rather quickly, and ran off.

Amara had to rebuild that fragile trust with more food, until eventually she was able to try again, and used the cat to get into the Tower of the Hand, and move through Tywin Lannister’s letters and arrangements.

Of course, in the mind of the cat, it was difficult to stay on task. The desires of the feline melded with her own. Every skittering pen was something to be chased, and the paper had such a wonderful texture that demanded to be shredded. The words were almost nonsensical, and may have truly become that way, had not a name stood out. ‘Jeyne Poole.’ The name meant nothing to the cat, but to the one inhabiting its mind, it meant quite a bit. A flicker of a familiar face was in both minds, and the feline let out a small mewl as it felt, but didn’t understand, why that face was in danger.

And then the door opened a bit harshly, and Amara was jolted from the mind as the cat went running, paper flying out from underneath it, scratched up, and falling to the floor.

Amara shook her head and tried to find herself again.

Weirwood.

Godswood.

The fear of the kitten lingered with Amara as she shot up from her seat, heart pounding in her chest as her silver eyes alighted on everything around her. She was alone. ‘The cat.’ She shouldn’t care for it, and yet it had assisted her. Unknowingly, perhaps unwillingly, it had assisted her. She should find it, she should at least get it to safety if it would end up in trouble for being where it shouldn’t be.

She lifted the hem of her red skirt and marched herself out of the Godswood, knowing the direction of the Tower of the Hand by now. She wasn’t certain how near the cat would be, but it was a place to start, if nothing else. Then she had to find Sansa and….

A sigh parted her lips as she escaped the Godswood.

Sansa wouldn’t talk to her. And finding Jeyne without Sansa was impossible. ‘Margaery.’ The thought crossed her mind of the woman she had seen in Sansa’s presence more than once, a pretty thing from the Reach who’s features, by all right, should have been considered ordinary but were fashioned in a manner even Amara couldn’t call boring. She had charmed everyone around her, and Amara was almost stubborn in not wanting to be charmed, so she had given the woman a wider berth, suspecting the beautiful face of hiding something foul.

But that beautiful face had charmed Sansa, and that beautiful face may very well hold the key to saving Jeyne Poole from a fate worse than death. Amaranth did not know precisely how well Margaery liked Sansa Stark, or if she would hate her on principal because of her kinship with Sansa, it was still the best way to reaching out.

Presuming, of course, that she could find Margaery and speak with her. Olenna may be easier, or one of her handmaidens to arrange it. Margaery had so many of those things.

Amara did not, but at least no one questioned her anymore as she moved across the castle grounds. She would make her direction seem to be towards the Sept. She’d made a habit of going to both locations, if only because it gave her more places to go without question. She claimed a fascination with the New Gods. It wasn’t a lie…but it wasn’t the whole truth.

The New Gods were weak.

The path took her near enough to the Tower.

“Little one?” She cooed out softly, trying to keep her voice too low for any guards to hear her. “Little one, where are you?” Perhaps she should have named it. The cat did think of itself as, “Morghul?” A dragon’s name, Amara reflected after a moment, and she idly wondered where the cat would pick up such a name. Morghul, the unridden, the untamed, the ever-burning –

And yet, she heard it.

She perked up a bit as the black feline poked its head out of a bush, “Morghul, come here.”

It did not.

It ran away.

Amara glared after its path, and then, sprinted after it, ignoring the fact that it was likely passing strange for her – or really, any woman – to run across the castle grounds in such a long dress, but she kept the hem of her skirt up and followed the beast, closing distance, but then slowing, walking after it.

Cats were not endurance creatures. They were sprinters.

Eventually, Morghul would tire and she’d be able to just scoop it up. She just had to keep it in sight.

Except the cat got another burst of energy, or perhaps recognized a way to escape, and it darted out once again – right into the skirts of another woman, which it instantly started to cling to and attempted to climb, mewling pitifully for help up.

“Morghul, I swear all I wanted to do is bring you food,” Amara sighed, thinking she could easily ask the person the cat had determined its new savior to return it to her, when her eyes came up from the other woman’s skirt, to her face. “Oh.” She paused abruptly and dropped the hem of her skirt immediately.

There was the woman she wanted to find – Margaery Tyrell. Now with her cat. Well. A cat. Not hers. Darn it, was she already getting possessive of the creature? She knew she shouldn’t have named it. “My apologies, Lady Tyrell,” perhaps ‘Your Grace’ would have been a greeting she would have preferred, but she was not yet Queen, and Amaranth wouldn’t want to be accused of false flattery any time soon. “My…Morghul was spooked earlier by a loud noise, I was trying to track her down.” Her. Morghul wasn’t a very feminine name, was it? Well, cats didn’t really know those sorts of things.

~***~

“You should hear the way they speak of you now, Rakharo,” the deep voice belonged to the elder of the trio of Dothraki men with bells in their hair, though he stood shorter than his companions and was broader of shoulder. “You have returned a man and they see it – they are fighting over who will have the honors of bedding you.”

Rakharo laughed, but it was certainly true. He had been young when first he became a bloodrider, only a teenage boy, but with his time under his Khaleesi, blood of his blood, he had grown into a man and earned many bells for his hair with each successive battle. His laughter rippled the muscles over his copper flesh that had grown and broadened his build, and the bells jingled with each step as his long, black hair hung to the middle of his back now.

Even his new height couldn’t take away from how long his hair was now. If anything, it emphasized it.

“Irri is more boy than girl,” Rakharo commented, before humming, and determining, “And both as sisters.”

“If you do not want them, then I shall have them,” Jhogo, the youngest, spoke up before motioning, drifting them towards a stall near the Temple of the Graces, where there was a fruit stall set up. His braid was not so long, but he had as many bells as Rakharo, for they had been through much the same battles alongside their khaleesi.

He took a handful of white cherries that caught his eye at the stall, and as he started to bring one to his lips and move beyond the stall, the merchant started to yell at him.

He didn’t understand what was being said, but Aggo quickly interjected in a stilted version of that same language, before looking to Jhogo, “You must pay.”

“Why?” He looked disgusted at the mere concept of needing to pay for these. “I am ko of khaleesi and this is her city. We do not need to pay here, we can take what we like.”

“That is not how it is done now. We must pay. Even she pays.” Aggo said, a look of deep long-suffering in his brown eyes as he moved his hands out towards Jhogo in a placating manner.

Jhogo scoffed at that, not seeming to believe Aggo, “How weak have we become since entering Meereen?” Then, he added, “I do not carry coins.”

Aggo reached into one of his own satchels of leather on his belt and took out a coin and set it on the merchant’s stall. After a few more harsh words were exchanged in that hissing language, they were able to move on without being harassed, and Jhogo plucked another cherry from his handful and ate it. “Why do we pay?”

“These people are our people. We must support them. You will pay me back.” Jhogo wrinkled his nose at that command, but opted to ignore it for the moment, eating yet another cherry, and letting some of the juice splash onto his bottom lip and dark beard for effect.

“They should support us,” Rakharo said, “We keep them safe.”

“And they keep us fed, but they cannot feed us without currency.”

Rakharo and Jhogo exchanged a look, before Jhogo grumbled some more lowly and Rakharo said, “I will speak to khaleesi of this,” to learn the truth of it.

“You think I would lie to you, my brothers?”

“No,” Rakharo shook his head. “But I think you misunderstand her.”

“Maybe,” Jhogo was eying a few other things in the market as they walked, “There is also much here you might crave for yourself.”

“We do not have the same tastes,” he looked at the cherries and made a face, “There is much that is changing. We must support the khaleesi through this.”

“So I hear. I hear she is to marry someone from among the sheep?” Rakharo asked as they stepped into the temple, Jhogo leading in his way, drawn by the golden domes and gilded interiors, as well as the translucent fabrics that the priestesses within wore, giving the temple an air of magic as the sun passed through and painted the ground and walls with the hues its rays passed through, the walls otherwise white and gilded gold.

Moving among them were mostly women in red fabrics, though some in blue and gold also moved among them in this area, where the music of the bedroom wafted out from other areas of the temple as they walked, at ease despite this not being an area any of them were usually seen within.

Jhogo wanted an opportunity to look at the temple, and though he did not say it, the other two knew it.

He liked to look at the pretty things and consider what he could have, and now with this new ruling from the khaleesi….

“Is it her soft lamb of a husband telling her we cannot take things?”

“What is his name, this lamb who thinks to be with the dragon?” Rakharo asked.

Aggo had been back in the town longer than them. His face screwed up as he tried to say the name, “Hizdor zu Lorek. He has such doe eyes, and soft hands,” Aggo sounded disgusted, “Khaleesi thinks it will help to bring us peace here.”

“Peace? We do not have peace?”

Aggo hushed his voice, “There are some who remain defiant, called Sons of the Harpies.”

Rakharo immediately growled out, “Where are these cowards? We will kill them, and there will be no need of this marriage to this doe-man.”

“Khaleesi does not wish more violence.”

Jhogo scoffed, “She is scared. Someone has scared her. We will find them, end them, for her.”

Aggo shook his head in increasing frustration with the pair of bloodriders, “Speak with her first,” he insisted as they moved into another of the domed buildings, “She does not seem scared. Only….”

Tired, perhaps. Tired may be right. But she could still ride her silver, he had seen her upon its back recently. She was not too tired. “Missandei can explain it well, too.” She was better at finding the words than he was, anyway.

“We will,” Jhogo said, popping the last of his cherries into his mouth before there was an agonized scream from near the front of the temple. He looked in that direction as many in blue started to move, before he shrugged it off and kept on walking. “This place is a temple?”

“Yes.”

“What do they worship here that requires so much gold and clothe?” Rakharo asked, curious. The Great Stallion did not require such things for worship, far simpler than these gods, it seemed. Or goddesses. He supposed he didn’t know which it was in this case, but he was certainly curious.

Asteria

 

[Asteria]

‘Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger.’

Eyes of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, blue-violet and violet bore into Margaery Tyrell. Her own brown eyes didn't dare meet them at first – she lighted candle after candle, candles which Septa Nysterica offered while piously bowing her head, and placed them on each altar she passed by. A train of ladies followed her every movement with their own candles, which hid their most ardent prayers, fears, and wishes. Margaery was rarely seen without them even inside the Red Keep and, whereas they had a distinct role they had to fulfill while in King’s Landing, she had grown fond of them. They made the situation more bearable. They brought her closer to home with their silly gossips and giggles and their familiar faces that she could easily recognize among expressions that did not desire her presence.

It was after the last flaring flame burnt at the feet of the statues that she took a step back and looked up at the representations of the seven faces of their god. Her emotions were unreadable. ‘Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger.’

They encircled her. They stood tall and proud and watchful in the daylight and when the rays of sun touched upon the crystals that encrusted the hard surfaces of the statues, a spectacle of colors befell the altars and their surroundings. She could only hear her faint breath and the crackling of the flames. Margaery took pride in the sept they had in the Reach, but it could not compare to the Royal Sept and even less so to the Great Sept of Baelor.

‘All of this will be yours as well,’ she thought. ‘You will learn the path to this sept by heart. Perhaps it would become your only refuge when you grow tired of Cersei’s schemes and threats and her son’s madness.’

Margaery dismissed the thought. Perhaps she will grow tired one day but she liked to believe that day was far into the future and until then, many great things awaited her. She only had to be patient. Hidden and patient.

The names were silently chanted once more. ‘Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger.’ This time, she did not stop. ‘I will not ask to bless me with more than I have or give me strength and courage. I know those well. I know who I am. I know what must be done. Forgive my forwardness and pride and light my way. Protect my family – my father and mother, my dearest grandmother, my sweet brothers, and cousins. Empower them, strengthen them. Love them, care for them. Do not let my sins be their sins.’ A breath parted her lips as her thoughts quieted.

When her companions came to join her side again, they found her all smiles. By the time they reached the hall, they had already picked up from where they had left off, easily jumping from one subject to another. When they spoke of the upcoming wedding, the conversation easily switched to other marriages or couples. Elinor was to soon be married to Alyn Ambrose and easily defended her soon-to-be husband’s flirting nature, while Alyce recounted her husband’s sweet gestures once he discovered she was with child. The pregnancy had made Alyce sentimental for Margaery could recall her early complaints about her husband’s neediness.

However, most agreed that Sansa Stark’s fate was pitiful. Alla, Megga and Meredyth, the younger ones, could not think of such a marriage for themselves. The older ones of the group were quieter on the matter, even Margaery.

Perhaps Sansa couldn't love him, but, compared to others, Tyrion was not a bad man. He seemed to care for her, respect her. Sansa had shyly confessed the truth of their first night together to Margaery soon after. How many proud men could say they had done or would have done the same?

Margaery couldn't deny that, at first, she had merely sought to befriend the Stark girl for the sole purpose of finding out more about Joffrey and his family. But Sansa had proved to be a lonely girl, obedient and soft-spoken and she had clung to the Little Rose. She had had the potential of being an ally and even family, but Lord Tywin Lannister’s word was law even for the king. Sansa could not marry Willas, for he wanted him for his own daughter, while the doe hastily married Tyrion. It had bothered Margaery, the slight defeat. Sansa’s tears had ripped her heart. Tywin Lannister’s intentions were as clear as the sky – control the Reach and the North through marriage. His nephews’ would rule those lands one day. Lannister blood would flow through their veins.

But her children would rule Westeros. Her blood, her children raised by her. Their father’s seed would matter little. When men and women would speak about her children, they will think of her, not of Joffrey. And the North will remember too, if Sansa would bear a child. It will forget the Boltons’ short rule and the child’s father. They will remember the mother, the Stark. Sansa Stark.

“Lord Willas would have been kind to her...” Meredyth spoke up. She had grown fond of the girl, faster than the others. “She would have needed kindness after everything she had endured.”

“It is not good to question the will of the gods, my lady,” Septa Nysterica interjected quickly. “A marriage that had been blessed by the gods is a sacred thing.” It was at those words that Meredyth’s cheeks turned red, much to the septa’s delight.

‘It was the will of Tywin Lannister, not the gods, my sweet septa.’

“My brother has a good heart,” Margaery added, though she did not continue. They were not yet in the safety of their chambers. Meredyth’s tone was low at least, thoughtful.

Megga’s displeasure was noticeable to one’s eye as she joined in. She was the loudest of them all and the most honest despite her young age. “The woman who seeks to marry him will eat that good heart of his. A viper took his good leg; a lioness will feed on the rest.”

“Has there been any progress on that, my lady?”

‘No. And there won’t be.’ She wanted Cersei away from King’s Landing and herself, but not at the expense of her brother or the Reach.

Every decision had to go through her grandmother. And her grandmother would deny. “We are in no hurry. It is to be seen and decided after my wedding to the king.”

To the surprise of the ladies at her side, Margaery suddenly stopped. The cause was first heard and then seen – it was a cat, black as night, which had clung to her skirts in a desperate attempt to draw her attention. Its sharp claws dug mercilessly into the green fabric but Margaery lips parted with an affectionate laugh as she bent down and her hands found the softness of its fur. By the time the sound of steps filled the hall, the Little Rose was already holding the cat to her chest. Its wet nose found the crook of her neck.

And Margaery’s eyes found the lady to whom the cat belonged. Amaranth Bolton. Her amusement remained as the Northern lady stopped abruptly and dropped her skirts – it shone in her eyes, it stained her lips. Amaranth mouthed words of apology and Margaery’s gaze dropped to the cat at her breast. “Morghul…” she tasted the name on her tongue. A strong name. A dragon name. Margaery thought it could fit. Perhaps not with the cat itself, but with the image of a Bolton lady. “You got scared and then made Lady Bolton worry in the process?”

The cat only meowed. Margaery chuckled again.

“Your skirts, my lady…” Alla, the youngest, spoke up softly, but loud enough that Lady Amaranth would hear her. It did not matter that it was not her fault. Many other things were. Sansa’s pain was one. Not entirely perhaps, but she did not deserve the loss of a brother after the loss of her father. Alla, much like the other ladies, would not say it out loud ever, but they knew it to be the truth. Alla failed to see that even Margaery switched from side to side as long as it benefited herself and her family. It was only Renly Baratheon’s death that hurried the process.

“I have others,” Margaery simply said. “There is no need for an apology, Lady Bolton. If anything, Morghul had brought us together, the sly cat. We have not spent much time together since my arrival in King’s Landing, have we? Such a shame.”

They haven't. Margaery had not found Amaranth of interest at the start, much like the other girl Sansa carried after her skirts – Jeyne Poole. Now though, after everything that had come to pass, she imagined that Lady Amaranth could prove an important piece in the greater game. An ally, if Margaery played her part well enough.

And she was intriguing. She played a role too, but not as well as herself or Sansa. ‘And she is beautiful,’ Margaery found herself thinking. Sansa had a beauty that fit most places – the North, King’s Landing, the Reach too. Jeyne was pretty. It was Amaranth though that made Margaery think of the beauties of the North with the paleness of her skin, her willowy figure, and the dark hair that hugged her body… and those eyes, those eyes as sharp as silver. Pretty they were and yet, just as cold.

Margaery was aware that her own beauty did not necessarily have its roots in her looks. She was plain, but she had learned to work with what she had.

“Why don’t you join me?” With the question, Margaery brought forward her own hand while with the other she held the cat in place. “Now that I met you here, all alone, I feel that it is my duty to escort you and your feline friend back to your chamber safely. And you could tell all about what you do in the Red Keep to keep yourself occupied – the gods know that if it was not for my upcoming wedding and the excitement of the preparations, I would have started to dread these quiet halls.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Myriah Sand had a ritual before every departure, no matter the length of her absence. She would pass by her father’s and uncle’s quarters, her sisters’ and her cousins’ chambers and take her leave. With her father, there were never ‘goodbyes’. When he was there for her departures, they would talk as if they would see each other the next day and the day after. Ellaria had never mouthed such words either, but her tone would soften and gentleness would replace the fire in her eyes each time she had to leave. Her older sisters would mock and advise, while the younger ones would fight for her lap and her kisses and her promises of gifts. Arianne would tease and Myrcella would get red in Myriah’s stead. And Doran, her sweet uncle, would always wait for her in the open gardens.

She didn't need to do the same when it came to the servants she held dear though – they would come to her of their own accord when word of her upcoming travels would emerge in the halls of Sunspear. The young and inexperienced ones would shyly follow their seniors to wish her well, bringing at times food they had prepared themselves or small tokens of good fortune. The elders who had seen her grow before their eyes would embrace and kiss her when her escapade announced itself to be a long one. Myriah always returned the favor. Before she would leave, she would let them choose what they liked from her dresses and jewels, knowing that, by the time she would return, she would have more. And when she returned, there was more to be shared.

Her older sister, Nymeria, had found the habit odd. She would often remark that she prepared as if she intended to not return. Myriah would often tease her that indeed, she may not; she could become a courtesan of Braavos, open a pleasure house with the finest women and men Essos had ever seen or be foolish enough to elope. Nymeria would laugh. And Myriah would always return home.

This time, however, there was more at stake than her enjoyment, she knew. Myriah was confident, but the ritual had been harder to bring to an end. She had almost wanted to tell her father goodbye as he and Ellaria prepared to leave for King’s Landing as well, but all she had managed was:

“Be careful.”

“Be rash,” he had returned.

Sarella was not in Dorne at the time, traveling as she pleased, which meant one less sister to be ripped away from, but that hadn't made it easier. Only Obella, Dorea, and Loreza had acted as they always did with kisses and talks of gifts while Elia, now a girl of fifteen, had sensed there was more than the others told her. Myrcella was unaware as she was meant to be and so was Trystane, enamored with the young Lannister girl as he was.

Doran had been the last to see off. He was in the gardens, as he always had been, but never amidst the green – he watched it from afar, away from the sun. He seemed older in the shade. More tired.

“The preparations are done?” He asked even before she reached his side.

Myriah waited to approach him before responding: “Yes.”

She knelt then, by his wheeled chair. Her uncle’s eyes did not meet and nor did she look up at him yet.

“You would still refuse me if I offered more guards, wouldn’t you?”

Myriah’s lips curved into a smile. “Yes. I have Narha and Yoren. I trust them more than any others, they know Slaver’s Bay well. It would raise questions, were I to travel heavily guarded or with men I have not been seen with before.” And Doran knew it to be the truth, yet he still offered them. Would continue to offer them each time.

Silence fell over them. It was in Doran’s presence that Myriah had learned to appreciate silence. She did not welcome the words that followed it, however.

“Elia had always wanted to travel. Even when she fell sick, she would speak of the foreign lands that she dreamt of seeing. She just had to get well, she would repeat. Soon. Soon she will get well.” Even if he did not look at her, Myriah knew what his lost gaze hid. A longing, deep-rooted guilt and anger. “She did travel a little, but not where she wanted to and it was not for her pleasure. She went to Starfall, Arbor, Oldtown, the Shield Islands, Crakehall… and Casterly Rock in my mother’s search for a match for her and your father. And from all those places, she had remained in King’s Landing, behind unwelcoming walls and closed doors. I think at times of what could have been if she had not married Rhaegar. I think of her life if she had married Baelor Hightower or if the Mad King had found her unfit for his son. I think of Rhaegar sending her back to Dorne after the Stark maiden caught his eye. I think of her not leaving her bed.”

He did not break. He spoke as if he had repeated these words in his mind so many times before. “Then I am ashamed. Why do I seek to pain her and shame her even in my thoughts? Why must she suffer only to be safe? Why must she be the one that is rejected and thrown aside? Why shouldn’t she be the one to refuse Rhaegar as her husband? Why shouldn’t she travel and live? I am here shaming the memory of my sister with such thoughts while her murderers live. Rhaegar had at least died and cleansed his sins with his own blood. Yet, they live. They rule.”

Myriah’s hand rose to his arm. The strength of her hold made Doran meet her eyes. “I have not met her. I wish I did, but I have not. But I remember father’s pain, I have felt it as a child for so many years. It still haunts him, embitters him. I remember you. I remember seeing Obara’s wail as she swore to avenge her – my sister who was bloody and bruised and never shed a tear had cried as if her own mother had died. This is enough for me. Through her, I will avenge you too.”

Her uncle rarely touched her. His hands were soft and weak, but swollen and reddened from gout. He knew they were not a pleasant sight, but he held her own all the same with all the power he could muster. Myriah’s heart swelled at the sight. “Without Oberyn, Sunspear will be quiet but without you, it would be far too loud.”

Myriah could not laugh, no more, but she found the strength to smile again.

“If you words fall on deaf ears, leave,” Doran continued, advising her. “If madness plagues her too, leave. There will be other chances, other ways.”
Doran was angry, vengeful, but a quiet and calculated man at that. Patient.

Myriah nodded, but even she, at her age, had grown tired of the mercy of time.​

“Why not go directly to her?” Narha questioned for the second time since their arrival in Meereen. It was only the two of them then, strolling down the bustling market. With each day the liveliness grew it seemed, as the need for earnings replaced the fear of the Dragon Queen and her beasts. Without the slave trade – for they saw what had happened to the Great Masters even before entering the city –, Myriah imagined the economy suffered and would continue to suffer immensely.

It had been the right thing to do in theory, but was Meereen prepared for such a sudden change? How long would it take for it to return to its old ways? And for how long could Daenerys Targaryen fight the inevitable?

“Have you grown tired of me so soon?”

It was a tease, of course, a simple play, but Narha Agni knitted her brow as she always had. She was a woman of two years over thirty, taller than her and big-boned but quick on her feet. If it wasn’t for her intimidating figure, Myriah thought many would have found her appealing with her round green eyes, plump cheeks and hair as long and as soft as a maiden’s. It was a shame she hid beneath so many layers of cloth and leather and braided her hair so tight that it hurt.

It was her loyalty that Myriah would never question though.

“No. Never.” Narha’s words were not a tease. “I just think we have heard enough. We will never know her truly until we meet her anyway.”

She spoke the truth. They had heard of Daenerys from the freed slaves to the families the masters had left behind. Mhysa, mhysa, the slaves called her. Mother. They saw a protector where others saw a power-thirsty conqueror. Myriah had her image’s shape, but not its essence – it was enough, to begin with, but nothing was ever truly enough for the Dornish woman.

“I need to know who I am approaching and how she likes to be approached. This is why I sought some of those who had received an audience. Just a little more time, Narha. I promise.” Her violet eyes sought Narha’s dark eyes. She did meet them and Narha nodded, accepting.

Her uncle’s words rung in her mind though.

‘If you words fall on deaf ears, leave.’

‘If madness plagues her too, leave.’

“Do you think it was right of her to do what she had done to the slave masters?” Myriah found herself asking. Her gaze returned to the path ahead.

“The masters had done the same to the slaves.” Narha shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

‘I don’t know.’

No, she didn't know. She was in Meereen for her own purpose after all and perhaps the question would not have arisen at all if the men who had wronged her family replaced the Great Masters who had been nailed on posts. Justice was a two-edged sword.

Myriah didn't get to share her thoughts with Narha. While she had contemplated her lack of answer, Ser Yoren joined their side as if he hadn't left in the first place. “Dothraki men, three of them. I saw them around the Temple of the Graces. The Meereenese merchants are not pleased, let me tell you.”

“If there are three of them only, they could be the bloodriders. The other might have returned – it is the older one we have seen before with them?” Narha questioned.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Myriah simply said. The Temple of the Graces will it be then.


Myriah and Narha saw them too by the time they arrived. The older one was recognized as Aggo. He had been seen before. People knew him better, recognized his face easily. They stood out with their copper flesh and braided hair that they decorated with small bells. If they were to count the ones from the youngest bloodrider’s braid, she imagined that she would know the number of Daenerys Targaryen’s victories. By the length of it, they hadn't tasted defeat.

Yet, Myriah didn't move after them directly. To her companions’ surprise, the Dornish woman remained still in the shade. Her hands first moved to her braid as she freed the strands of hair and left them to rest on her back, before her fingers reached the linen trousers and pulled them down, over the leather sandals. While the sleeveless tunic covered her, Yoren still chose to avert his gaze as Nahra watched curiously. The light tunic reached her ankles but its slits were high and wide. The belt from which her whip and sword hung was taken off as well and given to Nahra. She had abandoned her necklace before she had first stepped in Meereen and all that was left were some golden bracelets upon her forearms.

The veils had remained: a thicker one for her head and a sheer one for covering her nose and mouth. They were ivory, just as her tunic. She could play with the tone of the temple, use it to her advantage.

By then, Nahra’s confusion was palpable.

“Men are men. A pretty sight fits pretty words. You two will follow me, blend in, flirt with the red Graces, seek assistance from the blue ones perhaps. I have a dagger on me. Do not intervene unless I sign you too.”

“You always call us when it is almost too late,” Yoren complained.

“Yet we are alive, aren’t we?” And she will not seek to anger the Dothraki. It would be of no use to her cause, were she to harm one of them.

Yoren was not pleased, but he knew her well enough to not fight it. He followed her along Nahra without further complaint, though they remained a few steps behind as Myriah led. When they entered the temple, they broke away from one another entirely.

Myriah had seen the Temple of the Graces twice before and she found it as grand as the last time. Temples were homes to the gods, it was known, but they also meant to show off a city’s wealth and pride. Meereen was wealthy. It was proud. And yet, it had been sacked by a girl that many had thought dead and powerless.

This time, she wasn't there to admire the beauty of it. She passed by the women in red and blue and gold, following the soft sounds of the bells and the rough, harsh whispers of the men. She had learned the base of the Dothraki language when she was younger, out of a whim during one of her voyages, but only many moons ago had she truly paid attention to it as Doran’s plan became clear. Her uncle was indeed a very patient man. She made out words: marriage and doe-man, who was Hizdahr zo Loraq by the sound of the muddled man. It was no secret that Daenerys sought to please her new subjects through a marriage to a man of their own. Talk of peace and cowards followed, but the older bloodrider hushed his voice as another growled.

And there was fear, and then there was not. Myriah’s brows knitted together.

The scream caught her attention but she didn't flinch nor look back. She could only hope that it was not Narha going too far. Again.

Then there was an opportunity as a question arose in the air. She knew there were other two bloodriders by the accounts of the folk she had spoken to before, but she didn't know which one was Rakharo and which one was Jhogo. She did not know who was the one to ask, but she was close enough that she could intervene.

“The Gods of Ghis,” she answered, coming to a halt. Her Dothraki could not match theirs, for it was softer and some sounds didn't sound as deep and as harsh as they should. She had grown so used to the sound of Low Valyrian that she couldn't help but bring some of it into her tone.

She knew how to tell stories. She knew how to captivate through the changes in her voice. She could only hope that she could do well enough in Dothraki as well.

Even if they looked at her, she wouldn't look at them just yet. Her violet eyes sought the silver and golden stars from above. “They are as many as the stars. It is as if every man, woman, and child has their own god. When they look at a star in the sky, they think of him and pray. There’s a god for the soil beneath our feet and there’s a god for every seed of life. It is beautiful if you think of it – you see a god and it reminds you of yourself. That makes one too prideful while it gives hope to others. There is even a goddess, Muun, who is bound by black chains. She protects children and slaves alike. Her twin sister is Juun and she is the goddess of slavers. Masters and slaves, bound by blood in the eyes of the gods.”

The irony. Details like this one made the Gods of Ghis intriguing to her. She did wonder if Muun had come to despise Juun or saw her as her savior and protector.

“But there is one above all. Zuulmar, the goddess of kings and queens, emperors and rulers. The sky is her home and she had birthed most of its stars. She has many titles, much like your Khaleesi. Conqueror of the Worlds. The Lighting Queen. She Who Rules the Skies. The Harpy of Ghis.” Myriah didn't know if they had a word for harpy. “She has a woman’s face and body, but the wings are of a bird’s. You will find that most gods resemble both man and animal, if you look upon the walls.” The most important ones were depicted so, in gold and rare stones. “There’s unity in everything here. Here, at least. There is a different story outside those walls.”

Zuulmar reminded her of the Dragon Queen, and not just for the titles. “Her consort has two forms. There is Vishmon, a man she had fought against and a man she had enslaved. He has black skin and resembles an elephant with eight arms. He is the God of War and Ruin and he protects warriors. And then there is Vishmun, the Wise One, the God of Peace and Order. He is white-skinned.”

A smile curved her lips under the veil as she lowered her eyes towards the men. Eyes of violet met darker ones. “Zuulmar must have favored your Khaleesi too if she had come all this way. She had passed through many cities and yet, she had picked Meereen. Perhaps Muun had too risen against Juun.”

The Green Grace must have told her the stories. She might have enjoyed them. Might have found strength in them.

“The gods are served by the Graces.” She knew no word for grace in Dothraki. “Their names come from the colors they wear. The Green Grace is the High Priestess. Blue Graces are healers,” and it was then that she turned her head towards the doors. It was not Narha they attended to, but a different woman. “Red Graces are whores if you like them. They bring you closer to the gods they say. The White ones are those of noble birth who have chosen to serve the gods.”

She wore ivory, close enough to white. But her tunic didn't resemble the dresses the other Graces wore. “They attend the Green Grace along the Pink and the Purple Graces. And the Gold Graces are the women from which, one day, Zuulmar shall choose the next Green Grace.”

Lucyfer​

 

[Lucyfer]

Amaranth took note of Margaery’s host – the butterflies that flittered around the Rose of Highgarden, as colorful as they were annoying. She did not look to any directly, but was mentally counting them as Morghul gave her little response to Margaery’s teasing question. Idly, she wondered if the cat did indeed intend this meeting. She had felt some thoughts slipping when in its mind, particularly relating to Jeyne. Could it have sensed this desire, somehow?

There was no real way to ask the cat. At least, no way that Amara knew.

One of those butterflies spoke up in comment of the torn skirt, and Margaery dismissed it easily, unperturbed by any tears the cat may have inflicted on it – and seemed to follow her own thoughts. It did little to set Amara at ease, though her expression would not change to reflect that unease. It remained fairly neutral; she’d once heard the comment that her neutral expression was fairly intimidating, but to her that never seemed a bad thing. The chill of the North was in her veins.

She should not be someone easily approached.

That Margaery wanted to spend time with her now was no surprise. Now, Amaranth had power, where Sansa did not, and Margaery’s ambition was lain bare for anyone with eyes. That was not necessarily a bad thing. Amara wanted to speak with her, after all, and she knew herself. She might have fled without the invitation to think of another way to approach Margaery without her flighty ladies around her.

Particularly the Septa.

The cat was not offered, but her hand, and Amara did step forward to take it, “If you insist, Lady Tyrell,” Margaery’s hand was warm, almost enough to send a shiver through her at the contrast. And soft – they did not hold the callouses of one familiar with a blade or a bow. So like Sansa, in that way.

Amara knew her own hands were cold. Always, cold. She had never truly noticed the contrast until she had gone to Winterfell and found Arya and Sansa to be so warm. It seemed the further South people came from, the warmer they were.

“But take me to the Godswood. I am sure Lady Stark has shown you the way more than once,” and if not, perhaps it was something that needed to be remedied. If Lady Tyrell sought to serve all her subjects, she should not forget those in the North. Not all were as tolerant of the Seven as some. Roose was not. She was not – and she wanted the Septa to feel that chill, “It was where I was before and where I prefer to return to my thoughts.” She would loosen her grip a bit as she stepped alongside Margaery, to give her the freedom to retract her hand now that Amara had made her intentions to come along clear.

“If you have some matter for the gods, the Sept may have answers for you that your silent gods do not have.” Septa Nysterica may have offered space, but she did not offer silence, “I know you are not so familiar with them, but I could certainly instruct you in their worship.”

“Lady Catelyn,” the cat looked up, hearing ‘cat’ and thinking it was being talked about, “has taught me all I need to know of the Seven, Sister, but I appreciate your offer.” She let her gaze reach the Septa, neutral, placid, but not soft. Even if her voice was. She did enjoy Roose’s trick of speaking so softly, that others had to become quiet to hear – and yet, the voice carried, all the same. “Perhaps you would one day wish to hear my gods?” That she dared to call them silent offended, and she hoped her words said enough to her belief that they were not, in fact, silent.

No, she heard them.

She heard their whispers, even if she did not yet understand. She heard.

The pox-scarred woman returned a wavering smile, but shook her head.

There’d be no outreach between them, and Amara allowed a beat to be certain of her silence, and returned to Lady Margaery’s inquiry, “I am glad you have found such distraction here. I confess that I am fairly boring – I envy your distractions, for I have so few.” Not quite a truth, she had plenty, but she could hardly tell Margaery of them, “My horse is gone, I cannot touch the harps here, my family is far, and my friends have left my side. I do not blame Lady Sansa or Lady Jeyne,” Morghul came back to attention at that name, remembering its fear for the Lady, and disturbing its position in an attempt to crawl over Margaery’s shoulder, its meows closer to a yowl as it recalled.

Amara looked towards it, and let out a gentle coo, “Easy, Morghul, easy,” it looked her way, balanced precariously on Margaery’s shoulder, and its meow came as more of a question. “Easy,” again, calmly spoken, tone gentle, and Morghul relaxed itself once more.

Amara shook her head slightly at the cat’s brief disturbance. “I imagine my visage is not one Lady Sansa wishes to see for a long while, but I have wished to speak with her of news from the North about family,” what family was left to Sansa but Arya? Oh, but Amara knew – Bran and Rickon, she knew the truth, and wondered if Margaery might catch that almost casual drop of family as meaning something more than Tullys, “and other friends we share, to reassure her of their fates.” And to speak of Jeyne, but that was not something she dared say aloud.

That would do better in privacy, if she could grasp at that. A part of her half-hoped the weirwood might provide just that, given the audience of Seven-Worshipping adherents.

Margaery had her reputation for outreach, for making peace…there was a chance here, and she had to take it sooner than later. Before Jeyne was taken away. “Still, I worry for her. How is Lady Sansa?”

If she kept the focus there, on her sorrow at being parted from Sansa, perhaps this could turn how she wanted.

~***~

All three bloodriders turned at the sound of someone addressing them in their own tongue. They had been certain, to some degree, that their language afforded them some privacy in this Temple, among the people of Meereen. They had not anticipated being understood by anyone there, and the intrigue soon moved over their surprise.

It was Jhogo who recognized first that the ivory attire did not fit the location. It was unlike the others, despite the veils that wrapped the woman.

Aggo followed that thought, but only Rakharo took note of the accented way the woman spoke. It was not quite like Jorah, but it was close to his manner of speaking in regards to the inflections. He did not think her a woman of Essos, even if she was darker skinned than Jorah the Andal. He thought she must be from Westeros, in spite of her immediate knowledge of the area they were in.

And knowledge she had in abundance, sparking the curiosity of all of them as she wove tales of the gods and goddesses, and the numerous ones. The Dothraki men were not unfamiliar with other gods, and they believed in them – but they did not care. Though the word ‘henotheistic’ was not in their tongue, it was true for what they were.

None spoke to interrupt her, for it seemed almost as if she were not speaking to them, but around them. Her voice seemed more pitched to singing and speaking to the divine, instead of them, and the air around it did not allow interruption. Her attention to the area around, and not to them, added to that illusion.

Some words did not translate – but they heard ‘harpy’ enough and knew what it was, for that not to be a problem.

When her eyes finally peered through those veils to meet the eyes, a curious smile curved Rakharo’s lips, while a coy one came upon Jhogo’s lips. Aggo’s gaze was not unfriendly, but it was far more wary than the younger men. He was not entirely oblivious to the way she spoke of Khaleesi. It held a question in it, even if it was not spoken, to say that Khaleesi was favored.

Their eyes flickered – the younger ones – to put meaning to the word ‘Graces’, as she added colors alongside them, it soon became clear. The Graces were the women in the temple. What they would have termed ‘priestess’, or perhaps, ‘witches’. They did not yet know.

“You know much,” Rakharo commended, “But it is the Great Stallion which blesses our Khaleesi, not Zuulmar.”

“The other gods know to stay out of his way,” Aggo agreed, and could almost hear Irri adding ‘it is known’.

“Zuulmar may know so much,” he agreed, and Jhogo snorted, hearing Irri in that, at least. Perhaps they were too akin to be anything like lovers. “But you are not a Grace.”

“She is not dressed like a Grace,” Jhogo corrected, “her dress is not so translucent, and she is not wearing any of the colors mentioned,” ivory was different from white. He could tell.

“I know,” Rakharo almost snapped at him – he didn’t meant it as a question like that, “You are from Westeros?”

Aggo canted his head at that, “Why do you think that?”

“She sounds like Jorah the Andal in her mannerisms,” he explained, and then looked back to her. Jorah had explained to him in more depth the differences in languages, as Rakharo had more interest in learning the common tongue. As such, Jorah had explained some of the issues with pronunciation and the difficulties he faced, and showed Rakharo difficulties that he, too, would end up facing when he tried to speak the common tongue.

The hissing sounds, and the softer tones, in particular were troublesome. Th, sh, and ch, others always using that accursed ‘h’ pairing seemed to cause problems.

“Am I correct?” He was more curious than the others of that, and curious what would bring a woman of Westeros here, and bless her with such knowledge of the Gods of Meereen.

Jhogo’s brows did lift at that line of questioning, realizing it himself, that he had been familiar enough despite the flaws in her pronunciation, to put the words together in an intelligible fashion. “She does have purple eyes like our Khaleesi,” he mused, not aware it wasn’t a normal feature for those of Westeros.

What he’d seen of those from Westeros was, after all, fairly limited – and Khaleesi was the only woman he knew from there. To him, it seemed possible that all women had purple eyes on Westeros. It did not seem so unusual.

Though Jorah did not have such eyes.

Nor did Arstan Whitebeard.

“Perhaps they worship the same gods in Westeros,” Aggo murmured. He did not know the faiths of Westeros, either. He knew it was not the Great Stallion, Viserys certainly hadn’t been so inclined to worship, but he hadn’t seen Viserys worship anything at all. He was a godless man – he hardly knew the boundaries of the sacred and the mundane, and he had suffered greatly for that lack of knowledge, for trying to do harm in the realm of the sacred.

 

[Asteria]

Margaery Tyrell’s butterflies were also her thorns. While they were beautiful and honey-tongued, creating an ethereal image around the Little Rose whenever they entered a hall with their intricate hairstyles and delicate and colorful silks that appeared to fly over the stones of the Red Keep, they could also be menacing in their softness. It was hard to keep so many ladies at peace – they were united by the love they carried for their home and for their future queen but they were separated by much as well: their positions, hopes, and dreams, likes and dislikes, ambitions. Jealousy arose at times, conflicts were stirred and it fell to Margaery herself to solve the issues and turn glares to smiles and tears of pain and anger to ones of joy.

And just as thorns, they protected the Little Rose from those they deemed unfit. Sansa Stark and the girl she carried after her skirts had been easily accepted in their circle because they fit them. Sansa was innocent – as much as she could be after the tragedy that struck her – and sweet and so willing to please. And so was Jeyne.

But Amaranth Bolton was entirely different. She was how one of the warmer regions would imagine a woman of the North: cold, unnerving, untouchable. Her presence was not entirely hostile but it could make one wary.

Yet, Margaery was not. The Little Rose welcomed her warmly as her offer was accepted and she did not let go of her hand despite the coldness that crept up her arm at the touch. It was unexpected but pleasant, refreshing, Margaery found. When Amaranth’s grip softened, her own tightened.

Alla did not speak up again. None of the butterflies did as they fell a step behind their lady. They always did so, seeking to offer Margaery’s companions for the evening a sense of privacy and safety. She hid nothing from them, after all.

Or so they thought.

“Of course,” Margaery offered to Amaranth as she mentioned that it was the Godswood she had left behind in her search for her cat and that it was the Godswood she wished to return to. The Godswood was not far from the sept itself – once one passed by the library, all they needed to do was to turn left. She had been there before when she had first started to learn the Red Keep. Sansa and Jeyne would hide there sometimes. Margaery imagined that they wanted to escape more than to pray, though those two often worked hand in hand. “In times like these, we must find our strength wherever we can." She hardly imagined that Amaranth would be in need of strength. Quiet perhaps, peace, but not strength. “And the Godswood is beautiful,” she continued. “Simple,” for it held nothing of the grand image of the septs she knew, “but beautiful.”

Even if Septa Nysterica would say otherwise. Perhaps she would not deny its beauty, but she would deny its purpose. She phrased her words pleasantly enough but her beliefs and thoughts were loud and clear. Amaranth was not the sweet Meredyth who blushed at every scolding remark though. Despite her neutral expression and the softness of her voice – a softness that still drew Margaery in, despite the closeness –, Amaranth’s beliefs and thoughts were just as loud and clear.

Margaery smiled, her eyes on Morghul, its attention drawn by the words around itself, as Septa Nysterica became silent, a rare event. She loved her, truly cared for her, but her pushiness was as bothering as it was entertaining.

“All gods are silent,” she found herself saying in the rare moment of silence. She could see her septa’s puzzled expression even without looking directly at her. “It is not their duty to make themselves heard. It is our duty to listen.” Those words, at least, could please her.

And Amaranth continued, responding at last to her inquiry. There was little she could do in the safety of the Red Keep, even if she must have been allowed more freedoms after her father’s doings in the North. Freedom meant little when she could not follow her passions or share them with those who mattered to her.

Margaery did not believe that Amaranth did not care for Sansa or Jeyne. Not so long ago, they had shared the same fate. Even if, perhaps, Amaranth had sided with her family in this matter, she did not believe that all had been an act. Margaery did ponder the possibility of introducing Amaranth in her circle but the thought was cut short as Morghul was suddenly perturbed from its calmness. It clung to her shoulder then, in an attempt to climb up, mewling pitifully in her ear. It was then that Margaery’s hand left Amaranth’s and moved to the disturbed cat to try and balance it in her arms.

As the Bolton lady soothed it with her words, Margaery soothed it with touches. Her nails grazed against its back and its head, scratching it behinds its ears.

It quieted at last. And Amaranth continued.

She spoke of news from the North that concerned family – not her own but Sansa’s – and friends. If they concerned Sansa, why was she not the one to receive them? Margaery’s expression did not show it yet but her interest was piqued. What family was left in the North for Sansa? Most of it was gone: her father, her mother, and her brothers. Those who were not gone she knew nothing of. Who was to say that her sister had no escaped only to meet her death elsewhere? And what could she do with a half-brother that had taken a vow and was so far away…

But friends? Who was left?

Margaery was curious but did not yet speak, did not yet question. It was Amaranth that asked her of Sansa first. And again did Margaery believe that the Northerner lady meant no harm to the Stark girl. “She is well in body; my ladies can confirm it. But in spirit… it is hard to tell. It is not easy, I imagine, losing your family as time goes. I cannot think of losing mine so easily. We all acknowledge that one day, our own father and mother shall leave us but it is harder to see our brothers fall so young.” She thought of Willas then. Of Garlan and Loras. “War is war and one’s truth is another’s lie but it is not easy no matter. Living here does not make it easier for her.”

It was Alla who spoke up again, her cheeks red in anger. Margaery imagined that others would have liked to speak up as well. “She is hurt.”

She would have said more if it wasn’t for Margaery acknowledging her words. “She is. Sometimes she is hurt. Sometimes she feels betrayed and lonely. Sometimes you cannot tell… but she never seems angry.” No, never angry. She accepted it all. “Lord Tyrion is kind to her, at least. He is respectful of her and her wishes. Jeyne never leaves her side, the sweet girl. And we try to be there as much as we can.” And as much as it was allowed.

As they neared the turn, Margaery glanced over to her ladies and Septa Nysteria. “You may return to your chambers if you would like to. I shall accompany you shortly once I see Lady Bolton to the Godswood.” The ladies knew the meaning. With a curtsy, they did leave their lady and her new companion.

And the Little Rose’s gaze moved to the Northern lady. “I do not know how she truly feels towards you. I cannot ease your worries in that aspect. I do feel that she blames you as well at times… but sometimes she does seem confused. Her handmaiden, Jeyne, speaks of you and while her words may not be as kind at times, there is always softness to her tone. When they are a reminiscing a memory in which you take part, they become quiet.” She did not know how to read them, not truly, not completely. Margaery could read ill-intentions but she felt as if she could not read one’s pain. Sansa hid her far too well.

“If I may ask – have you known?” Of her family’s plans. Of what was to come. “I would not blame you if you did. I am to marry the king who caused her great pain. I couldn’t keep my promise of marrying her to my brother. Yet, we must serve our family and our king as fiercely as we serve our gods.”

So they said...

~~~~~~~~~~​

The attention of the Dothraki bloodriders had been easily captured by the sudden intrusion. Myriah had not been concerned about catching their eye in the first place. It was prolonging their interest that unsettled her. They were not freed slaves who had come to enjoy the freedom of their tongues or merchants who would share their knowledge for one honor, nor men plagued by anger and resentment, ready to spill their venom to anyone who was eager to listen.

They were warriors. While the Meereenese were keen on calling them nothing else but savages – at times the term ‘animals’ being more preferred – and invaders, they still feared them. The Dothraki were raw, violent, rash, unpredictable – warriors. Those qualities were sought in an ally but feared in an enemy. And they served Daenerys Targaryen. Only Daenerys Targaryen. Anything that appeared to be a threat to her would be seen as a threat to their own lives. Myriah was not a threat but not a friend either. And they did not know her.

But they listened to her. They followed her voice, her stories. They did not interrupt her, lost in the illusion as they were. When her gaze came upon them, she was greeted by curious and coy smiles and a light wariness from the oldest bloodrider. She acknowledged it but paid it no mind as her eyes came to follow the Graces in the temple.

It was one of his younger companions that spoke first. There was praise in his words but also a correction.

“The gods bless mortals as they see fit,” Myriah responded idly. “Your Khaleesi is blessed by many, from the one she was born under, to your Great Stallion. She will be the queen of many lands and many gods.” Religion stood at the roots of every civilization after all.

Then it began, a game of who, where and why. It was apparent she was not a Grace. The attire gave her away in the youngest’s eyes, an observation that did not surprise her. She had not truly intended to appear as she was one of the servants of the Gods of Ghis.

Yet, she did not expect for a Dothraki to so easily connect her to Westeros just by the way she had approached their language. There were many men of Westeros who had come to serve Daenerys Targaryen over the years, but it would not be enough to just observe their manner of speaking. Observation without explanation meant nothing in the process of learning. It could only mean that he had taken an active interest in the difficulties one could face when speaking a new language.

It made him intriguing to Myriah. She fixed him with her gaze as the second question arose and her smile grew, turning playful. “You are a curious thing. A sharp-witted boy.” She appreciated it. Those words alone could be answer enough. “You are not wrong,” her mother-tongue was the common tongue. He was right, but she would not say so. Not from the beginning. “I am of many places.”

It was not a lie, not completely. Dorne – Westeros – was her home but she had traveled extensively from a young age. She had grown in many foreign lands and experienced transformations that Dorne and her family had missed.

And certain features were not as common in Westeros as they thought them to be. Myriah softly chuckled at the unawareness. It was entertaining to watch them try and reach her identity through such details. They would only be taught more as they delved deeper. She did not fear them, not yet. They would find out who she was no matter. If not today, perhaps soon. In the end, no matter her reservation, she was there for their Khaleesi. “Purple eyes do not make me of Westeros. They do not make your Khaleesi of Westeros either. It is the blood of old Valyria that gives them such hue. Old Valyria is the homeland of you Khaleesi’s ancestors – it was there they lived before they conquered the kingdoms of Westeros and before Valyria turned to ruins. Those who carry this blood also have silver-golden hair and pale skin.” She had none of those. Only the eyes, the haunting eyes.

“There are still some in Westeros who have purple eyes but the blood fades and so does the color. Violet turns to blue, to green.” She knew of House Velaryon of Driftmark and there were also those of House Dayne, even if they denied sharing the blood of old Valyria. Gerold Dayne’s eyes were as violet as a gemstone, but Edric’s appeared to be more blue than violet. “The blood of old Valyria is still strong in Essos, especially in Lys. Even the common man resembles your Khaleesi there.” Her mother was of Lys.

And no, the Westerosi would never share their gods with those of Essos. “No,” Myriah added softly. “The Westerosi have one god who has seven faces: the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Stranger. They call him the Seven Who Are One. They are worshipped in septs, not temples, though the two are quite similar. But, of course, Westeros is no small land – there are some who worship the old gods in the far North. Their gods have no names and they live in forests. It is in the woods where one worships them. Then there is the Red God, R’hllor, the god of light and fire and the Drowned God who lives beneath the waves, served by those who consider the sea their home.”

She knew much. She enjoyed playing with her knowledge. Perhaps it confused them.

“I mean no harm,” she spoke then. She could only play for so long… “I am just curious. Curious about many things. When history is made, you never know what will be written, what our future children will read and hear and know. What is known today may remain unknown in so many years. You call her Khaleesi. They call her mhysa. Mother. It is rare, you see, for one to consider their ruler a mother. But others call her a witch, a curse, a usurper. Those over the sea call her a ghost, a dead woman. What is she? What she will be? How will they remember her?”

The questions filled the air. It was as if she did not ask them directly, as if her questions would continue to travel in search for their answer – this was her way, as if she spoke to someone else entirely, a higher being, herself, the unknown. Myriah was well-aware of her surroundings but sometimes she seemed to be far away… it was as if the questions became a constant in her life. Who. What. How.

Lucyfer​

 

[Lucyfer]

Apparently, Amaranth Bolton was not to let go of Margaery’s hand. She noticed the way it had squeezed tighter, and responded in kind, resuming the grip she had held at first. She listened to Margaery’s airy words of agreement and pithy praise of the beauty of the Godswood. It made her briefly wonder if she’d ever actually seen it.

There was something…starkly beautiful about it, but beauty was not what Amaranth saw upon the red leaves and white bark. It was too stark to be that. If it had been beautiful, she would not have found it sacred in the first place, in truth. The gods – the true gods – could make beautiful things but their sacred grounds were not meant to be beautiful. They were meant to be…unnerving. To remind those within them that they were in the presence of the sacred.

Yet, she did not correct Margaery. The Seven regarded beauty well, and she likely meant it as a compliment. Her comment on all gods being silent, however, did earn a side-eye that was not exactly kind. Her gods were not silent. Who listened to silence? ‘Fools.’ But Margaery didn’t quite strike her as foolish.

Careful. Diplomatic.

Just the peacemaker that she wanted to see, and it was best not to upset that. Matters of faith were not worth wasting her breath on.

She lost Margaery’s touch at Morghul’s reaction. She wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or to miss it. It was true she had missed Sansa and Jeyne, and their easy friendship, easy affections, but they were still things she knew she should not trust. They were fickle, as Sansa had shown, thinking she knew much more than Sansa herself had known about her own father’s plans.

Amaranth was as innocent as Sansa in this regard.

And Sansa was hurt. Amara looked to the lady who spoke up, thinking she had more the right of it than Margaery. She elaborated, of course, but to Amara it did seem so simple: Sansa was hurt, and that hurt blinded her to much, as pain of any sort often did. It was why she could not bear to have Amara around, and why Amara would not linger. She did not enjoy causing Sansa pain. Others, certainly, but not Sansa.

The ladies were dismissed at the turn. There would be no more outbursts from Alla, and no criticisms from Nysterica. Amara continued to move on, to allow the shielding of the growing woods to cover conversation a bit, as Margaery spoke more personally to her, about Sansa. “As I said, I do not blame Sansa or Jeyne for the pain they feel and the anger they must hold towards me,” Margaery may be unwilling to say it, but Amara was certain of it. Perhaps it would not last, but for now, for the moment, it was the truth.

“I did not know,” she answered. She did not offer her opinion on it, “I refused to write letters as Queen Cersei wanted when I was first taken prisoner. I have thus had no correspondence with my father until after this had happened, and his letter told me he was sending an old friend to return me home, and to take Arya Stark to marry Ramsay Snow.”

Obviously, Arya Stark was not here.

That had plagued Amara long enough for her to figure out the truth, but she did not say as much. “He has also told me what became of the Starks in the North, of Bran, and Rickon,” she clasped her hands in front then, held low, “The truth, that is,” because she needed to know.

Because they remained a threat, Amara needed to know. Because she would likely be charged with hunting them down if Ramsay wasn’t, which he wouldn’t be, because he was going to learn to be a lord. Hopeless, really. Foolish. She’d never allow it.

Another reason Roose would send her out. To prevent strife. He couldn’t keep them apart forever, though.

And because she would be the better hunter…but those were worries for another time. “I am sorry you were not able to help Sansa,” she had only been told after Sansa was married to Tyrion. Sansa had been so careful, “If I may speak somewhat frankly, we may be able to help Arya.” There was an emphasis there, meant to draw attention to the fact there was more to the Arya situation. “You have a reputation that precedes you, Lady Tyrell, and perhaps Morghul did…help, or did know, what I wanted.” She allowed a slight smile to touch her lips as she glanced at the settled kitten once more, “You can make even His Grace appear…kinder, to the people. I need to seem less Bolton to Sansa. I need to speak to her, and I need to do so without the Lord Hand becoming aware.”

If he sensed his plots were about to be undone, no doubt he would step in. There was a risk to his own son, after all. Amara was aware that Jaime was with Steelshanks.

Jaime could hang for all she cared, though.

~***~

There was no need to argue there. While the Great Stallion was the greatest of all gods, it would be good if the other deities saw the greatness of Khaleesi and blessed her, as well. She would, indeed, hold the favor of many, but the only one that mattered to the three before the woman in ivory was that the Great Stallion favored her – and so far as they had seen, it did, giving her the beautiful silver, but also blessing her with dragons.

And the woman before them, for all her veils, took a layer of mystery from herself, but not many. She did not confirm her home to them, but her praise still had a smile painted across Rakharo’s face. She claimed to be of many places, rather than one. It was not so difficult to accept.

She knew many stories.

She knew of Valyria, a place heard of, and it was known their Khaleesi had such ancestry. She had declared it as she killed the Masters and spoke in Valyrian. Yet, they did not know her traits made her Valyrian by appearance, or how it had differed from Westeros norm. Apparently, it was in the eyes, and in the hair.

Rakharo wanted to ask how those in Westeros normally looked – but she continued on, speaking instead of the Gods of Westeros – or the God, rather, the Seven who are One, which seemed ridiculous to the three blood riders there. How could Seven be One? A Warrior was not a Crone. A Mother was not also a Father.

That was the god that confused them – and the nameless gods. Aggo wrinkled his nose at that. “Not even titled?” For the Great Stallion had a name they dared not speak, dared not learn. Perhaps the Dosh Khaleen knew the name, but they did not share it. It was not meant for mortal tongues. “There are strange gods in Westeros. One cannot be Seven….”

“Maybe so, there is a God of Many Faces, why not a God that is only Seven?” Rakharo noted.

“God of Many Faces?”

“Jorah the Andal told me, in Braavos, there is a God of Many Faces, but the god is dead,” he had it confused, of course. The God was Death.

“Gods can’t die. That’s not a god.” Jhogo disagreed, “But a god can have many titles…like Khaleesi.”

He drew back to the conversation. His Khaleesi did have many names. That, of course. Mhysa. Queen, in her own tongue. Princess, once. “She is Khaleesi. And she will be the first to cross the poisoned sea, and claim the iron chair in Westeros,” Aggo said with some confidence. He didn’t know why they needed to claim that damnable chair, but Khal Drogo was willing to get it for her, and they were willing to fulfill that end – now for her.

She had proven herself as great as any Khal, and that was not considered lightly. They knew they should have taken her to the Dosh Khaleen…but that would have been stupid.

That was how they would remember her. The first Khaleesi – the first true Khaleesi. The first to cross the poisoned waters, and the first to take the iron chair.

Jhogo nodded at the assessment, though he grumbled, “And the one to make us pay for things. That is not our way.”

Rakharo knew he would be bitter about that for a while. Perhaps they would convince her that her bloodriders deserved some special exceptions. “She is changing our ways. She is changing the ways of many, to make it better.” That much, though, was true. “That is how she will be remembered. It is not usual for us to follow a Khaleesi. Perhaps you know that. Perhaps you know what we would usually do?” He was curious of her knowledge of their culture.

She knew their tongue.

Did she know the Dosh Khaleen? Did she know what they should have done? If so, it would certainly make her more curious. “Why do you come here to learn of her? What could she be to you?”

An interesting question, one that caused Aggo’s brows to raise at the phrasing. Jhogo considered it, as well. Khaleesi could be many things to many people, but this woman had an interest in her, which meant she foresaw some potential future with Khaleesi in it. For good, or for bad. She declared herself not an enemy, and yet, “What do you mean to Khaleesi? What do you want to cause her?” There was a bit more hostility in his question, than there had been in Rakharo’s query, but he felt it was deserved.

She was there for Khaleesi…and she was trying to determine why.

That meant she could, eventually, mean harm for her. That could not be allowed.

Asteria