ironfeather (ironfeather) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-10-29 13:11:00 |
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Lewyn Martell’s life was made of deceptive simplicity upon which his niece and nephew had wrought unceasing complexity. When his niece’s husband crowned the Stark girl, he stood mere feet from his nephew and observed each muscle tense in the process. Rhaegar Targaryen was a stupid boy who did not deserve the flower of his own House’s garden nor did he understand the long line of stubborn, prideful people who made the family he now married into. The prince’s life, whether he knew it or not, was at stake.
As soon as the King retired for the afternoon and his watch was taken by another of his brothers, he sprang for the rooms that were allocated to Oberyn Martell and his retinue. Three swift, sharp knocks upon the door and then his voice, loud and booming --
“Open up!”
It was the boy, Quentyn, dark-eyed and swarthy, who answered the summons, opening the door so that he could insert his slim body within the sliver of space -- and in doing so, bar the entry of another simply by taking a step back and slamming the door with one quick twist of his wrist. His youthful face, so often creased with the merriment that the Dornish retinue seemed to thrive on, was now sallow and drawn with concern. He very probably did not mean to flinch at the sound of rattling metal (a sword being drawn, or armor being buckled upon a willing body?).
“No one’s to come through.”
“You are an adroit servant to your master but I will not be barred from my nephew.” His hand fisted in the quilted doublet as he pushed the boy backward. “I am not no one, Quentyn.”
Before the unbalanced boy could think to form words, a growl emerged from the far end of the room. Oberyn, very much caught in the heart of a black rage, emerged from the doorway that led to his own private chambers. “Quentyn, you shit-eating little f--” The sight of his uncle stopped him short. “Oh. Lewyn. Good.”
“Lock the door, Quentyn. Permit no one to enter.” Lifting the boy by a degree (if he lost his feet in the process, it was no matter for Lewyn’s grip was strong and steady) to move him aside, Lewyn faced Oberyn and laid his hands on the breadth of his shoulder. “Have you had anything to drink?”
A terse nod sent Quentyn scampering back to his post, and as the grind of metal signified the room was once again secured against the rest of Harrenhal’s occupiers, Oberyn sneered in his uncle’s face. “Drink? This piss they serve up here? Don’t make me laugh.” He fell back by a step, hands making a quick and steady assessment of the assortment of long knives that had been spread on the table for his inspection.
“Don’t say what I know you’ve come here to say.”
“Then don’t make me say it,” Lewyn said smoothly, moving to stand at the opposite side of the table in observance of that which held Oberyn’s interest. “You will be dead if you move against him, before you can ever draw your very pretty knives. Where will she be when you are dead, you stupid boy?”
“Old man,” Oberyn replied without missing a beat, his uncle’s pale presence in the periphery of his sight going largely ignored as he made his choice, fingertips sliding across a softly curved blade with a plain hilt; “you have been away from Sunspear too long if you think this can go unanswered. I warned him what would happen if he wronged her.”
“Perhaps I have been away from Sunspear - perhaps, if I had been there, I would have taught you how to bide your time and take your vengeance when opportunity favours you - but my time in King’s Landing tells me this. Barristan the Bold loves his prince and will spill your guts all over the floor as soon as you raise your knife, no matter what sort of poison you place on the end. Then, while you die, the King himself will make light of your suffering by letting you watch yourself be consumed by flames. Don’t think that servant isn’t ever near. You have not seen the fruits that I have seen.” He flicked the velvet cloth back over the weapons. “Put these away.”
With the white-hot fury that danced along each individual nerve heightening each sense (except reason, Lewyn would surely claim), it would have been only too easy to steal the knife he currently wore from its sheath and sling it at his uncle, pinning his hand to the table for the offense of a scolding and the dismissal of his weapons. What was harder was the quelling of this impulse; his hand tightened around the dagger’s sheath, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked grimace.
“What have you learned about this situation--” the word was uttered as though it physically pained him; “from your privileged position as a Targaryen pillow-boy?”
“I’m going to overlook your language because you’re angered but you deserve to be striped like a child, Oberyn. Your sister has more honour.” His shoulders rose in the approximation of a shrug. “Nothing that will give you any reassurance. Either take her home or swallow this - for now - and wait.”
“I carry my sister here--” a thump of his hand against his breastbone; “she welcomes my language because she is not in the position to say what needs to be said. Your king and his worm of a son have seen to that. And if I cannot take him, perhaps I will take her -- away from here, out of King’s Landing, back to Dorne.”
“No one doubts your love for your sister, Oberyn. I wish, however, that she were possessed of men who thought with their minds instead of their pricks. Right this minute, you’re little better than Rhaegar.” The hard edge of Oberyn’s rage wearied Lewyn who, sliding his hip against the table, leaned and crossed his legs over the other. “First, we will talk to her and see what she feels will be done. Send a raven to Prince Doran because if you take her, you bring war upon Dorne.”
Doran. Doran was like this, reasonable and calm where his younger brother raged. But Lewyn was not Doran, and only Doran’s particular silences could bleed the anger out of Oberyn, who now felt his temper spark and flare as his uncle continued to speak in those sapped tones. And when he compared him to Rhaegar, his upper lip curled. “Fuck your raven. The last time they conquered Dorne, they lost her again within the fortnight.”
“This won’t be a conquering army, idiot.” Finally, Lewyn stood. For the love he held for his relations - for the love of his country - someone had to sap all of the rage out of Oberyn. “They’ll kill every son of a bitch and lay our home to waste.” His hand flew, the broad palm outstretched to ring a slap against his nephew’s cheek. “Think.”
The strength in Lewyn’s strike sent Oberyn’s head whipping to the side, where it remained in this unnatural cant as he, with a blink, slowly rolled his jaw. It would ache tomorrow, he knew, for Lewyn was not a gentle man. Nor was he stupid one, though this quality did not appeal to Oberyn at this exact moment.
Straightening -- “When did you become such a passive coward?” A beat -- and then he lunged lightly forward to crack his head against Lewyn’s.
Oberyn was swift -- his body slender and young where Lewyn had but on the bulk of age - but the White Bull’s drills had prepared him for any and all attack. “Wrong.”
He stepped out of his crossed position as Oberyn drove forward, laying his hand between his nephew’s shoulder blades to force his head down toward the table.
Forgoing the instinct to do the obvious -- to reach over and back, latching his hands around Lewyn’s wrists to then flip him over his shoulder with one quick and brutal wrench -- rewarded Oberyn with the sharp pain of skull meeting marble and air quickly spilling from his chest. But he gave him this submission, if only because it allowed him to make a grab for his array of knives, snatching one at random and, flicking it around, driving the hard end of its hilt blindly back.
Lewyn meant to press Oberyn’s face to the cool marble, to make the boy be still and see reason without the need for such histrionics. But perhaps he truly had been out of Sunspear too long. This counter-attack should have been expected. Should have been clear as the afternoon light filtering through the high, thin windows. But he was unprepared.
The hilt drove true, colliding with the soft side of Lewyn’s elbow (where any good couter would have protected him, had he been in the plate he wore in keeping with his duties) and though the pain dislodged his grip, he made a wild grab for his nephew’s hair.
But the dagger had bought Oberyn enough time to maneuver himself into a less defenseless position. A sharp twist onto his back, the table’s hard edge digging into his spine as he closed the fingers of one hand around Lewyn’s, his other dashing up to twist into his collar. “If you’re going to bend me over, uncle, then be prepared to see it through,” was a hard, breathless laugh followed by a quick upward jerk of his knee.
“Oh, I forgot. This is how you like to play, isn’t it?” There was a blinding flash behind Lewyn’s eye as Oberyn’s knee drove home and a staggering back before he drove himself forward again, this time with his fist plowing toward his nephew’s chin. “Let’s play, then.”
For the second time that day, Oberyn’s head was sent cracking back under the weight of Lewyn’s hand, and this time, it was his turn to see a blinding streak of white that left him paralyzed for one second too many. As the blood of a split lip filled his mouth, he gasped for breath, reaching this time for the knife at his waist as he curled his hand around the base of Lewyn’s throat. “Not in the mood for games.”
“Too plain for my liking, nephew.” Lewyn’s free hand found Oberyn’s wrist and he twisted, encouraging him to drop the knife. “Not in the mood for games.”
It was tempting, almost, to let the delicate bones of his wrist snap in lieu of yielding his weapon, but a fragment of the reason Lewyn wished him to obtain forced him to release his grip on the knife, the sound of it striking the floor creasing his expression into a grimace. A broken wrist would invite questions, and the answers were not ones meant to be heard beyond the locked doors Quentyn so silently guarded.
“Let me go.”
“Gladly.” But his hand twisted slightly, a final lesson for Oberyn, whose rage and hurt had nearly overcame Lewyn. “If you but promise me you will think -- even if you will think only a little -- before you answer the prince’s stupidity.”
Pain twitched across his face, but Oberyn held still save for the terse nod of his head. No beating, however, would dilute the poison in his voice when he referred to Rhaegar -- “I promise I won’t touch your precious prince, uncle.”
The grip was removed suddenly as Lewyn stepped back, tapping the velvet with an index finger as he circled around and put the table again between himself and Oberyn.
“Keep these sharp. I can’t say for sure but I would not be surprised if you will not need them before the end.”
Oberyn took a moment to straighten, his head still spinning from the speed and strength of Lewyn’s attack, the ache in his jaw spreading down to his neck as he rolled his shoulders in order to loosen his muscles. “Sharp and venomous, though I know you disapprove.”
“In this case --” And such was his grin that it stretched his lips, gathering the flesh of his cheeks beneath his eyes. “I do not. When the opportunity presents itself, Oberyn, split him open and make his death long.” Selecting a knife with a jeweled handle and a curving, nastily serrated edge, he tossed it in the air and caught it by the golden hilt. “Valyrian?”
Before responding, Oberyn swept his tongue loudly across his teeth, lapping away the blood that had stained them. “Now you’re just humouring me,” was sour, but followed by a nod partnered with the beginnings of a smile. “It’s ugly, so most people don’t realize.”
“Like hell I’m humouring you. Kill him if you must but do it where and when you are not suspected, nephew. Temper yourself with Doran’s caution.” A nod toward the blade. “Then? This is an appropriate stick for him,” Lewyn said, pointing at Oberyn’s belly, drawing a line beneath the ribs. “Make precious Barristan stuff those innards back inside the stinking carcass.”
“I warned him. The day we met, I warned him what would happen if he wronged her.” The unveiling of Lewyn’s loyalties -- his true allegiance, to spears and the blood of Nymeria rather than that of the diseased dragons that sat upon the Iron Throne -- seemed to soften something in his stance. “-- and that’s enough of that from you,” he added, and threw a quick, hard glance at the wall behind him as though to indicate the invisible network of spies that would have easily extended its web from its nest all the way back in King’s Landing.
“Be careful,” he added after a beat, switching to Rhoynish as he slid from the table. “I can leave whenever I want, but if anything happens, they will want to make sure they can control Sunspear.”
“Oh, is it?” The smile did not fade, however, even as he laid the knife aside and took a slow breath. He hated castles; hated their inability to let people live in commensurate privacy. Dark thoughts, however less dark than regicide, before he blinked to hear the rich syllables of his mother tongue.
“I will not be held ransom. Never you fear.” The Rhoynish rolled smoothly off of his tongue as he nodded, his arms moving to fold across his chest.
“Mark me,” Oberyn shot back, “someone will. I choose not to play this game of kings and princes, but that does not mean I don’t know the rules. The King does, for all of his myopia and insanity.”
“I hope that he teaches his prince.” With a moistening of his lips, he took a step back to examine the wall to which Oberyn earlier gestured. If it was riddled with passages, he knew not how nor where -- “Mark me, nephew. I am no one’s pawn.”
“Only the unlucky pawns realize they are.” He set the blade his uncle had handled with the others, smoothing the length of velvet across all the worked metal before twisting a long strip of leather around the bundle, tying it off with a quick twist of his fingers. A glance across the room -- “You look weary, Lewyn.”
“You only say that because you hope to look as good as I do when you’re my age,” he threw over his shoulder, a beat before turning back around to lean against a tapestry. “There is much yet to do before we are permitted weary, nephew.”
A dark brow arched in question. “Such as?” Besides slitting Rhaegar open from neck to navel and seeing what makes a dragon twitch.
“Keeping our Elia out of the Mad King’s sight, watching Rhaenys grow and championing her claim to the Iron Throne. I love that little girl and I shall not suffer any ugly boys to upjump her.” He smiled. “Priorities, my dear nephew.”
“Including the father,” was a mutter that Oberyn could not keep too harsh when faced with the thought of his own little niece. A precious child who would need to be safeguarded from the harm this world of dragons could cause her. In Dorne, all children were cherished and kept in the haven of the Water Gardens -- his three already thrived in the shade of the trees of the blood oranges, while the fourth, of whom he’d just received word, would soon join them -- but here? Aside from his uncle, Oberyn did not trust Aerys’ pale shadows.
He smiled. “Priorities. It would be best to find a child that looks like her, don’t you think?”
Rhaegar Targaryen was collateral damage -- all Targaryens, as soon as they again linked themselves with the jewels of his House -- and Oberyn’s muttered dissent was met with a laugh. “In time.” His lips pursed, dark eyebrows arching over a sparkling gaze -- Doran misjudges this one. “It would be best,” was his mimicked response. “If Elia and Rhaegar were made to think that this was for the child’s best interests. Which it is -- but still.”
The anger and bitterness he felt on Elia behalf made him cruel -- “Rhaegar need not be made to think anything. He need not know.”
“He loves his daughter well and will perceive the slightest difference. Don’t be callous.” A pause, as if to draw Oberyn into Lewyn’s way of thought. “You have daughters, have you not?”
“He loves his daughter well,” Oberyn echoed in a high pitched voice, his upper lip curling in a derisive sneer. “He claims to love my sister well too, and we all were witness to today’s surprise. My being callous is the least of his worries. And yes.”
“Rhaegar would be a good man if his ridiculous Targaryen blood did not impede his good sense --” He cut off, leaning toward Oberyn with narrowed eyes. “Tell me you do not number every hair on their head.”
“I need not tell you anything.” Oberyn smiled, though his eyes did not lose their hard glint of anger. “His feelings for his daughter no longer factor into anything.”
“ -- granted, nephew. Granted. My point is that for his love, he will notice should there be anything awry with regards to Rhaenys. He will have to be brought into the ruse, that is all. Made to think that he is a part of things.” A breath. “Surely your newfound hatred can grant you that much. You used to like the boy.”
“I loved him.” For Elia. “But then, there is such a fine line between love and hate.” A shrug was followed by a moment’s worth of consideration of himself, picking out the bloodstains from Lewyn’s heavy handling. A vague gesture sent Quentyn slipping into his chambers for a change of clothing as he dropped down upon a chair, frowning up at his uncle. “I know what you are saying. But let me have my huff of a mood a little longer.”
“Perhaps, for her, you will learn to love him again. If only for a time as his blood is his downfall.” He sat close to Oberyn, leaning to the side to wrap an arm around his nephew, pawing the opposite shoulder with his palm. “Now you will be sore. Make sure Quentyn brings you liquor to suit it.”
It was comfortable, the solid weight of an arm that had already caused him a fair share of pain, and for all of his doubts and the suspicions he’d thrown in Lewyn’s face, Oberyn was glad of his presence -- he would never truly belong to Dorne again, but at least here he was in a position to defend his niece. “Every bruise is a lesson,” he said dryly. “And Quentyn is a good squire. Very intuitive. I’ll have him liquor me up, Uncle, never fear, before servicing my other needs.”
“I can see that your relationship is both close and surpassingly sincere.” There was a squeeze from his palm before he dropped his hands in his lap. “I should not like to keep your needs from being serviced, nephew, so I will go and offer only this -- do nothing until you have spoken to Elia. And send a raven.” He rose, strides taking him toward the door before he paused. “Or I will.”
“Send one,” Oberyn replied without a moment’s pause for thought. Anything written by him would automatically be regarded by his brother under a certain light, whilst news and advice from Lewyn could only be level-headed and wise. He smiled wanly. “And see to your own needs. Don’t worry about me.”