Chapter 9
Blood filled his mouth as he was pushed back rather violently, sending both of them barrelling into the ground, the force from her push much greater than what could be expected from a woman her size as he was sent crashing into the wall.
"AGHH!" he grunted in pain as his back hit the wall, and he fell down as pain rippled through him. Yet he pushed him up despite the pain, spitting the blood that filled his mouth to the side.
"YOU!" she snarled in rage and pain, the fires in the room flickering as her form returned back to the red-headed woman she often presented herself as she put pressure on her neck, trying to stop the bleeding.
"What have you done?" she managed to eke out as he inched towards her.
"I told you on that ship, didn't I? I shall have my revenge on all those who have wronged me! And you are one of them!" he snarled as her eyes narrowed.
"I tried to help you, tried to bring you to the truth. Yet you scorn me! Scorn, my God!" she shouted back as it gushed down her neck.
"I do, I am done being the plaything of Gods and Prophecy. From this day on I shall make my own destiny!" he replied, and he was resolute. Fate, destiny, and prophecy had gotten him and his family nowhere. They had put him into this place.
And he was done! He had made a mistake that he could guide the flow of fate gently. Yet that would end. Fate had scorned him and destroyed his whole life, and now he shall do as he pleased, take it all in his own hands.
And his answer enraged her as her gaze narrowed and her eyes began to glow, the fires in the room began to quiver as her voice rang through the room.
"You will die! You will die in this very city!" she cursed him yet was undeterred as he replied coldly and raised his hand, her eyes widening at the object he held in between his fingers.
"I believe you should worry about yourself," and the red ruby in his hands gleamed as she began to shake violently.
"NO!" she shouted as she tried to reach forward, yet he simply took a step back.
"GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK!" she shouted as she realised that wound on her neck was not healing and that her body had begun to deteriorate.
"I curse yo..."
"You can't," he cut in challengingly. It was a secret known to few. it was one reason that the temple had never truly managed to gain a foothold in the Seven Kingdoms despite their every attempt.
"I carry in me the blood of the dragons, and that makes your little curses powerless to me," he replied with a smirk and raised the red burning stone infront of her.
"Plus, I also have this little thing with me, so if I were you, I wouldn't waste my last breath like that," and she saw her lips narrow as the life was drained from them. Her skin began to wrinkle, and the youth and beauty began to drain away as she was reduced to her true form.
"Then I curse her!" she shouted as a shiver ran down his spine at her words as their eyes met.
"Curse the...one you.. hold dear in your heart. So that you... you may never hold her again! That she may slumber..." but he cut her off, as his hand ripped through her chest and came out the other side as he crushed her heart in his hands.
"...in yo...r...w..it...o..ly...to...die!" and she finished her words as her body became limp. Gone was the beauty and youth of Melisandre of Asshai, replaced with the desolate crippling form of Meloni.
Her words still rang in his head, and suddenly, as the light drained out of her eyes, he felt the room shift as her body began to turn into dust. He felt an ominous power fill the room, and dread pooled in his gut as he realized just what had happened.
"No," he gasped out, yet it was too late as her body became dust in his arms, and the fires went out, and he was left screaming alone.
"NOOO!"
Forever.
0000
ELIA MARTELL
The thunderous cheers from the city continued as Kingslanding celebrated its first triumph since the beginning of the war. The Targaryen regime had yet to win a convincing victory, and though this battle was not a full-fledged confrontation, it was still a battle.
A battle that they had won rather convincingly if the word of the men was anything to go by.
They had faced five thousand Lannister men, with fifteen hundred fewer men. And yet they had won and had lost merely a hundred men with a few hundred more injured. It was a complete rout, and that was a cause to celebrate.
She now walked through the Red Keeps halls, towards his solar as the councilmen gathered for him in the room, waiting for him to join them. The castle was now filled with old Lannister guard and Daemon's own men, the origin of whom was still a mystery to her.
And though she was not a fighter, she had seen enough to know that each of them was worth several regular men. They were not knights looking for glory and riches. No, these were warriors, bloodied and ferocious, whose trade was war. A trade they seemed to be rather good at trade.
She reached the doors of his solar and was about to enter when she was halted by two of these very men who blocked her. They were large and ferocious. Their faces had scars under their eyes as they blocked her path.
Elia was not perturbed as she raised a brow and spoke up.
"I am the Princess of Dorne, good sister to your King. I am not here to harm him," she said and saw them glance at each other before they moved away, letting her enter the solar.
She opened the door, slid in, and spoke up slowly.
"Daemo..." but her words were cut short by the gasp that escaped her lips at the scene inside.
"Gods!"
For there sat Daemon, with his armour and shirt on the side, and she, for the first time, caught a glimpse of his body.
The burns had healed. She had expected them, knowing enough from his telling. Yet what she saw was nothing like she had expected. For it wasn't just healed skin; his back was littered with cuts and slashes and wounds and scars of all sorts, some of them so fresh that they bled still.
"Elia!" Daemon uttered in frustration as he made to cover himself.
"What are you doing here?" he questioned yet she didn't answer as she approached him, and from the things that lay besides him realised just what he was trying to do.
"Gods! Why didn't you call a Maester," she said as she walked up to him.
"I don't trust them, regardless. What are you doing here? Leave," he said as he dropped a piece of cloth over him, covering his scars, and pity and hurt began to erupt in her heart, for she knew that any sane man would be screaming in pain with the scars he had.
"You can't do this yourself, let me call a master. You need some milk of poppy," she began in concern.
"I need nothing," he said rather forcefully as he gazed into the fire.
"But the pain..." but she was cut off by a raspy voice.
"I feel no pain," he began, his steel mask glowing hot red from the light of fire as he continued.
"Not anymore," and she frowned at that.
"A consequence of my father's gift to me. The fire I was burned in was so hot that it burnt away my perception of pain from me, and as my skin healed over the years, it didn't come back. Pain was lost to me, like much else," he began, and she was reminded once more that the person sitting infront of her wasn't the Daemon of old.
This Daemon had seen horrors beyond her imagination, beyond anything she could fathom. And all those horrors had left a mark on him, deep marks if the scars were anything to go by.
"Then let me do it," she said as she picked up the needle and the cloth, to sew up the wounds.
"You don't have to, I will manage on my own," he protested but she didn't let go as she looked him in the eye. In the end he relented as he slowly took off the clothe, revealing to her his bare upper body once more.
She gulped down as she saw all those scars. It was not a pretty sight. Yet she steeled her heart as she catalogued the cut he had been working on and began to wipe away the blood.
She then threaded the needle through his skin, and as he had said, he didn't even flinch as she brought it up from the other side.
"Sometimes, I miss it, you know," he said as she was sewing the second slash near his shoulder, and she looked up at him.
"The pain," he elaborated.
"It's something I had never thought I would miss," he said, in the voice of the Daemon of old, the one who would joke and joke and jape with her and Ashara, take them into the city at night, and tell them those unique tales of his.
"The Gods would like it if my breath were to stop right now," he said, a small chuckle in his voice as he gazed into his hand.
"I would much rather put my trust in these hands than those bastards!" he scoffed at that, leaving her gaping.
"Daemon!" she nearly shouted, for she didn't recall him being so cynical and heretic. While not pious, he did frequent the Sept with them in his youth.
They looked into each other's eyes, and there was no remorse or shift in his gaze, and she realised that he meant every word of it.
In the end, she gave up as she cut the last stitch and wiped away the blood, her gaze lingering on the scars that covered his body, and she found herself asking the question that had been plaguing her all this time.
"Just where were you all this time?" she eked out as she looked up.
"And who are those men that came back with you? Just what happened to you after that day?" she asked further as Daemon looked away from her and into the fire once more, before suddenly standing up as he began to dress himself once more.
"Meereen," he answered as he put on a shirt.
"Meereen," she whispered back as she tried t recall all that she knew and had heard of the city, as her eyes widened for she recalled an interesting word that she had heard about the greatest city in Slaver's bay.
"You are him. You are the liberator," she gasped out and his head snapped towards her.
"Liberator?" he questioned.
"The man who freed thousands of slaves, the man who stoked the freedman rebellions, and formed the burnt men...." and then it all clicked together. Those men, seasoned in warfare, their armor, and the burnt marks under their eyes.
"Is that what they are calling, the Liberator," he questioned with a small chuckle as he shook his head.
"Though I am guilty of only some of that. Mainly, I just fought and liberated men from their chains," he answered as he picked up his sword and began to walk toward the door.
"The rest they did on their own."
0000
DAEMON TARGARYEN
He found himself in the council room with his limited councillors around him once more. He had not yet had the time to fill out the various roles, and hence, there were few people in attendance. It was something he would have to rectify soon, for he could not have Lord Velaryon carry the burden as such. The man was capable enough, though, and seemed to be holding the fort for the time being, being assisted in his efforts by Elia, who seemed quite aware of the courtly matters.
And not to forget, he was faced with a shortage of loyal, capable men at the moment.
"Tell me of the defect in the wall," he began as he turned towards Lord Velaryon.
"It will be done by the night, your grace. The builders have assured me as much," and that was a relief. He didn't like his stronghold to be vulnerable to an attack.
"Your grace, Lord Tywin's army still marches on, and they number twenty thousand. What are your commands regarding that," asked his hand, and before he could answer, the old coot from the citadel interjected once more.
"I still implore you, your grace. This conflict with Lord Tywin is a costly mistake. Lord Tywin served your father loyally for years. He would not dare betray you. It's a misunderstanding," he began and Daemon.
"I just cut down five thousand of his men, who were set to march and lay waste to my city and castle," Daemon said icily as he gave the old master a glare. He would have to deal with him once the dust settles down, he couldn't hope to rule while having a lout like him amidst his council.
"Though you are right about one thing," he said as he leaned back and turned to face Lord Velaryon.
"I believe we may find ourselves making peace with Lord Lannister, though it is a hope only. So, I want you to have men drill and assemble themselves for battle. Whether it's the Lannister army or the rebellion forces that march down the King's Road, we will be in need of trained men," he said as the older portly man nodded.
"As you command your grace," and with that, the man reached into his pocket and put forward a missive.
"This arrived from Highgarden, your grace. House Tyrell pledges its allegiance to you as the ruler of the realm and answers your call," and that was a relief. Now, they only had to stop blabbering like idiots and remove that oaf of a man, Mace Tyrell, from the command as he had ordered and appoint Tarly to invade Storms' End.
"Good," he said as Elia cut in from the side.
"Dorne also answers the call," she began as she put forward a missive herself.
"Doran has written for Dorne and has pledged himself to your cause. Ten thousand spearmen from Dorne ride towards the capital. They shall be here before Baratheon's host makes it to the city," and that was welcome and confirmed his earlier suspicion that Dorne had indeed held back in their support for Rhaegar as retribution for him scorning their Princess.
'Idiots,' he thought, though he didn't mind it.
That was two out of the seven Great Kingdoms, three if he were to include Crownlands as well. The Greyjoys were neutral, and now that left the Lannisters.
"And your mother is set to return to the capital by tomorrow, your grace, and I wish to know what your orders for the Royal fleet are. Your grace. They are still stationed on Dragonstone," added Lord Vealryon, and he had plans for that fleet.
"Have the fleet prepare for battle and order them to keep an eye out for a storm. Though they are not to focus on Kingsladning, their target shall be Lannisport," he added. His mother's return was something that he had been against, though it mattered little now. He knew he could do little to stop her.
"But your gra..." the old grey rat from the citadel tried to speak, but he grew tired of him.
"If the negotiations with Lord Tywin deteriorate, they shall be ready to attack on a moment's notice.
"As you command your grace," he said, standing up and, with a small nod towards his hand, beginning to walk out.
"That will be all," he said, moving through the Halls. His head lightened, and his vision began to swim. It seemed he had underestimated his injuries. His hand reached for the red stone on his sword, and power flowed through him, allowing him to reach his room.
0000
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