章 11: Chapter 11-Broken Prayers!
Chapter 11
In the Greatest of the three cities of Slaver's Bay, gigantic pyramids overlooked the expanded city of Meereen. Many in number, yet few matched the splendor of the Great Pyramid, touted as one of the wonders of the world with the Golden Harpy atop it, standing there in all its glory for all to see.
The city was ruled by ten Great families, families that traced their origins back to the time of the Ghiscari Empire of the Old. The ten families had many disputes among them, old rivalries and grudges, yet they stood together as well, some of them richer than the others, others much less.
And now, they all sat together under the Great Harpy once more in the dwindling night as they convened to discuss a rising threat to their hegemony.
"He is dangerous," one of the men began from the side as the ten people sat in the Great Hall underneath the pyramid, with its great balconies overlooking the city.
"We still no nothing of him except that he was dropped here by those wretched Red Priests and, from that day, has been fighting in the pits," he continued, and there was little need to elaborate about whom he talked for by now the whole bay had heard of the problem that plagued their city.
"I don't see the problem here. He has broken no laws. At least not yet," another, much older man added. The younger man who had started the conversation was quick to retort.
"The laws do not matter. He is a danger to us. I can feel it. He is not human, for no man is capable of what he has done. Over a hundred victories! Hundred! Do you have any idea what it means," he nearly shouted.
"You only sat that because your family owes him substantial debts!" a man from the side added with a cocky grin, his hair silvery blonde as he sat there with his legs resting on the table, a cluster of small red grapes being fed to him by a slave beside him.
His words made the young man splutter in rage, yet he didn't deny that allegation.
"I am afraid Zhak is not the only one indebted to this masked man. Many of the small families owe the man quite a substantial sum of money, including many at this table," added another voice from the gathered men. Again, the allegations weren't denied.
"How did it even get this bad?" a question was asked, for this occurrence, while unfortunate, seemed planned rather than a coincidence.
"He taunts and goads men into betting against him. I was told that once he bet each penny to his name on the fighting pit, and when he emerged victorious, he won himself a whole manse and a whole crew of slaves. Slaves which he then went on to free, whoever he is, he is dangerous." The man continued.
"He has not called in many of the debts yet. But if he were to at any moment, he would have enough money to disrupt the balance. A balance which we have painstakingly maintained over the past hundred years. We must act,"
Then, a consensus was reached as all the men gave their nod, and one of them finally spoke up.
"The so be it, it is decided. Send Ottar and his men, and let us rid of this man!"
0000
OBERYN MARTELL
Dorne was not like the rest of the kingdoms. It was unbowed, unbent, and unbroken. It was proud of its heritage and resilience, and that pride ran deep from the marshes to the Planky shore of the land.
And that pride had been wounded twice over, first by the Prince when he rode past his own lady wife, the Princess of Dorne to crown that whore from North with that flowered crown. His blood had boiled in rage at the sight, and it had taken nearly all his patience and self-control not to skewer the silvery Prince right then and there for the disrespect he had dolled out.
And then he had vanished, along with that Northern whore sparking a war that divided the realm as four Great Lords stood against the crown, an act which should have been led by the Prince and done so years ago, especially after that 'Burning Trial.'
And the memories of that day haunted him to this day, the screams, the agony. It was a sight no man should witness, and he had watched as the King atop his throne had laughed as his own blood and kin burned on his orders. They should have risen up then.
Loathed as he was, Dorne had little choice but to call their levies at the King's command, for they were joined by blood, and the King held their princess hostage in his castle. Dorne had answered the call reluctantly and had sent away ten thousand men, a number not too large yet only half of what they could muster. Yet the Prince had wasted them, choosing to cross the river and putting himself at a disadvantage against the hulking giant of a man that was Robert Baratheon. He had lost the battle and the war, ending the hopes of the Targaryen loyalists and supporters, reluctant as many of them may be alike.
The second insult came after that, as the King called them traitors, blamed their uncle Prince Lewyn for the loss of his heir, and disinherit Elia's line from the throne. Yet his words carried little weight, as the King's supporters fled in doves as they realized the futility of their cause.
A cause that seemed to have gained a new life and a new king.
"This is impossible," he spoke to Doran as he sat in his gardens, his loyal guards Areo Hota behind him. His brother and Prince sat in his wheeled chair, a blanket covering him from the waist down to hide away the swellings of his gout that had made it impossible for him to walk.
"It is not," he answered, the lines on his face visible under the light of the Sun that was up in the sky, making him look older than he was as Oberyn let his eyes wander over her sister's words once more.
"But I saw him burn with my own eyes, heard his screams with my own ears. No man could ever survive that," he answered. Doran had not been there unlike him. He could not realize the sight he had witnessed.
"Fire doesn't burn a dragon," Doran quoted, and he heard it much from the maesters and the King.
"Those are Elia's words, and I am inclined to believe her, and though she has not mentioned it but I believe that it was Prince Daemon who killed the King," Doran continued, and Oberyn plopped down on the chair as he tried to make sense of it all.
Daemon Targaryen was alive and had returned. It was a surprise, one which he was not prepared for. He had known him, for the Prince was friends with Elia and Ashara, and Oberyn was fond of the younger Prince even though he had known him for little time.
His death had been a tragedy that many in Dorne had mourned though none more than Starfall.
"Then will you answer the call and send the men?" he questioned, and Doran nodded.
"I will," and Oberyn's eyes narrowed.
"Even if this is indeed Daemon, he has usurped Elia's children. How is it any different than what Rhaegar and Aerys did?" he questioned, not speaking against the mobilization of levies yet trying to make sense of what Doran thought, for that was his job.
Oberyn was the Viper, a symbol of Dorne's ferocity, but Doran was the grass that hid the Viper, giving him the opportunity to pounce on its prey as it lingered on, unaware of its approach.
"Because Dorne protects its own, and if it was not for him, the Lannister men would have torn her to shreds, for the Lannisters have little to offer to the Rebelling lords except her and her children," Doran answered, and though he was loathe to imagine it, Doran was right.
Despite the friendship between their mothers, Tywin Lannister bore little goodwill for them and Dorne, especially for Elia, whom he believed to have usurped the rightful place of his daughter. With the man's history, he could imagine Doran's words as a possibility.
"Moreover, he has made Aegon his heir and has assured Elia that she shall have a place at court that gives us much more than what Robert Baratheon and his supporters would offer us," Doran elaborated, and Oberyn nodded.
That was ample enough reason, yet there was one more thing.
"Why not simply call her back, let her leave that wretched palace, and come back home to us? Why should we embroil ourselves further in this conflict? Dorne once stood as an independent kingdom. It could do so again," and Doran shook his head.
"Dorne survived as an independent kingdom. And after many years we have the chance to sit Dornish blood on the Iron Throne, a chance which we should not squander away. You forget an important thing about our King," Doran replied with a narrowed gaze, making his mind race as Oberyn tried to recall all he could about the young Prince he had met all those years ago.
"Who was the Prince enamoured with in his youth?" Doran questioned as his eyes widened.
"Ashara Dayne," he gasped as he realized what Doran was talking about. Prince Daemon and Ashara's tale of love was one of the stories that was somewhat similar to the story of Duncan the Tall.
There had been times he was jealous of the Prince for the attention the black-haired beauty of Starfall would doll on him, yet the Prince cared much for her as well, their love truer than many in history forever since that day none had laid eyes on the haunting beauty of Starfall.
"But the rumor is that she is dead?" he questioned, and Doran shook his head.
"She is not," Doran answered as his face withered away. A sadness appeared in his eyes as he continued.
"Alive she is, yet many in her family wish otherwise. Yet death refuses to touch her as if afraid of what that may bring."
0000
RHAELLA TARGARYEN
Rhaella Targaryen had thought that she would never see these walls again when she had left for Dragonstone as the news of the Rebellions victory brought her another sorrow. The news of her son's death would have broken a younger Rhaella, yet for as long as she could recall, ever since her marriage she had only ever known sadness with only a brief time of peace and laughter.
Daemon, her second born, a quiet babe with a weak cry. Many a maester had thought that he would not survive, yet her son had proven them wrong. As the master placed him in her arms, he gave a cry so loud that it must have woken up the whole castle before looking up at her with his soft amethyst eyes.
Aerys had rejoiced at his birth, naming him Daemon after the great warrior that shared that name, hoping that he would prove to be his equal. Yet the joy had lasted for a few years before his madness, jealousy, and lust pushed him down a path that eventually ended into full-blown madness.
Rhaegar, her eldest, had been a quiet child, bookish in nature. He had only taken up the sword after Aerys's insult. He was quiet and gentle often lost in his own mind, and harp. She loved him dearly, yet the bond she had shared with Daemon was special.
Even as a child, his eyes darted across the room as if taking everything in and trying to make sense of it, she would read to him tales of their House, and he would listen quietly even as a child, a surprise to many of the servants.
He was smart as well, not only of the bookish sort, but he had understood the subtle hints of Aerys's rage and anguish on her and would sit beside her as a child, offering the little warmth he could.
Those had been good times, for despite the numerous stillbirths, she had come to look forward to the future—a future without Aerys, where Rhaegar may sit on the throne, with her secondborn ruling besides him. They could undo the damage her own husband had done to the realm.
And that dream had ended, first on that fateful day when Aerys had summoned the whole court after being rescued from Duskendale, and Seven cursed her. She wished that they had not. That he had died there that day, for then he had burnt her precious little Daemon for a crime he was not party to.
Yet now, as she stared at those soft amethyst eyes—eyes she had never thought she would see again—she could scarcely believe herself, for even years later, a mother could hardly forget her own child.
"Daemon," she gasped as her precious little child stood beside her, his face covered by glimmering steel. Yet she need not look at it, for she could tell that this was her son, that the letters had spoken true.
"It truly is you," she spoke out as he knelt down beside the bed and gripped her hand. As she tried to caress his face, she only found the cold of steel and the roughness of skin marred by burns.
"Indeed, it is," he answered, his voice had changed over the years, and had lost the hints of the child-like quality that had lingered when they had last conversed. And the very thought of it seemed so distant, yet she recalled all of it even today.
"You survived," and he nodded at that.
"At great cost, but yes. I survived," he replied, and it was like the legends of the old she would tell him when he was but a child. Legends of their forefathers and their various powers, including their ability to walk through flames. It was the same legend that had pushed Aerion Targaryen to drink a jar of wild fyre and set himself aflame in madness, the same madness she had once prayed would overtake her own husband.
"Where were you?" she questioned in a pained cry, yet she knew that she had little right to be angry with him for what she had ever done for him. She had failed as a mother and hence had little that she could demand of him.
"I was taken away, for I may have survived, but the fire had left its marks on me. A red Priestess took me away on a ship to Volantis, and from there, I ended up in Meereen and was there for quite some years," and she could tell that his life had not been easy. Meereen was a city of slavers, where there were said to be ten slaves for every free man.
She could scarcely imagine what he had gone through.
"What happened to you?" she cried out in agony as she caressed his mask, and he gave her a reassuring nod.
"I will tell you all about it, but first, I must end this mess Rhaegar and Aerys have created," he said resolutely as his eyes glinted in a way that reminded her of people long gone, gone in that fire of Summer Hall.
Yet a pang of sadness hit her as she spoke up.
"I am afraid that won't be possible. I am afraid I might not live long enough to hear your tale, my son," she said, looking towards her bulging belly. According to the Masters, the child was set to come any day now, yet she found her strength lacking. The sorrows of her life had taken it all away, leaving little for the life that grew inside her. Daemon's fists tightened over her hands.
"Do not speak like that. You will be fine, and when I return from this tirade with Lord Tywin, our cause shall be twenty thousand men stronger, or Lord Tywin will find his lands alit," he spoke with the promise of victory, and she knew little of the happenings of the war, yet she felt that she could trust him.
"So be strong, please," he said as he looked her in the eye.
"I shall try for you," she said, and he nodded.
"Yet listen to me, Daemon, if anything were to happen to me, protect your siblings. Promise me,"
"Nothing will happen to yo..."
"Promise me," she cut in and saw him nod.
"I promise, yet I hope that such a time may never come." And she nodded.
"I pray so too," and with that, he stood up, and she wished to call him back, to hold him near her, yet she couldn't. Her Daemon had grown up and now wore a crown atop his head, and she thought it suited his head much more than it had ever done for Aerys.
"May the Go..." and suddenly he stopped her.
"No," he cut in, surprising her as he turned to face her. She saw his eyes gleam as he left her room with a single sentence.
"I am done with the Gods and their games."
0000
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