CHAPTER THREE
influence
larys.
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MAESTER CAELAN DID NOT TRUST HIM. It radiated off of him; suspicion, his misgivings warping irreparably in the air between them. That he hadn't bothered to conceal it could only mean that he had to intention of repairing it, and if he did not care to repair it, then it appeared he had chosen to draw a line.
Which was too bad, considering Larys had grown quite fond of their mental sparring games.
"You seem distressed, good Maester," the Clubfoot commented at the sidelines, leaning over to speak with Caelan in private beneath the drapes of one of the canopies. The loudness of the feast concealed his tone well enough. "Something bothering you?"
Caelan's gaze slid to his, then back to Lady Nesmyra, who was left alone upon the dancefloor, a fresh flush of embarrassment upon her cheeks. "Evidently," said Maester Caelan. "Are you not seeing your victory?"
"I'm seeing it."
"And now you've come to flaunt it in my face?"
Lord Strong smiled thinly. "I suppose I don't see much use in the matter, considering you already seem quite aware of your losses."
Maester Caelan finally managed to tear his attention from the abandoned Lady Nesmyra, glancing sharply at the man beside him. He seemed as though he wished to wipe the smile off Larys' face. That did not seem particularly practical, and Larys considered himself a practical sort of man.
"You're serious, aren't you?" Caelan questioned.
"Lethally, I'm afraid," responded Lord Strong, then proceeded. "I know you're suspicious of me. Of everyone."
"I find people to be largely disappointing," said Caelan.
"Interestingly," Strong mused with a pointed look in his direction, "so do I."
"Is that considered interesting?"
"I keep being proven right, much to my dismay," the Clubfoot dodged his question, gesturing to a lost looking Nesmyra. "You were quite the worthy opponent, though. That, in itself, is a rare enough feat."
Caelan laughed, apparently despite himself. "You don't concern yourself much with being liked, do you, Lord Strong?"
"No, I don't." He was doubtful Maester Caelan would be capable of understanding, but the sensation of being liked was extraordinarily dull. Feeble, small in comparison. It ensured nothing but smiles and nudges, in these times, it scarcely ensured loyalty. "Being liked is fairly ordinary, I'm afraid. Intensely commonplace."
"How unimpressive," Caelan said dryly.
"Oh, it can be helpful at times, but I certainly don't aim for it."
"What is it you make yourself, then, my Lord?" Caelan asked, sipping his wine.
"Useful, good Maester," Larys responded, smiling familiarly enough for Caelan to notice. Larys hoped he did, hoped he saw it mirrored in his own allies, hoped he realised they were slipping through his fingers. "You might wish to try the same."
With that, he left the Maester's side, and promptly took to searching for Lady Nesmyra.
He found her at the sides, a silvered cup in her hand. She did not seem to be drinking. Perhaps she had set the idea aside to avoid making more of a fool of herself. She wore a curving dress with a tight-laced bodice that bared her shoulders and the top of her bosom. No doubt something her father had chosen in hopes of it luring possible future suitors. After that dance, however, the chances were slim.
"My Lady," Lord Larys greeted politely as he took to stand beside her.
Nesmyra, at least, had the decency to hide her surprise at his approach. "Lord Strong," she said with a courteous dip of her head. She was not completely useless, then.
"This is a far cry from where you started, isn't it?" Larys observed.
It was, unquestionably. But Nesmyra seemed to realise that anyone who knew why she was there in truth was trouble, and she braced herself, souring, for the drop.
"I'm not asking anything," Larys clarified, refilling his cup at the table they both leaned against. "I'm merely pointing out your situation."
"My situation," Lady Nesmyra echoed. She seemed to taste the words. She was an elegant thing, but she had much to learn.
"What you have, here, no one does."
"What is it I have, then?" she questioned, maturely for her age. "And don't say potential."
"Potential? Hardly," replied Larys indifferently. "Certainly not like this. It's a nice cage you've built yourself, but a cage nonetheless."
"I did not build it myself," Nesmyra said bitterly, with a glance towards a group of ladies of the court. They appeared to still be laughing at her.
"No?" he asked, but when no reply came, he continued; "No matter. You don't appear to be handling it well," Larys observed, with a loose gesture towards the ladies. When they seemed to notice they had been caught in their gossip, they stopped their teasing, looked quickly away. "Those ladies are not your allies, and they never will be. It is a waste to mourn them."
"So you think yourself the more useful option, then?" Nesmyra asked. She was a smart thing, more so than she let on. It was a funny thing to see, to a man like Lord Larys Strong.
"I think myself the better option, my Lady," he clarified. "But more importantly, I think that you understand me better than you would care to admit."
The statement rang with relative clarity. He had almost no doubt that Nesmyra would find his rationale persuasive. Her cynicism, or humiliation, or whatever it was that left her so bitterly disenchanted with the world now that Prince Aegon had had his way with her, was useful that way.
"My offer is this," Lord Strong said. "I am on your side."
"And?"
"And nothing. Surely you see that this is a game of alliances? I am your ally."
"So then I should be yours?"
An intelligent remark. So this would prove more difficult than expected, then. Larys raised his chin with a tight smile. That was alright, he quite enjoyed a challenge, certainly when he had not expected to meet himself one.
"Have you others?" he pointed out.
Nesmyra seemed to close in on herself like a paper flower over flame.
"The people here are pragmatists; they will side with whoever will take them furthest when the time is right. You'd be wise to do the same."
"Shouldn't you? Do the same, I mean," she advised. She was wary of him. Good, he thought, all the better. "Wait to see if I have any value?"
"You have value, my Lady," said Larys. "I hardly need to assign it to you."
Lord Strong could sense it, then, in a flash across her face. He had convinced her, and he smiled his satisfaction.
Nesmyra reeked of ambition; the hunger, the drive, the desire for power, which had been denied to her until now. It lingered on the others too – the Queen Alicent, the Hand and his brother Edmund, even young Colin carried the sent, from what Larys remembered – but not nearly so strong, and certainly not so close to longing. The Lords Otto and Edmund had hidden agendas, and perhaps the others had their reasons, but only Nesmyra truly craved it, with her whole being. It was salty, savoury, like salivation itself.
"I will not trust you," she said plainly.
Larys bowed as if he surrendered. "A wise decision, my Lady," he agreed, almost kindly. "I would not wish you to."
Nesmyra regarded him for a long moment, then sighed and looked away towards the dancefloor. She had a pained sort of expression, though it lasted but a second, before she wiped herself clean of emotion. "An alliance, then. What will it entail?"
"You let me worry about such things," the Clubfoot said smoothly. "Firstly, you must undo the damage that has been done."
Nesmyra nodded slowly, following him away from the feast, and Lord Larys Strong smiled as widely as he allowed himself when they passed a staring Maester Caelan.
People were such delicate little playthings.
nesmyra.
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HINTS OF TETHERED SUNLIGHT broke through lace curtains, turning the room a hollowed red: vibrant, like blood seeping over the dragon-carved desks, wine spilling across a board of chess. The room, with all its soulless furniture and complete absence of personality or art, felt different without Colin there to scorn upon the pages. It was stale and uncannily duplicitous, like finding vacancy beneath a mask. Delicately, Nesmyra stirred the spoon — adorned with dragons and suns — into her tea, and watched as the leaves unclumped, swirled, spindled into bodachs of birds and other things she thought she might find there.
"It's a self-perpetuating cycle, really," she decided calmly. Her fingers brushed the pages of a worn book, bound and loved, unmade and then loved again. She had been thinking about it since the party a week ago, when Lord Larys had first approached her. Now, she saw him more often than she had thought she would.
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"What is?" questioned Maester Caelan, who stood beside her to correct her hand. His shadow spilled across the pages. He was a solemn man, his posture crooked just so. He smelled of books and ancient things, of hallways and vines.
Nesmyra shifted, focused both hands on the heat within her cup, and brought it serenely to her lips. "That knowledge begets knowledge," she confessed with a simple shrug, "just as power begets power. Generationally. Institutionally."
Caelan was a wise man, the sort of scholar to watch an empire fall. Myra was not so shocked, then, to find him with a plausible answer so swiftly. "Power may come with knowledge," he stated confidently; fact rather than opinion. It was a certain way of speech. Nesmyra hated it, however admirable the skill. "Just as it may come with name."
"My name is only a very small piece of who I am, and it's not a very persuasive one," countered Nesmyra, setting her tea aside and lounging back into the leathered chair. Her lips were soft and red with the life of flowers the Lady Irulan Manning had helped her drain earlier.
Maester Caelan did not seem particularly shaken by her interest in the subject, nor her eagerness to debate. Most days, Myra suspected he thought he could read her like the back of his hand. She hated it. "Evidently," he agreed, the wheeze of his voice like wind, "yet people talk."
At that, she swatted a hand, lazily, as if to scare a fly, and folded one leg over the other. "I'm not concerned with their opinions," she confessed. She was surprised to find the words so quickly in her mouth.
She wondered if she was a good liar.
She wondered, also, if Lord Larys could teach her to be a better one.
Maester Caelan's disapproving glance was nothing short of expected, nor was his reply, proving him reliable, if nothing else. "Perhaps you should be."
And maybe Caelan wanted her to be the kind of girl who carried herself as her brother, who was ever mindful of his duty. Colin did as was asked, and now he was a ward, far away from his family, far away from her. "Perhaps I should refrain from making a habit of doing things I should," she said, almost to herself.
"What is it you wish to be, then, my Lady?"
She wondered if all scholars asked the wrong questions. For people like Nesmyra, it would never be what do you want. It was always just how much can you get? That was the distasteful thing about her, really. The fact that she desired things so intensely.
She needed to believe she was meant for enormity; that the fulfillment of a destiny could make for the privilege of salvation, even if it didn't feel that way.
Hunger. Desire. Longing, a longing to possess, to become, to prove herself. Over and over and over.
The sun stained the pages of her worn-out book, casted her dress in a golden sort of glow. Outside, the first signs of life arrived with the coming of the sun. The smith worked uphill, flanked by the quiet thrum of sleeping brothels, each serving coin. Stone steps and broad roads linked peak to peak along the ridge. Downslope spread the farms, and beneath those, against the shoreline, quiet still, a seaport.
"I want to be loved," Nesmyra said honestly, the light of the dying candle draped across her desk sharpening her features, "or I want to be feared."
They did not speak, after that.
caelan.
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WHEN THE SUN ROSE, two things became clear.
The first was that an acute fear for loss of choice, and freedom, manifested itself in Nesmyra Hightower's maverick sovereignty of her own mind and body, and she relished in the secrets she might keep; as afraid of losing control as she was infatuated with its very idea.
The second was that Lord Larys Strong was a madman. He thirsted for chaos like a hound for prey, and he worked fast.
AUTHOR'S NOTE . . .
and so we close our first act!
more on colin in the next one