A Promise of Iron

Petyr II

The edges of the city glowed from the last of the dying sunlight, golden flames licked buildings and sand alike, turning the capital of Dorne to a gilded paradise. The fires dimmed as he neared the gates, fading to a yellowed glow and taking the day's warmth with it. The streets were opposite to the sun, and for a city whose lords sigil was a sun, they loved the night. 

People seemed to crawl from every alley and step down fromevery doorway, creating a lively atmosphere to be sure, but not the kind you wish to weave a tired horse through. Both high and low-born citizens stumbled about, falling from one tavern into another, as well as falling into one another.  Petyr regretebly dug his heels into the sides of his weary mare. She sluggishly moved from the slow walk they had been doing for hours to a bouncy trot, pushing people out of her way as she went.

At the end of the street rose the gates into the palace courtyard, tall and gleaming bronze. Petyr held up  a forged letter from "the king" far enough from the guards face that he waved him in. The gates creaked open and the horses uneven hoofbeats went from the muffled sound of dirt to loud claps upon the courtyard's cobblestones. 

Sliding off the sweat-lathered beast, he gratefully handed the reigns off to a stable boy that had run out to meet him. He wouldn't need any of his regular clothing where he was going, so he straightned the collar of what he was wearing and proceded through a side door into the east wing of the palace. The maester's stairwell led up in a steep incline of crumbling stone, and Petyr cautioned as he tested his weight on each step. Apparently, whenever a visitor came to the maester's of the Spear they used a different staircase. Or perhaps no one ever leaves.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Petyr faced an all too familiar door.

The palace was teeming with rats in the sudden warmth of the false spring and he hugged the child closer as if to sheild her from the noise of their terrible scratching. The ship with her had been less painful than he would have imagined, the babe barely cried, but lay there in a state of bewilderment. Her wide eyes flicking from board to creaking board with far too much intelligence for the eyes of a newborn. 

He had never felt comfortable around children of any age, but the little princess he clutched so close felt nothing but right. Her tiny chin rested in the hollow of his collarbone as he took the steps slowly, she had begun to nod off and he would have hated waking her just because he took a step to roughly. His efforts were in vain though, as they reached the top of the stairs a sickly sweet smoke filled his nostrils. He could see it seeping out from under the warped oak of the thick door in a purple haze.

He frantically tried to cover the childs already watering eyes with the thick wool of his cloak but a whimper was already escaping her pink little lips. Petyr kicked the door as he wiped tears from the soft skin of her cheeks.

"Lord Baelish", said a gravelly voice. Petyr turned to see a very old maester with yards of chains weighing down his ancient shoulders. The beard that covered the better part of his face was the colour of  old steel and slicked to a point at the bottom with some sort of oil. "Have you brought the child?"

Petyr stepped through the doorway and noticed that the smoke had dissipated out from the room, possibly through the pointed arches that lined the walls. The maester raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Ah, of course," Petyr mumbled as he lifted his cloak off of Visera.

Her bright eyes flicked between Petyr and the maester then were drawn to the light reflecting off of the old man's chains. He gave another inquiring look and held out his arms. Gingerly, Petyr tilted her towards the maester. The oldman moved with surprising fluidity as he took the babe from his arms, he settled her into the crook of his arm where she could still see both of them.

"There you go my child," he cooed, rocking back and forth. "We're going to find you a home."

Petyr stiffened at the words, he didn't want to find her a home he wanted to keep her. He wanted to see her walk, hear his first words, watch that little pink mouth smile everyday. What's wrong with me? he shuddered, it's just a child. The maester handed her back and Petyr held her tightly to his chest. There was a gold rimmed disk on the floor lined with indentations and runes, kneeling Petyr saw they were the runes of the children of the forest, words that were sung rather than spoken.

The maester came down beside him with a bowl of a smoking, purple liquid; thick as molasses that Petyr could only assume was some kind of activating potion.The second it hit the gold it began to churn and roll, a small angry sea surrounded by shining desert. One after another he filled them until all of the indentations were filled and breathing smoke like little chimneys. 

"Step into the middle, my Lord," the old man said as he picked up a dusty volume and leafed through the crumbling pages. Petyr stepped quickly of the short wall of smoke, trying to keep it out of Visera's face. The maester began to chant the forgotten songs of the old gods, a rythmic mash of syllables lost on Petyr. The circle benath his feet became warmer, tingling and shooting rays of sun up his calfs. Soon his feet became translucent and the invisibility travelled up his leg moving them somewhere else.

"Lord Baelish," Petyr looked up at the man fading before him. "Find a home for the princess, a good one, she's all we have."

Petyr gave the man a quick, curt nod as his chest and arms vanished along with Visera. Moments later he was falling through streaks of light and dark, colours raged by him each on their own course. After seconds or perhaps hours in that inbetween Petyr saw a strangely groomed meadow, dotted with benches. The plush green grass of the park rose up to meet him.

Here he was, fifteen years later  going back. He raised a hesitant hand to the door and dropped it, he went to knock again but the old, now very old, man had already opened it. 

Petyr nodded his head as he walked in to the room, already filling with that same purple smoke. The sickeningly sweet stench was sticking to his cloak and filling his nostrils with it's perfume. 

"Lord Baelish," the man bowed. "I thought you were supposed to arrive yesterday?"

"I was," Petyr answered curtly, eyeing the cauldron. "I was delayed." Looking around the room Petyr noticed there was someone missing. "Where is the Targaryen lad?"

"He was very impatient, my Lord," the maester stammered. "You know how the dragons get. I didn't want him wrecking anything so..."

"So, what?" Petyr's voice was ice.

The maester looked at him apologetically, almost fearful. Petyr paced back and forth infront of the disk, running his fingers through his dark hair. He's only been there a day, he tried to convince himslef, what could he possibly do in a day? Images of havok ripped through Petyr's mind as he thought of the dragon prince. 

"Send me now," he commanded, waiting for the old man to tell him to hold off, or have patience. He only nodded and began to pour the liquid into the shallow gold dishes. When they were all full Petyr stepped onto the platform and he and the maester shared one final nod.

Then he was gone.