CHAPTER X
The Moon and the MireMyriah woke to cold air and the scent of him still clinging to the furs.
The bed was half-empty… still warm on one side, dented where his hips had pressed deep into the mattress. She stared at the hollow for a moment longer than she should've. Her fingers brushed it once, then twice, like it might stir the moments past back to life if she touched it right.
Gods, she thought, cheeks warming, I'm blushing like some maiden come again.
She stretched slow, with a hiss through her teeth. A good ache. The kind that lingered in the small of the back and the softness of thighs. She rolled her neck and sighed, bones cracking like old shipwood.
Her shift clung damp against her skin- thin Dornish silk, red as sun-warmed blood, and no match for the chill drifting in from the balcony. Moonlight spilled across the floor like a trail of silver, leading her toward it.
The wind kissed her skin as she stepped outside. The sky above was clear, her eyes squinting as the stars were sharp and cruel. Below, the city slept in shadows, save the glint of guard torches bobbing like fireflies on the walls of Maegor's Holdfast.
No Caspian.
Of course.
Second night this week he's vanished before cockcrow. She'd start charging him for the warmth, if he wasn't paying in other ways.
She smiled to herself, wrapping her arms around her waist, though it did little against the breeze.
They weren't man and wife. She knew that. This was a tryst. A game. A dangerous one, given how that grumpy old bear of an uncle of his had almost caught them the night he barged into the solar looking for a missing ledger. She had been under the desk, half-dressed and breathless, and Caspian had barely managed to keep a straight face as he draped himself over a sheaf of maps like he'd been napping.
She'd nearly pissed herself laughing once Thoren stomped off, muttering about "feckless youth and poor bookkeeping." Caspian had claimed later he'd been "looking for troop movements." She had the bruises to prove it, though not from any campaign.
They were celebrating, after all.
And why not?
The little masterclass he'd given in court had left half the Crownlands pissing themselves and the rest clapping like trained seals. A touch obvious in places, but sometimes theatre needed a loud drumbeat to rattle skulls. Caspian was never subtle...not even when he tried. But gods, he knew how to play to a crowd.
The king had been pleased. So had the council. Even the septons had murmured favor after that last line about mercy and the Seven's judgment.
And Caspian? He'd walked away with a fat strip of Brune land and more than a few red-faced enemies.
Her grin grew sharper.
Lord Beron had humiliated himself so thoroughly, he was lucky to still have a chamberpot, let alone a lordship. Screaming about witches and sorcery like some drunk hedge knight. Interrupting the prince, no less. And questioning king's honor?
She shook her head. "Stupid bog-crawling bastard."
Aegon had been merciful. Too merciful, perhaps. If it were her holding the crown, Beron's head would be feeding crows outside the gate by now. But Aegon wasn't her. He was… softer. A dragon without dragons. Trying to rule a realm of wolves with a shepherd's crook.
A fool's game. But maybe a necessary one.
Caspian had his victory. His lands. His pound of flesh, as he called it. But more than that, he had momentum.
The Faith loved him. The smallfolk sang his name. And even the nobles...at least the clever ones had begun to sidle closer.
She still couldn't believe it when Lord Massey and Lord Darklyn turned out to be in the plot. Massey, maybe... He was always sniffing for coin. But Darklyn?
Even she'd thought he was on the other side. He'd played the fool well.
But then again… it made sense.
Didn't it?
She found herself replaying it again.
Not the trial, the theater had ended hours ago...but the quiet after it. The moment after the crowd had roared and bowed and whispered and cursed. When the performance faded and the real men in the plot stepped forward.
Myriah sipped her Dornish red, curled in the corner of the solar's pillowed bench, one leg bare to the thigh and swaying lazily in rhythm with the breeze. The wine was rich, full-bodied, and dusted her lips as she watched her lover do what he did best.
Plot.
Gods, she loved that part about him. All Dornish.
Caspian hadn't celebrated. Not yet. No wine to the ceiling, no smirking toast. He'd merely rolled up his sleeves, called for parchment, and begun mapping the next dozen moves while the lords of the realm were still reeling from the last one.
Three men sat around him, each more unlikely than the last.
Lord Massey, lounging with his usual smug detachment, sipping wine like he was born in it.
Lord Darklyn, tight-jawed and bitter-eyed, still radiating the residue of public scorn like a wounded cat refusing to bleed.
And finally, Redward. The crimson septon- Red of robe, red of beard, real name Edward...though Caspian had never called him that once.
"Truly, a performance," Massey was saying, swirling his cup with theatrical grace. "You could've been a mummer my lord… or a whore, if you ever fall short on coin. That part with the kneeling soldiers? I almost wept."
Caspian didn't look up. "You would know all about that, wouldn't you, Massey? And for your information, they meant it."
"Of course they did." Massey's grin faded. "That's why it worked."
Darklyn grunted. "We made a fool of a lord on royal grounds. That's going to ripple."
"No, he made a fool of himself," Caspian said. "We just gave him the rope."
"You gave him a stage," Darklyn snapped. "And now every backwater fool thinks Crackclaw is the bleeding heart of the Seven's justice. It's not. It's half-bog and full of halfwits."
"Which I now own more than half of," Caspian replied dryly. "Funny, that."
Myriah hid her smile behind her cup.
Redward kept to the corner, quiet, crimson robes swaying as he bent over a ledger.
"…They'll accuse you again," Darklyn muttered.
Caspian didn't look up. "They'd have to admit they were wrong the first time."
Lord Massey snorted. "No lord likes to be seen as a fool. Even fewer like to risk it twice, that too so publicly."
Darklyn's hand twitched near the hilt at his side. "You made me stand in court and scowl at you like a petulant child."
"I made you rich," Caspian said, deadpan.
That shut him up.
Massey, ever the smoother blade, rolled his shoulder. "Aye, and you'll make us richer. Brune's lands were half salt, half swamp, but that inlet's perfect for a second drydock. Build a road through it, and you shave half a day off the haul to Duskendale through Rook's Rest."
"Exactly." Caspian stepped back from the map and finally took a sip of his wine. "The trial gave us cover. Beron's little tirade made me the villain, dragged every grievance into the light. And I answered each one. So now, when I expand into Crackclaw proper...funny enough, doing exactly what he accused me of- who's left to cry foul? I build granaries, forts, claim old Dyre Den tributaries… and the same lords who watched Ser Rogar confess on his knees will nod along like it's just."
Darklyn's scowl deepened. His voice was quiet now, flat and cold.
"Gods be good. You are a snake."
"And the king?" Massey asked, his voice lower now.
"He's appeased. Thinks he's found a champion in me...and in truth, he has. I believe in the same things he does, at least where the smallfolk are concerned… but I still got my reparations. And for now, he gets a happy vassal who is willing to champion his attempts at giving the smallfolk a better life, starting with flea bottom-"
"-That's all well and good, but what about us?"
"You?" Caspian smiled. "You keep playing your parts. Massey stays above the fray. Darklyn scorns me in court. You keep your seats with the old guard...the anti-Celtigar dogs sniffing for weakness and when they whisper? You listen. You delay. You report."
Darklyn's mouth twitched. "You want me to spy for you."
"No. I want you to profit. Which, by some cruel twist of fate, requires listening carefully and speaking ill of me in public."
A pause.
Darklyn exhaled, bitter. "The king still won't grant me a city charter. He bends to peasants, not to loyal lords. Duskendale rots while King's Landing gorges and now here I am, bowing and scraping to a crab's tune…"
"I know," Caspian said, voice low. "That's why I'm building the port. More ships, more trade. You get your cut...same as always. Enough to soothe that bruised pride, my lord."
Darklyn rubbed his jaw. "Still don't like you."
"I don't like you either," Caspian replied, mild as milk. "But we're in the same boat. You hate me, I hate you... and yet here we are, afloat on the same tide."
He raised his cup.
"Float with me."
When the lords finally left- Massey yawning into his sleeve, Darklyn muttering curses about charters and southern trade… Caspian waited for the door to shut before turning to the septon.
"Well?"
Redward bowed his head. "Brune's name's already mud. Beggars call him a coward. Fishwives say he's cursed. The story's running faster than we thought."
Caspian folded his arms. "And the sermons?"
"Bryen's covering Flea Bottom. I've got the merchants. We've placed copies in four healing houses so far. Tailored to the sick and poor. The Blessed Crab, champion of the meek- facing down greedy lords, scheming traitors, corrupted bloodlines."
Myriah lifted a brow. "Little on the nose, isn't it?"
Redward let a smile slip. "The nose is what they smell with, my lady."
Caspian chuckled. "Then let them sniff righteousness."
"The tone's careful as you instructed," Redward went on. "Not too loud yet not too quiet. Righteous but not foaming. Clean enough they can't call it heresy unless the Faith's ready to turn its back on the poor."
"They won't," Caspian said. "Not where anyone can hear."
Redward gave a final nod. "As you will, my lord." Then he turned and padded off, boots quiet on the stone.
Myriah watched him go, then looked back at Caspian, her head tilted, eyes sharp.
"That was him, wasn't it? Same man who stood up in court. Spoke first."
"Aye."
She snorted. "Could've fooled me. Looked like a septon."
"He is a septon," Caspian said with a shrug.
"Holy?"
"Holy enough to do the work. Loyal enough to do my work."
She laughed under her breath, rolling her wine in the cup. "A proper crab-man, that one.. isn't he?"
Caspian leaned in and kissed her brow.
"I only keep the best."
She looked up at him, half amused. "Mm. Then what they say must be true."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You trully are an evil sorcerer."
Caspian grinned, brushing her hair back from her face.
"Aye, my lady... I guess I am."
A breeze slipped in through the balcony door, cutting cold across her bare legs and dragging her out of the memory.
And now her sorcerer was gone. Again.
Not in his solar...she'd checked already, of course. Last time he pulled this vanishing act, he wasn't there either.
Maybe he was busy. That ridiculous project the king had saddled him with...cleaning up the literal shithole that was Flea Bottom. His grace had been clever about that. Caspian couldn't refuse without looking like a hypocrite, not after making a name for himself as the great champion of the smallfolk. And Caspian? Gods knew he didn't want the job, but he'd taken it. Eventually. After who knows how many rounds of small council haggling behind closed doors.
Lord Staunton had walked out fuming. So had Lord Jason. And Caspian hadn't been smiling either. Which meant they'd bled each other dry in the negotiations...every coin, every clause, every concession wrung out and fought over.
And now Caspian was stuck in King's Landing. At least until the framework was in place.
Sad for him. Lucky for her.
It meant longer nights. Entertaining ones... Who would've guessed the crab knew so much about pleasure? Ahem.
She grinned to herself.
And it made the game much sweeter...sneaking around, dodging sweet Rhaella and smug Joanna. A thrill every time.
But now, with him vanished again, the thrill curdled just a little.
Was he with someone else?
Her fingers drifted to another necklace he'd given her. A pendant... cool silver with little rubies, crab shaped- still hers.
Her spies hadn't reported another woman. Not one. All they ever said was the same-
"We lost him." "He disappeared.""Couldn't keep up."
That didn't comfort her. Not one bit.
Fuck.
Another torrent of filth poured from a cracked latrine chute above, just missing him. Caspian rolled to the side, shoulder scraping stone, breath coming in short, sour bursts.
Dug too far up again. Shitstorm from above… literally.
He wiped muck from his cheek, scowling into the dark. Somewhere beneath him, something squelched ominously. A rat? A corpse? Didn't matter.
He was in too deep now.
They were calling it "the Flea Bottom Redevelopment Initiative" in council. Grand words. Lofty phrases. "Reclaiming the dignity of the capital's poorest."
He called it what it was: plugging the city's asshole before it shat itself inside out.
The top-side effort was all show...his men offloading timber and stone at the docks, carts trundling through the alleys, banners posted at crossroads. A nice performance for the nobles and the king.
But Caspian was beneath it all. Literally.
While they smoothed things on the surface, he was tunneling under the mire...Minecraft-style, as the gods intended. A pincer approach: nobles saw roads and scaffolding rising above... but below, he was carving a sewer spine straight to the sea.
Crude, but it worked.
He could've designed a full treatment plant. Maybe even a filtration system with drainage gates, proper brick linings, the whole dream. He could've.
But fuck it. He was lazy. Efficient, not virtuous.
"A pincer approach," he repeated as he swung. "Surface works for show. Subterranean works for flow."
And him?
He was doing it cube by cube.
He could finish the whole thing in hours. Hours. But that would break their brains in half. Watching him carve out perfect pieces of the world like it was cake? Watching stone crack into neat little boxes with every swing?
He did not wanna risk it, not even now… with the 'divine blessing' shite.
So he lied. Hid it. Dug in silence, in shadow. Let them think it was manpower, planning, sweat. The illusion mattered here more than the truth.
He took another swing. The iron pickaxe groaned. Green bar already gone. One last crack, and the handle snapped.
Shit.
He dropped it, popped out a stone one. Cruder. Slower. Honest work, or close enough. Could've used the diamond one... beautiful thing really! It would be way easier and faster, but it felt wrong.
You don't waste diamonds on shit.
That's how you get smited… and he had already done enough to warrant such-
He hefted the stone pick. Kept digging.
Eight minutes. That's all the invisibility potion gave him- and lately, he'd burned through more than he should've. Paranoid? Maybe. Smart? Probably. Hard to tell these days.
Eyes were always on him now. That much he expected. But everywhere? Spies in the alleys. Whispers in the septs. Merchants staring too long. Even little kids watching him like they'd been told to.
Gods, he was tired. Everything felt loud… even the silence.
It made things harder, sure. But not impossible.
So when he'd slipped out again in the middle of the night- potion still on his tongue, he had eight minutes left of being a ghost. Long enough to vanish from his chambers and slink into the tunnel… his creation- hidden beneath the holdfast.
No one could follow. No one even knew it existed.
Down here, it was just him and the shit. Peaceful, really… once you stuffed your nose with cotton. And perfume- never forget the perfume.
He cracked another cube from the wall. Neat. Precise. Quiet. Straight into his inventory... Yuck.
The tunnels were growing fast...a secret skeleton under the slums.
Soon he'd have the whole thing threaded to the sea. Hidden, of course. A secret only he would know.
He'd finish this stretch, then vanish back into the Keep preferably before Myriah woke.
He didn't want to risk her waking without him there. Didn't want to risk her ire. She'd probably think he was off dicking some serving girl. Would've made for a better excuse than this...wading knee deep through piss-tunnels like some cursed mole.
He grimaced as another drop of sewage dripped perilously close.
A bath. Definitely a bath. Then some health potions. Last thing he needed was to die of dysentery like some nameless hedge knight.
Another crack. Another tunnel cleared.
Caspian wiped his brow, pushed forward, and muttered under his breath-
"Long live the lord of shit."