Journey of a Lifetime
Twenty-Third Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
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Tired eyes looked up at Denys in his approach, the normally meticulous sorceress looking frazzled and concerned. It was more telling that even in the private hall reserved at the back of the Golden Hearth, Ceria was willing to share that much of her troubles and worries with her three companions without fear of either ridicule or maleficence. She smiled wearily, eyes flicking down to the thing that had called the group together nearly at once. While she didn't treat the rolled parchment bearing the yet-unbroken seal of House Targaryen as she might a viper, Prince Oberyn notwithstanding, it was a close-run thing.
Criston rested with his feet upon the oaken table they gathered around, sharpening his sword by the magelight with stubborn and methodically persistent nonchalance, though one could see the tension in his shoulders, like an anxious shadow cat, muscles coiled and ready for a fight to break out, the calm acceptance he could muster coming across as willfully oblivious to the room's atmosphere. The three empty tankards piled to the side paid falsely to that.
Ting by contrast went through the ritualized preparations involved in 'proper tea brewing', the leaves acquired by the pugnacious questing traders of Sorcerer's Deep, having plied their trade as far as Qarth and further, so no wonder a YiTish blend was found, and without making one break the bank at that. Though where he had acquired the jade tea set on short notice was an utter mystery. Maybe an admirer from afar? He had certainly won the crowds over after his feat of felling a giant made from living stone with his bare fists.
The flickering of cold-fire cast them aglow with their heavy thoughts for a few more minutes before he almost dared to speak. Two cups sliding into place before both Denys and Ceria made him clam up. He shot an awkward smile at Ting who just returned the gesture serenely. Then Denys politely drank half of his cup before putting it down gently. Ceria had gulped half down and was nursing her head. They each commiserated in that bit of shared misery silently while the Monk calmly drank his tea.
Only when he had carefully packed away all the pieces in the set did the Monk break the deadlock silence.
"Shall we then accept the invitation?"
Could we dare refuse? Such words were unspoken, but they knew enough of each other to guess
what was unspoken, in such a way only those who had gone through deadly peril with none to rely on but each other simply could.
Ceria leaned heavily forward upon the table, finger tracing tiny steps toward the rolled parchment, before snatching it up and offering it to Denys.
"I won't force any of you into something you're not willing to do," Denys countered the implicit offer immediately, knowing the decision ultimately lay with him regardless, but honor and friendship
demanded he answer thus. That he would not raise a hand against Viserys Targaryen they all knew, but one thing had been agreed upon unanimously in that moment.
We're in this together, Denys thought as he stared across the table at the others,
no matter where it leads.
"Our paths will not separate for some time," Ting said with an honest smile, though the sentiment met with obvious gratitude and acceptance, even pride.
"Somebody's gotta look after Braden's damn-fool son," Criston said resolutely, sitting up then. "So get on with it." The Stormlander looked at the sorceress, and naturally the other two had their gazes drawn to her as well.
"I trust you," Ceria said wearily, and that was enough for the three. It certainly hadn't been
easy, but that hard won trust, from her, spoke volumes, so that even the most cynical of their party, someone who wasn't willing to stake lives or resources upon honor or fickle emotion alone, was willing to dive deeply into the unknown for the sake of friends.
Please don't let it be misplaced, Denys had thought she was saying. He would meet that plea with action.
He broke the red wax seal and unrolled the formal message.
Those with company who do so bear this document are hereby cordially invited to attend His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen, as esteemed guests, to observe and thereby petition for audience or hearing if they should so desire, so long as particular observances are upheld insofar...
***
Denys glanced at his friends, looking mildly put upon but nonetheless too distracted to bear it overmuch thought. Ting had dressed in clean robes with a simply embroidered silken sash and his copper pin threaded through his hair, but he looked as humble as ever, their appearance an incongruity to the occasion and even company. Even Criston had dressed in a doublet and breeches with silver buckled boots, clothes all bought in the markets of the burgeoning city.
Ceria by contrast had dressed with particular care above even Denys who had been raised among highborn nobility in his youth and in noble company besides, dressing in the latest fashions of Sorcerer's Deep's growing elite, with particular care toward giving custom to Prince Oberyn's daughter Tyene Sand, who partially owned the companies' stores where she had bought her dresses and accessories.
Of Essosi and even some Westerosi patronage who wore similar clothes, their flattery by contrast was so gratuitous without paying much effort towards actually having good sense of coordination, stuffing fingers and wrists full of jewels without rhyme nor reason, yet she wore it shamelessly well. Some Essosi nobles had no doubt thought to flatter and bribe the King and his Companion in such a manner, but Ceria had a way of making a message out of it:
I fit in here. Willful was her manner, that the old adage might be proven true.
Play falsely until you live honestly.
With not a hair out of place, the sorceress could revel in the eyes falling upon her, seeing both wariness and respect in their gazes, Denys could only wonder if such an act had been planned long ago with an aim to scandalize and incense rather than the more positive response she was receiving here.
Denys for his part moved with a purpose. After wandering through the castle's extensive gardens, wide-eyed and impressed by the spirits which called it home and the magic that went into its making and tending, they were drawn in with scattered late comers and new arrivals, surrounded by red-and-black armored soldiers in short order. Denys surrendered his rune-touched sword to the well-dressed functionary at the audience chambers threshold, Criston having left his behind but wearing his cloak and ring, which he was apparently allowed to keep despite the fact that a mage watched them from a corner of the room and looked upon them, likely with magesight.
Denys and Ceria strode in front with Ting and Criston behind, and they were escorted not to the far side of the hall like he had expected, but somewhere near the front... almost uncomfortably close to the still empty throne.
Denys had seen Viserys Targaryen from afar and upon the silvered surface of his arcane mirror devices many times now, as the King had not been avoiding attending the competition as much as he could and standing in public eye, watching the major fights as they took place, though he thought that when he did not have an exacting purpose towards speaking up when watched by so many, oddly the young monarch would keep his silence, every gesture with purpose. And little wonder. When your words and actions would be watched like a hawk upon its prey by thousands upon thousands at any given moment, could one afford to slip up, even for a moment? Yet such hardship appeared to lay upon Viserys lightly as a feather.
The Dragon King was as to fire, his voice crisp and well-trained, and his bearing reminded Denys of his brother Rhaegar in some small part, the fairness and the composure, but also much unlike him, his smile warmer and more free, and in the rare instances where he had seen King Aerys upon his throne as a child they had been somewhat indolent and whimsical. Viserys strode into view and every eye was upon him and refused to leave, straight backed and full of vital life and spirit.
If he was ever given to any sort of whims, the calculated gaze which only lingered upon him for a split second told the more observant in the audience that they had a purpose of their own. His fairness, Denys then realized upon seeing him so close, was not quite like Rhaegar's, it was
disconcerting, like a painting come to life. Was this what magic had done to the man who would be King, changed them to suit its purposes?
Or maybe no purpose other than his own.
But then he spoke. He took counsel from advisers and he passed judgement, and accepted oaths with magnanimity that sounded genuine and sincere despite his overwhelming power. What worth were knights when a man could sweep aside armies with an errant twitch of his wings? He made their oaths sound important, repaying loyalty with good lordship and compassion with kindness.
He was firm and decisive where others could only doubt and fulsome in his praise when someone's accomplishments were thus raised. He did not look bored like his father did on that distant day in the pages of hazy memory, of almost another life that Denys barely recalled, nor distant and impersonal like his brother Rhaegar did before the crowds, almost like the late Prince wasn't quite there, like Rhaegar Targaryen couldn't
ever quite be there.
When it came time to step forward, Denys' heart nearly hammered in his chest, nearly reconsidering his chosen speech prepared well beforehand and practiced until the candle wicks had long burnt out. Then the King looked at him, a sardonic smile on his face, almost seeming to say, 'you've come this far, haven't you?'
Though Denys could just be imagining it, imagining everything around him in fact. The soul searching and the hardships he had endured, nearly on his lonesome, the setbacks and troubles that followed in the War's wake. Vile fey trickery and devious fiendish ploys, hair raising chases through windswept canyons and sun scorched terrain. Fighting specters and revenants fresh from their ancient graves, with what felt like the whole realm at stake.
Salvation given in unlikely places and hope for those nearly lost to despair. What would this King make of saving a man nearly tricked into burning his family and livelihood to the ground, all because his son had been cursed with 'fel powers from Hell'? Nor that the one who had whispered lies in their ear had promised the Angels would cast them off into the pit themselves, if he should not take it upon himself to absolve them of their sins with the purifying torch?
Denys saw that selfsame relief in the man's eyes again, knowing the first instinct of even the overly pious, that their kin was not evil but
good, that he had sooner prepared to take his own life and a devil with it, told him in some small way that the Dragon might approve with the essence of his decisions up to then, if not the whole of the tale. He hoped that one forgiveness he had delivered in his own hands could reflect in that which he hoped for in truth.
Absolution, for the failures and the powerlessness he had felt for nearly all his life, loyalty to a just and honorable cause unto death, and relief at a journey finally brought to fruition, with anticipation for the next.
He nearly sank to a knee then and there, but some courtly instinct directed him... to instead opt for a deep and heartfelt bow, knowing he had chosen well.
"Your Grace..."
