CHAPTER VII
Of Pepper, Piss and ParanoiaThoren was not a happy man in general. Happiness sucked. The more years you live as a man, you find it fading and fading. Not to say he was a deeply unhappy man...he did enjoy life and the pleasures that came with it.
Not too much pleasure unlike his brother, Ardrian. He enjoyed it toomuch. A gull instead of a crab. He soared in it. And with it, he soared himself away to an early grave.
I mean, who sails away drunk in a storm?
Gone and left Valaena alone. Left Caspian half-grown and half-feral. Left him gritting his teeth, keeping the house stitched together with twine and vinegar.
He had made a promise to Ma!
He shook his head and looked at Caspian. Seeing him talk to the Princess gave him the same sick feeling that he too.. like his brother was forgetting he was a crab. Flirting like that, smiling like that, Thoren should have been proud. He wanted to be proud.
If not for the fuckery he was trying to make sense of-
Gifting a sword that would beggar a kingdom? I mean why?
He understood the poor maester now, why the grey rat had gone mad and cut all his hair off.
Bald.
He had jested cruelly at the time, but gods, he felt the same, wracking his brains when he stood in that crowd, watching Caspian gift that fucking sword to the king.
Secrets upon secrets. Plots on top of plots. You think you've mapped the boy out, and then he breaks your bloody brain again.
I mean who makes a sword out of diamonds? The fuck?
Thoren did not know much about swords, other than how to gut a man with one. Even then, he preferred his trusted axe to a pansy sword.
He knew for a fact that you make it from bronze, iron or steel. Even the fucking Valyrians didn't have the balls...nor the sorcery to make a sword that looked like glass yet cut through solid steel.
But what angered him most was that he gifted it away. Instead of keeping it in their house. So that Thoren could see his nephews wield it, watch it pass down the line.
Oh, he had it up to here with Caspian.
Could not tolerate him and that stupid smirk of his when he did the impossible. He had stopped asking how long before. Now he only asked why.
Why the hell did Caspian do the things he did?
If he were his father, Thoren would've had him wedded and bedded by now. Pinned down with a strong wife and a line of heirs, before he could smirk his way into madness.
Gods, maybe fatherhood would fix him. Having sons would settle him. Maybe.
But then a thought crept up like rot in the hull.
What if his sons are like him?
A horde of Caspians. Gleaming-eyed, impossible little brats with secrets in their teeth and fire in their bellies. The kind who'd call him nuncle, or worse...grunkle.
Thoren groaned aloud.
"Fuckkkkkkkk."
A passing squire gave him a startled look.
He waved him off.
It would not do to curse like a drunk in her. But the thoughts stayed. Heavy.
Ardrian was the elder brother, not him. A bloody fool, a beautiful man and a bastard in spirit if not by name. And when he died...ran, vanished, fucked off, whatever you called it, it was Thoren left picking up the pieces.
Valaena had looked at him like he was a usurper. Had suspected him of plotting to steal the lordship. Gods, that had done their relationship in. From family to barely civil.
It was Caspian...of course it was, who mended that rift. Not with some grand gesture, but little things. Words. Deeds. Family dinners, he had called it.
Small warm meals and shared small smiles.
And when the offense had finally dulled, when the anger cooled, Thoren had understood where she was coming from.
She had been married three years when it happened. Newlywed and left with a newborn monkey of a babe, his nephew. Gods, what a hellion he'd been. That should have been the first sign of the madness to come.
And then her foolish husband sailed off, drunk and fucked and full of songs- disappeared into a storm.
And Thoren was the one making all the decisions.
She must have looked at him, older, battle-worn, in command and seen an entrenched regent. One who might grow too comfortable.
Newborn babes die of fever. Or fall down stairs. Common enough.
He understood the logic behind it. He did.
But it had offended him so deeply all he saw was red. He knew he was no paragon of virtue or honor, many brothels and alehouses would agree- but a kinslayer? To think he might possibly harm his own nephew? Ardrian's son?
Oh, he hated that bitch.
Gods, he had hated her.
He knew she had been scared. He understood, but it did not lessen his anger.
So much that he left Claw Isle. Crossed the sea to Essos. Took up the sword as a sellsword just to drown the fire in his chest and maybe, just maybe, find his brother and beat the piss out of him. His brooding was broken by laughter. Not the court's usual nervous titters or lords chuckling into their cups. No. This was a laugh that could've weakened the knees of any man, even his age.
Princess Myriah Martell.
She was no girl, the ruler of Dorne. Mother of one, a widow already. Some said poison was involved.
Whose poison? He'd wager hers.
Not that he was stupid enough to say it aloud. Gods no.
Caspian smiled at her in that lazy, maddening way. Gods, Thoren might've been proud...if he weren't already dreading what would come next.
He knew his nephew. Knew him better than most. The boy didn't speak to women for idle flirtation. If it wasn't his mother, then it was politics. Always politics. Diplomacy. Intrigue.
Even if he did flirt...even if he charmed and teased and coaxed smiles from the fairer sex, it wasn't lust. He wasn't angling to get under their skirts. Once, Thoren had half-suspected that he swung the other way… until that night, when he found him with the Boggs girl.
Heh. He'd teased him mercilessly for weeks.
Damn was he proud.
But now? He just sighed. He watched as Caspian spoke in low tones about paper, sand, and sugar. He called it "sweet snow."
It wasn't the usual sugar they imported from the Far East, the kind packed with spice and priced like sin. No, this was different. It lacked that familiar brown tint. In fact, it looked like crystal… like small, glinting diamonds or shattered glass, if you squinted close enough.
And the taste?
Oh, it was sweet.
Valaena had taken to it quickly. Said it reminded her of peaches of days past. Put it on everything, from her already sweet wine- heresy… to powder over her carrot cakes.
Caspian had done what he always did, he sold it. His biggest client was Volantis. Followed by Braavos.
That had caused some tension.
Volantis was still one of the great daughters of old Valyria. Proud. The black walls still reeked of the chains that built it. But gold speaks louder than blood and the profits as always… made the world go round. Braavos went along with it, for they were bankers first and the fact that Caspian was friends with the Sea Lord helped.
His 'medicine' after all was the only reason the Braavosi's wife still drew breath after a bloody birthing that should've killed her. The healers had been left astounded. Thoren knew better.
Now, he was working his charm on Dorne.
"Sand and sugar?" Myriah's voice carried. "And how does that concern Dorne, Lord Celtigar?"
"Sand in abundance. Cane, not so much," Caspian replied, easy as breath. "But Dorne has sun, heat, and hands willing to work. What we crabs lack in soil, we make up for in ambition."
He smiled faintly. "And please, call me Caspian."
She tilted her head. "Is that so… Caspian?"
"I wouldn't be here otherwise, Princess."
Thoren rolled his eyes. Gods. He'd said it with that smirk of his. And the worst part? It worked.
Myriah sipped her wine, one brow raised. Then she pouted… just enough to be deliberate.
"I've yet to receive anything from you, Lord Celtigar. Not even one of those little books you handed out like sweets."
"An oversight I mean to correct."
Her smile was sharp all teeth now, a challenge. "See that you do."
"Actually…"
With a flick of his wrist, Caspian reached into the folds of his robe and drew something forth.
A necklace. Dornish in style, it was gold chased with rubies… carved like curling vines.
"A token," Caspian said, leaning in slightly.
"Of what?"
"Apology. Admiration. Maybe something more. Shall I?"
Myriah blinked. "Bold, aren't you."
His brows pinched together as he watched Caspian move behind her, gently sweeping her hair aside and fastening the clasp around the princess's neck with deft fingers.
The red rubies gleamed against her sun-kissed skin, the setting sun casting them both in a soft glow.
"There," he said, voice low by her ear. "You wear it better than I imagined."
She inhaled slow, breathy. Her eyes were half-lidded now.
Even sour as he was, Thoren had to admit it was smooth.
The princess seemed to agree. Her laughter slipped into a purr, her lips parting with something between amusement and… well. AHEM.
"Sweet words, Lord Celtigar," she said. "Careful- I might start to believe them."
Caspian leaned in closer. Whispered something.
Thoren didn't catch the words but saw the look they shared. Her smile.
Gods, he hoped those were just sweet apologies. Harmless nothings. Courteous.
Because if they were anything else...
Lady Valaena wouldn't just box her son's ears.
She'd box his too.
Myriah was not woman easily distracted. Who dares slander her with such lies?
Fine...she was.
Her fingers trailed the necklace's golden vines. Looking closer, they weren't vines at all. They were snakes, coiled under leaves of gold with rubies for the sun. Her house. Her favorite animal.
Was a snake even an animal? She liked to think otherwise.
Her musings were broken by Joanna nudging her side.
Both of them were staring at her.
"Hmm? Did I miss something?"
Joanna huffed. "Miss something? You're worse than Rhaella."
"Hey!" Rhaella puffed up. "What do you mean?"
Myriah reached for her wine. Joanna pulled it out of reach.
"Jo!"
"I won't have you drinking more," Joanna said, glancing down at the necklace. "Not when you're already distracted."
"Oh?" Myriah laughed. "Who are you and what have you done with our fearsome lioness, who loves her wine no less?"
Rhaella joined in with a giggle.
Joanna rolled her eyes. "What is that anyway? Did you commission it?"
"No."
"No what?"
"No, it was a gift." She could not help it.
"Ahh, the crab lord. Why am I not surprised?"
Myriah raised her brows.
Rhaella sputtered. "What? He gave that to you? When?"
"This evening."
"What???"
"Jealous much, Princess?"
"As if-!"
"Oh, you are. Your nose always turns red."
Rhaella hid her nose while Joanna huffed.
"Wait... Jo, don't tell me you arejealous too? I didn't know he was that popular, though it seemed like he's had some prior experience in the matters of the heart..."
"I am not," Joanna snapped. "As if a lion would stoop down to a crab."
"That's new," Rhaella said. "This evening? What did y... I mean, what happened?"
"Oh Rhaella, you little minx, wouldn't you like to know? She smirked only to regret. "Stop turning red. Damn- you have an imaginative mind. We talked. Just talked."
"Much to my disappointment," Myriah added, sighing. "His uncle was there. The old fool should've left when I..."
"No, no, I don't want to hear!"
"I'm teasing, Rhaella. Nothing unseemly happened. Your future husband's maidenhead is intact."
"Maidenhead? Future husband? What..."
"Stop, Myriah, you're going to break her mind," Joanna groaned.
"Relax. Myriah's just teasing," she muttered, then glared. "Aren't you, Myriah?"
"Couldn't help it," Myriah smirked. "But seriously, we only talked. Trade and numbers...you'd be bored."
She shrugged. "Still... he is a beautiful man. And I don't say that lightly."
Joanna took a deep breath. "Why am I not surprised."
But something in her voice had changed. She seemed angry.
"What happened, Jo?"
But she wasn't listening.
She kept muttering to herself, almost under her breath.
"That bloody upstart… how dare he- threatening… thinks too much of himself. So what if he's got a little coin now… threatening the Rock as if, I will, I will...that Tarbeck whore is almost here… no, no...Jo, calm down...but how can I? Ugh, I hate him. Tywin won't even…"
She trailed off, then muttered again, "But Caspian is handsome too… giving them all gifts but not me? Am I not...?"
Joanna downed the goblet of wine in one go. With it, a few words escaped her lips...soft, a whine, a child's complaint. "Father…"
Myriah was sure her friend was going through something. She wouldn't tease her.
Not now.
Rhaella looked stunned, watching her pet lioness drink and mutter, completely unsure of what had just unfolded.
She leaned closer to Myriah and whispered, "What's wrong with Jo?"
Myriah had an idea. It looked something like a crab.
But she didn't say anything.
She reached for her own goblet, eyeing her favorite Dornish red...just a little out of reach...only for Joanna to grab it and chug that down too.
Myriah stared. Then reached for the jar instead. Empty.
"Gods," she groaned.
She clapped her hands, and a maid scurried over. "More wine," she muttered, and waved the girl off. Then she turned to Joanna, who sat slumped over, fuming and glassy-eyed.
At least this would give her practice for Doran.
"What's wrong, Jo?" Myriah said, gentler now. "You know you can tell us anything, right?"
Even Rhaella moved in, quietly stroking her shoulder, patting her softly when Joanna hiccupped.
Joanna kept muttering, more to herself than them.
"Mmm So confused… duty, love, I could've had something with Tywin. Still can, can't I? But he's always proper. Distant. That fucking book...ugh." She scowled. "I try to get him to look at me, and he goes, 'Lady Joanna', like he never even kissed me."
She laughed bitterly. "Said it was a moment of weakness, you know that?"
Myriah's brow furrowed. Rhaella's mouth fell open.
"He's a fool. Too stern. Too rigid. Why Uncle Tytos had to go and mess him up like that, I'll never know…"
She shook her head. "And now Father tells me to befriend Caspian." She spat the word. "Befriend. As if I don't see that Florent whore doing the same. Half the court's hounds are doing the same. And now Cerelle's almost here. With Ellyn."
Her voice sharpened. "I hear what they say about Tar-hic-whore. Her mother's beauty...maybe more. And I feel the noose tighten."
Joanna slammed her goblet down on the table. "I tried to be proper. Tried to speak to him like a lady of my standing. Not like the others, panting for scraps. As if I, a Lannister would beg for his attention."
She hiccupped again.
"But he gives them attention. Gifts. And not me." Her voice cracked. "Am I not beautiful enough?"
Rhaella's eyes went wide. Myriah was rubbing her shoulders.
Joanna continued, raw and fast now.
"And that name- Cerelle. Ellyn named her that just to spit on my grandfather's grave. She knows what she's doing. Naming her daughter after my aunt. A taunt. A Tarbeck's joke aimed at the Rock."
"And the closer she gets, the tighter it feels. That noose. Even I don't understand why it makes me feel this way…"
She turned toward Myriah now. "And you. Now he goes after you. My friend."
"At least unlike those court whores, I understand why. You're a princess. You're beautiful. Graceful. Sensual."
Myriah blinked.
That… was new.
Even Rhaella went uhhh with Myriah following second.
Joanna leaned forward again. "He gave you a necklace. Not a book. A necklace. And you...gods, you're stunning. Of course he did."
Myriah stared, stunned. So much there to unpack? Where to start?
Joanna being drunk? Or just finally breaking?
Why was she so obsessed with the Tarbecks? Were things worse in the west than she let on?
Could Myriah use that? Hmmm..
But then her mind caught on something else.
Sensual?
Joanna had never said anything like that before. Not once.
She kept rambling. "And bet he didn't even try anything, did he? Bet all he talked about was trade this, copper that, and taxes..."
Myriah said nothing.
Because that was what they talked about. As she so aptly put.
And yet…
She bit her lip while Rhaella continued to pat a hiccupping Joanna, who had begun to weep without quite realizing it.
Myriah's fingers brushed the necklace again, tracing the serpents hidden in the golden vines.
Yes, it had been mostly trade. Copper. Sand. Sugar. Dull numbers. Trade this and copper that, indeed.
But there were things he'd said...low, smooth, breath-warmed against her ear...that made her feel like a maiden again.
Seven hells… She was a mother now. Wedded. Bedded.
A Martell. A widow of her own making.
She'd killed her grasper of a husband and left the city smiling. The betrayal had stung, yes, but not enough to keep her from avenging it. A poison here. A scapegoat there. All neat. All efficient.
And yet-
Caspian's words still echoed in her mind. The promise in them. The heat of them.
Her knees had weakened. Her pulse had quickened.
The crab understands her too well
The room was dark, lit only by a single torch wedged crookedly into a stone wall. Shadows pooled in corners like rumors. The air was still...heavy with sweat, wine, and the general scent of old men who had sat too long in velvet.
No names were spoken. It was a conspiracy.
A conspiracy of the realm's finest plotters...
...until a loud burp shattered the silence like a dropped goblet.
"Too much hog again, my lord?" someone asked dryly.
"Bah. Too much pepper, mind you. Doesn't sit well. Makes the belly churn like shipbreaker's in a gale," grunted the fat shadow.
"Eating your brothers like that... shameful," another murmured.
"Excuse me?"
"I said...shameful- Ouch. Gods forbid someone makes a jape. Too thin-skinned for a man so fat."
"You insolent little..." The fat lord half-rose, hands clenched into pudding-like fists.
And then the doors creaked open.
The room quieted at once.
A taller figure entered, ducking under the frame with all the ceremony of a headsman showing up to a feast. Heavy boots. Broader shoulders. The kind of man who didn't ask questions before knocking teeth out.
They knew better than to test his patience.
He didn't speak. Just stood. That was enough. The room reshuffled itself without a word. Padded silks and bald spots shifted to make room. Even the fat lord deflated like an overcooked goose.
These men- these lords, schemers, and lifelong whisperers had once played power like it was Cyvasse.
Now they were playing don't get punched.
The tall lord grunted. "So… The Brunes have reached King's Landing?"
"Yes, my lord. Finally."
"What took them so long?" The voice came from a figure half-sunken into shadow, old and irritated like a boiled onion.
"Bandits, so they claimed," someone answered. "A series of unfortunate... incidents."
"Oh, lovely. Do go on."
"One of their ships went down. Nothing too serious...shallow water, no one drowned. Then their horses bolted in the night."
A snort. "That's bad luck."
"It gets better. The squire tasked with tying them up apparently tied himself to the post instead."
A pause.
"To the post?"
"Yes, my lord."
"On purpose?"
"Unclear, my lord. But they did say he'd had a little too much wine."
"A little too much? What was he drinking, wildfire?"
Polite chuckles rippled, like someone had farted in a chapel and no one wanted to admit it.
"There's more," another voice added helpfully.
"Of course there is."
"Lord Beron caught the runs near Rosby."
Silence.
Then: "The runs?"
"Yes, my lord. Violent, apparently. He's still recovering."
"So that's why that fucker's late?" another voice cut in. "Courtesy of wet farts and a leaky gut?"
"Shitting sideways off a litter?" someone added, stifling his chuckles.
The lords giggled. Not that they were any better. Half of them couldn't sit through a feast without unbuttoning something.
"It's been one thing after another ever since that incident in the bogs," the voice went on.
"Ah, the bogs. Of course. Always the bogs."
"I told him not to act so rashly," one of them muttered.
"Oh, what would you have said? 'Now-now, Lord Beron, mind the frogs and curses before galloping in?'"
"Shall we tell a fish not to swim next?" came another voice, mockingly wise.
"Don't be absurd."
"How dare-!"
"Enough." The voice said, thunderous and already done with this.
And just like that, the room shut up again.
"My lords, let's not fight among ourselves...not when the threat is nigh," another voice cut in. Cooler, more measured. "This isn't mere bad luck. It's the curse."
A few chuckles.
"Oh gods, not this again."
"I speak the truth," the calm voice pressed on...less calm now. "How else do you explain how he does what he does? Turned that shitheap isle into a gold mine in four years. Four years!"
"He's just lucky."
"You call this luck? Luck? That Celtigar is into sorcery, no doubt. Valyrian tricks. Who knows what else he's dabbling in?"
"You saw the sword he gave the king, didn't you?"
"Aye," another murmured. "Saw the prince in the yard today, wielding it. Gods."
"Cut clean through Ser Barristan's blade. Like it was parchment."
"Aerys looked like a boy again. Grinning like he'd been given a dragon egg."
"Who can make something like that? Can you? Can any of you?"
"I'd bet a million gold dragons not even a Qohorik smith could craft that. And they know how to make Valyrian steel."
"Not make, you daft sod- rework.But that just proves your point more… fuck, I need a drink."
"Me too. Arbor for me."
"Dornish for me!"
"Of course you would drink that swill."
"I swear to gods…"
"So what would you have us do?" The voice was thunder, and again the lords fell silent. "Accuse him of sorcery? Claim he keeps grumpkins and snarks in his employ?"
"That'd be a stupid move. He has the king's favor. The High Septon's too."
"Don't forget the smallfolk. And the trading guilds."
"Bah, who cares what they think..."
"Spoken like a man who's never seen a peasant riot. Did you forget what they did to the dragons in the Pit?"
A silence settled over the room. Thick and expectant.
"So," one finally asked, "what do you propose? Let him carve us up like sheep? Fleece our purses dry while he buys the king's favor and fleets?"
"No," the measured voice said again. Calm once more. "Have patience, my lords. The boglord will make his petition tomorrow." A pause. "And when he does… then we act."
"Aye. Just as planned."