Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by
The Necromancer of Westeros
Chapter 01: Welcome to Westeros
"Quickly now," my master shouts, a severe frown on her face as we rush to gather what little we have time to take. I suppose we grew complacent, so far removed from civilisation. Our practice is seen as the highest of sin in the eyes of the Mother and her followers, and even so deep in the wilds, the Mother's fanatics are always a threat.
The sound of combat from outside grows closer, and I know we're losing. Solaris Crusaders are cleaving their way through our forces. Self-righteous bastards, who are we harming? Yes, we use undead but the bodies we used are either animals or bandits and outlaws, no civilians, no innocents. My master insisted on that much, but I doubt the zealots crushing our forces are going to give us a chance at an honest trial. Their Goddess forbids necromancy, so any practitioner deserves death.
Working on the ritual circle, I see my master finish packing our most valuable belongings. Five books, tomes of knowledge that my master has gathered over the many, many years she has been practicing our art.
The door bursts open, but only a fool charges into a necromancer's lair so boldly. The door has three different Death Wards on it, and the first group of paladins fall before they even cross the threshold, their divine protection failing against my master's magic.
It's times like this that I remember that her peaceful studies were entirely her own decision. She's mastered all five of the branches of necromancy, and if she wanted conquest or destruction, entire kingdoms would have fallen before her.
A Crusader, empowered by their Goddess, charges through and over the corpses of his allies without hesitation, hammer glowing with divine light. He gets two steps into the chamber before my master gestures and severs the man's soul from his body, the body falling as the soul shrieks before it is sucked into the active soulwell. Fools, all this death is only empowering our ritual.
"Master, it's ready," I shout back, watching as she awakens the blood in the veins of the next group, boiling it within their veins. At the same time, she tosses the pack to me, ancient knowledge and forbidden magic throw like a sack of potatoes. "But there's not enough power. The souls are too weak to activate the transportation ritual."
"It will be fine," she replies simply, with such utter confidence that I can't argue. I am a mere novice before the master, after all. She's never been wrong before. It is only then that I realise that I'm not standing in a single ritual circle, but two. To bind two rituals together so flawlessly… I'm in awe of her talent. Any one else two tried would just end up with two ruined circles, at best, and a truly epic explosion at worst, and most likely.
The second is not made for teleportation, but is instead some form of spiritual spell, no doubt from the Liber Animas. I can't work out the specifics, but it seems to be made to consume souls to feed into the first ritual circle, empowering the ritual through sacrifice. No wonder she's not worried about the Soulwell lacking the power for this, if she's planning on sending a wave of necrotic energy to rip out the souls of our attackers. There's a binding component as well, a modified Trap Soul. Even still, by my calculations I don't think there's enough attackers to-
…you crazy old bastard, what are you doing?!
Before the word can even leave my mouth, she activates the second ritual circle and I realise exactly why she wasn't concerned. Sure, the souls of these mad paladins are of little value for a ritual of this immense power but… the soul of a millennia old lich is a different matter entirely. My pack feels heavy, and it is only then that I realise that the crazy fucker put her own phylactery in with the books.
A phylactery that I distinctly remembered travelling to the other side of the world, through shifting sands and burning hot heat, to bury beneath a desert. DId she send me all that way and then pick it up the moment I was gone?!
Perhaps I should be more concerned that my revered master just dropped like a puppet without any strings, but I know her too well to think she'd actually sacrifice herself. Death is the final end, to be avoided no matter the cost. No, she's scheming something and I can only guess what as the circle begins to glow, a wave of sickly blue light pulsing from the room as the fighting outside stops in an instant.
I asked her why the transportation circle was so complex once, but her answer was vague and mischievous because she finds the idea of making me work things out myself far too enjoyable to explain anything. It is only as the spell begins that I realise that wherever she set as the final destination, it's not on this continent… or this world.
I truly do serve a mad woman.
But I see her logic all too cleanly. If traveling to the most abandoned, cursed forest in the world, as far from civilisation as possible, wasn't enough to escape the crusaders, then we need to go even further. It's the kind of logic only a truly brilliant (and insane) mind could come up with.
But, as my master shamelessly flings me into another world, I can't help but notice something she has perhaps forgotten. She will be out of commission for potentially years, if not decades, and she forgot to tell me the plan! I don't know where she's sending me, or what she wants me to do when I get there. I'll be in a foreign land, with no knowledge of the local ecosystem with nothing but a pack full of forbidden knowledge and a gem housing my sleeping master.
At least in this world I know each kingdom, their cultures and religions. I know what is safe, how to blend in, how to avoid detection when amongst the mortals… but I'll be blessed if I can even speak the same language as wherever I'm being sent.
For what seems like the thousandth time in my apprenticeship, I can't help but curse my master as the ritual banishes me to who knows where. I should have kept studying to become a doctor. My life was so much simpler before it turned out my academy teacher was an ancient necromancer.
I'm lying, of course, because as I am transported away from the danger, I can't help but grin excitedly. It takes someone just as mad as my beloved master to have kept up with her for so long.
– Edward Mercer –
My master did not design this ritual for comfort, evidently, as I am deposited face first on the hard ground. My head is spinning, my mind dulled, but my senses remain strong. And isn't that a shame when my first introduction to this new land is the worst smell I've ever had the misfortune to be in the presence of.
And I work with corpses daily.
Stumbling to my feet in what seems to be some dark back alley of a town of some sort, I force down my reaction to the stench and look around with tired eyes. Today has been a long day, and I'm not even close to being able to rest.
I'm in a strange land, with no resources or allies, and a bag full of questionable literature. One of my books is written in human blood, and actively lusts for more blood. Another is made from leather created with the human skin. Not exactly things I can explain to the common man as I brush myself down. In my pack, a purple gem lies dormant. I can sense her soul within it, exhausted and drained of most of her power. She won't be waking up anytime soon so I'm on my own here.
…So, where is 'here' exactly?
I don't have time to answer that question as the noise I made landing draws attention, the dirty looking men turning the corner and spotting me.
"Oi! You lost, milord?" one of them asks mockingly, a toothy grin… made less toothy by three missing teeth.
Well, I can understand him at least. Milord? A society with nobles, then? Not too different from home. I can understand their mistaken belief, because I do dress better than the common man, with a silken white shirt and a black tie and waistcoat. I am not from nobility, but I do come from a wealthy merchant family.
"I'm afraid so," I say softly, well aware of the danger as the trio look at my expensive clothing, my leather pack and then to each other with looks that wouldn't pass for subtle even if I was blind and dumb. "I don't suppose you gentlemen know the way to the nearest library?"
"Library? Ain't no library in Flea Bottom, milord," one laughs, as another pulls out a dagger. Damn it all. You couldn't have picked a nicer destination, master of mine? "But you must be tired, carrying that heavy pack without your servants to do the work for you. Lucky you, to find us. We'll take that weight off your backs, quick now."
"Don't try anything, you rich cunt. Drop the pack and any valuables, and you can be on your way," another says with a snarl. Ha! As if I was born yesterday. I know the types enough to know they won't risk letting some highborn with a grudge get away to send whatever passes for law enforcement down to their gutter to kill them.
"Gentlemen, this really isn't the best idea. Why don't we go our separate ways, without any unnecessary bloodshed? I'll be happy to depart your alleyway, and we can forget we ever met," I offer, holding up one hand as another moves to my waist.
"Get 'im," toothless says, as the one with the dagger rushes forwards. Well, I tried. Words fly from my mouth as I gesture with my free hand, watching my would-be murderer stumble as I inflict paralysis on his leg, sending him tumbling down. I don't hesitate, moving forward as I go over him and rush the second closest, toothless himself. Before he can grasp at his waist, my other hand moves and my scalpel finds flesh, slashing through his throat in an instant.
"He's a fucking witch!" the third shouts in fear, turning to flee but… knowledge of my powers brings attention, and I don't have a lair, defences or anything to keep me safe. They started this, and I value my secrecy more than his life. With an incantation, I gesture again and hit him in the back with a sickly green ray, his flight slowing as even the effort of reaching the end of the alleyway becomes exhaustion. With Ray of Enfeeblement slowing him, he doesn't get away before I close the distance and grab him, pulling him back and stabbing my scalpel into his neck.
I am a surgeon. I've studied the human form in great depths, both during my academic studies and my new line of research. When we travel, I travel as a wandering surgeon and I've survived scrutiny from nobles and licensed physicians with my skills. I know how to save a life… and by extension, how to end one.
Returning to the paralysed fool, unable to move as the paralysis spread across his body.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want this but you forced my hand," I say softly, kneeling down as I take his dagger and stab it into his chest, bypassing his ribs to sheath it in his heart. Not the best start, as I look at the blood splattered onto my shirt.
Gesturing again, I whisper an incantation as I cast 'Lift Bloodstain'. It's a beginner spell from the Kroveri Haema, the grimoire of blood magic and vampirism. I've never been the best with Blood Magic, but I can do this much as the blood flies from my clothes and hovers above my hand. Normally, this is used to place the blood into containers for use in other spells, but for now I just splatter it over the already bloody man at my feet.
I believe it's time to be anywhere but here.
– Later –
I am in King's Landing, in the Kingdom of Westeros. It is the year 281 AC, meaning after the conquest of King Aegon the Conqueror, first King of House Targaryen. It is the reign of King Aerys the Second, a King even the common- sorry, the smallfolk whisper as Aerys the Mad.
Tywin Lannister has retired as the Hand of the King in protest for his son and heir being made a Kingsguard, a position that required him to give up his title and swear to father no children and take no wife. Everyone agrees that while Tywin is a cruel man, he was effectively the only thing keeping the Kingdom running and without him, matters are expected to get far, far worse.
And how do I know all this?
"What's it matter if we wash or not? Some of the men like the smell-" one of the charming whores of Silk Street asks, as I once again try to explain the importance of basic hygiene.
"It has nothing to do with them enjoying the smell, my dear. Germs are deadly things, unseeable to the human eye, but ever present," I say with a long suffering sigh. My master would be laughing loud enough for the Crusaders in our home world to hear her if she knew that I, Edward Mercer, surgeon and mage, have gotten a job as a brothel doctor.
"Are you like, a maester, milord?" one of the girls asks.
"I have not studied at the Citadel, no. They do not have a monopoly on knowledge, however. And as I have said, I am not a lord," I correct. The ancient knowledge of the Promræn Caro, the tome that holds the secrets to creating life itself, and teaches the art of fleshcrafting, put to use in dealing with sexually transmitted diseases.
I can't complain, in truth. My employer, a charming lady named Chataya, is most generous in allowing me to stay and paying for my services. Her tales of the Summer Islands are fascinating and she does not dig into my past. Most have assumed that I am an exiled highborn, and the girls have found much fun in guessing what terrible thing I did that caused me to be banished from my family.
In return, I do my best to combat the diseases so common in this line of work, assist with births and abortions both, and heal the girls when a client leaves lasting damage. Rare in Chataya's establishment as she cares for her girls and takes lengths to protect them, but not unheard of with some of her more cruel highborn clients that are too connected to be refused.
I have been in this land for one turn of the moon, at this point, and already my name is becoming known amongst the brothel girls. The Street of Silk is lined with establishments like this one, such as the 'Blue Pearl' and 'Mother's', and Chataya is a cunning businesswoman who has made sure to get all the value she can from me by trading my services to other brothels in exchange for favours, connections, value or even girls.
I do not mind, nor blame her, it is merely logical for a business owner to get value from her investments. She is taking a risk with me, and I have done my best to live up to the trust she has put in me. With her providing room and board, it has allowed me to build up some savings, though I am far from wealthy, and it also gives me a safety that I would not have elsewhere as Chataya runs a tight ship and her guards keep the riff-raff out and ensure that the peace is kept.
I did, however, make a minor mistake. One of the girls at Blue Pearl was having issues with her pregnancy and I realised that a regular birth would almost certainly result in her, and likely the baby's, death and as such I did my best as the performing physician to ensure the patients' health and realised what needed to be done, cutting open her stomach and womb to retrieve the baby and stitching her back up, saving both mother and child. I did cheat slightly, using fleshcrafting to mend the flesh more cleanly without leaving any outward sign of magic, but the operation itself was almost entirely mundane and something any licensed surgeon from my world would be capable of. It is a known, if risky, form of birth that is common in my world.
As it turns out, my world's medical knowledge is far ahead of even what the so-called Citadel is capable of. Such a method of birth was unheard of, until I so casually performed it.
I, in the month I have been here, have a 100% success rate in births and abortions.
That is not normal for brothel doctors.
Still, if nothing else it means the girls are starting to listen to me about the importance of hygiene in their line of work. Mostly because Chataya listened to me and she won't allow them to be lazy and spread diseases through her brothel if there are alternatives.
But I can't deny that I fear the attention my growing reputation will bring. The smallfolk certainly don't have anything against me, but I know nobility and scholars enough to know that Highborn and Maester attention is inevitable.
Perhaps it is arrogance or the oaths I once took as part of my medical education speaking, but I am not the type to stand by and let patients who placed their trust in me die for the sake of keeping myself low profile. For now, it is generally assumed that I am a well-travelled man, despite my young age, who learnt my trade in Essos or even further afield. I have remained tight-lipped about my origins, but the girls do not dig too deeply despite their curiosity.
I think they enjoy making up tales too much to get the real answer.
As the girls are distracted from my lecture by Chataya's call that the food is ready, as Chataya insists on communal meals each day before the night shift begins, I chuckle softly and rise before noticing one of the girls lingering around.
Ali, or Aliandre, is a dark-eyed and caramel skinned Dornish girl, very popular with the clients and one of the stars of the brothel. She's named for a Dornish princess, apparently, and has many tales of her home. Entirely used to this, I wait for a moment as the other girls clear out, getting a grateful smile from Ali.
"What do you need, Ali?" I ask patiently.
"I've- umm, well, I'm starting to get a rash, you know, down there-"
Such is the life of a brothel doctor. Time to work my magic, both figuratively and literally.
– Some Time Later –
It happened in the latter half of 281. Several months into my time in this place. I saw the signs before anyone else, I think. In my world, we call it dysentery, but here it is simply the Bloody Flux and once it started, it spread fast.
Some people called it a curse on King Aerys' reign. Others claimed that without Tywin here to handle the day to day ruling, things like hygiene and any attention at all to the smallfolk went to Casterly Rock with him. I simply think it is the result of terrible waste management, overcrowding and filth.
To my pleasure, the Streets of Silk remained a clean haven because the girls have had me rambling in their ears about the importance of hygiene for half a year. The result before this was the reduction of carnal diseases but when the Flux began and the girls realised that almost none of them were getting sick, it didn't take long to put two and two together.
King Aerys gave the outbreak exactly zero attention. He boldly announced that Targaryens, Dragons, were immune to such common diseases and as such they were not his problem. The new Hand of the King, a Lord Owen Merryweather, lacks the knowledge on how to handle an outbreak and from gossip, his only real talent is flattering the Mad King and avoiding being burnt alive. He simply sealed the Red Keep to keep the smallfolk disease with the smallfolk, abandoning the city to its fate. Some say he tried to get the King to send for Maesters but failed as Aerys is descending into increased paranoia.
The Gold Cloaks, who are what pass for guards here, fled the sick parts of the city and have barely been seen since. People will naturally look for leadership in times of crisis, and when their highborn and king abandon them, they look for someone else.
In this case, they looked to me. It started simple. A girl from Mother's came to me with tears in her eyes and a plea on her tongue as her son had started showing signs of the Bloody Flux, which kills three out of four fully grown men. Half of Chataya's brothel was ready to drive her out for having been in contact with one of the infected, but Chataya stopped that and took me aside.
I could have said 'no, I don't know how to treat this' and it would have ended there. We could have hidden in the Street of Silk while the city was overrun with plague. I chose to become a surgeon to help people, and my Master, for all her reputation, shared my mindset. There is a reason we never used villagers or peasants for our experiments, and entire diseases have been wiped out by her studies and magic.
I know how to cure the Bloody Flux, even without magic. Students of Fleshcrafting, those who have learnt from the Promræn Caro, are amongst the greatest healers of my old world. And also, the most terrifying foes as they can craft plagues as easily as they cure them. In the studies of the secrets of life and how to warp flesh, every practitioner becomes a surgeon by necessity.
While technically a form of necromancy according to the Solaris religion, the Promræn Caro deals in the manipulation of living flesh and it is a necessity to know how the body works to be able to properly utilise it. There is a reason my master was posing as an academic doctor, teaching a university course, when I met her.
At its base, Bloody Flux is simply caused by contaminated food, unclean drinking water, and poor hand hygiene. I've been pushing the demand for clean water and hand washing in the brothels, to some success (far more now that Chataya's remained untouched by the disease). It kills through severe dehydration and nutritional depletion, but that works against it.
If the water is tainted, and the disease makes you need to drink more, you drink more tainted water and make yourself even worse. It is not the insurmountable disease that some see it as, but this world lacks a basic understanding of many things my world saw as common knowledge.
Firstly, it became clear that the wells are tainted. Likely as a result of sewage seeping into the water, but the smallfolk see the water is clear and assume it is safe. Teaching them to boil their water to kill the bacteria in it was not as simple as I would have hoped but my word seems to carry weight now. I would have liked to use some salt and honey water but both are expensive things that most can't afford. Chataya was able to get some for one of the girls who fell ill, at least. Boiling their linens was the next step, especially underclothes, bedding and towels for the sick.
Quarantining the sick was no easy task, either. Luckily, while the crown seems to have abandoned all reason, the Faith has not. I don't trust the High Septon's intentions, especially as he has remained deep in the Grand Sept of Baelor in 'deep prayer' and I am not exactly fond of religions after my experience with the Solaris faith but they have started to pull their weight, taking over a large building and turning it into a sick house. They've also been instrumental in gathering supplies, including lye soap and salt. Most agree the High Septon is doing this for political reasons but either way it has been instrumental in containing and combatting this plague.
With a cloth over my lower face, I calmly clean my bloody scalpel with a sigh. Another successful operation. The worst cases become my problem, as the closest thing to a medical expert the smallfolk have access to, and… well, I'm openly cheating at this point.
Death magic can kill more than bandits.
My cauldron, used for 'boiling water' has a tiny death rune carved into it, killing the germs with absolute certainty. All my tools have the same, too small to harm anything bigger than an insect but enough to purify it of disease. Finally, my 'operations' are mostly just an excuse for me to fleshcraft my patients in tiny ways, reducing intestinal bleeding, strengthening the damaged tissues,
I still have a 100% success rate on my operating table.
"The Mother bless ye, milord, bless ye a thousand times," the father of my most recent patient says, and I have to hide my amusement at his words. Maybe this Mother is more understanding than mine, because the Mother of my world wanted me very dead. Honestly, I wish he'd stop thanking me so I can explain the after-surgery steps his son will need.
As they finally leave, a voice distracts me.
"You remain ever uncomfortable with blessings, for a worker of miracles," the Septa who assisted me says. Many of her fellow Septas would be offended, but Lemore just looks amused.
"I'm a man of science, not faith," I respond simply. "An understanding of medicine is not a miracle."
"True enough. Perhaps instead, the miracle is that you studied your art, found yourself in King's Landing before your skills were needed, and possessed the personality to heal with no promise of pay," Lemore points out, but I refuse to be dragged into a theocratic debate over how the Gods work through us… again. Mostly because I always feel like I lose. "The Citadel sent another messenger. They are… requesting that you document your methods, for future outbreaks, and not so subtly demanding to know where you studied."
"I am not at the whims of the Grey Rats. Demand all they like, my secrets are my own," I say, my tone clipped. I am usually more diplomatic but the gall of the Maesters to expect me to write a treatise on my methods during an active outbreak so they can store it away in their Citadel of Knowledge, while doing nothing to actively aid the situation.
"You are worldly enough to know that answer will satisfy none. Not the highborn lords or the Citadel, not even the Faith," Lemore points out. "You are safe, for now, because nobody who is entitled enough to demand answers are brave enough to risk their lives in a plagued district. Once the Flux clears, and with your teachings, it is clearing, they will come with honeyed requests and iron-fisted demands."
"And I might just have time to deal with that when the worst clears up," I counter. "But until then, they can fuck off and stay fucked off."
I am usually more eloquent, but this has been a long month and my patience is at an all-time low. Hells, it's been a long several months. I've barely had time, or the privacy, to practice my true art. Fortunately, I always had an affinity for fleshcrafting over the other four branches, and that is the one I can practice the most in my current guise. A modified Gentle Repose does wonders for preventing wounds from growing worse, and Inflict Paralysis is just as useful as an anesthetic during surgery.
The medicine of this world is far behind my own, and trying to recreate what I can with my current resources is both a challenge and a hobby. If I intend to continue my goal of mastering the secrets of the Promræn Caro and creating the legendary Potion of Khizaz as I was doing before this… relocation, I will need to master this world's herbology as I had once done with my own.
The Potion of Khizaz is one of three ultimate secrets of the Promræn Caro, a source of immortality that lacks the many downsides that most methods, including my own masters Lichdom, have. It is far more tasteful than the path of the Devourer, and I found the idea of creating the legendary potion more tempting than the other alternative which is immortality through cloning. I rather like this body, and would like to keep it.
It is said that the Potion of Khizaz transforms the drinker's body to their very peak in beauty and performance, returning them to their ideal youth and preventing them from ageing and protecting them from any and all illnesses. Any wound that does not kill you outright repairs itself. It's not perfect as the drinker can still be slain, but my plan was to create the potion and then make a clone to house my spirit should the worst happen.
Death remains the final enemy, to be defied in every way possible.
I think the most tiring part of this entire situation is the simple truth that I know the Cure Disease spell. It's merely a tier three spell from the Promræn Caro, and I have since mastered the basic tier four spells and began working through the tier threes. I even know a single tier two spell, Rejuvenate. Cure Disease could wipe out the Bloody Flux with laughable ease. A wave of my hand and a muttered incantation and I could both remove the disease and undo the damage it caused.
In my old world, I have done exactly that as a travelling surgeon and healer.
In this world, it would have the Faith and Maesters calling for me to be put down. The Maesters of the Citadel claim the magic in Westeros died with the dragons, and the Faith of the Seven sees magic as a heretical practice. I have to do all this the hard and exhausting way because the smart and safe way would cause too much attention.
A single cast of Rejuvenate can heal just about anything besides death, including regrowing entire limbs. Instead, I am forced to pretend my skills are limited to prevent the ire from men who think they know everything there is to know. It rankles my pride to hide so, but as I said. Death is the final, ultimate enemy and my master is relying on my discretion as she sleeps in her gem. I've felt some minor rejuvenation from her gem, but even when she's ready I'll need to prepare a new body for her.
Again.
To prevent it from being stolen, I placed it in the one place I could guarantee no nosy visitor could find. Within my flesh. It is only a small gem, now stitched into my own stomach and hidden where nobody will find it as long as I draw breath. The other tomes I've had to simply keep in my room for now, with some simple runes to defend them.
Undead and spirits cause a feeling of… discomfort in the living, their mere presence is a deterrent. I have no undead, but replicating that feeling with necromantic energy is easy enough to convince the brothel girls not to go digging through my pack, and the Reunu Pertemru contains the ancient secrets of the oldest form of necromancy. While it primarily deals in the art of mummification, the Reunu Pertemru being the first work on necromancy, it also includes the curses the mummies and their priests were known for. I have placed a curse of hallucination upon my pack, which simply makes my tomes look more… mundane to those under its effect.
Better practitioners could do far more with their curses, but it was never my focus. A Curse of Slavery would ensure that anyone who tried to steal one of my tomes became enthralled to my will, but I am far from the tier two spells in the Reunu Pertemru. I was looking into a certain tier three spell but never mastered it. Regeneration is not a healer's spell, rather it allows the caster to drain the lifeforce from others to rapidly heal themselves, and I thought it would be useful to add to my repertoire.
"Milord! Come quick, please!"
"I'm not a lord- oh, I give up. Who is next?" I ask with a tired sigh, shaking off my musings.
Back into the fray, it seems.
– Some Time Later –
I was not honoured for my deeds in preventing the spread of the Bloody Flux. I didn't expect to be, nor did I wish for the Mad King's eyes to be upon me, but while the King remained arrogant and paranoid of a stranger in his city, the smallfolk did not… agree.
It is funny how small things can cause such a stir. The High Septon credited the halt of the spread to the Seven and the work of the Faith. The King didn't care and called it all irrelevant when compared with his own problems, which seem mostly imaginary as the King descends further into madness. The smallfolk, however, took offence at that.
The riot lasted three days, and had the King call for my death as a result, even though I went out of my way to soothe the smallfolk myself. Only, he used the wrong name and then went back to being paranoid about the Great Houses plotting against him, so nothing really came of that beyond some Gold Cloaks storming around the Street of Silk looking for an Edwin before leaving.
Then, things went back to normal, only now the girls don't complain when I lecture them on why they have to clean after every client, rather than just at the end of the day. The world moved on, as it always does, the sun rose on a less-plague ridden King's Landing (I'm not a miracle worker and beyond burning the entire city down, I don't think anything could truly cleanse this bafflingly badly designed city).
I wrote the treatise on the Bloody Flux, which was given to the Grand Maester and since sent to the Citadel. I was offered a chance to study to become a maester. I turned them down, and they've ignored me ever since.
Lemore told me that the Citadel feared I was some form of blood mage, or a Red Priest in disguise, practising magic within King's Landing. With a formal treatise explaining everything in terms they understand and can replicate, I've been demoted back to a merely talented surgeon wasting his life working in the back of a brothel.
The highborn attention never came either, for one simple reason. Nobody wants to be in King's Landing because if they arrive, Aerys could decide they came to kill him and decide to burn their entire family alive. The word from the Red Keep gets more unsettling with every passing week. It feels like there's a new equally horrifying story coming from the castle every other day. Aerys, despite ordering my death, has served as an amusing shield against unwanted attention. King's Landing is too perilous for most these days, and if the King hears that any of his courtiers are trying to do business or hire the surgeon he ordered killed, they're next on the pyre.
So, when a hooded figure with an armed man by her side arrived at the brothel, I could be forgiven for assuming that it was just another highborn here seeking pleasure. Sure, it was a woman this time but that was hardly uncommon. The Faith has… opinions on homosexuality, but I see highborn daughters and wives vanishing into backrooms with beautiful girls every week. I'd say two out of ten clients are female, and Chataya's Brothel is not a place that most can afford.
So, I do as I always do. Keep my eyes to myself and make myself scarce. With the taboo added onto the fact that they are visiting a brothel, I find the highborn ladies prefer that as few people acknowledge their existence while they are here as possible. I have no desire to cause embarrassment and Chataya appreciates my discretion in all matters.
And it saves the embarrassment of having to explain that while I do work here, I am not in fact for hire for such services. Not only is it an embarrassing conversation for both sides, it can cause… ire in such clients who hoped for my 'services'.
It's happened three times so far. Having to explain to a very drunk, and very married, older woman that I am, in fact, not a manwhore, is not an experience I would like to repeat. At least none have caused too much of a scene so far. The other two were closer in age to me, indulging in some rebellion of their own beyond their fathers' eyes. They were both too embarrassed to make a scene, and found other company soon enough anyway.
Within my inner sanctum (a backroom that has become my 'clinic', quite the downgrade from my former lair), I focus on my reading in the rare moment of downtime. The walls in Chataya are not exactly soundproof, but I have since grown numb to the moans drifting in through the walls and ceiling, zoning them out to read the Promræn Caro. So, I won't deny that the knock upon my door within what feels like moments, causes me to sigh audibly as I put my book away. Which girl had a client with a disease, this time?
Opening the door, I pause at the sight of the same hooded girl, her upper face hidden by a veil but enough features on display that I can identify her as Dornish.
"May I take a moment of your time, Lord Mercer?" she asks, her armoured guard giving me a challenging look as he leans against his spear. His look screams 'say no, I dare you' and I pause before sighing.
"Despite certain rumours, I am not from a highborn family. I am certainly no Lord," I explain, seeing a hint of embarrassment on her face before she hides it. "But you may, as long as this is a medical matter. The services I provide do not extend to the usual fare Chataya's establishment sells."
She laughs softly at that, and I step back to permit her and her handsome guard entry. He's Dornish as well, dressed in expensive red armour and moving with more… swagger than one would expect from a bodyguard.
"I suspect rather a lot of people would take offence to me hiring someone for… that," she agrees.
"Maybe you should, anyway. Your dearly beloved didn't seem to mind favouring the wolf instead of you," the man says with a snarl, a flash of rage crossing his face before it falls back into a handsome grin. "And I have heard of the wonders Chataya has on sale."
"Oberyn," she warns, getting him to raise his hands in surrender, looking far too amused. "My apologies for my brother, Edward. Oberyn, why don't you go and enjoy those wonders, rather than lingering around like a bad smell?"
Oberyn goes to refuse, before he gives me a long look that promises that I won't make it out of this room alive if anything happens to this girl.
"Perhaps I should, I've heard there is a blonde of truly impressive beauty and charm," Oberyn admits, rubbing his chin.
"That would be Marei, I suspect," I answer his unspoken question. "I believe it is her night off, but if you request her and can pay well enough, I'm sure she'd love a chance to prove she lives up to her reputation."
"Then I leave my dear sister in your hands, Surgeon of Silk Street," Oberyn says with a mocking bow. "I expect to get her back in the same, or better, condition."
He doesn't need to add the 'or else', and his sister sighs as Oberyn swaggers off. His spear remains resting against my wall, a reminder of the threat.
"My apologies, my brothers have always been protective of me and recent affairs have only made matters worse," she explains, lowering her hood now that we are in the privacy of a closed room, her veil removed. "I am Princess Elia Martell, wife of Prince Rhaegar."
"I see. I have to admit, I didn't expect a royal visit, certainly not one that didn't end with me burning alive, at least," I point out, and Elia simply sighs.
"My goodfather has long since forgotten you exist. He burnt alive someone he was vaguely convinced was you, and put the memory out of his mind," Elia admits with a frown. "I am not here at his behest, nor do I intend to inform him of his mistake. I am here because I fear for my life."
"Are you sick, My Lady?" I ask, giving her a closer look as she pauses.
"Sickly, perhaps. I was born too soon, and my health has forever been delicate as a result. But I am not diseased, no. I am with child, my second. I barely survived the birth of my daughter, Rhaenys, and the Maesters warned me that my body would be unlikely to survive a second birth," Elia explains softly. She is wearing a heavy cloak, but with her pointing it out the pregnancy bump is noticeable. I would estimate six months, at the most. She isn't close to giving birth, at least. "They claim you can work medical miracles. That no mother, or child, has been lost under your care."
"I am trained in the medical arts, and you have heard correctly. I have yet to lose a patient to childbirth," I admit, wondering if I want to get involved with this. "But surely the royal family has access to the best medical care, already?"
"You would think so, but Queen Rhaella has suffered several miscarriages and stillbirths in the care of those same maesters. It was a close thing with my Rhaenys, leaving me bedridden for half a year. I will not gamble on such odds with Aegon, when there is someone who has a far better record," Elia replies with such firmness that I can't bring myself to argue. For a woman with a frail body, she does not have a weak mind or will to match it. "They claim it is Rhaella's own weakness that led to it, but they claimed the same about me when I almost lost my daughter. I wish for you to examine me, to tell me what my chances are and what I can do to improve them for myself and my son, and oversee the birth of my child. Do so, and you will have the favour of House Martell. Should you desire it, my brother, Prince Doran, will set you up with a clinic in Sunspear itself, away from Aerys' madness. I have my husband's blessing to approach you, as Rhaegar does not share his father's insanity, and he swears to protect you from even his father should his son be born safely."
Getting involved in politics is always a poor decision, damn it. And yet, can I let such a chance pass me by? I don't want to go to Sunspear, as I have begun to place roots here in King's Landing (and I can't handle hot weather, embarrassingly), but gaining the favour of one of the Great Houses is no small thing. Ali's tales of House Martell and Dorne were certainly impressive.
"If that is your desire, My Lady," I agree calmly. I have not turned down a single patient in my time here, and see no reason to start now. I won't achieve my dreams in the back of a brothel, no matter how nice, and a powerful patron could change much.
Still, I can only hope that King's Landing remains relatively calm, if I am to begin to dip my toes into the highborn society.
Author's Note: lol said the Mad King, about to start Robert's Rebellion, lmao
Yes, yes, I know. Anyway, I am not sorry, I did nothing wrong, and I will do it again.
This is using the Necromancer CYOA by the Scientist. I've used it a little in some Kuro fics and with Rowan, but I wanted to do a fic that fully focused on it with no other system or stuff involved, and Westeros is a fun playground. Besides, starting here means Rhaella, Elia, Ashara Dayne and others are still around. Though many of the usual main cast haven't been born yet.
Margaery will be born first out of them, in 283, along with Jon Snow and Robb Stark. After that, it is Dany herself in 284. Time will be moving much faster in this fic, obviously as a year almost passed in chapter one, so we might see them yet.
Written: 26/06/2025
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by
The Necromancer of Westeros
Chapter 02: Patronage
— Princess Elia Martell —
She knew that many would see her plan to use a back alley doctor working from a brothel for the birth of the heir of the Iron Throne as absolutely insane.
Aegon would be King, after her husband. He should have access to the greatest of medical treatment but… she was fairly certain that was exactly what she was getting for him.
It wasn't just a matter of doubting the expertise of the maesters who almost lost her Rhaenys, who did lose so many of her goodmother's children.
Dorne was one of the 'seven' kingdoms but they had, perhaps due to their own fault, never truly been accepted. Few were pleased to have a Dornishwoman set to be on the throne. Even her goodfather, the King himself, refused to be near Rhaenys as she 'smelt Dornish'. Few outside of Dorne would mourn her and Aegon is some… tragic accident befell her during childbirth.
And who would look twice? She was a frail, weak woman who almost died during her first childbirth and was told a second would kill her. If anyone wanted her gone, such as the Lannisters who made no effort to hide their desire to put Cersei on the throne, Aegon's birth would be the perfect moment.
Maesters claimed impartiality. That they merely served their castle and did not have political ambitions. She did not believe that for a moment. Anyone with eyes could see that Pycelle was Tywin Lannister's man. She wouldn't entrust her safety to someone bought by the man who would benefit the most from her demise.
She had sent some of her servants to get the measure of Edward Mercer. Nobody could place his accent, beyond him obviously being very well educated. They couldn't work out where he was from, what House or kingdom he originated from, if any. He was a mystery, his past erased. Even Varys was forced to admit he had found nothing on where Edward came from before he appeared in King's Landing.
No gate guard recognised the description, no ship claimed to have brought him in. Nobody had heard the name before, only vaguely remembering a handsome, far too polite, lordling enquiring about local businesses that might be interested in the services of a doctor before he found his way to Chataya's brothel.
She knew she was taking a chance. She was hoping that unknown translated to neutral, given his efforts to keep his head down even after he arguably saved King's Landing.
One of the only solid pieces of information she had on him came from one of the whores who asked him why he'd do all that work for nothing. Over a month of long days, gruelling work, risking his own health for no promise of wealth or glory.
Edward had simply replied that he'd taken an oath during his training to become a surgeon, and didn't intend to break it. Which meant he was trained somewhere but that remained one of the bigger mysteries. The pieces he'd let slip that she'd gathered made it clear that he'd studied at some great place of learning under tenured professors, excelling at his studies.
But if such a place existed, she had no idea where to find it. That was more promising than most would suspect, because if he was truly from beyond their borders, he wasn't tied up in their politics either.
She'd even read his treatise, studying his methods in the hope of getting an idea of where he studied. Which foreign nation did his techniques best match. The answer? Seemingly none of them. No nation in the known world used the same techniques that Edward spoke of as if they were common knowledge.
He was a man who should, by right, be serving in a royal court, kept by the side of a powerful patron. Doran would certainly have kept Edward close, well paid enough that he wasn't tempted to wander. She imagined most Great Houses would do the same for a doctor who could work miracles and had a perfect childbirth rate. Disease was the army killer, and having someone who could so effectively combat it was worth more than a hundred knights in plate armour.
It was driving the Citadel mad, she knew. Wherever he studied made the Citadel look like butchers operating with dirty greataxes. Somewhere out there, an institute existed that made the Maesters seem inept and they couldn't stand it.
And yet, they ignored him for the same reason the Great Houses did. Nobody wanted to trigger Aerys' latest bout of paranoid madness. She was certain the King had since forgotten that a plague even happened to begin with, but with everyone treading carefully, even those who knew of Edward's location hesitated to try and approach him.
But Dorne wasn't known for their caution. Doran would disapprove of the risk, wanting more information. He did disapprove and she and Oberyn had told him a fraction of what they knew. He'd hate the risk she was taking if she hadn't… carefully worded her letters to him.
Oberyn only approved because he too didn't trust the maesters of King's Landing and Aerys wouldn't permit her to return to Dorne for the birth of Aegon. It was telling that she'd rather make that long and arduous journey while pregnant than trust the maesters here.
There was one person who agreed wholeheartedly, and Oberyn would be baffled to learn that her biggest supporter in this was… her husband. But Oberyn didn't understand Rhaegar. Oftentimes, neither did she but sometimes she wasn't even sure Rhaegar fully understood Rhaegar.
His dreams kept him tossing and turning, and he'd even moved to a different bed not because they were distant but because as a frail, pregnant woman, she needed every night's rest and Rhaegar waking her with his dreams- his visions- was detrimental to her health.
She went to him with her idea, and it had been like a bolt of clarity had hit him. Months of dreams he couldn't understand clearing in an instant. He was sure Edward had a part to play, though he admitted he didn't know what that part was. Even still, Rhaegar trusted Edward with his heir and promised to handle his father for reasons only he truly knew.
He was perhaps the only man in the Kingdom who could say they would 'handle Aerys'.
She just hoped that whatever he was doing in the Maidenvault didn't distract him from that promise if Aerys learnt of where she was and what she was doing.
Returning to Chataya's, she appreciated the secrecy involved. Chataya's brothel had an old secret tunnel, made by a Hand of the King who didn't want people to know of his visits, and the proprietor had revealed its existence once informed of her identity and the fact that she would be visiting Edward multiple times.
She had only had a very brief check-up during her first visit, as she couldn't be away for too long, but she'd found a better time where her absence would go unnoticed this time.
"Your Highness," Edward greeted, his eyes flickering to behind her. It wasn't what was behind her that surprised him, but what wasn't as her guards were nowhere to be seen. They were here, of course, but she didn't need them looming over her during this. "Please, take a seat."
"Doctor Mercer," Elia greeted, using his preferred form of address. It was an odd one, but the more she played into his habits the more he might let slip about his origin. She hadn't missed his repeated insistence that he was not a Highborn, but no smallfolk spoke with such eloquence and grace. Whoever he was, wherever he was from, he had clearly grown up in high society.
She didn't miss the multiple books scattered around his sanctum, quill and ink resting on his desk. They had no title on the front or binding. She recognised the type as a blank tome that was sold by a local trader. Was he filling that many formerly blank books with medical knowledge?
On another table, glass vials bubbled with a liquid she didn't understand. Glass was not cheap, and she doubted Chataya paid that much, even after the Bloody Flux. He must be spending every copper star he got his hands on to fund his research, and that was clearly what he was doing. Was that why he was willing to accept her as a patient? Whatever he was doing, it clearly wasn't cheap. She could pick up the scent of herbs that she couldn't place, and her agents (Oberyn, mostly) told her of whores from the street of silk buying herbs from merchant ships. Edward was wise to keep his head down while his name and face fell further out of Aerys' ailing mind.
"I've had time to consider your issue," Edward admitted, rubbing his chin. "And from what you have told me, you were already lucky once. Princess Rhaenys was small at birth, and for that you were extremely lucky. Simply put, your early birth has led to you being underdeveloped in several places but the most damning places are your waist and hips. Your organs are likely being crushed by the growing Aegon, and your hips are simply not wide enough to support an easy childbirth."
She knew this, though she hadn't considered what her growing child was doing to her insides. It had been repeatedly pointed out that she did not have 'child-bearing' hips, as part of why she was unfitting as a wife for Prince Rhaegar. People cursed her as they believed her weakness, her frailness, would be passed onto her children.
"The Maesters were right to warn you that your body was unlikely to survive a second birth. I have my methods, of course, but the world of conventional medicine has its limits," Edward warned. "This will be a dangerous birth, regardless of the operating doctor."
Studying Edward, she noticed something. She was a Princess, raised in highborn society where lies were as common as greetings. One did not survive without learning how to spot when someone wasn't telling the entire truth. His face twitched at the word 'conventional', distaste colouring his tone for a moment.
"If I wanted conventional, I would have stuck with the old greybearded maesters. Conventional is too dangerous, and I won't risk Aegon's life," Elia replied, watching him closely. "But you are not a conventional doctor, are you Edward?"
Edward didn't respond for a long moment. Another member of royalty might take offence to the 'disrespect' of his silence, but she merely watched him. He was restraining himself from something, though what she did not entirely know.
"Doctor Mercer, I want to be very clear. I do not care what methods you have to use, unconventional or outright heretical, as long as you can bring my son into the world, healthy and safe," Elia continued. He had a good mask, but once again he reacted… to the word 'heretical'. "No regular surgeon could do what you do. Nobody can save every single patient without a touch of the unnatural. Am I correct?"
"Perhaps," Edward admitted. She paused, because that single word was said with a coolness that briefly made her freeze. It was cold and dark, and something in his eyes changed. She knew when dangerous men were pretending to be something else, and Edward was, without a doubt, a dangerous man. He hadn't so much as blinked at Oberyn threatening him, either. "But do you know what you are asking?"
And the game was on.
"I'm asking you to save my life, and ensure my son is healthy and untainted by my frailty," Elia replied plainly. "You are no Red Priest, nor an Asshai Shadowbinder. The Maesters claim that magic is gone from the Seven Kingdoms, with the death of the dragons, but you've already proven that the Maesters don't know half as much as they claim, haven't you?"
She had her suspicions, and Rhaegar's dreams had only intensified them. She did not believe her husband mad. Haunted, perhaps, but not mad.
"My master has forgotten more than their entire order has ever learnt," Edward replied with a wry laugh. "Nobody knows all there is to know, not I, and certainly not the Citadel."
"I don't need you to know everything. I just need you to know enough to deliver my child safely," Elia repeated plainly. "So I will ask you plainly. Do you know of a way to ensure that the birth goes smoothly?"
"I do," Edward admitted, and for a moment he smiled. The weight of having to keep his true skills a secret, she suspected.
"And what is the cost? Blood magic?" Elia asked, her tone hushed. To her surprise, he laughed derisively.
"I've heard the stories of what this land calls blood magic, but it is pathetic. I know practitioners of the art that would drain the so-called warlocks of every drop for daring to sully the name," Edward admitted with a dark smile. "My methods need no sacrificial lamb, or offered blood. I remain a doctor, and I won't take one life to save another, even to save a royal life."
There was a certain pride, a certain smugness, in his words. It was the type she saw in Oberyn when he saw other people trying to use a spear. The certainty that he was better in every way. Edward certainly had opinions on what Westeros saw as magic.
"And you? Are you a practitioner of blood magic?" Elia asked, highly curious more than anything else. Perhaps it was that curiosity on her face that convinced him to answer.
"Barely. My mentor mastered the art, but it was never where my skills lied," Edward admitted. "My talents lay with the art of fleshcrafting. You're right, I couldn't have saved everyone with merely my medical knowledge, talented as I may be. What I do have, is enough talent as a doctor to hide the magic."
"Fleshcrafting?" Elia asked, the phrase repeating in her head. At least the name was self-explanatory. Did he work flesh and bone like clay? It would explain why all his patients left in perfect health if he could command their bodies to heal. "And this art could ensure Aegon is born safely?"
To her surprise, Edward laughed at her question, arms crossed as he smirked slightly. Again, it was the look of someone incredibly proud of himself.
"Safely? I could make him superhuman, even in the womb. Stronger, faster, superior in every way. I could heal the frailty that has cursed your every step in minutes, turn back the passage of time until you looked like you were barely on the cusp of adulthood, empower your every sense," Edward admitted. "It has been… frustrating to limited so. Pretending the best I can do is merely mundane."
"But if I walked out here with the body I was supposed to have, we'd both be seen as heretics by people who don't understand your powers," Elia pointed out, even as her heart ached for him to do exactly that and damn those who would judge her for it. "Is this a common art, where you are from?"
"It's rare, and met with mixed expressions. My art can harm as easily as it heals, and the major religion of my land forbids it as they see the flesh as belonging to the Gods. Still, healers are welcome in most places. It is one of the more accepted forms of magic," Edward admitted. "I spent much of my life as a travelling healer. The Bloody Flux is a plague I've stopped half a dozen times across the land, though we call it Dysentry."
"And that religion is why you left? You can't quite hide your distaste for the Faith, and I know bitterness when I see it," Elia pointed out, getting a laugh from him.
"The Goddess that condemned my practices is called the Mother. So, I wasn't entirely amused to arrive in a new land only to find another religion condemning magic with another Mother," Edward admitted with a shrug. "Though the Faith of the Seven has proven more tolerable than the Solaris Church, even if I wonder if that is because they lack the militant arm to enforce their doctrine. The Church of Solaris had its own magic, and Paladins, a form of holy knight, to enforce their beliefs. My Master and I bothered no-one, studying our art in an empty corner of the land, and still they decided to kick down our doors and slay us for our 'heretical practices'."
"Did they kill your master?" Elia asked softly, but to her surprise Edward laughed again.
"As if they could," Edward snorted. "No. She is just fine, though not exactly 'around' either. But you didn't come here to discuss my past, curious as you may be. You came here for a miracle."
"I did," Elia agreed. "My husband is to be King, and Aerys' health is rapidly deteriorating. He barely eats anymore, paranoid of poisonings, and he is withering away. The reason nobody has risen in rebellion over his insanity is because most are simply waiting for him to drop dead."
It was treasonous talk, the kind Aerys would have her tongue ripped out for, but she did not say it idly. Edward had revealed knowledge that could certainly get him into trouble. Not kill him, as he was too confident for that, but it would force him to flee King's Landing if she exposed him. She was simply returning the favour because as a Princess and future Queen, she liked the idea of having a Fleshcrafter by her side.
She was a descendant of the Rhoynar, and Dorne had never been as negative towards magic as the rest of Westeros. She was not one of the Dornish who called themselves the Orphans of Greenblood and clung to their Rhoynar heritage desperately, but Dorne had many Red Temples and Edward wasn't demanding she burn anyone in flame to heal herself. More so, her husband was a firm believer that magic was not as gone as the learned maesters claimed and she truly believed that his visions were not merely madness.
His comment about making Aegon superhuman stuck with her, the idea that Aegon would not merely be spared her illness but granted the strength to survive whatever Rhaegar was sure was coming to threaten the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.
"My husband knows I am here, and he will protect you from the Faith and the Maesters, if you can deliver on your word," Elia continued calmly. "More so, we will sponsor your research into your art."
His comment on the fact that he and his master were studying far from civilisation told her a lot about his goals and desires. She had no doubt that if he wished for power, he could have taken it by force by now. For all his skills, he'd settled for being a brothel doctor, experimenting in a backroom. That didn't mean he wasn't ambitious, merely that his ambition was aimed at something other than political or economic power.
– Edward Mercer –
Revealing this much was a risk, of course, but there's a simple reality that I know all too well. People in power always want more power. Despite the power of the Solaris religion, pretty much every royal family had some form of magic user under their patronage. Why wouldn't they when Blood Magic can empower entire bloodlines, Fleshcrafting turning their princes into warriors unequalled with Reinforcement. Every old royal looks for a Fleshcrafter capable of using Alter Age at some point.
My Master is a prideful woman and refused to accept anyone's patronage, but I am not her. I lack her power and her pride. She could afford to laugh in the face of royalty because they couldn't do anything to stop her. I, however, am in an alien world with little resources or support.
And the simple truth is that if I don't get access to more resources, more gold, more everything… it'll be decades before I can produce my master a new body in this backroom. I need a proper laboratory, a lair from which to work my magic. She offered to have House Martell set me up in Sunspear, but I suspect that she and her husband would prefer me here, at their command.
To grow my master a new body, I'll need a proper vat and the materials to create the liquid the body will be grown inside. It takes time, care and proper attention to grow it properly, and I won't present her with a substandard, malformed body. It'd be an embarrassment, to say the least. But I can't put a giant brass vat in the back of Chataya's and hope nobody notices the humanoid figure growing in it.
I need my own space, and royal protection would allow me to work in privacy. Aerys is a madman, but I won't cower from some delusional king with an ailing mind and equally rotting body.
Telling Elia as much, I smile wryly at her agreement to make me a clinic right here on the Street of Silk. Rhaegar gave her permission to negotiate and promise things on his behalf, speaking of a far closer relationship than one would expect given the rumours that he put her aside for a Stark girl.
"The only question then, Your Highness, is how far you wish for me to go. I could do the bare minimum to ensure that the birth goes smoothly. I can swear, here and now, that you will survive the birth and Aegon will be born healthy," I say, seeing her smile. "Or I can work to return you to the looks you rightfully deserve, undoing the damage your early birth did to you. One is far more noticeable, so I leave it in your hands."
"...I should take the first, but I refuse. The Gods cursed me with this… frail form, where a short walk leaves me gasping for breath. I want the body I should have been born with. I want to be able to see myself and not feel ashamed," Elia says, head held high. "You have an idea of how to hide your magic, I take it? You've been doing this far longer than I."
"I do. As I said, I hid my magic during the plague by disguising it as simple medical talents. We will 'reveal' the truth, that I am an alchemist from a foreign land. The Alchemists are accepted within King's Landing, even having your goodfather's favour," I point out, seeing her nod along. "Therefore, I shall disguise myself again. A surgeon and an alchemist, with a focus on brews that affect the body. Rather than do it all in one go, I can create… placebo potions to disguise the spells as I heal you, stage by stage. As I said, the main concern is your narrow hips and fragile organs, by focusing my attention there I can promise you a smooth and safe birth. That, I can do before you leave tonight. Internals are easier to hide, as few have reason to be examining your lungs or heart."
"What do I need to do?" Elia asks plainly.
"Disrobe, please," I ask in my most professional tone. She pauses for a moment, before she calmly reaches up and pushes her dress from her shoulders, stepping out of it as it pools at her feet. With equal calmness, her underthings are discarded and before long, the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is standing before me bare and exposed. I have to admit I'm mildly surprised at how easily she did that.
"Come now, Doctor. Given your promises, I hope you know where babies come from. From the moment I made my request, I knew that you'd be seeing me in my entirety," Elia points out at my look, and I just chuckle in agreement.
My eyes rove over her form, but not in lust but with an analytical eye. Her breasts are barely noticeable, not quite flat but certainly close despite having given birth. She must have had to use a nursemaid to breastfeed her daughter. Equally noticeable is her ribs, visible through her incredibly skinny chest. Her skin is unhealthily pale, as her illness has forced an indolent lifestyle as any exercise could be fatal. For a Dornishwoman especially, she's far too pale from a lack of sunlight. She must stay indoors most of the time. No real muscle to speak of, not even the small muscles that would be made from regular walks. She's been cursed with an uncomfortable and difficult life, truly. It's a miracle that her daughter was born, and no surprise it put her in bed for months.
"Lie down, please," I say, gesturing to my bed. I don't have an operating room, and she won't want to be seen outside of this room so I can't use one of Chataya's, so the Princess of Dorne will have to settle for my bed. Watching her do so, I approach with a frown as I place my hand on her stomach gently. "Your organs are worse than I expected. I suspect the birth you already survived made your condition worse?"
"It did. I've always been short of breath, but after Rhaenys was born even a small staircase feels an impossible feat," Elia admits with a scowl, directed at her own body. "I had to be carried to even make it here."
"During your next visit, you'll arrive on your own two feet," I swear, focusing as I pump some of my magic into her atrophied organs. She lets out a gasp, feeling my magic. It must be an alien sensation as most people are not used to feeling anything from their organs. I don't go overboard, restraining myself as I encourage healing and growth in each organ. At the same time, I slowly begin to do the same with her flesh. She doesn't grow to anything that would be seen as above average, but her ribcage disappears and her breasts grow to a small handful. More importantly, I ensure her womb grows with her to give young Aegon more room to grow. It's a curse, because her size means he's been equally crushed. I suspect Rhaenys is small for her age, and will grow to similar sizes to her mother without intervention. Elia's face upon my observation pretty much tells me that I'll have a second Princess patient before long.
Elia watches in silence, her eyes transfixed on her body as her hips grow just a little wider. If she keeps on a modest dress, it would be hard to notice just how much she has changed. Her skin has a slightly healthier sheen, though she'll need more sunlight to maintain it.
"Rise, please," I say, stepping back. There's a part of me that demands I perfect her, but I hold back.
"I came for a miracle, and it seems I found one," Elia says, her tone soft and awed as she examines herself.
"You'll need regular exercise, but your lungs have been restored and you should find daily walks a far more tolerable experience. You also need sunlight, two hours a day at a minimum. An unhealthy mother will only lead to an unhealthy child," I lecture, falling back into my typical doctor tone. "...your diet could use a change as well. Too much red meat, not enough white. Fish would be good."
Elia blinks in surprise, before she giggles which slowly becomes genuine laughter. I don't think she has realised that her laughing is causing her now more noticeable breasts to bounce slightly as she hunches over for a moment before she catches herself and wipes a tear from her eyes.
"I am sorry, Doctor Mercer. But you sounded like my father," Elia admits, getting herself under control.
"Then he was a wise man, whose advice should be heeded," I say, head held high. "But the point remains. I can return your rightful body to you, but it will fall to you to keep it. I will be… displeased if you come back to ask for me to fix what was caused by pure indolence. You need to eat more, around three times as much to be frank. Your body lacks the nutrients that Aegon needs. I have healed the damage, and given him more room to grow, but a proper diet is essential to a healthy life."
"Understood, Doctor," Elia agrees as she rises before she freezes. "I… believe we have forgotten a small issue."
"Oh?" I ask, watching as she picks up her dress and tries to put it back on. The issue becomes apparent instantly as she fails to fit into the body that was clearly custom-made for a smaller Elia. "Ah."
We stare at each other for a moment, before she starts giggling again as I call for Chataya. I have many talents, but clothing is not one of them.
— Bonus Scene — Brandon Stark
He didn't want to ride south. No Stark did. They didn't belong down below the Neck, and nothing good came from one of their blood leaving the North. History had shown that again and again.
And yet, what choice did he have but to ride for King's Landing after the so-called Silver Prince abducted his sister?! Many whispered that Rhaegar would be a fine king, having not inherited his father's madness but would a sane mind abduct the daughter of the Warden of the North?
Lyanna was shocked and baffled by Rhaegar's attention at Harrenhal, but nobody thought much of it beyond the insult to both House Martell and House Baratheon. It was strange, insulting and downright confusing but… nobody thought it would lead to something like this.
He didn't know why Rhaegar and his thugs had taken Lyanna, but by the Old Gods she had better be untouched, in every way, or he'd spill dragonblood upon the ground and see if it was as hot to the touch as they claimed.
He doubted it.
Author's Note: Whoopsie, rebellion time.
Written: 14/06/2026