#fun fact: those are big incenses and perfumes used by byzantine emperors shhhh kasjdflsjdf they were even super precise abt where certain m

[forgottenamira]

Amira had not cowered in fear at the sound of battle below. Instead, she'd made herself ready, summoning her own household guards, who stood shaking at her doors, and dispatching them to the main gates. "A stone wall may make ten men mighty against ten thousand. Defend that, not these doors." If they break through that, she'd thought. Even a thousand of you at this wooden door would be of little use. Only two she held back, the two she best trusted, and them she sent for her son, to bring him to her, alive and well, whatever the cost.

Next, she'd sent her maids and ladies, alike, scurrying to the armory, ordered to arm every fighting man, and all the Varmont (but not Astairan) servants after that, and further to (subtly) ensure that they had control of the armory and not any of the Astairans within the castle. Next, with all her household dispatched, she'd come to the room where her poisons were kept, and she'd wetted the dagger she always secreted upon her person in them. If it came to that, any who touched her son, any who struck her down would die in agony. But it did not come to that.

Roderick had given over an entire floor of the palace to housing his wives and their younger children. Since Amira had but one child, it meant she kept a whole wing of the palace to herself over which she presided, indisputed queen. A broad, round tower, steeped in ancient stained glass windows, trailed its way up and up and up to meet Roderick's second wife. She kept her quarters still and quiet and darkened in velvety silence. Amira had learned at her grandmother's knee the significance of maintaining an atmosphere -- therein was the start of one's own iconography. She had chosen a play of light and dark, of white incensed smoke wafting to heaven against a backdrop of silent night. The moon, every Calainon (children of the eclipse) knew, was mightier than the sun, and the true Eternal Flame was hers to keep. Amira was the last High Priestess of Calainon. She did not intend to let anyone forget it.

Amira had used her tactics to make those around her fear her; Godfrey to garner their friendship; Tristan not at all. Amira believed she had made the best choice. Her servants did not include a single Astairan, each man and woman who aspired to wear Amira's livery hand-selected by the queen, herself. They, too, were creatures of quiet, moving soft as shadow, chosen for discretion and for patience and, yes, even for cunning, dangerous though perhaps it might be. So long as she kept being on her side in their best interest, they would always serve her. She did not count on faith or on kindness to instill loyalty. Those things could turn. She counted on ambition.

This was her style of leadership. Roderick chose to inflame passions: the lofty faith in a fiery god, half of his own creation; Marian had chosen softness as her weapon, her kindness slicing slick into wounds he had inflamed; but Amira was a realist. Priestess though she was, she offered no red deity to burn away all sorrow, for as one who had tended the Eternal Flame all her life, she knew no fire had that power; woman though she was she did not showcase any gentleness, for she'd cut that out of her heart long ago: it had never served her in a world so cruel. No, Amira offered achievement, rise; she offered money and she offered power. She promised swift justice to those who served her, and to those who hampered her, alike. Life was hard. Amira Varmont was harder. She forgot no slight, no favor; she saw and she schemed and she struck.

Her presence chamber smelled of the great incense of Kolchis -- a warm and stimulating swirl of spices: pepper, spikenard, cinnamon, aloeswood, ambergris, musk, frankincense, myrrh, balsam, indigo, dyers’ herbs, lapis lazuli, fustic, and storax (with her own person perfumed in pine, ivy, bay leaves, myrtle, and rosemary) -- her stone walls and stained glass windows draped in heavy, dark fabrics to keep out the cold as best they could. The wide, still room included a dais and a set of three great chairs -- her husband's, her own, her son's -- as any presence chamber ought, canopied and draped and displaying the ancient arms of Calainon for all the world to see crowned with those of Varmont. It was a room for power. Her bedchamber she had specifically designed to entice her husband, draped all in silks and scented with her own perfume, cool and sultry. But she had other rooms, too.

One, in particular, to which only she, herself, had the key: a room none, save those of Calainon blood, she ever permitted to enter. And it was this room that they at present occied. This room was contained in one of the towers boasted by Amira's wing of the castle, and boasted views of practically all of Stafford. It was also the brightest in her wing, save perhaps her bed chamber, bearing no stained glass, but clear, floor-to-ceiling tracery windows, often opened to let in fresh breezes, so that the room was surprisingly bright and airy given its mistress, and comfortable furniture (claimed from its pervious occupant) proliferated. It was, after all, the only room where she might be her truest self.

Here plants everywhere grew in wild array so that the whole room burst with deadly life: purple belladonna, white-budding hemlock, exuberant foxglove and leafy mandrake, spotted hensbane and breathtaking oleander, trumpeting datura, and many more. Poisonous plants, Amira found, bore the most exquisite blooms, all bursting with lively color and fantastical shapes. Yet, for all that each of these plants was poison, each had its use in medicine, as well, and she nourished them, each, herself. How many of Edmund's hurts had she soothed with mandrake or datura; how many of her own?

Generally, Amira preferred to busy herself with her gardening when ensconced here, but today her focus was on her son. It was in a riot that the line of god-kings had ended, yet in that tumult, Amira had triumphed in the fall of the leaders. She and Godfrey had opened the gates to them and, when it was done, she, herself, had plucked one of the god-king's own silver platters from his kitchens, and used it to bear his still-bleeding head out to Roderick. It had been their first meeting.

Coming to Edmund's side and, with him gazing out the wide window (and failing to note her brother), the queen placed a hand upon his back. "Your father always goes too far." She paused, her hand falling away as she came closer to the window, gazing with curiosity upon the destruction so far below. "That is why he owns half the world. And that is why his doom shall plunge us all into war."

But Edmund knew all of that. It was not what he was asking. Settling into one of the chairs, Amira tilted her head. "If the cause of this upheaval truly is some misplaced affection for that woman, then she is a threat...But threats can be made assets, too." She paused. "As you know, I have long...fought the notion that your father ought to wed that useless piece," she said with a wave of her hand, referring to Eilionora. "Now? Perhaps he ought to."

Amira did not enjoy poisoning anyone...well, on occasion there was a certain satisfaction in it, but when it came to lethal poisonings, no. She had never gleefully ended a life by her own hand, only ever grimly. In an ideal world, she would not have killed anyone, but she'd learned long ago that this world was far from that. She did not regret the deaths, either, not truly, not when they'd brought her where she was, today. But she had wished to avoid killing Eilionora. It did not seem wise in this climate -- yet, hperhaps that was the only option now left. But she was really an innocent in this, besides. Of all her husband's brides, Eilionora very clearly wished for his hand the least. But if he must wed her, then she must die.

Amira glanced down at her nails in a somewhat dismissive gesture. He didn't seem able to beguile this foreign queen. Strange that he could conquer twelve nations, but not a single girl. But which of Roderick's previous brides had not chosen him before ever he chose her? She supposed they each had made the way for him too easy in the past. Amira smiled softly. She, herself, had till now been the wife he had had to fight most to claim, having had to change the very fabric of law to take her to him. But she had been all too willing to take his hand.

"The era of this girl's choice must be at an end. An Emperor may give commands and we, his denizens, must see it done. The integrity of the empire stands in the balance. If a rabble can overthrow your father here, then the rest of the world will learn that they might do the same." She'd seen the truth of that for herself in Kolchis. "They must not learn that lesson. Even Roderick Varmont cannot best a twelve-sided foe. One way or another, this threat must be quashed, and without delay. It is your future we are speaking of."

Standing, again, Amira crossed once more to the window, turning to look her son in the eye, she smiled softly. "This would-be queen has a sister. What is a hostage for, if we do not use her? I think it high time we give this Astairan wench something to fear. All Roderick's brides of the past chose him: it is Eilionora's turn to do the same."

A Game of Thrones | Edmund & Amira

Edmund watched from his window as the peasants finally dispersed from the gates -- the threat of the imperial guard finally enough to placate their revolt. Form his vantage point, Edmund had not seen that the rider who came safely through the gates had been his uncle.

Where once this would have been common place -- it was not unusual for the locals to voice their discontent with Roderick Varmonnt -- this was the first time it had roused Edmund's attention. He knew exactly what they were angry. And having had relationships of his own with Astairans, he could certainly understand why.

He turned from the window to see the arrival of his mother, "Do you he's gone too far?"

Edmund had not spoken to Rose about the announcement his father had made at the ball. When he saw her at the palace the next day, both knew it was neither the time nor the place, but he could read the expression on her face well enough to know that it had angered her.

It had angered them all.