Mother's study is filled with books both occult and mundane. No doubt she is one of the most educated women in Qarth, and thus the world. Her private collection, of course, is one of the finest curated libraries with respect to dragons. As you lead mother, Ser Laswell Peake, and maester Marwyn into the palatial room, you glance at the nearby window sill. How many hours did you spend propped up against the frame of the window reading one of the books father brought you?
Refreshments are brought in by several collared slaves in silk finery. A glass of wine from the famed Arbor is poured for you, and you sip at it as you stare unseeing through the window.
Your father's last desiccated smile lingers in your mind.
"Ser Haegon Blackfyre is dead." You speak as you join the others at the study's lone table. The slaves are gone. Only your mother and your closest retainers remain. Ser Laswell and Marwyn share a momentary look, and glance meaningfully at your mother, who nods icily. You take a deep, steadying breath to force the fire from your blood. Only natural that they look to mother for guidance. You're only sixteen with no true accomplishments to your name. That must change. Resolutely, you place father's urn upon the table. "As is my family's custom, he was cremated. I mean to interr these ashes next to those of our forebearers or die trying."
A heartbeat later, Ser Laswell rises. The sound of his sword leaving its sheathe cuts through the room. The older knight kneels on one knee next to your chair with the sword held out for inspection and blessing. "Prince Aenar, my prince, House Blackfyre has my blade."
"It will be needed in the days to come, ser." You summon as much poise as you can. "Many will stand in our way as we take back what is ours."
"Aye, they won't be standing for long, my prince. We'll bring them all to their knees." The knight's smile is grim, as he rises and returns to his chair. He runs a hand through his bushy beard, as he once more sits down.
"Westeros, then." Marwyn says, not a question.
"Westeros." You nod imperiously. The name of the westernmost known continent has become something of a talisman in your mind. "With Fire and Blood, I will reclaim and reforge the Iron Throne." Your eyes bore into the maester's. "Of course, you knew this day would come. Why else would a maester of your skill and seniority stay in Qarth to give a Pureborn boy an education worthy of a king?"
"I won't apologize for keeping it a secret, my prince. Children cannot keep their tongues silent, and you are far too precious to risk. Many in this world would see a black dragon strangled before it can spread its wings." Maester Marwyn responds stoically. His dark eyes flash with zeal, but his voice takes on an all too familiar lecturing tone. "Prince Aenar, you are much more than another would-be king, much more than an aspiring emperor. You are the Dragon."
"What is the Dragon?" You ask the question that's been burning through your mind since mother's revelation. Ser Laswell looks surprised and curious. He clearly doesn't know anything about this 'Dragon' business. The knight fades from your focus.
"Aenar, instead of delving into divination," Mother's derision of divination is well and truly known. Once she executed a bloodmage for trying to tell your fortune. "Perhaps, we should focus on more concrete matters. We must control how the news of your paternal lineage is spread. There will be quite a fe-"
Anger flashes true, and you respond archly, "It is one thing to keep secrets from a child. I am no longer a child. I shall not be kept in the dark any longer." Your words are for them all, but your mother most of all. She will do whatever she thinks is best to protect you. That is not what you need. Your blazing purple gaze fixes on Marwyn. "Answer my question, maester."
Marwyn the Mage does not look at your mother. You might have smashed your glass of wine over his head if he did. Instead, the maeaster seems transfixed by something in your eyes. Long moments pass, and you watch your old tutor without blinking. The old man looks away first, and runs his large hands through the links of his chain.
"The sources are unclear and sometimes contradictory. Before you were born, I thought it was gibberish." He sounds every bit an academic. "Many references I've found were old when the Age of Heroes was still new. They are the last surviving scraps of famed seers and prophets. Long before the tales of the Prince Who Was Promised and Azor Ahai, they wrote of you, Aenar." Marwyn licks his lips, uncharacteristically nervous, "Born to a Maiden, nourished by the Ancient Blood of Dragons, raised by the Old Blood of the City, called by the Shadow, you herald the end of ages, and birth new ages to come. Kings will kneel at your feet, the nations of the world will tremble at your passing. You will become one with the land, even as it is torn asunder. And, there is something, a great foe, a terrible evil, something they feared to truly describe. You must triumph against this thing or everything is lost for all time."
"No pressure." You say dully as a great silence falls upon the room. Your hands are shaking, no, your whole body's shaking. Your heart thumps loudly in your ears. Truly, this is a day for revelations.
"So, our prince is a bloody messiah to boot?" Ser Laswell Peake is no simpleton, but he sounds altogether too pleased by this turn of events. You grunt in laughter despite yourself. He continues with a gruff smile, "Guess we might have an interesting time of it!"
"A fact that will stay a secret." Mother says coldly. You do not gainsay her this time, as the revelation continues to crash over you. "A Blackfyre will have enough enemies. The Dragon… he will have no end of enemies."
"Aye, Great Lady, Ser Laswell Peake can keep a secret!" The knight rumbles from your right hand.
"Marwyn, does-do these scraps of prophecy say how I will do all these things?" You ask, once you've even marginally mastered yourself.
He shakes his head. "They only speak of some great Power you shall wield," you think of your sorcery, and that doesn't seem all that impressive in the grand scope of everything, "and how fate will 'weave itself about you, like a shield, like a halter'."
You nod absently, and withdraw to silence. Of course, it's too much to ask for bloody prophecies to be clear and concise. Seers and prophets are flawed as any man or woman born in this world. Their interpretations of times yet unseen are colored and often distorted.
Mother and your two retainers busy themselves with other matters, and you listen with only half-heartedly. As it's arranged for Ser Laswell to set out for the Golden Company bearing a letter sealed with your signet, your mind turns over many things. You always excelled above and beyond Janren and your other Pureborn cousins. Sorcery came to you as easily as breathing, and it was not an exception. Anything you cared to learn, you simply learned faster than others. How does this all figure into today's revelations?
Marwyn spoke true words.
You have a grand and unassailable destiny. By the sound of it, it's not going to be like the stories and fables of your youth. No doubt, it will be far worse than you can imagine.
May you live in interesting times. An old Yi Ti curse hums through your thoughts.
"My mother and father will need to be informed, and then I shall carefully persuade them to the cause." Mother's words are very important, but they slide from your attention like beads of rain running down a pane of Myrish glass. "Father shall be Aenar's greatest patron. Alone, he has one hundred and fifty ships at his command, and when he supports Aenar's claim, House Taish Arra will not do so alone."
"Fresh air." You stand abruptly, and the other three older occupants of the room, even mother, scramble to their feet. "I need some fresh air."
"Aye, my prince." Ser Laswell watches you with a fevered gaze. "You shall have a guard."
You merely nod. A prince goes nowhere without a proper guard, and you do not have the energy to argue. Perhaps, you will be like Janren now, always surrounded by a large entourage. Mother begins to speak, but you're already striding out of the room with father's ashes in hand. Rude, but you care not. If you spend even a moment more in this room, you will go mad. Everything will burn.
Time is a funny thing. Moments can feel like an eternity, and minutes can pass without notice. If anyone asked how you returned to your villa's study, how you extracted the Valyrian Treasure-hold, you could not give them a straight answer. All you recall is the ten men of the 'Faithful Brothers' surrounding you like a pack of protective wolves, a red comet burning through the heavens.
That flees from your mind, as a sorcerous word and a drop of your blood unlocks the cube.
You need answers!
A vial of Shade of the Evening is revealed. You are only allowed to indulge once a fortnight. Mother says it is to keep you from becoming dependent as the loathsome Warlocks are. Mother keeps her stock firmly secured. You managed to nick this vial on a glamoured trek into one of Qarth's many majestic marketplaces.
A whisper on the wind, you spend a long time trying to calm your thoughts.
You down the entire vial. Strangely, it tastes only like pure water.
It is not like before, not at all. Instead of the usual dream-like trance that accompanies imbibing the magical elixir, everything becomes clear. Dreams are burned away. You can hear the sound of a bee buzzing beyond your window. You gasp and stagger, the sound of an army on the march. Awareness of another kind grips your very soul.
The life of the world, the Light of the world, burns through you. You are the light. Molten lava floods through your veins. Glacial sheets freeze the marrow of your bones. A maelstrom threatens to scour you from existence, if you give even an inch.
Your sorcerous thoughts, impelled by the Shade of the Evening, are able to perceive many things at once, even insane chaos is no bar to your senses. Surrounding you are threads. They are one, but they are also many. You immediately know them for the stuff of Creation.
Red. Blue. Green. Yellow. White.
The mass of threads undulates, and in this state of heightened consciousness, your sorcerous mind supplies a classification for each type.
Fire. Water. Air. Earth. Spirit.
You are Aenar Blackfyre.
You seize your destiny.
You are a channeler. Only having 'sparked' to your power this very day as the Red Comet burned through the sky, you are not trained or skilled, and you are far from the only channeler awakened in this world today. Only the unexpected effects of the Shade of the Evening have allowed this revelation, this understanding. There are no teachers, no secret troves of knowledge. You are effectively a wilder, an amateur channeler without formal training or a tradition of knowledge to guide you forward. Yet, even Wilders have tricks.
Vote for one trick to learn first. The quality and effectiveness of this 'trick' will be decided by the dice after the vote is concluded. You may make any write-in as specific as you like. A clear explanation of what you want, and how you would like to utilize said trick, including possible game breaking implications, will go a long way towards helping everyone!
[] Eavesdropping
[] A Sword of Fire
[] Compelling Words
[] Write-in
A word of warning for those familiar with the Wheel of Time and channeling, Gateways will be absolutely nerfed. You may consider the world as if it is under the influence of a dreamspike. That will be just about the only nerf in this game for the One Power. The rest of the game will be balanced by the lack of knowledge and training with respect to channeling and weaves of power.
