Paul and Cassandra
The opulent room, bathed in the soft, golden light of the morning sun, overlooked a vast valley stretching into the horizon. The castle of Qarth seemed to glisten under the sun's touch, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries and shimmering crystal glassware. Lady Cassandra, regal at 45 but possessing a timeless beauty, sat at a grand table laden with an exquisite array of food, yet her gaze was distant, fixed on the breathtaking valley below. Her dark hair, and her face, untouched by time, held the poise of someone who had seen and commanded much.
The sound of footsteps echoed faintly across the room.
"Mother."Paul's voice was soft but carried the weight of a son seeking his mother's attention. He entered the room with the quiet grace of someone accustomed to power but not yet fully wielding it. His lean, wiry frame cut a striking figure as he moved with a subtle intensity, his black hair falling in tousled waves around his sharp, angular face. His hazel eyes—vivid, like molten amber—shifted between curiosity and contemplation, glimmering under the sunlight that spilled through the tall windows. He was a young man burdened with destiny, yet in this moment, he was simply her son.*
Cassandra turned from the valley view and watched him approach, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile as he took his place at the far end of the table, piling food onto his plate without a word. The clinking of silverware and the quiet hum of the morning filled the space between them.
"It's good you're up early," Cassandra said, her voice serene yet carrying the authority of a matriarch. "Your father wants to see you before he leaves for Westeros."
Paul's brows furrowed, his gaze darkening as he paused, the tension in the air sharpening.
"He's leaving?"* His voice carried a trace of disappointment, though he masked it well. He had hoped to spend more time with his father, learning the intricacies of magic and their family's legacy.
Cassandra nodded, her smile faint but reassuring. "He's going to meet with the Targaryens, to discuss the matter of the next heir."
*Paul slumped back slightly in his seat, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. The heaviness of his father's duties always weighed on him, pulling his father away from the lessons Paul craved. He leaned forward, the tension visible in his posture as he asked, "Will he come back right away?"
Cassandra, ever composed, poured a glass of water for her son, her hands moving with elegant precision. A smile touched her lips as she replied,"Don't worry, your father won't be gone for long."* She paused, letting the weight of her words linger before adding, "I've also spoken to him about taking you with him to Yi Ti."
Paul couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. Yi Ti—exotic, distant, full of the ancient magic he longed to study. His mother always seemed two steps ahead, knowing his desires before he voiced them.
Cassandra placed the glass of water just before her, her gaze sharpening. Paul reached out casually, expecting her to pass it to him, but she left it where it sat.
"I just woke up, Mother. Can I please—?"
Paul began, his voice tinged with weariness.
Cassandra's smile faded as she shook her head."If you want it, make me give it to you. Use the Voice. I want to see how far you've progressed."Her tone was calm but carried the unmistakable command of a teacher expecting more from her student.
A sigh escaped Paul. He slumped back, exasperated. This again? He rolled his eyes, then shrugged in defeat, lifting his chin in mock bravado. In a half-hearted, growly impression of a wizard, he intoned,"Give me the WATERRRR."
Cassandra's face remained impassive, not even a flicker of amusement. She was testing him, and she wasn't one to relent easily.
Paul groaned inwardly, resigned. He straightened in his chair, collected himself, and stared at the glass. His voice lowered, more serious but still lacking the force necessary. He said, evenly,"Give. Me. The Water."
Nothing. The silence that followed was almost mocking. He raised his hands in defeat.
"I tried,"he muttered.
Cassandra's expression hardened, a flash of impatience in her eyes."The glass can't hear you. Command me*."Her voice carried a weight now, a gravity that sent a ripple of tension through the room. Paul felt it—a shift in the air, a demand for focus. His mother's words were a challenge, and the authority in them shook him out of his complacency.
Paul straightened in his chair, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling as if drawing power from the very air around him. His eyes fluttered closed, and for an instant, the room seemed to shift. The quiet clink of cutlery and the soft breeze through the open window faded, replaced by an almost unnatural stillness. He reached deep within himself, searching for the primal force lying dormant, waiting to be unleashed.
When Paul opened his eyes, they were no longer merely hazel. They gleamed, focused with a laser-like intensity, locking onto Cassandra as if the world had narrowed down to this singular moment. His voice, calm but edged with authority, pierced the silence."GIVE ME THE WATER."
His words struck the air like a shockwave. The very sound rippled through the room, folding in on itself with an echoing, otherworldly reverberation. His voice was no longer human—it became a force, layered with whispers that seemed to come from every corner of the room.
Paul's voice was no longer his own. It stretched, deepened, and multiplied—layered upon itself, as if Paul's or Cassandra's voice is distorted—stretched and deepened, with an unnatural echo that makes it sound as though multiple versions of the speaker are issuing the command simultaneously. The voice becomes guttural, almost inhuman, vibrating with layers of reverberation that ripple outward. It doesn't just sound like a voice coming from one mouth, but as though it has traveled through dimensions, past and future versions of the speaker converging into one terrifying, singular command.
Across the table, Cassandra's body reacted before her mind could resist. Her hand twitched, her fingers curling around the delicate glass before she even realized it. Her eyes widened slightly, watching her own betrayal as her hand lifted the glass, slowly moving it toward Paul. Her mind fought against the compulsion, straining to break free, but the Voice held her firmly in its grip.
The glass hovered in midair, inches from Paul's reach. A battle played out in her gaze—her will clashing against the weight of his command. Sweat beaded lightly on her brow as she strained, and for a brief moment, Paul thought he had done it. But then...
She stopped. Her hand, trembling slightly, lowered the glass back down onto the table with deliberate calm. Cassandra exhaled softly, her control reasserted, though her expression softened into something warmer—something proud.
Cassandra's voice, low and approving, broke the silence that hung in the air. "Better."
Paul frowned, the thrill of his near success dimming in the face of her measured reaction. "Better?" he repeated, the dissatisfaction clear in his voice.
In one quick motion, he leaned far across the table, his arm stretching out as he snatched the glass himself, his brow furrowing with quiet frustration. The power of The Voice was there—he had felt it, tasted it. But it hadn't been enough to fully break her. Not yet.