16.
Disgust and Obsession 22: Chapter 16.
Disgust and Obsession “Was it worth it?” Ross asked thoughtfully, sitting down beside me by the fire.
I shot him a sideways glance before turning back to watch the dancing flames.
“More than worth it,” I replied dryly, then coughed, spitting out blood.
With a shaking hand, I wiped the crimson fluid from the corner of my mouth and reached for my shield.
Resting it on my knees, I studied its rough surface absently.
An image lingered in my mind, demanding to be shown to the world.
“And what did it accomplish?” the Westerosi pressed, interrupting my focus.
“What did it give you besides weakening yourself?
Right now, a five-year-old could kill you.” I let out an irritated sigh and looked at my trembling hands.
In some ways, this persistent, overprotective friend of mine was right.
I’d pushed myself too hard.
While the higher-ups were debating how to deal with the pirate nuisance, I’d taken matters into my own hands.
I’d slipped past the posts and headed for the tunnel network, determined to end the threat once and for all.
Rather than wander the stone labyrinth again, I decided to repeat the trick I’d pulled with the brothel.
Reasoning that I’d grown significantly stronger since then and that my body could handle the strain, I sat down at the entrance to one of the tunnels.
Leaning my back against the wall and turning inward, I used my power to probe the entire network.
That’s when I realized just how badly I’d miscalculated.
Comparing a pathetic building to an entire labyrinth that had existed for centuries was absurd.
Trying to grasp the whole picture at once sent my mind into overdrive, one sensory overload following another.
At some point, through the trance I’d fallen into, I felt a warm, salty liquid trickling down my lips.
That was the warning sign telling me to stop.
But stubbornness drove me forward, determined to see it through.
In that moment, something stirred: memories of my mother’s stories about ending up in the brothel.
The surge of hatred gave me the needed burst of strength, dulling the growing pain throughout my body and helping me continue.
Knowing I couldn’t collapse all the passages at once without killing myself from the strain, I worked sector by sector.
Even that took its toll, forcing me to move quickly.
If anyone heard the rumbling, the entire company would descend on me in seconds.
I had to escape the tunnels before I was discovered.
When I finished and opened my eyes, I could barely comprehend my surroundings.
Everything swam before me; focusing was nearly impossible.
Bringing my shaking hand to my face, I realized it was covered in blood.
It was everywhere: eyes, mouth, nose, ears.
I don’t know how I still had any strength left, given the blood loss.
Getting up took several attempts.
I barely had the strength to stand, so I crawled the first few meters on all fours.
Then the world swam again, and I vomited onto the ground before me.
My already miserable state worsened, but the awareness of slipping time forced me to my feet on trembling legs.
The rest of the way, I stumbled along the wall, constantly leaning on it for support.
By the time I neared the exit, I’d resigned myself to facing the entire company.
I could only guess what their reaction would be.
Fear?
Admiration?
Or disgust mixed with hatred?
Fortunately, I never got my answer.
At the entrance, Magok caught my falling body, seemingly emerging from the darkness itself.
He carried me back to camp, where the entire squad tried to revive me.
In that moment, I felt a familiar disgust that still haunts me today.
Disgust at my own weakness.
Shaking my head, I pushed the memory away.
Looking back, I can admit I made a mistake.
A mistake that nearly cost me my life.
A little more strain, and the pressure could have exceeded my limits, my brain unable to handle the load.
Nothing was stopping me from acting methodically, but I rushed.
I can admit my mistakes.
But I’ll never confess them aloud.
That was all days past.
A whole week had passed since then.
Even now, I’m still quite weak.
Not weak enough to lose a fight to a five-year-old, but weak nonetheless.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I finally answered the mercenary, waving him off.
“But if you don’t believe me, we can test it.” I fixed him with a heavy stare.
Using sheer willpower, I lightly pressed down on him with gravity.
The effort triggered a headache, and I had to release the pressure and try not to show it.
Apparently, I didn’t try hard enough.
“Show-off,” Ross rasped, spitting at his feet.
“You’re impossible.” “To hell with your lectures,” I said roughly.
“If you want me to recover, bring me someone I can gut.
You’ll see, I’ll feel better right away.” He didn’t respond, but something told me Ross remembered my words.
Waving away the distraction, I returned to what I’d been doing.
Studying my shield’s surface, I tried to capture the vague image in my mind.
For a while, I sat completely still, then slowly reached for a cooled coal from the dead fire.
Under Ross’s watchful eye, I began carefully tracing the outlines known only to me.
Stroke by stroke.
Line by line.
With each movement, the drawing became clearer.
At some point, I lost all track of time.
By then, the wooden surface of my shield bore a symbol that would one day be associated with House Rexarion: a dragon soaring above the Fourteen Flames of Valyria.
But something bothered me.
I studied the drawing critically, trying to figure out what was wrong.
“What is it?” Ross asked with interest, also examining the result.
“The sigil of my house,” I replied quietly.
“Or rather, what it should be.
But something’s missing.” The big man said nothing.
I didn’t elaborate, continuing my attempts to figure out what was wrong.
This went on for several minutes until…
“Forget it,” I spat, setting the shield aside.
I gave up, stood up, and cracked my joints.
My legs still felt weak.
The throbbing headache returned.
“Tell our people to pack up,” I said, massaging my temples.
“We move out at dawn.
Captain’s orders.” “What?” the Westerosi asked, surprised and a little indignant.
“Why so sudden?
What about your condition?
We should tell…” “Calm down, Mother Teresa,” I grinned at his concern.
“I’m not that fragile.” Ross frowned and stubbornly stared at me.
He clearly wasn’t convinced.
His right, I suppose.
Too bad no one cares.
“Besides, I already told you what would help,” I added before heading to my tent.
I moved slowly and probably looked pathetic.
So I wasn’t surprised when I felt someone beside me.
Turning my head, I saw Ross walking close enough for me to lean on him if needed.
I wanted to snap at him and stubbornly go on my own, but realizing how foolish that would look, I accepted the help.
We walked in silence for a while before he spoke.
“Irat,” he said with a strange tone.
“What?” I sighed heavily.
“Who’s Mother Teresa?” he asked with childish curiosity, and I had to suppress the urge to slap my palm against my forehead.
— *** Interlude.
Jaehaerys II Targaryen.
The walls of the Red Keep pressed down with their monumentality.
Especially here, in the throne room.
A long, high-ceilinged hall capable of holding over a thousand people.
Dragon skulls lined the walls, casting ominous shadows on any visitor.
As my father used to say, “The shadow of past glory.” It was here that Father always received petitioners and dispensed justice, towering over his subjects from the Iron Throne, the symbol of supreme power over the Seven Kingdoms.
A very high and uncomfortable structure made of fused swords from defeated enemies.
Add to that the danger it posed to anyone who sat on it.
I remember when I was still a child, I ran here and tried to climb the throne when no one was looking.
I cut my hand badly.
Got quite a scolding for that one.
“What’s the matter, brother?” my older brother Duncan’s voice pulled me from my contemplation.
“Admiring your future seat?
Already looking forward to climbing that torture device every time?” I closed my eyes and sighed wearily.
My brother always had a sharp tongue.
Since he renounced the throne, it’s only gotten worse.
“And you’re happy about it, aren’t you?” I said quietly, turning to face him.
“Of course,” he chuckled meaningfully.
“There have to be some perks to giving up the throne.” Silence fell for a moment, then our laughter broke it.
My quiet, barely audible laugh and his guttural, rough laugh.
So different, just like us.
Even outwardly, Duncan didn’t look like a Targaryen, lacking any Valyrian features.
Dark hair and brown eyes, combined with a coarse face, made it impossible to believe he was a descendant of Valyrians.
Everyone says he takes after his mother.
I think he simply has too little of our blood.
He’s proof of our decline.
Like our dragons, which grew smaller and weaker with each generation, we too began losing our original traits.
Fortunately, so far it’s only affected Duncan, setting him apart in our family.
Perhaps that’s why he so easily gave up the throne in my favor.
A true Targaryen should sit on the throne.
“How many swords is it supposed to contain?” my brother continued, looking at the throne.
“A thousand, they say.” “So they say,” I replied ambiguously.
We stood in silence, gazing at the symbol of our greatness and power.
“How’s Father?” I finally asked, breaking the prolonged silence.
“Hard to say,” Duncan answered after a pause, losing all his cheerfulness.
“After Deyron’s death, he declined sharply.” He roughly ruffled his short black hair, as if that would help him gather his thoughts.
Mentioning our younger brother’s death made me curse quietly.
“Otherwise, everything’s fine,” he continued softly, so only I could hear.
“As long as someone from the family is with him.
At other times…” He didn’t finish.
Everything was clear without words.
Father was failing.
The once famous Aegon the Unlikely, or Aegon the Lucky, was now more like Aegon the Obsessed.
And with each passing year, his obsession grew stronger.
“Is he coming back from Summerhall?” I asked, concerned.
“It’s been six months already.” “Probably,” Duncan replied.
“He wanted to hold a tournament here, in King’s Landing.
But he’s been consumed again by his latest idea of reviving dragons.
So in a few days, I’ll be heading back to Summerhall.
I’ll try to keep him from moving from theory to practice.” “Good luck,” I said quietly.
“You’ll need it.” We both sighed at the same time.
“When…” I started to ask another question, but stopped.
Soft footsteps echoed through the throne room.
Turning, we saw the King’s Hand approaching: Andar Royce.
“Your Highnesses,” he said, bowing his head.
“Good to see you in good health.” “Lord Royce,” I nodded in return, matching his formality.
“How is your wife, Lady Elena?” Duncan played the silent listener.
“Age takes its toll, but thank you for asking, Your Highness,” the Hand said sincerely.
“Unfortunately, I wasn’t looking for you to discuss my dear Elena’s health.
Unfortunately…” “I’ll go check on my nephew,” my brother cut in, clearly not wanting to hear about state affairs.
“Good to see you, brother.
Lord Royce.” Nodding to the Hand, Duncan hurried away.
A warrior to the bone.
He’d find any excuse to tactfully leave when politics came up.
“Check on my nephew indeed,” I thought with a smirk.
“He just wants to show Eyris some sword moves.
I should warn him that Sheira’s with his son right now.
Though a scolding from his sister wouldn’t hurt him…” “He’s incorrigible,” I said out loud.
“Sometimes I wonder which of us is older.” Royce tactfully refrained from commenting on either my statement or Duncan’s quick exit.
“What did you want to talk about, Lord Hand?” I asked, shifting to business.
“I thought the king and the Small Council handled matters of state.
I’m neither one nor the other.” “The Blackfyres, Your Highness,” the man began.
“Or to be precise, a whole band of mercenaries that Prince Duncan, in his absence, dubbed the Ninepenny Kings.” I waited expectantly.
“Before leaving for Summerhall, the king ordered close monitoring of this gang’s activities,” Lord Royce continued.
“They’re actively taking the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones, approaching our territories.
Tyrosh is already under their control.
Given the Blackfyre claims to the Iron Throne, it’s only a matter of time before they turn their eyes to Westeros.” “I still haven’t heard why you wanted to see me,” I said coldly.
“The king gave the orders.
You answer to him.
I’m not king yet.
So tell me…
what do you expect from me?” The Hand hesitated.
His eyes darted, and finally he lowered his gaze.
“We sent a raven to the king,” he said quietly.
“But received no response.
I fear the king’s obsession is affecting his competence.
So I hoped you…” “The king’s obsession is not your concern,” I said roughly.
My voice echoed through the throne room, reflecting off the walls.
“Your job is to do your work,” I continued.
“Is that understood?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Then do it, and stop making foolish assumptions,” I said, and before leaving, added, “As for your question…
Do what must be done.
If the situation demands, assist the pirates.
That should delay these ‘kings,’ or ideally weaken them.” Later, walking through the Red Keep toward Sheira’s and my chambers, I thought: my first decree would be to replace the Hand.