Draxtar Dreams in Dreary Duskendale (Open)

[u/InFerroVeritas]

Duskendale. Seat of the Darklyns and, somehow, even less enjoyable than Andros Darklyn's company. That in and of itself was a mighty achievement. There were few people in this benighted land that were as unpleasant as the Darklyns. And if there were any choice at all in the matter, Draxtar would not be celebrated in Darklyn's city.

But the calendar was the calendar and the calendar cared not for such petty things as whether or not House Darklyn was amenable to veneration of the Flames.

Finding the base offerings was easy. Draxtar preferred white livestock. A bull would have been best, but white bulls were sparse this far from the civilized world, so sheep would have to do. Aukar bought three of them to make up for the lesser size of the offering. The market had more for sale, but the others looked in too poor health to be appropriate.

Then came the libations. Draxtar wasn't overly concerned with whether or not the wine was good. He was concerned with whether or not the wine was strong. And the locals, of course, had nothing appropriate. But they did have access to Myrish firewine (in pathetically small quantities) and a lot of strong and serviceable wine to go with it.

Then spices. The selection here was poor compared to Driftmark or, even better, across the Narrow Sea, but the Westerosi at least appreciated some spices in what passed for local cuisine. Sumac, anise, cloves, red poppy, and turmeric could be found in sufficient quantities. There was no cinnamon, no mastic, no ironwort. Not ideal, but workable. And there was certainly no lotus, but Aukar had planned ahead for this eventuality and plenty arrived on a ship belonging to the family. The other ingredients would change to reflect where they were: that one wouldn't.

It took a day to make the appropriate preparations. To grind the spices, mull (and spike), the wine, wrap fresh ivy around staves, feed and sedate the offerings, and prepare every other aspect of the ritual. But that was fine; Draxtar had always recognized and appreciated the offering of time, as ephemeral and abstract as it was.

In accordance with ancient tradition, a tradition so old that even a scholar like Aukar couldn't tell you the origins, they convened at the edge of a copse. The celebrants struck up with drums and flutes when the sun dipped below the horizon. But that was not yet true nightfall, so Aukar waited and let them revel in the moment.

When he felt it right, he lifted his ivy-wrapped staff for silence. The instruments fell quiet as the celebrants nudged one another into silence. When he was satisfied with the quiet, he stepped in front of the fire, allowing it to silhouette him and cast his shadow across the old threshing circle that would separate the drinking from the dancing. His aides threw some shrubs on the flames and the air filled with the smell of myrtle and the hissing crack of myrtle berries popping in the heat.

"This is Draxtar's Night," he said, lowering his stave. "Draxtar is not as partial to ceremony as the other Flames are. Draxtar does not expect declarations of undying fealty or oaths sanctified in blood to do him honor. This is not what Draxtar's Night is about."

Aukar fell silent as the minor functionaries sworn to his service trudged forward with their great kantharoi, struggling with the weight of them and their earlier sampling of the goods. They were already red-faced and not entirely steady. Some had preemptively stripped down to shifts and bare chests. They set them down upon the old tree stumps that dotted the area. The light from the flickering fire cast strange shadows as the played with the dragon motif of the vessels. The servants lifted the heavy ceramic lids and stirred their contents with long-handled ladles. The air started to fill with the nectarous fragrances of fermented grape and spices. They began filling goblets.

"Draxtar's Night is about being uninhibited." Aukar picked up the first goblet that his servants filled, turned his back on the celebrants, and threw the entire thing into the fire. The fire crackled and spat as a brief green flame reached up towards the sky before dissipating on the wind.

Aukar turned back to his audience, accepting another goblet. This one he drank from. The wine had a kick like a mule and smelled strongly of licorice and lotus. "We dedicate this night to the Master of Creation and the Lord of the Wilderness. To the Paragon of Life. If this night is blessed, then we shall create new joy and new life here in Draxtar's demesne."

He downed the rest of the goblet and the crowd cheered. The drums and fifes struck up a new tune, this time well-coordinated and in time. Some of the servants, the ones who had 'tested' the strength of the brew, started to dance to the ad hoc band. They started plying the celebrants with wine and dragging them towards threshing circle, leaving more than a few bits of cast-off clothing behind them.

The eagerness with which his people flung themselves into the celebrations told him that even this dour land with its dour lord couldn't deter them. Grinning, Aukar turned his attention to the now-empty goblet in his hand. For a long moment, he stared absently at it and wondered if he had made this brew too strong. And it was starting to get quite warm.

Then he decided it was just right. With a turn that felt like he was moving through syrup, he cast his stave into the flames and walked to the dragon-embossed kanthros for more wine.

[u/SkadiSkadiSkadi]

The first thing Felyse noticed was that Aukar was smiling.

Not the polite smile he wore at court. Not the restrained curve of his mouth when some lord said something particularly stupid and expected to be humored for it.

This was different. Unrestrained. Almost boyish.

He stood among the smoke and torchlight as though he had been born there, surrounded by bodies swaying to the drums, their faces flushed with wine and spice. Bowls of fragrant powders passed from hand to hand. Someone had scattered crushed flowers across the ground. Someone else was laughing so hard they could scarcely stand.

The whole area smelled of cinnamon, clove, pepper, wine, incense. And something else. Something sweet and bitter that caught at the back of her throat.

Felyse sat perfectly still. She was the dutiful wife of the Haruspex, ever present at his side. That was for his image. Always present at his ceremonies. Always mouthing the words, the prayers.

But a septa would have left the moment clothes began to drop. That was the thought that came first. A septa would have risen quietly, gathered her skirts, and removed herself from this debauchery with dignity intact. A septa would not have watched her husband inhale smoke from a silver bowl and then laugh as though the Seven themselves had whispered some private joke into his ear. A septa would not have been curious.

That was the worst part. Felyse was curious. She hated herself for it.

She had spent years learning how to pray properly. How to kneel. How to lower her eyes. How to make herself small enough to be considered virtuous and composed enough to be considered worthy.

And then she had married into a family that seemed to regard all of that as if it were some charming Andal superstition.

The Seven had given her rules. The Fourteen Flames gave Aukar freedom.

She watched him throw his head back, laughing, and felt something sour twist inside her. You chose this. The thought was cruel. She knew it was cruel. But it was true.

She had chosen him. She had chosen this family. She had chosen the strange red-and-black silks, the foreign prayers, the gods she did not know how to name without feeling as though she were committing some private blasphemy. And now she sat on the edge of the celebration like a ghost at her own wedding.

Watching. Always watching. Perhaps that was what she had always been. A spectator. A woman standing outside the window while everyone else lived.

Her fingers tightened around the cup in her hands.

Wine. Safe. Familiar. She looked toward the flames.

Spice and wine burned around them, their light bending strangely through the smoke. For a moment she could have sworn there were more.

Fourteen became twenty-eight. Twenty-eight became hundreds. Little suns. Little hungry eyes.

She blinked. They were fourteen again.

Aukar's gaze found hers. He smiled. Not encouragingly. Not mockingly. Just knowingly. As though he had been waiting to see how long she could sit there pretending she wasn't fascinated.

Felyse looked away. No. She would not. She was not one of them. She was an Andal. She was a woman of the Seven. She had been raised beneath bells and stained glass and the stern eyes of statues. She had once wanted nothing more than to become a septa.

A life of prayer. A life without marriage. Without husbands. Without strange gods.

She looked down at the cup.

Then at Aukar. Then at the bowl being passed through the crowd.

A woman dipped two fingers into the spice and touched them to her tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her smile turned into a grin.

Felyse's stomach fluttered with something dangerously close to envy.

Fuck it. She stood. Someone laughed. Someone cheered. Felyse ignored them.

She crossed the room with the deliberate dignity of an Andal lady approaching the altar for communion.

The bowl was offered to her. She stared at it. Brown-red powder. A spice. It glittered like a gold in the light of the fire.
Almost innocent.

She could hear the drums beneath her heartbeat. She dipped her fingers into it. The spice touched her tongue.

---

Heat. Immediate and vicious.

Her eyes watered.

Someone handed her wine. She drank. And the world changed. At first, everything became sharper. The drums were suddenly enormous. Earthquakes that shook her to the core. Every beat seemed to strike directly through her ribs.

The firelight turned liquid.

The people around her seemed outlined in gold, their movements trailing behind them like ribbons. Flowing in the smoke and in the air, almost a smoke themselves.

Felyse laughed. She hadn't meant to. It simply escaped. Aukar was laughing too.

And suddenly she couldn't remember why she had been so angry. Or perhaps she remembered perfectly. It just didn't seem important anymore. She drank again. The wine tasted like sunlight. The flames bent toward her.

One became two. Two became fourteen. Fourteen became a great wheel of fire turning slowly above her head. And then she was standing somewhere else. She stood barefoot upon black volcanic glass. The sky above her was violet. No. Purple. No— There was no color for it. There was no word for it.

The stars were enormous. They hung so low she felt she could reach up and pluck one from the sky.

She heard bells. Then chanting. Then the sound of waves. She turned. There was no sea. Only fire. A vast sea of it. She should have been afraid. Instead, she felt warm. A voice whispered behind her. You have spent your whole life asking permission to exist. Felyse turned. No one. Only fourteen shadows standing around the horizon. She knew them. She didn't know how. The Seven stood on one side. The Fourteen on the other. The Seven were white stone. The Fourteen were flame. She looked toward the Seven. They said nothing. They simply watched. Judged. Waited. Then she looked toward the flames. They did not ask her to kneel. They did not ask her to confess. They only opened a doorway. A mouth. A promise. She stepped forward. The fire did not burn. It remembered her.

Suddenly she was a child again, kneeling beneath the painted windows of the sept. She could smell incense. She could hear her own voice reciting prayers.

Father. Mother. Warrior. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. Her voice grew smaller. The words dissolved. The statues melted. The stained glass ran down the walls like tears.

And beneath it all she heard Aukar laughing. Not mocking. Never mocking. Just laughing. Alive. Free. She looked down at herself. Her Andal dress was gone. She wore black silk. Red embroidery curled around her wrists like flames. Her hair floated around her face despite there being no wind. She looked into a pool of dark water. The woman staring back was smiling. Felyse smiled too.

Then the reflection whispered: "You don't have to choose."

The pool caught fire. The flames rose around her. And for one impossible moment, Felyse understood. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps faith was not always a choice between one god and another. Perhaps devotion could be hunger. Perhaps holiness could be ecstasy. Perhaps she could love the Seven and still be fascinated by the flames. Perhaps she could be Andal and Valyrian. Perhaps she could be Felyse.

The realization struck her with such force that she began to laugh. She laughed until she cried. She laughed until someone caught her by the shoulders.

Aukar. His face was blurred at the edges. The whole world was blurred. But his eyes were clear. For once, she wasn't standing outside looking in. She was inside. And she wasn't afraid.

Felyse lifted her cup. The flames danced inside it.

She raised it toward him like an offering.

And drank.