The Wizard of Fury Chapter 10

Planks of wood flowed down the Mander, the largest river in all of Westeros. Usually, Margaery would take a barge down the river and relax while watching the fisherman collect carp and perch for their small villages that lined the river, but today she chose to walk the shoreline with a group of gilded guards ensuring that she came to no harm, not that anyone would dare attack her in a place like this. The Tyrell family ensured the stability and prosperity of the Reach for all of its citizens. Even the occasional bandits had second thoughts about ever attacking a Tyrell; only the most bold and foolish would risk their lives like that. So, Margaery was able to roam without fear of attack.

However, she did have fear over what she saw in the river.

It was months ago now that the Iron Islands first rose up in rebellion against the Crown. Their initial strikes along the coastline had led to hundreds if not thousands of deaths. Those aboard ships and boats who were killed fell into the sea, and some of them began moving up the slow-moving Mander. The thick gnarled branches and other snags in the river prevented any of the bodies from getting close to Highgarden, but they didn't stop the remnants from the battles from still showing up.

"So many dead," Margaery murmured softly to herself. And yet, she knew that there were more than she could possibly imagine.

When word reached them that the Greyjoy fleet was smashed at Fair Isle by Stannis Baratheon, brother to the King, the people of the Reach had celebrated. Death was never something to be celebrated, but there was a grim necessity to it that Margaery understood well. There would always be villains in the world, and the reality was that if you didn't put a stop to them, then they would harm innocents. That, above all else, couldn't be allowed.

Still, Margaery couldn't help but wish to avoid the sight of violence for a while yet. Her grandmother insisted on the necessity of her seeing the world as it was, beauty and ugliness and everything in between. That meant witnessing the violence taking place at tourneys, something that her brother Loras enjoyed visiting very much. She'd managed an excuse to stay away from any tourneys at Highgarden for now, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she'd be expected to witness one. She needed to be prepared for that day.

Maybe that was why she chose to walk the shoreline of the Mander today. The sky was overcast with the promise of rain, and the riverbank was muddy and dirtied the hem of her skirts. It wasn't exactly the ideal way to spend one's day, especially for a noble lady of her birth. And yet, she couldn't pull herself away from this place.

In the distance, a small fishing boat, manned by what looked to be a father and son, pulled in a small section of the hull of a ship. They'd likely scrap it for parts they could use to repair their own boat whenever the need arose. All of the better remnants from the battle—weapons, bits of metalwork, and ale—were already picked up by fishermen far closer to the sea.

"Lady Margaery!"

The wind picked up and blew through Margaery's long brown locks as she turned to see her cousin coming running down a nearby hill to catch up to her. Margaery offered her a guilty smile; she'd hoped to be able to have a few hours alone, but her ladies-in-waiting were too diligent to not notice her absence.

Elinor Tyrell was the daughter of Margaery's father's cousin. Despite the distance in the family line, the Tyrells always were a tight-knit bunch. Even though her father wasn't a particularly impressive man, Margaery's father ensured that Elinor was able to serve as one of Elinor's handmaidens. She was technically Margaery's servant, but their bond was closer to that of friendship.

Elinor nearly tumbled down to the ground as she reached the base of the hill, but one of Margaery's guards caught her arm.

"You must be careful, Elinor," Margaery chastised her cousin's reckless behaviour gently as she walked over towards her, feeling the mud tug at her shoes as she walked.

"I must be careful?" Elinor exclaimed loudly, her eyes wide with indignant surprise. "You're the one travelling alone—"

"My father's guards are here with me," Margaery pointed out.

"But none of your handmaidens," Elinor argued back. "You mustn't leave the castle without us, my Lady."

 There was no reason to have her handmaidens with her except for a sense of propriety. Noble ladies like Margaery were expected to have attendants readily available to her at all times. As much as many liked to claim otherwise, appearances mattered a great deal. Her grandmother had drilled that into her head. Margaery had to play the role of the perfect daughter of the Tyrell family to meet the expectations that the smallfolk and nobles alike placed upon her. It was simply the way things were.

And yet, Margaery longed for private moments to herself. Those were nearly impossible to come by, even within her own bedchambers in the castle. Walks like this were the closest thing she could get to privacy since her guards wouldn't interrupt her thoughts without a good reason. She couldn't get mad at Elinor for following her out here though. She was simply doing her duty.

"Thank you for your concern," Margaery said sweetly as she embraced Elinor. "I will certainly do better next time."

It was a lie, and they both knew it, but it was again something expected of them. Women were meant to be gentle, docile things that wouldn't argue or fight. They would listen to their fathers and fit neatly into their place in society, following all of the rules and never overstepping their bounds.

Sometimes it irked Margaery to deal with the limitations of her station, but the example her grandmother set had helped her to realise just how powerful women could truly be. They had to exert their influence in subtle ways. None of the blustering, brutish behaviour of battle-ready knights or the drunken, oafish actions of a nobleman were proper for a lady. They had to navigate the world more carefully so that their opponent didn't realise the manipulation taking place or was helpless to do anything against it.

"Your lord father requests that you return to the castle at once," Elinor informed Margaery as she hugged her back.

"Whatever for?" Margaery asked as she took a step back. It gave her a better chance to read Elinor's facial expressions. Her grandmother had insisted that Margaery take the time to practise picking up on any lies or omissions from those around her, arguing that the skill would serve her well once she was married to a high lord and living in a new, unfamiliar place where she may not know who was friend or foe.

"The Iron Islands have fallen to the Crown," Elinor said excitedly. "The King is said to be travelling south with his brother and some other lords to visit the Great Houses affected by the war."

The Lannisters and the Tyrells, Margaery supposed. Between the two of them, the Lannisters suffered far more from the war. Lannisport was sacked by the Greyjoy fleet, leading to a tremendous amount of deaths and destruction. The Tyrells suffered little more than some of their bannermen's ships being captured or sunk by the ironborn.

"Your whole family will be travelling to the Arbor to meet with Lord Redwyne and the King," Elinor squealed. "We must get back to the castle and begin packing. There's to be a ball, and we'll need new dresses for it!"

Margaery nodded eagerly. One could never have too many dresses. And yet, the idea of celebrating a rebellion crushed brought about a degree of melancholy within her chest. They were celebrating the deaths of men. Cruel men, to be sure, but men nonetheless.

Still, she had no choice in the matter. She'd be expected to be there, and so she would.

But a lingering fear crept into her mind. Elinor said that the King and his brother would be coming. That would be Lord Stannis Baratheon, the man whom her father nearly starved to death.

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The clashing of steel signalled that the melee had begun, and yet Stannis paid it little mind. The Tourney at Lannisport had been going on for the past two days now, beginning exactly one day after he and his brother, King Robert, landed ashore. Tywin Lannister had ensured that the Lannisters of Lannisport were most welcoming to the victors who'd crushed the failed rebellion, and Robert ordered a tourney to celebrate. Stannis thought that the money used to fund this lavish affair should've gone towards reconstructing the port and the other damages that the ironborn caused Lannisport, but his opinion wasn't asked for.

Looking around, Stannis disapproved of almost everything within sight. Hundreds of men, women, and children had come out to watch these silly little games. Jousting was always a big hit with the nobility, but the melee was where the smallfolk really became engaged. They loved the blood and violence of it all, or perhaps they simply enjoyed watching those wealthier than them get bloodied.

Stannis had enough violence for some time. He'd crushed the Greyjoy fleet and subdued the island of Great Wyk. He'd killed three men personally with his own blade and thousands more under his command. These games were a pale mockery of what real combat was like.

There was a time and a place for these sorts of things. In between wars when men needed something more real than a training spar in the practice yard and when hot-headed boys needed a controlled way to try to prove their worth to those around them, tourneys made for a useful tool. But after a war, it all seemed so pointless.

Perhaps that was why Robert seemed to be enjoying himself so much. He'd been in a dour mood ever since the fighting ended, but this tourney seemed to be rejuvenating his spirits. With a mug of ale in his hands and Eddard Stark at his side, Robert looked positively overjoyed. Stannis couldn't begin to imagine how miserable he must be at King's Landing.

The other lords and ladies sitting high up in the stands seemed to be enjoying themselves. At least, almost all of them.

Eddard Stark, the man who'd found his son in Pyke, sat with a grim, cold expression on his face. He'd bade Robert to allow him to return north to deal with whatever destruction the remaining ironborn ships had wrought upon his domain, but Robert had refused him out of a selfish desire for them not to part so soon. Robert made it clear that he expected Eddard to partake in all of the celebrations on the way back to King's Landing, and then he could return home to Winterfell.

As if sensing Stannis' gaze upon him, Eddard glanced over at the precise moment that Ser Garth Hightower smashed in Ser Emory Lannister's shield with a mace.

No words needed to be spoken between them for Eddard to understand the meaning behind Stannis' look. Stannis had plainly and openly expressed his immense gratitude towards Eddard for saving his son, even though Eddard insisted that Harry played just as large a part in saving him in exchange. There were few men who would've gone out of their way to save Stannis' son, and there were even fewer yet who would have done so without the hopes of receiving a reward. Eddard was one of those rare men, and it deepened Stannis' respect for him.

Stannis gave the man a slight nod before turning away again, briefly glancing at the melee before growing tired of seeing all of the fighting. Instead, he looked over at his son.

Though Harry's eyes were fixed onto the battle before him, Stannis knew that his son wasn't paying any more attention to the melee than he himself was. His eyes had that vacant, distant gaze that he'd so often had since his incarceration at Pyke.

"Would you care to accompany me out of here?" Stannis asked his son, shaking him from whatever reverie he was lost in.

"Could we visit the market again?" Harry asked hopefully.

Stannis frowned. Harry had insisted on visiting the market each and every day that they'd been in Lannisport. It was true that there were countless merchant ships making port here each week and plenty of wagons were coming in from the surrounding lands to deliver new goods, but Harry never asked to buy anything. He simply perused the wares and occasionally held a brief trinket in his hands. What was more odd was what he seemed to gravitate towards. Harry marvelled at various different woods and bird feathers while ignoring precious jewellery and finely-crafted weapons. Stannis couldn't understand just what it was that drove him to such things, and Harry wasn't forthcoming with an answer.

Even so, Stannis couldn't deny his son, not after all he'd been through. That scar on his forehead still marked the time he'd spent in captivity. It burned Stannis' heart to know that he wasn't able to exact revenge against Euron Greyjoy for maiming his son. Had it been Robert's son who'd been maimed, Stannis knew that Robert would have killed anyone in his path as he chased down his target to the ends of the world. Yet, Stannis didn't have that same drive in him. Euron was gone, and Stannis wouldn't waste his years at sea trying to track down a man who was known to travel the world over. He was likely on his way to Essos by now, and Stannis wouldn't lose sight of his role in Westeros to go chasing him down.

"For an hour," Stannis agreed.

Robert didn't even notice when Stannis and Harry rose to their feet and left the stands. A contingent of knights that Stannis had brought along with him from Dragonstone fell into step alongside them as they walked down a dirt pathway that led away from the tourney grounds and into the city of Lannisport itself.

The walk was quiet as it so often was, but the silence was different now. There'd been a marked change in Harry, and Stannis knew little of what to make of it. He knew all sorts of horrors that men could inflict upon others in war, and he feared what else might have been done to his son during his captivity, but Harry's change didn't seem to be based on trauma, at least not entirely. Normally, Stannis was perfectly fine with quiet, but not now. Not after his son had nearly been taken from him.

Clearing his throat to gain his son's attention, Stannis glanced down at him. "Lord Stark said that you've asked to train in swordplay with him."

His son nodded, still staring ahead at some distant object that no one else could see. Sometimes he became like this. It was this utter fixation on something that Stannis couldn't explain. The only thing he noticed was that Harry always stared towards the south.

Knowing he wasn't likely to get a more direct answer, Stannis prompted his son again. "Lord Stark is a fine swordsman, but there are many knights in my retinue who are stronger or faster than him. If you wish to spend more time training, they will oblige you."

"But I've seen them all in the training yard before," Harry pointed out softly.

Stannis raised an eyebrow at him. "Go on," he prompted, hoping that his son's reasoning was the exact same that Stannis was imagining it was.

"Lord Stark is from the north," Harry said. "There's bound to be some differences between how they fight and how we do, no matter how small. I want to learn more. Who knows when something like that may come in handy. Maybe if I'd had more training when the ironborn came for me..."

So, that was it.

Stannis came to a sharp stop and knelt down beside his son. Harry was starting to grow taller, and soon Stannis wouldn't have to kneel down at all, he realised. He placed his hands on Harry's shoulders and stared deep into his eyes.

"What happened to you was not because of any failing you had," Stannis told him sincerely. "It was mine. I should have known that the ironborn were likely to flee to the island after their ships were destroyed. I should have sent more men to secure your safety. I truly wish I had done things differently."

"No," Harry shook his head, his tone leaking with frustration. "You can never perfectly predict what your opponent will do. All that you can change is how you react to it. And I didn't do enough."

"You're just a boy," Stannis said without any malice.

"Not for much longer," Harry argued back.

That was true. It was nearly his eleventh nameday, and by the time he turned six-and-ten, he'd be considered a man fully grown.

Perhaps this trip had been even better for his son than Stannis had imagined. Harry had finally taken the idea of personal responsibility to heart and was looking to improve himself for the future. He only wished that it hadn't come at such a dark price.

"Alright then," Stannis nodded, standing back up. "You may train with Lord Stark as you wish, as long as he consents to it."

"Thank you, father," Harry replied softly.

It wasn't long before they reached the market. The road from the tourney ground led right into Lannisport, and from there they simply had to take the widest road down to the shoreline to find the massive market that sprawled along the docks. With all of the King's ships and the many trading vessels that arrived daily, the port was positively packed to the brim. Port Captains tried to maintain control, but all they could truly do was minimise the disorganised chaos of it all.

The second they entered the market wearing their fine robes, it became clear to all of the merchants that they had wealthy customers afoot. Some recognised Harry and Stannis from their visits the previous days, but with so many new ships coming into port, there were plenty of unfamiliar faces about.

Stannis still hadn't found a sense of peace and calm since reuniting with his son. His eyes scanned the crowd critically, searching for any hint of danger about. He refused to fail so badly again as to allow his son to be captured. It may be a foolish thing to cling to given the nature of the world they lived in, but Stannis felt that he had no other choice than to try.

He let Harry take the lead as they navigated through the winding market. Countless men and women called out to them, but Harry ignored them as he always did. Stalls with grilled meats or sweet treats did little to sway him from whatever path he wished to take.

Suddenly, Harry's face scrunched up like he'd just been faced with an impossible puzzle.

"What is it?" Stannis asked, but Harry was already moving.

Stannis struggled to keep up with his son throughout the crowds. Harry navigated through them with a deft swiftness that normally only came when someone was well-practised at travelling through dense crowds like this. Stannis pushed his way through, ignoring the brief cries of outrage that quickly became stifled when they saw his noble garb.

When Stannis caught up with Harry again, he found him standing before a market stall operated by a cloaked man whose pale skin was marred by black tattoos done up in strange designs. There seemed to be no reasonable pattern that Stannis could detect in the man's tattoos; they looked like the scrawlings of a mad man.

"You have a keen eye," the man said to Harry in a surprisingly high-pitched tone. He almost sounded like a woman. "Few recognise these objects for what they are."

"And what are they?" Stannis asked brusquely as he stepped behind his son, who was busy peering over the man's wares.

"Rare artefacts from the far east," the man smiled, showing his yellowed teeth. "The types of things that lesser men chose to believe as nothing more than falsehoods and stories."

That felt like a dig directed at Stannis. The man clearly must have seen Stannis' disbelief play across his face and chosen to make a mockery out of him.

Stannis was ready to pull Harry aside when his son suddenly reached out and picked something up.

"Ah, the tooth of a golden lion from Leng," the man said with a sickly smile. "They say that the god-empresses of Leng grind these fangs down into a fine powder and mix it in with a holy drink to extend their lifespan beyond its natural limits."

A foolish notion. One cannot extend their lifespan in such a way.

"He's a charlatan," Stannis said to his son. "Pay him no mind. Let us go find something else."

"No," Harry's quiet voice said.

He placed the tooth back down and then let his hand graze across the many objects laying across the table. His fingers ghosted each and every one until it came to a stop across a strange red-and-gold feather. He picked it up delicately and held it up to the sunlight.

"Now there is something truly special," the man said gleefully. "Out of the doom of Old Valyria came a number of changes to the world. Deep in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, an explorer claimed to have seen a bird fall from the sky like a star. When he found where it'd landed, there'd been nothing but a pile of ash on the ground. But then a baby bird suddenly rose up out of the ashes, squawking and covered in burning hot coals. The man nursed the bird back to health. It grew far faster than any other bird could, and on the day it flew away from him, it left a gift of five feathers. Three have been lost to time, the fourth resides in the Imperial Palace in Yi Ti, and the fifth is right here in your hands."

Stannis snorted audibly. "You truly expect us to believe this tale of yours?"

"Believe it or not," the man replied evenly. "I cannot convince you of something that you are unwilling to accept yourself."

"How much?" Harry asked suddenly, clutching the feather to his chest.

"We can find better, genuine feathers—"

"Seven-hundred gold dragons," the man told Harry.

Harry spun on his heels with a determined look on his face. "Father, please."

Stannis paused for a moment. In all his time, he couldn't remember his son ever asking for something with such a deep-burning desire before. When they walked through the fishing village on Dragonstone, his son would occasionally ask for a sweet or something small from one of the shops, but never before had he asked for something expensive like this.

"What do you even want it for?" Stannis asked, genuinely bemused at his son's behaviour.

"I..." Harry looked like he was holding back from saying something. "I just do. Please. It is truly important to me that I get this."

Stannis had to hold back a sigh. He just didn't understand what was so important about an obviously fake feather. The stall owner sat back with a satisfied smile on his face, sensing that the fact that Stannis hadn't shut down this idea immediately was a sign that he was likely to pay up.

Normally, Stannis would have rejected buying something so ridiculous outright, but his heart wouldn't let him deny his son today, not after all he'd been through.

Stannis turned to the man with a stern look. "I'm not paying seven-hundred dragons for this."

"And I won't be negotiating against my own price," the man countered with a smile.

Stannis' lips twitched in annoyance. "Five-hundred."

"Do you know how rare this is?" The man asked, tilting his head far back enough for Stannis to see that his tattoos ran over his bald head as well. "Seven-hundred is already an incredibly cheap price."

"A cheap price for a fanciful tale," Stannis countered. "Five-hundred is the best offer you're ever going to get. How long have you been holding onto this feather? And how many others have the funds necessary to purchase such a thing?"

"Perhaps the god-emperor of Yi Ti or one of his many devoted worshippers would be interested in purchasing it," the man argued back.

"Travelling across the world is dangerous business," Stannis argued. "You're months away from reaching Essos, if you even make it that far. You're welcome to try shopping your tale around Westeros. See how many others are willing to entertain your tale and your price. If you wish to have gold in your pockets today, you know my price."

"I can go as low as six-hundred-and-fifty dragons," the man countered.

"Five-hundred," Stannis said firmly.

The man was clearly growing annoyed at Stannis' rigidity, but Stannis could see the wheels turning in his head. He knew just how unlikely he was to sell this feather anytime soon, and especially not for the price he was asking for. Better to take a lower price to dupe a fool than to cling to such an obvious fake object and risk the wrath of someone else.

"Five-hundred-and-seventy-five dragons," the man finally said. "And I cannot go any lower than that."

Harry was looking up at Stannis with a hopeful expression on his face.

"Deal," Stannis agreed.

Although the loss of the gold stung, the look of overwhelming joy on his son's face made it sting a little less.