Betting Against the House Finale
Vocalist
Verdant Maiden in Violet
- Location
- By a Cedar Tree
First of all, the demon and the Brightflame have to separate. Aelora grits her teeth, but all Arthur needs to do is shift his feet out of a rest stance and lift Dawn's weight off the floor before she agrees. She rises from her seat, laces her fingers, stretches from side to side. Her breath goes out in a tense hiss. Muscles relaxed, face a little more accepting, she nods at the empty air. For a moment, everyone is still. But then Aelora starts to cry black tears.
Not tears, of course. There's nothing of ordinary water and salt in that thick black ichor. But they well from her eyes, and so you call them the word that comes to mind. The fluid drips down her cheeks, not clinging to her chin and throat as water would but falling straight down to the floor from there. Aelora gasps and shudders, but makes no sound. The black ichor drains from her eyes at an extraordinary rate, and on the ground it seems to multiply further, such that in a few long seconds Aelora has cried a pool on the deck. It's so black, not repaying the light with any reflection, that the pool rather looks like an entrance into a dark prison-hold. Instead of spreading out and soaking the planks, the material holds tightly to itself, like quicksilver, and as you watch it starts quivering, growing, and spreading. Aelora stumbles away, sobbing – real tears now – and collapses in her sister's arms. You can only spare a glance before returning your eyes to the grotesque, unearthly spectacle of the demon, the real demon, uncovered. To your magical senses the thing sings an unearthly song, not unbeautiful, but disquieting all the same. Its oppressive blackness lifts with a disturbingly organic shudder, and all at once it starts gleaming wetly, rainbow colors shivering across its surface. It continues rising, into a man-sized pillar, protrusions bulging out and then in again like the work of an indecisive sculptor. The colors shimmer, the pillar twists again, it gleams until the whole surface seems mirrored for a moment – and then with a ripple and a snap it turns into a copy of Aelora, down to the cerulean dress she's wearing.
"Well that was…embarrassing," the not-Aelora says, shaking her head. You notice the strands of silver-gold hair move a little too much, ending up in a state you can only describe as mildly-tousled perfection. The other Aelora, meanwhile, has hair that is by now quite messy. "Perhaps I'm out of practice in maintaining my own body. Still, my prince, you were quite rude in staring. Don't they teach you in Westeros not to ogle a lady in her nakedness?" Her tone is light and teasing, her objective to make you defensive and distracted. "Perhaps I should have become a man instead, to save your honor."
"Are you a lady, shapeshifter?" Arthur asks. Not a question you had considered, but he's right: if the demon can take male and female form, what is it?
The not-Aelora shrugs. "When I'm in Aelora? Certainly. On my own, I am whatever I need to be at the moment." She bows graciously, as a nobleman would. "I'll make it simple for you. Call me a woman when you see me as a woman, and a man when you see me as a man."
You don't respond. The person whose opinion really matters here is currently lying with her head in Nenya's lap, tears streaming down her face. "Aelora?" you whisper, kneeling down to her level. "Can you hear me?"
Breath catching, she nods.
"I need you to tell me of your possession."
Aelora whimpers. "I already told you."
"I need to hear your side of the story."
"I already TOLD you!" she snarls, with such unexpected ferocity that you wonder if the two sisters might not be more similar than they first appear. "I prayed to the gods, all the gods, and my demon appeared and made it so that none of my fears could hurt me!"
You hold up your hands in a conciliatory gesture. "But, while you were possessed, what was it like?"
"It was good! I had everything I wanted, Jewel and I were both satisfied, any master I didn't like could be murdered within a year—"
"Er, not that that happened very often—" the demoness stammers, desperately trying to speak over the raving Brightflame.
"—and now I'm going to lose it all because Jewel wanted some black-haired barbarian who reminded her of an old Durrandon flame!"
"I beg your pardon," not-Aelora says, offended, "but I think it's a bit unfair to assign all the blame to me, considering—"
Nenya whispers to you, "I don't believe they seem like master and slave." She's pleased.
The two snap at each other a bit more, before Aelora suddenly decides that you are to blame for her problems. "This all comes down to you, doesn't it? You're the one who brought the Sword of the Morning here and decided you had the authority to meddle in my life, and now I'm going to lose everything to a thrice-damned misbegotten son of an Ice Walker!" Her shrill voice breaks and she dissolves into tears again. "I just want her back," she sobs, going to Nenya's arms again. "Why must you take my other half away from me? Everything is so much more painful now."
"She's had such a rough night, my poor girl," frets the demon. "She's not used to being on her own. If you'll just let me—" Arthur brings his sword across her path as she starts toward the woman. Both of them look to you.
"…Let them rejoin, Arthur."
---
It takes long hours gathered around the table before you draft a contract you can all agree to. You debate with Nenya and Arthur about what restrictions the oath should give, and who should have the authority to amend those restrictions; Nenya soon growing bored and merely muttering the suggestions of the spirits that cluster around her. Some of them are unhelpful entreaties to "burn the demon at the stake" (not even possible; you're on a ship); some of them are genuinely insightful. Aelora insists on an exit clause: she explains that, for creatures as long-lived as demons, it is a very real problem to remain bound by an oath thousands of years after those who benefited from it are all dead. So you add that most of the terms will expire when the Others have launched an invasion and been repelled.
Finally the demoness has a contract before her. She reads it aloud, refraining from comment, and at the end swears her ritual oath. "I swear this by ice and fire, by earth and water. I swear this by the Wheel and the Weaver on the Wheel. I swear this by my names and all the secret names of God. Upon my authority, I enter this oath into divine Law." Then she sighs, looking very tired. Some of Aelora's tear-stains still linger on her face. "What a night." No one in the room can disagree.
---
Matarys was sleeping when you finally left that map room, and so you wait until next morning to disturb him in his cabin. "Your grace, good morning," he says, in Westerosi touched with an exotic Lysene trill. He bows. Gently, you put a hand on his shoulder and guide him up.
"That's a servant's bow. From an unlanded nobleman to a member of the royal family should look more like this," you correct him.
"Forgive me, your grace."
You take a seat, and he follows. "There is nothing to forgive, Matarys. Your sister is a landed lady in Westeros, and you hold rank as her brother and my kinsman, but you could not have been expected to know that." You can see it in his eyes, the beginning of that dissociation he showed last night when his world changed too much, too quickly. You decide not to add that, as family members in private, he may treat you more informally still. Best not to break the poor lad, whose mind now seems as frail as his body. Speaking of which: "How has your accommodation been? Have you had something to eat?"
"I have no complaints. And someone left a meal by my door this morning. I ate the entire portion." He answers mechanically.
"I see. You seemed very distressed last night, understandably so. I'm glad you seem to be doing better. Lady Nenya is a valuable ally, but I will be the first to admit that her way of doing things can cause trouble for the people around her. She has a gift for bringing chaos."
"I am sure that her contributions outweigh her…ah, her detriments, else you would not retain her, your grace." Save for a furrowed brow as he briefly tried to recall a foreign word, his face maintains its trained blankness throughout. The room falls into silence as you try to come up with some way to engage him.
He waits patiently, so inoffensive it's unnatural. "Did they whip you often, Matarys?"
The question disturbs him not at all. "Of course not. Bedslaves are never whipped, beaten, or struck in a house of lilies. To do so would degrade our physical beauty and decrease our value. Surely you can see why no trainer would permit that, your gace? The exceptions are…the grave cases. Like Lady Nenya's." You see a bit of emotion in his eyes, finally. It's fear. "For when a slave is no longer an acceptable investment, regardless of its physical condition. Of course, private masters may punish their slaves as they wish, and there are some, I hear, who bring physical correction to bear on their bedslaves. But I have never been in the hands of such. My body is unmarked. Here, you may inspect for yourself—" You raise a hand and he stops, midway through undoing the toggles on his tunic.
"That will not be necessary," you say icily. He nods and does his clothes up again, some trepidation visible in his movements. Damn, he probably thinks you're angry at him. "Matarys. There is something you need to understand. You are not a slave. I am not your master. You do not belong to me. Your body does not belong to me. Your body is yours, now. You need show it only to those whom you wish to see it. You need show it to no one, if you wish. Your body may only be touched by those whom you allow to touch it. Do you understand?" Wide-eyed, he nods. "This is very different from what you've known up till now. I'm willing to repeat it as many times as I need to in the coming days and weeks." Your gaze wanders, and you think.
Finally, Matarys asks, "If I am not a slave, but a…nobleman, what is my fate now?"
You lift your eyes back to him. "I came here to ask you that question, actually. Nenya was very insistent that you be allowed to choose your own fate from here on out." He looks lost. "Let us look at your options. Nenya has holdings on the island of Sunstone. It is very rough there, I am given to understand. The population is a motely mix of pirates, rogues, and former slaves. Still, she has gotten something akin to a functioning trade town, and she has treaties with the other pirate lords so they do not attack her. On the other hand, you might come back to King's Landing with me. The royal court is bustling, and that can be a blessing or a curse. But the Red Keep is vast; there are plenty of places to get privacy and quiet that I can show you. And there, you could meet my family, who I am sure will welcome you as one of their own. Or," you say as something else comes to mind, "you might live on Dragonstone. It's near enough the capital that you could visit whenever you felt the need, but it is much, much quieter. Some people consider it a dreary place, but I love it. My duties keep me in King's Landing, though, so I would not be able to see you much."
"I'll go wherever you think best, your grace." His gaze is turned deferentially to the floor.
[ ] Sunstone
[ ] King's Landing
[ ] Dragonstone
"Mm. I was hoping you would choose for yourself." A bit of sharpness in your tone causes him to look up. Seeing that you don't intend to let him shirk this, his face automatically fills with anxiety. You sit there for a long time as Matarys thinks, his fingers knotting and his breath tight. He mutters to himself in his native tongue – seven hells, is he praying?
"It's not…a grave matter," you say to him, a little awkwardly. "You could always move somewhere else if you change your mind. No disaster is going to happen, no matter what your answer is."
He nods at your words, but his expression does not change. "I would like," he says finally, "to stay with you, I think. So I will go to King's Landing." His gaze darts around, as if you might suddenly reveal that this was all a trick, a test, and he failed.
"As you wish, cousin." You stand up and give him your most reassuring smile. "This room is rather close. What would you say to continuing our conversation on the deck? The weather is good today." He lets you lead him out through the small corridors of the ship. What a trial that was. Is there anything you can talk about that will make him feel more at ease? "As a member of my household, you'll have whatever comforts you need, of course. Is it true that you like cats?"
Your cousin's eyes flash with a complicated tangle of emotions, before the glassy mask slides over them again. "I have no particular fondness for them."
You reach the top deck, where open sky and sunlight greet you, just as you had promised. Making your way to the edge, you lean out and inhale the fresh air. "Really? I heard…Well, you would be the authority, I suppose. I asked because my daughter, Rhaenys, has one. A black tomcat named Balerion. She absolutely loves him, and I thought you would like to meet. He's very proud, like most cats. Turns his back to me like he's the prince and I'm the knave." Is his expression softening, just a bit? "She also has a snake, Chroyana, but visitors don't seem to find that one as charming for some reason. Which is a pity, because in some ways Chroyana is actually friendlier than Balerion. She lets anyone pick her up, as long as they handle her with care. Balerion, he's given people his claws before. Rhaenys often asks for more snakes, of the many breeds her uncle tells her about, and I might be willing to grant that wish if not for the problem of public perception. What would people say to a princess who surrounds herself with venomous snakes? Our family has enough rumors of witchcraft circling it; I don't wish to burden my children with such things before they're old enough to understand the consequences. It would damage her credibility as a marriage candidate, for example." You realize that your rambling has taken you into topics a bit heavier than you intended, but Matarys doesn't seem disturbed.
"I have heard that about the Andals. That they believe magic is for the gods alone. In Lys, a noblewoman maegi would be an advantageous wife, for she could disrupt the curses of rivals and search for hidden knowledge."
You sigh. "Exactly. Prejudice. The things I could accomplish without it." You talk some more, about your daughter and her attempts to join the play of the older children, sometimes tolerated, often rebuffed; she has the closest bond with Brienne of Tarth. Brienne is shut out of the training yards now (it took a few months for everyone in the castle to learn the difference between her and Galladon-in-a-dress) and the two young girls slid together, finding joy in playing "Princess and Kingsguard" in the gardens of the Red Keep. You talk proudly of your son and his determined efforts to read at the age of three. He's making so much progress that the courtiers are joking his mother must have swallowed some books and a candle to read them by, which makes Matarys chuckle despite being a joke so old that people were saying it when you were three.
It is, you realize, the first time you've ever heard him laugh, and as you look up in surprise you see that it wasn't you he was laughing at after all. One of the ship's cats is here. It's standing up, front paws dangling, held up almost entirely by its determined bite on the piece of thick ham Matarys is holding – something he must have saved from breakfast. Your cousin laughs some more and kneels down, murmuring affectionate words in Valyrian. Wiggling the meat from side to side, the cat finally succeeds in ripping its bite off. Smiling a sweet smile, Matarys holds it out to give the cat some more.
It is some time before he realizes you have stopped talking to watch him. When he does, he freezes – the cat keeps nibbling, unaware of a problem. He looks terrified, and the contrast between this and his previous state is painful to watch. It's clear that he expects some kind of punishment from you, but you don't know why.
"Matarys, are you sure you wouldn't like a cat?" you ask, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.
He bows his head in defeat. "I…lied to you. Please forgive me."
"About cats," you repeat. "Very well, I forgive you. Please, just tell me what this is all about." You move toward him, and the grey cat runs out of the way. "Do you have one in Lys? That you left behind?"
Pain flickers in his eyes. He stands up, leaning against the railing, and stares out at the sea. It seems to calm him, somewhat, and he begins to talk. "I did. At the age of eight, all of Yassina Kaodar's trainees receive pets. Mine was a cat, his fur pure silver-white. I named him Sonaro, after the – well, you know the Valyrian word for snow. It never snows on Lys, but I imagined it looked like his fur. I loved him with all of my heart." The next part is difficult for him to say: "I loved him, but he was a trap. Bedslaves may not be struck. But our trainers still must be able to discipline us. Any of the slaves who misbehaved, who did not take to their lessons, who did not reach Yassina Kaodar's standards were putting their beloved pet in danger. Sometimes you would enter your room, and find it shaved or plucked till it was bleeding, and that was a warning. Sometimes it was a leg, or a tail. And the serious times, we would all be called out to the – the patio – and there we would watch as the mistress showed us the troubled child, and explained what was the matter, and had a cat or a bird or a lizard chopped up with a saber. And then after six days of loneliness, perhaps locked in their room, the child would get a new pet." You are silent. You have no idea how to react to this. Even your father only ever followed his brutal whims; he didn't calculate the best way to break you to his will.
Matarys continues: "I was an obedient child, always, but after seeing a bit of this I was terrified for Sonaro. I couldn't bear the thought of causing him harm. He was my friend, my best friend. So I worked to become the best of slaves. My tutors praised my diligence, my memory, my obedience. If anyone ever noticed a mistake it was quickly corrected. No one ever had reason to lay a hand on my cat. I grew to my adulthood and the mistress started paying me more attention. She saw something special in me, my beauty and my temperament and my skill with painting, and so she set me more challenges. I met them. I worked so, so hard. I only failed once. Right at the very end." Breath ragged, he works to compose himself. "I was foolish. I thought it wouldn't matter. I thought because I was valuable, I was safe. I thought – surely a master would not care, if I weighed a little less than the goal she set for me? A little less. I hate forcing myself to eat. So I did not meet the goal, and I told myself it did not matter. My auction was in two days and if I was lucky I would get a kind master who would never dream of hurting a cat. But Mistress Yassina called me into her solar and I could tell she was displeased. 'You have been optimistic, these past days,' she said. 'Uncharacteristic of you, Matarys. Are you so eager to leave? Remember, the canon of your beauty is melancholy. If someone at that auction falls in love with you, it will be because they wish to learn your secret troubles and kiss your cares away.' I said that I understood. 'Let me help you along,' she said, and removed the cover from a plate. A plate which held the beaten corpse of a silver-furred cat." He has to force the words out. You can take it no longer; you wrap your arms around him heedless of any considerations. He shakes, but does not push you away. Finally his breathing steadies and he can wipe away the tears that gathered in his eyes. "Forgive me," he says.
"For what, Matarys?"
"For…losing my composure."
You shake your head. "You have every right to, after what happened. There is nothing to forgive." You remember something. "That woman, Yassina Kaodar. We captured her. She's here on this ship. I'm sure Nenya is planning some terrible fate for her, but she would be happy to let you join in."
Matarys considers for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head. "I would prefer never to see her again."
"As you wish, cousin.
---
[Nenya has gained the trait Heartful Defender: If anyone should seek to harm those you love, you will arise with fire and fury to strike them down. +2 Martial, +2 Willpower]
[For successfully infiltrating the party without breaking cover, Rhaegar's Intrigue has increased by 2. For successfully gaining Matarys' trust, his Diplomacy has increased by 2. For facing evil with compassion and resolve, his Willpower has increased by 1.]
The rest of the voyage passes with calm seas and balmy weather (Nenya confides to you that she called in a favor from the "Moon Dragon" to keep storms from troubling this return voyage). Indeed, Nenya seems violently protective of her little brother, ready to step in and intimidate any sailors who so much as comment on his girlish good looks. She is equally intent on gaining his affection. It crushes her when she realizes how much she scares him, as he cringes away from the wild, scar-faced pirate and toward your side. The sick relish with which she offered "fun with the old mistress" really didn't help, you tell her. As soon as she realizes her mistake, she reappears with a fat Naathi goose, apologizing because all the cats on the ship belong to Davos, but Macharissei the goose girl said this one wouldn't mind being a solitary pet. Matarys accepts her desperate peace offering and names it Eldingar. Davos, the fatherly captain, makes a gift of the gravel-grey cat on his own initiative after it starts seeking out Matarys daily for snacks.
Robert slowly returns back to normal over the voyage, and when you sit down and tell him the truth about Aelora his first reaction is anger at being taken advantage of. Followed by disappointment, because the terms of her contract mean he can only sleep with her once more. He's only ever going to think with one head where women are concerned, you realize, and it's not the one with the brain. Aelora definitely sleeps with him (gods, the whole ship could hear) and an uncertain proportion of the sailors. Nenya, sulky at this, does a lot of sparring with Lyanna Stark.
Your arrival at Sunstone is marked by a raucous party – the tradition, whenever Nenya returns with a cargo of freed slaves. Any hope you had of concealing your involvement in the heist dies as Nenya and Robert tell the story again and again, events remaining stubbornly unwarped no matter how much blistering Sunstone Spirits they drink. You excuse yourself at perhaps midnight; the party continues long afterwards. The next morning, as your more indulgent companions sleep off their hangovers, Ravana brings you news and letters.
"This should be opened first, I think. It has the Hand's seal." You take the letter and break the seal, revealing Jon's familiar handwriting. You read, then reread. Something in your face alarms her. "Your grace?" she asks.
"How long was this letter waiting for us? Wait, never mind—" you check the date on the letter. "This happened three weeks ago? Did Jon send any other letters?"
"No. What has come to pass?" She reads; her eyebrows shoot up. "Gods below. How did Velaryon manage to lose a dragon?"
Not tears, of course. There's nothing of ordinary water and salt in that thick black ichor. But they well from her eyes, and so you call them the word that comes to mind. The fluid drips down her cheeks, not clinging to her chin and throat as water would but falling straight down to the floor from there. Aelora gasps and shudders, but makes no sound. The black ichor drains from her eyes at an extraordinary rate, and on the ground it seems to multiply further, such that in a few long seconds Aelora has cried a pool on the deck. It's so black, not repaying the light with any reflection, that the pool rather looks like an entrance into a dark prison-hold. Instead of spreading out and soaking the planks, the material holds tightly to itself, like quicksilver, and as you watch it starts quivering, growing, and spreading. Aelora stumbles away, sobbing – real tears now – and collapses in her sister's arms. You can only spare a glance before returning your eyes to the grotesque, unearthly spectacle of the demon, the real demon, uncovered. To your magical senses the thing sings an unearthly song, not unbeautiful, but disquieting all the same. Its oppressive blackness lifts with a disturbingly organic shudder, and all at once it starts gleaming wetly, rainbow colors shivering across its surface. It continues rising, into a man-sized pillar, protrusions bulging out and then in again like the work of an indecisive sculptor. The colors shimmer, the pillar twists again, it gleams until the whole surface seems mirrored for a moment – and then with a ripple and a snap it turns into a copy of Aelora, down to the cerulean dress she's wearing.
"Well that was…embarrassing," the not-Aelora says, shaking her head. You notice the strands of silver-gold hair move a little too much, ending up in a state you can only describe as mildly-tousled perfection. The other Aelora, meanwhile, has hair that is by now quite messy. "Perhaps I'm out of practice in maintaining my own body. Still, my prince, you were quite rude in staring. Don't they teach you in Westeros not to ogle a lady in her nakedness?" Her tone is light and teasing, her objective to make you defensive and distracted. "Perhaps I should have become a man instead, to save your honor."
"Are you a lady, shapeshifter?" Arthur asks. Not a question you had considered, but he's right: if the demon can take male and female form, what is it?
The not-Aelora shrugs. "When I'm in Aelora? Certainly. On my own, I am whatever I need to be at the moment." She bows graciously, as a nobleman would. "I'll make it simple for you. Call me a woman when you see me as a woman, and a man when you see me as a man."
You don't respond. The person whose opinion really matters here is currently lying with her head in Nenya's lap, tears streaming down her face. "Aelora?" you whisper, kneeling down to her level. "Can you hear me?"
Breath catching, she nods.
"I need you to tell me of your possession."
Aelora whimpers. "I already told you."
"I need to hear your side of the story."
"I already TOLD you!" she snarls, with such unexpected ferocity that you wonder if the two sisters might not be more similar than they first appear. "I prayed to the gods, all the gods, and my demon appeared and made it so that none of my fears could hurt me!"
You hold up your hands in a conciliatory gesture. "But, while you were possessed, what was it like?"
"It was good! I had everything I wanted, Jewel and I were both satisfied, any master I didn't like could be murdered within a year—"
"Er, not that that happened very often—" the demoness stammers, desperately trying to speak over the raving Brightflame.
"—and now I'm going to lose it all because Jewel wanted some black-haired barbarian who reminded her of an old Durrandon flame!"
"I beg your pardon," not-Aelora says, offended, "but I think it's a bit unfair to assign all the blame to me, considering—"
Nenya whispers to you, "I don't believe they seem like master and slave." She's pleased.
The two snap at each other a bit more, before Aelora suddenly decides that you are to blame for her problems. "This all comes down to you, doesn't it? You're the one who brought the Sword of the Morning here and decided you had the authority to meddle in my life, and now I'm going to lose everything to a thrice-damned misbegotten son of an Ice Walker!" Her shrill voice breaks and she dissolves into tears again. "I just want her back," she sobs, going to Nenya's arms again. "Why must you take my other half away from me? Everything is so much more painful now."
"She's had such a rough night, my poor girl," frets the demon. "She's not used to being on her own. If you'll just let me—" Arthur brings his sword across her path as she starts toward the woman. Both of them look to you.
"…Let them rejoin, Arthur."
---
It takes long hours gathered around the table before you draft a contract you can all agree to. You debate with Nenya and Arthur about what restrictions the oath should give, and who should have the authority to amend those restrictions; Nenya soon growing bored and merely muttering the suggestions of the spirits that cluster around her. Some of them are unhelpful entreaties to "burn the demon at the stake" (not even possible; you're on a ship); some of them are genuinely insightful. Aelora insists on an exit clause: she explains that, for creatures as long-lived as demons, it is a very real problem to remain bound by an oath thousands of years after those who benefited from it are all dead. So you add that most of the terms will expire when the Others have launched an invasion and been repelled.
Finally the demoness has a contract before her. She reads it aloud, refraining from comment, and at the end swears her ritual oath. "I swear this by ice and fire, by earth and water. I swear this by the Wheel and the Weaver on the Wheel. I swear this by my names and all the secret names of God. Upon my authority, I enter this oath into divine Law." Then she sighs, looking very tired. Some of Aelora's tear-stains still linger on her face. "What a night." No one in the room can disagree.
---
Matarys was sleeping when you finally left that map room, and so you wait until next morning to disturb him in his cabin. "Your grace, good morning," he says, in Westerosi touched with an exotic Lysene trill. He bows. Gently, you put a hand on his shoulder and guide him up.
"That's a servant's bow. From an unlanded nobleman to a member of the royal family should look more like this," you correct him.
"Forgive me, your grace."
You take a seat, and he follows. "There is nothing to forgive, Matarys. Your sister is a landed lady in Westeros, and you hold rank as her brother and my kinsman, but you could not have been expected to know that." You can see it in his eyes, the beginning of that dissociation he showed last night when his world changed too much, too quickly. You decide not to add that, as family members in private, he may treat you more informally still. Best not to break the poor lad, whose mind now seems as frail as his body. Speaking of which: "How has your accommodation been? Have you had something to eat?"
"I have no complaints. And someone left a meal by my door this morning. I ate the entire portion." He answers mechanically.
"I see. You seemed very distressed last night, understandably so. I'm glad you seem to be doing better. Lady Nenya is a valuable ally, but I will be the first to admit that her way of doing things can cause trouble for the people around her. She has a gift for bringing chaos."
"I am sure that her contributions outweigh her…ah, her detriments, else you would not retain her, your grace." Save for a furrowed brow as he briefly tried to recall a foreign word, his face maintains its trained blankness throughout. The room falls into silence as you try to come up with some way to engage him.
He waits patiently, so inoffensive it's unnatural. "Did they whip you often, Matarys?"
The question disturbs him not at all. "Of course not. Bedslaves are never whipped, beaten, or struck in a house of lilies. To do so would degrade our physical beauty and decrease our value. Surely you can see why no trainer would permit that, your gace? The exceptions are…the grave cases. Like Lady Nenya's." You see a bit of emotion in his eyes, finally. It's fear. "For when a slave is no longer an acceptable investment, regardless of its physical condition. Of course, private masters may punish their slaves as they wish, and there are some, I hear, who bring physical correction to bear on their bedslaves. But I have never been in the hands of such. My body is unmarked. Here, you may inspect for yourself—" You raise a hand and he stops, midway through undoing the toggles on his tunic.
"That will not be necessary," you say icily. He nods and does his clothes up again, some trepidation visible in his movements. Damn, he probably thinks you're angry at him. "Matarys. There is something you need to understand. You are not a slave. I am not your master. You do not belong to me. Your body does not belong to me. Your body is yours, now. You need show it only to those whom you wish to see it. You need show it to no one, if you wish. Your body may only be touched by those whom you allow to touch it. Do you understand?" Wide-eyed, he nods. "This is very different from what you've known up till now. I'm willing to repeat it as many times as I need to in the coming days and weeks." Your gaze wanders, and you think.
Finally, Matarys asks, "If I am not a slave, but a…nobleman, what is my fate now?"
You lift your eyes back to him. "I came here to ask you that question, actually. Nenya was very insistent that you be allowed to choose your own fate from here on out." He looks lost. "Let us look at your options. Nenya has holdings on the island of Sunstone. It is very rough there, I am given to understand. The population is a motely mix of pirates, rogues, and former slaves. Still, she has gotten something akin to a functioning trade town, and she has treaties with the other pirate lords so they do not attack her. On the other hand, you might come back to King's Landing with me. The royal court is bustling, and that can be a blessing or a curse. But the Red Keep is vast; there are plenty of places to get privacy and quiet that I can show you. And there, you could meet my family, who I am sure will welcome you as one of their own. Or," you say as something else comes to mind, "you might live on Dragonstone. It's near enough the capital that you could visit whenever you felt the need, but it is much, much quieter. Some people consider it a dreary place, but I love it. My duties keep me in King's Landing, though, so I would not be able to see you much."
"I'll go wherever you think best, your grace." His gaze is turned deferentially to the floor.
[ ] King's Landing
[ ] Dragonstone
"Mm. I was hoping you would choose for yourself." A bit of sharpness in your tone causes him to look up. Seeing that you don't intend to let him shirk this, his face automatically fills with anxiety. You sit there for a long time as Matarys thinks, his fingers knotting and his breath tight. He mutters to himself in his native tongue – seven hells, is he praying?
"It's not…a grave matter," you say to him, a little awkwardly. "You could always move somewhere else if you change your mind. No disaster is going to happen, no matter what your answer is."
He nods at your words, but his expression does not change. "I would like," he says finally, "to stay with you, I think. So I will go to King's Landing." His gaze darts around, as if you might suddenly reveal that this was all a trick, a test, and he failed.
"As you wish, cousin." You stand up and give him your most reassuring smile. "This room is rather close. What would you say to continuing our conversation on the deck? The weather is good today." He lets you lead him out through the small corridors of the ship. What a trial that was. Is there anything you can talk about that will make him feel more at ease? "As a member of my household, you'll have whatever comforts you need, of course. Is it true that you like cats?"
Your cousin's eyes flash with a complicated tangle of emotions, before the glassy mask slides over them again. "I have no particular fondness for them."
You reach the top deck, where open sky and sunlight greet you, just as you had promised. Making your way to the edge, you lean out and inhale the fresh air. "Really? I heard…Well, you would be the authority, I suppose. I asked because my daughter, Rhaenys, has one. A black tomcat named Balerion. She absolutely loves him, and I thought you would like to meet. He's very proud, like most cats. Turns his back to me like he's the prince and I'm the knave." Is his expression softening, just a bit? "She also has a snake, Chroyana, but visitors don't seem to find that one as charming for some reason. Which is a pity, because in some ways Chroyana is actually friendlier than Balerion. She lets anyone pick her up, as long as they handle her with care. Balerion, he's given people his claws before. Rhaenys often asks for more snakes, of the many breeds her uncle tells her about, and I might be willing to grant that wish if not for the problem of public perception. What would people say to a princess who surrounds herself with venomous snakes? Our family has enough rumors of witchcraft circling it; I don't wish to burden my children with such things before they're old enough to understand the consequences. It would damage her credibility as a marriage candidate, for example." You realize that your rambling has taken you into topics a bit heavier than you intended, but Matarys doesn't seem disturbed.
"I have heard that about the Andals. That they believe magic is for the gods alone. In Lys, a noblewoman maegi would be an advantageous wife, for she could disrupt the curses of rivals and search for hidden knowledge."
You sigh. "Exactly. Prejudice. The things I could accomplish without it." You talk some more, about your daughter and her attempts to join the play of the older children, sometimes tolerated, often rebuffed; she has the closest bond with Brienne of Tarth. Brienne is shut out of the training yards now (it took a few months for everyone in the castle to learn the difference between her and Galladon-in-a-dress) and the two young girls slid together, finding joy in playing "Princess and Kingsguard" in the gardens of the Red Keep. You talk proudly of your son and his determined efforts to read at the age of three. He's making so much progress that the courtiers are joking his mother must have swallowed some books and a candle to read them by, which makes Matarys chuckle despite being a joke so old that people were saying it when you were three.
It is, you realize, the first time you've ever heard him laugh, and as you look up in surprise you see that it wasn't you he was laughing at after all. One of the ship's cats is here. It's standing up, front paws dangling, held up almost entirely by its determined bite on the piece of thick ham Matarys is holding – something he must have saved from breakfast. Your cousin laughs some more and kneels down, murmuring affectionate words in Valyrian. Wiggling the meat from side to side, the cat finally succeeds in ripping its bite off. Smiling a sweet smile, Matarys holds it out to give the cat some more.
It is some time before he realizes you have stopped talking to watch him. When he does, he freezes – the cat keeps nibbling, unaware of a problem. He looks terrified, and the contrast between this and his previous state is painful to watch. It's clear that he expects some kind of punishment from you, but you don't know why.
"Matarys, are you sure you wouldn't like a cat?" you ask, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.
He bows his head in defeat. "I…lied to you. Please forgive me."
"About cats," you repeat. "Very well, I forgive you. Please, just tell me what this is all about." You move toward him, and the grey cat runs out of the way. "Do you have one in Lys? That you left behind?"
Pain flickers in his eyes. He stands up, leaning against the railing, and stares out at the sea. It seems to calm him, somewhat, and he begins to talk. "I did. At the age of eight, all of Yassina Kaodar's trainees receive pets. Mine was a cat, his fur pure silver-white. I named him Sonaro, after the – well, you know the Valyrian word for snow. It never snows on Lys, but I imagined it looked like his fur. I loved him with all of my heart." The next part is difficult for him to say: "I loved him, but he was a trap. Bedslaves may not be struck. But our trainers still must be able to discipline us. Any of the slaves who misbehaved, who did not take to their lessons, who did not reach Yassina Kaodar's standards were putting their beloved pet in danger. Sometimes you would enter your room, and find it shaved or plucked till it was bleeding, and that was a warning. Sometimes it was a leg, or a tail. And the serious times, we would all be called out to the – the patio – and there we would watch as the mistress showed us the troubled child, and explained what was the matter, and had a cat or a bird or a lizard chopped up with a saber. And then after six days of loneliness, perhaps locked in their room, the child would get a new pet." You are silent. You have no idea how to react to this. Even your father only ever followed his brutal whims; he didn't calculate the best way to break you to his will.
Matarys continues: "I was an obedient child, always, but after seeing a bit of this I was terrified for Sonaro. I couldn't bear the thought of causing him harm. He was my friend, my best friend. So I worked to become the best of slaves. My tutors praised my diligence, my memory, my obedience. If anyone ever noticed a mistake it was quickly corrected. No one ever had reason to lay a hand on my cat. I grew to my adulthood and the mistress started paying me more attention. She saw something special in me, my beauty and my temperament and my skill with painting, and so she set me more challenges. I met them. I worked so, so hard. I only failed once. Right at the very end." Breath ragged, he works to compose himself. "I was foolish. I thought it wouldn't matter. I thought because I was valuable, I was safe. I thought – surely a master would not care, if I weighed a little less than the goal she set for me? A little less. I hate forcing myself to eat. So I did not meet the goal, and I told myself it did not matter. My auction was in two days and if I was lucky I would get a kind master who would never dream of hurting a cat. But Mistress Yassina called me into her solar and I could tell she was displeased. 'You have been optimistic, these past days,' she said. 'Uncharacteristic of you, Matarys. Are you so eager to leave? Remember, the canon of your beauty is melancholy. If someone at that auction falls in love with you, it will be because they wish to learn your secret troubles and kiss your cares away.' I said that I understood. 'Let me help you along,' she said, and removed the cover from a plate. A plate which held the beaten corpse of a silver-furred cat." He has to force the words out. You can take it no longer; you wrap your arms around him heedless of any considerations. He shakes, but does not push you away. Finally his breathing steadies and he can wipe away the tears that gathered in his eyes. "Forgive me," he says.
"For what, Matarys?"
"For…losing my composure."
You shake your head. "You have every right to, after what happened. There is nothing to forgive." You remember something. "That woman, Yassina Kaodar. We captured her. She's here on this ship. I'm sure Nenya is planning some terrible fate for her, but she would be happy to let you join in."
Matarys considers for a few seconds. Then he shakes his head. "I would prefer never to see her again."
"As you wish, cousin.
---
[Nenya has gained the trait Heartful Defender: If anyone should seek to harm those you love, you will arise with fire and fury to strike them down. +2 Martial, +2 Willpower]
[For successfully infiltrating the party without breaking cover, Rhaegar's Intrigue has increased by 2. For successfully gaining Matarys' trust, his Diplomacy has increased by 2. For facing evil with compassion and resolve, his Willpower has increased by 1.]
The rest of the voyage passes with calm seas and balmy weather (Nenya confides to you that she called in a favor from the "Moon Dragon" to keep storms from troubling this return voyage). Indeed, Nenya seems violently protective of her little brother, ready to step in and intimidate any sailors who so much as comment on his girlish good looks. She is equally intent on gaining his affection. It crushes her when she realizes how much she scares him, as he cringes away from the wild, scar-faced pirate and toward your side. The sick relish with which she offered "fun with the old mistress" really didn't help, you tell her. As soon as she realizes her mistake, she reappears with a fat Naathi goose, apologizing because all the cats on the ship belong to Davos, but Macharissei the goose girl said this one wouldn't mind being a solitary pet. Matarys accepts her desperate peace offering and names it Eldingar. Davos, the fatherly captain, makes a gift of the gravel-grey cat on his own initiative after it starts seeking out Matarys daily for snacks.
Robert slowly returns back to normal over the voyage, and when you sit down and tell him the truth about Aelora his first reaction is anger at being taken advantage of. Followed by disappointment, because the terms of her contract mean he can only sleep with her once more. He's only ever going to think with one head where women are concerned, you realize, and it's not the one with the brain. Aelora definitely sleeps with him (gods, the whole ship could hear) and an uncertain proportion of the sailors. Nenya, sulky at this, does a lot of sparring with Lyanna Stark.
Your arrival at Sunstone is marked by a raucous party – the tradition, whenever Nenya returns with a cargo of freed slaves. Any hope you had of concealing your involvement in the heist dies as Nenya and Robert tell the story again and again, events remaining stubbornly unwarped no matter how much blistering Sunstone Spirits they drink. You excuse yourself at perhaps midnight; the party continues long afterwards. The next morning, as your more indulgent companions sleep off their hangovers, Ravana brings you news and letters.
"This should be opened first, I think. It has the Hand's seal." You take the letter and break the seal, revealing Jon's familiar handwriting. You read, then reread. Something in your face alarms her. "Your grace?" she asks.
"How long was this letter waiting for us? Wait, never mind—" you check the date on the letter. "This happened three weeks ago? Did Jon send any other letters?"
"No. What has come to pass?" She reads; her eyebrows shoot up. "Gods below. How did Velaryon manage to lose a dragon?"
