(In)corporeal Toxins

George felt damn proud of himself.  He realized that he and Samnys combined likely totaled thrice the ages of the boys they were up against, but felt as though they gave them a fair competition nonetheless.  Maybe not entirely fair, he allowed, remembering the rock he had kicked at Anton.  But he had most definitely wanted the boy to realize that not all fights are fair:  most assuredly not those outside a practice yard.

When Samnys had approached him with the notion of blind fighting versus Ser Vaughan, George was incredulous.  It seemed likely that with the strange ways kept by Dornish folk that surely the young knight had learned this trick there.  He learned that Ser Vaughan and Samnys had been the engineers behind it all, conceiving of it just the day before. It was an entirely new series of tactics and techniques, developed by members of House Straasa!  Ever since the skirmish, George had been considering the merits of training the Scouts in such a style:  here in the swamps, one never knew what genuinely blinding sorts of surprises might lurk nearby.  He imagined a flurry of hidden scouts  moving above the virtually blindfolded guards, communicating in their own shared swamp calls as they descended on an unwary camp of bandits –or better yet Ironborn raiders!  Gods, but it looked brilliant in his mind’s eye! Ah, but it was likely more a flight of fancy to think of the style on that level. It had merits, but it would require an even more intensive training regimen for the already capable Straasa Scouts and guardsmen – an investment of time and funding that George was aware they did not have at their disposal.

Remarkably, there had been some mention of the blind-fighting style being presented as a specialized tourney game.  Of all people, Dayne the lordling seemed to think that there was a lot of potential for training women as “battle commanders” on the field.  Gods knew there were women among the Straasa scouts who were as good if not better than some of the men.  Perhaps they could even create male-female teams to showcase and set the style apart even further?  And there was always the political gain of the nod by Straasa at recognizing the warrior-women of House Reed and Greywater Watch’s surrounding environs.  And he, himself had been one of the first combatants to test the style out.  Maybe that would grant him leverage in being among the select few who had the chance to show it off in the first place. George thought fondly about that – his own possible participation in a grand and glorious tournament, surrounded by knights, Lords and Ladies…and wenches!  Ah, the wenches!

George began whistling a tune as he casually made his way to the guard house.  It was his turn to regale the lads there with tales of virtue, glorified battle, and kicking a rock at Anton.  Based on who proved most enthusiastic to learn more, George also had a plan: the lad – or gal, if it was one of the scouts – who was most intrigued would be rewarded with the first spot in the practice yards, the rest having to cover guard the participants’ duties while she got practice and training from Samnys. George knew it would be contagious after that.

He also had the glimmer of a realization as the main gates started to appear over the low entryway of the main keep: he might just be able to send out feelers to catch wind of anyone who might be hosting a tourney anytime in the near future.  It might just be worth a shot at some glory for House Straasa, which George would be happy to take a bit of credit for.  He opted to take the curve that would lead straight to the courtyard, and into the back gate of the main guardhouse, still whistling merrily.

“Is that a Straasa tune you whistle, my good scout?”  The large Dornishman who had accompanied the Lady Wyl was sitting on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard.  George wanted to warn him about Tabin’s snake, but as he got closer he noticed that the fellow had quite neatly impaled the large, venomous creature’s head with one of his short spears, and held the beast with another spear to prevent its escape.  George stopped a small distance away, watching the fellow drag the monstrous viper from the fountain.  The Dornishman deftly dropped the still-writhing snake onto the ground, planting the point of the spear firmly between two paving stones, thereby trapping it. With a rapid flash of a curved dagger, he separated head from contorting body.  As if glad to be free of the bindings of its head, the snake’s body thrashed about the Dornishman’s feet, leaving a trail of blood and gore across the nearby stones. It made George shudder as he watched the almost hypnotic convulsions.

“There,” the man said, obviously satisfied with himself.  “Now, I think the ladies might be able to more safely enjoy the courtyard, if they don’t mind the frogs.  Their security is of my utmost concern.  Assuring them that they may wander freely without concern for their well-being may encourage them to grace the courtyard with their fair presence. Certainly you would agree?”

George remained standing a few yards from the young lord.  Yronwood, he thought he remembered, though he could not bring to mind his given name. “For my part, my lord Yronwood, I agree with you; the ladies are likely becoming weary of the castle.  Yet Tabin is likely to be…displeased…that my lord opted to behead that beast, however.  He spent hours stalking it out in the mire.  As to the tune, well, I wasn’t even aware I was whistling anything recognizable.”

The Dornishman smirked.  “Be that as it may, it sounded rather merry, good man. And while your formality is acknowledged, you may simply call me Desmond.  My ancestral name is rough on the tongues of the North. Still…I do enjoy merriment, such as your song. And this.” George watched as he lifted the skewered head still on the point of his spear, examining it carefully.

“In Dorne we have vipers as well. Very toxic venom comes from their fangs, and some Dornish folk collect it.  They call themselves Snakemilkers.”

“I have heard of your desert snakes.  They bear rattles at the tips of their tails, if I am not mistaken?”  George was tense, and he refused to take his eyes off the fellow’s hands.  The young lord did not seem to notice his gaze; he was quite focused on his gory prize. He cautiously grasped the snake’s head and slid it off the spear point.  He squeezed gently on the sides of the creature’s jaws, forcing them slowly to open.  George felt a tingle of anxiety in the pit of his belly.  As the mouth continued to open, Yronwood sliced the lower jaw from the head with his curved dagger.  The lower jaw landed with a splat at his feet, the tongue half-severed in the process.  All Desmond held now was the fanged portion of the snake in his hand, careful to keep his skin as far from the fangs as possible.

“Yes.  Many of our vipers give warning if you tread too closely.  This warning is music to the ears of the snakemilkers; the vipers reveal themselves that way. Ours are quite easily disguised against the sands of Dorne.  Snakemilkers have love for these snakes.  They will only capture them, milk their venom, and then release them again into the desert to replenish their toxic juices.  Myself, I can hardly abide the creatures. I prefer to dispatch them, as you can see.  Yet I am willing to surmise that even in death, this fellow remains deadly.”

At that, Yronwood reached a hand into the fountain and scooped out a large and brightly-colored frog.  He held fast to the slimy creature as he gingerly pierced its skin with a needle-like fang from the upper jaw in his other hand.  Desmond set the poor frog down on the stones and stepped back to watch.  At first, it hopped frantically away.  On its third hop, it leaped straight into the side of the fountain. It suddenly sprawled its legs out and began twitching violently.  After just another moment, the twitching ceased. The frog’s jaw fell open in a grimace of death, its sticky tongue lolling to the side.  George felt completely ill.

“Yes, indeed: just the prick of one fang brings a frog’s death in moments.  I imagine these beasts are quite capable of causing swift death to much larger animals, hm?  I think our snakemilkers would be most interested in these swamp serpents.  Perhaps there is something to be had of House Straasa after all.”

Yronwood flashed a toothy smile at George, tossing the bloody snake head onto the paving stones.  He then strode off into the deepening murk of evening, whistling tunelessly.  George was already considering who among the scouts was to keep an extremely close eye on Lord Desmond Yronwood.  Then, George proceeded to collect the dead animals and remove them from the courtyard.  He took special care to find the safest location away from the Castle to bury the slaughtered snake’s deadly head.

*     *     *

She lay back against the pile of pillows, drenched in sweat; her long black hair wrapped itself wildly around her pretty face.  That face was a grimace of pain now, but she had not once cried out with it.  Alec knew that he should not be here, but had made a promise and would not go back on it despite the midwife’s constant muttering about men’s rightful places.

“He’s a fighter, Alec,” she smiled wanly, the contraction passing for now.  “He’s just like his father.”

Alec smiled, and felt tears gathering in his eyes.  “I’m sure he must be…a fighter, I mean!” he replied, feeling embarrassed.

The midwife fussed over Hallie’s belly and nether regions constantly.  Alec had never been present at a birth, save for the bitch hounds or the occasional foal.  It made him feel more than a little sad watching Hallie.  He could tell she was hurting, and he could do nothing the ease the pain.  She looked up at him with her warm, brown eyes.  Those eyes were filled with sadness again, just as they had been when her husband had died just shy of a year before.  Alec had given her what comfort he knew how to give in that absence.  Orson had been a dear friend of his, too, and it seemed that their union had helped both Hallie and himself heal somewhat.  Alec had felt no remorse and Hallie had said the same.  And then she revealed to him that she was with child.

The midwife spat a curse beneath her breath that snapped Alec out of his brief reverie. The wizened old woman sent her assistant scurrying to find more rags, and returned to her patient.

“What is it?” he asked, moving closer to Hallie.  He slid her slender hand into his own and stared down into those beautiful, haunted eyes. It was then that the coppery tang of blood filled his nose.  It was a scent with which he was all too familiar, though now it filled him with terror. “You’re doing just fine, love.  Just fine!”

The midwife glanced at him, her face a mix of anxiety and grief.  Alec did not understand.  Hallie’s face began to contort once more in pain.  Her hand squeezed Alec’s fingers, the force of her grip grinding the bones in his hand nearly against one another.  He kept his hand there for her, not knowing what else to do.

“Alec…” she whispered.  He looked down into the pale, fragile face once more.  Her eyes, he noticed, held more than sadness and pain; now they also held resolve. He had seen that same look in the eyes of good men on battle fields.  She knew she was dying, and had come to peace with it.  Alec felt his heart breaking anew, and wondered why it was so much harder to watch her die than any man he’d seen.  He squeezed her small hand, gently.

“I’m here, love.  I am right here,” he said, brushing her wild locks away from her face.  He kissed her gently on her sweat-soaked brow. How cold she felt against his lips!

“One more promise, my brave soldier?” she swallowed. Her tears leaked in a small trickle down the side of her face, mingling with what he realized were his own.

“Anything, love.  Anything for you.” Alec did not recognize the voice as his own.

“Name him Anton.  I always wanted to name my son Anton,” she said, the hint of a smile passing her lips.

“Anton.  Of course.  I will care for him, Hallie.  Know that!  Anton will not want for anything, save his beautiful mother.  I promise you this.”  Just as he swore his oath, Hallie grasped his hand once more.  This time, she let out a scream of pure agony.  Blood gushed from her body and soaked through the bedclothes.  Her hand fell slack into his, her glorious brown eyes closing for the final time.  Alec felt a wave of sorrow sweep over him.

“So much blood!” he thought to himself as he held Hallie’s lifeless hand in his. He thought he ought to say a prayer – something! He felt silly for not knowing which of the seven, or any of the other gods, he should be praying to right then.  All he knew was a deep, intense sorrow, tinged with a steely resolve to make good on promises to the dead.

“Beg pardons, good man,” the midwife said, gently, “But would you like to hold your son? I’ve sent for a wet-nurse.  And I am sorry…it is not uncommon to lose the mother in childbirth.”

Alec stared incredulously at the squalling, squirming bundle she held forth to him.  He felt utterly dumbstruck.  The midwife held the babe out farther, nudging the air in front of him with the bundle.  Not knowing what else he could possibly do, he let go of Hallie’s hand and reached out for the child.

“Anton,” he said to nobody in particular.  He stared down into the wrinkly face, searching for any hint of the child’s mother.  The tiny, cone-shaped head was covered in thick, blackish hair, but the baby’s eyes were the strange steely-blue of newborns.  “His name is Anton.”

*     *     *

Benton was borne into his solar, where Alec stood sipping at a mug of ale.  As soon as the servants had poured a mug for Benton as well, they all departed silently, closing the door behind them.  The brothers’ eyes met across the dimly-lit room before Alec strode to the shutters and flung them open.  Benton did not even feign to blink – he had just returned from outdoors, after all.  And it had not even been the first time he’d left, though none but Gunder of Harlaw and his two bearers knew of the journey to Ambassador’s Tower.

Once Alec was satisfied with the lighting, he approached and sat before his brother.  “Ben.  You’ll forgive my desire to see in the murk.”

“Alec, I am glad to have you home.  We have much to speak of, and not much time in which to do it.”  Benton raised his mug to his lips, but instead of sipping, sighed heavily and set it aside.  Alec raised his eyebrow, but Benton was unsure whether it was his words or his actions that had inspired such.

“Where do you prefer to begin, brother?” Alec responded after a brief pause and another swig of warm ale.  He had no intention of passing up the opportunity to imbibe, even when the particular libation was not the most pleasant.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure!” Benton made a sound that could be considered a grunt, or perhaps an abbreviated chuckle.  “So much to tell, and you only gone two weeks this time!  Perhaps we can return to matters of House Straasa anon.  Instead, what news have you of the world away?”

Alec smiled at the evasion, but chose to placate Benton for the moment.  “It would seem that more has happened here at Swampstone than has happened elsewhere.  And yet, I can report with certainty that the passage of the Dornish party has in fact gone rather well-noticed, as no doubt Lord Wyl preferred.  I trust the brides-to-be have arrived in good health?”

Benton scowled.  “Indeed.  The Lady Wyl was accompanied by, er, Norie Sand – how do those buggers address each other without proper title? – And five Wyl guardsmen.  Also with the ladies was a lad by the name of Desmond Yronwood.  I have yet to understand his presence here, but he seems amiable enough.  Like as not he’s a specially assigned personal guard.”

Alec took a lengthy swig of ale and topped his own mug off once more.  “Small wonder you’ve not gleaned anything of the Yronwood fellow.  I hear you’ve been cooped up here and have yet to meet the guests in any official manner.  Had it been me traveling to Dorne, I most sincerely doubt I’d have taken it with such grace that the Lord of House Straasa has locked himself away.  Worse, this happened when his potential daughters-in-law have arrived.”

Benton did not deign to answer, but his expression turned particularly foul.  Alec had always thought that his elder brother looked like an especially cross eagle when he had that particular look on his face.

“The household worries for you.  Your young Reed has taken it upon himself to boil some swamp swill or another in a pot and will likely be sending it up this way shortly.  I won’t tell you to drink it, but I will tell you this:  You look like you’ve come straight from the seventh hell, brother.”

Benton raised his eyes to meet Alec’s.  The brothers held each other’s gaze for a long while.  Finally, Benton looked away again.  “The seventh!  Gods above, man, I’m not that bad off am I?  No, not yet.  But you’re right. I am not well, Alec.  I am far from well!  I’m a maimed man who cannot even stand up to take a piss without help!  I have three living children who have inherited my name, and the one who is to become Lord when I die leaves me realizing how little time I have to ensure the survival of our House.  Dayne has shown some promise, but promise does not make a boy a man.  And Vaughan – that action in the practice yard today was thought up by the lad, did you know?  But even as a man is able to lead other men into battle, it does not mean he is able to lead a Noble House.  Nor does Vaughan seem adept at the intricacies of the politics of our grand nation.

“I am not well, Alec, and I am not likely to return to wellness.  I fear my time may be coming sooner than we had thought, and I have not yet ensured that this House will carry on.”  Benton’s voice trailed off at the last.  Alec placed his brother’s mug into his hand, and this time, Benton drained the cup in two gulps.

“Ours is a fierce pride, we Straasa.  Throughout the history of Westeros we have stood against adversity, whether from within or from without.  And now, in my decline, I fear that Straasa might dwindle away, too.  What would Castle Swampstone be but yet another ruin of rock in the swamp, slowly sinking into the mire?  I do not want to go to my grave having failed to restore some glory to House Straasa. I cannot do it myself, now.  I have set my hopes on the shoulders of a young man who is unready, even as I have flung him headlong into a great unknown with Dorne.  The success of our plans will ensure gain for both sides.  But will the girl continue to comply?  Will our allies elsewhere prove true?  Will my precarious position in the eyes of Howland Reed level off somehow?  Too many hopes, too few tangibles. And all I do is sit and grow old.”

Alec said nothing in response, but poured another mug-full for himself and Benton.  He merely looked at his brother in the bright light from the windows and sipped at his ale.  After a few moments, Benton shook his head as though trying to shake the thoughts out.  “Ah, hear me prattle on like a woman, Alec!  Do you see what I’ve been reduced to?  Uncertainty is a rather destructive bedmate, I think.”

“I wonder, Ben, whether our father had the same thoughts about you and I when we were lads?” mused Alec.

Benton let out a startled bark of laughter.  “You know, I would not be surprised in the least if he had!”  At that, he reached out and took up his mug, swallowing a large mouthful of ale.  “Bah, but this stuff tastes better when it’s straight from the cellars.  It tastes like piss when it sets too long.”

Alec smiled and raised his glass, “Here’s to warm, flat piss!  Now, tell me why in Seven Hells there is a Harlaw in the Ambassador’s Tower!”

*     *     *

It was quite dark out, now.  The creatures of the swamp were in full chorus. Greta pressed herself flat against the wall of the keep, just outside of Anton’s quarters.  She listened for any hint of sound emanating from behind the closed door.  Light flickered at the crack beneath, but much to her chagrin, there was no sound that she could hear above the cacophony of the life surrounding the castle.  Did she dare to knock?  She reached out her hand…and a shadow passed in front of the source of light.  Greta shot back around the corner of the wall as fast as she could move, her heart pounding in her throat.

This close to the main keep, there were neither shrubs nor trees behind which she could hide.  That thought reminded her of what Anton had said one night after their love play:  she had asked him whether he would keep her safe for always.  His response – after laughing for a bit – was: “Of course you’re safe here!  Our scouts range for miles around the keep, watching, waiting, always listening.  We know for ages before anyone makes it here.  Besides, there isn’t anything that anyone can hide behind on the castle grounds.  Trees and shrubs can burn, even when they’re wet, if they get hot enough.”

Though it wasn’t the answer she was looking for, it did help Greta to feel safe in the large, empty castle.  Before Anton had come, there had only been a few rangers who ever stayed at the castle for long.  They were always busy, out and about keeping the women and few children of the Castle safe.  Greta wasn’t sure what Swampstone had to be protected from; she only knew that the threats were real enough that most of the men who were ever here had trained to be soldiers, guardsmen, or Straasa scouts.  And not a one of them had ever wanted more of her than what she had beneath her skirts.

Until Anton.  At least Greta had thought so until recently.  He had always come to her before whenever he wanted company, after Tara had broken his heart.  But it was more than that, with him!  She loved to play the damsel in distress, and depending on his mood, Anton would either be a valiant heir to some rich House come to rescue her, or perhaps the villain who had captured her and wanted nothing more than to have his way with her. It was all very exciting!

Or at least, that was how she always thought of it in her own head.  He never actually played the roles – but he did not have to! She knew him so well that she never had to do anything but imagine.  The thing he did do differently was talk with her for a while afterward, letting her lay her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair.  Often as not, there would be a second or even sometimes a third tumble before he would finally kiss her goodbye.  Like the rest, he never stayed to sleep next to her.  But that was because her bed was so small.  It served, and it was private.  But it was small.

Some of the other girls around the castle were even a bit jealous.  One girl had even gone so far as to spread a rumor that she had finally bedded beautiful Dayne to draw attention away from Greta and Anton’s love.  Oh, how they had shot the liar down…and pointed out that really, only the bastard boy would be likely to share any servants’ sheets.  But it wasn’t just anyone that Anton would fuck, damn them!  Greta even defended him, calling him “her Anton,” and snapping at anyone who called him a bastard in her hearing.

All of that had changed just days ago.  At first, Greta thought it must have to do with Ser Vaughan coming home.  Anton was busier than when he had his scouting rounds.  Or maybe that was just how it seemed, because instead of being gone, he was always somewhere nearby. And then there was all this talk of marriages for all of the Straasa children, interrupted by crybaby Amalinde.  Greta dreamed of getting married; sometimes she even thought she might marry Anton.  How could that whiny noble snot complain about being married?

That same crazy night, those awful cousins of Tabin the Odd showed up.  Llyr wasn’t really a problem – he was strange but adorable, and he loved to bring her little flowers.  Boan, she nearly never saw, unless he was there with Llyr, silently following to make sure his little brother wasn’t getting into too much trouble.  But their elder sister – Greta didn’t even want to think her name! – was definitely up to no good.

At first, she thought he was just being polite by showing the swamp bitch around the castle.  But then he didn’t come that night.  She remembered how she had waited up for him.  She had stripped out of her dress and had hung it across the doorway, so that when he came through, he’d have no choice but to charge right into it.  But he never came through the door, that night or any night since.  And that was almost two weeks past, now!  She had tried to follow him, as she had done before.  She’d go to the practice yard whenever he had been there before, but now there was another small crowd, and often as not, the Reeds were somewhere nearby, too.  When Anton had been sent away to scout something or another, Greta had gloated that the bitch had looked sad.  But when he came back, all full of danger as Alyn described, the first person he saw after the Lord was not Greta – no!  It was the swamp bitch!  Greta knew what it felt like to be jealous, but never before had she felt so angry at a stupid…boy!

He hadn’t said anything to her when his “clean” clothing had been returned to him with bits of stingweed smashed into his smallclothes. As far as she knew, he hadn’t said anything to anyone about that.  According to Alyn, he had simply returned to the washroom – while Greta was gone, of course! – and asked for a few new sets.  His avoidance had driven her to that!  If he wasn’t going to speak to her of his own will, she was going to make sure it happened.  She was done with being put off.  She was taking matters into her own hands, in a way that brooked no avoidance!

Finding her courage anew, she stood up and brushed her skirts back into place.  She fiddled with her blouse so that a generous display of bosom was exposed, and she stepped out from her hiding place.  Raising her hand to knock upon the still-closed door she froze; standing between Greta and the door to Anton’s rooms, her arms crossed below her own perky bosom, was Moira Reed.

“So you have reduced yourself to stalking?”  The elder girl’s face was filled with open scorn.  Greta nearly fell backwards out of shock and fear, but the hatred she had been feeling toward the Reed girl came back in force and she managed to keep her feet.

“He’s mine, you know!” was all Greta could manage to spit out.  She realized her pre-knock clenched hand was still in the air.  She let it drop to her side without unclenching. She felt the color creeping up her face, and knew that the tears would be soon to follow.

“Truly?  It is a tradition for the base-born women who serve House Straasa to grace their lovers’ underclothes with stingweed?  That seems a bit odd, to me; not like to encourage your men to return to you.”

Greta’s color deepened and the tears came freely out of her eyes to run down her cheeks.  She furiously scrubbed them away, but that only seemed to make them come faster.  She began sniffling as she stood and stared as defiantly as she could manage into the eyes of Moira Reed.  “Anton isn’t yours,” she said, more feebly than she intended, “And besides, he’s Alec’s bastard!”

“I have not yet laid a claim on him, if that is your concern.  Which, as I am quite sure you have come to realize, is not,” said Moira.  “Nor do I fault you your taste in young men. On the contrary, it seems we quite agree on that point, at the least.  As to Anton’s status, I consider him a member of this House, just as those of noble birth here do.  I find his company pleasing, and intend to keep it for some time if he’ll have mine.”

Greta stood and fumed, her eyes coursing like rivers.  Her nose had joined in the free-fall, but she no longer bothered to scrub the offending liquids from her face.  Her sniffling, on the other hand, was now to the point where it was uncontrollable.  At that moment, she was unsure whom she hated more: Moira Reed or herself.

*     *     *

Norie sat cross legged on a folded up blanket on the floor beneath her cousin, who was perched on the edge of her bed.  Saryah was running a silver scroll-worked brush through her glossy black hair, and her rich voice flowed over Norie as she sang a wordless song.  Saryah and Norie had grown up together, and exchanged turns brushing one another’s hair, rather than allowing any servants to do it for them.  It was a ritual, really; a time when the two could share thoughts about happenings in their lives; or not, as they saw fit.  Norie had always known that Saryah was cleverer, and loved to play at trying to draw connections between things as quickly.  It also gave them the chance to act like girls all over again, speaking in hushed tones of the boys they each had taken a fancy to here and there over time.

In truth, it had been Saryah who had first thought Vaughan, with his pale skin and unusually greenish eyes, was the slightest bit handsome.  They had all been little more than children when he had arrived at Wyl, escorted there by his deeply mysterious Uncle Alec, and one other man whose identity they did not know, though Norie and Saryah still debated about from time to time.  Norie had thought the much-younger boy’s pale skin looked like a lump of unbaked dough.

As the years passed, Norie grew into her beauty and Vaughan grew to be a most impressive young man, taking his duties as squire most seriously. Even his skin deepened in tone from hours spent in the Dornish sun.  Saryah’s interest in him had always remained, but was much more cordial and gracious than that which Norie herself had begun to feel.  Saryah had been the one to point out that Norie was acting love-sick.  Until that moment, Norie would not have recognized the truth of what she was feeling – all she knew is that every time Vaughan was anywhere near, her heart would flutter in her breast, she would feel rather as though her legs had turned to water, and her usually sharp tongue and wits were dulled completely.  She found herself thinking of him as she woke in the mornings, and as she would finally drift off at night.  Saryah would tease her gently, laughing at how much trouble such a young boy had caused her usually imperturbable cousin.

After a short while, she had begun receiving invitations and gifts from the eligible men – some young and some even older – around Wyl.  Saryah, even upon reaching her majority, had received far fewer protestations of affection. At first, it had caught her quite off-guard; she had expected the suitors to be falling over themselves for her cousin’s hand; Saryah held the claim to House Wyl and besides being kind, true, and gracious, she was exceptionally shrewd with figures and writing.  Uncle Feri had seen to it that should Saryah opt not to marry, she would be quite capable of running the House of her own volition.  There were some who said Uncle Feri was showing his eccentricity, and others who said he wanted to ensure his legacy did not fall into the hands of fools. Norie believed that Uncle Feri simply doted upon his daughter, and wanted only to ensure her happiness.  Norie had always been jealous of that, too; her own father had taken his ship across the seas to the Free Cities, and had not been heard from in years.

Still, it was Norie whom the boys wrote bad poetry about.  It was Norie whose favor was begged at the two tourneys the cousins had attended together.  And it had been Norie who first entertained the notion of taking a lover.  She found it rather to her liking that there was finally something at which she was better than Saryah, even though it did make her feel a trifle guilty.  She loved her cousin as a sister, but certainly felt that no matter how much they loved one another, there was always room for rivalry.  It galled Norie to no end when Saryah had finally told her, “You go ahead and have Vaughan; clearly my feelings for him pale dreadfully in comparison to yours!”  The two had not spoken for days after that.  Naturally, they eventually made up again, with hugs, tears, and laughter. They had not fought since, swearing that no man would ever be able to come between them again.

Saryah’s song had drifted into something rather whimsical and delicate.  Her deft fingers were now twirling through Norie’s hair, coursing over her scalp. Norie sighed, feeling absolutely sumptuous.  “Mmmm…your turn, coz.  I’m as like to fall asleep as anything with you singing lullaby-tunes.”

Saryah’s song turned into a sensual chuckle as she released Norie’s hair.  The two switched places, though Saryah continued humming softly as Norie began releasing her cousin’s hair from its’ intricate braids.

“I was just remembering when Vaughan came to Wyl, coz.  Do you remember when he went away to become a knight?” Norie asked her voice barely above a whisper.

“Quite clearly,” Saryah replied.  “You were fit to have kittens at the thought of being left behind, as I recall.”

Norie dealt Saryah a slight tap from the brush, and Saryah giggled.  “I was not!  Not quite kittens, at least.  But it did drive me to distraction knowing that he was going to be somewhere I couldn’t see him.  I had so desperately wanted to be there to cheer him on; to let him know, finally…” Norie’s voice trailed off for a moment before she continued.

“I kept imagining it in my mind’s eye:  Vaughan was one of many brave, handsome young men who stood before King Robert and Queen Cersei, wanting nothing more than to prove their noble intent by swearing in front of the Seven to protect the realm and defend its people.”

Saryah leaned her head back so that she was looking up at her cousin’s face.  Norie glanced down at her and continued stroking Saryah’s hair, a wry smirk on her full lips.  “I imagined being among the crowd, at first, watching the boys make their way from the Keep, across the cobbled path toward the Great Sept of Baelor; their bare feet slapping against the stones as they passed us by.  Some of the boys would smile and acknowledge faces in the crowd, but Vaughan would keep his focus on the climb to the Sept, knowing in his heart that I was there without having to confirm it with his eyes.

“The next morning, perhaps not all of the boys who had gone into the Sept would emerge to travel barefoot back to the Great Keep of Maegor.  But Vaughan would be there.  He would have held vigil all night, kneeling before the Father, or perhaps the Warrior.  He would be among the last to leave the Sept, due to his exceptional patience, and the virtue of knowing that he had accomplished this task.  He would have no need to hurry.”

Her eyes gazed unseeing across the room, and her fingers began to toy with her cousin’s hair and scalp almost seductively.  Saryah could tell by her cousin’s voice that she had drifted away, caught up in her own visions; it had a breathy quality, and as she continued her story a flush began to appear high in Norie’s cheeks. Saryah luxuriated in her cousin’s sensual imagery and touch, except that instead of Vaughan, she saw Dayne.  The thought pleased her.

“Now, Vaughan is kneeling with his head bowed; his feet and torso are bare still from his vigil.  Instead of the Septon, though, he is kneeling before me.  I dip my fingers into the softly scented oils and bid him raise his head.  Our eyes meet, and I hear his breath catch in his throat.  I am speaking words, but they are nothing I quite understand.  I reach out and touch his brow with the oil, anointing him a Knight of the Realm.  The crowd cheers for him, but I raise my hand to silence them, and they all slowly disappear.

“The Great Hall is empty save for the two of us, now.  I bid him rise, and he slowly rises and stands before me.  I dip my fingers once more in the oils and begin tracing the lines of his face…let them glide down his cheek, to his neck, to his beautiful chest.  I step down so that I am right in front of him.  The scent of the oil combines with the scent of his skin. I step behind him, running my fingers gently over his belly, now dragging my fingernails against his skin.  I trace the lines of his shoulders with the oils, and slowly circle him once more so that we are face to face.  His breath has become shallow, and he suddenly grabs me close.  His mouth seeks mine, hungrily, and I submit to the desire between us.  As he presses me against him, I can feel his phallus standing rigid against my body…”

“Oh good gods, Norie!” Saryah squeaked suddenly and jerked away from her cousin.  Norie erupted in laughter and slumped onto the floor next to her furiously blushing cousin.  Norie flung her arms around Saryah, still full of mirth, and flushed with her fantasies.

“Truly coz, you are such a prude!” Norie said with feigned indignity.

Saryah cast a gaze full of irony at Norie.  “Whether I’m a prude or not, it isn’t as if you’re speaking out of experience!  Really?  His ‘rigid phallus’?”

At that, Norie chucked a pillow at her cousin’s head.  “So what if I’m not?  I’m quite certain that imagination has an awful lot to do with lovemaking anyway.  And I have kissed men.  I know how their breath catches when they feel desire.  How their eyes become heavy-lidded, and their lips flush with anxious blood.  We’re not so different in that, men and women.  Lust is a powerful force.  Compound love with lust and it’s a wonder people ever get anything done outside their bedchambers!”

In spite of her jest, Norie’s heart was aching.  Ever since they had come to this swamp, Vaughan had been nothing but avoidant.  Saryah’s Dayne was sure to let them know of his presence, and though he was not intrusive, he had been gracious and attentive.  Though it had not been declared in any official capacity, it would seem that Saryah’s proposal was to be accepted.  Norie’s, on the other hand, had not even been acknowledged.  Tears were welling in Norie’s eyes.

Saryah took Norie’s hands in her own, her face a frown of concern.  “What is it, Norie?”

“I was just wondering where I went wrong, Saryah.  Oh wise Lady Wyl, what have I done to offend Ser Vaughan so that he won’t even come near me?”

*     *     *

Llyr danced around their shared bedchamber, his boundless energy needing an outlet.  Boan was sitting on the bed, propped up against the nearby wall.  He was feeling quite irritated with having been left with the responsibility of ensuring Llyr was out of the way for now.  Llyr was more trouble than any other five-year old child that Boan had ever dealt with, and Boan had many, many cousins!

“Frrrroooogsss…they are so bright and colorful!” Llyr sang, crouching himself into a frog-like position to hop.  “IIIIIIIIIIII aaaaaaaaammm a froooooooooooOOOOOOOOOg!  RIIII-BIT!”

With that, he flung himself across the floor of the room, landing with a splat on the stony floor.  Boan sighed and shook his head, wishing he had something to do while his brother hopped around.  Llyr squatted frog-like once again, but this time turned his gaze at Boan.  He made a belching sound deep in his throat and crouched even lower.  Boan stared at his little brother with as stern and adult-like a gaze as he could manage. It was all Moira had to do to get Llyr to cooperate, and Boan truly wanted to emulate that.  Llyr still crouched on the floor, aimed at the bed.  His face had contorted in a strange grimace, and Boan could feel his ire rise.  He shifted on the bed so that he wouldn’t smack his head against the wall when Llyr finally decided to leap at him.

Llyr did leap, but it was a much feebler hop that Boan had anticipated.  He let out a weak croak, and looked a bit wobbly.  “Maybe he’s finally getting tired!” Boan thought to himself. Llyr leaped once more, this time colliding with the side of the bed instead.

“Llyr!  Stop that!” Boan used his most grown-up sort of voice.  Llyr did not seem to be listening.  After his collision with the bedside, he flopped over onto his side and began shaking violently.  Boan stared down for a moment before realizing that something was terribly, terribly wrong.  He leapt off the bed toward his convulsing brother.

“Llyr!  Llyr, are you all right?” he asked, feeling stupid the moment the phrase had left his mouth.  Llyr did not respond at all, but continued twitching, his open eyes staring unseeing at the side of the bed.  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Llyr’s limbs fell slack, his eyes still staring blankly forward.  His mouth fell open, and his small tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.  He laid completely still, not even a hint of breath coming from his small body.  Boan was terrified.

“Llyr!” he shouted, reaching out to shake the small form, but Llyr remained still.  Boan felt panic rising in him.  “Llyr!  Oh, gods!  Help, someone!  Help me!”

Suddenly, Llyr blinked.  He pulled his tongue back into his mouth, wiping the small stream of drool from the side of his mouth.  Boan made a choking sound and threw his arms around his brother, helping him into a sitting position.  The boy’s pale face was set in a look of consternation.  Boan was flooded with relief.

“Are you…Llyr, you scared me to death!”

“Not your death,” Llyr replied sardonically.  “The frog’s.”

Boan was stunned. He released his brother and sat back on his heels. “Do you think you’re funny, Llyr?  Do you know what just happened?”

Llyr’s expression turned extremely cross.  “I know more than you do.”

Boan bit his tongue in spite of his exasperation.  “Yes, little brother.  You know more than I do.  You know more than most people do.  Why did the frog die?”

Llyr sat on the floor with his little arms wrapped around himself.  “It got poked with poison.  But the frog was not where it came from; it was a frog from someplace else.  It liked the fountain a lot, and it even knew of the snake in the fountain.  The snake didn’t want to kill the frog.  The snake didn’t want to die, either.”

Boan moved close and reached out his hand to his younger brother.  “Llyr, you know you need to tell me:  are you talking about snakes and frogs in truth?”

Very slowly, his face completely serious, Llyr shook his head no.

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