Chapter 34 – A Taste of Mother's Love
"Mmm—! Mmmph—!"
In the damp, shadowed cellar, a strikingly beautiful woman with chestnut-brown hair was bound from head to toe, her mouth gagged with a strip of cloth.
Even in the dim light, her stunning face and elegant figure could still be faintly made out. Most striking of all were her eyes—violet and bright as gemstones—eyes that could haunt the dreams of any man who looked into them just once.
Her gaze drifted toward the young girl lying not far away, unconscious, her face pale. Despair flickered in Ashara Dayne's eyes.
When word reached Dorne that the king would hold a grand tourney, she had been thrilled. As Princess Elia's companion, she had been invited to travel north to King's Landing for the festivities.
At first, Ashara had been genuinely excited—she had not seen her brother, sworn to the Kingsguard, in a long time.
But fate had been cruel.
Their company, over a dozen strong and led by some of Dorne's finest guards, was ambushed near the Kingswood. Even so, Ashara hadn't felt afraid—why should she? The men protecting them were seasoned warriors, handpicked by House Martell. Their commander was none other than Prince Lewyn Martell himself, famed as the most formidable knight in Dorne after Prince Oberyn.
And yet, the attackers were far stronger than anyone had expected.
Lewyn had thought them no more than common brigands. But their skill in battle was terrifying, their ambush expertly laid.
In less than ten minutes, all their guards had fallen. Prince Lewyn himself had been struck down by several blades; whether he still lived, Ashara could not tell.
For Ashara—who had known only the peace and refinement of Starfall—this was a plunge straight into the Seven Hells.
Worse still, Princess Elia's health had always been fragile. Days of imprisonment had worn her down until she fainted entirely, no matter how desperately Ashara called her name.
Creak—
The heavy trapdoor above the cellar swung open, the old wood groaning as though in pain.
Ashara flinched. There was no relief in her eyes—only terror, revulsion, and a deep dread.
They were here. Again.
Clack... clack...
Bootsteps descended into the cellar, followed by a laugh—high-pitched and sharp, like glass against stone.
Ashara squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to see, not to be here.
But she was given no choice.
A cold hand seized her face, forcing her head up, prying open her eyelids.
The first thing she saw was that face—icy, beautiful, cruel. The very same woman who had barked orders at the tall man in the camp earlier.
"Well, well," the woman purred, her tone mocking. "What could have upset our little star so badly?"
It was Wenda the White Fawn. She smiled, the expression more predatory than kind, her bright eyes burning with open hunger.
Ashara's heart pounded in her chest.
That smile... that look...
Wenda's tongue darted out to wet her lips.
"Mmm—! Get... away!" Ashara tried to scream through the gag, her voice muffled, trembling with hatred.
This monstrous cruelty sent chills down Ashara's spine. Her gagged mouth could only produce faint, pitiful whimpers.
Wenda took a step back, allowing Ashara to see more clearly. In her right hand, she held a rope — its other end tied tightly around the neck of another nearly-naked woman.
That woman's body was covered in bruises, her eyes hollow and lifeless. She lay sprawled on the floor like a beaten hound, gazing at Wenda with desperate, animal-like devotion.
Ashara's stomach turned. She could now clearly see the mark burned into the woman's flesh: the shape of a hind — the sigil of House White Fawn — branded onto her skin with a hot iron.
"If it weren't for the boss telling us we can't touch you yet," Wenda said lightly, "I would have already had my fun."
Her hungry eyes roamed over Ashara's face, and she swallowed hard, a twisted glint flashing in her gaze. With deliberate slowness, she drew a whip from her belt — its surface lined with cruel little barbs — and her lips curled into a smile.
"Eyes open, pretty thing. Watch. All of it."
She leaned closer, her tone suddenly cold.
"If you dare close your eyes, I'll kill this bitch right here."
—
Half an hour later, Wenda finally left the cellar, her cruel amusement satisfied. The woman on the floor was left behind, bloodied and motionless, perhaps dead, perhaps not.
Time blurred.
Then—her fingers twitched. She dragged herself upright, swaying unsteadily as though the effort alone might kill her.
"Mmm! Mmmph!"
Seeing movement, Ashara began to whimper frantically, her violet eyes pleading for help.
The woman staggered toward her and, with trembling hands, untied the gag.
"Help... please, help us!"
Ashara's voice trembled with desperation. "Please untie us! My brother is a Kingsguard knight — if you free us, the king will reward you beyond imagining!"
"Reward..."
The woman's lips twisted into something that was not a smile. Her eyes held no greed, only a sorrow so deep it seemed to have hollowed her out from the inside.
If not for greed, she would never have been here. Her mother would never have been tortured to death before her eyes. She would never have had to watch as strips of her mother's flesh were carved off and roasted over a fire — while the monster who did it smiled, as though savoring a fine delicacy.
"You can stop struggling," the woman said softly. "There's no escape for you."
She cupped Ashara's face in her bloodstained hands, staring into her terrified, wide-eyed gaze. Her own eyes glimmered with something unhinged — a kind of mad joy.
"No one escapes. Not you. Not me. Everyone they catch dies, in the end."
Her lips curved in a bitter sneer.
"And one more thing..."
Her voice hardened, becoming almost a growl.
"I hate the Kingsguard more than anyone."
With that, she dropped to all fours and crawled away like a beast, the last trace of human light fading from her eyes.
Ashara stared after her, paralyzed with fear.
The trapdoor creaked open. Then it shut once more.
Through the wood, she heard Wenda's voice, distant but clear:
"You were a good girl today. You didn't try to run. Tonight, I'll reward you with a slice of roast meat."
A pause.
"You'll love it... it tastes just like Mother."
—
Night fell quickly.
Lance and his companions pressed their horses hard and, just after sunset, reached the village marked on Varys' map.
To call it a "village" was generous — it was little more than a desolate cluster of tents, with only three or four wooden huts at its center, likely belonging to the local leaders.
The arrival of an armed party on horseback drew immediate attention. In such a remote place, an armed company was a rare sight indeed.
The villagers gathered, staring curiously. The newcomers' mismatched armor looked nothing like that of royal or noble soldiers, but no one dared to approach.
Finally, a middle-aged man stepped forward, glaring at them.
"Who are you people?"
Lance raised a brow, then glanced at Barristan Selmy.
The old knight drew in a slow breath, clearly debating something. At last, he gave a resigned shake of his head and urged his horse forward.
"We are the traveling caravan Westeros on the Tip of the Tongue," Barristan declared in a surprisingly loud voice. "We roam the Seven Kingdoms in search of rare and exotic ingredients."
He turned to gesture toward the caravan's center, toward Symond, his expression growing faintly pink with embarrassment.
"This is our caravan master — the noble Genghis Khan."
"If you have any prized game to sell," he added hurriedly, "the noble Khan has plenty of gold dragons to trade."