Post by The Storm God on Jun 23, 2008 18:35:06 GMT -5
December 1499
Domeric Tyrell coughed as the remnants of his poisoning ravaged his body. He sat upright in his chair, looking out his solar window towards the green fields of a land yet at summer. As yet, no solid info beyond the word of some "Shadow Man" on Pyke had reached his ears. Lord Tyrell wanted more than a bogeyman.
Since his attempted assassination, he had increased the security around Highgarden, and even used a food taster on meals he felt ill about. Still, the problems of the realm wait for no man to get well. It was time to get back into the game of thrones.
The serving girl brought him a small glass of water and some pork ribs, specially prepared by his father's old cook. Old Gerry had been a fixture at Highgarden for near forty years, since he had come from Goldengrove aty the age of sixteen. Domeric found himself looking at the serving girl's body, though it wasn't especially attractive. Plump breasts, though, and soft lips...Domeric shook his head in disgust. Hunger was all he felt now, really, hunger for women, for good whiskey and wine, for gold, for revenge. What he hungered most for was revenge. The other things are just a diversion until the main course can be served, he thought.
He had never been a hungry man, not particularly anyways. In his teens, the girls, common and highborne, had admired his looks and station, and had often presented themselves to him, but he had only partaken a small handful of times, mostly after skirmishes with the Ironborn or the Dornish or a particularly frustrating beating from his tutor Lord Caswell. He seldom held grudges, and even his enemies generally found his levelheadedness since the Battle of Pyke in 1490 commendable. When he had married, he had forsaken other women to the exclusive comforts of his wife, and when she had died, his grief and love for ehr had caused him to ignore other women until the Lady Shanna near three years later.
All that changed the night of his cousin's wedding. He didn't remember much of his poisoning, only the shock of trying to gouge his own throat out for precious air and the Lady Caron with wide eyes screaming for help. He had never felt so close to touching death, and him a lord without an heir...his hatred boiled over.
It was time, he thought. News of the Vale's mobilization, while not specific on numbers or purpose, and the Hand's murder had further enraged him. Here the realm sat leaderless and divided, and all the boy lord could think to do was muster tens of thousands to rend the realm asunder.
As he thought, the men entered, silent as always, dressed in the dark greens and black of the Evergreens. They were nowhere near as flamboyant as their lord, but they were far quieter, and much much less annoying to deal with. So much the better.
"Ten thousand gold dragons to the man who finds me the poisoner's master," Domeric said. "After expenses are paid, of course. Your lord is engaged in related business but this matter cannot rest any longer." The leader of the men nodded.
"Where would you have us go, my lord?"
Domeric stayed silent a moment, assuming this was a wild goose chase, yet after he had spent days linking pieces together, he could come up wth only one unexplored avenue the Master of Whispers may have not thought about. "Head to the frozen north, men. Start near Winterfell and spread to the surrounding areas. Barrowton, White Harbor, and the Dreadfort are where I would focus my search."
His agents looked at him strangely. "My lord, are you quite well? The North has little to do with the affairs below the Neck." Domeric looked at him.
"A few months ago, Lord Stark reportedly fell ill. He's not yet thirty five, and a goodbrother to our former Hand. When I sent men to the Wall, and Ser Morrigen killed my uncle, Lord Caswell reported he had heard whispers that the Boltons had tried allying themselves with the wildlings, though nothing could ever be proven. Then, after the surrender of the Iron Islands, and the execution of the last Harlaw, the new lord, Steffarian Drumm, his heir, and our own lord Chester's niece were poisoned. I hear some Northmen arrived there immediately prior to the execution to speak with our lord Hand. Again, a Bolton was among them, or again, so I hear. Then I am poisoned, and Lord Royce stabbed. There is a pattern to this, men, now we have to find out what it is. Perhaps it was indeed the west, this foolish Reyne heir, or mayhap even the Lion himself, yet the heir should lack the resources, and the Lion, well, lacks the wits. Not to mention a motive. Should I prove wrong, then I will set your lord on the west when his business is complete."
The men bowed. "As you say, Lord Tyrell. We shall investigate the North and its possible culpability." The men left. Domeric closed his eyes a momentand coughed again. The outbreaks were much less frequent now, and he could feel the strength coming back into his limbs. He doubted his thoughts were correct, yet even so they would not leave his head. The Rose Lord was a man who listened to his doubts. And, sometimes, his hunger. The serving girl he would take to his bed tonight had been trained well, knowing how to brew moon tea, and Domeric Tyrell needed something to whet his appetite, for if all went as planned, the main course would be arriving soon. He did not plan on leaving room for dessert.