A New World- Chp- 41 (Patreon)

Edwyn Wyl stood in the tall gallery of the Great Sept of Baelor, his dark, sun-touched complexion a stark contrast to the pale marble columns surrounding him. He was a man of Dorne, carrying the deep hues of the Boneway in his skin and the sharp, observant eyes of a hawk.

It had been nearly two decades since he had tasted the arid air of his homeland or felt the parched heat of House Wyl's mountain keep. As the second son of a third son, Edwyn had been born into a world where titles were distant dreams, and the inheritance of land was a proven impossibility.

Not that he desired those, no, he never did. He never dreamt of being a lord of the keep or having children to pass on his titles.

In his youth, he had found no pleasure in the clatter of steel. While his cousins bruised one another with lances and shields, Edwyn had retreated into the quiet solace of his room. He had never been interested in warfare. Swords, shields, axes and hammers were not to his liking.

Weapons, his father often said, were for brutes.

His father was a man of the mind, a scholar in all but name, who had eventually served as the castellan for House Dayne. Though he had longed for the Citadel, his father had pushed him toward the Faith, believing his son's destiny lay in a higher calling than the dusty, maester-filled halls of Oldtown.

The decision had been a fortuitous one. Edwyn found himself captivated by the duality of the Seven—the strength of the Smith, the mercy of the Mother, and the terrifying mystery of the Stranger. After finishing his studies in Oldtown, he made one final pilgrimage to his family before travelling to King's Landing.

His talent for administration, his speed with numbers, and his silver tongue soon caught the attention of the High Septon.

For twenty years, Edwyn had served as the High Septon's right hand, weaving through the complex bureaucracy of the Faith like a needle through silk.

Lately, however, a new face was seen around the Great Sept.

A roaming septon, a man who called himself a "Sparrow," had arrived in the capital. He was a lean, barefoot figure followed by a flock of the displaced and the desperate.

The High Septon considered the man with deep mistrust, yet Edwyn found the rumours surrounding him even more unsettling.

The older septons in the city confessed to having seen the man years ago in Oldtown, but whenever he pressed for details, they became uncharacteristically quiet or shifted the conversation to the price of candle wax.

Although he had little time to investigate the Sparrow's origins, for the High Septon's health had taken a sudden, abrupt decline. For the past week, the Father of the Faithful had stayed bedridden, shifting the weight of the Faith's administrative duties squarely on Edwyn's shoulders.

The realm was bleeding. The recent war between the late King Joffrey and his uncle Stannis had turned the capital into a slaughterhouse. When Stannis's forces had momentarily breached the city, the aftermath was a list of horror: the death toll was staggering, women had been raped in the streets, and the gutters were filled with orphans crying for parents who would never return.

Under the High Septon's orders, he had mobilised the Holy Brothers and Sisters. They moved through the city like a white tide, gathering the vulnerable and the broken, bringing them to the Great Sept for healing and sanctuary.

Edwyn oversaw the distribution of bread and the bandaging of wounds, but he knew the charity was a limited resource. The Faith's coffers were dangerously lacking.

The main concern was the Crown's debt. The Faith had given the Iron Throne a massive loan years ago, a sum that remained unpaid as kings fell like autumn leaves. Robert, Joffrey, and now a new ruler sat upon the Iron Throne.

King Haridon was a figure of controversy within the halls of the Sept. His rule appeared strong, his decisions decisive, yet he had taken a "heathen" wife, a savage from the North who worshipped trees and ancient, nameless gods.

The rumours in the markets were vile; men whispered that the Queen had murdered Joffrey to bathe in his blood to maintain her beauty, while others claimed the King sacrificed a hundred men a moon to maintain his immense strength.

He was a man of logic; he knew that half of these stories were the rot of the common mind, yet the underlying pressure was real. The relationship between the Faith and the new King was fated to be a jagged one.

The High Septon, ever the diplomat, intended to maintain a civil peace, but he knew that stability needed more than prayers—it required the return of the Faith's gold.

As he looked down into the plaza, he saw a group of Sparrows gathered around their leader. They looked hungry, and their eyes held a fervour that the comfortable septons of the Great Sept lacked.

Edwyn adjusted his robes, feeling the weight of the ledgers in his mind. He knew the High Septon was a wise, kind, and knowledgeable man, but kindness would not fill the bellies of the thousands seeking refuge.

He needed to ensure an audience with the new King. He was required to see if the man with the crown was a friend of the Seven or a wolf in Baratheon clothing.

If Haridon decided to settle the debt, the Faith could reconstruct the city's broken spirit; if not, he feared that the friction between the Crown and the Sept would spark a fire that even the Mother's mercy could not extinguish.

The bells of the Sept began to toll for the evening prayers, and Edwyn turned away from the balcony. There were numbers to balance and mouths to feed, and the shadow of the Sparrow was growing longer with every passing hour.

The sun of Astapor beat down upon the Plaza of Punishment with a relentless, blinding heat, turning the dust into a golden haze that choked the air. Daenerys stood at the centre of the arena, her silver-gold hair shimmering like a halo, though her heart felt as cold as the Wall her ancestors had once helped defend.

Before her stood Kraznys mo Nakloz, a man whose very presence was an incarnation of the rot of Slaver's Bay. He was an oily, porcine creature, his fat chin wobbling like a piece of overcooked horseflesh every time he breathed.

In his hand, he clutched his familiar whip of black krakens-tooth, the leather supple and stained with what appeared to be blood. He was smirking, a greedy, cruel gleam clear in his eyes as he looked from Daenerys to the silent, armoured figure of Ser Jorah Mormont.

The Knight must be feeling the heat from the metal armour, sweating bullets inside that metal contraption of his. In all her years in Essos, Dany had seldom seen men wear armour; the heat in Essos was too much for that sort of attire.

Even in the free cities, the sellsword preferred a practical combination of light leather, studded jackchains, scale mail, or hardened boiled leather.

Only one company was known to wear Armor, the Golden company, whose foundation was laid by a westerosi. One of her kinsmen, long departed, yet his skull was said to be submerged in molten gold to preserve and portray.

Her own knight stood several paces behind her, guarding a small stand draped in a dark colored cloth. From under the fabric came a string of clicks and low, vibrating hisses, sounds that must sent a shiver through the Unsullied standing in the rows below, or any other person present.

Her dragons were fire-given form; it was expected to be afraid of them.

The arena was a theatre of domination. Beneath the raised platform where the Good Master stood, his army was arranged in perfect rows, hundreds of columns of them.

Thousands of eunuch soldiers stood in separate queues, their bronze spiked caps glinting in the sun, their lances and shields poised with a discipline that defied human nature. Beside Kraznys stood the slight Naathi girl, her golden eyes looking at her, and at intervals glancing toward the stand in front of Ser Jorah.

"And the whore wants all of them? Even the untrained ones?" The Slaver asked in High Valyrian, his voice a rough rasp. A frown creased his brow, but it could not mask the greed radiating from him like a smell from fish.

The girl turned to Daenerys, her voice soft but clear in the Common Tongue. "The Good Master asks if you desire to buy them all, Your Grace. Even the boys still in training, who have not yet earned their spikes."

Dany did not hesitate. Her purple eyes remained fixed on the slaver. "I will buy each and every one of them. The eight thousand who are fully fledged, and the five thousand who still toil in the barracks."

As the girl translated, Kraznys let out a wet, guttural laugh. He leaned forward, his silk robes straining against his belly. "Ask the Westerosi whore how she plans to pay for such a prize. Even if I strip her of every scrap of silk from her fair body, sell her three rotting ships, and put every man and whore in her khalasar into my fighting pits, it would scarcely buy her three thousand of my finest. She is a beggar queen dreaming of an army she cannot purchase."

The Naathi girl relayed the message with practised neutrality, though she quieted the insults. Daenerys listened, her face a mask of regal indifference.

She knew exactly what Kraznys wanted. She knew that the only currency in this god-forsaken city that could buy an army of such volume was a power that had been absent from the world for centuries.

To keep her pretence of being a naive girl in place, she permitted a moment of heavy silence to stretch between them.

The girl spoke again, "The Good Master asks how Your Grace intends to pay. The gold you possess is inadequate for an army of this size."

The girl was sharp, Daenerys realised. She likely knew that Dany would never sell her Dothraki people into the slavery. In the Seven Kingdoms, slavery was an abomination, a crime punishable by death, a fact that Ser Jorah knew better than most.

The knight had fled his own lands to escape the judgment of Eddard Stark for that very crime, and now he stood as a protector to her. She, who loathed the slavery most, she who desired to burn this accursed place with one word to her dragons.

She raised her chin, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto Kraznys's. "I am ready to give you a dragon in exchange for them all," she said firmly.

The Naathi girl's eyes widened, a flicker of real shock crossing her face.

Behind her, Daenerys heard the sharp intake of breath from Ser Jorah. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel.

He had thought they were here simply to exhibit the power of the dragons to lure the slavers, not to barter away one of them, the very base of her strength.

"My Queen—" Jorah began, his voice thick with panic.

She raised a hand, her stance rigid and commanding. She needed him to remain silent. If she were to be successful, he must do exactly as directed by her. No more, no less.

Her knight clenched his jaw behind her, his face flushing with a mix of frustration and disbelief, but he fell back. He was a soldier; his duty was to obey her, every command of hers and not question them. If she desired his advice, she would ask for it; if not, he needs to learn to remain silent.

"Uncover the cage, Ser," she commanded.

It was with a heavy heart that she allowed her sons to be confined.

Earlier that morning, the process had been a nightmare of shrieks and a bit of fire. Rhaegal had looked at her with miserable, golden eyes, whining softly as he flew over the cage of his brother. Drogon had shrieked, too, but he had not shot any fireball.

It was Aeron who made the task more harrowing.

The black dragon, with green eyes, was the most temperamental of the three and had been furious, screeching and baring his teeth. He had arched his back and fired a concentrated ball of flame at her when she ventured too close, a warning that he would not tolerate being manhandled like Drogon.

It hurt her to know they felt betrayed, but the unruly nature of her sons was a fire she had to harness.

Ser Jorah hesitated, his hand hovering over the dark cloth. Dany shot him a look so sharp it could have melted his armour. With a curse under his breath, he grabbed the fabric and pulled it away.

The sunlight hit the iron bars, displaying the black-and-red scales of Drogon. The dragon was far too large for the cage. Two-thirds of his tail spilt out through the gaps in the bars, twitching irritably, while his left wing was folded at an awkward, painful-looking angle.

Daenerys winced at the sight of her own mistake. She stepped forward hastily, unlatching the gate.

As the door swung open, Drogon slunk out, shaking his head and snapping his wings, trying his best reclaim his dignity. He turned his head to look at her, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of pure, unadulterated anger in those slitted pupils.

Unlike his brother Rhaegal, Drogon did not whine; he let out a low, vibrating growl before beating his wings and taking to the air. A collar of brown, thick leather was fastened around his neck, and a long, fine chain dangled from it.

She caught the end, holding him like a kite against the blue Astapori sky.

Kraznys's eyes followed the dragon's ascent, his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost entirely black with greed. He licked his lips, his hand tightening on the whip.

He spoke rapidly in High Valyrian, his voice dripping with lust. "Tell the whore that I accept the deal. All the Unsullied, even the sucklings in the barracks, for her dragon. But tell her I want more. As soon as I saw her silver hair and full breasts, my loins were itching like a dog with mange. I would mount the she-dragon, making her my whore and spilling my seeds inside her until she carries a token of Astapor."

The Naathi girl shrank, her face turning pale as she tried to translate the master's crude desires, but couldn't.

Dany felt a surge of cold fury, but she did not let it reach her face. She had no doubts that the slight girl was a virgin; she knew the reputation of cities like Astapor and Meereen. They were hellholes where age and innocence were rarely a barrier to the price of a night's pleasure.

She would ravage this coast before she ever set foot in the West, she vowed that to herself.

"The Good Master accepts," the girl said finally, her voice shaking. "One of your dragons for the army, and a night in his bed for the untrained ones."

Jorah's hand flew to the hilt of his longsword. He took a predatory step toward the platform. "You dare suggest such a thing? You fat, stinking—"

"Ser Jorah!" Daenerys interrupted, her voice like a whip-crack. "Control your tongue. We are here to do business. Do not hamper my negotiations."

The knight moved closer, his voice a desperate hiss. "Khaleesi, listen to reason. To spend a night with this monster... it is too much. There must be another way."

She turned on him, her eyes blazing with a wrath that rivalled her dragon's. "And why is that, Ser? If I recall correctly, you also wished to spend your nights with me. You are a slaver yourself, are you not? You sold lives for gold once. Do not pretend to have a conscience now when it fits your envy."

The Knight looked as if she had slapped him across the face with a gauntlet. He stammered, his eyes dropping to the dusty ground, unable to find a reply.

"Be quiet while I deal with him," she added, turning back to the Naathi girl. Her voice softened, but her will was unmistakable. "I accept those terms. But I want you as well, Little one. You shall be the price of his one night with me. You will be mine, and you will never fear a master again."

The girl gasped, her eyes searching the Queen's face for a trick. She turned to Kraznys and repeated the offer. The slaver frowned, looking at his translator with a sneer.

"Buy my valuable slave, would she?" Kraznys spat. "The bitch thinks I won't sell a talking bird to buy a night with her. I'll do it. Tell her I accept her terms. Give me the chain."

The girl turned back to her, her voice a whisper of hope. "My master accepts. You must hand him the dragon's chain, and he will hand the whip of the Unsullied to you. It is the gesture that binds the contract. The army will be yours."

Dany nodded, her fingers tightening on the iron chain that held Drogon. She could feel the dragon's heart beating through the metal, a rhythmic thrum of fire and blood.

The plan was in its final, most dangerous part. She stepped toward the platform.

"Tell him," She said, her voice shifting into the high, melodic registers of her mother tongue, "that a dragon is not a slave."

Kraznys did not understand the words, but he understood the reach of her hand as she extended the chain. He reached out with a trembling, fat hand to take it, his eyes fixed on the black beast above.

As his fingers closed around the iron, she felt the shift in the air.

The moment the krakens-tooth whip touched her palm, she let go of the chain. Unleashed from her grip, Drogon shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, and lunged upward.

The sudden tension jerked the fat slaver forward, making him grunt in astonishment as he struggled to remain upright. He staggered, his face reddening as he yelled for a nearby slave to bring a sturdier whip to lash the beast into submission.

She ignored the commotion, turning the black whip over in her hand, feeling its weight and the history of agony it represented. She looked up, her expression cooling into something lethal. "Are the Unsullied mine then?"

The Naathi girl, her eyes wide, nodded quickly. "You can order them now. Both the trained and the untrained."

Dany frowned, her voice dropping an octave. "Wasn't the cost for the untrained ones a night in his bed?"

"It was," the girl whispered, "but the master added me to the price of that night. By his word, all thirteen thousand are yours."

She nodded slowly, a dark satisfaction blooming in her chest. She turned her back on the sputtering slaver and faced the vast sea of bronze and steel.

"Unsullied, attention!" she commanded. Her High Valyrian was perfect, liquid and sharp, the true tongue of the dragonlords.

Kraznys froze, his jaw dropping as he struggled with the flapping dragon. Even the Naathi girl looked at her with newfound wonder. "You speak the language of Valyria?" the slaver gasped, his voice cracking with shock.

She turned her head slightly, a cold smirk playing on her lips. "I surely do. I am the blood of the dragon, Kraznys. And there is an old saying: Never underestimate a dragon."

She looked up at the sky where her eldest son circled. "Drogon, dracarys!"

The dragon did not hesitate. He shrieked, flying low, his shadow encasing that of Kraznys', and expelled a roaring torrent of black-and-scarlet fire.

Kraznys opened his mouth to scream, but the flames consumed the sound before it could leave his throat. Within seconds, the Good Master was reduced to a charred husk, the heavy scent of burnt flesh and melted silk hanging thick in the afternoon heat.

Daenerys turned to the army, her grip on the master's whip tightening until her knuckles were white. "Unsullied! Kill every slave master, break every chain, and free all who are in bonds. That is my order!"

She watched with a grim, triumphant smile as the greatest infantry in the world marched as one to do her bidding.

Petyr smoothed the velvet of his sleeves, a gesture of habit that felt increasingly frustrating in the humid heat of Sunspear. He was flanked by three Dornish guards, their scales and sand-colored attire a constant reminder of his situation.

His own Essosi sellswords, the men he had paid dearly to ensure his safe passage from the capital with his prize, were nowhere to be found. Doran Martell had them concealed in some lightless hole, no doubt, leaving Petyr bare of his securities.

It had been more than a week since he had been housed in what the Dornish called a guest room. If this was how they treated people who possessed the ability to help them, it was no wonder they saw so few visitors.

He knew he was a tool, and a sharp one at that, too. Had he fallen into the clutches of the Old Lion while plotting against the throne, he would have already bled him dry of every secret before putting him to use.

But the Martells were different; they were a rival of the Lannisters, yet they seemed content to let their finest assets gather dust while they bickered.

He watched the red-brick corridors pass by, his mind working. He had expected more from Lord Martell. Instead of capitalising on the chaos he had gift-wrapped for them, the Martells seemed to be quarrelling amongst themselves.

Doran seemed to have a quiet, simmering disagreement with the assertive steps his younger brother had taken on behalf of their niece.

In Petyr's eyes, once the deed was done, once Sansa and the Tyrell Kingsguard were in their grasp, there was no room for indecision. One does not walk halfway across a bridge of glass.

If Lord Martell didn't want to go this way, he should have returned Sansa, Ser Loras and Petyr to the Iron Throne immediately to curry favour with the new King. But Baelish didn't want a return to the status quo.

He had expected the quarrel between the Baratheons, hoping for a long, bloody war that would leave the realm weakened. Instead, the conflict had ended with a sudden, unlikeable conclusion.

Haridon had moved too quickly, too decisively. Stannis had lost; the elder stag was likely destined for execution or the frozen purgatory of the Wall, leaving no son to take revenge, no heir to fill the ears of disgruntled lords with whispers of restoration.

No, the only path forward was the one the Red Viper had taken. Doran should embrace his brother's fire.

He was confident he could sway the Knights of the Vale to fight for Rhaenys Targaryen, not out of any loyalty, but through the control he held over Lysa. And the Reach would follow; the Tyrells were ambitious enough to chase the promise of a crown, especially with the leverage Dorne currently held over them.

But his loyalty was not to a dead dynasty or a princess. He cared nothing for Rhaenys or her "right" to a throne made of melted swords. He wanted the throne for himself, and more than that, he wanted the girl.

Sansa was the living image of Catelyn—malleable, innocent, and possessed of a beauty that made his loins ache with a phantom hunger. Lysa was a pasty copy of her sister; Sansa was the masterpiece.

To have her beside him as he ruled the ruin of Westeros, that was the only game worth playing.

The heavy doors to the hall were opened, and Petyr was ushered in.

"Sit down, Lord Baelish," Oberyn said, his voice a smooth purr. The Red Viper swept into the room, his red and black attire making him look more formidable. He carried an air of coiling violence that even the peaceful surroundings could not dampen.

"He's no lord, though," Lord Doran interrupted. His voice was thin but carried the weight of absolute authority.

His wheelchair was pushed into the chamber by a masked servant, the wheels clicking softly against the mosaic floor.

In quick succession, the rest entered. The Targaryen girl, Rhaenys, walked with a quiet dignity that he found annoyingly resilient. Beside her was Arianne Martell, Doran's heiress, whose back was as straight as a spear.

Several others filled the chairs around the oval table, taking their seats with the practised ease of those who had done this many times before.

Doran was steered to one end of the table, while Oberyn took the other, the two brothers facing each other like the poles of a magnet. The Targaryen girl sat beside Oberyn, leaving a chair empty on her other side.

To Lord Martell's right sat a man nearly as old as the Prince himself, bald and stocky. To his left was a younger man, his son, more likely, who looked far too serious for his years.

Princess Arianne took her seat beside her Tragaryen cousin, her dark eyes flickering with a suspicion that he noticed immediately. She glanced at her father and then her brother with a look that bordered on resentment.

Interesting, Petyr thought. Internal friction. A divided house is a house that needs a third party to mediate.

A woman, Petyr recognised as Nymeria Sand, one of Oberyn's bastard daughters, took the seat beside Arianne. She had the look of a desert cat, lean and dangerous.

Finally, Ellaria Sand, Oberyn's paramour, took the chair beside the empty one.

"Come, sit down, Lord Baelish. Nobody is going to kill you in here," the Red Viper said again. He gestured to the empty seat beside his paramour.

He didn't believe him for a second, but he offered no counter. He slid into the seat, offering Ellaria a practised, charming smile. She returned it with equal warmth, though her eyes remained as cold as the hills of the North in winter.

It seemed the Red Viper had chosen a partner who was just as adept at the masquerade as he was.

"I've sent a letter to the Queen of Thorns," Oberyn began, leaning forward and ignoring the tension in the room. "Olenna Tyrell now knows her grandson, the Knight of Flowers, is a guest of ours. She has been told what is required of her if she wishes to see him whole again."

"And I don't suppose she has replied yet, has she?" Lord Martell asked. His voice was dry, scepticism evident in the slight curl of his lip.

The Red Viper's brow furrowed. "No, she hasn't. But Olenna is a creature of caution. She hasn't rejected, either. She is considering the pieces on the board."

Doran leaned back into the cushions of his chair. "You are putting too much trust in Reachmen, dear brother. We both know the King holds a counter-weight. Garlan the Gallant is in the capital, a 'guest' of the throne. The Tyrells are caught between two fires."

Petyr saw his opening. He could not afford to be a silent spectator in his own fate. "Accidents can be arranged, Lord Martell," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "I spent years in the Red Keep. I know the weakness of the servants, the hidden debts of the few, and the secret shames of the others. I have people in the capital who hold leverage over those."

"You knew people," the bald man beside Doran said.

He had a wide nose and lips that were nearly invisible, giving his face a predatory, toad-like quality. He reminded Petyr of Varys, but without the powder and the perfume. This man was sturdy, dark-eyed, and looked like he had spent his life in the sun.

"And you are?" Baelish asked, maintaining his polite facade.

"Lord Cletus Yronwood, cousin to the Bloodroyal," the man said, revealing a set of perfectly intact teeth in a sharp smile. "And as I was saying, you knew people, Lord Baelish. The Dwarf has been busy. The new Hand has begun a series of... overhauls in the capital."

His eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that Tyrion Lannister has fired dozens of the Gold Cloaks—specifically those assumed to be on your payroll," Lord Martell said, his eyes locking onto Petyr's with a chilling intensity. "He has seized your brothels, claiming them as crown property or handing them to 'more reputable' managers. There are whispers of a cleansing in the civil service."

"It's the truth," Oberyn added, glancing at him. "Even my own contacts are struggling. The capital is tightening. I've lost several of my own eyes in the streets this past fortnight."

He felt a flare of genuine white-hot fury behind his ribs. That accursed, stunted demon. He had spent a decade building those contacts, coin by coin, secret by secret. To have it dismantled by that Lannister bastard in a matter of weeks was an insult he would not forget.

He would see Tyrion Lannister's head on a spike if it were the last thing he did.

However, he allowed none of that anger to show. He merely shook his head with a sigh. "I might have lost a few threads, but the rest stays. There are always more men for sale. I simply need to send a letter to the right people."

"Write it down and hand it to me," The Younger Martell brother replied instantly. "I'll see it sent through my own channels at the earliest opportunity."

Petyr scowled internally.

Through his channels.

It meant Oberyn would read every word. He would have to use a code language that the Red viper couldn't decipher; it was better that he place layered codes.

Placing restrictions on him was a foolish way to gain his partnership; it only ensured his eventual perfidy.

"If the Hand is as meticulous as you say, the King will claim we killed Ser Garlan," Nymeria Sand noted, her voice sharp.

"And we will say they killed him," Oberyn replied easily. "Propaganda is as much a weapon as a spear, Nym. Besides, what we would still possess is a hostage of value in Ser Loras. The crown would lose Ser Garlan, their deterrent to the War."

"I give you the task then, Lord Baelish," Oberyn said, dismissing the concern.

He glanced at Lord Martell, expecting a protest, but the elder Martell wasn't even looking at his brother. He was staring at the table, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood.

The lack of unity was noticeable.

"What about the Vale?" Quentyn asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was earnest, lacking the sharp edges of his cousins. "If we are to rise, we need more than the Reach. The Vale has the only fresh army in the Seven Kingdoms."

"A letter was sent to the Eyrie," Arianne replied, her tone dripping with a mean, snide edge before her uncle or father could answer. "And I'm told they have replied positively. Isn't that right, uncle?"

Quentyn scowled at his sister, but she ignored him, her focus remaining on the men at the ends of the table.

Petyr watched the exchange with the eye of a cat hunting mice. There was a rift between the heiress and the rulers here. Arianne was clearly feeling sidelined, and Quentyn felt defensive.

"Though she had requested Lord Petyr to write to her, for she wants to confirm he is here as we say," The targrayen girl said, looking at him squarely.

The Red Viper looked at him then, his dark eyes searching. "Then you shall write to her, Lord Baelish. You shall tell her that you're here, safe, as we claim."

Lord Martell nodded slowly. "You may send that through the Maester. He is a trusted servant of this house."

Petyr nodded, though a small, cold smile touched his mind.

Trusted by you, perhaps.

The Maester would read the letter, check for obvious treachery, and send it on. But he didn't need the Maester's trust; he needed Lysa's devotion.

As the meeting began to break up, his gaze stayed on Arianne Martell. She was a woman of bitterness and ambition, currently being quenched by her father's caution. She was exactly the kind of lever he knew how to use.

He needed more leniency, more liberty to move within Sunspear if he was to expand his wings. And the shortest path to that freedom lay through the Princess, who felt like a prisoner in her own home.

He would write the letters. He would play their game for now. But while the Martells looked at the map of Westeros and saw kingdoms to be conquered, Petyr looked at the people in this room and saw the pieces of a puzzle he was already solving.

Xania leaned closer to the table, the flickering candlelight catching the deep indigo of her hair. It fell in a long silk-like ponytail that brushed the floorboards, framing a face set in focus.

She did not consider herself a Maester; those grey-robed idiots of Oldtown lacked the stomach for the things she toyed with, but she was a scholar nonetheless, of her art. The magic she knew could never be deciphered by them.

In front of her were two glass saucers, each holding a small piece of gold, the size of her fingernail. To the common trader or thief, they would appear the same: lustrous, heavy, and undeniably precious.

But Xania knew better.

She shifted her weight, her shoulders hunched as she peered at two glass containers filled with a pungent red liquid. She had repeated this experiment once, twice and thrice by now, fueled by a curiosity that bordered on fixation.

Behind her, the room was silent save for the usual breathing of Viserys. He lay sprawled across the bed, his pale skin hardly covered by a thin drape of white linen, exhausted after two complete sessions of raucous sex.

As her tests had confirmed, the gold of Ellyria was split into two.

The first was the gold of the bazaars. It was pure, high-grade, and valuable enough to buy a fleet, yet it was at the end, generic. It was the common gold that was found across the world, circulated by the Ellyrians loosely at common prices so as not to incite the greed of the Free Cities, pirates, reavers and slavers.

The second type, the gold of the domes, the signboards, and the soaring architecture, was something different altogether.

This was the gold that was impossible to obtain. It was guarded with a religious fervour.

The city employed specialised sweepers to collect every stray flake eroded by the wind or dislodged by the talons of landing birds. No foreigner, and very few nobles, ever laid hands on it.

Xania had only managed to secure a little amount of gold through Kyre, who had requested some gold scraps to repair an alleged damage in his house. Even so, an inspector was due on the morrow to oversee the "repairs," a clear sign that the Council was afraid of their precious metal being mishandled.

They had every reason to be afraid. The gold was infused with magic, Life magic to be precise.

Life magic, which was both vile and one true form that couldn't be corrupted.

It was the purest, most volatile form in existence, and it was notoriously difficult to bind. Life magic was the energy inherent in living creatures, and seeping it into inanimate metal required a trigger: sacrifice.

Xania was no stranger to the concept. The history of the world was written in the blood of the unwilling. She knew the tales of the First Men hanging entrails from the white branches of weirwoods, and the rumours of Andals dousing the statues of the Stranger in the blood of heathens.

The red priests of R'hllor burned thousands to satisfy their hungry god, and the Ghiscari were said to feed prisoners to flightless, predatory birds in honour of the Harpy.

Even the Valyrians, the ancestors of the man sleeping behind her, were not discounted. It was whispered after their extinction that the great dragons of old required a thousand souls to be cast into the fires of the Fourteen Flames to be created.

Even the Dragon Queen, across the sea, was said to have traded her husband's life for her three hatchlings.

Yet, there was a basic difference here. While the sacrifices of other cultures often delivered vague or no results, prayers that went unanswered or magic that waned with the rising sun, the Ellyrians had maintained their enchanted gold for centuries.

Their magic worked. It was consistent, tangible, and seemingly eternal.

She observed as the gold fragment in the saucer glowed with a soft warmth. She reckoned that if this gold were taken from the island, or if the enchantments were fiddled with, it would instantly lose its lustre, turning to common stone or dust in the hands of a thief.

It was tethered to the city itself.

There had to be a source. A central mine of life force or a massive, ongoing ritual site that powered the enchantments of the entire city.

If she could find that conduit, she wouldn't just be studying the gold—she would be able to replicate the process.

Power of that magnitude was a lure she couldn't ignore. She wiped the glass rod clean and extinguished the candle, the indigo of her hair blending into the shadows. More power, she reflected as she climbed back into bed beside the sleeping prince, never truly hurt anyone—at least, not the one wielding it.