A Song of Moon and Gold (Elden Ring/A Song of Ice and Fire)
- Thread starter SkyRig
- Start date
- Crossover
Welp, Ghost Boi has come for Jon. People better start runnin'.
Chapter XVIII
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
JOFFREY
"Er, my prince, a-are you sure this is a good idea? D-didn't his grace order us to…?"
Honestly, so useless. I should have brought Sandor, Joffrey groused. He looked back at his party, a small band of four consisting of soldiers brought along by his father. They didn't have the same look as his sworn knight. At a glance, he doubted they saw much combat at all. No doubt they were regular soldiers stationed in the Red Keep who never saw combat, spending their days guarding empty halls.
Sandor was competent, but that was to be expected. He was a Clegane, and the Mountain's younger brother. A Lannister, especially Tywin, would never settle for anything less. The Hound followed his orders to the letter, didn't bother asking useless questions, and had no qualms about doing what needed to be done. The only gripe Joffrey could say about him was his reluctance to teach him swordplay. The Master at Arms in the Red Keep was decent, personally chosen by the king, but Joffrey found Sandor the better teacher. Sadly, he refused on account of worries about his mother heckling him. He grumbled at first, but conceded to the point. His lady mother was a pain, even on a good day.
Joffrey wanted to bring Sandor with, but a man with such distinct features would attract the wrong attention. Joffrey's form was average, but just small enough to fit in a barrel. The same cannot be said about the Hound. The prince never realized how much he missed his sworn knight until the voyage.
Shortly after his father declared he would support Lord Haight and his men in their hunt for this runebear creature, the more capable members of the royal retinue readied themselves and whatever soldiers fit to travel with them. As his father never gave him any orders to sit by, Joffrey chose to join the hunt, albeit by way of neglecting to inform him what he intended to do. He was clearly still wroth with him, and he did not wish to rouse the king's ire again so soon. He mustered what few soldiers he could among the retinue aligned with Houses Lannister and Baratheon, though it hadn't taken him long to realize they fell woefully short of the mark. If nothing else, they would serve as excellent fodder.
Honestly, how bad can this creature possibly be, anyway? They're probably exaggerating.
Although the thoughts were born of arrogance, there was also a hint of frustration to them. It'd been two hours by his reckoning since they set off, and so far, they found nothing. Any other group they happened upon while looking for the runebear also reported no signs or creatures matching its description. While the lack of discovery was enough to annoy him, the surrounding woodlands were perhaps more annoying. They were not so dense he could not see the paved roads or clearings to provide some comfort and respite, but they were big enough to get lost in. The odd weather was just as bad.
Joffrey remembered how, in his drunken ravings, his father talked about how the Stormlands earned its name for its unpredictable weather. One half day, the sky was clear and crystal blue with gentle winds, and the next half day, the sky was dark and angry with lashing gusts capable of throwing a man off his horse with a single blow. Evidently, his father's homeland had a distant relative in the Stormveil region; while the sky was cloudy without signs of thunder, the winds were outlandish. They ranged from being powerful gusts that made it difficult for him to see and breathe to being outlandishly strong enough to lift him off the ground.
"P-perhaps we should go back, your highness!" one of the soldiers said, his voice barely heard amid the harsh winds. "I fear if we stay any longer, the winds will cast us away!"
Joffrey rounded on the arrogant fool who spoke, mustering his Baratheon blood. "And who are you to order me? Are you the king?"
"W-what? N-no! No, of course not, your highness!"
"Then silence your tongue, lest I rip it from your mouth!"
Cowards, the lot of them. Had they no pride? Weak and pitiful as they were, they were still soldiers picked to defend the Red Keep. Surely at least one would have a steel spine worthy of his station! Were they so incompetent they could not accomplish such a base task? The prince clicked his tongue and turned away, disgusted by the coward and unwilling to tolerate his presence any further. He had half a mind to leave them behind and hunt for the runebear himself.
Once he found the beast and presented its corpse, surely his father would—
A chorus of howls pierced the howling winds. Joffrey went still, his face paling as he realized the howls came not from wild dogs, but of wolves.
And they were not alone. Another sound quickly followed. The sound of a primal creature, a beast unlike any the prince knew of. Its roar did not match the wolves' howling, but the sounds that followed were enough to paint a vivid picture. The sounds came from a distance, to his left where the forest grew thicker. Beyond the treeline, he could just barely make out some giant shape going on a rampage. The crossbow in his hands grew heavy, and his heart drummed against his chest. Sweat pooled in his palms.
There could be no doubt. It was the runebear. Despite his nervousness, Joffrey managed to form a shaky, confident smile.
"I can do this," he whispered. "I can do this. I'm a Baratheon. I'm a Baratheon. I'm a prince. I am the next king! I can do this!"
"W-wait, your highness!"
Joffrey was beyond listening. Recklessly, heedless to the dangers and thinking only of glory, he charged toward the sounds and the rampaging shape. As he drew closer, he could see more and more of the beast. Fear, awe, and terror filled him as he finally took sight of the beast, now realizing that Kenneth Haight had not exaggerated the runebear.
On the contrary, he was underselling it.
The prince saw a bear once in his life. It'd been during a trip to the Westerlands, to enjoy a family dinner with his Lannister cousins and grandfather. The king elected not to attend, disinterested with the affair while granting his family leave to do as they pleased. The trip was unremarkable as it was boring. Sandor had yet to enter his service, meaning the only decent company was his siblings, bothersome as they were.
Joffrey remembered the sight clear as day. The bear wandered into the open road, its fur bloodied and its face scarred. Arrows sat in its hide, and the broken remains of a sword lodged in its eye. The beast barely seemed to register the party, seemingly focused on something only it could see. It wandered past them, ignoring the Lannisters outright, stumbling to someplace unknown to them. Uncle Jaime said it was looking for a place to die, and until it did, it wouldn't stop. The young boy would never forget the sight, carving it into his mind. It was the first and last time he saw a bear, and the scarred beast he saw that day was majestic beyond words. A warrior in the form of a beast.
Now, he stared at yet another awe-inspiring beast, one that made the scarred bear from so long ago look like a mutt's pup.
The runebear, true to its name, was a mighty beast coated in thick fur, three times the size of a normal bear. Truthfully, Joffrey didn't know if it was a damned bear at all. The scarred bear from his youth bore a rotund belly and stumps for feet. The runebear was muscle, with arms thick as tree trunks and claws as long as daggers. It swatted the pack of wolves around like they were nothing, as though they were annoyances and flies. When it brought its claws down, the earth trembled.
The wolves, undeterred, continued to bite and claw and snarl at it. Joffrey watched the futility of their efforts, and found the grip on his crossbow slacking. The wanton slaughter happening right before his eyes brought a cold dread, coating every fiber of his being. Dimly, he was aware of the soldiers behind him gasping and clamoring in shock and fear, now understanding the dangers of their quarry.
"To hell with this!"
Joffrey blinked. He turned and gawked. "W-where are you going?!" he shouted in dismay. He couldn't believe his eyes; his own men were deserting him! "Come back, you cowards! Come back here this—"
A bloodied wolf with a crooked head sailed past him, bouncing off the dirt and smashing into a tree. Joffrey yelped, stumbling. In his panic, the crossbow slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered to the dirt below. The runebear roared, snatching the last of the wolves in its burly embrace before slamming it straight into the ground, kicking up dirt and dust and leaves. With another roar, it threw the corpse aside and cried in triumph, celebrating its victory.
For a moment, there was dead silence. Joffrey sat there, still as the dead and afraid to move.
The runebear growled and chuffed, slapping its claws on the ground before it turned to leave. Joffrey nearly breathed a sigh of relief, stopping when the runebear abruptly halted and lifted its head. Its nose twitched.
It turned its head. The two locked eyes.
Almost immediately, the runebear bared its fangs and roared, turning and stomping its meaty limbs. Joffrey screamed, scrambling to get up to his feet. The ground was too soft, too muddy, and his panic left him flailing. He tasted mud as his face hit the ground. The tremors of the beast's stomping grew closer, and he felt the creature right above him. He didn't dare look up, unable to stare his coming death in the face. Instead, he shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, waiting for the end to come.
The runebear brought down its claw.
"—Foul beast."
Joffrey's eyes snapped open, just as he heard the sound of something crashing hard into the earth. He turned, nearly suffering whiplash from his fast he spun his head around, and saw a woman clashing with the runebear, wielding a golden axe the size of Gregor Clegane. She wielded it with but a single hand, somehow swinging it as though its size betrayed its weight. The runebear was knocked off balance, stumbling on its hind legs.
The woman slammed her foot back, assuming a stance as she gripped the axe with both hands, and with a mighty swing, drove her axe into the beast's face. Accompanying the blow was an act of sorcery, for a whirlwind accompanied the swinging axe with such force that it sent Joffrey off his feet and into the tree behind him. He just barely caught sight of the runebear's body hitting the ground, the left side of its face slashed and bloodied. It groaned weakly, trying to rise back up to its feet when the woman suddenly planted herself atop its head, the axe now held in an underhand reverse-grip. The sight reminded him of a guillotine.
"I command thee, kneel."
She slammed the axe straight down, ramming it atop the runebear's head. It was a testament to the creature's supposed strength that its skull was not reduced to red paste and gray matter. The same could not be said about the ground beneath it. Joffrey's mouth hung open as the earth shattered, upended and ripped apart from a single blow. The strength was inhuman at worst, and godly at best. The earth shuddered and shook, as though buckling under the weight of the woman's might.
The air grew still, and the tension slowly bled away. Joffrey could barely hear his own thoughts over his heart as it hammered away inside his chest. It was only after the danger passed that he took in the woman's form in full; exotic, but "too manly" to be considered a bride by anyone without queer tastes, with dusky bronze skin etched with toned muscles belonging to a warrior. Her garb would make even the most unabashed prostitutes blush with how revealing it was, little more than strips of cloth bound with leather. Her toned stomach and abdomen were on clear display as were her bare legs, the calves and feet hidden by wrappings and worn sandals. Despite the roguish state, said garb was lined with golden threads, with a gray cloak on her right side bearing an insignia. A lion, like his own house banner, but drawn with bared fangs and axes behind it.
The woman glared down at the fallen runebear before stepping off its corpse. She took notice of Joffrey, and her expression cooled.
"Are you unharmed, child?" she asked.
Joffrey opened his mouth to speak. The words were stuck in his throat. Dumbly, ashamedly, he nodded. The woman looked at him, then at the fallen crossbow.
"Awfully brave to hunt a runebear with nothing more than a bow," she noted. Was it just his imagination, or did she sound impressed? "Still, you should be more careful. Even in the best of moods, a runebear is naught to be underestimated."
You killed the damned thing like it was nothing, Joffrey wanted to rebuke. He found his strength returning to him. He pulled himself off the muddy ground and up on shaky legs.
"Who…" he started. "Who are you?"
"I am Nepheli Loux, warrior."
NEPHELI
Regarding first impressions, Joffrey Baratheon was surprisingly simple to understand. A year with Kenneth's guidance and tutoring did wonders to help her navigate the intricacies of noble society, and while she felt she was woefully lacking in some areas, she could ascertain a person's character. Better than she had her father, blind and ignorant to his true, scheming nature, at any rate. The boy was cocky, hunting a runebear with only a crossbow and some cowardly guardsmen, but he had heart. Misguided, perhaps, but there was an underlying sense of desperation, a need for approval. It hadn't taken her long to understand where such feelings came from when she met King Robert Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms.
The reunion between father and son after the latter's harrowing escape from death should have been cause for celebration. Instead, there was a cold tension as Robert glared down his son, who looked so small and insignificant he looked like a mouse cowering before a lion. No words were exchanged, but the stormy look on Robert's face indicated there would be punishment at worst and heated words at best. Nepheli pondered whether she should intervene on the boy's behalf, but ultimately stayed her hand. She was an outsider, and thus had no place involving herself in the Baratheons' affairs, especially as it was a family matter.
Yet it reminds me of Ofnir all the same, she thought bitterly.
"Fucking hell, that's a huge axe."
Nepheli looked away from the king and prince and at the one who spoke. At a glance, his features reminded her of those from the Badlands, but a second look told her he was not of her homeland. He was too clean, unmarked by the harsh realities of fighting for dear life and survival. His frame was lithe and fit, with lustrous black hair framing his face. No doubt the common woman would find such a man attractive, for someone like Nepheli, he looked pompous.
Drat. There she went again, needlessly judging by looks. An awful habit, one she and Kenneth were working hard to correct lest she insult someone she wished to befriend or forge an alliance with.
"A spoil of war," Nepheli said in response to the man's observation. "It belonged to a bastard of a lord who tormented his people. It was a gift from a dear friend."
"I bet there's a story behind that."
"There is," she acknowledged. "Perhaps we might speak of it when we reach Stormveil." She paused, then remembered social cues in times like this. "Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am Nepheli Loux, head of the Great House of Loux and lady of Limgrave."
The man smiled wryly. "Sorry for sounding awfully blunt, but you don't seem very lady-like to me."
Nepheli shrugged. "Depends on the lady."
"Forgive him, Lord Loux," the somber-looking man with wolfish eyes next to him said, stricken by his companion's casual nature. "He meant no offense."
"There was none to be had, kind ser. Truthfully, I prefer such bluntness over useless politicking, even when it is necessary."
The somber man was surprised by her words whereas his companion grinned. "I think we'll get along fine, Lady Loux. I am Oberyn Martell, younger brother to Prince Doran Martell of Dorne and his stand-in. I represent Dorne. The dour looking fellow here—"
"Oberyn!" the man hissed in objection.
"—is Lord Eddard Stark, patriarch of House Stark and Lord Paramount of the Northern Westeros."
"Well met, Lord Stark, Lord Martell," Nepheli nodded in proper greeting.
There were more introductions to be had with the rest of the Westerosi retinue, but such things required a proper place and time. The muddy paths leading to Stormveil Castle were far from appropriate, much less pleasant. There were also pressing matters to attend to as well.
Kenneth approached her after she exchanged some pleasantries with the two lords, his face wrought with concern. "Were you successful in your hunt, Nepehli?"
Inwardly, Nepheli smiled. It took the better part of the year since the beginning of the Age of Stars for Kenneth to address her so casually.
"For the most part. The Black Hand's leadership is broken, and its leaders dead. Only a handful of their numbers remain. The Stormbreakers have taken to routing the rest."
Ordinarily, Nepheli would handle the matter herself. Ever since she became the lord of Limgrave, she took her duties seriously and set her mind to accomplishing every task set before her with all due diligence. The safety of her people was always her greatest concern, first and foremost. It's why she took it upon herself to alleviate their burdens and hunt down the vile brigands and sellswords who worked for the Lord of Grafting.
The Stormbreakers, hedge knights who rallied under her banner after declaring her a worthy lord to serve (and they proving their loyalty in turn), became her standing army for the most part. The Shattering and Godrick's awful practices left Limgrave nearly devoid of resources and defenders. Even with Kenneth's help and the Great House of Hoslow's assistance, Limgrave was still a shadow of its former glory. Despite this, Nepheli and her new order of knights worked day and night to protect and provide for their people. She cared not for songs of praise, only that they needn't suffer from violence and famine. For the most part, she succeeded.
Despite the support she received, Nepheli was sometimes stubborn, too used to accomplishing matters by her lonesome. She had a hard time asking for help, a habit she was slowly curbing with Kenneth's aid. She didn't want to ask the Stormbreakers for help, but they assisted her anyway. It was their insistence that they destroy the remains of the Black Hand while she went to fulfill her lordly duties. She would have felt insulted that they told her to prioritize politics over helping the people, but she knew the Stormbreakers well. She fought and bled alongside them. They would succeed, with or without her help.
Admittedly, the trip back to Stormveil proved more exciting than she expected. She didn't think she would find the prince of the Lands Between's westward neighbor hunting a runebear of all creatures, much less a prince who reminded her far too much of how she'd been with Gideon.
"You've spoken with the Westerosi," Nepheli started as she and her most trusted adviser went to their horses. "What do you make of them?"
Kenneth's reassuring smile told her all she needed to know.
Evening descended by the time they arrived at Stormveil Castle.
It took almost the entirety of the castle's coffers and half of Kenneth's to restore the castle to its former glory, much less procure adequate staff. In the early days of its restoration, it served as a makeshift refugee camp, with ramparts near full of people without homes and in need of healing or treatment. It was a trying time, and worse still as she watched some perish from starvation and wounds. Those perished under her care were all the more reason to restore order to Limgrave, spending sleepless night after sleepless night to seek justice and reclaim what stolen goods she could from the lawless bastards raising havoc in her domain.
It took the better part of the year before Stormveil Castle was restored. Some areas were damaged beyond repair and were left as is, repurposed or cordoned off to ensure some poor unfortunate soul did not go wandering off and got themselves lost, or worse, encounter that blighted thing sprouting from the rocks and roots.
Rogier, what were you thinking, seeking something like that?
"It almost pains me to admit it, but this place is incredible," Edmure Tully said, marveling the sights as they made their way to the dinner hall. "Riverrun cannot hold a candle to this place."
"I must agree," Eddard Stark concurred, similarly awestruck. "Even Winterfell falls short of this place, though I've noticed some places seem damaged."
"You've a keen eye, Lord Stark," Nepheli said. "Toward the end of the Shattering, Stormveil Castle came under siege. Margit the Fell, an Omen warrior in service to the late King Morgott of Leyndell, mustered a small band and assaulted the castle. The purpose was not to defeat or kill, but to instead wear down Godrick until he was no longer a threat. It helped that Godrick was both craven and coward who rarely took to the field himself. He lost most of his standing army in the siege, which is what led to him hiring bandits and sellswords to make up for his losses."
"And in turn, leave his people free to suffer their abuses," Oberyn Martell scoffed. "He sounds like the kings of old before House Targaryen came to Westeros."
Although Nepheli was unfamiliar with Westeros' history, she did her best to work with what she could. The scouts who came to better understand and prepare their king brought with them some tomes of knowledge, but nothing of any great significance. Among the information found within those tomes was House Targaryen, a noble lineage from Essos who came to Westeros nearly three centuries ago. To her understanding, they were fleeing a cataclysmic event called the Doom of Valyria, which spelled the end of the Valyrian Empire of antiquity, leaving its people scattered and to fend for themselves. Aegon I Targaryen, better known as Aegon the Conqueror, saw to claim Westeros as his own and for his people to thrive anew. Such dreams came to an end when the last Targaryen ruler and his son caused a civil war.
Robert's Rebellion, a conflict that occurred near two decades ago, saw the end of House Targaryen. The king was killed by his own royal guard, the prince was slain in battle, the prince's children and their mother killed to ensure House Baratheon's ascension to the Iron Throne, and the queen's children left in exile, with the threat of death should they ever return to Westeros' shores.
"I take it the lords of antiquity were unfavorable?" Nepheli questioned.
Jon Arryn, a feeble old man and King Robert's adviser, nodded gravely. "Some were. Part of the reason why Aegon the Conqueror was so quickly accepted was that, for all people feared him, he offered them safety and security by slaying their despots. The lesser of two evils, as it were. It did help that he seemed a fairly benevolent ruler. The same cannot be said for his successors, I'm afraid. Tell me, my lady, how much do you know of our history?"
"Little, I'm afraid. I'm more familiar with recent events, such as the war that saw House Baratheon ascend to kingship. I believe such talks are better discussed at the dinner table." Nepheli found herself smiling as she looked at the pudgy king. "I must confess, I have been quite eager for this talk of ours, King Robert. I'm most curious to hear tales of your battles. Perhaps we may trade stories."
"Only if you tell me how in blazes you can hold an axe as big as one of those giant lugs in the North," the foreign king replied. "What were their names again, Jon? Greatjons?"
"Aye, Your Grace."
"But of course, King Robert. Now then…"
The doors to the dinner hall were thrown open. Almost immediately, Nepheli's nose was bombarded with an array of tasty-smelling dishes. Spread across the table, stretching for nearly half the length of the room itself, was a veritable buffet, capable of feeding an entire village. The kitchen staff spared no expense, it seemed.
She would have to go hunting for them later. It was the least she could do for their hard work.
"Lords and ladies of Westeros," Lady Nepheli of the Great House of Loux said as she and Kenneth ushered them into the hall. "Welcome to the Lands Between. It is my hope our discussions shall prove fruitful for the both of us."
"Er, my prince, a-are you sure this is a good idea? D-didn't his grace order us to…?"
Honestly, so useless. I should have brought Sandor, Joffrey groused. He looked back at his party, a small band of four consisting of soldiers brought along by his father. They didn't have the same look as his sworn knight. At a glance, he doubted they saw much combat at all. No doubt they were regular soldiers stationed in the Red Keep who never saw combat, spending their days guarding empty halls.
Sandor was competent, but that was to be expected. He was a Clegane, and the Mountain's younger brother. A Lannister, especially Tywin, would never settle for anything less. The Hound followed his orders to the letter, didn't bother asking useless questions, and had no qualms about doing what needed to be done. The only gripe Joffrey could say about him was his reluctance to teach him swordplay. The Master at Arms in the Red Keep was decent, personally chosen by the king, but Joffrey found Sandor the better teacher. Sadly, he refused on account of worries about his mother heckling him. He grumbled at first, but conceded to the point. His lady mother was a pain, even on a good day.
Joffrey wanted to bring Sandor with, but a man with such distinct features would attract the wrong attention. Joffrey's form was average, but just small enough to fit in a barrel. The same cannot be said about the Hound. The prince never realized how much he missed his sworn knight until the voyage.
Shortly after his father declared he would support Lord Haight and his men in their hunt for this runebear creature, the more capable members of the royal retinue readied themselves and whatever soldiers fit to travel with them. As his father never gave him any orders to sit by, Joffrey chose to join the hunt, albeit by way of neglecting to inform him what he intended to do. He was clearly still wroth with him, and he did not wish to rouse the king's ire again so soon. He mustered what few soldiers he could among the retinue aligned with Houses Lannister and Baratheon, though it hadn't taken him long to realize they fell woefully short of the mark. If nothing else, they would serve as excellent fodder.
Honestly, how bad can this creature possibly be, anyway? They're probably exaggerating.
Although the thoughts were born of arrogance, there was also a hint of frustration to them. It'd been two hours by his reckoning since they set off, and so far, they found nothing. Any other group they happened upon while looking for the runebear also reported no signs or creatures matching its description. While the lack of discovery was enough to annoy him, the surrounding woodlands were perhaps more annoying. They were not so dense he could not see the paved roads or clearings to provide some comfort and respite, but they were big enough to get lost in. The odd weather was just as bad.
Joffrey remembered how, in his drunken ravings, his father talked about how the Stormlands earned its name for its unpredictable weather. One half day, the sky was clear and crystal blue with gentle winds, and the next half day, the sky was dark and angry with lashing gusts capable of throwing a man off his horse with a single blow. Evidently, his father's homeland had a distant relative in the Stormveil region; while the sky was cloudy without signs of thunder, the winds were outlandish. They ranged from being powerful gusts that made it difficult for him to see and breathe to being outlandishly strong enough to lift him off the ground.
"P-perhaps we should go back, your highness!" one of the soldiers said, his voice barely heard amid the harsh winds. "I fear if we stay any longer, the winds will cast us away!"
Joffrey rounded on the arrogant fool who spoke, mustering his Baratheon blood. "And who are you to order me? Are you the king?"
"W-what? N-no! No, of course not, your highness!"
"Then silence your tongue, lest I rip it from your mouth!"
Cowards, the lot of them. Had they no pride? Weak and pitiful as they were, they were still soldiers picked to defend the Red Keep. Surely at least one would have a steel spine worthy of his station! Were they so incompetent they could not accomplish such a base task? The prince clicked his tongue and turned away, disgusted by the coward and unwilling to tolerate his presence any further. He had half a mind to leave them behind and hunt for the runebear himself.
Once he found the beast and presented its corpse, surely his father would—
A chorus of howls pierced the howling winds. Joffrey went still, his face paling as he realized the howls came not from wild dogs, but of wolves.
And they were not alone. Another sound quickly followed. The sound of a primal creature, a beast unlike any the prince knew of. Its roar did not match the wolves' howling, but the sounds that followed were enough to paint a vivid picture. The sounds came from a distance, to his left where the forest grew thicker. Beyond the treeline, he could just barely make out some giant shape going on a rampage. The crossbow in his hands grew heavy, and his heart drummed against his chest. Sweat pooled in his palms.
There could be no doubt. It was the runebear. Despite his nervousness, Joffrey managed to form a shaky, confident smile.
"I can do this," he whispered. "I can do this. I'm a Baratheon. I'm a Baratheon. I'm a prince. I am the next king! I can do this!"
"W-wait, your highness!"
Joffrey was beyond listening. Recklessly, heedless to the dangers and thinking only of glory, he charged toward the sounds and the rampaging shape. As he drew closer, he could see more and more of the beast. Fear, awe, and terror filled him as he finally took sight of the beast, now realizing that Kenneth Haight had not exaggerated the runebear.
On the contrary, he was underselling it.
The prince saw a bear once in his life. It'd been during a trip to the Westerlands, to enjoy a family dinner with his Lannister cousins and grandfather. The king elected not to attend, disinterested with the affair while granting his family leave to do as they pleased. The trip was unremarkable as it was boring. Sandor had yet to enter his service, meaning the only decent company was his siblings, bothersome as they were.
Joffrey remembered the sight clear as day. The bear wandered into the open road, its fur bloodied and its face scarred. Arrows sat in its hide, and the broken remains of a sword lodged in its eye. The beast barely seemed to register the party, seemingly focused on something only it could see. It wandered past them, ignoring the Lannisters outright, stumbling to someplace unknown to them. Uncle Jaime said it was looking for a place to die, and until it did, it wouldn't stop. The young boy would never forget the sight, carving it into his mind. It was the first and last time he saw a bear, and the scarred beast he saw that day was majestic beyond words. A warrior in the form of a beast.
Now, he stared at yet another awe-inspiring beast, one that made the scarred bear from so long ago look like a mutt's pup.
The runebear, true to its name, was a mighty beast coated in thick fur, three times the size of a normal bear. Truthfully, Joffrey didn't know if it was a damned bear at all. The scarred bear from his youth bore a rotund belly and stumps for feet. The runebear was muscle, with arms thick as tree trunks and claws as long as daggers. It swatted the pack of wolves around like they were nothing, as though they were annoyances and flies. When it brought its claws down, the earth trembled.
The wolves, undeterred, continued to bite and claw and snarl at it. Joffrey watched the futility of their efforts, and found the grip on his crossbow slacking. The wanton slaughter happening right before his eyes brought a cold dread, coating every fiber of his being. Dimly, he was aware of the soldiers behind him gasping and clamoring in shock and fear, now understanding the dangers of their quarry.
"To hell with this!"
Joffrey blinked. He turned and gawked. "W-where are you going?!" he shouted in dismay. He couldn't believe his eyes; his own men were deserting him! "Come back, you cowards! Come back here this—"
A bloodied wolf with a crooked head sailed past him, bouncing off the dirt and smashing into a tree. Joffrey yelped, stumbling. In his panic, the crossbow slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered to the dirt below. The runebear roared, snatching the last of the wolves in its burly embrace before slamming it straight into the ground, kicking up dirt and dust and leaves. With another roar, it threw the corpse aside and cried in triumph, celebrating its victory.
For a moment, there was dead silence. Joffrey sat there, still as the dead and afraid to move.
The runebear growled and chuffed, slapping its claws on the ground before it turned to leave. Joffrey nearly breathed a sigh of relief, stopping when the runebear abruptly halted and lifted its head. Its nose twitched.
It turned its head. The two locked eyes.
Almost immediately, the runebear bared its fangs and roared, turning and stomping its meaty limbs. Joffrey screamed, scrambling to get up to his feet. The ground was too soft, too muddy, and his panic left him flailing. He tasted mud as his face hit the ground. The tremors of the beast's stomping grew closer, and he felt the creature right above him. He didn't dare look up, unable to stare his coming death in the face. Instead, he shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, waiting for the end to come.
The runebear brought down its claw.
"—Foul beast."
Joffrey's eyes snapped open, just as he heard the sound of something crashing hard into the earth. He turned, nearly suffering whiplash from his fast he spun his head around, and saw a woman clashing with the runebear, wielding a golden axe the size of Gregor Clegane. She wielded it with but a single hand, somehow swinging it as though its size betrayed its weight. The runebear was knocked off balance, stumbling on its hind legs.
The woman slammed her foot back, assuming a stance as she gripped the axe with both hands, and with a mighty swing, drove her axe into the beast's face. Accompanying the blow was an act of sorcery, for a whirlwind accompanied the swinging axe with such force that it sent Joffrey off his feet and into the tree behind him. He just barely caught sight of the runebear's body hitting the ground, the left side of its face slashed and bloodied. It groaned weakly, trying to rise back up to its feet when the woman suddenly planted herself atop its head, the axe now held in an underhand reverse-grip. The sight reminded him of a guillotine.
"I command thee, kneel."
She slammed the axe straight down, ramming it atop the runebear's head. It was a testament to the creature's supposed strength that its skull was not reduced to red paste and gray matter. The same could not be said about the ground beneath it. Joffrey's mouth hung open as the earth shattered, upended and ripped apart from a single blow. The strength was inhuman at worst, and godly at best. The earth shuddered and shook, as though buckling under the weight of the woman's might.
The air grew still, and the tension slowly bled away. Joffrey could barely hear his own thoughts over his heart as it hammered away inside his chest. It was only after the danger passed that he took in the woman's form in full; exotic, but "too manly" to be considered a bride by anyone without queer tastes, with dusky bronze skin etched with toned muscles belonging to a warrior. Her garb would make even the most unabashed prostitutes blush with how revealing it was, little more than strips of cloth bound with leather. Her toned stomach and abdomen were on clear display as were her bare legs, the calves and feet hidden by wrappings and worn sandals. Despite the roguish state, said garb was lined with golden threads, with a gray cloak on her right side bearing an insignia. A lion, like his own house banner, but drawn with bared fangs and axes behind it.
The woman glared down at the fallen runebear before stepping off its corpse. She took notice of Joffrey, and her expression cooled.
"Are you unharmed, child?" she asked.
Joffrey opened his mouth to speak. The words were stuck in his throat. Dumbly, ashamedly, he nodded. The woman looked at him, then at the fallen crossbow.
"Awfully brave to hunt a runebear with nothing more than a bow," she noted. Was it just his imagination, or did she sound impressed? "Still, you should be more careful. Even in the best of moods, a runebear is naught to be underestimated."
You killed the damned thing like it was nothing, Joffrey wanted to rebuke. He found his strength returning to him. He pulled himself off the muddy ground and up on shaky legs.
"Who…" he started. "Who are you?"
"I am Nepheli Loux, warrior."
NEPHELI
Regarding first impressions, Joffrey Baratheon was surprisingly simple to understand. A year with Kenneth's guidance and tutoring did wonders to help her navigate the intricacies of noble society, and while she felt she was woefully lacking in some areas, she could ascertain a person's character. Better than she had her father, blind and ignorant to his true, scheming nature, at any rate. The boy was cocky, hunting a runebear with only a crossbow and some cowardly guardsmen, but he had heart. Misguided, perhaps, but there was an underlying sense of desperation, a need for approval. It hadn't taken her long to understand where such feelings came from when she met King Robert Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms.
The reunion between father and son after the latter's harrowing escape from death should have been cause for celebration. Instead, there was a cold tension as Robert glared down his son, who looked so small and insignificant he looked like a mouse cowering before a lion. No words were exchanged, but the stormy look on Robert's face indicated there would be punishment at worst and heated words at best. Nepheli pondered whether she should intervene on the boy's behalf, but ultimately stayed her hand. She was an outsider, and thus had no place involving herself in the Baratheons' affairs, especially as it was a family matter.
Yet it reminds me of Ofnir all the same, she thought bitterly.
"Fucking hell, that's a huge axe."
Nepheli looked away from the king and prince and at the one who spoke. At a glance, his features reminded her of those from the Badlands, but a second look told her he was not of her homeland. He was too clean, unmarked by the harsh realities of fighting for dear life and survival. His frame was lithe and fit, with lustrous black hair framing his face. No doubt the common woman would find such a man attractive, for someone like Nepheli, he looked pompous.
Drat. There she went again, needlessly judging by looks. An awful habit, one she and Kenneth were working hard to correct lest she insult someone she wished to befriend or forge an alliance with.
"A spoil of war," Nepheli said in response to the man's observation. "It belonged to a bastard of a lord who tormented his people. It was a gift from a dear friend."
"I bet there's a story behind that."
"There is," she acknowledged. "Perhaps we might speak of it when we reach Stormveil." She paused, then remembered social cues in times like this. "Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am Nepheli Loux, head of the Great House of Loux and lady of Limgrave."
The man smiled wryly. "Sorry for sounding awfully blunt, but you don't seem very lady-like to me."
Nepheli shrugged. "Depends on the lady."
"Forgive him, Lord Loux," the somber-looking man with wolfish eyes next to him said, stricken by his companion's casual nature. "He meant no offense."
"There was none to be had, kind ser. Truthfully, I prefer such bluntness over useless politicking, even when it is necessary."
The somber man was surprised by her words whereas his companion grinned. "I think we'll get along fine, Lady Loux. I am Oberyn Martell, younger brother to Prince Doran Martell of Dorne and his stand-in. I represent Dorne. The dour looking fellow here—"
"Oberyn!" the man hissed in objection.
"—is Lord Eddard Stark, patriarch of House Stark and Lord Paramount of the Northern Westeros."
"Well met, Lord Stark, Lord Martell," Nepheli nodded in proper greeting.
There were more introductions to be had with the rest of the Westerosi retinue, but such things required a proper place and time. The muddy paths leading to Stormveil Castle were far from appropriate, much less pleasant. There were also pressing matters to attend to as well.
Kenneth approached her after she exchanged some pleasantries with the two lords, his face wrought with concern. "Were you successful in your hunt, Nepehli?"
Inwardly, Nepheli smiled. It took the better part of the year since the beginning of the Age of Stars for Kenneth to address her so casually.
"For the most part. The Black Hand's leadership is broken, and its leaders dead. Only a handful of their numbers remain. The Stormbreakers have taken to routing the rest."
Ordinarily, Nepheli would handle the matter herself. Ever since she became the lord of Limgrave, she took her duties seriously and set her mind to accomplishing every task set before her with all due diligence. The safety of her people was always her greatest concern, first and foremost. It's why she took it upon herself to alleviate their burdens and hunt down the vile brigands and sellswords who worked for the Lord of Grafting.
The Stormbreakers, hedge knights who rallied under her banner after declaring her a worthy lord to serve (and they proving their loyalty in turn), became her standing army for the most part. The Shattering and Godrick's awful practices left Limgrave nearly devoid of resources and defenders. Even with Kenneth's help and the Great House of Hoslow's assistance, Limgrave was still a shadow of its former glory. Despite this, Nepheli and her new order of knights worked day and night to protect and provide for their people. She cared not for songs of praise, only that they needn't suffer from violence and famine. For the most part, she succeeded.
Despite the support she received, Nepheli was sometimes stubborn, too used to accomplishing matters by her lonesome. She had a hard time asking for help, a habit she was slowly curbing with Kenneth's aid. She didn't want to ask the Stormbreakers for help, but they assisted her anyway. It was their insistence that they destroy the remains of the Black Hand while she went to fulfill her lordly duties. She would have felt insulted that they told her to prioritize politics over helping the people, but she knew the Stormbreakers well. She fought and bled alongside them. They would succeed, with or without her help.
Admittedly, the trip back to Stormveil proved more exciting than she expected. She didn't think she would find the prince of the Lands Between's westward neighbor hunting a runebear of all creatures, much less a prince who reminded her far too much of how she'd been with Gideon.
"You've spoken with the Westerosi," Nepheli started as she and her most trusted adviser went to their horses. "What do you make of them?"
Kenneth's reassuring smile told her all she needed to know.
Evening descended by the time they arrived at Stormveil Castle.
It took almost the entirety of the castle's coffers and half of Kenneth's to restore the castle to its former glory, much less procure adequate staff. In the early days of its restoration, it served as a makeshift refugee camp, with ramparts near full of people without homes and in need of healing or treatment. It was a trying time, and worse still as she watched some perish from starvation and wounds. Those perished under her care were all the more reason to restore order to Limgrave, spending sleepless night after sleepless night to seek justice and reclaim what stolen goods she could from the lawless bastards raising havoc in her domain.
It took the better part of the year before Stormveil Castle was restored. Some areas were damaged beyond repair and were left as is, repurposed or cordoned off to ensure some poor unfortunate soul did not go wandering off and got themselves lost, or worse, encounter that blighted thing sprouting from the rocks and roots.
Rogier, what were you thinking, seeking something like that?
"It almost pains me to admit it, but this place is incredible," Edmure Tully said, marveling the sights as they made their way to the dinner hall. "Riverrun cannot hold a candle to this place."
"I must agree," Eddard Stark concurred, similarly awestruck. "Even Winterfell falls short of this place, though I've noticed some places seem damaged."
"You've a keen eye, Lord Stark," Nepheli said. "Toward the end of the Shattering, Stormveil Castle came under siege. Margit the Fell, an Omen warrior in service to the late King Morgott of Leyndell, mustered a small band and assaulted the castle. The purpose was not to defeat or kill, but to instead wear down Godrick until he was no longer a threat. It helped that Godrick was both craven and coward who rarely took to the field himself. He lost most of his standing army in the siege, which is what led to him hiring bandits and sellswords to make up for his losses."
"And in turn, leave his people free to suffer their abuses," Oberyn Martell scoffed. "He sounds like the kings of old before House Targaryen came to Westeros."
Although Nepheli was unfamiliar with Westeros' history, she did her best to work with what she could. The scouts who came to better understand and prepare their king brought with them some tomes of knowledge, but nothing of any great significance. Among the information found within those tomes was House Targaryen, a noble lineage from Essos who came to Westeros nearly three centuries ago. To her understanding, they were fleeing a cataclysmic event called the Doom of Valyria, which spelled the end of the Valyrian Empire of antiquity, leaving its people scattered and to fend for themselves. Aegon I Targaryen, better known as Aegon the Conqueror, saw to claim Westeros as his own and for his people to thrive anew. Such dreams came to an end when the last Targaryen ruler and his son caused a civil war.
Robert's Rebellion, a conflict that occurred near two decades ago, saw the end of House Targaryen. The king was killed by his own royal guard, the prince was slain in battle, the prince's children and their mother killed to ensure House Baratheon's ascension to the Iron Throne, and the queen's children left in exile, with the threat of death should they ever return to Westeros' shores.
"I take it the lords of antiquity were unfavorable?" Nepheli questioned.
Jon Arryn, a feeble old man and King Robert's adviser, nodded gravely. "Some were. Part of the reason why Aegon the Conqueror was so quickly accepted was that, for all people feared him, he offered them safety and security by slaying their despots. The lesser of two evils, as it were. It did help that he seemed a fairly benevolent ruler. The same cannot be said for his successors, I'm afraid. Tell me, my lady, how much do you know of our history?"
"Little, I'm afraid. I'm more familiar with recent events, such as the war that saw House Baratheon ascend to kingship. I believe such talks are better discussed at the dinner table." Nepheli found herself smiling as she looked at the pudgy king. "I must confess, I have been quite eager for this talk of ours, King Robert. I'm most curious to hear tales of your battles. Perhaps we may trade stories."
"Only if you tell me how in blazes you can hold an axe as big as one of those giant lugs in the North," the foreign king replied. "What were their names again, Jon? Greatjons?"
"Aye, Your Grace."
"But of course, King Robert. Now then…"
The doors to the dinner hall were thrown open. Almost immediately, Nepheli's nose was bombarded with an array of tasty-smelling dishes. Spread across the table, stretching for nearly half the length of the room itself, was a veritable buffet, capable of feeding an entire village. The kitchen staff spared no expense, it seemed.
She would have to go hunting for them later. It was the least she could do for their hard work.
"Lords and ladies of Westeros," Lady Nepheli of the Great House of Loux said as she and Kenneth ushered them into the hall. "Welcome to the Lands Between. It is my hope our discussions shall prove fruitful for the both of us."
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Tftc
I think you mean Doran here, unless Oberyn cloned himself, which does seem on brand
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Chapter XIX
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
ROBERT
"We will die again where the oceans end
Over and over in the dragon's fire
We will testify shoulder to shoulder
In the Lands Between
Spirit's sharp and clean
Mused with a purpose
Through the scarlet mist for the maidenless
We rise unburdened again we rise again"
"Fancy choice," Robert commented, savoring every bite he could stuff in his mouth. He thought the decadent foods in the Red Keep were incredible, but this? It was almost enough to make him throw away the crown and leave Westeros for the Lands Between. He entertained the thought of poaching Nepheli's cooks before taking another drink from his goblet. The wine was not bad, either. A shame wine spoiled quickly, otherwise he'd ask to keep a bottle with him as a souvenir. "This about them Tarnished we've heard about?"
"Aye. What have you heard of the Tarnished, King Robert?"
"Little beyond that they were exiles. Lord Haight mentioned they were stripped of the Erdtree's blessings."
"Indeed. For a time, my kind were frowned upon. Some deigned to call us heretics, simply for having our grace stripped. Others called us unworthy of the Erdtree to begin with."
Robert raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You were an exile as well?" That raised several questions, and in turn, raised his admiration for her. He appreciated nothing more than a woman who rose above conceptions.
Lyanna would've loved her, I would think…
"For some, being born outside the Lands Between was reason enough to be declared Tarnished," Nepheli said. "I hail from a place known as the Badlands. 'tis a lawless, unforgiving place where wanton kindness is a quick way to the grave. Every day was a struggle to survive, a place where only the strongest had what it took to thrive and live. Clan Loux was among them, in no small part thanks to our chieftain Hoarah. Many believed that had Queen Marika the Eternal not approached him with an offer of service, he would have united the Badlands under Clan Loux."
Robert leaned in, intrigued by her tale. "What sort of man is this Hoarah Loux?"
"A great man, and a greater general. The day he set foot on the battlefield when he was naught by twelve years old, the Badlands knew his name. He believed that it is through strength that we find purpose, and because we possess strength, we must use it to better ourselves and others." A fond look overcame the noble lady's face, a smile slowly forming across her lips. "I took his ideals to heart. Although I was named a noblewoman, I have not forgotten the creed of my clan. To be born a Loux is to find purpose through strength. Such is our way of life."
"Your house words," Robert nodded in understanding. "Seems to be you're living up to your words. I've heard nothing but great things from your people."
On the way to Stormveil, both before and after they joined up with Nepheli, Robert and the retinue had a chance to speak with the smallfolk along the way. Jon asked for their opinions and thoughts of their liege lord, and each time, they spoke with glowing eyes and smiles. They remembered fearing life under Godrick the Grafted, fearing how he might one day come for them and their loved ones so they could partake in his twisted arts. Then he perished, and shortly afterward, Nepheli Loux succeeded him as heir of Limgrave. She laid low Godrick's former servants, and worked to better the lives of her people, offering them warm food, kindness, and shelter. She event as far as to go hunting for game and make warm food for them.
Were he any other man in Westeros, any other noble, they would scoff and call her naïve. Robert, on the other hand, was reminded of himself in his younger years. The way he saw it, Nepheli was like the landed knight he once aspired to be, the dream he had before Jon convinced him to wear the crown.
He didn't want to be king, nor did he wish to return to Storm's End. It was his home and birthright, but he had few fond memories of that place, save for the days he spent with his beloved grandmother. Although she was Targaryen, Robert couldn't bring himself to despise her. She was nothing like the mad fucker who killed his parents by sending them out to sea or that fucking prince who took Lyanna from him. The mere thought nearly sent him fuming, and only the fact he was in Nepheli and company's presence kept his tongue and temper in check.
Whether by thinking of House Targaryen or listening to the minstrels and their ballad, Robert recalled one of the lyrics, and his face grew severe. "You have dragons here?"
"Aye, though they're of a different breed than the ones you are familiar with," Nepheli assured him. "There are two kinds of dragons here in the Lands Between. The most common are drakes. From what I've learned of your land and its wildlife, a drake is no different than a dragon, save that their wings are feathered. They're also quite territorial," she added with a twinking eye. "One such dragon has taken up residence in a lake to the south-east of here. Bandits who took to hiding out there discovered Agheel does not take kindly to unwanted guests."
"And the second kind?"
"We call them Ancient Dragons. The name is warranted, as they've lived since before the Age of the Erdtree. I'm uncertain as to how long Ancient Dragons live, save that they are among the oldest of beasts to be found here. Early into Marika the Eternal's reign, we were once at war with the dragons."
That drew the attention of most of the table, or at least those closest to Nepheli and Robert. The archmaester in particular nearly flew out of his seat. "I beg your pardon, but did you just say you were at war with dragons?" he asked incredulously. "Do you mean to say these Ancient Dragons possess human-like intelligence?"
"They are capable of human speech and wielding magic." Nepheli's words shocked them into silence. "It was not unheard of for them to assume human-like forms so that they might commune with us." A wry smile crossed her face, leaning slightly in her gilded chair while taking a sip from her goblet. "When you arrive in Leyndell to speak with the Great Council there, you will see the truth of my words. Granssax's corpse still yet decorates the royal capital."
"Did you win?" Robert couldn't help but ask, his mind a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts.
"We made peace," Nepheli answered. "Thanks to the efforts of Godwyn the Golden. It would not be inaccurate to say he was our Jaehaerys I. His kindness and empathy made him well beloved by the people, and many more believed he would succeed Queen Marika, even though he was not Empyrean."
Robert was disappointed by her answer. More than that, he was anxious.
In his youth, he dreamed of riding dragons. It was a common dream shared amongst boys his age. Even Stannis dreamed of it before he got a stick up his ass. Such dreams were pointless since the age of dragons ended with Aegon the Dragonsbane, when the last dragon perished despite his best attempts to rekindle the Targaryen's greatest legacy and weapon. In a roundabout way, the Dance of Dragons created an unexpected boon despite its bloody history; with the dragons dead and gone, no more than bones decorating the Red Keep, the Mad King and Rhaegar were as human and vulnerable as any other man. Without their dragons, House Targaryen was nothing special.
And yet…dragons yet lived. And if what Nepheli said was true, they were different than the ones they knew of. More powerful, dangerous.
Varys gave him semi-frequent reports of the exiled Targaryens. Viserys, the Mad King's secondborn son and the self-proclaimed "rightful heir" of Westeros' Iron Throne, was a vengeful little shit hellbent on reclaiming his birthright. By all accounts, he was shaping up to be yet another Mad King, perhaps worse. If Viserys learned that dragons yet lived in the Lands Between, Robert had little doubt that Viserys would try and claim one for himself. The age of dragons had seemingly come again, and it instilled a sense of dread Robert hadn't felt since the early days of the rebellion years ago.
On the other hand, Nepheli claimed the dragons of the Lands Between were different, intelligent and capable of wielding magic. If they were, would they truly bow down to the whims of a whining child? One of Varys' latest reports mentioned how the brat failed to earn the cooperation of the Golden Company, and while he was inclined to believe it was because they wanted to cheat the "Beggar King" out of his coin, Robert also believed it was because they were Blackfyre loyalists. They'd sooner support him than a Targaryen, and the chances of that happening were about as likely as the Hells freezing over.
The thought of Viserys being killed by a dragon was entertaining, but the possibility the Targaryens would reclaim their greatest weapon terrified him.
He came to the Lands Between in the hopes of forging long-lasting bonds, making trade routes and speaking the possibilities of cohabitation should his people seek greener pastures in the Lands Between. The revelation magic still thrived only enticed him further and created new opportunities, new possibilities to explore if he could get the septons to play ball. The dragons complicated things.
Could he really trust the Lands Between, if they knowingly consorted with them? Different or no, a dragon was a dragon. The records from both noble houses and the Citadel about the Dance was well-known to him. It was one of the bloodiest wars Westeros ever endured. How bloody would the next war be, if magic-wielding dragons descended upon them?
Was Jon right?
The minstrels continued to sing, unaware of the Westerosi king's internal plight.
"Though graceless and exiled
We're loyal the same
Return to roots through the
Worst of our pain when kings rise against
Have it writ on their grave
The olds gods were felled by a mortal unnamed"
"I am curious, Lady Loux," Ned spoke up. "The bards, who do they sing of?"
Robert pulled himself from his thoughts, hoping the topic would distract him long enough to get his mind in order. Nepheli's smile was wide and brimming.
"Only the greatest warrior to ever set foot in the Lands Between. A dear friend, one who I had the honor to fight beside. There were many aspirants who wished to claim the seat of Elden Lord, all with different designs for the Lands Between. Among the greatest were chieftain Hoarah Loux, once called Godfrey, our brave Lionhearted Consort of Queen Marika the Eternal. The Ever-Brilliant Goldmask, a fundamentalist and advocate for true understanding of the Greater Will and its Golden Order. The Loathsome Dung Eater, a vile and despicable cretin who wrought the worst sins since Shabriri. Fia, the Deathbed Companion who sought peace for Those Who Live In Death."
"And yet…none claimed the throne, save one. A warrior without peer, hailing from the bloodsoaked Land of Reeds. A Tarnished of No Renown. Our Elden Lord, and Lunar Queen Ranni's consort eternal."
MELISANDRE
Unlike the majority of the retinue, Melisandre clung to the shadows and observed from afar, studying all that she could. She expected a great many things, but the past two days alone provided her with more than she dared believe. Excitement rushed through her, basking in the atmosphere.
There was no doubt about it. The air teemed with energy in a way she hadn't felt in decades, centuries even. Not even the grandest of the Red Temples bore such ambience, such raw power. Even as she tapped into the barest minimum of her abilities and talents, she could feel her skin tingle alight. She could feel it, sense it. She never felt magic react in such a manner. It was almost as though it were alive.
Perhaps it was. When the voyage drew closer to the foreign land, she felt the stirring even from afar. The soft whispers, a tongue with no voice or song to accompany its silent words. Each hymn and verse sent chills down her spine. She could not remember the last time she felt her magic respond with such vigor. The feeling only intensified the closer they drew, and by the time they set foot on the Lands Between's shores, the voiceless whispers became a chorus. She could feel it through her skin, seeping into the very marrow of her bones. She felt a tugging at the back of her mind, a pull she had not felt in so long.
When the festivities drew to a close and the retinue retired for the evening, Melisandre retreated to her room. As Stannis' aid and representative, she was given a private suite to herself. The lodgings were perhaps a tad too opulent for her tastes, certainly grander than her room back at Dragonstone, but she ignored it in favor of the hearth. The mantle was carved from marble, neatly and carefully chiseled with runes etched onto the surface. She could not read them, but she felt the thrums of magic as she traced her fingers across the mantle's surface. There was no better receptacle. In a place overflowing with energy, there was no doubt she would hear the Lord of Light's voice and guidance. Providence drew her here, and she would have answers.
Firewood was already present in the room, likely in the event of a cold wintry night. Once the logs were set in place, Melisandre took two stones and struck them together. Whisps of magic flowed at her fingertips, coiling around the stones like snakes. Instead of sparks, a fan of orange flame spilled from between the clashing stones. The wood caught fire easily. Immediately, the pleasant scent of cone leaves and her temple's incense filled her nostrils.
To bear the smells of what my heart craves most… I wonder, from what tree were these logs cut from, Melisandre wondered to herself before shaking her head.
She knelt before the hearth, bowing her head and clasping her hands in prayer. Ordinarily, a life was needed to receive blessings and commune with her god, but the Lands Between's abundancy negated such requirements. Even now, she felt her lord gently brushing against her mind, asking for her presence, to answer her calls and pleas for further guidance.
"I beseech you, R'hllor," the red priestess whispered, staring into the fire with rapt attention. Faintly, she saw images within the flame; the beginnings of a dream—a vision. "Show me the path. Show me what I must do to prepare the way for Azor Ahai."
The flames crackled and danced in a way Melisandre had not seen in decades. Her mind grew raptured, her senses dulled, and her mind sank into the warm embrace of flaming light. She opened herself to her god, and R'hllor answered.
The dream came with such vividness that the priestess thought she was not in Stormveil Castle, but somewhere else. She stood amid a battlefield, the ground caked in mud and crimson. Bodies lay scattered about in a macabre display. Some were burnt into unrecognizable lumps of charred, black meat. Others were slaughtered without any mercy, their armor torn open by a wickedly sharp blade and impaled on silvery spears with a curved hook at the end. A few were in the process of burning, touched by pitch-black flames that instilled her with a sense of cold dread.
She saw the banners, and her heart faltered. She recognized some as the heraldy of noble houses. One banner was familiar, too familiar. It was tattered and being burnt to nothing by the dark flames, but even in its ruined state, Melisandre could never forget the banner and sigil of her faith.
"What…?"
A cold laugh, calm as tranquil waters, came from behind her. Melisandre whirled around, nearly tripping over herself, and saw a woman with otherworldly beauty and gloam eyes glowing ever so faintly.
"I see you."
—Melisandre screamed, throwing herself as far away from the hearth as possible. Her heart hammered in her ears, pounding angrily against her chest to where she feared it may very well break free from her body. Sweat poured from her face like a great waterfall. Her chest heaved and caved in rapid succession. She watched as the orange flames were snuffed by its black counterpart, consuming it until there was naught but glowing embers and ash.
As the Red Priestess calmed herself, slowly regaining control of her breathing and her heart returning to its natural rhythm, she remembered the visage that stared back at her in those pitch black flames. The warning her lord issued with all due haste. The presence of a new enemy, one she knew nothing about.
The smiling face of the dusk-eyed woman would haunt her dreams for weeks to come.
JON SNOW
The thick silence of Winterfell was almost suffocating at night. Even the smallest sound could stir the dead.
Jon awoke not because of the silence, but because he felt something was wrong. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and his palms felt unnaturally hot. The greatest indicator was Ghost, the direwolf bearing his fangs and growling. Instinct took over, reaching for the worn-out practice blade sitting at his bedside as he climbed out of the bed. Slowly and carefully, he tiptoed his way to the door.
"Hello?" He spoke barely above a whisper, yet his voice rang above his own thumping heartbeats.
Ghost kept close to him, ears perked and head held high. The two advanced further into Winterfell's halls, all while Jon strained his ears.
Something's wrong… This doesn't feel right.
It was not the silence that bothered him. It was the lack of wind. Even in a quiet night, he could hear the cool winds lapping against the stones and windows. Tonight, he heard none. The chill air common to the North, breaching even the warm halls of a keep as built as Winterfell, felt colder than normal. Each warm breath Jon took was as visible as a cloud in the blue sky.
Aimlessly, the bastard of Eddard Stark cautiously walked through the halls until he reached the eastern annex. Just as he reached a crossroad of halls, a sensation buzzed down his back. Then, ever so faintly, he heard it. The soft chinks and clanks of a suit of armor.
Right behind him.
Once more, instinct took over. He whirled on his heel, raising his sword, just in time to block a sword coming down on his head. Jon's eyes widened, greeted by a horrid sight.
"Old gods preserve me, what are you?"
The thing in front of him could not be called human. It's "face", if it could be called that, was a mangled mess of horns sprouting from flesh. Beneath the mask of curved ivory and barbed horn, he saw snow-white skin, wrinkled and stretched so thin it ripped and exposed the bone beneath rotted sinews of flesh. It wore a twisted parody of armor, dulled and rusted with flakes of black. It towered over Jon by two heads, with a body more stock and built than an Umber.
Its ghastly form alone horrified Jon, but what made him tremble were the ghostly pale flames clinging to its form. With the creature so close, he expected to feel heat. Instead, he felt nothing. Not even a biting cold. It was as though the flames weren't there.
Ghost snapped into action, barking and snarling as he leaped. He sank his jaws into the rusted bracer. Due to his small size and youth, his fangs found no purchase. The distraction was more than enough for Jon; the moment the foul creature turned its attention from him to the direwolf, he gathered his might and pushed, shoving the creature back as far as he could and going for a stab at its exposed neck.
It was when the creature seized his blade with its armored hand and crumpled it that Jon remembered with dread that his sword was not made of steel. It was a practice blade, made of hardy wood and capable of holding up against average metal. Against castle-forged steel, however, it fell woefully short. He watched with rapidly mounting horror as his sword, a treasured gift from Arya, shattered into splinters. The creature seized him by the throat, lifting him high into the air. Its black sword glittered in the dim lights of the hall.
For but a moment, Jon stared down death as it primed its blade, ready to claim him. He shut his eyes, little more than a sniffling child—
"Promise me," the woman wearing Arya's face said to a younger-looking Eddard Stark. "Promise me, Ned."
Suddenly, Jon fell to the cobble floor, coughing and gasping for air. It took him a moment to realize someone was standing over him with a bloodied blade.
"T-Theon?"
"Who else?" The Greyjoy heir looked as though he escaped a fight for dear life. His clothes were stained crimson, flakes of blood dashed his face, and in hand was a sword bathed in dripping black ichor. Dimly, Jon was aware of a shivering Sansa right behind him. His senses came back in full when Theon offered him a gloved hand. "Get off your arse, bastard! We've no time to dawdle!"
Ghost barked in agreement.
"What the hells is going on?" Jon demanded. "Are we under attack?"
"Fuck if I know! One moment I'm asleep, the next I hear clashing steel right outside my door!" Theon cast a glare at the dead monster beside him. The ghostly flames that clung to its form were gone. "Bastards showed up out of nowhere, and I found a few dead guards on my way here. Picked up Sansa along the way."
Cold dread seeped into Jon's bones. "What about Arya and Lady Stark? Are they safe?"
"Where do you think I was goin'?" Theon spat angrily. "Grab that thing's sword and come on!"
Jon didn't hesitate. He walked over to the fresh corpse, briefly looking back at its horned face, and grabbed hold of its weapon. It was black with a red glittering diamond near the pointed end, the outline of the blade vaguely shaped like the steeple of a Sept.
He did not know where these creatures came from, or what that strange vision as it had him dead to rights was. All he knew, all he cared, was that Winterfell was under siege. Someone was trying to kill Lord Stark's family. His half-siblings.
The bastard wolf of House Stark bared his fangs.
Over my dead body.
"We will die again where the oceans end
Over and over in the dragon's fire
We will testify shoulder to shoulder
In the Lands Between
Spirit's sharp and clean
Mused with a purpose
Through the scarlet mist for the maidenless
We rise unburdened again we rise again"
"Fancy choice," Robert commented, savoring every bite he could stuff in his mouth. He thought the decadent foods in the Red Keep were incredible, but this? It was almost enough to make him throw away the crown and leave Westeros for the Lands Between. He entertained the thought of poaching Nepheli's cooks before taking another drink from his goblet. The wine was not bad, either. A shame wine spoiled quickly, otherwise he'd ask to keep a bottle with him as a souvenir. "This about them Tarnished we've heard about?"
"Aye. What have you heard of the Tarnished, King Robert?"
"Little beyond that they were exiles. Lord Haight mentioned they were stripped of the Erdtree's blessings."
"Indeed. For a time, my kind were frowned upon. Some deigned to call us heretics, simply for having our grace stripped. Others called us unworthy of the Erdtree to begin with."
Robert raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You were an exile as well?" That raised several questions, and in turn, raised his admiration for her. He appreciated nothing more than a woman who rose above conceptions.
Lyanna would've loved her, I would think…
"For some, being born outside the Lands Between was reason enough to be declared Tarnished," Nepheli said. "I hail from a place known as the Badlands. 'tis a lawless, unforgiving place where wanton kindness is a quick way to the grave. Every day was a struggle to survive, a place where only the strongest had what it took to thrive and live. Clan Loux was among them, in no small part thanks to our chieftain Hoarah. Many believed that had Queen Marika the Eternal not approached him with an offer of service, he would have united the Badlands under Clan Loux."
Robert leaned in, intrigued by her tale. "What sort of man is this Hoarah Loux?"
"A great man, and a greater general. The day he set foot on the battlefield when he was naught by twelve years old, the Badlands knew his name. He believed that it is through strength that we find purpose, and because we possess strength, we must use it to better ourselves and others." A fond look overcame the noble lady's face, a smile slowly forming across her lips. "I took his ideals to heart. Although I was named a noblewoman, I have not forgotten the creed of my clan. To be born a Loux is to find purpose through strength. Such is our way of life."
"Your house words," Robert nodded in understanding. "Seems to be you're living up to your words. I've heard nothing but great things from your people."
On the way to Stormveil, both before and after they joined up with Nepheli, Robert and the retinue had a chance to speak with the smallfolk along the way. Jon asked for their opinions and thoughts of their liege lord, and each time, they spoke with glowing eyes and smiles. They remembered fearing life under Godrick the Grafted, fearing how he might one day come for them and their loved ones so they could partake in his twisted arts. Then he perished, and shortly afterward, Nepheli Loux succeeded him as heir of Limgrave. She laid low Godrick's former servants, and worked to better the lives of her people, offering them warm food, kindness, and shelter. She event as far as to go hunting for game and make warm food for them.
Were he any other man in Westeros, any other noble, they would scoff and call her naïve. Robert, on the other hand, was reminded of himself in his younger years. The way he saw it, Nepheli was like the landed knight he once aspired to be, the dream he had before Jon convinced him to wear the crown.
He didn't want to be king, nor did he wish to return to Storm's End. It was his home and birthright, but he had few fond memories of that place, save for the days he spent with his beloved grandmother. Although she was Targaryen, Robert couldn't bring himself to despise her. She was nothing like the mad fucker who killed his parents by sending them out to sea or that fucking prince who took Lyanna from him. The mere thought nearly sent him fuming, and only the fact he was in Nepheli and company's presence kept his tongue and temper in check.
Whether by thinking of House Targaryen or listening to the minstrels and their ballad, Robert recalled one of the lyrics, and his face grew severe. "You have dragons here?"
"Aye, though they're of a different breed than the ones you are familiar with," Nepheli assured him. "There are two kinds of dragons here in the Lands Between. The most common are drakes. From what I've learned of your land and its wildlife, a drake is no different than a dragon, save that their wings are feathered. They're also quite territorial," she added with a twinking eye. "One such dragon has taken up residence in a lake to the south-east of here. Bandits who took to hiding out there discovered Agheel does not take kindly to unwanted guests."
"And the second kind?"
"We call them Ancient Dragons. The name is warranted, as they've lived since before the Age of the Erdtree. I'm uncertain as to how long Ancient Dragons live, save that they are among the oldest of beasts to be found here. Early into Marika the Eternal's reign, we were once at war with the dragons."
That drew the attention of most of the table, or at least those closest to Nepheli and Robert. The archmaester in particular nearly flew out of his seat. "I beg your pardon, but did you just say you were at war with dragons?" he asked incredulously. "Do you mean to say these Ancient Dragons possess human-like intelligence?"
"They are capable of human speech and wielding magic." Nepheli's words shocked them into silence. "It was not unheard of for them to assume human-like forms so that they might commune with us." A wry smile crossed her face, leaning slightly in her gilded chair while taking a sip from her goblet. "When you arrive in Leyndell to speak with the Great Council there, you will see the truth of my words. Granssax's corpse still yet decorates the royal capital."
"Did you win?" Robert couldn't help but ask, his mind a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts.
"We made peace," Nepheli answered. "Thanks to the efforts of Godwyn the Golden. It would not be inaccurate to say he was our Jaehaerys I. His kindness and empathy made him well beloved by the people, and many more believed he would succeed Queen Marika, even though he was not Empyrean."
Robert was disappointed by her answer. More than that, he was anxious.
In his youth, he dreamed of riding dragons. It was a common dream shared amongst boys his age. Even Stannis dreamed of it before he got a stick up his ass. Such dreams were pointless since the age of dragons ended with Aegon the Dragonsbane, when the last dragon perished despite his best attempts to rekindle the Targaryen's greatest legacy and weapon. In a roundabout way, the Dance of Dragons created an unexpected boon despite its bloody history; with the dragons dead and gone, no more than bones decorating the Red Keep, the Mad King and Rhaegar were as human and vulnerable as any other man. Without their dragons, House Targaryen was nothing special.
And yet…dragons yet lived. And if what Nepheli said was true, they were different than the ones they knew of. More powerful, dangerous.
Varys gave him semi-frequent reports of the exiled Targaryens. Viserys, the Mad King's secondborn son and the self-proclaimed "rightful heir" of Westeros' Iron Throne, was a vengeful little shit hellbent on reclaiming his birthright. By all accounts, he was shaping up to be yet another Mad King, perhaps worse. If Viserys learned that dragons yet lived in the Lands Between, Robert had little doubt that Viserys would try and claim one for himself. The age of dragons had seemingly come again, and it instilled a sense of dread Robert hadn't felt since the early days of the rebellion years ago.
On the other hand, Nepheli claimed the dragons of the Lands Between were different, intelligent and capable of wielding magic. If they were, would they truly bow down to the whims of a whining child? One of Varys' latest reports mentioned how the brat failed to earn the cooperation of the Golden Company, and while he was inclined to believe it was because they wanted to cheat the "Beggar King" out of his coin, Robert also believed it was because they were Blackfyre loyalists. They'd sooner support him than a Targaryen, and the chances of that happening were about as likely as the Hells freezing over.
The thought of Viserys being killed by a dragon was entertaining, but the possibility the Targaryens would reclaim their greatest weapon terrified him.
He came to the Lands Between in the hopes of forging long-lasting bonds, making trade routes and speaking the possibilities of cohabitation should his people seek greener pastures in the Lands Between. The revelation magic still thrived only enticed him further and created new opportunities, new possibilities to explore if he could get the septons to play ball. The dragons complicated things.
Could he really trust the Lands Between, if they knowingly consorted with them? Different or no, a dragon was a dragon. The records from both noble houses and the Citadel about the Dance was well-known to him. It was one of the bloodiest wars Westeros ever endured. How bloody would the next war be, if magic-wielding dragons descended upon them?
Was Jon right?
The minstrels continued to sing, unaware of the Westerosi king's internal plight.
"Though graceless and exiled
We're loyal the same
Return to roots through the
Worst of our pain when kings rise against
Have it writ on their grave
The olds gods were felled by a mortal unnamed"
"I am curious, Lady Loux," Ned spoke up. "The bards, who do they sing of?"
Robert pulled himself from his thoughts, hoping the topic would distract him long enough to get his mind in order. Nepheli's smile was wide and brimming.
"Only the greatest warrior to ever set foot in the Lands Between. A dear friend, one who I had the honor to fight beside. There were many aspirants who wished to claim the seat of Elden Lord, all with different designs for the Lands Between. Among the greatest were chieftain Hoarah Loux, once called Godfrey, our brave Lionhearted Consort of Queen Marika the Eternal. The Ever-Brilliant Goldmask, a fundamentalist and advocate for true understanding of the Greater Will and its Golden Order. The Loathsome Dung Eater, a vile and despicable cretin who wrought the worst sins since Shabriri. Fia, the Deathbed Companion who sought peace for Those Who Live In Death."
"And yet…none claimed the throne, save one. A warrior without peer, hailing from the bloodsoaked Land of Reeds. A Tarnished of No Renown. Our Elden Lord, and Lunar Queen Ranni's consort eternal."
MELISANDRE
Unlike the majority of the retinue, Melisandre clung to the shadows and observed from afar, studying all that she could. She expected a great many things, but the past two days alone provided her with more than she dared believe. Excitement rushed through her, basking in the atmosphere.
There was no doubt about it. The air teemed with energy in a way she hadn't felt in decades, centuries even. Not even the grandest of the Red Temples bore such ambience, such raw power. Even as she tapped into the barest minimum of her abilities and talents, she could feel her skin tingle alight. She could feel it, sense it. She never felt magic react in such a manner. It was almost as though it were alive.
Perhaps it was. When the voyage drew closer to the foreign land, she felt the stirring even from afar. The soft whispers, a tongue with no voice or song to accompany its silent words. Each hymn and verse sent chills down her spine. She could not remember the last time she felt her magic respond with such vigor. The feeling only intensified the closer they drew, and by the time they set foot on the Lands Between's shores, the voiceless whispers became a chorus. She could feel it through her skin, seeping into the very marrow of her bones. She felt a tugging at the back of her mind, a pull she had not felt in so long.
When the festivities drew to a close and the retinue retired for the evening, Melisandre retreated to her room. As Stannis' aid and representative, she was given a private suite to herself. The lodgings were perhaps a tad too opulent for her tastes, certainly grander than her room back at Dragonstone, but she ignored it in favor of the hearth. The mantle was carved from marble, neatly and carefully chiseled with runes etched onto the surface. She could not read them, but she felt the thrums of magic as she traced her fingers across the mantle's surface. There was no better receptacle. In a place overflowing with energy, there was no doubt she would hear the Lord of Light's voice and guidance. Providence drew her here, and she would have answers.
Firewood was already present in the room, likely in the event of a cold wintry night. Once the logs were set in place, Melisandre took two stones and struck them together. Whisps of magic flowed at her fingertips, coiling around the stones like snakes. Instead of sparks, a fan of orange flame spilled from between the clashing stones. The wood caught fire easily. Immediately, the pleasant scent of cone leaves and her temple's incense filled her nostrils.
To bear the smells of what my heart craves most… I wonder, from what tree were these logs cut from, Melisandre wondered to herself before shaking her head.
She knelt before the hearth, bowing her head and clasping her hands in prayer. Ordinarily, a life was needed to receive blessings and commune with her god, but the Lands Between's abundancy negated such requirements. Even now, she felt her lord gently brushing against her mind, asking for her presence, to answer her calls and pleas for further guidance.
"I beseech you, R'hllor," the red priestess whispered, staring into the fire with rapt attention. Faintly, she saw images within the flame; the beginnings of a dream—a vision. "Show me the path. Show me what I must do to prepare the way for Azor Ahai."
The flames crackled and danced in a way Melisandre had not seen in decades. Her mind grew raptured, her senses dulled, and her mind sank into the warm embrace of flaming light. She opened herself to her god, and R'hllor answered.
The dream came with such vividness that the priestess thought she was not in Stormveil Castle, but somewhere else. She stood amid a battlefield, the ground caked in mud and crimson. Bodies lay scattered about in a macabre display. Some were burnt into unrecognizable lumps of charred, black meat. Others were slaughtered without any mercy, their armor torn open by a wickedly sharp blade and impaled on silvery spears with a curved hook at the end. A few were in the process of burning, touched by pitch-black flames that instilled her with a sense of cold dread.
She saw the banners, and her heart faltered. She recognized some as the heraldy of noble houses. One banner was familiar, too familiar. It was tattered and being burnt to nothing by the dark flames, but even in its ruined state, Melisandre could never forget the banner and sigil of her faith.
"What…?"
A cold laugh, calm as tranquil waters, came from behind her. Melisandre whirled around, nearly tripping over herself, and saw a woman with otherworldly beauty and gloam eyes glowing ever so faintly.
"I see you."
—Melisandre screamed, throwing herself as far away from the hearth as possible. Her heart hammered in her ears, pounding angrily against her chest to where she feared it may very well break free from her body. Sweat poured from her face like a great waterfall. Her chest heaved and caved in rapid succession. She watched as the orange flames were snuffed by its black counterpart, consuming it until there was naught but glowing embers and ash.
As the Red Priestess calmed herself, slowly regaining control of her breathing and her heart returning to its natural rhythm, she remembered the visage that stared back at her in those pitch black flames. The warning her lord issued with all due haste. The presence of a new enemy, one she knew nothing about.
The smiling face of the dusk-eyed woman would haunt her dreams for weeks to come.
JON SNOW
The thick silence of Winterfell was almost suffocating at night. Even the smallest sound could stir the dead.
Jon awoke not because of the silence, but because he felt something was wrong. The hairs on his neck stood on end, and his palms felt unnaturally hot. The greatest indicator was Ghost, the direwolf bearing his fangs and growling. Instinct took over, reaching for the worn-out practice blade sitting at his bedside as he climbed out of the bed. Slowly and carefully, he tiptoed his way to the door.
"Hello?" He spoke barely above a whisper, yet his voice rang above his own thumping heartbeats.
Ghost kept close to him, ears perked and head held high. The two advanced further into Winterfell's halls, all while Jon strained his ears.
Something's wrong… This doesn't feel right.
It was not the silence that bothered him. It was the lack of wind. Even in a quiet night, he could hear the cool winds lapping against the stones and windows. Tonight, he heard none. The chill air common to the North, breaching even the warm halls of a keep as built as Winterfell, felt colder than normal. Each warm breath Jon took was as visible as a cloud in the blue sky.
Aimlessly, the bastard of Eddard Stark cautiously walked through the halls until he reached the eastern annex. Just as he reached a crossroad of halls, a sensation buzzed down his back. Then, ever so faintly, he heard it. The soft chinks and clanks of a suit of armor.
Right behind him.
Once more, instinct took over. He whirled on his heel, raising his sword, just in time to block a sword coming down on his head. Jon's eyes widened, greeted by a horrid sight.
"Old gods preserve me, what are you?"
The thing in front of him could not be called human. It's "face", if it could be called that, was a mangled mess of horns sprouting from flesh. Beneath the mask of curved ivory and barbed horn, he saw snow-white skin, wrinkled and stretched so thin it ripped and exposed the bone beneath rotted sinews of flesh. It wore a twisted parody of armor, dulled and rusted with flakes of black. It towered over Jon by two heads, with a body more stock and built than an Umber.
Its ghastly form alone horrified Jon, but what made him tremble were the ghostly pale flames clinging to its form. With the creature so close, he expected to feel heat. Instead, he felt nothing. Not even a biting cold. It was as though the flames weren't there.
Ghost snapped into action, barking and snarling as he leaped. He sank his jaws into the rusted bracer. Due to his small size and youth, his fangs found no purchase. The distraction was more than enough for Jon; the moment the foul creature turned its attention from him to the direwolf, he gathered his might and pushed, shoving the creature back as far as he could and going for a stab at its exposed neck.
It was when the creature seized his blade with its armored hand and crumpled it that Jon remembered with dread that his sword was not made of steel. It was a practice blade, made of hardy wood and capable of holding up against average metal. Against castle-forged steel, however, it fell woefully short. He watched with rapidly mounting horror as his sword, a treasured gift from Arya, shattered into splinters. The creature seized him by the throat, lifting him high into the air. Its black sword glittered in the dim lights of the hall.
For but a moment, Jon stared down death as it primed its blade, ready to claim him. He shut his eyes, little more than a sniffling child—
"Promise me," the woman wearing Arya's face said to a younger-looking Eddard Stark. "Promise me, Ned."
Suddenly, Jon fell to the cobble floor, coughing and gasping for air. It took him a moment to realize someone was standing over him with a bloodied blade.
"T-Theon?"
"Who else?" The Greyjoy heir looked as though he escaped a fight for dear life. His clothes were stained crimson, flakes of blood dashed his face, and in hand was a sword bathed in dripping black ichor. Dimly, Jon was aware of a shivering Sansa right behind him. His senses came back in full when Theon offered him a gloved hand. "Get off your arse, bastard! We've no time to dawdle!"
Ghost barked in agreement.
"What the hells is going on?" Jon demanded. "Are we under attack?"
"Fuck if I know! One moment I'm asleep, the next I hear clashing steel right outside my door!" Theon cast a glare at the dead monster beside him. The ghostly flames that clung to its form were gone. "Bastards showed up out of nowhere, and I found a few dead guards on my way here. Picked up Sansa along the way."
Cold dread seeped into Jon's bones. "What about Arya and Lady Stark? Are they safe?"
"Where do you think I was goin'?" Theon spat angrily. "Grab that thing's sword and come on!"
Jon didn't hesitate. He walked over to the fresh corpse, briefly looking back at its horned face, and grabbed hold of its weapon. It was black with a red glittering diamond near the pointed end, the outline of the blade vaguely shaped like the steeple of a Sept.
He did not know where these creatures came from, or what that strange vision as it had him dead to rights was. All he knew, all he cared, was that Winterfell was under siege. Someone was trying to kill Lord Stark's family. His half-siblings.
The bastard wolf of House Stark bared his fangs.
Over my dead body.
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
The end portion of this chapter, Jon Snow's POV, was originally part of Chapter 12 when it first released. Due to some feedback from a friend of mine on Spacebattles about the original draft of Chapter 13, I removed Jon's POV and rewrote the chapter. What would have been Chapter 13 is now Chapter 20, or Chapter XX.
I should note that, come the next update on December 8, this story will have officially caught up to everything that's been released on Patreon, meaning you guys will be caught up. For the next few months, I will be focusing my efforts on The Royal Eminence and my newest story from the patreon poll I hosted back in September, Elven Overlord, which will ideally release in January.
Thank you for your time, and enjoy the chapter.
Side note, the song from Robert's POV is "We Rise" by Aviators.
I should note that, come the next update on December 8, this story will have officially caught up to everything that's been released on Patreon, meaning you guys will be caught up. For the next few months, I will be focusing my efforts on The Royal Eminence and my newest story from the patreon poll I hosted back in September, Elven Overlord, which will ideally release in January.
Thank you for your time, and enjoy the chapter.
Side note, the song from Robert's POV is "We Rise" by Aviators.
- Location
- Versailles
So the Godskin are fighting the Red Priests in Essos while servants of those who live in death (of Godwyn?) ravage Westeros.
And the Frenzied Flame lies waiting.
And the Frenzied Flame lies waiting.
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
So, this story got a mention on a trending page.
Anywho, this'll be my last update for the year. I'm off for the rest of the month to enjoy the holidays.
BTW, I'm debating on hosting an AMA in this story. Would you guys be interested in that or no?
Despte the depressing lack of discussion, I'm happy to see this story is getting recognition and is doing well, both here and on AO3.
Sufficient Velocity's Trending Stories (Weekly Stats about User Fiction Subforum) Discussion
Weekly Summary Statistics for User Fiction posted every Monday about trending storiesforums.sufficientvelocity.com
Anywho, this'll be my last update for the year. I'm off for the rest of the month to enjoy the holidays.
BTW, I'm debating on hosting an AMA in this story. Would you guys be interested in that or no?
Chapter XX (Prologue Arc: END)
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
ARYA
Winterfell was in chaos. In the dead of night, in windless silence, a group of armed monstrosities appeared and begun slaughtering any sworn to House Stark, smallfolk and soldier alike.
Arya was sleepless when the attack came, sneakily wandering the halls with Nymeria in search of the pantry. An innocent that nearly saved her life, happening upon a soldier fighting for dear life against some horn-faced monstrosity clad in rusted black armor. The sight nearly terrified her, but not her faithful wolven companion. Nymeria leaped into action and assisted the guardsman; although her fangs could not break through the armor, her claws and size made it easy for her to force the monster on the backfoot and make it stumble. It gave the guardsman ample time to go on the counterattack and kill the damned thing.
It was not until they heard the warning bell being rung that they learned the full scope of the attack. This was no infiltration or assassination, but an invasion.
Someone was attacking Winterfell.
"Quickly, my lady! This way!" the guardsman yelled over his shoulder. Arya followed after him with her direwolf, a stray blade held in hand. Briefly, Arya wondered whether her mother and older sister would chastise her for being so unladlylike, but even she knew they would forgive her in such a trying time. Their lives were being threatened by an unknown force.
While she was not as deft with a blade as her elder brother and half-sibling, Arya was capable with a blade all the same. The difference between a practice blade made of hardy wood and one made of castle-forged steel, however, was apparent by how heavy the damned thing was.
Shouts and battle cries echoed throughout the once silent halls of the castle, the chorus so loud Arya could barely hear her own heartbeats.
The guardsman rounded the corner, vanishing from Arya's sight. She caught up with him a moment later, only to stumble and shriek as a helmed head bounced at her feet. The guardsman's face was slack with horror. His headless corpse fell a moment later, blood gushing from the stump on his neck. A horn-faced monster wreathed in ghostly pale flames wielding a bloodied sword with jagged edges stood over the corpse. A black eye stared down at her. Their eyes met, and Arya felt her heart stop.
She saw nothing but a vast black emptiness. There was no emotion reflected in that onyx eye. No sadistic pleasure from the act of killing, no grimace of begrudgingly following orders. It was the gaze of a lifeless corpse, dancing on strings.
The monster raised its blade. Nymeria growled, ready to pounce in defense. Arya was too frozen in fear to react.
"ARYA!"
A wave of sheer jubilation and relief flooded Arya, hearing the wrathful cry of her half-brother and the snarling howl of his runt of a direwolf. Ghost leaped at the horn-faced monster, biting and clawing at its deformed face. Nymeria joined him and latched onto the creature's sword arm, preventing it from swinging its blade. The creature reached for Ghost, but found itself slain by Jon and Theon a moment later; the latter cut clean through the creature's arm and send it flying to the ground while Jon drove a strange black sword through its chest.
The creature died on the spot, its flames sputtering into lightless sparks. Ghost and Nymeria released their fangs from the fresh corpse, returning to their respective owners.
The moment Jon turned to face her, his face battle-weary and marred by strange black ichor, Arya threw herself at him, burying her face in his stomach and wrapping her arms as tightly around his waist as possible. Jon stiffened for a moment before returning the gesture just as strongly.
"Thank the gods, you're alright. When we found your room empty, I feared the worst."
"'m fine," Arya sniffled.
Jon gently pried her away from him. His face was taught with concern and worry. "Are you uninjured?"
"Y-yes. I was…" Her gaze lingered on the decapitated guard's lifeless head. She could not bare to look at his horrified face. "O-one of the guards, he was protecting me when…" Arya took a deep breath, recalling Septa Mordane's lessons. "Jon, what in the hells are these things? Are they demons?"
"Does it matter?" Theon snapped. "Whatever the hell they are, they're here to kill us all."
"They're killing everyone, even the staff," Jon said. He looked at her blade, then back at her. "Can you still bear arms?"
Arya remembered the moment she froze in terror moments ago. It was the most shameful, most unpleasant moment in her entire life. She would not freeze up again. She would not falter. She was Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden and Lord Paramount of the North. She was a wolf, and she would not cower before the enemy.
Jon saw the resolve reflected in her eyes, smiling encouraging for only a moment before it fell from his face. He turned back to Theon, the squid nodding back in unspoken agreement.
"We need to find our siblings and Lady Stark. With any luck, Ser Cassel should be with them."
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's fucking go!"
No doubt Septa Mordane and her mother would have her tongue for speaking such profanity, yet Arya could not bring herself to care.
Not when her family was in danger.
CATELYN
"Stay close to me," Rodrik Cassel told them. "Don't wander ahead, understand?"
Sansa nodded fearfully. The poor girl, her darling daughter, clung to her like a lamprey and refused to part with her. It made Catelyn's heart tremble in dismay, to see her eldest daughter so terrified. The sight of poor Mordane's blood on her face was almost too much.
Before the warning bells were rung, Catelyn was adrift in blissful slumber when she heard the sound of combat outside her chambers. When she exited her chambers, she found the Master-at-Arms locked in combat against some devilish creature in ghostly flame and rusted black armor. The sight nearly made her faint as much as the creature's weapon of choice. A black sword forged in the visage of a sept's steeple and wreathed in pale flame, otherworldly and wicked.
Ser Rodrik triumphed, suffering only minor injuries thankfully, but that was just the beginning. The sounds of combat exploded across Winterfell, and when she heard the bells, Catelyn knew the worst came to pass. Ned's fears came true; someone was attacking Winterfell while its lord was away, but it had not been the Karstarks or Boltons. Their attackers were literal devils from the seven hells, for what else could they be if not monsters meant to torment the living?
Ser Rodrik fulfilled his duty and then some, rallying whatever soldiers they came across on their way to her children and fighting against the invaders. When they found Sansa, her oldest daughter was taking shelter with the old septa. The old woman, stout of faith and ever the dutiful tutor and confidant, shielded Sansa from one of the demons. Catelyn watched as the old woman died on the spot, her blood splattered across Sansa's face like a coat of paint. The sound of Sansa's screams still echoed in her mind.
"The battlefield is no place for a woman," she dimly recalled hearing once. She did not remember who spoke those words during Robert's Rebellion when she wished to join Ned's side and offer him whatever assistance she could, but she understood the truth of their words. She saw the bloodied and broken states of the brave men who fought against House Targaryen and the loyalists, some returning as corpses to be buried and others missing limbs and wrapped in bandages. Every time her father and older brother marched, she feared she would see them among them.
Catelyn hoped Sansa would never experience the horrors she did. The gods were cruel, it seemed, for they cared not for her wishes.
Is this my punishment, for breaking my promise?
Her chest tightened, and held Sansa closer to her as they marched through the halls toward Rickon's bedroom. As they drew closer, they heard the sounds of combat and howls. Lady heard these sounds and howled in response, speeding past Ser Rodrik and his men. Catelyn realized what that meant, and her heart hammered with fear. Her sons were in danger.
"Hurry!" she yelled.
They quickly chased after Sansa's direwolf, catching up just in time to see an unexpected sight.
"Get the hell away from my brother!"
Grating as it was to admit, Ned's bastard took more after his Stark heritage than his mother, whoever she may have been. For but a brief moment, Catelyn swore she saw her lord husband from the days of the rebellion, his icy visage emblazoned with the fury of the gods themselves and brandishing one of the devil's own blades against them. His runt of a direwolf fought alongside him as did Nymeria. Not far away was the Greyjoy heir, similarly locked in battle. To Catelyn's fright, Arya was right beside him. She nearly screamed for her youngest daughter when she caught sight of Shaggydog knock one of the devil's down to the floor and maul it furiously, slavering away at it with such wanton ferocity it nearly made her stomach churn.
When Ser Rodrik and his men joined the fight, the battle came to an end swiftly. There was no need for honor against horrid beasts. They attacked from all sides, slashing and stabbing at every exposed flank and weakness they could find. Within moments, the demons lay dead at their feet, and Catelyn was reunited with her children.
"Mommy!"
Catelyn cried in relief as Rickon jumped into her arms, no worse for wear and remarkably unscathed. As she had with Sansa, she held onto her son for dear life, afraid he would disappear in her very arms. She felt Arya join her, discarding her sword and holding onto her siblings in equal measure. The sight should have brought her joy, yet all she felt was a deep sorrow. Long had she wished to see Sansa and Arya approach each other like proper sisters should, and now she bore witness to it in a bittersweet manner marred by strife and the threat of death.
"Glad to see you boys took my lessons to heart," Ser Rodrik said, giving the boys an approving nod. "Did you come across any of the guard on your way here?"
"We did," Jon said wearily. "They…fared poorly. Caught unawares like the rest of us."
The Master-at-Arms swore. Catelyn wondered how many soldiers died in defense of Winterfell and its occupants, and how many were faces she knew personally.
"What should we do, ser?"
"We fight to defend Winterfell," the old man solemnly declared. "But I won't call anyone here craven for wanting to leave. We make for the stables. Saddle the horses and take Lady Catelyn and her children as far away as possible."
"And what if we can't hold Winterfell?" Theon's voice was strained. "Have you seen the size of these bastards and their swords? It's a bloody miracle we've killed as many as we have as it is!"
"Winterfell can be rebuilt. Lives cannot."
"Ser Cassel is right, Theon," Jon said. "At the very least, Arya and the others have to escape."
The Greyjoy heir didn't respond. His face puckered and soured, conflicting emotions warring across his face before he grimaced, spitting out a curse before looking at Catelyn and her children.
His eyes narrowed and frowned, noticing something was amiss. "Hang on… Where's Bran?"
Catelyn and her daughters froze. Horrible realization, and her blood turned cold as the North's white-laden lands.
Through the thick sounds of battle and chaos happening across Winterfell, a young boy's shriek pierced through the chaotic chorus.
Ned's bastard was the first to react, racing past them all with a speed she did not think possible, Grey Wind and Ghost hot on his heels.
JON
Adrenaline and fear raced through Jon's veins as he rushed toward the source of the shriek. The black sword felt heavy in his sweaty palms. All thoughts of the invaders fled the forefront of his mind in favor of finding Bran. Arya and Rickon were safe and sound, and Sansa was in Lady Catelyn's care. Only the thirdborn son remained unaccounted for.
He did not come this far to lose a member of his family, and he would not fail. Not yet. Not now.
Grey Wind, the eldest and strongest of the litter, Robb's faithful companion, led the charge. The direwolf easily navigated the winding halls of Winterfell and the Great Keep before they finally arrived at the Great Hall.
The once great hall decorated and marked with the banners of House Stark and its loyal vassals lay in disarray. Piles of ruin lay scattered about the hall, accompanying the countless bodies on the floor. Pools of red and black intermingled and stained the carpet leading to the steps of the high seat as well as the very stones. The horn-faced monsters and proud guardsmen of Winterfell decorated the great hall in macabre glory and honor while ghostly pale flames burned and ate away at the stonework and banners.
There, in the center of the bloody carnage, was a tear-faced Bran shielded by a growling Summer. The white and brown direwolf bared its fangs at Bran's attacker.
Jon laid eyes on the armored man, and suddenly found the world disappearing around him. A familiar vision of colored flames and death stared back at him, heralded by a skull-themed visage and a black sword wreathed in the flames burning Winterfell to the ground. He blinked, and the world returned with dreadful realization.
It was just as Robb feared. The nightmares haunting him for weeks came to pass. The end of Winterfell had come, and the armored man heralded its demise.
Jon's grip on his ill-gotten sword tightened. He barely acknowledged how the sword became alight with the same ghostly flames as the ones that burned all around him.
His voice echoed across the empty hall, speaking less like a bastard and more like a trueborn Stark. "Do not touch my brother, craven."
Bran sobbed and stared at him in joyous relief. Summer saw its litter mates and barked happily, all while keeping its glare pinned to the armored man, who turned to face him.
He looked exactly as he did in the haunting visions. Vile armor marked with jagged cuts and spikes, emblemed with bone motifs that could not possibly have been made by human hands. A jet-black sword as long as an Umber's arm sat in his hand, its blade thin and coiled by that dreadful ghostly flame. A helm bearing a golden skull for a visor and visage stared back at Jon. Even at a distance, he could see pitch black eyes devoid of life and emotions.
The armored man turned away from Bran, no longer concerned with the Stark boy and his direwolf. His full attention was directed at him now.
"A man of House Stark?" Jon frowned. The man spoke in the Westerosi tongue of old, a language once spoken in the North before the common Andal language replaced it. His voice was gravely and rasp as if he were a foot in the grave. "How fitting a treacherous dog should offer himself to my pyre."
Jon's expression turned severe and wary. From the man's words alone, he would assume him to be a Targaryen loyalist, for who else but a follower of the fallen house should speak to one of House Baratheon's most ardent allies would refer to House Stark with such venom and vitriol? And yet, he felt there was more to his words.
"Lay down your arms and surrender."
The armored man scoffed. "Impudent welp. An emperor kneels to no one."
Emperor?
"You stand before the Dread Lord, Valmar of the Tylth. Offer yourself, boy, and become the foundation for the restoration of my empire."
Jon did not understand his words, nor did he care to. "I refuse."
Valmar stared at him for but a moment before raising his baleful blade in challenge. "On your head be it."
The direwolves heard enough of his words. Grey Wind, Ghost, and Summer all charged at Valmar and lunged at him with claws and fangs. With naught but a sweep of his arm and a wing of crescent flame, the so-called Dread Lord threw them aside as though they were nothing. Jon cried out in alarm, shouting for his wolven companions and their siblings before he found himself raising his blade in defense. Without warning nor sound, Valmar was upon him and grinding his sword against his. Clashing pale flames breathed around them, as if responding to their respective wielders' wishes and desires.
"Jon!" Bran yelled.
The bastard of Winterfell gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of his opponent's sword as it bade him to lower his sword and die. He resisted and pushed back with all the strength he could muster. "Get out of here, Bran!" he shouted at his younger half-brother. "Go find Lady Stark and Ser Cassel!"
"But what about you?!"
"Just go, damn you!"
His attention on Bran quickly shifted back to Valmar, who suddenly seized him by the throat and threw him across the great hall. Jon's body rolled through the floor before coming to a halt. He quickly climbed back on his feet and assumed a combat stance, just as Valmar began to walk toward him at a measured pace. His posture was lax and confident, as if assured in his victory. His strength carried such feelings well, and for a brief moment, Jon's mind grew clouded with doubt.
He steeled resolve, and glared back at his enemy and would-be killer. Even if he died here, he would ensure his family's safety.
With Valmar's attention squarely on him, Bran reluctantly made his escape. His direwolf Summer gave Jon a parting glance, as if telling him to win, before following after its master. Instead of fleeing with their sibling, Ghost and Grey Wind stood their ground and joined him, standing side by side.
"Thank you," he whispered to his wolfen companions.
And so began a clash of steel.
The first strike was Jon's. Valmar was already in motion when he struck, the steeple blade clashing against the Dread Lord's own. The strike was to gauge and test, delivered with a measured amount of force, enough for Jon to easily slide out of the bladelock and sidestep into his foe's blindspot. He swung upwards, aiming for the arm. His blow struck true, yet to his frustration and dismay, his sword bounced off the metal. Valmar retaliated with an elbow strike, the jagged spike just barely missing Jon's face as he hastily stepped back to evade. He raised his sword in time to block his foe's counterstrike, keeping the grip of his sword firm and tight. The blow nearly knocked it out of his hands.
Grey Wind and Ghost charged at Valmar from his flanks, the larger and oldest of the direwolves going for the invader's stronger side while the runt went for the leg. Even if their fangs and claws could find no purchase, they would at least hold him in place long enough for Winterfell's bastard to deliver a fatal wound or injury. They underestimated the Dread Lord's strength, however; Valmar easily caught Grey Wind by the throat, keeping its fangs and claws at bay while paying Ghost no mind. Fearful, Jon aimed for Valmar's sword arm and the gap in his armor, hoping to cut flesh and stop him from hurting his companions.
His blade struck true. The steeple's edge and pale flame cut through flesh, spilling black ichor from the Dread Lord's arm. Valmar growled, almost inhumanly so, as he tossed Grey Wind aside and kicked Ghost away from him, knocking the runt of the litter to the floor. He shrugged off Jon's blade, uncaring of his bleeding wound, and conjured a "wing" of ghostly flames.
Jon quickly jumped back, barely avoiding the unnatural flames. A stray sputter flicked across his cheek and felt all warmth drain from his face, as if someone dunked him in a pail of frigid water.
I must not let those flames touch me, Jon realized, not wishing to understand what would happen if the flames made full contact.
Another wave of flame came hurtling toward him, swung in a wide arc from Valmar's blade that fell like a crashing wave. He threw himself to the ground, curling and rolling to evade the fire before quickly climbing back up to his feet. Valmar was already upon him, swinging his sword down upon his head, quickly followed by a series of rapid slashes. Jon's arms trembled and shook each time their blades clashed. It took all the strength he had to endure, to keep hold of his sword.
Gritting his teeth, he drove his foot against Valmar's chest and pushed. His armored foe barely moved. Worse, he grabbed Jon's leg by the ankle, and in a show of strength far beyond any mortal man, threw him over his shoulder and down onto the cold stonework floor. An explosion of pain erupted across his back, the bones rattling on impact. For a moment, Jon felt the world around him flicker and fade out of focus, just barely cognizant to see Valmar over him, wielding a handful of that cold flame.
Biting out a curse, Jon rolled away, barely avoiding the falling hand. The fire thrashed wildly against the floor, shattering stone like a hammer. Back on his feet, Jon quickly moved to counter while the opportunity stood before him. Valmar's neck was exposed for but a moment. All it would take is a single slash.
The strike came too late. Jon's sword clashed against helm rather than exposed flesh, the blade bouncing off the armor. Valmar's sword retaliated in kind, slashing through his tunic and flesh.
Jon screamed through clenched teeth as terrible, excruciating pain sank into the wound. He could not feel the warmth of his blood. Instead, he felt cold. Terribly cold, as though he stood naked amid the worst wintry storms the North could muster. So great was it he found himself forced to a knee. His arms were as heavy as stones.
The bastard felt Valmar's passionless glare as he made his way toward his weakened prey. Jon attempted to rise to his feet, muster strength for a final assault, but his body refused to obey. The dreadful chill continued to spread through his body.
Angry snarls and barks came from ahead. Jon's eyes widened when he saw Ghost rise up on shaky legs, limping, but charging at Valmar.
"No, stop!" he shouted in vain. He knew from his direwolf's vengeful glare it would not stop.
It jumped into the air and lunged for Valmar, maw wide…
"No!"
…and a black sword wreathed in flame pierced its body, holding it in the air. Ghost's snarls turned to painful mewls. Almost callous cruel, Valmar did not so much as pull the direwolf off his blade as he had kicked it off, throwing its bleeding carcus to the floor.
Jon felt a new pain, far greater than the bleeding wound on his chest. With it carried a heat so warm it burned. A primal scream tore at his throat, his strength returning in a mad frenzy. He shot to his feet and swung his sword with no thought or reason, technique and precision forgotten in favor of white-hot rage.
The first blow took Valmar off guard. The ghostly flames clinging to the steeple blade burned hotter than before, enough to give Jon's ill-gotten blade enough power to bite into the Dread Lord's foul armor; not enough to pierce flesh, but enough to damage. The second strike drew blood as he again managed to cut into Valmar's arm when he attempted to defend himself, the gauntlets slightly thinner than his cuirass. The third blow was met by Valmar's blade. The fourth was blocked and parried, Jon's swing diverted upwards.
And the bastard of Winterfell felt an ice-cold blade sink into his chest.
"Rejoice, boy. Your death shall be a sacrifice; the resurrection of my empire. Let your grave herald my reclamation of Westeros."
Valmar tore his sword from Jon's body. He fell to the ground, every ounce of strength drained and unable to move. His vision flickered and blackened, the world growing unfocused with every passing second. A dreadful cold seeped into the marrow of his bones and the sinews of his flesh. Jon felt his breath grow strained. He could hardly breath.
The Dread Lord stared blankly at his soon-to-be-dead body before walking away, fit to leave his fallen foe to bleed out on the floor while the room burned and crumbled around him.
Jon felt something nuzzle against him, barely hearing a wolf's whines. It sounded so far away.
His eyes drooped as the darkness encroaching him grew thicker. Soon, he could not keep his eyes open any longer.
The dark embraced him.
Jon Snow took his final breaths, and finally…
Winterfell was in chaos. In the dead of night, in windless silence, a group of armed monstrosities appeared and begun slaughtering any sworn to House Stark, smallfolk and soldier alike.
Arya was sleepless when the attack came, sneakily wandering the halls with Nymeria in search of the pantry. An innocent that nearly saved her life, happening upon a soldier fighting for dear life against some horn-faced monstrosity clad in rusted black armor. The sight nearly terrified her, but not her faithful wolven companion. Nymeria leaped into action and assisted the guardsman; although her fangs could not break through the armor, her claws and size made it easy for her to force the monster on the backfoot and make it stumble. It gave the guardsman ample time to go on the counterattack and kill the damned thing.
It was not until they heard the warning bell being rung that they learned the full scope of the attack. This was no infiltration or assassination, but an invasion.
Someone was attacking Winterfell.
"Quickly, my lady! This way!" the guardsman yelled over his shoulder. Arya followed after him with her direwolf, a stray blade held in hand. Briefly, Arya wondered whether her mother and older sister would chastise her for being so unladlylike, but even she knew they would forgive her in such a trying time. Their lives were being threatened by an unknown force.
While she was not as deft with a blade as her elder brother and half-sibling, Arya was capable with a blade all the same. The difference between a practice blade made of hardy wood and one made of castle-forged steel, however, was apparent by how heavy the damned thing was.
Shouts and battle cries echoed throughout the once silent halls of the castle, the chorus so loud Arya could barely hear her own heartbeats.
The guardsman rounded the corner, vanishing from Arya's sight. She caught up with him a moment later, only to stumble and shriek as a helmed head bounced at her feet. The guardsman's face was slack with horror. His headless corpse fell a moment later, blood gushing from the stump on his neck. A horn-faced monster wreathed in ghostly pale flames wielding a bloodied sword with jagged edges stood over the corpse. A black eye stared down at her. Their eyes met, and Arya felt her heart stop.
She saw nothing but a vast black emptiness. There was no emotion reflected in that onyx eye. No sadistic pleasure from the act of killing, no grimace of begrudgingly following orders. It was the gaze of a lifeless corpse, dancing on strings.
The monster raised its blade. Nymeria growled, ready to pounce in defense. Arya was too frozen in fear to react.
"ARYA!"
A wave of sheer jubilation and relief flooded Arya, hearing the wrathful cry of her half-brother and the snarling howl of his runt of a direwolf. Ghost leaped at the horn-faced monster, biting and clawing at its deformed face. Nymeria joined him and latched onto the creature's sword arm, preventing it from swinging its blade. The creature reached for Ghost, but found itself slain by Jon and Theon a moment later; the latter cut clean through the creature's arm and send it flying to the ground while Jon drove a strange black sword through its chest.
The creature died on the spot, its flames sputtering into lightless sparks. Ghost and Nymeria released their fangs from the fresh corpse, returning to their respective owners.
The moment Jon turned to face her, his face battle-weary and marred by strange black ichor, Arya threw herself at him, burying her face in his stomach and wrapping her arms as tightly around his waist as possible. Jon stiffened for a moment before returning the gesture just as strongly.
"Thank the gods, you're alright. When we found your room empty, I feared the worst."
"'m fine," Arya sniffled.
Jon gently pried her away from him. His face was taught with concern and worry. "Are you uninjured?"
"Y-yes. I was…" Her gaze lingered on the decapitated guard's lifeless head. She could not bare to look at his horrified face. "O-one of the guards, he was protecting me when…" Arya took a deep breath, recalling Septa Mordane's lessons. "Jon, what in the hells are these things? Are they demons?"
"Does it matter?" Theon snapped. "Whatever the hell they are, they're here to kill us all."
"They're killing everyone, even the staff," Jon said. He looked at her blade, then back at her. "Can you still bear arms?"
Arya remembered the moment she froze in terror moments ago. It was the most shameful, most unpleasant moment in her entire life. She would not freeze up again. She would not falter. She was Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden and Lord Paramount of the North. She was a wolf, and she would not cower before the enemy.
Jon saw the resolve reflected in her eyes, smiling encouraging for only a moment before it fell from his face. He turned back to Theon, the squid nodding back in unspoken agreement.
"We need to find our siblings and Lady Stark. With any luck, Ser Cassel should be with them."
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's fucking go!"
No doubt Septa Mordane and her mother would have her tongue for speaking such profanity, yet Arya could not bring herself to care.
Not when her family was in danger.
CATELYN
"Stay close to me," Rodrik Cassel told them. "Don't wander ahead, understand?"
Sansa nodded fearfully. The poor girl, her darling daughter, clung to her like a lamprey and refused to part with her. It made Catelyn's heart tremble in dismay, to see her eldest daughter so terrified. The sight of poor Mordane's blood on her face was almost too much.
Before the warning bells were rung, Catelyn was adrift in blissful slumber when she heard the sound of combat outside her chambers. When she exited her chambers, she found the Master-at-Arms locked in combat against some devilish creature in ghostly flame and rusted black armor. The sight nearly made her faint as much as the creature's weapon of choice. A black sword forged in the visage of a sept's steeple and wreathed in pale flame, otherworldly and wicked.
Ser Rodrik triumphed, suffering only minor injuries thankfully, but that was just the beginning. The sounds of combat exploded across Winterfell, and when she heard the bells, Catelyn knew the worst came to pass. Ned's fears came true; someone was attacking Winterfell while its lord was away, but it had not been the Karstarks or Boltons. Their attackers were literal devils from the seven hells, for what else could they be if not monsters meant to torment the living?
Ser Rodrik fulfilled his duty and then some, rallying whatever soldiers they came across on their way to her children and fighting against the invaders. When they found Sansa, her oldest daughter was taking shelter with the old septa. The old woman, stout of faith and ever the dutiful tutor and confidant, shielded Sansa from one of the demons. Catelyn watched as the old woman died on the spot, her blood splattered across Sansa's face like a coat of paint. The sound of Sansa's screams still echoed in her mind.
"The battlefield is no place for a woman," she dimly recalled hearing once. She did not remember who spoke those words during Robert's Rebellion when she wished to join Ned's side and offer him whatever assistance she could, but she understood the truth of their words. She saw the bloodied and broken states of the brave men who fought against House Targaryen and the loyalists, some returning as corpses to be buried and others missing limbs and wrapped in bandages. Every time her father and older brother marched, she feared she would see them among them.
Catelyn hoped Sansa would never experience the horrors she did. The gods were cruel, it seemed, for they cared not for her wishes.
Is this my punishment, for breaking my promise?
Her chest tightened, and held Sansa closer to her as they marched through the halls toward Rickon's bedroom. As they drew closer, they heard the sounds of combat and howls. Lady heard these sounds and howled in response, speeding past Ser Rodrik and his men. Catelyn realized what that meant, and her heart hammered with fear. Her sons were in danger.
"Hurry!" she yelled.
They quickly chased after Sansa's direwolf, catching up just in time to see an unexpected sight.
"Get the hell away from my brother!"
Grating as it was to admit, Ned's bastard took more after his Stark heritage than his mother, whoever she may have been. For but a brief moment, Catelyn swore she saw her lord husband from the days of the rebellion, his icy visage emblazoned with the fury of the gods themselves and brandishing one of the devil's own blades against them. His runt of a direwolf fought alongside him as did Nymeria. Not far away was the Greyjoy heir, similarly locked in battle. To Catelyn's fright, Arya was right beside him. She nearly screamed for her youngest daughter when she caught sight of Shaggydog knock one of the devil's down to the floor and maul it furiously, slavering away at it with such wanton ferocity it nearly made her stomach churn.
When Ser Rodrik and his men joined the fight, the battle came to an end swiftly. There was no need for honor against horrid beasts. They attacked from all sides, slashing and stabbing at every exposed flank and weakness they could find. Within moments, the demons lay dead at their feet, and Catelyn was reunited with her children.
"Mommy!"
Catelyn cried in relief as Rickon jumped into her arms, no worse for wear and remarkably unscathed. As she had with Sansa, she held onto her son for dear life, afraid he would disappear in her very arms. She felt Arya join her, discarding her sword and holding onto her siblings in equal measure. The sight should have brought her joy, yet all she felt was a deep sorrow. Long had she wished to see Sansa and Arya approach each other like proper sisters should, and now she bore witness to it in a bittersweet manner marred by strife and the threat of death.
"Glad to see you boys took my lessons to heart," Ser Rodrik said, giving the boys an approving nod. "Did you come across any of the guard on your way here?"
"We did," Jon said wearily. "They…fared poorly. Caught unawares like the rest of us."
The Master-at-Arms swore. Catelyn wondered how many soldiers died in defense of Winterfell and its occupants, and how many were faces she knew personally.
"What should we do, ser?"
"We fight to defend Winterfell," the old man solemnly declared. "But I won't call anyone here craven for wanting to leave. We make for the stables. Saddle the horses and take Lady Catelyn and her children as far away as possible."
"And what if we can't hold Winterfell?" Theon's voice was strained. "Have you seen the size of these bastards and their swords? It's a bloody miracle we've killed as many as we have as it is!"
"Winterfell can be rebuilt. Lives cannot."
"Ser Cassel is right, Theon," Jon said. "At the very least, Arya and the others have to escape."
The Greyjoy heir didn't respond. His face puckered and soured, conflicting emotions warring across his face before he grimaced, spitting out a curse before looking at Catelyn and her children.
His eyes narrowed and frowned, noticing something was amiss. "Hang on… Where's Bran?"
Catelyn and her daughters froze. Horrible realization, and her blood turned cold as the North's white-laden lands.
Through the thick sounds of battle and chaos happening across Winterfell, a young boy's shriek pierced through the chaotic chorus.
Ned's bastard was the first to react, racing past them all with a speed she did not think possible, Grey Wind and Ghost hot on his heels.
JON
Adrenaline and fear raced through Jon's veins as he rushed toward the source of the shriek. The black sword felt heavy in his sweaty palms. All thoughts of the invaders fled the forefront of his mind in favor of finding Bran. Arya and Rickon were safe and sound, and Sansa was in Lady Catelyn's care. Only the thirdborn son remained unaccounted for.
He did not come this far to lose a member of his family, and he would not fail. Not yet. Not now.
Grey Wind, the eldest and strongest of the litter, Robb's faithful companion, led the charge. The direwolf easily navigated the winding halls of Winterfell and the Great Keep before they finally arrived at the Great Hall.
The once great hall decorated and marked with the banners of House Stark and its loyal vassals lay in disarray. Piles of ruin lay scattered about the hall, accompanying the countless bodies on the floor. Pools of red and black intermingled and stained the carpet leading to the steps of the high seat as well as the very stones. The horn-faced monsters and proud guardsmen of Winterfell decorated the great hall in macabre glory and honor while ghostly pale flames burned and ate away at the stonework and banners.
There, in the center of the bloody carnage, was a tear-faced Bran shielded by a growling Summer. The white and brown direwolf bared its fangs at Bran's attacker.
Jon laid eyes on the armored man, and suddenly found the world disappearing around him. A familiar vision of colored flames and death stared back at him, heralded by a skull-themed visage and a black sword wreathed in the flames burning Winterfell to the ground. He blinked, and the world returned with dreadful realization.
It was just as Robb feared. The nightmares haunting him for weeks came to pass. The end of Winterfell had come, and the armored man heralded its demise.
Jon's grip on his ill-gotten sword tightened. He barely acknowledged how the sword became alight with the same ghostly flames as the ones that burned all around him.
His voice echoed across the empty hall, speaking less like a bastard and more like a trueborn Stark. "Do not touch my brother, craven."
Bran sobbed and stared at him in joyous relief. Summer saw its litter mates and barked happily, all while keeping its glare pinned to the armored man, who turned to face him.
He looked exactly as he did in the haunting visions. Vile armor marked with jagged cuts and spikes, emblemed with bone motifs that could not possibly have been made by human hands. A jet-black sword as long as an Umber's arm sat in his hand, its blade thin and coiled by that dreadful ghostly flame. A helm bearing a golden skull for a visor and visage stared back at Jon. Even at a distance, he could see pitch black eyes devoid of life and emotions.
The armored man turned away from Bran, no longer concerned with the Stark boy and his direwolf. His full attention was directed at him now.
"A man of House Stark?" Jon frowned. The man spoke in the Westerosi tongue of old, a language once spoken in the North before the common Andal language replaced it. His voice was gravely and rasp as if he were a foot in the grave. "How fitting a treacherous dog should offer himself to my pyre."
Jon's expression turned severe and wary. From the man's words alone, he would assume him to be a Targaryen loyalist, for who else but a follower of the fallen house should speak to one of House Baratheon's most ardent allies would refer to House Stark with such venom and vitriol? And yet, he felt there was more to his words.
"Lay down your arms and surrender."
The armored man scoffed. "Impudent welp. An emperor kneels to no one."
Emperor?
"You stand before the Dread Lord, Valmar of the Tylth. Offer yourself, boy, and become the foundation for the restoration of my empire."
Jon did not understand his words, nor did he care to. "I refuse."
Valmar stared at him for but a moment before raising his baleful blade in challenge. "On your head be it."
The direwolves heard enough of his words. Grey Wind, Ghost, and Summer all charged at Valmar and lunged at him with claws and fangs. With naught but a sweep of his arm and a wing of crescent flame, the so-called Dread Lord threw them aside as though they were nothing. Jon cried out in alarm, shouting for his wolven companions and their siblings before he found himself raising his blade in defense. Without warning nor sound, Valmar was upon him and grinding his sword against his. Clashing pale flames breathed around them, as if responding to their respective wielders' wishes and desires.
"Jon!" Bran yelled.
The bastard of Winterfell gritted his teeth, feeling the weight of his opponent's sword as it bade him to lower his sword and die. He resisted and pushed back with all the strength he could muster. "Get out of here, Bran!" he shouted at his younger half-brother. "Go find Lady Stark and Ser Cassel!"
"But what about you?!"
"Just go, damn you!"
His attention on Bran quickly shifted back to Valmar, who suddenly seized him by the throat and threw him across the great hall. Jon's body rolled through the floor before coming to a halt. He quickly climbed back on his feet and assumed a combat stance, just as Valmar began to walk toward him at a measured pace. His posture was lax and confident, as if assured in his victory. His strength carried such feelings well, and for a brief moment, Jon's mind grew clouded with doubt.
He steeled resolve, and glared back at his enemy and would-be killer. Even if he died here, he would ensure his family's safety.
With Valmar's attention squarely on him, Bran reluctantly made his escape. His direwolf Summer gave Jon a parting glance, as if telling him to win, before following after its master. Instead of fleeing with their sibling, Ghost and Grey Wind stood their ground and joined him, standing side by side.
"Thank you," he whispered to his wolfen companions.
And so began a clash of steel.
The first strike was Jon's. Valmar was already in motion when he struck, the steeple blade clashing against the Dread Lord's own. The strike was to gauge and test, delivered with a measured amount of force, enough for Jon to easily slide out of the bladelock and sidestep into his foe's blindspot. He swung upwards, aiming for the arm. His blow struck true, yet to his frustration and dismay, his sword bounced off the metal. Valmar retaliated with an elbow strike, the jagged spike just barely missing Jon's face as he hastily stepped back to evade. He raised his sword in time to block his foe's counterstrike, keeping the grip of his sword firm and tight. The blow nearly knocked it out of his hands.
Grey Wind and Ghost charged at Valmar from his flanks, the larger and oldest of the direwolves going for the invader's stronger side while the runt went for the leg. Even if their fangs and claws could find no purchase, they would at least hold him in place long enough for Winterfell's bastard to deliver a fatal wound or injury. They underestimated the Dread Lord's strength, however; Valmar easily caught Grey Wind by the throat, keeping its fangs and claws at bay while paying Ghost no mind. Fearful, Jon aimed for Valmar's sword arm and the gap in his armor, hoping to cut flesh and stop him from hurting his companions.
His blade struck true. The steeple's edge and pale flame cut through flesh, spilling black ichor from the Dread Lord's arm. Valmar growled, almost inhumanly so, as he tossed Grey Wind aside and kicked Ghost away from him, knocking the runt of the litter to the floor. He shrugged off Jon's blade, uncaring of his bleeding wound, and conjured a "wing" of ghostly flames.
Jon quickly jumped back, barely avoiding the unnatural flames. A stray sputter flicked across his cheek and felt all warmth drain from his face, as if someone dunked him in a pail of frigid water.
I must not let those flames touch me, Jon realized, not wishing to understand what would happen if the flames made full contact.
Another wave of flame came hurtling toward him, swung in a wide arc from Valmar's blade that fell like a crashing wave. He threw himself to the ground, curling and rolling to evade the fire before quickly climbing back up to his feet. Valmar was already upon him, swinging his sword down upon his head, quickly followed by a series of rapid slashes. Jon's arms trembled and shook each time their blades clashed. It took all the strength he had to endure, to keep hold of his sword.
Gritting his teeth, he drove his foot against Valmar's chest and pushed. His armored foe barely moved. Worse, he grabbed Jon's leg by the ankle, and in a show of strength far beyond any mortal man, threw him over his shoulder and down onto the cold stonework floor. An explosion of pain erupted across his back, the bones rattling on impact. For a moment, Jon felt the world around him flicker and fade out of focus, just barely cognizant to see Valmar over him, wielding a handful of that cold flame.
Biting out a curse, Jon rolled away, barely avoiding the falling hand. The fire thrashed wildly against the floor, shattering stone like a hammer. Back on his feet, Jon quickly moved to counter while the opportunity stood before him. Valmar's neck was exposed for but a moment. All it would take is a single slash.
The strike came too late. Jon's sword clashed against helm rather than exposed flesh, the blade bouncing off the armor. Valmar's sword retaliated in kind, slashing through his tunic and flesh.
Jon screamed through clenched teeth as terrible, excruciating pain sank into the wound. He could not feel the warmth of his blood. Instead, he felt cold. Terribly cold, as though he stood naked amid the worst wintry storms the North could muster. So great was it he found himself forced to a knee. His arms were as heavy as stones.
The bastard felt Valmar's passionless glare as he made his way toward his weakened prey. Jon attempted to rise to his feet, muster strength for a final assault, but his body refused to obey. The dreadful chill continued to spread through his body.
Angry snarls and barks came from ahead. Jon's eyes widened when he saw Ghost rise up on shaky legs, limping, but charging at Valmar.
"No, stop!" he shouted in vain. He knew from his direwolf's vengeful glare it would not stop.
It jumped into the air and lunged for Valmar, maw wide…
"No!"
…and a black sword wreathed in flame pierced its body, holding it in the air. Ghost's snarls turned to painful mewls. Almost callous cruel, Valmar did not so much as pull the direwolf off his blade as he had kicked it off, throwing its bleeding carcus to the floor.
Jon felt a new pain, far greater than the bleeding wound on his chest. With it carried a heat so warm it burned. A primal scream tore at his throat, his strength returning in a mad frenzy. He shot to his feet and swung his sword with no thought or reason, technique and precision forgotten in favor of white-hot rage.
The first blow took Valmar off guard. The ghostly flames clinging to the steeple blade burned hotter than before, enough to give Jon's ill-gotten blade enough power to bite into the Dread Lord's foul armor; not enough to pierce flesh, but enough to damage. The second strike drew blood as he again managed to cut into Valmar's arm when he attempted to defend himself, the gauntlets slightly thinner than his cuirass. The third blow was met by Valmar's blade. The fourth was blocked and parried, Jon's swing diverted upwards.
And the bastard of Winterfell felt an ice-cold blade sink into his chest.
"Rejoice, boy. Your death shall be a sacrifice; the resurrection of my empire. Let your grave herald my reclamation of Westeros."
Valmar tore his sword from Jon's body. He fell to the ground, every ounce of strength drained and unable to move. His vision flickered and blackened, the world growing unfocused with every passing second. A dreadful cold seeped into the marrow of his bones and the sinews of his flesh. Jon felt his breath grow strained. He could hardly breath.
The Dread Lord stared blankly at his soon-to-be-dead body before walking away, fit to leave his fallen foe to bleed out on the floor while the room burned and crumbled around him.
Jon felt something nuzzle against him, barely hearing a wolf's whines. It sounded so far away.
His eyes drooped as the darkness encroaching him grew thicker. Soon, he could not keep his eyes open any longer.
The dark embraced him.
Jon Snow took his final breaths, and finally…
Interlude III
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
MAESTER'S WRITINGS
A collection of papers written by a maester from the Citadel, supposedly a colleague of Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure both despised by his colleagues for pursuing matters deemed forbidden and lauded for his contributions in understanding the Lands Between's culture and history.
The papers went through numerous revisions and rewrites. They were only published after extensive peer review from the Conclave and approval from the Seneschal.
"The Lands Between, like our own Westeros, is no stranger to conflict. Queen Marika the Eternal's reign was marked by one brutal war and crusade after another, only ending when she bore no rivals to challenge her or the House of the Erdtree. Although the history of the Lands Between lies largely incomplete before Marika's ascension to godhood, the earliest years of her reign are cohesive. In fact, Queen Marika the Eternal's first challenge came not from uniting the Lands Between under the Erdtree, but from one who also could be proclaimed a god.
You must understand that Marika was not born a god, nor did she possess godly heritage. Indeed, what little Archmaester Forrester pieced together implies she was naught but an ordinary woman, but one who was chosen to become a greater god's champion and representative. The Greater Will, an entity and patron of the House of the Erdtree, the source from which all incantations of faith originate and the very being who the Golden Order's fundamentalism seeks to understand, sent forth a creature referred to as the "Mother of Fingers". This creature, on behalf of the Greater Will, chose Marika to champion the Greater Will and create the foundation of a new order. Through the Mother of Fingers' guidance, Marika ascended as a god, but reputedly below the Greater Will in terms of rank and power. Indeed, by all accounts, Queen Marika ruled as regent and lord, but never as a divine lord. Such is the implication and meaning behind the status of an Empyrean; one chosen by the Fingers to lead the Lands Between.
Marika was not the only Empyrean, however. There'd been another claimant. The identity of this challenger is unknown, save for her title: The Gloam-Eyed Queen. She challenged Marika's right to rule, but more than that, she sought to make the god queen bleed. Although little is known about the Gloam-Eyed Queen herself, there are too many horrific details describing her followers, the Godskin Cult. Even as I put the Archmaester's findings to this page, I hesitate to write the atrocities I now transcribe. Never before have I heard of such barbarity, to hunt down those with divine blood and flay their flesh as some sort of trophy. For what reason the Godskin Cult engaged in such horrific practices, no one knows. All any knew for certain was that the Gloam-Eyed Queen sought war with Marika. And it was war she received.
The battle between the fledgling god queen and her counterpart is said to have lasted a hundred years, recorded by the Great House of Hoslow's scribes as "The War of the Empyreans". Despite boasting the power of an impressive army, the majority of it personally trained and under the command of Elden Lord Godfrey, the Godskin Cult somehow fought on equal footing and slew many of Queen Marika's children, stripping them bare of their flesh and parading it around as new garments. Several sources mention how the Godskin Cult wielded magic flames as black as the night sky.
According to Golden Order fundamentalists, this magic is known as the Blackflame, a type of arcane fire derived from the Rune of Death, or Destined Death, which Queen Marika sealed away to provide her people with a form of immortality. It is believed the Rune of Death originated from the Gloam-Eyed Queen, and it was only after her defeat that it was sealed. In doing so, the Godskin Cult lost their greatest weapon, and before long, they were broken before the House of the Erdtree's might. This was made possible thanks to the loyal shadowbound beast gifted to Queen Marika after her ascension as a god. The stories surrounding Maliketh, the Black Blade, deserve special mention, if only for the sheer amount of destruction he left in his wake during Queen Marika's campaign in the War of the Empyreans. She trusted no one with the sealed Rune of Death, save for the one she affectionately called her loyal brother.
It was never explicitly stated what happened to the Gloam-Eyed Queen, as there is no mention of her fate beyond that Queen Marika emerged victorious in their climactic battle at Mt. Gelmir nearly a thousand years ago. The fate of her Godskin Cult is more explicit; with their leader gone, the cult quickly fell apart and into disarray. Although records state they are still present in the Lands Between, they are scattered about and seldom found, having gone into hiding. Only recently have they undergone some sort of resurgence, though whether they aim to challenge Marika's successor, Lunar Queen Ranni, remains to be seen.
ADDENDUM: A few short weeks after this writing, there are rumors of a group matching the Godskin Cult's description on Essos. The reports paint a grim picture, as it seems they've now taken to pointing their stitchers and peelers to mortal men…"
FADED JOURNAL
A diary penned by an unnamed mortal from the Lands Between. Its bindings are worn, and the pages are on the verge of falling apart, yet great care was taken to put ink on them. It was a treasured gift from whoever owned it.
"The more I learn the truth about the Godskin Cult and Marika, the more I question the purpose of the Empyrean. The Gloam-Eyed Queen and her counterpart, described as sisters by that Count, seemed forever fated to be at odds with one another until only one remained. At first, I thought it was simply because Marika would suffer no rivals. She and she alone would bear the Elden Ring and create a new Order. Now? Now, I ponder whether she fought her counterpart as a form of mercy.
The Count's willingness to part with some of his more personal tomes came as a surprise, but it's proven rather useful. Particularly where matters of the lampwood are concerned. Any time I think of that odd blade bathed in ghostflame, I cannot help but question the nature of the lampwood. For what purpose does it serve, beyond to guide lost souls who fell in battle? Is it not our fate to one day return to the Erdtree, or was there more to death even before Maliketh sequestered Destined Death within his Black Blade?
My curiosity about the Land of the Pale is not mine alone, thankfully. Ranni seems eager to learn more about it as well. Once my business in the Land of Shadow is concluded, I will return to Mt. Gelmir. With any luck, Rya will be willing to lend me some of Tannith's more personal effects…"
The rest of the page is smeared and ineligible.
TATTERED SCROLL
A parchment from the archives of Manus Metyr, and one of Count Ymir's most prized possessions. It bears the seal of Destined Death.
"Before Destined Death and the Twinbird offered finality, the faithless and the lost were doomed to wander the Land of the Pale, where departed souls roam in endless pursuit of the guiding lampwood. No matter how far one goes, they will never reach the tree. Before long, the lost souls burdened by guilt will become dark reflections of their former selves."
A collection of papers written by a maester from the Citadel, supposedly a colleague of Archmaester Thorren Forrester, a controversial figure both despised by his colleagues for pursuing matters deemed forbidden and lauded for his contributions in understanding the Lands Between's culture and history.
The papers went through numerous revisions and rewrites. They were only published after extensive peer review from the Conclave and approval from the Seneschal.
"The Lands Between, like our own Westeros, is no stranger to conflict. Queen Marika the Eternal's reign was marked by one brutal war and crusade after another, only ending when she bore no rivals to challenge her or the House of the Erdtree. Although the history of the Lands Between lies largely incomplete before Marika's ascension to godhood, the earliest years of her reign are cohesive. In fact, Queen Marika the Eternal's first challenge came not from uniting the Lands Between under the Erdtree, but from one who also could be proclaimed a god.
You must understand that Marika was not born a god, nor did she possess godly heritage. Indeed, what little Archmaester Forrester pieced together implies she was naught but an ordinary woman, but one who was chosen to become a greater god's champion and representative. The Greater Will, an entity and patron of the House of the Erdtree, the source from which all incantations of faith originate and the very being who the Golden Order's fundamentalism seeks to understand, sent forth a creature referred to as the "Mother of Fingers". This creature, on behalf of the Greater Will, chose Marika to champion the Greater Will and create the foundation of a new order. Through the Mother of Fingers' guidance, Marika ascended as a god, but reputedly below the Greater Will in terms of rank and power. Indeed, by all accounts, Queen Marika ruled as regent and lord, but never as a divine lord. Such is the implication and meaning behind the status of an Empyrean; one chosen by the Fingers to lead the Lands Between.
Marika was not the only Empyrean, however. There'd been another claimant. The identity of this challenger is unknown, save for her title: The Gloam-Eyed Queen. She challenged Marika's right to rule, but more than that, she sought to make the god queen bleed. Although little is known about the Gloam-Eyed Queen herself, there are too many horrific details describing her followers, the Godskin Cult. Even as I put the Archmaester's findings to this page, I hesitate to write the atrocities I now transcribe. Never before have I heard of such barbarity, to hunt down those with divine blood and flay their flesh as some sort of trophy. For what reason the Godskin Cult engaged in such horrific practices, no one knows. All any knew for certain was that the Gloam-Eyed Queen sought war with Marika. And it was war she received.
The battle between the fledgling god queen and her counterpart is said to have lasted a hundred years, recorded by the Great House of Hoslow's scribes as "The War of the Empyreans". Despite boasting the power of an impressive army, the majority of it personally trained and under the command of Elden Lord Godfrey, the Godskin Cult somehow fought on equal footing and slew many of Queen Marika's children, stripping them bare of their flesh and parading it around as new garments. Several sources mention how the Godskin Cult wielded magic flames as black as the night sky.
According to Golden Order fundamentalists, this magic is known as the Blackflame, a type of arcane fire derived from the Rune of Death, or Destined Death, which Queen Marika sealed away to provide her people with a form of immortality. It is believed the Rune of Death originated from the Gloam-Eyed Queen, and it was only after her defeat that it was sealed. In doing so, the Godskin Cult lost their greatest weapon, and before long, they were broken before the House of the Erdtree's might. This was made possible thanks to the loyal shadowbound beast gifted to Queen Marika after her ascension as a god. The stories surrounding Maliketh, the Black Blade, deserve special mention, if only for the sheer amount of destruction he left in his wake during Queen Marika's campaign in the War of the Empyreans. She trusted no one with the sealed Rune of Death, save for the one she affectionately called her loyal brother.
It was never explicitly stated what happened to the Gloam-Eyed Queen, as there is no mention of her fate beyond that Queen Marika emerged victorious in their climactic battle at Mt. Gelmir nearly a thousand years ago. The fate of her Godskin Cult is more explicit; with their leader gone, the cult quickly fell apart and into disarray. Although records state they are still present in the Lands Between, they are scattered about and seldom found, having gone into hiding. Only recently have they undergone some sort of resurgence, though whether they aim to challenge Marika's successor, Lunar Queen Ranni, remains to be seen.
ADDENDUM: A few short weeks after this writing, there are rumors of a group matching the Godskin Cult's description on Essos. The reports paint a grim picture, as it seems they've now taken to pointing their stitchers and peelers to mortal men…"
FADED JOURNAL
A diary penned by an unnamed mortal from the Lands Between. Its bindings are worn, and the pages are on the verge of falling apart, yet great care was taken to put ink on them. It was a treasured gift from whoever owned it.
"The more I learn the truth about the Godskin Cult and Marika, the more I question the purpose of the Empyrean. The Gloam-Eyed Queen and her counterpart, described as sisters by that Count, seemed forever fated to be at odds with one another until only one remained. At first, I thought it was simply because Marika would suffer no rivals. She and she alone would bear the Elden Ring and create a new Order. Now? Now, I ponder whether she fought her counterpart as a form of mercy.
The Count's willingness to part with some of his more personal tomes came as a surprise, but it's proven rather useful. Particularly where matters of the lampwood are concerned. Any time I think of that odd blade bathed in ghostflame, I cannot help but question the nature of the lampwood. For what purpose does it serve, beyond to guide lost souls who fell in battle? Is it not our fate to one day return to the Erdtree, or was there more to death even before Maliketh sequestered Destined Death within his Black Blade?
My curiosity about the Land of the Pale is not mine alone, thankfully. Ranni seems eager to learn more about it as well. Once my business in the Land of Shadow is concluded, I will return to Mt. Gelmir. With any luck, Rya will be willing to lend me some of Tannith's more personal effects…"
The rest of the page is smeared and ineligible.
TATTERED SCROLL
A parchment from the archives of Manus Metyr, and one of Count Ymir's most prized possessions. It bears the seal of Destined Death.
"Before Destined Death and the Twinbird offered finality, the faithless and the lost were doomed to wander the Land of the Pale, where departed souls roam in endless pursuit of the guiding lampwood. No matter how far one goes, they will never reach the tree. Before long, the lost souls burdened by guilt will become dark reflections of their former selves."
TV Tropes!
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
Alright, which one of you did this? Fess up.
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
That's a spoiler, but I will say they are hunting for specific individuals.
Could be. or maybe they're that sick and depraved. In this story, their reason for wearing the flesh of flayed demigods is out of a disturbing sense of "opulence" and "tribute". They're showing off their 'trophies', but in a very sick and twisted way, they're also showing their respect for their fallen enemies.
Xavier Rall
Merely an aspiring writer.
- Location
- Dunellen, NJ
The heck you complaining for?
Nobody ever did this for any of MY fics.
I didn't do shit and if I did you couldn't prove it.
But seriously, it wasn't me.
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
I'm not complaining. I just wish people would wait until there's more content, like another ten chapters or so.
Ask Me Anything (Closed)
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
Exactly what it says on the tin. Been debating this for a while, but I've decided to say "screw it" and go right ahead with it. I'll be hosting a similar AMA over on AO3 and my patreon as well.
A few things before we start off. First, I will not be answering questions that veer into spoiler territory. I can answer some things, like what the next two arcs will be about and who will be the focus characters, but that's it. Secondly, there will be no discussion of pairings or lewd topics. I'm aware both are important in ASOIAF, but I'm not quite comfortable talking about that, much less writing it.
That, and I know better than to bring up pairings. Wars have been waged over who's better suited with who, and I am not going down that route.
EDIT: AMA is now closed. NGL, a little disappointed by the turnout. Really thought this would've drummed up more discussion. Oh well.
A few things before we start off. First, I will not be answering questions that veer into spoiler territory. I can answer some things, like what the next two arcs will be about and who will be the focus characters, but that's it. Secondly, there will be no discussion of pairings or lewd topics. I'm aware both are important in ASOIAF, but I'm not quite comfortable talking about that, much less writing it.
That, and I know better than to bring up pairings. Wars have been waged over who's better suited with who, and I am not going down that route.
EDIT: AMA is now closed. NGL, a little disappointed by the turnout. Really thought this would've drummed up more discussion. Oh well.
Last edited:
Xavier Rall
Merely an aspiring writer.
- Location
- Dunellen, NJ
Okay, that's fair.
Hmmmm...
Are the Seven going to play some kind of an active role in the future of this story?
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
They will not. While they have *some* level of importance and influence, the Seven themselves don't have a direct presence or role in the story.
SkyRig
Wake the f#ck up, samurai.
- Location
- Someplace in California
- Pronouns
- He
They'll have *some* level of importance, particularly in Arc 2. Like the Seven, they won't have a direct appearance.
- Location
- Madness realms
Skyrig how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?