Song of The Blessed - 8 (Patreon)

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 08 – More Players Arrive

~ Draedon’s POV ~

Two moons had crossed the sky since the spectacle that changed everything, painting the Red Keep and the alleys of Flea Bottom alike. In the deepest recesses of his mind, Draedon felt the surge of raw power. A thrumming symphony of belief echoed from the world below.

The sky here was a living canvas, swirling with blue and gold that bled into the flawless sun. The ground, smooth as silk to walk on. This was the world inside his mind and soul, and Draedon stood not as a prince, but as a nexus, a conduit for his divine patrons.

The very particles in the air vibrated around him, tasting of honey and ambrosia. A resonant frequency sang in his very bones. It was the hum of a continent awakening to a new faith, even if they thought it was merely the old one given new fire.

"It tingles, doesn't it?" The voice was a melody, bright as the morning star, yet steeped in ancient power.

Draedon turned, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. Apollo stood before him. No longer the radiant youth, this being had blossomed, towering, unmistakably feminine. Her form was breathtaking, the divinity sculpting her figure to rival the Goddess of Desire. She wore a chiton woven from pure light, shifting between pearl-white and molten gold. Her hair, a waterfall of liquid sunshine, tumbled to her waist. Her eyes held the inviting warmth of summer.

"They're confused, aren't they?" Draedon noted, his tone devoid of worry, rather filled with detached observation. He walked toward her, the polished floor rippling like dark water under his heavy boots. "They pray to the Maiden, and they see you. Not just see, but feel you. The hymns are for her, the offerings are for her, and the power… it floods you."

Apollo, the new Maiden, ran a hand down her flank, her fingers trailing over the divine curves King’s Landing’s collective unconscious had sculpted for her. "Belief is exquisite clay, little prince. They needed the Maiden strong, tangible, a protector. They witnessed your miracle, that brilliant light, and their hearts yearned for purity and refuge. The Maiden is the face they know, the comfort they seek. So I became the face they see. It is… incredibly refreshing."

She smiled, and the mental landscape brightened, the glare of the Sun intensifying. "It lets me touch them more intimately. The Archer, as I was once perceived in my old world, was too distant for the smallfolk’s desperate pleas. But the Maiden? She is their sister, their daughter, their healer. I can weave light through every hovel and harlot's den now. I hear their whispers in the brothels and their fervent prayers in the septs alike." A mischievous glint entered her summer-dawn eyes. "And oh, the things I hear."

"Hah! You just enjoy the attention, brother... or sister, as it stands now. You always did have a penchant for the spotlight, even in trousers!" a booming voice interrupted, shaking the very fabric of the mindscape.

Ares, the God of War, sat upon a throne forged from a mosaic of skulls and melted swords, a grim parody of the Iron Throne, yet infinitely more terrifying. His immense form, skin the colour of burnished bronze, pulsed with barely contained fury. His eyes were twin coals, burning with eternal martial fire. He leaned forward, chin resting on a fist that could shatter a boulder. "Let the people think what they will. They know me. When you butchered the Mountain, when you stood there covered in gore, refusing to die, refusing to yield… they felt me in their guts. The Warrior is dead. Long live the God of War." A scent of copper and fresh blood, acrid and intoxicating, wafted from him. "They want vengeance. They want justice. They want blood. And I give it to them."

"It's a parasitic transition, but effective," Athena’s cool, crisp voice cut through the testosterone and radiance, a blade of logic. She stood near a floating pedestal, examining a spectral, three-dimensional map of Westeros. The Goddess of Wisdom looked severe, her grey eyes sharp as flint. She wore full, intricate armor of celestial bronze, embodying vigilance and strategic prowess. "The Faith of the Seven provides the existing structure; their temples, hierarchy, holidays, ingrained ritual. We are simply… evicting the tenants and moving in, unburdened by their petty squabbles or absent divine essence."

She looked at Draedon, her gaze piercing. "But power, true power, needs constant maintenance, Draedon. The surge of faith from your resurrection is a tidal wave. It will crest. It will recede. You must build dikes and channels. Not just to contain the flood, but to keep the water flowing, always flowing, into our influence."

"I know," Draedon said, his voice echoing with newfound gravitas. "Miracles fade. Stability remains. And I will provide that stability."

"And gold," a deep, rasping voice came from the deepest shadows, scratching the very air.

Hades did not stand in the light. He occupied the periphery; a figure wrapped in inky blackness that seemed to writhe and consume all illumination. "Belief feeds the soul. Gold feeds the army, feeds the coffers, feeds the world. You've found my gift, boy?"

Draedon nodded. "I have. It runs deep."

"Good," Hades whispered, a dry rustle. "The earth gives up its secrets, its truest, prized treasures, to those not afraid of the deep, not afraid of the dark. Mine it deep, boy. The Lannisters think they shit gold, but that's paltry compared to the gifts my divinity shall bless this land with. Show them what it means to truly own the hidden wealth beneath their feet."

Aphrodite, lounging on a chaise woven from shimmering rose petals that floated effortlessly mid-air, giggled, the sound like wind chimes. She was breathtaking, a vision of raw, intoxicating carnal desire that shifted to match the viewer's deepest fantasies. Her skin seemed to glow, her lips full and parted in a perpetual invitation. "And don't forget the other power, my sweet, sweet Prince. Tywin Lannister loves his legacy. The people love their safety. But never, never underestimate the true, primal power of love… and lust. You have the eyes of the world on you, Draedon. Make them want you. Not just as a King, not just as a god, but as a man. Make their hearts pound and their loins burn. That, darling, is a power that can conquer empires." She winked, and the mindscape pulsed with unseen warmth.

Draedon looked at his patrons, the Olympians. They were vibrant, overflowing with nascent energy siphoned from a city of half a million souls, a continent of millions more. Two moons ago, they were faint whispers, flickering embers. Now, they were a roaring chorus, a blazing inferno of divine will.

"I won't fail you," Draedon said, firm, resolute. "The Seven Kingdoms are a garden gone to rot, choked by weeds. I'll burn out the weeds, and from the ashes, a new world will bloom, one loyal to us."

"Be careful, little prince," Apollo—the new Maiden—warned, stepping close. Her warm hand, soft as a spring breeze, came to rest on his forehead, a gentle touch that resonated deep within him. "The brighter the light, the darker, the more treacherous, the shadow it casts. Wake now, Draedon. Your reality awaits."

The world shattered around him like delicate glass.

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

Draedon gasped, eyes snapping open. The ethereal scent of honey and ambrosia was gone, replaced by damp stone, rich earth, and the metallic tang of ore.

He was not in his bed in the Red Keep, nor the Hand’s solar. He was deep beneath the Red Keep, nestled in a forgotten cavern complex, known only to a select few.

He sat up from the simple cot he had placed in the cavern. The air was cool here, a constant, refreshing temperature maintained by the endless depths of the earth. Around him, the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of pickaxes on stone provided a steady sound, a constant reminder of the wealth being born.

It was a hive of controlled, intense activity. Fifty of his men, handpicked for loyalty, strength, and discretion by Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Ronnet Connington, were stripping the earth bare. Torches lined the rough-hewn walls, casting dancing shadows that made the rock seem to shift and breathe. But there was no trick to what they were mining.

The gold vein Hades had guided him to was not merely a vein; it was an artery, a thick, glittering ribbon of wealth that seemed to bleed from the very heart of the rock, pulsing with an inner light under the flickering torch flame. Piles of raw ore, sparkling with promise, sat in heavy wooden carts, waiting to be smelted in the makeshift forge they had constructed in a ventilated side-tunnel. Ingots heavy promise of sheer wealth, were already stacked against the far wall like bricks, gleaming dully.

"Your Grace." Ser Addam Marbrand approached, his face smudged with dust, looking more mole than knight, but his eyes shone with feverish loyalty.

"Report, Ser Addam," Draedon said, his voice echoing slightly.

"The vein widens as we go deeper, Your Grace," Addam said, shaking his head in awe. "We’ve extracted more in the last week than Castamere produced in a month. It’s… unnatural. A miracle."

"It is divine," Draedon corrected smoothly, his gaze fixed on a stack of newly forged gold bars. He picked one up, feeling its immense density, the cold, heavy promise in his palm. It was soft, malleable, screaming of power.

This was his freedom. The Crown was four million gold dragons in debt to his grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Faith and the Iron Bank, combined. That debt was a leash, a gilded chain. He could not have that. 

Draedon weighed the gold bar. With this, and much more like it, he would cut the leash. Sever the ties that could unmake his reign, and forge his own destiny.

"Are the men happy, Ser Addam?" Draedon asked, his tone measured.

"Beyond their wildest dreams, Your Grace," Addam confirmed, a rare, pleased smile touching his grimy face. "Triple the standard wage. They know the penalty for silence is death, swift and absolute, but the reward for loyalty is comfort for them and their families. They won't talk. They literally worship the ground you walk on, since you found this place."

"Keep smelting," Draedon ordered, tossing the bar back onto the pile with a heavy thud that resonated through the cavern. "I want this gold moved to the secondary vault beneath the armoury by month's end. Quietly. In carts covered with hay and manure if you must. Let no one suspect."

"It will be done, Your Grace. Every last ingot."

Draedon looked around the cavern one last time. The gold glittered, a reflection of the power growing within his mind, within his soul. The Gods gave him charisma, strength, wisdom, and the raw, unyielding power to control and diver the faith. But Hades… Hades had given him the means to buy the world, to fund his vision, to build an empire from the bedrock up.

He turned to the exit tunnel, a path leading back to courtly intrigue. "I must return to the Keep. Lord Lannister has arrived, and I would hate to keep my grandfather waiting for his prodigal grandson."

~ Tywin Lannister ~

The Tower of the Hand. Cold stone, colder decisions. It always smelled to Tywin Lannister of stale parchment, ambition, and a faint desperation. He’d sat in this room for twenty years under Aerys, shaping a realm that constantly sought to unravel itself. Now he sat here again, the weight of the Seven Kingdoms a familiar, if increasingly heavy, cloak.

But the air felt different now. Taut. Charged.

Usually, Tywin arrived in King's Landing to a stench of incompetence. Robert’s gluttony, the scheming of the nobles and the small council, Cersei’s delusional pride. He usually spent the first week simply cleaning up the mess, setting things to rights with a butcher's efficiency.

This time, the mess was… organized. Disturbingly so.

He stood by the window, looking over the Blackwater Rush, its waters dark and churning. His face was an impenetrable mask, carved from granite, but beneath that stoic exterior, Tywin Lannister was deeply unsettled.

When the raven arrived at Casterly Rock, bearing the stark, chilling news of the melee, of Draedon taking a sword through the heart, Tywin felt a sensation he hadn't experienced since Joanna died: genuine, gut-wrenching fear. Not for himself, but for his legacy. If Draedon had truly died, the Baratheon line, intertwined with his own, would have been broken in all but name. Joffrey was… Joffrey. A sadistic, unpredictable fool. Tommen was sweet, yes, but soft. Draedon, for all his flaws, for all his Baratheon wildness, had been the steel. The promise.

And then, the second raven. The resurrection. The miracle. The impossible made manifest.

Tywin didn't believe in gods. He believed in gold, in steel, in the unyielding strength of family. But he couldn't deny the meticulous reports from every informant. The boy took a sword through the heart and lived. He killed the Mountain, Tywin’s own mad dog that he had yet to find a replacement for, with a brutality that sent shivers through courts and taverns alike.

The door opened with a soft click. Tywin didn't turn immediately, letting the silence hang, a subtle assertion of his authority.

"Grandfather." The voice was deeper than he remembered, richer, resonant.

Tywin turned then, slowly, deliberately. Draedon Baratheon stood in the doorway. He had grown. Not just in height, though he seemed to fill the frame, shoulders broader, stance more assured, but in presence. He wore a doublet of black velvet, the stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread, so thick it looked like armour.

His eyes… Tywin always noted the boy’s eyes were sharp, intelligent. But now they were arresting. They held a calm, terrifying stillness, a depth that seemed to encompass more than mere mortal understanding. The eyes of a predator, yes, but also of something far older, something that had looked into the abyss and emerged unchanged when it looked back.

"Your Grace," Tywin said, inclining his head. A precisely calculated bow. Deep enough for a King-in-waiting, shallow enough to subtly remind him who the patriarch, the true power, still was.

"Please, Grandfather," Draedon said, his voice smooth as silk, yet firm. He walked into the room, bypassing the more ornate chairs and taking the one opposite Tywin’s desk without asking, an audacious move. "We are family. Save the bowing for court, where it might impress someone."

Tywin sat, his gaze unwavering, dissecting his grandson. He steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable, studying the boy like a complicated ledger. "You look well. For a corpse, that is. Most men who take a greatsword through the chest tend to remain inconveniently dead."

Draedon chuckled, a low, rich sound. "Death was… educational. Illuminating, I must say. Clarifies the mind, strips away trivialities. Highly recommend it."

"Does it?" Tywin’s eyes narrowed, a barely perceptible tightening. "It seems to have clarified the minds of the smallfolk too. They call you a god, Draedon. Building shrines in Flea Bottom with scraps of wood and mud, burning incense, whispering prayers."

"People need hope, Lord Lannister," Draedon replied, meeting the Lion’s stare without hesitation. "Father gave them feasts, then drowned in ale. Aerys gave them fire and madness. I give them something to believe in, something to aspire to. Isn't that better than riots? Better than a populace on the brink of rebellion, starving and hopeless?"

"Belief is volatile," Tywin said sharply, authoritative. "It can turn to fanaticism faster than wildfire. A King should be feared and respected. Loved, if useful. But worshipped? That invites challenges from the Faith, from the very structures you need to uphold your rule."

"The Faith is bending the knee," Draedon said, leaning forward slightly, his posture radiating quiet confidence. "The High Septon preaches I am the Chosen of the Seven, their divine champion, resurrected by their grace. I'm not fighting the current, Grandfather. I am the river. And the river, as you well know, always finds its way to the sea. You taught me that."

Tywin remained silent, observing, absorbing. The boy was arrogant, yes. But it wasn't Joffrey’s hollow whining, nor Robert’s simple-minded bravado. It was the arrogance of someone holding an entire hand of trumps. The arrogance of power. Something he saw every time he gazed at the mirror in his chambers. 

"Very well," Tywin conceded, clipped words. "Let them pray. Let them build shrines and weep tears of joy in their hovels. But prayers, Draedon, do not fill the treasury. Gold does. Steel does. Loyalty does, but it must be bought." He tapped a thick, leather-bound ledger.

"The Crown is over a million dragons in debt," Tywin stated, his voice dropping to the dry, unyielding tone of a banker. "Not just to House Lannister, but to the Iron Bank of Braavos and the increasingly emboldened Faith. Robert’s spending was… catastrophic. War is expensive, peace is expensive, and these damnable tourneys waste good coin."

Tywin watched Draedon closely, an unspoken challenge in his gaze. Usually, when he brought up money with Robert, the King would shout, smash a goblet. Cersei would roll her eyes and complain about 'standards of royalty'.

Draedon simply nodded, calm, unflustered.

"Four million in total, roughly," Draedon said, as if discussing the weather. "A significant sum indeed. A burden that has shackled the Crown far too long."

"Significant?" Tywin raised an eyebrow, a rare flicker of emotion. "It is crippling. If the Iron Bank calls its loans, as they do when they sniff weakness, we will be forced to raise taxes to a level that incites rebellion, regardless of your newfound divinity. I intended to restructure the debt, perhaps forgive some interest in exchange for—"

"There will be no need for forgiveness," Draedon interrupted gently, his voice impossibly calm. "Nor for renegotiation."

Tywin paused, fingers steepled, eyes locked on his grandson. "Explain."

Draedon leaned back in the chair, hands resting on the carved arms, a picture of absolute composure. "I’ve been… auditing the Crown’s resources. Digging into forgotten histories, exploring overlooked possibilities. And I’ve found certain assets that were previously, regrettably, overlooked. Within six months, Grandfather, I will make a payment of one million dragons to Casterly Rock. And the Iron Bank will be paid in full within two years, perhaps sooner. Every last coin."

Tywin stared. For the first time in a decade, perhaps longer, Tywin Lannister was genuinely, truly surprised. The shock was a cold, sharp blade to his meticulously maintained control. "One million dragons? In six months? Unless you've truly learned to shit gold, as the smallfolk now claim I do, that is utterly impossible."

"I have my ways, Grandfather," Draedon said, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips, a secret held just for him. "The earth provides. Just as the Gods provide. Sometimes, one simply needs to know where to dig."

He stood up, slowly, deliberately, signalling the unequivocal end of the meeting. It was a power move, subtle but undeniable, ending the audience before Tywin, the Master of Displacing Kings, could dismiss him.

"You need not concern yourself with the Crown’s finances any longer, Lord Tywin," Draedon said, walking to the door. "Focus on the realm. Focus on advancing the Westerlands and maybe think about Uncle Tyrion becoming heir. I will handle the gold. You have my word."

Tywin watched him go, his eyes following the broad shoulders, the confident stride, until the door clicked shut. He looked at the closed door for a long moment, then stood up and walked back to the window, looking at the view from his temporary accommodation. 

He should have been angry at the dismissal, at the blatant disregard for someone of his standing. He should have been sceptical of the wild, impossible claims. But as he replayed the conversation, the absolute, unwavering certainty in Draedon’s voice, the calm, predatory glint in his eyes…

It reminded him, unnervingly, of himself at twenty. The same ruthless confidence that he could bend the world to his will, reshape it in his own image, damn the consequences.

"He is not Robert," Tywin murmured to the empty room, his voice barely a whisper. "And he is certainly not Aerys. Thank the gods for that."

A rare look crossed Tywin's face. It wasn't quite a smile, but the lines around his piercing eyes softened, a flicker of something akin to pride, or perhaps a grudging, profound respect.

"I have no doubt you are working on it, son," he whispered again, to no one but himself. "I have no doubt at all."

For the first time since Jaime had donned the white cloak of the Kingsguard, Tywin felt the heavy burden of his legacy lighten, if only by a fraction. The Lion had a cub who could actually hunt, and hunt with an ancient, terrifying prowess.

~ Arianne Martell ~

King's Landing assaulted her senses: baking bread, rotting fish, burning incense, and a thousand unwashed bodies. It was a sensory onslaught Arianne Martell found both repulsive and thrillingly intoxicating. A city ripe for the plucking, brimming with secrets and desires.

The Martell wheelhouse rattled over uneven cobblestones, each jolt a reminder of the capital’s decrepit state. Inside, the heat was stifling, clinging to her skin despite the drawn silk curtains. Opposite her, her cousins, the infamous Sand Snakes, were each in their own world of lethal grace.

Obara, ever the warrior, sharpened a spearhead, the rhythmic shhk-shhk-shhk the only sound she made for an hour, muscles rippling beneath her tight leather vest. Nymeria, serene and deadly, sat with legs crossed, idly peeling a plump orange with a knife, her dark, watchful eyes occasionally flicking to the streets through a curtain gap, assessing threats and pleasures. Tyene, the deceptive innocent, braided a vibrant saffron ribbon, her delicate fingers moving with practiced ease. She looked like a Septa in training, all soft curves and sweet smiles, though Arianne knew that ribbon was likely soaked in a paralytic agent potent enough to fell a warhorse.

"It smells like lies," Obara grunted, testing the newly honed edge of her spear against her thumb. A bead of blood welled up.

"It smells like opportunity," Nymeria countered, tossing a piece of orange peel onto the floor, her lips curving in a slow, predatory smile. "And men. So many men, brimming with ambition and desperate wants."

"And danger," Tyene added, her smile too sweet. "I feel it in the air."

Arianne smoothed the sheer fabric of her gown, a bold Dornish cut, daring by capital standards. It exposed her navel, the deep valley of her cleavage, and clung to every curve. The silk was the colour of a sunset, a vibrant splash of orange and crimson designed to catch the eye and hold it, announcing her arrival with flair.

"It smells like a trap," Arianne said, her voice husky, a low growl of anticipation. "But Uncle Oberyn doesn't walk into traps unless he intends to spring them. And often, to set a few of his own."

The wheelhouse lurched to a final halt before the Martell manse, a modest estate near the Iron Gate. It had been scrubbed clean and scented with lemon and sandalwood, an oasis of Dornish sensibility in the capital’s squalor, all in anticipation of their arrival.

They disembarked, the wet, humid weather of King's Landing hitting them like a physical blow, so unlike Dorne's dry, scorching heat.

Oberyn Martell was waiting in the central courtyard, lounging by a trickling fountain, a vision of languid danger. He wore robes of flowing yellow silk, unbuttoned to the navel, his muscled chest bare and gleaming with sweat, a cup of wine clasped loosely in his hand. He looked like a viper sunning itself on a rock. 

"My favourite girls," Oberyn purred, standing with fluid grace. He embraced Obara first, then Nymeria, then Tyene, kissing them on the cheeks, his dark eyes sparkling with familiar mischief.

When he came to Arianne, he held her at arm's length, his piercing black eyes searching hers, a silent question passing between them.

"You look like a Queen, niece," he said softly, his voice a low rumble.

"And you look like a man who has lost his kill," Arianne replied, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow, a faint smirk. "I heard the Mountain is dead, Uncle. And you weren't the one to kill him."

Oberyn’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of raw, unfulfilled vengeance, then returned, sharper, more dangerous. "Dead. Butchered. Erased. I came for justice, Arianne. I came to hear him scream Elia’s name, to break him slowly, exquisitely. Instead, I watched a boy rip him apart like wet parchment, a monster tearing through another monster. My vengeance, sadly, was stolen from me, by a bloody miracle at that." He gestured for them to follow him into the cool shade of the solar. Servants, silent as ghosts, poured iced Arbor wine and vanished.

"Father was furious you sent for us," Arianne said, taking a goblet of chilled wine, its sweetness a welcome contrast to the bitter truth. "He says it's too dangerous. That King's Landing is a viper's nest."

"Doran sees danger in a shadow cast by a moth's wing," Oberyn scoffed, pacing with restless energy. "But the world has changed, Arianne. The Seven Kingdoms are shifting on their axis. A great tremor has run through the realm. We can either be crushed by the movement, or we can ride it. And I, for one, intend to be on the winning side."

He turned to face them, his expression serious, all levity gone, replaced by calculating intensity.

"Prince Draedon," Oberyn said the name like an incantation, heavy with power and possibility. "You’ve heard the stories, of course?"

"Who hasn't, Uncle?" Tyene giggled, batting her impossibly long eyelashes. "They say he glows in the dark. He heals the sick with a touch, raises the dead with a word. They say he’s a god walking among men."

"They say he fucks like a stallion, a primal, insatiable beast with a god's stamina," Nymeria added, biting into a plump grape, her dark eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. "Drains a dozen women dry and still rises with the dawn, ready for more."

"Good gossip," Arianne commented, sipping her wine. "But what's the truth?"

Oberyn nodded, a slow, knowing smile spreading. "The rumours, for once, don't do him justice. I watched him fight, girls. It wasn't skill, not mere martial prowess. It was… transcendent. He moved faster than thought, a blur of motion and steel. He took a lance to the chest, a mortal wound, and laughed in the face of death. He is the new power in this city, a force of nature. The nobles including his Lannister cousins are terrified of him, even if they pretend otherwise. The Tyrells are circling him like vultures, ready to swoop in with perfumed roses and sickly-sweet promises."

He looked at Arianne, his dark eyes locking onto hers, conveying a silent, potent message.

"We meet him in three days," Oberyn said, his voice dropping, an edge of command entering his tone. "A formal reception at the Red Keep. But I want us to be… memorable, Arianne. Utterly unforgettable."

"You want us to kill him, Father?" Obara asked, bored, running her finger along the spearhead.

"No!" Oberyn snapped, sharp as a viper’s strike. "I want us to bind him. To chain him, not with iron, but with something far stronger. He is young. He is powerful. And from what I’ve gathered from the whispers in the brothels, the antechambers, and the sly glances of the maids, he has an appetite that matches his legend, a hunger that goes beyond mortal men."

Oberyn stepped close to Arianne, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his scent of spice and exotic oils filling her nostrils. "Dorne needs a friend on the Iron Throne. A real friend. Not a political ally bound by fragile paper, but a man bound by blood, by desire, by an unbreakable, carnal loyalty. The Tyrell girl, Margaery, she'll try to woo him with pretty smiles and soft, perfumed words, a wilting rose from Highgarden. Cersei will try to control him with motherly guilt, manipulation. They are playing the old game."

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray curl of Arianne’s dark hair, tucking it behind her ear. "Show him what a woman truly is, Arianne. Show him Dornish fire. Show him passion. Show him a storm that will leave him breathless and begging for more. If the rumours are true, he is a god walking among mortals. And even gods, my dear niece, get lonely. And gods, above all, crave devotion. Give it to him, and he will be ours."

~ Arianne Martell ~

Later that night, Arianne stood on the balcony of her chambers, looking toward the formidable silhouette of the Red Keep. The massive fortress dominated the skyline, a black monolith against the pale, indifferent moon, a symbol of power and conquest.

She felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

Draedon Baratheon.

She had pictured him a thousand times on the long journey from Sunspear. A brute like Robert, or a cruel, petulant childlike Joffrey.

But Oberyn’s descriptions…

Transcendent.

Arianne touched her own throat, fingers tracing her pulse. It beat fast, a wild drumbeat. She was twenty-three, a woman grown, with appetites that shocked even Dorne’s liberal nobility. She’d taken lovers over the years. Knights, singers, a bedwarmer from Lys, each a delicious diversion. But they always bored her eventually.

They were fragile.

They broke if she played too hard, or they fell in love and became pathetic, clinging things, utterly uninteresting.

She wanted power. To rule Dorne, yes, to sit on the throne and guide her people. But deep down, beneath the layers of political calculation, she craved to be challenged. To be consumed.

The idea of a man who had conquered death, a man who possessed the vitality of a god, who could take a sword through the heart and laugh?

A flush, hot and sweet, spread across her skin, igniting a fire in her belly. She imagined him in the Red Keep, perhaps looking out at the city just as she was, perhaps his own gaze drawn instinctively toward the seductive promise of the Martell manse. Did he feel it? The pull? The unspoken challenge?

"Insatiable," she whispered to herself, the word tasting of spice and sin on her tongue. It was the whisper they'd heard from the whores, the hushed gossip from court ladies. "A primal hunger."

If he was truly a god, then he would need a woman who knows how to be passionate. Not a wilting flower from Highgarden, not a desperate lioness consumed by paranoia. He would need a viper. A creature of fire and sand, of sin and poison, one who could match his divinity with an equal ferocity.

Arianne smiled, a slow, predatory curving of her lips that promised trouble, scandal, and profound satisfaction. She untied the sash of her robe, letting the silk, the colour of a Dornish sunset, pool at her feet, a shimmering puddle on the stone balcony. She stood naked in the warm night air, offering her body, her brazen challenge, to the distant, dark view of the castle, to the god-prince within its walls.

"Come then, Prince Draedon," she murmured into the darkness, her voice a silken invitation carried on the wind. "Let us see if you can survive Dorne. Let us see if you can survive me."

She turned back to her bed, her mind no longer on politics or vengeance. The petty game of thrones was tedious, for fools and schemers. The game of flesh, however, with a chosen one of the gods as her opponent? That was just beginning. And Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, intended to win. She intended to conquer, and perhaps, to be utterly, magnificently conquered in return.

Author's Notes

Back here. Next chapter will bring us closer to canon (maybe).

Leave a review, it does wonders for motivation.

See you soon.