Colmar the Grey had lived the life of a maester for nearly six decades. His mother, whose name he had never learned, had been a whore in Maidenpool. Colmar possessed no real memories of her, only a hazy image of blonde hair and the scent of honeysuckle that always accompanied it. He had even less of an idea of who his father was, though he supposed he had been a tall and broad man if Colmar's own stature gave any hint. Perhaps he had been a fisherman who plied his trade in the Bay of Crabs, or a heavily-muscled blacksmith who had never been able to show a woman the same care he invested in his work.
Colmar would never know. His mother had died two years after his birth, taken by the same greyscale that had permanently disfigured his own face. Odds were she had contracted it from a client, and passed it on to her infant son before she and two other Maidenpool whores submitted to it quickly. The Mootens had had the brothel burned, its surviving girls and regular customers quarantined until it was determined they weren't plagued with the wretched disease. The Grandmaester supposed he had been expected to die as his mother had, but against the odds he had pulled through. Maester Lan, a Westerman passing through Maidenpool on some business of the Citadel, had taken pity on the child, and brought the infant hundreds of miles south to Oldtown.
There Colmar had been raised among the Maesters, and there he had thrived.
He'd earned the black iron link for ravenry by the age of seven, and the copper of history by eight. Next had come the silver link of medicine at ten, the pale steel of smithing at thirteen, the iron of warcraft at fifteen, with others interspersed between. He even held the Valyrian steel link of magic and the occult, something only one in one hundred maesters possessed. He had earned his appointment as the Grandmaester at the Iron Throne, having embodied the principals of the Citadel for all of his life.
But now he shirked their teachings, and gladly.
The Citadel taught its novices and acolytes that a Maester had no political allegiance; he served the holding at which he was stationed and the people who resided there, regardless of changes in control of that holding. By that reckoning Colmar the Grey now served 'King' Viserys Targaryen, as the youngest son of Aerys was firmly in control of the Red Keep and King's Landing, and on the surface that was the case.
But in truth, Colmar the Grey would rather die, a very real possibility that had lost all of its sting.
The news of Rhaella's death had shaken all six feet, ten inches of his hulking form, bringing him to his massive knees. He had delivered his future Queen himself, placing her in the arms of Alysanne Lefford as he had two children before and four after. Citadel teachings be damned, he had loved the Princess as if she were his own.
And now she was dead, and the man to blame for it had ordered an armed guard on Colmar at all times.
Viserys had never taken a shine to Colmar, despite the years of lessons and the dozens of childhood injuries Colmar had patched up. It hadn't bothered the Grandmaester, as the eccentric young Prince never took a shine to anyone other than Daenerys. Still, despite knowing his love for Aelor and his children, the self-styled King of the Iron Throne hadn't had anyone to replace Colmar as messenger and scribe, and none in the Golden Company were near his talent as a healer, so Viserys had kept the hulking man in place. Viserys—or one of his advisors, anyway—had been smart enough to assign a man to not only escort Colmar but also another to double-check what Colmar wrote in the letters and to ensure they were sent, but they had no way of knowing if they were sent to the correct places.
They weren't. Messages meant for Houses with potential blood debts against Aelor were instead sent to Houses thoroughly tied into Aegon's reign. The letter demanding Aelor trade himself for Myrcella and her unborn babe had been sent to Riverrun, to alert the loyalist armies massing there of the situation. Colmar knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long—another man to replace him was likely coming—but he did what he could while he could.
Which is why he was steadily making his way towards the chambers where Myrcella was held.
The guard assigned to him had been selected to do so completely on physical size. The copper-skinned Dothraki was nearly as tall as Colmar and just as broad, his ham-sized hands constantly hanging near the long curved arakh on his hip. The Grandmaester was certain if it came to a fair fight, be it weapons or bare knuckles, that the horsewarrior would handily break him in two. Colmar for all his size was a teacher, not a warrior, and he was an old man to boot.
But what the Dothraki possessed in strength he lacked in intelligence, and Colmar had no intention of fighting fair.
"Wrong way," the Dothraki grunted. His grasp of Westerosi was limited Colmar had gathered, and though the Grandmaester spoke fluent Dothraki he had no intention of letting the horselord know that.
"The King asked me to ascertain the pleasure and luxury of his most esteemed guest Lady Langward, my respectable imbecile. She is late into the stages of pregnancy you know, and the appalling lack of midwives and competent healers to attend her through this problematic time is disgraceful. Our current direction is the rapidest way to her horrendously bare arrangements." The Grandmaester turned with an affable grin, and was inwardly delighted at the look of utter confusion on the sellarakh's face. In the two days since Viserys had taken the capital and the brute had been his guard, the disfigured loyalist had taken a deep pleasure in using the most outrageous and confounded vocabulary his extensive years of study had brought him.
The scowling Dothraki captor was still trying to ponder out what Colmar had said when the Grandmaester arrived at and promptly opened the door to Myrcella's chambers. While Viserys had seen her as the bargaining chip she was, he had still awarded her chambers befitting that of both a noble and a pregnant woman. The bed was large and soft, the chambers clean and open, and there was no sign of the meal she had eaten just that morning, evidence that whatever maids Viserys had assigned to Myrcella were quick and efficient.
But a luxurious cage was still a cage, and that showed clearly in Myrcella's face. The daughter of one of Aelor's closest friends had been a common presence in King's Landing, accompanying her father in his frequent travels from Brindlewood to the capital and befriending both Daenerys and Rhaella—and Renlor—in those trips. Outside of his wife and Barristan Selmy, Aelor trusted no one alive more than he did Alaric Langward, and quite often he called his former squire to King's Landing to serve as an advisor. Due to these close proximities, Colmar had grown accustomed to Myrcella and her personality, and it took him just one look now to know her situation was wearing on her. The effects of stress was clear on her high-cheekboned face, her long golden hair having lost some of its luster. Her arms seemed to constantly be wrapped protectively around her belly, which grew more swollen with each passing day. Colmar knew the constant fear she was living in couldn't be healthy for either the infant or its mother, and a stab of concern went through him.
Despite her clearly and constant worry Myrcella gave him a small smile. "Grandmaester Colmar. It is good to see a familiar face."
He conducted a short bow, striding a few more steps into the chamber after doing so. "Lady Targaryen, it does me good to see you well." As he came to a stop a few feet in front of her, his hulking escort standing apprehensively in the threshold, he lowered his voice to a low rumble. "How is the child?"
Myrcella instinctively matched his tone, looking down at her protruding belly and running a hand protectively over the Lannister crimson dress covering it. "I feel him move more and more often these days."
"And how are you?"
Myrcella hesitated a moment before fixing her stare pointedly at the floor. "I am better than Rhaella."
The statement nearly buckled the big maester even as it fortified his resolve. "And you will remain that way, my lady. I assure it." He raised his voice back to its normal booming volume, though he doubted the Dothraki had much knowledge of what was being said. "Shall I have a listen then my lady?" With a grunt he settled down on a stiff knee. He still had bend at the waist, as he was as tall on his knee as Myrcella was on her feet. Turning his ear to press against Myrcella's swell, he whispered as quietly as he could. "Whatever you do, follow my lead."
Giving her no chance to respond, Colmar gave a disgruntled—and loud—scoff before. "You said you have been having pain, my lady?"
For a long moment she stared at him confusedly, and Colmar poured every bit of pleading he could into his eyes. It took several moments, but Myrcella's face went carefully blank as realization rushed through her. That a girl. Her voice was shaky when she spoke, but the language barrier between them and the muscled Dothraki continued to work in their benefit. "Yes, Grandmaester. I…I worry that something is wrong."
Colmar kept his ear to her belly a moment longer before rising back to his full height with a grunt. "I do not mean to alarm you, my lady, but I fear there may be as well." He turned to the Dothraki. "You! Rush and grab me the listening tool. Ask one of the maids, they'll help you find it. At once, man." Colmar gestured with his hands to emphasize his words.
The Dothraki couldn't understand the command, which was all well and good—it was gibberish anyway. There was no 'listening tool'. Still, the Dothraki clearly understood he was being told to find something, and his dark face sank into a scowl. The Dothraki took a few steps into the chamber, one hand resting on the handle of his arakh, setting his feet pointedly.
Well, it's not like I truly expected that to work. "Myrcella," he breathed quietly, "grab your belly and sink to the bed." Myrcella looked at him confusedly for a moment before understanding dawned and she obeyed. Her actions weren't very convincing even to an amateur's eyes, but Colmar prayed to the Seven that they would be enough.
Colmar instantly took a hold of her arms. "My lady, are you okay? Is something wrong with the child?" He whirled to the big horselord, whose face had gone from a scowl of anger to a scowl of apprehension. "You! Come help me, now." He pointed to the floor. "Come on, man!" Even as the giant maester said the words he was eyeing the vase just out of arms reach. Come on, sellsword. Just get close to Myrcella, turn your head for just a moment…
A language barrier only went so far, though. The Dothraki clearly understood that Colmar wanted him to come closer, and also understood that it was to do with the pregnant woman sitting on the bed with her hands on her belly. Weather he believed that something was truly wrong with Myrcella or not Colmar didn't know, but the Dothraki turned to walk towards the door for something. Maybe it was to shout for help for Myrcella or himself, maybe it was to latch the door in case this was a ploy meant to disarm him—which it was. In any case, the Dothraki turned his back from the old man and pregnant girl to stomp towards the door.
Well, at least he turned his back. While he didn't like the Dothraki being that close to the door and having so much ground to cover, Colmar the Grey knew he wouldn't have a better chance than this. Moving quicker than his old bones had in years, Colmar had the vase in his hand and took three long steps towards the bodyguard.
The Dothraki heard him at once, and had spun half way around before Colmar swung the vase with all the strength his form had. The blow took the horselord on the temple, sending the sellarakh reeling to the side as the vase—blue and white, much too pretty for such a primitive use as a club—shattered, sending chunks of pottery tumbling to the floor.
Colmar expected the Dothraki to follow them. He didn't.
The heavily muscled Essossi staggered sideways, big shoulder crashing into the wall of the chamber as he let out a grunt of pain. Even as he caught onto the stone to steady himself with one hand he drew his arakh with the other, eyes, though slightly unfocused from the blow, promising to rip Colmar in two.
Well horseshit. This wasn't part of the plan.
Colmar only stared dumbly for a moment as the Dothraki—who should by all means be unconscious on the floor at this moment—rallied himself from the wall, shoving off as he raised his arakh and took a stumbling step towards the Grandmaester. Myrcella screamed, an understandable reaction though quite unfortunate since this needed to be a quite escape, and Colmar stumbled back in reaction. It saved him, in that the arakh didn't cleave him in two but instead bit into his left arm, slicing clean down through his upper arm as if the Grandmaester was made of parchment instead of muscle and skin. Colmar added his own roar to Myrcella's scream as the blade cut deep, crashing backwards into the small table he had snatched the vase from.
The Dothraki, blood trickling down his temple, took another step towards Colmar, this one much more steady than the last. He was already shaking off the effects of the blow. The Grandmaester stared up at the approaching man, blood pouring in rivulets from his arm and staining his grey robe crimson, unable to do a thing to stop the much younger and stronger warrior.
Colmar couldn't do a thing, but Myrcella could.
The mirror spun end over end to collide with the Dotrhaki's shoulder. It bounced off harmlessly, but it distracted the marching killer from the helpless old man to the pregnant young girl, who was already rearing back to throw a brush, her face terrified as tears ran down her cheeks. The Dothraki turned to march towards her, expression furious as he narrowly dodged the brush.
It bought Colmar all the time he needed. The tears on Myrcella's cheeks drove him to his feet, gripping the table itself, arm screeching in a pain that he completely ignored in his own anger. Is this the battlerage Aelor speaks of? Potent stuff. He heaved the table over his head, his own blood splattering on his face, and with a raspy shout he swung it down hard.
The Dothraki tried again to turn, recognizing his mistake in turning his back on the giant Maester not once but twice, but Colmar hit him this time with the same strength he had wielded as a young man. This time the Dothraki dropped to a knee as the edge of the table smashed into the top of his head. He still didn't go to the ground, pulling his arakh back in an attempt to slice the maester again, but Colmar brought the small table down again even harder. Colmar repeated the motion even after the horselord was prone on the ground and unmoving, bringing the table up and down again and again until the bronzed Dothraki's head was a mass of blood and brain.
With one more roar—all attempts at silence were lost to them now—Colmar bashed the Dothraki's head a final time, allowing the large club to crash to the ground, standing panting over his dead foe. As the adrenaline and battlelust faded, the severe pain in his arm and the dizziness the bloodloss was bringing came back to his attention, as did the presence of Myrcella in the chamber.
The Grandmaester rose back to his full height and faced her, still panting. She recoiled at the sight of him, her face very pale. Colmar didn't blame her, but he knew he didn't have very long to achieve his goal. "Follow me, my lady." He said between pants. "Do not slow down."
She looked form his blood-spattered face to his blood-soaked sleeve. "You…you're…"
Colmar made his voice firm and final. "There isn't time, Myrcella. Come now."
He turned and staggered out the door of the chamber into the hall, where he could already hear the sound of rushing feet. Colmar didn't wait to see if Myrcella was behind him; she had to be.
She has to be.
Colmar ran a staggering run, arm still bleeding heavily, navigating the corridors with a precision none of the enemy occupants—aside from Viserys—possessed. He prayed his co-conspirators had done their part.
They had.
Guards had been posted on all the tunnels under the Red Keep, likely to avoid this exact situation. The two at the entrance in the White Sword Tower—the only unoccupied building in the Red Keep, as Viserys hadn't chosen a Kingsguard—lay dead in puddles of their own dried blood. A shorter, smaller man with a salt and pepper beard stood at the narrow entrance in the bottom, two others who looked much like him at his sides, bloodstained daggers in their hands.
Davos had assisted in the flight of Princess Elia Martell seventeen years earlier, and had been awarded by Aelor with a modest house near the docks, where he plied his trade as an honest fisherman instead of a slightly-less-than-honest smuggler. He had received payments of gold every month from the Crown, ostensibly for his services then.
In truth, they were for his continued services to this very day. Davos was the Crown's man on the docks.
On the wooden moorings of the Narrow Sea he fished and he listened, keeping track of what boats came into and out of the city with as much accuracy as Varys. He discovered their cargos—both legal and illegal—either through drinking with the sailors and earning their tales or by dropping hints on suspicious ships to Varys, who set his own network upon them.
A network Colmar could still access by simply sending a raven meant for the Reach to Davos's small home. The message obviously said nothing of the situation—Viserys' men were triple checking what he wrote—but the smuggler had known the plan if it were to ever happen. Beach his boat in the dead of the night at the same small cove he had saved Princess Elia from years earlier and follow the trail to the first chamber he came to. The men guarding it could have been the only hitch, but Davos was as shrewd as he was discreet. He had come prepared, as Colmar had prayed he would.
Thousands of dragon's worth of illegal goods had been seized thanks to Davos, but he and his sons were about to ply their second biggest service to the crown.
"We need to be quick. My boat has been there all night and these lads have been dead for hours; eventually someone will notice."
The sound of their pursuers—which had grown in cacophony in the last few minutes of flight as more of the castle became aware of the breakout attempt—was close behind. Colmar, panting and dizzy, unceremoniously shoved Myrcella toward them.
"Take her."
Myrcella whirled back around, grabbing his good arm. "Colmar—"
"Go," the Grandmaester roared. "I'll hold that door was long as I can, but you get her out. Their navy will hunt you to no end; don't let her fall into their hands."
Davos only nodded, gingerly taking Myrcella's arm. "She won't. This way, my lady."
Colmar ran to the small chamber door, nearly falling into it as he slammed it with his shoulder. Myrcella protested behind him, but he could barely hear her over the increasingly loud pounding of his own heart. He braced his tired body against the door as she faded and the pursuers neared.
You'll have to get through a seven foot giant to touch her, lads.
As the first few shoves started on the other side, Colmar rallying the last of his strength to the task, he had only one thought.
I couldn't save you, Rhaella, but I've done my best to save your niece or nephew.
I hope you'll forgive me. I suppose I'm about to find out.
The idea didn't bother him in the slightest.