Post by The Stranger on Aug 28, 2008 20:00:24 GMT -5
Olander turned the letter over in his hands, reading the hurriedly written words for the third time. The solitary candle illuminating his quarters in the Reed Residence made the letters hard to read, but it bothered him none; he'd already memorized them. Memorized them ages ago.
//////////
“I ain't able to get a clear answer from your lord father in his... condition, Master Olander,” the tiny herbwife at the head of the group of women croaked, wringing her withered hands together. “Lord Bennard's septon been missing for near six days. Should we send a scout or two out to look for him, or...”
He cut her off. “No. If he's been gone for six days, tomorrow will be the seventh. Perhaps his gods will show him the way back. I will explain to my father the situation.” With a dismissive hand he waved the herbwife away, along with the other young maidens in her company, until he was alone in the outerchamber of his father's sickward.
Olander knew where the septon had gone, in fact. He was right where he had left him: floating face down amongst the mangrove trees three leagues downstream, his fingers, toes, and face turned purple-black from a fatal dose of Widow's Kiss. Greywater Watch wouldn't float in that direction until the summer droughts, and by then the septon's features would be long too rotted to recognize. That was, of course, if the lizard-lions hadn't gotten him first.
//////////
The room in which he had quarantined his father was the deepest possible at Greywater, half-buried under the wood and earth crannog on which the 'Watch floated. The cellar had no windows and but a single door, on which Olander knocked once before entering. He was greeted with blackness, both from the complete lack of light, and from the sickly-sweet stench of illness. Others might have held their breath, or clutched a rag soaked in water or perfume to protect themselves for the Greywater Fever, but for Olander, breath came easy.
“H-... hello?” a raspy voiced slurred in the darkness. “N-no... Dunnock? Is that... is that you? Dunnock... please...” the voice pleaded sorrowfully.
“Your bastard has long been gone, milord; dead now, most like,” he explained in a tone one would reserve for an explanation made many times. “This is your heir.”
“Dunnock, no. No... Olander is here.” The voice changed, duller now, resigning and weak. “Something, f-...for the pain.”
“Of course,” he replied, moving across the room swiftly, despite the darkness. He had been here before, done this before. The wooden trestle-table held three glass vials, their contents were thick and opaque, milk white, ink black, and blood red in turn.
“Poppy for the pain,” Olander said, pouring the milk white into a wooden cup. “Lotus oil for the fever,” he continued, adding the ink black. “And weirwood sap,” he finished, pouring the blood red, “for all the strength of the Old Gods.” A slender spoon was used to stir the viscous mixture together before it was given to the Lord Reed.
The frail, sickly man grasped at the cup like a child at the breast, and hungrily gulped it down. He wiped away the residue with the back of his hand and let out a hack that sounded half a laugh and half a cry of pain. “Heh, heh heh. Not... N-no, no, not like th-the tea your mother used to make, eh Dunnock? ... Eh?” Lord Bennard blinked in the darkness, and slumped back deeper in the bed. “No. Not Dunnock, no. Olander... Olander please. Can I have light? Give me light. A candle. Please.”
Olander wiped his hands with a cloth and replaced the vials to their places. If the crannoglord's son had heard or felt anything from his father's words, it was not apparent. Not in the darkness, not in his eyes. “Your septon has gone missing, father. Abandoned you to your fate, fearing to catch the punishment that is your affliction. His gods won't save him here, not in this land. The Old Gods watch over us here. They've been watching you, milord.”
“Wh... w-what?” he rasped, struggling in the tangle of sheets. “Punish... Punishment? No Olander, no. Septon Marton. Send for him. Please Olander. Bring him here. I need him. Prayers. A light. I need a light, please. The candles. Light one. Olander light one. Not all seven, just one. Mother have mercy. Save me. A light-” Olander struck him then. It was the first time he ever had, though not the first time he had wanted to.
“You have shamed yourself, shamed the Old Gods, enough in your life.” Next to his father's bed were a shrine of seven unlit candles, each sitting in a golden candle holder etched with the likeness of one of the Seven. With a sweeping arm Olander sent them crashing to the ground, out of their sight. “You will not blacken the name of my kin by bringing your southron harlot's heresy here, milord.”
Lord Bennard writhed in bed. The tincture Olander prepared was coursing through his body, carrying out the task it was designed for. It was slowly killing him.
Lotus oil sized in his joints and veins, gripped his bones, gnawing numbness into his muscles and weakness into his mind. Unadulterated, and in a high dosage, it would eventually creep into the heart like an icy hand and end his life. Milk of the Poppy eased the pain, thankfully, leaving him enfeebled yet keeping the heart beating. The red sap of the weirwood was the most import ingredient: it kept him alive. It weakened the deadly oil and thickened it, slowing the mixture to a viscous crawl that ensured that the effect was drawn out, purging it from the body before causing death.
Olander had been giving this potion to Lord Bennard for years. Sickened and purged, afflicted and cured, all in the guise of a cure for his ailment. House Reed, all crannogmen, and the entirety of the north believed Lord Reed to be sick and dying.
Never in his life had the Lord Reed suffered from the Greywater Fever.
“Shame? No... no,” Lord Bennard muttered through his pained contortions. “Please Olander. The old gods are dead to us, dead to me. Th-they are the ones who have taken my strength.... my strength. The Seven... Only the Seven with their light... A light, a candle, please... The Seven will save me.”
His son drew back his hand again. It hung there above them for a moment before slowly dropping to his side. “There is only strength in the Old Gods. What little you had broke when you fathered your bastard,” Olander said stiffly, as if explaining a lesson to a child.
“You nearly destroyed our home, milord. You harbored sellswords, bandits, and worse, come up from the Riverlands in hiding. Took in deserters from the Night's Watch when they fled south. When Little Lord Fenn cuckolded and eloped with Lord Moss' newly wed wife, you took no action, said the crime was done out of love, and nearly let House Moss and House Fenn feud for five years before I put it to a stop. More than all that, you broke the oath you swore to my lady mother, betrayed your marriage with the Riverland harlot, and forswore the gods of your blood,” Olander paused in his fervor, the look of disgust and disdain on his normally neutral face invisible in the darkness. “I can think of nothing better that embodies weakness, milord.”
Lord Bennard jawed an unheard utterance, only a thin rasp escaping his lips as he writhed. “No...” he managed, “No... Not true... th-... the Seven... will...” The Lord of the Neck struggled to rise himself up in his sickbed, shuddering on his frail arms until his son put a hand on his emaciated chest, pushing him back down.
“No,” Olander spoke, he voice now suddenly even. “It is true, and your kin know it. The Neck has been waiting for you to die for twenty years, milord. I've done all I can to set the Neck to rights,” he said, eyes flickering to the three vials nearby, “but there is only so much I can do as your heir, while you lie bedridden. The time has come to expedite their wishes.”
“Olander...” Lord Bennard croaked softly. “Olander,” he said again, wish some desperate reserve of will. “You... you speak ill things. No... A light, please, a candle... No, Olander. Kinslaying... kinslaying is a grievous sin. Do not... do this.”
“If you want mercy, pray to your southron gods, milord” he said, voice like flint. “You are no kin of mine.”
With that, Olander turned on his heel and stalked from the sickbed as the strength went out of his father. He closed tight the door as he left, leaving him in the darkness.
//////////
The little old herbwife and her maidens were there, waiting for Olander in the crisp, clean air outside. “How is he, Master Olander?”
“Unwell. He is delusional, seeing phantom figments and speaking of death around every corner. He begs for fire: a brazier, a lantern, or anything; more oft than not a candle, specifically. I believe he means to harm himself. By no means should you bring a light into his room, for his own safety.”
Wringing her hands together the herbwife bobbed her head heavily. “I sees it in him too... The potion we been giving him doing any good, though?”
“At times he seems better, but at others,” he gave his head a tiny shake. “The tincture will help, but he's in the hands of the Old Gods now.” Olander reached up and instinctively touched the hand-shaped weirwood leaf clasp of his cloak, adopting a slight scowl. “My father no longer heeds the will of the Old Gods, however...” he paused, as if weighing a decision in his mind.
“Leave the red weirwood sap out of his potions,” the crannogman said softly, in a voice that forced the herbwife to listen attentively. “If he won't follow the gods of the First Men, the blood of the heart tree won't help him.”
She nodded again, slower this time. “Aye, Master Olander. We'll see that it is the way you say. None of that thick red sap for milord, ain't like to be doing him any good anyhow. Aye. We'll see to it, we will.”
//////////
There was a knock at the door, and Olander was brought back to the present, in the Reed Residence at King's Landing. After a moment, there was a second knock, and he called for them to enter.
Myrrah Reed bounced in and smiled, canting her head curiously at her brother. “I'm back! Heard a raven came, Ollie. That the letter there? What's it say?” she chirped, sitting on the soft, velvet ottoman before his chair.
He didn't respond immediately, but continued to turn the letter over in his hands, brow furrowed with an unreadable emotion. Finally he responded in a quiet voice. “Our father has died,” he put simply, handing her the letter to verify the truth.
It was her turn to sit there, eyes flickering from the letter to her brother and back again. After a long moment, Myrrah neatly folded the letter and returned it to Olander.
“Oh, neat. I was getting tired of that herbwife getup anyway. So, when we going home, milord?”
==========
Lord Bennard Reed is found dead, apparently succumbing to his long battle with Greywater Fever. His son and heir, Olander Reed, is names Lord of Greywater Watch and Moat Cailin, and the Neck.
Lord Olander Reed gains Master Poison
Lord Olander Reed gains Expert+ Intrigue
Myrrah Reed gains Expert Disguise
Myrrah Reed gains Noteworthy Infiltration
//////////
“I ain't able to get a clear answer from your lord father in his... condition, Master Olander,” the tiny herbwife at the head of the group of women croaked, wringing her withered hands together. “Lord Bennard's septon been missing for near six days. Should we send a scout or two out to look for him, or...”
He cut her off. “No. If he's been gone for six days, tomorrow will be the seventh. Perhaps his gods will show him the way back. I will explain to my father the situation.” With a dismissive hand he waved the herbwife away, along with the other young maidens in her company, until he was alone in the outerchamber of his father's sickward.
Olander knew where the septon had gone, in fact. He was right where he had left him: floating face down amongst the mangrove trees three leagues downstream, his fingers, toes, and face turned purple-black from a fatal dose of Widow's Kiss. Greywater Watch wouldn't float in that direction until the summer droughts, and by then the septon's features would be long too rotted to recognize. That was, of course, if the lizard-lions hadn't gotten him first.
//////////
The room in which he had quarantined his father was the deepest possible at Greywater, half-buried under the wood and earth crannog on which the 'Watch floated. The cellar had no windows and but a single door, on which Olander knocked once before entering. He was greeted with blackness, both from the complete lack of light, and from the sickly-sweet stench of illness. Others might have held their breath, or clutched a rag soaked in water or perfume to protect themselves for the Greywater Fever, but for Olander, breath came easy.
“H-... hello?” a raspy voiced slurred in the darkness. “N-no... Dunnock? Is that... is that you? Dunnock... please...” the voice pleaded sorrowfully.
“Your bastard has long been gone, milord; dead now, most like,” he explained in a tone one would reserve for an explanation made many times. “This is your heir.”
“Dunnock, no. No... Olander is here.” The voice changed, duller now, resigning and weak. “Something, f-...for the pain.”
“Of course,” he replied, moving across the room swiftly, despite the darkness. He had been here before, done this before. The wooden trestle-table held three glass vials, their contents were thick and opaque, milk white, ink black, and blood red in turn.
“Poppy for the pain,” Olander said, pouring the milk white into a wooden cup. “Lotus oil for the fever,” he continued, adding the ink black. “And weirwood sap,” he finished, pouring the blood red, “for all the strength of the Old Gods.” A slender spoon was used to stir the viscous mixture together before it was given to the Lord Reed.
The frail, sickly man grasped at the cup like a child at the breast, and hungrily gulped it down. He wiped away the residue with the back of his hand and let out a hack that sounded half a laugh and half a cry of pain. “Heh, heh heh. Not... N-no, no, not like th-the tea your mother used to make, eh Dunnock? ... Eh?” Lord Bennard blinked in the darkness, and slumped back deeper in the bed. “No. Not Dunnock, no. Olander... Olander please. Can I have light? Give me light. A candle. Please.”
Olander wiped his hands with a cloth and replaced the vials to their places. If the crannoglord's son had heard or felt anything from his father's words, it was not apparent. Not in the darkness, not in his eyes. “Your septon has gone missing, father. Abandoned you to your fate, fearing to catch the punishment that is your affliction. His gods won't save him here, not in this land. The Old Gods watch over us here. They've been watching you, milord.”
“Wh... w-what?” he rasped, struggling in the tangle of sheets. “Punish... Punishment? No Olander, no. Septon Marton. Send for him. Please Olander. Bring him here. I need him. Prayers. A light. I need a light, please. The candles. Light one. Olander light one. Not all seven, just one. Mother have mercy. Save me. A light-” Olander struck him then. It was the first time he ever had, though not the first time he had wanted to.
“You have shamed yourself, shamed the Old Gods, enough in your life.” Next to his father's bed were a shrine of seven unlit candles, each sitting in a golden candle holder etched with the likeness of one of the Seven. With a sweeping arm Olander sent them crashing to the ground, out of their sight. “You will not blacken the name of my kin by bringing your southron harlot's heresy here, milord.”
Lord Bennard writhed in bed. The tincture Olander prepared was coursing through his body, carrying out the task it was designed for. It was slowly killing him.
Lotus oil sized in his joints and veins, gripped his bones, gnawing numbness into his muscles and weakness into his mind. Unadulterated, and in a high dosage, it would eventually creep into the heart like an icy hand and end his life. Milk of the Poppy eased the pain, thankfully, leaving him enfeebled yet keeping the heart beating. The red sap of the weirwood was the most import ingredient: it kept him alive. It weakened the deadly oil and thickened it, slowing the mixture to a viscous crawl that ensured that the effect was drawn out, purging it from the body before causing death.
Olander had been giving this potion to Lord Bennard for years. Sickened and purged, afflicted and cured, all in the guise of a cure for his ailment. House Reed, all crannogmen, and the entirety of the north believed Lord Reed to be sick and dying.
Never in his life had the Lord Reed suffered from the Greywater Fever.
“Shame? No... no,” Lord Bennard muttered through his pained contortions. “Please Olander. The old gods are dead to us, dead to me. Th-they are the ones who have taken my strength.... my strength. The Seven... Only the Seven with their light... A light, a candle, please... The Seven will save me.”
His son drew back his hand again. It hung there above them for a moment before slowly dropping to his side. “There is only strength in the Old Gods. What little you had broke when you fathered your bastard,” Olander said stiffly, as if explaining a lesson to a child.
“You nearly destroyed our home, milord. You harbored sellswords, bandits, and worse, come up from the Riverlands in hiding. Took in deserters from the Night's Watch when they fled south. When Little Lord Fenn cuckolded and eloped with Lord Moss' newly wed wife, you took no action, said the crime was done out of love, and nearly let House Moss and House Fenn feud for five years before I put it to a stop. More than all that, you broke the oath you swore to my lady mother, betrayed your marriage with the Riverland harlot, and forswore the gods of your blood,” Olander paused in his fervor, the look of disgust and disdain on his normally neutral face invisible in the darkness. “I can think of nothing better that embodies weakness, milord.”
Lord Bennard jawed an unheard utterance, only a thin rasp escaping his lips as he writhed. “No...” he managed, “No... Not true... th-... the Seven... will...” The Lord of the Neck struggled to rise himself up in his sickbed, shuddering on his frail arms until his son put a hand on his emaciated chest, pushing him back down.
“No,” Olander spoke, he voice now suddenly even. “It is true, and your kin know it. The Neck has been waiting for you to die for twenty years, milord. I've done all I can to set the Neck to rights,” he said, eyes flickering to the three vials nearby, “but there is only so much I can do as your heir, while you lie bedridden. The time has come to expedite their wishes.”
“Olander...” Lord Bennard croaked softly. “Olander,” he said again, wish some desperate reserve of will. “You... you speak ill things. No... A light, please, a candle... No, Olander. Kinslaying... kinslaying is a grievous sin. Do not... do this.”
“If you want mercy, pray to your southron gods, milord” he said, voice like flint. “You are no kin of mine.”
With that, Olander turned on his heel and stalked from the sickbed as the strength went out of his father. He closed tight the door as he left, leaving him in the darkness.
//////////
The little old herbwife and her maidens were there, waiting for Olander in the crisp, clean air outside. “How is he, Master Olander?”
“Unwell. He is delusional, seeing phantom figments and speaking of death around every corner. He begs for fire: a brazier, a lantern, or anything; more oft than not a candle, specifically. I believe he means to harm himself. By no means should you bring a light into his room, for his own safety.”
Wringing her hands together the herbwife bobbed her head heavily. “I sees it in him too... The potion we been giving him doing any good, though?”
“At times he seems better, but at others,” he gave his head a tiny shake. “The tincture will help, but he's in the hands of the Old Gods now.” Olander reached up and instinctively touched the hand-shaped weirwood leaf clasp of his cloak, adopting a slight scowl. “My father no longer heeds the will of the Old Gods, however...” he paused, as if weighing a decision in his mind.
“Leave the red weirwood sap out of his potions,” the crannogman said softly, in a voice that forced the herbwife to listen attentively. “If he won't follow the gods of the First Men, the blood of the heart tree won't help him.”
She nodded again, slower this time. “Aye, Master Olander. We'll see that it is the way you say. None of that thick red sap for milord, ain't like to be doing him any good anyhow. Aye. We'll see to it, we will.”
//////////
There was a knock at the door, and Olander was brought back to the present, in the Reed Residence at King's Landing. After a moment, there was a second knock, and he called for them to enter.
Myrrah Reed bounced in and smiled, canting her head curiously at her brother. “I'm back! Heard a raven came, Ollie. That the letter there? What's it say?” she chirped, sitting on the soft, velvet ottoman before his chair.
He didn't respond immediately, but continued to turn the letter over in his hands, brow furrowed with an unreadable emotion. Finally he responded in a quiet voice. “Our father has died,” he put simply, handing her the letter to verify the truth.
It was her turn to sit there, eyes flickering from the letter to her brother and back again. After a long moment, Myrrah neatly folded the letter and returned it to Olander.
“Oh, neat. I was getting tired of that herbwife getup anyway. So, when we going home, milord?”
==========
Lord Bennard Reed is found dead, apparently succumbing to his long battle with Greywater Fever. His son and heir, Olander Reed, is names Lord of Greywater Watch and Moat Cailin, and the Neck.
Lord Olander Reed gains Master Poison
Lord Olander Reed gains Expert+ Intrigue
Myrrah Reed gains Expert Disguise
Myrrah Reed gains Noteworthy Infiltration