Chapter Text
"My radiance, look! There's White Harbor," Malanza called out to Aracely from the large and luxurious ship's deck, pointing to a sun-drenched, pale stone castle in the distance.
Aracely rushed to the wooden railing for a better view of the keep, her lengthy, silver hair blowing carelessly across her face in the harsh wind.
The fortress that was the New Castle sat like a massive crown atop a king's head at the summit of the hill upon which the city was built. Squinting, she could make out copious seafoam colored banners hanging against the white masonry. She couldn't quite tell the sigil on the tapestries, but she knew that this was where they would be staying for the night after being at sea for nearly two entire moon cycles.
The first half of the oceanic journey had gone particularly smoothly. Aracely spent the early days of travel soaking up the sun of the Summer Sea off the coast of Dorne, her handmaidens fetching her plenty of fresh fruit all day long such as figs, grapes, and her absolute favorite, pomegranates.
The water started getting choppy around the Blackwater Bay, and from there it only got colder, rougher, and windier until Aracely had to begrudgingly trade her bright, gossamer Myrish silks for thicker, velvet gowns with long, flowing sleeves that she found she didn't hate as much as she'd anticipated.
Aracecly couldn't decide whether she wanted their party to arrive soon or not, knowing she was being shipped off, literally, to somewhere in the North called the Dreadfort to marry its royally decreed heir. The keep's title alone made it sound both very daunting and gloomy. However, she desperately wanted to feel the solid ground beneath her feet again.
"How long until we arrive? Do you know?" Aracely asked in a bored tone to the dark-brown-haired serving girl while leaning onto the railing beside her. She turned her deep-violet eyes from the waves lightly pounding their fists against the boat's hull to the small flame tattoo on the side of Malanza's face.
Malanza was a well-trained and educated temple servant that Aracely's father bought from the Red Priests in Lys; at age seven-and-ten, and she was the youngest of Aracely's servants, who were now technically handmaidens since slavery was outlawed in Westeros.
Malanza smiled while keeping her focus locked onto the land ahead. "You speak the common tongue so well now, my lady. I believe we will arrive within the hour," she assured.
Aracely thanked the girl curtly.
Growing up as Magister Lysandro Vyros' daughter in Lys, Aracely had been learning the common tongue unwillingly from the time she was born, whether it be from Westerosi lords coming to trade with her father, or eavesdropping on her parents speaking it, which was typically when they were talking about matters that she was much too young to be caring about, yet she listened in anyway.
One day, around age nine, she had become sufficient enough at deciphering the common tongue and heard her mother, Sylvia, arguing with her father about teaching Xaria, her older sister, about a word she didn't yet recognize: alchemy.
"It isn't work suited for a highborn lady," she recalled her mom telling her in High Valyrian.
Curiosity had gotten the best of Aracely. Later that night, she'd crept into Xaria's bedroom after the city's nightly chant for R'hllor had ceased. Sitting wide-eyed and innocent as ever on her two-and-ten-year-old sister's bed, she sounded out the word her parents recited earlier to Xaria, "Al-kah-mee."
That was the night she fully became herself, the night she learned the art of potion making and, of course, alchemy. Over the years, she'd learned all she could ever have hoped to know about potion and poison making, alchemy, and more from Xaria and their father.
Aracely grinned to herself faintly at a passing memory of the time she and her sister made their first batch of Essence of Lotus, a truth serum. They accidentally made it astronomically more potent than it needed to be. So, upon testing it on their mother, they ended up sending the poor, sweet woman into a coma-like state for days on end. They thought she was sent to the Hall of Light, but their father was familiar with the poison, being a member of the conclave of Lys, and allowed them to think she was deceased until she woke up to teach his daughters a lesson. It was a lesson well taught since the girls never tried out any of their creations on an unsuspecting victim again.
Aracely was yanked out of her reverie and back onto the deck of the ship by a sharp, frosty gust of wind cutting across her face, accompanied by sea-spray which wiped her smirk clean off her face.
"Come, we must be prepared to dock." She ushered Malanza back inside the ship's bowels, arm-in-arm.
Another one of her handmaidens from Lys, Vara, was waiting in the cabin room Aracely had been staying in. The maid held a silk, emerald green, bell-sleeved dress and a fluffy white fur shawl in her hand. "Ñuha ōris, ikisā sūgīs?" (T: "My radiance, does this suit you?")
"Issa, sȳrior sūgīs," she replied in her mother tongue, her words dripping like honey. (T: "Yes, it suits me well.")
Aracely had been told numerous times by handsome Westerosi lords, who had all been told off by her father, that she had an attractive, almost seductive voice. Most ladies from Lys were told this; they were known to retain the most sumptuous bed-slaves in Essos, after all.
She sauntered over to the side of the room where Vara was standing, and the girls got to work quickly, braiding Aracely's wavy, pale hair into a half-up, half-down double fishtail twist. They finished right as the ship's captain, one of her father's trusted merchant friends, knocked to advise them the ship was now docked and ready for Lady Aracely to be escorted to the castle.
Adjusting her silver coiled-serpent charm necklace containing a hidden vial of the Alchemist's mirror, an anti-poison paste she had worn around her neck for as long as she could remember, she took one last glance at her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall in front of her. There is nothing to be fearful about. I have been dealing with Westerosi men since I was only a girl, I know how to carry myself, she thought in an attempt at self-soothing, a new habit she'd picked up since she departed from her family.
She could still see her mother’s tear-streaked face when she closed her eyes, begging her father to allow her to travel west with Aracely, but it was no use. Her father prohibited it, saying that he wouldn't risk us both at sea. What he really meant was that he didn't want to risk his wife at sea, but his daughter he was okay with.
And with one last deep breath in, Aracely was off to White Harbor to meet the noble lord of House Manderly.
Upon setting foot on the foreign continent for the first time in all of her nine-and-ten years of living, she found that the ground was far more feeble than she expected—and it was cold. The closed-toed sandals she wore, which she now wished she'd swapped for boots, almost sank into the mud beneath her. She lifted her skirts dramatically high to ensure her skirts didn't get spoiled as they trudged through the damp earth to get to the carriage and horses waiting to escort Aracely, her handmaidens, and a dozen of Lysene guards into the castle.
The wheelhouse passed through the Seal Gate to a huge stone gatehouse separating the final evening bustle of the harbor docks from the inner city. Being greeted by a stern-faced Manderly Captain of Guard in silver-and-blue armor, he closely inspected her family's coiled serpent merchant's seal on a letter one of her guards handed to him.
The man welcomed them to the city kindly enough, and their carriage began to wind its way up the cobbled streets of the city. It climbed higher and higher up the rocky hill, shaking like a nervous child as it took them towards the New Castle.
When they passed through the towering outer walls and slowed into the great courtyard, Aracely could finally see the New Castle in its entirety, and her nerves ramped back up, not knowing what the people of the North were like since they didn't frequent Lys as much as the Dornish or other Southern Westerosi noblemen.
The carriage door opened, and she was instantly greeted by a single male member of House Manderly, along with smallfolk on each side of her.
The plump, lofty man with a bald head and a brown mustache from House Manderly stepped forward. "Welcome to the New Castle, Lady Aracely. My father awaits your presence inside by the hearthfires. I hope your travels went pleasantly," he greeted far more kindly than the guard at the Seal Gate had, extending a hand to help her out down the steps of the wheelhouse.
She accepted his help, curtsying as her feet hit the firmer ground. "I thank you, Lord...?" she lilted melodically.
"Ser Wylis, son of Lord Wyman Manderly," he told her proudly.
If he'd been fifteen years younger, his hair had been icy blonde and his eyes purple, he would've looked similar in the face to Aracely's eldest brother, Sylas. They had the same sharp nose and tough look in their eye.
"Bring any fancy fruits with you from Lys, my lady?"
Aracely mentally rolled her eyes but returned the smile all the same. "Yes, my lord. You should speak with the captain of the ship about the trading arrangements. I am of small knowledge," she said, elongating her vowels.
He stepped into place beside her and took her arm in his gently. "You are very well-spoken for a lady from Essos—meaning no offense, my lady," he chuckled awkwardly. "We'd best see you inside. The feast is prepared."
Aracely fluttered her lashes at him like her brother's ex-bed-slave turned handmaiden, Lyxa, had taught her to do. "Best see to it," Aracely replied.
Ser Wylis guided her through the entrance and through the corridors to the hefty oak doors into the great hall, her handmaidens trailing behind. Lyxa had already caught the eye of a guard without a helm, Aracely noted as the pair were playing a game of obvious eye tag. She somehow attracted the attention of at least one nobleman everywhere they went, likely due to her undeniably beautiful long, blonde hair and face littered with light freckles.
The group entered what they called the Merman's Court, according to Ser Wylis. The room lived up to its name; it was entirely built from wood decorated to look like the ocean, showcasing marine animals such as crabs, lobsters, and even a Kraken. The hall was lined with Merman banners and already crowded with boisterous, drunken men and their ladies.
Aracely felt like a fish out of water.
At the high table, slumped on an oversized, reinforced chair was the rotund Lord Wyman Manderly. He was surrounded by platters of food, orderlies, and casks of wine while stroking his dark, thick beard in one hand.
Taking a deep, sharp breath into her lungs, she plastered a fake smile onto her face once more, preparing to carry it with her throughout the meal.
She endured the feast reasonably well, wishing all the while she could simply be alone, or even better, back in Lys, where it was warm enough to prance around in sleeveless dresses and be fed the ripest pomegranate seeds all day long. Plus, Aracely found the Northerners to be much too disorderly for her preference, so she stuck to speaking with Ser Wylis and Malanza, who kept receiving strange looks at the fire symbol on her face.
When Aracely finally retreated to the guest chambers she was to stay in, she felt the weight of the journey finally pressing down on her. For a lady who had never traveled farther than Volantis before, her lengthy voyage had taken a toll on her; she felt drained and somehow like jelly, like she was still on the open water even though she was planted firmly on wooden plank flooring.
Wandering over to the fire already roaring in the hearth, her feet passed over the multicolored Myrish carpet covering half of the floor, which made her feel a little closer to home.
Vara came rushing in half a second after Malanza and Aracely entered the room. She stopped in the doorway abruptly. "Ñuha ōris, lyxmo pystari istan yne sȳriar kosa emagon īlon gīmagon," Vara spoke in a hushed, serious voice, entirely unlike her. (T: "My radiance, I bring you rumors from the lips of Lyxa that weigh heavily upon your safety.") Her face was flushed.
"Keliā gliezos lēda īlva rhaenagon jēda vara. Skorkydo sūvior gīmagon?" Aracely whispered. (T: "Close the door behind you and speak freely, Vara. What has you flustered?")She motioned Vara forward, keeping her hand steady as Malanza stripped away her thick gown, refusing to let her trembling show.
Vara rapidly swung the heavy door shut, letting out a sigh as she sealed the chilly North out. "Dreadforto poñe pystari gīmagon ēdruta. Ziry vala aspo lēda se rāpa jorāelagon, ñuha ladi, se ziry flaying sȳrior sūgīs. Iā zōte gēlen sȳrior issa dāri sepār nybē telgūn issa." (T: "You must be made aware of the whispers of the bastard of the Dreadfort. It is said he keeps a man as a pet, my lady, and he finds sport in flaying. It is the tradition of his family, just as yours is alchemy.") The words spilled out of her mouth quicker than Aracely could truly process them.
Malanza's head shot up from across the room where she was digging for a nightgown in one of the three wooden trunks filled with Aracely's apparel that must have been brought in by orderlies not much longer ago. "Bisy pystari māgī issa. Ladi turgon emagon daor lēda vīno udrā dāri," Malanza hissed with her chestnut eyes locked onto Vara. (T: "These are only rumors. Do not scare the lady with tales heard through the grapevine.")
Lyxa was always prone to gossip, but usually only half of her words ended up being true.
Vara scrunched her nose at Malanza and crossed the room to reach Aracely, beginning to take down her plaits for the night. "Pystari ry daor, kosa gīmagon mēni se gieral rāpa ao nybē issa, ñuha ōris," she hummed. (T: "Rumors or not, I presumed you would prefer to be notified of these words and decide if you believe them yourself, my radiance.")
Aracely narrowed her eyes, honing in on a single crack in the masonry on the far, shadow-covered wall. She took in the information she received from Vara and stored it in the back of her mind, deciding that she needn't worry about matters that were not of the utmost importance in that moment; she knew the second her head hit the pillow that night, she'd be sleeping like a rock. There was always tomorrow to dwell on it.
"Aōho iotāpteno syt kirimvose avy rytsuran," she told Vara flatly, who had completed unbraiding her hair. (T: "Thank you for bringing this to my attention.")
Vara took a step back, allowing Malanza to lift a cream-colored linen nightgown over Aracely's head.
"R'hlloro zūgī rhaenagon rāpa īlon kessa?" Aracely asked. (T: Should we start the chant for R'hllor?")
Both of the serving girls nodded fiercely and they all moved toward the hearth.
Malanza closed her eyes and took a breath, cupping her hands before her chest as did the other girls, and began the call. "Hen syndrorro, oños," she murmured, her voice steady. (T: "From darkness, light.")
"Hen ñuqir, perzys," Aracely and Vara responded together, their voices blending harmoniously in the drafty room. (T: "From ashes, fire.")
"Hen morghot, glaeson," Malanza continued with her eyes now open and fixed on the flickering fire, drawing strength from it. (T: "From death, life.")
They bowed their heads with shut eyelids as they raised their voices together one last time in a synchronous, hushed chant to finish the prayer. "Āeksios Ōño, ilōn misās. Kesrio syt bantis zābrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys. (T: "Lord of Light, defend us. For the night is dark and full of terrors.")