Chapter Text
”All of this was meant for you, both of you.”
Aemond had told her that hope was pointless, and though she had argued against his point, Fia was starting to believe him. This was all her fault. It was her stupidity, her hope for freedom that led to this bitter end. Her hope had killed him, had killed his nephew, and would soon set the realm aflame, sending her scorched and screaming to the Seven Hells. Perhaps she would have been better off just accepting that her life would never be hers; that she would always be a cog in the wheel that spins the world. Perhaps, she should have never hoped at all.
For how long, she did not know, but Fia sat, knees pulled up to her chest, against the pole in her black cell. Abandoned in the dungeons by Ser Arryk, yet again, she recalled how she had not even tried to argue against her arrest and had willingly followed him to her hold. If she was meant to descend into the Seven Hells, this place would be her first step. This was her reckoning, her journey come full circle, her end beginning at the start. If she was to be put on trial, so be it. There was no point in hoping to be proven innocent once more. She had betrayed Arryk when she did not meet him, and when facing the wrath of the royals, her reason why would not matter. Not when so much death had followed.
“If it isn’t the oh, so righteous Lady Fia,” Fossoway jeered as he pushed open the door to her cell. Blinding light burst in and she drew her arm up to shield her eyes; her other arm moved lower, smothering the sound of her growling stomach. “Don’t tell me you had something to do with our future king’s demise? Oh, but don’t worry, I won’t deliberately go against Lord Strong’s instruction… to keep our little secret… However, should the king ask for proof of your wrongdoings, well, civil duty says I must provide.”
Instinctively, she scowled at him, then swallowed, coating her dry and itching throat with thick saliva. The confessor could say what he liked to King Aegon, but it need not be necessary. Had he not already foreseen her fate before its sealing? She was a dead woman walking. Fossoway sneered at her then tsked when she did not defend herself against his goading threat. Stalking up to her, knife in hand, he cut her ties to the post, and then the ones around her wrists. “I half expected you to fight. So disappointing.” He dropped his torch.
Hungry hands pulled her from the floor and then threw her, face first, into the post. The hard wood splintered and cracked against her skin, peeling open her scar. Groaning, she pressed a hand to her cheek and felt a trickle of blood begin to seep between her fingers. He cocked his head at her. “Still nothing? You held a blade to my throat! Dog! Where’s your bite? Where’s your conviction? Even your dead little friend carried through on her promises. Have you no dignity?”
He could intimidate her all he liked, but she would not grant him the satisfaction of hearing her cry. Fossoway’s fingers blanched from his newly formed fists and he took her by the hair, yanking her upward, and then threw her, again, into the dirt. She landed on her knees, catching herself on out-stretched palms, and then a chill ambushed her, brought on by a current in the corridor. Looking up, though, warmth flooded into her; Larys was standing in the doorway with a guard on either shoulder. The men were clothed in long dark robes with golden, glistening eyes peeking out beneath their hoods. “Lord Martin.” The guards perked up, gripping their sword hilts at Larys’ soft words. He nodded, pointing with his cane toward Fossoway, and his guards flew forward, tackling the petrified, protesting heir of Cider Hall. “It has come to my attention that you are suspected of raping a prisoner of war… And the accounts of your witnesses are unquestionable, unarguable… The punishment for that crime is gelding, as you well know, but your status allows you transference to the Wall, if you so wish it. I assume you wish it. Thank you, sers, for your discretion.”
“Oh, fuck you, Lord Confessor.” Fossoway spat, a thick glob of spit landing on Larys’ metal boot, sliding down the side, steadily, like the lesser lord’s own sinking heart. “Trying to save your little whore, are you?”
“Tch. Remove his tongue before you leave,” Larys ordered his men.
Fossoway froze, his smug expression wiped off. “You- you can’t do this. Lord Strong, you cannot do this to me! Does my father know about this? I swear to you, he will find out and you will lose his support. You can’t do this!”
“You are a rotten apple, Lord Martin. Everyone in court knows it, and we have all reluctantly put up with your mistakes for some time now… But not one of us knows it better than your own lord father,” Larys said. “Or have you forgotten why you are a confessor and not a knight like your brother?”
With every struggle against the guards’ grasp, the frightened lord was handled and subdued with ease. “Wait! Wait, I haven’t told anyone anything! I won't, I swear it!”
“Best to send you away before you spoil the bunch.” Larys shrugged, apathetic. As Fossoway was dragged out of the cell, destined for the fourth floor, Larys offered him one last piece of advice, “Ah, but there is still honor to be found in the Night’s Watch. You would do well to take an interest in finding some.”
And then they were alone, Fia and Larys, and the gratified smirk that had stretched across her face suddenly fell. “I do not want your help. Nor do I need it,” she blurted, remembering his fault in this.
Slowly, Larys approached her, his expression stern, serious. “I looked for you in your room, but you were not there, and for a moment I was… I thought you had escaped. But you are here… Ser Arryk Cargyll reported your arrest to the Hand, and the council agreed to hold you until the assassins could be identified… My lady, your father was found.” Something like a stone dropped in Fia’s gut, and she felt the world slip away as Larys pulled a set of chain-link shackles from his belt. He helped her to stand, cane tucked against his side. “There was no way to hide the truth, I’m afraid. Alicent saw his eyes, therefore she has known since that night that you were to blame as well.”
“Do you think I am?” Fia asked, searching his face, minding the shackles.
“I know you are not.” The truth. But he lifted the shackles and requested her wrists all the same. She gave them to him, trusting that subtle crease in his brow. “But you know the way of things. There is to be a trial, a chance for us to prove your innocence. With me, now.”
Fia shrugged off Larys’ hand as it landed on her shoulder. “I can manage on my own.” The Lord of Harrenhal chewed his lip, but gestured toward the door nonetheless, an invitation for her to lead the way. Together, they made their way out of the dungeons into a brisk starlit night, across the courtyards and through the keep where every so often Fia would cringe at the sight of a man dangling, a dreaded noose tied round his neck; so too did she trip upon a cat, chasing the odd, bold rat. Throughout their walk, Fia did not dare to look at Larys, shuffling along, cane clicking on the stone beside her, explaining away the hanging ratcatchers and the influx of felines—King Aegon’s bidding, the Hand’s solution. Whatever promise Larys made, to watch her bloom, tasted even more sour in her mouth than when he first made it. It was him, the Clubfoot, who burned down Mysaria’s manse and from its ashes bore Lady Misery. This was as much his fault as it was hers. She knew that he knew… or else why was he being so kind? So hopelessly hopeful.
*******
A distant chatter snuck through the cracks of the doors to the small council chambers as they came down its respective hall. A trial in the small council chambers was unheard of. Why the secrecy? Was it to do with Aegon’s transgressions, the deal with Bartimos? At Fia and Larys’ arrival, the knights standing guard began to open the doors and that chatter exploded into the hall, a roar, a flame, a spear.
“She used to be a lady, yes, but she’s been a whore for much longer,” Lord Wylde was in the middle of saying. “Whores are not to be trusted. This Misery is a whore, too, is she not?”
“We are all incredibly aware of your distaste for whores, Jasper. Elsewise, King’s Landing would be riddled with your seed, spread far beyond your garden of nine and ten.” Both Larys and Fia exchanged glances at Otto’s unbecoming words. “Ah, I apologize, my lord… That was beneath me. But we cannot say for certain that this… Misery was truly involved in the attack. Aendys did not even resist giving her up. Why? And what of Rhaenyra? Would she have agreed to this course of action? An assassination on her brothers, mayhaps, but her nephew? I think not.”
“We are talking about Daemon,” Alicent snapped.
“But Rhaenyra would have to have known,” Otto countered. “They are both wheel and axis, one does not turn without the other. He would have told her of his plans.”
“Then she knew.”
Fia watched Ser Otto sigh deeply, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as she and Larys rounded the corner, entering the chambers. The room stilled, each member of the council sitting up in their chairs, the royal family straightening on their feet. The door shut behind them. Concern glistened in Otto’s eyes as he met Fia’s wary gaze. He had worked with Mysaria and he knew this “Misery” was her. He would not be caught on the bad end of one of his poor choices. A helpful surprise, but ultimately useless, for when Fia’s gaze wandered to the head of the council table, she was met with Aegon’s piercing sinkholes.
“Why is the prisoner unrestrained?” he questioned, his lip twitching in quiet rage.
“Unrestrained, Your Grace?” Larys asked.
“She should be bound by the ankles, Lord Confessor,” Aegon said. “This one has been known to run.”
“Forgive me, but I hardly think that is necessary. Nor do I believe that this trial is necessary. I deign to recall that my verdict has already been given: and it was that Lady Fia is innocent. Her only crime was disobeying your instruction the night you brought her here; and I need not remind you that you forgave her that slight against you. Since then, she has cooperated fully, faithfully obeying each of your requests.”
“And if she decided to stop cooperating—to flee my presence once more? What would happen? Would you chase her on your gnarled leg? Swat at her with your cane?” Aegon scoffed, his wrist flicking a direction at Ser Criston. “Bind her before this clubbed fool gets himself killed. Then let us get on with this.”
The Kingmaker did as he was told, moving with such decisive precision to kneel before Fia where he clamped each of her ankles with an icy, metal shackle. The chain links dangling between her legs reminded her of the golden chain that hung upon her throat. How quickly trust could die, she thought. Then she clasped her hands together, glancing between Aegon and Arryk whose trust she’d had and lost. The betrayed kingsguard stood at the king’s shoulder. When neither met her eyes, she moved again, dissecting the room: Alicent stood on Aegon’s right, that same eternal flame flickering around her; Otto wavered on Aegon’s left, hands wrung together like when they’d had their meeting; Wylde and Orwyle were prising from their chairs, readying themselves for the proceedings. All wore shades of the black of mourning. No Tyland, Fia noted. No Aemond, she regretted.
Ser Criston took his place at the Queen Dowager’s side.
“Accused,” Aegon said, and Fia looked at him for that was now her name. His white-blonde hair was still braided back, his crown tucked neatly round his head. “I was blinded by my… by my drink, but now I see clearer than ever. This was always your plan. And whilst I would desire to see your head mounted upon a spike, my grandsire insists that a fair trial be held beforehand. So… by all means, lie to us. Tell us why we should believe you are innocent.”
And there it was—the pointlessness of all of this. Fia was guilty, both in her heart and in their eyes. There was nothing she could say or do that would convince them otherwise. Their faces, all of them, were carefully crafted to express only what they dared to, and they watched her expectantly. She returned their mummed indifference with a frown. “I cannot.”
“Because you are guilty,” Alicent said, her black dress as still and suffocating as the arms crossed over her chest. “You whored your way into the castle and tried to kill my children, and when that did not work you- you murdered Jaehaerys. I do not even know why we are bothering with this. She should have been strung up days ago.”
“Simply having ties to the assassin does not guarantee the girl’s guilt, Alicent. I interrogated her myself and you know how I pride myself on my work. She had nothing to do with this,” Larys insisted.
“Right, “interrogated”, my lord. That explains why you and she have been so close as of late,” Maester Orwyle spoke up, his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe. Fia had never heard him sound so sarcastic. “I must admit, I thought it unusual that she felt so comfortable in your presence after your interrogation. You would think the girl would be terrified to be treated by her torturer… Hm… Moreover, with Harrenhal being handed over to Daemon as easily as a loaf of bread between friends, I am beginning to wonder where your allegiances truly lie, Lord Strong.”
Larys lifted his chest, his fingers curling around his cane. “Truly, Maester, I thought we shared the same vision… that you would question my loyalty. Tch. You burn me with those cold words. My allegiances lie where they always have: with the crown. Have I not served in its interest for nigh on twenty years now?”
“Lord Larys is a loyal servant, Maester,” Otto said, his tone pointed. Out of the corner of her eye, Fia noticed Alicent’s lips purse, an unpleasant sight, a reluctant agreement. “I would not doubt his testament. As for Lady Fia, Lord Wylde already pointed out that she spent more than half her days in Flea Bottom; those folk are not so easily scared, I’m told.”
“Mayhaps we should,” Aegon muttered.
“Your Grace?” Larys asked.
“I said that we should doubt your verdict,” Aegon said, raising his voice. Then he turned, suddenly addressing his grandsire. “Why was I not told that Harrenhal was given up? Do you not trust me with the affairs of my kingdom? When did this happen?”
“Not a week past,” Otto explained uncertainly. “I apologize, Aegon. I did not wish to burden you with any more bad news.”
“Oh, is there meant to be another kind? It is all bad news. Do not let me be caught unawares again.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Otto bowed his head.
“Now, tell me true, do you vouch for the quality of Lord Strong’s loyalty or do you speak on behalf of his many years of service?” Aegon looked now at Larys who drove his cane deeper into the stonework.
Standing across the room, Fia could barely make out the twitch that began above Ser Otto’s eye. He must have known his answer would give two answers. If he thought Larys was loyal, then so too must Fia be. If not…
The Hand pulled his hands apart. “The quality, Your Grace. Lord Strong would not knowingly endanger the crown or its people, and his advice has always been sound. Your own lord father bent his ear many times. For many troubles. If he says that Lady Fia is innocent, then I cannot, in good conscience, say otherwise.”
Fia could not believe what she had heard. Otto had defended her.
Why?
She knew why. Because he could not bear to have made the wrong choice twice—by trusting her and trusting Mysaria. His pride could not bear the guilt. Still, Fia shot him the glimpse of a smile. Did she dare to hope?
“No!” The room grew cold with the sudden shriek of Alicent. “No. Lord Larys, I thank you, sincerely, for all you have done for me, but you are wrong. No matter how deeply you believe you are right about someone, you can never place all your faith in them. You simply cannot know the mind of another. Everyone can lie to you. Anyone will. Hear me, I do not know how she endured your interrogation—a resistance to pain, perhaps. She has taken beating after beating, after all. Has she not? But… I do know that despite her words, her pretty words, her actions make her guilt overwhelmingly clear. She is a Celtigar. The very same blood that spilled mine own. That actively fights in this war against us. And she is here. She lies and says she does not want to be here, but then why did she not leave? She will do anything to get close to Aegon, to hurt him for what-” She stopped herself. “She is an enemy. She is the enemy. I wanted to trust you, Larys. I did. But I can’t. Not with this. I feel it in my heart. There’s something wrong about her.”
The Queen Dowager’s eyes were bloodshot, begging. And Fia could not blame her. Not entirely. Alicent watched Jaehaerys die at her father’s hand. Watched the light escape his eyes as his head hit the floor. Watched her father grab him by the hair and take him someplace she could not follow. To lose him, and then to lose him again. Fia could not imagine the pain she felt, and did not blame her for wanting to inflict it on those guilty.
But Fia was not guilty.
“Alicent-” Otto was cut off.
“Her head. One head, that’s all I ask. You’ve all killed and killed and yet here I am, requesting one, one single execution—and it’s an execution, not a murder, mind—and suddenly you all are so put out. Just by the thought of it.” Alicent sniffed, her lip pulling into a thin line. She was shifting gears, reasoning with them. And it was working. She looked at her rigid father who softened at her words. “What do you have to lose? The potential of a truce with Lord Bartimos? Come now, father, he’s already chosen his side. What good will twenty more ships do against the Velaryon fleet? She’s worthless. Honestly, the girl had more value as a child than she does now. So, if a deal was struck, strike through it because this is not about the war or a truce or even the truth… This is about reason. The heir to the Iron Throne was murdered. Prince Jaehaerys. The king’s son. Your grandson. Therefore he must be avenged. That is more important to the realm than any piece of parchment you may have written.”
It looked to Fia as though the men had made their choice, each pair of eyes taking its turn to avert itself as she lazily scanned the chamber. Only Larys held her gaze, strong.
“Thank you, mother,” Aegon said. And then to everyone’s surprise, he crossed the table and embraced her. Her arms stuck out from her body like a straw doll, caught in an unfamiliar stance as he pulled her in. And though Alicent did not embrace him fully—only placing her hands upon his back, gently like he was fragile—Fia knew that this was it. The verdict had been reached. She was guilty. Aegon pulled away from his mother, blinking away wet eyes. “Ser Criston, let the King’s Justice take her.”
Then it all happened so fast. Ser Criston stormed over to her, taking her by the arm, his fingers curled, crushing. She remembered watching him from her tower, his sword arm swinging, brutal, devastating. She remembered his morningstar, flying, flailing, shattering shields. She met his eyes for the first time, those endless brown voids against his Dornish skin, and felt them pulling her in. It almost made her laugh. If she was to be killed by him, at least it would be quick.
She let the Lord Commander walk her to the door. It was opening. In the hall, through the growing crack, she saw Liara again, for the last time. Fia did not have to return to the keep. She could have fled to Tyrosh. In truth, she might have even survived the journey at sea. But now… she shivered and drew her hands up to touch her scar, that tender splitting slice of skin, still dripping with blood. Slowly, lightly. She knew why she had gone back. That scar was her reminder. So this is what loyalty does for you, on both sides of this war, she understood. So be it.
Ser Criston stopped beside her. The figure in the doorway approached them.
It was Aemond.
“You’re alive,” Fia breathed out, but he did not acknowledge her. Instead, he brushed past her and Ser Criston, his long, silver hair sweeping behind him, his wounded head in wraps. When he slid to a stop in front of the table, Fia realized he smelled funny, like sweat and iron, and noticed his shirt was hastily tucked in, pooling out over his hip in a spot he’d missed. Even during their long night at the brothel, she had not seen him so unraveled. Admittedly, she’d woken that night, stirred awake by the sound of his snores—those soft rumbles, a cat’s purr. He looked so still despite his noises. So relaxed. She never wanted to wake him. Let him sleep, she had thought.
“How long?” Aemond demanded an answer from the council. Anyone. “How many days have I been smothered by the mind-addler that is milk of the poppy? Maester Orwyle? Mother?”
“Aemond!” Alicent broke away from Aegon’s hovering, hurrying to Aemond to mother him. He brushed off her advances. So, with a sweetened voice, she told him, “You should be resting, my prince. That wound will not heal without it. Ser Arryk, take the prince to his quarters, and then bring me the fool who let him slip out.”
“Mother,” Aemond repeated himself. “How long?”
“A few days? A week?” It was clear she was unsure which answer would please him. Behind her, Ser Arryk moved in a slow, steady approach.
Aemond’s black shoulders stiffened as he took in her answers, and though Fia could only see his back, she knew neither was one he had wanted to hear.
“That long,” he muttered. “You kept her in the black cells for that long.”
“What?”
“Well, if the shackles are any indication, I’d say she did not simply stumble into the keep like this. Why?” For a brief moment, he spun, addressing everyone, Ser Criston included, and Fia caught a glimpse of his face. She had expected to see anger written in those creases given the tone he was taking, but instead she saw only concern. His pale brow lifted, his eye widened.
“She’s a spy, my prince,” Arryk explained, gently.
“She killed your nephew,” Alicent corrected him.
Aemond stilled. The others held their breath bringing the room to near silence. The only sound: Fia’s shifting, her shackles shaking as she prepared herself for the worst. As if she could prepare herself for this. There was nowhere to run to. No way to fight back. Gods. How many times had he tried to kill her without reason? And now…
She felt the words come out before she heard them. “I didn’t.”
He turned to her, a dreadful sigh escaping him. “I know.” And then a crinkling eye.
Aegon scoffed. “What? No, what? Are you mad? You… No. Stop. Ser Criston. Now. Do it now.”
A throbbing pain struck Fia like lightning, her heart pounding, vision fading as Ser Criston followed his command. Dog. She felt him tug her shackles by the chain, toward him and then down, where she collapsed onto the stone. Her knees hit first, and though it should have hurt, it did not. Fuzzy. She felt fuzzy. Fading. This is it. This is what hope gets you. This is… the sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath, shining, singing. Swinging.
“STOP!” Steel clashed with steel above her head. Sparking. Electric. “Stop this madness! She is innocent! The person you want is Lady Misery. She’s the one responsible for all this-”
“We know that!” Aegon shouted, his breathing ragged, strained. “She’s some… some crazy fucking whore, working for Daemon.”
“Not just any whore, Aegon. Mysaria…” Aemond said.
The swords above Fia’s head swung apart, splitting the air in a whistled song.
“Mysaria?” Ser Criston laughed. He pointed at Fia with his sword, and she cringed away from it. “This one’s friend? My prince, I think your mother is right. You need to rest. You’re not thinking straight. Ser Arryk, obey your queen and take the prince to his chambers. That’s an order from your Lord Commander.”
Ser Arryk, nearer now, reached for Aemond who in turn brandished his sword at him, his tired arm bending under the weight of it. “You will not. Listen to me, or I swear I will burn this fucking city to the ground before Rhaenyra does it for us. I don’t remember coming home, or rather, I didn’t remember… all that happened that night. With Jaehaerys... I didn’t… But I remembered her. Lady Fia. I remembered finding her at the Blackwater. And I know I should have gone home, but I didn't... Hm. I only went after her to find the White Worm for you, brother, because you asked me to. And she was there, the White Worm, with others. They were hurting her, interrogating her. They thought she was working with us. Those evil fucking cunts didn’t even know why she was here. And I- I overheard their plan for… I overheard their plan to kill Jaehaerys, and so I left her. I just left her there. I thought he was going to die. And so I kept picturing it, like before with… so I kept picturing it over and over. Not- not him dying, but how I could stop it… what I would do and how he’d be fine, and then I arrived and it was too late and…”
“Aemond,” Fia soothed him, and his eye flicked down to her and immediately away again.
“But he’s gone, and she is still here, so…”
So he can still…
“Lady Fia saved my life. This wound I sustained in the city, by our enemies, and she could have left me for dead, but she did not.” He let out a sigh, smiling. “She’s not a spy.”