ironfeather (ironfeather) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-12-27 00:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! house martell, ! house targaryen, arthur dayne, oberyn martell, rhaegar targaryen |
rhaegar & oberyn
who: oberyn martell & rhaegar targaryen
where: back in king's landing, post-harrenhal
when: right about the time of this exchange
what: a poisoned book
Though the repercussions of Rhaegar’s actions at Harrenhal were still acutely felt and his mood had not lifted despite the good news of his wife’s pregnancy and the planned feasts to celebrate it, the face that he presented to the court was kindly and impassive. Aerys’s court had long ago began its descent into madness and he had been the observer until Elia came and his own family began to take shape. Instead, in the Great Hall, he showed himself to be an assiduous counselor at his father’s side and upon the practice field, drilling of his regiments doubled.
He was a man possessed by the duties of his place; the morning with the King, the afternoons with the regiments and the evenings were spent in the long contemplation of the works on a multitude of subjects -- dragon-rearing, combat, statecraft, the histories of the Free Cities. And finally (perpetually), the Jade Compendium. There was little that drew his attention more thoroughly than the Prince that was Promised. The woodswitch may have foretold that Azor Azhai would be reborn from the like of Aerys and Rhaella; Aemon (and he, himself) may have for a time considered that prophecy to be bound up in his own birth, but the tale was spinning itself out.
Aegon. The child that would come was, he believed, conceived beneath the fiery tail of a comet. It could be the coming child -- the son that he hoped for, that he needed in order to bring his marriage back into alignment and situate his kingdom beneath a united House.
I speak now as your Prince. The damning words thundered in his head, out of time with his brisk stride, equal parts silk and steel -- Doran’s voice on parchment, the Prince of Dorne’s express command not to do what Oberyn had already done. Breaking oaths to Lewyn and betraying Elia -- for her own good -- were stains he could (would) bear, but when the head of Dorne’s foremost family and the only man he permitted himself to be ruled by said no, he could not turn a deaf ear and continue as he had done.
That he knew his way around poisons was no mere tale spread for the sake of his infamy (and vanity). Finding the one book he knew Rhaegar would return to -- again and again -- was only too easy, having involved a quiet morning in the depths of the keep whilst the king held court with his son by his side. A glistening brush applied to the well thumbed pages was all it took. So easy. Too easy.
And now?
“I would see the Prince,” was brisk and cold and thrown in the face of the white brother who stood before Rhaegar’s chambers. “Now. It’s about his wife.” A white lie -- again, too easy.
It was Rhaegar himself who, upon hearing the nature of Oberyn’s tones, shouldered beyond Arthur Dayne to permit his brother-in-law entrance to the small study. Books lay scattered across nearly every obliging surface. All but for one which was tucked beneath his arm.
“What is it, Oberyn?” he said without preamble. “What has happened?”
A swift and nimble step took him over the threshold, and with a curl of his lip as he turned back, he shut the door in Dayne’s face. Rhaegar, perhaps, would not kill him outright -- perhaps would not realize how close he, even now, was to his own death -- but the Dornish knight would try to cleave him with that terrible sword of his on the spot. Better the closed doors, hands gloved in the softest of leather lingering on the bolt before he straightened to regard his brother-in-law.
And felt his stomach twist when he saw the book the other carried.
His eyes flicked up. “She’s well. I think we are past the danger of losing the pregnancy. Do not let her exert herself overmuch and she will carry to term.” And with those words in the air, he slid forward and pulled the book free from Rhaegar’s grasp.
Without a beat of hesitation, he tossed it into the fire.
“I’m glad to hear --” before, however, Rhaegar could finish the half-formed thought that had barely made it to his palate, shock paralyzed him. Oberyn -- the Jade Compendium -- the fire. Falling to his knees before the grate, he gritted his teeth and thrust his hands within the flames to retrieve the burning parchment from the glowing coals.
Adrenaline still rode high with him and within the space of his laboured breathing, he cursed his brother-in-law; “Damn you, Oberyn -- seven bloody -- why?”
Why? -- the truth then, or some form of it: “That book is poison, Rhaegar.” Even as he prayed that the book hadn’t had time to go alight, that Rhaegar was fast enough to avoid the bite of the flame, he tore it from his hands once again. “You know it from memory, much to the detriment of my sister -- so let it go,” was a hiss as he tossed it in once more and bodily placed himself before the hearth lest Rhaegar attempt to retrieve it again.
“Poison?” His lip curled, fists balling as he took the measure of Oberyn standing between he and the tome that was to be the salvation of his kingdom. A salvation that slowly disintegrated as hungry flames leapt up and over the emerald leather cover. I am the blood of the dragon, I will not be swayed -- and one of his fists reared back, aimed for the high bridge of Oberyn’s nose.
Fear and resolve added a sharpness to already quick reflexes; Oberyn sidestepped the blow and struck out with his leg, foot darting across the vulnerable softness of the back of Rhaegar’s knee to throw him off his feet. “Let it go,” he repeated.
Focused not on his opponent but on the cover -- its gold lettering now bubbling with the heat -- he did not see the counter-attack and collapsed, throwing his hands on the hearth as he pulled himself near to the fire.
“You have no right to tell me what to do. You see poison but I see a Westeros united behind a strong and nurturing leader.” He paused, hands raised as he considered darting back into the fire. “I am trying to be a good king.”
“Stories can only lead you so far,” he muttered as he wrapped his hands around Rhaegar’s, eyes on the flames that leapt eagerly to consume the dry old vellum and the venom that coated the individual pages. “You do not need this book to be what you will be. Please, my prince.”
Briefly still beneath Oberyn’s grip, he finally tore his gaze away from the flames and dropped them to his hands. Expecting burns, he was surprised to see his skin only soot-blackened and laced with raw flesh in a few places. The book burned, and with it did Rhaegar’s furious rage, the pages upturned and crumbling which each passing moment.
“You could have taken the book. You could have lost it. You could have left it and hoped that I would forget it. Why did you burn it?”
As the pages curled in on themselves and blackened, Oberyn felt the raw urgency of panic begin to fade, leaving his chest loose and his voice low. “It seemed appropriate.” Only when the book was beyond saving did he loosen his grip, stepping back and letting his hands fall behind his back to discreetly peel off the gloves that sheathed his hands. “Let it go, Rhaegar. A good king is not held hostage to myths of old.”
“You know nothing of statecraft or king-making, prince --” But as he stepped back, Rhaegar caught the peeling of the gloves in the periphery of his vision and frowned. The book had crumbled between the heavy leather covers. “I know of no other copies of this accounting within the Seven Kingdoms -- except for perhaps in Oldtown. You have an academic bent. You wanted to read this when I was through --” A pause. “Why the gloves, Oberyn?”
“I’m sure I can withstand my own disappointment.” His smile was brittle. “Perhaps I’ll find another copy on my travels beyond the realm.” As for the gloves? Already turned in on themselves and tucked away; he displayed his bare hands, fingers splayed in the air. “I have an aversion to fire.”
“I do not.” Something wasn’t right. There is something beyond the pale of what he chooses to tell me. His brow flattened as he viewed his own bare hands, soot blackened and on the verge of blistering in only a few places. Softly -- “Let me see the gloves.”
Gloves that should have joined the book in the fire. He cursed his own stupidity, weighing his options as he shifted his weight, as though readying himself for another strike. If Rhaegar called in Arthur, Oberyn knew he would not last long -- not against the both of them, as unarmed as he was. “I thought you hated fire,” was a mutter as he obeyed, fishing the gloves out and tossing them at the other man.
“I hate wildfire.” The unnatural sheen of it, the insatiable heat -- “That’s your difference.” He caught the gloves in one hand and laid the compact ball upon his palm. With a pause, then, he smiled and began to peel them out, their supple brown leather innocuous in the afternoon light. Perhaps I was wrong to doubt.
Oberyn’s smile faltered, becoming more akin to a grimace as the gloves were opened out. “Fire is fire,” he said, but his attention was latched onto Rhaegar’s hands. Please leave them. Put them down.
“Oberyn. You understood the meaning of fire when I visited you in the Water Gardens.” The other glove, thus laid across his palm, was given to a scrutiny before they were clenched in his palm. “I think I’ll keep these.”
“No.” Flattened tone, but there was no disguising the twitch that jerked across his mouth. There was too much anger twisted into the love he bore for his brother-in-law -- so much that he would never be sure if he’d wanted Rhaegar dead or writhing in discomfort before being given the antidote, a lesson taught in all that pain -- but Doran’s word was final, and Rhaegar’s hands too raw for comfort.
Stepping close, he made to snatch the gloves away. “They’re mine.”
“You seem to fear my grasp upon them. Why?” Rhaegar’s own love for Oberyn had become wary; twisted with mistrust, as if he expected to be struck or slowly turned upon a spit. He sidestepped Oberyn and a fearsome thought took hold in the pit of his belly -- “Have your poisons reached this far?”
Damn you, Rhaegar. Suddenly gripped by the desire to laugh, Oberyn swallowed with effort, turning on his heel so that he could keep Rhaegar in his line of sight as the other moved. “And why would I wear poison gloves?”
He threw the gloves in the fire, dampening the smoking remains of the book that he threw in the fire. With his jaw set, Rhaegar spread his now empty palms beneath Oberyn’s nose. “To poison me, no doubt.” A pause. “Am I going to die now, brother?”
Only after a pause: Oberyn drew his fingers across Rhaegar’s right hand, pulling it close for a quick examination. And then the other. And then: “No. Not now.” His fingers tensed, an unreadable expression taut across his face as he pressed his lips to the rawest of the burns -- a seal of faith, of sorts. “No.”
A seal of faith that nevertheless damned him in Rhaegar’s eyes. His fingertips curled briefly at the pressure exerted on his palm before, with the opposite hand, he brought his knuckles hard against the other’s jaw. “I knew you’d come at me sideways, when I least expected it. Did you poison the book, you damnable prick?” His other hand reached for the neck -- “When I crawled on my belly and begged forgiveness for not intending to slight her. When I determined that her health and welfare mattered more than the kingdom. When I tried to be whatever kind of prince she needed. You were going to take me with poison? Without the satisfaction of watching the light leave my eyes, Oberyn? You must loathe me most thoroughly.”
Through the blood soaking his teeth and the punishing grip on his neck -- “What sort of answer do you want from me?” Insolence in his tone; he had never been the sort to admit that he was wrong, less so when he was wrong after having been wronged. His hands curled into fists by his sides, tight and hard so that he would not be tempted to grapple himself away from Rhaegar, whose anger was -- in a way -- justified. “Yes, I poisoned that fucking book. I would wash my hands, just in case.”
“And in poisoning me you would write your own death warrant; you would rob her of both of us, before our child is born. Four lives endangered.” His grip grew tighter as he forged ahead, moving Oberyn backward toward the grate. In his eyes there glittered a ferocity seldom seen; not in fear for his own life but for that he would leave behind. Elia and Rhaenys, Aegon (for in his mind he already named the child) and Rhaella. Even little Viserys -- “You selfish fucking snake.”
As though devoid of the ability to direct his own movements, Oberyn bonelessly let himself be pushed back, knowing that the heat that grew in softly steady increments was that of the fire that Rhaegar liked. “Perhaps,” he said, words thickened by the slow ooze of blood. “You hurt me. Mine. I wanted to hurt you. I was angry.”
“You couldn’t hate me more.” Finally, his arms fell from Oberyn’s neck and he fell into the nearest chair, his head cradled against his knuckles -- “And yet, you didn’t let the poison do its work. Guilty conscience?”
Another bout of black laughter was left strangled in his throat, and with a rattled breath of air, Oberyn pushed himself away from the fire, as though afraid... A crimson sleeve edged in black soaked up the blood Rhaegar’s fist had brought to soak his mouth. “Does it matter?”
“I would like to thank whichever dark part of your mind won out.” After a moment’s contemplation of Oberyn’s form sillhouetted by the fire, he finally met his brother-in-law’s gaze. “But perhaps you’re right. It doesn’t matter. What am I to do with this, though?”
His hand fell away from his lips, hanging loose as he unconsciously let his fingers drift across the maester’s links that hung as a single chain from his waist. “Do what you want.” Don’t tell Elia. “You already do.”
After a moment’s hesitation -- “And if I do nothing, Oberyn? What then?” He sat forward, laying his arms across his knees. “Will you wait for the next opportune moment? Will you try again?”
“It’s entirely possible,” lacked any note of dry humor, words flat and promising exactly what they meant. Shame her again. Hurt her again. “It depends on you.” No, it depends on Doran.
“You know I could give you to my father and never have to worry about this again.” And it was tempting. The temptation hurt him in the pit of his gut as he slowly rose. “Or I could open the door and call for Arthur.” Taking Oberyn at his word -- in situations concerning his sister and her honour -- was easy for Rhaegar. He knew that, should he elect to put the Kingdom first, he would be at the mercy of these poisons again. “But I love you, foolish prince. And she loves you.”
Oberyn accepted these truths with a bow of his head -- yes, Rhaegar could do all of these things, could decide to mete out punishment for his crime here and now and Oberyn would be powerless to stop him. He supposed this was what the mercy of dragons felt like.
“I have a bad temper.” Not an excuse, but a reason -- one of many -- for the choices he made. “Some would call me short-sighted. And she may love me, but she will also hate me now.”
“ -- you have a temper, I will inherit a fractured kingdom. This is what we were given and because of it, we have motivations. And now, we’ve both hurt her (for if she asks me, I will not lie).” His maimed hand fell heavily on Oberyn’s shoulder.
“Do not try again.”
“No.” It hurt to smile, and the expression hung twisted and painful on his lips. “And if I do, my guilty conscience will be silenced first.” A glance down -- “Clean that. I daresay Ser Dayne knows a thing or two about salves that treat burns.”
“Perhaps he does.” A pause. “I will not tell a man who forged a silver chain how to heal himself but --” His hand clapped gently upon Oberyn’s shoulder. “Get your mouth looked at. I’m sorry that I struck you.”
He drew his fingers lightly across the knuckles that had struck him. “You were right to.” And his fingers tightened around Rhaegar’s wrist only to push the other’s hand from him so that he could step beyond his reach. “I burned that priceless book, after all.”
“Violence of any sort is not right against people who love one another.” Please still -- But Rhaegar stepped forward, pressing his palms against Oberyn’s cheek, fingertips insistent upon the soft ridge behind the ear lobe -- “You must have patience with me. Know that I am trying.” And then, stepping back, his brow arched toward the fire. “I will send word to my contact and see if there is another copy.”
Pray there is not. But Oberyn merely shook his head, drawing away to settle his hand on the handle of the door that the towering white knight guarded from without. “We are all trying,” was soft and chased by a more impersonal, “Your mercy will not be forgotten,” as he pulled open the doors.
“I know --” And whether he responded to the former or the latter statement was unknown for, with a final private smile for Oberyn, he raised his voice to call for Arthur. “Ser, if you will. Prince Oberyn is leaving and I would like to have a word.”
Oberyn’s soft step and silky presence was replaced by Arthur’s more grounded, heavily armoured self, pale lips held in a featureless and thin line that did not break in movement until the door had swung shut behind him.
“You hit him.”
“ -- he needed hitting.” His hands, cracked and sooty, were held out toward Arthur as he gave his friend a concilatory smile. “I don’t want anyone else knowing about this. Can you help me with these?” A pause. “He burnt my book.”
Arthur’s lips, if possible, tightened, disapproval and concern written into every stark line of his face for all that he stepped forward to obey his prince’s request. “There are better books,” was all he permitted himself before taking Rhaegar’s hands in his to examine them.
“That’s what he said.” There must be other copies. Aemon needed a raven; he hesitated to think what the old Targaryen would have to say when the situation was enumerated. “Arthur.” His fingertips curled into his palms beneath Arthur’s gaze -- “It doesn’t hurt but I don’t want anyone to notice.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” It should hurt. If his fingers tightened over the raw-skinned palms, it was to test sensation, to push some admission of discomfort from Rhaegar’s lips, not to stifle the ever latent fear... “I’m Dornish, my prince,” he added after a moment, all too solemn. “I suppose we all think alike. They will need to be cleaned first -- sooty hands are not especially subtle.”
But there was no answering flinch. He felt the squeeze on his hands (knew that he was being tested) “ -- Arthur.” Slowly disengaging the grip, he walked to the corner and submerged his hands into a wash basin.
“As you say.”
Silence was his immediate response -- silence, and the metallic sound of his footsteps as he drew up beside Rhaegar, watching as the black fell away from the assaulted skin. In his own hands were clean linens, which he used to dry Rhaegar’s palms once satisfied that the soot had been entirely washed away. “-- you should know that your father has commissioned a dragon for the anniversary of his coronation.”
“And that is madness.” With his opinion on the matter thus pronounced (and his hands within the very capable realm of Arthur’s expertise), he shook his head. “What purpose will this dragon serve? What does it do other than shimmer --?” Though he knew -- without asking -- that there was a sinister edge to this dragon, as in all things done by his father.
Pressing the cloth carefully to the damp skin -- “It burns. It is hollow.” He let one fold of fabric fall to the floor as those that remained were draped across his forearm, his other hand seeking the pouch carried near the hilt of his dagger. “Master Rossart designed it. I heard him speaking of it.”
A wary gaze stole toward the walls and the door, as if someone could (or would) listen on the other side. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Beyond Oberyn and his poisons or Elia and her anger, Rossart was slowly corrupting his family. “What did he say?”
“He promises this dragon will sing.” Colorless ointment was dripped upon the scalded skin, frown deepening when the pain that should have emerged remained absent. “Who threw the first punch, then?”
“With the screams of perceived enemies. He feeds my father’s anxieties.” His gaze wandered, fingertips flexing as the ointment produced a faint tingling upon his skin -- “He threw the book, swept my feet out from beneath me and then I hit him in the mouth.”
Your father’s anxieties feed themselves. But Arthur remained diplomatically silent on this matter, the matter of the Dornish prince’s antics drawing the bulk of his response. “Very good, highness.”
Arthur’s silence on his analysis of Rossart and Aerys was noted but kept to himself. Ironic, then, that it was easier to talk of this altercation with Oberyn. Without the poison. “If --” He turned back to Arthur with a crooked smile. “If it went south, I would have called for you.”
“A sound decision,” was dry -- what humor lingered behind the words were directed at Rhaegar’s own (supposed) grasp of his strengths, not at the situation that had transpired behind the closed doors he guarded. “You are evenly matched.” Each hand was given a bandage, linens carefully wrapped around the wrists, then wound, once, across the web between thumb and forefinger. A dressing of some sort was unavoidable, but this was light, and just loose enough to allow Rhaegar some range of comfortable movement.
“When disarmed, you mean.” A short laugh as he turned his bandaged hands in Arthur’s grasp, admiring the work done by his friend. “It doesn’t seem bad enough to lose any motion.” He paused, curling his hand into a loose fist. And then -- “I wasn’t in any danger.”
“It didn’t go south, so I must take your word on it.” Arthur pressed the vial into Rhaegar’s hands, wondering if he realized that its contents were the same substance that the queen herself kept in stock, to tend to her own wounds and to those of her sons. “I will change them again for you tomorrow. He is understandably angry on his sister’s behalf. But you have the right to defend yourself.”
Putting the vial on the table, he sank into his chair and sat heavily -- “I had been waiting for this. He was too quiet at Harrenhal. Too under control.” And the poison. He gestured to the chair opposite. “Take the plate off, Arthur. Sit with me.”
He sat, but the plate stayed on -- a moment of respite, of friendship, was permissible, but Arthur would not slacken whilst he was on duty (though his moments of freedom were equally as disciplined). “Prince Oberyn is not the Martell acclaimed for the control of his temper. But better Oberyn than his brother, I suppose. Oberyn, at least, is ultimately powerless.”
He and Elia have that in common. The princess still did not come to him and often, if he dwelled on it, he feared for her. He feared for himself. “Indeed.” A nod. “Nothing from Doran but his congratulations on Elia’s pregnancy.”
“Indeed,” he echoed with a small nod. “That is typically Doran.” A pause. “How is she?”