[18] Red Priestess in Kings Landing

Chapter 18: Red Priestess in Kings Landing

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The Small Council chamber of the Red Keep felt like a tomb. Shadows clung to the stone walls, flickering candles in wrought-iron holders doing little to chase them away. The long table gleamed beneath the faint, muted light seeping through narrow windows that were shut tight against the city beyond. The air was thick with unspoken ambition and carefully veiled contempt—a suffocating atmosphere that mirrored the kingdom itself.

At the head of the table, Varys folded a parchment with practiced calm. His soft, unhurried voice broke the tension as his gaze settled on Queen Cersei.

“Your father, Your Grace,” he said, his tone as neutral as his expression, “has named Lord Tyrion to serve as Hand in his stead while he fights.”

The room froze for a beat. Then came the crack.

Cersei’s palm slammed against the table with enough force to rattle the wine goblets. The pale skin of her face flushed an angry red, and her lips curled into something vicious. “Out!” she barked, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. “All of you—out!”

The members of the Small Council didn’t hesitate. Chairs scraped against stone as they rose, their movements brisk and deliberate. Eyes remained averted, bodies stiff with the instinct of prey. Varys glided out silently, while Pycelle shuffled after him, his robes dragging against the floor in a mournful whisper.

The door thudded shut, leaving only two behind.

Tyrion didn’t move. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass. He swirled the dark liquid, the smirk on his lips deepening as he watched his sister from across the table. The silence stretched between them, heavy and electric.

Cersei’s heels clicked sharply against the stone as she strode toward him. Her golden hair framed her face like a halo of fury, and her eyes burned with venom. She leaned in close, her shadow falling across his face, sharpening her features into something dangerous.

“How?” she hissed. Her voice trembled with barely restrained rage. “How did you trick Father into this?”

Tyrion tilted his head, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “Dear sister,” he drawled, his tone laced with mockery, “if I were capable of tricking Father, I’d already be emperor of the world.”

For a heartbeat, he thought she might slap him. Her hand twitched, but instead, she straightened, her jaw tight as steel. “He must have lost his senses,” she spat, her words clipped and bitter. “To give you that chair… that title…”

“Or,” Tyrion said, his voice light, “perhaps he’s grown tired of your particular... style of leadership.” He raised his glass, his smirk deepening as her jaw clenched. “Let’s call it a fresh perspective.”

Her fists tightened, and the fury in her eyes flared hotter. “You think this is a game, don’t you?” she snapped. “Sitting in that chair, playing Hand? You’re no Hand—you’re a joke. A little jester in a big chair.”

Tyrion shrugged, his gaze growing sharper. “Maybe,” he said. “But this jester might just bring your darling Jaime back.”

Her eyes widened—just a flicker of surprise, quickly masked. “...How?” she demanded, her voice quieter now, tinged with doubt.

“The Starks love their children,” Tyrion said smoothly, leaning back as if savoring his words. “And we have one of theirs.”

“Only one,” Cersei corrected, her tone brittle.

He frowned, his smirk faltering. “One?”

“Arya is missing,” she said, the bitterness returning to her voice. “Gone. Vanished. That little wolf slipped through our grasp.”

Tyrion swirled his wine, his brow furrowing. “But Sansa remains.”

“Engaged to Joffrey,” she snapped. Her lips curled into something cold, and for a moment, her gaze wavered with frustration.

Tyrion chuckled softly, shaking his head as if pitying her. “It must be hard,” he murmured, his voice a low, mocking drawl. “Being the disappointing child.”

Her expression flickered—just for a moment. A shadow of something raw passed over her face, almost too quick to catch. Then her features hardened, and she turned away, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Since you’re the Hand of the King,” she said abruptly, her voice sharp with forced calm, “I have a task for you.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “I don’t take tasks from you.”

Her smile widened, icy and brittle. “Oh, but you’ll want to.” She turned to face him again, her tone laced with venomous sweetness. “Not long ago, a Red Priestess came to King’s Landing. The High Septon wants her dealt with before she spreads her poison. Especially since Stannis Baratheon is said to be receiving advice from a Red Priestess himself. So go, dear brother. Play the Hand.”

Tyrion stared at her, his expression unreadable. Their silence was tight, stretched thin with unspoken hostility.

Finally, he sighed, setting his goblet down with exaggerated weariness. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll deal with your little problem.” He rose from his chair, his movements deliberate, and gave her a curt nod before turning to leave.

“Good luck, little brother,” she called after him, her voice a venomous purr.

The heavy door shut behind him, cutting off the sound of her laughter like the lid of a coffin sealing shut.

****

“Thank you, thank you, priestess! Praise to the Lord of Light, thank you!” A mother said, holding her child close. The boy, who just days ago had lain pale and listless, now clung to his mother with rosy cheeks and newfound strength. The door to the small mansion creaked as she stepped outside, her grateful smile disappearing behind it.

I sighed. “I thought you weren't going to collect servants and followers?” I said, turning my gaze toward Kinvara, who was still gazing at the door as if she could still feel the gratitude of that mother.

Kinvara smiled, a soft curve of her lips that held a glimmer of mischief. “I'm not collecting followers,” she replied, finally shifting her gaze to me. “I'm just helping the needy. It pains me to see them sick, Viserys. I can't help it.”

I met her eyes for a moment, holding back the words that rose to my lips. Kinvara had that talent—turning any situation to her favor. The delicate line between genuine care and sly manipulation blurred when it came to her. Just three days was all it had taken for her to find herself a place among these desperate souls. And now, thanks to her ‘miracles,’ I was practically trapped inside this rented mansion. Since I couldn’t be sure of how to approach my next plans without being sure how the rulers of this city will react to her actions.

“If you miraculously heal a child,” I muttered, settling back in the soft chair near the window, “more mothers will come the next day.”

“Are you planning to build a kingdom where mothers don't want their children to be healthy, my king?” Kinvara's eyebrow arched in that infuriating way of hers, her lips tugging upward.

“Stop twisting my words,” I shot back, irritated. “Things like this will catch the attention of unwanted people for no reason.”

She giggled, an almost melodic sound that rang with her usual confidence. “Trust me, whoever this will catch the attention of will not be unwanted. Plus, we got ourselves a mansion by saving people, didn't we?” She gestured around us with a flourish. “Be grateful we're sleeping under a roof, my prince.”

I bit back another sigh, letting my gaze drift to the other side of the room. There, the Sand Snakes were seated, sharpening their weapons with casual expertise. Tyene Sand, with her short-cropped hair and deceptively sweet smile, looked up from her dagger with an unimpressed scoff. “If you truly are serving him, you should listen to what he orders. No?”

Kinvara’s smile never wavered. She turned, her red locks catching the candlelight, glimmering like fire. “The only one I serve is the Lord of Light, my dear. Although, yes—as Azor Ahai, I do serve him too. My job, however, as I see it, is to guide him. Not to follow his wishes blindly, like some… certain people.”

It was clear who she meant. The room suddenly felt colder. The tension rippled between them, the air almost crackling with Tyene's glare and Kinvara's ever-present smile. The scrape of metal against whetstone paused momentarily, then resumed, more aggressive than before. Tyene's eyes remained on Kinvara, a glint of challenge flickering within them.

I clapped my hands, the sound breaking through the strained silence. “Alright, girls, I’m not having any of this tension between my own people,” I said. Especially because I valued the red-haired woman far more than these girls. “I was just complaining for the sake of it. It's not as if this is disrupting any actual plans. We'll just figure out some other way to enter the castle.”

The Sand Snakes exchanged glances before shrugging and looking away, dismissing the tension as if it were nothing more than a fleeting annoyance.

Kinvara scoffed softly, standing up and making her way to the door. She reached for the handle, ready to close it against the world outside. “Mmh-?”

But then the door swung open before her hand could touch the wood.

Two men entered the mansion. One of them was short and stout—a dwarf with a distinct halo of wild blonde curls surrounding his head, while the other carried a sword at his hip, his gait lazy and confident. Tyrion Lannister, a face even an exile like me could recognize, followed by a sellsword I recognized from the TV show. Bronn, the lucky.

I stood up from my chair, walked over to Kinvara, and positioned myself beside her, my hand resting lightly on the hilt of my blade. I gave Tyrion a thin smile. “Welcome, guests. Unfortunately, our priestess here doesn't have a cure for dwarfism,” I said dryly.

Tyrion blinked, staring at me for a heartbeat before snapping a finger at me. “That was actually funny,” he admitted, smirking, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Considering you clearly realize I'm not here for that. Were you seeing patients?” He turned to Kinvara.

“Yes,” Kinvara replied, her expression softening into her usual practiced warmth. “And forgive my bodyguard's rash words. Growing up with the Second Sons molded him this way.” She shot me a quick, irritated look—a look that was as much for show as her soft tone.

Tyrion shifted his weight, studying her for a moment. “So, what can I help you with, Lord Tyrion Lannister?” Kinvara asked.

“Ah, so you do know me.” Tyrion smiled, though the smile was tinged with something sharper—curiosity, perhaps, or skepticism. “Hmm, how do I say this? I’ve recently been appointed as the Hand of the King, a hefty job, and I've been asking around about a Red Priestess who seemed to have made herself at home in King’s Landing. Naturally, I had to come to see for myself.” He gave a sweeping bow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now that I have, I’d ask you to leave.”

Kinvara tilted her head, a glimmer of sadness in her gaze. “Because of my religion? I thought Westeros, under King Robert Baratheon’s rule, allowed all kinds of religions to coexist. Is King Joffrey restricting that right now? Pity.”

Tyrion hesitated, his mouth opening and closing for a second before he hummed. “Uh, well, no... but… hmm.”

Kinvara shook her head. “The High Priestess Kinvara sent me here. She’d be immensely disappointed to hear the Church of Light has been banished from Westeros.”

“Kinvara?” Bronn piped up, his eyes narrowing. “Of Volantis?”

The mention of the name seemed to settle between them like a rock in a calm pond, ripples of understanding spreading in their expressions. “Yes,” she said, “My name is Nyra, one of her close confidants.”

Kinvara had taken precautions—her hair dyed red with a speck of her magic, her identity hidden beneath layers of deception. She played her part well, pretending to be someone else, presenting herself as one of the many priestesses under Kinvara’s guidance. Using her own identity would draw too much attention.

I turned away, my hand lifting in a dismissive gesture. “Looks like we have to pack,” I said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Wait,” Tyrion called, his voice halting my steps. “I’ve heard about the High Priestess before. Quite an enigma, isn’t she? Since she, the First Priestess of the Lord of Light, has sent you here, let’s see... What crimes have you committed again?”

Kinvara’s smile deepened, her eyes almost twinkling. “None,” she said softly. “Unless checking on sick children is considered a crime?”

Tyrion Lannister regarded her for a long moment before he smiled—a smile laced with resignation. “No. It’s not.” He gave a curt nod. “Have a good day, then.” And with that, he turned, Bronn following closely behind, and they were gone—just like that.

I looked at their receding back, and smirked. My gaze swept over Kinvara, her composed expression a mask of victory. “So this is what you meant.”

“Did I? Could be a coincidence.” She said, and I crossed my arms.

“Right. Well, now my identity is ‘clear’ to the higher-ups in King’s Landing. A simple bodyguard of the Second Sons, serving a Red Priestess. Not a bad cover. I should be able to visit the brothel at least now freely.”

Kinvara tilted her head, the mischief returning to her eyes. “Heh. Step by step, my prince. Trust in the Lord of Light.”

I ignored her blabbering and glanced out of the window, the skyline of King’s Landing stretching in the distance, a sight that called out to me.

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Author Note: Need us some good ol 5-star ratings guys, we looking low.