Devola IV
In the dim, candle-lit ambiance of the tavern, Devola's gaze wandered, finally halting on Henrik. Shadows danced on his face, echoing the shifting unease in her heart. Their last meeting, marred by his fellow watchmens on that dire night, played in her mind, his unwillingness to aid in the search for Leerah, all served to stroke the mistrust held within.
She'd come from a world where humans stood shoulder to shoulder against the Legion's menace Japan and America, overcoming their differences for the shared goal of saving all, safeguarding Project Gestalt. Yet, in this city, with its cobblestone streets and looming stone walls, that solidarity seemed but a distant memory. The clinking of ale mugs and hushed conversations around her only deepened her sense of alienation.
Absorbed in these musings, Devola barely registered Henrik's voice. "How have you been, Devola?"
Jolted, she looked up, her red hair catching the lantern light. "As well as one can be," she answered cautiously, her voice cooler than intended. She hesitated a moment before adding, "But it's been trying, especially with Meg constantly on our backs. She's been threatening the children, claiming she'll report them to the Watch."
Henrik's gaze, observant and piercing, drifted to Meg, the persistent bowl of brown peddler. The memories of Meg's insistence and their countless confrontations over money, resources, or minor favors felt like a weight in Devola's chest.
Catching her eye, Henrik began, "Meg hasn't always been alone, you know. She had a husband." His tone held a hint of sadness. "Back in the day, their was a welcoming air but then…."
Devola leaned forward, intrigued. "The Rebellion?"
Henrik shook his head. "Nay though it played its role in a sense. Heralding new oppurtunity for many including them, for some, it was the beginning of the end."
Henrik sighed deeply, taking a moment as if gathering his thoughts, before he began, "When I first donned the gold cloak of the City Watch, it was here, in Flea Bottom, that I began my duty. The place was, and still is, a maze of narrow alleys and hidden corners, but there was a particular corner, not far from here, that held a certain warmth."
He took a sip of his ale, his gaze distant. "A stand, run by a couple. Meg and her husband. They had carved out a modest existence here, earning respect in a place where it's quite hard to come by. Her husband was a proud Stormlander, once a footsoldier in the Rebellion. A man with stories of battles and camaraderie, and always a hearty laugh ready to escape his lips. You'd think a man with war scars would be hardened, but he had a heart that seemed too big for this cruel part of the city."
Henrik's eyes held a touch of admiration as he continued, "He would often assist us, the City Watch. Not by wielding a blade or drawing blood, but by being our eyes and ears. With his stand at the heart of Flea Bottom, he'd catch whispers, notice the odd behaviors, and more than once, he'd helped us collar some rogue or prevent a squabble from escalating into chaos. His presence brought a semblance of order to the stretch of street where he sold his wares."
There was a weight in Henrik's voice when he added, "But then, as life in Flea Bottom often reminds us, tragedy has a way of sneaking up. One day, he just... didn't wake up. No fight, no grand exit. He simply slipped away in the night."
Henrik paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. "After that, Meg... she changed. The vibrant woman, who once laughed alongside her husband, turned inwards. The stand became less a place of community and more a shield, a barrier she put up against the world. Her trust in others dwindled, and she stopped reaching out. It's as if a part of her passed on with him."
He took another long drink, setting down his mug with a thud. "Life in Flea Bottom is never easy, but sometimes, it's the quiet tragedies that wound us the most."
For a moment, the din of the tavern faded as Devola processed this revelation. Behind Meg's persistent demeanor lay a story of loss, perseverance, and heartbreak. It was a cruel reminder that every face in Flea Bottom, every soul in this city, held a tale yet to be told.
Henrik glanced up, meeting Devola's gaze with an earnest look. "I've caught wind of what she's been putting you and your sister through," he began. "Those threats of hers, her insinuations about reporting some of the children to the Watch."
He gave a small, rueful smile, shaking his head slightly. "Meg's bark is worse than her bite. She's been wounded by life, but deep down, she's harmless. I genuinely believe she wouldn't bring harm to those kids. Her threats are more a desperate plea for attention, a cry for some semblance of the control she once had when her husband was around."
Henrik leaned in, his voice a shade softer. "But I understand the pressure it can place on both of you. If you'd like, I can step in. Have a word with her, see if I can ease some of that tension. Maybe even help her find a more constructive way to channel her grief and frustrations."
His eyes searched Devola's for a moment, a genuine offer of assistance hanging in the balance. "Sometimes, all we need is someone to truly listen, to acknowledge our pain. And perhaps, in her case, to gently remind her of the person she once was before sorrow took its toll."
Henrik cleared his throat, glancing around the room momentarily before his gaze settled back on Devola. "You know, Devola," he began cautiously, "it's not easy for women in this city, especially those without a husband. Flea Bottom can be unforgiving to those who find themselves alone." There was a slight warmth in his eyes, a subtle softening of his usual stern demeanor.
Devola, intuitive and sharp, immediately caught the implication. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly as she carefully chose her words. "I appreciate the concern, Henrik," she responded with a hint of frost in her tone, "But we've managed well enough on our own so far. And, as you've just shared, sometimes even having a partner can't shield you from the challenges of life."
Henrik seemed momentarily taken aback, but he quickly regained his composure. "Of course," he said, nodding. "I meant no offense. It's just... I've seen many fall prey to the hardships of the city, and I'd hate to see the same happen to you and your sister."
Devola softened slightly, sensing the genuine care in his words, even if they were a tad misplaced. "We're survivors, Henrik. We've faced greater threats than the alleys of Flea Bottom. But," she added with a small smile, "I do appreciate the sentiment."
The two shared a brief moment of understanding, both acknowledging the unsaid words between them. Henrik cleared his throat, taking another sip of his ale, the conversation shifting to the more neutral grounds of quiet.
The silence between Devola and Henrik grew more pronounced, filled only by the distant murmur of tavern conversations and the occasional outburst of laughter. Henrik took another long drink from his mug, his gaze somewhat distant.
"Devola," he started, hesitating slightly, "I hope you don't take my words amiss. It's just... in these uncertain times, it's rare to find genuine connections. People you can trust."
She nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "It's the nature of the world we live in. Trust has to be earned, not freely given."
He gave a rueful chuckle. "A lesson I've learned the hard way, believe me. But, if ever you find yourself in need, remember that there are still a few good souls in this city."
With that, Henrik stood, leaving a few coins on the table. "Take care, Devola," he said, his voice sincere, before turning and disappearing out the exit of the tavern.
Shortly after Henrik's leave Devola followed suit and again wandered the streets of Flea Bottom, the familiar sounds and scents painting a picture that was becoming more and more familiar to her. Children played in the narrow alleys, their laughter echoing amidst the hum of chatter and the distant cries of peddlers. As she walked, her boots occasionally splashed through the shallow runlets of water, a testament to the recent improvements she and Popola had ushered in.
Looking over to her left, she could see the newest addition to the district - a modest drainage system. It was a far cry from the sophisticated aqueducts and sewer systems of some cities (both here and back on earth), but for Flea Bottom, it was a start. Her sister had enlisted locals for the job. The result was a series of ditches and a humble stream designed to redirect much of the waste and water, at least offering a semblance of sanitation. The both of them hoped this would only be a first step the goal was to amalgamate with the pipe system and have the majority of waste diverted in the blackwater, she did not like needlessly dirtying a natural source of water, but it seemed in was in a bad spot as is. Ultimately human life took priority.
As she continued her stroll, her thoughts shifted to her music. She'd been approached yesterday to perform at Chatayaya's brothel on the Street of Silk yet again. She recalled the opulence of that place being a stark contrast to the gritty reality of Flea Bottom. Though it seems it held a different manner of grime, if Barra's plight, and some of the clientele of Chataya's brothel were anything to go by.
Yet, there was no denying the allure of the coin it brought in. The sum she'd earned in a single night was almost what she would make in weeks performing in the taverns of Flea Bottom and the Street of Seeds. Without this money the livelihood here in flea bottom would still be what it was a month passed, which was a scarce few fixed buildings and a few extra meals, though there was no denying that there was a desperate need for more. So thus she would go yet again tonight regardless.
Devola had to admit, though, there was some positive encounters from her last performance there. Alayaya, despite initial rocky starts, ultimately she and most other courtesans had shown her kindness, engaging her in genuine conversation, even some of the customers seemed to be capable of appreciating her in a healthy manner even if interest no doubt played a part. They'd shared stories and found common ground, reminding Devola that beneath the veneers people wore, genuine souls still thrived.
She paused, taking a moment to absorb the revelation. She quickened her pace, heading towards their house.
Devola found her sister hunched over her work desk, the harsh red glow of maso illuminating her space, the focus in her eyes as her hands deftly maneuvered needle and thread through the spine of a book. Now shelves lined two of the corners in their living space, some filled with completed projects, others with works in progress, each book being a testament of her sister to seed knowledge in the inhabitants of flea bottom.
Approaching quietly, Devola watched for a moment, admiring the meticulous care with which Popola preserved each page, each word. "How are the current bindings coming along sister?" she asked, her voice a gentle intrusion into the silence.
Popola looked up, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'm just finishing up 'A Tale of Two Cities.' It seems particularly resonant with this place and time," she said, gesturing to the book before her. "And 'Gulliver's Travels' is up next. I thought a little farther exploration into the absurd might be well-received here. Would be good books for some of the kids once they reach more advanced levels, I think Lommy and Alysanne would especially enjoy it."
She paused, her hands coming to rest on the open botany book beside her. "Though, I'm in two minds about this one." Her fingers traced the illustrations of plants and fungi. "The natural world here is so different—new names, new properties. I might need to spend more time with the local herb women and apothecaries to make it relevant to King's Landing."
Devola nodded, understanding the predicament. "Bringing these tales and knowledge to new ears and eyes. But adapting them to the context of our current home is just as vital and difficult..."
Popola sighed, closing the botany book with a gentle thump. "True. And it's a task I don't take lightly. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll visit the markets and speak with those who know the flora here better than any book could tell us."
Devola placed a supportive hand on Popola's shoulder. "Let me know if you need any help. Between the two of us, we'll ensure that the knowledge we pass on is as accurate and useful as it can be."
Popola looked up, her eyes reflecting a turmoil of emotions. "I do wish we could do more," she confessed, her voice tinged with frustration. "It feels as though our efforts are just a drop in the ocean. Leerah is still missing, the mystery of the unknown particle remains unsolved, and despite our strides, Flea Bottom is still far from the sanctuary we envision for these people."
Devola squeezed her sister's shoulder. "I understand your concerns, but remember, Sister, the impact of even the smallest actions can ripple far beyond what we see. Yes, Leerah's whereabouts are still unknown, and the particle eludes us, but think of the lives you've touched. The books you've bound carry more than just stories—they carry hope, a chance for a better future in a few years time this will pay off tenfold ."
She stepped closer, her presence a bulwark against the emotional tide. "And as for the unknowns," Devola continued, her voice steady and sure, "they have indeed always been part of our journey, from the day we were first activated, from the dragon, replicant sentience, the brief resurgence of red eye, and relapses. We've navigated them before, and we'll do so again. Our purpose has never been clearer—to serve, to protect, and to guide. And that, dear sister, is what we will continue to do, no matter what."
Popola's eyes met Devola's. A slow nod, an unspoken promise passed between them—a vow to persevere, to keep pushing forward, for the sake of the true humans yet again.
Devola gently broke the moment, her voice soft yet firm. "I'll be heading to Chatayaya's on the Street of Silk to perform again tonight," she informed Popola, who visibly saddened at the news.
Popola sighed, a wistful expression crossing her features. "I wish you could be here more often, stick around and talk" she admitted, the sentiment resonating in her voice. Yet, she nodded in understanding, recognizing the importance of Devola's role and the impact her music had. "I understand, though. Im sure your performance will be as good as always."
"Alh fahkush kaireshti
Onda kirachi ehfri yo me tabi
Nochi so pliyoa tema shamarey"
In the warm, honeyed glow of Chatayaya's brothel, the last notes of Devola's set lingered in the air, the melodies hanging like delicate curtains between the clamor of conversations and clinking glasses. She let the lute rest against her, feeling the resonance of the wood and the warmth of the strings slowly fade.
Moments after the notes faded out Chataya approached her, her presence commanding yet graceful amidst the revelry. "Devola," she began, her voice rich, "your music is a rare gem, a beacon in the night for many who seek refuge here."
Devola looked up, her expression one of attentive respect and surprise. "Thank you, Chataya. It's my honor to play for such an audience," she replied, the wood of the lute warm under her touch. Out of everyone here Chataya was the last person she expected to get a compliment from, given their last interaction. Though it was certainly appreciated.
Chataya's eyes held a shrewdness to them that matched her business acumen. "Remember, variety is the key. Your songs, as enchanting as they are, should be like the seasons—ever-changing, always leaving them wanting more."
Devola absorbed the wisdom in Chataya's words. "A performance must be cherished, not just heard," she mused aloud, the idea resonating deeply with her.
"Exactly," Chataya affirmed, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Let your music breathe. Give it room to be missed and yearned for. That way, every note you play will always be a treasure sought after."
Devola gave a slight nod, her mind already weaving new melodies and rhythms. "I understand. I'll ensure each performance is a unique experience, a moment in time that can never be replicated."
Chataya placed a reassuring hand on Devola's shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Take a moment for yourself now. The night is young, and the patrons are in no rush. Let them anticipate your return to the stage."
With that, Chataya turned and glided away, her presence leaving a trail of quiet authority.
As she meandered through the scattered clusters of patrons, a soft murmur drew her attention. Tucked away in a secluded corner, away from the boisterous mirth, was a girl with a child cradled in her arms. The sight was a stark contrast to the usual clientele of the brothel—an oasis of maternal calm in a sea of hedonistic pursuit.
Devola approached the woman, her curiosity piqued by the tenderness of the scene. "Good evening," she greeted gently, not wishing to intrude but unable to mask her intrigue. "It's not often one sees a child in a place like this."
The woman looked up, her eyes weary yet kindled with a flicker of pride. "Evening," she replied, her voice a soft melody that mirrored Devola's music in its warmth. "Aye, it's an unusual sight, I'll grant you that. But this little one is my daughter, and sometimes, life leaves you with few choices but to keep your whole world with you at work. She was one of the first babies of this new year born not even a moon past."
Devola nodded, her heart touched by the woman's plight. "She's beautiful," she commented sincerely, the innocence of the child a stark reminder of the many facets of life that thrived in the most unexpected places.
The woman smiled, a gesture that seemed to momentarily ease the lines of hardship etched upon her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "Her father... is a strong warrior. A leader of vast kindness and strength, for now it's just us though he certainly will come to see our Barra soon. I sing her lullabies to remind her of him, of the heat of battle he loves so."
Devola's eyes widened, a storm of realization brewing within her as she took in the name of the child and viewed the woman's features more closely. The light brown hair, the distinctive oval face, and those familiar bushy eyebrows—it was unmistakable. This was the girl she had been searching for, the missing piece in the puzzle that had eluded her and Popola for so long.
Her voice barely above a whisper, Devola uttered, "Leerah?"
Maghen's reaction was immediate and visceral. She recoiled slightly, her eyes darting around anxiously as if fearing some unseen danger. "That is not my name anymore," she said quickly, her voice held a unusual resolve mixing fear and determination. "Please, call me Maghen." The baby in her arms stirred, picking up on her mother's distress.
Devola's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of information she had. The child in Maghen's arms – this mother had to be the sister of the Barra she had met weeks ago Leerah. It was all coming together, but the implications were overwhelming.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Devola hastened to say, her tone soothing. "I'm Devola, and I've been looking for you. Your sister, Barra, she's been worried, searching for you."
Leerah's face contorted with a mixture of emotions—fear, surprise, and perhaps hope. "You know my sister? Is she... is she okay?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.
Devola nodded, her own heart aching for the turmoil this young woman had been through. "She's safe, she was looking for you." Devola knew these words to be true she made an effort to detour where Barra live whenever she had to get out of flea bottom to ensure the girl was alright.
Leerah's fingers curled protectively around her child, the small body nestled close to her chest. Her words, spoken with a tremulous voice, conveyed a deep-seated fear and a sense of binding obligation. "She has to stop. I cannot go back," she repeated, the phrase sounding like a mantra of resignation. "It was not part of the agreement."
Devola, sensing the depth of Leerah's turmoil, moved closer. The dim light of the brothel cast shadows that seemed to deepen the lines of worry etched on Maghen's face. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met Devola's with a mixture of desperation and resolve.
"And besides," Leerah continued, her voice gaining a slight edge, "both my Barra and my sister deserve to be well fed." The tear that had been threatening to fall finally broke free, trailing down her cheek.
Devola's gaze softened as she observed the tear tracing its path down Leerah's cheek. The mention of an 'agreement' piqued Devola's curiosity, but she recognized that now was not the moment to probe. Instead, she focused on providing reassurance and comfort.
"Leer…, Maghen," Devola began, her voice gentle, "Your sister, Barra, she cares deeply for you. Her search wasn't out of obligation, but love and concern. And you're right, both your daughter and your sister deserve a life where they don't have to worry about their next meal or their safety."
Devola paused, choosing her words carefully. "You've made incredible sacrifices for familial well-being, and that's admirable. But you don't have to face this alone anymore. There are people who want to help you, to ensure that both you and your daughter can live without fear."
Leerah looked up, her eyes reflecting the internal battle between hope and fear. "But the agreement was made long before she was born... I promised I would stay away. Its was the only way to keep all well," she whispered.
Her eyes held a faraway look, one that spoke of a deep-seated faith and conviction. She cradled her child closer, her voice soft yet resonating like a bell. "Besides, my Barra will be well taken care of. I know it in my heart," she murmured, her gaze drifting towards the slumbering child in her arms.
"The warrior and the mother watch over her," Leerah continued, a touch of reverence in her tone. "They are her guardians, her unseen protectors in this world that can be so cruel and unforgiving. There's a strength in her, an essence that's rare and precious. She's not just any child; she's immensely special. She's destined for greater things, things beyond the grasp her father will ensure that"
In that poignant moment, She saw a young woman filled with maternal love and responsibility who, despite the maturity and immense responsibility she displayed as a mother, still clung to a childlike view of the world—a perspective filled with heroes, guardians, and wonder that seemed incongruous with the harsh reality of their surroundings.
Devola recognized a challenge laid before her. Convincing Leerah to return to her family, or even explain the tangled web of circumstances that had led her here, seemed an insurmountable task. The depth of Leerah's convictions was something that would not be easily swayed or unraveled.
In lieu of persuasion, Devola chose a different approach, one that resonated with her own heart and the connection she felt to this young mother and her child. "You mentioned how much you enjoy singing lullabies to her," Devola said softly. "Would it bring you comfort if I sang one for her? Music has a unique ability to reach places words cannot."
Leerah's weary eyes, met Devola's. A small, grateful smile touched her lips, and she nodded. "Yes, please," she whispered. "It would mean the world."
Shul parel moihim
Ar, jaruk noisin
Dah galach dalfouir
Malech foir dir azlad erenj boir
Hiuo tantiera hedreikun harech falale ya boi
Hiuo migenda yakachren nohei kaine rekara
Hiuo tantiera hadreikun harech falale ya boi
Hiuo migenda ya kochren nohei yalma
Tei koimiren tara bairatru
As the final notes of Devola's lullaby gently dissipated into the air, the creaking of a door caught her attention. Turning her head, she saw Alayaya approaching, a blend of surprise and curiosity etched on her face. Her gaze shifted between Devola and Maghen, her expression took an uncomfortable shift.
"Is everything alright here?" Alayaya asked, her voice cautious. Her eyes lingered on the child in Maghen's arms, reflecting concern and weariness.
Devola's smile was warm, aiming to put Alayaya at ease. "Everything's fine, Alayaya," she responded, her voice carrying a soothing calm. "I was just sharing a lullaby with Maghen and her daughter. It seemed like a moment that needed a gentle touch of music."
Alayaya's gaze lingered on the newborn for a moment longer before she turned back to Devola. "Well, your break has stretched a bit long, and the patrons are eager for more of your music," she said, the unspoken urgency in her voice clear.
Devola nodded, understanding the cue. She rose gracefully, casting a final, compassionate glance towards Leerah and her child before making her way back to the stage. Her heart felt heavy yet there was a fleeting hope. She may not have changed Leerah's mind about returning to her family, but in this brief interlude, she had offered a gift of comfort.
As she got back on the stage, the warmth of the crowd welcomed her return, their applause seemed odd given what she just learned, though she quickly adjusted. Yet again warming her lute.
She sang a slightly more involved variation of the lullaby she just sung to little Barra, and Leerah. It seemed to be received well enough by the crowd, and she hoped in the back of her mind that it would reassure Leerah.
The melody of Devola's song was still weaving through the air, her fingers dancing lightly over the strings of her lute, when a new presence in the room caught her attention. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the entrance of Jon Arryn. His dignified stature and the subtle authority in his stride were unmistakable, even in the dimly lit ambiance of the brothel his head of gray shined.
Devola felt a heaviness come over her being, focus momentarily disrupted. The fingers holding the frets wavered as she watched Chataya approach Jon Arryn, their brief exchange masked by the general hum of the establishment. Then, with a subtle nod, Chataya gestured towards Leerah.
A cold wave of apprehension washed over Devola. The memory of Popola's discovery – the connection between Jon Arryn and the money her father had used – flashed through her mind. What business could the Hand of the King possibly have with Maghen, a woman who was now revealed to be none other than the sister of Barra they had been searching for?
She felt a familiar weight back on her shoulders. The strings under her fingers felt suddenly foreign, her song losing its earlier warmth and fluidity. Her voice, once clear and confident, now carried distraction. The lyrics and notes blended into each other, her performance becoming more a mechanical process than the intended artistic expression.
The patrons, absorbed in their own conversations and pleasures, hardly noticed the subtle shift. But for Devola, the music had lost its allure, overshadowed by a growing sense of urgency and concern.
With a final, somewhat lackluster strum, she concluded the song. The usual applause followed, but her mind was elsewhere. Without her usual graceful bow to the audience, Devola quickly set down her lute and stepped off the stage, her gaze fixed on Jon Arryn's figure as it moved through the brothel.
Every step she took towards him was driven by worry. She needed to understand why he was here, what his intentions were with Leerah – and most importantly, to ensure the safety of the girl who had unwittingly become entangled in this web.
Devola, her expression defiant and concern, strode quietly towards Jon Arryn. Her voice, quiet yet confrontational, cut through the ambient noise of the brothel. "What do you mean to do with her?" she demanded, her eyes locked intently on him. Sparing a concerned glance at Leerah and newborn Barra.
Jon Arryn, taken aback by her sudden approach, turned to face her. His expression, one of confusion and mild irritation, quickly composed itself into one of diplomatic neutrality. "I'm sorry, this does not concern you," he replied, his tone firm yet measured.
But Devola stood her ground, her stance unwavering. She was not about to be dismissed so easily, not when Maghen's, or rather, Leerah's, safety was potentially at stake.
Before she could press further, Maghen's voice, tinged with childlike grace, interjected. "No, Devola, it's okay," she said, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "He is here on behalf of my sweet Barra's father. Does he wish to see her? Oh, my Barra would love that!"
The earnestness in Leerah's voice gave Devola pause. She turned to look at the girl, her expression softening slightly. The young woman's belief in good intentions of Jon Arryn and her hope for her daughter's future were evident.
Devola's gaze fixed on Jon Arryn, her mind racing to connect the dots that now seemed to form an increasingly clear picture. The unease that had initially gripped her intensified, turning into a sharp awareness as she considered the implications of Arryn's presence in the brothel, especially in light of what Popola had recently discovered.
The pieces of the puzzle were aligning in a way that was unsettling. The connection between Jon Arryn and Maghen, or Leerah as she was once known, was not a mere happenstance. It was deliberate, and potentially fraught with various agendas. Devola's instincts, honed by centuries of social observation and analysis, told her there was more to this.
Her thoughts then drifted back to Leerah's earlier words about newborn Barra's father—a warrior and leader, someone of immense strength and kindness. Leerah had spoken with a conviction that bordered on reverence, a belief that Barra was destined for greatness, that her father would play a vital role in shaping such a destiny.
She looked over Jon Arryn again and it dawned on her, the Hand of the King. Realization dawned with a chilling clarity. Leerah's child, Barra, was not just any man's daughter. She was the daughter of the king. The pieces fell into place, forming a truth that was as intriguing as it was alarming. Barra's lineage, her very existence, could have profound implications, not just for her family, but potentially the very kingdom itself.
This revelation brought with it a myriad of questions to the forefront of her mind. What role did Jon Arryn play in all this? Was he here to protect Barra and by extension Leerah, or did his intentions lie elsewhere? And what of Leerah's safety and the promises she clung to about her daughter's future?
—————
As Devola grappled with her thoughts and suspicions, she barely noticed Chataya sweeping into the room. Her sharp glance towards Devola conveying a clear message, the tension in her posture suggesting she was unhappy with the interruption of Jon Arryn's "business". Though she couldn't care less about that in this moment.
"Apologies, Lord Arryn, for this... disturbance," Chataya said, her voice smoothly apologetic yet laced with a subtle edge. "I assure you, this is not our usual conduct."
Before Devola could react or step away, Jon Arryn raised his hand in a calming gesture, his voice steady and authoritative. "No, let her stay, Chataya," he said, turning to Devola with an evaluative gaze. "It seems Devola here is important to matters that, albeit unintentionally, involve her."
Devola felt a chill run down her spine at his words.
Chataya, though visibly perplexed by Arryn's response, gave a slight nod and stepped back, her eyes lingering on Devola for a moment longer before she made a swift retreat.
Jon Arryn's gaze returned to Devola, his expression stoic as he guided Devola to a secluded corner of the room. Away from prying ears including Leerah, his stance relaxed, but his eyes remained intently focused on her.
"Why did you confront me like that, Devola?" he asked in a low tone, ensuring their conversation remained private.
Devola hesitated, she was still weary about the connection Popola found but all the same even in this moment she didn't sense that his questioning was malicious.
"I've been looking for Leerah," she admitted, her voice a mere whisper. "She's been missing, and I just found out who Maghen truly is."
Jon Arryn's brows furrowed in a mix of perplexity and concern. "Leerah? Can you elaborate? I'm not familiar with this situation."
Devola's caution was palpable, but Arryn's demeanor suggested sincerity and a genuine desire to understand. Reluctantly, she shared the little she knew about Leerah going missing and turning out to be here at the brothel, pointing discreetly towards Maghen, but carefully avoiding any direct mention of her sister Barra.
Arryn listened intently, his face betraying a moment of realization. He brought a hand to his temple, massaging it gently as if to ease a sudden headache. "I was unaware of the particulars," he said slowly, his voice betraying a hint of weariness. "But I assure you, my intent is not to harm the girl nor her child. On the contrary."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "You've likely pieced together the identity of the child's father. This is a delicate matter. Can I trust you to keep this information confidential?"
Devola, though still processing the magnitude of what she'd uncovered, sensed the earnestness in Arryn's plea. She gave a slow, measured nod, understanding the gravity of the situation and the need for discretion. Even if the behaviors of the king concerned her.
"Very well," Arryn conceded with a sigh of relief. "You may stay this time, if it sets your mind at ease. But understand, this is a matter of great sensitivity."
As Devola stood there, absorbing the weight of Arryn's words, she couldn't help but feel trepidation.
Jon Arryn's expression softened as Leerah reiterated her earlier question, happiness filling her eyes. "Does Robert wish to see Barra?" she asked eagerly.
"The king is a busy man," Arryn replied gently, "but I will make sure to inform him about her." His words were carefully chosen, coming across more diplomatic than personal.
Leerah's face lit up at his response. It was clear to Devola that this meant the world to Leerah, the very notion of the king acknowledging his daughter bringing her a profound sense of joy.
Then, Jon Arryn reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of fine linen. The fabric was exquisite, adorned with a delicate pattern resembling rainclouds. Along with the linen, he presented Leerah with three gold dragons, quite a generous gift though given who the child was she supposed it was to be expected.
"Robert wishes his children well," Arryn stated, his voice formal, though his face conveyed that his words were truth.
Leerah's eyes shone as she clutched the gifts. "Please tell Robert to visit her. I've been faithful, and he will be overjoyed to see his beautiful daughter," she said earnestly, her voice brimming with hope.
"Of course, my lady," Arryn replied, though his tone lacked the warmth of his words. Devola, observing the exchange, felt doubtful. Arryn's manner seemed to mask an underlying unease, his assurances not entirely convincing.
Devola watched Leerah closely. The young mother's face was a canvas of emotions- though hope and joy seemed to ring strongest.
With gifts exchanged and reassurances delivered to Leerah, Jon Arryn began to quickly depart, Devola however would not allow this to go unasked and approached him again, ensuring her voice was low enough to avoid attracting attention. "I still have questions," she said, her tone firm yet discreet. "You seemed surprised, but it's evident you know more about Leerah's situation than you've shared."
Jon Arryn paused, weariness crossing his features as he rubbed his temple. His gaze met Devola's yet again, reflecting a blend of caution and resignation. "This is a matter for the King and his Small Council, Devola," he said firmly. "Your involvement goes well beyond your place."
Devola felt a surge of anger at his words, the dismissive tone igniting a spark of defiance within her. But before she could voice her frustration, Arryn continued, his voice softer, more earnest.
"I promise you, Devola, I mean no harm to them. I swear on my life, this situation will be resolved swiftly and justly. Leerah need not worry. Please, I ask you to leave this matter to us. Your concerns are noted, but this is a delicate issue that requires careful handling at the highest levels."
Devola's initial impulse to protest subsided, replaced by a cautious understanding. She studied Arryn's face, searching for any hint of deceit. His earnestness seemed genuine, and despite her reservations, she realized the gravity of the situation required a level of discretion.
"Very well," Devola replied, though her voice still carried a note of skepticism. "But know this, Lord Arryn: if any harm comes to Leerah or her child, I will not stand idly by."
Jon Arryn nodded solemnly, acknowledging her words. "Clearly Understood, Your concern is admirable, and I assure you, it aligns with my intentions. The child and girl are assured safety"
With a final nod, Jon Arryn turned and made his way out of the brothel.
The encounter left Devola with more questions than answers. She pondered the intricacies of Leerah's relationship with the king, the implications of Arryn's involvement, and the fate of little Barra. The web of intrigue that enveloped the royal family and those connected to it seemed to grow more tangled by the moment.
She cast one last glance at Leerah, who remained blissfully involved with her newborn, retaking her position; she noticed Chataya's stern gaze, silently reprimanding her for the earlier disruption. Beside her, Alayaya's expression held concern, her eyes tired. Devola offered a faint, reassuring smile, hoping to ease their apprehension. Jon Arryn and Leerah had answered some questions at the very least she knew Leerah was alive and relatively safe. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this intricate web of events was far from resolved, and her part in this unfolding drama was yet to reach its climax. A familiar sentiment washed over her, echoing words she once spoke in another world, another life: "We are the same, tools in the hands of a master." Yet now, in the midst of King's Landing's complex intrigue, it felt more akin to being a pawn in an unwitting game.
A.N. It has been a while, truthfully I got busy at first with dental and housework (replaced damaged wall), then I got pretty invested in ff16 (great game definitely plan on one day writing a fanfic in the setting (was thinking something in the style of this but with Maiden Astrea and Garl Vinland from demon souls ending up in Ff16) After ff16 i got very into enjoying summer and trying to work on my health, which went mostly well though i've admittedly backtracked a bit to some bad habits after fall semester started.
Some little highlights, I learned a good bit of song of the ancients on guitar and started FF14 which I'm determined to do the nier story content in that mmo eventually though I'm largely enjoying the FF14 story in general.
I wanted to briefly give a shoutout to the fic The Red Falcon a si in the world of "The Red the Greens and the Blacks" One of the co-authors of that fic gave me some ideas for some later scenarios in this fic and I wanted to spread the love.
I hope everyone enjoys this new entry, initially when I was hopeful to this moment before summer ended and preferably another fairly big milestone of the early parts of this story, sadly time got the best of me and I missed that but I hope this chapter satisfies. and in case anyone didn't catch it it is 298 ac now.
Also additional note: Barra (as in sister of Leerah Barra was named Barra because she was born the year Robert was Christened. So in a sense both barras are named after Robert)
