The Wizard of Fury Chapter 37 (Patreon)

What could her powers do?

The bowl full of water barely stirred even after hours of deep focus. Well, calling it hours of focus would be a lie. Arianne had tried her hardest to replicate what’d happened in the woods outside of King’s Landing, and none of it had worked.

Had it all been some strange dream? Or perhaps was it some wild act of nature that couldn’t be accounted for?

No. The water had bent to her will. No matter how strange she’d felt or what had transpired before her eyes, she knew within her heart of hearts that the water had been underneath her control.

There were ancient tales of Princess Nymeria, the woman whose power and beauty made Lord Mors Martell fall utterly underneath her charms, who managed to revitalise the desert thanks to her water magic. Some maesters debated whether or not she truly had the capability of magic, but Arianne believed she did. Whether or not she had other witches beside her to aid her efforts was of little consequence. Nymeria was the one behind it all.

As much as everyone in Dorne still revered Nymeria, none had ever truly embodied her being. While some, like her uncle, named their children after Nymeria, they all lacked Nymeria’s powerful capabilities. She was a woman who sailed ten thousand ships across the Summer Sea to Dorne and subsequently conquered it all under her command.

Arianne could become the new Nymeria.

Harry Baratheon’s green eyes had terrified her the very first moment she saw them. They’d reminded her terribly of the dead boy on the road to King’s Landing. But after they first touched and something awakened within her, Arianne didn’t fear his eyes anymore.

However, they still fascinated her all the same.

He was a wizard, as she was a witch. He was the heir of a Great House, as she was too.

The Red Priestess had claimed that Arianne would stand at Harry’s side on the shores of Asshai with a massive fleet at their backs as she raised the waters to defeat the servants of the Great Other.

Such a vision seemed like something out of a wild tale rather than anything realistically possible, but then Arianne had managed to move water and learnt about the truth of magic from Harry. It suddenly felt as though maybe the Red Priestess hadn’t been as wild as Arianne thought after all. Maybe there was something more to this tale.

But if she were to be standing at Harry Baratheon’s side, she would only do so as his wife.

And Margaery Tyrell was in her way.

That was the newest question that vexed her mind. Harry seemingly appeared to be in love with the Tyrell woman, but Arianne was destined to take her place if the Red Priestess’ vision was to be believed.

There were hundreds of ways that Margaery could be dealt with. Poison. Assassins. Pandemonium in the streets. All seemed just as reliable options, but something within Arianne held her back from enacting any of these options.

Why?

Damn it, why?

None of her rivals had ever posed such an issue to her. She’d ensured that her cousins look like fools before men she’d fancied, distant noble ladies had all found matches before they could happen to meet with a man that Arianne was interested in, and any troublemakers who sought to interfere with her will were always dealt with steadfastly.

Something within her very being rebelled at the idea of her harming Margaery in any way. It was a deep ache rooted in her very bones that simultaneously tingled uncomfortably like insects crawling over her skin. The mere thought wasn’t enough to trigger this reaction, but any sincere plotting, even within the periphery of her mind, caused it to begin.

Was this something magical giving her a sign? Or had Harry, as a wizard, enacted some protections upon Margaery that elicited a deterrent within those who would do her harm? Arianne was uncertain, and she certainly wasn’t going to Harry with these sorts of questions if she wanted to remain close to him. Not only was she destined to be by his side, she was also to learn magic from him and become the greatest ruler of Dorne that Westeros had ever seen.

And if Margaery were to die and Arianne could somehow convince Harry to marry her instead…

The bowl of water in front of her suddenly erupted in a spout, spattering water all across Arianne’s furious form. She cried out as the water, tepid only a moment ago, scalded her skin painfully. Rolling over on her bed helped to rid it from her skin, but now her sheets were soaked.

“Seven hells,” Arianne muttered as she used a spare blanket to wipe up the excess water off of the floor. It was a tedious process, one that she should’ve left to the servants, but the act felt like penance for her thoughts. “Margaery isn’t a rival,” she forced herself to say. But neither did she feel like an ally.

She’d need a fresh bowl of water to continue practising, but Arianne found that she was in no mood to continue her efforts right now. Instead, she rifled through her chests to find some crimson silks to replace those on her body that were still dripping with water. She changed quickly and tossed her wet clothes onto her bed, knowing that a servant would be by soon after she left her chambers to clean up everything.

The Red Keep was quiet as Arianne stepped out onto the yard, but the sounds of the city were anything but. The tourney was still ongoing even as evening began to fall. She’d considered going down to watch the Crownlands’ knights face off against the Stormlands’, but she feared that she already knew the outcome of the match. Harry alone wouldn’t be enough to defeat all of the incredible knights from the Stormlands. The match was likely already finished, leaving only the archery competition to be ongoing.

Despite barely moving whilst she was trying to practice her magic, Arianne felt quite famished. The evening feast would be starting soon as lords and ladies trickled in from the tourney grounds.

So, Arianne set off for the Great Hall.

Unlike the yard, the interior was a hub of activity as servants rushed to prepare to accommodate all of the impending guests. Kegs of ale and casks of wine were being carried through the busy corridors. All of them made space for Arianne to pass between them, and she entered the Great Hall proper where all of the long tables were set up beneath the looming Iron Throne.

There were already a few dozen familiar faces sitting down, but there were two that truly surprised her.

Lord Anders Yronwood, a man in his early forties, sat with a mug of dark, cheap ale in his hands and a scowl on his face as old Lady Tanda Stokeworth chittered on about something or another—Arianne rarely paid attention to the woman’s ramblings. Lord Petyr Baelish, one of the members of the small council, sat between her and her daughter and son-in-law, Lady Falyse and Lord Balman Byrch. But all of them faded from Arianne’s sight the moment she laid eyes upon her younger brother.

Quentyn Martell, the boy her father wanted as his heir over her. He was a man now, she supposed. In the little more than a decade since he’d been off to foster at Yronwood under Lord Anders, Arianne could count on one hand the number of times that she’d seen him. The last had been four years ago now when Lord Anders and Quentyn had come to Sunspear on business with her father… plotting ways to undermine her legitimacy to become the next ruler of Dorne, she imagined.

She wondered if her mother and father knew that Quentyn was here now. Arianne had seen little of them since their arrival. Prince Doran had chosen to see guests in the private solar he’d been provided rather than to visit more openly, not that his gout would allow him much movement. Quentyn had been her excuse to convince her mother to bring their family to King’s Landing in the first place, so she ought to know that her son was here now.

“Ah, Princess Arianne,” Lord Baelish said with an amused smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Arianne?” Quentyn spoke up, his head swivelling around quickly. He looked so much like their father, but he had a much more timid look about him.

“Yes, little brother,” Arianne smiled as she took a step closer to him. “When did you arrive?”

“Just past the sunrise this morning,” Quentyn answered, staring at her as though he were trying to commit her to memory. The last time he’d seen her, she didn’t look half as beautiful as she did now. She’d grown up, and so had he.

Now, here was a rival she could contend with. If her body refused to allow her to consider Margaery as such, then here was the man who was being groomed to take her place as the head of Dorne.

Yet, Arianne did nothing more than smile at him as she came to sit down between him and Lord Anders. The older man grunted as Arianne squeezed between them. From the letters she’d once found revealing her father’s plot to replace her, she’d uncovered Lord Anders’ opinion that no woman should rule over any man. Needless to say, he made the perfect host to foment this little rebellion of her fathers.

“It’s been so long,” Arianne said wistfully as she brushed Quentyn’s brown hair away from his face, tucking the loose strands as best she could behind his ear. “I heard you were knighted only a few months ago. Are you here to participate in the tourney?”

“Not yet,” Quentyn answered, giving a slight shake of his head.

“But surely you’d perform marvellously, my Prince,” Lord Baelish argued gently.

“He’s not ready,” Lord Anders said brusquely. “When he is, everyone will know it.”

Arianne fought the urge to narrow her eyes at the man. The insinuation was plain and clear to her, even if it wasn’t to the others at the table, and Arianne had no intention of letting any of them know about the slightest discontent between the Dornish houses.

“All men should prove their strength and valour on the battlefield,” Lady Tanda insisted. Her wrinkled, flushed face did her no favours in the firelight that filled the Great Hall. “He’s a man of ten and eight, is he not?”

“And training for something greater than a meagre tourney,” Lord Anders retorted.

Lady Tanda bristled. “What could be greater than the largest tourney that the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen?”

Lord Anders opened his mouth to reply, but Quentyn reached across Arianne to place a hand on his host’s arm. The man jostled back in surprise before calming quickly.

“You’re right, Lady Tanda,” Quentyn admitted. “But my training with a sword and spear has been lax of late. I am in poor form for this competition. It wouldn’t reflect well upon my family should I fight and fail to achieve all that I should.”

“Then perhaps Lord Anders should allow you more time to train,” Lady Tanda sniffed. “No man should ever allow himself to be caught unawares of a conflict.”

“I agree,” Quentyn replied before Lord Anders could.

For all that Quentyn was doing to hide his true emotions behind a cautious visage, Lord Anders failed to do so. Arianne could see every emotion cross his face as he wrestled with the fact that Quentyn was both his ward and yet his superior when it came to the grander political climate. He wanted to tell Lady Tanda off for her comments, but Quentyn, the more patient and clever man, worked to lull her into a false sense of security around him.

How many ways could Arianne manipulate that dynamic before the two of them returned back to Yronwood?

“Waiting for the right moment is not to be to one’s shame,” Lord Baelish commented. “Some say that it is better to preserve one’s skills for a true battlefield rather than to allow potential future opponents to gleam a hint of weakness upon the tourney ground. There can be wisdom in inaction.”

“Precisely,” Quentyn replied with a small smile.

As the moment passed, Arianne fought to regain control over the conversation.

“Have you been to see mother and father?” She asked her brother. “Mother has been especially desperate to see you.”

Finally, a crack of weakness showed upon Quentyn’s face. “I’ve missed her dearly, as I have father and Trystane. I was hoping that they’d attend the feast tonight…”

“They only have once since they’ve been here,” Arianne told him. “Every other night, father has been meeting with various lords and ladies in his chambers.”

“I had the pleasure of attending one such supper with him and your lady mother,” Lord Baelish told Quentyn. “He seemed to be in good health, and your mother was as beautiful as ever. I believe that they are looking to renegotiate trade alliances across the Seven Kingdoms with various families.”

Of course they were. It was exactly the type of work that any respectable lord and lady should do when the opportunity to meet with the largest families across Westeros came upon them.

“They were quite curious about the levies and taxes placed upon the trade coming into King’s Landing, especially those coming in from Lorath, Pentos, Qohor, and Slaver’s Bay,” Lord Baelish continued. “I worried that they might simply be using us to profit themselves.”

He laughed lightly like the matter was but a simple trifle, but Arianne knew that it was anything but. Undercutting the Crown’s trade was something that every important house attempted to do, but it was never looked upon favourably by the Crown. To so blatantly admit their goals in front of the King’s Master of Coin was quite the foolish move.

But it couldn’t simply be foolish, for her father was not a foolish move. This was something calculated, but to what end?

“You shouldn’t speak of Prince Doran that way,” Lord Anders warned him.

Lord Baelish recoiled back like he’d actually been struck. “My apologies, I hadn’t imagined that I’d said anything of offence.”

“Don’t act the fool,” Lord Anders snapped.

No, Arianne thought to herself, it is you who is acting the fool. Lord Baelish didn’t seem the type of man to be so careless with his words to reveal such a thing without a purpose behind them. He was offering unnecessary information in order to stir the pot, so to speak, to learn something new, and here Lord Anders was offering him exactly that.

“Prince Doran’s trading decisions are of no matter to a coin-focused creature like you,” Lord Anders said darkly to Lord Baelish. “And any discussion of it without him also present is an assault against his privacy.”

“Then allow me to offer my most significant apologies to Prince Doran,” Lord Baelish replied.

“That’s not good enough,” Lord Anders growled.

“My lord,” Quentyn said quietly, but his voice went unheeded.

Lord Anders snatched another mug of ale from one of the servants and brought it up to his mouth. “You’ll think before you speak,” he told Lord Baelish. He brought the drink up to his lips.

And Arianne had enough.

Suddenly, the ale exploded across Lord Anders’ face. It splattered the buffoon as though someone had thrown a drink in his face, and the man reacted as such. He stormed to his feet, slamming his meaty fists upon the table. Lady Tanda flew back in surprise, nearly falling over entirely had Lord Baelish not caught her. The man in question was staring at Lord Anders with a curious, unreadable expression. It only seemed to infuriate Lord Anders even more, as though he blamed Lord Baelish for what Arianne had instinctively done.

Knights appeared within seconds, well before Lord Anders could do anything to any of them. And as he was escorted out, Quentyn leapt to his feet.

“I apologise,” he grimaced at Arianne, Lord Baelish, and Lady Tanda. “It has been a long and hard ride.”

“There’s no need to apologise,” Lord Baelish assured him.

Yes, there was. She was simultaneously proud and annoyed that Quentyn didn’t fall for the man’s honeyed words. It would’ve been so much easier to deal with her brother had he been a fool like Lord Anders.

As Quentyn left to attend to the man who’d fostered him since he was a young boy, Arianne followed his movement with her sharp gaze. Quentyn seemed to be less of a strong man than she’d feared. All it would take is the right match for her, and she’d have no trouble in ensuring that she retained her position as heir over him, regardless of what her father willed.

She was sure more than ever that Harry Baratheon was that man.