[right][h1]The Red Keep[/h1]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/q5rMsLj.jpeg[/img]
[sub]Collab with [@Ezekiel][/sub][/right]

The stench of blood was in the air, a rotten sickly smell, not the hot iron of freshly spilled and vital but a stench far too close to rot for comfort.

Fires burned, both to fight back against the smell but also in ritual, a ring of braziers that surrounded the motionless form of the King, laid out before the attendants of this forbidden, forgotten place.

The air was heady with the scent of burning substances as well as that sweet but foul tang of decay, and the low cant of Valyrian only seemed to stir that distorting mix of reality and magic. Visenya stood over the King, unmoving, her arms raised above her as she called to ancient powers, the old gods of Valyria and beyond, any ancient power that might restore Maegor. The only champion, she was certain, that could prevent the Kingdom from slipping into eternal darkness. There were others who ‘could’ but only one who ‘would’ only she had raised the man strong enough to make the choices necessary.

She fought to keep her tone steady, to avoid the overspill of rage and worry that thrummed through her body. She called to the spirits of her siblings, her most treasured, lost years ago. She called to grandsires and great grandsires who had lead her family across the sea at the direction of her forebears, the women of House Targaryen who had always shouldered its greatest burdens, and forged its greatest ambitions.

Aegon and Rhaenys were beside her, she knew it, despite what bad blood had passed between her and their descendents. They would not let the dynasty fall, they would not let the world fall. She had sworn she would do anything to prevent that.

Which explained the presence of the witch, the one who had no grounding in the Valyrian arts of old but instead in darker powers, but if they lent their strength to the return of her son, she would give them everything, forever and a day.

Tyanna had thought that, perhaps, the king's mother would have resisted her aid. Instead, she stood opposite the woman, the once-queen, and was surprised to feel a sickly power envelope the room. Her face did not betray her or show her discomfort, she wore a mask of anger. She seethed, still, that it had come to this and that she had the taste of this Valyrian magic. It felt hot, heavy, a disturbing touch that repulsed her, disgusted her, even as a small bit of respect crept into her that Visenya wielded it at all. 

It explained so much, Tyanna mused silently, about Maegor. But now was not the time to try and unravel that tangled mess. 

She swallowed roughly to hide a gag at the cloying taste that assaulted her throat. The feeling here in the Red Keep was less oppressive than Dragonstone had been. It helped, and as the Valyrian prayers quieted, the witch spoke at last. Not in Pentoshi Valyrian, but in the common tongue. She would not lend even a small amount of power to that source. 

Her hand hovered over the king’s body, moved in the air above him, pulled and pushed at the things unseen. “It is a deep injury, how remarkable.” Tyanna’s voice became barely more than a murmur, commands in an old language, parts of ancient knowledge that had been passed to her. 

It rebelled against her and she gasped, her brow furrowing in frustration. It did not like the heat, it did not want this abomination to be alive. It wanted to be used as it was meant to be, for there to be ice and night and death. The witch growled, a momentary lapse in frustration, and cursed it. She felt it push back again, angry at her, a sudden feeling of ice down her spine. 

Tyanna muttered an incantation anew, having moved to the king’s head, her pale hands gripping the muscular flesh at his shoulders. And that was it, the battle of wills won, or, at least, at a truce. She felt the power bend to her will, reveled in its obedience to her. It would assist the abomination and her magic. It had to, or it would need to wait for longer for the next opportunity to enter this world again. 

“I will give you my strength for this, take what you need.” Her dark red lips pressed tightly together, preparation for how unpleasant she expected this would be. “After, there are tonics and potions we will need to treat him with. You will help me with this?” 

“Drink.” The Dowager-Queen commanded, as a dark liquid was presented to Tyanna by one of the attending ritualists. A tonic, or potion as some would say, of Old Valyria, and one which would allow them to combine their strengths for the trial ahead. Visenya took her own, a mirror of the goblet offered to Tyanna, and drank deeply. The taste had been repulsive when she had first been learning the arts of her ruined homeland, but now the bitten, ashen, taste felt almost comforting, the violent retching she had once experienced replaced with a barely observable flinch. Still, it burned all the way down, the fire lighting its way down her as she returned to the chanting, the cloying tones of Valyrian rebounding off stone walls as the ritualists joined her, but a beat behind in the rhythm of her chant.

The shadows cloyed at her vision, as if they gathered around the room at its edges, narrowing and drawing closer to the form of the King before her. Her vision grew hazy, the shadows twisting into images of ancient gods, but she held the chant. Even as they threatened to overwhelm her, to steal back their power, to enact their vengeance and rip her apart, she held the chant. Their power beat heavily in the room, the temperature rising such that it would match the caverns beneath Dragonstone, indeed, it felt like they very well might be there, between the beating cant of the ritual. It was becoming too much, attendants began to waiver and faint at the edges of her vision, but she paid them no heed, she simply needed to draw more from the witch, the vitality and power she offered. She did so freely, even if the feel of her was so very different to the Valyrian origin of the others. She would question, at a more suitable time, why she had found her way to Westeros, but for now, she was simply thankful for the boon.

With a shuddering gasp the last of the ritualists collapsed, frothing at the mouth which seemed to bubble and steam in the cloying air. Visenya stood still, but her arms and legs felt like leaden weights, every part of her body was on the verge of collapse, and part of her knew that a piece of her she would give to this effort she might never recover.

With a snarl that was almost a yell of victory she finished the chant, the last tones of Valyrian rebounding from the stone walls and casting away the cloying shadows. The heat rushed out of the room as if routed by a breeze of frost. leaving Visenya panting, nearly slumped, before the form of her son.

His chest rose stronger than before, but he did not wake, still, she felt convinced their work would prove fruitful.

“Now…yes, I will aid you with the treatment.” She spoke, her voice hoarse with strain and age far greater than before they had started.

It had, she thought, been worth it. Though the magic left her shaking and shaken, a reverberation that echoed through her body and mind. There would be a price to pay, there always was. Only time would tell how great it would be or from whom it would be extracted. The musings kept her grounded and stopped her from spilling the contents of her stomach on the stone floor - just barely. Her dark eyes took in the form of Visenya Targaryen. It had not been easy on her either. Tyanna wanted to smirk, but even if she hadn’t known better, her body was in no mood to cooperate with that effort. 

“A few things to keep his body calm and allow your magic to heal him.” The Pentoshi sorceress drew a delicate finger along the king’s body as she approached a long table that held her wares. She had not had the fortune to be born to a bloodline of magic, what she had had needed to be earned. But this? Potions and tonics, things that could soothe or inflame; the maesters at the Citadel only ever shared a fraction of the potential. Tyanna was not and had never been so limited. 

She leaned against the structure, her back to Visenya, and allowed her shoulders to slump. “You are powerful, that could not be any more clear.” The witch didn’t wait for a response or even acknowledgement. “This is not the first time such magic touched your son.” Her head turned, harshly, a shadow over her pale face as she chose her next words with caution. “At least now I understand the obstacle to fulfilling my original purpose with the king.” Tyanna shook her head with a thin and strained laugh. “Time will tell if that can be overcome, or what will need to be given to secure [i]your[/i] bloodline.” House Targaryen could carry on, with the soft king’s whelps, but not the branch that mattered. “But I am no stranger to difficulty, I will remain until it is done.”