TBOV: Chapter Two: Control (PT. I)

Chapter Two: Control

“The tones, the timbre, the subtleties—they are a secret language all their own.”

―Frank Herbert, Dune

…

She went by Linora now, this nameless girl of Braavos whose true face lay buried beneath the borrowed features of a dead servant. Each morning in the Red Keep, she awoke in the cramped alcove behind the scullery, a place reeking of stale bread and boiled turnips, her breathing steady and measured like a hound set to the hunt. For many moons, she had laboured here in quiet obedience, scrubbing floors until her knees ached, carrying jugs of ale to the king’s men, sucking cocks in hidden alcoves, and fetching fresh linen for the ladies of the court. None spared her more than a glance. That was as it should be. A servant was only as visible as the tasks set before her, and a Faceless Man—Faceless Woman, in truth—excelled at invisibility.

At last, the chance she had awaited arrived on a crisp morning when the sky outside King’s Landing glowed with the sickly red hue of sunrise. She was ordered to carry the prince’s breakfast tray up to his private apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. “He wants only bread, fruit, and a carafe of honeyed wine,” said the chief steward, a weary fellow whose left eye twitched whenever anyone looked at him too long. “You, Linora, will attend him. See to it personally.”

So she set about her work in the kitchens, cutting ripe melon and spicing the wine with fresh mint leaves. Only when the cook turned away did she slip the pinch of powder—The Strangler—beneath the melon slices, where it would dissolve unseen. The Strangler: colourless in liquid, near-instant once ingested. Through every step of the meal’s preparation, her pulse drummed against her ribs. Soon, she told herself. Soon, her task would be complete and she would return to where she had come.

Balancing the tray in her arms, she ascended stone steps until she reached the prince’s chambers. A pair of guards stood outside the doors, eyes hooded with boredom. At her meek curtsey and gentle knock, one guard motioned her in with a grunt. Inside, she expected gloom and shadow, yet the windows were thrown open to let in the day’s pale light, and the chamber smelled faintly of rosewater and smoke. Her face threatened a frown when she saw no sign of the prince in the bed. Then she heard his voice, echoing behind a half-drawn curtain that led to the small solar where a copper tub steamed.

She crept forward, the tray secure in her grip, only to find Prince Aemond Targaryen immersed in a hot bath. He was reading from a small leather-bound volume, the edges of its pages stained gold. He looked up at her approach, strands of silver hair clinging damply to his shoulders, his single violet eye seeming to pierce her at once. The sapphire in his other socket glinted in the dimness. She schooled her face to pleasant deference, placing the tray on a narrow wooden platform beside the tub.

“Good morrow, your grace.”

“Good morrow,” he said, the words soft but carrying unmistakable authority. “You’re new to my service.”

She bowed her head. “I serve, my prince, as needed.”

“Sit,” he commanded, lifting his free hand from the water to gesture at a cushioned stool across from him. His tone was mild, almost languid, but something about it brooked no refusal. Already her plan began to fray. She had meant to deliver the meal and go, leaving him to choke on the Strangler the moment it found his throat, but now he seemed intent on conversation. Cautiously, she lowered herself onto the stool.

Silence hung between them as he set aside the book and reached for the meal. Through the haze of bath-steam, she watched him pluck a morsel of melon and chew. Her pulse thundered. The Strangler, when swallowed, began its lethal magic within moments—a dryness constricting the throat, a desperate rasp for breath, death within a few heartbeats. She watched, waiting for the telltale sign: him clutching his neck, eyes bulging. But the prince only quirked a pale brow at her.

“What is your name, girl?” he asked.

“Linora, my prince?”

He gestured to his meal. “Would you join me, Linora?”

She shook her head meekly and he chuckled softly at that.

“Do you trust me so little,” he asked, “that you won’t share a bite?”

She forced a laugh, hollow. “It is not my place, my prince.”

His thin lips curled, but he made no protest. Instead, he set another melon slice against his tongue, chewing slowly, swallowing with every appearance of ease. Malaise flickered through her. Could the poison have gone bad? The Strangler never lost potency, so far as she knew. She had measured it precisely.

“Tell me,” said Prince Aemond, turning to swirl the honeyed wine in its carafe. “Do you think men are shaped more by the lies they tell, or by the lies they believe?”

A strange question. “I… cannot say, my prince.”

“You demure,” Aemond said, “but you have an opinion. Surely, you must.”

He waited, as if expecting something, then shrugged when nothing was said. “No matter. We Targaryens have lied to ourselves for ages, about power and prophecy. Now, the realm stands on the brink once more. Deceit—like breath—cannot be parted from mortal men. It’s everywhere, all around us.” He poured himself a goblet, sipped, then continued to eat with maddening calm. Still no choking, no discolouration of the lips.

Her stomach twisted. He should be dying. She reached a careful hand beneath her skirt, grazing the end of the tiny hiltless blade strapped to her thigh. She had not wanted to use it, for the Strangler promised a clean, silent death, but something had gone wrong.

“Is my presence not to your liking?” Aemond asked, noticing her shift. “You look ill at ease, dear Linora. Or is it because you have been lying to me?”

She froze. “My prince… I do not know what you mean.”

He took another leisurely bite. “Come now. Tell me your name. The one you bore before you wore your first face.”

Anger warred with resolve in her chest. I have failed, she realized. He suspects. How? No matter. I must act. Now, before the moment passes. Without warning, she lunged for his throat, blade drawn—

Yet Aemond spoke a single phrase, the words pitched oddly. It was the same language she recognized, but it struck her ears like a jolt of lightning. Her knees slammed the marble floor, the weapon loosening in her hand. Panic tore at her mind. She had no notion of what force compelled her, only that her limbs refused to obey. She was kneeling beside his copper tub, breathing in ragged gasps, the blade clattering uselessly at her feet.

Prince Aemond turned his attention back to his book, flipping a page with wet fingers. “Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself, “just as I suspected. You are skilled. But there are limits to an art as unrefined as yours.”

“What—what have you—” She tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick.

He glanced at her, sapphire catching the candlelight. “Your order intrigued me for some time, little shadow. The first of your kin who struck at mine died too quickly for me to glean anything useful. But you, dear girl, you have done well. I barely had to nudge you along. You did well. So very well.” He smiled, not unkindly.

“Hush…” he whispered again in that unnatural tone of his as she moved to speak. Her mouth opened to curse him, to vow she would never speak a word of her order’s secrets, but again that strangling force within her seized every muscle in her jaw. Her tongue refused to move. In the end, her voice came out a ragged exhale.

Aemond half-turned in the water, hooking an arm on the tub’s rim. “I do not expect you to yield easily,” he said leaning back. “But rest assured, dear girl. I’ve methods to coax truths from even the staunchest tongues. Again, tell me, little shadow… What is your name?”

The demand in the end emerged as a warble. And this time, her lips moved. Her jaw ached to resist, but her body betrayed her. The name spilled forth, soft and strangled, yet unmistakable.

“...Nyessa.”